BY THE STRENGTH OF LOVE
The days sped by. The summer heat deepened and there were thankful
hearts in the vine-covered mansion in Mt. Vernon Place. For Bonny-Gay
was well again; able to run about her beloved park, and to play in the
shadow of the lion with the few children left still in that part of the
city.
Nearly all the big houses were now closed, however, and their owners
departed to seashore or mountain. The McClures themselves were making
preparations for their own summer flitting to the great country house
of which the little girls had talked. They would have still enjoyed
being together, but that could no longer be.
A very few days after Mary Jane had made her business contract with
the Gray Gentleman, and he had himself spoken to the conductors of
the cars upon which she would have to take her daily ride--so that
everything was made easy and safe for her--those rides had ceased.
William Bump returned as suddenly as he had departed, and, with all his
old enmity against more fortunate folk, had immediately forbidden them.
But Mrs. Bump had herself gone to Mrs. McClure and explained enough of
matters to prove that Mary Jane was neither ungrateful nor forgetful;
and Mrs. McClure had accepted the explanation with great cheerfulness.
It was a much easier way out of a difficult position than she had
anticipated; because Bonny-Gay still talked about inviting Mary Jane
with them to the country, and this her mother did not at all desire.
However, a compromise was effected. Mary Jane was to be asked to care
for the thirteen dolls, the two canaries, the aquarium, and Polly; only
the pony being allowed to accompany his little mistress on her summer
outing. So, one morning, the carriage came around again and all these
creatures were stowed in it, along with Bonny-Gay and a maid. They had
been taken straight to Dingy street, where they were left with many
injunctions and much sage advice, as to their proper care. Then the two
little “Sunday bairns” had kissed each other many times, and had torn
themselves weeping from each other’s embrace, while the dignified maid
looked coldly on, urging:
“If you please, Miss McClure, you would much better be going. The train
goes at two o’clock and there’s much to pack, still.”
“Very well, Hawkins. I’m coming. Good-bye, Mary Jane, dear, dear Mary
Jane! I’ll write you as soon as I get there and maybe, maybe, your
father and my mother will let you come out to our house and make me a
beautiful long visit. I’d teach you to ride on the pony just the same
as if your legs were good, or in the goat cart or--”
“Come, come, Miss Bonny-Gay!” called Hawkins.
The coachman cracked his whip, there was a last glimpse of a bare sunny
head thrust from the carriage window, the tossing of ecstatic kisses,
and Bonny-Gay had passed out of Mary Jane’s life, probably forever.
That is, if the intentions of her parents could be carried out. When
they returned, in the autumn, a man could be dispatched for the dolls
and things, if their owner still desired them. If not, they might
remain the property of the small Bumps, and so well rid of them. The
parrot had been misbehaving of late, and using expressions not wholly
suited to the proprieties of Mt. Vernon Place. Originally owned and
trained by a man of the “slums,” she was returning to the rude speech
of earlier years.
But she was well received in the Bump household, save by William,
its head. He had frowned upon the coming into it of Bonny-Gay’s
treasures and only consented to the arrangement because of Mary Jane’s
disappointment. For ever since his return the father and daughter had
been always together and each seemed doubly anxious to do nothing that
would give the other pain. And after a time, even he became interested
in the queer bird and joined his children in inciting it to talk;
though his interest was not fully won until there sounded along the
street a familiar cry, to which nobody paid much heed except Polly.
She was suddenly transformed. She fluttered her feathers, stretched
her neck, cocked her head on one side, and in a tone that was almost
human in its mimicry burst forth:
“Crab-crab-crab-crab--crab-crab-crab! Devil-devilled-devil-devilled-crabs!
Heah’s-de-crab-man! Is yo’ hongry? Crab-man-goin’-to-baid-now! Dis yo’
las’ chance for yo’ nice-fried-hot-fried-devil-devilled-crabs! C-R-A-B-S!
OU-OU-OUCH!”
After which remarkable exploit mistress Polly became the idol of Dingy
street and even of William Bump.
The disposition of her new charges, so that they should not take up
too much space in her little home, and the careful packing away in the
top-cupboard of the food Bonny-Gay had provided for her pets, kept Mary
Jane busy all morning; and her mother had dinner on the table before
she observed how the time had flown. But when she heard the cheerful
summons:
“Come, father. Come children!” and smelled the freshly cooked fish, she
realized that she had given more attention than she meant to her new
cares.
