more and more that Abby, in her hasty and ill-advised marriage, had
made shipwreck of her life's happiness, and roused her indignation
more and more against her brother-in-law. She acquitted him of
deliberate tyranny and unkindness, but she could not help seeing how
systematically selfish he was—how he would let Abby go to market in
the rain, rather than take the trouble to order the dinner himself on
his way to his place of business. How he regularly took the best place
in the room, the best light by the window, the new book or newspaper
as soon as it came in. He would sit by the grate and let the fire
go entirely out, while Abby and Olive were shopping, or busy in the
kitchen, and he would never stir to make it up again unless he was
particularly requested to do so.
On Sunday evening he would not go with them to a church at some little
distance where a clergyman was officiating that Abby particularly
desired to hear, playfully excusing himself upon the ground of always
being sleepy at evening service, and disliking the style of music. But
the next day but one, he dragged them out to a picture-exhibition quite
at the other end of the town, though the day was damp and unpleasant,
and Abby had a bad cold. In short, he always considered himself first
of any one.
Olive could not guess whether Abby was at all aware of her husband's
failings. Of course she could not say a word about them, even if it
would have done any good. Several other things were very apparent. One
was, that Abby was not strong. She got very tired with her household
cares, few as they were in comparison with those of many people, and
the unaccustomed responsibility weighed on her mind. She really too
great pains to learn, and Olive assisted her as much as she could,
but many times did she see the tears start to the poor child's eyes
after she had taken great pains in the concoction of some dish for
dinner or tea, to hear some careless criticism from her husband, or his
often-repeated remark:
"I do not want you to do such things, Abby. Leave them to Katy.
How often must I tell you, my dear, that it is the part of a good
housekeeper to direct and not to work herself? You are getting really
quite coarse from working in the kitchen."
Then Abby's color would rise, and she would be unable to eat a
mouthful, while Mr. Forester would complacently enjoy the fruit of his
wife's labors.
"I do wish Abby were not so sensitive and touchy," he said to Olive one
day.
"We always thought she had a remarkably serene temper at home," replied
Olive. "You should remember how young she is—only seventeen now, and
the cares of life weigh heavily upon her."
"I do not think she has so very much to do," said Mr. Forester, in a
tone of injured innocence. "I take all I can upon myself; and I have
often seen women with much larger families who got on much better than
Abby does."
"I do not think Abby is very well," remarked Olive. "She looks very
pale oftentimes, and has not a particle of appetite in the morning."
Mr. Forester seemed rather alarmed, and for some days was so attentive
and considerate that Abby was quite happy, and Olive almost began to
like him.
But it did not last long; he soon became as careless as ever, and the
cloud settled again upon his little wife's spirits. It was touching
to see how she endeavored to deceive herself and Olive, how much she
made of every kindness, how proud she was of his accomplishments, and
how anxious to conceal his deficiencies. In all that related to her
affections for her husband, she was a woman: in every thing else, she
was a child.
She confessed to Olive after a while that she was often very home-sick,
and longed to see her uncle and aunt, and that she would have written
to beg pardon long before "if William had thought it best; not of
course that I would say I was sorry for having married him, you know,
but sorry that they were displeased at it. I can not bear to think of
their being angry," she said, her eyes overflowing. "I never could
endure to have even one of the girls in school put out with me."
"I do not think uncle would require you to say any thing more than that
you were sorry for having displeased him, but he thinks you ought to
make some acknowledgment of error, and indeed so do I."
"Do they ever talk of me?"
"Aunt does very often. She never writes without asking me whether I
have heard from you, and how you are. I can tell you, Abby, there are
not many orphan girls who have kinder friends than we have been blessed
with."
"Yet you were very anxious to make yourself independent of them."
"In a pecuniary point of view—yes! I felt as if it were wrong to be
dependent upon uncle for a living as long as I could support myself.
But I have never made myself in any way independent of their authority,
and have no wish to do so."
"Well," replied Abby, "what is done can not be helped. Perhaps matters
will take a turn before I see you again, if I ever do. Sometimes I
think I never shall."
"That is a foolish thought, my baby," said Olive, taking her sister's
head upon her lap as she used to do in school, to soothe Abby's
troubles; "why should you think so?"
