evening was a time of refreshing from the presence of the Lord. The
word of God was as rain upon the mown grass to her, and she brought
home a supply of strength for a long time, from every communion season.
Mr. Forester could not understand it. He thought the singing far from
good, the preaching dry, and the church very bare and barn-like, but
he saw that Abby enjoyed it, and he felt that there was something
essentially beautiful in the idea of a young mother's being religious,
and even went so far as to go himself sometimes. Moreover, he made a
sketch of Abby herself kneeling before a statue of the Virgin, and
teaching her child to clasp its little hands in the attitude of prayer,
which was very much admired in the shop where it was sent to be framed.
For a time he had gone on very well in the employment which Mr.
Merton had procured for him. The work was not hard, and part of it
was of a kind in which he might be supposed to take some pleasure,
namely, the drawing of designs for ornamental iron work. But after a
time, it became very irksome to him. His employers desired that his
designs should be such as they could make a profit on, and insisted
on his altering some of his favorite pictures, for the frivolous and
insufficient reason that it was quite impossible to carry them out in
practice.
Moreover, they made it a point that he should be upon the spot in
business hours, and that his designs should be ready when they
were wanted, not being disposed to make much allowance for the
eccentricities of genius. More than once they had been on the very
verge of a rupture, but Mr. Hitchcock, the managing partner, had seen
Abby, and was much interested in her. And for her sake, he exercised
more patience toward Mr. Forester than he had ever been known to
exhibit before.
But one day matters came suddenly to a crisis. An important design
which Mr. Forester had undertaken to finish for a particular day, was
not forthcoming, and the workmen were at a stand for want of it. Mr.
Forester had not come in, and Mr. Hitchcock began a search for the
missing pattern among the heaps of paper which covered his desk. In the
course of which, he came across quantities of fancy sketches, mostly
unfinished, among which was the first rude draught of Abby's portrait,
quantities of verses and translations, also mostly unfinished, bits
of crayon and pencil innumerable, but no pattern. He had not quite
finished his search, when Mr. Forester made his appearance, and upon
being questioned, frankly confessed that the design was not finished,
or even begun. He had not felt in the humor for the last two or three
days, and was trying to refresh his mind a little.
Mr. Hitchcock was very angry. Not only was a large pecuniary
consideration at stake, but what he valued still more, the honor of
the firm, which had always held the highest reputation for punctuality
in the fulfillment of contracts. In a few words, chosen more for
their strength than their elegance, he set before Mr. Forester the
consequences of his remissness, not only to the firm, but to himself,
delivered a short lecture upon idleness, and finished by saying that
in his opinion Mr. Forester would be doing much more for his wife and
child in working for them than in making pictures of them in such
heathenish attitudes as that—holding up the unfinished picture as he
spoke, and glancing from it to the artist with stern contempt.
Mr. Forester waited to hear no more.
He put on his hat, collected his papers and drawing materials, made a
low bow, and walked out of the shop without a word.
Abby was engaged with one of her little pupils when her husband
entered, and throwing all he carried upon the table, gave audible vent
to his feelings in such an exclamation as she had never heard from him
before.
Luckily the lesson was nearly over. Abby hurried it through, and having
dismissed the child, looked to her husband for an explanation, which
was not long delayed.
"It serves me right!" William exclaimed indignantly, as he strode
up and down the room. "What business had I to prostitute my talents
to such base uses—to make my genius a slave to a man who does not
even speak his mother tongue correctly? What right had I to make art
subservient to a vile machinist, a man without one elevated idea, a—"
"But do tell me what it is," Abby ventured to interrupt. "Have you lost
your situation?"
"I have given up my situation, if that is what you mean." And then
followed an excited and somewhat incoherent account of the transaction,
giving Abby to understand that he had been insulted beyond endurance
by his tyrannical employer, because he would not do something very
degrading, though what that something was did not clearly appear.
Abby comforted, and sympathized, and agreed as far as possible, not
knowing any thing about the matter, till her husband felt more like a
martyr than ever. At the same time, her heart sank when she thought how
soon their rent was due, and wondered how it was to be obtained. The
next quarter's salary would have paid it, and now it must be paid, if
at all, out of the proceeds of her music lessons, upon which she had
depended for family expenses.
