VISITORS.
The Tuesday following Mary's arrival at Mrs. Mason's, there was a
social gathering at the house of Mr. Knight. This gathering could
hardly be called a tea party, but came more directly under the head of
an "afternoon's visit," for by two o'clock every guest had arrived,
and the "north room" was filled with ladies, whose tongues, like their
hands, were in full play. Leathern reticules, delicate embroidery, and
gold thimbles were not then in vogue in Rice Corner; but on the
contrary, some of Mrs. Knight's visitors brought with them large,
old-fashioned work-bags, from which the ends of the polished
knitting-needles were discernible; while another apologized for the
magnitude of her work, saying that "her man had fretted about his
trousers until she herself began to think it was time to finish them;
and so when she found Miss Mason wasn't to be there, she had just
brought them along."
In spite of her uniform kindness, Mrs. Mason was regarded by some of
her neighbors as a bugbear, and this allusion to her immediately
turned the conversation in that direction.
"Now, do tell," said Widow Perkins, vigorously rapping her snuff-box
and passing it around. "Now, do tell if it's true that Miss Mason has
took a girl from the town-house?"
On being assured that such was the fact, she continued "Now I _will_
give up. Plagued as she is for things, what could have possessed her?"
"I was not aware that she was very much troubled to live," said Mrs.
Knight, whose way of thinking, and manner of expressing herself, was
entirely unlike Mrs. Perkins.
"Wall, she is," was Mrs. Perkins's reply; and then hitching her chair
closer to the group near her, and sinking her voice to a whisper, she
added, "You mustn't speak of it on any account, for I wouldn't have it
go from me, but my Sally Ann was over there t'other day, and neither
Miss Mason nor Judy was to home. Sally Ann has a sight of
curiosity,--I don't know nothing under the sun where she gets it, for
I hain't a mite,--Wall, as I was tellin' you, there was nobody to
home, and Sally Ann she slips down cellar and peeks into the pork
barrel, and as true as you live, there warn't a piece there. Now, when
country folks get out of salt pork, they are what I call middlin'
poor."
And Mrs. Perkins finished her speech with the largest pinch of
maccaboy she could possibly hold between her thumb and forefinger.
"Miss Perkins," said an old lady who was famous for occasionally
rubbing the widow down, "Miss Perkins, that's just as folks think.
It's no worse to be out of pork than 'tis to eat codfish the whole
durin' time."
This was a home thrust, for Mrs. Perkins, who always kept one or two
boarders, and among them the school-teacher was notorious for feeding
them on codfish.
Bridling up in a twinkling, her little gray eyes flashed fire as she
replied, "I s'pose it's me you mean, Miss Bates; but I guess I've a
right to eat what I'm a mind to. I only ask a dollar and ninepence a
week for boarding the school marm--"
"And makes money at that," whispered a rosy-cheeked girlish-looking
woman, who the summer before had been the "school-marm," and who now
bore the name of a thrifty young farmer.
Mrs. Perkins, however, did not notice this interruption but proceeded
with, "Yes, a dollar and ninepence is all I ever ask, and if I kept
them so dreadful slim, I guess the committee man wouldn't always come
to me the first one."
"Mrs. Perkins, here's the pint," said Mrs. Bates, dropping a stitch in
her zeal to explain matters; "you see the cheaper they get the
school-ma'am boarded, the further the money goes, and the longer
school they have. Don't you understand it?"
Mrs. Knight, fancying that affairs were assuming altogether too
formidable an aspect, adroitly turned the conversation upon the
heroine of our story, saying how glad she was that Mary had at last
found so good a home.
"So am I," said Mrs. Bates; "for we all know that Mrs. Mason will take
just as good care of her, as though she were her own; and she's had a
mighty hard time of it, knocked around there at the poor-house under
Polly Grundy's thumb."
"They do say," said Mrs. Perkins, whose anger had somewhat cooled,
"They do say that Miss Grundy is mowing a wide swath over there, and
really expects to have Mr. Parker, if his wife happens to die."
In her girlhood Mrs. Perkins had herself fancied Mr. Parker, and now
in her widowhood, she felt an unusual interest in the failing health
of his wife. No one replied to her remark, and Mrs. Bates continued:
"It really used to make my heart ache to see the little forlorn thing
sit there in the gallery, fixed up so old and fussy, and then to see
her sister prinked out like a milliner's show window, a puckerin' and
twistin', and if she happens to catch her sister's eye, I have
actually seen her turn up her nose at her,--so--" and Mrs. Bates's
nasal organ went up towards her eyebrows in imitation of the look
which Ella sometimes gave Mary. "It's wicked in me, perhaps," said
Mrs. Bates, "but pride must have a fall, and I do hope I shall live to
see the day when Ella Campbell won't be half as well off as her
sister."
"I think Mrs. Campbell is answerable for some of Ella's conduct," said
Mrs. Knight, "for I believe she suffered her to visit the poor-house
but once while Mary was there."
"I guess she'll come oftener now she's living with a city bug,"
rejoined Mrs. Perkins.
Just then there was the sound of carriage wheels, and a woman near the
door exclaimed, "If you'll believe it there she is now, going right
straight into Mrs. Mason's yard."
"Well, if that don't beat me," said Mrs. Perkins. "Seems to me I'd
have waited a little longer for look's sake. Can you see what she's
got on from here?" and the lady made a rush for the window to
ascertain if possible that important fact.
Meantime the carriage steps were let down and Mrs. Campbell alighted.
As Mrs. Knight's guests had surmised, she was far more ready to visit
Mary now than heretofore. Ella, too, had been duly informed by her
waiting-maid that she needn't mind denying that she had a sister to
the Boston girls who were spending a summer in Chicopee.
"To be sure," said Sarah, "she'll never be a fine lady like you and
live in the city; but then Mrs. Mason is a very respectable woman, and
will no doubt put her to a trade, which is better than being a town
pauper; so you mustn't feel above her any more, for it's wicked, and
Mrs. Campbell wouldn't like it, for you know she and I are trying to
bring you up in the fear of the Lord."
Accordingly Ella was prepared to greet her sister more cordially than
she had done before in a long time, and Mary that day took her first
lesson in learning that too often friends come and go with prosperity.
But she did not think of it then. She only knew that her sister's arm
was around her neck, and her sister's kiss upon her cheek. With a cry
of joy, she exclaimed, "Oh, Ella, I knew you'd be glad to find me so
happy."
But Ella wasn't particularly glad. She was too thoroughly heartless to
care for any one except herself, and her reception of her sister was
more the result of Sarah's lesson, and of a wish expressed by Mrs.
Campbell, that she would "try and behave as well as she could towards
Mary." Mrs. Campbell, too, kissed the little girl, and expressed her
pleasure at finding her so pleasantly situated; and then dropping
languidly upon the sofa, asked for Mrs. Mason, who soon appeared, and
received her visitor with her accustomed politeness.
"And so you, too, have cared for the orphan," said Mrs. Campbell.
"Well, you will find it a task to rear her as she should be reared,
but a consciousness of doing right makes every thing seem easy. My
dear, (speaking to Ella,) run out and play awhile with your sister, I
wish to see Mrs. Mason alone."
"You may go into the garden," said Mrs. Mason to Mary, who arose to
obey; but Ella hung back, saying she 'didn't want to go,--the garden
was all nasty, and she should dirty her clothes."
"But, my child," said Mrs. Campbell, "I wish to have you go, and you
love to obey me, do you not?"
Still Ella hesitated, and when Mary took hold of her hand, she jerked
it away, saying, "Let me be."
At last she was persuaded to leave the room, but on reaching the hall
she stopped, and to Mary's amazement applied her ear to the keyhole.
"I guess I know how to cheat her," said she in a whisper. "I've been
sent off before, but I listened and heard her talk about me."
"Talk about you!" repeated Mary. "What did she say?"
"Oh, 'set me up,' as Sarah says," returned Ella; and Mary, who had
never had the advantage of a waiting maid, and who consequently was
not so well posted on "slang terms," asked what "setting up" meant.
"Why," returned Ella, "she tells them how handsome and smart I am, and
repeats some cunning thing I've said or done; and sometimes she tells
it right before me, and that's why I didn't want to come out."
This time, however, Mrs. Campbell's conversation related more
particularly to Mary.
"My dear Mrs. Mason," she began, "you do not know how great a load you
have removed from my mind by taking Mary from the poor-house."
"I can readily understand," said Mrs. Mason, "why you should feel more
than a passing interest in the sister of your adopted daughter, and I
assure you I shall endeavor to treat her just as I would wish a child
of mine treated, were it thrown upon the wide world."
"Of course you will," returned Mrs. Campbell, "and I only wish you had
it in your power to do more for her, and in this perhaps I am selfish.
