Nurse winked hard at the fact that the porridge was gobbled. The happy

little boy trotted off to one of the greatest treats he knew, and that

day passed without calamity.

* * * * *

“I can see it will answer, and life will be another thing without

Guy’s passions; but do you think, Edward, it’s _right_ to give the

child pleasures when he’s naughty--in fact, to put a premium upon

naughtiness, for it amounts to that?”

“You’re not quite right there. The child does not know he is naughty;

the emotions of ‘naughtiness’ are there; he is in a physical tumult,

but wilfulness has not set in; he does not yet _mean_ to be naughty,

and all is gained if we avert the set of the will towards wrong doing.

He has not had time to recognise that he is naughty, and his thoughts

are changed so suddenly that he is not in the least aware of what was

going on in him before. The new thing comes to him as naturally and

graciously as do all the joys of the childish day. The question of

desert does not occur.”

* * * * *

For a week all went well. Nurse was on the alert, was quick to note the

ruddy storm-signal in the fair little face; never failed to despatch

him instantly, and with a quiet unconscious manner, on some errand to

father or mother; nay, she improved on her instructions; when father

and mother were out of the way, she herself invented some pleasant

errand to cook about the pudding for dinner; to get fresh water for

Dickie, or to see if Rover had had his breakfast. Nurse was really

clever in inventing expedients, in hitting instantly on something to

be done novel and amusing enough to fill the child’s fancy. A mistake

in this direction would, experience told her, be fatal; propose what

was stale, and not only would Guy decline to give up the immediate

gratification of a passionate outbreak--for it _is_ a gratification,

that must be borne in mind--but he would begin to look suspiciously

on the “something else” which so often came in the way of this

gratification.

Security has its own risks. A morning came when Nurse was not on the

alert. Baby was teething and fractious, Nurse was overdone, and the

nursery was not a cheerful place. Guy, very sensitive to the moral

atmosphere about him, got, in Nurse’s phrase, out of sorts. He relieved

himself by drumming on the table with a couple of ninepins, just as

Nurse was getting baby off after a wakeful night.

“Stop that noise this minute, you naughty boy! Don’t you see your poor

little brother is going to sleep?” in a loud whisper. The noise was

redoubled, and assisted by kicks on chair-rungs and table-legs. Sleep

vanished and baby broke into a piteous wail. This was too much; the

Nurse laid down the child, seized the young culprit, chair and all,

carried him to the furthest corner, and, desiring him not to move till

she gave him leave, set him down with a vigorous shaking. There were

days when Guy would stand this style of treatment cheerfully, but

this was not one. Before Harriet had even noted the danger signals,

the storm had broken out. For half-an-hour the nursery was a scene of

frantic uproar, baby assisting, and even little Flo. Half-an-hour is

nothing to speak of; in pleasant chat, over an amusing book, the thirty

minutes fly like five; but half-an-hour in struggle with a raging child

is a day and a night in length. Mr. and Mrs. Belmont were out, so

Harriet had it all to herself, and it was contrary to orders that she

should attempt to place the child in confinement; solitude and locked

doors involved risks that the parents would, rightly, allow no one but

themselves to run. At last the tempest subsided, spent, apparently, by

its own force.

A child cannot bear estrangement, disapproval; he must needs live in

the light of a countenance smiling upon him. His passion over, Guy set

himself laboriously to be good, keeping watch out of the corner of

his eye to see how Nurse took it. She was too much vexed to respond

in any way, even by a smile. But her heart was touched; and though,

by-and-by, when Mrs. Belmont came in, she did say--“Master Guy has been

in one of his worst tempers again, ma’am: screaming for better than

half-an-hour”--yet she did not tell her tale with the _empressement_

necessary to show what a very bad half-hour they had had. His mother

looked with grave reproof at the delinquent, but she was not proof

against his coaxing ways.

After dinner she remarked to her husband, “You will be sorry to hear

that Guy has had one of his worst bouts again. Nurse said he screamed

steadily for more than half-an-hour.”

“What did you do?”

“I was out at the time, doing some shopping. But when I came back,

after letting him know how grieved I was, I did as you say, changed his

thoughts and did my best to give him a happy day.”

“How did you let him know you were grieved?”

“I looked at him in a way he quite understood, and you should have seen

the deliciously coaxing, half-ashamed look he shot up at me. What eyes

he has!”

“Yes, the little monkey! and no doubt he measured their effect on his

mother; you must allow me to say that my theory certainly is not to

give him a happy day after an outbreak of this sort.”

“Why, I thought your whole plan was to change his thoughts, to keep him

so well occupied with pleasant things that he does not dwell on what

agitated him.”

“Yes, but did you not tell me the passion was over when you found him?”

“Quite over, he was as good as gold.”

“Well, the thing we settled on was to _avert_ a threatened outbreak

by a pleasant change of thought; and to do so in order that, at last,

the _habit_ of these outbreaks may be broken. Don’t you see, that is a

very different thing from pampering him with a pleasant day when he has

already pampered himself with the full indulgence of his passion?”

“Pampered himself! Why, you surely don’t think those terrible scenes

give the poor child any pleasure. I always thought he was a deal more

to be pitied than we.”

“Indeed I do. Pleasure is perhaps hardly the word; but that the display

of temper is a form of self indulgence, there is no doubt at all. You,

my dear, are too amiable to know what a relief it is to us irritable

people to have a good storm and clear the air.”

“Nonsense, Edward! But what should I have done? What is the best course

_after_ the child has given way?”

“I think we must, as you suggested before, consider how we ourselves

are governed. Estrangement, isolation, are the immediate consequences

of sin, even of what may seem a small sin of harshness and selfishness.”

“Oh, but don’t you think that is our delusion? that God is loving us

all the time, and it is _we_ who estrange ourselves?”

“Without doubt; and we are aware of the love all the time, but, also,

we are aware of a cloud between us and it; we know we are out of

favour. We know, too, there is only one way back, through the fire.

It is common to speak of repentance as a light thing, rather pleasant

than otherwise; but it is searching and bitter: so much so, that the

Christian soul dreads to sin, even the sin of coldness, from an almost

cowardly dread of the anguish of repentance, purging fire though it is.”

Mrs. Belmont could not clear her throat to answer for a minute. She

had never before had such a glimpse into her husband’s soul. Here were

deeper things in the spiritual life than any of which she yet knew.

“Well then, dear, about Guy; must he feel this estrangement, go through

this fire?”

“I think so, in his small degree; but he must never doubt our love.

He must see and feel that it is always there, though under a cloud of

sorrow which he only can break through.”

* * * * *

Guy’s lapse prepared the way for further lapses. Not two days passed

before he was again _hors de combat_. The boy, his outbreak over, was

ready at once to emerge into the sunshine. Not so his mother. His most

bewitching arts met only with sad looks and silence.

He told his small scraps of nursery news, looking in vain for the

customary answering smile and merry words. He sidled up to his mother,

and stroked her cheek; that did not do, so he stroked her hand;

then her gown; no answering touch, no smile, no word; nothing but

sorrowful eyes when he ventured to raise his own. Poor little fellow!

The iron was beginning to enter; he moved a step or two away from his

mother, and raised to hers eyes full of piteous doubt and pleading.

He saw love, which could not reach him, and sorrow, which he was just

beginning to comprehend. But his mother could bear it no longer: she

got up hastily and left the room. Then the little boy, keeping close

to the wall, as if even that were something to interpose between him

and this new sense of desolation, edged off to the furthest corner of

the room, and sinking on the floor with a sad, new quietness, sobbed

out lonely sobs; Nurse had had her lesson, and although she, too, was

crying for her boy, nobody went near him but Flo. A little arm was

passed round his neck; a hot little cheek pressed against his curls:

“Don’t cry, Guy!” two or three times, and when the sobs came all the

thicker, there was nothing for it but that Flo must cry too; poor

little outcasts!

At last bedtime came, and his mother; but her face had still that sad,

far-away look, and Guy could see she had been crying. How he longed to

spring up and hug her and kiss her as he would have done yesterday. But

somehow he dared not; and she never smiled nor spoke, and yet never

before had Guy known how his mother loved him.

She sat in her accustomed chair by the little white bed, and beckoned

the little boy in his nightgown to come and say his prayers. He knelt

at his mother’s knee as usual, and then she laid her hands upon him.

“‘Our Father’--oh, mother, mo--o--ther, mother!” and a torrent of tears

drowned the rest, and Guy was again in his mother’s arms, and she was

raining kisses upon him, and crying softly with him.

Next morning his father received him with open arms.

“So my poor little boy had a bad day yesterday!”

Guy hung his head and said nothing.

“Would you like me to tell you how you may help ever having quite such

another bad day?”

“Oh yes, please, father; I thought I couldn’t help.”

“Can you tell when the ‘Cross-man’ is coming?”

Guy hesitated. “Sometimes, I think. I get all hot.”

“Well, the minute you find he’s coming, even if you have begun to cry,

say, ‘Please excuse me, Nurse,’ and run downstairs, and then four times

round the garden as fast as you can, without stopping to take breath!”

“What a good way! Shall I try it now?”

“Why, the ‘Cross-man’ isn’t there now. But I’ll tell you a secret: he

always goes away if you begin to do something else as hard as you can;

and if you can remember to run away from him round the garden, you’ll

find he won’t run after you; at the very worst, he won’t run after you

more than _once_ round!”

“Oh, father, I’ll try! What fun! See if I don’t beat him! Won’t I just

give Mr. ‘Cross-man’ a race! He shall be quite out of breath before we

get round the fourth time.”

The vivid imagination of the boy personified the foe, and the father

jumped with his humour. Guy was eager for the fray; the parents had

found an ally in their boy; the final victory was surely within

appreciable distance.

* * * * *

“This is glorious, Edward; and it’s as interesting as painting a

picture or writing a book! What a capital device the race with Mr.

‘Cross-man’ is! It’s like ‘Sintram.’ He’ll be so much on the _qui vive_

for ‘Cross-man’ that he’ll forget to be cross. The only danger I see is

that of many false alarms. He’ll try the race, in all good faith, when

there is no foe in pursuit.”

“That’s very likely; but it will do no harm. He is getting the habit of

running away from the evil, and may for that be the more ready to run

when ’tis at his heels; this, of running away from temptation, is the

right principle, and may be useful to him in a thousand ways.”

“Indeed, it may be a safeguard to him through life. How did you get the

idea?”

“Do you remember how Rover was cured of barking after carriages? There

were two stages to the cure; the habit of barking was stopped, and a

new habit was put in its place; I worked upon the recognised law of

association of ideas, and got Rover to associate the rumble of wheels

with a newspaper in his mouth. I tried at the time to explain how it

was possible to act thus on the ‘mind’ of a dog.”

“I recollect quite well, you said that the stuff--nervous tissue, you

called it--of which the brain is made is shaped in the same sort of

way--at least so I understood--by the thoughts that are in it, as the

cover of a tart is shaped by the plums below. And then, when there’s

a place ready for them in the brain, the same sort of thoughts always

come to fill it.”

“I did not intend to say precisely that,” said Mr. Belmont, laughing,

“especially the plum part. However, it will do. Pray go on with your

metaphor. It is decided that plums are not wholesome eating. You put in

your thumb, and pick out a plum; and that the place may be filled, and

well filled, you pop in a--a--figures fail me--a peach!”

