University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.
VACATION.

In Mrs. Mason's pleasant little dining parlor, the tea-table
was neatly spread for two, while old Judith, in starched
gingham dress, white muslin apron, bustled in and out, occasionally
changing the position of a curtain or chair, and then
stepping backward to witness the effect. The stuffed rocking,
chair, with two extra cushions, and a pillow, was drawn up
to the table, indicating that an invalid was expected to occupy
that seat, while near one of the plates was a handsome
bouquet, which Lydia Knight had carefully arranged, and
brought over as a present for her young teacher. A dozen
times had Lydia been told to “clip down to the gate and see
if they were comin';” and at last, seating herself resignedly
upon the hall stairs, Judith began to wonder “what under
the sun and moon had happened.”

She had not sat there long, ere the sound of wheels
again drew her to the door, and in a moment old Charlotte
and the yellow wagon entered the yard. Mary, who was
now nearly well, sprang out, and bounding up the steps,
seized Judith's hand with a grasp which told how glad she
was to see her.

“Why, you ain't dreadful sick, is you?” said Judith,
peering under her bonnet.

“Oh, no, not sick at all,” returned Mary; and then, as

she saw the chair, with its cushions and pillows, she burst
into a loud laugh, which finally ended in a hearty cry, when
she thought how kind was every one to her.

She had been at home but a few days when she was solicited
to take charge of a small select school. But Mrs.
Mason thought it best for her to return to Mount Holyoke,
andaccordingly she declined Mr. Knight's offer, greatly to his
disappointment, and that of many others. Mrs. Bradley,
who never on any occasion paid her school bill, was the loudest
in her complaints, saying that, “for all Tim never larnt
a speck, and stood at the foot all summer long when Mary
kept before, he'd got so sassy there was no living with him,
and she wanted him out of the way.”

Widow Perkins, instead of being sorry was glad, for if
Mary didn't teach, there was no reason why Sally Ann
shouldn't. “You'll never have a better chance,” said she
to her daughter, “there's no stifficut needed for a private
school, and I'll clap on my things and run over to Mr.
Knight's before he gets off to his work.”

It was amusing to see Mr. Knight's look of astonishment,
when the widow made her application. Lydia, who chanced
to be present, hastily retreated behind the pantry door, where
with her apron over her mouth, she laughed heartily as she
thought of a note, which the candidate for teaching had
once sent them, and in which “i's” figured conspicuously,
while her mother was “polightly thanked for those yeast?”

Possibly Mr. Knight thought of the note, too, for he
gave the widow no encouragement, and when on her way
home she called for a moment at Mrs. Mason's, she “thanked
her stars that Sally Ann wasn't obliged to keep school for a
livin', for down below where she came from, teachers warn't
fust cut!”

One morning about a week after Mary's return, she announced

her intention of visiting her mother's grave. “I am
accustomed to so much exercise,” said she, “that I can easily
walk three miles, and perhaps on my way home I shall
get a ride.”

Mrs. Mason made no objection, and Mary was soon on
her way. She was a rapid walker, and almost before she
was aware of it, reached the village. As she came near
Mrs. Campbell's, the wish naturally arose that Ella should
accompany her. Looking up she saw her sister in the garden
and called to her.

“Wha-a-t?” was the very loud and uncivil answer
which came back to her, and in a moment Ella appeared round
the corner of the house, carelessly swinging her straw flat, and
humming a fashionable song. On seeing her sister she drew
back the corners of her mouth into something which she intended
for a smile, and said, “Why, I thought it was Bridget
calling me, you looked so much like her in that gingham sun-bonnet.
Won't you come in?”

“Thank you,” returned Mary, “I was going to mother's
grave, and thought perhaps you would like to accompany
me.”

“Oh, no,” said Ella, in her usual drawling tone, “I
don't know as I want to go. I was there last week and saw
the monument.”

“What monument?” asked Mary, and Ella replied,
“Why, didn't you know that Mrs. Mason, or the town, or
somebody, had bought a monument, with mother's and father's,
and Franky's, and Allie's name on it?”

Mary waited for no more, but turned to leave, while Ella,
who was anxious to inquire about Ida Selden, and who could
afford to be gracious, now that neither Miss Porter, nor the
city girls were there, called after her to stop and rest, when
she came back. Mary promised to do so, and then hurrying

on, soon reached the graveyard, where, as Ella had said,
there stood by her parents' graves a large handsome monument.

William Bender was the first person who came into her
mind, and as she thought of all that had passed between
them, and of this last proof of his affection, she seated herself
among the tall grass and flowers, which grew upon her
mother's grave, and burst into tears. She had not sat there
long, ere she was roused by the sound of a footstep. Looking
up, she saw before her the young gentleman, who the year
previous had visited her school in Rice Corner. Seating
himself respectfully by her side, he spoke of the three graves,
and asked if they were her friends who slept there. There
was something so kind and affectionate in his voice and manner,
that Mary could not repress her tears, and snatching up
her bonnet which she had thrown aside she hid her face in
it and again wept.

For a time, Mr. Stuart suffered her to weep, and then
gently removed the gingham bonnet, and holding her hand
between his, he tried to divert her mind by talking upon
other topics, asking her how she had been employed during
the year, and appearing greatly pleased, when told that she
had been at Mount Holyoke. Observing, at length, that her
eyes constantly rested upon the monument, he spoke of that,
praising its beauty, and asking if it were her taste.

“No,” said she, “I never saw it until to-day, and did
not even know it was here.”

“Some one wished to surprise you, I dare say,” returned
Mr. Stuart. “It was manufactured in Boston, I see. Have
you friends there?”

Mary replied that she had one, a Mr. Bender, to which
Mr. Stuart quickly rejoined, “Is it William Bender? I

have heard of him through our mutual friend George Moreland,
whom you perhaps have seen.”

Mary felt the earnest gaze of the large, dark eyes which
were fixed upon her face, and coloring deeply, she replied
that they came from England in the same vessel.

“Indeed!” said Mr. Stuart. “When I return to the
city shall I refresh his memory a little with regard to you?”

“I'd rather you would not,” answered Mary. “Our
paths in life are very different; and he of course would feel
no interest in me.”

“Am I to conclude that you, too, feel no interest in
him?” returned Mr. Stuart, and again his large eyes rested
on Mary's face, with a curious expression.

But she made no reply, and soon rising up, said it was
time for her to go home.

“Allow me to accompany you as far as Mrs. Campbell's,”
said Mr. Stuart. “I am going to call upon Miss Ella, whose
acquaintance I accidentally made last summer. Suppose
you call too. You know her, of course?” Mary replied that
she did, and was about to speak of the relationship between
them, when Mr. Stuart abruptly changed the conversation,
and in a moment more they were at Mrs. Campbell's door.
Ella was so much delighted at again seeing Mr. Stuart, that
she hardly noticed her sister at all, and did not even ask her to
remove her bonnet. After conversing a while upon indifferent
subjects, Mr. Stuart asked Ella to play, saying he was
very fond of music. But Ella, like other fashionable ladies,
“couldn't of course play any thing,—was dreadfully out of
practice, and besides that her music was all so old-fashioned.”

Mr. Stuart had probably seen such cases before, and knew
how to manage them, for he continued urging the matter,
until Ella arose, and throwing back her curls, sauntered towards

the piano, saying she should be obliged to have some
one turn the leaves for her. Mr. Stuart of course volunteered
his services, and after a violent turning of the music-stool
by way of elevating it, and a turning back by way of lowering
it, Ella with the air of a martyr, declared herself ready to
play whatever Mr. Stuart should select, provided it were not
“old.”

A choice being made she dashed off into a spirited waltz,
skipping a good many notes, and finally ending with a tremendous
crash. Fond as Mr. Stuart was of music, he did
not call for a repetition from her, but turning to Mary asked
if she could play.

Ella laughed aloud at the idea, and when Mary replied
that she did play a little, she laughed still louder, saying,
“Why, she can't play, unless it's `Days of Absence,' with
one hand, or something of that kind.”

“Allow me to be the judge,” said Mr. Stuart, and leading
Mary to the piano, he bade her play any thing she pleased.

Ida had been a faithful teacher, and Mary a persevering
pupil, so that whatever she played was played correctly and
with good taste; at least Mr. Stuart thought so, for he kept
calling for piece after piece, until she laughingly told him
her catalogue was nearly exhausted, and she'd soon be
obliged to resort to the scales!

Ella looked on in amazement, and when Mary had finished
playing, demanded of her where she had learned so much,
and who was her teacher; adding that her fingering was
wretched; “but then,” said she, “I suppose you can't help
it, your fingers are so stiff!”

