ELLA CAMPBELL.
Scarcely three hours had passed since the dark, moist earth was heaped
upon the humble grave of the widow and her son, when again, over the
village of Chicopee floated the notes of the tolling bell, and
immediately crowds of persons with seemingly eager haste, hurried
towards the Campbell mansion, which was soon nearly filled. Among the
first arrivals were our acquaintances of the last chapter, who were
fortunate enough to secure a position near the drawing-room, which
contained the "big looking-glass."
On a marble table in the same room, lay the handsome coffin, and in it
slept young Ella. Gracefully her small waxen hands were folded one
over the other, while white, half-opened rose buds were wreathed among
the curls of her hair, which fell over her neck and shoulders, and
covered the purple spots, which the disease had left upon her flesh.
"She is too beautiful to die, and the only child too," thought more
than one, as they looked first at the sleeping clay and then at the
stricken mother, who, draped in deepest black, sobbed convulsively and
leaned for support upon the arm of the sofa. What now to her were
wealth and station? What did she care for the elegance which had so
often excited the envy of her neighbors? That little coffin, which had
cost so many dollars and caused so much remark, contained what to her
was far dearer than all. And yet she was not one half so desolate as
was the orphan Mary, who in Mrs. Bender's kitchen sat weeping over her
sister Alice, and striving to form words of prayer which should reach
the God of the fatherless.
But few of the villagers thought of her this afternoon. Their
sympathies were all with Mrs. Campbell; and when at the close of the
services she approached to take a last look of her darling, they
closed around her with exclamations of grief and tears of pity, though
even then some did not fail to note and afterwards comment upon the
great length of her costly veil, and the width of its hem! It was a
long procession which followed Ella Campbell to the grave, and with
bowed heads and hats uplifted, the spectators stood by while the
coffin was lowered to the earth; and then, as the Campbell carriage
drove slowly away, they dispersed to their homes, speaking, it may be,
more tenderly to their own little ones, and shuddering to think how
easily it might have been themselves who were bereaved.
Dark and dreary was the house to which Mrs. Campbell returned. On the
stairs there was no patter of childish feet. In the halls there was no
sound of a merry voice, and on her bosom rested no little golden head,
for the weeping mother was childless. Close the shutters and drop the
rich damask curtains, so that no ray of sunlight, or fragrance of
summer flowers may find entrance there to mock her grief. In all
Chicopee was there a heart so crushed and bleeding as hers? Yes, on
the grass-plat at the foot of Mrs. Bender's garden an orphan girl was
pouring out her sorrow in tears which almost blistered her eyelids as
they fell.
Alice at last was sleeping, and Mary had come out to weep alone where
there were none to see or hear. For her the future was dark and
cheerless as midnight. No friends, no money, and no home, except the
poor-house, from which young as she was, she instinctively shrank.
"My mother, oh, my mother," she cried, as she stretched her hands
towards the clear blue sky, now that mother's home, "Why didn't I die
too?"
There was a step upon the grass, and looking up Mary saw standing near
her, Mrs. Campbell's English girl, Hannah. She had always evinced a
liking for Mrs. Howard's family, and now after finishing her dishes,
and trying in vain to speak a word of consolation to her mistress, who
refused to be comforted, she had stolen away to Mrs. Bender's,
ostensibly to see all the orphans, but, in reality to see Ella, who
had always been her favorite. She had entered through the garden gate,
and came upon Mary just as she uttered the words, "Why didn't I die
too?"
The sight of her grief touched Hannah's heart, and sitting down by the
little girl, she tried to comfort her. Mary felt that her words and
manner were prompted by real sympathy, and after a time she grew calm,
and listened, while Hannah told her that "as soon as her mistress got
so any body could go near her, she meant to ask her to take Ella
Howard to fill the place of her own daughter."
"They look as much alike as two beans," said she, "and sposin' Ella
Howard ain't exactly her own flesh and blood, she would grow into
liking her, I know."
Mary was not selfish, and the faint possibility that her sister might
not be obliged to go to the poor-house, gave her comfort, though she
knew that in all probability she herself must go. After a few more
words Hannah entered the cottage, but she wisely chose to keep from
Ella a knowledge of her plan, which very likely might not succeed.
That night after her return home Hannah lingered for a long time about
the parlor door, glancing wistfully towards her mistress, who
reclined upon the sofa with her face entirely hidden by her cambric
handkerchief.
"It's most too soon, I guess," thought Hannah, "I'll wait till
to-morrow."
Accordingly next morning, when, as she had expected, she was told to
carry her mistress's toast and coffee to her room, she lingered for a
while, and seemed so desirous of speaking that Mrs. Campbell asked
what she wanted.
"Why, you see, ma'am, I was going to say a word about,--about that
youngest Howard girl." (She dared not say Ella.) "She's got to go to
the poor-house, and it's a pity, she's so handsome. Why couldn't she
come here and live? I'll take care of her, and 'twouldn't be nigh so
lonesome."
At this allusion to her bereavement Mrs. Campbell burst into tears,
and motioned Hannah from the room.