“I see! I see! Guy’s screaming fits are the unwholesome plum which

we are picking out, and the running away from Cross-man the peach

to be got in instead. (I don’t see why it should be a peach though,

unpractical man!) His brain is to grow to the shape of the peach, and

behold, the place is filled. No more room for the plum.”[21]

“You have it; you have put, in a light way, a most interesting law,

and I take much blame to myself that I never thought, until now, of

applying it to Guy’s case. But now I think we are making way; we have

made provision for dislodging the old habit and setting a new one in

its place.”

“Don’t you think the child will be a hero in a very small way, when he

makes himself run away from his temper?”

“Not in a small way at all; the child will be a hero. But we cannot

be heroes all the time. In sudden gusts of temptation, God grant him

grace to play the hero, if only through hasty flight; but in what are

called besetting sins, there is nothing safe but the contrary besetting

good habit. And here is where parents have such infinite power over the

future of their children.”

“Don’t think me superstitious and stupid; but somehow this scientific

training, good as I see it is, seems to me to undervalue the help we

get from above in times of difficulty and temptation.”

“Let me say that it is you who undervalue the virtue, and limit the

scope of the Divine action. Whose are the laws Science labours to

reveal? Whose are the works, body or brain, or what you like, upon

which these laws act?”

“How foolish of me! How one gets into a way of thinking that God

cares only for what we call spiritual things. Let me ask you one more

question. I do see that all this watchful training is necessary, and do

not wish to be idle or cowardly about it. But don’t you think Guy would

grow out of these violent tempers naturally, as he gets older?”

“Well, he would not, as youth or man, fling himself on the ground and

roar; but no doubt he would grow up touchy, fiery, open at any minute

to a sudden storm of rage. The man who has too much self-respect for

an open exhibition may, as you know well enough, poor wife, indulge

in continual irritability, suffer himself to be annoyed by trifling

matters. No, there is nothing for it but to look upon an irate habit as

one to be displaced by a contrary habit. Who knows what cheerful days

we may yet have, and whether in curing Guy I may not cure myself? The

thing can be done; only one is so lazy about one’s own habits. Suppose

you take me in hand?”

“Oh, I couldn’t! and yet it’s your only fault, dear.”

“Only fault! well, we’ll see. In the meantime there’s another thing I

wish we could do for Guy--stop him in the midst of an outbreak. Do you

remember the morning we found him admiring himself in the glass?”

“Yes, with the photograph in his hand.”

“That was it; perhaps the Cross-man race will answer even in the middle

of a tempest. If not, we must try something else.”

“It won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Guy will have no more rages; how then can he be stopped in

mid-tempest?”

“Most hopeful of women! But don’t deceive yourself. Our work is only

well begun, but that, let us hope, is half done.”

* * * * *

His father was right. Opportunities to check him in mid-career

occurred; and Guy answered to the rein. Mr. Cross-man worked wonders.

A record of outbreaks was kept; now a month intervened; two months; a

year; two years; and at last his parents forgot their early troubles

with their sweet-tempered, frank-natured boy.

FOOTNOTES:

[21] To state the case more accurately, certain cell

connections appear to be established by habitual

traffic in certain thoughts; but there is so much

danger of over-stating or of localising mental

operations, that perhaps it is safe to convey the

practical outcome of this line of research in a

more or less figurative way--as, the wearing of a

field-path; the making of a bridge; a railway, &c.

CHAPTER II

_ATTENTION._

“But now for the real object of this letter (does it take your breath

away to get four sheets?) We want you to help us about Kitty. My

husband and I are at our wits’ end, and should most thankfully take

your wise head and kind heart into counsel. I fear we have been laying

up trouble for ourselves and for our little girl. The ways of nature

are, there is no denying it, very attractive in all young creatures,

and it is so delightful to see a child do as ‘’tis its nature to,’ that

you forget that Nature, left to herself, produces a waste, be it never

so lovely. Our little Kitty’s might so easily become a wasted life.

“But not to prose any more, let me tell you the history of Kitty’s

yesterday--one of her days is like the rest, and you will be able to

see where we want your help.

“Figure to yourself the three little heads bent over ‘copy-books’ in

our cheery schoolroom. Before a line is done, up starts Kitty.

“‘Oh, mother, may I write the next copy--shell? “Shell” is so

much nicer than--know, and I’m so tired of it.’

“‘How much have you done?’

“‘I have written it three whole times, mother, and I really _can’t_ do

it any more! I think I could do--shell. “Shell” is so pretty!’

“By-and-by we read; but Kitty cannot read--can’t even spell the words

(don’t scold us, we know it is quite wrong to spell in a reading

lesson), because all the time her eyes are on a smutty sparrow on the

topmost twig of the poplar; so she reads, ‘With, birdie!’ We

do sums; a short line of addition is to poor Kitty a hopeless and an

endless task. ‘Five and three make--nineteen,’ is her last effort,

though she knows quite well how to add up figures. Half a scale on the

piano, and then--eyes and ears for everybody’s business but her own.

Three stitches of hemming, and idle fingers plait up the hem or fold

the duster in a dozen shapes. I am in the midst of a thrilling history

talk: ‘So the Black Prince----’ ‘Oh, mother, do you think we shall go

to the sea this year? My pail is quite ready, all but the handle, but I

can’t find my spade _anywhere_!’

“And thus we go on, pulling Kitty through her lessons somehow; but

it is a weariness to herself and all of us, and I doubt if the child

learns anything except by bright flashes. But you have no notion

how quick the little monkey is. After idling through a lesson she

will overtake us at a bound at the last moment, and thus escape the

wholesome shame of being shown up as the dunce of our little party.

“Kitty’s dawdling ways, her restless desire for change of occupation,

her always wandering thoughts, lead to a good deal of friction, and

spoil our schoolroom party, which is a pity, for I want the children to

enjoy their lessons from the very first. What do you think the child

said to me yesterday in the most coaxing pretty way? ‘There are so many

things nicer than lessons! Don’t you think so, mother?’ Yes, dear aunt,

I see you put your finger on those unlucky words ‘coaxing, pretty way,’

and you look, if you do not say, that awful sentence of yours about

sin being bred of allowance. Isn’t that it? It is quite true; we are in

fault. Those butterfly ways of Kitty’s were delicious to behold until

we thought it time to set her to work, and then we found that we should

have been training her from her babyhood. Well,

‘If you break your plaything yourself, dear,

Don’t you cry for it all the same?

I don’t think it is such a comfort

To have only oneself to blame.’

“So, like a dear, kind aunt, don’t scold us, but help us to do better.

Is Kitty constant to anything? you ask. Does she stick to any of the

‘_many_ things so much nicer than lessons’? I am afraid that here,

too, our little girl is ‘unstable as water.’ And the worst of it is,

she is all agog to be at a thing, and then, when you think her settled

to half-an-hour’s pleasant play, off she is like any butterfly. She

says her, ‘How doth the little busy bee,’ dutifully, but when I tell

her she is not a bit like a busy bee, but rather like a foolish,

flitting butterfly, I’m afraid she rather likes it, and makes up to

the butterflies as if they were akin to her, and were having just the

good time she would prefer. But you must come and see the child to

understand how volatile she is.

“‘Oh, mother, _please_ let me have a good doll’s wash this afternoon;

I’m quite unhappy about poor Peggy! I really think she _likes_ to be

dirty!’

“Great preparations follow in the way of little tub, and soap, and big

apron; the little laundress sits down, greatly pleased with herself,

to undress her dirty Peggy; but hardly is the second arm out of its

sleeve, than, _presto!_ a new idea; off goes Kitty to clean out her

doll’s-house, deaf to all nurse’s remonstrances about ‘nice hot water,’

and ‘poor dirty Peggy.’

“I’m afraid the child is no more constant to her loves than to her

play; she is a loving little soul, as you know, and is always adoring

somebody. Now it’s her father, now Juno, now me, now Hugh; and the

rain of warm kisses, the soft clasping arms, the nestling head, are

delicious, whether to dog or man. But, alas! Kitty’s blandishments are

a whistle you must pay for; to-morrow it is somebody else’s turn, and

the bad part is that she has only room for one at a time. If we could

get a little visit from you, now, Kitty would be in your pocket all day

long; and we, even Peggy, would be left out in the cold. But do not

flatter yourself it would last; I think none of Kitty’s attachments has

been known to last longer than two days.

“If the chief business of parents is to train _character_ in their

children, we have done nothing for Kitty; at six years old the child

has no more power of application, no more habit of attention, is no

more able to make herself do the thing she ought to do, indeed, has

no more desire to do the right thing, than she had at six months old.

We are getting very unhappy about it. My husband feels strongly that

parents should labour at character as the Hindoo gold-beater labours

at his vase; that _character_ is the one thing we are called upon to

effect. And what have we done for Kitty? We have turned out a ‘fine

animal,’ and are glad and thankful for that; but that is all; the child

is as wayward, as unsteady, as a young colt. Do help us, dear aunt.

Think our little girl’s case over; if you can, get at the source of the

mischief, and send us a few hints for our guidance, and we shall be

yours gratefully evermore.”

* * * * *

“And now for my poor little great-niece! Her mother piles up charges

against her, but how interesting and amusing and like the free world of

fairy-land it would all be were it not for the _tendencies_ which, in

these days, we talk much about and watch little against. We bring up

our children in the easiest, happy-go-lucky way, and all the time talk

solemnly in big words about the momentous importance of every influence

brought to bear upon them. But it is true; these naughty, winsome ways

of Kitty’s will end in her growing up like half the ‘girls’--that

is, young women--one meets. They talk glibly on many subjects; but

test them, and they know nothing of any; they are ready to undertake

anything, but they carry nothing through. This week, So-and-so is their

most particular friend, next week such another; even their amusements,

their one real interest, fail and flag; but then, there is some useful

thing to be learnt--how to set tiles or play the banjo! And, all the

time, there is no denying, as you say, that this very fickleness has a

charm, so long as the glamour of youth lasts, and the wayward girl has

bright smiles and winning, graceful ways to disarm you with. But youth

does not last; and the poor girl, who began as a butterfly, ends as a

grub, tied to the earth by the duties she never learnt how to fulfil;

that is, supposing she is a girl with a conscience; wanting that, she

dances through life whatever befalls; children, husband, home, must

take their chance. ‘What a giddy old grandmother the Peterfields have!’

remarked a pert young man of my acquaintance. But, indeed, the ‘giddy

old grandmother’ is not an unknown quantity.

“Are you saying to yourself, a prosy old ‘great-aunt’ is as bad as a

‘giddy old grandmother’? I really have prosed abominably, but Kitty has

been on my mind all the time, and it is quite true, you must take her

in hand.

“First, as to her lessons: you _must_ help her to gain the power of

attention; that should have been done long ago, but better late than

never, and an aunt who has given her mind to these matters takes blame

to herself for not having seen the want sooner. ‘But,’ I fancy you are

saying, ‘if the child has no faculty of attention, how can we give it

to her? It’s just a natural defect.’ Not a bit of it! Attention is

not a faculty at all, though I believe it is worth more than all the

so-called faculties put together; this, at any rate, is true, that no

talent, no genius, is worth much without the power of attention; and

this is the power which makes men or women successful in life.

