Part 22

But before long an event happened which for some time put an end to their studies. One evening the three friends were sitting over their books in the pleasant little study at the parsonage which looked out upon the road. It was a warm spring evening, and the long windows were thrown open to their full extent to admit the spring air and the last lingering rays of the sun.

"Decidedly it is too dark for study," said Augusta, closing her book.

"I have been looking for you to find that out," replied Ruth; "I have been unable to tell one letter from another for the last half-hour."

"There is nothing very strange in that," answered Augusta, laughing. "You never will be able to tell your 'B's and your 'V's apart, even in broad daylight. If we were to study two years, I should expect to find you looking for 'beugen' among the 'v's."

"There is some one coming to see your father," remarked Olive, glancing out of the window; "do you know who it is?"

"It is no one I ever saw before, I am sure," said Augusta. "How miserably ill he looks! Bless me, Ruth, what is the matter? You look as if you had seen a ghost."

Ruth was indeed extremely pale. She stood looking at the stranger, who came straight across the grass to the study-windows, as though familiar with the ways of the place. He was a respectably-dressed man, tall and large, but looking very pale and ill. The girls glanced from him to Ruth in surprise, seeing nothing in his appearance to cause alarm. But before they could speak, he reached the window.

Ruth sprang forward to meet him, and seemed as though she would have fallen, but he caught her in his arms.

"God bless you, Ruth!" he exclaimed. "You knew me, if no one else did."

Augusta caught his hand and looked in his face.

"Frederick! Can it be possible?"

"I did not think I was so altered that no one could recognize me," he said mournfully. "Yes, Augusta, I have come back to see if there is a corner of the old house left for me—to die in," he added in a lower tone, as he sank upon the sofa. "Where are my father and mother?"

"Shall I go and find them?" asked Olive in a low tone. And without waiting for an answer, she hurried away.

She met Mr. and Mrs. Gregory sauntering slowly homeward through the deepening twilight, the one burdened with a basket of early radishes and lettuce from a neighbor's hotbeds, the other with a bunch of flowers.

"Where are you hurrying at such a rate?" asked the lady in wonder.

"I was going to look for you," replied Olive breathlessly, though trying to conceal her agitation. "There is a gentleman at the house that wants very much to see you."

"Why, child, how flurried you are!" exclaimed Mr. Gregory. "Is it Walter?"

"It is no one I ever saw before," said Olive, as they walked along more quickly, "but Augusta and Ruth know him, and sent me to look for you."

"Augusta and Ruth! Husband, can it be—!" And Mrs. Gregory quickened her steps almost to a run, to keep pace with her husband's long strides.

Olive followed at a distance, thinking she might be needed, and sat down in the parlor. She heard a faint scream, an exclamation from Mrs. Gregory, and then the door closed between them. She sat patiently for half an hour, struggling against a forlorn kind of feeling of being a stranger, and out of place. Why is it that this feeling so often comes to us in the presence of joy in which we have no share, and so seldom when the scene at which we are present is one of sorrow? She was just wondering what Mrs. Felton would imagine had become of them, when she heard Augusta's voice calling to her.

"What—are you sitting here in the dark? Come in, do. I am afraid we have not been very hospitable, but we have been so surprised with Frederick, that—"

"That you have forgotten me," said Olive smiling; "and no wonder. How is Ruth?"

"She hardly knows, herself, I believe. Was it not wonderful that she should have known him the first moment? It is six years since we have any of us seen him. Poor fellow! He is sadly worn and tired now, but I hope he will be better to-morrow."

"Where has he been all this time?" asked Olive.

"Oh! In many places here and there. Mostly in the Indian Ocean. He has come home quite a rich man he says."

Olive could not so much wonder at Ruth's recognition of her long-absent lover, when she looked at him as he sat between his father and mother on the sofa. He was so exactly like Augusta, despite his beard and moustache, and all other differences, she thought she should have known him anywhere. He looked pale and worn, for all his bronze complexion, and there was a languor in his manners which seemed to indicate either illness or great fatigue. One hand was clasped in his mother's, the other rested on his father's arm. But his eyes seemed all for Ruth, who sat leaning back in the rocking-chair, looking pale, but with an expression of intense yet subdued happiness that fully transfigured her face, and made Olive wonder how she could ever have thought her plain.

Augusta was the only one of the party who looked sad. Her brother had left them in the beginning of her engagement, and since then she had been a beloved wife, a widow, and a childless mother.

"Ruth, what will your mother think has become of us?" asked Olive, after a while. "We ought to have been at home by eight, and it is now eleven."

"We must go," said Ruth, rousing herself. "I had no idea that it was so late. I wonder what mother will say?" she continued, as they were walking homeward by themselves, having declined Mr. Gregory's escort. "Would you mind telling her about it, Olive, and letting me go up-stairs? I want so much to be alone."

