The English Orphans written by Mary Jane Holmes

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THE ENGLISH ORPHANS

Or, A Home in the New World

by

MRS. MARY J. HOLMES

Author of _Darkness and Daylight_, _Marian Grey_, _Meadow Brook_,
_Homestead_, _Dora Deane_, _Cousin Maude_, _Tempest and Sunshine_,
_Lena Rivers_, etc.

1877

CONTENTS

I. The Emigrants

II. Chicopee

III. Billy Bender

IV. Ella Campbell

V. The Poor-House

VI. Sal Furbush

VII. The Lincolns

VIII. At Church

IX. The New Bonnet

X. Winter at the Poor-House

XI. Alice

XII. A New Friend

XIII. A New Home in Rice Corner

XIV. Visitors

XV. The Three Young Men

XVI. The Schoolmistress

XVII. Jealousy

XVIII. A New Plan

XIX. Mount Holyoke

XX. The closing of the year

XXI. Vacation

XXII. Education Finished

XXIII. Life in Boston

XXIV. A Change of Opinion

XXV. The Party

XXVI. Making up his Mind

XXVII. The Shadows Deepen

XXVIII. Glenwood

XXIX. A New Discovery

XXX. The Crisis

XXXI. A Question

XXXII. Going Home

XXXIII. Conclusion

CHAPTER I.

THE EMIGRANTS.

"What makes you keep that big blue sun-bonnet drawn so closely over
your face? are you afraid of having it seen?"

The person addressed was a pale, sickly-looking child about nine years
of age, who, on the deck of the vessel Windermere, was gazing intently
towards the distant shores of old England, which were fast receding
from view. Near her a fine-looking boy of fourteen was standing, and
trying in vain to gain a look at the features so securely shaded from
view by the gingham bonnet.

At the sound of his voice the little girl started, and without turning
her head, replied, "Nobody wants to see me, I am so ugly and
disagreeable."

"Ugly are you?" repeated the boy, and at the same time lifting her up
and forcibly holding her hands, he succeeded in looking her fully in
the face, "Well, you are not very handsome, that's a fact," said he,
after satisfying his curiosity, "but I wouldn't be sullen about it.
Ugly people are always smart, and perhaps you are. Any way, I like
little girls, so just let me sit here and get acquainted."

Mary Howard, the child thus introduced to our readers, was certainly
not very handsome. Her features, though tolerably regular, were small
and thin, her complexion sallow, and her eyes, though bright and
expressive, seemed too large for her face. She had naturally a fine
set of teeth, but their beauty was impaired by two larger ones, which,
on each side of her mouth, grew directly over the others, giving to
the lower portion of her face a peculiar and rather disagreeable
expression. She had frequently been told that she was homely, and
often when alone had wept, and wondered why she, too, was not handsome
like her sister Ella, on whose cheek the softest rose was blooming,
while her rich brown hair fell in wavy masses about her white neck and
shoulders. But if Ella was more beautiful than Mary, there was far
less in her character to admire. She knew that she was pretty, and
this made her proud and selfish, expecting attention from all, and
growing sullen and angry if it was withheld.

Mrs. Howard, the mother of these children, had incurred the
displeasure of her father, a wealthy Englishman, by marrying her music
teacher, whose dark eyes had played the _mischief_ with her heart,
while his fingers played its accompaniment on the guitar. Humbly at
her father's feet she had knelt and sued for pardon, but the old man
was inexorable, and turned her from his house, cursing the fate which
had now deprived him, as it were, of his only remaining daughter. Late
in life he had married a youthful widow who after the lapse of a few
years died, leaving three little girls, Sarah, Ella, and Jane, two of
them his own, and one a step-daughter and a child of his wife's first
marriage.

As a last request Mrs. Temple had asked that her baby Jane should be
given to the care of her sister, Mrs. Morris who was on the eve of
embarking for America, and who within four weeks after her sister's
death sailed with her; young niece for Boston. Sarah, too, was adopted
by her father's brother; and thus Mr. Temple was left alone with his
eldest daughter, Ella. Occasionally he heard from Jane, but time and
distance gradually weakened the tie of parental affection, which wound
itself more closely around Ella; and now, when she, too, left him, and
worse than all, married a poor music teacher, the old man's wrath knew
no bounds.

