"Yes, we shall take her to her aunt, in Georgia. I hope the change and
the journey will do her good, for she is still sadly delicate. Jenny
will be very lonely without her, I fear."
"Poor Mrs. Vander Heyden! How very sad she seems," said Olive, after
the lady had gone. "I was very much surprised at her offer, were not
you?"
"Not so much as I should have been a year ago," replied Augusta. "The
family have lived, hitherto, almost entirely within themselves, and I
believe, felt themselves quite beyond the need of neighborly sympathy.
But the death of poor Annette, and the long-continued illness of Agnes
and Jenny, have taught them a good lesson. I do not know what would
have become of them, if they had been done by as they have been in
the habit of doing to others. It shows what a really noble nature the
woman has, that she has learned the lesson, and is ready to repair and
acknowledge her error."
In the year which she had spent in school, Olive had learned to have
not only a great respect, but also a really friendly regard for her
partner in the institution. It is said that we are apt to like those
whom we have benefited, and if so, it is no wonder that Olive liked Mr.
Prendergrass. She had certainly, done him a great deal of good. She
had coaxed him out of his seclusion, and persuaded him into society;
she had made him laugh heartily, more than once. She knew, too, how to
draw out his vast and miscellaneous stores of thought and information,
so as to make him an entertaining companion. But it was not merely his
learning that commanded admiration. He was so thoroughly good, his
feelings were so elevated and dignified, his piety so earnest, every
thing about him so sincere and true, that Olive had a hearty reverence
for him, and looked up to him with an almost daughterly regard, at the
same time that she could not help being sometimes amused and sometimes
annoyed by his eccentricities, and she now and then laughed at him a
little, when she was with Ruth or Augusta. In what light he regarded
her, we shall soon see.
One Wednesday evening Olive did not go to church, as usual. She was not
very well, and had had a fatiguing day in school. She would not allow
any one to stay at home with her, and they all went, leaving her to
enjoy that not unpleasant degree of indisposition which may be defined
as too unwell to work and not too unwell to enjoy a new book. In this
peaceful state, she had established herself upon the sofa, and given
herself up to the fascinations of the "Princess."
It was not a very pleasant interruption to hear Mr. Prendergrass's
voice, inquiring if Miss. McHenry was at home. But she put down her
book, turned her feet off the sofa, and prepared to be gracious,
wondering all the time what had kept him from church, when the
clergyman himself was hardly more punctual than he.
The fact was, that Mr. Prendergrass had, for a long time, been trying
to work his courage up to the point necessary for making a declaration
of love to Miss McHenry. He lived, in general, so entirely out of the
world, and was habitually so abstracted, that the report of Olive's
engagement to Walter had never reached him, or had fallen upon
unheeding ears. For the first time in his life, he had fallen into the
society of a pretty, cultivated girl. The teachers before Olive had
made no more impression upon him than the desks, or other furniture
of the school-room. In fact, he had looked upon women in general as
necessary evils, to be endured and made the best of.
Olive was entirely different. She had begun by a tacit but decided
declaration of independence. She was clearly not afraid of him, though
she treated him with respect. She often disagreed with him, and
sometimes laughed at him. The consequence of all which was, that Mr.
Prendergrass, before he knew what he was about, fell violently in love
with Miss McHenry. It was a long time before he would acknowledge the
fact to himself, and still longer before he could make up his mind to
inform the object of his affections. But when he saw the Felton family
going to church without her, and ascertained that she was at home,
alone, he thought it would never do to allow so good an opportunity to
pass by unimproved.
Olive never knew, exactly, how he contrived to make her understand
the matter. She was so utterly astonished, so shocked and grieved at
having unwittingly led the good man into an error that for a moment she
could not say a word. Mr. Prendergrass evidently took her silence for
encouragement.
"May I hope, Miss Olive," he said, in a trembling voice, and changing
his first seat for one upon the sofa, at her side, "that you will
listen to my humble suit with favor? I am aware of my unworthiness, and
your exalted merit, but if the devotion of so humble an individual as
myself can make you happy—"
"Stop, pray stop, Mr. Prendergrass!" exclaimed Olive, finding her voice
at last. "I am so very sorry. I am afraid I have been very much to
blame." And girl-like, she burst into tears.
