"You are an enthusiast about such things," he said. "I used to be myself when I was young, but I have had it a good deal driven out of me, I am sorry to say. But I am glad you are fond of mountains, for you will see enough of them. I love them like old friends, for I was born among them."
Olive found the hour pass very pleasantly in watching the changes of light and shade on the hill-tops and in the valley, and in listening to her companion's reminiscences of the early settlement of the country. She felt almost sorry when the train went on again, and she began to feel that every moment brought her nearer to her journey's end.
At last came the long whistle which announced that the station was in sight. The people who were going to stop began to gather up their shawls and bags, and to look out their checks. And those who were going on felicitated themselves with the idea of a hot supper.
She soon found herself in a carriage with her kind companion, who insisted on going with her to the house, and introducing her to her host and hostess. Olive was very thankful: she was vexed to find herself trembling and agitated, when she meant to be very calm and composed. The carriage stopped at the gate of a very pretty two-story brick house, a good deal shaded, which was all she could see by moonlight.
A light streamed out from the hall-door, and two or three figures appeared at it, showing that she was expected.
"Good-evening, Mrs. Felton," said Mr. Jones; "I have brought your new inmate, you see, and I hope you have some supper for her. I am sure she must be starving."
Mrs. Felton came forward, and shook hands kindly with Olive, introducing her to her husband at the same time—a ceremony from which that gentleman received but little benefit, as he was out at the gate, superintending the removal of the baggage. Mrs. Felton was a middle-aged, meek-looking woman, with mild hazel eyes, and a certain nervous, undecided expression.
"Supper—yes, certainly. So you have had no supper, but we waited so long, I am afraid every thing is quite spoiled. I guess I had better get something fresh. Ruth!"
"Pray do not take any trouble for me," said Olive, who did not feel very much like eating, being conscious of a certain hysterical feeling in her throat; "I am not hungry."
"But you must be hungry, because you have been travelling all day," insisted Mrs. Felton, argumentatively; "people are always hungry when they have been travelling."
And, having asked Mr. Jones to stay to supper, and telling her husband, who was still invisible, to take the trunks up-stairs, Mrs. Felton led the way into the dining-room—a very cheerful apartment, furnished with easy-looking, odd-shaped, rush-bottomed, and closely-wound chairs and sofas; a tall, old-fashioned mahogany clock, with a marvellously painted and gilded face, ticked in the corner; some curious old prints and paintings upon glass ornamented the walls; and a beautiful large white cat sat composedly on a chair at the corner of the supper-table, as though she had taken her usual place, and was waiting for the rest of the company.
"I kept the table standing because I thought you might not have had your supper, you see," pursued Mrs. Felton, in a mild, purring kind of voice. "There! Sit down in the rocking-chair, and let me take your bonnet. Your room is all ready for you, but perhaps you will not like it. I thought the front-chamber was the pleasantest, because you can see every one that passes, but Ruth liked the back one the best—Ruth!"
"Yes, mother," replied the individual so often called, in a cheerful voice, entering at the same time, with a waiter full of smoking dishes, "I only waited to fry two or three eggs, and get out the hot biscuits—I laid some by on purpose. How do you do, Miss McHenry?" she continued, without waiting for an introduction. "Tired enough, of course! Don't move," she continued, setting down her dishes; "I will push the table up to you." And she suited the action to the word, before Olive had time to remonstrate, and handed her a cup of fragrant tea, begging her to help herself to an egg and a piece of ham.
Olive had really believed that she was not hungry, but every thing was so very nice and inviting, that she felt her appetite return, and ate a hearty supper, to the evident delight of her hostess.
As soon as she had finished, Ruth asked her if she would not like to go to her room. "It is all ready, and I am sure you will be glad to be quiet," she said, as she lighted a candle in a queer little old-fashioned silver candlestick; "I will show you the way."
Every thing looked inviting in the room whither Olive was conducted. It was large and high, but full curtains and a warm-colored carpet gave it an air of comfort. An old-fashioned toilet and glass stood between the windows: an equally antiquated book-case filled up one recess of the chimney, and a commodious table and chair the other.
Ruth set down the candle, and sweeping a comprehensive glance around the room to see that all was right, bade Olive good-night, begging not to hurry herself in the morning, as the school did not begin till the next day, and she would have plenty of time for unpacking.
Olive certainly did not feel inclined to any extra exertion. She took out what she wanted for the night, and unpacked her Bible and prayer-book, and, despite all the varied excitements of the day, she was asleep before her head touched the pillow.
CHAPTER SIXTH.
OLIVE slept late the next morning, and when she awoke from a dream of home, she could hardly understand for a moment, where she was. It was some little time before she could arouse herself sufficiently to rise and put back the window-curtain. It was one of the softest mornings of early autumn. The window looked toward the east, across the not very wide valley in which the village lay, to a high, bold, rocky eminence, which bounded it on that side, while here and there she caught glimpses of the same sparkling and rapid stream, which they had seen so often the day before, now augmented to a considerable river. She could not see much of the village, though two or three large old-fashioned farmhouses were in sight around the edges of the valley.
She had finished dressing, and was standing at the open window enjoying the fresh air and the prospect, so different from any thing to which she had been accustomed, when a light tap was heard at the door and Ruth entered.
"I heard you stirring," she said, half-apologetically, "and came up to see if you wanted any help. We thought we would not wake you. I hope you feel rested?"
Ruth Felton had one of those faces which it is impossible to see without loving. She was far from handsome, being small and thin, with rather a sallow complexion, and no special pretensions to elegance or grace, but whenever she came into a room she seemed to bring sunshine with her. There was something in her expression so cheerful and bright, so thoroughly good and withal so earnest and full of helpfulness, that every one with whom she came in contact felt influence, and owned its power. She possessed moreover that not exceedingly common gift, a remarkably sweet voice; truly, an excellent thing in woman. Ruth was not young, and there were various signs and tokens about her which seemed to show that she was verging towards an old maid. Many people wondered why she had never married, but when questioned upon the subject, she always laughed her bright, cheery laugh, and said she never had had time.
"School begins to-morrow," said Ruth, as they went down-stairs together, "and I suppose you may expect a call from Mr. Prendergrass to-day."
"Who is Mr. Prendergrass?" asked Olive.
"Why, the principal of the Academy; is it possible you have had so little curiosity as not to ask the name of your associate?"
"I believe I have heard it before," replied Olive, coloring a little, "but I have had so many things to think of."
"Yes, I dare say," said Ruth. "But you will soon learn all about the things and the people with whom you have to do. I suppose you are ready for your breakfast?" she added, as they entered the dining-room.
"Have you had breakfast?" asked Olive, seeing only a small round table set by the window.
"Oh! Yes, two hours ago. We breakfast at half-past six in summer, and at seven in winter. I am afraid our hours will be too early for you."
"Oh! No; I was accustomed to early hours at school, but aunt Merton has spoiled me a little, since I have been at home. What a beautiful puss!" she continued, as the white cat she had seen the night before roused herself from a comfortable nap, and came gravely forward to pay her respects.
