"Yes," said Esther, laconically. So picking up her shoes and stockings, I raised her in my arms and carried her into the other room. She was between five and six years old, but so slight and childish that her weight was nothing. I sat down by the fire and held her in my lap, while I put on her shoes and stockings, and warmed her into something like animation.
"So Félicie wouldn't wake up," I said, at length.
I had touched the right chord; the vehement childish sense of wrong was stirred, and with eager, blundering earnestness, she detailed her grievances. Félicie never would wake up; Félicie wouldn't give her a drink of water some nights when she was so thirsty; Félicie left her alone sometimes when it was so dark; and Félicie was cross, and Félicie was wicked, and, in fine, she hated her.
I shook my head at this, and gave her a little moral lecture upon the wickedness of hating nurses, further illustrating and embellishing my subject by the story of a little girl who had once indulged in that dreadful passion, and had come to a very sad end in consequence. The moral lecture, I am afraid, was overlooked; but the story was most greedily received, and I was obliged to succeed it with another and another, before I could induce her to go and get her clothes, and let me put them on for her. When she was nearly dressed, Félicie woke up, and not finding her young charge in bed, was somewhat startled and unmistakably angry, and in no dulcet tones was calling her name, when she looked into my room, and, on seeing me, sank suddenly into a softer strain, and apologized for oversleeping: she had had such a wakeful night, was not well, etc., and would Mademoiselle Esther come and have her hair brushed now?
Mademoiselle Esther, a moment before the quietest, gentlest child alive, had, at the sound of that voice, flushed up into angry defiance, and planting herself at my side, met her nurse's advance with a very ugly scowl. She wouldn't go and have her hair brushed; she didn't want a nice clean apron on; she didn't care if she was late for breakfast; and Félicie, though she never lost the bland tone she had assumed, looked malignant enough to have "shaken her out of her shoes and stockings." At length I persuaded her to submit to Félicie's proposals, and be made ready to go down to breakfast with me, and she held very firm possession of my hand, as, after the bell had rung, we descended the stairs.
My aunt was already below; Grace and Josephine straggled in after long intervals; indeed, we were half through breakfast before they came down. My aunt looked charmingly in her fresh morning dress and pretty cap, was very kind, gave Esther and me her cheek to kiss, and, after reading the paper, talked to me somewhat. Esther seemed not to have much appetite; but having set her heart upon a roll and some cold chicken, her mamma had graciously allowed her to be gratified, and she was very tranquilly eating her breakfast, when the entrance of Grace, who made some teasing little gesture as she passed, made her pout and whine, and disturbed her serenity considerably. It was not, however, till Grace, calling to the servant for some marmalade, suggested a forbidden dainty to her mind, and she exclaimed, "I want marmalade, too," that the worst came.
Grace interposes pertly, "You can't have any—mamma says you can't;" Essie passionately protests, "I will;" mamma sharply interposes, "You shall not;" a burst of tears from Essie, and a smothered titter from Grace, then Essie passionately pushes back her plate, and refuses to touch another mouthful; whereon mamma asserts her authority, and sternly orders her to resume her biscuit and chicken under pain of banishment. The sobbing child does not, cannot, I think, obey, and, at the end of an ominous silence, mamma motions John to remove her from the table, which is effected after violent resistance and struggling, and amid a tempest of screams and protestations, exit Essie in the arms of John.
It was well that my aunt did not order me to resume my breakfast. After that little episode, I am afraid I should have been unable to obey, and I should not have liked to have been carried out in the arms of John. Josephine exclaimed upon the nuisance of crying children; Grace laughed slily, as if she thought it capital fun; mamma sighed over the strange perverseness and dreadful temper of that child; but my heart ached for the wretched little exile. How Félicie would gloat over her disgrace, I knew; how indigestion, injustice, and mortification, would bring on a fit of the sulks that would last half the day, and pave the way for the repetition of a similar scene at lunch. Perhaps because I had been a willful, sensitive, and passionate child myself, I knew how to appreciate the disadvantages under which poor little Essie labored. I knew what exquisite tenderness and gentleness were necessary to guard that sensitiveness from turning into the very gall of bitterness, and that quick temper from becoming the uncontrollable and damning passion that would blight her whole life. More watchful care, more prayerful earnestness, does such a child's rearing require, than if she had been laid upon her mother's love, a moaning cripple, or a blind and helpless sufferer. Just as soul is more precious than body, so is the responsibility heavier, the task more awful, of training and molding such a sensitive nature, to whose morbid fancy a cold repulse is a cruel blow, and an impatient word a rankling wound. The tenderest and most yearning love should surround and guard such a child's career, putting aside with careful hand the snares and trials that beset the way of life, till the maturing judgment shall have learned to control the exaggerated fancy. The winds of heaven should not be suffered to visit too roughly such a restless and unquiet heart, till the uncertain mists of dawn and early morning have melted before the clear and certain day. Between the rough and torturing world and the scared and shrinking soul, the mother's love should interpose, shielding, soothing, reassuring. God meant it to be so; may His pity be the guard of the little ones, whom death, the world, the flesh, or the devil, have defrauded of their right!
No one could look at my hollow-eyed and puny little cousin, with that unhappy and unchild-like contraction of the brow, and that troubled expression of the eyes, without knowing that she was of a nervous temperament the most excitable and keen, and of a will and temper the strongest. To Josephine's spirit and Grace's acuteness, she added an almost morbid sensitiveness and delicacy of organization, of which they were entirely innocent, and which they could in no way comprehend. That she did not inherit it from her mother, was pretty evident; Grace was the nearest copy of the maternal model; "la petite" was altogether a stranger and an alien, not understood and not attractive. Her mother had never forgiven her sex; a boy had been the darling wish of both parents, and this third disappointment had not been graciously received, at least by the mother; for I believe "the baby" had held a tender part in her father's heart during the two years of her life which he lived to see. Perhaps my uncle would have understood the wayward child better than his wife did, had he lived to see her develop; there must have been, I was sure, depths of gentleness and tenderness in his heart; for though he was almost a stranger to me, living as we had done, so far from the world in which he had held a busy part, still he was my mother's only brother, and they had never forgotten their early affection. The recollection of it helped me to bear with patience the caprices and willfulness of his little daughter; for, pity her as I might, there was no denying that Esther was a very vexatious and trying child, and there certainly was a very fair excuse for the disaffection of the household. How far the household had to thank themselves for it, however, was another matter, and one which I thought would have repaid investigation.
The scene consequent upon the Marmalade Act, must have been no novelty in the Churchill breakfast, for the waves closed over poor Essie's banishment in an instant, and things resumed their smooth and unruffled appearance almost immediately. The next disturbance they received, was in the form of a sharp ring at the bell, which caused Josephine, without raising her eyes from the paper she was reading, to adjust with better grace the sweep of her dress upon the carpet, and to present to view an eighth of an inch more of the rosette on her slipper; while Grace, looking up from her plate, said saucily: