THE BROWN-PAPER PARCEL.

Hawke's Bay Herald, Volume 13, Issue 1071, 3 August 1869, Page 3

THE BROWN-PAPER PARCEL.

IN FIVE CHAPTERS.^ — CHAPTER 11. (From -'All the Year Round.") It was long past five o'clock on the following afternoon, when the third-.class train,; dragging its slow length along, crawled into the gas-lighted station belonging to the large and important county town of Brigham. Mary Mackworth was chilled, and cramped, and hungry, and weary, but nevertheless full of delight, which had been increasing for tbe last hour or two, as the names of well-known places were shouted out, and as now and then through the darkness dimly loomed the outline of hills, I towers, aud churches, all familiar landmarks. . , As her bright face appeared at the window, a hand was laid on the door, and a tall, well-grown lad, a year or two younger than herself, and very like her, helped her eagerly from the carriage. "Well, Mary!" " Well, my dearest old Harry !" were the greetings of the brother and sister; and then followed the inevitable questions and answers about luggage; and then followed the rush to secure it ; and then they emerged into the street where several vehicles were waiting. "There is the van!" exclaimed Mary, "and old Dobson and his old horse, all just the same as ever." " Yes ; bnt you're not going in the van," said Harry, importantly; "Dobson will take your box, but I have borrowed Farmer Murch's gig for you and me. Here it is; you haven't forgotten how to climb into a gig, Mary, have you ?" " Not I," laughed Mary, as she scrambled into her place, and let Harry draw the leathern apron over her knees; "jump in, Harry, I long to be off; how are they all?" , . "All flourishing except Cilly — she's a poor piece of goods this winter — but there's nothing much the matter with her." " And Jack and Laurry ?" "Oh! they're all right — grown like beans," answered Harry. "How home-like it all looks!" cried Mary, with sparkling eyes, as they left the I town, and emerged into the dark country road. " Better than all the swell London shops, eh ?" said Harry with a smile. " Hollo !" The exclamation was caused by a mail phaeton, drawn by a pair of high stepping . horses, which met them at the moment. A • groom was driving ; otherwise the carriage ] was empty. . " What a grand affair for this part of the , world !" cried Mary. " Who can it belong to, Harry ?" "Can't imagine. Oh, yes, I can, though. ; The great banker, Mr. Langley, has bought •_ Nettlehurst, and I dare say it is one of his < concerns going to meet the down express, i at'five-fifty." ■ "Mr. Langley who has the Bank of ( Brigham ? Why I thought he was dead ?" j "To be sure : he died a year ago — the \ old man did, that is — and left the bank , and money, and all the rest of it, to his j cousin, who was as rich as Croesus before, \ they say. The London bank of the same ] name belongs to him ; but that's always the ( way. Wealth attracts wealth." , "And the new man has bought Nettle- . hurst! Then the poor Hathaways are \ quite gone out of the land, I suppose ! That seems sad." . "A precious good thing, bad lot that \ they were. There have been painters and paperers, and all sorts of doings there, all 1 the summer, and the banker is coming to ; take possession now, they say. I bet any- ] thing he's coming to-night." < " I dare say it will be a good change for all the poor people about Nettlehurst, es- , pecially if his wife is nice." ( "He has no wife, I believe, another old < bachelor, like Mr. Langley. But he's go- ( ing to give a ball, I heard some people say- ] ing, by way of house-warming, so I suppose i he must have some sort of womankind be- ( longing to him to do the honours." ] "Oh how I should like k to go !" cried i Mary, eagerly. 1 , " Much chance of that ! Do you sup- , pose he'll ever hear of your existence? Why, Nettlehurst isn't even in our parish, j you know ; it's right over the hill ; and we 1 don't know this man, nor anything about ] him, except that he's first cousin to old ] Langley, — and beastly rich," concluded the ! boy, giving a vicious cut to Farmer Murch's < steady old Dobbin. " But how delicious it would be ! Fancy • seeing Cilia at a ball ! She would be the ; prettiest girl there, and how I should enjoy < watching her, and hearing what people > said !" "My dear, you don't suppose any of m j could ever go to a ball ? Why a fly from Brigham would cost fifteen shillings, let < alone clothes and gloves and things. Balls are not much in our line, nor anything else ■ worth having." \ The tone was even more desponding than _ the words, and Mary leaned forward to look ; into his face, which he immediately turned, so that the light of the gig lamps should ] not fall on it. " What is it, dear old boy ?" "Oh! nothing — only the old story," j said the lad in the same tone. " I'm sure ] you've heard enough of it, Polly, in my let- \ ters ; you must be sick of the subject." ' And he gave a sort of a laugh. j "The army?" ] " I never can fancy auy thing else, never ; ; and I know my father wouldn't mind, > though it isn't much in his line. And once jin it I'd make my pay do, and never ask i him for a farthing. I'd get to India if I ; could. But of course it can't be — I know that well enough — hut it is hard lines." "It is indeed. Couldn't we save ?" "Save, out of two hundred and fifty pounds a year, and with seven mouths to i feed! Do you suppose I'd ask such a thing ? With mother wearing herself out, as it is, and poor Cilia who ought to be having port wine and good things all day long, they say, and the little ones to be looked after too ! No, I'm not such a selfish beast as that ; I bave never told anybody but you. But somehow," he said, turning to her with a brighter face, " one can't help telling you everything, old Polly." " What does papa mean you to do ?" " Hasn't mother told you ? I couldn't bear to write about it, but I dare say it'll be all right when I'm used to the idea. Mr. Bagshawe has offered me a place in his office under old Hobbs. Forty pounds a year, to begin with, arid a rise if I behave niyselfi'! . ,'.'< „, „; "s_i/ attorney's clerk !" oried M^ry, her

