"That is true, but not the whole truth," said my mother; "you do think rather more of yourself and your own dignity, but you have also naturally quick perceptions and sensitive feelings."
I began to be a little uplifted, but mother quickly brought me down again:
"Now, these quick perceptions and sensitive feelings are excellent gifts if you apply them to their right use, letting them make you observant and careful of the feelings and desires of others, and particularly in not giving needless offence to their prejudices. But if you turn them upon yourself; as it were, and let them keep you constantly spying out the weaknesses and faults of others, and watching for slights and offences toward yourself, they are worse than useless."
"Jeanne thinks Aunt Belinda's ways are so different from ours that I shall not know how to behave," said I, after a little silent pondering of my mother's words. "She says I must watch and see what my cousins do and how they act."
"That is a very good rule," said my mother, sighing a little, as I thought; "but I hope my little Olive will not be found deficient in real good manners, though she may be in some customs to which she is unused. There are three good rules which my grandmother once gave me when I was going to Hartford on a visit—the first time I had ever been out from under my mother's wing:
"'If you do not know what to do, ask; If you cannot ask, watch and see
what other people do; If you can find out in neither of these ways, do
nothing.'"
"Mother," said I, after another little silence, "if I am very unhappy indeed at Aunt Belinda's, need I stay there?"
"We will see about that," said mother. "You must not conclude that you are going to be very unhappy indeed because you are home-sick at first, or because Aunt Belinda finds fault or your cousins laugh at you. But I wish you to write to me by every opportunity—at least as often as once every month—and tell me everything you can think of, without any reserve, and by that means I can judge whether you are doing well."
"It will seem so formal and cold to write," said I. "If only there was somebody I could go to every day!"
"I hope Aunt Belinda will be that some one," said my mother; "but at any rate, Olive, you have one such Friend always at hand, and this, my love, is what I want to impress specially upon your mind—that you are to carry all your troubles and cares to your heavenly Father and ask him to help and guide and comfort you. Don't think that anything is too little to put into your prayers: that is a great mistake."
"But suppose my troubles are my own fault?" said I.
"A great many of them very probably will be so, unless you are more unlike other people than I suppose," answered mother; "but that need make no difference. We should be badly off indeed if our sins and mistakes were to drive us away from our heavenly Father."
Many other things my mother said to me which I cannot set down here, and she ended by giving me a beautiful new Bible of my own with my name marked on the cover in gilt letters, and "The Pilgrim's Progress,"—a book I had long desired to possess.
I cannot pretend to describe the next day, nor that which followed. I had bid good-bye to all my school-mates the day before, but they almost all came for a last word; and then there were our friends and neighbours, Mr. Henderson and Miss Tempy. Many were the kind words and the little keepsakes I received from one and another, especially from my minister and my teacher, the former giving me a copy of Mrs. Hannah More's "Practical Piety,"—and an excellent book it is—and the latter a wonderful house-wife stitched in compartments and filled with skeins of different sizes and colours in silk, thread, and floss, together with a pair of scissors and a strawberry emery which had been my admiration for a long time.
On Monday came the final bustle of packing and taking leave for ever of my old home. I had found good homes for my two kittens, and father delighted me by saying he meant to carry old Tabby to Vermont with him, as well as my own pet cow Snowball, so my mind was at ease about these two favourites. All my other possessions which I could not carry with me I left to mother and Jeanne, to be disposed of as they thought best, only stipulating that none of my books should be left behind or given away.
Tuesday morning came, and with it Mr. Hyde's carriage, in which we were to travel. My little black trunk, which, I suppose, would occupy about a quarter of the space taken up by an average modern trunk, was strapped on with the rest of the baggage. Ruth, who seemed to have just realized that I was going away, was crying bitterly. Mother was pale as death, though she did not shed a tear, but father's voice broke down when he would have bid me good-bye; and holding me close clasped in his arms for a moment, he put me into the carriage without a word.
As Mr. Hyde was adjusting something about the harness, Ezra came to the side where I sat.
"Mother says you must be sure to write to Aunt Roxana at Nantucket," said he, putting into my hand a pretty little new pocket-book. "She has begun a letter which you can finish. It has the direction on the outside, and is in the inside pocket of this book, where I have put a little money for you. Don't spend it foolishly, but keep it against a time of need. Good-bye."
And in a moment we were on our way and had turned the corner, so that I could not even see our house by looking back. I have never seen it since.
Mr. and Mrs. Hyde were very kind to me. They let me cry without taking any particular notice of me; and when I began to recover my composure, they diverted me from my grief by directing my attention to various matters along the road. The morning was beautiful, the two horses went along at a good pace, and before I knew it I was really enjoying the journey.
We stopped the first night at a tavern—a circumstance which I remember from the fact that when I arose in the morning I could not make up my mind as to whether or not I ought to make up my bed. After some consideration, I decided that I ought, because whenever Miss Tempy had spent a night at our house she had always put her room in order in the morning; but after the deed was accomplished I considered further that a tavern was different from a private house, and that doubtless the chambermaid would put on clean sheets before the bed was used again. So I proceeded to tumble it up again; and, after all, I was pursued all day by misgivings lest I had done the wrong thing, and thereby let the people of the house know that I had never stayed at a tavern before. What harm I thought it would do if they did know I cannot now say, but the whole transaction was a good specimen of the way I used to torment myself about trifles in those days.
The second night was spent at the house of an elderly clergyman, an uncle of Mrs. Hyde's, who had two orphan grand-daughters about my own age. I had seen one of these girls before, when she came with her grandmother to Mrs. Hyde's, and they both made me very welcome, as did their father and mother. Mr. Edwards was a very handsome old man, of polished and kind manners, and his wife was a busy, bustling but lady-like and kind-hearted woman. When Mrs. Hyde said at the table that I was to be left with Mrs. Belinda Evans for two or three years, I saw a look pass between the two old people which I could not understand. It seemed to me to express both surprise and pity.
"Why did your grandfather and grandmother look at each other so when Mrs. Hyde said I was going to live with Aunt Belinda?" I asked of Priscilla Edwards after tea.
Priscilla and Drusilla exchanged glances in their turn, and Priscy said, rather dubiously,—
"I suppose they were sorry you had to go away from your mother, because, you know, if any one is ever so good, yet nobody can be like one's own mother."
"Unless it should be one's grandmother," added Drucy. "Come and see our rabbits, Olive. We have got six little rabbits, and one of them is black as a coal. We call him Charcoal."
The rabbits and Drucy's promise to give me a pair when I went home to Vermont diverted my mind from the subject, as I suppose the girls intended it should, but that glance often recurred to my mind afterward.
I seem to remember every incident of that afternoon and evening—all the more distinctly because it was the last really pleasant day I was destined to spend in a long time. We looked over all the girls' books, of which they had a great many for that time, and I told them of my own. We went to walk in the pasture—Mrs. Edwards considerately taking off my neat riding-suit and dressing me in an old frock of Drusilla's—where we gathered pretty leaves and mosses and waded in the brook, and "made believe" all sorts of adventures; and after supper we told each other stories till bed-time. We parted with mutual regret, and I have never seen them since, but I have always remembered the whole family with great affection.
