The English Orphans Part 14

Judith obeyed, charging Mary to "tread on tiptoe, and keep as still as a mouse, for Miss Mason's head ached fit to split."

This caution was unnecessary, for Mary had been so much accustomed to sick persons that she knew intuitively just what to do and when to do it and her step was so light, her voice so low, and the hand which bathed the aching head so soft and gentle in its touch, that Mrs.

Mason involuntarily drew her to her bosom, and kissing her lips, called her her child, and said she should never leave her then laying back in her easy chair, she remained perfectly still, while Mary alternately fixed her hair, and smoothed her forehead until she fell into a quiet slumber, from which she did not awake until Judith rang the bell for supper, which was neatly laid out in a little dining parlor, opening into the flower garden. There was something so very social and cheering in the appearance of the room, and the arrangement of the table, with its glossy white cloth, and dishes of the same hue, that Mary felt almost as much like weeping as she did on the night of her arrival at the poor-house. But Mrs. Mason seemed to know exactly how to entertain her; and by the time that first tea was over, there was hardly a happier child in the world than was Mary.

As soon as Mrs. Mason arose from the table, she, too, sprang up, and taking hold of the dishes, removed them to the kitchen in a much shorter s.p.a.ce of time than was usually occupied by Judith. "Git away now," said that lady as she saw Mary making preparations to wash the cups and saucers. "I never want any body putterin' round under my feet. I always wash and wipe and scour my own things, and then I know they are done."

Accordingly, she returned to Mrs. Mason, who, wis.h.i.+ng to retire early, soon dismissed her to her own room, where she for some time amused herself with watching the daylight as it gradually disappeared from the hills which lay beyond the pond. Then when it all was gone, and the stars began to come out, she turned her eyes towards one, which had always seemed to her to be her mother's soul, looking down upon her from the windows of heaven. Now, to-night there shone beside it a smaller, feebler one, and in the fleecy cloud which floated around it, she fancied she could define the face of her baby sister.

Involuntarily stretching out her hands, she cried, "Oh, mother, Allie, I am so happy now;" and to the child's imagination the stars smiled lovingly upon her, while the evening wind, as it gently moved the boughs of the tall elm trees, seemed like the rustle of angels' wings.

Who shall say the mother's spirit was not there to rejoice with her daughter over the glad future opening so brightly before her?

CHAPTER XIV.

VISITORS.

The Tuesday following Mary's arrival at Mrs. Mason's, there was a social gathering at the house of Mr. Knight. This gathering could hardly be called a tea party, but came more directly under the head of an "afternoon's visit," for by two o'clock every guest had arrived, and the "north room" was filled with ladies, whose tongues, like their hands, were in full play. Leathern reticules, delicate embroidery, and gold thimbles were not then in vogue in Rice Corner; but on the contrary, some of Mrs. Knight's visitors brought with them large, old-fas.h.i.+oned work-bags, from which the ends of the polished knitting-needles were discernible; while another apologized for the magnitude of her work, saying that "her man had fretted about his trousers until she herself began to think it was time to finish them; and so when she found Miss Mason wasn't to be there, she had just brought them along."

In spite of her uniform kindness, Mrs. Mason was regarded by some of her neighbors as a bugbear, and this allusion to her immediately turned the conversation in that direction.

"Now, do tell," said Widow Perkins, vigorously rapping her snuff-box and pa.s.sing it around. "Now, do tell if it's true that Miss Mason has took a girl from the town-house?"

On being a.s.sured that such was the fact, she continued "Now I _will_ give up. Plagued as she is for things, what could have possessed her?"

"I was not aware that she was very much troubled to live," said Mrs.

Knight, whose way of thinking, and manner of expressing herself, was entirely unlike Mrs. Perkins.

"Wall, she is," was Mrs. Perkins's reply; and then hitching her chair closer to the group near her, and sinking her voice to a whisper, she added, "You mustn't speak of it on any account, for I wouldn't have it go from me, but my Sally Ann was over there t'other day, and neither Miss Mason nor Judy was to home. Sally Ann has a sight of curiosity,--I don't know nothing under the sun where she gets it, for I hain't a mite,--Wall, as I was tellin' you, there was n.o.body to home, and Sally Ann she slips down cellar and peeks into the pork barrel, and as true as you live, there warn't a piece there. Now, when country folks get out of salt pork, they are what I call middlin'

poor."

And Mrs. Perkins finished her speech with the largest pinch of maccaboy she could possibly hold between her thumb and forefinger.

"Miss Perkins," said an old lady who was famous for occasionally rubbing the widow down, "Miss Perkins, that's just as folks think.

It's no worse to be out of pork than 'tis to eat codfish the whole durin' time."

This was a home thrust, for Mrs. Perkins, who always kept one or two boarders, and among them the school-teacher was notorious for feeding them on codfish.

Bridling up in a twinkling, her little gray eyes flashed fire as she replied, "I s'pose it's me you mean, Miss Bates; but I guess I've a right to eat what I'm a mind to. I only ask a dollar and ninepence a week for boarding the school marm--"

"And makes money at that," whispered a rosy-cheeked girlish-looking woman, who the summer before had been the "school-marm," and who now bore the name of a thrifty young farmer.

Mrs. Perkins, however, did not notice this interruption but proceeded with, "Yes, a dollar and ninepence is all I ever ask, and if I kept them so dreadful slim, I guess the committee man wouldn't always come to me the first one."

