 | CHAPTER XVI.
THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS. The English orphans, or, A home in the new
world |  |
16. CHAPTER XVI.
THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS.
In the old brown school-house, overshadowed by apple-trees,
and sheltered on the west by a long steep hill, where the
acorns and wild grapes grew, Mary Howard taught her little
flock of twenty-five, coaxing some, urging others, and teaching
them all by her kind words and winsome ways to love
her as they had never before loved an instructor.
When first she was proposed as a teacher in Rice Corner,
Widow Perkins, and a few others who had no children to
send, held up their hands in amazement, wondering “what
the world was comin' to, and if the committee man, Mr.
Knight, s'posed they was goin' to be rid over rough-shod by
a town pauper; but she couldn't get a stifficut, for the
Orthodox minister wouldn't give her one; and if he did, the
Unitarian minister wouldn't!”
Accordingly, when it was known that the ordeal had
been passed, and that Mary had in her possession a piece of
paper about three inches square, authorizing her to teach a
common district school, this worthy conclave concluded that
“either every body had lost their senses, or else Miss Mason,
who was present at the examination, had sat by and
whispered in her ear the answers to all hard questions.”
“In all my born days I never seen any thing like it,” said
the widow, as she distributed her green tea, sweetened with
“But you'll see, she won't keep her time more'n half
out.—Sally Ann, pass them nutcakes.—Nobody's goin' to
send their children to a pauper. There's Miss Bradley says
she'll take her'n out the first time they get licked.—Have
some more sass, Miss Dodge. I want it eat up, for I believe
it's a workin',—but I telled her that warn't the trouble;
Mary's too softly to hurt a miskeeter. And so young too.
It's government she'll lack in.—If any body'll have a piece
of this dried apple pie, I'll cut it.”
Of course, nobody wanted a piece, and one of the ladies,
continuing the conversation, said she supposed Mary would
of course board with Mrs. Mason. The tea-pot lid, which
chanced to be off, went on with a jerk, and with the air of a
much injured woman the widow replied: “Wall, I can tell
her this much, it's no desirable job to board the school-marm,
though any body can see that's all made her so
anxious for Mary to have the school. She's short on't, and
wants a little money. Do any on you know how much she
charges?”
Nobody knew, but a good many “guessed she didn't
charge any thing,” and the widow, rising from the table and
telling Sally Ann to “rense the sass dishes, and pour it in
the vinegar bottle,” led her guests back to the best room,
saying, “a dollar and ninepence (her usual price) was next
to nothing, but she'd warrant Miss Mason had more'n that.”
Fortunately, Mary knew nothing of Mrs. Perkins's displeasure,
and never dreamed that any feeling existed towards
her, save that of perfect friendship. Since we last saw her,
she had grown into a fine, healthy-looking girl. Her face
and figure were round and full, and her complexion, though
still rather pale, was clear as marble, contrasting well with
her dark brown hair and eyes, which no longer seemed unnaturally
yet Billy was not far from right when he called her the
finest looking girl in Chicopee; and it was for this reason,
perhaps, that Mrs. Campbell watched her with so much
jealousy.
Every possible pains had been taken with Ella's education.
The best teachers had been hired to instruct her, and
she was now at a fashionable seminary, but still she did not
possess one half the ease and gracefulness of manner, which
seemed natural to her sister. Since the day of that memorable
visit, the two girls had seen but little of each other.
Ella would not forgive Mrs. Mason for praising Mary, nor
forgive Mary for being praised; and as Mrs. Campbell, too,
pretended to feel insulted, the intercourse between the families
gradually ceased; and oftentimes when Ella met her
sister, she merely acknowledged her presence by a nod, or a
simple “how d'ye do?”
When she heard that Mary was to be a teacher, she said
“she was glad, for it was more respectable than going into
a factory, or working out.” Mrs. Campbell, too, felt in
duty bound to express her pleasure, adding, that “she hoped
Mary would give satisfaction, but 'twas extremely doubtful,
she was so young, and possessed of so little dignity!”
Unfortunately, Widow Perkins's red cottage stood directly
opposite the school-house; and as the widow belonged to
that stirring few who always “wash the breakfast dishes,
and make the beds before any one is up in the house,” she
had ample leisure to watch and report the proceedings of
the new teacher. Now Mrs. Perkins's clock was like its
mistress, always half an hour in advance of the true time,
and Mary had scarcely taught a week ere Mr. Knight, “the
committee man,” was duly hailed in the street, and told
that the “school-marm wanted lookin' to, for she didn't begin
one! Besides that,” she added, “I think she gives 'em
too long a play spell. Any ways, seem's ef some on 'em was
out o'door the hull time.”
