Part 14

What Ruth felt on this occasion, nobody knew, unless it were Augusta. She kept about her duties as usual, for two or three months. Then she had a long and tedious fit of sickness, from which she rose up, cured in body and mind. After a long storm, she had found a calm; she had conquered in deadly strife, and was henceforth at peace with herself and the world. She was sometimes haunted, as all of us are upon dark days, with the ghosts of the enemies she had slain, but they were only ghosts, and fled at daylight.

She lived for duty, and with the duties came many pleasures, but her home was not here, "and all her heart was fixed above." Love and marriage were things utterly out of the question with her, and though she might have been comfortably established more than once, she dismissed all her suitors with an indifference nowise flattering to them, and very provoking to her mother, who could not see why Ruth should be so foolish as to refuse such an excellent man as Mr. Brown, the largest merchant in the place. She might have annoyed her daughter not a little, had not Mr. Felton, for the first and last time in his life, asserted his individuality, and forbidden her to say another word on the subject, declaring that in this and all other matters, Ruth should do just as she chose, a proceeding which besides silencing his wife, amazed her to such a degree that she actually forgot to be lone and low for as much as three days afterwards.

Olive was warmly welcomed by all her pupils, most of whom declared that they were tired of vacation, and quite ready to begin school again. The drawing-class had each a picture or two to show her, the results of her holiday labors, and they were all delighted to find that they could draw at home as well as in school. Miss Tucker was gone, her aunt having concluded to send her to a seminary at a distance, where her talents would be appreciated, and her feelings respected; such at least was the reason she gave Olive, with an emphasis intended to be very cutting, and Olive accepted it politely, glad to be rid of her on any terms.

The school was smaller than it had been in the winter, as many of the country pupils had returned to their homes to assist in the summer labors of the dairy and the farm. Olive found some of her best pupils missing, but she felt herself in some degree compensated by being able to bestow more time and attention upon the rest. As she thought how much she might do for them in a few years, she could not help feeling a pang of regret at being obliged to leave them so soon. She had not yet said any thing to Mr. Jones about her intention, nor did she mean to do so, till about a month before the summer vacation, as that would afford abundance of time to procure another teacher.

After she had been in Basswoods about two weeks, Olive received a letter from Helen Monteith, and one from Abby at the same time. Helen had been visiting Mrs. Granger, and had been to see Abby. She wrote to Olive that they were comfortably established in the principal hotel of the place, and that Abby liked it very much, but Mr. Forester was discontented and talked of going to housekeeping as soon as he could find a house.

"I think Abby dreads it," she said, "but she talks cheerfully about it, and is quite sure she can learn. She seems rather subdued, and I think feels very much the separation from her family. She thinks her uncle and aunt are very hard-hearted to treat her with so much severity, and really, I do not think she has the least idea of having done wrong. A good many people have visited her, and some of Mr. Forester's relations have sent her very handsome presents. I think they cherish the hope that William may settle down and be steady now that he has a wife on his hands; and perhaps he will. He certainly seems very fond of her."

Abby wrote in good spirits. She adverted to the housekeeping scheme, and said they had been house-hunting several times, but rents were high, and they had not found any thing desirable.

It was evident that Abby was coming to the conclusion that it cost money to live, a fact of which she had never been in any degree sensible before. She spoke of the kindness of Mr. Forester's relations, and contrasted it with the sternness of her uncle and aunt Merton, by whom she evidently felt herself very much abused. She exulted greatly over Olive's engagement, and said she supposed her sister would now be willing to admit that she had not been so very much to blame. She was mistaken, however.

The more deeply Olive loved, the more she wondered at Abby's course. The effect of her own attachment was to make her more and more anxious to do her duty in every respect, to correct her faults, and to render herself worthy of her lover, and her destiny as a wife and mother. Her conscience had never been so quick to feel the first approach of wrong, her thankfulness had never been so deep, or her desire of self-consecration so entire as since she had been engaged.

She did not consider how different all this might have been, if Walter had not had the deepest sympathy in all her religious feelings; if he had not been her superior in religious experience; if he had regarded the whole matter with indifference, or at best with a careless respect as an institution very well suited to women and clergymen, and such narrow-minded people; if he had gently laughed at her scruples, and intimated that conscience was all very well, but there were instincts and feelings of our nature much higher, and better guides, etc., etc., the cant of a certain fashionable school very much in favor with such gentlemen as Mr. Forester.

Contrary to the well-known prediction, the course of Olive's true love seemed likely to run very smooth indeed. Walter's business was very prosperous, he had no debts, and he had sufficiently demonstrated the fact of his being able to make a living. Olive's little property was in an excellent shape, and she thought the proceeds of her year's labor would go far toward fitting her out comfortably and respectably.

There seemed no reason why the young people should wait longer than the first of October. Aunt Merton and her prime minister, Mammy, had already begun to calculate how much sheeting, toweling, etc., etc., would be wanted, when an event happened which changed the face of affairs very considerably.

Olive had been in school about eight weeks, when one Sunday, on taking her seat in church, she found the desk occupied by a stranger, and she was not long in recognizing the peculiar features and bearing of the Rev. Dr. V., a gentleman well-known for his talents, both as a speaker and a writer. She had heard him once before, and prepared herself for a treat. She was not disappointed.

The Doctor's subject was the lack of young men for the ministry, and most splendidly was it handled. There was enough of originality to keep the attention awake, without any of that straining after effect so painful and disgusting in some popular preachers. Every one in the congregation was made to feel that the subject was an important one, and one in which he or she had a share of responsibility. Chancing for a moment to look away from the preacher, Olive met Walter's eye, filled with an expression that thrilled to her very heart. She knew what he was thinking of as well as though he had spoken.

"How do you like Dr. V.'s sermon?" he asked as they met after Sunday-school in the porch.

"Very much," replied Olive, hardly knowing what she said; "it was a powerful appeal, certainly."

They walked a little way in silence, and then Olive said earnestly: "Walter, tell me what you are thinking of."

"I am thinking, Olive, whether this is not an appeal to me. Young men are wanted, and I am young and strong. Who is there that can go better than I?"

"It would be a great sacrifice," said Olive presently.

"Yes, a sacrifice to both of us—to me of wealth, fame, and almost all the earthly objects I had set my heart upon; not to mention the fact, that our marriage must be put off at least a year, and possibly longer. Yes, it will be a sacrifice."

"Perhaps we ought not to take that so much into the account, as the simple matter of what our duty is," said Olive gently. "Nothing, no sacrifice can be so painful to me, Walter, as the idea of being a clog upon you. I could bear any thing better than that."

"I am sure you never will be so, Olive," replied Waiter, earnestly. "You have done me far too much good already for me to imagine such a thing possible. But we will not be hasty. I will revolve the matter in my own mind, and do you do the same. Perhaps I ought not to mention it yet, but I can not bear to have a thought that you do not share."

The girls thought they had never seen Miss McHenry so absent as she was in school, next day. She became aware of it herself after a little, and exerted herself to be attentive to her duties, but it was hard work, and she was glad when school was out.

A long solitary walk helped to compose her thoughts, but she still felt almost as though she were dreaming.

"Olive looks tired to-night," Mrs. Felton remarked in her general way, addressing no one in particular.

"I have taken a long walk," said Olive, trying to rouse herself from her abstraction. "I have been up past the old red house on the banks of the river."

"Do tell!" exclaimed Mrs. Felton. "That lonesome road, and so far too! But you didn't go alone?"

"Yes, why not."

"Well, I declare! I wouldn't have done it for any money when I was your age, and I don't know that I would now. Why, the old Vander Heyden vault is on that road!"

"Well!"

"And the graves of the family that was murdered by the Indians, in the old red house!"

"I never heard that," said Olive, with some interest; "what was it?"

Mrs. Felton loved nothing better than to tell a story, and moreover, she had some talent for narration.

"A family of the name of Munn formerly lived in that house," she began. "They were not much respected, and the man used to come up to the village and get drunk, leaving his family alone for two or three days at a time. Basswoods was a little place then, and this house was more lonely then, than it is now. His wife was rather a violent-tempered woman, but she worked hard, and was in a manner fond of her children. One afternoon in sleighing-time, Munn started for the village, and as usual his wife scolded him for it.

"A neighbor (that is, he lived three or four miles off) was passing, and heard them using very high words, and he said to Munn, half in joke, 'You had better not leave your family alone to-night, Jacob; there is talk of Indians up the river.'

"And so there was, though nobody thought much of it.

"'Indians!' said the brute, with an oath. 'I only wish they would come and carry off this one!' pointing to his wife.

"The man said no more, but went on his way, and Munn came up to the village. He did not go home till towards dark the next day, and the first thing he saw was his own baby lying with its brains dashed out in the snow by the gate. The woman and the other two were lying scalped and dead inside the door, and the house was robbed. It was the only one in the valley which was attacked, which made it the more singular.

"Most likely," said Mr. Felton, "the mischief was done by a small party of Indians who knew Munn's habits. They had their spies all through the country at that time. I can remember seeing him round the village when I was a boy—a miserable, crazy creature, always talking to himself about the Indians."

"But why should I not walk there?" persisted Olive. "The Indians are all dead long ago."

Mrs. Felton had no very satisfactory reason to give, only that the place had a bad name, and no one would live there. Strange things had happened in the house.

