That Little Girl of Miss Eliza's: A Story for Young People

by Jean K. Baird

  CHAPTER VII.

  There were no playmates at Shintown. The nearest neighbor, Burtsch byname, was nearly a mile away. The family consisted of the father andmother, and Rose who was a year older than Beth was supposed to be.There had been half a dozen children before Rose came, but they had diedwhen mere babies.

  Mrs. Burtsch frequently referred to the loss of her children as "thestrange working of Providence." She had a thin, high-pitched voice. Shewas angular, long-limbed. She wore basques and straight, narrow skirts.Her hair was in a knob behind and drawn so tight that the muscles of herforehead and temple had a habitual upward tendency. As though tomaintain an even balance, she always directed her glances toward theearth, and the lines of her mouth went downward. She was ingratiating,self-depreciating, and presumably humble. She was always declaring thatshe was just as good as Mrs. Somebody-or-other, if she was poor. It wasno disgrace to be poor. But it was in her case. Poverty was her shame,for had she and her husband been up and about their work, making themost of their farm in place of trying to sustain themselves with themaxim, 'Poverty is no disgrace,' they would have had all the comfortsdesirable and might have been able to help others. Mrs. Burtsch had awhining voice that got upon one's nerves after a time. She made a pointof coming in to see Eliza, and in an insinuating way found out all shecould, suggested where she dared and criticised in her exasperating way.She brought Rose with her. While Mrs. Burtsch talked, the childrenplayed, or presumably did so; but Rose's ears and eyes were wide open.She never missed a word that her elders said. She was a skinny,owlish-looking child who could sit for hours and listen, but whosetongue could run as long and as easily as a ball-bearing machine. Sheknew every bit of gossip of the country-side, and repeated it with allthe insinuating humility which was characteristic of her mother.

  Rose and Beth were cutting out paper dolls. Eliza kept at her sewingwhile Mrs. Burtsch, rocking slowly, slowly, kept the conversation going.

  "Beth looks stout, Miss Eliza. I've noticed frequently how stout shelooks. But then that hain't no sign that she is going to live. Her ownfolks might have had consumption. You can never tell. Like mother, likechild, you know. Her mother couldn't have had a constitution to brag onwhen a little thing like falling on a stone killed her quick like itdid. If I were in your place, I'd be mighty careful of her. Don't lether breathe no night air, and keep her housed up well."

  Eliza had long since passed this stage in child-rearing. When sherealized that Beth might be with her always, she set about at once tolearn something of bringing up a little girl, just as she had learnedall she could about feeding chickens. She had long since discovered thefutility of discussing any question with Mrs. Burtsch when the latterhad the other view of the case. It was always a harangue and nothingelse.

  "She's healthy enough. She's never had a cold. I'm not at all concernedabout her."

  "You never can be sure. She's got a dreadful color in her cheeks, andher eyes are too bright for health. I'd worry considerable about her."

  "What good would that do? It would not improve her condition even if shewas in the last stage of consumption."

  Eliza smiled to herself. Beth, the picture of health! Her bright cheeksand dancing eyes were more the result of good, plain food, quiet, happyhome life and fresh air and sunshine. She looked all she had beenbreathing in.

  "You never can be sure. My William Henry was as strong a baby as you'dsee in a day's travel, but he went off like a flash with pneumonia. Youremember, Miss Eliza?"

  She did remember. She knew how a sick child had been left to drag aboutin wet grass, and left lying at home, sick with rising fever, while themother dilly-dallied over the fields looking for a weed that the Indianshad found infallible for colds.

  Mrs. Burtsch was now well launched on the subject. She discussed indetail the taking away of each one of her children. She called theirearly death "strange and mysterious workings of Providence." It was farfrom just to put the blame on Providence when each death had been thedirect result of careless, ignorant mothering, or lack of mothering.

  Miss Eliza listened. She had heard the story all her life. It had been aquarter of a century since William Henry had died. There was nothing todo but listen. One could not have turned Mrs. Burtsch from the beatenpath of her conversation. The only thing to do was to let her go onuntil she had run herself out.

  Eliza listened and threw in a "yes", an "indeed", at the proper place;but for the most part her attention was given to her sewing. It hadrequired close accounting to make her income provide for herself andBeth. Each year the expenses would be greater; Eliza tried to lay a fewdollars of her interest money aside. She believed in being ready foremergencies. Her trunk had, hidden in its capacious depth, all the oddpennies which came her way.

  Now, she was reducing her own wardrobe to fit Beth out. When hershirt-waists were worn at the collar and cuffs, she took the fronts andbacks and made guimpes for Beth.

  Mrs. Burtsch had ultimately spun her story to a finish. Rose and Bethwere yet intent upon cutting out ladies from a magazine. The former paidlittle attention to what her mother was saying. She had heard it sooften that its charm had worn off. As far as Rose was concerned, it fellon dull ears.

  Suddenly, Mrs. Burtsch leaned forward and, seizing an end of Eliza'ssewing, took it up critically. "What do you mean to do with it?" sheasked. "The tucks hain't so bad, though the rest does look like it wentthrough the mill. It's a sin and a shame to throw it away, 'Liza. I dohope you hain't going to be wasteful. It always cuts me up to seeanything throwed away."

  Her own yard was a waste of weeds. Her household a waste in every way.Hours and hours of each day were spent as she was spending these, at aharangue that did no one any good, which sapped the energy and left nogain whatever.

  "I don't think I'll grow recklessly extravagant;" replied Eliza. "I'veworn this white dress for three summers. It's out at a good many placesand I've put on just enough flesh to make it too tight over the hips.I'm making it over for Beth. I can get quite a nice little dress forher. The ruffles are just as good as new." She held up the skirt andlooked it over. "There's plenty of material to make her a nice littledress. I'm relieved at the thought of it. She does need one badlyenough, and I could not see my way clear to get her something nice andfine."

  Mrs. Burtsch had been fingering the dress with a hypercritical air. AtEliza's words, she leaned back in her chair and sighed. That sigh spokevolumes.

  "You're very foolish, Miss Liza. Everyone is saying so and has beensaying so ever since Old Prince got away from you. I don't like to tellyou what folks are saying. I never was no hand at carrying news; but Ifeel that it's my duty to let you know. That's what a friend's for, toset us right when we go wrong. I feel it my duty to tell you."

  "Don't put yourself out," said Eliza, biting off a thread closely, andwith just a little touch of vindictiveness. "I'll not treasure it upagainst you." She was not angry. Amused came nearest to express herstate of mind.

  "I wouldn't be doing right," continued the visitor in her meek, whining,apologetic voice. "I never set up to be much. I know I hain't educated,and me and John are poor, but that hain't anything against us. Beingpoor hain't any disgrace, I've always tried to do my duty, as I saw it.If I've failed it hain't because I hain't tried. It hain't no matter tome how I hate to do a thing or how disagreeable it is, if it's my duty,I do it. That's the way I feel about telling you. I hain't going toshirk my duty by you living alone as you are."

  The meeker Mrs. Burtsch tried to be, the more "hain'ts" she made use of.They were the negative expression of herself and her thoughts. Elizasaid nothing at all, but picked her stitches carefully.

  "Folks think that you are clean gone crazy about keeping this littlegirl. It hain't as though you was a married woman with a man to providefor you. Of course you've got money, put out on interest, but mothscorrupt and thieves might break in and steal. That means not to counttoo much on what you've laid by.

  "Now, folks say that you have no call to keep this child and treat herju
st like she was of your own family. You're bringing her up just asfine as a lady."

  "Why not?" asked Eliza. "She's a little lady now and I hope she'll be abig lady by and by. That's what I'm raising her for."

