and I soon heard footsteps approaching, and saw a light gleaming up the
ladder way, and soon the old woman’s night-cap appeared over the chest.
‘What _is_ the matter now?’ she cried with some impatience, ‘you
certainly are the most _narvous_ lodger I’ve ever had yet.’”
“‘Matter enough,’ said I, ‘there is some one in my room. Didn’t you
hear that awful crash?’”
“‘Pshaw! it’s only our old black cat!’ said the old woman; ‘he always
comes up to this room to sleep, but we thought we had shut him out.’”
“‘Can he climb the ladder?’ I asked.”
“‘Just like a _human_,’ said the old woman; and, pushing aside the
chest, she seized the cat, and raising the only window in the room,
threw him out.”
“Again weariness overpowered me, and I slept; only to awake to new
horrors; for now I heard cautious footsteps and whispered voices, and
outside the grindstone was at work making something very sharp. Then
the door opened, and a smothered voice said, ‘Mother, is the water
hot?’”
“‘Yes, bilin’,’ answered the old woman; ‘are the knives sharp?’”
“‘All ready,’ answered the young man; ‘where’s father?’”
“‘He’s gone to the loft,’ said the old woman; and then came some
whispered words, which I could not catch. You will most probably laugh
at me, but my mind was now so worked up by all the agitation I had
experienced, that I had not the smallest doubt that we were now to be
murdered, and that the dreadful work was already going on in the loft,
my kind old friend being the first victim. Still I thought I might be
in time to save him yet, and there might be a bare possibility of our
escape. Springing from my bed in great haste and agitation, I hurried
on my shawl, and cautiously descended the ladder; but my blood froze
with horror, as just then I heard a piercing shriek. In the passage
below I encountered the old woman; she had just come into the house,
and had an old shawl over her head, and a lantern in her hand, I
thought she gave a guilty start when she saw me, as she exclaimed:”
“‘Why, bless me, gal! what are you down at this time in the morning
for?’”
“‘What are _you_ all up so early in the morning for?’ I asked, in a
voice which I meant should strike terror to her heart.”
“‘Why, my old man and the boys had determined to kill hogs this
morning,’ she answered; ‘but we tried to keep so quiet as not to
disturb ye. I was afeared, though, that the squealing of the hogs would
wake ye.’”
“The relief was so sudden, that I could hardly refrain from putting my
arms round the old woman’s neck, and confessing all my unjust
suspicions, but the fear of hurting her feelings prevented. With a
tranquil mind I again climbed the ladder, and sought my humble bed, and
was soon in such a sound slumber, that even the squealing of the hogs,
in their dying agonies, failed to rouse me.”
“Seen by the morning light, as we were seated around the breakfast
table, these midnight robbers and murderers of my fancy appeared a
family of honest, hardy New Englanders, who had bought a tract of land
in Western Virginia. They showed us, at a little distance, a clearing
where they were just erecting a larger and more comfortable log
dwelling; and the old woman assured us that if we would stop and visit
them, if we ever passed that way again, we should not have to climb a
ladder, for they were going to have a ‘reg’lar stairway in t’other
house.’”
“When the time came for parting with our kind hosts, and we offered to
remunerate them for their trouble, they rejected the proffered money
almost with scorn.”
“‘No, no,’ said the old man, ‘we haven’t got quite so low as that yet;
and I hope that I nor none of mine will ever come to taking pay for a
night’s lodging from a traveller. We don’t keep _tavern_ here.’”
“The old woman’s parting advice to me was to try and ‘git over my
_narvousness_; and she thought I hadn’t better drink no more strong
green tea.’”
“‘I think your tea _was_ strong last night, my friend,’ said I; ‘and
that, together with the sight of the ghost, of which I have been
telling you, made me very uneasy and restless.’”
“‘Well,’ said the old woman, ‘I hope ye won’t be so suspicious of us
next time ye come; for it’s a _cartain_ fact, that we never murdered
any _human_ yet. We do kill _hogs_; that I won’t deny.’ And she laughed
so heartily, that I felt quite sure she had seen through all my fears
and suspicions of the night before. So ends the murder story.”
“I wish you could have heard my old clergyman laugh, as I related to
him all the horrors of the night; and when I came to mistaking the last
squeal of a dying pig for his own death groan, I thought he would have
rolled out of the gig. That night, which was _last_ night, found us in
the old gentleman’s hospitable home, where his kind lady gave me as
cordial a welcome as I could desire. Here I am still with these good
friends, only waiting for my trunks; and then, with God’s blessing, two
days more will find me in the home of my own dear brother.—And here,
with many kind remembrances to the dear ones at Brook Farm, Miss
Edwards’ letter closed.”
VIII.
Bitter Disappointments.
“Oh! art thou found?
But yet to find thee thus!”
VESPERS OF PALERMO.
It may be as well for us to continue the history of Miss Edwards here,
though its sad sequel was not known to the family of Mr. Wharton till a
long time after she had left them. The letter with which the preceding
chapter closes, was the last heard from her for many weeks. Various
were the surmises in the family as to the reasons for her unaccountable
silence, but at length they settled down in the belief that she must
have fallen a victim to some of the diseases of a new country; though
why they should not have received some tidings of her fate from her
brother, still remained a mystery.
At last, after many weeks, there came a letter from her, but it was
short, and sad, and unsatisfactory in all respects. She had had a
terrible disappointment she said, but her friends must have forbearance
with her, and excuse her from detailing the events of the past few
weeks. She was now at Springdale with her kind old friend, the
clergyman, and was just recovering from a long and tedious illness; she
hoped soon to be able to be at work again, and a little school was
ready for her, as soon as she should be sufficiently restored to take
charge of it. Not one word was said of her brother, or of her reasons
for returning to the home of the old clergyman.
“She is evidently very unhappy,” said Mr. Wharton, “and perhaps her
funds are exhausted. She must return to us, and for this purpose I will
send her the means without delay.”
But still Miss Edwards did not come, and her letters were few and far
between. At length there came one written in much better spirits, and
in her old cheerful style, in which she informed them that she was
engaged to be married to a young physician of that place. She seemed
now very happy, and full of bright anticipations, not the least
cheering of which, was the prospect of visiting her kind friends once
more, when she should travel to the east on her bridal tour. And this
was the last letter they ever received from Miss Edwards.
That same summer a package came to Mr. Wharton, directed in an unknown
hand, from a place, the name of which he had never heard before. It was
from a physician, and ran thus:
SIR,—I was called a few weeks since to attend a young lady, who was
lying dangerously ill, at the only tavern in our little village. I
found her raving in delirium, and your name, and the names of many whom
I suppose to be members of your family, were constantly mingled with
her ravings. She had stopped at the tavern the night before in the
stage; and when the other passengers went on was too ill to proceed
with them. I attended her constantly for a week or ten days, and at the
end of that time, I had the happiness to find that her fever had
entirely left her, and her mind was quite restored. She was, however,
extremely weak, and feeling assured, she said, that she should never be
able to reach the home of her kind friends, (mentioning the name of
your family,) she begged earnestly for writing materials, and though I
remonstrated and entreated, I found it impossible to prevent her
writing. She said she had a communication which it was due to you that
she should make, and she charged me over and over again, to remember
your direction, and send the package to you in case she did not leave
that place alive. She was busily engaged in writing one day, when the
noise of wheels attracted her to the window, which she reached in time
to see a gentleman alight from a chaise, who proceeded to hand out a
lady. A person in the room with her, saw her put her hands to her head,
and then she rushed from the back door of the house, and did not stop
till she reached the woods. When found she was a raving maniac, and is
so still. We have been obliged to place her in the county house, where
she is confined in the apartment devoted to Lunatics, and is as
comfortable as she can be made under the circumstances. The
accompanying package I found just as she left it, when she dropped her
pen and hastened to the window, and I now comply with her earnest
request and enclose it to you.
With respect, &c.
JAMES MASTEN.
The manuscript, when opened, was found to be in Miss Edwards’ well
known hand-writing, though the fingers that held the pen, had evidently
trembled from weakness and agitation. It was with the saddest emotions,
that those who had loved her so tenderly, read the following
communication:
“Painful and harrowing to my feelings as the task must be which I have
undertaken, I feel that it is due to my kind and ever sympathising
friends, to make them acquainted with the sad trials through which I
have passed, and the bitter disappointments I have met with. I have
tried to bear up with the spirit of a Christian, and to feel that these
trials are sent by One who orders all things in justice and
righteousness; I do submit; I am not inclined to murmur; I hope I am
resigned; but heart, and flesh, and mind, are weak, and these alas! are
all failing.”
“With the fondest anticipations I reached the village, where I expected
to be received in the arms of my long lost brother. Oh, how my heart
bounded, as the prolonged sound of the stage-horn told me we were
approaching the end of my journey! and how my imagination pictured the
joyful meeting, the cordial welcome, the fond embrace once more of my
own loved kindred! I was much surprised that my brother was not at the
tavern to meet me, and more so when, on asking for his residence, the
landlord hesitated, as if perplexed.”
“‘Edwards! Edwards!’ said he; ‘there is but one person of that name
that I know of in all the village; but he can’t be brother to such a
lady as you.’”
“‘Perhaps you have not been here long,’ I said.”
“‘O yes, ma’am, nearly fifteen years,’ he answered.”
“‘And what is the name of this man of whom you speak?’”
“‘Richard, I think; they always call him Dick Edwards about here,’
answered the landlord.”
“I did not tell him that was my brother’s name, but with a trembling
heart I asked him to point me to the house of this Richard Edwards of
whom he spoke.”
“There was something of pity in the tone of the landlord’s voice, as he
told me to turn down the second lane I should come to, and go on to the
last hut on the right hand. ‘But I advise you not to go,’ he continued,
‘for I’m sure there must be some mistake.’”
I was too heart-sick to answer, but, taking my travelling-bag on my
arm, I followed the directions of the landlord, and picked my way as
well as I could through the mud of the miserable, filthy lane he had
mentioned to me, all the time saying to myself, ‘It cannot be—there
surely must be some mistake,’ and yet impelled irresistibly to go on.
“As I approached the door of the hut at which I knew I was to stop, I
heard the sound of singing and shouting; and as I came nearer, the
words of a low drinking chorus sounded on my ear. I paused before the
door, and a feeling of faintness came over me. I thought, ‘I will turn
back, and give up the attempt. Better never to find my brother, than to
find him here, and thus.’ But again something impelled me to tap at the
door. It would be such an inexpressible relief, I thought, to find
myself mistaken.”
“It was some time before I could make myself heard above the noise of
drunken revelry which sounded within the hovel; but at length the door
was opened by a wretched, frightened-looking woman, and a scene of
indescribable misery was presented to my eyes. Around a table were
seated three or four brutish-looking men, with a jug and some glasses
before them. On the table was a pack of greasy-looking cards; but those
who surrounded the table were too far gone to play now; they could only
drink, and sing, and shout, and drink again; and one of them, in
attempting to rise from the table, fell, and lay in a state of utter
helplessness on the floor.”
“The man of the house was not so far gone as the rest; and when he came
staggering forward, a few words sufficed to explain the reason of my
appearance.”
“His answer seemed to seal my fate.”
“‘Ho! you’re Rhoda, then! I wrote to you. I thought likely enough you’d
got some money. We’re pretty hard up here.’ This was said with a silly
laugh and hiccough, which filled me with an indescribable loathing.”
