his wife was dying. He seldom left her, except to procure something
which he fancied would give her pleasure, watched her day and night,
and gave up all his favorite employments to read to her when she was
able to hear him, or to sit by with his hand clasped in hers, when she
was restless and unable to sleep. It was evident that Abby herself
never blamed him, even in her inmost thoughts, and that she loved him
with an earnestness and depth over which his own faults and follies
had no power. To her, he was still the William who had attracted her
first love, whom she had invested with qualities which certainly never
belonged to him, and whom she still believed in, despite all her
disappointments and the sad experience of her married life.
A few days before the last, she seemed to revive very much. She
regained her voice in some measure, knew every one about her, and
seemed much stronger than she had been for weeks. William was full of
joy, and seemed to look upon her as nearly well, and even Mrs. Merton
could not help having some hopes. Abby had expressed a wish to receive
the holy communion, and Mrs. Merton consulted the doctor.
"Nothing can hurt her, my dear madam," he said, in answer to her
anxious inquiries. "This apparent gain is but the last flash of the
lamp. Let her have her own way in every thing, but do not leave her
alone a moment."
Dr. Eastman was accordingly summoned, and with all her friends around
her, Abby received, for the last time, the pledges of the dying love of
the Saviour, who was even then standing at the door. She did not seem
much fatigued, and spoke without difficulty several times after the
clergyman had gone, but Mammy's experienced eye saw that a change had
come over her.
"She is marked for death, Mrs. Merton," said she to her mistress, whom
she had gone to call, leaving Charlotte and Olive with Abby. "She won't
be here many hours longer. Lord receive her, poor dear lamb!"
"Do you think she is dying, Mammy?" asked Mrs. Merton anxiously, but
preserving her composure, as she usually did, so long as there was any
thing to be done. "Send Edward for Mr. Merton at once—he was called to
the office a few minutes ago; and let him call for Dr. Willson."
When she entered the sick-room, she found Abby half-leaning upon her
husband, but holding Charlotte's hand, and talking to her at intervals.
Charlotte sat like a statue, but the tears fell fast from her eyes.
The only words Mrs. Merton caught were, "Take Him for your own, Lotta.
Nothing else is worth living for."
Then, after a few moments' silence: "He is so good—he helped me—he
helps me now."
"Don't talk, Abby," said William hoarsely; "you will exhaust yourself."
"It won't make much difference," she said, with a heavenly smile
illuminating her already sharpened features. "Dear William, don't
grieve too much, and study the Bible. Don't be deceived by fancies.
There is nothing but Christ!" She was silent again, and lay apparently
asleep for half an hour, till Mammy brought in the baby.
Emma stretched out her hands to her mother.
"Set her down here," said Abby, now seeming to speak with a little
difficulty.
As Mammy obeyed, she took her hand and kissed her. "Thank you, dear
Mammy. Take care of her while she is little, won't you?"
"So help me God, I will, Miss Abby," said Mammy, quite overcome. Her
sobs were the signal for a burst of tears from every one in the room.
Abby's eyes filled, too, but the drops did not fall. She looked around
the room, and called every one to her by name, even the servants, who
had collected at the door. There was again an interval of silence, and
she said faintly, "Uncle!"
"What, love?" asked Mr. Merton, trying to speak calmly.
"I was a very ungrateful girl, but indeed I loved you all the time.
Please forgive me and poor William, for my sake."
Mr. Merton kissed her, but could not reply.
Abby now changed rapidly, and when Dr. Willson put some wine to her
lips, she could not swallow. Taking, with a last effort, Emma's little
hands between her own, she murmured some indistinct words, of which
they could only distinguish the last—"for Jesus Christ's sake."
And when she had so spoken, she fell asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTIETH.
FROM the first of Abby's illness, Olive had felt that she could not
get well, but now that she was really gone, it seemed but a dream. She
could not think, in passing Abby's room, that her sister was no longer
there. The exquisite statue of alabaster that lay folded on soft satin
and surrounded with beautiful flowers was not Abby, and she could not
connect it with her sister.
