"And if some tones be false or low,
What are all prayers beneath
But cries of babes, that cannot know
Half the deep thought they breathe?"
KEBLE.
Mrs. Churchill understood, if ever any did, the art of reprimand.
Without the least appearance of agitation herself, with a perfectly
unmoved and stony composure, she managed to overawe and disarm the
prisoner at the bar, whatever might be his or her offence, or shade or
degree of guilt. Defence died on my lips at the dreaded interview, and I
bore my sentence in silence, which was, a total seclusion from society
after to-night--a return to the oblivion of the nursery and study. This
ball at Mrs. Humphrey's was to be my last appearance in public till I
should have learned how to behave myself. As I had accepted, it was
proper I should go to-night, otherwise she would no means have allowed
it.
"_Nous verrons_," I said to myself, as I went upstairs. "If I continue
to want to go to parties, no doubt she will have to let me go. I am a
fraction too old to be put in a dark closet, or sent to bed for being
naughty, and Aunt Edith knows it."
That Wednesday was a very busy day to Mrs. Churchill and Josephine. A
wedding reception took up the morning, from which they returned but to
dress for a dinner at the Wynkars, and thence returning, made a hurried
toilette for the ball. It seemed making rather a toil of pleasure, if
one might judge from my aunt's haggard looks, and Josephine's impatient
complaints.
There was an anxious contraction on Mrs. Churchill's brow as she came
down from the nursery after breakfast, and apparently a struggle in her
mind between home duties and social duties, when it became necessary for
her to decide about going out. That she sincerely believed in the
stringent nature of both, no one could doubt who watched her closely. It
was not pleasure that took her away from little Essie that morning; it
was a mistaken sense of duty. She had set up for her worship an idol, in
whose hard service she had unconsciously come to sacrifice time, ease,
and affection, as stoically as many have suffered in a cause whose
reward is not altogether seen and ended in this world.
So it was, that, trying to make up for her absence by many injunctions
and cautions to those left in charge, she turned her back upon the child
for the greater part of the day.
"I hoped," said she, as she paused at the nursery door, in her rustling
silk and heavy India shawl, "I hoped that the doctor would have come
before I went out, but I really do not see but what you can do as well
as I can, Félicie. Pay particular attention to his directions, and send
John out immediately for any prescription he may leave for her. And be
sure you tell him just how she was yesterday, and how well she slept
last night. I don't like," she continued, taking off one glove to feel
again of the child's hot forehead, "her having fever again this morning.
I thought yesterday she was so much better."
"Oh, madam is too anxious. It is nothing but a little excitement that
has brought it on again," said the nurse. "If madam would tell
Mademoiselle Esther how very naughty it is for her to cry to go into her
cousin's room, and fret and strike me when I try to keep her quiet,
perhaps she might mind better. It is that that brings her fever on,
madam, I am afraid."
"Now, Esther," said her mother, with authority, "I shall have to punish
you if you do so any more. I shall be very angry if you do not mind
Félicie to-day, and if you hurt or strike her, remember I shall punish
you when I come back--do you hear?"
Esther heard, yes. She sat bolt upright in her little bed, and looked at
the speaker with her parched lips parted, and a strange, bewildered
expression in her eyes, and a restless movement of her tiny hands.
Before the interview was over, however, the startled look had settled
into a vacant, listless stare; and a peevish moan, after her mother left
the room, was all the evidence she gave of being impressed or alarmed by
the injunctions laid upon her. I heard the miserable little complainer
unmoved as long as I could; after a while, putting down my book, I went
into the nursery. She stretched out her arms, and cried:
"Take me to your room."
"If you will stop crying," I said, taking her up in my arms, and
wrapping her dressing-gown about her.
Félicie looked up quickly, and said, "_Madame a dit que non._"
Félicie always lied in her native tongue, and this was but an additional
proof to me that madame had said no such thing, and I told her so,
rather strongly. Grace came in just then, and Félicie appealed to her
for confirmation.
"Certainly," said Grace, promptly, "mamma's last charge was that Esther
should not go out of the nursery; so, missy, you may just make yourself
easy where you are. Don't suppose everybody is going to spoil you like
your precious cousin there."
