CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH.

OLIVE found Laura established in a fine house, in a fashionable street, with abundance of fine furniture, fine visitors, fine servants, every thing, in short, which had formerly constituted her idea of perfect happiness. Mrs. Witherington welcomed her sister with much more cordiality than usual, and seemed to think she could not do too much to make her comfortable. Olive had never slept in a room so splendidly furnished as that which Laura assigned to her. The pretty trifles that covered her dressing-table cost more than all Olive's wardrobe put together, and the price of the mantel-ornaments would have supported a Western missionary and his wife for a year. The whole decoration of the house was upon the same lavish scale, and seemed so extravagant to Olive that she was glad to learn that it had been furnished before her sister came into it.

Laura appeared to enjoy it all wonderfully, and Mr. Witherington appeared to think nothing too good or too expensive for her. The first evening was spent quietly at home, Laura issuing an order to be denied to visitors, and giving up a party to which she was engaged, for Olive's sake.

"It is quite a sacrifice, I assure you," she said, laughing; "for I was expecting to make a very splendid appearance."

"I am sure, my dear, I enjoy the prospect of spending an evening quietly and rationally at home, and going to bed at a reasonable hour," observed Mr. Witherington, "especially as we are to be in town but a few days longer. I think there is no greater bore upon earth than continual parties."

"But we have not been to a party in nearly five days," said Laura, pouting a little; "and the last one was a wedding, too, you know. Besides, you know this will be the last one."

Mr. Witherington sighed, but did not make any reply, and Olive thought he looked annoyed and uncomfortable. She could not wonder, when she found how Laura spent her time, and how little of it was given to her home and her husband.

True there were no more parties, but something else came along to fill up every evening. One night a concert, then the opera, where a star of the first magnitude was then rising, then a few friends at home, fifty being Laura's most contracted definition of the word few. They were to go to the country the next week, and then Olive hoped there might be some respite.

"Confess, now, Olive," Laura said, one morning when they were driving together, "that with all your philosophy you would like to exchange with me. Is not this better than school-teaching from day to day, with no recreation, only now and then a sewing society?"

"I have never had much experience of your way of life, Laura," Olive replied, "but from what I have observed since I have been here, I would rather spend my life in teaching district-school from one year to another, than spend my life as you do. I am sure it would not be any more fatiguing, and I should at least have the comfort of thinking that I was bringing something to pass."

Laura looked incredulous.

"I am very sure I never was so tired after the hardest day I ever spent in school, as I was the morning after Mrs. Blank's party, and you seemed equally so; and what have you to show for it, after all? Suppose you pass the whole of next winter in this way—what will it amount to? You have no time to read or study, and very little, as far as I can see, to attend to your household. And then, at the end of life, how will it look as it is passed in review?"

"There is no use in bringing that in," said Laura, abruptly. "If we were always thinking how things would look when we come to die, we should never do any thing."

"I don't know about that," said Olive. "I think we should do some things a good deal better."

"But not any thing we want to do," persisted Laura. "If we were always thinking upon death, we should have no pleasure in things that are very agreeable now, because we should all the time feel that we must go and leave them."

"Perhaps we should only set a more just value upon them. You know the lines Mr. Witherington was reading last evening from his favorite, Southey:

"'O Monarch! only in the hour of death, We learn to value things like these.'

"But at any rate, it does not seem wise to fix one's mind entirely upon things which we may be called upon to leave at any time, and must inevitably give up before a good while."

"I declare, Olive, you are a capital preacher!" said Laura, forcing a laugh. "I hope Walter will accept of your help in writing his sermons. And by the by, when is that young gentleman to be expected? I thought he was going to meet you here."

"I expect him to-day or to-morrow—possibly this evening."

"Is he as much given to preaching as yourself, my dear? Because if he is, I shall be quite afraid of him. You have made me quite blue, already."

"I don't mean to make you blue, my love," replied Olive affectionately, "but I do wish I could persuade you to think a little. You have so much to be thankful for—youth, health, fortune, an excellent husband—I can not bear to have you ungrateful for it all."

"Well, Olive, he 'is' a good husband," said Laura feelingly. "You don't know how good he is. I am sure I did not till I came to see him every day. I did not believe any man could be so thoroughly excellent as he proves himself. Since we have been married, I have never known or seen him do or say a thing that I would wish otherwise. I only wish I were more worthy of him, but some how one's conscience and one's wishes are so terribly at variance."

"But since it is conscience that must decide the matter at last, would it not be well to bring one's wishes a little more into harmony with its teachings?" asked Olive. "At least would it not be worth while to try?"

Laura did not reply, and Olive thought she had said enough.

The remainder of the drive was rather a silent one. When they arrived at home, they found Walter awaiting them. He brought the pleasant news that his studies would be finished by the next spring, and then—

"Then comes ordination," said Olive.

"Yes, and something else after it," said Walter. "I hope it will not be long before I am settled somewhere, and I assure you I have no idea of boarding or keeping bachelor's hall."

"And have you no desire of remaining for a short time that interesting creature, an unmarried clergyman?" asked Olive mischievously. "Just think how much you will lose if you settle down so soon as a family man."

"I really can not say I wish to fill that trying position, Olive. I think it is one in which it is exceedingly difficult to appear to advantage. But when have you heard from M., and from Mrs. Forester?"

"It is three weeks since I have had a letter from Abby," returned Olive, "and I am growing very anxious about her. Mr. Forester has been in Boston for some time—in fact, nearly all summer, and they are boarding. But her constant excuse is that she has so much to do. I can not understand it."

Walter looked surprised.

"Did you not know Abby was giving music lessons? I heard so early in the summer. I understand she has a good many pupils."

"She has never said a word about it to me," replied Olive. "How did you hear of it?"

"Some of us were talking of music one day, and one, a young man from B., spoke of his sister's music-teacher as singing wonderfully well, and called her Mrs. Forester. This aroused my curiosity, and from his description of her husband, I satisfied myself that it could be no one else than Abby."

"What did he say about her husband?" asked Olive.

"Why, really, my love, his description was so far from complimentary that I should not care to repeat it."

"You need not be afraid," said Olive, coloring. "I could hardly think worse of him than I do. And so that is the secret of her want of time. Poor child! She is wearing her life out giving music lessons, while he is enjoying himself at Boston, in an artistic fashion. Why could he not stay at home and take care of her? My uncle found him an excellent place, where he had a good salary."

"So Hitchcock said. I believe it was his father or some relation that employed him. But he said Mr. Forester was always behindhand, and could not be depended upon for any thing, and they had an explosion one day, and Mr. Forester went off. Do you know where he is now?"

"The last I heard, he was preparing illustrations for some book or other, but very likely he has become tired of it by this time. There is, as your friend says, no dependence upon him. With all his fancied intellectual superiority, he is as meanly selfish as any man I ever knew."

"I saw a sister of his once, who seemed a very nice girl," remarked Walter. "I fancy she is older than Forester."

"Yes, his sister Emma. Abby thinks all the world of her, and she has always been the main stay of the family. But I think they all look down upon her, and consider her a person of no talent whatever. I am sure William does—though she has more in her little finger than goes to his whole composition. But to think of that poor little thing giving music lessons!" Olive almost cried at the very idea.

"But why is it so much worse for her than for you?"

"Because she is so utterly unfitted for it, Walter. And then it is such a disappointment—such a contrast to what she expected when she was married. She thought she was going to be perfectly happy, only because she married the man she loved—and such an accomplished person. Much good his accomplishments do him or any one else, except to make him think himself superior to all the rest of mankind, and that every one else is bound to work for and wait upon him."

"Does he profess to be in any degree a religious man?"

"Oh! No, indeed. He is quite too grand for that. He says, so far as I can get at his ideas, that he worships God in beauty—that every thing beautiful must have good in it—and that art is religion."

"A very convenient faith for those who like to escape from all restraints upon their conduct."

"Oh! Yes. You should hear him discourse upon the trammels of convention, and the narrow-minded views of those miserable dogmatists who would shackle the grasping genius of such minds as—George Sand, for instance, that 'large-souled woman and large-hearted man,' as he is fond of calling her. I asked him one day point-blank if he did not think her a very bad woman."

"What did he say?"

"He politely replied that my views of morality were too narrow to enable me to judge of a character like hers. For my part, I can not say that I have any desire for wider views of morality than those taken by the Author of the Ten Commandments."

"And Abby—does she sympathize in all these large views?"

"I think there was a time when she did, in some degree," replied Olive, "but I am sure she is very much changed in that respect. In one of her letters, she told me how she loved to think of the lessons she learned at her mother's knee, though she was a very little child then, and how much she enjoyed the idea of teaching them over again to little Emma.

"'I put her dear little hands together and say a prayer for her every night and morning,' she wrote, 'and it seems as if she knew what I meant already, she is so still.'

"And I am sure, though she does not say so, that she prays a great deal herself. The whole tone of her letters shows that she is very much changed in that respect."

"Let that give you comfort, my dearest Olive," said Walter tenderly. "If, in the midst of her troubles, she has learned to love God, we have the very highest assurance that all things work together for good. No real harm can happen to her while she is faithful to Him, though in his wisdom he may call upon her to glorify him, even in the fires."

Olive was silent for a few moments, and then said: "I wrote to her this morning, and I really think, if I do not have an answer in two or three days, I must go on there directly, instead of going to the country with Laura. I do not like the idea of losing a moment of our time together either, but I feel so anxious about her."

"Wait a little," said Walter; "we may hear again soon, and then you can decide better what course to take."

Walter's prediction was verified, for Mr. Witherington brought in a letter at dinner-time, addressed to Olive. It was from Charlotte, and contained the startling intelligence that Abby was at home, and very ill.

"You will be surprised to hear that Abby is with us," she wrote, "and, indeed, it hardly seems real to any of us yet. It appears that Mrs. Granger had been away, so that she had not seen Abby for some time. As soon as she came home she went to visit her, and found her so very unwell, and so very uncomfortable, that she wrote to father about it, without telling Abby what she was going to do. As soon as we received the letter, father and mother set out directly, and they found her so very unwell, and so very uncomfortable, that they thought the only thing to be done was to bring her home at once, and she was very glad to come. She is a little more comfortable to-day, but Dr. M. does not give us much encouragement, and she is so very anxious to see you, that mother thinks you had better come home directly. She wants Walter to come with you and finish his visit here. Telegraph, that we may know when to expect you.

"P. S.—Mammy has taken possession of little Emma, and will hardly allow any one else to look at her. She is a sweet little creature, and seems healthy."

Olive handed the letter to Laura. "I must go to-morrow," she said, "or to-night, if it is not too late."

"You will gain nothing by leaving to-night," said Mr. Witherington, as soon as he understood the matter. "It will be better to take the early morning-train. I shall be very sorry to have you leave us, but I can not ask you to stay."

Laura's eyes were full of tears, as she followed Olive to her own room.

"Poor Abby! Poor child! But I am thankful she is at home again. I think she will get better—don't you?—now that she has a comfortable place to live in."

"I don't know," said Olive. "Charlotte would not have written so if she had not been very much alarmed. She does not make a fuss for nothing, and I think Abby must have felt herself very ill before she consented to go. Poor child! I suppose she thought she might at least die at home."

"Don't talk about that," said Laura. "I am sure she will get well. Just think how strong she always was!"

"She has never been well since Emma was born," said Olive, shaking her head, "and if her lungs were affected, as aunt feared last spring, there would be nothing worse for her than singing lessons. I declare, Laura, I never thought it would be hard for me not to hate any one, but it is hard for me to have any other feeling toward that man—"

"And the worst of it was, in my mind," said Laura, "that I never believed he really cared much for her, except for having his own way. You know I insinuated to you that he offered himself to me."

Olive nodded.

"He did so again, and from what I heard afterward, I was pretty sure he was engaged to Abby even then. I taxed him with his attentions to her at the time, but he laughed, and said all he cared for was her music. If she had refused him, he would have been dangling after some one else in two weeks' time. Then after, there was so much opposition made by the family, I suppose he persuaded himself that he really loved her, and was determined to have her at any rate."

"He is—but there is no use in talking about that. I should like to forget him entirely, if I could. Do you think you shall go to the country to-morrow?"

"Probably not till Thursday now. I shall be able to go to M. as easily from Briars as from here, if it is necessary. If she gets better, so that change of air is considered desirable for her, we will come and take her down there. You must be sure and let me know of her state as often as you can. Does it not seem strange that this news should come just as we were talking about death this morning?"

"'In the midst of life we are in death,'" repeated Olive, almost involuntarily. "But if it must be one or the other, I should rather it were Abby than you."

"You think she is better prepared. But, indeed, Olive, I am going to try and be more serious after this. You and my husband make me ashamed of being such a butterfly. But you know I was brought up to it."

"I know it," said Olive, "but don't make that an excuse for your present course of life, if you feel that you are wrong, Laura. You can act for yourself, and you are bound to do it."

"But what shall I do, Olive? Suppose I become convinced of the uselessness and emptiness of all these things—how shall I break off from them? I can not go into a convent."

"And it would be of no use if you did, so long as you carried an unchanged heart with you. The same desires and objects of life would be just as sinful if they were not gratified, as though they were. It is not the circumstances, but your heart, that wants changing first, and when that is right, never fear but the way will be plain before you."

The next morning, Walter and Olive began their journey, and arrived at home in the middle of the afternoon. Charlotte met them at the door.

"She is much more comfortable to-day," was her reply to Olive's hurried query, "but you must expect to see her much changed. She had a terrible turn of suffering last night, from which she was relieved by a severe hemorrhage at the lungs this morning. She says it is the third she has had since June. You can not go up now," she added, checking Olive's eagerness. "She has just fallen asleep for the first time in twenty-four hours."

Olive inquired for the baby.

"Mammy has taken her out to walk. She is the only one who can coax her away from her mother, but Emma seemed to take to her honest black face at once. She will sit upon the bed as still as a mouse, hours at a time, if we will let her. I never saw such a child! Mr. Collins came yesterday to pray with Abby, and when he began, the little thing put her tiny hands together, and held them up as though she understood it all. It was quite too much for mother—I never saw her so affected. She was obliged to leave the room."

"How does Abby seem to feel herself?"

"She is quite composed most of the time, and complains very little. The only thing that comes to trouble her, is her anxiety about her husband. She is afraid he will not get here—"

"Has any one written?" asked Olive, as Charlotte paused without completing the sentence.

"Father wrote the day they came home, but we have received no answer. I think, though she does not say so, that she is afraid he will be displeased at her coming. I do not see why he should. She could not stay there alone, and in such an uncomfortable place, too."

"How was she when uncle found her? I have heard nothing yet, except what you said in your letter."

"That is pretty much all. Father got a letter from Mrs. Granger, saying that she thought Abby was very ill—more than she herself was aware. Mrs. Granger did not say that she had bled at the lungs; perhaps she did not know it. But her description of the symptoms she had observed alarmed father and mother so much that they determined to set out for there directly.

"When they got there, the woman who lived in the lower part of the house told her that she thought Mrs. Forester was dying of consumption, and had been all summer. They found her up-stairs, in a room as hot as a furnace, with the western sun full on the windows. She was lying on the sofa, partly dressed, and a little girl was trying to put the room in order. It seemed that was the only place she had to stay, and she lay there from one day to another, unable to go down-stairs most of the time.

"Of course she was very much surprised to see them. She tried to make out that she was only tired and sick. But, partly by questioning her, and partly by inquiring of the woman of the house, (who seemed disposed to be as kind as she knew how, mother said) they found that she had been giving lessons in singing and on the piano all summer, and had only stopped the latter when she grew too hoarse to speak.

"Mrs. Hines said that Mr. Forester had been there twice, and staid four days each time. She thought he took some money from Mrs. Forester when he went away. She said she had tried to alarm him about Mrs. Forester's state of health, but he seemed to think she was not very sick.

"'Nonsense, Mrs. Hines!' he had said. 'How can you think of her being sick with such a splendid color as she has? It is nothing but a cold.'

"'I was mad enough at him to knock him down,' the good woman said, 'but I don't think he meant to neglect her. It was only his foolishness—'"

"It has been his foolishness which has done all the mischief, from beginning to end," said Olive bitterly. "But go on, Charlotte."

"There is little more to tell," replied her cousin. "She was unwilling to come at first, though mother said she evidently wished it very much. But she yielded at last, upon father's assurance that he would write to Mr. Forester directly. She bore the journey better than was expected, and seemed so happy when she was carried in and laid upon her old bed. She appeared just as much like a child as ever at first. And Edward would let no one carry her in but himself, and the good old fellow laughed and cried till I did not know but he would go into hysterics outright. Mammy seized upon Emma, who went to her directly, and she has kept her ever since, except when she has been cooking something nice to tempt 'Miss Abby' into eating.

"Almost every one we know has come to inquire for her—even aunt Dimsden seems to have forgiven her completely. She has been here two or three times a day, and sat up with her last night. Indeed, no one in the house went to bed till almost morning."

Mrs. Merton now entered the room to greet Olive and Walter. She was stately and elegant as ever, but looked worn and anxious.

"Abby is still asleep, my dear. Come and get some refreshment, for I am sure you must both need it. Mr. Landon, how well you are looking. I think your change of employment must agree with you." She continued: "I assure you sir, I was very angry with you for a time, till this romantic girl begged a peace for you. How could you give up all your splendid prospects so suddenly?"

"Simply because I thought it was right, dear Mrs. Merton," said Walter, "and I have never found reason to alter my opinion, though I can not deny that at the time I felt it a great sacrifice."

"I should think so indeed. With your talents, you might have become so distinguished and been so useful."

"I hope what talents I have may be a hundredfold more useful in the calling I have chosen," replied Walter; "and as for distinction, pardon me, but I do not think a Christian has any right to make that an object. The servants in the parable were commanded to employ that committed to their charge, whether it were ten talents or one, not to their own advantage but to that of their master; and if they were rewarded afterward, it was only by the grace of their lord. I do not believe that at the last hour I shall at all regret the loss of worldly distinction."

"But according to that view you remove one of the greatest spurs to human action," remarked Charlotte.

"True, but only to substitute a stronger and better one in its place. The man who is moved to employ his time and talents because they are gifts from the Being best loved in the universe, to be employed to His honor and consecrated to Him, will, I think, be far less likely to go wrong than he who uses his gifts only to his own advantage, and that he may obtain the praise of men."

"But are all men capable of being influenced by such motives?" inquired Charlotte incredulously. "Are they not above the reach of common minds?"

"Since they are offered by the Lord of all alike to all minds, we are bound to believe that they are suited to all. I believe more people are actuated by them than the world chooses to believe. How many men and women one sees discharging monotonous and painful duties from year to year and from day to day with nothing visible to sustain them, yet cheerful and even happy under their burdens, because they have a faith that looks above and beyond them to a region of rest and happiness."

Charlotte sighed.

"I wish I had it then, I am sure," she said in a weary tone not unmixed with bitterness. "But the more I struggle for it, the more unattainable it seems."

Mammy now appeared to say that Miss Abby was awake, and Olive and her aunt withdrew.

"Miss Merton," said Walter, after a moment's silence, "will you permit me to ask you a question upon your last remark? Of course I can not claim an answer, but it may lead to something satisfactory to you perhaps. You say that you have sought such a faith—but how?"

"By study," replied Charlotte, "I have examined all the evidences for the authenticity and authority of the Scriptures, and perfectly satisfied myself on that point. Then I began to review the articles of our Church, comparing them with the Bible, and, as far as I have gone, I am convinced that they are perfectly scriptural."

"But still I understand that you have not yet attained to what you really want. You have collected the materials, but they are only dead matter after all. You have acquired knowledge, and now you want faith to make that knowledge available."