"I hope you like cats," said Ruth; "Jenny is a great pet, and to say the truth, a little spoiled. She is the descendant of a cat that my brother brought home from Bombay, and my mother values her on that account. But if you find her troublesome, you must drive her away."
Olive had no great fear of finding the pretty creature troublesome, for she loved pets of every description, and had more than once incurred aunt Rebecca's displeasure, by patronizing stray kittens and forlorn puppies.
Jenny was very ready to be taken up, and they were having a fine game at play, when Ruth entered with the breakfast, followed by Mrs. Felton with a work-basket.
"Ruth," said the latter, in a tone of mild remonstrance, which somehow made Olive feel nervous, "you shouldn't let that cat trouble Miss McHenry."
"She does not trouble me," said Olive; "I am very fond of cats."
"You are very kind to say so," returned Mrs. Felton, with an expression of gentle incredulity, "but a great many people don't like them, and I never want any thing belonging to me to be troublesome or intrusive. I never want to be myself. For that reason I did not go up to your room this morning. I felt that you would come down when you got ready, but Ruth thought differently."
Mrs. Felton never thought, she only felt; and she had no opinions, but only feelings.
Olive glanced at Ruth, expecting to see some signs of annoyance, but none were visible. She busied herself in setting the table in order. And inviting Olive to seat herself at it, she placed herself at the coffee-urn—a curious, little old-fashioned institution of plated ware with a gilded ivory pine-apple upon the top—and said grace in a very grave, unaffected manner. After which, she proceeded to pour out the coffee, Mrs. Felton murmuring away all the time, partly, as it seemed, to herself and partly to her companions.
"I suppose you rested well, Miss McHenry? At least, I hope you did."
"Oh! Yes," replied Olive, smiling; "only I slept rather too long. I am quite rested this morning."
"You are a good sleeper, I suppose. I am not," said the lady, as she threaded her needle. "I never get any sleep till towards morning, and yet it is very singular how Mr. Felton will always insist that I sleep all night. I am sure I don't know how he can tell, for he never wakes up from the time he goes to bed till he gets up again. I suppose you have never been away from home before?"
"Oh! Yes; I have been at school a great deal," replied Olive, "though to be sure, I have always had my sister and cousin with me." And she sighed for the tenth time as she thought of poor Abby.
"No doubt you will miss them very much," continued Mrs. Felton. "It is a sad thing to have none of one's relations near one. I have never seen any of mine since I was married. Indeed, I haven't any nearer than second cousins, for my mother was an only child and my father had but one brother, who died at sea. I fear you will be very lonely here after what you have been accustomed to."
"Come, mother," said Ruth, cheerfully, "you must not go to making Miss McHenry home-sick. I think she will find our village a very pleasant one, and we have plenty of agreeable people, you know. We must not discourage her at the outset."
"I don't mean to discourage her, of course," returned the lady in an injured tone. "I suppose she may like sympathy, though you don't."
Olive thought she did not either, if this was a specimen. To turn the conversation, she asked hastily: "Is the Academy far from here?"
"Only a little way," replied Ruth; "you can see it from the front-door. It is a very pleasant building, and well fitted up, though one of the oldest in the place. It was built before the war."
"How large is the school?" asked Olive.
"There are usually about fifty in the girls' department, and twice as many in the other. You will find them pleasant enough for the most part, though there are a few black sheep, of course."
"I am sure poor Miss Brown had trouble enough," remarked Mrs. Felton.
"It was her own fault, mother," said Ruth. "She would go round, talking about the girls out of school, and telling the whole village of every little unpleasant circumstance. It is almost as unfortunate for a teacher to gossip, as for a minister."
"Is Mr. Gregory in town now?" inquired Olive.
"He is," replied Ruth. "Do you know him?"
"He called upon me at Mrs. Granger's, with his wife," said Olive. "I was very much pleased with him."
"Almost every body likes Mr. Gregory," remarked Ruth, as she put the dishes together upon the tray.
"Why, yes, I suppose they do," said Mrs. Felton; "and I dare say he is a good man. But I must say, he has very little feeling, and does not understand my case at all. Would you believe it, Miss McHenry, when I told him how much I suffered from low spirits and dolts and all sorts of distressing feelings about myself, instead of sympathizing with me, he told me he thought I did not take exercise enough, and advised me to teach a class in Sunday-school. He said he did not think it was a good thing for people to be always studying over their own feelings. And when I went to see Mrs. Tower—she is his daughter—at the time her child died, and was asking her all about little Henrietta's sickness and death, and telling her of the loss of my own children, and saying every thing I could think of, to show my sympathy—he as good as told me to hold my tongue, and let her alone."
Olive did not wonder at it, but she said nothing in reply, and only observed that Mrs. Gregory seemed a very pleasant person. Mrs. Felton allowed that she was, but thought her very gay and frivolous for a person of her age. She was clearly of the opinion that there was "nothing so dainty sweet, as lovely melancholy," and no one was approved by her who had the heartlessness to be gay in this world's woes.
Olive began to feel that such a perpetual presence might become very wearisome after a while, and she wondered how Ruth could preserve her cheerfulness under it. But Ruth seemed to mind her mother's murmurs no more than she did the purring of the cat. She again came up to Olive's room to show her the shelves and drawers, of which there were a great abundance, and then left her to herself till dinner-time.
Olive was not very long in unpacking and arranging her matters, though she lingered a little over her books and drawing materials which were nicely accommodated in the book-case. A small portrait of her mother, copied by herself, from the large picture at Mr. Merton's, and one or two favorite landscapes, found very good lights upon the walls. The table held her work-box and the new desk very nicely.
As she opened the latter for the first time, her eye fell upon Mr. Merton's mysterious packet, which she had quite forgotten. She opened it, and found a very nice case, containing a handsome gold watch and chain, exactly such a one as he had presented to Charlotte on her birth-day, and two bright new twenty-dollar gold pieces, with a kind note, which, as it was very characteristic of the gentleman, we subjoin.
"You will want a watch, my dear, by which to regulate your hours, and I hope you will find this a good one. The gold pieces are to supply you with any little conveniences, of which you may feel the need. With regard to your course in your new home, I have but a few words of advice to give you. Mind your own business—never gossip nor let others gossip to you: do not be too set in your own way: have patience, but not mock patience: and look to God in all trials and difficulties."
Such was Mr. Merton's note, over which Olive shed a few tears. "Oh! If Abby would only be open with him," she thought, "how much misery it would save us all."
She did not dare permit her thoughts to dwell too long upon the subject, for she felt that she needed all her strength for what was before her. So she bathed her eyes, dressed herself neatly and becomingly, and had finished a letter to aunt Rebecca, and begun one to Abby, before the dinner-bell rung.
At dinner, she saw the hitherto invisible Mr. Felton—a mild, good-natured man, with a quiet, subdued manner. Olive thought his wife's sympathy must have affected him. He was cordial, and entered into conversation very readily, displaying considerable intelligence. They had hardly risen from the table, when Mr. and Mrs. Gregory were announced, and Olive entered the parlor to greet them, with a feeling that they were old friends.
Mr. Gregory was all kindness and cordiality. As Olive looked at him, she did not wonder at his not sympathizing very deeply in Mrs. Felton's troubles. He looked like a man who had passed through the furnace of affliction and come out unspoiled, but perhaps a little hardened by the fire. Suffering was written in every line of his face, but it was suffering past and gone.
Half an hour's conversation with him made Olive feel as though she had found a valuable friend. There was that about him which irresistibly attracted confidence, and she was almost startled, after he had gone, to find how freely she had expressed herself. Mrs. Gregory was a kindly, motherly woman, evidently proud of her husband, and enjoying full faith in his infallibility.
After they had gone, Mr. Jones came and brought his two daughters, pretty, shy girls of fourteen and sixteen, both evidently terribly afraid of the new school-mistress, who, on her part, was almost equally afraid of them, though she managed to conceal her trepidation. By some well-directed questions, she presently had them at their ease and talking quite fluently.
White Jenny opportunely walked into the room, suggesting a ready subject for conversation, and Phebe had grown quite eloquent in describing a Maltese cat that she had, and a terrier belonging to her brother, which slept, ate, and hunted rats together, when the door opened, and Ruth appeared, ushering in a tall gentleman, whom she introduced to Olive as Mr. Prendergrass.
The girls were hushed in a moment, and seemed as if looking around for some place of escape, while Olive rose in some confusion, and put down white Jenny, to greet her associate in the care of the youth of Basswoods.
Mr. Prendergrass was a tall man, very spare and upright. His iron-gray hair was arranged with mathematical precision, his whiskers ditto. He wore the neatest of black suits, and the neatest of black gloves, and his linen was got up to an extent that was quite alarming. There was a tradition current among the boys that he wore a tin shirt-bosom and collar, and had once nearly cut off one of his ears with the latter.
Mr. Prendergrass bowed a solemn bow, and then another, in reply to Olive's courtesy. Then he sat down, casting rather a nervous glance at white Jenny, who was amusing herself with the tassels of Miss Jones' parasol. "I am happy to see you, Miss McHenry," he said, in a tone as formal as the rest of his appearance. "I hope you have recovered from the fatigue of your journey?"
"Quite, thank you," said Olive, wishing she could think of something to add to it.
"Did you find your journey agreeable?" inquired Mr. Prendergrass again, precisely as though he was hearing a lesson.
"Very much so," replied Olive. "The route is very picturesque."
"Are not the mountains beautiful, Miss McHenry?" said Anna Jones, timidly, and coloring as she spoke.
"Extremely so to me, especially as they were the first I had ever seen. I longed to make sketches all the way."
"They are splendid in winter," said Anna, quite enthusiastically. "The pines look so grand, covered with snow, and the long icicles hanging from the rocks." She seemed quite frightened at having said so much, and relapsed into silence and stiffness again.
Mr. Prendergrass looked as though he thought mountains were frivolous things. Mr. Jones preserved a provoking taciturnity, and Olive was wondering what she ought to do or say next, when the youngest Miss Jones made a furtive poke with her parasol in the direction of the principal, accompanied by the least possible mischievous glance of her eye towards her sister.
Jenny sprang upon the parasol, and Mr. Prendergrass started.
"Do, do be pleased to dismiss that quadruped," he said, almost imploringly, to Miss Phebe. "Be quiet, cat, I entreat," he continued, as Jenny made another jump after the withdrawn parasol.
Olive caught up the offending animal, and carried her off, and Mr. Prendergrass appeared much relieved. "I have a great dislike to the feline race," he observed, reseating himself. "I believe it to be constitutional. My father was nearly killed by one—a panther, I mean," he added, looking resentfully at the young ladies, who betrayed some tendency to giggling.
Olive was much interested, and related several anecdotes of persons who were made ill, or otherwise unpleasantly affected by the presence of cats. Mr. Prendergrass unbent a little, and Olive was surprised to find that he could talk very well when he was not thinking of himself.
At last Mr. Jones proposed that they should step over to the academy. "I should like to have Miss McHenry's opinion of the arrangements in the girls' room," said he. "She may have some improvements to suggest."
"The rooms are exactly as they were arranged by the Reverend Mr. Snowden, sir!" said Mr. Prendergrass, solemnly.
"Very true, sir, but Miss McHenry may have ways of her own, you know."
Mr. Prendergrass looked as though the idea of Miss McHenry's having ways of her own was not agreeable to him, but he only bowed solemnly.
And the whole party proceeded to the academy.
It was a pretty, neat building, and Olive was surprised to see it looking so new and fresh, till she was informed that it had lately been put in complete repair. The date of 1775 still remained in iron letters upon each of the gables, and Mr. Jones pointed out, upon one of the windows, two or three bullet-marks which had been made in a skirmish with the Indians.
The upper school-room, appropriated to her use, was a very pleasant apartment, neatly fitted up with movable desks and chairs, set in rows across the room.
On being questioned, Olive admitted that she should prefer a different disposition. She thought it better that they should be arranged around the apartment, so that the girls might sit with their faces to the wall.
"Why, may I inquire, Miss McHenry, do you wish the 'young ladies' to assume such a position?" said Mr. Prendergrass, somewhat severely, and with an emphasis on the words "young ladies."
"I think that it is easier to overlook them, and there is less temptation to whispering," replied Olive, feeling quite alarmed at her own temerity. "But perhaps it is only because I am accustomed to such an arrangement that I prefer it."
"Very probably, ma'am. Many persons can only like what they are accustomed to."
"At the same time," interrupted Mr. Jones, "there is no reason whatever why Miss McHenry should not have the seats arranged in her own way. I will come over with the boys and make the alteration."
"My predecessor, the Rev. Mr. Snowden—" began Mr. Prendergrass.
"Was a very excellent man, sir, though rather too fond of the rod. But he has been dead at least fifteen years, and the school has gone on better without him than ever it did with him. Do you see any other alterations to suggest, Miss McHenry?"
Mr. Prendergrass looked on with lowering brows, while Olive went over the room, and seemed prepared to resign on the instant, if she should presume to recommend any other innovations. But she saw nothing else to change. She particularly admired the mat and commodious table and desk which had been provided for the teachers. It fortunately happened that this table and all its arrangements had been executed under the eye of Mr. Prendergrass himself, and from plans of his own. His eyebrows relaxed, and his manner grew more gracious, and by the time they had made the rounds of the boys' room, and he had discovered that Olive was a good Latin scholar, he was as amiable as possible.
At parting, Olive adverted to her own inexperience, and requested permission to apply to him in any emergency. Mr. Prendergrass was evidently highly flattered, and they parted on the best possible terms.
"He is a good creature, and really talented," said Mr. Jones, as they walked towards home, the girls having dropped behind, to communicate with some of their companions. "But you must hold your own with him. He is rather apt to be overbearing, and thinks every change from the customs of the Rev. Mr. Snowden must be wrong, of course."
"I am not sure, but that is better than thinking that every change must be an improvement," remarked Olive. "I am afraid he was very much offended about the desks."
