Lewie by Cousin Cicely

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13

As Mr. Wharton rose to go she said, laughingly:

"I thank you for your kind advice with regard to Lewie, Mr. Wharton, but
in spite of it, I do not think I shall put him in a straight-jacket
before he is out of his frocks."

"No straight-jacket is needed, Harriet; you have often written in your
copy-book at school, I suppose, 'Just as the twig is bent the tree's
inclined.' You remember that strange apple-tree in my orchard, which the
children use for a seat, it rises about a foot from the ground, and then
turns and runs along for several feet horizontally, and then shoots up
again to the sky. When that was a twig, your thumb and finger could have
bent it straight; but now, what force could do it. If sufficient
strength could be applied it might be _broken_, but never bent again.
Excuse my plain speaking, Harriet, but I see before you so much
trouble, unless that little boy's strong will is controlled, that my
conscience would not let me rest, unless I spoke honestly to you what is
in my mind."

"I must say you are not a prophesier of '_smooth things_'" said Mrs.
Elwyn, "but still, I hope the dismal things you have hinted at may not
come to pass."

"I hope not too, Harriet," said Mr. Wharton, "but God has now mercifully
spared your little boy's life, and it rests with you whether he shall be
trained for His service or not."

Then calling for Agnes and Lewie, Mr. Wharton kissed them for good-bye,
telling Agnes that he would bring Emily over the next day.

Mrs. Elwyn looked infinitely relieved when Mr. Wharton drove off, and
returned to her novel with as much interest as ever, and in the very
exciting scene into which her heroine was now introduced, she soon
forgot the unpleasant nature of Mr. Wharton's "lecture," as she called
it.

Agnes was contriving in her mind all the morning, how she should
present the needle-case to her mother, and wondering how it would be
received. It was such a great affair to her, and had cost her so much
time and labor, that she was quite sure it must be an acceptable gift,
and yet natural timidity in approaching her mother, made her shrink from
presenting it, and every time she thought of it her heart beat in her
very throat.

At length the novel was finished and thrown aside, and Mrs. Elwyn sat
with her feet on the low fender gazing abstractedly into the fire. Now
was the time Agnes thought, and approaching her gently, she said:

"Mamma, here is a needle-case I made for you, all myself, for a
Christmas present."

The _words_ could not have been heard by Mrs. Elwyn, she only knew that
a voice _not_ Lewie's interrupted her in her reverie.

"Hush! hush! child," she said, waving her hand impatiently towards
Agnes, "be quiet! don't disturb me!"

Oh, what a grieved and disappointed little heart that, as Agnes turned
away with the tears in her eyes, and a lump in her throat.

The next voice that disturbed the young widow was one to which she
always gave attention:

"Mamma! mamma!" cried Lewie, pulling imperiously at her gown; "mamma!
sister feels sorry, speak to sister."

"What is it, dear?" his mother asked.

"Speak to sister! sister crying," said Lewie, pulling her with all the
strength of his little hands towards Agnes.

"What is the matter, Agnes? Why are you crying? What did you say to me a
few moments ago?" asked her mother.

Agnes tried to say "It is no matter, mamma," bet she sobbed so bitterly
that she could not form the words. But Lewie, who had seen and
understood the whole thing, pulled the needle-case from his sister's
hand, and gave his mother to understand that Agnes had made it for her,
and then he struck his little hand towards her and called her "naughty
mamma, to make sister cry!"

More to please Lewie than for any other reason, Mrs. Elwyn took the
needle-case, and said:

"Why Agnes, did you make this yourself, and for me? how pretty it is;
isn't it, Lewie? Now Agnes, you may fill it with needles for me."

Agnes wiped her eyes and began her task, but that painful lump would not
go away from her throat. Ah! if those kind words had only come at first!

How much suffering is caused to the hearts of little children by mere
thoughtlessness, sometimes in those even who love them; by a want of
sympathy in their little griefs and troubles, as great and all-important
to them, as are the troubles of "children of a larger growth," in their
own estimation.

VI.

The Tableaux.

"A mournful thing is love which grows to one so mild as thou,
With that bright restlessness of eye--that tameless fire of brow
Mournful! but dearer far I call its mingled fear and pride,
And the trouble of its happiness than aught on earth beside."

--MRS. HEMANS.

