VACATION.
In Mrs. Mason's pleasant little dining parlor, the tea-table was
neatly spread for two, while old Judith, in starched gingham dress,
white muslin apron, bustled in and out, occasionally changing the
position of a curtain or chair, and then stepping backward to witness
the effect. The stuffed rocking chair, with two extra cushions, and a
pillow, was drawn up to the table, indicating that an invalid was
expected to occupy that seat, while near one of the plates was a
handsome bouquet, which Lydia Knight had carefully arranged, and
brought over as a present for her young teacher. A dozen times had
Lydia been told to "clip down to the gate and see if they were
comin';" and at last, seating herself resignedly upon the hall stairs,
Judith began to wonder "what under the sun and moon had happened."
She had not sat there long, ere the sound of wheels again drew her to
the door, and in a moment old Charlotte and the yellow wagon entered
the yard. Mary, who was now nearly well, sprang out, and bounding up
the steps, seized Judith's hand with a grasp which told how glad she
was to see her.
"Why, you ain't dreadful sick, is you?" said Judith peering under her
bonnet.
"Oh, no, not sick at all," returned Mary; and then, as she saw the
chair, with its cushions and pillows, she burst into a loud laugh,
which finally ended in a hearty cry, when she thought how kind was
every one to her.
She had been at home but a few days when she was solicited to take
charge of a small select school. But Mrs Mason thought it best for her
to return to Mount Holyoke, and accordingly she declined Mr. Knight's
offer, greatly to his disappointment, and that of many others. Mrs.
Bradley, who never on any occasion paid her school bill, was the
loudest in her complaints, saying that, "for all Tim never larnt a
speck, and stood at the foot all summer long when Mary kept before,
he'd got so sassy there was no living with him, and she wanted him out
of the way."
Widow Perkins, instead of being sorry was glad, for if Mary didn't
teach, there was no reason why Sally Ann shouldn't. "You'll never have
a better chance," said she to her daughter, "there's no stifficut
needed for a private school, and I'll clap on my things and run over
to Mr Knight's before he gets off to his work."
It was amusing to see Mr. Knight's look of astonishment, when the
widow made her application. Lydia, who chanced to be present, hastily
retreated behind the pantry door, where with her apron over her mouth,
she laughed heartily as she thought of a note, which the candidate for
teaching had once sent them, and in which "i's" figured conspicuously,
while her mother was "_polightly_ thanked for those yeast?"
Possibly Mr. Knight thought of the note, too, for he gave the widow no
encouragement, and when on her way home she called for a moment at
Mrs. Mason's, she "thanked her stars that Sally Ann wasn't obliged to
keep school for a livin', for down below where she came from, teachers
warn't fust cut!"
One morning about a week after Mary's return, she announced her
intention of visiting her mother's grave. "I am accustomed to so much
exercise," said she, "that I can easily walk three miles, and perhaps
on my way home I shall get a ride."
Mrs Mason made no objection, and Mary was soon on her way. She was a
rapid walker, and almost before she was aware of it, reached the
village. As she came near Mrs. Campbell's, the wish naturally arose
that Ella should accompany her. Looking up she saw her sister in the
garden and called to her.
"Wha-a-t?" was the very loud and uncivil answer which came back to
her, and in a moment Ella appeared round the corner of the house,
carelessly swinging her straw flat, and humming a fashionable song. On
seeing her sister she drew back the corners of her mouth into
something which she intended for a smile, and said, "Why, I thought it
was Bridget calling me, you looked so much like her in that gingham
sun-bonnet. Won't you come in?"
"Thank you," returned Mary, "I was going to mother's grave, and
thought perhaps you would like to accompany me."
"Oh, no," said Ella, in her usual drawling tone, "I don't know as I
want to go. I was there last week and saw the monument."
"What monument?" asked Mary, and Ella replied "Why, didn't you know
that Mrs. Mason, or the town, or somebody, had bought a monument, with
mother's and father's, and Franky's, and Allie's name on it?"
Mary waited for no more, but turned to leave, while Ella, who was
anxious to inquire about Ida Selden, and who could afford to be
gracious, now that neither Miss Porter, nor the city girls were there,
called after her to stop and rest, when she came back. Mary promised
to do so, and then hurrying on, soon reached the graveyard, where, as
Ella had said, there stood by her parents' graves a large handsome
monument.
