Mrs Marchell's Bound Girl.

Otago Witness, Issue 1474, 14 February 1880, Page 21

Mrs Marchell's Bound Girl.

BY HELEN FOREST GRAVES.

" I think I'll take that one," said Mrs Marchell, pointing with the end of her finger in one particular direction. It was quite a little life-picture — the row of eager-eyed girls, standing in the stuffy little reception-roam of the orphan asylum at Bloomington, each one clad in her dingy grey stuff gown, with a green gingham bibapron, and bair out close to her head — a style of coiffure which gave an undue predominance to the ears, and would have made the divine Venus di Milo herself look like a female pickpocket. Just behind them stood the matron, a fat old woman, with a crumpled white cap, and three distinot layers of chin; and a hungry dog, peeping in at the half-open door, completed the tableau.

Deborah Dove, a stumpy girl of thirteen, with empurpled fingers and a blunt nose, sighed deeply; Sarah Jackson's freckled countenance fell. The others looked Btolidly about them, indifferent as to Mrs Marchell'B preference or neglect j and a little grey-eyed lassie at the end of the line, who had been balancing herself uneasily on one foot, like a crane, started forward with a half-stifled cry of delight. " Phcebe Lockett ! " cried the matron.

" Phcebe Lookett, if that's her name," said Mrs Marohell, decidedly. " Why, she's the smallest of the lot," said the matron. " She'll grow," said Mrs Marchell. " And the ugliest ! " said the matron. " ' Handsome is that handsome does,' " returned Mrs Marchel!, didactically. " Put up her tbin&g, please, Mrs Jenks, and let the lady directresses know that I have decided."

As Phosbe Lockett rode away in the open farm-waggon, sitting beside Mrs MarchelPs ample figure, the farmer's wife looked down, and caught the clear eyes looking timidly up into herß, like wells of grey water. " Come," said Mrs MarchelJ, brusquely, " what are you thinking about ? " " Please, ma'am," said Pbccbe, " I was wondering why on earth you chose me, when Caroline Purple was bo much prettier, and Deborah Dove a great deal taller and stronger."

" Humph ! " said Mrs Marohell. " I chose you because I liked your looks. You're little, but you're wiry; you aren't

as pretty as some of those simpering girls, but you've an honest look in your face. That's why I chose you." " Thank you, ma'am," said Phcebe, simply. And she rejoiced fervently in her innooent little heart, in that she had escaped from the iron rule, scanty fare, and distasteful drudgery of the Bloomington Orphan Asylum at last.

Mr Marohell, a Btout, good-humoured farmer, with a shining bald head and a pair of iron-grey English Bide-whiskers, weloomed the little girl with a kindly pat on the head, and an admonition to "be sure and do her duty, and it would always be done by her."

And Charley Marohell, the only son, and heir of the red brick farm-house, with its acres of golden wheat and emerald stretches of pasture land, nioknamed her " Miss Midget " on the spot. " Because you are such a stunted little affair," said he. Phcebe Lockett had not been " bound girl " at the Marohell farm-house for more than a few months, when one day Mrs Marchell oame into the great airy "keepingroom," with a perturbed expression on her countenance.

" I thought I heard a fiddle somewhere," said she.

" just what yon did hear," said Charley, " It's Phcebe, up in the garret." " Phcebe ! " ejaoulated Mrs Marohell. " And where on earth did she get a fiddle?"

" Borrowed it from old Mr Fiadley," said Charley, laughing. " You never saw a creature so bewitched after a fiddle as she

" Nonsense !" said Mrs Marchell, sharply. " What business has a bound girl with a fiddle, or with any sort of musio, for that matter?"

" It's no harm, wife— no harm," said the farmer, indulgently. " But it is harm," said Mrs Marohell. " And I mean to put a stop to it."

