The English Orphans Part 33

"Oh, no, not yet. It's too early" answered Ella, nothing loth to have an hour alone with him.

So they sat down together upon the sofa, and after asking about Rose, and how long Jenny was to remain in Glenwood, Ella, chancing to think of the strange discovery that day made with regard to herself and Mary, mentioned it to Henry, who seemed much more excited about it than she had been.

"Mrs. Campbell, your mother's sister!" said he. "And Mary's aunt too?

Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Because I didn't think of it," returned Ella. "And it's nothing so very marvellous either, or at least it does not affect _me_ in the least." Henry did not reply, but there was that pa.s.sing through his mind which might affect Ella not a little. As the reader knows, he was marrying her for her money; and now if that money was to be shared with another, the bride lost half her value! But such thoughts must not be expressed, and when Henry next spoke, he said very calmly, "Well, I'm glad on Mary's account, for your aunt will undoubtedly share her fortune with her;" and Henry's eyes turned upon Ella with a deeper meaning than she could divine.

It was so long since Ella had felt the need of money that she had almost ceased to know its value, and besides this, she had no suspicion of Henry's motive in questioning her; so she carelessly replied that nothing had been said on the subject, though she presumed her aunt would make Mary heiress with herself, as she had recently taken a violent fancy to her. Here the conversation flagged, and Henry fell into a musing mood, from which Ella was forced to rouse him when it was time to go. As if their thoughts were flowing in the same channel, Mrs. Campbell that evening was thinking of Mary, and trying to devise some means by which to atone for neglecting her so long.

Suddenly a new idea occurred to her, upon which she determined immediately to act, and the next morning Mr. Worthington was sent for, to draw up a new will, in which Mary Howard was to share equally with her sister.

"Half of all I own is theirs by right," said she, "and what I want is, that on their 21st birth-day they shall come into possession of the portion which ought to have been their mother's, while at my death the remainder shall be equally divided between them."

The will was accordingly drawn up, signed and sealed, Mr. Worthington keeping a rough draft of it, which was thrown among some loose papers in his office. A few afterwards Henry coming accidentally upon it, read it without any hesitation.

"_That_ settles it at once," said he, "and I can't say I'm sorry, for I was getting horribly sick of her. Now I'd willingly marry Mary without a penny, but Ella, with only one quarter as much as I expected, and that not until she's twenty-one, is a different matter entirely. But what am I to do? I wish Moreland was here, for though he don't like me (and I wonder who does), he wouldn't mind lending me a few thousand. Well, there's no help for it; and the sooner the old man breaks now, the better. It'll help me out of a deuced mean sc.r.a.pe, for of course I shall be _magnanimous_, and release Ella at once from her engagement with a _ruined man_."

The news that Mary was Mrs. Campbell's niece spread rapidly, and among those who came to congratulate her, none was more sincere than William Bender. Mary was very dear to him, and whatever conduced to her happiness added also to his. Together with her he had heard the rumor of Mr. Lincoln's downfall, and while he felt sorry for the family, he could not help hoping that it would bring Jenny nearer to him. Of this he told Mary, who hardly dared trust herself to reply, lest she should divulge a darling secret, which she had cherished ever since Mrs.

Campbell had told her that, in little more than a year, she was to be the rightful owner of a sum of money much larger than she had ever dreamed it possible for her to possess. Wholly unselfish, her thoughts instantly turned towards her adopted brother. A part of that sum should be his, and with that for a stepping stone to future wealth, Mrs. Lincoln, when poor and dest.i.tute, could no longer refuse him her daughter Mrs Campbell, to whom alone she confided her wishes, gave her consent, though she could not understand the self-denying love which prompted this act of generosity to a stranger.

And now Mary was very happy in thinking how much good she could do.

Mrs. Mason, her benefactress, should never want again. Sally Furbush, the kind-hearted old crazy woman who had stood by her so long and so faithfully, should share her home wherever that home might be; while better than all the rest, William Bender, the truest, best friend she ever had, should be repaid for his kindness to her when a little, unknown pauper. And still the world, knowing nothing of the hidden causes which made Mary's laugh so merry and her manner so gay, said that "the prospect of being an heiress had turned her head, just as it always did those who were suddenly elevated to wealth."

CHAPTER x.x.x.

THE CRISIS.

Mr. Lincoln had failed. At the corners of the streets, groups of men stood together, talking over the matter, and ascribing it, some to his carelessness, some to his extreme good nature in indorsing for any one who asked, and others, the knowing ones, winking slyly as they said "they guessed he knew what he was about,--they'd known before of such things as failing rich;" but the mouths of these last were stopped when they heard that the household furniture, every thing, was given up for the benefit of his creditors, and was to be sold at auction during the coming week.

