THE WINDING UP.
Repairs at the Rookery—Calista and Evelina on the _qui vive_—Mr.
Harrington and his bride—Another Christmas gathering—Farewell, and kind
wishes
I.
Little Agnes.
“And she, not seven years old,
A slighted child.”—WORDSWORTH.
“What _is_ it Lewie wants? Does he want sister’s pretty book?”
“No!” roared the cross baby boy, pointing with his finger to the
side-board.
“Well, see here, Lewie! here is a pretty ball; shall we roll it? There!
now roll it back to sister.”
“No-o-o!” still screamed Master Lewie, the little finger still
stretched out towards something on the side-board which he seemed much
to desire.
“Here is my lovely dolly, Lewie. If you will be very careful, I will
let you take her. See her beautiful eyes! Will Lewie make her open and
shut her eyes?”
“No-o-o-o!” again shouted the fretful child, and this time so loud as
effectually to arouse his youthful mamma, who was deep in an arm-chair,
and deeper still in the last fashionable novel.
“Agnes!” she exclaimed sharply, “cannot you let that child alone? I
told you to amuse him; and instead of doing so, you seem to delight in
teazing him and making him scream.”
Again the little girl tried in various ways to amuse the wayward child.
He really was not well, and felt cross and irritable, and nothing that
his little sister could do to please him would succeed. With the utmost
patience and gentleness she labored to bring a smile to her little
brother’s cheek, or at least so to win his attention as to keep him
from disturbing her mother. But the handkerchief rabbits, and the paper
men and women she could cut so beautifully, and which at times gave
little Lewie so much pleasure, were now all dashed impatiently aside.
One by one her little playthings were brought out, and placed before
him, but with no better success. Lewie had once seen the contents of a
beautiful work-box of his sister’s, which stood in the centre of the
side-board: at this he pointed, and for this he screamed. Nothing else
would please him; at nothing else would he condescend to look.
“Oh, Lewie! darling Lewie! play with something else! Don’t you know
Aunt Ellen gave sister that pretty work-box? and she said I must be so
careful of it, and Lewie would break all sister’s pretty things.”
Again Master Lewie had recourse to the strength of his lungs, which he
knew, by past experience, to be all-powerful in gaining whatever his
fancy might desire, and sent forth a roar so loud as once more to
arouse the attention of the novel-reading mamma; who, with a stamp of
the foot, and a threatening shake of the finger, gave the little girl
to understand that she must expect instant and severe punishment, if
Lewie was heard to scream again.
Still Lewie demanded the work-box, and nothing that the patient little
Agnes could do would divert his attention from it for a moment. The
little angry brow was contracted, and the mouth wide open for another
shriek, when little Agnes, with a sigh of despair, went to the
side-board, and, mounting on a chair, lifted down her much-valued and
carefully-preserved treasure, saying to herself:
“If Aunt Ellen only _knew_, I think she would not blame me!”
And now with a shout of delight the spoiled child seized on the pretty
work-box; and in another moment, winders, spools, scissors, thimble,
were scattered in sad confusion over the carpet. In vain did little
Agnes try, as she picked up one after the other of her pretty things,
to conceal them from the baby’s sight; if one was gone, he knew it in a
moment, and worried till it was restored to him.
Finally, laying open the cover of the box, he began to pound with a
little hammer, which was lying near him, upon the looking-glass inside
of it; and, pleased with the noise it made, he struck harder and still
harder blows.
“No, no, Lewie! please don’t! You will break sister’s pretty
looking-glass. No! Lewie must not!” And Agnes held his little hand. At
this the passionate child threw himself back violently on the floor,
and screamed and shrieked in a paroxysm of rage; in the midst of which,
the threatened punishment came upon poor little Agnes, in the shape of
a sharp blow upon her cheek, from the soft, white hand of her mother,
who exclaimed:
“There! didn’t I tell you so? It seems to be your greatest pleasure to
teaze and torment that poor baby; and you know he is sick, too. Now,
miss, the next time he screams, I shall take you to the north room, and
lock you up, and keep you there on bread and water all day!”
Agnes retreated to a corner, and wept silently, but very bitterly, not
so much from the pain of the blow, as from a sense of injustice and
harsh treatment at the hands of one who should have loved her; and the
mother returned to her novel, in which she was soon as deep as ever. At
the same moment, the looking-glass in the cover of the work-box flew
into fifty pieces, under the renewed blows of the hammer in Master
Lewie’s hand.
The little conqueror now had free range among his sister’s hitherto
carefully-guarded treasures; her bits of work, and little trinkets,
tokens of affection from her kind aunt and her young cousins at Brook
Farm, were ruthlessly torn in pieces, or broken and strewed over the
floor. Agnes sat in mute despair. She knew that as long as her mother
was absorbed in the novel, no sound would disturb her less powerful
than Lewie’s screams, and that all else that might be going on in the
room would pass unnoticed by her. So, wiping her eyes, she sat still in
the corner, watching Lewie with silent anguish, as he revelled among
her precious things, as “happy as a king” in the work of destruction,
and only hoping that he might not discover one secret little spot in
the corner of the box where her dearest treasure was concealed.
But at length she started, and, with an exclamation of horror, and a
cry like that of pain, she sprang towards her little brother, and
violently wrenched something from his hand. And now the piercing
shrieks of the angry and astonished child filled the house, and brought
even Old Mammy to the room, to see what was the matter with the baby.
Mammy opened the door just in time to witness the severe punishment
inflicted upon little Agnes, and to receive an order to take that
naughty girl to the north room, and lock her in, and leave her there
till farther orders.
Agnes had not spoken before, when rebuked by her mother; but now,
raising her mild blue eyes, all dimmed by tears, to her mother’s face,
she said:
“Oh, mamma! it was papa’s hair!—it was that soft curl I cut from his
forehead, as he lay in his coffin, Lewie was going to tear the paper!”
But even this touching appeal, which should have found its way to the
young widow’s heart, was unheeded by her—perhaps, in the storm of
passion, it was unheard; and Agnes was led away by Mammy to a cold,
unfurnished room, where she had been doomed to spend many an hour, when
_Lewie was cross_; while the fretful and half-sick child, now tired of
his last play-thing, was taken in his mother’s arms, and rocked till he
fell into a slumber, undisturbed for perhaps an hour, except by a
start, when the tears from his mother’s cheek fell on his—tears caused
by the _well-imagined_ sufferings of the heroine of her romance.
All the time Mammy was leading little Agnes through the wide hall, and
up the broad stairs and—along the upper hall to the door of the “North
Room,” the good old woman was wiping her eyes with her apron, and
trying to choke down something in her throat which prevented her
speaking the words of comfort she wished to say to the sobbing child.
When they reached the door of the room in which little Agnes was to be
a prisoner, Mammy sat down, and taking the child in her lap she took
off her own warm shawl and pinned it carefully around her, and as she
stooped to kiss her, Agnes saw the tears upon her cheek.
“Why do you cry, Mammy?” she asked, “mamma has not scolded you to-day,
has she?”
“No, love.”
“Are you crying then because you are so sorry for me?”
“That’s it, my darling, I cannot bear to lock you up here alone for the
day and leave you so sorrowful, you that ought to be as blithe as the
birds in spring.”
“Mammy, do you think I deserve this punishment?”
“No, sweet, if I must say the truth, I do not think you ever deserve
any punishment at all. But I must not say anything that’s wrong to you,
about what your mamma chooses to do.”
“Then, Mammy, don’t you think I ought to be happier than if I had
really been naughty and was punished for it. Don’t you remember Mammy
the verse you taught me from the Bible the last time Lewie was so
fretful and mamma sent you to lock me up here. I learned it afterwards
from my Bible: hear me say it:—”
‘For what glory is it if when ye be buffeted for your faults ye take it
patiently; but if when ye do well and suffer for it, ye take it
patiently, this is acceptable with God.’
“Now, Mammy, I did try to be patient with Lewie, and I gave him
everything I had, but I could not let him destroy that lock of papa’s
hair. I am afraid I was rough then, I hope I did not hurt his little
hand. Mammy, do you think mamma loves me _any_.”
“How could anybody help loving you, my darling!”
“But, oh! Mammy, if I thought she would ever love me as she does Lewie!
She never kisses me, she never speaks kind to me. No, Mammy, I do not
think she loves me; but how strange it is for a mother not to love her
own little girl.”
“Well, darling, we will talk no more of that, or we shall be saying
something naughty; we will both try and do our duty, and then God will
bless us, and whatever our troubles and trials may be, let us go to Him
with them all. Now, darling, I must leave you.”
“Mammy, will you please bring me my Bible; and my little hymn-book? I
want to learn the”
‘I am never alone.’
“God is always by my side, isn’t he Mammy?”
“Yes, love, and he says, ‘I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.’”
When little Agnes was left alone in the great cold room, she walked up
and down the floor repeating to herself verses from her Bible and
hymn-book. Sometimes she stopped at the window and looked across the
country, towards a wooded hill, where just above the tops of the trees
she could see the chimneys of her uncle’s house; and she thought how
happy her young cousins were in the love of their father and mother,
and she remembered how her own dear papa had loved her, and she thought
of the difference now; and the tears flowed afresh. Then she walked the
room again, repeating in a low voice to herself the words:
“Never alone; though through deserts I roam
Where footstep of man has ne’er printed the sand.
Never alone; though the ocean’s wild foam
Rage between me and the loved ones on land.
Though hearts that have cherished are laid ’neath the sod,
Though hearts which should cherish are colder than stone,
I still have thy love and thy friendship my God,
Thou always art near me; I’m never alone.”
Soon she grew tired of walking, and seating herself at the table, she
laid her head upon her crossed arms and was soon in a sweet slumber,
and far away in her dreams from the cold desolate north room, at “the
Hemlocks.”
At the end of an hour the youthful widow was disturbed by the sound of
merry sleigh-bells, and she had only time to throw her novel hastily
aside, when the door opened and her sister-in-law, Mrs. Wharton,
entered, accompanied by two of her little girls, their bright faces
glowing with health and happiness.
“And how are the children?” Mrs. Wharton asked, after the first
salutations were over.
“Why, Lewie does not seem well, he has been complaining for a day or
two.”
“And where is Agnes? We rode over to see if you let her go over and
pass the holidays with us.”
“Why, to tell the truth, Agnes has been very naughty, and I have been
obliged to shut her up.”
“Again!” exclaimed Mrs. Wharton, while glances of indignation shot from
the eyes of her two little girls. “Agnes naughty, and shut up again!
Why, Harriet, do you know she appears to me so perfectly gentle and
lovely, that I can hardly imagine her as doing anything wrong. Mr.
Wharton and I often speak of her as the most faultless child we have
ever met with.”
“She is not so bad in other ways, but she does delight to tease Lewie,
and keep him screaming. Now, it has been one incessant scream from the
child all this morning, and Agnes _can_ amuse him very well when she
chooses.”
“Judging from all her own pretty things scattered about the floor here,
I should think she had been doing her best to amuse him,” said Mrs.
Wharton; “she has even taken down her beautiful work-box, of which she
has always been so careful. You may be sure it was a case of extremity,
which compelled her to do that.”
