Part 6

"But in a very different way, Abby," replied Olive. "Before I took one single step in the matter, or even made up my own mind, I wrote to uncle about it, and I have not done a single thing, from first to last, without his knowledge and consent. If he had opposed it, I should have given it up, or at least have waited till I was twenty-one. Besides, teaching is not like getting married. If I find that I can not be useful or happy in it, I can stop."

"What are you talking about, girls?" asked aunt Rebecca's voice of authority, at the door. "You ought to have been asleep an hour ago. Olive, do not let me hear another word to-night."

There was nothing for it to obey, and where was the use of talking? Nothing that Olive could say, seemed to make any impression. She had always pleased herself with the idea that Abby's disposition was so easy and yielding that there would be no difficulty in guiding her aright, and that she was naturally so open, that no secrets could exist between them. Now she found out her mistake. The yielding disposition was only yielding in matters which Abby did not care any thing about, or which she thought not worth the trouble of a contradiction. Her frankness was only a habit and not a principle, and yielded to the first temptation. She was completely bewildered and dazzled by the sentimental sophistry of her accomplished admirer, with whom she was really as much in love as a girl of seventeen is capable of being.

Of course, she could see nothing save perfection, in Mr. Forester. He was really an interesting and agreeable man, and, as is the case with almost every girl who falls in love, she invested him with all those attributes of manly excellence which existed only in her own mind. Olive's arguments made but little impression upon her. She took refuge in the idea, which indeed had some truth in it, that Olive had never been in love, and therefore could not understand her feelings. When she was absolutely driven into a corner, and forced to reflect, she could not but acknowledge to herself that she occupied an unpleasant and somewhat undignified position, and that the course she was pursuing was not likely to end in any thing desirable. But she comforted herself with the idea, "that it would all come right in the end—that she should get through with it some way."

Olive, on her part, was thoroughly perplexed, and almost for the first time in her life, could not see her duty plain before her. If her uncle had been at home, she almost thought she should have gone straight to him, and told him the whole story. And yet—she had properly no authority over Abby, and what right had she to betray her secret? If she had had more time, she would have talked to Mr. Forester, and endeavored to prevail upon him to take an open and manly course. But she had no time—there was the great trouble. Her uncle was not at home. Even should she think it best to speak to Mrs. Merton, there would be no opportunity, and moreover, she was very doubtful of the expediency of such a step.

What could she—what ought she to do? She thought it over and over, and prayed for light, but she could see none, except that she felt more and more as though Mr. Merton ought to be informed, but then—could she betray her sister? She knew her uncle well, and she felt sick as she thought how angry he would be with Abby. She could not sleep, and was so restless, that she awoke her companion, who asked what was the matter.

"I am thinking about this miserable business, Abby. Do promise me that you will tell uncle all about it when he comes home, or persuade Mr. Forester to tell him. I am sure it is the only right way."

"Dear me, are you worrying over that yet?" said Abby sleepily. "I wish I had not told you, since you are so distressed about it."

"But will you tell uncle?"

"Yes, if I can, or I will get William to. Now do go to sleep, like a dear child."

Olive turned and tossed, and finally fell into troubled slumber, which seemed to have lasted about five minutes, when she was awakened by Mrs. Merton's hand and voice.

"I have allowed you to sleep just as long as I dare, my dear. You will have no more than time to dress, and get your breakfast comfortably. I will finish your packing myself."

Olive sprang up, and was soon dressed. She meant to have risen early, but her restless night had defeated her plans, and before she had finished her prayers, Mrs. Merton's voice was again heard at the door. The breakfast was very inviting, but she could take nothing except a cup of coffee.

Aunt Rebecca busied herself in putting a provision of sandwiches and cakes into her travelling-bag, and in looking to see that nothing had been left. Charlotte sat by, grave and silent, except when she sharply reproved Abby for crying, and making Olive cry too.

Contrary to Olive's expectations, they had some time to spare at the dépôt, and the first person they saw was Mr. Forester, who was evidently waiting for them. She would have given a great deal to have been able to say a few words to him in private, but there seemed to be no opportunity.

At last he contrived to get between her and her aunt, and said in the same moment, in a low tone: "I suppose Abby has told you?"

"Yes," returned Olive.

"I hope her course has your approval," he said carelessly.

"I can not say—I think you should have spoken to my uncle," replied Olive. And then, seeing that Mrs. Merton's attention was still occupied, she added, earnestly: "Do be open with him, and allow Abby to be so: it is the only right—the only honorable way."

Mr. Forester colored deeply, and his eyes flashed fire; he seemed about to make an angry reply, but controlled himself, and merely said in a tone of hauteur: "Pardon me, if I esteem myself the best judge of that matter, Miss McHenry. But as your sister's confiding disposition has foolishly placed her secret in your hands, you will no doubt use it as suits your purpose; and Abby will find out her folly too late."

