University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
AT CHURCH.

The Sabbath following Mary's first acquaintance with
Jenny was the one on which she was to go to church. Billy
Bender promised that if his mother were not suffering from
any new disease, he would come to stay with Alice, and in
case he failed, the pleasant-looking woman was to take his
place. Mary would have preferred going alone, but Sally
begged so hard, and promised so fairly “not to make a speck
of a face at the preacher, provided he used good grammar,”
that Mary finally asked Mr. Parker to let her go.

He consented willingly, saying he hoped the house would
be peaceable for once. And now, it was hard telling which
looked forward to the next Sunday with the most impatience,
Mary or Sal, the latter of whom was anxious to see
the fashions, as she fancied her wardrobe was getting out of
date. To Mary's happiness there was one drawback. A few
weeks before her mother's death she had given to Ella her
straw hat, which she had outgrown, and now the only bonnet
she possessed was the veritable blue one of which George
Moreland had made fun, and which by this time was nearly
worn out. Mrs. Campbell, who tried to do right and thought
that she did, had noticed Mary's absence from church, and
once on speaking of the subject before Hannah, the latter
suggested that probably she had no bonnet, saying that the

one which she wore at her mother's funeral was borrowed.
Mrs. Campbell immediately looked over her things, and selecting
a straw which she herself had worn three years before,
she tied a black ribbon across it, and sent it as a present
to Mary.

The bonnet had been rather large for Mrs. Campbell,
and was of course a world too big for Mary, whose face looked
in it, as Sal expressed it, “like a yellow pippin stuck into
the far end of a firkin.” Miss Grundy, however, said “it
was plenty good enough for a pauper,” reminding Mary that
“beggars shouldn't be choosers.”

“So it is good enough for paupers like you,” returned
Sal, “but people who understand grammar always have a
keen sense of the ridiculous.”

Mary made no remark whatever, but she secretly wondered
if Ella wore such a hat. Still her desire to see her
sister and to visit her mother's grave, prevailed over all other
feelings, and on Sunday morning it was a very happy child
which at about nine o'clock bounded down the stairway, tidily
dressed in a ten cent black lawn and a pair of clean white
pantalets.

There was another circumstance, too, aside from the prospect
of seeing Ella, which made her eyes sparkle until they
were almost black. The night before, in looking over the articles
of dress which she would need, she discovered that there
was not a decent pair of stockings in her wardrobe. Mrs.
Grundy, to whom she mentioned the fact, replied with a violent
shoulder jerk, “For the land's sake! ain't you big enough
to go to meetin' barefoot, or did you think we kept silk stockin's
for our quality to wear?”

Before the kitchen looking-glass, Sal was practising a
courtesy which she intended making to any one who chanced
to notice her next day; but after overhearing Miss Grundy's

remark, she suddenly brought her exercises to a close and left
the kitchen. Arrived at her room, she commenced tumbling
over a basket containing her wearing apparel, selecting from
it a pair of fine cotton stockings which she had long preserved,
because they were the last thing Willie's father ever gave
her. “They are not much too large for her now,” thought
she, “but I guess I'll take a small seam clear through them.”
This being done, she waited until all around the house was
still, and then creeping steathily to Mary's room, she pinned
the stockings to the pantalets, hanging the whole before the
curtainless window, where the little girl could see them the
moment she opened her eyes! Mary well knew to whom
she was indebted for this unexpected pleasure, and in her accustomed
prayer that morning she remembered the poor old
crazy woman, asking that the light of reason might again
dawn upon her darkened mind.

On descending to the kitchen, Mary found Sal waiting
for her, and, as she had expected, rigged out in a somewhat
fantastic style. Her dress, which was an old plum-colored
silk, was altogether too short-waisted and too narrow for the
prevailing fashion. A gauze handkerchief was thrown across
her neck, and fastened to her belt in front by a large yellow
bow. Her bonnet, which was really a decent one, was almost
entirely covered by a thick green veil, and notwithstanding
the sun was shining brightly, she carried in her hand a large
blue cotton umbrella, for fear it would rain!

“Come, child,” said she, the moment Mary appeared,
“put on your tea-kettle (referring to the bonnet which Mary
held in her hand), and let us start.”

There was no looking-glass in Mary's room, and she stepped
before the one in the kitchen while she adjusted her hat, but
her courage almost failed her as she saw the queer-looking
image reflected by the mirror. She was unusually thin, and

it seemed to her that her teeth were never so prominent
before. Her eyes, always large, now looked unnaturally so,
and as she placed what Sal had termed a “tea-kettle” upon
her head, she half determined not to go. But Sal caught
her hand, saying, “Come, child, it's time we were off.
They'll all know it's Mrs. Campbell's old bonnet, and will
laugh at her for giving it to you.”