In their parlors at home wives and daughters also discussed the matter, always ending by accusing Mrs. Lincoln of unwarrantable extravagance, and wondering how the proud Rose would bear it, and suggesting that "she could work in the factory just as her mother did!". It was strange how suddenly Mrs. Lincoln's most intimate friends discovered that she had once been a poor factory girl, remembering too that they had often noticed an air of vulgarity about her! Even Mrs. Campbell was astonished that she should have been so deceived, though she pitied the daughters, "who were really refined and lady-like, considering--" and then she thought of Henry, hoping that Ella would be now willing to give him up.

But with a devotion worthy of a better object, Ella replied, that he was dearer to her than ever. "I have not loved him for his wealth,"

said she, "and I shall not forsake him now" And then she wondered why he staid so long away, as day after day went by, and still he came not. It was in vain that Mary, who visited the house frequently, told her of many things which might detain him. Ella saw but one. He fancied she, too, would desert him, like the cold unfeeling world. And then she begged so imploringly of her sister to go to him, and ask him to come, that Mary, loth as she was to do so, finally complied. She found him in his office, and fortunately alone. He was looking very pale and haggard, the result of last night's debauch, but Mary did not know of this. She only saw grief for his misfortune, and her voice and manner were far more cordial than usual as she bade him good afternoon.

"It is kind in you, Miss Howard, to come here," said he, nervously pressing the hand she offered. "I knew _you_ would not forsake me, and I'd rather have your sympathy than that of the whole world."

Wishing to end such conversation, Mary replied, "I came here, Mr.

Lincoln, at Ella's request. Ever since your father's failure she has waited anxiously for you--"

She was prevented from saying more by Henry, who, with a feigned bitterness of manner, exclaimed, "Ella need not feel troubled, for I am too honorable to insist upon her keeping an engagement, which I would to Heaven had never been made. Tell her she is free to do as she pleases."

"You are mistaken, sir," answered Mary; "Ella does not wish to be free. But come with me; I promised to bring you."

With an air of desperation, Henry took his hat, and started with Mary for Mrs. Campbell's. Oh, how eagerly Ella sprang forward to meet him, and burying her face in his bosom, she sobbed like a child.

"Hush, Ella, this is foolish," said he; and then seating her in a chair, he asked, "why he was sent for."

"I was afraid,--afraid you might think I did not love you now,"

answered Ella.

"I could not blame you if you did not," said Henry. "Matters have changed since we last met, and I am not mean enough to expect you to keep your engagement."

"But if _I_ expect it,--If _I_ wish it?" asked Ella, raising her tear-wet eyes to his face.

"You are excited now," said he, "but in a few days you'll thank me for my decision. An alliance with poverty could be productive of nothing but unhappiness to you; and while I thank you for your unselfish love, I cannot accept it, for I am determined that, so long as I am poor, I shall never marry; and the sooner you forget me, the better, for, Ella, I am not deserving of your love."

Then, with a cold adieu, he left her; and when, half an hour afterwards, Mary entered the parlor, she found her sister lying upon the sofa, perfectly motionless, except when a tremor of anguish shook her slight frame. A few words explained all, and taking her head in her lap, Mary tried to soothe her. But Ella refused to be comforted; and as she seemed to prefer being alone, Mary ere long left her, and bent her steps towards Mr. Lincoln's dwelling, which presented a scene of strange confusion. The next day was the auction, and many people of both s.e.xes had a.s.sembled to examine, and find fault with, the numerous articles of furniture, which were being removed to the auction room.

"Where's them silver candlesticks, and that cake-basket that cost up'ards of a hundred dollars?" asked one fussy, vulgar-looking old woman, peering into closets and cupboards, and even lifting trunk lids in her search. "I want some such things, and if they go for half price or less, mebby Israel will bid; but I don't see 'em. I'll warrant they've hid 'em."

Mary was just in time to hear this remark, and she modestly replied, that Mr. Lincoln's creditors had generously presented him with all the silver, which was now at Mr. Selden's.

The woman stared impudently at her a moment, and then said, "Now, that's what I call downright cheatin'? What business has poor folks with so much silver. Better pay their debts fust. That's my creed."

Mary turned away in disgust, but not until she heard the woman's daughter whisper, "Don't, mother,--that's Miss Howard,--Mrs.

Campbell's niece," to which the mother replied, "Wall, who cares for that? Glad I gin her a good one. Upper crust ain't no better than I be."

