CHAPTER XII

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_ELMINA'S FORTUNE._

ELMINA stayed up stairs for a week and then resumed her place in the family and school-room. I had dreaded meeting her, thinking how ashamed and mortified she must be, but she did not seem so at first. She only looked hard and sullen. Aunt Belinda made her beg my pardon for the robbery, and she did so without any more apparent feeling than if she had been saying an ordinary lesson.

When we were left alone together, I felt very much embarrassed. I wanted to go on talking as usual, but I did not know where to begin.

"Well, don't you mean to speak to me?" asked Elmina, after a few minutes' silence. "I suppose you think yourself too nice and good to have anything to do with me, but I can tell you one thing: if you had grown-up as I have, you wouldn't be any better than I am—so there!"

I hardly knew what to answer to this.

Elmina continued, as if she found relief in talking: "Before I came here I just lived with the servants. Mother never had any time to see to me. She was always going into company and having company at home; sometimes I wouldn't see her more than once a day. Father was away most of the time. I don't know what he did; but when he was at home, he indulged me in everything I had a notion for. He used to say he had had enough of government for two, and he wouldn't have my spirit broken. I learned everything bad and nothing good in the kitchen and down at the quarters. Aunt Dinah taught me to say my prayers, to be sure, but father found it out, and he laughed at me, so I gave it up. Well, he was killed in a duel one day while mother had a young baby, and they told her so suddenly that the shock killed her too. Then it was found that mother's money was all gone—father never had any, I guess—and the house and the servants were sold, and Aunt Belinda came and brought me here; and I wish she had thrown me into the sea first."

Elmina said these words with a bitterness which I can't describe. She was silent a minute, and then added,—

"If I had had a father and mother like yours, maybe I should have been different; but as it is, I shall never be good for anything. I wish I was dead."

"You mustn't say so—it is very wicked," said I; "and you wouldn't be better off if you were. And besides that, Elmina, you can be good if you want to be, I know. Why don't you try?"

"Because there is no use in trying, I tell you," said she, almost fiercely. "I hate everything about it—Sunday and the Bible, and everything—and I don't much believe in it, either."

"Oh, Elmina, you can't hate the Lord, when he is so good," said I, horrified, but feeling more sorry for her than I had ever done before. "Just think how much he has done for us. And he will forgive you if you ask him. I am sure he will. You know he said we must forgive each other till seventy times seven, and he wouldn't do less than that himself. Do ask him, please. Oh, I am so sorry for you!"

"I do believe you are," said Elmina, looking at me with wonder, for I was crying. "Are you, really? Wasn't you glad to have me found out and punished?"

"No, indeed, I wasn't," I sobbed; "and I am truly just as sorry for you as I can be."

"I do believe you are," said Elmina, again, with tears glittering in her own hard black eyes—the first I had ever seen there. "Come, don't cry. You will make your eyes bad again. I'm sorry I got your money, and I'd pay you back if I had any."

"Aunt Belinda paid me," said I. "But please, Elmina, won't you try to be good?"

"Nobody cares whether I am good or not," said Elmina. "I'm not like you. You have got a father and mother; I haven't any one."

"I care," I answered, "and Aunt Belinda cares."

Elmina shook her head with a look of contemptuous unbelief.

"She does," I persisted. "Phebe told me she cried about you till she made herself sick, and she said she was afraid she had managed you badly, but she had meant it for the best, and she would give her right hand if only she could see you real sorry. I heard her say that myself."

"Why didn't she say so to me instead of being so hard and sharp, then?" said Elmina, relenting a little, as I thought.

"Well, I suppose she thought it wasn't the best way. Anyhow, Elmina, she did say so; and besides that," I added, reverently, "God cares, I know. Mother used to tell me so, and it is in the Bible. I can show you ever so many places. It says he gave his Son to die for us when we were sinners, and that he has no pleasure in having any one perish."

"Are you sure about that?" asked Elmira. "I don't remember any such verse."

"I can show you if you will let me," I answered, eagerly. "I found them all when I used to read the Bible with mother Saturday evenings. Oh, we used to have such nice times reading the Bible with mother."

"Then she used to read it with you—not for a punishment?" said Elmira.

"No, indeed; it was the greatest pleasure we had."

"Perhaps I should have liked it if I had read it in that way," said Elmina; "but here it seems just like any other lesson, only worse, because we have to learn it for a punishment. I don't believe any one ever 'could' like it, reading it as we do on Saturdays. But come, Olivia; if your eyes don't ache, let us take the Bible and find the verses you spoke of. It will pass away the time as well as anything."

The words were not very reverent, certainly, but I was delighted to have Elmina propose of her own accord to look at the Bible, and I was glad to find her disposed to be friendly, for I never could bear to keep up a quarrel with any one. We spent an hour looking over the Bible and finding different texts.