"I don't know; I am not very well, and—you know mother died that way."
"But just think, Pussy, how many children are born every year, and
people get well directly; and as for mother, I don't think she would
have died but for the other troubles, father's death and the poverty
and all. You must not encourage these gloomy fancies indeed, my love.
It is worse than foolish, it is downright wrong. It is a want of faith
in God."
Abby sighed again deeply. "Dear Olive, I am very much to blame, I
know, about that and many things. I can not go to church as I used to.
William does not always want to attend, and I hate to go alone; and
even if I do, it does not seem to do me much good. I wish I were a
little girl again, as I was when I first went to uncle's to live, or
else I wish I had not been so happy all my life."
"But you must rouse yourself, Abby, my child," said Olive, cheerfully;
"you have never known care before, and you are very young indeed to
have the responsibility of a family upon your shoulders. But if you
keep up good courage and do your best, the hardest parts will soon be
past, and you will go on easier. Every one has some trouble at first."
"If I could only ever do right."
"I think you do wonders, both in cooking and housekeeping."
"William thinks I might get along with directing Katy, and doing
nothing myself," said Abby, "but I have tried and I can not. She is
good-natured, and willing to do any thing she can, but she is not much
of a cook, and she is careless unless I stand over her. I think she has
learned good deal, though."
"Oh! Yes, she has improved since I came. If you keep her a few months
longer, she will turn out an excellent servant, I am sure."
"But Olive, when I am sick will you come and be with me if you can? I
think I shall die if I am left alone."
"I promise you, baby. Keep up good courage, have faith in God, and I am
sure all will go well."
The vacation lasted six weeks, and Olive spent four with her sister.
She would willingly have devoted to her the whole six, but Mrs. Merton
would not hear of it. And she reluctantly took her leave.
"Olive has promised to come to me next winter if I want her," said Abby
to her husband after she had done crying.
"Has she?" replied Mr. Forester absently, and working busily at a
sketch of "the East Wind," that had occupied him and the only table in
the room for several evenings. "But don't you think after all, my love,
that it is pleasanter to be by ourselves? Olive is very nice, but she
is a little severe, a little trying, with her extremely practical ways.
But never mind," he added, seeing Abby's eyes ready to overflow again.
"You shall have her if you want her, my dear, if she were ten times as
practical. Only, I hope you do not mean to cry so every time she goes
away, or I shall wish her somewhere else. I can't bear to see women
cry, and you of all others. Come now, don't shed any more tears, but
look at my head of the east wind, and tell me how you like it."
Abby dried her eyes, looked at the picture, and was duly interested.
She tried to keep from crying afterwards, and sustained her spirits
wonderfully, considering how much she was alone.
Mrs. Granger interested herself much in the poor child, as she called
her, and went to see her as often as she could, giving her many useful
hints about household management, etc., but she was of course much
engaged.
Abby had many lonely hours, when it was very hard not to dwell upon the
dark side of the picture, when she could not help seeing that her idol
was not a god—that even marriage with a man she loves is not enough to
make a woman happy.
But in these very lonely hours she found comfort after a while. The
lessons she had learned ever so long ago at her mother's knee began
to come back to her; many a passage learned in Sunday-school invested
itself with a new meaning. The little Bible she had brought away with
her came to lie in her work-basket, and chapters which used to be only
tasks now became full of divinest comfort. The poor child crept timidly
near, and laid her weary head on her Saviour's arm. Thus she grew
happier by degrees, and wrote so much more cheerfully that Olive was
quite encouraged about her.
Olive's vacation at home was very pleasant. No one could be kinder
than Mrs. Merton, though the sight of her niece seemed to renew her
indignation at Mr. Landon's eccentricity, and Olive had to summon all
her philosophy to meet the expression of it.
Charlotte, for a wonder, supported Olive, against her mother, and
declared that Mr. Landon was right and consistent, and that she
respected him for the course he had taken, though she was sorry for
Olive's disappointment about getting settled in a home of her own.
Mrs. Merton was vexed, then laughed, called them a pair of romantic
girls, and declared they would know better when they were older.
"Of course you think every thing Walter does is just right, now. But
wait till you have been married ten years."
