University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
BILLY BENDER.

Just on the corner of Chicopee Common, and under the shadow
of the century-old elms which skirt the borders of the
grass plat called by the villagers the “Mall,” stands the small
red cottage of widow Bender, who in her way was quite a
curiosity. All the “ills which flesh is heir to,” seemed by
some strange fatality to fall upon her, and never did a new
disease appear in any quarter of the globe, which widow
Bender, if by any means she could ascertain the symptoms,
was not sure to have it in its most aggravated form.

On the morning following the events narrated in the last
chapter, Billy, whose dreams had been disturbed by thoughts
of Frank, arose early, determined to call at Mrs. Howard's,
and see if they were in want of any thing. But his mother,
who had heard rumors of the scarlet fever, was up before him,
and on descending to the kitchen, which with all her sickness
Mrs. Bender kept in perfect order, Billy found her sitting
before a blazing fire,—her feet in hot water, and her head
thrown back in a manner plainly showing that something
new had taken hold of her in good earnest. Billy was accustomed
to her freaks, and not feeling at all frightened,

stepped briskly forward, saying, “Well, mother, what's the
matter now? Got a cramp in your foot, or what?”

“Oh, William,” said she, “I've lived through a sight,
but my time has come at last. Such a pain in my head and
stomach. I do believe I've got the scarlet fever, and you
must run for the doctor quick.”

“Scarlet fever!” repeated Billy, “why, you've had it
once, and you can't have it again, can you?”

“Oh, I don't know,—I never was like anybody else, and
can have any thing a dozen times. Now be spry and fetch
the doctor; but before you go, hand me my snuffbox and
put the canister top heapin' full of tea into the teapot.”

Billy obeyed, and then, knowing that the green tea would
remove his mother's ailment quite as soon as the physician,
he hurried away towards Mrs. Howard's. The sun was just
rising, and its red rays looked in at the window, through
which the moonlight had shone the night before. Beneath
the window a single rose-tree was blooming, and on it a
robin was pouring out its morning song. Within the cottage
there was no sound or token of life, and thinking its inmates
were asleep, Billy paused several minutes upon the threshold,
fearing that he should disturb their slumbers. At last with
a vague presentiment that all was not right, he raised the
latch and entered, but instantly started back in astonishment
at the scene before him. On the little trundlebed lay Frank,
cold and dead, and near him in the same long dreamless sleep
was his mother, while between them, with one arm thrown
lovingly across her brother's neck, and her cheek pressed
against his, lay Mary—her eyelids moist with the tears which,
though sleeping, she still shed. On the other side of Frank,
and nestled so closely to him that her warm breath lifted the
brown curls from his brow, was Ella. But there were no

tear stains on her face, for she did not yet know how bereaved
she was.

For a moment Billy stood irresolute, and then as Mary
moved uneasily in her slumbers, he advanced a step or two
towards her. The noise aroused her, and instantly remembering
and comprehending the whole, she threw herself with
a bitter cry into Billy's extended arms, as if he alone were
all the protector she now had in the wide, wide world. Ere
long Ella too awoke, and the noisy outburst which followed
the knowledge of her loss, made Mary still the agony of her
own heart in order to soothe the more violent grief of her excitable
sister.

There was a stir in the cradle, and with a faint cry the
baby Alice awoke and stretched her hands towards Mary,
who, with all a mother's care took the child upon her lap,
and fed her from the milk which was still standing in the
broken pitcher. With a baby's playfulness Alice dipped her
small fingers into the milk, and shaking them in her sister's
face, laughed aloud as the white drops fell upon her hair.
This was too much for poor Mary, and folding the child closer
to her bosom she sobbed passionately.

“Oh, Allie, dear little Allie, what will you do? What
shall we all do? Mother's dead, mother's dead!”

Ella was not accustomed to see her sister thus moved, and
her tears now flowed faster while she entreated Mary to stop.
“Don't do so, Mary,” she said. “Don't do so. You make
me cry harder. Tell her to stop, Billy. Tell her to stop.”

