 | CHAPTER XXXIII.
CONCLUSION. The English orphans, or, A home in the new
world |  |
33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
CONCLUSION.
Great was the excitement in Rice Corner when it was
known that on the evening of the tenth of September a
grand wedding would take place, at the house of Mrs. Mason.
Mary was to be married to the “richest man in Boston,”
so the story ran, and what was better yet, many of
the neighbors were to be invited. Almost every day, whether
pleasant or not, Jenny Lincoln came over to discuss
the matter, and to ask if it were not time to send for William,
who was to be one of the groomsmen, while she, together
with Ida, were to officiate as bridesmaids. In this
last capacity Ella had been requested to act, but the tears
came quickly to her large mournful eyes, and turning away,
she wondered how Mary could thus mock her grief!
From one fashionable watering place to another Mrs.
Campbell had taken her, and finding that nothing there had
power to rouse her drooping energies, she had, towards the
close of the summer, brought her back to Chicopee, hoping
that old scenes and familiar faces would effect what novelty
and excitement had failed to do. All unworthy as
Henry Lincoln had been, his sad death had cast a dark shadow
across Ella's pathway. Hour after hour would she
sit, gazing upon the locks of shining hair, which over land
and sea had come to her in a letter from the father, who
cool the heat of his fevered brow. Every word and look
of tenderness was treasured up, and the belief fondly cherished
that he had always loved her thus, else why in the
last fearful struggle was she alone remembered of all the
dear ones in his distant home?
Not even the excitement of her sister's approaching marriage
could awaken in her the least interest, and if it were
mentioned in her presence she would weep, wondering what
she had done that Mary should be so much happier than herself,
and Mrs. Campbell remembering the past, could but
answer in her heart that it was just. Sometimes Ella accused
her sister of neglect, saying she had no thought for any
one, except George Moreland, and his elegant house in Boston.
It was in vain that Mary strove to convince her of her
mistake. She only shook her head, hoping her sister would
never know what it was to be wretched and desolate as she
was. Mary could have told her of many weary days and
sleepless nights, when there shone no star of hope in her
dark sky, and when even her only sister turned from her in
scorn; but she would not, and wiping away the tears which
Ella's unkindness had called forth, she went back to her
home, where busy preparations were making for her bridal.
Never before had Mrs. Perkins, or the neighborhood
generally, had so much upon their hands at one time. Two
dressmakers were sewing for Mary. A colored cook, with a
flaming red turban, came up from Worcester to superintend
the culinary department, and a week before the wedding
Aunt Martha also arrived, bringing with her a quantity of
cut glass of all sizes and dimensions, the uses of which could
not even be guessed, though the widow declared upon her
honor, a virtue by which she always swore, that two of them
knew what that was!”
With all her quizzing, prying, and peeking, Mrs. Perkins
was unable to learn any thing definite with regard to
the wedding dress, and as a last resort, she appealed to Jenny,
“who of course ought to know, seein' she was goin' to
stand up with 'em.”
“O, yes, I know,” said Jenny, mischievously, and pulling
from her pocket a bit of brown and white plaid silk,—
Mary's travelling dress,—she passed it to the widow, who
straightway wondered at Mary's taste in selecting “that
gingham-looking thing!”
Occasionally the widow felt some doubt as she heard rumors
of pink brocades, India muslins, heavy silks, and embroidered
merino morning-gowns; “but law,” thought she,
“them are for the city. Any thing 'll do for the country,
though I should s'pose she'd want to look decent before all
the Boston top-knots that are comin'.”
Three days before the wedding, the widow's heart was
made glad with a card of invitation, though she wondered
why Mrs. Mason should say she would be “at home.” “Of
course she'd be to hum,—where else should she be!”
It was amusing to see the airs which Mrs. Perkins took
upon herself, when conversing with some of her neighbors,
who were not fortunate enough to be invited. “They
couldn't ask every body, and 'twas natural for them to select
from the best families.”
