fault of her own, but because Mr. Forester had very clearly intimated
that he did not want her, and preferred even his own sister Emma, whom
he did not seem to like very well either. But though Olive was not with
her, Aunt Merton was—to explain which, we must go back a little.
As the time of trial drew near, Emma Forester, who was staying with
Abby, saw that there was something which weighed upon her mind and
disturbed her very much.
Emma was a kind-hearted and practical woman—she had need to be so,
having exercised in her own person all the common-sense which had been
brought to bear upon the family affairs since she was twelve years'
old. She was not a favorite with her brothers or sisters, and truth
to say, Emma's manners were not amiable: she was apt to be short and
rather sharp in her replies, and to criticise, especially her brother
William, pretty severely. She had been very much displeased with him
for his marriage, an affair which his mother considered as at worst
only an amiable eccentricity—but her anger did not extend to her little
sister-in-law, for whom she felt very sorry, well-knowing what was
before her.
William had positively declined having Olive to stay with Abby during
her confinement, not so much in words, as in looks and tones, giving
it to be understood that he preferred having his house to himself.
He would not have had Emma either, if he could have helped himself,
but she left him no choice, coming of her own accord about six
weeks beforehand, and establishing herself for a long stay, without
consulting him.
Abby was delighted to have Emma, since she could not have Olive. They
suited very well: Emma from temper and habit liking to direct, and
Abby pleased to be directed. Emma took at once the whole charge of
housekeeping off her sister's hands, leaving her to take the rest she
so much needed: and this in itself was a great relief.
But her good offices did not end here. She saw that Abby was very
unhappy—that she had some secret trouble, apart from the vague fear
of death which had haunted her by turns for a long time. And she set
herself kindly and delicately to discover and if possible to remedy it.
At last, after much coaxing, it all came out in a gush of tears.
"O Emma! I want to see aunt Rebecca so much. I want to tell her how
very sorry I am for displeasing her, and ask her to forgive me."
"Well, love, what hinders you from writing to her? I dare say she would
come and see you at once, if she knew you desired to see her."
"I am sure she would," sobbed Abby. "Olive says she always asks about
me. I would give any thing to see her once more."
"Why not write immediately?" asked Emma.
"William does not wish to have me, Emma. He does not like aunt, and he
thinks uncle has insulted him. I did speak about it once, but—" A new
gush of tears followed, as she recalled the scene.
"Don't cry, my dear—now you really must not!" said Emma, with
authority. "I think it can be managed, and if it can not, you must not
make yourself ill about it. Lie down, child, and don't try to sew: I
will attend to all that."
Abby still looked anxious. "I don't know whether it is best for you to
say any thing, Emma. I am afraid—"
"Tut! Tut! My dear. He is not my husband, you know. I have not said
that I shall speak to him either, but I want you to be gratified, if
possible."
"You do not think it is a notion—do you, Emma?"
"No, child; I think it is a feeling that does you credit. And even if
it were, I don't see why your notions should not be gratified, as well
as those of other people."
"Well, I don't know," sighed Abby. "I am afraid I am very troublesome
and fanciful sometimes. Nothing ever used to disturb me when I was a
girl. Olive used to cry five times to my once. But lately, some how,
every thing seems so heavy and hard to me—even things that would not
have made any impression on me a year ago. I am afraid it is my fault,
and that I am growing very unamiable."
"You are sick, child; that is all."
"I am glad you think so. You are so good to me, Emma. I don't know how
I shall ever repay you."
"Pshaw!" returned Emma shortly. "One must be hard-hearted indeed, to be
any thing but good to such a poor little forlorn bird as you are. I am
glad if I can do any thing for you, I am sure."
William was out in the evening. There was a grand concert in town, and
the tickets were only a dollar. He had lost his place as accountant
that morning, and wanted something to divert his mind from what even he
thought rather an unpleasant circumstance. So he went to the concert,
and afterwards took an oyster-supper downtown with a friend, feeling
not at all uneasy at being out late, since he knew Emma would not let
his wife sit up for him. He was a little vexed to find Emma herself
awaiting his return.
"Why did you sit up?" he asked. "You know I can let myself in."
