Lewie by Cousin Cicely

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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.

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