Part 12

"I do not agree with you there, sister mine. I think it is necessary, if a woman wants to be any body that she should marry, unless she retires into a nunnery or something. I hope you don't mean to be an old maid, Olive."

"I think it most likely I shall," said Olive, sighing in spite of herself, "but I hope to be some body nevertheless. Will you let me come and stay with you, when I grow too old to work any longer?"

"Of course," said Laura, "if I have any home myself. But now tell me what you intend to do about Abby? Do you really mean to write to her?"

"I really do. I would obey uncle in almost any thing else, but in this I must follow my own conscience and my own feelings."

"You can afford it," said Laura, "because you are independent, but I dare not. Aunt has been very angry on account of the refusal, and she says, if I do not mind what she says about this, she will leave me to take care of myself. But if you write, give my love to Abby, and tell her I would write too if I could—and send her these ear-rings; Maria Lewis gave them to me, but I do not care any thing about them, and aunt has never seen them. I have no money to buy her any thing new, and I wanted to send her something.

"Did I tell you that aunt Dimsden is coming over to spend the afternoon? I believe in my heart, she is glad of Abby's marriage, and the triumph over aunt Rebecca, till I am ready to stone her. You know I never was very fond of aunt Rebecca myself, but I am sorry for her, and I think aunt Dimsden ought to be ashamed of herself. I can tell you, Olive, you think I am so well off—"

"I never thought so, Laura," interrupted Olive. "I would rather go out as a seamstress than live as you do."

"Well, every one else thinks so, at any rate, but I am sometimes tempted to say I will marry the first presentable man that comes along, to escape from it."

"Do give up that idea of marrying for money, Laura! I can not bear to think of it. You will repent as surely as you do."

"Well, I don't know," said Laura, lightly. "If you marry for money, you are pretty sure of getting it, at any rate, and if you marry for love, you may be deceived, you know. Now, if you have finished your packing, do dress, and come down-stairs. I dare not face them all alone."

"I am sure, Laura, uncle would not be angry at you for refusing Sam Lewis. You know there is nothing he detests like an idle, frivolous young man."

"I don't believe he knows any thing about that," returned Laura, "but I am always afraid of him."

After luncheon, Laura sat down to a handkerchief she was embroidering, and Olive to write.

She had almost forgotten Augusta's letter, till she saw it in her desk. It was just like Augusta herself, and Olive felt refreshed and comforted by it. Among other news of the place, she said:

"Jenny Vander Heyden is better, and the sickness is abating. Mr. Landon is going away, and he told me he meant to go and see you before his return."

Olive's heart beat somewhat faster at the thought, and she almost wished Augusta had not told her. After twice reading the letter, she put it carefully away, and began writing to Abby. She sighed, as she thought of the unsatisfactory intelligence she had to convey, but there was no help for it, at least at present. As Mr. Merton said, she had taken her own course, and she would have to abide by it.

She was just finishing, when Mrs. Dimsden came in. Olive greeted her as warmly as she could, and then asked to be excused, as she was anxious to close her letter in time for the post. As she placed it in the vase appropriated for the purpose, Mrs. Dimsden unceremoniously took it out of her hand, and read the direction: "Mrs. William Forester, Eagle Hotel, M."

"So you have been writing to Abby, have you?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied Olive, coolly.

"I have forbidden Laura to do any thing of the kind," said Mrs. Dimsden, drawing herself up: "I will not allow any young person in my family to have any intercourse with a girl who has no more sense of propriety than Abby. I have never thought it necessary to make as much fuss as some people," with a glance at aunt Rebecca, "but I do think my girls generally turn out well."

Mrs. Merton had a way of looking at a forward or impertinent person, as though he or she were a superfluous chair, or an intruding cat, which she sometimes brought to bear upon her sister-in-law with great effect.

She was silenced for a moment, and replaced the letter.

At this moment, Charlotte entered, and looked into the vase as she passed.

"Charlotte," said her mother, "have I not often told you that it was very rude to look at the direction of another person's letter?"

Now Charlotte knew very well that this reproof was not in the least intended for her; she took it very coolly, and sat down by Laura to admire her work.

Mrs. Dimsden colored furiously. "Perhaps, if you had kept a more careful watch over your young ladies' letters, sister Merton, some things might not have happened that have happened. I know my mother always looked out for me."

"Was that the reason you never did any thing improper when you were young, aunt Dimsden?" asked Charlotte carelessly.

It was a home-thrust, for Miss Ashly had been considered rather an eccentric young lady, and there were some circumstances in her career, and in the way she became Mrs. Dimsden, which were more curious than edifying. That lady did not like to provoke a contest with Charlotte, who was not in the least afraid of her, and by superior coolness usually came off conqueror. She turned her head, and murmured something about impertinence, but did not venture upon a retort.

Mrs. Merton conversed as politely as possible with every one in the parlor, and was especially gracious to Olive.

Charlotte, very contrary to her usual custom, devoted herself to Laura, with whom she very seldom condescended to talk when she could help it. Laura was very low-spirited, and hardly said a word, though she seemed grateful to Charlotte for her kindness, and clung to Olive in a way very uncommon with her. Mrs. Dimsden contradicted her at every word she said, and seemed out of all patience with her.

When Mr. Merton came in to tea, he looked into the vase as usual, and took out the two or three letters it contained.

"Your letter is over weight, Olive," he said, balancing it on his finger: "you must add another stamp."

He smiled kindly as he handed it to her, and she received it with a glad heart, rightly judging that it was a tacit concession of the point.

"Thank you, uncle," she said in a voice too low to be heard by Mrs. Dimsden, who was anxiously watching the scene, in the pleasing anticipation of an explosion.

He smiled again, and walked away, putting the letter in his pocket.

But Charlotte had not finished yet. She was, as we know, not at all an amiable young lady, and she was extremely jealous of any affront offered to her mother. She felt that her debt to Mrs. Dimsden was not quite discharged.

"Papa," said she, "do you know Sam Lewis?"

"Yes, I know him. Why?"

"What is he like?"

"Like a fool!" replied Mr. Merton, who was not particularly well disposed toward idle young men just then.

"A great many young men are that," said, Charlotte sententiously. "Is that all there is remarkable about him?"

"No," said Mr. Merton: "he is remarkably idle, remarkably dissipated, and a remarkable torment to every one who ever tried to do any thing with him."

"That seems a pity," remarked Olive. "They used to be quite nice people, especially Mrs. Lewis. I liked her very much."

"They were nice people. It is the ambition to be fine and fashionable that has spoiled them—that is, the younger part of them, for Mrs. Lewis is just as gentle and pleasant as ever. I often feel sorry for her, when I see how unceremoniously she is treated by her children. I tried, for his father's sake, to do something with Sam, but it was useless. He has not even sense enough to be governed. I heard the other day that he was going to be married, but I hope it is not true. I should be sorry to think that any girl could throw herself away upon such an apology for a man."

Charlotte's triumph was now complete, but she had too much sense to parade it openly. And for the rest of the evening, she was as polite to her victim as Mrs. Merton herself.

"How could you have the heart to annoy aunt Dimsden so?" said Olive, half-reprovingly, half-laughing, as they went up-stairs together, after the guests had departed. "You are downright revengeful."

"If Mrs. Dimsden annoys my mother when I am by, she may make up her mind to be paid in her own coin," replied Charlotte. "Besides, I felt sorry for Laura, who I saw was very uncomfortable. I really pity the poor girl."

"I feel very anxious about Laura," said Olive, sighing; "she is, as you say, very uncomfortable, and she does not seem to have any thing to sustain herself upon. I am afraid she is acting upon a wrong principle."

"How do you mean?"

