Part 24

Mr. Forester disengaged himself from his wife's embrace, and walked to the window to recover his composure. Even then, he found time to think how hard-hearted Mrs. Merton was, and how little she could appreciate delicate feelings like his. In a few moments, he returned and sat down by the bed-side, and Mrs. Merton left them together, with a renewed charge to William, not to agitate Abby.

"So you came home and found your bird flown," said Abby softly, after a little pause. "What did you think, when you found I was not there?"

"I was very much alarmed, of course," replied Mr. Forester. "I could not be otherwise, not having heard of your being worse. Why did you not write?"

"I was not able for several days, and kept thinking I should be better. Mrs. Granger wrote to uncle without my knowledge, and when he came, I was so ill, and so very uncomfortable that I seemed to have no other choice. Uncle wrote to you directly after we arrived here."

"Are you sure? I have had no letter. But if you were so unwell the last time I was at home, why did you not say something about it? I never saw you looking better than you did then."

"I did tell you that my cough was very troublesome," said Abby timidly.

"I don't remember it," replied Mr. Forester, carelessly. And indeed he had paid very little attention to it, having been absorbed for the time in running over a new piece of music. "But I hope you will soon be well enough to return home, for I can not say I like the idea of your being here."

Abby's heart sunk. "It is so pleasant and home-like here," she pleaded, "and they are all so kind, and so fond of Emma. And if you are away in Boston, I might as well be here as there."

"Only that it is not very agreeable to me to come here, and be treated like a criminal by all the family," rejoined Mr. Forester peevishly, "and I do not choose to have my child brought up to despise her father."

"They have never said an unkind word about you," said Abby, with an eagerness which set her coughing. "I am sure uncle's letter was as kind as could be."

"I see that they have won you over to their side altogether," replied Mr. Forester, in what he meant for a playful tone, but which was really one of annoyance. "We shall soon have you making them a humble apology for having married me at all."

"I think uncle has forgiven me entirely," said Abby faintly, for she was getting very tired.

"So you acknowledge that you are wrong! What a pity you had not thought of it before. You might have saved yourself all the trouble you have had in housekeeping, and have been still an admired young lady. But come, don't bring the water-works into play," he added, seeing her eyes full of tears, "or you will be worse, and I shall be turned out of doors for an unnatural monster. I want you to get well, so I can have you all to myself again."

But in the earnestness of justifying herself from the charge of wishing she had never been married, Abby over-exerted herself, and coughed terribly.

The ominous sound summoned Mrs. Merton, and she at once dismissed Mr. Forester, not without a grave rebuke for allowing his wife to talk so much.

The gentleman went down-stairs in any thing but an amiable humor. He had intended to be very magnanimous and very gentle with his wife, but upon reviewing what he had said, he could not but be conscious that he had allowed his annoyance to appear plainly—that he had disturbed her, instead of doing her any good, and that Mrs. Merton thought, though she did not say so, that he was not to be trusted.

It was, therefore, with no amiable feelings that he met Miss Merton and Miss McHenry in the parlor. They took pains to be very polite, feeling really sorry for him in view of the distress which they supposed he must feel. Olive asked him how he found Abby.

"She is very unwell, no doubt," said he, throwing himself into a corner of the sofa. "I do not believe her hasty journey has done her any good. She is much worse than when I left her."

Miss Charlotte stiffened up directly. "The journey was not a hasty one, Mr. Forester," said she coldly, "and Abby was so unwell when my father found her that it was impossible to think of leaving her where she was, with no one to take care of her."

"I understood Mrs. Forester that the people of the house were very attentive," he replied loftily.

"It would be rather hard both for them and her to have her left upon their hands," said Olive gently. "Such people have usually enough to do to attend to their own affairs, and however well disposed they may be, they can not bestow that constant attention which is needed by an invalid in Abby's situation. But how do you like your present employment?" she asked, hoping by turning the conversation to prevent an explosion from Charlotte. "I should think it must be very agreeable."

"Oh! I have given that up," replied the gentleman. "The man was too insufferably accurate. He insisted upon my doing every thing according to rule and measure, and had the audacity to prefer his own stiff sketches to the drawings I made from them, because he said they were more correct! As if mere mechanical correctness were the main thing in a picture!"

"But in a scientific work," said Olive, "it seems to me that accuracy would be worth much more than picturesque effect."

"May-be so," returned her brother-in-law, "but I can not work in that way. I must have room allowed for the play of my imagination. These very practical people never have any sympathy for aught beyond their own ideas."

"Perhaps the very practical people might make the same complaint of the very imaginative ones," replied Olive, smiling; "at any rate, as a certain number of practical people seem to be necessary for the well-being of society, it is perhaps best to have patience with them."