“Attention is no more than this--the power of giving your mind to what

you are about--the bigger the better so far as the mind goes, and great

minds do great things; but have you never known a person with a great

mind, ‘real genius,’ his friends say, who goes through life without

accomplishing anything? It is just because he wants the power to ‘turn

on,’ so to speak, the whole of his great mind; he is unable to bring

the whole of his power to bear on the subject in hand. ‘But Kitty?’

Yes, Kitty must get this power of ‘turning on.’ She must be taught to

give her mind to sums and reading, and even to dusters. Go slowly; a

little to-day and a little more to-morrow. In the first place, her

lessons must be made _interesting_. Do not let her scramble through a

page of ‘reading,’ for instance, spelling every third word and then

waiting to be told what it spells, but see that every day she learns

a certain number of new words--six, twelve, twenty, as she is able to

hear them; not ‘spellings’--terrible invention!--but words that occur

in a few lines of some book of stories or rhymes; and these she should

know, not by spelling, but by _sight_. It does not matter whether the

new words be long or short, in one syllable or in four, but let them

be _interesting_ words. For instance, suppose her task for to-day be

‘Little Jack Horner,’ she should learn to know, _by sight_, thumb,

plum, Christmas, corner, &c., before she begins to read the rhyme; make

‘plum’ with her loose letters, print it on her slate, let her find it

elsewhere in her book, any device you can think of, so that ‘plum’ is

brought before her eyes half-a-dozen times, and each time recognised

and named. Then, when it comes in the reading lesson, it is an old

friend, read off with delight. Let every day bring the complete mastery

of a few new words, as well as the keeping up of the old ones. At the

rate of only six a day she will learn, say, fifteen hundred in a year;

in other words, she will have learned to read! And if it do not prove

to be reading without tears and reading with _attention_, I shall

not presume to make another suggestion about the dear little girl’s

education.

“But do not let the lesson last more than ten minutes, and insist, with

brisk, bright determination, on the child’s full concentrated attention

of eye and mind for the whole ten minutes. Do not allow a moment’s

dawdling at lessons.

“I would not give her rows of figures to add yet; use dominoes or

the domino cards prepared for the purpose, the point being to add or

subtract the dots on the two halves in a twinkling. You will find that

the three can work together at this as at the reading, and the children

will find it as exciting and delightful as ‘old soldier.’ Kitty will be

all alive here, and will take her share of work merrily; and this is a

point gained. Do not, if you can help it, single the little maid out

from the rest and throw her on her own responsibility. ’Tis a ‘heavy

and a weary weight’ for the bravest of us, and the little back will

get a trick of bending under life if you do not train her to carry it

lightly, as an Eastern woman her pitcher.

“Then, vary the lessons; now head, and now hands; now tripping feet and

tuneful tongue; but in every lesson let Kitty and the other two carry

away the joyous sense of--

‘Something attempted, something done.’

“Allow of no droning wearily over the old stale work,--which must be

kept up all the time, it is true, but rather by way of an exciting game

than as the lesson of the day, which should always be a distinct _step_

that the children can recognise.

“You have no notion, until you try, how the ‘now-or-never’ feeling

about a lesson quickens the attention of even the most volatile child;

what you can drone through all day, you will; what _must_ be done,

is done. Then, there is a by-the-way gain besides that of quickened

attention. I once heard a wise man say that, if he must choose between

the two, he would rather his child should learn the meaning of ‘must’

than inherit a fortune. And here you will be able to bring moral force

to bear on wayward Kitty. Every lesson must have its own time, and no

other time in this world is there for it. The sense of the preciousness

of time, of the irreparable loss when a ten minutes’ lesson is thrown

away, must be brought home.

“Let your own unaffected distress at the loss of ‘golden minutes’ be

felt by the children, and also be visited upon them by the loss of some

small childish pleasure which the day should have held. It is a sad

thing to let a child dawdle through a day and be let off scot-free. You

see, I am talking of the children, and not of Kitty alone, because it

is so much easier to be good in company; and what is good for her will

be good for the trio.

“But there are other charges: poor Kitty is neither steady in play nor

steadfast in love! May not the _habit_ of attending to her lessons

help her to stick to her play? Then, encourage her. ‘What! The doll’s

tea-party over! That’s not the way grown-up ladies have tea; they sit

and talk for a long time. See if you can make your tea-party last

twenty minutes by my watch!’ This failing of Kitty’s is just a case

where a little gentle ridicule might do a great deal of good. It is a

weapon to be handled warily, for one child may resent, and another take

pleasure in being laughed at; but managed with tact I do believe it’s

good for children and grown-ups to see the comic side of their doings.

“I think we err in not enough holding up certain virtues for our

children’s admiration. Put a premium of praise on every finished thing,

if it is only a house of cards. Steadiness in work is a step on the

way towards steadfastness in love. Here, too, the praise of constancy

might very well go with good-humoured family ‘chaff,’ not about the

new loves, which are lawful, whether of kitten or playmate, but about

the discarded old loves. Let Kitty and all of them grow up to glory in

their constancy to every friend.

“There, I am sending you a notable preachment instead of the few

delicate hints I meant to offer; but never mount a woman on her

hobby--who knows when she will get off again?”

CHAPTER III

_AN EDUCATIONAL EXPERIMENT_

You wish me to tell you the story of my little girl? Well, to begin at

the beginning. In looking back through the pages of my journal I find

many scattered notices of Agnes, and I always write of her, I find,

as “poor Agnes.” Now, I wonder why? The child is certainly neither

unhealthy nor unhappy--at least, not with any reason; but again and

again I find this sort of entry:--

“Agnes displeased with her porridge; says nothing, but looks black all

day.”

“Harry upset his sister’s work-basket, by accident, I truly believe,

but she can’t get over it; speaks to no one, and looks as if under a

cloud.”

I need not go on; the fact is, the child is sensible of many injuries

heaped upon her; I think there is no ground for the feeling, for she is

really very sweet when she has not, as the children say, the black dog

on her back.

It is quite plain to me, and to others also, I think, that we have let

this sort of thing go on too long without dealing with it. We must take

the matter in hand.

Please God, our little Agnes must not grow up in this sullen habit,

for all our sakes, but chiefly for her own, poor child; I felt that in

this matter I might be of more use than Edward, who simply does not

understand a temper less sunny and open than his own. I pondered and

pondered, and, at last, some light broke in upon me. I thought I should

get hold of one principle at a time, work that out thoroughly, and then

take up the next, and so on, until all the springs of sullenness were

exhausted, and all supplies from without stopped. I was beginning to

suspect that the laws of habit worked here as elsewhere, and that, if

I could get our dear child to pass, say, six weeks without a “fallen

countenance,” she might lose this distressing failing for life.

I meant to take most of the trouble of this experiment upon myself, but

somehow I never can do anything without consulting my husband. I think

men have clearer heads than we women; that is, they can see _both_

sides of a question and are not carried off their feet by the one side

presented to them.

“Well, Edward, our little Agnes does not get over her sulky fits; in

fact, they last longer, and are harder to get out of than ever!”

“Poor little girl! It is unhappy for her and for all of us. But don’t

you think it is a sort of childish _malaise_ she will soon grow out of?”

“Now, have you not said, again and again, that a childish fault, left

to itself, can do no other than strengthen?”

“True; I suppose the fact is I am slow to realise the fault. But you

are right. From the point of view of _habit_ we are pledged to deal

with it. Have you made any plans?”

“Yes; I have been trying to work the thing out on your lines. We must

watch the rise of the sullen cloud, and change her thoughts before she

has time to realise that the black fit is coming.”

“You are right; if we can keep the child for only a week without this

settling of the cloud, the mere habit would be somewhat broken.”

We had not to wait for our opportunity. At breakfast next day--whether

Harry’s porridge looked more inviting than her own, or whether he

should not have been helped first, or whether the child had a little

pain of which she was hardly aware--suddenly, her eyes fell, brows

dropped, lips pouted, the whole face became slightly paler than before,

the figure limp, limbs lax, hands nerveless--and our gentle child was

transformed, become entirely unlovable. So far, her feelings were in

the emotional stage; her injury, whatever it was, had not yet taken

shape in her thoughts; she could not have told you what was the matter,

because she did not know; but very soon the thinking brain would come

to the aid of the quick emotions, and then she would be sulky of fixed

purpose. Her father saw the symptoms rise and knew what that would lead

to, and, with the promptness which has often saved us, he cried out--

“Agnes, come here, and hold up your pinafore!” and Agnes trotted up to

his side, her pinafore held up very much to receive the morning dole

of crumbs for the birds; presently, she came back radiant with the joy

of having given the birds a good breakfast, and we had no more sulky

fits that day. This went on for a fortnight or so, with fair but not

perfect success. Whenever her father or I was present, we caught the

emotion before the child was conscious of it, and succeeded in turning

her thoughts into some pleasant channel. But poor nurse has had bad

hours with Agnes; there would sit the child, pale and silent, for hours

together, doing nothing because she liked to do it, but only because

she was made. And, once the fit had settled down, thick and steady as

a London fog, neither her father nor I could help in the least. Oh, the

inconceivable settled cloudiness and irresponsiveness of that sweet

child face!

Our tactics were at fault. No doubt they helped so far as they went.

We managed to secure bright days that might otherwise have been cloudy

when we happened to be present at the first rise of the sullen mood.

But it seemed impossible to bring about so long an abstinence from

sullen fits as would eradicate the _habit_. We pictured to ourselves

the dreary life that lay before our pretty little girl; the sort of

insulation, the distrust of her sweetness, to which even one such

sullen fit would give rise; worse, the isolation which accompanies this

sort of temper, and the anguish of repentance to follow. And then, I

know, madness is often bred of this strong sense of injured personality.

It is not a pleasant thing to look an evil in the face. Whether or no

“a little knowledge is a dangerous,” certainly, it is a trying thing.

If we could only have contented ourselves with, “Oh, she’ll grow out of

it by-and-by,” we could have put up with even a daily cloud. But these

forecasts of our little girl’s future made the saving of the child at

_any_ cost our most anxious care.

“I’ll tell you what, Mary; we must strike out a new line. In a general

way, I do believe it’s best to deal with a child’s faults without

making him aware that he has them. It fills the little beings with a

ridiculous sense of importance to have anything belonging to _them_,

even a fault. But in this case, I think, we shall have to strike home

and deal with _the cause_ at least as much as with _the effects_, and

that, chiefly, because we have not effects entirely under our control.”

“But, Edward, what if there is no cure? What if this odious temper were

_hereditary_--our precious child’s inheritance from those who should

have brought her only good?”

“Poor little wife! so this is how it looks to you. You women are

sensitive creatures. Why, do you know, it never occurred to me that it

might be all _my_ fault. Well, I will not laugh at the fancy. Let us

take it seriously, even if, as it seems to me, a little morbid. Let

us suppose that this sad sullenness of which I hear so much and see

so little, is, indeed, Agnes’s inheritance from her mother--may she

only inherit all the rest, and happy the man whose life she blesses!

The question is not ‘How has it come?’ but ‘How are we to deal with

it?’--equally, you and I. Poor things! It’s but a very half-and-half

kind of matrimony if each is to pick out his or her own particular

bundle of failings, and deal with it single-handed. This poor man finds

the prospect too much for him! As a matter of fact, though, I believe

that every failing of mind, body, temper, and what not, is a matter of

inheritance, and that each parent’s particular business in life is to

pass his family forward freed from that particular vicious tendency

which has been his own bane--or hers, if you prefer it.”

“Well, dear, do as you will; I feel that you know best. What it would

be in these days of greater insight to be married to a man who would

say, ‘There, that boy may thank his mother’ for this or the other

failure. Of course, the thing is done now, but more often than not as a

random guess.”

“To return to Agnes. I think we shall have to show her to herself in

this matter, to rake up the ugly feeling, however involuntary, and let

her see how hateful it is. Yes, I do not wonder you shrink from this.

So do I. It will destroy the child’s unconsciousness.”

“Oh, Edward, how I dread to poke into the poor little wounded heart,

and bring up worse things to startle her!”

“I am sorry for you, dear, but I think it must be done; and don’t

you think you are the person to do it? While they have a mother I

don’t think I could presume to poke too much into the secrets of the

children’s hearts.”

“I’ll try; but if I get into a mess you must help me through.”

The opportunity came soon enough. It was pears this time. Harry would

never have known whether he had the biggest or the least. But we had

told nurse to be especially careful in this matter. “Each of the

children must have the biggest or best as often as one another, but

there must be no fuss, no taking turns, about such trifles. Therefore,

very rightly, you gave Harry the bigger and Agnes the smaller pear.”

Agnes’s pear was not touched; there the child sat, without word or sob,

but all gathered into herself, like a sea anemone whose tentacles have

been touched. The stillness, whiteness, and brooding sullenness of the

face, the limp figure and desolate attitude, would have made me take

the little being to my heart if I had not too often failed to reach

her in this way. This went on all day, all of us suffering; and in the

evening, when I went to hear the children’s prayers before bed, I meant

to have it out.

We were both frozen up with sadness, and the weary little one was ready

to creep into her mother’s heart again. But I must not let her yet.

“So my poor Agnes has had a very sad day?”

“Yes, mother,” with a little quivering sob.

“And do you know we have all had a very sad day,--father, mother, your

little brother, nurse--every one of us has felt as if a black curtain

had been hung up to shut out the sunshine?”

The child was sympathetic, and shivered at the sight of the black

curtain and the warm sunshine shut out.

“And do you know who has put us all out in the dark and the cold? Our

little girl drew the curtain, because she would not speak to any of

us, or be kind to any of us, or love any of us all the day long; so we

could not get into the sunshine, and have been shivering and sad in the

cold.”

“Mother, mother!” with gasping sobs; “_not_ you and father?”

“Ah! I thought my little girl would be sorry. Now let us try to find

out how it all happened. Is it possible that Agnes noticed that her

brother’s pear was larger than her own?”

“Oh, mother, how could I?” And the poor little face was hidden in

her mother’s breast, and the outbreak of sobs that followed was too

painful. I feared it might mean actual illness for the sensitive little

soul. I think it was the right thing to do; but I had barely courage

enough to leave the results in more loving hands.

“Never mind; don’t cry any more, darling, and we will ask our Father

above to forgive and forget all about it. Mother knows that her dear

little Agnes will try not to love herself best any more. And then the

black curtain will never fall, and we shall never again be a whole long

day standing sadly out in the cold. Good-night from mother, and another

sweet good-night from father.”

The treatment seems to answer. On the slightest return of the old

sullen symptoms we show our little girl what they mean. But the grief

that follows is so painful that I’m afraid we could not go on with it

for the sake of the child’s health. But, happily, we very rarely see a

sulky face now; and when we do we turn and look upon our child, and the

look melts her, until she is all gentleness, penitence, and love.

CHAPTER IV

_DOROTHY ELMORE’S ACHIEVEMENT: A FORECAST_

PART I

I know of no happier moment for parents than that when their eldest

daughter returns from school to take her place finally by her mother’s

side. It was two years that very day since we had seen Dorothy when her

father set out for Lausanne to bring her home; and how the children

and I got through the few days of his absence, I don’t know. The last

touches had been put, many times over, to her rooms--not the plain

little room she had left, but a dainty bower for our young maiden, a

little sitting-room opening into a pure nest of a bedroom. Our eyes

met, her father’s and mine, and moistened as we conjured up I don’t

know what visions of pure young life to be lived there, the virginal

prayers to be offered at the little prayer table, the gaiety of heart

that should, from this nook, bubble over the house, and, who knows,

by-and-by, the dreams of young love which should come to glorify the

two little rooms.

Two or three times already had the children put fresh flowers into

everything that would hold a flower. Pretty frocks and sweet faces,

bright hair and bright eyes, had been ready this long time to meet

sister Dorothy.

At last, a telegram from Dover--“Home by five”--and our restlessness

subsided into a hush of expectation.

The sound of wheels on the gravel, and we flew to the hall door and

stood in two files, children and maids, Rover and Floss, waiting to

welcome the child of the house. Then, a lovely face, glad to tears,

looking out of a nest of furs; then, a light leap, almost before the

carriage drew up, and I had her in my arms, my Dorothy, the child of

my heart! The order of the day was “high tea,” to which every one,

down to baby May, sat up. We two, her father and I, gave her up to the

children, only exchanging notes by the species of telegraphy married

folk understand.

“Indubitably lovely!” said her father’s eyes; “And what grace--what

an elegant girl she is!” answered mine; “And do but see what tact she

shows with the little ones;” “And notice the way she has with us, as

if her heart were brimming with reverence and affection.” Thus, we two

with our eyes. For a week or more we could not settle down. As it was

the Christmas holidays, we had not Miss Grimshaw to keep us in order,

and so it happened that wherever Dorothy ran,--no, she went with a

quick noiseless step, but never ran,--about the house to find out the

old dear nooks, we all followed; a troop of children with their mother

in the rear; their father too, if he happened to be in. Truly we were

a ridiculous family, and did our best to turn the child’s head. Every

much has its more-so. Dorothy’s two special partisans were Elsie,

our fifteen years old girl, fast treading in her sister’s steps, and

Herbert, our eldest son, soon to go to college. Elsie would come to my

room and discourse by the hour, her text being ever, “Dorothy says.”

And as for Herbs, it was pleasant to see his budding manhood express

itself in all sorts of little attentions to his lovely sister.

For lovely she was; there could not be two opinions on that point. A

lilymaid, tall and graceful, without a trace of awkwardness or self

consciousness; the exquisite complexion of the Elmores (they are a

Devonshire family), warm, lovely rose on pearly white, no hint of

brunette colouring; a smile which meant spring and love and other good

things; and deep blue eyes reflecting the light of her smile.

Never, not even during the raptures of early married life, have I known

a month of such joyous exhilaration as that which followed Dorothy’s

return, and I think her father would own as much.

What a month it was! There was the pleasant earthly joy of going to

town to get frocks for Dorothy; then the bewilderment of not being able

to find out what suited her best.

“Anything becomes her!” exclaims Mdme. la Modiste; “that figure, that

complexion, may wear anything.”

And then, the pleasure of entering a room--all eyes bent upon us in

kindliness; our dear old friends hurrying forward to make much of

the child; the deference and gentleness of her manner to these, and

the warmth with which she was received by her compeers, both maidens

and men; her grace in the dance; her simplicity in conversation; the

perfection of her manner, which was not manner at all, but her own

nature, in every situation. After all, she liked best to be at home;

was more amiable and lovely with father and mother, brothers and

sisters, than with the most fascinating strangers. Our good child! We

had grown a little shy of speaking to her about the best things, but we

knew she said her prayers: how else this outflow of sweet maiden life

upon us all?

I can imagine these ramblings of mine falling into the hands of a

young pair whose life is in each other:--“Oh, only the outpourings of

a doting mother!” and they toss the pages aside. But never believe,

young people, that yours are the only ecstatic moments, yours the only

experiences worth recording; wait and see.

PART II

These happy days had lasted for a month or more, when, one bright day

in February, I remember it well, a little cloud arose. This is how

it was: Dorothy had promised Elsie that she would drive her in the

pony-carriage to Banford to choose a doll for May’s birthday. Now, it

happened that I wanted the little carriage to take to my “Mothers” at

Ditchling the clothing I had bought in London with their club money. My

errand could not be deferred; it must be done that day or a week later.

But I did not see why the children’s commission would not do as well

to-morrow; and so I said, in good faith, as I was stepping into the

carriage, hardly noticing the silence with which my remark was received.

I came home tired, after a long afternoon, looking forward to the

welcome of the girls. The two seniors were sitting in the firelight,

bright enough just then to show me Dorothy sitting limp and pale in

a low chair, and Elsie watching her with a perplexed and anxious

expression. Dorothy did look up to say, “Are you tired, mother?” but

only her eyes looked, there was nothing behind them.

“_You_ look tired and cold enough, my dear; what has been the matter?”

“Oh, I’m very well, thank you; but I am tired, I think I’ll go to

bed.” And she held up a cold cheek for the mother’s kiss for which she

offered no return.

Elsie and I gazed at one another in consternation; our fairy princess,

our idol (was it indeed so?) What had come to her?

“What is the matter with Dorothy? Has she a headache?”

“Oh, mother, I don’t know,” said the poor child, on the verge of tears.

“She has been like this ever since you went, saying ‘Yes,’ and ‘No,’

and ‘No, thank you,’ quite kindly, but never saying a word of herself.

Has any one been grieving our Dorothy, or is she going to be ill? Oh,

mother, mother!”

“Nay, child, don’t cry. Dorothy is overdone; you know she has been out

twice this week, and three times last, and late hours don’t suit her.

We must take better care of her, that’s all.”

Elsie was comforted, but not so her mother. I believed every word I had

said to the child; but all the time there was a stir in my heart like

the rustling of a snake in the grass. But I put it from me.

It was with a hidden fear that I came down to breakfast. Dorothy was in

the room already doing the little duties of the breakfast table. But

she was pale and still; her hands moved, her figure hung, in the limp

way I had noticed the night before. Her cheek, a cold “Good-morning,

mother,” and a smile on her lips that brought no light to her eyes,

was all the morning salutation I got. Breakfast was an uncomfortable,

constrained meal. The children wondered what was the matter, and nobody

knew. Her father got on best with Dorothy for he knew nothing of the

evening’s history, so he petted her as usual, making all the more of

her for her pale looks.

For a whole week this went on, and never once was I allowed to meet

Dorothy eye to eye. The children were hardly better served, for they,

too, had noticed something amiss; only her father could win any of the

old friendliness, because he treated her as the Dorothy who had come

home to us, only a little done up.

“We must have the doctor for that child, wife. Don’t you see how she is

losing flesh, and how the roses she brought home are fading? She has no

appetite and no spirits. But, why, you surely don’t think our dainty

moth has burned her wings already? There’s nobody here, unless it’s

young Gardiner, and she would never waste herself on a gawky lad like

that!”

This was a new idea, and I stopped a moment to consider, for I knew of

at least half-a-dozen young men who had been attentive to Dorothy, all

to be preferred to this hobbledehoy young Gardiner. But, no! I could

trace the change from the moment of my return from Ditchling. But I

jumped at the notion of the doctor; it would, at any rate, take her out

of herself, and--we should see.

The doctor came; said she wanted tone; advised, not physic, but fresh

air, exercise, and early hours. So we all laid ourselves out to obey

his directions that day, but with no success to speak of.

But the next was one of those glorious February days when every twig

is holding itself stiffly in the pride of coming leafage, and the

snowdrops in the garden beds lift dainty heads out of the brown earth.

The joy of the spring did it. We found her in the breakfast-room,

snowdrops at her throat, rosy, beaming, joyous; a greeting, sweet

and tender, for each, and never had we known her talk so sparkling,

her air so full of dainty freshness. There was no relapse after this

sudden cure. Our good friend Dr. Evans called again, to find her in

such flourishing health that ten minutes’ raillery of “my poor patient”

was the only attention he thought necessary. But, “H’m! Mighty sudden

cure!” as he was going out, showed that he too found something odd in

this sudden change.

In a day or two we had forgotten all about our bad week. All went well

for awhile. At the end of five weeks, however, we were again pulled

up--another attack of sudden indisposition, so outsiders thought. What

did I think? Well, my thoughts were not enviable.

“Father, I wish you would call at Walker’s and choose me some flowers

for this evening.” It was the evening of the Brisbanes’ dance, and

I had half an idea that Arthur Brisbane had made some impression on

Dorothy. His state of mind was evident enough. But, without thinking

twice, I interrupted with--

“Don’t you think what we have in the ‘house’ will do, dear? What could

make up better than stephanotis and maidenhair?”

Dorothy made no answer, and her father, thinking all was right, went

off at once; he was already rather late. We thought no more of the

matter for a minute or two, when, at the same moment, Elsie and I

found our eyes fixed upon Dorothy. The former symptoms followed--days

of pallor and indisposition, which were, at the same time, days of

estrangement from us all. Again we had in Dr. Evans, “just to look

at her,” and this time I noticed--not without a foolish mother’s

resentment--that his greeting was other than cordial, “Well, young

lady, and what’s gone amiss this time?” he said, knitting his bushy

brows, and gazing steadily at her out of the eyes which could be keen

as well as kind. Dorothy flushed and fidgeted under his gaze, but gave

only the cold unsatisfactory replies we had been favoured with. The

prescription was as before; but again the recovery was sudden, and

without apparent cause.

PART III

To make a long story short, this sort of thing went on, at longer or

shorter intervals, through all that winter and summer and winter again.

My husband, in the simplicity of his nature, could see nothing but--

“The child is out of sorts; we must take her abroad for a month or two;

she wants change of air and scene.”

The children were quicker-eyed; children are always quick to resent

unevenness of temper in those about them. A single angry outbreak,

harsh word, and you may lay yourself out to please them for months

before they will believe in you again. Georgie was the first to let the

cat out of the bag.

“Dorothy is in a sulky fit again, mother; I wish she wouldn’t!”

Elsie, who has her father’s quick temper, was in the room.

“You naughty ungrateful little boy, you! How can you say such a thing

of Dorothy? Didn’t she sit all yesterday morning making sails for your

boat?”

Georgie, a little mollified, “Yes, but why need she be sulky to-day?

We all loved her yesterday, and I’m sure I want to to-day!”

Now that the mask was fallen and even the children could see what was

amiss, I felt that the task before me must not be put off. I had had

great misgivings since the first exhibition of Dorothy’s sullen temper;

now I saw what must be done, and braced myself for a heavy task. But

I could not act alone; I must take my husband into my confidence, and

that was the worst of it.

“George, how do you account for Dorothy’s fits of wretchedness?”

“Why, my dear, haven’t I told you? The child is out of sorts, and must

have change. We’ll have a little trip up the Rhine, and perhaps into

Switzerland, so soon as the weather is fit. It will be worth something

to see her face light up at some things I mean to show her!”

“I doubt if there is anything the matter with her health; remember how

perfectly well and happy she is between these fits of depression.”

“What is it, then? You don’t think she’s in love, do you?”

“Not a bit of it; her heart is untouched, and her dearest loves are

home loves.”

My husband blew his nose, with a “Bless the little girl! I could find

it in my heart to wish it might always be so with her. But what is your

notion? I can see you have got to the bottom of the little mystery.

Trust you women for seeing through a stone wall.”

“Each attack of what we have called ‘poorliness’ has been a fit of

sullenness, lasting sometimes for days, sometimes for more than a week,

and passing off as suddenly as it came.”

My dear husband’s face clouded with serious displeasure; never before

had it worn such an expression for me. I had a sense of separation from

him, as if we two, who had so long been one, were two once more.

“This is an extraordinary charge for a mother to bring against her

child. How have you come to this conclusion?”

Already was my husband become my judge. He did not see that I was ill,

agitated, still standing, and hardly able to keep my feet. And there

was worse to come: how was I to go through with it?

“What causes for resentment can Dorothy conceivably have?” he repeated,

in the same cold judicial tone.

“It is possible to feel resentment, it is possible to nurse resentment,

to let it hang as a heavy cloud-curtain between you and all you love

the best, without any adequate cause, without any cause that you can

see yourself when the fit is over!”

My voice sounded strange and distant in my own ears: I held by the back

of a chair to steady myself: but I was not fainting: I was acutely

alive to all that was passing in my husband’s mind. He looked at me

curiously, inquisitively, but not as if I belonged to him, and were

part and parcel of his life.

“You seem to be curiously familiar with a state of feeling which I

should have judged to be the last a Christian lady would know anything

about.”

“Oh, my husband, don’t you see? You are killing me. I am not going

through this anguish for nothing. I _do_ know what it is. And if

Dorothy, my poor child, suffers, it is all my fault! There is nothing

bad in her but what she has got from me.”

George was moved; he put his arm round me in time to save me. But I

was not surprised, a few days later, to find my first grey hairs. If

that hour were to be repeated, I think I could not bear it.

“Poor wife! I see; it is to yourself you have been savagely cruel, and

not to our little girl. Forgive me, dear, that I did not understand at

once; but we men are slow and dull. I suppose you are putting yourself

(and me too) to all this pain because there is something to be gained

by it. You see some way out of the difficulty, if there is one!”

“Don’t say ‘if there is one.’ How could I go through all this pain if I

did not think some way of helping our darling would come out of it?”

“Ah! appearances were against you, but I knew you loved the child all

the time. Clumsy wretch that I am, how could I doubt it? But, to my

mind, there are two difficulties: First, I cannot believe that you ever

cherished a thought of resentment; and next, who could associate such a

feeling with our child’s angelic countenance? No, my dear; believe me,

you are suffering under a morbid fancy. ’Tis you, and not Dorothy, who

need entire change of scene and thought.”

How should I convince him? And how again run the risk of his even

momentary aversion? But if Dorothy were to be saved, the thing must be

done. And, oh, how could he for a moment suppose that I should deal

unlovingly with my firstborn? “Be patient with me, George. I want to

tell you everything from the beginning.

“Do you remember when you wooed me in the shady paths of our old

rectory garden, how I tried hard to show you that I was not the loved

and lovely home-daughter you pictured? I told you how I was cross about

this and that; how little things put me out for days, so that I was

under a cloud, and really _couldn’t_ speak to, or care about anybody;

how, not I, but (forgive the word) my plain sister Helen, was the

beloved child of the house, adored by the children, by my parents, by

all the folk of the village, who must in one way or other have dealings

with the parson’s daughters. Do you recollect any of this?”

“Yes, but what of it? I have never for a moment rued my choice, nor

wished that it had fallen on our good Helen, kindest of friends to us

and ours.”

“And you, dear heart, put all I said down to generosity and humility;

every effort I made to show you the truth was put down to the count of

some beautiful virtue, until at last I gave it up; you _would_ only

think the more of me, and think the less kindly of my dear home people,

because, indeed, they didn’t ‘appreciate’ me. How I hated the word. I’m

not sure I was sorry to give up the effort to show you myself as I was.

The fact is, your love made me all it believed me to be, and I thought

the old things had passed away.”

“Well, dear, and wasn’t I right? Have we had a single cloud upon our

married life?”

“Ah, dear man, little you know what the first two years of married

life were to me. If you read your newspaper, I resented it; if you

spent half-an-hour in your smoking den, or an hour with a friend, if

you admired another woman, I resented each and all, kept sulky silence

for days, even for weeks. And you, all the time, thought no evil, but

were sorry for your poor ‘little wife,’ made much of her, and loved her

all the more, the more sullen and resentful she became. She was ‘out

of sorts,’ you said, and planned a little foreign tour, as you are now

doing for Dorothy. I do believe you loved me out of it at last. The

time came when I felt myself hunted down by these sullen rages. I ran

away, took immense walks, read voraciously, but could not help myself

till our first child came; God’s gift, our little Dorothy. Her baby

fingers healed me as not even your love could do. But, oh, George,

don’t you see?”

“My poor Mary! Yes, I see; your healing was bought at the little

child’s expense, and the plague you felt within you was passed on to

her. This, I see, is your idea; but I still believe it is a morbid

fancy, and I still think my little trip will cure both mother and

daughter.”

“You say well, mother and daughter. The proverb should run, not a burnt

child dreads the fire, but a burnt child will soonest catch fire! I

feel that all my old misery will come back upon me if I am to see the

same thing repeated in Dorothy.” George sat musing for a minute or two,

but my fear of him was gone; his face was full of tenderness for both

of us.

“Do you know, Mary, I doubt if I’m right to treat this effort of yours

with a high hand, and prescribe for evils I don’t understand. Should

you mind very much our calling our old friend, Dr. Evans, into council?

I believe, after all, it will turn out to be an affair for him rather

than for me.”

This was worse than all. Were the miseries of this day to know no end?

Should we, my Dorothy and her mother, end our days in a madhouse? I

turned my eyes on my husband, and he understood.

“Nonsense, wife, not that! Now you really are absurd, and must allow

me the relief of laughing at you. There, I feel better now, but I

understand; a few years ago a doctor was never consulted about this

kind of thing unless it was supposed to denote insanity. But we have

changed all that, and you’re as mad as a hatter to get the notion.

You’ve no idea how interesting it is to hear Evans talk of the mutual

relations between thought and brain, and on the other hand, between

thought and character. Homely an air as he has, he is up to all that’s

going on. You know he went through a course of study at Leipsic, where

they know more than we about the brain and its behaviour, and then, he

runs across every year to keep himself abreast with the times. It isn’t

every country town that is blessed with such a man.”

I thought I was being let down gently to the everyday level, and

answered as we answer remarks about the weather, until George said--

“Well, when shall we send for Evans? The sooner we get more light on

this matter, the better for all of us.”

“Very well, send for him to-morrow; tell him all I have told you, and,

if you like, I shall be here to answer further questions.”

PART IV

“Mrs. Elmore is quite right; this is no morbid fancy of hers. I have

observed your pretty Miss Dorothy, and had my own speculations. Now,

the whole thing lies in a nutshell.”

“Can you deal with our trouble, doctor?” I cried out.

“Deal with it, my dear madam? Of course I can. Your Dorothy is a good

girl, and will yield herself to treatment. As to that, you don’t want

me. The doctor is only useful on the principle that lookers on see most

of the game. Once understand the thing, and it is with you the cure

must lie.”