“Why, what a sad litter they have made to be sure; I did not observe it
before. The fact is, Ellen, I have been exceedingly occupied this
morning, and did not know what the children were about, only that Agnes
kept Lewie screaming, and, at last, with the utmost rudeness, for that
I saw myself, she snatched something from his hand, and for that, I
punished her.”
“Ah, yes, I see, Harriet,” said Mrs. Wharton, glancing at the
yellow-covered publication on the table; “I see how it is, now; you
have been wholly absorbed in one of those wretched novels, and left
little Agnes to take care of a sick, cross baby. That child is very
sick, Harriet; do you see what a burning fever he has?”
“Ellen, do you think so?” said the mother hastily and in great
agitation. “Oh, Ellen, what shall I do; oh, what _shall_ I do! perhaps
my baby, my darling, is going to be very ill.”
“Do not agitate yourself so, Harriet, I will send Matthew directly over
to the village for the doctor; but first, may I have Agnes?”
“Oh, do what you please with Agnes, only send the doctor to my baby;
call Mammy, she will bring Agnes, and do go, quick!”
The bell was rung, and Mammy was despatched to bring the little
prisoner down; she found her as we left her, sleeping with her head
upon her arms.
“Precious lamb!” said Mammy, “she has cried herself to sleep.” Then,
kissing her, and rousing her gently, she told her that her aunt and
cousins had come to take her to Brook Farm.
Agnes was at first very happy at the idea of once more enjoying the
sunshine of her aunt’s cheerful home, but, when she heard that Lewie
was sick, a cloud came over her face.
“Aunty,” she whispered, “I think I had better not go, perhaps I can do
something for Lewie. I can _almost_ always amuse him.”
“Lewie is too sick to be amused now, my dear, and you can do no good
here; besides, I want to get you away as quickly as possible, for I
think it may be the scarlet fever that Lewie has. Come, darling, we
will go.”
Agnes drew her hand quietly from that of her aunt, and running back,
she stooped over her little brother as he lay in his mother’s arms, and
kissed him; and then, standing a moment before her mother, she raised
her eyes to her face. But her mother’s eyes, with a gaze of almost
despair, were fixed on her darling boy, and she did not seem to be
aware even of the presence of her little daughter.
A look of disappointment passed over the face of Agnes, as, without
intruding upon her mother by even a word of farewell, she turned, and
put her hand once more in that of her aunt. And now, as, comfortably
wrapped in buffalo skins, Mrs. Wharton and the little girls are flying
over the country roads, to the sound of the merry sleigh-bells, we will
relate a conversation which took place between Mammy and Bridget; and
by so doing, will give a little insight into the history of the young
widow, whom we have introduced to the reader.
II.
Brook Farm.
“By the gathering round the winter hearth,
When twilight called unto household mirth;
By the fairy tale, or the legend old,
In that ring of happy faces told;
By the quiet hours when hearts unite
In the parting prayer and the kind “good night”,
By the smiling eye and the loving tone,
Over thy life has the spell been thrown.”—SPELLS OF HOME.
When Mammy left little Agnes in the north room, and descended to the
kitchen, she found Bridget, who had already been made acquainted with,
passing events by Anne, the chambermaid, in a state of great wrath and
indignation. The china must have been strong that stood so bravely the
rough treatment it received that morning, and the tins kept up a
continued shriek of anguish as they were dashed against each other in
the sink; while every time Bridget set down her foot as she stamped
about the kitchen, it was done with an emphasis that made itself felt
throughout the whole house.
“And so ye’ve been locking up that swate crathur again, have ye, Mrs.
McCrae?” were the words with which, in no gentle tones, she assailed
Mammy as she entered the kitchen.
“I did as I was bid, Bridget,” said Mammy, with a sigh.
“And indade it wouldn’t be me would do as I was bid, if I was bid to do
the like o’ that. I’d rather coot off my right hand than use it to turn
the kay on the darlint.”
“I always mind my mistress, Bridget,” said Mammy, “though it’s often
I’m forced to pray for patience wi’ her.”
“And indade I don’t ask for patience wid her at all, anny how,” stormed
Bridget. “To think of sending the swate child, that never has anny but
a kind an’ a pleasant word for _iverybody_, away to the cold room, just
because the brat she doats on chooses to _yowl_ in the fashion he did
the morn. I don’t know, indade, what’s the matther with the woman! I
think it’s a quare thing, and an _on nattheral_ thing, _anny how_!”
“She’s much to be blamed, no doubt, Bridget, and yet there’s excuses to
be made for my mistress,” said Mammy, mildly. “She’s young yet in
years, no but twenty-two; and she’s nothing but a child in her ways and
her knowledge. She never knew the blessing of a mither’s care, puir
thing; and up to the very day she was married, her life was passed at
one o’ them fashionable boarding-schules, where they teach them to play
on instruments, and to sing, and to dance, and to paint, and to talk
some unchristian tongue that’s never going to do them no good for this
life nor the next. But they never give them so much as a hint that
they’ve got a soul to be saved, and they take no pains to fit them to
be wives and mothers. My mistress was but fifteen years old when she
ran away with Master Harry. Poor dear Master Harry! It was the only
fulish thing I ever knew him to do, was running away wi’ that chit of a
schule-girl. He met her, I think, at a ball that was given at this
schule, and Master Harry was over head and ears in love in a minute;
and after two or three meetings and a few notes passing, they
determined on this runnin’ away folly. I think it was them novels she
was always readin’ put it in her head. It wouldn’t do, you know, to be
like other folks, but they must have a little kind of a romance about
it. Puir, fulish, young things!”
“You see, I was living with old Mr. Elwyn then,” continued Mammy;
“indeed, I’ve been in the family ever since I came over from Scotland,
quite a lassie, thirty-one years ago come next April. I left them,
besure, when I married; but as my gude-man lived but two years, I was
soon back in my old home again. Old Mr. Elwyn, Master Harry’s father,
had lost his property before this time; but his brother, ‘Uncle Ben,’
as they called him, was very rich. They all lived together—‘Uncle Ben,’
old Mr. Elwyn, Master Harry and Miss Ellen, that’s Mrs. Wharton. Miss
Ellen was a few years older than Master Harry, and she was the
housekeeper. But Master Harry, bless you! was only twenty years old,
when he walked in one morning, and told his father he was married. I
never shall forget the time there was then! The old gentleman was
complaining, and had had a bad night, though Master Harry did not know
that. Well, the sudden shock threw him into an apoplectic fit; and two
days after, he had another, and died. Master Harry was almost
distracted then: he called himself his father’s murderer; and, indeed,
I think he was never what you might call well from that time.”
“But you never saw any one so angry as Mr. Benjamin Elwyn was. He had
always intended to make master Harry his heir, but his conduct in this
foolish affair enraged him so that he said he would leave him nothing.
At first the young folks lived with her father, but he soon died,
leaving his daughter a little property settled on herself. But it was
not enough to support them, and so Master Harry had to apply to old Mr.
Benjamin Elwyn again, and the old man gave him this place, and enough
to live on pretty comfortably here. He told Master Harry that perhaps
something might be made of his baby wife yet, if he brought her away
from the follies of the city, to a country place like this, and tried
to improve her mind; and so they have lived here ever since, till last
year, when poor master Harry died.”
“And what do ye think is the raison that the misthress thrates little
Miss Agnes the way she does?”
“Well, I can hardly tell you, Bridget. In the first place, I have often
heard her say that she couldn’t abide _girls_, and bating other
reasons, I think she would have been disappointed on her own account,
you know, to have the first child a girl. But, besides this, I have
heard that Mr. Benjamin Elwyn quite forgave Mr. Harry, and promised him
that if his oldest child was a boy, and he named it after him, he would
leave him the bulk of his property. I cannot tell you how bitterly
disappointed my young mistress was, when her first born proved to be a
girl. She was but sixteen years old then, you know, Bridget, and she
acted like a cross, spoiled baby. She cried herself into a fever, and
she wouldn’t let the poor, helpless baby, come into her sight. I think
she never loved her; and from the time of Master Lewie’s birth, she has
seemed to dislike her more and more.”
“But how the father loved her, Mrs. McCrae!”
“Aye, indeed he did; he never could be easy a minute without her. It
was a sore day for my poor bairn, when it pleased God to take her
father; poor man! But He knows best, Bridget, and He orders all things
right.”
Here Mammy was summoned by the bell, and despatched to bring little
Agnes down; to accompany her aunt and cousins to their home.
As Agnes was riding along, seated so comfortably by the side of her
kind aunt, in the large covered sleigh, with the rosy, smiling faces of
her little cousins, Grace and Effie, opposite her, she could scarcely
believe that she was the same little girl, who, but an hour or two
before, was walking so sadly up and down the desolate North Room, and
trying to persuade herself that she was “not alone.” Agnes was
naturally of a lively, cheerful disposition, and like any other little
girl of six years of age, she soon forgot past sorrow in present
pleasure, though, at times, the sudden remembrance of her dear little
baby brother, lying so ill at home, would cause a sigh to chase away
the smile of pleasure beaming on her lovely face.
It was but little more than two miles from “The Hemlocks,” Mrs. Elwyn’s
residence, to “Brook Farm,” the home of the Wharton’s, and, as Matthew
had received orders to drive very rapidly, it seemed to Agnes that her
ride was just begun, when they turned into the lane that led up to her
Uncle Wharton’s house. And now the pillars of the piazza appear between
the trees, and now the breakfast room windows, and more bright young
faces are looking out, and little chubby hands are clapped together, as
the sleigh is discovered coming rapidly up the lane, and the cry
resounds through the house, “They’ve come! they’ve come! and Agnes is
with them!”
A bright, cheerful wood fire was burning in the pleasant, great
breakfast room, and the party who had just arrived were soon surrounded
by smiles of welcome, while busy little fingers were assisting them to
untie their bonnets, and unfasten their cloaks. In a few moments the
door opened, and a pale, but lovely looking girl, in deep mourning,
entered the room. She was a niece of Mr. Wharton’s, and, having lately
been left an orphan, by the death of her mother, she had been brought
by her kind uncle, to his hospitable home, where she was received by
all as a member, henceforth, of their family.
“Well, aunty,” said she, after stooping to kiss Agnes, “you are back
sooner than I expected.”
“Yes, dear, I was obliged to hurry; little Lewie is very ill, I fear.
By the way, Harry, run and tell Matthew that just as soon as he is
warm, he must drive as fast as possible to the village, and ask Dr.
Rodney to get directly into the sleigh, to go to your Aunt Elwyn’s; and
tell him to call for me, as he comes back.”
“Why, mamma, are you going back there again?” asked Effie.
“Yes, love, I must go back, and remain with your Aunt Harriet to-day. I
only came home to make some arrangements for the family. I want your
papa to drive over for me to-night, after the little ones are all in
bed; and I desire the rest of you to keep out of my way till I have
changed my dress. I do not know yet what is the matter with Lewie. How
do you feel, Emily?”
“Much better, thank you, aunty; I am quite prepared to play lady of the
house in your absence.”