“Oh! mother, I didn’t think I was so long! And I wanted to get my part
of the ironing done; because I promised Bonny-Gay that I’d go to the
park, if you could spare me, and watch her train go by. It’s that fast
express, that whizzes so; but she’s to sit on the park side the parlor
car, she called it, and she’s to watch for me and I for her. She’ll
wave and I’ll wave and that will be our really last good-by. Till she
comes home again.”
“That would be how-de-do? Wouldn’t it, child? And the ironing’s all
right. I’ve done that so, if father wants to go watch the men this
afternoon, you can go with him. Now eat your dinner and be thankful for
all your blessings.”
Everybody was always hungry at that table and the dinner was soon over.
Then William Bump arose, put on his hat, whistled to a big black dog
who lay on the doorstep and started off for his afternoon of loafing.
Mary Jane watched the pair with a pitying love.
“Those two seem just alike, some ways, don’t they mother? Father lost
his home and his work and so did Max. Dearly as Bonny-Gay loves that
dog, ever since he got her hurt, he doesn’t want to be with her like
he used. Didn’t you notice, this morning? When she hugged him and bade
him good-by, he was just a little pleased; yet he kept one eye on
father and soon’s he could walked back and lay down beside him. Father
is dreadful good to Max, isn’t he? He often says he’d never have come
back if it hadn’t been for--for us--”
“For you, daughter. Mostly for you, it was, dear.”
“Well, Max helped. He staid right close and coaxing like. Oh! I do wish
the Company would give father another try.”
“It won’t. But I’m in hopes, after awhile, he’ll find something else
to do. Meanwhile you stay close to him. Don’t give him a chance to get
down-hearted again and--you know. Didn’t you say your Gray Gentleman
was coming to the park to look at the ‘farms’ this very day? Why,
maybe, child, maybe he’d know of a job somewhere. You might ask him.”
“Yes, I might. I will. What’s father going to do now? he’s taken to the
track.”
“He says that, though he has no work there, there isn’t any law forbids
him sitting round, watching his old friends who have. He likes to talk
with men, you know; and if you’re handy by he’s quite satisfied. Father
doesn’t like to go wrong any better than we like to have him. He trusts
you to watch out for him, honey. So, if I were you, instead of taking
the baby and going along the street to the gate I’d go to the park by
the railroad. You can climb up the embankment at an easy place, and
stay near father. Then you’d be able to see everything. The children
in the ‘Playgrounds,’ and the Gray Gentleman if he goes to them, and
Bonny-Gay’s train when it comes, and all. Only--only, Mary Jane--take
care to give the cars plenty of room.”
“Course I will. ‘Look out for the cars when the bell rings!’”
laughingly quoted the child. “And you look out for the parrot when the
crab-man comes! I guess you’re right. I’d better not take the baby. If
I climb up the bank I might let him slip. Good-by. I’ll make father all
right and happy, don’t you fear.”
The mother watched her darling out of sight, thinking how sunshiny and
helpful she was, then settled the baby safely among his new playthings
and resumed her endless toil. But she was wholly happy and contented
now. They were poor, indeed, but they were not suffering, and her
hopeful heart was sure that in some way a task would be found for her
husband which would keep him out of idleness and evil company. She
began her one hymn of cheerfulness: “Lord, in the morning Thou shalt,
Thou shalt, Lord, in the morning Thou shalt hear, my voice ascending
high.”
Meanwhile, Mary Jane had hopped along the road till she came to a part
of the railway embankment which she could climb, then scrambled to its
top. Just before her the rails were laid over a long trestle above the
deep bed of a stream, now almost dry. A little water still ran among
the stones below but Mary Jane did not look down upon that. She made
her way swiftly, yet cautiously, beside the track, pushed rapidly along
the trestle, and reached her father’s side, at the further end of it.
“Here am I, father. I’m going to watch for the train from here.”
“All right, daughter.”
A fellow workman looked up and remonstrated:
“You oughtn’t to let that girl walk that trestle, Bump. If her crutches
slipped it--the bottom’s rough and deep down.”
“Oh! I’m not afraid. I don’t often, either, though I’ve played about
this railroad ever since I was born. All the Dingy street children play
there. How pretty the park looks, down yonder;” interrupted Mary Jane,
anxious that her father should not be blamed, especially for what was
not his doing.
“That’s right. You oughtn’t, daughter,” he said.
“I won’t again, then, father, if you don’t like. But I was safe enough.
What’s that team for, that’s coming?”
“They’re going to haul off that pile of ties that have been taken up.
Company gives ’em for the hauling. Only things it ever does give, too.”
“They ought to work faster. See. They keep dropping them on the track.
If a train should come by it would get thrown off. Don’t they know
that?”
“Oh, they know it all right, but they’ll be in time. They’re used to
it.”