Lewie recovered rapidly; and by the time that "the singing of birds had
come," the roses bloomed as brightly as ever in his cheeks; and, with
his hand in that of Agnes, he roamed about the woods and groves which
surrounded their home, gathering wild flowers, and watching with delight
the nimble squirrel and the brilliant wild birds, as they hopped from
limb to limb. The children were always happy together; Lewie was more
yielding and less passionate when with his gentle sister than at other
times; and it was only when again in the presence of his mother that
his wilful, fretful manner returned, and he was again capricious and
hard to please.

Thus, while he was still almost in his infancy, his mother began to reap
the fruit of her sowing; for, while to others he could be gentle and
pleasant, with her he was always fretful and capricious. Already her
wishes had no weight with him, if they ran counter to his own, and
commands she never ventured to lay upon him; already the little twig was
taking its own bent.

The birth-days were all rigidly kept in Mr. Wharton's family, and some
little pleasant entertainment provided on every such occasion. Thus,
while Mr. and Mrs. Wharton failed not to make every proper and serious
use of these way-marks on the journey of life, they loved to show their
children how pleasant to themselves was the remembrance of the day when
one more little bright face had come to cheer and brighten their earthly
pilgrimage. Miss Effie was the important character in commemoration of
whose "first appearance on any stage" a pleasant party had collected in
Mr. Wharton's parlor, one evening in May. Mrs. Elwyn and her children
were spending a few days at Brook Farm; and the family of Dr. Rodney,
and a few other little folks from the village, were invited, on Effie's
birth-day, to pass the afternoon and evening.

Great had been the preparations, for they were, for the first time, to
have an exhibition of the "tableaux vivants" in the evening. Mr. Wharton
had constructed a large frame, which, covered with gilt paper, and
having a black lace spread over it, made the illusion more perfect. Many
pretty scenes had been selected by cousin Emily, who was mistress of
ceremonies; and that no child's feelings might be hurt, a character was
assigned for each one, in one or other of the pictures. A temporary
curtain was hung across the room, which was to be drawn whenever the
pictures were ready for exhibition.

Agnes had been as busy as anybody in bringing down from a certain closet
devoted to that purpose old finery, and other things which belonged to
days long gone by, and her anticipations of pleasure for the evening
were raised to the highest pitch. But just when all were assembled in
the darkened parlor, the lights all being arranged behind the curtain so
as to fall upon the pictures, Master Lewie, who was up beyond his usual
bed time, and who was hardly old enough to take much interest in what
was going on, declared that he was sleepy, and would go to bed. Neither
Mammy nor Anne were with them at Brook Farm; and as Mrs. Elwyn seemed as
much interested as any one in seeing the tableaux, Agnes knew what the
result would be, if Lewie insisted upon going to bed; so she endeavored
to amuse him and keep him awake till she had seen at least one tableau.

"Oh, Lewie, wait _one_ moment!" said she; "Lewie will see a beautiful
picture."

"Lewie don't want to see pictures; Lewie wants to go to bed. Sister,
come! sing to Lewie."

"In one moment, then, little brother. Let Agnes see one picture. Won't
you let sister see _one_ picture?"

"No; Lewie must go to bed. Mamma, tell sister to come with Lewie."

The result was, of course, in accordance with Master Lewie's wishes, and
Agnes was directed to take him up to bed. "He will very soon be asleep,"
her mother added, "and then you can come down."

This Master Lewie heard, and it put quite a new idea into his head, it
never having occurred to him before that the person who sang him to
sleep left him alone, after her task was accomplished. That was a thing
he was not going to submit to, and he was so determined to watch Agnes,
lest she should slip away from him, that all sleep seemed to have
deserted his eyes, which were wider open, and more bright and wide
awake, than ever.

Agnes laid down beside him, and, patting him gently on the cheek, she
sang in a sleepy sort of way, hoping the tone of her voice would have a
somniferous effect.

"Sing louder!" shouted Master Lewie.

Agnes obeyed, and sang many nursery songs suggested by Master Lewie,
hoping, at the end of each one, that there would be some signs of
drowsiness manifested on the part of the little tyrant; but the moment
it was finished, brightly and quickly he would speak up:

"Sing that over again!--sing another!--sing 'Old Woman!'--sing 'Jack
Horner,'" &c., &c.

