Part 15

Mr. Merton replied very soon. As a general thing, he said, he could not approve of a young man's changing his profession when he had once set out in life, and he really thought that, with Mr. Landon's talents, he might do as much good as a Christian layman, as in the character of a clergyman. Still, it could not be denied that there was a great want of young men for the ministry. He desired his young friend to do nothing hastily, but consider well what he was going to relinquish, and also what he was going to take upon himself before making any decided move, and enjoined it upon him not to enter the work of the ministry, unless it was his intention to devote to it all his energies of mind and body. On the whole, the letter was quite as satisfactory in its character as Olive expected.

Aunt Rebecca's was not quite so much so. She evidently regarded the whole scheme as visionary and fanatical, and fully believed that Olive's apparently cheerful concurrence in it was only a freed and sorrowful acquiescence to the whims of her enthusiastic lover. She seemed indeed to place Walter's conduct upon a par with William Forester's relinquishment of the study of law, because he could not bring his mind down to such narrow limits. She concluded by expressing, in most affectionate terms, her sympathy in Olive's sad disappointment, and reminding her that she had always a home at her uncle's, independent of any one's caprice.

The kind tone of the letter brought tears to Olive's eyes, even while she half-laughed and was half-vexed at the determination to think her a martyr, in spite of herself. Since she had had the charge of young people upon her own hands, she had learned to appreciate, more than she had ever done before, how much she owed to aunt Rebecca's kindness, and how many times she had tried it, sometimes unwittingly, sometimes through willfulness and selfishness. She wrote again, to assure her aunt that she was not suffering and to beg her not to be uneasy, as she was perfectly well, and about as happy as she could be, inclosing, at the same time, a little sketch of her own face, in order to demonstrate, clearly, that she was not pining away.

The next letter was still more kindly expressed towards herself. Mrs. Merton had read Walter's letter to her husband, and admitted that his arguments were strong, but still she thought he might have been contented with doing all the good he could in his own profession. She sent him a very affectionate message, however, and Olive had no fear but that, in course of time, he would be fully taken into favor again.

Charlotte's letter was concise and to the point, like almost every thing she said. "You know very well that I do not pretend to be governed by your motives, or even to understand them, always. But I must say I think you have done right. You have acted consistently with your own views and professions. If I believed as Walter does, I should act just as he has done. I am sorry, on some accounts, that your marriage is put off, but I think perhaps it will be as well in the end."

Olive thought so, too, and she settled herself to her work with fresh patience and hopefulness, now that there was a chance of her seeing something of the fruit of her labors. People gradually ceased talking about it, and busied themselves with other matters, and by degrees Olive became as much accustomed to the thought of spending her life in a parsonage as though she had never had any other prospect before her.

"Aunt Dimsden was right," she said to herself, sometimes; "I shall be a minister's wife, after all."

CHAPTER TWELFTH.

THE summer term passed rapidly, unmarked by any particularly startling incident. The Basswoods people had become accustomed to the idea of Olive's engagement and Walter's change of profession, and troubled themselves very little more about the matter. The school prospered, and was larger than usual in summer, and Olive had her hands full of employment,—so full, indeed, that the trustees began seriously to talk of giving her an assistant the next term.

Olive hoped it would not be necessary. She liked to have the management in her own hands, and feared that some one might be appointed who would not work with her, and might, perhaps, thwart her plans.

She was the more solicitous on this point, as she knew very well that she had an enemy in the amiable Mrs. Tucker, who had never forgiven the summary setting down of the sensitive and conscientious Melissa, and who had never since hesitated to use all her influence against Olive, both secretly and openly. She talked of mercenary motives, and drew touching contrasts between people who taught only for money and those who taught for the love of it, though who these last were, she did not think it necessary to state. She intimated that Olive was fond of society, and went out a great deal, that her connections in M. were very fashionable people, that Miss McHenry paid a great deal of attention to the manners of her pupils, and even advised them about their dress, etc., etc.

Olive heard very little of these speeches, and troubled herself not at all about them. She had early discovered Mrs. Tucker to be a meddling, vulgar woman, very fond of having her own way, and considering herself a model of solid education, though upon what she founded her claim it would be difficult to say, except it were upon the fact of her having no accomplishments.

The school was full, the girls loved her, and the trustees were quite satisfied. Walter was every thing she had believed him to be, and now she had kind friends, and her own relatives, if they did not entirely approve of Walter's course, were at least satisfied with her. She was happier than she had ever been before in all her life, and she would have been quite happy, but for her constant feeling of anxiety about Abby—an anxiety to which she could attach no definite shape, but which haunted her continually, and made her heart beat fast at sight of a letter with the B. post-mark.

