The Wide, Wide World
by Susan Warner · English · Gutenberg #28376 · 1,390,007 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Wide, Wide World
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The Wide, Wide World
Author: Susan Warner
Release date: March 20, 2009 [eBook #28376]
Most recently updated: January 4, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28376
Credits: Produced by Mark C. Orton, Júlio Reis, Linda McKeown and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
https://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD ***
Produced by Mark C. Orton, Júlio Reis, Linda McKeown and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
https://www.pgdp.net
The Wide, Wide World
_The_ Wide, Wide World
_By_ SUSAN WARNER
[Illustration]
GROSSET AND DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS : : NEW YORK
Contents
CHAP. PAGE
I. BREAKING THE NEWS 9
II. GIVES SORROW TO THE WINDS 15
III. THE WORTH OF A FINGER-RING 26
IV. THE BITTER-SWEET OF LIFE 37
V. A PEEP INTO THE WIDE WORLD 43
VI. NIGHT AND MORNING 56
VII. "STRANGERS WALK AS FRIENDS" 66
VIII. LEAVES US IN THE STREET 77
IX. THE LITTLE QUEEN IN THE ARM-CHAIR 90
X. MUD--AND WHAT CAME OF IT 103
XI. RUNNING AWAY WITH THE BROOK 115
XII. SPLITTERS 125
XIII. HOPE DEFERRED 132
XIV. WORK _not_ DEFERRED 139
XV. MOTHER EARTH RATHER THAN AUNT FORTUNE 147
XVI. COUNSEL, CAKES, AND CAPTAIN PARRY 158
XVII. DIFFICULTY OF DOING RIGHT 172
XVIII. LOSES CARE ON THE CAT'S BACK 183
XIX. SHOWING THAT IN SOME CIRCUMSTANCES WHITE IS BLACK 196
XX. HEADSICK AND HEARTSICK 204
XXI. FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS 218
XXII. SHOWS HOW MR. VAN BRUNT COULD BE SHARP UPON SOME
THINGS 230
XXIII. HOW MISS FORTUNE WENT OUT AND PLEASURE CAME IN 239
XXIV. SWEEPING AND DUSTING 246
XXV. SHOWING WHAT A NOISE A BEE CAN MAKE WHEN IT GETS
INTO THE HOUSE 255
XXVI. SUNDRY THINGS ROUND A POT OF CHOCOLATE 267
XXVII. THE JINGLING OF SLEIGH-BELLS 281
XXVIII. SCRAPS--OF MOROCCO AND TALK 290
XXIX. STOCKINGS, TO WHICH THE "BAS BLEU" WAS NOTHING 300
XXX. SUNDAY AT VENTNOR 308
XXXI. FLOWERS AND THORNS 317
XXXII. THE BANKNOTE AND GEORGE WASHINGTON 329
XXXIII. A GATHERING CLOUD IN THE SPRING WEATHER 337
XXXIV. THE CLOUD OVERHEAD 345
XXXV. THIS "WORKING-DAY WORLD" 357
XXXVI. THE BROWNIE 374
XXXVII. TIMOTHY AND HIS MASTER 383
XXXVIII. WHEREIN THE BLACK PRINCE ARRIVES OPPORTUNELY 395
XXXIX. HALCYON DAYS 406
XL. "PRODIGIOUS!" 419
XLI. "THE CLOUDS RETURN AFTER THE RAIN" 428
XLII. ONE LESS IN THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD 438
XLIII. THOSE THAT WERE LEFT 448
XLIV. THE LITTLE SPIRIT THAT HAUNTED THE BIG HOUSE 458
XLV. THE GUARDIAN ANGEL 473
XLVI. "SOMETHING TURNS UP" 487
XLVII. THE WIDE WORLD GROWN WIDER 502
XLVIII. HOW OLD FRIENDS WERE INVESTED WITH THE REGALIA 515
XLIX. THOUGHT IS FREE 531
L. TRIALS WITHOUT 542
LI. TRIALS WITHIN 552
LII. "THOU!" 561
THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD
CHAPTER I
Enjoy the spring of love and youth,
To some good angel leave the rest,
For time will teach thee soon the truth,
"There are no birds in last year's nest."
--LONGFELLOW.
"Mamma, what was that I heard papa saying to you this morning about his
lawsuit?"
"I cannot tell you just now. Ellen, pick up that shawl and spread it
over me."
"Mamma!--are you cold in this warm room?"
"A little,--there, that will do. Now, my daughter, let me be quiet
awhile--don't disturb me."
There was no one else in the room. Driven thus to her own resources,
Ellen betook herself to the window and sought amusement there. The
prospect without gave little promise of it. Rain was falling, and made
the street and everything in it look dull and gloomy. The
foot-passengers plashed through the water, and the horses and carriages
plashed through the mud; gaiety had forsaken the side-walks, and
equipages were few, and the people that were out were plainly there only
because they could not help it. But yet Ellen, having seriously set
herself to study everything that passed, presently became engaged in her
occupation; and her thoughts travelling dreamily from one thing to
another, she sat for a long time with her little face pressed against
the window-frame, perfectly regardless of all but the moving world
without.
Daylight gradually faded away, and the street wore a more and more
gloomy aspect. The rain poured, and now only an occasional carriage or
footstep disturbed the sound of its steady pattering. Yet still Ellen
sat with her face glued to the window as if spell-bound, gazing out at
every dusky form that passed, as though it had some strange interest
for her. At length, in the distance, light after light began to appear;
presently Ellen could see the dim figure of the lamplighter crossing the
street, from side to side, with his ladder;--then he drew near enough
for her to watch him as he hooked his ladder on the lamp-irons, ran up
and lit the lamp, then shouldered the ladder and marched off quick, the
light glancing on his wet oil-skin hat, rough greatcoat and lantern, and
on the pavement and iron railings. The veriest moth could not have
followed the light with more perseverance than did Ellen's eyes--till
the lamplighter gradually disappeared from view, and the last lamp she
could see was lit; and not till then did it occur to her that there was
such a place as indoors. She took her face from the window. The room was
dark and cheerless; and Ellen felt stiff and chilly. However, she made
her way to the fire, and having found the poker, she applied it gently
to the Liverpool coal with such good effect that a bright ruddy blaze
sprang up and lighted the whole room. Ellen smiled at the result of her
experiment. "That is something like," said she to herself; "who says I
can't poke the fire? Now, let us see if I can't do something else. Do
but see how those chairs are standing--one would think we had had a
sewing circle here--there, go back to your places,--that looks a little
better; now these curtains must come down, and I may as well shut the
shutters too--and now this tablecloth must be content to hang straight,
and mamma's box and the books must lie in their places and not all
helter-skelter. Now, I wish mamma would wake up; I should think she
might. I don't believe she is asleep, she don't look as if she was."
Ellen was right in this; her mother's face did not wear the look of
sleep, nor indeed of repose at all; the lips were compressed, and the
brow not calm. To try, however, whether she was asleep or no, and with
the half-acknowledged intent to rouse her at all events, Ellen knelt
down by her side and laid her face close to her mother's on the pillow.
But this failed to draw either word or sign. After a minute or two Ellen
tried stroking her mother's cheek very gently;--and this succeeded, for
Mrs. Montgomery arrested the little hand as it passed her lips, and
kissed it fondly two or three times.
"I haven't disturbed you, mamma, have I?" said Ellen.
Without replying, Mrs. Montgomery raised herself to a sitting posture,
and, lifting both hands to her face, pushed back the hair from her
forehead and temples, with a gesture which Ellen knew meant that she was
making up her mind to some disagreeable or painful effort. Then taking
both Ellen's hands, as she still knelt before her, she gazed in her face
with a look even more fond than usual, Ellen thought, but much sadder
too; though Mrs. Montgomery's cheerfulness had always been of a serious
kind.
"What question was that you were asking me awhile ago, my daughter?"
"I thought, mamma, I heard papa telling you this morning, or yesterday,
that he had lost that lawsuit."
"You heard right, Ellen--he has lost it," said Mrs. Montgomery sadly.
"Are you sorry, mamma?--does it trouble you?"
"You know, my dear, that I am not apt to concern myself overmuch about
the gain or the loss of money. I believe my Heavenly Father will give me
what is good for me."
"Then, mamma, why are you troubled?"
"Because, my child, I cannot carry out this principle in other matters,
and leave quietly my _all_ in His hands."
"What is the matter, dear mother? What makes you look so?"
"This lawsuit, Ellen, has brought upon us more trouble than ever I
thought a lawsuit could--the loss of it, I mean."
"How, mamma?"
"It has caused an entire change of all our plans. Your father says he is
too poor now to stay here any longer; and he has agreed to go soon on
some government or military business to Europe."
"Well, mamma, that is bad; but he has been away a great deal before, and
I am sure we were always very happy?"
"But, Ellen, he thinks now, and the doctor thinks too, that it is very
important for my health that I should go with him."
"Does he, mamma? And do you mean to go?"
"I am afraid I must, my dear child."
"Not, and leave _me_, mother?"
The imploring look of mingled astonishment, terror, and sorrow with
which Ellen uttered these words took from her mother all power of
replying. It was not necessary, her little daughter understood only too
well the silent answer of her eye. With a wild cry she flung her arms
round her mother, and hiding her face in her lap gave way to a violent
burst of grief that seemed for a few moments as if it would rend soul
and body in twain. For her passions were by nature very strong, and by
education very imperfectly controlled; and time, "that rider that breaks
youth," had not as yet tried his hand upon her. And Mrs. Montgomery, in
spite of the fortitude and calmness to which she had steeled herself,
bent down over her, and folding her arms about her, yielded to sorrow
deeper still, and for a little while scarcely less violent in its
expression than Ellen's own.
Alas! she had too good reason. She knew that the chance of her ever
returning to shield the little creature who was nearest her heart from
the future evils and snares of life was very, very small. She had at
first absolutely refused to leave Ellen when her husband proposed it,
declaring that she would rather stay with her and die than take the
chance of recovery at such a cost. But her physician assured her she
could not live long without a change of climate; Captain Montgomery
urged that it was better to submit to a temporary separation than to
cling obstinately to her child for a few months and then leave her for
ever; said he must himself go speedily to France, and that now was her
best opportunity; assuring her, however, that his circumstances would
not permit him to take Ellen along, but that she would be secure of a
happy home with his sister during her mother's absence; and to the
pressure of argument Captain Montgomery added the weight of
authority--insisting on her compliance. Conscience also asked Mrs.
Montgomery whether she had a _right_ to neglect any chance of life that
was offered her; and at last she yielded to the combined influence of
motives no one of which would have had power sufficient to move her, and
though with a secret consciousness it would be in vain, she consented to
do as her friends wished. And it was for Ellen's sake she did it after
all.
Nothing but necessity had given her the courage to open the matter to
her little daughter. She had foreseen and endeavoured to prepare herself
for Ellen's anguish; but nature was too strong for her, and they clasped
each other in a convulsive embrace while tears fell like rain.
It was some minutes before Mrs. Montgomery recollected herself, and then
though she struggled hard she could not immediately regain her
composure. But Ellen's deep sobs at length fairly alarmed her; she saw
the necessity, for both their sakes, of putting a stop to this state of
violent excitement; self-command was restored at once.
"Ellen! Ellen! listen to me," she said; "my child, this is not right.
Remember, my darling, who it is that brings this sorrow upon us--though
we _must_ sorrow, we must not rebel."
Ellen sobbed more gently; but that and the mute pressure of her arms was
her only answer.
"You will hurt both yourself and me, my daughter, if you cannot command
yourself. Remember, dear Ellen, God sends no trouble upon His children
but in love; and though we cannot see how, He will no doubt make all
this work for our good."
"I know it, dear mother," sobbed Ellen; "but it's just as hard!"
Mrs. Montgomery's own heart answered so readily to the truth of Ellen's
words that for the moment she could not speak.
"Try, my daughter," she said after a pause; "try to compose yourself. I
am afraid you will make me worse, Ellen, if you cannot--I am indeed."
Ellen had plenty of faults, but amidst them all love to her mother was
the strongest feeling her heart knew. It had power enough now to move
her as nothing else could have done; and exerting all her self-command,
of which she had sometimes a good deal, she _did_ calm herself, ceased
sobbing, wiped her eyes, arose from her crouching posture, and seating
herself on the sofa by her mother and laying her head on her bosom, she
listened quietly to all the soothing words and cheering considerations
with which Mrs. Montgomery endeavoured to lead her to take a more
hopeful view of the subject. All she could urge, however, had but very
partial success, though the conversation was prolonged far into the
evening. Ellen said little, and did not weep any more; but in secret her
heart refused consolation.
Long before this the servant had brought in the tea-things. Nobody
regarded it at the time, but the little kettle hissing away on the fire
now by chance attracted Ellen's attention, and she suddenly recollected
her mother had had no tea. To make her mother's tea was Ellen's regular
business. She treated it as a very grave affair, and loved it as one of
the pleasantest in the course of the day. She used in the first place to
make sure that the kettle had really boiled; then she carefully poured
some water into the teapot and rinsed it, both to make it clean and to
make it hot; then she knew exactly how much tea to put into the tiny
little teapot, which was just big enough to hold two cups of tea, and
having poured a very little boiling water to it, she used to set it by
the side of the fire while she made half a slice of toast. How careful
Ellen was about that toast! The bread must not be cut too thick nor too
thin; the fire must, if possible, burn clear and bright, and she herself
held the bread on a fork, just at the right distance from the coals to
get nicely browned without burning. When this was done to her
satisfaction (and if the first piece failed she would take another), she
filled up the little teapot from the boiling kettle, and proceeded to
make a cup of tea. She knew, and was very careful to put in, just the
quantity of milk and sugar that her mother liked; and then she used to
carry the tea and toast on a little tray to her mother's side, and very
often held it there for her while she ate. All this Ellen did with the
zeal that love gives, and though the same thing was to be gone over
every night of the year, she was never wearied. It was a real pleasure;
she had the greatest satisfaction in seeing that the little her mother
could eat was prepared for her in the nicest possible manner; she knew
her hands made it taste better; her mother often said so.
But this evening other thoughts had driven this important business quite
out of poor Ellen's mind. Now, however, when her eyes fell upon the
little kettle, she recollected her mother had not had her tea, and must
want it very much; and silently slipping off the sofa she set about
getting it as usual. There was no doubt this time whether the kettle
boiled or no; it had been hissing for an hour and more, calling as loud
as it could to somebody to come and make the tea. So Ellen made it, and
then began the toast. But she began to think too, as she watched it, how
few more times she would be able to do so--how soon her pleasant
tea-makings would be over--and the desolate feeling of separation began
to come upon her before the time. These thoughts were too much for poor
Ellen; the thick tears gathered so fast she could not see what she was
doing; and she had no more than just turned the slice of bread on the
fork when the sickness of heart quite overcame her; she could not go on.
Toast and fork and all dropped from her hand into the ashes; and rushing
to her mother's side, who was now lying down again, and throwing herself
upon her, she burst into another fit of sorrow; not so violent as the
former, but with a touch of hopelessness in it which went yet more to
her mother's heart. Passion in the first said, "I cannot;" despair now
seemed to say, "I must."
But Mrs. Montgomery was too exhausted to either share or soothe Ellen's
agitation. She lay in suffering silence; till after some time she said
faintly, "Ellen, my love, I cannot bear this much longer."
Ellen was immediately brought to herself by these words. She arose,
sorry and ashamed that she should have given occasion for them; and
tenderly kissing her mother, assured her most sincerely and resolutely
that she would not do so again. In a few minutes she was calm enough to
finish making the tea, and having toasted another piece of bread, she
brought it to her mother. Mrs. Montgomery swallowed a cup of tea, but no
toast could be eaten that night.
Both remained silent and quiet awhile after this, till the clock struck
ten. "You had better go to bed, my daughter," said Mrs. Montgomery.
"I will, mamma."
"Do you think you can read me a little before you go?"
"Yes, indeed, mamma;" and Ellen brought the book: "where shall I read?"
"The twenty-third psalm."
Ellen began it, and went through it steadily and slowly, though her
voice quavered a little.
"'The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
"'He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the
still waters.
"'He restoreth my soul; He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for
His name's sake.
"'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear
no evil; for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.
"'Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou
anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
"'Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and
I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.'"
Long before she had finished Ellen's eyes were full, and her heart too.
"If I only could feel these words as mamma does!" she said to herself.
She did not dare look up till the traces of tears had passed away; then
she saw that her mother was asleep. Those first sweet words had fallen
like balm upon the sore heart; and mind and body had instantly found
rest together.
Ellen breathed the lightest possible kiss upon her forehead, and stole
quietly out of the room to her own little bed.
CHAPTER II
Not all the whispers that the soft winds utter
Speak earthly things--
There mingleth there, sometimes, a gentle flutter
Of angels' wings.
--AMY LATHROP.
Sorrow and excitement made Ellen's eyelids heavy, and she slept late on
the following morning. The great dressing-bell waked her. She started up
with a confused notion that something was the matter; there was a weight
on her heart that was very strange to it. A moment was enough to bring
it all back; and she threw herself again on her pillow, yielding
helplessly to the grief she had twice been obliged to control the
evening before. Yet love was stronger than grief still, and she was
careful to allow no sound to escape her that could reach the ears of her
mother, who slept in the next room. Her resolve was firm to grieve her
no more with useless expressions of sorrow; to keep it to herself as
much as possible. But this very thought that she must keep it to herself
gave an edge to poor Ellen's grief, and the convulsive clasp of her
little arms round the pillow plainly showed that it needed none.
