A NEW PLAN.
The summer was drawing to a close, and with it Mary's school. She had
succeeded in giving satisfaction to the entire district with the
exception of Mrs. Bradley, who "didn't know why Tim should be licked
and thrashed round just because his folks wasn't wuth quite so much as
some others," this being, in her estimation, the only reason why the
notorious Timothy was never much beloved by his teachers. Mr Knight,
with whom Mary was a great favorite, offered her the school for the
coming winter, but she had decided upon attending school herself, and
after modestly declining his offer, told him of her intention.
"But where's the money coming from?" said he.
Mary laughingly asked him how many bags of shoes he supposed she had
stitched during the last two years.
"More'n two hundred, I'll bet," said he.
"Not quite as many as that," answered Mary; "but still I have managed
to earn my clothes, and thirty dollars besides; and this, together
with my school wages, will pay for one term, and part of another."
"Well, go ahead," returned Mr. Knight. "I'd help you if I could. Go
ahead, and who knows but you'll one day be the President's wife."
Like the majority of New England farmers, Mr Knight was far from
being wealthy. From sunrise until sundown he worked upon the old
homestead where his father had dwelt. Spring after spring, he ploughed
and planted the sandy soil. Autumn after autumn he gathered in the
slender harvest, and still said he would not exchange his home among
the hills for all the broad acres of his brother, who at the far West,
counted his dollars by the thousands. He would gladly have helped
Mary, but around his fireside were six children dependent upon him for
food, clothing, and education, and he could only wish his young friend
success in whatever she undertook.
When Widow Perkins heard that Mary was going away to school, she
forgot to put any yeast in the bread which she was making, and bidding
Sally Ann "watch it until it riz," she posted off to Mrs. Mason's to
inquire the particulars, reckoning up as she went along how much
fourteen weeks' wages would come to at nine shillings (a dollar and a
half New England currency) per week.
"'Tain't no great," said she, as simultaneously with her arrival at
Mrs. Mason's door, she arrived at the sum of twenty-one dollars.
"'Tain't no great, and I wouldn't wonder if Miss Mason fixed over some
of her old gowns for her."
But with all her quizzing, and "pumping," as Judith called it, she was
unable to ascertain any thing of importance, and mentally styling Mrs.
Mason, Mary, Judith and all, "great gumpheads," she returned home, and
relieved Sally Ann from her watch over unleavened bread. Both Mrs.
Mason and Mary laughed heartily at the widow's curiosity, though, as
Mary said, "It was no laughing matter where the money was to come from
which she needed for her books and clothing."
Every thing which Mrs. Mason could do for her she did, and even
Judith, who was never famous for generosity; brought in one Saturday
morning a half-worn merino, which she thought "mebby could be turned
and sponged, and made into somethin' decent," adding, in an undertone,
that "she'd had it out airin' on the clothes hoss for more'n two
hours!"
Sally Furbush, too, brought over the old purple silk which "Willie's
father had given her." She was getting on finely with her grammar, she
said, and in a few days she should write to Harper, so that he might
have time to engage the extra help he would necessarily need, in
bringing out a work of that kind!
"I should dedicate it to Mrs. Grundy," said she, "just to show her how
forgiving I can be, but here is a difficulty. A person, on seeing the
name, '_Mrs._ Polly Grundy,' would naturally be led to inquire for
'_Mr._ Polly Grundy,' and this inquiry carried out, might cause the
lady some little embarrassment, so I've concluded to have the
dedication read thus:--'To Willie's father, who sleeps on the western
prairie, this useful work is tremblingly, tearfully, yet joyfully
dedicated by his relict, Sarah.'"
Mary warmly approved of this plan, and after a few extra flourishes in
the shape of a courtesy, Sally started for home.
A few days afterward, Jenny Lincoln came galloping up to the
school-house door, declaring her intention of staying until school was
out, and having a good time. "It's for ever and ever since I've seen
you," said she, as she gathered up the skirt of her blue riding-dress,
and followed Mary into the house, "but I've been so bothered with
those city girls. Seems as though they had nothing to do but to get up
rides in hay carts, or picnics in the woods and since Henry came home
they keep sending for us. This afternoon they have all gone
blackberrying in a hay cart, but I'd rather come here."
At this point, happening to think that the class in Colburn who were
toeing the mark so squarely, would perhaps like a chance to recite,
Jenny seated herself near the window, and throwing off her hat, made
fun for herself and some little boys, by tickling their naked toes
with the end of her riding-whip. When school was out, and the two
girls were alone, Jenny entered at once upon the great object of her
visit.