"You need not distress yourself about that," replied her companion. "By next week, he will imagine the improvement to be his own. With all his faults, he is an excellent and conscientious man, and manages the school well. His great trouble is his overweening vanity, and his desire to have his own way. Every one laughs at him, but he seldom finds it out. If he does, he never forgives the laughter. I do not imagine you will have any trouble with him."
It was nearly tea-time when Olive returned home. She occupied her evening in finishing her letter to Abby, wherein she exerted all her eloquence to prevail upon her sister to take a right course. She sent a civil message to Mr. Forester, feeling that she owed him a little reparation for her plain speaking, and went to bed with an anxious yet a hopeful heart.
The next morning she was up before the sun. Never had she prayed with more fervor—never had the promises of Scripture been more full of comfort and encouragement to her. Her fears and tremors of the day before had almost vanished.
And when, after the school had been opened by prayers and singing in the large hall, she took her place upon her own estrade in the young ladies' room, it was with a degree of calmness and composure, that surprised herself. As she glanced over the assembled ranks of girls, all sitting demurely, with their hands before them, she thought her materials not unpromising. About half of the fifty were daughters of substantial people in the village, well-dressed pretty girls, all lady-like and proper; the rest were daughters of farmers in the neighboring country, who went home to help in the dairy and kitchen in summer, and attended school in the winter, often working for their board in some village family. As was to be expected, these were not all very polished, or dressed in the best taste, but many of them looked good and sensible.
The morning was spent in enrolling, examining, and classifying, looking over books, and ascertaining former progress. Olive wondered whether she should ever succeed in connecting their names with their faces, so as not to make perpetual mistakes—when she should distinguish Miss Julia Goodrich from Miss Sarah Goodrich, and both from the other Miss Goodrich, who was not related to them.
The girls appeared to have been tolerably well taught, so far as concerned book-learning, hitherto, but they were deficient in general knowledge, and those school-manners which she had been accustomed, under Mrs. Granger's vigilant eye, to consider as essential. They lounged on their desks, and in recitation they kicked their feet, bit their fingers, and played with their books. Olive saw a good many little things which needed reformation, but she was aware that all reform should be commenced with caution and gradually carried on.
In the afternoon, she organized a drawing-class, and this she found rather a difficult matter. A number of the girls had drawn a little: that is to say, they had copied a number of fancy castles and cottages, with their walls strikingly at variance with the recognized principles of gravitation, and shaded by trees, composed of a hard outline, filled up with little "M"s and "N"s; others had gone so far as to use colored chalks, and even to paint in oils. It had been a favorite maxim with the former drawing-master that in order to paint, it was not at all necessary to know how to draw, * and it may be imagined what sort of productions came out of the hands of his pupils.
* A literal fact.
Of course, all these young ladies had no mean opinion of their own abilities, and Olive foresaw that it would be a much more difficult matter to teach them than though they had never touched a pencil. She had herself been drilled through Chapman's inimitable method, with pen and ink, by an indefatigable and really scientific teacher. And she resolved, if possible, to pursue the same course with her own pupils, though she foresaw that some of them were likely enough to be restive under it. Accordingly, she sent Anna Jones to Mr. Prendergrass, for two or three quires of foolscap, and a box of steel-pens. The girls looked at each other with surprise, and the surprise increased, as she proceeded to lay before each half a dozen' sheets of ruled paper, and to distribute the pens.
Olive saw it, and smiled. "You will think my first lesson a simple one, young ladies," she said. "And yet I venture to say that not more than half of you will succeed at the first trial. It is only to draw a line from one side of the paper to the other, following the ruled line—so." She continued taking up a white chalk crayon, and drawing lines back and forth, from one side of the blackboard to the other.
The girls were mostly quite confident of success when they began, and there was a general laugh when upon examination not one of the attempts was found perfect. Olive was glad to see them take it so good-naturedly.
"You see," said she, "that it is not quite so easy as you thought. I do not know that I ever saw any one succeed at the first trial. It will require a great deal of patience, and some faith, for you to follow out this method, but I venture to promise, that you will never regret it."
"Can not we draw pictures at all?" asked Anna Jones.
"Certainly, my dear. I shall allow you to draw pictures every now and then, that you may judge of your own progress."
The girls seemed very very well-satisfied, and addressed themselves seriously to the work before them, with one exception. This was Miss Julia Goodrich.
Olive had discovered in the course of the day that this young lady was not wanting in self-conceit: she seemed to think that she knew enough already, and that it was something of a condescension for her to attend school at all. Olive foresaw that it would probably become necessary to set her down, but she did not expect the occasion would come quite so soon. Miss Julia was evidently offended at being put to such an exercise, and after three or four unsuccessful trials, she threw down her pen, and sat leaning on her elbow.
"Do not be discouraged, Miss Julia," said Olive kindly; "you will soon acquire a better method of holding your pen, and it will be easier for you."
"I am not discouraged," replied Miss Julia shortly.
"Then do not waste your time, as we have none too much to devote to drawing."
"I am not going to work at these things," said the young lady, pushing away the paper contemptuously. "I can draw well enough already, and only came into the class for practice. I want something pretty to do."
Miss Julia's manner was sufficiently insolent, and her tone, if possible, still more so. She had been the terror of two or three teachers, and, in fact, had ruled matters very much her own way. Olive's perfect good-breeding had awed her a little, but she was determined not to give up the victory without a struggle.
"What can you draw?" asked Olive, turning over her portfolio.
"Any thing," returned Julia, triumphantly, taking this mildness as a sign of yielding. She never was more mistaken in her life.
Olive left her portfolio open, and taking up a large white china inkstand, and sticking two or three pens into it, she set it on a book before her pupil, saying composedly, "Very well, draw that." And she turned again to her portfolio.
There was a subdued titter among the girls, which she was not very sorry to hear.
Julia looked annoyed and mortified. "Oh! I didn't mean 'that,'" she said. "Nobody could do such things as that."
"You are mistaken," said Olive, gently; "any body who has made much progress in drawing can do such things. But perhaps you would prefer a picture." And she placed before her an exquisite drawing of Powers' Proserpine which she had done from a cast while at school, and a delicately-finished landscape in pen and ink.
Worse and worse. The titter grew into a giggle, which Olive checked with a glance, and Julia's face grew redder and redder.
"I can't do them things," she said, sullenly.
"Those things," corrected Olive, still quite unruffled. "But I thought you said you could draw any thing."
"There isn't a girl in this school that could draw either of those pictures!" said Miss Goodrich, positively, but looking just ready to cry, from anger and mortification. "I know there ain't!"
"There are a great many in other schools, I assure you, and I presume most of those here would like to learn. But what can you do, then?"
Miss Goodrich produced from the depths of her portfolio a remarkable production, purporting to be a landscape, but so utterly out of any thing like perspective, as to be absolutely painful to the educated eye. Trees a mile distant were represented of the same color, and with the same minuteness, as those near at hand; while a lake, upon which was a boat about half a mile long, descended towards the foreground at an angle of forty-five degrees. This specimen of art she handed to Olive, but by no means so triumphantly as she had at first anticipated: she began to have a dawning perception that she had made herself very ridiculous.