Her pride, however, received a fall when she learned that
Sally Furbush had not only been invited, and presented with
a black silk dress for the occasion, but that George Moreland,
who arrived the day preceding the wedding, had gone
for her himself, treating her with all the deference that he
would the most distinguished lady. And truly for once
Miss Grundy's parting advice, to “keep her
tongue between her teeth,” she so far restrained her loquacity,
that a stranger would never have thought of her being
crazy.
The bridal day was bright, beautiful, and balmy, as the
first days of September often are, and when the sun went
down, the full silvery moon came softly up, as if to shower
her blessings upon the nuptials about to be celebrated.
Many and brilliant lights were flashing from the windows of
Mrs. Mason's cottage, which seemed to enlarge its dimensions
as one after another the guests came in. First and
foremost was the widow with her rustling silk of silver gray,
and the red ribbons which she had sported at Sally Ann's
wedding. After a series of manœuvres she had succeeded
in gaining a view of the supper table, and now in a corner
of the room she was detailing the particulars to an attentive
group of listeners.
“The queerest things I ever see,” said she, “and the
queerest names, too. Why, at one end of the table is a
muslin de laine puddin'—”
“A what?” asked three or four ladies in the same
breath, and the widow replied,—“May-be I didn't get
the name right,—let me see:—No, come to think, it's a
Charlotte somebody puddin' instead of a muslin de laine.
And then at t'other end of the table is what I should call a
dish of hash, but Judith says it's “chicken Sally,” and it
took the white meat of six or seven chickens to make it.
Now what in the world they'll ever do with all them legs,
and backs, and things, is more'n I can tell, but, land sake!
there come some of the puckers. Is my cap on straight?”
she continued, as Mrs. Campbell entered the room, together
with Ella, and a number of Boston ladies.
Being assured that her cap was all right, she resumed the
conversation by directing the attention of those nearest her
to Ella, and saying in a whisper, “If she hain't faded in a
year, then I don't know; but, poor thing, she's been disappointed,
so it's no wonder!” and thinking of her own experience
with Mr. Parker, the widow's heart warmed towards
the young girl, who, pale and languid, dropped into the nearest
seat, while her eyes moved listlessly about the room.
The rich, showy dresses of the city people also, came in for
observation, and while the widow marvelled at their taste in
wearing “collars as big as capes,” she guessed that Mary'd
feel flat in her checkered silk, when she came to see every
body so dressed up.”
And now guest after guest flitted down the narrow staircase
and entered the parlor, which with the bed-room adjoining
was soon filled. Erelong Mr. Selden, who seemed to
be master of ceremonies, appeared, and whispered something
to those nearest the door. Immediately the crowd fell back,
leaving a vacant space in front of the mirror. The busy
hum of voices died away, and only a few suppressed whispers
of, “There!—Look!—See!—Oh, my!” were heard, as
the bridal party took their places.
The widow, being in the rear, and rather short, slipped
off her shoes, and mounted into a chair, for a better view, and
when Mary appeared, she was very nearly guilty of an exclamation
of surprise, for in place of the “checkered silk” was an
elegant moire antique, and an expensive bertha of point lace,
while the costly bridal veil, which swept the floor, and fell in
soft folds on either side of her head, was confined to the heavy
braids of her hair by diamond fastenings. A diamond necklace
encircled her slender throat, and bracelets of the same shone
upon her round white arms. The whole was the gift of
George Moreland, who had claimed the privilege of selecting
pride when he saw how well it became Mary's graceful
and rather queenly form.
At her left stood her bridesmaids, Ida and Jenny, while
at George's right, were Mr. Elwood and William Bender,
the latter of whom looked on calmly while the solemn words
were spoken which gave the idol of his boyhood to another;
and if he felt a momentary pang when he saw how fondly
the newly made husband bent over his young bride, it passed
away as his eye fell upon Jenny, who was now dearer to
him, if possible, than Mary had ever been.