For a moment Mr. Stuart regarded her with an expression
which it seemed to Mary she had seen before, and then consulting
his watch, said he must go, as it was nearly car time.
After he was gone, Ella asked Mary endless questions as to

where she met him, what he said, and if she told him they
were sisters. “How elegantly he was dressed,” said she.
“Didn't you feel dreadfully ashamed of your gingham sun-bonnet
and gown?”

“Why, no,” said Mary. “I never once thought of
them.”

“I should, for I know he notices every thing,” returned
Ella; and then leaning on her elbow so as to bring herself in
range of the large mirror opposite, she continued, “seems to
me my curls are not arranged becomingly this morning.”

Either for mischief, or because she really thought so,
Mary replied “that they did not look as well as usual;”
whereupon Ella grew red in the face, saying that “she
didn't think she looked so very badly.”

Just then the first dinner bell rang, and starting up Ella
exclaimed, “Why-ee, I forgot that ma expected General H.
to dine. I must go and dress this minute.”

Without ever asking her sister to stay to dinner, she
hastily left the room. Upon finding herself so unceremoniously
deserted, Mary tied on the despised gingham bonnet
and started for home. She had reached the place where Ella
the year before met with Mr. Stuart, when she saw a boy,
whom she knew was living at the poor-house, coming down
the hill as fast as a half blind old horse could bring him.
When he got opposite to her he halted, and with eyes projecting
like harvest apples, told her to “jump in, for Mrs. Parker
was dying, and they had sent for her.”

“I've been to your house,” said he, “and your marm
thought mebby I'd meet you.”

Mary immediately sprang in, and by adroitly questioning
Mike, whose intellect was not the brightest in the world,
managed to ascertain that Mrs Parker had been much worse
for several days, that Sal Furbush had turned nurse, faithfully

attending her night and day, and occasionally sharing
“her vigils” with a “sleek, fancy-looking girl, who dressed
up in meetin' clothes every day, and who had first proposed
sending for Mary.” Mary readily guessed that the “sleek,
fancy-looking” girl was Jenny, and on reaching the poor
house she found her suspicions correct, for Jenny came out to
meet her, followed by Sally, who exclaimed, “Weep, oh
daughter, and lament, for earth has got one woman less and
Heaven one female more!”

Passing into the house, Mary followed Jenny to the same
room where once her baby sister had lain, and where now
upon the same table lay all that was mortal of Mrs. Parker.
Miss Grundy, who was standing near the body, bowed with a
look of very becoming resignation, and then as if quite overcome,
left the room. Just then a neighbor, who seemed to
be superintending affairs, came in, and Mary asked what she
could do to assist them.

“Nothing until to-morrow, when if you please you can
help make the shroud,” answered the woman, and Jenny
catching Mary around the neck, whispered, “You'll stay all
night with me; there's no one at home but Rose, and we'll
have such a nice time.”

Mary thought of the little room up stairs where Alice
had died, and felt a desire to sleep there once more, but upon
inquiry she found that it was now occupied by Sally Furbush.

“You must come and see my little parlor,” said she to
Mary, and taking her hand she led her up to the room, which
was greatly improved. A strip of faded, but rich carpeting
was before the bed. A low rocking-chair stood near the window,
which was shaded with a striped muslin curtain, the
end of which was fringed out nearly a quarter of a yard,
plainly showing Sally's handiwork. The contents of the old
barrel were neatly stowed away in a square box, on the top

of which lay a worn portfolio, stuffed to its utmost capacity
with manuscript.

“For all this elegance,” said Sally, “I am indebted to
my worthy and esteemed friend, Miss Lincoln.”

But Mary did not hear, for her eyes were riveted upon
another piece of furniture. At the foot of the bed stood
Alice's cradle, which Billy Bender had brought there on that
afternoon now so well remembered by Mary.

“Oh, Sally,” said she, “how came this here?”

“Why,” returned Sally, hitting it a jog, “I don't sleep
any now, and I thought the nights would seem shorter, if I
had this to rock and make believe little Willie was in it. So
I brought it down from the garret, and it affords me a sight
of comfort, I assure you!”

