we look at the past through dying eyes, it will seem very short,
believe me; and we go to no uncertain future, my love. We know in whom
we have believed, and He will make all plain. Once more, dearest,
have patience! Drink of the cup which He drank, and be baptized with
the baptism that He was baptized withal. It is indeed not joyous, but
grievous, but it worketh the peaceable fruits of righteousness to
them that are exercised thereby. For look how high the heavens are in
comparison of the earth—so great is the Lord's mercy to them that fear
him. Look how far, also, the east is from the west—so far hath He set
our sins from us. 'Like as a father pitieth his children, so the LORD
pitieth them that fear him.'"
"Augusta, I know I am impatient and wrong. I will try not to be so."
"I did not mean to reprove you, dearest."
"No, you comfort me. You have done me good, but I feel so weary and
desolate. I have counted so on seeing Abby, when I went home. She has
always been so near my heart. Oh! I ought never to have left her. I
knew what a child she was, and it was my duty to have staid with her,
but I did not see it then. And now she is gone—lost to me forever!" And
again she gave way to a violent burst of grief which both perplexed
and alarmed Augusta, and she glanced at Ruth, who had just entered, as
though to ask what should be done.
"Olive," said Ruth, with a little more of austerity than usual in her
tone, and taking both her hands, "this will never do. You have duties
before you which will require all your strength, and this is not the
way to fit yourself for them. You must come up-stairs and lie down, and
let me do your packing. You are worn out, for want of sleep, and will
be sick to-morrow. Come with me, like a good girl."
Olive obeyed like a child. She was, indeed, utterly worn out and
exhausted. Augusta sat down beside her, and read in her soft voice,
selections from Scripture. In a few minutes, Olive's sobs grew less
frequent, her eyes closed, and her friend had the satisfaction of
seeing her in a deep sleep, from which she arose composed and refreshed.
CHAPTER NINTH.
OLIVE'S heart sank as she approached home the next evening, and thought
of the reception she was likely to meet with, and how sad it would be
without Abby.
Mr. Merton had been very kind all day, but he had said little, and
not one word about the matter that was clearly occupying both their
thoughts. She dared not speak herself, for he had positively forbidden
her to renew the subject till they reached home. She knew how Mrs.
Merton would feel, very well. Not only her affections (and Abby had
always been very dear to her) were wounded, but also her pride, and
that in the tenderest point. Aunt Rebecca had very particular notions
upon the subject of the education of young ladies. Her ideas of
propriety were very strict, and she was often shocked by the freedoms
indulged in by some of the young ladies in town. She prided herself
upon the care with which her daughters and nieces had been educated,
and more than one young girl, who had been secretly indignant at seeing
Olive and Abby held up to them as models, would triumph greatly over
this result of the boasted system.
As they rode up from the depot, Olive leaned back in the carriage, and
shut her eyes, while her soul poured itself out in an earnest prayer
for strength and patience.
"Be calm, Olive. You shall be cleared from suspicion," said her uncle,
as he assisted her to alight.
Mrs. Merton stood at the door, and received her husband warmly, as
did Charlotte, but neither of them took the least notice of Olive,
till they entered the drawing-room, when Mrs. Merton said, in her most
freezing tones:
"Your room is prepared, Miss McHenry. Perhaps you will have the
goodness to retire to it at once."
Olive did not move from the attitude in which she had drawn herself up,
but she turned her eyes to her uncle. He did not speak.
"Before I sit down in this house, Mrs. Merton," she returned, in tones
as calm, though not so cold as her own, "I must demand to be freed
from the unjust suspicion to which I have been subjected. My uncle, I
believe, is convinced of my innocence. If he chooses to justify me, I
shall be glad. If not, I shall be obliged to seek some other shelter
for the night."
Charlotte's eyes flashed fire. Mrs. Merton turned to her husband.
"I fully believe Olive to be innocent," said Mr. Merton, with
emphasis. "She has convinced me that though she knew of Mr. Forester's
engagement, it was only the night before she left home that she was
informed, and nothing but indecision respecting the best course of
action prevented her from informing me immediately. I think she mistook
her duty, but I fully believe that she acted from the best motives."
"I am very glad to hear you say so," replied Mrs. Merton, unbending at
once. "Olive, I am sorry you met with such a cold reception, but you
must remember that we have had great provocation. Let me untie your
bonnet," she added, kissing her kindly; "it is a sad coming home foe
you, my poor child, when we had hoped to be so happy together."
Olive struggled to repress her tears, and succeeded in doing so till
she found herself alone in her own room—Abby's room. It was just as
she had left it. The last book she had been reading was turned down
upon the open writing-desk, and Abby's personal property was strewed
about the room in the picturesque confusion usual with her, when she
had no one to pick up after her. The key was in her trinket-box, and
on opening it, Olive perceived that she had left all her ornaments.
Nothing was missing from the room but the old Bible and prayer-book,
her mother's gifts. Olive wondered how she could have the heart to take
them.
The bitterness of her grief returned with ten-fold violence, and when
Mrs. Merton herself came up to look after her, she was so alarmed at
the state in which she found her usually composed and undemonstrative
niece that she sent her to bed at once, administered ether and other
restoratives, and sat by her till she fell asleep.
At breakfast next morning, Olive was treated just as usual by her uncle
and aunt, but Charlotte did not relax in her stiffness at all. She
treated Olive with ceremonious politeness, but exchanged no more words
with her than were exacted by the courtesies of the table. Olive felt
the coldness very much, for she had unconsciously relied a good deal
upon Charlotte's sympathy and friendship.
The meal passed almost in silence, no one seeming inclined to talk. As
they were about rising from table, a servant brought in the letters and
papers: there were two letters for Olive, and her heart beat fast as
she recognized on one of them Abby's well-known handwriting.
Mr. Merton saw it, too. "Where is she?" he asked, when he saw that
Olive had finished reading it.
"She is at M.," replied Olive, handing him the letter, but he repelled
her hand.
"That is all. You will please to pack up all her personal property,
and I will see that it is forwarded, and then I require that all
intercourse with her on the part of this family shall cease."
"Do you mean that prohibition to apply to me, uncle?" asked Olive.
"Certainly."
"I can not consent to it, sir," she replied, respectfully but firmly.
"I can not promise to cease all intercourse with my poor Abby. That she
has done wrong I do not deny, but I love her none the less, and I can
never forget that she is my sister. She will need friends now more than
ever, and I certainly shall not desert her."
"Olive McHenry, you greatly forget yourself," said Mr. Merton sternly.
"Do you know to whom you are speaking?"
"Hardly," replied Olive, almost involuntarily. "You are so unlike
yourself that I might well be excused for forgetting it. But what if
Abby has sinned?" she went on, rather surprised at her own courage.
"What are we, that we should be unforgiving? Have we no need of mercy
ourselves? No, I can never consent to give up my sister, till she gives
me up. And then, she is such a child—so young in years, and so much
younger in mind. It seems but yesterday that she was playing with her
dolls, sitting on the floor by your side, uncle! Do you remember the
first night you came to our house—the night after mother died, and how
you found Abby lying on the bed by her, and could not coax her away,
till you came and took her, and she cried herself to sleep in your
arms? It seems such a very little while ago!"
"We will let the subject drop for a little, I think," said Mrs. Merton,
rising. "You will have a good deal to do this morning. Have a little
patience, my dear," she continued, when Mr. Merton had left the room.
"Your uncle is deeply wounded, and feels as I do, that we ought to show
our disapprobation of Abby's course, but I don't think he will apply
that to you."
"Especially as Miss McHenry was in the secret from the beginning," said
Charlotte, "and quite as much to blame as the poor child herself."
Mrs. Merton was leaving the room, and did not hear Charlotte's remark.
"You are determined to suspect me, Charlotte," said Olive.
"I know you, Olive McHenry, as I knew you in school. You blinded me for
a little time with your well-acted candor and friendliness, but my eyes
are opened. I am sorry they are, for I thought I was going to have an
intimate friend, for once in my life."
"You think—" Olive began.
"I know," said Charlotte, interrupting her, "that Abby, simple child
that she is, would never have been able to carry on such a system of
deception, unless some one had supported her in it. You thought, no
doubt, that it would be a very nice thing for you to be my father's
favorite niece, and to have one less to share the property and you
imagined that an elopement would be a good way to get rid of Abby, and
illustrate your own virtues. You may find yourself mistaken, as deep as
you think yourself."
"I shall not reply to your insinuations, Charlotte," returned Olive.
