where all this is to end. At first, the sickness seemed confined to the
poor people, but now it is share and share alike with all classes. Poor
Annette Vander Heyden is much worse."
"I did not know she was sick," replied Olive. "Is she very unwell?"
"She is very ill, indeed," said the doctor. "I fear she will never be
any better. It will be a sad blow to the family, as well as to Walter
Landon."
Olive felt as though some one had struck her, but she asked, quietly:
"Why to him?"
"They have been engaged a long time, I suppose," was the answer. "I
know it used to be talked of, even when Walter was at college."
"They will make a fine-looking pair, will they not?" said Olive, in a
tone of quiet interest. "I think Annette is a very agreeable girl."
"Yes, barring her absurd pride of family, I do not know a nicer young
lady; and Walter was always a favorite of mine. Good-by, Miss McHenry,
and pray take care of yourself, or we shall have you down, too."
"I shall take care," said Olive, lightly. "You know I am going home
next Wednesday. Will you please send word to school, by Catharine, how
Annette is? I shall feel very anxious to know."
The doctor promised.
Olive bade him good-night and went into the house, and up-stairs to her
own room. A heavy, hard pain was pressing at her heart, and she felt as
though she should suffocate. But she had only one distinct thought—that
she would not think of any thing just then.
Very quietly she took off her bonnet and brushed her curls, and then,
going down into the sitting-room as usual, she set about correcting a
large pile of compositions, going over and over every one, with even
more than ordinary care and deliberation. Phebe Jones came to take a
music lesson. She seemed to think Olive was rather more particular than
usual about touch and time, and she told Anna, when she returned, that
she had never seen Miss McHenry when she came so near to being cross.
"You look pale, Olive," said Ruth. "I am afraid you are over-working
yourself."
Olive admitted that she was tired, and should be glad of some tea. Mrs.
Felton bustled about to expedite matters, and to provide something
better than usual, and Olive exerted herself to eat, that she might
not be disappointed, but it was very hard work. She sat up as late as
usual, apparently reading attentively, but in reality seeing nothing
but blank confusion upon the page before her, while repeating to
herself that she would not think of it till bed-time.
Bed-time came at last, and she sat down alone with her trouble, and
looked at it, almost as though it had been a bodily presence of evil
which it was necessary to face and conquer. What was it, after all?
Walter Landon was going to be married and what of that? Had she not
said to herself, twenty times, that this was nothing but friendship?
Vain subterfuge—miserable lie! She knew better—she had known it all the
time. Abby might well say that Olive could not understand her feelings,
but she knew them now. She had blamed and pitied—Abby herself had never
sunk so low as she.
She set herself to examine all their intercourse from the first, but
there was no comfort in that. She could not blame Walter, for he
had never showed a mark of any thing but mere friendship. No; the
truth was plain—she had given away her heart to a man who had never
asked for it, and who did not care for it. She had weakly, miserably
permitted herself to go on, and be drawn in, to the shipwreck of
peace, self-respect—every thing. She had not seen him for several
days: perhaps he had discovered her secret, and was keeping away in
compassion to her.
Her eyes overflowed with hot tears at last, but they gave her no
relief. She could see nothing, think of nothing, to extenuate her
miserable folly. She had gone on, quietly placing upon a stranger all
her hopes and wishes, and setting him in the place of God, till at last
she discovered that she was dependent upon him for all her happiness
that she was inexpressibly wretched at the thought of his caring for
any one else. There was no excuse, no comfort, no hope. She had loved
an idol more than God, and God had forsaken her, while she had found
too late that her idol was not hers, but another's. What should she do?
She slept, at last, from very weariness of body, but when she awaked,
the load was still upon her heart, dull, heavy, oppressive, crushing
her very life out. She prayed, but without comfort, and set about her
daily task, with a feeling of relief at having something tangible to
do, wherewith she was forced to occupy her thoughts and hands. Nobody
could have seen any difference in her, except that she was rather more
particular than usual about the lessons, and had, perhaps, more than
ordinary patience with the dullness and stupidity of some of the girls,
and the perverseness of others. She was careful to ask Catharine Gordon
about Annette.
"Papa thinks she is much worse," said little Kitty, with a quivering
lip. "He said so this morning. Oh! Won't it be too bad if she should
die!" And the child burst into tears, for the families had long been on
terms of intimacy, and she was very much attached to Annette.
