but by the morning of the third her face began to relax into its usual
smiles. She was, in truth, a very kind-hearted woman, and anxious to do
every thing in her power for her daughter and her nieces. But then she
wanted to do it exactly in her own way, and to have them mere passive
recipients of her favors. Any thing like contradiction, or having a
will of their own, annoyed her extremely. For this reason, Abby had
always been more her favorite than Olive; for Abby never contradicted
any body if she could help it. It was too much trouble. Even Charlotte
did not entirely satisfy her in this respect, for Charlotte was apt
to have an opinion of her own, and to maintain it stoutly, too. But
she had always intended to be just to Olive, though she did not
particularly like her.
We have said, that in a gentle, lady-like way, she was something of a
match-maker. It was her wish to introduce her into society, under the
best auspices, and if possible, to settle her in life advantageously.
That Olive should actually intend to renounce all these privileges,
and give herself up to the laborious life of a school-teacher, seemed
incredible, and at first her indignation knew no bounds.
But after calm reflection, she began to see certain alleviating
circumstances. She honestly regretted that the girl should be so
blinded to her own interests, but perhaps upon the whole it was just as
well. It would be much less trouble to bring out two young ladies than
three. Olive was very difficult to manage sometimes, and she had very
romantic ideas upon certain subjects. A year's experience of the real
hardships of life would probably do more towards bringing her to reason
than all the lectures in the world, and she would be ready to return
home and behave like a reasonable being, at least so far as could be
expected from her father's daughter.
So reasoned Mrs. Merton, and by such reasoning, aided by the natural
kindness of her heart, her wrath cooled apace. She gave Olive her
formal consent to the plan, accompanying the same with an hour's
lecture upon the folly of romantic ideas, and the absolute necessity
of laying them aside, if she meant to succeed in life, concluding
all with a kiss, and the injunction very kindly given, that she must
always consider her uncle's house as her home, and an assurance that
she would ever find it open to her, should she not find her occupation
of teaching as agreeable as she expected. Olive was very grateful for
the kindness, and took the lecture in excellent part, and so fair
weather was once more established throughout the family, greatly to the
delight of Mr. Merton, who never could endure any thing like a family
dissension.
CHAPTER THIRD.
OLIVE'S vacation passed away pleasantly and quickly; she felt that she
had never before spent one so agreeably.
Charlotte's jealousy seemed almost entirely subdued. She thoroughly
respected her cousin for her independence, and felt ashamed of the many
times she had taunted her with her unfortunate circumstances: moreover,
she began to feel the real value of Olive's society, and now that she
seemed likely to lose it, she felt a desire to make the most of what
remained.
Mr. Merton saw, with pleasure, that a warm friendship seemed, at last,
likely to grow up between his daughter and his favorite niece, and
encouraged it by every means in his power. Mrs. Merton, who never did
any thing by halves, exerted all her powers, which were by no means
small, to make the time pass pleasantly. Rides and drives, short
journeys and impromptu pic-nics, filled up the time pretty thoroughly.
And when Olive ventured to remonstrate a little, she received this
answer:
"You are going to begin a life of hard work, my dear. It is no more
than right that you should play while you can. And mind, Olive, I will
not have you spend your vacation in sewing. There will be time enough
for that when you are away from home."
Upon this kind pretext, aunt Rebecca took the whole charge of Olive's
clothes. And when she got ready to return to school, she found herself
furnished with an entirely new and very handsome wardrobe, sufficient
to last a long time. She remonstrated a little at being so far favored
above the other girls.
"Your case is very different from theirs, Olive. As I said before, you
are about entering upon a laborious life, and it is but fair that the
commencement should be made easy for you. Abby and Charlotte will have
plenty of time to play, and it would be no kindness to take their work
out of their hands. Abby, especially, needs to be taught to sew. It is
a knowledge which can not fail to be useful to her, however she may be
situated in life."
Olive was fain to acquiesce in this reasoning, though she thought
that Mrs. Merton would find she had taken upon herself more than she
imagined, in trying to make Abby work. She well remembered all the
entreaties and remonstrances, the coaxing and scolding that were
necessary at school, to make her mend her stockings or keep her dresses
in any decent order. She took an opportunity to say a few last words to
her sister upon the subject.