Olive consented, of course, and as they found the door open, Ruth went straight to her own apartment, and Olive went into the sitting-room, where she found Mrs. Felton asleep on the sofa.

"Bless me. Olive!" she said peevishly, as she roused herself and rubbed her eyes. "Where have you been all this time? Here I have been sitting up for you till my eyes are fairly out of my head. Where is Ruth?"

"She is gone up-stairs," replied Olive. "I am sorry we kept you up, but we could not help it very well. They have had rather an exciting evening at the parsonage. Frederick has come home."

"Why, do tell!" exclaimed Mrs. Felton, wide awake at once. "Well, if I ever! You don't say he has come home! Why, every one thought he was dead long ago. And so he has come back! When did he get here? Tell me all about it, won't you?"

Olive complied, making her tale as circumstantial as possible. When she mentioned the circumstance of Ruth's being the first to recognize the stranger, Mrs. Felton exclaimed: "There now! That is just like her! I never did see such a girl. I dare say she would have him now if he asked her, though she has refused so many good offers."

"He does not seem to me as though he were likely to have any body," said Olive. "I think he looks very ill indeed, but that might have been only fatigue and agitation."

"I wonder if he has come home to be a burden on the old folks in the evening of their days?" Mrs. Felton went on to say. "I think it will be really too bad if he has."

"He told Augusta that he had come home quite a rich man," answered Olive, "but even if he had not, I know they would not feel it a burden."

"Quite a rich man, eh? Well now, I'd never expect that of Fred Gregory. But any way, I am glad he has come home if he has reformed. It will be a comfort to their minds to see him once more. What did the old lady say to him when she came in?"

"I don't know. I was not in the room. I thought they would rather be by themselves."

Mrs. Felton seemed to think this a very remarkable piece of self-denial on Olive's part, and promised herself the pleasure of going over to sympathize with Mrs. Gregory, the first thing in the morning. The hint that Olive had given respecting Frederick having acquired property, was sufficient to set her imagination at work, and she lay awake half the night, arranging a romance wherein Mr. Gregory the younger played the part of an immensely wealthy nabob, come home expressly to marry her daughter, and to die shortly afterward, leaving Ruth a rich widow.

"We can go on living together just the same," her reverie went on, "only in more style, of course. Black always was becoming to Ruth. I wonder whether she will wear caps?" And in deciding whether these caps should be of muslin or crape, Mrs. Felton finally lost the thread of her reflections in sleep.

It did not appear, however, that any part of her romance was likely to be realized, except that which related to her hero's death. In the morning, he was so ill that he was unable to leave his room, and for two or three weeks he lay between life and death, in a fever. No one seemed to think it strange that Ruth was constantly at the parsonage, and indeed made it her home, till Frederick began to improve a little.

There was a great deal of talk about his unexpected return, and considerable speculation as to the amount of his property, and people wondered whether he would marry Ruth in case he got well enough, and whether she would have him. Mrs. Tucker thought that she would refuse him with disdain if she had an atom of proper pride about her, as, of course she had not, or she would not be at the parsonage so much. She did not think it at all proper, for her part.

Meantime, the objects of all this conversation paid very little attention to any thing beyond themselves. The prodigal was happy in being at home again, at peace with himself, the world, and his God, and looking forward with humble confidence to that city which hath foundations, where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. The peace that passeth all understanding brooded over Ruth's heart and mind. She felt that it was well with her lover, and whether she enjoyed his society in this world, or looked forward to it in the next, was comparatively a matter of small concern. It was enough that he was faithful, repentant, forgiven, safe; that she could minister to his wants, both of body and mind; that he loved to have her by him; that he always knew her, even when his father and mother seemed like strangers to him; that he was at last worthy of her love.

After a time, he recovered sufficiently to ride out, and even to walk to church. But he continued feeble and suffering, and all felt that his life hung upon a thread. He had earnestly requested Doctor Gordon's true opinion, and that opinion was freely given. The physician told him that he could never recover, even though he might live some time. His disease was one of the heart, which might terminate his life at any moment.

Frederick received the announcement calmly and cheerfully, and set about finding some employment which should occupy without fatiguing him. This was found in the cataloguing and arranging a large quantity of East-Indian and Chinese curiosities, which he had picked up in his travels, and which he proposed to present to the academy. Thus he spent his time quietly and peacefully, happy in the society of those he loved best in the world, and awaiting the summons to his heavenly rest.

This was the state of things when Olive went down to New-York to visit Laura, who would not hear of her stopping anywhere else first.

CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.

