"Like a fool!" replied Mr. Merton, who was not particularly well disposed toward idle young men just then.
"A great many young men are that," said, Charlotte sententiously. "Is that all there is remarkable about him?"
"No," said Mr. Merton: "he is remarkably idle, remarkably dissipated, and a remarkable torment to every one who ever tried to do any thing with him."
"That seems a pity," remarked Olive. "They used to be quite nice people, especially Mrs. Lewis. I liked her very much."
"They were nice people. It is the ambition to be fine and fashionable that has spoiled them—that is, the younger part of them, for Mrs. Lewis is just as gentle and pleasant as ever. I often feel sorry for her, when I see how unceremoniously she is treated by her children. I tried, for his father's sake, to do something with Sam, but it was useless. He has not even sense enough to be governed. I heard the other day that he was going to be married, but I hope it is not true. I should be sorry to think that any girl could throw herself away upon such an apology for a man."
Charlotte's triumph was now complete, but she had too much sense to parade it openly. And for the rest of the evening, she was as polite to her victim as Mrs. Merton herself.
"How could you have the heart to annoy aunt Dimsden so?" said Olive, half-reprovingly, half-laughing, as they went up-stairs together, after the guests had departed. "You are downright revengeful."
"If Mrs. Dimsden annoys my mother when I am by, she may make up her mind to be paid in her own coin," replied Charlotte. "Besides, I felt sorry for Laura, who I saw was very uncomfortable. I really pity the poor girl."
"I feel very anxious about Laura," said Olive, sighing; "she is, as you say, very uncomfortable, and she does not seem to have any thing to sustain herself upon. I am afraid she is acting upon a wrong principle."
"How do you mean?"
"She thinks she must certainly marry some body, in order to be independent and have a position in the world, and that is all she lives for. She has, or seems to have, no idea of any higher motive in life, nor has aunt Dimsden for her that I can see. Think of her wanting Laura to marry Sam Lewis!"
"Did not my father give him a charming character?"
"I hope she will be satisfied, and not torment Laura any more about him," said Olive. "But what is the child to do? Either aunt Dimsden is angry with her about something, or else she is getting tired of taking care of her—perhaps both. Laura feels as uneasy as possible under her state of dependence, and yet she has a fixed idea that it would be a terrible degradation for her to do any thing towards supporting herself; and she feels as though a certain amount of luxury and a certain position were absolutely necessary to existence. Only look at all this and think what a temptation it places in her way, to marry the first tolerably respectable man with a large fortune who presents himself, and you will understand why I am so full of trouble about her."
"But does Laura think you have degraded yourself?" asked Charlotte.
"Aunt Dimsden does, I know," replied Olive. "As for Laura, I think she considers me an exception to all general rules, a sort of oddity. She went so far to-day, as to say she envied me."
"I am sure I do," said Charlotte, sighing; "not that I am not perfectly well off at home, and as happy as those around me can make so perverse a person as I am, but I never can feel as though I was working to any purpose."
"I am sure your Greek and drawing come on nicely," said Olive. "I never saw any one improve so much as you have. If you were a pupil of mine, I should be proud of you. That copy of your father's portrait is beautiful. I wish you would give it to me, to take back to Basswoods."
"I meant it for you, as well as one I begun of my mother, and I am very glad you like them. But Olive, I am not contented with the acquisition of knowledge merely for the sake of knowledge. I want to do something with it. In short," said she, smiling rather bitterly, "I am, without any particular reason for it, about as discontented as any body can be. I wish some one would tell me what I want."
"I think I can tell you," said Olive, "but I rather doubt whether you will believe me."
"May I come and sleep with you?" asked Charlotte.
"I shall be glad to have you," replied Olive, "if you will let me do just as I would if I were alone."
"Of course," said Charlotte, "we will each take our own way."
Charlotte occupied herself with a book, while Olive went through with her usual reading and prayers. She had herself given up even the semblance of prayer, ever since she left the nursery.
"Now Olive," said she, as they were curling their hair afterwards, "tell me what I want."
"I think you want the two sacraments, as Mr. Gregory says—the baptism of duty and the communion of love. Are you as much in the dark as ever?"
"No; I think I partly understand you, but please explain."
"First, then, you want to do every single thing because it is right do it. This rule applies to all actions, great as well as small. Moreover, you need to have such a love to God, and such a desire to promote his glory that you will do every thing that is right because it is pleasing to him, and avoid every thing that is wrong for the same reason. Are not these two motives which cover all things?"
"Perhaps so, if one could understand them. I confess I can not. I do not know what you mean by love to God. Can you tell me, for I suppose you think you love him?"
"I know I do."
"What sort of a feeling is it?"
"It is the same feeling that we have toward our best earthly friends, though as much higher and purer in its character, and greater in its degree, as the object is greater and purer. There is no selfishness mixed with it, and no distrust, since the object is absolutely perfect in goodness and truth. If there is happiness in loving a fallible mortal, who may change or die at any time, must there not be much more in loving and being loved by one in whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning, and who has the will and the power to order all things as is best for us?"
"I can not understand such a love for God. He is too far off."
"He is not far off. His name is Emmanuel—God with us!"
"I have no feeling towards the Supreme Being," said Charlotte, after a little pause, "except one of terror when I think how helpless we are—bond slaves in his hands."
"If you loved and trusted him, you would find pleasure instead of terror in the idea that your destinies were in the hands of one who could do no injustice and no wrong. Then every thing you did would be sanctified by the thought that you were doing it for him, since he is served by every one of our duties, whatever it is. I know you always take pleasure in working for people. I never saw you so happy, as when you were straightening and going over those long accounts for your father, when I was at home before. If in addition, you had had in your mind the thought of pleasing your Father in heaven, you would have been still happier."
"But, Olive, do you not think there is danger of losing one's reverence for the Supreme by thus mixing him up with all the common and daily concerns of life?"
"If there is," replied Olive, "we are not answerable for it, since he himself says that not a sparrow falls to the ground without him, and that whether we eat or drink, or whatever we do, we must do all to the glory of God."
"And does this feeling really comfort you, Olive, when you are in trouble? I have heard people talk about religious consolations, but I always took it all for cant."
"Take care," said Olive, "that in dreading and avoiding cant, you do not fall into it yourself, and that of the worst kind—that of condemning as cant all that you do not understand. Yes, I have found, more than ever before, the great comfort of having such a trust and confidence in God, as I have described. But for that, I do not believe I could have lived through this last week. It is all that gives me any hope about Abby. She has been so well taught, and the child of so many prayers, that I can not but think she will come right at last."
"I wish I felt so," said Charlotte sighing, "but I can not, and I do not know how to attain to it."
