Chapter X: Part 10

"To be obliged to fix one's attention on ribbons, and lace, and petticoats, at such a time, when all one's thoughts should be concentrated upon better things," continued Charlotte, "to be obliged to listen to flat compliments and foolish speeches at such a time, I think it would be dreadfully tiresome."

"People feel very differently about such things," observed Olive. "A wedding always seems to me among the most solemn of religious ceremonies, and a gay party seems about as appropriate on such an occasion, as it would at a christening or a confirmation. It is taking so much upon one's self. It makes such an entire change in all one's circumstances and duties—such a responsibility."

"I almost wonder you have the courage to attempt it, Olive. You have such high ideas upon the subject. Do you think you will ever be able to live up to your own notions of the duties of a wife?"

"Probably not, as I never yet lived up to my own standard of duty in any thing. But I shall do my best, and I hope I shall not be left to myself. Then Walter and I agree perfectly in all important matters, which will be a great help."

"I have no doubt you will get on nicely," said Charlotte. "You are the only pair of lovers I ever saw who seemed to me to be in the faintest degree rational, or in fact endurable. I used to think people in that condition must act like fools, as a matter of course."

"Carriage waiting, young ladies," announced the Black Prince, himself "en grande tenue," as expecting to bear a conspicuous part.

Wrappers and hoods were donned, under the direction of Mammy, who gave a last touch to the drapery, and a last charge to her young ladies not to get cold as they came out of church.

They found Laura ready dressed, and looking very splendidly in her white "moire antique" and beautiful veil. Pearls, gloves, bouquet, wreath, were all in the finest taste. Mrs. Dimsden, in a splendid satin dress and a wonderful cap, was walking round and round her, adding a touch here, and a pin there, now adjusting a fold of her veil, and then giving a pull to the skirt.

Mr. Witherington was grave, and apparently a little embarrassed. Olive thought he felt himself rather oppressed by the weight of his aunt-in-law. He certainly did not look as if he enjoyed the bustle very much, though he brightened up wonderfully when his beautiful bride appeared, and looked very happy.

Laura's feelings did not at all interfere with her self-possession. She very evidently thought more of her dress than of any thing else. She showed no sign of timidity when they found the church crowded with people, and the street outside filled with gazers, and was not half as much embarrassed as Mr. Witherington. His voice trembled very much in making the responses, but she was as cool as though going through an ordinary school recitation.

Every one said so beautiful a bride had never been seen in the church before. Mr. Merton gave her away, Olive held the glove, and every thing passed off well.

There were three quarters of an hour to spare before the company began to arrive, and Mr. Witherington seemed as if he would gladly have had his wife to himself for a few minutes, but he was made to understand that it was quite out of the question. Laura must have some changes made in her dress, and she must give her opinion with regard to the table and the refreshment-room. Mr. Witherington felt himself decidedly in the way, but comforted himself with the idea that it would soon be over, and then he could enjoy his dear Laura's society in peace. He had yet to learn that his dear Laura was in her element amidst such scenes, and found a quiet day at home the most stupid thing possible.

The presents were all ticketed, as Charlotte had said, and arranged on the table so as to show to the best advantage, Abby's handkerchief occupying a conspicuous place among the more splendid gifts. The circle was duly formed, and every thing arranged for the grand parade, before the first carriage, rattling to the door, announced the first installment of the dear two hundred friends to whom Mrs. Dimsden had sent cards.

Olive found the whole thing desperately stupid. It was very tiresome to stand two hours in a graceful attitude, and reply to the inane speeches addressed to her by the young gentlemen who came to pay their respects to Mr. Witherington. She felt vexed at Laura for her evident enjoyment of the affair—vexed at Mrs. Dimsden for her parade of the presents and dresses, and so forth, sorry for Mr. Witherington, who looked uncomfortable and out of place, and provoked at herself for feeling like crying all the time.

Mrs. Merton shone superior, doing the gracious to all the rather out of the way people, being in every place where she was most wanted, and making every one say, "What a splendid woman Mrs. Charles Merton is!" And many people added—"So different from Mrs. Dimsden!"

The supper was very splendid, the Black Prince in his glory—a glory of manners and dress, of gloves and white favors. He had a brother, second only to himself in splendor, who was always under Edward's orders upon such occasions.

Mrs. Dimsden was rather nervous at first, but Mrs. Merton whispered, "Don't be disturbed, my dear Alicia! Leave every thing to Edward and Mammy—I always do."

"My dear Alicia!" Mrs. Dimsden felt two inches taller, and was quite happy for the remainder of the evening. Every thing was of the best. The brilliant pyramids stood up straight. The ice-cream doves, and nymphs, and temples, kept their shape, and the oysters and salads were perfect.

