From the Relief Society Magazine, 1931-32 –

Louise

By Annie D. Palmer

Part I

“The baby will die.”

Thank heaven.”

It was a nurse at the Fifth Street Maternity Hospital who gave the message over the telephone, and the mother of Louise who paused in the rush of packing her trunk to make the reply.

A half hour later the mother of Louise was speeding across the continent to the bedside of a son who was dying, while in the hospital on Fifth Street they placed a helpless mite of humanity in the arms of the girl who lingered perilously on the brink of the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

A faint smile brightened her face and an instinctive movement of her arms enfolded the new born babe, and then she lapsed again into semi-consciousness which lasted so long that even the nurse gave up, and carried the baby back to the nursery.

Days followed in which the balance hung so even that it seemed as though a smile might lift her back into joyous life or a look of doubt tilt her far on into eternity. Much of the time they left the frail little baby at her side where she might gaze upon it while it slept. For no one was heartless enough to take from her the only thing to which she clung. And her thin hand would feel the warmth and softness; and she would gaze in wonder at the tiny scar on its cheek, which might have been a dimple, but was proof of the terrible ordeal through which they both had passed. Quite unmindful of any other presence in the room Louise would talk to her baby, always planning a happy future.

“My baby! My treasure!” she would say. “You will be with me always, to be company when I am lonely, and to cheer me when I rest in the home I shall make for you! It will take so little to make our home lovely — a cot where we can sleep — you in your mother’s arms — a stove to warm your bath — and by and by when you are older, a tiny tub where you can sit and splash while I watch and laugh at you. And I shall make you the darlingest dresses, and embroider them with flowers and butterflies. I can make one out of the pink georgette blouse I wore the day I was married to your daddy. Maybe some day he will come back to us — If he should look at you with his heavenly eyes, he could never, never, go away again. Darling, when you can walk — I wonder if ever I shall see you walk. I am so tired, so tired.”

Thus day by day she comforted herself, now with baby joys and again looking forward into school days and even beyond that into a time when the baby would be a young woman, the loveliest any of her folks had known. But always her dreaming ended with the plaint:

“Dearest, I wonder. I am so tired, so tired.”

When she came to the Maternity Hospital the girl had given the name of Louise Garland. She wore her wedding ring and carried in her handbag a paper which she insisted was a marriage certificate. But her mother had angrily told her she was not married and that her mother-hood was a disgrace which they would never outlive. So Louise came to understand why Dick had wanted to keep the marriage a secret, and why he had advised her to give the baby away. Her mother had been determined about that, too. In fact it had all been arranged that she should not even see the baby.

The matron, the doctor, and the foster mother held numerous conferences in which Louise was not included; and when her recovery seemed fairly certain, the child went into the foster home, and they tried to argue her into thinking it was best.

Time passes swiftly when hearts are light; but where a great sorrow reigns, weeks drag themselves into long and weary stretches that bring paleness to the cheeks and dullness to the eyes. Her mother wrote repeatedly asking Louise to come to the newer, better home; but the girl felt bound by ties stronger than life itself, to the place which had given Dick to her, and in which since, she had lost both him and her baby. So she went to work — in the maternity hospital at first, and then for shorter hours, in a laundry. All her free hours she wandered through streets and parks and playgrounds, eagerly seeking some clue to the discovery of the little one that was lost.

“I must get cheaper board, Aunt Mandy,” she said one morning to the old lady with whom she stayed.

“Cheaper!” exclaimed Aunt Mandy. “Well, ef I’m any judge, you’re skinny enough to need better board. I don’t believe you’ve et a bite of lunch fer six weeks — not sence you ben payin’ carfare to search the subways. I hain’t blamm’ you none fer wantin’ your kid; but I don’t see how you’d know her from a ringnecked goslin’ after four years.”

“I’d know Jewell anywhere, Aunt Mandy. Her daddy’s eyes — ”

“You hain’t seen his eyes sence he — well, sence he left you, girl.” Chances is they’re different now.”