"Prayer and repentance are the only ways I know," replied Olive. "The bitter comes before the sweet; and the godly sorrow that worketh repentance must precede the love of Christ which passeth knowledge. We must repent in sackcloth and ashes, before we can rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory. Do try, Charlotte—I know you will be so much happier, not only here but hereafter."
"I will make no promises," said Charlotte, "but I will think of what you have said, and I am very much obliged to you for speaking so freely, and not being shocked at me. You do not know how miserable I was at the thought that I had been deceived in you after all. If you did, you would not wonder that I was so savage when you first came home."
CHAPTER TENTH.
ALREADY half the time allotted to Olive's vacation had passed, and she was beginning to think with mingled pain and pleasure of a speedy return to Basswoods, and her duties there. She knew that she was sure of a very warm welcome, not only from Ruth and Augusta, but also from her pupils, who were almost all very much attached to her. She liked the place and the people; perhaps too, she enjoyed the idea of being a person of a good deal of consequence; she liked the quiet and regular employment, and there was a great pleasure in witnessing the gradual improvement of the girls under her charge, not only in book-learning, but also in manners and in those minor morals which affect so much the comfort of our daily lives.
Sadly as the matter had resulted, she felt as though a mountain's weight was removed from her mind in getting rid of her secret, and she could not help whispering to herself that the marriage might after all turn out better than they feared—that William might settle down, now that he had the responsibility of a wife upon his hands, and become an industrious man, after all. She intuitively felt that this consolation would not bear much examination, but it comforted her for the time.
She had rather reluctantly given up her plan of stopping in M. to make Abby a visit, at Mr. Merton's urgent advice.
"You had better defer your visit, at least till your return, Olive," he said, when she mentioned her desire to him. "Abby will be in no state to bear reason just now. She has not had time to find out her mistake yet. Moreover, I do not believe you will be very welcome—at least to Mr. Forester. He will not be likely to forgive your plain speaking to him and to Abby, and especially your bringing him out in a downright falsehood. Abby is altogether under his influence, and sees through his eyes. I shall not forbid your going, but if you will be advised by one who has seen much more of the world than you have, you will defer your visit for the present."
So Olive wrote to her sister to say she was not coming, and had the mortification to perceive by the tone of Abby's next letter that it was a great relief to her. For the first time, Mr. Merton asked to see the letter.
"You see I was right," said he, briefly, as he handed it back to her, "but do not be grieved, my dear. The time will come when Abby will be glad enough to have you with her."
Of Laura, Olive saw very little. Aunt Dimsden had never encouraged their intimacy to any great degree, and she now told Olive plainly that she filled Laura's head with notions very unfit for a girl in her circumstances. "Your romantic ideas of disinterestedness and independence sound very well, but let me tell you, you will find out their fallacy when it is too late."
"When will that be, aunt?" asked Olive.
"When you see Miss Dimsden at the head of society, mistress of a fine establishment, and surrounded with every luxury, while Miss McHenry is still a drudging school-mistress, and a faded old maid, or at best, the wife of some country parson, obliged to struggle the year round to make both ends meet, and darning her children's ragged stockings, while her sister is spending her hundreds a day."
"I don't think I shall ever marry a minister," said Olive, "though I know some ministers' wives who are very happy people."
"Well, a school-master, then—perhaps the other teacher in the academy."
Olive gave way to incessant laughter at the idea of exchanging her maiden name for the style and title of Mrs. Simon Prendergrass. "I might do worse," she said, endeavoring to compose her risibles. "Mr. Prendergrass is a very nice man, and has quite a good little property, only he invests it all in books that nobody can read but himself."
"You had better set your cap for him," was the elegant reply. "I don't believe you will ever do any better. But be that as it may, I will not have you filling Laura's head with romantic notions. I have brought her up, and I have the best right to her, and I will agree to give up," ("what" she did not state,) "if she does not turn out better than any of you. As for Charlotte, she is an impertinent little hussy. I only wish I had her. I'd bring down her spirits, I'll engage."
True to her word, Mrs. Dimsden contrived to keep the sisters apart, and Olive hardly saw any thing of Laura, except in presence of others. Even when they were together, she could not help feeling very painfully how very little they had in common. Charlotte was much more of a companion for her, for though, as we have seen, almost entirely irreligious, she was not frivolous, and she utterly despised that dependence for happiness upon fashion and position in which poor Laura had been educated.
Mrs. Merton was, perhaps, almost as worldly as Mrs. Dimsden, but it showed itself in a different way. Having been for many years at the head of society, in the place where she resided, and needing no struggle to maintain her position, she was quite too firm to care much about being fashionable. She gave parties when and how she pleased, and was always sure of as many people as she chose to invite. She was not at all afraid to dress as she liked, or to say that she could not afford this or that, nor was she ashamed of having her carriage seen standing in an unfashionable street, at the doors of unfashionable people. Regarded in a religious point of view, her worldliness was, perhaps, no better than that of her sister-in-law, but it must be admitted that it was less destructive to every thing like integrity and solidity of character.
There was one subject of contemplation which was constantly presenting itself to Olive's mind, and from which she as constantly turned her thoughts, as far as she could, and that subject was Walter Landon. Would he come and see her? she wondered. Augusta had said nothing more about him, though she spoke of the Vander Heydens several times, and Ruth had never mentioned his name.
"And why," she proceeded to ask herself with severity, "should she wish him to come? What was he to her, more than any other acquaintance in the world? Would not—ought not all his thoughts and affections to be buried in Annette's grave?"
Olive felt a loss of self-respect every time she suffered her mind to dwell upon these topics, and invariably told herself that Mr. Landon was nothing to her, and that it was very wrong and foolish to think of him at all. But, though all this was undoubtedly true, it did not prevent her from reading Augusta's first letter several times over, nor hinder her heart from beating faster every time the door-bell rang, and sinking sadly when the person who was nothing to her did not make his appearance.
One night, during the last week of her vacation, there was a ring at the door, and a strange voice was heard, inquiring whether Mrs. Merton lived there, and secondly whether she was at home.
"I wonder who that is?" said Charlotte.
Olive did not answer, though she had recognized the first tone of his voice. Her heart was beating inconceivably fast just then.
A tall, gentlemanly personage entered the room, with a bow which even Laura might have approved.
"Mr. Landon," announced Edward, the Black Prince, approvingly; for Edward was an excellent judge of a gentleman.
Mr. Landon was greeted with perfect composure, and a proper degree of warmth by Miss McHenry, and then presented to her uncle and aunt. Mr. Merton remembered having seen the young lawyer in court, and was quite prepared to like him, and Mrs. Merton was evidently pleased by his manners and address.
Olive was provoked at herself for feeling anxious about the impression he was likely to make, and asked herself again, severely, what he was to her.
He was very glad to see her that was certain, and replied with warmth to her inquiries about Basswoods and its people. The sickness had almost disappeared, the society had resumed its meetings, Mr. Prendergrass was well, but melancholy and lonely—with a mischievous glance at Olive, who blushed, of course, to the roots of her hair, thereby provoking Charlotte to make various inquiries about that gentleman.
