A NEW FRIEND.
Three weeks had passed away since Alice's death, and affairs at the
poor-house were beginning to glide on as usual. Sal Furbush, having
satisfied her own ideas of propriety by remaining secluded for two or
three days, had once more appeared in society; but now that Alice was
no longer there to be watched, time hung wearily upon her hands, and
she was again seized with her old desire for authorship. Accordingly,
a grammar was commenced, which she said would contain Nine Hundred and
Ninety Nine rules for speaking the English language correctly!
Mary, who had resumed her post as dish washer in the kitchen, was
almost daily expecting Jenny; and one day when Billy came in to
dinner, he gave her the joyful intelligence that Jenny had returned,
and had been in the field to see him, bidding him tell Mary to meet
her that afternoon in the woods by the brook.
"Oh, I do hope Miss Grundy will let me go," said Mary, "and I guess
she will, for since Allie died, she hasn't been near so cross."
"If she don't, I will," answered Mr. Parker, who chanced to be
standing near, and who had learned to regard the little orphan girl
with more than usual interest.
But Miss Grundy made no objections, and when the last dishcloth was
wrung dry, and the last iron spoon put in its place, Mary bounded
joyfully away to the woods, where she found Jenny, who embraced her in
a manner which showed that she had not been forgotten.
"Oh," said she, "I've got so much to tell you, and so much to hear,
though I know all about dear little Allie' death,--didn't you feel
dreadfully?"
Mary's tears were a sufficient answer, and Jenny, as if suddenly
discovering something new, exclaimed, "Why, what have you been doing?
Who pulled your teeth?"
Mary explained the circumstance of the tooth-pulling, and Jenny
continued: "You look a great deal better, and if your cheeks were only
a little fatter and your skin not quite so yellow, you'd be real
handsome; but no matter about that. I saw George Moreland in Boston,
and I wanted to tell him about you, but I'd promised not to; and then
at first I felt afraid of him, for you can't think what a great big
fellow he's got to be. Why, he's awful tall! and handsome, too. Rose
likes him, and so do lots of the girls, but I don't believe he cares a
bit for any of them except his cousin Ida, and I guess he does like
her;--any way, he looks at her as though he did."
Mary wondered _how_ he looked at her, and would perhaps have asked,
had she not been prevented by the sudden appearance of Henry Lincoln,
who directly in front of her leaped across the brook. He was evidently
not much improved in his manners, for the moment he was safely landed
on terra firma, he approached her, and seizing her round the waist,
exclaimed, "Hallo, little pauper! You're glad to see me back, I dare
say."
Then drawing her head over so that he could look into her face, he
continued, "Had your tusks out, haven't you! Well, it's quite an
improvement, so much so that I'll venture to kiss you."
Mary struggled, and Jenny scolded, while Henry said "Don't kick and
flounce so, my little beauty. If there's any thing I hate, it's seeing
girls make believe they're modest. That clodhopper Bill kisses you
every day, I'll warrant."
Here Jenny's wrath exploded; and going up to her brother, she
attempted to pull him away, until bethinking her of the brook, she
commenced sprinkling him with water, but observing that more of it
fell upon Mary than her brother, she desisted, while Henry, having
accomplished his purpose, began spitting and making wry faces,
assuring Mary that "she needn't be afraid of his ever troubling her
again, for her lips were musty, and tasted of the poor-house!"
Meanwhile Tasso, who had become a great favorite with Mary, and who,
on this occasion, had accompanied her to the woods, was standing on
the other side of the brook, eyeing Henry's movements, and apparently
trying to make up his mind whether his interference was necessary or
not. A low growl showed that he was evidently deciding the matter,
when Henry desisted, and walked leisurely off.
Erelong, however, he returned, and called out, "See, girls, I've got
an elegant necklace for you."
Looking up, they saw him advancing towards them, with a small water
snake, which he held in his hand; and, readily divining his purpose,
they started and ran, while he pursued them, threatening to wind the
snake around the neck of the first one he caught. Jenny, who was too
chubby to be very swift-footed, took refuge behind a clump of alder
bushes but Mary kept on, and just as she reached a point where the
brook turned, Henry overtook her, and would perhaps have carried his
threat into execution, had not help arrived from an unexpected
quarter. Tasso, who had watched, and felt sure that this time all was
not right, suddenly pounced upon Henry, throwing him down, and then
planting himself upon his prostrate form, in such a manner that he
dared not move.
