"You know she does not want to do that. She only wants—"
"She only wants what is right, and you, too, I dare say, sis, though you are rather sharp in your way of putting it. Come, now, don't look so miserable," he added, in a coaxing way, putting his arm round her. "I will be as steady as old Hancock himself, if you will only kiss and be friends."
Emma yielded, as she almost always did in the end, to her fascinating brother's soothing and coaxing, so far as to kiss him good-night. But she lay awake till almost morning, thinking what was to become of her brother and sister when worse came to the worst—when they had spent all they had, and exhausted every one's patience.
Abby roused up as William entered, and begged to know if there was any thing wrong, but being gayly assured that every thing was very right, went quietly to sleep again.
As for William, nothing disturbed his slumbers: if he had been going to be hanged the next morning, he would have slept equally well, comforting himself with the reflection that something favorable would certainly happen before the time came.
Abby was very happy next morning when Emma informed her that there was no farther objection to her writing to her aunt, but her joy was a little damped when she was told (for Emma thought best to tell her) that William would probably have to be away upon business at the time. Still, it was with a joyful heart that she sat down to indite her letter, which she wrote and rewrote with a nervous anxiety, till Emma, seeing the state of the case, took the best copy from her hand, pronounced it good enough, folded and sealed it, and then placed it before Abby, to direct. William carried it to the post, without any remark, and made his wife very happy all day by a great many kind words, and some little attentions, which cost him nothing, but which were invaluable to her.
The family at Mr. Merton's were seated at the breakfast-table, when the letter was brought in.
Mrs. Merton took it, and broke the seal. And when Charlotte looked up from one of her own a moment after, she was both astonished and alarmed to see such an unusual sight as tears rolling down her mother's cheeks. She rose hastily, as did Mr. Merton, and the Black Prince, with his accustomed delicacy, withdrew, under the pretext of seeking hot cakes, but remained close by the outside of the door—perhaps to be within call.
"It is from Abby," said Mrs. Merton, as soon as she could find a voice. "The poor dear child has come to her senses at last. Read it, Charlotte, my dear."
And Charlotte read, being obliged to pause more than once in the course of it. When she had done, she looked anxiously from one to the other.
"You will go—you will go at once, father, will you not?"
"Certainly, my dear child, if your mother says so. I dislike the idea of meeting Forester, but poor Abby must not be disappointed. Yes, we will go at once."
"You will not see him," said Charlotte. "Did you not notice, she says he will be obliged to go away upon business?"
"Then we will set out without delay—as early as to-morrow," said Mrs. Merton.
"Why not to-day?" asked her husband. "There is time enough."
"Perhaps it will be better to leave space for a letter to precede us," suggested Mrs. Merton. "We must not startle her, you know."
Mr. Merton acquiesced, and Charlotte sat down, at once, to write the letter.
How delighted Abby was when she received it! She laughed and cried by turns, kissed her husband and thanked him so many times that he really began to think he had made a meritorious sacrifice, and felt very self-complacent in consequence. He half-resolved to stay and face it out, but found his courage failing the next morning, and went off, bidding his wife a most affectionate farewell, thinking, as he went, how badly he should feel if he were to lose her, and beginning at once to set his possible feelings first to rhyme and then to music, till he composed an affecting song, called the "Widower's Lament."
Abby would sit at the window and watch for carriages till she was wearied out, and obliged to lie down upon the sofa, in spite of herself. Then she fell asleep, and when she awoke, she found her aunt and uncle sitting beside her.
It is impossible to say what extravagances she might have committed, if aunt Rebecca had not put on her most impressive face of authority, and absolutely forbidden her to speak one word. Abby submitted, and lay still, hardly daring to think that she was awake, and not dreaming. She still lay upon the sofa, feeling very weak, but very happy, while the others went out to tea, listening, with subdued pleasure, to their voices, and enjoying the thought that uncle and aunt Merton were taking tea in her house.
How exactly it seemed like old times, when aunt Rebecca brought her her tea in the little silver mug which she had always used at home, and which had been sent to her, with the rest of her possessions, at the time of her marriage. She could almost believe that she had never been away at all.
Aunt Merton was one who never did any thing by halves. When she made up her mind to take Abby into favor, she did it heartily, and showed that she did, by making no allusions to the past, except such as were necessary in talking over affairs in M. The neighbors, the servants, the garden, above all, Laura's approaching marriage, were all talked over again and again, till Mr. Merton suggested that Abby must be tired, and that they had better go.
Abby, however, was very anxious to have them stay. There was plenty of room, and if aunt thought she could be comfortable—.
Aunt had no doubt at all about that, and so they staid. It was well they did, for Abby was taken ill in the night, and after some hours of considerable danger, was "as well as could be expected," with a fine little daughter.
Emma telegraphed to her brother with but a faint hope of his getting the message, for she knew he would probably be off fishing or scenery-hunting, and so it proved. He did not return till nearly a week had elapsed, and knew nothing of the matter till Emma met him at the door. He was sufficiently alarmed, on hearing the state of the case, to ward off the lecture which had been brewing for him, and she had hard work to keep him from rushing up to his wife's room at once.
Aunt Merton came down to see him, while he was waiting for Emma to prepare Abby, and though nothing but politeness, and even cordiality, were expressed in her tone, she succeeded, in ten minutes, in making him feel more like some condemned piece of furniture about to be sent to auction than like the master of his own house.
Abby was not so well as she had been, and William was cautioned against exciting her. He was very much affected at the sight of the wee colorless face, looking smaller than ever from the absence of the accustomed curls, and showed so much feeling that Mrs. Merton began to think she had done him injustice.
Abby brightened up very much after he came home, and she really was very happy—happy in her baby, which she found some difficulty in imagining to be really hers—in her husband whom she felt was showing to excellent advantage—in having so many friends about her, and every one so much kinder than she deserved. She felt sad when she thought of their all going away and leaving her alone. But then there would be baby, and she thought she could not be very lonely.
Emma wished very much that she could stay, but she well knew that it would be impossible.
Mrs. Forester and Emmeline fancied they were unable to live without her. Emmeline liked to think that she had delicate health, and that it hurt her to work. She could go to two or three parties in a week, and dance till two o'clock in the morning, though it always made her feel dreadfully to dust the parlor, and fatigued her almost to extinction to make her own bed. She always got a terrible headache over plain sewing, though she could embroider for hours, yes, even upon silver canvas, and her crochet collars and mats almost equalled real lace in fineness. In short, Emmeline could play to any extent, but work always made her sick directly.
Mrs. Forester never thought that Emmeline ought to be crossed in any thing. She was not strong herself, and she was very fanciful besides being proud, and her pride was constantly brought into active exercise by the reduced circumstances of the family, and the consequent struggle to keep up appearances. When Emma was at home, she earned something by translating and editing for a publisher of children's books, and moreover she took the whole oversight of the household, besides doing a great part of the work. It is easy to see that she could not be spared.
Abby did not recover so rapidly as they had at first hoped. She did not seem to have any particular disorder, but she gained strength very slowly, and now and then slight symptoms of a tendency to disease of the lungs alarmed her aunt and the physician. She was very much distressed when she found that William had lost his place, for she was beginning to realize how much it cost them to keep house, and she knew her husband would never exercise any sort of economy. It cost her a feverish night, and she was worse for three or four days.
Mr. Merton saw that something had gone wrong and that Mr. Forester was out of employment. And after a day or two, he ventured to make some inquiries of that gentleman relative to his affairs.
Mr. Forester was decidedly stiff and cold at first, but he could not withstand Mr. Merton's kindness, and moreover he was at his wits' end for the means of supporting himself and his wife. His mother had heretofore been his resource when he had exhausted his own finances, but she had impoverished herself in her efforts to help him. And Emma, in answer to a hint of the sort, had informed him that any farther assistance from that quarter was entirely out of the question. He confessed to Mr. Merton, at last, that he had hardly the means of defraying the expenses of his wife's confinement, to say nothing of the cost of housekeeping. He had drawn on Mr. Hancock for his salary as fast as it became due, and instead of having, as he supposed, a considerable balance in that gentleman's hands, he was actually some few dollars in debt to him.
There was no use in any reproaches, and Mr. Merton made none, but promised to see what he could do towards finding him employment. Mr. Forester was very much obliged, and thought to himself that it might not, after all, be a bad thing to have made up friends with his wife's rich uncle. After two or three days, Mr. Merton held another conversation with him, in the course of which he told him that he had procured for him a situation as accountant and draughtsman in a large foundry and machine-shop. The salary was liberal, but close attention to business would be absolutely necessary, in order to retain the place. He took the opportunity to press upon Mr. Forester's attention the great advantage of keeping regular accounts, and being economical of time as well as money. He thought the young gentleman might find time to finish his law studies, and be prepared to enter into business as a lawyer in the course of a year, promising him all the assistance in his power, and Mr. Forester thanked him, and listened respectfully, with some faint idea of following the advice. He went to work the next day, with great vigor.
At the end of a week's trial, his employer professed himself perfectly satisfied, and engaged him for a year, at a salary which, care and economy, would be sufficient to support them in comfort. With this care removed from her mind, Abby began to improve rapidly, and in the course of a few days was so much better that her aunt thought she might venture to leave her to herself.
"Suppose," said she to her husband, "that we go round the other way, stop at Basswoods, and take Olive home with us. It will be so much pleasanter than for her to come alone."
Mr. Merton thought it an excellent idea, and, accordingly, as Olive was sitting at the piano one evening after tea, she was surprised by the sudden entrance of her uncle and aunt.
At first she was frightened, thinking that Abby must be worse. But a moment's thought reassured her, and she gave herself up to the unexpected enjoyment. They had proposed to stay at the hotel, but Mrs. Felton had abundance of room, as Isabella Lambert was at her sister's: she was very urgent with them to remain, and Mrs. Merton finally consented, after stipulating that she should make no difference in the family arrangements. There was, indeed, no need of her doing so, for Mrs. Felton's housekeeping was always carried on upon a very liberal scale—so liberal, indeed, that Olive thought she could not make much by her boarders.
"Why, really, my love, you are delightfully situated here—are you not?" said Mrs. Merton, as she surveyed Olive's comfortable room. "I had no idea that you were in such luxurious quarters. I should think Mrs. Felton might be a trifle wearisome sometimes, however."
"One soon gets used to it," replied Olive, smiling. "I know exactly how much importance to attach to her complaints, and in general mind them no more than the rain on the windows. She is really very kind to me, and I have no excuse for being dissatisfied or home-sick, except the desire to see you all."
"And Miss Felton—what a delightful person she is!" pursued Mrs. Merton. "She is not pretty, but there is such a charming cheerfulness about her face and voice that she really seems to bring the sunshine into the room with her. If she only had a little more style, she would really make a sensation in society. You must bring her home with you some time, Olive, to make a visit. I should be quite delighted to have her, and I think a little of the world would be a great advantage to her."
"I am glad you like her," said Olive, feeling as though she did not care to have Ruth improved in that way. "She is one of my most intimate friends. I want you to see Mrs. Tower; she is very different from Ruth, but equally excellent."
"All in good time, my dear. I mean to see all your friends before I go, and your school, too. How soon is it out?"
"There is only one week more."
"And then you have an examination, I suppose?"
"No, aunt, I am thankful to say, we do not. We have a review-day every fortnight, and the last two weeks of the term are spent in the same way, but we have no public display, except in declamation and compositions. The school is open to visitors at all times, and we have a good many, especially on repetition-days. If you will come in to-morrow, we shall be very glad to see you. I assure you I am proud of my girls. But I want to hear all about Abby and the baby."
Mrs. Merton was very ready to tell; and Abby's affairs, and Laura's approaching marriage, occupied the evening. Olive was very much touched at hearing of her uncle's kindness, and especially on learning what neither Abby nor William yet knew, that he had defrayed the entire expenses of her sister's confinement, besides leaving in Abby's hands a sum sufficient to last till William should receive his first quarter's salary. She could not help feeling some sympathy for what she supposed must be William's mortification at being oblige to receive assistance from one whom he had so deeply wronged, but she might have spared herself the trouble.
That talented young gentleman had early imbibed the idea that he was created to amuse himself, and the rest of mankind to wait upon him. From the exaltation of his fancied genius and refinement, he looked calmly down upon those lower mortals, whose grovelling minds permitted them to learn and labor truly to get their own living, in the state of life to which God had called them. He had felt a little annoyed at first, on discovering that Mr. Merton had left money with Abby, but the feeling did not prevent him from spending seven or eight dollars of it upon some new engravings which had struck his fancy, and which, he assured Abby, were so cheap that it would have been really foolish not to buy them.
"Economy!" he said, when she remonstrated with him. "Oh! Yes, of course, we must practise economy, but your uncle can not expect me to deny myself all gratifications. I can not live without books and pictures."
"In what, then, do you propose to economize?" persisted Abby.
"Oh! Why—in dress and housekeeping—any thing, in short, but intellectual pleasures."
Abby shook her head. "The housekeeping costs as little as it can, William."
"But could you not manage with a less expensive girl, my dear? I have heard of servants getting only six shillings a week, and we give Katy twelve!"
"I do not like to part with Katy," replied Abby, her heart sinking at the prospect of a new and cheap girl. "She has just learned to be useful, and attends to baby so nicely."
"Oh! Well, I only mentioned it. I thought, when it came to your own case, you would not be so very desirous of saving. It is easy to be economical of other people's enjoyments."
Abby's pale face flushed, and the tears filled her eyes.
"There, now, don't cry! I am sorry I said any thing, but you are so cool in proposing your economy to me. But come, cheer up, my little darling. I am coming to take you to ride presently."
Abby cheered up, and was thankful for the prospect of a little fresh air, for she was not able to walk out yet. But when the carriage came, there was a new cause of annoyance.
"Why do you wear that coarse blanket of a thing, my dear?" said William, glancing disdainfully at the large woollen shawl Abby had put on. "It makes you look like a servant."
"I have no other," replied Abby, coloring. "My cloak is not warm enough, and I can not wrap the baby in it."
"Oh! Pray don't take the baby. She will be sure to cry, as they always do when they ought not to, and besides, it will tire you to death. I am sure your cloak is warm enough, my love," he continued, dexterously removing the obnoxious shawl, and throwing it over the arm of the sofa. "You do not know how mild and pleasant it is. Come, you are too bad to make such a figure of yourself, when you know how much I like to have you admired, and you are ten times prettier than ever."
So Abby wore the cloak, returned home chilled through, and was very ill next day, in consequence. Mr. Forester was very sorry, paid her every attention, and to prevent the possibility of such an accident happening again, went out and bought a new shawl, for which he paid thirty dollars.
To return to Basswoods! Mrs. Merton was delighted with the place and the people, and quite astonished to find so much refinement in a country village. Mrs. Gregory made a little party for her: so did Mrs. Gordon, and at both did Mrs. Merton win golden opinions from all sorts of people, by her elegant appearance and charming manners. It was a peculiarity of hers that every one with whom she conversed ten minutes, felt as though he or she had received a personal favor. Some of Mrs. Tucker's adherents, who had hitherto been rather unfriendly to Olive, suddenly turned completely round, and were warm in their praises of her and her relations.
In short, Mrs. Merton's visit did a great deal of good, and Olive enjoyed it extremely. She told her aunt she thought it would not do to offer to pay Mrs. Felton for their board, and Mrs. Merton, after considerable hesitation, consented to give up the idea, thinking that she could make it up in some other way. Accordingly, she afterwards sent Mrs. Felton a beautiful dress and shawl, with an elegant letter, which Mrs. Felton showed to all the village, thanking her for all her kindness to her niece, and requesting her to accept the accompanying articles from herself and her husband, as a testimonial of her gratitude.
A proud and happy woman was Mrs. Felton. Ruth was pleased with the delicacy of the attention to her mother, and Mr. Felton, whose conversation was usually summed up in a semidiurnal report of the state of the weather, gave vent to the profound and original idea, that in point of fact, some people were very different from other people.
CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.
MRS. DIMSDEN'S summer campaign at Newport and Saratoga had been successful, almost beyond her highest hopes. Laura was going to be married to a man of wealth and position fully equal to her uncle Merton's—a man who had been an object with speculating young ladies and their mammas for several years. Attracted by Miss Dimsden's magnificent beauty, he had followed the ladies from Cape May to Newport, from Newport to the White Mountains, and from thence to Saratoga, where he finally surrendered at discretion.
It was a singular circumstance that no sooner was it known that Mr. Witherington was engaged to the young and beautiful Miss Dimsden, than all these same speculating young ladies and their speculating mammas were at once filled with pity and sympathy for the poor girl, thus remorselessly sacrificed by her heartless aunt, and with contempt for the weak-minded suitor, caught by a girl without principle and without fortune.
Olive had made anxious inquiries of Mrs. Merton concerning her future brother-in-law.
"It is an excellent match, my dear, in all the generally received senses of that much abused word. Mr. Witherington is a man of good manners, excellent principles, and a large fortune. He has a fine house in town, and a fine house in the country, and all that; and moreover, he is desperately in love with Laura."
"Then I do not see, aunt, but that Laura's chances for happiness are excellent."
"If you will excuse my saying so, Olive, I think her chances are better than his." Olive looked at her inquiringly. "You know I am not romantic in the least," continued Mrs. Merton, "but then I have rather peculiar notions. I do not think a woman has any right to marry a man unless she honestly prefers him to all the rest of the world."
"And you think, aunt, that Laura does not—"
"I think she is almost indifferent, my dear. Begging your pardon for speaking so freely of your sister, I do not think she has depth of character enough to appreciate a man like Mr. Witherington. He is an earnest, grave person—what I call a weighty man, and I fear he will be disappointed in his wife. Of course, he can see no fault in her now."
"But it seems rather strange," said Olive, after a little silence, "that Laura should not like such a man."
"She does like him, my child, but she does not love him, and no one should know better than you that there is all the difference in the world between loving and liking."
"I suppose aunt Dimsden is delighted."
"Oh! Of course; you know what her ideas of marriage are. But don't attach too much importance to what I say, my love," added Mrs. Merton kindly. "Perhaps when you see them together, you may think I am entirely mistaken."
"And how is Laura?" asked Olive.
"She is splendid—really magnificent! I never knew that she was half so beautiful, and she has a subdued, gentle manner, which is very becoming to her. And now, while I think of it, Mrs. Dimsden is bent upon having a grand display—a reception, and all that, and of course you and Charlotte must be dressed to correspond. Now what I want to stipulate is that you shall permit us to provide your dress and ornaments. I know you like to be independent, my dear, but you must really allow us this pleasure. You will have ways enough to dispose of your earnings by and by."
Olive accepted the kindness, and felt very grateful for it. She knew her aunt wanted her to be dressed like Charlotte upon all occasions, an expenditure which, now that she was dependent upon her own resources, and had such a strong motive for saving, she felt that she could not well afford, and she appreciated the delicacy which thus granted a favor on pretense of asking one.
They arrived at home early in the evening, and Olive was hardly dressed before the Black Prince announced Mr. Witherington and Miss Dimsden.
Laura was certainly more dazzling than ever, and Olive could not wonder at her lover for looking at her constantly, even while talking to other people. She was very much pleased with Mr. Witherington. He did not talk much, and was evidently full of serious thought, but what said was frank, manly, and to the purpose. She thought he winced a good deal under Mrs. Dimsden's genteel vulgarisms, and she admired the adroit way in which Laura often contrived to turn the conversation, or to divert her lover's attention to herself.
The evening passed before she could satisfy herself as to whether her aunt was right in her ideas about the depth of Laura's attachment.
The next day she spent the whole morning in her sister's apartment, admiring and commenting upon the bridal finery which Laura displayed for her inspection. Every thing was of the best and handsomest, and Olive gave her aunt credit for greater liberality than she had thought belonged to her. Laura told her how many presents she had had.
"These two boxes of hankerchiefs Charlotte gave me. See what beauties they are, all marked with my name so ingeniously. Aunt Merton gave me this set of cameos. Don't they look just like her, so quietly elegant? Besides, she and uncle together gave me the tea and coffee-set that you will see by and by. They are much handsomer than Jane Lewis's were. Mrs. Schuyler gave me the fruit and cake-knives, and Louisa a beautiful little pitcher. The Jenners sent me the egg-cups lined with gold, and Mrs. John Jenner a beautiful basket, etc., etc. Now confess, Olive, is it not worth while to be married, to have such beautiful things given to one?"
"I am afraid I never took that into the calculation," said Olive, good-naturedly.
"No, I dare say not, but you and I are very different, you know. Now only think, if you had only been guided by aunt Dimsden, you might have married a rich man, too, instead of a poor minister. Not," she added hastily, "that Mr. Witherington's money is the only good thing about him."
"I should think his money was the least recommendation," said Olive. "He appears to me to be a very earnest, excellent man. I only hope you love him as he deserves."
Laura laughed and then sighed. "Why, to tell you the simple truth, Olive, I don't think it is in me to 'fall in love,' as people call it, with any body. I esteem Mr. Witherington highly, and I have a very great respect for him. I think that is a great deal more sure foundation than such a violent passion, don't you?"
