CHAPTER XVII

MRS. MCGONIGLE’S BABIES

In spite of the fact that aunt Eunice took little notice of her when she came to the house or when Elizabeth saw her at her cousins’, Elizabeth’s resentment waned rather than increased, for Miss Darby was pleased to speak approvingly of Kathie, seemed charmed with Babs, and behaved very generously and affectionately toward their mother. More than once, off in a corner, Elizabeth listened to harrowing tales of orphaned children whom aunt Eunice had befriended and gradually a certain respect for the nervous, irritable woman was fostered. After that first day, she never referred to the practical joke, as she had named it, but she had a way of looking over Elizabeth’s head as if she did not see her, and of changing the subject whenever anything was mentioned in which Elizabeth was concerned, so that the child felt herself still disliked. However, there were yet dear Miss Jewett and Mr. Kemp who cared much for her, and excepting when Kathie dilated upon aunt Eunice’s virtues and generosity, Elizabeth thought little about her. She had invited Kathie to visit her the following winter, promising a good time in the city where she had her home, and insisting that her visitor should be at no expense.

“Of course I would love to go,” Elizabeth overheard Kathie saying to her mother, “for aunt Eunice says I may join any class I choose at her expense. I could study music, or drawing, or languages, and it would be a great advantage to me.”

“It is certainly an opportunity for you, dear, and I think you should take it,” her mother replied.

“But there is the school,” said Kathie, after a short silence. “I am sure that I can have it if I apply, and then I could pay Elizabeth’s way at the Academy; she really should go next year. Miss Jewett will be married in June, and it would be much better that Elizabeth should change her school.”

“All that is true,” agreed Mrs. Hollins. “Perhaps we can manage, Kathie, although Dick’s college expenses keep us pretty short. The dear boy does his best to keep them down, but when all is said they do mount up. If you go to aunt Eunice you must have a few new things, for I cannot bear to have you go off with only what you have. You didn’t get a new suit last winter and must have one this.”

“I think, then, that I shall certainly have to give up the visit,” said Kathie. “I won’t put you and father to any greater expense, that is certain.”

“Well,” returned Mrs. Hollins, “winter is a long way off, and who knows what may happen before then? If only aunt Eunice had taken a fancy to Elizabeth,” she added, after a pause, “I am sure she would take an interest in the child’s education.”

“Oh well, we won’t borrow trouble, for, as you say, winter is a long way off,” Kathie responded.

She walked away humming cheerfully. Elizabeth, curled up in her chair, sighed. “The old question again,” she said to herself. “I wish I could do something.” She realized that it was within aunt Eunice’s power to make things a little easier for her mother and that any help she might be inclined to give would not be refused, for cousin Belle and Mrs. Hollins were her nearest of kin, and naturally need have no compunctions about taking gifts. To be sure, the Gilmores did not have to be considered, for there was Grandpa Gil always ready to do for them, but Mr. Hollins had no such person to lighten his family burdens. He always maintained that he was glad enough that he was under obligations to no one, that they were happier in their moderate circumstances than most wealthier persons, yet--Elizabeth sat busily thinking for some time, then she made a sudden bounce from her chair and hurried off to Betsy.

She found this young person in her garden, for it was high time to think of future flowers. Betsy, on her knees, was planting seeds. “Have you most finished?” asked Elizabeth.

“Yes, I have only the rest of this paper to put in. These are all zinnias in this bed. They make such a show and don’t require any attention. Have you made a garden yet, Elizabeth?”

“A sort of one, but I have weightier subjects to consider than gardens just now.”

Betsy got up, brushed the earth from her hands, and picked up her trowel. “What?” she asked concisely.

But Elizabeth’s thoughts had flown ahead of her remark. “Which would you rather, that aunt Eunice liked you or didn’t like you?” she asked.

“Why, I suppose I’d rather she liked me; it isn’t pleasant to have people dislike you.”

“That is just what I think,” returned Elizabeth. “Mother and father think it is horrid to try to please people for just what you can get out of them, but there are circumstances when it seems to me that we ought to overcome repugniance if we can. Aunt Eunice is really a very good woman, you know.”