And Phcebe Lookett, seated Turk-fashion on the floor of the old garret, with a tattered shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and the red, level light of the winter sunset weaving itself around her short, auburn curls, was interrupted in her musical reveries by the abrupt entrance of Mrs Marchell.

" Give me that fiddle ! " said Mra Marchell.

"Ma'am?" said Phcebe, dropping the bow, in her amazement.

" It's a silly waste of time," said Mrs Marchell, " besides being sinful ! "

" But," pleaded Phcebe, " I've done all my work ! " " No matter whether you have or not," said Mrs Marchell. " There's always your patohwork to do, and ( Blair's Sermons ' to read, besides the weekly paper. Give me that fiddle, I say I" Poor Phcebe gave it up, trying hard to choke down the tears and sobs.

Old Moses Findley, the village violinist, who officiated at dances, weddings, and merry-makings in general, and filled up the interstices of his time with the making and mending of shoes, looked fairly astounded when Mrs Marchell bounced into his seven-by-nine shop, and flung the mubical instrument on the work-bench.

"Eh?" said old Moses, adjusting his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. " There's your old fiddle ! " said Mrs Marchell ; " and I wish, after this, you'd be kind enough to keep it at home, and not go putting nonsense into my bound girl's head!"

" But it ain't nonsense," said old Moses. " She's got a capital idea of music, Phoebe has j and—" " Nonsense ! " said Mrs Marchell. 11 And a very decent voice, if only it was cultivated."

" Pshaw ! " oried Mrs Marchell ; and she flounced out of the shop in a rage.

But if Mrs Marchell was the child's temporal mistress, music was her spiritual ene. Phoebe Lookett went quietly about her work in the years that followed; but she could not forget the divine strains which the well-rosined bow had drawn out of the antique violin, in the red glow of the winter sunset, that January afternoon, in the garret. Mrs Marchell had done up her front hair in papers, assumed her grey flannel dressinggown, and was neatly ready for bed one night, when, ohanoing to look out of the north kitchen window, she saw, or thought she saw, the glimmer of a light in the top window of the barn.

" I can't have been mistaken," said Mrs Marchell ; "it ain't the time o' year for fireflies, and will o'-the-wisps don't go dancing and twinkling round our barns. It's tramps —that's what it is."

"Fiddlesticks!" said Mr Marchell, sleepily, from the exact centre of a downy feather pillow. " There was two men asked for a drink of milk at the buttery-door just about dusk," added the lady, "and I didn't much like their looks at the time."

" It's all right, I dare say," yawned Mr Marchell.

" Well," cried the farmeress, energetically, if you won't go to look into it, I will."

And, Ilingiag her husband's shaggy overcoat around her, and taking the lantern in one hand, sh9 started for the barn.

She was right. There was a dim tallowcandle burning in the barn chamber, and by its flickering light Phoebe Lockett was busy practising on the violin, from some sheets of torn and well-thumbed muaio.

She started up with a cry, at the apparition of Mrs Marchell in the doorway — an avenging spectre, with a shaggy Bver«coat and a dark lantern.

" Ungrateful girl ! " tragically cried out Mrs Mwchell, " how dared you to disobey me?"

41 1 moaut no harm," faltered poor Phoebe. " I hired the violin from the village musicstore, with the dollar Mr Marchell gave me for finding his gold spectacles, and Mrs Musard gave me the music ; and J came out out here of a night, so that the noise shoixldn't disturb you."

"Phoebe," said Mra Marchell, "what a goose you are ! Why don't you stick to your needle, and your rolling- pin, and your scrubbing-brush, as other girls do ? How do

you ever expect to find bread in the strings of a fiddle?"

Phcebe hung down her head, «nd said nothing in reply. " We may as well break the charm at once," said Mrs Marchell. " I'll take you to the conoert at Bloomington to morrow night. They tell me there's to be a girl* violinist there, as plays like playing j and if that don't cure you of your silly ambition, I don't know what will,"

Phcebe Lookett crimsoned to tho very roots of her hair.

