A NEW DISCOVERY.
On the same day when Rose Lincoln left Boston for Glenwood, Mrs.
Campbell sat in her own room, gloomy and depressed. For several days
she had not been well, and besides that, Ella's engagement with Henry
Lincoln filled her heart with dark forebodings, for rumor said that he
was unprincipled, and dissipated, and before giving her consent Mrs.
Campbell had labored long with Ella, who insisted "that he was no
worse than other young men,--most of them drank occasionally, and
Henry did nothing more!"
On this afternoon she had again conversed with Ella, who angrily
declared, that she would marry him even if she knew he'd be a
drunkard, adding, "But he won't be. He loves me better than all the
world, and I shall help him to reform."
"I don't believe your sister would marry him," continued Mrs.
Campbell, who was becoming much attached to Mary.
"I don't believe she would, either, and for a very good reason, too,"
returned Ella, pettishly jerking her long curls. "But I can't see why
you should bring her up, for he has never been more than polite to
her, and that he assured me was wholly on my account."
"She isn't pleased with your engagement!" said Mrs. Campbell; and Ella
replied, "Well, what of that? It's nothing to her, and I didn't mean
she should know it; but Jenny, like a little tattler, must needs tell
her, and so she has read me a two hours' sermon on the subject. She
acted so queer, too, I didn't know what to think of her, and when she
and Henry are together, they look so funny, that I almost believe she
wants him herself, but she can't have him,--no, she can't have
him,"--and secure in the belief that _she_ was the first and only
object of Henry's affection, Ella danced out of the room to attend to
the seamstress who was doing her plain sewing.
After she was gone, Mrs. Campbell fell asleep, and for the first time
in many a long year dreamed of her old home in England. She did not
remember it herself, but she had so often heard it described by the
aunt who adopted her, that now it came up vividly before her mind,
with its dark stone walls, its spacious grounds, terraced gardens,
running vines and creeping roses. Something about it, too, reminded
her of what Ella had once said of her mother's early home, and when
she awoke, she wondered that she had never questioned the child more
concerning her parents. She was just lying back again upon her pillow,
when there was a gentle rap at the door, and Mary Howard's soft voice
asked permission to come in.
"Yes, do," said Mrs. Campbell. "Perhaps you can charm away my
headache, which is dreadful."
"I'll try," answered Mary. "Shall I read to you?"
"If you please; but first give me my salts. You'll find them there in
that drawer."
Mary obeyed, but started as she opened the drawer, for there, on the
top, lay a small, old-fashioned miniature, of a fair young child, so
nearly resembling Franky, that the tears instantly came to her eyes.
"What is it?" asked Mrs Campbell, and Mary replied, "This
picture,--so much like brother Franky. May I look at it?"
"Certainly," said Mrs. Campbell. "That is a picture of my sister."
For a long time Mary gazed at the sweet childish face, which, with its
clustering curls, and soft brown eyes, looked to her so much like
Franky. At last, turning to Mrs. Campbell, she said, "You must have
loved her very much. What was her name?"
"Ella Temple," was Mrs. Campbell's reply, and Mary instantly
exclaimed, "Why, _that was my mother's name_!"
"Your mother, Mary!--your mother!" said Mrs. Campbell, starting up
from her pillow. "But no; it cannot be. Your mother is lying in
Chicopee, and Ella, my sister, died in England."
Every particle of color had left Mary's face, and her eyes, now black
as midnight, stared wildly at Mrs. Campbell. The sad story, which her
mother had once told her, came back to her mind, bringing with it the
thought, which had so agitated her companion.
"Yes," she continued, without noticing what Mrs. Campbell had said,
"my mother was Ella Temple, and she had two sisters, one her own, and
the other, a half sister,--Sarah Fletcher and Jane Temple,--both of
whom came to America many years ago."
"Tell me more,--tell me all you know!" whispered Mrs. Campbell,
grasping Mary's hand; "and how it came bout that I thought she was
dead,--my sister."
Upon this point Mary could throw no light, but of all that she had
heard from her mother she told, and then Mrs Campbell, pointing to her
writing desk, said, "Bring it to me. I must read that letter again."
Mary obeyed, and taking out a much soiled, blotted letter, Mrs.