"But what things?"

Well, she could not exactly say, only that queer things had been seen there at might, and people did not like to pass it. Some thought it was not altogether the Indians.

"And if I were you, Olive, I would not walk that way towards night. It is as well to be on the safe side, you know."

This reminiscence produced others, and Olive was surprised to find how many such traditions attached to the place. In one house there had been a murder committed. From another, a young girl had mysteriously disappeared one evening, and never was heard of again. In another, the watchers by a dead body had been alarmed by footsteps in the room, and sobs and sighs sounded near them, though nothing was to be seen. Olive had never heard so many ghost stories in her life. They had, at least, the good effect of arousing her attention, and turning her thoughts for a time away from the subject was engrossing them, perhaps more effectually than any thing more sensible would have done.

The next day found her much more composed. She had made up her mind entirely to the sacrifice, feeling her own share to be nothing to Walter's; and, girl-like, she even began already to find some pleasure in the prospect of the quiet parsonage and useful life, which lay beyond that long separation which she would not look at. She was detained an hour after school by an extra class, and then went round to the parsonage to tea.

"Where is your father?" she asked, after a while. "He did not come round to hear my class in Latin, as he promised."

"He has been closeted with Walter almost all the afternoon," replied Augusta; "I can not think what they are so earnestly engaged about. Walter looked as though he had the weight of nations upon his shoulders when he came in. And you, too, look anxious, Olive! I hope there is nothing wrong."

"Oh! No!" replied Olive, earnestly. "Nothing wrong. Something very right, I hope, but something which will make a great difference in our plans, if we decide upon it."

Augusta looked at her inquiringly, and they were silent for a while.

"After all, Olive, putting aside gratified ambition, which is perhaps but a questionable good, there are few happier lives than a clergyman's," said Augusta. She spoke rather to what she supposed were her friend's thoughts, and so Olive answered her.

"People have a great deal to say of a clergyman's trials, you know."

"I know, and doubtless some have more trouble than others. One can only speak from one's own experience and observation, of course. I have lived in a parsonage all my life long, you know, and I do not know that my father has been especially favored, except that he has remained a long time in the same place. We have had some hard times, and some sad times. There have been troubles, and now and then hard feeling and discontent in the parish. Once my father had no salary for three years, and we were poor enough. But the people have always come round after a while, and we have been as comfortable as ever. I am sure my father has enjoyed pleasures which more than counterbalanced his trials, and just think how it will be in the next world, when he shall come to know the full fruition of his labors!"

"But it must be hard, Augusta, for a man like your father to labor Sunday after Sunday, month after month, without seeing any fruit of his toils."

"Yes," replied Augusta, "and a minister undoubtedly needs faith, more than almost any one else in the word. But then, what state of life is there, which has not its trials? I remember well how my husband used to come home at night, especially in court-time, so worn out and disgusted with the meanness and villainy with which he was obliged to come in contact, the double-distilled lies and inveterate malice with which he was obliged to come in contact, even among his own clients. I have asked him sometimes, why he did not abandon his profession, and take up some other line of business, and his answer always was that there was no profession in the world which had not its drawbacks and its annoyances; and that, in laying down one burden, of which he knew the weight, he might take up another still heavier."

"Walter loves his profession," said Olive, sighing. "I do not think any thing but a certain sense of duty would make him dream of resigning it."

"I hope he will not be hasty."

"He is not apt to be hasty, I think," observed Olive. "Do you know, Augusta, that when I went away from here, I thought he was engaged to Annette Vander Heyden."

"I thought you did," said Augusta, smiling; "I knew very well he was not."

"Why did you not—?" Olive stopped, suddenly coloring as deeply as the crimson cushion she was working.

"Why did I not tell you? Because I thought it better both for your dignity and his, to let him tell his own story. I felt pretty sure that he would do so, and if he did not, the least said was soonest mended."

"I assure you, Augusta, I never was more astonished than I was when I discovered that I cared any thing about him." Olive made this declaration with great seriousness, and looked rather indignantly at Augusta for receiving it with a hearty laugh.

"Well, my dear child, what of that? You do not suppose that people in general go and fall in love of malice prepense, do you? To be sure, I have known cases where men, and women, too, set themselves about getting married as they would take steps to buy a cow or a horse, but I never heard of any one's making a deliberate calculation to fall in love."

"I do not know that I ever thought of it in that way," said Olive, joining in the laugh, "but I do assure you I was surprised."

"And you thought nobody was ever so unhappy before, I dare say."

Olive nodded.

"Whereas, your experience was that of at least eighty out of every hundred sensible and reasonable people, who marry at all, and perhaps as large a proportion who never do. But here are my father and Walter, coming back from the orchard. Walter looks as though his heart was lighter, does he not?"

