 | CHAPTER V.
THE POOR-HOUSE. The English orphans, or, A home in the new
world |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
THE POOR-HOUSE.
How long and tiresome that ride was with no one for a companion
except Mr. Knight, who, though a kind-hearted man,
knew nothing about making himself agreeable to little girls,
so he remained perfectly taciturn, whipping at every cow or
pig which he passed, and occasionally screaming to his horse,
“Git up, old Charlotte. What are you 'bout?”
Mary, who had seldom been out of the village, and who
knew but little of the surrounding country, for a time enjoyed
looking about her very much. First they went down the
long hill which leads from the village to the depot. Then
they crossed the winding Chicopee river, and Mary thought
how much she should love to play in that bright green meadow
and gather the flowers which grew so near to the water's
edge. The causeway was next crossed, and turning
to the right they came upon a road where Mary had never
been before, and which grew more rough and stony as they
advanced.
On the top of a steep hill Mary looked back to see if
Chicopee were yet visible, but nothing was to be seen except
the spire of the Unitarian Meeting-House. About a quarter
of a mile to the west, however, the graveyard was
plainly discernible, and she looked until her eyes were dim
with tears at the spot where she knew her parents and brother
were lying. By this time Alice was asleep, and though
complaint, but she wished Mr. Knight would speak to her
once, if it were only to ask her how she did!
At last, concluding there would be no impropriety in
making the first advances herself, she said timidly, “Is it
such a very bad place at the poor-house?”
“Why, no, not so dreadful. There's places enough,
sight worse, and then agin there's them, a good deal better.
But you needn't be afeard. They'll take good care of you.”
“I wasn't thinking of myself,” said Mary.
“Who was you thinkin' of, then?”
“Of Alice; she's always been sick and is not used to
strangers, and among so many I am afraid she will be frightened.”
“Oh, she'll soon get used to 'em. Nothin' like habit.
Weakly, is she? Wall, the poor-house ain't much of a place
to get well in, that's a fact. But she'd be better off to die
and go to her mother, and then you could get a good place at
some farmer's.”
Mary wondered how he could speak thus carelessly of
what would cause her so much sorrow. Gently lifting the
old faded shawl, she looked down upon Alice as she slept.
There was a smile upon her face. She was dreaming, and
as her lips moved, Mary caught the word, “Ma,” which the
child had applied indiscriminately both to herself and her
mother. Instantly the tears gushed forth, and falling upon
the baby's face awoke her. Her nap was not half out, and
setting up a loud cry, she continued screaming until they
drove up to the very door of the poor-house.
“For the land's sake,” said Mr. Knight, as he helped
Mary from the wagon, “what a racket; can't you contrive
to stop it? you'll have Sal Furbush in your hair, for she don't
like a noise.”
Mary glanced nervously round in quest of the goblin
Sal, but she saw nothing save an idiotic face with bushy
tangled hair, and nose flattened against the window pane.
In terror Mary clung to Mr. Knight, and whispered, as she
pointed towards the figure, which was now laughing hideously,
“What is it? Are there many such here?”
“Don't be afeard,” said Mr. Knight, “that's nobody but
foolish Patsy; she never hurt any body in her life. Come,
now, let me show you to the overseer.”
Mary looked towards the woods which skirted the borders
of the meadow opposite, and for half a moment felt inclined
to flee thither, and hide herself in the bushes; but Mr.
Knight's hand was upon her shoulder, and he led her towards
a red-whiskered man, who stood in the door.
“Here, Parker,” said he, “I've brought them children I
was tellin' you about. You've room for 'em, I s'pose.”
“Why, ye-es, we can work it so's to make room. Guess
we shall have rain to-morrow.”
Mary remembered that Billy would not come if it rained,
and with a sigh she noticed that the clouds were dark and
threatening. They now entered the kitchen, which was a
long, low, narrow room, with a fireplace on the right, and
two windows opposite, looking towards the west. The floor
was painted and very clean, but the walls were unfinished,
and the brown rafters were festooned with cobwebs. In
the middle of the room, the supper table was standing, but
there was nothing homelike in the arrangement of the many
colored dishes and broken knives and forks, neither was there
any thing tempting to one's appetite in the coarse brown
bread and white-looking butter. Mary was very tired with
holding Alice so long, and sinking into a chair near the window,
she would have cried; but there was a tightness in her
throat, and a pressure about her head and eyes, which kept
when she stood at her mother's grave; and now as the room
grew dark, and the objects around began to turn in circles,
she pressed her hands tightly to her forehead, and said,
“Oh, I hope I shan't faint.”
