University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
THE CLOSING OF THE YEAR.

Rapidly the days passed on at Mount Holyoke. Autumn
faded into winter, whose icy breath floated for a time over
the mountain tops, and then melted away at the approach of
spring, which, with its swelling buds and early flowers, gave
way in its turn to the long bright days of summer. And now
only a few weeks remained ere the annual examination at
which Ida was to be graduated. Neither Rose nor Jenny
were to return the next year, and nothing but Mr. Lincoln's
firmness and good sense had prevented their being sent for
when their mother first heard that they had failed to enter
the Middle class.

Mrs. Lincoln's mortification was undoubtedly greatly
increased from the fact that the despised Mary had entered
in advance of her daughters. “Things are coming to a pretty
pass,” said she. “Yes, a pretty pass; but I might have
known better than to send my children to such a school.”

Mr. Lincoln could not forbear asking her in a laughing
way, “if the schools which she attended were of a higher
order than Mount Holyoke.”

Bursting into tears, Mrs. Lincoln replied that “she didn't
think she ought to be twitted of her poverty.”

“Neither do I,” returned her husband. “You were no
more to blame for working in the factory, than Mary is for
having been a pauper!”

Mrs. Lincoln was silent, for she did not particularly care
to hear about her early days, when she had been an operative
in the cotton mills of Southbridge. She had possessed
just enough beauty to captivate the son of the proprietor, who
was fresh from college, and after a few weeks' acquaintance
they were married. Fortunately her husband was a man of
good sense, and restrained her from the commission of many
foolish acts. Thus when she insisted upon sending for Rose
and Jenny, he promptly replied that they should not come
home! Still, as Rose seemed discontented, complaining that
so much exercise made her side and shoulder ache, and as
Jenny did not wish to remain another year unless Mary did,
he consented that they should leave school at the close of the
term, on condition that they went somewhere else.

“I shall never make any thing of Henry,” said he, “but
my daughters shall receive every advantage, and perhaps one
or the other of them will comfort my old age.”

He had spoken truly with regard to Henry, who was
studying, or pretending to study law in the same office with
Billy Bender. But his father heard no favorable accounts of
him, and from time to time large bills were presented for
the payment of carriage hire, wine, and “drunken sprees”
generally. So it is no wonder the disappointed father sighed,
and turned to his daughters for the comfort his only son refused
to give.

But we have wandered from the examination at Mount
Holyoke, for which great preparations were being made.
Rose, knowing she was not to return, seemed to think all
further effort on her part unnecessary; and numerous were
the reprimands, to say nothing of the black marks which she
received. Jenny, on the contrary, said she wished to
retrieve her reputation for laziness, and leave behind a
good impression. So, never before in her whole life had she

behaved so well, or studied so hard as she did during the last
few weeks of her stay at Mount Holyoke. Ida, who was expecting
her father, aunt and cousin to be present at the anniversary,
was so engrossed with her studies, that she did not
observe how sad and low spirited Mary seemed. She
had tasted of knowledge, and now thirsted for more; but it
could not be; the funds were exhausted, and she must leave
the school, never perhaps to return again.

“How much I shall miss my music, and how much I
shall miss you,” she said one day to Ida, who was giving her
a lesson.

“It's too bad you haven't a piano,” returned Ida, “you
are so fond of it, and improve so fast!” then after a moment
she added, “I have a plan to propose, and may as well do it
now as any time. Next winter you must spend with me in
Boston. Aunt Martha and I arranged it the last time I
was at home, and we even selected your room, which is next
to mine, and opposite to Aunt Martha's. Now what does
your ladyship say to it?”

“She says she can't go,” answered Mary.

“Can't go!” repeated Ida. “Why not? Jenny will be
in the city, and you are always happy where she is; besides
you will have a rare chance for taking music lessons of our
best teachers; and then, too, you will be in the same house
with George, and that alone is worth going to Boston for, I
think.”

Ida little suspected that her last argument was the
strongest objection to Mary's going, for much as she wished
to meet George again, she felt that she would not on any account
go to his own home, lest he should think she came on
purpose to see him. There were other reasons, too, why she
did not wish to go. Henry and Rose Lincoln would both
be in the city, and she knew that neither of them would

scruple to do or say any thing which they thought would
annoy her. Mrs. Mason, too, missed her, and longed to have
her at home; so she resisted all Ida's entreaties, and the next
letter which went to Aunt Martha, carried her refusal.

