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The Project Gutenberg eBook, The English Orphans, by Mary Jane Holmes
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: The English Orphans
Author: Mary Jane Holmes
Release Date: October 26, 2004 [eBook #13878]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ENGLISH ORPHANS***
E-text prepared by Stephen Schulze and the Project Gutenberg Online
Distributed Proofreading Team
THE ENGLISH ORPHANS
Or, A Home in the New World
by
MRS. MARY J. HOLMES
Author of _Darkness and Daylight_, _Marian Grey_, _Meadow Brook_,
_Homestead_, _Dora Deane_, _Cousin Maude_, _Tempest and Sunshine_,
_Lena Rivers_, etc.
1877
CONTENTS
I. The Emigrants
II. Chicopee
III. Billy Bender
IV. Ella Campbell
V. The Poor-House
VI. Sal Furbush
VII. The Lincolns
VIII. At Church
IX. The New Bonnet
X. Winter at the Poor-House
XI. Alice
XII. A New Friend
XIII. A New Home in Rice Corner
XIV. Visitors
XV. The Three Young Men
XVI. The Schoolmistress
XVII. Jealousy
XVIII. A New Plan
XIX. Mount Holyoke
XX. The closing of the year
XXI. Vacation
XXII. Education Finished
XXIII. Life in Boston
XXIV. A Change of Opinion
XXV. The Party
XXVI. Making up his Mind
XXVII. The Shadows Deepen
XXVIII. Glenwood
XXIX. A New Discovery
XXX. The Crisis
XXXI. A Question
XXXII. Going Home
XXXIII. Conclusion
CHAPTER I.
THE EMIGRANTS.
"What makes you keep that big blue sun-bonnet drawn so closely over
your face? are you afraid of having it seen?"
The person addressed was a pale, sickly-looking child about nine years
of age, who, on the deck of the vessel Windermere, was gazing intently
towards the distant shores of old England, which were fast receding
from view. Near her a fine-looking boy of fourteen was standing, and
trying in vain to gain a look at the features so securely shaded from
view by the gingham bonnet.
At the sound of his voice the little girl started, and without turning
her head, replied, "Nobody wants to see me, I am so ugly and
disagreeable."
"Ugly are you?" repeated the boy, and at the same time lifting her up
and forcibly holding her hands, he succeeded in looking her fully in
the face, "Well, you are not very handsome, that's a fact," said he,
after satisfying his curiosity, "but I wouldn't be sullen about it.
Ugly people are always smart, and perhaps you are. Any way, I like
little girls, so just let me sit here and get acquainted."
Mary Howard, the child thus introduced to our readers, was certainly
not very handsome. Her features, though tolerably regular, were small
and thin, her complexion sallow, and her eyes, though bright and
expressive, seemed too large for her face. She had naturally a fine
set of teeth, but their beauty was impaired by two larger ones, which,
on each side of her mouth, grew directly over the others, giving to
the lower portion of her face a peculiar and rather disagreeable
expression. She had frequently been told that she was homely, and
often when alone had wept, and wondered why she, too, was not handsome
like her sister Ella, on whose cheek the softest rose was blooming,
while her rich brown hair fell in wavy masses about her white neck and
shoulders. But if Ella was more beautiful than Mary, there was far
less in her character to admire. She knew that she was pretty, and
this made her proud and selfish, expecting attention from all, and
growing sullen and angry if it was withheld.
Mrs. Howard, the mother of these children, had incurred the
displeasure of her father, a wealthy Englishman, by marrying her music
teacher, whose dark eyes had played the _mischief_ with her heart,
while his fingers played its accompaniment on the guitar. Humbly at
her father's feet she had knelt and sued for pardon, but the old man
was inexorable, and turned her from his house, cursing the fate which
had now deprived him, as it were, of his only remaining daughter. Late
in life he had married a youthful widow who after the lapse of a few
years died, leaving three little girls, Sarah, Ella, and Jane, two of
them his own, and one a step-daughter and a child of his wife's first
marriage.
As a last request Mrs. Temple had asked that her baby Jane should be
given to the care of her sister, Mrs. Morris who was on the eve of
embarking for America, and who within four weeks after her sister's
death sailed with her; young niece for Boston. Sarah, too, was adopted
by her father's brother; and thus Mr. Temple was left alone with his
eldest daughter, Ella. Occasionally he heard from Jane, but time and
distance gradually weakened the tie of parental affection, which wound
itself more closely around Ella; and now, when she, too, left him, and
worse than all, married a poor music teacher, the old man's wrath knew
no bounds.
"But, we'll see," said he, as with his hands behind him, and his head
bent forward, he strode up and down the room--"we'll see how they'll
get on. I'll use all my influence against the dog, and when Miss
Ella's right cold and hungry, she'll be glad to come back and leave
him."
But he was mistaken, for though right cold and hungry Ella ofttimes
was, she only clung the closer to her husband, happy to share his
fortune, whatever it might be. Two years after her marriage, hearing
that her father was dangerously ill, she went to him, but the
forgiveness she so ardently desired was never gained, for the old
man's reason was gone. Faithfully she watched until the end, and then
when she heard read his will (made in a fit of anger), and knew that
his property was all bequeathed to her sister in America, she crushed
the tears from her long eyelashes and went back to her humble home
prepared to meet the worst.