"She thinks she must certainly marry some body, in order to be independent and have a position in the world, and that is all she lives for. She has, or seems to have, no idea of any higher motive in life, nor has aunt Dimsden for her that I can see. Think of her wanting Laura to marry Sam Lewis!"

"Did not my father give him a charming character?"

"I hope she will be satisfied, and not torment Laura any more about him," said Olive. "But what is the child to do? Either aunt Dimsden is angry with her about something, or else she is getting tired of taking care of her—perhaps both. Laura feels as uneasy as possible under her state of dependence, and yet she has a fixed idea that it would be a terrible degradation for her to do any thing towards supporting herself; and she feels as though a certain amount of luxury and a certain position were absolutely necessary to existence. Only look at all this and think what a temptation it places in her way, to marry the first tolerably respectable man with a large fortune who presents himself, and you will understand why I am so full of trouble about her."

"But does Laura think you have degraded yourself?" asked Charlotte.

"Aunt Dimsden does, I know," replied Olive. "As for Laura, I think she considers me an exception to all general rules, a sort of oddity. She went so far to-day, as to say she envied me."

"I am sure I do," said Charlotte, sighing; "not that I am not perfectly well off at home, and as happy as those around me can make so perverse a person as I am, but I never can feel as though I was working to any purpose."

"I am sure your Greek and drawing come on nicely," said Olive. "I never saw any one improve so much as you have. If you were a pupil of mine, I should be proud of you. That copy of your father's portrait is beautiful. I wish you would give it to me, to take back to Basswoods."

"I meant it for you, as well as one I begun of my mother, and I am very glad you like them. But Olive, I am not contented with the acquisition of knowledge merely for the sake of knowledge. I want to do something with it. In short," said she, smiling rather bitterly, "I am, without any particular reason for it, about as discontented as any body can be. I wish some one would tell me what I want."

"I think I can tell you," said Olive, "but I rather doubt whether you will believe me."

"May I come and sleep with you?" asked Charlotte.

"I shall be glad to have you," replied Olive, "if you will let me do just as I would if I were alone."

"Of course," said Charlotte, "we will each take our own way."

Charlotte occupied herself with a book, while Olive went through with her usual reading and prayers. She had herself given up even the semblance of prayer, ever since she left the nursery.

"Now Olive," said she, as they were curling their hair afterwards, "tell me what I want."

"I think you want the two sacraments, as Mr. Gregory says—the baptism of duty and the communion of love. Are you as much in the dark as ever?"

"No; I think I partly understand you, but please explain."

"First, then, you want to do every single thing because it is right do it. This rule applies to all actions, great as well as small. Moreover, you need to have such a love to God, and such a desire to promote his glory that you will do every thing that is right because it is pleasing to him, and avoid every thing that is wrong for the same reason. Are not these two motives which cover all things?"

"Perhaps so, if one could understand them. I confess I can not. I do not know what you mean by love to God. Can you tell me, for I suppose you think you love him?"

"I know I do."

"What sort of a feeling is it?"

"It is the same feeling that we have toward our best earthly friends, though as much higher and purer in its character, and greater in its degree, as the object is greater and purer. There is no selfishness mixed with it, and no distrust, since the object is absolutely perfect in goodness and truth. If there is happiness in loving a fallible mortal, who may change or die at any time, must there not be much more in loving and being loved by one in whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning, and who has the will and the power to order all things as is best for us?"

"I can not understand such a love for God. He is too far off."

"He is not far off. His name is Emmanuel—God with us!"

"I have no feeling towards the Supreme Being," said Charlotte, after a little pause, "except one of terror when I think how helpless we are—bond slaves in his hands."

"If you loved and trusted him, you would find pleasure instead of terror in the idea that your destinies were in the hands of one who could do no injustice and no wrong. Then every thing you did would be sanctified by the thought that you were doing it for him, since he is served by every one of our duties, whatever it is. I know you always take pleasure in working for people. I never saw you so happy, as when you were straightening and going over those long accounts for your father, when I was at home before. If in addition, you had had in your mind the thought of pleasing your Father in heaven, you would have been still happier."

