_THE CHANGE._
"MOTHER," said Rhoda one evening at the supper-table, "if we should
ever go to the city, I should like to go and see the old ladies'
'Home.'"
Mr. and Mrs. Bowers exchanged glances, and Mrs. Bowers said,—
"How would you like to make a little visit there?"
"I should like it ever so much, though I suppose hardly any one is left
in the house that I know, except Miss Carpenter. I wonder what has
become of all the children I used to play with? I hope they are all as
well off as I am. But, mother—"
"Well?" said Mrs. Bowers as Rhoda paused. "But what?"
"I thought—I hoped, rather—that I was getting ready to go away to
school."
"Perhaps you may go to school too," said Mrs. Bowers, again glancing at
her husband.
"Perhaps some arrangement may be made for you to board at 'The Home'
and go to school in the city."
"Really!" said Rhoda, with sparkling eyes.
"Mind, I said 'Perhaps,'" answered her mother. "If you go to school,
you must live somewhere, you know. You can't board at home and go to
school in Milby very well."
"No, of course not. But what school shall I attend?—Mrs. Anderson's?"
"We will see about that when you get there. We don't know much about
the Milby schools, and shall have to consult somebody. There! Don't be
all upset now, but run down to the mill and ask if Mr. Antis is going
to Hobarttown to-morrow. I want to send by him if he is."
"Well, Maria, I must say you have a good deal of assurance," said Mr.
Bowers when Rhoda had left the room. "I don't see how you could tell
such a string of stories with such a straight face."
"I didn't tell any lies," said Mrs. Bowers. "She may go to school, for
aught I know, and she may as well think she is going, and let other
people think so. It will make less of a talk."
"Well, I wish I could feel sure we were doing right," returned Mr.
Bowers.
"I declare, I think you are too bad, Mr. Bowers," said his wife. "You
must admit that our first duty is to our own child, and you know what
Uncle Jacob said. When we took Rhoda, we did not suppose we should have
any of our own; and now that we have, of course the case is entirely
altered. I am sure Rhoda has no cause of complaint; and besides, I
don't believe she will care very much. You see how pleased she is at
the mere thought of going away."
"Yes, of going away to school."
"It would be just the same if she were going away anywhere else. She
would rather be at Aunt Hannah's all day long than at home."
"What do you suppose Aunt Hannah will say?"
"I don't know; I am glad she is not here. You know she is going to stay
away four weeks longer. Anyhow, you can't help yourself now. You know
what Uncle Jacob made a condition, and he never goes back from his
word."
"No, there is no help for it now," agreed Mr. Bowers, sighing; "but do
get the child ready and have it over as soon as you can."
The next week saw Rhoda and her father on the way to Milby. Rhoda
parted from her mother and the baby with many tears, and Mrs. Bowers
herself was a good deal affected.
"He will be a great boy before I see him again," said Rhoda as she gave
him back into his mother's arms; "but I suppose I shall come back at
Christmas, shall I not?"
"That will be just as the teacher thinks best," said Mrs. Bowers.
"There! Hurry, child! You will make your father miss the train."
Mr. Weightman met Mr. Bowers and Rhoda on the platform of the station
at the Springs, whither they went to catch the train to Milby. "Oh
ho! What fine young lady is this?" he asked, glancing at Rhoda's
travelling-suit, her neat bag, and strapped-up waterproof. "Where are
you going, miss?"
"To Milby, Uncle Jacob—I mean Mr. Weightman," said Rhoda, correcting
herself—"to Milby, to school; only I am going to make a visit at 'The
Home' first, and perhaps to board there if they will take me."
The old man laughed.
"Of course they will take you," said he, "no doubt of that at all.
And so you are going to school, eh? That's a very good idea of your
mother's. I hope you will learn all you can. And, pray, is this fine
new Saratoga trunk yours too?"
"Yes, sir; papa sent to Hobarttown for it by Mr. Antis."
"And it is full of new clothes, eh? Well, take good care of them.
School-girls spoil their clothes very fast sometimes."
"You had better go into the waiting-room and sit down, Rhoda," said Mr.
Bowers, who had appeared unaccountably uneasy during this conference.
"It is beginning to rain a little."
Rhoda took a seat in the waiting-room, expecting her father would stay
with her, instead of which, to her disappointment, he went outside,
and walked up and down the platform in earnest conversation with Uncle
Jacob.
"Just like him to go and spoil the last time I shall have!" thought
Rhoda. "I do hope he won't go to town with us."
The two passed the window, and she heard her father say,—
"It was the least we could do to make everything as easy as possible."
"Nonsense!" was Mr. Weightman's answer. "All useless expense—money
thrown away. Let her begin as she is to go on, and learn to depend on
herself."
"I sha'n't depend on you, you old bear," thought Rhoda. "I dare say he
is trying to persuade papa not to let me go to school, after all. I do
wish papa would let him alone and not get mixed up in business with
him. I know he doesn't do him any good. He just puts him up to think
that nothing is of any consequence but making money and getting rich."
"Here comes the train, Rhoda," said her father, putting his head in at
the door. "Come, hurry!"
"Uncle Jacob is not going, is he?" asked Rhoda, in a tone which was
louder than prudent.
Mr. Weightman heard her, and answered for himself:
"Oh no, 'Uncle Jacob' isn't going. You won't be plagued with 'Uncle
Jacob' again for a good long time, if ever. So you can afford to part
friends."
