EDUCATION FINISHED.
Vacation was over, and again in the halls of Mount Holyoke was heard
the tread of many feet, and the sound of youthful voices, as one by
one the pupils came back to their accustomed places. For a time Mary
was undecided whether to return or not, for much as she desired an
education, she could not help feeling delicate about receiving it from
a stranger; but Mrs. Mason, to whom all her thoughts and feelings were
confided, advised her to return, and accordingly the first day of the
term found her again at Mount Holyoke, where she was warmly welcomed
by her teachers and companions. Still it did not seem like the olden
time, for Ida was not there, and Jenny's merry laugh was gone. She had
hoped that her sister would accompany her, but in reply to her
persuasions, Ella answered that "she didn't want to work,--she wasn't
obliged to work,--and she wouldn't work!" quoting Rose Lincoln's "pain
in the side, callous on her hand, and cold on her lungs," as a
sufficient reason why every body should henceforth and for ever stay
away from Mount Holyoke.
Mrs. Lincoln, who forgot that Rose had complained of a pain in her
side long before she ever saw South Hadley, advised Mrs. Campbell, by
all means, never to send her daughter to such a place. "To be sure it
may do well enough," said she, "for a great burly creature like Mary
Howard, but your daughter and mine are altogether too delicate and
daintily bred to endure it."
Mrs. Campbell of course consented to this, adding that she had secured
the services of a highly accomplished lady as governess for Ella, and
proposing that Rose and Jenny, instead of accompanying their mother to
the city as usual, should remain with her during the winter, and share
Ella's advantages. To this proposition, Mrs. Lincoln readily assented,
and while Mary, from habitual exercise both indoors and out, was
growing more and more healthful and vigorous, Rose Lincoln, who was
really delicate, was drooping day by day, and growing paler and paler
in the closely heated school-room, where a breath of fresh air rarely
found entrance, as the "accomplished governess" could not endure it.
Daily were her pupils lectured upon the necessity of shielding
themselves from the winter winds, which were sure "to impart such a
rough, blowzy appearance to their complexion."
Rose profited well by this advice, and hardly any thing could tempt
her into the open air, unless it were absolutely necessary. All day
long she half reclined upon a small sofa, which at her request was
drawn close to the stove, and even then complaining of being chilly
she sometimes sat with her shawl thrown over her shoulders. Jenny, on
the contrary, fanned herself furiously at the farthest corner of the
room, frequently managing to open the window slyly, and regale herself
with the snow which lay upon the sill. Often, too, when her lessons
were over for the day, she would bound away, and after a walk of a
mile or so, would return to the house with her cheeks glowing, and her
eyes sparkling like stars. Burnishing a striking contrast to her pale,
sickly sister, who hovered over the stove, shivering if a window were
raised, or a door thrown open.
In the course of the winter Mrs. Lincoln came up to visit her
daughters, expressing herself much pleased with Rose's improved looks
and manners. "Her complexion was so pure" she said, "so different from
what it was when she came from Mount Holyoke."
Poor Jenny, who, full of life and spirits came rushing in to see her
mother, was cut short in her expression of joy by being called "a
perfect bunch of fat!"
"Why, Jenny, what does make you so red and coarse?" said the
distressed mother. "I know you eat too much," and before Mrs. Lincoln
went home, she gave her daughter numerous lectures concerning her
diet; but it only made matters worse; and when six weeks after, Mrs.
Lincoln came again she found that Jenny had not only gained five
pounds, but that hardly one of her dresses would meet!
"Mercy me!" said she, the moment her eye fell upon Jenny's round,
plump cheeks, and fat shoulders, "you are as broad as you are long.
What a figure you would cut in Boston!"
