MARY JANE GOES VISITING
But Mary Jane Bump was not the girl to be gloomy over anything for
very long; least of all over anything so trifling as her own personal
afflictions; and the morning saw her hopping about in her narrow home,
as merry, as loving, and as helpful as ever. Even more helpful, it
seemed to the conscience-stricken mother, than before she had felt the
fierce anger of the previous day.
“Appears like she’d try to make even me forget she ever heard what
I said, poor lamb! Well, I still think, what I’ve so often thought,
that the Lord did bring sweet out of that bitter, when He made her so
beautiful inside, even if she is crooked without. And more’n that, to
me she don’t seem so misshaped. I almost forget she ain’t just like the
rest. Aye, honey? What’s that you say?”
“If you can spare me, mother, after all the work is done, I’d like to
go to Bonny-Gay’s house and find out about her. Oh! do you s’pose she
will get well?”
“Sure, child.”
“I guess she will, too. Can I, mother? When the work’s all done?”
“Bless you, my lass, and that will never be. So there’s no use tarrying
for such a time. And I don’t blame you for wanting to go. I’d admire to
hear myself. But I guess it’s a long step from here and I don’t know
the way, even I don’t. You’d have to ride in a street car and that
costs money--which is one of the things I can least spare.”
At mention of the car, Mary Jane’s eyes sparkled.
On rare occasions--once when she went to market with her mother,
at holiday time, and once when the wash had been too large and the
patron’s home too distant for even her nimble crutches--she had enjoyed
the luxury of travel by electricity. In imagination, she could still
feel the swift rush of air against her cheek, could see the houses
hurrying past, and hear the delightful ting-a-ling of the bell, as the
motorman stopped to let the passengers on or off. She had not dreamed
that it would be necessary for her to ride, in order to pay the visit
she desired; but if it were--Oh! felicity!
The light in the eyes she loved decided the mother upon the indulgence.
A car-ride meant a nickel, or part of one, at least, for even little
Mary Jane; and a nickel would buy a loaf, and many loaves were needful
where there were seven mouths to fill, and every mouth a hungry one.
More than that, if William were out of work--
Mrs. Bump considered no further. Mary Jane should have the pleasure--no
matter what happened afterward.
“Of course, you’ll ride! Why not? Don’t suppose I’d let you start off
a-foot for such a length, do you? I’ve a notion that this Mt. Vernon
Place is away at the other end the city. Leastwise, it must be a good
bit from Dingy street, ’cause I never heard of it before, and I’ve been
around the neighborhood considerable, with the wash, you know. Yes, you
may go. Fly round right smart and get your clothes changed. What a fine
thing it is that your other frock is clean, and I must say I did have
good luck ironing it, last week.”
“You always do have good luck, mother Bump! You’re the very loveliest
ironer in the world!” and the wooden feet clicked across the room that
their owner might hug this famous laundress.
“And you’re a partial little girl, honey.”
“But, mother, dear, the work isn’t done--yet. There’s the steps to be
scrubbed and that other pile of hank’chiefs, and--”
“Well, I reckon we’ll live just as long if our steps ain’t done for one
day in the year. Besides, I might let one the younger ones do them and
see. They’re always teasing to, you know. Strange, how human nature
loves to mess in a pail of soap and water.”
“Who’ll mind the baby, if I go?”
“I will, Mary Jane Bump! Seem to think the precious youngster ain’t
hardly safe in his own mother’s hands, do you? Run along, run along,
girlie, and fix yourself fine.”
Away up the narrow stair swung happy Mary Jane; and in a very few
moments down she swung again. She had exchanged her blue gingham for
her pink print, had dusted off the shoes which, alas! were so useless
that they rarely wore out! and had brushed her dark wavy hair till
it floated about her sweet face, as fine and fleece-like as it was
possible for hair to be. In her hands she carried two hats; her own
little plain “sailor,” and the gift of Bonny-Gay.
“Oh! I wouldn’t wear--” began Mrs. Bump, answering the question in Mary
Jane’s eyes; then seeing the disappointment which crept into them,
hastily altered her original judgment to fit the case. “I wouldn’t
wear that old ‘sailor’ if I was a little girl that owned feathers like
those. Indeedy, that I wouldn’t.”
Mary Jane’s face rippled with smiles and for almost the first time in
her life she did a coquettish thing. Standing upon her crutches before
the tiny looking-glass, hung at an angle above the mantel, she adjusted
and readjusted the pretty leghorn, until she had placed it as nearly in
the position it had occupied on Bonny-Gay’s yellow curls as she could.