After a longer interval than usual, she got a letter, saying that they were at housekeeping, and that Abby liked it very well, "so far." The next letter was not quite so cheerful. They had not a good girl, and Abby had so much to do that she got tired to death. She supposed it was all her own fault, in not knowing how, but thought if they could only get competent servants, they would do better. She was very anxious to have Olive stop and pay them a visit on her return to M., if not to spend the whole vacation with them, and Olive fully intended to do so.

Olive, herself, was learning a good deal about work, from Ruth, who excelled in all that constituted a good housekeeper. Every Saturday she took a lesson in baking, and she felt more proud of her first fair, light loaf of bread, than she had ever been of a fine drawing.

Aunt Merton, to whom she wrote an account of her exploits, commended her highly for taking pains to acquire a practical knowledge of such things—"a knowledge, my dear, which can never come amiss in any station. At the same time, I can not but hope, notwithstanding Mr. Landon's eccentric course, that you will never be placed in circumstances which will render it necessary for you to bake your own bread."

It was plain that aunt Rebecca had not quite forgiven Walter yet, for what she considered his romantic folly. Yet Mrs. Merton regretted, extremely, the great want of young men for the ministry, and was in favor of having it made an especial object of prayer in the churches. She admired, too, the heroism of missionaries, and gave liberally to the cause.

Olive was not at all disturbed by her aunt's letter. She appreciated the kindness, and only smiled at the inconsistency. She had learned away from home, what, when at home, she had never fully realized—that, taking them all in all, there were few better people in the world than her uncle and aunt Merton. And many times did she feel herself shamed and humiliated, as she looked back on her own conduct, and thought how illy she had often requited their kindness.

The time sped on, and the summer term was near its close. Olive had made all her preparations for the long vacation, and Walter had wound up his business, except what had gone into the hands of his successor, and was giving his whole attention to some preparatory studies, under the direction of Mr. Gregory.

At the earnest petition of a number of the girls who had hitherto considered themselves quite too old to go to Sunday-school, Olive had taken a Bible-class, in which she found, both pleasure and profit. Julia Goodrich stood at the head of this class, as she did at the head of the day-school, side by side with her fast friend, Anna Jones. She never missed a lesson, was apparently very much interested in the information she acquired, and was regular in her attendance; yet Olive could not flatter herself that she was making any decided impression upon her. When the subject of personal piety was pressed upon her attention, she treated it with respect, but frankly owned that she had no interest in it, on her own account. She seemed to have an idea that she should some time or other, be converted, without any special agency of her own, and that all would be right, as a matter of course.

Olive was very much in doubt what to do with these girls during her absence. She had asked, as a personal favor to herself, that they would continue to meet, and they had promised to do so, but she could think of no one to whom to commit the charge of the class. Augusta and Ruth had their hands full, the one with the infant-school, the other with a class of large boys from the country which she had taught for several years.

She was talking the matter over with Augusta one day, when Mrs. Vander Heyden came in. She was a pleasant woman, and rather remarkably well-informed, and Olive had more than once thought of her. But as Mrs. Vander Heyden had never had any thing to do with the school, she did not venture to propose it.

In the course of conversation, however, it came out, incidentally, that Olive was looking for some one to supply her place during her absence.

"If you will trust them to me, Miss McHenry," said Mrs. Vander Heyden, "I will do as well as I can by them. I have very little experience in teaching, but perhaps I can keep them together."

"I could ask nothing better," replied Olive, equally surprised and pleased; "and I shall be very much obliged to you. I did not think of asking you, as you have never been in Sunday-school."

Mrs. Vander Heyden sighed. "Perhaps I have been wrong in keeping so much aloof from such things," said she, "but we have had such a pleasant circle at home, and I found it so easy to occupy myself fully there that I shrank from any thing which should take me out. We are sadly broken up," she added, with a sigh.

"Is Agnes going south?" asked Augusta.

"Yes, we shall take her to her aunt, in Georgia. I hope the change and the journey will do her good, for she is still sadly delicate. Jenny will be very lonely without her, I fear."

"Poor Mrs. Vander Heyden! How very sad she seems," said Olive, after the lady had gone. "I was very much surprised at her offer, were not you?"

"Not so much as I should have been a year ago," replied Augusta. "The family have lived, hitherto, almost entirely within themselves, and I believe, felt themselves quite beyond the need of neighborly sympathy. But the death of poor Annette, and the long-continued illness of Agnes and Jenny, have taught them a good lesson. I do not know what would have become of them, if they had been done by as they have been in the habit of doing to others. It shows what a really noble nature the woman has, that she has learned the lesson, and is ready to repair and acknowledge her error."

