The English Orphans Part 12

The next day was the funeral. At first there was some talk of burying the child in the same inclosure with Patsy; but Mary plead so earnestly to have her laid by her mother, that her request was granted, and that night when the young spring moon came out, it looked quietly down upon the grave of little Alice, who by her mother's side was sweetly sleeping.

CHAPTER XII.

A NEW FRIEND.

Three weeks had pa.s.sed away since Alice's death, and affairs at the poor-house were beginning to glide on as usual. Sal Furbush, having satisfied her own ideas of propriety by remaining secluded for two or three days, had once more appeared in society; but now that Alice was no longer there to be watched, time hung wearily upon her hands, and she was again seized with her old desire for authorship. Accordingly, a grammar was commenced, which she said would contain Nine Hundred and Ninety Nine rules for speaking the English language correctly!

Mary, who had resumed her post as dish washer in the kitchen, was almost daily expecting Jenny; and one day when Billy came in to dinner, he gave her the joyful intelligence that Jenny had returned, and had been in the field to see him, bidding him tell Mary to meet her that afternoon in the woods by the brook.

"Oh, I do hope Miss Grundy will let me go," said Mary, "and I guess she will, for since Allie died, she hasn't been near so cross."

"If she don't, I will," answered Mr. Parker, who chanced to be standing near, and who had learned to regard the little orphan girl with more than usual interest.

But Miss Grundy made no objections, and when the last dishcloth was wrung dry, and the last iron spoon put in its place, Mary bounded joyfully away to the woods, where she found Jenny, who embraced her in a manner which showed that she had not been forgotten.

"Oh," said she, "I've got so much to tell you, and so much to hear, though I know all about dear little Allie' death,--didn't you feel dreadfully?"

Mary's tears were a sufficient answer, and Jenny, as if suddenly discovering something new, exclaimed, "Why, what have you been doing?

Who pulled your teeth?"

Mary explained the circ.u.mstance of the tooth-pulling, and Jenny continued: "You look a great deal better, and if your cheeks were only a little fatter and your skin not quite so yellow, you'd be real handsome; but no matter about that. I saw George Moreland in Boston, and I wanted to tell him about you, but I'd promised not to; and then at first I felt afraid of him, for you can't think what a great big fellow he's got to be. Why, he's awful tall! and handsome, too. Rose likes him, and so do lots of the girls, but I don't believe he cares a bit for any of them except his cousin Ida, and I guess he does like her;--any way, he looks at her as though he did."

Mary wondered _how_ he looked at her, and would perhaps have asked, had she not been prevented by the sudden appearance of Henry Lincoln, who directly in front of her leaped across the brook. He was evidently not much improved in his manners, for the moment he was safely landed on terra firma, he approached her, and seizing her round the waist, exclaimed, "Hallo, little pauper! You're glad to see me back, I dare say."

Then drawing her head over so that he could look into her face, he continued, "Had your tusks out, haven't you! Well, it's quite an improvement, so much so that I'll venture to kiss you."

Mary struggled, and Jenny scolded, while Henry said "Don't kick and flounce so, my little beauty. If there's any thing I hate, it's seeing girls make believe they're modest. That clodhopper Bill kisses you every day, I'll war rant."

Here Jenny's wrath exploded; and going up to her brother, she attempted to pull him away, until bethinking her of the brook, she commenced sprinkling him with water, but observing that more of it fell upon Mary than her brother, she desisted, while Henry, having accomplished his purpose, began spitting and making wry faces, a.s.suring Mary that "she needn't be afraid of his ever troubling her again, for her lips were musty, and tasted of the poor-house!"

Meanwhile Ta.s.so, who had become a great favorite with Mary, and who, on this occasion, had accompanied her to the woods, was standing on the other side of the brook, eyeing Henry's movements, and apparently trying to make up his mind whether his interference was necessary or not. A low growl showed that he was evidently deciding the matter, when Henry desisted, and walked leisurely off.

Erelong, however, he returned, and called out, "See, girls, I've got an elegant necklace for you."