"Yes, of course, if they will only have patience with us, and be willing to know their place, and keep to it. And as you say, a certain number of them seem to be rather convenient. Now there is my sister, Emma—she has not one spark of genius, and is as narrow-minded as possible, but yet she is a very useful person in the family. I hardly know what my mother and Emmeline would do without her. But to return to your sister. When do you think she will be able to be moved?"

"Moved!" exclaimed Charlotte and Olive together. "You surely can not think of taking her away."

"Why, I don't know," he replied doubtfully. "Perhaps a change might do her good. I was thinking of going to some of the villages near Boston to live, and of course I could not go without her."

"I am afraid she will never live to be moved again," said Olive, her eyes filling with tears. "Dr. Willson says her case is almost hopeless."

"But don't you think physicians are apt to make matters worse than they are, Olive?" asked William anxiously. "They naturally like to enhance their own importance. I have seen people much worse than she is, who recovered."

"We must hope for the best as long as we can," said Olive sadly, "but I fear there is but one event possible. Her only chance is to be kept perfectly quiet and easy in mind. Pray do not say a word to her about going away. I am sure it would worry her very much, and perhaps bring on another bad attack."

The mischief was done, however. Abby coughed very badly all the afternoon, and the evening brought another time of great distress, followed by another attack of bleeding, not so severe as the last, but enough to cause serious alarm in her present weak state. Dr. Willson absolutely forbade her talking to any body, and only one person was allowed to be in her room at a time.

The next day, Mr. Merton courteously invited Mr. Forester to make the house his home as long as Abby continued ill. Mr. Forester was much obliged, but hinted at painful obligations, whereupon Mr. Merton intimated that Mr. Forester's services would be valuable in the office just now, and Mr. Forester accepted the invitation upon condition that his services should be considered an equivalent for his board. For about a week he was very assiduous in his attendance upon office-work, and Mr. Merton really began to have hopes of him, but they were not very long-lived.

As usual, when the novelty of the thing wore off, his industry began to relax. His old companions courted his society. It was very wearisome to work in the office all day, and then return at night to Abby's sick-room, and the grave circle in Mr. Merton's drawing-room. He persuaded himself that his own health was failing, as it always did when he worked in the house, and that he needed exercise, and his office-hours became few and far between.

If he had been a clerk, Mr. Merton would have discharged him at the end of a month, but Abby's comfort was now the principal object, and he was allowed to take his own course. The example was by no means a good one, and, as may be imagined, began to make trouble among the other young men, and Mr. Merton was very glad when he abandoned the office altogether, and became wholly absorbed in the idea of publishing a set of translations from the older German and Italian poets, an occupation which he varied by long pedestrian rambles, which sometimes kept him away for a day or two at a time, and from which he returned with abundance of beautiful but unfinished sketches.

Olive once or twice finished up some of these sketches into pictures, which Mr. Forester admired very much, and showed to every body as his own. He was quite astonished to find that his sister-in-law could draw as well as himself and that Charlotte was more than his equal in languages, both ancient and modern, and now and then a glimmering perception came across his mind that he was not altogether so far above all the rest of the world as he had always imagined.

Abby lay from day to day with little visible alteration, except that she was gradually growing weaker, and less able to withstand her terrible attacks of difficulty of breathing, which were always followed by bleeding. She was quiet and smiling, apparently perfectly resigned to whatever might happen, happy in being once more at home, in feeling herself forgiven, in having her husband and child with her. She had told William her desires in respect to Emma, and he had given his consent to the arrangement, without thinking much about it.

In fact, Mr. Forester made entirely a false estimate of his own character. He fancied himself earnest, passionate, and susceptible of strong emotions, when in reality he was both shallow-minded and shallow-hearted, utterly incapable of receiving deep or lasting impressions. As Laura said, if Abby had refused him, he would have forgotten all about her in six weeks. But like most persons of weak will and understanding, he was very obstinate, and when he found himself opposed, he resolved to win her at all hazards. But he was kind to her now, and took some little pains to render himself agreeable to the family, and that was enough to render her happy.

It had already been settled in the family councils that Olive was not to return to Basswoods at the end of the vacation. Abby could not bear the idea of her sister's leaving her even for a day, and Mrs. Merton thought that as there was no probability of her returning for any length of time, she had better write to Mr. Jones, in order to give him time to provide a substitute. She did so at once, advising him to apply to Mrs. Granger again, and she also wrote to Ruth, informing her of the change in her plans. She felt very sorry to take leave of the school so abruptly, but her anxiety and grief for Abby swallowed up all minor considerations.