It seemed as though the house were almost empty. Emma would hardly
go to any one but Mammy, and she cried constantly for her mother,
especially at night. She would not allow her father to take her at all.
All necessary business was attended to by Mrs. Dimsden with a quietness
and kindness which did her great credit, causing Mrs. Merton to think
that she had really done Alicia injustice, and making her resolve that
she would hereafter be more patient with her short-comings.
William shut himself up in his room, and would see no one. Perhaps
as he went back over the circumstances of his married life, he felt
some self-reproach and some misgiving that he had not always been the
kindest and most considerate of husbands—that it would have been better
if he had been willing to cramp his fancy and genius a little and work
steadily at a respectable calling, instead of quarrelling with his
employers and allowing his wife to waste almost her last breath in
music lessons. Perhaps he thought that the things he had been spending,
time and money upon (thinking himself all the time much superior to his
poor Abby) would not weigh a grain when laid in the balance against
her self-sacrificing industry. It is at least charitable to hope so.
He left M. a few days after his wife was buried, to pay a visit to his
mother, having first borrowed fifty dollars of Mr. Merton, who was very
kind to him at parting, and very glad to get rid of him so cheaply.
He left Emma in Olive's charge, with proper expressions of gratitude
and confidence, which she could very well have dispensed with, and
begged her to keep Abby clothes and ornaments for the child and not
let her forget her father. "I think she is very bright," was his last
remark. "I hope she may turn out talented."
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Olive when he was out of hearing. "I would
rather she would turn out almost any thing else."
"Talents do nobody any harm, my dear Olive, when they are rightly
improved, and the character properly cultivated," said Mrs. Merton, who
overheard her. "But when a man thinks that because he can do a little
of a good many things very easily and likes to amuse himself with books
and pictures, that he is a genius and that therefore he is excused from
hard work and from doing any thing that he does not like; when he once
accepts the supposition that he has a right to please himself and that
every one else is bound to work for him—why, I would give more for any
little Dutch child that is taught to work at four years old, by picking
up chips while its father saws wood."
Walter came up to the funeral, as did Mr. Witherington and Laura, so
that the family were once more all together. Laura seemed very much
subdued, and every way improved. She would gladly have taken the little
Emma herself, but Olive would not hear of such a thing, and indeed aunt
Merton seemed to want her more than any body. She should keep her till
Olive was married, she declared, and then they would see what was to be
done.
She hoped matters might be so managed that Olive might be settled near
them. Mrs. Merton had her own reasons for hoping so, though she thought
best to keep them to herself. Their parish church had long been full
and crowded to overflowing, and some of the families who lived most
distant from church, Mrs. Merton's among the number, began to think of
colonizing and establishing a new parish nearer at hand. It was not
likely that the movement would be carried into effect before spring.
Mr. Merton had great influence among his friends and neighbors, every
one liked Olive, and there seemed no reason why Olive's husband should
not take charge of the new chapel, as soon as it was built and he was
ordained.
It was only since her niece had been away from her, that Mrs. Merton
had learned to appreciate her—for in reality she had never really
done Olive justice while she was at home. Her very quick feelings
and somewhat irritable temper, as well as a certain diffidence
which sometimes looked like sullenness, made her appear at a great
disadvantage by the side of poor Abby, who was always gentle, cheerful,
and tractable, and laid her open to constant defeats in her frequent
skirmishes with Charlotte, who usually contrived to throw the blame of
the quarrel upon her. Mrs. Merton thought her own daughter hasty, but
open and generous, and she had never been able to believe that Olive
really was so.
But the spirited yet judicious and respectful way with which Olive had
asserted her right to support herself, and the entirely noble manner in
which she had come out of the affair of poor Abby's miserable marriage,
had acquired for her upon the part of her aunt, a respect which every
thing she did contributed to strengthen, and Mrs. Merton no sooner
began to respect any one than she began to like them. She felt too,
that she had done Olive injustice, and she was anxious to make it up
to her by every means in her power. It would have pleased her better
undoubtedly, if her niece had made a more splendid match, but she saw
that she and Walter were very well suited to each other, that he was a
talented, industrious, and steady young man, and she felt that under
such circumstances she had no right to interfere. The course he had
taken about studying for the ministry had displeased her very much at
first, but she gradually learned to regard it with more favor as she
saw how entirely he was fitted for the profession he had chosen. As
she said to Mr. Merton, it was plain that Mr. Landon would do his best
in whatever he undertook, and would never be any thing but a credit to
those connected with him.