It was in this very hardihood of custom that the danger lay. A beginner
at such a task would have watched constantly for the approach of a
train, but this “gang” did not. For the greater ease of handling they
rolled the heap of heavy ties over upon the track, as the anxious
girl had observed, and two men lifting leisurely placed the weighty,
worn out timber upon the wagon. The mule team before the wagon stood
half-over the edge of the embankment, heads dropped, themselves
enjoying the rest regardless of position.
The men laughed and talked. William Bump joined in the chatter and
forgot Mary Jane. The talk grew more interesting, to the speakers, and
became a torture to the listening girl, though she paid no attention to
the words. She realized, merely, that they were growing more and more
indolent; the pile of ties upon the rails lessened very, very slowly.
It was already long past noon, she knew that. She was familiar enough
with the running of trains to know, also, that the through express
was the next one due. It was upon this through express that Bonny-Gay
would travel. She began to feel cold with her anxiety. She must speak
to those men, even if it should displease her father, who hated
interference of that sort.
So she moved forward a little way and touched the arm of the foreman.
“Will you tell me the time, please?”
“Ten minutes to two, little girl. Pretty hot up here, isn’t it?” he
answered, good naturedly.
“Mary Jane, don’t meddle. Children should be seen not heard.”
“Yes, father. Only ten minutes! Why, you’ve been ever and ever so long
taking off less than half the ties. Can you finish in ten minutes? Can
you?” she demanded, eagerly.
“Why, kid, what’s the hurry? Got another job for us, eh?”
“The hurry? The train. The two o’clock express. It’s almost due.”
The foreman’s face paled a trifle. Then he whistled.
“Whew, sis, you’re right! Jim, lead that team off the bank. We’ll just
roll the rest down to the bottom and drive round there to load up. Now,
with a will! there ain’t no time to spare! here she goes!”
The mules were led away by one man while the others exerted themselves
to clear the tracks in any and every manner possible. There was no
longer any talking. There were no false movements. They knew that
there was no way of signalling the express, just there, even if there
should be need. But there must be no need, the tracks must be cleared.
Must be!
William Bump moved down upon the bank and watching from an apparently
safe place called upon Mary Jane to follow him.
She did not hear him. She stood, resting upon her crutches, anxiously
watching the toilers, straining forward, as if in that attitude she
could help them, and listening--listening--with every nerve at tension.
She did not see the Gray Gentleman, who had come into the park awhile
before and having caught sight of his favorite’s pink frock, crossed
the level space from the “Playgrounds” to the embankment to see what so
interested her. As he reached the spot below the end of the trestle he,
also, began to comprehend what was passing in Mary Jane’s mind and his
own cheek whitened.
“Hark! It’s coming--it’s coming!” cried the girl. “Work--work!”
They did work with a will. There was no need for anybody to urge them.
They, also, heard the low rumble of wheels along the distant track, the
shiver and tremble of the rails. The heavy ties rolled down--fast and
faster. The way was almost clear. There was only one tie left and that--
A man turned to look over his shoulder. “The train! The train! It’s on
us!”
The whole gang leaped to safety and waited. The one big timber still
lay crosswise above the trestle. It meant destruction. They knew it,
Mary Jane knew it. They could not move; but she could. That menacing
log should not destroy!
Ah! but those long, strong, useful arms of hers stood her in good stead
just then. All the strength of her body was in them. The crutches went,
she knew not where. She was lying flat, forcing, pushing, compelling
that last tie down, over the edge. The train was almost there. She knew
that, also, but she felt no fear. She must do her task--she must--she
could!
The men on the bank watched breathless, but not one went to her aid.
Even William Bump seemed stricken to stone.
There came a crash. The log was over--the track was clear!
But where was Mary Jane?
As he rounded the curve just before the trestle the engineer had seen
the child upon the track, but though he instantly reversed his engine
the train could not be brought to a stand-still till it had quite
crossed the openwork space, and he stepped down from it with horror in
his heart.
A horror which quickly changed to a shout of joy, though the peril was
yet not over.
Again these long, strong arms had done their owner good service. As the
train came upon the trestle she slipped down and dropped between the
ties, clinging to one for her life. She scarcely heard now that rumble
and roar above her; all her consciousness was fixed in the clutch of
her fingers upon that cross-beam.
* * * * *
It was the Gray Gentleman who first reached the spot and prostrating
himself upon the roadbed reached down to clasp her arms and draw her up
to safety.
“You precious child! You heroine!”
She opened her eyes at that, gave him one radiant smile, and promptly
fainted away. Which, she afterward declared, was a very foolish thing
for a sensible girl to do.
