CHAPTER XIX. THE BABY AT RUDDER GRANGE.
For some reason, not altogether understood by me, there seemed to be acontinued series of new developments at our home. I had supposed, whenthe events spoken of in the last chapter had settled down to theirproper places in our little history, that our life would flow on inan even, commonplace way, with few or no incidents worthy of beingrecorded. But this did not prove to be the case. After a time, theuniformity and quiet of our existence was considerably disturbed.
This disturbance was caused by a baby, not a rude, imperious baby, buta child who was generally of a quiet and orderly turn of mind. But itdisarranged all our plans; all our habits; all the ordinary dispositionof things.
It was in the summer-time, during my vacation, that it began to exertits full influence upon us. A more unfortunate season could not havebeen selected. At first, I may say that it did not exert its fullinfluence upon me. I was away, during the day, and, in the evening, itsinfluence was not exerted, to any great extent, upon anybody. As I havesaid, its habits were exceedingly orderly. But, during my vacation, thethings came to pass which have made this chapter necessary.
I did not intend taking a trip. As in a former vacation, I proposedstaying at home and enjoying those delights of the country which mybusiness in town did not allow me to enjoy in the working weeks andmonths of the year. I had no intention of camping out, or of doinganything of that kind, but many were the trips, rides, and excursions Ihad planned.
I found, however, that if I enjoyed myself in this wise, I must do it,for the most part, alone. It was not that Euphemia could not go withme--there was really nothing to prevent--it was simply that she hadlost, for the time, her interest in everything except that baby.
She wanted me to be happy, to amuse myself, to take exercise, to dowhatever I thought was pleasant, but she, herself, was so much engrossedwith the child, that she was often ignorant of what I intended to do, orhad done. She thought she was listening to what I said to her, but, inreality, she was occupied, mind and body, with the baby, or listeningfor some sound which should indicate that she ought to go and beoccupied with it.
I would often say to her: "Why can't you let Pomona attend to it? Yousurely need not give up your whole time and your whole mind to thechild."
But she would always answer that Pomona had a great many things to do,and that she couldn't, at all times, attend to the baby. Suppose, forinstance, that she should be at the barn.
I once suggested that a nurse should be procured, but at this shelaughed.
"There is very little to do," she said, "and I really like to do it."
"Yes," said I, "but you spend so much of your time in thinking how gladyou will be to do that little, when it is to be done, that you can'tgive me any attention, at all."
"Now you have no cause to say that," she exclaimed. "You know verywell--, there!" and away she ran. It had just begun to cry!
Naturally, I was getting tired of this. I could never begin a sentenceand feel sure that I would be allowed to finish it. Nothing wasimportant enough to delay attention to an infantile whimper.
Jonas, too, was in a state of unrest. He was obliged to wear his goodclothes, a great part of the time, for he was continually going onerrands to the village, and these errands were so important that theytook precedence of everything else. It gave me a melancholy sort ofpleasure, sometimes, to do Jonas's work when he was thus sent away.
I asked him, one day, how he liked it all?
"Well," said he, reflectively, "I can't say as I understand it, exactly.It does seem queer to me that such a little thing should take up prettynigh all the time of three people. I suppose, after a while," this hesaid with a grave smile, "that you may be wanting to turn in and help."I did not make any answer to this, for Jonas was, at that moment,summoned to the house, but it gave me an idea. In fact, it gave me twoideas.
The first was that Jonas's remark was not entirely respectful. He was myhired man, but he was a very respectable man, and an American man, andtherefore might sometimes be expected to say things which a foreigner,not known to be respectable, would not think of saying, if he wishedto keep his place. The fact that Jonas had always been very careful totreat me with much civility, caused this remark to make more impressionon me. I felt that he had, in a measure, reason for it.
The other idea was one which grew and developed in my mind until Iafterward formed a plan upon it. I determined, however, before I carriedout my plan, to again try to reason with Euphemia.
