Part 21

So Mr. Forester set out for Boston the next day, leaving his wife to make all the arrangements for moving. It was the latter end of April, and the weather was very trying. She took a little cold which settled upon her lungs, and prevented her from singing for a while. And even when the hoarseness passed off, her lungs remained sore.

Notwithstanding this, she took four new pupils in singing, who offered themselves, (for her music began to be talked of as something out of the common) and tried to think it a matter of no importance when she found that every lesson left her with a pain in her chest, and a feeling of exhaustion, which prevented her from uttering an unnecessary word for hours afterward.

William did not return as soon as she expected, but he wrote the most entertaining and affectionate letters imaginable. At last, an old acquaintance of his father's found him occupation in working out sketches, and drawing designs on stone, intended to illustrate an extensive scientific work about to be published. He wrote to Abby that the job would occupy about three months—perhaps not as long, and that it would be necessary for him to remain where he was. But as the time was so short, and the business probably not a permanent one, he thought, if she found herself comfortable, she had better remain where she was.

And Abby thought so too, and toiled patiently, morning after morning, through the dull round of lessons, feeling quite happy if she received a letter at night from her talented husband, who seemed to be enjoying himself very much. Sometimes, looking back on her past life, she wondered if it had not been all a dream, that she had been her uncle's pet and her aunt's pride, envied by all around her, and knowing no more of care than her own Canary. It seemed so very long ago that she and Olive had been school-girls together, their greatest anxiety centred on gaining a prize, their greatest anxiety keeping Charlotte in a good humor, or begging some of the little ones off from a merited punishment. But she never allowed herself to repine or be fretful, and a love-letter from her husband, or a smile or caress from her beautiful baby repaid her for all. Verily that love which passes the love of woman must be wonderful indeed.

CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.

BASSWOODS gave Olive a rather more cordial reception than usual when she returned. In fact, Mrs. Merton's visit had done her a great deal of good. People are very apt to set a greater value on what they perceive to be prized by others, and the good people of Basswoods suddenly thought much more of Miss McHenry, on discovering that she had an uncle and aunt who were such very superior people, and who were evidently so much attached to her.

The school filled up at once, and even with Isabella Lambert's assistance, Olive found her hands very full. Isabella's talents were of a higher order than her sister's, and she had studied more, and Olive found her a valuable coadjutor, as well as a pleasant companion.

Melissa Tucker, having finished her education, had returned to her aunt's house, improved in nothing, but on the contrary more malicious, more conceited, and more fond of tattling than ever. Her aunt, however, thought her nothing short of perfection, and paraded her sayings and doings upon all occasions. No sooner did Melissa find herself comfortably settled at home than she began to look about for something whereon to exercise her talents, and she soon came to the conclusion that she could not be better employed than in making mischief between Miss McHenry and her friends.

She knew better than to address herself to Olive, whom she felt understood her perfectly, so she began her attack by calling upon Mrs. Prendergrass and Isabella, professing great regret that there had been any misunderstanding, and a desire to be friends, an advance that was cordially met by the two girls, who had always disliked the idea of a quarrel. Once established there, she began by wary insinuations of "patronage," "intermeddling," etc., to try to poison their minds against Olive. If she had been open in her abuse, they would have met her at once. But her covert attacks were not so easily warded off; and they began to have their effect, especially upon Isabella. She was, at first, not quite so successful with Maria, who cared nothing at all about being patronized, and knew that Olive did not meddle. So she changed her points of attack.

"Cousin Maria," she said one day, in her softest accents, "don't you think Mr. Prendergrass thinks a great deal of Miss McHenry?"

"So we all do," was the brief reply.

"Of course. It is natural you should, perhaps; especially after what happened before you were married, you know."

"I don't know what you mean, Melissa. What happened before we were married?" asked Maria, her curiosity a little excited.

"Why, don't you know? Oh! I am sorry I said any thing, but I supposed you knew all about it. It was so commonly talked of in the village. But if I had had any idea that you did not know it, I would not have spoken for the world."

"I can not conceive what you refer to," said Maria, seriously annoyed.

"Why, only that Mr. Prendergrass was so much attached to Miss McHenry. It was in every one's mouth, but nobody blamed him, for of course they all knew that she drew him on. It was about the same time that she was spreading her nets for Mr. Landon, and I really don't suppose she meant any thing worse than to amuse herself, and perhaps have another string to her bow, in case one failed. But it was well-known that he offered himself to her, and that she refused him more than once. I am sorry I told you, but it was so generally talked of, that I supposed, of course, you would have known it."

And, having fulfilled her mission, Miss Tucker departed, congratulating herself on the idea that she had at last succeeded in sowing dissension between Miss McHenry and her most devoted adherents. She had never forgiven or forgotten her first rebuff in attempting to carry tales to Miss McHenry in school, and moreover, she felt a mean jealousy of Olive's popularity, being one of those amiable persons who think every consideration bestowed upon another just so much taken from themselves.

