Stories of a Governess

STORIES OF A GOVERNESS.

BY MISS ANNIE FISLER.

NEW YORK: PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION AND CHURCH BOOK DEPOSITORY, 762 BROADWAY.

1866.

PUBLISHED THROUGH THE OFFERINGS OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL OF TRINITY CHURCH, PITTSBURGH, PA.

IN REMEMBRANCE OF PLEASANT DAYS AT “SOUTHSIDE.”

Stories of a Governess.

CHAPTER I.

The children had all been very eager about the new governess. They had sat full three minutes at a time, more than once, discoursing about her, wondering whether she was young or old, whether she was pretty or ugly, and whether she was cross or good-tempered. In short, there had been no end to their wonderings; but they could not agree, and so sat waiting full of curiosity till she should come down stairs.

Lillie sat on the floor in front of the grate, her chin on her hands, her eyes fixed on the bright fire. Frank was watching the door, in a very unnatural sort of quietness for a boy, with Tan curled up at his feet; and Jennie was nervously6 tearing off the corners of her book, since it had grown too dark to read it, thinking that Miss Lane was a very long time in taking off her cloak.

On the sofa lay a plump little darling, with a pair of dark soft eyes shining out of the stillness; one round rosy cheek rested upon her pretty brown hand, and the silky hair was tangled by her race with Tan on the piazza. Nobody knew what Rosie was thinking, for Rosie did not talk much—did not tell all the puzzles in her child-brain, though it was quite full of them, like any other child’s.

Outside, the wind had gone down, but the bare trees, the naked lawn, and the great wide stretch of waste land beyond that, looked bleak enough in the gathering gloom of the winter twilight. Softly fluttering down, like white birds, came a few light flakes of the first snow, and now and then the swaying back of a thick cedar-tree, showed a grave at its foot, receiving the downy covering. It was the resting place of the children’s mother; she had lain there a7 year, and the little ones had grown quite used to the sight of that which had once made their hearts ache for “poor mamma out in the cold.”

There was a wistful look in the little faces, and a yearning for love in the little hearts all unsatisfied, since the good mother had gone to rest; but none, even down to little Rosie, had forgotten the prayers she had taught them, nor to lift, night and morning, their innocent hands to the All-Father.

And now Tan had risen, snuffed about, gone from one child to another, pattering about on his soft paws, saying, “good night” to all. He sprang noiselessly upon the sofa, by Rosie’s head, and taking in his mouth a beautiful white kitten lying there, carried it off to his basket in the corner.

At this movement of Tan’s every child was on its feet, to witness this nightly performance, which afforded the lookers-on the most intense delight. Kitty submitted very quietly, as a matter of course, and the puppy trotted off as gravely as mother cat might have done. He8 put pussy to bed first, turning her over to her own side with his paws, if she encroached upon his, and then, ensconcing himself snugly in his corner of the basket, he winked himself to sleep with much satisfaction. When Tan had gone to sleep, the children grew tired of waiting again; but presently, a shout from Frank, who had gone to the window, roused them.

“There’s papa!” he cried, and in two seconds, all, even sleepy Rosie, were in the hall, waiting for his greeting. In they came, a joyous party, clinging to their papa’s arms and knees, claiming kisses and answers to a multitude of questions in one breath, forgetting their late interest in the new governess who stayed so long in her own room, and caring only to welcome him who claimed a double share of their love, now that they had no mother.

Jennie rang the bell, ordering James, when he answered it, rather imperiously, to take her father’s coat and to bring his slippers, bustling about uneasily, and overturning a light stand near her in her haste.

9 “Softly, Jennie daughter; not so much noise,” chided her papa, rubbing his hands before the blaze, as if he were glad to be at home again. Gently as the words were spoken, they brought tears to the eyes of the sensitive child, and she drew back with a shadow fallen upon her gladness.

With shy ecstasy Rosie was rubbing her brown face against her papa, much as pussy might have done; and Lillie performed a joyful dance with Tan, who had waked up with the commotion, holding him by the fore-paws, and endangering the costly vases by her romping. Frank was pouring out a history of the day with great glee, standing first upon one foot, then upon the other, winding up with:

“And Ben brought Miss Lane from the cars at half past four. We have not seen her yet. But papa—”

He stopped. There she was.