Campbell asked her to read it aloud. It was as follows--"Daughter
Jane,--I now take this opportunity of informing you, that I've lost
your sister Ella, and have now no child saving yourself, who, if you
behave well, will be my only heir. Sometimes I wish you were here, for
it's lonesome living alone, but, I suppose you're better off where you
are. Do you know any thing of that girl Sarah? Her cross-grained uncle
has never written me a word since he left England. If I live three
years longer I shall come to America, and until that time, adieu. Your
father,--Henry Temple Esq. M.P."
"How short and cold!" was Mary's first exclamation, for her
impressions of her grandfather were not very agreeable.
"It is like all his letters," answered Mrs. Campbell "But it was cruel
to make me think Ella was dead, for how else could I suppose he had
lost her? and when I asked the particulars of her death, he sent me no
answer; but at this I did not so much wonder, for he never wrote
oftener than once in two or three years, and the next that I heard, he
was dead, and I was heiress of all his wealth."
Then, as the conviction came over her that Mary was indeed the child
of her own sister, she wound her arms about her neck, and kissing her
lips, murmured, "My child,--my Mary. Oh, had I known this sooner, you
should not have been so cruelly deserted, and little Allie should
never have died in the alms-house. But you'll never leave me now, for
all that I have is yours--yours and Ella's."
The thought of Ella touched a new chord, and Mrs Campbell's tears were
rendered less bitter, by the knowledge that she had cared for, and
been a mother, to one of her sister's orphan children.
"I know now," said she, "why, from the first, I felt so drawn towards
Ella, and why her clear, large eyes, are so much like my own lost
darling's, and even you, Mary--"
Here Mrs. Campbell paused, for proud as she now was of Mary, there had
been a time when the haughty lady turned away from the sober, homely
little child, who begged so piteously "to go with Ella" where there
was room and to spare. All this came up in sad review, before Mrs.
Campbell, and as she recalled the incidents of her sister's death, and
thought of the noble little Frank, who often went hungry and cold that
his mother and sisters might be warmed and fed, she felt that her
heart would burst with its weight of sorrow.
"Oh, my God!" said she, "to die so near me,--my only sister, and _I_
never know it,--never go near her. _I_ with all my wealth, as much
hers as mine,--and she dying of starvation."
Wiping the hot tears from her own eyes, Mary strove to comfort her
aunt by telling her how affectionately her mother had always
remembered her. "And even on the night of her death," said she, "she
spoke of you, and bade me, if I ever found you, love you for her
sake."
"Will you, do you love me?" asked Mrs. Campbell.
Mary's warm kiss upon her cheek, and the loving clasp of her arms
around her aunt's neck, was a sufficient answer.
"Do you know aught of my Aunt Sarah?" Mary asked at last; and Mrs.
Campbell replied, "Nothing definite. From father we first heard that
she was in New York, and then Aunt Morris wrote to her uncle, making
inquiries concerning her. I think the Fletchers were rather peculiar
in their dispositions, and were probably jealous of our family for the
letter was long unanswered, and when at last Sarah's uncle wrote, he
said, that 'independent of _old Temple's_ aid she had received a good
education;' adding further, that she had married and gone west, and
that he was intending soon to follow her. He neither gave the name of
her husband, or the place to which they were going, and as all our
subsequent letters were unanswered, I know not whether she is dead or
alive; but often when I think how alone I am, without a relative in
the world, I have prayed and wept that she might come back; for though
I never knew her,--never saw her that I remember, she was my mother's
child, and I should love her for that."
Just then Ella came singing into the room, but started when she saw
how excited Mrs. Campbell appeared, and how swollen her eyelids were.
"Why, what's the matter?" said she. "I never saw you cry before,
excepting that time when I told you I was going to marry Henry," and
Ella laughed a little spiteful laugh, for she had not yet recovered
from her anger at what Mrs. Campbell had said when she was in there
before.
"Hush--sh," said Mary softly; and Mrs. Campbell, drawing Ella to her
side, told her of the strange discovery she had made; then beckoning
Mary to approach, she laid a hand upon each of the young girls' heads,
and blessing them, called them "her own dear children."
It would be hard telling what Ella's emotions were. One moment she was
glad, and the next she was sorry, for she was so supremely selfish,
that the fact of Mary's being now in every respect her equal, gave her
more pain than pleasure. Of course, Mrs. Campbell would love her
best,--every body did who knew her,--every body but Henry. And when
Mrs. Campbell asked why she did not speak, she replied, "Why, what
shall I say? shall I go into ecstasies about it? To be sure I'm
glad,--very glad that you are my aunt. Will Mary live here now?"
