That Little Girl of Miss Eliza's Part 6

CHAPTER VI.

"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 a.s.sured 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 s.h.i.+ntown. 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 s.h.i.+ntown 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 s.h.i.+ntown, 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 st.i.tches 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 s.h.i.+ny 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."