Merton's mysterious packet, which she had quite forgotten. She opened
it, and found a very nice case, containing a handsome gold watch and
chain, exactly such a one as he had presented to Charlotte on her
birth-day, and two bright new twenty-dollar gold pieces, with a kind
note, which, as it was very characteristic of the gentleman, we subjoin.
"You will want a watch, my dear, by which to regulate your hours, and
I hope you will find this a good one. The gold pieces are to supply
you with any little conveniences, of which you may feel the need. With
regard to your course in your new home, I have but a few words of
advice to give you. Mind your own business—never gossip nor let others
gossip to you: do not be too set in your own way: have patience, but
not mock patience: and look to God in all trials and difficulties."
Such was Mr. Merton's note, over which Olive shed a few tears. "Oh! If
Abby would only be open with him," she thought, "how much misery it
would save us all."
She did not dare permit her thoughts to dwell too long upon the
subject, for she felt that she needed all her strength for what
was before her. So she bathed her eyes, dressed herself neatly and
becomingly, and had finished a letter to aunt Rebecca, and begun one to
Abby, before the dinner-bell rung.
At dinner, she saw the hitherto invisible Mr. Felton—a mild,
good-natured man, with a quiet, subdued manner. Olive thought his
wife's sympathy must have affected him. He was cordial, and entered
into conversation very readily, displaying considerable intelligence.
They had hardly risen from the table, when Mr. and Mrs. Gregory were
announced, and Olive entered the parlor to greet them, with a feeling
that they were old friends.
Mr. Gregory was all kindness and cordiality. As Olive looked at him,
she did not wonder at his not sympathizing very deeply in Mrs. Felton's
troubles. He looked like a man who had passed through the furnace of
affliction and come out unspoiled, but perhaps a little hardened by
the fire. Suffering was written in every line of his face, but it was
suffering past and gone.
Half an hour's conversation with him made Olive feel as though she had
found a valuable friend. There was that about him which irresistibly
attracted confidence, and she was almost startled, after he had gone,
to find how freely she had expressed herself. Mrs. Gregory was a
kindly, motherly woman, evidently proud of her husband, and enjoying
full faith in his infallibility.
After they had gone, Mr. Jones came and brought his two daughters,
pretty, shy girls of fourteen and sixteen, both evidently terribly
afraid of the new school-mistress, who, on her part, was almost equally
afraid of them, though she managed to conceal her trepidation. By some
well-directed questions, she presently had them at their ease and
talking quite fluently.
White Jenny opportunely walked into the room, suggesting a ready
subject for conversation, and Phebe had grown quite eloquent in
describing a Maltese cat that she had, and a terrier belonging to her
brother, which slept, ate, and hunted rats together, when the door
opened, and Ruth appeared, ushering in a tall gentleman, whom she
introduced to Olive as Mr. Prendergrass.
The girls were hushed in a moment, and seemed as if looking around
for some place of escape, while Olive rose in some confusion, and put
down white Jenny, to greet her associate in the care of the youth of
Basswoods.
Mr. Prendergrass was a tall man, very spare and upright. His iron-gray
hair was arranged with mathematical precision, his whiskers ditto. He
wore the neatest of black suits, and the neatest of black gloves, and
his linen was got up to an extent that was quite alarming. There was
a tradition current among the boys that he wore a tin shirt-bosom and
collar, and had once nearly cut off one of his ears with the latter.
Mr. Prendergrass bowed a solemn bow, and then another, in reply to
Olive's courtesy. Then he sat down, casting rather a nervous glance at
white Jenny, who was amusing herself with the tassels of Miss Jones'
parasol. "I am happy to see you, Miss McHenry," he said, in a tone as
formal as the rest of his appearance. "I hope you have recovered from
the fatigue of your journey?"
"Quite, thank you," said Olive, wishing she could think of something to
add to it.
"Did you find your journey agreeable?" inquired Mr. Prendergrass again,
precisely as though he was hearing a lesson.
"Very much so," replied Olive. "The route is very picturesque."
"Are not the mountains beautiful, Miss McHenry?" said Anna Jones,
timidly, and coloring as she spoke.
"Extremely so to me, especially as they were the first I had ever seen.
