LITTLE AGNES
‘O guide us when our faithless hearts
From Thee would start aloof,
Where patience her sweet skill imparts,
Beneath some cottage roof.’
PALM SUNDAY brought Lily many regrets. It was the day of the school
prize giving, and she reflected with shame, how much less she knew about
the children than last year, and how little they owed to her; she feared
to think of the approach of Easter Day, a dread which she had never felt
before, and which she knew to be a very bad sign; but her regret was not
repentance—she talked, and laughed, and tried to feel at ease. Agnes
Eden’s happy face was the most pleasant sight on that day. The little
girl received a Bible, and as it was given to her her pale face was
coloured with bright pink, her blue eyes lighted up, her smile was
radiant with the beauty of innocence, but Lily could not look at her
without self-reproach. She resolved to make up for her former neglect by
double kindness, and determined that, at any rate, Passion Week should be
properly spent—she would not once miss going to church.
But on Monday, when Emily proposed to ride to Devereux Castle, she
assented, only saying that they would return for evening service. She
took care to remind her sister when it was time to set out homewards; but
Emily was, as usual, so long in taking her leave that it was too late to
think of going to church when they set off.
About two miles from Beechcroft Lily saw a little figure in a gray cloak
trudging steadily along the road, and as she came nearer she recognised
Kezia Grey. She stopped and asked the child what brought her so far from
home.
‘I am going for the doctor, Miss,’ said the child.
‘Is your mother worse?’ asked Lily.
‘Mother is pretty well,’ said Kezia; ‘but it is for Agnes Eden, Miss—she
is terrible bad.’
‘Poor little Agnes!’ exclaimed Lily. ‘Why, she was at school yesterday.’
‘Yes, Miss, but she was taken bad last night.’
After a moment’s consultation between the sisters, Kezia was told that
she might return home, and the servant who accompanied the Miss Mohuns
was sent to Raynham for the doctor. The next afternoon Lily was just
setting out to inquire for Agnes when Lord Rotherwood arrived at the New
Court with his sister. He wanted to show Florence some of his favourite
haunts at Beechcroft, and had brought her to join his cousins in their
walk. A very pleasant expedition they made, but it led them so far from
home that the church bell was heard pealing over the woods far in the
distance. Lily could not go to Mrs. Eden’s cottage, because she did not
know the nature of Agnes’s complaint, and her aunt could not bear that
Florence should go into any house where there was illness. In the course
of the walk, however, she met Kezia, on her way to the New Court, to ask
for a blister for Agnes, the doctor having advised Mrs. Eden to apply to
the Miss Mohuns for one, as it was wanted quickly, and it was too far to
send to Raynham. Lily promised to send the blister as soon as possible,
and desired the little messenger to return home, where she was much
wanted, to help her mother, who had a baby of less than a week old.
Alas! in the mirth and amusement of the evening Lily entirely forgot the
blister, until just as she went to bed, when she made one of her feeble
resolutions to take it, or send it early in the morning. She only awoke
just in time to be ready for breakfast, went downstairs without one
thought of the sick child, and never recollected her, until at church,
just before the Litany, she heard these words: ‘The prayers of the
congregation are desired for Agnes Eden.’
She felt as if she had been shot, and scarcely knew where she was for
several moments. On coming out of church, she stood almost in a dream,
while Emily and Jane were talking to the Rector, who told them how very
ill the child was, and how little hope there was of her recovery. He
took leave of them, and Lily walked home, scarcely hearing the soothing
words with which Emily strove to comfort her. The meaning passed away
mournfully; Lily sat over the fire without speaking, and without
attempting to do anything. In the afternoon rain came on; but Lily, too
unhappy not to be restless, put on her bonnet and cloak, and went out.
She walked quickly up the hill, and entered the field where the cottage
stood. There she paused. She did not dare to knock at the cottage door;
she could not bear to speak to Mrs. Eden; she dreaded the sight of Mrs.
Grey or Kezia, and she gazed wistfully at the house, longing, yet
fearing, to know what was passing within it. She wandered up and down
the field, and at last was trying to make up her mind to return home,
when she heard footsteps behind her, and turning, saw Mr. Devereux
advancing along the path at the other end of the field.
‘Have you been to inquire for Agnes?’ said he.
‘I could not. I long to know, but I cannot bear to ask, I cannot venture
in.’
‘Do you like to go in with me?’ said her cousin. ‘I do not think you
will see anything dreadful.’
‘Thank you,’ said Lily, ‘I would give anything to know about her.’
‘How you tremble! but you need not be afraid.’