Essie still clung tightly round my neck; much, however, as my pride
rebelled, there was no way but to submit to the orders they promulged.
So, carrying her back to the bed, and loosening her arms from my neck, I
put her down with,
"No matter, sweetheart; if Mahomet brings his work, and sits down by
the mountain, that will do as well, will it not?"
"I don't know what you mean," said the child, uneasily.
"She means to plague you, Esther; she's been scolded this morning, and
she's in bad humor," said Grace.
"Don't throw stones, Miss Grace," I retorted. "I wasn't sent away from
the table, if I was scolded."
"Mamma'll never forget your performance last night, the longest day she
lives," continued Grace. "I never saw her half so angry before. In fact,
from all accounts, you must have got it from all quarters, but what Mr.
Rutledge said was the worst."
"What did he say, pray?"
"_Wouldn't_ you like to know!" she cried, in her teasing, school-girl
fashion.
"I don't believe you could tell me, if I did."
"I could if I wanted to," she exclaimed. "I heard mamma and Josephine
talking it over this morning. The door of the dressing-room was open a
crack, and I heard every word. Now, honey, _don't_ you wish I'd tell
you?"
"I don't want to hear half as much as you want to tell me," I returned,
trying to be unmoved.
"Oh! don't be uneasy on my account," she said. "I haven't the least idea
of telling you. Only, I didn't suppose Mr. Rutledge could be so severe,
and on 'his little friend,' too!"
"That--for Mr. Rutledge!" I exclaimed, with a disdainful snap of my
fingers. "I don't care the fraction of a pin for his opinion!"
"I'll tell him," cried Grace, with delighted eyes.
"Do," I answered; and hiding my burning face on the pillow with Esther,
I said:
"What shall we do to amuse ourselves this morning, Essie? Shall I tell
you a story?"
"Yes," said Esther, looking pleased.
"Ask her to tell you about the ball last night, and Mr. Victor Viennet,"
said Grace, as she went out of the door.
"No," said the little girl, "I'd rather have her tell me about the
little dog Tigre at Rutledge, and how he used to stand outside of her
door, and whine to come in. Won't you now?"
"Oh, that's tiresome, Essie," I said, "I'll tell you something else."
"Then tell me about the boys that stole the chestnuts, and about the
lake, and the great trees, and the artemisias and the grapevines in the
garden. Tell me, won't you now?" she went on, coaxingly.
"You'd rather hear a fairy story, Esther," I said; "or something out of
your pretty Christmas book, I am sure."
"No," said Esther, "I want to hear about the country, I wish they'd take
me to the country," she continued, wearily; then, raising herself on her
elbow, and looking at me earnestly, she said, "do you believe they ever
will? Do you believe I'll be made to always stay in this nursery,
without any flowers or birds, or anything I like? If I should die in it,
would I stay in it always, or would they take me out? Tell me, would
they?"
"Of course, Essie," I said, half impatiently, uncomfortable under her
earnest eyes. "I do not like to hear you talk so. You know, I've told
you often, that there's a home for us where we shall go after we die,
better than any home here, where good children are, and holy men and
women; and it's all a great deal brighter and happier than anything we
can imagine; so don't trouble yourself to think about it; only be good."
"But I am not good," she said, with a sort of agony in her voice; "you
know I am not."
"Essie," I said, soothingly, drawing her toward me, "nobody is good. I
am not, and you are not, and nobody is; but if we are sorry when we're
wrong, and ask God to forgive us, and help us, He will, you may be sure.
Why, Essie, He loves you, little foolish girl as you are, more than you
can possibly tell. He loves you, and he would not let you perish for
anything."
"Are you sure of that?" she said, eagerly.
"Perfectly sure," I answered.
"Madame ordered," said Félicie, "that Miss Esther should be kept
perfectly quiet. She's talking too much, and exciting herself. It would
be better to have the room darkened, and let her go to sleep."
"I can't go to sleep, and she shan't go away," exclaimed the child.
"I haven't the least idea of going, Essie; so lie down, and I'll tell
you about the country."
