University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.
A NEW DISCOVERY.

On the same day when Rose Lincoln left Boston for Glenwood,
Mrs. Campbell sat in her own room, gloomy and depressed.
For several days she had not been well, and besides
that, Ella's engagement with Henry Lincoln filled her heart
with dark forebodings, for rumor said that he was unprincipled,
and dissipated, and before giving her consent Mrs.
Campbell had labored long with Ella, who insisted “that
he was no worse than other young men,—most of them drank
occasionally, and Henry did nothing more!”

On this afternoon she had again conversed with Ella, who
angrily declared, that she would marry him even if she knew
he'd be a drunkard, adding, “But he won't be. He loves
me better than all the world, and I shall help him to reform.”

“I don't believe your sister would marry him,” continued
Mrs. Campbell, who was becoming much attached to Mary.

“I don't believe she would, either, and for a very good
reason, too,” returned Ella, pettishly jerking her long curls.
“But I can't see why you should bring her up, for he has
never been more than polite to her, and that he assured me
was wholly on my account.”

“She isn't pleased with your engagement!” said Mrs.
Campbell; and Ella replied, “Well, what of that? It's

nothing to her, and I didn't mean she should know it; but
Jenny, like a little tattler, must needs tell her, and so she has
read me a two hours' sermon on the subject. She acted so
queer, too, I didn't know what to think of her, and when she
and Henry are together, they look so funny, that I almost believe
she wants him herself, but she can't have him,—
no, she can't have him,”—and secure in the belief that she
was the first and only object of Henry's affection, Ella
danced out of the room to attend to the seamstress who was
doing her plain sewing.

After she was gone, Mrs. Campbell fell asleep, and for
the first time in many a long year dreamed of her old home
in England. She did not remember it herself, but she had
so often heard it described by the aunt who adopted her, that
now it came up vividly before her mind, with its dark stone
walls, its spacious grounds, terraced gardens, running vines
and creeping roses. Something about it, too, reminded her
of what Ella had once said of her mother's early home,
and when she awoke, she wondered that she had never questioned
the child more concerning her parents. She was
just lying back again upon her pillow, when there was a
gentle rap at the door, and Mary Howard's soft voice asked
permission to come in.

“Yes, do,” said Mrs. Campbell. “Perhaps you can
charm away my headache, which is dreadful.”

“I'll try,” answered Mary. “Shall I read to you?”

“If you please; but first give me my salts. You'll find
them there in that drawer.”

Mary obeyed, but started as she opened the drawer, for
there, on the top, lay a small, old-fashioned miniature, of
a fair young child, so nearly resembling Franky, that the
tears instantly came to her eyes.

“What is it?” asked Mrs. Campbell, and Mary replied,

“This picture,—so much like brother Franky. May I look
at it?”

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Campbell. “That is a picture
of my sister.”

For a long time Mary gazed at the sweet childish face,
which, with its clustering curls, and soft brown eyes, looked
to her so much like Franky. At last, turning to Mrs. Campbell,
she said, “You must have loved her very much.
What was her name?”

“Ella Temple,” was Mrs. Campbell's reply, and Mary
instantly exclaimed, “Why, that was my mother's name!”

“Your mother, Mary!—your mother!” said Mrs. Campbell
starting up from her pillow. “But no; it cannot be.
Your mother is lying in Chicopee, and Ella, my sister, died
in England.”

Every particle of color had left Mary's face, and her
eyes, now black as midnight, stared wildly at Mrs. Campbell.
The sad story, which her mother had once told her,
came back to her mind, bringing with it the thought, which
had so agitated her companion.

“Yes,” she continued, without noticing what Mrs. Campbell
had said, “my mother was Ella Temple, and she had
two sisters, one her own, and the other, a half sister,—Sarah
Fletcher and Jane Temple,—both of whom came to America
many years ago.”

“Tell me more,—tell me all you know!” whispered
Mrs. Campbell, grasping Mary's hand; “and how it came
about that I thought she was dead,—my sister.”

Upon this point Mary could throw no light, but of all
that she had heard from her mother she told, and then Mrs.
Campbell, pointing to her writing desk, said, “Bring it to
me. I must read that letter again.”