“And was this miserable, bloated wretch my brother—that brother whom I
had so longed and prayed once more to see, of whom I had thought by
day, and dreamed by night, for so many long years! I turned to go
without another word, but fell at the door, and lay, I know not how
long, without sense or motion. When I revived, I found the woman (who,
I suppose, was my sister-in-law) bathing my face. I have a dim
recollection, too, of seeing some dirty, miserable-looking children,
and of being asked for _money_. I laid all that I had about me on the
table, and, while they were eagerly catching for it, I left the
wretched place; and grasping by the fence to steady my feeble
footsteps, I made my way back to the inn. I took the next stage, and
then the boat, for the home of my kind old friend at Springdale, and
arrived there ill in body and mind. From there I wrote you, when
partially recovered. As soon as I was able, I began my school, and
before long became much interested in my little scholars; and in the
hospitable home of my kind old friends, regained tranquillity of mind,
and after a time even cheerfulness. But other trials awaited me. My
head is weary, and I must rest before I relate to you the remainder of
my melancholy story.”
“There was a young physician in that place, who had recently come from
the East, and settled there. He was a man of agreeable person and
manners, of much general information, and of very winning address; at
least, so he seemed to me. He was entirely different from all whom I
had met in that new country, and was the only person, besides my old
friend the clergyman and his wife, with whom it was really pleasant to
converse; and I felt perfectly at ease in his society, having been
assured that he was engaged to a certain Miss G——, the daughter of a
merchant in the village. Though much surprised at this, she having
appeared to me but a mere flippant gossip, and he a man of refined and
cultivated intellect, still I had no reason to doubt it, and was
completely taken by surprise when, after an acquaintance of a few
weeks, he one day made an offer of his hand and heart to _me_. I told
him what I had heard of his engagement to another, but he assured me it
was the idlest village gossip. ‘There was nowhere else to go,’ he said,
‘till I came there, and so he had occasionally visited at Mr. G——’s,
but without the slightest intention of paying any serious attention to
either of his daughters, who were girls not at all to his taste.’”
“The idea of this gentleman appearing in the character of a lover of
_mine_ was so new to me that I was obliged to take time to accustom
myself to it, and to ascertain the nature of my own feelings, which I
soon found were such as to satisfy me that I should commit no perjury
in giving him my hand. I will not tell you how I loved him! I cannot
write about it now! But for a short time I was very, very happy, and
even my bitter disappointments were forgotten. But suddenly he ceased
to visit me. Day after day passed and he did not come; and yet I knew
that he was in the village. At length I could no longer conceal my
distress from my old friend; who, being very indignant at this
treatment, called my truant lover to account.”
“My cheeks glow with indignation as I write it! A story had been
circulated, which was afterwards traced to the G—— ’s, that I had left
a _husband_ in an Eastern State; and this man, without coming to me for
a word of explanation, believed the story and deserted me. I had no
friend of long enough standing there to contradict the report; I wrote
to you, Mr. Wharton, but the letter could never have reached you, for
no answer came; and this only confirmed the suspicions of those who had
heard this slanderous story. All but my kind hosts looked upon me with
suspicion; the object of the slander was accomplished; my former lover
resumed his visits at the house of Mr. G——, and his attentions to his
daughter. He was not worthy of a love like mine! Stranger as he had
been to me, could I have believed a tale like that of him, without
making an effort to investigate its truth, or giving him full
opportunity to clear himself from the imputation? That place could no
longer be a home for me. I left it, dear friends, and turned my face
once more towards those who had been for so many years tried and true
to me. But strength failed! I have been here I know not how many weeks,
enduring torment of mind and body. My hope of reaching you is dying
out. I _have_ no hope but in God; my friend and refuge in time of
trouble! I have—’”
Here the writing ceased; and the next moment she had seen her faithless
lover hand his bride from the carriage, and reason fled from her poor
brain forever.
The day after this letter was received found Mr. Wharton on his way to
the West, to ascertain for himself the condition of Miss Edwards, and
to endeavor to devise some means for her comfort and restoration, if
possible. Has my reader ever visited a _county house_, and especially
the apartment devoted exclusively to Lunatics? If not, I will endeavor
to describe a few of the sights which met the eyes of Mr. Wharton, on
his sad visit to the county house, which then stood a few miles from——.
He proceeded thither in company with the physician who had written to
him, and sent him the package from Miss Edwards, and it was with a
heavy heart that he first saw the desolate brick building in which she
had been placed, and thought, “Is this the only asylum for one so
lovely and so gifted, and must she wear out her days in hopeless
madness here?” Making their way through the crowd of miserable,
hobbling, bandaged, blind and helpless creatures who were standing
about the yard and halls, Mr. Wharton and Dr. Masten, guided by the
superintendent of the county house, paused before the door of the
“crazy room.” Sounds of many voices were already heard, in various
tones, singing and shouting, and preaching, and when the door was
opened the din was such that it was impossible for the gentlemen to
hear each other speak.
What a place, thought Mr. Wharton, for those who should be kept quiet
and tranquil, and who should have nothing about them but pleasant,
cheerful sights. What possible hope is there of the restoration of any
here!
About the large and not over clean room, were a number of _cages_, much
like those you now see placed around a menagerie tent, though not so
large or so comfortable as these cages of wild beasts. In each of these
cages was confined a human being, and these poor creatures stricken by
the hand of God, were in various stages of insanity, some wildly
raving, others more quiet, and others still in a state of helpless
idiocy. One poor creature had preached till her voice had sunk to a
hoarse whisper, and so she continued to preach, the keeper told them,
day and night, till utterly exhausted, when she would fall into a state
of insensibility, which could hardly be called _sleep_, but from which
she would arouse to preach again, day and night, till again exhausted.
A boy about sixteen years of age sat in one of the cages, with scarcely
a rag to cover him, idly pulling through his fingers a bit of cord.
This had been his employment for months, the keeper said. He was
perfectly quiet, except the cord was taken from him; but then he would
be quite frantic. The ends of his fingers were quite worn with drawing
this cord between them, and it was necessary to supply him constantly
with a new bit of cord. When asked why the boy remained nearly naked,
the keeper said, they had never been able to devise any means to keep
clothing upon him, or to find anything strong enough to resist the
strength of his hands; but if allowed to remain in a state almost of
nudity, and to have his bit of cord, he was perfectly quiet and
contented.
These, and many more sad and horrible things, were seen and heard
during their visit; but Mr. Wharton’s first object was to find her for
whose sake he had undertaken this long journey. He knew her
immediately, though her face was worn with trouble and sickness, and
there was an intense and unnatural brightness about her eye. Her
beautiful hair was unbound, and falling about her shoulders, as she sat
in the farthest corner of her cage, perfectly quiet, and entirely
unoccupied.
“Rhoda!” said Mr. Wharton, gently. She started, and put back her thick
hair from her ear, at the sound of his familiar voice.
“Rhoda!” said he, “don’t you remember me?”
She looked at him intently, and the expression of her eye began to
change.
“The children want to see you so much, Rhoda! Emily and Effie, and
Agnes and little Grace.” He mentioned each name slowly and distinctly,
and then spoke of his wife and the other children, and mentioned scenes
and incidents connected with his home. Her eye still looked with an
earnest gaze into his; her brow contracted, as if she was trying to
recall some long forgotten thing; until at length, with the
helplessness of an infant, she stretched her arms towards Mr. Wharton,
and exclaimed, piteously:
“Oh, take me away!—take me to my home!”
“You shall go with me, Rhoda; I will not leave you here,” said Mr.
Wharton; and beckoning to Dr. Masten, he left the room. As he reached
the door, he heard a cry of agony, and turning, he saw Miss Edwards at
the front of her cage, with both arms extended towards him through the
bars, and the most agonized, imploring expression upon her face.
Stepping back to her, he said:
“Rhoda, I _will not_ leave you. Be quiet, and I will come back very
soon to take you with me. Did I ever deceive you, Rhoda?”
“Oh!” said she, putting her hand to her head, “they have all deceived
me. Richard deceived me! _He_ deceived me!—oh, so cruelly! Who can I
trust? They all desert me. I am _all, all_ alone!” And she sat down;
and dropping her head upon her knees, she wept very bitterly.
When Mr. Wharton had again called the doctor from the room, he said to
him:
“Doctor, this does not seem to me such a hopeless case. How any sane
person could retain his senses in that awful scene, I cannot imagine; I
am sure I should soon go crazy myself. But could I once remove Miss
Edwards from these terrible associations, and place her in one of our
Eastern asylums, where she might have cheerful companionships, and
pleasant occupation for her mind and fingers, I doubt not she might be
completely restored.”
The doctor thought it possible, but was not so sanguine on the subject
as Mr. Wharton, who, he said, had only seen the young lady in one of
her calmer moods. Still he by all means advised the trial. “We have no
hope of _cure_” said he, “in placing these lunatics in the County
House; the only object is to keep them from injuring themselves or
others. They are all of them from the families of the poor, who cannot
afford to send them to an Eastern asylum. This young lady was a
stranger, and without means, and so violent, at times, that restraint
was absolutely necessary; so that the only thing we could do with her
was to place her here till I could write to you.”
“You did the very best that could be done under the circumstances, my
dear sir,” answered Mr. Wharton; “but I sincerely hope the day is not
far distant when your State will possess a more comfortable home than
this for those afflicted as these poor creatures are. But I feel as if
I could not lose a moment in removing my young friend from this place;
and if you, doctor, will be so kind as to take the journey with me, and
aid me in the care of her, you shall be well rewarded for your loss of
time.”
It was with no great difficulty that this undertaking was accomplished;
and in less than a fortnight from the time when Mr. Wharton found Miss
Edwards, caged like a wild beast in the County House at——, she was
placed at an asylum where every comfort surrounded her. It was not long
before she seemed quite at home amid these new scenes, and began to
interest herself in books and work; and though her mind never fully
regained its tone, she yet seemed tranquil and happy. But the scenes of
trial through which she had passed had done their work upon her
constitution, and she sank rapidly, until, in a little less than a year
from the time of her entering the asylum, Mr. Wharton was summoned to
her death-bed. He arrived but a short time before she breathed her
last, and had the satisfaction to find that she knew him, to hear from
her own lips the assurance that her faith in her Redeemer was firm and
unshaken, and to bear her last kind messages to all the dear ones at
Brook Farm. And then the poor sad heart was still—the mind was bright
and clear again—for the shattered strings were tuned anew in heaven.
In a quiet nook at Brook Farm, where the willow bends, and the brook
murmurs, is a spot marked out for a burying-place, and the first stone
planted there bears on it the name of “Rhoda Edwards.”
IX.
Emily’s Trials.
“And dost thou ask what secret woe
I bear, corroding joy and youth?
And wilt thou vainly seek to know
A pang, even thou must fail to soothe?”—BYRON.
In the meantime the education of Master Lewie was going on as best it
might, and in a manner most agreeable to that young gentleman’s
inclinations. When he chose to do so, he studied, and then no child
could make more rapid advancement than he, but as he was brought up
without any habits of regular application, study soon became
distasteful to him, and at the first puzzling sentence he threw aside
his books in disgust, and started off for play. The only thing he
really loved, was music, and in his devotion to this delightful
accomplishment he was indefatigable, and his proficiency at that tender
age was remarkable.
But being now nine or ten years old, his mother, urged to this course
by some pretty strong hints from Mr. Wharton, began to determine upon
some systematic plan of education for him. And, acting upon Mr.
Wharton’s advice, she was so happy as to secure the services of Mr.
Malcolm, the young clergyman at the village, as a tutor for Lewie, upon
the condition on his part, that unlimited authority, in no case to be
interfered with, should be given to him in his government of the
hitherto untrained and petted child.
