Rose Clark
by Fanny Fern · English · Gutenberg #41542 · 537,661 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Rose Clark
Author: Fanny Fern
Release date: December 3, 2012 [eBook #41542]
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Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROSE CLARK ***
ROSE CLARK.
BY
FANNY FERN.
NEW YORK:
PUBLISHED BY MASON BROTHERS
1856.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by
MASON BROTHERS,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court, for the Southern
District of New York.
STEREOTYPED BY
THOMAS B. SMITH,
82 & 84 Beekman Street.
PRINTED BY
JOHN A. GRAY,
97 Cliff St.
Reader!
When the frost curtains the windows, when the wind whistles fiercely at
the key-hole, when the bright fire glows, and the tea-tray is removed,
and father in his slippered feet lolls in his arm-chair; and mother with
her nimble needle "makes auld claes look amaist as weel as new," and
grandmamma draws closer to the chimney-corner, and Tommy with his plate
of chestnuts nestles contentedly at her feet; then let my unpretending
story be read. For such an hour, for such an audience, was it written.
Should any _dictionary on legs_ rap inopportunely at the door for
admittance, send him away to the groaning shelves of some musty library,
where "literature" lies embalmed, with its stony eyes, fleshless
joints, and ossified heart, in faultless preservation.
Then, should the smile, and the tear, have passed round, while the
candle flickers in the socket, if but one kindly voice murmur low,
"MAY GOD BLESS HER!"
it will brighten the dreams of
FANNY FERN.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
THE ORPHAN ASYLUM--ROSE'S INTRODUCTION TO IT--MRS.
MARKHAM--ROSE'S INITIATION--TIMMINS 15
CHAPTER II.
MR. BALCH. 27
CHAPTER III.
ROSE'S COMPANIONS--THE DINING-TABLE AND THE SCHOOLROOM. 30
CHAPTER IV.
AUNT DOLLY--HOW IT CAME TO PASS--TWO OLD MAIDS' OPINIONS
ON LITERATURE, MEN AND MARRIAGE GENERALLY, AND
ON THE BACHELORS OF DIFFTOWN PARTICULARLY. 34
CHAPTER V.
LITTLE TIBBS--AN INSTANCE OF MRS. MARKHAM'S "MOTHERLY
CARE" OF THE ORPHANS. 39
CHAPTER VI.
THE FASHIONABLE UNDERTAKER. 45
CHAPTER VII.
THE INVESTIGATING COMMITTEE "INSPECT" THE ASYLUM--MR.
BALCH PRIVATELY RECORDS THE VERDICT ON THE HAND OF
THE MATRON. 48
CHAPTER VIII.
TIBBS' GHOST. 54
CHAPTER IX.
AUNT DOLLY REMOVES ROSE FROM THE ASYLUM--THE RIDE
"HOME"--DOLLY'S IDEAS OF NATURE, SENTIMENT, AND DUTY. 57
CHAPTER X.
AUNT DOLLY REFUSES ROSE'S REQUEST TO BE SENT TO SCHOOL,
AND ATTEMPTS TO CONVINCE HER THAT LYING IS THE BEST
POLICY. 68
CHAPTER XI.
MR. CLIFTON, THE VILLAGE MINISTER--THE PARSONAGE. 71
CHAPTER XII.
MR. CLIFTON'S PASTORAL CALL ON DOLLY--THE CONVERSATION
ABOUT ROSE. 76
CHAPTER XIII.
DEATH AT THE PARSONAGE. 82
CHAPTER XIV.
ROSE REQUESTS OF AUNT DOLLY A MEMENTO OF HER MOTHER. 86
CHAPTER XV.
ROSE IN THE MILLINER SHOP. 90
CHAPTER XVI.
MRS. CLIFTON VISITS "THE BABY'S" GRAVE--A PLEASANT
SURPRISE--DOLLY'S SICKNESS--DAFFY'S SOLILOQUY. 94
CHAPTER XVII.
DOLLY CONVALESCES AND EFFERVESCES--BAKING-DAY, AND
ROSE'S FIRST ATTEMPT AT COOKING--HEART'S-EASE. 101
CHAPTER XVIII.
VILLAGE GOSSIP--THE DESOLATE PARSONAGE. 109
CHAPTER XIX.
THE CHILD-MOTHER--AUNT DOLLY'S LETTER. 112
CHAPTER XX.
A GLIMPSE AT BACHELOR QUARTERS. 119
CHAPTER XXI.
ROSE'S SICK BABE--AUNT DOLLY, AS THE FASHIONABLE MRS.
JOHN HOWE. 122
CHAPTER XXII.
OLD MRS. BOND'S VISIT TO THE CITY--SILENT REPROOF. 128
CHAPTER XXIII.
MR. FINELS, MRS. HOWE'S INTIMATE FRIEND--MRS. BOND'S
INTERVIEW WITH ROSE. 133
CHAPTER XXIV.
A PASSAGE-AT-ARMS BETWEEN MRS. HOWE AND HER FASHIONABLE
FEMALE FRIEND. 147
CHAPTER XXV.
MR. HOWE ATTEMPTS AN INDEPENDENT COURSE OF ACTION--HE
REMOVES ROSE AND LITTLE CHARLEY FROM THE ATTIC TO THE
BEST SPARE ROOM--MRS. HOWE "LETS HIM HEAR FROM IT." 152
CHAPTER XXVI.
ROSE MAKES AN ASTOUNDING DISCOVERY--MR. HOWE VENTURES
ON A CONNUBIAL JOKE--THE RESULT OF MR. HOWE'S
JOKE--ROSE AND HER SICK BABE IN THE STAGE-COACH. 158
CHAPTER XXVII.
MRS. BOND'S RECEPTION OF ROSE--THE OLD LADY'S CHRISTIAN
FAITH AND PHILOSOPHY. 170
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE WASH-ROOM--THE BRUTAL REMARK. 172
CHAPTER XXIX.
MISS BODKIN'S ACCOUNT OF THE RISE AND PROGRESS OF MRS.
JOHN HOWE. 176
CHAPTER XXX.
THE FLIGHT OF ROSE, WITH LITTLE CHARLEY. 181
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE CHRISTENING, AT MRS. HOWE'S--THE SECRET WHISPER--THE
DENOUEMENT. 184
CHAPTER XXXII.
ROSE AT SEA--CAPTAIN LUCAS--FRITZ--DOCTOR PERRY--THE
MARRIAGE PROPOSAL. 189
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE CAPTAIN AND DR. PERRY--ARRIVAL IN NEW ORLEANS. 198
CHAPTER XXXIV.
ROSE'S NEW HOME--THE MANIAC'S STORY--NEWS OF VINCENT. 202
CHAPTER XXXV.
MRS. HOWE THINKS IT TIME TO GO TO THE SPRINGS--MR. HOWE
ATTEMPTS TO CHERISH AN OPINION OF HIS OWN--THE MAGIC
WHISPER. 209
CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE MYSTERY EXPLAINED. 212
CHAPTER XXXVII.
ROSE'S ILLNESS. 215
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE LADY ARTIST. 218
CHAPTER XXXIX.
GERTRUDE'S STORY. 226
CHAPTER XL.
MR. AND MRS. HOWE ON THE ROAD TO THE SPRINGS--A RAILROAD
ACCIDENT--THE TABLES TURNED. 256
CHAPTER XLI.
CHARLEY'S INTRODUCTION TO THE VINCENT MANSION--DOCTOR
PERRY AGAIN SEEKS TO MAKE ROSE HIS WIFE--GERTRUDE'S
LOCKET--THE RECOGNITION. 264
CHAPTER XLII.
MADAME VINCENT'S PRESENT TO CHARLEY. 278
CHAPTER XLIII.
JOHN AND GERTRUDE--A BIT OF WOMAN'S PHILOSOPHY. 280
CHAPTER XLIV.
ROSE PROPOSES TO TURN AUTHORESS--GERTRUDE GIVES HER
SOME CHOICE SPECIMENS OF CRITICISM. 286
CHAPTER XLV.
MISS ANNE COOPER--MADAME VINCENT'S SEXAGENARIAN LOVE
REMINISCENCES. 291
CHAPTER XLVI.
MADAME VINCENT'S VISIT TO ROSE. 300
CHAPTER XLVII.
MISS ANNE COOPER'S DIPLOMACY. 304
CHAPTER XLVIII.
MADAME MACQUE TURNS ROSE OUT OF DOORS. 369
CHAPTER XLIX.
CUPID IN THE KITCHEN--HIGH LIFE BELOW STAIRS. 312
CHAPTER L.
A LETTER FROM MR. FINELS. 320
CHAPTER LI.
ROSE, GERTRUDE, AND JOHN, AT NIAGARA--THE AGED
COUPLE--THE HUSBAND CARRIED OVER THE FALLS, AND
THE MOURNER'S STORY. 323
CHAPTER LII.
A CHAPTER ON MAN'S VANITY. 335
CHAPTER LIII.
MARKHAM FOUND OUT--BALCH REPENTANT. 340
CHAPTER LIV.
THE UNEXPECTED APPEARANCE OF MR. STAHLE, AND ITS
CONSEQUENCES. 344
CHAPTER LV.
ROSE'S DREAM. 349
CHAPTER LVI.
A SCENE IN MRS. HOWE'S PARLOR. 353
CHAPTER LVII.
MRS. BOND'S STRANGE VISITOR. 359
CHAPTER LVIII.
ANOTHER LETTER FROM MR. FINELS. 366
CHAPTER LIX.
A CHAPTER ON BOSTON, ITS INHABITANTS AND ENVIRONS. 368
CHAPTER LX.
JOHN'S DREAM. 376
CHAPTER LXI.
SCENE ON BOARD CAPTAIN LUCAS'S SHIP. 379
CHAPTER LXII.
GERTRUDE'S SORROWFUL DAY. 383
CHAPTER LXIII.
A THIRD LETTER FROM MR. FINELS. 385
CHAPTER LXIV.
CHARLEY'S CHILD-SORROW. 389
CHAPTER LXV.
MRS. BOND'S FUNERAL. 394
CHAPTER LXVI.
THE MEETING OF JOHN AND THE STRANGER. 379
CHAPTER LXVII.
THE STRANGER IN GERTRUDE'S STUDIO--ROSE'S PICTURE
RECOGNIZED--THE MEETING. 402
CHAPTER LXVIII.
VINCENT'S STORY. 405
CHAPTER LXIX.
JOHN'S TRIUMPH. 410
CHAPTER LXX.
JOHN AND VINCENT. 412
CHAPTER LXXI.
PEACE--RETRIBUTION. 414
ROSE CLARK.
CHAPTER I.
"Here is number fifty-four, Timmins," said the matron of a
charity-school to her factotum, as she led in a little girl about six
years of age; "number fifty-four; you must put another cot in the long
hall, and another plate in the eating-room. What is your name, child?"
"Rose," replied the little one, vailing her soft, dark eyes under their
curtaining lashes, and twisting the corner of a cotton shawl.
"Rose!" repeated the matron, in a contemptuous aside, to Timmins; "I
knew it would be sure to be something fanciful; beggars always go on
stilts."
"I am not a beggar," said the child, "I am mother's little Rose."
"Mother's little Rose?" repeated the matron, again, in the same sneering
tone; "well--who was mother?"
"Mother is dead," said the child, with a quivering lip.
"No loss, either," said Mrs. Markham to Timmins, "since she did not
know better than to let the child run in the streets."
"Mother was sick, and I had to go of errands," said the child,
defensively.
"Ah, yes--always an excuse; but do you know that I am the matron of this
establishment? and that you must never answer me back, in that way? Do
you know that you must do exactly as I and the committee say? Timmins,
bring me the scissors and let us lop off this mop of a wig," and she
lifted up the clustering curls, behind which Rose seemed trying to hide.
"There--now you look proper and more befitting your condition," said
Mrs. Markham, as the sheared lamb rose from its kneeling posture and
stood before her. "Timmins, Timmins!" Mrs. Markham whispered, "don't
throw away those curls; the hairdresser always allows me something
handsome for them. It is curious what thick hair beggar children always
have."
"But I am not a beggar," said Rose again, standing up very straight
before Mrs. Markham.
"Look at it," said Mrs. Markham, with a sneer; "look at it, Timmins, it
is 'not a beggar.' Look at its ragged frock, and soiled shawl, and torn
pinafore; it 'is not a beggar.' We shall have some work to do here,
Timmins. Come here, Rose."
"Did you hear me, child?" she repeated, as Rose remained stationary.
The child moved slowly toward Mrs. Markham.
"Look me in the eye."
Rose cast a furtive glance at the stern, hard face before her.
"Do you know that naughty girls, in this house, stay in dark closets."
Rose shuddered, but made no reply.
"Ah, I thought so; you had better remember that. Now, go away with
Timmins, and have the school uniform put on; 'not a beggar!' was there
ever the like of that?" and Mrs. Markham settled herself in her
rocking-chair, put her feet upon the sofa, and composed herself for her
after-dinner nap.
As she reclines there, we will venture to take a look at her: not a
phrenological glance, for she has a cap on her head; under its frilled
borders peep some wiry artificial curls; her lips are thin and vixenish;
her nose sharp and long, with a bridge which seems to defy the beholder
to cross her will; her dress clings very tightly to her bean-pole
figure; and on her long arm hangs a black velvet bag, containing her
spectacles, snuff-box, and some checkerberry lozenges, which she has a
pleasant way of chewing before the children in school hours. You may
know that she expects a call to-day, because she has on her festal gilt
breast-pin with a green stone in the center.
"Beg your pardon, ma'am; sorry to wake you," said Timmins, with a very
flushed face; "but I can't do nothing with that young one, though I have
tried my best. I went up stairs to wash her all over, according to rule,
before I put on the school uniform; and when I began to strip her, she
pulled her clothes all about her, and held them tight, and cried, and
took on, saying that nobody ever saw her all undressed but her mother,
and all that sort of thing."
"The affected little prude! and to break up my nap, too!" said Mrs.
Markham. "I'll teach her--come along, Timmins."
True enough; there stood Rose in the corner, as Timmins had said; her
dress half torn off in the scuffle, leaving exposed her
beautifully-molded shoulders and back, while with her little hands she
clutched the remaining rags closely about her person. With her dilated
nostrils, flushed cheeks, and flashing eyes, she made a tableau worth
looking at.
"Come here," hissed Mrs. Markham, in a tone that made Rose's flesh
creep.
Rose moved slowly toward her.
"Take off those rags--every one of them."
"I can not," said Rose; "oh, don't make me; I can not."
"Take them off, I say. What! do you mean to resist me?" (as Rose held
them more tenaciously about her;) and grasping her tightly by the wrist,
she drew her through a long passage-way, down a steep pair of stairs,
and pushing her into a dark closet, turned the key on her and strode
away.
"Obstinate little minx," she said, as she passed Timmins, on her return
to her rocking-chair and to her nap.
"Hark! Mrs. Markham! Mrs. Markham!--what's that groan? Hadn't I better
open the door and peep in?"
"That is always the way with you, Timmins: no, of course not. She can
affect groaning as well as she can affect delicacy; let her stay there
till her spirit is well broke; when I get ready I will let her out
myself;" and Mrs. Markham walked away.
But Timmins was superstitious, and that groan haunted her, and so she
went back to the closet to listen. It was all very still; perhaps it was
not Rose, after all; and Timmins breathed easier, and walked a few steps
away; and then again, perhaps it was, and Timmins walked back again. It
would do no harm to peep, at any rate; the key was in the lock, and Mrs.
Markham never would know it. Timmins softly turned it;--she called,
"Rose!"
No answer. She threw open the blind in the entry, that the light might
stream into the closet. There lay the child in strong convulsions.
Timmins knew she risked nothing in calling Mrs. Markham now.
"Come quick--quick--she is dying!"
"Pshaw! only a trick," said Mrs. Markham, more nervous than she chose
to acknowledge, as she consulted her watch and thought of the visitor
she was expecting.
"Take her up, Timmins," said she, after satisfying herself the child was
senseless, "take her into my room, and put her on the bed."
"Gracious! how can I?" asked Timmins, looking with dismay at the blood
flowing profusely from a wound in the temple, occasioned by her fall;
"she looks so dreadful, Mrs. Markham."
"Fool!" exclaimed that lady, as she snatched up the little sufferer in
her arms, and walked rapidly through the entry. "That's the door bell,
Timmins; that is Mr. Balch; tell him I will be there directly--mind--not
a word about the child, as you value your place. I have not forgotten
that brown soap business."
The cowed Timmins retired as she was bid; and Mrs. Markham, laying the
insensible child on the bed, closed the door of her room and applied the
proper restoratives; for her position involved some little knowledge of
the healing art. After a while, Rose opened her eyes, but as suddenly
closed them again, as they revealed the form of her persecutor.
"_You_ can attend to her now," said Mrs. Markham to Timmins, about half
an hour after, as she went down to receive Mr. Balch.
Timmins walked about the room uneasily, for Rose's ghastly face
distressed her.
"If she would only speak, or open her eyes!" but the child did neither.
Timmins coughed and hemmed, but Rose did not seem to notice it; at last,
going up to the bed-side, she passed her hand over her forehead.
"Don't," whispered Rose, glancing round the room as if afraid of seeing
Mrs. Markham; "don't try to make me well, I want to die."
"Oh, no, you don't," exclaimed Timmins, more frightened than ever;
"that's awful--you won't go to Heaven, if you talk that way."
"Won't I?" asked the child; "won't I go to Heaven and be with my
mother?"
"No," said Timmins, oracularly; "no--in course you won't; all of us has
to wait till we are sent for; we can't, none of us, hurry the time, or
put it off, nuther, when it comes."
"When will my time come?" asked Rose, sadly.
"Lor'! how you talk--don't go on that way; you've got a while to live
yet; you are nothing but a baby."
"Shall I always live here?" asked Rose, looking round again, as if in
fear of Mrs. Markham.
"You'll live here till you are bound out, I reckon."
"What's that?" asked Rose, innocently.
"Wall, I never!" exclaimed Timmins; "haven't you never heern about being
bound out?"
"No," answered Rose, a little ashamed of her ignorance.
"Wall, the upshot of it is, that you are sent away to live with any body
that Mrs. Markham and the committee say, and work for them just as long
as they tell you, for your meat, and drink, and clothing."
"What is a committee?" asked Rose.
"Why, it's Mr. Balch, and Mr. Skinner, and Mr. Flint, and Mr. Stone, and
Mr. Grant, and them."
"Can't you ever get away from the place where they send you?" asked
Rose.
"What a thing you are to ask questions. Yes, I spose you kin, if you die
or get married--it amounts to about the same thing," said Timmins, with
a shrug of her divorced shoulders.
"To whom shall I be bound out?" asked the child.
"Land's sake, as if I could tell; perhaps to one person, perhaps to
another."
This answer not being very satisfactory to Rose, she turned her face to
the pillow and heaved a deep sigh.
"Haven't you got no folks?" asked Timmins.
"What?"
"No folks? no relations, like?"
"None but Aunt Dolly."
"Who is Aunt Dolly?"
"I don't know; I never saw her till she brought me here."
"Where did she bring you from?"
"My mother's grave."
"Yes--but what house did you live in when she took you?"
"I didn't live in any house; all day long I sat on my mother's grave,
and, at night, I crept behind some boards, by the grave-yard, and slept.
"Land's sake, didn't you have nothing to eat?"
"Sometimes--I was not much hungry, my heart ached so bad; sometimes the
children gave me pieces of bread and cake, as they went to school."
"What did you do all day at your mother's grave?"
"Talked to mamma."
"Land's sake, child, dead folks can't hear."
"Can't they?" asked Rose, with a quivering lip. "Didn't my mamma hear
what I said to her?"
"In course not," answered Timmins. "Why, what a chick you are. If you
weren't so bright, I should think you was an idiot."
"What are you crying for?"
Rose kept on sobbing.
"Come now, don't take on so," said the uneasy Timmins, "you are not the
only person who has had a hard time of it. I was a little girl once."
"Were you?" asked Rose, wiping her eyes, and surveying Timmins's Meg
Merrilees proportions.
"Yes, of course," said Timmins, laughing; "just as if you didn't know
that every grown-up woman must have been a little girl once. Do you say
those things a purpose, or do they come by accident, like?"
"Did _your_ mother die?" asked Rose, not appearing to hear Timmins's
last question.
"Yes--and father, and brother, and sister, and the hull on 'em."
"Did you cry?"
"I 'spose so; I know I was awful hungry."
"But did you cry because your mother was dead?"
"Partly, I suppose."
"When you went to bed, did you think you saw her face with a cloud all
around it, and did you call 'Mother?' and did the eyes look sad at you,
but stay still where they were? and when you went up toward the cloud
and the face, did it all go away?"
"Lor', no; how you talk," said Timmins, as Rose's face grew still paler.
"Don't--you make my flesh creep."
"You wouldn't be afraid of your own dear mamma, would you?" asked Rose.
"Lor', yes, if she came to me that way," answered Timmins. "It isn't
natur', child; you saw a--a--," and Timmins hesitated to pronounce the
word ghost.
"I know you wouldn't run away from it, if it looked so sweet and loving
at you," said Rose; "but why did it not come nearer to me? and why did
it all fade away when I put out my arms to clasp it? That made me think
it couldn't be my mamma, after all; and yet it was mamma, too, but so
pale and sad."
"Wall--I don't know," said the perplexed Timmins; "you are beyend me; I
don't know nothing about sperrits, and I don't want to; but come here;
you've been asking me all sorts of questions, now I should like to ask
you one."
"Well," said Rose, abstractedly.
"What on airth made you carry on so like sixty about my washing you?
Don't you like me?"
"Y--e--s," replied Rose, blushing deeply.
"Wall, then, what was the matter with you? any scars on your body, or
any thing?"
"No," said Rose.
"What _did_ ail you, then? for I'm curious to know; why didn't you want
me to wash you?"
"It made me feel ashamed," said Rose; "nobody ever washed me but mamma;
I didn't mind my mamma."
"Wall, I'm beat if I can understand that," said Timmins, looking
meditatively down upon the carpet; "and one of your own sect, as they
call it, too. It seems ridikilis; but let me tell you, you'd better make
no fuss here; none of the other childern does."
"Other children?" asked Rose, "are there more children here? I did not
hear any noise or playing."
"No, I reckon you didn't," said Timmins, laughing. ("I wish to the land
Mrs. Markham had heard you say that;") and Timmins laughed again, as if
it was too good a joke to be thrown away on one listener.