The breakfast-bell again startled her, and she remembered she must not
be too late downstairs, or her mother might inquire and find out the
reason. "I will _not_ trouble mother--I will not--I will not," she
resolved to herself as she got out of bed, though the tears fell faster
as she said so. Dressing was sad work to Ellen to-day; it went on very
heavily. Tears dropped into the water as she stooped her head to the
basin; and she hid her face in the towel to cry, instead of making the
ordinary use of it. But the usual duties were dragged through at last,
and she went to the window. "I'll not go down till papa is gone," she
thought; "he'll ask me what is the matter with my eyes."
Ellen opened the window. The rain was over; the lovely light of a fair
September morning was beautifying everything it shone upon. Ellen had
been accustomed to amuse herself a good deal at this window, though
nothing was to be seen from it but an ugly city prospect of back walls
of houses, with the yards belonging to them, and a bit of narrow street.
But she had watched the people that showed themselves at the windows,
and the children that played in the yards, and the women that went to
the pumps, till she had become pretty well acquainted with the
neighbourhood; and though they were for the most part dingy, dirty, and
disagreeable--women, children, houses, and all--she certainly had taken
a good deal of interest in their proceedings. It was all gone now. She
could not bear to look at them; she felt as if it made her sick; and
turning away her eyes she lifted them to the bright sky above her head,
and gazed into its clear depth of blue till she almost forgot that there
was such a thing as a city in the world. Little white clouds were
chasing across it, driven by the fresh wind that was blowing away
Ellen's hair from her face, and cooling her hot cheeks. That wind could
not have been long in coming from the place of woods and flowers, it was
so sweet still. Ellen looked till, she didn't know why, she felt calmed
and soothed,--as if somebody was saying to her softly, "Cheer up, my
child, cheer up;--things are not as bad as they might be:--things will
be better." Her attention was attracted at length by voices below; she
looked down, and saw there, in one of the yards, a poor deformed child,
whom she had often noticed before, and always with sorrowful interest.
Besides his bodily infirmity, he had a further claim on her sympathy, in
having lost his mother within a few months. Ellen's heart was easily
touched this morning; she felt for him very much. "Poor, poor little
fellow!" she thought; "he's a great deal worse off than I am. _His_
mother is dead; mine is only going away for a few months--not for
ever--oh, what a difference! and then the joy of coming back
again!"--poor Ellen was weeping already at the thought--"and I'll do,
oh, how much! while she is gone--I'll do more than she can possibly
expect from me--I'll astonish her--I'll delight her--I'll work harder
than ever I did in my life before; I'll mend all my faults, and give her
so much pleasure! But oh! if she only needn't go away! Oh, mamma!" Tears
of mingled sweet and bitter were poured out fast, but the bitter had the
largest share.
The breakfast-table was still standing, and her father gone, when Ellen
went downstairs. Mrs. Montgomery welcomed her with her usual quiet
smile, and held out her hand. Ellen tried to smile in answer, but she
was glad to hide her face in her mother's bosom; and the long close
embrace was too close and too long,--it told of sorrow as well as love;
and tears fell from the eyes of each that the other did not see.
"Need I go to school to-day, mamma?" whispered Ellen.
"No; I spoke to your father about that. You shall not go any more. We
will be together now while we can."
Ellen wanted to ask how long that would be, but could not make up her
mind to it.
"Sit down, daughter, and take some breakfast."
"Have you done, mamma?"
"No; I waited for you."
"Thank you, dear mamma," with another embrace; "how good you are! but I
don't think I want any."
They drew their chairs to the table, but it was plain neither had much
heart to eat; although Mrs. Montgomery with her own hand laid on Ellen's
plate half of the little bird that had been boiled for her own
breakfast. The half was too much for each of them.
"What made you so late this morning, daughter?"
"I got up late in the first place, mamma; and then I was a long time at
the window."
"At the window! Were you examining into your neighbours' affairs as
usual?" said Mrs. Montgomery, surprised that it should have been
so.--"Oh no, mamma, I didn't look at them at all--except poor little
Billy. I was looking at the sky."
"And what did you see there that pleased you so much?"
"I don't know, mamma; it looked so lovely and peaceful--that pure blue
spread over my head, and the little white clouds flying across it. I
loved to look at it; it seemed to do me good."
"Could you look at it, Ellen, without thinking of Him who made it?"
"No, mamma," said Ellen, ceasing her breakfast, and now speaking with
difficulty; "I did think of Him; perhaps that was the reason."
"And what did you think of Him, daughter?"
"I hoped, mamma--I felt--I thought--He would take care of me," said
Ellen, bursting into tears, and throwing her arms round her mother.
"He will, my dear daughter, He will, if you will only put your trust in
Him, Ellen."
Ellen struggled hard to get back her composure, and after a few minutes
succeeded.
"Mamma, will you tell me what you mean exactly by my 'putting my trust'
in Him?"
"Don't you trust me, Ellen?"
"Certainly, mamma."
"How do you trust me?--in what?"
"Why, mamma;--in the first place I trust every word you say--entirely--I
know nothing could be truer. If you were to tell me black is white,
mamma, I should think my eyes had been mistaken. Then everything you
tell or advise me to do, I know it is right, perfectly. And I always
feel safe when you are near me, because I know you'll take care of me.
And I am glad to think I belong to you, and you have the management of
me entirely, and I needn't manage myself, because I know I can't; and if
I could, I'd rather you would, mamma."
"My daughter, it is just so; it is _just_ so that I wish you to trust in
God. He is truer, wiser, stronger, kinder, by far than I am, even if I
could always be with you; and what will you do when I am away from
you?--and what would you do, my child, if I were to be parted from you
for ever?"
"Oh, mamma!" said Ellen, bursting into tears, and clasping her arms
round her mother again--"Oh, dear mamma, don't talk about it!"
Her mother fondly returned her caress, and one or two tears fell on
Ellen's head as she did so, but that was all, and she said no more.
Feeling severely the effects of the excitement and anxiety of the
preceding day and night, she now stretched herself on the sofa and lay
quite still. Ellen placed herself on a little bench at her side, with
her back to the head of the sofa, that her mother might not see her
face; and possessing herself of one of her hands, sat with her little
head resting upon her mother, as quiet as she. They remained thus for
two or three hours, without speaking; and Mrs. Montgomery was part of
the time slumbering; but now and then a tear ran down the side of the
sofa and dropped on the carpet where Ellen sat; and now and then her
lips were softly pressed to the hand she held, as if they would grow
there. The doctor's entrance at last disturbed them. Doctor Green found
his patient decidedly worse than he had reason to expect; and his
sagacious eye had not passed back and forth many times between the
mother and daughter before he saw how it was. He made no remark upon it,
however, but continued for some moments a pleasant chatty conversation
which he had begun with Mrs. Montgomery. He then called Ellen to him; he
had rather taken a fancy to her.
"Well, Miss Ellen," he said, rubbing one of her hands in his, "what do
you think of this fine scheme of mine?"
"What scheme, sir?"
"Why, this scheme of sending this sick lady over the water to get well.
What do you think of it, eh?"
"_Will_ it make her quite well, do you think, sir?" asked Ellen
earnestly.
"'Will it make her well?' To be sure it will; do you think I don't know
better than to send people all the way across the ocean for nothing? Who
do you think would want Dr. Green if he sent people on wildgoose chases
in that fashion?"
"Will she have to stay long there before she is cured, sir?" asked
Ellen.
"Oh, that I can't tell; that depends entirely on circumstances--perhaps
longer, perhaps shorter. But now, Miss Ellen, I've got a word of
business to say to you. You know you agreed to be my little nurse. Mrs.
Nurse, this lady whom I put under your care the other day, isn't quite
as well as she ought to be this morning; I am afraid you haven't taken
proper care of her; she looks to me as if she had been too much excited.
I've a notion she has been secretly taking half a bottle of wine, or
reading some furious kind of a novel, or something of that sort--you
understand? Now mind, Mrs. Nurse," said the doctor, changing his tone,
"she _must not_ be excited--you must take care that she is not--it isn't
good for her. You mustn't let her talk much, or laugh much, or cry at
all, on any account; she mustn't be worried in the least--will you
remember? Now you know what I shall expect of you; you must be very
careful--if that piece of toast of yours should chance to get burned,
one of these fine evenings, I won't answer for the consequences.
Good-bye," said he, shaking Ellen's hand, "you needn't look sober about
it; all you have to do is to let your mamma be as much like an oyster as
possible--you understand? Good-bye." And Dr. Green took his leave.
"Poor woman!" said the doctor to himself as he went down stairs (he was
a humane man). "I wonder if she'll live till she gets to the other side!
That's a nice little girl, too. Poor child! poor child!"
Both mother and daughter silently acknowledged the justice of the
doctor's advice, and determined to follow it. By common consent, as it
seemed, each for several days avoided bringing the subject of sorrow to
the other's mind, though no doubt it was constantly present to both. It
was not spoken of--indeed, little of any kind was spoken of, but that
never. Mrs. Montgomery was doubtless employed during this interval in
preparing for what she believed was before her; endeavouring to resign
herself and her child to Him in whose hands they were, and struggling to
withdraw her affections from a world which she had a secret misgiving
she was fast leaving. As for Ellen, the doctor's warning had served to
strengthen the resolve she had already made, that she would not distress
her mother with the sight of her sorrow; and she kept it, as far as she
could. She let her mother see but very few tears, and those were quiet
ones; though she drooped her head like a withered flower, and went about
the house with an air of submissive sadness that tried her mother
sorely. But when she was alone, and knew no one could see, sorrow had
its way; and then there were sometimes agonies of grief that would
almost have broken Mrs. Montgomery's resolution had she known them.
This, however, could not last. Ellen was a child, and of most buoyant
and elastic spirit naturally; it was not for one sorrow, however great,
to utterly crush her. It would have taken years to do that. Moreover,
she entertained not the slightest hope of being able by any means to
alter her father's will. She regarded the dreaded evil as an inevitable
thing. But though she was at first overwhelmed with sorrow, and for some
days evidently pined under it sadly, hope at length _would_ come back to
her little heart; and no sooner in again, hope began to smooth the
roughest, and soften the hardest, and touch the dark spots with light,
in Ellen's future. The thoughts which had passed through her head that
first morning as she had stood at her window, now came back again.
Thoughts of wonderful improvement to be made during her mother's
absence; of unheard-of efforts to learn and amend, which should all be
crowned with success; and, above all, thoughts of that "coming home,"
when all these attainments and accomplishments should be displayed to
the mother's delighted eyes, and her exertions receive their
long-desired reward; they made Ellen's heart beat, and her eyes swim,
and even brought a smile once more upon her lips. Mrs. Montgomery was
rejoiced to see the change; she felt that as much time had already been
given to sorrow as they could afford to lose, and she had not known
exactly how to proceed. Ellen's amended looks and spirits greatly
relieved her.
"What are you thinking about, Ellen?" said she one morning.
Ellen was sewing, and while busy at her work her mother had two or three
times observed a light smile pass over her face. Ellen looked up, still
smiling, and answered, "Oh, mamma, I was thinking of different
things--things that I mean to do while you are gone."
"And what are these things?" inquired her mother.
"Oh, mamma, it wouldn't do to tell you beforehand. I want to surprise
you with them when you come back."
A slight shudder passed over Mrs. Montgomery's frame, but Ellen did not
see it. Mrs. Montgomery was silent. Ellen presently introduced another
subject.
"Mamma, what kind of a person is my aunt?"
"I do not know. I have never seen her."
"How has that happened, mamma?"
"Your aunt has always lived in a remote country town, and I have been
very much confined to two or three cities, and your father's long and
repeated absences made travelling impossible to me."
Ellen thought, but she did not say it, that it was very odd her father
should not sometimes, when he _was_ in the country, have gone to see his
relations and taken her mother with him.
"What is my aunt's name, mamma?"
"I think you must have heard that already, Ellen--Fortune Emerson."
"Emerson! I thought she was papa's sister?"
"So she is."
"Then how comes her name not to be Montgomery?"
"She is only his half-sister--the daughter of his mother, not the
daughter of his father."
"I am very sorry for that," said Ellen gravely.
"Why, my daughter?"
"I am afraid she will not be so likely to love me."
"You mustn't think so, my child. Her loving or not loving you will
depend solely and entirely upon yourself, Ellen. Don't forget that. If
you are a good child, and make it your daily care to do your duty, she
cannot help liking you, be she what she may; and on the other hand, if
she have all the will in the world to love you, she cannot do it unless
you will let her. It all depends on your behaviour."
"Oh, mamma, I can't help wishing dear aunt Bessy was alive, and I was
going to her."
Many a time the same wish had passed through Mrs. Montgomery's mind. But
she kept down her rising heart, and went on calmly--
"You must not expect, my child, to find anybody as indulgent as I am, or
as ready to overlook and excuse your faults. It would be unreasonable to
look for it, and you must not think hardly of your aunt when you find
she is not your mother; but then it will be your own fault if she does
not love you, in time, truly and tenderly. See that you render her all
the respect and obedience you could render me. That is your bounden
duty. She will stand in my place while she has the care of you--remember
that, Ellen. And remember, too, that she will deserve more gratitude at
your hands for showing you kindness than I do, because she cannot have
the same feeling of love to make trouble easy."
"Oh no, mamma," said Ellen, "I don't think so. It's that very feeling of
love that I am grateful for. I don't care a fig for anything people do
for me without that."
"But you can make her love you, Ellen, if you try."
"Well, I'll try, mamma."
"And don't be discouraged. Perhaps you may be disappointed in first
appearances, but never mind that. Have patience, and let your motto
be--if there's any occasion--Overcome evil with good. Will you put that
among the things you mean to do while I am gone?" said Mrs. Montgomery
with a smile.
"I'll try, dear mamma."
"You will succeed if you try, dear, never fear, if you apply yourself in
your trying to the only unfailing source of wisdom and strength, to Him
without whom you can do nothing."
There was silence for a little.
"What sort of a place is it where my aunt lives?" asked Ellen.
"Your father says it is a very pleasant place. He says the country is
beautiful and very healthy, and full of charming walks and rides. You
have never lived in the country. I think you will enjoy it very much."
"Then it is not in a town?" said Ellen.
"No; it is not a great way from the town of Thirlwall, but your aunt
lives in the open country. Your father says she is a capital
housekeeper, and that you will learn more, and be in all respects a
great deal happier and better off than you would be in a boarding-school
here or anywhere."
Ellen's heart secretly questioned the truth of this last assertion very
much.
"Is there any school near?" she asked.
"Your father says there was an excellent one in Thirlwall when he was
there."
"Mamma," said Ellen, "I think the greatest pleasure I shall have while
you are gone will be writing to you. I have been thinking of it a good
deal. I mean to tell you everything--absolutely everything, mamma. You
know there will be nobody for me to talk to as I do to you" (Ellen's
words came out with difficulty), "and when I feel badly I shall just
shut myself up and write to you." She hid her face in her mother's lap.
"I count upon it, my dear daughter. It will make quite as much the
pleasure of my life, Ellen, as of yours."
"But then, mother," said Ellen, brushing away the tears from her eyes,
"it will be so long before my letters can get to you! The things I want
you to know right away, you won't know perhaps in a month."
"That's no matter, daughter; they will be just as good when they do get
to me. Never think of that; write every day, and all manner of things
that concern you,--just as particularly as if you were speaking to me."
"And you'll write to me, too, mamma?"
"Indeed I will--when I can. But Ellen, you say that when I am away and
cannot hear you, there will be nobody to supply my place. Perhaps it
will be so indeed; but then, my daughter, let it make you seek that
friend who is never far away, nor out of hearing. Draw nigh to God, and
He will draw nigh to you. You know He has said of His children: 'Before
they call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking, I will
hear.'"
"But, mamma," said Ellen, her eyes filling instantly, "you know He is
not my friend in the same way that He is yours." And hiding her face
again, she added, "Oh, I wish He was!"
"You know the way to make Him so, Ellen, _He_ is willing; it only rests
with you. Oh, my child, my child! if losing your mother might be the
means of finding you that Better Friend, I should be quite willing--and
glad to go--for ever."
There was silence, only broken by Ellen's sobs. Mrs. Montgomery's voice
had trembled, and her face was now covered with her hands; but she was
not weeping; she was seeking a better relief where it had long been her
habit to seek and find it. Both resumed their usual composure, and the
employments which had been broken off, but neither chose to renew the
conversation. Dinner, sleeping, and company prevented their having
another opportunity during the rest of the day.
But when evening came, they were again left to themselves. Captain
Montgomery was away, which indeed was the case most of the time;
friends had taken their departure; the curtains were down, the lamp lit,
the little room looked cosy and comfortable; the servant had brought the
tea-things, and withdrawn, and the mother and daughter were happily
alone. Mrs. Montgomery knew that such occasions were numbered, and fast
drawing to an end, and she felt each one to be very precious. She now
lay on her couch, with her face partially shaded, and her eyes fixed
upon her little daughter, who was now preparing the tea. She watched
her, with thoughts and feelings not to be spoken, as the little figure
went back and forward between the table and the fire, and the light
shining full upon her busy face, showed that Ellen's whole soul was in
her beloved duty. Tears would fall as she looked, and were not wiped
away; but when Ellen, having finished her work, brought with a satisfied
face the little tray of tea and toast to her mother, there was no longer
any sign of them left. Mrs. Montgomery arose with her usual kind smile,
to show her gratitude by honouring as far as possible what Ellen had
provided.
"You have more appetite to-night, mamma."