Mr. Knight had too much good sense to heed the widow's
complaints, and he merely replied, “I'm glad on't. Five
hours is enough to keep little shavers cramped up in the
house,—glad on't.”
The widow, thus foiled in her attempts at making disturbance,
finally gave up the strife, contenting herself with
quizzing the older girls, and asking them if Mary could do
all the hard sums in Arithmetic, or whether she took them
home for Mrs. Mason to solve! Old leathern-bound Daboll,
too, was brought to light, and its most difficult problems
selected and sent to Mary, who, being an excellent mathematician,
worked them all out to the widow's astonishment.
But when it was known that quill pens had been discarded,
and steel ones substituted in their place, Mrs. Perkins again
looked askance, declaring that Mary couldn't make a quill
pen, and by way of testing the matter, Sally Ann was sent
across the road with a huge bunch of goose quills, which
“Miss Howard” was politely requested “to fix, as ma
wanted to write some letters.”
Mary candidly confessed her ignorance, saying she had
never made a pen in her life; and the next Sabbath the
widow's leghorn was missed from its accustomed pew in the
Unitarian church, and upon inquiry, it was ascertained that
“she couldn't in conscience hear a man preach who would
give a `stifficut' to a girl that didn't know how to make a
pen!”
In spite, however, of these little annoyances, Mary was
contented and happy. She knew that her pupils loved her,
and that the greater part of the district were satisfied, so
always being particularly polite to Sally Ann, finally overcame
their prejudices to a considerable extent.
One afternoon about the middle of July, as Mrs. Perkins
was seated by her front window engaged in “stitching
shoes,” a very common employment in some parts of New
England, her attention was suddenly diverted by a tall,
stylish-looking young man, who, driving his handsome horse
and buggy under the shadow of the apple-trees, alighted and
entered into conversation with a group of little girls who
were taking their usual recess. Mrs. Perkins's curiosity was
roused, and Sally Ann was called to see who the stranger
was. But for a wonder, Sally Ann didn't know, though she
“guessed the hoss was one of the East Chicopee livery.”
“He's talkin' to Liddy Knight,” said she, at the same
time holding back the curtain, and stepping aside so as not
to be visible herself.
“Try if you can hear what he's sayin,” whispered Mrs.
Perkins; but a class of boys in the school-house just then
struck into the multiplication table, thus effectually drowning
any thing which Sally Ann might otherwise have heard.
“I know them children will split their throats. Can't
they hold up a minute,” exclaimed Mrs. Perkins, greatly
annoyed at being thus prevented from overhearing a conversation,
the nature of which she could not even guess.
But as some other Widow Perkins may read this story,
we will for her benefit repeat what the young man was saying
to Lydia Knight, who being nearest to him was the first
one addressed.
“You have a nice place for your school-house and playgrounds.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Lydia, twirling her sunbonnet and
taking up a small round stone between her naked toes.
“Do you like to go to school?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you a good teacher?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is her name?”
“Miss Howard,—Mary Howard, and she lives with Miss
Mason.”
“Mary Howard,—that's a pretty name,—is she pretty
too?”
“Not so dreadful,” chimed in Susan Bradley. “She
licked brother Tim to-day, and I don't think she's much
pretty.”
This speech quickly called out the opinion of the other
girls as follows:
“He ought to be licked, for he stole a knife and then
lied about it; and Miss Howard is real pretty, and you
needn't say she ain't, Susan Bradley.”
“Yes, indeed, she's pretty,” rejoined a second. “Such
handsome eyes, and little white hands.”
“What color are her eyes?” asked the stranger, to
which two replied, “blue,” and three more said “black;”
while Lydia Knight, who was the oldest of the group, finally
settled the question by saying, that “they sometimes looked
blue; but if she was real pleased, or sorry either, they
turned black!”
The stranger smiled and said, “Tell me more about her.
Does she ever scold, or has she too pretty a mouth for
that?”
“No, she never scolds,” said Delia Frost, “and she's got
the nicest, whitest teeth, and I guess she knows it, too, for
she shows them a great deal.”
