CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

EVERY day that Olive spent in her sister's house, convinced her more and more that Abby, in her hasty and ill-advised marriage, had made shipwreck of her life's happiness, and roused her indignation more and more against her brother-in-law. She acquitted him of deliberate tyranny and unkindness, but she could not help seeing how systematically selfish he was—how he would let Abby go to market in the rain, rather than take the trouble to order the dinner himself on his way to his place of business. How he regularly took the best place in the room, the best light by the window, the new book or newspaper as soon as it came in. He would sit by the grate and let the fire go entirely out, while Abby and Olive were shopping, or busy in the kitchen, and he would never stir to make it up again unless he was particularly requested to do so.

On Sunday evening he would not go with them to a church at some little distance where a clergyman was officiating that Abby particularly desired to hear, playfully excusing himself upon the ground of always being sleepy at evening service, and disliking the style of music. But the next day but one, he dragged them out to a picture-exhibition quite at the other end of the town, though the day was damp and unpleasant, and Abby had a bad cold. In short, he always considered himself first of any one.

Olive could not guess whether Abby was at all aware of her husband's failings. Of course she could not say a word about them, even if it would have done any good. Several other things were very apparent. One was, that Abby was not strong. She got very tired with her household cares, few as they were in comparison with those of many people, and the unaccustomed responsibility weighed on her mind. She really too great pains to learn, and Olive assisted her as much as she could, but many times did she see the tears start to the poor child's eyes after she had taken great pains in the concoction of some dish for dinner or tea, to hear some careless criticism from her husband, or his often-repeated remark:

"I do not want you to do such things, Abby. Leave them to Katy. How often must I tell you, my dear, that it is the part of a good housekeeper to direct and not to work herself? You are getting really quite coarse from working in the kitchen."

Then Abby's color would rise, and she would be unable to eat a mouthful, while Mr. Forester would complacently enjoy the fruit of his wife's labors.

"I do wish Abby were not so sensitive and touchy," he said to Olive one day.

"We always thought she had a remarkably serene temper at home," replied Olive. "You should remember how young she is—only seventeen now, and the cares of life weigh heavily upon her."

"I do not think she has so very much to do," said Mr. Forester, in a tone of injured innocence. "I take all I can upon myself; and I have often seen women with much larger families who got on much better than Abby does."

"I do not think Abby is very well," remarked Olive. "She looks very pale oftentimes, and has not a particle of appetite in the morning."

Mr. Forester seemed rather alarmed, and for some days was so attentive and considerate that Abby was quite happy, and Olive almost began to like him.

But it did not last long; he soon became as careless as ever, and the cloud settled again upon his little wife's spirits. It was touching to see how she endeavored to deceive herself and Olive, how much she made of every kindness, how proud she was of his accomplishments, and how anxious to conceal his deficiencies. In all that related to her affections for her husband, she was a woman: in every thing else, she was a child.

She confessed to Olive after a while that she was often very home-sick, and longed to see her uncle and aunt, and that she would have written to beg pardon long before "if William had thought it best; not of course that I would say I was sorry for having married him, you know, but sorry that they were displeased at it. I can not bear to think of their being angry," she said, her eyes overflowing. "I never could endure to have even one of the girls in school put out with me."

"I do not think uncle would require you to say any thing more than that you were sorry for having displeased him, but he thinks you ought to make some acknowledgment of error, and indeed so do I."

"Do they ever talk of me?"

"Aunt does very often. She never writes without asking me whether I have heard from you, and how you are. I can tell you, Abby, there are not many orphan girls who have kinder friends than we have been blessed with."

"Yet you were very anxious to make yourself independent of them."

"In a pecuniary point of view—yes! I felt as if it were wrong to be dependent upon uncle for a living as long as I could support myself. But I have never made myself in any way independent of their authority, and have no wish to do so."

"Well," replied Abby, "what is done can not be helped. Perhaps matters will take a turn before I see you again, if I ever do. Sometimes I think I never shall."

