University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
A NEW PLAN.

The summer was drawing to a close, and with it Mary's
school. She had succeeded in giving satisfaction to the entire
district with the exception of Mrs. Bradley, who “didn't
know why Tim should be licked and thrashed round just because
his folks wasn't wuth quite so much as some others,”
this being, in her estimation, the only reason why the notorious
Timothy was never much beloved by his teachers. Mr.
Knight, with whom Mary was a great favorite, offered her
the school for the coming winter, but she had decided upon
attending school herself, and after modestly declining his
offer, told him of her intention.

“But where's the money coming from?” said he.

Mary laughingly asked him how many bags of shoes he
supposed she had stitched during the last two years.

“More'n two hundred, I'll bet,” said he.

“Not quite as many as that,” answered Mary; “but still
I have managed to earn my clothes, and thirty dollars besides;
and this, together with my school wages, will pay for
one term, and part of another.”

“Well, go ahead,” returned Mr. Knight. “I'd help you,
if I could. Go ahead, and who knows but you'll one day be
the President's wife.”

Like the majority of New England farmers, Mr. Knight

was far from being wealthy. From sunrise until sundown
he worked upon the old homestead where his father had
dwelt. Spring after spring, he ploughed and planted the
sandy soil. Autumn after autumn he gathered in the slender
harvest, and still said he would not exchange his home
among the hills for all the broad acres of his brother, who,
at the far West, counted his dollars by the thousands. He
would gladly have helped Mary, but around his fireside were
six children dependent upon him for food, clothing, and education,
and he could only wish his young friend success in
whatever she undertook.

When Widow Perkins heard that Mary was going away
to school, she forgot to put any yeast in the bread which she
was making, and bidding Sally Ann “watch it until it riz,”
she posted off to Mrs. Mason's to inquire the particulars,
reckoning up as she went along how much fourteen weeks'
wages would come to at nine shillings (a dollar and a half
New England currency) per week.

“'Tain't no great,” said she, as simultaneously with her
arrival at Mrs. Mason's door, she arrived at the sum of
twenty-one dollars. “'Tain't no great, and I wouldn't wonder
if Miss Mason fixed over some of her old gowns for
her.”

But with all her quizzing, and “pumping,” as Judith
called it, she was unable to ascertain any thing of importance,
and mentally styling Mrs. Mason, Mary, Judith and
all, “great gumpheads,” she returned home, and relieved
Sally Ann from her watch over unleavened bread. Both
Mrs. Mason and Mary laughed heartily at the widow's curiosity,
though, as Mary said, “It was no laughing matter
where the money was to come from which she needed for her
books and clothing.”

Every thing which Mrs. Mason could do for her she did,

and even Judith, who was never famous for generosity,
brought in one Saturday morning a half-worn merino, which
she thought “mebby could be turned and sponged, and made
into somethin' decent,” adding, in an undertone, that “she'd
had it out airin' on the clothes hoss for more'n two hours!”

Sally Furbush, too, brought over the old purple silk
which “Willie's father had given her.” She was getting on
finely with her grammar, she said, and in a few days she
should write to Harper, so that he might have time to engage
the extra help he would necessarily need, in bringing out
a work of that kind!

“I should dedicate it to Mrs. Grundy,” said she, “just
to show her how forgiving I can be, but here is a difficulty.
A person, on seeing the name, `Mrs. Polly Grundy,' would
naturally be led to inquire for `Mr. Polly Grundy,' and this
inquiry carried out, might cause the lady some little embarrassment,
so I've concluded to have the dedication read
thus:—`To Willie's father, who sleeps on the western prairie,
this useful work is tremblingly, tearfully, yet joyfully
dedicated by his relict, Sarah.' ”

Mary warmly approved of this plan, and after a few extra
flourishes in the shape of a courtesy, Sally started for
home.

A few days afterward, Jenny Lincoln came galloping up
to the school-house door, declaring her intention of staying
until school was out, and having a good time. “It's for ever
and ever since I've seen you,” said she, as she gathered up
the skirt of her blue riding-dress, and followed Mary into
the house, “but I've been so bothered with those city girls.
Seems as though they had nothing to do but to get up rides in
hay carts, or picnics in the woods and since Henry came
home they keep sending for us. This afternoon they have

all gone blackberrying in a hay cart, but I'd rather come
here.”

At this point, happening to think that the class in Colburn
who were toeing the mark so squarely, would perhaps
like a chance to recite, Jenny seated herself near the window,
and throwing off her hat, made fun for herself and some
little boys, by tickling their naked toes with the end of her
riding-whip. When school was out, and the two girls were
alone, Jenny entered at once upon the great object of her
visit.

