half-reprovingly, half-laughing, as they went up-stairs together, after
the guests had departed. "You are downright revengeful."
"If Mrs. Dimsden annoys my mother when I am by, she may make up her
mind to be paid in her own coin," replied Charlotte. "Besides, I felt
sorry for Laura, who I saw was very uncomfortable. I really pity the
poor girl."
"I feel very anxious about Laura," said Olive, sighing; "she is, as you
say, very uncomfortable, and she does not seem to have any thing to
sustain herself upon. I am afraid she is acting upon a wrong principle."
"How do you mean?"
"She thinks she must certainly marry some body, in order to be
independent and have a position in the world, and that is all she lives
for. She has, or seems to have, no idea of any higher motive in life,
nor has aunt Dimsden for her that I can see. Think of her wanting Laura
to marry Sam Lewis!"
"Did not my father give him a charming character?"
"I hope she will be satisfied, and not torment Laura any more about
him," said Olive. "But what is the child to do? Either aunt Dimsden is
angry with her about something, or else she is getting tired of taking
care of her—perhaps both. Laura feels as uneasy as possible under
her state of dependence, and yet she has a fixed idea that it would
be a terrible degradation for her to do any thing towards supporting
herself; and she feels as though a certain amount of luxury and a
certain position were absolutely necessary to existence. Only look at
all this and think what a temptation it places in her way, to marry
the first tolerably respectable man with a large fortune who presents
himself, and you will understand why I am so full of trouble about her."
"But does Laura think you have degraded yourself?" asked Charlotte.
"Aunt Dimsden does, I know," replied Olive. "As for Laura, I think she
considers me an exception to all general rules, a sort of oddity. She
went so far to-day, as to say she envied me."
"I am sure I do," said Charlotte, sighing; "not that I am not perfectly
well off at home, and as happy as those around me can make so perverse
a person as I am, but I never can feel as though I was working to any
purpose."
"I am sure your Greek and drawing come on nicely," said Olive. "I
never saw any one improve so much as you have. If you were a pupil of
mine, I should be proud of you. That copy of your father's portrait is
beautiful. I wish you would give it to me, to take back to Basswoods."
"I meant it for you, as well as one I begun of my mother, and I am very
glad you like them. But Olive, I am not contented with the acquisition
of knowledge merely for the sake of knowledge. I want to do something
with it. In short," said she, smiling rather bitterly, "I am, without
any particular reason for it, about as discontented as any body can be.
I wish some one would tell me what I want."
"I think I can tell you," said Olive, "but I rather doubt whether you
will believe me."
"May I come and sleep with you?" asked Charlotte.
"I shall be glad to have you," replied Olive, "if you will let me do
just as I would if I were alone."
"Of course," said Charlotte, "we will each take our own way."
Charlotte occupied herself with a book, while Olive went through with
her usual reading and prayers. She had herself given up even the
semblance of prayer, ever since she left the nursery.
"Now Olive," said she, as they were curling their hair afterwards,
"tell me what I want."
"I think you want the two sacraments, as Mr. Gregory says—the baptism
of duty and the communion of love. Are you as much in the dark as ever?"
"No; I think I partly understand you, but please explain."
"First, then, you want to do every single thing because it is right do
it. This rule applies to all actions, great as well as small. Moreover,
you need to have such a love to God, and such a desire to promote his
glory that you will do every thing that is right because it is pleasing
to him, and avoid every thing that is wrong for the same reason. Are
not these two motives which cover all things?"
"Perhaps so, if one could understand them. I confess I can not. I do
not know what you mean by love to God. Can you tell me, for I suppose
you think you love him?"
"I know I do."
"What sort of a feeling is it?"
"It is the same feeling that we have toward our best earthly friends,
though as much higher and purer in its character, and greater in its
degree, as the object is greater and purer. There is no selfishness
mixed with it, and no distrust, since the object is absolutely perfect
in goodness and truth. If there is happiness in loving a fallible
mortal, who may change or die at any time, must there not be much more
in loving and being loved by one in whom is no variableness, neither
shadow of turning, and who has the will and the power to order all
things as is best for us?"
"I can not understand such a love for God. He is too far off."
