The English Orphans Part 8

Mary gave the required promise, and Jenny continued: "I shouldn't like to have my mother know it, for she scolds all the time now about my 'vulgar tastes,' though I'm sure Rose likes the same things that I do, except Billy Bender, and it's about him I was going to tell you. He was so pleasant I couldn't help loving him, if mother did say I mustn't. He used to talk to me about keeping clean, and once I tried a whole week, and I only dirtied four dresses and three pair of pantalets in all that time. Oh, how handsome and funny his eyes looked when I told him about it. He took me in his lap, and said that was more than he thought a little girl ought to dirty. Did you ever see any boy you loved as well as you do Billy Bender?"

Mary hesitated a moment, for much as she liked Billy, there was another whom she loved better, though he had never been one half as kind to her as Billy had. After a time she answered, "Yes, I like, or I did like George Moreland, but I shall never see him again;" and then she told Jenny of her home in England, of the long, dreary voyage to America, and of her father's death; but when she came to the sad night when her mother and Franky died, she could not go on, and laying her face in Jenny's lap, she cried for a long time. Jenny's tears flowed, too, but she tried to restrain them, for she saw that Rose had shut her book and was watching her movements.

Ere long, however, she resumed her reading, and then Jenny, softly caressing Mary, said, "Don't cry so, for I'll love you, and we'll have good times together too. We live in Boston every winter, but it will be most six weeks before we go and I mean to see you every day."

"In Boston?" said Mary, inquiringly. "_George_ lives in Boston."

Jenny was silent a moment, and then suddenly clapping her hands together, she exclaimed. "I know George Moreland. He lives just opposite our house, and is Ida Selden's cousin. Why he's most as handsome as Billy Bender, only he teases you more. I'll tell him about you, for mother says he's got lots of money, and perhaps he'll give you some."

Mary felt that she wouldn't for the world have George know she was in the poor-house, and she quickly answered, "No, no, you mustn't tell him a word about me. I don't want you to. Promise that you won't."

Loth as Jenny was to make such a promise, she finally did, adding, "I guess I won't tell Rose either, for she and Ida are great friends.

George says he don't know which he likes best, though he thinks Rose the handsomest. He like handsome girls, and so do I."

Mary knew she had no beauty of which to boast, but Ella had, so she very naturally mentioned her sister, saying how much she wished to see her.

"Why, you can see her at church," answered Jenny. "Why don't you ever go?"

"I am going next Sunday, Sally and I," was Mary's reply. "Billy told me the last time he was here that he would come and stay with Alice."

"Oh, I'm glad, and I hope they'll put you in my Sabbath school cla.s.s, for Ella is in it, but if they do I'll contrive to have Rose sit off a good ways because,--because--"

Here Jenny paused, but seeing that Mary was waiting for her to finish the sentence, she added, "She's proud, and sometimes laughs at poor girls."

"Thank you, Miss Jenny Lincoln," said Rose, coming forward. "I'll tell mother of this new intimacy, and she'll put a stop to it, I'll a.s.sure you. But come along, I'm going home."

Jenny arose to obey, but whispered to Mary, "You'll find me most any time in these woods. I'd ask you to come to our house, only mother wouldn't let you sit in the parlor. I shall see you Sunday,--Good-bye."

Mary watched her until she disappeared among the bushes and then she too started for home, with a lighter heart than she had known before for many a day. She had found a new friend, and though Miss Grundy scolded because she had been gone so long, and threatened to shut her up in Sal Furbush's cage, she did not mind it and actually commenced humming a tune while Miss Grundy was storming about a bowl of sour milk which she had found in the cupboard. A sharp box on her ears brought her song to an end and the tears into her eyes, but she thought of Jenny, and the fact that she too knew George made him seem nearer, and when Miss Grundy did not see her she hastily drew the golden locket from her bosom, and glancing at the handsome, boyish face it revealed, quickly thrust it back as she heard a quick step in the pa.s.sage.

She had no opportunity of seeing Jenny again that week, for she was kept busy from morning till night, running here and there, first after eggs, then after water, next for potatoes, and then after wood. And still Miss Grundy told her fifty times a day that "she didn't half pay her way, to say nothing about the young one."

"Bolt at once," said Sal. "Bolt, and say you didn't come here to work: that's the way I did."

Mary was willing to do whatever she could, but she often wished Mrs.

Parker were able to be round, for then she was sure she would not have to work so hard. She had several times been sent of errands to Mrs.

Parker's room, and that lady had always spoken kindly to her, asking her if she was tired, or what made her look so pale. It was through Mrs Parker's influence, too, that she had obtained permission to attend church the following Sabbath. Mrs. Parker was a professor of religion, and before her illness, some of the family had attended church every Sunday. But since she had been sick, her husband had thought it hardly worth while to harness up his horses, though he said any one might go who chose to walk. Few, however, were able to walk; so they remained at home, and Sunday was usually the noisiest day in the week. Sal Furbush generally took the lead, and mounting the kitchen table, sung camp meeting hymns as loud as she could scream.

Uncle Peter fiddled, Patsy nodded and laughed, the girl with crooked feet by way of increasing the bedlam would sometimes draw a file across the stove-pipe, while Miss Grundy scolded, and declared "she could not and would not have such a noise."

"Shut your head, madam, and there'll be less," was Sal's ready rejoinder, as at the end of a verse she paused for breath.

The first Sabbath Mary looked on in perfect amazement, but the next one she spent in her own room, and after a deal of trouble, succeeded in coaxing Sal to stay there too, listening while she read to her from her little Bible. But the reading was perplexing business, for Sal constantly corrected her p.r.o.nunciation, or stopped her while she expounded Scripture, and at last in a fit of impatience Mary tossed the book into the crazy creature's lap, asking her to read her self.

This was exactly what Sal wanted, and taking the foot of Mary's bed for her rostrum, she read and preached so furiously, that Mary felt almost glad when Miss Grundy came up to stop the racket, and locked Sal in her own room.

CHAPTER VIII.

AT CHURCH.

The Sabbath following Mary's first acquaintance with Jenny was the one on which she was to go to church. Billy Bender promised that if his mother were not suffering from any new disease, he would come to stay with Alice, and in case he failed, the pleasant-looking woman was to take his place. Mary would have preferred going alone, but Sally begged so hard, and promised so fairly "not to make a speck of a face at the preacher, provided he used good grammar," that Mary finally asked Mr. Parker to let her go.

He consented willingly, saying he hoped the house would be peaceable for once. And now, it was hard telling which looked forward to the next Sunday with the most impatience, Mary or Sal, the latter of whom was anxious to see the fashions, as she fancied her wardrobe was getting out of date. To Mary's happiness there was one drawback. A few weeks before her mother's death she had given to Ella her straw hat, which she had outgrown, and now the only bonnet she possessed was the veritable blue one of which George Moreland had made fun, and which by this time was nearly worn out. Mrs. Campbell, who tried to do right and thought that she did, had noticed Mary's absence from church, and once on speaking of the subject before Hannah, the latter suggested that probably she had no bonnet, saying that the one which she wore at her mother's funeral was borrowed Mrs. Campbell immediately looked over her things, and selecting a straw which she herself had worn three years before, she tied a black ribbon across it, and sent it as a present to Mary.

The bonnet had been rather large for Mrs. Campbell, and was of course a world too big for Mary, whose face looked bit, as Sal expressed it, "like a yellow pippin stuck into the far end of a firkin." Miss Grundy, however, said "it was plenty good enough for a pauper,"

reminding Mary that "beggars shouldn't be choosers."

"So it is good enough for paupers like you," returned Sal, "but people who understand grammar always have a keen sense of the ridiculous."

Mary made no remark whatever, but she secretly wondered if Ella wore such a hat. Still her desire to see her sister and to visit her mother's grave, prevailed over all other feelings, and on Sunday morning it was a very happy child which at about nine o'clock bounded down the stairway, tidily dressed in a ten cent black lawn and a pair of clean white pantalets.

There was another circ.u.mstance, too, aside from the prospect of seeing Ella, which made her eyes sparkle until they were almost black. The night before, in looking over the articles of dress which she would need, she discovered that there was not a decent pair of stockings in her wardrobe. Mrs. Grundy, to whom she mentioned the fact, replied with a violent shoulder jerk, "For the land's sake! ain't you big enough to go to meetin' barefoot, or did you think we kept silk stockin's for our quality to wear?"

