Part 18

"And out of this, your rent is to be paid—and the physician, and poor Katy, and the nurse, and housekeeping to be carried on! How do you think it is all to be done?"

"I don't know, I am sure," replied William, with an air of virtuous resignation. "I hope it will all come right some way. I must find something else to do, after I have enjoyed a little vacation, and poor Abby is right again. And now, don't you think we had better break up this council and retire? If she wakes, she may be alarmed. I won't say any thing to her, but you may tell her that she may write as penitent a letter as she pleases, disowning her husband and all his relations, if she will—"

"You know she does not want to do that. She only wants—"

"She only wants what is right, and you, too, I dare say, sis, though you are rather sharp in your way of putting it. Come, now, don't look so miserable," he added, in a coaxing way, putting his arm round her. "I will be as steady as old Hancock himself, if you will only kiss and be friends."

Emma yielded, as she almost always did in the end, to her fascinating brother's soothing and coaxing, so far as to kiss him good-night. But she lay awake till almost morning, thinking what was to become of her brother and sister when worse came to the worst—when they had spent all they had, and exhausted every one's patience.

Abby roused up as William entered, and begged to know if there was any thing wrong, but being gayly assured that every thing was very right, went quietly to sleep again.

As for William, nothing disturbed his slumbers: if he had been going to be hanged the next morning, he would have slept equally well, comforting himself with the reflection that something favorable would certainly happen before the time came.

Abby was very happy next morning when Emma informed her that there was no farther objection to her writing to her aunt, but her joy was a little damped when she was told (for Emma thought best to tell her) that William would probably have to be away upon business at the time. Still, it was with a joyful heart that she sat down to indite her letter, which she wrote and rewrote with a nervous anxiety, till Emma, seeing the state of the case, took the best copy from her hand, pronounced it good enough, folded and sealed it, and then placed it before Abby, to direct. William carried it to the post, without any remark, and made his wife very happy all day by a great many kind words, and some little attentions, which cost him nothing, but which were invaluable to her.

The family at Mr. Merton's were seated at the breakfast-table, when the letter was brought in.

Mrs. Merton took it, and broke the seal. And when Charlotte looked up from one of her own a moment after, she was both astonished and alarmed to see such an unusual sight as tears rolling down her mother's cheeks. She rose hastily, as did Mr. Merton, and the Black Prince, with his accustomed delicacy, withdrew, under the pretext of seeking hot cakes, but remained close by the outside of the door—perhaps to be within call.

"It is from Abby," said Mrs. Merton, as soon as she could find a voice. "The poor dear child has come to her senses at last. Read it, Charlotte, my dear."

And Charlotte read, being obliged to pause more than once in the course of it. When she had done, she looked anxiously from one to the other.

"You will go—you will go at once, father, will you not?"

"Certainly, my dear child, if your mother says so. I dislike the idea of meeting Forester, but poor Abby must not be disappointed. Yes, we will go at once."

"You will not see him," said Charlotte. "Did you not notice, she says he will be obliged to go away upon business?"

"Then we will set out without delay—as early as to-morrow," said Mrs. Merton.

"Why not to-day?" asked her husband. "There is time enough."

"Perhaps it will be better to leave space for a letter to precede us," suggested Mrs. Merton. "We must not startle her, you know."

Mr. Merton acquiesced, and Charlotte sat down, at once, to write the letter.

How delighted Abby was when she received it! She laughed and cried by turns, kissed her husband and thanked him so many times that he really began to think he had made a meritorious sacrifice, and felt very self-complacent in consequence. He half-resolved to stay and face it out, but found his courage failing the next morning, and went off, bidding his wife a most affectionate farewell, thinking, as he went, how badly he should feel if he were to lose her, and beginning at once to set his possible feelings first to rhyme and then to music, till he composed an affecting song, called the "Widower's Lament."

Abby would sit at the window and watch for carriages till she was wearied out, and obliged to lie down upon the sofa, in spite of herself. Then she fell asleep, and when she awoke, she found her aunt and uncle sitting beside her.

It is impossible to say what extravagances she might have committed, if aunt Rebecca had not put on her most impressive face of authority, and absolutely forbidden her to speak one word. Abby submitted, and lay still, hardly daring to think that she was awake, and not dreaming. She still lay upon the sofa, feeling very weak, but very happy, while the others went out to tea, listening, with subdued pleasure, to their voices, and enjoying the thought that uncle and aunt Merton were taking tea in her house.

How exactly it seemed like old times, when aunt Rebecca brought her her tea in the little silver mug which she had always used at home, and which had been sent to her, with the rest of her possessions, at the time of her marriage. She could almost believe that she had never been away at all.