We had made our calculation's to arrive in Boston on Friday—a point which Rose had not failed to bring forward among her other arguments against my journey. It was rather late on Friday afternoon when we arrived at my aunt's house, which was situated at the north end of the city, in what was then the fashionable quarter of the town. Her house was by far the handsomest I had ever seen; but my courage had been sinking lower and lower, and it was with anything but a light heart that I saw Mr. Hyde leaving me at last quite alone among strangers.
CHAPTER VIII.
MY NEW HOME.
WHETHER it was owing to the fact that I arrived at my new home on Friday or not I cannot say, but certain it is that I had the ill luck to displease my aunt before I had been in the house half an hour. When Mr. Hyde rose to go, after the exchange of some compliments, I naturally rose too, unwilling to lose sight of my old friend till the last moment.
"Remain seated if you please, Olivia," said my aunt.
The tone more than the words made me aware that I had somehow or other done wrong, and I shrunk into my seat, and to cover my embarrassment took up a book which lay on the table. It proved to be a volume of poems then much in vogue, called "The Muse's Companion," and containing poems by various hands. I opened the book at Goldsmith's ballad of "The Hermit," which I had never seen. A new poem was a prize. I forgot everything in the verses for a few minutes, till I was disagreeably recalled to present realities by my aunt's measured tones:
"Olivia, put down that book, and remember that hereafter you are not to open any book in this house without my permission."
Thus suddenly and sharply aroused to my present position, it is no wonder that I was rather overcome, especially as I was very tired and hungry. I tried to say, "I beg your pardon," but broke down at the second word, and burst into a flood of tears.
My aunt waited quietly with her eyes fixed upon me till my sobs had a little subsided. Then, taking me by the hand, she led me to a small room on the second floor; and seating herself on the only chair in the room, she placed me before her, and thus addressed me:
"Olivia, I pardon these tears on the present occasion, as they are perhaps only natural, but I request that there may be no more of them, now or at any time hereafter. It is certainly no cause of grief that you have been taken from a home where you must for some years to come be a burden on the poverty of your parents, and where you could receive no proper training, and placed where you will enjoy every advantage for education. Let me see by your conduct that you appreciate these advantages as they deserve."
Something in my aunt's tone and manner dried up the remainder of my tears instantly, and I felt that I would rather die than let her see me crying.
Aunt Belinda waited a moment, and then, apparently pleased with the effect she had produced, she continued:
"That is well; I see you can control yourself when you choose. I shall not expect too much of you, Olivia—I know how strongly foolishness and sin are bound up in the heart of a child—but I shall expect you to render implicit obedience to every command I lay upon you, to obey all my rules, and attend to all my regulations."
It was a way of my aunt's to say things two or three times over in different forms. I suppose she thought this custom added weight to her thoughts. It gave me on the present occasion a queer inclination to laugh, but I restrained myself and answered demurely,—
"Yes, ma'am."
"You will say 'Yes, madam,' if you please, Olivia," said my aunt.
And then she waited apparently for me to say it; so I repeated, "Yes, madam," after her.
"You will devote this evening to resting after your journey," said my aunt. "To-morrow I shall make you acquainted with my rules and what I expect of you. You will now dress yourself; and in half an hour I will send one of your cousins to conduct you to the dining-room. But remember this—that unconditional obedience, entire submission, and an exact observance of my commands are what I expect of all young persons under my roof. I will now leave you for the present."
I was thankful to be left alone, and should have been still more grateful if I could have remained so. I was utterly cast down and disheartened. I have all my life been very apt to form decided opinions of people at first sight. I had already made up my mind that I could never like my aunt Belinda, and it must be admitted that her manner of receiving me was not calculated to win the confidence of any child. I contrasted her with all my dearest friends—with mother and Jeanne, with Miss Tempy and Mrs. Hyde. I thought I now understood the glances which passed between Mr. and Mrs. Edwards at the mention of my aunt's name. I decided at once that I could never endure to stay with her, and before had finished brushing my hair I had already rehearsed the letter I meant to write to my mother on the first opportunity. At the same time I fully determined to show Aunt Belinda that my training had been as good as hers, and that I would "do just right," if it were only to disappoint her.
I was ready some time before any one came for me, but presently there was a tap at the door. I opened it and saw a girl a year or two older than myself. She had very dark eyes and very light hair, and would have been pretty only for her paleness and for a certain half-scared, half-stupefied expression.
"I have come to show you the way to supper," said she, in a set kind of way, as if she had been saying a lesson.
"Are you one of my cousins?" I asked as I prepared to obey.
"Yes; I am Amelia," she answered; and then she added, in a kind of scared whisper, "Have you come to live here?"
"Yes, I suppose so," I answered, not a little surprised at the question.
"Why—haven't you any mother?" was the next question.
"Yes, indeed—the best mother that ever was," I replied, rather indignantly. "Why do you ask that?"
"If 'I' had a mother," said Amelia, emphatically, but still in a whisper, and as it were stamping her foot softly—"if 'I' had a mother, and she lived in New Holland, I would dress myself up in boy's clothes and hide on a ship and go to her; and if I couldn't do that, I would swim all the way. But don't tell Aunt Belinda or Elmina that I said so, will you?"
"Of course not," I answered, very much surprised. "Why should I?"
"Elmina tells her everything," was the answer.
"Who is Elmina?" I asked.
"Elmina is my cousin, and I dislike her!" Again came the little stamp. "If she were in the ship and a shark were following after it, I would push her overboard in one minute. I wish an earthquake would come and swallow her."
"You should not say such things; they are wicked," said I, more impressed, however, with the oddity of the sentiment than with its unchristian character. I had always thought of cousins as very desirable possessions.
"Everything I say or do is wicked, so I may as well say one thing as another," answered Amelia. "But don't you tell."
This very queer bit of dialogue brought us to the dining-room, where my aunt and a girl whom I supposed to be Elmina were already waiting, and without any further words we took our places at the most elegantly-furnished table I had ever seen in my life. My aunt sat at the head, Elmina and Amelia at one side, and I at the other. There was a chair at the foot, but it remained empty, and was, I afterward discovered, never occupied unless the minister of the church my aunt attended or some other gentleman came to tea.
My aunt asked a very long blessing, and then we were helped by a tall coloured woman who stood behind her chair. Elmina and Amelia had bread and butter, but my aunt directed Phebe to bring some cold meat for me, saying that I should probably be hungry after my ride.
I had fully intended to behave as nicely as possible, and to show my aunt how well I had been brought up. Instead of that, I believe I committed every awkwardness of which I had ever been guilty in my life. There was something in my aunt's way of watching me which, made my knife drop out of my hand, my spoon rattle in the saucer—for we were all allowed one cup of weak tea—and which, in short, animated everything which I touched with a perverse spirit of opposition. Every time one of these little mishaps occurred Amelia started and Elmina smiled in a contemptuous fashion, which at last caught my aunt's eye and drew down what was evidently a very unexpected reproof.
