was," said Laura; "and, to tell the simple truth, I suppose that was
what aunt sent me for. Don't tell me any thing about him, and then I
shall have the pleasure of disappointing her."
"Laura, Laura, how perverse you are! If she had not told you to find
out, you would never have rested till you knew all there is to know."
"Maybe so. Is he coming to dinner?"
"I believe aunt invited him."
"Then I suppose she will depart from her rule of giving the servants
their Sunday. She would not ask a stranger to a cold dinner."
"I do not believe she has made any difference," said Olive. "I know all
the servants went to church this morning."
So it proved. Mrs. Merton made no apology for the cold fowl and ham,
except to say that it was one of her rules never to have unnecessary
cooking done on Sunday.
"So much for being above the fashion," thought Laura. "I wonder whether
the Eatons would dare to do such a thing."
The conversation was cheerful enough, though somewhat serious in its
character. Mr. Landon was interested in hearing an account of the
different charities of the city, in almost all of which Mr. and Mrs.
Merton were more or less engaged. Free churches, homes for old people,
parish schools and Sunday-schools, were discussed in all their bearings
and relations. Laura thought it all very stupid, and Mr. Landon
something between a Puseyite and a Methodist. He spoke of a certain Mr.
Dennison, who was his particular friend. And after a little, it came
out that he was a hatter, but no one seemed at all shocked. Aunt Merton
was a good deal of a riddle to Laura: she was so very fashionable, and
yet seemed to care so little about it.
They went to church in the evening, and walked round by Mrs. Dimsden's
to leave Laura, who complained of headache. That young lady had to
undergo a severe cross-examination from her excellent aunt, but as she
had sedulously avoided finding out any thing, she had very little to
tell, except that she believed Mr. Landon was a young lawyer from the
country, who did not seem to have any distinguished connections.
"Your aunt is always inviting such persons. I do wonder she should.
Even the clerks in the office are very often there, I am told."
"Yes, indeed," said Laura; "aunt makes a point of asking some of them
to tea almost every week, and I never saw her or Charlotte take more
pains to entertain any one. I remember how aunt set down Morgan Spencer
once, for putting on airs to one of them. The sweet youth was nearly
frightened out of what little wit he has."
"Well!" sighed Mrs. Dimsden. "I don't pretend to understand Rebecca
Merton. She is beyond me. I knew her pride would have a fall, though,
when she used to make such a display of Abby and Charlotte last winter,
and if it does not have another, I shall miss my guess. If you will be
a good girl, Laura, I will have you at the head of an establishment of
your own long before Charlotte, with all her beauty and talent. Now go
to bed, child, and put on your best looks to-morrow, for I think we
shall have some company that you will like to see. And pray don't be
perverse and romantic, my dear, for you know the only object I have is
to see you settled in life."
Laura was delighted to see her aunt again in good humor. She promised
that she would eschew romance and perverseness, and went to bed,
feeling quite happy.
"Olive," said Mrs. Merton, "will you stay at home, and keep house this
morning? Charlotte and I have shopping to do, and shall probably not be
at home till luncheon-time?"
Olive assented, of course. There was something a little peculiar in her
aunt's manner, she thought, and she found herself speculating over it
more than once in the course of the long letter that she was writing
to Augusta and Ruth, which was to be sent by Mr. Landon. She had just
finished it, when the Black Prince ushered Mr. Landon himself into the
drawing-room with the information that Madam and Miss Charlotte were
out, but Miss Olive was at home.
Mr. Landon seemed to think that Miss Olive would answer every purpose,
and the Prince retreated to his own dominions, apparently greatly
amused with something in his own mind.
Mr. Landon did not converse with his usual freedom and elegance. On the
contrary, he seemed a good deal embarrassed. Indeed, after a while, he
was quite at a loss, and did not speak a word for all of five minutes,
during which time he cut, ripped, twisted, and otherwise destroyed
almost half a yard of elaborate tape trimming, besides dulling the
little scissors in a very distressing manner. Strange to say, Olive had
not the presence of mind to stop the mischief or, perhaps she was too
much engaged on that camellia flower, whereof the pattern seemed to
have become very difficult all at once.
"Olive!" said Walter at last.