In a day or two, Mary received two letters, one from
Billy and one from Mrs. Mason, the latter of which contained
money for the payment of her bills; but on offering it
to the Principal, how was she surprised to learn that her
bills had not only been regularly paid and receipted, but that
ample funds were provided for the defraying of her expenses
during the coming year. A faint sickness stole over Mary,
for she instantly thought of Billy Bender, and the obligations
she would now be under to him for ever. Then it occurred
to her how impossible it was that he should have
earned so much in so short a time; and as soon as she could
trust her voice to speak, she asked who it was that had thus
befriended her.

Miss — was not at liberty to tell, and with a secret suspicion
of Aunt Martha, who had seemed much interested in
her welfare, Mary returned to her room to read the other letter,
which was still unopened. It was some time since Billy
had written to her alone, and with more than her usual curiosity,
she broke the seal; but her head grew dizzy, and her
spirits faint, as she read the passionate outpouring of a heart
which had cherished her image for years, and which, though
fearful of rejection, would still tell her how much she was
beloved. “It is no sudden fancy,” said he, “but was conceived
years ago, on that dreary afternoon, when in your
little room at the poor-house, you laid your head in my lap
and wept, as you told me how lonely you were. Do you remember
it, Mary? I do; and never now does your image
come before me, but I think of you as you were then, when
the wild wish that you should one day be mine first entered

my heart. Morning, noon, and night have I thought of
you, and no plan for the future have I ever formed which
had not a direct reference to you. Once, Mary, I believed
my affection for you returned, but now you are changed,
greatly changed. Your letters are brief and cold, and when
I look around for the cause, I am led to fear that I was deceived
in thinking you ever loved me, as I thought you did.
If I am mistaken, tell me so; but if I am not, if you can
never be my wife, I will school myself to think of you as a
brother would think of an only and darling sister.”

This letter produced a strange effect upon Mary. She
thought how much she was indebted to one who had stood so
faithfully by her when all the world was dark and dreary.
She thought, too, of his kindness to the dead, and that appealed
more strongly to her sympathy than aught else he
had ever done for her. There was no one to advise her, and
acting upon the impulse of the moment, she sat down and
commenced a letter, the nature of which she did not understand
herself, and which if sent, would have given a different
coloring to the whole of her after life. She had written but
one page, when the study bell rang, and she was obliged to
put her letter by till the morrow. For several days she had
not been well, and the excitement produced by Billy's letter
tended to increase her illness, so that on the following morning
when she attempted to rise, she found herself seriously
ill. During the hours in which she was alone that day, she
had ample time for reflection, and before night she wrote another
letter to Billy, in which she told him how impossible it
was for her to be the wife of one whom she had always loved
as an own, and dear brother. This letter caused Mary so
much effort, and so many bitter tears, that for several days
she continued worse, and at last gave up all hope of being
present at the examination.

“Oh it's too bad,” said Ida, “for I do want you to see
Cousin George, and I know he'll be disappointed too, for I
never saw any thing like the interest he seems to take in
you.”

A few days afterwards as Mary was lying alone, thinking
of Billy, and wondering if she had done right in writing to
him as she did, Jenny came rushing in wild with delight.

Her father was down stairs, together with Ida's father,
George, and Aunt Martha. “Most the first thing I did,” said
she, “was to inquire after Billy Bender! I guess Aunt Martha
was shocked, for she looked so queer. George laughed,
and Mr. Selden said he was doing well, and was one of the
finest young men in Boston. But why don't you ask about
George? I heard him talking about you to Rose, just as I
left the parlor.”

Mary felt sure that any information of her which Rose
might give would not be very complimentary, and she thought
right; for when Rose was questioned concerning “Miss
Howard,” she at first affected her ignorance of such a person,
and then when George explained himself more definitely,
she said, “Oh, that girl! I'm sure I don't know much
about her, except that she's a charity scholar, or something
of that kind.”

At the words “charity scholar,” there was a peculiar
smile on George's face; but he continued talking, saying,
“that if that were the case, she ought to be very studious,
and he presumed she was.”

