Boarding Round/Chapter 22

It was the last week of school. The dread scourge that had taken so many of the scholars from their places, had mostly past. There were only two or three who were unable to be present on this Monday morning. One face which the teacher had not seen before him for the last three weeks, once more made him happy in his work. He now began to receive kind invitations from many of the fond mothers of his scholars, urging him to come to their homes, for at least one night more, before he must leave. From necessity he must decline most of these. But he would make a call, if possible, where he could do nothing more. He had other invitations, not a few; and some from the mothers of those young ladies, who were sorry that they had not continued to go to school one year more. There accumulated, indeed, upon his desk a pile of notes, from these most sympathetic mothers, expressing the hope that the pleasure of his company again at their homes would not be denied them. Upon considera​tion, Mr. Sears thought it best to go for a night to houses from which he had no scholars, and would only make calls where he had scholars; thus he could avoid the appearance of partiality. He had been most scrupulously careful from the very first not to wreck his boat on that rock, and he would now try to keep it in safe waters till the last.

For Monday night he went to the home of Miss Eunice Delano, the correspondent. The welcome could not well have been more cordial. Everything possible was done for the master's comfort. Miss Delano expressed much regret that she had not been able to write for their paper better accounts of the Saturday general exercises. They had been most intensely interesting. The descriptions should not have been little paragraphs; they should have filled columns. She and her mother said that they anticipated much pleasure in Mr. Sears' future visits to their town. Their last word to him, Tuesday morning, was that he surely would not forget to come to Winfield occasionally. He assured them that he should not.

For Tuesday night he accepted a most pressing invitation from Mrs. Dunmore, the mother of one of the young ladies who served on the committee for visiting the poor. Here the conversation naturally turned on the work of the sewing society, and what they had accomplished since Mr. Sears had been with them. ​They never had been able to do the like before. But Grandma Baker, Mrs. Dunmore's mother, who had attended the meetings of the society, remarked that "she supposed the committee didn't git as fur as Chiny." "Why, no, Grandma," Sarah Dunmore explained, "we decided, you know, to work for home missions. You weren't at the meeting when we made our report."

"No, I wa'n't, but I have hearn about it. You went up through Devil's Lane, and that old feller with such an awful voice, that lives over there—what's his name? Hawley, ain't it?—he's a ben tellin' 'round how some galls come over to his neighborhood with a young feller, skylarkin' 'round—he didn't know what their business was."

"Well, Mother, do you think we ought to mind what such a wicked, swearing creature says?" asked Mrs. Dunmore.

"Why, no, not jest that. But it's such folks we want t' help. But you mustn't s'pose I'm blamin' the young folks. I ain't. I was young fifty years ago. I know how the galls feel, they like to have a beau. I used to. I ain't blamin' on 'em."

To say the least, this talk was interesting to the master. He wondered whether the old lady's heavy, steel-framed spectacles enabled her to see some things more clearly than many younger folks could who were not obliged to wear such heavy, steel-framed glasses. When ​he left, Wednesday morning, the wish was expressed that he should not forget the people of the Corner district, but come over occasionally. He assured them that he should come.

For Wednesday night, he accepted the very urgent invitation of Mrs. Crosby. Her daughter had acted on a committee with Mr. Sears. They could not say enough in praise of what he had done to encourage them in every good thing. And when he bade them good-by, Thursday morning, they said they felt sure he could not forget the people of the Corner district, and that he would come over occasionally. He assured them that that was his purpose.

Thursday, after making several calls, and at each place entreated not to forget his new acquaintances, but come to see them occasionally, and to which he replied that he should come over,—he went to spend the night with Mrs. Cary and family. Her daughter also had been on one of the committees with him. Here, too, the conversation was interesting, for it was all in grateful laudation of what he had accomplished, in connection with the ladies of the sewing society. When he left Friday morning, he calmed his kind hostess' fears by assuring her that it was his purpose to come over once in a while to visit in the Corner district.