He knocked at the door, but there was no answer; he opened it, and going
to the foot of the stairs, gently called Mrs. Eden, who came down calm
and quiet as ever, though very pale.
‘How is she?’
‘No better, sir, thank you, light-headed still.’
‘Oh! Mrs. Eden, I am so sorry,’ sobbed Lily. ‘Oh! can you forgive me?’
‘Pray do not take on so, Miss,’ said Mrs. Eden. ‘You have always been a
very kind friend to her, Miss Lilias. Do not take on so, Miss. If it is
His will, nothing could have made any difference.’
Lily was going to speak again, but Mr. Devereux stopped her, saying, ‘We
must not keep Mrs. Eden from her, Lily.’
‘Thank you, sir, her aunt is with her,’ said Mrs. Eden, ‘and no one is
any good there now, she does not know any one. Will you walk up and see
her, sir? will you walk up, Miss Lilias?’
Lily silently followed her cousin up the narrow stairs to the upper room,
where, in the white-curtained bed, lay the little child, tossing about
and moaning, her cheeks flushed with fever, and her blue eyes wide open,
but unconscious. A woman, whom Lily did not at first perceive to be Mrs.
Naylor, rose and courtsied on their entrance. Agnes’s new Bible was
beside her, and her mother told them that she was not easy if it was out
of sight for an instant.
At this moment Agnes called out, ‘Mother,’ and Mrs. Eden bent down to
her, but she only repeated, ‘Mother’ two or three times, and then began
talking:
‘Kissy, I want my bag—where is my thimble—no, not that I can’t
remember—my catechism-book—my godfathers and godmothers in my baptism,
wherein I was made a member—my Christian name—my name, it is my Christian
name; no, that is not it—
“It is a name by which I am
Writ in the hook of life,
And here below a charm to keep,
Unharmed by sin and strife;
As often as my name I hear,
I hear my Saviour’s voice.”’
Then she began the Creed, but, breaking off, exclaimed, ‘Where is my
Bible, mother, I shall read it to-morrow—read that pretty verse about “I
am the good Shepherd—the Lord is my Shepherd, therefore can I lack
nothing—yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I
will fear no evil, for Thou art within me.”
“I now am of that little flock
Which Christ doth call His own,
For all His sheep He knows by name,
And He of them is known.”’
‘Let us call upon your good Shepherd, Agnes,’ said the pastor, and the
child turned her face towards him as if she understood him. Kneeling
down, he repeated the Lord’s Prayer, and the feeble voice followed his.
He then read the prayer for a sick child, and left the room, for he saw
that Lily would be quite overcome if she remained there any longer. Mrs.
Eden followed them downstairs, and again stung poor Lily to the heart by
thanks for all her kindness.
They then left the house of mourning; Lily trembled violently, and clung
to her cousin’s arm for support. Her tears streamed fast, but her sobs
were checked by awe at Mrs. Eden’s calmness. She felt as if she had been
among the angels.
‘How pale you are!’ said her cousin, ‘I would not have taken you there if
I thought it would overset you so much. Come into Mrs. Grey’s, and sit
down and recover a little.’
‘No, no, do not let me see any one,’ said Lily. ‘Oh! that dear child!
Robert, let me tell you the worst, for your kindness is more than I can
bear. I promised Agnes a blister and forgot it!’
She could say no more for some minutes, but her cousin did not speak.
Recovering her voice, she added, ‘Only speak to me, Robert.’
‘I am very sorry for you,’ answered he, in a kind tone.
‘But tell me, what shall I do?’
‘What to do, you ask,’ said the Rector; ‘I am not sure that I know what
you mean. If your neglect has added to her sufferings, you cannot remove
them; and I would not add to your sorrow unless you wished me to do so
for your good.’
‘I do not see how I could be more unhappy than I am now,’ said Lily.
‘I think if you wish to turn your grief to good account you must go a
little deeper than this omission.’
‘You mean that it is a result of general carelessness,’ said Lily; ‘I
know I have been in an odd idle way for some time; I have often resolved,
but I seem to have no power over myself.’
‘May I ask you one question, Lily? How have you been spending this
Lent?’
‘Robert, you are right,’ cried Lily; ‘you may well ask. I know I have
not gone to church properly, but how could you guess the terrible way in
which I have been indulging myself, and excusing myself every unpleasant
duty that came in my way? That was the very reason of this dreadful
neglect; well do I deserve to be miserable at Easter, the proper time for
joy. Oh! how different it will be.’
‘It will be, I hope, an Easter marked by repentance and amendment,’ said
the Rector.
‘No, Robert, do not begin to be kind to me yet, you do not know how very
bad I have been,’ said Lily; ‘it all began from just after Eleanor’s
wedding. A mad notion came into my head and laid hold of me. I fancied
Eleanor stern, and cold, and unlovable; I was ingratitude itself. I made
a foolish theory, that regard for duty makes people cold and stern, and
that feeling, which I confused with Christian love, was all that was
worth having, and the more Claude tried to cure me, the more obstinate I
grew; I drew Emily over to my side, and we set our follies above
everything. Justified ourselves for idling, neglecting the children,
indulging ourselves, calling it love, and so it was, self-love. So my
temper has been spoiling, and my mind getting worse and worse, ever since
we lost Eleanor. At last different things showed me the fallacy of my
principle, but then I do believe I was beyond my own management. I felt
wrong, and could not mend, and went on recklessly. You know but too well
what mischief I have done in the village, but you can never know what
harm I have done at home. I have seen more and more that I was going on
badly, but a sleep, a spell was upon me.’
‘Perhaps the pain you now feel may be the means of breaking the spell.’
‘But is it not enough to drive me mad to think that improvement in me
should be bought at such a price—the widow’s only child?’
‘You forget that the loss is a blessing to her.’
‘Still I may pray that my punishment may not be through them,’ said Lily.
‘Surely,’ was the answer, ‘it is grievous to see that dear child cut off;
and her patient mother left desolate—yet how much more grievous it would
be to see that spotless innocence defiled.’
‘If it was to fall on any one,’ said Lilias, ‘I should be thankful that
it is on one so fit to die.’
The church bell began to ring, and they quickened their steps in silence.
Presently Lily said, ‘Tell me of something to do, Robert, something that
may be a pledge that my sorrow is not a passing shower, something
unnecessary, but disagreeable, which may keep me in remembrance that my
Lent was not one of self-denial.’
‘You must be able to find more opportunities of self-denial than I can
devise,’ said her cousin.
‘Of course,’ said Lily; ‘but some one thing, some punishment.’
‘I will answer you to-morrow,’ said Mr. Devereux.
‘One thing more,’ said Lily, looking down; ‘after this great fall, ought
I to come to next Sunday’s feast? I would turn away if you thought fit.’
‘Lily, you can best judge,’ said the Rector, kindly. ‘I should think
that you were now in a humble, contrite frame, and therefore better
prepared than when self-confident.’
‘How many times! how shall I think of them! but I will,’ said Lily; ‘and
Robert, will you think of me when you say the Absolution now and next
Sunday at the altar?’
They were by this time at the church-porch. As Mr. Devereux uncovered
his head, he turned to Lilias, and said in a low tone, ‘God bless you,
Lilias, and grant you true repentance and pardon.’
Early the next morning the toll of the passing-bell informed Lily that
the little lamb had been gathered into the heavenly fold.
When she took her place in church she found in her Prayer-book a slip of
paper in the handwriting of her cousin. It was thus: ‘You had better
find out in which duty you have most failed, and let the fulfilment of
that be your proof of self-denial. R. D.’
Afterwards Lily learnt that Agnes had been sensible for a short time
before her peaceful death. She had spoken much of her baptism, had
begged to be buried next to a little sister of Kezia’s, and asked her
mother to give her new Bible to Kezia.
It was not till Sunday that Lilias felt as if she could ever be
comforted. Her heart was indeed ready to break as she walked at the head
of the school children behind the white-covered coffin, and she felt as
if she did not deserve to dwell upon the child’s present happiness; but
afterwards she was relieved by joining in prayer for the pardon of our
sins and negligences, and she felt as if she was forgiven, at least by
man, when she joined with Mrs. Eden in the appointed feast of Easter Day.
Mrs. Naylor was at church on that and several following Sundays; but
though her husband now showed every kindness to his sister, he still
obstinately refused to be reconciled to Mr. Devereux.
For many weeks poor little Kezia looked very unhappy. Her blithe smiles
were gone, her eyes filled with tears whenever she was reminded of her
friend, she walked to school alone, she did not join the sports of the
other children, but she kept close to the side of Mrs. Eden, and seemed
to have no pleasure but with her, or in nursing her little sister, who,
two Sundays after the funeral, was christened by the name of Agnes.
It was agreed by Mr. Mohun and Lilias that the grave of the little girl
should be marked by a stone cross, thus inscribed:—
‘AGNES EDEN,
April 8th, 1846,
Aged 7 years.
“He shall gather the lambs in His arms.”’