“As nearly as I can judge of her,” returned Rose, “she
is not remarkable for brilliant talents; but,” she added, as
she met Ida's eye, “she has a certain way of showing off,
and perhaps I am mistaken with regard to her.”

Very different from this was the description given of
her by Ida, who now came to her cousin's side, extolling

Mary highly, and lamenting the illness which would prevent
George from seeing her. Aunt Martha, also, spoke a word
in Mary's favor, at the same time endeavoring to stop the
unkind remarks of Rose, whom she thoroughly disliked, and
who she feared was becoming too much of a favorite with
George. Rose was not only very handsome, but she also
possessed a peculiar faculty of making herself agreeable
whenever she chose, and in Boston she was quite a favorite
with a certain class of young men. It was for George
Moreland, however, that her prettiest and most coquettish
airs were practised. He was the object which she would
secure; and when she heard Mary Howard so highly commended
in his presence, she could not forbear expressing
her contempt, fancying that he, with his high English
notions, would feel just as she did, with regard to poverty
and low origin. As for George, it was difficult telling
whom he did prefer, though the last time Rose was in Boston,
rumor had said that he was particularly attentive to
her; and Mrs. Lincoln, who was very sanguine, once hinted
to Ida, the probability that a relationship would sooner or
later exist between the two families.

Rose, too, though careful not to hint at such a thing,
in Ida's presence, was quite willing that others of her
companions at Mount Holyoke should fancy there was an
intimacy, if not an engagement between herself and Mr.
Moreland. Consequently he had not been in South Hadley
twenty-four hours, ere he was pointed out by some of the
villagers, as being the future husband of the elder Miss
Lincoln, whose haughty, disagreeable manners had become
a subject of general remark. During the whole of George's
stay at Mount Holyoke, Rose managed to keep him at her
side, entertaining him occasionally with unkind remarks concerning
Mary, who, she said, was undoubtedly feigning her

sickness, so as not to appear in her classes, where she knew
she could do herself no credit; “but,” said she, “as soon as
the examination is over, she'll get well fast enough, and
bother us with her company to Chicopee.”

In this Rose was mistaken, for when the exercises closed,
Mary was still too ill to ride, and it was decided that she
should remain a few days until Mrs. Mason could come for
her. With many tears Ida and Jenny bade their young
friend good-bye, but Rose, when asked to go up and see her
turned away disdainfully, amusing herself during their
absence by talking and laughing with George Moreland.

The room in which Mary lay, commanded a view of the
yard and gateway; and after Aunt Martha, Ida, and Jenny
had left her, she arose, and stealing to the window, looked
out upon the company as they departed. She could readily
divine which was George Moreland, for Rose Lincoln's
shawl and satchel were thrown over his arm, while Rose
herself walked close to his elbow, apparently engrossing his
whole attention. Once he turned around, but fearful of
being herself observed, Mary drew back behind the window
curtain, and thus lost a view of his face. He, however,
caught a glimpse of her, and asked if that was the room in
which Miss Howard was sick.

Rose affected not to hear him, and continued enumerating
the many trials which she had endured at school, and
congratulating herself upon her escape from the “horrid
place.” But for once George was not an attentive listener.
Notwithstanding his apparent indifference, he was greatly
disappointed at not seeing Mary. It was for this he had
gone to Mount Holyoke; and in spite of Rose's endeavors to
make him talk, he was unusually silent all the way, and
when they at last reached Chicopee, he highly offended the
young lady by assisting Jenny to alight instead of herself.

“I should like to know what you are thinking about,”
she said rather pettishly, as she took his offered hand to say
good-bye.

With a roguish look in his eye, George replied, “I've
been thinking of a young lady. Shall I tell you her name?”

Rose blushed, and looking interestingly embarrassed,
answered, that of course 'twas no one whom she knew.

“Yes, 'tis,” returned George, still holding her hand,
and as Aunt Martha, who was jealously watching his movements
from the window, just then called out to him “to
jump in, or he'd be left,” he put his face under Rose's bonnet,
and whispered, “Mary Howard!”

“Kissed her, upon my word!” said Aunt Martha with a
groan, which was rendered inaudible to Ida by the louder
noise of the engine.