Aunt Merton was one who never did any thing by halves. When she made up her mind to take Abby into favor, she did it heartily, and showed that she did, by making no allusions to the past, except such as were necessary in talking over affairs in M. The neighbors, the servants, the garden, above all, Laura's approaching marriage, were all talked over again and again, till Mr. Merton suggested that Abby must be tired, and that they had better go.

Abby, however, was very anxious to have them stay. There was plenty of room, and if aunt thought she could be comfortable—.

Aunt had no doubt at all about that, and so they staid. It was well they did, for Abby was taken ill in the night, and after some hours of considerable danger, was "as well as could be expected," with a fine little daughter.

Emma telegraphed to her brother with but a faint hope of his getting the message, for she knew he would probably be off fishing or scenery-hunting, and so it proved. He did not return till nearly a week had elapsed, and knew nothing of the matter till Emma met him at the door. He was sufficiently alarmed, on hearing the state of the case, to ward off the lecture which had been brewing for him, and she had hard work to keep him from rushing up to his wife's room at once.

Aunt Merton came down to see him, while he was waiting for Emma to prepare Abby, and though nothing but politeness, and even cordiality, were expressed in her tone, she succeeded, in ten minutes, in making him feel more like some condemned piece of furniture about to be sent to auction than like the master of his own house.

Abby was not so well as she had been, and William was cautioned against exciting her. He was very much affected at the sight of the wee colorless face, looking smaller than ever from the absence of the accustomed curls, and showed so much feeling that Mrs. Merton began to think she had done him injustice.

Abby brightened up very much after he came home, and she really was very happy—happy in her baby, which she found some difficulty in imagining to be really hers—in her husband whom she felt was showing to excellent advantage—in having so many friends about her, and every one so much kinder than she deserved. She felt sad when she thought of their all going away and leaving her alone. But then there would be baby, and she thought she could not be very lonely.

Emma wished very much that she could stay, but she well knew that it would be impossible.

Mrs. Forester and Emmeline fancied they were unable to live without her. Emmeline liked to think that she had delicate health, and that it hurt her to work. She could go to two or three parties in a week, and dance till two o'clock in the morning, though it always made her feel dreadfully to dust the parlor, and fatigued her almost to extinction to make her own bed. She always got a terrible headache over plain sewing, though she could embroider for hours, yes, even upon silver canvas, and her crochet collars and mats almost equalled real lace in fineness. In short, Emmeline could play to any extent, but work always made her sick directly.

Mrs. Forester never thought that Emmeline ought to be crossed in any thing. She was not strong herself, and she was very fanciful besides being proud, and her pride was constantly brought into active exercise by the reduced circumstances of the family, and the consequent struggle to keep up appearances. When Emma was at home, she earned something by translating and editing for a publisher of children's books, and moreover she took the whole oversight of the household, besides doing a great part of the work. It is easy to see that she could not be spared.

Abby did not recover so rapidly as they had at first hoped. She did not seem to have any particular disorder, but she gained strength very slowly, and now and then slight symptoms of a tendency to disease of the lungs alarmed her aunt and the physician. She was very much distressed when she found that William had lost his place, for she was beginning to realize how much it cost them to keep house, and she knew her husband would never exercise any sort of economy. It cost her a feverish night, and she was worse for three or four days.

Mr. Merton saw that something had gone wrong and that Mr. Forester was out of employment. And after a day or two, he ventured to make some inquiries of that gentleman relative to his affairs.

Mr. Forester was decidedly stiff and cold at first, but he could not withstand Mr. Merton's kindness, and moreover he was at his wits' end for the means of supporting himself and his wife. His mother had heretofore been his resource when he had exhausted his own finances, but she had impoverished herself in her efforts to help him. And Emma, in answer to a hint of the sort, had informed him that any farther assistance from that quarter was entirely out of the question. He confessed to Mr. Merton, at last, that he had hardly the means of defraying the expenses of his wife's confinement, to say nothing of the cost of housekeeping. He had drawn on Mr. Hancock for his salary as fast as it became due, and instead of having, as he supposed, a considerable balance in that gentleman's hands, he was actually some few dollars in debt to him.

There was no use in any reproaches, and Mr. Merton made none, but promised to see what he could do towards finding him employment. Mr. Forester was very much obliged, and thought to himself that it might not, after all, be a bad thing to have made up friends with his wife's rich uncle. After two or three days, Mr. Merton held another conversation with him, in the course of which he told him that he had procured for him a situation as accountant and draughtsman in a large foundry and machine-shop. The salary was liberal, but close attention to business would be absolutely necessary, in order to retain the place. He took the opportunity to press upon Mr. Forester's attention the great advantage of keeping regular accounts, and being economical of time as well as money. He thought the young gentleman might find time to finish his law studies, and be prepared to enter into business as a lawyer in the course of a year, promising him all the assistance in his power, and Mr. Forester thanked him, and listened respectfully, with some faint idea of following the advice. He went to work the next day, with great vigor.