"I think," she said, pondering, "that I had better take two or three
new pupils in singing. I get more for that than for the piano, and Miss
Emsley told me she knew two at least who would like to begin. That will
be thirty dollars more."
"That is so like you, Abby—always thinking about the money, and where
it is to come from. You would not have had me remain with a man who had
insulted me, would you?"
"Of course not, if he really meant to insult you. But you know he is a
hasty man, and sometimes says more than he means. Perhaps he will come
round."
As if to justify Abby's prediction, the evening brought a note from Mr.
Hitchcock, containing all that was due of Mr. Forester's salary, and
intimating that if Mr. Forester was willing to endeavor to do better,
he, Mr. Hitchcock, was willing to give him another trial.
Mr. Forester pocketed the money, twisted up the note, and tossed it to
the baby to play with.
"There is no answer," he said to the messenger, who still lingered.
"Please to sign the receipt that Mr. Hitchcock sent at the bottom of
the note, sir."
Abby rescued the paper from the clutches of baby, and smoothing it out,
handed it to her husband, saying in a low voice, "Had you not better
take time to consider?"
An impatient "No, child, of course not," was all the answer vouchsafed
to her. The receipt was signed and the messenger departed.
For several days, Mr. Forester had nothing better to do than to lie
on the sofa, read German novels, play with and tease the baby, and
criticise the playing of the little girls, much to their indignation
and his wife's annoyance.
"I have something to say to you, if you have leisure to hear it," she
said one day, after dinner. "You know our lease will not be out till
next winter."
"Well, what of that?"
"Mrs. Gray knows of a family—two middle-aged people and their daughter,
who would be glad to take the lower part of the house, with most of the
furniture. Don't you think it would be cheaper than to live as we are?
Then I could have my pupils here still, and get on with a little girl
from the asylum to take care of Emma."
"Do you suppose we could live in any degree comfortably so?"
"Oh! Yes! Mrs. Gray says they are very decent, respectable people,
though plain. Then you see the house would support us, instead of being
an expense. We could take the front-room up-stairs, with the little
room adjoining, for ourselves, and the girl could sleep in the attic
very well."
"And I should not have any more marketing to do. I declare, my
love, I really admire your practical turn of mind. It seems a grand
arrangement. But when can it be carried into effect?"
"Next week, if you approve."
"Oh! By all means!" replied Mr. Forester. "I have got to go down to
Boston, but I suppose you can do about as well without me as with me. I
am not much assistance upon such occasions."
"I know that very well," said Abby, not without a slight tinge of
bitterness in her tone. "But what takes you to Boston?"
"I must try to find something to do, which there seems little
likelihood of my discovering here."
"But if there is a prospect of our going away, it would not be worth
while to make the change, would it?"
"There is no very great prospect. It is merely a bare chance, but the
journey will do me good, at any rate. And among my father's friends
there, something may turn up. I have money enough to go, and if you are
not housekeeping, you will not need any great amount."
So Mr. Forester set out for Boston the next day, leaving his wife to
make all the arrangements for moving. It was the latter end of April,
and the weather was very trying. She took a little cold which settled
upon her lungs, and prevented her from singing for a while. And even
when the hoarseness passed off, her lungs remained sore.
Notwithstanding this, she took four new pupils in singing, who offered
themselves, (for her music began to be talked of as something out
of the common) and tried to think it a matter of no importance when
she found that every lesson left her with a pain in her chest, and a
feeling of exhaustion, which prevented her from uttering an unnecessary
word for hours afterward.
William did not return as soon as she expected, but he wrote the
most entertaining and affectionate letters imaginable. At last, an
old acquaintance of his father's found him occupation in working out
sketches, and drawing designs on stone, intended to illustrate an
extensive scientific work about to be published. He wrote to Abby
that the job would occupy about three months—perhaps not as long, and
that it would be necessary for him to remain where he was. But as the
time was so short, and the business probably not a permanent one, he
thought, if she found herself comfortable, she had better remain where
she was.