“How do you do, Mr. Graham? How do you do, children?” said a sweet voice, and they all, including Tan, became as mute as mice.

10 James came with candles, and then the examination began. Miss Lane was not old, neither was she very young; she was almost as small and slight as Jennie, and not at all pretty, as Frank declared more than once, though he liked to look at her face too.

She was dressed neatly and well; her collar shone, her hair shone, her teeth shone, her hands were almost lily white, and her step as light as the snow-fall out of doors. She had a quiet sort of grace that was very fascinating, and from the crown of her head to the sole of her small walking-shoe, stood before them the perfect lady.

CHAPTER II.

The breakfast bell had been rung, Miss Lane came in at its last tingle and saw the children waiting for her.

“Good morning! Where is your papa?”

“Gone: he goes to his office at six every morning, and doesn’t come home till evening,” answered Jennie.

“Who reads prayers?”

“No one, since mamma died.”

The lady stood silent a moment; a little tinge of red colored her cheek, and she did not trust her voice for a few seconds, lest it should tremble.

“I cannot,” was her first thought; “it is not my place; they may think it presuming.”

“I will,” was her next; “God has put it in my way; it is plainly my duty.” Then speaking12 aloud to Mrs. Hill, the housekeeper, she said calmly:

“If you will call in the servants, I will read prayers: I suppose Mr. Graham would not object.”

“Oh, no, ma’am.”

In a little time they came in and sat down, wondering at the new ways of the teacher, but joining in the prayers quite reverently, and as they went out again, casting curious glances at the pale quiet face of the reader. As for the children, their appetites were quite forgotten in this new and interesting study of the governess, and Jennie secretly determined to imitate her in her mode of eating. It was really a pleasure to watch the neat, graceful fingers at any work, and the children began to find and to feel something of that subtle charm in perfect grace and tact which mere beauty cannot supply. Though she spoke but little, and did not seem to watch them at all, not a word, not a motion, scarcely a glance of her new pupils escaped her. She was silently deciding upon the character of each.

13 After breakfast, the whole party ran to the windows, to admire the snow-fall; Miss Lane among the rest. It lay white and pure upon the lawn and the trees, and the sun sparkled over it.

“He giveth snow like wool, and scattereth the hoar-frost like ashes,” said the teacher.

“Who? God?” asked Rosie, who could not be content without caresses, and so had crept shily to the side of the teacher.

“Yes, and do you know why it is like wool?”

“Because it is white,” answered Frank, coming up softly, while the rest followed after a moment of hesitation, and closed round Miss Lane with bashful but eager glances.

“Yes, and for another reason. Because it is warm; it protects the tender wheat, keeps it alive in the ground till the spring opens. It is like your cloaks and overcoats, only so much softer, so much more beautiful.”

“Warm? snow warm? I thought it was cold.”

“Persons have been saved from freezing by burying themselves in snow.”

14 “Do you know stories?” questioned Rosie, with a flush over her brown face.

“Yes, a great many. I will tell you one about a person who had no bed but one of snow for many nights.”

“Did you know him? did you ever see him?” were the eager questions; and the children crouched at her feet, forgetting their reserve.

“Yes, very, very well, all my life. This person, this gentleman, when he was young like you, cared only for books, books all the time, and wandering about over all the rocks, through all the woods in the neighborhood. After a while, when he grew older, he wanted to travel. He went to Asia, to Africa, to Europe—he saw all the great world, but he forgot God.”

“Forgot God! oh, how dreadful!”

“Forgot God; forgot to love him and pray to him—tried to live without him. But God remembered him. He never forgets any one, you know—not even the smallest bird or worm. He counts the tiniest blade of grass.”

15 “By and by a very sad thing happened to him. A beautiful lady whom he had loved a long, long time, and who was to have been his wife, died suddenly. She was deaf, quite deaf, but so very patient and sweet, living such a holy life, so near to God, that all her goodness shone in her face, making it so lovely, so radiant, that no one could look at her without loving her, and wondering if angels were not like her. She was lost at sea. She had been in England with her father, and was returning to America, when the ship was lost. They both went down together, and when this gentleman heard it, he seemed as if he could never be happy again.