OLIVE found Laura established in a fine house, in a fashionable street, with abundance of fine furniture, fine visitors, fine servants, every thing, in short, which had formerly constituted her idea of perfect happiness. Mrs. Witherington welcomed her sister with much more cordiality than usual, and seemed to think she could not do too much to make her comfortable. Olive had never slept in a room so splendidly furnished as that which Laura assigned to her. The pretty trifles that covered her dressing-table cost more than all Olive's wardrobe put together, and the price of the mantel-ornaments would have supported a Western missionary and his wife for a year. The whole decoration of the house was upon the same lavish scale, and seemed so extravagant to Olive that she was glad to learn that it had been furnished before her sister came into it.

Laura appeared to enjoy it all wonderfully, and Mr. Witherington appeared to think nothing too good or too expensive for her. The first evening was spent quietly at home, Laura issuing an order to be denied to visitors, and giving up a party to which she was engaged, for Olive's sake.

"It is quite a sacrifice, I assure you," she said, laughing; "for I was expecting to make a very splendid appearance."

"I am sure, my dear, I enjoy the prospect of spending an evening quietly and rationally at home, and going to bed at a reasonable hour," observed Mr. Witherington, "especially as we are to be in town but a few days longer. I think there is no greater bore upon earth than continual parties."

"But we have not been to a party in nearly five days," said Laura, pouting a little; "and the last one was a wedding, too, you know. Besides, you know this will be the last one."

Mr. Witherington sighed, but did not make any reply, and Olive thought he looked annoyed and uncomfortable. She could not wonder, when she found how Laura spent her time, and how little of it was given to her home and her husband.

True there were no more parties, but something else came along to fill up every evening. One night a concert, then the opera, where a star of the first magnitude was then rising, then a few friends at home, fifty being Laura's most contracted definition of the word few. They were to go to the country the next week, and then Olive hoped there might be some respite.

"Confess, now, Olive," Laura said, one morning when they were driving together, "that with all your philosophy you would like to exchange with me. Is not this better than school-teaching from day to day, with no recreation, only now and then a sewing society?"

"I have never had much experience of your way of life, Laura," Olive replied, "but from what I have observed since I have been here, I would rather spend my life in teaching district-school from one year to another, than spend my life as you do. I am sure it would not be any more fatiguing, and I should at least have the comfort of thinking that I was bringing something to pass."

Laura looked incredulous.

"I am very sure I never was so tired after the hardest day I ever spent in school, as I was the morning after Mrs. Blank's party, and you seemed equally so; and what have you to show for it, after all? Suppose you pass the whole of next winter in this way—what will it amount to? You have no time to read or study, and very little, as far as I can see, to attend to your household. And then, at the end of life, how will it look as it is passed in review?"

"There is no use in bringing that in," said Laura, abruptly. "If we were always thinking how things would look when we come to die, we should never do any thing."

"I don't know about that," said Olive. "I think we should do some things a good deal better."

"But not any thing we want to do," persisted Laura. "If we were always thinking upon death, we should have no pleasure in things that are very agreeable now, because we should all the time feel that we must go and leave them."

"Perhaps we should only set a more just value upon them. You know the lines Mr. Witherington was reading last evening from his favorite, Southey:

"'O Monarch! only in the hour of death, We learn to value things like these.'

"But at any rate, it does not seem wise to fix one's mind entirely upon things which we may be called upon to leave at any time, and must inevitably give up before a good while."

"I declare, Olive, you are a capital preacher!" said Laura, forcing a laugh. "I hope Walter will accept of your help in writing his sermons. And by the by, when is that young gentleman to be expected? I thought he was going to meet you here."

"I expect him to-day or to-morrow—possibly this evening."

"Is he as much given to preaching as yourself, my dear? Because if he is, I shall be quite afraid of him. You have made me quite blue, already."

"I don't mean to make you blue, my love," replied Olive affectionately, "but I do wish I could persuade you to think a little. You have so much to be thankful for—youth, health, fortune, an excellent husband—I can not bear to have you ungrateful for it all."

"Well, Olive, he 'is' a good husband," said Laura feelingly. "You don't know how good he is. I am sure I did not till I came to see him every day. I did not believe any man could be so thoroughly excellent as he proves himself. Since we have been married, I have never known or seen him do or say a thing that I would wish otherwise. I only wish I were more worthy of him, but some how one's conscience and one's wishes are so terribly at variance."

"But since it is conscience that must decide the matter at last, would it not be well to bring one's wishes a little more into harmony with its teachings?" asked Olive. "At least would it not be worth while to try?"

Laura did not reply, and Olive thought she had said enough.

The remainder of the drive was rather a silent one. When they arrived at home, they found Walter awaiting them. He brought the pleasant news that his studies would be finished by the next spring, and then—

"Then comes ordination," said Olive.

"Yes, and something else after it," said Walter. "I hope it will not be long before I am settled somewhere, and I assure you I have no idea of boarding or keeping bachelor's hall."

