CONFIDENCES
“Oh! I am so tired! If I could only just get up once!” sighed Bonny-Gay.
“Sick folks always have to stay in bed. How’d they look, sitting up,
I’d like to know?” answered Mary Jane.
“But I’m not sick. I’m not sick one bit. I’m just as well as--as that
parrot, yonder.”
“Tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth!” shrieked Polly.
Mary Jane laid down the thirteenth doll and clapped her hands to her
sides. “That bird is the absurdest thing. He makes me laugh till I
ache.”
“That’s a story, that’s a story!” corrected Poll.
“No, it isn’t! No, it isn’t! No, it isn’t!” mocked Mary Jane, gaily.
Bonny-Gay laughed, too, and cried out:
“Mary Jane, you’re the very nicest girl I know!”
“Thank you. That’s a dear thing for you to say. But you’re partial,
like mother. Besides, there isn’t any other girl here, just now.”
“But I mean it. There isn’t another girl in the world would come here
and be shut up in the house, day after day, just to amuse me, ’cause my
leg’s broken, except you.”
“Yes, there is,” said Mary Jane, confidently.
“Who?”
“You!”
“Oh! you funny child!”
“Wouldn’t you? If you and I were each other--I mean changed places and
I was the sick one, wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I never did like indoors and would never stay in
if I could help it. Do you s’pose it will be very long now?”
“No, I guess not. Not if you’re good and lie still. Wait. I’ll bring
all the playthings around to that other side the bed and that will rest
you. You’ve been looking out this way a good while now.”
So Mary Jane industriously hopped around and transported the thirteen
dolls, the bird cages, and the parrot stand to a new position, and
leaning on her crutches gently helped the sick child to turn about as
far as she was permitted to do. A trained nurse was still always in the
room, and Mrs. McClure herself passed in and out very frequently; but
it was Mary Jane who did most for her friend; Bonny-Gay declaring that,
“Next to Mamma” there was nobody who understood her whims and desires
without being told them, as the little cripple did.
“That’s because we’re just an age, I guess. Queer, wasn’t it? That you,
up in this big house, and me down in my dear little one, should both
be sent to our folks the very same day that ever was? ‘Sunday bairns’
should be the best ones in the world, my mother says. Only, I wasn’t in
my Dingy street house when I came. I was in the country;” and for some
unexplained reason Mary Jane’s sunny face clouded suddenly.
For weeks now, and because Bonny-Gay had “taken such an extreme fancy
to her”--as Mrs. McClure had herself explained to Mrs. Bump, when she
herself went to ask the favor of Mary Jane’s attendance in the sick
room--the helpful child had spent the greater portion of each day
there. It had become quite a matter of habit in Dingy street that a
carriage should roll up to the door of 97 and that Mary Jane should
go away in it; to be returned at six o’clock precisely, of the same
afternoon. Dingy street felt itself proud of this state of things, and
every householder held her head a bit higher because of it. Who’d ever
have dreamed that their own small hunchback would get to be “carriage
folks?” Well, there was no telling when such glory might not fall to
their own lot, and she’d do them all credit wherever she went, she had
such pretty, loving ways with her. That she had.
Now, it was sometimes an inconvenience to the McClure household that
this trip must be made twice a day; and that very morning Mrs. McClure
entered the chamber to speak with Mary Jane about it. She had now
overcome her first repugnance at sight of the deformed little body and
saw only the sweet face and helpfulness. She had, also, offered Mrs.
Bump some compensation for her daughter’s “services; just the same as
any other nurse’s;” but the poorer mother gently declined.
“If the dear Lord has given her a chance to do something for your girl,
whom she so loves, I guess He means it as a sort of compensation to her
for her own afflictions. No, indeed, Mrs. McClure, I wouldn’t like to
taint the sympathy between those two by any thought of money.”
To this there could be no answer, and so the matter rested.
“Mary Jane, we begin to feel almost as if you belonged with us, you
have been so kind and good to Bonny-Gay; and what do you say to staying
up here at night, now? At least for a few nights together, with then
one at home?” asked the lady, as she sat down beside the cot and
watched the undressing of the china seventh doll, preparatory to its
bath.
Mary Jane looked up quickly, with a sort of fear coming into her
telltale face.
“Oh! I shouldn’t like that. I mean--of course, you’re very kind--but
I’d have to go home. I would, indeed.”
“It’s not kindness on my part, especially. I thought it might save
trouble to both sides; but, never mind. We’ll go on as usual, for the
present; though I wish you would speak to your mother about it, when
you see her, this evening. Now, Bonny-Gay, I have to go out. Is there
anything you fancy, that I can bring you? I shall be at market and do
some shopping. Think and see, darling.”