Poor Mr. Prendergrass was inexpressibly shocked and alarmed.
"Don't weep, pray don't, my dear Miss McHenry! What have I said to
cause you a moment's grief?"
"It is not what you have said," replied Olive, recovering her calmness,
"but I fear I have been very much to blame. I looked up to you so much,
Mr. Prendergrass—I felt you were so much above me, and so much older
that I never thought of your caring any thing more for me than as a
friend."
Mr. Prendergrass felt his heart sink fathoms deep, but he did not mean
to give it up quite yet. "Respect is an essential agreement in the
marriage-covenant. Do you not think so, Miss McHenry?" he asked timidly.
"Yes, sir, certainly, but something more than respect is necessary."
"You refer to love, Miss McHenry! Is that entirely out of the question,
madam? So far as I myself am concerned, I repeat that life itself is
not dearer to me than my Olive."
The dignity and earnestness with which the good man spoke, brought the
tears again to Olive's eyes, but she forced them back, and determined
to put an end to the scene at once.
"You will see that it is quite impossible, Mr. Prendergrass, when I
tell you that I have been engaged to Mr. Landon ever since my return.
I regret, very much, that any thing in my conduct should have led to
such a mistake on your part, and I fear I have been to blame in not
foreseeing it. But, as I said, I have been in the habit of looking up
to you so much that it never struck me as possible."
Her tone, even more than the words, convinced Mr. Prendergrass that his
visit was hopeless. He rose and walked up and down the room a few times.
"Miss McHenry," he said at last, stopping before her, "why did you ever
come here? I was happy before that. I lived in my duties and my books,
contented in solitude. I felt the need of nothing. You drew me out of
myself, and away from my studies. You, first of any woman in the world,
commanded my respect. You made me perfectly happy for a time, happier
than I ever knew any one could be, only to plunge me in utter misery.
Why did you not leave me alone?"
He walked once more the length of the room.
"Now what am I to do? I can not go back to my old way of life, and
be happy in it, after the year of enjoyment I have passed. I can not
forget you, even if it were possible to myself, since I must meet you
every day. I have given you every thing, and left myself poor indeed,
only to contribute to your amusement, and be cast aside for a younger
man, who, whatever may be his merits, never can love you better than
the poor awkward school-master with whom you have diverted yourself,
without a thought of the mischief you were doing."
"Mr. Prendergrass, I can not permit this," said Olive, with dignity.
"I make great allowances for your disappointment, but you do great
injustice, both to me and to yourself, when you accuse me of trifling
with you. I found you, as you say, shut up with your books, and I
thought it a great pity. I tempted you from your seclusion, not to
amuse myself with you—such a thought never entered my mind—but because
I thought it would be much better for you, while your society would be
pleasant to others. You have never given me the least reason to think
that I was more to you than any other young lady in the village. I have
no more to say, except that when you are more yourself, I am sure you
will do me justice."
Mr. Prendergrass stood a moment. "Forgive me, Miss McHenry. I have
spoken improperly, and you are right, as you always are. Good-night."
"We part friends, at least, I hope," said Olive, offering him her hand.
He took it in a grasp which almost crushed it, pressed it to his lips,
and pulling his hat over his eyes, he left the house, passing Mrs.
Felton at the gate, without even a sign of salutation.
"What on earth ails the man?" said Mrs. Felton to her daughter. "I
should not wonder if he had got the neuralgia again. Why, where's
Olive?" she continued, as she entered the sitting-room, and found it
vacant. "I don't believe but that she is real sick. Hadn't you better
go up and see?"
Ruth went up, but did not go in. She had an inkling of the state of the
case, and she thought Olive would prefer to be alone, so she contented
herself with asking, at the door, if Olive wanted any thing, and then
went to her own room.
Olive would have given a good deal if she could have avoided meeting
her rejected lover the next morning, but there was no help for it. And
she determined to put the best face she could upon the encounter.
Mr. Prendergrass rose and bade her good morning, as usual, when she
entered the large room, following her train of girls.
Glancing at him, after she was seated, she was shocked to see how he
was altered. He looked ten years older, at least. His eyes were hollow,
and there was an expression of forlorn wretchedness about him, which
went to Olive's heart. His voice, however, was full and firm as ever in
going through the morning prayers.