"Or till I have been married as long as aunt Rebecca," Olive ventured
to say laughingly. "Now tell me honestly, aunt, don't you think uncle
Merton is about as perfect as human nature allows any one to be?"
"Oh!—Well, yes, perhaps so. But your uncle would never do any thing so
romantic."
"That depends upon what you call romantic. Some people would have
thought it a very romantic proceeding to adopt two orphan girls, and
give them an expensive education."
"Yes, I know many people did say so, but I assure you, my dear, we
have never regretted it—not even when poor Abby disappointed us so
sadly. And now, Olive, tell me all about the poor child. I have had no
opportunity to ask you. Does she seem comfortable? Is her husband kind
to her?"
"I do not think he means to be unkind, aunt. I believe he loves her as
well as he can love any one but himself. But he is selfish in little
things, and not very considerate, and I think Abby feels it."
"Of course she must," said Mrs. Merton emphatically. "A constant
display of small selfishness will do more to render a household
uncomfortable than even very serious faults of temper. And how are they
situated in a pecuniary point of view? Do they seem to have enough?"
Olive thought they seemed comfortable for the present, but she had
doubts for the future. "Mr. Forester has given up his nursery business,
and says he has lost money by it."
"Why did he do that?" asked Charlotte.
"So far as I could find, his only reason was that he discovered it to
be work instead of play. He said his partner cared for nothing but
making money, and persisted in planting all the trees in straight
lines. He is keeping books, now. But I don't believe he will persevere
in it long. Abby tries very hard. It is really affecting to see the
pains she takes to learn to cook and to sew. I am certain she never
worked so hard at any school-lesson as she did to learn to make
soda-biscuits."
"Poor, dear child!" said Mrs. Merton. "Only to think of her little
hands doing such things. And does her husband appreciate her efforts?"
"I don't believe he does. He does not think there is any need of her
working, herself, and I have heard him tell her, two or three times,
that if she only knew how to direct, there would be no need of her
putting her hand to any thing."
"How absurd!" said Charlotte. "I wonder how my father would get on in
his office, on that principle, or a merchant in his store?"
"It troubles Abby very much, and discourages her, too," said Olive.
"And how do you think Abby felt about us?" asked Mrs. Merton. "Do you
think she ever feels as if she would like to see us again? I don't want
you to betray confidence, my dear," she added, seeing Olive hesitate,
"but I feel anxious to know."
"I do not know that I shall betray any confidence in telling my own
thoughts, aunt," said Olive. "I think Abby would very gladly ask to be
forgiven, if Mr. Forester would let her. She would not say that she was
sorry she married him, of course."
"Certainly not," interrupted Mrs. Merton. "We should never ask that."
"But I do think it makes her very unhappy to be so entirely separated
from the family. She made me promise to be with her at the time of her
confinement, if I could, but I shall not be surprised if Mr. Forester
contrives to prevent it, for I know very well he does not like me. Abby
is very low-spirited about it, and thinks she shall never get well. I
am afraid she is sad enough, when she is alone, as of course she must
be, a great deal of the time."
"Poor child!" sighed Mrs. Merton again. "How I do wish I could send
and have her here, at home! If she would only take one step toward a
reconciliation, I am sure your uncle would forgive her at once."
"I am sure he would, if he were to see her."
"Well, my love, we will have patience; all will be brought round yet. I
am sure I wish poor Abby well, with all my heart!" A fact which Olive
did not in the least doubt.
Laura seemed to be going on in much the same way as ever, but Olive
did not see her. Mrs. Dimsden had taken her down to the sea-shore, and
from there to Saratoga, where her dazzling beauty and sweet manners
attracted much attention. Laura seemed to be in Paradise, to judge
from her letters, which were very long, and so filled from end to end
with descriptions of dances, parties, and every thing of that sort,
that Olive hardly had patience to read them through. Now that Abby was
in some degree separated from her, she felt more and more painfully
the distance between herself and Laura. They did not seem to have one
thought in common.
Charlotte was much more of a companion to her, though they differed so
widely upon many points. She was at least serious and thoughtful. She
was not impatient of half an hour's grave conversation, and she had a
thorough respect for goodness in others.