"I am very glad, daughter," replied her mother, "to see that you have
made up your mind to bear patiently this evil that has come upon us. I
am glad for your sake, and I am glad for mine; and I am glad too because
we have a great deal to do, and no time to lose in doing it."
"What have we so much to do, mamma?" said Ellen.
"Oh, many things," said her mother; "you will see. But now, Ellen, if
there is anything you wish to talk to me about, any question you want to
ask, anything you would like particularly to have, or to have done for
you, I want you to tell it me as soon as possible, now while we can
attend to it, for by-and-by perhaps we shall be hurried."
"Mamma," said Ellen with brightening eyes, "there is one thing I have
thought of that I should like to have; shall I tell it you now?"
"Yes."
"Mamma, you know I shall want to be writing a great deal; wouldn't it be
a good thing for me to have a little box with some pens in it, and an
inkstand, and some paper and wafers? Because, mamma, you know I shall be
among strangers at first, and I shan't feel like asking them for these
things as often as I shall want them, and maybe they wouldn't want to
let me have them if I did."
"I have thought of that already, daughter," said Mrs. Montgomery with a
smile and a sigh. "I will certainly take care that you are well provided
in that respect before you go."
"How am I to go, mamma?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, who will go with me? You know I can't go alone, mamma."
"No, my daughter, I'll not send you alone. But your father says it is
impossible for _him_ to take that journey at present, and it is yet more
impossible for me. There is no help for it, daughter, but we must
entrust you to the care of some friend going that way; but He that holds
the winds and waters in the hollow of His hand can take care of you
without any of our help, and it is to His keeping above all that I shall
commit you."
Ellen made no remark, and seemed much less surprised and troubled than
her mother had expected. In truth, the greater evil swallowed up the
less. Parting from her mother, and for so long a time, it seemed to her
comparatively a matter of little importance with whom she went, or how,
or where. Except for this, the taking a long journey under a stranger's
care would have been a dreadful thing to her.
"Do you know yet who it will be that I shall go with, mamma?"
"Not yet; but it will be necessary to take the first good opportunity,
for I cannot go till I have seen you off; and it is thought very
desirable that I should get to sea before the severe weather comes."
It was with a pang that these words were spoken and heard, but neither
showed it to the other.
"It has comforted me greatly, my dear child, that you have shown
yourself so submissive and patient under this affliction. I should
scarcely have been able to endure it if you had not exerted
self-control. You have behaved beautifully."
This was almost too much for poor Ellen. It required her utmost stretch
of self-control to keep within any bounds of composure; and for some
moments her flushed cheek, quivering lip, and heaving bosom told what a
tumult her mother's last words had raised. Mrs. Montgomery saw she had
gone too far, and willing to give both Ellen and herself time to
recover, she laid her head on the pillow again and closed her eyes. Many
thoughts coming thick upon one another presently filled her mind, and
half-an-hour had passed before she again recollected what she had meant
to say. She opened her eyes; Ellen was sitting at a little distance,
staring into the fire, evidently as deep in meditation as her mother had
been.
"Ellen," said Mrs. Montgomery, "did you ever fancy what kind of a Bible
you would like to have?"
"A Bible! mamma," said Ellen with sparkling eyes, "do you mean to give
me a Bible?"
Mrs. Montgomery smiled.
"But, mamma," said Ellen gently, "I thought you couldn't afford it?"
"I have said so, and truly," answered her mother; "and hitherto you have
been able to use mine, but I will not leave you now without one. I will
find ways and means," said Mrs. Montgomery, smiling again.
"Oh, mamma, thank you!" said Ellen, delighted; "how glad I shall be!"
And after a pause of consideration she added, "Mamma, I never thought
much about what sort of a one I should like; couldn't I tell better if I
were to see the different kinds in the store?"
"Perhaps so. Well, the first day that the weather is fine enough and I
am well enough, I will go out with you and we will see about it."
"I am afraid Dr. Green won't let you, mamma."
"I shall not ask him. I want to get you a Bible, and some other things
that I will not leave you without, and nobody can do it but myself. I
shall go, if I possibly can."
"What other things, mamma?" asked Ellen, very much interested in the
subject.
"I don't think it will do to tell you to-night," said Mrs. Montgomery,
smiling. "I foresee that you and I should be kept awake quite too late
if we were to enter upon it just now. We will leave it till to-morrow.
Now read to me, love, and then to bed."
Ellen obeyed; and went to sleep with brighter visions dancing before her
eyes than had been the case for some time.
CHAPTER III
Sweetheart, we shall be rich ere we depart,
If fairings come thus plentifully in.
--SHAKESPEARE.
Ellen had to wait some time for the desired fine day. The equinoctial
storms would have their way as usual, and Ellen thought they were longer
than ever this year. But after many stormy days had tried her patience,
there was at length a sudden change, both without and within doors. The
clouds had done their work for that time, and fled away before a strong
northerly wind, leaving the sky bright and fair. And Mrs. Montgomery's
deceitful disease took a turn, and for a little space raised the hopes
of her friends. All were rejoicing but two persons: Mrs. Montgomery was
not deceived, neither was the doctor. The shopping project was kept a
profound secret from him and from everybody except Ellen.
Ellen watched now for a favourable day. Every morning as soon as she
rose she went to the window to see what was the look of the weather; and
about a week after the change above noticed, she was greatly pleased one
morning, on opening her window as usual, to find the air and sky
promising all that could be desired. It was one of those beautiful days
in the end of September that sometimes herald October before it
arrives--cloudless, brilliant, and breathing balm. "This will do," said
Ellen to herself, in great satisfaction. "I think this will do; I hope
mamma will think so."
Hastily dressing herself, and a good deal excited already, she ran
downstairs; and after the morning salutations, examined her mother's
looks with as much anxiety as she had just done those of the weather.
All was satisfactory there also; and Ellen ate her breakfast with an
excellent appetite; but she said not a word of the intended expedition
till her father should be gone. She contented herself with strengthening
her hopes by making constant fresh inspections of the weather and her
mother's countenance alternately; and her eyes returning from the window
on one of these excursions and meeting her mother's face, saw a smile
there which said all she wanted. Breakfast went on more vigorously than
ever. But after breakfast it seemed to Ellen that her father never would
go away. He took the newspaper, an uncommon thing for him, and pored
over it most perseveringly, while Ellen was in a perfect fidget of
impatience. Her mother, seeing the state she was in, and taking pity on
her, sent her upstairs to do some little matters of business in her own
room. These Ellen despatched with all possible zeal and speed; and
coming down again found her father gone and her mother alone. She flew
to kiss her in the first place, and then made the inquiry, "Don't you
think to-day will do, mamma?"
"As fine as possible, daughter; we could not have a better. But I must
wait till the doctor has been here."
"Mamma," said Ellen after a pause, making a great effort of self-denial,
"I am afraid you oughtn't to go out to get these things for me. Pray
don't, mamma, if you think it will do you harm. I would rather go
without them; indeed I would."
"Never mind that, daughter," said Mrs. Montgomery, kissing her; "I am
bent upon it; it would be quite as much of a disappointment to me as to
you not to go. We have a lovely day for it, and we will take our time
and walk slowly, and we haven't far to go either. But I must let Dr.
Green make his visit first."
To fill up the time till he came Mrs. Montgomery employed Ellen in
reading to her as usual. And this morning's reading Ellen long after
remembered. Her mother directed her to several passages in different
parts of the Bible that speak of heaven and its enjoyments; and though,
when she began, her own little heart was full of excitement, in view of
the day's plans, and beating with hope and pleasure, the sublime beauty
of the words and thoughts, as she went on, awed her into quiet, and her
mother's manner at length turned her attention entirely from herself.
Mrs. Montgomery was lying on the sofa, and for the most part listened in
silence, with her eyes closed; but sometimes saying a word or two that
made Ellen feel how deep was the interest her mother had in the things
she read of, and how pure and strong the pleasure she was even now
taking in them; and sometimes there was a smile on her face that Ellen
scarce liked to see; it gave her an indistinct feeling that her mother
would not be long away from that heaven to which she seemed already to
belong. Ellen had a sad consciousness too that she had no part with her
mother in this matter. She could hardly go on. She came to that
beautiful passage in the seventh of Revelation--
"And one of the elders answered, saying unto me, What are these which
are arrayed in white robes? and whence came they? And I said unto him,
Sir, thou knowest. And he said unto me, These are they which came out of
great tribulation, and have washed their robes and made them white in
the blood of the Lamb. Therefore are they before the throne of God, and
serve Him day and night in His temple: and He that sitteth on the throne
shall dwell among them. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any
more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb
which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them
unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from
their eyes."
With difficulty and a husky voice Ellen got through it. Lifting then her
eyes to her mother's face, she saw again the same singularly sweet
smile. Ellen felt that she could not read another word; to her great
relief the door opened, and Dr. Green came in. His appearance changed
the whole course of her thoughts. All that was grave or painful fled
quickly away; Ellen's head was immediately full again of what had filled
it before she began to read.
As soon as the doctor had retired and was fairly out of hearing, "Now,
mamma, shall we go?" said Ellen. "You needn't stir, mamma; I'll bring
all your things to you, and put them on; may I, mamma? then you won't be
a bit tired before you set out."
Her mother assented; and with a great deal of tenderness and a great
deal of eagerness, Ellen put on her stockings and shoes, arranged her
hair, and did all that she could toward changing her dress, and putting
on her bonnet and shawl; and greatly delighted she was when the business
was accomplished.
"Now, mamma, you look like yourself; I haven't seen you look so well
this great while. I'm so glad you're going out again," said Ellen,
putting her arms round her; "I do believe it will do you good. Now,
mamma, I'll go and get ready; I'll be very quick about it; you shan't
have to wait long for me."
In a few minutes the two set forth from the house. The day was as fine
as could be; there was no wind, there was no dust; the sun was not
oppressive; and Mrs. Montgomery did feel refreshed and strengthened
during the few steps they had to take to their first stopping-place.
It was a jeweller's store. Ellen had never been in one before in her
life, and her first feeling on entering was of dazzled wonderment at the
glittering splendours around; this was presently forgotten in curiosity
to know what her mother could possibly want there. She soon discovered
that she had come to sell and not to buy. Mrs. Montgomery drew a ring
from her finger, and after a little chaffering parted with it to the
owner of the store for eighty dollars, being about three-quarters of its
real value. The money was counted out, and she left the store.
"Mamma," said Ellen in a low voice, "wasn't that grandmamma's ring,
which I thought you loved so much?"
"Yes, I did love it, Ellen, but I love you better."
"Oh, mamma, I am very sorry!" said Ellen.
"You need not be sorry, daughter. Jewels in themselves are the merest
nothings to me; and as for the rest, it doesn't matter; I can remember
my mother without any help from a trinket."
There were tears, however, in Mrs. Montgomery's eyes, that showed the
sacrifice had cost her something; and there were tears in Ellen's that
told it was not thrown away upon her.
"I am sorry you should know of this," continued Mrs. Montgomery; "you
should not if I could have helped it. But set your heart quite at rest,
Ellen; I assure you this use of my ring gives me more pleasure on the
whole than any other I could have made of it."
A grateful squeeze of her hand and glance into her face was Ellen's
answer.
Mrs. Montgomery had applied to her husband for the funds necessary to
fit Ellen comfortably for the time they should be absent; and in answer
he had given her a sum barely sufficient for her mere clothing. Mrs.
Montgomery knew him better than to ask for a further supply, but she
resolved to have recourse to other means to do what she had determined
upon. Now that she was about to leave her little daughter, and it might
be for ever, she had set her heart upon providing her with certain
things which she thought important to her comfort and improvement, and
which Ellen would go very long without if _she_ did not give them to
her, and _now_. Ellen had had very few presents in her life, and those
always of the simplest and cheapest kind; her mother resolved that in
the midst of the bitterness of this time she would give her one pleasure
if she could; it might be the last.
They stopped next at a book-store. "Oh, what a delicious smell of new
books!" said Ellen, as they entered. "Mamma, if it wasn't for one thing,
I should say I never was so happy in my life."
Children's books, lying in tempting confusion near the door, immediately
fastened Ellen's eyes and attention. She opened one, and was already
deep in the interest of it, when the word "_Bibles_" struck her ear.
Mrs. Montgomery was desiring the shopman to show her various kinds and
sizes that she might choose from among them. Down went Ellen's book, and
she flew to the place where a dozen different Bibles were presently
displayed. Ellen's wits were ready to forsake her. Such beautiful Bibles
she had never seen; she pored in ecstasy over their varieties of type
and binding, and was very evidently in love with them all.
"Now, Ellen," said Mrs. Montgomery, "look and choose; take your time,
and see which you like best."
It was not likely that "Ellen's time" would be a short one. Her mother
seeing this, took a chair at a little distance to await patiently her
decision; and while Ellen's eyes were riveted on the Bibles, her own
very naturally were fixed upon her. In the excitement and eagerness of
the moment, Ellen had thrown off her light bonnet, and with flushed
cheek and sparkling eye, and a brow grave with unusual care, as though a
nation's fate were deciding, she was weighing the comparative advantages
of large, small, and middle sized--black, blue, purple, and red--gilt
and not gilt--clasp and no clasp. Everything but the Bibles before her
Ellen had forgotten utterly; she was deep in what was to her the most
important of business. She did not see the bystanders smile; she did not
know there were any. To her mother's eye it was a most fair sight. Mrs.
Montgomery gazed with rising emotions of pleasure and pain that
struggled for the mastery, but pain at last got the better and rose very
high. "How can I give thee up!" was the one thought of her heart. Unable
to command herself, she rose and went to a distant part of the counter,
where she seemed to be examining books; but tears, some of the bitterest
she had ever shed, were falling thick upon the dusty floor, and she felt
her heart like to break. Her little daughter at one end of the counter
had forgotten there ever was such a thing as sorrow in the world; and
she at the other was bowed beneath a weight of it that was nigh to crush
her. But in her extremity she betook herself to that refuge she had
never known to fail: it did not fail her now. She remembered the words
Ellen had been reading to her that very morning, and they came like the
breath of heaven upon the fever of her soul. "Not my will, but Thine be
done." She strove and prayed to say it, and not in vain; and after a
little while she was able to return to her seat. She felt that she had
been shaken by a tempest, but she was calmer now than before.
Ellen was just as she had left her, and apparently just as far from
coming to any conclusion. Mrs. Montgomery was resolved to let her take
her way. Presently Ellen came over from the counter with a large royal
octavo Bible, heavy enough to be a good lift for her. "Mamma," said she,
laying it on her mother's lap and opening it, "what do you think of
that? isn't that splendid?"
"A most beautiful page indeed; is this your choice, Ellen?"
"Well, mamma, I don't know; what do you think?"
"I think it is rather inconveniently large and heavy for everyday use.
It is quite a weight upon my lap. I shouldn't like to carry it in my
hands long. You would want a little table on purpose to hold it."
"Well, that wouldn't do at all," said Ellen, laughing; "I believe you
are right, mamma; I wonder I didn't think of it. I might have known that
myself."
She took it back, and there followed another careful examination of the
whole stock; and then Ellen came to her mother with a beautiful
miniature edition in two volumes, gilt and clasped, and very perfect in
all respects, but of exceedingly small print.
"I think I'll have this, mamma," said she. "Isn't it a beauty? I could
put it in my pocket, you know, and carry it anywhere with the greatest
ease."
"It would have one great objection to me," said Mrs. Montgomery,
"inasmuch as I cannot possibly see to read it."
"Cannot you, mamma? But I can read it perfectly."
"Well, my dear, take it; that is, if you will make up your mind to put
on spectacles before your time."
"Spectacles, mamma! I hope I shall never have to wear spectacles."
"What do you propose to do when your sight fails, if you shall live so
long?"
"Well, mamma--if it comes to that--but you don't advise me then to take
this little beauty?"
"Judge for yourself; I think you are old enough."
"I know what you think though, mamma, and I dare say you are right too;
I won't take it, though it's a pity. Well, I must look again."
Mrs. Montgomery came to her help, for it was plain Ellen had lost the
power of judging amidst so many tempting objects. But she presently
simplified the matter by putting aside all that were decidedly too
large, or too small, or too fine print. There remained three, of
moderate size and sufficiently large type, but different binding.
"Either of these, I think, will answer your purpose nicely," said Mrs.
Montgomery.
"Then, mamma, if you please, I will have the red one. I like that best,
because it will put me in mind of yours."
Mrs. Montgomery could find no fault with this reason. She paid for the
red Bible, and directed it to be sent home. "Shan't I carry it, mamma?"
said Ellen.
"No, you would find it in the way; we have several things to do yet."
"Have we, mamma? I thought we only came to get a Bible."
"That is enough for one day, I confess. I am a little afraid your head
will be turned; but I must run the risk of it. I dare not lose the
opportunity of this fine weather; I may not have such another. I wish to
have the comfort of thinking when I am away, that I have left you with
everything necessary to the keeping up of good habits--everything that
will make them pleasant and easy. I wish you to be always neat, and
tidy, and industrious; depending upon others as little as possible; and
careful to improve yourself by every means, and especially by writing to
me. I will leave you no excuse, Ellen, for failing in any of these
duties. I trust you will not disappoint me in a single particular."
Ellen's heart was too full to speak; she again looked up tearfully and
pressed her mother's hand.
"I do not expect to be disappointed, love," returned Mrs. Montgomery.
They now entered a large fancy store. "What are we to get here, mamma?"
said Ellen.
"A box to put your pens and paper in," said her mother, smiling.
"Oh, to be sure," said Ellen; "I had almost forgotten that." She quite
forgot it a minute after. It was the first time she had ever seen the
inside of such a store; and the articles displayed on every side
completely bewitched her. From one thing to another she went, admiring
and wondering; in her wildest dreams she had never imagined such
beautiful things. The store was fairyland.
