Part 10

It passed very pleasantly, despite her homesickness. There was no school on Christmas-day, of course. Olive had ventured, supported by Mr. Jones, to introduce the daring innovation of decking her own room with evergreens, and it looked so pretty, that the young gentlemen, smitten with admiration, did the same, not only by their own peculiar territory, but also by the great hall, which they ornamented in beautiful style.

Mr. Gregory preached one of his best sermons on Christmas-day, and the church was filled. All the Felton household went to the parsonage to dine, where they met Walter and Louisa Landon, and two or three of the school-girls, who lived too far away to go home.

When they returned, at night, Olive found a large parcel and two or three letters awaiting her, which latter, much to Mr. Felton's amusement, were opened first. Aunt Rebecca's and Charlotte's were, as usual, kind, and filled with good wishes.

Abby's was short, and very sad. She did not know what to do, she said, but she almost felt as though she could not live so any longer. Her uncle seemed as though he began to suspect something wrong, and she thought he watched her. Mrs. Dimsden kept dropping all sorts of hints and insinuations, and Laura was always prying about. She did not know what to do, but she felt that she must do something very soon.

Olive felt distressed and sick at heart. She feared very much that Abby might take some hasty step, which would make matters ten times worse. One sentence, especially, alarmed her:

"If I were independent in money matters, like you, it would not be so bad, but now I must give an account of every penny I spend, and uncle complains that I am extravagant, and spend money foolishly. It is not for myself; entirely, if I do, but that I can not tell him, even if it would do any good. I used to think that the troubles and difficulties of people in love were all nonsense, but I know better now."

Olive wondered whether she could be lending Mr. Forester money. Abby had never intimated to her that she held any correspondence with him, but she had inferred as much from what Charlotte had said about her writing to the Misses Jennings, at M. All her discomfort was renewed, and increased ten-fold.

"I do hope," she said inwardly, with some degree of impatience, "that I shall never be in love, if it always makes people act so like fools." Poor Olive!

The parcel, on being opened, was found to contain a variety of pretty remembrancers and a jar of West-India preserved oranges, of which Mrs. Merton, in a very polite note, begged Mrs. Felton's acceptance.

Mrs. Felton was very much pleased. She said she had never seen any since she married, and promised herself the pleasure of sending Mrs. Merton some preserved apricots, which she had great skill in preparing, when Olive returned home in the summer.

CHAPTER EIGHTH.

THE winter wore away happily, on the whole. Olive thought that, aside from her secret trouble about Abby, she had never spent a pleasanter one. The girls all liked her, and she had very little trouble with them. The drawing-class got on finely, having advanced from rudimental lines and squares to heads and figures; and some of them had begun drawing from objects with a decision of hand and correctness of eye which fully justified Chapman's method.

She sometimes got very tired, and was usually unable to study much, but she had abundance of the sort of society that she liked best, and as many new books as she cared to read, and she looked forward with pleasure to the prospect of returning to her labors after the spring vacation. How rich she felt, when her first quarter's salary was paid into her hands! She had no idea that she could enjoy the possession of money so much.

As spring came on, there began to be a good deal of sickness in Basswoods, especially among poor people, of whom there were a good many in the lower part of the town. Measles and hooping cough prevailed, and took on malignant forms; and severe quinseys and influenza prostrated whole families at once. Those whose households were unvisited set themselves seriously to help their afflicted neighbors, and for a time little else was done.

Ruth and Augusta were among the busiest, and were away day and night. But Ruth would not allow Olive to assist them in watching.

"You are obliged to be employed all day, whether you feel able or not," she said; "and you must have your nights to rest. Besides, you will be going home in two or three weeks, and if you do not look well, they will not let you come back." And Olive was fain to acquiesce, since she could not help herself.

The school was much diminished in numbers, as many of the girls from out of town had returned home to avoid the sickness, and she was able to give a great deal of time to those that remained, much to her and their satisfaction.