"Yes, always," answered Mrs. Campbell; and "No never," thought Mary.
Her sister's manner chilled her to the heart. She thoroughly
understood her, and felt sure they could not be happy together, for
Ella was to live at home even after her marriage. There was also
another, and stronger reason, why Mary should not remain with her
aunt. Mrs. Mason had the first, best claim upon her. She it was who
had befriended her when a lonely, neglected orphan, taking her from
the alms-house, and giving her a pleasant, happy home. She it was,
too, who in sickness and health had cared for her with all a mother's
love, and Mary would not leave her now. So when Mrs. Campbell began to
make plans for the future, each one of which had a direct reference to
herself, she modestly said she should never desert Mrs. Mason, stating
her reasons with so much delicacy, and yet so firmly, that Mrs.
Campbell was compelled to acknowledge she was right, while at the same
time she secretly wondered whether Ella for _her_ sake would refuse a
more elegant home were it offered her.
All that afternoon the contrast between the two girls grew upon her so
painfully, that she would almost gladly have exchanged her selfish,
spoilt Ella, for the once despised and neglected orphan; and when at
evening Mary came to say "Good night," she embraced her with a
fervency which seemed to say she could not give her up.
Scarcely had the door closed upon Mary, ere there was a violent bell
ring, and Henry Lincoln was ushered into the parlor, where Ella,
radiant with smiles, sat awaiting him. They were invited that evening
to a little sociable, and Ella had bestowed more than usual time and
attention upon her toilet, for Henry was very observant of ladies'
dresses, and now that "he had a right," was constantly dictating, as
to what she should wear, and what she should not. On this evening
every thing seemed fated to go wrong. Ella had heard Henry say that he
was partial to mazarine blue, and not suspecting that his preference
arose from the fact of his having frequently seen her sister in a
neatly fitting blue merino she determined to surprise him with his
favorite color. Accordingly, when Henry entered the parlor, he found
her arrayed in a rich blue silk, made low in the neck with loose, full
sleeves, and flounced to the waist. The young man had just met Mary at
the gate, and as usual after seeing her was in the worst of humors.
His first salutation to Ella was "Well, Mother Bunch, you look pretty,
don't you?"
"I don't know. Do I?" said Ella, taking him literally.
"Do you?" he repeated, with an impatient toss of his head. "All but
the pretty. I advise you to take off that thing" (pointing to the
dress), "I never saw you look worse."
Since Ella's engagement she had cried half the time, and now, as
usual, the tears came to her eyes, provoking Henry still more.
"Now make your eyes red," said he. "I declare, I wonder if there's any
thing of you but tears."
"Please don't talk so," said Ella, laying her hand on his arm. "I had
this dress made on purpose to please you, for you once said you liked
dark blue."
"And so I do on your sister, but your complexion is different from
hers, and then those _ruffles_ and bag sleeves make you look like a
little barrel!"
"You told me you admired flounces, and these sleeves are all the
fashion," said Ella, the tears again flowing in spite of herself.
"Well, I do think Mary looks well in flounces," returned Henry, "but
she is almost a head taller than you, and better proportioned every
way."
Ella longed to remind him of a time when he called her sister "a hay
pole," while he likened herself to "a little sylph, fairy;" &c., but
she dared not; and Henry, bent on finding fault, touched her white
bare shoulder, saying "I wish you wouldn't wear such dresses. Mary
don't except at parties, and I heard a gentleman say that she
displayed better taste than any young lady of his acquaintance."
Ella was thoroughly angry, and amid a fresh shower of tears exclaimed,
"_Mary_,--_Mary_,--I'm sick of the name. It's nothing but Mary,--Mary
all day long with Mrs. Campbell, and now _you_ must thrust her in my
face. If you think her so perfect, why don't you marry her, instead of
me?"
"Simply because she won't have me," returned Henry, and then not
wishing to provoke Ella too far, he playfully threw his arm around her
waist, adding "But come, my little beauty, don't let's quarrel any
more about her. I ought to like _my sister_, and you shouldn't be
jealous. So throw on your cloak, and let's be off."