Major Trimble expressed to divers and sundry people the original opinion that Mrs. Dimsden was quite a "Palladium" of a housekeeper, and that Mrs. Witherington was quite dazzling, but added confidentially his opinion that it was a pity she should be sacrificed to such a dull old sort of a man as Mr. Witherington seemed to be.

Well—it was all over at last. The guests departed, the bridesmaids returned home, and sat down by the fire to rest and talk the matter over.

"Was not Laura magnificent?" was the first exclamation, but "How uncomfortable poor Mr. Witherington looked!" the next.

"He seemed to feel himself so much out of place," said Olive, "but I do not think any the worse of him for it."

"Nor I," replied Mrs. Merton. "I think he looked thoughtful and earnest, as a man should on his wedding-day. I hope, Olive," she continued, as she unclasped her bracelets and pulled off her gloves, "that you have no desire to have a grand wedding. A wedding-party two or three weeks afterward is not so bad, but really, people ought to want to be by themselves at such times."

Olive raised her hands in horror.

"I think I see myself," she said, "paraded out for three mortal hours, to be looked at and criticised by every one that chose to look at me, and go home and talk about me afterward. But, after all, every thing passed off nicely—did it not? And how well aunt Dimsden looked—only aunt Rebecca eclipsed her."

"Did I?" said Mrs. Merton. "I am very sorry for that. I dressed more than usual, thinking Alicia would like it."

"And so she did," said Charlotte, "especially when you called her dear Alicia. I was afraid she would spoil it all by being fussy. How well the Black Prince appeared! I think, mother, it would be a grand thing for Edward and George to let themselves out, to do manners at the expensive people's parties. Just think what an advantage it would be to them!"

"Hush!" said Olive. "And don't be scandalizing your neighbors. Well, it has all gone off nicely, and aunt Dimsden has gained her point with Laura, as with all the rest, and given her a rich husband and a splendid wedding."

"I wonder who she will take in hand next," said Mrs. Merton. "After all, my dears, it is much better to pass over Mrs. Dimsden's weak points, and dwell upon her good ones. She has been very kind to Laura, and has acted for the best, according to her ideas. And now I must insist upon your going to bed at once. We shall have plenty of calls to-morrow, and I want you to look your best. You need not laugh, Olive. It is no reason that because you are engaged, you should not do yourself credit. Your lover will not think the less of you because other people admire you."

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.

CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.

BASSWOODS gave Olive a rather more cordial reception than usual when she returned. In fact, Mrs. Merton's visit had done her a great deal of good. People are very apt to set a greater value on what they perceive to be prized by others, and the good people of Basswoods suddenly thought much more of Miss McHenry, on discovering that she had an uncle and aunt who were such very superior people, and who were evidently so much attached to her.

The school filled up at once, and even with Isabella Lambert's assistance, Olive found her hands very full. Isabella's talents were of a higher order than her sister's, and she had studied more, and Olive found her a valuable coadjutor, as well as a pleasant companion.

Melissa Tucker, having finished her education, had returned to her aunt's house, improved in nothing, but on the contrary more malicious, more conceited, and more fond of tattling than ever. Her aunt, however, thought her nothing short of perfection, and paraded her sayings and doings upon all occasions. No sooner did Melissa find herself comfortably settled at home than she began to look about for something whereon to exercise her talents, and she soon came to the conclusion that she could not be better employed than in making mischief between Miss McHenry and her friends.

She knew better than to address herself to Olive, whom she felt understood her perfectly, so she began her attack by calling upon Mrs. Prendergrass and Isabella, professing great regret that there had been any misunderstanding, and a desire to be friends, an advance that was cordially met by the two girls, who had always disliked the idea of a quarrel. Once established there, she began by wary insinuations of "patronage," "intermeddling," etc., to try to poison their minds against Olive. If she had been open in her abuse, they would have met her at once. But her covert attacks were not so easily warded off; and they began to have their effect, especially upon Isabella. She was, at first, not quite so successful with Maria, who cared nothing at all about being patronized, and knew that Olive did not meddle. So she changed her points of attack.

"Cousin Maria," she said one day, in her softest accents, "don't you think Mr. Prendergrass thinks a great deal of Miss McHenry?"

"So we all do," was the brief reply.

"Of course. It is natural you should, perhaps; especially after what happened before you were married, you know."

"I don't know what you mean, Melissa. What happened before we were married?" asked Maria, her curiosity a little excited.