“Please explain; you will find me very obedient.”

“I’m not so sure of that; you know the whole of my mental property has

not been gathered in this right little, tight little island. You ladies

look very meek; but directly one begins to air one’s theories--which

are not theories, by the way, but fixed principles of belief and

conduct--you scent all manner of heterodoxy, and because a valuable

line of scientific thought and discovery is new to you, you take up

arms, with the notion that it flies in the face of the Bible. When, as

a matter of fact, every new advance in science is a further revelation,

growing out, naturally, from that we already have.”

“Try me, doctor; your ’doxy shall be my ’doxy if you will only take us

in hand, and I shall be ready enough to believe that your science is by

revelation.”

“Well, here goes. In for a penny, in for a pound. In the first place,

I want to do away with the sense of moral responsibility, both for

yourself and Dorothy, which is wearing you out. Or, rather, I want

to circumscribe its area and intensify its force. Dorothy has,

perhaps, and conceivably her mother has also, inherited her peculiar

temperament; but you are not immediately responsible for that.

She, again, has fostered this inherited trait, but neither is she

immediately responsible for the fact.”

“How do you mean, doctor? That we can’t help it, and must take our

nature as we find it? But that is worse than ever. No; I cannot believe

it. Certainly my husband has done a great deal to cure me.”

“No doubt he has. And how he has done it, without intention, I dare

say, I hope by-and-by to show you. Perhaps you now and then remark,

What creatures of habit we are!”

“And what of that? No one can help being struck now and then with the

fact; especially, no mother.”

“Well, and what does this force of habit amount to? and how do you

account for it?”

“Why, I suppose it amounts to this, that you can do almost anything

once you get into the way of it. Why, I don’t know; I suppose it’s the

natural constitution of the mind.”

“The ‘natural constitution of the mind’ is a conversational counter

with whose value I am not acquainted. That you can get into the way of

doing almost anything, is simple fact; but you must add, of thinking

anything, of feeling anything, before you begin to limit the force of

habit.”

“I think I begin to see what you mean. We, my child and I, are not so

much to blame now for our sullen and resentful feelings, because we

have got the habit of them. But surely habits may be cured?”

“Ah, once we begin to see that, we are to blame for them. We must ask,

How are we to set about the cure? What’s to be _done_? What hopeless

idiots we are, the best of us, not to see that the very existence of an

evil is a demand for its cure, and that, in the moral world, there’s a

dock for every nettle!”

“And then, surely, the sins of the fathers visited upon the children,

is a bitter law. How could Dorothy help what she inherited?”

“Dorothy could not help it, but you could; and what have you two

excellent parents been about to defer until the child is budding into

womanhood this cure which should have been achieved in her infancy?

Surely, seventeen years ago at least, you must have seen indications

of the failing which must needs be shown up now, to the poor girl’s

discredit.”

I grew hot all over under this home thrust, while George looked half

dubious, half repentant, not being quite sure where his offence lay.

“It is doubly my fault, doctor, I see it all now. When Dorothy was a

child I _would_ not face the fact. It was too awful to think my child

would be as I still was. So we had many little fictions that both nurse

and mother saw through: the child was poorly, was teething still, was

overdone. The same thing, only more so, went on during her schoolroom

life. Dorothy was delicate, wanted stamina, must have a tonic. And

this, though we had a governess who tried to convince me that it

was temper and not delicacy that ailed my little girl. The worst of

deceiving yourself is that you get to believe the lie. I saw much less

of the schoolroom than of the nursery party, and firmly believed in

Dorothy’s frequent attacks of indisposition.”

“But, supposing you had faced the truth, what would you have done?”

“There is my excuse; I had no idea that anything could be done.”

“Now, please, don’t write me down a pagan if I try to show you what

might have been done, and may yet be done.”

“Doctor Evans!”

“Oh, yes, ’tis a fact; you good women are convinced that the setting

of a broken limb is a work for human skill, but that the cure of a

fault of disposition is for Providence alone to effect, and you say

your prayers and do nothing, looking down from great heights upon us

who believe that skill and knowledge come in here too, and are meant to

do so in the divine scheme of things. It’s startling when you come to

think of it, that every pair of parents have the absolute _making_ of

their child!”

“But what of _inherited_ failings--such cases as this of ours?”

“Precisely a case in point. Don’t you see, such a case is just a

problem set before parents with a, ‘See, how will you work out this so

as to pass your family on free from taint?’”

“That’s a noble thought of yours, Evans. It gives every parent a

share in working out the salvation of the world, even to thousands

of generations. Come, Mary, we’re on our promotion! To pass on our

children free from the blemishes they get from us is a thing worth

living for.”

“Indeed it is. But don’t think me narrow-minded, doctor, nor that I

should presume to think hard things of you men of science, if I confess

that I still think the ills of the flesh fall within the province of

man, but the evils of the spirit within the province of God.”

“I’m not sure but that I’m of your mind; where we differ is as to

the boundary line between flesh and spirit. Now, every fault of

disposition and temper, though it may have begun in error of the spirit

in ourselves or in some ancestor, by the time it becomes a fault of

character is _a failing of the flesh_, and is to be dealt with as

such--that is, by appropriate treatment. Observe, I am not speaking of

occasional and sudden temptations and falls, or of as sudden impulses

towards good, and the reaching of heights undreamed of before. These

things are of the spiritual world, and are to be spiritually discerned.

But the failing or the virtue which has become habitual to us is flesh

of our flesh, and must be treated on that basis whether it is to be

uprooted or fostered.”

“I confess I don’t follow: this line of argument should make the work

of redemption gratuitous. Every parent can save his child, and every

man can save himself.”

“No, my dear; there you’re wrong. I agree with Evans. ’Tis we who lose

the efficacy of the great Redemption by failing to see what it _has_

accomplished. That we have still to engage in a spiritual warfare,

enabled by spiritual aids, Dr. Evans allows. His point is, as I

understand it, why embarrass ourselves with these less material ills of

the flesh which are open to treatment on the same lines, barring the

drugs, as a broken limb or a disordered stomach. Don’t you see how it

works? We fall, and fret, and repent, and fall again; and are so over

busy with our own internal affairs, that we have no time to get that

knowledge of the Eternal which is the life of the living soul?”

“All this is beyond me. I confess it is neither the creed nor the

practice in which I was brought up. Meantime, how is it to affect

Dorothy? That is the practical question.”

Dr. Evans threw a smiling “I told you so” glance at my husband, which

was a little annoying; however, he went on:--

“To be sure; that is the point. Poor Dorothy is just now the occasional

victim of a troop of sullen, resentful thoughts and feelings, which

wear her out, shut out the sunshine, and are as a curtain between her

and all she loves. Does she want these thoughts? No; she hates and

deplores them on her knees, we need not doubt; resolves against them;

goes through much spiritual conflict. She is a good girl, and we may

be sure of all this. Now we must bring physical science to her aid.

How those thoughts began we need not ask, but there they are; they

go patter, patter, to and fro, to and fro, in the nervous tissue of

the brain, until--here is the curious point of contact between the

material and the immaterial, we see by results that there is such

point of contact, but how or why it is so we have not even a guess

to offer--until the nervous tissue is modified under the continued

traffic in the same order of thoughts. Now, these thoughts become

automatic; they come of themselves, and spread and flow as a river

makes and enlarges its bed. Such habit of thought is set up, and

must go on indefinitely, in spite of struggles, unless--and here is

the word of hope--a contrary habit is set up, diverting the thoughts

into some quite new channel. Keep the thoughts running briskly in the

new channel, and, behold, the old connections are broken while a new

growth of brain substance is perpetually taking place. The old thoughts

return, and there is no place for them, and Dorothy has time to make

herself think of other things before they can establish again the old

links. There is, shortly, the philosophy of ordering our thoughts--the

first duty of us all.”

“That is very wonderful, and should help us. Thank you very much; I

had no idea that our _thoughts_ were part and parcel, as it were, of

any substance. But I am not sure yet how this is to apply to Dorothy.

It seems to me that it will be very difficult for her, poor child,

to bring all this to bear on herself. It will be like being put into

trigonometry before you are out of subtraction.”

“You are right, Mrs. Elmore, it will be a difficult piece of work, to

which she will have to give herself up for two or three months. If I

am not mistaken in my estimate of her, by that time we shall have a

cure. But if you had done the work in her childhood, a month would have

effected it, and the child herself would have been unconscious of

effort.”

“How sorry I am. Do tell me what I should have done.”

“The tendency was there, we will allow; but you should never have

allowed the _habit_ of this sort of feeling to be set up. You should

have been on the watch for the outward signs--the same then as now,

some degree of pallor, with general limpness of attitude, and more or

less dropping of the lips and eyes. The moment one such sign appeared,

you should have been at hand to seize the child out of the cloud she

was entering, and to let her bask for an hour or two in love and light,

forcing her to meet you eye to eye, to find only love and joy in yours.

Every sullen attack averted is so much against setting up the habit;

and habit, as you know, is a chief factor in character.”

“And can we do nothing for her now?”

“Certainly you can. Ignore the sullen humours, let gay life go on as

if she was not there, only drawing her into it now and then by an

appeal for her opinion, or for her laugh at a joke. Above all, when

good manners compel her to look up, let her meet unclouded eyes, full

of pleasure in her; for, believe, whatever cause of offence she gives

to you, she is far more deeply offensive to herself. And you should do

this all the more because, poor girl, the brunt of the battle will fall

upon her.”

“I see you are right; all along, her sullenness has given way before

her father’s delight in her, and indeed it is in this way that my

husband has so far cured me. I suppose you would say he had broken the

habit. But won’t you see her and talk to her? I know you can help her

most.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I was going to ask you if I might; her

sensitive nature must be gently handled; and, just because she has

no such love for me as for her parents, I run less risk of wounding

her. Besides, I have a secret to tell which should help her in the

management of herself.”

“Thank you, Evans; we are more grateful than I can say. Will you strike

while the iron’s hot? Shall we go away and send her to you, letting her

suppose it is a mere medical call?”

PART V

“Good-morning, Miss Dorothy; do you know I think it’s quite time this

state of things should come to an end. We are both tired of the humbug

of treating you for want of health when you are quite strong and well.”

Dorothy looked up with flushed face (I had it all later from both Dr.

Evans and Dorothy herself), and eyes half relieved, half doubtful, but

not resentful, and stood quietly waiting.

“All the same, I think you are in a bad way, and are in great need of

help. Will you bear with me while I tell you what is the matter, and

how you may be cured?”

Dorothy was past speaking, and gave a silent assent.

“Don’t be frightened, poor child, I don’t speak to hurt you, but to

help. A considerable part of a life which should be all innocent gaiety

of heart, is spent in gloom and miserable isolation. Some one fails to

dot his i’s, and you resent it, not in words or manner, being too well

brought up; but the light within you is darkened by a flight of black

thoughts. ‘He (or she) shouldn’t have done it! It’s too bad! They

don’t care how they hurt me! I should never have done so to her!’--and

so on without end. Presently you find yourself swathed in a sort of

invisible shroud; you cannot reach out a living hand to anybody, nor

speak in living tones, nor meet your dear ones eye to eye with a living

and loving glance. There you sit, like a dead man at the feast. By this

time you have forgotten the first offence, and would give the world to

get out of this death-in-life. You cry, you say your prayers, beg to

be forgiven and restored, but your eyes are fixed upon yourself as a

hateful person, and you are still wrapped in the cloud; until, suddenly

(no doubt in answer to your prayers), a hug from little May, the first

primrose of the year, a lark, filling the world with his gladness, and,

presto! the key is turned, the enchanted princess liberated, glad as

the lark, sweet as the flower, and gay as the bright child!”

No answer: Dorothy’s arms laid on the table, and her face hidden upon

them. At last, in a choked voice--“Please go on, doctor!”

“All this may be helped,” a start: “may, within two or three months, be

completely cured, become a horrid memory and nothing more!” A gasp, and

streaming eyes raised, where the light of hope was struggling with fear

and shame.

“This is very trying for you, dear child! But I must get on with my

task, and when I have done, it’s my belief you’ll forget the pain for

joy. In the first place, you are not a very wicked girl because these

ugly thoughts master you; I don’t say, mind you, that you will be

without offence once you get the key between your fingers; but as it

is, you need not sit in judgment on yourself any more.”

Then Dr. Evans went on to make clear to Dorothy what he had already

made clear to us of the interaction of thought and brain; how that

Thought, Brain, & Co., were such close allies that nobody could tell

which of the two did what: that they even ran a business of their own,

independently of _Ego_, who was supposed to be the active head of the

firm, and so on.

Dorothy listened with absorbed intentness, as if every word were

saving; but the light of hope died slowly out.

“I think I see what you mean; these black thoughts come and rampage

even against the desire of the _Ego_, I, myself: but, oh doctor, don’t

you see, that’s all the worse for me?”

“Stop a bit, stop a bit, my dear young lady, I have not done yet. _Ego_

sees things are going wrong and asserts himself; sets up new thoughts

in a new course, and stops the old traffic, and in course of time, and

a very short time too, the old nerve connections are broken, and the

old way under tillage; no more opening for traffic there. Have you got

it?”

“I think so. I’m to think of something else, and soon there will be no

room in the brain for the ugly thoughts which distress me. But that’s

just the thing I can’t do!”

“But that is exactly the only thing you have power to do! Have you any

idea what the will is, and what are its functions?”

“I don’t know much about it. I suppose your will should make you able

to do the right thing when you feel you can’t! You should say, I

will, and go and do it. But you don’t know how weak I am. It makes no

difference to me to say, I will!”

“Well, now, to own up honestly, I don’t think it ever made much

difference to anybody outside of the story-books. All the same, Will is

a mighty fellow in his own way, but he goes with a sling and a stone,

and not with the sword of Goliath. He attacks the giant with what seems

a child’s plaything, and the giant is slain. This is how it works.

When ill thoughts _begin_ to molest you, turn away your mind with a

vigorous turn, and _think of something else_. I don’t mean think good

forgiving thoughts, perhaps you are not ready for that yet; but think

of something interesting and pleasant; the new dress you must plan, the

friend you like best, the book you are reading; best of all, fill heart

and mind suddenly with some capital plan for giving pleasure to some

poor body whose days are dull. The more exciting the thing you think

of, the safer you are. Never mind about fighting the evil thought. This

is the one thing you have to do; for this is, perhaps, the sole power

the will has. It enables you to change your thoughts; to turn yourself

round from gloomy thoughts to cheerful ones. Then you will find that

your prayers will be answered, for you will know what to ask for, and

will not turn your back on the answer when it comes. There, child, I

have told you the best secret of an old man’s life, and have put into

your hands the key of self-government and a happy life. Now you know

how to be better than he that taketh a city.”

“Thank you a thousand times for your precious secret. You have lifted

my feet out of the slough. I _will_ change my thoughts (may I say

that?). You shall find that your key does not rust for want of use. I

trust I may be helped from above never to enter that cloud again.”

And she did not. It is five years since she had that talk in the

library with Dr. Evans (he died within the year, to our exceeding

regret). What battles she fought we never heard; never again was

the subject alluded to. For two years she was our constantly loving

and joyous home daughter; for three, she has been Arthur Brisbane’s

happy-hearted wife; and her little sunbeam of an Elsie--no fear that

she will ever enter the cloud in which mother and grandmother were so

nearly lost.

CHAPTER V

_CONSEQUENCES_

Have you ever played at “Consequences,” dear reader? This is how it

goes. He said to her, “It’s a cold day.” She said to him, “I like

chocolates.” The consequence was, they were both put to death, and the

world said, “It serves them right.”

Just so exquisitely inconsequent is the game of “consequences” in

real life--at which many a child is an unwilling player, and just so

arbitrary their distribution. We are all born heirs to all the Russias

if a certain aptness at autocratic government can be construed into a

title. Watch the children in the street play at keeping school; how

the schoolmistress lavishes “handers,” how she corners and canes her

scholars! And the make-believe scholars enter into the game. They would

do the same if they had the chance, and their turn will come.

How does it work in real life, this turn for autocracy, which, you may

observe, gives zest to most of the children’s games?

Little Nancy is inclined to be fretful; her nurse happens to be

particularly busy that morning looking out the children’s summer

clothing. She is a kind-hearted woman, and fond of Nancy, but, “Why

does the child whine so?” And a hasty box on the little ear emphasises

the indignant query. There is mischief already, which is the cause of

the whining; and, by that concussion, Nancy is “put to death,” like

the people in the game; not for a year or two, though, and nobody

associates nurse with the family sorrow; and she, for her part, never

thinks again of that hasty blow. But, you object, nurse is ignorant,

though kind; with the child’s parents, it is otherwise. Yes, but not

entirely otherwise. Mr. Lindsay, who is a book-lover, goes into his

den to find his little boy of four, making “card-houses,” with some

choice new volumes he has clambered after; down they go bump, and the

corners are turned, and the books unsightly objects evermore. “What

are you doing here, child? Go to the nursery, and don’t let me see you

here again!” Ah, me! Does he know how deep it cuts? Does he know that

the ten minutes romp with “father” in his room is the supreme joy of

the day for little Dick? And does he know that everything is for ever

and ever to a little child, whose experience has not yet taught him

the trick of hoping when things look dark? But, “It is for the child’s

good;” is it? Dick does not yet know what is wrong. “Never touch books

which are not given you to play with,” would have instructed him, and

hindered similar mischief in the future.

How is it that devoted nurse and affectionate father cause injurious

“concussions,” moral and physical, to a child’s tender nature? A good

deal is to be set down to ignorance or thoughtlessness; they do not

know, or they do not consider, how this and that must affect a child.

But the curious thing is that grown-up people nearly always err on the

same lines. The arbitrary exercise of authority on the part of parent,

nurse, governess, whoever is set in authority over him, is the real

stone of stumbling and rock of offence in the way of many a child. Nor

is there room for the tender indulgent mother to congratulate herself

and say, “I always thought Mrs. Naybor was too hard on her children,”

for the most ruinous exercise of arbitrary authority is when the mother

makes herself a law unto her child, with power to excuse him from his

duties, and to grant him (more than papal) indulgences. This sort of

tender parent is most tenacious of her authority, no one is permitted

to interfere with her rule--for rule it is, though her children are

notably unruly. She answers all suggestions and expostulation with

one formula: My children shall never have it to say that their mother

refused them anything it was in her power to give.

“In her power.” This mother errs in believing that her children are

hers--in her power, body and soul. Can she not do what she likes with

her own?

It is worth while to look to the springs of conduct in human nature for

the source of this common cause of the mismanagement of children. There

must be some unsuspected reason for the fact that persons of weak and

of strong nature should err in the same direction.

In every human being there are implanted, as we know, certain so-called

primary or natural desires, which are among the springs or principles

out of which his action or conduct flows. These desires are neither

virtuous nor vicious in themselves: they are quite involuntary: they

have place equally in the savage and savant: he who makes his appeal

to any one of those primary desires is certain of a hearing. Thus,

every man has an innate desire of companionship: every man wants to

_know_, however little worthy the objects of his curiosity: we all want

to stand well with our neighbours, however fatuously we lay ourselves

out for esteem: we would, each of us, fain be the best at some one

thing, if it be only a game of chance which excites our emulation; and

we would all have rule, have authority, even if our ambition has no

greater scope than the rule of a dog or a child affords. These desires

being primary or natural, the absence of any one of them in a human

being makes that person so far unnatural. The man who hates society

is a misanthrope; he who has no curiosity is a clod. But, seeing that

a man may make shipwreck of his character and his destiny by the

excessive indulgence of any one of these desires, the regulation,

balancing, and due ordering of these springs of action is an important

part of that wise self-government which is the duty of every man,

especially of every Christian man.

It is not that the primary desires are the only springs of action; we

all know that the affections, the appetites, the emotions, play their

part, and that reason and conscience are the appointed regulators of

machinery which may be set in motion by a hundred impulses. But the

subject for our consideration is the punishments inflicted on children;

and we shall not arrive at any safe conclusion unless we regard these

punishments from the point of view of the punisher as well as from that

of the punished.

Now every one of the primary desires, as well as of the affections and

appetites, has a tendency to run riot if its object be well within

its grasp. The desire of society undirected and unregulated may lead

to endless gadding about and herding together. The fine principle

of curiosity may issue in an inordinate love of gossip, and of poor

disconnected morsels of knowledge served up in scraps, which are of the

nature of gossip. Ambition, the desire of power, comes into play when

we have a live thing to order, and we rule child and servant, horse and

dog. And it is well that we should. The person who is (comparatively)

without ambition has no capacity to rule. Have you a nurse who

“manages” children well? She is an ambitious woman, and her ambition

finds delightful scope in the government of the nursery. At the same

time, the love of power, unless it be duly and carefully regulated

and controlled, leads to arbitrary behaviour--that is, to lawless,

injurious behaviour--towards those under our rule. Nay, we may be so

carried away, intoxicated, by a fierce lust of power that we do some

terrible irrevocable deed of cruelty to a tender child-body or soul,

and wake up to never-ending remorse. We meant no harm; we meant to

teach obedience, and, good God! we have killed a child.

Within the last few years tales have been told in the newspapers of

the savage abuse of power, free for the time being from external

control; tales, which, be they true or not, should make us all commune

with our hearts and be still. For, we may believe it, they who have

done these things are no worse than we could be. They had opportunity

to do ill deeds, and they did them. We have not been so far left to

ourselves. But let us look ourselves in the face; let us recognise

that the principle which has betrayed others into the madness of crime

is inherent in us also, and that whether it shall lead us to heights

of noble living or to criminal cruelty is not a matter to be left to

the chapter of accidents. We have need of the divine grace to prevent

and follow us, and we have need to consciously seek and diligently use

this grace to keep us who are in authority in the spirit of meekness,

remembering always that the One who is entrusted with the rod of iron

is meek and lowly of heart.

In proportion as we keep ourselves fully alive to our tendency in

this matter of authority may we trust ourselves to administer the law

to creatures so tender in body and soul as are the little children.