Looking up, they saw him advancing towards them, with a small water snake, which he held in his hand; and, readily divining his purpose, they started and ran, while he pursued them, threatening to wind the snake around the neck of the first one he caught. Jenny, who was too chubby to be very swift-footed, took refuge behind a clump of alder bushes but Mary kept on, and just as she reached a point where the brook turned, Henry overtook her, and would perhaps have carried his threat into execution, had not help arrived from an unexpected quarter. Ta.s.so, who had watched, and felt sure that this time all was not right, suddenly pounced upon Henry, throwing him down, and then planting himself upon his prostrate form, in such a manner that he dared not move.

"Oh, good, good," said Jenny, coming out from her concealment; "make Ta.s.so keep him there ever so long; and," she continued, patting the dog, "if you won't hurt him much, you may shake him just a little."

"No, no," said Henry, writhing with fear, "call him off, do call him off. Oh, mercy!" he added, as Ta.s.so, who did not particularly care to have the case reasoned, showed two rows of very white teeth.

Mary could not help laughing at the figure which Henry cut; but thinking him sufficiently punished, she called off the dog, who obeyed rather unwillingly, and ever after manifested his dislike to Henry by growling angrily whenever he appeared.

One morning about two weeks afterwards, Mary was in the meadow gathering cowslips for dinner, when she heard some one calling her name; and looking up, she saw Jenny hurrying towards her, her sun-bonnet hanging down her back as usual, and her cheeks flushed with violent exercise. As soon as she came up, she began with, "Oh my, ain't I hot and tired, and I can't stay a minute either, for I run away. But I had such good news to tell you, that I would come. You are going to have a great deal better home than this. You know where Rice Corner is, the district over east?"

Mary replied that she did, and Jenny continued: "We all went over there yesterday to see Mrs. Mason. She's a real nice lady, who used to live in Boston, and be intimate with ma, until three or four years ago, when Mr. Mason died. We didn't go there any more then, and I asked Rose what the reason was, and she said Mrs. Mason was poor now, and ma had 'cut her;' and when I asked her what she _cut_ her with, she only laughed, and said she believed I didn't know any thing. But since then I've learned what it means."

"What does it?" asked Mary, and Jenny replied: "If a person dies and leaves no money, no matter how good his folks are, or how much you like them, you mustn't know them when you meet them in the street, or you must cross over the other side if you see them coming; and then when ladies call and speak about them, you must draw a great long breath, and wonder 'how the poor thing will get along, she was so dreadful extravagant.' I positively heard mother say those very words about Mrs. Mason; and what is so funny, the washwoman the same day spoke of her, and cried when she told how kind she was, and how she would go without things herself for the sake of giving to the poor.

It's queer, isn't it?"

Ah, Jenny, Jenny, you've much of life yet to learn!

After a moment's pause, Jenny proceeded: "This Mrs. Mason came into the country, and bought the prettiest little cottage you ever saw. She has lots of nice fruit, and for all mother pretends in Boston that she don't visit her, just as soon as the fruit is ripe, she always goes there. Pa says it's real mean, and he should think Mrs. Mason would see through it."

"Did you go there for fruit yesterday?" asked Mary.

"Oh, no," returned Jenny. "Mother said she was tired to death with staying at home. Besides that, she heard something in Boston about a large estate in England, which possibly would fall to Mrs. Mason, and she thought it would be real kind to go and tell her. Mrs. Mason has poor health, and while we were there, she asked mother if she knew of any good little girl she could get to come and live with her; 'one,'

she said, 'who could be quiet when her head ached, and who would read to her and wait on her at other times.' Mother said she did not know of any; but when Mrs. Mason went out to get tea, I followed and told her of you, and the tears came into her eyes when I said your folks were all dead, and you were alone and sorry. She said right off that she would come round and see you soon, and if she liked you, you should live with her. But I must run back, for I suppose you know mother brought our governess with us, and it's time I was turning my toes out and my elbows in. Ugh! how I do hate such works. If I ever have a house, there shan't be a fashionable thing about it. I'll have it full of cats, dogs, and poor children, with a swing and a '_teater_' in every room, and Billy Bender shall live with me, and drive the horses!"

So saying, she ran off; and Mary, having gathered her cowslips, sat down to think of Mrs. Mason, and wonder if she should ever see her.