"If I thought he really did love me and want me to be good, I believe I would try," said Elmina, at last; "but it does not seem possible. And besides, it would make me feel so wicked. I should be ashamed."

"The thief on the cross wasn't ashamed," said I. "But won't you try?"

"There would be no use in it. Who would believe me, after all? They would think it was only pretence."

"But he wouldn't think so, because he knows all our thoughts and feelings a great deal better than we do ourselves," I persisted. "And I don't think aunt would, either. She would see after a little while that you meant it."

"Well, perhaps. Come, we ought to get ready for tea."

We went up stairs together. As we left the library, where we had been talking, and passed the open door of the drawing-room, I saw my aunt lying on the sofa by the folding-doors, and I wondered if she could have heard our conversation. I confess I hoped she had. I said nothing to Elmina, however.

When we parted at the door of my room, she kissed me.

"If you believe in praying, you may pray for me," said she. "Perhaps it will do me some good."

Now, my own prayers had lately been very much a matter of form, but I did not forget Elmina's request. I prayed that she might be made a good girl and learn to love the Bible instead of hating it. And I found, to my surprise, as I believe many Christians have found before and since, that the best way to put life into our prayers for ourselves is to intercede for others. I was led to see how I had myself forgotten my mother's lessons, how I had neglected to learn my verses, as I had promised to do, and how often I had forgotten my prayers or said them hastily and carelessly. I think that night's experience has done me good ever since.

Elmina's hand was still lame from the burns, and she needed help in dressing and undressing. That night Aunt Belinda went up stairs with her instead of Phebe, and I heard them talking for a long time. The next day, as we went down stairs to breakfast, Elmina said to me,—

"You were right, Olivia; Aunt Belinda does care. If she had always talked to me as she did last night, it would have been very different."

Certainly Elmina changed very much after this. She was far more gentle and pleasant with me; and though now and then the old teasing spirit would come up, it never stayed long. But she was very low spirited and unhappy. She could not believe that there was any use in her trying to be good after she had been wicked so long. She read the Bible a great deal, but she got very little comfort from it. Sometimes we read together, and then I used to point out all my favourite verses, but she would always shake her head and say they were not for her.

"They are for people who want to be good," she said one day.

"And don't you want to be good?" I asked.

She hesitated a little before she answered:

"I don't know. Sometimes I do and sometimes—I can't make you understand, Olivia, and I don't understand myself. I 'want' to wish to be good, and yet I don't. It seems to me as if my whole nature was against it—as if I should have to be made over altogether before I came to anything. And that can't be, you know."

"Who told you it couldn't?" asked Phebe.

She always went round as still as a cat, and had come into the room, without our seeing or hearing her, in time to hear Elmina's last remark.

"Nobody ever told me so, but I don't see how it can be," said Elmina.

"Neither did Nicodemus," replied Phebe. "He was a very learned man, I expect—as learned, maybe, as Mr. Otis or Mr. Adams; but when the Lord told him,—

"'Ye must be born again,' he said.

"'How can a man be born when he is old?' 'How can these things be?' said he.

"And yet there is a way, though we don't understand how exactly it comes about—at least I don't. Let me take the book a minute."

She turned over to the fifty-first Psalm.

"See here, child; here's the prayer you need:

"'Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.'

"That is what he'll do for you, child. He will change your whole mind and will and desires so that you'll love to please him and to do good to other folks. See here again in Second Corinthians iv. 17:

"'Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.'"

Elmina looked as if she had received a perfectly new idea.

"If that could be—But how do I know that it means me?" said she. "How do I know that he will do it for me?"

"Because he says he will do it for everybody:

"'He will have all men to be saved.'

"A good man said once that he was in that state that if he had read in the Bible, 'This is a true saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save John Nelson,' he would have thought it meant some other John Nelson, but because it said 'to save sinners' he knew it meant him. No, no, my dear! Don't ever think of doubting the mercy of your Father and your Saviour, whatever you do: you can't please the Lord better than by believing his word. I don't understand a good deal of the high doctrines the ministers preach here—I was brought up among the Moravians in Pennsylvania, where they don't make so much account of them—but I do know enough to read my Bible, and I don't find there that he ever turned any away that came to him."

Elmina did not answer except to say, "Thank you, Phebe."

After Phebe went out of the room, however, she turned to me: "Isn't she good? Just think how I used to plague her! And yet she has never given me an unkind word since—that time."

"God is a great deal better than she is," I ventured to say.

"Yes, I suppose so," she answered, thoughtfully; and that was the end of our conversation.