"That is a foolish thought, my baby," said Olive, taking her sister's head upon her lap as she used to do in school, to soothe Abby's troubles; "why should you think so?"

"I don't know; I am not very well, and—you know mother died that way."

"But just think, Pussy, how many children are born every year, and people get well directly; and as for mother, I don't think she would have died but for the other troubles, father's death and the poverty and all. You must not encourage these gloomy fancies indeed, my love. It is worse than foolish, it is downright wrong. It is a want of faith in God."

Abby sighed again deeply. "Dear Olive, I am very much to blame, I know, about that and many things. I can not go to church as I used to. William does not always want to attend, and I hate to go alone; and even if I do, it does not seem to do me much good. I wish I were a little girl again, as I was when I first went to uncle's to live, or else I wish I had not been so happy all my life."

"But you must rouse yourself, Abby, my child," said Olive, cheerfully; "you have never known care before, and you are very young indeed to have the responsibility of a family upon your shoulders. But if you keep up good courage and do your best, the hardest parts will soon be past, and you will go on easier. Every one has some trouble at first."

"If I could only ever do right."

"I think you do wonders, both in cooking and housekeeping."

"William thinks I might get along with directing Katy, and doing nothing myself," said Abby, "but I have tried and I can not. She is good-natured, and willing to do any thing she can, but she is not much of a cook, and she is careless unless I stand over her. I think she has learned good deal, though."

"Oh! Yes, she has improved since I came. If you keep her a few months longer, she will turn out an excellent servant, I am sure."

"But Olive, when I am sick will you come and be with me if you can? I think I shall die if I am left alone."

"I promise you, baby. Keep up good courage, have faith in God, and I am sure all will go well."

The vacation lasted six weeks, and Olive spent four with her sister. She would willingly have devoted to her the whole six, but Mrs. Merton would not hear of it. And she reluctantly took her leave.

"Olive has promised to come to me next winter if I want her," said Abby to her husband after she had done crying.

"Has she?" replied Mr. Forester absently, and working busily at a sketch of "the East Wind," that had occupied him and the only table in the room for several evenings. "But don't you think after all, my love, that it is pleasanter to be by ourselves? Olive is very nice, but she is a little severe, a little trying, with her extremely practical ways. But never mind," he added, seeing Abby's eyes ready to overflow again. "You shall have her if you want her, my dear, if she were ten times as practical. Only, I hope you do not mean to cry so every time she goes away, or I shall wish her somewhere else. I can't bear to see women cry, and you of all others. Come now, don't shed any more tears, but look at my head of the east wind, and tell me how you like it."

Abby dried her eyes, looked at the picture, and was duly interested. She tried to keep from crying afterwards, and sustained her spirits wonderfully, considering how much she was alone.

Mrs. Granger interested herself much in the poor child, as she called her, and went to see her as often as she could, giving her many useful hints about household management, etc., but she was of course much engaged.

Abby had many lonely hours, when it was very hard not to dwell upon the dark side of the picture, when she could not help seeing that her idol was not a god—that even marriage with a man she loves is not enough to make a woman happy.

But in these very lonely hours she found comfort after a while. The lessons she had learned ever so long ago at her mother's knee began to come back to her; many a passage learned in Sunday-school invested itself with a new meaning. The little Bible she had brought away with her came to lie in her work-basket, and chapters which used to be only tasks now became full of divinest comfort. The poor child crept timidly near, and laid her weary head on her Saviour's arm. Thus she grew happier by degrees, and wrote so much more cheerfully that Olive was quite encouraged about her.

Olive's vacation at home was very pleasant. No one could be kinder than Mrs. Merton, though the sight of her niece seemed to renew her indignation at Mr. Landon's eccentricity, and Olive had to summon all her philosophy to meet the expression of it.

Charlotte, for a wonder, supported Olive, against her mother, and declared that Mr. Landon was right and consistent, and that she respected him for the course he had taken, though she was sorry for Olive's disappointment about getting settled in a home of her own.

Mrs. Merton was vexed, then laughed, called them a pair of romantic girls, and declared they would know better when they were older.