In course of time three children, Frank, Mary, and Ella were added to
their number, and though their presence brought sunshine and gladness,
it brought also an increase of toil and care. Year after year Mr.
Howard struggled on, while each day rumors reached him of the plenty
to be had in the land beyond the sea; and at last, when hope seemed
dying out, and even his brave-hearted Ella smiled less cheerfully
than was her wont to do he resolved to try his fortune in the
far-famed home of the weary emigrant. This resolution he communicated
to his wife, who gladly consented to accompany him, for England now
held nothing dear to her save the graves of her parents, and in the
western world she knew she had two sisters, Sarah having some years
before gone with her uncle to New York.
Accordingly the necessary preparations for their voyage were made as
soon as possible, and when the Windermere left the harbor of
Liverpool, they stood upon her deck waving a last adieu to the few
kind friends, who on shore were bidding them "God speed."
Among the passengers was George Moreland, whose parents had died some
months before, leaving him and a large fortune to the guardianship of
his uncle, a wealthy merchant residing in Boston. This uncle, Mr.
Selden, had written for his nephew to join him in America, and it was
for this purpose that George had taken passage in the Windermere. He
was a frank, generous-hearted boy, and though sometimes a little too
much inclined to tease, he was usually a favorite with all who knew
him. He was a passionate admirer of beauty, and the moment the Howards
came on board and he caught a sight of Ella, he felt irresistibly
attracted towards her, and ere long had completely won her heart by
coaxing her into his lap and praising her glossy curls. Mary, whose
sensitive nature shrank from the observation of strangers, and who
felt that one as handsome as George Moreland must necessarily laugh at
her, kept aloof, and successfully eluded all his efforts to look under
her bonnet. This aroused his curiosity, and when he saw her move away
to a distant part of the vessel, he followed her, addressing to her
the remark with which we commenced this chapter. As George had said he
liked little girls, though he greatly preferred talking to pretty
ones. On this occasion, however, he resolved to make himself
agreeable, and in ten minutes' time he had so far succeeded in gaining
Mary's friendship, that she allowed him to untie the blue bonnet,
which he carefully removed, and then when she did not know it, he
scanned her features attentively as if trying to discover all the
beauty there was in them.
At last gently smoothing back her hair, which was really bright and
glossy, he said, "Who told you that you were so ugly looking?" The
tears started to Mary's eyes, and her chin quivered, as she replied,
"Father says so, Ella says so, and every body says so, but mother and
Franky."
"Every body doesn't always tell the truth," said George, wishing to
administer as much comfort as possible. "You've got pretty blue eyes,
nice brown hair, and your forehead, too, is broad and high; now if you
hadn't such a muddy complexion, bony cheeks, little nose, big ears and
awful teeth, you wouldn't be such a fright!"
George's propensity to tease had come upon him, and in enumerating the
defects in Mary's face, he purposely magnified them; but he regretted
it, when he saw the effect his words produced. Hiding her face in her
hands, Mary burst into a passionate fit of weeping, then snatching the
bonnet from George's lap, she threw it on her head and was hurrying
away, when George caught her and pulling her back, said, "Forgive me,
Mary. I couldn't help plaguing you a little, but I'll try and not do
it again."
For a time George kept this resolution, but he could not conceal the
preference which he felt for Ella, whose doll-like face, and childish
ways were far more in keeping with his taste, than Mary's old look and
still older manner. Whenever he noticed her at all, he spoke kindly to
her; but she knew there was a great difference between his treatment
of her and Ella, and oftentimes, when saying her evening prayer she
prayed that George Moreland might love her a little just a little.
Two weeks had passed since the last vestige of land had disappeared
from view, and then George was taken dangerously ill with fever. Mrs.
Howard herself visited him frequently, but she commanded her children
to keep away, lest they, too, should take the disease. For a day or
two Mary obeyed her mother, and then curiosity led her near George's
berth. For several minutes she lingered, and was about turning away
when a low moan fell on her ear and arrested her footsteps. Her
mother's commands were forgotten, and in a moment she stood by
George's bedside. Tenderly she smoothed his tumbled pillow, moistened
his parched lips, and bathed his feverish brow, and when, an hour
afterward, the physician entered, he found his patient calmly
sleeping, with one hand clasped in that of Mary, who with the other
fanned the sick boy with the same blue gingham sun-bonnet, of which he
had once made fun, saying it looked like its owner, "rather
skim-milky."
"Mary! Mary Howard!" said the physician, "this is no place for you,"
and he endeavored to lead her away.
This aroused George, who begged so hard for her to remain, that the
physician went in quest of Mrs. Howard, who rather unwillingly
consented, and Mary was duly installed as nurse in the sick room.
Perfectly delighted with her new vocation, she would sit for hours by
her charge, watching each change in his features and anticipating as
far as possible his wants. She possessed a very sweet, clear voice;
and frequently, when all other means had failed to quiet him, she
would bend her face near his and taking his hands in hers, would sing
to him some simple song of home, until lulled by the soft music he
would fall away to sleep. Such unwearied kindness was not without its
effect upon George, and one day when Mary as usual was sitting near
him, he called her to his side, and taking her face between his hands,
kissed her forehead and lips, saying, "What can I ever do to pay my
little nurse for her kindness?"