"If it was our own baby," I said, "or even the child of one of us, by aformer marriage, it would be a different thing; but to give yourselfup so entirely to Pomona's baby, seems, to me, unreasonable. Indeed, Inever heard of any case exactly like it. It is reversing all the usagesof society for the mistress to take care of the servant's baby."
"The usages of society are not worth much, sometimes," said Euphemia,"and you must remember that Pomona is a very different kind of aperson from an ordinary servant. She is much more like a member of thefamily--I can't exactly explain what kind of a member, but I understandit myself. She has very much improved since she has been married, andyou know, yourself, how quiet and--and, nice she is, and as for thebaby, it's just as good and pretty as any baby, and it may grow up tobe better than any of us. Some of our presidents have sprung from lowlyparents."
"But this one is a girl," I said.
"Well then," replied Euphemia, "she may be a president's wife."
"Another thing," I remarked, "I don't believe Jonas and Pomona like yourkeeping their baby so much to yourself."
"Nonsense!" said Euphemia, "a girl in Pomona's position couldn't helpbeing glad to have a lady take an interest in her baby, and help bringit up. And as for Jonas, he would be a cruel man if he wasn't pleasedand grateful to have his wife relieved of so much trouble. Pomona!is that you? You can bring it here, now, if you want to get at yourclear-starching."
I don't believe that Pomona hankered after clear-starching, but shebrought the baby and I went away. I could not see any hope ahead. Ofcourse, in time, it would grow up, but then it couldn't grow up duringmy vacation.
Then it was that I determined to carry out my plan.
I went to the stable and harnessed the horse to the little carriage.Jonas was not there, and I had fallen out of the habit of calling him.I drove slowly through the yard and out of the gate. No one called to meor asked where I was going. How different this was from the old times!Then, some one would not have failed to know where I was going, and,in all probability, she would have gone with me. But now I drove away,quietly and undisturbed.
About three miles from our house was a settlement known as New Dublin.It was a cluster of poor and doleful houses, inhabited entirely by Irishpeople, whose dirt and poverty seemed to make them very contented andhappy. The men were generally away, at their work, during the day, butthere was never any difficulty in finding some one at home, no matter atwhat house one called. I was acquainted with one of the matrons of thislocality, a Mrs. Duffy, who had occasionally undertaken some odd jobs atour house, and to her I made a visit.
She was glad to see me, and wiped off a chair for me.
"Mrs. Duffy," said I, "I want to rent a baby."
At first, the good woman could not understand me, but when I made plainto her that I wished for a short time, to obtain the exclusive use andcontrol of a baby, for which I was willing to pay a liberal rental, sheburst into long and violent laughter. It seemed to her like a personcoming into the country to purchase weeds. Weeds and children were soabundant in New Dublin. But she gradually began to see that I was inearnest, and as she knew I was a trusty person, and somewhat notedfor the care I took of my live stock, she was perfectly willing toaccommodate me, but feared she had nothing on hand of the age I desired.
"Me childther are all agoin' about," she said. "Ye kin see a poile uv'em out yon, in the road, an' there's more uv 'em on the fince. Butye nade have no fear about gittin' wan. There's sthacks of 'em in theplace. I'll jist run over to M
rs. Hogan's, wid ye. She's got sixteen orsiventeen, mostly small, for Hogan brought four or five wid him when hemarried her, an' she'll be glad to rint wan uv 'em." So, throwing herapron over her head, she accompanied me to Mrs. Hogan's.
That lady was washing, but she cheerfully stopped her work while Mrs.Duffy took her to one side and explained my errand. Mrs. Hogan did notappear to be able to understand why I wanted a baby-especially for solimited a period,--but probably concluded that if I would take good careof it and would pay well for it, the matter was my own affair, forshe soon came and said, that if I wanted a baby, I'd come to the rightplace. Then she began to consider what one she would let me have. Iinsisted on a young one--there was already a little baby at our house,and the folks there would know how to manage it.