Olive looked at it, making commendable efforts to keep the corners of her mouth in order. Then, taking a picture of about the same size and style from her own portfolio, she gently placed them side by side before her pupil.
Julia looked from one to the other: her face grew redder and redder, and her eyes filled with tears. She took up Olive's sketch and examined it. Then looked again at her own, and, at last quite overcome, she burst into tears and sobbed aloud.
Olive now really pitied the girl.
"You had better go out into the air a little, Julia," she said, kindly; "Laura, my dear, go with your sister."
The two left the room, and Olive, turning to the class, said, gravely: "I trust to your honor, girls, never to mention this little affair again, either to Julia or any one else. You will see the reason for what I say, if you think how you would like to be treated yourselves under such circumstances."
The girls looked at each other with some surprise, but with evident approbation, and Olive saw that, so far as they were concerned, she had gained a complete victory. But she felt rather anxious about the effect upon Julia. She was, however, soon set at rest.
"What did Miss McHenry say after I went out?" Julia asked of Anna Jones, in the short recess that Olive allowed them.
"She said we were not to say any thing about the matter, to you or any one else, because we would not like it ourselves," replied her friend.
Julia hesitated a moment, and then said:
"Anna, do you think I made a fool of myself?"
"I think you did," said the straightforward Anna; "and if I were you, I would tell Miss McHenry so, and ask her to overlook it. That will be the best way to make every one forget it."
Julia meditated a moment, and then marched straight up to the drawing-table, where Olive was standing, surrounded by all the older girls.
"Miss McHenry," she said, resolutely, but with a slight tremor in her voice. "Anna Jones says I made a fool of myself this afternoon—at least, I asked her if I didn't, and she said yes, and I am come to ask your pardon. I see that you are right, and that I don't know any thing about drawing. If you will let me come into the class again, I will do just what you want me to."
"I am very glad to hear you say so, my dear," said Olive, kissing her; "it is always an excellent sign, when a girl is ready to acknowledge that she has been in the wrong. I shall be very glad to teach you all I know, and I have no doubt that you will soon learn to draw very well."
Thus ended Olive's first contest in school, wherein, by the exercise of a great deal of forbearance, and a little ready wit, she put her opponent entirely in the wrong, and drew the sympathies of the whole school to herself. Julia was possessed of a great many good qualities, but she had been badly managed, both at home and in school. She was really very quick, and easily kept at the head of almost all her classes, and she had been put forward to think herself a good deal more talented than she was, by the injudicious praises of parents and teachers. Her strong will had never happened to have a stronger one opposed to it, and thus she had carried all before her. Olive foresaw a good many mortifications in store for her, but she hoped they would all end as well as the first had done.
School was dismissed at half-past four, and Olive walked a little way down the street, hoping that the fresh air would cool her hot forehead, and quiet its throbbing. But she soon became conscious that she was being stared at from almost every house that she passed, and turned back again. Ruth met her at the door.
"How tired you are," she said, kindly, "but you will soon get used to it. How did you get on?"
"Very well, I believe," said Olive, wearily, "but really I hardly know."
"You had better go up-stairs, and lie down till tea-time," said Ruth compassionately. "You will find it easier to-morrow, and still more so the next day, till by and by, you will hardly mind it at all."
Olive was very glad of the encouragement, and still more of the rest. She threw herself upon the lounge, and closed her eyes without thinking of slumber, but by degrees her thoughts mingled themselves confusedly together, and she slept soundly, till she was aroused by the tea-bell, and rose feeling quite herself again.
Mrs. Felton had prepared herself to sympathize with Olive's trials, and seemed quite provoked to think she had not had any. Mr. Felton inquired whether she had found the school pleasant, and on being answered in the affirmative, mildly remarked that some people found things agreeable, and others made them so, after which he finished his supper without another word, and then betook himself to his newspaper.
"There has been a piano sent here for you to-day," said Ruth as they adjourned to the parlor.
"A piano! From whom?" asked Olive, very much surprised.
"Mr. Gregory sent it," replied Ruth. "It is one that Augusta Tower had before she was married. Mr. Tower bought a much finer one for her, and when she went home to live, she took it with her. So as one was enough in the house, and you had none, they thought you might as well use this."
It was a plain but handsome instrument of good tone, and perfectly in tune. Olive was delighted. She was fond of music, and played very well, though she had not Abby's splendid talents, and she had sighed more than once over the prospect of being without a piano of her own.
"A good many people thought Mrs. Tower ought to have sold her handsome piano, after her husband died," said Mrs. Felton, in her sighing voice, "but she hardly sold any of her things. It looks rather singular to see the minister's parlor the handsomest furnished of any in town."
"I don't know why she should sell her things, mother," said Ruth. "They can not be in debt, and she had enough to support herself, though not as much as people generally thought she would have."
"Ruth never will allow that Mrs. Tower can do any thing wrong," said Mrs. Felton, appealing to Olive. "Even when, the third Sunday after her child died, she played the organ just as usual, Ruth defended that."
"We should not have had any music at all, if she had not, mother, and you know the Bishop was here. Augusta did not think she ought to give up all her duties because she was in affliction. I know she was blamed for going into Sunday-school so soon too, but I must say, I think she did right."
"But she is always doing such queer things," persisted Mrs. Felton. "Do you know, Miss McHenry, she was married on Tuesday morning, and she went to church the Sunday before, though the invitations were all out."
"I do not see any thing wrong in that," remarked Olive. "It seems to me that would be the very time I should want to go."
"Especially as it was the Communion," added Ruth.
"Well, my dear, very likely you are right and I am wrong. I always am, you know," said Mrs. Felton, in deeply resigned tones. "I only know, it would have been thought very strange when I was young, but people have improved since then, no doubt. I don't think I am quite a fool, however." And with these words, Mrs. Felton returned to the dining-room.
Ruth suppressed a sigh and asked Olive to play something.
"Mother thinks Augusta is very odd," she said, after a while, "but I hope you will like her. She goes out very little, but I think she will come and see you."
"Did I understand you that she was a widow?" asked Olive.
"Yes, her husband died five years ago—just two years after they were married. He was a cultivated, agreeable man, and was supposed to be very rich. But after his death, it was found that there was only about a thousand a year, for Augusta and her child. They lived rather expensively, I suppose, but they had no debts, and so Augusta kept most of their furniture and all her books and pictures. She furnished the Parsonage, which needed it very much, and she has lived at home ever since. Her child, a most lovely little creature, died last summer very suddenly. I was always fond of Augusta, when we were school-girls. But since her widowhood, I have loved her more dearly than ever."
"Is she an only child?" asked Olive.
Something passed across Ruth's face, like a sudden gust of wind across a still piece of water, but almost before it could be noticed, it was gone.
"She had one brother, but he is dead," she said quietly.
At this moment, the door-bell rang, and a Mrs. Dennison entered. She was a pretty, matronly woman, one of those "mothers in Israel," a certain proportion of whom are to be found in almost every church, efficient helps to the minister, faithful in their own families, and ready to lend a helping hand to every good work, but so quiet and undemonstrative that they are hardly appreciated till they are dead and gone. And then every one says on every occasion when assistance is needed: "How we do miss Mrs. Dennison!" She had come to call upon Miss McHenry, and invite her to the sewing society next day, at her house.