"Do pray, Abby dear, try to keep your clothes in nice order. You know
how much any slovenliness annoys aunt Rebecca, and I shall not be here
to pick up your things after you, and take up your stitches for you!"
"Never fear," said Abby, lightly; "I am going to turn over a new leaf
about that."
"But, Abby, you have turned over so many new leaves which did not seem
to have any thing on them after all—"
"That you are afraid the whole book will be found to contain nothing
but blank leaves, after all, eh, sister mine? But I shall arrive at the
reading by and by, and then see how interesting it will be!"
"Pray what do you mean to have your book turn out?" asked Olive.
"Perhaps it may turn out a song,
Perhaps turn out a sermon,—"
sang Abby, in her skylark tones. "Perhaps a solemn tragedy—who knows?"
Poor Abby! Who knows, indeed!
"And, Abby, one other thing. You know I shall not be here for you
to tell all your affairs to—and it takes a good while for a letter
to come and go. Now won't you confide in aunt Rebecca, and take her
advice about every thing? You know you are apt to be giddy sometimes,"
said Olive, with the air of one who makes an assertion which may seem
doubtful to the hearer.
"I did not know I was any thing else," laughed her sister. "I feel
complimented by that 'some times,' Olive."
"Well, then, if you know that you are giddy, won't you confide in aunt
Rebecca?"
"Yes, of course, if I can think of any thing to confide. But you had
better say uncle Merton. I could go to him with a story a great deal
easier than I could to aunt Rebecca, for all people generally consider
him so solemn and grave. I wonder why it is?"
"Because he spoils you, and never lectures you for your good, you
little goose."
"Well, I don't like to be lectured for my good," with a little toss of
her head, which set her golden curls dancing, so that they seemed to
emit a light of their own. "It never does me any good, and makes me
feel more like being cross than any thing else in the world. I don't
mean you, of course," she added, fearful that she might seem unkind;
"you never do lecture, you only talk."
"Then, if I only talk, will you mind what I say?"
"Yes, of course, if I can."
"And you will write to me very often, won't you, Abby? You know I shall
be very lonely without you or Charlotte—"
"Without Charlotte, especially," said Abby, parenthetically.
"I like Charlotte better than I ever did before," said Olive. "But it
is no trouble for you to write letters, and you will have so much to
say. You must tell me all about your parties and going out, and all the
new acquaintances you make. I wish you would keep a journal, and send
it to me every week."
"Keep a journal, indeed! I would about as soon undertake to keep my
uncle's books. I never expect to have perseverance enough to keep a
journal."
"Perhaps it would be a good time to acquire that rather convenient
quality," suggested Olive.
"Oh! No, I can not engage to keep a journal, but I will write as often
as you wish to hear from me. Any thing else, my dear little Mentor?"
"Nothing, only—you will be going out a good deal, dear Abby, and
perhaps you will meet temptations. Pray don't let any thing make
you forget what we used to learn at our mother's knee when we were
children."
"I shall never forget that Olive," said Abby, her bright face assuming
the most serious expression of which it was capable. "It seems as
though I remembered that more distinctly than any thing else about her.
And for all you think I am so giddy, (and I know I am,) you never knew
me forget to say my prayers night and morning."
"That is true," Olive admitted.
"Or laugh or whisper in church, did you?"
"I hope not. To say nothing of any higher motive, I do not believe you
would ever do any thing so entirely vulgar and ill-bred."
"Well, Olive, I can tell you that I saw our very superfine aunt Dimsden
and our very superfiner sister Laura, talking to the very super-finest
Miss Eaton in service-time, at St. David's, last Sunday evening, and I
know Dr. Eastman saw them, too, for he looked straight at them."
Olive laughed. "Do you know what aunt Rebecca thinks of aunt Dimsden,
Abby?"
"Oh! Yes, I know. They are a pair of affectionate sisters-in-law,
are they not? But I thought Laura ought to know better. I really was
mortified for her."
"I am glad I did not see her," said Olive. "I don't think Laura has
improved at all the last year, Abby."
"How can she improve, living as she does? Aunt Dimsden thinks of
nothing but having a place in society, and making as much parade as she
can, upon as small means. I believe her Bible reads, 'Whether ye eat,
or drink, or whatever ye do, do all for a social position.'"
