 | CHAPTER XXIII.
LIFE IN BOSTON. The English orphans, or, A home in the new
world |  |
23. CHAPTER XXIII.
LIFE IN BOSTON.
“Come this way, Mary. I'll show you your chamber. It's
right here next to mine,” said Ida Selden, as on the evening
of her friend's arrival she led her up to a handsomely furnished
apartment, which for many weeks had borne the title
of “Mary's room.”
“Oh, how pleasant!” was Mary's exclamation, as she surveyed
the room in which every thing was arranged with such
perfect taste.
A cheerful coal fire was blazing in the grate, for no murderous
stove was ever suffered to invade the premises where
Aunt Martha ruled. The design of the Brussels carpet was
exquisitely beautiful, and the roses upon it looked as if
freshly plucked from the parent stalk. At one end of the
room, and just opposite the grate, were two bay windows,
overlooking Mr. Selden's fine, large garden, and shaded by
curtains of richly embroidered lace. In front of the fire
was a large easy chair, covered with crimson damask; and
scattered about the room were ottomans, divans, books, pictures,
and every thing which could in any way conduce to a
young lady's comfort or happiness. On the marble mantel
there stood two costly vases, filled with rare flowers, among
which Mary recognized her favorites. But ere she had time
to speak of it, Ida opened a side door, disclosing to view a
adjoining.
“Here,” said she, “you are to sleep; but you needn't
expect to be entirely exclusive, for every night when I feel
cold or fidgety, I shall run in here and sleep with you. Is
it a bargain?”
Mary was too happy to speak, and dropping into the easy
chair she burst into tears. In a moment Ida, too, was seated
in the same chair, and with her arm around Mary's neck was
wondering why she wept. Then as her own eyes chanced to
fall upon the vases, she brought one of them to Mary, saying,
“See, these are for you,—a present from one, who bade me
present them with his compliments to the little girl who
nursed him on board the Windermere, and who cried because
he called her ugly!”
Mary's heart was almost audible in its beatings, and her
cheeks took the hue of the cushions on which she reclined.
Returning the vase to the mantel-piece, Ida came back to
her side, and bending closer to her face, whispered, “Cousin
George told me of you years ago when he first came here,
but I forgot all about it, and when we were at Mount Holyoke,
I never suspected that you were the little girl he used to talk
so much about. But a few days before he went away he reminded
me of it again, and then I understood why he was so
much interested in you. I wonder you never told me you
knew him, for of course you like him. You can't help it.”
Mary only heard a part of what Ida said. “Just before
he went away.—” Was he then gone, and should she not see
him after all? A cloud gathered upon her brow, and Ida
readily divining its cause, replied, “Yes, George is gone.
Either he or father must go to New Orleans, and so George
of course went. Isn't it too bad? I cried and fretted, but
he only pulled my ears, and said he should think I'd be glad
over us, and following us every where, as he would surely do
were he at home.”
Mary felt more disappointed than she was willing to acknowledge,
and for a moment she half wished herself back
in Chicopee, but soon recovering her equanimity, she ventured
to ask how long George was to be gone.
“Until April, I believe,” said Ida; “but any way you
are to stay until he comes, for Aunt Martha promised to
keep you. I don't know exactly what George said to her
about you, but they talked together more than two hours,
and she says you are to take music lessons and drawing lessons,
and all that. George is very fond of music.”
Here thinking she was telling too much, Ida suddenly
stopped, and as the tea bell just then rang, she started up,
saying, “Oh, I forgot that father was waiting in the parlor to
see you. I've said so much about you that his curiosity is
quite roused, but I can introduce you at the table just as
well.” Our lady readers will pardon Mary if before meeting
Mr. Selden she gave herself a slight inspection in the long mirror,
which hung in her dressing room. Passing the brush several
times through her glossy hair, and smothing down the
folds of her neatly fitting merino, she concluded that she looked
well enough for a traveller, and with slightly heightened
color, followed Ida into the supper room, where she found assembled
Mrs Mason, Aunt Martha, and Mr. Selden. The
moment her eye fell upon the latter, she recognized the same
kindly beaming eye and pleasant smile, which had won her
childish heart, when on board the Windermere he patted her
head, as George told how kind she had been to him.
“We have met before, I believe,” said he, and warmly
shaking her hand he bade her welcome to Boston.
Then seating her by his side at the table, he managed by
perfectly at home. Aunt Martha, too, was exceedingly polite,
but after what Ida had told her, Mary could not help feeling
somewhat embarrassed in her presence. This, however, gradually
wore away, and before the evening was over she began
to feel very much at home, and to converse with Aunt Martha
as freely and familiarly as with Ida.