"He is not far off. His name is Emmanuel—God with us!"
"I have no feeling towards the Supreme Being," said Charlotte, after
a little pause, "except one of terror when I think how helpless we
are—bond slaves in his hands."
"If you loved and trusted him, you would find pleasure instead of
terror in the idea that your destinies were in the hands of one who
could do no injustice and no wrong. Then every thing you did would be
sanctified by the thought that you were doing it for him, since he is
served by every one of our duties, whatever it is. I know you always
take pleasure in working for people. I never saw you so happy, as when
you were straightening and going over those long accounts for your
father, when I was at home before. If in addition, you had had in your
mind the thought of pleasing your Father in heaven, you would have been
still happier."
"But, Olive, do you not think there is danger of losing one's reverence
for the Supreme by thus mixing him up with all the common and daily
concerns of life?"
"If there is," replied Olive, "we are not answerable for it, since he
himself says that not a sparrow falls to the ground without him, and
that whether we eat or drink, or whatever we do, we must do all to the
glory of God."
"And does this feeling really comfort you, Olive, when you are in
trouble? I have heard people talk about religious consolations, but I
always took it all for cant."
"Take care," said Olive, "that in dreading and avoiding cant, you
do not fall into it yourself, and that of the worst kind—that of
condemning as cant all that you do not understand. Yes, I have found,
more than ever before, the great comfort of having such a trust and
confidence in God, as I have described. But for that, I do not believe
I could have lived through this last week. It is all that gives me any
hope about Abby. She has been so well taught, and the child of so many
prayers, that I can not but think she will come right at last."
"I wish I felt so," said Charlotte sighing, "but I can not, and I do
not know how to attain to it."
"Prayer and repentance are the only ways I know," replied Olive. "The
bitter comes before the sweet; and the godly sorrow that worketh
repentance must precede the love of Christ which passeth knowledge.
We must repent in sackcloth and ashes, before we can rejoice with joy
unspeakable and full of glory. Do try, Charlotte—I know you will be so
much happier, not only here but hereafter."
"I will make no promises," said Charlotte, "but I will think of what
you have said, and I am very much obliged to you for speaking so
freely, and not being shocked at me. You do not know how miserable I
was at the thought that I had been deceived in you after all. If you
did, you would not wonder that I was so savage when you first came
home."
CHAPTER TENTH.
ALREADY half the time allotted to Olive's vacation had passed, and
she was beginning to think with mingled pain and pleasure of a speedy
return to Basswoods, and her duties there. She knew that she was sure
of a very warm welcome, not only from Ruth and Augusta, but also from
her pupils, who were almost all very much attached to her. She liked
the place and the people; perhaps too, she enjoyed the idea of being a
person of a good deal of consequence; she liked the quiet and regular
employment, and there was a great pleasure in witnessing the gradual
improvement of the girls under her charge, not only in book-learning,
but also in manners and in those minor morals which affect so much the
comfort of our daily lives.
Sadly as the matter had resulted, she felt as though a mountain's
weight was removed from her mind in getting rid of her secret, and she
could not help whispering to herself that the marriage might after all
turn out better than they feared—that William might settle down, now
that he had the responsibility of a wife upon his hands, and become an
industrious man, after all. She intuitively felt that this consolation
would not bear much examination, but it comforted her for the time.
She had rather reluctantly given up her plan of stopping in M. to make
Abby a visit, at Mr. Merton's urgent advice.
"You had better defer your visit, at least till your return, Olive," he
said, when she mentioned her desire to him. "Abby will be in no state
to bear reason just now. She has not had time to find out her mistake
yet. Moreover, I do not believe you will be very welcome—at least to
Mr. Forester. He will not be likely to forgive your plain speaking to
him and to Abby, and especially your bringing him out in a downright
falsehood. Abby is altogether under his influence, and sees through his
eyes. I shall not forbid your going, but if you will be advised by one
who has seen much more of the world than you have, you will defer your
visit for the present."
So Olive wrote to her sister to say she was not coming, and had the
mortification to perceive by the tone of Abby's next letter that it was
a great relief to her. For the first time, Mr. Merton asked to see the
letter.