"Oh, ye want it fer coompany for the ither one, is that it?" said Mrs.Hogan, a new light breaking in upon her. "An' that's a good plan, sure.It must be dridful lownly in a house wid ownly wan baby. Now there'sone--Polly--would she do?"
"Why, she can run," I said. "I don't want one that can run."
"Oh, dear!" said Mrs. Hogan, with a sigh, "they all begin to run, veryairly. Now Polly isn't owld, at all, at all."
"I can see that," said I, "but I want one that you can put in acradle--one that will have to stay there, when you put it in."
It was plain that Mrs. Hogan's present stock did not contain exactlywhat I wanted, and directly Mrs. Duffy exclaimed! "There's MaryMcCann--an' roight across the way!"
Mrs. Hogan said "Yis, sure," and we all went over to a little house,opposite.
"Now, thin," said Mrs. Duffy, entering the house, and proudly drawing asmall coverlid from a little box-bed in a corner, "what do you think ofthat?"
"Why, there are two of them," I exclaimed.
"To be sure," said Mrs. Duffy. "They're tweens. There's always two uvem, when they're tweens. An' they're young enough."
"Yes," said I, doubtfully, "but I couldn't take both. Do you think theirmother would rent one of them?"
The women shook their heads. "Ye see, sir," said Mrs. Hogan, "MaryMcCann isn't here, bein' gone out to a wash, but she ownly has four orfoive childther, an' she aint much used to 'em yit, an' I kin spake ferher that she'd niver siparate a pair o' tweens. When she gits a dozenhersilf, and marries a widow jintleman wid a lot uv his own, she'llbe glad enough to be lettin' ye have yer pick, to take wan uv 'em fercoompany to yer own baby, at foive dollars a week. Moind that."
I visited several houses after this, still in company with Mrs. Hoganand Mrs. Duffy, and finally secured a youngish infant, who, having beenleft motherless, had become what Mrs. Duffy called a "bottle-baby," andwas in charge of a neighboring aunt. It seemed strange that this child,so eminently adapted to purposes of rental, was not offered to me, atfirst, but I suppose the Irish ladies, who had the matter in charge,wanted to benefit themselves, or some of their near friends, beforegiving the general public of New Dublin a chance.
The child suited me very well, and I agreed to take it for as many daysas I might happen to want it, but to pay by the week, in advance. It wasa boy, with a suggestion of orange-red bloom all over its head, and whatlooked, to me, like freckles on its cheeks; while its little nose turnedup, even more than those of babies generally turn--above a very longupper lip. His eyes were blue and twinkling, and he had the very mouth"fer a leetle poipe," as Mrs. Hogan admiringly remarked.
He was hastily prepared for his trip, and when I had arranged thenecessary business matters with his aunt, and had assured her that shecould come to see him whenever she liked, I got into the carriage, andhaving spread the lap-robe over my knees, the baby, carefully wrapped ina little shawl, was laid in my lap. Then his bottle, freshly filled, forhe might need a drink on the way, was tucked between the cushions on theseat beside me, and taking the lines in my left hand, while I steadiedmy charge with the other, I prepared to drive away.
"What's his name?" I asked.
"It's Pat," said his aunt, "afther his dad, who's away in the moines."
"But ye kin call him onything ye bike," Mrs. Duffy remarked, "fer hedon't ansther to his name yit."
"Pat will do very well," I said, as I bade the good women farewell,and carefully guided the horse through the swarms of youngsters who hadgathered around the carriage.
CHAPTER XX. THE OTHER BABY AT RUDDER GRANGE.
I drove slowly home, and little Pat lay very quiet, looking up steadilyat me with his twinkling blue eyes. For a time, everything went verywell, but happening to look up, I saw in the distance a carriageapproaching. It was an open barouche, and I knew it belonged to a familyof our acquaintance, in the village, and that it usually containedladies.
Quick as thought, I rolled up Pat in his shawl and stuffed him under theseat. Then rearranging the lap-robe over my knees, I drove on, tremblinga little, it is true.