Olive could not help thinking Mr. Landon was in remarkably good spirits for a young gentleman who had so lately passed through such a severe affliction.
She had refrained from making any inquiries about the family on the hill for fear of wounding his feelings, but it seemed really quite unnecessary.
"You have not inquired for the Vander Heydens," said Mr. Landon, himself, turning from Charlotte to Olive.
"Augusta wrote that Jenny was out of danger," replied Olive, more and more surprised, and somewhat hurt; for the idea of doubting Dr. Gordon's intelligence never entered her mind.
"Yes, they are all well, now, but very sad. The joy and life of the household is gone."
"Annette seemed an interesting girl," remarked Olive, hardly knowing what to say.
"You did not know her, Olive—Miss McHenry," he said, correcting himself. "Annette never did herself justice with strangers, and the absurd family pride with which her mother's head is filled, though she had less of it than the rest, often made her appear at a disadvantage. She had many excellent qualities, more than she herself was aware of. I think she would have made a splendid woman."
Olive wondered more and more. Was it possible that Walter could speak so of a woman to whom he had been engaged, dead only two weeks?
"You were more intimate with them than most people in the village," she said, without exactly knowing why.
"We were cousins, you know, and Louise has always been with them a great deal since my mother died. I believe the good people of Basswoods were so kind as to give us to each other, at one time, but they were quite mistaken. We were more like brother and sister than cousins."
"I was told that you were engaged," said Olive, feeling that she must say something. "Dr. Gordon thought so."
"Dr. Gordon was mistaken," replied the gentleman, with more warmth than seemed exactly necessary. "I was very much attached to Annette, but I should think that any one who knew us well might have seen that we were not at all suited to each other."
Why did her mother look so amused? Charlotte wondered.
She certainly did look amused, and perhaps Mr. Landon saw it; for he colored, and rather hastily turned the conversation by asking Mr. Merton some questions about the courts in M. Henceforth the conversation ran upon law and lawyers. Mr. Merton was enthusiastic in his profession, and of course was delighted to find Mr. Landon the same.
Mrs. Merton and Olive sat by, apparently much interested, though it is doubtful whether either of them could have repeated a word of the conversation five minutes after it ceased.
By and by, music was proposed. Olive played, whether well or ill she could not have told, and then she and Charlotte sang a duet together.
"Do you sing, Mr. Landon?" asked Charlotte.
"Sometimes, in church and Sunday-school," said Mr. Landon, smiling; "and I know a few old ballads." And being farther pressed, he sang without accompaniment, one of Burns's inimitable songs.
"That is charming. That is the sort of music that I like," said Mrs. Merton, quite enthusiastically, for her. "I confess I do not find half the pleasure in modern music that I do in those old songs. Pray sing something else if you are not tired."
Mr. Landon was not tired, and he sang "Molly Bawn," much to the amusement of Mr. Merton, who had never heard it before.
"I wonder you do not cultivate your musical talents," observed Charlotte; "there are so few gentlemen that sing."
"I did at one time, Miss Merton, but to tell you the truth, I found it too engrossing. It was present to my mind a great many times when I knew very well that I ought to be occupied with something else. It took time from more important studies, and so I dropped it."
"And very rightly, too," said Mr. Merton, approvingly. "Accomplishments are often very dangerous things to one who has his own way to make in the world. They may do for a man who has no business but to amuse himself."
"A man who has nothing to do but to amuse himself is a very poor creature, in my estimation," said Mr. Landon.
"And a nuisance to society, besides," observed Charlotte. "There is our old acquaintance, Major Trumbull, for instance, Olive. What a bore he is, with his everlasting prattle about art and architecture, and the æsthetic, and so on. And after all, he does not know a good picture from a bad one, unless he hears some one else give opinion beforehand."
Mr. Landon discovered that it was growing very late, and took his leave, after accepting an invitation from Mrs. Merton to dine with them the next day, which was Sunday.
"A very well-informed, unassuming, well-mannered young man," was Mr. Merton's verdict, after the visitor had departed, "and pretty sure to rise in his profession. We shall see him a distinguished lawyer, one of these days."
"What connections has he in Basswoods?" asked Mrs. Merton, of Olive.
"None nearer than the Vander Heydens, and one sister," was the reply.
"What is she like?"
"A very nice little girl—one of my best scholars. Her health is not strong, and I have to watch and see that she does not work too hard; for she is as fond of study as her brother."
"How came Mr. Landon to know your Christian name?" was the next question.
"From hearing it at the rectory, I presume," said Olive. "Mr. Gregory's family all call me Olive, and he is there a great deal."
Mrs. Merton seemed satisfied, but she had one question more. "What do you suppose brought him to M., Olive?" she asked, with something of a smile.
"I don't know; perhaps he had business," replied Olive, vexed at feeling the color rise in her cheeks.
Perhaps he had—we all know that lawyers travel a great deal. But why should Olive blush at that? And why, after going up-stairs, should Olive sit for an hour, looking out of the window, when, even if it had not been very dark, there was nothing to be seen but Mr. Watson's highly respectable mansion over the way? Why, to be sure?
When they went to church, the next morning, Mr. Landon was standing in the porch. Of course Mr. Merton invited him to sit with them, and of course he accepted. He was very attentive and devout, thereby winning still more of Mr. Merton's approbation. Olive thought she had never felt the beauty of the service so deeply. Mrs. Merton guessed, in her own mind, that her niece's thoughts might be wandering a little: but for once she was mistaken. Olive had left all earthly thoughts at the church-door, and her mind was filled with one absorbing desire—that she might be reconciled to the will of God, whatever that will might be. She had never felt so much at peace with herself since she first discovered that she loved Walter Landon.
Charlotte, who for the most part went to church only to please her mother and had nothing to do but to use her eyes, thought she had never seen Olive look so nearly beautiful.
Some one else in the church was using her eyes and that was Mrs. Dimsden who had discovered the genteel stranger with the Mertons the moment he entered. For the first time in her life, she thought well of the free-church system, as it enabled her to take a seat directly behind them, instead of the one she usually occupied. She did not take much by her motion, however, for Mr. Landon sat with his back to her, and never looked round once during the whole service.
"I wonder who that is!" she said to Laura, as they were coming out of church. "I never saw him before."
"Some country friend of Olive's, probably," answered Laura, carelessly, "or some office acquaintance of my uncle's. He looks like a young lawyer."
Mrs. Dimsden was not satisfied. She thought the stranger had something distinguished in his appearance, and she was immediately anxious to find out all about him.
"You had better go over and see Olive this afternoon," she said, after luncheon; "you know she is going in two or three days."
"It will look just as though I want to see this person, whoever he is," objected Laura.