“I hear you are going to Wilbraham,” said she, “but I
want you to go to Mount Holyoke. We are going, a whole
lot of us, that is, if we can pass examination. Rose isn't
pleased with the idea, but I am. I think 'twill be fun to
wash potatoes and scour knives. I don't believe that mother
would ever have sent us there if it were not that Ida
Selden is going. Her father and her aunt Martha used to
be schoolmates with Miss Lyon, and they have always intended
that Ida should graduate at Mount Holyoke. Now,
why can't you go, too?”

Instantly Mary thought of Mr. Stuart, and his suggestion.
“I wish I could,” said she, “but I can't. I haven't
money enough, and there is no one to give it to me.”

“It wouldn't hurt Mrs. Campbell to help you a little,”
returned Jenny. “Why, last term Ella spent almost enough
for candies, and gutta-percha toys, to pay the expense of
half a year's schooling, at Mount Holyoke. It's too bad
that she should have every thing, and you nothing.”

Here Jenny's remarks were interrupted by the loud rattling
of wheels, and the halloo of many voices. Going to
the door, she and Mary saw coming down the road at a furious
rate, the old hay cart, laden with the young people from
Chicopee, who had been berrying in Sturbridge, and were

now returning home in high glee. The horses were fantastically
trimmed with ferns and evergreens, while several of
the girls were ornamented in the same way. Conspicuous
among the noisy group, was Ella Campbell. Henry Lincoln's
broad-brimmed hat was resting on her long curls,
while her white sun-bonnet was tied under Henry's chin.

The moment Jenny appeared, the whole party set up a
shout so deafening, that the Widow Perkins came out in a
trice, to see “if the old Harry was to pay, or what.” No
sooner did Henry Lincoln get sight of Mary, than springing
to his feet, and swinging his arm around his head, he
screamed out, “Three cheers for the school ma'am and her
handsome lover, Billy! Hurrah!”

In the third and last hurrah, the whole company joined,
and when that was finished, Henry struck up on a high key,

but only one voice joined in with his, and that was Ella's!
Mary reddened at what she knew was intended as an insult,
and when she heard her sister's voice chiming in with
Henry, she could not keep back her tears.

“Wasn't that smart?” said Jenny, when at last the hay
cart disappeared from view, and the noise and dust had somewhat
subsided. Then as she saw the tears in Mary's eyes,
she added, “Oh, I wouldn't care if they did teaze me about
Billy Bender. I'd as lief be teazed about him as not.”

“It isn't that,” said Mary, smiling in spite of herself, at
Jenny's frankness. “It isn't that. I didn't like to hear
Ella sing with your brother, when she must have known he
meant to annoy me.”

“That certainly was wrong,” returned Jenny; “but
Ella isn't so much to blame as Henry, who seems to have

acquired a great influence over her during the few weeks he
has been at home. You know she is easily flattered, and I
dare say Henry has fully gratified her vanity in that respect,
for he says she is the only decent-looking girl in Chicopee.
But see, there comes Mrs. Mason, I guess she wonders what
is keeping you so long.”

The moment Mrs. Mason entered the school-room, Jenny
commenced talking about Mount Holyoke, her tongue running
so fast, that it entirely prevented any one else from
speaking, until she stopped for a moment to take breath.
Then Mrs. Mason very quietly remarked, that if Mary
wished to go to Mount Holyoke she could do so. Mary
looked up inquiringly, wondering what mine had opened so
suddenly at her feet; but she received no explanation until
Jenny had bidden her good-bye, and gone. Then she
learned that Mrs. Mason had just received $100 from a man
in Boston, who had years before owed it to her husband, and
was unable to pay it sooner. “And now,” said Mrs. Mason,
“there is no reason why you should not go to Mount Holyoke,
if you wish to.”

The glad tears which came to Mary's eyes were a sufficient
evidence that she did wish to, and the next day a letter
was forwarded to Miss Lyon, who promptly replied,
expressing her willingness to receive Mary as a pupil.
And now Rice Corner was again thrown into a state of fermentation.
Mary was going to Mount Holyoke, and what
was more marvellous still, Mrs. Mason had bought her a black
silk dress, which cost her a dollar a yard! and more than one
good dame declared her intention of “giving up,” if paupers
came on so fast. This having been a pauper was the thing
of which Mary heard frequently, now that her prospects were
getting brighter. And even Ella, when told that her sister was
going to Mount Holyoke, said to Miss Porter, who was still

with her, “Why, isn't she getting along real fast for one who
has been on the town?”

