Lewie; Or, The Bended Twig

“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.

Mr. Fairland met Agnes at the door, with his kind pleasant face, and with both hands extended to give her a cordial welcome to his roof. Mrs. Fairland rose languidly from her chair to receive the governess, and gave her a ceremonious, and to Agnes a most chilling greeting. The young ladies were out walking; but presently a troop of noisy children, who from some part of the grounds where they were at play, had seen the arrival of the stranger, came bursting rudely into the room. These, as Agnes supposed, were her future pupils, and a most unpromising set they at first sight appeared.

The eldest, “Tiney,” was a heavy, dull looking girl of about ten years of age. Her eyes had no more brightness or expression in them than two balls of lead, and her flabby colorless cheeks hung down each side of her mouth, giving that feature much the expression of a bull-dog, while a sullen fierceness about her face, increased the resemblance to that animal. Her teeth, utterly unacquainted with the action of a brush, were prominent, so that her lip seldom covered them, and her uncombed hair hung rough and shaggy around her unattractive face. Agnes at once guessed that this poor child was deficient in intellect, and unamiable in temper.

The next, Rosa, was a wild, handsome little gipsey, with eyes as black as jet, and as bright as diamonds, a brilliant color shining through her sunburnt cheek, and with straight black hair, no better cared for than her sister Tiney’s.

The third little girl, Jessie, was very fair, with beautiful deep blue eyes, and golden curling hair; but the curls were all in tangles, for no one took the trouble to keep them in order, except on great occasions, when the poor child was put to the torture of having it brushed and combed, and laid in ringlets, which for the time were the special pride of her mother.

“You’ll have enough to do, Miss Agnes, to tame all these rough spirits,” said Mr. Fairland, “they have been running wild ever since we left the city, and a more rude and ungoverned set of little desperadoes, it has never been your lot to meet with, I’ll venture to say.” And then addressing them, he said, “come here, children, what do you stand there gaping for, with your thumbs in your mouths, as if you had never seen anybody before? Tiney! Rosa, you witch! Jess, my chicken! come up here this minute, and speak to Miss Elwyn.”

But Tiney only pouted her ugly mouth and scowled; and Rosa, making a sudden dart for her mother’s chair, retreated behind it, peering out her black eyes occasionally, to take a look at the stranger; while Jessie ran and sprang into her father’s lap, hiding her little tangled head on his shoulder. And now a whooping and shouting made known the approach of Master Frank, the son and heir, a young individual of about four years of age, who, nothing daunted by the stranger’s appearance, made for his father’s chair, and proceeded to dislodge his sister Jessie from her seat, and to establish himself in her place. Jessie screamed, and scratched, and pulled in vain. Frank, though younger, was much the strongest, and the fight ended by the sudden descent of Miss Jessie to the floor, and the ascension of Master Frank into the vacated place.

“Be quiet now, will you, Frank, and speak to Miss Elwyn,” said his father.

“Hallo! is that Miss Elwyn?” exclaimed Master Frank, aloud; “why, C’lista said she was old and ugly.”

“Well, C’listy didn’t know, did she?” said his father.

“And Ev’lina said she’d train us well, and whip us, and shut us up, and be awful cross all the time. She doesn’t look like that, does she, papa?”

“No, she does not,” said his father; “and I guess Evelina must have been mistaken too.”

Agnes was all this time looking at Frank, very much amused, and laughing quietly at the description which had been given of her to the children.

“You think I do not look so very terrible, then, Master Frank,” said she; “do you think you will ever like me?”

“I don’t know,” said Master Frank, boldly; “if you don’t make me mind, I’ll like you.”

“But she is going to make you mind, Master Frank,” said his father; “and, do you know, I have promised Miss Elwyn that she shall do just what she pleases with you all, and nobody shall interfere.”

“In school hours,” said Agnes.

“Yes, in school hours, and out of school hours, except when their mother or I are present: they are always to obey you, Miss Elwyn. I wish that to be understood in the family. But, my dear,” said he to his wife, “perhaps Miss Elwyn would like to change her dress before tea.”