“She's real white, too,” rejoined Lydia Knight, “though
pa says she used to be yaller as saffron.”
Here there was a gentle rap upon the window, and the
girls starting off, exclaimed, “There, we must go in.”
“May I go too?” asked the stranger, following them to
the door.
The girls looked at each other, then at him, then at each
other again, and at last Lydia said, “I don't care, but I
guess Miss Howard will be ashamed, for 'twas Suke Bradley's
turn to sweep the school-house this noon-time, and she
wouldn't do it, 'cause Tim got licked.”
“Never mind the school-house,” returned the stranger,
“but introduce me as Mr. Stuart.”
Lydia had never introduced any body in her life, and
following her companions to her seat, she left Mr. Stuart
standing in the doorway. With her usual politeness, Mary
came forward and received the stranger, who gave his name
as Mr. Stuart, saying, “he felt much interested in common
schools, and therefore had ventured to call.”
Offering the seat of honor, viz., the splint-bottomed
chair, Mary resumed her usual duties, occasionally casting a
look of curiosity at the stranger, whose eyes seemed constantly
upon her. It was rather warm that day, and when
Mary returned from her dinner, Widow Perkins was greatly
shocked at seeing her attired in a light pink muslin dress,
the short sleeves of which showed to good advantage her
round white arms. A narrow velvet ribbon confined by a
small brooch, and a black silk apron, completed her toilet,
with the exception of a tiny locket, which was suspended
from her neck by a slender gold chain. This last ornament,
immediately riveted Mr. Stuart's attention, and from some
strange cause sent the color quickly to his face. After a
time, as if to ascertain whether it were really a locket, or a
watch, he asked “if Miss Howard could tell him the hour.”
“Certainly, sir,” said she, and stepping to the desk and
she told him that it was half-past three.
He nodded, and seemed very much interested in two little
boys who sat near him, engaged in the laudable employment
of seeing which could snap spittle the farthest and the
best.
Just then there was a movement at the door, and a new
visitor appeared in the person of Mrs. Perkins, who, with her
large feather fan and flounced gingham dress, entered smiling
and bowing, and saying “she had been trying all summer
to visit the school.”
Mr. Stuart immediately arose and offered his chair, but
there was something in his manner which led Mary to suppose
that an introduction was not at all desired, so she omitted
it, greatly to the chagrin of the widow, who, declining
the proffered seat, squeezed herself between Lydia Knight
and another girl, upsetting the inkstand of the one, and
causing the other to make a curious character out of the letter
“X” she chanced to be writing.
“Liddy, Liddy,” she whispered, “who is that man?”
But Lydia was too much engrossed with her spoiled
apron to answer this question, and she replied with, “Marm,
may I g'wout; I've spilt the ink all over my apron.”
Permission, of course, was granted, and as the girl who
sat next knew nothing of the stranger, Mrs. Perkins began
to think she might just as well have staid at home and finished
her shoes. “But,” thought she, “may-be I shall find
out after school.”
Fortune, however, was against the widow, for scarcely
was her feather fan in full play, when Sally Ann came under
the window, and punching her back with a long stick, told
her in a loud whisper, that “she must come right home, for
Uncle Jim and Aunt Dolly had just come from the cars.”
Accordingly, Mrs. Perkins, smoothing down her gingham
flounces, and drawing on her cotton gloves, arose to go, asking
Mary, as she passed, “if that was an acquaintance of
hers.”
Mary shook her head, and the widow, more puzzled than
ever, took her leave.
When school was out, Mr. Stuart, who seemed in no
haste whatever, entered into a lively discussion with Mary
concerning schools and books, adroitly managing to draw her
out upon all the leading topics of the day. At last the conversation
turned upon flowers; and when Mary chanced to
mention Mrs. Mason's beautiful garden, he instantly expressed
a great desire to see it, and finally offered to accompany
Mary home, provided she had no objections. She
could not, of course, say no, and the Widow Perkins, who,
besides attending to “Uncle Jim” and “Annt Dolly,” still
found time to watch the school-house, came very near letting
her buttermilk biscuit burn to a cinder, when she saw the
young man walking down the road with Mary. Arrived at
Mrs. Mason's, the stranger managed to make himself so
agreeable, that Mrs. Mason invited him to stay to tea,—an
invitation which he readily accepted. Whoever he was, he
seemed to understand exactly how to find out whatever he
wished to know; and before tea was over, he had learned of
Mary's intention to attend the academy in Wilbraham, the
next autumn.