“Yes, that is what aunt Emily says, and Mrs. Lynde; they think she is fine. It is a dreadful pity, Elizabeth, that we were so unlucky that day she came.”

“Yes, that was most misfortunate,--I mean unfortunate; ’Lectra says misfortunate, and mother says it isn’t correct. Well, Betsy, are you ready to do something to gain the approbation of the honorable Miss Darby? I am.”

“What?”

“Well, you know she is much interested in doing charity things, for the poor, poor babies, especially, so I thought if we went down to Mrs. McGonigle’s and told her we would take care of the twins this afternoon, we could display our charitable interests to aunt Eunice, and she might stop just looking over the tops of our heads.”

Betsy looked doubtful. “They are such dirty, smelly babies,” she said. “They always smell sour and as if their clothes hadn’t been washed in ages and ages.”

“I know; but I suppose that is generally the way with poor babies whose mothers don’t have time to attend to them properly. We could bathe them ourselves, but I suppose it wouldn’t do to wash their clothes, for we have nothing we could put on while theirs were drying.” Elizabeth would not have hesitated at the undertaking, given the change of clothes.

Betsy, who had taken to heart the fact that her usually popular Elizabeth was scorned by the haughty lady with white hair and majestic mien, was ready to do anything which might establish her friend in aunt Eunice’s good graces, so the two set off for Mrs. McGonigle’s rickety house. It was not a specially attractive place to the girls, although Bert usually found it so, as for some reason he preferred the society of Patsy McGonigle to that of any other of his schoolmates. Mrs. McGonigle took in washing, and there was always a queer, steamy smell arising from suds and wet clothes. There was, too, always a baby; just now there were two, the twins of whom Elizabeth had spoken.

Mrs. McGonigle, bending over her wash-tubs, looked up as the little girls entered and made their request to be allowed to take the babies for an airing. “Hear to that now,” she cried in a hearty voice. “Glory be to Peter, but I’ll not be refusin’ such a little thing as that. Will I let ’em go? I will then, and be thankful to yez for takin’ the pair ’av ’em offen me hands. Me husband, pore, weakly sowl that he is, has been ailin’ more than usual, an’ I’ve me hands full without watchin’ the little wans.”

Elizabeth and Betsy did not stand upon further ceremony, but each picked up a blue-eyed wondering baby and took it on her lap.

Mrs. McGonigle stripped her hands of suds and remarked: “I’d better be givin’ thim a sup before they go, so they’ll not be gittin’ hungry the while and be onaisy.”

The girls thought this a good plan and yielded up their charges to be fed. When they had had their fill Mrs. McGonigle produced two much soiled worsted shawls in which the babies were wrapped. “There, now,” exclaimed the mother, “they’ll be as warm as if they was in St. Peter’s pocket, the darlin’s. If they do be onaisy or cryin’ ye’ll be bringin’ thim home, young ladies.”

The girls promised and bore off the babies, the mother watching them with pride, pleased that they should want her babies and yet quite satisfied that two such attractive infants as hers must naturally be desirable.

The two girls toiled up the street with their unaccustomed burdens. Presently Betsy stopped. “Mine’s getting pretty heavy,” she said.

“So is mine,” returned Elizabeth. “We might have brought them in a little cart or something, but I thought it would look so much more,--more,--intimate to carry them.”

“Yes, of course,” returned Betsy doubtfully; “but though they are good little things, I wouldn’t mind if mine were a little further away from my nose.”

Elizabeth laughed, but she had to stand still in order to do it,--the extra exertion of carrying the baby at the same time was a little too much for her powers.

“I think I will sit down on this stone,” said Betsy, “for, although my baby isn’t as big as yours, it does seem as if it would weigh a ton before we reached your cousin’s house.”

“I tell you what I will do,”--Elizabeth had a plan; “if you can look after both babies for a few minutes, I will go home and bring back Babs’s baby carriage; she doesn’t use it any more, and it is in the wood-house where I can easily get it; then we can take the babies in it as far as our house and will only have to carry them the rest of the way. We can take them all the way back to Mrs. McGonigle’s in the carriage, too.”