William Bender was the first person who came into her mind, and as she
thought of all that had passed between them, and of this last proof of
his affection, she seated herself among the tall grass and flowers,
which grew upon her mother's grave, and burst into tears. She had not
sat there long, ere she was roused by the sound of a footstep. Looking
up, she saw before her the young gentleman, who the year previous had
visited her school in Rice Corner. Seating himself respectfully by her
side, he spoke of the three graves, and asked if they were her friends
who slept there. There was something so kind and affectionate in his
voice and manner, that Mary could not repress her tears, and snatching
up her bonnet which she had thrown aside she hid her face in it and
again wept.
For a time, Mr. Stuart suffered her to weep, and then gently removed
the gingham bonnet, and holding her hand between his, he tried to
divert her mind by talking upon other topics, asking her how she had
been employed during the year, and appearing greatly pleased, when
told that she had been at Mount Holyoke. Observing, at length, that
her eyes constantly rested upon the monument, he spoke of that,
praising its beauty, and asking if it were her taste.
"No," said she, "I never saw it until to-day, and did not even know it
was here."
"Some one wished to surprise you, I dare say," returned Mr. Stuart.
"It was manufactured in Boston, I see. Have you friends there?"
Mary replied that she had one, a Mr. Bender, to which Mr. Stuart
quickly rejoined, "Is it William Bender? I have heard of him through
our mutual friend George Moreland, whom you perhaps have seen."
Mary felt the earnest gaze of the large, dark eyes which were fixed
upon her face, and coloring deeply, she replied that they came from
England in the same vessel.
"Indeed!" said Mr. Stuart. "When I return to the city shall I refresh
his memory a little with regard to you?"
"I'd rather you would not," answered Mary. "Our paths in life are very
different; and he of course would feel no interest in me."
"Am I to conclude that you, too, feel no interest in him?" returned
Mr. Stuart, and again his large eyes rested on Mary's face, with a
curious expression.
But she made no reply, and soon rising up, said it was time for her to
go home.
"Allow me to accompany you as far as Mrs. Campbell's," said Mr.
Stuart. "I am going to call upon Miss Ella, whose acquaintance I
accidentally made last summer. Suppose you call too. You know her, of
course?" Mary replied that she did, and was about to speak of the
relationship between them, when Mr. Stuart abruptly changed the
conversation, and in a moment more they were at Mrs. Campbell's door.
Ella was so much delighted at again seeing Mr. Stuart, that she hardly
noticed her sister at all, and did not even ask her to remove her
bonnet. After conversing a while upon indifferent subjects, Mr. Stuart
asked Ella to play, saying he was very fond of music. But Ella, like
other fashionable ladies, "couldn't of course play any thing,--was
dreadfully out of practice, and besides that her music was all so
old-fashioned."
Mr. Stuart had probably seen such cases before, and knew how to manage
them, for he continued urging the matter, until Ella arose, and
throwing back her curls, sauntered to wards the piano, saying she
should be obliged to have some one turn the leases for her. Mr. Stuart
of course volunteered his services, and after a violent turning of the
music-stool by way of elevating it, and a turning back by way of
lowering it, Ella with the air of a martyr, declared herself ready to
play whatever Mr. Stuart should select, provided it were not "old."
A choice being made she dashed off into a spirited waltz, skipping a
good many notes, and finally ending with a tremendous crash. Fond as
Mr. Stuart was of music, he did not call for a repetition from her,
but turning to Mary asked if she could play.
Ella laughed aloud at the idea, and when Mary replied that she did
play a little, she laughed still louder, saying, "Why, _she_ can't
play, unless it's 'Days of Absence,' with one hand, or something of
that kind."
"Allow me to be the judge," said Mr. Stuart, and leading Mary to the
piano, he bade her play any thing she pleased.
Ida had been a faithful teacher, and Mary a persevering pupil, so that
whatever she played was played correctly and with good taste; at least
Mr. Stuart thought so, for he kept calling for piece after piece,
until she laughingly told him her catalogue was nearly exhausted, and
she'd soon be obliged to resort to the _scales!_
Ella looked on in amazement, and when Mary had finished playing,
demanded of her where she had learned so much, and who was her
teacher; adding that her _fingering_ was wretched; "but then," said
she, "I suppose you can't help it, your fingers are so stiff!"