"Oh, no, not yet. It's too early" answered Ella, nothing loth to have
an hour alone with him.
So they sat down together upon the sofa, and after asking about Rose,
and how long Jenny was to remain in Glenwood, Ella, chancing to think
of the strange discovery that day made with regard to herself and
Mary, mentioned it to Henry, who seemed much more excited about it
than she had been.
"Mrs. Campbell, your mother's sister!" said he. "And Mary's aunt too?
Why didn't you tell me before?"
"Because I didn't think of it," returned Ella. "And it's nothing so
very marvellous either, or at least it does not affect _me_ in the
least." Henry did not reply, but there was that passing through his
mind which might affect Ella not a little. As the reader knows, he was
marrying her for her money; and now if that money was to be shared
with another, the bride lost half her value! But such thoughts must
not be expressed, and when Henry next spoke, he said very calmly,
"Well, I'm glad on Mary's account, for your aunt will undoubtedly
share her fortune with her;" and Henry's eyes turned upon Ella with a
deeper meaning than she could divine.
It was so long since Ella had felt the need of money that she had
almost ceased to know its value, and besides this, she had no
suspicion of Henry's motive in questioning her; so she carelessly
replied that nothing had been said on the subject, though she presumed
her aunt would make Mary heiress with herself, as she had recently
taken a violent fancy to her. Here the conversation flagged, and Henry
fell into a musing mood, from which Ella was forced to rouse him when
it was time to go. As if their thoughts were flowing in the same
channel, Mrs. Campbell that evening was thinking of Mary, and trying
to devise some means by which to atone for neglecting her so long.
Suddenly a new idea occurred to her, upon which she determined
immediately to act, and the next morning Mr. Worthington was sent for,
to draw up a new will, in which Mary Howard was to share equally with
her sister.
"Half of all I own is theirs by right," said she, "and what I want is,
that on their 21st birth-day they shall come into possession of the
portion which ought to have been their mother's, while at my death the
remainder shall be equally divided between them."
The will was accordingly drawn up, signed and sealed, Mr. Worthington
keeping a rough draft of it, which was thrown among some loose papers
in his office. A few afterwards Henry coming accidentally upon it,
read it without any hesitation.
"_That_ settles it at once," said he, "and I can't say I'm sorry, for
I was getting horribly sick of her. Now I'd willingly marry Mary
without a penny, but Ella, with only one quarter as much as I
expected, and that not until she's twenty-one, is a different matter
entirely. But what am I to do? I wish Moreland was here, for though he
don't like me (and I wonder who does), he wouldn't mind lending me a
few thousand. Well, there's no help for it; and the sooner the old man
breaks now, the better. It'll help me out of a deuced mean scrape, for
of course I shall be _magnanimous_, and release Ella at once from her
engagement with a _ruined man_."
The news that Mary was Mrs. Campbell's niece spread rapidly, and among
those who came to congratulate her, none was more sincere than William
Bender. Mary was very dear to him, and whatever conduced to her
happiness added also to his. Together with her he had heard the rumor
of Mr. Lincoln's downfall, and while he felt sorry for the family, he
could not help hoping that it would bring Jenny nearer to him. Of this
he told Mary, who hardly dared trust herself to reply, lest she should
divulge a darling secret, which she had cherished ever since Mrs.
Campbell had told her that, in little more than a year, she was to be
the rightful owner of a sum of money much larger than she had ever
dreamed it possible for her to possess. Wholly unselfish, her thoughts
instantly turned towards her adopted brother. A part of that sum
should be his, and with that for a stepping stone to future wealth,
Mrs. Lincoln, when poor and destitute, could no longer refuse him her
daughter Mrs. Campbell, to whom alone she confided her wishes, gave her
consent, though she could not understand the self-denying love which
prompted this act of generosity to a stranger.
And now Mary was very happy in thinking how much good she could do.
Mrs. Mason, her benefactress, should never want again. Sally Furbush,
the kind-hearted old crazy woman who had stood by her so long and so
faithfully, should share her home wherever that home might be; while
better than all the rest, William Bender, the truest, best friend she
ever had, should be repaid for his kindness to her when a little,
unknown pauper. And still the world, knowing nothing of the hidden
causes which made Mary's laugh so merry and her manner so gay, said
that "the prospect of being an heiress had turned her head, just as it
always did those who were suddenly elevated to wealth."