Betsy thought this an excellent plan, and agreed to look after both babies. “I don’t see why I can’t do it as well as Maggie McGonigle,” she said, “for she is only eight years old.”

So, leaving Betsy with the babies both hunched up on her lap as she sat on the big flat stone by the way, Elizabeth sped home and soon returned with the carriage. The babies were both lifted in and the two self-instituted nursemaids cheerfully pushed it along. Having reached the lower gate of the Hollins place, they pushed the carriage inside and then took up their burdens again. “I’m thankful we didn’t have to carry them all the way,” sighed Betsy. “My arm would have been broken before now. I don’t see how Maggie McGonigle stands lugging babies around.”

“Where was she this afternoon, I wonder,” said Elizabeth.

“Oh, I think I saw her with the next oldest ones out in the yard when we were there. There is one just walking and another a little bigger, you know. Here, Josie, you musn’t chew that dirty shawl!” She removed the end of shawl from the baby’s mouth and instantly the child set up a wail.

“Oh dear, if they begin to cry I don’t know what we shall do,” said Elizabeth. “I believe Jo is thinking of it; somehow he looks as if he were. Here, Jo, see the pretty flowers. Jumpity, jumpity, jump!” She tried to distract the baby’s attention, but was only partially successful, for he continued to fret while his small sister’s wail increased in volume until it reached the ears of a lady walking in the garden of the gray house.

She came to the fence and looked over. This time she did not fix her gaze above the heads of the two little girls, but she gave no sign of recognition. “What babies are those?” she asked.

“They are Mrs. McGonigle’s,” answered Elizabeth.

“Who is she?”

“Well, she washes for us,” returned Elizabeth. “She lives in that little white house near the blacksmith’s shop. She is very poor, and has a great many children. Her husband is a poor weakly soul.”

“Humph!” Miss Darby gave the exclamation in her scornful way. “Bring the babies over here,” she ordered.

The two little girls lugged their charges over to the fence, where Miss Darby viewed them critically. “They are very dirty,” she said disgustedly. “Will you tell me what you are doing with them away up here?”

“We thought we would take them for a walk,” said Betsy. “Their mother is washing, and we thought it would be doing good to help her.”

A quizzical look came into Miss Darby’s eyes. “I think in your case charity should begin at home,” she said. “I never touch the babies at our Home till the nurses have given them a good bath and have made them perfectly clean. You might contract anything, any sort of disease. Those old filthy shawls are probably reeking with germs. I would advise you to take the babies back to their mother and then go home and change your clothes. I hope neither of you will venture near Ruth till you have done so.”

Meekly the two little girls walked away. Their sacrifice had brought them blame instead of praise, and they felt quite downcast. Neither spoke for some time, then Elizabeth said: “Well, at least she spoke to us and looked at us as if we were human beings and not beetles or caterpillars.”

This remark broke up regrets and the two laughed; then, having reached the waiting baby carriage, the twins were snugly tucked in and were cheerfully wheeled home to their mother.

As for Miss Darby, she returned to the house and, finding Grandpa Gil on the porch, began to tell him of the sight she had just seen. “I declare, that Elizabeth of Kate’s is the oddest child,” she began. “What do you suppose I just caught her and that Tyson girl doing?”

“Nothing very bad, I hope,” returned Grandpa Gil.

“Well, no, not bad exactly, but extremely imprudent. They had borrowed two remarkably dirty little babies, and were taking them out for a walk. I hope they will not be seized with any disease from contact with such filth. I warned them to go home immediately and change their clothes.”

A smile came over Grandpa Gil’s face. He felt sure that Elizabeth had some motive beyond what appeared, and the next time he and she were alone he began to question her. “I hear you and Betsy were parading around with two borrowed babies, the other day,” he began. “Did you want live dolls to play with, and were those the only ones you could get?”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly that,” replied Elizabeth. “We didn’t do it to make a play of it, for it was really very hard work, but we did do it for a good cause.”