"But, Olive, do you not think there is danger of losing one's reverence for the Supreme by thus mixing him up with all the common and daily concerns of life?"

"If there is," replied Olive, "we are not answerable for it, since he himself says that not a sparrow falls to the ground without him, and that whether we eat or drink, or whatever we do, we must do all to the glory of God."

"And does this feeling really comfort you, Olive, when you are in trouble? I have heard people talk about religious consolations, but I always took it all for cant."

"Take care," said Olive, "that in dreading and avoiding cant, you do not fall into it yourself, and that of the worst kind—that of condemning as cant all that you do not understand. Yes, I have found, more than ever before, the great comfort of having such a trust and confidence in God, as I have described. But for that, I do not believe I could have lived through this last week. It is all that gives me any hope about Abby. She has been so well taught, and the child of so many prayers, that I can not but think she will come right at last."

"I wish I felt so," said Charlotte sighing, "but I can not, and I do not know how to attain to it."

"Prayer and repentance are the only ways I know," replied Olive. "The bitter comes before the sweet; and the godly sorrow that worketh repentance must precede the love of Christ which passeth knowledge. We must repent in sackcloth and ashes, before we can rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory. Do try, Charlotte—I know you will be so much happier, not only here but hereafter."

"I will make no promises," said Charlotte, "but I will think of what you have said, and I am very much obliged to you for speaking so freely, and not being shocked at me. You do not know how miserable I was at the thought that I had been deceived in you after all. If you did, you would not wonder that I was so savage when you first came home."

CHAPTER TENTH.

ALREADY half the time allotted to Olive's vacation had passed, and she was beginning to think with mingled pain and pleasure of a speedy return to Basswoods, and her duties there. She knew that she was sure of a very warm welcome, not only from Ruth and Augusta, but also from her pupils, who were almost all very much attached to her. She liked the place and the people; perhaps too, she enjoyed the idea of being a person of a good deal of consequence; she liked the quiet and regular employment, and there was a great pleasure in witnessing the gradual improvement of the girls under her charge, not only in book-learning, but also in manners and in those minor morals which affect so much the comfort of our daily lives.

Sadly as the matter had resulted, she felt as though a mountain's weight was removed from her mind in getting rid of her secret, and she could not help whispering to herself that the marriage might after all turn out better than they feared—that William might settle down, now that he had the responsibility of a wife upon his hands, and become an industrious man, after all. She intuitively felt that this consolation would not bear much examination, but it comforted her for the time.

She had rather reluctantly given up her plan of stopping in M. to make Abby a visit, at Mr. Merton's urgent advice.

"You had better defer your visit, at least till your return, Olive," he said, when she mentioned her desire to him. "Abby will be in no state to bear reason just now. She has not had time to find out her mistake yet. Moreover, I do not believe you will be very welcome—at least to Mr. Forester. He will not be likely to forgive your plain speaking to him and to Abby, and especially your bringing him out in a downright falsehood. Abby is altogether under his influence, and sees through his eyes. I shall not forbid your going, but if you will be advised by one who has seen much more of the world than you have, you will defer your visit for the present."

So Olive wrote to her sister to say she was not coming, and had the mortification to perceive by the tone of Abby's next letter that it was a great relief to her. For the first time, Mr. Merton asked to see the letter.

"You see I was right," said he, briefly, as he handed it back to her, "but do not be grieved, my dear. The time will come when Abby will be glad enough to have you with her."

Of Laura, Olive saw very little. Aunt Dimsden had never encouraged their intimacy to any great degree, and she now told Olive plainly that she filled Laura's head with notions very unfit for a girl in her circumstances. "Your romantic ideas of disinterestedness and independence sound very well, but let me tell you, you will find out their fallacy when it is too late."

"When will that be, aunt?" asked Olive.