I felt badly about her being in the poor-house, but truth compels me
to say, that it was more on Ella's account than her own. I shall give
Ella every advantage which money can purchase, and I am excusable I
think for saying that she is admirably fitted to adorn any station in
life; therefore it cannot but be exceedingly mortifying to her to
know that one sister died a pauper and the other was one for a length
of time. This, however, can not be helped, and now, as I said before I
only wish it were in your power to do more for Mary. I, of course,
know that you are poor, but I do not think less of you for that--"
Mrs. Mason's body became slightly more erect, but she made no reply,
and Mrs. Campbell continued.
"Still I hope you will make every exertion in your power to educate
and polish Mary as much as possible, so that if by chance Ella in
after years should come in contact with her, she would not
feel,--ahem,--would not,--would not be--"
"Ashamed to own her sister, I suppose you would say," interrupted Mrs.
Mason. "Ashamed to acknowledge that the same blood flowed in her
veins, that the same roof once sheltered them, and that the same
mother bent lovingly over their pillows, calling them her children."
"Why, not exactly that," said Mrs. Campbell, fidgeting in her chair
and growing very red. "I think there is a difference between feeling
mortified and ashamed. Now you must know that Ella would not be
particularly pleased to have a homely, stupid, rawboned country girl
pointed out as her sister to a circle of fashionable acquaintances in
Boston, where I intend taking her as soon as her education is
finished; and I think it well enough for Mary to understand, that with
the best you can do for her there will still be a great difference
between her own and her sister's position."
"Excuse me, madam," again interrupted Mrs. Mason, "a stupid, awkward
country girl Mary is not, and never will be. In point of intellect she
is far superior to her sister, and possesses more graceful and
lady-like manners. Instead of Ella's being ashamed of her, I fancy it
will be just the reverse, unless your daughter's foolish vanity and
utter selfishness is soon checked. Pardon me for being thus plain,
but in the short time Mary has been with me, I have learned to love
her, and my heart already warms towards her as towards a daughter, and
I cannot calmly hear her spoken of so contemptuously."
During this conversation, Ella had remained listening at the
keyhole, and as the voices grew louder and more earnest, Mary, too,
distinguished what they said. She was too young to appreciate it fully,
but she understood enough to wound her deeply; and as she just then
heard Ella say there was a carriage coming, she sprang up the stairs,
and entering her own room, threw herself upon the bed and burst into
tears. Erelong a little chubby face looked in at the door, and a voice
which went to Mary's heart, exclaimed, "Why-ee,--Mary,--crying the first
time I come to see you!"
It was Jenny, and in a moment the girls were in each other's arms.
"Rose has gone to the garden with Ella," said Jenny, "but she told me
where to find you, and I came right up here. Oh, what a nice little
room, so different from mine with my things scattered every where. But
what is the matter? Don't you like to live with Mrs. Mason?"
"Yes, very much," answered Mary. "It isn't that," and then she told
what she had overheard.
"It's perfectly ridiculous and out of character for Mrs. Campbell to
talk so," said Jenny, looking very wise. "And it's all, false, too.
You are not stupid, nor awkward, nor very homely either; Billy Bender
says so, and he knows. I saw him this morning, and he talked ever so
much about you. Next fall he's going to Wilbraham to study Latin and
Chinese too, I believe, I don't know though. Henry laughs and says, 'a
plough-jogger study Latin!' But I guess Billy will some day be a
bigger man than Henry don't you?"
Mary was sure of it; and then Jenny proceeded to open her budget of
news concerning the inmates of the poor-house. "Sal Furbush," said
she, "is raving crazy now you are gone, and they had to shut her up,
but yesterday she broke away and came over to our house. Tasso was
with her, and growled so at Henry that he ran up garret, and then,
like a great hateful, threw bricks at the dog. I told Sally I was
coming to see you, and she said, 'Ask her if she has taken the first
step towards the publication of my novel. Tell her, too, that the
Glory of Israel has departed, and that I would drown myself if it were
not for my clothes, which I fear Mrs. Grundy would wear out!'"
Here Rose called to her sister to come down, and accordingly the two
girls descended together to the parlor, where they found Mrs. Lincoln.
She was riding out, she said, and had just stopped a moment to inquire
after Mrs. Mason's health and to ask for a _very few_ flowers,--they
did look so tempting! She was of course perfectly delighted to meet
Mrs. Campbell, and Mrs. Campbell was perfectly delighted to meet her;
and drawing their chairs together, they conversed for a long time
about Mrs. So and So, who either had come, or was coming from Boston
to spend the summer.
"I am so glad," said Mrs. Lincoln, "for we need some thing to keep us
alive. I don't see, Mrs. Campbell, how you manage to live here through
the winter, no society nor any thing."
Here Mrs. Mason ventured to ask if there were not some very pleasant
and intelligent ladies in the village.
"Oh, ye-es," said Mrs. Lincoln, with a peculiar twist to her mouth,
which Jenny said she always used when she was "putting on." "They are
well enough, but they are not the kind of folks we would recognize at
home. At least they don't belong to 'our set,'" speaking to Mrs.
Campbell who replied, "Oh, certainly not." It was plain even to a
casual observer that Mrs. Lincoln's was the ruling spirit to which
Mrs. Campbell readily yielded, thinking that so perfect a model of
gentility could not err. Mr. Knight possibly might have enlightened
her a little with regard to her friend's pedigree, but he was not
present, and for half an hour more the two ladies talked together of
their city acquaintances, without once seeming to remember that Mrs.
Mason, too, had formerly known them all intimately. At last Mrs.
Lincoln arose, saying she must go, as she had already stopped much
longer than she intended, "but when I get with you," said she, turning
to Mrs. Campbell, "I never know when to leave."
Mrs. Mason invited her to remain to tea, saying it was nearly ready.
Mrs. Campbell, who had also arisen, waited for Mrs. Lincoln to decide,
which she soon did by reseating herself and saying, laughingly, "I
don't know but I'll stay for a taste of those delicious looking
strawberries I saw your servant carry past the window."
Erelong the little tea-bell rang, and Mrs. Lincoln, who had not before
spoken to Mary, now turned haughtily towards her, requesting her to
watch while they were at supper and see if the coachman did not drive
off with the horses as he sometimes did. Mary could not trust herself
to reply for she had agreed to sit next Jenny at table, and had in her
own mind decided to give her little friend her share of berries. She
glanced once at Mrs. Mason, who apparently did not notice her, and
then gulping down her tears, took her station by the window, where she
could see the coachman who, instead of meditating a drive around the
neighborhood was fast asleep upon the box. Jenny did not miss her
companion until she was sitting down to the table, and then noticing
an empty plate between herself and her mother, who managed to take up
as much room as possible, she rather impolitely called out, "Here,
mother, sit along and make room for Mary. That's her place. Why, where
is she? Mrs. Mason, may I call her?"
Mrs. Mason, who had seen and heard more than Mary fancied, and who in
seating her guests had contrived to bring Mary's plate next to Mrs.
Lincoln, nodded, and Jenny springing up ran to the parlor, where Mary
stood counting flies, looking up at the ceiling, and trying various
other ways to keep from crying. Seizing both her hands Jenny almost
dragged her into the dining-room, where she found it rather difficult
squeezing in between her mother and Rose, whose elbows took up much
more room than was necessary. A timely _pinch_, however, duly
administered, sent the young lady along an inch or so, and Jenny and
Mary were at last fairly seated.
Mrs. Lincoln reddened,--Mrs. Campbell looked concerned,--Mrs. Mason
amused,--Rose angry,--Mary mortified,--while Ella, who was not quick
enough to understand, did not look at all except at her strawberries,
which disappeared rapidly. Then in order to attract attention, she
scraped her saucer as loudly as possible; but for once Mrs. Mason was
very obtuse, not even taking the hint when Mrs. Campbell removed a
portion of her own fruit to the plate of the pouting child, bidding
her "eat something besides berries."
After a time Mrs. Lincoln thought proper to break the silence which
she had preserved, and taking up her fork said, "You have been buying
some new silver, haven't you?"
"They were a present to me from my friend, Miss Martha Selden," was
Mrs. Mason's reply.
"Possible!" said Mrs. Campbell.
"Indeed!" said Mrs. Lincoln, and again closely examining the fork, she
continued, "Aunt Martha is really getting liberal in her old age. But
then I suppose she thinks Ida is provided for, and there'll be no
particular need of her money in that quarter."
"Provided for? How?" asked Mrs. Mason, and Mrs Lincoln answered, "Why
didn't you know that Mr. Selden's orphan nephew, George Moreland, had
come over from England to live with him? He is heir to a large
fortune, and it is said that both Mr. Selden and Aunt Martha are
straining every nerve to eventually bring about a match between George
and Ida."
There was no reason why Mary should blush at the mention of George
Moreland, still she did do so, while Jenny slyly stepped upon her
toes. But her embarrassment was unobserved, for what did she, a pauper
girl, know or care about one whose future destiny, and wife too, were
even then the subject of more than one scheming mother's speculations.
Mrs. Mason smiled, and said she thought it very much like child's
play, for if she remembered rightly Ida couldn't be more than thirteen
or fourteen.
"About that," returned Mrs. Lincoln; "but the young man is
older,--eighteen or nineteen, I think."