"I hear you are going to Wilbraham," said she, "but I want you to go
to Mount Holyoke. We are going, a whole lot of us, that is, if we can
pass examination. Rose isn't pleased with the idea, but I am. I think
'twill be fun to wash potatoes and scour knives. I don't believe that
mother would ever have sent us there if it were not that Ida Selden is
going. Her father and her aunt Martha used to be schoolmates with Miss
Lyon, and they have always intended that Ida should graduate at Mount
Holyoke. Now, why can't you go, too?"
Instantly Mary thought of Mr. Stuart, and his suggestion. "I wish I
could," said she, "but I can't. I haven't money enough, and there is
no one to give it to me."
"It wouldn't hurt Mrs. Campbell to help you a little," returned Jenny.
"Why, last term Ella spent almost enough for candies, and gutta-percha
toys, to pay the expense of half a year's schooling, at Mount Holyoke.
It's too bad that she should have every thing, and you nothing."
Here Jenny's remarks were interrupted by the loud rattling of wheels,
and the halloo of many voices. Going to the door she and Mary saw
coming down the road at a furious rate, the old hay cart, laden with
the young people from Chicopee, who had been berrying in Sturbridge,
and were now returning home in high glee. The horses were
fantastically trimmed with ferns and evergreens, while several of the
girls were ornamented in the same way. Conspicuous among the noisy
group, was Ella Campbell. Henry Lincoln's broad-brimmed hat was
resting on her long curls, while her white sun-bonnet was tied under
Henry's chin.
The moment Jenny appeared, the whole party set up a shout so
deafening, that the Widow Perkins came out in a trice, to see "if the
old Harry was to pay, or what." No sooner did Henry Lincoln get sight
of Mary, than springing to his feet, and swinging his arm around his
head, he screamed out, "Three cheers for the school ma'am and her
handsome lover, Billy! Hurrah!"
In the third and last hurrah, the whole company joined, and when that
was finished, Henry struck up on a high key,
"Oh, where have you been, Billy boy, Billy boy,
Oh, where have you been charming Billy?"
but only one voice joined in with his, and that was Ella's! Mary
reddened at what she knew was intended as an insult, and when she
heard her sister's voice chiming in with Henry, she could not keep
back her tears.
"Wasn't that smart?" said Jenny, when at last the hay cart disappeared
from view, and the noise and dust had somewhat subsided. Then as she
saw the tears in Mary's eyes, she added, "Oh, I wouldn't care if they
did teaze me about Billy Bender. I'd as lief be teazed about him as
not."
"It isn't that," said Mary, smiling in spite of herself, at Jenny's
frankness. "It isn't that. I didn't like to hear Ella sing with your
brother, when she must have known he meant to annoy me."
"That certainly was wrong," returned Jenny; "but Ella isn't so much to
blame as Henry, who seems to have acquired a great influence over her
during the few weeks he has been at home. You know she is easily
flattered, and I dare say Henry has fully gratified her vanity in that
respect, for he says she is the only decent-looking girl in Chicopee.
But see, there comes Mrs. Mason, I guess she wonders what is keeping
you so long."
The moment Mrs. Mason entered the school-room, Jenny commenced talking
about Mount Holyoke, her tongue running so fast, that it entirely
prevented any one else from speaking, until she stopped for a moment
to take breath. Then Mrs. Mason very quietly remarked, that if Mary
wished to go to Mount Holyoke she could do so. Mary looked up
inquiringly, wondering what mine had opened so suddenly at her feet;
but she received no explanation until Jenny had bidden her good-bye,
and gone. Then she learned that Mrs. Mason had just received $100 from
a man in Boston, who had years before owed it to her husband, and was
unable to pay it sooner. "And now," said Mrs. Mason, "there is no
reason why you should not go to Mount Holyoke, if you wish to."
The glad tears which came to Mary's eyes were a sufficient evidence
that she did wish to, and the next day a letter was forwarded to Miss
Lyon, who promptly replied, expressing her willingness to receive Mary
as a pupil. And now Rice Corner was again thrown into a state of
fermentation. Mary was going to Mount Holyoke, and what was more
marvellous still, Mrs. Mason had bought her a black silk dress, which
cost her a dollar a yard! and more than one good dame declared her
intention of "giving up," if paupers came on so fast. This having been
a pauper was the thing of which Mary heard frequently, now that her
prospects were getting brighter. And even Ella, when told that her
sister was going to Mount Holyoke, said to Miss Porter, who was still
with her, "Why, isn't she getting along real fast for one who has
been on the town?"