"Never mind that; I will be answerable for appearances, if you do as I bid you. You can stay to dinner, and come to church with them this evening."
Laura was vexed, but there was nothing for it but to obey.
"I did not come of my own accord, Olive," she said, as she went up-stairs with her sister to take off her bonnet. "Aunt Dimsden sent me, so you need not think I want to steal your beau from you."
"I do wish you would not use that word," replied Olive, rather impatiently. "Why should you not come over here if you choose? There is nothing in it to need an apology."
"I thought you would all think I came over to see who your visitor was," said Laura; "and, to tell the simple truth, I suppose that was what aunt sent me for. Don't tell me any thing about him, and then I shall have the pleasure of disappointing her."
"Laura, Laura, how perverse you are! If she had not told you to find out, you would never have rested till you knew all there is to know."
"Maybe so. Is he coming to dinner?"
"I believe aunt invited him."
"Then I suppose she will depart from her rule of giving the servants their Sunday. She would not ask a stranger to a cold dinner."
"I do not believe she has made any difference," said Olive. "I know all the servants went to church this morning."
So it proved. Mrs. Merton made no apology for the cold fowl and ham, except to say that it was one of her rules never to have unnecessary cooking done on Sunday.
"So much for being above the fashion," thought Laura. "I wonder whether the Eatons would dare to do such a thing."
The conversation was cheerful enough, though somewhat serious in its character. Mr. Landon was interested in hearing an account of the different charities of the city, in almost all of which Mr. and Mrs. Merton were more or less engaged. Free churches, homes for old people, parish schools and Sunday-schools, were discussed in all their bearings and relations. Laura thought it all very stupid, and Mr. Landon something between a Puseyite and a Methodist. He spoke of a certain Mr. Dennison, who was his particular friend. And after a little, it came out that he was a hatter, but no one seemed at all shocked. Aunt Merton was a good deal of a riddle to Laura: she was so very fashionable, and yet seemed to care so little about it.
They went to church in the evening, and walked round by Mrs. Dimsden's to leave Laura, who complained of headache. That young lady had to undergo a severe cross-examination from her excellent aunt, but as she had sedulously avoided finding out any thing, she had very little to tell, except that she believed Mr. Landon was a young lawyer from the country, who did not seem to have any distinguished connections.
"Your aunt is always inviting such persons. I do wonder she should. Even the clerks in the office are very often there, I am told."
"Yes, indeed," said Laura; "aunt makes a point of asking some of them to tea almost every week, and I never saw her or Charlotte take more pains to entertain any one. I remember how aunt set down Morgan Spencer once, for putting on airs to one of them. The sweet youth was nearly frightened out of what little wit he has."
"Well!" sighed Mrs. Dimsden. "I don't pretend to understand Rebecca Merton. She is beyond me. I knew her pride would have a fall, though, when she used to make such a display of Abby and Charlotte last winter, and if it does not have another, I shall miss my guess. If you will be a good girl, Laura, I will have you at the head of an establishment of your own long before Charlotte, with all her beauty and talent. Now go to bed, child, and put on your best looks to-morrow, for I think we shall have some company that you will like to see. And pray don't be perverse and romantic, my dear, for you know the only object I have is to see you settled in life."
Laura was delighted to see her aunt again in good humor. She promised that she would eschew romance and perverseness, and went to bed, feeling quite happy.
"Olive," said Mrs. Merton, "will you stay at home, and keep house this morning? Charlotte and I have shopping to do, and shall probably not be at home till luncheon-time?"
Olive assented, of course. There was something a little peculiar in her aunt's manner, she thought, and she found herself speculating over it more than once in the course of the long letter that she was writing to Augusta and Ruth, which was to be sent by Mr. Landon. She had just finished it, when the Black Prince ushered Mr. Landon himself into the drawing-room with the information that Madam and Miss Charlotte were out, but Miss Olive was at home.
Mr. Landon seemed to think that Miss Olive would answer every purpose, and the Prince retreated to his own dominions, apparently greatly amused with something in his own mind.
Mr. Landon did not converse with his usual freedom and elegance. On the contrary, he seemed a good deal embarrassed. Indeed, after a while, he was quite at a loss, and did not speak a word for all of five minutes, during which time he cut, ripped, twisted, and otherwise destroyed almost half a yard of elaborate tape trimming, besides dulling the little scissors in a very distressing manner. Strange to say, Olive had not the presence of mind to stop the mischief or, perhaps she was too much engaged on that camellia flower, whereof the pattern seemed to have become very difficult all at once.
"Olive!" said Walter at last.
Well, perhaps it is not necessary to tell the rest. I suppose these things are managed very much alike, all the world over. Of course, Mr. Landon did not fall on his knees, or conduct himself in any such absurd manner, because he was ordinarily a very sensible, practical young man, and not quite a fool, even in love. We may conclude, from what we know of the gentleman, that he told his love in a very manly, earnest fashion, and that Olive answered in the same way. If he kissed her hand, and—and so on, why, that is nobody's business.
Whether the Black Prince had his own thoughts about what was going on, I can not say; though, if he did not, why should he have made such a clatter in setting down the luncheon-tray outside the door, when there was no need to set it down at all, the said door being ajar? And why should he have indulged in a private and respectful giggle, when he went back for the pickled oysters?
Mrs. Merton and Charlotte came in almost as soon as luncheon was ready, and Mrs. Merton was graciousness itself, both to Mr. Landon and to her niece. Mr. Landon had quite recovered his fluency, and never appeared to better advantage, while Olive was silent and abstracted, though she did not seem particularly miserable.
By and by the gentleman took his leave, and Olive escaped to her own room. We will not follow her, for she needs solitude, wherein to collect her thoughts—to think what she has done and said—to wonder whether any one was ever so happy or so thankful before.
It would be paying a poor compliment to Mrs. Merton's care and discernment to imagine that she did not understand the whole matter. She was a woman of great penetration, and very much accustomed to judge of character. And, moreover, she was very skillful in drawing people out, and making them display their true colors. She saw nothing to object to, but very much to approve in the young lawyer, though she believed he might be a little Quixotic in his ideas of duty. She was very much pleased that he had, in a manner, referred the matter to her, even before speaking to Olive. His character as a lawyer was high—very high for so young a man, and he had a respectable property, and no vulgar relations. She would, indeed, have preferred to have Olive settled nearer home, and she could not help pitying her for being, in all probability, condemned to spend her life in a country village—a fate which seemed to her very deplorable, though Olive professed to like it.
Still, Olive was not a belle; she did not care very much for society and style, and all that, and she was not the kind of girl likely to make a brilliant match. On the whole, as she said to Charlotte, Olive had done quite as well as she expected—so different from that poor, foolish child, Abby, whom they all thought would have turned out so much better.