The next morning between ten and eleven the door bell
rang, and in a moment Jenny Lincoln, whose father's house
was just opposite, came tripping into the parlor. She had
lost in a measure that rotundity of person so offensive to her
mother, and it seemed to Mary that there was a thoughtful
expression on her face never seen there before, but in all
other respects, she was the same affectionate, merry-hearted
Jenny.
“I just this minute heard you were here, and came over
just as I was,” said she, glancing at the same time at her
rich, though rather untidy morning wrapper. After asking
Mary if she wasn't sorry George had gone, and if she expected
to find Mr. Stuart, she said, “I suppose you know Ella
is here, and breaking every body's heart, of course. She
went to a concert with us last evening, and looked perfectly
beautiful. Henry says she is the handsomest girl he ever
saw, and I do hope she'll make something of him, but I'm
afraid he is only trifling with her, just as he tries to do with
every body.”
“I am afraid so too,” said Ida, “but now Mary has come
perhaps he'll divide his attentions between the two.”
If there was a person in the world whom Mary thoroughly
detested, it was Henry Lincoln, and the idea of his trifling
with her, made her eyes sparkle and flash so indignantly that
Ida noticed it, and secretly thought that Henry Lincoln
would for once find his match. After a time Mary turned to
William Bender. Is he well?”
Jenny blushed deeply, and hastily replying that he was
the last time she saw him, started up, whispering in Mary's
ear, “Oh, I've got so much to tell you,—but I must go
now.”
Ida accompanied her to the door, and asked why Rose
too did not call. In her usual frank, open way, Jenny answered,
“You know why. Rose is so queer.”
Ida understood her and replied, “Very well; but tell
her that if she doesn't see fit to notice my visitors, I certainly
shall not be polite to hers.”
This message had the desired effect; for Rose, who was
daily expecting a Miss King, from Philadelphia, felt that
nothing would mortify her more than to be neglected by
Ida, who was rather a leader among the young fashionables.
Accordingly after a long consultation with her mother, she
concluded it best to call upon Mary. In the course of the
afternoon, chancing to be near the front window, she saw
Mr. Selden's carriage drive away from his door, with Ida
and her visitor.
“Now is my time,” thought she; and without a word to
her mother or Jenny, she threw on her bonnet and shawl,
and in her thin French slippers, stepped across the street
and rang Mr. Selden's door bell. Of course she was “so
disappointed not to find the young ladies at home,” and
leaving her card for them, tripped back, highly pleased with
her own cleverness.
Meantime Ida and Mary were enjoying their ride about
the city, until coming suddenly upon an organ-grinder and
monkey, the spirited horses became frightened and ran,
upsetting the carriage, and dragging it some distance.
Fortunately Ida was only bruised, but Mary received a
to faint. A young man, who was passing down the street
and saw the accident, immediately came to the rescue; and
when Mary awoke to consciousness, Billy Bender was supporting
her, and gently pushing back from her face the
thick braids of her long hair. At first she thought she was
not much hurt, but when she attempted to lift her head she
uttered a cry of pain, and laid it heavily back upon his
bosom.
“Who is she?—Who is she?” asked the eager voices
of the group around, but no one answered, until a young
gentleman, issuing from one of the fashionable drinking
saloons, came blustering up, demanding “what the row was.”
Upon seeing Ida, his manner instantly changed, and
after learning that she, with another young lady, had been
upset, he ordered the crowd “to stand back,” at the same
time forcing his way forward until he caught a sight of
Mary's face.
“Whew, Bill,” said he, “your old flame the pauper, isn't
it?”
It was fortunate for Henry Lincoln that Billy Bender's
arms were both in use, otherwise he might have measured
his length upon the side walk, which exercise he would
hardly have relished in the presence of Ida. As it was,
Billy frowned angrily upon him, and in a fierce whisper
bade him beware how he used Miss Howard's name. By
this time the horses were caught, another carriage procured,
and Mary, still supported by Billy Bender, was carefully
lifted into it, and borne back to Mr. Selden's house, Henry
Lincoln also accompanying her, and giving out numerous
orders as to “what ought to be done!”
Many of Ida's friends, hearing of the accident, flocked
in to see her, and to inquire after the young lady who was
whom the reader has once met in Chicopee. On her way
home she stopped at Mrs. Campbell's, where she was immediately
beset by Ella, to know “who the beautiful young
lady was that Henry Lincoln had so heroically saved from
a violent death,—dragging her out from under the horses'
heels!”
Lizzie looked at her a moment in surprise, and then
replied, “Why, Miss Campbell, is it possible you don't know
it was your own sister!”
It was Henry Lincoln himself who had given Ella her
information, without, however, telling the lady's name; and
now, when she learnd that 'twas Mary, she was too much
surprised to answer, and Lizzie continued, “I think you are
laboring under a mistake. It was not Mr. Lincoln, who
saved your sister's life, but a young law student, whom you
perhaps have seen walking with George Moreland.”