"You see I was right," said he, briefly, as he handed it back to her,
"but do not be grieved, my dear. The time will come when Abby will be
glad enough to have you with her."
Of Laura, Olive saw very little. Aunt Dimsden had never encouraged
their intimacy to any great degree, and she now told Olive plainly
that she filled Laura's head with notions very unfit for a girl in
her circumstances. "Your romantic ideas of disinterestedness and
independence sound very well, but let me tell you, you will find out
their fallacy when it is too late."
"When will that be, aunt?" asked Olive.
"When you see Miss Dimsden at the head of society, mistress of a fine
establishment, and surrounded with every luxury, while Miss McHenry is
still a drudging school-mistress, and a faded old maid, or at best, the
wife of some country parson, obliged to struggle the year round to make
both ends meet, and darning her children's ragged stockings, while her
sister is spending her hundreds a day."
"I don't think I shall ever marry a minister," said Olive, "though I
know some ministers' wives who are very happy people."
"Well, a school-master, then—perhaps the other teacher in the academy."
Olive gave way to incessant laughter at the idea of exchanging her
maiden name for the style and title of Mrs. Simon Prendergrass. "I
might do worse," she said, endeavoring to compose her risibles. "Mr.
Prendergrass is a very nice man, and has quite a good little property,
only he invests it all in books that nobody can read but himself."
"You had better set your cap for him," was the elegant reply. "I don't
believe you will ever do any better. But be that as it may, I will not
have you filling Laura's head with romantic notions. I have brought her
up, and I have the best right to her, and I will agree to give up,"
("what" she did not state,) "if she does not turn out better than any
of you. As for Charlotte, she is an impertinent little hussy. I only
wish I had her. I'd bring down her spirits, I'll engage."
True to her word, Mrs. Dimsden contrived to keep the sisters apart, and
Olive hardly saw any thing of Laura, except in presence of others. Even
when they were together, she could not help feeling very painfully how
very little they had in common. Charlotte was much more of a companion
for her, for though, as we have seen, almost entirely irreligious,
she was not frivolous, and she utterly despised that dependence for
happiness upon fashion and position in which poor Laura had been
educated.
Mrs. Merton was, perhaps, almost as worldly as Mrs. Dimsden, but
it showed itself in a different way. Having been for many years at
the head of society, in the place where she resided, and needing no
struggle to maintain her position, she was quite too firm to care much
about being fashionable. She gave parties when and how she pleased,
and was always sure of as many people as she chose to invite. She was
not at all afraid to dress as she liked, or to say that she could not
afford this or that, nor was she ashamed of having her carriage seen
standing in an unfashionable street, at the doors of unfashionable
people. Regarded in a religious point of view, her worldliness was,
perhaps, no better than that of her sister-in-law, but it must be
admitted that it was less destructive to every thing like integrity and
solidity of character.
There was one subject of contemplation which was constantly presenting
itself to Olive's mind, and from which she as constantly turned her
thoughts, as far as she could, and that subject was Walter Landon.
Would he come and see her? she wondered. Augusta had said nothing more
about him, though she spoke of the Vander Heydens several times, and
Ruth had never mentioned his name.
"And why," she proceeded to ask herself with severity, "should she wish
him to come? What was he to her, more than any other acquaintance in
the world? Would not—ought not all his thoughts and affections to be
buried in Annette's grave?"
Olive felt a loss of self-respect every time she suffered her mind to
dwell upon these topics, and invariably told herself that Mr. Landon
was nothing to her, and that it was very wrong and foolish to think
of him at all. But, though all this was undoubtedly true, it did not
prevent her from reading Augusta's first letter several times over, nor
hinder her heart from beating faster every time the door-bell rang, and
sinking sadly when the person who was nothing to her did not make his
appearance.
One night, during the last week of her vacation, there was a ring at
the door, and a strange voice was heard, inquiring whether Mrs. Merton
lived there, and secondly whether she was at home.
"I wonder who that is?" said Charlotte.
Olive did not answer, though she had recognized the first tone of his
voice. Her heart was beating inconceivably fast just then.
A tall, gentlemanly personage entered the room, with a bow which even
Laura might have approved.