Mrs. Lincoln, too, and Rose were greatly provoked, the
former declaring she would not send her daughters to a
school which was so cheap that paupers and all could go, were
it not that Lizzie Upton had been there, and Ida Selden was
going. Jenny, however, thought differently. She was delighted,
and as often as she possibly could, she came to Mrs.
Mason's to talk the matter over, and tell what good times
they'd have, “provided they didn't set her to pounding
clothes,” which she presumed they would, just because she
was so fat and healthy. The widow assumed a very resigned
air, saying “She never did meddle with other folks'
business, and she guessed she shouldn't begin by 'tendin' to
Mary's, but 'twas a miracle where all the money came from.”

A few more of the neighbors felt worried and troubled,
but as no attention was paid to their remarks, they gradually
ceased, and by the time Mary's preparations were completed,
curiosity and gossip seemed to have subsided altogether.
She was quite a favorite in the neighborhood, and
on the morning when she left home, there was many a kind
good-bye, and word of love spoken to her by those who came
to see her off. Mr. Knight carried her to the depot, where
they found Sally Furbush, accompanied by Tasso, her constant
attendant. She knew that Mary was to leave that
morning, and had walked all that distance, for the sake of
seeing her, and giving her a little parting advice. It was
not quite time for the cars, and Mr. Knight, who was always
in a hurry, said “he guessed he wouldn't stay,” so squeezing
both of Mary's hands, he bade her good-bye, telling her “to
be a good girl, and not get to running after the sparks.”

Scarcely was he gone, when Mary's attention was attracted
by the sound of many voices, and looking from the window,

she saw a group of the city girls advancing towards
the depot. Among them was Ella, talking and laughing
very loudly. Mary's heart beat very rapidly, for she thought
her sister was coming to bid her good-bye, but she was mistaken.
Ella had no thought or care for her, and after glancing
in at the sitting-room, without seeming to see its inmates,
though not to see them was impossible, she turned her back,
and looking across the river, which was directly in front, she
said in her most drawling tone, “Why don't Rose come? I
shan't have time to see her at all, I'm afraid.”

Lizzie Upton, who was also there, looked at her in astonishment,
and then said, “Why, Ella, isn't that your sister?”

“My sister? I don't know. Where?” returned Ella.

Mary laughed, and then Ella, facing about, exclaimed,
“Why, Mary, you here? I forgot that you were going this
morning.”

Before Mary could reply, Sally Furbush arose, and passed
her hand carefully over Ella's head. Partly in fear, and
partly in anger, Ella drew back from the crazy woman, who
said, “Don't be alarmed, little one, I only wanted to find the
cavity which I felt sure was there.”

Lizzie Upton's half-smothered laugh was more provoking
to Ella, than Sally's insinuation of her want of brains,
but she soon recovered her equanimity, for Mr. Lincoln's
carriage at that moment drove up. Henry sprang nimbly
out, kissing his hand to Ella, who blushed, and then turning
to Rose, began wishing she, too, was old enough to go to
Mount Holyoke.

“I guess you'd pass about as good an examination now,
as some who are going,” returned Rose, glancing contemptuonsly
towards Mary, to whom Jenny was eagerly talking.

This directed Henry's attention that way, and simultaneously
his own and Mary's eyes met. With a peculiar expression

of countenance, he stepped towards her, saying,
“Good morning, school ma'am. For what part are you bound
with all this baggage?” pointing to a huge chest with a feather
bed tied over it, the whole the property of a daughter of
Erin, who stood near, carefully guarding her treasure.

Had he addressed Mary civilly, she would have replied
with her usual politeness, but as it was, she made no reply,
and he turned to walk away. All this time Tasso lay under
the table, winking and blinking at his old enemy, with an expression
in his eyes, which Henry would hardly have relished,
could he have seen him.

“Hark! Isn't that the cars?” said Jenny, as a low,
heavy growl fell on her ear; but she soon ascertained what
it was, for as Henry was leaving the room, he kicked aside
the blue umbrella, which Sal had brought with her for fear
of a shower, and which was lying upon the floor.

In an instant, Tasso's growl changed to a bark, and
bristling with anger, he rushed towards Henry, but was stopped
by Sal just in time to prevent his doing any mischief.
With a muttered oath, which included the “old woman” as
well as her dog, the young man was turning away, when
Jenny said, “Shame on you, to swear before ladies!”

After assuring himself by a look that Ella and the city
girls were all standing upon the platform, Henry replied
with a sneer, “I don't see any ladies in the room.”

Instantly Sal, now more furious than the dog, clutched
her long, bony fingers around his arm, saying, “Take back
that insult, sir, or Tasso shall tear you in pieces! What
am I, if I am not a lady?”

Henry felt sure that Sal meant what she said, and with
an air of assumed deference, he replied as he backed himself
out of his uncomfortable quarters, “I beg your pardon,
Mrs. Furbush, I forgot that you were present.”