When school was out, at noon, Mr. Prendergrass entered the library,
where Olive was, searching for something in one of the book-cases.
"Allow me a moment, Miss McHenry," he said, in his formal way, and
closing the door. "I made myself very ridiculous last night," he
continued, "and I fear gave you great pain."
"On the contrary, you never commanded my respect more," said Olive
warmly, "and the only pain I felt was for your disappointment, and the
fear that I had lost your friendship."
"You are very kind to say so." He paused a moment. "From henceforth let
the whole matter be forgotten, so far as possible. I entirely acquit
you of any wrong in the matter, and blame only my own folly and vanity."
Olive would have interrupted him, but he waved his hand, and proceeded.
"We will say no more about it, if you please. I believe Mr. Landon to
be a worthy and excellent young man, and I greatly respect him for the
course which I understand he has lately taken. I hope you may both
be happy, and so long as I know 'you' are so, I can never be quite
wretched. God bless you!"
He bowed, and was gone, leaving Olive to wonder whether, if she had
never seen Walter, she might not, in the course of time, have fallen in
love with this honorable, noble, kind-hearted, formal, eccentric piece
of humanity.
School was out at last, and us the scholars assembled once more to
receive their prizes and to bid good-by, Olive felt sadly at leaving
them, even for the vacation. She had expected when she returned for
the summer term, to give up her charge entirely at this time, and to
return to Basswoods as Mrs. Landon. A great change had passed over her
prospects. She was none the less happy, but it was a calm and subdued
happiness. Those who saw only the outside pitied her disappointment,
but she told Augusta that if she could, by turning her hand, reverse
the whole matter, she would not do it.
"I respect and love him more than ever, when I see him making such
sacrifices to what we both feel to be paramount duty," said she, "and
I never think of it but with a thankful heart that we are both of one
mind."
"Mr. Prendergrass is going to travel this vacation; only think of
that!" said Ruth. "He has not been out of Basswoods before, except to
York to buy books, for ten years. He says he is going to the White
Mountains, and up the St. Lawrence, and so home by the way of Niagara.
I only hope the poor man will not get lost."
"Perhaps he will only get married," said Augusta. "You look quite
indignant, Olive, but let me tell you, my dear, there is truth in the
saying that 'many a heart is caught in the rebound.'"
"I was not aware that I looked indignant," replied Olive, coloring. "It
is nothing to me, of course, but it does not seem very probable."
The girls smiled and turned the conversation, leaving Olive wondering
why she should have felt a little vexed at the idea of Mr. Prendergrass
being married.
She had expected to go alone to B., but when the day came, she found
Walter prepared to accompany her.
"I can afford myself so much of a holiday," he said, in answer to her
remonstrances, "and I do not choose to have you travel alone, if it can
be helped. Besides, I want to see your sister and Forester. You know he
was a classmate of mine. We used to be thought very much alike."
Olive wondered where the resemblance could have been, as she contrasted
the high-flown æsthetics and refined selfishness of her accomplished
brother-in-law, with the hearty, manly energy, and determined
self-sacrifice of her lover: the one pampering his mind and indulging
his taste for idleness with all sorts of pretty and petty amusements
which he dignified by the name of intellectual pursuits; the other
devoting all his energies to the profession he had chosen, and only
relinquishing it at the call of a still higher duty. She did not
express her thoughts to her companion, but perhaps he guessed them, for
he said presently:
"You must not judge Forester too harshly. He has been a spoiled child
all his life; petted, waited on, and admired by father and mother,
brothers and sisters. He had talent, and they thought it genius,
and accordingly humored him in all his pursuits, and gratified
all his desires. After living upon his father till he was nearly
five-and-twenty, it was naturally not easy for him to settle down to
business at once. He was admired and courted in society, and that
finished the spoiling."
"All that need not have made him dishonorable and false," said Olive,
"as he certainly was, so far as Abby was concerned."
"Perhaps it need not, but I think you will find that idleness and
self-indulgence are very apt to have that effect after a time. We will
not despair of him, however, my dear Olive. The fact of his having
a wife dependent upon him may force upon his mind the necessity of
exerting himself."