Well, perhaps it is not necessary to tell the rest. I suppose these
things are managed very much alike, all the world over. Of course, Mr.
Landon did not fall on his knees, or conduct himself in any such absurd
manner, because he was ordinarily a very sensible, practical young
man, and not quite a fool, even in love. We may conclude, from what we
know of the gentleman, that he told his love in a very manly, earnest
fashion, and that Olive answered in the same way. If he kissed her
hand, and—and so on, why, that is nobody's business.
Whether the Black Prince had his own thoughts about what was going on,
I can not say; though, if he did not, why should he have made such a
clatter in setting down the luncheon-tray outside the door, when there
was no need to set it down at all, the said door being ajar? And why
should he have indulged in a private and respectful giggle, when he
went back for the pickled oysters?
Mrs. Merton and Charlotte came in almost as soon as luncheon was ready,
and Mrs. Merton was graciousness itself, both to Mr. Landon and to her
niece. Mr. Landon had quite recovered his fluency, and never appeared
to better advantage, while Olive was silent and abstracted, though she
did not seem particularly miserable.
By and by the gentleman took his leave, and Olive escaped to her own
room. We will not follow her, for she needs solitude, wherein to
collect her thoughts—to think what she has done and said—to wonder
whether any one was ever so happy or so thankful before.
It would be paying a poor compliment to Mrs. Merton's care and
discernment to imagine that she did not understand the whole matter.
She was a woman of great penetration, and very much accustomed to judge
of character. And, moreover, she was very skillful in drawing people
out, and making them display their true colors. She saw nothing to
object to, but very much to approve in the young lawyer, though she
believed he might be a little Quixotic in his ideas of duty. She was
very much pleased that he had, in a manner, referred the matter to her,
even before speaking to Olive. His character as a lawyer was high—very
high for so young a man, and he had a respectable property, and no
vulgar relations. She would, indeed, have preferred to have Olive
settled nearer home, and she could not help pitying her for being, in
all probability, condemned to spend her life in a country village—a
fate which seemed to her very deplorable, though Olive professed to
like it.
Still, Olive was not a belle; she did not care very much for society
and style, and all that, and she was not the kind of girl likely to
make a brilliant match. On the whole, as she said to Charlotte, Olive
had done quite as well as she expected—so different from that poor,
foolish child, Abby, whom they all thought would have turned out so
much better.
Olive was quite happy, when she received the congratulatory kiss of
her aunt and uncle, on coming down to dinner. Mr. Merton had seen and
talked with Walter, and expressed himself quite satisfied with the
young man's views. It was all talked over in the family council that
evening. Olive had quite made up her mind to return to Basswoods, and
fulfill her engagement there, and Mr. Merton supported her in this
resolve, against the opposition of his wife and Charlotte. The term
would be out in the middle of July, and she could then come home to
stay till she left it for good. The only other stipulation which Olive
made was that the engagement should be kept a secret.
"But what will you do about Laura?" suggested Charlotte. "You must tell
her."
"Yes, I suppose so, and perhaps it will be best to tell aunt, too, but
I dislike having such an affair the theme of conversation. And then, if
any thing happens—"
"I will manage that," said Mrs. Merton; "leave it to me, my dear." And
to her, Olive was quite content to leave it.
Finally, the matter was thus settled. Olive was to return to Basswoods
and finish her term there, giving Mr. Jones timely notice of her
intention to resign, and Mrs. Merton was to use her own discretion
about keeping the matter a secret. Olive tried timidly to bring in a
word in favor of Abby, but was stopped at once by her uncle.
"Not a word about that, Olive! I have conceded much—more, perhaps, than
I ought—in allowing you to visit her and correspond with her, and that
is all you must ask. She shall never enter this house again, till she
has, at least, expressed some sorrow for her misconduct, and a desire
to be forgiven."
Olive sighed, but she could only submit, in the hope that her uncle
would relent, or her sister come to her senses some day.
CHAPTER ELEVENTH.