I noticed, however, that Elmina was a good deal more cheerful after this. She took great pains to please my aunt in everything, and Aunt Belinda, on her part, was very ready to be pleased. She had certainly relaxed her rule very much about that time. She sat with us a good deal, and not only exerted herself to tell us things which she thought would be entertaining, but she allowed, and even encouraged, us in talking to her and asking her questions—a thing never permitted under the old regime. Her "musts" and "must nots" were as imperative as ever,—they were matter of principle as well as of habit,—but were fewer in number, and a great many vexatious little rules were allowed to fall into disuse.

I think a good many changes grew out of the state of Elmina's health. She continued very delicate all through the early spring. The measles had left her with a hard, dry cough which was aggravated by the least cold or change in the weather. She grew thin and pale, and was tired out with a very little exertion. Doctor Warren said she ought to have a change of air, and my aunt was considering various plans for that purpose when a letter came from England which put them all aside.

I had learned already from Phebe that Elmina's father was an English officer who had fallen in love with and married her mother while a prisoner in Virginia—that he had been a very worthless kind of man at best, who had quarrelled with his own family and been cast off by them entirely after his marriage. It now appeared that Captain Vernon's only brother had kept his niece in sight all these years, and that he had by will left a large fortune to her on the condition that she should return to England and be educated there till she was of age, after which she was at liberty to reside where she pleased. I did not of course understand all the details of the business, but this was the amount of it: Elmina was to be sent to England under the charge of some competent person, and my aunt was to receive a fit compensation for the care and expense she had bestowed on the child.

I don't know how it happened that I was present at the interview between my aunt and the English lawyer in which this last point was brought up, but I was, and I shall never forget how my aunt drew herself up as she said,—

"When I ask for compensation, it will be time for Mr. Vernon to offer it. I took my first husband's niece out of a sense of duty and from motives of compassion when she had no other refuge, and when her father's family absolutely refused to have any charge of her. I am willing to resign her to them if it seems to be for her good, but any talk of compensation I must regard as nothing less than insulting under the circumstances."

The Englishman looked embarrassed and glanced at Mr. Otis, who was my aunt's lawyer, but Mr. Otis only rubbed his glasses on the great white silk handkerchief he always carried, and could give no help. But he was a very courtly, accomplished gentleman, this English lawyer, and got out of the scrape very well.

"It was an awkward way of putting the matter, madam, I admit," said he. "So far as the care and protection go which you have so kindly afforded to this young lady, it must be evident that no money can even begin to pay for them. In fact, they are not to be valued in money at all. But I presume—indeed, I may say that I know—my late esteemed client Mr. Richard Vernon felt that both himself and his late father were to blame in neglecting Miss Vernon and allowing the whole expense of her maintenance and education to fall upon her mother's family, and he wished to assume his share of the same, however late. I did not myself draw up the will, or I should have suggested putting the matter in a less exceptionable shape."

My aunt accepted the apology graciously enough, but she steadily refused to receive the money, and I believe the matter was dropped. The two gentlemen were often at our house after that, and my aunt invited a very distinguished party to meet Mr. Wyndham; that was the lawyer's name. The Vice-president happened to be in town with his wife on a short visit, and he came with the rest. I don't know but that the young men of the present day will grow up to be as distinguished in appearance and conversation as the circle of gentlemen I used to see at my aunt's house in those days, but I doubt it. They will certainly have to mend their manners—a good many of them at least—if they are ever as polite.

It was settled that Elmina was to go to England and be placed in a certain famous school near London; and then arose the question who was to go with her. Her health was failing every day, and she needed continual care. At last Mr. Wyndham asked my aunt herself to accompany Elmina and see her settled. My aunt hesitated. She liked the idea of seeing England once more, and she did not like to have Elmina make the voyage in the care of a servant or of any one who did not understand her. The house could be shut up and left in charge of Phyllis, as it had been before, but what was to be done with me?

"I wish Olivia could go with us," said Elmina, one day when we were talking the matter over with Phebe; "I shouldn't mind it half so much."

"My mistress would like to take her, I know," answered Phebe, "but she wouldn't want to do so without asking her pa and ma; and you see there isn't time for that, it takes so long to hear from Vermont."

"Does Aunt Belinda really want to have me go?" I asked, very much pleased.

"Yes, indeed. She says it would do you good; and besides that, she wants your company. I don't see how you are ever to be spared to go home, Miss Olivia. I never saw Mrs. Evans set so much by any child—not by her own step-daughters—as she does by you."

"Why don't my cousins ever come to see their mother?" I ventured to ask.

Phebe shook her head, and put her finger on her lip.