Her uncle had promised to come for her, and she had at last resolved, by the advice of Mr. Gregory, to tell him all, when he came. He would then have time to get over the first heat of his anger before he saw Abby, and in that case she was sure of his acting reasonably. She found her heart very much lightened after she had formed this resolution, though she felt that it would require all her strength to carry it out, and would have given almost any thing to be safe the other side of it.

There remained now only one more week before her return home, and that was the week before Easter. There was service in the church every evening at four o'clock, and by exact punctuality she found herself able to attend. Mr. Gregory's plain, earnest lectures did her a great deal of good, and she felt stronger and better for every one of them.

One evening, after church, she was walking, slowly homeward, by herself, enjoying the beautiful twilight, and thinking over what she had just heard. She had not seen Mr. Landon for several days. He was very much engaged in his office, and, moreover, he did more than his share in taking care of the sick. It was very pleasant to have such a friend. It occurred to her, several times, that she should miss him a great deal if he should go away, as he now and then talked of doing, but she did not dwell upon that idea. If she were afraid to do so, she did not acknowledge the fear to herself.

She was presently joined by Dr. Gordon, the oldest physician in the place, who had been her fast friend from the beginning. He looked very weary, and Olive remarked it.

"Yes," said he, "I am indeed very tired and very sad. I do not see where all this is to end. At first, the sickness seemed confined to the poor people, but now it is share and share alike with all classes. Poor Annette Vander Heyden is much worse."

"I did not know she was sick," replied Olive. "Is she very unwell?"

"She is very ill, indeed," said the doctor. "I fear she will never be any better. It will be a sad blow to the family, as well as to Walter Landon."

Olive felt as though some one had struck her, but she asked, quietly: "Why to him?"

"They have been engaged a long time, I suppose," was the answer. "I know it used to be talked of, even when Walter was at college."

"They will make a fine-looking pair, will they not?" said Olive, in a tone of quiet interest. "I think Annette is a very agreeable girl."

"Yes, barring her absurd pride of family, I do not know a nicer young lady; and Walter was always a favorite of mine. Good-by, Miss McHenry, and pray take care of yourself, or we shall have you down, too."

"I shall take care," said Olive, lightly. "You know I am going home next Wednesday. Will you please send word to school, by Catharine, how Annette is? I shall feel very anxious to know."

The doctor promised.

Olive bade him good-night and went into the house, and up-stairs to her own room. A heavy, hard pain was pressing at her heart, and she felt as though she should suffocate. But she had only one distinct thought—that she would not think of any thing just then.

Very quietly she took off her bonnet and brushed her curls, and then, going down into the sitting-room as usual, she set about correcting a large pile of compositions, going over and over every one, with even more than ordinary care and deliberation. Phebe Jones came to take a music lesson. She seemed to think Olive was rather more particular than usual about touch and time, and she told Anna, when she returned, that she had never seen Miss McHenry when she came so near to being cross.

"You look pale, Olive," said Ruth. "I am afraid you are over-working yourself."

Olive admitted that she was tired, and should be glad of some tea. Mrs. Felton bustled about to expedite matters, and to provide something better than usual, and Olive exerted herself to eat, that she might not be disappointed, but it was very hard work. She sat up as late as usual, apparently reading attentively, but in reality seeing nothing but blank confusion upon the page before her, while repeating to herself that she would not think of it till bed-time.

Bed-time came at last, and she sat down alone with her trouble, and looked at it, almost as though it had been a bodily presence of evil which it was necessary to face and conquer. What was it, after all? Walter Landon was going to be married and what of that? Had she not said to herself, twenty times, that this was nothing but friendship? Vain subterfuge—miserable lie! She knew better—she had known it all the time. Abby might well say that Olive could not understand her feelings, but she knew them now. She had blamed and pitied—Abby herself had never sunk so low as she.

