A Haven of Refuge
Glory's walk and heavy burden had exhausted her and, almost
unconsciously, she let Bonny Angel slip from her arms to the door-step
where she stood. There the child lay, flushed and motionless, in a sleep
which nothing disturbed, though hitherto she had wakened at any call.
Now, though in remorse at her own carelessness, Take-a-Stitch bent over
the little one and begged her pardon most earnestly, the baby gave no
sign of hearing and slumbered on with her face growing a deeper red and
her breath beginning to come in a way that recalled the old captain's
snores.
"What shall I do now?" cried poor Glory, aloud, looking around over the
wide country, so unlike the crowded Lane, and seeing no shelter anywhere
at which she dared again apply. Some buildings there were, behind and
removed from the cottage; but they were so like that inhospitable
structure in color and design that she felt their indwellers would also
be the same.
"Oh, I wish I hadn't come all that way over the grass," said poor Glory.
"If we'd stayed by them car-rails, likely we'd have come somewhere that
there was houses--different. And, Bonny Angel, sweetest, preciousest,
darlingest one, do please, please, wake up and walk yourself just a
little, teeny, tiny bit. Then, when I get rested a mite, I'll carry you
again, 'cause we've got to go, you see. That Timothy was mistook an' his
sister's husband's cousin won't let us in."
Yet even while her back was toward it, as she contemplated the landscape
pondering which way lay her road, the door again suddenly opened and
Mary Fogarty announced, shrilly, but not unkindly:
"There's the wagon-house. You can rest there a spell, seein' you was
simple enough to lug that hefty young one clear across the meadder. It's
that third one, where the big door stands open an' the stone-boat is."
Glory faced about, her face at once radiant with gratitude, and its
effect upon the cottage mistress was to further soften her asperity, so
that though she again ejaculated that contemptuous "Huh!" it was in a
milder tone; and, with something like interest she demanded, "How long
's that baby been that feverish she is now? She looks 's if she was
comin' down with somethin' catchin'. Best get her home, soon 's you can,
sissy. She ain't fit to be runnin' round loose."
Poor little Bonny Angel didn't look much like "running loose" at
present, and as for "home," the word brought an intolerable feeling to
Glory's heart, making the sunny fields before her to seem like prison
walls that yet had a curious sort of wobble to them, as if they were
dancing up and down in a wild way. But that was because she regarded
them now through a mist of tears she could not repress, while visions of
a shadowy Lane, whose very gloom would have been precious to her on that
hot day, obtruded themselves upon the scene.
With a desperate desire for guidance, Glory burst out her whole story
and Mary Fogarty was forced to listen, whether or no. To that good
woman's credit it was that as she listened her really warm heart, upon
which Timothy Dowd had counted, got the better of her impatience and,
once more closing the door upon her peeping children, she said,
"Why, you poor, brave little creatur'! Come this way. I'll show you
where, though you must carry the baby yourself, if so be she won't carry
herself. I've got seven o' my own an' I wouldn't have nothin' catchin'
get amongst them, not for a fortune. I wouldn't dare. I've had 'em down,
four er five to a time, with whooping-cough an' measles an' scarletina
an' what not; an' now sence the twinses come, I don't want no more of it
I can tell you. Don't lag."
Mary strode along, "like a horse," as her husband frequently
complimented her, walking as fast as she was talking and, with Bonny
Angel in her arms, Goober Glory did her best to keep a similar pace. But
this was impossible. Not only were her feet heavy beneath the burden she
bore, but her heart ached with foreboding. With Bonny Angel ill, how was
the search for grandpa to go on? How to look for the little one's own
people? Yet how terrible that they must be left in their grief while she
could do nothing to comfort them.
"Oh, if they only knew! She's so safe with me, I love her so. If I could
only tell them! I wonder--I wonder who they are and where they are and
shall I ever, ever find them!" she exclaimed in her anxiety as, coming
to the wagon-house door, she found Mistress Fogarty awaiting her.
That lady answered with her own cheerful exclamation, "'Course you will.