Mary hesitated a moment, and then replied, "Love me as well as you do
Ella!"
"As well as I do Ella!" he repeated, "I love you a great deal better.
She has not been to see me once. What is the reason?"
Frank, who a moment before had stolen to Mary's side, answered for
her, saying, "some one had told Ella that if she should have the
fever, her curls would all drop off; and so," said he, "she won't come
near you!"
Just then Mrs. Howard appeared, and this time she was accompanied by
Ella, who clung closely to her mother's skirt, looking cautiously out
from its thick folds. George did not as usual caress her, but he asked
her mockingly, "if her hair had commenced coming out!" while Ella only
answered by grasping at her long curls, as if to assure herself of
their safety.
In a few days George was able to go on deck, and though he still
petted and played with Ella, he never again slighted Mary, or forgot
that she was present. More than once, too, a kind word, or
affectionate look from him, sent such a glow to her cheek and sparkle
to her eye, that Frank, who always loved her best, declared, "she was
as pretty as Ella any day if she'd break herself of putting her hand
to her mouth whenever she saw one looking at her," a habit which she
had acquired from being so frequently told of her uneven teeth.
At last after many weary days at sea, there came the joyful news that
land was in sight; and next morning, when the children awoke, the
motion of the vessel had ceased, and Boston, with its numerous domes
and spires, was before them. Towards noon a pleasant-looking,
middle-aged man came on board, inquiring for George Moreland, and
announcing himself as Mr. Selden. George immediately stepped forward,
and after greeting his uncle, introduced Mr. and Mrs. Howard, speaking
at the same time of their kindness to him during his illness.
All was now confusion, but in the hurry and bustle of going ashore,
George did not forget Mary. Taking her aside, he threw round her neck
a small golden chain, to which was attached a locket containing a
miniature likeness of himself painted a year before.
"Keep it," said he, "to remember me by, or if you get tired of it,
give it to Ella for a plaything."
"I wish I had one for you," said Mary; and George replied, "Never
mind, I can remember your looks without a likeness. I've only to shut
my eyes, and a little forlorn, sallow-faced, old-looking girl, with
crooked teeth--"
He was prevented from finishing his speech by a low cry from Mary,
who, pressing his hands in hers, looked beseechingly in his face, and
said, "Oh, don't, George!--don't talk so."
He had not teased her about her looks for a long time, and now just as
he was leaving her, 'twas more than she could bear. Instantly
regretting his thoughtless words, George took her in his arms, and
wiping away her tears, said, "Forgive me, Mary. I don't know what made
me say so, for I do love you dearly, and always will. You have been
kind to me, and I shall remember it, and some time, perhaps, repay
it." Then putting her down, and bidding adieu to Mr. and Mrs. Howard,
Frank, and Ella, he sprang into his uncle's carriage, and was rapidly
driven away.
Mary looked after him as long as the heads of the white horses were in
sight, and then taking Frank's hand, followed her parents to the
hotel, where for a few days they had determined to stop while Mrs.
Howard made inquiries for her sister.
Meantime, from the richly curtained windows of a large handsome
building a little girl looked out, impatiently waiting her father's
return, wondering why he was gone so long and if she should like her
cousin George, or whether he was a bearish looking fellow, with warty
hands, who would tease her pet kitten and ink the faces of her doll
babies. In the centre of the room the dinner table was standing, and
Ida Selden had twice changed the location of her cousin's plate, once
placing it at her side, and lastly putting it directly in front, so
she could have a fair view of his face.
"Why don't they come?" she had said for the twentieth time, when the
sound of carriage wheels in the yard below made her start up, and
running down stairs, she was soon shaking the hands of her cousin,
whom she decided to be handsome, though she felt puzzled to know
whether her kitten and dolls were in any immediate danger or not!
Placing her arm affectionately around him, she led him into the
parlor, saying, "I am so glad that you have come to live with me and
be my brother. We'll have real nice times, but perhaps you dislike
little girls. Did you ever see one that you loved?"
"Yes, two," was the answer. "My cousin Ida, and one other."
"Oh, who is she?" asked Ida. "Tell me all about her How does she look?
Is she pretty?"
Instantly as George had predicted, there came before his vision the
image of "a forlorn-looking, sallow-faced child," whom he did not care
about describing to Ida. She, however, insisted upon a description,
and that evening when tea was over, the lamps lighted, and Mr. Selden
reading the paper, George told her of Mary, who had watched so kindly
over him during the weary days of his illness. Contrary to his
expectations, she did not laugh at the picture which he drew of Mary's
face, but simply said, "I know I should like her." Then after a
moment's pause, she continued; "They are poor, you say, and Mr. Howard
is a music teacher. Monsieur Dupres has just left me, and who knows
but papa can get Mr. Howard to fill his place."
When the subject was referred to her father, he said that he had liked
the appearance of Mr. Howard, and would if possible find him on the
morrow and engage his services. The next morning Ida awoke with an
uncomfortable impression that something was the matter with the
weather. Raising herself on her elbow, and pushing back the heavy
curtains, she looked out and saw that the sky was dark with angry
clouds, from which the rain was steadily falling,--not in drizzly
showers, but in large round drops, which beat against the casement and
then bounded off upon the pavement below.
