petticoats, at such a time, when all one's thoughts should be
concentrated upon better things," continued Charlotte, "to be obliged
to listen to flat compliments and foolish speeches at such a time, I
think it would be dreadfully tiresome."
"People feel very differently about such things," observed Olive.
"A wedding always seems to me among the most solemn of religious
ceremonies, and a gay party seems about as appropriate on such an
occasion, as it would at a christening or a confirmation. It is taking
so much upon one's self. It makes such an entire change in all one's
circumstances and duties—such a responsibility."
"I almost wonder you have the courage to attempt it, Olive. You have
such high ideas upon the subject. Do you think you will ever be able to
live up to your own notions of the duties of a wife?"
"Probably not, as I never yet lived up to my own standard of duty in
any thing. But I shall do my best, and I hope I shall not be left to
myself. Then Walter and I agree perfectly in all important matters,
which will be a great help."
"I have no doubt you will get on nicely," said Charlotte. "You are the
only pair of lovers I ever saw who seemed to me to be in the faintest
degree rational, or in fact endurable. I used to think people in that
condition must act like fools, as a matter of course."
"Carriage waiting, young ladies," announced the Black Prince, himself
"en grande tenue," as expecting to bear a conspicuous part.
Wrappers and hoods were donned, under the direction of Mammy, who gave
a last touch to the drapery, and a last charge to her young ladies not
to get cold as they came out of church.
They found Laura ready dressed, and looking very splendidly in her
white "moire antique" and beautiful veil. Pearls, gloves, bouquet,
wreath, were all in the finest taste. Mrs. Dimsden, in a splendid satin
dress and a wonderful cap, was walking round and round her, adding a
touch here, and a pin there, now adjusting a fold of her veil, and then
giving a pull to the skirt.
Mr. Witherington was grave, and apparently a little embarrassed.
Olive thought he felt himself rather oppressed by the weight of his
aunt-in-law. He certainly did not look as if he enjoyed the bustle very
much, though he brightened up wonderfully when his beautiful bride
appeared, and looked very happy.
Laura's feelings did not at all interfere with her self-possession.
She very evidently thought more of her dress than of any thing else.
She showed no sign of timidity when they found the church crowded with
people, and the street outside filled with gazers, and was not half as
much embarrassed as Mr. Witherington. His voice trembled very much in
making the responses, but she was as cool as though going through an
ordinary school recitation.
Every one said so beautiful a bride had never been seen in the church
before. Mr. Merton gave her away, Olive held the glove, and every thing
passed off well.
There were three quarters of an hour to spare before the company began
to arrive, and Mr. Witherington seemed as if he would gladly have had
his wife to himself for a few minutes, but he was made to understand
that it was quite out of the question. Laura must have some changes
made in her dress, and she must give her opinion with regard to the
table and the refreshment-room. Mr. Witherington felt himself decidedly
in the way, but comforted himself with the idea that it would soon be
over, and then he could enjoy his dear Laura's society in peace. He had
yet to learn that his dear Laura was in her element amidst such scenes,
and found a quiet day at home the most stupid thing possible.
The presents were all ticketed, as Charlotte had said, and arranged
on the table so as to show to the best advantage, Abby's handkerchief
occupying a conspicuous place among the more splendid gifts. The
circle was duly formed, and every thing arranged for the grand parade,
before the first carriage, rattling to the door, announced the first
installment of the dear two hundred friends to whom Mrs. Dimsden had
sent cards.
Olive found the whole thing desperately stupid. It was very tiresome to
stand two hours in a graceful attitude, and reply to the inane speeches
addressed to her by the young gentlemen who came to pay their respects
to Mr. Witherington. She felt vexed at Laura for her evident enjoyment
of the affair—vexed at Mrs. Dimsden for her parade of the presents
and dresses, and so forth, sorry for Mr. Witherington, who looked
uncomfortable and out of place, and provoked at herself for feeling
like crying all the time.
Mrs. Merton shone superior, doing the gracious to all the rather out
of the way people, being in every place where she was most wanted, and
making every one say, "What a splendid woman Mrs. Charles Merton is!"
And many people added—"So different from Mrs. Dimsden!"