The whistle of the cars was now heard, and in a moment
the locomotive stood puffing before the depot. From one of
the open windows a fair young face looked out, and a voice
which thrilled Mary's every nerve, it seemed so familiar,
called out, “Oh, Rosa, Jenny, all of you, I'm so glad you
are here; I was afraid there would be some mistake, and I'd
have to go alone.”

“Isn't your father with you?” asked Henry, bowing so
low, that he almost pitched headlong from the platform.

“No,” answered the young lady, “he couldn't leave, nor
George either, so Aunt Martha is my escort. She's fast
asleep just opposite me, never dreaming, I dare say, that
we've stopped.”

“The mischief,” said Henry. “What's to be done?
The old gent was obliged to be in Southbridge to-day, so he
bade me put Rose and Jenny under your father's protection;
but as he isn't here I'll have to go myself.'

“No you won't either,” returned Ida, “Aunt Martha is as
good as a man any time, and can look after three as well as
one.”

“That's Ida Selden! Isn't she handsome?” whispered
Jenny to Mary.

But Mary hardly heard her. She was gazing admiringly
at Ida's animated face, and tracing in it a strong resemblance
to the boyish features, which looked so mischievously
out from the golden locket, which at that moment lay next
to her heart.

“All aboard,” shouted the shrill voice of the conductor,
and Mary awoke from her reverie, and twining her arms
around Sally Furbush's neck, bade her good-bye.

“The Lord be with you,” said Sally, “and be sure you
pay strict attention to Grammar!”

Mary next looked for Ella, but she stood at a distance,

jesting lightly with Henry Lincoln, and evidently determined
not to see her sister, who was hurrying towards her, when,
“All aboard” was again shouted in her ear, while at the
same moment, the conductor lifted her lightly upon the step
where Rose and Jenny were standing.

“This car is brim full,” said Rose, looking over her
shoulder, “but I guess you can find a good seat in the next
one.”

The train was already in motion, and as Mary did not
care to peril her life or limbs for the sake of pleasing Rose,
she followed her into the car, where there was a goodly number
of unoccupied seats, notwithstanding Rose's assertion to
the contrary. As the train moved rapidly over the long,
level meadow, and passed the Chicopee burying-ground, Mary
looked out to catch a glimpse of the thorn-apple tree, which
overshadowed the graves of her parents, and then, as she
thought how cold and estranged was the only one left of all
the home circle, she drew her veil over her face and burst
into tears.

“Who is that young lady?” asked Ida, who was riding
backward and consequently directly opposite to Mary.

“What young lady?” said Rose; and Ida replied, “The
one who kissed that queer-looking old woman and then followed
you and Jenny into the cars.”

“Oh, that was Mary Howard,” was Rose's answer.

“Mary Howard!” repeated Ida, as if the name were
one she had heard before, “who is she, and what is she?”

“Nobody but a town pauper,” answered Rose, and one
of Jenny's protegée's. You see she is sitting by her.”

“She doesn't seem like a pauper,” said Ida. “I
wish she would take off that veil. I want to see how she
looks.”

“Rough and blowsy, of course, like any other country
girl,” was Rose's reply.

By this time Mary had dried her tears, and when they
reached the station at Warren, she removed her veil, disclosing
to view a face, which instead of being “rough and
blowsy” was smooth and fair almost as marble.

“That isn't a pauper, I know,” said Ida; and Rose replied,
“Well, she has been, and what's the difference?”

“But where does she live now?” continued Ida. “I
begin to grow interested.”

“I suppose you remember Mrs. Mason, who used to live
in Boston,” answered Rose. “Well, she has adopted her, I
believe, but I don't know much about it, and care a good
deal less.”

“Mrs. Mason!” repeated Ida. “Why, Aunt Martha
thinks all the world of her, and I fancy she wouldn't sleep quite
so soundly, if she knew her adopted daughter was in the car.
I mean to tell her.—Aunt Martha, Aunt Martha!”

But Aunt Martha was too fast asleep to heed Ida's call,
and a gentle shake was necessary to rouse her to consciousnesss.
But when she became fully awake, and knew why she
was roused, she started up, and going towards Mary, said in
her own peculiarly sweet and winning manner, “Ida tells me
you are Mrs. Mason's adopted daughter, and Mrs. Mason is
the dearest friend I ever had. I am delighted to see you.”

Jenny immediately introduced her to Mary, as Miss Selden,
whispering in her ear at the same time that she was
George's aunt; then rising she gave her seat to Aunt Martha,
taking another one for herself near Rose and Ida. Without
seeming to be curious at all, Aunt Martha had a peculiar way
of drawing people out to talk of themselves, and by the time
they reached the station, where they left the cars for Mt.
Holyoke, she had learned a good share of Mary's early history,
and felt quite as much pleased with the freshness and
simplicity of her young friend, as Mary did with her polished
and elegant manners.