But Billy's tears were flowing too, and he could only answer
the little girl by affectionately smoothing her tangled
curls, which for once in her life she had forgotten to arrange.
At length rising up, he said to Mary, “Something must be
done. The villagers must know of it, and I shall have to
leave you alone while I tell them.”

In half an hour from that time the cottage was nearly
filled with people, some of whom came out of idle curiosity, and
after seeing all that was to be seen, started for home, telling
the first woman who put her head out the chamber window
for particulars, that “'twas a dreadul thing, and such a pity,
too, that Ella should have to go to the poor-house, with her
pretty face and handsome curls.”

But there were others who went there for the sake of comforting
the orphans and attending to the dead, and by noon
the bodies were decently arranged for burial. Mrs. Johnson's
Irish girl Margaret was cleaning the room, and in the
bedroom adjoining, Mrs. Johnson herself, with two or three
other ladies, were busily at work upon some plain, neat
shrouds, and as they worked they talked of the orphan children
who were now left friendless.

“There will be no trouble,” said one, “in finding a place
for Ella, she is so bright and handsome, but as for Mary, I
am afraid she'll have to go to the poor-house.”

“Were I in a condition to take either,” replied Mrs. Johnson,
“I should prefer Mary to her sister, for in my estimation
she is much the best girl; but there is the baby, who
must go wherever Mary does, unless she can be persuaded
to leave her.”

Before any one could reply to this remark, Mary, who
had overheard every word, came forward, and laying her
face on Mrs. Johnson's lap, sobbed out, “Let me go with
Alice, I told mother I would.”

Billy Bender, who all this while had been standing by the
door, now gave a peculiar whistle, which with him was ominous
of some new idea, and turning on his heel started for
home, never once thinking, until he reached it, that his mother
more than six hours before had sent him in great haste
for the physician. On entering the house, he found her, as

he expected, rolled up in bed, apparently in the last stage of
scarlet fever; but before she could reproach him, he said,
“Mother, have you heard the news?”

Mrs. Bender had a particular love for news, and now forgetting
“how near to death's door” she had been, she eagerly
demanded, “What news? What has happened?”

When Billy told her of the sudden death of Mrs. Howard
and Frank, and expression of “What? That all?”
passed over her face, and she said, “Dear me, and so the poor
critter's gone? Hand me my snuff, Billy. Both died last
night, did they? Hain't you nothin' else to tell?”

“Yes, Mary Judson and Ella Campbell, too, are dead.”

Mrs. Bender, who like many others courted the favor of
the wealthy, and tried to fancy herself on intimate terms with
them, no sooner heard of Mrs. Campbell's affliction, than her
own dangerous symptoms were forgotten, and springing up
she exclaimed, “Ella Campbell dead! What'll her mother
do? I must go to her right away. Hand we my double
gown there in the closet, and give me my lace cap in the lower
draw, and mind you have the teakettle biled agin I get
back.”

“But, mother,” said Billy, as he prepared to obey her,
“Mrs. Campbell is rich, and there are enough who will pity
her. If you go any where, suppose you stop at Mrs. Howard's,
and comfort poor Mary, who cries all the time because
she and Alice have got to go to the poor-house.”

“Of course they'll go there, and they orto be thankful
they've got so good a place—Get away.—That ain't my double
gown;—that's a cloak. Don't you know a cloak from a
double gown?”

“Yes, yes,” said Billy, whose mind was not upon his mother's
toilet—“but,” he continued, “I want to ask you, can't

we,—couldn't you take them for a few days, and perhaps
something may turn up.”

“William Bender,” said the highly astonished lady,
“what can you mean? A poor sick woman like me, with
one foot in the grave, take the charge of three pauper children!
I shan't do it, and you needn't think of it.”

“But, mother,” persisted Billy, who could generally coax
her to do as he liked, “it's only for a few days, and they'll
not be much trouble or expense, for I'll work enough harder
to make it up.”

“I have said no once, William Bender, and when I say
no, I mean no,” was the answer.

Billy knew she would be less decided the next time the
subject was broached, so for the present, he dropped it, and
taking his cap he returned to Mrs. Howard's, while his mother
started for Mrs. Campbell's.