"I'll keep at her till I fetch it about," thought Hannah, as she
obeyed the lady's order. But further persuasion from her was rendered
unnecessary, for Mrs. Lincoln, whom we have once before mentioned,
called that afternoon, and after assuring her friend that she never
before saw one who was so terribly afflicted, or who stood so much in
need of sympathy, she casually mentioned the Howards, and the extreme
poverty to which they were reduced. This reminded Mrs. Campbell of
Hannah's suggestion, which she repeated to her visitor, who answered,
"It would unquestionably be a good idea to take her, for she is large
enough to be useful in the kitchen in various ways."
Mrs. Campbell, who had more of real kindness in her nature than Mrs.
Lincoln, replied, "If I take her, I shall treat her as my own, for
they say she looks like her, and her name, too, is the same."
Here Mrs. Campbell commenced weeping and as Mrs. Lincoln soon took
her leave, she was left alone for several hours. At the end of that
time, impelled by something she could not resist, she rang the bell
and ordered Hannah to go to Mrs. Bender's and bring Ella to her room
as she wished to see how she appeared.
With the utmost care, Ella arranged her long curls, and then tying
over her black dress the only white apron which she possessed, she
started for Mrs. Campbell's. The resemblance between herself and Ella
Campbell was indeed so striking, that but for the dress the mother
might easily have believed it to have been her own child. As it was,
she started up when the little girl appeared, and drawing her to her
side, involuntarily kissed her; then causing her to sit down by her
side, she minutely examined her features, questioning her meantime
concerning her mother and her home in England. Of the latter Ella
could only tell her that they lived in a city, and that her mother had
once taken her to a large, handsome house in the country, which she
said was her old home.
"There were sights of trees, and flowers, and vines, and fountains,
and little deer," said the child, "and when I asked ma why she did not
live there now, she cried, and pa put his arm tight 'round her,--so."
From this Mrs. Campbell inferred that Ella's family must have been
superior to most of the English who emigrate to this country, and
after a few more questions she decided to take her for a time, at
least; so with another kiss she dismissed her, telling her she would
come for her soon. Meantime arrangements were making for Mary and
Alice and on the same day in which Mrs. Campbell was to call for Ella,
Mr. Knight, one of the "Selectmen," whose business it was to look
after the town's poor,[A] also came to the cottage. After learning
that Ella was provided for, he turned to Mary, asking "how old she
was, and what she could do," saying, that his wife was in want of just
such a girl to do "chores," and if she was willing to be separated
from Alice, he would give her a home with him. But Mary only hugged
her sister closer to her bosom as she replied "I'd rather go with
Alice. I promised mother to take care of her."
[Footnote A: In Massachusetts each town has its own poor-house.]
"Very well," said the man, "I'm going to North Chicopee, but shall be
back in two hours, so you must have your things all ready."
"Don't cry so, Mary," whispered Billy, when he saw how fast her tears
were falling. "I'll come to see you every week, and when I am older,
and have money, I will take you from the poor-house, and Alice too."
Just then, Mrs. Campbell's carriage drove up. She had been taking her
afternoon ride, and now, on her way home, had stopped for Ella, who in
her delight at going with so handsome a woman, forgot the dreary home
which awaited her sister, and which, but for Mrs. Campbell's fancy,
would have been hers also. While she was getting ready, Mr. Knight
returned, and driving his old-fashioned yellow wagon, with its square
box-seat up by the side of Mrs. Campbell's stylish carriage, he
entered the house, saying, "Come, gal, you're ready, I hope. The old
mare don't want to stand, and I'm in a desput hurry, too. I orto be to
hum this minute, instead of driving over that stony Portupog road. I
hope you don't mean to carry that are thing," he continued, pointing
with his whip towards Alice's cradle, which stood near Mary's box of
clothes.
The tears came into Mary's eyes, and she answered "Alice has always
slept in it, and I didn't know but--"
Here she stopped, and running up to Ella, hid her face in her lap,
and sobbed, "I don't want to go. Oh, I don't want to go, can't I stay
with you?"
Billy's yellow handkerchief was suddenly brought into requisition, and
Mrs. Bender, who, with all her imaginary aches and pains, was a
kind-hearted woman, made vigorous attacks upon her snuff-box, while
Mrs. Campbell patted Mary's head, saying, "Poor child. I can't take
you both, but you shall see your sister often."
Ella was too much pleased with Mrs. Campbell, and the thoughts of the
fine home to which she was going, to weep but her chin quivered, when
Mary held up the baby for her to kiss, and said, "Perhaps you will
never see little Allie again."
When all was ready, Mr. Knight walked around his wagon, and after
trying to adjust the numerous articles it contained, said, "I don't
see how in the world I can carry that cradle, my wagon is chuck full
now. Here is a case of shoes for the gals to stitch, and a piller case
of flour for Miss Smith, and forty 'leven other traps, so I guess
you'll have to leave it. Mebby you can find one there, and if not,
why, she'll soon get used to going without it."
Before Mary could reply, Billy whispered in her ear "Never mind, Mary;
you know that little cart that I draw mother's wood in, the cradle
will just fit it, and to-morrow afternoon I'll bring it to you, if it
doesn't rain."
Mary knew that he meant what he said, and smiling on him through her
tears, climbed into the rickety wagon, which was minus a step, and
taking Alice in her arms, she was soon moving away. In striking
contrast to this, Ella, about five minutes afterwards, was carefully
lifted into Mrs. Campbells handsome carriage, and reclining upon soft
cushions, was driven rapidly towards her new home.
Will their paths in life always continue thus different? Who can tell?