Ruth advised Olive to go.
"You will find yourself a little stared at, perhaps, but the meetings are very pleasant, and it is a good way to become acquainted with the people."
"I never attended a society in my life," said Olive. "There was none connected with our church, and I believe aunt Rebecca had a prejudice against them. She thought they promoted scandal."
"If scandal-loving people meet together, they will be likely enough to talk scandal," replied Ruth, "whether it be at a society or a party. But it has never been my fate to hear very much of it at society. I suppose they may be different in different places. Mrs. Dennison and Mrs. Gregory have been at the head of ours for a good many years, till the latter resigned in favor of Augusta, and they are neither of them people likely to encourage gossip. But I leave you to judge for yourself."
Other callers came in, and Olive was introduced to several ladies and gentlemen, all well-bred, pleasant people. And when at rather an early hour, she laid her head on her pillow, it was with a very pleasant feeling of encouragement and thankfulness that the lines had fallen to her in such pleasant places. If she could have forgotten her great anxiety about Abby, she would have been quite happy.
CHAPTER SEVENTH.
IT was an old custom for school to be out on Friday afternoons at half-past three. Olive dressed for the society before she went to school, and Ruth was to call for her on her way. The two days since Wednesday had passed without any thing particular to mark them, except that one or two new scholars had entered.
The girls, for the most part, were quiet, orderly, and studious, and very ready to attend to her hints with regard to sitting, speaking, and standing. Julia, especially, was quiet and meek to a degree that astonished all her companions, and seemed particularly to delight her sister, a meek, gentle, little thing, over whom she was rather given to tyrannizing. She took so much pains with her ruled lines that she was advanced to the next step in Chapman without delay, and Olive promised her that after three or four more lessons, she should have something really pretty to do.
As Olive entered the dressing-room, she found one of the girls, named Melissa Tucker, waiting to speak to her. She was a pale-faced, pale-haired girl, with eyes of no particular color, and a disagreeable drawl to her speech.
"What is it, Melissa?" asked Olive.
"I think it my duty, Miss McHenry," said Melissa, solemnly, "to tell you that I saw Jane Ramsdell and Phebe Jones whispering twice this morning, and once yesterday."
"Indeed," said Olive, proceeding to take off her bonnet, without manifesting any vital interest in the intelligence.
"Miss Brown used to call them up and reprove them before the whole school, when they did so," persisted Miss Tucker, after waiting in vain for the commendation which she expected. Olive took no notice.
"They whisper a great deal. I often see them, and I shall think it my duty to tell you, Miss McHenry, every time the girls do any thing wrong. Miss Brown used to say she was very much obliged to me for doing so."
"I am not of Miss Brown's opinion," said Olive. "I do not want any one coming to me with stories of what the girls do. Any mischief which I can not see, I am willing to pass over. You would not have been very well pleased, I venture to say, Melissa, if Phebe had told me, this morning, when you were reading that story in school-time, though you knew very well that it was contrary to rules."
Melissa looked confounded.
"I saw you at the time," Olive continued, "but I did not see fit to notice it then. I beg, however, that you will remember the circumstance, when you give in your report to-night; and please to remember, also, that I will have no tale-bearers about me. You may have thought it your duty, as you say, to come and tell me, but as you see I do not wish you to do so again, it will be your duty in future to avoid it."
Melissa followed her teacher into the school-room with as much anger in her heart as could well dwell there, and she mentally resolved to be revenged before many hours. The consternation was great, when before the calling of the merit-roll, Olive rose and said:
"I have been told that one or two of the girls whispered this morning. I was sorry to hear it, and I hope, if it is true, that they will answer accordingly, and be careful not to offend again. I suppose you would all like to know who informed me." She paused, and a murmur of mingled expectation and indignation ran round the room. "I shall not tell you," she resumed, "nor in any way point out the offender. I presume she did what she thought was right. But once for all, I wish to say that I do not want any one coming to me with stories. I am tolerably clear-sighted myself, and moreover I trust to your honor not to try to deceive me. I hope I am safe in so doing," she said, looking round the room.
Every hand was raised in token of assent. "If you know of any large girl, tyrannizing over and tormenting a little one, and can not stop her yourselves, or if you find out that any one in the school is plotting to set the house or the river on fire, you may come and tell me, but I do not wish to hear of any thing else. Now we will let the matter drop."
She began to call the roll, and when she came to the name of Phebe Jones, Phebe answered with spirit:
"Yes, Miss McHenry, and I should have answered so, if you had not been told. I wanted very much to know where the lesson was, and you were busy with the new scholars, so I asked Jane Ramsdell. She did not hear the first time, and I asked her again."
"If that was all, Phebe, and I presume it was if you say so, I will excuse it this time," replied Olive. "But remember hereafter, I would rather you should wait a little than break a rule."
Ruth now entered—basket in hand, and the girls all rose—another ancient usage at the entrance of a stranger, which pleased Olive very much. "Don't you think that a very pretty custom?" she said to Ruth, as, school being dismissed, they walked towards Mrs. Dennison's.
"Very," replied Ruth, "and it has the sanction of antiquity with us. One of the teachers not long ago, tried to abolish it on the ground that it looked old-fashioned, but the boys and girls stood out so stoutly for it that she was forced to give it up. I do not think myself that there is any great danger, at the present time, of young people's being too deferential to their elders."
When they arrived at Mrs. Dennison's, they found the room quite full, and all eyes were turned towards the new-comers. Olive felt her color rise a little, but she bore the battery of glances very well, and after speaking to Mrs. Dennison, who came forward to meet her, she followed her companion towards the centre-table, where sat the principal officers of the society, cutting out and arranging work, and marking patterns.
They seemed to have their hands very full indeed. One of them was Mrs. Dennison herself, and the other a lady in the deepest mourning, whom Olive knew at once must be Ruth's friend, Mrs. Augusta Tower. Olive thought she had seldom seen a more lovely woman.
Mrs. Tower was small and somewhat slight, with an exquisitely fair complexion, and a bloom as delicate as an infant's. Her eyes were large and well shaped, but their color was not so easily decided. Olive thought them like deep rills. All the features were clearly cut, and the eyebrows, especially, though not heavy, were remarkably well defined, not arched, but level, and turning a little down at the outer corner. Her soft brown hair was plainly dressed, under a widow's tucked crape cap of the simplest form. A chain and cross of beautiful brown hair were her only ornaments.
"Some work?" she said, in answer to Ruth's inquiries. "Oh! Yes, as soon as I finish this pattern: but we are really overburdened to-day, so much has been ordered."
"Can not I do that?" asked Olive. "I have a good deal of experience in drawing patterns."
Mrs. Tower gladly accepted the offer, and made a vacant space at the overloaded table, where Olive found herself employed most of the time till dark, in tracing scollops, wheels, eyelets, etc. Ruth sat near her, engaged on a child's cambric apron. There was a buzz of conversation in the room, now and then enlivened by a hearty laugh from some of the younger ladies.