She set herself to examine all their intercourse from the first, but there was no comfort in that. She could not blame Walter, for he had never showed a mark of any thing but mere friendship. No; the truth was plain—she had given away her heart to a man who had never asked for it, and who did not care for it. She had weakly, miserably permitted herself to go on, and be drawn in, to the shipwreck of peace, self-respect—every thing. She had not seen him for several days: perhaps he had discovered her secret, and was keeping away in compassion to her.

Her eyes overflowed with hot tears at last, but they gave her no relief. She could see nothing, think of nothing, to extenuate her miserable folly. She had gone on, quietly placing upon a stranger all her hopes and wishes, and setting him in the place of God, till at last she discovered that she was dependent upon him for all her happiness that she was inexpressibly wretched at the thought of his caring for any one else. There was no excuse, no comfort, no hope. She had loved an idol more than God, and God had forsaken her, while she had found too late that her idol was not hers, but another's. What should she do?

She slept, at last, from very weariness of body, but when she awaked, the load was still upon her heart, dull, heavy, oppressive, crushing her very life out. She prayed, but without comfort, and set about her daily task, with a feeling of relief at having something tangible to do, wherewith she was forced to occupy her thoughts and hands. Nobody could have seen any difference in her, except that she was rather more particular than usual about the lessons, and had, perhaps, more than ordinary patience with the dullness and stupidity of some of the girls, and the perverseness of others. She was careful to ask Catharine Gordon about Annette.

"Papa thinks she is much worse," said little Kitty, with a quivering lip. "He said so this morning. Oh! Won't it be too bad if she should die!" And the child burst into tears, for the families had long been on terms of intimacy, and she was very much attached to Annette.

Olive tried to comfort her, while her own tears fell fast. They relieved her a little, but she dared not indulge in them, and was soon as calm as ever.

"Olive; do you feel able to watch to-night?" asked Ruth, at the tea-table, after she had studied Olive's face a little.

"Yes, indeed," replied Olive, glad of any duty that promised self-forgetfulness for a time. "Where?"

"With that Mrs. Beman and her child," said Ruth. "You know they both have the measles. The child is rather better, but it is doubtful whether the woman can live through the night."

"I don't believe Olive is able," said Mrs. Felton. "She looks tired now. Why don't you ask Mrs. Gregory, or Mrs. Dennison?"

"Mrs. Gregory is sick herself, and Mrs. Dennison and Mrs. Jones are engaged," said Ruth, briefly.

Olive knew that they were going to Mrs. Vander Heyden's, where some of the younger children had been added to the sick-list. "I am quite well, and shall be glad to go," she repeated. "I suppose you will set out early."

Ruth assented, and before nine they were at Mrs. Beman's. They were poor but respectable people, of the sort who, without any visible drawback, never seem to prosper, but always remain about where they set out. The house was clean and comfortable, and they seemed to have every thing necessary for the sick.

The husband and eldest daughter, a girl of twelve or fourteen, though worn out with fatigue, were unwilling to retire as they thought there was a change in the sick woman.

And on going near the bed, Ruth's experienced eye saw at once that the messenger was there. She whispered to Olive to take the baby, and relieve the little girl who was quietly weeping by the fireside.

The poor woman was quite sensible, and able to speak a little. She had been but a plain, hard-working person all her life, but the majestic presence of death was with her, and all around her felt its power. In few but earnest words, she commended the little one to its sister's care.

"God deal with you, Sally, as you deal with that motherless child. I have tried to be a mother to you, and to treat you, in all things, like my own, and I have loved you as well, for aught I know. Be a good girl, Sally, and take good care—"

"I will, mother," sobbed the child. "I'll be good to Liddy."

The dying woman seemed satisfied, and lay quietly for a little while. "I've known trouble and sorrow of all sorts," she said, opening her eyes again, "more than most of my age, but I've had help through it all. It's most over now. Give me my baby. You look sad, young woman," she remarked, as Olive laid it in her arms. "If you've got trouble, don't rest in yourself, nor in any man. Trust in the Lord. God bless you all!"

These were her last words, and in a few minutes, she was gone.

