Rose Clark Part 3

Twice a day they were walked in file round the paved yard, through which not a blade of gra.s.s dared struggle; walled in from the little children outside, whose merry laughs and shouts startled the little prisoners as if _those_ tones were unnatural, and only _their_ listless life real. As evening came on, they sat drowsily stooping over their tasks, or clicking the monotonous knitting-needle, till weary lids _would_ droop, and tired fingers resumed their task only at the rap from Markham's ferule.

Rose saw it all now--she felt it--the torpor--gradually creeping over her, and numbing her senses; she ceased to talk about her mother. She did mechanically what she was bid; and, in the approving words of Markham, was

"Quite a subdued child."

At stated times, the committee came in to look at them, and remarked how inevitably children of the lower cla.s.ses inherited poor const.i.tutions from their depraved parents, and went away as satisfied as if, granting this to be the case, they were humanely endeavoring to remedy the inherited curse; as if they were not keeping those growing limbs in overstrained positions for hours, and depriving them of the blessed air and sunshine, which G.o.d intended childhood to revel in as freely as the birds and flowers.

CHAPTER IV.

"Well, what did you see in the city, Dolly?" asked a village gossip of the village milliner.

"What are the summer fashions? Any thing new? Flounces worn, I suppose?

Always will be, for tall people, they are so becoming. Mantillas worn, or shawls? Do they trim bonnets with flowers or ribbons? Do they wear heels on the shoes or tread spat down on the pavement? What is there new for sleeves? I am going to have a ninepenny calico made up, and I want to know all about every thing."

"I hadn't as much time to look round as I wanted, not by half," answered Dolly, "for the stores are full of splendid goods. I had to put that child of Maria's into the orphan asylum. People began to talk because I didn't look after it. I am sure I can't support it, at least not till it is big enough to pay, by helping me in the shop here. People always die just at the wrong time. If Maria had only waited a year or two, now, till that young one had grown bigger; and if she had brought her up to be good for any thing (she is a little shy kind of a whimpering thing, no more life in her then a stick); but I don't intend her living shall come out of me. I have worked hard for what money I have, and I know how to keep it. She shall stay at that asylum till she is big enough to help me, as I said before, and then she must work enough here to pay for her bread and b.u.t.ter."

"That's it," said Miss Kip. "People who can't live to take care of children have no business to have them, that is my creed. Was your sister like you, Dolly?"

"No; I guess she wasn't. She was after every book she could find, before she could speak plain, and when she got hold of one, you might fire off a pistol in the room, and she wouldn't hear it. She crammed her head inside, and I crammed mine outside," said Dolly, laughing; "for I had a real milliner's knack before I left off pantalettes. Why, you never saw any thing like our Maria. She went and sold the only silk gown she had to buy a grammar and dictionary, to learn what she acknowledged was a dead language."

"What a fool!" exclaimed Miss Kip.

"Of course," said Dolly; "letting alone the gown, which was bran new, what was the use of her learning a language that was dead and out of fashion? Well, there was a Professor Clark, who used to come to see her, and you ought to have heard the heathenish noises they made with that 'dead language,' as they called it; it was perfectly ridikilis. He said Maria was an extraordinary girl! as if that was any news, when every body knew she never did any thing like other folks. Why, she'd pretend she saw bears, and dippers, and ple--pleasure-rides, I believe she called them, up among the stars."

"What a fool!" exclaimed Kip, again.

"Yes; and she said the earth was round and hollow, just as if any of us could live in safety, hanging on the outside of an egg-sh.e.l.l, and _it_ turning round all the time, too--it was ridikilis!

"Well, Professor Clark married her, and their house was fixed up with books, and pictures, and every thing of that sort which Maria liked. I never went to see them, for they never talked about any thing that interested me. Maria didn't care a penny whether her bonnet was an old or a new one, so long as it was clean and whole. She had no eyes nor ears for any thing but her books and her husband, till that child was born, and then she acted just so about that. When it was five years old, its father died, and then nothing would do but Maria must go after him, as if there was n.o.body in the world worth looking at but Professor Clark. She might have got married again, and then I should not have had that child to look after. I know she will turn out just like her mother.

She looks just like her, and has all her superfine, good-for-nothing lady ways already.

--"No, I did not have any time at all to look after the fashions in the city. The things there are enough to drive you distracted. Such beautiful big plaid and striped silks; such gay tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, and bright shawls. I declare every thing looks so homely here in this village, when I come back, that I am perfectly disgusted. Those old poke bonnets of the Cramm girls, trimmed with that pink ribbon they have worn two seasons, and Mrs. Munroe's rusty-looking black mantilla--it is perfectly disgusting."

