Читать книгу Lewie; Or, The Bended Twig - Sarah H. Bradford - Страница 25

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Brook Farm.

"By the gathering round the winter hearth,

When twilight called unto household mirth;

By the fairy tale, or the legend old,

In that ring of happy faces told;

By the quiet hours when hearts unite

In the parting prayer and the kind "good night",

By the smiling eye and the loving tone,

Over thy life has the spell been thrown."—SPELLS OF HOME.

When Mammy left little Agnes in the north room, and descended to the kitchen, she found Bridget, who had already been made acquainted with, passing events by Anne, the chambermaid, in a state of great wrath and indignation. The china must have been strong that stood so bravely the rough treatment it received that morning, and the tins kept up a continued shriek of anguish as they were dashed against each other in the sink; while every time Bridget set down her foot as she stamped about the kitchen, it was done with an emphasis that made itself felt throughout the whole house.

"And so ye've been locking up that swate crathur again, have ye, Mrs.

McCrae?" were the words with which, in no gentle tones, she assailed

Mammy as she entered the kitchen.

"I did as I was bid, Bridget," said Mammy, with a sigh.

"And indade it wouldn't be me would do as I was bid, if I was bid to do the like o' that. I'd rather coot off my right hand than use it to turn the kay on the darlint."

"I always mind my mistress, Bridget," said Mammy, "though it's often I'm forced to pray for patience wi' her."

"And indade I don't ask for patience wid her at all, anny how," stormed Bridget. "To think of sending the swate child, that never has anny but a kind an' a pleasant word for iverybody, away to the cold room, just because the brat she doats on chooses to yowl in the fashion he did the morn. I don't know, indade, what's the matther with the woman! I think it's a quare thing, and an on nattheral thing, anny how!"

"She's much to be blamed, no doubt, Bridget, and yet there's excuses to be made for my mistress," said Mammy, mildly. "She's young yet in years, no but twenty-two; and she's nothing but a child in her ways and her knowledge. She never knew the blessing of a mither's care, puir thing; and up to the very day she was married, her life was passed at one o' them fashionable boarding-schules, where they teach them to play on instruments, and to sing, and to dance, and to paint, and to talk some unchristian tongue that's never going to do them no good for this life nor the next. But they never give them so much as a hint that they've got a soul to be saved, and they take no pains to fit them to be wives and mothers. My mistress was but fifteen years old when she ran away with Master Harry. Poor dear Master Harry! It was the only fulish thing I ever knew him to do, was running away wi' that chit of a schule-girl. He met her, I think, at a ball that was given at this schule, and Master Harry was over head and ears in love in a minute; and after two or three meetings and a few notes passing, they determined on this runnin' away folly. I think it was them novels she was always readin' put it in her head. It wouldn't do, you know, to be like other folks, but they must have a little kind of a romance about it. Puir, fulish, young things!"

"You see, I was living with old Mr. Elwyn then," continued Mammy; "indeed, I've been in the family ever since I came over from Scotland, quite a lassie, thirty-one years ago come next April. I left them, besure, when I married; but as my gude-man lived but two years, I was soon back in my old home again. Old Mr. Elwyn, Master Harry's father, had lost his property before this time; but his brother, 'Uncle Ben,' as they called him, was very rich. They all lived together—'Uncle Ben,' old Mr. Elwyn, Master Harry and Miss Ellen, that's Mrs. Wharton. Miss Ellen was a few years older than Master Harry, and she was the housekeeper. But Master Harry, bless you! was only twenty years old, when he walked in one morning, and told his father he was married. I never shall forget the time there was then! The old gentleman was complaining, and had had a bad night, though Master Harry did not know that. Well, the sudden shock threw him into an apoplectic fit; and two days after, he had another, and died. Master Harry was almost distracted then: he called himself his father's murderer; and, indeed, I think he was never what you might call well from that time."

"But you never saw any one so angry as Mr. Benjamin Elwyn was. He had always intended to make master Harry his heir, but his conduct in this foolish affair enraged him so that he said he would leave him nothing. At first the young folks lived with her father, but he soon died, leaving his daughter a little property settled on herself. But it was not enough to support them, and so Master Harry had to apply to old Mr. Benjamin Elwyn again, and the old man gave him this place, and enough to live on pretty comfortably here. He told Master Harry that perhaps something might be made of his baby wife yet, if he brought her away from the follies of the city, to a country place like this, and tried to improve her mind; and so they have lived here ever since, till last year, when poor master Harry died."

"And what do ye think is the raison that the misthress thrates little

Miss Agnes the way she does?"

