_CONCLUSION._
EVERYBODY knows the pleasant feeling with which one contemplates the
finishing up of a disagreeable piece of business. It was with this
feeling that I returned home, to which was added the further pleasure
of giving my friends a pleasant surprise by coming two days before I
was expected.
Rose and I walked over from the Stanley mansion, leaving our luggage to
follow us.
"They's got company," said Rose as we came in front of the house.
"There's the spare-room windows open."
"I wonder who it can be?" said I. "Mother hasn't spoken of expecting
any one."
At this moment Harry discovered me and ran to call the rest, and I was
immediately enveloped in a cloud of welcomes and kisses.
"Who is here?" I asked as soon as I could get a chance.
"Go in and see," answered mother, smiling. "Oh, here she comes."
If I had seen a spectre, I should not have been more astonished than
I was at finding myself clasped in the arms of Aunt Belinda. Yes, it
was Aunt Belinda herself; thin, pale, and with gray hair, but upright
and exact as ever, and dressed with her usual exquisite neatness. But
it was not the Aunt Belinda I had first known who held me so tight and
kissed me again and again, calling me her blessed, precious child,
her own darling, and then held me off to see how much I had grown and
whether the small-pox had left any marks, and then kissed me again.
"And Elmina?" I asked.
My aunt shook her head sadly:
"Dear Elmina sleeps in the Indian Ocean. She died when we were only two
days out from Bombay."
"From Bombay?" I asked, in wonder.
And then I had to hear all the story—how they had been picked up, when
all hope was lost, by an outward-bound Indiaman and carried off to
Bombay, how Elmina had seemed better for a time, but presently sank
again, and died from painless decay, happy to the last. Aunt Belinda
broke down many times in telling the story, and I cried with her, for
I had learned to love Elmina dearly in the last few months we were
together. Aunt Belinda had found a friend in Bombay in the person of
a Boston merchant with whom she was acquainted, and had come home
under his escort. They were delayed by her friend's having business in
Calcutta, to which place they travelled across the country.
"You must have enjoyed that," said I. "You were always fond of
travelling."
"My dear, I cannot say that I 'enjoyed' it precisely," answered Aunt
Belinda. "I could not enjoy seeing so many of my fellow-creatures
worshipping idols and having not the slightest regard to the
improvement of their minds or sense of the value of time. But I trust
I have learned a great deal from the vicissitudes I have undergone.
I have found out what a narrow world I had always lived in, and how
closely my affections were tied to that world. I never realized,
Olivia, how much I was bound up in external things till I found myself
unhappy—yes, really unreconciled and rebellious—because I had no clean
handkerchiefs and stockings. I hope in many things I am a changed
woman, and changed for the better."
And I could not doubt the fact when an hour afterward I saw Aunt
Belinda with a basket of kittens on her lap, and Ruth and Harry both
descanting on their beauties with no more severe rebuke from my aunt
than a mild—
"My dears, the kittens are very pretty, but I could understand you
better if you did not both talk at once."
As I remembered the days when I had been sent away from the table for
speaking before my aunt had quite finished, I could not doubt that Aunt
Belinda was changed. She seemed to fall in with all our ways of life
without the least trouble, was interested in all the farm-work and all
the live-stock, from father's pet horses and colts down to the kittens,
and would try her hand at the linen-wheel, saying that she had once
been a famous spinner. She seemed to find especial pleasure in mother's
society, who was equally pleased with her.
I had been at home but two or three days when one afternoon, as I was
playing to Aunt Belinda, Rose called me out to speak to Bell Atkins.
Bell looked prettier than ever, and her eyes were sparkling with more
than their usual light, as she plunged at once into the business which
had brought her over.
"See here, Olive," said she, taking out of her pocket a yellow,
time-stained letter. "Yesterday I asked Mrs. Adams to let me
look at mother's things, and she did. There was a kind of pocket
memorandum-book, like the one Miss Loveland had; and when I looked
it over, I found this letter between two leaves that were fastened
together. It is directed to some lady in Boston. The name is the same
as that written in the pocket-book, and I thought I would bring it over
and ask if you ever heard of any such person."
"Mrs. David Saltonstall," said I, taking the letter and reading the
direction, which was written in a neat, lady-like hand-writing. "I have
certainly heard the name somewhere, but I can't tell where. I will ask
Aunt Belinda. She knows every one in Boston. Come in and see her, Bell."
"Belinda is my name," said Bell as she followed me. "I remember hearing
mother tell some one that I was named for the best friend she ever had."
"Aunt," said I when I had properly introduced Bell, "do you know any
Mrs. David Saltonstall in Boston? I am sure I have heard of her, but I
can't tell where."
"I was Mrs. David Saltonstall myself before I married your uncle,"
answered my aunt.
"You must remember the pictures of Mr. Saltonstall and his daughters
which hung in the library at home?"
"Of course; and it is Anna's picture that Bell is so like," I
exclaimed. "Then, aunt, this letter must be to yourself, and no one
else."
Aunt Belinda took the letter and looked at it, and then at Bell. She
was very pale, but preserved her composure.
"You are right, Olivia," said she; "your young friend is the picture
of my daughter Anna. Tell me, my dear child, how did you come by this
letter, and how long have you had it?"
Bell replied by relating the history of the letter. She was naturally a
good deal agitated, but I could not help rejoicing in the propriety and
modesty with which she expressed herself.
"That is all I know," she concluded. "Please, ma'am, won't you open the
letter? I am sure it is meant for you."
Aunt Belinda opened the letter and read it through. Then she turned to
Bell, who was standing leaning on my shoulder trembling like a leaf.
"There is no doubt that you are the daughter of my poor lost daughter
Anna," said she. "The likeness would almost make me believe it, but
this letter leaves no room for doubt. My dear child—my dear little
grand-daughter—how thankful I am to find you!"
I thought I had better slip out of the room just then and leave them to
themselves. I went and found mother, and imparted the intelligence to
her.
"It is just like something in a story-book, isn't it?" said Jeanne.
"A great many things happen in real life more improbable than any to
be found in story-books," remarked my mother; "but this matter seems
simple enough. I suppose Mr. and Mrs. Atkins came to Montreal; and her
husband dying there, the poor thing thought she would try to get back
to Boston to her step-mother. No doubt she wrote this letter to be
delivered in case of her death, and then failed to let Mrs. Adams know
where it was to be found. Mrs. Adams told me that the poor woman was
wandering almost all the time she was sick. But I wonder they should
not have found the letter."
"Bell told me it was between two leaves that were fastened together,"
said I. "But isn't it nice for Aunt Belinda to have a grand-daughter?"
"'Twon't be very nice for Mrs. Adams to lose Bell just as she is
getting good for something, and after she has had all the trouble and
fuss of bringing her up," remarked Rose. "I always said there was
something uncommon smart and genteel about that child, though, and
'twas curious to see how she took to nice, pretty, lady-like ways the
minute she had a chance to see 'em—so different from that Frisbie girl."
"Oh, Hannah! She thought she knew enough already," said I. "But as Rose
says, it seems rather hard for Mrs. Adams."
That very afternoon Aunt Belinda and mother called on Mrs. Adams; and
when they came back, Aunt Belinda told me she was perfectly satisfied
that Belinda Atkins was Mr. Saltonstall's grand-daughter. Indeed, the
name of Anna Saltonstall was found in the books in Aunt Belinda's
hand-writing.
"What did Mrs. Adams say?" I asked of mother afterward.
"Oh, she was very much pleased with Bell's good luck at first, and
then she was sorry at the thought of losing her. Bell says she thinks
she ought not to leave Mrs. Adams, but I presume that matter will be
arranged."
So it was "arranged,"—to the satisfaction of all parties—and very soon
every one knew that Bell Atkins, Mrs. Adams's "bound-girl," had turned
out to be Mrs. Evans's daughter, and was going home with her to Boston.
"Well, Miss Corbet, I guess you've had enough of your pet," said Hannah
Frisbie to me the next Sunday between meetings. "I guess you wouldn't
have made quite such a fuss over Bell if you'd known how quick she was
going to stand in your shoes."
"I don't know what you mean by standing in my shoes," I answered,
I fear with more contempt in my tone than was quite Christian. "Of
course, if I had known Bell was my cousin, I should have taken all the
more pains with her."
"Yes, of course, if you had known she was going to cut you out with
your rich aunt. Oh, you may put on as many grand airs as you please,
but I know what I think. You won't make me believe it."