And, till my own heart ached as hers did, in its narrow city bounds, I
told her of the country, and how soon the first warm spring days would
loose the ice-bound brooks, and let the pines see themselves once more
in the lake. And in the lots, the violets would be springing up thickly
in the moist sod, and the faint green would be coloring the meadows and
lawns, and the skies would be soft and blue, and the slow, warm wind
would waft along the fleecy clouds, and stir the budding trees, and
linger over the soft, wet earth, and creep into cold and wintry houses,
and into cold and wintry hearts, and stir all things with a sense of
warmth and ecstasy.
Throughout the day I hardly left my little cousin; she was feverish and
restless, and never closed her eyes or rested a moment. About four
o'clock, however, I went down to practise for an hour, and when I came
upstairs again, she had fallen asleep. Her mother, coming up at the same
time, was much relieved to find her sleeping, and Félicie gave a very
satisfactory account of her; so that she dressed for the dinner in
comparative comfort. The doctor's visit had occurred while I was
downstairs, and had been a very hurried one. Grace and I dined alone,
very sociably and cheerfully, Grace reading a French novel, and I "the
Newcomes," in all the pauses of the meal.
I went upstairs as soon as it was over, and found Esther still asleep.
It was a wet, miserable evening. The rain was dripping slowly and
heavily from the roof to the window-sill, and from the window-sill to
the piazza below. A thick, suffocating fog, possessed the earth, through
which the distant lights blinked drearily; even the noises of the
streets sounded muffled and subdued. It was so warm, that the low
soft-coal fire in the grate seemed oppressive; yet, when I opened the
window, there was a damp, choking heaviness in the air that was worse,
even, than the dry heat of the room. It seemed as if the spirit of the
fog was sitting a night-mare on my breast, and pressing down with a hand
like lead the beating of my heart, and stopping my very breath. There
was no shaking off the weight, nor driving away the gloomy fancies that
the hour bred. It was in vain that I lit the gas, and closed the blinds,
and laying my ball-dress on the bed, tried to interest myself in my
preparations for the evening. Between me and all pleasant anticipation,
there hung a black pall of presentiment, and no effort of my will could
put it aside. The very struggle to free myself from it, seemed to make
the gloom close thicker around me. The house was so still; the servants
were all downstairs; the ticking of the clock on the nursery mantelpiece
was all the sound that broke the stillness, and that, so regular, so
monotonous, was worse than silence. It was a time
"For thought to do her part,"
for conscience and reason to be heard. Should I go into the world and
try to forget it? Should I leave the little helpless child asleep there,
in charge of a woman I distrusted and disliked, and go where music and
pleasure would drown the dread for her that was gnawing at my heart?
What, that was good for hours of trial, had I learned in my short
experience of pleasure? What, that I could remember with satisfaction,
had occurred in the two nights of gaiety that I had just passed through?
What, in the flatteries of Victor Viennet, in the admiring eyes of
strangers, in the envy of my cousin, that I could dare to remember in
church--on Sunday--under a quiet evening sky--or on a fresh, pure early
summer morning? Alas! it was out of tune with all of these; there was
utterly a fault about it--it turned to ashes as I grasped it. It was not
true pleasure. It was not a worthy pursuit. As far as I had followed it
already, it had led me into sin, into pride, insincerity and anger. It
had done me no good. I felt that. Had I the courage to put it away from
me now? Could I say, without an effort, I will keep myself out of the
way of seeing Victor Viennet again? I will never remember but to condemn
the hours that I have spent with him? Could I return to the dull routine
I had formerly marked out for myself, without an effort that would cost
me many tears? But if I could not do this, what was my religion worth?
If this self-denial was so hard, did it not prove that the world had got
a very tight hold of my heart, and that the sooner I wrenched myself
from its grasp the better?
On the other hand, there was no definite reason why I should not go,
there was only this vague feeling of uneasiness about Essie that
tormented me and kept me back, and this unsettled question about the
profitableness of going into the world. How should I decide? My
affection for my little cousin tugged strongly at my heart. Pride and
inclination pulled as fiercely the other way. A feeling that I did not
give a name to, but which was stronger than either, prompted me to
follow my own desires, and leave Essie to her fate. What business was it
of mine? If other people neglected their children, and left their
duties for their pleasures, why need I concern myself? Why need I take
upon myself their discarded responsibilities?
