Part 11

"Abby said not a word, but I saw that she was ready to drop. I did not want to get up a scene before them, and turned the conversation. They did not stay long, and as soon as they were gone, I turned to Abby and demanded an explanation—Mr. Forester standing by. She began to cry, of course, and I could get nothing out of her.

"Forester then took the matter upon himself, and informed me that he had been engaged to Abby almost a year, and intended to marry her, with my consent, if I would give it—otherwise without it. He complimented me, by saying that but for my prejudice against him, and harshness when I was opposed, they should have confided in me, and declared that you had known and approved the whole matter from the beginning. This enraged me more than any thing else, and I ordered Abby to leave the room and go to her own apartment.

"Mr. Forester had the coolness to follow her to the door, and exchange some words with her in German, which, of course, I did not understand. He then returned and requested to know what my intentions were with regard to Abby. I can not tell you all about it, but the end was, that I ordered him to leave the house.

"I went up to Abby's room, but I found she had locked herself in, and I could get nothing from her. It was the same in the morning—she would take no breakfast, nor open her door, and I went to the office, hoping that she would be more reasonable by night. When I came home, I found Mrs. Merton and Charlotte in great alarm. The door had not been opened, nor any movement heard. I had then no hesitation in forcing the door, but she was gone—" He paused, perhaps to give himself time to control his voice, which certainly trembled very much.

Olive was weeping bitterly.

"She had taken very little except what she had on. She even left behind a watch and chain I gave her at Christmas, and all her trinkets, all her letters, except the last one from you."

"And did she leave nothing for me?"

"Yes, a note—the one you have in your hands."

Olive began to read aloud, but Mr. Merton interrupted her: "Read to yourself, Olive; I do not wish to hear one word from her."

She read accordingly:

"I am going to be married at last, Olive. I did not mean to take such a step till you came home, but they have driven me to it. Uncle is just as harsh and unjust as I knew he would be, but I thank him for all his kindness to me, and aunt, too. I shall take nothing more with me than I can help. I will write just as soon as I am settled anywhere."

"Did you hear nothing of her afterwards?" Olive asked, as soon as she could speak.

"Nothing, except a notice of their marriage in the paper that evening. I told you I wished to hear nothing more. She has taken her own course, and she must abide by it. This subject will necessarily be renewed when we reach home, but till then, I wish to have it dropped entirely. You look very much worn and fatigued," he said kindly. "I am afraid you are working too hard."

"Oh! No," replica Olive, "I like it very much, and do not usually get over-tired, but there has been a good deal of sickness in town, and I have been nursing as well as teaching. One of our loveliest girls died yesterday."

"Then you find the place pleasant?"

"Very much so. I should have been quite happy the last few months if my mind had been at ease about Abby. The school is a very nice one, and there are a good many agreeable people here. I enjoy the idea of coming back very much."

"Do you know a young Mr. Landon?" asked Mr. Merton.

"Yes, very well," replied Olive, thankful that she could answer steadily, and without coloring. "He is a great favorite here, and thought very talented."

"He is a rising young man," replied her uncle. "I heard him make an argument, not long ago, which would have done credit to many an older lawyer. I should like to meet him."

"You will not be likely to do so, now," said Olive. "The young lady who died yesterday, Miss Vander Heyden, was his cousin, and they were said to be engaged."

"I thought of returning to-night," said Mr. Merton, rising, "but I see you are unfit for it. We will go to-morrow morning, if you please, and till then you must take the time to rest. I shall stay at the hotel, and must go down now, and secure a room."

When he was gone, Olive sat a little while, perfectly still. It did not seem possible for her to make an exertion. She was stunned and overwhelmed to such a degree, by the events of the last few days, that she seemed to have lost power of sense or feeling. She was still sitting in precisely the same attitude, when a shadow fell before her, a soft arm was passed round her neck, and Augusta sat down beside her.

Olive laid her head on her shoulder. "Have you heard?" she asked.

