MT. HOLYOKE
"Oh, forlorn what a looking place!" exclaimed Rose Lincoln, as from
the windows of the crowded vehicle in which they had come from the
cars, she first obtained a view of the not very handsome village of
South Hadley.
Rose was in the worst of humors, for by some mischance, Mary was on
the same seat with herself, and consequently she was very much
distressed, and crowded. She, however, felt a little afraid of Aunt
Martha, who she saw was inclined to favor the object of her wrath, so
she restrained her fault-finding spirit until she arrived at South
Hadley, where every thing came in for a share of her displeasure.
"_That_ the Seminary!" said she contemptuously, as they drew up before
the building. "Why, it isn't half as large, or handsome as I supposed.
Oh, horror! I know I shan't stay here long."
The furniture of the parlor was also very offensive to the young lady,
and when Miss Lyon came in to meet them, she, too, was secretly
styled, "a prim, fussy, slippery-tongued old maid." Jenny, however,
who always saw the bright side of every thing, was completely charmed
with the sweet smile, and placid face, so well remembered by all who
have seen and known, the founder of Mt. Holyoke Seminary. After some
conversation between Miss Lyon and Aunt Martha it was decided that
Rose and Jenny should room together, as a matter of course, and that
Mary should room with Ida. Rose had fully intended to room with Ida
herself, and this decision made her very angry: but there was no help
for it and she was obliged to submit.
Our readers are probably aware, that an examination in certain
branches is necessary, ere a pupil can be admitted into the school at
Mt. Holyoke, where the course of instruction embraces three years, and
three classes, Junior, Middle, and Senior. Rose, who had been much
flattered on account of her scholarship, confidently expected to enter
the Middle class. Jenny, too, had the same desire, though she
confessed to some misgivings concerning her knowledge of a goodly
number of the necessary branches. Ida was really an excellent scholar,
and was prepared to enter the Senior class, while Mary aspired to
nothing higher, than admission into the Junior. She was therefore
greatly surprised, when Aunt Martha, after questioning her as to what
she had studied, proposed that she should be examined for the Middle
class.
"Oh, no," said Mary quickly, "I should fail, and I wouldn't do that
for the world."
"Have you ever studied Latin?" asked Aunt Martha.
Before Mary could reply, Rose exclaimed, "_She_ study Latin! How
absurd! Why, she was never away to school in her life."
Aunt Martha silenced her with a peculiar look, while Mary answered,
that for more than two years, she had been reading Latin under Mrs.
Mason's instruction.
"And you could not have a better teacher," said Aunt Martha. "So try
it by all means."
"Yes, do try," said Ida and Jenny, in the same breath; and after a
time, Mary rather reluctantly consented.
"I'll warrant she intends to sit by us, so we can tell her every
other word," muttered Rose to Jenny, but when the trial came she
thought differently.
It would be wearisome to give the examination in detail, so we will
only say, that at its close, Rose Lincoln heard with shame and
confusion, that she could only be admitted into the Junior Class, her
examination having proved a very unsatisfactory one. Poor Jenny, too,
who had stumbled over almost every thing, shared the same fate, while
Mary, expecting nothing, and hoping nothing, burst into tears when
told that she had acquitted herself creditably, in all the branches
requisite for an admission into the Middle class.
"Mrs. Mason will be so glad, and Billy, too," was her first thought;
and then, as she saw how disappointed Jenny looked, she seized the
first opportunity to throw her arms around her neck, and whisper to
her how sorry she was that she had failed.
Jenny, however, was of too happy a temperament to remain sad for a
long time, and before night her loud, merry laugh had more than once
rang out in the upper hall, causing even Miss Lyon to listen, it was
so clear and joyous. That afternoon, Aunt Martha, who was going to
call upon Mrs. Mason, started for home, leaving the girls alone among
strangers. It was a rainy, dreary day, and the moment her aunt was
gone, Ida threw herself upon the bed and burst into tears. Jenny, who
occupied the next room, was also low spirited, for Rose was terribly
cross, calling her a "ninny hammer," and various other dignified
names. Among the four girls, Mary was the only cheerful one, and after
a time she succeeded in comforting Ida, while Jenny, catching
something of her spirit, began to laugh loudly, as she told a group of
girls how many ludicrous blunders she made when they undertook to
question her about Euclid, which she had never studied in her life!