Olive shook her head reprovingly, but she could not help admitting the
truth of what Abby said. "I am sure you will admit, Abby, that it might
have been better for Laura, if she had always had the prospect before
her of being obliged to earn her own living. It really makes me unhappy
to think what sort of a woman she is likely to become."
"There is no use in making yourself unhappy about it, Olive; Laura
likes it."
"So much the worse for her."
"And aunt Dimsden pretends to be a religious woman too," said Abby,
thoughtfully. "How is it, Olive, that she says the same prayers and
creed that we do, and that Mrs. Eastman and Mrs. Addiston do, and yet
makes dress and company and outside show her chief objects?"
"I don't know," answered Olive, with a deep sigh; "I don't want to
judge her, but I think such people do a great deal more mischief than
they think for."
"Aunt Rebecca does not seem to bestow nearly as much thought and pains
upon her dress and so on," continued Abby, "and yet she is always
well-dressed, and appears like a lady, while Aunt Dimsden—" Abby paused.
"Aunt Rebecca would not do any thing mean for the sake of what aunt
Dimsden calls society," said Olive. "She would never run after or court
any one she did not respect, or slight any one who had been kind to
her, however vulgar the person might be."
"She has no need of doing so," replied Abby. "She has plenty of such
society as she likes without it. Sometimes I wonder, Olive, how such
people as Miss Eaton, and—and others would act if there came up another
persecution for the sake of Christianity."
"There is no telling," said Olive; "they might be as firm and resolute
in dying for their faith as any one at all. They might realize then
that faith is a real true thing, and not a fashion."
"I think if Miss Eaton should be burned alive, aunt Dimsden and Laura
would go to the stake without flinching," said Abby, laughing.
"Poor Laura!" sighed Olive.
"Well, I know; I feel very sorry about her, too, and I wish things were
different, but I can not make them so, and what is the use of fretting?
I should rather be in your place than hers. But I don't want to be in
either so long as I can stay as I am."
And so the conversation ended, not very satisfactorily in all points
to Olive, but more so, upon the whole, than such conversations between
herself and her sister usually did. About Laura she felt less anxiety
and no responsibility. They had been very much separated from early
childhood, Laura having been adopted by Mrs. Dimsden immediately after
her father's death—and their dispositions were entirely different.
Laura, with all her apparent amiability, was too selfish to be very
lovable.
They had been educated upon very different plans, and their whole
system of ideas and theory of life were entirely dissimilar. Mrs.
Merton thought Mrs. Dimsden a very vulgar woman: Mrs. Dimsden thought
Mrs. Merton proud, set up, and disagreeable, at the same time that she
courted her society, and made the most in all her conversation of the
small degree of intimacy existed between them. Mrs. Dimsden talked of
dear Rebecca and my sister Rebecca, and quoted her sayings and doings
upon all occasions; while Mrs. Merton always spoke with great respect
of Mrs. Dimsden, and treated her with as much distance as she could
reconcile it to her conscience to assume towards the widow of her
husband's half-brother. Mrs. Merton, in fact, though a very proud, and
somewhat worldly woman, was neither mean nor vulgar, while Mrs. Dimsden
was both.
Mrs. Merton, though she liked to see her young friends married and
settled in life, and thought any romantic ideas of love and spiritual
affinity very much out of place, would yet have scorned the idea of
going out of her way to attract or entice gentlemen. While Mrs. Dimsden
avowedly considered getting married the principal object in the life
of woman—the very thing for which she was made, and failing which, she
must necessarily miss the great object of existence. In this belief
she devoted all her energies to marrying off whatever young lady might
be under her charge for the time being. People laughed at her, but she
carried her point; and having provided for her younger sisters and
cousins, she was intent upon making a match for Laura—a match which
should exceed all others in brilliancy and cause her sister-in-law to
hide her diminished head.
