Part 5

"You are very charitable to think so, but I can not agree with you. I was too unboundedly provoking. I have been angry with myself, many a time since, to think how I used to insult you."

"Do not let us talk of it," said Olive; "it is one of the things that is past and gone. After all, Charlotte, school-days are pleasant days. I don't believe we shall ever be much happier than we were at Mrs. Granger's."

"I do not believe I shall ever be so happy again," replied Charlotte, with a sigh. "I have wished myself back there twenty times a week, this winter. When I was in school, I had an object. Every morning I thought, now here is just so much to be accomplished before night. Almost all my duties were such as I had pleasure in, and at night I would look back and think that I had really brought something to pass."

"Yes, that is very pleasant," said Olive. "But can not you do so now?"

"No," replied Charlotte, abruptly.

"Excuse me, but I do not see why."

"You would see why, if you would consider. Just think how it has been since you came home. Nothing but going out, or having company at home, day after day, and night after night, and what does it amount to?"

"I think it is pleasant enough for a little while," said Olive. "I have really enjoyed myself very much, since I came home this time."

"Yes, because you have been hard at work all winter, and need recreation. But you would not enjoy it to go on so, day after day, and week after week, without seeming to bring a single thing to pass. I should really enjoy going back to school, and timing my employments by the bell and the hour-glass again."

"But it seems to me—I do not know by experience, to be sure—that you might contrive to do something more than that, Charlotte. You might study a good deal."

"When?"

"You know no one calls here before twelve o'clock. You might be tolerably certain of having the time to yourself from half-past eight to eleven."

"But supposing I should, what could I accomplish in that time?" asked Charlotte, half-incredulously, but with an appearance of considerable interest.

"A great deal, I think," replied Olive. "You never gave as much time as that to any one lesson in school. Suppose you undertake some new language, Greek, for instance, which you were always desirous of learning. I think you could easily get a teacher, if you wanted one. If you would give two hours a day to that, and the other hour, when you had it to spare, to natural history or chemistry, I think you would find at the end of the year that you had accomplished a good deal."

"It looks very pretty," said Charlotte, "but I am afraid it would not work very well. I should be liable to so many interruptions. There is always shopping and sewing to be done and a hundred things to break up one's plans."

"Well, then, when it is necessary, you must be content to give way for a little, and begin again. Half a loaf is better than no bread, as the proverb says."

"Lord Chesterfield says it is vulgar to use proverbs," observed Charlotte.

"It is very convenient," returned Olive, laughing.

"And besides, I don't believe I should ever have perseverance enough to carry out such a plan, without some one to make me," continued Charlotte.

"'Lead thine own captivity captive, and be Caesar unto thyself.' There is a grand quotation for you to set off against the vulgarity of the proverb. You would gain a great deal more by disciplining yourself, than if some body did it for you. And besides, Charlotte, system ought to be a means, and not an end. There is no particular use in being systematical for the mere sake of system."

"I have a great mind to try it," said Charlotte, doubtfully. "This will be a good time to begin, because there will be no more parties. I wonder what mother would say. I do not believe she will like the idea of my studying Greek."

"Then take something else—Spanish or German. You have never learnt German, and there is nothing more interesting to study. But I do not believe she will have any objections to your learning Greek, if you wish to."

"I wish you were going to be here to study with me," said Charlotte.

"I wish I were, for more reasons than one," returned Olive, sighing, "but I have made an engagement, and I must keep it. Not that I am sick of the idea of teaching," she added, seeing Charlotte smile. "On the contrary, I like the prospect better than ever before, but I feel as if I were wanted here."

"You must not be too anxious about Abby," said Charlotte. "I do not believe any harm will come of it. She is a dear little creature, and always ready to do any thing one wants her to. I think she is willing to obey, from the very fact that it is less trouble than to have her own way. You know mother is very fond of her, and she will take excellent care of her."

"I know that, Charlotte, but I don't think you can tell how I feel towards Abby. She seems more like a child than a sister. I should never consent to leave her with any one else but aunt Rebecca."

Charlotte looked at Olive in her intent way, as though she meant to read her through and through. "I believe you are sincere," she said at last, "but I must say I wonder at your feeling so. I do not think my mother has ever treated you in a manner to attach you to her."

"Your mother has done a great deal for me, more than I have always appreciated at the time," said Olive, remembering how excessively jealous Charlotte used to be during their school-days, lest her mother's kindness should be undervalued. "She has never intended any thing but kindness, I am sure, and if she has sometimes said things that made me unhappy at the time, I should be very ungrateful to lay them up. I was sorry to disoblige her by the course I took, and I should not have decided as I did, had I not been perfectly certain that it was for the best."