Olive was quite happy, when she received the congratulatory kiss of her aunt and uncle, on coming down to dinner. Mr. Merton had seen and talked with Walter, and expressed himself quite satisfied with the young man's views. It was all talked over in the family council that evening. Olive had quite made up her mind to return to Basswoods, and fulfill her engagement there, and Mr. Merton supported her in this resolve, against the opposition of his wife and Charlotte. The term would be out in the middle of July, and she could then come home to stay till she left it for good. The only other stipulation which Olive made was that the engagement should be kept a secret.
"But what will you do about Laura?" suggested Charlotte. "You must tell her."
"Yes, I suppose so, and perhaps it will be best to tell aunt, too, but I dislike having such an affair the theme of conversation. And then, if any thing happens—"
"I will manage that," said Mrs. Merton; "leave it to me, my dear." And to her, Olive was quite content to leave it.
Finally, the matter was thus settled. Olive was to return to Basswoods and finish her term there, giving Mr. Jones timely notice of her intention to resign, and Mrs. Merton was to use her own discretion about keeping the matter a secret. Olive tried timidly to bring in a word in favor of Abby, but was stopped at once by her uncle.
"Not a word about that, Olive! I have conceded much—more, perhaps, than I ought—in allowing you to visit her and correspond with her, and that is all you must ask. She shall never enter this house again, till she has, at least, expressed some sorrow for her misconduct, and a desire to be forgiven."
Olive sighed, but she could only submit, in the hope that her uncle would relent, or her sister come to her senses some day.
CHAPTER ELEVENTH.
SCHOOL was to begin on Wednesday as usual, and Olive arrived in Basswoods on Monday evening at dusk. She found several people waiting to welcome her—Mr. Gregory and Augusta, Mr. Landon and Mr. Jones, and last not least, Mr. Prendergrass. As Olive shook hands with the last named gentleman, and received his half-formal, half-embarrassed greeting, her mind adverted for the first time to what Mrs. Dimsden had so elegantly said, about her setting her cap for the school-master, and she wondered whether there could be any possible danger of his making a mistake—of his fancying that she was giving him encouragement, but she dismissed it as too absurd to deserve consideration.
Ruth was not at the station, but was waiting for her at the door of the old house which Olive was quite surprised to see looking as usual, forgetting that houses do not generally change very much in the course of four weeks. It seemed like home to be again in her comfortable, cheerful room, which was just as she left it, except that a beautiful bouquet stood in a little vase of biscuit-ware on the table.
"Louisa Landon brought that over," said Ruth, seeing that Olive's eyes were fixed upon it, the moment she entered the room.
"Did she?" asked Olive, taking it up, to examine it.
"Why of course, you know she did," retorted Ruth shortly, but not unkindly. "What is the use of pretending you don't? Don't you think I have guessed all about it by this time?"
"I am glad you have, I am sure," said Olive, laughing and blushing; "for it will save me the awkwardness of telling you, which I have been dreading all the way. Well, what do you think about it?"
"Me! I don't know any thing about such things. I think Walter is a very nice young man, and you are a very nice young woman, and I dare say you will be as happy as most people. I hope so, I am sure."
Olive glanced at Ruth in surprise, and saw that she seemed a good deal agitated, though she was stooping over Olive's trunk, as if to hide her face from observation. The expression passed away as she looked, and she was as calm as ever. Olive remembered the same look once before, when Ruth had spoken of Augusta's brother, and she had wondered at the time, but now something in her own feelings gave her a clue to her friend's.
"Don't think I am cross, Olive," said Ruth presently. "Sometimes I remember things I would rather forget, and it upsets me for a moment. Cool as you think me, I was not always so. Augusta can tell you—she is the only one who knows. I never speak or think of it, if I can help it. I wish you every happiness, my dear, and I think your prospects are as fair as any one's. I have known Walter from a child. Don't talk to me now—I shall get quiet presently."
And when Olive met her a few minutes afterwards, she was as composed and cheerful as usual, nor did she ever again advert to the subject.
From Augusta she afterwards learned part of the story. Frederick Gregory was a young man of promising talents, and, as every one thought, of good principles, but he went to college, so often only another name for going to destruction. He was treated with a great deal of attention, and often invited out, and at last fell into the hands of one of those gangs of fashionable rascals, some of whom are to be found in almost every city, who think it an excellent joke to draw in a young man, first to drink, then to gamble, and so on, to utter ruin, and when it is accomplished, hold up their hands in astonishment that any one could be so weak.
Into such a set did Frederick Gregory fall. Mr. T's game-suppers and little dinner-parties (for men only) were very pleasant, and his vanity was flattered in being distinguished by such a fashionable man, albeit he did not think Mr. T. as elegant as his father, or old Judge Landon of Basswoods. One thing led to an other—"champaigne" to brandy-punch, punch to clear brandy: which led to betting on the players, and that to playing on his own account. Why pursue the story?
Frederick Gregory was expelled from the college for gross misconduct in his third year. He went home for a short time, but life in his father's house and under his mother's eye was unendurable to him. Fresh disgrace and exposure followed, and at last he went to sea, and was never heard of again.
Frederick and Ruth had been lovers almost from childhood, and though their parents refused to recognize any engagement till Frederick should have finished his college career, they considered themselves none the less bound to each other. It was very long before Ruth could believe that Frederick was as degraded as people said, but she was at last convinced in a way not to be mistaken. The young man visited her one evening when he was too far gone in intoxication to know what he was about, and absolutely insulted her. Once convinced, her course was taken.
The next morning she sent him a letter, breaking off the engagement, and refusing to see him again, till he could give proof of his reformation. He made no attempt to overcome her resolution, for he had for some time felt his engagement to be only a restraint and an annoyance. Before leaving Basswoods, he sent her a seal-ring which she had given him before he went to college, with a note, thanking her for having taken the first step towards a separation, and bidding her an eternal farewell.
What Ruth felt on this occasion, nobody knew, unless it were Augusta. She kept about her duties as usual, for two or three months. Then she had a long and tedious fit of sickness, from which she rose up, cured in body and mind. After a long storm, she had found a calm; she had conquered in deadly strife, and was henceforth at peace with herself and the world. She was sometimes haunted, as all of us are upon dark days, with the ghosts of the enemies she had slain, but they were only ghosts, and fled at daylight.
She lived for duty, and with the duties came many pleasures, but her home was not here, "and all her heart was fixed above." Love and marriage were things utterly out of the question with her, and though she might have been comfortably established more than once, she dismissed all her suitors with an indifference nowise flattering to them, and very provoking to her mother, who could not see why Ruth should be so foolish as to refuse such an excellent man as Mr. Brown, the largest merchant in the place. She might have annoyed her daughter not a little, had not Mr. Felton, for the first and last time in his life, asserted his individuality, and forbidden her to say another word on the subject, declaring that in this and all other matters, Ruth should do just as she chose, a proceeding which besides silencing his wife, amazed her to such a degree that she actually forgot to be lone and low for as much as three days afterwards.