Among the first to congratulate “Mrs. Moreland,” was
Sally Furbush, followed by Mrs. Perkins, who whispered to
George that “she kinder had a notion how 'twould end when
she first saw him in the school-house; but I'm glad you've
got him,” turning to Mary, “for it must be easier livin' in
the city than keepin' school. You'll have a hired girl, I
s'pose?”
When supper was announced, the widow made herself
very useful in waiting upon the table, and asking some of the
Boston ladies “if they'd be helped to any thing in them
dishes,” pointing to the finger glasses, which now for the
first time appeared in Rice Corner! The half suppressed
mirth of the ladies convinced the widow that she'd made a
blunder, and perfectly disgusted with “new-fangled fashions,”
she retreated into the kitchen, were she found things
more to her taste, and “thanked her stars, she could, if she
liked, eat with her fingers, and wipe them on her pocket
handkerchief!”
Soon after her engagement, Mary had asked that Sally
should go with her to her city home. To this George willingly
consented, and it was decided that she should remain
with Mrs. Mason until the bridal party returned from the
of this arrangement until the morning following the
wedding, when she was told that she was not to return to
the poor-house again.
“And verily, I have this day met with a great deliverance,”
said she, and tears, the first shed in many a year,
mingled with the old creature's thanks for this unexpected
happiness. As Mary was leaving, she whispered in her ear,
“If your travels lead you near Willie's grave, drop a tear
on it for my sake. You'll find it under the buckeye tree,
where the tall grass and wild flowers grow.”
George had relatives in Chicago, and after spending a
short time in that city, Mary, remembering Sally's request,
expressed a desire to visit the spot renowned as the burial
place of “Willie and Willie's father.” Ever ready to gratify
her slightest wish, George consented, and towards the
close of a mild autumnal day, they stopped at a small public
house on the border of a vast prairie. The arrival of so
distinguished looking people caused quite a commotion, and
after duly inspecting Mary's handsome travelling dress, and
calculating its probable cost, the hostess departed to prepare
the evening meal, which was soon forthcoming.
When supper was over, and the family had gathered into
the pleasant sitting room, George asked if there was ever a
man in those parts by the name of “Furbush.”
“What! Bill Furbush?” asked the landlord.
George did not know, but thought likely that might have
been his name, as his son was called William.
“Lud, yes,” returned the landlord. “I knowed Bill
Furbush well,—he came here about the same time I did, he
from Massachusetts, and I from Varmount; but, poor feller,
he was too weakly to bear much, and the first fever he took
finished him up. His old woman was as clever a creature as
ever was, but she had some high notions.”
“Did she die too?” asked George.
Filling his mouth with an enormous quid of tobacco, the
landlord continued, “No, but it's a pity she didn't, for when
Bill and the boy died, she went ravin' mad, and I never felt
so like cryin' as I did when I see her a tearin' her hair and
goin' on so. We kept her a spell, and then her old man's
brother's girl came for her and took her off; and the last I
heard, the girl was dead, and she was in the poor-house somewhere
east. She was born there, I b'lieve.”
“No she warn't, either,” said the landlady, who for some
minutes had been aching to speak. “No she warn't, either.
I know all about it. She was born in England, and got to
be quite a girl before she came over. Her name was Sarah
Fletcher, and Peter Fletcher, who died with the cholera, was
her own uncle, and all the connection she had in this country;—but
goodness suz, what ails you?” she added, as
Mary turned deathly white, while George passed his arm
around her to keep her from falling. “Here, Sophrony,
fetch the camphire; she's goin' to faint.”
But Mary did not faint, and after smelling the camphor,
she said, “Go on, madam, and tell me more of Sarah
Fletcher.”
“She can do it,” whispered the landlord with a sly
wink. “She knows every body's history from Dan to Beersheby.”