"Are _their_ mothers dead, too, Timmins?"
"I dare say--I reckon some on 'em don't know much who their fathers and
mothers was," said Timmins.
"They had some, didn't they?"
"In course," said Timmins; "why, you are enough to kill old folks;
sometimes you are away beyend me, and sometimes not quite up to me, as
one may say, but you'd better shut up now, for Mrs. Markham will be
along presently."
"Do you think Mrs. Markham is a good woman?" asked Rose.
"About as good as you've seen," said the diplomatic Timmins, touching
the cut on Rose's temple; "the quicker you mind her when she speaks, the
better--that's all."
"Do _you_ like her?" asked Rose.
"No--sh--yes--why, what a thing you are to make people say what they
don't mean to. I like you, any how. But don't you never act as if I did,
before folks, because my hands is tied, you see."
"I don't know what you mean," said Rose.
"Sh--sh--didn't I tell you to shut up? Somebody is as stealthy as a
cat;" and Timmins looked uneasily at the key-hole of the door.
CHAPTER II.
Mr. Balch was a bachelor of forty-five, with a small fortune, and a
large bump of credulity. Like all ancient and modern bachelors, he liked
"to be made of," and Mrs. Markham's hawk eye discovered this little
weakness, and turned it to her own advantage. A moneyed man's vote on a
committee is of some importance, and Markham had an eye to the
perpetuity of her salary; further than that, we have no right to probe
the secrets of her unappropriated heart.
On the visit in question, she received Mr. Balch very graciously,
inquired with great solicitude concerning his rheumatism, which she
averred was quite prevalent that year among _young_ people; gave him the
most eligible seat on the sofa, and apologized for having kept him
waiting so long.
"Not a word, my dear lady, not a word," said the pleased Balch. "We all
know how onerous are your duties, and how indefatigably conscientious
you are in the performance of them. It was spoken of at the last meeting
of the Board; I wish you to know that your services are fully
appreciated by us."
"Oh! thank you--thank you, Mr. Balch. You are too kind. None of us can
say that we are insensible to appreciation, or independent of our
fellow-creatures. It is particularly grateful to me in my lonely
condition" (and here Markham heaved a sigh as long as her corsets would
allow her,) "for these dear little orphans are all I have to love, and I
think I may say I have won their little hearts."
"We know it, we all know it, my dear lady; but you must not allow your
duties to press _too_ heavily. I thought you looked over-weary this
evening."
"Do I?" asked Markham, snapping her eyes to make them look brighter.
"Ah, well--it is very likely--the poor little darling who came here
to-day, was taken in a fit. I find she is subject to them, and I had
just brought her safely out of it, when I came to you. One can't help
feeling at such a time, you know, unless indeed, one is a stock, or a
stone, and my sensibilities are almost too acute for my situation."
"Very true, my dear lady; but for _our_ sakes, for _my_ sake," and Mr.
Balch lowered his tone, "do try to control them, though to me, a female
without sensibility is a--a--monster, Mrs. Markham."
"I can't conceive of it," said that lady, in extreme disgust.
"No, of course you can not; how should you?" asked Balch. "I wish that
I--we--I--dared say how much we think of you."
"Oh!" said Markham, with a little deprecatory waive of her hand, "I
only do my duty, Mr. Balch."
"Yes, you do--a great deal more--much more than any one with less heart
would think of doing; you are too modest, Mrs. Markham; you underrate
yourself, Mrs. Markham; I shall move at the next meeting of the Board to
have your salary raised," said Balch, with enthusiasm.
"Oh, I beg--I beg"--said Markham, covering her face with her
hands--"pray don't, Mr. Balch--I am not at all mercenary."
"My _dear_ lady," seizing her hands--"as if we--I--we--could think
so--and of _you_? I shall certainly propose it at our next meeting, and
if the Board haven't the means to do it, I know who has;" and Balch
squeezed Markham's hand.
CHAPTER III.
In a large, uncarpeted, barren-looking room, round narrow strips of
table, were seated Mrs. Markham's collected charge, at dinner. Each
little head was as closely shaven as if the doctor had ordered it done
for blistering purposes; and each little form was closely swathed in
indigo-blue factory cotton, drawn bag-fashion round the neck; their
lack-luster eyes, stooping forms, and pale faces, telling to the
observant eye their own eloquent tale of suffering.
The stereotyped blessing was duly mumbled over by Mrs. Markham, and the
bread and molasses distributed among the wooden plates. There was little
havoc made, for appetizing fresh air and exercise had been sparingly
dealt out by Mrs. Markham, who had her reward in being spoken of, in the
Reports of the Committee, as "a most economical, trustworthy person,
every way qualified for her important position." For all that, it was
sad to see the hopeless, weary look on those subdued faces, and to
listen to the languid, monotonous tone in which they replied to any
question addressed them.
Rose sat over the untasted morsel, looking vainly from one face to
another, for some glance of sympathy for the new comer.
_They_ were once new comers--some long since, some more newly; their
hearts, too, like Rose's, had yearned for sympathy; their ears ached, as
did hers, for one kind tone; but that was all past. Many suns had risen
and set on that hopeless search; risen and set, but never on their
sports or plays.
The moon sometimes looked in upon them asleep in their little narrow
cots. She saw the bitter waking from some mocking dream of home. She saw
them spring suddenly from their couches, as they dreamed that the
inexorable bell summoned them to rise. She saw them murmuring in their
restless slumbers, the tasks which their overworked brains had failed to
commit, and for which their much abused physiques were held responsible.
Morning came; no eye brightened at their waking; no little tongue bade a
silver-toned 'good-morrow;' no little foot tripped deftly out of bed:
for Markham stood at the door--Markham with her bell, and her bunch of
keys, and her ferule--Markham, stern and immovable as if she never were
a little child, or as if God had forgotten, when he made her, to give
her a heart.
And so, as I said before, Rose sat looking round the table, over her
untasted food, and wondering why it was the children looked so old, so
different from any children she ever saw before; and then she thought
that, perhaps, when they were all alone together (as if the hawk-eyed
Markham would ever leave them alone together), some little child might
come up, and put its arm around her neck, and pity and love her. But day
after day went monotonously by; they all went speechless to dinner,
speechless to the school-room, speechless to bed.
Twice a day they were walked in file round the paved yard, through which
not a blade of grass dared struggle; walled in from the little children
outside, whose merry laughs and shouts startled the little prisoners as
if _those_ tones were unnatural, and only _their_ listless life real. As
evening came on, they sat drowsily stooping over their tasks, or
clicking the monotonous knitting-needle, till weary lids _would_ droop,
and tired fingers resumed their task only at the rap from Markham's
ferule.
Rose saw it all now--she felt it--the torpor--gradually creeping over
her, and numbing her senses; she ceased to talk about her mother. She
did mechanically what she was bid; and, in the approving words of
Markham, was
"Quite a subdued child."
At stated times, the committee came in to look at them, and remarked how
inevitably children of the lower classes inherited poor constitutions
from their depraved parents, and went away as satisfied as if, granting
this to be the case, they were humanely endeavoring to remedy the
inherited curse; as if they were not keeping those growing limbs in
overstrained positions for hours, and depriving them of the blessed air
and sunshine, which God intended childhood to revel in as freely as the
birds and flowers.
CHAPTER IV.
"Well, what did you see in the city, Dolly?" asked a village gossip of
the village milliner.
"What are the summer fashions? Any thing new? Flounces worn, I suppose?
Always will be, for tall people, they are so becoming. Mantillas worn,
or shawls? Do they trim bonnets with flowers or ribbons? Do they wear
heels on the shoes or tread spat down on the pavement? What is there new
for sleeves? I am going to have a ninepenny calico made up, and I want
to know all about every thing."
"I hadn't as much time to look round as I wanted, not by half," answered
Dolly, "for the stores are full of splendid goods. I had to put that
child of Maria's into the orphan asylum. People began to talk because I
didn't look after it. I am sure I can't support it, at least not till it
is big enough to pay, by helping me in the shop here. People always die
just at the wrong time. If Maria had only waited a year or two, now,
till that young one had grown bigger; and if she had brought her up to
be good for any thing (she is a little shy kind of a whimpering thing,
no more life in her then a stick); but I don't intend her living shall
come out of me. I have worked hard for what money I have, and I know how
to keep it. She shall stay at that asylum till she is big enough to help
me, as I said before, and then she must work enough here to pay for her
bread and butter."
"That's it," said Miss Kip. "People who can't live to take care of
children have no business to have them, that is my creed. Was your
sister like you, Dolly?"
"No; I guess she wasn't. She was after every book she could find, before
she could speak plain, and when she got hold of one, you might fire off
a pistol in the room, and she wouldn't hear it. She crammed her head
inside, and I crammed mine outside," said Dolly, laughing; "for I had a
real milliner's knack before I left off pantalettes. Why, you never saw
any thing like our Maria. She went and sold the only silk gown she had
to buy a grammar and dictionary, to learn what she acknowledged was a
dead language."
"What a fool!" exclaimed Miss Kip.
"Of course," said Dolly; "letting alone the gown, which was bran new,
what was the use of her learning a language that was dead and out of
fashion? Well, there was a Professor Clark, who used to come to see her,
and you ought to have heard the heathenish noises they made with that
'dead language,' as they called it; it was perfectly ridikilis. He said
Maria was an extraordinary girl! as if that was any news, when every
body knew she never did any thing like other folks. Why, she'd pretend
she saw bears, and dippers, and ple--pleasure-rides, I believe she
called them, up among the stars."
"What a fool!" exclaimed Kip, again.
"Yes; and she said the earth was round and hollow, just as if any of us
could live in safety, hanging on the outside of an egg-shell, and _it_
turning round all the time, too--it was ridikilis!
"Well, Professor Clark married her, and their house was fixed up with
books, and pictures, and every thing of that sort which Maria liked. I
never went to see them, for they never talked about any thing that
interested me. Maria didn't care a penny whether her bonnet was an old
or a new one, so long as it was clean and whole. She had no eyes nor
ears for any thing but her books and her husband, till that child was
born, and then she acted just so about that. When it was five years old,
its father died, and then nothing would do but Maria must go after him,
as if there was nobody in the world worth looking at but Professor
Clark. She might have got married again, and then I should not have had
that child to look after. I know she will turn out just like her mother.
She looks just like her, and has all her superfine, good-for-nothing
lady ways already.
--"No, I did not have any time at all to look after the fashions in the
city. The things there are enough to drive you distracted. Such
beautiful big plaid and striped silks; such gay trimmings, and bright
shawls. I declare every thing looks so homely here in this village, when
I come back, that I am perfectly disgusted. Those old poke bonnets of
the Cramm girls, trimmed with that pink ribbon they have worn two
seasons, and Mrs. Munroe's rusty-looking black mantilla--it is perfectly
disgusting."
"So it is," said the sympathizing Kip, "I am tired to death of them,
myself. I really wonder, Dolly, you can make up your mind to stay here
in this dull place. Why don't you move into the city?"
"Perhaps, I shall, one of these days," said Dolly, with a toss of her
head. "I feel as though I was born to better things. It is dull work for
a woman to live all her life alone."
"I know it," said Kip, disconsolately.
"There are men enough in the world, no doubt of that," said Dolly, "and
when I go about with them, in the city, I quite enjoy it; but one sees
nothing here, except frogs and crickets; it is perfectly disgusting."
"So it is," chimed Kip; "and such splendid moonlight-nights as we have,
too, and such nice places to walk."
"Yes, but to walk with a _woman_!" said Dolly. "I like you very well,
Kip; but when one _has_ had gentlemen's society, it is like swallowing
the parings, after having eaten the peach."
"So it is," said Kip (quite willing in such a cause to be tossed
unceremoniously among the parings).
"Well, it is just here," said Dolly, "I will own it to _you_, Kip, I
mean to get married!"
"You don't!" screamed Kip; "to whom?"
"Lord knows, I don't, but I feel sure I shall do it."
"How?" asked Kip, with great interest.
"Never you mind," said Dolly; "see if I don't live in the city before
long. Such times as they have there! Theaters, concerts, shows, balls,
and every body so pleased with every body; such a delightful noise and
bustle and racket. And just look round this village! You might hear the
town clock tick; it is perfectly disgusting. There is not a man in it,
of any account, but Sprigg's the blacksmith, and he has but one foot;
sometimes I want to scream."
"So do I," said Kip.
CHAPTER V.
Mrs. Markham sat in her private parlor, comfortably sipping her tea.
Whatever might be said of the children's bill of fare, there was nothing
meager about hers. No Chinaman's tongue was ever a safer tea detector
than Markham's. No spurious mixture found a place in her tea-caddy; no
water-pot was allowed to wash away its strength when made. The warm
biscuit were as fragrant as the tea, and the butter might have won the
prize at any agricultural fair. The room too, in which the tea-table was
spread, had every appliance for the consolation of a single woman.
Comfortably plump sofas and chairs, a looking-glass, selected for its
peculiar faculty of adding breadth to an unnecessarily elongated face; a
handsome, well-filled bottle of Cologne, another of Bay Water, and a
work-box, with all sorts of industrial appendages, the gift of Mr.
Balch. Then, for the look of the thing, a few books, newspapers,
pamphlets, etc., for Mrs. Markham never read; partly because she had a
surfeit in the book line in the school-room, but principally, because
publishers and editors had a sad way of making their types so
indistinct now-a-days; or in other words, Markham had a strong aversion
to spectacles.
There were no pictures or flowers in the room, because the former
"marked the walls," and the latter "kept dropping their leaves on the
carpet;" but there were two smart, gilt candelabras on the mantle, and a
small clock between them, and an hour glass, and a stuffed owl. There
was also a light kid glove, which always lay there, because it served
for a text for Mr. Balch's little complimentary speeches about hands and
hearts, and pairs, etc. Mrs. Markham was always _going_ to put it away,
but somehow she never did so.
"Ah, Timmins, is that you? come in. Is Tibbs any better," asked Mrs.
Markham, comfortably sipping her tea.
"No ma'm, she's awful; her wrists look as if they would snap in two; and
her neck looks so slender; and her head so big. Oh, she's a sight,
ma'am."
"Pooh, you are always sight-seeing, Timmins; the child always had a
miserable constitution. As the committee say, it is not much use to try
to rear these children; the seeds of disease are in them."
"Well, Tibbs is going fast enough, that's certain. She's mostly
stupid-like, but now and then she smiles and reaches out her arms, for
all the world as if she saw the angels, and wanted them to come and take
her."
"What nonsense, Timmins. Hand me that toast. Just as if a pauper-child
would have such notions."
"Well, ma'am, if you only would stay long enough by the child, you'd
see it; it is awful to watch with her all alone."
"Afraid of a sick child," said Mrs. Markham, pouring out another cup of
hyson.
"No, not the child exactly--Tibbs is a good little thing; but the
sperrets, about the room. I do believe," said Timmins, solemnly, "that
sperrets are all round these childern. You don't see things as I do,
Mrs. Markham."
"I hope I don't," answered that lady, laughing, as she pushed back her
empty cup. "A pretty matron I should make, filled with such fanciful
whims; and a great while the committee would keep me."
"Perhaps so," answered Timmins. "Sometimes I think--"
"What?" asked Markham.
"And then again I don't know," said the perplexed Timmins; "but I must
run back to Tibbs--if you only _would_ look in on her, Mrs. Markham,"
said Timmins beseechingly, as she closed the door.
While the above conversation was passing, the film gathered slowly over
little Tibbs's eyes; the feet and hands grew colder--colder; drops of
moisture gathered on the marble temples; the lips moved, but no sound
came; a convulsive spasm shook the slight form, and little Tibbs was
dead! None stood by to hold the feeble hand, or wipe the gathering
death-damp from the pale lips and brow. No warm breath was proof to the
dimmed eye and dulled ear of Love's dear presence.
Tibbs died _alone_.
And yet not alone, for He who loveth little children, folded her to His
bosom.
"It is quite time she took her drops," said Timmins, re-entering the
room; and holding the phial up to the light, and placing a spoon under
its mouth, she commenced counting, "One--two--three--four--here Tibbie.
"What!"
The horror-struck Timmins darted through the door, and back to Mrs.
Markham.
"Oh, ma'am--oh, ma'am--she's gone--all alone, too--oh, Mrs. Markham--"
"Who's gone? what are you talking about, Timmons?"
"Tibbs, ma'am--Tibbs--while I was down here talking to you--and all
alone, too--oh dear--oh dear--"
"Hold your tongue, Timmins; as if _your_ being there would have done any
good?"
"Don't you think so, ma'am?" asked the relieved Timmins.
"No, of course not; the child's time had come--it is all well enough;
you couldn't have helped it. Call Watkins, and tell her to go lay her
out. I will be up when I have taken my nap. You stay there till Watkins
has done, and then lock the door and take the key. What o'clock is it?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Timmins. "Are you _sure_ it was just as well
for Tibbs to die alone? I hope _I_ shan't die alone. Should _you_ like
to die alone, Mrs. Markham?"
"That has nothing to do with it," answered Mrs. Markham, angrily; "go
along, Timmins, and don't make a fool of yourself."
"Poor thing! poor thing!" exclaimed Watkins, as she untied little
Tibbs's night-dress to wash her thin limbs, "_her_ sufferings are over.
I tell you, Timmins, there'll be a long reckoning for this some day. I
had rather be Tibbs here than Mrs. Markham. She isn't a sparrow's
weight," said Watkins, lifting the child. "Was she sensible when she
died, Timmins?"
"Don't ask me--don't ask me. Oh, Watkins, _could_ I help it? I ran down
to speak to Mrs. Markham, and--and--"
"She didn't die alone?" asked the horror-struck Watkins, laying the
corpse back upon the pillow.
Timmins nodded her head, and sat rocking her figure to and fro.
"Now, don't say a word--don't say a word," said Timmins, "I know I
shall be punished for it; but in deed I didn't mean no harm. I can't
stay much longer in this house, Watkins."
Watkins made no reply, except by slow shakes of the head, as she drew on
the little charity night-dress which was to answer for a shroud,
smoothed the soft silken hair, and folded the small hands over the weary
little heart.
"Do you know a prayer, Watkins?" asked Timmins, looking at the dead
child.
"I know 'Our Father,'" replied Watkins, smoothing a fold in the shroud.
"Say it," said Timmins, reverently; "it won't do _her_ no good, but it
will _me_."
"Our Father----"
"Got all through?" asked Mrs. Markham, throwing open the door; "that's
all right. Now spread the sheet over her face--open the window--lock the
door, and give me the key."
"Won't you come in, ma'am, and look at the child?" asked Watkins,
stepping one side.
"No, it don't signify; you washed her and all that, I suppose. Come out,
Timmins; and you, Watkins, run for the undertaker--the sooner the child
is taken away the better; it is not healthy to have a corpse in the
house," and Mrs. Markham applied her smelling-salts to her nose.
Watkins tied on her bonnet, and went sorrowfully down street for the
undertaker.
CHAPTER VI.
Mr. Pall prided himself on the reverent manner in which he performed his
necessary funereal duties. He always dressed in black, and sat,
handkerchief in hand, in the middle of his coffin ware-room, in a
prepared state of mind to receive customers.
He had every variety of coffin--from plain pine-wood up to the most
polished mahogany and rosewood. His latest invention was "the casket,"
daintily lined throughout with white satin, and the lid so constructed
as to expose the whole person instead of the face only, as in more
common coffins. This was what Mr. Pall called "a dress coffin," and was
perfectly consistent with any variety of adornment in the shroud that
the fancy of grief-stricken affection might suggest.
When Watkins entered, Mr. Pall sat complacently in his chair amid his
piles of coffins, with his hands solemnly folded over his handkerchief.
He would have scorned to disgrace his profession, like many others of
the craft, by reading the newspapers in his sanctum, smoking a cigar, or
in any other way conveying the idea that he had lost sight of his
mournful calling. We are not bound, therefore, to believe, on the
authority of a prying policeman's limited vision through the key-hole,
that when the shop was closed, Mr. Pall nightly drew from an
old-fashioned coffin a bottle of whisky and a box of cigars, wherewith
to console himself for the day's solemn and self-inflicted penance.
"Good morning, m-a-a-m," drawled the dolorous Pall.
"'Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound,
Mine ears attend the cry.'
"Want my mournful services, ma'am? I shall take a melancholy pleasure in
showing you my coffins. Age of the corpse, ma'am?" and Pall used his
white handkerchief.
"Six years."
"'Death strikes down all,
Both great and small--'
"Place of residence, ma'am?
"Orphan Asylum, eh?" repeated the disappointed Pall, as his vision of
the costly casket pattern faded away; "pine coffin, of course--no satin
lining or silver nails--no carriages--night burial, Potters' Field, etc.
"'Lie in the dust,
We all must.'
"Tell the afflicted matron of the Orphan Asylum that I will send up
directly and take the deceased child's measure."
And Pall flourished his white handkerchief as long as was consistent
with the demise of a charity orphan, and the small sum invested in the
pine coffin.
CHAPTER VII.
It was the day for the committee to make their stated visit of
examination at the Asylum. Timmins had swept the school-room floor very
carefully, scoured off the black-board, dusted the benches, and placed a
bunch of flowers on Mrs. Markham's desk, just as that lady entered on
her tour of inspection.
"How on earth came that green trash on my desk?" asked the offended
matron.
"I did it, ma'am, to make it look kind o' cheerful like;" said Timmins,
a little abashed at exhibiting such a weakness in such an august
presence. "It looks so dry and hard here, and children, poor things, is
fond of flowers," and Timmins sighed as she thought of poor Tibbie.
"Are you in your dotage, Timmins, to bring such a frivolous thing as a
bouquet into a school-room? who ever heard of such a folly?" and Mrs.
Markham sent it spinning through the nearest window.
Timmins sighed again, and rubbed off one of the benches with a corner of
her apron; then, looking up as if a bright thought had struck her, she
said:
"They say, ma'am, that this world is nothing but a school for us, and
yet God has strewn flowers all over it. He must have done it for
something."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Mrs. Markham, in extreme disgust; "go, bring in the
chairs for the committee, and then ring the bell for the children."
Clang--clang--clang went the bell, and in wound the mournful procession;
all habited alike, all with the same listless air, flabby-looking limbs,
and leaden complexions.
"Seems to me you look uncommonly stupid," remarked the matron, by way of
encouragement to the children; "see if you can't throw a little
animation into your faces."
The poor little victims stared open their eyes, and made an ineffectual
attempt at a smile, more painful to witness than their former
listlessness.
