The English Orphans Part 3

The sight of her grief touched Hannah's heart, and sitting down by the little girl, she tried to comfort her. Mary felt that her words and manner were prompted by real sympathy, and after a time she grew calm, and listened, while Hannah told her that "as soon as her mistress got so any body could go near her, she meant to ask her to take Ella Howard to fill the place of her own daughter."

"They look as much alike as two beans," said she, "and sposin' Ella Howard ain't exactly her own flesh and blood, she would grow into liking her, I know."

Mary was not selfish, and the faint possibility that her sister might not be obliged to go to the poor-house, gave her comfort, though she knew that in all probability she herself must go. After a few more words Hannah entered the cottage, but she wisely chose to keep from Ella a knowledge of her plan, which very likely might not succeed.

That night after her return home Hannah lingered for a long time about the parlor door, glancing wistfully towards her mistress, who reclined upon the sofa with her face entirely hidden by her cambric handkerchief.

"It's most too soon, I guess," thought Hannah, "I'll wait till to-morrow."

Accordingly next morning, when, as she had expected, she was told to carry her mistress's toast and coffee to her room, she lingered for a while, and seemed so desirous of speaking that Mrs. Campbell asked what she wanted.

"Why, you see, ma'am, I was going to say a word about,--about that youngest Howard girl." (She dared not say Ella.) "She's got to go to the poor-house, and it's a pity, she's so handsome. Why couldn't she come here and live? I'll take care of her, and 'twouldn't be nigh so lonesome."

At this allusion to her bereavement Mrs. Campbell burst into tears, and motioned Hannah from the room.

"I'll keep at her till I fetch it about," thought Hannah, as she obeyed the lady's order. But further persuasion from her was rendered unnecessary, for Mrs. Lincoln, whom we have once before mentioned, called that afternoon, and after a.s.suring her friend that she never before saw one who was so terribly afflicted, or who stood so much in need of sympathy, she casually mentioned the Howards, and the extreme poverty to which they were reduced. This reminded Mrs. Campbell of Hannah's suggestion, which she repeated to her visitor, who answered, "It would unquestionably be a good idea to take her, for she is large enough to be useful in the kitchen in various ways."

Mrs. Campbell, who had more of real kindness in her nature than Mrs.

Lincoln, replied, "If I take her, I shall treat her as my own, for they say she looks like her, and her name, too, is the same."

Here Mrs. Campbell commenced weeping and as Mrs. Lincoln soon took her leave, she was left alone for several hours. At the end of that time, impelled by something she could not resist, she rang the bell and ordered Hannah to go to Mrs. Bender's and bring Ella to her room as she wished to see how she appeared.

With the utmost care, Ella arranged her long curls, and then tying over her black dress the only white ap.r.o.n which she possessed, she started for Mrs. Campbell's. The resemblance between herself and Ella Campbell was indeed so striking, that but for the dress the mother might easily have believed it to have been her own child. As it was, she started up when the little girl appeared, and drawing her to her side, involuntarily kissed her; then causing her to sit down by her side, she minutely examined her features, questioning her meantime concerning her mother and her home in England. Of the latter Ella could only tell her that they lived in a city, and that her mother had once taken her to a large, handsome house in the country, which she said was her old home.

"There were sights of trees, and flowers, and vines, and fountains, and little deer," said the child, "and when I asked ma why she did not live there now, she cried, and pa put his arm tight 'round her,--so."

From this Mrs. Campbell inferred that Ella's family must have been superior to most of the English who emigrate to this country, and after a few more questions she decided to take her for a time, at least; so with another kiss she dismissed her, telling her she would come for her soon. Meantime arrangements were making for Mary and Alice and on the same day in which Mrs. Campbell was to call for Ella, Mr. Knight, one of the "Selectmen," whose business it was to look after the town's poor,[A] also came to the cottage. After learning that Ella was provided for, he turned to Mary, asking "how old she was, and what she could do," saying, that his wife was in want of just such a girl to do "ch.o.r.es," and if she was willing to be separated from Alice, he would give her a home with him. But Mary only hugged her sister closer to her bosom as she replied "I'd rather go with Alice. I promised mother to take care of her."