Then she wheeled about and asked:
“Does it look right, mother? Just as right as she would like to have
it, when she sees me?”
“Perfect, honey! And though I maybe oughtn’t to say it before you,
you’re the very sweetest little girl in Baltimore city!”
“Ah! but, mother Bump, you haven’t seen all the others!” laughed the
child.
“Now, here’s your money. Two nickels, dear. I’ve just given them a bit
of a polish in the suds while you were up-stairs. One is to go with,
and one to come home. I’ve been puzzling it out, and the best thing is
for you to go to the nearest car-line you find; then ask the conductor
how nigh it will take you to the Place. He’ll be kind to you, I know.
They’re always obliging, the conductors are, and when it’s anybody
like you, why they just seem to tear themselves to pieces to be nice.
You’ll have no trouble, honey, not a mite. And when you get there,
don’t forget to make your manners, pretty, like I’ve taught you. Say
everything to cheer the lady up, if she seems down-hearted a bit, and
good-by, good-by. Bless you, Mary Jane!”
Mrs. Bump stood at her doorway and Mrs. Stebbins at hers, to watch
the little figure hop away, and when it turned at the corner and they
caught a glimpse of the radiant face beneath the picture-hat, they
smiled upon each other well satisfied.
“No harm’ll happen to her!” said Mrs. Stebbins, confidently. “She’s one
of the Lord’s own.”
“I’m not fearing! though I’m going to miss her powerful,” answered the
mother, and retired to her tub.
Mary Jane’s heart beat so with excitement that she could hardly
breathe. Here she was, going alone on an unknown journey, to ride in
a car quite by herself, and to pay her own fare exactly as if she
were a grown-up. She had to tightly clutch that corner of her little
handkerchief wherein the nickles were tied, to make herself realize the
delightful fact; and already, in her dutiful heart, she was planning
how she could save, by not eating quite so much of her portion of food,
and so, in time, make up to her mother for this unwonted extravagance.
Indeed, she thought so fast and deeply, that she stood on the corner
and let the first car go by without signalling it. Then she brought her
wits to the present and when the next one whizzed up she was ready for
it, raising her hand and motioning it to stop, as she had seen other
people do.
It did stop, of course, and to such a little passenger, also, of
course, the conductor was quite as kind as Mrs. Bump had prophesied he
would be. He lifted Mary Jane into the very front seat of all and he
would have been glad not to take a fare from her. But this his duty
compelled him to do, and when he had received it he paused a moment
beside her to inquire:
“Taking a ride, are you? Well, it’s a nice morning.”
“Isn’t it! Just beautiful. Yes, I’m going to Mt. Vernon Place.”
“Whew! you are? Well, this is the wrong car--Never mind. You can
transfer. Mt. Vernon Place is a long way from here and quite the
swellest part of the town; you know that, I suppose.”
“It’s where Bonny-Gay lives.”
“Oh! indeed. Well, don’t you worry. I’ll look out for you and pass you
along. Company allows only one transfer, now, but I’ll fix it. It’ll be
all right. Don’t worry.”
Mary Jane had not the slightest intention of worrying. That was
something she had never done until the night before, and then about
her missing father. But in this brilliant sunshine, with the world all
her own, so to speak, even that anxiety had disappeared. He would be
sure to return and very soon. He loved them all so dearly, and even
for herself, if there were none others, he would come. He couldn’t
live without her; he had often told her so. Therefore she merely hoped
he was having as good a time, at that moment, as she was; and settled
herself serenely in her place to enjoy everything.
She never forgot the first part of that day’s ride. There were few
passengers in the car and these were all men, quite able to look out
for themselves; so the conductor remained near her and talked of the
places they passed, pointing out this building and that, for Mary
Jane’s enlightenment. She bestowed upon each an attention that was
quite flattering to her entertainer, till the car turned another corner
and he had to move away. People came more frequently now and at every
block of their advance, the men and women seemed to Mary Jane to crowd
and hurry more and more. They almost crushed her own small person,
climbing past her, but she still clung sturdily to the outer corner of
her seat, as her friend, the conductor, had bidden her.
“No need for you to move up, little girl. You’ll be changing after a
bit, and it’ll be easier for them than you.”
Right in the very business part of the city the car stopped and he came
back to her, thrusting a pale green slip of paper into her hand, and
hurriedly lifting her out.
“That’s your transfer. Yonder’s your car. Give that paper to the
other conductor. He’ll help you on. Say, Snyder!” he called to his
co-laborer. “This kid’s for Vernon Place. Put her off at Charles
street, will you? and pass her along. I’ll make it right with the
company.”