"But, we'll see," said he, as with his hands behind him, and his head
bent forward, he strode up and down the room--"we'll see how they'll
get on. I'll use all my influence against the dog, and when Miss
Ella's right cold and hungry, she'll be glad to come back and leave
him."

But he was mistaken, for though right cold and hungry Ella ofttimes
was, she only clung the closer to her husband, happy to share his
fortune, whatever it might be. Two years after her marriage, hearing
that her father was dangerously ill, she went to him, but the
forgiveness she so ardently desired was never gained, for the old
man's reason was gone. Faithfully she watched until the end, and then
when she heard read his will (made in a fit of anger), and knew that
his property was all bequeathed to her sister in America, she crushed
the tears from her long eyelashes and went back to her humble home
prepared to meet the worst.

In course of time three children, Frank, Mary, and Ella were added to
their number, and though their presence brought sunshine and gladness,
it brought also an increase of toil and care. Year after year Mr.
Howard struggled on, while each day rumors reached him of the plenty
to be had in the land beyond the sea; and at last, when hope seemed
dying out, and even his brave-hearted Ella smiled less cheerfully
than was her wont to do he resolved to try his fortune in the
far-famed home of the weary emigrant. This resolution he communicated
to his wife, who gladly consented to accompany him, for England now
held nothing dear to her save the graves of her parents, and in the
western world she knew she had two sisters, Sarah having some years
before gone with her uncle to New York.

Accordingly the necessary preparations for their voyage were made as
soon as possible, and when the Windermere left the harbor of
Liverpool, they stood upon her deck waving a last adieu to the few
kind friends, who on shore were bidding them "God speed."

Among the passengers was George Moreland, whose parents had died some
months before, leaving him and a large fortune to the guardianship of
his uncle, a wealthy merchant residing in Boston. This uncle, Mr.
Selden, had written for his nephew to join him in America, and it was
for this purpose that George had taken passage in the Windermere. He
was a frank, generous-hearted boy, and though sometimes a little too
much inclined to tease, he was usually a favorite with all who knew
him. He was a passionate admirer of beauty, and the moment the Howards
came on board and he caught a sight of Ella, he felt irresistibly
attracted towards her, and ere long had completely won her heart by
coaxing her into his lap and praising her glossy curls. Mary, whose
sensitive nature shrank from the observation of strangers, and who
felt that one as handsome as George Moreland must necessarily laugh at
her, kept aloof, and successfully eluded all his efforts to look under
her bonnet. This aroused his curiosity, and when he saw her move away
to a distant part of the vessel, he followed her, addressing to her
the remark with which we commenced this chapter. As George had said he
liked little girls, though he greatly preferred talking to pretty
ones. On this occasion, however, he resolved to make himself
agreeable, and in ten minutes' time he had so far succeeded in gaining
Mary's friendship, that she allowed him to untie the blue bonnet,
which he carefully removed, and then when she did not know it, he
scanned her features attentively as if trying to discover all the
beauty there was in them.

At last gently smoothing back her hair, which was really bright and
glossy, he said, "Who told you that you were so ugly looking?" The
tears started to Mary's eyes, and her chin quivered, as she replied,
"Father says so, Ella says so, and every body says so, but mother and
Franky."

"Every body doesn't always tell the truth," said George, wishing to
administer as much comfort as possible. "You've got pretty blue eyes,
nice brown hair, and your forehead, too, is broad and high; now if you
hadn't such a muddy complexion, bony cheeks, little nose, big ears and
awful teeth, you wouldn't be such a fright!"

George's propensity to tease had come upon him, and in enumerating the
defects in Mary's face, he purposely magnified them; but he regretted
it, when he saw the effect his words produced. Hiding her face in her
hands, Mary burst into a passionate fit of weeping, then snatching the
bonnet from George's lap, she threw it on her head and was hurrying
away, when George caught her and pulling her back, said, "Forgive me,
Mary. I couldn't help plaguing you a little, but I'll try and not do
it again."

