University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
THE NEW BONNET.

The next morning, for a wonder, Jenny Lincoln was up before
the sun, and in the large dark closet which adjoined her
sleeping room, she rummaged through band-boxes and on the
top shelves until she found and brought to light a straw hat,
which was new the fall before, but which her mother had
decided unfit to appear again in the city. Jenny had heard
the unkind remarks which Mary's odd-looking bonnet elicited,
and she now determined to give her this one, though she did
not dare to do so without her mother's consent. So after breakfast,
when her mother was seated at her work in the parlor,
Jenny drew near, making known her request, and asking
permission to carry the bonnet to Mary herself.

“Mercy on me!” said Mrs. Lincoln, “what won't you
think of next, and where did you get such vulgar taste. It
must have been from your father, for I am sure you never
took it from me. I dare say, now, you had rather play with
that town pauper than with the richest child in Boston.”

For a moment Jenny was silent, and then as a new idea
came into her head, she said, “Ma, if you should die, and pa
should die, and every body should die, and we hadn't any
money, wouldn't I have to be a town pauper?”

“What absurd questions you ask,” said Mrs. Lincoln,
overturning a work-box to find a spool of cotton, which lay
directly on top. “Do what you please with the bonnet,

which I fancy you'll find as much too small for Mary as the
one she now has is too large.”

Jenny felt fearful of this, but “where there's a will
there's a way;” and after considering a moment, she went in
quest of her sister, who had one just like it. Rose did not
care a fig for the bonnet, and after a while she agreed to part
with it on condition that Jenny would give her a coral bracelet
with gold clasps, which she had long coveted. This fanciful
little ornament was a birth-day present from Billy,
and at first Jenny thought that nothing would tempt her to
part with it, but as Rose was decided, she finally yielded the
point, brushing away a tear as she placed the bracelet in
her sister's hand. Then putting the bonnet in a basket, and
covering it with a newspaper, she started for the poor-house.

“Good morning, Miss Grundy,” said she, as she appeared
in the doorway. “May I see Mary, just a little minute?
I've got something for her.”

Miss Grundy was crosser than usual this morning on account
of a sudden illness which had come upon Patsy, so she
jerked her shoulders, and without turning her head, replied,
“It's Monday mornin', and Mary ain't goin' to be hindered
by big bugs nor nobody else. Here 'tis goin' on nine o'clock,
and them dishes not done yet! If you want to see her, you
can go into the back room where she is.”

Nothing daunted by this ungracious reception, Jenny advanced
towards the “back room,” where she found Mary at the
“sink,” her arms immersed in dish-water, and a formidable pile
of plates, platters and bowls all ready to be wiped, standing
near her. Throwing aside her bonnet and seizing the coarse
dish-towel, Jenny exclaimed, “I'm going to wipe dishes,
Mary, I know how, and when they are done, if Miss Grundy
won't let you go up stairs a minute, I'll ask Mr. Parker. I
saw him under the woodshed grinding an axe.”

It was a rare thing to see Jenny Lincoln in the kitchen
at the poor-house, and now the fact that she was there, and
wiping dishes too, circulated rapidly, bringing to the spot the
sour-faced woman, the pleasant-looking woman, the girl with
the crooked feet, and half a dozen others, each of whom commented
upon the phenomenon after her own fashion.

“Do see the little thing,” said one; “handles the wipin'
rag just like any body!”

“And look there,” cried a second; “setting them up in
the cupboard! Did you ever!” While a third remarked
that she wore silk stockings, wondering whether they were
bought on purpose for her, or had been cut over from a pair
of her mother's.

Thus noticed and flattered Jenny worked away, assisting
in scouring knives and washing spiders, until her dress was
splashed with dish-water, and her white apron crocked by the
kettles.

“Won't your marm scold you for getting so dirty?”
asked the girl with the crooked feet.

“I s'pose so,” said Jenny, carelessly; “but then she scolds
most all the time, so I don't mind it!”

The dishes being done, and Miss Grundy making no objections,
Mary accompanied Jenny up stairs, where the latter,
opening her basket, held to view a neat-looking straw hat,
far prettier than the one which Mrs. Campbell had presented.