And Abby thought so too, and toiled patiently, morning after morning,
through the dull round of lessons, feeling quite happy if she received
a letter at night from her talented husband, who seemed to be enjoying
himself very much. Sometimes, looking back on her past life, she
wondered if it had not been all a dream, that she had been her uncle's
pet and her aunt's pride, envied by all around her, and knowing no
more of care than her own Canary. It seemed so very long ago that
she and Olive had been school-girls together, their greatest anxiety
centred on gaining a prize, their greatest anxiety keeping Charlotte
in a good humor, or begging some of the little ones off from a merited
punishment. But she never allowed herself to repine or be fretful, and
a love-letter from her husband, or a smile or caress from her beautiful
baby repaid her for all. Verily that love which passes the love of
woman must be wonderful indeed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.
BASSWOODS gave Olive a rather more cordial reception than usual when
she returned. In fact, Mrs. Merton's visit had done her a great deal of
good. People are very apt to set a greater value on what they perceive
to be prized by others, and the good people of Basswoods suddenly
thought much more of Miss McHenry, on discovering that she had an uncle
and aunt who were such very superior people, and who were evidently so
much attached to her.
The school filled up at once, and even with Isabella Lambert's
assistance, Olive found her hands very full. Isabella's talents were of
a higher order than her sister's, and she had studied more, and Olive
found her a valuable coadjutor, as well as a pleasant companion.
Melissa Tucker, having finished her education, had returned to her
aunt's house, improved in nothing, but on the contrary more malicious,
more conceited, and more fond of tattling than ever. Her aunt, however,
thought her nothing short of perfection, and paraded her sayings
and doings upon all occasions. No sooner did Melissa find herself
comfortably settled at home than she began to look about for something
whereon to exercise her talents, and she soon came to the conclusion
that she could not be better employed than in making mischief between
Miss McHenry and her friends.
She knew better than to address herself to Olive, whom she felt
understood her perfectly, so she began her attack by calling upon Mrs.
Prendergrass and Isabella, professing great regret that there had been
any misunderstanding, and a desire to be friends, an advance that
was cordially met by the two girls, who had always disliked the idea
of a quarrel. Once established there, she began by wary insinuations
of "patronage," "intermeddling," etc., to try to poison their minds
against Olive. If she had been open in her abuse, they would have met
her at once. But her covert attacks were not so easily warded off; and
they began to have their effect, especially upon Isabella. She was, at
first, not quite so successful with Maria, who cared nothing at all
about being patronized, and knew that Olive did not meddle. So she
changed her points of attack.
"Cousin Maria," she said one day, in her softest accents, "don't you
think Mr. Prendergrass thinks a great deal of Miss McHenry?"
"So we all do," was the brief reply.
"Of course. It is natural you should, perhaps; especially after what
happened before you were married, you know."
"I don't know what you mean, Melissa. What happened before we were
married?" asked Maria, her curiosity a little excited.
"Why, don't you know? Oh! I am sorry I said any thing, but I supposed
you knew all about it. It was so commonly talked of in the village. But
if I had had any idea that you did not know it, I would not have spoken
for the world."
"I can not conceive what you refer to," said Maria, seriously annoyed.
"Why, only that Mr. Prendergrass was so much attached to Miss McHenry.
It was in every one's mouth, but nobody blamed him, for of course they
all knew that she drew him on. It was about the same time that she was
spreading her nets for Mr. Landon, and I really don't suppose she meant
any thing worse than to amuse herself, and perhaps have another string
to her bow, in case one failed. But it was well-known that he offered
himself to her, and that she refused him more than once. I am sorry
I told you, but it was so generally talked of, that I supposed, of
course, you would have known it."
And, having fulfilled her mission, Miss Tucker departed, congratulating
herself on the idea that she had at last succeeded in sowing dissension
between Miss McHenry and her most devoted adherents. She had never
forgiven or forgotten her first rebuff in attempting to carry tales
to Miss McHenry in school, and moreover, she felt a mean jealousy of
Olive's popularity, being one of those amiable persons who think every
consideration bestowed upon another just so much taken from themselves.