For once the merry Jenny cried, wondering how she could help being
healthy and fat. Before Mrs. Lincoln left Chicopee, she made a
discovery, which resulted in the removal of Jenny to Boston. With the
exception of the year at Mount Holyoke, Jenny had never before passed
a winter in the country, and now everything delighted her. In spite of
her governess's remonstrance, all her leisure moments were spent in
the open air, and besides her long walks, she frequently joined the
scholars, who from the district school came over at recess to slide
down the long hill in the rear of Mrs. Campbell's barns and stables.
For Jenny to ride down hill at all was bad enough, "but to do so with
_district school_ girls, and then be drawn up by coarse, vulgar boys,
was far worse;" and the offender was told to be in readiness to
accompany her mother home, for she could not stay in Chicopee another
week.
"Oh, I'm so glad," said Rose, "for now I shan't freeze to death
nights."
Mrs. Lincoln demanded what she meant, and was told that Jenny insisted
upon having the window down from the top, let the weather be what it
might; "and," added Rose 'when the wind blows hard I am positively
obliged to hold on to the sheets to keep myself in bed!"
"A Mount Holyoke freak," said Mrs. Lincoln. "I wish to mercy neither
of you had ever gone there."
Rose answered by a low cough, which her mother did not hear, or at
least did not notice. Jenny, who loved the country and the country
people, was not much pleased with her mother's plan. But for once Mrs.
Lincoln was determined, and after stealing one more sled-ride down the
long hill, and bidding farewell to the old desk in the school-house,
sacred for the name carved three years before with Billy Bender's
jack-knife, Jenny went back with her mother to Boston, leaving Rose to
droop and fade in the hot, unwholesome atmosphere of Miss Hinton's
school-room.
Not long after Jenny's return to the city, she wrote to Mary an
amusing account of her mother's reason for removing her from Chicopee.
"But on the whole, I am glad to be at home," said she, "for I see
Billy Bender almost every day. I first met him coming down Washington
Street, and he walked with me clear to our gate. Ida Selden had a
party last week, and owing to George Moreland's influence, Billy was
there. He was very attentive to me, though Henry says 'twas right the
other way. But it wasn't. I didn't ask him to go out to supper with
me. I only told him I'd introduce him to somebody who would go, and he
immediately offered me his arm. Oh, how mother scolded, and how angry
she got when she asked me if I wasn't ashamed, and I told her I
wasn't!
"Billy doesn't appear just as he used to. Seems as though something
troubled him; and what is very strange, he never speaks of you, unless
I do first. You've no idea how handsome he is. To be sure, he hasn't
the air of George Moreland, and doesn't dress as elegantly, but I
think he's finer looking. Ever so many girls at Ida's party asked who
he was, and said 'twas a pity he wasn't rich, but that wouldn't make
any difference with me,--I'd have him just as soon as though he was
wealthy.
"How mother would go on if she should see this! But I don't care,--I
like Billy Bender, and I can't help it, and _entre nous_, I believe he
likes me better than he did! But I must stop now, for Lizzie Upton has
called for me to go with her and see a poor blind woman in one of the
back alleys."
From this extract it will be seen that Jenny, though seventeen years
of age, was the same open-hearted, childlike creature as ever. She
loved Billy Bender, and she didn't care who knew it. She loved, too,
to seek out and befriend the poor, with which Boston, like all other
large cities, abounded. Almost daily her mother lectured her upon her
bad taste in the choice of her associates, but Jenny was incorrigible,
and the very next hour might perhaps be seen either walking with Billy
Bender, or mounting the rickety stairs of some crazy old building,
where a palsied old woman or decrepit old man watched for her coming,
and blessed her when she came.
Early in the spring Mr. Lincoln went up to Chicopee to make some
changes in his house, preparatory to his family's removal thither.
When he called at Mrs. Campbell's to see Rose, he was greatly shocked
at her altered and languid appearance. The cough, which her mother had
not observed fell ominously on his ear; for he thought of a young
sister who many years before in the bloom of girlhood had passed away
from his side. A physician was immediately called and after an
examination Rose's lungs were pronounced diseased, though not as yet
beyond cure. She was of course taken from school; and with the utmost
care, and skilful nursing, she gradually grew better.
