The English Orphans Part 24

Mrs Mason made no objection, and Mary was soon on her way. She was a rapid walker, and almost before she was aware of it, reached the village. As she came near Mrs. Campbell's, the wish naturally arose that Ella should accompany her. Looking up she saw her sister in the garden and called to her.

"Wha-a-t?" was the very loud and uncivil answer which came back to her, and in a moment Ella appeared round the corner of the house, carelessly swinging her straw flat, and humming a fashionable song. On seeing her sister she drew back the corners of her mouth into something which she intended for a smile, and said, "Why, I thought it was Bridget calling me, you looked so much like her in that gingham sun-bonnet. Won't you come in?"

"Thank you," returned Mary, "I was going to mother's grave, and thought perhaps you would like to accompany me."

"Oh, no," said Ella, in her usual drawling tone, "I don't know as I want to go. I was there last week and saw the monument."

"What monument?" asked Mary, and Ella replied "Why, didn't you know that Mrs. Mason, or the town, or somebody, had bought a monument, with mother's and father's, and Franky's, and Allie's name on it?"

Mary waited for no more, but turned to leave, while Ella, who was anxious to inquire about Ida Selden, and who could afford to be gracious, now that neither Miss Porter, nor the city girls were there, called after her to stop and rest, when she came back. Mary promised to do so, and then hurrying on, soon reached the graveyard, where, as Ella had said, there stood by her parents' graves a large handsome monument.

William Bender was the first person who came into her mind, and as she thought of all that had pa.s.sed between them, and of this last proof of his affection, she seated herself among the tall gra.s.s and flowers, which grew upon her mother's grave, and burst into tears. She had not sat there long, ere she was roused by the sound of a footstep. Looking up, she saw before her the young gentleman, who the year previous had visited her school in Rice Corner. Seating himself respectfully by her side, he spoke of the three graves, and asked if they were her friends who slept there. There was something so kind and affectionate in his voice and manner, that Mary could not repress her tears, and s.n.a.t.c.hing up her bonnet which she had thrown aside she hid her face in it and again wept.

For a time, Mr. Stuart suffered her to weep, and then gently removed the gingham bonnet, and holding her hand between his, he tried to divert her mind by talking upon other topics, asking her how she had been employed during the year, and appearing greatly pleased, when told that she had been at Mount Holyoke. Observing, at length, that her eyes constantly rested upon the monument, he spoke of that, praising its beauty, and asking if it were her taste.

"No," said she, "I never saw it until to-day, and did not even know it was here."

"Some one wished to surprise you, I dare say," returned Mr. Stuart.

"It was manufactured in Boston, I see. Have you friends there?"

Mary replied that she had one, a Mr. Bender, to which Mr. Stuart quickly rejoined, "Is it William Bender? I have heard of him through our mutual friend George Moreland, whom you perhaps have seen."

Mary felt the earnest gaze of the large, dark eyes which were fixed upon her face, and coloring deeply, she replied that they came from England in the same vessel.

"Indeed!" said Mr. Stuart. "When I return to the city shall I refresh his memory a little with regard to you?"

"I'd rather you would not," answered Mary. "Our paths in life are very different; and he of course would feel no interest in me."

"Am I to conclude that you, too, feel no interest in him?" returned Mr. Stuart, and again his large eyes rested on Mary's face, with a curious expression.

But she made no reply, and soon rising up, said it was time for her to go home.

"Allow me to accompany you as far as Mrs. Campbell's," said Mr.

Stuart. "I am going to call upon Miss Ella, whose acquaintance I accidentally made last summer. Suppose you call too. You know her, of course?" Mary replied that she did, and was about to speak of the relationship between them, when Mr. Stuart abruptly changed the conversation, and in a moment more they were at Mrs. Campbell's door.