Billy had not come, but the pleasant-looking woman had
succeeded in making friends with Alice, and as Mary passed
out of the yard she saw her little sister spatting the window
sill, and apparently well pleased with her new nurse.
Scarcely were they out of sight of the house, when Sal,
seating herself upon a large stone, commenced divesting her
feet of her shoes and stockings.

“What are you doing?” asked Mary, in great surprise.

“I guess I know better than to wear out my kid slippers
when I've got no Willie's father to buy me any more,” answered
Sal. “I'm going barefoot until I reach the river
bridge, and then I shall put them on again.”

The shoes and stockings being carefully rolled up in a
paper which Sal produced from her pocket, they walked
briskly forward, and reached the village some time before
the first bell rang for church.

“Come down this street, please,” said Mary to her companion,
who with slippers readjusted and umbrella hoisted
was mincing along, courtesying to every one she met, and
asking them how they did—“Come down this street; I
want to see my old home.”

Sal readily complied, saying as they drew near the low
brown house, in which a strange family were now living,
“There is nothing very elegant in the architecture of this
dwelling.”

Mary made no reply. With her head resting upon the

garden fence, and one hand clasped around a shrub which
Franky had set out, she was sobbing as though her heart
would break. Very gently Sal laid her hand on Mary's
shoulder, and led her away, saying, “What would I not
have given for such a command of tears when Willie's father
died. But I could not weep; and my tears all turned to
burning coals, which set my brain on fire.”

The next time Mary raised her head they were opposite
Mrs. Bender's, where Sal declared it her intention to stop.
As they were passing up to the side door, Billy, who heard
their footsteps, came out, and shaking hands with Mary, and
trying hard to keep from laughing at the wonderful courtesy,
which Sal Furbush made him. On entering the house they
found Mrs. Bender flat on her back, the pillow pulled out
from under her head, and the bed-clothes tucked closely up
under her chin.

“Mother was so sick I couldn't come,” said Billy to
Mary, while Sal, walking up to the bedside, asked, “Is your
sickness unto death, my good woman?”

“Oh, I am afeard not,” was the feeble response. “Folks
with my difficulty suffer for years.”

Mary looked inquiringly at Billy, and a smile but little
according with his mother's seeming distress parted his lips as
he whispered, “She was reading yesterday about a woman
that had been bed-ridden with a spinal difficulty, and now she
declares that she too `has got a spine in her back,' though I
fancy she would be in a pretty predicament without one.
But where did you get that fright of a bonnet?” he continued.
“It's like looking down a narrow lane to see your
face.”

Mary knew that Billy was very observing of dress, and
she blushed painfully as she replied, that Mrs. Campbell
gave it to her.

“Well, she ought to be ashamed,” said he, “with all her
money to give you a corn-basket of a thing like that. Ella
doesn't wear such a one, I can tell you.”

Just then the first bell rang, and Sal, who had mischievously
recommended a mustard poultice, as being the most
likely to draw Mrs. Bender's spine to a head, started to go,
saying, “she wanted to be there in season, so as to see the
folks come in.”

Accordingly they again set forward, attracting more attention,
and causing more remarks, than any two who had
passed through Chicopee for a long time. On reaching the
church, Sal requested the sexton to give her a seat which
would command a view of the greater part of the congregation,
and he accordingly led them to the farthest extremity
of one of the side galleries. Mary had been there at church
before, but as she had always sat near the door, she did not
know in what part of the building Mrs. Campbell's pew was
located. As she leaned over the railing, however, she concluded
that the large square one with crimson velvet cushions
must be hers. Erelong the bell began to toll, and soon a
lady dressed in deep mourning appeared, and passing up the
middle aisle, entered the richly cushioned pew. She was accompanied
by a little girl, tastefully dressed in a frock of light-blue
silk tissue. A handsome French straw hat was set jauntily
on one side of her head, and her long curls hung over her
white neck and shoulders. Mary knew that this was Ella,
and involuntarily starting up, she leaned forward far enough
to bring her bonnet directly in sight of some thoughtless
girls, who immediately commenced tittering, and pointing her
out to those near them.

Blushing scarlet, the poor girl sank back into the seat,
saying half aloud, “O, I wish I hadn't come.”

“What's the matter?” said Sal. “Has somebody

laughed at you? I'll warrant there has;” and leaning over the
railing herself, she shook her fist threateningly at the girls,
whose eyes were still directed that way.

