THE CLOSING OF THE YEAR.
Rapidly the days passed on at Mount Holyoke. Autumn faded into winter,
whose icy breath floated for a time over the mountain tops, and then
melted away at the approach of spring, which, with its swelling buds
and early flowers, gave way in its turn to the long bright days of
summer. And now only a few weeks remained ere the annual examination
at which Ida was to be graduated. Neither Rose nor Jenny were to
return the next year, and nothing but Mr. Lincoln's firmness and good
sense had prevented their being sent for when their mother first heard
that they had failed to enter the Middle class.
Mrs. Lincoln's mortification was undoubtedly greatly increased from
the fact that the despised Mary had entered in advance of her
daughters. "Things are coming to a pretty pass," said she. "Yes, a
pretty pass; but I might have known better than to send my children to
such a school."
Mr. Lincoln could not forbear asking her in a laughing way, "if the
schools which she attended were of a higher order than Mount Holyoke."
Bursting into tears, Mrs. Lincoln replied that "she didn't think she
ought to be _twitted_ of her poverty."
"Neither do I," returned her husband. "You were no more to blame for
working in the factory, than Mary is for having been a pauper!"
Mrs. Lincoln was silent, for she did not particularly care to hear
about her early days, when she had been an operative in the cotton
mills of Southbridge. She had possessed just enough beauty to
captivate the son of the proprietor, who was fresh from college, and
after a few weeks' acquaintance they were married. Fortunately her
husband was a man of good sense, and restrained her from the
commission of many foolish acts. Thus when she insisted upon sending
for Rose and Jenny, he promptly replied that they should not come
home! Still, as Rose seemed discontented, complaining that so much
exercise made her side and shoulder ache, and as Jenny did not wish to
remain another year unless Mary did, he consented that they should
leave school at the close of the term, on condition that they went
somewhere else.
"I shall never make any thing of Henry," said he, "but my daughters
shall receive every advantage, and perhaps one or the other of them
will comfort my old age."
He had spoken truly with regard to Henry, who was studying, or
pretending to study law in the same office with Billy Bender. But his
father heard no favorable accounts of him, and from time to time large
bills were presented for the payment of carriage hire, wine, and
"drunken sprees" generally. So it is no wonder the disappointed father
sighed, and turned to his daughters for the comfort his only son
refused to give.
But we have wandered from the examination at Mount Holyoke, for which
great preparations were being made. Rose, knowing she was not to
return, seemed to think all further effort on her part unnecessary;
and numerous were the reprimands, to say nothing of the black marks
which she received. Jenny, on the contrary, said she wished to
retrieve her reputation for laziness, and leave behind a good
impression. So, never before in her whole life had she behaved so
well, or studied so hard as she did during the last few weeks of her
stay at Mount Holyoke. Ida, who was expecting her father, aunt and
cousin to be present at the anniversary, was so engrossed with her
studies, that she did not observe how sad and low spirited Mary
seemed. She had tasted of knowledge, and now thirsted for more; but it
could not be; the funds were exhausted, and she must leave the school,
never perhaps to return again.
"How much I shall miss my music, and how much I shall miss you," she
said one day to Ida, who was giving her a lesson.
"It's too bad you haven't a piano," returned Ida, "you are so fond of
it, and improve so fast!" then after a moment she added, "I have a
plan to propose, and may as well do it now as any time. Next winter
you must spend with me in Boston. Aunt Martha and I arranged it the
last time I was at home, and we even selected your room, which is next
to mine, and opposite to Aunt Martha's. Now what does your ladyship
say to it?"
"She says she can't go," answered Mary.
"Can't go!" repeated Ida. "Why not? Jenny will be in the city, and you
are always happy where she is; besides you will have a rare chance for
taking music lessons of our best teachers; and then, too, you will be
in the same house with George, and that alone is worth going to Boston
for, I think."
Ida little suspected that her last argument was the strongest
objection to Mary's going, for much as she wished to meet George
again, she felt that she would not on any account go to his own home,
lest he should think she came on purpose to see him. There were other
reasons, too, why she did not wish to go. Henry and Rose Lincoln would
both be in the city, and she knew that neither of them would scruple
to do or say any thing which they thought would annoy her. Mrs. Mason,
too, missed her, and longed to have her at home; so she resisted all
Ida's entreaties, and the next letter which went to Aunt Martha,
carried her refusal.