Mrs. Montgomery meanwhile attended to business. Having chosen a neat
little japanned dressing-box, perfectly plain, but well supplied with
everything a child could want in that line, she called Ellen from the
delightful journey of discovery she was making round the store, and
asked her what she thought of it.
"I think it's a little beauty," said Ellen; "but I never saw such a
place for beautiful things."
"You think it will do then?" said her mother.
"For me, mamma! You don't mean to give it to me? Oh, mother, how good
you are! But I know what is the best way to thank you, and I'll do it.
What a perfect little beauty! Mamma, I'm too happy."
"I hope not," said her mother, "for you know I haven't got you the box
for your pens and paper yet."
"Well, mamma, I'll try and bear it," said Ellen, laughing. "But do get
me the plainest little thing in the world, for you're giving me too
much."
Mrs. Montgomery asked to look at writing-desks, and was shown to another
part of the store for the purpose. "Mamma," said Ellen, in a low tone,
as they went, "you're not going to get me a writing-desk?"
"Why, that is the best kind of box for holding writing materials," said
her mother, smiling; "don't you think so?"
"I don't know what to say!" exclaimed Ellen. "I can't thank you,
mamma--I haven't any words to do it. I think I shall go crazy."
She was truly overcome with the weight of happiness. Words failed her,
and tears came instead.
From among a great many desks of all descriptions, Mrs. Montgomery with
some difficulty succeeded in choosing one to her mind. It was of
mahogany, not very large, but thoroughly well made and finished, and
very convenient and perfect in its internal arrangements. Ellen was
speechless; occasional looks at her mother, and deep sighs, were all she
had now to offer. The desk was quite empty. "Ellen," said her mother,
"do you remember the furniture of Miss Allen's desk that you were so
pleased with a while ago?"
"Perfectly, mamma; I know all that was in it."
"Well, then, you must prompt me if I forget anything. Your desk will be
furnished with everything really useful. Merely showy matters we can
dispense with. Now let us see. Here is a great empty place that I think
wants some paper to fill it. Show me some of different sizes, if you
please."
The shopman obeyed, and Mrs. Montgomery stocked the desk well with
letter paper, large and small. Ellen looked on in great satisfaction.
"That will do nicely," she said. "That large paper will be beautiful
whenever I am writing to you, mamma, you know, and the other will do for
other times, when I haven't so much to say; though I am sure I don't
know who there is in the world I should ever send letters to except
you."
"If there is nobody now, perhaps there will be at some future time,"
replied her mother. "I hope I shall not always be your only
correspondent. Now what next?"
"Envelopes, mamma."
"To be sure; I had forgotten them. Envelopes of both sizes to match."
"Because, mamma, you know I might, and I certainly shall, want to write
upon the fourth page of my letter, and I couldn't do it unless I had
envelopes." A sufficient stock of envelopes was laid in.
"Mamma," said Ellen, "what do you think of a little note-paper?"
"Who are the notes to be written to, Ellen?" said Mrs. Montgomery,
smiling.
"You needn't smile, mamma; you know, as you said, if I don't now know,
perhaps I shall by-and-by. Miss Allen's desk had note-paper; that made
me think of it."
"So shall yours, daughter; while we are about it we will do the thing
well. And your note-paper will keep quite safely in this nice little
place provided for it, even if you should not want to use a sheet of it
in half-a-dozen years."
"How nice that is!" said Ellen admiringly.
"I suppose the note-paper must have envelopes too?" said Mrs.
Montgomery.
"To be sure, mamma; I suppose so," said Ellen, smiling; "Miss Allen's
had."
"Well, now we have got all the paper we want, I think," said Mrs.
Montgomery; "the next thing is ink--or an inkstand, rather."
Different kinds were presented for her choice.
"Oh, mamma, that one won't do," said Ellen anxiously; "you know the desk
will be knocking about in a trunk, and the ink would run out and spoil
everything. It should be one of those that shut tight. I don't see the
right kind here." The shopman brought one.
"There, mamma, do you see?" said Ellen; "it shuts with a spring, and
nothing can possibly come out; do you see, mamma? You can turn it
topsy-turvy."
"I see you are quite right, daughter; it seems I should get on very ill
without you to advise me. Fill the inkstand, if you please."
"Mamma, what shall I do when my ink is gone? that inkstand will hold but
a little, you know."
"Your aunt will supply you, of course, my dear, when you are out."
"I'd rather take some of my own by half," said Ellen.
"You could not carry a bottle of ink in your desk without great danger
to everything else in it. It would not do to venture."
"We have excellent ink-powder," said the shopman, "in small packages,
which can be very conveniently carried about. You see, ma'am, there is a
compartment in the desk for such things; and the ink is very easily made
at any time."
"Oh, that will do nicely," said Ellen, "that is just the thing."
"Now what is to go in this other square place opposite the inkstand?"
said Mrs. Montgomery.
"That is the place for the box of lights, mamma."
"What sort of lights?"
"For sealing letters, mamma, you know. They are not like your wax taper
at all; they are little wax matches, that burn just long enough to seal
one or two letters; Miss Allen showed me how she used them. Hers were in
a nice little box just like the inkstand on the outside; and there was a
place to light the matches, and a place to set them in while they are
burning. There, mamma, that's it," said Ellen, as the shopman brought
forth the article which she was describing, "that's it exactly; and that
will just fit. Now, mamma, for the wax."
"You want to seal your letter before you have written it," said Mrs.
Montgomery; "we have not got the pens yet."
"That's true, mamma; let us have the pens. And some quills too, mamma?"
"Do you know how to make a pen, Ellen?"
"No, mamma, not yet; but I want to learn very much. Miss Pichegru says
that every lady ought to know how to make her own pens."
"Miss Pichegru is very right; but I think you are rather too young to
learn. However, we will try. Now here are steel points enough to last
you a great while, and as many quills as it is needful you should cut up
for one year at least; we haven't a pen handle yet."
"Here, mamma," said Ellen, holding out a plain ivory one, "don't you
like this? I think that it is prettier than these that are all cut and
fussed, or those other gay ones either."
"I think so too, Ellen; the plainer the prettier. Now what comes next?"
"The knife, mamma, to make the pens," said Ellen, smiling.
"True, the knife. Let us see some of your best pen-knives. Now, Ellen,
choose. That one won't do, my dear; it should have two blades--a large
as well as a small one. You know you want to mend a pencil sometimes."
"So I do, mamma, to be sure, you're very right; here's a nice one. Now,
mamma, the wax."
"There is a box full; choose your own colours." Seeing it was likely to
be a work of time, Mrs. Montgomery walked away to another part of the
store. When she returned Ellen had made up an assortment of the oddest
colours she could find.
"I won't have any red, mamma, it is so common," she said.
"I think it is the prettiest of all," said Mrs. Montgomery.
"Do you, mamma? then I will have a stick of red on purpose to seal to
you with."
"And who do you intend shall have the benefit of the other colours?"
inquired her mother.
"I declare, mamma," said Ellen, laughing, "I never thought of that; I am
afraid they will have to go to you. You must not mind, mamma, if you get
green and blue and yellow seals once in a while."
"I dare say I shall submit myself to it with a good grace," said Mrs.
Montgomery. "But come, my dear, have we got all we want? This desk has
been very long in furnishing."
"You haven't given me a seal yet, mamma."
"Seals! There are a variety before you; see if you can find one that you
like. By the way, you cannot seal a letter, can you?"
"Not yet, mamma," said Ellen, smiling again; "that is another of the
things I have got to learn."
"Then I think you had better have some wafers in the meantime."
While Ellen was picking out her seal, which took not a little time, Mrs.
Montgomery laid in a good supply of wafers of all sorts; and then went
on further to furnish the desk with an ivory leaf-cutter, a
paper-folder, a pounce-box, a ruler, and a neat little silver pencil;
also some drawing-pencils, indiarubber, and sheets of drawing paper. She
took a sad pleasure in adding everything she could think of that might
be for Ellen's future use or advantage; but as with her own hands she
placed in the desk one thing after another, the thought crossed her mind
how Ellen would make drawings with those very pencils, on those very
sheets of paper, which her eyes would never see! She turned away with a
sigh, and receiving Ellen's seal from her hand, put that also in its
place. Ellen had chosen one with her own name.
"Will you send these things _at once_?" said Mrs. Montgomery; "I
particularly wish to have them at home as early in the day as possible."
The man promised. Mrs. Montgomery paid the bill, and she and Ellen left
the store.
They walked a little way in silence.
"I cannot thank you, mamma," said Ellen.
"It is not necessary, my dear child," said Mrs. Montgomery, returning
the pressure of her hand; "I know all that you would say."
There was as much sorrow as joy at that moment in the heart of the joy
fullest of the two.
"Where are we going now, mamma?" said Ellen again, after a while.
"I wished and intended to have gone to St. Clair & Fleury's, to get you
some merino and other things; but we have been detained so long already
that I think I had better go home. I feel somewhat tired."
"I am very sorry, dear mamma," said Ellen; "I am afraid I kept you too
long about that desk."
"You did not keep me, daughter, any longer than I chose to be kept. But
I think I will go home now, and take the chance of another fine day for
the merino."
CHAPTER IV
How can I live without thee--how forego
Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined?
--MILTON.
When dinner was over and the table cleared away, the mother and daughter
were left, as they always loved to be, alone. It was late in the
afternoon and already somewhat dark, for clouds had gathered over the
beautiful sky of the morning, and the wind rising now and then made its
voice heard. Mrs. Montgomery was lying on the sofa: as usual, seemingly
at ease; and Ellen was sitting on a little bench before the fire, very
much at _her_ ease indeed, without any seeming about it. She smiled as
she met her mother's eyes.
"You have made me very happy to-day, mamma."
"I am glad of it, my dear child. I hoped I should. I believe the whole
affair has given me as much pleasure, Ellen, as it has you."
There was a pause.
"Mamma, I will take the greatest possible care of my new treasures."
"I know you will. If I had doubted it, Ellen, most assuredly I should
not have given them to you, sorry as I should have been to leave you
without them. So you see you have not established a character for
carefulness in vain."
"And, mamma, I hope you have not given them to me in vain either. I will
try to use them in the way that I know you wish me to; that will be the
best way I can thank you."
"Well, I have left you no excuse, Ellen. You know fully what I wish you
to do and to be; and when I am away I shall please myself with thinking
that my little daughter _is_ following her mother's wishes; I shall
believe so, Ellen. You will not let me be disappointed?"
"Oh no, mamma," said Ellen, who was now in her mother's arms.
"Well, my child," said Mrs. Montgomery in a lighter tone, "my gifts will
serve as reminders for you if you are ever tempted to forget my lessons.
If you fail to send me letters, or if those you send are not what they
ought to be, I think the desk will cry shame upon you. And if you ever
go an hour with a hole in your stocking, or a tear in your dress, or a
string off your petticoat, I hope the sight of your work-box will make
you blush."
"Work-box, mamma?"
"Yes. Oh, I forgot; you've not seen that."
"No, mamma; what do you mean?"
"Why, my dear, that was one of the things you most wanted, but I thought
it best not to overwhelm you quite this morning; so while you were on an
exploring expedition round the store I chose and furnished one for you."
"Oh, mamma, mamma!" said Ellen, getting up and clasping her hands; "what
shall I do? I don't know what to say; I can't say anything. Mamma, it's
too much."
So it seemed, for Ellen sat down and began to cry. Her mother silently
reached out a hand to her, which she squeezed and kissed with all the
energy of gratitude, love, and sorrow; till gently drawn by the same
hand she was placed again in her mother's arms and upon her bosom. And
in that tried resting-place she lay, calmed and quieted, till the shades
of afternoon deepened into evening, and evening into night, and the
light of the fire was all that was left to them.
Though not a word had been spoken for a long time, Ellen was not asleep;
her eyes were fixed on the red glow of the coals in the grate, and she
was busily thinking, but not of them. Many sober thoughts were passing
through her little head, and stirring her heart; a few were of her new
possessions and bright projects--more of her mother. She was thinking
how very, very precious was the heart she could feel beating where her
cheek lay; she thought it was greater happiness to lie there than
anything else in life could be; she thought she had rather even die so,
on her mother's breast, than live long without her in the world; she
felt that in earth or in heaven there was nothing so dear. Suddenly she
broke the silence.
"Mamma, what does that mean, 'He that loveth father or mother more than
Me, is not worthy of Me'?"
"It means just what it says. If you love anybody or anything better than
Jesus Christ, you cannot be one of His children."
"But then, mamma," said Ellen, raising her head, "how _can_ I be one of
His children? I do love you a great deal better; how can I help it,
mamma?"
"You cannot help it, I know, my dear," said Mrs. Montgomery with a sigh,
"except by His grace, who has promised to change the hearts of His
people--to take away the heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh."
"But is mine a heart of stone then, mamma, because I cannot help loving
you best?"
"Not to me, dear Ellen," replied Mrs. Montgomery, pressing closer the
little form that lay in her arms; "I have never found it so. But yet I
know that the Lord Jesus is far, far more worthy of your affection than
I am, and if your heart were not hardened by sin you would see Him so;
it is only because you do not know Him that you love me better. Pray,
pray, my dear child, that He would take away the power of sin, and show
you Himself; that is all that is wanting."
"I will, mamma," said Ellen tearfully. "Oh, mamma, what shall I do
without you?"
Alas, Mrs. Montgomery's heart echoed the question; she had no answer.
"Mamma," said Ellen after a few minutes, "can I have no true love to Him
at all unless I love Him _best_?"
"I dare not say that you can," answered her mother seriously.
"Mamma," said Ellen after a little, again raising her head and looking
her mother full in the face, as if willing to apply the severest test to
this hard doctrine, and speaking with an indescribable expression, "do
_you_ love Him _better than you do me_?"
She knew her mother loved the Saviour, but she thought it scarcely
possible that herself could have but the second place in her heart; she
ventured a bold question to prove whether her mother's practice would
not contradict her theory.
But Mrs. Montgomery answered steadily, "I do, my daughter;" and with a
gush of tears Ellen sunk her head again upon her bosom. She had no more
to say; her mouth was stopped for ever as to the _right_ of the matter,
though she still thought it an impossible duty in her own particular
case.
"I do indeed, my daughter," repeated Mrs. Montgomery; "that does not
make my love to you the less, but the more, Ellen."
"Oh, mamma, mamma," said Ellen, clinging to her, "I wish you would teach
me! I have only you, and I am going to lose you. What shall I do,
mamma?"
With a voice that strove to be calm Mrs. Montgomery answered, "'I love
them that love Me, and they that seek Me early shall find Me.'" And
after a minute or two she added, "He who says this has promised too that
He will 'gather the lambs with His arm, and carry them in His bosom.'"
The words fell soothingly on Ellen's ear, and the slight tremor in the
voice reminded her also that her mother must not be agitated. She
checked herself instantly, and soon lay as before, quiet and still on
her mother's bosom, with her eyes fixed on the fire; and Mrs. Montgomery
did not know that when she now and then pressed a kiss upon the forehead
that lay so near her lips, it every time brought the water to Ellen's
eyes and a throb to her heart. But after some half or three-quarters of
an hour had passed away, a sudden knock at the door found both mother
and daughter asleep; it had to be repeated once or twice before the
knocker could gain attention.
"What is that, mamma?" said Ellen, starting up.
"Somebody at the door. Open it quickly, love."
Ellen did so, and found a man standing there, with his arms rather full
of sundry packages.
"Oh, mamma, my things!" cried Ellen, clapping her hands; "here they
are!"
The man placed his burden on the table, and withdrew.
"Oh, mamma, I am so glad they are come! Now if I only had a light--this
is my desk, I know, for it's the largest; and I think this is my
dressing-box, as well as I can tell by feeling--yes, it is, here's the
handle on top; and this is my dear work-box--not so big as the desk, nor
so little as the dressing-box. Oh, mamma, mayn't I ring for a light?"
There was no need, for a servant just then entered, bringing the
wished-for candles, and the not-wished-for _tea_. Ellen was capering
about in the most fantastic style, but suddenly stopped short at sight
of the tea-things, and looked very grave. "Well, mamma, I'll tell you
what I'll do," she said, after a pause of consideration; "I'll make the
tea the first thing before I untie a single knot; won't that be best,
mamma? Because I know if I once begin to look, I shan't want to stop.
Don't you think that is wise, mamma?"
But alas! the fire had got very low; there was no making the tea
quickly; and the toast was a work of time. And when all was over at
length, it was then too late for Ellen to begin to undo packages. She
struggled with impatience a minute or two, and then gave up the point
very gracefully, and went to bed.
She had a fine opportunity the next day to make up for the evening's
disappointment. It was cloudy and stormy; going out was not to be
thought of, and it was very unlikely that anybody would come in. Ellen
joyfully allotted the whole morning to the examination and trial of her
new possessions; and as soon as breakfast was over and the room clear
she set about it. She first went through the desk and everything in it,
making a running commentary on the excellence, fitness, and beauty of
all it contained; then the dressing-box received a share, but a much
smaller share, of attention; and lastly, with fingers trembling with
eagerness she untied the packthread that was wound round the work-box,
and slowly took off cover after cover; she almost screamed when the last
was removed. The box was of satin-wood, beautifully finished, and lined
with crimson silk; and Mrs. Montgomery had taken good care it should
want nothing that Ellen might need to keep her clothes in perfect order.