Olive was warmly welcomed by all her pupils, most of whom declared that they were tired of vacation, and quite ready to begin school again. The drawing-class had each a picture or two to show her, the results of her holiday labors, and they were all delighted to find that they could draw at home as well as in school. Miss Tucker was gone, her aunt having concluded to send her to a seminary at a distance, where her talents would be appreciated, and her feelings respected; such at least was the reason she gave Olive, with an emphasis intended to be very cutting, and Olive accepted it politely, glad to be rid of her on any terms.
The school was smaller than it had been in the winter, as many of the country pupils had returned to their homes to assist in the summer labors of the dairy and the farm. Olive found some of her best pupils missing, but she felt herself in some degree compensated by being able to bestow more time and attention upon the rest. As she thought how much she might do for them in a few years, she could not help feeling a pang of regret at being obliged to leave them so soon. She had not yet said any thing to Mr. Jones about her intention, nor did she mean to do so, till about a month before the summer vacation, as that would afford abundance of time to procure another teacher.
After she had been in Basswoods about two weeks, Olive received a letter from Helen Monteith, and one from Abby at the same time. Helen had been visiting Mrs. Granger, and had been to see Abby. She wrote to Olive that they were comfortably established in the principal hotel of the place, and that Abby liked it very much, but Mr. Forester was discontented and talked of going to housekeeping as soon as he could find a house.
"I think Abby dreads it," she said, "but she talks cheerfully about it, and is quite sure she can learn. She seems rather subdued, and I think feels very much the separation from her family. She thinks her uncle and aunt are very hard-hearted to treat her with so much severity, and really, I do not think she has the least idea of having done wrong. A good many people have visited her, and some of Mr. Forester's relations have sent her very handsome presents. I think they cherish the hope that William may settle down and be steady now that he has a wife on his hands; and perhaps he will. He certainly seems very fond of her."
Abby wrote in good spirits. She adverted to the housekeeping scheme, and said they had been house-hunting several times, but rents were high, and they had not found any thing desirable.
It was evident that Abby was coming to the conclusion that it cost money to live, a fact of which she had never been in any degree sensible before. She spoke of the kindness of Mr. Forester's relations, and contrasted it with the sternness of her uncle and aunt Merton, by whom she evidently felt herself very much abused. She exulted greatly over Olive's engagement, and said she supposed her sister would now be willing to admit that she had not been so very much to blame. She was mistaken, however.
The more deeply Olive loved, the more she wondered at Abby's course. The effect of her own attachment was to make her more and more anxious to do her duty in every respect, to correct her faults, and to render herself worthy of her lover, and her destiny as a wife and mother. Her conscience had never been so quick to feel the first approach of wrong, her thankfulness had never been so deep, or her desire of self-consecration so entire as since she had been engaged.
She did not consider how different all this might have been, if Walter had not had the deepest sympathy in all her religious feelings; if he had not been her superior in religious experience; if he had regarded the whole matter with indifference, or at best with a careless respect as an institution very well suited to women and clergymen, and such narrow-minded people; if he had gently laughed at her scruples, and intimated that conscience was all very well, but there were instincts and feelings of our nature much higher, and better guides, etc., etc., the cant of a certain fashionable school very much in favor with such gentlemen as Mr. Forester.
Contrary to the well-known prediction, the course of Olive's true love seemed likely to run very smooth indeed. Walter's business was very prosperous, he had no debts, and he had sufficiently demonstrated the fact of his being able to make a living. Olive's little property was in an excellent shape, and she thought the proceeds of her year's labor would go far toward fitting her out comfortably and respectably.
There seemed no reason why the young people should wait longer than the first of October. Aunt Merton and her prime minister, Mammy, had already begun to calculate how much sheeting, toweling, etc., etc., would be wanted, when an event happened which changed the face of affairs very considerably.
Olive had been in school about eight weeks, when one Sunday, on taking her seat in church, she found the desk occupied by a stranger, and she was not long in recognizing the peculiar features and bearing of the Rev. Dr. V., a gentleman well-known for his talents, both as a speaker and a writer. She had heard him once before, and prepared herself for a treat. She was not disappointed.
The Doctor's subject was the lack of young men for the ministry, and most splendidly was it handled. There was enough of originality to keep the attention awake, without any of that straining after effect so painful and disgusting in some popular preachers. Every one in the congregation was made to feel that the subject was an important one, and one in which he or she had a share of responsibility. Chancing for a moment to look away from the preacher, Olive met Walter's eye, filled with an expression that thrilled to her very heart. She knew what he was thinking of as well as though he had spoken.
"How do you like Dr. V.'s sermon?" he asked as they met after Sunday-school in the porch.
"Very much," replied Olive, hardly knowing what she said; "it was a powerful appeal, certainly."
They walked a little way in silence, and then Olive said earnestly: "Walter, tell me what you are thinking of."
"I am thinking, Olive, whether this is not an appeal to me. Young men are wanted, and I am young and strong. Who is there that can go better than I?"
"It would be a great sacrifice," said Olive presently.
"Yes, a sacrifice to both of us—to me of wealth, fame, and almost all the earthly objects I had set my heart upon; not to mention the fact, that our marriage must be put off at least a year, and possibly longer. Yes, it will be a sacrifice."
"Perhaps we ought not to take that so much into the account, as the simple matter of what our duty is," said Olive gently. "Nothing, no sacrifice can be so painful to me, Walter, as the idea of being a clog upon you. I could bear any thing better than that."
"I am sure you never will be so, Olive," replied Waiter, earnestly. "You have done me far too much good already for me to imagine such a thing possible. But we will not be hasty. I will revolve the matter in my own mind, and do you do the same. Perhaps I ought not to mention it yet, but I can not bear to have a thought that you do not share."
The girls thought they had never seen Miss McHenry so absent as she was in school, next day. She became aware of it herself after a little, and exerted herself to be attentive to her duties, but it was hard work, and she was glad when school was out.
A long solitary walk helped to compose her thoughts, but she still felt almost as though she were dreaming.
"Olive looks tired to-night," Mrs. Felton remarked in her general way, addressing no one in particular.
"I have taken a long walk," said Olive, trying to rouse herself from her abstraction. "I have been up past the old red house on the banks of the river."
"Do tell!" exclaimed Mrs. Felton. "That lonesome road, and so far too! But you didn't go alone?"
"Yes, why not."
"Well, I declare! I wouldn't have done it for any money when I was your age, and I don't know that I would now. Why, the old Vander Heyden vault is on that road!"
"Well!"
"And the graves of the family that was murdered by the Indians, in the old red house!"
"I never heard that," said Olive, with some interest; "what was it?"
Mrs. Felton loved nothing better than to tell a story, and moreover, she had some talent for narration.