Ella replied that she never saw George Moreland, as he
left Boston before she came; and then as she did not seem
at all anxious to know whether Mary was much injured or
not, Lizzie soon took her leave. Long after she was gone,
Ella sat alone in the parlor, wondering why Henry should
tell her such a falsehood, and if he really thought Mary
beautiful. Poor simple Ella,—she was fast learning to live
on Henry Lincoln's smile, to believe each word that he said,
to watch nervously for his coming and to weep if he stayed
away. There were other young men in Boston, who, attracted
by her pretty face, and the wealth of which she was
reputed to be heiress, came fawningly around her, but with
most strange infatuation, she turned from them all, caring
only for Henry Lincoln. He, on the contrary, merely
sought her society for the sake of passing away an idle
hour, boasting among his male acquaintances of the influence
and pretty face! He knew that she was jealous of any
praise or attention bestowed by him upon another, and had
purposely told her what he did of Mary, exulting within
himself as he saw the pain his words inflicted.
“I know he was only trying to tease me,” was the conclusion
to which Ella finally came, and then there arose in
her mind a debate as to whether, under the circumstances,
it were not best to treat her sister with rather more respect
than she was wont to do. “The Seldens,” thought she,
“are among the first. If they notice her others will, and
why should not I?”
This question was at last decided in the affirmative, and
towards the close of the afternoon, she started for Mr. Selden's,
on her way meeting with Henry, who asked “where
she was going?”
“To see that beautiful young lady,” returned Ella, rather
pettishly; whereupon Henry laughed aloud, and asked
“if it were not a little the richest joke he had ever put upon
her.”
Ella saw no joke at all, but as Henry had turned about,
and was walking back with her, she could not feel angry, and
prattled on, drinking in his words of flattery, as he told her
how charmingly she looked at the concert, and how jealous he
felt when he saw so many admiring eyes gazing upon what
he considered his own exclusive property! The very expressive
look which accompanied this remark made Ella's heart
beat rapidly, for Henry had never before said any thing
quite so pointed, and the cloud, which for a time had rested
on her brow, disappeared.
When they reached Mr. Selden's house, Henry announced
his intention of calling also to inquire after Mary,
whom he respected on her sister's account! “But,” said he,
things to talk about, I hardly think I can wait for you.”
“Oh, pray, don't wait,” returned Ella, hoping in her
heart that he would.
Upon asking for Mary, she was taken immediately to her
room, where she found her reclining upon a sofa, attired in a
tasteful crimson morning gown, which gave a delicate tint to
her cheeks. She was paler than usual, and her thick shining
hair was combed up from her forehead in a manner highly
becoming to her style of beauty. Until that day Ella had
never heard her sister called handsome—never even thought
such a thing possible; but now, as she looked upon her, she
acknowledged to herself that Henry was more than half
right, and she felt a pang of jealousy,—a fear that Mary
might prove her rival. Still she tried to be agreeable, telling
her how fortunate she was in being at Mr. Selden's,
“for,” said she, “I dare say some of our first people will notice
you just because you are here!”
Ida hastily walked to the window, standing with her back
towards Ella, who continued, “I think it's so funny. I've
inquired and inquired about Mr. Stuart, but no one knows
him, and I've come to the conclusion he was an impostor,—
or a country schoolmaster, one or the other.”
There was a suppressed laugh behind the lace curtain
where Ida stood, and when Mary began to defend Mr. Stuart,
she came out, and with great apparent interest asked who he
was, and where they had seen him. Afterwards Mary remembered
the mischief which shone in Ida's eyes as they described
Mr. Stuart, but she thought nothing of it then.
After asking Mary who paid for her music lessons,—how
many new dresses she'd got, and who cut them, Ella started
to go, carelessly saying as she left the room, that when Mary
was able she should expect to see her at Mrs. Campbell's.
In the mean time Henry had become so much engaged in
a conversation with Mr. Selden, that he forgot the lapse of
time until he heard Ella coming down the stairs. Then impelled
by a mean curiosity to see what she would do, he sat
still, affecting not to notice her. She heard his voice, and
knew that he was still in the parlor. So for a long time she
lingered at the outer door, talking very loudly to Ida, and
finally, when there was no longer any excuse for tarrying,
she suddenly turned back, and shaking out her cloak and
tippet, exclaimed, “Why, where can my other glove be? I
must have dropped it in the parlor, for I do not remember of
having had it up stairs!”
The parlor was of course entered and searched, and
though no missing glove was found, the company of Henry
Lincoln was thus secured. Have my readers never seen a
Henry Lincoln, or an Ella Campbell?
| CHAPTER XXIII.
LIFE IN BOSTON. The English orphans, or, A home in the new
world | |