She as promptly revived, however, and there was Bonny-Gay hugging
and thanking her, but not saying good-by, at all! And there was Mrs.
McClure, that proud and dignified lady, snatching the crooked little
figure from the Gray Gentleman’s arms, to enfold it in her own and to
weep and cry over it in the most astonishing fashion.
“Oh! you darling, darling child! You’ve saved our lives, saved
Bonny-Gay, who’s more than life to us. Little did I guess how noble you
are. Nobler, Mary Jane, than anybody I ever knew.”
It was like a dream. The people, all the passengers and trainmen,
crowding round to thank and bless the little hunchback, who now rested
in her own father’s arms, while he beamed upon her, proud and happy,
but with soul-cleansing tears streaming down his softened face. And
there was Mr. McClure, laying his hand kindly upon William Bump’s
shoulder and begging:
“For any injustice I’ve done you, for any injustice you’ve done me, let
this hour make amends. As man to man--trust me, William Bump.”
“Aye, Boss. I will, I will and the poor man looked into the face of the
rich man and behold! it was as that of a brother.”
“What’s all this to-do?” cried Mrs. Stebbins, to Mrs. Bump. “The
express has stopped and there’s a crowd of people coming this way.”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. I just heard the train go by. I hope nothing’s
wrong.”
“Not wrong, sure. The men are tossing their hats and cheering and the
women--they’re laughing and talking like they’d struck a gold mine.
They’re headed this way.”
But Mrs. Bump was too busy to look. She had a lot of clear-starching to
do and she was engaged in a new, therefore interesting, task; she was
teaching Polly to sing a hymn!
“Yes, you smart bird. If you can talk crab-man’s talk, that always
sounds sort of wicked, though, of course, it isn’t, you can learn
better things just as easy.”
“So I can, so I can. Tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth,”
answered Polly.
“Oh! I’m telling it, never fear. Learn it you shall. Now begin--”
But the lesson was interrupted. The voices of the crowd were near
at hand; were at the door; were in the very room! What did it mean?
William was placing Mary Jane in her mother’s arms, as if she had been
the baby himself--helpful Mary Jane! And Mrs. McClure was clasping Mrs.
Bump’s neck, and sobbing and laughing on her shoulder.
Everybody was talking at once, but suddenly somebody cleared a space
and placed a chair behind the startled mistress of the house. She sank
into it gratefully, her knees now trembling too much to support her.
But the facts had penetrated to her consciousness, at last, and with
a cry that hushed all speech of others, she held her precious “Sunday
bairn” to her heart with a thankfulness beyond words.
Suddenly, upon this sacred silence, there fell a voice which seemed
neither bird nor human, yet strangely reverent and opportune:
“Lord, in the morning Thou shalt, Thou shalt,
Lord, in the morning Thou shalt hear
My voice ascending high.”
At this interruption there were some who wept--but none who smiled.
CONCLUSION
AFTERWARD
Of course there was an afterward. There always is.
The fallow fields of the McClure estate no longer lie idle under the
blue sky, a reproach to their owner. The property was not quite of the
“miles and miles” in extent which Bonny-Gay had imagined, but it was
still sufficient to set apart a goodly number of acres as a home for
Mary Jane, who had never known how beautiful the country was until she
was driven one day, along a smooth road, under over-hanging trees, and
over bridges crossing here and there the prettiest trout stream in the
world. The drive was interrupted, “to let the horses rest,” where there
was a fine view of a cottage, freshly painted in cream and white, and
with the most inviting of piazzas extending from its sides.
Mary Jane had been allowed to make a little visit at the home of
Bonny-Gay, and had been absent from Dingy street for one whole week.
This day her absence was to end, even with this day; and she thought it
a little odd that Bonny-Gay should seem so extravagantly happy, as if
she were glad that the visit were over. Though, of course, the guest
knew better than that. There was not the slightest doubt in the heart
of either “Sunday bairn” concerning their mutual love.
“Oh! what a pretty house! We haven’t come this way before, have we? Is
it on the road to the station, Bonny-Gay? How happy the folks must be
who live there. But I’m happy, too. Dingy street will seem perfectly
lovely to me when I get there. Do you suppose the baby has grown much?
I wonder if Polly has learned any new things. Mother’s a master hand to
teach, mother is. She taught me my letters while she was working round.
She thinks I can, maybe, be spared to go to school--sometime. How I
want to see her. Seems as if I could hardly wait.”
“Oh! I’m so glad, so glad!” laughed Bonny-Gay, and even the old
coachman’s face beamed with smiles, though in ordinary he felt that it
was his business, when on duty, to conduct himself like an automaton.