Walter's stay was a short one, but before he left M. it was settled
that Olive was to be married in the spring as soon after her lover's
ordination as he should be settled anywhere. Meantime, she was to
remain at Mrs. Merton's, except that she intended to make a visit to
Basswoods some time during the fall. Mrs. Merton again began to turn
her attention to sheeting and linen, and made numerous long shopping
excursions, which resulted in such a quantity of brown paper parcels
that the Miss Willets who lived opposite, thought Mrs. Merton must be
thinking of setting up a shop.
Over the contents of these bundles did Mrs. Merton and Charlotte hold
long and solemn consultations, to which Olive was sometimes admitted
and sometimes not. She was not to be allowed to make herself thin and
ill with sewing, Mrs. Merton pronounced, so she was only allowed to do
the very lightest parts of the work, the rest having been committed to
a seamstress renowned for skill and the mysteries of the needle. Olive
would have remonstrated at the quantity and quality of the articles
lavishly provided, but Mrs. Merton had a plea which stopped all
remonstrances.
"You know, my dear, that we always intended to provide for you both as
if you were our own, and since poor dear Abby did not have her share,
you must take a double portion."
Abby died the last of September, and it was not until the end of
November that Olive felt any spirits for her intended visit to
Basswoods. She carried an invitation from her aunt to little Louisa to
come home with her and spend the holidays, with which she was very well
pleased, thinking that the child would be both gratified and benefited
by the change. She found Helen completely established in her old
quarters, and to all appearance likely to become as much of a favorite
in the place as she herself had been. Every one was pleased with her,
Ruth said, except Mrs. Tucker, who had wished to obtain the place for
Melissa.
It was rather trying to Olive to be obliged to listen to Mrs. Felton's
expressions of sympathy, for that lady always seemed to suffer under
a fear that her friends would not appreciate the extent of their
misfortunes. If she visited a mother who had lost her child, she would
insist upon inquiring into all the circumstances of the little one's
sickness and death, and related all the cases in any degree similar
which had come within her knowledge. Nothing offended her more than
to have any one intimate to her that this sort of conversation was
ill-timed; she set that person down at once as unfeeling and wicked,
and she had never quite forgiven Mr. Gregory for somewhat abruptly
dismissing her from Augusta's room at the time that her little girl
died.
Ruth seemed entirely unaltered, except that her cheerfulness had a
certain subdued character, and that she talked less. She seemed to take
as much interest as ever in all her old pursuits, and she and Augusta
were still reading German together. Frederick's collection had been
arranged by them in the library of the academy, and formed quite a
valuable cabinet of natural history. The little property he had brought
home with him was left to his parents for their life-time; at their
death to be equally divided between Ruth and Augusta.
This arrangement disappointed Mrs. Felton, who had made up her mind
that Ruth was to turn out an heiress, and who had built several castles
in the air upon this foundation, but all the other parties interested
were more than satisfied. Mrs. Felton could not understand what a
clergyman could want with so much money. Their house was furnished
well enough—some people thought too well for a minister—and what any
one could want of so many books was more than she could see. Why, the
parish library contained more volumes than were to be found in the
whole country when she was a girl, and she did not perceive that any
one was the better for it. Nobody ever thought any thing of what she
said, however. The parish library went on increasing no one exactly
knew how, while the comeliness of the sanctuary was increased by
various repairs and improvements till it became one of the prettiest in
the country.
If Olive met with some annoyances in the course of her visit, the
pleasures greatly counterbalanced them. Every one was glad to see her.
The first time she entered the school-room, she was nearly devoured by
the kisses of the girls, while Helen looked on smilingly, above the
jealousy which some people would have felt upon such an occasion. Mr.
Prendergrass actually left the regions below, and came up-stairs to
speak to her, though such a thing as the principal entering the young
ladies' department had never been known in the Rev. Mr. Snowden's time.