The supper was very splendid, the Black Prince in his glory—a glory of
manners and dress, of gloves and white favors. He had a brother, second
only to himself in splendor, who was always under Edward's orders upon
such occasions.
Mrs. Dimsden was rather nervous at first, but Mrs. Merton whispered,
"Don't be disturbed, my dear Alicia! Leave every thing to Edward and
Mammy—I always do."
"My dear Alicia!" Mrs. Dimsden felt two inches taller, and was quite
happy for the remainder of the evening. Every thing was of the best.
The brilliant pyramids stood up straight. The ice-cream doves, and
nymphs, and temples, kept their shape, and the oysters and salads were
perfect.
Major Trimble expressed to divers and sundry people the original
opinion that Mrs. Dimsden was quite a "Palladium" of a housekeeper, and
that Mrs. Witherington was quite dazzling, but added confidentially his
opinion that it was a pity she should be sacrificed to such a dull old
sort of a man as Mr. Witherington seemed to be.
Well—it was all over at last. The guests departed, the bridesmaids
returned home, and sat down by the fire to rest and talk the matter
over.
"Was not Laura magnificent?" was the first exclamation, but "How
uncomfortable poor Mr. Witherington looked!" the next.
"He seemed to feel himself so much out of place," said Olive, "but I do
not think any the worse of him for it."
"Nor I," replied Mrs. Merton. "I think he looked thoughtful and
earnest, as a man should on his wedding-day. I hope, Olive," she
continued, as she unclasped her bracelets and pulled off her gloves,
"that you have no desire to have a grand wedding. A wedding-party two
or three weeks afterward is not so bad, but really, people ought to
want to be by themselves at such times."
Olive raised her hands in horror.
"I think I see myself," she said, "paraded out for three mortal hours,
to be looked at and criticised by every one that chose to look at me,
and go home and talk about me afterward. But, after all, every thing
passed off nicely—did it not? And how well aunt Dimsden looked—only
aunt Rebecca eclipsed her."
"Did I?" said Mrs. Merton. "I am very sorry for that. I dressed more
than usual, thinking Alicia would like it."
"And so she did," said Charlotte, "especially when you called her dear
Alicia. I was afraid she would spoil it all by being fussy. How well
the Black Prince appeared! I think, mother, it would be a grand thing
for Edward and George to let themselves out, to do manners at the
expensive people's parties. Just think what an advantage it would be to
them!"
"Hush!" said Olive. "And don't be scandalizing your neighbors. Well,
it has all gone off nicely, and aunt Dimsden has gained her point
with Laura, as with all the rest, and given her a rich husband and a
splendid wedding."
"I wonder who she will take in hand next," said Mrs. Merton. "After
all, my dears, it is much better to pass over Mrs. Dimsden's weak
points, and dwell upon her good ones. She has been very kind to Laura,
and has acted for the best, according to her ideas. And now I must
insist upon your going to bed at once. We shall have plenty of calls
to-morrow, and I want you to look your best. You need not laugh,
Olive. It is no reason that because you are engaged, you should not
do yourself credit. Your lover will not think the less of you because
other people admire you."
CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.
POOR Abby! The girls had guessed rightly in thinking that she was very
home-sick, and very much depressed. She did not grow strong, as she had
hoped to do, and was able to go out but little. Her baby was a great
care—enough to have used up all her strength, if she had had nothing
else to do. And to crown her grievances, she lost Katy just as her
services began to be very valuable.
Katy was very sorry, indeed, to leave, but she could not go on from
month to month without having any wages. She did not like to speak to
Mrs. Forester, who was so delicate and so good to her, and so one day,
when the lady was out, she broached the matter to the gentleman, of
whom, notwithstanding his grand air, she was not half so much afraid
as of his wife. He treated the matter negligently enough at first,
assuring her, in a careless way, that she should be paid by and by.
Katy grew bolder and insisted that she could not live without clothes.
Whereupon, Mr. Forester waxed angry, and ordered her to leave the house
at once.