All thoughts of Mr. Howard were given up for that day and as every
moment of Mr. Selden's time was employed for several successive ones,
it was nearly a week after George's arrival before any inquiries were
made for the family. The hotel at which they had stopped was then
found, but Mr. Selden was told that the persons whom he was seeking
had left the day before for one of the inland towns, though which one
he could not ascertain.
"I knew 'twould be so," said Ida rather fretfully, "father might have
gone that rainy day as well as not. Now we shall never see nor hear
from them again, and George will be so disappointed." But George's
disappointment was soon forgotten in the pleasures and excitements of
school, and if occasionally thoughts of Mary Howard came over him,
they were generally dispelled by the lively sallies of his sprightly
little cousin, who often declared that "she should be dreadfully
jealous of George's travelling companion, were it not that he was a
great admirer of beauty and that Mary was terribly ugly."
CHAPTER II.
CHICOPEE.
It was the afternoon for the regular meeting of the Ladies Sewing
Society in the little village of Chicopee, and at the usual hour
groups of ladies were seen wending their way towards the stately
mansion of Mrs. Campbell, the wealthiest and proudest lady in town.
Many, who for months had absented themselves from the society, came
this afternoon with the expectation of gaining a look at the costly
marble and rosewood furniture with which Mrs. Campbell's parlors were
said to be adorned. But they were disappointed, for Mrs. Campbell had
no idea of turning a sewing society into her richly furnished
drawing-rooms. The spacious sitting-room, the music-room adjoining,
and the wide cool hall beyond, were thrown open to all, and by three
o'clock they were nearly filled.
At first there was almost perfect silence, broken only by a whisper or
under tone, but gradually the restraint wore way, and the woman near
the door, who had come "because she was a mind to, but didn't expect
to be noticed any way," and who, every time she was addressed, gave a
nervous hitch backward with her chair, had finally hitched herself
into the hall, where with unbending back and pursed up lips she sat,
highly indignant at the ill-concealed mirth of the young girls, who
on the stairs were watching her retrograde movements. The hum of
voices increased, until at last there was a great deal more talking
than working. The Unitarian minister's bride, Lilly Martin's
stepmother, the new clerk at Drury's, Dr. Lay's wife's new hat and its
probable cost, and the city boarders at the hotel, were all duly
discussed, and then for a time there was again silence while Mrs.
Johnson, president of the society, told of the extreme destitution in
which she had that morning found a poor English family, who had moved
into the village two or three years before.
They had managed to earn a comfortable living until the husband and
father suddenly died, since which time the wife's health had been very
rapidly failing, until now she was no longer able to work, but was
wholly dependent for subsistence upon the exertions of her oldest
child Frank, and the charity of the villagers, who sometimes supplied
her with far more than was necessary, and again thoughtlessly
neglected her for many days. Her chief dependence, too, had now failed
her, for the day before the sewing society, Frank had been taken
seriously ill with what threatened to be scarlet fever.
"Dear me," said the elegant Mrs. Campbell, smoothing the folds of her
rich India muslin--"dear me, I did not know that we had such poverty
among us. What will they do?"
"They'll have to go to the poor-house, won't they?"
"To the poor-house!" repeated Mrs. Lincoln, who spent her winters in
Boston, and whose summer residence was in the neighborhood of the
pauper's home, "pray don't send any more low, vicious children to the
poor-house. My Jenny has a perfect passion for them, and it is with
difficulty I can keep her away."
"They are English, I believe," continued Mrs. Campbell. "I do wonder
why so many of those horridly miserable creatures will come to this
country."
"Forgets, mebby, that she's English," muttered the woman at the door;
and Mrs. Johnson added, "It would draw tears from your eyes, to see
that little pale-faced Mary trying to wait upon her mother and
brother, and carrying that sickly baby in her arms so that it may not
disturb them."
"What does Ella do?" asked one, and Mrs. Johnson replied, "She merely
fixes her curls in the broken looking-glass, and cries because she is
hungry."
"She is pretty, I believe?" said Mrs. Campbell, and Rosa Pond, who sat
by the window, and had not spoken before, immediately answered, "Oh,
yes, she is perfectly beautiful; and do you know, Mrs. Campbell, that
when she is dressed clean and nice, I think she looks almost exactly
like your little Ella!"
A haughty frown was Mrs. Campbell's only answer, and Rosa did not
venture another remark, although several whispered to her that they,
too, had frequently observed the strong resemblance between Ella
Howard and Ella Campbell.
From what has been said, the reader will readily understand that the
sick woman in whom Mrs. Johnson was so much interested, was our old
acquaintance Mrs. Howard.
All inquiries for her sisters had been fruitless, and after stopping
for a time in Worcester, they had removed to Chicopee, where recently
Mr. Howard had died. Their only source of maintenance was thus cut
off, and now they were reduced to the utmost poverty. Since we last
saw them a sickly baby had been added to their number. With motherly
care little Mary each day washed and dressed it, and then hour after
hour carried it in her arms, trying to still its feeble moans, which
fell so sadly on the ear of her invalid mother.