This intimation was wholly lost on the good-humored
hostess, who continued, “Mr. Fletcher died when Sarah was
small, and her mother married a Mr. —, I don't justly
remember his name—”
“Temple?” suggested Mary.
“Yes, Temple, that's it. He was rich and cross, and
broke her heart by the time she had her second baby. Sarah
was adopted by her Grandmother Fletcher who died, and
she came with her uncle to America.”
`Did she ever speak of her sisters?” asked Mary, and
the woman replied, “Before she got crazy, she did. One
of 'em, she said, was in this country somewhere, and t'other,
the one she remembered the best, and talked the most about,
lived in England. She said she wanted to write to 'em, but
her uncle, he hated the Temples, so he wouldn't let her, and
as time went on she kinder forgot 'em, and didn't know
where to direct, and after she took crazy she never would
speak of her sisters, or own that she had any.”
“Is Mr. Furbush buried near here?” asked George;
and the landlord answered, “Little better than a stone's
throw. I can see the very tree from here, and may-be your
younger eyes can make out the graves. He ought to have
a grave stun, for he was a good feller.”
The new moon was shining, and Mary, who came to her
husband's side, could plainly discern the buckeye tree and
the two graves where “Willie and Willie's father” had
long been sleeping. The next morning before the sun was
up, Mary stood by the mounds where often in years gone by,
Sally Furbush had seen the moon go down, and the stars grow
pale in the coming day, as she kept her tireless watch over
her loved and lost.
“Willie was my cousin—your cousin,” said Mary, resting
her foot upon the bit of board which stood at the head of
the little graves. George understood her wishes, and when
they left the place, a handsome marble slab marked the
spot where the father and his infant son were buried.
Bewildered, and unable to comprehend a word, Sally
listened while Mary told her of the relationship between
them; but the mists which for years had shrouded her reason
were too dense to be suddenly cleared away; and when
Mary wept, winding her arms around her neck and calling
less bewildered than Sally herself, came forward addressing
her as “sister,” she turned aside to Mrs. Mason, asking in
a whisper “what had made them crazy.”
But when Mary spoke of little Willie's grave, and the
tree which overshadowed it, of the green prairie and cottage
by the brook, once her western home, Sally listened, and at
last one day, a week or two after her arrival in Boston, she
suddenly clasped her hands closely over her temples, exclaiming,
“It's come! It's come! I remember now,—the
large garden,—the cross old man,—the dead mother,—the
rosy-cheeked Ella I loved so well—”
“That was my mother,—my mother,” interrupted Mary.
For a moment Sally regarded her intently, and then
catching her in her arms, cried over her, calling her, “her
precious child,” and wondering she had never noticed how
much she was like Ella.
“And don't you remember the baby Jane?” asked Mrs.
Campbell, who was present.
“Perfectly,—perfectly,” answered Sally. “He died,
and you came in a carriage, but didn't cry,—nobody cried
but Mary.”
It was in vain that Mary tried to explain to her that
Mrs. Campbell was her sister,—once the baby Jane. Sally
was not to be convinced. To her Jane and the little Alice
were the same. There was none of her blood in Mrs.
Campbell's veins, “or why,” said she, “did she leave us so
long in obscurity, me and my niece, Mrs. George Moreland,
Esq.!”
This was the title which she always gave Mary when
speaking of her, while to Ella, who occasionally spent a
week in her sister's pleasant home, she gave the name of
“little cipher,” as expressing exactly her opinion of her.
a passion, as to have Ella call her aunt.
“If I wasn't her kin when I wore a sixpenny calico,”
said she, “I certainly am not now that I dress in purple
and fine linen.”
When Sally first went to Boston, George procured for
her the best possible medical advice, but her case was of so
long standing that but little hope was entertained of her
entire recovery. Still every thing was done for her that
could be done, and after a time she became far less boisterous
than formerly, and sometimes appeared perfectly rational
for days. She still retained her taste for literature, and
nothing but George's firmness and decision prevented her
from sending off the manuscript of her grammar, which was
now finished. It was in vain that he told her she was not
now obliged to write for a living, as he had more than
enough for her support.