And so it was settled, that Mr. Malcolm should ride over from the
village every morning at a certain hour, and attend to the education of
little Lewie Elwyn. It was soon observed, that as the young clergyman
rode from the Hemlocks back to the village, it seemed a difficult
matter for him to pass Mr. Wharton’s lane, but he often, and then
oftener, and at length every day, turned his horse’s head up the lane,
and stopped to make a call. And the children (than whom there are no
quicker observers in matters of this kind) soon made up their minds
that the object of Mr. Malcolm’s frequent and prolonged visits was
sweet cousin Emily. And they thought too, judging by the bright blush
that came up in cousin Emily’s usually pale cheek when he was
announced, and by the look of interest with which she listened to his
conversations with her uncle, or replied to him when he addressed a
remark to herself, that cousin Emily was by no means indifferent to the
young minister.
Having drawn their own conclusions from these premises, and watching
with much interest, as children always do the progress of a love
affair, they were surprised and disappointed when they found that as
Mr. Malcolm’s attentions increased and became more pointed, cousin
Emily gradually withdrew from his society, and often declined
altogether to come into the sitting room when he was there. Yet they
were certain she liked him, for they often found her watching from her
window his retreating figure; and sometimes before she knew that she
was observed, she would be seen to wipe away the tears which were
stealing unbidden down her cheek.
At length, one day, the minister came, and as he walked up the steps of
the front piazza, those who caught sight of his face, saw that it was
pale and agitated, and that he looked as if important matters for him
were at stake. And he asked for Emily. There was no bright blush in her
cheek now as she descended the stairs; it was pale and cold as marble.
The interview was a long one, and when at length Mr. Malcolm mounted
his horse and rode slowly away, his face was as white as when he came,
but the look of suspense and expectation had passed away, and in its
place was that of settled and fixed despair. Emily went to her room,
and to her bed, which she did not leave for some days; when she again
appeared in the family she was calm and sweet as ever, but a shade more
pensive.
And the young minister came no more. That was all.
He was sometimes seen in the distant road riding rapidly by, to or from
the Hemlocks, but though the horse from long custom, invariably turned
his head towards Mr. Wharton’s lane, he was not permitted to follow his
inclinations, but was speedily hurried by.
And Emily grew paler and thinner day by day, and there was sometimes a
contraction about the brow which told of intense suffering; and
sometimes, early in the evening she would leave the parlor, and not
appear again for the remainder of the evening. On one of these
occasions Agnes followed her, as she had observed the deadly paleness
of her countenance, and feared she would faint before she reached her
room. As Emily ascended the stairs, Agnes thought she heard groans, as
of one in extreme pain. Emily closed her door and Agnes stood upon the
outside; and now the groans were plainly to be distinguished.
“Cousin Emily,” Agnes called, “dear cousin Emily, may I come in?”
There was no answer, but those same deep groans and now and then a
plaintive moaning. Agnes opened the door gently, and saw Emily upon her
knees, and yet writhing as if in intense agony. She seemed to be trying
to pray, and Agnes caught the words, “Oh, for strength, for strength to
endure this agony, and not to murmur.”
Putting her arm around her, Agnes said: “What is it, cousin Emily? Can
you not tell _me_?”
Emily started at finding that she was not alone, and then said:
“Help me to rise, Agnes, and hand me those drops. I am glad that it is
you: better you than any of the others. Fasten the door, Agnes.”
Emily reclined upon the sofa, weak and exhausted, the cold beads of
perspiration standing on her brow. Agnes sat in silence beside her,
holding her thin white hands in hers. At length Emily said:
“Agnes, I try to be patient; I make an endeavor even to be cheerful;
but I am indeed a great sufferer, and the anguish I endure seems, at
times, more than mortal frame can bear. It is only by escaping to the
solitude of my own room, to endure the agony in secret, that I am
enabled to keep it to myself. I am obliged to practice evasion to
escape aunty’s anxious interrogatories; for, in her present state of
health, I would not for the world cause her the anxiety and trouble
which the knowledge of my sufferings would bring upon her.”
Then, with frequent pauses for rest, Emily told the weeping Agnes
_all_.
“And now,” said she, “dear Agnes, you are very young for scenes like
this; but I know that you possess uncommon nerve and courage. Can you,
do you think, sit by my side, and hold my hand through a painful
operation? I _can_ endure it alone, dear, and I intended to; but as
accident has revealed my sufferings to you, I feel that it would be a
comfort to me to have my hand in that of one I love at that time.”
“I _think_ I can, cousin Emily. I believe I could do _anything_ for
you, dear cousin Emily.”
“I do not want aunty and uncle to know of this till it is all over,
Agnes. They go to the Springs to-morrow, to remain some days, as you
know: and I have arranged with Dr. Rodney to come while they are gone,
and bring a surgeon from the city, and it will all be over before they
return.”
“And is there no _danger_, cousin Emily?”
“Danger of what, dear?—of death? Oh yes; the chances are many against
me; and even if the operation is safely performed, it may not arrest
the disease. But to one who suffers the torture which it is the will of
Heaven that I should bear, speedy death would only be a happy release.
And yet, Agnes, do not misunderstand me; I would not for the world do
anything to shorten my life of suffering. Oh no! ‘All the years of my
appointed time will I wait till my change come.’ The course I am going
to pursue is advised by the physicians, and it may be the means of
restoration to health, at least for some years. Agnes, pray for me.”
When Mrs. Wharton kissed Emily for good-bye, and told her to be a good
girl, and take care of her health, she little imagined the suffering
through which her gentle niece was to pass before they met again. No
one dreamed of it but Agnes.
The next day, in answer to a message from Emily, the physicians came.
They found her courageous and cheerful; for she was sustained by an arm
all-powerful. Strength was given to her for the day and the occasion; a
wonderful fortitude sustained her; and the precious promise was
verified to her—“When thou goest through the waters, I will be with
thee.”
And Agnes, who sat with one hand over her eyes, and the other clasping
that of Emily, knew only by a sudden and long-continued pressure of the
hand that the knife was doing its work. There was not a groan—only one
long-drawn sigh—and it was over; and the result was better than their
most sanguine hopes.
Mrs. Wharton returned, after an absence necessarily prolonged to some
weeks. She found Emily sitting on the sofa, looking much as she had
done when they parted; and it was not till long afterward that she
discovered what had been the cause of Emily’s illness, and learned how
much she had endured. She understood many things now which had been
mysteries to her before, realizing, in some degree, the torment of mind
and body through which this gentle one had passed, and the reason of
the bidding down of the tenderest feelings of her heart.
Poor Emily! None but He who seeth in secret had known the agony which
wrung thy loving heart to its very depths, causing even the keen
torture of physical suffering to be at times forgotten. But He can, and
He _does_, give strength for the occasion, whatever it may be, and
however sore the trial; and leaning on His arm, His people pass
securely through fires of tribulation, which, in the prospect, would
seem utterly unendurable, and come out purified, even as gold from the
furnace.
X.
The Tutor and the Pupil.
“Untutor’d lad, thou art too malapert.”—HENRY VI.
Mr. Wharton had endeavored to give Mr. Malcolm a correct understanding
of the nature of the case he was about to undertake, in becoming the
instructor of the spoiled and wayward Lewie. He told him of his natural
good qualities, never suffered to develop themselves, and of the many
evil ones, fostered and encouraged by the unwise indulgence of his fond
and foolish mother. And yet, when the young clergyman had fairly
entered upon his duties as tutor at the Hemlocks, he found, that “the
half had not been told him.”
Lewie chafed and fretted under the slightest restraint, and had not the
remotest idea of doing anything that was not in all respects agreeable
to his own inclinations. The idea of compulsion was so new to him, that
he was overwhelmed with amazement one day, when his tutor (after trying
various means to induce him to learn a particular lesson) finally told
him that that lesson must be learned, and recited, before he could
leave the library. Master Lewie, fully determined in his own mind to
ascertain whose will was the strongest, and whose resolution would
soonest give out, now openly rebelled, and informed his master that “he
would _not_ learn that lesson.”
With his handsome face flushed with passion, he struggled from his
tutor, rushed to the door, and endeavored to open it; but Mr. Malcolm
was before-hand with him, and quietly turning the key in the lock, and
putting it in his pocket, he walked back to the table. The frantic boy
now endeavored to open the windows and spring out, but being foiled in
this attempt likewise, as they were securely fastened, he threw himself
upon the floor as he had been in the habit of doing when crossed, ever
since his baby-hood, and screamed with all the strength of baffled
rage.
His anxious mother was at the door in an instant, demanding admittance.
Mr. Malcolm unfastened the door, stepped out to her in the hall, and
gave her a faithful account of her son’s conduct during the morning.
“And now, Mrs. Elwyn,” said he, “the promise was, that I was not to be
interfered with in my government of your son. As long as he hears your
voice at the door, and knows that he has your sympathy on his side, he
will continue obstinate and rebellious.”
“But, Mr. Malcolm, excuse me, but you do not know how to manage him,
you should soothe and coax him; he will not be driven. Oh, I cannot
bear to hear him scream so,” she exclaimed, as a louder roar from Lewie
reached her ears; “Oh, Mr. Malcolm, I must go to him.”
“Not unless you desire, madam, that I should resign at once, and
forever, the charge of your son,” said Mr. Malcolm, laying his hand
upon the lock to prevent her carrying her purpose into execution. “I
have spent this whole morning,” he continued, “in expostulation and
persuasion, and in endeavoring, as I always do, to make the lessons
plain and interesting to my pupil; but Lewie is in one of his perverse
humors, and nothing but decision as unyielding as his own obstinacy,
will conquer him. If you will return to your own room and allow me the
sole management of him, I will remain here to-day till I have subdued
him, if the thing is possible.”
“You will not use _severity_, Mr. Malcolm,” said the weeping mother.
“Never in the way of corporeal punishment, madam. When I cannot govern
a pupil without having recourse to such means, I will abandon him. But
I must stipulate that untill Lewie submits, and learns that lesson,
which he could easily learn in a few minutes, if he chose, he goes
without food, and remains in the library with me. I am deeply
interested in your son, Mrs. Elwyn; he is a boy of fine talents, and of
too many good qualities of heart, to be allowed to go to destruction. I
would save him if I can, but he must be left to me. I have the hope of
yet seeing him a noble and useful character, but I must do it in my own
way.”
Mrs. Elwyn silently acquiesced, and withdrew to her own room very
wretched. If she had been willing to inflict upon herself one tithe of
the pain she suffered now, in controlling her son in his infancy, how
different he might have been, as he grew up towards manhood.
Mr. Malcolm returned to the library, and told Lewie that his mother had
decided to leave them settle this matter between themselves. He should
remain there, he said; he could employ himself very agreeably with the
books. Lewie might lie on the floor and scream, or get up and study;
but until that lesson was learned, he would not leave the library, or
taste a morsel of food.
The shrieks were now renewed in a louder and more agonized tone than
ever, and were plainly heard in Mrs. Elwyn’s sitting-room, where, in a
state bordering on distraction, she was hurriedly pacing the floor, at
times almost determined to insist upon being admitted to the library,
that she might take her unhappy son to her arms, and dismiss his
inexorable tutor; and then deterred from this course by the promise she
had made, and the deep respect which she could not but feel for the
young minister. She could not but confess, too, in her inmost heart,
that this discipline was really for the good of her passionate boy,
though the means resorted to seemed to her severe. Of the two, she was
more wretched than Lewie, who really had no small sense of enjoyment,
in the consciousness of the pain and annoyance he was causing to
others.
The screams now ceased, and the anxious mother really hoped that Lewie
was about to comply with his tutor’s wishes, and that she should soon
clasp him to her breast, wipe away his tears, and soothe his troubled
heart. She was already, in her mind, planning some reward for him for
condescending at length to yield his stubborn will. But the quiet was
only in consequence of the utter exhaustion of Master Lewie’s lungs,
and he took refuge in a dogged silence, still rolling on the floor. Mr.