"It is a matter of perfect indifference to me whether you believe it or
not," I answered, "but if it will give you any satisfaction, I can tell
you that my aunt has already invited me to go home and spend the winter
with her."
"And you'll go, of course. Some folks have all the luck."
"Of course I shall not," I answered. "I have been away so much I shall
be glad of a chance to stay at home with mother a while. Perhaps Ruth
or Jeanne may go, but it is not decided yet."
It was finally determined, however, that Jeanne was to go, and from
that time it grew to be a regular thing for one of us to pass a part of
the year with Aunt Belinda.
Jeanne and Ruth could not possibly understand how I could have thought
her so stern and harsh; and when I visited her in my turn, I almost
wondered myself. Certainly, Bell had a much easier time of it than had
fallen to my lot.
The next summer I taught school for the first time, not in the village,
but in what was called the Bond district, because it was principally
settled by families of that name. Here I had the munificent salary of
twelve "York" shillings—one dollar and a half—a week, and my board.
This was considered a large salary, as most teachers only had one
dollar and twenty-five cents, but there were several large boys,
apprentices, who could be better spared in summer than in winter, and
it was desirable to have a teacher who could carry them on in grammar
and arithmetic. They were very good boys, and never made me any
trouble, except that they used to be jealous of one another, so that
I had to be careful not to show any preference. I boarded round—that
is, I stayed a week at one house and then a week at another—and I had
always a horse to go home with on Saturdays.
I had a very pleasant school. It was hard work, no doubt—much harder
than the district school-teachers have now, with all the talk we hear
about "drudgery,"—but I think people get in the way of calling every
kind of plain hard work "drudgery" nowadays. It provokes me to hear the
way Miranda Bartlett goes on about "domestic drudgery and the drudgery
of married life." I guess she would be willing to try it if she got a
chance.
But I am wandering, as old folks are apt to do. Anyhow, I did not make
"drudgery" of my school. I knew and loved every child in the school,
big and little, and they loved me. I was all the time finding out more
and more in them to interest me, and trying various ways to interest
them and get them on.
The sewing made me the most trouble. All the girls brought their work,
and all the work had to be attended to. I had one girl who marked a
sampler that summer, and I don't believe she made one stitch right
unless I was looking over her. She was just as dull about everything
else, but she was a good girl, and I liked her, for all.
I closed my school with great satisfaction to myself and my employers
and many tears from my pupils. Jeanne and I had a nice, quiet winter
over our books and making up her wedding-clothes, for Ezra had a call
to a church in a place called Bloomfield, in the fast-filling-up
Genesee country, and the young people were to be married in the spring.
The wedding took place in April. Aunt Belinda came up to it, and spent
most of the summer with us.
This year I took Jeanne's place in the village school, and the next,
young as I was, I was offered the position of teacher in our county
academy, now in successful operation. But Jeanne was married and Ruth
was in Boston with Aunt Belinda going to school; and as there was no
need of my earning money, I preferred to stay at home with mother, who
needed my help. I did most of the house-keeping and a good deal of
work, beside spinning, but I cannot say I ever felt myself ill-used or
talked about "the drudgery of domestic life."
But I did not stay at home long. Doctor Perkins had taken into
partnership a young gentleman named David Brown, a relative of my aunt
Belinda's, and a very fine, steady young man. Of course we saw a good
deal of him, and it was not long before he and I found out that we had
a great many interests in common, and presently we discovered that we
were so exactly suited to each other that it was impossible for us to
live asunder. There was no objection on either side.
Doctor Brown had some little property of his own, besides the prospect
of succeeding to the flourishing practice of old Doctor Perkins. My
aunt gave me a handsome present in money for my own private purse, and
a fine provision of china, silver, and so on, and the Wyndhams sent me
a setting-out of silks, etc., so fine that I never could wear half of
it.
Among the other parcels was a tin box containing a superb bride-cake
which Mrs. Austin had made with her own hands. She also sent me the
recipe; for as she justly observed, I might some time or other have
daughters of my own to marry, and there was no harm in being prepared.
