Vander Heydens have shown signs of relenting lately."
"And if they do, the Rusts will be sure to follow," said Ruth. "Anne
Rust would be certain to do whatever Mrs. Vander Heyden did."
Mrs. Tower promised to come and see Olive very soon, and Mr. Landon
expressed an intention of availing himself of her protection to pay his
respects, and so they separated.
"You were not at the society last night," said Olive to Mr.
Prendergrass, as they met in the hall next morning before school.
Mr. Prendergrass looked amazed at the very idea.
"No ma'am! I can not afford to spend my time so. Life is too precious
to be wasted in visiting such assemblies. Is it possible, Miss McHenry,
that you, with your cultivation and learning, can find enjoyment in
such scenes?"
"Do you think the effect of cultivation ought to be to make us avoid
intercourse with our fellow creatures, Mr. Prendergrass?"
"Really, ma'am, I can not say," replied the gentleman; "I do not know
that I ever thought of it in that light. I have always considered it a
waste of time to spend it in frivolous conversation and gayety."
"But gayety need not always be frivolous," said Olive, "and a little of
it is very refreshing after a day of hard labor; at least, I find it
so. Don't you think your health might be better if you allowed yourself
a little more relaxation?"
"I do not know. Perhaps it might. I am obliged to you for the
suggestion, Miss McHenry. I shall take it into consideration," he said,
with his formal bow.
Olive felt as though she had gained quite a victory.
It is not our intention to give a detailed account of Olive's progress
in school-teaching. Suffice it to say that she found her tasks growing
easier, and herself gaining upon the confidence of her scholars, day by
day. She had once or twice, a little trouble with Julia Goodrich, whose
habits of domineering over her sister and of thinking herself wiser
than any one else in the world were not to be overcome all at once.
But Julia was affectionate, truthful, and capable of thorough respect.
And after a little time, she found a pleasure in looking up to one
so decidedly her superior, as she was forced to confess Olive to be.
Little Sarah felt that the change in her sister was a very pleasant
one, and Julia began to be a great favorite with her companions.
Not so Melissa Tucker. That astute young lady, in calculating on
the fine scene which she proposed to get up at the society, had
quite forgotten that in so doing she was pointing herself out to her
companions as the very person who had been the tale-bearer. She had
been suspected before, and upon her entrance into the school-room the
next morning, she was greeted by a peal of laughter, and many allusions
more or less covert to her having carried her wares to an unprofitable
market, etc., which did not fail to enrage her to the highest degree.
At first she thought to gain sympathy by weeping, but being kindly but
peremptorily desired to stop crying and learn her lessons, she gave
that up, and took refuge in the most inveterate sullenness, which Olive
did not notice at all.
It was almost two weeks before she received a letter from Abby, though
Mrs. Merton and Charlotte had both written only a few days after her
departure. Abby's letter was rather short and constrained, and she made
no allusion to what Olive had urged upon her; only she mentioned that
her uncle had returned, and said that Mr. Forester was going to M., and
would be away for some time.
Mrs. Merton evidently had no suspicion of what was going on. She spoke
of Abby with much affection, and though she mentioned that the child
was somewhat low-spirited, she evidently ascribed it all to Olive's
departure.
"I had no idea," she wrote, "that Abby could feel any one thing so long
and so deeply."
Olive felt sick at heart when she thought of the time when her uncle
and aunt should discover how shamefully they had been deceived. In a
second letter written soon after the first, Charlotte said that Mr.
Forester had really gone to establish himself in M., and expressed her
pleasure thereat.
"He is forever coming here, and it annoys my father very much, for he
has not a good opinion of the young man, as you know very well. Abby,
poor child, really pines after you. I do not think she has slidden down
the banisters more than twice since you went away, and she hardly ever
sings about the house as she used to. I am trying to study Greek, and
by dint of stubborn perseverance, really make out very well. But after
all, it does not seem to satisfy me. I want some object more than the
mere acquisition of knowledge."
In another letter, some time after, she wrote:
"Abby has taken to corresponding violently with those Miss Jennings
from M. You will remember them. I never used to think she cared for
them, but she seems to find great comfort in their letters."