Malcolm sat reading, as much at his ease, and apparently with as much
interest, as if he were the only occupant of the library.
At last the young rebel was made aware, by certain ringing sounds, and
divers savory odors, that the hour of dinner had arrived; and his
appetite being considerably sharpened by the excitement through which
he had passed, he began to entertain the suspicion that he had been
rather foolish in holding out so long in his obstinacy. He really
wished that he had learned the lesson, and was free for the afternoon;
but how to come down was the puzzle now. He determined to be as ugly
about it as possible, thinking that his tutor might be pretty weary by
that time as well as he, and might hail joyfully any tokens of
submission.
So Master Lewie began to call out:
“I want my dinner!”
“What is that, Lewie?” said Mr. Malcolm, looking up quietly from his
book.
“I want my _dinner_, I tell you!” roared Lewie.
Pushing his book towards him, Mr. Malcolm said, in a quiet, determined
manner:
“You know the conditions, Lewie, on which you leave this room: they
will not change, if we remain here together till to-morrow morning.
This lesson must be learned and recited perfectly, before you taste any
food.”
Lewie murmured that “there was one good thing—his teacher would have to
fast too.”
“As for me, I never take but two meals a day,” said Mr. Malcolm; “I can
wait till five o’clock very well for my dinner; and should I be very
hungry, your mother will doubtless give me something to eat.”
Through most of the afternoon, Lewie sat scrawling figures with his
pencil on some paper which was lying near, and really beginning to
suffer from the “keen demands of appetite.” After sitting thus an hour
or two, he suddenly said:
“Give me the book, then, if there is no other way! I can learn that
lesson in five minutes, if I have a mind.”
“I know that, Lewie,” said his tutor; “no one can learn quicker or
better than you, when you choose; but you cannot have this book till
you ask me for it in a different way.”
It took another hour of sulking before Master Lewie’s pride could be
sufficiently humbled to admit of his asking in a civil tone for the
book; but hunger, which has reduced the defenders of many a strong
fortress, at last brought even this obstinate young gentleman to terms.
The book was handed him, on being properly asked for, and in a very few
minutes the lesson was learned, and recited without a mistake. Lewie
evidently expected a vast amount of commendation from his teacher, but
he received nothing of the kind. Mr. Malcolm only endeavored to make
him understand how much trouble he might have saved himself by
attention to his studies in the morning, and then talked to him very
seriously for some moments upon the folly and wickedness of giving way
to such a furious temper, endeavoring to point out some of the results
to which it would be likely to lead him.
One would think that two or three such contests with his tutor, in each
of which he was finally obliged to yield, would have taught our little
hero _who_ was the master, and would have led him, by timely
compliance, to avoid the recurrence of such scenes. But no! he was so
unaccustomed to having his will thwarted in any particular, that it
seemed almost an impossibility for him to submit to have it crossed.
The moment anything occurred in opposition to his wishes, his strong
will rose rebellious; and having been accustomed to carry all before
it, could only with the utmost difficulty, and after a terrible
struggle, be controlled.
His kind and judicious tutor, to whom the task of instructing so
wayward a youth was by no means a pleasant one, was urged to a
continuance of his labors only by a stern sense of duty; having at
heart the best good of his pupil, and humbly trusting that, with the
blessing of God upon his efforts, he might be able at length to teach
him to exercise some control over himself. This might possibly have
been effected, perhaps, but for the unwise indulgence and sympathy of
his foolishly-fond mother, who was ever at hand, when Mr. Malcolm left,
to listen to her son’s tale of grievances, by which he sometimes
succeeded in convincing her that he was most unjustly and cruelly
treated.
Lewie had become tired of the loneliness and quiet of his country home,
and wished to be among other boys, and particularly to go to the school
at which his cousins, the young Whartons, had been placed. They had
lately been home for a vacation, and he had heard much of the _fun_
they enjoyed at school; in comparison with which, his quiet life with
his mother, and under the care of his tutor, seemed very tame and dull.
He now became more restive and impatient under control, and seemed
determined to weary out his kind tutor, in the hope that he would
voluntarily relinquish his charge. In the meantime, he continued to
give his mother no rest on the subject of Dr. Hamilton’s school; and
she, poor woman, knew not what course to take, between her desire to
please her importunate son, and her dislike to offend Mr. Malcolm.
At last, however, as usual, Lewie conquered; and rushing out of one
door, as he saw Mr. Malcolm enter at the other, he left his mother to
inform the young minister that he was no longer to be tutor there. As
far as his own comfort was concerned, this dismissal was a great relief
to Mr. Malcolm; but, as he told Mrs. Elwyn, he feared that her troubles
would not be lessened, but rather increased, by sending Lewie to a
public school. He had never been much among other boys; and he would
find his own inclinations crossed many times a day, not only by
teachers, but by schoolmates, who would have no more idea of always
giving up their own will than Lewie himself had, and constant trouble
might be the result.
All this Mrs. Elwyn admitted; but what could she do? She was like a
reed in the wind before the might of Lewie’s determination, and he knew
it. Ah! she was learning already that “A child left to himself bringeth
his mother to shame” and sorrow; and it was with the deepest
mortification that she was obliged to confess that she had suffered the
golden hours of infancy to slip by, without acquiring over her son’s
mind that influence which every mother should and may possess. The
opportunity, alas! was now lost forever. Her son had neither respect
for her authority, or regard for her wishes.
XI.
Ruth Glen.
“The more I looked, I wondered more—
And while I scanned it o’er and o’er
A moment gave me to espy
A trouble in her strong black eye;
A remnant of uneasy light,
A flash of something over bright;
Not long this mystery did detain
My thoughts—she told in pensive strain
That she had borne a heavy yoke,
Been stricken by a two-fold stroke;
Ill health of body; and had pined
Beneath worse ailments of the mind.”
WORDSWORTH.
It had been determined ever since poor Miss Edwards left the Wharton’s,
that the girls should be sent to the city, to boarding school, and it
was without much difficulty that Mr. Wharton succeeded in obtaining
Mrs. Elwyn’s consent to his sending Agnes with them, that the cousins
might continue their education together. Indeed, as I have before
intimated, Mrs. Elwyn always listened, and answered with the utmost
indifference, when any plan respecting her daughter was proposed to
her. She supposed, rightly enough, that her own means might be required
for the support of herself and Lewie, (for she intended to close her
house and accompany Lewie to Stanwick,) and as Mr. Wharton seemed
anxious to take the care of Agnes from her hands, and she knew he could
well afford to do so, she made no objection whatever to the proposed
plan. In short, Mr. and Mrs. Wharton regarded this lovely girl, thus
cast off and neglected by her only natural protector, as their own, and
cherished her accordingly.
Mrs. Wharton’s health, which had delayed, for some months, the
departure of the girls for the city, now seemed fully re-established;
Emily, also, seemed better than she had done for years, and it was with
light hearts, and many pleasant anticipations, that the three cousins,
under the care of Mr. Wharton, started, for the first time, for school.
At about the same time, Lewie, accompanied by his mother, went to
Stanwick, and began his school life under the care of Dr. Hamilton.
The boarding-school at which Agnes and her cousins were placed, was
under the superintendence of Mrs. Arlington and her daughters, ladies
who had received a most thorough education in England, and who had long
kept an extensive and popular boarding-school there. The hope of
passing her declining days in the society of an only son, who had some
years before emigrated to America, induced Mrs. Arlington, accompanied
by her daughters, to follow him, and though it pleased Providence to
remove this idolized son and brother, by death, in a little more than a
year after their reunion in this country, the mother and daughters
determined to remain, and continue their vocation here, where they had
very flattering hopes of success.
Mr. and Mrs. Wharton had long known and esteemed these estimable
ladies, and though, in many respects, opposed to boarding-schools in
general, yet, as there seemed, at present, no other means for the girls
to acquire an education, but by sending them from home, they thought
that a more unexceptionable place could not be provided for them than
Mrs. Arlington’s school.
Mrs. Arlington, though a woman of more than sixty years of age, still
possessed an erect and queen-like figure, a most dignified and stately
appearance, and a face of remarkable beauty. She commanded respect at
first sight, and there was no punishment greater for her pupils, than
to be reported to Mrs. Arlington, and to be obliged to meet her face to
face, to receive a reprimand. Her three daughters, Miss Susan, Miss
Sophie, and Miss Emma, taught in different departments of the school,
and were in every respect most admirably fitted for their different
stations. Miss Emma taught music; Miss Sophie, French and drawing;
while Mrs. Arlington and her eldest daughter attended solely to the
more solid branches of education.
It took some little time, of course, before our young friends felt at
home in so strange a place, and among so many new faces. But many of
the older scholars, who had been long in the school, were very kind in
coming forward to make their acquaintance, and endeavor to do away the
feeling of awkwardness, ever an attendant upon the introduction to
scenes so untried and new. Grace and Effie were very shy and silent at
first, but the peculiarly sweet and unaffected friendliness of Agnes’
manner, won every heart immediately. The younger scholars, especially,
seemed to love her the moment she spoke to them, and to feel as if in
her they should ever find a friend.
Agnes and her cousins were placed in a large room in the third story;
this room contained three beds, one of which was taken possession of by
Grace and Effie, another was occupied by two little girls, of the names
of Carrie and Ella Holt and Agnes was, for the present, alone. Mrs.
Wilkins, the housekeeper, informed her, however, that Mrs. Arlington
expected a new scholar soon, who was to be her bed-fellow. For some
reason or other, the new scholar did not arrive at the time expected,
and it was not till Agnes and her cousins had been some weeks at the
school, and had began to feel quite at home there, that they were made
aware, by the advent of an old hair trunk and a band-box, that the
sixth occupant of their room had arrived.
The new scholar’s name was Ruth Glenn. She was a strange-looking girl;
very tall and thin, with a pale, greenish cast of complexion;
coal-black eyes, very much sunken in her head; hair as black as her
eyes, and colorless lips. When she smiled, which was very seldom, she
displayed a fine set of teeth, her only redeeming feature. Her manners
were as strange as her appearance. When she spoke, which was only when
absolutely necessary, or in reciting her lesson, there was a constant
nervous twitching about her bloodless lips; and she had a peculiar way
of pulling at her long, thin fingers, as if it was her full intention
to pull them off.
We cannot help being influenced by first impressions; and though Agnes
felt the sincerest pity for this strange, awkward, shy girl, and did
her best to make her feel at her ease, she could not but feel sorry
that she was to be her bed-fellow. Ruth Glenn sat by herself in the
school-room, always intently occupied with her book, having no
communication with her school-mates, and always seizing on the moment
of dismissal from the school-room to retire to her own apartment. And
yet, as far as the girls could judge, she was full of kindness and
generosity of feeling, evinced by many little quiet acts which one
school-mate may always find it in her power to do for another.
One night, the third or fourth after the arrival of Ruth Glenn at the
school, the girls sleeping in the room with her were suddenly aroused
from sleep by loud and piercing screams from little Carrie Holt. Agnes
sprang up, and was by her side in a moment. As she left her bed she
perceived that Miss Glenn was not there.
“What is the matter, Carrie? Why do you scream so, dear?” asked Agnes.
“Oh, Miss Elwyn!—that tall, white figure!—that tall, white figure! It
came and stood by me, and laid its cold white hand right on my face. It
was a ghost—I know it was—I saw it so plain in the moonlight. Oh, don’t
leave me!—don’t leave me, Miss Elwyn! It will come again!” And the
trembling child clung with both arms tightly around Agnes.
“I will not leave the room, Carrie,” said Agnes; “but I must find out
what has frightened you so. There are no such things as ghosts, Carrie:
you have been dreaming.”
“Oh no, Miss Elwyn, I did not dream that!” sobbed little Carrie; “I was
having a beautiful dream about ho-o-o-me and mother, when that cold
hand came on my cheek, and I opened my eyes, and saw that tall, white
figure. Oh, it had such great hollow eyes! I saw them so plain in the
moonlight!”
“Now lie down, dear little Carrie, till I find out what all this
means,” said Agnes. The weeping child obeyed, hugging up close to her
little sister for protection.
The light had been taken away at ten o’clock, as was the invariable
custom at Mrs. Arlington’s; but Agnes opened both shutters, and
admitted the bright moonlight into the room, making every object to be
discerned almost as plainly as in the day-time. She then stepped to her
own bed. Miss Glenn certainly was not there. She went to the door of
her room, and found it locked on the inside, as she had left it when
she went to bed. Miss Glenn, then, must still be in the room. Agnes
walked around it, carefully examining every object: she then went into
the closet, and felt carefully all around the walls. She began to think
there was something very strange in all this; and the other girls, all
of whom had been wide awake ever since they were aroused by the screams
of little Carrie, were sitting up in their beds in a great state of
agitation and alarm.
“I will not stay in this room another night!” said little Carrie; “I
wish we dared to go down to Mrs. Arlington. Let’s all go down together
to Miss Emma, and ask her to come up here.”
“No, no; hush, children!” said Agnes. Then she called, as loudly as she
dared, without awaking those in the neighboring rooms:
“Miss Glenn! Miss Glenn! where are you?”
“Here I am! What do you want of me?” answered a smothered voice.
“Mercy on us!” shrieked Carrie and Ella in a breath, and springing with
one bound on to the floor—“mercy on us! she is under our bed!”
Agnes looked under the bed, and could just distinguish something white,
huddled up in one corner under the head of the bed.
“Miss Glenn! what do you mean?” exclaimed Agnes, in a tone of
amazement. “Are you trying to frighten these poor children? Come out
here directly.”
With all Agnes’ gentleness, she had sufficient spirit when roused, and
she was now really indignant at what she supposed was a cruel attempt
to frighten little Carrie and Ella. Ruth Glenn was three or four years
older than Agnes, but yet she submitted at once to the tone of
authority in which she was addressed, and came crawling out from under
the bed.
“I think it’s a little too bad,” said the trembling little sisters,
crying and talking together; “it’s real mean, to wake us up, and
frighten us so. I mean to tell Mrs. Arlington of you to-morrow, Miss
Glenn. I know our mother won’t let us stay here to be frightened so!”
Ruth Glenn sat down on the edge of her own bed and said nothing, but
Agnes noticed that she shivered, as if with cold.
“Come, Miss Glenn, lie down,” said Agnes, “and let us see if we can
have quiet for the rest of the night; we shall none of us be fit for
study to-morrow, I fear.”
Ruth Glenn obeyed quietly, and was soon asleep, but the others had been
so agitated that it was a long time before their minds were
sufficiently calmed for repose. When startled by the rising bell, they
got up tired and unrefreshed, and with no very amiable feelings towards
the author of the disturbance in the night. Miss Glenn went about
dressing as quietly as usual, saying nothing to any one; till little
Ella, who was a spirited little thing, just as she was leaving the
room, turned about and said:
“Now, Miss Glenn! I am going right down to tell Mrs. Arlington about
you.”
To the surprise of all, this cold silent girl sat down on the bed, and
wringing her hands, and rocking back and forth, and crying most
piteously, she begged little Ella not to tell of her.
“I will do anything I can for you, Ella,” said she, “I will help you in
your lessons, whenever you want any help; only don’t tell Mrs.
Arlington; she will send me away perhaps, and then what shall I do!”
She then implored Agnes to use her influence with the little girls, and
her cousins, to ensure their silence on the subject, promising not to
disturb them again, if she could help it.
“I don’t know what I went to your bed for, Carrie,” she said, “I did
not want to frighten you.”
“Why did you act so strangely then, Miss Glenn?” asked Agnes, “were you
asleep?”
“I don’t know; I cannot tell; don’t ask me;” was all they could get
from Miss Glenn, who continued to weep and wring her hands.
Though apparently very poor, Miss Glenn possessed some few rare and
curious things, which she said her father, who had been a sea-captain,
had brought her from other countries, and by means of some of these,
she succeeded in securing the silence of the little girls. Grace and
Effie were easily induced by the remonstrances of Agnes, and partly by
pity for Miss Glenn’s evident distress, to promise not to betray her.
None of the occupants of that room felt fit for study that day, except
Miss Glenn. She sat alone, as usual, and studied as perseveringly as
ever. This was only the beginning of a series of nocturnal
performances, continued almost every night, with every morning a
repetition of the same scene of begging and remonstrance with her
room-mates, to persuade them not to betray her to Mrs. Arlington.
Sometimes, as Miss Glenn was quietly leaving her bed, Agnes would wake
and follow her, determined to see what she would do, and to prevent, if
possible, her waking the other girls. At times she would seat herself
upon a chest in one corner of the room, and commence a conversation
with some imaginary individual near her; then she would move silently
round the room, and sitting down in some other part of it, would talk
again, as if in conversation with some lady next her. Then she would
open the window very quietly, and look up, and down, and around,
talking all the time in a low tone, but in a much more lively and
animated manner than was usual with her in the day-time. She would
sometimes cross over to the bed where Grace and Effie Wharton were
sleeping, but just as she was about laying her hand on one of them,
Agnes would touch her, and ask her what she meant by wandering about so
night after night, and tell her to come directly back to bed.
“Oh,” Miss Glenn would answer quietly, “I have only been talking to the
ladies, and holding a little conversation with the moon and stars—don’t
mind me—go to bed—I will come.”
But Agnes would answer resolutely,
“No, Miss Glenn, I will not leave you to frighten the girls again; you
must come back to bed with me, and let me hold your hand tightly in
mine.” And Miss Glenn would obey immediately.
When the moon was shining brightly into the room, these performances of
Miss Glenn’s were only annoying, but when the nights were very dark,
and nothing could be seen in the room, it was really horrible to hear
this strange girl chattering and mumbling, now in one corner, now in
another, sometimes in the closet, sometimes under the beds; and one
night, in a fearful thunder-storm, she seemed to be terribly excited,
and when the lightning flashed upon the walls, the shadow of her figure
could be seen strangely exaggerated, performing all manner of wild
antics.
This conduct of Miss Glenn’s puzzled Agnes exceedingly: she could not
decide in her own mind whether the girl was trying to frighten them,
whether she was asleep, or whether she had turns of derangement at
night. Neither of these suppositions seemed exactly to account for her
singular actions. Her evident, and, Agnes doubted not, real distress,
at the possibility of Mrs. Arlington being informed of her nocturnal
performances, and the sacrifices of every kind that she was willing to
make to ensure silence, convinced Agnes that it was not done merely to
alarm them; her vivid remembrance of all that she had said or done in
the night, and her answering questions, and coming to bed so readily
when addressed by Agnes, without any appearance of waking up, led her
to suppose it was not somnambulism; and as Miss Glenn never showed any
sign of wandering of mind in the day time, Agnes could not suppose it
to be derangement. Miss Glenn was a perfect enigma; night after night
disturbing her room-mates with her strange performances, and every
morning going over the same scene of earnest expostulation and
entreaty, accompanied by violent weeping, to induce them not to betray
her to Mrs. Arlington. Poor little Carrie and Ella kept the secret
bravely, though, on the night of the thunder-storm, they were so
terrified by Miss Glenn’s conduct, that, wrapping themselves in the
bed-blankets, and persuading Agnes to lock the door after them, they
went out, and sat upon the stairs till morning. The very next day, two
sisters who slept in another room received tidings of the death of
their mother, which hurried them home; and as they were not to return
that quarter, little Carrie and Ella, with Agnes to intercede for them,
requested to be allowed to take their vacated place. Mrs. Arlington
readily acquiesced, as, she said, it would be much better to have four
in each room.
Thus things went on, till, one night, Agnes was horror-stricken to find
that Miss Glenn was endeavoring to climb out of the window. As I have
said, they were in the third story of the building; and the distance to
the ground being very great, the unfortunate girl would inevitably have
been dashed to pieces upon the flag stones below, had not Agnes
suddenly caught her, and, with a strength that astonished herself,
succeeded in drawing her back into the room.
The terror and agitation into which Agnes was thrown by this
circumstance determined her to do something decisive the very next day;
she was now convinced that it was her duty, and resolved to do it, in
spite of Miss Glenn’s tears and persuasions. She thought it right,
however, in the first place, to acquaint Miss Glenn with her
determination, and began by informing her, when they were alone the
next morning, of the imminent danger from which she had been so
fortunate as to save her in the night. Ruth Glenn seemed to remember it
all, and shuddered as she thought of it.
“Now, Ruth,” said Agnes, “I really think we have all kept silence as
long as could be expected, or as it is _right_ that we should. You will
bear witness that we have endured very patiently all this nightly
disturbance. I have long been convinced, whatever may be the reason of
your conduct, that you have not the control of your own actions at
night; and I think we shall be very culpable if we conceal this matter
longer from Mrs. Arlington; for, as you must now be convinced, the
consequences may be fatal to yourself, or perhaps to others. You need
not fear that Mrs. Arlington will dismiss you, but I think she will
consult medical advice in your case, which most probably should have
been done long before this.”
Ruth acknowledged the justice of all that Agnes said, and at length
consented that she should make Mrs. Arlington acquainted with all that
had transpired in their room. “But, oh, Agnes!” she said, “do persuade
her to let me remain, and finish my education. It has been my hope for
years, that I might be enabled to prepare myself to be a governess. My
father was lost at sea, and my poor mother died of a broken heart, and
I was left all alone to take care of myself at the age of fourteen.
Since then, I have sewed night and day, night and day, denying myself
sleep, and almost all the necessaries of life, in the hope of getting
an education. That hope, with all my unwearied industry, would never
have been fulfilled, had not a kind lady for whom I sewed offered to
make up the requisite sum; and now, if Mrs. Arlington sends me away,
what will become of me? The hope of my life will be disappointed.”
“Well, I do not wish to discourage you, my dear Ruth, but you must see
I think that you are totally unfitted to have children under your care
at present.”
“I suppose I am, Agnes, but I have been hoping that I should get over
this; it seems to grow worse and worse, however, and you may now do as
you choose. You have exercised great forbearance with me, dear Agnes.
You have been a true friend, and whatever may be the result, you may go
to Mrs. Arlington.”
Mrs. Arlington was very kind, and only regretted that she had not
before been made acquainted with Ruth Glenn’s singular conduct. She
said she did not doubt that it was entirely owing to her state of
health, and her sedentary manner of life for years past, and sent
immediately for her family physician, and made him acquainted with the
case.
Agnes was sent for, and questioned as to Miss Glenn’s actions and
appearance, when thus restless at night, and she as well as the
different teachers, were interrogated as to her habits in the day time.
The doctor thus learned that it was with the greatest difficulty that
Miss Glenn could be persuaded to take any exercise, and Agnes told him
what Ruth had related to her of her mode of life for the last few
years. The doctor thought it one of the most singular cases he ever met
with, and prescribed a strict course of medicine, diet and exercise,
insisting particularly upon the latter.
It was a hard thing to persuade Ruth to take her early morning walk,
and other exercise advised by the physician, and Mrs. Arlington was at
length obliged to tell her, that only upon condition of her obeying his
directions, could she consent to allow her to remain in the school.
This, together with the indefatigable endeavors of Agnes, prevailed
upon Ruth Glenn to take the accustomed walks, which Agnes with great
cunning contrived to lengthen every morning, until at length Ruth Glenn
would return with a slight tinge of color in her cheek, and an unusual
brightness about her eye. The result was very soon seen, in more quiet
nights in the third-story-room, and, before long, Ruth confessed that
she felt like another creature, and began to realize an enjoyment in
life, of which she had known nothing since her childhood.
Often, however, the old feeling of indolence returned, and it was very
amusing to Grace and Effie to hear poor Ruth beg and plead with Agnes
to be allowed to remain quiet “just one morning,” and to see how
vigorously and perseveringly Agnes resisted her appeals, rousing her up
and leading her off, poor Ruth looking much like a martyr about to be
dragged to the stake.
Before Agnes and her cousins left Mrs. Arlington’s school, Ruth Glenn
was so changed for the better, that she would not have been recognized
as the same pale, strange girl, who came there three years before. Her
spirits and appetite were good, and there was no longer any complaint
of disturbance at night by her room-mates.
It was a sad day in the school when Agnes and her cousins took their
final leave, but no one seemed so broken-hearted as poor Ruth Glenn.
“Oh, Agnes,” said she, “who will be the friend to me that you have
been? Who will drag me out with such relentless cruelty?” and here she
smiled sadly through her tears, “through rain and sunshine, heat and
cold; I am afraid I shall be as bad as ever, for my walks will be so
dull without you.”
But Agnes told her she hoped she had now received sufficient benefit
from her regular exercise, to be willing to make a little sacrifice,
and obtained from her a solemn promise that she would continue the
course they had so long pursued together.
Agnes had employed herself most perseveringly while at Mrs. Arlington’s
school, in becoming thoroughly acquainted with various branches of
education and accomplishments, being fully determined in her own mind
no longer to be a burden to her uncle, but to use the means he was so
kindly putting into her hands, in enabling her to gain her own support
hereafter. But she had no sooner left the school than other duties
claimed her attention, as will presently be seen.
XII.
Lewie at School.
“The child is father of the man.”—WORDSWORTH.
Had our friend Lewie heard Mr. Malcolm’s prediction relative to his
school experiences, he would have had reason to think him a true
prophet. He came into the school and the play-ground with the same
ideas which had been predominant with him ever since his baby-hood; and
though he did not, as then, continually say the _words,_ his actions
proclaimed as loudly, “Lewie must have his own way!—Lewie must not be
crossed!” He found his school companions not quite so complying as his
indulgent mother, and those over whom she had control; and before he
had been long in the school, he was known by the various names of
“Dictator-General,” “First Consul,” “Great Mogul,” &c., and with these
epithets he was greeted whenever he put on any of his dictatorial airs.
These constant insults and impertinences, as he called them, irritated
his ungoverned spirit, and in consequence many a school-mate measured
his length upon the ground in the most sudden manner, and innumerable
were the fights and “rows” which were the result. The presence of Lewie
seemed everywhere the signal of contention and strife, where all had
been heretofore, with very few exceptions, harmony and peace; and yet,
but for his hasty and impatient temper, Lewie might have been an
unparalleled favorite among his schoolmates. In the still summer
evenings, when he took his guitar, and sat upon the steps of the
portico, the boys would crowd around him, and listen in breathless
silence to his sweet music. As long as his own inclinations were not
crossed or interfered with, a more agreeable companion could not be
found. He had the frank, open manners, which are not seldom joined with
a quick temper, and in many things he showed a noble, generous
disposition; but as soon as the wishes of others in their sports and
recreations came in conflict with his own, his terrible passion was
roused at once, and carried all before it. Many were the complaints
which he carried to his mother of insult and ill-treatment; and before
he had been six months at Dr. Hamilton’s school, he was urging her to
allow him to remove to another of which he had heard, and where he
fancied he should be more happy. Mrs. Elwyn’s health was not as firm as
it once was; she was becoming weak and nervous, and dreaded change, and
endeavored to pacify her son, and to persuade him to remain at Dr.
Hamilton’s school. No doubt he would have effected his object by
teazing, but it was accomplished in another way.
There are boys to be found in every large school who delight in playing
practical jokes, and in teazing and tormenting those who are
susceptible of annoyance in this way. There was a large, stout boy in
Dr. Hamilton’s school, of the name of Colton, a great bully and teaze,
whose delight it seemed to be to torment and put into a passion one so
fiery as our little hero, feeling safe from the only kind of
retaliation which could injure him, as he was so much the stoutest and
strongest of the two. This boy soon found that there was one point upon
which Lewie was peculiarly sensitive, and the slightest allusion to
which would call the red blood to his face. This was the fact of his
being accompanied by his mother when he came to the school, and her
having taken board in the village, that she might be near him as long
as he was there. Lewie had remonstrated with his mother, when she
proposed accompanying him, and had urged her to accept his Uncle
Wharton’s invitation to make his house her home. He was just at that
age when boys love to appear independent and manly, and able to take
care of themselves; and he had hoped that he should be allowed to go
alone to school, as many of the other boys did, or perhaps to accompany
his uncle and cousins. But to be taken there under the care of a
_woman_, and to have her remain near him, as if he could not take care
of himself! Lewie thought this a most humiliating state of things. But
for once his mother was firm. It would be like severing her
heart-strings, to separate her from her darling son; and wherever he
went, she must go as long as she lived. This ingratitude on the part of
Lewie and evident desire to rid himself of her company, after so many
years spent in devotion to his slightest wishes, wore upon her spirits,
and was one cause, perhaps the principal one, of her nervous
depression, and consequent ill health.
As soon as Colton understood the state of Lewie’s feelings on this
tender point, and noticed How his cheeks would flush with passion
whenever the subject was mentioned, he took advantage of it to harass
and enrage him, renewing the subject most unmercifully at every
convenient opportunity. Thus, whenever, in their sports, Lewie took
upon himself to dictate, in his authoritative way, Colton would ask the
boys if they were going to be governed by a baby who had not yet broken
loose from his mother’s apron-strings; and when Lewie could no longer
restrain his passion, and began to show signs of becoming pugnacious,
Colton would advise him to “run to mother,” to be petted and soothed.
For sometime prudence restrained Lewie from making an attack upon this
boy, so much larger and stronger than himself, for he was almost
certain that he would get the worst of it in an encounter with him. But
one day when Colton was more aggravating than ever, Lewie suddenly lost
all command of himself, and flew at him in a most fearful storm of
rage, and with all the might of his passion concentrated in one blow,
he dashed the great boy against a tree; and after he was down, and
lying insensible, with his head cut and bleeding, Lewie could scarcely
be restrained, by the united strength of those about him, from rushing
upon his senseless body, and by renewed blows continuing to injure him.
His rage was fearful to witness, and his companions stood aghast, for
they saw clearly that murder was in his heart, and that nothing but the
restraint they exercised upon him, prevented him from carrying his
horrible purpose into execution. Colton was borne to the house, and it
was long feared that he would never entirely recover from the effects
of the severe blow upon his head as he fell. Lewie seemed to feel
nothing like remorse; he had always hated Colton, and everything this
boy had done had tended to increase and aggravate his feelings of
dislike; he thought nothing in his frantic rage of the consequences to
himself, but would have rejoiced to see his tormentor dead at his feet.
This last affair decided Dr. Hamilton that it would not do to keep a
boy of such fierce, unrestrained temper, longer in the school. Lewie
had all this time been progressing rapidly in his studies; a fierce
ambition seemed to have seized upon, him, and he applied himself to his
books as if he had come to the determination that he would at least
rise superior to his school-mates, in his standing in the class, if
they would not acknowledge his superiority in anything else.
Dr. Hamilton called soon after Lewie’s attack upon Colton, to see Mrs.
Elwyn, and while he spoke of Lewie as one on whom he could justly be
proud, as the best and most forward scholar in his classes, he said it
was impossible for him to allow him to remain; that the lives of his
other pupils were hardly to be considered safe with so passionate a
companion, and for the sake of the reputation of his school, he must
ask her to save him the necessity of a public dismissal of her son. Sad
by this time were the forebodings of Mrs. Elwyn, but they were useless;
her remonstrances with her self-willed son were vain. If Lewie was
obliged to submit to being accompanied by his mother wherever he went,
he seemed determined to show her, that her wishes had not the slightest
power over him. The sowing time had passed;—the reaping time had begun.
Lewie no longer urged and entreated, but merely expressed his
determination to go to the school to which he had so long been desirous
to remove, and his poor mother knowing that henceforth his will must be
hers, made her preparations for accompanying him.
Boys are the same everywhere; and unless all are willing in some degree
to relinquish their own gratification for the sake of others, there
will surely be trouble. So Lewie found at Stanwick; so at the next
school, and the next; for as he became dissatisfied with one and
unpopular there, he removed to another, his poor mother following his
fortunes everywhere. Many were the kind and remonstrating letters which
Lewie received during these three years of change, from his lovely
sister, but the affectionate advice contained in them as to an endeavor
to gain command over his temper, and in regard to his treatment of his
mother, seemed to have no permanent effect.
All this time, wherever he went, he ranked’ among the highest as to his
scholarship, and at the age of sixteen he entered college at C——, about
ten or fifteen miles from Hillsdale. By the time they were fairly
established at C——, Mrs. Elwyn’s health completely failed. Lewie’s time
much taken up with his college duties, and even if it had not been, he
was not one to wait with patience upon the humors of a nervous and
fretful invalid; and the greater part of the time was spent by Mrs.
Elwyn in loneliness and repining.
And now her thoughts turned often, and rested almost fondly upon the
memory of her long neglected daughter. Oh! for such a kind and gentle
nurse and companion to be ever near her, to minister to her wants and
soothe her lonely hours. The more she thought of her, the more she
longed for her presence, and it was soon after Agnes left Mrs.
Arlington’s and returned to Brook Farm, that she received with delight
a summons to come to her mother at C——. The idea that her mother really
_wished_ for her, and that she could be in any degree useful to her,
made her heart bound with joy; and then, too, the idea of being so near
her brother, to endeavor to exercise a restraining influence upon him,
was happiness in itself for Agnes.
She found her mother greatly changed: anxiety of mind and bodily
suffering had worn upon her, till her face, which might still have been
young and blooming, was faded and wrinkled. She was glad to see Agnes,
only because now she could be _useful_ to her; and Agnes often found
her whole stock of patience brought into requisition, in endeavoring to
gratify the changing whims and fancies of a nervous invalid. Lewie was
in ecstasies at his sister’s arrival; for he did dearly love Agnes, and
he now passed all his leisure time at his mother’s room. Agnes thought
him more gentle and tractable, and hoped that he really exercised some
control over his passionate temper; but it was only, for the time, the
want of provocation, and the restraining influence of his sister’s
presence, which kept him from any serious out-break. The grace of God
alone could materially change Lewie Elwyn now.
Agnes remained many months in attendance upon her mother, who failed
very gradually. As she grew weaker, she became more exacting; and
though never betrayed into any expression of affection for Agnes, yet
she was not willing to have her out of her sight for a moment. The
consciousness of being useful to her mother, was sufficient reward for
sleepless nights and days of close confinement; and Agnes resisted all
Lewie’s entreaties that she would leave the sick room for a while each
day, and take a stroll with him.
Had Lewie been inclined to dissipation, this would have been a
dangerous time for him; for his wonderful musical powers made him such
a favorite, that no gathering was thought complete without him. As long
as Agnes was at C——, he preferred spending his evenings with her to any
party of pleasure; and after he could no longer enjoy her society, and
when he began again to mingle in scenes of festivity, though sometimes
betrayed into excesses, he never was habitually dissipated.