"I did not sit up altogether for you," replied Emma. "I had a piece of
work to finish to-night. But I do want to speak to you about Abby."
"Is she ill?" asked Mr. Forester, rather anxiously.
"She is as well as she has been for some days past, but she is very
unhappy, poor child."
"What does she want now?" said he, with the air of a man accustomed to
yield to a vast number of unreasonable desires upon the part of his
wife. "I am ready to do any thing in reason."
"She wants to see her aunt," replied Emma, as usual coming to the point
at once.
Mr. Forester's face was darkened by a very unpleasant frown. "I thought
I had settled that matter once for all," he said, tapping his finger
upon the table. "I told Abby that when her uncle would apologize for
his treatment of me, I would let her see him, and not before. I must
say, she forgets her duty as a wife, in complaining of me to you, and I
do not think the better of you for encouraging her in it."
"She has not complained of you!" returned Emma, indignantly. "She
thinks you are a demi-god, or somewhere near it, poor child."
"How did this come out, then?"
"I guessed it, and she admitted that it was so."
"And told you I would not let her write?"
"She said you thought it was not best."
"I do think so. I think, too, that Abby forgets herself strangely,
in cherishing a desire which she knows to be directly contrary to
my judgment. Since you are in her confidence, you may tell her that
neither Mr. nor Mrs. Merton shall ever enter my doors, till they make
me a humble apology. In her present condition, there is nothing to be
done but to get along with her whims as easily as possible, but when
she is better—it don't signify talking of it now! I thought you knew
that I had too much pride and self-respect to be over-crowed by my
wife's relations."
He took up his candle to go up-stairs.
"Very good," said Emma, coolly. "Keep your pride and self-respect, and
lose your wife. Do you know what Dr. M. thinks of her?"
William hesitated, turned, and came back to the table. "Doctors are so
fanciful," he said peevishly.
Emma did not reply.
"Do you really think, Emma, that there is danger?"
"There is always danger," was the brief response.
"I should be sorry to cross her unnecessarily," he continued, after
another pause. "She tries her best to please me, I must say, but,—don't
you think, Emma, she is very childish?"
"Very, or she would never have married you," was the rather unpromising
reply. "But you are the last person who ought to complain of that. You
knew what she was when you took her."
"I knew she was young and girlish, and thought I could form her mind—"
"You had better have formed your own first," interrupted his sister.
"I thought I could make her what I wanted. You know what sort of woman
I always admired—a gentle, yielding character that would twine round
her husband like the honeysuckle round an elm."
"Like a pea round a pumpkin-vine would be the better comparison in your
case," said Emma. "You never could stand alone yourself, much less
sustain any thing else. But there is no use in talking of that now: the
mischief is done, and you have only to make the best of it. Now, the
case stands thus. Abby, like, all young girls in such circumstances,
thinks she is certainly going to die, and I do not know but she is
right, for Dr. M. is very anxious—at any rate, she thinks so. She is
longing, from the bottom of her affectionate little heart to see the
people who have brought her up, and been father and mother to her—and
to be friends with them. It is a reasonable wish, too. But you, for the
sake of sustaining your absurd pride, deny her this comfort—perhaps the
last that it may be yours to grant. You admit that she has never gone
contrary to your wishes since you married her, and, on the contrary,
has striven in every way to please you, and yet you will not make this
small sacrifice to soothe her hour of trial—perhaps of death!"
"Settle it in your own fashion!" said Mr. Forester abruptly, and
turning away. "I am willing she should have the whole clan here, Olive
and all, if it will do her any good. Only let me know when they are
coming that I may be out of the way, and avoid the scene. I must look
out for something to do, I suppose, and I have not much hope of finding
it here. I can make that an excuse for running away for a few days."
"Something to do! What do you mean?" asked his sister, with a feeling
of anxiety which prevented her from noticing, as she otherwise would
have done, the heartlessness of this speech.
"Oh! I have given up my engagement with Hancock, and shall be out
of work after to-morrow," he replied, with a vain attempt to appear
unconcerned.
"William, are you mad? Why did you throw up your situation without
knowing that you had something to turn to, at this time of all others?
What was the matter?"
"The matter was that we could not agree, and so we thought it best to
part," returned Mr. Forester doggedly. "He wanted to pin me down to
the desk from Monday morning till Saturday night, ten hours a day. I
thought I had a right to some relaxation now and then. So I went off on
a fishing-party two or three times, you know, and was not there when he
expected me. Then I COULD not give my whole attention to figures; it is
quite too tiresome and stupid, and narrows down one's mind to a mere
point. The consequence was, that I made some trifling mistakes, and so
you see—"
"I see," said Emma, finishing the sentence for him, "that as usual,
you have no one to blame but yourself! William, when will you ever be
a man? You talk of Abby's being a child, and so she is, but a good and
obedient child; while you are a perverse, self-willed boy—a torment to
yourself and every one that has any thing to do with you."
She walked nervously up and down the room a few times. William took
up a pen and began to draw figures all over a sheet of music-paper.
He was used to his sister's fault-finding, and waited patiently till
she should exhaust her vexation, and propose some remedy for his
embarrassments.
"There is no use in all that," he said at last; "and besides, you will
disturb Abby."
"Very true," replied Emma, pausing in her walk, and throwing herself
into a corner of the sofa. "I am glad you have the grace to think of
her. How much have you beforehand?"
"Well, perhaps two hundred dollars—perhaps a little more. I do not know
exactly how much of my salary I have drawn."
"Don't you keep an account?"
"No, indeed! I tried it once, but the cigars, and so on, mounted up so—"
His sister made a gesture of impatience, and he returned to his trees.
"Is that all you have to depend upon?"
"Pretty much all. There may be a little coming in from publishers."
"And out of this, your rent is to be paid—and the physician, and poor
Katy, and the nurse, and housekeeping to be carried on! How do you
think it is all to be done?"
"I don't know, I am sure," replied William, with an air of virtuous
resignation. "I hope it will all come right some way. I must find
something else to do, after I have enjoyed a little vacation, and poor
Abby is right again. And now, don't you think we had better break up
this council and retire? If she wakes, she may be alarmed. I won't say
any thing to her, but you may tell her that she may write as penitent a
letter as she pleases, disowning her husband and all his relations, if
she will—"
"You know she does not want to do that. She only wants—"
"She only wants what is right, and you, too, I dare say, sis, though
you are rather sharp in your way of putting it. Come, now, don't look
so miserable," he added, in a coaxing way, putting his arm round her.
"I will be as steady as old Hancock himself, if you will only kiss and
be friends."
Emma yielded, as she almost always did in the end, to her fascinating
brother's soothing and coaxing, so far as to kiss him good-night. But
she lay awake till almost morning, thinking what was to become of her
brother and sister when worse came to the worst—when they had spent all
they had, and exhausted every one's patience.
Abby roused up as William entered, and begged to know if there was any
thing wrong, but being gayly assured that every thing was very right,
went quietly to sleep again.
As for William, nothing disturbed his slumbers: if he had been going
to be hanged the next morning, he would have slept equally well,
comforting himself with the reflection that something favorable would
certainly happen before the time came.
Abby was very happy next morning when Emma informed her that there
was no farther objection to her writing to her aunt, but her joy was
a little damped when she was told (for Emma thought best to tell her)
that William would probably have to be away upon business at the
time. Still, it was with a joyful heart that she sat down to indite
her letter, which she wrote and rewrote with a nervous anxiety, till
Emma, seeing the state of the case, took the best copy from her hand,
pronounced it good enough, folded and sealed it, and then placed it
before Abby, to direct. William carried it to the post, without any
remark, and made his wife very happy all day by a great many kind
words, and some little attentions, which cost him nothing, but which
were invaluable to her.
The family at Mr. Merton's were seated at the breakfast-table, when the
letter was brought in.
Mrs. Merton took it, and broke the seal. And when Charlotte looked up
from one of her own a moment after, she was both astonished and alarmed
to see such an unusual sight as tears rolling down her mother's cheeks.