And Agnes' heart died within her as question upon question would follow
each other in quick succession, suggested by the lively imagination of
Master Lewie, as to the name and parentage of "the little boy who lived
by himself;" and the childless condition of the man whose "old wife
wasn't at home;" and where the dogs actually _did_ take the
"wheel-barrow, wife and all;" he feeling perfectly satisfied of the
accurate information of Agnes on all these important topics.

Several times the little bright eyes slowly closed, and Agnes thought he
was fairly conquered. Slowly drawing her arm from under his head, she
began cautiously to rise; but before she had stolen a foot from the bed,
he would start up and stare at her in amazement, exclaiming, "Where
going, sister?" and then he seemed to learn by experience, and to
determine that he wouldn't be "caught napping" again that evening.

In the meantime, the fun was going on below, and several beautiful
pictures had been exhibited and admired before Agnes was missed from the
darkened parlor. But now came the cry, "Agnes! Come, Agnes! Where's
Agnes? She is to be in this picture." To which Mrs. Elwyn replied, that
"Agnes was putting Lewie to sleep."

"And hasn't she been here at all, Aunt Harriet?"

"No," answered Mrs. Elwyn, "Lewie takes a long time to get to sleep
to-night."

"That is _too bad_, I declare!" said little Grace, her cheeks reddening
with vexation, "Agnes did want to see these pictures so; can't I go up
and see if Lewie is asleep, Aunt Harriet."

"Better not," said Mrs. Elwyn; "you may disturb him just as he is
dropping asleep, and then Agnes will have to stay much longer."

The exclamations of indignation were loud and furious from the whole
party of little folks, when it was found that Agnes had been all the
evening banished from the room, and they were ready to go up to Lewie's
room in a body and take possession of Agnes, and bring her down in
triumph. But Emily said, "stop children, and I will go."

Very quietly Emily stole into the room and up to the bedside. The
children were lying with their arms about each other, Agnes' little hand
was on her brother's cheek, and both were soundly sleeping. Emily
touched Agnes gently and whispered in her ear, but her slumber was so
very sound that she could not arouse her. "Better to let her sleep on
now," said Emily, "and if Agnes only knew it, she has helped to make the
prettiest tableaux we have had this evening."

Thus early was little Agnes learning to give up her own gratification
for the sake of others, while the strong will of her little brother was
strengthened by constant exercise and indulgence, for this was but one
of many instances daily occurring, in which Agnes was obliged to
relinquish her own pleasure in order to gratify the whims and caprices
of her little brother. Lewie had so often heard such expressions from
his mother, that almost as soon as he could speak a connected sentence,
he would say, "Lewie must have his own way; Lewie must not be crossed,"
and in this way did his mother prepare him for the jostling and
conflicts of life.

VII.

The Governess.

"An ower true tale."

Mr. Wharton was one day writing in his study, for though a practical
farmer he devoted much of his time to literary pursuits,--when there was
a knock at his door, and on opening it he saw there a young woman of
delicate appearance, and of so much apparent refinement and cultivation,
that he was quite taken by surprise when she asked him the question, "if
he had any wool to be given out on shares?"

Mr. Wharton replied, that he had had so much trouble with those to whom
he had given out wool in that way, and had been so often cheated by
them, that he had said he would give out no more, but he believed he
must break through his rule for once, in her favor. She seemed very
grateful, and said she hoped he would have no reason to regret his
kindness in giving her employment. And so it proved; Miss Edwards, (for
that was her name,) gave such entire satisfaction as to her work, and
the share of it she returned, that Mr. Wharton kept her for some time in
constant employment. Every time she came, he was more and more pleased
with her gentle and unaffected manners, and with the style of her
conversation, which showed without the slightest appearance of effort, a
person of great intelligence and good breeding, while an air of subdued
melancholy excited an interest in her, which increased with every
interview.

"She is an unmistakable lady," said Mr. Wharton to his wife, "but how
she came to be living in the village, without friends, and as I believe
in circumstances of great necessity, I cannot imagine. There is a slight
reserve about her," he added, "which may be difficult to penetrate, but
if I mistake not, she is much in need of a friend, and I think she will
not long resist the voice of kindness."