"Stand up straighter, can't you?"
The little crooked spines made a feeble and ineffectual attempt to
remedy the irreparable injury Mrs. Markham had inflicted upon them.
"Now, let every toe touch that crack on the floor.
"Now, cross your arms behind, every one of you.
"There--don't you stir a hair till the committee come in; it is now
eleven; they will be here at quarter before twelve; now mind what I tell
you about throwing a little animation into your faces;" and Mrs.
Markham having laid the ferule in sight, seated herself in an easy
position in a very comfortable chair, put a checkerberry lozenge in her
mouth, and prepared herself to punish the first child whose overstrained
limbs relaxed from weariness.
Every one knows how much more easily one can walk a mile than stand
perfectly still, in the same position, for fifteen minutes; and no one
who has ever seen the martyrdom which restless childhood is compelled to
undergo, in this respect (even in our best schools), sometimes in the
scorching vicinity of a red-hot stove, sometimes in a shivering draught,
for an hour or more, while the teacher, comfortably seated, leisurely
experiments upon their intellects, can help wishing that he might have
it in his power to subject thoughtless teachers, and as thoughtlessly
criminal parents, to the same daily and intolerable torture; can help
wishing that, having placed _them_ in such positions, he could have
liberty to punish them for the non-committal of tasks which their aching
heads and limbs have rendered impossible.
Let every parent satisfy himself or herself, by _personal inspection_,
with regard to these things; not on farce exhibition days, but by
unexpected calls, at such times as he or she may see fit; and let any
teacher who would debar a parent from such an inalienable right, be
deposed from his station.
Many a grave now filled with moldering dust would have been tenantless,
had parents, not trusting to show-circulars, satisfied themselves on
these points, instead of merely paying the term-bills when due.
"Rose!"
The little drooping head righted itself; the child had fallen asleep; a
thump on the head with the ever-ready ferule brought on a head-ache,
which rendered a repetition of the offense improbable.
"Quarter before twelve."
Markham slides her little gold watch back under her basque. The
committee have arrived. Now she smiles all over. Her hypocritical voice
is pitched to the company key. She glides round the benches, and calls
to "Rose, dear," and "Mabel, dear," and "Anna, dear," patting them on
their shrinking shoulders with her serpent touch.
Now one of the committee makes a prayer, and thanks God that these dear
children, rescued from sinks of pollution and crime, and from depraved
parents, have here found a Christian home, under the guardianship of a
mother in Israel; he prays that God will reward her abundantly for her
self-sacrificing devotion to them, and that the children may feel
unfeignedly grateful for all their blessings.
The committee then seat themselves, and Markham asks a list of
questions, cut and dried beforehand, to which parrot tongues respond.
The children then wail out a hymn, composed by a friend of Mrs.
Markham's in which they are made to express to that lady their
affectionate gratitude, as well as to the philanthropic and
discriminating committee present, who blow their noses sympathetically,
and wipe their spectacles. The children are then dismissed to their
bread and molasses, and so the farce ends.
(Pity, that the munificent bequests of great and good men to such
institutions as these, should, for want of a little investigation,
sometimes be so sadly misappropriated.)
The next day the readers of _The Morning Budget_ are informed, with a
pretty show of statistics, of the flourishing condition of that humane
institution the CHARITY ORPHAN ASYLUM, and of the spiritual and temporal
well-to-do-a-tiveness of its inmates, under the judicious supervision of
its energetic, self-denying, and Christian matron, Mrs. Clara Markham;
who forthwith orders a dozen copies of _The Morning Budget_, which she
distributes among her friends, reserving one for a fixture on her parlor
table, to edify chance visitors.
Meanwhile little Tibbie sleeps peacefully in her pine coffin in the
Potters Field, and Rose sits up in her little cot, while all around her
sleep, and stretches out her imploring arms to the peaceful stars that
shimmer through the window.
On the evening of examination-day, Mr. Balch, as usual, takes his leave
with the rest of the committee, but after seeing them safely round the
corner, returns as usual, to tea with Markham in the cosy little
parlor; and Markham smiles on him as only an unappropriated elderly
female knows how; and Mr. Balch, what with the smile and the Hyson,
considers Webster and Worcester united too meager to express his
feelings, and falls back upon Markham's hand, upon which he makes an
unmistakable record of his bachelor emotions.
CHAPTER VIII.
"Mercy on us! you don't expect me to sleep in that room, do you?" asked
Timmins of Mrs. Markham, as they stopped before the door of the room
where little Tibbie died.
"I wouldn't do it for a purse of gold. I know I should see her ghost;
oh, it would be awful;" and Timmins put her hands before her face, as if
the ghost were looming up in the depths of the dimly-lighted entry.
"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Markham; "how superstitious you are! I am going to
sleep there with you."
"Are you? Well, that alters the case," and Mrs. Markham led the way,
while Timmins followed her with distended eyes.
"I really can't help thinking she _will_ come back," said Timmins, as
Mrs. Markham extinguished the light and crept into bed. "I can't seem to
get over it, about her dying all alone. How very thin she was. Did you
ever think she was unhappy, Mrs. Markham?"
"I don't think any thing about it, Timmins. I go to bed for the purpose
of sleeping;" and turning her back upon Timmins, she buried her frilled
night-cap in the pillow.
"Don't cuddie up so close, Timmins," said Mrs. Markham, about ten
minutes after; "you make me insufferably hot."
"Lor', ma'am, I can't help it; I can't see nothing, and you won't speak
to me, and how am I going to know that you are there?"
"Guess at it," said Markham, giving another hitch away toward the wall,
and soon her sonorous breathing announced her departure to the land of
dreams.
"Goodness alive! if she ain't asleep," said Timmins; "what if Tibbie
_should_ come back? Oh dear! I am sure I am sorry enough I left her so.
I'll put my head under the bed-clothes. No I won't--because if it _is_
coming, Mrs. Markham must wake up, for I shan't be good for nothing; I
never spoke to a ghost in my life."
"What's--that?" she whispered hoarsely, as, by the dim light of the
street-lamp on the window-glass, she saw the door open slowly, and a
little figure dressed in white, glide in. "Oh Lor'--oh Mrs.
Markham--(griping that lady by the arm)--it's come!
Hist--there--there--oh--oh, it's coming _here_," whispered Timmins, as
Mrs. Markham, now thoroughly roused, trembled as violently as Timmins,
and both made a shuddering plunge under the bed-clothes.
"_You_ look out, Timmins?"
"No--_you_, Mrs. Markham!" and both night-caps were thrust carefully
from under the sides of the raised sheets.
There was the little figure--it was no illusion--flitting, gliding about
the room; now here, now more distant, and now, with its pale, wan face
and outstretched arms, it approaches the bed. Timmins and Markham both
jump shrieking from it through the door, and fall senseless upon the
entry floor.
The wicked flee when none pursueth.
Poor innocent little Rose! Waked suddenly from her somnambulistic sleep,
she stands gazing about her, the unconscious avenger of little Tibbie's
sufferings, and her own.
CHAPTER IX.
Years pass on. Some of the children have been bound out, others Death
has more mercifully indentured into his own service. Rose has grown
tall. Her step is slow and feeble, and her form has lost its roundness;
but her eyes are beautiful from the light within, and her wee mouth has
a grieved look which makes the beholder long to clasp her to his heart.
Even the ugly charity-school bonnet which Markham has just tied under
her chin, can not make her look ugly.
Dolly stands waiting to take her to Difftown; she has no bundle to pack
up, she has no regrets at leaving the Asylum, she has no hope for the
future, for she has looked into Dolly's face with her clear calm eyes,
and read her doom.
"Rose, come and kiss me, darling, before you go," said Markham. "I
always feel _so_ melancholy," she added, in an aside, to Dolly, "at
parting with these dear children. It is quite impossible not to feel a
motherly interest and solicitude after being with them so long. Good-by,
dear Rose--don't _quite_ forget me."
Rose thought there was little fear of that, as she followed Dolly out
of the house.
"A very nice woman, that Mrs. Markham," said Dolly, as they walked to
the stable where she had left her horse and chaise, "a very nice woman."
Rose made no reply.
"I dare say though, you don't like her at all, do you?"
"No," said Rose.
"Why not, I should like to know?" asked Dolly, tartly.
"I had rather not tell, if you please," answered Rose.
The civil manner in which the refusal was couched irritated Dolly.
"You are as like your mother as two peas," said she, angrily; "you look
just like her, and speak just like her."
"Do you think so?" asked the child, her whole face brightening.
"I don't know why you should look so pleased about it. Maria was a
thriftless creature. No learning but book learning."
"Please don't speak so of my mamma," and the tears stood in Rose's eyes.
"I shall speak just as I please of her," said Dolly; "she was my sister
before she was your mother, by a long spell, and I don't know why I am
bound to love her for that reason, when there was nothing to love in
her."
"But there was," said Rose. "She was sweet, and gentle, and loving, and
oh, Aunt Dolly, she was every thing to _me_," and the hot tears trickled
through Rose's slender fingers.
"Fiddle-faddle! Now ain't you ashamed, you great baby, to be bawling
here in the street, as if I was some terrible dragon making off with
you? That's all the thanks I get for taking you out of the church-yard
and putting you in that nice Orphan Asylum."
"If you had only left me in the church-yard," sobbed Rose.
Dolly was quite too angry to reply. The very bows on her bonnet trembled
with rage.
After a pause, she turned round, and laying her hands on Rose's
trembling shoulders, said,
"Now, look here, Rose Clark, now just take a fair and square look at me.
I don't look much like your _gentle_ mother, as you call her, do I?"
"No, no," sobbed Rose, with a fresh burst of tears.
"Well, I ain't like her in any thing. I ain't a-going to pet you, nor
make of you, nor spoil you, as she did. You are bound out to me, and you
have got your bread and butter to earn. I have no taste for cry-babies
nor idlers, and if you don't work and mind too, the committee of the
Orphan Asylum shall know the reason why; you may find worse quarters
than my milliner's shop," and Dolly stopped, not that the subject, but
her breath, was exhausted.
The morning was calm and serene, and the road through which Dolly's old
horse plodded, very lovely. There had been heavy rains for days before,
and now, as they left the city behind them, the sun shone out, and
bright drops hung glistening on the trees, shrubs, and grass blades, and
the spicy pines and way-side flowers sent forth their sweetest odors.
The little birds, too, came out, pluming their wings for a sunny flight
far--far into the clear blue ether, whither Rose longed to follow them.
_Such_ a burst of song as they went!
It thrilled through every fibre of the child's frame.
Rose glanced at the frowning face beside her. There was no appreciation
there. No, Dolly was thinking how much work she could get out of the
feeble child by her side, the helpless orphan in whose veins her own
blood flowed.
On they went--the old horse, and Dolly, and Rose.
Wreaths of mist rolled up from the valleys, crept along the hill-sides,
and were eagerly drunk up by the sun's warm breath, leaving the earth
fresh and fair as when it first came from the forming hand of God.
Cottages they passed, nestled among the trees, on whose happy thresholds
children clambered on a mother's knee.
Churches too, whose glistening spires pointed to that Heaven where Rose
longed to be at rest; and far, far away, the silver lake gleamed in the
bright sunlight; oh, how gladly, on its peaceful bosom, would the child
have floated away!
"For mercy's sake, what are you thinking about," asked Dolly, "with that
curious look in your eyes, and the color coming and going in your face
that way?"
"I was thinking," said the child, her eyes still fixed on the silver
lake, "how beautiful God made the earth, and how sad it was there should
be--"
"_What_ now?" asked Dolly tartly.
"Any sorrow in it," said Rose.
"The earth is well enough, I s'pose," said Dolly. "I never looked at it
much, and as to the rest of your remark, I hope you will remember it
when you get home, and not plague my life out, when I want you to work.
Let's see; you will have the shop to sweep out, the window shutters to
take down and put up, night and morning, errands to run, sewing,
washing, ironing, and scrubbing to do, dishes to wash, beside a few
other little things.
"Of course you will have your own clothes to make and to mend, the
sheets and towels to hem, and be learning meanwhile to wait on customers
in the shop; I shan't trust you with the money-drawer till I know
whether you are honest."
Rose's face became crimson, and she involuntarily moved further away
from Dolly.
"None of that now," said that lady, "such airs won't go down with me.
It is a pity if I can't speak to my own sister's child."
Rose thought this was the only light in which she was likely to view the
relationship, but she was too wise to reply.
"There's no knowing," said Dolly, "what you may have learned among those
children at the Asylum."
"You put me there, Aunt Dolly," said Rose.
"Of course I put you there, but did I tell you to learn all the bad
things you saw?"
"You didn't tell me not; but I never would take what belonged to
another."
"Shut up now--you are just like your mother ex--actly;" and Dolly
stopped here, considering that she could go no further in the way of
invective.
And now they were nearing the village. Rose thought it looked much
prettier at a distance than near.
There was an ugly, dirty tavern in the main street, on whose gaudy
sign-board was painted "The Rising Sun;" and on whose piazza were
congregated knots of men, smoking, chewing, swearing, and bargaining, by
turns; for it was cattle-fair Monday, and the whole population was
astir.
Herds of cattle; sheep, cows, calves, oxen, and pigs, divided off into
little crowded pens, stood bleating and lowing in the blazing sun, half
dead with thirst, while their owners were chaffering about prices.
On the opposite side of the street were temporary booths, whose owners
were making the most of the day by opening oysters, and uncorking
bottles for the ravenous farmers; little boys stood by, greedily
devouring the dregs of the glasses whenever they could dodge a boxed
ear. A few sickly trees were planted here and there, at the sides of the
road, which seemed to have dwindled away in disgust at their location.
On a small patch of green, dignified by the name of the Park, an
ill-assorted, heterogeneous company were drilling for 'lection,
presenting arms, etc., in a manner that would have struck Napoleon dumb.
Dolly's house was on the further side of "the Park," a two story wooden
tenement, of a bright red color, planted on a sand bank close to the
road side, unornamented with a single green thing, if we may except some
gawky boys who were eyeing the tin soldiers and peppermint candy in the
milliner's window, and who had been attentively listening to the
swearing cattle-dealers and picking up stray lobster-claws which good
fortune had thrown in their way.
"That _her_?" whispered Daffodil (Dolly's factotum), pointing to Rose,
as she assisted Dolly to alight. Dolly nodded.
"Why--she'd be a real beauty if she was only a little fatter, and
didn't stoop, and her eyes weren't so big, and she wasn't so pale."
"I don't see any beauty," mumbled Dolly, "she looks exactly like her
mother."
"O no--of course she isn't a beauty," said Daffy, retracting her
involuntary mistake, "she don't favor you in the least Dolly; I said she
would be pretty if--"
"Never mind your ifs now, I'm as hungry as a catamount, give me
something to eat, and then I'll talk; some of that cold ham, and warm
over some tea; goodness, how faint I am, that young one has tired me all
out argufying--she's just like her mother--exactly."
"Shall I set a plate for her too?" asked Daffy.
"Of course not, till I get through; children always cram all before
them, there wouldn't be a mortal thing left for me--let her wait till I
have done. Rose--here! take off your bonnet, sit down and unpack those
boxes, don't break the strings now, untie the knots carefully, the
strings may do to use again, and don't litter up the shop floor, and
don't----Lord-a-mercy, Daffy, if she ain't undone the wrong boxes, I
knew she would."
"T-h-o-s-e," she thundered in Rose's ear, pulling her along to the right
pile, and bending her over till her nose touched the boxes; "now see if
you can see them, and don't make another mistake _short_ of ten
minutes," and Dolly threw off her bonnet and sat down to her tea.
Rose stooped down as she was bid, and commenced her task, but the
excitement she had undergone, so different from the monotonous life she
had led, the heat of the day, and her insufficient breakfast before
starting, brought on a sudden vertigo, and as she stooped to execute her
task, she fell forward upon the floor.
"Sick now, the very first day," exclaimed Dolly, turning to Daffy, "now
ain't that enough to provoke any body? Her mother used to be just so,
always fainting away at every thing; she's got to get cured of that
trick; get up Rose!" and Dolly shook her roughly by the arm.
"I really think she can't," said Daffy, looking at her white lips and
relaxed limbs.
Dolly seized a pitcher of water near, and dashed it with rather more
force than was necessary in the child's face.
"That's warm water," said Daffy.
"How did I know that?" muttered Dolly, "bring some cold then;" and Dolly
repeated the application, at a different temperature.
Rose shivered slightly, but did not open her eyes.
"She intends taking her own time to come to," said Dolly, "and I have
something else to do, beside stand by to wait for it."
"But it won't do for her to lie here," said Daffy. "Suppose Mrs. John
Meigs should come in after that new bonnet of hern? It don't look well."
Dolly appreciated that argument, and Daffy had permission to carry her
out of sight, into a back sitting-room, on the same floor.
"She _does it_ remarkable, if she _is_ making believe," soliloquized
Daffy, as she laid Rose on the bed; "and she _is_ pretty, too, I can say
it now Dolly isn't round, pretty as a waxen doll, and not much heavier;
she is not fit for hard work anyhow, with those bit-fingers. I shouldn't
wonder if Dolly is too hard on the child, but I daren't say so. What can
that little scar be on her left temple?" and Daffy lifted the curls to
look at that indelible proof of Mrs. Markham's affection on Rose's
initiation day.
"Well, she's a pretty cretur!" said Daffodil again, as she took one more
glance at her from the half open door. "I couldn't find it in my heart
to speak cross to the poor motherless thing; but it won't do for me to
stay up here."
"Shall I make a cup of tea for Rose, agin she wakes up?" asked Daffy.
"Sick folks ought not to eat and drink," said Dolly, sarcastically; "no,
of course not; clear away the table, and put things to rights here. Our
Maria was always acting just so; if she didn't have her breakfast ready
to put in her mouth the minute she got out of bed, she'd up and faint
away; she'd faint if it was hot, and she'd faint if it was cold. She'd
faint if she was glad, and faint if she was sorry. She was always
a-fainting; I never fainted in my life."
"Sisters are different, you know;" said Daffy, polishing a tea-cup with
a towel.
"I believe you," said Dolly. "It is lucky they are; I am glad I ain't
such a miserable stick; but Rose has got to get out of that," added she.
"You don't really believe she, nor Maria, as you call her, could help
it, do you?" asked Daffy.
"Help a fiddlestick," said Dolly, jerking down her pea-green paper
window-curtain; "ridikilis!"
Daffy knew that word was Dolly's ultimatum, and pursued the subject no
further.
CHAPTER X.
"Aunt Dolly," said Rose, timidly, about a month after the events above
related, "Aunt Dolly"--and here Rose stopped short.
"Out with it," said Dolly, "if you've got any thing to say. You make me
as nervous as an eel, twisting that apron-string, and Aunt Dolly-ing
such an eternity; if you have got any thing to say, out with it."
"May I go to the evening school?" asked Rose, "it is a free school."
"Well--you are not free to go, if it is; you know how to read and write,
and I have taught you how to make change pretty well, that is all you
need for _my_ purposes."
"But I should like to learn other things, Aunt Dolly."
"What other things, I'd like to know? that's your mother all over. She
never was content without a book at the end of her nose. She couldn't
have earned her living to have saved her life, if she hadn't got
married."
"It was partly to earn my living I wanted to learn, Aunt Dolly; perhaps
I could be a teacher."
"Too grand to trim caps and bonnets like your Aunt Dolly, I suppose,"
added she, sneeringly; "it is quite beneath a charity orphan, I
suppose."
"No," said Rose; "but I should like to teach, better."
"Well, you won't do it; never--no time. So there's all there is to that:
now take that ribbon and make the bows to old Mrs. Griffin's cap--the
idea of wanting to be a school-teacher when you have it at your fingers'
ends to twist up a ribbon so easy--it is ridikilis. Did Miss Snow come
here last night, after I went out, for her bonnet?"
"Yes," answered Rose.
"Did you tell her that it was all finished but the cap frill?" asked
Dolly.
"No; because I knew that it was not yet begun, and I could not tell
a--a--"
"Lie! I suppose," screamed Dolly, putting her face very close to Rose's,
as if to defy her to say the obnoxious word; "is that it."
"Yes," said Rose, courageously.
"Good girl--good girl" said Dolly; "shall have a medal, so it shall;"
and cutting a large oval out of a bit of pasteboard, and passing a twine
string through it, she hung it round her neck--"Good little
Rosy-Posy--just like its conscientious mamma."
"I wish I were half as good as my mamma," said Rose, with a trembling
voice.
"I suppose you think that Aunt Dolly is a great sinner!" said that lady.
"We are all great sinners, are we not?" answered Rose.
"All but little Rosy Posy;" sneered Dolly, "_she_ is perfect, only needs
a pair of wings to take her straight up to heaven."
"Many a true word is spoken in jest," muttered Daffy, as she waxed the
end of a bit of sewing silk, behind the counter.
CHAPTER XI.
Mr. Clifton, the minister of Difftown village was one of those few
clergymen who possessed of decided talent was yet content to labor in an
humble sphere. Many of his brother clergymen had left their country
parishes to become stars in cities. Some, unspoiled by the breath of
applause, had laid their honors meekly at the Saviour's feet; others,
inflated with pride and self-conceit, preached soft things to those who
built them palaces of ease, and healed the hurt of the daughter of God's
people slightly.
Mr. Clifton feared the test. Appreciation is as dear to the sanctified
as the unsanctified heart. It _were_ pleasant to see the heart's dear
ones, fitted by nature to enjoy the refinements of life, in full
possession of them; it were pleasant to have daily intercourse with the
large circle of the gifted who congregate in cities--but what shall it
profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul? Mr.
Clifton felt that with his ardent social and impulsive temperament, his
quiet village parish, with its home endearments, was most favorable to
his growth in grace; and so, turning a deaf ear to the Syren voices
which would have called him away, he cheerfully broke the bread of life,
year after year, to his humble flock.
It was Sabbath evening--Mr. Clifton lay upon the sofa, suffering under
one of those torturing head-aches which excessive mental excitement was
sure to bring on. He loved his calling--it was not mere lip service for
him to expound the word of God, and teach its sacred truths--the
humblest among his people knew this; the tremor in his voice, the
moisture in his eye, told their own eloquent tale. There must have been
something to enchain those whose active limbs, never still during the
other days of the week from dawn till dark, could sit on those narrow
seats and never droop with uneasiness or sleep.