[Footnote A: In Ma.s.sachusetts each town has its own poor-house.]

"Very well," said the man, "I'm going to North Chicopee, but shall be back in two hours, so you must have your things all ready."

"Don't cry so, Mary," whispered Billy, when he saw how fast her tears were falling. "I'll come to see you every week, and when I am older, and have money, I will take you from the poor-house, and Alice too."

Just then, Mrs. Campbell's carriage drove up. She had been taking her afternoon ride, and now, on her way home, had stopped for Ella, who in her delight at going with so handsome a woman, forgot the dreary home which awaited her sister, and which, but for Mrs. Campbell's fancy, would have been hers also. While she was getting ready, Mr. Knight returned, and driving his old-fashioned yellow wagon, with its square box-seat up by the side of Mrs. Campbell's stylish carriage, he entered the house, saying, "Come, gal, you're ready, I hope. The old mare don't want to stand, and I'm in a desput hurry, too. I orto be to hum this minute, instead of driving over that stony Portupog road. I hope you don't mean to carry that are thing," he continued, pointing with his whip towards Alice's cradle, which stood near Mary's box of clothes.

The tears came into Mary's eyes, and she answered "Alice has always slept in it, and I didn't know but--"

Here she stopped, and running up to Ella, hid her face in her lap, and sobbed, "I don't want to go. Oh, I don't want to go, can't I stay with you?"

Billy's yellow handkerchief was suddenly brought into requisition, and Mrs. Bender, who, with all her imaginary aches and pains, was a kind-hearted woman, made vigorous attacks upon her snuff-box, while Mrs. Campbell patted Mary's head, saying, "Poor child. I can't take you both, but you shall see your sister often."

Ella was too much pleased with Mrs. Campbell, and the thoughts of the fine home to which she was going, to weep but her chin quivered, when Mary held up the baby for her to kiss, and said, "Perhaps you will never see little Allie again."

When all was ready, Mr. Knight walked around his wagon, and after trying to adjust the numerous articles it contained, said, "I don't see how in the world I can carry that cradle, my wagon is chuck full now. Here is a case of shoes for the gals to st.i.tch, and a piller case of flour for Miss Smith, and forty 'leven other traps, so I guess you'll have to leave it. Mebby you can find one there, and if not, why, she'll soon get used to going without it."

Before Mary could reply, Billy whispered in her ear "Never mind, Mary; you know that little cart that I draw mother's wood in, the cradle will just fit it, and to-morrow afternoon I'll bring it to you, if it doesn't rain."

Mary knew that he meant what he said, and smiling on him through her tears, climbed into the rickety wagon, which was minus a step, and taking Alice in her arms, she was soon moving away. In striking contrast to this, Ella, about five minutes afterwards, was carefully lifted into Mrs. Campbells handsome carriage, and reclining upon soft cushions, was driven rapidly towards her new home.

Will their paths in life always continue thus different? Who can tell?

CHAPTER V.

THE POOR-HOUSE.

How long and tiresome that ride was with no one for a companion except Mr. Knight, who, though a kind-hearted man knew nothing about making himself agreeable to little girls, so he remained perfectly taciturn, whipping at every cow or pig which he pa.s.sed, and occasionally screaming to his horse, "Git up, old Charlotte. What are you 'bout?"

Mary, who had seldom been out of the village, and who knew but little of the surrounding country, for a time enjoyed looking about her very much. First they went down the long hill which leads from the village to the depot. Then they crossed the winding Chicopee river, and Mary thought how much she should love to play in that bright green meadow and gather the flowers which grew so near to the water's edge. The causeway was next crossed, and turning to the right they came upon a road where Mary had never been before, and which grew more rough and stony as they advanced.

