That Little Girl of Miss Eliza's: A Story for Young People
Page 3
CHAPTER III.
No one came to ask concerning the strangers, and she was laid away inthe Wells burial lot, and Miss Eliza paid the bills that necessarilyfollowed.
Mrs. Kilgore and Dr. Dullmer, with Squire Stout standing by and lookingon like a bird of ill omen, went over every article of the attire ofwoman and child in the hope of finding some means of identification.There was a small traveling bag of fine leather. It contained thearticles necessary for a journey of several days. There was a smalldrinking cup, a child's coat, comb and brush. There were neither ticketsnor checks, nor a cent of money. This led Miss Eliza to believe thatsomewhere there must have been a second purse. She went with the menover the scene of accident and retraced every step from the time she hadfirst seen the woman sleeping in the shade of the bushes. But nothingwas found to help them out of the unfortunate situation. Still, theybelieved that checks and tickets were somewhere. A tramp might havepicked them up, or some dishonest, careless person found and retainedpossession of them. But after a careful search, all hope in thatdirection was given up.
The dead woman's clothes were ordinary. A coat-suit and shirt-waist ofcheap material, underwear with a bit of hand-made lace of theold-fashioned kind. Her hat was cheap and rather tawdry; but everythingabout her was clean and whole. All gave the appearance of her being aself-respecting person in poor circumstances.
Two things belied this, however. The dress which the little child woreand a second one in the traveling case were exquisite in quality andhandiwork. The little petticoats were dainty and showed expenditure bothof money and good taste. The little beauty pins which fastened the dresswere solid gold with the monogram E. L.
In the traveling case was a small box containing several quaint ringsand a brooch.
Miss Eliza knew little of jewelry. The people with whom she had beenreared had never been financially able to indulge themselves along thisline and had consequently put upon it the ban of their disapproval. Herexperience had been so limited that she knew no values. The articleswere rings and pins, and were pretty. That was as far as she gave themthought. They had no dollar mark attached to them.
There was only one course left to her to follow. She put every articlewhich the child wore, the traveling case and all its contents safelyaway with the few legal documents and valuables she possessed. She hadthe business instinct and forethought sufficient to mark each one, andto write a full letter of explanation as to how they came into herpossession.
"You're taking a heap of trouble," said Mrs. Kilgore sadly. She had beenfollowing Miss Eliza over the house, always keeping a few steps behindher. She put on a big, green-checked apron when she dressed in themorning, and wore it until she prepared for bed at night. She never tookit off at other times unless she had an errand to the store orpost-office. Then she merely removed the work-marked one for that whichwas fresh from the iron.
She always had a broom in her hand. She followed in the footsteps ofEliza and brushed up after her, or stopped to pick up a thread or bit oflint, or straightened out a misplaced book, or flicked away a bit ofdust with the tail of her apron.
This gave the impression that Mrs. Kilgore was a conscientious,indefatigable housewife who busied herself from morning until night withduties. It was all in appearances. Her house was a litter. Garments hungfrom parlor to kitchen, from attic to cellar, at every place where anail might be driven in wall, beam or door.
She sighed and looked doleful and "put upon" every time she stooped topick up a stray bit of lint, but deep in her soul she was happy. She wasposing as an over-worked martyr and was not doing enough to tireherself. She was getting barrels of credit for a tin cup of effort.
"You're taking a heap of trouble," she repeated. "It's more than I'dtake."
"I'm taking a little now to save a great deal for some one when I'm nothere. The time may come when the girl's own kin may be found. I wantthings to be in order so that they'll not doubt that she's their own.I'm of the opinion that she belongs to folks that are something. Herlittle white dress is enough to make me think that. Sometime, somebodywill be coming along to look her up."
This was a new idea to Mrs. Kilgore. It appealed to the sentimental sideof her nature. In her mind's eye, she pictured the child's kin appearingin splendor and bearing her away with them. Another element of the casepresented itself to her. She paused in her "sweeping up" and looked atMiss Eliza. She looked at her in a new light.
"They may do a heap for you for being so good to her and burying hermother decent and respectable in your own folks' lot and not in the poorfield. They may do a heap for you."
"I'm not thinking of that. I had a right to do what I did. It was thevery least I could do, and I've got to provide for the little girl untilsome one comes for her. It was my fault that she's dead. I hain'tfinding fault with myself for asking her to ride back with me. AnyChristian woman would have done the same; but I didn't do right to touchthe whip to Old Prince. That's where I was at fault; but"--pensively,"who would have thought that an old worn-out brute like him could havehad so much ginger in him. It was my fault at not knowing and notunderstanding a brute animal that I'd driven for six years. No; I'll begood to the child--as good as I can be. I've hurt her a powerful lot bytaking her mother from her. I'll do what I can to make up for it. Itwon't be for long. Her kin will come to claim her."