“To be sure you won't,” said a loud, harsh voice, and instantly
large drops of water were thrown in her face, while
the same voice continued: “You don't have such spells
often, I hope, for Lord knows I don't want any more fitty
ones here.”
“No, ma'am,” said Mary, meekly; and looking up, she
saw before her a tall, square-backed, masculine-looking woman,
who wore a very short dress, and a very high-crowned
cap, fastened under her chin with bows of sky-blue ribbon.
Mary knew she was indebted to this personage for the
shower-bath, for the water was still trickling from her fingers,
which were now engaged in picking her teeth with a large
pin. There was something exceedingly cross and forbidding
in her looks, and Mary secretly hoped she would not prove
to be Mrs. Parker, the wife of the overseer. She was soon
relieved of her fears by the overseer himself, who came forward
and said, “Polly, I don't see any other way but you'll
have to take these children into the room next to yourn.
The baby worries a good deal, and such things trouble my
wife, now she's sick.”
The person addressed as “Polly,” gave her shoulders an
angry jerk, and sticking the pin on the waist of her dress, replied,
“So I s'pose it's no matter if I'm kept awake all night,
and worried to death. But I guess you'd find there'd be
queer doins here if I should be taken away. I wish the
British would stay to hum, and not lug their young ones here
for us to take care of.”
This was said with a lowering frown, and movement towards
her mouth with her hand, as if that were the cause of
offence.
“But you can take an extra nap after dinner,” said Mr.
Parker, in a conciliatory manner. “And then you are so
good at managing children, that I thought they would be better
off near you.”
This speech, while it mollified Polly, made Mary shudder,
as she thought of Alice's being “managed” by such a
woman. But she had no time for thought, for Polly, who
was very rapid in her movements, and always in a hurry, said,
“Come, child, I will show you where you are going to
sleep;” at the same time she caught up Alice, who, not liking
her handling, kicked so vigorously that she was soon dropped;
Polly remarking, that “she was mighty strong in her
legs for a sick baby.”
After passing up a dark stairway they came to a door,
which opened under the garret stairs, and Mary was startled
by a voice which seemed to be almost over her head, and
which, between a sneer and a hiss, called out, “See where
the immaculate Miss Grundy comes!”
This was followed by a wild, insane chuckle, which made
Mary spring in terror to Polly's side.
“Oh, who is it?” said she. “Is it Patsy?”
“Patsy!” was the tart reply. “She never is saucy like
that. It's Sal Furbush.”
Mary longed to ask who Sal Furbush was; but as her
guide did not seem at all inclined to be communicative, she
followed on in silence until they came to a longer and lighter
hall, or “spaceway,” as it is frequently called in New England.
On each side of this there were doors opening into
small sleeping rooms, and into one of these Polly led her
companion, saying, as she did so, “This is your room, and it's
mustn't cry and keep me awake nights, for if she does, may-be
you'll have to move into that other space, where we heard
the laugh.”
Mary thought she would rather do any thing than that.
She also felt a great curiosity to know who her companion
was, so she at last ventured to ask, “Do you live here, Miss
Polly?”
“Why, yes, I'm staying here for a spell now:—kind of
seeing to things. My name isn't Polly. It's Mrs. Mary
Grundy, and somehow folks have got to nicknaming me Polly,
but it'll look more mannerly in you to call me Mrs. Grundy;
but what am I thinking of? The folks must have their
supper. So you'd better come down now.”
“If you please,” said Mary, who knew she could not eat
a mouthful, “If you please, I'd rather stay here and rest me
if I can have some milk for Alice by and by.”
“Mercy sakes, ain't that child weaned?” asked Mrs.
Grundy.
“Ma'am?” said Mary, not exactly understanding her.
“Ain't Ellis weaned, or must we break into the cream a
dozen times a day for her?”