"So it is," said the sympathizing Kip, "I am tired to death of them, myself. I really wonder, Dolly, you can make up your mind to stay here in this dull place. Why don't you move into the city?"

"Perhaps, I shall, one of these days," said Dolly, with a toss of her head. "I feel as though I was born to better things. It is dull work for a woman to live all her life alone."

"I know it," said Kip, disconsolately.

"There are men enough in the world, no doubt of that," said Dolly, "and when I go about with them, in the city, I quite enjoy it; but one sees nothing here, except frogs and crickets; it is perfectly disgusting."

"So it is," chimed Kip; "and such splendid moonlight-nights as we have, too, and such nice places to walk."

"Yes, but to walk with a _woman_!" said Dolly. "I like you very well, Kip; but when one _has_ had gentlemen's society, it is like swallowing the parings, after having eaten the peach."

"So it is," said Kip (quite willing in such a cause to be tossed unceremoniously among the parings).

"Well, it is just here," said Dolly, "I will own it to _you_, Kip, I mean to get married!"

"You don't!" screamed Kip; "to whom?"

"Lord knows, I don't, but I feel sure I shall do it."

"How?" asked Kip, with great interest.

"Never you mind," said Dolly; "see if I don't live in the city before long. Such times as they have there! Theaters, concerts, shows, b.a.l.l.s, and every body so pleased with every body; such a delightful noise and bustle and racket. And just look round this village! You might hear the town clock tick; it is perfectly disgusting. There is not a man in it, of any account, but Sprigg's the blacksmith, and he has but one foot; sometimes I want to scream."

"So do I," said Kip.

CHAPTER V.

Mrs. Markham sat in her private parlor, comfortably sipping her tea.

Whatever might be said of the children's bill of fare, there was nothing meager about hers. No Chinaman's tongue was ever a safer tea detector than Markham's. No spurious mixture found a place in her tea-caddy; no water-pot was allowed to wash away its strength when made. The warm biscuit were as fragrant as the tea, and the b.u.t.ter might have won the prize at any agricultural fair. The room too, in which the tea-table was spread, had every appliance for the consolation of a single woman.

Comfortably plump sofas and chairs, a looking-gla.s.s, selected for its peculiar faculty of adding breadth to an unnecessarily elongated face; a handsome, well-filled bottle of Cologne, another of Bay Water, and a work-box, with all sorts of industrial appendages, the gift of Mr.

Balch. Then, for the look of the thing, a few books, newspapers, pamphlets, etc., for Mrs. Markham never read; partly because she had a surfeit in the book line in the school-room, but princ.i.p.ally, because publishers and editors had a sad way of making their types so indistinct now-a-days; or in other words, Markham had a strong aversion to spectacles.

There were no pictures or flowers in the room, because the former "marked the walls," and the latter "kept dropping their leaves on the carpet;" but there were two smart, gilt candelabras on the mantle, and a small clock between them, and an hour gla.s.s, and a stuffed owl. There was also a light kid glove, which always lay there, because it served for a text for Mr. Balch's little complimentary speeches about hands and hearts, and pairs, etc. Mrs. Markham was always _going_ to put it away, but somehow she never did so.

"Ah, Timmins, is that you? come in. Is Tibbs any better," asked Mrs.

Markham, comfortably sipping her tea.

"No ma'm, she's awful; her wrists look as if they would snap in two; and her neck looks so slender; and her head so big. Oh, she's a sight, ma'am."

"Pooh, you are always sight-seeing, Timmins; the child always had a miserable const.i.tution. As the committee say, it is not much use to try to rear these children; the seeds of disease are in them."

"Well, Tibbs is going fast enough, that's certain. She's mostly stupid-like, but now and then she smiles and reaches out her arms, for all the world as if she saw the angels, and wanted them to come and take her."

"What nonsense, Timmins. Hand me that toast. Just as if a pauper-child would have such notions."

"Well, ma'am, if you only would stay long enough by the child, you'd see it; it is awful to watch with her all alone."

"Afraid of a sick child," said Mrs. Markham, pouring out another cup of hyson.

"No, not the child exactly--Tibbs is a good little thing; but the sperrets, about the room. I do believe," said Timmins, solemnly, "that sperrets are all round these childern. You don't see things as I do, Mrs. Markham."

"I hope I don't," answered that lady, laughing, as she pushed back her empty cup. "A pretty matron I should make, filled with such fanciful whims; and a great while the committee would keep me."

"Perhaps so," answered Timmins. "Sometimes I think--"

"What?" asked Markham.