“I s’pose you’ll write to me, won’t you? You promised, that other time,
before you started, you know.”
“No. I shall do no such thing.”
“Bonny-Gay!” There was a volume of reproach in the tones.
“No. Not a line.”
“Whose house is this, do you suppose?”
“I don’t ‘suppose’ when I know things.”
“Whose, then?”
“Let’s go ask.”
“Why Beulah Standish McClure! What would your mother say? If there’s
anything she wants you to be it’s a lady. So I’ve heard her say, time
and again.”
“So have I. I’m tired of hearing it. I mean, I’m trying to be one. She
wouldn’t care. She’d do it herself, if she were here.”
“Never! She never, never would be so rude.”
Bonny-Gay made a funny little grimace, then leaned sidewise and hugged
her friend.
“Do the Dingy street folks know better how to behave than the Place
folks, missy?”
“Yes, Bonny-Gay, I think they do”; answered Mary Jane with dignity. For
she had now been associated with the McClure household long enough to
get a fair idea of the proprieties; and she was sure that driving up
to the doors of strange houses and inquiring their owners’ names, was
not one. However, she could do nothing further, for it was Bonny-Gay’s
carriage and not hers.
“Drive in, please.”
So the phaeton turned into the pretty driveway, bordered with shrubs,
and around the lawn by a freshly prepared curve to the very front door
itself. Mary Jane had turned her head away and utterly refused to look.
She was amazed at Bonny-Gay, her hitherto model, but she’d be a party
to no such impertinence; not she.
Then her head was suddenly seized by her mate’s hands and her face
forced about toward that unknown doorway.
“Look, Mary Jane Bump! You shall look! You shall. If you don’t, you’ll
break my heart. Look quick!”
Mary Jane’s lids flew open. Then she nearly tumbled off the seat. The
Gray Gentleman was coming down the steps, smiling and holding out his
hand. Smiling and calling, too:
“They’ve come, Mrs. Bump! They’ve come!” Mary Jane, in her newly
acquired ideas of etiquette, wondered to hear such a quiet person speak
so loudly or jest upon such themes. She had instantly decided that this
was some friend’s country house, where he, too, was visiting. Odd that
his hostess’ name should be like her own.
But all her primness vanished when out from that charming cottage
flew a woman with a baby in her arms. A woman in a print gown,
clear-starched as only one laundress could do it, and a baby so big and
round and rosy he had to be spelled with a capital letter.
“Mother! My mother and the Baby!”
“Welcome home, my child! Welcome home!”
And the Baby cooed and gurgled something that sounded very like “Ome,”
without an H.
“Has everybody gone crazy?”
“Not quite!” answered William Bump, appearing from another corner.
He was as washed and starched as his wife, and had done for himself
even something more, in honor of this great occasion--he was smoothly
shaved. He looked years younger than his child had ever seen him and
oh! how much happier and more self-respectful. He had found his right
place again. He was once more a tiller of the soil; and there is
nothing so conducive to true manliness as finding one’s congenial task
and feeling the ability to accomplish it.
Mary Jane’s head buzzed with the strangeness and wonder and delight of
it all. Yet the explanation was very simple and sensible.
It was impossible but that the McClures should do something to evince
their gratitude to the little saver of their child’s and their own
lives and they did that which they knew would be most acceptable to
her; they gave her this home in the country.
For the house, with its deed was made to Mary Jane Bump, herself; but
over the wide fields surrounding it her father was made overseer and
farmer, for his old “Boss,” at good but not extravagant wages. The
house had long stood empty, ever since the railroad magnate had dropped
his former scheme of agriculture on a big scale, but it was in good
repair and quite large enough to accommodate even the household of
Bump. A coat of paint made it like new and during the cripple’s absence
from Dingy street the flitting was accomplished.
Bonny-Gay’s own summer home was near at hand, though she had driven
Mary Jane to the cottage by such a roundabout way; and her delight had
lain in her knowledge of the happiness that was coming to her friend.
This was a year ago. As yet no cloud has marred the perfect sunshine
of Mary Jane’s new life. She now rides to school in a smart little
cart, drawn by the sedatest of piebald ponies. She is apt and ambitious
and is learning fast. Indeed, she is confidently looking forward to a
day in the future when, being both old and wise enough, she shall be
matriculated at a certain famous woman’s college; to don the cap and
gown whose ample folds shall hide, at last, her physical deformity. God
speed you, Mary Jane! and all your happy sisterhood!
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Emboldened text is surrounded by equals signs: =bold=.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.