University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
MT. HOLYOKE.

“Oh, forlorn, what a looking place!” exclaimed Rose Lincoln,
as from the windows of the crowded vehicle in which they
had come from the cars, she first obtained a view of the not
very handsome village of South Hadley.

Rose was in the worst of humors, for by some mischance,
Mary was on the same seat with herself, and consequently she
was very much distressed, and crowded. She, however, felt a
little afraid of Aunt Martha, who she saw was inclined to favor
the object of her wrath, so she restrained her fault-finding
spirit until she arrived at South Hadley, where every thing
came in for a share of her displeasure.

“That the Seminary!” said she contemptuously, as they
drew up before the building. “Why, it isn't half as large,
or handsome as I supposed. Oh, horror! I know I shan't
stay here long.”

The furniture of the parlor was also very offensive to the
young lady, and when Miss Lyon came in to meet them, she,
too, was secretly styled, “a prim, fussy, slippery-tongued old
maid.” Jenny, however, who always saw the bright side of
every thing, was completely charmed with the sweet smile,
and placid face, so well remembered by all who have seen and
known, the founder of Mt. Holyoke Seminary. After some
conversation between Miss Lyon and Aunt Martha, it was

decided that Rose and Jenny should room together, as a
matter of course, and that Mary should room with Ida.
Rose had fully intended to room with Ida herself, and this
decision made her very angry; but there was no help for it,
and she was obliged to submit.

Our readers are probably aware, that an examination in
certain branches is necessary, ere a pupil can be admitted
into the school at Mt. Holyoke, where the course of instruction
embraces three years, and three classes, Junior, Middle,
and Senior. Rose, who had been much flattered on account
of her scholarship, confidently expected to enter the Middle
class. Jenny, too, had the same desire, though she confessed
to some misgivings concerning her knowledge of a goodly
number of the necessary branches. Ida was really an excellent
scholar, and was prepared to enter the Senior class,
while Mary aspired to nothing higher, than admission into
the Junior. She was therefore greatly surprised, when Aunt
Martha, after questioning her as to what she had studied,
proposed that she should be examined for the Middle class.

“Oh, no,” said Mary quickly, “I should fail, and I
wouldn't do that for the world.”

“Have you ever studied Latin?” asked Aunt Martha.

Before Mary could reply, Rose exclaimed, “She study
Latin! How absurd! Why, she was never away to school
in her life.”

Aunt Martha silenced her with a peculiar look, while
Mary answered, that for more than two years, she had been
reading Latin under Mrs. Mason's instruction.

“And you could not have a better teacher,” said Aunt
Martha. “So try it by all means.”

“Yes, do try,” said Ida and Jenny, in the same breath,
and after a time, Mary rather reluctantly consented.

“I'll warrant she intends to sit by us, so we can tell her

every other word,” muttered Rose to Jenny, but when the
trial came she thought differently.

“It would be wearisome to give the examination in detail,
so we will only say, that at its close, Rose Lincoln heard
with shame and confusion, that she could only be admitted
into the Junior Class, her examination having proved a very
unsatisfactory one. Poor Jenny, too, who had stumbled
over almost every thing, shared the same fate, while Mary,
expecting nothing, and hoping nothing, burst into tears when
told that she had acquitted herself creditably, in all the
branches requisite for an admission into the Middle class.

“Mrs. Mason will be so glad, and Billy, too,” was her
first thought; and then, as she saw how disappointed Jenny
looked, she seized the first opportunity to throw her arms
around her neck, and whisper to her how sorry she was that
she had failed.

Jenny, however, was of too happy a temperament to remain
sad for a long time, and before night her loud, merry
laugh had more than once rang out in the upper hall, causing
even Miss Lyon to listen, it was so clear and joyous. That
afternoon, Aunt Martha, who was going to call upon Mrs.
Mason, started for home, leaving the girls alone among
strangers. It was a rainy, dreary day, and the moment her
aunt was gone, Ida threw herself upon the bed and burst into
tears. Jenny, who occupied the next room, was also low
spirited, for Rose was terribly cross, calling her a “ninny
hammer,” and various other dignified names. Among the
four girls, Mary was the only cheerful one, and after a time
she succeeded in comforting Ida, while Jenny, catching something
of her spirit, began to laugh loudly, as she told a group
of girls how many ludicrous blunders she made when they
undertook to question her about Euclid, which she had never
studied in her life!