Walter entirely approved of her plan of spending the winter at home, thinking, though she did not say so, that she ought to have a season of rest before undertaking the somewhat arduous duties of a pastor's wife. His visit was a comfort to the whole family. Abby liked to have him read to her and pray with her, even better than Dr. Eastman; Mr. Merton enjoyed the quiet evening conversations, and formed all the time a higher and higher estimate of his young friend's abilities and principles; Charlotte liked him because he was so perfectly honest and plain spoken—so utterly without humbug, was her expression; and even Mrs. Merton quite forgave his romance, as when driven into a corner she still persisted in calling it.

Mr. Forester, utterly unconscious of what an admirable foil he was to Walter's good qualities, tolerated, and sometimes patronized him, to Olive's indignation and Walter's great amusement. And though he could not but look with contempt upon a man who had given up the study of music because it interfered with such a trifling pursuit as practising law, he yet allowed that Walter would make a very good sort of husband for Olive, who was as prosy as himself.

In a week or two letters came from Mr. Jones and Isabella Lambert, containing both pleasant and sad news. The pleasant part of the intelligence was, that upon Mrs. Granger's earnest recommendation, the committee had engaged Helen Monteith to fill Olive's place, Isabella being still retained as second teacher. Nothing could have pleased Olive more. She knew that Helen would carry out her plans, and keep up the influence which she had acquired, and she felt, too, that she would fill up the gap in the little social circle at the parsonage.

A postscript in Isabella's letter, written the next day, announced the death of Frederick Gregory. As the doctor had predicted, it was very sudden at last. He had been working at his collections by times during the day, and seemed as well as usual. But while they were all sitting together in the twilight, he had complained of fatigue, and laid his head upon Ruth's shoulder. After a few moments' silence, she touched his hand, and was alarmed at its coldness. Lights were brought, but all was over. He had breathed his last, resting upon the breast which had been faithful to him for so many years.

Olive wrote to the girls, and received an answer from Ruth almost immediately. It was short, and a good deal of it related to business, but there were a few sentences which related to himself, and which set Olive's heart at rest about her. Ruth evidently felt resigned to her loss, and was deeply thankful that so much more had been vouchsafed to her than she had any reason to expect. She told Olive that Helen was to have her old room, but there would be another for her whenever she came to Basswoods; her letter concluding with quantities of affectionate messages from the school-girls, who, Ruth said, were quite in despair, and perfectly sure that they never could, never should, and never would like any other teacher as well as Miss McHenry.

Olive wrote them a kind of general letter, recommending Miss Monteith to their especial consideration, and begging them to show their affection by being as dutiful and respectful to her successor as they had been to herself.

A few days later, the express brought her a package containing a beautiful writing-desk and color-box, which had been purchased for her by their joint contributions. Mr. Forester criticised the form and arrangement of both, and wondered what a parcel of common-place school-girls could find in their mistress to be grateful for. But Olive shed some tears over the pretty gifts, and felt that the love of her pupils was worth a great deal to her.

Laura and her husband came up to see Abby, and spent two weeks at aunt Dimsden's, who was in the seventh heaven of enjoyment and gratified vanity, and displayed her adopted daughter and her daughter's husband, or, as William said, "trotted out her elephants," till the elephants themselves did not know whether to be most amused or annoyed.

Olive's opinion of Mr. Witherington rose with every opportunity she had of observing him, and she could not but hope that he would, after a time, acquire such an influence over Laura, as would make her worthy of him. She thought that Laura was really improved—that she was less frivolous, less fond of display, and showed less anxiety to be admired. Aunt Dimsden was rather vexed with her niece for making Abby's state an excuse for not attending some of the gay parties that were made for her, and wanted Mr. Witherington to interpose his authority to prevent his wife from being moped to death in a sick-room. But Mr. Witherington was not inclined to do so, and she had to content herself with talking to every one about her dear Laura's sensibility and affection for her sister.

Abby liked having Laura to sit with her and talk to her a little while at a time, for she soon grew weary now of any conversation. Laura told her many stories and anecdotes of her New-York life, and her fine acquaintances, and sometimes made her laugh more than Mrs. Merton thought was quite safe. But she always slept well after it, and seemed to enjoy it so much that no one had the heart to interfere with her pleasure. The last day of Laura's stay, she was alone with Abby quite a long time, and when she left her, she was weeping bitterly. It was some time before Olive knew the subject of their conversation. But Mr. Witherington told her afterwards, he thought it had a great effect upon Laura—that she was much more domestic, and cared more for her husband's society, and less for the excitements which had formerly been her chief delight.

It seemed as though Abby declined from the day Laura left them. She lost her voice entirely, and was unable to sit up a moment. But she had no more of the terrible turns of suffering which had been so distressing to witness, and which nothing seemed to relieve. She lay most of the time in a painless, half-dreaming state, not always recognizing those about her, but always docile and uncomplaining. Little Emma was almost always with her, sitting upon the bed, as near her mother as she could creep, and keeping her eyes fixed upon her, or playing with her long, thin fingers. Abby liked to have Emma near her, and the little one's presence often roused her when nothing else would have the desired effect.

