CHAPTER XI

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_NEW CHANGES._

LATE in March that year we began to hear that the measles were prevailing in town, and in the course of a week all three of us children and Jane, the house-maid, were taken down with them. Amelia and I were very sick from the first; the others had the disease lightly. Phebe took care of me, and my aunt of Amelia, while a woman from outside who often worked for us attended on the other two.

On the tenth day after my attack I was better, and Phebe left me to myself for what seemed to me a very long time. I heard movements in the other room, and now and then I could distinguish Amelia's voice, and a great longing seized me to see her again. I rose; and putting on such of my clothes as could find, I stole softly into the next room. At first I did not understand the state of things at all. Amelia was sitting up in bed supported in my aunt's arms. The eruption had all disappeared and her eyes looked bright and clear, and she was not much thinner or paler than usual, but I saw that she breathed with difficulty. Dr. Warren stood at one side of the bed with the sick child's hand in his, and Phebe at the other with her handkerchief at her eyes. My aunt was very pale, and now and then a tear rolled down her cheeks.

"I am not afraid," I heard Amelia say, speaking distinctly, but stopping between the words. "I think He will be good to me and let me go to father and mother. I am sorry I told lies, Aunt Belinda, but I was so weak, and it frightened me so to be punished."

I saw a spasm as of pain cross my aunt's face at these words. They were the last that Amelia spoke. She lay quiet for some time—I don't know how long—then she suddenly raised herself, with a bright, happy smile, and put out her arms like a baby which sees its mother, and the next moment she was gone.

"It is all over," said Doctor Warren, taking the little body from my aunt's arms and laying it down. "The dear child is at rest."

I comprehended then that Amelia was dead, and burst out crying. My aunt rose from the bed; and taking my hand, she led me to my own room and put me to bed without saying a word.

"Please don't go away, Aunt Belinda," I sobbed; "please do stay with me."

"If you will be quiet and try to go to sleep, I will lie down on the bed with you," said my aunt. "We must try to comfort each other Olivia."

It was a wonderful thought to me that I could do anything to comfort Aunt Belinda. She lay down on the bed by my side, and I put my arms round her and kissed her over and over again as I might have done with my own mother, and she did not repel my caresses, but drew me close to her and called me her dear little girl. It was the first time she had ever given me a pet name of any kind. I fell asleep in her arms after a while, and slept for a long time. I do not think my aunt slept, though she lay quite still. When I awoke, she kissed me again and said I had done her good, but she was very sad for a long time.

Amelia's death seemed to make a great change in our household. Both Elmina and I had weak eyes, which prevented our resuming our lessons immediately. My aunt's rules were very much relaxed; and though she never indulged us in anything wrong, she allowed us much more liberty. She even tried to make herself a companion to us, laying aside her usual employments, in which she was very systematic, to read to us the few story-books we possessed, and telling us tales of her early days in the colony and afterward in the English boarding-school where she lived for more than six years.

My enjoyment of these tales was very great especially as my aunt allowed me to ask questions and make remarks. Her school was a very strict and fashionable one near London; and when I heard her account of the way she had been trained and repressed and disciplined day and night, I no longer wondered at her ideas of education, but rather that she had lived through the process at all. And, after all, with the exception of French and music, I did not see that she had really learned much more than Jeanne and I had acquired under Miss Tempy Hutchinson.

Elmina did not like these conversations as much as I did. She thought them stupid and tiresome, and was always stealing away to gossip with Jane, and, as I suspected, to read the books with which Jane furnished her. Where Jane got them I don't know; I suppose she borrowed them among her acquaintances. They consisted of novels as novels were about the middle of the last century—stories about fine ladies who fell in love with footmen, and chamber-maids who were noblemen's daughters in disguise, or who attracted the notice of dukes and earls by their beauty; and they were not only the poorest of the poor in a literary point of view, but so utterly low, coarse, and immoral that it is no wonder serious and right-minded people of those days objected to novels altogether.

Elmina's eyes were left weak by the measles, as usually happens with that disease, and they did not improve as mine did. If they were better for a day or two, they invariably got worse again, and at last Aunt Belinda called in Doctor Warren to examine them. Elmina was very unwilling to see him, but she had no choice.

Dr. Warren looked at her eyes, and asked if she used them by candle-light.

"She uses them very little by any light," said my aunt. "She has no lessons, and is not allowed to read or do any fine work."

"They ought to be well by this time," said the doctor. "You see how much Olivia's have improved."

He made some prescription for her and sent her away; and then, turning to my aunt, he said, abruptly,—

"Madam, I am convinced that child does not tell the truth."

My aunt looked annoyed.

"I am aware that the heart of man it deceitful," said she; "but I hardly think Elmina could have imposed on me even if so disposed."

"I think you will find she has," answered the doctor. And so it proved.

Elmina and I usually went to bed at eight, unless on company nights, when we were allowed to sit up an hour longer. We usually left our candles burning; and when we were in bed, Phebe came and carried them away. Phebe, as well as the doctor, had suspicions about Elmina, and one night, instead of going directly down stairs, as usual, she quietly remained in the hall for half an hour, and then, suddenly opening the door of my aunt's room, she discovered Elmina reading in bed by the light of an end of sperm candle which she held in her hand. My aunt burned sperm candles in her drawing-room instead of wax, though she preferred the latter, because sperm candles were a New England manufacture; and there had lately been several altercations between Phebe and Jane concerning certain candle-ends which were not forthcoming.