Mary obeyed, and taking out a much soiled, blotted letter,

Mrs. Campbell asked her to read it aloud. It was as
follows:—“Daughter Jane,—I now take this opportunity
of informing you, that I've lost your sister Ella, and have
now no child saving yourself, who, if you behave well, will
be my only heir. Sometimes I wish you were here, for it's
lonesome living alone, but I suppose you're better off where
you are. Do you know any thing of that girl Sarah? Her
cross-grained uncle has never written me a word since he
left England. If I live three years longer I shall come to
America, and until that time, adieu.—Your father,—
Henry Temple Esq. M. P.”

“How short and cold!” was Mary's first exclamation,
for her impressions of her grandfather were not very agreeable.

“It is like all his letters,” answered Mrs. Campbell.
“But it was cruel to make me think Ella was dead, for how
else could I suppose he had lost her? and when I asked the
particulars of her death, he sent me no answer; but at this
I did not so much wonder, for he never wrote oftener than
once in two or three years, and the next that I heard, he
was dead, and I was heiress of all his wealth.”

Then, as the conviction came over her that Mary was indeed
the child of her own sister, she wound her arms about
her neck, and kissing her lips, murmured, “My child,—my
Mary. Oh, had I known this sooner, you should not have
been so cruelly deserted, and little Allie should never have
died in the alms-house. But you'll never leave me now, for
all that I have is yours—yours and Ella's.”

The thought of Ella touched a new chord, and Mrs.
Campbell's tears were rendered less bitter, by the knowledge
that she had cared for, and been a mother, to one of her
sister's orphan children.

“I know now,” said she, “why, from the first, I felt so

drawn towards Ella, and why her clear, large eyes, are so
much like my own lost darling's, and even you, Mary—”

Here Mrs. Campbell paused, for proud as she now was
of Mary, there had been a time when the haughty lady
turned away from the sober, homely little child, who begged
so piteously “to go with Ella” where there was room and to
spare. All this came up in sad review, before Mrs. Campbell,
and as she recalled the incidents of her sister's death,
and thought of the noble little Frank, who often went hungry
and cold that his mother and sisters might be warmed
and fed, she felt that her heart would burst with its weight
of sorrow.

“Oh, my God!” said she, “to die so near me,—my only
sister, and I never know it,—never go near her. I with all
my wealth, as much hers as mine,—and she dying of starvation.”

Wiping the hot tears from her own eyes, Mary strove to
comfort her aunt by telling her how affectionately her mother
had always remembered her. “And even on the night
of her death,” said she, “she spoke of you, and bade me,
if I ever found you, love you for her sake.”

“Will you, do you love me?” asked Mrs. Campbell.

Mary's warm kiss upon her cheek, and the loving clasp
of her arms around her aunt's neck, was a sufficient answer.

“Do you know aught of my Aunt Sarah?” Mary asked
at last; and Mrs. Campbell replied, “Nothing definite.
From father we first heard that she was in New York, and
then Aunt Morris wrote to her uncle, making inquiries concerning
her. I think the Fletchers were rather peculiar in
their dispositions, and were probably jealous of our family,
for the letter was long unanswered, and when at last Sarah's
uncle wrote, he said, that “independent of old Temple's aid
she had received a good education;” adding further, that she

had married and gone west, and that he was intending soon
to follow her. He neither gave the name of her husband,
or the place to which they were going, and as all our subsequent
letters were unanswered, I know not whether she is
dead or alive; but often when I think how alone I am, without
a relative in the world, I have prayed and wept that she
might come back; for though I never knew her,—never saw
her that I remember, she was my mother's child, and I
should love her for that.”

Just then Ella came singing into the room, but started
when she saw how excited Mrs. Campbell appeared, and how
swollen her eyelids were.

“Why, what's the matter?” said she. “I never saw you
cry before, excepting that time when I told you I was going
to marry Henry,” and Ella laughed a little spiteful laugh,
for she had not yet recovered from her anger at what Mrs.
Campbell had said when she was in there before.

“Hush—sh,” said Mary softly; and Mrs. Campbell,
drawing Ella to her side, told her of the strange discovery
she had made; then beckoning Mary to approach, she laid a
hand upon each of the young girls' heads, and blessing them,
called them “her own dear children.”

It would be hard telling what Ella's emotions were.
One moment she was glad, and the next she was sorry, for
she was so supremely selfish, that the fact of Mary's being
now in every respect her equal, gave her more pain than
pleasure. Of course, Mrs. Campbell would love her best,—
every body did who knew her,—every body but Henry.
And when Mrs. Campbell asked why she did not speak, she
replied, “Why, what shall I say? shall I go into ecstasies
about it? To be sure I'm glad,—very glad that you are my
aunt. Will Mary live here now?”