"They are too foolish and unreasonable to merit an answer. You yourself
promised to watch over Abby while I was gone: how you have fulfilled
that trust you yourself best know. But there is no use in talking. I
thought you had outgrown your childish jealousy, but it seems not."
With these words, she left the room and went up-stairs, where she
occupied herself in looking over Abby's clothes, to see if they needed
any putting in order. Among them she found all the letters which she
had written during the winter, and she was wondering at Abby's leaving
them behind, when Charlotte entered, with her hands full of books.
"These are Abby's," she said, shortly.
"Thank you," Olive quietly replied; "please to lay them on the table."
Charlotte lingered a little, looking over the books. After a moment,
she said, in the same abrupt way, "Can I help you?"
"No, thank you," replied Olive, surprised at the offer.
But Charlotte did not go; she seemed looking for something.
"Charlotte," said Olive, after a short struggle with her pride, "would
you rather believe me innocent or guilty?"
"Innocent, if I could," was the reply.
"Here are all the letters I have written to Abby since I left home. If
you wish, you can look them over, and satisfy yourself. I do not ask
you to, but you can if you choose."
She laid the package down by her cousin, and busied herself with the
drawers. But, glancing in the mirror a few minutes afterwards, she saw
that Charlotte was deeply engaged in their perusal. Neither of them
spoke for almost an hour. Then Charlotte said, laying down the last
letter:
"Olive, you are innocent. I have done you great injustice, and I ask
your pardon."
"It is granted," said Olive, taking the offered hand, and kissing her.
"What do you mean to do about corresponding with her?" asked Charlotte.
"What would you do yourself in such a case?"
"I am afraid I should be too angry with her to care much about it,"
replied Charlotte. "If my sister had acted as Abby has, I should never
forgive her."
"Then you would make up your mind not to be forgiven yourself, I
suppose?"
"What do you mean?"
"'If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Heavenly
Father forgive your trespasses,'" Olive repeated. "Which of us can
afford to cherish anger upon such conditions?"
"I never understand that sort of talk," said Charlotte; "it all sounds
cant alike to me."
"Just because you don't understand it. If should call your pleasure in
geology cant, you would consider that rather a narrow-minded view, I
think."
"We won't dispute it now," returned Charlotte. "Don't some of these
clothes need repairing? Abby's things generally do. Let me put the
stockings in order."
Olive consented, and they busied themselves together all the morning.
They were just about concluding their labors, when a light step came
up-stairs, and Laura entered. She seemed quite subdued, and wept
bitterly as she embraced her sister. Charlotte left the room.
"I have not been here before since she went," said Laura, after a
little; "isn't it shameful?"
Olive assented silently.
"It seems almost worse than if she were dead," she continued. "To think
she will be so near, and yet we can never see her, or even write to
her."
"Don't you mean to write to her, Laura?" asked Olive.
"I can't. Aunt Dimsden declares I shall have nothing to do with her
from this time. She says, if Abby were at the door, and it stormed ever
so hard, she would not let her in."
"She ought to be ashamed of herself then," said Olive, indignantly.
"Her own marriage was not so very proper, from all I have heard, that
she need be the first to throw stones at poor Abby."
"That is the very reason, child! Don't you know that people who have
done any thing questionable in that line themselves, are just the ones
who think it necessary to be ferociously proper ever afterwards?"
"She may be as proper as she pleases, but I am not going to desert the
poor child for any of them," said Olive. "I have told uncle that I mean
to write to her, and moreover I shall stop a day in M. when I go back,
on purpose to see her."
"But they say—at least aunt Dimsden says that Abby has done so very
wrong that she ought to be made an example of."
"I don't deny that she has done wrong: nobody feels it more than I do,
and I do not think she ought to be treated as though she had not. But I
do say, that it is quite too much, to require us, her sisters, to give
her up, and so leave her to go more and more wrong."
"You are independent, Olive, and can do as you please," said Laura,
sighing. "I wish I was."
"You can be, in the same way that I am."
"Oh! No. I never could make up my mind to teach school, or to work for
a living. I could not consent to any thing which would lower my social
position."
"Why, Laura, I never was of so much consequence in my life, as I have
been since I went to Basswoods."
"Yes, in such a little country place as that, but not among stylish
people."
"But you used to be very contented, Laura: you thought no one was as
happy as yourself."
