Louise

By Annie D. Palmer

Part II

There was unrest in the big brown house that night as well as in the shabby apartment where Louise shared the room with Aunt Mandy. Mrs. Arlington had told her husband of the strange woman who had come and claimed their Jewell as her own ; and they talked about the possibility of losing her, long after they had retired for the night. They even looked up the adoption papers and the release which the mother had signed before the babe was born. They recalled how ill the child was when it came to them — a wee starved mite of a baby — mostly eyes — with a scar where a dimple should have been. And nights and days they had watched when the helpless little one moaned with pain or breathed so faintly they had thought it dying. That was four years ago. Now Jewell was rosy and well and beautiful. So beautiful she seemed to them, that they could not think of an angel as being more wondrously fair. And they had taught her baby songs and Mother Goose rhymes, and showered her with all the love their years of childlessness had garnered. Before going to bed they knelt by her crib to pray that she would not be taken from them. Instead they prayed:

“Father in heaven, let the right prevail; and help us to understand and be satisfied.”

Louise reached Aunt Mandy’s apartment excited and joyful. She had stopped to look at many shop windows in the down-town district, and had finally spent her last half dollar for a pair of blue socks for the baby. When she reached the door she held these aloft proudly and then folding her arms about them, danced wildly about the room.

“She’s found! She’s found! My Jewell’s found!” she kept repeating “I shall begin to live now — and to work. Oh, I am so happy! It is as I told you. Her eyes are glorious. And I knew her at once by the darling dimple. Aren’t these socks cunning?”

“But how do you know she needs socks?” asked practical Aunt Mandy.

“I had to get her something, and I didn’t have enough money for a dress or coat,” explained Louise.

“Well, I raised my thirteen without no silly stuff like that. Goodness knows ef I’d gone in fer that kind of frumpery fer the kids their dad would a had to wear patches on his Sunday pants. We counted it mighty lucky ourn was mostly boys an’ didn’t need much but over-halls. Them’s boy’s socks, haint they?”

“Why sure not, Aunt Mandy.”

“Well, I dunno as it makes much difference. Girls’ legs is quite a bit like boys’ legs anyway, an’ some of ’em can get as dirty. I think it’s a lot less trouble to keep ’em covered; but of course it’s cheaper to let their knees git some of the holes in. Where is your Jewell?”

“In a big brown house on Thirty-third Street, with a fine lady that thinks she can keep her.”

“A rich home, hey? I expect they’ll offer you a lot of money fer her.”

“If they’d offer me the treasures of all the world, I’d keep my baby.”

“It’s goin’ to mean a lot of sacrifice — ”

“And a lot of love. Love and smiles and baby kisses, my baby kisses.”

A few days later it was decided in court. With so much tenderness and pride in the home of the Arlingtons, and so much love and longing in the heart of Louise, it was obvious that somebody’s heart must be broken; and onlookers predicted it would be the mother’s. So often it is the poor who suffer. But the judge was very human; and disregarding the advantages of wealth, education, social standing, and probably better training, he gave the verdict in favor of mother love. So Jewell left the beautiful home of plenty and of culture to live in poverty with Louise.

Children adapt easily to conditions; and in a few weeks the winsome baby was joyous and happy. All day she amused herself about the dingy room when Aunt Mandy was there. When Aunt Mandy had work, Jewell was equally happy at the Neighborhood House.

“Whose girl is you?” Aunt Mandy would ask a dozen times a day and Jewell would answer: “My a-dore-bul muvver’s.”

“Where is your muvver?” “Workm’ fer us dinner, an’ rings.”

“And what will she bring fer dinner?”

“Oh, dough-nuts an’ candy an’ playfings.”

In the evening when they all sat close around the fire, Aunt Mandy would repeat the cute things the child had learned to say; and after they had gone to bed Louise and her child would talk in undertones: “Been good all day, honey?”

“Sure.”

“Took good care of dolly and Aunt Mandy?”

“Sure. An’ Aunt Mandy pank me.”

“What did she spank you for?”

“Ist nuffen. Muvver if she pank me more I’ll tell my a-dore-bul daddy, won’t I ?”

“Hush, dear.”

“Muvver, where is my a-dore-bul daddy?”

“He went away, darling.”

“He’s a mean old daddy, ain’t he?”

“You must not talk that way.”

“Daddy Lington is a good daddy. Muvver do you love Daddy Lington?”

“No, I don’t love Daddy Lington, because he took my baby from me.”

“Which baby?”

In this way the conversation would go on until the brain of Louise would be sorely vexed with the train of thought set up by the chatter of her child. But always the thought that sang itself into her heart and brought rest and peace was the same:

“Jewell is mine. She is mine with all her love, with all her smiles, with all her baby sweetness. How I adore ‘her!”

Thus they lived. The girl mother had never a thought that was not connected with her baby. She enjoyed her tiresome toil, because Jewell must be fed. She walked to save carfare, and bought the family of dolls for her baby. And she went without lunches to buy a doll buggy that was broken in an hour.

Thus weeks went by and it was Christmas time. Louise became thoughtful. Perhaps it was the Christmas Spirit, perhaps only the development of a stronger mother love. At any rate a mighty struggle claimed her, which a series of incidents helped her to decide. As they sat at dinner one evening, a girl friend opened the conversation:

“What-da-ya-know ? Spooky’s called me down fer swearin’! Fine Guy, I’ll say!”

“I don’t blame him, Bee,” answered Louise, “Your language ain’t—”

“Now don’t spill it. What is it!to him;? Last week ‘he give me the high hat about smokin’ an’ now it’s speech. If he’s so high an’ mighty, I can’t keep in his dust nohow.”

“I don’t blame him at all,” argued Louise. “I’d want the mother of my kids to have culture, too.”

“Say listen. When did you decide that way?”

“Not so long ago. But it sure makes a lot of difference in a girl’s chances.”

“Oh! Better git your brat from this joint, then.”

Louise did not reply, but she thought a great deal. A few days later there was a party at the Neighborhood House for its patrons and beneficiaries. Because Jewell had been cared for there while her mother worked, Louise was a guest. A bevy of school girls entertained. In the songs they sang, in the games they played, in the music and the dance, the young woman saw education, culture, refinement, grace, that she had longed for and had never reached. She felt shy and timid because of her poverty, and yet more backward and helpless because of her ignorance. In the beauty of this Christmas party she saw herself, and compared herself, and dreamed of her child following after her because of the poverty that held her. And Jewell had entered the world of culture, of harmony, of beauty. And she, the mother, had selfishly snatched her from it all to place her in a hovel. What had she to give the child in return? Well, she had love — and — and — AND. It ended there, where it must always end.

“I suppose the party was terrible nice,” Aunt Mandy suggested next morning at breakfast.

“Yes,” sullenly.

“Did you have a good time?”

“No,” decidedly.

“Why not?”

A long pause during which Louise bit her lip and batted her eyes.

“It’s no use, Aunt Mandy,” explosively. “Jewell c a n’t ever amount to anything with what I can do for her. A kid can’t be raised decent on nothin’ but ash heaps. It can’t be done.”

“Oh, well, kids without dads, an’ things, hain’t supposed — ”

“My kid has a dad,” angrily.

“Maybe she has an’ maybe she hain’t. Leastwise he hain’t in sight, an’ you are Miss Norris.”

“Aunt Mandy, you have no right to insult me by insinuating — ” Louise buried her face in her apron and sobbed bitterly.

“Poor girl. Forgive me. I oughtn’t to say nothin’. Of course Jewell hain’t just like a real bastard seein’ as how you thought you was married.”

“Jewell shall not suffer for my mistake. I was selfish to bring her here — to this poverty — to this life. It has all been a mistake — a cruel, selfish mistake, because of my love. How could I think to sacrifice my baby, to wreck her life for my own happiness. How could I!”

“Louise, forgive me,” pleaded Aunt Mandy.

“Forgive you, yes. You have opened my eyes to my sin and folly. If the best friend I have can feel as you do, how must the others feel, who neither know me nor care?”

“What does it matter, my dear, about the others?”

“Nothing — for me. Everything —for her. For the sake of having her with me, I could endure the most wretched poverty, the most shameful disgrace, the most torturing pain. I would die rather than part with her.”

“Yes, dear. I know.”

“But for her happiness and welfare — ‘I shall return her — to the kind people — who can give — what she needs — and has a right to have.”

“Louise, are you crazy?”

“Not now. But I am determined. Aunt Mandy, please do not try to stop me. Help. Oh, help me to give her up!”

That night Louise held her baby so close in her arms that their heartbeats seemed to merge into a single pulsation.

“You love me much, don’t you muvver?” the child murmured half asleep. And the mother silently prayed for strength, or for death.

* * * *

In a beautiful chamber, in which a big vase of roses shed their fragrance, Dr. Ashton sat by the bedside of his wife fondly stroking her hands.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she murmured softly.

“Yes, dear, it is. But you must close your eyes and rest,” he answered.

“I can’t close my eyes. If I close my eyes it seems as though some one might take my baby away.”

“Poor little mother! Can’t you trust me to watch ?”

“Always. I can love and trust you always. I hope our baby will be honorable and trustworthy like you.”

“And I hope he will be unselfish and brave like you.”

“But I am not brave. I — I — ”

“Dearest, you made the biggest sacrifice within human power to make two years ago, when you sent little Jewell back to my sister’s home. Before that I had heard of you as Jewell’s mother. When they told me what you did in the interest of your child, I counted you the bravest little mother in the world. From that time I knew I should never cease to love you.”

“It is like a happy dream. You are so splendid. And to think that you care for me like that. And that you are here, and love our baby, too.”

“The Lord is good.”

“I did not know the Lord, really, until you taught me; nor anything much for that matter.”

“Except honor, sweetheart. Do you know what day this is?”

“Oh, is it Christmas Day?”

“Almost. Our baby is a Christmas gift.”

“Thanks, dear Lord, for the dearest treasure you could send to me. Thanks, thanks.” The white hands were folded on the woman’s breast. The father’s head bowed reverently while the mother prayed.

“Dr. Ashton, I have orders that my patient is to rest.”

The suggestion of the nurse reminded the happy father that his wife did, indeed, need rest. He looked again admiringly at the babe and kissed the cheek of Louise softly. The chimes in the tower tolled midnight.

“A happy Christmas, little mother,” he said fervently ; and Louise answered:

“My cup of joy is full.”

(The End)