After dismissing his school Friday afternoon, and making two calls, at each of which ​he was thoughtfully reminded that it would be a pleasure to him, in the pleasant spring and summer weather, to see the people with whom it had been his good fortune to become acquainted, and that they would personally be most highly gratified to have a visit from him occasionally, and he had promised to come over sometimes,—he accepted Mrs. Sweet's request to spend that night at her house. She and her daughter were extraordinarily well pleased. He could get away, for his last day of school, only as he promised to try to keep in touch still with the dear friends he was so soon to leave. To forget all of them in the future was farthest from his thoughts. So he came to his closing exercises, and to say good-by to his scholars. They had been all the week preparing for the day. He found a note on his desk, from Mrs. Aikin, saying that she fully expected him to take tea with her that evening. This he could not decline. He felt under obligations to the good widow, and a vague rumor had reached his ear, that he might feel greater obligation still, when his school should have closed that day. It was fixed beyond change, that he would stay at Capt. Hale's that night, provision having been made for his conveyance to his father's early the next morning.

All the week the scholars had been making preparations for the last day. There were to be general exercises in the afternoon. The ​public were invited. The visitors began to come early. Soon the little room was filled. Many came later, and found it impossible to get in. Among these were ladies of the sewing society. They said to each other, "We ought to have had another meeting of our society." Others came up, and looking each other in the face, they said, "We ought to have had another meeting. Why didn't we plan for it? What a pity! Here we can't get in. The master will go to-night, and that is the end of it. Too bad!"

Mrs. Aikin and Sophrena Jane had been wise enough to come very early. The blooming girl wore her new ostrich plumes. Her gold watch chain was not hidden, neither her diamond rings. She removed the glove from her left hand. She was by far the most elegantly dressed of all the ladies present. After the people were packed in,—much like sardines in a box,—who should appear at the door but Dr. and Mrs. Colon, and their two. daughters! What was to be done now? The Doctor was of the school board. He could not be shut out. And it would surely be most impolite to take him in, and shut the ladies of his family out. Places must be made for them. Immediately three large boys offered to stand. This the newly arrived ladies said should not be. They would stand if anybody. But the matter was finally arranged by the ladies taking some of the little girls in their ​laps. The Doctor himself sat down on one end of a bench which was badly cracked, and so the two parts made a very uneven surface. And to add to the unattractive character of the situation, he was so wedged in between others, that to change position, even in the slightest degree, was impossible. Now, if never before in his life, he had to sit still. But he had always preached self-denial, and it was certainly time now to begin to practise. He doubtless thought that if Adam had not eaten the apple, that bench would have afforded a comfortable seat, instead of being a place of torment! But what was the use? he couldn't go back, and fix it up, in any such way as that, now. It was too late!

But now another person came to the door, and meekly sought admittance. And who was it? Yes, of all men, who was it? It was no less than "Old Mose"—otherwise, and more respectfully, Mr. Moses Bunnell. Should he come in? "Of course, he should," thought the teacher. Even if a man like Squire Hendee—a man carrying such a load of dignity—had to take turns with "Old Mose," in sitting and standing, that odd character should come in. He did come in. More than one chair was offered him, and he sat down. But the people, and the scholars thought, and said to one another, "What has brought that strange old hermit out here?" They had never heard of his going away from ​home before. They were fearful that the earth would cease to turn on its axis, if that man should begin to walk about on it!

The scholars performed their parts greatly to the pleasure of all present. Then came the time for "remarks." By common consent, Squire Hendee was the man to take the floor. There were also special reasons why he should say a word. So after arranging his feet according to the manner in which it is said Daniel Webster was accustomed to stand, when he made his great speeches, his admirer and imitator began:

"It is, ladies and gentlemen, with no ordinary pleasure that I rise to make a single remark on this delightful oc-ca-sion. I only speak for you, I am sure, when I say that we have been ex-ceed-ingly pleased with the ap-pear-ance of this school. It has done itself great credit, and it has honored its teacher.

