really annoyed, especially as their neighbor, and Lucretia's old friend
and playmate, Miss Thorn, who had taken lessons of a professor in the
place, had been able to decorate her mother's back-parlor with a great
number of showy drawings in colored chalks, after only a quarter's
instruction. To be sure, Miss Thorn never could do any thing after she
left off taking lessons. And when she attempted, at home, and without
assistance, to copy a portrait of her father, no one could have told
whether the object produced was intended for male or female. But the
pictures done under the eye of Professor B. were much more brilliant
than the portfolio of pen and ink studies and crayon drawings, which
was all that Lucretia had to show; and, while being entirely her own
workmanship, certainly displayed less skill than Miss Thorn's, which
had all been "touched up" by the accommodating professor.
For many weeks, Abby's letters came regularly, and were very
interesting, giving full and most graphic accounts of the various
parties, concerts, etc., which she attended under the chaperonage of
aunt Rebecca. And many a laugh did Olive and her friends have over her
descriptions and pen and ink sketches of the people she met in company,
and at her aunt's house.
Charlotte wrote sometimes, but not very often. She did not seem to
enjoy going into the world as much as her cousin, and said she often
wished herself back at Mrs. Granger's. She spoke frequently of the
attentions Abby received, and the admiration excited by her musical
talents.
After a time, Abby's letters grew shorter, and less frequent. She
did not seem to be quite as contented, and spoke rather pettishly of
the constant watchfulness of her aunt, who, she said, treated her as
though she were a baby. At one time, she seemed to be the happiest
person possible, and perhaps her next letter would be a commentary
upon the Arabic song quoted by Dumas—"The earth is vanity, and all in
it is misery." Such extremes had never been common with Abby, whose
cheerfulness was usually a steady stream, subject neither to drought
nor freshet.
Olive became quite uneasy, and began to long for the time to come when
she should be at home again. One thing, however, comforted her. Mrs.
Merton was not a very great letter writer, but she wrote to Olive three
or four times in the course of the term, and in neither of her letters
did she express any disapprobation of Abby, nor did she seem aware of
any change in her spirits or temper. This was quite a consolation, for
aunt Rebecca was tolerably clear-sighted, and Olive thought if any
thing had been wrong in Abby's conduct, she would have been pretty apt
to speak of it.
Still, she was very glad when the time came for her to go home. An
excellent situation had been procured for her by the kindness of
Mrs. Granger, whose good offices to her pupils extended far beyond
their school-days. She was to take charge of the female department
of a school in Pennsylvania, which had long maintained an excellent
reputation. The salary was to be five hundred dollars, and as much more
as she chose to make by music and drawing lessons. She was to have an
assistant, if she wished it, and the entire control of matters in her
own department rested with her.
At first, Olive shrunk from assuming so much responsibility, and
almost wanted to decline, but Mrs. Granger was very anxious that she
should secure the place, and her uncle and aunt, to whom the plan was
communicated, approved it highly: so she was fain to accept, though
with a good many misgivings. Once decided, however, the prospect seemed
to brighten; she began to look upon Basswoods as her future home, and
built some castles in the air (even the most practical people erect
such edifices sometimes) upon the little round dot which represented
that place upon the map of Pennsylvania.
Olive felt very sadly at leaving school for the last time. She had been
there so long, that it seemed more like home to her than her uncle's
house. She had never experienced any thing but kindness from Mrs.
Granger, or any of her subordinates. With her pleasant little room in
the third story were associated all the great experiences of her young
life, since her mother's death. Here she had taken her first peep into
the boundless wealth of foreign literature, written her first verses,
and sketched her first cottage. Here, too, she had experienced her
first deep religious feelings, and here she had found that pearl of
great price, which is not far from every one of us, though we pass it
by again and again, without seeing it.
Moreover, Olive had many warm, and some deeply-attached friends,
among the school-girls. It is very much the fashion to sneer at
school-girl attachments, and the author has heard a popular lecturer
declare that there never had existed, and never could exist, any such
thing as female friendship. Possibly, the gentleman was not very well
read in Scripture history, for he might have remembered the story of
Ruth and Naomi. We have known intimacies formed at school which have
continued through many and severe changes, and one case, where a close
correspondence was continued through thirty years, the parties meeting
only twice or thrice during the time.
There is often in the friendship of two cultivated and religious young
women a simplicity and truthfulness—a disinterested admiration of each
other's good qualities, and an unfeigned rejoicing in each other's good
fortune, which it is pleasant to look upon. As for the assertion that
women can not endure to hear each other praised, we leave such shallow
sneers to boys with their first tail-coats, and brainless young men,
who have nothing manly about them but a budding moustache.
