A QUESTION
Towards the last of April, Mrs. Mason and Mary returned to their old
home in the country. On Ella's account, Mrs. Campbell had decided to
remain in the city during a part of the summer, and she labored hard
to keep Mary also, offering as a last inducement to give Mrs. Mason a
home too. But Mrs. Mason preferred her own house in Chicopee, and
thither Mary accompanied her, promising, however, to spend the next
winter with her aunt, who wept at parting with her more than she would
probably have done had it been Ella.
Mary had partially engaged to teach the school in Rice Corner, but
George, assuming a kind of authority over her, declared she should
not.
"I don't want your eyes to grow dim and your cheeks pale, in that
little pent-up room," said he. "You know I've been there and seen for
myself."
Mary colored, for George's manner of late had puzzled her, and Jenny
had more than once whispered in her ear "I know George loves you, for
he looks at you just as William does at me, only a little more so!"
Ida, too, had once mischievously addressed her as "Cousin," adding
that there was no one among her acquaintances whom she would as
willingly call by that name. "When I was a little girl," said she,
"they used to tease me about George, but I'd as soon think of marrying
my brother. You never saw Mr. Elwood, George's classmate, for he's in
Europe now. Between you and me, I like him and--"
A loud call from Aunt Martha prevented Ida from finishing, and the
conversation was not again resumed. The next morning Mary was to
leave, and as she stood in the parlor talking with Ida, George came in
with a travelling satchel in his hand, and a shawl thrown carelessly
over his arm.
"Where are you going?" asked Ida.
"To Springfield. I have business there," said George.
"And when will you return?" continued Ida, feeling that it would be
doubly lonely at home.
"That depends on circumstances," said he. "I shall stop at Chicopee on
my way back, provided Mary is willing."
Mary answered that she was always glad to see her friends, and as the
carriage just then drove up, they started together for the depot. Mary
never remembered of having had a more pleasant ride than that from
Boston to Chicopee. George was a most agreeable companion, and with him
at her side she seemed to discover new beauties in every object which
they passed, and felt rather sorry when the winding river, and the
blue waters of Pordunk Pond warned her that Chicopee Station was near
at hand.
"I shall see you next week," said George, as he handed her from the
cars, which the next moment rolled over the long meadow, and
disappeared through the deep cut in the sandy hillside.
For a week or more Judith had been at Mrs. Mason's house, putting
things to rights, and when the travellers arrived they found every
thing in order. A cheerful fire was blazing in the little parlor, and
before it stood the tea-table nicely arranged, while two beautiful
Malta kittens, which during the winter had been Judith's special
care, lay upon the hearth-rug asleep, with their soft velvet paws
locked lovingly around each other's neck.
"Oh, how pleasant to be at home once more, and alone," said Mrs.
Mason, but Mary did not reply. Her thoughts were elsewhere, and much
as she liked being alone, the presence of a certain individual would
not probably have marred her happiness to any great extent. But _he_
was coming soon, and with that in anticipation, she appeared cheerful
and gay as usual.
Among the first to call upon them was Mrs. Perkins who came early in
the morning, bringing her knitting work and staying all day. She had
taken to dressmaking, she said, and thought may-be she could get some
new ideas from Mary's dresses, which she very coolly asked to see.
With the utmost good humor, Mary opened her entire wardrobe to the
inspection of the widow, who, having recently forsaken the Unitarian
faith, and gone over to the new Methodist church in River street,
turned conscientiously away from the gay party dresses, wondering how
sensible people, to say nothing of Christian people, could find
pleasure in such vanities!
"But then," said she, "I hear you've joined the Episcopals, and that
accounts for it, for they allow of most any thing, and in my opinion
ain't a whit better than the Catholics."
"Why, we are Catholic. Ain't you?" asked Mary.
The knitting work dropped, and with a short ejaculatory prayer of
"Good Lord," Mrs. Perkins exclaimed, "Well, I'm glad you've owned up.
Half on 'em deny it,--but there 'tis in black and white in the Prayer
Book, 'I believe in the Holy Catholic Church.'"
It was in vain that Mary referred her to the Dictionary for a
definition of the word 'Catholic.' She knew all she wanted to know,
and she shouldn't wonder, bein' 'twas Friday, if Miss Mason didn't
have no meat for dinner.
The appearance of a nicely roasted bit of veal quieted her fears on
that subject, and as the effects of the strong green tea became
apparent, she said, "like enough she'd been too hard on the
Episcopals, for to tell the truth, she never felt so solemn in her
life as she did the time she went to one of their meetins'; but," she
added, "I do object to them two gowns, and I can't help it!"
At last the day was over, and with it the visit of the widow, who had
gathered enough gossiping materials to last her until the Monday
following, when the arrival in the neighborhood of George Moreland,
threw her upon a fresh theme, causing her to wonder "if 'twan't Mary's
beau, and if he hadn't been kinder courtin' her ever since the time he
visited her school."
She felt sure of it when, towards evening, she saw them enter the
school-house, and nothing but the presence of a visitor prevented her
from stealing across the road, and listening under the window. She
would undoubtedly have been highly edified, could she have heard their
conversation. The interest which George had felt in Mary when a little
child, was greatly increased when he visited her school in Rice
Corner, and saw how much she was improved in her manners and
appearance; and it was then that he conceived the idea of educating
her, determining to marry her if she proved to be all he hoped she
would.
That she did meet his expectations, was evident from the fact that his
object in stopping at Chicopee, was to settle a question which she
alone could decide. He had asked her to accompany him to the
school-house, because it was there his resolution had been formed, and
it was there he would make it known. Mary, too, had something which
she wished to say to him. She would thank him for his kindness to her
and her parents' memory; but the moment she commenced talking upon the
subject, George stopped her, and for the first time since they were
children, placed his arm around her waist, and kissing her smooth
white brow, said, "Shall I tell you, Mary, how you can repay it?"
She did not reply, and he continued, "Give me a husband's right to
care for you, and I shall be repaid a thousand fold."
Whatever Mary's answer might have been, and indeed we are not sure
that she answered at all, George was satisfied; and when he told her
how dear she was to him, how long he had loved her, and asked if he
might not hope that he, too, had been remembered, the little golden
locket which she placed in his hand was a sufficient reply. Without
Ida's aid he had heard of the relationship existing between Mrs.
Campbell and Mary, but it made no difference with him. His mind had
long been made up, and in taking Mary for his wife, he felt that he
was receiving the best of Heaven's blessings.
Until the shadows of evening fell around them they sat there, talking
of the future, which George said should be all one bright dream of
happiness to the young girl at his side, who from the very fulness of
her joy wept as she thought how strange it was that she should be the
wife of George Moreland, whom many a dashing belle had tried in vain
to win. The next morning George went back to Boston, promising to
return in a week or two, when he should expect Mary to accompany him
to Glenwood, as he wished to see Rose once more before she died.