University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
CHICOPEE.

It was the afternoon for the regular meeting of the Ladies'
Sewing Society in the little village of Chicopee, and at the
usual hour groups of ladies were seen wending their way towards
the stately mansion of Mrs. Campbell, the wealthiest
and proudest lady in town.

Many, who for months had absented themselves from the
society, came this afternoon with the expectation of gaining a
look at the costly marble and rosewood furniture with which
Mrs. Campbell's parlors were said to be adorned. But
they were disappointed, for Mrs. Campbell had no idea of
turning a sewing society into her richly furnished drawing-rooms.
The spacious sitting-room, the music-room adjoining,
and the wide cool hall beyond, were thrown open to all,
and by three o'clock they were nearly filled.

At first there was almost perfect silence, broken only
by a whisper or under tone, but gradually the restraint wore
way, and the woman near the door, who had come “because
she was a mind to, but didn't expect to be noticed any
way,” and who, every time she was addressed, gave a nervous
hitch backward with her chair, had finally hitched herself
into the hall, where with unbending back and pursed up lips
she sat, highly indignant at the ill-concealed mirth of

the young girls, who on the stairs were watching her retrograde
movements. The hum of voices increased, until at
last there was a great deal more talking than working. The
Unitarian minister's bride, Lilly Martin's stepmother,
the new clerk at Drury's, Dr. Lay's wife's new hat and its
probable cost, and the city boarders at the hotel, were all
duly discussed, and then for a time there was again silence,
while Mrs. Johnson, president of the society, told of the
extreme destitution in which she had that morning found
a poor English family, who had moved into the village two
or three years before.

They had managed to earn a comfortable living until the
husband and father suddenly died, since which time the
wife's health had been very rapidly failing, until now she was
no longer able to work, but was wholly dependent for subsistence
upon the exertions of her oldest child Frank, and the
charity of the villagers, who sometimes supplied her with
far more than was necessary, and again thoughtlessly neglected
her for many days. Her chief dependence, too, had now
failed her, for the day before the sewing society, Frank had
been taken seriously ill with what threatened to be scarlet
fever.

“Dear me,” said the elegant Mrs. Campbell, smoothing
the folds of her rich India muslin—“dear me, I did not
know that we had such poverty among us. What will they
do?”

“They'll have to go to the poor-house, won't they?”

“To the poor-house!” repeated Mrs. Lincoln, who
spent her winters in Boston, and whose summer residence
was in the neighborhood of the pauper's home, “pray don't
send any more low, vicious children to the poor-house.
My Jenny has a perfect passion for them, and it is with
difficulty I can keep her away.”

“They are English I believe,” continued Mrs. Campbell.
“I do wonder why so many of those horridly miserable
creatures will come to this country.”

“Forgets, mebby, that she's English,” muttered the
woman at the door; and Mrs. Johnson added, “It would
draw tears from your eyes, to see that little pale-faced
Mary trying to wait upon her mother and brother, and
carrying that sickly baby in her arms so that it may not
disturb them.”

“What does Ella do?” asked one, and Mrs. Johnson
replied, “She merely fixes her curls in the broken looking-glass,
and cries because she is hungry.”

“She is pretty, I believe?” said Mrs. Campbell, and
Rosa Pond, who sat by the window, and had not spoken
before, immediately answered, “Oh, yes, she is perfectly
beautiful; and do you know, Mrs. Campbell, that when she
is dressed clean and nice, I think she looks almost exactly
like your little Ella!”

A haughty frown was Mrs. Campbell's only answer,
and Rosa did not venture another remark, although several
whispered to her that they, too, had frequently observed the
strong resemblance between Ella Howard and Ella Campbell.

From what has been said, the reader will readily understand
that the sick woman in whom Mrs. Johnson was so
much interested, was our old acquaintance Mrs. Howard.

All inquiries for her sisters had been fruitless, and after
stopping for a time in Worcester, they had removed to
Chicopee, where recently Mr. Howard had died. Their
only source of maintenance was thus cut off, and now they
were reduced to the utmost poverty. Since we last saw
them a sickly baby had been added to their number. With
motherly care little Mary each day washed and dressed it,

and then hour after hour carried it in her arms, trying to
still its feeble moans, which fell so sadly on the ear of her
invalid mother.

It was a small, low building which they inhabited, containing
but one room and a bedroom, which last they had
ceased to occupy, for one by one each article of furniture
had been sold, until at last Mrs. Howard lay upon a rude
lounge, which Frank had made from some rough boards.
Until midnight the little fellow toiled, and then when his
work was done crept softly to the cupboard, where lay one
slice of bread, the only article of food which the house contained.
Long and wistfully he looked at it, thinking how
good it would taste; but a glance at the pale faces near
decided him. “They need it more than I,” said he, and
turning resolutely away, he prayed that he “might sleep
pretty soon and forget how hungry he was.”

Day after day he worked on, and though his cheek occasionally
flushed with anger when of his ragged clothes and
naked feet the village boys made fun, he never returned
them any answer, but sometimes when alone the memory of
their thoughtless jeers would cause the tears to start, and
then wiping them away, he would wonder if it was wicked to
be poor and ragged. One morning when he attempted to
rise, he felt oppressed with a languor he had never before
experienced, and turning on his trundlebed, and adjusting
his blue cotton jacket, his only pillow, he again slept so
soundly that Mary was obliged to call him twice ere she
aroused him.