Mrs. Elwyn lingered on, becoming weaker and weaker, until, after Agnes
had been with her about six months, she perceived that she was failing
more rapidly, and at length was informed by the physician, that her
mother could live but very few days longer. Agnes hastily summoned Mr.
and Mrs. Wharton, who arrived only in time to witness the death-bed
scene. Just before her death, Mrs. Elwyn seemed to awake to a sudden
realization of the great mistakes of her life with regard to her son
and daughter. She seemed to see now, as clearly as others had seen all
along, the evils of her own management, and to trace the unhappy
results to their proper source. It was sad to hear her, when all too
late to remedy these evils, lament over “a wasted life—a worse than
wasted life;” and so, with words of remorse upon her lips, she, who had
had such power for good in her hands, passed away from earth.
And Agnes returned to her uncle’s house, leaving her brother at
college. As soon as she had taken a little time to recruit, and to
consider, she began to look about for a situation as governess, much
against the wishes of every member of her uncle’s family, who would
have considered it a privilege to keep her always with them. About this
time, a distant relative of Mrs. Wharton’s, a Mr. Fairland, in passing
from his Western home to the city, stopped to make them a visit. He was
a plain, kind-hearted man, and seemed to take a particular interest in
Agnes, with whose father and grandfather he had been intimately
acquainted. Mr. Fairland had made quite a fortune by successful
speculation, in a large Eastern city; but the extravagance of his wife
and daughters, who were not willing to be outdone in dress or
establishment by any of their neighbors, made such rapid inroads upon
his newly-acquired wealth, that Mr. Fairland soon became convinced that
it was leaving him as rapidly as it came. So he thought it the part of
prudence to beat a retreat at once; and, in spite of the tears and
remonstrances of his wife and eldest daughters, he removed the whole
family to the beautiful village of Wilston, near which place he owned
some fine and flourishing mills.
It was while speaking of his new home, and its many beauties, at Mr.
Wharton’s breakfast table, that Mr. Fairland mentioned the only
drawback to his happiness there, which, he said, was the want of the
advantages of education for his younger children, who were running wild
without any instruction, as their mother was unwilling to allow them to
attend the village school. He had long been looking, he said, for a
governess for them—one who would bring them up with right habits and
principles, at the same time that she was instructing their minds.
Agnes seized the first opportunity in which she could find Mr. Fairland
alone, to propose herself as governess to his children. This was more
than Mr. Fairland had dared to hope for, and her proposal was hailed by
him with gratitude and joy. He wished her to return immediately with
him; but Agnes had some preparations to make, and her uncle was not
willing to part with her quite yet: he promised, however, to bring her
himself in the course of a month. A serious illness, however, deranged
all Mr. Wharton’s plans and as soon as he was able to travel, business
of the utmost importance called him to the city; so that Agnes, who
disliked to keep Mr. Fairland waiting for her any longer, wrote to him
when he might expect her, and, much against Mrs. Wharton’s wishes, set
out alone in the stage for Wilston.
XIII.
New Scenes for Agnes.
“The stranger’s heart! oh, wound it not!
A yearning anguish is its lot;
In the green shadow of the tree,
The stranger finds no rest with thee.”
“And when may we expect to be favored with the presence of this paragon
of perfection, and embodiment of all wisdom, papa?” asked Miss Evelina
Fairland, with what was intended for the utmost girlish sprightliness
of manner; for, although it was only at breakfast, Miss Evelina never
laid aside her manner of extreme youth, as she thought it best to be
continually in practice.
Her father answered quietly, that he expected Miss Elwyn by the
afternoon stage.
“Is she one of these prim, _old-maidish_ governesses, like our poor old
Miss Pratt?” asked Miss Calista, a lady of something over thirty, and
rather the worse for twelve years’ wear, in the way of balls and
parties, the theatre and the opera. Indeed, at the breakfast table,
Miss Calista looked considerably older than she really was, with her
pale, faded cheeks, and her hair “en papillottes;” but, in the
afternoon, by the use of a little artificial bloom, some cork-screw
ringlets, and a manner as gay and girlish as that of her sister, she
appeared quite another creature.
To Miss Calista’s question Mr. Fairland, with an amused pucker about
the mouth, answered:
“Oh, I shall tell you nothing about her looks; you must wait and judge
for yourselves. There’s one thing I will say, however. I suppose you
can’t alter your looks, girls; but, as far as manners are concerned, I
wish very much that I could place my two eldest daughters under Miss
Elwyn’s tuition.”
“Perhaps she will condescend to take a class, twice or three times a
week, in ‘manners for six-pence,’” said the sprightly Miss Evelina. “I
should like to see Calista and myself curtseying, and walking, and
leaving and entering a room, as we used to be obliged to do for old
Miss Pratt. Wouldn’t you, Calista?”
“Let’s see,” said Mr. Fairland, whose reminiscences were not always of
the most agreeable nature to the young ladies—“let’s see. How long is
it since you and C’listy _were_ under the care of Miss Pratt? I think
it must be nigh twenty years.”
“Twenty years, papa!—absurd!” shrieked Miss Calista; “why, you must be
losing your memory!”
Now, if Mr. Fairland’s daughters were touchy on the subject of their
_ages,_ their father was no less so on that of his _memory,_ as Miss
Calista well knew when she made the foregoing remark.
“Losing my memory indeed, Miss C’listy! My memory is as sound as ever;
and, to prove it to you, I will inform you, that I shall be sixty-four
years old this coming August; and by the same token, you are just
exactly half my age; and if you don’t believe it, you may just take a
look at the family record, in the big Bible.”
“C’listy’s _scratched out her date,”_ said little Rosa, “and so has
Evelina.”
“Hold your tongue, you impertinent little minx!” said Miss Calista; “I
really hope the prinky old governess who is coming will be able to whip
a little manners into you. I really wonder you can allow the children
to be so pert, mamma!”
The lady addressed as _“mamma”_ was the second wife of Mr. Fairland, a
rather handsome, but very languid lady of forty, who was sleepily
sipping her coffee during the foregoing conversation. Now, as Mrs.
Fairland did not look much older (perhaps not at all older, at the
breakfast table,) than the oldest of her step-daughters, the young
ladies quite prided themselves on so youthful a “mamma;” and when in
company, or at the various watering-places to which, in former tunes,
they had succeeded in dragging their parents, they hung round her, and
asked her permission to do this and that, with the most child-like
confidence in her judgment.
This was by no means relished by the step-mother, who had no fancy for
matronizing daughters so nearly her own age, and who wished no less
fervently than the young ladies themselves, that something in the shape
of a husband would appear to carry each of them off. She never failed
after such a display of filial affection on their part to explain to
those near her; that the young ladies were her _step-daughters;_ and to
mention how odd it sounded to her when she was first married, to hear
those great girls as tall as herself, call her “mamma.”
It was a beautiful evening in the pleasant month of July, when Agnes
entered the lovely village of Wilston, and drove through its one long
street, to the spacious and rather showy dwelling of Mr. Fairland.
Agnes had heard much of the beauty of Wilston, but her heart was now so
oppressed with many agitating emotions, at the near prospect of the new
and strange scenes upon which she was about to enter in so new a
character, that not even the loveliness of the landscape, with its
variety of hill, and dale, and wood-land, on the one hand, and on the
other the peaceful lake tinged with crimson by the setting sun, had
power to win her attention.
Yet we need not fear for Agnes, that in thus appearing in the character
of a governess, she will lose aught of her gentle dignity, or quiet
self-possession. Agnes was a _lady_ in every sense of the term, and
place her where you would, or under whatever circumstances, she would
invest her occupation with a dignity all her own, and make it
honorable; winning from all around her an involuntary respect and
homage. Though ever kind and amiable, and ready to oblige, she will
never _cringe_ to those who, by the favors of fortune, are placed for
the time in circumstances more prosperous than her own. Tried, she may
be by their arrogance, and airs of assumed superiority; but with the
inward conviction which in spite of her modesty she must possess, that
in all that is of real and true worth she is far above them, she will
toil on undisturbed in her vocation, anxious only to fulfil her duty
towards God, and toward those whom He has placed under her influence;
and to acquit herself well of the high responsibility resting upon her.
Mr. Fairland met Agnes at the door, with his kind pleasant face, and
with both hands extended to give her a cordial welcome to his roof.
Mrs. Fairland rose languidly from her chair to receive the governess,
and gave her a ceremonious, and to Agnes a most chilling greeting. The
young ladies were out walking; but presently a troop of noisy children,
who from some part of the grounds where they were at play, had seen the
arrival of the stranger, came bursting rudely into the room. These, as
Agnes supposed, were her future pupils, and a most unpromising set they
at first sight appeared.
The eldest, “Tiney,” was a heavy, dull looking girl of about ten years
of age. Her eyes had no more brightness or expression in them than two
balls of lead, and her flabby colorless cheeks hung down each side of
her mouth, giving that feature much the expression of a bull-dog, while
a sullen fierceness about her face, increased the resemblance to that
animal. Her teeth, utterly unacquainted with the action of a brush,
were prominent, so that her lip seldom covered them, and her uncombed
hair hung rough and shaggy around her unattractive face. Agnes at once
guessed that this poor child was deficient in intellect, and unamiable
in temper.
The next, _Rosa,_ was a wild, handsome little gipsey, with eyes as
black as jet, and as bright as diamonds, a brilliant color shining
through her sunburnt cheek, and with straight black hair, no better
cared for than her sister Tiney’s.
The third little girl, _Jessie,_ was very fair, with beautiful deep
blue eyes, and golden curling hair; but the curls were all in tangles,
for no one took the trouble to keep them in order, except on great
occasions, when the poor child was put to the torture of having it
brushed and combed, and laid in ringlets, which for the time were the
special pride of her mother.
“You’ll have enough to do, Miss Agnes, to tame all these rough
spirits,” said Mr. Fairland, “they have been running wild ever since we
left the city, and a more rude and ungoverned set of little
desperadoes, it has never been your lot to meet with, I’ll venture to
say.” And then addressing them, he said, “come here, children, what do
you stand there gaping for, with your thumbs in your mouths, as if you
had never seen anybody before? Tiney! Rosa, you witch! Jess, my
chicken! come up here this minute, and speak to Miss Elwyn.”
But Tiney only pouted her ugly mouth and scowled; and Rosa, making a
sudden dart for her mother’s chair, retreated behind it, peering out
her black eyes occasionally, to take a look at the stranger; while
Jessie ran and sprang into her father’s lap, hiding her little tangled
head on his shoulder. And now a whooping and shouting made known the
approach of Master Frank, the son and heir, a young individual of about
four years of age, who, nothing daunted by the stranger’s appearance,
made for his father’s chair, and proceeded to dislodge his sister
Jessie from her seat, and to establish himself in her place. Jessie
screamed, and scratched, and pulled in vain. Frank, though younger, was
much the strongest, and the fight ended by the sudden descent of Miss
Jessie to the floor, and the ascension of Master Frank into the vacated
place.
“Be quiet now, will you, Frank, and speak to Miss Elwyn,” said his
father.
“Hallo! is that Miss Elwyn?” exclaimed Master Frank, aloud; “why,
C’lista said she was old and ugly.”
“Well, C’listy didn’t know, did she?” said his father.
“And Ev’lina said she’d train us well, and whip us, and shut us up, and
be awful cross all the time. She doesn’t look like that, does she,
papa?”
“No, she does not,” said his father; “and I guess Evelina must have
been mistaken too.”
Agnes was all this time looking at Frank, very much amused, and
laughing quietly at the description which had been given of her to the
children.