She rose hastily, as did Mr. Merton, and the Black Prince, with his
accustomed delicacy, withdrew, under the pretext of seeking hot cakes,
but remained close by the outside of the door—perhaps to be within call.
"It is from Abby," said Mrs. Merton, as soon as she could find a
voice. "The poor dear child has come to her senses at last. Read it,
Charlotte, my dear."
And Charlotte read, being obliged to pause more than once in the course
of it. When she had done, she looked anxiously from one to the other.
"You will go—you will go at once, father, will you not?"
"Certainly, my dear child, if your mother says so. I dislike the idea
of meeting Forester, but poor Abby must not be disappointed. Yes, we
will go at once."
"You will not see him," said Charlotte. "Did you not notice, she says
he will be obliged to go away upon business?"
"Then we will set out without delay—as early as to-morrow," said Mrs.
Merton.
"Why not to-day?" asked her husband. "There is time enough."
"Perhaps it will be better to leave space for a letter to precede us,"
suggested Mrs. Merton. "We must not startle her, you know."
Mr. Merton acquiesced, and Charlotte sat down, at once, to write the
letter.
How delighted Abby was when she received it! She laughed and cried
by turns, kissed her husband and thanked him so many times that he
really began to think he had made a meritorious sacrifice, and felt
very self-complacent in consequence. He half-resolved to stay and face
it out, but found his courage failing the next morning, and went off,
bidding his wife a most affectionate farewell, thinking, as he went,
how badly he should feel if he were to lose her, and beginning at once
to set his possible feelings first to rhyme and then to music, till he
composed an affecting song, called the "Widower's Lament."
Abby would sit at the window and watch for carriages till she was
wearied out, and obliged to lie down upon the sofa, in spite of
herself. Then she fell asleep, and when she awoke, she found her aunt
and uncle sitting beside her.
It is impossible to say what extravagances she might have committed,
if aunt Rebecca had not put on her most impressive face of authority,
and absolutely forbidden her to speak one word. Abby submitted, and lay
still, hardly daring to think that she was awake, and not dreaming.
She still lay upon the sofa, feeling very weak, but very happy, while
the others went out to tea, listening, with subdued pleasure, to their
voices, and enjoying the thought that uncle and aunt Merton were taking
tea in her house.
How exactly it seemed like old times, when aunt Rebecca brought her her
tea in the little silver mug which she had always used at home, and
which had been sent to her, with the rest of her possessions, at the
time of her marriage. She could almost believe that she had never been
away at all.
Aunt Merton was one who never did any thing by halves. When she made
up her mind to take Abby into favor, she did it heartily, and showed
that she did, by making no allusions to the past, except such as were
necessary in talking over affairs in M. The neighbors, the servants,
the garden, above all, Laura's approaching marriage, were all talked
over again and again, till Mr. Merton suggested that Abby must be
tired, and that they had better go.
Abby, however, was very anxious to have them stay. There was plenty of
room, and if aunt thought she could be comfortable—.
Aunt had no doubt at all about that, and so they staid. It was well
they did, for Abby was taken ill in the night, and after some hours of
considerable danger, was "as well as could be expected," with a fine
little daughter.
Emma telegraphed to her brother with but a faint hope of his getting
the message, for she knew he would probably be off fishing or
scenery-hunting, and so it proved. He did not return till nearly a week
had elapsed, and knew nothing of the matter till Emma met him at the
door. He was sufficiently alarmed, on hearing the state of the case, to
ward off the lecture which had been brewing for him, and she had hard
work to keep him from rushing up to his wife's room at once.
Aunt Merton came down to see him, while he was waiting for Emma to
prepare Abby, and though nothing but politeness, and even cordiality,
were expressed in her tone, she succeeded, in ten minutes, in making
him feel more like some condemned piece of furniture about to be sent
to auction than like the master of his own house.
Abby was not so well as she had been, and William was cautioned
against exciting her. He was very much affected at the sight of the
wee colorless face, looking smaller than ever from the absence of the
accustomed curls, and showed so much feeling that Mrs. Merton began to
think she had done him injustice.