Had Eliza not felt responsible, she could have been nothing but good tothe child. Mothers of the locality fixed the age of the little girl atabout three. Others placed it as high as five. There she was dropped inamong them without a name or even a birthday. She was a well-formed,beautiful child with brown ringlets clinging about her little plumpneck; and eyes matching in color the blue of the midsummer sky. She wasgood-tempered and healthy. She smiled from the time she awoke until shefell asleep from sheer weariness. She prattled and hummed little tunes,only a few of the words of which she could remember. She followed Elizawherever the woman went, and crawled into her lap and cuddled close toher the instant she seated herself. "Pity adee" was the only title sheknew for Miss Eliza. After a few days, the name was fixed: "Adee." Thelittle girl could not be persuaded to call her foster-parent by anyother name. A child can manage to thrive and yet have no birthday; but aname it must have. For several days Eliza referred to the stranger as"the little girl." This was not satisfactory.
"She must be called something. It's simply heathenish not to have a nameof some kind. I'll name her myself if I cannot find out what her nameis," concluded Miss Eliza. She set about to find the real name. Themonogram E. L. on the pins was the only clue. The child might remembersomething. Taking her up in her lap, Eliza began a system ofcatechising.
"What shall Adee call you?"
"Baby." She smiled back at her interlocutor until the dimples came andwent.
"A prettier name than Baby. Shall I call you Elizabeth--Beth--Bessie?"She pronounced each name slowly, watching if it might awaken any show ofmemory. But it did not. The little girl smiled the more, even while sheshook her head in negation.
"No, no--Izbeth not pitty name. Baby--'Itta one' pitty name."
Eliza would not let herself become discouraged. "Little One" and "Baby"were pet names given by some adoring fathers and mothers. Perhaps thechild had seldom heard her correct name. Guided by the letters on thepins, Eliza repeated every name beginning with E; but it was withoutresults.
"You must be called something," she at last cried in desperation. "Itmust begin with E too. Elizabeth will do as well an anything else. It'sdignified enough for her when she's grown up, and Beth or Bess will bewell enough for a child. I've just got to call her something."
So Elizabeth she became. Beth was what Eliza called her. Adee was theonly title that the child could be induced to give to her foster-mother.
"Some one will claim her before the week passes," Eliza had told herselfagain and again. She was hopeful that it would be so. A child is a greatresponsibility, and the woman had no desire to take it upon herself.July passed and no one came. August had come with all t
he glory of colorand life rampant in yard and field.
Never before had flowers bloomed so luxuriantly even for Miss Eliza. Thenasturtiums were blazing with burnt orange and carmine. Petuniasflaunted their heavily laden stocks. The scarlet sages glowed from everyshaded nook. There was braggadocio in every clump and cluster as thoughevery flower being in flower-land was proclaiming, "See what we can dowhen we try." High carnival of bloom! Gay revelry of color! Flaunt andbrag! Flaunt and brag through all those wonderful days of August.
Eliza went from flower to flower and Beth followed. There was no need totell the child not to step upon them or to pluck them ruthlessly. Shepicked her steps. Her fingers touched each petal caressingly. She lovedthem as much as the woman herself did.
_With a mad plunge he went tearing down the road._]
Eliza was busy weeding. Bending over, she was patiently removing withthe aid of a kitchen fork the sprouts of chick-weeds which would creepin among her treasures.
Beth, who had been following her closely, suddenly proved a laggard.Missing her at last, Eliza retraced her steps to the east side of thehouse where she had last seen the child. There she was down on her kneesat the edge of the pansy bed and her head bent close over them.
"Whatever are you doing, Beth? Not hurting Adee's flowers?"
"No, indeedy. I was ust a tissin 'em. A has so pitty itta faces. A astme to tiss em." There she was, putting her lips to each purple-yellowface, and talking with them as though they were real live babies. Elizahad nothing to say. She would have done that same thing herself when shewas a child if she had dared. She knew exactly how Beth felt.
Sam Houston had come around the corner and had been a witness to thepretty scene. He had come over to borrow a hatchet and some nails. Aboard had come off his chicken-yard and the hens had destroyed what theycould of his garden.
"Laws, Eliza!" he exclaimed. "You'll not be able to get much from thatchild. She'll not be practical. Common sense and not sentiment is whatis needed in this world. She'll be for settin' out flowers an' lettin'cabbage go. I declare to goodness." He was yet watching Beth kissing thepansies. "She'll be as big a fool as you are about posies an' sichlike."
"Do you really think so?" cried Eliza joyously, her face brightening upas though she had been paid a great compliment. Sam sniffed, "I've comeover to get the lend of your hatchet and some nails. Those dern chickensgot out somehow. The wimmen-folks must have left the door open."
During July, Eliza had prefaced the duties of each morning with thereflection, "Her own kin will come for her before the week is out."
During August, she changed her views. "'Tain't likely they'll come thisweek. The weather is so uncertain. There might be a downpour any hour."
But it was not until September set fairly in that the hope was fixed.She grew fearful that they would come. Her anxious eyes followed everystrange vehicle which came down the road. She gave a sigh of relief whenit passed her door.
"We'll have a nice winter together--Beth and me. 'Hain't likely thatthey'll come at winter time."
So she satisfied her longings and kept the child with her.