V
Home Again.
“Deal very, very gently with a young child’s tender heart.”
With a face beaming with joy, little Agnes took her place in the cutter by her uncle on Christmas morning, and nodded good-bye to her cousins, who were crowded at the window to see her off.
“Mind you come back to dinner!” screamed little Grace, knocking with her knuckles on the window pane.
Agnes nodded again, and they were gone. Many a time during the short ride did Agnes take out of her little muff the paper in which her needle-case for her mother was rolled up, to see if it was all safe; and she never let go for a moment of the basket in which were some toys for Lewie, which she and her cousins had purchased at the village. As she drove up the road from the gate to her mother’s house, it seemed to her so long since she had been away, that she expected to see great changes. She had never been from home so long before, and a great deal had happened in that fort night.
Mrs. Elwyn was reading again; indeed, she had resumed that very yellow-covered book, the reading of which Lewie’s sickness had interrupted; so she had not much time for a greeting for Agnes, though she did allow her to kiss her cheek, and of course laid aside her book, out of compliment to Mr. Wharton. But little Lewie, who was sitting in his cradle, surrounded by toys, was in perfect ecstasies at the return of Agnes.
He stretched his little arms towards her; and as she sprang towards him, and stooped to kiss him, he threw them around her neck, and clasped his little hands together, as if determined never to let her go again.
“Sister come! sister come!” he exclaimed over and over again, with the greatest glee; “sister stay with Lewie now.”
“Sister will stay a little while,” said Agnes, kissing over and over again her beautiful little brother.
“No, sister stay!—sister shall not go!” said Lewie, in the best manner in which he could express it; but exactly how, we must be excused from making known to the reader, having a great horror of baby-talk in books.
“But I must go, darling; all my things are at uncle’s, and I want to get some books cousin Emily is going to give me; but I will come back very soon to stay with Lewie.”
“No! sister shall not go!” was still the cry; and Mrs. Elwyn settled the matter by saying:
“Agnes, if Lewie wants you here so much, you may as well take off your things; you cannot return to Brook Farm; besides, I want you to amuse Lewie.” Agnes thought of some of the consequences of her endeavors to amuse Lewie, and sighed.
“If your mother insists upon your remaining, Agnes,” said her uncle, “I will bring over your things, and Emily shall come with me, to bring the books, and tell you how to study.”
“Oh, thank you, dear uncle!” said Agnes, her face brightening at once.
In the first scene in which our little hero is introduced to the reader, he certainly does not appear to advantage, as few persons would in the first stages of a fever. He was not always so hard to please, or so recklessly destructive, as he was that day; and had an intimation ever been conveyed to his mind, that it was a possible thing for any desire of his to remain ungratified, he might have grown up less supremely selfish than he did.
But the natural selfishness of his nature being constantly fed and ministered to by his doating mother, led the little fellow to understand very early that no wish of his was to be denied; and before he was two years old, he fully understood the power he held in his hands.
He was a beautiful boy; “as handsome as a picture,” as Mammy said; but, for my part, I have seldom seen a picture of a child that could at all compare with Lewie Elwyn, with his golden curls, and deep blue eyes, and brilliant color. He was warm-hearted and affectionate, too, and might have been moulded by the hand of love into a glorious character. But selfishness is a deformity which early attention and care may remedy, and the grace of God alone may completely subdue; but, if allowed to take its own course, or worse, if encouraged and nurtured, it grows with wonderful rapidity, and makes a horrid shape of what might be the fairest.
Upon this text, or something very like it, Mr. Wharton spake to Mrs. Elwyn, when Agnes had carried Lewie into the next room to spin his top for him.
“Lewie is a most beautiful little fellow, certainly,” said he; “but, Harriet, take care; he is getting the upper hand of you already. It is time already—indeed, it has long been time—to make him understand that his will is to be subservient to those who are older.”
To which Mrs. Elwyn replied, “How absurd, Mr. Wharton, to talk of governing a child like that!”
“There are other ways of governing, Harriet, besides the whip and the lock and key, neither of which do I approve of, except in extreme cases. Lewie could very easily be guided by the hand of love, and it rests with you now to make of him almost what you choose. A mother’s gentle hand hath mighty power.”
“Well, Mr. Wharton, to tell you the truth, nothing seems to me so absurd as all these ideas of nursery education; and the people who write books on the subject seem to think there is but one rule by which all children are to be governed.”