  Rose's shears had not missed a snip; but her sharp little eyes narroweddown to slits and her ears pricked themselves up. This was a new subjectto her. Wasn't Beth really Miss Eliza's little girl after all? Thewonder of it was that she had never found out before. Her mouth fairlywatered for this morsel of news. Yet she never so much as turned herhead or lost one snip with her shears.

  "Well, to my way of thinking it hain't right. Every one I've spoke tosays the same thing. It hain't right to take a tramp child and bring herup as though she was somebody. If you'd train her so she's be handy forworking out, folks wouldn't have so much to say, but you're spoiling herso that she won't make even a good hired girl."

  "I don't want her to be that, Liza Burtsch. She's just a baby yet. Ireally haven't thought much what I'd like her to be. All I think aboutnow is to keep her sweet and wholesome and teach her all that otherlittle girls learn in schools. There's time enough to think about otherthings when ten years more have gone.

  "There's something else, Livia Burtsch, that we'll settle right here.Beth is no tramp child and never was. You have no right to call herthat, and I will not allow it."

  "Seems to me that I've got a good bit of right. Folks hain't as blind asyou're suspicioning them, Liza Wells. Tramp child, now what else couldshe be called but tramp. Maybe she's worse for all I know. You can'ttell me things, Liza Wells. I've lived too long to have the wool pulledover my eyes. You know and I know that no decent self-respecting womanwhat has a home or any folks is tramping on foot through the countrywith a baby. No woman that thinks anything of herself is walking througha strange country and taking naps under bushes by the roadside. Youcan't tell me. The child's mother was nothing but a worthless scal--."

  "Stop! Not another word." Eliza's voice was low--too low for peace. Itwas as clear cut and metallic as a blade of steel. Mrs. Burtsch was awedby it. For an instant she looked at Eliza with wide-open eyes andhanging jaw, but she soon recovered her rigidity of feature and posture.

  "Well, I guess I'll say what I see fit to say when it's the truth.That's what cuts you, Eliza. It's the truth and you know it. Tut, tut,what's the world coming to if folks can't speak what's in their mind.Beth's just a tramp--."

  Eliza had risen. She stood like an offended goddess before the woman."Not another word in my house, Livia Burtsch. Not another word. Youalways have been a news-carrier, making trouble wherever you go. I'veborne with you a good many years without saying a word in return. I'veput up with it too long. Now, we'll understand each other. If you cancome in my home and visit without carrying news, and slandering everyonein the neighborhood, well and good; you may come and I'll make youwelcome. If you can't be civil and can't keep from bothering about myaffairs--stay away."

  Mrs. Burtsch had also arisen. She was fairly trembling with offendedpride. She looked at Eliza as though she had never seen her before.Indeed, she had never seen such an Eliza before. She could not say aword. She made an effort, but it only ended in a clack of her tongueagainst her false teeth. With what dignity she could command, she turnedand, jerking Rose up by the hand, fairly pulled her from the room.

  Her tongue was loosened before she reached home. Rose listened to astorm of abuse against Eliza and her fosterchild. She learned all theparticulars of Beth's advent into the Wells home.

  When they had gone, Eliza went back to her sewing. Her hand trembledwith nervousness. Beth came and stood back of her chair. "Adee, I thinkI'll fix your hair like you used to wear it when I was a baby."

  She loosened the smooth bands until the soft chestnut locks fell looselyabout the high, broad forehead. The roll of hair was too heavy for thechild to manage, so Adee herself coiled it loosely as Beth wished it tobe.

  The child disappeared for a moment, but soon returned with some sweetpeas in a delicate pink.

  "This is the way you used to wear them, Adee." She stuck them in withher light, easy touch.

  "Now, look how sweet you look, Adee," she cried. Eliza viewed herself inthe big mirror and smiled. She recognized beauty when she saw itand--well, she was growing to look like her own flowers, and her ownheart.