morning—better, indeed, than, she had been since her arrival, and it
was thought that a little talking would do her no harm. She seemed
to find the greatest pleasure in recurring to her childhood, and her
school-days, and in talking about them.
Emma sat quietly upon the bed, looking at her mother, and amusing
herself with some old play-things of Charlotte's that Mammy had
discovered in a remote corner of the nursery. She was a very precocious
and beautiful child, having her mother's blue eyes and fair hair
already beginning to curl in rings round her face.
Olive and Charlotte sat at work by the bed, and Mrs. Merton went and
came from the parlor to the sick-room as she could find time. A great
many people called to inquire for the invalid, and, according to the
pleasant custom of the place, gifts of flowers, fresh fruit, and other
delicacies, were sent in.
Abby seemed as though she would have been quite happy, but for her
anxiety about her husband, who came about noon, feeling very much
abused, and preparing to be very lofty and indignant at having his wife
carried off without his knowledge. He had not received the letter,
having left Boston before it arrived, and he was naturally much amazed
on reaching home, and going straight to his room, to find Abby and the
baby gone, the bedstead empty, and the furniture covered up.
The terrible fear that first came over him being removed by the reply
to his first question, he was all the better prepared to be irritated,
when Mrs. Hines, nowise inclined to soften matters, informed him "that
Mrs. Forester's friends had come and took her home, and time enough
they did, too, in her opinion."
An attempt to silence and overawe that lady by dignified and lofty
demeanor turned out a signal failure, and ended in what might with
propriety be called a scolding-match, on which occasion the gentleman
came off second-best, so that it was in no very good humor that he took
the cars to M. By the time he arrived there, he had worked himself up
into a great passion, and was determined to do wonderful things. Abby
should return with him at once, or not at all, and he would put a final
end to her peevishness and childish freaks of temper. He would teach
Mr. Merton to interfere in his affairs.
A thundering ring brought that gentleman himself to the door. Mr.
Merton possessed in a remarkable degree the commanding presence, and
calm, all-penetrating eye, which is apt to belong to distinguished
lawyers. And as his gaze rested upon his nephew-in-law, that gentleman
felt a sudden and sensible diminution of his courage and wrath; so he
thought it best to begin, before any more of it forsook him.
"So, Mr. Merton!" he commenced, in a much louder tone than was
necessary. "You think it an honorable proceeding, do you, to enter a
gentleman's house and interfere with his affairs, as you have done with
mine! Let me tell you—"
"Tell me in a lower tone, if you please," interrupted Mr. Merton
blandly. "There is no occasion for the next street to be informed,
and moreover, your voice will alarm your wife, who lies in a very
precarious state. Be pleased to walk in, and then we can discuss the
matter properly."
Mr. Forester was put down, in spite of himself. He followed Mr. Merton
in to the library, and took a seat. "Well, sir!" he continued. "I
should like to know by what right my wife has been taken away without
my knowledge?"
"Simply because there was no one to stay with her, and she was far too
ill to be left alone. There was no other course to take."
"By whose judgment was she pronounced so ill?" asked Mr. Forester,
trying to continue his lofty tone, but feeling more and more all the
time that it was a failure.
"Upon my own, and my wife's, corroborated by that of your family
physician," was the composed reply.
"She must have become suddenly worse, then," said Mr. Forester
peevishly. "She seemed well enough when I was last at home. I never saw
any one have a more splendid color."
"Being unused to sickness, probably the symptoms did not attract your
attention," returned Mr. Merton politely. "She is very ill now, and I
am sorry to be obliged to tell you, that Dr. Willson pronounces her
recovery very doubtful. Indeed, he told Olive that only the utmost
quiet and ease, would prolong her life from day to day. I should not
tell you this painful intelligence so abruptly, my dear sir," he
continued, "but that I wish to impress upon you the absolute necessity
of caution. I will go and tell my wife that you are here; and she will
prepare Abby for seeing you."
Mr. Merton was gone some little time—long enough for Mr. Forester to
make up his mind that they were all in a conspiracy to frighten him out
of finding any fault with Abby. "But I will not be bullied," he said
internally, as he followed Mr. Merton up-stairs; "she shall go back
to-morrow, if she is able to be moved."
All thought of finding fault, of taking Abby back, for once even of
himself, were put to flight by his first look at her. She had raised
herself from her pillows, and was looking eagerly toward the door:
every trace of color had vanished from one cheek, while on the other
the hectic spot burned more brightly than ever. Her large eyes looked
black, from the dilatation of their pupils and the hands she stretched
out to him were transparent as porcelain.
He was shocked beyond measure. It had never been any part of his
education to put any constraint upon his emotions, and as she threw
herself towards him, he clasped her in his arms, and burst into tears.
Abby's eyes were always ready to overflow, but nothing could be more
dangerous now than a fit of crying.
"This will never do!" Mrs. Merton's calm voice was heard saying. "Mr.
Forester, you are endangering Abby's life by giving way so. If you can
not compose yourself, you must retire at once. Abby, my love, remember—"
Mr. Forester disengaged himself from his wife's embrace, and walked to
the window to recover his composure. Even then, he found time to think
how hard-hearted Mrs. Merton was, and how little she could appreciate
delicate feelings like his. In a few moments, he returned and sat down
by the bed-side, and Mrs. Merton left them together, with a renewed
charge to William, not to agitate Abby.
"So you came home and found your bird flown," said Abby softly, after a
little pause. "What did you think, when you found I was not there?"
"I was very much alarmed, of course," replied Mr. Forester. "I could
not be otherwise, not having heard of your being worse. Why did you not
write?"
"I was not able for several days, and kept thinking I should be better.
Mrs. Granger wrote to uncle without my knowledge, and when he came, I
was so ill, and so very uncomfortable that I seemed to have no other
choice. Uncle wrote to you directly after we arrived here."
"Are you sure? I have had no letter. But if you were so unwell the last
time I was at home, why did you not say something about it? I never saw
you looking better than you did then."
"I did tell you that my cough was very troublesome," said Abby timidly.
"I don't remember it," replied Mr. Forester, carelessly. And indeed he
had paid very little attention to it, having been absorbed for the time
in running over a new piece of music. "But I hope you will soon be well
enough to return home, for I can not say I like the idea of your being
here."
Abby's heart sunk. "It is so pleasant and home-like here," she pleaded,
"and they are all so kind, and so fond of Emma. And if you are away in
Boston, I might as well be here as there."
"Only that it is not very agreeable to me to come here, and be treated
like a criminal by all the family," rejoined Mr. Forester peevishly,
"and I do not choose to have my child brought up to despise her father."
"They have never said an unkind word about you," said Abby, with an
eagerness which set her coughing. "I am sure uncle's letter was as kind
as could be."
"I see that they have won you over to their side altogether," replied
Mr. Forester, in what he meant for a playful tone, but which was really
one of annoyance. "We shall soon have you making them a humble apology
for having married me at all."
"I think uncle has forgiven me entirely," said Abby faintly, for she
was getting very tired.
"So you acknowledge that you are wrong! What a pity you had not thought
of it before. You might have saved yourself all the trouble you have
had in housekeeping, and have been still an admired young lady. But
come, don't bring the water-works into play," he added, seeing her eyes
full of tears, "or you will be worse, and I shall be turned out of
doors for an unnatural monster. I want you to get well, so I can have
you all to myself again."
But in the earnestness of justifying herself from the charge of wishing
she had never been married, Abby over-exerted herself, and coughed
terribly.
The ominous sound summoned Mrs. Merton, and she at once dismissed Mr.
Forester, not without a grave rebuke for allowing his wife to talk so
much.
The gentleman went down-stairs in any thing but an amiable humor. He
had intended to be very magnanimous and very gentle with his wife, but
upon reviewing what he had said, he could not but be conscious that he
had allowed his annoyance to appear plainly—that he had disturbed her,
instead of doing her any good, and that Mrs. Merton thought, though she
did not say so, that he was not to be trusted.
It was, therefore, with no amiable feelings that he met Miss Merton and
Miss McHenry in the parlor. They took pains to be very polite, feeling
really sorry for him in view of the distress which they supposed he
must feel. Olive asked him how he found Abby.
"She is very unwell, no doubt," said he, throwing himself into a corner
of the sofa. "I do not believe her hasty journey has done her any good.
She is much worse than when I left her."
Miss Charlotte stiffened up directly. "The journey was not a hasty one,
Mr. Forester," said she coldly, "and Abby was so unwell when my father
found her that it was impossible to think of leaving her where she was,
with no one to take care of her."
"I understood Mrs. Forester that the people of the house were very
attentive," he replied loftily.
"It would be rather hard both for them and her to have her left upon
their hands," said Olive gently. "Such people have usually enough to
do to attend to their own affairs, and however well disposed they
may be, they can not bestow that constant attention which is needed
by an invalid in Abby's situation. But how do you like your present
employment?" she asked, hoping by turning the conversation to prevent
an explosion from Charlotte. "I should think it must be very agreeable."
"Oh! I have given that up," replied the gentleman. "The man was too
insufferably accurate. He insisted upon my doing every thing according
to rule and measure, and had the audacity to prefer his own stiff
sketches to the drawings I made from them, because he said they were
more correct! As if mere mechanical correctness were the main thing in
a picture!"
"But in a scientific work," said Olive, "it seems to me that accuracy
would be worth much more than picturesque effect."
"May-be so," returned her brother-in-law, "but I can not work in that
way. I must have room allowed for the play of my imagination. These
very practical people never have any sympathy for aught beyond their
own ideas."
"Perhaps the very practical people might make the same complaint of
the very imaginative ones," replied Olive, smiling; "at any rate, as
a certain number of practical people seem to be necessary for the
well-being of society, it is perhaps best to have patience with them."
"Yes, of course, if they will only have patience with us, and be
willing to know their place, and keep to it. And as you say, a certain
number of them seem to be rather convenient. Now there is my sister,
Emma—she has not one spark of genius, and is as narrow-minded as
possible, but yet she is a very useful person in the family. I hardly
know what my mother and Emmeline would do without her. But to return to
your sister. When do you think she will be able to be moved?"
"Moved!" exclaimed Charlotte and Olive together. "You surely can not
think of taking her away."
"Why, I don't know," he replied doubtfully. "Perhaps a change might do
her good. I was thinking of going to some of the villages near Boston
to live, and of course I could not go without her."
"I am afraid she will never live to be moved again," said Olive, her
eyes filling with tears. "Dr. Willson says her case is almost hopeless."
"But don't you think physicians are apt to make matters worse than they
are, Olive?" asked William anxiously. "They naturally like to enhance
their own importance. I have seen people much worse than she is, who
recovered."
"We must hope for the best as long as we can," said Olive sadly, "but
I fear there is but one event possible. Her only chance is to be kept
perfectly quiet and easy in mind. Pray do not say a word to her about
going away. I am sure it would worry her very much, and perhaps bring
on another bad attack."
The mischief was done, however. Abby coughed very badly all the
afternoon, and the evening brought another time of great distress,
followed by another attack of bleeding, not so severe as the last, but
enough to cause serious alarm in her present weak state. Dr. Willson
absolutely forbade her talking to any body, and only one person was
allowed to be in her room at a time.
The next day, Mr. Merton courteously invited Mr. Forester to make
the house his home as long as Abby continued ill. Mr. Forester was
much obliged, but hinted at painful obligations, whereupon Mr. Merton
intimated that Mr. Forester's services would be valuable in the office
just now, and Mr. Forester accepted the invitation upon condition that
his services should be considered an equivalent for his board. For
about a week he was very assiduous in his attendance upon office-work,
and Mr. Merton really began to have hopes of him, but they were not
very long-lived.
As usual, when the novelty of the thing wore off, his industry
began to relax. His old companions courted his society. It was very
wearisome to work in the office all day, and then return at night to
Abby's sick-room, and the grave circle in Mr. Merton's drawing-room.
He persuaded himself that his own health was failing, as it always
did when he worked in the house, and that he needed exercise, and his
office-hours became few and far between.
If he had been a clerk, Mr. Merton would have discharged him at the end
of a month, but Abby's comfort was now the principal object, and he
was allowed to take his own course. The example was by no means a good
one, and, as may be imagined, began to make trouble among the other
young men, and Mr. Merton was very glad when he abandoned the office
altogether, and became wholly absorbed in the idea of publishing a set
of translations from the older German and Italian poets, an occupation
which he varied by long pedestrian rambles, which sometimes kept him
away for a day or two at a time, and from which he returned with
abundance of beautiful but unfinished sketches.
Olive once or twice finished up some of these sketches into pictures,
which Mr. Forester admired very much, and showed to every body as his
own. He was quite astonished to find that his sister-in-law could
draw as well as himself and that Charlotte was more than his equal
in languages, both ancient and modern, and now and then a glimmering
perception came across his mind that he was not altogether so far above
all the rest of the world as he had always imagined.
Abby lay from day to day with little visible alteration, except that
she was gradually growing weaker, and less able to withstand her
terrible attacks of difficulty of breathing, which were always followed
by bleeding. She was quiet and smiling, apparently perfectly resigned
to whatever might happen, happy in being once more at home, in feeling
herself forgiven, in having her husband and child with her. She had
told William her desires in respect to Emma, and he had given his
consent to the arrangement, without thinking much about it.
In fact, Mr. Forester made entirely a false estimate of his own
character. He fancied himself earnest, passionate, and susceptible
of strong emotions, when in reality he was both shallow-minded and
shallow-hearted, utterly incapable of receiving deep or lasting
impressions. As Laura said, if Abby had refused him, he would have
forgotten all about her in six weeks. But like most persons of weak
will and understanding, he was very obstinate, and when he found
himself opposed, he resolved to win her at all hazards. But he was kind
to her now, and took some little pains to render himself agreeable to
the family, and that was enough to render her happy.
It had already been settled in the family councils that Olive was not
to return to Basswoods at the end of the vacation. Abby could not bear
the idea of her sister's leaving her even for a day, and Mrs. Merton
thought that as there was no probability of her returning for any
length of time, she had better write to Mr. Jones, in order to give him
time to provide a substitute. She did so at once, advising him to apply
to Mrs. Granger again, and she also wrote to Ruth, informing her of the
change in her plans. She felt very sorry to take leave of the school
so abruptly, but her anxiety and grief for Abby swallowed up all minor
considerations.
Walter entirely approved of her plan of spending the winter at home,
thinking, though she did not say so, that she ought to have a season
of rest before undertaking the somewhat arduous duties of a pastor's
wife. His visit was a comfort to the whole family. Abby liked to have
him read to her and pray with her, even better than Dr. Eastman; Mr.
Merton enjoyed the quiet evening conversations, and formed all the
time a higher and higher estimate of his young friend's abilities and
principles; Charlotte liked him because he was so perfectly honest and
plain spoken—so utterly without humbug, was her expression; and even
Mrs. Merton quite forgave his romance, as when driven into a corner she
still persisted in calling it.
Mr. Forester, utterly unconscious of what an admirable foil he was to
Walter's good qualities, tolerated, and sometimes patronized him, to
Olive's indignation and Walter's great amusement. And though he could
not but look with contempt upon a man who had given up the study of
music because it interfered with such a trifling pursuit as practising
law, he yet allowed that Walter would make a very good sort of husband
for Olive, who was as prosy as himself.
In a week or two letters came from Mr. Jones and Isabella Lambert,
containing both pleasant and sad news. The pleasant part of the
intelligence was, that upon Mrs. Granger's earnest recommendation, the
committee had engaged Helen Monteith to fill Olive's place, Isabella
being still retained as second teacher. Nothing could have pleased
Olive more. She knew that Helen would carry out her plans, and keep up
the influence which she had acquired, and she felt, too, that she would
fill up the gap in the little social circle at the parsonage.
