“Sick folks always have to stay in bed. How’d they look, sitting up, I’d like to know?” answered Mary Jane.
“But I’m not sick. I’m not sick one bit. I’m just as well as—as that parrot, yonder.”
Mary Jane laid down the thirteenth doll and clapped her hands to her sides. “That bird is the absurdest thing. He makes me laugh till I ache.”
“That’s a story, that’s a story!” corrected Poll.
Bonny-Gay laughed, too, and cried out:
“Mary Jane, you’re the very nicest girl I know!”
“Thank you. That’s a dear thing for you to say. But you’re partial, like mother. Besides, there isn’t any other girl here, just now.”
“But I mean it. There isn’t another girl in the world would come here and be shut up in the house, day after day, just to amuse me, ’cause my leg’s broken, except you.”
“Yes, there is,” said Mary Jane, confidently.
“Who?”
“You!”
“Oh! you funny child!”
“Wouldn’t you? If you and I were each other—I mean changed places and I was the sick one, wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I never did like indoors and would never stay in if I could help it. Do you s’pose it will be very long now?”
“No, I guess not. Not if you’re good and lie still. Wait. I’ll bring all the playthings around to that other side the bed and that will rest you. You’ve been looking out this way a good while now.”
So Mary Jane industriously3 hopped4 around and transported the thirteen dolls, the bird cages, and the parrot stand to a new position, and leaning on her crutches5 gently helped the sick child to turn about as far as she was permitted to do. A trained nurse was still always in the room, and Mrs. McClure herself passed in and out very frequently; but it was Mary Jane who did most for her friend; Bonny-Gay declaring that, “Next to Mamma” there was nobody who understood her whims6 and desires without being told them, as the little cripple did.
“That’s because we’re just an age, I guess. Queer, wasn’t it? That you, up in this big house, and me down in my dear little one, should both be sent to our folks the very same day that ever was? ‘Sunday bairns’ should be the best ones in the world, my mother says. Only, I wasn’t in my Dingy7 street house when I came. I was in the country;” and for some unexplained reason Mary Jane’s sunny face clouded suddenly.
For weeks now, and because Bonny-Gay had “taken such an extreme fancy to her”—as Mrs. McClure had herself explained to Mrs. Bump, when she herself went to ask the favor of Mary Jane’s attendance in the sick room—the helpful child had spent the greater portion of each day there. It had become quite a matter of habit in Dingy street that a carriage should roll up to the door of 97 and that Mary Jane should go away in it; to be returned at six o’clock precisely8, of the same afternoon. Dingy street felt itself proud of this state of things, and every householder held her head a bit higher because of it. Who’d ever have dreamed that their own small hunchback would get to be “carriage folks?” Well, there was no telling when such glory might not fall to their own lot, and she’d do them all credit wherever she went, she had such pretty, loving ways with her. That she had.
Now, it was sometimes an inconvenience to the McClure household that this trip must be made twice a day; and that very morning Mrs. McClure entered the chamber9 to speak with Mary Jane about it. She had now overcome her first repugnance10 at sight of the deformed11 little body and saw only the sweet face and helpfulness. She had, also, offered Mrs. Bump some compensation for her daughter’s “services; just the same as any other nurse’s;” but the poorer mother gently declined.
“If the dear Lord has given her a chance to do something for your girl, whom she so loves, I guess He means it as a sort of compensation to her for her own afflictions. No, indeed, Mrs. McClure, I wouldn’t like to taint12 the sympathy between those two by any thought of money.”
To this there could be no answer, and so the matter rested.
“Mary Jane, we begin to feel almost as if you belonged with us, you have been so kind and good to Bonny-Gay; and what do you say to staying up here at night, now? At least for a few nights together, with then one at home?” asked the lady, as she sat down beside the cot and watched the undressing of the china seventh doll, preparatory to its bath.
Mary Jane looked up quickly, with a sort of fear coming into her telltale face.
“Oh! I shouldn’t like that. I mean—of course, you’re very kind—but I’d have to go home. I would, indeed.”
“It’s not kindness on my part, especially. I thought it might save trouble to both sides; but, never mind. We’ll go on as usual, for the present; though I wish you would speak to your mother about it, when you see her, this evening. Now, Bonny-Gay, I have to go out. Is there anything you fancy, that I can bring you? I shall be at market and do some shopping. Think and see, darling.”
Bonny-Gay’s eyes had rested searchingly upon Mary Jane’s face. She would have been delighted herself if her playmate could have remained all the time in the Place, but she saw the sudden fear and was puzzled by it. Yet she did not urge the matter, and the only request she made of her indulgent mother was:
“Just bring something new for the baby.”
Again Mary Jane’s face was troubled and she exclaimed:
“Please, Bonny-Gay don’t! He has too many things already, that you have sent him. I’d rather not, please.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. McClure, as she kissed her little girl and went away. But she was considerably13 annoyed. She felt that she did not exactly “know how to deal with that class of people,” to which Mary Jane belonged. She wished that Bonny-Gay had not taken this absurd fancy of hers. She wished that the Gray Gentleman had never done that unwise thing of carrying her daughter into the region and knowledge of Dingy street. It was all very well for him to devote his time still, as he had all his life and fortune, toward making the lives of poor children brighter. Everybody must have a hobby, and that was his, she supposed. Of course, he was a noble man, and his name was known far and wide as that of a philanthropist. Still—Hmm. It would soon end, anyway. Bonny-Gay was improving rapidly, and was so perfectly14 healthy that there was nothing to fear. And if she needed her own carriage that evening, and Mary Jane remained still obstinate15, she must be sent home in a cab. That was all.
With these thoughts she departed, but she had in some way left an altered atmosphere behind her. Her difficulty in understanding “that class of people” arose from the simple fact that she had, as yet, no real sympathy with them. It seemed to her that they were altogether different from herself; that they were duller, less capable of any true nobility. But she was, in reality, kind and good at heart, with many social cares to tax her nerves, and she was one day to have her present ignorance enlightened.
In the silence that followed her exit, Bonny-Gay’s hand stole softly out and touched Mary Jane’s cheek, down which a tear was rolling. And in the child’s touch was that perfect sympathy which the mother’s tone had lacked.
“Don’t cry, Mary Jane. He’ll come back.”
Mary Jane’s head lifted instantly and her face brightened.
“How’d you know ’twas that I was thinking about?”
“Oh! I knew. After a minute. Not just at first. Mother didn’t understand. I don’t s’pose she’s heard yet that he was gone. Move up nearer. Fix yourself comf’table. Let’s talk, instead of play dolls, now.”
Mary Jane pushed her low chair to the side of the cot, so close now that she could rest her head against Bonny-Gay’s own pillow.
“Tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth!” admonished16 Polly, and in their laughter at his opportune17 command they failed to hear that somebody had entered the room and sat down quite near them. This was Bonny-Gay’s father, and he liked sometimes to surprise her by an unexpected visit of this sort, as well as to listen to the innocent chatter18 of this pair of “Sunday bairns.”
“How long is it, Mary Jane?”
“It was the very day you were hurt. Two whole weeks.”
“Well. That’s all right. Max is with him, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know. He went away with him. They both felt bad, I guess. That made them like to be together. Father’s powerful fond of dogs, any way.”
“And of the country, you said, too. I s’pose he’s in the country somewheres.”
“But where! I do want to see him so much. There is something I must tell him. Something he thinks is wrong, something that made him feel bad but should not. Something—Oh! I’ve seen all through things so clear, since he went. Every time he saw me I s’pose he was reminded that—My sake! What am I saying. But I’m so sorry about your mother not liking19 to send for me. I must have bothered her no end. I wouldn’t have come only—”
“You wouldn’t have come? Why, it was I who wanted you, who must have you. Don’t you know, you are my ‘twin sister?’ It’s all right. Mother would give me anything to have me pleased. Don’t think a thing about that. Let’s talk about the rest. Say, Mary Jane, say!” Excitedly.
“There you are. Off you go! Have a care!” warned Polly.
“Oh! keep still, you bird. Listen, Mary Jane. You know I’m going to the country, don’t you? We all are, just as soon as I get well.”
“Yes. I think it will be just lovely for you.”
“For you, too, you go with me and—find him!” almost shouted Bonny-Gay.
“Oh! you darling! Might I?”
“Course. Why shouldn’t you? My father owns a lot of country. Ever and ever so much. He has so much he says it’s a sin and shame it isn’t doing anybody any good. But he’s too busy to tend to it himself and he can’t trust many folks. They would waste his money, dreadful. There’s our big house and park, and all the gardens and things; and then there are fields and fields and fields. Miles of them, I guess. Just as like as not he’s gone around there some place. Just supposing! If he has, why, pooh! You could find him in a minute. Oh! you must go with me and look. It won’t be so long, maybe. If this old leg would only get itself well. I love the country. It’s all out-doors there.”