As I supposed, the carriage contained ladies, and I knew them all. Thecoachman instinctively drew up, as we approached. We always stopped andspoke, on such occasions.
They asked me after my wife, apparently surprised to see me alone, andmade a number of pleasant observations, to all of which I replied withas unconcerned and easy an air as I could assume. The ladies were inexcellent spirits, but in spite of this, there seemed to be an air ofrepression about them, which I thought of when I drove on, but could notaccount for, for little Pat never moved or whimpered, during the wholeof the interview.
But when I took him again in my lap, and happened to turn, as I arrangedthe robe, I saw his bottle sticking up boldly by my side from betweenthe cushions. Then I did not wonder at the repression.
When I reached home, I drove directly to the barn. Fortunately, Jonaswas there. When I called him and handed little Pat to him I never sawa man more utterly amazed. He stood, and held the child without aword. But when I explained the whole affair to him, he comprehended itperfectly, and was delighted. I think he was just as anxious for my planto work as I was myself, although he did not say so.
I was about to take the child into the house, when Jonas remarked thatit was barefooted.
"That won't do," I said. "It certainly had socks on, when I got it. Isaw them."
"Here they are," said Jonas, fishing them out from the shawl, "he'skicked them off."
"Well, we must put them on," I said, "it won't do to take him in, thatway. You hold him."
So Jonas sat down on the feed-box, and carefully taking little Pat, heheld him horizontally, firmly pressed between his hands and knees, withhis feet stuck out toward me, while I knelt down before him and tried toput on the little socks. But the socks were knit or worked very loosely,and there seemed to be a good many small holes in them, so thatPat's funny little toes, which he kept curling up and uncurling, werecontinually making their appearance in unexpected places through thesock. But, after a great deal of trouble, I got them both on, with theheels in about the right places.
"Now they ought to be tied on," I said, "Where are his garters?"
"I don't believe babies have garters," said Jonas, doubtfully, "but Icould rig him up a pair."
"No," said I; "we wont take the time for that. I'll hold his legs apart,as I carry him in. It's rubbing his feet together that gets them off."
As I passed the kitchen window, I saw Pomona at work. She looked at me,dropped something, and I heard a crash. I don't know how much that crashcost me. Jonas rushed in to tell Pomona about it, and in a moment Iheard a scream of laughter. At this, Euphemia appeared at an upperwindow, with her hand raised and saying, severely: "Hush-h!" But themoment she saw me, she disappeared from the window and came down-stairson the run. She met me, just as I entered the dining-room.
"What IN the world!" she breathlessly exclaimed.
"This," said I, taking Pat into a better position in my arms, "is mybaby."
"Your--baby!" said Euphemia. "Where did you get it? what are you goingto do with it?"
"I got it in New Dublin," I replied, "and I want it to amuse and occupyme while I am at home. I haven't anything else to do, except thing
s thattake me away from you."
"Oh!" said Euphemia.
At this moment, little Pat gave his first whimper. Perhaps he felt thesearching glance that fell upon him from the lady in the middle of theroom.
I immediately began to walk up and down the floor with him, and to singto him. I did not know any infant music, but I felt sure that asoothing tune was the great requisite, and that the words were of smallimportance. So I started on an old Methodist tune, which I rememberedvery well, and which was used with the hymn containing the lines:
"Weak and wounded, sick and sore,"
and I sang, as soothingly as I could:
"Lit-tle Pat-sy, Wat-sy, Sat-sy, Does he feel a lit-ty bad? Me will send and get his bot-tle He sha'n't have to cry-wy-wy."
"What an idiot!" said Euphemia, laughing in spite of her vexation.
"No, we aint no id-i-otses What we want's a bot-ty mik."
So I sang as I walked to the kitchen door, and sent Jonas to the barnfor the bottle.
Pomona was in spasms of laughter in the kitchen, and Euphemia was tryingher best not to laugh at all.
"Who's going to take care of it, I'd like to know?" she said, as soon asshe could get herself into a state of severe inquiry.