"Oh, good, good," said Jenny, coming out from her concealment; "make
Tasso keep him there ever so long; and," she continued, patting the
dog, "if you won't hurt him much, you may shake him just a little."
"No, no," said Henry, writhing with fear, "call him off, do call him
off. Oh, mercy!" he added, as Tasso, who did not particularly care to
have the case reasoned, showed two rows of very white teeth.
Mary could not help laughing at the figure which Henry cut; but
thinking him sufficiently punished, she called off the dog, who obeyed
rather unwillingly, and ever after manifested his dislike to Henry by
growling angrily whenever he appeared.
One morning about two weeks afterwards, Mary was in the meadow
gathering cowslips for dinner, when she heard some one calling her
name; and looking up, she saw Jenny hurrying towards her, her
sun-bonnet hanging down her back as usual, and her cheeks flushed with
violent exercise. As soon as she came up, she began with, "Oh my,
ain't I hot and tired, and I can't stay a minute either, for I run
away. But I had such good news to tell you, that I would come. You are
going to have a great deal better home than this. You know where Rice
Corner is, the district over east?"
Mary replied that she did, and Jenny continued: "We all went over
there yesterday to see Mrs. Mason. She's a real nice lady, who used to
live in Boston, and be intimate with ma, until three or four years
ago, when Mr. Mason died. We didn't go there any more then, and I
asked Rose what the reason was, and she said Mrs. Mason was poor now,
and ma had 'cut her;' and when I asked her what she _cut_ her with,
she only laughed, and said she believed I didn't know any thing. But
since then I've learned what it means."
"What does it?" asked Mary, and Jenny replied: "If a person dies and
leaves no money, no matter how good his folks are, or how much you
like them, you mustn't know them when you meet them in the street, or
you must cross over the other side if you see them coming; and then
when ladies call and speak about them, you must draw a great long
breath, and wonder 'how the poor thing will get along, she was so
dreadful extravagant.' I positively heard mother say those very words
about Mrs. Mason; and what is so funny, the washwoman the same day
spoke of her, and cried when she told how kind she was, and how she
would go without things herself for the sake of giving to the poor.
It's queer, isn't it?"
Ah, Jenny, Jenny, you've much of life yet to learn!
After a moment's pause, Jenny proceeded: "This Mrs. Mason came into
the country, and bought the prettiest little cottage you ever saw. She
has lots of nice fruit, and for all mother pretends in Boston that she
don't visit her, just as soon as the fruit is ripe, she always goes
there. Pa says it's real mean, and he should think Mrs. Mason would
see through it."
"Did you go there for fruit yesterday?" asked Mary.
"Oh, no," returned Jenny. "Mother said she was tired to death with
staying at home. Besides that, she heard something in Boston about a
large estate in England, which possibly would fall to Mrs. Mason, and
she thought it would be real kind to go and tell her. Mrs. Mason has
poor health, and while we were there, she asked mother if she knew of
any good little girl she could get to come and live with her; 'one,'
she said, 'who could be quiet when her head ached, and who would read
to her and wait on her at other times.' Mother said she did not know
of any; but when Mrs. Mason went out to get tea, I followed and told
her of you, and the tears came into her eyes when I said your folks
were all dead, and you were alone and sorry. She said right off that
she would come round and see you soon, and if she liked you, you
should live with her. But I must run back, for I suppose you know
mother brought our governess with us, and it's time I was turning my
toes out and my elbows in. Ugh! how I do hate such works. If I ever
have a house, there shan't be a fashionable thing about it. I'll have
it full of cats, dogs, and poor children, with a swing and a
'_teater_' in every room, and Billy Bender shall live with me, and
drive the horses!"
So saying, she ran off; and Mary, having gathered her cowslips, sat
down to think of Mrs. Mason, and wonder if she should ever see her.
Since Alice's death she had been in the daily habit of learning a
short lesson, which she recited to Sally, and this afternoon, when the
dishes were all washed, she had as usual stolen away to her books. She
had not been long occupied, ere Rind called her, saying Mr. Knight,
who, it will be remembered, had brought her to the poor-house, was
down stairs and wanted to see her, and that there was a lady with him,
too.