Bonny-Gay’s eyes had rested searchingly upon Mary Jane’s face. She
would have been delighted herself if her playmate could have remained
all the time in the Place, but she saw the sudden fear and was puzzled
by it. Yet she did not urge the matter, and the only request she made
of her indulgent mother was:
“Just bring something new for the baby.”
Again Mary Jane’s face was troubled and she exclaimed:
“Please, Bonny-Gay don’t! He has too many things already, that you have
sent him. I’d rather not, please.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. McClure, as she kissed her little girl and went
away. But she was considerably annoyed. She felt that she did not
exactly “know how to deal with that class of people,” to which Mary
Jane belonged. She wished that Bonny-Gay had not taken this absurd
fancy of hers. She wished that the Gray Gentleman had never done that
unwise thing of carrying her daughter into the region and knowledge of
Dingy street. It was all very well for him to devote his time still,
as he had all his life and fortune, toward making the lives of poor
children brighter. Everybody must have a hobby, and that was his, she
supposed. Of course, he was a noble man, and his name was known far
and wide as that of a philanthropist. Still--Hmm. It would soon end,
anyway. Bonny-Gay was improving rapidly, and was so perfectly healthy
that there was nothing to fear. And if she needed her own carriage that
evening, and Mary Jane remained still obstinate, she must be sent home
in a cab. That was all.
With these thoughts she departed, but she had in some way left an
altered atmosphere behind her. Her difficulty in understanding “that
class of people” arose from the simple fact that she had, as yet, no
real sympathy with them. It seemed to her that they were altogether
different from herself; that they were duller, less capable of any true
nobility. But she was, in reality, kind and good at heart, with many
social cares to tax her nerves, and she was one day to have her present
ignorance enlightened.
In the silence that followed her exit, Bonny-Gay’s hand stole softly
out and touched Mary Jane’s cheek, down which a tear was rolling. And
in the child’s touch was that perfect sympathy which the mother’s tone
had lacked.
“Don’t cry, Mary Jane. He’ll come back.”
Mary Jane’s head lifted instantly and her face brightened.
“How’d you know ’twas that I was thinking about?”
“Oh! I knew. After a minute. Not just at first. Mother didn’t
understand. I don’t s’pose she’s heard yet that he was gone. Move up
nearer. Fix yourself comf’table. Let’s talk, instead of play dolls,
now.”
Mary Jane pushed her low chair to the side of the cot, so close now
that she could rest her head against Bonny-Gay’s own pillow.
“Tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth!” admonished Polly,
and in their laughter at his opportune command they failed to hear
that somebody had entered the room and sat down quite near them. This
was Bonny-Gay’s father, and he liked sometimes to surprise her by an
unexpected visit of this sort, as well as to listen to the innocent
chatter of this pair of “Sunday bairns.”
“How long is it, Mary Jane?”
“It was the very day you were hurt. Two whole weeks.”
“Well. That’s all right. Max is with him, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know. He went away with him. They both felt bad, I guess. That
made them like to be together. Father’s powerful fond of dogs, any way.”
“And of the country, you said, too. I s’pose he’s in the country
somewheres.”
“But where! I do want to see him so much. There is something I must
tell him. Something he thinks is wrong, something that made him feel
bad but should not. Something--Oh! I’ve seen all through things so
clear, since he went. Every time he saw me I s’pose he was reminded
that--My sake! What am I saying. But I’m so sorry about your mother not
liking to send for me. I must have bothered her no end. I wouldn’t have
come only--”
“You wouldn’t have come? Why, it was I who wanted you, who must have
you. Don’t you know, you are my ‘twin sister?’ It’s all right. Mother
would give me anything to have me pleased. Don’t think a thing about
that. Let’s talk about the rest. Say, Mary Jane, say!” Excitedly.
“There you are. Off you go! Have a care!” warned Polly.
“Oh! keep still, you bird. Listen, Mary Jane. You know I’m going to the
country, don’t you? We all are, just as soon as I get well.”
“Yes. I think it will be just lovely for you.”
“For you, too, you go with me and--find him!” almost shouted Bonny-Gay.
“Oh! you darling! Might I?”
“Course. Why shouldn’t you? My father owns a lot of country. Ever and
ever so much. He has so much he says it’s a sin and shame it isn’t
doing anybody any good. But he’s too busy to tend to it himself and he
can’t trust many folks. They would waste his money, dreadful. There’s
our big house and park, and all the gardens and things; and then there
are fields and fields and fields. Miles of them, I guess. Just as like
as not he’s gone around there some place. Just supposing! If he has,
why, pooh! You could find him in a minute. Oh! you must go with me and
look. It won’t be so long, maybe. If this old leg would only get itself
well. I love the country. It’s all out-doors there.”