"Yes, I suppose so. But how is that to be attained?"

"By prayer. My dear Miss Charlotte, in this matter I can give you no other advice than I would give to the youngest child in my Sunday-school class. Seek God in prayer; beg of him to enable you to see yourself exactly as you are. Let me ask you what you will think a common-place question: Have you felt yourself to be a great sinner?"

"I can not say that I ever have," replied Charlotte frankly. "Of course, I know that I have done wrong sometimes, but it seems to me that I am about as good as people in general."

"That is at least an honest answer. Let me ask you again to entreat of God to see yourself just as you are. Pray for correction of your own unworthiness, and then compare yourself with the requirements of His law and Gospel. That is the first step, and when you have attained to that, believe me, you will no longer care whether you are as good as other people or not. I do not hesitate to tell you that you must come to feel yourself a lost sinner, utterly without any plea in the sight of God, and deserving of nothing but his anger, before you can arrive at peace."

"That is just what I have heard preached all my life, Mr. Landon, and it has done me no good yet."

"You have heard it preached all your life because there is nothing else to preach," replied Walter. "We have no right to make a new Gospel for the use of the first families exclusively. The reason that you have derived no good from it has been that you have not yielded to it. Beware that pride in your own talents and refinement does not prevent you from yielding to this Gospel which you have heard all your life, till it be too late. Only open your mind to conviction, be willing to see the truth as it is, and after a while you will find rest to your soul."

"You have spoken plainly, Mr. Landon, and I thank you for it," said Charlotte, after a moment's silence. "I tell you plainly that I do not believe I shall ever come to see myself such an utterly lost creature as you think me, though I suppose you have the same opinion of all the rest of mankind and I will endeavor to follow your advice, and perhaps I shall profit by it."

Olive found Abby supported by piles of pillows, and breathing with difficulty. She was fearfully changed. The rosy flushed skin had become white as paper, and a scarlet spot burned in each cheek, while her eyes looked twice as large as ever, and perfectly transparent.

Much as she felt the necessity of calmness, Olive could hardly command her voice as she spoke to her.

Abby had been forbidden to speak, but she whispered:

"I am so glad you have come. Have you heard from William yet?"

"Not yet, but I presume he will be here to-night. He might have started for home you know, and in that case the letter would have met him on the road."

This supposition, which no one had thought of, seemed to comfort Abby, and she lay back with a more contented expression. Olive gave Laura's messages, which seemed to give her pleasure, and she whispered:

"Thank her."

They sat for some time in silence, and then seeing that her aunt had left the room, Abby said with effort:

"I must say one thing, Olive, in case I get worse. If any thing happens to me, you must take Emma, if Walter is willing. Bring her up like your own, in the fear of God. Will you?"

"I will, love, God helping me. But indeed you must not talk now, you will be better to-morrow."

"I hope so. I should like very much to get well if God pleases. Do you think it is wrong?"

"No indeed, dear child. But try and be willing to have it either way." Olive could say no more.

"I am, I hope, Olive," said Abby. "I have learned where and who He is, Olive. We are not strangers."

"You must not say another word," said Olive. "Let me read you something."

"Not now. Just sit still, and let me look at you."

She took Olive's hand in her own, and leaned back with her eyes fixed upon her. Gradually her eyes closed, her grasp relaxed, and she fell into a tolerably quiet sleep, which lasted till dark.

Her physician came in the evening, and pronounced that there was a slight improvement.

Olive followed him down-stairs to learn his opinion of her sister's case.

"Please tell me the exact truth, Doctor," she said, as he made her some evasive reply. "It can not be worse than my fears."

"My dear Olive, you know all about it now as well as I can tell you," said the good old man. "She may get well, but humanly speaking there is hardly a possibility of it. I shall not be surprised to see her comparatively comfortable again, and she may even be able to be up again, but that is all. She must be kept quiet, and indeed she keeps herself so. I never saw any one in a better state of mind, and that of itself does a great deal. If she sleeps to-night, as she seems inclined, I shall expect to see her a great deal better in the morning."