Everything comes right, everywhere, give it time enough. Now step right
up into this loft. There's a bed here that the extry man sleeps on when
there is an extry. None now. Real gardenin' comes to a standstill when
Dennis has the chills. You can put the baby down there an' let her sleep
her sleep out. You might 's well lie down yourself and take a snooze,
bein' you're that petered out a luggin'.
"I must get back an' start up dinner," continued Mary. "It's a big job,
even with Dennis round to peel and watch the fryin'. Seven youngsters of
my own, with him an' me, and ten boarders----My, it takes a pile of
bread to keep all them mouths full, let alone pies an' fixin's. It's
vegetable soup to-day, and as the gang's working right nigh, they'll all
be in prompt. I won't forget ye, an' I'll send something out to ye by
somebody--but don't you pay me back by giving one of my children
anything catchin'!"
Before Glory could assure the anxious mother that she would do her
utmost for their safety, Mary had run down the rude stairs, shaking the
shed-like building as she ran, and was within the red cottage ere the
visitor realized it.
Glory exclaimed, as she gazed about, "Here we are, at last, in a regular
house! And my, isn't it big? Why, ever an' ever so much bigger than the
'littlest house in Ne' York!' That bed's wide enough for all Meg's
children to onct, and--my, how Bonny Angel does sleep. I'm sleepy, too,
now I see such a prime place. The woman told me to sleep and I guess I'd
better mind."
So, presently, having removed Bonny's draggled coat from the still
drowsy child, Glory placed her charge at the extreme back of the bed and
lay down herself.
"Wake up, sissy! Come down an' get your basin of soup. Enough in it for
the pair of ye, with strawberry shortcake to match!"
It was this summons which aroused Glory from a delightful slumber and
she sprang to her feet, not comprehending, at first, what she heard or
where she was. Then she returned, laughing as she spoke, "'Course I'll
come, you splendid Mary Fogarty! And I'm more obliged 'an I can say, but
I'll work it out, I truly will try to work it out, if you'll hunt up
your jobs. That dear Timothy said you needed mendin', dreadful!"
But she was unaware that this same Timothy was also close at hand.
"Oh! he did, did he? Well, he said the true word for once, but bad
manners in him all the same," answered Mrs. Fogarty; and, as Glory
joined them at the foot of the stairs, there were the two engaged in a
sort of scuffle which had more mirth than malice in it.
When Take-a-Stitch appeared, they regarded her with a look of compassion
which she did not understand; because at the dinner, now comfortably
over, the child and her hopeless search had been discussed and the ten
boarders, the seven children, with their parents, had all reached one
and the same conclusion, namely, that the only safe place for such
innocent and ignorant vagrants was in some "Asylum." Who was to announce
this decision and convey the little ones to their place of refuge had
not, as yet, been settled. Nobody was inclined to take up that piece of
work and the ten boarders sauntered back to their more congenial labor
on the railroad, leaving the matter in Mary Fogarty's hands.
However, it was a matter destined for nobody to settle, because when
Glory had carefully conveyed the basin of soup, the pitcher of milk and
the generous slices of shortcake back to the loft, she was frightened
out of all hunger by the appearance of Bonny Angel. It was almost the
first time in her life that the little "Queen of Elbow Lane" had had a
dinner set before her of such proper quantity and quality, yet she was
not to taste it.
Bonny was tossing to and fro, sometimes moaning with pain, sometimes
shrieking in terror, but always in such a state as to banish every
thought save of herself from Glory's mind. And then began a week of the
greatest anxiety and distress which even the little caretaker of Elbow
Lane, with her self-imposed charge of its many children, had ever known.
"If she should die before I find her folks! If it's 'cause I haven't
done the best I could for her----Oh, what shall I do!" wailed
Take-a-Stitch, herself grown haggard with watching and grief, so that
she looked like any other than the winsome child who had flashed upon
Miss Bonnicastle's vision at that memorable visit of hers to that
crooked little alley where they had met.