Olive saw at once that Helen was likely to succeed—all the girls liked
her and she evidently liked them, without being finical or fussy
about little things, she was sufficiently strict, and she required
the most perfect recitations at the same time that she took pains to
make those recitations lively and interesting. Several of the larger
girls, including Anna Jones and Julia Goodrich, had left school, though
they still came two or three times a week to draw and read French, and
Helen told Olive that their influence and example had been of great
use to her. They were a good deal looked up to by the younger set, who
seeing them take pride in being good scholars and punctual in their
attendance, were naturally more inclined to be so, too.
Upon the whole, the tone of the school had improved very much during
the three years it had been under Olive's care. The standard of
scholarship was higher, there was much less gossiping and consequently
much less quarrelling among the girls, and a better state of morals
prevailed altogether.
Olive could not but be thankful that it had not fallen into the hands
of another Miss Brown, who would undo in one quarter all that she had
accomplished. It was hard for her to leave Basswoods, where she had
spent so many happy hours, and where she had first known Walter. Every
house and street-corner in the curious old place was dear to her—yes,
even the haunted old red house, to which she and the girls persisted
in walking one Saturday afternoon, despite Mrs. Felton's grave
remonstrances. Olive took a sketch of it, which that lady declared she
would not have hanging up in her room for any thing; it was all very
well for people not to be superstitious, but she did think there was
such a thing as presumption. She appealed to Mr. Gregory to know if
this last remark was not true, and his grave assent made her almost
forget his want of appreciation for her sympathy.
Olive's stay was prolonged from day to day, and from week to week, till
at last she hardly left herself time to return before the holidays.
Louisa enjoyed her visit at Mrs. Merton's very much, and won all hearts
by her merriment and docility. She received more pretty presents than
she ever had before. Mr. Merton took great pleasure in showing her all
the lions of the city. Mrs. Dimsden made a children's party for her,
and Olive feared the little girl's head would be turned entirely. She
did not think it best for her to stay longer than a fortnight, as it
was not desirable that she should lose her standing in school. And she
returned with Walter, feeling that she had subjects enough of thought
and conversation to last her all winter.
Helen wrote that Louisa had settled down to her studies as well as was
to be expected, and that she seemed to think Mrs. Merton's home the
very "ne plus ultra" of magnificence, and Mrs. Merton herself a sort of
superior being.
But the winter was not destined to pass without further sorrow. The
little Emma, who had always seemed a healthy child, was taken suddenly
ill, not long after Louisa's visit, and despite all that could be done,
died on the fourth day. She was insensible most of the time, and seemed
to suffer but little. She had never seemed to Mrs. Merton like a child
that was likely to grow up, but more like one of those little angels
who are sent to earth, to show what the Saviour meant when He said:
"Of such is the kingdom of heaven." Her extraordinary precocity, her
perfect docility, and almost unearthly beauty, had always been in her
aunt's eyes so many signs that her pilgrimage on earth would be a short
one.
Mammy thought so too.
"Her mother keeps calling her," she said to Olive one day. "She won't
be here long, Miss. Most every time I watch her asleep, I see her smile
and hold up her hands, and I know her mother calls her."
Though Olive had something of the same feeling, the baby's death was
a bitter disappointment to her. Yet when she was calm enough to think
the matter all over, she was constrained to say it was well. William
would undoubtedly marry again, and even if he did not, she well knew
there was no dependence to be placed upon him—that he would be very
likely to take a fancy to remove Emma from her charge after a while.
Nevertheless, she missed the little creature sadly. And for a long
time, the sight of a child of Emma's age would bring the tears into her
eyes.
A message was sent to Mr. Forester at the first appearance of danger,
but he only arrived in time for the funeral. He remained two or three
days at Mr. Merton's, occupied in selecting his own books from among
Abby's, and in burning her letters and papers. As we shall have nothing
further to do with that gentleman, we may as well say here that within
a year from Emma's death, he married a wealthy young lady, an heiress,
who had been first attracted to him by "The Widower's Lament," which
was published with an appropriate vignette, and greatly admired as
displaying such a depth of feeling.
The present Mrs. Forester is not in the least like Abby, possessing
upon the contrary good deal of decision of character and some sharpness
of tongue on occasions. Nevertheless, she is in the main an estimable
person, and as she took the precaution before she was married of having
all her property secured upon herself, it is to be hoped that Mr.
Forester may loiter away the rest of his life without doing a great
deal more mischief.
His sister Emma has married late in life a very excellent man in good
circumstances greatly to the astonishment of her mother and Emmeline,
who have a great deal to say about Emma's selfishness and ingratitude
in leaving them, after all they had done for her. William sympathizes
with them and says that Emma was always narrow-minded.
Mr. Landon's ordination came on early in March, and Mrs. Merton
took Olive down to New-York to be present at it. The new parish was
organized by this time, and when Walter came up on a visit to Mrs.
Merton's, he was invited to fill the vacant pulpit for several Sundays.
Olive thought the severest ordeal through which she had ever been
called upon to pass was hearing Walter's first sermon. But with all
her fears and misgivings, she could not but feel that it had been all
she could wish. Every one else seemed to think so too, for at the end
of the six weeks for which he had been invited to take charge of the
parish, a formal call was tendered to him to become the pastor of the
new church.
For his own part, he would have preferred to make his first essay in
a country congregation. But he knew how anxious Olive's friends were
to have her settled near them, and how kindly Mr. Merton had exerted
himself to procure this place for him; so, as there was really no
good reason for refusing, he accepted the call, and was formally
installed in the sacred office. The salary was sufficiently liberal,
he had something of his own, and there seemed to be no reason why the
engagement between him and Olive should be prolonged.
It was not prolonged beyond the first of June. Olive had sent for
Augusta and Ruth to come up and bring Louisa with them, and they
accepted the invitation. Louisa and Charlotte were to be bridesmaids,
and the former mounted her first long dress upon the occasion.
The wedding was a very quiet one, the deep mourning of the family
forming a ready excuse for having no company, though Mrs. Dimsden
thought the fact of Olive's being the minister's wife ought to have
outweighed it. Abundance of cake and cards were sent out by Mrs. Merton
next day, and no one was dissatisfied except Mammy, who thought the
affair was not half grand enough, though she admitted that it was very
genteel.
The new-married pair went down to make a short visit at Mrs.
Witherington's. She was staying at the Briars, and welcomed them
with her usual cordiality and grace. Olive liked the country-house
better than the town-house. It was more quiet, the furniture was all
old-fashioned, and looked as if it might have been there since the
old French war, and indeed much of it had retained its place since
the Revolution. The gardens and conservatories were splendid, and Mr.
Witherington seemed perfectly happy in walking through them, giving
directions to the gardener or holding consultations with him over some
delicate grape-vine or sickly-looking pear-tree.
Laura frankly confessed that she had at first detested Briars, and only
came there in compliance with the wishes of her husband, who was very
fond of the place.
"But do you know I am really beginning to like it? The mornings were
terribly long at first, till I took to practising violently. Mr.
Witherington likes Beethoven and Mendelssohn, and I am learning all the
old-fashioned things I can pick up to please him. I think it is little
enough, as long as he is so indulgent to me. We ride out on horseback
almost every day, and you know I was always fond of that. There are
some very pleasant people within visiting distance, and upon the whole
I like it almost as well as New-York."
"I suppose you will return to the city in winter," said Olive.
"Oh! Yes, but I assure you I shall not be so dissipated as I was last
year. I am beginning to think that there are other things in the world
besides company and dress. I shall never forget what dear Abby said to
me that last day. But tell me all about your plans, my dear. Are you
going directly to housekeeping?"
"Oh! Yes, I think it is best to begin as one means to keep on. I
never believed in young married people boarding, and it is especially
inconvenient for a minister. We shall have a very pleasant house—the
one Mr. Fairfax built for Jenny, you know. The church, when it is
built, will be just next door. I left Mammy planning about carpets and
curtains as happy as possible."
"She and Edward will have hard work deciding to which house they
belong—won't they?"