“Yes, always,” answered Mrs. Campbell; and “No,
never,” thought Mary.

Her sister's manner chilled her to the heart. She thoroughly
understood her, and felt sure they could not be happy
together, for Ella was to live at home even after her
marriage. There was also another, and stronger reason, why
Mary should not remain with her aunt. Mrs. Mason had
the first, best claim upon her. She it was who had befriended
her when a lonely, neglected orphan, taking her from the
alms-house, and giving her a pleasant, happy home. She it
was, too, who in sickness and health had cared for her with
all a mother's love, and Mary would not leave her now. So
when Mrs. Campbell began to make plans for the future,
each one of which had a direct reference to herself, she
modestly said she should never desert Mrs. Mason, stating
her reasons with so much delicacy, and yet so firmly, that
Mrs. Campbell was compelled to acknowledge she was right,
while at the same time she secretly wondered whether Ella
for her sake would refuse a more elegant home were it
offered her.

All that afternoon the contrast between the two girls
grew upon her so painfully, that she would almost gladly have
exchanged her selfish, spoilt Ella, for the once despised and
neglected orphan; and when at evening Mary came to say
“Good night,” she embraced her with a fervency which
seemed to say she could not give her up.

Scarcely had the door closed upon Mary, ere there was
a violent bell ring, and Henry Lincoln was ushered into the
parlor, where Ella, radiant with smiles, sat awaiting him.
They were invited that evening to a little sociable, and Ella
had bestowed more than usual time and attention upon her
toilet, for Henry was very observant of ladies' dresses, and
now that “he had a right,” was constantly dictating, as to

what she should wear, and what she should not. On this
evening every thing seemed fated to go wrong. Ella had
heard Henry say that he was partial to mazarine blue, and
not suspecting that his preference arose from the fact of his
having frequently seen her sister in a neatly fitting blue
merino, she determined to surprise him with his favorite
color. Accordingly, when Henry entered the parlor, he
found her arrayed in a rich blue silk, made low in the neck,
with loose, full sleeves, and flounced to the waist. The
young man had just met Mary at the gate, and as usual
after seeing her was in the worst of humors.

His first salutation to Ella was “Well, Mother Bunch,
you look pretty, don't you?”

“I don't know. Do I?” said Ella, taking him literally.

“Do you?” he repeated, with an impatient toss of his
head. “All but the pretty. I advise you to take off that
thing” (pointing to the dress), “I never saw you look worse.”

Since Ella's engagement she had cried half the time,
and now, as usual, the tears came to her eyes, provoking
Henry still more.

“Now make your eyes red,” said he. “I declare, I
wonder if there's any thing of you but tears.”

“Please don't talk so,” said Ella, laying her hand on
his arm. “I had this dress made on purpose to please you,
for you once said you liked dark blue.”

“And so I do on your sister, but your complexion is
different from hers, and then those ruffles and bag sleeves
make you look like a little barrel!”

“You told me you admired flounces, and these sleeves
are all the fashion,” said Ella, the tears again flowing in
spite of herself.

“Well, I do think Mary looks well in flounces,” returned

Henry, “but she is almost a head taller than you, and better
proportioned every way.”

Ella longed to remind him of a time when he called her
sister “a hay pole,” while he likened herself to “a little
sylph, fairy,” &c., but she dared not; and Henry, bent on
finding fault, touched her white bare shoulder, saying “I
wish you wouldn't wear such dresses. Mary don't except at
parties, and I heard a gentleman say that she displayed better
taste than any young lady of his acquaintance.”

Ella was thoroughly angry, and amid a fresh shower of
tears exclaimed, “Mary,—Mary,—I'm sick of the name.
It's nothing but Mary,—Mary all day long with Mrs.
Campbell, and now you must thrust her in my face. If
you think her so perfect, why don't you marry her, instead
of me?”

“Simply because she won't have me,” returned Henry,
and then not wishing to provoke Ella too far, he playfully
threw his arm around her waist, adding “But come, my little
beauty, don't let's quarrel any more about her. I ought
to like my sister, and you shouldn't be jealous. So throw
on your cloak, and let's be off.”