I longed to make sketches all the way."
"They are splendid in winter," said Anna, quite enthusiastically. "The
pines look so grand, covered with snow, and the long icicles hanging
from the rocks." She seemed quite frightened at having said so much,
and relapsed into silence and stiffness again.
Mr. Prendergrass looked as though he thought mountains were frivolous
things. Mr. Jones preserved a provoking taciturnity, and Olive was
wondering what she ought to do or say next, when the youngest Miss
Jones made a furtive poke with her parasol in the direction of the
principal, accompanied by the least possible mischievous glance of her
eye towards her sister.
Jenny sprang upon the parasol, and Mr. Prendergrass started.
"Do, do be pleased to dismiss that quadruped," he said, almost
imploringly, to Miss Phebe. "Be quiet, cat, I entreat," he continued,
as Jenny made another jump after the withdrawn parasol.
Olive caught up the offending animal, and carried her off, and Mr.
Prendergrass appeared much relieved. "I have a great dislike to the
feline race," he observed, reseating himself. "I believe it to be
constitutional. My father was nearly killed by one—a panther, I mean,"
he added, looking resentfully at the young ladies, who betrayed some
tendency to giggling.
Olive was much interested, and related several anecdotes of persons who
were made ill, or otherwise unpleasantly affected by the presence of
cats. Mr. Prendergrass unbent a little, and Olive was surprised to find
that he could talk very well when he was not thinking of himself.
At last Mr. Jones proposed that they should step over to the academy.
"I should like to have Miss McHenry's opinion of the arrangements in
the girls' room," said he. "She may have some improvements to suggest."
"The rooms are exactly as they were arranged by the Reverend Mr.
Snowden, sir!" said Mr. Prendergrass, solemnly.
"Very true, sir, but Miss McHenry may have ways of her own, you know."
Mr. Prendergrass looked as though the idea of Miss McHenry's having
ways of her own was not agreeable to him, but he only bowed solemnly.
And the whole party proceeded to the academy.
It was a pretty, neat building, and Olive was surprised to see it
looking so new and fresh, till she was informed that it had lately been
put in complete repair. The date of 1775 still remained in iron letters
upon each of the gables, and Mr. Jones pointed out, upon one of the
windows, two or three bullet-marks which had been made in a skirmish
with the Indians.
The upper school-room, appropriated to her use, was a very pleasant
apartment, neatly fitted up with movable desks and chairs, set in rows
across the room.
On being questioned, Olive admitted that she should prefer a different
disposition. She thought it better that they should be arranged around
the apartment, so that the girls might sit with their faces to the wall.
"Why, may I inquire, Miss McHenry, do you wish the 'young ladies' to
assume such a position?" said Mr. Prendergrass, somewhat severely, and
with an emphasis on the words "young ladies."
"I think that it is easier to overlook them, and there is less
temptation to whispering," replied Olive, feeling quite alarmed at her
own temerity. "But perhaps it is only because I am accustomed to such
an arrangement that I prefer it."
"Very probably, ma'am. Many persons can only like what they are
accustomed to."
"At the same time," interrupted Mr. Jones, "there is no reason whatever
why Miss McHenry should not have the seats arranged in her own way. I
will come over with the boys and make the alteration."
"My predecessor, the Rev. Mr. Snowden—" began Mr. Prendergrass.
"Was a very excellent man, sir, though rather too fond of the rod.
But he has been dead at least fifteen years, and the school has gone
on better without him than ever it did with him. Do you see any other
alterations to suggest, Miss McHenry?"
Mr. Prendergrass looked on with lowering brows, while Olive went over
the room, and seemed prepared to resign on the instant, if she should
presume to recommend any other innovations. But she saw nothing else to
change. She particularly admired the mat and commodious table and desk
which had been provided for the teachers. It fortunately happened that
this table and all its arrangements had been executed under the eye
of Mr. Prendergrass himself, and from plans of his own. His eyebrows
relaxed, and his manner grew more gracious, and by the time they had
made the rounds of the boys' room, and he had discovered that Olive was
a good Latin scholar, he was as amiable as possible.
At parting, Olive adverted to her own inexperience, and requested
permission to apply to him in any emergency. Mr. Prendergrass was
evidently highly flattered, and they parted on the best possible terms.