“He looked quite broken-hearted; but the taking of her who was to have been his wife to the rest of the blessed did not seem to draw him any nearer to God, and after a while he wandered off again, and was not heard of for years. He lived for months near the shore of the Gulf of California, alone, excepting the company of two pet seals, which he learned to love dearly. He used to go out on the sand and watch the16 seals there. Sometimes the young ones, when left by their parents on the beach, would make the most pitiful moaning and crying, like a little child in pain. It used to melt his heart to hear them; he said it made him think of the voice of the lost, crying out of the sea; and so his melancholy grew deeper and darker than ever. He would have stayed there perhaps till he died; but his seals were lost, and then, in his loneliness, he roamed away again.

“He settled at last in New Mexico, and though he lived so much alone, his gentleness and kindliness won him many friends, and he began to think he had found a home. But at length he longed to return, and when he set out he sped towards the mountains. He dared not travel through the valleys, for fear of the Indians, but had to keep out of their sight, if he wished to preserve his life. The mountains were covered with snow. The cold was bitter, and he knew that many days must pass before he could reach a safe shelter; but his heart did not fail him, for he began in those fearful,17 solitary nights to beg for God’s aid, to think of him as he had not done in years before.

“Every night he lay down in the snow, hungry and tired, for it was dangerous to shoot game. If the Indians had heard the report of his rifle, they would have been upon him quickly; and he suffered severely for want of food. His shoes gave out too, but not his courage and trust in God, which had all come back to him as he lay under the stars, in his snowy bed, so awfully alone, shut out from humanity. On the thirteenth day, he limped into a fort, almost barefooted, hollow-eyed and gaunt, very weak, but joyful over his deliverance, and, with a new heart, praising God.”

“Where is he now?” asked Rosie, when Miss Lane paused.

“Gone to rest,” she answered solemnly.

By this time the hour for school had arrived, and all were eager to begin the work of learning, so they gladly followed the teacher as she led the way up stairs to the school-room.

CHAPTER III.

Before many days the children had learned that Miss Lane intended to be obeyed; so the idea of resisting her authority gradually faded out of their minds, if they had ever entertained it. She went about her duties in her quiet, graceful way, showing in every action that she worked for God, and made the thought of her accountability to Him the rule of her life.

There was a promptness and decision in her manner that irresistibly drew every child into her way, and very soon there was no complaint of tardiness or carelessness in the school-room. Jennie’s hair was brushed smoothly, because Miss Lane’s satin braids made her ashamed of her tangled locks. Lillie thought of her own ten ragged finger-nails with a blush, when the rosy tips of her teacher’s fingers glided over the19 piano-keys; and Frank scraped his shoes before coming into the parlor, because he had once left a stain on the clear gray of her dress with his muddy boots; he could not forget her distressed look as she noticed it, and reformed accordingly.

A taste for beautiful things began to be developed in their minds too, and the stars, the sunset, and a snow-fall were seen with new eyes. They learned, too, to know that God was about them, around them, above them; that there was no thought in their heart but he knew it altogether; that he must be the Guide in the daily walk of his baptized children. So the days went on in content.

There came sometimes a girl of Jennie’s age to visit the children; Mary Noel was her name; her parents lived on the opposite shore of the lake, about a quarter of a mile from Mr. Graham’s, and were very careless, worldly people, keeping but a loose watch over their child.

Miss Lane did not fancy her from the first,20 and disapproved of the intimacy with her young charges; but she had never seen anything positively evil in the child’s behavior, and therefore could not forbid it. But one afternoon, while Mary Noel was there, something occurred which decided her to prevent all intercourse between the children.

Lillie and Mary in passing Miss Lane’s door found it ajar, and looked in curiously at the pictures, curious boxes and books that adorned it, all arranged with most exquisite neatness and taste.

“Let us go in,” proposed Mary. “She is not there, is she?”

“No; but I would rather go in when she is there,” answered Lillie.

“Well, I’d like to see those pictures; come,” and she pushed the door open.

“I don’t think Miss Lane would like it,” persisted Lillie.

“Why? what need you care? The room’s in your father’s house.”