Laura valued people by their dress, their station, their fine houses,
and above all, by their degree of fashion. It was respectable to go to
church, and besides, it was a good place to see and be seen, so she
went regularly, and knelt gracefully at all proper places, but she did
not like the preaching, especially Doctor Eastman's preaching, and she
wished they would leave that out. She thought his personal appeals to
the hearts and consciences of his flock very Methodistical, such being
the title given by a great many people to any thing like earnestness.
She could understand, or thought she could, the motives of Miss
Eustace, an heiress, and a very beautiful and dignified person, in
presenting a superb altar-cloth and set of cushions to the church, but
she could not comprehend why the same Miss Eustace should sit back with
her Sunday scholars, every Sunday, and find all their places for them,
or why she should spend a great deal of her time in working for them,
when no one would know it, unless by accident. Laura lived entirely in
and for this world, and thought or cared no more for any other than if
she had had no soul.
Olive returned to Basswoods, feeling as if the winter would be rather
a long one. Walter was not there. He had gone, after a short visit in
M., to pursue his studies at a distance. He was to return at Christmas
for a week, and to this week she looked forward as a weary passenger on
shipboard looks for the land.
The school filled up at once, and so many large girls came in, that
Olive, after a good deal of consideration and consultation, came to the
conclusion that it would by necessary to have another teacher for the
little ones. Mrs. Tucker and a few of her special adherents, who had
formed a sort of party against Olive, manœuvred greatly to get this
appointment into their own hands. Mrs. Tucker wished to give it to a
young friend of her own, and, by what she considered a master-stroke of
policy, she invited that young lady to come and make her a visit during
the vacation. Miss Lambert was really a nice sort of girl, and would
have answered Olive's purpose very well, but Mrs. Tucker had reckoned
without her host, and like some other great generals, had out-manœuvred
not her adversary, but herself. Mr. Jones heard his sister-in-law's
innuendoes and suggestions very patiently, for some time.
"Sister Tucker," he broke out at last, "do you really think the
trustees are going to do such a mean and uncivil thing as to put an
assistant into the school without consulting Miss McHenry's wishes
about it?"
"I don't see the incivility," replied Mrs. Tucker, a good deal alarmed,
but standing her ground. "If Miss McHenry did not like it, she could
leave."
"Yes, and that is what you want. Because she checked Melissa in her
tattling when she first came, as you ought to have done yourself
long ago, you have always been against her. Now, listen to me. These
insinuations against Miss McHenry must be put a stop to, at once and
forever. They do you no credit, let me tell you, either as a woman or a
Christian, and you do Miss Lambert great harm. She seems a pretty good
girl, and if Miss McHenry approves of her, there may be no objection to
having her. But not one step shall be taken without her concurrence."
Mrs. Tucker could only murmur something about "not meaning any harm."
"Then be careful you don't do any harm. I have seen so much malice, and
so much mischief under that cloak of not meaning any harm, that I don't
think much of it."
In effect, Miss McHenry, understanding the state of the case, willing
to conciliate, and having seen Miss Lambert and conversed with her away
from her champion, Mrs. Tucker, was very well pleased with her, and
signified to the trustees that she had no objection to their giving her
the vacant place.
Mrs. Tucker exulted greatly, but her triumph was of short duration.
For Miss Lambert, being really an honest, good-hearted, affectionate
girl, and positively declining to tell tales out of school, and
submitting herself entirely to the guidance of her principal, Mrs.
Tucker considered her as having gone over to the enemy, and quarrelled
with her, accordingly. It became necessary for her to seek a new
boarding-place, and as she had abundance of room, Olive persuaded Mrs.
Felton to take her.
Maria was young, and her opportunities had not been great. She
delighted to read and study under Olive's direction, and she, on her
part, grew very much attached to her, and so ended an affair which
might have been a very serious one for our heroine, had her friends
been one whit less straightforward or sensible.
But Miss Lambert did not remain through the year, for a very good
reason—an excellent reason, indeed, since it was no other than Mr.
Prendergrass. That gentleman had fallen into the habit of visiting at
least once a week at Mrs. Felton's, and to him habit was second nature.