"When you see Miss Dimsden at the head of society, mistress of a fine establishment, and surrounded with every luxury, while Miss McHenry is still a drudging school-mistress, and a faded old maid, or at best, the wife of some country parson, obliged to struggle the year round to make both ends meet, and darning her children's ragged stockings, while her sister is spending her hundreds a day."

"I don't think I shall ever marry a minister," said Olive, "though I know some ministers' wives who are very happy people."

"Well, a school-master, then—perhaps the other teacher in the academy."

Olive gave way to incessant laughter at the idea of exchanging her maiden name for the style and title of Mrs. Simon Prendergrass. "I might do worse," she said, endeavoring to compose her risibles. "Mr. Prendergrass is a very nice man, and has quite a good little property, only he invests it all in books that nobody can read but himself."

"You had better set your cap for him," was the elegant reply. "I don't believe you will ever do any better. But be that as it may, I will not have you filling Laura's head with romantic notions. I have brought her up, and I have the best right to her, and I will agree to give up," ("what" she did not state,) "if she does not turn out better than any of you. As for Charlotte, she is an impertinent little hussy. I only wish I had her. I'd bring down her spirits, I'll engage."

True to her word, Mrs. Dimsden contrived to keep the sisters apart, and Olive hardly saw any thing of Laura, except in presence of others. Even when they were together, she could not help feeling very painfully how very little they had in common. Charlotte was much more of a companion for her, for though, as we have seen, almost entirely irreligious, she was not frivolous, and she utterly despised that dependence for happiness upon fashion and position in which poor Laura had been educated.

Mrs. Merton was, perhaps, almost as worldly as Mrs. Dimsden, but it showed itself in a different way. Having been for many years at the head of society, in the place where she resided, and needing no struggle to maintain her position, she was quite too firm to care much about being fashionable. She gave parties when and how she pleased, and was always sure of as many people as she chose to invite. She was not at all afraid to dress as she liked, or to say that she could not afford this or that, nor was she ashamed of having her carriage seen standing in an unfashionable street, at the doors of unfashionable people. Regarded in a religious point of view, her worldliness was, perhaps, no better than that of her sister-in-law, but it must be admitted that it was less destructive to every thing like integrity and solidity of character.

There was one subject of contemplation which was constantly presenting itself to Olive's mind, and from which she as constantly turned her thoughts, as far as she could, and that subject was Walter Landon. Would he come and see her? she wondered. Augusta had said nothing more about him, though she spoke of the Vander Heydens several times, and Ruth had never mentioned his name.

"And why," she proceeded to ask herself with severity, "should she wish him to come? What was he to her, more than any other acquaintance in the world? Would not—ought not all his thoughts and affections to be buried in Annette's grave?"

Olive felt a loss of self-respect every time she suffered her mind to dwell upon these topics, and invariably told herself that Mr. Landon was nothing to her, and that it was very wrong and foolish to think of him at all. But, though all this was undoubtedly true, it did not prevent her from reading Augusta's first letter several times over, nor hinder her heart from beating faster every time the door-bell rang, and sinking sadly when the person who was nothing to her did not make his appearance.

One night, during the last week of her vacation, there was a ring at the door, and a strange voice was heard, inquiring whether Mrs. Merton lived there, and secondly whether she was at home.

"I wonder who that is?" said Charlotte.

Olive did not answer, though she had recognized the first tone of his voice. Her heart was beating inconceivably fast just then.

A tall, gentlemanly personage entered the room, with a bow which even Laura might have approved.

"Mr. Landon," announced Edward, the Black Prince, approvingly; for Edward was an excellent judge of a gentleman.

Mr. Landon was greeted with perfect composure, and a proper degree of warmth by Miss McHenry, and then presented to her uncle and aunt. Mr. Merton remembered having seen the young lawyer in court, and was quite prepared to like him, and Mrs. Merton was evidently pleased by his manners and address.

Olive was provoked at herself for feeling anxious about the impression he was likely to make, and asked herself again, severely, what he was to her.