"Oh, mamma, how beautiful! Oh, mamma, how good you are! Mamma, I promise
you I'll never be a slattern. Here is more cotton than I can use up in a
great while--every number, I do think; and needles, oh, the needles!
what a parcel of them! and, mamma! what a lovely scissors! Did you
choose it, mamma, or did it belong to the box?"
"I chose it."
"I might have guessed it, mamma, it's just like you. And here's a
thimble--fits me exactly; and an emery-bag! how pretty!--and a bodkin!
This is a great deal nicer than yours, mamma--yours is decidedly the
worse for wear;--and what's this?--oh, to make eyelet holes with, I
know. And oh, mamma, here is almost everything, I think--here are tapes,
and buttons, and hooks and eyes, and darning cotton, and silk-winders,
and pins, and all sorts of things. What's this for, mamma?"
"That's a scissors to cut button-holes with. Try it on that piece of
paper that lies by you, and you will see how it works."
"Oh, I see!" said Ellen, "how very nice that is. Well, I shall take
great pains now to make my button-holes very handsomely."
One survey of her riches could by no means satisfy Ellen. For some time
she pleased herself with going over and over the contents of the box,
finding each time something new to like. At length she closed it, and
keeping it still in her lap, sat awhile looking thoughtfully into the
fire; till turning towards her mother she met her gaze, fixed
mournfully, almost tearfully, on herself. The box was instantly shoved
aside, and getting up and bursting into tears, Ellen went to her. "Oh,
dear mother," she said, "I wish they were all back in the store, if I
could only keep you!"
Mrs. Montgomery answered only by folding her to her heart.
"Is there no help for it, mamma?"
"There is none. We know that all things shall work together for good to
them that love God."
"Then it will all be good for you, mamma, but what will it be for me?"
And Ellen sobbed bitterly.
"It will be all well, my precious child, I doubt not. I do not doubt it,
Ellen. Do _you_ not doubt it either, love; but from the hand that
wounds, seek the healing. He wounds that He _may_ heal. He does not
afflict willingly. Perhaps He sees, Ellen, that you never would seek Him
while you had me to cling to."
Ellen clung to her at that moment; yet not more than her mother clung to
her.
"How happy we were, mamma, only a year ago--even a month."
"We have no continuing city here," answered her mother with a sigh. "But
there is a home, Ellen, where changes do not come; and they that are
once gathered there are parted no more for ever; and all tears are wiped
from their eyes. I believe I am going fast to that home; and now my
greatest concern is that my little Ellen--my precious baby--may follow
me and come there too."
No more was said, nor could be said, till the sound of the doctor's
steps upon the stair obliged each of them to assume an appearance of
composure as speedily as possible. But they could not succeed perfectly
enough to blind him. He did not seem very well satisfied, and told Ellen
he believed he should have to get another nurse,--he was afraid she
didn't obey orders.
While the doctor was there Ellen's Bible was brought in; and no sooner
was he gone than it underwent as thorough an examination as the boxes
had received. Ellen went over every part of it with the same great care
and satisfaction; but mixed with a different feeling. The words that
caught her eye as she turned over the leaves seemed to echo what her
mother had been saying to her. It began to grow dear already. After a
little she rose and brought it to the sofa.
"Are you satisfied with it, Ellen?"
"Oh yes, mamma; it is perfectly beautiful, outside and inside. Now,
mamma, will you please to write my name in this precious book--my name,
and anything else you please, mother. I'll bring you my new pen to write
it with, and I've got ink here--shall I?"
She brought it; and Mrs. Montgomery wrote Ellen's name, and the date of
the gift. The pen played a moment in her fingers, and then she wrote
below the date--
"'I love them that love Me; and they that seek Me early shall find Me.'"
This was for Ellen; but the next words were not for her; what made her
write them?--
"'I will be a God to thee, and to thy seed after thee.'"
They were written almost unconsciously, and as if bowed by an unseen
force Mrs. Montgomery's head sank upon the open page, and her whole soul
went up with her petition--
"Let these words be my memorial, that I have trusted in Thee. And oh,
when these miserable lips are silent for ever, remember the word unto
Thy servant, upon which Thou hast caused me to hope; and be unto my
little one all Thou hast been to me. Unto Thee lift I up mine eyes, O
Thou? that dwellest in the heavens."
She raised her face from the book, closed it, and gave it silently to
Ellen. Ellen had noticed her action, but had no suspicion of the cause;
she supposed that one of her mother's frequent feelings of weakness or
sickness had made her lean her head upon the Bible, and she thought no
more about it. However, Ellen felt that she wanted no more of her boxes
that day. She took her old place by the side of her mother's sofa, with
her head upon her mother's hand, and an expression of quiet sorrow in
her face that it had not worn for several days.
CHAPTER V
My child is yet a stranger in the world.
She hath not seen the change of fourteen years.
--SHAKESPEARE.
The next day would not do for the intended shopping; nor the next. The
third day was fine, though cool and windy.
"Do you think you can venture out to-day, mamma?" said Ellen.
"I am afraid not. I do not feel quite equal to it; and the wind is a
great deal too high for me, besides."
"Well," said Ellen, in a tone of one who is making up her mind to
something, "we shall have a fine day by-and-by, I suppose, if we wait
long enough; we had to wait a great while for our first shopping day. I
wish such another would come round."
"But the misfortune is," said her mother, "that we cannot afford to
wait. November will soon be here, and your clothes may be suddenly
wanted before they are ready, if we do not bestir ourselves. And Miss
Rice is coming in a few days; I ought to have the merino ready for her."
"What will you do, mamma?"
"I do not know, indeed, Ellen; I am greatly at a loss."
"Couldn't papa get the stuffs for you, mamma?"
"No, he's too busy; and besides, he knows nothing at all about shopping
for me; he would be sure to bring me exactly what I do not want. I tried
that once."
"Well, what will you do, mamma? Is there nobody else you could ask to
get the things for you? Mrs. Foster would do it, mamma."
"I know she would, and I should ask her without any difficulty, but she
is confined to her room with a cold. I see nothing for it but to be
patient and let things take their course, though if a favourable
opportunity should offer you would have to go, clothes or no clothes; it
would not do to lose the chance of a good escort."
And Mrs. Montgomery's face showed that this possibility, of Ellen's
going unprovided, gave her some uneasiness. Ellen observed it.
"Never mind me, dearest mother; don't be in the least worried about my
clothes. You don't know how little I think of them or care for them.
It's no matter at all whether I have them or not."
Mrs. Montgomery smiled, and passed her hand fondly over her little
daughter's head, but presently resumed her anxious look out of the
window.
"Mamma!" exclaimed Ellen, suddenly starting up, "a bright thought has
just come into my head! _I'll_ do it for you, mamma!"
"Do what?"
"I'll get the merino and things for you, mamma. You needn't smile--I
will, indeed, if you will let me?"
"My dear Ellen," said her mother, "I don't doubt you would if goodwill
only were wanting; but a great deal of skill and experience is necessary
for a shopper, and what would you do without either?"
"But see, mamma," pursued Ellen eagerly, "I'll tell you how I'll manage,
and I know I can manage very well. You tell me exactly what coloured
merino you want, and give me a little piece to show me how fine it
should be, and tell me what price you wish to give, and then I'll go to
the store and ask them to show me different pieces, you know; and if I
see any I think you would like, I'll ask them to give me a little bit of
it to show you; and then I'll bring it home, and if you like it you can
give me the money, and tell me how many yards you want, and I can go
back to the store and get it. Why can't I, mamma?"
"Perhaps you could; but, my dear child, I am afraid you wouldn't like
the business."
"Yes, I should; indeed, mamma, I should like it dearly if I could help
you so. Will you let me try, mamma?"
"I don't like, my child, to venture you alone on such an errand, among
crowds of people; I should be uneasy about you."
"Dear mamma, what would the crowds of people do to me? I am not a bit
afraid. You know, mamma, I have often taken walks alone--that's nothing
new; and what harm should come to me while I am in the store! You
needn't be the least uneasy about me--may I go?"
Mrs. Montgomery smiled, but was silent.
"May I go, mamma?" repeated Ellen. "Let me go at least and try what I
can do. What do you say, mamma?"
"I don't know what to say, my daughter, but I am in difficulty on either
hand. I will let you go and see what you can do. It would be a great
relief to me to get this merino by any means."
"Then shall I go right away, mamma?"
"As well now as ever. _You_ are not afraid of the wind?"
"I should think not," said Ellen; and away she scampered upstairs to get
ready. With eager haste she dressed herself; then with great care and
particularity took her mother's instructions as to the article wanted;
and finally set out, sensible that a great trust was reposed in her, and
feeling busy and important accordingly. But at the very bottom of
Ellen's heart there was a little secret doubtfulness respecting her
undertaking. She hardly knew it was there, but then she couldn't tell
what it was that made her fingers so inclined to be tremulous while she
was dressing, and that made her heart beat quicker than it ought, or
than was pleasant, and one of her cheeks so much hotter than the other.
However, she set forth upon her errand with a very brisk step, which she
kept up till on turning a corner she came in sight of the place she was
going to. Without thinking much about it, Ellen had directed her steps
to St. Clair & Fleury's. It was one of the largest and best stores in
the city, and the one she knew where her mother generally made her
purchases; and it did not occur to her that it might not be the best for
her purpose on this occasion. But her steps slackened as soon as she
came in sight of it, and continued to slacken as she drew nearer, and
she went up the broad flight of marble steps in front of the store very
slowly indeed, though they were exceedingly low and easy. Pleasure was
not certainly the uppermost feeling in her mind now; yet she never
thought of turning back. She knew that if she could succeed in the
object of her mission her mother would be relieved from some anxiety;
that was enough; she was bent on accomplishing it.
Timidly she entered the large hall of the entrance. It was full of
people, and the buzz of business was heard on all sides. Ellen had for
some time past seldom gone a shopping with her mother, and had never
been in this store but once or twice before. She had not the remotest
idea where, or in what apartment of the building, the merino counter was
situated, and she could see no one to speak to. She stood irresolute in
the middle of the floor. Everybody seemed to be busily engaged with
somebody else; and whenever an opening on one side or another appeared
to promise her an opportunity, it was sure to be filled up before she
could reach it, and disappointed and abashed she would return to her old
station in the middle of the floor. Clerks frequently passed her,
crossing the store in all directions, but they were always bustling
along in a great hurry of business; they did not seem to notice her at
all, and were gone before poor Ellen could speak to them. She knew well
enough now, poor child, what it was that made her cheeks burn as they
did, and her heart beat as if it would burst its bounds. She felt
confused, and almost confounded, by the incessant hum of voices, and
moving crowd of strange people all around her, while her little figure
stood alone and unnoticed in the midst of them; and there seemed no
prospect that she would be able to gain the ear or the eye of a single
person. Once she determined to accost a man she saw advancing toward her
from a distance, and actually made up to him for the purpose, but with a
hurried bow, and "I beg your pardon, miss!" he brushed past. Ellen
almost burst into tears. She longed to turn and run out of the store,
but a faint hope remaining, and an unwillingness to give up her
undertaking, kept her fast. At length one of the clerks at the desk
observed her, and remarked to Mr. St. Clair who stood by, "There is a
little girl, sir, who seems to be looking for something, or waiting for
somebody; she has been standing there a good while." Mr. St. Clair upon
this advanced, to poor Ellen's relief.
"What do you wish, miss?" he said.
But Ellen had been so long preparing sentences, trying to utter them and
failing in the attempt, that now, when an opportunity to speak and be
heard was given her, the power of speech seemed to be gone.
"Do you wish anything, miss?" inquired Mr. St. Clair again.
"Mother sent me," stammered Ellen--"I wish, if you please, sir--mamma
wished me to look at merinoes, sir, if you please."
"Is your mamma in the store?"
"No, sir," said Ellen, "she is ill and cannot come out, and she sent me
to look at merinoes for her, if you please, sir."
"Here, Saunders," said Mr. St. Clair, "show this young lady the
merinoes."
Mr. Saunders made his appearance from among a little group of clerks
with whom he had been indulging in a few jokes by way of relief from the
tedium of business. "Come this way," he said to Ellen; and sauntering
before her, with a rather dissatisfied air, led the way out of the
entrance hall into another and much larger apartment. There were plenty
of people here too, and just as busy as those they had quitted. Mr.
Saunders having brought Ellen to the merino counter, placed himself
behind it; and leaning over it and fixing his eyes carelessly upon her,
asked what she wanted to look at. His tone and manner struck Ellen most
unpleasantly, and made her again wish herself out of the store. He was a
tall, lank young man, with a quantity of fair hair combed down on each
side of his face, a slovenly exterior, and the most disagreeable pair of
eyes, Ellen thought, she had ever beheld. She could not bear to meet
them, and cast down her own. Their look was bold, ill-bred, and
ill-humoured; and Ellen felt, though she couldn't have told why, that
she need not expect either kindness or politeness from him.
"What do you want to see, little one?" inquired this gentleman, as if he
had a business on hand he would like to be rid of. Ellen heartily wished
he was rid of it, and she too. "Merinoes, if you please," she answered,
without looking up.
"Well, what kind of merinoes? Here are all sorts and descriptions of
merinoes, and I can't pull them all down, you know, for you to look at.
What kind do you want?"
"I don't know without looking," said Ellen, "won't you please to show me
some?"
He tossed down several pieces upon the counter, and tumbled them about
before her.
"There," said he, "is that anything like what you want? There's a pink
one, and there's a blue one, and there's a green one. Is that the kind?"
"This is the kind," said Ellen; "but this isn't the colour I want."
"What colour do you want?"
"Something dark, if you please."
"Well, there, that green's dark; won't that do? See, that would make up
very pretty for you."
"No," said Ellen; "mamma don't like green."
"Why don't she come and choose her stuffs herself, then? What colour
_does_ she like?"
"Dark blue, or dark brown, or a nice grey would do," said Ellen, "if it
is fine enough."
"'Dark blue,' or 'dark brown,' or a 'nice grey,' eh! Well, she's pretty
easy to suit. A dark blue I've showed you already; what's the matter
with that?"
"It isn't dark enough," said Ellen.
"Well," said he discontentedly, pulling down another piece, "how'll that
do? That's dark enough."
It was a fine and beautiful piece, very different from those he had
showed her at first. Even Ellen could see that, and fumbling for her
little pattern of merino, she compared it with the piece. They agreed
perfectly as to fineness.
"What is the price of this?" she asked, with trembling hope that she was
going to be rewarded by success for all the trouble of her enterprise.
"Two dollars a yard."
Her hopes and countenance fell together. "That's too high," she said
with a sigh.
"Then take this other blue; come--it's a great deal prettier than that
dark one, and not so dear; and I know your mother will like it better."
Ellen's cheeks were tingling and her heart throbbing, but she couldn't
bear to give up.
"Would you be so good as to show me some grey?"
He slowly and ill-humouredly complied, and took down an excellent piece
of dark grey, which Ellen fell in love with at once; but she was again
disappointed; it was fourteen shillings.
"Well, if you won't take that, take something else," said the man; "you
can't have everything at once; if you will have cheap goods, of course
you can't have the same quality that you like; but now here's this other
blue, only twelve shillings, and I'll let you have it for ten if you'll
take it."
"No, it is too light and too coarse," said Ellen; "mamma wouldn't like
it."
"Let me see," said he, seizing her pattern and pretending to compare it;
"it's quite as fine as this, if that's all you want."
"Could you," said Ellen timidly, "give me a little bit of this grey to
show mamma?"
"Oh no!" said he impatiently, tossing over the cloths and throwing
Ellen's pattern on the floor, "we can't cut up our goods; if people
don't choose to buy of us they may go somewhere else, and if you cannot
decide upon anything I must go and attend to those that can. I can't
wait here all day."
"What's the matter, Saunders?" said one of his brother clerks passing
him.
"Why, I've been here this half-hour showing cloths to a child that
doesn't know merino from a sheep's back," said he, laughing. And some
other customers coming up at the moment, he was as good as his word, and
left Ellen, to attend to them.
Ellen stood a moment stock still, just where he had left her, struggling
with her feelings of mortification; she could not endure to let them be
seen. Her face was on fire; her head was dizzy. She could not stir at
first, and, in spite of her utmost efforts, she _could_ not command back
one or two rebel tears that forced their way; she lifted her hand to her
face to remove them as quickly as possible. "What is all this about, my
little girl?" said a strange voice at her side. Ellen started, and
turned her face, with the tears but half wiped away, toward the speaker.
It was an old gentleman, an odd old gentleman too, she thought; one she
certainly would have been rather shy of if she had seen him under other
circumstances. But though his face was odd, it looked kindly upon her,
and it was a kind tone of voice in which this question had been put; so
he seemed to her like a friend. "What is all this?" repeated the old
gentleman. Ellen began to tell what it was, but the pride which had
forbidden her to weep before strangers gave way at one touch of
sympathy, and she poured out tears much faster than words as she related
her story, so that it was some little time before the old gentleman
could get a clear notion of her case. He waited very patiently till she
had finished; but then he set himself in good earnest about righting the
wrong. "Hallo! you, sir!" he shouted, in a voice that made everybody
look round; "you merino man! come and show your goods: why aren't you at
your post, sir?"--as Mr. Saunders came up with an altered
countenance--"here's a young lady you've left standing unattended to I
don't know how long; are these your manners?"
"The young lady did not wish anything, I believe, sir," returned Mr.
Saunders softly.
"You know better, you scoundrel," retorted the old gentleman, who was in
a great passion; "I saw the whole matter with my own eyes. You are a
disgrace to the store, sir, and deserve to be sent out of it, which you
are like enough to be."