"Some-times me, and some-times Jonas,"
I sang, still walking up and down the room with a long, slow step,swinging the baby from side to side, very much as if it were grass-seedin a sieve, and I were sowing it over the carpet.
When the bottle came, I took it, and began to feed little Pat. Perhapsthe presence of a critical and interested audience embarrassed us, forJonas and Pomona were at the door, with streaming eyes, while Euphemiastood with her handkerchief to the lower part of her face, or it mayhave been that I did not understand the management of bottles, but, atany rate, I could not make the thing work, and the disappointed littlePat began to cry, just as the whole of our audience burst into a wildroar of laughter.
"Here! Give me that child!" cried Euphemia, forcibly taking Pat and thebottle from me. "You'll make it swallow the whole affair, and I'm sureits mouth's big enough."
"You really don't think," she said, when we were alone, and little Pat,with his upturned blue eyes serenely surveying the features of thegood lady who knew how to feed him, was placidly pulling away at hisindia-rubber tube, "that I will consent to your keeping such a creatureas this in the house? Why, he's a regular little Paddy! If you kept himhe'd grow up into a hod-carrier."
"Good!" said I. "I never thought of that. What a novel thing it would beto witness the gradual growth of a hod-carrier! I'll make him a littlehod, now, to begin with. He couldn't have a more suitable toy."
"I was talking in earnest," she said. "Take your baby, and please carryhim home as quick as you can, for I am certainly not going to take careof him."
"Of course not," said I. "Now that I see how it's done, I'm going to doit myself. Jonas will mix his feed and I will give it to him. He lookssleepy now. Shall I take him upstairs and lay him on our bed?"
"No, indeed," cried Euphemia. "You can put him on a quilt on the floor,until after luncheon, and then you must take him home."
I laid the young Milesian on the folded quilt which Euphemia preparedfor him, where he turned up his little pug nose to the ceiling and wentcontentedly to sleep.
That afternoon I nailed four legs on a small packing-box and made abedstead for him. This, with a pillow in the bottom of it, was verycomfortable, and instead of taking him home, I borrowed, in the evening,some baby night-clothes from Pomona, and set about preparing Pat for thenight.
This Euphemia would not allow, but silently taking him from me, she puthim to bed.
"To-morrow," she said, "you must positively take him away. I wont standit. And in our room, too."
"I didn't talk in that way about the baby you adopted," I said.
To this she made no answer, but went away to attend, as usual, toPomona's baby, while its mother washed the dishes.
That night little Pat woke up, several times, and made things unpleasantby his wails. On the first two occasions, I got up and walked him about,singing impromptu lines to the tune of "weak and wounded," but the thirdtime, Euphemia herself arose, and declaring that that doleful tune wasa great deal worse than the baby's crying, silenced him herself, andarranging his couch more comfortably, he troubled us no more.
In the morning, when I beheld the little pad of orange fur in the box,my heart almost misgave me, but as the day wore on, my courage roseagain, and I gave myself up, almost entirely, to my new charge,composing a vast deal of blank verse, while walking him up and down thehouse.
Euphemia scolded and scolded, and said she would put on her hat and gofor the mother. But I told her the mother was dead, and that seemed tobe an obstacle. She took a good deal of care of the child, for she saidshe would not see an innocent creature neglected, even if it wasan incipient hod-carrier, but she did not relax in the least in herattention to Pomona's baby.
The next day was about the same, in regard to infantile incident, but,on the day after, I began to tire of my new charge, and Pat, on hisside, seemed to be tired of me, for he turned from me when I went totake him up, while he would hold out his hands to Euphemia, and grindelightedly when she took him.
That morning I drove to the village and spent an hour or two there. Onmy return I found Euphemia sitting in our room, with little Pat on herlap. I was astonished at the change in the young rascal. He was dressed,from head to foot, in a suit of clothes belonging to Pomona's baby; theglowing fuzz on his head was brushed and made as smooth as possible,while his little muslin sleeves were tied up with blue ribbon.