"No, mother," interrupted Jenny, who was as good at keeping ages as
some old women, "he isn't but seventeen."
"Really," rejoined Mrs. Campbell, "I wouldn't wonder if our little
Jenny had some designs on him herself, she is so anxious to make him
out young."
"Oh, fy," returned Jenny. "He can't begin with Billy Bender!"
Mrs. Lincoln frowned, and turning to her daughter, said 'I have
repeatedly requested, and now I command you not to bring up Billy
Bender in comparison with every thing and every body."
"And pray, who is Billy Bender?" asked Mrs. Mason, and Mrs. Lincoln
replied, "Why, he's a great rough, over grown country boy, who used to
work for Mr. Lincoln, and now he's on the town farm, I believe."
"But he's _working_ there," said Jenny, "and he's going to get money
enough to go to school next fall at Wilbraham; and I heard father say
he deserved a great deal of credit for it and that men that made
themselves, or else men that didn't, I've forgot which, were always
the smartest."
Here the older portion of the company laughed, and Mrs. Lincoln,
bidding her daughter not to try to tell any thing unless she could get
it straight, again resumed the subject of the silver forks, saying to
Mrs. Mason, "I should think you'd be so glad. For my part I'm
perfectly wedded to a silver fork, and positively I could not eat
without one."
"But, mother," interrupted Jenny, "Grandma Howland hasn't any, and I
don't believe she ever had, for once when we were there and you
carried yours to eat with, don't you remember she showed you a little
two tined one, and asked if the victuals didn't taste just as good
when you lived at home and worked in the,--that great big noisy
building,--I forget the name of it?"
It was fortunate for Jenny's after happiness that Mrs. Campbell was
just then listening intently for something which Ella was whispering
in her ear, consequently she did not hear the remark, which possibly
might have enlightened her a little with regard to her friend's early
days. Tea being over, the ladies announced their intention of leaving,
and Mrs. Mason, recollecting Mrs. Lincoln's request for flowers,
invited them into the garden, where she bade them help themselves. It
required, however, almost a martyr's patience for her to stand quietly
by, while her choicest flowers were torn from their stalks, and it was
with a sigh of relief that she finally listened to the roll of the
wheels which bore her guests away.
Could she have listened to their remarks, as on a piece of wide road
their carriages kept side by side for a mile or more, she would
probably have felt amply repaid for her flowers and trouble too.
"Dear me," said Mrs. Campbell, "I never could live in such a lonely
out of the way place."
"Nor I either," returned Mrs. Lincoln, "but I think Mrs. Mason appears
more at home here than in the city. I suppose you know she was a poor
girl when Mr. Mason married her, and such people almost always show
their breeding. Still she is a good sort of a woman, and it is well
enough to have some such nice place to visit and get fruit. Weren't
those delicious berries, and ain't these splendid rosebuds?"
"I guess, though," said Jenny, glancing at her mother's huge bouquet,
"Mrs. Mason didn't expect you to gather quite so many. And Rose, too,
trampled down a beautiful lily without ever apologizing."
"And what if I did?" retorted Rose. "She and that girl have nothing to
do but fix it up."
This allusion to Mary, reminded Mrs. Campbell of her conversation with
Mrs. Mason, and laughingly she repeated it. "I never knew before,"
said she, "that Mrs. Mason had so much spirit. Why, she really seemed
quite angry, and tried hard to make Mary out beautiful, and graceful,
and all that."
"And," chimed in Ella, who was angry at Mrs. Mason for defending her
sister, and angry at her sister for being defended, "don't you think
she said that Mary ought to be ashamed of me."
"Is it possible she was so impudent!" said Mrs. Lincoln; "I wish I
had been present, I would have spoken my mind freely, but so much one
gets for patronizing such creatures."
Here the road became narrow, and as the western sky showed indications
of a storm, the coachmen were told to drive home as soon as possible.
Mrs. Campbell's advice with regard to Mary, made no difference
whatever with Mrs. Mason's plans. She had always intended doing for
her whatever she could, and knowing that a good education was of far
more value than money, she determined to give her every advantage
which lay in her power. There was that summer a most excellent school
in Rice Corner, and as Mrs. Mason had fortunately no prejudices
against a district school, where so many of our best and greatest men
have been educated, she resolved to send her little protegé, as soon
as her wardrobe should be in a suitable condition. Accordingly in a
few days Mary became a regular attendant at the old brown
school-house, where for a time we will leave her, and passing silently
over a period of several years, again in another chapter open the
scene in the metropolis of the "Old Bay State."