SCHOOL was to begin on Wednesday as usual, and Olive arrived in
Basswoods on Monday evening at dusk. She found several people waiting
to welcome her—Mr. Gregory and Augusta, Mr. Landon and Mr. Jones,
and last not least, Mr. Prendergrass. As Olive shook hands with the
last named gentleman, and received his half-formal, half-embarrassed
greeting, her mind adverted for the first time to what Mrs. Dimsden had
so elegantly said, about her setting her cap for the school-master, and
she wondered whether there could be any possible danger of his making a
mistake—of his fancying that she was giving him encouragement, but she
dismissed it as too absurd to deserve consideration.
Ruth was not at the station, but was waiting for her at the door of
the old house which Olive was quite surprised to see looking as usual,
forgetting that houses do not generally change very much in the course
of four weeks. It seemed like home to be again in her comfortable,
cheerful room, which was just as she left it, except that a beautiful
bouquet stood in a little vase of biscuit-ware on the table.
"Louisa Landon brought that over," said Ruth, seeing that Olive's eyes
were fixed upon it, the moment she entered the room.
"Did she?" asked Olive, taking it up, to examine it.
"Why of course, you know she did," retorted Ruth shortly, but not
unkindly. "What is the use of pretending you don't? Don't you think I
have guessed all about it by this time?"
"I am glad you have, I am sure," said Olive, laughing and blushing;
"for it will save me the awkwardness of telling you, which I have been
dreading all the way. Well, what do you think about it?"
"Me! I don't know any thing about such things. I think Walter is a very
nice young man, and you are a very nice young woman, and I dare say you
will be as happy as most people. I hope so, I am sure."
Olive glanced at Ruth in surprise, and saw that she seemed a good deal
agitated, though she was stooping over Olive's trunk, as if to hide her
face from observation. The expression passed away as she looked, and
she was as calm as ever. Olive remembered the same look once before,
when Ruth had spoken of Augusta's brother, and she had wondered at the
time, but now something in her own feelings gave her a clue to her
friend's.
"Don't think I am cross, Olive," said Ruth presently. "Sometimes I
remember things I would rather forget, and it upsets me for a moment.
Cool as you think me, I was not always so. Augusta can tell you—she is
the only one who knows. I never speak or think of it, if I can help it.
I wish you every happiness, my dear, and I think your prospects are as
fair as any one's. I have known Walter from a child. Don't talk to me
now—I shall get quiet presently."
And when Olive met her a few minutes afterwards, she was as composed
and cheerful as usual, nor did she ever again advert to the subject.
From Augusta she afterwards learned part of the story. Frederick
Gregory was a young man of promising talents, and, as every one
thought, of good principles, but he went to college, so often only
another name for going to destruction. He was treated with a great deal
of attention, and often invited out, and at last fell into the hands of
one of those gangs of fashionable rascals, some of whom are to be found
in almost every city, who think it an excellent joke to draw in a young
man, first to drink, then to gamble, and so on, to utter ruin, and when
it is accomplished, hold up their hands in astonishment that any one
could be so weak.
Into such a set did Frederick Gregory fall. Mr. T's game-suppers and
little dinner-parties (for men only) were very pleasant, and his vanity
was flattered in being distinguished by such a fashionable man, albeit
he did not think Mr. T. as elegant as his father, or old Judge Landon
of Basswoods. One thing led to an other—"champaigne" to brandy-punch,
punch to clear brandy: which led to betting on the players, and that to
playing on his own account. Why pursue the story?
Frederick Gregory was expelled from the college for gross misconduct in
his third year. He went home for a short time, but life in his father's
house and under his mother's eye was unendurable to him. Fresh disgrace
and exposure followed, and at last he went to sea, and was never heard
of again.
Frederick and Ruth had been lovers almost from childhood, and though
their parents refused to recognize any engagement till Frederick should
have finished his college career, they considered themselves none the
less bound to each other. It was very long before Ruth could believe
that Frederick was as degraded as people said, but she was at last
convinced in a way not to be mistaken. The young man visited her one
evening when he was too far gone in intoxication to know what he was
about, and absolutely insulted her. Once convinced, her course was
taken.
The next morning she sent him a letter, breaking off the engagement,
and refusing to see him again, till he could give proof of his
reformation. He made no attempt to overcome her resolution, for he
had for some time felt his engagement to be only a restraint and an
annoyance. Before leaving Basswoods, he sent her a seal-ring which she
had given him before he went to college, with a note, thanking her for
having taken the first step towards a separation, and bidding her an
eternal farewell.