On the top of a steep hill Mary looked back to see if Chicopee were yet, visible, but nothing was to be seen except the spire of the Unitarian Meeting-House. About a quarter of a mile to the west, however, the graveyard was plainly discernible, and she looked until her eyes were dim with tears at the spot where she knew her parents and brother were lying. By this time Alice was asleep, and though the little arms which held her ached sadly, there was no complaint, but she wished Mr. Knight would speak to her once, if it were only to ask her how she did!

At last, concluding there would be no impropriety in making the first advances herself, she said timidly, "Is it such a very bad place at the poor-house?"

"Why, no, not so dreadful. There's places enough, sight worse, and then agin there's them, a good deal better But you needn't be afeard.

They'll take good care of you."

"I wasn't thinking of myself," said Mary.

"Who was you thinkin' of, then?"

"Of Alice; she's always been sick and is not used to strangers, and among so many I am afraid she will be frightened."

"Oh, she'll soon get used to 'em. Nothin' like, habit. Weakly, is she?

Wall, the poor-house ain't much of a place to get well in, that's a fact. But she'd be better off to die and go to her mother, and then you could get a good place at some farmer's."

Mary wondered how he could speak thus carelessly of what would cause her so much sorrow. Gently lifting the old faded shawl, she looked down upon Alice as she slept. There was a smile upon her face. She was dreaming, and as her lips moved, Mary caught the word, "Ma," which the child had applied indiscriminately both to herself and her mother.

Instantly the tears gushed forth, and falling upon the baby's face awoke her. Her nap was not half out, and setting up a loud cry, she continued screaming until they drove up to the very door of the poor-house.

"For the land's sake," said Mr. Knight, as he helped Mary from the wagon, "what a racket; can't you contrive to stop it? you'll have Sal Furbush in your hair, for she don't like a noise."

Mary glanced nervously round in quest of the goblin Sal, but she saw nothing save an idiotic face with bushy tangled hair; and nose flattened against the window pane. In terror Mary clung to Mr. Knight, and whispered, as she pointed towards the figure, which was now laughing hideously, "What is it? Are there many such here?"

"Don't be afeard," said Mr. Knight, "that's n.o.body but foolish Patsy; she never hurt any body in her life. Come, now, let me show you to the overseer."

Mary looked towards the woods which skirted the borders of the meadow opposite, and for half a moment felt inclined to flee thither, and hide herself in the bushes; but Mr. Knight's hand was upon her shoulder, and he led her towards a red-whiskered man, who stood in the door.

"Here, Parker," said he, "I've brought them children I was tellin' you about. You've room for 'em, I s'pose."

"Why, ye-es, we can work it so's to make room. Guess we shall have rain to-morrow."

Mary remembered that Billy would not come if it rained, and with a sigh she noticed that the clouds were dark and threatening. They now entered the kitchen, which was a long, low, narrow room, with a fireplace on the right, and two windows opposite, looking towards the west. The floor was painted and very clean, but the walls were unfinished, and the brown rafters were festooned with cobwebs. In the middle of the room, the supper table was standing, but there was nothing homelike in the arrangement of the many colored dishes and broken knives and forks, neither was there any thing tempting to one's appet.i.te in the coa.r.s.e brown bread and white-looking b.u.t.ter. Mary was very tired with holding Alice so long, and sinking into a chair near the window, she would have cried; but there was a tightness in her throat, and a pressure about her head and eyes, which kept the tears from flowing. She had felt so once before. Twas when she stood at her mother's grave; and now as the room grew dark, and the objects around began to turn in circles, she pressed her hands tightly to her forehead, and said, 'Oh, I hope I shan't faint."

"To be sure you won't," said a loud, harsh voice, and instantly large drops of water were thrown in her face, while the same voice continued: "You don't have such spells often, I hope, for Lord knows I don't want any more fitty ones here."

"No, ma'am," said Mary, meekly; and looking up, she saw before her a tall, square-backed, masculine-looking woman, who wore a very short dress, and a very high-crowned cap, fastened under her chin with bows of sky-blue ribbon.