The Brown-Paper Parcel

Chapter I

A very woman: one in whom The spring-time of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears.

Lowell.

"Miss Mackworth, Miss Mackworth!"

"Miss Mackworth, do look what we've got."

With a shout, a rush, and a bang, four children, loaded with packages, stormed into the school-room of a certain house in Onslow-square, London, eager to exhibit their holiday purchases to their young governess.

Miss Mackworth was seated on the floor in the cheerful fire-light, and close beside her crouched three little mortals, four-year-old twin girls, and a fat toddling baby boy, all watching with wide-open eyes and suspended breath, while her steady fingers built up, brick on brick, a splendid tower nearly as high as the mantel-piece.

"O Miss Mackworth!" cried Archie, a rough-headed boy of eight, "it has been so jolly. First we went to Bond Street, and then to the German Fair, and then to the Bazaar—and only look here!"

"Miss Mackworth, please look at our dolls," petitioned twin girls of six.

"Oh! stuff about your stupid dolls! What does Miss Mackworth care for such girls' trash. Miss Mackworth, here's a cross bow! Won't I make the deer at Granny's look out sharp!"

"Now Archie, Archie," interposed Carrie, a demure damsel of ten, rather oppressed by the weight of her eldership, "do put the things down properly, and then Miss Mackworth can see them. Dear! are the nursery children here?" as baby made a sudden onslaught on the tower of bricks, and tumbled it down with a great crash.

"Yes," said Mary Mackworth. "Nurse and Harriet are busy packing, and the poor little things seemed so dreadfully in the way that I asked leave to have them down here. They have been very good."

"I'm glad they have been good," said Carrie, patronisingly: "now Archie, don't you go cutting that string. You'll be teazing us all for string to-morrow, you know you will."

"Bother to-morrow! I shall be at Littlemore, and Granny 'll give me heaps of string. I say! Miss Mackworth2"

Then arose the tumult afresh, and Miss Mackworth, forbearing to hush where hushing was vain, gave full and free attention to every article exhibited; admired and criticised, praised the serviceable presents chosen by Carrie for the almshouse women and servants at Littlemore, and finally promised to cut out and place some garments for endless dolls bought for grandmama's school-tree. The hubbub did not subside until the arrival of the nursemaid in quest of the little ones reminded the school-room party that they must make haste to prepare for tea.

In three hours' time the little flock were all in bed, and Miss Mackworth sate, in sole possession of the school-room, busily engaged in arranging the promised dolls' clothes.

Presently, Mrs. Halroyd came in: a pretty, faded woman, still quite young, but with the matronly figure and somewhat worn countenance which generally distinguish the mother of a "large small family."

"How good-natured of you, Miss Mackworth," she said, glancing at the governess's work: "you spoil those little people!" And then, as she laid an envelope on the table, she said nervously, colouring and hesitating, "I think, you will find that quite right: and I will let you know the day of our return—probably not before the 20th of January—my mother-in-law wishes for a long visit this year."

"Thank you very much."

"You don't go to your uncle's this time, I think?"

"Oh, no!" and the bright dark colouring deepened, and the brown eyes danced, but half tearfully: "I am going home! to Farley-in-the-Fields."

"Ah! yes," said Mrs. Halroyd, her languid interest roused by the young governess's evident delight. "You will like that. I think you have spent all your holidays till now at Clapham, have you not?"

"Yes: it was too expensive to go all the way home."

"It must be a long journey to Farley."

"Yes: I have to start at eight in the morning, and I get to Brigham, our nearest town, at five."

"Dear me! that is a long time to be in the train, and in this cold weather too, eight—nine hours!"

"It is the cheapest train: I don't mind its being slow," Mary said, simply: "my brother will meet me at Brigham."

"Well, good-night," said Mrs. Halroyd, rising: "not good-by,—for I shall see you to-morrow. You don't leave town till the next day, I think?"

"If I may stay," said Mary, "I should like to do a little shopping before I go."

"Certainly: I hope the servants will take good care of you." And Mrs. Halroyd departed, congratulating herself on having got over her quarterly penance of paying Miss Mackworth's salary: a thing to which she never could get accustomed. She always fancied that it must be as painful to the governess as to herself; wherein she was wholly mistaken, for it appeared to Mary the most natural and desirable arrangement in the world that she should work hard and be paid for doing so. Her first act was to draw out the three crisp, rustling five-pound notes—her quarter's salary—and actually waltz round once or twice in a burst of childish happiness. Then she went to her desk, and drew out two more five-pound notes, saved from the last quarter at the cost of who knows what weary hours of ceaseless stitchery; what private washings, and starchings of sleeves and laces; what vigorous self-denial in the matter of ribbons and dresses, things which no one appreciated more thoroughly than Mary Mackworth.