"Well, I can hardly tell you, Bridget. In the first place, I have often heard her say that she couldn't abide girls, and bating other reasons, I think she would have been disappointed on her own account, you know, to have the first child a girl. But, besides this, I have heard that Mr. Benjamin Elwyn quite forgave Mr. Harry, and promised him that if his oldest child was a boy, and he named it after him, he would leave him the bulk of his property. I cannot tell you how bitterly disappointed my young mistress was, when her first born proved to be a girl. She was but sixteen years old then, you know, Bridget, and she acted like a cross, spoiled baby. She cried herself into a fever, and she wouldn't let the poor, helpless baby, come into her sight. I think she never loved her; and from the time of Master Lewie's birth, she has seemed to dislike her more and more."

"But how the father loved her, Mrs. McCrae!"

"Aye, indeed he did; he never could be easy a minute without her. It was a sore day for my poor bairn, when it pleased God to take her father; poor man! But He knows best, Bridget, and He orders all things right."

Here Mammy was summoned by the bell, and despatched to bring little

Agnes down; to accompany her aunt and cousins to their home.

As Agnes was riding along, seated so comfortably by the side of her kind aunt, in the large covered sleigh, with the rosy, smiling faces of her little cousins, Grace and Effie, opposite her, she could scarcely believe that she was the same little girl, who, but an hour or two before, was walking so sadly up and down the desolate North Room, and trying to persuade herself that she was "not alone." Agnes was naturally of a lively, cheerful disposition, and like any other little girl of six years of age, she soon forgot past sorrow in present pleasure, though, at times, the sudden remembrance of her dear little baby brother, lying so ill at home, would cause a sigh to chase away the smile of pleasure beaming on her lovely face.

It was but little more than two miles from "The Hemlocks," Mrs. Elwyn's residence, to "Brook Farm," the home of the Wharton's, and, as Matthew had received orders to drive very rapidly, it seemed to Agnes that her ride was just begun, when they turned into the lane that led up to her Uncle Wharton's house. And now the pillars of the piazza appear between the trees, and now the breakfast room windows, and more bright young faces are looking out, and little chubby hands are clapped together, as the sleigh is discovered coming rapidly up the lane, and the cry resounds through the house, "They've come! they've come! and Agnes is with them!"

A bright, cheerful wood fire was burning in the pleasant, great breakfast room, and the party who had just arrived were soon surrounded by smiles of welcome, while busy little fingers were assisting them to untie their bonnets, and unfasten their cloaks. In a few moments the door opened, and a pale, but lovely looking girl, in deep mourning, entered the room. She was a niece of Mr. Wharton's, and, having lately been left an orphan, by the death of her mother, she had been brought by her kind uncle, to his hospitable home, where she was received by all as a member, henceforth, of their family.

"Well, aunty," said she, after stooping to kiss Agnes, "you are back sooner than I expected."

"Yes, dear, I was obliged to hurry; little Lewie is very ill, I fear. By the way, Harry, run and tell Matthew that just as soon as he is warm, he must drive as fast as possible to the village, and ask Dr. Rodney to get directly into the sleigh, to go to your Aunt Elwyn's; and tell him to call for me, as he comes back."

"Why, mamma, are you going back there again?" asked Effie.

"Yes, love, I must go back, and remain with your Aunt Harriet to-day. I only came home to make some arrangements for the family. I want your papa to drive over for me to-night, after the little ones are all in bed; and I desire the rest of you to keep out of my way till I have changed my dress. I do not know yet what is the matter with Lewie. How do you feel, Emily?"

"Much better, thank you, aunty; I am quite prepared to play lady of the house in your absence."

"Well, do put aside those books, dear: your health is the most important thing now. I wish I could leave you so busy with household concerns as to give you not a moment's time for reading."

"Dear aunty, I do not think the books hurt me; and you certainly would not have me grow up a dunce, would you?"

"No fear of that, dear; and I by no means wish you to give up your books altogether, but only to lay them aside till you get a little color in these pale cheeks. I shall lay my commands on your uncle not to give you any more assistance in your studies till I give him permission."

"Well, I'll be very good, aunty, and I've promised the boys to take a run with them over to the pond, and see them skate; and besides, we are all invited to an entertainment in a certain snow palace, which is nearly finished, and which I have promised to grace with my presence."

Just then two fine handsome boys, the pictures of health and good nature, rushed in. These were Robert and Albert Wharton, home from school for the Christmas holidays.

"Mother, what will you give us for our entertainment?" they cried.

"Have you a table and seats?" she asked.

"Yes, all made of snow," said Albert. "But don't let us tell her all about it, Bob; I want to surprise her."

"I think your entertainment, to be in keeping with your furniture, ought to be of snow and icicles," said Mrs. Wharton; "but, whatever it is, I am sorry that I cannot visit your snow palace to-day."

"Oh! that's too bad, mother; it will spoil all our fun. But, say, will you give us something to eat?"

"Yes; I leave Emily mistress of the keys for to-day, and you may call upon her for pies, cake, or anything the store-room contains; only be a little moderate, and don't leave us entirely destitute."

"It won't be half so pleasant without you, mother," said Robert; "but we shall have quite as many as our palace can accommodate, if all these go. Hallo! here's Agnes! Why, Aggy, how do you do? I didn't see you before."

At this moment the sleigh was seen coming up the lane, and Mrs. Wharton hastened to get ready to accompany the doctor to the Hemlocks.

"I want to whisper to you, dear mother, one minute," said little Grace.

"What more Christmas secrets?" asked her mother.

A whispered consultation here took place, some request being urged with great eagerness by Grace; and the pleasant "Yes, yes," from her mother, made her bright eyes dance with joy.

As Mrs. Wharton was driving from the door, Albert called out:

"Mother, may the baby go with us?"

"Yes, if Kitty will wrap him up well," was the answer, and the sleigh flew down the lane, and was soon out of sight.

Agnes was now hurried off by her young cousins to inspect the various preparations for Christmas, and was made the repository of some most important secrets, "of which she must not give a hint for the world." She saw the purse Effie was knitting for Albert, and the guard-chain Grace was weaving for Robert, and the mittens for Harry, and the socks for the baby, and the pen-wiper for papa, and the iron-holder for mamma; and then Effie took her aside alone, to show her something she was making for Grace; and Grace took her aside alone, to show something she had bought with "her own money" for Effie; and there was a beautiful book for Cousin Emily. "And we cannot show you yet whether we have anything for you, Agnes, because, you know, we always keep our secrets till Christmas comes," they said.

"There comes papa from the mill," cried Effie, looking out of the window; "let's run down and see him. How surprised he will be to find mamma gone, and Agnes here!"

Mr. Wharton came in with his usual cheerful manner; and soon as he was warming his feet by the fire, he had Agnes on one knee, and Harry on the other, and the rest of the noisy little tribe round him, eagerly telling the events of the day, and the pleasant anticipations for the afternoon.

"Oh, papa," said Effie, "I've got something I want to say to you, if you would only come in the other room a few minutes, or if the children would only be kind enough to go out of this room a little while."

"Won't it keep, Effie, till I warm my feet?" asked her father; "because, if it will not, I suppose I must go now."

"Oh no, papa, I will wait patiently," said Effie.

In a few minutes her father said, "Now, Effie, for that important secret;" and they went together into another room.

"This is what I wanted to say, papa," said Effie: "you know poor Agnes never has any money of her own; and I know, when she sees us all giving presents to each other, she will feel badly, if she cannot give something too; and I want to know if you won't give her a little money, and let her go to the village with us the next time we go, and get some materials to make something out of?"

Mr. Wharton answered by putting his hand in his pocket, and giving Effie some silver for Agnes, with which she went off perfectly happy.

And now little Grace put in her curly head, and said, "Effie, when you are through with papa, I've got something to say to him too."

The sum and substance of Grace's communication was this: "she had seen something at a store in the village, with which she was sure her mamma would be perfectly charmed, but she hadn't quite enough money to purchase it; she only wanted ten cents more." And she too went off with a smiling face.

Emily now came in jingling her keys and called them all to dinner.

As soon as possible after dinner, the boys laden with a basket of good things, which Emily had provided for them, started off for the snow palace, one of them carrying the dinner-horn, which was used in the summer, to call the men to the farm-house to their meals. When the entertainment was ready the horn was to sound. In the meantime, the children were sitting around the fire, waiting impatiently for the signal, to call them to the palace of snow.

"Cousin Emily," said Agnes, for she too said "Cousin Emily," though there was no relationship, in fact, between them, "Cousin Emily, I wish I knew what to read and study. I do want to know something, and I don't know anything but my Bible, and my little book of hymns. Mammy taught me to read, or I should'nt have known anything at all," she added sadly.

"Well, Agnes," that is the best knowledge you could possibly have, said

Emily, "though I am far from thinking other studies unimportant; but, if

I can help you in any way, I will gladly lend you books, and tell you

how to study."

"Oh! will you, cousin Emily?" said Agnes, her face brightening; "how happy I shall be! aunty has taught Effie and Grace, and they have studied Geography and History, and they can cipher, and I don't know anything at all about those things; why, even little Harry knows more than I do."

"But you can beat us all in Bible knowledge, I know, Agnes," said Emily, "and, in a very little time, you will catch up to the other children, for aunty has little leisure time to devote to them. But there! I hear the horn! call Kitty, to bring the baby, and we'll all start."