"He is a good creature, and really talented," said Mr. Jones, as they
walked towards home, the girls having dropped behind, to communicate
with some of their companions. "But you must hold your own with him.
He is rather apt to be overbearing, and thinks every change from the
customs of the Rev. Mr. Snowden must be wrong, of course."
"I am not sure, but that is better than thinking that every change
must be an improvement," remarked Olive. "I am afraid he was very much
offended about the desks."
"You need not distress yourself about that," replied her companion.
"By next week, he will imagine the improvement to be his own. With
all his faults, he is an excellent and conscientious man, and manages
the school well. His great trouble is his overweening vanity, and his
desire to have his own way. Every one laughs at him, but he seldom
finds it out. If he does, he never forgives the laughter. I do not
imagine you will have any trouble with him."
It was nearly tea-time when Olive returned home. She occupied her
evening in finishing her letter to Abby, wherein she exerted all her
eloquence to prevail upon her sister to take a right course. She sent
a civil message to Mr. Forester, feeling that she owed him a little
reparation for her plain speaking, and went to bed with an anxious yet
a hopeful heart.
The next morning she was up before the sun. Never had she prayed with
more fervor—never had the promises of Scripture been more full of
comfort and encouragement to her. Her fears and tremors of the day
before had almost vanished.
And when, after the school had been opened by prayers and singing in
the large hall, she took her place upon her own estrade in the young
ladies' room, it was with a degree of calmness and composure, that
surprised herself. As she glanced over the assembled ranks of girls,
all sitting demurely, with their hands before them, she thought her
materials not unpromising. About half of the fifty were daughters
of substantial people in the village, well-dressed pretty girls,
all lady-like and proper; the rest were daughters of farmers in the
neighboring country, who went home to help in the dairy and kitchen
in summer, and attended school in the winter, often working for their
board in some village family. As was to be expected, these were not all
very polished, or dressed in the best taste, but many of them looked
good and sensible.
The morning was spent in enrolling, examining, and classifying, looking
over books, and ascertaining former progress. Olive wondered whether
she should ever succeed in connecting their names with their faces,
so as not to make perpetual mistakes—when she should distinguish Miss
Julia Goodrich from Miss Sarah Goodrich, and both from the other Miss
Goodrich, who was not related to them.
The girls appeared to have been tolerably well taught, so far as
concerned book-learning, hitherto, but they were deficient in general
knowledge, and those school-manners which she had been accustomed,
under Mrs. Granger's vigilant eye, to consider as essential. They
lounged on their desks, and in recitation they kicked their feet, bit
their fingers, and played with their books. Olive saw a good many
little things which needed reformation, but she was aware that all
reform should be commenced with caution and gradually carried on.
In the afternoon, she organized a drawing-class, and this she found
rather a difficult matter. A number of the girls had drawn a little:
that is to say, they had copied a number of fancy castles and cottages,
with their walls strikingly at variance with the recognized principles
of gravitation, and shaded by trees, composed of a hard outline, filled
up with little "M"s and "N"s; others had gone so far as to use colored
chalks, and even to paint in oils. It had been a favorite maxim with
the former drawing-master that in order to paint, it was not at all
necessary to know how to draw, * and it may be imagined what sort of
productions came out of the hands of his pupils.
* A literal fact.
Of course, all these young ladies had no mean opinion of their own
abilities, and Olive foresaw that it would be a much more difficult
matter to teach them than though they had never touched a pencil. She
had herself been drilled through Chapman's inimitable method, with pen
and ink, by an indefatigable and really scientific teacher. And she
resolved, if possible, to pursue the same course with her own pupils,
though she foresaw that some of them were likely enough to be restive
under it. Accordingly, she sent Anna Jones to Mr. Prendergrass, for
two or three quires of foolscap, and a box of steel-pens. The girls
looked at each other with surprise, and the surprise increased, as she
proceeded to lay before each half a dozen' sheets of ruled paper, and
to distribute the pens.
Olive saw it, and smiled. "You will think my first lesson a simple one,
young ladies," she said. "And yet I venture to say that not more than
half of you will succeed at the first trial. It is only to draw a line
from one side of the paper to the other, following the ruled line—so."