Mary felt instinctively that her companion was attracting
more attention than her bonnet; and twitching her dress,
bade her sit down. Sal obeyed; but she had no opportunity
that morning of deciding whether the sermon were grammatical
or not, for she was constantly on the look out, and
whenever she saw any one scrutinizing Mary or herself more
closely than they ought, a shake of her fist and a horrid face
warned them to desist. Twice during church time Mary
thought, nay felt sure that she caught her sister's eye, but it
was quickly withdrawn, as if unwilling to be recognized.

When church was out, Sal insisted upon going down immediately;
so they descended together to the porch below,
reaching it just as Mrs. Campbell appeared in the doorway.
Had she chosen, Mary could have touched the lady's dress
as she passed; but she rather shrank from being seen, and
would probably not have been observed at all, had not Sal
planted herself directly in front of Mrs. Campbell, saying
loudly enough for all near her to hear, “Madam, do you not
recognize your munificent gift of charity in yonder amazing
bonnet?” at the same time pointing towards Mary, who nervously
grasped the strings of her hat, as if to remove the
offensive article.

Mrs. Campbell haughtily pushed Sal aside, and advancing
towards the child, said, “I am glad to see you at church,
Mary, and hope you will now come regularly. You can accompany
Ella home after the Sabbath school, if you like.”

The words and manner were so cold and formal, that
Mary was obliged to force down her tears before she replied,
that she was going to her mother's grave, and wanted Ella to
go with her.

“It is pretty warm to walk so far, but if Ella wishes it,
she has my permission. Only tell her not to get red and heated,”
said Mrs. Campbell; and gathering up the folds of her
rich silk, the texture of which Sal Furbush had been examining,
and comparing with her own plum-color, she walked
away.

Scarcely was she gone, when Jenny Lincoln came tripping
up, and seizing both Mary's hands, exclaimed, “I am real
glad you are here. I thought you hadn't come, until I heard
them talking about a crazy woman. But let's go to my
class, and you'll have a chance to see Ella while the scholars
are getting their seats.”

Mary accompanied her young friend to a pew, at the door
of which she met her sister face to face. There was a sudden
exclamation of joy on Mary's part, and an attempt to
throw her arms around Ella's neck, but the little girl drew
back, and merely offering her hand, said, “Oh, it's you, isn't
it? I didn't know you, you looked so queer.”

“Heavens! what a head-dress! Big as our carriage
top any day!” was the next exclamation which reached
Mary's ear, as Rose Lincoln brushed past. Glancing from
her sister to Rose, Mary half determined to tear the bonnet
from her head and trample it under her feet, but Jenny softly
squeezed her hand, and whispered, “Don't mind what Rose
says; I love you, and so does Billy Bender. I saw him in
the village yesterday, and asked him if he didn't, and he
said he did.”

It required more than Billy Bender's love to soothe Mary
then. Her sister's cool reception, so different from what she
had anticipated, had stung her heart; and sitting down near
the door, she burst into a passionate fit of tears. Jenny, who
was really distressed, occasionally pressed her hand in token
of sympathy, at the same time offering her cloves, peanuts, and

sugar-plums. There was a brighter flush, too, than usual, on
Ella's cheek, for she knew that she had done wrong, and she
so jumbled together the words of her lesson, that the teacher
made her repeat it twice, asking her what was the matter.

By the time Sabbath school was over, Mary had dried her
tears; and determining to make one more advance towards her
sister, she said, “Won't you go to mother's grave with me?
I want to tell you about little Allie. I have taught her to
call your name most as plain as I can.”

Ella looked down at her embroidered pantalets, and
hanging her head on one side, said, “Oh, it's so dusty. I'm
afraid I'll get all dirt,—and hot, too. Mamma doesn't like to
have me get hot.”

“Why not?” asked Jenny, who always wished to know
the reason of things.

“'Cause it makes folks' skin rough, and break out,” was
Ella's reply.

“Oh, pshaw!” returned Jenny, with a vain attempt to
turn up her little bit of a nose. “I play every day till I am
most roasted, and my skin ain't half as rough as yours. But
say, will you go with Mary? for if you don't I shall!”

“I guess I won't,” said Ella, and then, anxious to make
Mary feel a little comfortable, she added, “Mamma says
Mary's coming to see me before long, and then we'll have a
real good time. I've lots of pretty things—two silk dresses,
and I wear French gaiters like these every day.”

Glancing first at Mary, and then at Ella, Jenny replied,
“Pho, that's nothing; Mary knows more than you do, any
way. Why, she can say every speck of the multiplication
table, and you only know the 10's!”