But the physical reaction was too apt to come to the delicately strung
frame; and with closed eyelids, Mr. Clifton lay upon the sofa in the
parlor of the little parsonage, while his wife bent over him, bathing
his aching temples.
The parsonage parlor! how difficult to furnish it to suit every carping
eye, for there were those, even in Mr. Clifton's parish, as in all
others, whom his blameless life and welling sympathies could neither
appease nor conciliate.
The parsonage parlor! The father of Mary Clifton would gladly have
filled it with luxuries for his only daughter; but Mary shook her little
head, and planted her little foot firmly on the plain Kidderminster
carpet, and sat down contentedly in the bamboo rocking-chair, and hung
the pretty pictures her girlhood had cherished in a spare room
up-stairs, and looked round upon the bare walls of the parlor without a
murmur of dissatisfaction.
Flowers she still clung to. The parsonage parlor was never without them.
They were on the breakfast and tea-table--sometimes but a single
blossom, for Mary had little time to cull them--sometimes only a green
branch or sprig, whose wondrously beautiful leaves, shaded with the
nicest skill, had given her a thrill of pleasure--sometimes a bunch of
simple clover--sometimes a tuft of moss, or a waving corn tassel, mixed
with spears of oats and grass-blades.
Mr. Clifton loved Mary all the better that she loved these things; and
when she came to him with her blue eye beaming, and her cheek flushed
with pleasure, and held up to him some tiny floral treasure, whose
beauty no eye less spiritual than her's could have discerned, and
pointed out its delicate tinting, he thanked God her heart could be made
happy by such pure, innocent, and simple pleasures.
But it was at such times as I have alluded to, when Mr. Clifton sank
under his pastoral duties, that Mary's love shone forth the brightest.
On the Sabbath eve of which we speak, his eyes were closed, but he heard
the rustle of her dress and her light foot-fall on the carpet. He felt
her fragrant breath upon his cheek, and the touch of her soft fingers
charming the fever from his temples. Gradually it crept away, yielding
to her magnetic touch, and the smile came back to her husband's lip, and
the beam to his languid eye. And now the healing cup of tea was
prepared, and the little stand with its tray set before him, and Mary
herself sweetened it, more with the smile on her lip and the love-beam
in her eye than with the big lump of sugar she dropped into it; and as
her husband drained the cup and laid his head back again upon the
cushions, he thanked God, as many a convalescent has done, for the
untold wealth of love which sickness may draw forth.
"Did you see that sweet child, George, in Dolly Smith's pew to-day?"
asked Mary. "Her little face quite fascinated me. It was as sad as it
was sweet. I fancied the child must have known sorrow; perhaps be
motherless," and Mary kissed her own little blue-eyed baby. "You know,
George, things sometimes come to me like a revelation. I am sure that
child's heart is sore. When you read the hymn I saw the tears standing
in her eyes, but then your voice is so musical, George, it might have
been from excess of pleasure."
"Foolish little wife," said her husband; "as if every body saw me
through your eyes, and heard me with your partial ears."
"Well, be that as it may," said Mary, "I want you to call at Dolly's
and see that child; get her into my Sabbath-school class if you can, and
if she has a sorrow, we will try to lighten it."
CHAPTER XII.
Not the least difficult part of a clergyman's duty is his round of
parochial calls. They must be rightly timed with regard to the domestic
arrangements of each family. This he is supposed to know by a sort of
intuition. They must not be too infrequent. He must remember the number
of the inmates, and be sure to inquire after the new baby. He must stay
no longer at Mrs. Wheeler's than he did at Mrs. Brown's. He must
swallow, at any physical cost, whatever is set before him in the way of
eating or drinking.
Mr. Clifton was fully aware of all these parochial shoals, and, as far
as mortal man could do it, steered clear of shipwreck; but "offenses
will come," and Dolly was at the wash-tub, up to her elbows in soapsuds,
when "the minister" was announced by the breathless Daffy, who was
unaware that Monday is generally the day when all clergymen turn their
backs upon the study and recruit their exhausted energies by locomotion.
"Why, in the name of common sense, couldn't he have called Saturday?"
asked Dolly, hastily, wiping the suds from her parboiled fingers; "then
I had on my green silk, and should as lief have seen him as not; but
ministers never have any consideration. Daffy--Daffy, here--where's my
scalloped petticoat and under-sleeves? I dare say now that the
sitting-room center-table is all awry. Daffy, is the Bible on the light
stand? and the hymn-book too? Hand me my silk apron trimmed with the
pink bows, and get my breast-pin quick, for goodness' sake; men prink
forever themselves, but they never can wait a minute for a woman to
dress; how do I look, Daffy? I do wish people had sense enough to stay
away of a Monday morning. Don't let these calicos lay soaking in the
tub, now, till I come back; give 'em a wring and hang 'em out."
"Good morning, Mr. Clifton," said Dolly, dropping a bobbing courtesy;
"it is quite a pleasure to see you."
"Thank you, Miss Dolly," replied the minister, with a gravity truly
commendable, when the fact is taken into consideration that he had heard
every syllable of the foregoing conversation, through the thin
partition; "thank you, Miss Dolly."
"Yes, I was just saying to Daffy," resumed Dolly, "how long it was since
you called here, and how welcome you were at any time, when you felt
_inclined_ to come. I don't think it at all strange that you should
prefer calling oftener at Lawyer Briggs's and Squire Beadle's, than at
my poor place. I know it is hardly fit to ask a clergyman into."
"Lawyer Briggs and Squire Beadle are my wife's relatives, you know, Miss
Dolly."
"Oh, I wasn't complaining, at all," said Dolly; "they are eddicated
people, it isn't at all strange; how's your folks?"
"Very well, I thank you; the baby is getting through his teeth bravely."
"I saw Mrs. Clifton go into Mrs. Messenger's the other day," said Dolly.
"I see she has her _favorites_ in the parish."
"Mrs. Messenger's little boy was taken in a fit," said Mr. Clifton, "and
they sent over in great haste for my wife."
"Ah," said Dolly, "well, I didn't blame her, of course not; I wouldn't
have you think so. Mrs. Messenger is considered very genteel here in the
village; Mrs. Messenger and I are two very different persons."
"I see you brought me a new parishioner last Sunday," said Mr. Clifton,
glad to change the conversation.
"Yes; she is a poor child whom I took out of pity to bring up; her
mother is dead, and so I offered her a home."
"That's right," said Mr. Clifton, who had his own views about Dolly's
motives. "I hope she will attend the Sabbath-school; Mrs. Clifton, I
know, would like her to be in her class."
Dolly's countenance fell. "Well, I don't know about that, though I'm
obleeged to Mrs. Clifton. I don't think Rose would be willing to go."
"She might be shy at first," said the minister, "but my wife has quite a
gift at drawing out children's hearts. I think little Rose would soon
love her."
"I don't think she will be able to go," said Dolly, coldly; "but I'll
think of it."
"Do," replied Mr. Clifton, "and perhaps you would allow her sometimes to
run over and see the baby and the garden. Children are sociable little
creatures, you know. Is she fond of flowers?"
"I guess not," said Dolly. "I am sure I never could see any use in them,
except to make artificial ones by, to trim bonnets."
Mr. Clifton smiled, in spite of himself, at this professional view of
the subject. "Well, the baby then," he added; "it is just beginning to
be interesting. I think she would like the baby."
"She don't seem to have much inclination to go about," answered Dolly,
"and it is not best to put her up to it; home is the best place for
children."
Ay, _home_, thought Mr. Clifton, as Rose's sweet sad eyes and pale face
passed before him.
"Well, good morning, Miss Dolly; perhaps, after all, you will change
your mind about the little girl."
"Good morning, Mr. Clifton," and Dolly bobbed a succession of little
courtesys, and avoided answering his last remark. "Good morning, Mr.
Clifton; thank you even for a _short_ visit, but I don't complain. It is
a poor place, after all, to invite a clergyman into."
"I think I see Rose going to Sabbath-school," said Dolly, as she folded
up her finery, put it away, rolled up her sleeves and went back to the
wash-tub; "I think I see _her_ going off to Sunday-school and me doing
up the work; visiting at the minister's house too; 'baby and flowers,'
and all that: she'd be so set up in a fortnight that there would be no
getting along with her: all sorts of notions put in her head, instead of
thinking herself well off here as she is, with her head under shelter,
ten to one she would imagine she was terribly abused. No--Rose don't
make any acquaintances if I can help it, and as to Sunday-school,
there's the Bible, she might as well study it in one place as another;
there's something behind all this; I verily believe that child is going
to bewitch folks, just as her mother did before her; the amount of it
is, they took a fancy to her, Sunday, in meetin'; Rose is just like her
mother exactly; _she_ always looked just so innocent, as if she didn't
know that she was--(Dolly couldn't say _pretty_ even to herself, so she
added--artful). No, that child shan't go any where, nor see any body,
nor do any thing, but work for me;" and Dolly gave the towel she was
wringing out, as vigorous a twist as if it had been Rose's neck.
The kind-hearted clergyman and his wife made many after attempts to show
Rose some little kindness, but Dolly was always sure to out-general
them, and fearing at last that the situation of the child might be made
still more irksome by their persistence, they reluctantly confined
themselves to sympathetic glances, and nods, when they met her; and this
was much to poor Rose, for Dolly's voice grew each day harsher and
colder, and Rose's future, hour by hour, looked more dark and rayless.
CHAPTER XIII.
And now the minister and his gentle wife had their own sorrow to bear.
_The baby was dead._
There are those to whom that phrase conveys but little meaning; there
are others whose every heart-string thrills to it. "The baby" may not be
pretty to any, save those who gave it being. Its first smile, its first
word, its first tottering step, are trifles all to the busy world
without; but ah, not in the little home circle: not to _him_ who
contending all day long with the jostling world of trade, sickened and
disgusted with its trickeries and overreaching, selfishness, and
duplicity, weary with the clamorous din of traffic, crosses at length
his own peaceful threshhold, and sitting down by that little cradle,
bends a brow seamed with care, over the little sleeper, with heaven's
own smile upon its lip, heaven's own purity on its baby brow.
Not to _her_; to whom its faintest smile were reward enough for mortal
pangs and throes; its faintest wail of pain loud enough to drown the
united call of hunger, thirst, and weariness.
Not to _those_ who, folding it to their _united_ hearts, say--_Our
baby_.
Is _their_ love the less when disease lays its withering finger on the
roses of its cheek and lip? Can they spare "the baby" even though other
children cluster round the hearth? And when death's shadow falls, can
they forget the night-watch nestling of that little velvet cheek? the
imploring look of that fading, upturned eye? Can such chords be rudely
snapped without a jarring discord? No, _let_ them weep; Jesus wept.
Inexpressibly dreadful is the touch of careless fingers upon the loved
dead; the careless robing and unrobing of limbs in life so dearly
cherished, so delicately draped.
Inexpressibly beautiful are the services weeping love jealously renders
to the departed; bearing on its own shoulders to its last resting-place
the coffin and the pall, lowering it carefully, reverently, as if the
pulseless heart within would be pained by a stranger touch.
It was Mary Clifton's own fingers which shrouded the baby; it was the
father's own hands which placed it in the coffin, it was in their own
arms by the light of the quiet stars, it was borne to its garden grave.
"Ridikilis!" exclaimed Dolly, "as if nobody was good enough to touch
that child; minister's folks, too, having sich stuck-up notions; as if
the child knew who carried it, as if the sexton didn't understand his
business, as if the whole village oughtn't to have seen 'em bury it, if
they wanted to. Polly Smith was up in a tree, and saw the whole of it.
She said she was determined to. She said they cried like every thing;
now that just shows how much they believe what they preach about
'heaven's being the best place;' if that is so, they'd naterally be glad
the young one had gone there; pooh, it is all stuff--they don't believe
it no more nor I do; any how, I shall make the most of this world, and
then, if there's nothing better in t' other, I shall have at least
gained something.
"It was perfectly ridikilis, there not being a funeral time; I should
have sold yards and yards of black ribbon, for the parish to wear; but
minister's folks never think of any body but themselves. I've found that
out."
Mary Clifton sits at her nursery-window; the empty cradle is by her
side, with its snowy pillow and coverlid, the baby's rattle lies on the
mantle, and its little cloak and silken hood hang just in sight within
the closet.
That window was her favorite seat; there she used to toss the baby up
and down, to catch the woodbine branches that clambered over the open
window; _they_ still stirred with life--but oh, where was the little
dimpled hand, so late outstretched in glee to reach them?
Just one short week ago that day (before "the baby" was taken sick), oh,
how well she remembered it, how bright it looked that morning, with its
snowy frock and blue ribbons, she stood just in that spot with it; a
pane of glass had lately been broken, and the cement in the new one was
yet fresh; the baby pressed its tiny little finger on it, and left its
impress. No wonder Mary sits there passing her own finger slowly over
the indentation, while the tears chase each other down her face; oh, to
how many maternal hearts have such memories been at once a sorrow and a
solace?
CHAPTER XIV.
"Oh, Aunt Dolly!" said Rose, coming in with her face all a-glow, "will
you please tell me is this my mother's thimble? I found it in the
drawer, and _may_ I have it?" she asked, pressing it to her lips.
"It don't take me long to answer questions," said Dolly; "it _is_ your
mother's, and you may _not_ have it. You had no business to go ferreting
round among my things."
"You told me to go to the drawer, and get the thread," answered Rose,
"and it lay right there, and I could not help seeing it. Won't you
please let me have it? I shall be _so_ happy if you will."
Poor child! This was the worst argument she could have used.
"I will do any thing, Aunt Dolly, if you will," said she, poising the
coveted treasure on her tiny finger. "I'll--I'll--"
"Won't you ever say another word to me again about going to school, as
long as you live?"
Rose hesitated, and looked at the thimble. "I don't like to promise
that, Aunt Dolly."
"Then I don't like to give you the thimble," answered Dolly, snatching
it from Rose's finger, and stuffing it into her own pocket. "Now go back
to your work, miss."
"I would have given it to her, had I been you," said the good-natured
Daffy (adding the only argument which she knew would tell on Dolly); "I
really believe the child would do twice the work with that thimble on
her finger."
"I didn't think of that," replied Dolly, "perhaps she would--Rose?"
Rose came back with traces of tears upon her face.
"Will you be a very, very good girl, and do every thing I tell you,
always?"
Rose could not answer for sobbing.
"Give it to her," whispered the tortured Daffy, "you'll see how it will
work."
"Well, there's the thimble," said Dolly, throwing it at her.
"Oh, Aunt Dolly," said Rose, "I thank you. I'll try; indeed I'll try."
"Well, go along, and see that you keep your word. I haven't much faith
in it, though."
"I declare," said Dolly, leaning back in her chair, "our Maria was the
beater for one thing; every body who ever saw her used to carry on about
her just like that child; even the cats and dogs liked a kick from her,
better than a petting from any body else, and as to her husband, he
thought the model was broke (as that image man said) after his wife was
made. I don't suppose fire could burn out the love of that young one for
her mother, for all she was so little when Maria died. I am sure I have
done my best, but the fact was, Maria had a way with her."
Ah, selfish Dolly! Thy sister had a heart. It shone in her eyes,
lingered in her smile, sweetened her voice. _Love_ was the open sesame
by which she unlocked all hearts, and without which thy grasping fingers
shall try in vain.
"Aunt Dolly," said Rose, returning, "there is a boy in the shop who
wants to know if you can make three mourning bonnets right away. Mrs.
Sharp died this morning."
"Oh! that's very nice. To be sure I can. Go tell him I will begin them
this minute. Those hats, Daffy, must not cost less than eight dollars
a-piece. It don't do for people in affliction to chaffer about prices
and make bargains beforehand, that's one comfort; they must be made of
the most expensive English crape, Daffy."
"I thought the Sharps were not very well off," suggested Daffy.
"That's nothing. They ought to pay a proper respect to the dead, if they
ain't; beside, they have rich relations. I shall be sure to get it out
of some of 'em, never fear. Hand the black crape, Daffy. I wonder what
ailed Mrs. Sharp? She was out to meetin' last Sunday. I hope her husband
will call to settle the bill. Daffy, don't it make you laugh to see what
a fuss widowers make _trying_ to grieve for their wives? It is
ridikilis! Mr. Sharp isn't a bad man to look at. How many children has
he, Daffy?"
"Ten," said Daffy.
"Couldn't stand it," said Dolly. "Rose is enough of a pill for me. I
shall certainly refuse him."
CHAPTER XV.
"Good afternoon, Dolly," said one of her neighbors, coming into the back
room, and tossing off her shawl, which served the double purpose of
cloak and bonnet. "Who _is_ that pretty girl you have there in the
shop?"
"Who can she mean?" asked Dolly of Daffy, in affected surprise.
"Why," said Miss Tufts, anticipating Daffy, "that pretty creature with
the curly hair and large eyes, who is rolling up your ribbons; she is a
real beauty."
"She can't mean Rose?" asked Dolly of Daffy, looking innocent again.
(Simple Daffy, puzzled to know how Dolly wished her to answer, contented
herself with a little doubtful shake of the head.)
"Call _her_ pretty?" said Dolly, returning from a tour of observation
into the shop, as if she had not the slightest idea who was there; "call
Rose pretty. Well, I'm beat now."
"Why--don't you?" asked Miss Tufts. "I don't see how you can help it;
her hair curls so beautiful, and she has such a way with her, it took
right hold of me; her voice sounds as if a little bird was singing in
her mouth."
"Ridikilis!" said Dolly; "how you talk. Has your pa got over his
pleurisy? That's right. How do you like this ribbon? It is new style,
you see; one side is green, and the other red."
The visitor's eyes being fixed on the ribbon which she had taken to the
window to examine, Dolly took the opportunity to whisper to Daffy, "Go
tell Rose to go out of the shop into the back part of the house."
"It is a first-rate ribbon," said Miss Tufts, refolding it; "but look,
there's Mrs. Clifton going down street. She hasn't held her head up
since her baby died. How she does take it to heart, Dolly."
"Yes," said Dolly, snipping off the end of her thread, "that's the way
with those people who are always talking about 'another and a better
world.' I don't see but they hold on to this one with just as tight a
grip as other folks."
"It isn't nature not to feel bad, when a friend dies," remarked Miss
Tufts.
"Well, there's no need of making such a blubbering about it," said
Dolly. "I didn't, when our Maria died, I restrained my feelings; it is
perfectly disgusting."
"Here Daffy," said Dolly, as Miss Tufts tossed her shawl over her head,
and bade them good-by, "here's the trimmings Nancy Dawes brought for
her bonnet; it is not much matter how you put them on, she has no taste
you know; it will be all one to her, if you only tell her it is the
fashion; that is the right kind of customer for me, your knowing people
are a sight of bother, with their fussing. Daffy, mind you save me
enough of Nancy Dawes's ribbon for a bow for my neck, three quarters
will make a very decent one, but I had rather have a yard; and Daffy,
when Lawyer Grant's wife comes in to ask how much ribbon it will take to
trim her bonnet, mind that you tell her a yard extra. She has all her
ribbons from the city, and they are just the thing for neck-ribbons. She
never will know but it is all put on her bonnet, when the bows are cut
up and twisted together; she never asks no questions, there's nothing
mean about Lawyer Grant's wife; she don't mind milliners and
mantua-makers taking their little perquisites."
"Sometimes I think it isn't right," said Daffy.
"You do? that's a good one, I'd like to see your year's profits on any
other system. Why, Mrs. Bond gets all hers and her children's aprons out
of the silk, and de-laine, and thibet-cloth that ladies bring her for
dresses; it is all right enough. We must take it out some way, when
ladies beat us down to the lowest possible price for work; talk to me
about its not being right--'self-preservation is the first law of
natur,' as the Bible says."
Daffy did not dispute the questionable authority of the quotation, but
rolling the responsibility of the anticipated sin she had assumed, off
on Dolly's broad shoulders, proceeded to do her bidding.
CHAPTER XVI.
Mrs. Clifton _was_ going down street, as Miss Tufts had said; going to
"the baby's" grave, for she could bear the deserted nursery and empty
cradle no longer. It was something to be near the little form, though
the spirit which shone through the sweet eyes had winged its way to Him
who gave it; and so she passes the little wicket-gate, and winds her way
among other graves, over which other mothers, like her, have wept. Some
of them, carefully kept, others overrun with briars and nettles; seas
perhaps, rolling between some babe and her under whose heart it once
stirred with embryo life; or, far away, perhaps, the mother too, may be
sleeping, waiting, as does her solitary babe, for that day when the dead
who are in their graves, shall hear _His_ voice, and come forth!
Mrs. Clifton nears her baby's grave. A little form is bending over it, a
slender, delicate child, whose clustering curls, as she stoops, quite
hide her sweet face. Somebody else loves "the baby," for the little
grave is dotted over with flowers, simple enough, indeed, but love's own
offering. The mother draws nearer, smiling through her tears the
while--the child looks up; it is Rose.
"Bless you! bless you, my darling," Mrs. Clifton murmurs, and draws her
to her bosom.
"Why did you strew flowers on my baby, dear?" asked Mrs. Clifton, wiping
her eyes.
"Because I was so sorry for you," said Rose, timidly, "I thought perhaps
it would make you happy, when you came here, to see them."
"Did any one ever die whom you loved?" asked Mary.
Rose's lip quivered, the tears gathered slowly in her eyes, and hung
trembling on her lashes, as she nodded her little head.
"Who, my darling?" asked Mary, drawing the child nearer to her.
"My mother, my own dear mother!" said the weeping child, drawn to her
kind questioner by the mutual sympathy of sorrow.
"Rose--Rose--Rose!" screamed the shrill voice of Dolly from over the
wall.
"Oh, I must go! indeed I must; please don't tell, please don't say any
thing," and Rose, hastily wiping away her tears, ran breathlessly toward
the little wicket-gate.
"Now I'd just like to know, miss, where you have been without leave?"
asked Dolly.
"Daffy told me you wanted me to go out of sight till after the company
was gone," said Rose, "and I thought I would just step over into the
church-yard, and put some daisies on the baby's grave."
"Ridikilis!" exclaimed Dolly; "just as if that baby knew what was top of
it; it is perfectly disgusting--you are just like your mother exactly.
Now go along into the house."
Rose entered the back parlor and sat down at the little window to her
work.
"Rose," said Dolly, about half an hour after, "don't your hair trouble
you when you are sewing?"
Rose looked up in astonishment at this demonstration of interest on the
part of her tormentor.
"I don't know," she answered; "I never thought any thing about it."