It was a small, low building which they inhabited, containing but one
room and a bedroom, which last they had ceased to occupy, for one by
one each article of furniture had been sold, until at last Mrs. Howard
lay upon a rude lounge, which Frank had made from some rough boards.
Until midnight the little fellow toiled, and then when his work was
done crept softly to the cupboard, there lay one slice of bread, the
only article of food which the house contained. Long and wistfully he
looked at it, thinking how good it would taste; but a glance at the
pale faces near decided him. "They need it more than I," said he, and
turning resolutely away, he prayed that he "might sleep pretty soon
and forget how hungry he was."
Day after day he worked on, and though his cheek occasionally flushed
with anger when of his ragged clothes and naked feet the village boys
made fun, he never returned them any answer, but sometimes when alone
the memory of their thoughtless jeers would cause the tears to start,
and then wiping them away, he would wonder if it was wicked to be poor
and ragged. One morning when he attempted to rise, he felt oppressed
with a languor he had never before experienced, and turning on his
trundlebed, and adjusting his blue cotton jacket, his only pillow, he
again slept so soundly that Mary was obliged to call him twice ere she
aroused him.
That night he came home wild with delight,--he had earned a whole
dollar, and knew how he could earn another half dollar to-morrow. "Oh,
I wish it would come quick," said he, as he related his success to his
mother.
But, alas, the morrow found him burning with fever and when he
attempted to stand, he found it impossible to do so. A case of scarlet
fever had appeared in the village and it soon became evident that the
disease had fastened upon Frank. The morning following the sewing
society Ella Campbell and several other children showed symptoms of
the same disease, and in the season of general sickness which
followed, few were left to care for the poor widow. Daily little Frank
grew worse. The dollar he had earned was gone, the basket of
provisions Mrs. Johnson had sent was gone, and when for milk the baby
Alice cried, there was none to give her.
At last Frank, pulling the old blue jacket from under his head, and
passing it to Mary, said, "Take it to Bill Bender,--he offered me a
shilling for it, and a shilling will buy milk for Allie and crackers
for mother,--take it."
"No, Franky," answered Mary, "you would have no pillow, besides, I've
got something more valuable, which I can sell. I've kept it long, but
it must go to keep us from starving;"--and she held to view the golden
locket, which George Moreland had thrown around her neck.
"You shan't sell that," said Frank. "You must keep it to remember
George, and then, too, you may want it more some other time."
Mary finally yielded the point, and gathering up the crumpled jacket,
started in quest of Billy Bender. He was a kind-hearted boy, two years
older than Frank, whom he had often befriended, and shielded from the
jeers of their companions. He did not want the jacket, for it was a
vast deal too small; and it was only in reply to a proposal from Frank
that he should buy it that he had casually offered him a shilling. But
now, when he saw the garment, and learned why it was sent he
immediately drew from his old leather wallet a quarter, all the money
he had in the world and giving it to Mary bade her keep it, as she
would need it all.
Half an hour after a cooling orange was held to Frank's parched lips,
and Mary said, "Drink it, brother, I've got two more, besides some
milk and bread," but the ear she addressed was deaf and the eye dim
with the fast falling shadow of death. "Mother, mother!" cried the
little girl, "Franky won't drink and his forehead is all sweat. Can't
I hold you up while you come to him?"
Mrs. Howard had been much worse that day, but she did not need the
support of those feeble arms. She felt, rather than saw that her
darling boy was dying, and agony made her strong. Springing to his
side she wiped from his brow the cold moisture which had so alarmed
her daughter chafed his hands and feet, and bathed his head, until he
seemed better and fell asleep.
"Now, if the doctor would only come," said Mary; but the doctor was
hurrying from house to house, for more than one that night lay dying
in Chicopee. But on no hearthstone fell the gloom of death so darkly
as upon that low, brown house, where a trembling woman and a frail
young child watched and wept over the dying Frank. Fast the shades of
night came on, and when all was dark in the sick room, Mary sobbed
out, "We have no candle, mother, and if I go for one, and he should
die--"
The sound of her voice aroused Frank, and feeling for his sister's
hand, he said, "Don't go, Mary:--don't leave me,--the moon is shining
bright, and I guess I can find my way to God just as well."
Nine;--ten;--eleven;--and then through the dingy windows the silvery
moonlight fell, as if indeed to light the way of the early lost to
heaven. Mary had drawn her mother's lounge to the side of the
trundlebed, and in a state of almost perfect exhaustion, Mrs. Howard
lay gasping for breath while Mary, as if conscious of the dread
reality about to occur, knelt by her side, occasionally caressing her
pale cheek and asking if she were better. Once Mrs. Howard laid her
hands on Mary's head, and prayed that she might be preserved and kept
from harm by the God of the orphan, and that the sin of disobedience
resting upon her own head might not be visited upon her child.
After a time a troubled sleep came upon her, and she slept, until
roused by a low sob. Raising herself up, she looked anxiously towards
her children. The moonbeams fell full upon the white, placid face of
Frank, who seemed calmly sleeping, while over him Mary bent, pushing
back from his forehead the thick, clustering curls, and striving hard
to smother her sobs, so they might not disturb her mother.