“She has never eaten any thing but milk,” said Mary,
weeping to think how different Mrs. Grundy's manner
was from her own dear mother's.
“Wall, there's no use blubberin' so. If she must have
milk, why she must, and that's the end on't. But what I
want to know is, how folks as poor as yourn, could afford to
buy milk for so big a child.”
Mary could have told of many hungry nights which she
and Frank had passed in order that Ella and Alice might be
fed, but she made no remark, and Mrs. Grundy soon left the
I s'pose skim will do.”
Half an hour after Alice began to cry; and Mary, knowing
she was hungry, laid her upon the bed and started for
the milk. She trembled as she drew near the garret stairs,
and trod softly that she might not be heard, but as she was
passing the mysterious door, a voice entirely different in its
tone from the one assumed towards Mrs. Grundy, called out,
“Come here, little dear, and see your Aunty.”
Mary's circle of acquaintances was quite as large as she
cared to have it, and quickening her steps, she was soon in the
kitchen, where she found several old ladies still lingering over
cups of very weak and very red looking tea. As she entered
the room they all suspended their operations, and looking
hard at her, asked if she were the little English girl. On
being told that she was, three of them returned to their cups,
while one shook her head, saying, “Poor child, I pity you.”
Mary had heard that remark many times, but she knew
that the words now conveyed other meaning than what referred
to her face or teeth.
“Where can I find Mrs. Grundy?” she at last ventured
to ask.
“Where can you find who?” asked a spiteful looking woman.
“Did she tell you to call her so?”
“She told me that was her name,—yes, ma'am,” said
Mary.
“Well, Mrs. Grundy is in the but'ry,” indicating with
her elbow the direction.
Mary had no trouble in finding “the but'ry,” but on trying
the door, she found it fastened inside. In answer to her
gentle knock a harsh voice replied, “Who's there?”
“It's I. I've come after the milk for Alice.”
With a jerk Mrs. Grundy opened the door, and putting a
shut and fastened it again. Quick as her movements
were, Mary caught a smell of strong green tea, and the sight
of a sugar bowl and a slice of white bread. She knew now
why the door was buttoned, but thinking it was none of her
business, she started to return to the kitchen. As she passed
the outer door, an old gray-haired man, with a face perfectly
simple and foolish in its expression, stepped towards her,
stretching out his hands as if to reach her. With a loud cry
she rushed headlong into the kitchen, where one of the women
was still sitting.
“What's broke loose now?” asked the woman, to which
Mary replied, “Look at him!” at the same time pointing to
the man, who with his hand thrust out was still advancing towards
her.
“Don't be scared,” said the woman. “It's uncle Peter.
Let him touch you and he'll go off;” but Mary didn't choose
to be touched, and retreating towards the chamber door, she
fled rapidly up the stairs.
This time she was not accosted by any one, but as she
passed the dark closet, she was surprised to hear a musical
voice singing the national air of her own country, and she
wondered, too, at the taste of the singer in finishing every
verse with “God save Miss Grundy.”
That night Alice, who missed her cradle, was unusually
restless, and Mary, remembering Mrs. Grundy's threat, carried
her in her arms until after midnight. Then without
undressing she threw herself upon the bed, and, for the first
time in many weeks, dreamed of George and his parting
promise to see her again. The next morning when she awoke
she found Mr. Parker's prediction verified, for the clouds
were pouring rain. “Billy won't come to-day,” was her first
thought, and throwing herself upon the floor she burst into
with her mother.
In the midst of her grief the door was pushed hastily
open, and Mrs. Grundy's harsh voice exclaimed, “Wall, so
you are up at last, hey? I didn't know but you was goin'
to take it upon you to sleep over, but that don't answer
here.”
“Is it after breakfast time?” asked Mary.
“After breakfast time,” repeated Mrs. Grundy. “No,
but I guess you'll find there's something to do before breakfast,
or did you think we's goin' to support you in idleness?”
Here, touched perhaps by the pale, tearful face uplifted
to hers, Mrs. Grundy's voice softened, and in a milder tone
she added, “We won't mind about it, seein' it's the first morning,
but come, you must be hungry by this time.”