Next morning between the hours of nine and ten, the tolling
bell sent forth its sad summons, and ere long a few of
the villagers were moving towards the brown cottage, where
in the same plain coffin slept the mother and her only boy.
Near them sat Ella, occasionally looking with childish curiosity
at the strangers around her, or leaning forward to peep
at the tips of the new morocco shoes which Mrs. Johnson
had kindly given her; then, when her eye fell upon the coffin,
she would burst into such an agony of weeping that many
of the villagers also wept in sympathy, and as they stroked
her soft hair, thought, “how much more she loved her mother
than did Mary,” who, without a tear upon her cheek,
sat there immovable, gazing fixedly upon the marble face of
her mother. Alice was not present, for Billy had not only
succeeded in winning his mother's consent to take the children
for a few days, but he had also coaxed her to say that
Alice might come before the funeral, on condition that he

would remain at home and take care of her. This he did
willingly, for Alice, who had been accustomed to see him,
would now go to no one else except Mary.

Billy was rather awkward at baby tending, but by dint of
emptying his mother's cupboard, blowing a tin horn, rattling
a pewter platter with an iron spoon, and whistling Yankee
Doodle, he managed to keep her tolerably quiet until he saw
the humble procession approaching the house. Then, hurrying
with his little charge to the open window, he looked out.
Side by side walked Mary and Ella, and as Alice's eyes fell
upon the former, she uttered a cry of joy, and almost sprang
from Billy's arms. But Mary could not come; and for the
next half hour Mrs. Bender corked her ears with cotton,
while Billy, half distracted, walked the floor, singing at the
top of his voice every tune he had ever heard, from “Easter
Anthem” down to “the baby whose father had gone a hunting,”
and for whom the baby in question did not care two
straws.

Meantime the bodies were about to be lowered into the
newly made grave, when Mrs. Johnson felt her dress nervously
grasped, and looking down she saw Mary's thin, white
face uplifted towards hers with so earnest an expression, that
she gently laid her hand upon her head, and said, “What is
it, dear?”

“Oh, if I can,—if they only would let me look at them
once more. I couldn't see them at the house, my eyes were
so dark.”

Mrs. Johnson immediately communicated Mary's request
to the sexton, who rather unwillingly opened the coffin lid.
The road over which they had come, was rough and stony,
and the jolt had disturbed the position of Frank, who now
lay partly upon his mother's shoulder, with his cheek resting
against hers. Tenderly Mary laid him back upon his own

pillow, and then kneeling down and burying her face in her
mother's bosom, she for a time remained perfectly silent, although
the quivering of her frame plainly told the anguish
of that parting. At length Mrs. Johnson gently whispered,
“Come, darling, you must come away now;” but Mary did
not move; and when at last they lifted her up, they saw
that she had fainted. In a few moments she recovered, and
with her arms across her sister's neck, stood by until the
wide grave was filled, and the bystanders were moving away.

As they walked homeward together, two women, who had
been present at the funeral, discussed the matter as follows:—

“They took it hard, poor things, particularly the oldest.”

“Yes, though I didn't think she cared as much as t'other
one, until she fainted, but it's no wonder, for she's old
enough to dread the poor-house. Did you say they were
staying at widder Bender's?”

“Yes, and how in this world widder Bender, as poor as
she pretends to be, can afford to do it, is more than I can tell.”

“Are you going to the other funeral this afternoon?”

“I guess I am. I wouldn't miss it for a good deal. Why,
as true as you live, I have never set my foot in Mrs. Campbell's
house yet, and know no more what is in it than the
dead.”

“Well, I do, for my girl Nancy Ray used to live there,
and she's told me sights. She says they've got a big looking-glass
that cost three hundred dollars.”

“So I've heard, and I s'pose there'll be great doin's this
afternoon. The coffin, they say, came from Worcester, and
cost fifty dollars.”

“Now, that's what I call wicked. Sposin' her money
did come from England, she needn't spend it so foolishly;
but then money didn't save Ella's life, and they say her mother's

done nothing but screech and go on like a mad woman
since she died. You'll go early, won't you?”

“Yes, I mean to be there in season to get into the parlor
if I can.”

And now, having reached the corner, where their paths
diverged, with a mutual “good day” they parted.