CHICOPEE.
It was the afternoon for the regular meeting of the Ladies Sewing
Society in the little village of Chicopee, and at the usual hour
groups of ladies were seen wending their way towards the stately
mansion of Mrs. Campbell, the wealthiest and proudest lady in town.
Many, who for months had absented themselves from the society, came
this afternoon with the expectation of gaining a look at the costly
marble and rosewood furniture with which Mrs. Campbell's parlors were
said to be adorned. But they were disappointed, for Mrs. Campbell had
no idea of turning a sewing society into her richly furnished
drawing-rooms. The spacious sitting-room, the music-room adjoining,
and the wide cool hall beyond, were thrown open to all, and by three
o'clock they were nearly filled.
At first there was almost perfect silence, broken only by a whisper or
under tone, but gradually the restraint wore way, and the woman near
the door, who had come "because she was a mind to, but didn't expect
to be noticed any way," and who, every time she was addressed, gave a
nervous hitch backward with her chair, had finally hitched herself
into the hall, where with unbending back and pursed up lips she sat,
highly indignant at the ill-concealed mirth of the young girls, who
on the stairs were watching her retrograde movements. The hum of
voices increased, until at last there was a great deal more talking
than working. The Unitarian minister's bride, Lilly Martin's
stepmother, the new clerk at Drury's, Dr. Lay's wife's new hat and its
probable cost, and the city boarders at the hotel, were all duly
discussed, and then for a time there was again silence while Mrs.
Johnson, president of the society, told of the extreme destitution in
which she had that morning found a poor English family, who had moved
into the village two or three years before.
They had managed to earn a comfortable living until the husband and
father suddenly died, since which time the wife's health had been very
rapidly failing, until now she was no longer able to work, but was
wholly dependent for subsistence upon the exertions of her oldest
child Frank, and the charity of the villagers, who sometimes supplied
her with far more than was necessary, and again thoughtlessly
neglected her for many days. Her chief dependence, too, had now failed
her, for the day before the sewing society, Frank had been taken
seriously ill with what threatened to be scarlet fever.
"Dear me," said the elegant Mrs. Campbell, smoothing the folds of her
rich India muslin--"dear me, I did not know that we had such poverty
among us. What will they do?"
"They'll have to go to the poor-house, won't they?"
"To the poor-house!" repeated Mrs. Lincoln, who spent her winters in
Boston, and whose summer residence was in the neighborhood of the
pauper's home, "pray don't send any more low, vicious children to the
poor-house. My Jenny has a perfect passion for them, and it is with
difficulty I can keep her away."
"They are English, I believe," continued Mrs. Campbell. "I do wonder
why so many of those horridly miserable creatures will come to this
country."
"Forgets, mebby, that she's English," muttered the woman at the door;
and Mrs. Johnson added, "It would draw tears from your eyes, to see
that little pale-faced Mary trying to wait upon her mother and
brother, and carrying that sickly baby in her arms so that it may not
disturb them."
"What does Ella do?" asked one, and Mrs. Johnson replied, "She merely
fixes her curls in the broken looking-glass, and cries because she is
hungry."
"She is pretty, I believe?" said Mrs. Campbell, and Rosa Pond, who sat
by the window, and had not spoken before, immediately answered, "Oh,
yes, she is perfectly beautiful; and do you know, Mrs. Campbell, that
when she is dressed clean and nice, I think she looks almost exactly
like your little Ella!"
A haughty frown was Mrs. Campbell's only answer, and Rosa did not
venture another remark, although several whispered to her that they,
too, had frequently observed the strong resemblance between Ella
Howard and Ella Campbell.
From what has been said, the reader will readily understand that the
sick woman in whom Mrs. Johnson was so much interested, was our old
acquaintance Mrs. Howard.
All inquiries for her sisters had been fruitless, and after stopping
for a time in Worcester, they had removed to Chicopee, where recently
Mr. Howard had died. Their only source of maintenance was thus cut
off, and now they were reduced to the utmost poverty. Since we last
saw them a sickly baby had been added to their number. With motherly
care little Mary each day washed and dressed it, and then hour after
hour carried it in her arms, trying to still its feeble moans, which
fell so sadly on the ear of her invalid mother.
It was a small, low building which they inhabited, containing but one
room and a bedroom, which last they had ceased to occupy, for one by
one each article of furniture had been sold, until at last Mrs. Howard
lay upon a rude lounge, which Frank had made from some rough boards.
Until midnight the little fellow toiled, and then when his work was
done crept softly to the cupboard, there lay one slice of bread, the
only article of food which the house contained. Long and wistfully he
looked at it, thinking how good it would taste; but a glance at the
pale faces near decided him. "They need it more than I," said he, and
turning resolutely away, he prayed that he "might sleep pretty soon
and forget how hungry he was."
Day after day he worked on, and though his cheek occasionally flushed
with anger when of his ragged clothes and naked feet the village boys
made fun, he never returned them any answer, but sometimes when alone
the memory of their thoughtless jeers would cause the tears to start,
and then wiping them away, he would wonder if it was wicked to be poor
and ragged. One morning when he attempted to rise, he felt oppressed
with a languor he had never before experienced, and turning on his
trundlebed, and adjusting his blue cotton jacket, his only pillow, he
again slept so soundly that Mary was obliged to call him twice ere she
aroused him.
