University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
ELLA CAMPBELL.

Scarcely three hours had passed since the dark, moist
earth was heaped upon the humble grave of the widow and
her son, when again, over the village of Chicopee floated the
notes of the tolling bell, and immediately crowds of persons,
with seemingly eager haste, hurried towards the Campbell
mansion, which was soon nearly filled. Among the first arrivals
were our acquaintances of the last chapter, who were
fortunate enough to secure a position near the drawing-room,
which contained the “big looking-glass.”

On a marble table in the same room, lay the handsome
coffin, and in it slept young Ella. Gracefully her small waxen
hands were folded one over the other, while white, half-opened
rose buds were wreathed among the curls of her hair,
which fell over her neck and shoulders, and covered the purple
spots, which the disease had left upon her flesh. “She
is too beautiful to die, and the only child too,” thought more
than one, as they looked first at the sleeping clay and then
at the stricken mother, who, draped in deepest black, sobbed
convulsively and leaned for support upon the arm of
the sofa. What now to her were wealth and station? What
did she care for the elegance which had so often excited the
envy of her neighbors? That little coffin, which had cost so

many dollars and caused so much remark, contained what to
her was far dearer than all. And yet she was not one half
so desolate as was the orphan Mary, who in Mrs. Bender's
kitchen sat weeping over her sister Alice, and striving to
form words of prayer which should reach the God of the
fatherless.

But few of the villagers thought of her this afternoon.
Their sympathies were all with Mrs. Campbell; and when at
the close of the services she approached to take a last look of
her darling, they closed around her with exclamations of grief
and tears of pity, though even then some did not fail to note
and afterwards comment upon the great length of her costly
veil, and the width of its hem! It was a long procession
which followed Ella Campbell to the grave, and with bowed
heads and hats uplifted, the spectators stood by while the
coffin was lowered to the earth; and then, as the Campbell
carriage drove slowly away, they dispersed to their homes,
speaking, it may be, more tenderly to their own little ones,
and shuddering to think how easily it might have been themselves
who were bereaved.

Dark and dreary was the house to which Mrs. Campbell
returned. On the stairs there was no patter of childish feet.
In the halls there was no sound of a merry voice, and on her
bosom rested no little golden head, for the weeping mother
was childless. Close the shutters and drop the rich damask
curtains, so that no ray of sunlight, or fragrance of summer
flowers may find entrance there to mock her grief. In all
Chicopee was there a heart so crushed and bleeding as hers?
Yes, on the grass-plat at the foot of Mrs. Bender's garden,
an orphan girl was pouring out her sorrow in tears which almost
blistered her eyelids as they fell.

Alice at last was sleeping, and Mary had come out to
weep alone where there were none to see or hear. For her

the future was dark and cheerless as midnight. No friends,
no money, and no home, except the poor-house, from which,
young as she was, she instinctively shrank.

“My mother, oh, my mother,” she cried, as she stretched
her hands towards the clear blue sky, now that mother's
home, “Why didn't I die too?”

There was a step upon the grass, and looking up Mary
saw standing near her, Mrs. Campbell's English girl, Hannah.
She had always evinced a liking for Mrs. Howard's
family, and now after finishing her dishes, and trying in vain
to speak a word of consolation to her mistress, who refused to
be comforted, she had stolen away to Mrs. Bender's, ostensibly
to see all the orphans, but, in reality to see Ella, who
had always been her favorite. She had entered through the
garden gate, and came upon Mary just as she uttered the
words, “Why didn't I die too?”

The sight of her grief touched Hannah's heart, and sitting
down by the little girl, she tried to comfort her. Mary
felt that her words and manner were prompted by real sympathy,
and after a time she grew calm, and listened, while
Hannah told her that “as soon as her mistress got so any
body could go near her, she meant to ask her to take Ella
Howard to fill the place of her own daughter.”

“They look as much alike as two beans,” said she, “and
sposin' Ella Howard ain't exactly her own flesh and blood,
she would grow into liking her, I know.”

Mary was not selfish, and the faint possibility that her
sister might not be obliged to go to the poor-house, gave her
comfort, though she knew that in all probability she herself
must go. After a few more words Hannah entered the cottage,
but she wisely chose to keep from Ella a knowledge of
her plan, which very likely might not succeed. That night
after her return home Hannah lingered for a long time about

the parlor door, glancing wistfully towards her mistress,
who reclined upon the sofa with her face entirely hidden by
her cambric handkerchief.

“It's most too soon, I guess,” thought Hannah, “I'll
wait till to-morrow.”

Accordingly next morning, when, as she had expected,
she was told to carry her mistress's toast and coffee to her
room, she lingered for a while, and seemed so desirous of
speaking that Mrs. Campbell asked what she wanted.

“Why, you see, ma'am, I was going to say a word about,
—about that youngest Howard girl.” (She dared not say
Ella.) “She's got to go to the poor-house, and it's a pity,
she's so handsome. Why couldn't she come here and live?
I'll take care of her, and 'twouldn't be nigh so lonesome.”

At this allusion to her bereavement Mrs. Campbell burst
into tears, and motioned Hannah from the room.