And Timothy Dowd, the only one of the big household near, whom Mary
Fogarty permitted to enter the wagon-house-hospital, sighed as he
answered with an affected cheerfulness: "Sure, it's nobody dies around
these parts; not a body since I was put to work on this section the
road. So, why more her nor another an' she the youngest o' the lot?
Younger, betoken, nor the twinses theirselves.
"An' it's naught but that crotchetty woman, yon," continued Tim, "that's
cousin to me own sister's husband, 'd have took such fool notions into
her head. Forbiddin' me, even me, her own relation by marriage, to set
foot inside her door till she says the word, an' somebody tellin' her we
should be smoked out with sulphur an' brimstone, like rats in a hole,
ere ever we can mix with decent folks again. An' some of the boys, even,
takin' that nonsense from herself, an' not likin' to dig in the same
ditch along with the contagious Tim. Sure, it's contagious an'
cantankerous and all them other big things we'll be, when we get out o'
this an' find the old captain, your grandpa, an' the biggest kind of a
celebration 'twill be, or never saw I the blue skies of old Ireland!
Bless the sod!"
But in his heart, faithful Timothy did not look for Bonny Angel's
recovery. Nobody knew what ailed her, since physician had not been
called. Against such professional advice, Mary Fogarty had set her big
foot with an unmovable firmness. Doctors had never interfered in her
household save once, when Dennis, misguided man, had consulted one. And
witness, everybody, hadn't he been sick and useless ever since?
So, from a safe distance, she assumed charge of the case; sending Glory
a pair of shears with which to shave Bonny's sunny head, directing that
all windows should be closed, lest the little patient "take cold," and
preparing food suitable for the hardest working "boarder," rather than
the delicate stomach of a sick child.
However, had they known it, there was nothing whatever infectious about
little Bonny's illness, which was simply the result of unaccustomed
exposure and unwholesome food; nor did good Mary's unwise directions
cause any great harm, because, though a delicate child, the baby was a
healthy one. She had no desire for the coarse food that was offered her
but drank frequently of the milk that accompanied it; and as for the
matter of fresh air, although Glory had to keep the windows closed,
there was plenty of ventilation from the wide apertures under the eaves
of the shed.
At the end of the week, the devoted young nurse had the delight of
hearing her "Angel" laugh outright, for the first time in so many days,
and to feel her darling's arms about her own neck while the pale little
lips cried out once more the familiar, "Bonny come! Bonny come!"
To catch her tiny "Guardian" up and run with her to the cottage-door
took but a minute, but there Glory's enthusiasm was promptly dashed by
Mary's appearance. Shaking her arms vigorously, she "shooed" the pair
away, as she "shooed" everything objectionable out of her path.
"Stand back! Stand back, the two of ye! Don't dast to come anigh, sence
the time of gettin' over things is the very worst time to give 'em.
Hurry back to the wagon-house, quick, quick! And once you're safe
inside, I'll fetch you some other clothes that you must both put on.
Every stitch you've wore, ary one, and the bedclothes, has got to be
burnt. Tim's to burn 'em this noonin'. I've got no girl your size, but
that don't matter. I've cut off an old skirt o' my own, for your
outside, an' little Joe's your very pattern for shape, so his shirt an'
blouse 'll do amazin' well. As for the baby, she can put on a suit of
the twinses' till so be we can do better. Now hurry up!"
Glory could not help lingering for a moment to ask, "Must it be burned?
Do you really, truly, mean to burn Bonny Angel's lovely white silk coat,
an' her pretty dress all lace an' trimmin'? An' my blue frock--why, I
haven't wore it but two years, that an' the other one to home. It's as
good as good, only lettin' out tucks now and then an'----"
"Huh! S'pose you, a little girl, know more about what's right than I do,
a big growed up woman? I've took you in an' done for ye all this time
an' the least you can do is to do as you're told," replied Mrs. Fogarty,
in her sharpest manner.