I stood speechless at the sight.
"Don't he look nice?" said Euphemia, standing him up on her knees. "Itshows what good clothes will do. I'm glad I helped Pomona make up somany. He's getting ever so fond of me, ze itty Patsy, watsy! See howstrong he is! He can almost stand on his legs! Look how he laughs! He'sjust as cunning as he can be. And oh! I was going to speak about thatbox. I wouldn't have him sleep in that old packing-box. There are littlewicker cradles at the store--I saw them last week--they don't cost much,and you could bring one up in the carriage. There's the other baby,crying, and I don't know where Pomona is. Just you mind him a minute,please!" and out she ran.
I looked out of the window. The horse still stood harnessed to thecarriage, as I had left him. I saw Pat's old shawl lying in a corner.I seized it, and rolling him in it, new clothes and all, I hurrieddown-stairs, climbed into the carriage, hastily disposed Pat in my lap,and turned the horse. The demeanor of the youngster was very differentfrom what it was when I first took him in my lap to drive away with him.There was no confiding twinkle in his eye, no contented munching of hislittle fists. He gazed up at me with wild alarm, and as I drove out ofthe gate, he burst forth into such a yell that Lord Edward came boundingaround the house to see what was the matter. Euphemia suddenly appearedat an upper window and called out to me, but I did not hear what shesaid. I whipped up the horse and we sped along to New Dublin. Pat soonstopped crying, but he looked at me with a tear-stained and reproachfulvisage.
The good women of the settlement were surprised to see little Pat returnso soon.
"An' wasn't he good?" said Mrs. Hogan as she took him from my hands.
"Oh, yes!" I said. "He was as good as he could be. But I have no furtherneed of him."
I might have been called upon to explain this statement, had not thewhole party of women, who stood around burst into wild expressions ofdelight at Pat's beautiful clothes.
"Oh! jist look at 'em!" cried Mrs. Duffy. "An' see thim leetlepittycoots, thrimmed wid lace! Oh, an' it was good in ye, sir, to givehim all thim, an' pay the foive dollars, too."
"An' I'm glad he's back," said the fostering aunt, "for I was a coomin'over to till ye that I've been hearin' from owle Pat, his dad, an' he'sa coomin' back from the moines, and I don't know what he'd a' said ifhe'd found his leetle Pat was rinted. But if ye iver want to borry him,for a whoi
le, after owle Pat's gone back, ye kin have him, rint-free;an' it's much obloiged I am to ye, sir, fur dressin' him so foine."
I made no encouraging remarks as to future transactions in this line,and drove slowly home.
Euphemia met me at the door. She had Pomona's baby in her arms. Wewalked together into the parlor.
"And so you have given up the little fellow that you were going to do somuch for?" she said.
"Yes, I have given him up," I answered.
"It must have been a dreadful trial to you," she continued.
"Oh, dreadful!" I replied.
"I suppose you thought he would take up so much of your time andthoughts, that we couldn't be to each other what we used to be, didn'tyou?" she said.
"Not exactly," I replied. "I only thought that things promised to betwice as bad as they were before."
She made no answer to this, but going to the back door of the parlor sheopened it and called Pomona. When that young woman appeared, Euphemiastepped toward her and said: "Here, Pomona, take your baby."
They were simple words, but they were spoken in such a way that theymeant a good deal. Pomona knew what they meant. Her eyes sparkled, andas she went out, I saw her hug her child to her breast, and cover itwith kisses, and then, through the window, I could see her running tothe barn and Jonas.
"Now, then," said Euphemia, closing the door and coming toward me, withone of her old smiles, and not a trace of preoccupation about her, "Isuppose you expect me to devote myself to you."
I did expect it, and I was not mistaken.
Since these events, a third baby has come to Rudder Grange. It is notPomona's, nor was it brought from New Dublin. It is named after a littleone, who died very young, before this story was begun, and the strangestthing about it is that never, for a moment, does it seem to come betweenEuphemia and myself.
Rudder Grange Page 19