And now in a few days life at Mt. Holyoke commenced in earnest.
Although perfectly healthy, Mary looked rather delicate, and it was
for this reason, perhaps, that the sweeping and dusting of several
rooms were assigned to her, as her portion of the labor. Ida and Rose
fared much worse, and were greatly shocked, when told that they both
belonged to the wash circle!
"I declare," said Rose, "it's too bad. I'll walk home before I'll do
it;" and she glanced at her white hands, to make sure they were not
already discolored by the dreaded soap suds!
Jenny was delighted with her allotment, which was dish-washing.
"I'm glad I took that lesson at the poor-house years ago," said she
one day to Rose, who snappishly replied, "I'd shut up about the
poor-house, or they'll think you the pauper instead of Madam Howard."
"Pauper? Who's a pauper?" asked Lucy Downs, eager to hear so desirable
a piece of news.
Ida Selden's large black eyes rested reprovingly upon Rose, who nodded
towards Mary, and forthwith Miss Downs departed with the information,
which was not long in reaching Mary's ears.
"Why, Mary, what's the matter?" asked Ida, when towards the close of
the day she found her companion weeping in her room. Without lifting
her head, Mary replied, "It's foolish in me to cry, I know, but why
need I always be reproached with having been a pauper. I couldn't help
it. I promised mother I would take care of little Allie as long as she
lived, and if she went to the poor-house, I had to go too."
"And who was little Allie?" asked Ida, taking Mary's hot hands between
her own.
In few words Mary related her history, omitting her acquaintance with
George Moreland, and commencing at the night when her mother died. Ida
was warm-hearted and affectionate, and cared but little whether one
were rich or poor if she liked them. From the first she had been
interested in Mary, and now winding her arms about her neck, and
kissing away her tears, she promised to love her, and to be to her as
true and faithful a friend as Jenny. This promise, which was never
broken, was of great benefit to Mary, drawing to her side many of the
best girls in school, who soon learned to love her for herself, and
not because the wealthy Miss Selden seemed so fond of her.
Neither Ida nor Rose were as happy in school, as Mary and Jenny. Both
of them fretted about the rules, which they were obliged to observe,
and both of them disliked and dreaded their portion of the work. Ida,
however, was happier than Rose, for she was fonder of study, and one
day when particularly interested in her lessons, she said to Mary,
that she believed she should be tolerably contented, were it not for
the everlasting washing.
Looking up a moment after, she saw that Mary had disappeared. But she
soon returned, exclaiming, "I've fixed it. It's all right. I told her
I was a great deal stronger than you, that I was used to washing, and
you were not, and that it made your side ache; so she consented to
have us exchange, and after this you are to dust for me, and I am to
wash for you."
Ida disliked washing so much, that she raised no very strong
objections to Mary's plan, and then when she found how great a
kindness had really been shown her, she tried hard to think of some
way in which to repay it. At last, George Moreland, to whom she had
written upon the subject, suggested something which met her views
exactly. Both Ida and her aunt had told George about Mary, and
without hinting that he knew her, he immediately commenced making
minute inquiries concerning her, of Ida, who communicated them to
Mary, wondering why she always blushed so deeply, and tried to change
the conversation. In reply to the letter in which Ida had told him of
Mary's kindness, George wrote, "You say Miss Howard is very fond of
music, and that there is no teacher connected with the institution.
Now why not give her lessons yourself? You can do it as well as not,
and it will be a good way of showing your gratitude."
Without waiting to read farther, Ida ran in quest of Mary, to whom she
told what George had written. "You don't know," said she, "how much
George asks about you. I never saw him so much interested in any one
before, and half the girls in Boston are after him, too."
"Poor fellow, I pity him," said Mary; and Ida continued, "Perhaps it
seems foolish in me to say so much about him, but if you only knew
him, you wouldn't wonder. He's the handsomest young man I ever saw,
and then he's so good, so different from other young men, especially
Henry Lincoln."
