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."
"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."