In the year which she had spent in school, Olive had learned to have not only a great respect, but also a really friendly regard for her partner in the institution. It is said that we are apt to like those whom we have benefited, and if so, it is no wonder that Olive liked Mr. Prendergrass. She had certainly, done him a great deal of good. She had coaxed him out of his seclusion, and persuaded him into society; she had made him laugh heartily, more than once. She knew, too, how to draw out his vast and miscellaneous stores of thought and information, so as to make him an entertaining companion. But it was not merely his learning that commanded admiration. He was so thoroughly good, his feelings were so elevated and dignified, his piety so earnest, every thing about him so sincere and true, that Olive had a hearty reverence for him, and looked up to him with an almost daughterly regard, at the same time that she could not help being sometimes amused and sometimes annoyed by his eccentricities, and she now and then laughed at him a little, when she was with Ruth or Augusta. In what light he regarded her, we shall soon see.

One Wednesday evening Olive did not go to church, as usual. She was not very well, and had had a fatiguing day in school. She would not allow any one to stay at home with her, and they all went, leaving her to enjoy that not unpleasant degree of indisposition which may be defined as too unwell to work and not too unwell to enjoy a new book. In this peaceful state, she had established herself upon the sofa, and given herself up to the fascinations of the "Princess."

It was not a very pleasant interruption to hear Mr. Prendergrass's voice, inquiring if Miss. McHenry was at home. But she put down her book, turned her feet off the sofa, and prepared to be gracious, wondering all the time what had kept him from church, when the clergyman himself was hardly more punctual than he.

The fact was, that Mr. Prendergrass had, for a long time, been trying to work his courage up to the point necessary for making a declaration of love to Miss McHenry. He lived, in general, so entirely out of the world, and was habitually so abstracted, that the report of Olive's engagement to Walter had never reached him, or had fallen upon unheeding ears. For the first time in his life, he had fallen into the society of a pretty, cultivated girl. The teachers before Olive had made no more impression upon him than the desks, or other furniture of the school-room. In fact, he had looked upon women in general as necessary evils, to be endured and made the best of.

Olive was entirely different. She had begun by a tacit but decided declaration of independence. She was clearly not afraid of him, though she treated him with respect. She often disagreed with him, and sometimes laughed at him. The consequence of all which was, that Mr. Prendergrass, before he knew what he was about, fell violently in love with Miss McHenry. It was a long time before he would acknowledge the fact to himself, and still longer before he could make up his mind to inform the object of his affections. But when he saw the Felton family going to church without her, and ascertained that she was at home, alone, he thought it would never do to allow so good an opportunity to pass by unimproved.

Olive never knew, exactly, how he contrived to make her understand the matter. She was so utterly astonished, so shocked and grieved at having unwittingly led the good man into an error that for a moment she could not say a word. Mr. Prendergrass evidently took her silence for encouragement.

"May I hope, Miss Olive," he said, in a trembling voice, and changing his first seat for one upon the sofa, at her side, "that you will listen to my humble suit with favor? I am aware of my unworthiness, and your exalted merit, but if the devotion of so humble an individual as myself can make you happy—"

"Stop, pray stop, Mr. Prendergrass!" exclaimed Olive, finding her voice at last. "I am so very sorry. I am afraid I have been very much to blame." And girl-like, she burst into tears.

Poor Mr. Prendergrass was inexpressibly shocked and alarmed.

"Don't weep, pray don't, my dear Miss McHenry! What have I said to cause you a moment's grief?"

"It is not what you have said," replied Olive, recovering her calmness, "but I fear I have been very much to blame. I looked up to you so much, Mr. Prendergrass—I felt you were so much above me, and so much older that I never thought of your caring any thing more for me than as a friend."

Mr. Prendergrass felt his heart sink fathoms deep, but he did not mean to give it up quite yet. "Respect is an essential agreement in the marriage-covenant. Do you not think so, Miss McHenry?" he asked timidly.

"Yes, sir, certainly, but something more than respect is necessary."

"You refer to love, Miss McHenry! Is that entirely out of the question, madam? So far as I myself am concerned, I repeat that life itself is not dearer to me than my Olive."

The dignity and earnestness with which the good man spoke, brought the tears again to Olive's eyes, but she forced them back, and determined to put an end to the scene at once.

"You will see that it is quite impossible, Mr. Prendergrass, when I tell you that I have been engaged to Mr. Landon ever since my return. I regret, very much, that any thing in my conduct should have led to such a mistake on your part, and I fear I have been to blame in not foreseeing it. But, as I said, I have been in the habit of looking up to you so much that it never struck me as possible."

Her tone, even more than the words, convinced Mr. Prendergrass that his visit was hopeless. He rose and walked up and down the room a few times.

"Miss McHenry," he said at last, stopping before her, "why did you ever come here? I was happy before that. I lived in my duties and my books, contented in solitude. I felt the need of nothing. You drew me out of myself, and away from my studies. You, first of any woman in the world, commanded my respect. You made me perfectly happy for a time, happier than I ever knew any one could be, only to plunge me in utter misery. Why did you not leave me alone?"

He walked once more the length of the room.

