Part 17

"How absurd!" said Charlotte. "I wonder how my father would get on in his office, on that principle, or a merchant in his store?"

"It troubles Abby very much, and discourages her, too," said Olive.

"And how do you think Abby felt about us?" asked Mrs. Merton. "Do you think she ever feels as if she would like to see us again? I don't want you to betray confidence, my dear," she added, seeing Olive hesitate, "but I feel anxious to know."

"I do not know that I shall betray any confidence in telling my own thoughts, aunt," said Olive. "I think Abby would very gladly ask to be forgiven, if Mr. Forester would let her. She would not say that she was sorry she married him, of course."

"Certainly not," interrupted Mrs. Merton. "We should never ask that."

"But I do think it makes her very unhappy to be so entirely separated from the family. She made me promise to be with her at the time of her confinement, if I could, but I shall not be surprised if Mr. Forester contrives to prevent it, for I know very well he does not like me. Abby is very low-spirited about it, and thinks she shall never get well. I am afraid she is sad enough, when she is alone, as of course she must be, a great deal of the time."

"Poor child!" sighed Mrs. Merton again. "How I do wish I could send and have her here, at home! If she would only take one step toward a reconciliation, I am sure your uncle would forgive her at once."

"I am sure he would, if he were to see her."

"Well, my love, we will have patience; all will be brought round yet. I am sure I wish poor Abby well, with all my heart!" A fact which Olive did not in the least doubt.

Laura seemed to be going on in much the same way as ever, but Olive did not see her. Mrs. Dimsden had taken her down to the sea-shore, and from there to Saratoga, where her dazzling beauty and sweet manners attracted much attention. Laura seemed to be in Paradise, to judge from her letters, which were very long, and so filled from end to end with descriptions of dances, parties, and every thing of that sort, that Olive hardly had patience to read them through. Now that Abby was in some degree separated from her, she felt more and more painfully the distance between herself and Laura. They did not seem to have one thought in common.

Charlotte was much more of a companion to her, though they differed so widely upon many points. She was at least serious and thoughtful. She was not impatient of half an hour's grave conversation, and she had a thorough respect for goodness in others.

Laura valued people by their dress, their station, their fine houses, and above all, by their degree of fashion. It was respectable to go to church, and besides, it was a good place to see and be seen, so she went regularly, and knelt gracefully at all proper places, but she did not like the preaching, especially Doctor Eastman's preaching, and she wished they would leave that out. She thought his personal appeals to the hearts and consciences of his flock very Methodistical, such being the title given by a great many people to any thing like earnestness.

She could understand, or thought she could, the motives of Miss Eustace, an heiress, and a very beautiful and dignified person, in presenting a superb altar-cloth and set of cushions to the church, but she could not comprehend why the same Miss Eustace should sit back with her Sunday scholars, every Sunday, and find all their places for them, or why she should spend a great deal of her time in working for them, when no one would know it, unless by accident. Laura lived entirely in and for this world, and thought or cared no more for any other than if she had had no soul.

Olive returned to Basswoods, feeling as if the winter would be rather a long one. Walter was not there. He had gone, after a short visit in M., to pursue his studies at a distance. He was to return at Christmas for a week, and to this week she looked forward as a weary passenger on shipboard looks for the land.

The school filled up at once, and so many large girls came in, that Olive, after a good deal of consideration and consultation, came to the conclusion that it would by necessary to have another teacher for the little ones. Mrs. Tucker and a few of her special adherents, who had formed a sort of party against Olive, manœuvred greatly to get this appointment into their own hands. Mrs. Tucker wished to give it to a young friend of her own, and, by what she considered a master-stroke of policy, she invited that young lady to come and make her a visit during the vacation. Miss Lambert was really a nice sort of girl, and would have answered Olive's purpose very well, but Mrs. Tucker had reckoned without her host, and like some other great generals, had out-manœuvred not her adversary, but herself. Mr. Jones heard his sister-in-law's innuendoes and suggestions very patiently, for some time.