"Of course you think every thing Walter does is just right, now. But wait till you have been married ten years."

"Or till I have been married as long as aunt Rebecca," Olive ventured to say laughingly. "Now tell me honestly, aunt, don't you think uncle Merton is about as perfect as human nature allows any one to be?"

"Oh!—Well, yes, perhaps so. But your uncle would never do any thing so romantic."

"That depends upon what you call romantic. Some people would have thought it a very romantic proceeding to adopt two orphan girls, and give them an expensive education."

"Yes, I know many people did say so, but I assure you, my dear, we have never regretted it—not even when poor Abby disappointed us so sadly. And now, Olive, tell me all about the poor child. I have had no opportunity to ask you. Does she seem comfortable? Is her husband kind to her?"

"I do not think he means to be unkind, aunt. I believe he loves her as well as he can love any one but himself. But he is selfish in little things, and not very considerate, and I think Abby feels it."

"Of course she must," said Mrs. Merton emphatically. "A constant display of small selfishness will do more to render a household uncomfortable than even very serious faults of temper. And how are they situated in a pecuniary point of view? Do they seem to have enough?"

Olive thought they seemed comfortable for the present, but she had doubts for the future. "Mr. Forester has given up his nursery business, and says he has lost money by it."

"Why did he do that?" asked Charlotte.

"So far as I could find, his only reason was that he discovered it to be work instead of play. He said his partner cared for nothing but making money, and persisted in planting all the trees in straight lines. He is keeping books, now. But I don't believe he will persevere in it long. Abby tries very hard. It is really affecting to see the pains she takes to learn to cook and to sew. I am certain she never worked so hard at any school-lesson as she did to learn to make soda-biscuits."

"Poor, dear child!" said Mrs. Merton. "Only to think of her little hands doing such things. And does her husband appreciate her efforts?"

"I don't believe he does. He does not think there is any need of her working, herself, and I have heard him tell her, two or three times, that if she only knew how to direct, there would be no need of her putting her hand to any thing."

"How absurd!" said Charlotte. "I wonder how my father would get on in his office, on that principle, or a merchant in his store?"

"It troubles Abby very much, and discourages her, too," said Olive.

"And how do you think Abby felt about us?" asked Mrs. Merton. "Do you think she ever feels as if she would like to see us again? I don't want you to betray confidence, my dear," she added, seeing Olive hesitate, "but I feel anxious to know."

"I do not know that I shall betray any confidence in telling my own thoughts, aunt," said Olive. "I think Abby would very gladly ask to be forgiven, if Mr. Forester would let her. She would not say that she was sorry she married him, of course."

"Certainly not," interrupted Mrs. Merton. "We should never ask that."

"But I do think it makes her very unhappy to be so entirely separated from the family. She made me promise to be with her at the time of her confinement, if I could, but I shall not be surprised if Mr. Forester contrives to prevent it, for I know very well he does not like me. Abby is very low-spirited about it, and thinks she shall never get well. I am afraid she is sad enough, when she is alone, as of course she must be, a great deal of the time."

"Poor child!" sighed Mrs. Merton again. "How I do wish I could send and have her here, at home! If she would only take one step toward a reconciliation, I am sure your uncle would forgive her at once."

"I am sure he would, if he were to see her."

"Well, my love, we will have patience; all will be brought round yet. I am sure I wish poor Abby well, with all my heart!" A fact which Olive did not in the least doubt.

Laura seemed to be going on in much the same way as ever, but Olive did not see her. Mrs. Dimsden had taken her down to the sea-shore, and from there to Saratoga, where her dazzling beauty and sweet manners attracted much attention. Laura seemed to be in Paradise, to judge from her letters, which were very long, and so filled from end to end with descriptions of dances, parties, and every thing of that sort, that Olive hardly had patience to read them through. Now that Abby was in some degree separated from her, she felt more and more painfully the distance between herself and Laura. They did not seem to have one thought in common.

Charlotte was much more of a companion to her, though they differed so widely upon many points. She was at least serious and thoughtful. She was not impatient of half an hour's grave conversation, and she had a thorough respect for goodness in others.

Laura valued people by their dress, their station, their fine houses, and above all, by their degree of fashion. It was respectable to go to church, and besides, it was a good place to see and be seen, so she went regularly, and knelt gracefully at all proper places, but she did not like the preaching, especially Doctor Eastman's preaching, and she wished they would leave that out. She thought his personal appeals to the hearts and consciences of his flock very Methodistical, such being the title given by a great many people to any thing like earnestness.

She could understand, or thought she could, the motives of Miss Eustace, an heiress, and a very beautiful and dignified person, in presenting a superb altar-cloth and set of cushions to the church, but she could not comprehend why the same Miss Eustace should sit back with her Sunday scholars, every Sunday, and find all their places for them, or why she should spend a great deal of her time in working for them, when no one would know it, unless by accident. Laura lived entirely in and for this world, and thought or cared no more for any other than if she had had no soul.

Olive returned to Basswoods, feeling as if the winter would be rather a long one. Walter was not there. He had gone, after a short visit in M., to pursue his studies at a distance. He was to return at Christmas for a week, and to this week she looked forward as a weary passenger on shipboard looks for the land.

The school filled up at once, and so many large girls came in, that Olive, after a good deal of consideration and consultation, came to the conclusion that it would by necessary to have another teacher for the little ones. Mrs. Tucker and a few of her special adherents, who had formed a sort of party against Olive, manœuvred greatly to get this appointment into their own hands. Mrs. Tucker wished to give it to a young friend of her own, and, by what she considered a master-stroke of policy, she invited that young lady to come and make her a visit during the vacation. Miss Lambert was really a nice sort of girl, and would have answered Olive's purpose very well, but Mrs. Tucker had reckoned without her host, and like some other great generals, had out-manœuvred not her adversary, but herself. Mr. Jones heard his sister-in-law's innuendoes and suggestions very patiently, for some time.

"Sister Tucker," he broke out at last, "do you really think the trustees are going to do such a mean and uncivil thing as to put an assistant into the school without consulting Miss McHenry's wishes about it?"

"I don't see the incivility," replied Mrs. Tucker, a good deal alarmed, but standing her ground. "If Miss McHenry did not like it, she could leave."

"Yes, and that is what you want. Because she checked Melissa in her tattling when she first came, as you ought to have done yourself long ago, you have always been against her. Now, listen to me. These insinuations against Miss McHenry must be put a stop to, at once and forever. They do you no credit, let me tell you, either as a woman or a Christian, and you do Miss Lambert great harm. She seems a pretty good girl, and if Miss McHenry approves of her, there may be no objection to having her. But not one step shall be taken without her concurrence."

Mrs. Tucker could only murmur something about "not meaning any harm."

"Then be careful you don't do any harm. I have seen so much malice, and so much mischief under that cloak of not meaning any harm, that I don't think much of it."

In effect, Miss McHenry, understanding the state of the case, willing to conciliate, and having seen Miss Lambert and conversed with her away from her champion, Mrs. Tucker, was very well pleased with her, and signified to the trustees that she had no objection to their giving her the vacant place.

Mrs. Tucker exulted greatly, but her triumph was of short duration. For Miss Lambert, being really an honest, good-hearted, affectionate girl, and positively declining to tell tales out of school, and submitting herself entirely to the guidance of her principal, Mrs. Tucker considered her as having gone over to the enemy, and quarrelled with her, accordingly. It became necessary for her to seek a new boarding-place, and as she had abundance of room, Olive persuaded Mrs. Felton to take her.

Maria was young, and her opportunities had not been great. She delighted to read and study under Olive's direction, and she, on her part, grew very much attached to her, and so ended an affair which might have been a very serious one for our heroine, had her friends been one whit less straightforward or sensible.

But Miss Lambert did not remain through the year, for a very good reason—an excellent reason, indeed, since it was no other than Mr. Prendergrass. That gentleman had fallen into the habit of visiting at least once a week at Mrs. Felton's, and to him habit was second nature. So he kept on visiting there, as usual, after Olive returned. And now that there was no farther danger of mistakes, Olive was very glad to see him.

