The English Orphans Part 7

Mary cast a fearful glance at Patsy, who nodded and smiled as if in approbation of Miss Grundy's command. She dared not disobey, so Alice and her cradle were transferred to the kitchen, which was all day long kept at nearly boiling heat from the stove room adjoining. Twice Mary attempted to shut the door between, but Miss Grundy bade her open it so she could "keep an eye on all that was going on." The new sights and faces round her, and more than all, Patsy's strange appearance, frightened Alice, who set up such loud screams that Miss Grundy shook her l.u.s.tily, and then cuffed Patsy, who cried because the baby did, and pulling Mary's hair because she "most knew she felt gritty," she went back to the cheese-tub, muttering something about "Cain's being raised the hull time."

At last, wholly exhausted and overcome with the heat Alice ceased screaming, and with her eyes partly closed, she lay panting for breath, while Mary, half out of her senses tipped over the dishwater, broke the yellow pitcher, and spilled a pan of morning's milk.

"If there's a stick on the premises, I'll use it, or my name isn't Grundy," said the enraged woman, at the same time starting for a clump of alders which grew near the brook.

At this stage of affairs, Sal Furbush came dancing in curtseying, making faces, and asking Mary if she thought "the temperature of the kitchen conducive to health."

Mary instinctively drew nearer to her, as to a friend, and grasping her dress, whispered, "Oh, Sally, Aunt Sally, don't let her whip me for nothing," at the same time pointing towards Miss Grundy, who was returning with an alder switch, stripping off its leaves as she came.

"Whip you? I guess she won't," said Sal, and planting herself in the doorway as Miss Grundy came up, she asked, "Come you with hostile intentions?"

"Out of my way," said Miss Grundy. "I'll teach, that upstart to break things when she's mad." Pushing Sal aside, she entered the kitchen.

Mary retreated behind the cupboard door, and Miss Grundy was about to follow her, when Sal, with a nimble bound, sprang upon her back, and pulling her almost to the floor, s.n.a.t.c.hed the whip from her hand, and broke it in twenty pieces. How the matter would have ended is uncertain, for at that moment Mr. Parker himself appeared, and to him Miss Grundy and Sal detailed their grievances, both in the same breath.

"I can't get at a word," said he, and turning to the pleasant-looking woman, who was quietly paring apples, he asked what it meant.

In a plain, straightforward manner, she told all, beginning from the time when Alice was first brought into the kitchen, and adding, as an opinion of her own, that the child was suffering from heat. Mr Parker was a good-natured, though rather weak man, and in reality slightly feared Miss Grundy. On this occasion, however, he did not take sides with her but said, "It was ridiculous to have such works, and that if Mary wanted whipping, he would do it himself."

"But Sal Furbush," said Miss Grundy, as she adjusted her head-gear, which was slightly displaced, "can't she be shut up? There's bedlam to pay the whole durin' time when she's loose."

Mr. Parker knew this very well, but before he had time to answer, Mary looked pleadingly in his face, and said, "if you please, don't shut her up. She was not to blame, for I asked her to help me."

"Wall, wall, we'll let her off this time, I guess," said he; and as Uncle Peter just then put his head into the window, saying that "the lord of the manor was wanted without," Mr. Parker left, glad to get out of the muss so easily. No sooner was he gone, than Sal, catching up the cradle, sorted for the stairs, saying, "I won't work, but I can, and will take care of little Willie, and I choose to do it in a more congenial atmosphere." Then, as Mary looked a little startled, she added, "Never you fear, dearie, Sal knows what she's about, and she won't make the little boy the least bit of a face."

From that time there was no more trouble with Alice during the day, for she seemed to cling naturally to Sally, who hour after hour rocked and took care of her, while Mary, in the kitchen below, was busy with the thousand things which Miss Grundy found for her to do.

CHAPTER VII.

THE LINCOLNS

Mary had been at the poor-house about three weeks, when Miss Grundy one day ordered her to tie on her sun-bonnet, and run across the meadow and through the woods until she came to a rye stubble, then follow the footpath along the fence until she came to another strip of woods, with a brook running through it. "And just on the fur edge of them woods," said she, "you'll see the men folks to work; and do you tell 'em to come to their dinner quick."

Mary tied her sun-bonnet and hurried off, glad to escape for a few moments from the hot kitchen, with its endless round of washing dishes, scouring knives, wiping door-sills, and dusting chairs. She had no difficulty in finding the way and she almost screamed for joy, when she came suddenly upon the sparkling brook, which danced so merrily beneath the shadow of the tall woods.

"What a nice place this would be to sit and read," was her first exclamation, and then she sighed as she thought how small were her chances for reading now.

Quickly her thoughts traversed the past, and her tears mingled with the clear water which flowed at her feet, as she recalled the time when, blessed with a father's and mother's love, she could go to school and learn as other children did. She was roused from her sad reverie by the sound of voices, which she supposed proceeded from the men, whose tones, she fancied, were softer than usual. "If I can hear them, they can hear me," thought she, and shouting as loud as she could, she soon heard Mr. Parker's voice in answer, saying he would come directly.

