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."
"You are a good sleeper, I suppose. I am not," said the lady, as she
threaded her needle. "I never get any sleep till towards morning, and
yet it is very singular how Mr. Felton will always insist that I sleep
all night. I am sure I don't know how he can tell, for he never wakes
up from the time he goes to bed till he gets up again. I suppose you
have never been away from home before?"
"Oh! Yes; I have been at school a great deal," replied Olive, "though
to be sure, I have always had my sister and cousin with me." And she
sighed for the tenth time as she thought of poor Abby.
"No doubt you will miss them very much," continued Mrs. Felton. "It
is a sad thing to have none of one's relations near one. I have never
seen any of mine since I was married. Indeed, I haven't any nearer than
second cousins, for my mother was an only child and my father had but
one brother, who died at sea. I fear you will be very lonely here after
what you have been accustomed to."
"Come, mother," said Ruth, cheerfully, "you must not go to making Miss
McHenry home-sick. I think she will find our village a very pleasant
one, and we have plenty of agreeable people, you know. We must not
discourage her at the outset."
"I don't mean to discourage her, of course," returned the lady in an
injured tone. "I suppose she may like sympathy, though you don't."
Olive thought she did not either, if this was a specimen. To turn the
conversation, she asked hastily: "Is the Academy far from here?"
"Only a little way," replied Ruth; "you can see it from the front-door.
It is a very pleasant building, and well fitted up, though one of the
oldest in the place. It was built before the war."
"How large is the school?" asked Olive.
"There are usually about fifty in the girls' department, and twice as
many in the other. You will find them pleasant enough for the most
part, though there are a few black sheep, of course."
"I am sure poor Miss Brown had trouble enough," remarked Mrs. Felton.
"It was her own fault, mother," said Ruth. "She would go round, talking
about the girls out of school, and telling the whole village of every
little unpleasant circumstance. It is almost as unfortunate for a
teacher to gossip, as for a minister."
"Is Mr. Gregory in town now?" inquired Olive.
"He is," replied Ruth. "Do you know him?"
"He called upon me at Mrs. Granger's, with his wife," said Olive. "I
was very much pleased with him."
"Almost every body likes Mr. Gregory," remarked Ruth, as she put the
dishes together upon the tray.
"Why, yes, I suppose they do," said Mrs. Felton; "and I dare say he is
a good man. But I must say, he has very little feeling, and does not
understand my case at all. Would you believe it, Miss McHenry, when I
told him how much I suffered from low spirits and dolts and all sorts
of distressing feelings about myself, instead of sympathizing with me,
he told me he thought I did not take exercise enough, and advised me
to teach a class in Sunday-school. He said he did not think it was a
good thing for people to be always studying over their own feelings.
And when I went to see Mrs. Tower—she is his daughter—at the time her
child died, and was asking her all about little Henrietta's sickness
and death, and telling her of the loss of my own children, and saying
every thing I could think of, to show my sympathy—he as good as told me
to hold my tongue, and let her alone."
Olive did not wonder at it, but she said nothing in reply, and only
observed that Mrs. Gregory seemed a very pleasant person. Mrs.
Felton allowed that she was, but thought her very gay and frivolous
for a person of her age. She was clearly of the opinion that there
was "nothing so dainty sweet, as lovely melancholy," and no one was
approved by her who had the heartlessness to be gay in this world's
woes.
Olive began to feel that such a perpetual presence might become very
wearisome after a while, and she wondered how Ruth could preserve her
cheerfulness under it. But Ruth seemed to mind her mother's murmurs no
more than she did the purring of the cat. She again came up to Olive's
room to show her the shelves and drawers, of which there were a great
abundance, and then left her to herself till dinner-time.
Olive was not very long in unpacking and arranging her matters, though
she lingered a little over her books and drawing materials which were
nicely accommodated in the book-case. A small portrait of her mother,
copied by herself, from the large picture at Mr. Merton's, and one or
two favorite landscapes, found very good lights upon the walls. The
table held her work-box and the new desk very nicely.