AT CHURCH.
The Sabbath following Mary's first acquaintance with Jenny was the one
on which she was to go to church. Billy Bender promised that if his
mother were not suffering from any new disease, he would come to stay
with Alice, and in case he failed, the pleasant-looking woman was to
take his place. Mary would have preferred going alone, but Sally
begged so hard, and promised so fairly "not to make a speck of a face
at the preacher, provided he used good grammar," that Mary finally
asked Mr. Parker to let her go.
He consented willingly, saying he hoped the house would be peaceable
for once. And now, it was hard telling which looked forward to the
next Sunday with the most impatience, Mary or Sal, the latter of whom
was anxious to see the fashions, as she fancied her wardrobe was
getting out of date. To Mary's happiness there was one drawback. A few
weeks before her mother's death she had given to Ella her straw hat,
which she had outgrown, and now the only bonnet she possessed was the
veritable blue one of which George Moreland had made fun, and which by
this time was nearly worn out. Mrs. Campbell, who tried to do right
and thought that she did, had noticed Mary's absence from church, and
once on speaking of the subject before Hannah, the latter suggested
that probably she had no bonnet, saying that the one which she wore
at her mother's funeral was borrowed Mrs. Campbell immediately looked
over her things, and selecting a straw which she herself had worn
three years before, she tied a black ribbon across it, and sent it as
a present to Mary.
The bonnet had been rather large for Mrs. Campbell, and was of course
a world too big for Mary, whose face looked bit, as Sal expressed it,
"like a yellow pippin stuck into the far end of a firkin." Miss
Grundy, however, said "it was plenty good enough for a pauper,"
reminding Mary that "beggars shouldn't be choosers."
"So it is good enough for paupers like you," returned Sal, "but people
who understand grammar always have a keen sense of the ridiculous."
Mary made no remark whatever, but she secretly wondered if Ella wore
such a hat. Still her desire to see her sister and to visit her
mother's grave, prevailed over all other feelings, and on Sunday
morning it was a very happy child which at about nine o'clock bounded
down the stairway, tidily dressed in a ten cent black lawn and a pair
of clean white pantalets.
There was another circumstance, too, aside from the prospect of seeing
Ella, which made her eyes sparkle until they were almost black. The
night before, in looking over the articles of dress which she would
need, she discovered that there was not a decent pair of stockings in
her wardrobe. Mrs. Grundy, to whom she mentioned the fact, replied
with a violent shoulder jerk, "For the land's sake! ain't you big
enough to go to meetin' barefoot, or did you think we kept silk
stockin's for our quality to wear?"
Before the kitchen looking-glass, Sal was practising a courtesy which
she intended making to any one who chanced to notice her next day; but
after overhearing Miss Grundy's remark, she suddenly brought her
exercises to a close and left the kitchen. Arrived at her room, she
commenced tumbling over a basket containing her wearing apparel,
selecting from it a pair of fine cotton stockings which she had long
preserved, because they were the last thing Willie's father ever gave
her. "They are not much too large for her now," thought she, "but I
guess I'll take a small seam clear through them." This being done, she
waited until all around the house was still, and then creeping
stealthily to Mary's room, she pinned the stockings to the pantalets,
hanging the whole before the curtainless window, where the little girl
could see them the moment she opened her eyes! Mary well knew to whom
she was indebted for this unexpected pleasure, and in her accustomed
prayer that morning she remembered the poor old crazy woman, asking
that the light of reason might again dawn upon her darkened mind.
On descending to the kitchen, Mary found Sal waiting for her, and, as
she had expected, rigged out in a somewhat fantastic style. Her dress,
which was an old plum-colored silk, was altogether too short-waisted
and too narrow for the prevailing fashion. A gauze handkerchief was
thrown across her neck, and fastened to her belt in front by a large
yellow bow. Her bonnet, which was really a decent one, was almost
entirely covered by a thick green veil, and notwithstanding the sun
was shining brightly, she carried in her hand a large blue cotton
umbrella, for fear it would rain!
"Come, child," said she, the moment Mary appeared, "put on your
_tea-kettle_ (referring to the bonnet which Mary held in her hand),
and let us start."
There was no looking-glass in Mary's room, and she stepped before the
one in the kitchen while she adjusted her hat, but her courage almost
failed her as she saw the queer-looking image reflected by the mirror.
She was unusually thin, and it seemed to her that her teeth were
never so prominent before. Her eyes, always large, now looked
unnaturally so and as she placed what Sal had termed a "tea-kettle"
upon her head, she half determined not to go. But Sal caught her hand,
saying, "Come, child, it's time we were off. They'll all know it's
Mrs. Campbell's old bonnet, and will laugh at her for giving it to
you."
