"Helen Reed was born on the tenth of July. When's my birthday, Adee?"
Eliza had never foreseen such a question. She could not reply at first.
"When was I born, Adee?"
Eliza was not one given to evasion. To her there could be but aye or
nay.
"I do not know," she replied.
"Why do you not know, Adee? Helen's mother knows the very day that Helen
was born. I think you would remember about me."
"But, Beth dearest, you were not a tiny baby when you were sent to me. I
do not know how old you were. I think almost two years old. No one told
me about your birthday."
"They kept me in heaven longer than most babies, then," said Beth
sententiously. "Most babies are just a minute old when they are sent
down on earth. The angels must have liked me very much. Don't you think
so, Adee?"
"I am sure they did," Eliza assured her. This comforted Beth somewhat.
It is nice to feel that the angels feel pleasure in one's society. Yet
it had its disadvantages too. One could not be quite sure of one's
birthday; and thereby one was short of presents and festivities of
various kinds.
"I should think, Adee, that you would have asked them," she said after
some time. Eliza had let her thoughts go back to her household duties
and, some time having elapsed between this question and the remarks
which had preceded it, she had forgotten the subject of conversation.
"Asked what--of whom?"
"My birthday--of the angels when they brought me."
"You were not brought directly to me. I am not your real mother."
"Not my real one?" Beth dropped her play-things and came close to Eliza
and leaned against her knee. There was surprise, consternation, pathos
in her face and voice, as she leaned her head against Adee's arm.
"Not my real one? I don't see any different, Adee. You're just like
Helen's mother, only you're a good deal nicer. She's a real mother, why
hain't you?"
"I mean, you are not my child by birth."
"Wasn't I born your little girl?"
"No," said Adee. "When you were born you did not belong to me."
There was nothing more to be said. Beth was quiet--too quiet, Eliza
thought, and turned to look at the child. Beth's lips were quivering and
trembling, but she was pressing them hard so as to make no outcry. The
tears were very near the surface, but Beth would not let them fall. One
glance at the brave little face, and Eliza turned and, throwing her arm
about here impulsively, hugged her tight to her bosom.
"What is it, Beth?"
"I want to be some one's born child," she said. "I want to be your born
child."
Eliza hesitated. What was conventionality in comparison to the little
girl's peace of mind? She would put aside her own sense of the fitness
of some things and make the child happy. "You may be my born child,
then," she said. "You may be born in my love, in my heart. You may be my
own little girl, exactly as Helen is her mother's little girl. Will that
please you?"
"Yes, now what about my birthday?" asked Beth. "Every one of the Reeds
have birthdays, and they are always talking about pulling ears and what
presents they got. They don't have their birthdays all the same time.
They've scattered them about so that one comes after each pay-day."
"Not a bad idea", said Eliza, "especially when there is a birthday with
candles. You may have a birthday, too, just like the other girls. You
came to my house the first day of July. We'll celebrate that; so far as
you and I are concerned that day is correct."
Beth gave a sigh of satisfaction. That was the only trouble she had had
in her life. It was nice that it was disposed of so satisfactorily.
"We'll have a cake too, Adee, with candles. How many candles?"
"Seven," replied Eliza promptly.
Beth had come to the years when a child questions and begins to reach
out for the reason of things. She was not at all stupid. She was quick
to see how people conducted themselves; how they spoke and dressed. She
was always attracted toward the refined and gentle. Eliza's heart
rejoiced at this. She believed that 'blood would tell', and all Beth's
attributes and natural tendencies were proof that her people were
self-respecting gentlefolk.
Eliza had long since given up wearing black silk and little bits of
bonnets perched on her head, too small for grace or beauty. Beth had not
liked them. Beth had declared them not 'pitty', and Eliza had accepted
her decision. There were white dresses and cheap thin prints, but they
were artistic and suited Eliza far better than the dark, somber colors.
Perhaps it was easy to follow Beth's wishes in regard to the matter of
clothes, for Eliza's heart had always hungered after daintiness and
brightness. Yet she had never felt herself equal to going against the
conventions and unwritten laws of the narrow little hamlet; but with
Beth's encouragement, it was easier to follow the dictates of her own
desires.
Eliza was really a handsome woman, but she never suspected that herself;
nor did the people of Shintown. Their taste was inclined toward buxom
figures, red cheeks, and black, curly hair. Years before, some one had
declared this the type of beauty, and the folk of Shintown had accepted
it then, and their grand-children looked upon it as a matter of course
even now. So to them Eliza Wells was not beautiful. Her broad, white
forehead with the soft, smooth chestnut hair like a band of velvet; her
big, clear, gray eyes, serene and calm until she was vexed or excited,
when they glowed like embers; her lithe, willowy form, all this meant
nothing to them.