Here the tea bell rang, and the conversation was discontinued.
When Rose heard that Mary was taking music lessons, she exclaimed to a
group of girls with whom she was talking, "Well, I declare, beggars
taking music lessons! I wonder what'll come next? Why, you've no idea
how dreadfully poor she is. Our summer residence is near the
alms-house, and when she was there I saw a good deal of her. She had
scarcely any thing fit to wear, and I gave her one of my old bonnets,
which I do believe she wore for three or four years."
"Why Rose Lincoln," said Jenny, who had overheard all, and now came
up to her sister, "how can you tell what you know is not true?"
"Not true?" angrily retorted Rose. "Pray didn't she have my old
bonnet?"
"Yes," answered Jenny, "but I bought it of you, and paid you for it
with a bracelet Billy Bender gave me,--you know I did."
Rose was cornered, and as she saw noway of extricating herself, she
turned on her heel and walked away, muttering about the meanness of
doing a charitable deed, and then boasting of it!
The next day Jenny chanced to go for a moment to Mary's room. As she
entered it, Mary looked up, saying, "You are just the one I want to
see. I've been writing about you to Billy Bender. You can read it if
you choose."
When Jenny had finished reading the passage referred to, she said,
"Oh, Mary, I didn't suppose you overheard Rose's unkind remarks about
that bonnet."
"But I did," answered Mary, "and I am glad, too, for I had always
supposed myself indebted to her instead of you. Billy thought so, too,
and as you see, I have undeceived him. Did I tell you that he had left
Mr. Selden's employment, and gone into a law office?"
"Oh, good, good. I'm so glad," exclaimed Jenny, dancing about the
room. "Do you know whose office he is in?"
"Mr. Worthington's," answered Mary, and Jenny continued: "Why, Henry
is studying there. Isn't it funny? But Billy will beat him, I know he
will,--he's so smart. How I wish he'd write to me! Wouldn't I feel
grand to have a gentleman correspondent?"
"Suppose you write to him," said Mary, laughingly. "Here's just room
enough," pointing to a vacant spot upon the paper. "He's always
asking about you, and you can answer his questions yourself."
"I'll do it," said Jenny, and seizing the pen, she thoughtlessly
scribbled off a ludicrous account of her failure, and of the blunders
she was constantly committing, while she spoke of Mary as the pattern
for the whole school, both in scholarship and behavior.
"There!" said she, wiping her gold pen upon her silk apron (for Jenny
still retained some of the habits of her childhood) "I guess he'll
think I'm crazy, but I hope he'll answer it, any way."
Mary hoped so too, and when at last Billy's letter came, containing a
neatly written note for Jenny, it was difficult telling which of the
two girls was the happier.
Soon after Mary went to Mount Holyoke, she had received a letter from
Billy, in which he expressed his pleasure that she was at school, but
added that the fact of her being there interfered greatly with his
plan of educating her himself. "Mother's ill health," said he,
"prevented me from doing any thing until now, and just as I am in a
fair way to accomplish my object, some one else has stepped in before
me. But it is all right, and as you do not seem to need my services at
present, I shall next week leave Mr. Selden's employment, go into Mr.
Worthington's law office as clerk, hoping that when the proper time
arrives, I shall not be defeated in another plan which was formed in
boyhood, and which has become the great object of my life."
Mary felt perplexed and troubled. Billy's letters of late had been
more like those of a lover than a brother, and she could not help
guessing the nature of "the plan formed in boyhood." She knew she
should never love him except with a sister's love, and though she
could not tell him so, her next letter lacked the tone of affection
with which she was accustomed to write, and on the whole a rather
formal affair. Billy, who readily perceived the change, attributed it
to the right cause, and from that time his letters became far less
cheerful than usual.
Mary usually cried over them, wishing more than once that Billy would
transfer his affection from herself to Jenny, and it was for this
reason, perhaps, that without stopping to consider the propriety of
the matter, she first asked Jenny to write to him, and then encouraged
her in answering his notes, which (as her own letters grew shorter)
became gradually longer and longer, until at last his letters were
addressed to Jenny, while the notes they contained were directed to
Mary!