For a moment Mr. Stuart regarded her with an expression which it
seemed to Mary she had seen before, and then consulting his watch,
said he must go, as it was nearly car time, After he was gone, Ella
asked Mary endless questions as to where she met him, what he said,
and if she told him they were sisters. "How elegantly he was dressed,"
said she, "Didn't you feel dreadfully ashamed of your gingham
sun-bonnet and gown?"
"Why, no," said Mary. "I never once thought of them."
"I should, for I know he notices every thing," returned Ella; and then
leaning on her elbow so as to bring herself in range of the large
mirror opposite, she continued, "seems to me my curls are not arranged
becomingly this morning."
Either for mischief, or because she really thought so, Mary replied
"that they did not look as well as usual;" whereupon Ella grew red in
the face, saying that "she didn't think she looked so very badly."
Just then the first dinner bell rang, and starting up Ella exclaimed,
"Why-ee, _I_ forgot that ma expected General H. to dine. I must go and
dress this minute."
Without ever asking her sister to stay to dinner, she hastily left the
room. Upon finding herself so unceremoniously deserted, Mary tied on
the despised gingham bonnet and started for home. She had reached the
place where Ella the year before met with Mr. Stuart, when she saw a
boy, whom she knew was living at the poor-house, coming down the hill
as fast as a half blind old horse could bring him. When he got
opposite to her he halted, and with eyes projecting like harvest
apples, told her to "jump in, for Mrs. Parker was dying, and they had
sent for her."
"I've been to your house," said he, "and your marm thought mebby I'd
meet you."
Mary immediately sprang in, and by adroitly questioning Mike, whose
intellect was not the brightest in the world, managed to ascertain
that Mrs. Parker had been much worse for several days, that Sal
Furbush had turned nurse; faithfully attending her night and day, and
occasionally sharing "her vigils" with a "sleek, fancy-looking girl,
who dressed up in meetin' clothes every day, and who had first
proposed sending for Mary." Mary readily guessed that the "sleek,
fancy-looking" girl was Jenny, and on reaching the poor house she
found her suspicions correct, for Jenny came out to meet her, followed
by Sally, who exclaimed, "Weep, oh daughter, and lament, for earth has
got one woman less and Heaven one female more!"
Passing into the house, Mary followed Jenny to the same room where
once her baby sister had lain, and where now upon the same table lay
all that was mortal of Mrs. Parker. Miss Grundy, who was standing near
the body, bowed with a look of very becoming resignation, and then as
if quite overcome, left the room. Just then a neighbor, who seemed to
be superintending affairs, came in, and Mary asked what she could do
to assist them.
"Nothing until to-morrow, when if you please you can help make the
shroud," answered the woman, and Jenny catching Mary around the neck,
whispered, "You'll stay all night with me; there's no one at home but
Rose, and we'll have such a nice time."
Mary thought of the little room up stairs where Alice had died, and
felt a desire to sleep there once more, but upon inquiry she found
that it was now occupied by Sally Furbush.
"You must come and see my little parlor," said she to Mary, and taking
her hand she led her up to the room, which was greatly improved. A
strip of faded, but rich carpeting was before the bed. A low
rocking-chair stood near the window, which was shaded with a striped
muslin curtain, the end of which was fringed out nearly a quarter of a
yard, plainly showing Sally's handiwork. The contents of the old
barrel were neatly stowed away in a square box, on the top of which
lay a worn portfolio, stuffed to its utmost capacity with manuscript.
"For all this elegance," said Sally, "I am indebted to my worthy and
esteemed friend, Miss Lincoln."
But Mary did not hear, for her eyes were riveted upon another piece of
furniture. At the foot of the bed stood Alice's cradle, which Billy
Bender had brought there on that afternoon now so well remembered by
Mary.
"Oh, Sally," said she, "how came this here?"
"Why," returned Sally, hitting it a jog, "I don't sleep any now, and I
thought the nights would seem shorter, if I had this to rock and make
believe little Willie was in it. So I brought it down from the garret,
and it affords me a sight of comfort, I assure you!"