" I— l can't go !" Bald she. " That ig, not with you. I promised Mrs Musard to go to her house ; but perhaps he will take me. The Musards are all going to the conoert."

11 It don't matter how you go," said Mra Marohell, "nor with whom, bo long as you see real exoellenoe, and learn the folly of your silly aspirations." " But," faltered Phoebe, "why shonldn'fc I be a good player some time, too ?" " Why shouldn't the sky fall, and we all oatoh larks ? " contemptuously retorted Mrs Marchell. "As for you, the best thing yon can do is to go into the house and go to bed. as fast as possible." And, crestf alien, Phcebe obeyed. Mrs Marohell dressed herself in her best black silk, to go to the Bloomington conoert, the next evening. " For I suppose it will be something very fine," said she. "Where's my eye-glasses, Charley? I must take them along, if I expect to see anything, for I do deolare I'm getting blinder every day." " I expect, mother," Charley had answered, with a little laugh, "you'll see a lot of things to surprise you." The concert had proved sn unusually great attraction in the neighbourhood, and the hall was crowded when the Marohell party ar« rived, bo that Mra Marchell was forced to be content with a camp-stool at the very back of the room.

" Dear, dear ! how provoking this is t " said the old lady. " And Charley didn't find the eve-glasses, after all. I shan't see a thing!" , " Bub yon can hear," said Charley. " Hush-sh'Sh ! " said his mother. " Isn't that the violinist — a pretty, light-corn* plexioned girl, in white, with roses in. her hair ? Now, Ido hope that Phcebe Lockett is here to see this ! "

The violinist was greeted with shouts of applause, which died away into silence as the delicious music rose upon the air, £ sating upwards like the halos we see in ancient pictures. It was a short capriccio, and, when it ended, Mrs Marohell was in tears.

" I never thought before that I , oared much for musio," said she to Charley. "But such music as that ! Do you know, Charley, it seemed to me exactly as if my little baby, that died twenty yeara ago, was whispering in my ear ! Oh !if Phoebo could only hear this!"

The female violinist was certainly the feature of the evening. And at the close of the conoert she was again and again oalled before the curtain to receive the rapturous plaudits of the Bloomington public, " Where's Phcebe ? " said Mra Marchell, standing on one of the benches, to look around her. " Has anyone seen our Pho»be here?"

" I have," said Charley, drily. " Shall I take you to her?— here, in tho little room adjoining the stage." " But what is she doing here ?" said Mrs Marohell, perplexedly. " Counting her bouquets, I suppose," Charley said, with the same odd little laugh.

Aud, without further ceremony, Mrs Mar* cheil was ushered into the presence of the female violinist herself, all in wbite, with deep red roses glowing in her hair, and cheeks aflame with happy triumph. " Phoebe ! " ejaoulated Mrs Marchell, fairly out of breath with astonishment. " This is never— you ? " Phcebe flew into Mrs Marchell's arms. "Yes, dear, dear friend," she cried, "it is I!"

"Why didn't you tell me?" said the farmer's wife, reproaohfully. " Because I was so afraid that my firßfc appearance would be a failure," confessed Phoebe.

" I suppoae you will never come baok to the farm-houae agwn ? " sighed Mrs Marchell.

" Yes, I shall ! " cried Phcebe. " I shall be your own Phoebe still, if you'll only let me practice in the garret, once in 'awhile !"

" You shall practloe all over the house ! " cried Mrs Marohell.

"Didn't I tell you, mother," said tri. umphant Charley, "that you'd see some* thing to surprise you. But you'll ba still more surprised when—"

" Charley, don't ! " oried out Phabe, growing rosier than ever. " You needn't," said Mrs Marohell, look* ing brightly from one to the other. " I can guess."

"She's such a little darling, mother!" said the young man. And Phoebe threw both her arms around the elder woman's neck, and whispered, softly : "Mother!"