“I perfectly agree with you, Harriet, that it is very ridiculous to suppose that one set of rules will answer for the education of all, except, of course, so far as the Bible rule is the foundation for all government. I think the methods adopted with children should be as numerous and different as the children themselves, each one, by their constitution and disposition, requiring different treatment; but still there are some general rules, you must admit, which will serve for all. One of these is a rule of very long standing; it is this—‘Honor thy father and thy mother;’ and another—‘Children, obey your parents in the Lord.’ Now, how can you expect your son, as he grows up, to honor, respect, or obey you, if you take the trouble to teach him, every day and hour, that he is the master, and you only the slave of his will. There is another saying in that same old book from which these rules are drawn, which tells you that ‘A child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame.’”
Mrs. Elwyn, during this conversation, kept up a series of polite little bows, but could not altogether conceal an expression of weariness, and distaste at the turn the conversation had taken. She had a sincere respect, however, for Mr. Wharton, who always exercised over her the power which a strong mind exercises over a weak one, and she felt in her heart that he was a real friend to her, and one who had the interests of herself and her children at heart.
As Mr. Wharton rose to go she said, laughingly:
“I thank you for your kind advice with regard to Lewie, Mr. Wharton, but in spite of it, I do not think I shall put him in a straight-jacket before he is out of his frocks.”
“No straight-jacket is needed, Harriet; you have often written in your copy-book at school, I suppose, ‘Just as the twig is bent the tree’s inclined.’ You remember that strange apple-tree in my orchard, which the children use for a seat, it rises about a foot from the ground, and then turns and runs along for several feet horizontally, and then shoots up again to the sky. When that was a twig, your thumb and finger could have bent it straight; but now, what force could do it. If sufficient strength could be applied it might be broken, but never bent again. Excuse my plain speaking, Harriet, but I see before you so much trouble, unless that little boy’s strong will is controlled, that my conscience would not let me rest, unless I spoke honestly to you what is in my mind.”
“I must say you are not a prophesier of ‘smooth things’” said Mrs. Elwyn, “but still, I hope the dismal things you have hinted at may not come to pass.”
“I hope not too, Harriet,” said Mr. Wharton, “but God has now mercifully spared your little boy’s life, and it rests with you whether he shall be trained for His service or not.”
Then calling for Agnes and Lewie, Mr. Wharton kissed them for good-bye, telling Agnes that he would bring Emily over the next day.
Mrs. Elwyn looked infinitely relieved when Mr. Wharton drove off, and returned to her novel with as much interest as ever, and in the very exciting scene into which her heroine was now introduced, she soon forgot the unpleasant nature of Mr. Wharton’s “lecture,” as she called it.
Agnes was contriving in her mind all the morning, how she should present the needle-case to her mother, and wondering how it would be received. It was such a great affair to her, and had cost her so much time and labor, that she was quite sure it must be an acceptable gift, and yet natural timidity in approaching her mother, made her shrink from presenting it, and every time she thought of it her heart beat in her very throat.
At length the novel was finished and thrown aside, and Mrs. Elwyn sat with her feet on the low fender gazing abstractedly into the fire. Now was the time Agnes thought, and approaching her gently, she said:
“Mamma, here is a needle-case I made for you, all myself, for a Christmas present.”
The words could not have been heard by Mrs. Elwyn, she only knew that a voice not Lewie’s interrupted her in her reverie.
“Hush! hush! child,” she said, waving her hand impatiently towards Agnes, “be quiet! don’t disturb me!”
Oh, what a grieved and disappointed little heart that, as Agnes turned away with the tears in her eyes, and a lump in her throat.
The next voice that disturbed the young widow was one to which she always gave attention:
“Mamma! mamma!” cried Lewie, pulling imperiously at her gown; “mamma! sister feels sorry, speak to sister.”
“What is it, dear?” his mother asked.
“Speak to sister! sister crying,” said Lewie, pulling her with all the strength of his little hands towards Agnes.
“What is the matter, Agnes? Why are you crying? What did you say to me a few moments ago?” asked her mother.
Agnes tried to say “It is no matter, mamma,” bet she sobbed so bitterly that she could not form the words. But Lewie, who had seen and understood the whole thing, pulled the needle-case from his sister’s hand, and gave his mother to understand that Agnes had made it for her, and then he struck his little hand towards her and called her “naughty mamma, to make sister cry!”
More to please Lewie than for any other reason, Mrs. Elwyn took the needle-case, and said:
“Why Agnes, did you make this yourself, and for me? how pretty it is; isn’t it, Lewie? Now Agnes, you may fill it with needles for me.”
Agnes wiped her eyes and began her task, but that painful lump would not go away from her throat. Ah! if those kind words had only come at first!
How much suffering is caused to the hearts of little children by mere thoughtlessness, sometimes in those even who love them; by a want of sympathy in their little griefs and troubles, as great and all-important to them, as are the troubles of “children of a larger growth,” in their own estimation.