Although so poor, Mrs. Howard had been extremely neat
and as she said “cold water cost nothing,” she had insisted
upon her children's being very nice and particular in their
morning toilet. Mary remembered this, and now casting a
rueful glance around the room she said, “I wonder where I
am going to wash me.”
The loud, scornful laugh which followed this remark
made her look up amazed at Mrs. Grundy, who replied, “In
the back room sink, of course. May-be you expected to have
a china bowl and pitcher in your room, and somebody to empty
your slop. I wonder what airs paupers wont take on
themselves next.”
“I didn't mean to take airs,” said Mary; “I don't care
where I wash myself, but Alice is sick, and mother had me
bathe her every morning. While we were at Mrs. Bender's,
though, I didn't do it, and I don't think she seems as well.”
“Pride and poverty,” muttered Mrs. Grundy. “She
won't get many baths here, I can tell you, nor you either,
hey?”
“Yes, ma'am,” said Mary meekly.
“Then I'll give you a chance to try your hand after
breakfast, but come, I'm in a hurry.”
Mary glanced at Alice. She was sleeping sweetly, and
though there seemed to be no reason, she still lingered.
“What are you waiting for?” asked Mrs. Grundy, and
Mary, with some hesitation, answered, “I haven't said my
prayers yet.”
A change passed suddenly over Mrs. Grundy's face, and
she turned away without a word. When she was gone Mary
fell on her knees, and though the words she uttered were addressed
more to her mother than to God, she felt comforted,
and rising up started for the kitchen. It was a motley group
which she found assembled around the breakfast table, and
as she entered the room, the man called Uncle Peter smiled
on her, saying, “Come here, little daughter, and let me touch
you with the tip of my fourth finger.”
Shrinking to nearly half her usual size, she managed to
pass him without coming in contact with said finger, which
was merely a stump, the first joint having been amputated.
On reaching the back room she readily found the place where
she with all the rest was to wash. For this she did not care,
as the water was as cold and pure, and seemed as refreshing
as when dipped from her mother's tin wash-basin. But when
she came to the wiping part, and tried in vain to find a clean
corner on the long towel, which hung upon a roller, she felt
that she was indeed a pauper.
“I should think we might have a decent towel,” thought
she. “Mother used to say it cost nothing to be clean;” then
looking round to be sure that no one saw her, she caught up
to the kitchen.
She would greatly have preferred a seat by a pleasant
looking old lady who looked kindly on her, but Mrs. Grundy
bade her sit down by her and help herself. She did not exactly
fancy the looks of the thick fried pork, swimming in
grease, so she took a potato and a slice of bread, to get
which she reached so far that the lower hook on her dress,
which for a day or two had been uncertain whether to come
off or stay on, now decided the matter by dropping on the
floor. As she was proceeding with her breakfast, Uncle Peter
suddenly dropping his knife and fork, exclaimed, “Little
daughter's teeth are awry, ain't they?”
Mary had hoped that at the poor-house her mouth would
not be a subject of comment, but she was disappointed, and
bursting into tears would have risen from the table, had not
the kind looking woman said, “Shame on you, Peter, to
plague a little girl.”
Uncle Peter, too, who was fond of children, seemed distressed,
and passing towards her the bowl of milk which was
standing by him, he said, “Drink it, daughter;—milk for
babes, and meat for strong men.”
There was so much of real kindness in his manner that
Mary's fear of him diminished, and taking the offered milk
she thanked him so kindly that Uncle Peter, who was quite
an orator, considered it his duty to make a speech. Pushing
back his chair, he commenced with a bow which required
so many changes of his legs that Mary wondered they were
not entirely twisted up.
“Ladies and gentlemen, one and all,” said he, “but particularly
ladies, what I have to say is this, that henceforth
and for ever I am the champion of this unprotected female,
who from parts unknown has come among us.—God bless
in readiness to teach the polite accomplishment of dancing
in my room, No. 41, Pauper's Hotel.”
Having finished this speech he resumed his breakfast, after
which with another of his wonderful bows he quitted the
room. Mary was about following his example when Mrs.
Grundy said, “Come, catch hold now and see how spry you
can clear the table, and you, Rind,” speaking to a simple
looking girl with crooked feet, “do you go to your shoes.
Be quick now, for it's goin' on seven o'clock.”