But after Miss Lambert came, she began to perceive, with much amusement, that she was not the principal attraction. He talked to her, indeed, but he looked at Maria. She was very glad to observe, after a little, that Maria herself had no objection to have Mr. Prendergrass look at her, that she was glad to see him when he came, and low-spirited if he went away early, or failed to present himself at the usual time.

At last, one day, not long after the holidays, Maria came to Olive's room, and with blushes, and smiles, and tears, and much pretty confusion, acquainted her with the fact that Mr. Prendergrass had offered himself to her, and wished to be advised.

"About what does Maria wish to be advised?" Olive asked.

Maria wanted to be advised whether she should marry Mr. Prendergrass or not.

"That depends entirely upon circumstances, my dear. If you do not love him, you ought not to marry him."

"But I am afraid I do love him," sobbed Maria.

"Then you had better marry him, by all means, my love, if there is no other objection. He is a most excellent man, and no doubt will make you very happy."

"You know I have neither father nor mother," said Maria. "I have hardly a friend in the world but you."

"Don't think of marrying simply for a home, Maria. I would rather you did almost any thing else."

"I don't indeed, Miss McHenry. I would rather go to the poor-house. But I do like him so very much, and he is so good—that—that—"

"That you can not help crying about it," said Olive smiling, and kissing her. "My love, I think you could hardly have done better, and I wish you joy with all my heart. Now then, dry your eyes and answer Mr. Prendergrass's note and don't keep the poor man in suspense any longer."

"Poor man," she thought as Maria left the room. "I need not have distressed myself so much about breaking his heart and all that. I do not believe men's hearts are so easily fractured after all."

Olive felt some awkwardness upon meeting and congratulating her former lover upon his approaching marriage, but there was no necessity for any embarrassment upon her part, for he evidently felt none. The fact that he had once cared himself to Olive seemed to have passed entirely from his mind, and he could think of nothing and look at nothing but his dear Maria.

There was no reason why the marriage should be delayed, as Mr. Prendergrass beside his salary had a comfortable little property, the result of his savings for many years.

Augusta and Ruth helped Olive to put Maria's wardrobe into a state befitting so grand an occasion. She had many presents, indeed quite a setting out of plate and china from those who took an interest in the motherless girl. The wedding took place at Mrs. Felton's and was quite a splendid affair. Contrary to the forebodings of those who knew his habits, Mr. Prendergrass was not late and did not forget the ring. Maria looked very lovely, the bridegroom very manly and sensible, and every one was pleased except Mrs. Tucker.

That lady was not pleased. She thought Mr. Prendergrass ought to be ashamed of himself to marry such a little chit of a girl as Maria Lambert—a man of "his" age! It was all an affair of Miss McHenry's getting up, and just like her. Maria had been a good girl before she fell under that woman's influence—but she had shown the disposition of a serpent in going to Mrs. Felton's, as if that lady was in the habit of taking reptiles to board, and she would have no more to do with her: so she would not go to the wedding, though Maria invited her, and would not call upon her, though they lived very near—a circumstance which probably did not detract in the least from the happiness of Maria's married life.

It was wonderful and exceedingly pleasant to see how Mr. Prendergrass improved under the influence of his young wife. He learned to dress, talk, and comport himself much like ordinary mortals, discovered that there were other objects in life besides books, and entertained company at home with great propriety. Maria was as happy as the day was long, thought her husband the most wonderful of men, and herself the happiest woman in the world, especially after Olive consented to take her younger sister in her place. She insisted upon Olive's coming to make them a visit.

And Olive accepted the invitation and enjoyed it greatly, thinking at least once every day how much Mr. Prendergrass was superior to Mr. Forester though he could not have told a Claude from a Turner—and his musical knowledge, like the western gentleman's, only amounted to two tunes, one of which was Old Hundred and the other wasn't; and how much happier Maria was than poor Abby.