At the end of a week's trial, his employer professed himself perfectly satisfied, and engaged him for a year, at a salary which, care and economy, would be sufficient to support them in comfort. With this care removed from her mind, Abby began to improve rapidly, and in the course of a few days was so much better that her aunt thought she might venture to leave her to herself.

"Suppose," said she to her husband, "that we go round the other way, stop at Basswoods, and take Olive home with us. It will be so much pleasanter than for her to come alone."

Mr. Merton thought it an excellent idea, and, accordingly, as Olive was sitting at the piano one evening after tea, she was surprised by the sudden entrance of her uncle and aunt.

At first she was frightened, thinking that Abby must be worse. But a moment's thought reassured her, and she gave herself up to the unexpected enjoyment. They had proposed to stay at the hotel, but Mrs. Felton had abundance of room, as Isabella Lambert was at her sister's: she was very urgent with them to remain, and Mrs. Merton finally consented, after stipulating that she should make no difference in the family arrangements. There was, indeed, no need of her doing so, for Mrs. Felton's housekeeping was always carried on upon a very liberal scale—so liberal, indeed, that Olive thought she could not make much by her boarders.

"Why, really, my love, you are delightfully situated here—are you not?" said Mrs. Merton, as she surveyed Olive's comfortable room. "I had no idea that you were in such luxurious quarters. I should think Mrs. Felton might be a trifle wearisome sometimes, however."

"One soon gets used to it," replied Olive, smiling. "I know exactly how much importance to attach to her complaints, and in general mind them no more than the rain on the windows. She is really very kind to me, and I have no excuse for being dissatisfied or home-sick, except the desire to see you all."

"And Miss Felton—what a delightful person she is!" pursued Mrs. Merton. "She is not pretty, but there is such a charming cheerfulness about her face and voice that she really seems to bring the sunshine into the room with her. If she only had a little more style, she would really make a sensation in society. You must bring her home with you some time, Olive, to make a visit. I should be quite delighted to have her, and I think a little of the world would be a great advantage to her."

"I am glad you like her," said Olive, feeling as though she did not care to have Ruth improved in that way. "She is one of my most intimate friends. I want you to see Mrs. Tower; she is very different from Ruth, but equally excellent."

"All in good time, my dear. I mean to see all your friends before I go, and your school, too. How soon is it out?"

"There is only one week more."

"And then you have an examination, I suppose?"

"No, aunt, I am thankful to say, we do not. We have a review-day every fortnight, and the last two weeks of the term are spent in the same way, but we have no public display, except in declamation and compositions. The school is open to visitors at all times, and we have a good many, especially on repetition-days. If you will come in to-morrow, we shall be very glad to see you. I assure you I am proud of my girls. But I want to hear all about Abby and the baby."

Mrs. Merton was very ready to tell; and Abby's affairs, and Laura's approaching marriage, occupied the evening. Olive was very much touched at hearing of her uncle's kindness, and especially on learning what neither Abby nor William yet knew, that he had defrayed the entire expenses of her sister's confinement, besides leaving in Abby's hands a sum sufficient to last till William should receive his first quarter's salary. She could not help feeling some sympathy for what she supposed must be William's mortification at being oblige to receive assistance from one whom he had so deeply wronged, but she might have spared herself the trouble.

That talented young gentleman had early imbibed the idea that he was created to amuse himself, and the rest of mankind to wait upon him. From the exaltation of his fancied genius and refinement, he looked calmly down upon those lower mortals, whose grovelling minds permitted them to learn and labor truly to get their own living, in the state of life to which God had called them. He had felt a little annoyed at first, on discovering that Mr. Merton had left money with Abby, but the feeling did not prevent him from spending seven or eight dollars of it upon some new engravings which had struck his fancy, and which, he assured Abby, were so cheap that it would have been really foolish not to buy them.

"Economy!" he said, when she remonstrated with him. "Oh! Yes, of course, we must practise economy, but your uncle can not expect me to deny myself all gratifications. I can not live without books and pictures."

"In what, then, do you propose to economize?" persisted Abby.

"Oh! Why—in dress and housekeeping—any thing, in short, but intellectual pleasures."

Abby shook her head. "The housekeeping costs as little as it can, William."

"But could you not manage with a less expensive girl, my dear? I have heard of servants getting only six shillings a week, and we give Katy twelve!"

"I do not like to part with Katy," replied Abby, her heart sinking at the prospect of a new and cheap girl. "She has just learned to be useful, and attends to baby so nicely."

"Oh! Well, I only mentioned it. I thought, when it came to your own case, you would not be so very desirous of saving. It is easy to be economical of other people's enjoyments."

Abby's pale face flushed, and the tears filled her eyes.

"There, now, don't cry! I am sorry I said any thing, but you are so cool in proposing your economy to me. But come, cheer up, my little darling. I am coming to take you to ride presently."