Before the kitchen looking-gla.s.s, Sal was practising a courtesy which she intended making to any one who chanced to notice her next day; but after overhearing Miss Grundy's remark, she suddenly brought her exercises to a close and left the kitchen. Arrived at her room, she commenced tumbling over a basket containing her wearing apparel, selecting from it a pair of fine cotton stockings which she had long preserved, because they were the last thing Willie's father ever gave her. "They are not much too large for her now," thought she, "but I guess I'll take a small seam clear through them." This being done, she waited until all around the house was still, and then creeping stealthily to Mary's room, she pinned the stockings to the pantalets, hanging the whole before the curtainless window, where the little girl could see them the moment she opened her eyes! Mary well knew to whom she was indebted for this unexpected pleasure, and in her accustomed prayer that morning she remembered the poor old crazy woman, asking that the light of reason might again dawn upon her darkened mind.

On descending to the kitchen, Mary found Sal waiting for her, and, as she had expected, rigged out in a somewhat fantastic style. Her dress, which was an old plum-colored silk, was altogether too short-waisted and too narrow for the prevailing fashion. A gauze handkerchief was thrown across her neck, and fastened to her belt in front by a large yellow bow. Her bonnet, which was really a decent one, was almost entirely covered by a thick green veil, and notwithstanding the sun was shining brightly, she carried in her hand a large blue cotton umbrella, for fear it would rain!

"Come, child," said she, the moment Mary appeared, "put on your _tea-kettle_ (referring to the bonnet which Mary held in her hand), and let us start."

There was no looking-gla.s.s in Mary's room, and she stepped before the one in the kitchen while she adjusted her hat, but her courage almost failed her as she saw the queer-looking image reflected by the mirror.

She was unusually thin, and it seemed to her that her teeth were never so prominent before. Her eyes, always large, now looked unnaturally so and as she placed what Sal had termed a "tea-kettle"

upon her head, she half determined not to go. But Sal caught her hand, saying, "Come, child, it's time we were off. They'll all know it's Mrs. Campbell's old bonnet, and will laugh at her for giving it to you."

Billy had not come, but the pleasant-looking woman had succeeded in making friends with Alice, and as Mary pa.s.sed out of the yard she saw her little sister spatting the window sill, and apparently well pleased with her new nurse. Scarcely were they out of sight of the house, when Sal, seating herself upon a large stone, commenced divesting her feet of her shoes and stockings.

"What are you doing?" asked Mary, in great surprise.

"I guess I know better than to wear out my kid slippers when I've got no Willie's father to buy me any more," answered Sal. "I'm going barefoot until I reach the river bridge, and then I shall put them on again."

The shoes and stockings being carefully rolled up in a paper which Sal produced from her pocket, they walked briskly forward, and reached the village some time before the first bell rang for church.

"Come down this street, please," said Mary to her companion, who with slippers readjusted and umbrella hoisted was mincing along, courtesying to every one she met, and asking them how they did--"Come down this street; I want to see my old home."

Sal readily complied, saying as they drew near the low brown house, in which a strange family were now living, "There is nothing very elegant in the architecture of this dwelling."

Mary made no reply. With her head resting upon the garden fence, and one hand clasped around a shrub which Franky had set out, she was sobbing as though her heart would break. Very gently Sal laid her hand on Mary's shoulder, and led her away, saying, "What would I not have given for such a command of tears when Willie's father died. But I could not weep; and my tears all turned to burning coals, which set my brain on fire."

The next time Mary raised her head they were opposite Mrs. Bender's, where Sal declared it her intention to stop. As they were pa.s.sing up to the side door, Billy, who heard their footsteps, came out, and shaking hands with Mary, and trying hard to keep from laughing at the wonderful courtesy, which Sal Furbush made him. On entering the house they found Mrs. Bender flat on her back, the pillow pulled out from under her head, and the bed clothes tucked closely up under her chin.

"Mother was so sick I couldn't come," said Billy to Mary, while Sal, walking up to the bedside, asked, "Is your sickness unto death, my good woman?"

"Oh, I am afeard not," was the feeble response. "Folks with my difficulty suffer for years."

Mary looked inquiringly at Billy, and a smile but little according with his mother's seeming distress parted his lips as he whispered, "She was reading yesterday about a woman that had been bed-ridden with a spinal difficulty, and now she declares that she too 'has got a spine in her back,' though I fancy she would be in a pretty predicament without one. But where did you get that fright of a bonnet?" he continued. "It's like looking down a narrow lane to see your face."

Mary knew that Billy was very observing of dress, and she blushed painfully as she replied, that Mrs. Campbell gave it to her.