Olive tried to hope so, but it must be confessed she did not feel very
sanguine. They arrived in B. in the afternoon, and after some little
trouble, succeeded in finding the house—a small brick cottage in a
retired street, and Walter left her at the door, promising to return in
the evening.
Her sister met her with open arms, and then followed the usual amount
of tears, laughter, clapping of hands, and other demonstrations, common
to all Abby's great occasions.
"You are just as much of a child as ever, Abby," said Olive, when she
was finally settled in the parlor.
"Why, no, I think not quite," replied Abby, sobering down a little. "I
have learned some things since I saw you. Only think, Olive, I have
been a wife almost six months, and you are not married yet, nor likely
to be very soon."
"I am very well contented as I am," said Olive.
"Yes, I dare say; you always are, you know. But how do you like our
house? You see it is not in a fashionable neighborhood, and the house
is not large nor splendid, but it is comfortable."
"It looks so," said Olive, looking round. "I see you have a piano."
"Yes, Mrs. Forester sent me that. Wasn't she kind? So different from—"
"Hush! Abby," interposed Olive, "I will not hear one word against uncle
or aunt Merton. They have been kinder to you than you deserve, and you
know what I thought from the beginning. You have never, so far as I
know, intimated a wish to be forgiven."
"William says it is not my place to do so," said Abby. "He says they
ought to make the first advances, and that uncle has insulted him.
Not," she added hastily, "that I should do so, even if he would let me.
But we had better not talk about that! Let me take you up to your room:
you must be tired, and when William comes in, we will get your trunks
up. I used to wonder how people kept house without a man, but I am
finding out."
Olive begged her sister not to trouble herself, and accompanied
her up-stairs to the bedroom destined for her. It was small, but
well-furnished, and tolerably neat, though showing signs of needing the
dusting-brush.
"The dust settles on every thing so," said Abby. "I can't think why it
is. We did not use to see any dust at aunt Merton's. I hope you will
not laugh at my housekeeping, Olive! I do my best, but I know very well
things do not go on as they used to at home."
"Aunt Merton has excellent servants, and plenty of them," said Olive,
encouragingly, "and she has kept house a good many years, while you are
only a beginner. You will soon learn."
"I hope so," said Abby, "for I do hate to have things go wrong. Emma
Forester was here the first fortnight, and you don't know how nice
it was. She is not a bit like William—not at all a genius, though
she is cultivated. William says she cares for nothing but sewing and
Sunday-schools, but she is a real housekeeper, and I am sure Katy did
better for her than she does for me."
"Why did she not stay?" asked Olive.
"Oh! Her mother and Emmeline wanted her, and she had to go home. But
there comes William, and I must go down and have the trunks brought up."
Olive heard, accordingly, an argument down in the hall, which ended in
the trunks being dragged up-stairs by a stout, good-natured English
girl.
"I am afraid they are rather too heavy for you," said Olive kindly.
"Oh! No, indeed. I'm very stout, you see, and Mrs. Forester is far too
delicate to put her hand to such a thing."
Olive wondered whether that were the only alternative but she dressed
herself and went down-stairs.
Mr. Forester, in dressing-gown and slippers, was stretched upon the
sofa in the parlor, reading a newspaper. He rose, however, when she
entered, and greeted her with his accustomed easy cordiality.
"So you have come to see how far we have gone in the way of destruction
you so kindly prophesied to us!" said he, after a few common-place
inquiries.
"I don't remember expressing any such prophecy," replied Olive.
"Ah! Well, you thought so, and your pattern uncle thinks so still."
"Perhaps we had better let that branch of the subject rest," said
Olive. "We shall not be likely to agree any better than we did before,
and I can not consent to hear my uncle spoken of, except with respect."
"Very well," said Mr. Forester good-naturedly, "there are enough of
other subjects to talk about. What has become of Landon, and why did he
not come up with you?"
"He is in town," replied Olive, "and will be here this evening. I
learned this morning, for the first time, that you were class-mates."
"Yes, surely. We never were very intimate, though. Landon was one of
those plodding fellows, who give their whole energies to the daily
routine of study, and are great favorites with faculty and tutors in
consequence. He is just the man to make a lawyer or a minister."