"How much," she deliberated, "may I fairly spend in presents? How much must I keep for those terrible Christmas bills at home? The journey will cost—let me see—I will go third class instead of second—that will save something. And one thing I may let myself get:—a winter shawl for the dear mother—that is useful—that she really wants. Harry must take the stockings I have knitted him for a present—and anything will please the little boys. But oh! I should like to get papa that book about the Jewish church that he said would be so useful in his lectures on the Old Testament, and I must keep a little money to buy some trifle for Cilla: something dainty and pretty, like her dear bonny self!"

Next morning the whole Halroyd family were off soon after breakfast to spend Christmas with Colonel Halroyd's mother at her place in Surrey. As soon as the two cabs and the carriage had disappeared, and Miss Mackworth could cease smiling and kissing her hand to the little nodding, grinning faces at the window, she turned back into the house, and raced nimbly up-stairs, rejoicing that she might run up two steps at a time without setting a bad example, put on her cloak and bonnet, looped up her dress, provided herself with a thick cotton umbrella, and set forth on her round of shopping. She had settled with her conscience the exact sum which she might allow herself to spend in presents: and as is usually the case, that sum did not go as far as she had expected. As she went to distant shops, and performed all her errands on foot, it took a long time, and the short daylight was almost gone, when, having bought a serviceable shawl for her mother, some toys for the children, and a few cheap prettinesses for her sister, she looked with dismay at the money in her purse, now considerably dwindled.

"Oh dear! shall I ever be able to get that Jewish book for papa?" she thought: and then, wrapping herself in her cloak, for the afternoon was very bleak and raw, with a biting wind, she betook herself to a bookseller's in Oxford-street. The man supplied all Mrs. Halroyd's school-room books, and knew Miss Mackworth well. He saw and pitied her look of blank disappointment when the work proved to be quite beyond her means, and good-naturedly made a suggestion.

"I'll tell you where you might possibly get it for your price, ma'am. They often sell off their surplus copies at Grueby's, and you might have a chance there."

"Oh! thank you," said Miss Mackworth, heartily; and, quite undismayed at the increasing cold and thickening darkness, she hailed a passing omnibus, and soon found herself at her new destination. Rather timidly, for the place was new to her, she approached the counter, and, to her great joy, found what she wanted at a more moderate price than she had dared to hope. She could not repress an exclamation of pleasure, and then coloured, feeling that her earnest "Oh! that is nice!" low-toned though it was, had attracted the attention of a gentleman who was standing by, waiting for a box of books. The box made its appearance just as Mary had laid down her money, and taken possession of her book, and he politely held open the door for her. A small, dirty snow was falling thickly: the pavements were already wet, for it thawed as it fell; and the darkness seemed to have come on suddenly, perhaps from contrast with the bright gaslight inside. Mary stood still for a moment bewildered; then tried, in the failing light, to hail an omnibus; but the man took no notice of her signal, and she perceived that his vehicle was over-loaded already. It was disagreeable to find herself belated so far from home, especially as she was very tired and laden with small parcels which were troublesome to carry; but Mary was always more disposed to make light of misadventures than to turn them into heavy grievances, so she prepared to walk. As she put up her umbrella, a voice close to her said, "I beg your pardon. Have you no carriage here? no cab?"

"No," she answered frankly, looking straight up into the speaker's face, as her custom was. She then perceived that the speaker was the gentleman whom she had seen before, and moreover that his face was young and pleasant,—"but it doesn't matter—I am a good walker."

"But it is coming on to snow harder. I have a cab waiting here. Will you allow me to put you into it?"

"Oh! no! you are very kind, but indeed I would rather walk; I think it is going to clear." Herewith, as if to contradict her, came a gust of wind and sleet which nearly knocked her over. The stranger laughed. Mary could not help following his example, and next moment found that he was handing her into a Hansom cab. She made one more horrified protest.

"Oh! no, I can't think of it. What will you do! With that box of books too2"

"I will wait here, and send for another cab; it is no inconvenience to me, I assure you. Where shall I tell him to drive?"

A rapid calculation passed through Mary's mind. "How far can I go for a shilling?"

"To the further end of Piccadilly, if you please," she said, and it struck her that there was a little look of vexation, of disappointment even, on the face of her kind friend, as he bowed and raised his hat, as respectfully as if the little parcel-laden woman in her old plaid cloak had been a royal princess.

"Oh! dear, I know he'll catch cold, and then it'll be all my fault!" was Mary's first reflection; "one thing is, I shall never know it, if he does. If only I could have dared to ask him to get in too! When I first came from home I really think I should have done so—but I know better now. Well! this is comfortable certainly; much better than that stuffy omnibus. And how delightful to have got my book!"

And she went off into a vision of the pleasure which her gift would bring to the hard-working, underpaid curate, whose cultivated mind and scholarly tastes were always suffering a famine, as his daughter well knew.

In a very short time she had reached the house, and was seated by the snug fire in the school-room, wrapped in a warm shawl while her dress was drying, and thoroughly enjoying the mutton chops and tea brought to her by Susan, the little school-room maid, who regarded her as the first of human beings.

"You must not forget all your learning, Susan, while I am away," said she; "I have set you ever so many copies, and I think now you can manage to write to me by yourself, can't you? And ah! Susan, my canary-bird, and my poor geraniums—I trust them all to you."

Susan promised the utmost attention, while she stowed away package after package in Miss Mackworth's trunk, with more zeal than dexterity, as Mary soon perceived.

"Oh, take care!" she cried, springing up to the defence of Cilla's prettinesses: then checking herself, as Susan looked blank and vaguely self-reproachful, "thank you, that is very nice,—but I can finish packing myself now, if you will hand me the things. There were a few moments of busy silence. "Now, Susan, I want something small and soft, just to fill up this corner. Is there anything that will do?"

"Yes, miss," responded Susan; "here's a brown-paper parcel as will just fit in," and she handed to Mary a small parcel carefully tied with pack-thread and further secured with sealing-wax.

"What can this be?" exclaimed Mary; "how carefully the shop-people have done it up. Are you sure it is one of my things, Susan?"

Twas here on the sofy, miss, along with the rest."

"Oh! then, it must be all right; Cilla's gloves, I suppose," she said, fingering it, and finding its contents soft and yielding; "anyhow, it will just do to fill up my corner. Now, Susan, please come, and help me with the cover of my box. It looks as if it didn't mean to shut. That's it! Beautifully shut! And now for the direction."

With a thrill of satisfaction which made it hard to keep her pen steady, she wrote in her bold clear hand the well-known and dearly loved address, of Farley-in-the-Fields, Brigham.

Chapter II

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 the 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, towers, and 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 as ever."

"Yes; but youre 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 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, at five-fifty."

"Mr. Langley who has the Bank of Brigham? Why I thought he was dead?"

"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 cousin, who was as rich as Crœsus 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 Nettlehurst! Then the poor old 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 the summer, and the banker is coming to take possession now, they say. I bet anything he's coming to-night."

"I dare say it will be a good change for all the poor people about Nettlehurst, especially if his wife is nice."

"He has no wife, I believe, another old bachelor, like Mr. Langley. But he's going to give a ball, I heard some people saying, by way of house-warming, so I suppose he must have some sort of womankind belonging to him to do the honours."

"Oh how I should like to go!" cried Mary, eagerly.

"Much chance of that! Do you suppose he'll ever hear of your existence? Why, Nettlehurst isn't even in our parish, you know; it's right over the hill; and we 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 Cilla 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 us 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," said the lad in the same tone. "I'm sure you've heard enough of it, Polly, in my letters; you must be sick of the subject." And he gave a sort of laugh.

"The army?"

"I never can fancy anything else, never; and I know my father wouldn't mind, though it isn't much in his line. And once in it I'd make my pay do, and never ask him for a farthing. I'd get to India if I could. But of course it can't be—I know that well enough—but 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 feed! Do you suppose I'd ask such a thing? With mother wearing herself out, as it is, and poor Cilla who ought to be having port wine and good things all day long, they say, mid the little ones to be looked after too! No, I'm not such a selfish beast as that; I have 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, and a rise if I behave myself."

"An attorney's clerk!" cried Mary, her colour rising. "Oh! Harry, I hope not!"

