_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.