("Now don't go to cutting it," whispered Daffy; "it looks so pretty.")
"I think it is spoiling her eyes," said Dolly; "bring me the scissors,
Rose," and Dolly notched her locks in and out, in as jagged a manner as
she knew how. As for the offending eyes which Miss Tufts had
complimented, they were too useful to be extinguished, and as there was
no helping the "bird in her mouth," or the "pretty way she had with
her," Dolly resolved to keep Rose out of sight as much as possible, with
her sewing in the attic, which she designated as Rose's bed-room; and,
in pursuance of this determination, she was ordered up there.
Every body knows what a country attic is, with its hot, sloping,
pitch-oozing roof, with its indescribable paraphernalia of dried mullen,
elder-blow, thorough-wort, and tansy; with its refuse garden-tools,
boxes, baskets, and chests of odds and ends; its spider-webs and its
rat-holes.
A salamander could scarcely have endured Dolly's attic that hot August
noon. Rose sat down on the rickety old bed, under the heated eaves, to
ply her needle. There was an opening in the roof, but the breeze seemed
to blow over it, not into it. Rose made little progress with her sewing,
for her temples began to throb painfully, and her fingers almost refused
their office. Now she rubs her forehead and eyes, for a mist seems to be
gathering over them; now she pulls her needle slowly out again, and now
dizziness overpowers her, and she falls forward upon the floor.
"Now just hear that noise," exclaimed Dolly; "hear that young one
capering round that attic instead of doing her work. I'll soon settle
that:" and taking her little riding-whip from behind the old-fashioned
claw-footed clock in the corner, she mounted up stairs into the attic.
Phew! how hot it was--the perspiration started at every step, and this
fact did not tend to the diminution of Dolly's rage.
"You needn't play asleep now, because it won't do," said she, laying the
whip vigorously round the prostrate child. "I shall whip you till you
get up and ask my pardon, d'ye hear?"
There is not much satisfaction in whipping a person who does not appear
to feel it, and Dolly turned Rose over to see what was the cause of her
obtuseness; the face was so ghastly white that even she was for a moment
daunted.
But it is _only_ for a moment. Going to the head of the stairs, she
calls, "Daffy?"
"Look here, now," said Dolly, "see what comes of that young one's going
into grave-yards, where all those horrid dead people lie moldering; take
her up, Daffy, and carry her down into your bed-room; there's a whole
day's work lost now for that nonsense; she won't be able to do another
stitch to-day."
Days, weeks, and months passed on, no lightening of the heavy load; but
now the active spirit which seemed always devising fresh means of
torture for the child, was itself prostrated by sickness. A fever had
settled upon Dolly's strong frame and iron nerves, and reduced her to
almost childish helplessness. Ah--who glides so gently, so tirelessly up
stairs and down, bearing burdens under which her feeble frame totters?
Who runs to the doctor's, and the apothecary's, who spreads the napkin
over the little light-stand, that no rattle of spoons, glasses, and
phials, may disturb the chance naps or jar the nerves of the invalid?
And who, when she has done her best to please, bears the querulous
fretfulness of disease and ill temper, with lamb-like patience?
Who but Rose?
"Why are you crying?" asked Daffy, as Rose stood by the kitchen table
upon which she had just set down some glasses. "What is the matter with
you?"
"I am so sorry that I can not please Aunt Dolly; she says I have not
done a single thing right for her since she was sick; and indeed, Daffy,
I have tried _very_ hard," and Rose sobbed again: "I thought
perhaps--that--Aunt--Dolly--might love me a little when she got well."
"Never you mind, Rose," said the distressed Daffy, twitching at her
thread, "never you mind, she's a--a--there's a six-pence for you Rose."
"No, I thank you," said Rose, returning it, "I don't want money--I
want--I want--somebody to love me," said the poor tired child, hiding
her face in her apron.
"Never you mind," said Daffy, again, rubbing her sleeve into her own
eyes, "you shall--you shall--
"Lor', I don't know what to say to you--Dolly's a--a--well she's sick
and childish," said Daffy, ending her sentence in a very different
manner from what she had intended.
"Perhaps it _is_ that," said the good little creature, brightening up,
"I did not think of that. How cruel it was for me to think her unkind,
when she was only sick; I am glad you said that, Daffy," and Rose wiped
her eyes and went back into the sick chamber.
"It's awful to hold in when a body's so rampageous mad," said Daffy,
jumping up and oversetting her basket of spools, cotton, needles, pins,
etc. "I shouldn't wonder if I burst right out some day, to think of that
poor, patient little creature being snubbed so, after being on her tired
little legs these six weeks, traveling up and down, here and there, and
lying on the floor side of Dolly's bed, night after night, and all after
the way she has been treated too (for I have eyes if I don't say
nothing), and as long as nobody hears me, I'll just out with it; Dolly
has no more heart than that pine table," and Daffy gave it a vindictive
thump.
"There--now I feel better--I wish I dared tell her so to her face--but
it isn't in me; she makes me shrivel all up, when she puts on one of her
horrid looks, and I can't be looking out for a new place with this
rheumatism fastening on me every time the wind blows; I don't know what
is to become of the poor child, bless her sweet face."
CHAPTER XVII.
It is a long lane that has no turning, and Dolly now began to get about
once more.
"Dear me"--she exclaimed one morning, as she crawled round the shop,
enveloped in a woolen shawl--"how every thing _has_ gone to rack and
ruin since I have been sick; one month more sickness and I should have
had to fail. See that yellow ribbon, all faded out, a lying in that
window; when I was about, I moved it from the show-case to the window,
and from the window to the show-case, according to the sun; three
shillings a yard too, bought of Bixby & Co., the last time I went to the
city; and there's the dress-caps put into the bonnet-boxes, and the
bonnets put into the dress-cap boxes. Whose work is that I'd like to
know? And as I live, if there isn't a hole in the cushion of my rocking
chair, and the tassel torn off the window shade. O--d-e-a-r--m-e!" and
Dolly sank into a chair, and looked pins and needles at the helpless
Daffy.
"You forget how much we have had to do, don't you, Dolly? I have hardly
sat down half an hour at a time. What with waiting on customers, and
looking after housekeeping matters, I am as tired as an old horse. I
tried to do the best I could, Dolly."
"That's what people always say when they have left every thing at sixes
and sevens; but that don't put the color back into Bixby & Co.'s yellow
ribbon, nor mend the shade tassel, nor the hole in my chair cushion. For
mercy's sake, didn't you have Rose to help you? You make such a fuss
about being tired."
"It took about all Rose's time to wait on you," answered Daffy.
"That's a good one!" exclaimed Dolly; "all on earth I wanted was to be
kept quiet, take my medicines, and have a little gruel now and then. You
can't make me believe that."
"It takes a great many steps to do even that," said Daffy, meekly; "but
you are weak yet, Dolly, and a little thing troubles you."
"Do you mean to tell me that sickness has injured my mind?" said the
incensed milliner; "that's a pretty story to get about among my
customers. I could trim twenty bonnets if I chose. I am not so far gone
as you think for; perhaps you was looking forward to the time when Dolly
Smith would be taken off the sign-board, and Daffodil put up instead;
perhaps Rose was to be your head apprentice; perhaps so."
"Oh, Dolly," said Daffy, shrinking away from her cutting tone, "how can
you?"
"Well, I'm good for a _little_ while longer," said Dolly, "any how; now
see that child," said she, pointing to Rose, who had just entered the
door, "I bought those shoes just before I was sick, and now her toes are
all out of 'em. See there, now. Do you suppose I can afford to find you
in shoes at that rate?" and she seized Rose by the shoulders, pressing
her thumb into her arm-pit, in a way to make her wince.
"I'm very sorry, Aunt Dolly, but I had so much running to do. Had I
thought of it, I would have taken off my shoes."
"And worn your stockings all out," said Dolly, "that would have been a
great saving, indeed."
"I would have taken them off, too, had I thought you would have liked
it, Aunt Dolly."
"And gone barefoot here, in my house, so that the neighbors might say I
didn't half clothe you. You never will pay for what you cost," said
Dolly, pushing her roughly away. "You are just like your
mother--ex-actly. Now begin to cry--that's mother, too, all over."
"If I were only with her," thought Rose, as she seated herself at her
work.
Daffy stooped near to Rose, ostensibly to pick up a spool of thread, but
in fact to whisper, "Never you mind, Rose; it is always the darkest just
before day."
A few weeks of returning health and successful bonnet-making made the
amiable Dolly a little more endurable to every body but our heroine;
for she had settled it in her mind that scant fare and harsh treatment
were the only means to keep Maria's child where she should be.
It was Saturday morning, or, in other words, Dolly's baking-day. You
might have known it by the way the tables and chairs spun round, the
window-sashes flew up and down, and by the pop-gun curtness of Dolly's
questions and answers. Every body gave Dolly a wide berth on Saturday;
even the cat kept out of doors till the last smoking loaf was taken from
the oven, and Dolly had reseated herself at her usual post behind the
counter. Poor Daffy dodged round in the most diplomatic manner, and
never ventured a disclaimer for any sin, how heinous soever, with which
Dolly might wrongfully charge her. With Rose it was _always_ 'Saturday,'
and so she experienced no unusual flutter when Dolly bade her follow her
into the kitchen, "as it was high time she learned to do the baking."
"Here, now," said Dolly, "down with you in that chair, and see if you
can stone those raisins decently. Mind that you whistle all the while
you are doing it, I don't want them all eat up; raisins cost something,
they are very much like you in that respect."
Rose took the wooden bowl in her lap, and commenced her task, though she
could not exactly understand how she was to learn to bake with her eyes
fixed on the raisins.
"What is that?" asked Rose, as Dolly measured out some lard, and put it
on the table.
"What do you suppose it is, for mercy's sake? I dare say you thought it
was cheese. It would be just like you; it's lard, of course."
"How much did you put in, Aunt Dolly?"
"The usual quantity; how do you suppose my pies would taste, if I made
them helter-skelter?"
"That's why I asked you," answered Rose, meekly.
"Well, how much did I put in? Why, there's that bowl full," said Dolly,
"haven't you got eyes?"
"But if that bowl should get broke, Aunt Dolly, I couldn't tell, unless
I had another exactly that size, how much to take."
"I suppose it must needs be a yellow bowl, too," sneered Dolly, "just
like this, with a black rim round the edge; how ridikilis!"
"Isn't there any rule?" asked Rose, despondingly; "how shall I know when
I get it right?"
"Why, go by your common sense, of course; how ridikilis; there, now,
just see how you have cut those apples, all sorts of ways; wasted half
of 'em in the parings."
"I am sorry," said Rose, "I was trying to learn how you made that
crust--how much butter is there there, Aunt Dolly?"
"Why, those two pieces, don't you see? what silly questions you ask."
"I am afraid I shall never learn," said the bewildered Rose, "I don't
believe I could do it."
"I dare say you couldn't; you are just as stupid about that as you are
about every thing else. You are just like your mother, ex-actly."
"What did you do that for?" asked Rose, as Dolly, having made her paste,
put a small dab of dough in the mouth of the oven.
"'Cause I felt like it," said Dolly, "it don't look like a pudding, does
it, and it isn't a pie; I dare say you'd stare at it till the
millennium, without ever guessing what it was for; come, stone your
raisins; you won't get done till next Christmas; of course, if you had
any sense, you'd know that it was a piece of dough put there to try the
heat of the oven--you are the tiresomest little young one I ever saw;
you always talk at me, till I'm all gone at the stomach."
"Why did you stand some of the pies up on bricks in the oven, and set
others on the oven floor?" asked Rose, a short time after.
"Well," exclaimed Dolly, "that goes ahead of any thing you have said
yet; if it wasn't for letting my oven cool, I could hold my sides and
laugh an hour; a smart cook you'd make; don't you see that there's
either too many pies or too small an oven, and that by standing bricks
endways between the plates, and putting pies on top of 'em, I can get
lots more room, you born fool! Did you ever see such a stupid thing?"
asked Dolly, turning to Daffy.
"But it's all new to her, you know," said Daffy, apologetically.
"Well, new or old, that child never will be good for any thing, with all
my trying; she's just like her mother, ex-actly."
"There, now," said Dolly, "I am going into the bed-room to lie down; now
see if you have sense enough to clear up here; get the dough off that
pan and rolling-pin, put away the dredging-box, and salt, and lard, and
butter, and things; throw away those apple chunks and raisin stuns, wash
off the table, scrub up the floor, rinse out the dish-towels, and don't
be all day about it."
As Dolly slammed the door to behind her, Rose sat down on one of the
kitchen chairs, leaned her head on the table, and wept; she was growing
older, and more capable of judging of the gross injustice done her.
Bitter, despairing thoughts came into her gentle heart, for it seemed as
if the more patiently she bore her cross, the heavier it grew. She
wondered if she could be worse off if she ran away, with the earth for
her pillow, the skies for her shelter? Surely, strangers would not be
more unfeeling than Dolly.
Oh, how could Dolly be sister to the gentle mother, whom she had seen
drooping away day by day, and whose sweet, tender eyes had never yet
faded from her sight. Rose remembered the murmured prayer with which she
drew her little head upon her bosom the day she died, and now--she
looked hopelessly about her. Hark--she thought she heard her name
murmured in those same sweet, loving, maternal accents.
"_Rose!_"
Was it fancy? No! A bunch of flowers glanced through the open window and
fell at her feet; a paper was twisted round the stem, and on it was
written,
"FOR THE BABY'S FRIEND, LITTLE ROSE.
"When thy father and thy mother forsake thee, then the Lord will
take thee up."
A bright smile came to Rose's lip, and with a hurried glance around the
kitchen, she hid the bouquet in her bosom, and stepped lightly to her
tasks.
The baby's mother loved her; the flowers were rightly
named--Heart's-ease.
CHAPTER XVIII.
"Don't you think you are a l-i-t-t-le hard on Rose?" asked Daffy, as
Dolly reseated herself behind the counter, after her nap.
"Hard on her? to feed her, and clothe her, and keep her out of the
alms-house," said Dolly. "Dreadful hard, that is."
"But you know you speak pretty sharp to her, and she does try to do
right, Dolly."
"So she ought," said Dolly, tartly.
"Yes--but you know some children would get clean discouraged, if they
were never praised."
"Let her get discouraged, then, I don't care, so long as she does what I
tell her."
"I am afraid it will spoil her temper, by and by, and make it hard for
you to get along with her."
"No fear of that," answered Dolly, glancing up at her small riding-whip.
"I have finished in the kitchen, Aunt Dolly," said Rose. "Shall I go
take my sewing?"
"Of course," said Dolly. "You might know that, without asking."
"Looking pale, is she?" said Dolly, turning to Daffy, "did you see what
a bright color she had when she came in, and how her eyes sparkled?"
"I never saw her look so before," replied Daffy; "I wonder what has come
over her."
"Nothing has come over her, except that it has done her good to work;"
said Dolly, "talk about my being 'hard on her,' indeed."
"Good morning, Dolly! A paper of No. nine needles, sharps, if you
please--have you heard the news?"
"No," exclaimed Dolly and Daffy in a breath.
"Well--Miss Pettingill was down to Miss Gill's to tea last night, and
Miss Gill was to work the day before at Deacon Grant's; and she said
Deacon Grant and Deacon Tufts were closeted in the back parlor all the
afternoon, and Miss Gill listened at the key-hole, and she heard them
say, that the minister ought to go off on a little journey with his
wife, because they were so low sperrited about the baby, and they are
going to raise the funds to send him to the springs or somewhere, I
don't know where. Miss Gill couldn't hear the whole of it, because she
was afraid of being caught listening."
"I can tell them they won't raise any funds out of me," said Dolly--"Do
I ever go to the springs? Do I ever get low-spirited? When minister's
folks want to go on a frolic they always get up some such nonsense, and
the parish has to pay the fiddler. It won't do," said Dolly. "I shan't
give the first red cent toward it. His wife is going too, I 'spose."
"Yes--both on 'em--they are both all down at the heel. I'm sorry for
'em."
"Well, I ain't," said Dolly--"babies is as plenty as blackberries, for
the matter of that; they may have a dozen more yet, and if they don't,
why then they will have more time to call on the parish, and make
sermons and things--it is ridikilis!"
Years rolled slowly away. Difftown, doomed to stereotyped dullness,
remained in _statu quo_. It had still its "trainings" on the green, its
cattle-fair Mondays, and its preceding Sabbaths in which herds of
cattle, driven into the village on that day to 'save time' (as if time
was ever saved or gained by breaking the fourth commandment), ran
bleating round the little church, and with the whoas of their drivers,
drowned the feeble Mr. Clifton's voice; feeble, though he still labored
on, for consumption lent its unnatural brightness to his eye, and burned
upon his hollow cheek;--the parsonage was doubly drear now, for the
gentle form which flitted around it, had lain down long since with "the
baby," and the broken band was destined soon to be complete.
CHAPTER XIX.
"'Most there, driver?" thundered out a red-faced man, as he thrust his
frowsy head out of the stage-coach window.
"'Most there? Sahara is nothing to this sand-hill; phew! touch up yer
hosses, can't you? I'm perspiring like an eel in a frying-pan."
"So are my horses," answered the driver, sulkily, "I can't run them up
hill, this weather, to please you."
It _was_ hot. The dust-begrimed leaves by the roadside hung limp and
motionless: the cattle lay with protruding tongues under the broad tree
shadows; not a single friendly cloud obscured the fierce brightness of
the sun-rays, while the locust shrilly piped his simoom song in triumph.
"In-fern-al!" growled the fat man on the back seat, as he wiped his
rubicund face with a soiled cotton handkerchief.
"Swearing will not make thee any cooler, friend," quietly remarked a
drab bonnet by his side.
"Did thee ever try it, ma'am?" asked the irritated Falstaff, mimicking
her tone, "'cause if thee hasn't, thee is not qualified to judge on that
point."
"Did thee ever roll down that precipice?" asked the drab bonnet, "yet
thee knows if thee should it would certainly harm thee."
"Keen," muttered the fat man to a young lady who sat near him, as a
suppressed titter ran round the coach. "These women always trip up a man
in an argument, not by any fair play either, but by some such
metaphorical twist as that now. Well--nature gives strength to us,
cunning to them; I suppose she knows what she is about. Women are
necessary evils; if we can not get along with them, we certainly can not
without them; I suppose it is all right;" and he looked for a reply in
the face of the young lady whom he had addressed.
She seemed not to have heard any thing which had passed; her large, dark
eyes were bent upon an infant who lay asleep on her lap, a very cupid
for grace and beauty. The child could scarcely have been her own, for
she could not have numbered more than sixteen summers; and yet there was
the same full red lip, the same straight nose, and the same long curved
lashes. The intense heat which had coarsened the features of her
companions served only to have heightened the beauty of the young girl;
deepening the rose on her lip and cheek, and moistening her tresses till
they curled round her open brow like vine tendrils.
"This is the house miss," said the driver, throwing open the door, and
looking in. "This is old Ma'am Bond's, miss."
The young girl colored slightly, and roused the little sleeper on her
lap, who opened his large brown eyes, and yawned just enough to show off
two little snowy teeth, and a very bewitching dimple, and then cuddled
his little head into the girl's neck as the driver held out his arms to
take him.
The driver deposited his charge and their scanty baggage, on the front
stoop of the old wooden house, and remounting his box, gave his horses'
ears a professional touch with his long whiplash. Turning to give his
ex-passengers a parting glance, he said:
"Wonder if that girl _is_ the child's mother? Can't be, though," said
he, still gazing at her slight figure; "she's nothing but a child
herself. That boy is a beauty, any how, shouldn't mind owning him
myself. I'm beat if any parson could call _him_ totally depraved. That
girl can't be his mother, though--she's too young."
Yes, young in years; but what is the dial's finger to those who live
years in a lightning moment, or to whom an hour may be the tortoise
creep of a century?
Yes, young in years; the face may be smooth and fair, while the heart is
wrinkled; the eye may be bright, though the fire which feeds it is
drying up the life-blood.
Yes, young in years; but old in sorrow--a child, and yet a woman!--a
mother, but the world said, not a wife.
Rat--tat--the dilapidated brass knocker is as old as its mistress. The
young girl draws a glove from her small hand, and applies her knuckles
to the sun-blistered door. Old Mrs. Bond toddles to the threshhold. With
what a stony look the stranger meets her curious gaze! With what a firm
step she crosses the threshhold; as if, child-mother as she was, she had
rights that must not be trampled on. But see, her eye moistens, and her
lip quivers. Harshness she was prepared for--kindness she knows not how
to bear.
"You must be very weary," said good Mrs. Bond to Rose, as she held out
her matronly arms for little Charley. "Poor little fellow!" and she held
a glass of cold spring water to his parched lips; "how pleasant he is;
and the weather so warm too."
"Charley is a good boy," said the young mother, pushing back the moist
curls from his temples, with a sad pride.
"It is a very pleasant country through which you passed to-day," said
Mrs. Bond, "though mayhap you were too weary to look at it."
"Is it?" answered Rose, languidly.
"Perhaps you would like to lie down," suggested the old lady, kindly;
"and your little room is quite ready. Your aunt, Mrs. Howe, sent us
word you would be here to-day."
The old stony look came back to Rose's face, and she stepped like a
young queen, as she tossed the boy carelessly over her shoulder, and
followed the old lady up the narrow stairs to her own room.
"Mrs. Howe was here yesterday in her carriage," said Mrs. Bond. "She
left this letter for you," handing it to Rose as she spoke. "Here are
water and towels, if you would like to bathe the little fellow. We have
no closets, but I have driven up some nails for your clothes. I hope you
will be comfortable. Shall I close the blinds for you?"
"No, thank you," said Rose; "I am obliged to you; it is very comfor--"
but the word died upon her lips, and she stooped over Charley to conceal
the rebellious tears, as Mrs. Bond left the room.
Yes, every thing was neat and clean--but so bare and desolate. The
old-fashioned windows were mere port-holes, and so high that as Rose sat
she could only see the blue sky, and the tops of the waving trees. There
was a yellow wash-stand, a bed, a table, and two chairs. Colored
engravings of Joan of Arc and Mary Queen of Scots habited alike, hung in
wooden frames on the wall. The floor was uncarpeted, and huge beams
crossed the ceiling.
As Rose looked about her, she drew a long weary breath, and stretched
out her arms, as if imploring some invisible aid. The babe crowed and
smiled; the trail of the serpent was not in his Eden.