Some of the neighboring women came in and laid out the body. Mr. Beman and Sally retired to rest, and Olive and Ruth were left with the child and its dead mother. Neither of them felt inclined to talk. The little one seemed disposed to slumber, and Olive held it in her arms and looked at its wasted features, but her thoughts were far away. The bitter feeling of injury was gone, but she felt very, very desolate. All the sorrows of her life returned upon her; her own orphaned state—Abby's misconduct and danger—Laura's estrangement—her uncle's probable anger—all were present to her at once. She felt as though she could never remember a time when she had been happy. Past, present, and future seemed shrouded in blackness, and she could see no hope of any light. She prayed for submission to the will of God, and that Annette's life might be spared, and by and by she found that she could be thankful that she had only herself to blame, and not Walter.

In the long, long hours before daybreak she had made her final resolve. She had a profession—that certainly was a comfort. The experiment of teaching had been tried with success. If she could never be happy again, at least she could be useful, and with all the earnestness of her nature, she consecrated herself to the work, and resolved with God's help to follow it out.

Still, with all this, her heart would not be quiet, but throbbed and struggled under that crushing pain: still her weary spirit repeated over and over again: "How wretched, how very wretched I am!"

The child passed an easy night and was clearly much better in the morning. Neighbors came in and promised to attend to every thing necessary.

As Ruth and Olive were walking homeward at sunrise, the bell began to toll. They looked at each other, but did not speak. The age was struck—twenty—and then two strokes followed to show that a woman was dead.

"Annette!" said Olive.

"It must be, I suppose," Ruth replied, sighing, "Poor child!"

Olive could not repress her tears as she thought of the blooming girl she had so lately seen in health and spirits, and they flowed still faster as she thought of Walter's grief—grief which she could not comfort and hardly sympathize with.

Ruth pressed her hand, but said nothing. She had partly guessed the state of the case the day before, but doing as she would be done by, she had not said a word. She advised her friend to lie down, and try to sleep, and Olive was glad to obey.

All that day she suffered greatly, but the next—the resurrection morning—she found relief at last. In the presence of the white carved symbols of infinite love and infinite sorrow, she seemed to hear a whisper of peace; her load grew less oppressive with every prayer, and when after the distribution of the elements, she rose from her knees, she found she had left it behind her. The Comforter was come to her, and she found strength to say and to feel, from her heart's depths, "Not my will, but Thine be done."

Before, she had felt that she should soon die, and rejoiced in the thought, but now the language of her soul was: "I shall not die but live and declare the loving-kindness of the Lord."

"Olive," said a well-known voice behind her, as they were going out of church.

She turned and saw Walter. He looked pale and worn out with grief and watching.

"Will you go and see Louisa?" he asked, as he offered his hand. "She is at Mrs. Jones's, and needs some one with her; not that she is ill, but she is worn out and nervous. Can you go and stay with her this afternoon?"

"I will," replied Olive, grateful for the proof of confidence.

"When do you go?" he asked.

"On Wednesday; possibly on Tuesday, if my uncle comes."

"I may not see you again before you go," said Walter. "They feel as though they could not spare me there, and Agnes is very sick. God bless you, Olive, till we meet again."

"God bless and comfort you, Walter," returned Olive calmly.

She went at once to Mrs. Jones's, and found Louisa suffering from severe nervous headache, the result of fatigue and excitement; for she was a delicate child, and somewhat spoiled withal. Olive found it necessary to exert a little authority over her to make her stop crying, and the effort necessary to take care of her patient was useful to herself.

Louisa was better in the evening, but she begged hard to have Olive stay with her all night, and Olive consented.

She was walking slowly homeward the next morning, glad that there was no school, when she saw a carriage drive up to Mrs. Felton's, and a gentleman get out, who she was sure was her uncle. Her heart almost failed her as she hurried forward. She had not expected him till evening at soonest, and not very much till Tuesday. He must have left home Sunday night, an action so contrary to all his habits as to fill her with fear of she knew not what calamity.