Mary afterwards learned that often during the long winter
nights, the sound of that cradle could be heard, occasionally
drowned by Sally's voice, which sometimes rose almost
to a shriek, and then died away in a low, sad wail, as
she sang a lullably to the “Willie who lay sleeping on the
prairie at the West.”

As there was now no reason why she should not do so,
Mary accompanied Jenny home, where, as she had expected,
she met with a cool reception from Rose, who merely nodded to
her, and then resumed the book she was reading. After tea,
Mary stepped for a moment into the yard, and then Rose
asked Jenny what she intended doing with her “genteel
visitor.”

“Put her in the best chamber, and sleep there myself,”
said Jenny, adding that “they were going to lie awake all
night just to see how it seemed.”

But in spite of this resolution, as midnight advanced
Jenny found that Mary's answers, even when Billy Bender
was the topic, became more and more unsatisfactory, and

finally ceased altogether. Concluding to let her sleep a few
minutes, and then wake her up, Jenny turned on her pillow,
and when her eyes again opened, the morning sun was shining
through the half-closed shutters, and the breakfast bell was
jingling in the lower hall.

When Mary returned to the poor-house, she found a new
arrival in the person of Mrs. Perkins! The widow had
hailed Mike as he passed her house the day before, and on
learning how matters stood, offered to accompany him home.
Mike, who had an eye for “fancy-looking girls,” did not exactly
like Mrs. Perkins' appearance. Besides that, his orders
were to bring Mary, and he had no idea of taking another as a
substitute. Accordingly, when on his return from Mrs. Mason's,
he saw the widow standing at her gate, all equipped
with parasol and satchel, he whipped up his horse, and making
the circuit of the school-house, was some ways down the road
ere the widow suspected his intentions. “Thanking her
stars” (her common expression) “that she had a good pair
of feet,” Mrs. Perkins started on foot, reaching the poor-house
about sunset. She was now seated in what had been
Mrs. Parker's room, and with pursed-up lips, and large square
collar very much like the present fashion, was stitching away
upon the shroud, heaving occasionally a long-drawn sigh, as
she thought how lonely and desolate poor Mr. Parker must
feel!

“Will you give me some work?” asked Mary, after depositing
her bonnet upon the table.

“There's nothing for you,” returned Mrs. Perkins. “I
can do all that is necessary, and prefer working alone.”

“Yes, she shall help too, if she wants to,” snapped out
Mrs. Grundy, with one of her old shoulder jerks. “Mary's
handy with the needle, for I larnt her myself.”

In a short time Mrs. Perkins disappeared from the room,

and Sally's little bright eyes, which saw every thing, soon
spied her out in the woodshed asking Mr. Parker “if Polly
Grundy couldn't be kept in the kitchen where she belonged.”

Scarcely had she left the shed when Miss Grundy herself
appeared, fretting about “the meddlesome old widow who had
come there stickin' round before Mrs. Parker was hardly
cold!”

This put a new idea into Sally's head, and the whole
household was startled as she broke out singing, “the loss of
one is the gain of another,” and so forth. Mrs. Perkins proposed
that she should be shut up, but Miss Grundy, for once
in Sally's favor, declared “she'd fight, before such a thing
should be done;” whereupon Mrs. Perkins lamented that the
house had now “no head,” wondering how poor Mr. Parker
would get along with “such an unmanageable crew.”

Numerous were the ways with which the widow sought
to comfort the widower, assuring him “that she ached
for him clear to her heart's core! and I know how to pity
you, too,” said she, “for when my Hezekiah died I thought
I couldn't stand it.” Then by way of administering further
consolation, she added that “the wust was to come, for only
them that had tried it knew how lonesome it was to live on
day after day, and night after night, week in and week out,
without any husband or wife.”

Mr. Parker probably appreciated her kindness, for when
after the funeral the following day she announced her intention
of walking home, he ordered Mike to “tackle up,” and
carry her. This was hardly in accordance with the widow's
wishes, and when all was in readiness, she declared that she
was afraid to ride after Mike's driving. Uncle Peter was
then proposed as a substitute, but the old man had such a
dread of Mrs. Perkins, who Sal (for mischief) had said was
in love with him, that at the first intimation he climbed up

the scuttle hole, where an hour afterwards he was discovered
peeping cautiously out to see if the coast was clear. Mr.
Parker was thus compelled to go himself, Miss Grundy sending
after him the very Christian-like wish that “she hoped
he'd tip over and break the widow's neck!”