As it turned out, she was completely baffled, and that not by any
ingenuity upon Olive's part, but by simple plain dealing. She soon
perceived, that something was the matter—that Isabella's manner toward
her grew haughty and distant, and that any little favor was received
most ungraciously, if at all; while at Maria's house, which she had
always looked upon as a second home, she met a reception so cold as
almost to amount to an insult. She took no notice of it at first,
thinking it but a passing cloud, but the change soon became too much
marked not to force itself upon her attention, and she determined to
investigate the matter.
Accordingly, one evening, after tea, she called at Maria's, accompanied
by Augusta, and received any thing but a welcome, while a most cordial
greeting was bestowed upon her companion. Mr. Prendergrass indeed was
the same as ever, and his cordial manners gave Olive more courage to
proceed.
"Maria," she said, after a few moments of indifferent conversation, "I
have not come without an errand, as you may imagine after the reception
you gave me the last time I was here, but I am determined, if possible,
to be at the bottom of this business. It is evident that both you and
Isabella think you have some good reason to be offended with me, and I
think, in all Christian kindness, you are bound to tell me what it is."
Olive spoke kindly but decidedly.
Isabella flushed up to her temples, and Maria seemed just ready to cry,
while Mr. Prendergrass laid down his book, and stared first at one, and
then at another, in undisguised amazement.
Maria at last murmured something about "not being aware—"
"That is simply impossible, Maria. Both you and Isabella must be aware
that you have treated me very differently for three weeks past, from
what you have done before. I think I have a right to demand the cause
of offense that I may make amends if I have been wrong, and take
measures to justify myself if I have been slandered. I have aimed to
treat you as a sister," she continued, her voice faltering a little,
"from the first time that you came to me, and I have done the same by
Isabella, but it is possible, that by some inadvertence, I may have
wounded you. If so, I am very sorry."
Mr. Prendergrass here interrupted her. "Miss McHenry, I can not
conceive it possible, ma'am, that any of my household can have treated
you with disrespect, so much attached to you as we all are. If so, I
shall insist upon an immediate apology."
"It is not an apology that I want, Mr. Prendergrass," replied Olive.
"I presume Maria thinks I have injured her in some way, and I am only
anxious to get at the truth. I suspect some one has been telling
stories about me, and—"
The look that passed between the sisters convinced her at once that she
was right, and she went on with fresh courage.
"If this is so, I hope you will tell me at once both the name of the
storyteller and the substance of the story."
"I am sure I never thought of such a thing," said Maria, beginning to
sob, "till I was told that—that—"
"Well—that what?" said Olive encouragingly.
"That you—that Mr. Prendergrass had—had—"
A sudden light burst upon Olive's mind, and she exclaimed: "You little
goose! You don't mean to say any one has been trying to make you
jealous!"
Maria sobbed more than ever.
"I dare say that some obliging person has been telling you that your
excellent husband was a little taken with me at one time, which was
very true, and a great compliment I felt it, though, as he will tell
you, it was one I would rather have dispensed with. But that was long
before he saw you. When you came, he almost forgot that such a person
as I ever existed."
"But they say that you encouraged him, and—and—"
"Did I ever encourage you, Mr. Prendergrass?" asked Olive, turning to
him.
"No, Miss McHenry," he replied. "You never gave me one particle of
encouragement. I regret very much that my dear wife has been so weak
as to cherish suspicions injurious, not only to herself and you, but
to her husband, who has never had a thought separate from her since he
first knew her."
"You see, my dear Maria, how unfounded your ideas have been—do you not?
I was engaged to Mr. Landon three months before Mr. Prendergrass ever
said any thing to me, and I have been engaged to him ever since. Now,
tell me, did I ever say an unkind word to either of you since I first
knew you?"
"No," said both the sisters at once.
"Did I ever speak harshly or slightingly of you to any one?"
"You said I was a good sort of a girl, if I were educated," said
Isabella, half-indignantly, half-laughing.
"I do not see any thing very slanderous in that, even if it were true,"
observed Olive. "But I do not remember saying so. When was it?"
"At Mrs. Jones's—at the society."
"Augusta, do you remember my saying that Isabella was a good sort of a
girl, if she were educated?" asked Olive, with due gravity.