“I suppose you couldn’t tell without divulging a secret. We have had a great many secrets, you and I, Elizabeth, and I think I can keep one pretty well. Can’t you tell me?”

Elizabeth was silent for a moment. She did not know exactly how to explain, but it was quite true that if she could tell anyone it would be Grandpa Gil, who was such a friend and who always took her confidences in just the right spirit. “Well, you see,” she started by saying, “aunt Eunice dislikes me very much, and my mother is sorry and so is Kathie. They would like to have her like me because she might--now please don’t breathe a word of this, Grandpa Gil, for this is the secretest part of the secret----”

“I promise solemnly on my honor as a gentleman, that I will keep the secret inviolate,” said Grandpa Gil, with a slight flicker of a smile.

The words sounded a little familiar to Elizabeth, but she was satisfied with the promise, and went on:

“You see she has no nearer relations than mother and cousin Belle, and she is really quite good and generous to most people and I heard mother and Kathie talking about how nice it would be if she had only taken a fancy to me and could help with my education.”

Grandpa Gil was listening attentively.

“You know father isn’t so very, very rich. I don’t mean that we don’t have loads to eat and quantities of fuel to keep us warm and more clothes than we can wear, but it is when the educations come that there isn’t quite enough. You see Dick is going to college and if I have to go to the Academy at the same time, somebody might have to get left and of course it would be me. Kathie thought she could help out by taking the school here next year,--Miss Jewett is going to be married, you know.”

“Yes, I know. Go on, my dear; I am interested in all you are telling me.”

“So, you see,” Elizabeth continued, “that would be all right, for when my turn came I could teach and send Babs to the Academy while Bert goes to college. But, what do you think? Aunt Eunice has invited Kathie to spend next winter with her and wants to give her lessons in anything she likes, and if she goes where will I be? And if she doesn’t go, I shall feel like a pig for keeping her at home on my account. That’s the secret, Grandpa Gil.”

“I understand; but I still fail to see where the babies come in.”

“Oh, I forgot; I didn’t finish about aunt Eunice. You know I thought she was very much interested in poor babies, and I thought if she believed I was interested in them, too, she might begin to take more notice of me. She did look right at me and not over my head, but she somehow didn’t approve of the McGonigle babies. I wonder if she approves of all the babies she helps.”

Grandpa Gil smiled and shook his head. “We won’t inquire into that, but I should like you to see, my dear little girl, that when persons do things for a self-interested reason they do not always make the impression they wish. If you had really played nurse for Mrs. McGonigle because you thought only of helping her, you would not have come so far from home, would you?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“And do you think your parents would like you to try to win favor from your aunt Eunice by pretending?”

“Oh dear; I see I was all wrong, Grandpa Gil. Mother and father would just hate me to do anything like that, and they would hate to have anything done for me that there was any slyness in getting. I am sure of that. Father hates anything of that kind.”

“I am very sure of that, and that is why I am showing you that you took the wrong way to win your aunt Eunice’s favor. I hope some day she will overcome her prejudice in your direction, and when she does you will be glad that it is because you have been your honest, straightforward self and have been a good girl because it is right and lovely to be good and not because there is any material gain to be had from it.”

Elizabeth looked very sober; but there was a wistful look in her face, too, and Grandpa Gil understood what she was thinking. “I am sure that your main motive was to please your father and mother,” he went on, “and to help them and your sister, but I wouldn’t try to do grown-up things before you are able. Do the best you can, and maybe things will come out better than they promise now.”

“That is just what mother told Kathie.” Elizabeth brightened up. “You are very encourageful, Grandpa Gil. I feel ever so much better and I won’t borrow the McGonigle babies any more, neither will Betsy.” This ended the conversation, but its effect was lasting.

Grandpa Gil sat for some time lost in thought. After awhile he called Miller to bring around the motor car. When it came, he went off without asking anyone to go with him. He stopped at Miss Dunbar’s, went in and presently came out with Miss Jewett. The two were in earnest conversation. When the car started off again it turned into the road which led to the Academy.