"Why, don't you know? Oh! I am sorry I said any thing, but I supposed you knew all about it. It was so commonly talked of in the village. But if I had had any idea that you did not know it, I would not have spoken for the world."

"I can not conceive what you refer to," said Maria, seriously annoyed.

"Why, only that Mr. Prendergrass was so much attached to Miss McHenry. It was in every one's mouth, but nobody blamed him, for of course they all knew that she drew him on. It was about the same time that she was spreading her nets for Mr. Landon, and I really don't suppose she meant any thing worse than to amuse herself, and perhaps have another string to her bow, in case one failed. But it was well-known that he offered himself to her, and that she refused him more than once. I am sorry I told you, but it was so generally talked of, that I supposed, of course, you would have known it."

And, having fulfilled her mission, Miss Tucker departed, congratulating herself on the idea that she had at last succeeded in sowing dissension between Miss McHenry and her most devoted adherents. She had never forgiven or forgotten her first rebuff in attempting to carry tales to Miss McHenry in school, and moreover, she felt a mean jealousy of Olive's popularity, being one of those amiable persons who think every consideration bestowed upon another just so much taken from themselves.

As it turned out, she was completely baffled, and that not by any ingenuity upon Olive's part, but by simple plain dealing. She soon perceived, that something was the matter—that Isabella's manner toward her grew haughty and distant, and that any little favor was received most ungraciously, if at all; while at Maria's house, which she had always looked upon as a second home, she met a reception so cold as almost to amount to an insult. She took no notice of it at first, thinking it but a passing cloud, but the change soon became too much marked not to force itself upon her attention, and she determined to investigate the matter.

Accordingly, one evening, after tea, she called at Maria's, accompanied by Augusta, and received any thing but a welcome, while a most cordial greeting was bestowed upon her companion. Mr. Prendergrass indeed was the same as ever, and his cordial manners gave Olive more courage to proceed.

"Maria," she said, after a few moments of indifferent conversation, "I have not come without an errand, as you may imagine after the reception you gave me the last time I was here, but I am determined, if possible, to be at the bottom of this business. It is evident that both you and Isabella think you have some good reason to be offended with me, and I think, in all Christian kindness, you are bound to tell me what it is."

Olive spoke kindly but decidedly.

Isabella flushed up to her temples, and Maria seemed just ready to cry, while Mr. Prendergrass laid down his book, and stared first at one, and then at another, in undisguised amazement.

Maria at last murmured something about "not being aware—"

"That is simply impossible, Maria. Both you and Isabella must be aware that you have treated me very differently for three weeks past, from what you have done before. I think I have a right to demand the cause of offense that I may make amends if I have been wrong, and take measures to justify myself if I have been slandered. I have aimed to treat you as a sister," she continued, her voice faltering a little, "from the first time that you came to me, and I have done the same by Isabella, but it is possible, that by some inadvertence, I may have wounded you. If so, I am very sorry."

Mr. Prendergrass here interrupted her. "Miss McHenry, I can not conceive it possible, ma'am, that any of my household can have treated you with disrespect, so much attached to you as we all are. If so, I shall insist upon an immediate apology."

"It is not an apology that I want, Mr. Prendergrass," replied Olive. "I presume Maria thinks I have injured her in some way, and I am only anxious to get at the truth. I suspect some one has been telling stories about me, and—"

The look that passed between the sisters convinced her at once that she was right, and she went on with fresh courage.

"If this is so, I hope you will tell me at once both the name of the storyteller and the substance of the story."

"I am sure I never thought of such a thing," said Maria, beginning to sob, "till I was told that—that—"

"Well—that what?" said Olive encouragingly.

"That you—that Mr. Prendergrass had—had—"

A sudden light burst upon Olive's mind, and she exclaimed: "You little goose! You don't mean to say any one has been trying to make you jealous!"

Maria sobbed more than ever.

"I dare say that some obliging person has been telling you that your excellent husband was a little taken with me at one time, which was very true, and a great compliment I felt it, though, as he will tell you, it was one I would rather have dispensed with. But that was long before he saw you. When you came, he almost forgot that such a person as I ever existed."

"But they say that you encouraged him, and—and—"

"Did I ever encourage you, Mr. Prendergrass?" asked Olive, turning to him.

"No, Miss McHenry," he replied. "You never gave me one particle of encouragement. I regret very much that my dear wife has been so weak as to cherish suspicions injurious, not only to herself and you, but to her husband, who has never had a thought separate from her since he first knew her."

"You see, my dear Maria, how unfounded your ideas have been—do you not? I was engaged to Mr. Landon three months before Mr. Prendergrass ever said any thing to me, and I have been engaged to him ever since. Now, tell me, did I ever say an unkind word to either of you since I first knew you?"