Mary Jane said nothing, but her face was rapturous with anticipation.
Finally, Bonny-Gay announced:
“I guess that’s all settled, then. There’s nothing to do about it only
ask our folks. Let’s make believe things. Let’s pretend we had all the
money in the world and could do just what we wanted to with it; what
would you do, first?”
“Why, I wouldn’t dare think. ’Cause it couldn’t ever come true, you
know.”
“Supposing it couldn’t? The things that don’t come true are the
sweetest things there are, I think. You begin.”
Mary Jane drew a deep breath. Under the inspiration of this other more
imaginative child, she was fast forgetting the hard, dry facts of life;
and whether this were best or no, it was, at least, delightful.
“Well, I’d go to your father and I’d pay him money, and I’d get all
those miles and miles of country to do with exactly as I pleased. Then
I’d take some more of the money and I’d get the men that build houses
to make a house, right in the very prettiest spot there ever was. Where
there was water if I could, ’cause my father, he’s so fond of fishing.
He’s quit work, lots of times, to go fishing down the bay. I’d buy him
a fish-pole and lines and hooks. I’d buy him and mother a cow and a
horse and a market-wagon. They had a market-wagon once, but a man came
along and told him he could make more money in the city; and he sold
their things and lost the little farm and came. He’d be all right if he
was back in that country, I guess. I’d like to see it, myself.”
The eager speaker stopped short. Again she had almost revealed what
no loyal daughter should,--a parent’s fault. But Bonny-Gay was so
interested, she seemed so to know beforehand what was in a body’s mind
that words slipped out of themselves.
“Have a care. Tell the truth!” adjured Polly.
“Of course I will,” answered the cripple. “Now, Bonny-Gay, it’s your
turn. What would you do if you had all the money and could?”
The unseen father leaned forward a little. He was profoundly interested
in any possible desires his darling might express, and, for the matter
of that, she rarely did ask for anything. Maybe, because almost all
desirable things came to her without the asking.
“I hardly know. Yes, I do, too. I’d buy all the parks in this city and
in every other one. I’d hunt up all the little children in the cities.
I’d make free ‘Playgrounds’ for them, every one. Even the little girls
should have their little cunning ‘farms,’ just the same. I guess they’d
want to plant flowers, though, wouldn’t they? instead of cabbages
and limas. Then I’d take all the grown-ups who wanted to go into the
country and couldn’t, and I’d send them. And I’d let them stay a whole
week, I guess. If I could. If there was room enough. And when Christmas
came I’d have everybody that was poor come to my house, just like the
Gray Gentleman does to the halls he hires, and I’d make them as happy
as--I am. I wouldn’t let anybody in the whole wide world be sick nor
sorry; I wouldn’t let anybody hurt nice dogs or turn them out of their
own parks; and--Oh! Mary Jane, do you s’pose we’ll ever see dear old
Max again?”
“Why, Bonny-Gay? Didn’t you just make me feel ’t he was right with
father? Course, then, when father comes he’ll come; and if you aren’t
well by that time I’ll coax father to lead him up here to see you. If
he’ll be coaxed;” she added gravely.
The child on the cot glanced through the window. “There goes the Gray
Gentleman, to see ‘Father George’ and the lion. I wish he’d come to
see me; but he’s afraid my mother blames him for taking me that day, I
think, though nobody ever said so.”
“I’ll go ask him!”
Before she could be stopped, Mary Jane hopped across the room and down
to the door. Mr. McClure rose with considerable noise and approached
the cot. He had been deeply touched by the fact that neither of the
two innocently dreaming “Sunday bairns” had planned anything for her
own especial gratification. The witness of such unselfishness was
refreshing in a world such as that wherein most of his waking hours
were passed.
“Well, little woman, how goes it? Getting well, fast?”
Bonny-Gay held up her arms to be loved.
“Fine, father dear. It won’t be long before I’m out in the park again,
watching for you to come home from business.”
They found so much to say to each other that they quite forgot Mary
Jane; who had, indeed, swung across the square to intercept the path of
her friend. She had something of her own to say to the Gray Gentleman
besides delivering her playmate’s message. She was in trouble and knew
that he would help her in some way too wise for her to think of.
“Well, upon my word! If here isn’t Mary Jane! I thought I heard a
cheerful little clicke-e-ty-click, such as only one small energetic
body could make. What’s it now, Miss Bump?”
“I’d like to talk to you, please.”
“Don’t doubt I need it. Yet if the ‘talking to’ is to be very severe,
I’d like to have the support of the lion. Let’s rest against him.