"Eliza's got a big mouth. Did you ever see the like of it," had been Sam
Houston's comment on her appearance for years, and everyone grinned then
and ever afterward whenever he repeated it. It was large, perhaps, but
it displayed beautiful teeth, and its curves were exquisite. There was
strength and sweetness both in it. Yet, in Shintown, she was not even
considered fine looking. It was merely a difference of standards, and
somehow all about her was bigger than their measure.
Beth was arriving at the age when she asked questions and had thoughts
all her own. One afternoon during the heat of summer, Eliza sat in the
living room, taking a few stitches in her weekly mending. The room had
been darkened save where she had raised the blinds sufficiently to let
the light fall on her work. Her profile was distinct against the white
draperies of the inner hangings.
Beth was taking her afternoon nap on the davenport at the end of the
room. It was the same big old affair of mahogany on which Sam Houston
had placed her when Prince had run away--five years before. It was big
and cozy and comfortable. Beth had slept soundly and long. When at last
she opened her eyes, she was dazed and just a little dull. She lay
looking at Adee's profile against the window draperies.
What was in her mind, what shadow of a far-off dream had come to her, no
one could tell. She watched her foster-mother, and at last said, "You
don't wear your hair like you used to, Adee. Why don't you? It was
prettier, much prettier the other way."
"You're dreaming, Beth, child. I always wore it just this way--at least,
since I have grown up."
"No, Adee, I'm sure you didn't. You used to have fussy little curls
about your face, and you used to wear flowers--pink rosebuds and
carnations. Don't you remember, Adee?"
Eliza was startled, but wisely did not contradict the child. "When did I
wear flowers in my hair, Little One? Was it in this room, or where? Tell
me about it."
Beth laughed in a lazy sort of way. She was not fully awake. Was she
partly dreaming, or did some recollections of her babyhood days intrude
themselves? Was a little portion of her brain opening and bringing to
light impressions of the hours when she had been with someone else than
Adee?
"You're not one bit of a good 'rememberer,'" she replied slowly,
dreamily. "You used to wear your hair all fussiness and have flowers in
it, stuck down over your ear so, and your dresses would be long in the
back. Don't you remember, you'd come in my room and pick me up and hug
me and call me Baby--and something else, but I've forgot. What else was
it that you called me, Adee?"
"I've forgotten. Go on with your remembering. The other name will come
back after a while."
Adee's heart jumped even as she spoke. Perhaps the child could remember
enough that some trace of her people could be found. There was no joy to
Eliza in this thought. Beth gone! Her limbs grew cold and her heart felt
like ice in her breast at the mere thought of it.
"Was it a pretty room, Beth, where you slept?"
"Of course, Adee. There were curtains around the bed. It was shiny and
yellow--the bed. You hadn't any carpets on the floor. It was pretty, all
right, but not one bit like where I sleep now. Did you give my little
bed away, Adee?"
"You must not ask impertinent questions," said Eliza with what lightness
she could muster. "You are such a big girl now. Surely you would not
wish to sleep in a little baby-crib."
"No, but it would be nice for my dolls," said Beth. "If we had it ready,
we might get a live baby to put in it sometime."
[Illustration: _"Now we'll build a gray stone mansion," said Helen._]
Eliza took her stitches slowly. Beth must be dreaming. Surely, the woman
in gowns with long trains and fluffy, fussy hair in which flowers were
fastened were tricks of the child's imagination. Eliza had a picture in
her mind of the big, fair woman, shabbily dressed, whom she had found
along the roadside. This woman's hair had been braided and coiled tight
about her head. It had been beautiful, but it was not fussy, and it was
straight as hair could be.
It was a question in Eliza's mind, whether she should change the
subject, or whether it would be wiser to encourage the child in these
remembrances or fits of fancy, whichever they were. She concluded that
anything was better than uncertainty.
"What about the big woman with blue eyes and long braids of yellow hair?
She used to have it wrapped close to her head. There were no curls
anywhere. She wore very plain dresses--black skirts--"
"And big white aprons," cried Beth, sitting up suddenly and clapping her
hands. Then she laughed joyously. "That was Bena, Adee. Wasn't Bena
funny? She had such funny words." Then suddenly a new mood came to the
child. Getting down quickly from the davenport, she crossed the room
and, standing directly in front of Eliza, asked with direct tenseness:
"Where is Bena, Adee? What has become of her? What did you ever do to
Bena? She hasn't been here since I was a little bit of a baby. Where is
Bena?"
Eliza shook her head. "I do not know, Beth. I am sorry, but I do not
know."