"The Miss Jennings of M.! Why, they left M. long ago," said Olive to
herself.
But upon a moment's reflection, the truth flashed upon her. It was
a plan contrived between Abby and William Forester to conceal their
correspondence. Deception upon deception! And she almost felt as though
she were participating in it by being in the secret. Again with all the
powers of her eloquence, she urged Abby to tell all, representing to
her the inevitable consequence of the course she was pursuing.
Abby's answer was short and decisive.
"It is too late now. I wish with all my heart that the matter had never
been carried so far—that is, the concealment, for of my engagement
I shall never repent. But now it is too late. William will not tell
uncle, and I dare not. I must abide the issue; and after all, I hope it
will turn out well. Do not fret about me, dear Olive; I am sure shall
be quite happy in the end. Enjoy yourself in your new path, and leave
me to mine."
What should she do? The more she thought, the more unable she was to
come to a decision.
Mrs. Felton, who was a keen observer of faces, remarked to Ruth that
Miss McHenry's letters did not seem to do her much good; for she always
looked sad after every one that she received. Ruth had observed the
same thing, and wondered at it, but she was possessed of too much
delicacy to say a word.
Between Olive, Ruth, and Augusta Tower there had grown up a very
earnest and thorough friendship, and Olive often wished for Helen
Monteith, between whom and the upright and downright Ruth, she often
noticed a resemblance.
Ruth was not at all accomplished, except that she had learned French
by herself, at odd times, as she said. But she had read and re-read
all the best English books in Mr. Gregory's library, and was almost
as familiar as himself with the writing of those great fathers of the
Church, whose voices find echoes in the hearts of all Christians, and
will find them to the end of time. She had studied a great deal of
history, too, and could give date and place to all the great events of
the world, a thing which Augusta meekly confessed her inability to do.
"I remember 1492," she was wont to say, "and 1649, and 1776, and I
remember 1689, but I never can tell what happened then." To which Ruth
was sure to reply, "The English Revolution, you goose."
Ruth had read a great deal of poetry too, but it was chiefly among
what are called the English classics. And many a lively discussion
did she have with Olive and Augusta concerning the merits of ancient
and modern English verse, wherein the "Morte d'Arthur" was arrayed
against "Alexander's Feast," and "In Memoriam" against "Lycidas,"
and even—frightful to relate—The "Drama of Exile" against "Paradise
Lost." They always came together, however, on Spenser—dear, religious,
chivalrous, pure-minded Spenser—and the beloved and quaint George
Herbert, dear to every earnest heart that ever found him out.
Mrs. Gregory sat by with her knitting or sewing, kindly smiling upon
the earnest disputants, and now and then putting in a plea in favor of
Cowper's "Task," Young's "Night Thoughts," and Thomson's "Seasons."
Augusta Tower was as different as possible from Ruth. In the first
place, her personal beauty was very remarkable, but of this she
appeared to have very little consciousness. She was very accomplished,
drawing beautifully, playing and singing as well as Abby herself,
and having a very general acquaintance with all sorts of books. She
loved music, and practised a great deal, at which Mrs. Felton wondered
greatly, thinking that a widow ought not to care for such things.
"You are very happy in loving music so well, I am sure, Mrs. Tower,"
she said, one evening, after Augusta and Olive had been playing a
brilliant duet together. "If I should lose my husband, I am certain I
should never care for any of the amusements of the world again. Indeed,
I don't now. I have renounced all such things."
It was difficult to see how Mrs. Felton could have renounced music,
inasmuch as she had never known one note from another. Augusta made no
reply to her, but she afterwards said to Olive: "Do you, too, think it
very strange that I should keep up my music?"
"No," replied Olive; "I am extremely glad you do."
"I never played very well till after I was married," she continued,
"but Mr. Tower was extremely fond of music, and to please him, I set
to work in earnest to make myself a good performer. It is from the
same feeling that I keep it up now. It 'was' hard, at first, but I
persevered, and I find my reward. Then, too, it gratifies my father,
and I often win him to an hour or two of the rest he so much needs, by
playing and singing to him."
But after all, the great and surpassing charm of Augusta's character
was her piety. It enveloped her like a golden halo, and every one who
approached her felt its influence. Not that she ever put forth any
claims to superior sanctity, for she felt none. But it was impossible
to talk to her for fifteen minutes without knowing that love to God
was the crowning motive of her life, and influenced all she said and
did. Those who were favored with an intimacy with her felt themselves
elevated and ennobled by the influence of it, and better prepared to
meet the storms and waves of this troublesome-world.
At a sick-bed, in the house of mourning, peace and consolation followed
her steps like attendant angels, and those who suffered and wept felt
the influence of her presence. In the Sunday-school, she was almost
worshipped by the class of girls that she taught, and the worst child
in the room was ashamed to be naughty under the gentle sorrow of her
eye. Augusta had never been gay, in the ordinary society acceptation of
the word. She felt that she could not be so, and keep wholly unsullied
the white robe of her discipleship; and even when exposed to great
temptations during her short married life, she had steadfastly adhered
to her resolution of avoiding dissipation, large parties, and late
hours. Happily for her, Mr. Tower was, in most things, like-minded with
herself. He was one of the excellent of the earth; and when he was
taken from her, after three short years, she was able to be thankful,
amid all her desolation, that she had loved such a man.
Ruth's piety, though perhaps as fervent, was of a different cast.
She had much more to contend with in herself, being naturally hasty
in temper and speech, and prone to dwell upon and magnify injuries
and griefs. Augusta's faith had been implanted and nourished in her
earliest years by the most religious and consistent of parents, and had
grown with her growth and strengthened with her strength, while Ruth's
had only arrived through the medium of bitter and aching sorrow.
Very, very hard was it for her to bring every thought into captivity
to the obedience of Christ—to rule rebellious feelings and bitter
murmurings, and to guard the hasty tongue—long and long before she
tasted, save at very rare intervals, the exceeding great joy of loving
God in all and before all, and trusting all things great and small, to
him. Thus her religion had a certain vein of sternness in it, which did
not at all belong to Augusta's; and this continued even after she had
found happiness—real happiness, as well as peace in believing. Though
kind and sympathizing in real sorrow, she had, in general, but little
patience with weak complaints and fretful murmurs, and oftentimes
it was hard for her to bear her mother's continual low spirits and
repinings, like a continual dropping in a very rainy day. Duty, with
Ruth, was all in all. I can because I ought, was her motto, and well
she carried it out.
She was not so universally admired as Augusta, but she had a great many
warm friends, especially since she had learned to rule her tongue.
She was invaluable as a member of the church, the society, and the
Sunday-school, and it was her own fault if she was not married. Certain
it is that more than one farm, besides a flourishing law business,
had been laid at her feet, but she rejected them all—some kindly,
some sharply, according to the degree of assurance manifested by the
profferers, and continued to live on quietly with her mother.
With two such friends, Olive might have been very happy, if she had
had no outside disturbing cause. She liked the place and the people,
who, on their part, were all very kind to her, calling upon her, and
inviting her to more tea-drinkings and parties than she knew what
to do with. Late hours, happily, were not the fashion in Basswoods,
and though some of these reunions were rather stiff, others were
pleasant enough to make up. For Mrs. Dennison and Mrs. Jones she formed
a warm attachment. They were not very cultivated women, but they
were truthful, warm-hearted, and Christian, and besides, they liked
her. Mrs. Tucker was not to be brought round. She continued sullen
and distant, but luckily, she and her amiable niece had but little
influence. Mr. Prendergrass, distant and grim at first, had evidently
been won over. He lent her his books, of which he had a choice
collection, he came to see her oftener than she cared to have him, and
always seemed perfectly happy while listening to her playing. Nay, he
astonished the small world of Basswoods by making his appearance at
sewing society, and though he did nothing the whole time but stand
bolt upright in a corner, he professed to have passed a very pleasant
evening.