For a time George kept this resolution, but he could not conceal the
preference which he felt for Ella, whose doll-like face, and childish
ways were far more in keeping with his taste, than Mary's old look and
still older manner. Whenever he noticed her at all, he spoke kindly to
her; but she knew there was a great difference between his treatment
of her and Ella, and oftentimes, when saying her evening prayer she
prayed that George Moreland might love her a little just a little.

Two weeks had passed since the last vestige of land had disappeared
from view, and then George was taken dangerously ill with fever. Mrs.
Howard herself visited him frequently, but she commanded her children
to keep away, lest they, too, should take the disease. For a day or
two Mary obeyed her mother, and then curiosity led her near George's
berth. For several minutes she lingered, and was about turning away
when a low moan fell on her ear and arrested her footsteps. Her
mother's commands were forgotten, and in a moment she stood by
George's bedside. Tenderly she smoothed his tumbled pillow, moistened
his parched lips, and bathed his feverish brow, and when, an hour
afterward, the physician entered, he found his patient calmly
sleeping, with one hand clasped in that of Mary, who with the other
fanned the sick boy with the same blue gingham sun-bonnet, of which he
had once made fun, saying it looked like its owner, "rather
skim-milky."

"Mary! Mary Howard!" said the physician, "this is no place for you,"
and he endeavored to lead her away.

This aroused George, who begged so hard for her to remain, that the
physician went in quest of Mrs. Howard, who rather unwillingly
consented, and Mary was duly installed as nurse in the sick room.
Perfectly delighted with her new vocation, she would sit for hours by
her charge, watching each change in his features and anticipating as
far as possible his wants. She possessed a very sweet, clear voice;
and frequently, when all other means had failed to quiet him, she
would bend her face near his and taking his hands in hers, would sing
to him some simple song of home, until lulled by the soft music he
would fall away to sleep. Such unwearied kindness was not without its
effect upon George, and one day when Mary as usual was sitting near
him, he called her to his side, and taking her face between his hands,
kissed her forehead and lips, saying, "What can I ever do to pay my
little nurse for her kindness?"

Mary hesitated a moment, and then replied, "Love me as well as you do
Ella!"

"As well as I do Ella!" he repeated, "I love you a great deal better.
She has not been to see me once. What is the reason?"

Frank, who a moment before had stolen to Mary's side, answered for
her, saying, "some one had told Ella that if she should have the
fever, her curls would all drop off; and so," said he, "she won't come
near you!"

Just then Mrs. Howard appeared, and this time she was accompanied by
Ella, who clung closely to her mother's skirt, looking cautiously out
from its thick folds. George did not as usual caress her, but he asked
her mockingly, "if her hair had commenced coming out!" while Ella only
answered by grasping at her long curls, as if to assure herself of
their safety.

In a few days George was able to go on deck, and though he still
petted and played with Ella, he never again slighted Mary, or forgot
that she was present. More than once, too, a kind word, or
affectionate look from him, sent such a glow to her cheek and sparkle
to her eye, that Frank, who always loved her best, declared, "she was
as pretty as Ella any day if she'd break herself of putting her hand
to her mouth whenever she saw one looking at her," a habit which she
had acquired from being so frequently told of her uneven teeth.

At last after many weary days at sea, there came the joyful news that
land was in sight; and next morning, when the children awoke, the
motion of the vessel had ceased, and Boston, with its numerous domes
and spires, was before them. Towards noon a pleasant-looking,
middle-aged man came on board, inquiring for George Moreland, and
announcing himself as Mr. Selden. George immediately stepped forward,
and after greeting his uncle, introduced Mr. and Mrs. Howard, speaking
at the same time of their kindness to him during his illness.

All was now confusion, but in the hurry and bustle of going ashore,
George did not forget Mary. Taking her aside, he threw round her neck
a small golden chain, to which was attached a locket containing a
miniature likeness of himself painted a year before.

"Keep it," said he, "to remember me by, or if you get tired of it,
give it to Ella for a plaything."