Abby brightened up very much after he came home, and she really was
very happy—happy in her baby, which she found some difficulty in
imagining to be really hers—in her husband whom she felt was showing
to excellent advantage—in having so many friends about her, and every
one so much kinder than she deserved. She felt sad when she thought of
their all going away and leaving her alone. But then there would be
baby, and she thought she could not be very lonely.
Emma wished very much that she could stay, but she well knew that it
would be impossible.
Mrs. Forester and Emmeline fancied they were unable to live without
her. Emmeline liked to think that she had delicate health, and that it
hurt her to work. She could go to two or three parties in a week, and
dance till two o'clock in the morning, though it always made her feel
dreadfully to dust the parlor, and fatigued her almost to extinction to
make her own bed. She always got a terrible headache over plain sewing,
though she could embroider for hours, yes, even upon silver canvas, and
her crochet collars and mats almost equalled real lace in fineness. In
short, Emmeline could play to any extent, but work always made her sick
directly.
Mrs. Forester never thought that Emmeline ought to be crossed in any
thing. She was not strong herself, and she was very fanciful besides
being proud, and her pride was constantly brought into active exercise
by the reduced circumstances of the family, and the consequent struggle
to keep up appearances. When Emma was at home, she earned something
by translating and editing for a publisher of children's books, and
moreover she took the whole oversight of the household, besides doing a
great part of the work. It is easy to see that she could not be spared.
Abby did not recover so rapidly as they had at first hoped. She did
not seem to have any particular disorder, but she gained strength very
slowly, and now and then slight symptoms of a tendency to disease
of the lungs alarmed her aunt and the physician. She was very much
distressed when she found that William had lost his place, for she was
beginning to realize how much it cost them to keep house, and she knew
her husband would never exercise any sort of economy. It cost her a
feverish night, and she was worse for three or four days.
Mr. Merton saw that something had gone wrong and that Mr. Forester was
out of employment. And after a day or two, he ventured to make some
inquiries of that gentleman relative to his affairs.
Mr. Forester was decidedly stiff and cold at first, but he could not
withstand Mr. Merton's kindness, and moreover he was at his wits'
end for the means of supporting himself and his wife. His mother had
heretofore been his resource when he had exhausted his own finances,
but she had impoverished herself in her efforts to help him. And Emma,
in answer to a hint of the sort, had informed him that any farther
assistance from that quarter was entirely out of the question. He
confessed to Mr. Merton, at last, that he had hardly the means of
defraying the expenses of his wife's confinement, to say nothing of
the cost of housekeeping. He had drawn on Mr. Hancock for his salary
as fast as it became due, and instead of having, as he supposed, a
considerable balance in that gentleman's hands, he was actually some
few dollars in debt to him.
There was no use in any reproaches, and Mr. Merton made none, but
promised to see what he could do towards finding him employment.
Mr. Forester was very much obliged, and thought to himself that it
might not, after all, be a bad thing to have made up friends with his
wife's rich uncle. After two or three days, Mr. Merton held another
conversation with him, in the course of which he told him that he had
procured for him a situation as accountant and draughtsman in a large
foundry and machine-shop. The salary was liberal, but close attention
to business would be absolutely necessary, in order to retain the
place. He took the opportunity to press upon Mr. Forester's attention
the great advantage of keeping regular accounts, and being economical
of time as well as money. He thought the young gentleman might find
time to finish his law studies, and be prepared to enter into business
as a lawyer in the course of a year, promising him all the assistance
in his power, and Mr. Forester thanked him, and listened respectfully,
with some faint idea of following the advice. He went to work the next
day, with great vigor.
At the end of a week's trial, his employer professed himself perfectly
satisfied, and engaged him for a year, at a salary which, care and
economy, would be sufficient to support them in comfort. With this
care removed from her mind, Abby began to improve rapidly, and in the
course of a few days was so much better that her aunt thought she might
venture to leave her to herself.
"Suppose," said she to her husband, "that we go round the other way,
stop at Basswoods, and take Olive home with us. It will be so much
pleasanter than for her to come alone."
Mr. Merton thought it an excellent idea, and, accordingly, as Olive was
sitting at the piano one evening after tea, she was surprised by the
sudden entrance of her uncle and aunt.