It was really a very pretty sight. The parlors were large and neatly furnished, though in rather old-fashioned style, and opened together by folding doors. The back-room where there was a fire, seemed to have been taken possession of by the elderly ladies, half a dozen of whom were congregated around the windows, knitting and netting, and talking in subdued tones. Their conversation was not, perhaps, very deep or learned, but it was wholly kindly and good, and many times there dropped from the lips of these mothers in Israel, sentiments of wisdom and experience which many a learned man might lay to heart, and be the better for—yes, even that deeply-learned gentleman who lately declared in a lecture that no woman had ever added any thing to the sum of human intelligence.
Several of these ladies were mothers and grandmothers of some of Olive's pupils, and came forward to speak to her, and she felt herself strengthened and encouraged by their kindly greetings. In the front-room were the younger part of the company, young married ladies with their sisters and cousins, numbering, like all assemblies of American women, a large proportion of pretty faces, clear, straightforward, intelligent eyes, and thoughtful brows.
The murmur of talk, which had stopped for a little at Olive's entrance, soon began again, and Olive could not help fancying that she herself was sometimes the subject of conversation. She felt that if so, it was no more than natural, and strove not to feel any embarrassment. Two ladies near her, were talking about the Sunday-school. She listened with interest, and at last ventured to ask a question.
"Are you interested in Sunday-schools?" asked the elder of the ladies, after replying to the interrogatory.
"Very much theoretically, but practically, I know little about them. I have never taught at all."
"We shall be very glad of your assistance in our school," continued Mrs. Sands; "for teachers are not too numerous among us. But perhaps you are sufficiently burdened already."
"I have hardly tried it long enough to know," was Olive's rather embarrassed reply. "I shall be able to tell better after a few weeks."
"I hope you feel the importance of the trust committed to you, Miss McHenry," said the other lady, whom she now thought must be Melissa Tucker's mother. "It is a solemn responsibility."
"It is, indeed," said Olive, hardly knowing what to say.
"You must be sometimes quite weighed down with the awful account you will have to give of your labors."
"I try not to be weighed down," said Olive. "Do you not think it is possible to take too much responsibility upon one's self? After all, in this, as in many other things, we can only do our best, with all the light we can get, and leave the event to God." Olive spoke with some effort, and a slight blush.
But looking up, she met Mrs. Tower's deep eyes raised to hers, with a sudden flash as it were, of approbation, and Mrs. Dennison too smiled an assent. Mrs. Tucker, however, looked doubtful, and a little annoyed.
"That doctrine gives great encouragement to carelessness," she said.
"I do not see how," Mrs. Tower replied. "Because, if we take ever so much responsibility, we can really do nothing without the will of God, you know."
"I think there is great comfort in the idea, too, that all the responsibility does not rest with us," remarked Mrs. Dennison, in her subdued voice. "I know, after my little Sammy died, I used to go over and over all his sickness, and say to myself, if this had been done, or if that had been tried, perhaps he might have lived, though I really knew, all the time, that every thing had been done that could be. But by and by it came to me, as it were, that after all, as you say, Miss McHenry, the event was in the hands of One that could not do wrong, or make a mistake, and then I felt quite reconciled."
Mrs. Tower bent over her work, and Olive heard a suppressed sigh.
"Then you think, I suppose," said Mrs. Tucker, sharply, "that you may be just as giddy and careless as you please, and let every thing go, because God can bring it out right in the end."
"That is hardly a fair construction, Mrs. Tucker," said Ruth, who had hitherto sat silent. "Miss McHenry said we were to do our best, and leave the event to God. That is, surely, a very different thing from being careless and giddy."
Mrs. Tucker said something about hair-splitting which Olive did not exactly catch, and she was not sorry when the entrance of half a dozen of the school-girls occasioned something of a move and interrupted the conversation.
Julia Goodrich, the leader in every thing, came up and asked for work—something easy, of course, for never was young girl at sewing society known to ask for any thing else. The rest soon gathered round, and at last came Melissa Tucker, with a countenance of melancholy, and rather an elaborate appearance of having been crying. Mrs. Tucker charged her with it at once, and with a faint smile, Melissa owned the soft impeachment.
"You are so quick-sighted, dear aunt," she said, in her drawling tones.
Olive was surprised, for the remarkable similarity in looks and tones had led her to think that they were mother and daughter.
"What has been the matter with you? I insist upon knowing," said Mrs. Tucker, with emphasis, and looking daggers at all the other girls.
"Nothing of much consequence," replied Melissa, mournfully, threading her needle.
"Have your feelings been hurt, Melissa?" with still more emphasis.
"I confess they have been deeply wounded, dear aunt, but I must submit. I know submission is our duty under trials. We must take it meekly when we are misunderstood and cruelly treated." And again she sighed deeply, with a significant glance at Olive.
But Olive was earnestly engaged in comparing the pattern she was drawing with one which a lady was working, and this speech was lost upon her.
Mrs. Tucker, however, followed the glance, and saw where it rested. She liked a scene, especially when she was able to take a prominent part, and she determined to get one up.
"Melissa," she said, solemnly, and in tones which drew upon her the attention of all in her neighborhood, "I will know what you have been crying about, and who has injured your feelings. I know very well how forgiving you are, and I won't have you trampled upon by any one. No one, whether teacher or any one else, need think she is going to tyrannize over you, because you are timid and retiring. Tell me at once."
Olive could not help hearing and understanding this, and she was beginning to feel painfully embarrassed as to what she ought to do, when she was unexpectedly relieved.
"Yes, Melissa, out with it," said a rich, manly, and somewhat jovial voice behind her. "Let us hear who it is that has sent you to the society, like a Niobe on private exhibition, with your eyes and nose as red as a beet. Let us hear the doleful tale."
Olive looked round with a feeling of inexpressible relief, to recognize her friend, Mr. Jones, who had come in with Mr. Gregory, in time to hear Mrs. Tucker's speech.
The young lady darted a wrathful glance at the unsentimental interlocutor and said, in soft tones, which, however, trembled with rage:
"You always will have your joke, dear uncle, but I don't mind it."
"I don't know why you should; you are used to it by this time, one would think. But you look at Miss McHenry as though you wanted to bite her. What has she done to you—shut you up in a closet or put a fool's cap on you, eh?"
"Not quite so bad as that," said Olive, laughing. "I never resort to extreme measures, except in extreme cases, and should hardly venture to proceed so far without a warrant from the trustees."
"Oh! Don't think to shift the responsibility upon us," replied Mr. Jones. "The only use of trustees in a school is to pay salaries and keep the building in repair."
"If you want any one locked up, you must put a lock upon the closet," said Julia Goodrich. "The lock has been broken ever since I can remember."
Mr. Jones promised to have the matter attended to at once, and professed his intention to provide a fool's cap at his own expense.
Mrs. Tucker and Melissa seemed to give up all idea of a scene as soon as he appeared, but they were silent and sulky.
And Olive was glad when a call to tea gave her an opportunity of changing her position. The tea-table, as usual upon such occasions, was bountifully spread, and to Olive's city eyes looked overloaded with its pyramids of hot biscuits and cold bread, and its baskets and plates of cake, cookies, crullers, etc. But she was very hungry, and she was glad to see every one make a business of eating. Three or four of the young ladies waited on the company, and every thing was accomplished with ease, and with no more confusion than served to provoke the smiles and laughter of the girls themselves, and the good humored raillery of Mr. Jones and Mr. Gregory.
As they left the supper-room, Mrs. Dennison managed to say to Olive:
"You must not mind Mrs. Tucker: we all know she is queer, but I think she is rather a well-meaning woman. As for Melissa, she is an affected little humbug, and always was, from the time she could talk. I dare say you served her right."
"I did nothing to her except to let her alone," said Olive.
"I presume not, and you need not fear that any one will blame you. She is pretty well-known by every one but her aunt, who thinks her a suffering angel."
Olive's mind was quite relieved, but she could not quite get over the unpleasant impression she had received.
Mr. Jones came up to her, as she was standing a little apart, and said the same thing as Mrs. Dennison, adding: "I suppose Melissa came to you with some of her stories, and you told her to hold her tongue. I am glad, if you did, for she bids fair to become the pest of the village, if she is not broken of this love of tale-bearing. The last teacher, Miss Brown, encouraged her in it, and more than half her trouble grew out of that very thing. Don't let it disturb you any more."
Olive did not mean to let it disturb her, but she could not help thinking of it a good many times afterwards.
A number of gentlemen, married and single, dropped in, in the course of the evening, and she was introduced to more people than she had any hope of remembering. For the most part, they were well-mannered, sensible men, and Olive liked them very well, except two or three of the younger ones, who, in trying to make fine gentlemen of themselves, had quite spoiled the original material, without succeeding in manufacturing any thing like a presentable article. They all appeared to be rather shy of her, and from some whispers which she overheard, she fancied that she was considered a very learned lady.
A Mr. Landon, to whom she was introduced by Mrs. Tower, and with whom she had some conversation, struck her as being a very intelligent person. He seemed quite young, not more than three or four and twenty, Olive judged. But he had very manly, serious manners, and showed no lack of cultivation. He was tall and stout, but not particularly handsome, though he had fine eyes, and an exceedingly firm, well-cut mouth, and his face, usually grave and somewhat stern in its expression, flashed now and then with a smile which was quite remarkable for its suddenness and brilliancy. He was evidently a great favorite with Mr. and Mrs. Gregory, with whom he had a long talk in the course of the evening.
"How do you like our society?" asked Mrs. Tower of Olive, as they were walking homeward under the convoy of Mr. Landon.
"That is hardly a fair question, Mrs. Tower," said Mr. Landon, anticipating Olive's reply, "since even if Miss McHenry does not like it, she can hardly in politeness say so to the president of the said society."
"Please to let Miss McHenry answer for herself: How do you like our society?"
"Very much, I can sincerely say," replied Olive, warmly. "If this is a specimen, I think they must be a public benefit."
"My father will tell you that he finds a great advantage in seeing his flock together once a fortnight in a sociable way," said Augusta. "And they offer another in another in affording a common ground upon which all the members of the church can meet each other; for even in a village like this, distinctions are apt to grow up. There are two or three families here, who will never come, and who have even tried to break up the meetings, but they do not exactly like to set their influence openly against my father's wishes. I am sorry they do so, for they are really pleasant people."
"I think one family will come around yet," remarked Mr. Landon. "The Vander Heydens have shown signs of relenting lately."
"And if they do, the Rusts will be sure to follow," said Ruth. "Anne Rust would be certain to do whatever Mrs. Vander Heyden did."
Mrs. Tower promised to come and see Olive very soon, and Mr. Landon expressed an intention of availing himself of her protection to pay his respects, and so they separated.
"You were not at the society last night," said Olive to Mr. Prendergrass, as they met in the hall next morning before school.
Mr. Prendergrass looked amazed at the very idea.
"No ma'am! I can not afford to spend my time so. Life is too precious to be wasted in visiting such assemblies. Is it possible, Miss McHenry, that you, with your cultivation and learning, can find enjoyment in such scenes?"
"Do you think the effect of cultivation ought to be to make us avoid intercourse with our fellow creatures, Mr. Prendergrass?"
"Really, ma'am, I can not say," replied the gentleman; "I do not know that I ever thought of it in that light. I have always considered it a waste of time to spend it in frivolous conversation and gayety."
"But gayety need not always be frivolous," said Olive, "and a little of it is very refreshing after a day of hard labor; at least, I find it so. Don't you think your health might be better if you allowed yourself a little more relaxation?"
"I do not know. Perhaps it might. I am obliged to you for the suggestion, Miss McHenry. I shall take it into consideration," he said, with his formal bow.
Olive felt as though she had gained quite a victory.
It is not our intention to give a detailed account of Olive's progress in school-teaching. Suffice it to say that she found her tasks growing easier, and herself gaining upon the confidence of her scholars, day by day. She had once or twice, a little trouble with Julia Goodrich, whose habits of domineering over her sister and of thinking herself wiser than any one else in the world were not to be overcome all at once.
But Julia was affectionate, truthful, and capable of thorough respect. And after a little time, she found a pleasure in looking up to one so decidedly her superior, as she was forced to confess Olive to be. Little Sarah felt that the change in her sister was a very pleasant one, and Julia began to be a great favorite with her companions.
Not so Melissa Tucker. That astute young lady, in calculating on the fine scene which she proposed to get up at the society, had quite forgotten that in so doing she was pointing herself out to her companions as the very person who had been the tale-bearer. She had been suspected before, and upon her entrance into the school-room the next morning, she was greeted by a peal of laughter, and many allusions more or less covert to her having carried her wares to an unprofitable market, etc., which did not fail to enrage her to the highest degree. At first she thought to gain sympathy by weeping, but being kindly but peremptorily desired to stop crying and learn her lessons, she gave that up, and took refuge in the most inveterate sullenness, which Olive did not notice at all.
It was almost two weeks before she received a letter from Abby, though Mrs. Merton and Charlotte had both written only a few days after her departure. Abby's letter was rather short and constrained, and she made no allusion to what Olive had urged upon her; only she mentioned that her uncle had returned, and said that Mr. Forester was going to M., and would be away for some time.
Mrs. Merton evidently had no suspicion of what was going on. She spoke of Abby with much affection, and though she mentioned that the child was somewhat low-spirited, she evidently ascribed it all to Olive's departure.
"I had no idea," she wrote, "that Abby could feel any one thing so long
and so deeply."
Olive felt sick at heart when she thought of the time when her uncle and aunt should discover how shamefully they had been deceived. In a second letter written soon after the first, Charlotte said that Mr. Forester had really gone to establish himself in M., and expressed her pleasure thereat.
"He is forever coming here, and it annoys my father very much, for he
has not a good opinion of the young man, as you know very well. Abby,
poor child, really pines after you. I do not think she has slidden down
the banisters more than twice since you went away, and she hardly ever
sings about the house as she used to. I am trying to study Greek, and
by dint of stubborn perseverance, really make out very well. But after
all, it does not seem to satisfy me. I want some object more than the
mere acquisition of knowledge."