"I have heard nothing, love, except that you were in trouble, and had received sad news from home? Is it your sister?"

Olive assented, silently.

"I did not know she was ill," said Augusta, after a little pause.

"It is not that," said Olive. "It almost seems as though the news of her death would not be half as hard to bear. She is married, Augusta—married against my uncle's wishes, and without his knowledge, to a man utterly unworthy of her. She has carried on a course of deception for months, and I see plainly that my uncle is too angry ever to forgive her. And I might have prevented it all by a little decision and courage."

"How?"

Olive went over the outline of the story, adding at the end:

"I might have prevented the whole thing if I had staid at home, as they wanted me to—if I had not been so proud, and so set upon being independent. It is all my fault."

"I do not think so," replied Augusta, gently. "You acted for the best, so far as I can see, and that is all we can ever do. I do not really see that you could have acted otherwise."

"I might have told uncle at first."

"You forget that he was away, and you had no opportunity. Besides, you were doubtful whether you had the right to do so. No, Olive, you are wrong, now—naturally so, but still wrong. Don't you remember what Mrs. Dennison said about her little boy's sickness and death? Even supposing that you made a mistake, which I do not allow—"

"You do not know, Augusta," said Olive. "You have not tried it. I do not mean that you have not suffered, but not in this way—not by the unworthiness of those you loved. I could bear any thing else."

"Come and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow," repeated Augusta, involuntarily. "Olive, if your sister has sinned, she is yet young, and has time for repentance before her. Others have sinned much more deeply, against more warnings and opportunities for repentance, and at last been cut off in the midst of their sins. I had a dear brother—" She paused. "We had little comfort in his life or death."

"I am impatient, I know," said Olive, sighing, "but I have had so much, the last few days. I thought I had made up my mind to patience and self-forgetfulness, but this has overcome me entirely. I feel as though I could not have it so."

"God has comfort for all sorrows, Olive."

"I used to think so, before I had any. Nay, I thought so no longer ago than yesterday, but to-day all seems dark as night again."

"Have patience, my child, and accept the bitter cup. He will send the sweet in his own time, and if we have no pleasures in this world, we shall always have duties; that is one comfort. And, after all, it is but for a day."

"A long, long, dreary day, Augusta."

"Sorrow 'may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.' When we look at the past through dying eyes, it will seem very short, believe me; and we go to no uncertain future, my love. We know in whom we have believed, and He will make all plain. Once more, dearest, have patience! Drink of the cup which He drank, and be baptized with the baptism that He was baptized withal. It is indeed not joyous, but grievous, but it worketh the peaceable fruits of righteousness to them that are exercised thereby. For look how high the heavens are in comparison of the earth—so great is the Lord's mercy to them that fear him. Look how far, also, the east is from the west—so far hath He set our sins from us. 'Like as a father pitieth his children, so the LORD pitieth them that fear him.'"

"Augusta, I know I am impatient and wrong. I will try not to be so."

"I did not mean to reprove you, dearest."

"No, you comfort me. You have done me good, but I feel so weary and desolate. I have counted so on seeing Abby, when I went home. She has always been so near my heart. Oh! I ought never to have left her. I knew what a child she was, and it was my duty to have staid with her, but I did not see it then. And now she is gone—lost to me forever!" And again she gave way to a violent burst of grief which both perplexed and alarmed Augusta, and she glanced at Ruth, who had just entered, as though to ask what should be done.

"Olive," said Ruth, with a little more of austerity than usual in her tone, and taking both her hands, "this will never do. You have duties before you which will require all your strength, and this is not the way to fit yourself for them. You must come up-stairs and lie down, and let me do your packing. You are worn out, for want of sleep, and will be sick to-morrow. Come with me, like a good girl."

Olive obeyed like a child. She was, indeed, utterly worn out and exhausted. Augusta sat down beside her, and read in her soft voice, selections from Scripture. In a few minutes, Olive's sobs grew less frequent, her eyes closed, and her friend had the satisfaction of seeing her in a deep sleep, from which she arose composed and refreshed.

