GAINING INFLUENCE.
Having procured a governess for the children,—even if she were not all
that was expected in the individual who was to fill so important a
place,—our fashionable mother felt a weight of care removed from her
shoulders. She could now go out when she pleased, and stay as long as
she pleased, and not suffer from the troublesome consciousness that
she was neglecting her children,—a species of dereliction that never
escaped the watchful eyes of Uncle John, who had no hesitation about
speaking plainly.
Miss Harper’s experiences with the children on the first and second
days were not very encouraging; and this was particularly so in the
case of Agnes, whose conduct toward her was exceedingly offensive.
On the third morning, this young lady positively refused to give her
French recitation at the time required by Miss Harper, declaring that
it was her wish to take a music-lesson. She had overheard her mother
and Uncle John conversing on the subject of Miss Harper’s authority
over the children, on which occasion Mrs. Dainty had said,—
“I will have no iron rule with Agnes. Miss Harper must treat her with
that respectful consideration to which a young lady in her position is
entitled. There must be no petty domineering; no ordering with upstart
authority; no laying down of law.”
“Do you expect to be always present with Miss Harper in the
school-room?” Uncle John asked quietly, as if he was really in earnest.
“Of course not! What a preposterous idea!” replied Mrs. Dainty.
“Then Miss Harper must have authority in your absence.” Uncle John
spoke very decidedly.
“Agnes will never submit to any authority from her.”
“Why not from _her_, pray?”
“Because Agnes has reached an age when she can comprehend the wide
difference between their respective stations. She is almost a young
lady.”
“You are a weak woman, Madeline,” said Uncle John,—“a very weak woman,
and I am almost out of patience with you. Now, do you wish to know,
plainly, how I regard this matter?”
“Not particularly.” Mrs. Dainty gaped as she spoke.
“You shall know, for all your well-bred indifference,” said Uncle
John, a little sharply. “In my opinion, Miss Harper is in every way
the superior to Agnes, and, if I am not vastly mistaken, will in a few
years be recognised, in society, as superior.”
“Society!” Mrs. Dainty curled her lip. “What do you mean by society?”
“Something more perhaps than you mean,” was answered. “Men and women
recognised by common consent as superior to the mass.”
“Well, you can talk as you please, and think as you please, Uncle John;
but I’m not going to have Agnes domineered over by this plebeian girl,
and if she attempt any thing of the kind, she will get her immediate
dismissal.”
All of this was heard by Agnes, who very naturally made up her mind to
be the director of her own studies in the absence of her mother.
“I wish to take my music-lesson now,” she said, when the governess
asked for her French recitation.
“From twelve to one is the hour for music,” replied Miss Harper,
mildly, yet firmly, fixing her eye steadily upon the eye of Agnes.
There was something in the expression of that eye which the young lady
had never seen before, and which held her by a kind of fascination.
It was not anger, nor rebuke, nor sternness, but the quiet power of a
superior mind over that of an inferior. Agnes tried to withdraw her
gaze, but it seemed impossible to do so. A strange feeling of respect,
almost awe came stealing into her heart and repressing her dominant
selfhood. When Miss Harper withdrew her steady gaze, Agnes almost
caught her breath, so marked was the sense of relief that followed.
“Madeline dear,” said Miss Harper, in a cheerful, pleasant voice,
speaking to the younger sister, “shall I hear you read now?”
Madeline came smiling to her side, and, lifting her book to her face,
read the lesson which had been given to her.
“Very well done! You are improving already.” Miss Harper spoke so
encouragingly that Madeline looked up into her kind face, and said,
without thinking of the place and the occasion, “Thank you!” The young
governess had already opened a way into her heart.
“Now, Agnes,” said Miss Harper, “if you are ready with your French
lesson, I will hear it.” She spoke kindly and cheerfully, fixing her
eyes at the same time steadily upon her, and with the same look of
quiet power which had subdued her a little while before.
“I would rather take my music-lesson first.” Agnes could not yield
without a show of resistance. Something was due to pride.
“The hours of study were fixed in consultation with your mother,” said
Miss Harper, mildly; “and it is my duty as well as yours to act in
conformity therewith.”
“Oh, mother won’t care!” Agnes spoke with animation. “If I prefer this
hour to twelve it will be all the same to her.”
“Your mother don’t care for her word, Agnes?” Miss Harper spoke in a
tone of surprise.
“I didn’t mean that,” was answered, with some little confusion of
manner. “I only meant that if she knew I preferred one time to another
she would not hesitate to gratify my wishes.”
“Very well. We will consult her this evening,” said Miss Harper. “And
if she consents to a new arrangement of the study-hours I will make no
objection. But at present both you and I are bound to observe existing
rules. I have no power to change them if I would. So, come up to the
line cheerfully, to-day, and to-morrow we will both be governed by your
mother’s decision.”
Agnes was subdued. Without a sign of hesitation she went on with
her lesson in French, and said it all the better for this little
contention, through which she came with an entirely new impression of
Miss Harper.
When the young teacher came to George, this little reprobate would
do nothing that was required of him. His book he had, from the
commencement of the school-hours, refused to open; replying to every
request of Miss Harper to do so with a sullen, “A’n’t a-going to.”