Billy had not come, but the pleasant-looking woman had succeeded in
making friends with Alice, and as Mary passed out of the yard she saw
her little sister spatting the window sill, and apparently well
pleased with her new nurse. Scarcely were they out of sight of the
house, when Sal, seating herself upon a large stone, commenced
divesting her feet of her shoes and stockings.
"What are you doing?" asked Mary, in great surprise.
"I guess I know better than to wear out my kid slippers when I've got
no Willie's father to buy me any more," answered Sal. "I'm going
barefoot until I reach the river bridge, and then I shall put them on
again."
The shoes and stockings being carefully rolled up in a paper which Sal
produced from her pocket, they walked briskly forward, and reached the
village some time before the first bell rang for church.
"Come down this street, please," said Mary to her companion, who with
slippers readjusted and umbrella hoisted was mincing along,
courtesying to every one she met, and asking them how they did--"Come
down this street; I want to see my old home."
Sal readily complied, saying as they drew near the low brown house, in
which a strange family were now living, "There is nothing very elegant
in the architecture of this dwelling."
Mary made no reply. With her head resting upon the garden fence, and
one hand clasped around a shrub which Franky had set out, she was
sobbing as though her heart would break. Very gently Sal laid her hand
on Mary's shoulder, and led her away, saying, "What would I not have
given for such a command of tears when Willie's father died. But I
could not weep; and my tears all turned to burning coals, which set my
brain on fire."
The next time Mary raised her head they were opposite Mrs. Bender's,
where Sal declared it her intention to stop. As they were passing up
to the side door, Billy, who heard their footsteps, came out, and
shaking hands with Mary, and trying hard to keep from laughing at the
wonderful courtesy, which Sal Furbush made him. On entering the house
they found Mrs. Bender flat on her back, the pillow pulled out from
under her head, and the bed clothes tucked closely up under her chin.
"Mother was so sick I couldn't come," said Billy to Mary, while Sal,
walking up to the bedside, asked, "Is your sickness unto death, my
good woman?"
"Oh, I am afeard not," was the feeble response. "Folks with my
difficulty suffer for years."
Mary looked inquiringly at Billy, and a smile but little according
with his mother's seeming distress parted his lips as he whispered,
"She was reading yesterday about a woman that had been bed-ridden with
a spinal difficulty, and now she declares that she too 'has got a
spine in her back,' though I fancy she would be in a pretty
predicament without one. But where did you get that fright of a
bonnet?" he continued. "It's like looking down a narrow lane to see
your face."
Mary knew that Billy was very observing of dress, and she blushed
painfully as she replied, that Mrs. Campbell gave it to her.
"Well, she ought to be ashamed," said he, "with all her money to give
you a corn-basket of a thing like that. Ella doesn't wear such a one,
I can tell you."
Just then the first bell rang, and Sal, who had mischievously
recommended a mustard poultice, as being the most likely to draw Mrs.
Bender's spine to a head, started to go saying, "she wanted to be
there in season, so as to see the folks come in."
Accordingly they again set forward, attracting more attention, and
causing more remarks, than any two who had passed through Chicopee for
a long time. On reaching the church, Sal requested the sexton to give
her a seat which would command a view of the greater part of the
congregation, and he accordingly led them to the farthest extremity of
one of the side galleries. Mary had been there at church before, but
as she had always sat near the door, she did not know in what part of
the building Mrs. Campbell's pew was located. As she leaned over the
railing, however, she concluded that the large square one with crimson
velvet cushions must be hers. Erelong the bell began to toll, and soon
a lady dressed in deep mourning appeared, and passing up the middle
aisle, entered the richly cushioned pew. She was accompanied by a
little girl, tastefully dressed in a frock of light-blue silk tissue.
A handsome French straw hat was set jauntily on one side of her head,
and her long curls hung over her white neck and shoulders. Mary knew
that this was Ella, and involuntarily starting up, she leaned forward
far enough to bring her bonnet directly in sight of some thoughtless
girls, who immediately commenced tittering, and pointing her out to
those near them.
Blushing scarlet, the poor girl sank back into the seat, saying half
aloud, "O, I wish I hadn't come."
"What's the matter?" said Sal. "Has somebody laughed at you? I'll
warrant there has;" and leaning over the railing herself, she shook
her fist threateningly at the girls, whose eyes were still directed
that way.