What Ruth felt on this occasion, nobody knew, unless it were Augusta.
She kept about her duties as usual, for two or three months. Then she
had a long and tedious fit of sickness, from which she rose up, cured
in body and mind. After a long storm, she had found a calm; she had
conquered in deadly strife, and was henceforth at peace with herself
and the world. She was sometimes haunted, as all of us are upon dark
days, with the ghosts of the enemies she had slain, but they were only
ghosts, and fled at daylight.
She lived for duty, and with the duties came many pleasures, but
her home was not here, "and all her heart was fixed above." Love
and marriage were things utterly out of the question with her, and
though she might have been comfortably established more than once,
she dismissed all her suitors with an indifference nowise flattering
to them, and very provoking to her mother, who could not see why Ruth
should be so foolish as to refuse such an excellent man as Mr. Brown,
the largest merchant in the place. She might have annoyed her daughter
not a little, had not Mr. Felton, for the first and last time in his
life, asserted his individuality, and forbidden her to say another word
on the subject, declaring that in this and all other matters, Ruth
should do just as she chose, a proceeding which besides silencing his
wife, amazed her to such a degree that she actually forgot to be lone
and low for as much as three days afterwards.
Olive was warmly welcomed by all her pupils, most of whom declared that
they were tired of vacation, and quite ready to begin school again.
The drawing-class had each a picture or two to show her, the results
of her holiday labors, and they were all delighted to find that they
could draw at home as well as in school. Miss Tucker was gone, her aunt
having concluded to send her to a seminary at a distance, where her
talents would be appreciated, and her feelings respected; such at least
was the reason she gave Olive, with an emphasis intended to be very
cutting, and Olive accepted it politely, glad to be rid of her on any
terms.
The school was smaller than it had been in the winter, as many of the
country pupils had returned to their homes to assist in the summer
labors of the dairy and the farm. Olive found some of her best pupils
missing, but she felt herself in some degree compensated by being able
to bestow more time and attention upon the rest. As she thought how
much she might do for them in a few years, she could not help feeling a
pang of regret at being obliged to leave them so soon. She had not yet
said any thing to Mr. Jones about her intention, nor did she mean to do
so, till about a month before the summer vacation, as that would afford
abundance of time to procure another teacher.
After she had been in Basswoods about two weeks, Olive received a
letter from Helen Monteith, and one from Abby at the same time. Helen
had been visiting Mrs. Granger, and had been to see Abby. She wrote to
Olive that they were comfortably established in the principal hotel
of the place, and that Abby liked it very much, but Mr. Forester was
discontented and talked of going to housekeeping as soon as he could
find a house.
"I think Abby dreads it," she said, "but she talks cheerfully about it,
and is quite sure she can learn. She seems rather subdued, and I think
feels very much the separation from her family. She thinks her uncle
and aunt are very hard-hearted to treat her with so much severity, and
really, I do not think she has the least idea of having done wrong. A
good many people have visited her, and some of Mr. Forester's relations
have sent her very handsome presents. I think they cherish the hope
that William may settle down and be steady now that he has a wife on
his hands; and perhaps he will. He certainly seems very fond of her."
Abby wrote in good spirits. She adverted to the housekeeping scheme,
and said they had been house-hunting several times, but rents were
high, and they had not found any thing desirable.
It was evident that Abby was coming to the conclusion that it cost
money to live, a fact of which she had never been in any degree
sensible before. She spoke of the kindness of Mr. Forester's relations,
and contrasted it with the sternness of her uncle and aunt Merton, by
whom she evidently felt herself very much abused. She exulted greatly
over Olive's engagement, and said she supposed her sister would now be
willing to admit that she had not been so very much to blame. She was
mistaken, however.
The more deeply Olive loved, the more she wondered at Abby's course.
The effect of her own attachment was to make her more and more anxious
to do her duty in every respect, to correct her faults, and to render
herself worthy of her lover, and her destiny as a wife and mother.
Her conscience had never been so quick to feel the first approach
of wrong, her thankfulness had never been so deep, or her desire of
self-consecration so entire as since she had been engaged.
She did not consider how different all this might have been, if Walter
had not had the deepest sympathy in all her religious feelings; if he
had not been her superior in religious experience; if he had regarded
the whole matter with indifference, or at best with a careless respect
as an institution very well suited to women and clergymen, and such
narrow-minded people; if he had gently laughed at her scruples, and
intimated that conscience was all very well, but there were instincts
and feelings of our nature much higher, and better guides, etc., etc.,
the cant of a certain fashionable school very much in favor with such
gentlemen as Mr. Forester.
Contrary to the well-known prediction, the course of Olive's true love
seemed likely to run very smooth indeed. Walter's business was very
prosperous, he had no debts, and he had sufficiently demonstrated the
fact of his being able to make a living. Olive's little property was in
an excellent shape, and she thought the proceeds of her year's labor
would go far toward fitting her out comfortably and respectably.
There seemed no reason why the young people should wait longer than
the first of October. Aunt Merton and her prime minister, Mammy, had
already begun to calculate how much sheeting, toweling, etc., etc.,
would be wanted, when an event happened which changed the face of
affairs very considerably.
Olive had been in school about eight weeks, when one Sunday, on taking
her seat in church, she found the desk occupied by a stranger, and she
was not long in recognizing the peculiar features and bearing of the
Rev. Dr. V., a gentleman well-known for his talents, both as a speaker
and a writer. She had heard him once before, and prepared herself for a
treat. She was not disappointed.
The Doctor's subject was the lack of young men for the ministry, and
most splendidly was it handled. There was enough of originality to
keep the attention awake, without any of that straining after effect
so painful and disgusting in some popular preachers. Every one in the
congregation was made to feel that the subject was an important one,
and one in which he or she had a share of responsibility. Chancing for
a moment to look away from the preacher, Olive met Walter's eye, filled
with an expression that thrilled to her very heart. She knew what he
was thinking of as well as though he had spoken.
"How do you like Dr. V.'s sermon?" he asked as they met after
Sunday-school in the porch.
"Very much," replied Olive, hardly knowing what she said; "it was a
powerful appeal, certainly."
They walked a little way in silence, and then Olive said earnestly:
"Walter, tell me what you are thinking of."
"I am thinking, Olive, whether this is not an appeal to me. Young men
are wanted, and I am young and strong. Who is there that can go better
than I?"
"It would be a great sacrifice," said Olive presently.
"Yes, a sacrifice to both of us—to me of wealth, fame, and almost all
the earthly objects I had set my heart upon; not to mention the fact,
that our marriage must be put off at least a year, and possibly longer.
Yes, it will be a sacrifice."
"Perhaps we ought not to take that so much into the account, as the
simple matter of what our duty is," said Olive gently. "Nothing, no
sacrifice can be so painful to me, Walter, as the idea of being a clog
upon you. I could bear any thing better than that."
"I am sure you never will be so, Olive," replied Waiter, earnestly.
"You have done me far too much good already for me to imagine such a
thing possible. But we will not be hasty. I will revolve the matter in
my own mind, and do you do the same. Perhaps I ought not to mention it
yet, but I can not bear to have a thought that you do not share."
The girls thought they had never seen Miss McHenry so absent as she was
in school, next day. She became aware of it herself after a little, and
exerted herself to be attentive to her duties, but it was hard work,
and she was glad when school was out.
A long solitary walk helped to compose her thoughts, but she still felt
almost as though she were dreaming.
"Olive looks tired to-night," Mrs. Felton remarked in her general way,
addressing no one in particular.
"I have taken a long walk," said Olive, trying to rouse herself from
her abstraction. "I have been up past the old red house on the banks of
the river."
"Do tell!" exclaimed Mrs. Felton. "That lonesome road, and so far too!
But you didn't go alone?"
"Yes, why not."
"Well, I declare! I wouldn't have done it for any money when I was your
age, and I don't know that I would now. Why, the old Vander Heyden
vault is on that road!"
"Well!"
"And the graves of the family that was murdered by the Indians, in the
old red house!"
"I never heard that," said Olive, with some interest; "what was it?"
Mrs. Felton loved nothing better than to tell a story, and moreover,
she had some talent for narration.