CHAPTER FOURTH.
OLIVE arrived at home about seven in the evening, much wearied with
her journey, and very glad to find herself once more with her friend.
Abby seemed just as usual; she danced and clapped her hands, and danced
around her, as much like a child as ever. Still Olive could not help
fancying, as she looked at her, that there was a change—she could not
exactly tell how.
There was a shade of womanliness, and even care, upon her bright face,
which had never belonged there, and which Olive could not help feeling
sorry to see. She said to herself that Abby was getting on in life—it
was time for her to grow grave and womanly, perhaps. But she felt that
she would rather have her remain what she always had been—a happy and
careless child.
But Abby talked so fast, and Charlotte had so many questions to ask,
that she soon forgot her anxiety in giving and receiving information
about school-mates and teachers, friends and neighbors, in answering
aunt Rebecca's searching interrogatories about the place where she was
going, and in the enjoyment of that delightful feeling of home and
comfort which one always feels on returning after even a short absence.
Olive thought that Charlotte was rather pale and thin, and that she
seemed grave and somewhat subdued. But Charlotte laughed at the idea of
her being unwell, saying that she was only tired of going out, and she
was glad the visiting season had almost come to a close.
"That is very ungrateful of you, Charlotte," said Abby. "Is it not,
aunt Rebecca?"
"Why is it ungrateful?" asked Charlotte, rather sharply.
"Because you have received so much attention, and so many pretty
compliments. I'll tell you, Olive, what Major Trimble said—"
"Major Trimble is an old goose, and you are not much better for
troubling yourself to repeat his nonsense," interrupted Charlotte.
"Charlotte, Charlotte, for shame!" remonstrated Mrs. Merton. "How can
you speak so of Major Trimble? He is a most excellent and respectable
man."
"Mother, you laugh at him, yourself! Did you not have to go out of the
room when he talked about the comedies of Dante, the great Roman poet,
to Professor L.?"
"And engrossed all the conversation, so that Mr. L. could not say a
word, though every one in the room was anxious to hear him," pursued
Abby. "You know, aunt Rebecca, every one laughs at poor Major Trimble."
"Mr. Trimble is a very respectable man," repeated aunt Rebecca, "and it
is wrong and unladylike to call any one an old goose."
"Well, I will not call him any thing, if Abby will leave off quoting
him."
"I will not quote him if I can help it, Charlotte," said Abby,
laughing; "but it is a great temptation. You do look so magnificent
when you hear him mentioned."
"Come, girls," interposed Mrs. Merton, "you are keeping Olive up quite
too late, considering that she has been riding all day. To rest, to
rest, my children. You have eight weeks at least, of uninterrupted
conversation before you, and can well afford to spare a few hours. And
remember, Olive and Abby, no talking after you get to bed," she added,
in her kindly authoritative tone.
Olive was very glad to obey the command, for she was very tired and had
a bad headache.
She slept late the next morning, and breakfast was entirely over when
she appeared, Mrs. Merton kindly excusing her by saying that it must be
quite luxury for her to lie in bed for once. Mrs. Merton had no spite
in her disposition. She never would say that approved of Olive's plans,
and she heartily wished they had never entered her head. But now the
matter was settled and could not be helped, she was above making her
niece in any way uncomfortable on account of it.
The day was passed in unpacking and arranging, and in receiving
company; for aunt Dimsden and Laura came over in the morning, and Mrs.
Merton invited them to spend the day. Laura was even more affable
and graceful than usual, but she seemed more than ever taken up with
dress and company, and the admiration she had received. The same
Major Trimble, whom Charlotte and Abby ridiculed so unmercifully, was
apparently quite an oracle with her; and she indignantly repelled
the idea that he was tiresome, declaring that she hated people like
Professor L., who were always talking about such "grand things."
"What grand things?" asked Olive.
"Why Shakspeare and Dante, and—"
"Yes, Dante, the great Roman poet," interrupted Abby, but the joke was
lost upon Laura, who continued, quite jealous in the defense:
"I am sure he knows as much as William Forester, and you are never
weary of having him hanging about you, Abby."
"William Forester," exclaimed Abby, coloring: "William Forester's
little finger knows more than Major Trimble thinks he does."
"That is saying a great deal, Abby," said Charlotte, gravely.
"What nonsense, Abby! Mr. Forester is well enough, but he is nothing
remarkable, and he is as poor as poverty, besides being a coxcomb."
"I admire the elegance of your expressions, Miss Dimsden," said
Charlotte, sarcastically. "I think both gentlemen would be flattered by
what you say about them, if they knew it."
"You need not be so grand, Charlotte, you talk about people yourself."
"Not about young gentlemen," returned Charlotte.
