Chapter XXI (4)

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.