"A family of the name of Munn formerly lived in that house," she began. "They were not much respected, and the man used to come up to the village and get drunk, leaving his family alone for two or three days at a time. Basswoods was a little place then, and this house was more lonely then, than it is now. His wife was rather a violent-tempered woman, but she worked hard, and was in a manner fond of her children. One afternoon in sleighing-time, Munn started for the village, and as usual his wife scolded him for it.
"A neighbor (that is, he lived three or four miles off) was passing, and heard them using very high words, and he said to Munn, half in joke, 'You had better not leave your family alone to-night, Jacob; there is talk of Indians up the river.'
"And so there was, though nobody thought much of it.
"'Indians!' said the brute, with an oath. 'I only wish they would come and carry off this one!' pointing to his wife.
"The man said no more, but went on his way, and Munn came up to the village. He did not go home till towards dark the next day, and the first thing he saw was his own baby lying with its brains dashed out in the snow by the gate. The woman and the other two were lying scalped and dead inside the door, and the house was robbed. It was the only one in the valley which was attacked, which made it the more singular.
"Most likely," said Mr. Felton, "the mischief was done by a small party of Indians who knew Munn's habits. They had their spies all through the country at that time. I can remember seeing him round the village when I was a boy—a miserable, crazy creature, always talking to himself about the Indians."
"But why should I not walk there?" persisted Olive. "The Indians are all dead long ago."
Mrs. Felton had no very satisfactory reason to give, only that the place had a bad name, and no one would live there. Strange things had happened in the house.
"But what things?"
Well, she could not exactly say, only that queer things had been seen there at might, and people did not like to pass it. Some thought it was not altogether the Indians.
"And if I were you, Olive, I would not walk that way towards night. It is as well to be on the safe side, you know."
This reminiscence produced others, and Olive was surprised to find how many such traditions attached to the place. In one house there had been a murder committed. From another, a young girl had mysteriously disappeared one evening, and never was heard of again. In another, the watchers by a dead body had been alarmed by footsteps in the room, and sobs and sighs sounded near them, though nothing was to be seen. Olive had never heard so many ghost stories in her life. They had, at least, the good effect of arousing her attention, and turning her thoughts for a time away from the subject was engrossing them, perhaps more effectually than any thing more sensible would have done.
The next day found her much more composed. She had made up her mind entirely to the sacrifice, feeling her own share to be nothing to Walter's; and, girl-like, she even began already to find some pleasure in the prospect of the quiet parsonage and useful life, which lay beyond that long separation which she would not look at. She was detained an hour after school by an extra class, and then went round to the parsonage to tea.
"Where is your father?" she asked, after a while. "He did not come round to hear my class in Latin, as he promised."
"He has been closeted with Walter almost all the afternoon," replied Augusta; "I can not think what they are so earnestly engaged about. Walter looked as though he had the weight of nations upon his shoulders when he came in. And you, too, look anxious, Olive! I hope there is nothing wrong."
"Oh! No!" replied Olive, earnestly. "Nothing wrong. Something very right, I hope, but something which will make a great difference in our plans, if we decide upon it."
Augusta looked at her inquiringly, and they were silent for a while.
"After all, Olive, putting aside gratified ambition, which is perhaps but a questionable good, there are few happier lives than a clergyman's," said Augusta. She spoke rather to what she supposed were her friend's thoughts, and so Olive answered her.
"People have a great deal to say of a clergyman's trials, you know."
"I know, and doubtless some have more trouble than others. One can only speak from one's own experience and observation, of course. I have lived in a parsonage all my life long, you know, and I do not know that my father has been especially favored, except that he has remained a long time in the same place. We have had some hard times, and some sad times. There have been troubles, and now and then hard feeling and discontent in the parish. Once my father had no salary for three years, and we were poor enough. But the people have always come round after a while, and we have been as comfortable as ever. I am sure my father has enjoyed pleasures which more than counterbalanced his trials, and just think how it will be in the next world, when he shall come to know the full fruition of his labors!"
"But it must be hard, Augusta, for a man like your father to labor Sunday after Sunday, month after month, without seeing any fruit of his toils."
"Yes," replied Augusta, "and a minister undoubtedly needs faith, more than almost any one else in the word. But then, what state of life is there, which has not its trials? I remember well how my husband used to come home at night, especially in court-time, so worn out and disgusted with the meanness and villainy with which he was obliged to come in contact, the double-distilled lies and inveterate malice with which he was obliged to come in contact, even among his own clients. I have asked him sometimes, why he did not abandon his profession, and take up some other line of business, and his answer always was that there was no profession in the world which had not its drawbacks and its annoyances; and that, in laying down one burden, of which he knew the weight, he might take up another still heavier."
"Walter loves his profession," said Olive, sighing. "I do not think any thing but a certain sense of duty would make him dream of resigning it."
"I hope he will not be hasty."
"He is not apt to be hasty, I think," observed Olive. "Do you know, Augusta, that when I went away from here, I thought he was engaged to Annette Vander Heyden."
"I thought you did," said Augusta, smiling; "I knew very well he was not."
"Why did you not—?" Olive stopped, suddenly coloring as deeply as the crimson cushion she was working.
"Why did I not tell you? Because I thought it better both for your dignity and his, to let him tell his own story. I felt pretty sure that he would do so, and if he did not, the least said was soonest mended."
"I assure you, Augusta, I never was more astonished than I was when I discovered that I cared any thing about him." Olive made this declaration with great seriousness, and looked rather indignantly at Augusta for receiving it with a hearty laugh.
"Well, my dear child, what of that? You do not suppose that people in general go and fall in love of malice prepense, do you? To be sure, I have known cases where men, and women, too, set themselves about getting married as they would take steps to buy a cow or a horse, but I never heard of any one's making a deliberate calculation to fall in love."
"I do not know that I ever thought of it in that way," said Olive, joining in the laugh, "but I do assure you I was surprised."
"And you thought nobody was ever so unhappy before, I dare say."
Olive nodded.
"Whereas, your experience was that of at least eighty out of every hundred sensible and reasonable people, who marry at all, and perhaps as large a proportion who never do. But here are my father and Walter, coming back from the orchard. Walter looks as though his heart was lighter, does he not?"
He did, indeed, and, as Olive observed him, she thought he must have made up his mind to something certain. He looked pleased at meeting her, and his cheerful greeting and warm hand-pressure made her heart feel ten pounds lighter. The subject was not adverted to during the evening, but when they were walking homeward, Walter told her that he had been discussing the matter the whole afternoon with Mr. Gregory, and that he felt his mind quite made up to the step.
"Mr. Gregory advises me to let the matter rest for a month," said he. "And, of course, I shall do so, if only in deference to his opinion, trying meanwhile to gain all the light I can upon the matter. The only thing that really troubles me, Olive, is your sacrifice. I had enjoyed so much the prospect of our having a home of our own this fall, and having Louisa with us. I had built so many castles on it that—" Walter's voice faltered: he could not complete the sentence.