"Elmina, if you cannot forbear laughing, you had better leave the table," said she as Elmina smiled again at my nearly oversetting my teacup. "Your smiles are far more ill-bred than your cousin's little mistakes. Olivia will learn better in time."
"I dare say Miss Olivia's hands are cramped with holding her basket," observed Phebe, who stood behind my aunt's chair.
"It is not needful, Phebe, to make any remark or add any comment," said my aunt, severely. "I have said all the occasion requires."
Phebe gave her head a queer little toss, but said nothing. Elmina smiled no more, but she gave me a look which did not promise very well for our future friendship.
After tea we had prayers, to which all the servants came in. My aunt read a chapter and made some remarks upon it. Then we sung a very long Psalm, and my aunt made a very long prayer, at which we all stood. My thoughts went back to my old home, where I knew father would be praying with his own family, and where they would all remember me. I had very hard work not to burst out crying again, but I put a desperate restraint on myself, and succeeded in keeping back my tears. After prayers we were left to ourselves for a time while my aunt entertained some visitors in the parlour.
Elmina would not speak a word, but went and looked out of the window. Amelia had a lesson to learn which it seemed she had failed to recite properly in the morning.
"Don't study now," said I.
"I must," answered Amelia, in a despairing tone. "If I don't say this grammar rule, I can't have any breakfast; and I don't understand it the least bit in the world. Why can't they make their books easier for children?"
"Let me see," said I, sitting down by her; "where are you?"
She showed me the rule and the notes under it. I had been well grounded in English grammar by Miss Tempy; and remembering her explanations, I soon rendered the matter clear to Amelia.
"Now study it over, and then I'll hear you repeat it," said I, quite comforted to find something to do.
Amelia did so, and at the third repetition she said it perfectly.
"There! Now don't bother with it any more to-night. You will only puzzle yourself if you do," said I, recalling Ezra's counsels to me on a similar occasion. "Let us tell each other stories about ourselves."
Amelia's tale was soon told. She had lost her mother and father so young that she could hardly remember them, and she had lived with Aunt Belinda ever since, excepting one year which she spent with a cousin in Nantucket, and which she seemed to look back to as Adam might have done to Eden. But Cousin Martha Coffin had died, and there was no one else to take her, and Aunt Belinda had brought her home.
"And ever since I have wished I had been drowned when I fell off the wharf," concluded Amelia.
"Why? Don't you have good times?" I asked.
"You'll see," was the answer. "But now tell me about yourself."
I was very willing to relate my own history, which, eventless as it was, seemed deeply interesting to Amelia, especially when she learned that I was so happy as to have an aunt living in that island of the blest, Nantucket.
All this time Elmina sat silently by the window, which looked out into a side street.
"Please don't be angry, Elmina," said Amelia, timidly, at last. "It wasn't my fault!"
"You'll see," was the only answer. "Just wait till we go to bed, that's all!"
"What does she mean?" I asked.
"She means to tell me stories and scare me," was the answer, in a low tone. "She does every night."
"But you haven't done anything to her," said I, "nor anybody but Aunt Belinda."
"It doesn't make any difference," said Amelia, shaking her head. "She always takes out everything on me."
I was prevented from making any remark by the entrance of Phebe with my aunt's command that we should go to bed directly.
"And don't you go playing any of your tricks, or you'll have me after you," was Phebe's addition as she put into my hands a candlestick containing about two inches of candle. "Just go straight to bed, and don't let me find anybody's clothes all scattered about when I come up for the light."
When I went up to my room, my first proceeding was to say my prayers, and then to get my Bible out of the box and read my five verses, as I did at home. I had promised mother never to omit this duty, and Jeanne and I had agreed that we would always read the same verses.
By the time I had finished my portion my candle was nearly burned down to the socket, so I put it out and undressed in the dark, and was safe in bed when Phebe opened the door.
"That's right," said Phebe, casting an approving glance at my clothes; "but you needn't put out the candle, child."
"I was afraid it would burn down and spoil the candlestick," said I.
"That's right too; I'm glad you can be careful. And now, child, just let me tell you one thing," said Phebe, approaching the bed and speaking in a low tone: "you'll find yourself in a place very different from what you've been used to, and it'll come mighty hard to you. But you be a good girl, and mind my mistress, and don't tell no lies nor play no tricks, and I dare say you'll do well enough. Above all, don't you let that Elmina get you into no scrapes. She's dangerous, that one is."
"I want to be good, I'm sure," said I; "but it is all so strange."
"Yes, yes, that it is, but you'll get used to it in time. I s'pose your folks acted for the best sending you here, but for my part, when the Lord gives children homes and mothers, he means they should stay there. Well, good-night, and don't cry yourself to sleep."
This well-meant advice produced the very result against which it was intended to guard. I burst into tears; and covering my head with the bed-clothes, that no one might overhear me, I did cry myself to sleep.
The next morning I was called at six by Phebe, who informed me that she should call me twice, after which my aunt expected that I would rise of myself. I was soon dressed, and hurried down to the dining-room, where my aunt was sitting by the fire.
"Good-morning, Aunt Belinda," said I, coming up to her and holding up my face to be kissed, as I was in the habit of doing with my own mother.
She looked surprised and kissed me, but said,—
"Remember another time, Olivia, that a little girl must always wait to be spoken to, and that as a general thing I do not approve of kissing."
This seemed very odd to me, but I had wit enough to make no remark.
Elmina and Amelia came next, the latter with her grammar in her hand, which she handed to my aunt, and immediately began repeating her rule, which, to my great joy, she accomplished very successfully.
"That is correct," said my aunt when she had finished; "you have said it rightly. Good-morning, Amelia."
"Good-morning, aunt," responded Amelia.
I was so amused with the notion that my aunt was, as it were, unconscious of Amelia's existence till she had said her lesson, that I fear I should have disgraced myself by laughing if Elmina had not diverted my attention by saying,—
"Aunt Belinda, Amelia did not do her lesson alone: Olivia told her."
My aunt turned to me, and with a look and tone of great displeasure said,—
"Olivia, do I understand that you have been prompting Amelia in her recitation?"
I did not at first understand what my aunt meant by prompting in a recitation, but as the idea dawned on me I answered,—
"No, aunt, not if you mean that I have been telling her while she was saying the rule. I told her last night what I thought it meant, and heard her say it over till she had it perfect."
"'Perfectly,' you should say," said my aunt, unbending a little. "Do I understand you that you merely explained the rule to her comprehension and heard her repeat it last night?"
"That is all," I answered, wondering what was the use of such long words.
My aunt relaxed still more.
"There was no harm in your doing so," said she. "Elmina, perhaps unintentionally, gave me the impression that you had been prompting Amelia upon the present occasion, which would be a dishonest, underhanded, and deceitful mode of conduct, which I should have been obliged severely to reprehend. We will now have breakfast. Afterward I will examine your wardrobe and see what additions it may require, and I will then explain to you the rules which govern my family, and to which I expect you strictly to conform."
We had breakfast accordingly, and a very nice breakfast it was; and being a little more at my ease than I was the night before, I succeeded in getting through the meal without committing any grave offence against table manners. After breakfast we had prayers, and each member of the family, servants and all, repeated a verse from the Bible. I had not been apprised of this custom, which I still think a very nice one, but my memory was well stored with Bible verses; and when it came to my turn, I repeated one which I had taught Harry only the Saturday before: "Call upon me in the day of trouble: I will 'hear' thee and thou shalt glorify me;" at which my aunt gave me an approving look. Elmina said a long verse very glibly, and Amelia stumbled painfully over a very short one, and was ordered on the spot to study it over again, at which I saw a look of triumph on Elmina's face, and jumped at once to the conclusion, which proved to be correct, that she had purposely hindered Amelia from learning her verse.
All this being got through, my aunt, according to her expressed intention, examined my clothes, which I had placed neatly in the drawers in my room, and expressed herself to the effect that I was very respectably provided, but that I needed a new hat, cloak, and gloves. She also looked over my books. It happened—probably fortunately for me—that I had left all my story-books at home for Ruth except "The Pilgrim's Progress" and Mrs. More's "Sacred Dramas." I was rather afraid of losing these as I saw Aunt Belinda looking over them, but at last, to my great relief, she laid them back upon the bureau, remarking that Bunyan was a very experimental writer and Mrs. More had evinced the spirit of vital religion.
CHAPTER IX.
THE DOLL'S TRAGEDY.
THE next morning my aunt called me into the library, a room I had not seen before. It was a handsome apartment, at the back of the house, well though soberly furnished, and lined with book-cases. These cases contained more volumes than I had ever seen together in all my life. In the one near the fire-place by which my aunt was seated I read the titles "Cook's Voyages," "Hakluyt's Voyages," "Sandys's Travels," and sundry others which made my heart beat with the anticipation of a feast—an anticipation, by the way, which was not realized till long afterward. My aunt, who had seated herself near the fire, with a small table at her side, very quickly recalled my thoughts and eyes to herself.
"Attend to me, Olivia," said she, drawing a written paper from her portfolio. "These are my rules, which I shall proceed to read to you."
There were a great many of the rules, and I was just yielding to the conviction that I should never remember half of them when my aunt concluded, and said, as she handed me the paper,—
"Your first lesson will consist in committing these rules to memory—in other words, in learning them by heart. As to your other studies, I shall decide upon them when I have satisfied myself as to the extent of your acquirements and discovered what you have already learned. What have been your studies hitherto?"
I told her that I had been quite through Murray's grammar and as far as cube root in the arithmetic. She at once proceeded to test my knowledge by giving me a sentence to parse and several sums to do, in which I acquitted myself respectably. She gave me no commendation—it was not her way to praise any one—but asked me if I had studied geography.
"No, ma'am," I answered, "but I have read almost all of Guthrie's big geography, which father bought in Albany."
"Doubtless your knowledge is quite superficial, supposing that you have derived anything but mere idle entertainment from the volume in question," said my aunt. "Do you know anything of history?"
I told her that I had read some history, but that I had never studied it. My aunt selected from the books on the table a copy of Morse's geography, which was, I believe, the first published in this country, and Pinnock's "Catechism of Ancient History," in which she marked certain portions which I was to commit to memory. She also gave me a certain number of lines of poetry out of Young's "Night Thoughts" to be learned by heart.
"These will constitute your lessons for the day and what you have to learn," said she, "and I shall expect you to be prepared to recite them immediately after dinner. As, however, you have these rules to learn, I shall excuse you from the poetry for this morning."
"Where shall I learn my lesson, aunt?" I ventured to ask as she paused.
"By a reference to your rules, Olivia, you will find that an answer is already provided to your question," answered my aunt. "As have already told you, these rules contain all the information necessary for your guidance."
In fact, by looking at my paper I found that "all lessons were to be learned in the school-room between the hours of nine and one." I was just about to ask where the school-room was, when I remembered that I could find out by asking my cousins or Phebe.
"Why do you remain?" asked Aunt Belinda, seeing that I still lingered, though she had taken up her own book and was finding her place. "Have you any further questions to ask?"
"If you please, aunt," I ventured to say, "when I have finished my lessons, may I have a book to read?"
My aunt hesitated a moment, and then said, but without any apparent displeasure,—
"I will consider that matter; and if I find it consistent, perhaps I may accede to your request. What book would you wish to read, supposing that I thought best to consult your wishes in the matter?"
"I should like a book of travels best," I answered, glad to see that at least she was not offended. "I love to read about different countries and the people who live in them and the way they act."
"The study of different manners and customs is sometimes improving us showing us the privileges we enjoy in living in even a nominally Christian land," said my aunt; "but I fear that you do not consider improvement so much as merely idle amusement."
"Don't you think amusement is nice sometimes, aunt?" I asked.
"I am not accustomed to be questioned by children," was her austere reply; "but since you have asked the question, I will say that, though a certain modicum of amusement may be desirable, and possibly even necessary, to young persons, yet there is danger at all times of its leading to sin. The mind is apt to become enervated and unfit for the stern duties of life."
I thought this reasoning far from decisive, but I made no remark. I had learned more of the wisdom of silence during the few days I had passed under my aunt's roof than in all my life before.
I easily found my way to the school-room, which was a low but cheerful and pleasant back room in the third story of the house. It contained three desks and three stools, a reclining-board, as it was called,—a piece of furniture, I believe, wholly banished from school-rooms at the present day,—a small table on which stood a work-basket, and a low chair at one end and a high stool at the other. I discovered, to my great joy, that one of the windows looked down a back street to the harbour. I was eagerly engaged in watching a large vessel which seemed to be coming up to the end of the street, when Phebe entered the room, followed by Elmina and Amelia, the latter with her eyes red with weeping.
"Breaking rules already," said Phebe as she took her place at the table I have mentioned and got out her work.
"I did not know there was any rule about looking out of the window," said I, "and I wanted to watch the ship. I never saw one before."
"There you go again," said Phebe. "Rule fifth: 'Answering when reproved and making excuses for faults are strictly forbidden.' Sit down, all of you, this minute. Olivia, that is your place by the window."
"I don't see why she is to have the best place," murmured Elmina; "but I suppose that will be the way now."
"If I can't look out of the window, I think I had better sit somewhere else," said I. "Then I shall not be tempted."
"You will sit in your own place, and no other," answered Phebe. "Take your seat directly, and learn your lesson."
I obeyed in silence, and began my task of committing my aunt's rules to memory. There was a great number of them, and they were very minute. We must not look out of the window in school-time, nor at each other. We must never excuse ourselves when reproved. We must not sit on the floor, or with our feet tucked up, or on the beds in our rooms. We must always rise when an older person came into the room, etc. Some of them were just what I had been taught at home; some seemed to me very unreasonable, as that we must never ask questions when reciting our lessons. However, I committed them all to memory, determined to observe them as well as possible.
This accomplished, I turned to my other lessons, and worked at them faithfully till half-past ten. Then we had five minutes' recess, in which we might walk about and talk in a low tone. After recess we each took our turn on the reclining-board, a slanting plank without a cushion, on which we each lay for three-quarters of an hour, studying all the time. This was supposed to be of great use in giving an erect carriage, and it certainly made a very agreeable change from the perfectly stiff attitude in which we were required to sit at our books.
At one we dined with my aunt, and after dinner came the recitation of our lessons. I passed through this ordeal quite comfortably, being accustomed to learn by heart. Elmina also did very well, but poor little Amelia was in trouble again over her grammar, and was sent back to the school-room to study in solitude, while Elmina and I went to walk with Aunt Belinda. I hoped we might get sight of the harbour and the ships, about which I was very curious, but we only walked upon the Common, where, however, I found plenty of amusement in observing the passers by, and especially the carriages, which seemed wonderfully splendid to my rural eyes, and I laid up a great many things to tell Jeanne and Ruth in the letter I meant to write to them. My aunt unbent a little from her stiffness during the walk, and she graciously pointed out to me several distinguished personages, and even condescended to answer several of my questions.
After our return we sewed an hour under Phebe's direction, and were then left to ourselves till tea-time. Elmina presently slipped away, I supposed to her own room. I chose to sit down by my favourite window and look at the water and the ship, which I could still see it the bottom of the street, while I amused myself with vague speculations as to where she had been and the wonderful things the sailors must have seen.
Presently Amelia crept to my side and put her hand in mine. It felt limp and cold as a wet rag.
"Where is Elmina?" I asked.
"She has gone and hid to read her book, I suppose," answered Amelia; "but don't you tell, or she will kill you."
"I should like to see her do it," was my defiant answer.
"But she will," said Amelia. "She has got something in a bottle which an old witch gave her, and she can kill you with it whenever she pleases by just taking out the cork."
"What stuff and nonsense!" said I. "You are a little goose, to let her scare you so. You ought to have more sense."
Amelia shook her head, as though despairing of ever having sense enough not to be scared, but she said not a word.
"What does she read?" I asked, presently.
"Books that Jane, the chambermaid, lends her," whispered Amelia—"story-books about lords and ladies, and robbers, and all sorts of things. But don't you tell, will you?"
I had no time to promise before my aunt entered the room, and we both rose.
"Where is Elmina?" was her first question.
I looked at Amelia, who answered,—"She said she was going up stairs to read her Bible chapter."
I looked up, surprised enough, for I had not heard Elmina say any such thing.
"And what are you doing, Olivia?" was the next question.
"Only looking at the ships, aunt. I never saw any before."
"I have thought upon your request concerning a book to read," said my aunt, after she had apparently considered my answer and found nothing wrong in it. "I have concluded to grant it,—to some extent, at least. From five to six you are at liberty to peruse this volume, which will afford you something more than idle entertainment; but at no other time, remember."
I thanked my aunt and examined the volume, which proved to be a life of Mr. David Brainerd, the missionary to the Indians. I was a little disappointed at not receiving a book of travels, but any book was better than none, and I prepared for a feast, when I was interrupted by the return of Elmina. Here was an end of all peace or comfort. She immediately began a series of small persecutions of myself and Amelia which effectually prevented my reading and soon set Amelia to crying. For a good while I took no notice of her tricks except to turn my back to her and try to fix my attention on my book, but at last, at a very sharp prick from a long pin, my ever-ready temper rose, and I gave her a box on the ear. This produced a slap in return, and a scuffle ensued which brought my aunt again on the scene.
Elmina, being questioned, declared that I had slapped her and pulled her hair while she was quietly studying her lesson; and appealing to Amelia, to my utter amazement Amelia supported her account. My aunt would not hear a word from me, but condemned me to a supper of bread and water, which I was too proud to eat, and therefore went to bed hungry enough, and with my heart overflowing with anger against everybody—for injustice is very hard to bear—especially Amelia, to whom I refused to speak when we met next morning in the hall.
"I couldn't help it, Olivia," said the poor little thing, imploringly. "Please don't be angry."
"Couldn't help it!" said I, contemptuously. "Couldn't help telling a wicked lie?"
"I have got to do what Elmina tells me," whispered she, with a scared look behind her. "She would kill me if I didn't."
"I'd be killed, then, and have done with it," said I, impatiently, and I dare say unfeelingly, enough. "I'd do anything before I would be so mean."
Amelia shook her head, as usual, but whispered,—
"Won't you forgive me, Olivia? Indeed, I do love you. Please forgive me."
"I suppose I shall have to, since you ask me," I answered, ungraciously enough; "but I don't care much for your love, when you tell lies about me."
This brought us to the parlour door, and ended our conversation.
The day went on like the preceding, only that my aunt took away my book, saying that I had shown myself unworthy of the privilege she had accorded to me, at which Elmina gave me a glance of triumphant malice.
The days went on one after another, and I grew more weary, home-sick, and mother-sick with every one. I missed the freedom of my country home, its large spaces and active life, and, above all, that atmosphere of cheerfulness and love in which I had lived without thinking of it, as a Highlander lives in the free air of his hills, but for which I now pined as the same Highlander might in the stifling air of a town prison. I did not mind my lessons. In the school-room, under the just and friendly if firm rule of Phebe, I would now and then forget my troubles over my books, especially after Aunt Belinda substituted Goldsmith's "Greece," then quite a new book, for the little "Catechism of History" she had given me at first. The number of little rules were a constant torment to me, and all the more because I was sincerely desirous to do right and please my aunt in all things. Still, I tried to keep them in mind, and succeeded so well that Phebe gave a very good account of me.
But there was Elmina! I have known many naughty and troublesome children, but I may safely say I never saw Elmina Vernon's equal. Others tease by fits and starts, but tormenting was her element, and she was most ingenious in it. If, as sometimes happened, Phebe left us alone for half an hour, she never lost the opportunity of interfering with our lessons, preventing our learning them by a hundred impish tricks. As she possessed a marvellous quickness of memory, she very soon made up for lost time, while poor Amelia would toil painfully after the lost half hour and never overtake it all day. She stole our pens and pencils, hid our working implements, and entangled our thread, and all with such slyness as constantly to deceive my aunt, and even to baffle Phebe, who understood her pretty well. She had tormented and terrified Amelia till the child was absolutely submissive to her tyranny, and would say or do anything she was told to. She managed to keep on the blind side of my aunt, chiefly by an affectation of seriousness and piety. One of her favourite ways of being revenged on Amelia was to bully the child into lying to conceal some prank into which she had been forced, after which she would go to my aunt and with every appearance of repentance and humility confess the whole matter. Then Amelia was severely punished for lying, while the real culprit got off with a light penalty.
Elmina soon discovered that in arithmetic and grammar I was a better scholar than herself, and before the end of the first week she ordered rather than asked me to do her sums for her. I promptly refused. She seemed surprised, and condescended to coax me a little:
"Come, now, why won't you?"
"Because it would be lying, for one thing," I answered, hotly enough. "I should be as bad as you are, and one such is enough in the family. I should think you would be ashamed even to ask me."
She still persevered and I still refused, till, changing her tone, she declared that she would make me sorry enough the first chance she had. The chance was not far-off:
It was not till my second week that I found out what a different day Sunday could be in two different places. On Saturday morning, instead of our usual lessons, we were given each a chapter or more in the Old Testament to learn, which chapters I found bore an exact proportion to the number of mistakes and faults we had committed during the week. I know no better way of making children hate the Bible than by making it an instrument of punishment. In these lessons Elmina generally came off best and Amelia worst of the three. After our dinner, and when our chapters had been recited, without comment or explanation for the most part, we gave an hour to the mending of our own clothes or sewed for some poor women over whom my aunt exercised a sort of care, while one of us read aloud a book of my aunt's selection, usually some religious memoir. Our usual walk was omitted on Saturday afternoons, and we gave instead an hour to some kind of house-work under Phebe's supervision. At sunset we were summoned to the parlour to hear a sermon read by my aunt, after which we must either read the Bible aloud for an hour or go directly to bed.
This evening I chose the latter alternative, for my heart was full to bursting, and I had an intense longing to be alone. I could see very well by the moonlight which streamed directly into my room; and putting out my candle, I sat down by the window to think of home. I have before mentioned how my mother was wont to use these Saturday evenings. As I thought them over it seemed to me that I had been the most unthankful wretch in the world—that I had never valued the privilege of having mother to talk to, and therefore it was taken from me. How I had fretted at the prospect of going to Vermont! How often I had secretly accused mother of being partial to Ruth and Harry! And how often, when she was talking to me, I had let my thoughts wander to the ends of the earth! I was too miserable to cry, but I laid my head down on the window-seat and begged that God would forgive me and let me go home to mother again; for it seemed to me that he had sent me to Aunt Belinda as a direct punishment for my wicked ingratitude and discontent.
Presently, however, I grew calmer, as if the very remembrance of those blessed hours had brought peace. I dried my eyes and began seriously to consider my present position. I had come to Boston for an education, and certainly my aunt had kept her promise so far. I had very nice studies, and she had already told me she meant I should take lessons in music if after a little trial she should find that I had any musical talent. I have omitted to say that any aunt possessed an instrument and both played and sung remarkably well for those times. After all, it would not perhaps be so very hard, and three years would soon be gone. I resolved that I would be as good as I could, and would try to please Aunt Belinda, because in so doing I should also please my father and mother as well as my Father in heaven, of whom I had lately begun to think a good deal; that I would try not to mind even if Aunt Belinda were sometimes unjust; and also that I would not be made to do wrong by Elmina, whom I compared in my mind to my first temptress, Sarah Millar.
The thought of Sarah Millar brought up the remembrance of my Lanesborough doll, which lay snugly packed in its box at the back of one of my drawers. It had never seen the light since I left home, and I was taken with a great desire to look at it, so I lighted my candle again; and opening the box, I took my cherished doll from her retirement. She was just as pretty as ever. Not a feature of her face was marred nor an article of her dress soiled. As I examined the delicate needle-work my mother's fingers had wrought my heart overflowed afresh with love, and I covered the waxen face with kisses.
I was disagreeably interrupted. I had left my door partly open for the sake of the air; and looking up, I saw the unwelcome face of my special tormentor looking in upon me. It disappeared, however, as I turned round, and I was considering how and where I would hide my precious treasure, when I heard my aunt coming up stairs, and in a moment she entered the room, followed by Elmina. My doll was still in my hands, and I had no opportunity to put it out of sight before my aunt's eyes fell upon it.
Aunt Belinda and I stood looking at each other for a moment in silence. Then Aunt Belinda said, slowly and sternly,—
"You wicked child!"
I was a good deal scared, I confess, but I was strong in the consciousness of innocence, and I was not crushed, as Amelia would have been under the same circumstances.
"I was not doing anything wicked, aunt," said I.
"You were playing with your doll on the Sabbath," said my aunt.
"No, aunt, I was not playing with it," I answered, with perfect truth, for nothing had been thither from my thoughts than play.
My aunt turned to Elmina.
"Was she playing with it when you saw her?" she demanded.
"Yes, ma'am; she was kissing it and looking at its clothes."
"Go down stairs," was the next command, addressed to Elmina. Then, turning to me, "Do you deny the truth of this charge in the face of Elmina's testimony, and of the fact that you have the doll in your hands at this moment?"
"I will tell you about it, aunt, if you will listen," I began; but I was interrupted:
"Take the doll and come with me."
She led the way down to the kitchen, where a large fire was burning on the hearth, and commanded me sternly to throw the doll into the fire.
My temper was now fully aroused.
"I won't!" said I, boldly. "It is my own dear doll that my own mother gave me, and I won't burn it."
My aunt wasted no more words; but taking my cherished treasure from my hand, she put it into the hottest part of the blaze, and holding me fast compelled me to witness its destruction, which was soon accomplished.
I would not wish the worst criminal that ever lived any keener suffering than that which I underwent on this occasion. To do my aunt justice, although I still think she was very much to blame, I believe she had no idea of the torture she was inflicting. She had almost no imagination, and to her the doll was only an insignificant toy. I felt as a nun of Henry VIII.'s time might have done at seeing a sacred image of the Virgin or a crucifix burned by sacrilegious hands. The very extremity of my distress made me dumb. I did not shed a tear even when my aunt punished me severely for having, as she said, broken the Sabbath and then told a lie to hide it. She then sent me to bed.
The next day was Sunday. I was not allowed to go down to breakfast, but my aunt sent me some bread and milk, which went down again untasted—not because I was sulky, but because I literally could not eat. I sat by the window leaning my head on my hands when my aunt came up to see me. I did not move nor raise my eyes.
"Olivia," said she, quietly, "you will prepare for divine worship, and be ready by ten o'clock."
I did not answer, and I fancy she did not care to provoke any new contest, for she withdrew without more words. I dressed myself mechanically, and was ready at the appointed time. Under other circumstances I should have been interested and delighted with the new church, whither we went on foot—for my aunt never took out her carriage on Sunday if she could help it—but in my present state of mind everything was alike to me, and I hardly noticed anything till the first hymn was sung. It was the one beginning "How gentle God's commands!" and was a great favourite with my mother. The choir, I believe, was a remarkably good one, and the words and music fell on my ear and heart with an inexpressibly soothing effect. At the line, "I'll drop my burden at his feet," a new idea seemed, as it were, to come into my mind from some source quite outside of myself. It was as if some one had whispered in my ear, "Why don't you cast 'your' burden on Him?"
The prayer and sermon which followed seemed made for me. The preacher was not the regular minister, but a stranger whose name I do not know to this day, though I shall always remember him with gratitude.
His text corresponded with the hymn. It was, "Cast thy burden on the Lord, and he shall sustain thee." He spoke of different kinds of burdens,—of care, of hard work, and of "those burdens which are laid upon us by the injustice and misunderstanding of friends, and by false accusations." I almost think he must have had some personal experience in the matter, for he spoke very severely of "those who by their haste to condemn unheard or on insufficient evidence lay one of the heaviest of burdens upon the hearts of those under their influence or charge, and cast a stumbling-block in their way."
I glanced at my aunt as these words were spoken, and met her eye. To my surprise, she coloured scarlet and looked away.
The rest of the discourse was an urgent and affectionate exhortation to cast all cares and burdens, of whatever nature, on Him who had promised to bear them.
As we came out of church we heard various criticisms on the preacher—not all of them favourable, by any means. Several persons spoke to my aunt on the subject, but she did not seem disposed for conversation, and we walked home in silence. As soon as I had put away my hat, I got out my Bible and hunted up the text, and then began a search for some verses which I remembered, and which seemed to bear upon the subject. I found them in the thirty-seventh Psalm. Yes, they were just as I remembered them:
"Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him; and he shall bring it
to pass. And he shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and
thy judgment as the noonday."
"This must be true, because it is in the Bible," I thought. "So, if I ask him, he will find some way to help me. Perhaps, if I had asked him, he would not have let Aunt Belinda burn the doll. At any rate, I mean to ask him now."
I closed my Bible; and kneeling down by the bed, I poured out my poor little heart in prayer, appealing with strong crying unto the only Friend who could help me. When I rose, I found that I had indeed left my burden at his feet. I could not help crying when I thought of my doll, but my very tears seemed to comfort me. My heart was no more "lacerated with fierce indignation," as it had been before, against my aunt. I remembered what I had heard Mrs. Edwards say,—that Aunt Belinda had never known a mother's love and care, having grown-up from her earliest youth at an English boarding-school, and that she had never had a child of her own. "If she had only been brought up by a nice mother, I dare say she would have known better," I thought; "and anyhow, I ought to forgive her, and will try."
My meditations were interrupted by a call to dinner, at which my aunt treated me, if I may use the expression, with a sort of embarrassed kindness. She was very absent-minded, and hardly spoke except to require a repetition of the text of the sermon.
Observing, however, that I put my hand to my forehead, she asked me if my head ached.
"Yes, madam," I answered, with truth. Any excitement was pretty sure to give me a headache in those days.
"Phebe, you may tell Phyllis to make the child a cup of tea," said my aunt.
If she had told Phebe to tell Phyllis to cut off my head, I don't think Phebe could have looked much more surprised. I was very thankful for the tea, and still more when my aunt told me on rising from the table that I had better go and lie down. I was glad to obey. My head was very heavy, and I soon fell into a long and deep sleep, from which I woke to find my aunt sitting by my bed.
"I hope your head is better," said she.
I took a sudden resolution. I would make another desperate attempt to set matters right.
"Aunt Belinda," said I, "will you let me tell you about what happened last night just as it was?"
My aunt hesitated a moment, and then said, "Olivia, tell me, first, do you think that you were treated unjustly?"
"Yes, aunt, I do," I answered, frankly. "I think you ought to have heard what I had to say for myself. I don't think you did as you would like to be done by. Suppose," I continued, seeing that she did not seem as much displeased as I expected at my boldness—"suppose you had lived under one of the kings in my history—under Alexander—and somebody that he knew did not always tell the truth had told him that you were a traitor to the government: don't you think Alexander ought to listen and hear what you had to say about it before he condemned you to death?"
My aunt seemed to smile in spite of herself at this somewhat confused historical illustration.
"We will waive the consideration of any such case at present," said she, composing her countenance to its usual gravity. "You may, however, proceed to tell me your version of the events of last evening."
This was all I desired. Beginning at the beginning, I told her the history of my Lanesborough doll and its associations. I told her how I had been thinking of home, and did not conceal the fact that I was very home-sick. I also told her frankly how Elmina tormented me.
"I don't want to tell tales, Aunt Belinda, but I can't make you understand unless I do say something about Elmina."
"You are correct both in your general desire of avoiding tattling and your conduct in the present instance," said my aunt. "Go on."
I then concluded my story. I had something of a struggle with myself when I came to my resolutions about being a good girl, but my better spirit conquered, and I told her the whole.
After I had concluded my aunt was silent a few minute. Then she said,—
"Olivia, I do not often make mistakes in my management of children," ("Perhaps you make more than you think," was my inward comment), "but in this instance I think I was mistaken—nay, I will go farther: I believe that I behaved with injustice in this matter. I say I believe it, but I wish more time for consideration. We will speak of the matter again. Do you feel quite well enough to come down to tea?"
"Oh yes, aunt," I answered, much relieved.
"Very well. You will, if you please, remain here till then. You may, if able, peruse the Bible or 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' and after supper I will hear an account of what you have read."
"Please, aunt," I ventured to ask, "might I have Amelia in here and read aloud to her? She has never read 'The Pilgrim's Progress.' I used to do so by Ruth."
"You may, if you will promise not to spend your time in unprofitable conversation," was the reply, "and not to speak of what has occurred."
I gladly gave the required promise, and presently Amelia appeared. She threw her arms round my neck and kissed me.
"Oh, I am so glad!" said she. "Aunt said I was to come and hear you read, but I would a great deal rather talk."
"I promised aunt that I wouldn't talk," I answered.
"Oh, but she won't know. She is in the library, and all the doors are shut."
"We must mind just the same," was my answer; and to prevent further discussion I opened the book at the beginning and began to read.
Amelia pouted at first, but she soon became interested and began to ask questions, some of them very sensible. I did not think it would be "unprofitable conversation" to repeat to her such explanations as Jeanne had given me, and the hour to tea-time passed quickly away.
"I never had such a good time since I lived in Nantucket," said Amelia, kissing me.
"Well, then, don't forget, and don't be scared when aunt asks you about what you have heard, but tell her nicely," I answered.
And we went down to tea, my heart lighter than I thought it ever would be again.
Amelia gave a very good account of Christian's setting out from the City of Destruction, and even repeated some of the explanations I had given her without much stammering. After we had read and prayed as usual, my aunt paused a moment before dismissing the servants.
"I think," said she, "that justice requires me to say that I was mistaken in my treatment of Olivia last evening. I am convinced, on better information and after further consideration, that she intended no wrong, and therefore was unjustly punished." She paused again, and then added, with still more formality of manner, while her cheeks blushed, "I believe also that I was not only mistaken, but that I was guilty of wrong-doing, in destroying the child's property and in punishing her too hastily; and I trust this will be a warning to all of you not to do the like. Olivia, I ask your forgiveness."