"Aunt Dimsden is not so kind as she was," said Laura. "She is very
cross sometimes, and when she is vexed, or mortified, she bestows all
her ill-temper upon me. She has been very angry with me, for presuming
to refuse an offer without consulting her—some body that lives not a
hundred miles from Berkley Square, you know."
"But, Laura—!"
"Oh! Yes, I know all you would say—that he is dissipated, and a fool
besides, but you know they are rich and very fashionable, and his
sisters paid me a great deal of attention. I think all the family
were anxious for the match, but he was quite too bad. I suppose I am
bound to make a rich marriage at last—indeed, it is the only way I
see to escape from dependence, but this one was rather too much, and
I dismissed him somewhat suddenly. They were all very angry, and aunt
thinks I am almost as bad as Abby. She told me she expected I would go
the same way, and it will not be for want of sufficient provocation if
I don't."
"But you would not marry for money alone, would you?"
"Not perhaps for money alone; I would not marry a really bad, vulgar
man, if he was ever so rich. But if he had position, and style, and so
on, as well as money. I don't believe in all that silly, sentimental
nonsense of love, and all that, it only makes fools of people, just as
it has of Abby."
"But it is not absolutely necessary to marry at all," said Olive.
"I do not agree with you there, sister mine. I think it is necessary,
if a woman wants to be any body that she should marry, unless she
retires into a nunnery or something. I hope you don't mean to be an old
maid, Olive."
"I think it most likely I shall," said Olive, sighing in spite of
herself, "but I hope to be some body nevertheless. Will you let me come
and stay with you, when I grow too old to work any longer?"
"Of course," said Laura, "if I have any home myself. But now tell me
what you intend to do about Abby? Do you really mean to write to her?"
"I really do. I would obey uncle in almost any thing else, but in this
I must follow my own conscience and my own feelings."
"You can afford it," said Laura, "because you are independent, but I
dare not. Aunt has been very angry on account of the refusal, and she
says, if I do not mind what she says about this, she will leave me to
take care of myself. But if you write, give my love to Abby, and tell
her I would write too if I could—and send her these ear-rings; Maria
Lewis gave them to me, but I do not care any thing about them, and aunt
has never seen them. I have no money to buy her any thing new, and I
wanted to send her something.
"Did I tell you that aunt Dimsden is coming over to spend the
afternoon? I believe in my heart, she is glad of Abby's marriage, and
the triumph over aunt Rebecca, till I am ready to stone her. You know I
never was very fond of aunt Rebecca myself, but I am sorry for her, and
I think aunt Dimsden ought to be ashamed of herself. I can tell you,
Olive, you think I am so well off—"
"I never thought so, Laura," interrupted Olive. "I would rather go out
as a seamstress than live as you do."
"Well, every one else thinks so, at any rate, but I am sometimes
tempted to say I will marry the first presentable man that comes along,
to escape from it."
"Do give up that idea of marrying for money, Laura! I can not bear to
think of it. You will repent as surely as you do."
"Well, I don't know," said Laura, lightly. "If you marry for money, you
are pretty sure of getting it, at any rate, and if you marry for love,
you may be deceived, you know. Now, if you have finished your packing,
do dress, and come down-stairs. I dare not face them all alone."
"I am sure, Laura, uncle would not be angry at you for refusing Sam
Lewis. You know there is nothing he detests like an idle, frivolous
young man."
"I don't believe he knows any thing about that," returned Laura, "but I
am always afraid of him."
After luncheon, Laura sat down to a handkerchief she was embroidering,
and Olive to write.
She had almost forgotten Augusta's letter, till she saw it in her
desk. It was just like Augusta herself, and Olive felt refreshed and
comforted by it. Among other news of the place, she said:
"Jenny Vander Heyden is better, and the sickness is abating. Mr. Landon
is going away, and he told me he meant to go and see you before his
return."
Olive's heart beat somewhat faster at the thought, and she almost
wished Augusta had not told her. After twice reading the letter, she
put it carefully away, and began writing to Abby. She sighed, as she
thought of the unsatisfactory intelligence she had to convey, but there
was no help for it, at least at present. As Mr. Merton said, she had
taken her own course, and she would have to abide by it.