Well, we were married and went to house-keeping, and lived most happily
together for twenty years. Then I was left a widow with two daughters
and a son. I had a fine house and abundance of "means," as the word
used to be then, and I was considered very well off. But I could not
be quite satisfied to sit down and spend my life in doing no more
than just what my own family required from day to day. My children
were well, my own health was quite perfect. I had what in those days
was wealth and an admirable education, and I could not but look on
all these things as so many trusts for which I was responsible. I had
never quite given up my childish idea of a boarding-school, and I now
began to take it into serious consideration and to talk it over with my
children. The result was that I opened a school in my own house, with
my oldest daughter as assistant.
My school was successful from the first. In a few years I had increased
my house to twice its original size, and had forty boarders, some of
whom came from New York and Boston. I never would take more than that.
I did not want any more girls under my care than I could have time
to know thoroughly and to manage myself. Of course I had my share of
troubles and vexations, but in general I must say I was very fortunate
both in my pupils and my assistants. I continued my school for more
than thirty years, and I hope did some good with it. But that is not
for me to say.
Ruth married a merchant in Boston, and lived very happily with him
for many years. Jeanne and Ezra were also very happy and very useful.
I educated two of their daughters, one of whom went to the East as a
missionary. I also had two of Tom's girls, who turned out well, though
his sons never came to very much.
To everybody's surprise, Bell Atkins never married at all. She said she
never found any one she liked as well as Aunt Belinda, and I believe
it was true. She was a most dutiful and affectionate child to the old
lady, and made her last years very happy. After my aunt died, she
spent a good deal of time with me, and twice she took charge of the
school for a year or more while I went abroad. She inherited my aunt's
property and used her means well and wisely, and was one of those happy
people who make friends wherever they go. I don't think she ever for
a moment felt the want of "an object in life," though she never had
anything to do with public affairs, and lived and died an old maid. She
used to say that in her case that Scripture was fulfilled which says,
"more are the children of the desolate than the children of the married
wife." And certainly very few mothers do more for children than Bell
Atkins did.
Alice says I should give some account of my friends in England before
closing. There is very little to say. Both Mr. Wyndham's sisters lived
to a great age, and died very close together, Mrs. Angelica first. Mrs.
Austin survived them but a short time. Mr. Wyndham married a very nice
young lady, and had quite a family. All the Fullers turned out well.
Jack came to this country as doctor on a ship, and liked it so well
that he stayed and become quite distinguished as a surgeon.
This is the end of my history. When I was young, it was the fashion to
put morals to books; but I don't exactly know what use they were. It
seems to me that if a story is worth much it will carry its own moral
with it. I may, however, say this—that if I have ever done any good
in life or been of any use I owe it to my mother. She taught me a few
principles which have helped me through and over all the hard places in
my life, and I may say all the easy ones as well. She taught me to tell
the truth at all times, to be kind and polite to all people, whether
I liked them or not, to apply myself earnestly to whatever I might be
doing and make a conscience of doing it well. Above all, she taught
me to believe and know that I had a Father in heaven who loved me—an
all-wise, all-powerful, all-loving Friend who was more ready to hear
than I to pray, and whose ear was closed to no request, however small,
to no prayer, however weak and trembling, which should be offered in
the name of his dear Son. I have tried him during nearly ninety years,
and his love has never failed me yet, nor do I believe that it will
through the long ages of that eternity to which I am soon going.
OLIVIA Y. BROWN.
My dear grandmother died in her sleep a few weeks after the conclusion
of this memoir. She seemed to pass away without a struggle, and I
suppose died a perfectly natural death. We carried her back to Vermont,
and buried her in the old grave-yard by the church, in the midst of her
own kindred and friends.
Grandmother added no moral to her story, but it seems to me that she
might have found such a moral in the words she was so fond of quoting:
"To do my duty in that state of life unto which it shall please God
to call me." She did not waste her time or her powers in wishing for
different circumstances or fretting over disadvantages, but wherever
she found herself, there she went to work and made the best of her
opportunities. She studied to be quiet and to do her own business (1
Thess. iv. 11), as the apostle beseeches. It seems to me that a good
deal of trouble arises at the present day from the fact that so many
people study to do any one's work but their own, and to make all the
noise possible about it. But I suppose it must have been something so
in the apostle's time, or he would not have given such an injunction to
the Thessalonians.
ALICE BROWN.