"And now it devolves upon me to do a delight-ful duty. I hold in my hand, as you may all see, a superb-ly bound copy of Scott's Poems. This is the gift of these scholars to their belov-ed teacher. And now I have the most ex-quisite pleasure of presenting to Mr. Se-ars, a purse of gold. This represents the feelings of the parents, and other friends. And I think I betray no confidence when I add that this precious gift is largely—not wholly—the gift of three friends, Capt. Hale, Mrs. Aikin, and a friend whom I am so glad to see ​here on this occasion, Mr. Huggins. This is simply a token of the grat-i-tude which this com-muni-ty feels towards one who, in their sickness and in their health, has labored for them unwear-ried-ly. I would be glad to say a great deal, but I yield the floor to Rev. Mr. Watkins, Dr. Colon, and others."

Mr. Watkins made a few remarks, and so did Dr. Colon, both emphasizing what Squire Hendee had so well said.

Now "Old Mose" stood up to speak. What was he about to say! All held their breath, and it was silence itself in the schoolroom.

"Gratitude has brought me here." The trembling man said so much, and then he hesitated, as not knowing how to proceed. Then he drew from his pocket a paper. "If the teacher will let me, I want to read this," he said.

"We should be delighted to hear you, Mr. Bunnell," said the master.

It proved to be a poem.

As Mr. Bunnell sat down his listeners were, for a moment, quiet as if dazed, so great was their astonishment at what they had heard from him; then, recovering their breath, they burst out into tumultuous applause. Then they began again, and kept up their cheering till the poet began to be frightened, wondering what he had done. He was not accustomed to speaking to appreciative assemblies. Some one then whispered to him, and told him that it was meant to ask him to give them more of the same kind. Then he got up, and without waiting a moment for his thoughts to come, he said:

Whereupon he did take his hat, and by dint of much effort, made his way through the crowd to the door, and was off. The master caught hold of him and tried to persuade him to stay, but to no avail. He would go on. He seemed to think that he had, unasked, thrust himself upon the world, and now he must hide himself as soon as possible.

​After the tumult, occasioned by the strange episode, had subsided, Mr. Huggins was called for. He rose to his feet, blushing like a young girl. It was with difficulty that he could stammer out, "I'm no speaker. I've never been so happy before in my life. This is all new to me. But when you come to my store after this, you won't get treated to rum—you may be sure of that."

While these exercises were in progress, there was no little whispering in the room. Some of the good ladies could not help sharing the interest which they felt, with their neighbors. Miss Sophie Haggleton had half a mind to be on the off side of things because Mr. Sears had not called on her that last week. Still there was another way of looking at the matter. When a young fellow is really in love with a girl, he does not find it so easy to be familiar with her as he is with those whom he thinks less of. There are depths of the human heart which are sacred, and none but a fool thoughtlessly intermeddleth with them. Probably what at first thought, therefore, seemed like a slight, should, after all, be regarded as an encouragement. And yet, in spite of the best philosophy of life, one or two things were at that time giving that maturely thoughtful young lady a little anxiety. So she, like a half dozen others, kept up, with her nearest neighbor, a quiet kind of intermittent whispering. It was much like this: "Why, ​there is Dr. Colon, and his girls, and, I declare, his wife too!" "Yes, my goodness! they are all here!" "Well, it's as some have thought; I guess it's really so, that the master has been paying attention to Miss Frances." "Yis," now put in Miss Sophie Haggleton, "it doos look like it, don't it? His goin' t' Mis Aikin's wa'n't nothin', I know. She fixed it so he had t' do it. That's all plain 'nough now. But if he's really got into Dr. Colon's family—we shall see." "But Frances is a good girl, they all say." "Oh, yis, that's so, an' she's good lookin' besides. She's all right. We don't wan' t' say nothin' agin her. And we can't blame Mr. Sears none; but—" "But, Sophie, we don't know that the master has shown any special liking for Frances Colon. Let's wait and see."

In another part of the room there were two or three heads that seemed to be attracted toward each other.

"What do you think of it, that Dr. Colon's girls are here?"