We shall remember that a word may wound, that a look may strike as a

blow. It may indeed be necessary to wound in order to heal, but we

shall examine ourselves well before we use the knife. There will be

no hasty dealing out of reproof and punishment, reward and praise,

according to the manner of mood we are in. We shall not only be aware

that our own authority is deputed, and to be used with the meekness

of wisdom; but we shall be infinitely careful in our choice of the

persons in whose charge we place our children. It is not enough that

they be good Christian people. We all know good Christian persons

of an arbitrary turn who venture to wield that rod of iron which is

safe in the hands of One alone. Let them be good Christian persons of

culture and self-knowledge, not the morbid self-knowledge that comes

of introspection, but that far wider, humbler cognisance of self that

comes of a study of the guiding principles and springs of action common

to us all as human beings, and which brings with it the certainty

that--“I am just such an one as the rest, might even be as the worst,

were it not for the grace of God and careful walking.”

It is no doubt much easier to lay down our authority and let the

children follow their own lead, or be kept in order by another, than to

exercise constant watchfulness in the exercise of our calling. But this

is not in our option; we must _rule_ with diligence. It is necessary

for the children that we should; but we must keep ourselves continually

in check, and see that our innate love of power finds lawful outlet in

the building up of a child’s character, and not in the rude rebuff, the

jibe and sneer, the short answer and hasty slap which none of us older

people could conceivably endure ourselves, and yet practise freely on

the children “for their good.”

“To this day,” says an American author,[22] “the old tingling pain

burns my cheeks as I recall certain rude and contemptuous words which

were said to me when I was very young, and stamped on my memory for

ever. I was once called ‘a stupid child’ in the presence of strangers.

I had brought the wrong book from my father’s study. Nothing could be

said to me to-day which would give me a tenth part of the hopeless

sense of degradation which came from those words. Another time, on

the arrival of an unexpected guest to dinner, I was sent, in a great

hurry, away from the table to make room, with the remark that ‘it was

not of the least consequence about the child; she could just as well

have her dinner afterward.’ ‘The child’ would have been only too happy

to help in the hospitality of the sudden emergency if the thing had

been differently put; but the sting of having it put that way I never

forgot. Yet, in both these instances, the rudeness was so small in

comparison with what we habitually see that it would be too trivial to

mention, except for the bearing of the fact that the pain it gave has

lasted until now.”

“What, is it severity in these maudlin days to call a child ‘stupid’? A

pretty idiot he’ll make of himself when the world comes to bandy names

with him if he’s to be brought up on nothing but the butter and honey

of soft speeches.” This is a discordant protest, not at all in harmony

with the notions of perfect child-living with which we are amusing

ourselves in these days; but we cannot afford to turn a deaf ear to it.

“Don’t make a fool of the child,” was the warning young mothers used

to get from their elders. But we have changed all that, and a child’s

paradise must be prepared for the little feet to walk in. “He’s so

happy at school,” we are told, and we ask no more. We have reversed the

old order; it used to be, “If he’s good, he will be happy;” now we say,

“If he’s happy, he will be good.” Goodness and happiness are regarded

as convertible terms, only we like best to put “happy” as the cause,

and “good” as the consequent. And the child brought up on these lines

is both happy and good without much moral effort of self-compelling

on his own part, while our care is to surround him with happy-making

circumstances until he has got into the trick, as it were, of being

good.

But there’s something rotten in the state of Denmark. Once upon a time

there was a young mother who conceived that every mother might be

the means of gracing her offspring with fine teeth: “For,” said she,

“it stands to reason that for every year of wear and grind you save

the child’s teeth, the man will have a fine set a year the longer.”

“Nonsense, my dear madam,” said the doctor, “you are ruining the

child’s teeth with all this pappy food; they’ll be no stronger than

egg-shells. Give him plenty of hard crusts to crunch, a bone to gnaw;

he must have something to harden his teeth upon.” Just so of the moral

“teeth” by means of which the child must carve out a place for himself

in this full world. He must endure hardness if you would make a man of

him. Blame as well as praise, tears as well as smiles, are of human

nature’s daily food; pungent speech is a ‘tool of the tongue’ not

to be altogether eschewed in the building of character; let us call

a spade a spade, and the child who brings the wrong book “stupid,”

whether before strangers or behind them. Much better this than a

chamber-conference with “Mother” about every trifle, which latter is

apt to lead to a habit of morbid self-introspection.

We are, in truth, between Scylla and Charybdis: on this side, the

six-headed, many-toothed monster of our own unbridled love of power;

on that, the whirlpool of emasculating softness which would engulf

the manly virtues of our poor little Ulysses. If you must choose, let

it be Scylla rather than Charybdis, counsels our Circe; better lose

something through the monster with the teeth, than lose yourself in the

whirlpool. But is there not a better way?

Weigh his estate and thine; accustom’d, he,

To all sweet courtly usage that obtains

Where dwells the King. How, with thy utmost pains,

Canst thou produce what shall full worthy be?

One, “greatest in the kingdom,” is with thee,

Whose spirit yet beholds the Father’s face,

And, thence replenish’d, glows with constant grace;

Take fearful heed lest he despiséd be!

Order thy goings softly, as before

A Prince; nor let thee out unmannerly

In thy rude moods and irritable: more,

Beware lest round him wind of words rave free.

Refrain thee; see thy speech be sweet and rare:

Thy ways, consider’d; and thine aspect, fair.

FOOTNOTES:

[22] “Bits of Talk about Home Matters,” by Helen Hunt

Jackson.

CHAPTER VI

_MRS. SEDLEY’S TALE_

It is very strange how a moral weakness in her child gives a mother the

same sense of yearning pity that she has for a bad bodily infirmity. I

wonder if that is how God feels for us when we go on year by year doing

the thing we hate? I think a mother gets to understand many things

about the dealings of God that are not plain to others. For instance,

how it helps me to say, “I believe in the forgiveness of sins,” when I

think of my poor little Fanny’s ugly fault. Though there is some return

of it nearly every day, what could I do but forgive?

But forgiveness that does not heal is like the wretched ointments with

which poor people dress their wounds. In one thing I know I have not

done well; I have hardly said a word to John about the poor little

girlie’s failing, though it has troubled me constantly for nearly a

year. But I think he suspects there is something wrong; we never talk

quite freely about our shy pretty Fanny. Perhaps that is one reason for

it. She is such a nervous timid little being, and looks so bewitching

when the long lashes droop, the tender mouth quivers, and the colour

comes and goes in the soft cheek, that we are shy of exposing, even

to each other, the faults we see in our graceful fragile little girl.

Perhaps neither of us quite trusts the other to deal with Fanny, and to

use the knife sparingly.

But this state of things must not go on: it is a miserable thing to

write down, but I cannot believe a word the child says! And the evil

is increasing. Only now and then used Fanny to be detected in what we

called a fib, but now the terrible doubt lest that little mouth may be

at any moment uttering lies takes the delight out of life, and accounts

for the pale looks which give my kind husband so much concern.

For example, only within the last day or two I have noticed the

following and other such examples:--

“Fanny, did you remember to give my message to cook?”

“Yes, mother.”

“And what did she say?”

“That she wouldn’t be able to make any jam to-day because the fruit had

not come.”

I went into the kitchen shortly after, and found cook stirring the

contents of a brass pan, and, sad to say, I asked no questions. It was

one of Fanny’s circumstantial statements of the kind I have had most

reason to doubt. Did she lie because she was afraid to own that she

had forgotten? Hardly so: knowing the child’s sensitive nature, we

have always been careful not to visit her small misdemeanours with any

punishment whenever she “owned up.” And then, cowardice would hardly

cause her to invent so reasonable an answer for cook. Again:

“Did you meet Mrs. Fleming’s children?”

“Oh, yes, mother! and Berty was so rude! He pushed Dotty off the

curb-stone!”

Nurse, who was sitting by the fire with baby, raised her eyebrows in

surprise, and I saw the whole thing was an invention. Another more

extraordinary instance:

“Mother, when we were in the park we met Miss Butler, just by the

fountain, you know; and she kissed me, and asked me how my mother

is”--said _à-propos_ of nothing, in the most quiet, easy way.

I met Miss Butler this morning, and thanked her for the kind inquiries

she had been making through my little girl; and--“Do you think Fanny

grown?”

Miss Butler looked perplexed; Fanny was a great favourite of hers,

perhaps because of the loveliness of which her parents could not

pretend to be unaware.

“It is more than a month since I have seen the little maid, but I shall

look in soon, and gladden her mother’s heart with all the praises my

sweet Fan deserves!”

Little she knew that shame, and not pride, dyed my cheek; but I could

not disclose my Fanny’s sad secret to even so near a friend.

But to talk it out with John is a different matter. He ought to know.

And, certainly, men have more power than women to see into the reasons

and the bearings of things. There had I been thinking for months in a

desultory kind of way as to the why and wherefore of this ingrained

want of truthfulness in the child, and yet I was no nearer the solution.

A new departure in the way of lying made me at last break the ice with

John; indeed, this was the only subject about which we had ever had

reserves.

“Mother, Hugh was so naughty at lessons this morning! He went close up

to Miss Clare while she was writing, nudged her elbow on purpose, and

made her spill the ink all over the table-cloth.”

I chanced to meet Miss Clare in the hall, and remarked that I heard she

had found Hugh troublesome this morning.

“Troublesome? Not at all; he was quite industrious and obedient.”

I said nothing about the ink, but went straight to the schoolroom to

find the table neat as Miss Clare always leaves it, and no sign of

even a fresh inkspot. What possessed the child? This inveterate and

inventive untruthfulness was like a form of madness. I sat in dismay

for an hour or more, not thinking, but stunned by this new idea--that

the child was not responsible for her words; and yet, could it be so?

None of our children were so merry at play, so intelligent at lessons.

Well, I would talk it over with John without the loss of another day.

* * * * *

“John, I am miserable about Fanny. Do you know the child tells fibs

constantly?”

“Call them lies; an ugly thing deserves an ugly name. What sort of

lies? What tempts her to lie?”

John did not seem surprised. Perhaps he knew more of this misery than I

supposed.

“That’s the thing! Her fi--lies are so uncalled-for, so unreasonable,

that I do not know how to trust her.”

“Unreasonable? You mean her tales don’t hang together; that’s a

common case with liars. You know the saying--‘Liars should have good

memories’?”

“Don’t call the poor child a liar, John; I believe she is more to be

pitied than blamed. What I mean is, you can’t find rhyme or reason for

the lies she tells.” And I gave my husband a few instances like those I

have written above.

“Very extraordinary! There’s a hint of malice in the Hugh and the

ink-bottle tale, and a hint of cowardice in that about the jam; but for

the rest, they are inventions pure and simple, with neither rhyme nor

reason, as you say.”

“I don’t believe a bit in the malice. I was going to correct her for

telling an unkind tale about Hugh, but you know how she hangs on

her brother, and she told her tale with the most innocent face. I am

convinced there was no thought of harming him.”

“Are you equally sure that she never says what is false to cover a

fault; in fact, out of cowardice?”

“No; I think I have found her out more than once in ingenious

subterfuges. You know what a painfully nervous child she is. For

instance, I found the other day a blue cup off that cabinet, with

handle gone, hidden behind the woodwork. Fanny happened to come in at

the moment, and I asked her if she knew who had broken it.