A postscript in Isabella's letter, written the next day, announced the
death of Frederick Gregory. As the doctor had predicted, it was very
sudden at last. He had been working at his collections by times during
the day, and seemed as well as usual. But while they were all sitting
together in the twilight, he had complained of fatigue, and laid his
head upon Ruth's shoulder. After a few moments' silence, she touched
his hand, and was alarmed at its coldness. Lights were brought, but all
was over. He had breathed his last, resting upon the breast which had
been faithful to him for so many years.
Olive wrote to the girls, and received an answer from Ruth almost
immediately. It was short, and a good deal of it related to business,
but there were a few sentences which related to himself, and which set
Olive's heart at rest about her. Ruth evidently felt resigned to her
loss, and was deeply thankful that so much more had been vouchsafed to
her than she had any reason to expect. She told Olive that Helen was to
have her old room, but there would be another for her whenever she came
to Basswoods; her letter concluding with quantities of affectionate
messages from the school-girls, who, Ruth said, were quite in despair,
and perfectly sure that they never could, never should, and never would
like any other teacher as well as Miss McHenry.
Olive wrote them a kind of general letter, recommending Miss Monteith
to their especial consideration, and begging them to show their
affection by being as dutiful and respectful to her successor as they
had been to herself.
A few days later, the express brought her a package containing a
beautiful writing-desk and color-box, which had been purchased for
her by their joint contributions. Mr. Forester criticised the form
and arrangement of both, and wondered what a parcel of common-place
school-girls could find in their mistress to be grateful for. But Olive
shed some tears over the pretty gifts, and felt that the love of her
pupils was worth a great deal to her.
Laura and her husband came up to see Abby, and spent two weeks at aunt
Dimsden's, who was in the seventh heaven of enjoyment and gratified
vanity, and displayed her adopted daughter and her daughter's husband,
or, as William said, "trotted out her elephants," till the elephants
themselves did not know whether to be most amused or annoyed.
Olive's opinion of Mr. Witherington rose with every opportunity she
had of observing him, and she could not but hope that he would, after
a time, acquire such an influence over Laura, as would make her worthy
of him. She thought that Laura was really improved—that she was less
frivolous, less fond of display, and showed less anxiety to be admired.
Aunt Dimsden was rather vexed with her niece for making Abby's state
an excuse for not attending some of the gay parties that were made for
her, and wanted Mr. Witherington to interpose his authority to prevent
his wife from being moped to death in a sick-room. But Mr. Witherington
was not inclined to do so, and she had to content herself with talking
to every one about her dear Laura's sensibility and affection for her
sister.
Abby liked having Laura to sit with her and talk to her a little while
at a time, for she soon grew weary now of any conversation. Laura told
her many stories and anecdotes of her New-York life, and her fine
acquaintances, and sometimes made her laugh more than Mrs. Merton
thought was quite safe. But she always slept well after it, and seemed
to enjoy it so much that no one had the heart to interfere with her
pleasure. The last day of Laura's stay, she was alone with Abby quite
a long time, and when she left her, she was weeping bitterly. It was
some time before Olive knew the subject of their conversation. But Mr.
Witherington told her afterwards, he thought it had a great effect upon
Laura—that she was much more domestic, and cared more for her husband's
society, and less for the excitements which had formerly been her chief
delight.
It seemed as though Abby declined from the day Laura left them. She
lost her voice entirely, and was unable to sit up a moment. But she
had no more of the terrible turns of suffering which had been so
distressing to witness, and which nothing seemed to relieve. She
lay most of the time in a painless, half-dreaming state, not always
recognizing those about her, but always docile and uncomplaining.
Little Emma was almost always with her, sitting upon the bed, as near
her mother as she could creep, and keeping her eyes fixed upon her, or
playing with her long, thin fingers. Abby liked to have Emma near her,
and the little one's presence often roused her when nothing else would
have the desired effect.
Every night, as long as she was able to speak, she put Emma's hands
together, and repeated her evening prayer, and it was a sad grief to
the baby, the first time her mother was too ill to notice her clasped
hands, and the inarticulate murmur with which she had learned to
accompany the whispered words.