Mary afterwards learned that often during the long winter nights the
sound of that cradle could be heard, occasionally drowned by Sally's
voice, which sometimes rose almost to a shriek, and then died away in
a low, sad wail, as she sang a lullaby to the "Willie who lay sleeping
on the prairie at the West."
As there was now no reason why she should not do so, Mary accompanied
Jenny home, where, as she had expected, she met with a cool reception
from Rose, who merely nodded to her, and then resumed the book she was
reading. After tea, Mary stepped for a moment into the yard, and then
Rose asked Jenny what she intended doing with her "genteel visitor."
"Put her in the best chamber, and sleep there myself," said Jenny,
adding that "they were going to lie awake all night just to see how it
seemed."
But in spite of this resolution, as midnight advanced Jenny found that
Mary's answers, even when Billy Bender was the topic, became more and
more unsatisfactory, and finally ceased altogether. Concluding to let
her sleep a few minutes, and then wake her up, Jenny turned on her
pillow and when her eyes again opened, the morning sun was shining
through the half-closed shutters, and the breakfast bell was jingling
in the lower hall.
When Mary returned to the poor-house, she found a new arrival in the
person of Mrs. Perkins! The widow had hailed Mike as he passed her
house the day before, and on learning how matters stood, offered to
accompany him home. Mike, who had an eye for "fancy-looking girls,"
did not exactly like Mrs. Perkins' appearance. Besides that, his
orders were to bring Mary, and he had no idea of taking another as a
substitute. Accordingly, when on his return from Mrs. Mason's, he saw
the widow standing at her gate, all equipped with parasol and satchel,
he whipped up his horse, and making the circuit of the school-house,
was some ways down the road ere the widow suspected his intentions.
"Thanking her stars" (her common expression) "that she had a good pair
of feet," Mrs. Perkins started on foot, reaching the poor-house about
sunset. She was now seated in what had been Mrs. Parker's room, and
with pursed-up lips, and large square collar very much like the
present fashion, was stitching away upon the shroud, heaving
occasionally a long-drawn sigh, as she thought how lonely and desolate
poor Mr. Parker must feel!
"Will you give me some work?" asked Mary, after depositing her bonnet
upon the table.
"There's nothing for you," returned Mrs. Perkins. "I can do all that
is necessary, and prefer working alone."
"Yes, she shall help too, if she wants to," snapped out Mrs. Grundy,
with one of her old shoulder jerks. "Mary's handy with the needle, for
I larnt her myself."
In a short time Mrs. Perkins disappeared from the room, and Sally's
little bright eyes, which saw every thing, soon spied her out in the
woodshed asking Mr. Parker "if Polly Grundy couldn't be kept in the
kitchen where she belonged."
Scarcely had she left the shed when Miss Grundy herself appeared,
fretting about "the meddlesome old widow who had come there stickin'
round before Mrs. Parker was hardly cold!"
This put a new idea into Sally's head, and the whole household was
startled as she broke out singing, "the loss of one is the gain of
another," and so forth. Mrs. Perkins proposed that she should be shut
up, but Miss Grundy, for once in Sally's favor, declared "she'd fight,
before such a thing should be done;" whereupon Mrs. Perkins lamented
that the house had now "no head," wondering how poor Mr. Parker would
get along with "such an unmanageable crew."
Numerous were the ways with which the widow sought to comfort the
widower, assuring him "that she ached for him clear to her heart's
core! and I know how to pity you, too," said she, "for when my
Hezekiah died I thought I couldn't stand it." Then by way of
administering further consolation, she added that "the _wust_ was to
come, for only them that had tried it knew how lonesome it was to live
on day after day, and night after night, week in and week out, without
any husband or wife."
Mr. Parker probably appreciated her kindness, for when after the
funeral the following day she announced her intention of walking home,
he ordered Mike to "tackle up," and carry her. This was hardly in
accordance with the widow's wishes, and when all was in readiness, she
declared that she was afraid to ride after Mike's driving. Uncle Peter
was then proposed as a substitute, but the old man had such a dread of
Mrs. Perkins, who Sal (for mischief) had said was in love with him,
that at the first intimation he climbed up the scuttle hole, where an
hour afterwards he was discovered peeping cautiously out to see if the
coast was clear. Mr. Parker was thus compelled to go himself, Miss
Grundy sending after him the very Christian-like wish that "she hoped
he'd tip over and break the widow's neck!"