When Mrs. Forester came home from a shopping excursion, wearied almost
to death, she was struck with consternation to find Katy packing up her
goods and crying bitterly, and to hear that Mr. Forester had told her
to go straight off, and never come near the house again. Abby could
have cried herself upon the spot, but painful experience had taught
her to restrain her tears. She felt what an ungrateful return it was
for all Katy's faithful and unrewarded services, and looked forward
with dread to the amount of work that would be thrown upon her hands,
already so burdened. She would have tried to soothe Katy—to prevail
upon her to stay, at least till some one could be found to supply her
place, but William, who overheard her, put a stop to her endeavors, in
a way which he considered very magnificent.
"I have desired Katy to go at once! She has been very insolent to me,
and I will have no one under my roof who does not treat me with proper
respect."
"I want my wages!" said Katy, changing her tone at once from the
tearful to the defiant, as the gentleman appeared upon the scene. "You
owe me thirty-five dollars, and I want it before I leave the house."
"I should like to see you get it," replied Mr. Forester, turning away.
"If you had asked me properly, I would have given it to you at once.
But now you shall wait my pleasure."
"You call yourself a gentleman—do you?" began Katy, her blood
thoroughly up.
But he had disappeared, and Abby said, almost imploringly:
"Hush! Hush, Katy! I am sure you would not say any thing to grieve
me. You shall be paid, I promise you." And she took out her purse,
containing the remainder of her uncle's gift, which she had been saving
against any emergency. She had only twenty dollars.
"There is all I have at present, but you shall have the rest, I promise
you."
Katy melted into tears once more. "Indeed, Mrs. Forester, I would not
have said any thing, but I am clean out of clothes, and I must pay my
little brother's board, you know. Any way, I shall always think well of
you and the dear baby."
Mr. Forester thought, for a while, he had done a grand thing, and shown
a great deal of firmness and decision. But he began to be not quite
so sure of it, when he saw how hard it was for Abby to prepare tea
and wash up the dishes, and how tired she seemed after it. He fully
intended to get up the next morning and make up the fires, but baby was
restless, and kept them both awake, and when he first roused himself,
he really was too sleepy to get up. A cry from the little one at last
roused him to the consciousness that Abby was down-stairs. And when he
descended, he found breakfast nearly ready.
In reply to his remonstrances, his wife only pointed to the clock,
which was fast approaching to eight, the hour when it was absolutely
necessary for him to be at the office.
Mr. Forester was very sorry, and a little vexed. He swallowed his
breakfast, not without a remark that the cakes were not as light as
usual, and was hunting for his hat and gloves, when Abby said: "Can't
you bring in some wood before you go? It is so hard to carry it up the
steps."
"I really don't see how I can, my love. Mr. Hitchcock is so very
particular about my being there just to the minute. I will send you up
a boy as I go along."
The boy did not come, however, and Abby had every thing to do herself.
Hard work it was to get the breakfast things out of the way, wash and
dress little Emma, and prepare the dinner before one o'clock, and,
after all, William did not come home till a late tea-time.
"I had an invitation to dine at the Irving, and I thought it would save
you some trouble," was his excuse.
"It might have done if I had known it beforehand," said Abby. "As it
was, it did not make much difference."
"Come, come, my love, don't be cross. You know I have to work hard all
day, and when I come home, I like to shake off my annoyances, and have
a cheerful, smiling face to meet me. There is a letter for you."
Abby took it eagerly, and the color flushed to her pale face more
brightly than usual, as she looked it over.
"It is from Laura," she said. "She wants me to come out to the wedding.
Oh! How I do wish I could go. I would give any thing to see M. again."
Mr. Forester looked rather blank. "I suppose they do not include me in
the invitation."
"Of course they do. Laura would know better than to leave you out, if
she wanted me. But don't you think I might manage it some how? I do
want to go so much."
"I do not see how," replied William, rather peevishly. "What would
become of the house in the mean time?"
"We might shut it up that long."
"And then, what is to become of me, for I assure you it is utterly out
of the question for me to dream of going, even if I wanted to. I put up
with Mrs. Merton here for your sake, but it is quite too much to think
of my going there."
"Could you not manage for a few days?" faltered Abby, her heart
sinking, yet unwilling to give up at once the pleasure of being present
at her sister's wedding. "I need not go till Wednesday, and I could get
the new girl into tolerable training by that time."