"Sister Tucker," he broke out at last, "do you really think the trustees are going to do such a mean and uncivil thing as to put an assistant into the school without consulting Miss McHenry's wishes about it?"

"I don't see the incivility," replied Mrs. Tucker, a good deal alarmed, but standing her ground. "If Miss McHenry did not like it, she could leave."

"Yes, and that is what you want. Because she checked Melissa in her tattling when she first came, as you ought to have done yourself long ago, you have always been against her. Now, listen to me. These insinuations against Miss McHenry must be put a stop to, at once and forever. They do you no credit, let me tell you, either as a woman or a Christian, and you do Miss Lambert great harm. She seems a pretty good girl, and if Miss McHenry approves of her, there may be no objection to having her. But not one step shall be taken without her concurrence."

Mrs. Tucker could only murmur something about "not meaning any harm."

"Then be careful you don't do any harm. I have seen so much malice, and so much mischief under that cloak of not meaning any harm, that I don't think much of it."

In effect, Miss McHenry, understanding the state of the case, willing to conciliate, and having seen Miss Lambert and conversed with her away from her champion, Mrs. Tucker, was very well pleased with her, and signified to the trustees that she had no objection to their giving her the vacant place.

Mrs. Tucker exulted greatly, but her triumph was of short duration. For Miss Lambert, being really an honest, good-hearted, affectionate girl, and positively declining to tell tales out of school, and submitting herself entirely to the guidance of her principal, Mrs. Tucker considered her as having gone over to the enemy, and quarrelled with her, accordingly. It became necessary for her to seek a new boarding-place, and as she had abundance of room, Olive persuaded Mrs. Felton to take her.

Maria was young, and her opportunities had not been great. She delighted to read and study under Olive's direction, and she, on her part, grew very much attached to her, and so ended an affair which might have been a very serious one for our heroine, had her friends been one whit less straightforward or sensible.

But Miss Lambert did not remain through the year, for a very good reason—an excellent reason, indeed, since it was no other than Mr. Prendergrass. That gentleman had fallen into the habit of visiting at least once a week at Mrs. Felton's, and to him habit was second nature. So he kept on visiting there, as usual, after Olive returned. And now that there was no farther danger of mistakes, Olive was very glad to see him.

But after Miss Lambert came, she began to perceive, with much amusement, that she was not the principal attraction. He talked to her, indeed, but he looked at Maria. She was very glad to observe, after a little, that Maria herself had no objection to have Mr. Prendergrass look at her, that she was glad to see him when he came, and low-spirited if he went away early, or failed to present himself at the usual time.

At last, one day, not long after the holidays, Maria came to Olive's room, and with blushes, and smiles, and tears, and much pretty confusion, acquainted her with the fact that Mr. Prendergrass had offered himself to her, and wished to be advised.

"About what does Maria wish to be advised?" Olive asked.

Maria wanted to be advised whether she should marry Mr. Prendergrass or not.

"That depends entirely upon circumstances, my dear. If you do not love him, you ought not to marry him."

"But I am afraid I do love him," sobbed Maria.

"Then you had better marry him, by all means, my love, if there is no other objection. He is a most excellent man, and no doubt will make you very happy."

"You know I have neither father nor mother," said Maria. "I have hardly a friend in the world but you."

"Don't think of marrying simply for a home, Maria. I would rather you did almost any thing else."

"I don't indeed, Miss McHenry. I would rather go to the poor-house. But I do like him so very much, and he is so good—that—that—"

"That you can not help crying about it," said Olive smiling, and kissing her. "My love, I think you could hardly have done better, and I wish you joy with all my heart. Now then, dry your eyes and answer Mr. Prendergrass's note and don't keep the poor man in suspense any longer."

"Poor man," she thought as Maria left the room. "I need not have distressed myself so much about breaking his heart and all that. I do not believe men's hearts are so easily fractured after all."