In a day or two, Mary received two letters, one from Billy and one
from Mrs. Mason, the latter of which contained money for the payment
of her bills; but on offering it to the Principal, how was she
surprised to learn that her bills had not only been regularly paid and
receipted, but that ample funds were provided for the defraying of her
expenses during the coming year. A faint sickness stole over Mary, for
she instantly thought of Billy Bender, and the obligations she would
now be under to him for ever. Then it occurred to her how impossible
it was that he should have earned so much in so short a time; and as
soon as she could trust her voice to speak, she asked who it was that
had thus befriended her.
Miss ---- was not at liberty to tell, and with a secret suspicion of
Aunt Martha, who had seemed much interested in her welfare, Mary
returned to her room to read the other letter, which was still
unopened. It was some time since Billy had written to her alone, and
with more than her usual curiosity, she broke the seal; but her head
grew dizzy, and her spirits faint, as she read the passionate
outpouring of a heart which had cherished her image for years, and
which, though fearful of rejection, would still tell her how much she
was beloved. "It is no sudden fancy," said he, "but was conceived
years ago, on that dreary afternoon, when in your little room at the
poor-house, you laid your head in my lap and wept, as you told me how
lonely you were. Do you remember it, Mary? I do; and never now does
your image come before me, but I think of you as you were then, when
the wild wish that you should one day be mine first entered my heart.
Morning, noon, and night have I thought of you, and no plan for the
future have I ever formed which had not a direct reference to you.
Once, Mary, I believed my affection for you returned, but now you are
changed greatly changed. Your letters are brief and cold, and when I
look around for the cause, I am led to fear that I was deceived in
thinking you ever loved me, as I thought you did. If I am mistaken,
tell me so; but if I am not, if you can never be my wife, I will
school myself to think of you as a brother would think of an only and
darling sister."
This letter produced a strange effect upon Mary. She thought how much
she was indebted to one who had stood so faithfully by her when all
the world was dark and dreary. She thought, too, of his kindness to
the dead, and that appealed more strongly to her sympathy than aught
else he had ever done for her. There was no one to advise her, and
acting upon the impulse of the moment, she sat down and commenced a
letter, the nature of which she did not understand herself, and which
if sent, would have given a different coloring to the whole of her
after life. She had written but one page, when the study bell rang,
and she was obliged to put her letter by till the morrow. For several
days she had not been well, and the excitement produced by Billy's
letter tended to increase her illness, so that on the following
morning when she attempted to rise, she found herself seriously ill.
During the hours in which she was alone that day, she had ample time
for reflection, and before night she wrote another letter to Billy, in
which she told him how impossible it was for her to be the wife of one
whom she had always loved as an own, and dear brother. This letter
caused Mary so much effort, and so many bitter tears, that for several
days she continued worse, and at last gave up all hope of being
present at the examination.
"Oh it's too bad," said Ida, "for I _do_ want you to see Cousin
George, and I know he'll be disappointed too, for I never saw any
thing like the interest he seems to take in you."
A few days afterwards as Mary was lying alone, thinking of Billy, and
wondering if she had done right in writing to him as she did, Jenny
came rushing in wild with delight.
Her father was down stairs, together with Ida's father George, and
Aunt Martha. "Most the first thing I did," said she, "was to inquire
after Billy Bender! I guess Aunt Martha was shocked, for she looked so
_queer_. George laughed, and Mr. Selden said he was doing well, and
was one of the finest young men in Boston. But why don't you ask about
George? I heard him talking about you to Rose, just as I left the
parlor."
Mary felt sure that any information of her which Rose might give would
not be very complimentary, and she thought right; for when Rose was
questioned concerning "Miss Howard," she at first affected her
ignorance of such a person; and then when George explained himself
more definitely, she said, "Oh, _that_ girl! I'm sure I don't know
much about her, except that she's a _charity scholar_, or something of
that kind."
At the words "charity scholar," there was a peculiar smile on George's
face; but he continued talking, saying, "that if that were the case,
she ought to be very studious and he presumed she was."
