The English Orphans Part 13

That night, when Mary was alone, she drew from its hiding-place the golden locket, but the charm was broken, and the pleasure she had before experienced in looking at it, now faded away with Jenny's picture of a whiskered young man, six feet high! Very rapidly indeed did Mary's last week at the poor-house pa.s.s away, and for some reason or other, every thing went on, as Rind said, "wrong end up." Miss Grundy was crosser than usual, though all observed that her voice grew milder in its tone whenever she addressed Mary, and once she went so far as to say, by way of a general remark, that she "never yet treated any body, particularly a child, badly, without feeling sorry for it."

Sal Furbush was uncommonly wild, dancing on her toes, making faces, repeating her nine hundred and ninety-nine rules of grammar, and quoting Scripture, especially the pa.s.sage, "The Lord gave, and the Lord taketh away, &c." Uncle Peter, too, labored a.s.siduously at "Delia's Dirge," which he intended playing as Mary was leaving the yard.

Sat.u.r.day came at last, and long before the sun peeped over the eastern hills, Mary was up and dressed. Just as she was ready to leave her room, she heard Sally singing in a low tone, "Oh, there'll be mourning,--mourning,--mourning,--mourning, Oh, there'll be mourning when Mary's gone away."

Hastily opening her own door, she knocked at Sal's, and was bidden to enter. She found her friend seated in the middle of the floor, while scattered around her were the entire contents of the old barrel and box which contained her wearing apparel.

"Good morning, little deary," said she, "I am looking over my somewhat limited wardrobe, in quest of something wherewith to make your young heart happy, but my search is vain. I can find nothing except the original MS. of my first novel. I do not need it now, for I shall make enough out of my grammar. So take it, and when you are rich and influential, you'll have no trouble in getting it published,--none at all."

So saying, she thrust into Mary's hand a large package, carefully wrapped in half a dozen newspapers, and the whole enveloped in a snuff-colored silk handkerchief, which "Willie's father used to wear."

Here Rind came up the stairs saying breakfast was ready, and after putting her present aside, Mary descended to the kitchen, where she found the table arranged with more than usual care. An old red waiter, which was only used on special occasions, was placed near Miss Grundy, and on it stood the phenomenon of a hissing coffee-pot: and what was stranger, still, in the place of the tin basin from which Mary had recently been accustomed to eat her bread and milk, there was now a cup and saucer, which surely must have been intended for her. Her wonder was at its height when Miss Grundy entered from the back room, bearing a plate filled with snowy white biscuit, which she placed upon the table with an air of "There! what do you think of that?"--then seating herself, she skimmed all the cream from the bowl of milk, and preparing a delicious cup of coffee, pa.s.sed it to Mary, before helping the rest.

"Is the Millennium about to be ushered in?" asked Sal in amazement; while Uncle Peter, reverently rising, said, Fellow-citizens, and ladies, for these extras let us thank the Lord, remembering to ask a continuation of the same!"

"Do let your victuals stop your mouth," said Miss Grundy, "and don't act as though we never had coffee and biscuit for breakfast before."

"My memory has failed wonderfully, if we ever did," was Uncle Peter's reply.

Breakfast being over, Mary as usual commenced clearing the table, but Miss Grundy bade her "sit down and _rest_ her," and Mary obeyed, wondering what she had done to tire herself. About 9 o'clock, Mr.

Knight drove up alone, Mrs. Mason being sick with nervous headache. "I should have been here sooner," said he, "but the roads is awful rough and old Charlotte has got a stub or somethin' in her foot But where's the gal? Ain't she ready?"

He was answered by Mary herself, who made her appearance, followed by Billy bearing the box. And now commenced the leave-takings, Miss Grundy's turn coming first.

"May I kiss you, Miss Grundy?" said Mary, while Sal exclaimed aside, "What! kiss those sole-leather lips?" at the same time indicating by a guttural sound the probable effect such a process would have upon her stomach!