Pa.s.sing through the hall, where several other women were examining and depreciating Mrs. Lincoln's costly carpets, p.r.o.nouncing them "half cotton," &c., Mary made her way up the stairs, where in a chamber as yet untouched, she found Jenny and with her William Bender. Mrs.

Lincoln's cold, scrutinizing eyes were away, and Mr. Lincoln had cordially welcomed William to his house, telling him of his own accord where his daughter could be found. Many a time in his life for Mary's sake had William wished that he was rich, but never had he felt so intense a longing for money, as he did when Jenny sat weeping at his side, and starting at each new sound which came up from the rabble below.

"Oh, Mary, Mary!" she said, as the latter entered the room, "to-morrow every thing will be sold, and I shall have no home. It's dreadful to be poor."

Mary knew that from bitter experience, and sitting down by her young friend, her tears flowed as freely as Jenny's had often flowed for her, in the gray old woods near Chicopee poor-house. Just then there was an unusual movement in the yard below, and looking from the window, Jenny saw that they were carrying the piano away.

"This is worse than all," said she. "If they only knew how dear that is to me, or how dear it will be when--"

She could not finish, but Mary knew what she would say. The piano belonged to Rose, whose name was engraved upon its front, and when she was dead, it would from that fact be doubly dear to the sister. A stylish-looking carriage now drew up before the house, from which Mrs.

Campbell alighted and holding up her long skirts, ascended the stairs, and knocked at Jenny's door.

"Permeely," called out the old lady who had been disappointed in her search for the silver candlesticks, "wasn't that Miss Campbell? Wall, she's gone right into one of them rooms where t'other gal went. I shouldn't wonder if Mr. Lincoln's best things was hid there, for they keep the door locked."

Accidentally Mr. Lincoln overheard this remark, and in his heart he felt that his choicest treasure was indeed there. His wife, from whom he naturally expected sympathy, had met him with desponding looks and bitter words, reproaching him with carelessness, and saying, as in similar circ.u.mstances ladies too often do, that "she had forseen it from the first, and that had he followed her advice, 'twould not have happened."

Henry, too, seemed callous and indifferent, and the father alone found comfort in Jenny's words of love and encouragement. From the first she had stood bravely by him refusing to leave the house until all was over; and many a weary night, when the great city was hushed and still, a light had gleamed from the apartment where, with her father, she sat looking over his papers, and trying to ascertain as far as possible, to what extent he was involved. It was she who first suggested the giving up of every thing; and when Henry, less upright than his n.o.ble sister, proposed the withholding of a part, she firmly answered, "No, father don't do it. You have lost your property, but do not lose your self-respect."

Always cheerful, and sometimes even gay in his presence, she had succeeded in imbuing him with a portion of her own hopeful spirit, and he pa.s.sed through the storm far better than he could otherwise have done. Mrs. Campbell's visit to the house was prompted partly from curiosity, and partly from a desire to take away Jenny, who was quite a favorite with her.

"Come, my dear," said she, pushing back the short, thick curls which cl.u.s.tered around Jenny's forehead, "you must go home with me. This is no place for you. Mary will go too," she continued; and then on an "aside" to Mary, she added, "I want you to cheer up Ella; she sits alone in her room, without speaking or noticing me in any way."

At first Jenny hesitated, but when William whispered that she had better go; and Mrs. Campbell, as the surest way of bringing her to a decision, said, "Mr. Bender will oblige me by coming to tea," she consented, and closely veiled, pa.s.sed through the crowd below, who instinctively drew back, and ceased speaking, for wherever she was known, Jenny was beloved. Arrived at Mrs. Campbell's, they found Ella, as her mother had said, sitting alone in her room, not weeping, but gazing fixedly down the street, as if expecting some one who did not come!

In reply to Jenny's anxious inquiries as to what was the matter, Mary frankly told all, and then Jenny, folding her arms around the young girl, longed to tell her how unworthy was the object of such love. But Henry was her brother, and she could not. Softly caressing Ella's cheek, she whispered to her of brighter days which perhaps would come.

The fact that it was _his_ sister--Henry's sister--opened anew the fountain of Ella's tears, and she wept for a long time; but it did her good, and for the remainder of the afternoon she seemed more cheerful, and inclined to converse.

The next day was the auction, and it required the persuasion of both Mrs. Campbell and Mary to keep Jenny from going, she knew not whither herself, but any where, to be near and take one more look at the dear old furniture as it pa.s.sed into the hands of strangers. At last Mrs.