"I wish I had one for you," said Mary; and George replied, "Never
mind, I can remember your looks without a likeness. I've only to shut
my eyes, and a little forlorn, sallow-faced, old-looking girl, with
crooked teeth--"

He was prevented from finishing his speech by a low cry from Mary,
who, pressing his hands in hers, looked beseechingly in his face, and
said, "Oh, don't, George!--don't talk so."

He had not teased her about her looks for a long time, and now just as
he was leaving her, 'twas more than she could bear. Instantly
regretting his thoughtless words, George took her in his arms, and
wiping away her tears, said, "Forgive me, Mary. I don't know what made
me say so, for I do love you dearly, and always will. You have been
kind to me, and I shall remember it, and some time, perhaps, repay
it." Then putting her down, and bidding adieu to Mr. and Mrs. Howard,
Frank, and Ella, he sprang into his uncle's carriage, and was rapidly
driven away.

Mary looked after him as long as the heads of the white horses were in
sight, and then taking Frank's hand, followed her parents to the
hotel, where for a few days they had determined to stop while Mrs.
Howard made inquiries for her sister.

Meantime, from the richly curtained windows of a large handsome
building a little girl looked out, impatiently waiting her father's
return, wondering why he was gone so long and if she should like her
cousin George, or whether he was a bearish looking fellow, with warty
hands, who would tease her pet kitten and ink the faces of her doll
babies. In the centre of the room the dinner table was standing, and
Ida Selden had twice changed the location of her cousin's plate, once
placing it at her side, and lastly putting it directly in front, so
she could have a fair view of his face.

"Why don't they come?" she had said for the twentieth time, when the
sound of carriage wheels in the yard below made her start up, and
running down stairs, she was soon shaking the hands of her cousin,
whom she decided to be handsome, though she felt puzzled to know
whether her kitten and dolls were in any immediate danger or not!

Placing her arm affectionately around him, she led him into the
parlor, saying, "I am so glad that you have come to live with me and
be my brother. We'll have real nice times, but perhaps you dislike
little girls. Did you ever see one that you loved?"

"Yes, two," was the answer. "My cousin Ida, and one other."

"Oh, who is she?" asked Ida. "Tell me all about her How does she look?
Is she pretty?"

Instantly as George had predicted, there came before his vision the
image of "a forlorn-looking, sallow-faced child," whom he did not care
about describing to Ida. She, however, insisted upon a description,
and that evening when tea was over, the lamps lighted, and Mr. Selden
reading the paper, George told her of Mary, who had watched so kindly
over him during the weary days of his illness. Contrary to his
expectations, she did not laugh at the picture which he drew of Mary's
face, but simply said, "I know I should like her." Then after a
moment's pause, she continued; "They are poor, you say, and Mr. Howard
is a music teacher. Monsieur Dupres has just left me, and who knows
but papa can get Mr. Howard to fill his place."

When the subject was referred to her father, he said that he had liked
the appearance of Mr. Howard, and would if possible find him on the
morrow and engage his services. The next morning Ida awoke with an
uncomfortable impression that something was the matter with the
weather. Raising herself on her elbow, and pushing back the heavy
curtains, she looked out and saw that the sky was dark with angry
clouds, from which the rain was steadily falling,--not in drizzly
showers, but in large round drops, which beat against the casement and
then bounded off upon the pavement below.

All thoughts of Mr. Howard were given up for that day and as every
moment of Mr. Selden's time was employed for several successive ones,
it was nearly a week after George's arrival before any inquiries were
made for the family. The hotel at which they had stopped was then
found, but Mr. Selden was told that the persons whom he was seeking
had left the day before for one of the inland towns, though which one
he could not ascertain.

"I knew 'twould be so," said Ida rather fretfully, "father might have
gone that rainy day as well as not. Now we shall never see nor hear
from them again, and George will be so disappointed." But George's
disappointment was soon forgotten in the pleasures and excitements of
school, and if occasionally thoughts of Mary Howard came over him,
they were generally dispelled by the lively sallies of his sprightly
little cousin, who often declared that "she should be dreadfully
jealous of George's travelling companion, were it not that he was a
great admirer of beauty and that Mary was terribly ugly."

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, there 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.

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