Olive shook her head. "'Love,' honor, and obey, Laura!"
"Oh! Well, of course, yes. But there is another thing, Olive—do you think that obey is to be rendered literally, or is it just put in to fill out the line?"
"I think of it in this way, Laura. A man ought to be head of his own house, and when there is a decided difference of opinion, the wife ought to give up. I must say I do not believe in a woman's humoring a man in all his whims and caprices, as Abby does with William. It is not good for her, and certainly it is very bad for him."
"But, now for instance, to take something that you know all about, there was Janet Forster. She married Mr. Heyling, you know, when she was so very poor, and he not only took care of her, but of all her relatives. Then she was seized with a poetical mania, and wanted to publish her poems. He was a very proud man, and it disturbed him dreadfully to think his wife should write for money. He could not bear to have her publish the volume, but she persisted. It came out in spite of him, and she got the pay for it, whatever it was. What do you think of that?"
"I never knew exactly the truth of the matter before," said Olive, "though I knew that poor Mr. Heyling was very unhappy. I must say, I think she did very wrong. Supposing that it was a foolish pride, which I will not deny, she was under the greatest obligations to him, not only for herself, but for her family. The poems were not so very splendid that the world would have suffered any great loss from their suppression."
"I don't think he objected so much to her publishing as to her writing for money."
"Then she ought not to have written for money. What did a few hundred dollars, more or less, matter, compared to her husband's annoyance?"
"I always thought she was wrong," remarked Laura. "If I were going to differ from my husband, at least I would do it in a delicate way, and not make it a subject of town gossip. But I don't believe Mr. Witherington will try to govern me much."
"I rather hope he will," said Olive, smiling. "He does not seem at all like a man who would be tyrannical or capricious, and a little reasonable government will do you no harm."
Laura laughed heartily at the idea. "Really, Olive, you are very good. Don't look grave, my dear, I mean to be quite a pattern wife, I assure you, and shall preside over my husband's establishment with all the dignity and grace imaginable. I mean to make him very happy, and never contradict him unless we differ in opinion. But come down-stairs—I want to show you my presents."
The presents were magnificent. Laura had their cost all by heart, and went over it all with a readiness which would have done credit to a jeweller's' clerk.
"What a quantity of silver you have!" remarked Olive. "If you should ever become reduced in circumstances, you might set up a shop, and stock it with your bridal presents. Let me see—here are one, two, three, six butter-knives, all marked with your name, and how many fruit-knives?"
"Two complete sets, besides three odd ones. That is the trouble—one gets so many things just alike. I have four or five cream-spoons, and three sugar-sifters, and so with other things."
"I shall be quite afraid to put my simple presents by the side of all these grand things, Laura. I have not felt as if I could spend much money, and my plain white Parian ware will look out of place beside all these grand things, I am afraid."
"No, indeed," replied Laura, with more earnestness than she usually manifested. "If you had given me nothing more than a sheet of paper, Olive, I should think more of it than of all these fine things that people give me to display their own liberality, and get themselves talked about."
"You don't seem to have a very high opinion of your friends," remarked Olive.
"Of course that does not apply to all of them," returned Laura. "Some of these were given by dear friends, and these I really value. The things uncle and aunt Merton have given me, for instance, and Mrs. Schuyler's presents, because she was a friend of mother's, you know, and the Jenners, because I always loved them. But there is Maria Lewis, she never liked me, though she wanted me to marry Sam. And after I refused him, she hated me, I know—yet she sends me this superb "odeur"-box, just that she might see it on the table, with her name attached to it."
"I should hardly want to accept presents upon such terms, I think," said Olive.
"Oh! The things are just as pretty and convenient, you know, as if they liked me ever so much. But tell me, Olive, and pray don't think I ask because I am dissatisfied, or any such thing—why can not you afford to spend as much money as you want? I am sure you have some good reason."
"My reason is Abby, Laura. I feel as if the time would come when she will need all that I can do for her. William is not getting on at all in business, and is not likely to. He is very extravagant besides."
"I am very sorry to hear it. I hoped they were doing pretty well. Perhaps I shall be able to help them."
"If you can do it by denying yourself, and curtailing your own expenses, my dear Laura, I shall be very glad. But pray do not ask Mr. Witherington to do any thing for them."
"What a queer girl you are! Why not?"
Olive thought if the "why not" did not present itself, there was no use in arguing the point any farther.
"I hope, at any rate, Laura, if your husband approves, you will go and see Abby, or at least write to her."
"I have done that already," said Laura. "I told aunt I would not be married at all unless she would let me ask Abby to the wedding. She made a great fuss at first, and threatened to appeal to Mr. Witherington, so I saved her the trouble by appealing to him myself. Then she was frightened, for he is so very precise and particular in his ideas, and she thought the match might be off."
"What did he say?" asked Olive, very much interested.
"He praised me very much in the first place, for telling him every thing. Then he asked very particularly about the affair, and aunt told him, only she made it a great deal worse than it was. You would have thought Abby had behaved more shamefully than any one ever did in the world. I could not help putting in a word now and then, and finally he said I might have my own way in the matter. Aunt was very angry, but she dared not show it to him, you know. So I wrote to her day before yesterday. I do wonder if she will come?"
"I am rather afraid not, Laura. Abby has more on her hands than you have any idea of. She wrote to me that she had changed girls lately, and she has not learned to keep house so but that it takes all her time. Moreover, I do not think William will spare her, and I am very certain he will not come himself."
Laura sighed.
"I am very sorry for her, I am sure. It seems a great pity—so pretty and well-educated as she is. She ought to be enjoying herself in society, instead of being burdened with a house and a baby at her age. Only think, she is only eighteen now! I do think girls lose a great deal by marrying so young, Olive, even if they marry well."
"I think so, too, Laura. But I must go home, or aunt will miss me at luncheon-time. I shall see you again to-morrow, and arrange about every thing."
Olive felt rather sadly as she walked homeward. She did not think Laura was doing right, and she feared that Mr. Witherington would be disappointed in her. He seemed an earnest, thoughtful man, who would need something more in a wife beside beauty and fine manners. And, fond as she was of her, she could not conceal from herself that Laura had no depth, either of character or principle. She clearly married Mr. Witherington, not because she loved him, but because he was an excellent match, and could give her at once that wealth and position which she had been educated to regard as the chief end of existence.
For a time, her husband's eyes might be blinded by her beauty and his own passion, but Olive felt as though he must find out the deficiencies in his wife after a while, and be made very unhappy by the discovery. There was nothing for it, however, but to hope that a man of so much depth of character might influence Laura, and lead her to higher things. At present, all the energies of herself and her aunt seemed concentrated on the desire that the wedding should eclipse every thing of the kind ever seen in M. before. Aunt Merton, though she disapproved of gay weddings, as a matter of taste, lent her efficient aid to gratify them, and devoted more time and attention to the affair than she had ever done to any party of her own.
Abby could not come. She wrote that Katy had left her, and the girl she had was not very efficient, baby was troublesome, she was not strong herself, and, on the whole, she thought it would be better not to make the attempt. She sent her love and good wishes, and a beautiful handkerchief; embroidered by her own hands, as a present for Laura. Olive was glad that Laura persisted in carrying this handkerchief on her wedding-day, instead of the more splendid Honiton-bordered one which Mrs. Dimsden had provided.
They talked over the letter together, and agreed that it was very sad, despite the evident effort to make it cheerful. Abby was clearly very home-sick, and very much depressed, though she said not a word of any new trouble, except her change of girls, and that baby was troublesome. She had made acquaintance with the rector of the nearest church and his wife, who were very kind to her, but she could not get to church very often. Mrs. Granger came to see her sometimes, and was very good to her. Such was the substance of her letter.
The eventful day arrived. Olive's dress was perfect, and aunt Rebecca, as she clasped the last bracelet—part of a beautiful set of ornaments presented by her brother-in-law, pronounced that she had never looked so well in her life. And, as Olive looked in the glass, she thought so, too, and wished that Walter were there to see her. Mrs. Merton did honor to the occasion by a superb new dress, and her most magnificent display of diamonds—rather a remarkable thing for her, as she did not usually trouble herself to dress much. Charlotte was attired exactly like Olive, and looked very queenly and amiable.
"Olive," said she, as they were waiting for the carriage to convey them to Mrs. Dimsden's, "how should you like all this fuss, if you were going to be married yourself?"
"I am afraid I should think it a very great bore," answered her cousin.
"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.