CHAPTER NINTH.

OLIVE'S heart sank as she approached home the next evening, and thought of the reception she was likely to meet with, and how sad it would be without Abby.

Mr. Merton had been very kind all day, but he had said little, and not one word about the matter that was clearly occupying both their thoughts. She dared not speak herself, for he had positively forbidden her to renew the subject till they reached home. She knew how Mrs. Merton would feel, very well. Not only her affections (and Abby had always been very dear to her) were wounded, but also her pride, and that in the tenderest point. Aunt Rebecca had very particular notions upon the subject of the education of young ladies. Her ideas of propriety were very strict, and she was often shocked by the freedoms indulged in by some of the young ladies in town. She prided herself upon the care with which her daughters and nieces had been educated, and more than one young girl, who had been secretly indignant at seeing Olive and Abby held up to them as models, would triumph greatly over this result of the boasted system.

As they rode up from the depot, Olive leaned back in the carriage, and shut her eyes, while her soul poured itself out in an earnest prayer for strength and patience.

"Be calm, Olive. You shall be cleared from suspicion," said her uncle, as he assisted her to alight.

Mrs. Merton stood at the door, and received her husband warmly, as did Charlotte, but neither of them took the least notice of Olive, till they entered the drawing-room, when Mrs. Merton said, in her most freezing tones:

"Your room is prepared, Miss McHenry. Perhaps you will have the goodness to retire to it at once."

Olive did not move from the attitude in which she had drawn herself up, but she turned her eyes to her uncle. He did not speak.

"Before I sit down in this house, Mrs. Merton," she returned, in tones as calm, though not so cold as her own, "I must demand to be freed from the unjust suspicion to which I have been subjected. My uncle, I believe, is convinced of my innocence. If he chooses to justify me, I shall be glad. If not, I shall be obliged to seek some other shelter for the night."

Charlotte's eyes flashed fire. Mrs. Merton turned to her husband.

"I fully believe Olive to be innocent," said Mr. Merton, with emphasis. "She has convinced me that though she knew of Mr. Forester's engagement, it was only the night before she left home that she was informed, and nothing but indecision respecting the best course of action prevented her from informing me immediately. I think she mistook her duty, but I fully believe that she acted from the best motives."

"I am very glad to hear you say so," replied Mrs. Merton, unbending at once. "Olive, I am sorry you met with such a cold reception, but you must remember that we have had great provocation. Let me untie your bonnet," she added, kissing her kindly; "it is a sad coming home foe you, my poor child, when we had hoped to be so happy together."

Olive struggled to repress her tears, and succeeded in doing so till she found herself alone in her own room—Abby's room. It was just as she had left it. The last book she had been reading was turned down upon the open writing-desk, and Abby's personal property was strewed about the room in the picturesque confusion usual with her, when she had no one to pick up after her. The key was in her trinket-box, and on opening it, Olive perceived that she had left all her ornaments. Nothing was missing from the room but the old Bible and prayer-book, her mother's gifts. Olive wondered how she could have the heart to take them.

The bitterness of her grief returned with ten-fold violence, and when Mrs. Merton herself came up to look after her, she was so alarmed at the state in which she found her usually composed and undemonstrative niece that she sent her to bed at once, administered ether and other restoratives, and sat by her till she fell asleep.

At breakfast next morning, Olive was treated just as usual by her uncle and aunt, but Charlotte did not relax in her stiffness at all. She treated Olive with ceremonious politeness, but exchanged no more words with her than were exacted by the courtesies of the table. Olive felt the coldness very much, for she had unconsciously relied a good deal upon Charlotte's sympathy and friendship.

The meal passed almost in silence, no one seeming inclined to talk. As they were about rising from table, a servant brought in the letters and papers: there were two letters for Olive, and her heart beat fast as she recognized on one of them Abby's well-known handwriting.

Mr. Merton saw it, too. "Where is she?" he asked, when he saw that Olive had finished reading it.