"Oh! Yes—if you are set upon going, I suppose I can manage to exist,
though—but, of course, that is no matter. But there is another thing
that does matter, and that is—how are you going to get the money
necessary to such an expedition?"
"I don't know about that; it will not cost a great deal."
"Have you any of your reserved fund left?"
"Only two or three dollars. I had to take it to pay Katy with."
"So you paid Katy, did you?" said Mr. Forester, laying down his paper,
and looking at his wife. "I thought you heard me tell her that I would
pay her at my leisure."
"They are so poor," faltered Abby, "and Katy has been so faithful."
"Upon my word, Mrs. Forester, this is rather too much! I have borne
with your humors and whims a long time, on account of your health, and
endeavored to bring you to reason by gentleness, and when I came home
to-night, wearied out with business, and expecting to find, as I had a
right, a pleasant home and a cheerful wife to receive and welcome me, I
was not disposed to find any fault, though things were the very reverse
of this. But for you to set me at defiance in this way is rather too
much. I said I would pay that insolent servant at my leisure, and you
fly in the face of my authority, and pay her yourself, contrary to my
express orders, and then expect me to supply you with money for an
expensive journey. As to your going, I say nothing about that. You can
go if can supply the means, and I will exist as I can till you come
back. But I beg you to understand, once for all, that I will be master
in my own house."
Abby sat like a statue through the whole of this reasonable harangue.
She did not even lift her eyes when her husband rose to leave her,
but as he opened the door, she gasped out—"Don't—don't go," and knew
no more till she found herself lying upon the sofa, with a neighbor
attending upon her, while her husband was walking distractedly up and
down the room, getting in the way of every thing that was done for her
relief. She tried to speak, but Mrs. Gray checked her.
"Now, don't you speak one word, Mrs. Forester, but just lie still, and
I'll attend to every thing. Don't you think you had better see the
doctor?"
"Oh! No!" whispered Abby, thinking with terror of the already long
bill. "It's nothing but a little fatigue. Katy went away yesterday, and
I have rather over-worked myself to-day. I shall be better presently."
Mr. Forester felt a pang go to his selfish heart, as he heard his
suffering wife thus trying to divert the blame from himself.
"Come, Abby, cheer up, my dear," he said, approaching her. "You will
know better than to work so hard next time, and your new girl has come."
Then as Mrs. Gray left the room, he added: "I am sorry you took
my words so much to heart, but you must learn to control yourself
a little. You are very much of a child, and need a great deal
of guidance. But how are you ever to improve, if you go into a
fainting-fit every time that any one intimates you are in the wrong?"
Abby put up her hands imploringly, but having once begun to be
dignified, Mr. Forester felt like carrying it through. He kissed her
rather coolly, and then added, by way of finishing the business:
"There, there, I forgive you, and will try to forget it, but you must
remember that the continuance of my love depends upon your conduct, and
not upon my own will. I hope we shall have no more such scenes as this
of to-night, for it is very unpleasant for me to be obliged to reprove
you, and I can not in conscience allow such things to pass unnoticed."
With this magnificent declaration, Mr. Forester dropped the subject,
and sat down to read to his wife, by way of showing his magnanimity,
a book which she did not care a straw for, and did not understand. He
really felt very much injured, and thought he had conferred a great
favor upon his erring wife by not giving way to her ill-temper.
And poor Abby tried to think she had been very wrong and selfish in
wishing to leave her husband alone, to go to her sister's wedding, and
that he had shown a great deal of forbearance toward her faults. For
paying Katy she could not be sorry. But in spite of herself a verse
from the last chapter she had read would keep running through her head:
"Ye shall be ashamed for the oats that ye have desired, and confounded
for the gardens that ye have chosen."
Kind Mrs. Gray came over the next morning, early enough to prevent her
from getting up till after breakfast. It was she who directed the new
girl, put the parlor in order, and dressed the baby. She was a plain
woman, but very kindly and very sensible, and during the whole week,
while Abby remained unwell, she was the greatest possible assistance
and comfort to her.