"Mrs. Perkins, here's the pint," said Mrs. Bates, dropping a st.i.tch in her zeal to explain matters; "you see the cheaper they get the school-ma'am boarded, the further the money goes, and the longer school they have. Don't you understand it?"

Mrs. Knight, fancying that affairs were a.s.suming altogether too formidable an aspect, adroitly turned the conversation upon the heroine of our story, saying how glad she was that Mary had at last found so good a home.

"So am I," said Mrs. Bates; "for we all know that Mrs. Mason will take just as good care of her, as though she were her own; and she's had a mighty hard time of it, knocked around there at the poor-house under Polly Grundy's thumb."

"They do say," said Mrs. Perkins, whose anger had somewhat cooled, "They do say that Miss Grundy is mowing a wide swath over there, and really expects to have Mr. Parker, if his wife happens to die."

In her girlhood Mrs. Perkins had herself fancied Mr. Parker, and now in her widowhood, she felt an unusual interest in the failing health of his wife. No one replied to her remark, and Mrs. Bates continued: "It really used to make my heart ache to see the little forlorn thing sit there in the gallery, fixed up so old and fussy, and then to see her sister prinked out like a milliner's show window, a puckerin' and twistin', and if she happens to catch her sister's eye, I have actually seen her turn up her nose at her,--so--" and Mrs. Bates's nasal organ went up towards her eyebrows in imitation of the look which Ella sometimes gave Mary. "It's wicked in me, perhaps," said Mrs. Bates, "but pride must have a fall, and I do hope I shall live to see the day when Ella Campbell won't be half as well off as her sister."

"I think Mrs. Campbell is answerable for some of Ella's conduct," said Mrs. Knight, "for I believe she suffered her to visit the poor-house but once while Mary was there."

"I guess she'll come oftener now she's living with a city bug,"

rejoined Mrs. Perkins.

Just then there was the sound of carriage wheels, and a woman near the door exclaimed, "If you'll believe it there she is now, going right straight into Mrs. Mason's yard."

"Well, if that don't beat me," said Mrs. Perkins. "Seems to me I'd have waited a little longer for look's sake. Can you see what she's got on from here?" and the lady made a rush for the window to ascertain if possible that important fact.

Meantime the carriage steps were let down and Mrs. Campbell alighted.

As Mrs. Knight's guests had surmised, she was far more ready to visit Mary now than heretofore. Ella, too, had been duly informed by her waiting-maid that she needn't mind denying that she had a sister to the Boston girls who were spending a summer in Chicopee.

"To be sure," said Sarah, "she'll never be a fine lady like you and live in the city; but then Mrs. Mason is a very respectable woman, and will no doubt put her to a trade, which is better than being a town pauper; so you mustn't feel above her any more, for it's wicked, and Mrs. Campbell wouldn't like it, for you know she and I are trying to bring you up in the fear of the Lord."

Accordingly Ella was prepared to greet her sister more cordially than she had done before in a long time, and Mary that day took her first lesson in learning that too often friends come and go with prosperity.

But she did not think of it then. She only knew that her sister's arm was around her neck, and her sister's kiss upon her cheek. With a cry of joy, she exclaimed, "Oh, Ella, I knew you'd be glad to find me so happy."

But Ella wasn't particularly glad. She was too thoroughly heartless to care for any one except herself, and her reception of her sister was more the result of Sarah's lesson, and of a wish expressed by Mrs.

Campbell, that she would "try and behave as well as she could towards Mary." Mrs. Campbell, too, kissed the little girl, and expressed her pleasure at finding her so pleasantly situated; and then dropping languidly upon the sofa, asked for Mrs. Mason, who soon appeared, and received her visitor with her accustomed politeness.

"And so you, too, have cared for the orphan," said Mrs. Campbell.

"Well, you will find it a task to rear her as she should be reared, but a consciousness of doing right makes every thing seem easy. My dear, (speaking to Ella,) run out and play awhile with your sister, I wish to see Mrs. Mason alone."

"You may go into the garden," said Mrs. Mason to Mary, who arose to obey; but Ella hung back, saying she 'didn't want to go,--the garden was all nasty, and she should dirty her clothes."

"But, my child," said Mrs. Campbell, "I wish to have you go, and you love to obey me, do you not?"

Still Ella hesitated, and when Mary took hold of her hand, she jerked it away, saying, "Let me be."

At last she was persuaded to leave the room, but on reaching the hall she stopped, and to Mary's amazement applied her ear to the keyhole.

"I guess I know how to cheat her," said she in a whisper. "I've been sent off before, but I listened and heard her talk about me."

"Talk about you!" repeated Mary. "What did she say?"

"Oh, 'set me up,' as Sarah says," returned Ella; and Mary, who had never had the advantage of a waiting maid, and who consequently was not so well posted on "slang terms," asked what "setting up" meant.

"Why," returned Ella, "she tells them how handsome and smart I am, and repeats some cunning thing I've said or done; and sometimes she tells it right before me, and that's why I didn't want to come out."

This time, however, Mrs. Campbell's conversation related more particularly to Mary.

"My dear Mrs. Mason," she began, "you do not know how great a load you have removed from my mind by taking Mary from the poor-house."

"I can readily understand," said Mrs. Mason, "why you should feel more than a pa.s.sing interest in the sister of your adopted daughter, and I a.s.sure you I shall endeavor to treat her just as I would wish a child of mine treated, were it thrown upon the wide world."