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.

When she could have Bridget to take care of Emma, Sunday morning or 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.