"Nothing of the kind," replied Augusta. "I remember Miss Tucker asking
you if you did not think Miss Lambert would be a pretty girl, if she
were not so uncultivated. I can not say I have any recollection of your
making any reply whatever."
"Why, Melissa told me herself that you said so!" exclaimed Isabella,
unguardedly.
"Oh! Ho! I thought we should get at the bottom of the business before
long. So Miss Tucker has been having a hand in it. But, Maria, I
thought you knew the whole family too well to attach any importance to
their sayings and doings."
"Melissa said you called me a serpent," sobbed Maria, now as much
ashamed as she had before been angry.
"I assure you, my child, if I had ever thought so, I should acquit you
now. You have shown conclusively that you have little of the wisdom
attributed to that animal, or you could not allow yourself to be made
uncomfortable by the speeches of a professed mischief-maker. But let
by-gones be by-gones. Is there any more?"
Maria and Isabella could not think of any thing else that amounted
to aught but vague insinuations, except that Melissa had declared
that Miss McHenry had told Mr. Gregory, in her hearing, that Mr.
Prendergrass was a great fool to marry a poor girl, who had her reasons
for being glad to jump at the chance of having him.
"That is neither more nor less than an unmitigated lie!" said Olive,
provoked into using a strong word. "I don't see, Maria, how you could
believe such a story for a moment. I am not much in the habit of using
such elegant expressions—am I? But we won't say any thing more about
it," she added. "I see you are convinced that you are wrong, so we will
let the whole matter drop, and consider it as a joke."
"Don't go!" begged Maria. "Stay and spend the evening with us, if it is
only to show that you are not angry with us. I am sorry I was so very
silly, and so is Isabella, I am sure. Pray do stay—won't you?"
Olive laughed, and suffered her bonnet and shawl to be captured, and
herself to be set down in the most comfortable chair in the room. It
seemed as if the girls could not do enough to show their penitence
and good-will, while she, on her part, set herself to obliterate any
uncomfortable impression that might have been left upon their minds.
They were in the midst of a great frolic over a game of "twenty
questions," Mr. Prendergrass replying with a caution which would have
been becoming to a diplomatist, to the severe examination of the
ladies, when the door opened, and in walked Miss Melissa herself.
She looked both startled and puzzled at the scene which greeted her
eyes, but in a moment recovered herself, and came forward with her
usual caressing manner. Miss McHenry and Mrs. Tower greeted her with
great politeness—the latter especially was remarkably gracious. Maria
and her sister looked provoked and uneasy, and Mr. Prendergrass was
as immovable as Mont Blanc. It was impossible for Miss Tucker not to
perceive that something was wrong, but she made great efforts to appear
as usual.
"How pleasant it looks here!" she observed, in her smoothest way. "It
is really delightful to find you all so sociably engaged."
"You know how to appreciate such things, Miss Tucker," said Augusta, in
her most silvery tones. "I am really delighted that you came in."
"But I must really call you to account for little mistake you made,"
added Olive, taking up the ball. "How did you come to tell Miss Lambert
that I said she would be a good sort if she were only educated, when
you know very well you yourself asked me if I did think so?"
If a glance could have killed Isabella, she would have fallen dead upon
the spot, but Miss Tucker did not answer. She did not exactly know what
to say. Olive went on:
"Moreover, you told Mrs. Prendergrass that I made remarks about
herself and her husband which you know very well I never did make. I
do not know how you can reconcile it with your conscience to tell such
falsehoods, nor does it particularly matter to me. I am sorry, however,
that you should do it, under the mask of a high religious profession,
both for your own sake, and for that of the cause. I must tell you that
if you are leaning for salvation upon any principle which allows you
to do such things, you are leaning upon a broken reed which will fail
you in the day of trial. Let me entreat you to examine your own state
at once and honestly, and repent of the slanders of which you have been
guilty before it is too late, and you are brought into judgment for
them. I am not much afraid of your injuring me, but I must tell you
that unless you stop these covert attacks I shall take some measures to
defend myself, and these measures may not be very agreeable to you. I
hope this is all that is necessary for me to say."
Miss Tucker had stood like a statue during this address, and for a
moment after it was concluded, then recovering herself she said,
blandly, but with a deep sigh: