University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.
EDUCATION FINISHED.

Vacation was over, and again in the halls of Mount Holyoke
was heard the tread of many feet, and the sound of youthful
voices, as one by one the pupils came back to their accustomed
places. For a time Mary was undecided whether to
return or not, for much as she desired an education, she could
not help feeling delicate about receiving it from a stranger;
but Mrs. Mason, to whom all her thoughts and feelings were
confided, advised her to return, and accordingly the first day
of the term found her again at Mount Holyoke, where she was
warmly welcomed by her teachers and companions. Still it
did not seem like the olden time, for Ida was not there, and
Jenny's merry laugh was gone. She had hoped that her sister
would accompany her, but in reply to her persuasions,
Ella answered that “she didn't want to work,—she wasn't
obliged to work,—and she wouldn't work!” quoting Rose
Lincoln's “pain in the side, callous on her hand, and cold on
her lungs,” as a sufficient reason why every body should
henceforth and for ever stay away from Mount Holyoke.

Mrs. Lincoln, who forgot that Rose had complained of a
pain in her side long before she ever saw South Hadley, advised
Mrs. Campbell, by all means, never to send her daughter
to such a place. “To be sure it may do well enough,”

said she, “for a great burly creature like Mary Howard, but
your daughter and mine are altogether too delicate and
daintily bred to endure it.”

Mrs. Campbell of course consented to this, adding that
she had secured the services of a highly accomplished lady
as governess for Ella, and proposing that Rose and Jenny,
instead of accompanying their mother to the city as usual,
should remain with her during the winter, and share Ella's
advantages. To this proposition, Mrs. Lincoln readily assented,
and while Mary, from habitual exercise both indoors
and out, was growing more and more healthful and vigorous,
Rose Lincoln, who was really delicate, was drooping day by
day, and growing paler and paler in the closely heated
school-room, where a breath of fresh air rarely found entrance,
as the “accomplished governess” could not endure it.
Daily were her pupils lectured upon the necessity of shielding
themselves from the winter winds, which were sure “to impart
such a rough, blowzy appearance to their complexion.”

Rose profited well by this advice, and hardly any thing
could tempt her into the open air, unless it were absolutely
necessary. All day long she half reclined upon a small sofa,
which at her request was drawn close to the stove, and even
then complaining of being chilly she sometimes sat with her
shawl thrown over her shoulders. Jenny, on the contrary,
fanned herself furiously at the farthest corner of the room,
frequently managing to open the window slyly, and regale
herself with the snow which lay upon the sill. Often, too,
when her lessons were over for the day, she would bound away,
and after a walk of a mile or so, would return to the house
with her cheeks glowing, and her eyes sparkling like stars,
furnishing a striking contrast to her pale, sickly sister, who
hovered over the stove, shivering if a window were raised, or
a door thrown open.

In the course of the winter Mrs. Lincoln came up to visit
her daughters, expressing herself much pleased with Rose's
improved looks and manners. “Her complexion was so
pure,” she said, “so different from what it was when she
came from Mount Holyoke.”

Poor Jenny, who, full of life and spirits came rushing
in to see her mother, was cut short in her expression of joy
by being called “a perfect bunch of fat!”

“Why, Jenny, what does make you so red and coarse?”
said the distressed mother. “I know you eat too much,” and
before Mrs. Lincoln went home, she gave her daughter numerous
lectures concerning her diet; but it only made matters
worse; and when six weeks after, Mrs. Lincoln came again,
she found that Jenny had not only gained five pounds, but
that hardly one of her dresses would meet!

“Mercy me!” said she, the moment her eye fell upon
Jenny's round, plump cheeks, and fat shoulders, “you are
as broad as you are long. What a figure you would cut in
Boston!”