Mrs. Lincoln, too, and Rose were greatly provoked, the former
declaring she would not send her daughters to a school which was so
cheap that paupers and all could go, were it not that Lizzie Upton had
been there, and Ida Selden was going. Jenny, however, thought
differently. She was delighted, and as often as she possibly could,
she came to Mrs. Mason's to talk the matter over, and tell what good
times they'd have, "provided they didn't set her to pounding clothes,"
which she presumed they would, just because she was so fat and
healthy. The widow assumed a very resigned air, saying "She never did
meddle with other folks' business, and she guessed she shouldn't begin
by 'tendin' to Mary's, but 'twas a miracle where all the money came
from."
A few more of the neighbors felt worried and troubled but as no
attention was paid to their remarks, they gradually ceased, and by the
time Mary's preparations were completed, curiosity and gossip seemed
to have subsided altogether. She was quite a favorite in the
neighborhood, and on the morning when she left home, there was many a
kind good-bye, and word of love spoken to her by those who came to see
her off. Mr. Knight carried her to the depot, where they found Sally
Furbush, accompanied by Tasso, her constant attendant. She knew that
Mary was to leave that morning, and had walked all that distance, for
the sake of seeing her, and giving her a little parting advice. It was
not quite time for the cars, and Mr. Knight, who was always in a
hurry, said "he guessed he wouldn't stay," so squeezing both of Mary's
hands, he bade her good-bye, telling her "to be a good girl, and not
get to running after the sparks."
Scarcely was he gone, when Mary's attention was attracted by the sound
of many voices, and looking from the window, she saw a group of the
city girls advancing towards the depot. Among them was Ella, talking
and laughing very loudly Mary's heart beat very rapidly, for she
thought her sister was coming to bid her good-bye, but she was
mistaken. Ella had no thought or care for her, and after glancing in
at the sitting-room, without seeming to see its inmates, though not to
see them was impossible, she turned her back, and looking across the
river, which was directly in front, she said in her most drawling
tone, "Why don't Rose come? I shan't have time to see her at all, I'm
afraid."
Lizzie Upton, who was also there, looked at her in astonishment, and
then said, "Why, Ella, isn't that your sister?"
"My sister? I don't know. Where?" returned Ella.
Mary laughed, and then Ella, facing about, exclaimed, "Why, Mary, you
here? I forgot that you were going this morning."
Before Mary could reply. Sally Furbush arose, and passed her hand
carefully over Ella's head. Partly in fear, and partly in anger, Ella
drew back from the crazy woman, who said, "Don't be alarmed, little
one, I only wanted to find the cavity which I felt sure was there."
Lizzie Upton's half-smothered laugh was more provoking to Ella, than
Sally's insinuation of her want of brains, but she soon recovered her
equanimity, for Mr. Lincoln's carriage at that moment drove up. Henry
sprang nimbly out, kissing his hand to Ella, who blushed, and then
turning to Rose, began wishing she, too, was old enough to go to Mount
Holyoke.
"I guess you'd pass about as good an examination now, as some who are
going," returned Rose, glancing contemptuously towards Mary, to whom
Jenny was eagerly talking.
This directed Henry's attention that way, and simultaneously his own
and Mary's eyes met. With a peculiar expression of countenance, he
stepped towards her, saying "Good morning, school ma'am. For what part
are you bound with all this baggage?" pointing to a huge chest with a
feather bed tied over it, the whole the property of a daughter of
Erin, who stood near, carefully guarding her treasure.
Had he addressed Mary civilly, she would have replied with her usual
politeness, but as it was, she made no reply and he turned to walk
away. All this time Tasso lay under the table, winking and blinking at
his old enemy, with an expression in his eyes, which Henry would
hardly have relished, could he have seen him.
"Hark! Isn't that the cars?" said Jenny, as a low, heavy growl fell on
her ear; but she soon ascertained what it was, for as Henry was
leaving the room, he kicked aside the blue umbrella, which Sal had
brought with her for fear of a shower, and which was lying upon the
floor.
In an instant, Tasso's growl changed to a bark, and bristling with
anger, he rushed towards Henry, but was stopped by Sal just in time to
prevent his doing any mischief. With a muttered oath, which included
the "old woman" as well as her dog, the young man was turning away,
when Jenny said, "Shame on you, to swear before ladies!"
After assuring himself by a look that Ella and the city girls were all
standing upon the platform, Henry replied with a sneer, "I don't see
any ladies in the room."
Instantly Sal, now more furious than the dog, clutched her long, bony
fingers around his arm, saying, "Take back that insult, sir, or Tasso
shall tear you in pieces! What am I, if I am not a lady?"
Henry felt sure that Sal meant what she said, and with an air of
assumed deference, he replied as he backed himself out of his
uncomfortable quarters, "I beg your pardon Mrs. Furbush, I forgot that
you were present."