"Late!" said Mrs. Merton catching the last word. "Are we late?"

"No, ma'am, the cars are late—ten minutes behind time at least. Ah! Here they come at last."

"Miss McHenry here?" said an elderly gentleman entering the ladies' room. "Ah! Good morning, ma'am. Mrs. Merton I presume I have the pleasure of addressing—and which of these young ladies am I to take in charge?"

Mrs. Merton presented Miss McHenry. Jones bowed and shook hands.

"We have no time to lose, Miss McHenry. Have you your checks and tickets? All right—come then, bid good-by all—good morning, Madam—" And almost before Olive knew where she was, she was out of the dépôt, and whirling along at lightning speed through the country.

Mr. Jones was a kindly, fatherly sort of man, one of those old gentlemen who always call all young girls "my dear," and take pleasure in petting them. He was very kind to Olive, provided her with a new magazine from a small library of such things which he seemed to have with him, left her to herself for a while, as he saw that her heart and eyes were full to overflowing; and when he perceived that she was becoming more composed, pointed out all the objects of particular interest on the road, talked to her about the place she came from, and the one she was going to, and made himself so agreeable that she several times found herself forgetting her great trouble for as much as ten minutes together.

She found considerable amusement in watching the people in the cars, who presented the usual variety. There was a returned Californian going home with his wife, who had evidently been down to the seaboard to meet him. He was a great rough six-footer of a man, bearded like the pard, and full of strength and spirits; and it was quite touching to see the way in which he caressed and petted his delicate little wife, something as though he was afraid of breaking her by too rough handling. There were of course two or three bashful and blushing brides, and still more bashful and awkward grooms, looking as though they thought all the world must know that they were just married. Then there were a thoughtful father and mother, with a tribe of handsome boys and girls going to settle at the West, all merry, good-natured, and full of spirits.

And finally, a couple of would-be fine ladies from some Western city, full of second-hand airs, and last year's finery, who amused themselves the whole way, in talking over their own and their neighbors' family quarrels—how Rebecca Coleman made a party, and did not ask the speaker, though she invited George's wife; and what she said to George about it, and what George said to her; how the refreshments were poor and scanty, and Rebecca only attended to those that she liked; how the minister's wife wore feathers in her bonnet, and made a great many visits, and how the minister himself encouraged pauperism by relieving the poor; how easy it was to deceive him, and how he had spoken of a clergyman of another denomination as an intelligent and gentlemanly man—it was even reported that he said 'fellow.' Olive thought the minister was to be pitied, who numbered such a party of ill-natured detractors among his flock.

As it drew towards night, Olive began to think less of those she had left behind, and to feel a little anxious respecting the people she was soon to meet, and among whom her hope was to be, for the next five months at least. A boarding-place had been provided for her by the care of Mr. Gregory, and she tried to find out something about it from Mr. Jones, but without much success. He could or would tell her nothing more than they were very nice people, and lived in one of the pleasantest places in Basswood. Upon farther questioning, she discovered that the family consisted of an elderly man and his wife, and one daughter, who was too old to go to school. In fact, it soon became obvious to her, that while Mr. Jones was delighted to give her descriptions of the situation, scenery, and manufactures of Basswoods, he was resolutely determined to say nothing about the people, and Olive could not help admiring his prudence and discretion, at the same time that she felt a little vexed at it.

At the last station, Mr. Jones informed her that they had only thirty miles father to go, and her eyes were soon abundantly occupied in studying the picturesque and beautiful valley through which they were passing. By and by, the train came to a full stop—then backed—then went on, and finally stopped again.

Olive looked out; there seemed nothing to stop for. They were in a deep, narrow valley, shut in by high mountains, and nothing like a settlement was visible.

Mr. Jones got up and went to the door, but he could see nothing to account for the delay, so he sat down again.

By and by the conductor came along, and, on being interrogated, informed them that they were behind time, and must wait for another train.

"How long?" inquired several gentlemen, anxiously.

"Perhaps five minutes—perhaps an hour. As soon as the up-train has passed, we shall be able to go on, but we must wait an hour for them; after that, we shall have a right to the road."

Various opinions now made themselves heard. Mr. Jones said that they should not get to their destination till late, but considered that even that was better than running any risk. The Californian thought the whole thing rather "slow," but was not disposed to grumble at any thing, and having made acquaintance with the boys opposite, began telling them bear-hunting and gold-digging stories, with infinite good-nature, and a vast amount of odd expressions and California slang. The Western ladies looked at him and the whole party, as though they had been their natural, born enemies, especially when the boys laughed, which, it must be confessed, they did somewhat uproariously.

Their husbands thought the conductor ought to go on at any rate, even at the imminent risk of being run over, which would be incomparably less of an evil than waiting an hour.