“You think I do not look so very terrible, then, Master Frank,” said
she; “do you think you will ever like me?”
“I don’t know,” said Master Frank, boldly; “if you don’t make me
_mind,_ I’ll like you.”
“But she _is_ going to make you mind, Master Frank,” said his father;
“and, do you know, I have promised Miss Elwyn that she shall do just
what she pleases with you all, and nobody shall interfere.”
“In _school hours,”_ said Agnes.
“Yes, in school hours, and out of school hours, except when their
mother or I are present: they are always to obey you, Miss Elwyn. I
wish that to be understood in the family. But, my dear,” said he to his
wife, “perhaps Miss Elwyn would like to change her dress before tea.”
Mrs. Fairland languidly directed Tiney to show Miss Elwyn to her room;
but the only notice taken of this command by Miss Tiney was a stupid,
sullen stare. Agnes had risen to leave the room; but perceiving that
Tiney did not stir, she turned, and putting out one hand toward Rosa,
said, in her own bright, winning way:
_“This_ little black-eyed girl will show me the way, I’m sure.”
There was no resisting the gentle kindness of Agnes, and the confidence
of little Rosa was won immediately. Coming out from behind her mother’s
chair, she put her hand in that of Agnes, and led her up stairs into a
large room, on the second floor, overlooking the beautiful lake.
“What a very pleasant room!” said Agnes. “Is this to be mine?”
“Yes,” answered Rosa, who, having once found her tongue, showed that
she could make very rapid use of it when she chose—“and that bed is
yours, and that one is for me and Jessie.”
“‘Jessie and _me_,’ you mean, Rosa, do you not?”
“I’m the _oldest_,” answered Rosa.
“I know that, Rosa; but recollect, whenever you speak of any _one_, no
matter who, in connection with yourself always to mention the other
person first. Will you remember that?”
“Yes, I’ll try,” answered Rosa. She then proceeded to inform Agnes,
that her mamma had wished to give her a little room on the other side
of the hall, but papa said she should have this room, because it was so
pleasant, and he had heard her say that she was so fond of the water.
“That was very kind of your papa,” said Agnes; “and where does Tiney
sleep?”
“Oh, Tiney sleeps with Susan, because she has fits, you know.”
_“Who_ has?—Susan?” asked Agnes.
“No, Tiney has fits, and nobody likes to take care of her but papa and
Susan.”
Agnes was disappointed to find that she was not to have a room to
herself. “I came here to instruct these children,” said she to herself,
“not to act in the capacity of nursery-maid. However, I will bear it
patiently for the present; perhaps I shall gain an influence over them,
by having them so constantly with me, that I could not acquire in any
other way. There is so much to be corrected in their habits and
language, besides their being so woefully ignorant!”
Agnes continued talking pleasantly to little Rosa, while she was
dressing; and when they went down stairs, hand in hand, the very
pleasantest relations appeared to be established between them.
“What shall we call you?” asked Rosa.
“You may call me ‘cousin Agnes,’ if you choose,” she answered, “and if
your papa and mamma are willing.”
“Oh, I shall like that!” said Rosa.
Soon after Agnes and little Rosa re-entered the sitting-room, the
Misses Fairland returned from their walk. They were gayly and showily
attired in the very height of the fashion, and entered the door talking
and laughing very loudly; but when introduced to Miss Elwyn, they
stopped and opened their eyes in unaffected amazement. As Agnes rose
with graceful ease to meet them, looking so lovely in her deep mourning
dress, and with her rich waving chesnut hair, simply parted on her
forehead, and gathered in a knot behind, there was a most striking
contrast between her and the gaudily dressed, beflounced, and
beflowered ladies, who were fashionably and formally curtseying, and
presenting her the tips of their fingers.
Though younger by some years than the youngest of the Miss Fairlands,
there was a dignified self-possession about Agnes, which was quite
astonishing to them. Though rather of the _hoyden-ish_ class
themselves, they could not fail at once to recognize the air of
refinement which marks the true lady, and while intending by their own
appearance to over-awe the new governess, they were so completely taken
by surprise by her perfect ease and composure of manner, that they
alone appeared stiff and awkward, and she unembarrassed and easy.
And this was the prim old-maidish governess they had been expecting!
this fresh, blooming, lovely looking girl! It was by no means a
pleasant surprise to the Misses Fairland. However, she was nothing but
a _governess_ after all; and could easily be kept in the back ground;
it was to Be hoped she would know her place and keep it.
The Misses Fairland made the mistake very common with persons of weak
mind, and little cultivation at that, and instead of judging of others
by their intrinsic worth, character, or intellect, formed their
estimate only by the outward circumstances in which they found them.
Had this same Agnes Elwyn come to make a visit to her far away cousins,
in her own carriage, and surrounded by external marks of wealth, they
would have been ready to fall down and worship her; but coming as a
_governess,_ and by the _stage,_ what notice could she expect from the
Misses Fairland! These young ladies had so often been made wretched, by
intentional slights from those in whose sphere they had aspired to
move, that they did not doubt Agnes would be rendered equally
uncomfortable by their own neglect.
The tea-bell rang, and the Misses Fairland hastened to take off their
bonnets and soon re-appeared at the tea-table, where they took up the
entire conversation, telling of all they had heard and seen, in their
calls through the village. For like the ancient Athenians, these young
ladies literally “spent their time in nothing else, but to hear or to
tell of some new thing.”
In the midst of the conversation there was a sudden bustle, and Tiney
rose hastily from the table. Her father immediately left his chair, and
went round to her place, and took her by the arm. There was a ghastly
and disturbed look about poor Tiney’s face, and an expression of
terrible malignity about her eye, and as she passed the chairs of her
little sisters, one screamed loudly and then the other, and when she
came near Agnes, it was with great difficulty that she too could resist
the inclination to scream with the pain, caused by a terrible pinch
from the fingers of Tiney, which left its mark upon her arm for many
days.
Mr. Fairland led the child from the room, and as the door closed after
them, Agnes heard a succession of the most piercing shrieks, as if all
the strength of the sufferer’s lungs were expended upon each one.
“Oh, dear! Susan is out, and your father will need assistance,” said
Mrs. Fairland; “but really, these scenes have such an effect upon my
nerves, that I find it necessary to avoid them altogether.”
“And so do I,” said Miss Calista, “indeed I always suffer with a severe
headache after them.”
“And they are so utterly disagreeable to me, to to be more candid than
either of you,” said Miss Evelina, “that I always keep as far out of
the way as possible.”
“Can I be of any use?” asked Agnes, partly rising and looking towards
Mrs. Fairland. She would have followed poor Tiney and her father
immediately, but did not wish to appear to pry into that of which
nothing had been mentioned to her, and of which they might not like to
speak out of their own family.
“Oh, do go, Miss Elwyn, if you have the _nerve,”_ said Mrs. Fairland.
The reader knows enough of Agnes to feel assured that her _nerves_ were
never in the way, if opportunity offered to make herself useful to the
suffering; and the moment Mrs. Fairland answered her, she left the
room, and, guided by those still piercing shrieks, she passed through a
long hall, and entered a small bath-room, where she found Mr. Fairland
holding the struggling Tiney, who presented a shocking appearance. Her
face was now quite purple, and the white froth stood about her mouth;
and her father was holding both of her hands in one of his, to quiet
her frantic struggles.
“Oh, bless you, Miss Agnes!” said Mr. Fairland, as soon as she opened
the door; “set that water running immediately till it is quite hot, and
take off this poor child’s stockings and shoes. You see I can do
nothing.”
As quickly and as quietly as possible Agnes did as she was directed;
and then also, by Mr. Fairland’s direction, took down a bottle of
medicine, always kept ready for this purpose in the bath-room, and
dropped some of it for him. In a few moments, the shrieks subsided to
moans, as Tiney lay with her head back on her father’s shoulder.
“Poor child!” said Mr. Fairland, wiping her lips and forehead, “she is
a dreadful sufferer.”
“Has she been so long?” asked Agnes.
“Ever since her third year,” answered Mr. Fairland, “though, at first,
the attacks were comparatively slight; but of late years they have
grown more and more severe. Her intellect, as you perhaps have already
noticed, is much weakened by them, and her temper, naturally very
sweet, is at times almost fiendish. It seems to be her great desire,
while suffering so intensely, to injure all within her reach.”
Agnes now understood the reason of the screams of the children, and
also of the pinch she had received as Tiney passed her chair. When poor
Tiney’s moans had become more faint, Mr. Fairland said:
“Agnes, will you sing? Music seems to soothe her more than anything
else, after the extreme suffering is over.”
Agnes sang, with her marvellously sweet voice, a simple air: presently
poor Tiney turned her head, and fixed her half-closed eyes on Agnes’
face. Then she said, from time to time, in a dreamy way,
“Pretty!—sweet! Sing more;” and then she lay perfectly quiet, and soon
fell into a gentle slumber. Often and often, after that, when poor
Tiney was seized with these excruciating attacks, as soon as the first
intense suffering was over, she would say, “Cousin Agnes, sing!” and,
from the time she heard the gentle tones of Agnes’ voice, she would be
quiet and gentle as a lamb. The effect could be likened to nothing but
the calming of the evil spirit which possessed the monarch of Israel,
by the tones of the sweet harp of David.
XIV.
The School in the West Wing.
“Scatter diligently, in susceptible minds,
The germs of the good and beautiful,
They will develop there to trees, bud, bloom,
And bear the golden fruit of paradise.”
Agnes found it no easy task to bring into training minds so ignorant
and so utterly undisciplined as those of her little pupils. Left
entirely to themselves, as they had been for many months, with a mother
too indolent to trouble herself about any systematic plan of
government, and a father too easy and good-natured to carry out the
many plans he was ever forming for their “breaking in;” scolded and
fretted at by their older sisters, to whom they were perfect torments;
by turns playing harmoniously, and then quarrelling most
vigorously,—they roamed the house and grounds, doing mischief
everywhere, and bringing wrath upon their heads at every turn.
With a perfect horror of anything like _study_, they had expected with
great dread the arrival of a governess, as putting a final stop to all
their fun and freedom. This dread had been in nowise diminished by the
constant remarks of their older sisters upon governesses in the
abstract, and their own expected governess in particular. One evening
with Agnes served to dispel the horror, so far as she was concerned,
though the dread of books was still as great as ever. Before the
evening was over, Agnes had them all round her, as she sat on the sofa,
telling them beautiful stories, and asking them questions.
“Have you any pretty flowers in the woods about here?” she asked.
“Oh, lots!” answered Rosa; “yellow flowers, and blue flowers, and white
flowers.”
“Then if you would like to learn something of Botany, so as to know the
names of all these beautiful flowers, we will take many pleasant
rambles in the woods, and gather the lovely wild flowers, and I will
teach you how to press them.”
“But we haven’t got any _Botany books_,” said little Jessie.
“Oh, I think we shall not need any _books_, for all the Botany I shall
teach you, Jessie; and if we do, we will take the leaves of the flowers
for the leaves of the books, and the flowers themselves for the
pictures. Do you not think we can make beautiful books that way?
Jessie, can you read?”
“_I_ can!” said Rosa, while Jessie hung her curly head.
“And can you _write_, Rosa?”
“No. I can make straight marks,” answered Rosa.
“And what can you do, Master Frank?”
“Oh, Frank doesn’t know anything?” said Jessie. “He did know his ABC’s
once, but he’s forgot them all.”
“Take care, Miss Jessie, that he does not read before you,” said Agnes.
“Your papa says we are to take the west wing for our school-room; you
must show me where it is, and after a day or to get in order, and to
make each other’s acquaintance, we will begin school in earnest.”