That night he came home wild with delight,—“he had
earned a whole dollar, and knew how he could earn another
half dollar to-morrow. Oh, I wish it would come quick,”
said he, as he related his success to his mother.

But, alas, the morrow found him burning with fever,

and when he attempted to stand, he found it impossible to
do so. A case of scarlet fever had appeared in the village,
and it soon became evident that the disease had fastened
upon Frank. The morning following the sewing society,
Ella Campbell and several other children showed symptoms
of the same disease, and in the season of general sickness
which followed, few were left to care for the poor widow.
Daily little Frank grew worse. The dollar he had earned
was gone, the basket of provisions Mrs. Johnson had sent was
gone, and when for milk the baby Alice cried, there was none
to give her.

At last Frank, pulling the old blue jacket from under his
head, and passing it to Mary, said, “Take it to Bill Bender,—he
offered me a shilling for it, and a shilling will buy
milk for Allie and crackers for mother,—take it.”

“No, Franky,” answered Mary, “you would have no
pillow, besides, I've got something more valuable, which I
can sell. I've kept it long, but it must go to keep us from
starving;”—and she held to view the golden locket, which
George Moreland had thrown around her neck.

“You shan't sell that,” said Frank. “You must keep
it to remember George, and then, too, you may want it more
some other time.”

Mary finally yielded the point, and gathering up the
erumpled jacket, started in quest of Billy Bender. He was
a kind-hearted boy, two years older than Frank, whom he
had often befriended, and shielded from the jeers of their
companions. He did not want the jacket, for it was a vast
deal too small; and it was only in reply to a proposal from
Frank that he should buy it, that he had casually offered
him a shilling. But now, when he saw the garment, and
learned why it was sent, he immediately drew from his old
leather wallet a quarter, all the money he had in the world,

and giving it to Mary bade her keep it, as she would need
it all.

Half an hour after a cooling orange was held to Frank's
parched lips, and Mary said, “Drink it, brother, I've got
two more, besides some milk and bread,” but the ear she
addressed was deaf and the eye dim with the fast falling
shadow of death. “Mother, mother!” cried the little girl,
“Franky won't drink and his forehead is all sweat. Can't
I hold you up while you come to him?”

Mrs. Howard had been much worse that day, but she
did not need the support of those feeble arms. She felt,
rather than saw that her darling boy was dying, and agony
made her strong. Springing to his side she wiped from his
brow the cold moisture which had so alarmed her daughter,
chafed his hands and feet, and bathed his head, until he
seemed better and fell asleep.

“Now, if the doctor would only come,” said Mary; but
the doctor was hurrying from house to house, for more than
one that night lay dying in Chicopee. But on no hearthstone
fell the gloom of death so darkly as upon that low, brown
house, where a trembling woman and a frail young child
watched and wept over the dying Frank. Fast the shades
of night came on, and when all was dark in the sick room,
Mary sobbed out, “We have no candle, mother, and if I go
for one, and he should die—”

The sound of her voice aroused Frank, and feeling for
his sister's hand, he said, “Don't go, Mary:—don't leave me,
—the moon is shining bright, and I guess I can find my way
to God just as well.”

Nine;—ten;—eleven;—and then through the dingy windows
the silvery moonlight fell, as if indeed to light the way
of the early lost to heaven. Mary had drawn her mother's
lounge to the side of the trundlebed, and in a state of almost

perfect exhaustion, Mrs. Howard lay gasping for breath,
while Mary, as if conscious of the dread reality about to occur,
knelt by her side, occasionally caressing her pale cheek
and asking if she were better. Once Mrs. Howard laid her
hands on Mary's head, and prayed that she might be preserved
and kept from harm by the God of the orphan, and that
the sin of disobedience resting upon her own head might not
be visited upon her child.

After a time a troubled sleep came upon her, and she
slept, until roused by a low sob. Raising herself up, she
looked anxiously towards her children. The moonbeams fell
full upon the white, placid face of Frank, who seemed calmly
sleeping, while over him Mary bent, pushing back from his
forehead the thick, clustering curls, and striving hard to
smother her sobs, so they might not disturb her mother.

“Does he sleep?” asked Mrs. Howard, and Mary, covering
with her hands the face of him who slept, answered,
“Turn away, mother;—don't look at him. Franky is dead.
He died with his arms around my neck, and told me not to
wake you.”

Mrs. Howard was in the last stages of consumption, and
now after weeping over her only boy until her tears seemed
dried, she lay back half fainting upon her pillow. Towards
daylight a violent coughing fit ensued, during which an ulcer
was broken, and she knew that she was dying. Beckoning
Mary to her side, she whispered, “I am leaving you alone
in the wide world. Be kind to Ella, and our dear little Allie,
and go with her where she goes. May God keep and bless
my precious children,—and reward you as you deserve, my
darling—”

The sentence was unfinished, and in unspeakable awe the
orphan girl knelt between her mother and brother, shuddering
in the presence of death, and then weeping to think she
was alone.