For once the merry Jenny cried, wondering how she could
help being healthy and fat. Before Mrs. Lincoln left Chicopee,
she made a discovery, which resulted in the removal
of Jenny to Boston. With the exception of the year at Mount
Holyoke, Jenny had never before passed a winter in the country,
and now every thing delighted her. In spite of her governess's
remonstrance, all her leisure moments were spent in the open
air, and besides her long walks, she frequently joined the
scholars, who from the district school came over at recess to
slide down the long hill in the rear of Mrs. Campbell's barns
and stables. For Jenny to ride down hill at all was bad
enough, “but to do so with district school girls, and then be
drawn up by coarse, vulgar boys, was far worse;” and the

offender was told to be in readiness to accompany her mother
home, for she could not stay in Chicopee another week.

“Oh, I'm so glad,” said Rose, “for now I shan't freeze
to death nights.”

Mrs. Lincoln demanded what she meant, and was told
that Jenny insisted upon having the window down from the
top, let the weather be what it might; “and,” added Rose,
“when the wind blows hard I am positively obliged to hold
on to the sheets to keep myself in bed!”

“A Mount Holyoke freak,” said Mrs. Lincoln. “I wish
to mercy neither of you had ever gone there.”

Rose answered by a low cough, which her mother did not
hear, or at least did not notice. Jenny, who loved the country
and the country people, was not much pleased with her
mother's plan. But for once Mrs. Lincoln was determined,
and after stealing one more sled-ride down the long hill, and
bidding farewell to the old desk in the school-house, sacred
for the name carved three years before with Billy Bender's
jack-knife, Jenny went back with her mother to Boston, leaving
Rose to droop and fade in the hot, unwholesome atmosphere
of Miss Hinton's school-room.

Not long after Jenny's return to the city, she wrote to
Mary an amusing account of her mother's reason for removing
her from Chicopee. “But on the whole, I am glad to be
at home,” said she, “for I see Billy Bender almost every
day. I first met him coming down Washington Street, and
he walked with me clear to our gate. Ida Selden had a
party last week, and owing to George Moreland's influence,
Billy was there. He was very attentive to me, though Henry
says 'twas right the other way But it wasn't. I didn't ask
him to go out to supper with me. I only told him I'd introduce
him to somebody who would go, and he immediately
offered me his arm. Oh, how mother scolded, and how angry

she got when she asked me if I wasn't ashamed, and I told
her I wasn't!

“Billy doesn't appear just as he used to. Seems as though
something troubled him; and what is very strange, he never
speaks of you, unless I do first. You've no idea how handsome
he is. To be sure, he hasn't the air of George Moreland,
and doesn't dress as elegantly, but I think he's finer
looking. Ever so many girls at Ida's party asked who he
was, and said 'twas a pity he wasn't rich, but that wouldn't
make any difference with me,—I'd have him just as soon as
though he was wealthy.

“How mother would go on if she should see this! But I
don't care,—I like Billy Bender, and I can't help it, and
entre nous, I believe he likes me better than he did! But I
must stop now, for Lizzie Upton has called for me to go with
her and see a poor blind woman in one of the back alleys.”

From this extract it will be seen that Jenny, though seventeen
years of age, was the same open-hearted, childlike
creature as ever. She loved Billy Bender, and she didn't
care who knew it. She loved, too, to seek out and befriend
the poor, with which Boston, like all other large cities,
abounded. Almost daily her mother lectured her upon her
bad taste in the choice of her associates, but Jenny was incorrigible,
and the very next hour might perhaps be seen
either walking with Billy Bender, or mounting the ricketty
stairs of some crazy old building, where a palsied old woman
or decrepit old man watched for her coming, and blessed her
when she came.

Early in the spring Mr. Lincoln went up to Chicopee to
make some changes in his house, preparatory to his family's
removal thither. When he called at Mrs. Campbell's to see
Rose, he was greatly shocked at her altered and languid appearance.
The cough, which her mother had not observed,

fell ominously on his ear; for he thought of a young sister,
who many years before in the bloom of girlhood had passed
away from his side. A physician was immediately called,
and after an examination Rose's lungs were pronounced diseased,
though not as yet beyond cure. She was of course
taken from school; and with the utmost care, and skilful
nursing, she gradually grew better.