As it turned out, she was completely baffled, and that not by any ingenuity upon Olive's part, but by simple plain dealing. She soon perceived, that something was the matter—that Isabella's manner toward her grew haughty and distant, and that any little favor was received most ungraciously, if at all; while at Maria's house, which she had always looked upon as a second home, she met a reception so cold as almost to amount to an insult. She took no notice of it at first, thinking it but a passing cloud, but the change soon became too much marked not to force itself upon her attention, and she determined to investigate the matter.

Accordingly, one evening, after tea, she called at Maria's, accompanied by Augusta, and received any thing but a welcome, while a most cordial greeting was bestowed upon her companion. Mr. Prendergrass indeed was the same as ever, and his cordial manners gave Olive more courage to proceed.

"Maria," she said, after a few moments of indifferent conversation, "I have not come without an errand, as you may imagine after the reception you gave me the last time I was here, but I am determined, if possible, to be at the bottom of this business. It is evident that both you and Isabella think you have some good reason to be offended with me, and I think, in all Christian kindness, you are bound to tell me what it is."

Olive spoke kindly but decidedly.

Isabella flushed up to her temples, and Maria seemed just ready to cry, while Mr. Prendergrass laid down his book, and stared first at one, and then at another, in undisguised amazement.

Maria at last murmured something about "not being aware—"

"That is simply impossible, Maria. Both you and Isabella must be aware that you have treated me very differently for three weeks past, from what you have done before. I think I have a right to demand the cause of offense that I may make amends if I have been wrong, and take measures to justify myself if I have been slandered. I have aimed to treat you as a sister," she continued, her voice faltering a little, "from the first time that you came to me, and I have done the same by Isabella, but it is possible, that by some inadvertence, I may have wounded you. If so, I am very sorry."

Mr. Prendergrass here interrupted her. "Miss McHenry, I can not conceive it possible, ma'am, that any of my household can have treated you with disrespect, so much attached to you as we all are. If so, I shall insist upon an immediate apology."

"It is not an apology that I want, Mr. Prendergrass," replied Olive. "I presume Maria thinks I have injured her in some way, and I am only anxious to get at the truth. I suspect some one has been telling stories about me, and—"

The look that passed between the sisters convinced her at once that she was right, and she went on with fresh courage.

"If this is so, I hope you will tell me at once both the name of the storyteller and the substance of the story."

"I am sure I never thought of such a thing," said Maria, beginning to sob, "till I was told that—that—"

"Well—that what?" said Olive encouragingly.

"That you—that Mr. Prendergrass had—had—"

A sudden light burst upon Olive's mind, and she exclaimed: "You little goose! You don't mean to say any one has been trying to make you jealous!"

Maria sobbed more than ever.

"I dare say that some obliging person has been telling you that your excellent husband was a little taken with me at one time, which was very true, and a great compliment I felt it, though, as he will tell you, it was one I would rather have dispensed with. But that was long before he saw you. When you came, he almost forgot that such a person as I ever existed."

"But they say that you encouraged him, and—and—"

"Did I ever encourage you, Mr. Prendergrass?" asked Olive, turning to him.

"No, Miss McHenry," he replied. "You never gave me one particle of encouragement. I regret very much that my dear wife has been so weak as to cherish suspicions injurious, not only to herself and you, but to her husband, who has never had a thought separate from her since he first knew her."

"You see, my dear Maria, how unfounded your ideas have been—do you not? I was engaged to Mr. Landon three months before Mr. Prendergrass ever said any thing to me, and I have been engaged to him ever since. Now, tell me, did I ever say an unkind word to either of you since I first knew you?"

"No," said both the sisters at once.

"Did I ever speak harshly or slightingly of you to any one?"

"You said I was a good sort of a girl, if I were educated," said Isabella, half-indignantly, half-laughing.

"I do not see any thing very slanderous in that, even if it were true," observed Olive. "But I do not remember saying so. When was it?"

"At Mrs. Jones's—at the society."

"Augusta, do you remember my saying that Isabella was a good sort of a girl, if she were educated?" asked Olive, with due gravity.

"Nothing of the kind," replied Augusta. "I remember Miss Tucker asking you if you did not think Miss Lambert would be a pretty girl, if she were not so uncultivated. I can not say I have any recollection of your making any reply whatever."

"Why, Melissa told me herself that you said so!" exclaimed Isabella, unguardedly.

"Oh! Ho! I thought we should get at the bottom of the business before long. So Miss Tucker has been having a hand in it. But, Maria, I thought you knew the whole family too well to attach any importance to their sayings and doings."

"Melissa said you called me a serpent," sobbed Maria, now as much ashamed as she had before been angry.