Miss 'Grundy bent down and received the child's kiss, and then darting off into the pantry, went to skimming pans of milk already skimmed!

Rind and the pleasant-looking woman cried outright, and Uncle Peter, between times, kept ejaculating, "Oh, Lord!--oh, ma.s.sy sake!--oh, for land!" while he industriously plied his fiddle bow in the execution of "Delia's Dirge," which really sounded unearthly, and dirgelike enough.

Billy knew it would be lonely without Mary, but he was glad to have her go to a better home, go he tried to be cheerful; telling her he would take good care of Ta.s.so, and that whenever she chose she must claim her property.

Aside from him, Sally was the only composed one. It is true, her eyes were very bright, and there was a compression about her mouth seldom seen, except just before one of her frenzied attacks. Occasionally, too, she pressed her hands upon her head, and walking to the sink, bathed it in water, as if to cool its inward heat; but she said nothing until Mary was about stepping into the buggy, when she whispered in her ear, "If that novel should have an unprecedented run, and of course it will, you would not mind sharing the profits with me, would you?"

CHAPTER XIII.

A NEW HOME IN RICE CORNER.

Very different this time was Mary's ride with Mr. Knight from what it had been some months before, and after brus.h.i.+ng away a few natural tears, and sending back a few heart-sighs to the loved ones left behind, her spirits rallied, and by the time they reached the borders of Rice Corner, there was such a look of quiet happiness on her face that even Mr. Knight noticed it.

"I'll be hanged if I know what to make of it," said he. "When you rid with me afore, I thought you was about as ugly favored a child as I ever see, and now you look full as well as they'll average. What you been doin'?"

"Perhaps it's because I've had my teeth out," suggested Mary, and Mr.

Knight, with another scrutinizing look in her face, replied, "Wall, I guess 'tis that. Teeth is good is their place, but when they git to achin', why, yank 'em out."

So saying, he again relapsed into silence, and commenced whipping at the thistle tops and dandelions. As they rode on, Mary fancied that the country looked pleasanter and the houses better, than in the region of the poor-house; and when a sudden turn of the road brought into view a beautiful blue sheet of water, embosomed by bright green hills, her delight knew no bounds. Springing up and pointing towards it, she exclaimed, "Oh, please stop a moment and look. Isn't it lovely! What is it?"

"That? Oh, that's nothing but 'Pordunk Pond, or as folks most generally call 'em, seem' there's two, North and South Pond."

"But it's big enough to be a lake, isn't it?" asked Mary.

"Why, yes," returned her companion. "It's better than five miles long, and a mile or so wide, and in York State I s'pose they'd call it a lake, but here in old Ma.s.sachusetts we stick to fust principles, and call all things by their right names."

"How far is the pond from Mrs. Mason's?" asked Mary, casting longing glances towards the distant sandy beach, and the graceful trees which drooped over the water's edge.

"It's farther back than 'tis there, 'cause it's up bill all the way,"

said Mr. Knight, "but here we be at Miss Mason's,--this house right here," and he pointed to a neat, handsome cottage, almost hidden from view by the dense foliage which surrounded it.

There was a long lawn in front, and into the carriage road on the right of it Mr. Knight turned, and driving up to a side door; said to Mary, "Come, jump down, for my foot is so lame I don't believe I'll get out. But there's your chest. You can't lift that. Hallo, Judith, come 'ere."

In answer to this call, a fat, pleasant-looking colored woman appeared in the doorway, and as if fresh from the regions of cookdom, wiped the drops of perspiration from her round jolly face.

"Here, Judith," said Mr Knight, "help this gal lift her traps out."

Judith complied, and then bidding old Charlotte to "get up," Mr.

Knight drove away, leaving Mary standing by the kitchen door.

"Come in and sit down," said Judith, pus.h.i.+ng a chair towards Mary with her foot. "It's as hot here as oven, but I had crambry sa.s.s and ginger snaps, and ma.s.sy knows what to make this morning, and I got belated; but set down and make yourself to home."