“Well, do put aside those books, dear: your health is the most
important thing now. I wish I could leave you so busy with household
concerns as to give you not a moment’s time for reading.”
“Dear aunty, I do not think the books hurt me; and you certainly would
not have me grow up a dunce, would you?”
“No fear of that, dear; and I by no means wish you to give up your
books altogether, but only to lay them aside till you get a little
color in these pale cheeks. I shall lay my commands on your uncle not
to give you any more assistance in your studies till I give him
permission.”
“Well, I’ll be very good, aunty, and I’ve promised the boys to take a
run with them over to the pond, and see them skate; and besides, we are
all invited to an entertainment in a certain snow palace, which is
nearly finished, and which I have promised to grace with my presence.”
Just then two fine handsome boys, the pictures of health and good
nature, rushed in. These were Robert and Albert Wharton, home from
school for the Christmas holidays.
“Mother, what will you give us for our entertainment?” they cried.
“Have you a table and seats?” she asked.
“Yes, all made of snow,” said Albert. “But don’t let us tell her all
about it, Bob; I want to surprise her.”
“I think your entertainment, to be in keeping with your furniture,
ought to be of snow and icicles,” said Mrs. Wharton; “but, whatever it
is, I am sorry that I cannot visit your snow palace to-day.”
“Oh! that’s too bad, mother; it will spoil all our fun. But, say, will
you give us something to eat?”
“Yes; I leave Emily mistress of the keys for to-day, and you may call
upon her for pies, cake, or anything the store-room contains; only be a
little moderate, and don’t leave us entirely destitute.”
“It won’t be half so pleasant without you, mother,” said Robert; “but
we shall have quite as many as our palace can accommodate, if all these
go. Hallo! here’s Agnes! Why, Aggy, how do you do? I didn’t see you
before.”
At this moment the sleigh was seen coming up the lane, and Mrs. Wharton
hastened to get ready to accompany the doctor to the Hemlocks.
“I want to whisper to you, dear mother, one minute,” said little Grace.
“What more Christmas secrets?” asked her mother.
A whispered consultation here took place, some request being urged with
great eagerness by Grace; and the pleasant “Yes, yes,” from her mother,
made her bright eyes dance with joy.
As Mrs. Wharton was driving from the door, Albert called out:
“Mother, may the baby go with us?”
“Yes, if Kitty will wrap him up well,” was the answer, and the sleigh
flew down the lane, and was soon out of sight.
Agnes was now hurried off by her young cousins to inspect the various
preparations for Christmas, and was made the repository of some most
important secrets, “of which she must not give a hint for the world.”
She saw the purse Effie was knitting for Albert, and the guard-chain
Grace was weaving for Robert, and the mittens for Harry, and the socks
for the baby, and the pen-wiper for papa, and the iron-holder for
mamma; and then Effie took her aside alone, to show her something she
was making for Grace; and Grace took her aside alone, to show something
she had bought with “her own money” for Effie; and there was a
beautiful book for Cousin Emily. “And we cannot show you yet whether we
have anything for you, Agnes, because, you know, we always keep our
secrets till Christmas comes,” they said.
“There comes papa from the mill,” cried Effie, looking out of the
window; “let’s run down and see him. How surprised he will be to find
mamma gone, and Agnes here!”
Mr. Wharton came in with his usual cheerful manner; and soon as he was
warming his feet by the fire, he had Agnes on one knee, and Harry on
the other, and the rest of the noisy little tribe round him, eagerly
telling the events of the day, and the pleasant anticipations for the
afternoon.
“Oh, papa,” said Effie, “I’ve got something I want to say to you, if
you would only come in the other room a few minutes, or if the children
would only be kind enough to go out of this room a little while.”
“Won’t it keep, Effie, till I warm my feet?” asked her father;
“because, if it will not, I suppose I must go now.”
“Oh no, papa, I will wait patiently,” said Effie.
In a few minutes her father said, “Now, Effie, for that important
secret;” and they went together into another room.
“This is what I wanted to say, papa,” said Effie: “you know poor Agnes
never has any money of her own; and I know, when she sees us all giving
presents to each other, she will feel badly, if she cannot give
something too; and I want to know if you won’t give her a little money,
and let her go to the village with us the next time we go, and get some
materials to make something out of?”
Mr. Wharton answered by putting his hand in his pocket, and giving
Effie some silver for Agnes, with which she went off perfectly happy.
And now little Grace put in her curly head, and said, “Effie, when you
are through with papa, I’ve got something to say to him too.”
The sum and substance of Grace’s communication was this: “she had seen
something at a store in the village, with which she was sure her mamma
would be perfectly charmed, but she hadn’t _quite_ enough money to
purchase it; she only wanted _ten cents_ more.” And she too went off
with a smiling face.
Emily now came in jingling her keys and called them all to dinner.
As soon as possible after dinner, the boys laden with a basket of good
things, which Emily had provided for them, started off for the snow
palace, one of them carrying the dinner-horn, which was used in the
summer, to call the men to the farm-house to their meals. When the
entertainment was ready the horn was to sound. In the meantime, the
children were sitting around the fire, waiting impatiently for the
signal, to call them to the palace of snow.
“Cousin Emily,” said Agnes, for she too said “Cousin Emily,” though
there was no relationship, in fact, between them, “Cousin Emily, I wish
I knew _what_ to read and study. I do want to know something, and I
don’t know anything but my Bible, and my little book of hymns. Mammy
taught me to read, or I should’nt have known anything at all,” she
added sadly.
“Well, Agnes,” that is the best knowledge you could possibly have, said
Emily, “though I am far from thinking other studies unimportant; but,
if I can help you in any way, I will gladly lend you books, and tell
you how to study.”
“Oh! will you, cousin Emily?” said Agnes, her face brightening; “how
happy I shall be! aunty has taught Effie and Grace, and they have
studied Geography and History, and they can cipher, and I don’t know
anything at all about those things; why, even little Harry knows more
than I do.”
“But you can beat us all in Bible knowledge, I know, Agnes,” said
Emily, “and, in a very little time, you will catch up to the other
children, for aunty has little leisure time to devote to them. But
there! I hear the horn! call Kitty, to bring the baby, and we’ll all
start.”
And now all warmly wrapped in cloaks and hoods, the little party left
the side piazza, and walked down towards the pond. The path was well
broken, as the boys travelled it so often, on their way to the pond and
the snow palace, and the little party went briskly on. Emily and Agnes
headed the procession, then came Effie and Grace, dragging a box-sled
in which the baby was comfortably stowed, and Kitty, the nurse, brought
up the rear, leading little Harry. The two boys met them at some
distance from the snow palace, and told them they must go through the
labyrinth before they could reach the place of entertainment.
The labyrinth was composed of paths, cut in the deep snow, winding in
and out, and circling about in all directions, till, at length, the
foremost of the party halted before the entrance to the snow palace.
The boys had, indeed, been industrious, and the new comers stared in
amazement, at the results of their labor. They found themselves, on
entering the palace, in a room high enough for the tallest of the party
to stand upright in, and of dimensions large enough to seat them all
comfortably around the square block of snow which formed the centre
table. The seats were of the same material, and were substantial
enough, while the extreme cold weather lasted. On the table was placed
the entertainment provided by Emily, to which the party did all
possible justice, considering that they had just risen from a plentiful
dinner at home. After the feast, Robert and Alfred entertained them
with feats of agility on the ice, dragging one or the other of the
children after them upon the sled, and when they returned home, even
Emily’s usually pale cheeks were in a glow.
Towards evening Agnes began to be uneasy, and to watch at the window
for her aunt’s return. “I will not see aunty, cousin Emily,” she said,
“but I cannot go to bed till I hear how Lewie is to-night.”
At length her uncle and aunt returned, and Agnes heard that her little
brother was very ill; but the doctor was of opinion that his disease
was a brain fever, and therefore there was no danger of contagion.
Agnes went to bed with a heavy heart, and cried herself to sleep.
The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Mrs. Wharton again
ordered the sleigh and drove to “the Hemlocks.” She found Mrs. Elwyn in
a state bordering on distraction.
“Oh, Ellen,” she said, “how I have wanted you! Lewie has had a night of
dreadful suffering, and now he is unconscious. He does not know me,
Ellen! He does not hear me when I call. I think he does not see. Oh,
Ellen, what would life be to me if I lose my darling. And now I want
you to _pray!_ You can pray, Ellen, and God answers your prayers. Pray
for the life of my child! Mammy prays, but she will only say, ‘The will
of the Lord be done!’”
“And I can say no more, Ellen. I _do_ pray; I _have_ prayed, that your
darling boy’s life may be spared, if it be the will of God, but more
than that I cannot say.”
“And what if it be His will to take my darling from me, Ellen?”
“Then, Harriet, I hope you might learn to acquiesce without a murmur,
and to say from your heart, ‘It is the Lord, let Him do what seemeth to
Him good.’”
“No, Ellen, never! I cannot contemplate the bare possibility of losing
my boy. If you will not pray as I wish, I will try to pray myself;” and
falling on her knees, she prayed for the life of her child. “Take
whatever else thou wilt, oh God,” she cried, “but oh, spare me my
child.”
“Harriet, this seems to me most horrible impiety,” said Mrs. Wharton,
“to ask God to grant your desires, whether agreeable to His will, or
not; I should much fear if your request were granted, that it would
only be to show you, that you know not what is best for yourself, and
for those you love; and that you might some day wish you had left this
matter in the hands of God, even if it had been His will to take your
darling to Himself.”
When Dr. Rodney came that morning, he found the child in a profound
slumber. “This,” said he, “is, I think, the crisis of the disease; on
no account let him be disturbed; if he awakes conscious, he will in all
human probability recover.”
And they watched him in breathless stillness, Mrs. Wharton on one side
of the cradle, and his mother on a low stool beside him, with her sad
gaze riveted on his little face, to catch his first waking glance, and
to see whether the eye then beamed with intelligence, or not.
Oh, who can imagine the agony, the terrible suspense of such watching,
but those who have sat as that poor mother did, over a loved one
hovering between life and death. And as Mrs. Wharton sat so silently
opposite her, her thoughts were sometimes raised in prayer for her poor
misguided sister; and sometimes she sat looking at her as a perfect
enigma; with a heart so capable of loving devotedly, and yet so steeled
against her own child, and so lovely and winning a little creature as
Agnes. It was a puzzle which she had often tried to solve, in vain.
After an hour more of deep slumber, Lewie started and awoke. For a
moment his glance rested with a bewildered expression upon his mother’s
face; and then, stretching out his little hands, he said, “Mamma!” Mrs.
Wharton’s attention was fixed upon the child; but when she turned to
the mother, she saw her, white as the snow, falling back upon the
floor. The revulsion of feeling was too much for her; she had fainted.
When Mrs. Wharton came home that night, she said, “Agnes, my love, your
little brother is better, and, with great care, he may now recover.”
“Oh, aunty!” exclaimed Agnes, joyfully, “and when may I see him?”
“You must be content to remain with us without going home for some days
yet, dear; for the doctor says the most perfect quiet is necessary, and
you could not see Lewie if you were at home.”
And now that the mind of little Agnes was comparatively free from
anxiety, she entered with great delight into the preparations going on
at Brook Farm for Christmas.
III.
Christmas Time.
“In the sounding hall they wake
The rural gambol.”—THOMSON.
And now but a week was wanting to Christmas, and all was excitement and
bustle among the little folks at Brook Farm. Lewie was quite out of
danger, and Agnes was as happy and as busy as any of her little
cousins. The cutter was in constant demand; for when one was
particularly desirous to go over to the village on some secret
expedition, that one must go alone, or only with those who were in her
secret. Many were the mysterious brown-paper parcels which were
smuggled into the house, and hidden away under lock and key in various
closets and drawers; and there were sudden scramblings and hidings of
half-finished articles, when some member of the family who “was not to
see” entered the room.
“Aunty,” said Agnes one day, in a confidential tone, “I should like to
make a needle-book for mamma, like the one cousin Emily is making for
Effie. She says she will show me, and fix it for me, and I think I can
do it. Do you think mamma would like it?”
“Certainly, darling, I should think she would like it; I do not see how
any mamma could help being pleased with anything her little girl made
for her.”
“But, aunty,” said Agnes, as if speaking of a well-known and
acknowledged fact, “you know mamma doesn’t love me much, and perhaps it
would trouble her.”
The sad tone in which these words were said brought tears to the eyes
of Mrs. Wharton, but still she encouraged Agnes to go on with the
needle-book. It was not a very complicated affair, and Emily arranged
all the most difficult parts; but still it was a work of time, and one
requiring much patience and perseverance on the part of so young a
child as Agnes. However, it was at length completed on the day before
Christmas, and, when handed about for inspection, was much admired by
all her friends. Agnes was very happy, for on Christmas day her uncle
was to take her over home to see Lewie, who called for her constantly,
her aunt said. Mammy had walked over too, to see her little girl, and
she told her that “Lewie was greetin’ for ‘sister’ from morn till
night.”
The day before Christmas came, and with it the party at Brook Farm was
augmented by the arrival of Mrs. Ellison, a younger sister of Mr.
Wharton’s, her husband and baby, a beautiful child of about a year old.
There was great joy at the arrival of “Aunt Fanny,” who was very
lively, and always ready to enter with glee into the frolics and sports
of the children.
As they were sitting at the dinner table that day, Mr. Wharton said:
“I have received certain information that Santa Claus himself is to
visit us to-night, and bring his gifts in person. He desires me to
inform the children, that all packages to be entrusted to his care must
be handed into my study, labelled and directed, before six o’clock this
evening.”
Many were the wonders and speculations as to the nature and appearance
of the expected Santa Claus; but they were suddenly interrupted by
Robert, who exclaimed:
“Why, who comes here up the lane? It’s old cousin Betty, I do declare,
in her old green gig set on runners.”
“I thought cousin Betty would hardly let Christmas go by without making
her appearance,” said Mrs. Wharton; “I have thought two or three times
to-day that she might come along before night.”
“Cousin Betty” was a distant relation of Mrs. Wharton’s, a lonely old
body, who lodged with a relative in a village about ten miles distant
from Brook Farm. She was very eccentric—so much so, that she was by
some thought crazy; but Mrs. Wharton was of opinion that cousin Betty
had never possessed sufficient _mind_ to subject her to such a
calamity. She was more silly than crazy, very good-natured, very
inquisitive as to the affairs of others, and very communicative as to
her own.
In a few minutes cousin Betty had received a hearty welcome, and was
seated by the bright fire, asking and answering questions with the
utmost rapidity.
“I’ve been looking for you, cousin Betty,” said Mrs. Wharton.
“Have! What made you?”
“Oh, I thought you could hardly let Christmas go by without coming to
see the fun.”
“Did! Well, I never thought nothing about comin’ till yesterday, when I
sat in my little room, and I got feelin’ pretty dull; and thinks I to
myself, I’ll just borrow Mr. White’s old horse, and take my old gig,
and drive up to the farm, and see the folks.”
“Cousin Betty, who do you think is coming to see us to-night?” asked
little Grace.
“I’m sure I can’t tell, child. Who is it?”
“Why, Santa Claus himself, with all his presents around him.”
“Is, hey?” said cousin Betty; “well, I shall be mighty glad to see him,
I can tell you; for, old as I am, I’ve never seen him yet.”
“I’m so glad you’ve come, cousin Betty!” said Effie; “we want you to go
with us some day over to the farm-house, and tell us about our
great-grandfather, whose house stood where the farm-house stands now;
and how his house was burnt down by the Indians, and he was carried
off. Agnes wants to hear it so much.”
“Does! Well, I will go over there, and tell you the story, some day.
But I can’t walk over there while the weather is so cold; I should get
the rheumatiz.”
“I’ll drag you over on my sled, if that will do, cousin Betty,” said
Robert.
The children laughed so heartily at the picture presented to their
imagination of little old cousin Betty riding on Robert’s sled, that
Grace actually rolled out of her chair.
“Why wouldn’t it do to tell the story here, Effie?” asked Agnes.
“Oh, because it is a great deal more interesting, told on the spot you
know. Cousin Betty has heard it all over and over again from
grandmamma, and she can point out, from one window of the farm-house,
all the places where all those dreadful things happened.”
Some warm dinner was now brought in for cousin Betty, and the children
went off to tie up and label the gifts for Santa Claus.
“What shall we do with the presents we have for papa and mamma?” asked
Grace.
“Oh, we cannot hand those in to the study,” said Effie; “we must
contrive some way to give them afterwards.”
And now the children, one after the other, with their arms laden with
packages, were making their way to their father’s study; Emily and
Agnes, too, had several contributions to make to the heap of bundles
which was piled up on the study table; and before six o’clock, Mr.
Wharton said he had taken in enough articles to stock a very
respectable country store. At six o’clock the study door was locked,
and there was no more admittance.
An hour or two after this, the whole family were assembled in the two
large parlors, which were brilliantly lighted for the occasion, and all
were on the tiptoe of expectation.
“I should like to know how he is coming,” said Albert; “he’ll be likely
to get well scorched, if he comes down either chimney.”
At this moment there was a slight tap at one of the windows opening on
to the piazza, which Mr. Wharton immediately proceeded to open, and in
walked St. Nicholas.
He was a jolly, merry-looking, little old gentleman, with beard and
whiskers as white as snow, and enveloped in furs from head to foot.
Around his neck, around his waist, over his shoulders, down his back,
and even on the top of his head, were presents and toys of every
description. Behind him he dragged a beautiful sled, which was loaded
with some articles too bulky to be carried around his person. Every
pocket was full; and as he passed through the rooms, he threw sugar
plums and mottoes, nuts and raisins, on all sides, causing a great
scrambling and screaming and laughing among the children.
Then he began to disengage the presents, which were pinned about him,
and tied to the buttons of his coat; and as he did so, he looked at the
label, and threw it at the one for whom it was intended. It would be
hard for one who was not there to imagine the lively scene which was
now presented in the great parlors at Brook Farm; the presents flying
round in all directions; the children dodging, and diving, and
catching, while shouts and screams of laughter made the house ring.
“But who is he?—who can he be?” was the question which each asked of
the other a great many times during this merry scene. Mr. Wharton and
Mr. Ellison, “Aunt Fanny’s” husband, were both in the room, and they
were sure there was no other gentleman in the house.
Just then Robert screamed, “Oh, I know now! It’s cousin Tom! He throws
left-handed!” And now the effort was made to pull off the mask, but
Santa Claus avoided them with great dexterity, still continuing his
business of distributing the presents.
At the feet of Agnes he placed a work-box, much handsomer than that
which Lewie had destroyed; at Emily’s, a writing-desk, and some
valuable books; and when his sled was emptied, he drew the sled, and
left it with little Harry, for whom it was intended.
“My goodness gracious!” said cousin Betty, as a beautiful muff “took
her in the head,” as Albert said, and sadly disarranged the set of her
odd little turban.
“And now I believe old Santa Claus has finished his labors,” said Mr.
Wharton.
“Oh no, not yet,” cried Effie; “he must come with us for a new supply.
But I feel a little afraid of him yet. If I only could be sure it was
cousin Tom!”
“You need not doubt that, Effie,” said Robert; “nobody else ever threw
like cousin Tom. I’ve seen him play snow-ball often enough.”
And now Santa Claus was taken captive by the children, and in a few
minutes he re-appeared, laden with gifts, but this time for the older
members of the family; and the products of the children’s industry made
quite a display, and much astonished those for whom they were intended,
the children having kept their secrets well.
And now, as the rooms were warm, old Santa Claus was quite willing to
get rid of his mask and his furs; and this done, he straightened up,
and cousin Tom stood revealed.
“And how did you come, and where have you been?” asked the children.
“Oh, I came this afternoon, and stopped at the farm house,” answered
cousin Tom, or Mr. Thomas Wharton, for it is time he should be
introduced by his true name to the reader. “And after it was dusk I
slipped over here, and went round to uncle’s study door while you were
at tea. I sent word by Aunt Fanny that you might expect Santa Claus
to-night.”
And now began a game of romps, which lasted for an hour or more, and
then little bodies began to be stumbled over, and were found under
tables, and on sofas fast asleep, and were taken off to bed. Mrs.
Ellison’s baby being roused by the noise, had awaked, and persisted in
keeping awake, and his mother came back to the parlor bringing him in
her arms, with his night-gown on, and his cheeks as red as roses.
“Isn’t he a splendid fellow?” said she, holding him up before cousin
Tom.
“A very comfortable looking piece of flesh certainly,” he answered;
“but then they are all alike. I think you might divide all babies into
two class, the fat and the lean; otherwise, there is no difference in
them that I can see.”
“Pshaw, how ridiculously you talk; there is a great deal more
difference between two babies, than between you and all the other young
dandies who walk Broadway. They are all alike, the same cut of the coat
and collar, and whiskers; the same tie of the neck-cloth, and shape of
the boot: when you have seen one, you have seen all. But now just take
a good look at this magnificent baby, and confess; wouldn’t you like to
kiss him?”
“Excuse me, my dear aunty, but that is a thing I haven’t been left to
do very often. I’ve no fancy for having my cheeks and whiskers
converted into spitoons. It is really astonishing now,” continued
cousin Tom, “what fools such a brat as that will make of very sensible
people.”
“Are your allusions personal, sir?” asked Mrs. Ellison, laughing.
“No, not just now; but I was thinking of a man in our place, who used
to be really a _very_ sensible fellow; and though quite an old
bachelor, he was the life of every party he attended, and more of a
favorite than most of the young men. Well, when he was about fifty
years old he got married, and he’s got a young one now about two years
old. And what kind of an exhibition do you suppose that man made of
himself the other day. Why, this refractory young individual couldn’t
be persuaded to walk towards home in any other way, when they had him
out for an airing, and what does this old friend of mine do, but allow
a handkerchief to be pinned to his coat-tail, and go prancing along the
street like a horse for the spoiled brat to drive. The calf! I declare,
before I’d make such a fool of myself as that, I’d eat my head! What
are you writing there, uncle?”
“Only taking notes of these remarks, Tom,” answered Mr. Wharton, “for
your benefit on some future occasion.”
There was only one in that Christmas party who could not heartily join
in the glee; it was poor Emily, to whom this scene brought back so
vividly other holiday seasons passed with those who had “gone from
earth to return no more,” that only by a strong effort could she
prevent her own sadness from casting a shade over the happiness of
others; for they all loved cousin Emily so dearly, that they could not
be merry when she was sad. Emily was usually so quiet, that in their
noisy play they did not miss her as she retired to the sofa and shaded
her eyes with her hand; but her kind uncle noticed her, and readily
understood the reason of her sadness. Taking a seat by her he put his
arm around her, and took her hand in his. This act of tenderness was
too much for poor Emily’s already full heart, and laying her head on
her uncle’s shoulder, she sobbed out her grief unchecked.
IV.
Cousin Betty.
“Come, wilt thou see me ride!”—HENRY VIII.
Cousin Betty was a little bit of a woman, with a face as full of
wrinkles as a frozen apple, and a pair of the busiest and most
twinkling little black eyes you ever saw, a prominent and parrot like
nose, with a chin formed on the very same pattern, only that it turned
up instead of down, the two so very nearly meeting that the children
said they had “to turn their faces sideways to kiss her.” She had some
very unaccountable ways too, which no one understood, and which she
never made any attempt to explain, perhaps because she did not
understand them herself.
For instance, whenever meals were ready, and the family prepared to sit
down, though cousin Betty might have been hovering round for an hour or
two before, she was often missing at that very moment, and when a
search was instituted she was sometimes found taking a stroll in the
garret where she could have no possible business, and sometimes poking
about in the darkest corner of the dark cellar, without the slightest
conceivable object. If her thimble or spectacles were lost, she has
often been known to go to the pantry and lift up every tumbler and
wine-glass on the shelf, one after the other, and look under it as if
she really expected to find the missing article there; and to take off
the cover of vegetable dishes to look for her snuff-box, or open the
door of the stove, if her work-bag, or knitting were missing,
apparently with the confident expectation of finding them unharmed
amidst the blazing fire.
Cousin Betty had a very uncomfortable fashion of _dying_ too, every
little while, which at first alarmed her friends so much that
restoratives were speedily procured; but as she never failed to come to
life again, they became, after a time, accustomed to the parting scene,
so that there was great danger that when she really did take her
departure, nobody would believe it.
“My dear,” said she one night to Effie, “I feel very unwell; very
unwell, indeed; I think it’s more’n likely I shan’t last the night
through. I wish you wouldn’t leave me alone this evening, and then if
I’m suddenly taken worse, you know you can call the family. I should
like to see them all before I go.”
Effie promised she would not leave her, and bringing her book, she
seated herself by the stove in cousin Betty’s room. In about a hour she
appeared in the parlor, her face purple with the effort to suppress the
inclination to laugh, and said, “Oh, do all of you please to come to
cousin Betty’s room a few moments.”
“What, is she dying?” they asked.
“Oh, no! but just come; very quietly; there’s a sight for you to see.”
Cousin Betty always tied a large handkerchief about her head when she
went to bed, and on the night in question, the two ends of the
handkerchief being tied in a knot stood up from her head like two
enormous ears. She was bolstered up by pillows, as she declared she
could not breathe in any other position, and at every breath she drew
she opened and shut her mouth with a sudden jerk. Effie had looked up
from her reading suddenly, and caught the reflection of cousin Betty’s
profile, thrown by the light, greatly magnified upon the wall, and
stuffing her handkerchief in her mouth to prevent a sudden explosion of
laughter, by which cousin Betty might be awakened, she ran to call the
family. No pen-sketch but an actual profile would give the slightest
idea of the extraordinary and most ludicrous appearance of the image
thus thrown upon the wall; with the enormous ears standing up, and the
mouth and chin snapping together like the claws of a lobster. One by
one they rushed from the room, till at length a smothered cacchination
from one of the little ones awoke cousin Betty, who exclaimed:
“Who is sobbing there? My dear friends do not distress yourselves, I
find myself considerably more comfortable.”
This “clapped the climax,” and the room was unavoidably deserted for a
few minutes; but at length Effie found courage to return, and, by
placing the light in another position, was enabled to keep watch for
the remainder of the evening.
There were some very amusing stories told in the family of cousin
Betty’s adventures, one of which I will relate here. She was at one
time making one of her long visits at Mr. Wharton’s, when, getting out
of yarn, and not being willing to remain long idle, she began to worry
about some way to get over to the village. The horses were all out at
work upon the farm, except Old Prancer, a superannuated old horse, who
was never used except for Mrs. Wharton or the girls to drive; for,
whatever claims “Prancer” may once have had to his name, it had been a
misnomer for some years past, and no one suspected him of having a
spark of spirit.
When Mr. Wharton came in to dinner, and cousin Betty consulted him as
to the best means of getting over to the village, he told her that the
best thing he could do for her would be to put the side-saddle on to
Old Prancer, and let her ride over. To this cousin Betty consented, not
without a slight trepidation, for she had never been much of a
horse-woman, but still, as she had known Prancer for many years, and he
had always borne the character of a staid, steady-going animal, she
thought there could surely be no risk in trusting herself to him.
Soon after dinner, cousin Betty, with a very short and very scanty
skirt, was mounted on the back of Old Prancer. She felt quite timid at
first at finding herself upon so lofty an elevation, (for Prancer was
an immense animal;) but when she found how steadily and sedately he
went on, and that neither encouragement nor blows could induce him to
break into a trot, she lost all her fears, and began to enjoy her ride
saving that the pace was rather a slow one.
But just as cousin Betty began to ascend the hill leading into the
village, the sound of martial music burst upon her ear, and she
remembered hearing the children say that this was “general training
day.” Cousin Betty did not know that Prancer had once belonged to a
militia officer; and if she had, it would have made no difference, as
all the fire of youth seemed to have died out with Prancer years ago.
But early associations are strong; and as the “horse scenteth the
battle afar off,” so did Prancer prick up his ears and quicken his pace
at the spirit-stirring sounds of the fife and drum; and now he began to
make an awkward attempt to dance sideways upon the points of his hoofs;
and as he neared the brow of the hill, his excitement became more
intense, and his curveting and prancing more animated. Cousin Betty was
almost terrified to death. Throwing away her whip, and grasping the
reins, she endeavored to stop him; but he only held in his head, and
danced sideways up the street with more animation and spirit than ever.
She thought of throwing herself off, but the immense height rendered
such a feat utterly unsafe; she endeavored to rein the horse up to the
side-walk; but now he had caught sight of the motley array of trainers,
and of the gay horses and gayer uniforms of the officers, and,
regardless alike of bit and rein, he started off at full speed, to join
the long-forgotten but once familiar spectacle.
Cousin Betty had by this time dropped the reins, and was clinging with
both arms to Old Prancer’s neck; and as he turned his face to the
company, and backed gallantly down the street, the sight was too
irresistibly ludicrous. Shouts and laughter, and expressions of
encouragement to poor cousin Betty, were heard on all sides; till at
length a militia officer, taking pity upon her helpless condition, led
the unwilling Prancer to the tavern, and assisted her to alight. Here
cousin Betty remained till sun-down, and all was quiet; and then,
requesting the tavern-keeper to lead the horse out of town while she
walked, she again, with much fear and trembling, mounted when beyond
the precincts of the village.
Prancer, however, walked slowly home, with his head drooping, as if
thoroughly mortified at the excesses into which he had been betrayed;
and cousin Betty, when she once got safely home, declared that she’d go
without yarn another time, if it was a whole year, before she would
mount such a “treacherous animal as that ’ere.”
But, with all her oddities, cousin Betty was sometimes a very amusing
companion. She had many stories of her youth stowed away in her memory,
which, when wanted, could be found and brought to light much more
readily than the articles she was so constantly missing now; and though
these stories were not told in the purest English, they were none the
less interesting to the children for that.
There came, early in February, some pleasant, mild days, which soon
made a ruin of the boys’ palace of snow; and though cousin Betty had
been in a dying state for an hour or two the night before, she was so
far revived that morning, that she was easily persuaded by the children
to go over with them to the farm-house, and tell them the story of
their great-grandfather, and his capture by the Indians; which same,
though a very interesting story to the children, might not be so to my
readers; and after changing my mind about it several times, I have
concluded to leave it out, as having nothing to do with the rest of my
story.
V
Home Again.
“Deal very, very gently with a young child’s tender heart.”
With a face beaming with joy, little Agnes took her place in the cutter
by her uncle on Christmas morning, and nodded good-bye to her cousins,
who were crowded at the window to see her off.
“Mind you come back to dinner!” screamed little Grace, knocking with
her knuckles on the window pane.
Agnes nodded again, and they were gone. Many a time during the short
ride did Agnes take out of her little muff the paper in which her
needle-case for her mother was rolled up, to see if it was all safe;
and she never let go for a moment of the basket in which were some toys
for Lewie, which she and her cousins had purchased at the village. As
she drove up the road from the gate to her mother’s house, it seemed to
her so long since she had been away, that she expected to see great
changes. She had never been from home so long before, and a great deal
had happened in that fort night.
Mrs. Elwyn was reading again; indeed, she had resumed that very
yellow-covered book, the reading of which Lewie’s sickness had
interrupted; so she had not much time for a greeting for Agnes, though
she did allow her to kiss her cheek, and of course laid aside her book,
out of compliment to Mr. Wharton. But little Lewie, who was sitting in
his cradle, surrounded by toys, was in perfect ecstasies at the return
of Agnes.
He stretched his little arms towards her; and as she sprang towards
him, and stooped to kiss him, he threw them around her neck, and
clasped his little hands together, as if determined never to let her go
again.
“Sister come! sister come!” he exclaimed over and over again, with the
greatest glee; “sister stay with Lewie now.”
“Sister will stay a little while,” said Agnes, kissing over and over
again her beautiful little brother.
“No, sister _stay_!—sister shall not go!” said Lewie, in the best
manner in which he could express it; but exactly _how_, we must be
excused from making known to the reader, having a great horror of
_baby-talk_ in books.
“But I _must_ go, darling; all my things are at uncle’s, and I want to
get some books cousin Emily is going to give me; but I will come back
very soon to stay with Lewie.”
“No! sister _shall_ not go!” was still the cry; and Mrs. Elwyn settled
the matter by saying:
“Agnes, if Lewie wants you here so much, you may as well take off your
things; you cannot return to Brook Farm; besides, I want you to amuse
Lewie.” Agnes thought of some of the consequences of her endeavors to
amuse Lewie, and sighed.
“If your mother insists upon your remaining, Agnes,” said her uncle, “I
will bring over your things, and Emily shall come with me, to bring the
books, and tell you how to study.”
“Oh, thank you, dear uncle!” said Agnes, her face brightening at once.
In the first scene in which our little hero is introduced to the
reader, he certainly does not appear to advantage, as few persons would
in the first stages of a fever. He was not always so hard to please, or
so recklessly destructive, as he was that day; and had an intimation
ever been conveyed to his mind, that it was a possible thing for any
desire of his to remain ungratified, he might have grown up less
supremely selfish than he did.
But the natural selfishness of his nature being constantly fed and
ministered to by his doating mother, led the little fellow to
understand very early that no wish of his was to be denied; and before
he was two years old, he fully understood the power he held in his
hands.
He was a beautiful boy; “as handsome as a picture,” as Mammy said; but,
for my part, I have seldom seen a picture of a child that could at all
compare with Lewie Elwyn, with his golden curls, and deep blue eyes,
and brilliant color. He was warm-hearted and affectionate, too, and
might have been moulded by the hand of love into a glorious character.
But selfishness is a deformity which early attention and care may
remedy, and the grace of God alone may completely subdue; but, if
allowed to take its own course, or worse, if encouraged and nurtured,
it grows with wonderful rapidity, and makes a horrid shape of what
might be the fairest.
Upon this text, or something very like it, Mr. Wharton spake to Mrs.
Elwyn, when Agnes had carried Lewie into the next room to spin his top
for him.
“Lewie is a most beautiful little fellow, certainly,” said he; “but,
Harriet, take care; he is getting the upper hand of you already. It is
time already—indeed, it has long been time—to make him understand that
his will is to be _subservient_ to those who are older.”
To which Mrs. Elwyn replied, “How absurd, Mr. Wharton, to talk of
governing a child like that!”
“There are other ways of governing, Harriet, besides the whip and the
lock and key, neither of which do I approve of, except in extreme
cases. Lewie could very easily be guided by the hand of love, and it
rests with you now to make of him almost what you choose. A mother’s
gentle hand hath mighty power.”
“Well, Mr. Wharton, to tell you the truth, nothing seems to me so
absurd as all these ideas of nursery education; and the people who
write books on the subject seem to think there is but one rule by which
all children are to be governed.”
“I perfectly agree with you, Harriet, that it is very ridiculous to
suppose that one set of rules will answer for the education of all,
except, of course, so far as the Bible rule is the foundation for all
government. I think the methods adopted with children should be as
numerous and different as the children themselves, each one, by their
constitution and disposition, requiring different treatment; but still
there are some general rules, you must admit, which will serve for all.
One of these is a rule of very long standing; it is this—‘Honor thy
father and thy mother;’ and another—‘Children, obey your parents in the
Lord.’ Now, how can you expect your son, as he grows up, to honor,
respect, or obey you, if you take the trouble to teach him, every day
and hour, that _he_ is the master, and you only the slave of his will.
There is another saying in that same old book from which these rules
are drawn, which tells you that ‘A child left to himself bringeth his
mother to shame.’”
Mrs. Elwyn, during this conversation, kept up a series of polite little
bows, but could not altogether conceal an expression of weariness, and
distaste at the turn the conversation had taken. She had a sincere
respect, however, for Mr. Wharton, who always exercised over her the
power which a strong mind exercises over a weak one, and she felt in
her heart that he was a real friend to her, and one who had the
interests of herself and her children at heart.
As Mr. Wharton rose to go she said, laughingly:
“I thank you for your kind advice with regard to Lewie, Mr. Wharton,
but in spite of it, I do not think I shall put him in a straight-jacket
before he is out of his frocks.”
“No straight-jacket is needed, Harriet; you have often written in your
copy-book at school, I suppose, ‘Just as the twig is bent the tree’s
inclined.’ You remember that strange apple-tree in my orchard, which
the children use for a seat, it rises about a foot from the ground, and
then turns and runs along for several feet horizontally, and then
shoots up again to the sky. When that was a twig, your thumb and finger
could have bent it straight; but now, what force could do it. If
sufficient strength could be applied it might be _broken_, but never
bent again. Excuse my plain speaking, Harriet, but I see before you so
much trouble, unless that little boy’s strong will is controlled, that
my conscience would not let me rest, unless I spoke honestly to you
what is in my mind.”
“I must say you are not a prophesier of ‘_smooth things_’” said Mrs.
Elwyn, “but still, I hope the dismal things you have hinted at may not
come to pass.”
“I hope not too, Harriet,” said Mr. Wharton, “but God has now
mercifully spared your little boy’s life, and it rests with you whether
he shall be trained for His service or not.”
Then calling for Agnes and Lewie, Mr. Wharton kissed them for good-bye,
telling Agnes that he would bring Emily over the next day.
Mrs. Elwyn looked infinitely relieved when Mr. Wharton drove off, and
returned to her novel with as much interest as ever, and in the very
exciting scene into which her heroine was now introduced, she soon
forgot the unpleasant nature of Mr. Wharton’s “lecture,” as she called
it.
Agnes was contriving in her mind all the morning, how she should
present the needle-case to her mother, and wondering how it would be
received. It was such a great affair to her, and had cost her so much
time and labor, that she was quite sure it must be an acceptable gift,
and yet natural timidity in approaching her mother, made her shrink
from presenting it, and every time she thought of it her heart beat in
her very throat.
At length the novel was finished and thrown aside, and Mrs. Elwyn sat
with her feet on the low fender gazing abstractedly into the fire. Now
was the time Agnes thought, and approaching her gently, she said:
“Mamma, here is a needle-case I made for you, all myself, for a
Christmas present.”
The _words_ could not have been heard by Mrs. Elwyn, she only knew that
a voice _not_ Lewie’s interrupted her in her reverie.
“Hush! hush! child,” she said, waving her hand impatiently towards
Agnes, “be quiet! don’t disturb me!”
Oh, what a grieved and disappointed little heart that, as Agnes turned
away with the tears in her eyes, and a lump in her throat.
The next voice that disturbed the young widow was one to which she
always gave attention:
“Mamma! mamma!” cried Lewie, pulling imperiously at her gown; “mamma!
sister feels sorry, speak to sister.”
“What is it, dear?” his mother asked.
“Speak to sister! sister crying,” said Lewie, pulling her with all the
strength of his little hands towards Agnes.
“What is the matter, Agnes? Why are you crying? What did you say to me
a few moments ago?” asked her mother.
Agnes tried to say “It is no matter, mamma,” bet she sobbed so bitterly
that she could not form the words. But Lewie, who had seen and
understood the whole thing, pulled the needle-case from his sister’s
hand, and gave his mother to understand that Agnes had made it for her,
and then he struck his little hand towards her and called her “naughty
mamma, to make sister cry!”
More to please Lewie than for any other reason, Mrs. Elwyn took the
needle-case, and said:
“Why Agnes, did you make this yourself, and for me? how pretty it is;
isn’t it, Lewie? Now Agnes, you may fill it with needles for me.”
Agnes wiped her eyes and began her task, but that painful lump would
not go away from her throat. Ah! if those kind words had only come at
first!
How much suffering is caused to the hearts of little children by mere
thoughtlessness, sometimes in those even who love them; by a want of
sympathy in their little griefs and troubles, as great and
all-important to them, as are the troubles of “children of a larger
growth,” in their own estimation.
VI.
The Tableaux.
“A mournful thing is love which grows to one so mild as thou,
With that bright restlessness of eye—that tameless fire of brow
Mournful! but dearer far I call its mingled fear and pride,
And the trouble of its happiness than aught on earth beside.”
—MRS. HEMANS.
Lewie recovered rapidly; and by the time that “the singing of birds had
come,” the roses bloomed as brightly as ever in his cheeks; and, with
his hand in that of Agnes, he roamed about the woods and groves which
surrounded their home, gathering wild flowers, and watching with
delight the nimble squirrel and the brilliant wild birds, as they
hopped from limb to limb. The children were always happy together;
Lewie was more yielding and less passionate when with his gentle sister
than at other times; and it was only when again in the presence of his
mother that his wilful, fretful manner returned, and he was again
capricious and hard to please.
Thus, while he was still almost in his infancy, his mother began to
reap the fruit of her sowing; for, while to others he could be gentle
and pleasant, with her he was always fretful and capricious. Already
her wishes had no weight with him, if they ran counter to his own, and
commands she never ventured to lay upon him; already the little twig
was taking its own bent.
The birth-days were all rigidly kept in Mr. Wharton’s family, and some
little pleasant entertainment provided on every such occasion. Thus,
while Mr. and Mrs. Wharton failed not to make every proper and serious
use of these way-marks on the journey of life, they loved to show their
children how pleasant to themselves was the remembrance of the day when
one more little bright face had come to cheer and brighten their
earthly pilgrimage. Miss Effie was the important character in
commemoration of whose “first appearance on any stage” a pleasant party
had collected in Mr. Wharton’s parlor, one evening in May. Mrs. Elwyn
and her children were spending a few days at Brook Farm; and the family
of Dr. Rodney, and a few other little folks from the village, were
invited, on Effie’s birth-day, to pass the afternoon and evening.
Great had been the preparations, for they were, for the first time, to
have an exhibition of the “tableaux vivants” in the evening. Mr.
Wharton had constructed a large frame, which, covered with gilt paper,
and having a black lace spread over it, made the illusion more perfect.
Many pretty scenes had been selected by cousin Emily, who was mistress
of ceremonies; and that no child’s feelings might be hurt, a character
was assigned for each one, in one or other of the pictures. A temporary
curtain was hung across the room, which was to be drawn whenever the
pictures were ready for exhibition.
Agnes had been as busy as anybody in bringing down from a certain
closet devoted to that purpose old finery, and other things which
belonged to days long gone by, and her anticipations of pleasure for
the evening were raised to the highest pitch. But just when all were
assembled in the darkened parlor, the lights all being arranged behind
the curtain so as to fall upon the pictures, Master Lewie, who was up
beyond his usual bed time, and who was hardly old enough to take much
interest in what was going on, declared that he was sleepy, and would
go to bed. Neither Mammy nor Anne were with them at Brook Farm; and as
Mrs. Elwyn seemed as much interested as any one in seeing the tableaux,
Agnes knew what the result would be, if Lewie insisted upon going to
bed; so she endeavored to amuse him and keep him awake till she had
seen at least one tableau.
“Oh, Lewie, wait _one_ moment!” said she; “Lewie will see a beautiful
picture.”
“Lewie don’t want to see pictures; Lewie wants to go to bed. Sister,
come! sing to Lewie.”
“In one moment, then, little brother. Let Agnes see one picture. Won’t
you let sister see _one_ picture?”
“No; Lewie must go to bed. Mamma, tell sister to come with Lewie.”
The result was, of course, in accordance with Master Lewie’s wishes,
and Agnes was directed to take him up to bed. “He will very soon be
asleep,” her mother added, “and then you can come down.”
This Master Lewie heard, and it put quite a new idea into his head, it
never having occurred to him before that the person who sang him to
sleep left him alone, after her task was accomplished. That was a thing
he was not going to submit to, and he was so determined to watch Agnes,
lest she should slip away from him, that all sleep seemed to have
deserted his eyes, which were wider open, and more bright and wide
awake, than ever.
Agnes laid down beside him, and, patting him gently on the cheek, she
sang in a sleepy sort of way, hoping the tone of her voice would have a
somniferous effect.
“Sing louder!” shouted Master Lewie.