At last I stole on tiptoe to the bed again, to see if she still slept.
Not much sleep in those frightened eyes.
"Why! Essie, my pet, when did you wake up?"
With a sigh of relief, and a little relaxing of the look of terror, she
raised herself up, and saying hurriedly, "how still it is! I thought you
had gone away," she twined both small hands tightly round my wrist.
"Oh, no!" I said, sitting down by her, "it isn't time yet. I shall not
go for an hour or two."
"Don't go at all, please don't go," whispered the child, panting for
breath, and clinging to me in an agony. "If you knew how awful it was to
be alone, and how still the room was, you wouldn't leave me, indeed you
wouldn't. Besides," she went on hurriedly, "how can you tell what'll
become of me while you're gone? Nobody else loves me, nobody else is
good to me. I am troublesome and wicked--only God and you care anything
about me."
It was useless to soothe or reason with her now. I knew little of
illness, but I saw in a moment that the wild delirium of fever was
burning in my little companion's veins, and raging in her brain. I was
frightened at the strength of the little hands that fastened themselves
on mine, and the hurry and wildness of the broken sentences she uttered.
All I could do, was to promise that I would not go, and assure her that
there were no "ugly shadows" on the wall--that nobody was coming to take
her away--that it was all because her head ached so. But when Félicie
appeared, it was a less easy matter to control her. She screamed, and
hid her face, and cried to me to send her away--she hated her--she gave
her horrid stuff--she made her angry, and a thousand other vehement
exclamations in alternate French and English. The nurse, with a subdued
glare of anger in her eyes, would fain have soothed her, for her voice,
shrill with the strength of fever, could easily have been heard
downstairs, and Mrs. Churchill had come home and was now in her
dressing-room. My alarm had overcome my pride by this time, and loosing
my hands from the child's grasp, I gave her into Félicie's charge, and
ran downstairs.
The door of the dressing-room was locked, and it was some minutes before
I was admitted, and during those minutes, my alarm had time to cool, and
when at last I entered the room, it was with a full recollection of the
last rebuff I had received when I pleaded Esther's cause, and a cold
determination to do my duty and no more.
"Why are you not dressed, if you intend accompanying us?" she said.
"I do not intend going this evening," I answered; "and I came, Aunt
Edith, to say that I think you had better see Esther before you go out;
she has a great deal of fever, and is very much excited."
I never before had realized how dangerous a thing it was to touch with
even the daintiest hand, the festering wound that both pride and remorse
conspire to hide from the sight even of the sufferer's self. I could not
have done anything worse for poor Essie's cause, than just what I did
do, and she shared with me in the feeling of vexation and resentment
that my words awakened in her mother's breast.
I soon forgot the severity of the rebuff I had received, however, when
coming into the nursery, I took the struggling child from Félicie, and
watched with anxiety the gradual subsiding of the fit of passion that
had convulsed her. From whatever cause it might be, she was evidently
growing quieter, and in less than half an hour, the little head on my
arm had relaxed its tossings, and sunk into repose, while a dreamy
languor dulled the wildness of her eyes, and save when the slightest
movement woke an alarm that I would leave her, she lay quite
motionless.
"She is better now," said Félicie, in a low tone, who was watching her
with her basilisk eyes as she lay apparently sleeping. A nervous
tightening of the slight fingers on my wrist at the sound of her voice,
showed me that it was only apparently.
When Mrs. Churchill had completed her toilette, she came upstairs.
Esther, with her long eyelashes sweeping her crimsoned cheeks, lay so
quiet that there seemed some reason in her mother's cutting rebuke for
the unnecessary alarm I had given her. I began to feel heartily ashamed
of it myself, and wondered that I had been so easily frightened.
Félicie, with a wicked look of exultation, said, that if Miss Esther
hadn't been in a passion, she wouldn't have brought the fever on again.
She had been better all day, the doctor had said she had scarcely any
fever, when he was here.