Accordingly, the next time she called, Mr. Wharton, in his kind and
sympathising manner, led her to speak of her own peculiar circumstances;
and at length drew from her this much of her history: She was the
daughter of a plain New England farmer; had had a good common school
education; and was expected to devote the rest of her life to the making
of butter and cheese, and to the other occupations carried on in a
farmer's family. Everything that she could do to aid her father and
mother she was willing and ready to perform, but she sighed for
knowledge; she had learned enough to wish to know more, and she felt
that there was that in her, which properly cultivated, might fit her for
something higher than the making of butter and cheese. Thus, when the
day's labor was ended, and the old people, as was their custom, had
retired early to rest, their dutiful daughter, her work for the day well
done, sought with delight her little chamber, and her beloved books, in
whose companionship she passed the hours always till midnight, and
sometimes till she was startled by the

"Cock's shrill clarion,"

and reminded that body and mind alike needed repose.

In her studies, and in the choice of her reading, she was guided by her
pastor; and a better guide, or one more willing to extend a helping hand
to the seeker for knowledge she could not have found. With such a
teacher, and with such an eager desire for improvement, she could not
fail to progress rapidly. On the death of her parents, both of whom she
followed to the grave in the course of one year, the kind pastor took
her to his own home; but not being willing to be even for a time a
burden to him, she immediately opened a small school in a village near
them. Now her kind pastor too was dead; and having heard that a teacher
was wanted in the village of Hillsdale, she had come there in hopes of
getting the situation. Here she was doomed to disappointment, the vacant
place having been supplied but a day or two before she reached the
village; and now, among entire strangers, heart-sick with
disappointment, and with no friend to turn to in her distress, she was
taken down with a fever. It was a kind-hearted woman, in whose house she
had rented a small room, and she nursed her as if she had been a
daughter, without hope of remuneration. As soon as she was sufficiently
recovered to think again of work, she began to inquire eagerly for
employment; and her landlady having directed her to Mr. Wharton, she had
taken that long walk from the village, while yet very feeble, which
resulted in the accomplishment of her wishes.

There had been a brother, she told Mr. Wharton, an only child besides
herself; but, as Mr. Wharton inferred from what she said, he was a wild,
unsteady youth, and he had wandered from his home some years before, and
gone far west towards the Mississippi. For some time they continued to
hear from him, but he had long since ceased to write. She feared that he
was dead; but sometimes she had a strong hope, which seemed like a
presentiment to her, that she should yet look upon his face on earth;
and in this hope, she continued still occasionally to direct letters to
the spot from which he had last written.

When Mr. Wharton had repeated to his wife the story of Miss Edwards, she
said immediately:

"Why, is she not just the person for a governess for our younger
children? No doubt, too, she might aid Emily in her studies, for the
child is too delicate to send away from home."

"Well thought of, my dear wife," said Mr. Wharton; "and if we could
persuade Harriet to let poor little Agnes join us, what a nice little
school we might have. It is strange the idea has not occurred to me
before, for I have thought, a great many times, what a pity it was that
such a woman as Miss Edwards should spend her life in spinning wool."

"When do you expect her again?" asked Mrs. Wharton.

"She will probably be here this afternoon."

"Let us save her the long walk, by driving over to see her this morning:
perhaps she can return with us." And in less than an hour, Mr. and Mrs.
Wharton were seated in the widow Crane's neat little parlor, in earnest
conversation with Miss Edwards.

I need not say that the offer made by Mr. and Mrs. Wharton was
unhesitatingly and gratefully accepted by Miss Edwards. Those only who
have felt as utterly forlorn and desolate as she had done for the last
few weeks, can understand with what joy she hailed the prospect of a
home among such kind and sympathizing hearts.

And a _home_ indeed she found. From the time she entered Mr. Wharton's
hospitable door, she was treated as companion, friend, and sister. No
more sad, lonely hours for her, so long as she remained under that roof.
There were plenty of happy, bright little faces around her; there were
kind words always sounding in her ear; there were opportunities enough
to be useful; there were rare and valuable books for her leisure hours.
With all these sources of enjoyment, could she fail to be happy?

And if Miss Edwards esteemed herself most fortunate in having found so
delightful a home, Mrs. Wharton was no less so in having secured her
invaluable services.

"How have I ever lived so long without Rhoda!" she often exclaimed; for
the new governess, by her own earnest request, soon lost the formal
title of Miss Edwards in the family, and was simply "Rhoda" with Mr. and
Mrs. Wharton, and "Miss Rhoda" with the children.