"Would you not like to go to the end, and look out, my dear?" said Mr. Jones to Olive. "It will be less fatiguing than sitting still, though there is not much to see."

Olive could not agree that there was very little to see, when she stepped out upon the platform. They were in a very narrow valley, between two high, rocky ridges, which almost deserved the name of mountains. There seemed hardly more than room for the road and the stream, which murmured and foamed along, as though hurrying to escape from such confined quarters. The sun was just dropping behind the western hills, which were very steep, and clothed with dark evergreens, made still more sombre by the deep shadows. While the eastern mountains, glowing with all the magnificent coloring of beech, maple, and graceful birch, with here and there a sumach burning like a living fire, was lighted by the whole blaze of sunset.

Mr. Jones smiled at Olive's exclamations of delight.

"You are an enthusiast about such things," he said. "I used to be myself when I was young, but I have had it a good deal driven out of me, I am sorry to say. But I am glad you are fond of mountains, for you will see enough of them. I love them like old friends, for I was born among them."

Olive found the hour pass very pleasantly in watching the changes of light and shade on the hill-tops and in the valley, and in listening to her companion's reminiscences of the early settlement of the country. She felt almost sorry when the train went on again, and she began to feel that every moment brought her nearer to her journey's end.

At last came the long whistle which announced that the station was in sight. The people who were going to stop began to gather up their shawls and bags, and to look out their checks. And those who were going on felicitated themselves with the idea of a hot supper.

She soon found herself in a carriage with her kind companion, who insisted on going with her to the house, and introducing her to her host and hostess. Olive was very thankful: she was vexed to find herself trembling and agitated, when she meant to be very calm and composed. The carriage stopped at the gate of a very pretty two-story brick house, a good deal shaded, which was all she could see by moonlight.

A light streamed out from the hall-door, and two or three figures appeared at it, showing that she was expected.

"Good-evening, Mrs. Felton," said Mr. Jones; "I have brought your new inmate, you see, and I hope you have some supper for her. I am sure she must be starving."

Mrs. Felton came forward, and shook hands kindly with Olive, introducing her to her husband at the same time—a ceremony from which that gentleman received but little benefit, as he was out at the gate, superintending the removal of the baggage. Mrs. Felton was a middle-aged, meek-looking woman, with mild hazel eyes, and a certain nervous, undecided expression.

"Supper—yes, certainly. So you have had no supper, but we waited so long, I am afraid every thing is quite spoiled. I guess I had better get something fresh. Ruth!"

"Pray do not take any trouble for me," said Olive, who did not feel very much like eating, being conscious of a certain hysterical feeling in her throat; "I am not hungry."

"But you must be hungry, because you have been travelling all day," insisted Mrs. Felton, argumentatively; "people are always hungry when they have been travelling."

And, having asked Mr. Jones to stay to supper, and telling her husband, who was still invisible, to take the trunks up-stairs, Mrs. Felton led the way into the dining-room—a very cheerful apartment, furnished with easy-looking, odd-shaped, rush-bottomed, and closely-wound chairs and sofas; a tall, old-fashioned mahogany clock, with a marvellously painted and gilded face, ticked in the corner; some curious old prints and paintings upon glass ornamented the walls; and a beautiful large white cat sat composedly on a chair at the corner of the supper-table, as though she had taken her usual place, and was waiting for the rest of the company.

"I kept the table standing because I thought you might not have had your supper, you see," pursued Mrs. Felton, in a mild, purring kind of voice. "There! Sit down in the rocking-chair, and let me take your bonnet. Your room is all ready for you, but perhaps you will not like it. I thought the front-chamber was the pleasantest, because you can see every one that passes, but Ruth liked the back one the best—Ruth!"

"Yes, mother," replied the individual so often called, in a cheerful voice, entering at the same time, with a waiter full of smoking dishes, "I only waited to fry two or three eggs, and get out the hot biscuits—I laid some by on purpose. How do you do, Miss McHenry?" she continued, without waiting for an introduction. "Tired enough, of course! Don't move," she continued, setting down her dishes; "I will push the table up to you." And she suited the action to the word, before Olive had time to remonstrate, and handed her a cup of fragrant tea, begging her to help herself to an egg and a piece of ham.

Olive had really believed that she was not hungry, but every thing was so very nice and inviting, that she felt her appetite return, and ate a hearty supper, to the evident delight of her hostess.

As soon as she had finished, Ruth asked her if she would not like to go to her room. "It is all ready, and I am sure you will be glad to be quiet," she said, as she lighted a candle in a queer little old-fashioned silver candlestick; "I will show you the way."

Every thing looked inviting in the room whither Olive was conducted. It was large and high, but full curtains and a warm-colored carpet gave it an air of comfort. An old-fashioned toilet and glass stood between the windows: an equally antiquated book-case filled up one recess of the chimney, and a commodious table and chair the other.