Jenny, who had never been guilty of any great love for books, was also
told that her school days were over, and congratulated herself upon
being a "full grown young lady," which fact no one would dispute, who
saw her somewhat large dimensions.
When Ella learned that Jenny as well as Rose was emancipated from the
school-room, she immediately petitioned her mother for a similar
privilege, saying that she knew all that was necessary for her to
know. Miss Hinton, too, being weary of one pupil, and desiring a
change for herself, threw her influence in Ella's favor, so that at
last Mrs. Campbell yielded; and Ella, piling up her books, carried
them away, never again referring to them on any occasion, but spending
her time in anticipating the happiness she should enjoy the following
winter; when she was to be first introduced to Boston society.
Unlike this was the closing of Mary's school days. Patiently and
perseveringly, through the year she had studied, storing her mind with
useful knowledge; and when at last the annual examination came, not
one in the senior class stood higher, or was graduated with more honor
than herself. Mrs. Mason, who was there, listened with all a parent's
pride and fondness to her adopted child, as she promptly responded to
every question. But it was not Mrs. Mason's presence alone which
incited Mary to do so well. Among the crowd of spectators she caught a
glimpse of a face which twice before she had seen, once in the
school-room at Rice Corner, and once in the graveyard at Chicopee.
Turn which way she would, she felt, rather than saw, how intently Mr.
Stuart watched her, and when at last the exercises were over, and she
with others arose to receive her Diploma, she involuntarily glanced in
the direction where she knew he sat. For an instant their eyes met,
and in the expression of his, she read an approval warmer than words
could have expressed.
That night Mary sat alone in her room, listening almost nervously to
the sound of every footstep, and half starting up if it came near her
door. But for certain reasons Mr. Stuart did not think proper to call,
and while Mary was confidently expecting him, he was several miles on
his way home.
In a day or two Mary returned to Chicopee, but did not, like Ella, lay
her books aside and consider her education finished. Two or three
hours each morning were devoted to study, or reading of some kind. For
several weeks nothing was allowed to interfere with this arrangement,
but at the end of that time, the quiet of Mrs. Mason's house was
disturbed by the unexpected arrival of Aunt Martha and Ida, who came
up to Chicopee for the purpose of inducing Mrs. Mason and Mary to
spend the coming winter in Boston. At first Mrs. Mason hesitated, but
every objection which either she or Mary raised was so easily put
aside, that she finally consented, saying she would be ready to go
about the middle of November. Aunt Martha, who was a bustling, active
little woman, and fancied that her brother's household always went
wrong without her, soon brought her visit to a close, and within the
week went back to Boston, together with Ida.
The day following their departure, Mrs. Perkins came over to inquire
who "them stuck up folks was, and if the youngest wasn't some kin to
the man that visited Mary's school two years before;" saying "they
favored each other enough to be brother and sister."
"Why, so they do," returned Mary. "I have often tried to think who it
was that Ida resembled; but they are not at all related, I presume."
Mrs. Mason said nothing, and soon changing the conversation, told Mrs.
Perkins of her projected visit.
"Wall, if it don't beat all what curis' things turn up!" said the
widow. "You are going to Boston, and mercy knows what'll become of
me,--but laws, I ain't a goin' to worry; I shall be provided for some
way."
"Why, what is the matter?" asked Mrs. Mason, noticing for the first
time that her visitor seemed troubled.
After walking to the window to hide her emotions, and then again
resuming her rocking chair, the widow communicated to them the
startling information that Sally Ann was going to be married!
"Married! To whom?" asked Mrs. Mason and Mary in the same breath, but
the widow said they must "guess;" so after guessing every marriageable
man or boy in town they gave it up, and were told that it was no more
nor less than Mr. Parker!
"Mr. Parker!" repeated Mary. "Why, he's old enough to be her father,
ain't he?"