And now in a few days life at Mt. Holyoke commenced
in earnest. Although perfectly healthy, Mary looked rather
delicate, and it was for this reason, perhaps, that the sweeping
and dusting of several rooms were assigned to her, as her
portion of the labor. Ida and Rose fared much worse, and
were greatly shocked, when told that they both belonged to
the wash circle!

“I declare,” said Rose, “it's too bad. I'll walk home
before I'll do it;” and she glanced at her white hands, to
make sure they were not already discolored by the dreaded
soap suds!

Jenny was delighted with her allotment, which was dish-washing.

“I'm glad I took that lesson at the poor-house years
ago,” said she one day to Rose, who snappishly replied,
“I'd shut up about the poor-house, or they'll think you the
pauper instead of Madam Howard.”

“Pauper? Who's a pauper?” asked Lucy Downs, eager
to hear so desirable a piece of news.

Ida Selden's large black eyes rested reprovingly upon
Rose, who nodded towards Mary, and forthwith Miss Downs
departed with the information, which was not long in reaching
Mary's ears.

“Why, Mary, what's the matter?” asked Ida, when
towards the close of the day she found her companion weeping
in her room. Without lifting her head, Mary replied,
“It's foolish in me to cry, I know, but why need I always
be reproached with having been a pauper. I couldn't help
it. I promised mother I would take care of little Allie as
long as she lived, and if she went to the poor-house, I had to
go too.”

“And who was little Allie?” asked Ida, taking Mary's
hot hands between her own.

In few words Mary related her history, omitting her
acquaintance with George Moreland, and commencing at the
night when her mother died. Ida was warm-hearted and affectionate,
and cared but little whether one were rich or poor,
if she liked them. From the first she had been interested in
Mary, and now winding her arms about her neck, and kissing
away her tears, she promised to love her, and to be to her as
true and faithful a friend as Jenny. This promise, which
was never broken, was of great benefit to Mary, drawing to
her side many of the best girls in school, who soon learned
to love her for herself, and not because the wealthy Miss
Selden seemed so fond of her.

Neither Ida nor Rose were as happy in school, as Mary
and Jenny. Both of them fretted about the rules, which
they were obliged to observe, and both of them disliked and
dreaded their portion of the work. Ida, however, was happier
than Rose, for she was fonder of study, and one day
when particularly interested in her lessons, she said to Mary,
that she believed she should be tolerably contented, were it
not for the everlasting washing.

Looking up a moment after, she saw that Mary had disappeared.
But she soon returned, exclaiming, “I've fixed
it. It's all right. I told her I was a great deal stronger
than you, that I was used to washing, and you were not, and
that it made your side ache; so she consented to have us exchange,
and after this you are to dust for me, and I am to
wash for you.”

Ida disliked washing so much, that she raised no very
strong objections to Mary's plan, and then when she found
how great a kindness had really been shown her, she tried
hard to think of some way in which to repay it. At last,
George Moreland, to whom she had written upon the subject,
suggested something which met her views excatly. Both

Ida and her aunt had told George about Mary, and without
hinting that he knew her, he immediately commenced making
minute inquiries concerning her, of Ida, who communicated
them to Mary, wondering why she always blushed so
deeply, and tried to change the conversation. In reply to the
letter in which Ida had told him of Mary's kindness, George
wrote, “You say Miss Howard is very fond of music, and
that there is no teacher connected with the institution.
Now why not give her lessons yourself? You can do it as
well as not, and it will be a good way of showing your gratitude.”

Without waiting to read farther, Ida ran in quest of
Mary, to whom she told what George had written. “You
don't know,” said she, “how much George asks about you. I
never saw him so much interested in any one before, and
half the girls in Boston are after him, too.”

“Poor fellow, I pity him,” said Mary; and Ida continued,
“Perhaps it seems foolish in me to say so much about him,
but if you only knew him, you wouldn't wonder. He's the
handsomest young man I ever saw, and then he's so good, so
different from other young men, especially Henry Lincoln.”