Mary Jane said nothing, but her face was rapturous with anticipation20. Finally, Bonny-Gay announced:
“I guess that’s all settled, then. There’s nothing to do about it only ask our folks. Let’s make believe things. Let’s pretend we had all the money in the world and could do just what we wanted to with it; what would you do, first?”
“Why, I wouldn’t dare think. ’Cause it couldn’t ever come true, you know.”
“Supposing it couldn’t? The things that don’t come true are the sweetest things there are, I think. You begin.”
Mary Jane drew a deep breath. Under the inspiration of this other more imaginative child, she was fast forgetting the hard, dry facts of life; and whether this were best or no, it was, at least, delightful21.
“Well, I’d go to your father and I’d pay him money, and I’d get all those miles and miles of country to do with exactly as I pleased. Then I’d take some more of the money and I’d get the men that build houses to make a house, right in the very prettiest spot there ever was. Where there was water if I could, ’cause my father, he’s so fond of fishing. He’s quit work, lots of times, to go fishing down the bay. I’d buy him a fish-pole and lines and hooks. I’d buy him and mother a cow and a horse and a market-wagon. They had a market-wagon once, but a man came along and told him he could make more money in the city; and he sold their things and lost the little farm and came. He’d be all right if he was back in that country, I guess. I’d like to see it, myself.”
The eager speaker stopped short. Again she had almost revealed what no loyal daughter should,—a parent’s fault. But Bonny-Gay was so interested, she seemed so to know beforehand what was in a body’s mind that words slipped out of themselves.
“Of course I will,” answered the cripple. “Now, Bonny-Gay, it’s your turn. What would you do if you had all the money and could?”
The unseen father leaned forward a little. He was profoundly interested in any possible desires his darling might express, and, for the matter of that, she rarely did ask for anything. Maybe, because almost all desirable things came to her without the asking.
“I hardly know. Yes, I do, too. I’d buy all the parks in this city and in every other one. I’d hunt up all the little children in the cities. I’d make free ‘Playgrounds’ for them, every one. Even the little girls should have their little cunning ‘farms,’ just the same. I guess they’d want to plant flowers, though, wouldn’t they? instead of cabbages and limas. Then I’d take all the grown-ups who wanted to go into the country and couldn’t, and I’d send them. And I’d let them stay a whole week, I guess. If I could. If there was room enough. And when Christmas came I’d have everybody that was poor come to my house, just like the Gray Gentleman does to the halls he hires, and I’d make them as happy as—I am. I wouldn’t let anybody in the whole wide world be sick nor sorry; I wouldn’t let anybody hurt nice dogs or turn them out of their own parks; and—Oh! Mary Jane, do you s’pose we’ll ever see dear old Max again?”
“Why, Bonny-Gay? Didn’t you just make me feel ’t he was right with father? Course, then, when father comes he’ll come; and if you aren’t well by that time I’ll coax23 father to lead him up here to see you. If he’ll be coaxed;” she added gravely.
The child on the cot glanced through the window. “There goes the Gray Gentleman, to see ‘Father George’ and the lion. I wish he’d come to see me; but he’s afraid my mother blames him for taking me that day, I think, though nobody ever said so.”
“I’ll go ask him!”
Before she could be stopped, Mary Jane hopped across the room and down to the door. Mr. McClure rose with considerable noise and approached the cot. He had been deeply touched by the fact that neither of the two innocently dreaming “Sunday bairns” had planned anything for her own especial gratification. The witness of such unselfishness was refreshing24 in a world such as that wherein most of his waking hours were passed.
“Well, little woman, how goes it? Getting well, fast?”
Bonny-Gay held up her arms to be loved.
“Fine, father dear. It won’t be long before I’m out in the park again, watching for you to come home from business.”
They found so much to say to each other that they quite forgot Mary Jane; who had, indeed, swung across the square to intercept25 the path of her friend. She had something of her own to say to the Gray Gentleman besides delivering her playmate’s message. She was in trouble and knew that he would help her in some way too wise for her to think of.
“Well, upon my word! If here isn’t Mary Jane! I thought I heard a cheerful little clicke-e-ty-click, such as only one small energetic body could make. What’s it now, Miss Bump?”
“I’d like to talk to you, please.”
“Don’t doubt I need it. Yet if the ‘talking to’ is to be very severe, I’d like to have the support of the lion. Let’s rest against him. That’s comfortable. Now, my child—talk!”
“First off, Bonny-Gay wants you to come and see her.”