Untying her bonnet, Rose broke the seal of the letter in her hand, and
read as follows:
"You must be aware that you have built up a wall between yourself
and the virtuous of your own sex; you must know that you have no
claim upon the love or sympathy of any such. I presume, like others
of your class, you excuse your sin to yourself, and are quite ready
to meet me, your only relative, whom you have disgraced, with a
plausible story of your marriage. It is quite useless. I shall
never associate with you. Still I am willing to provide you a
shelter with Mrs. Bond for two months, till your child (it is a
great pity it lived) is that much older. I shall pay but a small
sum for your board, as I expect you to do your own washing and the
child's, and assist Mrs. Bond in the house work. You are a sad
disgrace to us. My husband is just nominated for mayor. I have
given orders to Mrs. Bond and some of the neighbors to watch you
closely. If you walk out alone, or receive visitors, my allowance
is at once withdrawn. One would think, however, you would have
little desire to show yourself. I hope you will repent of the
disgrace you have brought upon us.
DOLLY HOWE."
Rose sprung up and paced the chamber floor. The veins in her temples
swelled almost to bursting. Her large dark eyes flashed, and her teeth
closed over her full red lip till the blood almost started, and tearing
the letter into pieces, she trampled it under foot. The babe crept
smiling after, picking up the bits as they fell from her hand. With a
quick grasp she wrenched them from his tiny hand, trampling them again
under foot. Then, as the boy uttered a low, grieved cry, she snatched
him to her breast, covered him with kisses, and throwing herself upon
the bed, burst into a long and passionate fit of weeping.
And thus they sobbed themselves to sleep, the child and the child
mother, pure alike in His eyes who judgeth not by outward appearance,
and to whom the secrets of all hearts are known.
CHAPTER XX.
In a private parlor of one of our great Southern cities sat two young
men, in dressing-gowns, smoking-caps, and slippers. On a table between
them stood a silver cigar-stand, a bottle of wine covered with cobwebs,
and two empty glasses. The room was exquisitely furnished, with the
exception of some questionable drawings upon the walls, and the young
men themselves were what boarding-school misses would have called
"perfect loves." Their hands were very white, their whiskers in a high
state of cultivation, their cravats were quite miraculous, and their
diamond rings of the purest water.
"Is this your last trophy?" asked Grey, poising a slipper of Cinderella
dimensions on the palm of his hand.
"That? not by a score," carelessly answered Vincent, changing his
diamond ring to the other hand; "that belongs to the pretty
boarding-school girl. I really had quite forgotten her. I wonder what
ever became of her? She was a perfect little Hebe, effervescent as
Champagne, quite worth a three months' siege."
"And believed herself married to you, I suppose?" asked Grey.
"Of course," said Vincent, laughing; "she was the most trusting little
thing you ever saw, primevally innocent in fact; it was quite
refreshing. How's the wine, Grey?"
"Capital," answered his friend, refilling his glass and holding it up to
the light with the gusto of a connoisseur. "Capital; but, Vincent, you
are a wicked dog."
"Think so?" drawled Vincent quite proudly, surveying his handsome face
in an opposite mirror.
"Yes," said Grey, "I am bad enough; but shoot me if I could be the first
to lead a woman astray."
"You sneaking poltroon," laughed Vincent; "if you did not, somebody else
would."
"That does not follow," answered Grey; "don't you believe that there are
virtuous women?"
"Ha! ha! you ought to have your picture taken now," laughed Vincent.
"Propound that question, most innocent Joseph, at our next club-meeting,
will you? The explosion of a basket of Champagne corks would be nothing
to the fizz it would make. A virtuous woman! no woman, my dear boy, was
ever virtuous but for lack of temptation and opportunity."
"I will never subscribe to that," said Grey, with a flushed cheek;
"no--not as I honor my mother and my sister."
Vincent's only answer was a slight elevation of the eyebrow, as he
pushed the bottle again toward Grey.
"No, thank you; no more for me," answered Grey, in disgust, as he left
the room.
"Green yet," said Vincent, lighting a cigar. "I can remember when I was
just such a simpleton. 'Virtuous women!' If women are virtuous, why do
they give the cold shoulder to steady moral fellows, to smile on a
reckless dog like me? I have always found women much more anxious to
ascertain the state of a man's purse than the state of his morals. If I
am an infidel on the subject of female virtue, women have only
themselves to thank for it. I believed in it once."
CHAPTER XXI.
"She's down stairs, she's back again, the young woman and her baby. I
knew you wouldn't like to hear it, ma'am."
"Go down stairs, and tell her I am not at home, Patty."
"I did tell her so, knowing your mind, ma'am; but she said I was
mistaken, for that she saw you at the window."
"Say that I am sick, then, and can not be disturbed; and, Patty, tell
the cook to see that her custards are ready for dessert; Mr. Finels
dines here to-day."
Patty retired with her instructions, but presently returned in great
haste.
"Bless us all, ma'am, the baby is taken in a fit in the entry, and is
rolling up its eyes horrid! Shall I tell her to go away with it?"
"Yes!" said Mrs. Howe--"yes--no--how provoking! I don't believe it--I'll
go down myself, Patty."
Throwing a large cashmere shawl over her robe-de-chambre, Mrs. Howe went
reluctantly down stairs.
The baby did look "horrid," as Patty had said, and Rose stood over it
wringing her hands.
"I don't see what you have come back for," grumbled Mrs. Howe, turning
her back upon the convulsed baby.
"What shall I do? oh, tell me what to do for him!" said the young
mother--"he will die! Charley will die!"
"All the better for him, if he should," said Mrs. Howe.
"Oh," said Rose, kneeling at her feet, "you have lost a little one, can
not you pity me."
Even this touching appeal would have been powerless to move Mrs. Howe,
had not the twitch of the bell-wire announced a visitor at the front
door. Hastily running to Patty, she said, "Take that child up stairs and
lay it on your bed. I am sure I don't know what to do with him; my
nerves are all unstrung; take him away; I suppose he will come out of
his fit before long."
Patty stooped to take Charley in her arms, but Rose anticipated her, and
carried the poor tortured child up into the attic. He came out of that
fit only to go into another, and Rose, agonized beyond endurance, fell
senseless across the bed.
"They are dying, both of 'em!" screamed Patty, bursting into Mrs. Howe's
room again; "you will _have_ to attend to it now, ma'am, sure. I know
_I_ can't stay by them."
"Go for the doctor, then," said Mrs. Howe, thinking this might be
preferable to a coroner's inquest; "not _our_ doctor, but the one in the
next street."
"Your doctor is the nearest, ma'am," suggested Patty.
"Do as I tell you!" said the frowning Mrs. Howe, going leisurely up
stairs.
"Just see what a spot of work, ma'am," said the cook, who had run up to
see what was the matter; "that child must be undressed, ma'am, and put
into a warm bath."
"Let it alone," said Mrs. Howe; "the doctor will be here presently. How
do you know it is the right thing to do with the child?"
"I am sure of it, ma'am, begging your pardon; my sister's child had just
the like of those fits, and that was what we always did for him, but
just as you please, ma'am--hadn't you better hold some smelling-salts to
its mother's face? she's in a faint, like."
Patty arrived at length with the doctor, who puffed considerably at
climbing so many stairs, and disconcerted Mrs. Howe still more by his
keen survey of the barren attic, Mrs. Howe's expensive apparel, and the
two patients before him.
Charley he pronounced in a critical state, owing to the length of time
he had lain in the fit; he then wrote a prescription, applied some
remedies, and recommended perfect quiet, and attentive nursing.
"He can not be moved, then?" asked Rose, who had recovered sufficiently
to know what was passing.
"By no means," said the doctor, "is it your child?" he asked, looking
with surprise at the girlish form before him.
Rose bowed her head.
"In fact," said the doctor, "I shouldn't think you were fit to go
yourself, if that were your intention."
Mrs. Howe's face flushed, and she walked up and down the floor uneasily.
"How long before he will be able to be moved?" asked Rose.
"It is impossible to tell. I think he may have a run of fever. I can
tell better to-morrow. Perhaps it would be better, on account of this
window," suggested the doctor, as he pointed to the broken panes of
glass, "to remove the child into another room. Don't you think so,
madam?" he asked, turning to Mrs. Howe.
"Oh, of course, certainly," replied Mrs. Howe, "he ought to have every
comfort the house affords."
Had the doctor known Mrs. Howe better, he would not have been deceived
at the seeming Samaritanism of this sarcastic reply. Rose could only
groan in anguish.
"It would be well to have those recipes attended to as soon as possible,
madam," said the doctor, handing them to Mrs. Howe, "shall you take
charge of my patient, madam?"
"Certainly," said Mrs. Howe, with another withering aside glance at
Rose.
"Well, then, madam, if you will have the goodness to watch the child
closely, until after he has taken his second powder--you see there are
two of them, one to be taken as soon as it arrives, and the other three
hours after. Should any thing unforeseen occur, you know my address,"
and the doctor, resuming his hat and cane, left the room, followed by
Mrs. Howe.
"Oh! Charley, Charley!" murmured Rose, pressing her lips to the little
hot hand which lay upon the bed, "do not leave me."
But the desolate mother had little time for reflection, for Mrs. Howe
returned immediately after having seen the doctor down stairs, and
coming up to the bed-side, demanded of Rose "what she meant by bringing
that sick child into town to burden her?"
"He was quite well when I started; I am very sorry, very, that I can not
go back. I lost a letter here, the only one I ever had from--"
"Your _husband_, I suppose you would say," said Mrs. Howe. "It is
astonishing that you will persist in keeping up that humbug; I should
think you might have learned by this time that your husband, as you call
him, could never have had much love for a woman whom he has neglected so
long; and so all this bother has come of a search for a precious piece
of his writing? 'Tis all a pretense, and you needn't believe that I
don't see through it."
Rose knew it was quite useless to attempt any justification of herself
and made no reply.
"I am glad you have sense enough not to deny it," said Mrs. Howe, bent
upon irritating her; "I am quite a match for your cunning in every
respect, Rose. I suppose you will have to stay here now, till the child
gets a little better, but I want you distinctly to understand that you
must wait upon yourself; my servants have something else to do, and when
you have occasion to go below, see that you go down the back stairs, and
do not allow yourself to be seen. You can move into the next room,
Bridget's room, if the Doctor cares for that broken window; that is some
of Patty's carelessness, I suppose. I shall insist upon your leaving the
house at the earliest possible opportunity; when the medicine comes you
must attend to it yourself;" and gathering up her flowing skirts, Mrs.
Howe left the room.
CHAPTER XXII.
"It is very curious that Rose does not come back; it is only five miles
into the city. I begin to think that something has happened to the poor
child," said old Mrs. Bond. "I feel quite uneasy. Mrs. Howe certainly
would not keep her any longer than she could help. Something _must_ have
happened;" and she walked from one window to the other, put up her
spectacles, and took them out, then took a book down from the shelf, and
after reading it upside down a few minutes, returned it to its place
again.
"I must certainly go into town and see what is the matter," said she. "I
never shall rest easy till I know;" and going out to the barn, she
called the cow-boy, and by his help, harnessed the old gray horse into
the chaise, for a drive into the city.
It was slow work, that ride; for the old, stiff-jointed creature,
knowing well the all-enduring patience of his mistress, crawled
leisurely up and down the long hills, stopped to pay his respects to
every water-trough he came across, and nosed round the sides of the road
after the grass-patches, in the most zig-zag fashion; now and then
stopping short, and insisting upon an entire reprieve from locomotion,
to be lengthened or shortened, at his own discretion. As to the whip,
old Gray stood in no fear of that, because his mistress never used it
for any thing but to drive off the flies. It is not astonishing,
therefore, that it was well on toward noon before he and Mrs. Bond
reached the city. It was as much of an event for old Gray, as for his
mistress, to see it. It was many years since either had been there. Its
kaleidoscope frivolities had little charm for Mrs. Bond; her necessary
wants were easily supplied from the village, and she was so fortunate as
to have no artificial ones.
Old Gray stopped short, as the city's din fell upon his unsophisticated
ear; and as he moved on and listened to the lashings less favored nags
were receiving from merciless drivers, as he saw the enormous loads
under which they staggered--stumbled--and oftentimes fell upon the
plentifully watered, and slippery pavement, rising (if they rose at all)
with strained and excoriated limbs, he probably thought, if horses ever
think, that "God made the country, and man made the town."
"Whip up your old skeleton. Get out of the way there, can't ye?"
muttered one of the progressives. "Drive to the left there, ma'am; drive
to the right; halt there, ma'am," and similar other expostulations,
coupled with invectives, were thundered in the ears of Mrs. Bond; who,
in her benevolence of heart, jerked this way and that, backed, sidled,
and went forward, and in the vain attempt to oblige all, displeased
every body; still she maintained her placidity, and smiled as sweetly as
if every person in the blockaded thoroughfare were not wishing her in
the torrid zone.
The old lady's greatest trouble, was her fear of running over some one
of the many pedestrians, of all sizes and ages, who traversed so
fearlessly that Babel of horses and carriages.
"Dear heart!" she would ejaculate, as some little child made his
unprotected way through the vehicles. "Dear heart! it will certainly get
killed!"
Good old soul! she did not know how miraculously city children live on,
in spite of crowded streets, schoolteachers, milk-men, and foolish
mammas.
But at length, a stable is reached near Mrs. Howe's; and the jolly
hostlers nudge each other in the ribs, as the old ark rattles into the
paved yard; and Mrs. Bond climbs carefully out, and resigns old Gray
into their hands, with many charges as to his plentiful supply of water
and oats. As the nice old lady turns her back, they go into convulsions
of merriment over the whole establishment, from harness to hub;
interrogating old Gray about his pedigree in a way which they think
immensely funny.
Mrs. Bond threads her way along on foot, now good-naturedly picking up a
parcel for some person who had unconsciously dropped one, now fumbling
from out her pocket a penny for the little vagrants who are tossing mud
back and forth over the crossings, with very questionable stubs of
brooms, to the imminent risk of pedestrians; and now she slides a
newspaper, which the truant wind has displaced, under the door crack for
which it was destined.
Now she sees a group of ragged, dirty little children, nestled upon a
door-step, upon which they have spread out a dingy cloth, containing old
bones, bits of meat, cold potatoes, and crusts of bread, upon which
their hungry eyes are gloating. It is too much for the old lady. She
points to the gutter, where she wishes their unwholesome meal thrown,
and beckoning them toward a baker's window, plentifully supplies the
whole party with fresh bread and crackers.
And now she stops short, for she hears a name uttered dear as her hopes
of heaven.
"Jesus Christ!"
The speaker's hands are not clasped, his head is not bowed, no prayer
followed that dear name; it was not reverently spoken. She turns on the
gentleman who uttered it a look, not of reproof but pity--such a look as
might have lingered on the Saviour's face when he said, "Father forgive
them; they know not what they do."
A crimson blush overspread his face, and his "Pardon me, madam" was
answered only by a gathering tear in the old lady's eye as she bowed
her head and turned slowly away, her lips moving as if in prayer. _He_
felt it--and the jest died upon his lip as his eyes involuntarily
followed her feeble footsteps, and thoughts of a sainted mother's
long-forgotten prayers came rushing through his mind with childhood's
freshness.
Ah, who shall say into what pits of selfish and unhallowed pleasure that
look shall haunt the recipient? What night shall be dark enough to hide
it, what day bright enough to absorb its intensity? Who shall say that
hallelujahs shall not yet tremble on the lips where erst were curses?
CHAPTER XXIII.
Mrs. Howe was lying on a sofa in her boudoir, in a showy
_robe-de-chambre_ of green, with cherry facings, over an elaborately
embroidered white petticoat. She had on also toilet slippers, with green
and cherry trimmings, and a very fanciful breakfast cap.
"Fall fashions open to-day, eh?" said she, laying a nicely printed
envelope, scented with "millefleurs," with which Madame Du Pont had
announced that important fact to her customers.
"Madame will have loves of things, just as she always does. I shall be
so happy in looking them over. I think I must have a lilac hat; madame
thinks lilac best suited to my complexion. Mr. Finels likes me in lilac;
as to John, he don't appear to know one color from another. I don't
think, however, a man ever knows what his wife has on. Madame Du Pont
would make very little if we had only our husbands to dress for; yes, I
will have a lilac hat, and I will go there before any other woman has a
chance to make a selection of the best. I must go in a carriage: Madame
Du Pont never pays any attention to a lady who comes on foot; a
hackney-coach is terribly vulgar. I must persuade John to set up a
carriage. I will contrive the livery myself. I wonder what is our family
coat-of-arms? I must go to the heraldry office, I think, and buy one; a
bear would be most emblematical of John--how cross he is getting! I
never should get along at all without Finels." And Mrs. Howe drew out
her gold watch, and then rising, surveyed herself in the long glass.
"Well, Mary, what is wanted?"
"If you please, ma'am, Mr.---- Mr.----, I forget his name, is below, and
wants to speak with you a few minutes."
"You stupid creature, you should have brought up his card. How am I to
know who it is? or whether it is worth while to make any change in my
dress or not?"
"I guess it is, ma'am," said Polly, with a sly look. "It is--Mr.----,
Mr.----Fin--Tin--"
"Finels?" asked Mrs. Howe, innocently.
"That's just the name, ma'am. I never can remember it. It is the
gentleman who always says to me if Mr. Howe is busy not to call him;
that _Mrs._ Howe will do just as well," and Polly grinned behind her
apron corner.
"How tiresome to call so early!" exclaimed Mrs. Howe, with ill-concealed
delight. "Well, I suppose you must tell him that I will be down
directly. Is the parlor all right, Mary?"
"Yes, ma'am, and Mr. Howe has just gone out."
This last remark, of course, was not heeded by Mrs. Howe, who was
playing in a very indifferent manner with her cap strings.
"You must really excuse my _robe-de-chambre_, Mr. Finels," said Mrs.
Howe, making use of the only French phrase she knew, to draw attention
to her new _negligée_ which a poor dress-maker had set up all night to
finish for the present occasion.
"I could not have excused you had you not worn it," said Finels, quite
accustomed to the little transparent trickeries of the sex, "it is in
perfect taste, as is every thing you wear; and I feel more particularly
flattered by your wearing it on the present occasion, because I consider
that when a lady dispenses with etiquette in this way toward a gentleman
friend, she pays a silent compliment to the good sense of her visitor,"
and Finels made one of his Chesterfieldian bows, and placed his right
hand on his velvet vest. "Beside, my dear madam, one who is so superior
as yourself to all the adornments of dress, should at any rate be exempt
from the tyranny of custom."
"Oh, thank you," minced Mrs. Howe, playing with her robe tassels, and
trying to improvise a blush.
"Here is a volume of poems which I had the luck to stumble upon
yesterday. I have brought them to you, because I like to share such a
pleasure with an _appreciative_ spirit," said the wily Finels, who
always complimented a woman for some mental, or physical perfection, of
which she knew herself to be entirely destitute. "It is a book I could
speak of to but _few_ persons, for I hoard such a treasure as a miser
does his gold."
Mrs. Howe _really_--blushed with pleasure. The diplomatic Finels was not
astonished, he was accustomed to such results.
"You will find some marked passages here," said Finels, turning over the
leaves. "They are perfect gems; I thought of you when I read them. I
risk nothing in hoping that you will admire them equally with myself,"
and he handed her the book. "Is Mr. Howe not yet in?" he asked in a loud
tone of voice as he heard that gentleman's footsteps approaching.
"Ah--how d'ye do, Howe? I was beginning to despair of seeing you."
"Thank you, thank you," muttered John, gruffly, throwing up the window
in extreme disgust at the strong odor of patchouli on Finel's
handkerchief, "thank you, you are _too_ good."
"I came," said Finels, "this morning to consult you on important
business matters. We literary people are sadly deficient in practical
affairs, and I know of no one in whose judgment I could so safely rely
as your own. Can you give me your arm down street?"
"Any time to-morrow I will be happy to oblige you," said the mollified
John; "to-day I have an unpostponable business engagement with the
stockholders of the ---- Railroad."
"Any time--any time, my dear fellow," said Finels, who was not at all
sorry for the reprieve; "I shall not think of deciding, at any rate,
until I see you again," and with as faultless a bow to Mrs. Howe as
Finels alone could make in a husband's presence, he backed gracefully
out.
"Finels is a _pretty_ good fellow, after all," said Mr. Howe, "_rather_
too much of a fop. What's this?" he asked, taking up the book which that
gentleman had left.
"Good gracious, Mr. Howe! see the paint on your new coat," said his
wife, remembering the marked passages and marginal notes, in the poems,
intended for her eye alone; "good gracious, Mr. Howe! do come up into my
dressing-room, and let me take it off while it is fresh."
A little sponge wet with spirits of turpentine, if it did not obliterate
the paint that never was there, at least obliterated all recollection of
the book from John's innocent mind; and Mrs. Howe, seeing her lord
safely out of the house with his spotless coat, prepared for her call at
Du Pont's.
"Please, ma'am," said Patty, "there is an old woman below, as wants to
see you bad."
"Didn't I tell you to send away all beggars, Patty?"
"She is not a beggar, and yet she is not a lady exactly, and yet she
_is_," said the puzzled Patty. "She is very respectable, ma'am; she said
her name was--was--I declare ma'am, I am shocking at names."
"Well--send her off, any way," said Mrs. Howe; "tell her I am out."
"But I have told her you was _in_, ma'am, not knowing as you might want
to see her."
"You never should do that, Patty, you should always say that you will
see if I am in; that gives me a chance, you see. Go tell her then, that
I am engaged."
"Please ma'am," said Patty, returning after a few minutes, "she says her
name is 'Mrs. Bond,' and wants to know if she can see the young woman,
and the sick baby; shall I show her up there?"
"Yes--yes--don't bother--I never shall get off to Madame Du Pont's."
One--two--three--four--five pair of back stairs, dark as only city back
stairs can be. Poor old Mrs. Bond stumbled and panted, panted and
stumbled breathlessly up toward the attic.
Patty threw open the door of the cook's room which Mrs. Howe, out of her
abundance, had benevolently appropriated to the use of the sick child.
The floor was uncarpeted, the window was without a blind, and the fat
cook's ample petticoat had been pinned up by Mrs. Howe, not out of
kindness to the sick child, but to keep out the eyes of prying
neighbors.
Rose sat on the only seat in the room, a low cricket, swaying to and fro
with Charley in her lap, vainly trying to hush his moanings; her eyes
were swollen with weeping, and her face was even whiter than Charley's,
for through the long weary hours, she had paced the floor with him, or
sat on the cricket, lulling him as best she could, watching every change
of expression in his little wan face.