I never in my life felt greater respect for any one—not even my own mother—than for Aunt Belinda at this moment. As she held out her hand to me and kissed my cheek, I could almost have fallen at her feet.
"Aunt Belinda, I will try to be very good and do everything just as you tell me," I said; and then, finding myself in danger of crying, and knowing how much my aunt disliked tears, I was silent and kissed her hand. The servants, who, I believe, had been entirely on my side, all gave me a kind look or word. Amelia squeezed my hand, and every one was pleased except Elmina.
CHAPTER X.
BOSTON DAYS.
THE next morning Aunt Belinda called me into the library and asked me what she should give me to make up for the loss of my doll.
"Please, Aunt Belinda, I don't want you to give me anything," I answered.
"Not another doll?" asked my aunt.
"No, aunt, because another doll would not be the same doll if it was ever so pretty, you know."
My aunt smiled. I never saw her smile without wishing that she would do so oftener, for she looked really beautiful at such times.
"You mean, I suppose, that another doll would not have the same associations," said my aunt. "But, Olivia, it is right that we should make restitution to those whom we have injured, and therefore it is proper that I should replace your doll or give you something in its stead. What shall it be?"
I told Aunt Belinda I would rather leave the matter to her; so the next time she went out she bought me a pretty ink-stand and portfolio.
Aunt Belinda and I got on much better after this affair of the doll. For one thing, it opened her eyes in some degree to Elmina's true character. She began to watch the girls, and thereby discovered a good many things which surprised her not a little. One day when we came home from walking with Phebe we found Aunt Belinda superintending Jane, the chambermaid, who was moving Elmina's clothes and other possessions into aunt's room.
"What are you doing, Jane?" ask Elmina, when my aunt was in the other room.
"Moving your things, as you see," answered Jane. "You are to sleep in missus's room after this, and Miss Livia and Miss Amelia to sleep in here."
Poor little Amelia uttered a cry of joy and Elmina actually turned white. For myself, I was not quite so well pleased. I was glad to have Amelia freed from her tormentor, but I was not at all fond of her. Her excessive timidity—cowardice, I called it—and her insincerity repelled me, and I regretted the freedom and quietness of my own little room, where I could sit and think my own thoughts about mother and Jeanne, and almost imagine myself at home again. I hinted as much to Phebe when I found myself alone with her, and received a very unexpected reply:
"Don't you s'pose my mistress" (Phebe never said "Missus," like the other servants) "likes 'her' room to be quiet in just as much as you do, Miss Olivia? Do you think 'she's' going to find it very pleasant to live with such a girl as Miss Elmina? If she at her age is willing to make such a sacrifice, I don't think you need complain about your part of it."
I was silenced and a good deal ashamed, for I had not thought of Aunt Belinda as making any sacrifice.
"I don't think you'll have much trouble with Amelia," continued Phebe, seeing that I did not answer. "She's a biddable little thing enough when she isn't scared out of her life; and I am sure you will be good to her. I don't believe she will trouble any one very long, poor little dear!"
"I am sure I want to be good to her," said I, "and I should like her too, only—"
"Only what?" said Phebe as I hesitated.
"Well, she is such a little story-teller, Phebe. You can't believe a word she says. She tells any lie that Elmina tells her to, just as she did the other day about the noise in the school-room. And, after all, Elmina owned up, and then Amelia was punished."
"My own notion is that Elmina has got to the end of her tether, or pretty near it," said Phebe; "my mistress is beginning to open her eyes. As to Amelia's lying, it is just as you say, and it's all a part of the same thing. She is such a little coward! You needn't feel above her, though, Miss Olivia. If Amelia had had such a home and such a mother as yours, she would have been a very different girl; and if you had grown-up as she has, you might have been different too."
I felt that this was quite true. I had been reading the "Life of David Brainerd,"—the same book which my aunt had taken away from me as a punishment—and it had inspired me with a great desire to "do good" to somebody. I had built many delightful castles in the air as to what I would accomplish in that line when I went to Vermont. But here was missionary work close to my own door. I resolved at once that I would be very kind to Amelia and do my best to teach her to speak the truth, and that I would never get out of patience with her if her fears were ever so troublesome.
To do myself justice—and I don't know but we are as much bound to do justice to ourselves as to other people—I think I kept my resolution pretty well, though it cost me a good deal of trouble. Amelia had no notion of trustworthiness. She never thought herself bound to obey when she was out of sight, or when she was, as she conceived, in no danger of being found out and punished. I had been trained in very different ways.
One of Aunt Belinda's rules—and not a bad one, on the whole—was that there should be no talking after we went to bed. The very first night we slept together Amelia began to whisper as soon as the light was out.
"Hush!" said I. "We mustn't talk."
"She can't hear us," said Amelia. "She is down in the parlour."
"That makes no difference; we are to mind just as much;" and I resolutely turned my face away and refused to answer.
"I think you are real mean," said Amelia, at last, beginning to cry. "I thought you said you would be good to me."
"It isn't being good to let you be naughty," I answered, truly enough. "Come, now; don't be silly, but shut your eyes and go to sleep."
"I can't," answered Amelia. "I'm always afraid if I don't talk. I listen and listen, and I hear people walking and whispering all round the bed."
"Nonsense!" said I. "There is nobody here. Take hold of my hand and say your prayers till you go to sleep. That's the way I do when I am afraid."
But poor Amelia had not learned to take any comfort in her prayers. They were to her only one more task,—rather worse than the others because said to a Task-master whom she could not see, but who—if indeed he were anything more than a part of the catechism—was always looking out to catch her tripping. Finding that she really was frightened, I took her in my arms, telling her that I would not talk, but I would say a hymn to her. I was glad to find that this answered the purpose. Her sobs and moanings gradually ceased, and she finally fell asleep in my arms. I was a little doubtful in my own mind as to whether this hymn-saying was an infraction of my aunt's rule, and at last I made up my mind that I would ask her. I took an opportunity the very next day when Amelia and I were out in the carriage with her.
"Aunt Belinda," said I, "Amelia was frightened last night after we went to bed, and I said some hymns to her to get her to sleep. Was that breaking the rule about talking?"
Amelia cast a glance of terrified reproach at me, and Aunt Belinda looked decidedly surprised. She considered a moment before speaking, as usual. Then she asked,—
"Are you sure you did nothing but repeat hymns, Olivia?"
It was, now my turn to consider. I did not like to get Amelia into a scrape, but I was determined to be honest with my aunt.
"I will tell you just how it was, Aunt Belinda," said I. "Only please don't be angry with Amelia. She did want to talk because she was afraid, but I told her we must mind the rule. Then she was so frightened she began to cry, and I told her I would say hymns to her, and so I did; and she went to sleep pretty soon. But I thought I would ask you before I did it again."
"You have done right," said my aunt, after another interval of consideration. "No, I have no objection to your saying hymns after you go to bed, provided you do nothing else. But how shall I know that you do not?"