Abby cheered up, and was thankful for the prospect of a little fresh air, for she was not able to walk out yet. But when the carriage came, there was a new cause of annoyance.

"Why do you wear that coarse blanket of a thing, my dear?" said William, glancing disdainfully at the large woollen shawl Abby had put on. "It makes you look like a servant."

"I have no other," replied Abby, coloring. "My cloak is not warm enough, and I can not wrap the baby in it."

"Oh! Pray don't take the baby. She will be sure to cry, as they always do when they ought not to, and besides, it will tire you to death. I am sure your cloak is warm enough, my love," he continued, dexterously removing the obnoxious shawl, and throwing it over the arm of the sofa. "You do not know how mild and pleasant it is. Come, you are too bad to make such a figure of yourself, when you know how much I like to have you admired, and you are ten times prettier than ever."

So Abby wore the cloak, returned home chilled through, and was very ill next day, in consequence. Mr. Forester was very sorry, paid her every attention, and to prevent the possibility of such an accident happening again, went out and bought a new shawl, for which he paid thirty dollars.

To return to Basswoods! Mrs. Merton was delighted with the place and the people, and quite astonished to find so much refinement in a country village. Mrs. Gregory made a little party for her: so did Mrs. Gordon, and at both did Mrs. Merton win golden opinions from all sorts of people, by her elegant appearance and charming manners. It was a peculiarity of hers that every one with whom she conversed ten minutes, felt as though he or she had received a personal favor. Some of Mrs. Tucker's adherents, who had hitherto been rather unfriendly to Olive, suddenly turned completely round, and were warm in their praises of her and her relations.

In short, Mrs. Merton's visit did a great deal of good, and Olive enjoyed it extremely. She told her aunt she thought it would not do to offer to pay Mrs. Felton for their board, and Mrs. Merton, after considerable hesitation, consented to give up the idea, thinking that she could make it up in some other way. Accordingly, she afterwards sent Mrs. Felton a beautiful dress and shawl, with an elegant letter, which Mrs. Felton showed to all the village, thanking her for all her kindness to her niece, and requesting her to accept the accompanying articles from herself and her husband, as a testimonial of her gratitude.

A proud and happy woman was Mrs. Felton. Ruth was pleased with the delicacy of the attention to her mother, and Mr. Felton, whose conversation was usually summed up in a semidiurnal report of the state of the weather, gave vent to the profound and original idea, that in point of fact, some people were very different from other people.

CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.

MRS. DIMSDEN'S summer campaign at Newport and Saratoga had been successful, almost beyond her highest hopes. Laura was going to be married to a man of wealth and position fully equal to her uncle Merton's—a man who had been an object with speculating young ladies and their mammas for several years. Attracted by Miss Dimsden's magnificent beauty, he had followed the ladies from Cape May to Newport, from Newport to the White Mountains, and from thence to Saratoga, where he finally surrendered at discretion.

It was a singular circumstance that no sooner was it known that Mr. Witherington was engaged to the young and beautiful Miss Dimsden, than all these same speculating young ladies and their speculating mammas were at once filled with pity and sympathy for the poor girl, thus remorselessly sacrificed by her heartless aunt, and with contempt for the weak-minded suitor, caught by a girl without principle and without fortune.

Olive had made anxious inquiries of Mrs. Merton concerning her future brother-in-law.

"It is an excellent match, my dear, in all the generally received senses of that much abused word. Mr. Witherington is a man of good manners, excellent principles, and a large fortune. He has a fine house in town, and a fine house in the country, and all that; and moreover, he is desperately in love with Laura."

"Then I do not see, aunt, but that Laura's chances for happiness are excellent."

"If you will excuse my saying so, Olive, I think her chances are better than his." Olive looked at her inquiringly. "You know I am not romantic in the least," continued Mrs. Merton, "but then I have rather peculiar notions. I do not think a woman has any right to marry a man unless she honestly prefers him to all the rest of the world."

"And you think, aunt, that Laura does not—"

"I think she is almost indifferent, my dear. Begging your pardon for speaking so freely of your sister, I do not think she has depth of character enough to appreciate a man like Mr. Witherington. He is an earnest, grave person—what I call a weighty man, and I fear he will be disappointed in his wife. Of course, he can see no fault in her now."

"But it seems rather strange," said Olive, after a little silence, "that Laura should not like such a man."

"She does like him, my child, but she does not love him, and no one should know better than you that there is all the difference in the world between loving and liking."

"I suppose aunt Dimsden is delighted."

"Oh! Of course; you know what her ideas of marriage are. But don't attach too much importance to what I say, my love," added Mrs. Merton kindly. "Perhaps when you see them together, you may think I am entirely mistaken."

"And how is Laura?" asked Olive.