Thus reprimanded, Glory retreated to the wagon-house, whence, after a
time, she reappeared so altered by her new attire that she scarcely knew
herself. Much less, did she think, that any old friend of Elbow Lane
would recognize her. She was next directed to carry all the discarded
clothing and bedding to a certain spot in the barnyard, where Timothy
would make a bonfire of it as soon as he appeared; and her heart ached
to part with the silken coat which had enwrapped her precious
"Guardian," even though it were now soiled and most disreputable.
However, these were minor troubles. The joyful fact remained that Bonny
Angel had not died but was already recovered and seemed more like her
own gay little self with every passing moment. Clothes didn't matter,
even if they were those of a boy. They needed considerable hitching up
and pinning, for they were as minus of buttons as all the garments
seemed to be which had to pass through Mary Fogarty's hands and washtub;
but a few strings would help and maybe Timothy Dowd could supply those;
and if once Take-a-Stitch could get her fingers upon a needle and
thread--my, how she would alter everything!
Summoned back to the cottage, after she had fulfilled her hostess's last
demand, Glory's spirits rose to the highest. It was the first time she
had entered the ranks of the seven other children which filled it to
overflowing, and who were "shooed" into or out of it, according to their
mother's whim.
It happened to be out, just then, and with the throng Glory, fast
holding Bonny in her arms, chanced to pass close beside the shivering
Dennis in his seat by the stove. He looked at her curiously but kindly,
and his gaze moved from her now happy face to that of the child in her
clasp, where it rested with such a fixed yet startled expression that
Glory exclaimed, "Oh, sir, what is it? Do you see anything wrong with my
precious?"
Now it was the fact that Dennis Fogarty spoke as seldom as his wife did
often; and that when he was most profoundly moved he spoke not at all.
So then, though his eyes kept their astonished, perplexed expression,
his lips closed firmly and to Glory's anxious inquiry, he made no reply.
Therefore, waiting but a moment longer, she hurried after the other
children and in five minutes was leading them at their games just as she
had always led the Elbow children in theirs. But Bonny was still too
weak and too small to keep up very long with the boisterous play of
these new mates, and seeing this, Take-a-Stitch presently made the seven
group themselves around her on the grass while she told them tales.
Glory thought of all the fairy stories with which the old blind captain
had beguiled their darkened evenings in that "littlest house" where gas
or lamplight could not be afforded; then she went on to real stories of
the Elbow children themselves; of Meg-Laundress and Posy Jane; and most
of all of Nick and Billy, her chosen comrades and almost brothers. One
and all the young Fogartys listened open-mouthed and delighted; but,
when pressed to talk more about that "grandpa you're lookin' for," poor
Glory grew silent.
It was one of the loveliest spots in the world where Glory sat that
morning, with its view of field and mountain and the wonderful river
winding placidly between; but the outcast child would have exchanged it
all for just one glimpse of a squalid alley, and a tiny familiar
doorway, wherein an old seaman should be sitting carving a bit of wood.
Thinking of him, though not talking, she became less interesting company
to the Fogartys, who withdrew one by one, attracted by the odor of
dinner preparing, and hungry for the scraps which would be tossed among
them by their indulgent mother.
Bonny Angel went to sleep; and, holding her snugly, Glory herself leaned
back against the tree trunk where she was sitting and closed her own
eyes. She did this the better to mature her plans for the search she
meant to resume that very day, if possible, and certainly by the morrow
at the latest. Now that Bonny was so nearly well, she must go on; and as
her head whirled with the thoughts which swarmed it, it seemed to her
that she had "grown as old as old since grandpa went away."
Glory at last decided that she had best stop thinking and planning
altogether, just for a moment, and go to sleep as Bonny Angel had done.
She remembered that grandpa had often said that a nap of "forty winks"
would clear his own head and set him up lively for the rest of the day.
Whatever Captain Simon Beck, in his great wisdom said was right, must be
so; and though it seemed very lazy for a big girl such as she to take
"forty winks" on her own account and in the daytime, she did take them
and with so many repetitions of the "forty" that the boarders had all
come home across the fields before she roused again to know what was
going on about her.
There was a hum of voices on the other side of the tree; and though they
were low, as if not intended for her ear, they were also very earnest
and in evident dispute over some subject which she gradually learned was
none other than herself.