Mrs. Felton's mind was very much exercised to know whether the Vander
Heydens would come to call on Miss McHenry, and opined that it would
be downright shameful if they did not. Miss McHenry cared very little
indeed about the matter. She had been upon terms of intimacy with a
great deal grander people than the Vander Heydens, and she did not
think they looked particularly agreeable as she had seen them in
church. They came, however, and Mrs. Felton's heart was set at rest.
Olive thought Miss Vander Heyden a pretty, rather affected girl, and
her mother a nice sort of person. But she could not imagine upon what
they founded their claims to extra gentility, till she found that they
prided themselves upon the fact of their family's having lived in the
same place since the old French war. They invited her to tea to meet
Mr. and Mrs. Gregory, and she called once afterwards, and then the
intercourse ended. She sometimes heard of them from Mr. Landon, whom
she saw frequently, and who was distantly connected.
Mr. Landon had become rather a frequent visitor at Mrs. Felton's, and
Olive was getting to like him very much. He was a grave, serious,
hard-working man—so different from William Forester! Mr. Landon had not
very long ago finished the study of law, and was succeeding to what
promised to be a very lucrative practice in Basswoods, which was the
county-town of E. He had begun to be noted as a speaker already, and
older lawyers treated his opinions with respect, and pronounced him a
rising young man. He loved his profession, he himself said, better than
any thing else in the world, except his sister, a nice little girl of
nine, who had been a great favorite with Olive from the first. They
were orphans, and each possessed of a comfortable fortune.
"I wonder you work so hard, Walter, when you and Louisa have plenty
enough to live upon," said Annette Vander Heyden to him, one day. "Why
don't you spend more time in company, and in indulging your taste for
music and drawing?"
"Because I want to be some body, Annette," returned Mr. Landon. "What
is a man worth that spends his time in amusing himself?"
"You are too ambitious," said Annette, gravely. "What would become of
you if you were to lose your eyesight, or your voice, so that you could
not practise?"
"I should find something else to do, I suppose," was the reply. "I do
not believe I shall ever be placed anywhere where there will not be
work for me. Ambitious as you think me, and as I know I am, law is not
the first thing with me, though I confess it is next to the first."
Between Walter Landon and Olive there grew up, by degrees, a very warm
and intimate friendship—friendship they called it, and neither of
them dreamed of any thing else. Ruth and Augusta used to speculate,
sometimes, upon this intimacy, and wondered whether it would grow into
any thing serious, but there seemed to be no very great likelihood of
it. Other people, of course, had their say about it, but Olive was not
much in the way of hearing reports, and perhaps would not have cared if
she had. Almost every one agreed that it would be a very good match,
and an excellent thing, inasmuch as it would keep Miss McHenry among
them.
Olive was sorry that there was no vacation between Christmas and
New-Year's—she wanted very much to go home and see how they were
getting on. Her aunt was very indignant, and wanted her to come at
any rate, but Olive knew that would not do at all, and prepared, with
rather a heavy heart, to spend her Christmas as happily as she could at
Basswoods.
It passed very pleasantly, despite her homesickness. There was no
school on Christmas-day, of course. Olive had ventured, supported by
Mr. Jones, to introduce the daring innovation of decking her own room
with evergreens, and it looked so pretty, that the young gentlemen,
smitten with admiration, did the same, not only by their own peculiar
territory, but also by the great hall, which they ornamented in
beautiful style.
Mr. Gregory preached one of his best sermons on Christmas-day, and the
church was filled. All the Felton household went to the parsonage to
dine, where they met Walter and Louisa Landon, and two or three of the
school-girls, who lived too far away to go home.
When they returned, at night, Olive found a large parcel and two
or three letters awaiting her, which latter, much to Mr. Felton's
amusement, were opened first. Aunt Rebecca's and Charlotte's were, as
usual, kind, and filled with good wishes.
Abby's was short, and very sad. She did not know what to do, she said,
but she almost felt as though she could not live so any longer. Her
uncle seemed as though he began to suspect something wrong, and she
thought he watched her. Mrs. Dimsden kept dropping all sorts of hints
and insinuations, and Laura was always prying about. She did not know
what to do, but she felt that she must do something very soon.
Olive felt distressed and sick at heart. She feared very much that Abby
might take some hasty step, which would make matters ten times worse.