"We will not think about that," said Olive, cheerfully, though she felt a moisture rise to her own eyes as she spoke. "Our engagement has been a very short one, and we shall be none the less happy in the end, for knowing each other better. I believe you have full faith in me, Walter; you have no doubt of my constancy—there, that will do! And I have not a shadow of distrust for you. We can afford to wait."
"And what will you do meantime?" asked Walter.
"Go on teaching here as long as they want me," replied Olive. "I am thankful that I am not dependent on any body for a house or a living. It is pleasant at Mrs. Felton's, and I like the school very much—more than I ever expected to do, when I begun. I do not think three or four years of such discipline will do me any harm."
"You are determined to see only the bright side, my love."
"I am, in this case, because the dark side is most prominent, and speaks for itself," replied Olive.
"What will your uncle and aunt say?" asked Walter.
"Frankly, I do not think they will be pleased. Uncle—I wish to speak with all respect—is proud of his profession, and considers every slight offered to it as an insult to himself. I believe, to speak the truth, that they will be likely to consider you a very visionary and enthusiastic person, in making such a sacrifice. My aunt has, of course, renounced the world and its vanities, but she thinks it no harm to give up the most of her time and energies to what she and others call the requirements of society. I hesitate to say this, lest I should seem lacking in respect and affection, but I know that the inconsistency used to strike me when I was quite a child."
"But what does she make of such texts as—'Be not conformed to this world,' 'The friendship of the world is enmity towards God,' and others of like character?" asked Walter.
"I suppose she thinks they applied only to the time when they were written, and have nothing to do with people nowadays."
"Yes, that is a convenient way of dispensing with inconvenient precepts."
"You must not understand me to say that she always does it, Walter, by any means. In many things, I think my aunt is guided by truly religious motives. For instance, she never invites company on Sunday, unless it is some person to whom it will be a real kindness. She is careful to see that the servants go to church regularly, and that they are provided with proper books, both of instruction and amusement; and she is very kind to the poor, and to all sorts of forlorn and friendless people. I think this is her one great inconsistency."
"It is so with many excellent people, I know," said Walter; "and, after all, Olive, we all have our own pet failings. Perhaps this is no worse than many things in us, which we never think of as faults. But do not say any thing to them of the matter till it is settled, one way or other. As Mr. Gregory says, a distance of time makes a great difference in our feelings, and it is possible that I may see grounds for changing my mind. We will wait a month, and then decide."
They waited a month accordingly. Walter now and then adverted to the subject, but he said very little. At the end of that time, he informed Olive that his mind was settled, if hers was. He intended to devote himself to the ministry, and to commence his preparatory studies at once. Olive had no objections to offer, and in a few days, all was settled.
Walter would not have as much to do as many young men in the same circumstances, inasmuch as he was an excellent classical scholar already, and had read a good deal of Church-history, and of other matters which would come into the course.
Of course there were a great many different opinions expressed in Basswoods when the matter came to be generally known. Some people thought it a very foolish, romantic move, for a young man already in good practice as a lawyer, to exchange a lucrative profession, which offered so many chances of rising in the world, for one which held out no promise, either of wealth or of gratified ambition. Others thought it was very hard upon poor Miss McHenry, as of course her marriage must now be put off indefinitely, if not broken off entirely. But when Miss McHenry appeared just as good spirits as ever, and upon the same terms with her lover, they had nothing more to say, except that it was a queer world, a proposition which, if you regard it in some lights, hardly admits of a denial.
There were many who gave an unqualified approval, and wished that more young men would follow such a good example, and among them were Olive's fast friends, Mr. Jones and Dr. Gordon, the two acting members of the board of trustees, who were, moreover, much pleased at the idea of keeping their favorite teacher two or three years longer.
When Olive announced the change of plans to her aunt, Walter wrote a long letter to Mr. Merton, in which he gave a full account of all the motives and reasons which had influenced him.
Mr. Merton replied very soon. As a general thing, he said, he could not approve of a young man's changing his profession when he had once set out in life, and he really thought that, with Mr. Landon's talents, he might do as much good as a Christian layman, as in the character of a clergyman. Still, it could not be denied that there was a great want of young men for the ministry. He desired his young friend to do nothing hastily, but consider well what he was going to relinquish, and also what he was going to take upon himself before making any decided move, and enjoined it upon him not to enter the work of the ministry, unless it was his intention to devote to it all his energies of mind and body. On the whole, the letter was quite as satisfactory in its character as Olive expected.
Aunt Rebecca's was not quite so much so. She evidently regarded the whole scheme as visionary and fanatical, and fully believed that Olive's apparently cheerful concurrence in it was only a freed and sorrowful acquiescence to the whims of her enthusiastic lover. She seemed indeed to place Walter's conduct upon a par with William Forester's relinquishment of the study of law, because he could not bring his mind down to such narrow limits. She concluded by expressing, in most affectionate terms, her sympathy in Olive's sad disappointment, and reminding her that she had always a home at her uncle's, independent of any one's caprice.
The kind tone of the letter brought tears to Olive's eyes, even while she half-laughed and was half-vexed at the determination to think her a martyr, in spite of herself. Since she had had the charge of young people upon her own hands, she had learned to appreciate, more than she had ever done before, how much she owed to aunt Rebecca's kindness, and how many times she had tried it, sometimes unwittingly, sometimes through willfulness and selfishness. She wrote again, to assure her aunt that she was not suffering and to beg her not to be uneasy, as she was perfectly well, and about as happy as she could be, inclosing, at the same time, a little sketch of her own face, in order to demonstrate, clearly, that she was not pining away.
The next letter was still more kindly expressed towards herself. Mrs. Merton had read Walter's letter to her husband, and admitted that his arguments were strong, but still she thought he might have been contented with doing all the good he could in his own profession. She sent him a very affectionate message, however, and Olive had no fear but that, in course of time, he would be fully taken into favor again.
Charlotte's letter was concise and to the point, like almost every thing she said. "You know very well that I do not pretend to be governed by your motives, or even to understand them, always. But I must say I think you have done right. You have acted consistently with your own views and professions. If I believed as Walter does, I should act just as he has done. I am sorry, on some accounts, that your marriage is put off, but I think perhaps it will be as well in the end."
Olive thought so, too, and she settled herself to her work with fresh patience and hopefulness, now that there was a chance of her seeing something of the fruit of her labors. People gradually ceased talking about it, and busied themselves with other matters, and by degrees Olive became as much accustomed to the thought of spending her life in a parsonage as though she had never had any other prospect before her.
"Aunt Dimsden was right," she said to herself, sometimes; "I shall be a minister's wife, after all."