"It is for the best," replied Charlotte, "and I have no doubt that mother will feel it so after a while, if she does not now. And do not distress yourself about Abby. As I said before, she is growing older every day. We will all take good care of her, and Mr. Forester will be out of the way, I presume, before long. I am sure no harm will come to her."

Olive felt a great deal of comfort from Charlotte's kindness and consideration, and only hoped it would be continued to her sister, while she was absent.

Abby herself seemed less capricious, and more inclined to be reasonable, than for some time past. She sought her sister's society constantly, and was even more affectionate and good humored than usual. Mr. Forester continued to be a frequent visitor, and Mrs. Merton began to raise her eyebrows and show signs of discontent when he appeared.

Once, when he came home with Abby about dusk, and it appeared accidentally that they had taken a long walk together, aunt Rebecca gave her youngest niece quite a serious lecture about encouraging such an idle young man, and giving occasion to gossip. As Abby listened in submissive silence, without any of her usual petty petulance and impatience, and before the discourse was half ended, burst into a flood of tears, Mrs. Merton thought she had said all that was necessary. So she kissed the little weeping beauty, assuring her that she was not angry with her, but merely wished her to be careful what she did, and that she should never suspect her of any thing really improper or underhanded.

Poor Abby cried more than ever, and as soon as she was alone, she threw herself upon the bed and cried herself to sleep.

CHAPTER FIFTH.

EVERY BODY knows how fast vacation-time speeds away. Olive could hardly tell what had become of hers, but the fact was plain that it was gone, and that only one week intervened before she was to enter upon a new and untried mode of life, in a new place and among entire strangers.

The only people in Basswoods that she had ever seen were Mr. and Mrs. Gregory, the pastor and his wife, who had called upon her at Mrs. Granger's after she had accepted the invitation of the trustees. Mr. Gregory was a very pleasant elderly man, apparently possessing a good deal of cultivation, and his wife seemed a very nice, lively little person. Olive thought she should like them very much.

But with all this, and with all the courage she could muster, her heart sunk not a little sometimes, as she thought of the prospects before her. The conviction that she was in the right course did not, however, vary a moment, nor did her faith in Him who giveth strength according to the day. For Olive's faith was neither a mental abstraction nor a vague feeling; if there was any one fact of which she felt absolutely certain, it was that God sitteth upon the throne of his mercy, always hearing, and invariably answering the prayer of humility and love, unless in cases where refusing is kinder than giving.

She felt no more doubt that he would give her the strength necessary for her duty, than she felt that he had given her duties to perform. She had always prayed much, but never so much as now, and in an especial manner did she commend her sister Abby to Him who is the father of the fatherless. By earnest devotion—by her consciousness that she was acting rightly, and by resolutely looking at the bright side of the picture, she was able to overcome all forebodings and to pack her trunks when the time came, with a cheerful though somewhat anxious heart.

She expected to leave early in the morning with a gentleman from Basswoods, who was to pass through on the cars. Her uncle had intended to accompany her himself, and see her comfortably settled in her new home, but an important law-suit called him in another direction a day or two before the time came. He bade Olive good-by with a great deal of affection, telling her that she must write very often, be sure to come home at once if she got sick, or if she did not find herself as comfortable as she expected, and at parting, put into her hands a little package, with requisitions not to open it till she reached her journey's end.

Abby was very desirous to know what was inside this mysterious parcel, and showed so much anxiety about it, that Olive put it away in her trunk, in order, as she said, to put temptation out of her way. Aunt Merton made her a present of a very handsome and commodious writing-desk, well supplied with all sorts of pretty stationery, and moreover filled a new work-box with a great store of pins, needles, tape, thread, every thing of the kind, in short, which she could be expected to want for a twelvemonth and more. Her wardrobe had again been put in complete order, by Mrs. Merton's directions, and in fact, no school-teacher ever left home, for the first time, under more favorable auspices.

To Olive's vexation, Mr. Forester came in, and spent the very last evening she was to have at home. He did not seem to have the least idea of being in the way, and made great efforts to be entertaining. Abby was alone in the parlor when he came in, and when Olive entered, they were standing by the window, very closely engaged in conversation: she even thought he had Abby's hand in his, but if so, it was very quickly withdrawn, and Mr. Forester, turning round, began talking with his usual ease and politeness.

Olive felt vexed both at him and Abby, and all her efforts could not make her as cordial as she wished. Abby was constrained and silent, but that perhaps was no more than was natural. Mr. Forester staid quite late, much to Olive's annoyance, and Mrs. Merton exclaimed against his want of tact. Contrary to her habit, Abby did not say one word in his defense, though she colored and looked very much disturbed: in fact, she had seemed upon the brink of a fit of crying the whole evening through.

As usual upon such occasions, every one declared that Olive ought to go to bed early that she might be quite fresh for her journey next day. And as usual, every one found so many last words to say, that it was full an hour later that common before the family retired.