colour rising. " Oh ! Harry, I hope not s J" : There was a long pause. Mary broke it by saying with renewed cheerfulness ; " After all, Harry dear, God knows best, if we could only think so. You'll be a good man, and a gentleman too, whatever you • are. I know that." ' Harry muttered something, and then , broke out with : " The injustice of the ■ thing is what makes me frantic. To see • that fellow Langley, for instance, throwing i away sums on his horses and carriages, and '< balls and stuff, when a quarter of the money would set us all up for life. And that old twaddle, Lowther, pocketing his nine hundred pounds a year for the living, and just giving my father two hundred pounds for doing all his work. I've no patience." " Has Dr. Lowther been heard of lately ?" said Mary, trying to lead away from the subject. " Sent my father a cheque, as usual, for the almshouse dinner on Christmas Day, and the school feast •■ml all that, and hoped we would accept all th_ c. tnpliments of the season, stupid old bloke." Mary laughed irreverently at her brother's mention of the rector, who, though nominally resident, yet suffering from a variety of nervous complaints, really spent almost one half of the year at Ventnor and the other at Malvern ; and even when at Farley, seldom emerged from his comfortable rectory. " But mama said that Dr. Lowther was really much worse," she remarked. Harry shrugged his shoulders and laughed, and at that moment, as they reached the top of a long hill, Mary uttered a joyful exclamation as the lights of Farley twinkled out in the broad green valley below. The descent was rapid, and in about a quarter of an hour they passed over a picturesque old-fashioned bridge, and entered the straggling, irregular village street. The " Blue Anchor " stood with hospitable open door ; then came the blacksmith's open shed, casting its red warmth and light out into the chilly evening ; further on, the village i shop, the centre of gossip and business in i Farley. Cottages stood on either side of : the road, some detached, some in blocks of ; two or three together. Harry drew rein at ; last before a little garden gate leading to a white -washed cottage not much above the ■ labourers'' dwellings by which it was sur- i rounded ; but it was home ; the home of i Mary's heart; i In a moment, she was at tbe open door i — in the little passage — in the small square i parlour — fond arms were around her, eager t hands were freeing her from her cloak and 1 shawl, all the dear voices were talking at once, and nobody listening to anybody! : , And when the first buzz of welcome sub- , sided, it was more delightful still : when Mary had taken off her bonnet in the little room which she shared with Cilia, and had , come down again to the sitting-room, and < when Harry had returned from putting up ( the gig, and when Mr. Mackworth had ] come in from his parish work, and had . added his affectionate greeting to that of : the rest, then Mary gaily insisted t on resuming old habits and perform- ] ing all her old vhome duties —to , try, as she said, to fancy that she , had never been away. She lighted the \ candles, trimmed the fire, helped to spread ( the supper table, and afterwards to clear it , away, and finally sat down, between her \ father and mother, and with Cilia," and , Harry, and the two younger boys, close by, _ ancl talked and listened, enjoying the full j tide of home talk. , The first interruption came when her < boxes came, which was not until late, j Dobson's progress, never rapid, having j been further delayed by the number of \ phristmus hampers he had had to deliver. j Mr. Mackworth said that Laurry and i Jack — two sturdy brown creatures, ten and . eight years old — had better help Harry to carry up the boxes, and that, as it was nine ' o'clock, they need not return : but Mary - looked so piteous and imploring, and so • earnestly begged that one box might be < opened then and there, and that the boys ( might stay to help, that he gave way with a smile, and settled himself in his