Agnes obeyed, and sang many nursery songs suggested by Master Lewie,
hoping, at the end of each one, that there would be some signs of
drowsiness manifested on the part of the little tyrant; but the moment
it was finished, brightly and quickly he would speak up:
“Sing that over again!—sing another!—sing ‘Old Woman!’—sing ‘Jack
Horner,’” &c., &c.
And Agnes’ heart died within her as question upon question would follow
each other in quick succession, suggested by the lively imagination of
Master Lewie, as to the name and parentage of “the little boy who lived
by himself;” and the childless condition of the man whose “old wife
wasn’t at home;” and where the dogs actually _did_ take the
“wheel-barrow, wife and all;” he feeling perfectly satisfied of the
accurate information of Agnes on all these important topics.
Several times the little bright eyes slowly closed, and Agnes thought
he was fairly conquered. Slowly drawing her arm from under his head,
she began cautiously to rise; but before she had stolen a foot from the
bed, he would start up and stare at her in amazement, exclaiming,
“Where going, sister?” and then he seemed to learn by experience, and
to determine that he wouldn’t be “caught napping” again that evening.
In the meantime, the fun was going on below, and several beautiful
pictures had been exhibited and admired before Agnes was missed from
the darkened parlor. But now came the cry, “Agnes! Come, Agnes! Where’s
Agnes? She is to be in this picture.” To which Mrs. Elwyn replied, that
“Agnes was putting Lewie to sleep.”
“And hasn’t she been here at all, Aunt Harriet?”
“No,” answered Mrs. Elwyn, “Lewie takes a long time to get to sleep
to-night.”
“That is _too bad_, I declare!” said little Grace, her cheeks reddening
with vexation, “Agnes did want to see these pictures so; can’t I go up
and see if Lewie is asleep, Aunt Harriet.”
“Better not,” said Mrs. Elwyn; “you may disturb him just as he is
dropping asleep, and then Agnes will have to stay much longer.”
The exclamations of indignation were loud and furious from the whole
party of little folks, when it was found that Agnes had been all the
evening banished from the room, and they were ready to go up to Lewie’s
room in a body and take possession of Agnes, and bring her down in
triumph. But Emily said, “stop children, and I will go.”
Very quietly Emily stole into the room and up to the bedside. The
children were lying with their arms about each other, Agnes’ little
hand was on her brother’s cheek, and both were soundly sleeping. Emily
touched Agnes gently and whispered in her ear, but her slumber was so
very sound that she could not arouse her. “Better to let her sleep on
now,” said Emily, “and if Agnes only knew it, she has helped to make
the prettiest tableaux we have had this evening.”
Thus early was little Agnes learning to give up her own gratification
for the sake of others, while the strong will of her little brother was
strengthened by constant exercise and indulgence, for this was but one
of many instances daily occurring, in which Agnes was obliged to
relinquish her own pleasure in order to gratify the whims and caprices
of her little brother. Lewie had so often heard such expressions from
his mother, that almost as soon as he could speak a connected sentence,
he would say, “Lewie must have his own way; Lewie must not be crossed,”
and in this way did his mother prepare him for the jostling and
conflicts of life.
VII.
The Governess.
“An ower true tale.”
Mr. Wharton was one day writing in his study, for though a practical
farmer he devoted much of his time to literary pursuits,—when there was
a knock at his door, and on opening it he saw there a young woman of
delicate appearance, and of so much apparent refinement and
cultivation, that he was quite taken by surprise when she asked him the
question, “if he had any wool to be given out on shares?”
Mr. Wharton replied, that he had had so much trouble with those to whom
he had given out wool in that way, and had been so often cheated by
them, that he had said he would give out no more, but he believed he
must break through his rule for once, in her favor. She seemed very
grateful, and said she hoped he would have no reason to regret his
kindness in giving her employment. And so it proved; Miss Edwards, (for
that was her name,) gave such entire satisfaction as to her work, and
the share of it she returned, that Mr. Wharton kept her for some time
in constant employment. Every time she came, he was more and more
pleased with her gentle and unaffected manners, and with the style of
her conversation, which showed without the slightest appearance of
effort, a person of great intelligence and good breeding, while an air
of subdued melancholy excited an interest in her, which increased with
every interview.
“She is an unmistakable lady,” said Mr. Wharton to his wife, “but how
she came to be living in the village, without friends, and as I believe
in circumstances of great necessity, I cannot imagine. There is a
slight reserve about her,” he added, “which may be difficult to
penetrate, but if I mistake not, she is much in need of a friend, and I
think she will not long resist the voice of kindness.”
Accordingly, the next time she called, Mr. Wharton, in his kind and
sympathising manner, led her to speak of her own peculiar
circumstances; and at length drew from her this much of her history:
She was the daughter of a plain New England farmer; had had a good
common school education; and was expected to devote the rest of her
life to the making of butter and cheese, and to the other occupations
carried on in a farmer’s family. Everything that she could do to aid
her father and mother she was willing and ready to perform, but she
sighed for knowledge; she had learned enough to wish to know more, and
she felt that there was that in her, which properly cultivated, might
fit her for something higher than the making of butter and cheese.
Thus, when the day’s labor was ended, and the old people, as was their
custom, had retired early to rest, their dutiful daughter, her work for
the day well done, sought with delight her little chamber, and her
beloved books, in whose companionship she passed the hours always till
midnight, and sometimes till she was startled by the
“Cock’s shrill clarion,”
and reminded that body and mind alike needed repose.
In her studies, and in the choice of her reading, she was guided by her
pastor; and a better guide, or one more willing to extend a helping
hand to the seeker for knowledge she could not have found. With such a
teacher, and with such an eager desire for improvement, she could not
fail to progress rapidly. On the death of her parents, both of whom she
followed to the grave in the course of one year, the kind pastor took
her to his own home; but not being willing to be even for a time a
burden to him, she immediately opened a small school in a village near
them. Now her kind pastor too was dead; and having heard that a teacher
was wanted in the village of Hillsdale, she had come there in hopes of
getting the situation. Here she was doomed to disappointment, the
vacant place having been supplied but a day or two before she reached
the village; and now, among entire strangers, heart-sick with
disappointment, and with no friend to turn to in her distress, she was
taken down with a fever. It was a kind-hearted woman, in whose house
she had rented a small room, and she nursed her as if she had been a
daughter, without hope of remuneration. As soon as she was sufficiently
recovered to think again of work, she began to inquire eagerly for
employment; and her landlady having directed her to Mr. Wharton, she
had taken that long walk from the village, while yet very feeble, which
resulted in the accomplishment of her wishes.
There had been a brother, she told Mr. Wharton, an only child besides
herself; but, as Mr. Wharton inferred from what she said, he was a
wild, unsteady youth, and he had wandered from his home some years
before, and gone far west towards the Mississippi. For some time they
continued to hear from him, but he had long since ceased to write. She
feared that he was dead; but sometimes she had a strong hope, which
seemed like a presentiment to her, that she should yet look upon his
face on earth; and in this hope, she continued still occasionally to
direct letters to the spot from which he had last written.
When Mr. Wharton had repeated to his wife the story of Miss Edwards,
she said immediately:
“Why, is she not just the person for a governess for our younger
children? No doubt, too, she might aid Emily in her studies, for the
child is too delicate to send away from home.”
“Well thought of, my dear wife,” said Mr. Wharton; “and if we could
persuade Harriet to let poor little Agnes join us, what a nice little
school we might have. It is strange the idea has not occurred to me
before, for I have thought, a great many times, what a pity it was that
such a woman as Miss Edwards should spend her life in spinning wool.”
“When do you expect her again?” asked Mrs. Wharton.
“She will probably be here this afternoon.”
“Let us save her the long walk, by driving over to see her this
morning: perhaps she can return with us.” And in less than an hour, Mr.
and Mrs. Wharton were seated in the widow Crane’s neat little parlor,
in earnest conversation with Miss Edwards.
I need not say that the offer made by Mr. and Mrs. Wharton was
unhesitatingly and gratefully accepted by Miss Edwards. Those only who
have felt as utterly forlorn and desolate as she had done for the last
few weeks, can understand with what joy she hailed the prospect of a
home among such kind and sympathizing hearts.
And a _home_ indeed she found. From the time she entered Mr. Wharton’s
hospitable door, she was treated as companion, friend, and sister. No
more sad, lonely hours for her, so long as she remained under that
roof. There were plenty of happy, bright little faces around her; there
were kind words always sounding in her ear; there were opportunities
enough to be useful; there were rare and valuable books for her leisure
hours. With all these sources of enjoyment, could she fail to be happy?
And if Miss Edwards esteemed herself most fortunate in having found so
delightful a home, Mrs. Wharton was no less so in having secured her
invaluable services.
“How have I ever lived so long without Rhoda!” she often exclaimed; for
the new governess, by her own earnest request, soon lost the formal
title of Miss Edwards in the family, and was simply “Rhoda” with Mr.
and Mrs. Wharton, and “Miss Rhoda” with the children.
“I think there is nothing that she cannot do, and do well,” she added.
“She is a most charming companion in the parlor, with a never-failing
fund of good humor and cheerfulness; a kind and patient, and in all
respects most admirable teacher, for the children; an unwearied nurse
in sickness; a complete cook, if for any reason her services are
required in the kitchen; and perfectly ready to turn her hand to
anything that is to be done.”
“And now you have not mentioned the crowning excellence of her
character, my dear,” said Mr. Wharton; “she is, I believe, a sincere
and earnest Christian; and, as you say, I think we are most fortunate
in having secured her as an inmate in our family, and a teacher for our
children.”
Mr. Wharton, who had unbounded influence with Mrs. Elwyn, had no great
difficulty in persuading her to allow Agnes to become a member of his
family, that she might with his children enjoy the benefit of Miss
Edwards’ instructions. Indeed, so long as Mrs. Elwyn had her darling
Lewie with her, it seemed almost a matter of indifference to her what
became of Agnes; and thus the neglect and unkindness of her mother were
overruled for good, and Agnes was placed in the hands of those who
would sow good seed in her young heart, while improving and cultivating
her mind. Happy would it have been for poor little Lewie, could he have
been taken from the indulgent arms of his weak and doating mother, and
placed under like healthy training, where his really fine qualities of
heart and mind might have been cultured, and he might early have been
taught to curb that hot and hasty temper, and to restrain those habits
of self-indulgence, which finally proved his ruin.
Miss Edwards remained six years in her happy home at Mr. Wharton’s, and
had become as they all thought essential to their comfort and
happiness, when she one day received a letter, which agitated her
exceedingly. She was sitting at the dinner table, when the letters were
brought from the village. One was handed to her; she looked at the
superscription, at the post-mark, which was that of a town far to the
south-west; her cheek flushed, and with trembling fingers she broke the
seal. She glanced at the signature, and turned so pale they thought she
would faint, but in a moment she was relieved by a burst of tears.
Her long lost brother was alive! he wrote that he was married, and
settled in that far distant State. One of his sister’s letters (for she
still continued from time to time to write to him) had lately reached
him, he said, and he wished her to come to him. Her mind was
immediately made up to go; she dearly loved her sweet pupils, and the
kind friends who had given her a home, and a place in their hearts, but
the ties of kindred were stronger than all other ties, and they drew
her with resistless force towards the home of her own and only brother.