"I think there is nothing that she cannot do, and do well," she added.
"She is a most charming companion in the parlor, with a never-failing
fund of good humor and cheerfulness; a kind and patient, and in all
respects most admirable teacher, for the children; an unwearied nurse in
sickness; a complete cook, if for any reason her services are required
in the kitchen; and perfectly ready to turn her hand to anything that is
to be done."

"And now you have not mentioned the crowning excellence of her
character, my dear," said Mr. Wharton; "she is, I believe, a sincere and
earnest Christian; and, as you say, I think we are most fortunate in
having secured her as an inmate in our family, and a teacher for our
children."

Mr. Wharton, who had unbounded influence with Mrs. Elwyn, had no great
difficulty in persuading her to allow Agnes to become a member of his
family, that she might with his children enjoy the benefit of Miss
Edwards' instructions. Indeed, so long as Mrs. Elwyn had her darling
Lewie with her, it seemed almost a matter of indifference to her what
became of Agnes; and thus the neglect and unkindness of her mother were
overruled for good, and Agnes was placed in the hands of those who would
sow good seed in her young heart, while improving and cultivating her
mind. Happy would it have been for poor little Lewie, could he have been
taken from the indulgent arms of his weak and doating mother, and
placed under like healthy training, where his really fine qualities of
heart and mind might have been cultured, and he might early have been
taught to curb that hot and hasty temper, and to restrain those habits
of self-indulgence, which finally proved his ruin.

Miss Edwards remained six years in her happy home at Mr. Wharton's, and
had become as they all thought essential to their comfort and happiness,
when she one day received a letter, which agitated her exceedingly. She
was sitting at the dinner table, when the letters were brought from the
village. One was handed to her; she looked at the superscription, at the
post-mark, which was that of a town far to the south-west; her cheek
flushed, and with trembling fingers she broke the seal. She glanced at
the signature, and turned so pale they thought she would faint, but in a
moment she was relieved by a burst of tears.

Her long lost brother was alive! he wrote that he was married, and
settled in that far distant State. One of his sister's letters (for she
still continued from time to time to write to him) had lately reached
him, he said, and he wished her to come to him. Her mind was immediately
made up to go; she dearly loved her sweet pupils, and the kind friends
who had given her a home, and a place in their hearts, but the ties of
kindred were stronger than all other ties, and they drew her with
resistless force towards the home of her own and only brother.

There was something about the tone of this letter which Mrs. Wharton did
not like, and she had a foreboding that this journey would not be for
the happiness of her friend, and tried to dissuade her from undertaking
it. And in this she was entirely disinterested; for great as would be
the loss of this gifted young lady to her, Mrs. Wharton was not the one
to put a straw in her way, if she felt assured the journey would end
happily for her.

All that she said, however, was of no avail; it had been the hope of
Miss Edwards' life, once more to see this darling brother, and nothing
could deter her from making the attempt. Her preparations were made in
haste, and with many tears on her part, and on that of the kind friends
she was leaving, and amid loud sobs and lamentations from her dear
little scholars, they parted, never again to meet on earth. A tedious
and perilous journey she had, by river and land, but she seemed to bear
all the discomforts of the way with her own cheerful, happy spirit, and
the letters she wrote to her friends from different points on the
journey were exceedingly amusing and entertaining. One of them, and the
last she wrote before reaching her point of destination, I will
transcribe here in her own words:--

"Springdale, Oct.--"

"My beloved pupils,--I am going, in this letter, to tell you a ghost
story, and a murder story, of both of which your humble servant was the
heroine. But before your little cheeks begin to grow white, and your
eyes to open in horror, let me tell you that the ghost was no ghost at
all, and in the murder scene, nobody's life was in danger, though both
matters at the time were very serious ones to me."

"I wrote you last from a little tavern in the northern part of Virginia,
while I was waiting for a conveyance to continue on my journey, the
stage passing over these unfrequented roads only twice a week. It has
always been my lot to have friends raised up for me when friends were
most needed; and while sitting in the little parlor of the tavern,
feeling very desolate, and very impatient, a gig drove up to the door,
from which an old clergyman alighted. He soon entered the parlor, and in
a few minutes we were engaged in a pleasant conversation, in the course
of which I mentioned the circumstances of my detention in that place,
and my extreme anxiety to progress in my journey."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13