He did, indeed, and, as Olive observed him, she thought he must have made up his mind to something certain. He looked pleased at meeting her, and his cheerful greeting and warm hand-pressure made her heart feel ten pounds lighter. The subject was not adverted to during the evening, but when they were walking homeward, Walter told her that he had been discussing the matter the whole afternoon with Mr. Gregory, and that he felt his mind quite made up to the step.

"Mr. Gregory advises me to let the matter rest for a month," said he. "And, of course, I shall do so, if only in deference to his opinion, trying meanwhile to gain all the light I can upon the matter. The only thing that really troubles me, Olive, is your sacrifice. I had enjoyed so much the prospect of our having a home of our own this fall, and having Louisa with us. I had built so many castles on it that—" Walter's voice faltered: he could not complete the sentence.

"We will not think about that," said Olive, cheerfully, though she felt a moisture rise to her own eyes as she spoke. "Our engagement has been a very short one, and we shall be none the less happy in the end, for knowing each other better. I believe you have full faith in me, Walter; you have no doubt of my constancy—there, that will do! And I have not a shadow of distrust for you. We can afford to wait."

"And what will you do meantime?" asked Walter.

"Go on teaching here as long as they want me," replied Olive. "I am thankful that I am not dependent on any body for a house or a living. It is pleasant at Mrs. Felton's, and I like the school very much—more than I ever expected to do, when I begun. I do not think three or four years of such discipline will do me any harm."

"You are determined to see only the bright side, my love."

"I am, in this case, because the dark side is most prominent, and speaks for itself," replied Olive.

"What will your uncle and aunt say?" asked Walter.

"Frankly, I do not think they will be pleased. Uncle—I wish to speak with all respect—is proud of his profession, and considers every slight offered to it as an insult to himself. I believe, to speak the truth, that they will be likely to consider you a very visionary and enthusiastic person, in making such a sacrifice. My aunt has, of course, renounced the world and its vanities, but she thinks it no harm to give up the most of her time and energies to what she and others call the requirements of society. I hesitate to say this, lest I should seem lacking in respect and affection, but I know that the inconsistency used to strike me when I was quite a child."

"But what does she make of such texts as—'Be not conformed to this world,' 'The friendship of the world is enmity towards God,' and others of like character?" asked Walter.

"I suppose she thinks they applied only to the time when they were written, and have nothing to do with people nowadays."

"Yes, that is a convenient way of dispensing with inconvenient precepts."

"You must not understand me to say that she always does it, Walter, by any means. In many things, I think my aunt is guided by truly religious motives. For instance, she never invites company on Sunday, unless it is some person to whom it will be a real kindness. She is careful to see that the servants go to church regularly, and that they are provided with proper books, both of instruction and amusement; and she is very kind to the poor, and to all sorts of forlorn and friendless people. I think this is her one great inconsistency."

"It is so with many excellent people, I know," said Walter; "and, after all, Olive, we all have our own pet failings. Perhaps this is no worse than many things in us, which we never think of as faults. But do not say any thing to them of the matter till it is settled, one way or other. As Mr. Gregory says, a distance of time makes a great difference in our feelings, and it is possible that I may see grounds for changing my mind. We will wait a month, and then decide."

They waited a month accordingly. Walter now and then adverted to the subject, but he said very little. At the end of that time, he informed Olive that his mind was settled, if hers was. He intended to devote himself to the ministry, and to commence his preparatory studies at once. Olive had no objections to offer, and in a few days, all was settled.

Walter would not have as much to do as many young men in the same circumstances, inasmuch as he was an excellent classical scholar already, and had read a good deal of Church-history, and of other matters which would come into the course.

Of course there were a great many different opinions expressed in Basswoods when the matter came to be generally known. Some people thought it a very foolish, romantic move, for a young man already in good practice as a lawyer, to exchange a lucrative profession, which offered so many chances of rising in the world, for one which held out no promise, either of wealth or of gratified ambition. Others thought it was very hard upon poor Miss McHenry, as of course her marriage must now be put off indefinitely, if not broken off entirely. But when Miss McHenry appeared just as good spirits as ever, and upon the same terms with her lover, they had nothing more to say, except that it was a queer world, a proposition which, if you regard it in some lights, hardly admits of a denial.

There were many who gave an unqualified approval, and wished that more young men would follow such a good example, and among them were Olive's fast friends, Mr. Jones and Dr. Gordon, the two acting members of the board of trustees, who were, moreover, much pleased at the idea of keeping their favorite teacher two or three years longer.

When Olive announced the change of plans to her aunt, Walter wrote a long letter to Mr. Merton, in which he gave a full account of all the motives and reasons which had influenced him.