Ella was so much delighted at again seeing Mr. Stuart, that she hardly noticed her sister at all, and did not even ask her to remove her bonnet. After conversing a while upon indifferent subjects, Mr. Stuart asked Ella to play, saying he was very fond of music. But Ella, like other fashionable ladies, "couldn't of course play any thing,--was dreadfully out of practice, and besides that her music was all so old-fashioned."

Mr. Stuart had probably seen such cases before, and knew how to manage them, for he continued urging the matter, until Ella arose, and throwing back her curls, sauntered to wards the piano, saying she should be obliged to have some one turn the leases for her. Mr. Stuart of course volunteered his services, and after a violent turning of the music-stool by way of elevating it, and a turning back by way of lowering it, Ella with the air of a martyr, declared herself ready to play whatever Mr. Stuart should select, provided it were not "old."

A choice being made she dashed off into a spirited waltz, skipping a good many notes, and finally ending with a tremendous crash. Fond as Mr. Stuart was of music, he did not call for a repet.i.tion from her, but turning to Mary asked if she could play.

Ella laughed aloud at the idea, and when Mary replied that she did play a little, she laughed still louder, saying, "Why, _she_ can't play, unless it's 'Days of Absence,' with one hand, or something of that kind."

"Allow me to be the judge," said Mr. Stuart, and leading Mary to the piano, he bade her play any thing she pleased.

Ida had been a faithful teacher, and Mary a persevering pupil, so that whatever she played was played correctly and with good taste; at least Mr. Stuart thought so, for he kept calling for piece after piece, until she laughingly told him her catalogue was nearly exhausted, and she'd soon be obliged to resort to the _scales!_

Ella looked on in amazement, and when Mary had finished playing, demanded of her where she had learned so much, and who was her teacher; adding that her _fingering_ was wretched; "but then," said she, "I suppose you can't help it, your fingers are so stiff!"

For a moment Mr. Stuart regarded her with an expression which it seemed to Mary she had seen before, and then consulting his watch, said he must go, as it was nearly car time, After he was gone, Ella asked Mary endless questions as to where she met him, what he said, and if she told him they were sisters. "How elegantly he was dressed,"

said she, "Didn't you feel dreadfully ashamed of your gingham sun-bonnet and gown?"

"Why, no," said Mary. "I never once thought of them."

"I should, for I know he notices every thing," returned Ella; and then leaning on her elbow so as to bring herself in range of the large mirror opposite, she continued, "seems to me my curls are not arranged becomingly this morning."

Either for mischief, or because she really thought so, Mary replied "that they did not look as well as usual;" whereupon Ella grew red in the face, saying that "she didn't think she looked so very badly."

Just then the first dinner bell rang, and starting up Ella exclaimed, "Why-ee, _I_ forgot that ma expected General H. to dine. I must go and dress this minute."

Without ever asking her sister to stay to dinner, she hastily left the room. Upon finding herself so unceremoniously deserted, Mary tied on the despised gingham bonnet and started for home. She had reached the place where Ella the year before met with Mr. Stuart, when she saw a boy, whom she knew was living at the poor-house, coming down the hill as fast as a half blind old horse could bring him. When he got opposite to her he halted, and with eyes projecting like harvest apples, told her to "jump in, for Mrs. Parker was dying, and they had sent for her."

"I've been to your house," said he, "and your marm thought mebby I'd meet you."

Mary immediately sprang in, and by adroitly questioning Mike, whose intellect was not the brightest in the world, managed to ascertain that Mrs. Parker had been much worse for several days, that Sal Furbush had turned nurse; faithfully attending her night and day, and occasionally sharing "her vigils" with a "sleek, fancy-looking girl, who dressed up in meetin' clothes every day, and who had first proposed sending for Mary." Mary readily guessed that the "sleek, fancy-looking" girl was Jenny, and on reaching the poor house she found her suspicions correct, for Jenny came out to meet her, followed by Sally, who exclaimed, "Weep, oh daughter, and lament, for earth has got one woman less and Heaven one female more!"