Jenny, who had never been guilty of any great love for
books, was also told that her school days were over, and congratulated
herself upon being a “full grown young lady,”
which fact no one would dispute, who saw her somewhat large
dimensions.

When Ella learned that Jenny as well as Rose was emancipated
from the school-room, she immediately petitioned her
mother for a similar privilege, saying that she knew all that
was necessary for her to know. Miss Hinton, too, being
weary of one pupil, and desiring a change for herself, threw
her influence in Ella's favor, so that at last Mrs. Campbell
yielded; and Ella, piling up her books, carried them away,
never again referring to them on any occasion, but spending
her time in anticipating the happiness she should enjoy the
following winter, when she was to be first introduced to Boston
society.

Unlike this was the closing of Mary's school days. Patiently
and perseveringly, through the year she had studied,
storing her mind with useful knowledge; and when at last the
annual examination came, not one in the senior class stood
higher, or was graduated with more honor than herself. Mrs.
Mason, who was there, listened with all a parent's pride and
fondness to her adopted child, as she promptly responded to
every question. But it was not Mrs. Mason's presence alone
which incited Mary to do so well. Among the crowd of spectators
she caught a glimpse of a face which twice before she

had seen, once in the school-room at Rice Corner, and once in
the graveyard at Chicopee. Turn which way she would, she
felt, rather than saw, how intently Mr. Stuart watched her;
and when at last the exercises were over, and she with others
arose to receive her Diploma, she involuntarily glanced in the
direction where she knew he sat. For an instant their eyes
met, and in the expression of his, she read an approval
warmer than words could have expressed.

That night Mary sat alone in her room, listening almost
nervously to the sound of every footstep, and half starting
up if it came near her door. But for certain reasons Mr.
Stuart did not think proper to call, and while Mary was confidently
expecting him, he was several miles on his way home.

In a day or two Mary returned to Chicopee, but did not,
like Ella, lay her books aside and consider her education finished.
Two or three hours each morning were devoted to
study, or reading of some kind. For several weeks nothing
was allowed to interfere with this arrangement, but at the end
of that time, the quiet of Mrs. Mason's house was disturbed
by the unexpected arrival of Aunt Martha and Ida, who
came up to Chicopee for the purpose of inducing Mrs. Mason
and Mary to spend the coming winter in Boston. At first
Mrs. Mason hesitated, but every objection which either she
or Mary raised was so easily put aside, that she finally consented,
saying she would be ready to go about the middle of
November. Aunt Martha, who was a bustling, active little
woman, and fancied that her brother's household always
went wrong without her, soon brought her visit to a close,
and within the week went back to Boston, together with Ida.

The day following their departure, Mrs. Perkins came
over to inquire who “them stuck up folks was, and if the
youngest wasn't some kin to the man that visited Mary's

school two years before;” saying “they favored each other
enough to be brother and sister.”

“Why, so they do,” returned Mary. “I have often tried
to think who it was that Ida resembled; but they are not at
all related, I presume.”

Mrs. Mason said nothing, and soon changing the conversation,
told Mrs. Perkins of her projected visit.

“Wall, if it don't beat all what curis' things turn up!”
said the widow. “You are going to Boston, and mercy
knows what'll become of me,—but laws, I ain't a goin' to
worry, I shall be provided for some way.”

“Why, what is the matter?” asked Mrs. Mason, noticing
for the first time that her visitor seemed troubled.

After walking to the window to hide her emotions, and
then again resuming her rocking chair, the widow communicated
to them the startling information that Sally Ann was
going to be married!

“Married! To whom?” asked Mrs. Mason and Mary
in the same breath, but the widow said they must “guess;”
so after guessing every marriageable man or boy in town they
gave it up, and were told that it was no more nor less than
Mr. Parker!

“Mr. Parker!” repeated Mary. “Why, he's old enough
to be her father, ain't he?”