"Does he sleep?" asked Mrs. Howard, and Mary, covering with her hands
the face of him who slept, answered, "Turn away, mother;--don't look
at him. Franky is dead. He died with his arms around my neck, and told
me not to wake you."
Mrs. Howard was in the last stages of consumption, and now after
weeping over her only boy until her tears seemed dried, she lay back
half fainting upon her pillow. Towards daylight a violent coughing fit
ensued, during which an ulcer was broken, and she knew that she was
dying. Beckoning Mary to her side, she whispered, "I am leaving you
alone, in the wide world. Be kind to Ella, and our dear little Allie,
and go with her where she goes. May God keep and bless my precious
children,--and reward you as you deserve, my darling--"
The sentence was unfinished, and in unspeakable awe the orphan girl
knelt between her mother and brother, shuddering in the presence of
death, and then weeping to think she was alone.
CHAPTER III.
BILLY BENDER.
Just on the corner of Chicopee Common, and under the shadow of the
century-old elms which skirt the borders of the grass plat called by
the villagers the "Mall," stands the small red cottage of widow
Bender, who in her way was quite a curiosity. All the "ills which
flesh is heir to," seemed by some strange fatality to fall upon her,
and never did a new disease appear in any quarter of the globe, which
widow Bender, if by any means she could ascertain the symptoms, was
not sure to have it in its most aggravated form.
On the morning following the events narrated in the last chapter,
Billy, whose dreams had been disturbed by thoughts of Frank, arose
early, determined to call at Mrs. Howard's, and see if they were in
want of any thing. But his mother, who had heard rumors of the scarlet
fever, was up before him, and on descending to the kitchen, which with
all her sickness Mrs. Bender kept in perfect order, Billy found her
sitting before a blazing fire,--her feet in hot water, and her head
thrown back in a manner plainly showing that something new had taken
hold of her in good earnest. Billy was accustomed to her freaks, and
not feeling at all frightened, stepped briskly forward, saying,
"Well, mother, what's the matter now? Got a cramp in your foot, or
what?"
"Oh, William," said she, "I've lived through a sight but my time has
come at last. Such a pain in my head and stomach. I do believe I've
got the scarlet fever, and you must run for the doctor quick."
"Scarlet fever!" repeated Billy, "why, you've had it once, and you
can't have it again, can you?"
"Oh, I don't know,--I never was like anybody else, and can have any
thing a dozen times. Now be spry and fetch the doctor but before you
go, hand me my snuff-box and put the canister top heapin' full of tea
into the tea-pot."
Billy obeyed, and then, knowing that the green tea would remove his
mother's ailment quite as soon as the physician, he hurried away
towards Mrs. Howard's. The sun was just rising, and its red rays
looked in at the window, through which the moonlight had shone the
night before. Beneath the window a single rose-tree was blooming, and
on it a robin was pouring out its morning song. Within the cottage
there was no sound or token of life, and thinking its inmates were
asleep, Billy paused several minutes upon the threshold, fearing that
he should disturb their slumbers. At last with a vague presentiment
that all was not right, he raised the latch and entered, but instantly
started back in astonishment at the scene before him. On the little
trundlebed lay Frank, cold and dead, and near him in the same long
dreamless sleep was his mother, while between them, with one arm
thrown lovingly across her brother's neck, and her cheek pressed
against his, lay Mary--her eyelids moist with the tears which, though
sleeping she still shed. On the other side of Frank and nestled so
closely to him that her warm breath lifted the brown curls from his
brow, was Ella. But there were no tear stains on her face, for she
did not yet know how bereaved she was.
For a moment Billy stood irresolute, and then as Mary moved uneasily
in her slumbers, he advanced a step or two towards her. The noise
aroused her, and instantly remembering and comprehending the whole,
she threw herself with a bitter cry into Billy's extended arms, as if
he alone were all the protector she now had in the wide, wide world.
Ere long Ella too awoke, and the noisy outburst which followed the
knowledge of her loss, made Mary still the agony of her own heart in
order to soothe the more violent grief of her excitable sister.
There was a stir in the cradle, and with a faint cry the baby Alice
awoke and stretched her hands towards Mary who, with all a mother's
care took the child upon her lap and fed her from the milk which was
still standing in the broken pitcher. With a baby's playfulness Alice
dipped her small fingers into the milk, and shaking them in her
sister's face, laughed aloud as the white drops fell upon her hair.
This was too much for poor Mary, and folding the child closer to her
bosom she sobbed passionately.
"Oh, Allie, dear little Allie, what will you do? What shall we all do?
Mother's dead, mother's dead!"
Ella was not accustomed to see her sister thus moved, and her tears
now flowed faster while she entreated Mary to stop. "Don't do so,
Mary," she said. "Don't do so. You make me cry harder. Tell her to
stop, Billy. Tell her to stop."
But Billy's tears were flowing too, and he could only answer the
little girl by affectionately smoothing her tangled curls, which for
once in her life she had forgotten to arrange At length rising up, he
said to Mary, "Something must be done. The villagers must know of it,
and I shall have to leave you alone while I tell them."
In half an hour from that time the cottage was nearly filled with
people, some of whom came out of idle curiosity, and after seeing all
that was to be seen, started for home, telling the first woman who put
her head out the chamber window for particulars, that "'twas a
dreadful thing, and such a pity, too, that Ella should have to go to
the poor-house, with her pretty face and handsome curls."