“His eyes couldn’t change. Why, they’re so different! You don’t think I’m foolish, do you, Aunt Mandy, fer wanting to find Jewell? You know she’s all I’ve got, all I’ll ever have, because — well, I shall never marry again ; and then I heard them say when Jewell was born, that I’d never go through it again.”

“Poor child! No one with a heart could blame you, leastwise no one that’s mothered thirteen. But you’ve hunted so long.”

“I know I won’t sell much of this junk, with Christmas so far away. But it’s a chance to get in houses and see their children. Look at this beetle scud across the table.”

“Sakes alive! It’s got everything but the breath of life, hain’t it?”

“Here’s a goose that hasn’t much but noise. Listen.”

“Quack, quack! Quack, quack!” squawked the goose, and Aunt Mandy answered:

“Saucy thing! You’re as empty headed as a lot o’ folks I know.”

“Only a few of the silly folks will buy this stuff, aunt Mandy, that is why I must have cheaper board.”

“How much do you expect to pay?”

“Not more than three fifty a week. I can sleep on a cot, and eat only two meals — ”

“Then you’ll stay right where you be. At least—”

“No, Aunt Mandy, you can’t afford it.”

“But I want to see Jewell, too, don’t I? You can dry the dishes for me ; an’ when they hain’t enough hot cakes to go round, you can have toast.”

And so it was decided. And so day after day, in and out of the houses big and little, the young woman went soliciting orders for the line of mechanical toys she carried. Sometimes the bright object in her hand was the admit card. Sometimes the pallor of her face or the thinness of her apparel. Women wondered at the way she peered through doors ajar, or was startled at the sound of a baby’s voice. They also noticed how she would hurry across a street to look closely at a group of children, and then slowly return to the systematic routine of her work. None even dreamed of the dynamic force back of her struggles. Whether people bought or not made little difference to Louise; nor did it matter what argument they put up for or against her wares. Nothing mattered except children around four years old. Thus weeks dragged into months.

“This family of dolls will please my little girl,” said Mrs. Arlington of Hillcrest mansion. “She always wants another doll, no matter –- ”

“Jewell!”

“I coming.”

The call came from a maid in the kitchen, the answer from a child beyond the richly curtained french door.

The heart of Louise stood still. The box of samples fell from her nerveless hands. A pallor as of death overspread her face. Only her eyes showed animation, and they were so alert it seemed as though they must see strait through the French door, drapery and all.

“You are ill. Let me get you something warm to revive you,” said the kind woman of the house.

“Yes,” answered Louise eagerly.

The woman was gone. The french door had opened, and there, whence had come the voice, stood Jewell holding the door ajar. Her plump figure was clad in a simple gown of clinging pink cotton, which with one chubby hand she held off her bare feet. her hair was a tousled mass of golden curls, cut short above the roundest, bluest eyes Louise had ever seen. The cheeks were fair and smooth like — ah, yes; and there was the tiny scar that was like a dimple. There was no mistaking it. Louise stumbled from the rocker in which she sat, and gathered the child in her arm. She showered its neck and arms with kisses. her tears fell thick and fast upon the pink cotton gown. Her sobs were mingled with laughter, as she poured out all the depths of mother love upon the astonished child that struggled in her arms for freedom.

“Darling! My darling! I have found you! They took you away from me and hid you away! It broke my heart, dearest! I thought it would kill me! But I could not die. Now I shall begin to live. They shall never take you away again, never!”

“Muvver!”

“Yes, darling,” answered Mrs. Arlington who stood motionless in the doorway.

“You are not her mother!” shrieked Louise, tightening her grasp convulsively. “She is mine! I died, so they said, when she came to earth and I will die for her again. You cannot tear her from me. I defy you!”

“What madness is this, woman? Go away. See, the child fears you.”

As she spoke the woman took hold of the hands of Louise and struggled. In vain she pleaded.

“I will never give her up. She is mine! She is mine!” Louise insisted.

Finally she became aware that the child was screaming. Then she became calm.

“My Jewell,” she sobbed passionately. “How can you know my love? Go to her now – go to her – but be sure that very soon you will come to me.”

Slowly her hands unclasped and dropped to her sides. Without stopping to pick up her scattered samples she staggered to the door and out into the street.

(To be continued)