Chapter 31

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 Jenny 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 may-be 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.