"She is at M.," replied Olive, handing him the letter, but he repelled her hand.

"That is all. You will please to pack up all her personal property, and I will see that it is forwarded, and then I require that all intercourse with her on the part of this family shall cease."

"Do you mean that prohibition to apply to me, uncle?" asked Olive.

"Certainly."

"I can not consent to it, sir," she replied, respectfully but firmly. "I can not promise to cease all intercourse with my poor Abby. That she has done wrong I do not deny, but I love her none the less, and I can never forget that she is my sister. She will need friends now more than ever, and I certainly shall not desert her."

"Olive McHenry, you greatly forget yourself," said Mr. Merton sternly. "Do you know to whom you are speaking?"

"Hardly," replied Olive, almost involuntarily. "You are so unlike yourself that I might well be excused for forgetting it. But what if Abby has sinned?" she went on, rather surprised at her own courage. "What are we, that we should be unforgiving? Have we no need of mercy ourselves? No, I can never consent to give up my sister, till she gives me up. And then, she is such a child—so young in years, and so much younger in mind. It seems but yesterday that she was playing with her dolls, sitting on the floor by your side, uncle! Do you remember the first night you came to our house—the night after mother died, and how you found Abby lying on the bed by her, and could not coax her away, till you came and took her, and she cried herself to sleep in your arms? It seems such a very little while ago!"

"We will let the subject drop for a little, I think," said Mrs. Merton, rising. "You will have a good deal to do this morning. Have a little patience, my dear," she continued, when Mr. Merton had left the room. "Your uncle is deeply wounded, and feels as I do, that we ought to show our disapprobation of Abby's course, but I don't think he will apply that to you."

"Especially as Miss McHenry was in the secret from the beginning," said Charlotte, "and quite as much to blame as the poor child herself."

Mrs. Merton was leaving the room, and did not hear Charlotte's remark. "You are determined to suspect me, Charlotte," said Olive.

"I know you, Olive McHenry, as I knew you in school. You blinded me for a little time with your well-acted candor and friendliness, but my eyes are opened. I am sorry they are, for I thought I was going to have an intimate friend, for once in my life."

"You think—" Olive began.

"I know," said Charlotte, interrupting her, "that Abby, simple child that she is, would never have been able to carry on such a system of deception, unless some one had supported her in it. You thought, no doubt, that it would be a very nice thing for you to be my father's favorite niece, and to have one less to share the property and you imagined that an elopement would be a good way to get rid of Abby, and illustrate your own virtues. You may find yourself mistaken, as deep as you think yourself."

"I shall not reply to your insinuations, Charlotte," returned Olive. "They are too foolish and unreasonable to merit an answer. You yourself promised to watch over Abby while I was gone: how you have fulfilled that trust you yourself best know. But there is no use in talking. I thought you had outgrown your childish jealousy, but it seems not."

With these words, she left the room and went up-stairs, where she occupied herself in looking over Abby's clothes, to see if they needed any putting in order. Among them she found all the letters which she had written during the winter, and she was wondering at Abby's leaving them behind, when Charlotte entered, with her hands full of books.

"These are Abby's," she said, shortly.

"Thank you," Olive quietly replied; "please to lay them on the table."

Charlotte lingered a little, looking over the books. After a moment, she said, in the same abrupt way, "Can I help you?"

"No, thank you," replied Olive, surprised at the offer.

But Charlotte did not go; she seemed looking for something.

"Charlotte," said Olive, after a short struggle with her pride, "would you rather believe me innocent or guilty?"

"Innocent, if I could," was the reply.

"Here are all the letters I have written to Abby since I left home. If you wish, you can look them over, and satisfy yourself. I do not ask you to, but you can if you choose."

She laid the package down by her cousin, and busied herself with the drawers. But, glancing in the mirror a few minutes afterwards, she saw that Charlotte was deeply engaged in their perusal. Neither of them spoke for almost an hour. Then Charlotte said, laying down the last letter:

"Olive, you are innocent. I have done you great injustice, and I ask your pardon."