"Well, I think that Frances wanted to come—that's what I think of it." "Do you really think there's anything in it?" "Do I think so? Sure! What else is it?" "Well, she's a good girl. A nice girl. And she's handsome, too." "Handsome! Sure! But if that's all, the master might find somebody who's handsomer still nearer home." "What do you mean?" "Mean? Why, don't ye ​know? Don't ye see, right here in this school, the handsomest girl there is in this town?" "You mean Helen Porter?" "Indeed, I do. Did you ever see two such eyes looking out of any other girl's face?" "That's so; but you know what kind of a family she belongs to. Her father drunk half the time. They are poor as poverty's last end. They are not reckoned in." "Yes, but I was talking about how the girl looks. And she has the most perfect form that you ever set your eyes on. Now, tell me the truth." "I admit all that; but then she doesn't come into our reckoning at all. What's the use talking about her?" "But she's a good girl, too." "Why, yes, she's good enough; but she isn't anybody—she can't be, you see. That family of children all go to school with patched clothes." "I'm not talking about her clothes, I'm talking about herself. You'd have to go a good ways outside this old State of Connecticut to find another so handsome girl, or a better girl either." "Yes," now put in another woman, "you put her into Phrene Aikin's clothes, and wouldn't she be a stunner? She'd take the shine off'n most on 'em at Newport or Saratogy."

The stroke of the master's bell, indicating that the closing hour had come, brought to an end the private whispering as well as the formal addresses. Mr. Sears said that he would like to be alone with his scholars at the close ​of school, and so the friends passed out. As each came up to him to say good-by, the wish was expressed by nearly every one that he would soon come back to see the people of the Corner district, and the reply was in all cases the same, that he hoped to come over again before a great while. Mrs. Aikin passed without saying the good-by, for the teacher was engaged for her tea table.

After the picture books were given to the little ones,—as was then the custom, at the last day of school,—with some words of counsel to his pupils, and thanks for their obedient spirit, and their kind coöperation in whatever he had tried to do, they separated—the teacher and his scholars—but not without tears.

The rich widow displayed a lavish hospitality at her table, to which she had also invited some friends of hers, who she wished might become acquainted with their teacher. She also urged him to bring his father over to see them, as soon as the warm spring weather should make it pleasant to do so. And, at the same time, she promised that she would drive over to his home, and call on them. It would be a pleasant ride over the hills, and Sophrena Jane, too, would enjoy it.

As the invitation was for the evening, and friends had come from a considerable distance to meet Mr. Sears, he could not leave at once after supper. According to arrangements long ​before made, somebody was waiting for him; but that did not change the proprieties of the case. Mrs. Aikin had been very kind to him, otherwise her invitation would not have been accepted. But it had been, and rightly, so he would stay as long as politeness required. But that the old clock, in the corner of the parlor, seemed to tick very slowly, no one can deny; while it continued to repeat, "Don't—go; don't—go; don't—go." And that the schoolmaster's inner feelings were in an incipient state of unrest may not be reasonably doubted. But when the old timepiece, true to its habit of regularity, did, at just the moment, whirr out nine strokes of its bell, with many thanks for kindnesses shown, and with all the gentle suavity that he could command, he bade his friends good night.

Once free, he walked very briskly, and with constantly accelerated steps, towards Mr. Porter's house. He was met at the door by one, who, while waiting in the parlor, had thought that the hours of that evening would never pass. But the hours had passed, and the joy which filled the hearts of the two lovers, for the next hour, can be imagined by those only who have had a similar experience.

What Capt. Hale was proposing to do for them was accepted with most grateful appreciation. And surely, at that moment, nothing could have given them more real pleasure.

Mr. and Mrs. Porter were sitting by their ​lamp, in their dining-room. They had been requested to be there at ten o'clock. With the striking of the hour, James and Helen came in, she leaning on his arm. He asked the father if he would give his daughter to him, to be his wife, when the proper time should arrive.

"My dear girl? She would be dearer to me than she is now, even, if she were your wife. I owe all to you. I cannot repay you." This he said as, with trembling hand, he wiped away the tears. Mrs. Porter sealed her share of the promise he had made for them with affectionate kisses.

After conversation, till near twelve o'clock, concerning their plans for the future, the lovers stood together on the piazza, for a few minutes, before they said good night.

James had promised Helen that he would "come over occasionally."