"Well, now, isn't young Forester a coxcomb?" persisted Laura.
"No," said Abby, emphatically, "he is not a coxcomb, Laura, but a true
gentleman, in every sense of the term. You have no more right to call
him a coxcomb than he has to call you a coquette."
"Not quite so much, possibly," said Laura, significantly; "men are very
apt to call women coquettes, who refuse them, you know!"
"Do you mean to say, Laura McHenry, that you refused William Forester?"
asked Abby, with crimson cheeks and flashing eyes.
"In the first place, my name is not Laura McHenry, but Laura Dimsden,
my dear; and secondly, it does not concern you whether I refused him or
not. You know Mrs. Merton says there is nothing more unladylike than
for a woman to tell of a refusal."
"And she is right," interrupted Olive, "whether she tells it out and
out, or only implies it."
"And besides, Abby," continued Laura, disregarding the interruption,
"if you are so warm in his defense, people will really begin to believe
what they say about you."
"What do they say?" asked Abby, but Charlotte interposed:
"Do pray leave the gentlemen to themselves. I am sure we have heard
enough of them, and I want you to hear Olive and Abby play that duet
from Mendelssohn."
Laura muttered something about stupid, old-fashioned music, but she
was, in her heart, rather afraid of pushing matters to extremities with
her cousin; for though she herself excelled in light skirmishing, yet
in a regular engagement, Charlotte was sure to conquer.
Abby's hand trembled, and, she made more than one mistake, a thing very
unusual with her.
At every one Laura smiled significantly, and Charlotte looked as though
she would like to box Miss Dimsden's ears. They kept up a regular
snip-snap all day, and Olive was not sorry when the arrival of company
from out of town, called Mrs. Dimsden and her adopted daughter home
before tea. She could not help fearing that something was wrong with
Abby, and she longed to find out what it was, but there seemed to be no
opportunity. The parlor was full of company all the evening. They were
up quite late, and Abby did not seem inclined for conversation after
they retired to their own room.
The next evening, as the girls were busily engaged over some new books
in the garden-arbor, Olive suddenly felt Abby start. She looked up in
surprise, and saw a tall, handsome young gentleman approaching them.
Abby at first seemed inclined to go to meet him, but checked herself
and waiting till he came up, introduced him to her sister as Mr.
Forester.
He bowed politely, offered his hand to Charlotte, and seating himself
without farther ceremony, he took up one of the books, and entered into
conversation about it with graceful ease. He was unquestionably a very
handsome man, though there was a certain want of strength and firmness
about his mouth, which showed itself especially when he spoke, through
his well-trimmed and handsome beard.
Charlotte did not seem to like him very particularly, and they
disagreed rather sharply several times, Mr. Forester sustaining his
opinion politely and well, despite the keenness of his opponent's wit.
There was nothing to find fault with, in what he said, and yet Olive
noticed a lightness—a want of earnestness—which did not please her.
Abby seemed at first constrained and uncomfortable, but the feeling
wore off apparently, and she was soon talking and laughing more merrily
than Olive had yet heard her.
When they went into the house, singing and playing took the place of
conversation, and Mr. Forester joined a fine and cultivated voice to
those of the girls. It came out incidentally, that he drew and painted,
and he was evidently quite at home in foreign literature. Other
gentlemen coming in, he devoted himself exclusively to Abby.
Olive thought her uncle did not seem to look upon him with any
particular favor. When he had taken his departure, and the girls were
alone together, Abby, after sundry unfinished sentences, asked Olive
what she thought of Mr. Forester.
"Why, I hardly know," said Olive. "I should have to see more of him
before I could decide."
"But you must admit that he is very agreeable!"
"Oh! Yes, very pleasant, and well-bred, and all that, but—"
"But what?" asked Abby impatiently.
"I hardly know what. As I said, I do not know enough of him to form any
judgment about him."
"I don't believe he ever offered himself to Laura, at any rate," said
Abby after a pause, during which she had curled and uncurled her hair
several times.
"That is nothing if he did. It is no disgrace to a man to be refused."
"No, but—"
"But what?" asked Olive, in her turn.
"Nothing as regards him, but if you were engaged to a man, you would
not like to know that he had offered himself to any one else first."
"I do not think it would be pleasant, perhaps," said Olive, "but I do
not see why you should have called Laura so sharply to account for what
she said. To be sure it was not a very wise or lady-like speech, but
from the way you took it up, any one might think you were personally
interested in the matter. I would be more careful if I were you,
especially before Aunt Dimsden."
"There it is!" exclaimed Abby, petulantly. "Lectures, nothing but
lectures, from morning till night. I do wonder whether I am such a fool
as every one seems to believe me. If I am, I think it is a pity I could
not die at once and be out of the way."