So he kept on visiting there, as usual, after Olive returned. And now
that there was no farther danger of mistakes, Olive was very glad to
see him.
But after Miss Lambert came, she began to perceive, with much
amusement, that she was not the principal attraction. He talked to
her, indeed, but he looked at Maria. She was very glad to observe,
after a little, that Maria herself had no objection to have Mr.
Prendergrass look at her, that she was glad to see him when he came,
and low-spirited if he went away early, or failed to present himself at
the usual time.
At last, one day, not long after the holidays, Maria came to Olive's
room, and with blushes, and smiles, and tears, and much pretty
confusion, acquainted her with the fact that Mr. Prendergrass had
offered himself to her, and wished to be advised.
"About what does Maria wish to be advised?" Olive asked.
Maria wanted to be advised whether she should marry Mr. Prendergrass or
not.
"That depends entirely upon circumstances, my dear. If you do not love
him, you ought not to marry him."
"But I am afraid I do love him," sobbed Maria.
"Then you had better marry him, by all means, my love, if there is no
other objection. He is a most excellent man, and no doubt will make you
very happy."
"You know I have neither father nor mother," said Maria. "I have hardly
a friend in the world but you."
"Don't think of marrying simply for a home, Maria. I would rather you
did almost any thing else."
"I don't indeed, Miss McHenry. I would rather go to the poor-house. But
I do like him so very much, and he is so good—that—that—"
"That you can not help crying about it," said Olive smiling, and
kissing her. "My love, I think you could hardly have done better, and I
wish you joy with all my heart. Now then, dry your eyes and answer Mr.
Prendergrass's note and don't keep the poor man in suspense any longer."
"Poor man," she thought as Maria left the room. "I need not have
distressed myself so much about breaking his heart and all that. I do
not believe men's hearts are so easily fractured after all."
Olive felt some awkwardness upon meeting and congratulating her former
lover upon his approaching marriage, but there was no necessity for any
embarrassment upon her part, for he evidently felt none. The fact that
he had once cared himself to Olive seemed to have passed entirely from
his mind, and he could think of nothing and look at nothing but his
dear Maria.
There was no reason why the marriage should be delayed, as Mr.
Prendergrass beside his salary had a comfortable little property, the
result of his savings for many years.
Augusta and Ruth helped Olive to put Maria's wardrobe into a state
befitting so grand an occasion. She had many presents, indeed quite a
setting out of plate and china from those who took an interest in the
motherless girl. The wedding took place at Mrs. Felton's and was quite
a splendid affair. Contrary to the forebodings of those who knew his
habits, Mr. Prendergrass was not late and did not forget the ring.
Maria looked very lovely, the bridegroom very manly and sensible, and
every one was pleased except Mrs. Tucker.
That lady was not pleased. She thought Mr. Prendergrass ought to be
ashamed of himself to marry such a little chit of a girl as Maria
Lambert—a man of "his" age! It was all an affair of Miss McHenry's
getting up, and just like her. Maria had been a good girl before she
fell under that woman's influence—but she had shown the disposition of
a serpent in going to Mrs. Felton's, as if that lady was in the habit
of taking reptiles to board, and she would have no more to do with her:
so she would not go to the wedding, though Maria invited her, and would
not call upon her, though they lived very near—a circumstance which
probably did not detract in the least from the happiness of Maria's
married life.
It was wonderful and exceedingly pleasant to see how Mr. Prendergrass
improved under the influence of his young wife. He learned to dress,
talk, and comport himself much like ordinary mortals, discovered that
there were other objects in life besides books, and entertained company
at home with great propriety. Maria was as happy as the day was long,
thought her husband the most wonderful of men, and herself the happiest
woman in the world, especially after Olive consented to take her
younger sister in her place. She insisted upon Olive's coming to make
them a visit.
And Olive accepted the invitation and enjoyed it greatly, thinking at
least once every day how much Mr. Prendergrass was superior to Mr.
Forester though he could not have told a Claude from a Turner—and his
musical knowledge, like the western gentleman's, only amounted to two
tunes, one of which was Old Hundred and the other wasn't; and how much
happier Maria was than poor Abby.
CHAPTER FOURTEENTH.