One sentence, especially, alarmed her:
"If I were independent in money matters, like you, it would not be so
bad, but now I must give an account of every penny I spend, and uncle
complains that I am extravagant, and spend money foolishly. It is not
for myself; entirely, if I do, but that I can not tell him, even if it
would do any good. I used to think that the troubles and difficulties
of people in love were all nonsense, but I know better now."
Olive wondered whether she could be lending Mr. Forester money. Abby
had never intimated to her that she held any correspondence with him,
but she had inferred as much from what Charlotte had said about her
writing to the Misses Jennings, at M. All her discomfort was renewed,
and increased ten-fold.
"I do hope," she said inwardly, with some degree of impatience, "that I
shall never be in love, if it always makes people act so like fools."
Poor Olive!
The parcel, on being opened, was found to contain a variety of pretty
remembrancers and a jar of West-India preserved oranges, of which Mrs.
Merton, in a very polite note, begged Mrs. Felton's acceptance.
Mrs. Felton was very much pleased. She said she had never seen any
since she married, and promised herself the pleasure of sending Mrs.
Merton some preserved apricots, which she had great skill in preparing,
when Olive returned home in the summer.
CHAPTER EIGHTH.
THE winter wore away happily, on the whole. Olive thought that, aside
from her secret trouble about Abby, she had never spent a pleasanter
one. The girls all liked her, and she had very little trouble with
them. The drawing-class got on finely, having advanced from rudimental
lines and squares to heads and figures; and some of them had begun
drawing from objects with a decision of hand and correctness of eye
which fully justified Chapman's method.
She sometimes got very tired, and was usually unable to study much,
but she had abundance of the sort of society that she liked best, and
as many new books as she cared to read, and she looked forward with
pleasure to the prospect of returning to her labors after the spring
vacation. How rich she felt, when her first quarter's salary was paid
into her hands! She had no idea that she could enjoy the possession of
money so much.
As spring came on, there began to be a good deal of sickness in
Basswoods, especially among poor people, of whom there were a good many
in the lower part of the town. Measles and hooping cough prevailed, and
took on malignant forms; and severe quinseys and influenza prostrated
whole families at once. Those whose households were unvisited set
themselves seriously to help their afflicted neighbors, and for a time
little else was done.
Ruth and Augusta were among the busiest, and were away day and night.
But Ruth would not allow Olive to assist them in watching.
"You are obliged to be employed all day, whether you feel able or not,"
she said; "and you must have your nights to rest. Besides, you will be
going home in two or three weeks, and if you do not look well, they
will not let you come back." And Olive was fain to acquiesce, since she
could not help herself.
The school was much diminished in numbers, as many of the girls from
out of town had returned home to avoid the sickness, and she was able
to give a great deal of time to those that remained, much to her and
their satisfaction.
Her uncle had promised to come for her, and she had at last resolved,
by the advice of Mr. Gregory, to tell him all, when he came. He would
then have time to get over the first heat of his anger before he saw
Abby, and in that case she was sure of his acting reasonably. She found
her heart very much lightened after she had formed this resolution,
though she felt that it would require all her strength to carry it out,
and would have given almost any thing to be safe the other side of it.
There remained now only one more week before her return home, and that
was the week before Easter. There was service in the church every
evening at four o'clock, and by exact punctuality she found herself
able to attend. Mr. Gregory's plain, earnest lectures did her a great
deal of good, and she felt stronger and better for every one of them.
One evening, after church, she was walking, slowly homeward, by
herself, enjoying the beautiful twilight, and thinking over what she
had just heard. She had not seen Mr. Landon for several days. He was
very much engaged in his office, and, moreover, he did more than his
share in taking care of the sick. It was very pleasant to have such a
friend. It occurred to her, several times, that she should miss him a
great deal if he should go away, as he now and then talked of doing,
but she did not dwell upon that idea. If she were afraid to do so, she
did not acknowledge the fear to herself.
She was presently joined by Dr. Gordon, the oldest physician in the
place, who had been her fast friend from the beginning. He looked very
weary, and Olive remarked it.