Olive felt some awkwardness upon meeting and congratulating her former lover upon his approaching marriage, but there was no necessity for any embarrassment upon her part, for he evidently felt none. The fact that he had once cared himself to Olive seemed to have passed entirely from his mind, and he could think of nothing and look at nothing but his dear Maria.

There was no reason why the marriage should be delayed, as Mr. Prendergrass beside his salary had a comfortable little property, the result of his savings for many years.

Augusta and Ruth helped Olive to put Maria's wardrobe into a state befitting so grand an occasion. She had many presents, indeed quite a setting out of plate and china from those who took an interest in the motherless girl. The wedding took place at Mrs. Felton's and was quite a splendid affair. Contrary to the forebodings of those who knew his habits, Mr. Prendergrass was not late and did not forget the ring. Maria looked very lovely, the bridegroom very manly and sensible, and every one was pleased except Mrs. Tucker.

That lady was not pleased. She thought Mr. Prendergrass ought to be ashamed of himself to marry such a little chit of a girl as Maria Lambert—a man of "his" age! It was all an affair of Miss McHenry's getting up, and just like her. Maria had been a good girl before she fell under that woman's influence—but she had shown the disposition of a serpent in going to Mrs. Felton's, as if that lady was in the habit of taking reptiles to board, and she would have no more to do with her: so she would not go to the wedding, though Maria invited her, and would not call upon her, though they lived very near—a circumstance which probably did not detract in the least from the happiness of Maria's married life.

It was wonderful and exceedingly pleasant to see how Mr. Prendergrass improved under the influence of his young wife. He learned to dress, talk, and comport himself much like ordinary mortals, discovered that there were other objects in life besides books, and entertained company at home with great propriety. Maria was as happy as the day was long, thought her husband the most wonderful of men, and herself the happiest woman in the world, especially after Olive consented to take her younger sister in her place. She insisted upon Olive's coming to make them a visit.

And Olive accepted the invitation and enjoyed it greatly, thinking at least once every day how much Mr. Prendergrass was superior to Mr. Forester though he could not have told a Claude from a Turner—and his musical knowledge, like the western gentleman's, only amounted to two tunes, one of which was Old Hundred and the other wasn't; and how much happier Maria was than poor Abby.

CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.

OLIVE was not with Abby at her confinement, after all—not from any fault of her own, but because Mr. Forester had very clearly intimated that he did not want her, and preferred even his own sister Emma, whom he did not seem to like very well either. But though Olive was not with her, Aunt Merton was—to explain which, we must go back a little.

As the time of trial drew near, Emma Forester, who was staying with Abby, saw that there was something which weighed upon her mind and disturbed her very much.

Emma was a kind-hearted and practical woman—she had need to be so, having exercised in her own person all the common-sense which had been brought to bear upon the family affairs since she was twelve years' old. She was not a favorite with her brothers or sisters, and truth to say, Emma's manners were not amiable: she was apt to be short and rather sharp in her replies, and to criticise, especially her brother William, pretty severely. She had been very much displeased with him for his marriage, an affair which his mother considered as at worst only an amiable eccentricity—but her anger did not extend to her little sister-in-law, for whom she felt very sorry, well-knowing what was before her.

William had positively declined having Olive to stay with Abby during her confinement, not so much in words, as in looks and tones, giving it to be understood that he preferred having his house to himself. He would not have had Emma either, if he could have helped himself, but she left him no choice, coming of her own accord about six weeks beforehand, and establishing herself for a long stay, without consulting him.

Abby was delighted to have Emma, since she could not have Olive. They suited very well: Emma from temper and habit liking to direct, and Abby pleased to be directed. Emma took at once the whole charge of housekeeping off her sister's hands, leaving her to take the rest she so much needed: and this in itself was a great relief.

But her good offices did not end here. She saw that Abby was very unhappy—that she had some secret trouble, apart from the vague fear of death which had haunted her by turns for a long time. And she set herself kindly and delicately to discover and if possible to remedy it. At last, after much coaxing, it all came out in a gush of tears.

"O Emma! I want to see aunt Rebecca so much. I want to tell her how very sorry I am for displeasing her, and ask her to forgive me."

"Well, love, what hinders you from writing to her? I dare say she would come and see you at once, if she knew you desired to see her."

"I am sure she would," sobbed Abby. "Olive says she always asks about me. I would give any thing to see her once more."

"Why not write immediately?" asked Emma.

"William does not wish to have me, Emma. He does not like aunt, and he thinks uncle has insulted him. I did speak about it once, but—" A new gush of tears followed, as she recalled the scene.

"Don't cry, my dear—now you really must not!" said Emma, with authority. "I think it can be managed, and if it can not, you must not make yourself ill about it. Lie down, child, and don't try to sew: I will attend to all that."

Abby still looked anxious. "I don't know whether it is best for you to say any thing, Emma. I am afraid—"

"Tut! Tut! My dear. He is not my husband, you know. I have not said that I shall speak to him either, but I want you to be gratified, if possible."

"You do not think it is a notion—do you, Emma?"

"No, child; I think it is a feeling that does you credit. And even if it were, I don't see why your notions should not be gratified, as well as those of other people."

"Well, I don't know," sighed Abby. "I am afraid I am very troublesome and fanciful sometimes. Nothing ever used to disturb me when I was a girl. Olive used to cry five times to my once. But lately, some how, every thing seems so heavy and hard to me—even things that would not have made any impression on me a year ago. I am afraid it is my fault, and that I am growing very unamiable."

"You are sick, child; that is all."

"I am glad you think so. You are so good to me, Emma. I don't know how I shall ever repay you."

"Pshaw!" returned Emma shortly. "One must be hard-hearted indeed, to be any thing but good to such a poor little forlorn bird as you are. I am glad if I can do any thing for you, I am sure."

William was out in the evening. There was a grand concert in town, and the tickets were only a dollar. He had lost his place as accountant that morning, and wanted something to divert his mind from what even he thought rather an unpleasant circumstance. So he went to the concert, and afterwards took an oyster-supper downtown with a friend, feeling not at all uneasy at being out late, since he knew Emma would not let his wife sit up for him. He was a little vexed to find Emma herself awaiting his return.

"Why did you sit up?" he asked. "You know I can let myself in."

"I did not sit up altogether for you," replied Emma. "I had a piece of work to finish to-night. But I do want to speak to you about Abby."

"Is she ill?" asked Mr. Forester, rather anxiously.

"She is as well as she has been for some days past, but she is very unhappy, poor child."

"What does she want now?" said he, with the air of a man accustomed to yield to a vast number of unreasonable desires upon the part of his wife. "I am ready to do any thing in reason."

"She wants to see her aunt," replied Emma, as usual coming to the point at once.

Mr. Forester's face was darkened by a very unpleasant frown. "I thought I had settled that matter once for all," he said, tapping his finger upon the table. "I told Abby that when her uncle would apologize for his treatment of me, I would let her see him, and not before. I must say, she forgets her duty as a wife, in complaining of me to you, and I do not think the better of you for encouraging her in it."

"She has not complained of you!" returned Emma, indignantly. "She thinks you are a demi-god, or somewhere near it, poor child."

"How did this come out, then?"

"I guessed it, and she admitted that it was so."

"And told you I would not let her write?"

"She said you thought it was not best."

"I do think so. I think, too, that Abby forgets herself strangely, in cherishing a desire which she knows to be directly contrary to my judgment. Since you are in her confidence, you may tell her that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Merton shall ever enter my doors, till they make me a humble apology. In her present condition, there is nothing to be done but to get along with her whims as easily as possible, but when she is better—it don't signify talking of it now! I thought you knew that I had too much pride and self-respect to be over-crowed by my wife's relations."

He took up his candle to go up-stairs.

"Very good," said Emma, coolly. "Keep your pride and self-respect, and lose your wife. Do you know what Dr. M. thinks of her?"