When the sisters were alone together, Abby seemed still less inclined for conversation, and yet there appeared to be something upon her mind which she wished to express. She answered yes and no at random to Olive's remarks, curled and uncurled her hair half a dozen times, and was so absent that Olive exclaimed, half-amused and half-vexed:

"Why, Abby, I don't believe you know what you are doing."

"I don't," said Abby shortly and in a tone which made Olive look at her in surprise. She paused a moment, nervously folding a piece of paper in her fingers, and then proceeded abruptly:

"You may as well know the truth, Olive, first as last. I promised William I would not tell any one else, but I must tell you."

"Tell me what?" eked Olive in amazement and terror; for Abby's color varied every instant, from deep crimson to pale as ashes, and she shook in every limb.

"What is the matter with you?"

Abby made another effort, and succeeded in saying, though in a voice which did not sound the least like her own: "I am engaged to be married, Olive!"

Then as though the great difficulty were passed, she went on more calmly. "I meant to tell you before, but William was anxious it should be kept secret for the present. He would have preferred to have it remain so, till you came back at any rate, but I felt as though I could not have you go away—" She relapsed into silence again, busying herself aimlessly with her curls.

Olive had seated herself upon the side of the bed: she felt as though she could not stand. But she saw how agitated Abby was, and with a strong effort, she preserved her own calmness.

"Engaged to whom?" she asked quietly.

"To William Forester, of course," returned Abby pettishly; "who else should it be?"

"How long have you been engaged to him?" pursued Olive.

"Ever since the day aunt Rebecca made such a fuss about our walking together—the day we went to the cemetery," answered Abby, with a degree of impatience. In fact, the great effort Olive was making to preserve her composure, rendered her tone more severe than she was aware of.

"Why did you not tell me before?" she asked again.

"You had better ask why I tell you now," exclaimed Abby, angrily, throwing down her brush, and turning round. "William told me you would not have any sympathy with me, and advised me not to say a word to you, and I see he was right. I don't know why you should sit there and question me in that cold severe tone, as though you had authority over me for life and death. I am not accountable to you."

"Hush, Abby," said Olive, in a tone which now certainly trembled sufficiently; "do not let us make matters worse by quarrelling. I don't mean to be severe, but I am perfectly overwhelmed. Why, that is six weeks ago!"

"Yes, and I wondered at your not suspecting us, though I was very glad you did not."

"I have not been used to watching you in order find out your secrets, Abby," said Olive, more and more agitated. "You have always been as open as day before. Why should Mr. Forester be so anxious to have you conceal such a thing your best friends?"

"He does not want any one to know it at present," replied Abby evasively.

"But why? I should think the honorable way would have been for him to go at once to my uncle, mention the matter to him, and ask his consent, as he is your guardian, and has always been as kind as the kindest father to you."

"You don't know any thing about such things, Olive. You never were in love, and I don't believe you ever will be."

"Perhaps not," returned Olive, "but I know what is right, and straightforward, and gentlemanly, and the course which Mr. Forester has taken does not seem to me to be either."

"William says my uncle is prejudiced against him, and you know he is, yourself."

"I don't know any such thing. My uncle is not apt to be prejudiced against people, and if he were, it makes no difference in your duty. Why should he have a prejudice against Mr. Forester?"

"He says William is idle," returned Abby, "because he does not choose to pin himself down to the office, and let all his fine talents wither away, while he is poring over stupid law-books. When he brought up those beautiful outline drawings the other night, uncle just asked him how much time they had taken from Blackstone. As though a man of his genius were going to be fettered in that way. Besides, he has no need to apply himself as the rest of the young men do, when he is so much quicker than they are. But there is no use in talking to you," she added, turning away. "You do not understand William nor me. We understand each other, that is our comfort, and it is about the only one I have."

"No doubt," said Olive bitterly, "this stranger, whom you have not known six months at the outside, understands you much better than your sister, who has been with you, and cared for you, ever since you were born. It does seem to me that my affection is likely to be as disinterested as his."

"You have never been in love," Abby repeated, "and you can not understand the matter."

"Very well, we will take that for granted. I have never been in love, and therefore can not enter into your feeling, but I am none the less able to see what is right, and I can never believe it is an honorable proceeding, to gain the affections of a young girl, hardly seventeen years old, and entangle her in an engagement, which is to be kept secret from her friends for an indefinite length of time."

"Please to remember, Olive, that you are speaking of my affianced husband," said Abby, with flashing eyes, "and that I will not listen to one word to his disadvantage."

"Very well," said Olive, after a moment's reflection, "I will say no more about him. It may be that he has only erred in judgment. But how long is this secrecy to continue, Abby?"

"I don't know—I have never thought."