Mary felt instinctively that her companion was attracting more
attention than her bonnet; and twitching her dress bade her sit down.
Sal obeyed; but she had no opportunity that morning of deciding
whether the sermon were grammatical or not, for she was constantly on
the look out, and whenever she saw any one scrutinizing Mary or
herself more closely than they ought, a shake of her fist and a horrid
face warned them to desist. Twice during church time Mary thought, nay
felt sure that she caught her sister's eye, but it was quickly
withdrawn, as if unwilling to be recognized.
When church was out, Sal insisted upon going down immediately; so they
descended together to the porch below, reaching it just as Mrs.
Campbell appeared in the doorway. Had she chosen, Mary could have
touched the lady's dress as she passed; but she rather shrank from
being seen, and would probably not have been observed at all, had not
Sal planted herself directly in front of Mrs. Campbell, saying loudly
enough for all near her to hear, "Madam, do you not recognize your
munificent gift of charity in yonder amazing bonnet?" at the same time
pointing towards Mary, who nervously grasped the strings of her hat,
as if to remove the offensive article.
Mrs. Campbell haughtily pushed Sal aside, and advancing towards the
child, said, "I am glad to see you at church Mary, and hope you will
now come regularly. You can accompany Ella home after the Sabbath
school, if you like."
The words and manner were so cold and formal, that Mary was obliged to
force down her tears before she replied, that she was going to her
mother's grave, and wanted Ella to go with her.
"It is pretty warm to walk so far, but if Ella wishes it she has my
permission. Only tell her not to get red and heated," said Mrs.
Campbell; and gathering up the folds of her rich silk, the texture of
which Sal Furbush had been examining, and comparing with her own
plum-color, she walked away.
Scarcely was she gone, when Jenny Lincoln came tripping up, and
seizing both Mary's hands, exclaimed, "I am real glad you are here. I
thought you hadn't come, until I heard them talking about a crazy
woman. But let's go to my class, and you'll have a chance to see Ella
while the scholars are getting their seats."
Mary accompanied her young friend to a pew, at the door of which she
met her sister face to face. There was a sudden exclamation of joy on
Mary's part, and an attempt to throw her arms around Ella's neck, but
the little girl drew back, and merely offering her hand, said, "Oh,
it's you, isn't it? I didn't know you, you looked so queer."
"Heavens! what a head-dress! Big as our carriage top any day!" was the
next exclamation which reached Mary's ear, as Rose Lincoln brushed
past. Glancing from her sister to Rose, Mary half determined to tear
the bonnet from her head and trample it under her feet, but Jenny
softly squeezed her hand, and whispered, "Don't mind what Rose says; I
love you, and so does Billy Bender. I saw him in the village
yesterday, and asked him if he didn't, and he said he did."
It required more than Billy Bender's love to soothe Mary then. Her
sister's cool reception, so different from what she had anticipated,
had stung her heart; and sitting down near the door, she burst into a
passionate fit of tears. Jenny, who was really distressed,
occasionally pressed her hand in token of sympathy, at the same time
offering her cloves, peanuts and sugar-plums. There was a brighter
flush, too, than usual, on Ella's cheek, for she knew that she had
done wrong, and she so jumbled together the words of her lesson, that
the teacher made her repeat it twice, asking her what was the matter.
By the time Sabbath school was over, Mary had dried her tears; and
determining to make one more advance towards her sister, she said,
"Won't you go to mother's grave with me? I want to tell you about
little Allie. I have taught her to call your name most as plain as _I_
can."
Ella looked down at her embroidered pantalets, and hanging her head on
one side, said, "Oh, it's so dusty. I'm afraid I'll get all dirt,--and
hot, too. Mamma doesn't like to have me get hot."
"Why not?" asked Jenny, who always wished to know the reason of
things.
"'Cause it makes folks' skin rough, and break out," was Ella's reply.
"Oh, pshaw!" returned Jenny, with a vain attempt to turn up her little
bit of a nose. "I play every day till I am most roasted, and my skin
ain't half as rough as yours. But say, will you go with Mary? for if
you don't I shall!"
"I guess I won't," said Ella, and then, anxious to make Mary feel a
little comfortable, she added, "Mamma says Mary's coming to see me
before long, and then we'll have a real good time. I've lots of pretty
things--two silk dresses, and I wear French gaiters like these every
day."
Glancing first at Mary, and then at Ella, Jenny replied, "Pho, that's
nothing; Mary knows more than you do, any way. Why, she can say every
speck of the multiplication table, and you only know the 10's!"