The mystery was now explained. Elmina in her fright actually tried to hide the lighted candle in the bed, and but for Phebe's promptness and presence of mind she might have been burned to death. As it was, her hands and face were a good deal scorched; and if her sheets and night-gown had been of cotton instead of good solid linen, she would hardly have escaped.

My aunt was called directly, and made some suitable application to the burns, postponing all questions until the next day.

In the morning came Phebe with the news that Jane was missing.

"Reckon she thought it best to be out of the way," said Phebe, with a grim smile. "She knows what's good for herself. A good riddance, any way."

At first Elmina was sullenly silent under my aunt's questioning, but at last she confessed that she had bribed Jane to get her the books and hide the candles for her.

But how had she obtained the money? We each had sixpence a week for pocket-money. I had saved mine ever since I came to Boston that I might have something wherewith to buy presents when I went home, and my aunt did not disapprove of my doing so; but Elmina never had any beforehand. I was startled by the look in my aunt's face when she called me and asked me where my money was. "In a box in my drawer, Aunt Belinda," I replied. "Don't you remember the money-box you gave me?"

"Bring it to me," said my aunt.

I did so, rejoicing in my own mind at its weight.

"It feels very heavy," I ventured to say as I put it into my aunt's hand.

She poised it a moment, and then a sudden suspicion seemed to strike her.

"I must ask you to let me open this box and see what is in it, Olivia," said she.

The box had a lid with a slit in it which was fastened by a hasp and a little padlock. I produced the key, not at all unwilling to see my hoard displayed. My aunt unlocked and opened it, and turned the contents out on her lap. There was not a single silver piece in the box—not a bit of money of any kind except two English half-pennies. All the rest were bits of stone and pebbles.

I was utterly astounded, and my aunt turned absolutely white. It was plain I had been robbed, but by whom?

"When did you put the last money in your box?" asked my aunt.

"It was last Saturday," I answered. "Don't you remember you did not give me any money the week before, and last Saturday you gave me an English shilling—a new one with a hole in it?"

"True; so I did. How long is it since you opened the box?"

"Never since you gave it to me," I answered. "I meant to keep it a year."

"Where have you kept the key?" was the next question.

I told her in my work-box, tied to the key of my little writing-desk.

With all her strictness and system, my aunt was rather careless about money. She used to leave her purse on the table and in her work-box, and often forgot to lock her writing-desk. She now went to this writing-desk—it was a high, old-fashioned secretary—and opened a little drawer where I knew she kept a collection of gold and silver pieces, foreign and old coins most of them. She looked them over, closed the drawer, and returned to her seat paler than before.

"I have been robbed as well as yourself;" said she; "but I will repay your loss, Olivia."

"I don't think you ought, Aunt Belinda," I interrupted. "It wasn't your fault."

Now, an interruption was one of the worst sins in Aunt Belinda's calendar, and I expected a severe reproof as soon as the words were spoken, but I received only a very mild one:

"You should not interrupt me, Olivia. I say I will repay your loss. Meantime, I trust you will not mention this affair of the missing money to any one. I trust you, Olivia, because I believe you to be trustworthy. You have many faults, as all children have, but I have always found you perfectly truthful. God bless you, my child!"

These words and the kiss which went with them almost made amends for the loss of my money. I was allowed to read a little now, and Aunt Belinda told me I might take any book I pleased from the book-case by the fire-place and amuse myself with it for an hour. I chose "Hakluyt's Voyages," and opened to the story of the sailing and destruction of the Spanish Armada—one of the finest historical pieces I ever read—but I could hardly fix my attention on the narrative. I wondered whether Elmina had really taken the money, and if so what would be done to her. I wondered whether she would have been a better girl if she had been brought up by my mother instead of Aunt Belinda, and then I remembered how many naughty things I had done myself, and felt very much ashamed of them.

I had not read a great deal when the clock struck the hour, but I remembered Aunt Belinda's directions and put the book back on the shelf, locked the case, and, as Aunt Belinda had told me, I put the key into the drawer. I sat for some minutes looking out of the window, and then Phebe entered and called me to dinner. To my surprise, the table was set for me alone.

"My mistress has a bad headache and won't come down," said Phebe. "I have taken her some tea, and she says you can have a cup if you like."

Now, a cup of tea at dinner, unless we were ill, was an almost unheard-of indulgence.

"I hope Aunt Belinda isn't going to be sick," said I.

Phebe shook her head:

"I don't know. She feels dreadfully about this business. I never saw her so cut up about anything."

"Do you really think Elmina got the money?" I ventured to ask.

"There's no doubt about it," answered Phebe. "We searched her pocket, and there was your shilling and one of my mistress's silver pocket-pieces, and after that Elmina owned that she took them and gave them to Jane to buy her books and raisins and so on. But she says Jane got some of the money, and I think it very likely."

"What do you suppose has become of Jane?" I asked.

Jane was a slave; for there were slaves in New England in those days.

"I know what ought to become of her," said Phebe, grimly enough; "but I think it very likely mistress won't do anything—not even advertise her. You see she blames herself for putting temptation in her way by leaving her desk unlocked and her keys about; and I don't think it right myself, though I do say that folks who want to steal will steal, lock up as you may. It is all the worse in Jane because it shows such ingratitude. Jane lived with some horrid, low, wicked people that misused her dreadfully, and mistress bought her to save her out of their hands. She was only ten years old then, and she has lived here eight years, being taken care of and taught to read and sew, and everything; and now to turn out like this! It beats all how unlucky mistress is in bringing-up children, with all the pains she takes."

I had my own thoughts on this point; but if I had learned nothing else at Aunt Belinda's, I had acquired the art—and a very good one it is to acquire—of keeping my thoughts to myself.

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