“Excuse me for making a suggestion,” said he, “but
why not go to Mt. Holyoke? Do you not think the system
of education there a most excellent one?”
Mary glanced at Mrs. Mason, who replied, that “she
believed they did not care to take a pupil at South Hadley
for a less period than a year; and as Mary was entirely dependent
length of time.”
“That does make a difference,” returned Mr. Stuart;
“but I hope she will not give up Mt. Holyoke entirely, as I
should prefer it to Wilbraham.
Tea being over, Mr. Stuart arose to go; and Mary, as
she accompanied him to the door, could not forbear asking
how he liked Mrs. Mason's garden, which he had forgotten
even to look at!
Blushing deeply, he replied, “I suppose Miss Howard
has learned ere this, that there are in the world things fairer
and more attractive than flowers, but I will look at them
when I come again;” then politely bidding her good night,
he walked away, leaving Mary and Mrs. Mason to wonder,—
the one what he came there for, and the other whether he
would ever come again. The widow, too, wondered and
fidgeted, as the sun went down behind the long hill, and still
under the apple-tree the gray pony stood.
“It beats all nater what's kept him so long,” said she,
when he at last appeared, and, unfastening his horse, drove
off at a furious rate; “but if I live I'll know all about it
to-morrow;” and with this consolatory remark she returned
to the best room, and for the remainder of the evening devoted
herself to the entertainment of Uncle Jim and his
wife Aunt Dolly.
That evening, Mr. Knight, who had been to the Post
Office, called at Mrs. Mason's, bringing with him a letter
which bore the Boston postmark. Passing it to Mary, he
winked at Mrs. Mason, saying, “I kinder guess how all this
writin' works will end; but hain't there been a young chap
to see the school?”
“Yes; how did you know it,” returned Mrs. Mason, while
was handed her.
“Why, you see,” answered Mr. Knight, “I was about at
the foot of the Blanchard hill, when I see a buggy comin'
like Jehu. Just as it got agin me it kinder slackened, and
the fore wheel ran off smack and scissors.”
“Was he hurt?” quickly asked Mary.
“Not a bit on't,” said Mr. Knight, “but he was scared
some, I guess. I got out and helped him, and when he
heard I's from Rice Corner, he said he'd been into school.
Then he asked forty-'leven questions about you, and jest as
I was settin' you up high, who should come a canterin' up
with their long-tailed gowns, and hats like men, but Ella
Campbell, and a great white-eyed pucker that came home
with her from school. Either Ella's horse was scary, or she
did it a purpose, for the minit she got near, it began to rare,
and she would have fell off, if that man hadn't catched it by
the bit, and held her on with t'other hand. I allus was the
most sanguinary of men, (Mr. Knight was never so far
wrong in his life,) and I was buildin' castles about him, and
our little school-marm, when Ella came along, and I gin it
up, for I see that he was took, and she did look handsome
with her curls a flyin'. Wall, as I wasn't of no more use, I
whipped up old Charlotte and come on.”
“When did Ella return?” asked Mary, who had not
before heard of her sister's arrival.
“I don't know,” said Mr. Knight. “The first I see of
her she was cuttin' through the streets on the dead run: but
I mustn't stay here, gabbin', so good night, Miss Mason,—
good night, Mary, hope you've got good news in that are
letter.”
The moment he was gone, Mary ran up to her room, to
read her letter, from which we give the following extract:
have mentioned him to me. I like him very much indeed,
and yet I could not help feeling a little jealous, when he
manifested so much interest in you. Sometimes, Mary, I
think that for a brother I am getting too selfish, and do not
wish any one to like you except myself, but I surely need
not feel so towards George, the best friend I have in Boston.
He is very kind, lending me books, and has even
offered to use his influence in getting me a situation in one
of the best law offices in the city.”
After reading this letter, Mary sat for a long time,
thinking of George Moreland,—of the time when she first
knew him,—of all that William Bender had been to her
since,—and wondering, as girls sometimes will, which she
liked the best. Billy, unquestionably, had the strongest
claim to her love, but could he have known how much satisfaction
she felt in thinking that George still remembered
and felt interested in her, he would have had some reason
for fearing, as he occasionally did, that she would never be
to him aught save a sister.
| CHAPTER XVI.
THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS. The English orphans, or, A home in the new
world | |