"I really thought, sir," said Mr. Saunders smoothly,--for he knew the
old gentleman, and knew very well he was a person that must not be
offended,--"I really thought--I was not aware, sir, that the young lady
had any occasion for my services."
"Well, show your wares, sir, and hold your tongue. Now, my dear, what
did you want?"
"I wanted a little bit of this grey merino, sir, to show to mamma. I
couldn't buy it, you know, sir, until I found out whether she would like
it."
"Cut a piece, sir, without any words," said the old gentleman. Mr.
Saunders obeyed.
"Did you like this best?" pursued the old gentleman.
"I like this dark blue very much, sir, and I thought mamma would; but
it's too high."
"How much is it?" inquired he.
"Fourteen shillings," replied Mr. Saunders.
"He said it was two dollars!" exclaimed Ellen.
"I beg pardon," said the crestfallen Mr. Saunders, "the young lady
mistook me; I was speaking of another piece when I said two dollars."
"He said this was two dollars and the grey fourteen shillings," said
Ellen.
"Is the grey fourteen shillings?" inquired the old gentleman.
"I think not, sir," answered Mr. Saunders; "I believe not, sir--I think
it's only twelve--I'll inquire, if you please, sir."
"No, no," said the old gentleman, "I know it was only twelve--I know
your tricks, sir. Cut a piece off the blue. Now, my dear, are there any
more pieces of which you would like to take patterns to show your
mother?"
"No, sir," said the overjoyed Ellen; "I am sure she will like one of
these."
"Now shall we go, then?"
"If you please, sir," said Ellen, "I should like to have my bit of
merino that I brought from home; mamma wanted me to bring it back
again."
"Where is it?"
"That gentleman threw it on the floor."
"Do you hear, sir?" said the old gentleman; "find it directly."
Mr. Saunders found and delivered it, after stooping in search of it till
he was very red in the face; and he was left, wishing heartily that he
had some safe means of revenge, and obliged to come to the conclusion
that none was within his reach, and that he must stomach his dignity in
the best manner he could. But Ellen and her protector went forth most
joyously together from the store.
"Do you live far from here?" asked the old gentleman.
"Oh no, sir," said Ellen, "not very; it's only at Green's Hotel in
Southing Street."
"I'll go with you," said he, "and when your mother has decided which
merino she will have, we'll come right back and get it. I do not want to
trust you again to the mercy of that saucy clerk."
"Oh, thank you, sir!" said Ellen, "that is just what I was afraid of.
But I shall be giving you a great deal of trouble, sir," she added in
another tone.
"No, you won't," said the old gentleman; "I can't be troubled, so you
needn't say anything about that."
They went gaily along--Ellen's heart about five times as light as the
one with which she had travelled that very road a little while before.
Her old friend was in a very cheerful mood too, for he assured Ellen,
laughingly, that it was of no manner of use for her to be in a hurry,
for he could not possibly set off and skip to Green's Hotel, as she
seemed inclined to do. They got there at last. Ellen showed the old
gentleman into the parlour, and ran upstairs in great haste to her
mother. But in a few minutes she came down again, with a very April
face, for smiles were playing in every feature, while the tears were yet
wet upon her cheeks.
"Mamma hopes you'll take the trouble, sir, to come upstairs," she said,
seizing his hand; "she wants to thank you yourself, sir."
"It is not necessary," said the old gentleman, "it is not necessary at
all;" but he followed his little conductor, nevertheless, to the door of
her mother's room, into which she ushered him with great satisfaction.
Mrs. Montgomery was looking very ill--he saw that at a glance. She rose
from her sofa, and extending her hand, thanked him with glistening eyes
for his kindness to her child.
"I don't deserve any thanks, ma'am," said the old gentleman; "I suppose
my little friend has told you what made us acquainted?"
"She gave me a very short account of it," said Mrs. Montgomery.
"She was very disagreeably tried," said the old gentleman. "I presume
you do not need to be told, ma'am, that her behaviour was such as would
have become any years. I assure you, ma'am, if I had no kindness in my
composition to feel for the _child_, my honour as a gentleman would have
made me interfere for the _lady_."
Mrs. Montgomery smiled, but looked through glistening eyes again on
Ellen. "I am _very_ glad to hear it," she replied. "I was very far from
thinking, when I permitted her to go on this errand, that I was exposing
her to anything more serious than the annoyance a timid child would
feel at having to transact business with strangers."
"I suppose not," said the old gentleman; "but it isn't a sort of thing
that should be often done. There are all sorts of people in this world,
and a little one alone in a crowd is in danger of being trampled upon."
Mrs. Montgomery's heart answered this with an involuntary pang. He saw
the shade that passed over her face as she said sadly--
"I know it, sir; and it was with strong unwillingness that I allowed
Ellen this morning to do as she had proposed; but in truth I was making
a choice between difficulties. I am very sorry I chose as I did. If you
are a father, sir, you know better than I can tell you how grateful I am
for your kind interference."
"Say nothing about that, ma'am; the less the better. I am an old man,
and not good for much now, except to please young people. I think myself
best off when I have the best chance to do that, so if you will be so
good as to choose that merino, and let Miss Ellen and me go and despatch
our business, you will be conferring and not receiving a favour. And any
other errand that you please to entrust her with I'll undertake to see
her safe through."
His look and manner obliged Mrs. Montgomery to take him at his word. A
very short examination of Ellen's patterns ended in favour of the grey
merino; and Ellen was commissioned not only to get and pay for this, but
also to choose a dark dress of the same stuff, and enough of a certain
article for a nankeen coat; Mrs. Montgomery truly opining that the old
gentleman's care would do more than see her scathless,--that it would
have some regard to the justness and prudence of her purchases.
In great glee Ellen set forth again with her new old friend. Her hand
was fast in his, and her tongue ran very freely, for her heart was
completely opened to him. He seemed as pleased to listen as she was to
talk; and by little and little Ellen told him all her history; the
troubles that had come upon her in consequence of her mother's illness,
and her intended journey and prospects.
That was a happy day to Ellen. They returned to St. Clair and Fleury's;
bought the grey merino, and the nankeen, and a dark brown merino for a
dress. "Do you want only one of these?" asked the old gentleman.
"Mamma said only one," said Ellen; "that will last me all the winter."
"Well," said he, "I think two will be better. Let us have another off
the same piece, Mr. Shopman."
"But I am afraid mamma won't like it, sir," said Ellen gently.
"Pho, pho," said he, "your mother has nothing to do with this; this is
my affair." He paid for it accordingly. "Now, Miss Ellen," said he, when
they left the store, "have you got anything in the shape of a good warm
winter bonnet? For it's as cold as the mischief up there in Thirlwall;
your pasteboard things won't do; if you don't take good care of your
ears you will lose them some fine frosty day. You must quilt and pad,
and all sorts of things, to keep alive and comfortable. So you haven't a
hood, eh? Do you think you and I could make out to choose one that your
mother would think wasn't quite a fright? Come this way, and let us see.
If she don't like it she can give it away, you know."
He led the delighted Ellen into a milliner's shop, and after turning
over a great many different articles, chose her a nice warm hood, or
quilted bonnet. It was of dark blue silk, well made and pretty. He saw
with great satisfaction that it fitted Ellen well, and would protect her
ears nicely; and having paid for it and ordered it home, he and Ellen
sallied forth into the street again. But he wouldn't let her thank him.
"It is just the very thing I wanted, sir," said Ellen; "mamma was
speaking about it the other day, and she did not see how I was ever to
get one, because she did not feel at all able to go out, and I could not
get one myself; I know she'll like it very much."
"Would you rather have something for yourself or your mother, Ellen, if
you could choose, and have but one?"
"Oh, for mamma, sir," said Ellen--"a great deal!"
"Come in here," said he; "let us see if we can find anything she would
like."
It was a grocery store. After looking about a little, the old gentleman
ordered sundry pounds of figs and white grapes to be packed up in
papers; and being now very near home he took one parcel and Ellen the
other till they came to the door of Green's Hotel, where he committed
both to her care.
"Won't you come in, sir?" said Ellen.
"No," said he, "I can't this time--I must go home to dinner."
"And shan't I see you any more, sir?" said Ellen, a shade coming over
her face, which a minute before had been quite joyous.
"Well, I don't know," said he kindly; "I hope you will. You shall hear
from me again, at any rate, I promise you. We've spent one pleasant
morning together, haven't we? Good-bye, good-bye."
Ellen's hands were full, but the old gentleman took them in both his,
packages and all, and shook them after a fashion, and again bidding her
good-bye, walked away down the street.
The next morning Ellen and her mother were sitting quietly together, and
Ellen had not finished her accustomed reading, when there came a knock
at the door. "My old gentleman?" cried Ellen, as she sprang to open it.
No--there was no old gentleman, but a black man with a brace of
beautiful woodcocks in his hand. He bowed very civilly, and said he had
been ordered to leave the birds with Miss Montgomery. Ellen, in
surprise, took them from him, and likewise a note which he delivered
into her hand. Ellen asked from whom the birds came, but with another
polite bow the man said the note would inform her, and went away. In
great curiosity she carried them and the note to her mother, to whom the
letter was directed. It read thus:--
"Will Mrs. Montgomery permit an old man to please himself in his own
way, by showing his regard for her little daughter, and not feel that he
is taking a liberty? The birds are _for Miss Ellen_."
"Oh, mamma!" exclaimed Ellen, jumping with delight, "did you ever see
such a dear old gentleman? Now I know what he meant yesterday, when he
asked me if I would rather have something for myself or for you. How
kind he is! to do just the very thing for me that he knows would give me
the most pleasure. Now, mamma, these birds are mine, you know, and I
give them to you. You must pay me a kiss for them, mamma; they are worth
that. Aren't they beauties?"
"They are very fine indeed," said Mrs. Montgomery; "this is just the
season for woodcock, and these are in beautiful condition."
"Do you like woodcocks, mamma?"
"Yes, very much."
"Oh, how glad I am!" said Ellen. "I'll ask Sam to have them done very
nicely for you, and then you will enjoy them so much."
The waiter was called, and instructed accordingly, and to him the birds
were committed, to be delivered to the care of the cook.
"Now, mamma," said Ellen, "I think these birds have made me happy for
all day."
"Then I hope, daughter, they will make you busy for all day. You have
ruffles to hem, and the skirts of your dresses to make, we need not wait
for Miss Rice to do that; and when she comes you will have to help her,
for I can do little. You can't be too industrious."
"Well, mamma, I am as willing as can be."
This was the beginning of a pleasant two weeks to Ellen; weeks to which
she often looked back afterwards, so quietly and swiftly the days fled
away in busy occupation and sweet intercourse with her mother. The
passions which were apt enough to rise in Ellen's mind upon occasion
were for the present kept effectually in check. She could not forget
that her days with her mother would very soon be at an end, for a long
time at least; and this consciousness, always present to her mind,
forbade even the wish to do anything that might grieve or disturb her.
Love and tenderness had absolute rule for the time, and even had power
to overcome the sorrowful thoughts that would often rise, so that in
spite of them peace reigned. And perhaps both mother and daughter
enjoyed this interval the more keenly because they knew that sorrow was
at hand.
All this while there was scarcely a day that the old gentleman's servant
did not knock at their door, bearing a present of game. The second time
he came with some fine larks; next was a superb grouse; then woodcock
again. Curiosity strove with astonishment and gratitude in Ellen's mind.
"Mamma," she said, after she had admired the grouse for five minutes, "I
cannot rest without finding out who this old gentleman is."
"I am sorry for that," replied Mrs. Montgomery gravely, "for I see no
possible way of your doing it."
"Why, mamma, couldn't I ask the man that brings the birds what his name
is? He must know it."
"Certainly not; it would be very dishonourable."
"Would it, mamma?--why?"
"This old gentleman has not chosen to tell you his name; he wrote his
note without signing it, and his man has obviously been instructed not
to disclose it; don't you remember, he did not tell it when you asked
him the first time he came. Now this shows that the old gentleman wishes
to keep it secret, and to try to find it out in any way would be a very
unworthy return for his kindness."
"Yes, it wouldn't be doing as I would be done by, to be sure; but would
it be _dishonourable_, mamma?"
"Very. It is very dishonourable to try to find out that about other
people which does not concern you, and which they wish to keep from you.
Remember that, my dear daughter."
"I will, mamma. I'll never do it, I promise you."
"Even in talking with people, if you discern in them any unwillingness
to speak upon a subject, avoid it immediately, provided, of course, that
some higher interest does not oblige you to go on. That is true
politeness, and true kindness, which are nearly the same; and _not_ to
do so, I assure you, Ellen, proves one wanting in true honour."
"Well, mamma, I don't care what his name is,--at least I won't try to
find out,--but it does worry me that I cannot thank him. I wish he knew
how much I feel obliged to him."
"Very well; write and tell him so."
"Mamma!" said Ellen, opening her eyes very wide, "can I--would you?"
"Certainly,--if you like. It would be very proper."
"Then I will! I declare that is a good notion. I'll do it the first
thing, and then I can give it to that man if he comes to-morrow, as I
suppose he will. Mamma," said she, on opening her desk, "how funny!
don't you remember you wondered who I was going to write notes to? here
is one now, mamma; it is very lucky I have got note-paper."
More than one sheet of it was ruined before Ellen had satisfied herself
with what she wrote. It was a full hour from the time she began when she
brought the following note for her mother's inspection:--
"Ellen Montgomery does not know how to thank the old gentleman who
is so kind to her. Mamma enjoys the birds very much, and I think I
do more; for I have the double pleasure of giving them to mamma, and
of eating them afterwards; but your kindness is the best of all. I
can't tell you how much I am obliged to you, sir, but I will always
love you for all you have done for me.
"ELLEN MONTGOMERY."
This note Mrs. Montgomery approved; and Ellen having with great care and
great satisfaction enclosed it in an envelope, succeeded in sealing it
according to rule, and very well. Mrs. Montgomery laughed when she saw
the direction, but let it go. Without consulting her, Ellen had written
on the outside, "To the old gentleman." She sent it the next morning by
the hands of the same servant, who this time was the bearer of a plump
partridge "To Miss Montgomery;" and her mind was a great deal easier on
this subject from that time.
CHAPTER VI
_Mac._ What is the night?
_Lady Mac._ Almost at odds with morning, which is which.
--MACBETH.
October was now far advanced. One evening, the evening of the last
Sunday in the month, Mrs. Montgomery was lying in the parlour alone.
Ellen had gone to bed some time before; and now in the stillness of the
Sabbath evening the ticking of the clock was almost the only sound to
be heard. The hands were rapidly approaching ten. Captain Montgomery was
abroad; and he had been so--according to custom--or in bed, the whole
day. The mother and daughter had had the Sabbath to themselves; and most
quietly and sweetly it had passed. They had read together, prayed
together, talked together a great deal, and the evening had been spent
in singing hymns; but Mrs. Montgomery's strength failed here, and Ellen
sang alone. _She_ was not soon weary. Hymn succeeded hymn with fresh and
varied pleasure, and her mother could not tire of listening. The sweet
words, and the sweet airs--which were all old friends, and brought of
themselves many a lesson of wisdom and consolation, by the mere force of
association--needed not the recommendation of the clear childish voice
in which they were sung, which was of all things the sweetest to Mrs.
Montgomery's ear. She listened, till she almost felt as if earth were
left behind, and she and her child already standing within the walls of
that city where sorrow and sighing shall be no more, and the tears shall
be wiped from all eyes for ever. Ellen's next hymn, however, brought her
back to earth again, but though her tears flowed freely while she heard
it, all her causes of sorrow could not render them bitter--
God in Israel sows the seeds
Of affliction, pain, and toil;
These spring up and choke the weeds
Which would else o'erspread the soil.
Trials make the promise sweet--
Trials give new life to prayer--
Trials bring me to His feet,
Lay me low, and keep me there.
"It is so indeed, dear Ellen," said Mrs. Montgomery, when she had
finished, and holding the little singer to her breast; "I have always
found it so. God is faithful. I have seen abundant cause to thank Him
for all the evils He has made me suffer heretofore, and I do not doubt
it will be the same with this last and worst one. Let us glorify Him in
the fires, my daughter; and if earthly joys be stripped from us, and if
we be torn from each other, let us cling the closer to Him--He can and
He will in that case make up to us more than all we have lost."
Ellen felt her utter inability to join in her mother's expressions of
confidence and hope; to her there was no brightness on the cloud that
hung over them--it was all dark. She could only press her lips in
tearful silence to the one and the other of her mother's cheeks
alternately. How sweet the sense of the coming parting made every such
embrace! This one, for particular reasons, was often and long
remembered. A few minutes they remained thus in each other's arms, cheek
pressed against cheek, without speaking; but then Mrs. Montgomery
remembered that Ellen's bedtime was already past, and dismissed her.
For a while after Mrs. Montgomery remained just where Ellen had left
her, her busy thoughts roaming over many things in the far past, and the
sad present, and the uncertain future. She was unconscious of the
passage of time, and did not notice how the silence deepened as the
night drew on, till scarce a footfall was heard in the street, and the
ticking of the clock sounded with that sad distinctness, which seems to
say, "Time is going on--time is going on--and you are going with it,--do
what you will you can't help that." It was just upon the stroke of ten,
and Mrs. Montgomery was still wrapped in her deep musings, when a sharp,
brisk footstep in the distance aroused her, rapidly approaching; and she
knew very well whose it was, and that it would pause at the door, before
she heard the quick run up the steps, succeeded by her husband's tread
upon the staircase. And yet she saw him open the door with a kind of
startled feeling, which his appearance now invariably caused her; the
thought always darted through her head, "perhaps he brings news of
Ellen's going." Something, it would have been impossible to say what, in
his appearance or manner, confirmed this fear on the present occasion.