William hesitated, turned, and came back to the table. "Doctors are so fanciful," he said peevishly.

Emma did not reply.

"Do you really think, Emma, that there is danger?"

"There is always danger," was the brief response.

"I should be sorry to cross her unnecessarily," he continued, after another pause. "She tries her best to please me, I must say, but,—don't you think, Emma, she is very childish?"

"Very, or she would never have married you," was the rather unpromising reply. "But you are the last person who ought to complain of that. You knew what she was when you took her."

"I knew she was young and girlish, and thought I could form her mind—"

"You had better have formed your own first," interrupted his sister.

"I thought I could make her what I wanted. You know what sort of woman I always admired—a gentle, yielding character that would twine round her husband like the honeysuckle round an elm."

"Like a pea round a pumpkin-vine would be the better comparison in your case," said Emma. "You never could stand alone yourself, much less sustain any thing else. But there is no use in talking of that now: the mischief is done, and you have only to make the best of it. Now, the case stands thus. Abby, like, all young girls in such circumstances, thinks she is certainly going to die, and I do not know but she is right, for Dr. M. is very anxious—at any rate, she thinks so. She is longing, from the bottom of her affectionate little heart to see the people who have brought her up, and been father and mother to her—and to be friends with them. It is a reasonable wish, too. But you, for the sake of sustaining your absurd pride, deny her this comfort—perhaps the last that it may be yours to grant. You admit that she has never gone contrary to your wishes since you married her, and, on the contrary, has striven in every way to please you, and yet you will not make this small sacrifice to soothe her hour of trial—perhaps of death!"

"Settle it in your own fashion!" said Mr. Forester abruptly, and turning away. "I am willing she should have the whole clan here, Olive and all, if it will do her any good. Only let me know when they are coming that I may be out of the way, and avoid the scene. I must look out for something to do, I suppose, and I have not much hope of finding it here. I can make that an excuse for running away for a few days."

"Something to do! What do you mean?" asked his sister, with a feeling of anxiety which prevented her from noticing, as she otherwise would have done, the heartlessness of this speech.

"Oh! I have given up my engagement with Hancock, and shall be out of work after to-morrow," he replied, with a vain attempt to appear unconcerned.

"William, are you mad? Why did you throw up your situation without knowing that you had something to turn to, at this time of all others? What was the matter?"

"The matter was that we could not agree, and so we thought it best to part," returned Mr. Forester doggedly. "He wanted to pin me down to the desk from Monday morning till Saturday night, ten hours a day. I thought I had a right to some relaxation now and then. So I went off on a fishing-party two or three times, you know, and was not there when he expected me. Then I COULD not give my whole attention to figures; it is quite too tiresome and stupid, and narrows down one's mind to a mere point. The consequence was, that I made some trifling mistakes, and so you see—"

"I see," said Emma, finishing the sentence for him, "that as usual, you have no one to blame but yourself! William, when will you ever be a man? You talk of Abby's being a child, and so she is, but a good and obedient child; while you are a perverse, self-willed boy—a torment to yourself and every one that has any thing to do with you."

She walked nervously up and down the room a few times. William took up a pen and began to draw figures all over a sheet of music-paper. He was used to his sister's fault-finding, and waited patiently till she should exhaust her vexation, and propose some remedy for his embarrassments.

"There is no use in all that," he said at last; "and besides, you will disturb Abby."

"Very true," replied Emma, pausing in her walk, and throwing herself into a corner of the sofa. "I am glad you have the grace to think of her. How much have you beforehand?"

"Well, perhaps two hundred dollars—perhaps a little more. I do not know exactly how much of my salary I have drawn."

"Don't you keep an account?"

"No, indeed! I tried it once, but the cigars, and so on, mounted up so—"

His sister made a gesture of impatience, and he returned to his trees.

"Is that all you have to depend upon?"

"Pretty much all. There may be a little coming in from publishers."