“Oh, no,” returned Mrs. Perkins; “Sally Ann will be
thirty if she lives till the first day of next January.”

“You have kept the matter very quiet,” said Mrs. Mason;
and the widow, exacting from each a promise never to
tell as long as they lived, commenced the story of her
wrongs.

It seems that not long after Mrs. Parker's demise, Mr.
Parker began to call at the cottage of the widow, sometimes
to inquire after her health, but oftener to ask about a red

heifer which he understood Mrs. Perkins had for sale! On
these occasions Sally Ann was usually invisible, so week after
week Mr. Parker continued to call, talking always about the
“red heifer,” and whether he'd better buy her or not.

“At last,” said the widow, “I got sick on't, and one day
after he'd sat more'n two hours, says I, `Ebenezer, if you
want that red heifer, say so, and that'll end it.' Up he
jumps, and says he, `I'll let you know in a few days;' then
pullin' from his trowsers pocket two little nurly apples, he
laid 'em on the table as a present for Sally Ann! Wall, the
next time he come I was sick, and Sally Ann let him in. I
don't know what possessed me, but thinks to me I'll listen,
and as I'm a livin' woman, instead of ever mentioning the
heifer, he asked as fair and square as ever a man could, if
she'd have him! and Sally Ann, scart nigh about to death,
up and said `Yes.”'

Here the widow, unable to proceed further, stopped, but
soon regaining breath continued, “Nobody but them that's
passed through it can guess how I felt. My head swam, and
when I come to I was lyin' on the broad stair.”

“Are they to be married soon?” asked Mrs. Mason, and
Mrs. Perkins answered, “Of course. Was there ever an old
fool of a widower who wasn't in a hurry? Next Thursday is
the day sot, and I've come to invite you, and see if you'd
lend me your spoons and dishes, and them little towels you
use on the table, and your astor lamps, and some flowers if
there's any fit, and let Judy come over to help about cookin'
the turkey and sperrib!”

Mrs. Mason promised the loan of all these things, and
then the widow arose to go. Mary, who accompanied her to
the door, could not help asking whether Mr. Parker had
finally bought her red heifer.

The calico sunbonnet trembled, and the little gray eyes

flashed indignantly as she said, “That man never wanted my
red heifer a bit more than he wanted me!”

True to her promise, Mrs. Mason the next Thursday sent
Judith over to the cottage with her “spoons, dishes, little
towels, and astor lamp,” while she herself carried over the
best and fairest flowers which had escaped the frosts of autumn.
Mary was chosen to dress the bride, who, spite of her
red hair, would have looked quite well, had her skirt been a
trifle longer and wider. Mrs. Perkins had insisted that five
breadths of silk was sufficient, consequently Sally Ann looked
as Sal Furbush said, “not wholly unlike a long tallow candle,
with a red wick.”

Mrs. Perkins, who flourished in a lace cap and scarlet
ribbons, greeted her son-in-law with a burst of tears, saying
she little thought when they were young that she should ever
be his mother!”

For the sake of peace Mr. Parker had invited Miss Grundy
to be present at the wedding, but as this was the first intimation
that Miss Grundy had received of the matter, she fell
into a violent fit of anger, bidding him to “go to grass with
his invitations,” and adding very emphatically, that “she'd
have him to know she never yet saw the day when she'd marry
him, or any other living man.”

Mr. Parker of course couldn't dispute her, so he turned
away, wondering within himself “what made wimmen so
queer!”

The day following the wedding, the bride went to her new
home, where she was received by Miss Grundy with a grunt,
which was probably intended for a “how d'ye do.” Uncle
Peter expressed his pleasure at making the acquaintance of
one more of the “fair sect,” but hoped that “estimable lady
her mother, wouldn't feel like visiting her often, as mothers
were very apt to make mischief.” Sally Furbush was the

only cool and collected one present, and she did the honors
of the house so gracefully and well, that but for the wildness
of her eyes and an occasional whispering to herself, the bride
would never have suspected her of insanity.