There was something about the tone of this letter which Mrs. Wharton
did not like, and she had a foreboding that this journey would not be
for the happiness of her friend, and tried to dissuade her from
undertaking it. And in this she was entirely disinterested; for great
as would be the loss of this gifted young lady to her, Mrs. Wharton was
not the one to put a straw in her way, if she felt assured the journey
would end happily for her.
All that she said, however, was of no avail; it had been the hope of
Miss Edwards’ life, once more to see this darling brother, and nothing
could deter her from making the attempt. Her preparations were made in
haste, and with many tears on her part, and on that of the kind friends
she was leaving, and amid loud sobs and lamentations from her dear
little scholars, they parted, never again to meet on earth. A tedious
and perilous journey she had, by river and land, but she seemed to bear
all the discomforts of the way with her own cheerful, happy spirit, and
the letters she wrote to her friends from different points on the
journey were exceedingly amusing and entertaining. One of them, and the
last she wrote before reaching her point of destination, I will
transcribe here in her own words:—
“Springdale, Oct.—”
“My beloved pupils,—I am going, in this letter, to tell you a ghost
story, and a murder story, of both of which your humble servant was the
heroine. But before your little cheeks begin to grow white, and your
eyes to open in horror, let me tell you that the ghost was no ghost at
all, and in the murder scene, nobody’s life was in danger, though both
matters at the time were very serious ones to me.”
“I wrote you last from a little tavern in the northern part of
Virginia, while I was waiting for a conveyance to continue on my
journey, the stage passing over these unfrequented roads only twice a
week. It has always been my lot to have friends raised up for me when
friends were most needed; and while sitting in the little parlor of the
tavern, feeling very desolate, and very impatient, a gig drove up to
the door, from which an old clergyman alighted. He soon entered the
parlor, and in a few minutes we were engaged in a pleasant
conversation, in the course of which I mentioned the circumstances of
my detention in that place, and my extreme anxiety to progress in my
journey.”
“The old gentleman, it seems, had been on a three days’ journey to a
ministers’ meeting, and was now returning home, and as he was
travelling in the same direction in which I wished to go, he said it
would give him great pleasure if I would take a seat in his gig, in
case my heaviest trunks could be sent on by stage. This the
good-natured landlord very willingly consented to attend to. The trunks
were to be sent to the care of the old clergyman, who was to ship me
for my destined port, and send my trunks on after me.”
“You may be sure I did not hesitate about accepting the old clergyman’s
offer, for after jolting along with rough men, over rough roads, as I
had done for many days, I anticipated with much pleasure a ride of two
or three days in a gig, with the kind, pleasant old gentleman. And now
comes the ghost story.”
“As we were riding along through this thinly settled part of Western
Virginia, I noticed occasionally large, dark, barn-like looking
buildings, with the wooden shutters tightly closed. After passing two
or three of these buildings, I at length asked my companion for what
purpose they were used.”
“‘Why, those,’ said he, ‘are our churches. I had forgotten how entirely
unacquainted you were with this part of the country, or I should have
pointed them out to you.’”
“‘Is it possible,’ I exclaimed, ‘that you worship in those dreary,
dark-looking places! I must go inside of one of them on the first
opportunity.’”
“Soon after I spoke, as we were ascending a hill, some part of the
harness gave way, and we were obliged to alight from the gig, while the
old gentleman endeavored to repair the injury.”
“‘How long will it take you, sir,’ said I, ‘to set this matter right?’”
“‘Oh, some time—perhaps a quarter of an hour,’ he answered.”
“‘And cannot I help you?’ I asked. ‘I believe I can do almost anything
I undertake to do.’”
“‘Oh, no, no,’ he answered; ‘you had better not undertake to mend a
harness, or you will be obliged, after this, to say that you have
failed in one thing; besides, I can do this very well alone.’”
“‘I have a great mind to take hold and mend it, just to show you that
my boast was not an idle one,’ said I; ‘but if you are determined to
scorn my offered assistance, I will run back, and take a survey of the
interior of the old church we passed a few moments since.’”
“‘You will not see much,’ the old clergyman called out after me; ‘for,
as you see, the wooden shutters are kept closed during the week, and it
is almost total darkness inside.’”
“However, on I ran down the hill, and was soon at the door of the old
barn-like building. The door was not fastened, and I opened it, and
entered the church. At first, the darkness seemed intense, broken only
by little streaks of sunlight which streamed in through the small,
crescent-shaped holes in the shutters; but at length my eye became
accustomed to the darkness, and I could begin to distinguish the rude
seats and aisles, and even to see, at the end of the church, an
elevation which I knew must be the pulpit. Determined to see all that
was to be seen, I made my way along the aisle, ascended the pulpit
stairs, and had just laid my hand on the door, when a tall, white
figure suddenly rose up in the pulpit, and laid a cold hand on mine. I
believe I shrieked; but I was filled with such an indescribable horror,
that I know not what I did, when a hollow voice said:”
“‘Don’t be afraid; I will not harm you.’”
“I snatched my hand from the cold grasp which held it, and fled from
the church. I remember nothing more, till I opened my eyes, and found
the old clergyman bathing my face with water. He had become alarmed at
my long absence, and, on coming back to seek me, had found me lying on
my face, on the grass, in front of the old church. We had been riding
again for some time, before I summoned resolution to tell the old
gentleman what I had seen in the church. He complimented me by saying,
that though his acquaintance with me had been short, he was much
mistaken in me, if I was a person to be deceived by the imagination;
and he said he much regretted that I had not mentioned the cause of my
fright before we left the old church, as it was always best to
ascertain at once the true nature of any such apparently frightful
object.”
“‘We have no time to turn back now,’ said he, ‘as we have already lost
more than half an hour; but the next best thing we can do is to stop at
the first house we come to, and see if we can find out anything
concerning the apparition which appeared to you in the church.’”
“We soon stopped before the door of a small log house, and at our
summons a pleasant-looking woman appeared. To the inquiries of the old
clergyman as to the appearance by which I had been so much alarmed, she
replied:”
“‘Oh, it’s the crazy minister, sir. He used to preach in that old
church; but he’s been crazy for a long time, and often he dresses
himself in a long white robe, and goes and sits in the pulpit of that
old church all day. He’s very gentle, she added, turning to me, ‘and
wouldn’t hurt anybody for the world; but I don’t wonder you got a good
fright.’ So ends my ghost story; and now, if you are ready for more
horrors, I will tell you my other adventure.”
“Our detention near the old church, and the state of the roads,
rendered heavy by late rains, made it impossible for us to reach the
town at which we had hoped to spend the night; and we had made up our
minds that we would stop at the first _promising_-looking establishment
we should see, when the coming up of a sudden storm left us no option,
but made us hail gladly the first human dwelling we came to, though
that was but a rough, rambling old hut, built of unhewn logs.”
“There was only an old woman at home when we stopped at the door, and I
fancied she looked rather _too well pleased_ when we asked if she could
accommodate us for the night. I must confess to you, my dear children,
I felt rather nervous after the fright of that afternoon; I, who used
to boast that I was ignorant of the fact of possessing such a thing as
nerves; but I do think I must have been nervous, for very little things
troubled me that evening, and my imagination had never been so busy
before. In a very few moments, an old man, and three strapping,
rough-looking youths, entered, with their axes over their shoulders,
and dripping with rain; and now I began to imagine that I saw
suspicious glances passing between these young men, and I certainly
heard a long whispered conversation pass between two of them and the
old woman in the next room. I looked towards my old friend the
clergyman; but he, good, unsuspicious old soul, was nodding in his
chair by the log fire. I grew more and more uncomfortable, and heartily
wished we had jogged on in the pelting rain, rather than trust
ourselves to such very questionable hospitality. One thing I made up my
mind to, which was this—that I would not close my eyes to sleep that
night, but would keep on the watch for whatever might happen.”
“The old woman gave us a very comfortable supper, and soon afterwards
she asked me if I would like to go to bed. Not liking to show any
distrust of my hosts, I assented with apparent readiness, and followed
the old woman into a hall, and up a rude ladder, which I should have
found it very difficult to mount had it not been for my early exercise
in this kind of gymnastics, when searching for hen’s eggs in the barn,
at my New England home.”
“At the head of the ladder was a small passageway, from which we
entered the room which was to be my sleeping apartment. Whether there
had ever been any door to this room or not I do not know; certain it is
there was no door now; the only other room I could perceive in the
upper part of the house, was a sort of a granary filled with bins to
hold different kinds of grain.”
“‘Is the old gentleman with whom I came, to sleep in this part of the
house?’ I asked in as careless a tone as I could assume.”
“‘No, he sleeps in the loft of the other part where the boys sleep;’
answered the old woman, and then looking at me with a grin which I
thought gave her the appearance of an ugly old hag, she said, ‘Why ye
ain’t afeard on us, be ye?’”
“‘I told her I had had quite a fright that day, and felt a little
nervous.’”
“‘Well,’ said she, ‘ye can just go to sleep without any frights here.
We shan’t do ye no harm, I reckon,’ and she left me and descended the
ladder.”
“Before going to bed I took my light, and stepping out softly I went to
reconnoitre the other room, the door of which we had passed on the way
to the room in which I was to spend the night: I was obliged to descend
two steps to enter this room, where I found nothing frightful to be
sure, there being only some old clothes hanging up, and the bins of
grain of which I have spoken before. I returned to my room, and with
great difficulty moved a rude chest of drawers, across the place where
a door should be, on this I placed my little trunk, and the only chair
in the room, an old shovel, and a broken pitcher, determined that if
any one did enter the room, it should not be without noise enough to
give me warning. Before this barricade I set my candle, hoping it might
continue to burn all night.”
“I laid down without undressing, determined that I would only rest; I
would not even close my eyes to sleep. I had laid thus as I supposed an
hour, listening to the voices of the old people and their sons, as in
subdued tones they talked together below. At the end of that time the
door opened, and I heard stealthy steps ascending the ladder. My heart,
as the saying is, was in my throat, and I could hear its every throb.
The steps came nearer and nearer, and as the first foot-fall sounded on
the floor of the little passage, which led to my room, I shrieked, ‘Who
is there? what do you want?’”
“‘Bless your soul it’s only me; you need not scream so,’ said the old
woman. ‘I’m only going to the bin for some corn-meal to make mush for
your breakfast.’”
“‘I do believe the gal thinks we are going to murder her in her bed,’ I
heard her say with a loud laugh as she descended the ladder; ‘you ought
to see the _chist_, and the things she’s got piled on top of it, all
standing in the door-way.’”
“At this the men’s voices joined in the laugh, and they sounded
horribly to me. ‘Yes,’ I thought to myself, ‘how easy it would be for
them to murder us in our beds, and there would be no one to tell the
tale.’ Soon after this, in spite of my resolution to keep awake, sleep
must have overpowered me, for I was awakened by a tremendous crash, as
if the house was falling, and I opened my eyes to find myself in total
darkness, and to hear soft footsteps in my room.”