She continued taking up a white chalk crayon, and drawing lines back
and forth, from one side of the blackboard to the other.
The girls were mostly quite confident of success when they began, and
there was a general laugh when upon examination not one of the attempts
was found perfect. Olive was glad to see them take it so good-naturedly.
"You see," said she, "that it is not quite so easy as you thought. I do
not know that I ever saw any one succeed at the first trial. It will
require a great deal of patience, and some faith, for you to follow out
this method, but I venture to promise, that you will never regret it."
"Can not we draw pictures at all?" asked Anna Jones.
"Certainly, my dear. I shall allow you to draw pictures every now and
then, that you may judge of your own progress."
The girls seemed very very well-satisfied, and addressed themselves
seriously to the work before them, with one exception. This was Miss
Julia Goodrich.
Olive had discovered in the course of the day that this young lady was
not wanting in self-conceit: she seemed to think that she knew enough
already, and that it was something of a condescension for her to attend
school at all. Olive foresaw that it would probably become necessary
to set her down, but she did not expect the occasion would come quite
so soon. Miss Julia was evidently offended at being put to such an
exercise, and after three or four unsuccessful trials, she threw down
her pen, and sat leaning on her elbow.
"Do not be discouraged, Miss Julia," said Olive kindly; "you will soon
acquire a better method of holding your pen, and it will be easier for
you."
"I am not discouraged," replied Miss Julia shortly.
"Then do not waste your time, as we have none too much to devote to
drawing."
"I am not going to work at these things," said the young lady, pushing
away the paper contemptuously. "I can draw well enough already, and
only came into the class for practice. I want something pretty to do."
Miss Julia's manner was sufficiently insolent, and her tone, if
possible, still more so. She had been the terror of two or three
teachers, and, in fact, had ruled matters very much her own way.
Olive's perfect good-breeding had awed her a little, but she was
determined not to give up the victory without a struggle.
"What can you draw?" asked Olive, turning over her portfolio.
"Any thing," returned Julia, triumphantly, taking this mildness as a
sign of yielding. She never was more mistaken in her life.
Olive left her portfolio open, and taking up a large white china
inkstand, and sticking two or three pens into it, she set it on a book
before her pupil, saying composedly, "Very well, draw that." And she
turned again to her portfolio.
There was a subdued titter among the girls, which she was not very
sorry to hear.
Julia looked annoyed and mortified. "Oh! I didn't mean 'that,'" she
said. "Nobody could do such things as that."
"You are mistaken," said Olive, gently; "any body who has made much
progress in drawing can do such things. But perhaps you would prefer
a picture." And she placed before her an exquisite drawing of Powers'
Proserpine which she had done from a cast while at school, and a
delicately-finished landscape in pen and ink.
Worse and worse. The titter grew into a giggle, which Olive checked
with a glance, and Julia's face grew redder and redder.
"I can't do them things," she said, sullenly.
"Those things," corrected Olive, still quite unruffled. "But I thought
you said you could draw any thing."
"There isn't a girl in this school that could draw either of those
pictures!" said Miss Goodrich, positively, but looking just ready to
cry, from anger and mortification. "I know there ain't!"
"There are a great many in other schools, I assure you, and I presume
most of those here would like to learn. But what can you do, then?"
Miss Goodrich produced from the depths of her portfolio a remarkable
production, purporting to be a landscape, but so utterly out of any
thing like perspective, as to be absolutely painful to the educated
eye. Trees a mile distant were represented of the same color, and with
the same minuteness, as those near at hand; while a lake, upon which
was a boat about half a mile long, descended towards the foreground
at an angle of forty-five degrees. This specimen of art she handed to
Olive, but by no means so triumphantly as she had at first anticipated:
she began to have a dawning perception that she had made herself very
ridiculous.
Olive looked at it, making commendable efforts to keep the corners
of her mouth in order. Then, taking a picture of about the same size
and style from her own portfolio, she gently placed them side by side
before her pupil.
Julia looked from one to the other: her face grew redder and redder,
and her eyes filled with tears. She took up Olive's sketch and examined
it. Then looked again at her own, and, at last quite overcome, she
burst into tears and sobbed aloud.