"Mr. Landon," announced Edward, the Black Prince, approvingly; for
Edward was an excellent judge of a gentleman.
Mr. Landon was greeted with perfect composure, and a proper degree of
warmth by Miss McHenry, and then presented to her uncle and aunt. Mr.
Merton remembered having seen the young lawyer in court, and was quite
prepared to like him, and Mrs. Merton was evidently pleased by his
manners and address.
Olive was provoked at herself for feeling anxious about the impression
he was likely to make, and asked herself again, severely, what he was
to her.
He was very glad to see her that was certain, and replied with
warmth to her inquiries about Basswoods and its people. The sickness
had almost disappeared, the society had resumed its meetings, Mr.
Prendergrass was well, but melancholy and lonely—with a mischievous
glance at Olive, who blushed, of course, to the roots of her hair,
thereby provoking Charlotte to make various inquiries about that
gentleman.
Olive could not help thinking Mr. Landon was in remarkably good spirits
for a young gentleman who had so lately passed through such a severe
affliction.
She had refrained from making any inquiries about the family on the
hill for fear of wounding his feelings, but it seemed really quite
unnecessary.
"You have not inquired for the Vander Heydens," said Mr. Landon,
himself, turning from Charlotte to Olive.
"Augusta wrote that Jenny was out of danger," replied Olive, more
and more surprised, and somewhat hurt; for the idea of doubting Dr.
Gordon's intelligence never entered her mind.
"Yes, they are all well, now, but very sad. The joy and life of the
household is gone."
"Annette seemed an interesting girl," remarked Olive, hardly knowing
what to say.
"You did not know her, Olive—Miss McHenry," he said, correcting
himself. "Annette never did herself justice with strangers, and the
absurd family pride with which her mother's head is filled, though she
had less of it than the rest, often made her appear at a disadvantage.
She had many excellent qualities, more than she herself was aware of. I
think she would have made a splendid woman."
Olive wondered more and more. Was it possible that Walter could speak
so of a woman to whom he had been engaged, dead only two weeks?
"You were more intimate with them than most people in the village," she
said, without exactly knowing why.
"We were cousins, you know, and Louise has always been with them a
great deal since my mother died. I believe the good people of Basswoods
were so kind as to give us to each other, at one time, but they were
quite mistaken. We were more like brother and sister than cousins."
"I was told that you were engaged," said Olive, feeling that she must
say something. "Dr. Gordon thought so."
"Dr. Gordon was mistaken," replied the gentleman, with more warmth than
seemed exactly necessary. "I was very much attached to Annette, but I
should think that any one who knew us well might have seen that we were
not at all suited to each other."
Why did her mother look so amused? Charlotte wondered.
She certainly did look amused, and perhaps Mr. Landon saw it; for
he colored, and rather hastily turned the conversation by asking
Mr. Merton some questions about the courts in M. Henceforth the
conversation ran upon law and lawyers. Mr. Merton was enthusiastic in
his profession, and of course was delighted to find Mr. Landon the same.
Mrs. Merton and Olive sat by, apparently much interested, though it
is doubtful whether either of them could have repeated a word of the
conversation five minutes after it ceased.
By and by, music was proposed. Olive played, whether well or ill she
could not have told, and then she and Charlotte sang a duet together.
"Do you sing, Mr. Landon?" asked Charlotte.
"Sometimes, in church and Sunday-school," said Mr. Landon, smiling;
"and I know a few old ballads." And being farther pressed, he sang
without accompaniment, one of Burns's inimitable songs.
"That is charming. That is the sort of music that I like," said Mrs.
Merton, quite enthusiastically, for her. "I confess I do not find half
the pleasure in modern music that I do in those old songs. Pray sing
something else if you are not tired."
Mr. Landon was not tired, and he sang "Molly Bawn," much to the
amusement of Mr. Merton, who had never heard it before.
"I wonder you do not cultivate your musical talents," observed
Charlotte; "there are so few gentlemen that sing."
"I did at one time, Miss Merton, but to tell you the truth, I found it
too engrossing. It was present to my mind a great many times when I
knew very well that I ought to be occupied with something else. It took
time from more important studies, and so I dropped it."