She had been going to call out to them, cheerily, but what she heard
made her sit up and listen closely. Not very honorable, it may be, yet
wholly natural, since Mistress Mary was insisting:
"There's no use talkin', Timothy Dowd, them two must pack to the first
'Asylum' will take 'em in. The sooner the better and this very day the
best of all. 'Twas yourself brought 'em or sent 'em, and 'tis yourself
must do the job. You can knock off work this half-day and get it
settled."
"Oh, but Mary, me cousin, by marriage that is. I hate it. I hate it
worse nor ever was. Sure, it was bad enough touchin' a match to them
neat little clothes o' theirs but forcin' themselves away----Ah! Mary,
mother o' seven, think! What if 'twas one o' your own, now?" wheedled
Tim.
But Mary was not to be moved. Indeed, she dared not be. As Glory had
already learned, Dennis Fogarty was the now useless gardener of the rich
family which lived in the great house on the hill beyond, and to whom
the abused Queen Anne cottage and all the other red outbuildings visible
belonged.
The rich people were very particular to have all things on their estate
kept in perfect order; and though they had no fault to find with Dennis
himself, whenever he was well enough to work, they did find much fault
with his shiftless or careless wife, while the brood of noisy children
was a constant annoyance to them, whenever they occupied Broadacres.
It was for this reason that during the family's stay at the great house,
Mary so seldom allowed her children out of the house; nor had Dennis
ever permitted her to visit the place in person when there was any
chance of her being seen by his employers. He felt that he held his own
position merely by their generosity; nor did he approve of her boarding
the workmen of the near-by railway. Still, he knew that his children must
be fed, and, without the money she earned, how could they be?
Mary's argument, then, against taking into her home two more children,
to make bad matters worse, was a good one, and Timothy could find no
real word to say against it. Yet he was all in sympathy with Glory's
search for the missing seaman, and how could he be the instrument of
shutting her up in any institution, no matter how good, where she could
not continue that search?
Having heard thus much, and recalling even then Posy Jane's saying about
"listeners hearin' no good o' theirselves," Take-a-Stitch quietly rose
and went around the tree till she stood before her troubled friends.
"Why, I thought you was asleep!" cried poor Timothy, rather awkwardly
and very red in the face.
"So I was, part of the time. Part I wasn't and I listened. I shouldn't
ought, I know, an' grandpa would say so, but I'm glad I did, 'cause you
needn't worry no more 'bout Bonny Angel an' me. I will start right off.
I was going to, to-morrow, anyway, if she didn't get sick again; an'
Mis' Fogarty will have to leave us these clothes till--till--I can some
time--some day--maybe earn some for myself. Then I'll get 'em sent back,
somehow, an'----"
By this time, Mary was also upon her feet, tearful and compassionate and
fain to turn her eyes away from the sad, brave little face that
confronted her. Yet not even her pity could fathom the longing of this
vagrant "Queen" for her dirty Lane and her loyal subjects; nor how she
shrank in terror from the lonely search she knew she must yet continue,
thinking, "'Cause grandpa would never have give me up if I was lost and
I never will him, never, never, never! But if only Billy, er Nick,
er----"
Mrs. Fogarty interrupted the little girl's thoughts with the remark,
"Now them 'Asylums' is just beautiful, honey darlin'--an' you'll be as
happy as the day is long. You'll----"
It was Glory's turn to interrupt the cooing voice, which, indeed, she
had scarcely heard, because of another sound which had come to her ear;
and it was now a countenance glorified in truth by unlooked-for
happiness that they saw, as with uplifted hand and parted lips, she
strove to catch the distant strains of music which seemed sent to check
her grief.
"Hark! Hark! Listen! Sh-h-h!" cried the girl.
"Bless us, colleen! Have ye lost your seventy senses, laughin' an'
cryin' to onct, like a daft creatur'?" demanded Timothy, amazed.
She did not stop to answer him but gently placing Bonny Angel in his
arms, sped away down the road, crying ecstatically, "Luigi! Luigi!"