"And have you no desire of remaining for a short time that interesting creature, an unmarried clergyman?" asked Olive mischievously. "Just think how much you will lose if you settle down so soon as a family man."

"I really can not say I wish to fill that trying position, Olive. I think it is one in which it is exceedingly difficult to appear to advantage. But when have you heard from M., and from Mrs. Forester?"

"It is three weeks since I have had a letter from Abby," returned Olive, "and I am growing very anxious about her. Mr. Forester has been in Boston for some time—in fact, nearly all summer, and they are boarding. But her constant excuse is that she has so much to do. I can not understand it."

Walter looked surprised.

"Did you not know Abby was giving music lessons? I heard so early in the summer. I understand she has a good many pupils."

"She has never said a word about it to me," replied Olive. "How did you hear of it?"

"Some of us were talking of music one day, and one, a young man from B., spoke of his sister's music-teacher as singing wonderfully well, and called her Mrs. Forester. This aroused my curiosity, and from his description of her husband, I satisfied myself that it could be no one else than Abby."

"What did he say about her husband?" asked Olive.

"Why, really, my love, his description was so far from complimentary that I should not care to repeat it."

"You need not be afraid," said Olive, coloring. "I could hardly think worse of him than I do. And so that is the secret of her want of time. Poor child! She is wearing her life out giving music lessons, while he is enjoying himself at Boston, in an artistic fashion. Why could he not stay at home and take care of her? My uncle found him an excellent place, where he had a good salary."

"So Hitchcock said. I believe it was his father or some relation that employed him. But he said Mr. Forester was always behindhand, and could not be depended upon for any thing, and they had an explosion one day, and Mr. Forester went off. Do you know where he is now?"

"The last I heard, he was preparing illustrations for some book or other, but very likely he has become tired of it by this time. There is, as your friend says, no dependence upon him. With all his fancied intellectual superiority, he is as meanly selfish as any man I ever knew."

"I saw a sister of his once, who seemed a very nice girl," remarked Walter. "I fancy she is older than Forester."

"Yes, his sister Emma. Abby thinks all the world of her, and she has always been the main stay of the family. But I think they all look down upon her, and consider her a person of no talent whatever. I am sure William does—though she has more in her little finger than goes to his whole composition. But to think of that poor little thing giving music lessons!" Olive almost cried at the very idea.

"But why is it so much worse for her than for you?"

"Because she is so utterly unfitted for it, Walter. And then it is such a disappointment—such a contrast to what she expected when she was married. She thought she was going to be perfectly happy, only because she married the man she loved—and such an accomplished person. Much good his accomplishments do him or any one else, except to make him think himself superior to all the rest of mankind, and that every one else is bound to work for and wait upon him."

"Does he profess to be in any degree a religious man?"

"Oh! No, indeed. He is quite too grand for that. He says, so far as I can get at his ideas, that he worships God in beauty—that every thing beautiful must have good in it—and that art is religion."

"A very convenient faith for those who like to escape from all restraints upon their conduct."

"Oh! Yes. You should hear him discourse upon the trammels of convention, and the narrow-minded views of those miserable dogmatists who would shackle the grasping genius of such minds as—George Sand, for instance, that 'large-souled woman and large-hearted man,' as he is fond of calling her. I asked him one day point-blank if he did not think her a very bad woman."

"What did he say?"

"He politely replied that my views of morality were too narrow to enable me to judge of a character like hers. For my part, I can not say that I have any desire for wider views of morality than those taken by the Author of the Ten Commandments."

"And Abby—does she sympathize in all these large views?"

"I think there was a time when she did, in some degree," replied Olive, "but I am sure she is very much changed in that respect. In one of her letters, she told me how she loved to think of the lessons she learned at her mother's knee, though she was a very little child then, and how much she enjoyed the idea of teaching them over again to little Emma.

"'I put her dear little hands together and say a prayer for her every night and morning,' she wrote, 'and it seems as if she knew what I meant already, she is so still.'

"And I am sure, though she does not say so, that she prays a great deal herself. The whole tone of her letters shows that she is very much changed in that respect."

"Let that give you comfort, my dearest Olive," said Walter tenderly. "If, in the midst of her troubles, she has learned to love God, we have the very highest assurance that all things work together for good. No real harm can happen to her while she is faithful to Him, though in his wisdom he may call upon her to glorify him, even in the fires."

Olive was silent for a few moments, and then said: "I wrote to her this morning, and I really think, if I do not have an answer in two or three days, I must go on there directly, instead of going to the country with Laura. I do not like the idea of losing a moment of our time together either, but I feel so anxious about her."

"Wait a little," said Walter; "we may hear again soon, and then you can decide better what course to take."

Walter's prediction was verified, for Mr. Witherington brought in a letter at dinner-time, addressed to Olive. It was from Charlotte, and contained the startling intelligence that Abby was at home, and very ill.