She replied it was not money she coveted, but reputation,—a
name,—to be pointed at as Mrs. Sarah Furbush, Authoress
of “Furbush's Grammar,” &c.,—this was her aim!
“You may write all you choose for the entertainment of
ourselves and our friends,” said George, “but I cannot
allow you to send any thing to a publisher.”
Sally saw he was in earnest, and at last yielded the
point, telling Mary in confidence that “she never saw any
one in her life she feared as she did Esquire Moreland when
he set his foot down!”
And George did seem to have a wonderful influence over
her, for a single look from him would quiet her when in her
wildest moods. In spite of the desire she once expressed of
finding her sister, Mrs. Campbell's pride at first shrank from
acknowledging a relationship between herself and Sally
Furbush, but the fact that George Moreland brought her to
always introducing her to his fashionable friends as his aunt,
gradually reconciled her to the matter, and she herself became
at last very attentive to her, frequently urging her to
spend a part of the time with her. But Sal always refused,
saying that “for the sake of her niece she must be very
particular in the choice of her associates!”
True to her promise, on Mary's twenty-first birth-day,
Mrs. Campbell made over to her one fourth of her property,
and Mary, remembering her intentions towards William
Bender, immediately offered him one half of it. But he
declined accepting it, saying that his profession was sufficient
to support both himself and Jenny, for in a few weeks
Jenny, whose father had returned from California, was coming,
and already a neat little cottage, a mile from the city,
was being prepared for her reception. Mary did not urge
the matter, but many an article of furniture more costly
than William was able to purchase found its way into the
cottage, which with its overhanging vines, climbing roses,
and profusion of flowers, seemed just the home for Jenny
Lincoln.
And when the flowers were in full bloom, when the birds
sung amid the trees, and the summer sky was bright and
blue, Jenny came to the cottage, a joyous, loving bride,
believing her own husband the best in the world, and wondering
if there was ever any one as happy as herself. And
Jenny was very happy. Blithe as a bee she flitted about the
house and garden, and if in the morning a tear glistened in
her laughing eyes as William bade her adieu, it was quickly
dried, and all day long she busied herself in her household
matters, studying some agreeable surprise for her husband,
and trying for his sake to be very neat and orderly. Then
when the clock pointed the hour for his return, she would
moisture from her rosy cheek, thought her a perfect enigma,
to weep when he went away, and weep when he came home!
There was no place which Ella loved so well to visit, or
where she seemed so happy, as at the “Cottage,” and as she
was of but little use at home, she frequently spent whole
weeks with Jenny, becoming gradually more cheerful,—more
like herself, but always insisting that she should never be
married.
The spring following Mary's removal to Boston, Mrs.
Mason came down to the city to live with her adopted
daughter, greatly to the delight of Aunt Martha, whose home
was lonelier than it was wont to be, for George was gone,
and Ida too had recently been married to Mr. Elwood, and
removed to Lexington, Kentucky.
And now a glance at Chicopee, and our story is done.
Mr. Lincoln's California adventure had been a successful
one, and not long after his return he received from George
Moreland a conveyance of the farm, which, under Mr. Parker's
efficient management, was in a high state of cultivation.
Among the inmates of the poor-house but few changes
have taken place. Miss Grundy, who continues at the helm,
has grown somewhat older and crosser; while Uncle Peter
labors industriously at his new fiddle, the gift of Mary, who
is still remembered with much affection.
Lydia Knight, now a young lady of sixteen, is a pupil
at Mount Holyoke, and Mrs. Perkins, after wondering and
wondering where the money came from, has finally concluded
that “some of George's folks must have sent it!”
| CHAPTER XXXIII.
CONCLUSION. The English orphans, or, A home in the new
world | |