Olive tried to comfort her, while her own tears fell fast. They
relieved her a little, but she dared not indulge in them, and was soon
as calm as ever.
"Olive; do you feel able to watch to-night?" asked Ruth, at the
tea-table, after she had studied Olive's face a little.
"Yes, indeed," replied Olive, glad of any duty that promised
self-forgetfulness for a time. "Where?"
"With that Mrs. Beman and her child," said Ruth. "You know they both
have the measles. The child is rather better, but it is doubtful
whether the woman can live through the night."
"I don't believe Olive is able," said Mrs. Felton. "She looks tired
now. Why don't you ask Mrs. Gregory, or Mrs. Dennison?"
"Mrs. Gregory is sick herself, and Mrs. Dennison and Mrs. Jones are
engaged," said Ruth, briefly.
Olive knew that they were going to Mrs. Vander Heyden's, where some of
the younger children had been added to the sick-list. "I am quite well,
and shall be glad to go," she repeated. "I suppose you will set out
early."
Ruth assented, and before nine they were at Mrs. Beman's. They were
poor but respectable people, of the sort who, without any visible
drawback, never seem to prosper, but always remain about where they set
out. The house was clean and comfortable, and they seemed to have every
thing necessary for the sick.
The husband and eldest daughter, a girl of twelve or fourteen, though
worn out with fatigue, were unwilling to retire as they thought there
was a change in the sick woman.
And on going near the bed, Ruth's experienced eye saw at once that
the messenger was there. She whispered to Olive to take the baby, and
relieve the little girl who was quietly weeping by the fireside.
The poor woman was quite sensible, and able to speak a little. She had
been but a plain, hard-working person all her life, but the majestic
presence of death was with her, and all around her felt its power. In
few but earnest words, she commended the little one to its sister's
care.
"God deal with you, Sally, as you deal with that motherless child. I
have tried to be a mother to you, and to treat you, in all things, like
my own, and I have loved you as well, for aught I know. Be a good girl,
Sally, and take good care—"
"I will, mother," sobbed the child. "I'll be good to Liddy."
The dying woman seemed satisfied, and lay quietly for a little while.
"I've known trouble and sorrow of all sorts," she said, opening her
eyes again, "more than most of my age, but I've had help through it
all. It's most over now. Give me my baby. You look sad, young woman,"
she remarked, as Olive laid it in her arms. "If you've got trouble,
don't rest in yourself, nor in any man. Trust in the Lord. God bless
you all!"
These were her last words, and in a few minutes, she was gone.
Some of the neighboring women came in and laid out the body. Mr. Beman
and Sally retired to rest, and Olive and Ruth were left with the child
and its dead mother. Neither of them felt inclined to talk. The little
one seemed disposed to slumber, and Olive held it in her arms and
looked at its wasted features, but her thoughts were far away. The
bitter feeling of injury was gone, but she felt very, very desolate.
All the sorrows of her life returned upon her; her own orphaned
state—Abby's misconduct and danger—Laura's estrangement—her uncle's
probable anger—all were present to her at once. She felt as though she
could never remember a time when she had been happy. Past, present,
and future seemed shrouded in blackness, and she could see no hope
of any light. She prayed for submission to the will of God, and that
Annette's life might be spared, and by and by she found that she could
be thankful that she had only herself to blame, and not Walter.
In the long, long hours before daybreak she had made her final resolve.
She had a profession—that certainly was a comfort. The experiment of
teaching had been tried with success. If she could never be happy
again, at least she could be useful, and with all the earnestness of
her nature, she consecrated herself to the work, and resolved with
God's help to follow it out.
Still, with all this, her heart would not be quiet, but throbbed and
struggled under that crushing pain: still her weary spirit repeated
over and over again: "How wretched, how very wretched I am!"
The child passed an easy night and was clearly much better in the
morning. Neighbors came in and promised to attend to every thing
necessary.
As Ruth and Olive were walking homeward at sunrise, the bell began
to toll. They looked at each other, but did not speak. The age was
struck—twenty—and then two strokes followed to show that a woman was
dead.
"Annette!" said Olive.
"It must be, I suppose," Ruth replied, sighing, "Poor child!"
Olive could not repress her tears as she thought of the blooming girl
she had so lately seen in health and spirits, and they flowed still
faster as she thought of Walter's grief—grief which she could not
comfort and hardly sympathize with.
Ruth pressed her hand, but said nothing. She had partly guessed the
state of the case the day before, but doing as she would be done by,
she had not said a word. She advised her friend to lie down, and try to
sleep, and Olive was glad to obey.
All that day she suffered greatly, but the next—the resurrection
morning—she found relief at last. In the presence of the white carved
symbols of infinite love and infinite sorrow, she seemed to hear a
whisper of peace; her load grew less oppressive with every prayer, and
when after the distribution of the elements, she rose from her knees,
she found she had left it behind her. The Comforter was come to her,
and she found strength to say and to feel, from her heart's depths,
"Not my will, but Thine be done."
Before, she had felt that she should soon die, and rejoiced in the
thought, but now the language of her soul was: "I shall not die but
live and declare the loving-kindness of the Lord."
"Olive," said a well-known voice behind her, as they were going out of
church.
She turned and saw Walter. He looked pale and worn out with grief and
watching.
"Will you go and see Louisa?" he asked, as he offered his hand. "She
is at Mrs. Jones's, and needs some one with her; not that she is ill,
but she is worn out and nervous. Can you go and stay with her this
afternoon?"
"I will," replied Olive, grateful for the proof of confidence.
"When do you go?" he asked.
"On Wednesday; possibly on Tuesday, if my uncle comes."
"I may not see you again before you go," said Walter. "They feel as
though they could not spare me there, and Agnes is very sick. God bless
you, Olive, till we meet again."
"God bless and comfort you, Walter," returned Olive calmly.
She went at once to Mrs. Jones's, and found Louisa suffering from
severe nervous headache, the result of fatigue and excitement; for
she was a delicate child, and somewhat spoiled withal. Olive found it
necessary to exert a little authority over her to make her stop crying,
and the effort necessary to take care of her patient was useful to
herself.
Louisa was better in the evening, but she begged hard to have Olive
stay with her all night, and Olive consented.
She was walking slowly homeward the next morning, glad that there was
no school, when she saw a carriage drive up to Mrs. Felton's, and a
gentleman get out, who she was sure was her uncle. Her heart almost
failed her as she hurried forward. She had not expected him till
evening at soonest, and not very much till Tuesday. He must have left
home Sunday night, an action so contrary to all his habits as to fill
her with fear of she knew not what calamity.
"Your uncle is come," said Ruth, meeting her at the door, and observing
her evident agitation with surprise.
Olive waited not to hear more lest her resolution should fail her
entirely, but hastily opened the parlor-door. Mr. Merton was standing
opposite it, and her heart sunk as she met his glance.
"I bring you pleasant news, Miss McHenry," were his first words, "but
no doubt you are prepared for them, since you have been in the secret
from the first."
"What is the matter, uncle?" Olive rather gasped than spoke.
"Read that letter," handing her one with the seal unbroken. "It will
probably tell you more than I can."
Olive tried, but the words swam before her eyes, and her head whirled.
She looked at her uncle imploringly. "I can not see," she said; "do
tell me!"
"Your sister Abby is married," replied Mr. Merton abruptly, "and I
suspect—" "You knew as much before," he was going to add, but he saw
Olive's lips grow white, and before he could reach her, she fell to the
ground.
It was the drop too much in the full cup, and for the first time in her
life, she fainted away.
Happily Ruth was at hand, and Mrs. Felton was out.
Olive soon revived, and Ruth left her to attend to some household call.
"When, uncle?" asked Olive, after a short silence.
"Olive," said her uncle, "I used to think I could trust you implicitly,
and even now, I on hardly believe that you would deceive me. Before
I reply to any questions, tell me all you know about this miserable
business."
Olive roused herself and went through with the story, from beginning to
end.
Mr. Merton listened fixedly. "Why did you not write and tell me?" he
asked, when she had finished.
"I hoped to prevail upon Abby to do so herself, and I thought that
would be much better. Besides, what right had I to betray her secret? I
had no authority over her, and she told me in confidence."
"But you made yourself privy to her subterfuge in corresponding with
that man!"
"I did not know for certain that she did correspond with him," said
Olive, "though I guessed it from something Charlotte said. I had made
up my mind to tell you all when you came, and risk the consequences."