The whistle of the cars was now heard, and in a moment the locomotive
stood puffing before the depot. From one of the open windows a fair
young face looked out, and a voice which thrilled Mary's every nerve,
it seemed so familiar, called out, "Oh, Rosa, Jenny, all of you, I'm
so glad you are here; I was afraid there would be some mistake, and
I'd have to go alone."
"Isn't your father with you?" asked Henry, bowing so low, that he
almost pitched headlong from the platform.
"No," answered the young lady, "he couldn't leave, nor George either,
so Aunt Martha is my escort. She's fast asleep just opposite me, never
dreaming, I dare say, that we've stopped."
"The mischief," said Henry. "What's to be done? The old gent was
obliged to be in Southbridge to-day, so he bade me put Rose and Jenny
under your father's protection; but as he isn't here I'll have to go
myself."
"No you won't either," returned Ida, "Aunt Martha is as good as a man
any time, and can look after three as well as one."
"That's Ida Selden! Isn't she handsome?" whispered Jenny to Mary.
But Mary hardly heard her. She was gazing admiringly at Ida's animated
face, and tracing in it a strong resemblance to the boyish features,
which looked so mischievously out from the golden locket, which at
that moment lay next to her heart.
"All aboard," shouted the shrill voice of the conductor and Mary awoke
from her reverie, and twining her arms around Sally Furbush's neck,
bade her good-bye.
"The Lord be with you," said Sally, "and be sure you pay strict
attention to Grammar!"
Mary next looked for Ella, but she stood at a distance jesting
lightly with Henry Lincoln, and evidently determined not to see her
sister, who was hurrying towards her, when "All aboard" was again
shouted in her ear, while at the same moment, the conductor lifted her
lightly upon the step where Rose and Jenny were standing.
"This car is brim full," said Rose, looking over her shoulder, "but I
guess you can find a good seat in the next one."
The train was already in motion, and as Mary did not care to peril her
life or limbs for the sake of pleasing Rose, she followed her into the
car, where there was a goodly number of unoccupied seats,
notwithstanding Rose's assertion to the contrary. As the train moved
rapidly over the long, level meadow, and passed the Chicopee
burying-ground, Mary looked out to catch a glimpse of the thorn-apple
tree, which overshadowed the graves of her parents, and then, as she
thought how cold and estranged was the only one left of all the home
circle, she drew her veil over her face and burst into tears.
"Who is that young lady?" asked Ida, who was riding backward and
consequently directly opposite to Mary.
"What young lady?" said Rose; and Ida replied, "The one who kissed
that queer-looking old woman and then followed you and Jenny into the
cars."
"Oh, that was Mary Howard," was Rose's answer.
"Mary Howard!" repeated Ida, as if the name were one she had heard
before, "who is she, and what is she?"
"Nobody but a town pauper," answered Rose, "and one of Jenny's
protegee's. You see she is sitting by her."
"She doesn't seem like a pauper," said Ida. "I wish she would take off
that veil. I want to see how she looks."
"Rough and blowsy, of course, like any other country girl," was Rose's
reply.
By this time Mary had dried her tears, and when they reached the
station at Warren, she removed her veil, disclosing to view a face,
which instead of being "rough and blowsy" was smooth and fair almost
as marble.
"That isn't a pauper, I know," said Ida; and Rose replied, "Well, she
has been, and what's the difference?"
"But where does she live now?" continued Ida. "I begin to grow
interested."
"I suppose you remember Mrs. Mason, who used to live in Boston,"
answered Rose. "Well, she has adopted her, I believe, but I don't know
much about it, and care a good deal less."
"Mrs. Mason!" repeated Ida. "Why, Aunt Martha thinks all the world of
her, and I fancy she wouldn't sleep quite so soundly, if she knew her
adopted daughter was in the car. I mean to tell her.--Aunt Martha,
Aunt Martha!"
But Aunt Martha was too fast asleep to heed Ida's call, and a gentle
shake was necessary to rouse her to consciousness. But when she became
fully awake, and knew why she was roused, she started up, and going
towards Mary, said in her own peculiarly sweet and winning manner,
"Ida tells me you are Mrs. Mason's adopted daughter, and Mrs. Mason is
the dearest friend I ever had. I am delighted to see you."
Jenny immediately introduced her to Mary, as Miss Selden, whispering
in her ear at the same time that she was George's aunt; then rising
she gave her seat to Aunt Martha, taking another one for herself near
Rose and Ida. Without seeming to be curious at all, Aunt Martha had a
peculiar way of drawing people out to talk of themselves, and by the
time they reached the station, where they left the cars for Mt.
Holyoke, she had learned a good share of Mary's early history, and
felt quite as much pleased with the freshness and simplicity of her
young friend, as Mary did with her polished and elegant manners.