“See,” said she, placing it upon Mary's head; “this is
for you. I wanted to give you mine, but 'twasn't big enough,
so Rose let you have hers. It's real becoming, too.”

The tears which fell from Mary's eyes were caused not
less by Jenny's kindness, than by the thought that the
haughty Rose Lincoln had given her a bonnet! She did
not know of the sacrifice which the noble-hearted Jenny had
made to obtain it, and it was well she did not, for it would
have spoiled all the happiness she experienced in wearing it.

“Thank you, Jenny, and Rose too,” said she. “I am so
glad, for I love to go to church, and I surely would never
have gone again and wore that other bonnet.”

“I wouldn't either,” returned Jenny. “I think it was
ridiculous for Mrs. Campbell to give you such an old dud
of a thing, and I know mother thinks so too, for she laughed
hard for her, when I described it, though she said nothing
except that `beggars shouldn't be choosers.' I wonder what
that means. Do you know?”

Mary felt that she was beginning to know, but she did
not care to enlighten Jenny, who soon sprang up, saying she
must go home, or her mother would be sending Henry after
her. “And I don't want him to come here,” said she, “for
I know you don't like him, and there don't hardly any body,
he's so stuck up and kind of—I don't know what.”

In passing through the hall, the girls met Miss Grundy,
who had just come from Patsy's room. As soon as she saw
Mary, she said, “Clap on your bonnet quick, and run as fast
as ever you can to Miss Thornfield's. Dr. Gilbert has gone
there, and do you tell him to come here right away, for Patsy
is dreadful sick, and has fits all the time.”

There was a tremor in her voice, and she seemed much
excited, which surprised the girls, who fancied she would not
care even if Patsy died. Mrs. Thornfield's was soon reached,
the message given, and then they hurried back.

“I Patsy worse?” asked Mary, as she saw the bedroom
door open, and two or three women standing near the bed.

Miss Grundy did not answer, and when next her face was
visible, the girls saw that her eyes were red, as if she had
been weeping.

“Funny, isn't it?” said Jenny, as she started for home.
“I did'nt suppose any thing would make her cry, and I
guess now the tears are sort of sour!”

Dr. Gilbert came, but his skill could not save the poor
idiot girl, and at about four that afternoon she died. Around
the bed of death there were no tears or lamentations, for
those who stood by and watched the lamp of life as it went
out, felt that the spirit which was leaving them would be
happier far in another world, for never in this had a ray of
reason shone upon poor Patsy's darkened mind. We have
said there were no tears, and yet, although the waters came
not to the surface, there was one heart which wept, as with
unflinching nerve the cold, stern woman arrayed the dead
girl for the grave.

That night Mary was aroused from sleep, by some one
whispering her name in her ear, and starting up, she saw Sally
bending over her.

“Come with me,” said she softly, “and I'll show you the
queerest sight you ever saw.”

Trembling in every joint, Mary arose and followed Sal,
who led her towards the room where Patsy lay. As she
drew near the door they paused, and by the light of the autumn
moon, which streamed through the curtained window,
Mary saw Miss Grundy kneeling by the cold body, and sobbing
bitterly. Once she spoke, and Mary caught the words,
“My child, my poor child.”

Wonderingly she looked up to Sally for an explanation;
but the crazy woman only replied, as they returned to their
rooms, “Yes,—there's been queer doings some time or other,
it's very evident; but I know one thing, I'll never draw her
profile again, and I'll call her Mrs. Grundy after this!”

It was hardly worth while, as the neighbors thought, to
be at all the trouble and expense of carrying a foolish girl without
friends or relatives to the grave-yard, so they buried her
beneath the shadow of a wide-spreading maple, in a little
inclosure where several other unfortunate ones lay sleeping.

At the funeral many wondered at the ghastly whiteness of
Miss Grundy's face, and why she grasped at the coffin lid,
as if to keep from falling, when with others she gazed upon
the pale face which, in its dreamless slumber, looked calm and
placid as that of a child.

There were but few who knew of Miss Grundy's sin, and
her secret was buried in Patsy's grave, where often a mother's
form was bending and a mother's tears were shed, when
the world was dark and still, and there was no eye to see, save
that of Him who said, “Go and sin no more.”