She was just finishing, when Mrs. Dimsden came in. Olive greeted her as
warmly as she could, and then asked to be excused, as she was anxious
to close her letter in time for the post. As she placed it in the vase
appropriated for the purpose, Mrs. Dimsden unceremoniously took it out
of her hand, and read the direction: "Mrs. William Forester, Eagle
Hotel, M."
"So you have been writing to Abby, have you?"
"Yes, ma'am," replied Olive, coolly.
"I have forbidden Laura to do any thing of the kind," said Mrs.
Dimsden, drawing herself up: "I will not allow any young person in my
family to have any intercourse with a girl who has no more sense of
propriety than Abby. I have never thought it necessary to make as much
fuss as some people," with a glance at aunt Rebecca, "but I do think my
girls generally turn out well."
Mrs. Merton had a way of looking at a forward or impertinent person, as
though he or she were a superfluous chair, or an intruding cat, which
she sometimes brought to bear upon her sister-in-law with great effect.
She was silenced for a moment, and replaced the letter.
At this moment, Charlotte entered, and looked into the vase as she
passed.
"Charlotte," said her mother, "have I not often told you that it was
very rude to look at the direction of another person's letter?"
Now Charlotte knew very well that this reproof was not in the least
intended for her; she took it very coolly, and sat down by Laura to
admire her work.
Mrs. Dimsden colored furiously. "Perhaps, if you had kept a more
careful watch over your young ladies' letters, sister Merton, some
things might not have happened that have happened. I know my mother
always looked out for me."
"Was that the reason you never did any thing improper when you were
young, aunt Dimsden?" asked Charlotte carelessly.
It was a home-thrust, for Miss Ashly had been considered rather an
eccentric young lady, and there were some circumstances in her career,
and in the way she became Mrs. Dimsden, which were more curious than
edifying. That lady did not like to provoke a contest with Charlotte,
who was not in the least afraid of her, and by superior coolness
usually came off conqueror. She turned her head, and murmured something
about impertinence, but did not venture upon a retort.
Mrs. Merton conversed as politely as possible with every one in the
parlor, and was especially gracious to Olive.
Charlotte, very contrary to her usual custom, devoted herself to Laura,
with whom she very seldom condescended to talk when she could help it.
Laura was very low-spirited, and hardly said a word, though she seemed
grateful to Charlotte for her kindness, and clung to Olive in a way
very uncommon with her. Mrs. Dimsden contradicted her at every word she
said, and seemed out of all patience with her.
When Mr. Merton came in to tea, he looked into the vase as usual, and
took out the two or three letters it contained.
"Your letter is over weight, Olive," he said, balancing it on his
finger: "you must add another stamp."
He smiled kindly as he handed it to her, and she received it with a
glad heart, rightly judging that it was a tacit concession of the point.
"Thank you, uncle," she said in a voice too low to be heard by Mrs.
Dimsden, who was anxiously watching the scene, in the pleasing
anticipation of an explosion.
He smiled again, and walked away, putting the letter in his pocket.
But Charlotte had not finished yet. She was, as we know, not at all
an amiable young lady, and she was extremely jealous of any affront
offered to her mother. She felt that her debt to Mrs. Dimsden was not
quite discharged.
"Papa," said she, "do you know Sam Lewis?"
"Yes, I know him. Why?"
"What is he like?"
"Like a fool!" replied Mr. Merton, who was not particularly well
disposed toward idle young men just then.
"A great many young men are that," said, Charlotte sententiously. "Is
that all there is remarkable about him?"
"No," said Mr. Merton: "he is remarkably idle, remarkably dissipated,
and a remarkable torment to every one who ever tried to do any thing
with him."
"That seems a pity," remarked Olive. "They used to be quite nice
people, especially Mrs. Lewis. I liked her very much."
"They were nice people. It is the ambition to be fine and fashionable
that has spoiled them—that is, the younger part of them, for Mrs. Lewis
is just as gentle and pleasant as ever. I often feel sorry for her,
when I see how unceremoniously she is treated by her children. I tried,
for his father's sake, to do something with Sam, but it was useless. He
has not even sense enough to be governed. I heard the other day that he
was going to be married, but I hope it is not true. I should be sorry
to think that any girl could throw herself away upon such an apology
for a man."
Charlotte's triumph was now complete, but she had too much sense to
parade it openly. And for the rest of the evening, she was as polite to
her victim as Mrs. Merton herself.