At sight of Mrs. Bond, her pent up heart found vent, and laying her head
upon her shoulder she sobbed aloud.
"Don't, darling, don't," said Mrs. Bond, with difficulty restraining her
own emotions at Rose's distress, and the comfortless look of every thing
about her. "Dear heart, don't cry;" and taking Charley in her matronly
arms, she pushed Rose gently toward the bed, and sat down beside her.
"I see--I see"--she whispered, looking round the room, "you needn't say
a word, dear, it is hard to bear; but turn over, and try to catch a nap
while I hold the baby;" and cuddling him up into her comfortably fat
neck, the good hearted old lady commenced her weary walk up and down the
attic floor. Her gentle lulling and gentler touch, for babies know well
how to appreciate an experienced and skillful hand, soon soothed the
little sufferer. Rose, too, relieved from the pressure of
responsibility which had weighed so heavily on her inexperience, yielded
to the exhaustion which overpowered her, and sank into a fitful slumber.
Mrs. Bond laid Charley down on the foot of the bed, enveloped in her own
warm shawl, and with velvet tread and noiseless touch, rinsed the
glasses and spoons which stood on the window-seat near her, rearranged
the cook's petticoat over the window, and sat down to watch her charge.
How even those few hours' sickness had blanched Charley's cheek, and
paled Rose's lip!--"How _could_ Mrs. Howe?"--but no, she would not think
about it, if she could help it; and yet it _was_ cruel; no, no, she
would not think of it, and leaning her head forward upon the bed, she
prayed God to make the stony heart a heart of flesh.
Rose started up--she was not dreaming, for there sat good Mrs. Bond,
with her snowy cap and heart-warming smile.
"Dear heart! what a nice little nap you have had," she says, kissing
Rose's forehead; "try and sleep again, dear."
"No," replied Rose, rising slowly; "lie down yourself--how very tired
you must be, and how kind you are! I don't know how to bear such
wretched hours as I have had here; oh, mother--mother!" and Rose sobbed
again.
"There--there!" said Mrs. Bond, wiping Rose's eyes with her
handkerchief; "don't now, there's a dear. I don't know why this is, but
I know God loves us all, though we may not sometimes think so. Bear it,
and trust Him, dear; we shall know all by and by. There, don't cry,
now;" and Mrs. Bond wiped away her own tears.
A little stifled moan from the shawl announced Charley's waking. Rose
took him up, and sat down with him upon her lap; how hot was his little
head and hand, and how heavy his eye!
"Give him a sup of cold water, dear; see how parched his lips are."
"There is none up here," said Rose. "Mrs. Howe said I must not call upon
the servants, and I could not leave Charley alone to get it; now that
you are here, I will go down for some, if you will take Charley."
Mrs. Bond shook her head, and motioning Rose to sit still, took a mug in
her hand, and slowly felt her way down the dark back stairway.
On the third landing she had a little more light on more than one
subject, as Mrs. Howe's "boudoir" door was then open for the purpose of
cleaning it. What soft, downy sofas and cushions!--what a mossy
carpet!--what luxurious curtains and chairs! The old lady shook her head
mournfully; and, supporting herself by the balustrade, descended another
pair. There was light there, too, for the drawing-room door was open;
no niggard hand had furnished its gilded mirrors and pictures, its
lounges, tête-à-têtes, and candelabras; there was no parsimony in that
ample China closet, with its groaning shelves of porcelain, silver,
gold, and cut glass. Down still another pair to the kitchen, whose
savory odors already greeted her nostrils; no parsimony there, with its
turkeys and chickens roasting, its pies and puddings making, its
custards and jellies quivering in costly cut glasses--no parsimony
there.
"Will you have the goodness to show me to the pump in the yard?" asked
the unsophisticated Mrs. Bond.
"Pump in the yard! won't this pump do as well?" asked the "professed
cook," with a grin at one of her underlings.
"Yes, thank you," said the dignified old lady, discovering her mistake,
and moving toward the pump.
"Civil," whispered the cook to her assistant, "I am sorry I laughed at
her. Let me pump it for you," she said, taking the pitcher from the old
lady's hand.
"I will be obliged to you if you will," she said, "I don't understand
the handle of the pump. Thank you," said Mrs. Bond, with one of her
disarming smiles, as she held out her hand for the pitcher.
"Let me carry it up for you," said the cook, "it is such a way up."
"Oh, no!" said Mrs. Bond, quickly, remembering what Rose had told about
Mrs. Howe's order not to call on the servants.
But the cook was already out the door with the pitcher, and Mrs. Bond
followed her.
"What has come over you, now, I'd like to know," said Patty, as the
breathless cook returned to her turkeys, "it is the first time I ever
saw you put yourself out to oblige any body."
"Well, it won't be the last time, if that old lady stays here; there's
good enough in me, if people only knew how to draw it out; she does,
that's the amount of it. I wish my tongue had been torn out before I
made fun of her; I felt worse when she said 'thank you,' so civil, than
as if she had struck me with that rolling-pin; she's one of the Bible
sort; there ain't many of 'em; she'll go to heaven, she will."
"Well, let her go, I'm willing," said Patty, "now sing us the rest of
'Rosy-cheeked Molly.'"
"Oh, I can't," said the cook, breaking down at the end of the first
verse, "I wish you would just stir that custard while I run up with this
rocking-chair to that old lady; there's nothing on earth but a cricket
in that room for her to sit on."
"You'd better not," said Patty, "Mrs. Howe said we weren't one of us to
do nothing for them folks up stairs, no how."
"For all that, I shall," said the cook, shouldering the chair; "I am not
afraid of Mrs. Howe; I know my value. She wouldn't part with me for her
eyes, first because she likes my cooking, and second, because Mrs.
Flynn, whom she hates, wants to get me away from her; so now;" and up
stairs she trudged, with the rocking-chair.
"P-h-e-w! there's some difference between that garret and this kitchen,"
said Nancy, when she returned, "both as to distance, and as to
accommodations in 'em," said she, looking round upon the plentiful
supply of viands. "I begin to think that young girl up there, and her
baby, are awful misused; I don't believe Mrs. Howe's story about her;
she don't look as if she wasn't clever."
"Well, you'd better not say so," said Patty; "it is always my rule never
to burn my fingers pulling other folks' pies out of the oven."
"I should think so," said Nancy, "just smell that pastry burning now;
that rule won't work in this kitchen, any how; if Mrs. Howe comes home,
she'll be sure to scent it on the front door step, she has _such_ a
nose."
"So you think the little boy will get along?" asked Mrs. Bond, following
the doctor out into the entry.
"Oh, yes, madam, with time, and careful nursing; though he would stand a
better chance if he had a larger apartment; these attics are bad for
sick people. His mother appears to be quite worn out."
"She's young yet," said the old lady, desirous of attributing Rose's
distress mainly to her anxiety for Charley; "she has had little
experience."
The doctor would have liked to know more about his patients, but he had
too much delicacy to ask questions; and placing a new recipe in Mrs.
Bond's hand, he withdrew, musing, as he went down the stairs, on the
many painful phases of life to which his profession introduced him, and
which his skill was powerless to remedy.
Mrs. Bond kissed Rose and Charley, tenderly, as she bade them good-by,
for she could not leave her own household over night; and with a promise
to come again, and an entreaty to the tearful Rose to bear up, she took
a reluctant leave.
She would like to have seen Mrs. Howe before leaving the house, but
Patty told her she had not yet returned. As she went through the front
entry, she met Mr. Howe returning to dinner.
"Good-day, sir; I am glad to see you before I go; I have only a word;
you will take it from an old lady who means well: The baby and its
mother, sir--'As ye would that others should do unto you, do ye even so
to them;'" and with a gentle pressure of his hand, she smiled, bowed,
and went out.
"'As--ye--would--do--unto--them!' What does she mean?" said Mr. Howe. "I
supposed they were comfortable enough. Mrs. Howe told me so. She said
they had a room and every thing they needed. Mrs. Howe likes to manage
things her own way, and I let her," said the easy man, hanging his coat
on the peg; "but if they are not comfortable, that's another thing. That
old lady meant something. I must look into it--after dinner; I am too
hungry now."
CHAPTER XXIV.
Mrs. Howe returned with the lilac hat in her possession, and her purse
lighter by some scores of dollars. She had also a new Honiton pelerine,
a thirty-dollar _mouchoir_, and a gold bracelet, all of which she spread
out upon the silken coverlet of her bed, walking round and round it,
with very unequivocal glances of admiration.
"Has that old woman gone?" she asked, as Patty answered the bell.
"Yes, ma'am; just gone, and desired her respects to you."
"Well, her room is better than her company. Hand me my wine-colored
brocade, Patty, from the wardrobe, a pair of silk stockings, and my
black satin slippers. Now give me my frilled under-sleeves. Dinner going
on, Patty? I thought I smelt something burning as I came in; perhaps it
was only my fancy."
"I am sure it was, ma'am--the pies has had a lovely bake, and so has the
custards and puddings."
"I hope Nancy put vanilla in her custards," said Mrs. Howe. "Tell her I
want wine in the pudding-sauce; and tell her to strew grapes over the
dishes of oranges."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And, Patty?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Tell Betty--where's my other slipper? Oh! here it is--tell Betty--did
you take down my wine-colored brocade, Patty?--tell Betty--it's no
matter, Patty; I don't know what I was going to tell you."
Patty had nearly closed the door, when she again heard her name called.
"I've just thought what I wanted to say, Patty: did you clean the
silver, this morning?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And wash the parlor looking-glass?"
"You told me not to do that, ma'am."
"Oh! so I did. Where's my other under-sleeve? Gracious! you burned a
hole in it, ironing it. Oh, no; it is a fuzz of black silk sticking to
it. There, do go along, Patty; I want to dress;" and the fussy Mrs. Howe
locked the door, and gave herself up to the undisturbed contemplation of
her new Honiton pelerine and gold bracelet.
Dinner had been satisfactorily discussed, and Mrs. Howe sat back in her
cushioned chair to the work of digestion, and self-appreciation, while
John retired to smoke.
A visitor is announced. (_Enter Mrs. Flynn._)
The usual very sincere compliments, were tossed shuttle-cock fashion
from one lady to the other, Mrs. Howe, meanwhile, losing no opportunity
to display her new bracelet and settle the folds of her new pelerine,
which Mrs. Flynn persistently declined observing.
"I am _so_ tired," groaned Mrs. Howe, at length; "if I am stupid, my
dear creature, you really must pardon me, for I have been at Du Pont's
all the morning. I bought a few trifles of her, this pelerine, only
forty dollars, and this cheap bracelet for fifty. Du Pont never is easy
till I give her my opinion of her new millinery."
"She prefers the opinion of one qualified, by experience, to be a
judge," said the vexed Flynn, alluding to Dolly's former chrysalis
state.
Mrs. Howe bit her lip, and pulling the _mouchoir_ from her pocket, said,
"I forgot to show you this seventy-five dollar handkerchief. I did not
need any _common_ handkerchiefs, but I bought this to please Du Pont."
"I fancied I had seen that, as well as your pelerine and bracelet at
Mrs. Gardiner's party last winter," said the fibbing, irritating Flynn.
"Last winter!"--screamed Mrs. Howe--"my dear creature, I wouldn't wear
the same garter two winters."
"O, I must have been thinking of somebody else; pardon me, dear, my
memory is _so_ bad. What kind of servants have you, dear? I am so
plagued with servants."
"I have no trouble," replied Mrs. Howe, folding her hands complacently
over her pelerine, "for I always pay the highest prices." The rising
flush on Flynn's face announced this to be a dead shot.
Taking breath again, however, she came gallantly to the rescue.
"Yes my dear creature, but they are all alike about gossiping; now our
Margy, came to me with a long story about a baby which she declares she
saw up in your attic, and a young girl, beautiful as an angel, tending
it, and an old woman, and a young doctor, and goodness knows what. I
told her it was all nonsense, sheer nonsense, for of course you would
have spoken of it had there been a baby in your house; did you ever hear
such stuff?" asked Flynn, with a triumphant air.
"Never," replied the exasperated Mrs. Howe, stooping to settle her
bracelet to conceal her vexation; "I never heed what they say."
"Of course not," said Flynn, who having accomplished her mission, was
now ready to depart, before the enemy rallied sufficiently to charge
back. "Call and see me, my dear creature; intimate friends like us
should not stand upon ceremony. O, I forgot to tell you Finels called on
me yesterday. Bon jour;" and Flynn made good her retreat with flying
colors.
"Spiteful creature!" said Mrs. Howe, "she knows she never saw that
pelerine, or bracelet, or _mouchoir_, before this morning. I shall go
mad. And that baby business, too; if she had not floored me so
unexpectedly on that, I could have said a few things that would have
shut her mouth. I know that an own cousin of her husband is servant-man
at Mr. Jenks's; but my bright thoughts never come till afterward. Yes, I
will go and see her, as she requested. She shall hear of it yet, and
then we will see. Finels call on _her_! Finels requires _mind_ in a
female friend," and Dolly turned to the "marked passages" for
consolation.
CHAPTER XXV.
"Bless my soul! you don't mean to say you have been up _here_ all this
time, Rose?" asked John, throwing open the door of the attic. "Why,
bless my soul! Mrs. Howe told me that you were fixed very comfortable,
and all that. I did not know any thing about it," said the penitent
John, gazing at Charley's pale face. "This won't do; you must go down
stairs. Why, bless my soul! you _shall_ go down stairs," and before Rose
could reply, John had called Patty.
"Look here," said John, "take all those medicines and traps down into
the best spare chamber, and bring up a blanket to wrap the baby in; for
these folks are going down stairs."
"But, Mrs. Howe, sir, said that none of us was to wait on 'em on no
account, sir, and I--"
"Do what I tell you," said John, "down with these medicines, quick. Why,
bless me," he muttered, looking around, "no carpet on the floor,
no--why--bless me--" and the good-natured John looked from Rose to the
baby, and from the baby to Rose, and at last stooped and gave Charley an
atoning kiss.
"Had you not better let us stay where we are?" asked Rose, wishing to
avert from the head of her _pro tem._ protector the storm she knew would
be sure to burst upon it. "I am very sorry that Charley was taken sick
here, and that we have been so much trouble to you; very sorry that
I"--and Rose's voice began to tremble.
"You need not be sorry for any thing at all, any thing," said the
distressed John, "so, don't cry, it is a burning sha--well--never mind;
give me that little fellow, and follow me down stairs. Why, bless my
soul! no carpet on the floor--no--I had no idea of it."
"There now, Patty," said he, facing that astonished damsel, "go fill
that ewer with fresh water, and don't wait for these folks to ring to
find out whether they want any thing or not."
Patty stared at him as if she thought he were drunk or dreaming.
"D'ye hear?" said John.
"Y--e--s, s--i--r," said Patty, leaving her mouth wide open after this
reply, as though there were several little remarks she might make, if
she only dared.
Ah, well might little Charley open his wondering eyes at the crimson
silk bed-curtains, looped away over his cherub head. He had never lain
on so dainty a bed of roses as was embroidered on that gorgeous
coverlet; and as Rose sank down beside him into one of those
luxuriously-cushioned chairs, and laid her beautiful head back, with her
finely-chiseled profile relieved against its crimson damask, John
thought how well both mother and child became their new surroundings.
Yes, Rose's picture should have been taken at that moment, with her
unbound tresses, and her little hands crossed in her lap in such dreary
hopelessness. But when was she not a picture? and what has beauty ever
brought its possessor, but a broken heart?
"You will see the end of this," said Patty, to the cook, laying her
forefinger mysteriously on the bridge of her nose. "You will see what's
what, when Mrs. Howe comes home; those folks will be tramped back into
the attic in double quick time."
"What will you bet on that?" said Nancy; "men get tired after awhile of
being led by the nose. I will bet you that pair of gold ear-rings you
have been hankering after, that they will stay where they are."
"Done!" exclaimed Patty, "and I will bet you my new silk apron, with the
satin pockets, that they go back in the attic in less than twenty-four
hours from now. Hark! there comes Mrs. Howe home this minute; now we
shall see;" and Patty set the kitchen door wide open, that no sound
might escape her.
John was pacing up and down the library, whither he had retired, after
moving Rose into the best spare chamber. He was naturally a
good-hearted fellow, but his constitutional indolence had made him a
willing slave of his crafty, designing wife. John hated nothing so much
as trouble. Inch after inch of ground he had yielded to the enemy,
rather than contend for its possession. Now that the excitement of his
late involuntary declaration of independence was over, he began to
reflect upon the probable consequences, to listen nervously for the
door-bell; in fact, he felt very much more like running away than
"facing the music."
He had done penance before now, by drinking muddy coffee, eating
half-boiled potatoes, raw meat, and smoky puddings. He had groaned under
three weeks of sulks, with which Mrs. Howe had been afflicted, on
account of what she considered his conjugal misdemeanors. He had missed
his business memorandum-book for days together; been obliged to go out
the back door, instead of the front; had stood on one leg three quarters
of an hour at a friend's house, whither he had escorted Mrs. Howe to a
party, waiting for that lady to rejoin him to enter the drawing-room;
she, meanwhile, reclining composedly in an arm-chair in the ladies'
dressing-room, leisurely enjoying the penance she was inflicting. He had
been called _out_ of the party at an early hour, to wait upon her
ladyship home, merely because he seemed to be enjoying it; he had slept
with the window open when it was cold, and slept with it shut when it
was hot. No wonder John felt a little nervous.
"There it is--there it is," said Patty, rubbing her hands, "there's the
bell for me," and up she ran, confident of winning the coveted gold
ear-rings.
"Patty?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Mrs. Howe's face was pale with rage as, beckoning Patty to follow her,
she pointed through the open door of the best chamber at Rose and the
baby, to whom she had not deigned to speak.
"It was Mr. Howe's doings, ma'am. I told him you would be angry, and so
I didn't want to have no hand in it, but Lor', ma'am, he made me; it
wasn't no fault of mine, because I know'd it was agin' your wishes, and
so I made bold to tell him, ma'am."
"Hold your tongue. Take those messes (pointing to the medicines) up into
the attic, and then come back and get that baby."
Rose clasped Charley closer to her bosom, for Mrs. Howe's face was
demoniac in its rage.
"Out with you," said Mrs. Howe, taking Rose by the shoulder and pointing
to the door.
"Patty."
"Yes, ma'am."
"You see now," said that amiable lady, locking the door of the spare
room, and putting the key into her pocket, "whom you are to mind--who
is master in this house--do you? Go down into the kitchen."
"There--didn't I tell you so?" asked the triumphant Patty of the
crest-fallen cook; "now for my gold ear-rings."
"Not that you know of," said Nancy.
"What do you mean? Didn't you say that if--"
"I said," said Nancy, crossing her two stubby forefingers, "that I would
bet you that pair of gold ear-rings you wanted, that _they would stay
where they were_; meaning that the ear-rings would stay where they
were--in the jeweler's shop."
"It is right down mean," said the pouting Patty; "see if I am not even
with you before the week is out."
CHAPTER XXVI.
Poor Rose sat down in her old quarters, with Charley in her lap, trying
to read in his pale face the probable duration of his sickness. Poor
little fellow! he did not like the change. He missed the sheen of the
pretty satin curtains, and the glitter of their gilded cornices. They
were something for baby eyes to wonder and look at. He had quite
exhausted those ugly attic walls, hung with the cook's dingy wardrobe.
Even the pretty sunbeams in which babies love to see the little motes
glitter and float, had been jealously excluded by the tyrannical Aunt
Dolly; so poor Charley had nothing to do but roll his little restless
head from side to side, and whimper.
Ah, there is something now to look at! The door creaks on its hinges,
and an old crone, bent almost double, her nose and chin meeting, totters
in, leaning on a stick. A striped cotton handkerchief thrown over her
spare gray locks, and tied under her chin, and an old shawl over her
cotton gown, complete her wardrobe.
At any other time this little weird figure, appearing so suddenly,
would have terrified Rose; now her despairing thoughts had crowded out
every other feeling, so she sat quite still as the old woman hobbled,
mumbling, toward her.
"Why, Maria! there now. I _knew_ you were not dead. I told them so, but
they would not believe a word I said. You look as sweet as a lily. Where
is your husband, dear? and little Rose? and all of 'em, and every body?
I can't find any body I want to see. I am so tired and lonely. Don't
_you_ go away now, Maria. Did you buy that little doll for me to play
with?" she asked, catching sight of Charley. "It opens and shuts its
eyes, don't it dear, just like the waxen dolls? I like
it--chut--chut--chut," and the old lady touched Charley under the chin
with her wrinkled fingers. "Pull the wire and make the doll laugh again,
dear," she said, looking up in Rose's face. "I would like it to play
with. I get _so_ tired, _so_ tired. I stole away to-day; Dolly didn't
know it. Do you know Dolly? does Dolly strike _you_? What made you stay
away such a long time, Maria? Let us go to your house. I don't like to
be locked up in Dolly's house. I get _so_ tired, _so_ tired--dearie
me--dearie me--where's little Rose, Maria?"
Rose did not answer, for a fight was struggling dimly through her brain.
She remembered long years ago, when she first came to Dolly's, that an
old woman came there, not so bent as this old crone was now, but yet
gray haired and wrinkled, and that Dolly spoke harshly to her, and tried
to make her go away, and that the old lady cried, and said it was cold
at the poor house, and that she was hungry, and then Dolly said she
would give her a small piece of money, and something to eat, if she
would promise never to come there again; and that Dolly sent her (Rose)
into the kitchen till the old lady was gone, but that she had heard all
they said through the thin green baize door.
"Maria? why don't you speak? where is little Rose?"
"Is not this little Rose?" asked Rose, compassionately, as she pointed
to Charley.
"Sure enough," said the pleased old lady; "I thought it was a doll--sure
enough--why--I shall find 'em all by and by, who knows?--But--Maria, why
don't it grow any? it is just as little as it was when I saw it
last--where did I see it last, Maria?--chut--chut--chut--" she said,
tickling Charley's chin again. "Maria? you won't go away again, will
you?--_you_ won't strike me, will you? I'll be very good. Can't I stay
here, dear, with you, and the little doll, little Rose? Why don't it
grow bigger, Maria? Are you hungry? I am hungry--oh, dearie me--dearie
me--"
"Dear, dear grandmother," sobbed Rose, "I love you."