Mary readily guessed that the lady must be Mrs. Mason and carefully
brushing her hair, and tying on a clean apron, she descended to the
kitchen, where she was met by Mr. Knight, who called out, "Hallo, my
child, how do you do? 'Pears to me you've grown handsome. It agrees
with you to live here I reckon, but I'll venture you'll be glad enough
to leave, and go and live with her, won't you?" pointing towards a
lady, who was just coming from Mrs. Parker's room, and towards whom
Mary's heart instantly warmed.
"You see," continued Mr. Knight, "one of the Lincoln girls has taken
a mighty shine to you, and it's queer, too, for they're dreadful
stuck-up folks."
"If you please, sir," said Mary, interrupting him, "Jenny isn't a bit
stuck up."
"Umph!" returned Mr. Knight. "She don't belong to the Lincoln race
then, I guess. I know them, root and branch. Lincoln's wife used to
work in the factory at Southbridge, but she's forgot all about that,
and holds her head dreadful high whenever she sees me. But that's
neither here nor there. This woman wants you to live with her. Miss
Mason, this is Mary. Mary, this is Miss Mason."
The introduction being thus happily over, Mrs. Mason proceeded to ask
Mary a variety of questions, and ended by saying she thought she would
take her, although she would rather not have her come for a few days,
as she was going to be absent. Miss Grundy was now interrogated
concerning her knowledge of work, and with quite a consequential air,
she replied, "Perhaps, ma'am, it looks too much like praising myself,
considerin' that I've had the managin' of her mostly, but I must
confess that she's lived with me so long and got my ways so well, that
she's as pleasant a mannered, good-tempered child, and will scour as
bright a knife as you could wish to see!"
Mary saw that Mrs. Mason could hardly repress a smile as she replied,
"I am glad about the temper and manners, but the scouring of knives is
of little consequence, for Judith always does that."
Sal Furbush, who had courtesied herself into the room, now asked to
say a word concerning Mary. "She is," said she, "the very apple of my
eye, and can parse a sentence containing three double relatives, two
subjunctive moods and four nominatives absolute, perfectly easily."
"I see you are a favorite here," said Mrs. Mason, laying her hand
gently on Mary's head, "and I think that in time you will be quite as
much of one with me, so one week from Saturday you may expect me."
There was something so very affectionate in Mrs. Mason's manner of
speaking, that Mary could not keep her tears back; and when Sally,
chancing to be in a poetic mood, said to her, "Maiden, wherefore
weepest thou?" she replied, "I can't help it. She speaks so kind, and
makes me think of mother."
"Speaks so _kindly_, you mean," returned Sal, while Mrs. Mason,
brushing a tear from her own eye, whispered to the little girl, "I
will be a mother to you, my child;" then, as Mr. Knight had finished
discussing the weather with Mr. Parker, she stepped into his buggy,
and was driven away.
"That's what I call a thoroughly grammatical lady," said Sal, looking
after her until a turn in the road hid her from view, "and I shall try
to be resigned, though the vital spark leaves this house when Mary
goes."
Not long after, Rind asked Miss Grundy if William Bender was going
away.
"Not as I know on," answered Miss Grundy. "What made you think of
that?"
"'Cause," returned Rind, "I heard Sal Furbush having over a mess of
stuff about the _spark's_ leaving when Mary did, and I thought mebby
he was going, as you say he's her spark!"
The next afternoon Jenny, managing to elude the watchful eyes of her
mother and governess, came over to the poor-house.
"I'm so glad you are going," said she, when she heard of Mrs. Mason's
visit. "I shall be lonesome without you, but you'll have such a happy
home, and when you get there mayn't I tell George Moreland about you
the next time I see him?"
"I'd rather you wouldn't," said Mary, "for I don't believe he
remembers me at all."
"Perhaps not," returned Jenny, "and I guess you wouldn't know him; for
besides being so tall, he has begun to _shave_, and Ida thinks he's
trying to raise whiskers!"
That night, when Mary was alone, she drew from its hiding-place the
golden locket, but the charm was broken, and the pleasure she had
before experienced in looking at it, now faded away with Jenny's
picture of a whiskered young man, six feet high! Very rapidly indeed
did Mary's last week at the poor-house pass away, and for some reason
or other, every thing went on, as Rind said, "wrong end up." Miss
Grundy was crosser than usual, though all observed that her voice grew
milder in its tone whenever she addressed Mary, and once she went so
far as to say, by way of a general remark, that she "never yet treated
any body, particularly a child, badly, without feeling sorry for it."