But there were others who went there for the sake of comforting the
orphans and attending to the dead, and by noon the bodies were
decently arranged for burial. Mrs. Johnson's Irish girl Margaret was
cleaning the room, and in the bedroom adjoining, Mrs. Johnson herself,
with two or three other ladies, were busily at work upon some plain,
neat shrouds, and as they worked they talked of the orphan children
who were now left friendless.
"There will be no trouble," said one, "in finding a place for Ella,
she is so bright and handsome, but as for Mary, I am afraid she'll
have to go to the poor-house."
"Were I in a condition to take either," replied Mrs. Johnson, "I
should prefer Mary to her sister, for in my estimation she is much the
best girl; but there is the baby, who must go wherever Mary does,
unless she can be persuaded to leave her."
Before any one could reply to this remark, Mary, who had overheard
every word, came forward, and laying her face on Mrs. Johnson's lap,
sobbed out, "Let me go with Alice, I told mother I would."
Billy Bender, who all this while had been standing by the door, now
gave a peculiar whistle, which with him was ominous of some new idea,
and turning on his heel started for home, never once thinking, until
he reached it, that his mother more than six hours before had sent him
in great haste for the physician. On entering the house, he found her,
as we expected, rolled up in bed, apparently in the last stage of
scarlet fever; but before she could reproach him, he said "Mother,
have you heard the news?"
Mrs. Bender had a particular love for news, and now for getting "how
near to death's door" she had been, she eagerly demanded, "What news?
What has happened?"
When Billy told her of the sudden death of Mrs. Howard and Frank, an
expression of "What? That all?" passed over her face, and she said,
"Dear me, and so the poor critter's gone? Hand me my snuff, Billy.
Both died last night, did they? Hain't you nothin' else to tell?"
"Yes, Mary Judson and Ella Campbell, too, are dead."
Mrs. Bender, who like many others, courted the favor of the wealthy,
and tried to fancy herself on intimate terms with them, no sooner
heard of Mrs. Campbell's affliction, than her own dangerous symptoms
were forgotten, and springing up she exclaimed, "Ella Campbell dead!
What'll her mother do? I must go to her right away. Hand me my double
gown there in the closet, and give me my lace cap in the lower draw,
and mind you have the tea-kettle biled agin I get back."
"But, mother," said Billy, as he prepared to obey her, "Mrs. Campbell
is rich, and there are enough who will pity her. If you go any where,
suppose you stop at Mrs. Howard's, and comfort poor Mary, who cries
all the time because she and Alice have got to go to the poor-house."
"Of course they'll go there, and they orto be thankful they've got so
good a place--Get away.--That ain't my double gown;--that's a cloak.
Don't you know a cloak from a double gown?"
"Yes, yes," said Billy, whose mind was not upon his mother's
toilet--"but," he continued, "I want to ask you, can't we,--couldn't
you take them for a few days, and perhaps something may turn up."
"William Bender," said the highly astonished lady what can you mean? A
poor sick woman like me, with one foot in the grave, take the charge
of three pauper children! I shan't do it, and you needn't think of
it."
"But, mother," persisted Billy, who could generally coax her to do as
he liked, "it's only for a few days, and they'll not be much trouble
or expense, for I'll work enough harder to make it up."
"I have said _no_ once, William Bender, and when _I_ say no, I mean
no," was the answer.
Billy knew she would be less decided the next time the subject was
broached, so for the present, he dropped it, and taking his cap he
returned to Mrs. Howard's, while his mother started for Mrs.
Campbell's.
Next morning between the hours of nine and ten, the tolling bell sent
forth its sad summons, and ere long a few of the villagers were moving
towards the brown cottage, where in the same plain coffin slept the
mother and her only boy. Near them sat Ella, occasionally looking with
childish curiosity at the strangers around her, or leaning forward to
peep at the tips of the new morocco shoes which Mrs. Johnson had
kindly given her; then, when her eye fell upon the coffin, she would
burst into such an agony of weeping that many of the villagers also
wept in sympathy, and as they stroked her soft hair, thought, "how
much more she loved her mother than did Mary," who, without a tear
upon her cheek, sat there immovable, gazing fixedly upon the marble
face of her mother. Alice was not present, for Billy had not only
succeeded in winning his mother's consent to take the children for a
few days, but he had also coaxed her to say that Alice might come
before the funeral, on condition that he would remain at home and
take care of her. This he did willingly, for Alice, who had been
accustomed to see him would now go to no one else except Mary.
Billy was rather awkward at baby tending, but by dint of emptying his
mother's cupboard, blowing a tin horn, rattling a pewter platter with
an iron spoon, and whistling Yankee Doodle, he managed to keep her
tolerably quiet until he saw the humble procession approaching the
house. Then, hurrying with his little charge to the open window, he
looked out. Side by side walked Mary and Ella, and as Alice's eyes
fell upon the former, she uttered a cry of joy, and almost sprang from
Billy's arms. But Mary could not come; and for the next half hour Mrs.