Mrs. Fairland languidly directed Tiney to show Miss Elwyn to her room; but the only notice taken of this command by Miss Tiney was a stupid, sullen stare. Agnes had risen to leave the room; but perceiving that Tiney did not stir, she turned, and putting out one hand toward Rosa, said, in her own bright, winning way:

“This little black-eyed girl will show me the way, I’m sure.”

There was no resisting the gentle kindness of Agnes, and the confidence of little Rosa was won immediately. Coming out from behind her mother’s chair, she put her hand in that of Agnes, and led her up stairs into a large room, on the second floor, overlooking the beautiful lake.

“What a very pleasant room!” said Agnes. “Is this to be mine?”

“Yes,” answered Rosa, who, having once found her tongue, showed that she could make very rapid use of it when she chose—“and that bed is yours, and that one is for me and Jessie.”

“‘Jessie and me,’ you mean, Rosa, do you not?”

“I’m the oldest,” answered Rosa.

“I know that, Rosa; but recollect, whenever you speak of any one, no matter who, in connection with yourself always to mention the other person first. Will you remember that?”

“Yes, I’ll try,” answered Rosa. She then proceeded to inform Agnes, that her mamma had wished to give her a little room on the other side of the hall, but papa said she should have this room, because it was so pleasant, and he had heard her say that she was so fond of the water.

“That was very kind of your papa,” said Agnes; “and where does Tiney sleep?”

“Oh, Tiney sleeps with Susan, because she has fits, you know.”

“Who has?—Susan?” asked Agnes.

“No, Tiney has fits, and nobody likes to take care of her but papa and Susan.”

Agnes was disappointed to find that she was not to have a room to herself. “I came here to instruct these children,” said she to herself, “not to act in the capacity of nursery-maid. However, I will bear it patiently for the present; perhaps I shall gain an influence over them, by having them so constantly with me, that I could not acquire in any other way. There is so much to be corrected in their habits and language, besides their being so woefully ignorant!”

Agnes continued talking pleasantly to little Rosa, while she was dressing; and when they went down stairs, hand in hand, the very pleasantest relations appeared to be established between them.

“What shall we call you?” asked Rosa.

“You may call me ‘cousin Agnes,’ if you choose,” she answered, “and if your papa and mamma are willing.”

“Oh, I shall like that!” said Rosa.

Soon after Agnes and little Rosa re-entered the sitting-room, the Misses Fairland returned from their walk. They were gayly and showily attired in the very height of the fashion, and entered the door talking and laughing very loudly; but when introduced to Miss Elwyn, they stopped and opened their eyes in unaffected amazement. As Agnes rose with graceful ease to meet them, looking so lovely in her deep mourning dress, and with her rich waving chesnut hair, simply parted on her forehead, and gathered in a knot behind, there was a most striking contrast between her and the gaudily dressed, beflounced, and beflowered ladies, who were fashionably and formally curtseying, and presenting her the tips of their fingers.

Though younger by some years than the youngest of the Miss Fairlands, there was a dignified self-possession about Agnes, which was quite astonishing to them. Though rather of the hoyden-ish class themselves, they could not fail at once to recognize the air of refinement which marks the true lady, and while intending by their own appearance to over-awe the new governess, they were so completely taken by surprise by her perfect ease and composure of manner, that they alone appeared stiff and awkward, and she unembarrassed and easy.

And this was the prim old-maidish governess they had been expecting! this fresh, blooming, lovely looking girl! It was by no means a pleasant surprise to the Misses Fairland. However, she was nothing but a governess after all; and could easily be kept in the back ground; it was to Be hoped she would know her place and keep it.

The Misses Fairland made the mistake very common with persons of weak mind, and little cultivation at that, and instead of judging of others by their intrinsic worth, character, or intellect, formed their estimate only by the outward circumstances in which they found them. Had this same Agnes Elwyn come to make a visit to her far away cousins, in her own carriage, and surrounded by external marks of wealth, they would have been ready to fall down and worship her; but coming as a governess, and by the stage, what notice could she expect from the Misses Fairland! These young ladies had so often been made wretched, by intentional slights from those in whose sphere they had aspired to move, that they did not doubt Agnes would be rendered equally uncomfortable by their own neglect.