"Your uncle is come," said Ruth, meeting her at the door, and observing her evident agitation with surprise.

Olive waited not to hear more lest her resolution should fail her entirely, but hastily opened the parlor-door. Mr. Merton was standing opposite it, and her heart sunk as she met his glance.

"I bring you pleasant news, Miss McHenry," were his first words, "but no doubt you are prepared for them, since you have been in the secret from the first."

"What is the matter, uncle?" Olive rather gasped than spoke.

"Read that letter," handing her one with the seal unbroken. "It will probably tell you more than I can."

Olive tried, but the words swam before her eyes, and her head whirled. She looked at her uncle imploringly. "I can not see," she said; "do tell me!"

"Your sister Abby is married," replied Mr. Merton abruptly, "and I suspect—" "You knew as much before," he was going to add, but he saw Olive's lips grow white, and before he could reach her, she fell to the ground.

It was the drop too much in the full cup, and for the first time in her life, she fainted away.

Happily Ruth was at hand, and Mrs. Felton was out.

Olive soon revived, and Ruth left her to attend to some household call.

"When, uncle?" asked Olive, after a short silence.

"Olive," said her uncle, "I used to think I could trust you implicitly, and even now, I on hardly believe that you would deceive me. Before I reply to any questions, tell me all you know about this miserable business."

Olive roused herself and went through with the story, from beginning to end.

Mr. Merton listened fixedly. "Why did you not write and tell me?" he asked, when she had finished.

"I hoped to prevail upon Abby to do so herself, and I thought that would be much better. Besides, what right had I to betray her secret? I had no authority over her, and she told me in confidence."

"But you made yourself privy to her subterfuge in corresponding with that man!"

"I did not know for certain that she did correspond with him," said Olive, "though I guessed it from something Charlotte said. I had made up my mind to tell you all when you came, and risk the consequences."

"Then she has told you nothing about this precious marriage?"

"Not a word, sir! I have all her letters, and can show them to you," she added, proudly, for she was beginning to feel indignant. "Perhaps you will believe them, unless you choose to accuse me of forgery as well as lying."

"Sit still," said her uncle. "I have no desire to see her letters, or to hear from her again. My only object is to clear you from the imputation of being engaged in the conspiracy, which, it seems, she has been carrying on for a year or more. I believe we have done you injustice, and I beg your pardon. I know that you must feel it more than any of us, my poor child!" he continued, kissing her forehead.

"How did it happen?" asked Olive, after an interval of silence. "How did it all come out?"

"It came out by degrees. I could not help seeing that something more was the matter with her, than merely your going away, and I began to watch her. It seems, too, that your aunt Dimsden had her suspicions, even before Forester went to M., but instead of coming and telling me, as she should have done, she talked to other people—"

"Just like her," said Olive, bitterly.

"I do not defend Mrs. Dimsden," Mr. Merton continued. "She did very wrong, and so I have told her. Well, as I have said, my suspicions were aroused, and I watched her, but I could find nothing to justify them. I wish now I had questioned her about it."

"Oh! Why didn't you?" exclaimed Olive, in renewed grief. "If you had done so kindly, she would have told you all; I am sure she would. She was naturally so open. O my child, my darling child!"

"I was wrong, Olive, but I acted for the best. After a time, Forester returned, and came at once to our house, where he met with a cool reception from all but Abby. I had made up my mind to demand a full explanation from him, but I was frustrated. He had hardly sat down before Mrs. Dimsden and Laura came in. Charlotte, who I think had no suspicions, asked after the Misses Jennings, with whom Abby had, apparently, been maintaining a correspondence for three or four months. Forester looked confused and annoyed, and Abby colored deeply.

"But before either of them had time to reply, Laura exclaimed, 'Why, Charlotte, the Misses Jennings went to Kentucky long ago—just after they left school.'

"The truth flashed upon me at once, and I was going to speak, when Forester said, with perfect ease: 'Are you sure, Miss Laura? Do you make a study of the M. directory?'