"And very rightly, too," said Mr. Merton, approvingly. "Accomplishments
are often very dangerous things to one who has his own way to make
in the world. They may do for a man who has no business but to amuse
himself."
"A man who has nothing to do but to amuse himself is a very poor
creature, in my estimation," said Mr. Landon.
"And a nuisance to society, besides," observed Charlotte. "There is our
old acquaintance, Major Trumbull, for instance, Olive. What a bore he
is, with his everlasting prattle about art and architecture, and the
æsthetic, and so on. And after all, he does not know a good picture
from a bad one, unless he hears some one else give opinion beforehand."
Mr. Landon discovered that it was growing very late, and took his
leave, after accepting an invitation from Mrs. Merton to dine with them
the next day, which was Sunday.
"A very well-informed, unassuming, well-mannered young man," was Mr.
Merton's verdict, after the visitor had departed, "and pretty sure to
rise in his profession. We shall see him a distinguished lawyer, one of
these days."
"What connections has he in Basswoods?" asked Mrs. Merton, of Olive.
"None nearer than the Vander Heydens, and one sister," was the reply.
"What is she like?"
"A very nice little girl—one of my best scholars. Her health is not
strong, and I have to watch and see that she does not work too hard;
for she is as fond of study as her brother."
"How came Mr. Landon to know your Christian name?" was the next
question.
"From hearing it at the rectory, I presume," said Olive. "Mr. Gregory's
family all call me Olive, and he is there a great deal."
Mrs. Merton seemed satisfied, but she had one question more. "What do
you suppose brought him to M., Olive?" she asked, with something of a
smile.
"I don't know; perhaps he had business," replied Olive, vexed at
feeling the color rise in her cheeks.
Perhaps he had—we all know that lawyers travel a great deal. But why
should Olive blush at that? And why, after going up-stairs, should
Olive sit for an hour, looking out of the window, when, even if it
had not been very dark, there was nothing to be seen but Mr. Watson's
highly respectable mansion over the way? Why, to be sure?
When they went to church, the next morning, Mr. Landon was standing in
the porch. Of course Mr. Merton invited him to sit with them, and of
course he accepted. He was very attentive and devout, thereby winning
still more of Mr. Merton's approbation. Olive thought she had never
felt the beauty of the service so deeply. Mrs. Merton guessed, in her
own mind, that her niece's thoughts might be wandering a little: but
for once she was mistaken. Olive had left all earthly thoughts at the
church-door, and her mind was filled with one absorbing desire—that
she might be reconciled to the will of God, whatever that will might
be. She had never felt so much at peace with herself since she first
discovered that she loved Walter Landon.
Charlotte, who for the most part went to church only to please her
mother and had nothing to do but to use her eyes, thought she had never
seen Olive look so nearly beautiful.
Some one else in the church was using her eyes and that was Mrs.
Dimsden who had discovered the genteel stranger with the Mertons the
moment he entered. For the first time in her life, she thought well
of the free-church system, as it enabled her to take a seat directly
behind them, instead of the one she usually occupied. She did not take
much by her motion, however, for Mr. Landon sat with his back to her,
and never looked round once during the whole service.
"I wonder who that is!" she said to Laura, as they were coming out of
church. "I never saw him before."
"Some country friend of Olive's, probably," answered Laura, carelessly,
"or some office acquaintance of my uncle's. He looks like a young
lawyer."
Mrs. Dimsden was not satisfied. She thought the stranger had something
distinguished in his appearance, and she was immediately anxious to
find out all about him.
"You had better go over and see Olive this afternoon," she said, after
luncheon; "you know she is going in two or three days."
"It will look just as though I want to see this person, whoever he is,"
objected Laura.
"Never mind that; I will be answerable for appearances, if you do as
I bid you. You can stay to dinner, and come to church with them this
evening."
Laura was vexed, but there was nothing for it but to obey.
"I did not come of my own accord, Olive," she said, as she went
up-stairs with her sister to take off her bonnet. "Aunt Dimsden sent
me, so you need not think I want to steal your beau from you."
"I do wish you would not use that word," replied Olive, rather
impatiently. "Why should you not come over here if you choose? There is
nothing in it to need an apology."