"Now what am I to do? I can not go back to my old way of life, and be happy in it, after the year of enjoyment I have passed. I can not forget you, even if it were possible to myself, since I must meet you every day. I have given you every thing, and left myself poor indeed, only to contribute to your amusement, and be cast aside for a younger man, who, whatever may be his merits, never can love you better than the poor awkward school-master with whom you have diverted yourself, without a thought of the mischief you were doing."

"Mr. Prendergrass, I can not permit this," said Olive, with dignity. "I make great allowances for your disappointment, but you do great injustice, both to me and to yourself, when you accuse me of trifling with you. I found you, as you say, shut up with your books, and I thought it a great pity. I tempted you from your seclusion, not to amuse myself with you—such a thought never entered my mind—but because I thought it would be much better for you, while your society would be pleasant to others. You have never given me the least reason to think that I was more to you than any other young lady in the village. I have no more to say, except that when you are more yourself, I am sure you will do me justice."

Mr. Prendergrass stood a moment. "Forgive me, Miss McHenry. I have spoken improperly, and you are right, as you always are. Good-night."

"We part friends, at least, I hope," said Olive, offering him her hand.

He took it in a grasp which almost crushed it, pressed it to his lips, and pulling his hat over his eyes, he left the house, passing Mrs. Felton at the gate, without even a sign of salutation.

"What on earth ails the man?" said Mrs. Felton to her daughter. "I should not wonder if he had got the neuralgia again. Why, where's Olive?" she continued, as she entered the sitting-room, and found it vacant. "I don't believe but that she is real sick. Hadn't you better go up and see?"

Ruth went up, but did not go in. She had an inkling of the state of the case, and she thought Olive would prefer to be alone, so she contented herself with asking, at the door, if Olive wanted any thing, and then went to her own room.

Olive would have given a good deal if she could have avoided meeting her rejected lover the next morning, but there was no help for it. And she determined to put the best face she could upon the encounter.

Mr. Prendergrass rose and bade her good morning, as usual, when she entered the large room, following her train of girls.

Glancing at him, after she was seated, she was shocked to see how he was altered. He looked ten years older, at least. His eyes were hollow, and there was an expression of forlorn wretchedness about him, which went to Olive's heart. His voice, however, was full and firm as ever in going through the morning prayers.

When school was out, at noon, Mr. Prendergrass entered the library, where Olive was, searching for something in one of the book-cases.

"Allow me a moment, Miss McHenry," he said, in his formal way, and closing the door. "I made myself very ridiculous last night," he continued, "and I fear gave you great pain."

"On the contrary, you never commanded my respect more," said Olive warmly, "and the only pain I felt was for your disappointment, and the fear that I had lost your friendship."

"You are very kind to say so." He paused a moment. "From henceforth let the whole matter be forgotten, so far as possible. I entirely acquit you of any wrong in the matter, and blame only my own folly and vanity."

Olive would have interrupted him, but he waved his hand, and proceeded. "We will say no more about it, if you please. I believe Mr. Landon to be a worthy and excellent young man, and I greatly respect him for the course which I understand he has lately taken. I hope you may both be happy, and so long as I know 'you' are so, I can never be quite wretched. God bless you!"

He bowed, and was gone, leaving Olive to wonder whether, if she had never seen Walter, she might not, in the course of time, have fallen in love with this honorable, noble, kind-hearted, formal, eccentric piece of humanity.

School was out at last, and us the scholars assembled once more to receive their prizes and to bid good-by, Olive felt sadly at leaving them, even for the vacation. She had expected when she returned for the summer term, to give up her charge entirely at this time, and to return to Basswoods as Mrs. Landon. A great change had passed over her prospects. She was none the less happy, but it was a calm and subdued happiness. Those who saw only the outside pitied her disappointment, but she told Augusta that if she could, by turning her hand, reverse the whole matter, she would not do it.

"I respect and love him more than ever, when I see him making such sacrifices to what we both feel to be paramount duty," said she, "and I never think of it but with a thankful heart that we are both of one mind."

"Mr. Prendergrass is going to travel this vacation; only think of that!" said Ruth. "He has not been out of Basswoods before, except to York to buy books, for ten years. He says he is going to the White Mountains, and up the St. Lawrence, and so home by the way of Niagara. I only hope the poor man will not get lost."

"Perhaps he will only get married," said Augusta. "You look quite indignant, Olive, but let me tell you, my dear, there is truth in the saying that 'many a heart is caught in the rebound.'"

"I was not aware that I looked indignant," replied Olive, coloring. "It is nothing to me, of course, but it does not seem very probable."

The girls smiled and turned the conversation, leaving Olive wondering why she should have felt a little vexed at the idea of Mr. Prendergrass being married.

She had expected to go alone to B., but when the day came, she found Walter prepared to accompany her.