"I assure you, my child, if I had ever thought so, I should acquit you now. You have shown conclusively that you have little of the wisdom attributed to that animal, or you could not allow yourself to be made uncomfortable by the speeches of a professed mischief-maker. But let by-gones be by-gones. Is there any more?"

Maria and Isabella could not think of any thing else that amounted to aught but vague insinuations, except that Melissa had declared that Miss McHenry had told Mr. Gregory, in her hearing, that Mr. Prendergrass was a great fool to marry a poor girl, who had her reasons for being glad to jump at the chance of having him.

"That is neither more nor less than an unmitigated lie!" said Olive, provoked into using a strong word. "I don't see, Maria, how you could believe such a story for a moment. I am not much in the habit of using such elegant expressions—am I? But we won't say any thing more about it," she added. "I see you are convinced that you are wrong, so we will let the whole matter drop, and consider it as a joke."

"Don't go!" begged Maria. "Stay and spend the evening with us, if it is only to show that you are not angry with us. I am sorry I was so very silly, and so is Isabella, I am sure. Pray do stay—won't you?"

Olive laughed, and suffered her bonnet and shawl to be captured, and herself to be set down in the most comfortable chair in the room. It seemed as if the girls could not do enough to show their penitence and good-will, while she, on her part, set herself to obliterate any uncomfortable impression that might have been left upon their minds. They were in the midst of a great frolic over a game of "twenty questions," Mr. Prendergrass replying with a caution which would have been becoming to a diplomatist, to the severe examination of the ladies, when the door opened, and in walked Miss Melissa herself.

She looked both startled and puzzled at the scene which greeted her eyes, but in a moment recovered herself, and came forward with her usual caressing manner. Miss McHenry and Mrs. Tower greeted her with great politeness—the latter especially was remarkably gracious. Maria and her sister looked provoked and uneasy, and Mr. Prendergrass was as immovable as Mont Blanc. It was impossible for Miss Tucker not to perceive that something was wrong, but she made great efforts to appear as usual.

"How pleasant it looks here!" she observed, in her smoothest way. "It is really delightful to find you all so sociably engaged."

"You know how to appreciate such things, Miss Tucker," said Augusta, in her most silvery tones. "I am really delighted that you came in."

"But I must really call you to account for little mistake you made," added Olive, taking up the ball. "How did you come to tell Miss Lambert that I said she would be a good sort if she were only educated, when you know very well you yourself asked me if I did think so?"

If a glance could have killed Isabella, she would have fallen dead upon the spot, but Miss Tucker did not answer. She did not exactly know what to say. Olive went on:

"Moreover, you told Mrs. Prendergrass that I made remarks about herself and her husband which you know very well I never did make. I do not know how you can reconcile it with your conscience to tell such falsehoods, nor does it particularly matter to me. I am sorry, however, that you should do it, under the mask of a high religious profession, both for your own sake, and for that of the cause. I must tell you that if you are leaning for salvation upon any principle which allows you to do such things, you are leaning upon a broken reed which will fail you in the day of trial. Let me entreat you to examine your own state at once and honestly, and repent of the slanders of which you have been guilty before it is too late, and you are brought into judgment for them. I am not much afraid of your injuring me, but I must tell you that unless you stop these covert attacks I shall take some measures to defend myself, and these measures may not be very agreeable to you. I hope this is all that is necessary for me to say."

Miss Tucker had stood like a statue during this address, and for a moment after it was concluded, then recovering herself she said, blandly, but with a deep sigh:

"Dear Miss McHenry, I am sorry to see you so angry and for such a trifle. I am much obliged to you for your advice, and for your threats I am not at all troubled at them. If Maria has been weak enough to betray a friend who meant to do her a service, I pity her from the bottom of my heart, and regret that her confiding disposition should be so abused." And she glanced in an unmistakable way from Olive to the gentleman.

"Did you mean to do her confiding disposition a service when you told her that Miss McHenry made insinuations against her character to my father?" inquired Mrs. Tower. "Permit me to tell you that I shall inform him of the way you have used his name in this matter in order that he may take such steps as he thinks best."

Miss Tucker heard this with another sigh, as though in pity for such deep depravity, but she did not seem inclined to say any more, and walked in a dignified manner out of the room. The next thing heard of her was that she had gone to spend some time with a school-mate who lived at the West, somewhere about Green Bay.

Olive was very glad, for she disliked very much the idea of a collision, and feared further mischief. The Lamberts, heartily ashamed of being influenced by such a person, were more her friends than ever, and Olive took pains to show them by every means in her power that she did not cherish any resentment. Isabella improved in usefulness every day, and Olive grew more and more attached to her the more she knew her.