"Then pray, my dearest child, do think before this affair goes any farther. You know how clear-sighted uncle and aunt Merton are."

"I can not compliment aunt Rebecca upon being very clear-sighted," said Abby, laughing. "If she had been, she might have seen before this time that there was something in the wind. How gravely she lectured me that night," she continued, with an amusing imitation of Mrs. Merton's impressive manner. "I must be careful, or people would make remarks about me. It would be very unpleasant, and a great disadvantage to me to have any report of an engagement get abroad. I should think she would have seen then, that something unusual was the matter."

"I presume the possibility of your wishing to deceive her, never entered her mind," said Olive gravely, vexed almost beyond endurance by Abby's unreasonable levity. "But you must know, Abby, that things can not go on so. There are aunt Dimsden and Laura always upon the watch too. Suppose her suspicions are aroused, and she speaks to uncle Merton, or tells the story to every one, till it gets to his ears from some other quarter. What will you do when he calls you to account about it? You know he can not endure any thing like slyness, even in the smallest matters."

"I don't know," said Abby lightly, but sighing at the same time. "I must trust William to get me out of the scrape, some way or other. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."

"Quite sufficient, I should think. Just consider how you will be situated, with your mind burdened with a secret which you are constantly afraid of having found out, obliged to resort to all sorts of subterfuges: you may even be driven to downright untruth before you know it."

Abby sighed deeply. She was conscious of having transgressed in this respect more than once already. Olive hoped she had gained a little advantage.

"I am sure, Abby, you can not be happy living in this way," she said.

"I don't expect to be happy, except when I am with William," replied Abby. "Then I forget that there is any thing like discomfort or misery, in the world; he is so kind and good. He makes me feel like another being—so elevated. I feel above all earthly cares and trammels."

"And duties too," thought Olive, but she did not say so. As she became cooler, she saw that she had made a great mistake in speaking so severely of Mr. Forester. It was necessary, above all things, for her to gain Abby's confidence, and this was not the way to do it. Abby continued:

"When I am away from him, I expect to be more or less unhappy, of course; 'the course of true love never did run smooth,' you know. But for all that, I would not give him up; No, not if every friend I have in the world should set himself against him."

Olive sighed at the infatuation as it seemed to her, of her sister. "I do wish you would tell uncle all about it," she said earnestly.

"I dare not," replied Abby, turning pale at the very idea. "He would be so angry!"

"What will he be if he finds it out for himself, and discovers that you have been deceiving him all the time?"

"How you do harp upon deception," said Abby. "It is not deceiving him to tell him nothing about it."

"O Abby! You would not have made that distinction a year ago."

"I was a child, and afraid to say my soul was my own, a year ago—but, at any rate, I shall not tell him."

"Then let me—he will not be at home, but I can write to him."

"Indeed you must not!" returned Abby, in great alarm. "William would be very angry. It was as much as I could do, to gain his consent for telling you. Promise me that you will not say a word about it!"

"I can not make such a promise," said Olive; "It does not seem right. Mr. Forester ought to tell uncle Merton himself."

"Do you suppose, Olive," asked Abby, "that it would be very pleasant for a man of William's delicate feelings and exquisite refinement, to expose himself to the questionings and reproofs of such a cold, practical, middle-aged man as my uncle, who judges of every thing in the world by two touchstones—common-sense and duty?"

"And very good touchstones I consider them," returned Olive. "But pleasant or not pleasant, it is the part of an honest man to do it. I can not give my consent to any such secret arrangement, Abby; it is altogether wrong. I am sure your own conscience can not approve of it."

"Conscience, conscience, Olive! How you do go over that word. I can tell you, sister mine, that there are instincts and feelings in the human soul, which will not be chained down by old-fashioned trammels of conscience and duty, and such catch-words. Once for all, I tell you that you can not understand my feelings, because you have never been in love yourself, and so there is no use talking to you. I am sorry you feel hurt at my silence, and I should have told you before, if William had been willing, but he was not. He wishes the affair to be kept still till he shall have finished his studies, or else till he gets engaged in some other business; for he begins to think the law will never suit him, it is so confining. Then, you know, he is not dependent on his profession entirely: his father left him ten thousand dollars."

"But that was some time ago, and in the way he has lived, he must have spent a good deal."

"Of course, he does not intend to depend entirely upon that. He means to do something, and he does not wish to have this matter talked of till he is settled. Then, of course, he expects to ask my uncle in form. Oh! You will see it will all come out right, if you will only let us have our own way about it: we shall be nicely fixed by and by, in a house of our own, with pictures and books, and every thing delightful inside and out; and you shall come and live with us, instead of drudging at school-teaching. And there," said Abby, catching at any shade of self-justification, "when you took up this notable school-keeping scheme, you acted as much for yourself as I am doing."