“Shall be delighted, I’m sure. Please make my regards to Miss McClure and I will wait upon her at any hour she designates.” Which dignified26 yet whimsical remark set Mary Jane to smiling.
“You look it!” he exclaimed, smiling into her confiding28 face; then dropped his playful manner as he saw that she was really in earnest.
Whereupon she promptly29 told him about Mrs. McClure and why, in anticipation of her father’s possible return, she must, she must go home every night. “And how can I? I mustn’t put them out—they are so good to me. I mustn’t stay away, if Bonny-Gay needs me. There’s all the dolls to be dressed, you see; and the canaries must be fed, or they’d die; and Polly is about as much care as the baby. She’s always dropping things and squawking till she gets them picked up for her—though she throws them right straight down again. I don’t see how Bonny-Gay can be so patient with that bird, do you?”
“I’m sure I shouldn’t be.”
“So, I couldn’t not come, course. And what I want you to tell me, please, is there a shorter way I could come? So I could walk here? ’Cause I couldn’t ride in the car. We couldn’t afford that.”
“If you would ride in the car I know, without asking, that Mrs. McClure would be more than glad to bear the expense.”
“But father wouldn’t like that. He never likes me to have rich folks do things for me. He—he seems to about hate them. He wouldn’t let me go to the Empty Stocking Trees, ’cause he does. You’re the only one he doesn’t mind. And he likes the ‘Playgrounds’ ’cause they’re not charity. They belong to the city and we do, same’s the rich ones. They teach the children to work and learn farming, too. He likes that. But I couldn’t take the money from her. I wouldn’t so displease30 him, even if I had to stay away.”
The Gray Gentleman pondered deeply. He would not offend the confiding child by offering himself to pay her car fare. He too greatly respected her honest pride and her loyalty31 to her father to do that. But, after a moment, he looked up.
“Miss Mary Jane Bump, once before I invited you to call at my house and you declined. Now, I invite you again. I think I have something there that will solve your difficulties—and my own. May I have the pleasure? I’ll detain you from the Poll parrot but a few moments.”
“Oh! I’d love it!”
It was a very cheerful click the crutches gave now. The mere32 telling of her perplexities had half-banished them, and Mary Jane had implicit33 faith in the wisdom of this simple, true-hearted gentleman, who was, as Mrs. McClure had reflected, “the friend of all poor children everywhere.”
The Gray Gentleman’s big, empty, plainly furnished house, seemed very lonely to the little girl, whose own small home was so crowded; and she wondered at the slowness of the one colored “boy”—as gray as his master—who answered that master’s ring.
“Boy, go up-stairs, please, to my bedroom. Open the top drawer of the chiffonier and bring me all the socks you find there. You’d better use a basket—they are many in number.”
The “Boy” half fancied that his master had lost his common sense, then leaped to the conclusion that this was probably one of their many pensioners34 upon whom the articles demanded were to be bestowed35. He obeyed without comment, however, save by a respectful bow; and soon returned. Meanwhile Mary Jane had been shown the few pictures upon the walls and told their stories, and the place had begun to seem more cheerful to her.
The “Boy” was dismissed; the basket heaped with fine hosiery placed on the table beside the visitor, and herself bidden to look the contents over.
“What do you think of them, Mary Jane?”
“I never knew one person have so many stockings; and, my sake, there isn’t a single pair but has a hole in it—not one single sock, even. I know. I guess you want me to mend them for you, don’t you? I often help mother with the darning. She thinks I can do it quite well.”
“I’m sure you can, and that is just what I do want. I cannot put on a ragged36 garment, poor old fellow though I am. They always come from the laundry, broken somewhere, and I am always buying new. That’s how I have so many. If you want to save my money for me you can do it.”
“I’d love to! I’ll take them home and fix them nights, after Bonny-Gay is through with me.”
“Let’s be business like, Miss Bump. What would be your charges, per pair?”
“My—charges? Nothing. I’d be so glad to do something for you, who have always been doing things for me.”
“I’ve known you a few weeks, little girl, and I’ve done very little. Will five cents a pair be satisfactory?”
“I couldn’t take so much. I couldn’t take anything.”
“That or nothing. I’m business. That would make you quite independent of all help except your own, and be a great benefit to me.”
“Of course, then. And oh! thank you!”
“Now, pack up your work, little bread-winner, and let’s back to Bonny-Gay.”
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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industriously
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hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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adjured
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coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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refreshing
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intercept
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| vt.拦截，截住，截击 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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pensioners
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| n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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