"You mustn't never say anything to my mistress about her step-daughters," said she; "and little girls mustn't ask questions, either. However, I don't mind telling you that for all the pains she took with their education—nursing 'em in the small-pox and everything—they didn't turn out very well. One of 'em ran away and married a miserable fellow who had been an actor in the theatre when the British were here. She went to England, and used to write to her ma for money sometimes, but we haven't heard anything of her in several years. I believe one reason why my mistress wants to go to England is that she thinks she may get some news of the poor thing. And the other daughter, she went to visit some of her father's relations in Baltimore at the close of the war, and there she turned papist and made herself a nun and gave all her money to the convent. It was a dreadful blow to my mistress."

"It was queer that she should want to go into a convent, of all things," said I. "I should think she might have had enough of rules."

"I guess she didn't know very well what she did want," returned Phebe. "But about Miss Olivia's going to England: my mistress would like to take her, I know, especially as I can't go."

"Why can't you go?" asked Elmina.

"Oh, I've got to stay and keep house. Phyllis, she wants to get married again—more fool she, not to know when she's well off!—and mistress doesn't like to leave the house alone."

No more was said on this subject except between Elmina and myself.

Elmina disliked the idea of going to England. She felt a kind of resentment, not wholly unnatural, I think, against her father's family for having neglected her so long, and she had lately grown very fond of Aunt Belinda. My lively imagination built endless castles in the air on the subject, and my mind was divided between the wish to go with my aunt and my hope of being sent to make a visit at home.

One day, to my great and joyful surprise, the matter was settled. My father walked in upon us.

At first I thought something dreadful must have happened at home, but I was soon reassured. They were all well, father said; mother's health had improved by the change, and she was better than she had been for years. Jeanne was teaching school in the village, and liked it. The children were well and happy, and the farm was going on finely. But this was not all. Father had recovered a debt of some thousands of dollars—that was about the amount, though we had not begun to reckon much by dollars and cents at that time—which he had never expected to see again. It was business connected with this which had brought him to Boston; but the matter was all settled, and on the strength of it, Ezra was going to college at last. Not, however, to Harvard, as I was sorry to hear, but to Dartmouth, in New Hampshire, which was nearer home, and where all my uncles were educated. They had all sent me letters and presents, which were in father's trunk.

Aunt Belinda made father very welcome, and was much pleased with the bear-skin which Ezra sent for her carriage and the flounce Jeanne had worked for her. Father was a very polite, well-bred man, with a soldierly air and manner, and I was proud to see how well he appeared. I was especially delighted when, on Aunt Belinda's remarking that she used to be very fond of riding, father invited her to ride with him. Phebe got out and brushed up my aunt's scarlet cloth habit trimmed with blue, and her tall beaver hat. Father was always a splendid figure on horseback, and my aunt also rode very well, so it was with great pride and pleasure that we watched them from the door. They were gone a long time; and when Aunt Belinda came home, she remarked that she felt quite young again.

That evening I spent alone with my father in the library.

"Aunt Belinda tells me she wants to take you abroad with her," said he.

My heart began to beat very fast.

"Has she said anything to you about it?"

"Phebe told me," said I; "and Elmina wants me to go."

"Yes, I dare say, poor little thing!" said my father. "It is hard for her to have to go away among strangers. Well, Aunt Belinda says it will be a great comfort for her to have you along, and a great advantage to you in the way of education and seeing the world, and so on. I don't know about that. My own opinion is that an American education is good enough for American girls, though it is well enough to see the world when one has a chance. But Aunt Belinda has been very kind and liberal in the matter of your education, and we owe her something for that; and so, as she really desires your company, I think I shall let you go—that is, if you wish to do so."

I did not know what to say.

"Aunt Belinda proposes, if you do not go with her, to leave you at boarding-school here in Boston," continued my father. "I could take you home for the time, but the journey is long and hard, and it, might not be so easy for you to come back. But what do 'you' say? Are you afraid of the sea?"

"No, indeed, father," I answered, very truly; "and if I can't go home, I would much rather go with Aunt Belinda than stay here at boarding-school. But what will mother say?"

"Of course mother would rather you should be at home with her than anywhere else," answered my father, "but she thinks your education is the principal thing just now; and as I said, we owe something to Aunt Belinda for her kindness. She seems a very fine, good lady, and rides better than any woman I ever saw except my mother."

"A fine lady" and "a fine gentleman" were words of praise in those days, though afterward they came to be terms of reproach.

Well, the matter was talked over and over, and at last it was decided that I should go to England with Aunt Belinda. She expected to be away for some months at least—perhaps all winter. My father stayed nearly a fortnight in Boston and its neighbourhood, and went away loaded with presents for the dear ones at home.

My aunt's dress-maker, Miss Jane Wallace, came to stay in the house, with another sewing-woman, and everybody was in a hustle of preparation, for we were to go in a fortnight. Never did any time pass more slowly to me than this fortnight.

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