And now all warmly wrapped in cloaks and hoods, the little party left the side piazza, and walked down towards the pond. The path was well broken, as the boys travelled it so often, on their way to the pond and the snow palace, and the little party went briskly on. Emily and Agnes headed the procession, then came Effie and Grace, dragging a box-sled in which the baby was comfortably stowed, and Kitty, the nurse, brought up the rear, leading little Harry. The two boys met them at some distance from the snow palace, and told them they must go through the labyrinth before they could reach the place of entertainment.

The labyrinth was composed of paths, cut in the deep snow, winding in and out, and circling about in all directions, till, at length, the foremost of the party halted before the entrance to the snow palace. The boys had, indeed, been industrious, and the new comers stared in amazement, at the results of their labor. They found themselves, on entering the palace, in a room high enough for the tallest of the party to stand upright in, and of dimensions large enough to seat them all comfortably around the square block of snow which formed the centre table. The seats were of the same material, and were substantial enough, while the extreme cold weather lasted. On the table was placed the entertainment provided by Emily, to which the party did all possible justice, considering that they had just risen from a plentiful dinner at home. After the feast, Robert and Alfred entertained them with feats of agility on the ice, dragging one or the other of the children after them upon the sled, and when they returned home, even Emily's usually pale cheeks were in a glow.

Towards evening Agnes began to be uneasy, and to watch at the window for her aunt's return. "I will not see aunty, cousin Emily," she said, "but I cannot go to bed till I hear how Lewie is to-night."

At length her uncle and aunt returned, and Agnes heard that her little brother was very ill; but the doctor was of opinion that his disease was a brain fever, and therefore there was no danger of contagion. Agnes went to bed with a heavy heart, and cried herself to sleep.

The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Mrs. Wharton again ordered the sleigh and drove to "the Hemlocks." She found Mrs. Elwyn in a state bordering on distraction.

"Oh, Ellen," she said, "how I have wanted you! Lewie has had a night of dreadful suffering, and now he is unconscious. He does not know me, Ellen! He does not hear me when I call. I think he does not see. Oh, Ellen, what would life be to me if I lose my darling. And now I want you to pray! You can pray, Ellen, and God answers your prayers. Pray for the life of my child! Mammy prays, but she will only say, 'The will of the Lord be done!'"

"And I can say no more, Ellen. I do pray; I have prayed, that your darling boy's life may be spared, if it be the will of God, but more than that I cannot say."

"And what if it be His will to take my darling from me, Ellen?"

"Then, Harriet, I hope you might learn to acquiesce without a murmur, and to say from your heart, 'It is the Lord, let Him do what seemeth to Him good.'"

"No, Ellen, never! I cannot contemplate the bare possibility of losing my boy. If you will not pray as I wish, I will try to pray myself;" and falling on her knees, she prayed for the life of her child. "Take whatever else thou wilt, oh God," she cried, "but oh, spare me my child."

"Harriet, this seems to me most horrible impiety," said Mrs. Wharton, "to ask God to grant your desires, whether agreeable to His will, or not; I should much fear if your request were granted, that it would only be to show you, that you know not what is best for yourself, and for those you love; and that you might some day wish you had left this matter in the hands of God, even if it had been His will to take your darling to Himself."

When Dr. Rodney came that morning, he found the child in a profound slumber. "This," said he, "is, I think, the crisis of the disease; on no account let him be disturbed; if he awakes conscious, he will in all human probability recover."

And they watched him in breathless stillness, Mrs. Wharton on one side of the cradle, and his mother on a low stool beside him, with her sad gaze riveted on his little face, to catch his first waking glance, and to see whether the eye then beamed with intelligence, or not.

Oh, who can imagine the agony, the terrible suspense of such watching, but those who have sat as that poor mother did, over a loved one hovering between life and death. And as Mrs. Wharton sat so silently opposite her, her thoughts were sometimes raised in prayer for her poor misguided sister; and sometimes she sat looking at her as a perfect enigma; with a heart so capable of loving devotedly, and yet so steeled against her own child, and so lovely and winning a little creature as Agnes. It was a puzzle which she had often tried to solve, in vain.

After an hour more of deep slumber, Lewie started and awoke. For a moment his glance rested with a bewildered expression upon his mother's face; and then, stretching out his little hands, he said, "Mamma!" Mrs. Wharton's attention was fixed upon the child; but when she turned to the mother, she saw her, white as the snow, falling back upon the floor. The revulsion of feeling was too much for her; she had fainted.

When Mrs. Wharton came home that night, she said, "Agnes, my love, your little brother is better, and, with great care, he may now recover."

"Oh, aunty!" exclaimed Agnes, joyfully, "and when may I see him?"

"You must be content to remain with us without going home for some days yet, dear; for the doctor says the most perfect quiet is necessary, and you could not see Lewie if you were at home."

And now that the mind of little Agnes was comparatively free from anxiety, she entered with great delight into the preparations going on at Brook Farm for Christmas.