21 “I don’t think it would be quite right, quite polite; Miss Lane is so precise.”

“I know; such a stiff old maid, too. You’ll all be just like her. Well, I’m going in. I wonder if there are many pictures in that album; I’m going to look.”

“Come out, Mary; we had better not disturb anything. I am sure Miss Lane would be displeased.”

“You all act as if you were afraid of her. She isn’t mistress here yet. Mamma said may-be she’d be your stepmother sometime; how would you like that?”

The child’s face became scarlet; she stamped her foot.

“It is not true; it is a wicked story. You are very bad to say so. I’ll ask papa;” and Lillie sat down in the window with tears in her eyes.

In the mean time, Mary was examining one by one the contents of the room, opening books and boxes, and peering about, full of curiosity.

“Oh, Lillie, here is this bottle; it is so delicious!22 Oh, just smell—Cologne! And isn’t the bottle pretty?”

“Beautiful!” exclaimed Lillie, springing up and taking it out of her hand quickly—too quickly; the choice ornament fell from her grasp, and lay broken in two pieces upon the floor, while the odor of the Cologne water filled the room.

Lillie’s cheeks crimsoned; she stood with clasped hands and loud beating heart, surveying the fragments.

“What shall we do?” she exclaimed.

“Let us go away—she’ll find the bottle broken; we need not say anything. She will not know that you did it.”

So, conscience-smitten and miserable, the little girl followed her tempter down stairs; her first thought being an earnest desire to escape the blame. Lillie was nervous and sensitive and very timid; the idea of her teacher’s displeasure overshadowed all the sunshine of that day, and made it indeed a time of wretchedness. She trembled with terror when she heard Miss Lane’s23 step, and shrunk back with a guilty flush whenever she caught her eye, growing pale and chill at the sound of her voice, lest the dreaded question should be asked, and contending with her ever rebuking conscience which urged her to confession.

“Ah!” she thought, “if I had only not given up at first—if I had only never touched it—it was so wrong. Mamma used to tell us that we were always punished for doing wrong, even if no one saw us: and now I know that is why I broke the vase. Miss Lane cannot trust me when she knows it; and, oh, she said she would rather we troubled her every minute with mischief than to see us do one dishonorable thing. She will be sure to find it out too, oh, dear! and I never can tell her; it frightens me to think of it. What shall I do? I am so unhappy;” and the child buried her head in the sofa cushions, sobbing aloud.

By and by she crept into the parlor, quite pale and subdued, worn out by the ceaseless reproaches of her conscience, and waited in much24 sadness for her papa’s coming. The children were in great glee watching the snow as it came softly down, and listening to the loud howling of the wind round the house, happy in their good home, the loving hearts around them, and the bright firelight.

How little they knew of the great world, with the sin, suffering, and death in it; of the dying, despairing thousands on God’s earth, crying out to him in sore pain and need, the day of their rejoicing long since passed!

Presently there was a shout, as Miss Lane came at a quick pace up the walk, struggling against the wind and storm, holding her cloak fast around her. She came in merrily, laughing, and with a vivid color in both cheeks.

“It is perfectly delightful,” she cried, as soon as she saw the children. “How happy is the dog rolling in the snow!”

“Where have you been? We were lonesome; we’ve been hunting you everywhere.”

“I have been to visit my Sunday scholars,25 and I came round by the post-office for my letters, and I have two such pleasant ones.”

“Did you go to see all the scholars? And did you find out who it was that sat on the end of the bench last Sunday?”

“Yes; her name is Phœbe Birch, and I went to her house. She has a stepmother who is not kind to her. Her father was sitting in a corner of the room; he had been drinking; and when I went in, Phœbe was crying. Her eyes were quite red and swollen; she brightened at the sight of me; but I was too much afraid of both the father and mother to talk much to her, poor child! At last I asked her if she would not come regularly to Sunday-school, and gave her a little Prayer-book, which seemed to make her very happy. The mother scolded and said, ‘She was good for nothing already, and she did not think going to Sunday-school would make her any better.’ I told her that I hoped it would. But when I had got out of the close little room, from that hard scowling woman and the drunken man, into the fresh air, I could26 scarcely bear to think of poor little Phœbe’s spending all her life there.”