"Love me! do you! what for? did Dolly make you cry too? Maria, where's
Rose? Maria, what makes you call your mother grandmother? Do you know
Dolly? Dolly is down stairs; I don't go down stairs. See here," and she
touched her old faded gown and shawl, "I can't, you see, Dolly wouldn't
like it. Oh! dearie me--dearie me! I am _so_ tired," and the old lady
laid her wrinkled face against her granddaughter's.
"Voices! and in Rose's room! what new treason now?" and Mrs. Howe
applied her ear to the key-hole. The thin gray locks rested lovingly on
Rose's glossy auburn tresses. Rose's arm was about her withered neck,
and tears fell trickling from her eyes. It was a sweet picture; but the
artist might have found a foil to it, in the demoniac face outside the
door.
Ah! Rose, the hated Rose, in possession of her secret! Her face grew
darker--deadlier. But perhaps she was not _yet_ in possession of it; not
a moment was to be lost.
Opening the door, she said, coaxingly, "Why, Betty, are you in here?
This won't do. What will the doctor say? You must go back to bed,
Betty," and Dolly fixed her basilisk eyes on her cowering victim, who
nestled more closely to Rose.
"Poor crazed thing," said Mrs. Howe, "she imagines every body is going
to hurt her; by and by she will think so of you. She may kill Charley. I
ought to send her to the Lunatic Asylum; but she is an old servant who
used to live in Mr. Howe's family, and so I keep her, though she is so
troublesome. Come, Betty!"
"Maria!" whispered the old lady, hoarsely, clutching at Rose's
dress--"Maria, tell her _you_ love me, Maria."
"I do--I do!" sobbed Rose, unable to restrain herself, as she threw her
arms around her.
"Love that lunatic? What should you love her for, I'd like to know?"
asked the startled Dolly.
"Because she is my grandmother--my own dear grandmother. Oh Aunt Dolly!
hate me, if you will, but love her; she will not live long to trouble
any body," and Rose kissed the furrowed temples and stroked back the
thin gray locks.
"Well, if I ever!" said Dolly, looking innocent; "I believe the whole
world is going mad! Come along, Betty."
"Maria! Maria!" whispered the old lady, again nestling up to Rose.
"There, you see, she is quite out; she fancies you are somebody she has
seen before."
"No--she takes me for Maria, my mother," said Rose; "you say that I look
like her exactly."
"Come along, Betty!" said the infuriated Mrs. Howe. "Mother and
grandmother! you are both as mad as March hares," and seizing "Betty" by
the arm, she drew her across the entry into her own den, and turning
the key on her, put it in her pocket, and went down into the
dining-room.
We have no desire to record her reflections as she sat down to "Moses in
the Bulrushes," upon which she had already expended pounds and pounds of
German worsted, and who, if ever found by his mother "Miriam," would
scarcely have been recognized.
John was in his arm-chair reading the _Daily Bulletin_. He was perfectly
aware of the late overthrow of his domestic authority by Dolly; not that
it was by any means the first instance of the kind, but the others had
been known to no third party. He trusted for the perpetuity of the
declaration of domestic independence which he had lately set up, to its
being made publicly before the servants. Mistaken man! Dolly's pride lay
in a different direction. Well, it was all over now; he only wondered in
his cool moments how he had ever been so mad as to attempt to make Rose
more comfortable; but let no man ever say what he will or will not do
till he has seen a pretty woman in tears.
Still, John had a rod in pickle for Dolly; his publicly-wounded pride
must have some satisfaction. He saw by the gleam of her eye, as she sat
down to Moses, that she was that morning particularly deficient in his
"meekness." It was a good chance. John cleared his throat, preparatory
to improving it.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you, Mrs. Howe," said he, laying down his
newspaper, as if a sudden thought had struck him, "Finels asked me the
other day who Rose was?"
"Finels! Finels!" screamed Mrs. Howe, sticking her needle vigorously
into Moses, "how came Finels to see Rose?"
John's eyes gleamed. "When I waited upon him to the door the other day,
Rose was just passing through the entry, with a pitcher of water."
"Just like her, and I told her expressly to go down the back stairs."
"But the carpenter was fixing the back stairs, that day," said John,
"she couldn't pass, I suppose."
"I don't suppose any such thing," said Mrs. Howe, "she did it on
purpose; I know she did. Well, what did Finels say of her?"
"He said she had the loveliest eyes he ever saw, and that her face was
without a flaw."
"What o'clock is it?" asked Mrs. Howe, in a husky voice.
"Just one," said John, "Why?"
"What time does the stage go to Exeter?"
"Three, I believe."
"Believe! don't you know?"
"Yes, I know it goes at three."
"Well, go and order it here at our door by that time. Rose shall go back
to old Bond this very day; I won't stand it."
"Is the baby well enough?" asked John, not looking for this painful
termination to his little bit of connubial fun.
"I don't care whether it is or not; if you don't get that stage, I
will."
"I'll get it," said John, "but--"
"There's no but about it, I tell you she shall go, if that child dies on
the road; that's all there is to that," and Mrs. Howe went up stairs to
inform Rose of her determination.
Rose had just succeeded in lulling the restless baby to sleep upon her
bosom. Upon Mrs. Howe's violent bang of the door after entering the
room, he uttered a loud, frightened cry.
"Stop that child, will you?" said Mrs. Howe, "I have something to say to
you."
The quick blood rushed to Rose's face, as she nestled Charley to her
bosom.
"It is now one o'clock," said Mrs. Howe, drawing out her gold watch,
with its glittering chain and trinkets; "the stage will be at the door
to take you to Exeter, at three o'clock precisely. Do you understand?"
said she, as Rose bent an anxious glance at the sick baby's face.
"I will be ready," said Rose, in a trembling voice.
This mild, acquiescent reply was not what Mrs. Howe desired; she would
have preferred something upon which to hinge her pent-up wrath.
"How came that rocking-chair up here, I should like to know?"
"Betty brought it up for old Mrs. Bond."
"Likely story; and Betty told you, I suppose, to parade yourself through
the front entry, when Mr. Howe was talking with a gentleman; I know your
tricks. I should think you had had enough of _gentlemen_ to last you one
while."
"The carpenter was--"
"Don't talk to me about 'carpenters;' where there is a will there is a
way; you might have waited for the water."
"It was to mix Charley's medicine," said Rose, with brimming eyes.
"I dare say--such things don't go down with me; pick up your things
quick and get ready."
Rose attempted to lay Charley down on the bed, but he began to cry most
piteously.
"There is no need of your stopping for him now; he might as well cry for
one thing as another; he is always crying, I am sick to death of hearing
him; he is perfectly spoiled."
"He is sick," said Rose, stooping to kiss Charley as if he could be
pained by Mrs. Howe's heartlessness.
"Well--any how, I am sick of both of you; so hurry, and don't think you
are going to stay, because it is beginning to sprinkle," said she,
drawing carefully aside one corner of the cook's petticoat as she
peered out the window--"come, make haste now," and Aunt Dolly swept
down stairs.
Poor afflicted Mrs. Howe! Flynn had robbed the pelerine and bracelet of
their power to charm, and the "marked passages" no longer gave her
consolation, for Finels had admired Rose's eyes. Consuelo, too, lies
wheezing in his embroidered blanket; dear little Consuelo! it could not
be that _he_ was going to be sick! And Mrs. Howe takes him up gently,
strokes his long silken ears, looks into his eyes, and offers him some
food, which the pampered little cur refuses.
A scrambling in the blanket!
Consuelo is in a fit!
So is his mistress.
"O, John, for heaven's sake, run for Thomas, he knows all about dogs.
Supposing he should die? O dear--make haste; my darling, my darling!"
and Mrs. Howe ran up stairs, and ran down stairs, ran for water, and ran
for physic, opened the windows, and shut them, pulled round Betty, and
Sally, and Bridget, and threatened the whole crew, unless they helped
Consuelo, to turn them all out of doors. And then Thomas came, and
manipulated Consuelo as only his humbug-ship knew how, and restored the
convalescent jewel to its mistress, who wept with delight, and crossed
his palm with a five-dollar gold piece, and then Thomas retired, calling
down blessings on all over-fed puppies in particular, and credulous
women in general.
And Rose!
She crept down stairs as well as her tears would let her, stopping to
kneel before the door through which the wailing "dearie me--dearie me,"
was issuing.
Wrapping Charley in the only shawl she owned, to defend him from the
falling rain, she clambered unassisted, up into the stage. The
passengers growled when they saw the baby; the rain spattered on the
roof, and windows, and the coachman slamming to the door with an oath,
cracked his whip, and the stage rolled away.
What pen can do justice to the atmosphere of a stage, omnibus, or
railroad car, of a rainy day?
The fumes of alternate whisky and onions, the steaming, cigar-odored
coats, the dirty straw soaking under foot, a deluge if you open the
window, poison by inhalation if you do not. Charley became more and more
restless, while Rose grew still paler, and the drops stood on her
forehead, in dread of his prolonged cry.
"I think he will be good with me; let me take him, please," pleaded a
sweet voice at her side.
Rose turned, and saw a lady dressed in black, whom she had not before
noticed, extending her arms for Charley. Her face was sufficient to win
confidence, and Rose accepted her offer. Handling him as only an
experienced hand can handle a babe, she changed him with perfect ease
from side to side, laid him now up on her shoulder, now down on her
lap, without the slightest appearance of discomfort to herself.
Rose looked the thanks she could not speak; then, stupified with
exhaustion and sorrow, she leaned back in the dark corner where she sat,
and closed her eyes.
The lady made no attempt to draw her into conversation, but gazed
lovingly upon Charley's face. Living sorrows, she had none; but on a
little tombstone in a church yard far away, the stranger's foot paused
as he read:
"OUR FRANK!"
Oh, how many visions of home joys and home sorrows, did those two little
words call up!
_Our_ Frank! More than one heart had bled when that little tombstone was
reared, and though the hands which placed it there were far away, yet
the little grave had ever its garland, or its wreath, for even stranger
eyes involuntarily dropped tears, when they read,
"OUR FRANK."
And so Frank's mother sat gazing on Charley's little cherub face, and
wondering what grief a _mother_ could know, with her _breathing_ babe
beside her.
Pity us, oh God! for every heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a
stranger intermeddleth not therewith.
CHAPTER XXVII.
"What is that?" exclaimed old Mrs. Bond, as she saw the stage, dimly,
through the pelting rain, plowing through the clayey mud, up the steep
hill toward her door. "Somebody must be coming here, else the driver
would have taken the easier cut to the village," and she pressed her
face closer against the moist window-pane to get a clearer view.
"It is going to stop here, sure as the world," she exclaimed. "Who can
be coming a visiting in such a rain as this? It is not time for old
Cousin Patty, these three months yet."
"Dear heart," she said, as the driver jumped off his box, and opened the
stage-door, "if it isn't Rose, and that sick baby! Dear heart--dear
heart, it is as much as its life is worth. I hope I shall have grace to
forgive that woman, but I don't know, I don't know; who could have
believed it?" and by this time, the baby was handed into her
outstretched arms, and Rose stepped dripping across the threshold.
"Cry, dear--do cry. I am going to cry myself. It is dreadful hard." And
she drew the chairs up to the fire, and gazed by its light into Rose's
brimming eyes and Charley's pale face.
"May God forgive her," she said, at last; "can't you say it, dear?
Try."
Rose answered by pointing to Charley.
"I know it, dear heart; I know it; but you remember the 'crown of
thorns,' and the mocking 'sponge,' and the cruel 'spear,'" said the old
lady, struggling down her own incensed feelings.
"Take Charley now, dear, he is quite warm, while I run and make you a
cup of hot tea," and the old lady piled fresh wood upon the huge
andirons, and drew out her little tea-table, stopping now to wipe her
eyes, now to kiss Rose and the baby, and whispering, "Try, dear, do; it
will make you feel happier; try."
The cheerful warmth of the fire, and Mrs. Bond's motherly kindness,
brought a little color into Rose's pale face, and Charley kicked his
little cold toes out of his frock, and winked his eyes at the crackling
blaze, as if to say,
"Now, this is something like."
After tea, Rose narrated to Mrs. Bond the visit of the old crone to her
attic, and expressed her firm belief that she was Dolly's mother.
This was even worse in Mrs. Bond's eyes than Mrs. Howe's cruelty to
Rose, and not trusting herself to speak, she gave vent to her feelings
by alternately raising her hands and eyes to heaven.
"There will be a sad reckoning-day--a sad reckoning-day, dear," said the
old lady solemnly. "He that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor
sleep."
CHAPTER XXVIII.
It was Monday morning. Mrs. Bond's little kitchen was full of the steam
of boiling clothes. Little Charley, with one of Mrs. Bond's long calico
aprons pinned over his frock, was pursuing on all fours his infantile
investigations.
On the bench before the door stood two wash-tubs, at one of which stood
a strapping Irish girl with red arms and petticoats, scrubbing the
plowman's clothes with superhuman energy. At the other stood Rose, her
curls knotted up on the back of her head, her sleeves rolled up above
her round, white elbows, and her calico skirt pinned away from one of
the prettiest ankles in the world; even this homespun attire could not
disguise her beauty.
Three hours, by the old-fashioned clock in the corner, she had stood
there; and yet, though she had rubbed the skin from her little hands,
the pile of clothes before her seemed scarcely to have diminished, owing
partly to her unskillfulness, and partly that she was obliged to leave
off every few minutes to extricate Charley from some scrape with the
shovel, tongs, or poker, or to barricade some door through which he
seemed quite determined to go; added to this, her heart was very heavy,
and one's fingers are apt to keep time with the heart pulses.
Oh, where was Vincent? Would he never return, as he had promised? Was he
still "at his father's dying bed?" How strange she did not hear from
him. How strange he had not told her where he was. He loved her? Oh,
yes--"more than all the world beside." Had he not told her so? He could
not have deserted her? Oh--no--no--and yet, poor Rose, there was such a
weary pain at her heart; but see, there is Charley again, little
mischief, between the andirons. Rose wipes the suds from her hands, and
runs to extricate him for the twentieth time. She pats him petulantly;
the boy does not cry, but he looks up at her with his father's eyes.
Rose kisses those eyes; she dashes away her tears, and goes back again
to her work. She tries to believe it will be all right. Mrs. Bond comes
in to make the pudding for dinner. She sees how little progress Rose is
making, and though Rose does her best to hide them, she sees the
tell-tale tears, trembling on her long eyelashes.
Mrs. Bond has the best heart in the world; she never treads on the
little ant-houses in the gravel walks, she says the robins have earned a
right to the cherries by keeping the insects from the trees, she has
turned veterinary surgeon to keep the breath of life in an old skeleton
of a horse which Zedekiah "vowed oughter been shot long ago," she puts
crumbs on the piazza for the ground birds, and is very careful to
provide for the motherly yellow cat a soft bed. The peddler always is
sure of a warm cup of tea, and the wooden-ware man of a bit of cheese or
pie. Rose's tears make her quite miserable, so she says to Bridget, in
her soft kind way, "I should think _you_ might help wash the baby's
clothes, Bridget."
"Not for the likes of her," retorted the vixen, with her red arms
a-kimbo. "Thank the Virgin, _I_ am an honest woman."
Rose snatched Charley from the floor and darted through the open door,
with the fleetness of a deer; not weary now; strong to bear any thing,
every thing but that coarse, cruel taunt. Away!--away from it! but
where? Oh, Vincent, will it always follow! Strong, is she? Poor Rose!
She falls earthward with her tender burden. Charley utters a cry of pain
as his temples strike a sharp stone. Rose heeds not his cry, for she is
insensible.
When her consciousness returns, some two hours after, she finds herself
in her own little bed, with Mrs. Bond beside her. There are phials upon
the table, and a strong smell of camphor; a bandage is around her
forehead, and the blinds are closed, and Charley is not there, but she
hears him crowing below stairs. Mrs. Bond puts her finger on her lip,
and says, "Try to sleep, dear," and Rose gladly closes her eyes; she
only wishes it were forever.
CHAPTER XXIX.
"Six rows of the ruffling, edged with lace, and two tucks between each
ruffle. Mind you don't make a mistake, now; had you not better write it
down? You will remember to make the upper tuck about a fifth of an inch
narrower than the others. Do it very nicely, you know I am particular
about my work. Remember--let me have it, without fail, by next Thursday
evening," and the speaker gathered her voluminous skirts in her hand and
tripped through the door and into her carriage.
"For good gracious' sake, who's that?" asked Miss Snecker.
"Yes--who's that? Every body who sees her fine airs and gay dresses,
asks me that question. I suppose you wouldn't believe if I should tell
you what caterpillar that butterfly came from;" and Miss Bodkin put her
feet upon the cricket, and took up the interminable yards of ruffling
and commenced her work and her history.
"Well--that's Mrs. Howe, and _how_ she ever became Howe, is more of a
mystery to other people than it is to me.--'Mrs. John Howe'--a very
well sounding name you see, but for all that it never can make a lady of
her. 'Mrs. John Howe.' It used to be 'Dolly Smith;' it was 'Dolly Smith'
much longer than its owner liked. It was painted in large, green letters
over a little milliner's shop in Difftown. Such a fidget as it was in to
get its name changed; but nobody seemed to want it. It tried the
minister, it tried the deacon, it tried the poor, bony old sexton (mercy
knows it never would have taken so much pains, had it known as much
about men as I do), however, that's neither here nor there. It was a way
it had. Well--by and by a shoe-maker from the city came up to our
village for three weeks' fishing, and while he was baiting for fish,
Dolly baited for him. She used to stand at the door of an evening, when
he came up the village street, with his fishing tackle and basket; by
and by he got to stopping a bit, to rest, and to buy a watch-ribbon and
one thing and another, as a man naturally would, where he was sure of a
welcome. Well, one evening when he came, Dolly was seized with a horrid
cramp--I never had no faith in that cramp--such a fuss as she made.
Well, John said he might be in the way, and so he would leave, till she
was better. Simpleton! That was just what she didn't want him to do.
Well, every body else round was sent flying for 'doctors and medicines,'
and John staid through that cramp; and the next thing I heard, the
bonnets was took down out of the shop, it was shut up, and that's the
way Dolly Smith became Mrs. John Howe. Of course it don't set very well
on me to have her come in here with her patronizing airs, to bring me
her work to do; but a body must pocket their pride such hard times as
these. I shall nurse my wrath, any way, till I get a little richer."
"Well, I never!" exclaimed Miss Snecker, "how artful some women is! I
suppose now she has every thing she wants, and has a beautiful time--the
hateful creature."
"Yes, she is rich enough," said Miss Bodkin, "her husband gave up the
shoe business long ago. She is as stingy as she is rich; she beats me
down to the lowest possible price for every stitch I do for her.
"She was dreadful mortified about her niece Rose; suppose you know all
about that? No! Well, Dolly took her when she was a little thing to
bring up, as she said (the child was an orphan), and a poor sorry little
drudge she made of her. She didn't have no childhood at all. She had a
great faculty for reading, and wanted to devour every book she could
get, which wasn't many, you may be sure, where Dolly was round. The
child had no peace of her life, day nor night; was worried and hunted
round like a wild beast.
"After Dolly married, she sent Rose away to school, making a great talk
about her 'generosity in giving her an eddication,' but the fact was,
that Mr. Howe was younger than Dolly, and Rose was handsome: you see
where the shoe pinched," said Miss Bodkin, giving Miss Snecker a nudge
in the ribs.
"Certain," said Miss Snecker; "well, what became of the girl?"
"Well, Rose was handsome, as I told you, though she didn't know it, and
good as she was handsome; but sad-like, for she never had any body to
love her. I don't think she was sorry to leave her aunt, but still you
know the world is a great wide cold place to push a young thing like
that out into. However, she started off with her little trunk to Mrs.
Graw's school.
"Mrs. Graw used to be chambermaid to a real Count's wife, and as soon as
she found out that Rose was a poor relation, she kinder trod her down,
and the school-girls disliked her, because she was handsomer than they,
and so she was miserable enough, till she made the acquaintance of
Captain Vincent, who took her away from school, to be married, as he
said, and then ran off and left her. Of course, her aunt was dreadful
hard on her, and drove her almost crazy with her reproaches. She
wouldn't believe any thing she said about her being really married; and
was just as bitter as if she herself hadn't been man-hunting all her
life.
"_She_ held Rose off at arm's length, as if the poor betrayed child's
touch were poison; shut her doors in her face, and all that; and why the
poor thing didn't take to bad ways nobody knows. She went to a Lying-in
Hospital, and staid there till the babe was born, and then there was a
great noise, when it was found out how rich her aunt was; and when Mrs.
Howe found out that people's tongues were wagging about it, she came
forward and offered to pay her board in the country awhile.
"Mrs. Howe herself lives up in St. John's Square. She is trying to ride
into fashionable society with her carriage and liveried servants; and
that poor girl so heart-broken.
"Well, the Lord only knows what is going to become of poor Rose! Beauty
and misery--beauty and misery--I've seen what came of that partnership
before now."
CHAPTER XXX.
Mrs. Bond had drank her cup of tea and eaten her one slice of toast.
Rose had not yet come down to breakfast, and she hesitated to disturb
her slumbers. So she put the tea-pot down by the fire, covered over the
toast, and sat back in her great leathern chair.
How beautiful they looked, Rose and the boy, the night before, when she
crept in, shading her lamp with her hand, to see if they were
comfortable. The boy's rosy cheek lay close to his mother's blue-veined
breast, and one of his little dimpled arms was thrown carelessly about
her neck. Rose with her long hair unbound vailing her neck and
shoulders, the tears still glistening on her long lashes, heaving now
and then a sigh that it was pitiful to hear.
"Ah!" thought Mrs. Bond, "the father of the child should have looked in
upon that scene! Those sighs, those tears, went they not up to heaven as
swift witnesses against him?"
And so Mrs. Bond, the previous night, extinguished her small lamp, and
knelt by the bed-side; she prayed for those wronged sleepers from the
gushing fullness of her Christian motherly heart. Poor children!--for
what was Rose but a child?
And now Mrs. Bond sat there over her breakfast-table thinking it all
over. Her own life had been as placid as the little lake you could see
from the cottage door; it was pitiful to her the storm of sorrow beating
down upon that fair young head. She tried to see something bright in her
future. She knew that though she herself had no wish beyond those humble
walls, save to lie in the pleasant church-yard when her work was done,
yet that life must be monotonous and dull there for one like Rose. She
knew that the heart, when wretched and inactive, must prey upon itself.
She wished she knew how to interest Rose in something. There was
Charl
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