Ruth set down the candle, and sweeping a comprehensive glance around the room to see that all was right, bade Olive good-night, begging not to hurry herself in the morning, as the school did not begin till the next day, and she would have plenty of time for unpacking.

Olive certainly did not feel inclined to any extra exertion. She took out what she wanted for the night, and unpacked her Bible and prayer-book, and, despite all the varied excitements of the day, she was asleep before her head touched the pillow.

CHAPTER SIXTH.

OLIVE slept late the next morning, and when she awoke from a dream of home, she could hardly understand for a moment, where she was. It was some little time before she could arouse herself sufficiently to rise and put back the window-curtain. It was one of the softest mornings of early autumn. The window looked toward the east, across the not very wide valley in which the village lay, to a high, bold, rocky eminence, which bounded it on that side, while here and there she caught glimpses of the same sparkling and rapid stream, which they had seen so often the day before, now augmented to a considerable river. She could not see much of the village, though two or three large old-fashioned farmhouses were in sight around the edges of the valley.

She had finished dressing, and was standing at the open window enjoying the fresh air and the prospect, so different from any thing to which she had been accustomed, when a light tap was heard at the door and Ruth entered.

"I heard you stirring," she said, half-apologetically, "and came up to see if you wanted any help. We thought we would not wake you. I hope you feel rested?"

Ruth Felton had one of those faces which it is impossible to see without loving. She was far from handsome, being small and thin, with rather a sallow complexion, and no special pretensions to elegance or grace, but whenever she came into a room she seemed to bring sunshine with her. There was something in her expression so cheerful and bright, so thoroughly good and withal so earnest and full of helpfulness, that every one with whom she came in contact felt influence, and owned its power. She possessed moreover that not exceedingly common gift, a remarkably sweet voice; truly, an excellent thing in woman. Ruth was not young, and there were various signs and tokens about her which seemed to show that she was verging towards an old maid. Many people wondered why she had never married, but when questioned upon the subject, she always laughed her bright, cheery laugh, and said she never had had time.

"School begins to-morrow," said Ruth, as they went down-stairs together, "and I suppose you may expect a call from Mr. Prendergrass to-day."

"Who is Mr. Prendergrass?" asked Olive.

"Why, the principal of the Academy; is it possible you have had so little curiosity as not to ask the name of your associate?"

"I believe I have heard it before," replied Olive, coloring a little, "but I have had so many things to think of."

"Yes, I dare say," said Ruth. "But you will soon learn all about the things and the people with whom you have to do. I suppose you are ready for your breakfast?" she added, as they entered the dining-room.

"Have you had breakfast?" asked Olive, seeing only a small round table set by the window.

"Oh! Yes, two hours ago. We breakfast at half-past six in summer, and at seven in winter. I am afraid our hours will be too early for you."

"Oh! No; I was accustomed to early hours at school, but aunt Merton has spoiled me a little, since I have been at home. What a beautiful puss!" she continued, as the white cat she had seen the night before roused herself from a comfortable nap, and came gravely forward to pay her respects.

"I hope you like cats," said Ruth; "Jenny is a great pet, and to say the truth, a little spoiled. She is the descendant of a cat that my brother brought home from Bombay, and my mother values her on that account. But if you find her troublesome, you must drive her away."

Olive had no great fear of finding the pretty creature troublesome, for she loved pets of every description, and had more than once incurred aunt Rebecca's displeasure, by patronizing stray kittens and forlorn puppies.

Jenny was very ready to be taken up, and they were having a fine game at play, when Ruth entered with the breakfast, followed by Mrs. Felton with a work-basket.

"Ruth," said the latter, in a tone of mild remonstrance, which somehow made Olive feel nervous, "you shouldn't let that cat trouble Miss McHenry."

"She does not trouble me," said Olive; "I am very fond of cats."

"You are very kind to say so," returned Mrs. Felton, with an expression of gentle incredulity, "but a great many people don't like them, and I never want any thing belonging to me to be troublesome or intrusive. I never want to be myself. For that reason I did not go up to your room this morning. I felt that you would come down when you got ready, but Ruth thought differently."

Mrs. Felton never thought, she only felt; and she had no opinions, but only feelings.

Olive glanced at Ruth, expecting to see some signs of annoyance, but none were visible. She busied herself in setting the table in order. And inviting Olive to seat herself at it, she placed herself at the coffee-urn—a curious, little old-fashioned institution of plated ware with a gilded ivory pine-apple upon the top—and said grace in a very grave, unaffected manner. After which, she proceeded to pour out the coffee, Mrs. Felton murmuring away all the time, partly, as it seemed, to herself and partly to her companions.

"I suppose you rested well, Miss McHenry? At least, I hope you did."

"Oh! Yes," replied Olive, smiling; "only I slept rather too long. I am quite rested this morning."