Mary took the proffered seat, and then Judith left the room for a few moments, saying when she returned, that as Mrs. Mason was still suffering from a headache, she could not see Mary until after dinner.

"And," continued Judith "she told me to entertain you, but I don't know what to say, nor do first. Harry died just a week to a day before he was to be married, and so I never had any little girls to talk to.

Can't you think of something to talk about? What have you been used to doing?"

"Was.h.i.+ng dishes," was Mary's reply, after glancing about the room, and making sure that on this occasion there were none to wash.

"Wall," answered Judith, "I guess you won't have that to do here; for one night when some of the neighbors were in, I heard Miss Mason tell 'em that she got you to read to her and wait on her. And then she said something about your not having an equal chance with your sister. You hain't but one, now t'other's dead, have you?"

Mary replied in the negative, and Judith continued: "Wall, now, you've got over the first on't, I reckon you'se glad the baby's dead, for she must have been kind of a bother, wasn't she?"

Instantly Mary's thoughts flew back to an empty cradle, and again a little golden head was pillowed upon her breast, as often in times past it had been, and as it would never be again. Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed, "Oh, Allie, Allie! I wish she hadn't died."

Judith looked on in amazement, and for want of something better to do, placed a fresh stick of wood in the stove, muttering to herself. "Now I never! I might of knew I didn't know what to say. What a pity Harry died. I'll give her that big ginger snap the minute it's baked. See if I don't."

Accordingly, when the snap was done, Judith placed it in Mary's hands, bidding her eat it quick, and then go up and see the nice chamber Mrs.

Mason had arranged for her.

"If you please," said Mary, rapidly s.h.i.+fting the hot cake from one hand to the other,--"if you please, I had rather go up now, and eat the cake when it is cool."

"Come, then," said Judith; and leading the way, she conducted Mary up the staircase, and through a light, airy hall to the door of a small room, which she opened, saying "Look, ain't it pretty?"

But Mary's heart was too full to speak, and for several minutes she stood silent. With the exception of her mother's pleasant parlor in Old England, she had never before seen any thing which seemed to her so cosy and cheerful as did that little room, with its single bed, snowy counterpane, muslin curtains, clean matting, convenient toilet table, and what to her was fairer than all the rest, upon the mantel-piece there stood two small vases, filled with sweet spring flowers, whose fragrance filled the apartment with delicious perfume.

All this was so different from the bare walls, uncovered floors, and rickety furniture of the poor-house, that Mary trembled lest it should prove a dream, from which erelong she would awake.

"Oh, why is Mrs. Mason so kind to me?" was her mental exclamation; and as some of our readers may ask the same question, we will explain to them that Mrs. Mason was one of the few who "do to others as they would others should do to them."

Years before our story opens, she, too, was a lonely orphan, weeping in a dreary garret, as ofttimes Mary had wept in the poor-house, and it was the memory of those dark hours, which so warmed her heart towards the little girl she had taken under her charge. From Jenny we have learned something of her history. Once a happy, loving wife, surrounded by wealth and friends, she had thought the world all bright and beautiful. But a change came over the spirit of her dream. Her n.o.ble husband died,--and the day succeeding his burial, she was told that their fortune, too, was gone. One by one, as misfortune came upon her, did her fas.h.i.+onable friends desert her, until she was left alone, with none to lean upon except the G.o.d of the widow and fatherless, and in Him she found a strong help for her dark hour of need. Bravely she withstood the storm, and when it was over, retired with the small remnant of her once large fortune to the obscure neighborhood of Rice Corner, where with careful economy she managed to live comfortably, besides saving a portion for the poor and dest.i.tute. She had taken a particular fancy to Mary, and in giving her a home, she had thought more of the good she could do the child, than of any benefit she would receive from her services as waiting maid. She had fully intended to go for Mary herself; but as we already know, was prevented by a severe headache, and it was not until three o'clock in the afternoon, that she was even able to see her at all. Then, calling Judith, she bade her bring the little girl to her room, and leave them alone.