“I'll keep at her till I fetch it about,” thought Hannah,
as she obeyed the lady's order. But further persuasion from
her was rendered unnecessary, for Mrs. Lincoln, whom we
have once before mentioned, called that afternoon, and after
assuring her friend that she never before saw one who was
so terribly afflicted, or who stood so much in need of sympathy,
she casually mentioned the Howards, and the extreme
poverty to which they were reduced. This reminded
Mrs. Campbell of Hannah's suggestion, which she repeated
to her visitor, who answered, “It would unquestionably be a
goood idea to take her, for she is large enough to be useful in
the kitchen in various ways.”

Mrs. Campbell, who had more of real kindness in her
nature than Mrs. Lincoln, replied, “If I take her, I shall
treat her as my own, for they say she looks like her, and
her name, too, is the same.”

Here Mrs. Campbell commenced weeping, and as Mrs.

Lincoln soon took her leave, she was left alone for
several hours. At the end of that time, impelled by something
she could not resist, she rang the bell and ordered
Hannah to go to Mrs. Bender's and bring Ella to her room,
as she wished to see how she appeared.

With the utmost care, Ella arranged her long curls, and
then tying over her black dress the only white apron which she
possessed, she started for Mrs. Campbell's. The resemblance
between herself and Ella Campbell was indeed so striking, that
but for the dress the mother might easily have believed it
to have been her own child. As it was, she started up when
the little girl appeared, and drawing her to her side, involuntarily
kissed her; then causing her to sit down by her side,
she minutely examined her features, questioning her meantime
concerning her mother and her home in England. Of
the latter Ella could only tell her that they lived in a city,
and that her mother had once taken her to a large, handsome
house in the country, which she said was her old home.

“There were sights of trees, and flowers, and vines, and
fountains, and little deer,” said the child, “and when I asked
ma why she did not live there now, she cried, and pa put
his arm tight 'round her,—so.”

From this Mrs. Campbell inferred that Ella's family
must have been superior to most of the English who emigrate
to this country, and after a few more questions she decided
to take her for a time, at least; so with another kiss
she dismissed her, telling her she would come for her soon.
Meantime arrangements were making for Mary and Alice,
and on the same day in which Mrs. Campbell was to call for
Ella, Mr. Knight, one of the “Selectmen,” whose business
it was to look after the town's poor,[1] also came to the cottage.

After learning that Ella was provided for, he turned
to Mary, asking “how old she was, and what she could
do,” saying, that his wife was in want of just such a girl to
do “chores,” and if she was willing to be separated from
Alice, he would give her a home with him. But Mary
only hugged her sister closer to her bosom as she replied,
“I'd rather go with Alice. I promised mother to take
care of her.”

“Very well,” said the man, “I'm going to North Chicopee,
but shall be back in two hours, so you must have your
things all ready.”

“Don't cry so, Mary,” whispered Billy, when he saw
how fast her tears were falling. “I'll come to see you every
week, and when I am older, and have money, I will take
you from the poor-house, and Alice too.”

Just then, Mrs. Campbell's carriage drove up. She had
been taking her afternoon ride, and now, on her way home,
had stopped for Ella, who in her delight at going with so
handsome a woman, forgot the dreary home which awaited
her sister, and which, but for Mrs. Campbell's fancy, would
have been hers also. While she was getting ready, Mr.
Knight returned, and driving his old-fashioned yellow wagon,
with its square box-seat up by the side of Mrs. Campbell's
stylish carriage, he entered the house, saying, “Come,
gal, you're ready, I hope. The old mare don't want to
stand, and I'm in a desput hurry, too. I orto be to hum this
minute, instead of driving over that stony Portupog road.
I hope you don't mean to carry that are thing,” he continued,
pointing with his whip towards Alice's cradle, which stood
near Mary's box of clothes.

The tears came into Mary's eyes, and she answered,
“Alice has always slept in it, and I didn't know but—”

Here she stopped, and running up to Ella, hid her face

in her lap, and sobbed, “I don't want to go. Oh, I don't
want to go, can't I stay with you?”

Billy's yellow handkerchief was suddenly brought into
requisition, and Mrs. Bender, who, with all her imaginary
aches and pains, was a kind-hearted woman, made vigorous
attacks upon her snuff-box, while Mrs. Campbell patted
Mary's head, saying, “Poor child, I can't take you both, but
you shall see your sister often.”

Ella was too much pleased with Mrs. Campbell, and the
thoughts of the fine home to which she was going, to weep,
but her chin quivered, when Mary held up the baby for her
to kiss, and said, “Perhaps you will never see little Allie
again.”

When all was ready, Mr. Knight walked around his wagon,
and after trying to adjust the numerous articles it contained,
said, “I don't see how in the world I can carry that
cradle, my wagon is chuck full now. Here is a case of shoes
for the gals to stitch, and a piller case of flour for Miss Smith,
and forty 'leven other traps, so I guess you'll have to leave
it. Mebby you can find one there, and if not, why, she'll
soon get used to going without it.”

Before Mary could reply, Billy whispered in her ear,
“Never mind, Mary; you know that little cart that I draw
mother's wood in, the cradle will just fit it, and to-morrow
afternoon I'll bring it to you, if it doesn't rain.”

Mary knew that he meant what he said, and smiling on
him through her tears, climbed into the rickety wagon,
which was minus a step, and taking Alice in her arms, she
was soon moving away. In striking contrast to this, Ella,
about five minutes afterwards, was carefully lifted into Mrs.
Campbell's handsome carriage, and reclining upon soft cushions,
was driven rapidly towards her new home.

Will their paths in life always continue thus different?
Who can tell?