Here the tea bell rang, and the conversation was discontinued.

When Rose heard that Mary was taking music lessons,
she exclaimed to a group of girls with whom she was talking,
“Well, I declare, beggars taking music lessons! I
wonder what'll come next? Why, you've no idea how dreadfully
poor she is. Our summer residence is near the alms-house,
and when she was there I saw a good deal of her.
She had scarcely any thing fit to wear, and I gave her one
of my old bonnets, which I do believe she wore for three or
four years.”

“Why, Rose Lincoln,” said Jenny, who had overheard

all, and now came up to her sister, “how can you tell what
you know is not true?”

“Not true?” angrily retorted Rose. “Pray didn't she
have my old bonnet?”

“Yes,” answered Jenny, “but I bought it of you, and
paid you for it with a bracelet Billy Bender gave me,—you
know I did.”

Rose was cornered, and as she saw no way of extricating
herself, she turned on her heel and walked away, muttering
about the meanness of doing a charitable deed, and then
boasting of it!

The next day Jenny chanced to go for a moment to
Mary's room. As she entered it, Mary looked up, saying,
“You are just the one I want to see. I've been writing
about you to Billy Bender. You can read it if you choose.”

When Jenny had finished reading the passage referred
to, she said, “Oh, Mary, I didn't suppose you overheard
Rose's unkind remarks about that bonnet.”

“But I did,” answered Mary, “and I am glad, too, for
I had always supposed myself indebted to her instead of
you. Billy thought so, too, and as you see, I have undeceived
him. Did I tell you that he had left Mr. Selden's employment,
and gone into a law office?”

“Oh, good, good. I'm so glad,” exclaimed Jenny, dancing
about the room. “Do you know whose office he is in?”

“Mr. Worthington's,” answered Mary, and Jenny continued:
“Why, Henry is studying there. Isn't it funny?
But Billy will beat him, I know he will,—he's so smart.
How I wish he'd write to me! Wouldn't I feel grand to
have a gentleman correspondent?”

“Suppose you write to him,” said Mary, laughingly.
“Here's just room enough,” pointing to a vacant spot upon

the paper. He's always asking about you, and you can answer
his questions yourself.”

“I'll do it,” said Jenny, and seizing the pen, she thoughtlessly
scribbled off a ludicrous account of her failure, and
of the blunders she was constantly committing, while she
spoke of Mary as the pattern for the whole school, both in
scholarship and behavior.

“There!” said she, wiping her gold pen upon her silk
apron (for Jenny still retained some of the habits of her
childhood), “I guess he'll think I'm crazy, but I hope he'll
answer it, any way.”

Mary hoped so too, and when at last Billy's letter came,
containing a neatly written note for Jenny, it was difficult
telling which of the two girls was the happier.

Soon after Mary went to Mount Holyoke, she had received
a letter from Billy, in which he expressed his pleasure that
she was at school, but added that the fact of her being there
interfered greatly with his plan of educating her himself.
“Mother's ill health,” said he, “prevented me from doing
any thing until now, and just as I am in a fair way to accomplish
my object, some one else has stepped in before me.
But it is all right, and as you do not seem to need my services
at present, I shall next week leave Mr. Selden's employment,
and go into Mr. Worthington's law office as clerk,
hoping that when the proper time arrives, I shall not be
defeated in another plan which was formed in boyhood, and
which has become the great object of my life.”

Mary felt perplexed and troubled. Billy's letters of late
had been more like those of a lover than a brother, and she
could not help guessing the nature of “the plan formed in
boyhood.” She knew she should never love him except with
a sister's love, and though she could not tell him so, her next
letter lacked the tone of affection with which she was accustomed

to write, and was on the whole a rather formal affair.
Billy, who readily perceived the change, attributed it to the
right cause, and from that time his letters became far less
cheerful than usual.

Mary usually cried over them, wishing more than once
that Billy would transfer his affection from herself to Jenny,
and it was for this reason, perhaps, that without stopping to
consider the propriety of the matter, she first asked Jenny
to write to him, and then encouraged her in answering his
notes, which (as her own letters grew shorter) became gradually
longer and longer, until at last his letters were addressed
to Jenny, while the notes they contained were were
directed to Mary!