arm-chair y to see what the box contained. The first • things to emerge were the various small f pieces of finery which Mary had bought for , her sister ; nothing very costly, but dainty ( trifles which Cilia was known to prize : a ' pair of kid gloves, a collar and cuffs of the T latest fashion, a few bright ribbons, and such like feminilities, at sight of which the . slight, pale, golden-haired girl coloured with pleasure, and Mary's eyes sparkled with pride and love. Then came Mrs. Mackworth's gift, the warm serviceable shawl which Mary hung over her mother's shoulders, and then drew back, admiringly, . watching the long, soft folds which hung ( gracefully on the still elegant figure. ". " You look so nice, mother dear," she said, kissing the worn face which had once j been as lovely as Cilia's : " doesn't she now, ( papa ? And isn't the shawl just like her- \ self — so nice, and soft, and grey. I chose it out of the heap directly." There was a , laugh at this : and Mrs. Mackworth re- , turned her daughter's kiss, as she assured her that her rheumatic shoulders would be thanking her all the winter through. Laurry nnd Jack were made happy with a ball and a peg-top ; and Harry with much . real satisfaction took possession of the knit- \ ted stockings in which Mary excelled. Then, rather timidly, for all his children stood in some awe of the curate, she laid her gift upon her father's knee. Mr. Mackworth put on his spectacles, and studied the title. "My dear! This book has been my s roc's egg ever since it came out. But 1 Mary, my dear, this is a costly gift. Have 5 you found Fortunatus's purse ?" i " I'll tell you exactly how it was, papa." £ And she related the history of her long vain < quest, and of the journey to Grueby's, and 1 of the little adventure wbich had there be- ] fallen her. Everybody grew rather excited ; * and the boys began to make a series of not i too brilliant jokes about the chivalrous un- i known. It was plain, Harry averred, that ) he had fallen in love at first sight. Was 1 Mary sure that he had not hung on behind to < find out her address ? Cilia joined in with 1 small witticisms, but ended by a little laugh ! and toss peculiar to herself, and the remark : i " But it's of no use, Harry ! This dear old . Goody won't make a heroine of romance ! Not in your line, is it, Polly ?" "Ah! if it had been you now, Cilia!" : cried Mary, laughing. The curate, awaking from the study of : his new possession, and becoming alive to the fact that his children, were talking nonsense, ordered the little boys off to bed, and suggested that Mary's box might as well be removed. ■

As she stooged tb close &e!li^|she|4xclaimed, "Here :is this .mysterious brownpaper parcel left at the bottom, arid ifc had ' not any of your things in it, Cilia, after all. What can it be ?" She took it up, and was about to open it, when tbe sound of little shrill voices floated in on the frosty air, and the boys came tumbling down in extraordinary deshabille, to beg that they might stay up to hear the school-children singing Christmas carols. There was a rush to doors and windows, and Mary threw the parcel upon the table, and thought of it no more. V That was a delightful evening; and. the midnight chat with Cilia was delightful too. But when Mary had insisted on the weary, eager girl ceasing her chatter and going to sleep, she herself lay awake for long hours, and her thoughts were not pleasant companions. Home was moro dear, home faces were more beloved than ever ; but coming to it all with a fresh eye and a matured mind, she saw, as she had never seen before, how the whole family was groaning under the heavy pressure of poverty. " But that, at all events, I'll see to," thought she ; "while I am at home Cilia and the dear mother shall always have something that they can eat: but how will it be when lam gone ? Well ! sufficient to the day is the evil thereof, and I have six whole weeks to spend at home." And comforted by this thought, Mary Mackworth slept soundly on this first night of her return.