Her heart felt sick, and she waited in silence to hear what he would
say. _He_ seemed very well pleased; sat down before the fire rubbing his
hands, partly with cold and partly with satisfaction; and his first
words were, "Well, we have got a fine opportunity for her at last."
How little he was capable of understanding the pang this announcement
gave his poor wife! But she only closed her eyes and kept perfectly
quiet, and he never suspected it.
He unbuttoned his coat, and taking the poker in his hand began to mend
the fire, talking the while.
"I am very glad of it, indeed," said he; "it's quite a load off my mind.
Now we'll be gone directly, and high time it is--I'll take passage in
the _England_ the first thing to-morrow. And this is the best possible
chance for Ellen--everything we could have desired. I began to feel very
uneasy about it, it was getting so late, but I am quite relieved now."
"Who is it?" said Mrs. Montgomery, forcing herself to speak.
"Why, it's Mrs. Dunscombe," said the captain, flourishing his poker by
way of illustration; "you know her, don't you? Captain Dunscombe's wife;
she going right through Thirlwall, and will take charge of Ellen as far
as that, and there my sister will meet her with a waggon and take her
straight home. Couldn't be anything better. I'll write to let Fortune
know when to expect her. Mrs. Dunscombe is a lady of the first family
and fashion--in the highest degree respectable; she is going on to Fort
Jameson, with her daughter and a servant, and her husband is to follow
her in a few days. I happened to hear of it to-day, and I immediately
seized the opportunity to ask if she would not take Ellen with her as
far as Thirlwall, and Dunscombe was only too glad to oblige me. I'm a
very good friend of his, and he knows it."
"How soon does she go?"
"Why, that's the only part of the business I am afraid you won't like,
but there is no help for it; and after all it is a great deal better so
than if you had time to wear yourselves out with mourning--better and
easier too in the end."
"How soon?" repeated Mrs. Montgomery, with an agonised accent.
"Why, I'm a little afraid of startling you--Dunscombe's wife must go, he
told me, to-morrow morning; and we arranged that she should call in the
carriage at six o'clock to take up Ellen."
Mrs. Montgomery put her hands to her face and sank back against the
sofa.
"I was afraid you would take it so," said her husband, "but I don't
think it is worth while. It is a great deal better as it is--a great
deal better than if she had a long warning. You would fairly wear
yourself out if you had time enough, and you haven't any strength to
spare."
It was some while before Mrs. Montgomery could recover composure and
firmness enough to go on with what she had to do, though, knowing the
necessity, she strove hard for it. For several minutes she remained
quite silent and quiet, endeavouring to collect her scattered forces;
then, sitting upright and drawing her shawl around her, she exclaimed,
"I must waken Ellen immediately!"
"Waken Ellen!" exclaimed her husband in his turn; "what on earth for?
That's the very last thing to be done."
"Why, you would not put off telling her until to-morrow morning?" said
Mrs. Montgomery.
"Certainly I would--that's the only proper way to do. Why in the world
should you wake her up, just to spend the whole night in useless
grieving?--unfitting her utterly for her journey, and doing yourself
more harm than you can undo in a week. No, no; just let her sleep
quietly, and you go to bed and do the same. Wake her up, indeed! I
thought you were wiser."
"But she will be so dreadfully shocked in the morning!"
"Not one bit more than she would be to-night, and she won't have so much
time to feel it. In the hurry and bustle of getting off she will not
have time to think about her feelings; and once on the way she will do
well enough,--children always do."
Mrs. Montgomery looked undecided and unsatisfied.
"I'll take the responsibility of this matter on myself; you must not
waken her, absolutely. It would not do at all," said the captain, poking
the fire very energetically; "it would not do at all,--I cannot allow
it."
Mrs. Montgomery silently rose and lit a lamp.
"You are not going into Ellen's room?" said the husband.
"I must--I must put her things together."
"But you'll not disturb Ellen?" said he, in a tone that required a
promise.
"Not if I can help it."
Twice Mrs. Montgomery stopped before she reached the door of Ellen's
room, for her heart failed her. But she _must_ go on, and the necessary
preparations for the morrow _must_ be made;--she knew it; and repeating
this to herself, she gently turned the handle of the door and pushed it
open, and guarding the light with her hand from Ellen's eyes, she set it
where it would not shine upon her. Having done this, she set herself,
without once glancing at her little daughter, to put all things in order
for her early departure on the following morning. But it was a bitter
piece of work for her. She first laid out all that Ellen would need to
wear, the dark merino, the new nankeen coat, the white bonnet, the clean
frill that her own hands had done up, the little gloves and shoes, and
all the etceteras, with the thoughtfulness and the carefulness of love;
but it went through and through her heart that it was the very last time
a mother's fingers would ever be busy in arranging or preparing Ellen's
attire; the very last time she would ever see or touch even the little
inanimate things that belonged to her; and painful as the task was, she
was loth to have it come to an end. It was with a kind of lingering
unwillingness to quit her hold of them that one thing after another was
stowed carefully and neatly away in the trunk. She felt it was love's
last act; words might indeed a few times yet come over the ocean on a
sheet of paper;--but sight, and hearing, and touch must all have done
henceforth for ever. Keenly as Mrs. Montgomery felt this, she went on
busily with her work all the while; and when the last thing was safely
packed, shut the trunk and locked it without allowing herself to stop
and think, and even drew the straps. And then, having finished all her
task, she went to the bedside; she had not looked that way before.
Ellen was lying in the deep sweet sleep of childhood; the easy
position, the gentle breathing, and the flush of health upon the cheek
showed that all causes of sorrow were for the present far removed. Yet
not so far either; for once when Mrs. Montgomery stooped to kiss her,
light as the touch of that kiss had been upon her lips, it seemed to
awaken a train of sorrowful recollections in the little sleeper's mind.
A shade passed over her face, and with gentle but sad accent the word
"Mamma!" burst from the parted lips. Only a moment,--and the shade
passed away, and the expression of peace settled again upon her brow;
but Mrs. Montgomery dared not try the experiment a second time. Long she
stood looking upon her, as if she knew she was looking her last; then
she knelt by the bedside and hid her face in the coverings,--but no
tears came; the struggle in her mind and her anxious fear for the
morning's trial made weeping impossible. Her husband at length came to
seek her, and it was well he did; she would have remained there on her
knees all night. He feared something of the kind, and came to prevent
it. Mrs. Montgomery suffered herself to be led away without making any
opposition, and went to bed as usual, but sleep was far from her. The
fear of Ellen's distress when she would be awakened and suddenly told
the truth kept her in an agony. In restless wakefulness she tossed and
turned uneasily upon her bed, watching for the dawn, and dreading
unspeakably to see it. The captain, in happy unconsciousness of his
wife's distress and utter inability to sympathise with it, was soon in a
sound sleep, and his heavy breathing was an aggravation of her trouble;
it kept repeating, what indeed she knew already, that the only one in
the world who ought to have shared and soothed her grief was not capable
of doing either. Wearied with watching and tossing to and fro, she at
length lost herself a moment in uneasy slumber, from which she suddenly
started in terror, and seizing her husband's arm to arouse him,
exclaimed, "It is time to wake Ellen!" but she had to repeat her efforts
two or three times before she succeeded in making herself heard.
"What is the matter?" said he heavily, and not over well pleased at the
interruption.
"It is time to wake Ellen."
"No, it isn't," said he, relapsing; "it isn't time yet this great
while."
"Oh, yes it is," said Mrs. Montgomery; "I am sure it is. I see the
beginning of dawn in the east."
"Nonsense; it's no such thing--it's the glimmer of the lamplight. What
is the use of your exciting yourself so for nothing; it won't be dawn
these two hours. Wait till I find my repeater, and I'll convince you."
He found and struck it. "There! I told you so--only one quarter after
four; it would be absurd to wake her yet. Do go to sleep and leave it to
me; I'll take care it is done in proper time."
Mrs. Montgomery sighed heavily, and again arranged herself to watch the
eastern horizon, or rather with her face in that direction, for she
could see nothing. But more quietly now she lay gazing into the darkness
which it was in vain to try to penetrate, and thoughts succeeding
thoughts in a more regular train, at last fairly cheated her into sleep,
much as she wished to keep it off. She slept soundly for nearly an hour,
and when she awoke the dawn had really begun to break in the eastern
sky. She again aroused Captain Montgomery, who this time allowed it
might be as well to get up; but it was with unutterable impatience that
she saw him lighting a lamp and moving about as leisurely as if he had
nothing more to do than to get ready for breakfast at eight o'clock.
"Oh, do speak to Ellen!" she said, unable to control herself. "Never
mind brushing your hair till afterwards. She will have no time for
anything. Oh, do not wait any longer! What are you thinking of?"
"What are _you_ thinking of?" said the captain; "there's plenty of time.
Do quiet yourself; you're getting as nervous as possible. I'm going
immediately."
Mrs. Montgomery fairly groaned with impatience and an agonising dread of
what was to follow the disclosure to Ellen; but her husband coolly went
on with his preparations, which indeed were not long in finishing, and
then taking the lamp, he at last went. He had in truth delayed on
purpose, wishing the final leave-taking to be as brief as possible, and
the grey streaks of light in the east were plainly showing themselves
when he opened the door of his little daughter's room. He found her
lying very much as her mother had left her--in the same quiet sleep and
with the same expression of calmness and peace spread over her whole
face and person. It touched even him, and he was not readily touched by
anything; it made him loth to say the word that would drive all that
sweet expression so quickly and completely away. It must be said,
however; the increasing light warned him he must not tarry, but it was
with a hesitating and almost faltering voice that he said "Ellen!"
She stirred in her sleep, and the shadow came over her face again.
"Ellen! Ellen!"
She started up, broad awake now, and both the shadow and the peaceful
expression were gone from her face. It was a look of blank astonishment
at first with which she regarded her father, but very soon indeed that
changed into one of blank despair. He saw that she understood perfectly
what he was there for, and that there was no need at all for him to
trouble himself with making painful explanations.
"Come, Ellen," he said; "that's a good child, make haste and dress.
There's no time to lose now, for the carriage will soon be at the door;
and your mother wants to see you, you know."
Ellen hastily obeyed him, and began to put on her stockings and shoes.
"That's right; now you'll be ready directly. You are going with Mrs.
Dunscombe; I have engaged her to take charge of you all the way quite to
Thirlwall. She's the wife of Captain Dunscombe, whom you saw here the
other day, you know; and her daughter is going with her, so you will
have charming company. I dare say you will enjoy the journey very much,
and your aunt will meet you at Thirlwall. Now, make haste; I expect the
carriage every minute. I meant to have called you before, but I
overslept myself. Don't be long."
And nodding encouragement, her father left her.
"How did she bear it?" asked Mrs. Montgomery when he returned.
"Like a little hero; she didn't say a word or shed a tear. I expected
nothing but that she would made a great fuss; but she has all the old
spirit that you need to have--and have yet, for anything I know. She
behaved admirably."
Mrs. Montgomery sighed deeply. She understood far better than her
husband what Ellen's feelings were, and could interpret much more truly
than he the signs of them; the conclusions she drew from Ellen's silent
and tearless reception of the news differed widely from his. She now
waited anxiously and almost fearfully for her appearance, which did not
come as soon as she expected it.
It was a great relief to Ellen when her father ended his talking and
left her to herself, for she felt she could not dress herself so quick
with him standing there and looking at her, and his desire that she
should be speedy in what she had to do could not be greater than her
own. Her fingers did their work as fast as they could, with every joint
trembling. But though a weight like a mountain was upon the poor child's
heart, she could not cry and she could not pray, though true to her
constant habit she fell on her knees by her bedside as she always did.
It was in vain; all was in a whirl in her heart and head, and after a
minute she rose again, clasping her little hands together with an
expression of sorrow that it was well her mother could not see. She was
dressed very soon, but she shrank from going to her mother's room while
her father was there. To save time she put on her coat, and everything
but her bonnet and gloves, and then stood leaning against the bed-post,
for she could not sit down, watching with most intense anxiety to hear
her father's step come out of the room and go downstairs. Every minute
seemed too long to be borne; poor Ellen began to feel as if she could
not contain herself. Yet five had not passed away when she heard the
roll of carriage-wheels which came to the door and then stopped, and
immediately her father opening the door to come out. Without waiting any
longer Ellen opened her own, and brushed past him into the room he had
quitted. Mrs. Montgomery was still lying on the bed, for her husband had
insisted on her not rising. She said not a word, but opened her arms to
receive her little daughter; and with a cry of indescribable expression
Ellen sprang upon the bed, and was folded in them. But then neither of
them spoke or wept. What could words say? Heart met heart in that agony,
for each knew all that was in the other. No,--not quite all. Ellen did
not know that the whole of bitterness death had for her mother she was
tasting then. But it was true. Death had no more power to give her pain
after this parting should be over. His afterwork--the parting between
soul and body--would be welcome rather; yes, very welcome. Mrs.
Montgomery knew it all well. She knew this was the last embrace between
them. She knew it was the very last time that dear little form would
ever lie on her bosom, or be pressed in her arms; and it almost seemed
to her that soul and body must part company too when they should be rent
asunder. Ellen's grief was not like this;--_she_ did not think it was
the last time;--but she was a child of very high spirit and violent
passions, untamed at all by sorrow's discipline; and in proportion
violent was the tempest excited by this first real trial. Perhaps, too,
her sorrow was sharpened by a sense of wrong and a feeling of
indignation at her father's cruelty in not waking her earlier.
Not many minutes had passed in this sad embrace, and no word had yet
been spoken, no sound uttered, except Ellen's first inarticulate cry of
mixed affection and despair, when Captain Montgomery's step was again
heard slowly ascending the stairs. "He is coming to take me away!"
thought Ellen; and in terror lest she should go without a word from her
mother she burst forth with "Mamma! speak!"
A moment before, and Mrs. Montgomery could not have spoken. But she
could now; and as clearly and calmly the words were uttered as if
nothing had been the matter, only her voice fell a little towards the
last--"God bless my darling child; and make her His own,--and bring her
to that home where parting cannot be."
Ellen's eyes had been dry until now; but when she heard the sweet sound
of her mother's voice, it opened all the fountains of tenderness within
her. She burst into uncontrollable weeping; it seemed as if she would
pour out her very heart in tears; and she clung to her mother with a
force that made it a difficult task for her father to remove her. He
could not do it at first; and Ellen seemed not to hear anything that was
said to her. He was very unwilling to use harshness; and after a little,
though she had paid no attention to his entreaties or commands, yet
sensible of the necessity of the case, she gradually relaxed her hold
and suffered him to draw her away from her mother's arms. He carried her
downstairs, and put her on the front seat of the carriage, beside Mrs.
Dunscombe's maid,--but Ellen could never recollect how she got there,
and she did not feel the touch of her father's hand, nor hear him when
he bid her good-bye; and she did not know that he put a large paper of
candies and sugar-plums in her lap. She knew nothing but that she had
lost her mother.
"It will not be so long," said the captain, in a kind of apologising
way; "she will soon get over it, and you will not have any trouble with
her."
"I hope so," returned the lady, rather shortly; and then, as the captain
was making his parting bow, she added, in no very pleased tone of voice,
"Pray, Captain Montgomery, is this young lady to travel without a
bonnet?"
"Bless me! no," said the captain. "How is this? Hasn't she a bonnet? I
beg a thousand pardons, ma'am,--I'll bring it on the instant."
After a little delay the bonnet was found, but the captain overlooked
the gloves in his hurry.
"I am very sorry you have been delayed, ma'am," said he.
"I hope we may be able to reach the boat yet," replied the lady; "drive
on as fast as you can."
A very polite bow from Captain Montgomery--a very slight one from the
lady--and off they drove.
"Proud enough," thought the captain, as he went upstairs again. "I
reckon she don't thank me for her travelling companion. But Ellen's
off--that's one good thing; and now I'll go and engage berths in the
_England_."
CHAPTER VII
So fair and foul a day I have not seen.
--MACBETH.
The long drive to the boat was only a sorrowful blank to Ellen's
recollection. She did not see the frowns that passed between her
companions on her account. She did not know that her white bonnet was
such a matter of merriment to Margaret Dunscombe and the maid, that they
could hardly contain themselves. She did not find out that Miss
Margaret's fingers were busy with her paper of sweets, which only a good
string and a sound knot kept her from rifling. Yet she felt very well
that nobody there cared in the least for her sorrow. It mattered
nothing; she wept on in her loneliness, and knew nothing that happened,
till the carriage stopped on the wharf; even then she did not raise her
head. Mrs. Dunscombe got out, and saw her daughter and servant do the
same; then, after giving some orders about the baggage, she returned to
Ellen.
"Will you get out, Miss Montgomery? or would you prefer to remain in the
carriage? We must go on board directly."
There was something, not in the words, but in the tone, that struck
Ellen's heart with an entirely new feeling. Her tears stopped instantly,
and wiping away quick the traces of them as well as she could, she got
out of the carriage without a word, aided by Mrs. Dunscombe's hand. The
party was presently joined by a fine-looking man, whom Ellen recognised
as Captain Dunscombe.
"Dunscombe, do put these girls on board, will you, and then come back to
me; I want to speak to you. Timmins, you may go along and look after
them."