"Abby!" exclaimed Olive, perfectly astonished. In all her experience,
she had never before such an outbreak from her sister.
"I thought when you came home, you would have a little patience with
me, and treat me kindly," continued Abby, beginning to cry. "It is bad
enough to be watched by Aunt Rebecca, and checked and interfered with
by Charlotte, without your joining in. I—" But Abby's voice became
quite lost in her hysterical sobs.
Olive tried her best to quiet her, and to persuade her to tell what was
the matter, but in vain.
For though her ill-humor seemed to dissolve with her tears, and she
embraced and kissed her sister warmly, she still wept, and at last
cried herself to sleep.
Next morning, the cloud seemed to have passed away, and Abby was as gay
and cheerful as ever, lavishing all sorts of caresses on her sister, as
though trying to make her forget the scene of the night before.
But Olive could not forget. It was so very different from Abby's usual
habits—so utterly foreign to any thing she had ever known of her—that
she was completely puzzled.
The next day was Sunday, and according to the inflexible rule of Mr.
Merton's household, they all went to church, both morning and evening.
Mr. Forester sat directly behind them at the latter service, and walked
home with them, or rather with Abby, for they lagged so far behind that
Aunt Rebecca twice stopped and waited for them to come up.
Monday evening, they were at a small party, together, and on Tuesday
he called again. Olive was beginning to like him better. She thought
him very modest and unaffected, and quite took herself to task for her
first prejudice against him. She improved an opportunity one day, when
they were alone together, to ask Charlotte about him.
"Who is he, and where did he come from? What are his antecedents, and
what does he do with himself?"
"He is Mr. William Forester, and he comes from H. His antecedents
are Mr. and Mrs. Jackson Forester who were old acquaintances of my
father's, and very nice people, I believe," was Charlotte's cunning
reply.
"Very satisfactory thus far," said Olive, smiling, "but you have not
answered the most important of all. What does he do with his time?"
"He amuses himself, and entertains other people."
"And is that all? I should think at his age, he ought to be doing
something more profitable."
"A good many people think so," said Charlotte, "and my father among
the number. I believe, to do the young man justice, he does pretend to
study law, but I do not know when he accomplishes it. He is always busy
with some picture or translation, or getting up an amateur concert,
or a military display, not to mention the hours he spends in dangling
after different young ladies—Abby, for instance."
"Has he been long attentive to Abby?" asked Olive, glad that her cousin
had introduced the subject.
"Why, yes, for three months perhaps. Before that, he was quite devoted
to Laura. You heard what she said about refusing him."
"Yes. I did not know what to think about it."
"It is like enough to be true. She would certainly refuse him if he
did offer himself, for she is bent upon marrying a rich man. William
has about five or six thousand of his own, so he is not what one would
call poor, but that is not enough to meet her views. I wish her would
not come here quite so much, for I do not think either father or mother
like him very well, and mother thinks it would be a disadvantage to
Abby to have any idle story set afloat."
"But you do not think," said Olive alarmed, "that there is any
thing—any engagement between them?"
"Oh! No!" replied Charlotte. "Abby is giddy enough sometimes, but I
can not think she would enter into any engagement without father's
knowledge and consent. I hope not, I am sure, for I fear he would never
forgive her. But if I may speak quite plainly, Olive?"
"Of course. That is just what I want."
"I am afraid Abby likes him."
"I have thought so myself sometimes," said Olive, after a moment's
painful thought, "but I can hardly believe it. She has always been so
perfectly open with me, and so ready to tell me every feeling that I
can not think she would conceal this," she concluded, thereby betraying
the very small amount of her knowledge of human nature.
"Perhaps I am mistaken: I hope I am," said Charlotte, kindly. "I am not
very good at observing and watching people."
"Do you think your mother notices Mr. Forester's attentions to Abby?"
asked Olive, after another pause.
"Sometimes I have thought she did," said Charlotte. "She never seems
very well pleased at his coming here. I know my father thinks him idle
and trifling, a character with which, you know, he has very little
patience. I hope Abby does not care for him, for I do not believe he
has any stability of character, and that is something which she, of all
people, needs in a husband."
"She is so young, too. I do hope she has no such idea."
"If you have any influence with her, Olive, pray persuade her to
be open with my father. You know nothing annoys him so much as any
concealment. But do not worry yourself; we may be entirely mistaken,
you know. It seems rather odd, does it not," she added, smiling, "that
we should be taking counsel together about her affairs? Do you remember
how we used to quarrel in school?"
"No, I have been forgetting it as fast as possible," replied Olive. "I
think the fault was, perhaps, as much mine as yours."
"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."