Olive's Sunday-school class at last began to reward her for the pains she had taken. When Mr. Gregory announced an approaching confirmation, four of the oldest girls gave in their names at once. Julia stood aloof for the time. She seemed very anxious to make a profession of her faith, but was afraid she should not always persevere, and that she would be the means of bringing discredit upon her profession.

"But Julia," said Olive, "you are not required to persevere always all at once. Every duty has its day, and for every day strength will be provided according to the need. It is not as if you were dependent on yourself, you know, and is it not something like a distrust of God's mercy to doubt his giving you that power which he has promised?"

Julia pondered.

"It is such a little time since I began to think about such things. Miss McHenry, I used to think I was so much superior to the rest of the girls because I did not care for going to church, and religious books and such things."

"But you do not feel so now, Julia."

"No indeed! I can not tell you how ashamed and humbled I am when I look back at that time. It is more that than any thing else which discourages me now, for fear that I should go back and be as proud and careless as ever."

"I do not think there is much danger of that, Julia. You could never forget that feeling of unworthiness, and of the mercy which brought you to the knowledge of it."

"Perhaps not; and yet people do become careless, you know."

"Yes; and they are much more likely to become so if they have nothing outward to prevent them. You will have the communion, coming at least every month, to make you examine your self, to remind you of your Saviour's dying love and mercy, to renew your self-consecration to himself and his Church. Will not this be a great help to you in maintaining a Christian character?"

Julia thought so, but she still seemed to feel that she was unworthy.

"So are we all, my dear. There never was a communicant yet who was worthy of the mercy of God. But if, with all your unworthiness, you have not hesitated to accept the salvation of which the communion is only the outward and visible sign, why should you be stopped by the sign itself?"

Julia thought and considered, and finally made up her mind to take the step. She had left school, but still continued to be a frequent visitor, and Olive was very fond of her, though she had given her more trouble than any other girl in school. But there was something about her so truthful and hearty, and so far removed from the aimless frivolity that wearied her life out in so many of her other pupils, that she was ready to forgive a good deal of willfulness.

If Julia was sometimes conceited, and now and then rebellious, she learned her lessons and took an interest in them, and in things which illustrated them. She really thought and talked, instead of dreaming and chattering. Then she was eminently truthful, and resorted to none of the mean artifices which some of the other girls used to conceal their faults. She would have scorned to bring in a false excuse for being late in the morning, or to lay a plot for getting called out of school half an hour before it was over, or pretend a headache or weak eyes as an excuse for neglecting a lesson.

With many of Olive's pupils, seriousness upon any subject whatever, seemed all but out of the question. Senseless chattering and equally senseless giggling seemed their only idea of social intercourse, and any attempt to develop or employ their higher faculties only made them sullen. Educating these young persons was almost out of the question. The only thing that could be done was to drag them perseveringly through a course of lessons in hopes that some knowledge would stick to them which might afterwards bear fruit. This was hard work enough, and thankless enough, but now and then one would come out from her companions, and after a while attain to a respectable degree of learning, and these few examples encouraged Olive to persevere.

Olive's warm friendship with Ruth and Augusta continued and increased, and it did them all good. In Mrs. Tower indeed the improvement was not so apparent, but in Ruth every one saw it. She was as cheerful and useful as ever, but she was much gentler, and did not say nearly so many sharp things. Moreover, she was more careful in her manners and dress. Her superb hair was put up with some attention to the becoming, as well as to the shortest possible time in which it could be put up, and her general appearance was much improved.

The Milton and Tennyson war still waged sometimes, but with diminished force. Olive had learned to see new beauties in the English classics, and Ruth allowed that not many poems were superior to the "Palace of Art," and that Dryden never wrote any thing equal to "Œnone." Ruth even treated the ingenious Mr. Ruskin with something short of absolute contempt, a degree of toleration at which Augusta never expected her to arrive. And Augusta, who had a secret leaning to candlesticks, allowed that in the present state of the world, it would be better worth while to build four churches worth four thousand dollars a piece and leave the rest of the money for parish purposes than to erect one edifice costing fifty thousand.

They had been studying German together during the last winter, Olive acting as teacher, and they found a new source of pleasure as they learned to read it with some degree of facility. Together they admired and pitied Egmont, and heartily detested Wilhelm Meister, and set critics at defiance by alternately ridiculing and railing at Faust. They studied the beloved Schiller, laughed over "Puss in Boots," and regretted that Goethe's years of life had not been granted to the good and pure Fouqué and Novalis.

Mr. Gregory shook his head sometimes over these German raptures, and wished that they would spend the time upon Greek. And Mrs. Felton was made very uneasy on their account, having imbibed the idea that all the Germans since Luther's time were either infidels or transubstantialists—meaning probably trancendentalists—but as Ruth lost none of her fondness for the Bible and religious reading, and seemed to enjoy her lessons very much, her fears gradually subsided, and she regarded the obnoxious volumes with more complacency, even when opened in her presence.