Since Alice's death she had been in the daily habit of learning a short lesson, which she recited to Sally, and this afternoon, when the dishes were all washed, she had as usual stolen away to her books. She had not been long occupied, ere Rind called her, saying Mr. Knight, who, it will be remembered, had brought her to the poor-house, was down stairs and wanted to see her, and that there was a lady with him, too.

Mary readily guessed that the lady must be Mrs. Mason and carefully brushing her hair, and tying on a clean ap.r.o.n, she descended to the kitchen, where she was met by Mr. Knight, who called out, "Hallo, my child, how do you do? 'Pears to me you've grown handsome. It agrees with you to live here I reckon, but I'll venture you'll be glad enough to leave, and go and live with her, won't you?" pointing towards a lady, who was just coming from Mrs. Parker's room, and towards whom Mary's heart instantly warmed.

"You see," continued Mr. Knight, "one of the Lincoln girls has taken a mighty shine to you, and it's queer, too, for they're dreadful stuck-up folks."

"If you please, sir," said Mary, interrupting him, "Jenny isn't a bit stuck up."

"Umph!" returned Mr. Knight. "She don't belong to the Lincoln race then, I guess. I know them, root and branch. Lincoln's wife used to work in the factory at Southbridge, but she's forgot all about that, and holds her head dreadful high whenever she sees me. But that's neither here nor there. This woman wants you to live with her. Miss Mason, this is Mary. Mary, this is Miss Mason."

The introduction being thus happily over, Mrs. Mason proceeded to ask Mary a variety of questions, and ended by saying she thought she would take her, although she would rather not have her come for a few days, as she was going to be absent. Miss Grundy was now interrogated concerning her knowledge of work, and with quite a consequential air, she replied, "Perhaps, ma'am, it looks too much like praising myself, considerin' that I've had the managin' of her mostly, but I must confess that she's lived with me so long and got my ways so well, that she's as pleasant a mannered, good-tempered child, and will scour as bright a knife as you could wish to see!"

Mary saw that Mrs. Mason could hardly repress a smile as she replied, "I am glad about the temper and manners, but the scouring of knives is of little consequence, for Judith always does that."

Sal Furbush, who had courtesied herself into the room, now asked to say a word concerning Mary. "She is," said she, "the very apple of my eye, and can pa.r.s.e a sentence containing three double relatives, two subjunctive moods and four nominatives absolute, perfectly easily."

"I see you are a favorite here," said Mrs. Mason, laying her hand gently on Mary's head, "and I think that in time you will be quite as much of one with me, so one week from Sat.u.r.day you may expect me."

There was something so very affectionate in Mrs. Mason's manner of speaking, that Mary could not keep her tears back; and when Sally, chancing to be in a poetic mood, said to her, "Maiden, wherefore weepest thou?" she replied, "I can't help it. She speaks so kind, and makes me think of mother."

"Speaks so _kindly_, you mean," returned Sal, while Mrs. Mason, brushing a tear from her own eye, whispered to the little girl, "I will be a mother to you, my child;" then, as Mr. Knight had finished discussing the weather with Mr. Parker, she stepped into his buggy, and was driven away.

"That's what I call a thoroughly grammatical lady," said Sal, looking after her until a turn in the road hid her from view, "and I shall try to be resigned, though the vital spark leaves this house when Mary goes."

Not long after, Rind asked Miss Grundy if William Bender was going away.

"Not as I know on," answered Miss Grundy. "What made you think of that?"

"'Cause," returned Rind, "I heard Sal Furbush having over a mess of stuff about the _spark's_ leaving when Mary did, and I thought mebby he was going, as you say he's her spark!"

The next afternoon Jenny, managing to elude the watchful eyes of her mother and governess, came over to the poor-house.

"I'm so glad you are going," said she, when she heard of Mrs. Mason's visit. "I shall be lonesome without you, but you'll have such a happy home, and when you get there mayn't I tell George Moreland about you the next time I see him?"

"I'd rather you wouldn't," said Mary, "for I don't believe he remembers me at all."

"Perhaps not," returned Jenny, "and I guess you wouldn't know him; for besides being so tall, he has begun to _shave_, and Ida thinks he's trying to raise whiskers!"