It was a mild September day, and as Mary knew that Sal would take care of Alice, she determined not to hurry, but to follow the course of the stream, fancying she should find it to be the same which ran through the clothes-yard at home. She had not gone far, when she came suddenly upon a boy and two little girls, who seemed to be playing near the brook. In the features of the boy she recognized Henry Lincoln, and remembering what Billy had said of him, she was about turning away, when the smallest of the girls espied her, and called out, "Look here, Rose, I reckon that's Mary Howard. I'm going to speak to her."

"Jenny Lincoln, you mustn't do any such thing. Mother won't like it,"

answered the girl called Rose.

But whether "mother would like it," or not, Jenny did not stop to think, and going towards Mary she said, "Have you come to play in the woods?"

"No," was Mary's reply. "I came to call the folks to dinner."

"Oh, that was you that screamed so loud. I couldn't think who it was, but it can't be dinner time?"

"Yes 'tis; it's noon."

"Well we don't have dinner until two, and we can stay here till that time. Won't you play with us?"

"No, I can't, I must go back and work," said Mary.

"Work!" repeated Jenny. "I think it's bad enough to have to live in that old house without working, but come and see our fish-pond;" and taking Mary's hand, she led her to a wide part of the stream where the water had been dammed up until it was nearly two feet deep and clear as crystal. Looking in, Mary could see the pebbles on the bottom, while a fish occasionally darted out and then disappeared.

"I made this almost all myself," said Jenny. "Henry wouldn't help me because he's so ugly, and Rose was afraid of blacking her fingers. But I don't care Mother says I'm a great,--great,--I've forgotten the word, but it means dirty and careless, and I guess I do look like a fright, don't I?"

Mary now for the first time noticed the appearance of her companion, and readily guessed that the word which she could not remember, was "slattern." She was a fat, chubby little girl, with a round, sunny face and laughing blue eyes, while her brown hair hung around her forehead in short, tangled curls. The front breadth of her pink gingham dress was plastered with mud. One of her shoe strings was untied, and the other one gone. The bottom of one pantalet was entirely torn off, and the other rolled nearly to the knee disclosing a pair of ankles of no Liliputian dimensions. The strings of her white sun-bonnet were twisted into a hard knot, and the bonnet itself hung down her back, partially hiding the chasm made by the absence of three or four hooks and eyes. Altogether she was just the kind of little girl which one often finds in the country swinging on gates and making mud pies.

Mary was naturally very neat; and in reply to Jenny's question as to whether she looked like a fright, she answered, "I like your face better than I do your dress, because it is clean."

"Why, so was my dress this morning," said Jenny, "but here can't any body play in the mud and not get dirty. My pantalet hung by a few threads, and as I wanted a rag to wash my earthens with, I tore it off. Why don't you wear pantalets?"

Mary blushed painfully, as she tried to hide her bare feet with her dress, but she answered, "When mother died I had only two pair, and Miss Grundy says I sha'nt wear them every day. It makes too much washing."

"Miss Grundy! She's a spiteful old thing. She shook me once because I laughed at that droll picture Sal Furbush drew of her on the front door. I am afraid of Sal, ain't you?"

"I was at first, but she's very kind to me, and I like her now."

"Well, I always run when I see her. She makes such faces and shakes her fist so. But if she's kind to you, I'll like her too. You go away (speaking to Henry), and not come here to bother us."

Henry gave a contemptuous whistle, and pointing to Mary's feet, said, "Ain't they delicate? Most as small as her teeth!"

The tears came into Mary's eyes, and Jenny, throwing a stick at her brother, exclaimed, "For shame, Henry Lincoln! You always was the meanest boy. Her feet ain't any bigger than mine. See," and she stuck up her little dumpy foot, about twice as thick as Mary's.

"Cracky!" said Henry, with another whistle. "They may be, too, and not be so very small, for yours are as big as stone boats, any day, and your ankles are just the size of the piano legs." So saying, he threw a large stone into the water, spattering both the girls, but wetting Jenny the most. After this he walked away apparently well pleased with his performance.

"Isn't he hateful?" said Jenny, wiping the water from her neck and shoulders; "but grandma says all boys are so until they do something with the oats,--I've forgot what. But there's one boy who isn't ugly.

Do you know Billy Bender?"

"Billy Bender? Oh, yes," said Mary quickly, "he is all the friend I've got in the world except Sal Furbush."

"Well, he worked for my pa last summer, and oh, I liked him _so_ much.

I think he's the _bestest_ boy in the world. And isn't his face beautiful?"

"I never thought of it," said Mary. "What makes you think him so handsome?"

"Oh, I don't know unless it's because he makes such nice popple whistles!" and as if the argument were conclusive, Jenny unrolled her pantalet, and tried to wipe some of the mud from her dress, at the same time glancing towards her sister, who at some little distance was reclining against an old oak tree, and poring intently over "Fairy Tales for Children."

Seeing that she was not observed, Jenny drew nearer to Mary and said, "If you'll never tell any body as long as you live and breathe, I'll tell you something."