Every night, as long as she was able to speak, she put Emma's hands together, and repeated her evening prayer, and it was a sad grief to the baby, the first time her mother was too ill to notice her clasped hands, and the inarticulate murmur with which she had learned to accompany the whispered words.

William seemed about this time to awaken all at once to the idea that his wife was dying. He seldom left her, except to procure something which he fancied would give her pleasure, watched her day and night, and gave up all his favorite employments to read to her when she was able to hear him, or to sit by with his hand clasped in hers, when she was restless and unable to sleep. It was evident that Abby herself never blamed him, even in her inmost thoughts, and that she loved him with an earnestness and depth over which his own faults and follies had no power. To her, he was still the William who had attracted her first love, whom she had invested with qualities which certainly never belonged to him, and whom she still believed in, despite all her disappointments and the sad experience of her married life.

A few days before the last, she seemed to revive very much. She regained her voice in some measure, knew every one about her, and seemed much stronger than she had been for weeks. William was full of joy, and seemed to look upon her as nearly well, and even Mrs. Merton could not help having some hopes. Abby had expressed a wish to receive the holy communion, and Mrs. Merton consulted the doctor.

"Nothing can hurt her, my dear madam," he said, in answer to her anxious inquiries. "This apparent gain is but the last flash of the lamp. Let her have her own way in every thing, but do not leave her alone a moment."

Dr. Eastman was accordingly summoned, and with all her friends around her, Abby received, for the last time, the pledges of the dying love of the Saviour, who was even then standing at the door. She did not seem much fatigued, and spoke without difficulty several times after the clergyman had gone, but Mammy's experienced eye saw that a change had come over her.

"She is marked for death, Mrs. Merton," said she to her mistress, whom she had gone to call, leaving Charlotte and Olive with Abby. "She won't be here many hours longer. Lord receive her, poor dear lamb!"

"Do you think she is dying, Mammy?" asked Mrs. Merton anxiously, but preserving her composure, as she usually did, so long as there was any thing to be done. "Send Edward for Mr. Merton at once—he was called to the office a few minutes ago; and let him call for Dr. Willson."

When she entered the sick-room, she found Abby half-leaning upon her husband, but holding Charlotte's hand, and talking to her at intervals. Charlotte sat like a statue, but the tears fell fast from her eyes.

The only words Mrs. Merton caught were, "Take Him for your own, Lotta. Nothing else is worth living for."

Then, after a few moments' silence: "He is so good—he helped me—he helps me now."

"Don't talk, Abby," said William hoarsely; "you will exhaust yourself."

"It won't make much difference," she said, with a heavenly smile illuminating her already sharpened features. "Dear William, don't grieve too much, and study the Bible. Don't be deceived by fancies. There is nothing but Christ!" She was silent again, and lay apparently asleep for half an hour, till Mammy brought in the baby.

Emma stretched out her hands to her mother.

"Set her down here," said Abby, now seeming to speak with a little difficulty.

As Mammy obeyed, she took her hand and kissed her. "Thank you, dear Mammy. Take care of her while she is little, won't you?"

"So help me God, I will, Miss Abby," said Mammy, quite overcome. Her sobs were the signal for a burst of tears from every one in the room. Abby's eyes filled, too, but the drops did not fall. She looked around the room, and called every one to her by name, even the servants, who had collected at the door. There was again an interval of silence, and she said faintly, "Uncle!"

"What, love?" asked Mr. Merton, trying to speak calmly.

"I was a very ungrateful girl, but indeed I loved you all the time. Please forgive me and poor William, for my sake."

Mr. Merton kissed her, but could not reply.

Abby now changed rapidly, and when Dr. Willson put some wine to her lips, she could not swallow. Taking, with a last effort, Emma's little hands between her own, she murmured some indistinct words, of which they could only distinguish the last—"for Jesus Christ's sake."

And when she had so spoken, she fell asleep.

CHAPTER TWENTIETH.

FROM the first of Abby's illness, Olive had felt that she could not get well, but now that she was really gone, it seemed but a dream. She could not think, in passing Abby's room, that her sister was no longer there. The exquisite statue of alabaster that lay folded on soft satin and surrounded with beautiful flowers was not Abby, and she could not connect it with her sister.

It seemed as though the house were almost empty. Emma would hardly go to any one but Mammy, and she cried constantly for her mother, especially at night. She would not allow her father to take her at all. All necessary business was attended to by Mrs. Dimsden with a quietness and kindness which did her great credit, causing Mrs. Merton to think that she had really done Alicia injustice, and making her resolve that she would hereafter be more patient with her short-comings.