Pa.s.sing into the house, Mary followed Jenny to the same room where once her baby sister had lain, and where now upon the same table lay all that was mortal of Mrs. Parker. Miss Grundy, who was standing near the body, bowed with a look of very becoming resignation, and then as if quite overcome, left the room. Just then a neighbor, who seemed to be superintending affairs, came in, and Mary asked what she could do to a.s.sist them.

"Nothing until to-morrow, when if you please you can help make the shroud," answered the woman, and Jenny catching Mary around the neck, whispered, "You'll stay all night with me; there's no one at home but Rose, and we'll have such a nice time."

Mary thought of the little room up stairs where Alice had died, and felt a desire to sleep there once more, but upon inquiry she found that it was now occupied by Sally Furbush.

"You must come and see my little parlor," said she to Mary, and taking her hand she led her up to the room, which was greatly improved. A strip of faded, but rich carpeting was before the bed. A low rocking-chair stood near the window, which was shaded with a striped muslin curtain, the end of which was fringed out nearly a quarter of a yard, plainly showing Sally's handiwork. The contents of the old barrel were neatly stowed away in a square box, on the top of which lay a worn portfolio, stuffed to its utmost capacity with ma.n.u.script.

"For all this elegance," said Sally, "I am indebted to my worthy and esteemed friend, Miss Lincoln."

But Mary did not hear, for her eyes were riveted upon another piece of furniture. At the foot of the bed stood Alice's cradle, which Billy Bender had brought there on that afternoon now so well remembered by Mary.

"Oh, Sally," said she, "how came this here?"

"Why," returned Sally, hitting it a jog, "I don't sleep any now, and I thought the nights would seem shorter, if I had this to rock and make believe little Willie was in it. So I brought it down from the garret, and it affords me a sight of comfort, I a.s.sure you!"

Mary afterwards learned that often during the long winter nights the sound of that cradle could be heard, occasionally drowned by Sally's voice, which sometimes rose almost to a shriek, and then died away in a low, sad wail, as she sang a lullaby to the "Willie who lay sleeping on the prairie at the West."

As there was now no reason why she should not do so, Mary accompanied Jenny home, where, as she had expected, she met with a cool reception from Rose, who merely nodded to her, and then resumed the book she was reading. After tea, Mary stepped for a moment into the yard, and then Rose asked Jenny what she intended doing with her "genteel visitor."

"Put her in the best chamber, and sleep there myself," said Jenny, adding that "they were going to lie awake all night just to see how it seemed."

But in spite of this resolution, as midnight advanced Jenny found that Mary's answers, even when Billy Bender was the topic, became more and more unsatisfactory, and finally ceased altogether. Concluding to let her sleep a few minutes, and then wake her up, Jenny turned on her pillow and when her eyes again opened, the morning sun was shining through the half-closed shutters, and the breakfast bell was jingling in the lower hall.

When Mary returned to the poor-house, she found a new arrival in the person of Mrs. Perkins! The widow had hailed Mike as he pa.s.sed her house the day before, and on learning how matters stood, offered to accompany him home. Mike, who had an eye for "fancy-looking girls,"

did not exactly like Mrs. Perkins' appearance. Besides that, his orders were to bring Mary, and he had no idea of taking another as a subst.i.tute. Accordingly, when on his return from Mrs. Mason's, he saw the widow standing at her gate, all equipped with parasol and satchel, he whipped up his horse, and making the circuit of the school-house, was some ways down the road ere the widow suspected his intentions.

"Thanking her stars" (her common expression) "that she had a good pair of feet," Mrs. Perkins started on foot, reaching the poor-house about sunset. She was now seated in what had been Mrs. Parker's room, and with pursed-up lips, and large square collar very much like the present fashion, was st.i.tching away upon the shroud, heaving occasionally a long-drawn sigh, as she thought how lonely and desolate poor Mr. Parker must feel!

"Will you give me some work?" asked Mary, after depositing her bonnet upon the table.

"There's nothing for you," returned Mrs. Perkins. "I can do all that is necessary, and prefer working alone."