At this moment Mary caught sight of Mr. Parker, who
was standing just without the door, and his mischievous look
as Mrs. Grundy gave out her orders made Mary a little suspicious
of that lady's real position among them. But she had
no time for thought, for just then through all the closed
doors and the long hall there came to her ears the sound of
a scream. Alice was crying, and instantly dropping the
plate she held in her hand, Mary was hurrying away, when
Mrs. Grundy called her back, saying “Let her cry a spell.
'Twill strengthen her lungs.”
Mary had more spirit than her face indicated, and in her
mind she was revolving the propriety of obeying, when Mr.
Parker, who was still standing by the door, said, “If that
baby is crying, go to her by all means.”
The look of gratitude which Mary's eyes flashed upon
him, more than compensated for the frown which darkened
Mrs. Grundy's brow as she slammed the doors together, muttering
about “hen-hussies minding their own business.”
Mary was not called down to finish the dishes, and when
at last she went to the kitchen for milk, she found them all
washed and put away. Mrs. Grundy was up to her elbows
in cheese curd, and near her, tied into an arm chair, sat Patsy,
nodding her head and smiling as usual. The pleasant
the first time, noticed that she was very lame.
“Go out doors and come round. Don't you see you'll
track the floor all up?” said Mrs. Grundy, and the lame woman
replied, “Never mind, Polly, I can easy wipe up her
tracks, and it's a pity to send her out in the rain.”
Mary chose to obey Mrs. Grundy, who wiped the crumbs
of curd and drops of whey from her arms and took the cup,
saying, “More milk? Seems to me she eats a cart load!
I wonder where the butter's to come from, if we dip into the
cream this way.”
Had Mary been a little older, she might have doubted
whether the blue looking stuff Mrs. Grundy poured into her
cup, ever saw any cream, but she was only too thankful to
get it on any terms, and hurried with it back to her room.
About noon the clouds broke away, while here and there a
patch of bright blue sky was to be seen. But the roads were
so muddy that Mary had no hope of Billy's coming, and
this it was, perhaps, which made the dinner dishes so hard
to wash, and which made her cry when told that all the
knives and forks must be scoured, the tea-kettle wiped, and
set with its nose to the north, in what Mrs. Grundy called
the “Pout Hole,” and which proved to be a place under the
stairs, where pots, kettles and iron ware generally were kept.
All things have an end, and so did the scouring, in spite
of Mary's fears to the contrary, and then watching a time
when Mrs. Grundy did not see her, she stole away up stairs.
Taking Alice on her lap she sat down by the open window,
where the damp air cooled and moistened her flushed face.
The rain was over, and across the meadow the sun was shining
through the tall trees, making the drops of water which
hung upon the leaves sparkle and flash in the sunlight like
so many tiny rainbows. Mary watched them for a time, and
each other so rapidly across the blue sky, wondered if her
mother's home were there, and if she ever thought of her
children, so sad and lonely without her.
A movement of Alice aroused her from her reverie, and
looking into the road, she saw directly opposite the house
Billy Bender, and with him, Alice's cradle. In a moment
Mary's arms were thrown about his neck as tightly as if she
thought he had the power and was come to take her away.
“Oh, Billy, Billy,” she said, “I was afraid you would
not come, and it made me so unhappy. Can't you take me
home with you?”
Billy had expected as much, and had tried hard to make
his mother say that if Mary and Alice were very homesick
he might bring them home. But this was Mrs. Bender's
sick day, and Billy's entreaties only increased the dangerous
symptoms of palsy from which she was now suffering, the
scarlet fever having been given up until another time.
“If the s'lect men pay me well for it,” said she, “I will
take them what little time I have to live, but not without.”
Billy knew the town could support them much cheaper
where they were, so he gave up his project, and bought Mary
a pound of seed cakes and Alice a stick of candy. Then,
the moment the rain had ceased he got himself in readiness
to start, for he knew how long the day would seem to Mary,
and how much Alice would miss her cradle. Three times
before he got outside the gate his mother called him back—
once to find her snuff-box;—once to see if there was not more
color in her face than there ought to be, and lastly to inquire
if her mouth hadn't commenced turning a little towards
the right ear! After finding her box, assuring her
that her color was natural and her mouth all straight, he at
last got started. The road was long and the hills were
and pleased Mary would be; and when he saw how joyfully
she received him, he felt more than paid for his trouble.