That’s comfortable. Now, my child--talk!”
“First off, Bonny-Gay wants you to come and see her.”
“Shall be delighted, I’m sure. Please make my regards to Miss McClure
and I will wait upon her at any hour she designates.” Which dignified
yet whimsical remark set Mary Jane to smiling.
“I’m glad that’s fixed before I forgot. Because I’m in dreadful
trouble, myself.”
“You look it!” he exclaimed, smiling into her confiding face; then
dropped his playful manner as he saw that she was really in earnest.
Whereupon she promptly told him about Mrs. McClure and why, in
anticipation of her father’s possible return, she must, she must go
home every night. “And how can I? I mustn’t put them out--they are so
good to me. I mustn’t stay away, if Bonny-Gay needs me. There’s all the
dolls to be dressed, you see; and the canaries must be fed, or they’d
die; and Polly is about as much care as the baby. She’s always dropping
things and squawking till she gets them picked up for her--though she
throws them right straight down again. I don’t see how Bonny-Gay can be
so patient with that bird, do you?”
“I’m sure I shouldn’t be.”
“So, I couldn’t not come, course. And what I want you to tell me,
please, is there a shorter way I could come? So I could walk here?
’Cause I couldn’t ride in the car. We couldn’t afford that.”
“If you would ride in the car I know, without asking, that Mrs. McClure
would be more than glad to bear the expense.”
“But father wouldn’t like that. He never likes me to have rich folks
do things for me. He--he seems to about hate them. He wouldn’t let me
go to the Empty Stocking Trees, ’cause he does. You’re the only one
he doesn’t mind. And he likes the ‘Playgrounds’ ’cause they’re not
charity. They belong to the city and we do, same’s the rich ones. They
teach the children to work and learn farming, too. He likes that. But I
couldn’t take the money from her. I wouldn’t so displease him, even if
I had to stay away.”
The Gray Gentleman pondered deeply. He would not offend the confiding
child by offering himself to pay her car fare. He too greatly respected
her honest pride and her loyalty to her father to do that. But, after a
moment, he looked up.
“Miss Mary Jane Bump, once before I invited you to call at my house
and you declined. Now, I invite you again. I think I have something
there that will solve your difficulties--and my own. May I have the
pleasure? I’ll detain you from the Poll parrot but a few moments.”
“Oh! I’d love it!”
It was a very cheerful click the crutches gave now. The mere telling
of her perplexities had half-banished them, and Mary Jane had implicit
faith in the wisdom of this simple, true-hearted gentleman, who was,
as Mrs. McClure had reflected, “the friend of all poor children
everywhere.”
The Gray Gentleman’s big, empty, plainly furnished house, seemed very
lonely to the little girl, whose own small home was so crowded; and
she wondered at the slowness of the one colored “boy”--as gray as his
master--who answered that master’s ring.
“Boy, go up-stairs, please, to my bedroom. Open the top drawer of the
chiffonier and bring me all the socks you find there. You’d better use
a basket--they are many in number.”
The “Boy” half fancied that his master had lost his common sense, then
leaped to the conclusion that this was probably one of their many
pensioners upon whom the articles demanded were to be bestowed. He
obeyed without comment, however, save by a respectful bow; and soon
returned. Meanwhile Mary Jane had been shown the few pictures upon the
walls and told their stories, and the place had begun to seem more
cheerful to her.
The “Boy” was dismissed; the basket heaped with fine hosiery placed on
the table beside the visitor, and herself bidden to look the contents
over.
“What do you think of them, Mary Jane?”
“I never knew one person have so many stockings; and, my sake, there
isn’t a single pair but has a hole in it--not one single sock, even. I
know. I guess you want me to mend them for you, don’t you? I often help
mother with the darning. She thinks I can do it quite well.”
“I’m sure you can, and that is just what I do want. I cannot put on a
ragged garment, poor old fellow though I am. They always come from the
laundry, broken somewhere, and I am always buying new. That’s how I
have so many. If you want to save my money for me you can do it.”
“I’d love to! I’ll take them home and fix them nights, after Bonny-Gay
is through with me.”
“Let’s be business like, Miss Bump. What would be your charges, per
pair?”
“My--charges? Nothing. I’d be so _glad_ to do something for you, who
have always been doing things for me.”
“I’ve known you a few weeks, little girl, and I’ve done very little.
Will five cents a pair be satisfactory?”
“I couldn’t take so much. I couldn’t take anything.”
“That or nothing. I’m business. That would make you quite independent
of all help except your own, and be a great benefit to me.”
“Of course, then. And oh! thank you!”
“Now, pack up your work, little bread-winner, and let’s back to
Bonny-Gay.”