Then he was gone and Mary Jane stood bewildered in the midst of a
throng of vehicles, and street cars, and busy, rushing people. For
an instant her head whirled, then she saw the impatient beckoning of
conductor Snyder, and swung herself toward the waiting car. A man,
into whose path she had hopped, caught her up and placed her on the
platform, and again she was off.
But this time she was merely one of a crowd and the ticket collecting
kept Mr. Snyder too busy to bother with any single passenger. Indeed,
some slight hindrance just as they reached Charles street put Mary Jane
and her destination quite out of mind, and it was not until they had
gone some blocks beyond and he had chanced to come near her again that
she ventured to ask:
“Are we almost there?”
“Where’s there?”
“He--he said--Charles street,” she answered abashed by his brusque
manner.
“Charles street! Why, that’s long back. Did you want to get off there?
Oh! I forgot. You’re the child--Well, such as you ought not to be
traveling alone. Here. I’ll put you off now, you can walk back. Ask
anybody you meet, and they’ll direct you. Wait. I’ll give you another
transfer. It’s against rules, but the other fellow’s responsible.”
This time it was a yellow slip Mary Jane received and again she was
set down in the midst of a confusing crowd. She was in imminent
danger of being run over, and saw that; so promptly retreated to the
curbstone and from thence watched the unending procession of cars,
which followed one another without a moment’s break. For just there it
happened that many railway lines used the same tracks and it would have
puzzled a much more experienced person than Mary Jane to distinguish
between them.
Finally, she grew so tired and confused with the watching and the
racket that she resolved to walk; and set out boldly in the direction
from which she had come, scanning the street name-signs upon the
corners. It seemed to her she would never come to that she sought, but
she did, at last; and here a new difficulty presented.
“Which way shall I go? this--or that? Oh! dear! The time is going so
fast and I don’t get there. I’ll have to ask somebody the way.”
But though she made several shy little efforts to attract attention,
not a passer-by paused to answer her low question. Almost all fancied
her an unfortunate, petitioning alms; and some thought her a street
merchant with something to sell. Many and many an one had gone by, till
in the midst of all these men she saw a woman.
Only a scrub-woman, to be sure, on her way to some office to her daily
labor; but she paused when the cripple spoke to her and looked with
feminine curiosity at the plainly clothed child in her expensive hat.
“Mt. Vernon Place! Why, child alive, it’s miles from here! Away up
yonder. This is Charles and it does run straight enough, that’s so, to
where you want to go. But it’s so far, little girl. And you a cripple.
You’d much best go back home and let some older person do your errand.
Whatever was your ma thinkin’ of, to send you such a bout?”
“She didn’t send me, I came because I wished. Can you tell me which car
is right? and will this yellow ticket pay my way?”
The woman examined the transfer-slip, glanced at a clock on a near-by
building, and shook her head.
“That’s the car, all right, but that transfer’s no good. After fifteen
minutes they won’t take ’em, and it’s half an hour or more. No. You’ll
have to pay a second fare. I’ll help you on, if you like. Where do you
live?”
“Ninety-seven, Dingy street.”
“The land! That’s almost the jumping off place of the city. Did they
give you only money enough to ride twice.”
“My mother gave me ten cents,” answered Mary Jane, proudly, yet
somehow, the fortune which had seemed so big, a little while before,
now appeared very small and inadequate.
“Pshaw! If I had a cent I’d give it to you. I don’t know what you’d
better do.”
“I know. I’ll walk. And thank you for telling me the way. If I keep
right on this street, and go up and up, will I surely, surely get
there.”
“Sure. I know, ’cause I used to clean up in that neighborhood. I hope
you’ll have luck. Good-by.”
“Good-by,” answered Mary Jane, smilingly.
The momentary pause and conversation had rested her and she now felt
wholly equal to any demands upon her strength. If she had merely to
follow this one avenue till she came in sight of the monument and the
lion, why! that was as easy as A, B, C! So she set out with fresh
courage and full enjoyment of every novel sight or sound by the way;
though, all the while, watchfully reading the street sign at every
corner she reached.
It was almost two hours later that she came in sight of the Place.
She knew it in a moment, even though she had had but the one brief
description of it from Bonny-Gay’s lips, and she felt as if she had
come into a new and wonderful world.
“How big and still and--and--finished it looks! And, oh! how tired I
am. My arms ache like they never did before, and I can hardly hold my
crutches. I’ll get to that low stone round the monument--that’s where
she sits with the Gray Gentleman--and I’ll get rested. Then I’ll look
all around and pick out her house. I shall know it because she said it
was all covered with vines and there was a big yard behind, with trees
and things. Oh! how good it is to sit down.”
So good, indeed, that before she knew it the exhausted little maid had
dropped her head upon the curbing and fallen fast asleep.
There Mr. Weems discovered her and would have roused her to send her
home. But a second glance at her convinced him that this was no child
of that locality, and that she seemed a very weary little girl, indeed.
So he simply folded his own jacket and placed it under her head and
left her to recover herself.
She awoke after a little time and sat up, confused and rather
frightened. Till she suddenly remembered where she was and, seeing a
gardener at work upon a grass-plot near, decided at once that he must
be the owner of Max. She saw, too, the coat which had formed her pillow
and knew that he must have placed it there. With a glad cry she caught
up her crutches and swung herself toward the keeper:
“Oh! sir, I thank you. I was so tired and the coat was lovely soft. And
I know you. You’re Mr. Weems, the gardener, and I’ve seen Max. He’s at
our house, I mean he was--last night. And he will be again, ’cause he’s
with father, who’ll fetch him back. Father just loves dogs and animals.
And say, please, which is Bonny-Gay’s house?”
“Bless my soul! You don’t say? Then you must belong around here, though
I didn’t think it. You’ve seen Max, and you ask for our Bonny-Gay!
Well, you’ve struck trouble both times. He’s in trouble enough, but she
in worse. That’s her home, yonder, on the west corner. The green house
I call it; with those doctors’ carriages in front of it.”
“It is? Why, how funny. What’s all that straw for?”
The gardener shook his head, sadly, and hastily flicked away at his
eyes.
“That’s to deaden all the noise. Bonny-Gay is a very, very sick little
girl and there’s about one chance in a thousand, folks think, for
her to get well. She was in an accident, yesterday. Got thrown out a
carriage. The gentleman that took her driving is almost crazy with
grief about it and--What’s that? What’s that you say? You was with her?
You? And that’s her hat--Upon my word, it is. She showed it to me, the
very first day she had it, while she was out here waiting to go driving
with her folks. And she’s the only one they’ve got. I reckon her poor
father would give all his millions of dollars and not stop a minute to
think about it, if he could make her well by doing it. Poor man, I pity
him!”
“It was Max did it, you know. I’ve come to see her, and you mustn’t
tell me she’s so sick as that. Why, she was that beautiful to
me--I--I--”
Waiting not an instant longer, and despite the gardener’s warning, Mary
Jane clicked across the smooth path, over the street, and up to the
very front door of the mansion, wherein lay a precious little form,
incessantly watched by a crowd of nurses and friends.
The outer door was ajar, a footman standing just within, keeping guard
and ready to answer in a whisper the constant string of inquiries which
neighbors sent to make. Past him, while he was talking to another,
slipped Mary Jane, her crutches making no sound upon the thick carpet.
One thought possessed her, one only; and made her almost unconscious
of the novel scenes about her. Bonny-Gay was ill. Bonny-Gay might die.
Well, she would have one more glimpse of that beloved face, no matter
who tried to stop her.
Her brain worked fast. Sick people were generally up-stairs; up-stairs
she sped. Sick folks had to be quiet. She paused an instant and peered
down the dim corridor. She saw that as the people passing along
this hall approached a distant door they moved even more gently and
cautiously. In that room, then, lay her darling!
It seemed like the passage of some bird, so swift she was and so
unerring, for before even the most watchful of the nurses could
intervene she had entered the darkened chamber and crossed to a white
cot in the middle of it. By that time it was too late to stop her. Any
noise, any excitement, however trivial, might prove fatal, the doctors
thought.
Bonny-Gay lay, shorn of her beautiful curls, almost as white as her
pillows. But the small head moved restlessly, incessantly, and the
silence of the night had given place to a delirious, rambling talk. All
her troubled fancies seemed to be of the last scenes she had witnessed:
the “Playgrounds,” with the eager children crowding them. She was
see-sawing with Jimmy O’Brien, and hoeing cabbages with the baby. She
laughed at some inner picture of his absurd accidents, and finally, as
some peril menaced him, raised her shoulders slightly and shrieked:
“Mary Jane! Oh! Mary Jane--come quick!”
All the watchers caught their breath--startled, fearful of the worst.
Yet upon the silence that followed the cry, there rose the sweetest,
the gladdest of voices:
“Why, yes, Bonny-Gay! I’ve come!”