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 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 and all that, and hoped we would accept all the compliments 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 mamma 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 shop, the centre of gossip and business in 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 surrounded; but it was home; the home of Mary's heart.

In a moment, she was at the open door—in the little passage—in the small square parlour—fond arms were round her, eager hands were freeing her from her cloak and shawl, all the dear voices were talking at once, and nobody listening to anybody! And when the first buzz of welcome subsided, it was more delightful still: when Mary had taken off her bonnet in the little room which she shared with Cilla, 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 on resuming old habits and performing all her old home 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 Cilla, and Harry, and the two younger boys, close by, and talked and listened, enjoying the full tide of home talk.

The first interruption came when her boxes came, which was not until late, Dobson's progress, never rapid, having been further delayed by the number of Christmas hampers he had had to deliver.

Mr. Mackworth said that Laurry and 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 to see what the box contained. The first things to emerge were the various small pieces of finery which Mary had bought for her sister; nothing very costly, but dainty trifles which Cilla was known to prize: a pair of kid gloves, a collar and cuffs of the 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 been as lovely as Cilla's: "doesn't she now, papa? And isn't the shawl just like herself—so nice, and soft, and grey. I chose it out of the heap directly." There was a laugh at this: and Mrs. Mackworth returned her daughter's kiss, as she assured her that her rheumatic shoulders would be thanking her all the winter through.

Laurry and Jack were made happy with a ball and a peg-top: and Harry with much real satisfaction took possession of the knitted 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 roc's egg ever since it came out. But Mary, my dear, this is a costly gift. Have you found Fortunatus's purse?"

"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 of the little adventure which had there befallen her. Everybody grew rather excited; and the boys began to make a series of not too brilliant jokes about the chivalrous unknown. It was plain, Harry averred, that he had fallen in love at first sight. Was Mary sure that he had not hung on behind to find out her address? Cilla joined in with small witticisms, but ended by a little laugh and toss peculiar to herself, and the remark: "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, Cilla!" 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 stooped to close the lid, she exclaimed, "Here is this mysterious brown-paper parcel left at the bottom, and it had not any of your things in it. Cilla, after all. What can it be?"

She took it up, and was about to open it, when the 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.

That was a delightful evening; and the midnight chat with Cilla 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 more 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 Cilla and the dear mother shall always have something that they can eat: but how will it be when I am 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.

Chapter III

Troubles and cares had vanished like a dream of the night, when Mary awoke before dawn, to hear her own dear village bells pealing out their welcome to Christmas Eve, and awoke to the glad consciousness that she was really at home. "Rejoice in the Lord daily, and again I say rejoice," was the text that rose in her mind, setting itself to the tune of those joy-bells all the time she was dressing, with noiseless movements not to disturb the sleeping Cilla. Her morning prayer over, she stole downstairs, and betook herself to the kitchen, where the one sleepy little school-girl who formed the whole of the domestic staff was lighting the fire. When Mr. Mackworth came down, it was to hear his daughter's happy voice singing carols, as she bent all her energies to the arrangement of as tempting a breakfast as the simple materials were capable of making. Mrs. Mackworth, resting in the happy assurance that "her eldest" was now at home to see to everything, was able to enjoy an extra hour of well-earned rest. When Cilla appeared, shivering and miserable, long after every one else had begun breakfast, even her piteous little face brightened at sight of the daintily spread breakfast table and the good fire; and she condescended to express approval of the crisp toast which Mary had prepared for her. It never occurred to any one, apparently, that her appetite might have been better, and her hands and feet less frozen, if she likewise had been bestirring herself to help in the thousand and one household tasks which there were so few to perform. Mary would have been the last to entertain so sacrilegious and disloyal an idea; for, ever since she was herself a sturdy brown child of six, and Cilla a delicate golden-haired fairy of three, she had learnt to consider that hers was the useful, and her sister's the ornamental, department in life—a theory which the little lady herself had thoroughly adopted. It was as a matter of course that she sank after breakfast into the solitary arm-chair, with her feet on the fender, looking all that was graceful and pretty (in spite of rather untidy hair, and clothes which would have been the better for a little more brushing and mending) while her mother betook herself to her eternal mending of hose and clothes, and Mary flitted about, here, there, and everywhere, in her oldest dress, neat through all its shabbiness, rapidly and quietly establishing order and comfort, wherever she went.