"Then she has told you nothing about this precious marriage?"
"Not a word, sir! I have all her letters, and can show them to you,"
she added, proudly, for she was beginning to feel indignant. "Perhaps
you will believe them, unless you choose to accuse me of forgery as
well as lying."
"Sit still," said her uncle. "I have no desire to see her letters,
or to hear from her again. My only object is to clear you from the
imputation of being engaged in the conspiracy, which, it seems, she
has been carrying on for a year or more. I believe we have done you
injustice, and I beg your pardon. I know that you must feel it more
than any of us, my poor child!" he continued, kissing her forehead.
"How did it happen?" asked Olive, after an interval of silence. "How
did it all come out?"
"It came out by degrees. I could not help seeing that something more
was the matter with her, than merely your going away, and I began to
watch her. It seems, too, that your aunt Dimsden had her suspicions,
even before Forester went to M., but instead of coming and telling me,
as she should have done, she talked to other people—"
"Just like her," said Olive, bitterly.
"I do not defend Mrs. Dimsden," Mr. Merton continued. "She did very
wrong, and so I have told her. Well, as I have said, my suspicions were
aroused, and I watched her, but I could find nothing to justify them. I
wish now I had questioned her about it."
"Oh! Why didn't you?" exclaimed Olive, in renewed grief. "If you had
done so kindly, she would have told you all; I am sure she would. She
was naturally so open. O my child, my darling child!"
"I was wrong, Olive, but I acted for the best. After a time, Forester
returned, and came at once to our house, where he met with a cool
reception from all but Abby. I had made up my mind to demand a full
explanation from him, but I was frustrated. He had hardly sat down
before Mrs. Dimsden and Laura came in. Charlotte, who I think had
no suspicions, asked after the Misses Jennings, with whom Abby had,
apparently, been maintaining a correspondence for three or four months.
Forester looked confused and annoyed, and Abby colored deeply.
"But before either of them had time to reply, Laura exclaimed, 'Why,
Charlotte, the Misses Jennings went to Kentucky long ago—just after
they left school.'
"The truth flashed upon me at once, and I was going to speak, when
Forester said, with perfect ease: 'Are you sure, Miss Laura? Do you
make a study of the M. directory?'
"Abby said not a word, but I saw that she was ready to drop. I did not
want to get up a scene before them, and turned the conversation. They
did not stay long, and as soon as they were gone, I turned to Abby and
demanded an explanation—Mr. Forester standing by. She began to cry, of
course, and I could get nothing out of her.
"Forester then took the matter upon himself, and informed me that he
had been engaged to Abby almost a year, and intended to marry her, with
my consent, if I would give it—otherwise without it. He complimented
me, by saying that but for my prejudice against him, and harshness
when I was opposed, they should have confided in me, and declared that
you had known and approved the whole matter from the beginning. This
enraged me more than any thing else, and I ordered Abby to leave the
room and go to her own apartment.
"Mr. Forester had the coolness to follow her to the door, and exchange
some words with her in German, which, of course, I did not understand.
He then returned and requested to know what my intentions were with
regard to Abby. I can not tell you all about it, but the end was, that
I ordered him to leave the house.
"I went up to Abby's room, but I found she had locked herself in, and
I could get nothing from her. It was the same in the morning—she would
take no breakfast, nor open her door, and I went to the office, hoping
that she would be more reasonable by night. When I came home, I found
Mrs. Merton and Charlotte in great alarm. The door had not been opened,
nor any movement heard. I had then no hesitation in forcing the door,
but she was gone—" He paused, perhaps to give himself time to control
his voice, which certainly trembled very much.
Olive was weeping bitterly.
"She had taken very little except what she had on. She even left behind
a watch and chain I gave her at Christmas, and all her trinkets, all
her letters, except the last one from you."
"And did she leave nothing for me?"
"Yes, a note—the one you have in your hands."
Olive began to read aloud, but Mr. Merton interrupted her: "Read to
yourself, Olive; I do not wish to hear one word from her."
She read accordingly:
"I am going to be married at last, Olive. I did not mean to take such a
step till you came home, but they have driven me to it. Uncle is just
as harsh and unjust as I knew he would be, but I thank him for all his
kindness to me, and aunt, too. I shall take nothing more with me than I
can help. I will write just as soon as I am settled anywhere."