Rhoda coloured, and then took a sudden resolution.
"Good-bye, Mr. Weightman," said she, holding out her hand to him. "I am
sorry if I have ever been rude to you, and I hope you will forgive me.
I am sure I had much rather be friends with you than not, for I never
did you any injury, and I don't believe you ever meant to do me any."
There was no time for Mr. Weightman to answer, if he had been so
disposed, for the train came up in a moment, and Rhoda and her father
were hurried on board. The cars were delayed a few minutes, and to
Rhoda's great, surprise, as she looked out of the window, Mr. Weightman
came round and spoke to her.
"Here, child—here is some pocket-money for you," said he, putting a
five-dollar bill into her hand. "Take good care of it. Money soon goes
when once you change a bill."
Rhoda could not have been more surprised if one of the telegraph-poles
had spoken to her. The train started on, and she showed the money to
her father, saying,—
"Who ever would have thought of Mr. Weightman's making me such a
present?"
"He can be liberal enough when he is in the humour," said Mr. Bowers.
"Put the money away; and when you get to 'The Home,' give it to Miss
Carpenter to take care of for you. There is another bill to keep it
company."
"Just think!" exclaimed Rhoda. "I have really ten dollars of my own. I
mean to buy some wool and make baby a nice blanket."
"You will have enough to do without making blankets for baby," said Mr.
Bowers. "There! Don't talk to me. I want to read my paper."
Mr. Bowers and Rhoda reached Milby in good time, and took a carriage
for "The Home."
"The street looks just as it used to," said Rhoda. "There is the very
shop where Mrs. Green used to send me to buy her snuff. And this is
'The Home,' I am sure; but how much larger they have made it!"
"Yes, they built a new wing last fall. Come, child, don't stand staring
in the street."
The front hall and reception room looked just as Rhoda remembered them.
There was the little table with the register book, the little old,
rattling, yellow-keyed piano, and the coloured chalk landscape with the
heron standing on one leg in the foreground, just as he did when Rhoda
used to wish he would down his other foot and walk away. There was the
same pervading smell of roast beef; and when Miss Carpenter came in to
welcome them, Rhoda would have said she had on the very same soft gray
merino gown and lace handkerchief in which she had last seen her.
The good lady welcomed Rhoda with all possible kindness, but looked
rather surprised at the sight of her large trunk and travelling-bag.
Rhoda wondered if she had not expected them, but her wonder was cut
short by Mr. Bowers rising and asking to see Miss Carpenter in another
room for a few minutes.
Rhoda was left alone in the little reception room, where she waited
till she was tired. Her father and the matron went into the room
opposite, and presently Miss Carpenter came out, and returned with an
elderly lady whose face Rhoda seemed faintly to remember. There was
another long interval of waiting, which Rhoda endeavoured to shorten by
looking out of the window, and by reading the daily paper which lay on
the table.
Miss Carpenter had closed the reception room door passing, but after
a long hour she heard first the door opposite and then the hall door
open and shut; and glancing out, she saw her father leaving the house,
apparently in a great hurry. She started forward to speak to him, but
before she could reach the door, he had hailed a passing omnibus, and
jumping in, was out of sight directly.
"How very strange!" thought Rhoda. But her meditations were cut short
by the opening of the parlour door and the voice of the lady whom Miss
Carpenter had called saying emphatically,—
"A more utterly heartless proceeding I must say I never heard of. I am
only glad he has turned the girl over to us instead of doing worse by
her."
Then, as she saw Rhoda standing near, she came forward and took her
hand, saying, kindly,—
"And so you have come back to us, little Rhoda, after all these years?
I suppose you don't remember me?"
"I remember your face, ma'am, but not your name," answered Rhoda, very
much perplexed.
"Well, that is no wonder," said the lady. "Miss Carpenter, you might as
well give her a room by herself for the present, as there are several
empty. Don't distress yourself, child. You shall have a home here till
we know what to do with you, and you may be sure we shall not turn you
out."
"I don't quite understand," faltered Rhoda, feeling as if she were in a
puzzling dream. "Where has my father gone?"
"She is all in the dark," said Miss Carpenter. "They have not told her
anything the matter."
"Is it possible?" said Mrs. Mulford, with more indignation than before.
"My dear, what did Mr. Bowers tell you he was going to do with you?"
"He told me I was going to make a little visit here, and perhaps board
here and go to school," answered Rhoda. "He said he would settle that
when we got here."
"And nothing was said about your adopted parents giving you up—nothing
about their returning you on our hands?"
"Giving me up!" repeated Rhoda. "What do you mean?"
"My poor, dear child, it is even so," said Miss Carpenter, tenderly.
"They have given you up. Your father says he has a family of his own
now, and in justice to them, he cannot keep you any longer. This is
your home for the present, and I grieve to tell you that you have no
other."
If the solid earth had yawned to swallow Rhoda, she could hardly have
been more astounded. And yet in the very first moment, she felt it was
all true. A hundred hints, a hundred circumstances, were all explained
to her at once. Yes, they had abandoned her. After eight years of
care—eight years in which she had almost forgotten that she had ever
belonged to any one else—they had left her to the mercy of a public
charity.
Her head turned round, and she put out her hand blindly for help. She
felt herself supported by somebody, and then the world fled from her
and she sank down in a dead faint.