The tea-bell rang, and the Misses Fairland hastened to take off their bonnets and soon re-appeared at the tea-table, where they took up the entire conversation, telling of all they had heard and seen, in their calls through the village. For like the ancient Athenians, these young ladies literally “spent their time in nothing else, but to hear or to tell of some new thing.”

In the midst of the conversation there was a sudden bustle, and Tiney rose hastily from the table. Her father immediately left his chair, and went round to her place, and took her by the arm. There was a ghastly and disturbed look about poor Tiney’s face, and an expression of terrible malignity about her eye, and as she passed the chairs of her little sisters, one screamed loudly and then the other, and when she came near Agnes, it was with great difficulty that she too could resist the inclination to scream with the pain, caused by a terrible pinch from the fingers of Tiney, which left its mark upon her arm for many days.

Mr. Fairland led the child from the room, and as the door closed after them, Agnes heard a succession of the most piercing shrieks, as if all the strength of the sufferer’s lungs were expended upon each one.

“Oh, dear! Susan is out, and your father will need assistance,” said Mrs. Fairland; “but really, these scenes have such an effect upon my nerves, that I find it necessary to avoid them altogether.”

“And so do I,” said Miss Calista, “indeed I always suffer with a severe headache after them.”

“And they are so utterly disagreeable to me, to to be more candid than either of you,” said Miss Evelina, “that I always keep as far out of the way as possible.”

“Can I be of any use?” asked Agnes, partly rising and looking towards Mrs. Fairland. She would have followed poor Tiney and her father immediately, but did not wish to appear to pry into that of which nothing had been mentioned to her, and of which they might not like to speak out of their own family.

“Oh, do go, Miss Elwyn, if you have the nerve,” said Mrs. Fairland.

The reader knows enough of Agnes to feel assured that her nerves were never in the way, if opportunity offered to make herself useful to the suffering; and the moment Mrs. Fairland answered her, she left the room, and, guided by those still piercing shrieks, she passed through a long hall, and entered a small bath-room, where she found Mr. Fairland holding the struggling Tiney, who presented a shocking appearance. Her face was now quite purple, and the white froth stood about her mouth; and her father was holding both of her hands in one of his, to quiet her frantic struggles.

“Oh, bless you, Miss Agnes!” said Mr. Fairland, as soon as she opened the door; “set that water running immediately till it is quite hot, and take off this poor child’s stockings and shoes. You see I can do nothing.”

As quickly and as quietly as possible Agnes did as she was directed; and then also, by Mr. Fairland’s direction, took down a bottle of medicine, always kept ready for this purpose in the bath-room, and dropped some of it for him. In a few moments, the shrieks subsided to moans, as Tiney lay with her head back on her father’s shoulder.

“Poor child!” said Mr. Fairland, wiping her lips and forehead, “she is a dreadful sufferer.”

“Has she been so long?” asked Agnes.

“Ever since her third year,” answered Mr. Fairland, “though, at first, the attacks were comparatively slight; but of late years they have grown more and more severe. Her intellect, as you perhaps have already noticed, is much weakened by them, and her temper, naturally very sweet, is at times almost fiendish. It seems to be her great desire, while suffering so intensely, to injure all within her reach.”

Agnes now understood the reason of the screams of the children, and also of the pinch she had received as Tiney passed her chair. When poor Tiney’s moans had become more faint, Mr. Fairland said:

“Agnes, will you sing? Music seems to soothe her more than anything else, after the extreme suffering is over.”

Agnes sang, with her marvellously sweet voice, a simple air: presently poor Tiney turned her head, and fixed her half-closed eyes on Agnes’ face. Then she said, from time to time, in a dreamy way, “Pretty!—sweet! Sing more;” and then she lay perfectly quiet, and soon fell into a gentle slumber. Often and often, after that, when poor Tiney was seized with these excruciating attacks, as soon as the first intense suffering was over, she would say, “Cousin Agnes, sing!” and, from the time she heard the gentle tones of Agnes’ voice, she would be quiet and gentle as a lamb. The effect could be likened to nothing but the calming of the evil spirit which possessed the monarch of Israel, by the tones of the sweet harp of David.