Sal Furbush was uncommonly wild, dancing on her toes, making faces,
repeating her nine hundred and ninety-nine rules of grammar, and
quoting Scripture, especially the passage, "The Lord gave, and the
Lord taketh away, &c." Uncle Peter, too, labored assiduously at
"Delia's Dirge," which he intended playing as Mary was leaving the
yard.
Saturday came at last, and long before the sun peeped over the eastern
hills, Mary was up and dressed. Just as she was ready to leave her
room, she heard Sally singing in a low tone, "Oh, there'll be
mourning,--mourning,--mourning,--mourning, Oh, there'll be mourning
when Mary's gone away."
Hastily opening her own door, she knocked at Sal's, and was bidden to
enter. She found her friend seated in the middle of the floor, while
scattered around her were the entire contents of the old barrel and
box which contained her wearing apparel.
"Good morning, little deary," said she, "I am looking over my somewhat
limited wardrobe, in quest of something wherewith to make your young
heart happy, but my search is vain. I can find nothing except the
original MS. of my first novel. I do not need it now, for I shall make
enough out of my grammar. So take it, and when you are rich and
influential, you'll have no trouble in getting it published,--none at
all."
So saying, she thrust into Mary's hand a large package, carefully
wrapped in half a dozen newspapers, and the whole enveloped in a
snuff-colored silk handkerchief, which "Willie's father used to wear."
Here Rind came up the stairs saying breakfast was ready, and after
putting her present aside, Mary descended to the kitchen, where she
found the table arranged with more than usual care. An old red waiter,
which was only used on special occasions, was placed near Miss Grundy,
and on it stood the phenomenon of a hissing coffee-pot: and what was
stranger, still, in the place of the tin basin from which Mary had
recently been accustomed to eat her bread and milk, there was now a
cup and saucer, which surely must have been intended for her. Her
wonder was at its height when Miss Grundy entered from the back room,
bearing a plate filled with snowy white biscuit, which she placed upon
the table with an air of "There! what do you think of that?"--then
seating herself, she skimmed all the cream from the bowl of milk, and
preparing a delicious cup of coffee, passed it to Mary, before helping
the rest.
"Is the Millennium about to be ushered in?" asked Sal in amazement;
while Uncle Peter, reverently rising, said, Fellow-citizens, and
ladies, for these extras let us thank the Lord, remembering to ask a
continuation of the same!"
"Do let your victuals stop your mouth," said Miss Grundy, "and don't
act as though we never had coffee and biscuit for breakfast before."
"My memory has failed wonderfully, if we ever did," was Uncle Peter's
reply.
Breakfast being over, Mary as usual commenced clearing the table, but
Miss Grundy bade her "sit down and _rest_ her," and Mary obeyed,
wondering what she had done to tire herself. About 9 o'clock, Mr.
Knight drove up alone, Mrs. Mason being sick with nervous headache. "I
should have been here sooner," said he, "but the roads is awful rough
and old Charlotte has got a stub or somethin' in her foot But where's
the gal? Ain't she ready?"
He was answered by Mary herself, who made her appearance, followed by
Billy bearing the box. And now commenced the leave-takings, Miss
Grundy's turn coming first.
"May I kiss you, Miss Grundy?" said Mary, while Sal exclaimed aside,
"What! kiss those sole-leather lips?" at the same time indicating by a
guttural sound the probable effect such a process would have upon her
stomach!
Miss 'Grundy bent down and received the child's kiss, and then darting
off into the pantry, went to skimming pans of milk already skimmed!
Rind and the pleasant-looking woman cried outright, and Uncle Peter,
between times, kept ejaculating, "Oh, Lord!--oh, massy sake!--oh, for
land!" while he industriously plied his fiddle bow in the execution of
"Delia's Dirge," which really sounded unearthly, and dirgelike enough.
Billy knew it would be lonely without Mary, but he was glad to have
her go to a better home, go he tried to be cheerful; telling her he
would take good care of Tasso, and that whenever she chose she must
claim her property.
Aside from him, Sally was the only composed one. It is true, her eyes
were very bright, and there was a compression about her mouth seldom
seen, except just before one of her frenzied attacks. Occasionally,
too, she pressed her hands upon her head, and walking to the sink,
bathed it in water, as if to cool its inward heat; but she said
nothing until Mary was about stepping into the buggy, when she
whispered in her ear, "If that novel should have an unprecedented run,
and of course it will, you would not mind sharing the profits with me,
would you?"