"As nearly as I can judge of her," returned Rose, "she is not
remarkable for brilliant talents; but," she added, as she met Ida's
eye, "she has a certain way of showing off, and perhaps I am mistaken
with regard to her."
Very different from this was the description given of her by Ida, who
now came to her cousin's side, extolling Mary highly, and lamenting
the illness which would prevent George from seeing her. Aunt Martha,
also, spoke a word in Mary's favor, at the same time endeavoring to
stop the unkind remarks of Rose, whom she thoroughly disliked, and who
she feared was becoming too much of a favorite with George. Rose was
not only very handsome, but she also possessed a peculiar faculty of
making herself agreeable whenever she chose, and in Boston she was
quite a favorite with a certain class of young men. It was for George
Moreland, however, that her prettiest and most coquettish airs were
practised. He was the object which she would secure; and when she
heard Mary Howard so highly commended in his presence, she could not
forbear expressing her contempt, fancying that he, with his high
English notions, would feel just as she did, with regard to poverty
and low origin. As for George, it was difficult telling whom he did
prefer, though the last time Rose was in Boston, rumor had said that
he was particularly attentive to her; and Mrs. Lincoln, who was very
sanguine, once hinted to Ida, the probability that a relationship
would sooner or later exist between the two families.
Rose, too, though careful not to hint at such a thing in Ida's
presence, was quite willing that others of her companions at Mount
Holyoke should fancy there was an intimacy, if not an engagement
between herself and Mr. Moreland. Consequently he had not been in
South Hadley twenty-four hours, ere he was pointed out by some of the
villagers, as being the future husband of the elder Miss Lincoln,
whose haughty, disagreeable manners had become subject of general
remark. During the whole of George's stay at Mount Holyoke, Rose
managed to keep him at her side, entertaining him occasionally with
unkind remarks concerning Mary, who, she said, was undoubtedly
feigning her sickness, so as not to appear in her classes, where she
knew she could do herself no credit; "but," said she, "as soon as the
examination is over, she'll get well fast enough, and bother us with
her company to Chicopee."
In this Rose was mistaken, for when the exercises closed Mary was
still too ill to ride, and it was decided that she should remain a few
days until Mrs. Mason could come for her. With many tears Ida and
Jenny bade their young friend good-bye, but Rose, when asked to go up
and see her turned away disdainfully, amusing herself during their
absence by talking and laughing with George Moreland.
The room in which Mary lay, commanded a view of the yard and gateway;
and after Aunt Martha, Ida, and Jenny had left her, she arose, and
stealing to the window, looked out upon the company as they departed.
She could readily divine which was George Moreland, for Rose Lincoln's
shawl and satchel were thrown over his arm, while Rose herself walked
close to his elbow, apparently engrossing his whole attention. Once he
turned around, but fearful of being herself observed, Mary drew back
behind the window curtain, and thus lost a view of his face. He,
however, caught a glimpse of her, and asked if that was the room in
which Miss Howard was sick.
Rose affected not to hear him, and continued enumerating the many
trials which she had endured at school, and congratulating herself
upon her escape from the "horrid place." But for once George was not
an attentive listener. Notwithstanding his apparent indifference, he
was greatly disappointed at not seeing Mary. It was for this he had
gone to Mount Holyoke; and in spite of Rose's endeavors to make him
talk, he was unusually silent all the way, and when they at last
reached Chicopee, he highly offended the young lady by assisting Jenny
to alight instead of herself.
"I should like to know what you are thinking about," she said rather
pettishly, as she took his offered hand to say good-bye.
With a roguish look in his eye, George replied, "I've been thinking of
a young lady. Shall I tell you her name?"
Rose blushed, and looking interestingly embarrassed answered, that of
course 'twas no one whom she knew.
"Yes, 'tis," returned George, still holding her hand and as Aunt
Martha, who was jealously watching his movements from the window, just
then called out to him "to jump in, or he'd be left," he put his face
under Rose's bonnet, and whispered, "Mary Howard!"
"Kissed her, upon my word!" said Aunt Martha with a groan, which was
rendered inaudible to Ida by the louder noise of the engine.