Some boys would have rudely shaken her off, ashamed to be
caressed by a little girl, but Billy's heart was full of kindly
sympathy, and he returned her caresses as a brother would
have done.
As he released her, he was startled at hearing some one
call out, “Bravo! That, I conclude, is a country hug. I
hope she won't try it on me!”
Turning about he saw before him a white-faced boy,
nearly of his own age, whose dress and appearance indicated
that he belonged to a higher grade, as far as wealth was concerned.
It was Henry Lincoln, notorious both for pride and
insolence. Billy, who had worked for Mr. Lincoln, had been
insulted by Henry many a time, and now he longed to avenge
it, but native politeness taught him that in the presence of
Mary 'twould not be proper, so without a word to Henry he
whispered to the little girl, “That fellow lives near here,
and if he ever gives you trouble, just let me know.”
“Kissed her then, didn't you?” sneeringly asked Henry,
retreating at the same time, for there was something in Billy's
eye, which he feared.
“Come into the house,” said Mary, “where he can't see
us,” and leading the way she conducted him up to her own
room, where there was no fear of being interrupted.
Alice was first carefully fixed in her cradle, and then
kneeling down at Billy's side, and laying her arms
across his lap, Mary told him of every thing which had happened,
and finished by asking, “how long she must stay
there.”
Had Billy's purse been as large as his heart, that question
would have been easily answered. Now he could only
seen Ella.
“I have not seen her,” returned he, “but I've heard
that rainy as it was this morning, Mrs. Campbell's maid was
out selecting muslins and jaconets for her, and they say she
is not to wear black, as Mrs. Campbell thinks her too
young.”
Mary did not speak for some time, but her head dropped
on Billy's knee and she seemed to be intently thinking. At
last, brushing aside the hair which had fallen over her forehead,
Billy said, “What are you thinking about?”
“I was wondering if Ella wouldn't forget me and Allie,
now she is rich and going to be a lady.”
Billy had thought the same thing, and lifting the little
girl in his lap, he replied, “If she does, I never will;”—and
then he told her again how, when he was older, and had
money, he would take her from the poor-house and send her
to school, and that she should some time be as much of a
lady as Ella.
By this time Mrs. Grundy's work in the kitchen was
done. Patsy had been shaken for stealing a ginger cake,
the lame woman had been scolded because her floor had dried
in streaks, which was nothing remarkable considering how
muddy it was. Uncle Peter had been driven from the pantry
for asking for milk, and now the lady herself had come
up to change her morning apparel and don the high-crowned
cap with the sky-blue ribbons. Greatly was she surprised
at the sound of voices in the room adjoining, and while Mary
was still in Billy's lap the door opened, and Mrs. Grundy
appeared, with her hands thrown up and the wide border of
her morning cap, which also did night service for its fair
owner, flying straight back.
“Mary Howard!” said she; “a man up in this hall,
mean? I shall be ruined!”
“No danger, madam, I assure you,” said Billy. “I came
to bring Alice's cradle, and did not suppose there was any
thing improper in coming up here.”
“It's nobody but Billy Bender,” said Mary, frightened
at Mrs. Grundy's wrathful looks.
“And who is Billy Bender? A beau? 'Pears to me you
are beginning young, and getting on fast, too, a settin' in his
lap. S'posin' I should do so—wouldn't it be a town's
talk?”
Mary tried to get down, but Billy, greatly amused at the
highly scandalized lady's distress, held her tightly, and Mrs.
Grundy, slamming the door together, declared “she'd
tell Mr. Parker, and that's the end on't.”
But no Mr. Parker made his appearance, and as the sun
was getting towards the west, Billy ere long started up, saying,
he must go now, but would come again next week. Mary
followed him down stairs, and then returning to her room,
cried herself into so sound a sleep that Mrs. Grundy was
obliged to scream to her at least a dozen times to come
down and set the supper table, adding as a finale, that “she
wondered if she thought she was a lady boarder or what.”
| CHAPTER V.
THE POOR-HOUSE. The English orphans, or, A home in the new
world | |