Laura, on her part, fell in very well with all her aunt's schemes on
her behalf. She was quite as beautiful as Abby, and almost as devoid
of serious thought. But there was this difference, that while Abby had
a kind and warm heart, and for the sake of any one she loved would
sacrifice almost any thing, Laura, under a veil of amiable manners,
was very selfish, and seldom bestowed a thought upon any one's peace
or comfort except her own. She did not care for books except just so
far as they could minister gracefully to her love of display, and she
valued music and drawing upon the same grounds. In fact, she lived only
upon the outside, and if she had a heart, she had never found it out,
and was not very likely to do so under the tuition of aunt Dimsden. She
liked Olive as well as she could like any body; she envied Abby her
musical talent, and thought her much more reasonable than Olive. This
last plan especially, she looked upon as preposterous to a degree.
"But Olive," she remarked sweetly, "had always been a strange,
unaccountable creature, and there was no use in distressing one's self
about her freaks."
Aunt Dimsden said she had given that up long ago, but at the same time
she gave Olive some friendly advice as to marrying a minister or a
professional man—a thing, she observed, which teachers are very apt to
do.
Olive's last term in school was a very pleasant one. Her friend, Helen
Monteith, was still there, and some others of her particular set; and
there were several of the new girls whom she liked very much. She
was very busy, for besides her regular business, she spent a good
deal of time in learning what Mrs. Granger called the theory and
practice of teaching, by hearing classes, assisting the younger girls
in their lessons, and helping Miss Lincoln to correct compositions
and exercises. She was surprised to find what an amount of labor was
required in that department alone, and how little, after all this
labor, certain of the girls contrived to learn.
"It reminds me," she said, upon one occasion, "of an old proverb I have
heard many repeat,—That one man may lead a horse to water, but twenty
men can not make him drink."
"And yet the poor teacher is blamed for not making him drink," replied
Miss Lincoln.
"Yes. Many people can never be brought to acknowledge that their own
children and their own management at home is in fault. What is one to
do in that case?"
"Have patience," said the teacher, sighing: "I know of nothing else.
But I think one great reason why scholars, especially girls, learn so
little, is from the want of any adequate motive."
"One would think the mere pleasure of knowing ought to be enough," said
Olive.
"Not with children. They have not knowledge enough to appreciate the
value of more."
"But most of the girls here are not children, Miss Lincoln. There are
very few under fourteen years old."
"True," replied Miss Lincoln, "but think how ignorant many of them are
when they come, and when they go away, for that matter."
"What motive would you propose, then?"
"Why, they are several. One is, as you say, the desire of knowledge,
but every one can not appreciate that. The next best is the desire of
usefulness, and the best of all is the religious motive, which includes
the others; 'Whether ye eat or drink, or whatever ye do, do all to the
glory of God.'"
"But I think, Miss Lincoln, it is much easier to acquire knowledge with
the idea of turning it to some account, besides the mere enjoyment of
it one's self," said Olive; "I am sure I have studied much better this
term than ever I did before. I never go over a single lesson without
thinking, 'Now, how should I explain this, if I were called upon to
teach it?' And I find my ideas much clearer for the process."
"Yes, you learn to analyze, and to see clearly what you know, and what
you do not know."
"I have heard teachers say that it was very difficult to study while
engaged in school," remarked Olive.
"It is so," admitted Miss Lincoln; with a sigh. "Their powers of mind
and body are generally so over-taxed in their school duties that they
are glad to rest themselves as thoroughly as possible when they are out
of the school-room. Some are stronger than others, and some schools are
better supplied with assistants, but as a rule, teachers, especially in
the smaller schools, are very much over-taxed."
Olive sighed. "Not a very pleasant prospect for me," she said.
"It is part of the price one must be content to pay for independence
and usefulness," replied Miss Lincoln. "But some teachers are much
more favorably situated than others in that respect. In this house,
for instance, we should be very ungrateful if we complained. The only
over-worked person in the establishment is Mrs. Granger."
"But, Miss Lincoln, think how many men have studied law and medicine,
and even divinity, while teaching."
"Oh! Yes, I know it. There are many honorable exceptions, even
among women. I studied chemistry myself, while I was teaching in a
district-school."
Olive had anticipated one thing, in which she was pleasantly
disappointed. She had supposed a good many of the girls would look
down upon her, when they learned that she was to be dependent upon
her own resources. But in this she found herself mistaken. Girls in a
large school are apt to be very thorough democrats, and if there is an
aristocracy, it is almost always one of talent and personal influence.