“Now, George, you will say your lesson,” said Miss Harper, in a
pleasant tone.
“A’n’t a-going to,” replied the little fellow, pouting out his lips,
and scowling from beneath his knit brows.
“Oh, yes; George will say his lesson.”
“A’n’t a-going to.”
“Oh, yes, Georgie,” said Agnes, now coming to the aid of Miss Harper.
“Say your lesson.”
“A’n’t a-going to.” His lips stuck out farther, and his brow came lower
over his eyes.
“Come, Georgie, do say your lesson,” urged Agnes.
“A’n’t a-going to.” The resolute will of the child had no other
expression.
“I’ll tell mother,” said Agnes.
“Don’t care! Tell her! You wouldn’t say _your_ lesson.”
“Oh, yes, Georgie, Agnes did say her lesson like a good girl; and so
did Madeline.” Miss Harper showed not the least excitement. Her voice
was calm and her manner even. “Now say yours.”
“A’n’t a-going to.” The persistent little rebel had no idea of
capitulation.
“I knew a little boy once——”
There was such a pleasant, story-telling tone in the voice of Miss
Harper that George was betrayed into looking up into her face, when
she fixed his eye as she had, not long before, fixed the eye of his
self-willed sister.
“I knew a little boy once,” she repeated, “who had no mother. Before he
was as old as you are now, his mother died and went to heaven. Poor,
dear little fellow! it was a sad day for him when his good mother died
and left him to the care of strangers.”
George was all attention. Already the unpleasant lines of frowning
disobedience were fading from his childish countenance, and a gentle,
earnest look coming into his eyes.
“After this little boy’s mother died,” went on the governess, “there
was nobody in the house to love him as she had done. His father was
absent all day, and very often did not get home in the evening until
poor little Willy was fast asleep in bed. As it would not do to leave
Willy alone with the cook and chambermaid, his father got a governess,
who was to have the care of him and teach him all his lessons. Now, it
so happened that this governess was not kind and good as Willy’s mother
had been, but was selfish and cruel. She gave him long, hard lessons,
and if he did not get them—which he often could not—would punish him
cruelly; sometimes by shutting him up in a dark closet, sometimes by
making him go without eating, and sometimes by whipping him. And all
the while she managed to make Willy’s father believe that she was kind
and good to him.
“Poor little Willy! He grew pale and sad-looking, and no wonder. I was
at the house one day——”
“Oh, Miss Harper! Did you know him?” said George, with a countenance
full of interest.
“Yes, dear, I knew little Willy; and I knew his mother before she died.
As I was just saying, I called one day at the house, a few months after
his mother was taken away from him; and, as the servant opened the door
for me, I heard the voice of Willy, and he was crying bitterly. All at
once the voice was hushed to a low, smothered sound.
“‘What is the matter with Willy?’ I asked; and the servant answered
that she supposed the governess was putting him into the dark closet
again. In an instant there seemed to stand before me the child’s dead
mother, and she pointed upward with her finger. I did not stop to
think, but ran up-stairs into the nursery, where I found the governess
sitting by the window with a book in her hand.
“‘Where’s Willy?’ I demanded. She started, and looked very much
surprised and a little angry. But I was in earnest.
“‘Where’s Willy?’ I repeated my question more sternly. As she did not
stir, I went quickly across the room and opened a closet door, which I
found locked, with the key on the outside. There, lying on his face,
was the dear child. I took him up in my arms and turned his face to the
light. It was pale as marble. I thought he was dead.
“‘Bring me some water,’ I called, in a loud, quick voice. The
frightened governess fled from the room, but soon returned with water.
I threw it into the dear child’s face, and rubbed his hands and feet.
In a few minutes, he began to breathe.
“‘Give him to me, now,’ said the governess, endeavoring to lift him
from my arms. But I said, ‘No; cruel woman!’ She looked angry, but I
was not moved. ‘Untie my bonnet-strings,’ I spoke to the chambermaid;
and the girl took off my bonnet.
“‘Jenny,’ said I to the chambermaid,—I knew her name,—‘Jenny, I want
you to go for Willy’s father.’
“Jenny did not hesitate a minute. ‘There’s no use in sending for his
father,’ said the governess. But we didn’t mind what she said. When
Willy’s father came, she was gone. He was very much distressed when
he saw his dear little boy, and very angry when I told him about the
dark closet. After that I became Willy’s nurse and teacher. But he did
not stay with us very long. The angels came for him one lovely summer
evening, and bore him up to the heavenly land; and he is now happy
again with his mother.”
Tears came into the eyes of all the children when Florence Harper
ceased speaking. She had found the way to their hearts, and, not only
this, had lifted for them just so much of the veil that concealed her
true character as to let them see enough to win something of love and
something of respectful consideration.
The book was still in the hand of George, and, as he let his eyes fall
from the face of Miss Harper, they rested on the open page. Nothing
was said by the latter. A few moments of silence passed, and then
George, in a low but rather earnest voice, said over his lesson.
The young governess had conquered.