Mrs. Churchill hoped, with a withering look, that I would get used to
ill temper in time, and not think it necessary to disturb the household
whenever Esther had a fit of crying. Then feeling the child's pulse, and
giving many and minute directions for the care of her during the night,
she went away. As, a moment after, the hall door closed with a heavy
sound, a momentary tremor passed over the child's frame, and opening her
eyes, a strange light fluttered for an instant in them, as she murmured,
"you will not go away?" then closed them again, and she seemed to sleep.
I watched beside her for an hour; then releasing myself from her
unresisting hands, and kissing her lightly, I went into my own room.
I returned several times to look at her again, before I put the light
out and lay down to sleep. How many times the monotonous nursery-clock
struck the half hour before I slept, I cannot tell; the heavy air was
broken by no other sound; there was nothing in the silent house,
shrouded by the close fog without and the dead silence within, to keep
me awake, yet it was long before I slept. But sleep, when it came, was
heavy and dreamless--a sort of dull stifling of consciousness, in
keeping with the night.
Hours of this sleep had passed over me, when a fierce grasp upon my arm,
and a hissing voice in my ear, woke me with a terrified start, and
chilled me with horror, as struggling to collect my senses, I tried to
comprehend Félicie's frantic words. In a moment, they made their way to
my brain, and burned themselves there.
"I've given her too much--I cannot wake her! O mon Dieu! _Je l'ai tuée!
Je l'ai tuée!_"
A horrible sickening faintness for an instant rushed over me, then a
keen sense of agony like an electric flash thrilled through me, and
without a look, a thought, a word, I was kneeling at the little bed in
the nursery. But, as my eager eyes searched the whitened face on the
pillow there, and as my aching ears listened for the almost inaudible
breathing, and my hand touched the cold arms that lay outside the
covers, such a cry burst from my lips as might have waked the dead, if
dead were indeed before me. But there was no voice nor answer; there was
an awful stillness when I listened for response; when I raised my eyes
in wild appeal from the white face of the child, there was but a
horrible face above me, whereon was all the pallor of death, without its
calm repose; such a face as the lost and damned may wear when their
sentence is new in their ears--when endless perdition is but just begun,
and life and hope but just cut off.
Another moment, and all the house was roused. Putting back, with one
strong effort, the agony and hopelessness that welled up from my heart,
I mastered myself enough to direct the terrified and helpless servants.
Dispatching different ones to the nearest doctors I could think of,
another for my aunt, another for all the restoratives that occurred to
me, the next few minutes of suspense passed.
But before the doctor could arrive, I knew there was no need of his
coming. There had been a little flutter of the drooping eyelid, ever so
slight a quiver of the parted lip, and bending down, I had listened,
with agonized suspense, for the low breathing, and called her name with
the tenderness that never finds perfect expression till death warns us
it shall be the last. Then a little arm crept round my neck, the soft
eye opened for a moment, a sigh stirred the bosom that my forehead
touched, and, as the arm relaxed its faint clasp, I knew that Essie was
a stranger and an alien no longer, but was where it were better for us
all to be--where there is peace, eternal, unbroken, beyond the reach of
sin forever.
For those first moments, when I knelt alone beside the little bed, with
the soft arm still round my neck, and the breath of that sigh still on
the air, there was no feeling that I had suffered a bereavement, that
death and sorrow had entered the house; but holy thoughts of God and
heaven--strange longings for the rest that she had entered into--a sort
of hushed and hallowed awe, as if the new angel still lingered, with a
half regret at leaving me alone--as if the parting, if parting there
were to be, were but for a "little while"--as if the communion of saints
were so divine and comfortable a thing, that there was no need for tears
and sorrow.
But when there came a sudden tumult below, hurried steps upon the
stairs, a sound beside me, a pause, and then a cry that made my blood
freeze in my veins, I knew that there was more than joy in heaven--that
there was bitter agony on earth: that there was more than an angel won
above--that there was a child dead below--a household in mourning--a
mother's heart writhing in torture--a judgment fallen--a punishment
following close upon a sin--a remorse begun that no time could heal,
that no other life could quench, no other love allay.