Mr. Forester grumbled a little at finding that "meddling woman always
there," but he was very civil to her, nevertheless. As the time went
on, he began to have a lurking, unacknowledged suspicion, that he had
not been so very magnificent after all—that it was he who had been
borne with, and not Abby. As he looked at her slight figure and almost
transparent hands, and noticed how her color flushed and faded, and how
fast her breath went and came under any little excitement, an undefined
feeling of fear came over him, that made him very kind, and somewhat
checked his propensities to self-indulgence.
We say somewhat, for when a man has grown up from infancy with the idea
that because he is talented, and does not like to work, all the rest of
the world is bound to wait upon, work for, and give up to him, nothing
but an absolutely crushing blow will drive it out of him. Sometimes
stroke upon stroke, mortification upon mortification, defeat upon
defeat, makes him know himself to be but man, and brings him to the
feet of God in repentance and self-abasement, and then there is hope.
But quite as often such persons go down to their graves with the idea
that they are martyrs to their own superiority, and that all the world
is leagued against them.
The new girl turned out better than Abby had feared. True she did not
and could not fill Katy's place. That was not to be expected, at the
wages she received. But she was neat, good-natured, very strong, and
able to do all the drudgery of the little household. She was fond of
the baby, and took her off Abby's hands for several hours in the day,
leaving her at liberty to sew, and sometimes to practise a little. Abby
had for some time had an idea of taking pupils in music, almost the
only thing she felt herself really competent to teach, and after some
little hesitation she proposed the plan to her husband.
Mr. Forester laughed at first, then doubted whether it would be best,
and then consented, on condition that they should come to the house
while he was away, as he never could endure the noise of beginners
practising. "I don't see how you can endure the thought of it. But I
dare say you are lonely when I am gone. You have no taste for art, and
not much for general literature, and it is natural you should like some
amusement."
Thus graciously did Mr. Forester grant to his wife permission to
spend some portion of her small remaining strength in laboring for
his support. But his manner was kind and affectionate, and Abby was
satisfied. The next point was to obtain pupils, and here she was
successful beyond her hopes. Good Mrs. Gray interested herself in the
matter, and soon procured for her six little girls, all beginners. Thus
twelve times a week did Abby, with her exquisite ear and high musical
culture, labor through the never-ending, still beginning scales and
exercises. But she fixed her mind resolutely upon the twelve dollars a
piece which was to be the reward of her labors and perseverance.
By and by two young ladies wishing to learn singing were added to
the number. They were nice girls, and frequently brought presents of
flowers and fruit to their gentle little mistress. But sometimes, when
Abby found herself gasping for breath, and almost unable to articulate,
after their lessons, she felt a vague misgiving that she was purchasing
the additional thirty dollars of income pretty dearly. The little
girls, however, progressed nobly, their parents were satisfied, as well
they might be at getting for twelve dollars what ought to have cost
them sixteen.
Baby was very good, and beginning to be playful and amusing. And upon
the whole, Abby was rather happy than otherwise. She said nothing in
her letters home of her being engaged in teaching, but merely offered
as an excuse for not writing oftener that her time was very much
occupied.
Laura had intended to make her a visit on her return from her
bridal-tour, but Mr. Witherington's business called him unexpectedly,
and she was obliged to give it up, writing a very kind and earnest
invitation for Abby to come and visit them. Abby was glad of the
letter, though she knew very well she should never be able to go. But
she was pleased to think that in the midst of all the bridal gayety of
her new home, Laura had remembered and cared for her, and she prayed
earnestly that her sister might be happy.
For in the midst of all her troubles, Abby had found this great
comfort—she had learned to pray. She had been in a manner religiously
brought up, and had always said her prayers, night and morning, ever
since she could remember. But it was only in the dreary time before
little Emma was born that she had learned to know the full meaning of
the words "communion with God." Then she had really drawn near the
throne—she had sat down in the shadow of that great rock, and the weary
land became not quite so weary. Water out of the pure river of life had
satisfied her thirst, and in her saddest hours, she found comfort in
the thought that we have not a High-Priest who can not be touched with
the feelings of our infirmities, but who, in that He suffered being
tempted, is able to succor them that are tempted.