"Oh, no," returned Mrs. Perkins; "Sally Ann will be thirty if she
lives till the first day of next January."
"You have kept the matter very quiet," said Mrs. Mason; and the widow,
exacting from each a promise never to tell as long as they lived,
commenced the story of her wrongs.
It seems that not long after Mrs. Parker's demise, Mr. Parker began to
call at the cottage of the widow, sometime to inquire after her
health, but oftener to ask about a _red heifer_ which he understood
Mrs. Perkins had for sale! On these occasions Sally Ann was usually
invisible, so week after week Mr. Parker continued to call, talking
always about the "red heifer," and whether he'd better buy her or not.
"At last," said the widow, "I got sick on't, and one day after he'd
sat more'n two hours, says I, 'Ebenezer, if you want that red heifer,
say so, and that'll end it.' Up he jumps, and says he, 'I'll let you
know in a few days;' then pullin' from his trowsers pocket two little
nurly apples, he laid 'em on the table as a present for Sally Ann!
Wall, the next time he come I was sick, and Sally Ann let him in. I
don't know what possessed me, but thinks to me I'll listen, and as I'm
a livin' woman, instead of ever mentioning the heifer, he asked as
fair and square as ever a man could, if she'd have him! and Sally Ann,
scart nigh about to death, up and said 'Yes.'"
Here the widow, unable to proceed further, stopped, but soon regaining
breath continued, "Nobody but them that's passed through it can guess
how I felt. My head swam, and when I come to I was lyin' on the broad
stair."
"Are they to be married soon?" asked Mrs. Mason, and Mrs. Perkins
answered, "Of course. Was there ever an old fool of a widower who
wasn't in a hurry? Next Thursday is the day sot, and I've come to
invite you, and see if you'd lend me your spoons and dishes, and them
little towels you use on the table, and your _astor_ lamps, and some
flowers if there's any fit, and let Judy come over to help about
cookin' the turkey and sperrib!"
Mrs. Mason promised the loan of all these things, and then the widow
arose to go. Mary, who accompanied her to the door, could not help
asking whether Mr. Parker had finally bought her red heifer.
The calico sun-bonnet trembled, and the little gray eyes flashed
indignantly as she said, "That man never wanted my red heifer a bit
more than he wanted me!"
True to her promise, Mrs. Mason the next Thursday sent Judith over to
the cottage with her "spoons, dishes, little towels, and _astor_
lamp," while she herself carried over the best and fairest flowers
which had escaped the frosts of autumn. Mary was chosen to dress the
bride, who, spite of her red hair, would have looked quite well, had
her skirt been a trifle longer and wider. Mrs. Perkins had insisted
that five breadths of silk was sufficient, consequently Sally Ann
looked as Sal Furbush said, "not wholly unlike a long tallow candle,
with a red wick."
Mrs. Perkins, who flourished in a lace cap and scarlet ribbons,
greeted her son-in-law with a burst of tears, saying she little
thought when they were young that she should ever be his mother!
For the sake of peace Mr. Parker had invited Miss Grundy to be present
at the wedding, but as this was the first intimation that Miss Grundy
had received of the matter, she fell into a violent fit of anger,
bidding him to "go to grass with his invitations," and adding very
emphatically, that "she'd have him to know she never yet saw the day
when she'd marry _him_, or any other living man."
Mr. Parker of course couldn't dispute her, so he turned away,
wondering within himself "what made _wimmen_ so queer!"
The day following the wedding, the bride went to her new home, where
she was received by Miss Grundy with a grunt which was probably
intended for a "how d'ye do." Uncle Peter expressed his pleasure at
making the acquaintance of one more of the "fair sect," but hoped that
"estimable lady her mother, wouldn't feel like visiting her often, as
mothers were very apt to make mischief." Sally Furbush was the only
cool and collected one present, and she did the honors of the house so
gracefully and well, that but for the wildness of her eyes and an
occasional whispering to herself, the bride would never have suspected
her of insanity.