When Ella was angry, or felt annoyed, she generally
cried; and now declaring that she knew more than the 10's,
she began to cry; and announcing her intention of never

speaking to Jenny again “as long as she lived and breathed,”
she walked away, while Mary and Jenny proceeded together
towards the burying ground. With a bitter cry
Mary threw herself upon her mother's grave, and wept for a
long, long time.

“It would not be so bad,” said Mary, “if there was any
body left, but I am all alone in the world. Ella does not
love me—nobody loves me.”

It was in vain that Jenny told her of Billy Bender's love,
of her own, and George Moreland's too. Mary only wept
the more, wishing that she had died, and Allie too. At
last remembering that she had left Sal Furbush behind her,
and knowing that it was time for her to go, she arose, and
leaning on Jenny, whose arm was passed lovingly about her,
she started to return.

Afternoon service had commenced ere they reached the
church, and as Mary had no desire of again subjecting her
bonnet to the ridicule of Rose Lincoln, and as Jenny had
much rather stay out doors in the shade, they sat down upon
the steps, wondering were Sal Furbush had taken herself.
“I mean to look in and see if she is here,” said Jenny, and
advancing on tiptoe to the open door, she cast her eye over
the people within; then clapping her hand over her mouth to
keep back a laugh, she returned to Mary, saying, “Oh, if it
isn't the funniest thing in the world. There sits Sal in Mrs.
Campbell's pew, fanning herself with that great palm-leaf,
and shaking her fist at Ella every time she stirs!”

It seems that Sal had amused herself during the intermission
by examining and trying the different pews, and taking
a fancy to Mrs. Campbell's, she had snugly ensconced
herself in one corner of it, greatly to the fear and mortification
of Ella, who chanced to be the only one of the family
present. When service was out, Sal gathered up her umbrella,

and courtesying her way through the crowd, soon
found Mary and started for home, declaring the clergyman
to be “a well-read grammarian, only a trifle too emphatic in
his delivery.”

As they were descending the long hill which led to the
river bridge, Mr. Lincoln's carriage passed them, and Jenny,
who was inside, seized the reins, saying, “Please, pa, stop
and let them ride—there's nobody but Rose and me in here,
and it is so hot and so far.”

Mr. Lincoln might possibly have complied with his
daughter's request, had not Rose chirrupped to the spirited
horses, and said, “Don't, father, for mercy's sake! ask those
paupers to ride.”

So the carriage dashed on, but Mary forgot the long walk
by remembering the glance of affection which Jenny gave
her as she looked back from the window. Sal seemed unusually
silent, and even forgot to take off her shoes and
stockings when she reached the river bridge. Mary saw
there was something weighing upon her mind, but she forbore
asking any questions, knowing that Sal would in her
own good time make her thoughts known. They had nearly
reached home, when Sal suddenly turned aside, and seating
herself upon a rock under a white beech-tree, said, “Miss
Howard, I've been thinking what a splendid minister was
spoiled when they put dresses on me! Oh how hard I had
to hold myself to-day to keep from extemporizing to the congregation.
I reckon there wouldn't have been quite so many
nodding as there were.”

In the excitement of the moment Sal arose, and throwing
out her eyes, gesticulated in a manner rather alarming
to Mary, who had never before seen so wild a look in the
crazy woman's eyes. Soon, however, her mood changed, and
resuming her seat, she continued in a milder tone, “Did you
ever hear that I was an authoress?”

“An authoress!” repeated Mary—“an authoress! Why
no; are you?”

“To be sure I am,” answered Sal. “What's to hinder?
Haven't I told you repeatedly, that I once possessed an unusually
large amount of judgment; and this, added to my
knowledge of grammar, and uncommon powers of imagination,
enabled me to produce a work which, but for an unaccountable
freak of the publisher, would have rendered my
name immortal.”

“I don't understand,” said Mary, and Sally continued:
“You see, I wrote about six hundred pages of foolscap, which
the publisher to whom it was sent for examination was impolite
enough to return, together with a note, containing, as I
suppose, his reasons for rejection; but if he thinks I read it,
he's mistaken. I merely glanced at the words, `Dear Madam—We
regret—' and then threw it aside. It was a terrible
disappointment, and came near turning my brain; but
there are other publishing houses in the world, and one of
these days I shall astonish mankind. But come, we must
hasten on, or the gormandizers will eat up those custard pies
which I found in the cellar with the brass-kettle covered
over them.”

Accordingly they started for home, but found, as Sal had
predicted, that supper was over and the pies all gone. By a
little dexterous management, however, she managed to find
half of one, which Miss Grundy had tucked away under an
empty candle-box for her own future eating.