Olive now really pitied the girl.
"You had better go out into the air a little, Julia," she said, kindly;
"Laura, my dear, go with your sister."
The two left the room, and Olive, turning to the class, said, gravely:
"I trust to your honor, girls, never to mention this little affair
again, either to Julia or any one else. You will see the reason for
what I say, if you think how you would like to be treated yourselves
under such circumstances."
The girls looked at each other with some surprise, but with evident
approbation, and Olive saw that, so far as they were concerned, she had
gained a complete victory. But she felt rather anxious about the effect
upon Julia. She was, however, soon set at rest.
"What did Miss McHenry say after I went out?" Julia asked of Anna
Jones, in the short recess that Olive allowed them.
"She said we were not to say any thing about the matter, to you or any
one else, because we would not like it ourselves," replied her friend.
Julia hesitated a moment, and then said:
"Anna, do you think I made a fool of myself?"
"I think you did," said the straightforward Anna; "and if I were you,
I would tell Miss McHenry so, and ask her to overlook it. That will be
the best way to make every one forget it."
Julia meditated a moment, and then marched straight up to the
drawing-table, where Olive was standing, surrounded by all the older
girls.
"Miss McHenry," she said, resolutely, but with a slight tremor in her
voice. "Anna Jones says I made a fool of myself this afternoon—at
least, I asked her if I didn't, and she said yes, and I am come to ask
your pardon. I see that you are right, and that I don't know any thing
about drawing. If you will let me come into the class again, I will do
just what you want me to."
"I am very glad to hear you say so, my dear," said Olive, kissing her;
"it is always an excellent sign, when a girl is ready to acknowledge
that she has been in the wrong. I shall be very glad to teach you all I
know, and I have no doubt that you will soon learn to draw very well."
Thus ended Olive's first contest in school, wherein, by the exercise
of a great deal of forbearance, and a little ready wit, she put her
opponent entirely in the wrong, and drew the sympathies of the whole
school to herself. Julia was possessed of a great many good qualities,
but she had been badly managed, both at home and in school. She was
really very quick, and easily kept at the head of almost all her
classes, and she had been put forward to think herself a good deal
more talented than she was, by the injudicious praises of parents and
teachers. Her strong will had never happened to have a stronger one
opposed to it, and thus she had carried all before her. Olive foresaw a
good many mortifications in store for her, but she hoped they would all
end as well as the first had done.
School was dismissed at half-past four, and Olive walked a little way
down the street, hoping that the fresh air would cool her hot forehead,
and quiet its throbbing. But she soon became conscious that she was
being stared at from almost every house that she passed, and turned
back again. Ruth met her at the door.
"How tired you are," she said, kindly, "but you will soon get used to
it. How did you get on?"
"Very well, I believe," said Olive, wearily, "but really I hardly know."
"You had better go up-stairs, and lie down till tea-time," said Ruth
compassionately. "You will find it easier to-morrow, and still more so
the next day, till by and by, you will hardly mind it at all."
Olive was very glad of the encouragement, and still more of the rest.
She threw herself upon the lounge, and closed her eyes without thinking
of slumber, but by degrees her thoughts mingled themselves confusedly
together, and she slept soundly, till she was aroused by the tea-bell,
and rose feeling quite herself again.
Mrs. Felton had prepared herself to sympathize with Olive's trials, and
seemed quite provoked to think she had not had any. Mr. Felton inquired
whether she had found the school pleasant, and on being answered in the
affirmative, mildly remarked that some people found things agreeable,
and others made them so, after which he finished his supper without
another word, and then betook himself to his newspaper.
"There has been a piano sent here for you to-day," said Ruth as they
adjourned to the parlor.
"A piano! From whom?" asked Olive, very much surprised.
"Mr. Gregory sent it," replied Ruth. "It is one that Augusta Tower had
before she was married. Mr. Tower bought a much finer one for her, and
when she went home to live, she took it with her. So as one was enough
in the house, and you had none, they thought you might as well use
this."
It was a plain but handsome instrument of good tone, and perfectly in
tune. Olive was delighted. She was fond of music, and played very well,
though she had not Abby's splendid talents, and she had sighed more
than once over the prospect of being without a piano of her own.