"Walter is very industrious," replied Olive. "I think sometimes he
hardly allows himself as much recreation as he needs, but his health
is good, and he always gives himself up entirely to every thing he
undertakes."
"Yet he has given up the study of law as well as William," remarked
Abby, who had just come in.
"No one can say that he has consulted his ease in so doing," replied
Olive, smiling, "since the one he has chosen is much more laborious,
besides being worse paid."
"I can not conceive why he should have made the exchange," said
William; "he always seemed to enjoy the idea of studying law."
"He thought it was his duty to do so."
"His duty! Yes, that sounds just like him," laughed Mr. Forester. "'My
duty' always settled every thing for him. But, Abby, is not tea ready?
I am sure it is past the time."
"It is just ready," was the reply; "I came in to tell you so."
"I don't remember hearing any thing about it. Abby is not much of a
housekeeper, Miss McHenry. I wonder your good aunt did not give her
lessons."
"Girls of seventeen are not apt to be good housekeepers," was the reply
that rose to Olive's lips, but she checked herself, and said simply:
"Abby has been a great deal in school, and she has had very little
experience. She will do very well, I dare say."
"Oh! Yes, of course. Don't color so, little wife: you know you said as
much yourself this morning."
The tea was very nice and abundant, though plain. The biscuits
especially were very nice, and Olive noticed them.
"I made them myself," said Abby, her eyes sparkling with pleasure.
"Emma taught me while she was here."
"You were an apt scholar, certainly," replied her husband, helping
himself to another. "But, my love, I should rather you would try your
skill in teaching Katy, than in doing such things yourself. A good
housekeeper directs, instead of doing—is head, and not hands."
Abby looked mortified, and Olive felt indignant.
"I am inclined to think, if you were to try it, you would sometimes
find it necessary to be head and hands too," said she: "at least, I
never saw a housekeeper who did not."
Mr. Forester smiled and turned the conversation, but poor Abby's
spirits had received a check. She evidently felt a good deal like a
child who has taken a good deal of pains in preparing a present, and
then hears it criticised by the person for whom it is intended. Mr.
Forester seemed quite unconscious of having said any thing unkind, and
continued to make himself very gracious to Olive, and to Mr. Landon
when he appeared.
"How do you like your new business?" asked Walter.
"What do you mean, the nursery business? Oh! I gave that up, long ago.
My partner, who was a stupid fellow, thought I ought to take half the
labor of superintendence; and it did not suit me to be out in all
weathers. Besides, I did not like his ideas. I wanted to make the
grounds picturesque and pretty, but he had a notion that it was much
more convenient to plant the trees in straight rows all of a sort, with
a stake at the head of each. There was no beauty or grace in that!
Then, it really seems a very heartless thing to sell for money, a tree
or shrub which one has raised and nourished. So I gave it up, and lost
some money by it. I am keeping books now, till something better comes
along."
"Play something, Abby," said Olive. "Have you learned any thing new?"
"Not very lately; my hands have been too full."
She played and sung better than ever, Olive thought, but Mr. Forester
thought she did not give exactly the correct expression.
"I really wish my ear was not so fastidious, Miss McHenry. It deprives
me of any pleasure in ordinary music, and has prevented me from
practising enough to make a good player myself."
Once more Abby looked uncomfortable, and Olive felt indignant. She
persuaded her sister to sing again and sang with her, Mr. Forester
talking all the time to Mr. Landon of the comparative merits of Jenny
Lind and Sontag. So the evening passed.
Mr. Landon took his leave early, promising to call the next morning
before he left town.
And Olive retired, feeling more than ever anxious about Abby's future.
She could see, now that she looked at her, that Abby was thinner than
usual—that she had lost much of her animation, and looked careworn. She
thought she saw in Mr. Forester the beginning of what she feared he
would become, when the first novelty of getting a wife and having his
own way about it was worn off—a selfish, exacting, careless husband,
seeking his own ease, and troubling himself very little about the
comfort of his wife. There were no signs of God being acknowledged
in the family—no grace at table, no evening prayers, not even a
family Bible in the parlor. She went to sleep at last, so full of sad
forebodings for Abby that she almost forgot to be thankful for herself.
CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.