When Ella was angry, or felt annoyed, she generally cried; and now
declaring that she knew more than the 10's she began to cry; and
announcing her intention of never speaking to Jenny again "as long as
she lived and breathed," she walked away, while Mary and Jenny
proceeded together towards the burying ground. With a bitter cry Mary
threw herself upon her mother's grave, and wept for a long, long time.
"It would not be so bad," said Mary, "if there was any body left, but
I am all alone in the world. Ella does not love me--nobody loves me."
It was in vain that Jenny told her of Billy Bender's love, of her own,
and George Moreland's too. Mary only wept the more, wishing that she
had died, and Allie too. At last remembering that she had left Sal
Furbush behind her, and knowing that it was time for her to go, she
arose, and leaning on Jenny, whose arm was passed lovingly about her,
she started to return.
Afternoon service had commenced ere they reached the church, and as
Mary had no desire of again subjecting her bonnet to the ridicule of
Rose Lincoln, and as Jenny had much rather stay out doors in the
shade, they sat down upon the steps, wondering where Sal Furbush had
taken herself. "I mean to look in and see if she is here," said Jenny,
and advancing on tiptoe to the open door, she cast her eye over the
people within; then clapping her hand over her mouth to keep back a
laugh, she returned to Mary, saying, "Oh, if it isn't the funniest
thing in the world. There sits Sal in Mrs. Campbell's pew, fanning
herself with that great palm-leaf, and shaking her fist at Ella every
time she stirs!"
It seems that Sal had amused herself during the intermission by
examining and trying the different pews, and taking a fancy to Mrs.
Campbell's, she had snugly ensconced herself in one corner of it,
greatly to the fear and mortification of Ella, who chanced to be the
only one of the family present. When service was out, Sal gathered up
her umbrella and courtesying her way through the crowd, soon found
Mary and started for home, declaring the clergyman to be "a well-read
grammarian, only a trifle too emphatic in his delivery."
As they were descending the long hill which led to the river bridge,
Mr. Lincoln's carriage passed them, and Jenny, who was inside, seized
the reins, saying, "Please, pa, stop and let them ride--there's nobody
but Rose and me in here, and it is so hot and so far."
Mr. Lincoln might possibly have complied with his daughter's request,
had not Rose chirrupped to the spirited horses, and said, "Don't,
father, for mercy's sake! ask those paupers to ride."
So the carriage dashed on, but Mary forgot the long walk by
remembering the glance of affection which Jenny gave her as she looked
back from the window. Sal seemed unusually silent, and even forgot to
take off her shoes and stockings when she reached the river bridge.
Mary saw there was something weighing upon her mind, but she forbore
asking any questions, knowing that Sal would in her own good time make
her thoughts known. They had nearly reached home, when Sal suddenly
turned aside, and seating herself upon a rock under a white
beech-tree, said, "Miss Howard, I've been thinking what a splendid
minister was spoiled when they put dresses on me! Oh how hard I had to
hold myself to-day to keep from extemporizing to the congregation. I
reckon there wouldn't have been quite so many nodding as there were."
In the excitement of the moment Sal arose, and throwing out her eyes,
gesticulated in a manner rather alarming to Mary, who had never before
seen so wild a look in the crazy woman's eyes. Soon, however, her mood
changed, and resuming her seat, she continued in a milder tone, "Did
you ever hear that I was an authoress?"
"An authoress!" repeated Mary--"an authoress! Why no; are you?"
"To be sure I am," answered Sal. "What's to hinder. Haven't I told you
repeatedly, that I once possessed an unusually large amount of
judgment; and this, added to my knowledge of grammar, and uncommon
powers of imagination, enabled me to produce a work which, but for an
unaccountable freak of the publisher, would have rendered my name
immortal."
"I don't understand," said Mary, and Sally continued: "You see, I
wrote about six hundred pages of foolscap, which the publisher to whom
it was sent for examination was impolite enough to return, together
with a note, containing, as I suppose, his reasons for rejection; but
if he thinks I read it he's mistaken. I merely glanced at the words,
'Dear Madam--We regret--' and then threw it aside. It was a terrible
disappointment, and came near turning my brain; but there are other
publishing houses in the world, and one of these days I shall astonish
mankind. But come, we must hasten on, or the gormandizers will eat up
those custard pies which I found in the cellar with the brass-kettle
covered over them."
Accordingly they started for home, but found, as Sal had predicted,
that supper was over and the pies all gone. By a little dexterous
management, however, she managed to find half of one, which Miss
Grundy had tucked away under an empty candle-box for her own future
eating.