That night he came home wild with delight,--he had earned a whole
dollar, and knew how he could earn another half dollar to-morrow. "Oh,
I wish it would come quick," said he, as he related his success to his
mother.
But, alas, the morrow found him burning with fever and when he
attempted to stand, he found it impossible to do so. A case of scarlet
fever had appeared in the village and it soon became evident that the
disease had fastened upon Frank. The morning following the sewing
society Ella Campbell and several other children showed symptoms of
the same disease, and in the season of general sickness which
followed, few were left to care for the poor widow. Daily little Frank
grew worse. The dollar he had earned was gone, the basket of
provisions Mrs. Johnson had sent was gone, and when for milk the baby
Alice cried, there was none to give her.
At last Frank, pulling the old blue jacket from under his head, and
passing it to Mary, said, "Take it to Bill Bender,--he offered me a
shilling for it, and a shilling will buy milk for Allie and crackers
for mother,--take it."
"No, Franky," answered Mary, "you would have no pillow, besides, I've
got something more valuable, which I can sell. I've kept it long, but
it must go to keep us from starving;"--and she held to view the golden
locket, which George Moreland had thrown around her neck.
"You shan't sell that," said Frank. "You must keep it to remember
George, and then, too, you may want it more some other time."
Mary finally yielded the point, and gathering up the crumpled jacket,
started in quest of Billy Bender. He was a kind-hearted boy, two years
older than Frank, whom he had often befriended, and shielded from the
jeers of their companions. He did not want the jacket, for it was a
vast deal too small; and it was only in reply to a proposal from Frank
that he should buy it that he had casually offered him a shilling. But
now, when he saw the garment, and learned why it was sent he
immediately drew from his old leather wallet a quarter, all the money
he had in the world and giving it to Mary bade her keep it, as she
would need it all.
Half an hour after a cooling orange was held to Frank's parched lips,
and Mary said, "Drink it, brother, I've got two more, besides some
milk and bread," but the ear she addressed was deaf and the eye dim
with the fast falling shadow of death. "Mother, mother!" cried the
little girl, "Franky won't drink and his forehead is all sweat. Can't
I hold you up while you come to him?"
Mrs. Howard had been much worse that day, but she did not need the
support of those feeble arms. She felt, rather than saw that her
darling boy was dying, and agony made her strong. Springing to his
side she wiped from his brow the cold moisture which had so alarmed
her daughter chafed his hands and feet, and bathed his head, until he
seemed better and fell asleep.
"Now, if the doctor would only come," said Mary; but the doctor was
hurrying from house to house, for more than one that night lay dying
in Chicopee. But on no hearthstone fell the gloom of death so darkly
as upon that low, brown house, where a trembling woman and a frail
young child watched and wept over the dying Frank. Fast the shades of
night came on, and when all was dark in the sick room, Mary sobbed
out, "We have no candle, mother, and if I go for one, and he should
die--"
The sound of her voice aroused Frank, and feeling for his sister's
hand, he said, "Don't go, Mary:--don't leave me,--the moon is shining
bright, and I guess I can find my way to God just as well."
Nine;--ten;--eleven;--and then through the dingy windows the silvery
moonlight fell, as if indeed to light the way of the early lost to
heaven. Mary had drawn her mother's lounge to the side of the
trundlebed, and in a state of almost perfect exhaustion, Mrs. Howard
lay gasping for breath while Mary, as if conscious of the dread
reality about to occur, knelt by her side, occasionally caressing her
pale cheek and asking if she were better. Once Mrs. Howard laid her
hands on Mary's head, and prayed that she might be preserved and kept
from harm by the God of the orphan, and that the sin of disobedience
resting upon her own head might not be visited upon her child.
After a time a troubled sleep came upon her, and she slept, until
roused by a low sob. Raising herself up, she looked anxiously towards
her children. The moonbeams fell full upon the white, placid face of
Frank, who seemed calmly sleeping, while over him Mary bent, pushing
back from his forehead the thick, clustering curls, and striving hard
to smother her sobs, so they might not disturb her mother.
"Does he sleep?" asked Mrs. Howard, and Mary, covering with her hands
the face of him who slept, answered, "Turn away, mother;--don't look
at him. Franky is dead. He died with his arms around my neck, and told
me not to wake you."
Mrs. Howard was in the last stages of consumption, and now after
weeping over her only boy until her tears seemed dried, she lay back
half fainting upon her pillow. Towards daylight a violent coughing fit
ensued, during which an ulcer was broken, and she knew that she was
dying. Beckoning Mary to her side, she whispered, "I am leaving you
alone, in the wide world. Be kind to Ella, and our dear little Allie,
and go with her where she goes. May God keep and bless my precious
children,--and reward you as you deserve, my darling--"
The sentence was unfinished, and in unspeakable awe the orphan girl
knelt between her mother and brother, shuddering in the presence of
death, and then weeping to think she was alone.