“Oh, no, not yet. It's too early” answered Ella,
nothing loth to have an hour alone with him.

So they sat down together upon the sofa, and after asking
about Rose, and how long Jenny was to remain in Glenwood,
Ella, chancing to think of the strange discovery that day
made with regard to herself and Mary, mentioned it to Henry,
who seemed much more excited about it than she had been.

“Mrs. Campbell, your mother's sister!” said he. “And
Mary's aunt too? Why didn't you tell me before?”

“Because I didn't think of it,” returned Ella. “And it's
nothing so very marvellous either, or at least it does not affect
me in the least.” Henry did not reply, but there was that

passing through his mind which might affect Ella not a little.
As the reader knows, he was marrying her for her
money; and now if that money was to be shared with another,
the bride lost half her value! But such thoughts
must not be expressed, and when Henry next spoke, he
said very calmly, “Well, I'm glad on Mary's account, for
your aunt will undoubtedly share her fortune with her,”
and Henry's eyes turned upon Ella with a deeper meaning
than she could divine.

It was so long since Ella had felt the need of money,
that she had almost ceased to know its value, and besides
this, she had no suspicion of Henry's motive in questioning
her; so she carelessly replied that nothing had been said on
the subject, though she presumed her aunt would make
Mary heiress with herself, as she had recently taken a violent
fancy to her. Here the conversation flagged, and
Henry fell into a musing mood, from which Ella was forced
to rouse him when it was time to go. As if their thoughts
were flowing in the same channel, Mrs. Campbell that evening
was thinking of Mary, and trying to devise some means
by which to atone for neglecting her so long. Suddenly a
new idea occurred to her, upon which she determined immediately
to act, and the next morning Mr. Worthington was
sent for, to draw up a new will, in which Mary Howard was
to share equally with her sister.

“Half of all I own is theirs by right,” said she, “and
what I want is, that on their 21st birth-day they shall come
into possession of the portion which ought to have been
their mother's, while at my death the remainder shall be
equally divided between them.”

The will was accordingly drawn up, signed and sealed,
Mr. Worthington keeping a rough draft of it, which was
thrown among some loose papers in his office. A few days

afterwards Henry coming accidentally upon it, read it without
any hesitation.

“That settles it at once,” said he, “and I can't say I'm
sorry, for I was getting horribly sick of her. Now I'd willingly
marry Mary without a penny, but Ella, with only one
quarter as much as I expected, and that not until she's
twenty-one, is a different matter entirely. But what am I
to do? I wish Moreland was here, for though he don't like
me (and I wonder who does), he wouldn't mind lending me
a few thousand. Well, there's no help for it; and the
sooner the old man breaks now, the better. It'll help me
out of a deuced mean scrape, for of course I shall be magnanimous,
and release Ella at once from her engagement
with a ruined man.”

The news that Mary was Mrs. Campbell's niece spread
rapidly, and among those who came to congratulate her, none
was more sincere than William Bender. Mary was very
dear to him, and whatever conduced to her happiness added
also to his. Together with her he had heard the rumor of
Mr. Lincoln's downfall, and while he felt sorry for the family,
he could not help hoping that it would bring Jenny
nearer to him. Of this he told Mary, who hardly dared
trust herself to reply, lest she should divulge a darling secret,
which she had cherished ever since Mrs. Campbell had
told her that, in little more than a year, she was to be the
rightful owner of a sum of money much larger than she had
ever dreamed it possible for her to possess. Wholly unselfish,
her thoughts instantly turned towards her adopted brother.
A part of that sum should be his, and with that for
a stepping stone to future wealth, Mrs. Lincoln, when poor
and destitute, could no longer refuse him her daughter.
Mrs. Campbell, to whom alone she confided her wishes, gave
her consent, though she could not understand the self-denying

love which prompted this act of generosity to a stranger.

And now Mary was very happy in thinking how much good
she could do. Mrs. Mason, her benefactress, should never
want again. Sally Furbush, the kind-hearted old crazy woman
who had stood by her so long and so faithfully, should
share her home wherever that home might be; while better
than all the rest, William Bender, the truest, best friend she
ever had, should be repaid for his kindness to her when a
little, unknown pauper. And still the world, knowing nothing
of the hidden causes which made Mary's laugh so merry
and her manner so gay, said that “the prospect of being an
heiress had turned her head, just as it always did those who
were suddenly elevated to wealth.”