Of this aristocracy, Olive had always been a prominent member, and
she did not find her position at all changed. Her equals treated her
with the same consideration to which she had always been accustomed,
and with the younger girls, her influence was increased rather than
diminished, from the fact that she sometimes heard their lessons, or
assisted them in their exercises.
Still there were some few who took it upon them to pity her extremely,
and among the number were Miss Lucretia Monroe, and her friend, Miss
Jane Douglass, who had long enjoyed the proud preëminence of being
the greatest dunces in the school. Either of these young ladies could
miss question after question at a public examination with the greatest
coolness; they cared nothing for prizes, to which, indeed, they never
aspired. And they never considered themselves disgraced by being found
out in any scrape whatever. Of course, they were not held in any high
estimation by the aristocracy aforesaid. But, secure in the depths
of their ignorance, they did not feel themselves in the slightest
degree disturbed, by the not always concealed contempt of Misses Grey,
Monteith, McHenry, and company.
"Poor Olive!" said Lucretia one day to Maria Grey, with a sweet air of
amiability. "How much I pity her!"
"Do you?" said Maria, carelessly. "I dare say she would be very much
obliged to you if she knew it."
"Yes, because she has got to teach for a living," continued Miss
Monroe, elegantly. "I don't know what I should do if I were so reduced."
"I don't know what you would, I am sure," returned Maria. "You would
be in a bad case certainly; I can not think of any thing you could
possibly teach."
"You need not snap one up so, Maria. I do not expect to be a
school-ma'am myself, and my papa never intended I should be educated
for one. But any way, I am sorry for Olive, and I shall make a point of
noticing her just as much as ever."
"'You' notice Olive McHenry!" exclaimed Maria Grey. "Upon my word,
Miss Monroe, you are sublime in the extreme of your impertinence. Why,
child, it is an honor to you, that she sometimes condescends to help
you out of a scrape, when every one else is tired of you. The idea of
your presuming to pity Olive McHenry, because she prefers independence
gained by her own exertions, to idleness and uselessness! You would do
much better if you would exert yourself to imitate her a little."
Nevertheless, Miss Monroe persisted in her charitable intentions, and
proceeded to bestow a good deal of her society upon Olive, who could
not help wondering what in the world had come over her.
She asked Maria one day. "She comes to my room, till I am tempted
sometimes to tell her that I would rather have it to myself, and she
seems to miss no opportunity of talking with me."
"Don't you understand it?" replied Maria, laughing. "She is pitying you
for your hard fate. She told me that she was sorry for you, and meant
to notice you as much as she could."
"I wish she would show her pity in some other way than by bestowing her
society upon me," said Olive. "It becomes rather fatiguing, besides
taking up a good deal of valuable time, which I don't very well know
how to spare."
"Why don't you tell her so?"
"Oh! I don't want to make an enemy of the girl. Dunce as she is, it is
better to have her good-will than her ill-will, and perhaps I may do
her some good."
"The idea of doing good to Lucretia Monroe! You would be a good person
to head a crusade, Olive; nothing short of a physical impossibility
would stop you. But there is no harm in trying."
Indeed, Olive made a good many efforts to induce Lucretia to leave
off abstracting cakes and cheese from the table, and pickles from the
storeroom, and to give a little more time to her books. In which she
succeeded so far that Miss Monroe actually presented herself at the
class with a perfect lesson thrice in one week, to the amazement of all
who heard her, and passed three days without breaking a single rule.
We regret to be obliged to add, that the improvement was not permanent:
Miss Monroe relapsed into her old habits in the course of a week or
two, and at the end of the year, left school as great a dunce as she
entered it. Her father, a sensible, plain man, who had never received
any thing but a district-school education, felt very much disappointed
at the small improvement made by his daughter, and was much disposed to
lay the blame upon her own idleness and want of principle.
But his wife informed him that it was solely the fault of the teachers,
who had not made study interesting to Lucretia. Miss Monroe had been
allowed to study what she liked, and to leave off as soon as she came
to a hard place. In this way, she had acquired a little music, a little
drawing, and less French; and she had learned to spell correctly, and
to express herself in tolerable English, because no scholar who had
been at Mrs. Granger's two years could very well help it. But history,
natural science, and general literature, had passed through her mind
like water through a sieve, leaving her no wiser.