Bender corked her ears with cotton, while Billy, half distracted,
walked the floor, singing at the top of his voice every tune he had
ever heard, from "Easter Anthem" down to "the baby whose father had
gone a hunting," and for whom the baby in question did not care two
straws.
Meantime the bodies were about to be lowered into the newly made
grave, when Mrs. Johnson felt her dress nervously grasped, and looking
down she saw Mary's thin, white face uplifted towards hers with so
earnest an expression, that she gently laid her hand upon her head,
and said, "What is it, dear?"
"Oh, if I can,--if they only would let me look at them once more. I
couldn't see them at the house, my eyes were so dark."
Mrs. Johnson immediately communicated Mary's request to the sexton,
who rather unwillingly opened the coffin lid. The road over which they
had come, was rough and stony and the jolt had disturbed the position
of Frank, who no lay partly upon his mother's shoulder, with his cheek
resting against hers. Tenderly Mary laid him back upon his own
pillow, and then kneeling down and burying her face in her mother's
bosom, she for a time remained perfectly silent, although the
quivering of her frame plainly told the anguish of that parting. At
length Mrs. Johnson gently whispered "Come, darling, you must come
away now;" but Mary did not move; and when at last they lifted her up,
they saw that she had fainted. In a few moments she recovered, and
with her arms across her sister's neck, stood by until the wide grave
was filled, and the bystanders were moving away.
As they walked homeward together, two women, who had been present at
the funeral, discussed the matter as follows:--
"They took it hard, poor things, particularly the oldest."
"Yes, though I didn't think she cared as much as t'other one, until
she fainted, but it's no wonder, for she's old enough to dread the
poor-house. Did you say they were staying at widder Bender's?"
"Yes, and how in this world widder Bender, as poor as she pretends to
be, can afford to do it, is more than I can tell."
"Are you going to the other funeral this afternoon?"
"I guess I am. I wouldn't miss it for a good deal. Why as true as you
live, I have never set my foot in Mrs. Campbell's house yet, and know
no more what is in it than the dead."
"Well, I do, for my girl Nancy Ray used to live there, and she's told
me sights. She says they've got a big looking-glass that cost three
hundred dollars."
"So I've heard, and I s'pose there'll be great doin's this afternoon.
The coffin, they say, came from Worcester, and cost fifty dollars."
"Now, that's what I call wicked. Sposin' her money did come from
England, she needn't spend it so foolishly; but then money didn't save
Ella's life, and they say her mother's done nothing but screech and
go on like a mad woman since she died. You'll go early, won't you?"
"Yes, I mean to be there in season to get into the parlor if I can."
And now, having reached the corner, where their path diverged, with a
mutual "good day" they parted.
CHAPTER IV.
ELLA CAMPBELL.
Scarcely three hours had passed since the dark, moist earth was heaped
upon the humble grave of the widow and her son, when again, over the
village of Chicopee floated the notes of the tolling bell, and
immediately crowds of persons with seemingly eager haste, hurried
towards the Campbell mansion, which was soon nearly filled. Among the
first arrivals were our acquaintances of the last chapter, who were
fortunate enough to secure a position near the drawing-room, which
contained the "big looking-glass."
On a marble table in the same room, lay the handsome coffin, and in it
slept young Ella. Gracefully her small waxen hands were folded one
over the other, while white, half-opened rose buds were wreathed among
the curls of her hair, which fell over her neck and shoulders, and
covered the purple spots, which the disease had left upon her flesh.
"She is too beautiful to die, and the only child too," thought more
than one, as they looked first at the sleeping clay and then at the
stricken mother, who, draped in deepest black, sobbed convulsively and
leaned for support upon the arm of the sofa. What now to her were
wealth and station? What did she care for the elegance which had so
often excited the envy of her neighbors? That little coffin, which had
cost so many dollars and caused so much remark, contained what to her
was far dearer than all. And yet she was not one half so desolate as
was the orphan Mary, who in Mrs. Bender's kitchen sat weeping over her
sister Alice, and striving to form words of prayer which should reach
the God of the fatherless.
But few of the villagers thought of her this afternoon. Their
sympathies were all with Mrs. Campbell; and when at the close of the
services she approached to take a last look of her darling, they
closed around her with exclamations of grief and tears of pity, though
even then some did not fail to note and afterwards comment upon the
great length of her costly veil, and the width of its hem! It was a
long procession which followed Ella Campbell to the grave, and with
bowed heads and hats uplifted, the spectators stood by while the
coffin was lowered to the earth; and then, as the Campbell carriage
drove slowly away, they dispersed to their homes, speaking, it may be,
more tenderly to their own little ones, and shuddering to think how
easily it might have been themselves who were bereaved.
Dark and dreary was the house to which Mrs. Campbell returned. On the
stairs there was no patter of childish feet. In the halls there was no
sound of a merry voice, and on her bosom rested no little golden head,
for the weeping mother was childless. Close the shutters and drop the
rich damask curtains, so that no ray of sunlight, or fragrance of
summer flowers may find entrance there to mock her grief. In all
Chicopee was there a heart so crushed and bleeding as hers? Yes, on
the grass-plat at the foot of Mrs. Bender's garden an orphan girl was
pouring out her sorrow in tears which almost blistered her eyelids as
they fell.
Alice at last was sleeping, and Mary had come out to weep alone where