"No," said both the sisters at once.

"Did I ever speak harshly or slightingly of you to any one?"

"You said I was a good sort of a girl, if I were educated," said Isabella, half-indignantly, half-laughing.

"I do not see any thing very slanderous in that, even if it were true," observed Olive. "But I do not remember saying so. When was it?"

"At Mrs. Jones's—at the society."

"Augusta, do you remember my saying that Isabella was a good sort of a girl, if she were educated?" asked Olive, with due gravity.

"Nothing of the kind," replied Augusta. "I remember Miss Tucker asking you if you did not think Miss Lambert would be a pretty girl, if she were not so uncultivated. I can not say I have any recollection of your making any reply whatever."

"Why, Melissa told me herself that you said so!" exclaimed Isabella, unguardedly.

"Oh! Ho! I thought we should get at the bottom of the business before long. So Miss Tucker has been having a hand in it. But, Maria, I thought you knew the whole family too well to attach any importance to their sayings and doings."

"Melissa said you called me a serpent," sobbed Maria, now as much ashamed as she had before been angry.

"I assure you, my child, if I had ever thought so, I should acquit you now. You have shown conclusively that you have little of the wisdom attributed to that animal, or you could not allow yourself to be made uncomfortable by the speeches of a professed mischief-maker. But let by-gones be by-gones. Is there any more?"

Maria and Isabella could not think of any thing else that amounted to aught but vague insinuations, except that Melissa had declared that Miss McHenry had told Mr. Gregory, in her hearing, that Mr. Prendergrass was a great fool to marry a poor girl, who had her reasons for being glad to jump at the chance of having him.

"That is neither more nor less than an unmitigated lie!" said Olive, provoked into using a strong word. "I don't see, Maria, how you could believe such a story for a moment. I am not much in the habit of using such elegant expressions—am I? But we won't say any thing more about it," she added. "I see you are convinced that you are wrong, so we will let the whole matter drop, and consider it as a joke."

"Don't go!" begged Maria. "Stay and spend the evening with us, if it is only to show that you are not angry with us. I am sorry I was so very silly, and so is Isabella, I am sure. Pray do stay—won't you?"

Olive laughed, and suffered her bonnet and shawl to be captured, and herself to be set down in the most comfortable chair in the room. It seemed as if the girls could not do enough to show their penitence and good-will, while she, on her part, set herself to obliterate any uncomfortable impression that might have been left upon their minds. They were in the midst of a great frolic over a game of "twenty questions," Mr. Prendergrass replying with a caution which would have been becoming to a diplomatist, to the severe examination of the ladies, when the door opened, and in walked Miss Melissa herself.

She looked both startled and puzzled at the scene which greeted her eyes, but in a moment recovered herself, and came forward with her usual caressing manner. Miss McHenry and Mrs. Tower greeted her with great politeness—the latter especially was remarkably gracious. Maria and her sister looked provoked and uneasy, and Mr. Prendergrass was as immovable as Mont Blanc. It was impossible for Miss Tucker not to perceive that something was wrong, but she made great efforts to appear as usual.

"How pleasant it looks here!" she observed, in her smoothest way. "It is really delightful to find you all so sociably engaged."

"You know how to appreciate such things, Miss Tucker," said Augusta, in her most silvery tones. "I am really delighted that you came in."

"But I must really call you to account for little mistake you made," added Olive, taking up the ball. "How did you come to tell Miss Lambert that I said she would be a good sort if she were only educated, when you know very well you yourself asked me if I did think so?"

If a glance could have killed Isabella, she would have fallen dead upon the spot, but Miss Tucker did not answer. She did not exactly know what to say. Olive went on:

"Moreover, you told Mrs. Prendergrass that I made remarks about herself and her husband which you know very well I never did make. I do not know how you can reconcile it with your conscience to tell such falsehoods, nor does it particularly matter to me. I am sorry, however, that you should do it, under the mask of a high religious profession, both for your own sake, and for that of the cause. I must tell you that if you are leaning for salvation upon any principle which allows you to do such things, you are leaning upon a broken reed which will fail you in the day of trial. Let me entreat you to examine your own state at once and honestly, and repent of the slanders of which you have been guilty before it is too late, and you are brought into judgment for them. I am not much afraid of your injuring me, but I must tell you that unless you stop these covert attacks I shall take some measures to defend myself, and these measures may not be very agreeable to you. I hope this is all that is necessary for me to say."

Miss Tucker had stood like a statue during this address, and for a moment after it was concluded, then recovering herself she said, blandly, but with a deep sigh: