THE FLIGHT AND FRIGHT OF MARY JANE
Again Mary Jane’s thoughts had been swift. She recalled the fact that
“when Joe Stebbins had the fever and talked crazy-like, the doctor said
we must answer just as if ’twas the way he said. ’Twould have made
him worse to argue him different,” and with this reflection made her
instant response.
Now Bonny-Gay had either been less ill than they fancied, or the crisis
had been reached; for at that cheerful reply she opened her blue eyes
and looked into the eager face so near them. For a brief time she said
no more, seeming to seek for some explanation of those troubled dreams
from the steadfast smile of her new friend; then she stretched out her
hand and Mary Jane caught it rapturously between her own palms.
“You--you look nice in my hat. But I thought--I thought--I was at your
park. Yet it’s home, isn’t it, after all. How dark it is, and how tired
I am. I guess I’ll go to sleep a few minutes. Though I’m very pleased
to see you, Mary Jane.”
Through the hearts of all in the room shot a thrill of thankfulness,
yet nobody moved as the injured child dropped at once into a quiet
sleep which meant, the doctors knew, the saving of her life and reason.
Mrs. McClure had kept up bravely, till that moment, but now her
strength was leaving her in the shock of her sudden relief and joy.
“Tell the girl not to move nor draw her hand away--till Bonny herself
releases it;” she whispered, as an attendant led her noiselessly out of
the chamber.
She did not know how long and difficult a task she had set the
unwelcome visitor; for while she herself sank into a much needed rest
the sick child still slept that deep, refreshing slumber which was to
restore her to health.
The hours passed. The doctors went silently away. One nurse took up a
watchful position near the bed and remained almost as motionless as the
chair she occupied. A gray-haired man appeared at the doorway, took
one long, delighted look at the small figure on the cot, barely seeing
the other child beside it, and went away again. This was the anxious
father and he moved with the lightness of one from whom an intolerable
burden has been removed.
Meanwhile, a second nurse took observation now and then of Mary Jane.
The position into which the cripple had sprung, in her eager clasp of
Bonny-Gay’s hand, was a trying one. Half-bent forward, with no support
for any portion of her body save that sidewise seat upon the foot
of the cot, it was inevitable that muscles should stiffen and limbs
ache, even in a stronger frame than Mary Jane’s. Besides that, she was
very hungry, almost faint. Her slight breakfast had been taken very
early, and since then she had not tasted any food, though it was now
midafternoon. Presently, she felt her head grow dizzy. Bonny-Gay’s face
upon the pillow appeared to be strangely contorted and the clasp of
the small hand within her own to become vise-like and icy in its grip.
She began to suffer tortures, all over, everywhere. Even her useless
legs were prickling and “going to sleep,” like any overtaxed limb. She
feared she would fall forward, in spite of all her will, and that
might mean--death to Bonny-Gay! She knew, of her own intuition, that
she must not move, even without the whispered command of Mrs. McClure,
and in her heart she began to say a little prayer for strength to hold
herself steady till her task was at an end.
Then, all at once, she felt that the crutches resting against her side
were being noiselessly lifted away. Somebody, who moved as if on air,
was putting a rolled up pillow under her own tired chest; another at
her side--her back; and beneath the heavy feet a great soft cushion
that was like her own mother’s lap, for restfulness.
She turned her head and looked up into the kind face of the trained
nurse and smiled her most grateful smile, for she dared not speak.
The white-capped woman smiled back and silently held forward a plate
on which was some carefully cut up food. Then she forked a morsel and
held it to Mary Jane’s lips, which opened and closed upon it with an
eagerness that was almost greedy, so famished was she.
“How queer it is!” thought the little girl, “that anybody should bother
that way about just me!” then swallowed another mouthful of the
delicious chicken. A bit of roll followed the chicken, and after that a
glass of milk. With every portion so administered, Mary Jane’s fatigue
and dizziness disappeared till, by the time the nurse had fed her all
that the plate contained, she felt so rested and refreshed she fancied
that she could have sat on thus forever, if Bonny-Gay had so needed.
“Oh! how good I feel!”
Bonny-Gay was awake at last, and, of her own accord, withdrew her hand
from Mary Jane’s clasp.
“Why--why, is that you, Mary Jane? Why doesn’t somebody make it light
in here? How came you--Oh! I remember. You came to see me and I went to
sleep. I don’t know what made me do that. Wasn’t very polite, was it?
Now, I’ll get up and be dressed and then we’ll play something.”
But as she tried to rise she sank back in surprise.
“That’s queer. There’s something the matter with me. One of my legs
feels--it doesn’t feel at all. Seems as if it was a marble leg, like
‘Father George’s.’ Whatever ails me?”
Mary Jane’s answer was prompt enough, though the nurses would have
suppressed it if they had had time.
“I guess it’s broken. That’s all.”
“Broken! My leg? What do you mean?”
“Oh! I forgot. You haven’t been real awake since it happened. Max--”
“Child!” interposed the nurse who had fed her.
“Oh! mustn’t I tell?”
The two white-capped women exchanged glances. After all, their patient
would have to learn about her own condition; and children had often
ways of their own which proved wiser than grown folks thought.
“Ye-s, you may tell.”
“You were thrown out the carriage. Don’t you remember? Max had run
away to find you, and when he did, he didn’t stop to think of anything
else. He just jumped right into the carriage, where you and the Gray
Gentleman and the baby and I were all riding splendid. That made the
horses afraid and they acted bad. You got tumbled out and broke your
leg. That’s all.”
“That’s--all! Why, Mary Jane! You say it as if--as if--you didn’t care!”
Bonny-Gay began to cry, softly.
“Yes I did say that’s all, because that isn’t much. It’s a good job
it wasn’t your head. A broken leg gets well quick; quicker’n ever if
it’s only a little leg like yours. If it was your mother’s now, or
your father’s, you might worry. But, my sake! I wouldn’t mind a little
thing like that if I were you. To lie in this heavenly room, with all
the pictures and pretty things, and folks to wait on you every minute,
why--I’d think I was the best off little girl in the world if I were
you.”
“But I can’t walk on it, nobody knows when. Nor go out-doors,
nor--nor--I think you’re a mean girl, Mary Jane Bump!”
The cripple was too astonished to reply. She had pushed herself from
her hard position upon the cot’s foot to a chair which the nurse had
placed for her, and was leaning back in it with supreme content. In
all her little life she had never sat upon anything so luxurious and
restful. How could any child mind anything, who was as fortunate as
the daughter of such a home? Astonishment, also, at finding that her
new friend was not wholly the “angel” she had hitherto supposed her to
be, kept her silent. But she was rather glad to find this out. It made
the other girl seem nearer to her own level of imperfection, and she
speedily reflected that sick people were often cross, yet didn’t mean
to be so.
Bonny-Gay herself swiftly repented her hard speech and looking around
the room, inquired:
“Did I sleep very long?”
“Yes, dear, a long time. We are all so glad of that,” answered the
nurse, holding a spoon to the patient’s lips, just as she had done to
Mary Jane’s, who laughed outright exclaiming:
“That was the funniest thing! When I was holding your hand, Bonny-Gay,
she fed me just that way, too! Me! Mary Jane Bump! Chicken, and biscuit
and milk! ’Twas prime, I tell you!”
“Fed you? Why?”
“’Cause I was holding your hand and couldn’t feed myself. I s’pose she
thought, maybe, I was hungry. I was, too.”
“Did you hold it all the time I was asleep, Mary Jane?”
“Yes. Course. You wasn’t to be waked up till you did it yourself.”
A moment’s silence; then said Bonny-Gay:
“I am too ashamed of myself to look at you. What must you think of me,
Mary Jane?”
“I think I love you, dearly.”
“I don’t see how you can, but I’m glad of it. Where is my mother,
nurse?”
Mrs. McClure bent over the cot and kissed her daughter, murmuring
tender words of love and delight; and for a space neither remembered
Mary Jane.
However, she had just remembered her own mother and the fact that she
had been long from home. Also, that that home lay at the end of a long,
strange and distracting journey, for one so ignorant of travel as she,
and that through the window she could see that it was already twilight.
She waited a bit, for a chance to bid good-night to Bonny-Gay and to
say how glad she was that she was better, and to thank the nurse for
being so kind to herself. But nobody seemed to have any thought for her
just then.
The gray-haired father had come into the room and bent beside his wife
over the cot where lay their one darling child; and, seeing the parents
thus occupied with their own feelings, both nurses had considerately
turned their backs upon the scene and were busying themselves in
arranging the chamber for the night’s watch.
“I dare not wait a minute longer! I should be afraid, I think, to get
in the car alone at night. I was hardly ever out after dark. I’d like
to make my manners pretty, as mother said, but I can’t wait.”
Moved by the same delicacy which had made the nurses turn their
backs upon the group at the bedside, Mary Jane silently picked up
her crutches and hopped away. Finding the way out was easier, even,
than finding it in. The halls were now all lighted by wonderful lamps
overhead and the same stately footman stood just within the outer
entrance.
“However did such a creature as this get in and I not see her?” he
wondered, as the little hunchback came swiftly toward him. “Well,
better out than in, that’s sure. No knowing what harm it would do the
little missy if she caught sight of an object like that!”
Which shows how little the people who live in one house may understand
of each other’s ideas; and explains the rapidity with which he showed
Mary Jane through the door and closed it upon her.
After the lighted hallway the outside world seemed darker than ever,
even though the days were yet long and twilight lingered. But to-night
the sky was clouded and a storm impending. Already in the west there
were flashes of lightning, and though, in ordinary, Mary Jane delighted
in an electric storm, just then it made her think the more longingly of
home and its security.
“Besides, if I should get my fresh clean dress all wet, that would make
work for mother. I’m glad I forgot that hat, though. That’ll have to be
dry, anyway, now; and maybe after all, when Bonny-Gay gets well she may
want it herself. It was her mother gave it to me, not her. Now which
way--I guess this. Oh! I know! I’ll find that gardener, Mr. Weems, and
he’s so nice and kind he’ll show me the way to go. Maybe, after all,
there is another car goes nearer to Dingy street than that one I took
first and--There’s a man. It might be him. I’ll run and see.”
But when she had clicked across the path to where the man stood he had
already begun to move away, and she saw that he was not at all like the
gardener. So she paused, irresolute, trying to recall by which of the
several avenues leading from it she had entered the Place.
There were people hurrying homeward in each direction, and a few smart
equipages were whirling past; but nobody paused to glance at her, save
with that half-shudder of repugnance to which she was quite accustomed
when she met strangers, and that had rarely wounded her feelings as it
did just then and there.
“Well, I can’t help that. And I don’t mind it for myself, not now at
all, since I know about poor father. He’s the one feels worst for it.
And that I shall tell him the very minute I see him. So let them look
and turn away, if they wish. Looks don’t hurt, really, and oh! dear! if
I only could remember the street I ought to take. Charles, of course. I
know that and there it is; but whether to go to that side or this--”
In the midst of her perplexity the electric current was turned on and
the Place was suddenly and noiselessly flooded with a light as of day.
Courage came back and after another hasty scrutiny of the streets, to
discover some landmark that she could recall, she saw the monument and
the lion, and ran toward them as if they had been old friends.
“Bonny-Gay loves them, and so does the Gray Gentleman, and they do look
as quiet and peaceful as can be. I stopped there, I know, and maybe
I’ll think it out better there.”
Yet even in that reposeful place Mary Jane could gain no new ideas as
to her course, nor was anybody near to whom she could apply.
The gardener had long since gone home for the night, and in
desperation, Mary Jane determined to appeal to the very first person
who came by. This proved to be a young man, with a cane and eyeglasses;
and he appeared to be extremely busy. The little girl thought he
must also be one of the “aristocratics” of whom her father spoke so
contemptuously, because when she had asked him to “please tell me the
way to Dingy street?” he had scarcely glanced at her but had haughtily
replied: “Never heard of such a place.”
“Hmm. Too bad. Father says they don’t any of them know very much, and
I’m sorry. Don’t know where Dingy street is, indeed! when I know it
myself, even a little girl like me and have lived there always. I mean
ever since I was a baby and we left the country. That, mother says,
was the mistake we made. In the country father didn’t drink and lose
his work. Well, we’ll go again, some day, when I get big and strong,
and can help more with the wash. We could earn a lot, mother and me
together, if I was big.”
She lost herself in her day dreams for a little and awoke from them
with a start, to find the twilight altered to real night, while the
electric gleams from the lamps overhead were brighter than ever and
their shadows more like ink upon the pavement. Mary Jane had never seen
such brilliancy as this, and again she forgot herself in studying her
surroundings and enjoying the vivid green of the grass and shrubs.
A certain clump of flowers, glowing in the radiance, attracted her
especially and she felt that she must put her face down on them, to
smell them, before she lost sight of them forever.
“For I don’t s’pose I’ll ever come this way again. I couldn’t expect
it. Mother couldn’t spare the money even if she could me and--even if
I ever get back to her again!” she concluded, with a frightened sigh.
But the beautiful blossoms enticed her, and in her own down town park,
which had been thrown open to whoever of the poor would enjoy them,
there were few “Keep off” signs and the few quite disregarded. This she
had explained to Bonny-Gay; and what was true of one park in the city
should be true of all.
So she hopped nimbly over the velvet lawn to where the flowers gleamed
scarlet and white and wonderful, and bending above them thrust her face
deep down into their loveliness. Oh! how sweet they were! and so crisp
and almost caressing in their touch upon her cheek.
“Dear flowers! I wouldn’t hurt you, you know that, don’t you! I
wouldn’t break a single one of you, no, not for anything. Seems like
you’d feel it if your stems were broken, poor things. But I’ll not harm
you. No, indeedy. Only I wish--I wish I could just take one tiny, tiny
piece home to mother. But I wouldn’t break you, even for her!”
“Well, I guess you’d better not! What are you doing here? How dare you
come on this grass? Can’t you read the signs?”
Mary Jane looked up, and was immediately terrified. It was a policeman
who held her arm, and all the wild stories she had heard of arrests and
imprisonment flashed into her mind.
In Dingy street there was, also, a policeman; but a friendly soul whom
all the children loved, and whose own home was close to theirs. It was
he who had saved many a baby’s life, from careless passing vehicles,
when busy mothers had not the time to watch them as they should; and
his blue uniform represented to Mary Jane’s mind an all-powerful
guardian, to whom appeal was never made in vain.
But this six-foot officer, with his glitter and dignity, his harsh
voice and vise-like clutch--this was the majesty of law outraged.
“Oh! what have I done! I didn’t mean it--I didn’t--” gasped the
frightened child, and wrenching herself loose swung away upon her
crutches, faster even than the officer could have pursued her, even if
he had been so minded.
He did not even attempt to follow her, but watched her flight, with a
chuckle of amusement.
“Scared her well, that time, the little vagrant. Well, it’s right a
lesson was given ’em. If every child who wanted to smell the bushes was
let, what would our parks look like!”
“Like bits of Paradise, as they should;” answered a voice behind him,
so suddenly that the policeman wheeled about to find himself face to
face with a resident of the Place himself.
As for Mary Jane she neither saw whither she fled nor scarcely breathed
before she had collided with a swiftly advancing figure, and found both
herself and it thrown down. Captured after all! Her eyes closed with
a snap, as there seemed to rise before them the vision of a station
house, filled with frowning policemen, and herself in the midst, a
helpless prisoner.