"It is granted," said Olive, taking the offered hand, and kissing her.

"What do you mean to do about corresponding with her?" asked Charlotte.

"What would you do yourself in such a case?"

"I am afraid I should be too angry with her to care much about it," replied Charlotte. "If my sister had acted as Abby has, I should never forgive her."

"Then you would make up your mind not to be forgiven yourself, I suppose?"

"What do you mean?"

"'If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Heavenly Father forgive your trespasses,'" Olive repeated. "Which of us can afford to cherish anger upon such conditions?"

"I never understand that sort of talk," said Charlotte; "it all sounds cant alike to me."

"Just because you don't understand it. If should call your pleasure in geology cant, you would consider that rather a narrow-minded view, I think."

"We won't dispute it now," returned Charlotte. "Don't some of these clothes need repairing? Abby's things generally do. Let me put the stockings in order."

Olive consented, and they busied themselves together all the morning. They were just about concluding their labors, when a light step came up-stairs, and Laura entered. She seemed quite subdued, and wept bitterly as she embraced her sister. Charlotte left the room.

"I have not been here before since she went," said Laura, after a little; "isn't it shameful?"

Olive assented silently.

"It seems almost worse than if she were dead," she continued. "To think she will be so near, and yet we can never see her, or even write to her."

"Don't you mean to write to her, Laura?" asked Olive.

"I can't. Aunt Dimsden declares I shall have nothing to do with her from this time. She says, if Abby were at the door, and it stormed ever so hard, she would not let her in."

"She ought to be ashamed of herself then," said Olive, indignantly. "Her own marriage was not so very proper, from all I have heard, that she need be the first to throw stones at poor Abby."

"That is the very reason, child! Don't you know that people who have done any thing questionable in that line themselves, are just the ones who think it necessary to be ferociously proper ever afterwards?"

"She may be as proper as she pleases, but I am not going to desert the poor child for any of them," said Olive. "I have told uncle that I mean to write to her, and moreover I shall stop a day in M. when I go back, on purpose to see her."

"But they say—at least aunt Dimsden says that Abby has done so very wrong that she ought to be made an example of."

"I don't deny that she has done wrong: nobody feels it more than I do, and I do not think she ought to be treated as though she had not. But I do say, that it is quite too much, to require us, her sisters, to give her up, and so leave her to go more and more wrong."

"You are independent, Olive, and can do as you please," said Laura, sighing. "I wish I was."

"You can be, in the same way that I am."

"Oh! No. I never could make up my mind to teach school, or to work for a living. I could not consent to any thing which would lower my social position."

"Why, Laura, I never was of so much consequence in my life, as I have been since I went to Basswoods."

"Yes, in such a little country place as that, but not among stylish people."

"But you used to be very contented, Laura: you thought no one was as happy as yourself."

"Aunt Dimsden is not so kind as she was," said Laura. "She is very cross sometimes, and when she is vexed, or mortified, she bestows all her ill-temper upon me. She has been very angry with me, for presuming to refuse an offer without consulting her—some body that lives not a hundred miles from Berkley Square, you know."

"But, Laura—!"

"Oh! Yes, I know all you would say—that he is dissipated, and a fool besides, but you know they are rich and very fashionable, and his sisters paid me a great deal of attention. I think all the family were anxious for the match, but he was quite too bad. I suppose I am bound to make a rich marriage at last—indeed, it is the only way I see to escape from dependence, but this one was rather too much, and I dismissed him somewhat suddenly. They were all very angry, and aunt thinks I am almost as bad as Abby. She told me she expected I would go the same way, and it will not be for want of sufficient provocation if I don't."

"But you would not marry for money alone, would you?"

"Not perhaps for money alone; I would not marry a really bad, vulgar man, if he was ever so rich. But if he had position, and style, and so on, as well as money. I don't believe in all that silly, sentimental nonsense of love, and all that, it only makes fools of people, just as it has of Abby."

"But it is not absolutely necessary to marry at all," said Olive.