"Did you hear nothing of her afterwards?" Olive asked, as soon as she
could speak.
"Nothing, except a notice of their marriage in the paper that evening.
I told you I wished to hear nothing more. She has taken her own course,
and she must abide by it. This subject will necessarily be renewed when
we reach home, but till then, I wish to have it dropped entirely. You
look very much worn and fatigued," he said kindly. "I am afraid you are
working too hard."
"Oh! No," replica Olive, "I like it very much, and do not usually get
over-tired, but there has been a good deal of sickness in town, and I
have been nursing as well as teaching. One of our loveliest girls died
yesterday."
"Then you find the place pleasant?"
"Very much so. I should have been quite happy the last few months if my
mind had been at ease about Abby. The school is a very nice one, and
there are a good many agreeable people here. I enjoy the idea of coming
back very much."
"Do you know a young Mr. Landon?" asked Mr. Merton.
"Yes, very well," replied Olive, thankful that she could answer
steadily, and without coloring. "He is a great favorite here, and
thought very talented."
"He is a rising young man," replied her uncle. "I heard him make an
argument, not long ago, which would have done credit to many an older
lawyer. I should like to meet him."
"You will not be likely to do so, now," said Olive. "The young lady who
died yesterday, Miss Vander Heyden, was his cousin, and they were said
to be engaged."
"I thought of returning to-night," said Mr. Merton, rising, "but I see
you are unfit for it. We will go to-morrow morning, if you please, and
till then you must take the time to rest. I shall stay at the hotel,
and must go down now, and secure a room."
When he was gone, Olive sat a little while, perfectly still. It did
not seem possible for her to make an exertion. She was stunned and
overwhelmed to such a degree, by the events of the last few days,
that she seemed to have lost power of sense or feeling. She was still
sitting in precisely the same attitude, when a shadow fell before her,
a soft arm was passed round her neck, and Augusta sat down beside her.
Olive laid her head on her shoulder. "Have you heard?" she asked.
"I have heard nothing, love, except that you were in trouble, and had
received sad news from home? Is it your sister?"
Olive assented, silently.
"I did not know she was ill," said Augusta, after a little pause.
"It is not that," said Olive. "It almost seems as though the news
of her death would not be half as hard to bear. She is married,
Augusta—married against my uncle's wishes, and without his knowledge,
to a man utterly unworthy of her. She has carried on a course of
deception for months, and I see plainly that my uncle is too angry ever
to forgive her. And I might have prevented it all by a little decision
and courage."
"How?"
Olive went over the outline of the story, adding at the end:
"I might have prevented the whole thing if I had staid at home, as
they wanted me to—if I had not been so proud, and so set upon being
independent. It is all my fault."
"I do not think so," replied Augusta, gently. "You acted for the best,
so far as I can see, and that is all we can ever do. I do not really
see that you could have acted otherwise."
"I might have told uncle at first."
"You forget that he was away, and you had no opportunity. Besides, you
were doubtful whether you had the right to do so. No, Olive, you are
wrong, now—naturally so, but still wrong. Don't you remember what Mrs.
Dennison said about her little boy's sickness and death? Even supposing
that you made a mistake, which I do not allow—"
"You do not know, Augusta," said Olive. "You have not tried it. I do
not mean that you have not suffered, but not in this way—not by the
unworthiness of those you loved. I could bear any thing else."
"Come and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow," repeated
Augusta, involuntarily. "Olive, if your sister has sinned, she is yet
young, and has time for repentance before her. Others have sinned much
more deeply, against more warnings and opportunities for repentance,
and at last been cut off in the midst of their sins. I had a dear
brother—" She paused. "We had little comfort in his life or death."
"I am impatient, I know," said Olive, sighing, "but I have had so much,
the last few days. I thought I had made up my mind to patience and
self-forgetfulness, but this has overcome me entirely. I feel as though
I could not have it so."
"God has comfort for all sorrows, Olive."
"I used to think so, before I had any. Nay, I thought so no longer ago
than yesterday, but to-day all seems dark as night again."
"Have patience, my child, and accept the bitter cup. He will send the
sweet in his own time, and if we have no pleasures in this world, we
shall always have duties; that is one comfort. And, after all, it is
but for a day."
"A long, long, dreary day, Augusta."