University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.
A QUESTION.

Towards the last of April, Mrs. Mason and Mary returned
to their old home in the country. On Ella's account, Mrs.
Campbell had decided to remain in the city during a part of
the summer, and she labored hard to keep Mary also, offering
as a last inducement to give Mrs. Mason a home too.
But Mrs. Mason preferred her own house in Chicopee, and
thither Mary accompanied her, promising, however, to spend
the next winter with her aunt, who wept at parting with her
more than she would probably have done had it been Ella.

Mary had partially engaged to teach the school in Rice
Corner, but George, assuming a kind of authority over her,
declared she should not.

“I don't want your eyes to grow dim and your cheeks
pale, in that little pent-up room,” said he. “You know
I've been there and seen for myself.”

Mary colored, for George's manner of late had puzzled
her, and Jerry had more than once whispered in her ear,
“I know George loves you, for he looks at you just as
William does at me, only a little more so!”

Ida, too, had once mischievously addressed her as
“Cousin,” adding that there was no one among her acquaintances
whom she would as willingly call by that name.
“When I was a little girl,” said she, “they used to tease
me about George, but I'd as soon think of marrying my
brother. You never saw Mr. Elwood, George's classmate,

for he's in Europe now. Between you and me, I like him,
and—”

A loud call from Aunt Martha prevented Ida from finishing,
and the conversation was not again resumed. The
next morning Mary was to leave, and as she stood in the
parlor talking with Ida, George came in with a travelling
satchel in his hand, and a shawl thrown carelessly over his
arm.

“Where are you going?” asked Ida.

“To Springfield. I have business there,” said George.

“And when will you return?” continued Ida, feeling
that it would be doubly lonely at home.

“That depends on circumstances,” said he. “I shall
stop at Chicopee on my way back, provided Mary is willing.”

Mary answered that she was always glad to see her
friends, and as the carriage just then drove up, they started
together for the depot. Mary never remembered of having
had a more pleasant ride than that from Boston to Chicopee.
George was a most agreeable companion, and with him at
her side she seemed to discover new beauties in every object
which they passed, and felt rather sorry when the winding
river, and the blue waters of Pordunk Pond warned her that
Chicopee Station was near at hand.

“I shall see you next week,” said George, as he handed
her from the cars, which the next moment rolled over the
long meadow, and disappeared through the deep cut in the
sandy hillside.

For a week or more Judith had been at Mrs. Mason's
house, putting things to rights, and when the travellers
arrived they found every thing in order. A cheerful fire was
blazing in the little parlor, and before it stood the tea-table
nicely arranged, while two beautiful Malta kittens, which

during the winter had been Judith's special care, lay upon
the hearth-rug asleep, with their soft velvet paws locked lovingly
around each other's neck.

“Oh, how pleasant to be at home once more, and alone,”
said Mrs. Mason, but Mary did not reply. Her thoughts
were elsewhere, and much as she liked being alone, the presence
of a certain individual would not probably have marred
her happiness to any great extent. But he was coming
soon, and with that in anticipation, she appeared cheerful
and gay as usual.

Among the first to call upon them was Mrs. Perkins,
who came early in the morning, bringing her knitting work
and staying all day. She had taken to dressmaking, she
said, and thought maybe she could get some new ideas from
Mary's dresses, which she very coolly asked to see. With
the utmost good humor, Mary opened her entire wardrobe to
the inspection of the widow, who, having recently forsaken
the Unitarian faith, and gone over to the new Methodist
church in River street, turned conscientiously away from the
gay party dresses, wondering how sensible people, to say
nothing of Christian people, could find pleasure in such
vanities!

“But then,” said she, “I hear you've joined the Episcopals,
and that accounts for it, for they allow of most any
thing, and in my opinion ain't a whit better than the Catholics.”

“Why, we are Catholic. Ain't you?” asked Mary.

The knitting work dropped, and with a short ejaculatory
prayer of “Good Lord,” Mrs. Perkins exclaimed, “Well,
I'm glad you've owned up. Half on 'em deny it,—but
there 'tis in black and white in the Prayer Book, `I believe
in the Holy Catholic Church.”'

It was in vain that Mary referred her to the Dictionary

for a definition of the word “Catholic.” “She knew all she
wanted to know, and she shouldn't wonder, bein' 'twas Friday,
if Miss Mason didn't have no meat for dinner.”

The appearance of a nicely roasted bit of veal quieted
her fears on that subject, and as the effects of the strong
green tea became apparent, she said, “like enough she'd
been too hard on the Episcopals, for to tell the truth, she
never felt so solemn in her life as she did the time she went
to one of their meetins'; but,” she added, “I do object to
them two gowns, and I can't help it!”

At last the day was over, and with it the visit of the
widow, who had gathered enough gossiping materials to last
her until the Monday following, when the arrival in the
neighborhood of George Moreland, threw her upon a fresh
theme, causing her to wonder “if 'twan't Mary's beau, and
if he hadn't been kinder courtin' her ever since the time he
visited her school.”

She felt sure of it when, towards evening, she saw them
enter the school-house, and nothing but the presence of a
visitor prevented her from stealing across the road, and listening
under the window. She would undoubtedly have
been highly edified, could she have heard their conversation.
The interest which George had felt in Mary when a little
child, was greatly increased when he visited her school in
Rice Corner, and saw how much she was improved in her
manners and appearance; and it was then that he conceived
the idea of educating her, determining to marry her if she
proved to be all he hoped she would.

That she did meet his expectations, was evident from the
fact that his object in stopping at Chicopee, was to settle a
question which she alone could decide. He had asked her
to accompany him to the school-house, because it was there
his resolution had been formed, and it was there he would

make it known. Mary, too, had something which she wished
to say to him. She would thank him for his kindness to her,
and her parents' memory; but the moment she commenced
talking upon the subject, George stopped her, and for the
first time since they were children, placed his arm around
her waist, and kissing her smooth white brow, said, “Shall
I tell you, Mary, how you can repay it?”

She did not reply, and he continued, “Give me a husband's
right to care for you, and I shall be repaid a thousand
fold.”

Whatever Mary's answer might have been, and indeed we
are not sure that she answered at all, George was satisfied;
and when he told her how dear she was to him, how long he
had loved her, and asked if he might not hope that he, too,
had been remembered, the little golden locket which she
placed in his hand was a sufficient reply. Without Ida's aid
he had heard of the relationship existing between Mrs.
Campbell and Mary, but it made no difference with him.
His mind had long been made up, and in taking Mary for
his wife, he felt that he was receiving the best of Heaven's
blessings.

Until the shadows of evening fell around them they sat
there, talking of the future, which George said should be all
one bright dream of happiness to the young girl at his side,
who from the very fulness of her joy wept as she thought
how strange it was that she should be the wife of George
Moreland, whom many a dashing belle had tried in vain to
win. The next morning George went back to Boston, promising
to return in a week or two, when he should expect
Mary to accompany him to Glenwood, as he wished to see
Rose once more before she died.