Captain Dunscombe obeyed. When they reached the deck, Margaret Dunscombe
and the maid Timmins went straight to the cabin. Not feeling at all
drawn towards their company, as indeed they had given her no reason,
Ellen planted herself by the guards of the boat, not far from the
gangway, to watch the busy scene that at another time would have had a
great deal of interest and amusement for her. And interest it had now;
but it was with a very, very grave little face that she looked on the
bustling crowd. The weight on her heart was just as great as ever, but
she felt this was not the time or the place to let it be seen; so for
the present she occupied herself with what was passing before her,
though it did not for one moment make her forget her sorrow.
At last the boat rang her last bell. Captain Dunscombe put his wife on
board, and had barely time to jump off the boat again when the plank was
withdrawn. The men on shore cast off the great loops of ropes that held
the boat to enormous wooden posts on the wharf, and they were off!
At first it seemed to Ellen as if the wharf and the people upon it were
sailing away from them backwards; but she presently forgot to think of
them at all. She was gone!--she felt the bitterness of the whole truth;
the blue water already lay between her and the shore, where she so much
longed to be. In that confused mass of buildings at which she was
gazing, but which would be so soon beyond even gazing distance, was the
only spot she cared for in the world; her heart was there. She could not
see the place, to be sure, nor tell exactly whereabouts it lay in all
that wide-spread city; but it was there somewhere, and every minute was
making it farther and farther off. It's a bitter thing that sailing away
from all one loves; and poor Ellen felt it so. She stood leaning both
her arms upon the rail, the tears running down her cheeks, and blinding
her so that she could not see the place toward which her straining eyes
were bent. Somebody touched her sleeve,--it was Timmins.
"Mrs. Dunscombe sent me to tell you she wants you to come into the
cabin, miss."
Hastily wiping her eyes, Ellen obeyed the summons, and followed Timmins
into the cabin. It was full of groups of ladies, children, and
nurses,--bustling and noisy enough. Ellen wished she might have stayed
outside; she wanted to be by herself; but as the next best thing, she
mounted upon the bench which ran all round the saloon, and kneeling on
the cushion by one of the windows, placed herself with the edge of her
bonnet just touching the glass, so that nobody could see a bit of her
face, while she could look out near by as well as from the deck.
Presently her ear caught, as she thought, the voice of Mrs. Dunscombe,
saying in rather an undertone, but laughing too, "What a figure she does
cut in that outlandish bonnet!"
Ellen had no particular reason to think _she_ was meant, and yet she did
think so. She remained quite still, but with raised colour and quickened
breathing waited to hear what would come next. Nothing came at first,
and she was beginning to think she had perhaps been mistaken, when she
plainly heard Margaret Dunscombe say, in a loud whisper, "Mamma, I wish
you could contrive some way to keep her in the cabin--can't you? she
looks so odd in that queer sun-bonnet kind of a thing, that anybody
would think she had come out of the woods, and no gloves too; I
shouldn't like to have the Miss M'Arthurs think she belonged to
us;--can't you, mamma?"
If a thunderbolt had fallen at Ellen's feet, the shock would hardly have
been greater. The lightning of passion shot through every vein. And it
was not passion only; there was hurt feeling and wounded pride, and the
sorrow of which her heart was full enough before, now wakened afresh.
The child was beside herself. One wild wish for a hiding-place was the
most pressing thought,--to be where tears could burst and her heart
could break unseen. She slid off her bench and rushed through the crowd
to the red curtain that cut off the far end of the saloon; and from
there down to the cabin below,--people were everywhere. At last she
spied a nook where she could be completely hidden. It was in the
far-back end of the boat, just under the stairs by which she had come
down. Nobody was sitting on the three or four large mahogany steps that
ran round that end of the cabin and sloped up to the little cabin
window; and creeping beneath the stairs, and seating herself on the
lowest of these steps, the poor child found that she was quite screened
and out of sight of every human creature. It was time indeed; her heart
had been almost bursting with passion and pain, and now the pent-up
tempest broke forth with a fury that racked her little frame from head
to foot; and the more because she strove to stifle every sound of it as
much as possible. It was the very bitterness of sorrow, without any
softening thought to allay it, and sharpened and made more bitter by
mortification and a passionate sense of unkindness and wrong. And
through it all, how constantly in her heart the poor child was reaching
forth longing arms towards her far-off mother, and calling in secret on
her beloved name. "Oh, mamma! mamma!" was repeated numberless times,
with the unspeakable bitterness of knowing that she would have been a
sure refuge and protection from all this trouble, but was now where she
could neither reach nor hear her. Alas! how soon and how sadly missed.
Ellen's distress was not soon quieted, or, if quieted for a moment, it
was only to break out afresh. And then she was glad to sit still and
rest herself.
Presently she heard the voice of the chambermaid upstairs, at a distance
at first, and coming nearer and nearer. "Breakfast ready,
ladies--Ladies, breakfast ready!" and then came all the people in a
rush, pouring down the stairs over Ellen's head. She kept quite still
and close, for she did not want to see anybody, and could not bear that
anybody should see her. Nobody did see her; they all went off into the
next cabin, where breakfast was set. Ellen began to grow tired of her
hiding-place, and to feel restless in her confinement; she thought this
would be a good time to get away; so she crept from her station under
the stairs, and mounted them as quickly and as quietly as she could.
She found almost nobody left in the saloon, and, breathing more freely,
she possessed herself of her despised bonnet, which she had torn off her
head in the first burst of her indignation, and passing gently out at
the door, went up the stairs which led to the promenade deck; she felt
as if she could not get far enough from Mrs. Dunscombe.
The promenade deck was very pleasant in the bright morning sun; and
nobody was there except a few gentlemen. Ellen sat down on one of the
settees that were ranged along the middle of it, and much pleased at
having found herself such a nice place of retreat, she once more took up
her interrupted amusement of watching the banks of the river.
It was a fair, mild day, near the end of October, and one of the
loveliest of that lovely month. Poor Ellen, however, could not fairly
enjoy it just now. There was enough darkness in her heart to put a veil
over all nature's brightness. The thought did pass through her mind when
she first went up, how very fair everything was;--but she soon forgot to
think about it all. They were now in a wide part of the river; and the
shore towards which she was looking was low and distant, and offered
nothing to interest her. She ceased to look at it, and presently lost
all sense of everything around and before her, for her thoughts went
home. She remembered that sweet moment last night when she lay in her
mother's arms, after she had stopped singing: could it be only last
night? it seemed a long, long time ago. She went over again in
imagination her shocked waking up that very morning,--how cruel that
was!--her hurried dressing,--the miserable parting,--and those last
words of her mother, that seemed to ring in her ears yet. "That home
where parting cannot be." "Oh," thought Ellen, "how shall I ever get
there? who is there to teach me now? Oh, what shall I do without you?
Oh, mamma! how much I want you already!"
While poor Ellen was thinking these things over and over, her little
face had a deep sadness of expression it was sorrowful to see. She was
perfectly calm; her violent excitement had all left her; her lip
quivered a very little sometimes, but that was all; and one or two tears
rolled slowly down the side of her face. Her eyes were fixed upon the
dancing water, but it was very plain her thoughts were not, nor on
anything else before her; and there was a forlorn look of hopeless
sorrow on her lip and cheek and brow, enough to move anybody whose heart
was not very hard. She was noticed, and with a feeling of compassion, by
several people; but they all thought it was none of their business to
speak to her, or they didn't know how. At length a gentleman who had
been for some time walking up and down the deck, happened to look, as he
passed, at her little pale face. He went to the end of his walk that
time, but in coming back he stopped just in front of her, and bending
down his face towards hers, said, "What is the matter with you, my
little friend?"
Though his figure had passed before her a great many times Ellen had not
seen him at all; for "her eyes were with her heart, and that was far
away." Her cheek flushed with surprise as she looked up. But there was
no mistaking the look of kindness in the eyes that met hers, nor the
gentleness and grave truthfulness of the whole countenance. It won her
confidence immediately. All the floodgates of Ellen's heart were at once
opened. She could not speak, but rising and clasping the hand that was
held out to her in both her own, she bent down her head upon it, and
burst into one of those uncontrollable agonies of weeping, such as the
news of her mother's intended departure had occasioned that first
sorrowful evening. He gently, and as soon as he could, drew her to a
retired part of the deck where they were comparatively free from other
people's eyes and ears; then taking her in his arms he endeavoured by
many kind and soothing words to stay the torrent of her grief. This fit
of weeping did Ellen more good than the former one; that only exhausted,
this in some little measure relieved her.
"What is all this about?" said her friend kindly. "Nay, never mind
shedding any more tears about it, my child. Let me hear what it is; and
perhaps we can find some help for it."
"Oh no, you can't, sir," said Ellen sadly.
"Well, let us see," said he, "perhaps I can. What is it that has
troubled you so much?"
"I have lost my mother, sir," said Ellen.
"Your mother! Lost her!--how?"
"She is very ill, sir, and obliged to go away over the sea to France to
get well; and papa could not take me with her," said poor Ellen, weeping
again, "and I am obliged to go to be among strangers. Oh, what shall I
do?"
"Have you left your mother in the city?"
"Oh yes, sir! I left her this morning."
"What is your name?"
"Ellen Montgomery."
"Is your mother obliged to go to Europe for her health?"
"Oh yes, sir; nothing else would have made her go, but the doctor said
she would not live long if she didn't go, and that would cure her."
"Then you hope to see her come back by-and-by, don't you?"
"Oh yes, sir; but it won't be this great, great, long while; it seems to
me as if it was for ever."
"Ellen, do you know who it is that sends sickness and trouble upon us?"
"Yes, sir, I know; but I don't feel that that makes it any easier."
"Do you know _why_ He sends it? He is the God of love,--He does not
trouble us willingly,--He has said so;--why does He ever make us suffer?
do you know?"
"No, sir."
"Sometimes He sees that if He lets them alone, His children will love
some dear thing on the earth better than Himself, and He knows they will
not be happy if they do so; and then, because He loves them, He takes it
away,--perhaps it is a dear mother, or a dear daughter,--or else He
hinders their enjoyment of it; that they may remember Him, and give
their whole hearts to Him. He wants their whole hearts, that He may
bless them. Are you one of His children, Ellen?"
"No, sir," said Ellen, with swimming eyes, but cast down to the ground.
"How do you know that you are not?"
"Because I do not love the Saviour."
"Do you not love Him, Ellen?"
"I am afraid not, sir."
"Why are you afraid not? what makes you think so?"
"Mamma said I could not love Him at all if I did not love Him best; and
oh, sir," said Ellen, weeping, "I do love mamma a great deal better."
"You love your mother better than you do the Saviour?"
"Oh yes, sir," said Ellen; "how can I help it?"
"Then if He had left you your mother, Ellen, you would never have cared
or thought about Him?"
Ellen was silent.
"Is it so?--would you, do you think?"
"I don't know, sir," said Ellen, weeping again; "oh, sir, how can I help
it?"
"Then, Ellen, can you not see the love of your Heavenly Father in this
trial? He saw that His little child was in danger of forgetting Him, and
He loved you, Ellen; and so He has taken your dear mother, and sent you
away where you will have no one to look to but Him; and now He says to
you, 'My daughter, give _Me_ thy heart.' Will you do it, Ellen?"
Ellen wept exceedingly while the gentleman was saying these words,
clasping his hands still in both hers; but she made no answer. He waited
till she had become calmer, and then went on in a low tone--
"What is the reason that you do not love the Saviour, my child?"
"Mamma says it is because my heart is so hard."
"That is true; but you do not know how good and how lovely He is, or you
could not help loving Him. Do you often think of Him, and think much of
Him, and ask Him to show you Himself that you may love Him?"
"No, sir," said Ellen, "not often."
"You pray to Him, don't you?"
"Yes, sir; but not so."
"But you ought to pray to Him so. We are all blind by nature, Ellen;--we
are all hard-hearted; none of us can see Him or love Him unless He opens
our eyes and touches our hearts; but He has promised to do this for
those that seek Him. Do you remember what the blind man said when Jesus
asked him what He should do for him?--he answered, 'Lord, that I may
receive my sight!' That ought to be your prayer now, and mine too; and
the Lord is just as ready to hear us as He was to hear the poor blind
man; and you know He cured him. Will you ask Him, Ellen?"
A smile was almost struggling through Ellen's tears as she lifted her
face to that of her friend, but she instantly looked down again.
"Shall I put you in mind, Ellen, of some things about Christ that ought
to make you love Him with all your heart?"
"Oh yes, sir! if you please."
"Then tell me first what it is that makes you love your mother so much?"
"Oh, I can't tell you, sir;--everything, I think."
"I suppose the great thing is that she loves _you_ so much?"
"Oh yes, sir," said Ellen strongly.
"But how do you know that she loves you? how has she shown it?"
Ellen looked at him, but could give no answer; it seemed to her that she
must bring the whole experience of her life before him to form one.
"I suppose," said her friend, "that, to begin with the smallest thing,
she has always been watchfully careful to provide everything that could
be useful or necessary for you; she never forgot your wants, or was
careless about them?"
"No indeed, sir."
"And perhaps you recollect that she never minded trouble or expense or
pain where your good was concerned;--she would sacrifice her own
pleasure at any time for yours!"
Ellen's eyes gave a quick and strong answer to this, but she said
nothing.
"And in all your griefs and pleasures you were sure of finding her ready
and willing to feel with you and for you, and to help you if she could?
And in all the times you have seen her tired, no fatigue ever wore out
her patience, nor any naughtiness of yours ever lessened her love; she
could not be weary of waiting upon you when you were sick, nor of
bearing with you when you forgot your duty,--more ready always to
receive you than you to return. Isn't it so?"
"Oh yes, sir."
"And you can recollect a great many words and looks of kindness and
love--many and many endeavours to teach you and lead you in the right
way--all showing the strongest desire for your happiness in this world,
and in the next?"
"Oh yes, sir," said Ellen tearfully; and then added, "do you know my
mother, sir?"
"No," said he, smiling, "not at all; but my own mother has been in many
things like this to me, and I judged yours might have been such to you.
Have I described her right?"
"Yes indeed, sir," said Ellen, "exactly."
"And in return for all this, you have given this dear mother the love
and gratitude of your whole heart, haven't you?"
"Indeed I have, sir;" and Ellen's face said it more than her words.
"You are very right," he said gravely, "to love such a mother--to give
her all possible duty and affection; she deserves it. But, Ellen, in all
these very things I have been mentioning Jesus Christ has shown that He
deserves it far more. Do you think, if you had never behaved like a
child to your mother--if you had never made her the least return of love
or regard--that she would have continued to love you as she does?"
"No, sir," said Ellen, "I do not think she would."
"Have you ever made any fit return to God for His goodness to you?"
"No, sir," said Ellen, in a low tone.
"And yet there has been no change in _His_ kindness. Just look at it,
and see what He has done and is doing for you. In the first place, it is
not your mother, but He, who has given you every good and pleasant thing
you have enjoyed in your whole life. You love your mother because she is
so careful to provide for all your wants; but who gave her the materials
to work with? She has only been, as it were, the hand by which He
supplied you. And who gave you such a mother?--there are many mothers
not like her;--who put into her heart the truth and love that have been
blessing you ever since you were born? It is all--all God's doing, from
first to last; but His child has forgotten Him in the very gifts of His
mercy."
Ellen was silent, but looked very grave.
"Your mother never minded her own ease or pleasure when your good was
concerned. Did Christ mind His? You know what He did to save sinners,
don't you?"
"Yes, sir, I know; mamma often told me."
"'Though He was rich, yet for our sake He became poor, that we through
His poverty might be rich.' He took our burden of sin upon Himself, and
suffered that terrible punishment--all to save you and such as you. And
now He asks His children to leave off sinning and come back to Him who
has bought them with His own blood. He did this because He _loved_ you;
does He not deserve to be loved in return?"
Ellen had nothing to say; she hung down her head further and further.
"And patient and kind as your mother is, the Lord Jesus is kinder and
more patient still. In all your life so far, Ellen, you have not loved
or obeyed Him; and yet He loves you, and is ready to be your friend. Is
He not even to-day taking away your dear mother for the very purpose
that He may draw you gently to Himself and fold you in His arms, as He
has promised to do with His lambs? He knows you can never be happy
anywhere else."
The gentleman paused again, for he saw that the little listener's mind
was full.
"Has not Christ shown that He loves you better even than your mother
does? And were there ever sweeter words of kindness than these?--
"'Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not; for
of such is the kingdom of heaven.'
"'I am the good shepherd: the good shepherd giveth His life for the
sheep.'
"'I have loved thee with an everlasting love; therefore with
loving-kindness have I drawn thee.'"
He waited a minute, and then added gently, "Will you come to Him,
Ellen?"
Ellen lifted her tearful eyes to his; but there were tears there too,
and her own sank instantly. She covered her face with her hands, and
sobbed out in broken words, "Oh, if I could--but I don't know how."
"Do you wish to be His child, Ellen?"
"Oh yes, sir--if I could."
"I know, my child, that sinful heart of yours is in the way, but the
Lord Jesus can change it, and will, if you will give it to Him. He is
looking upon you now, Ellen, with more kindness and love than any
earthly father or mother could, waiting for you to give that little
heart of yours to Him, that He may make it holy and fill it with
blessing. He says, you know, 'Behold I stand at the door and knock.' Do
not grieve Him away, Ellen."
Ellen sobbed, but all the passion and bitterness of her tears was gone.
Her heart was completely melted.
"If your mother were here, and could do for you what you want, would you
doubt her love to do it? would you have any difficulty in asking her?"
"Oh no!"
"Then do not doubt His love who loves you better still. Come to Jesus.
Do not fancy He is away up in heaven out of reach of hearing--He is
here, close to you, and knows every wish and throb of your heart. Think
you are in His presence and at His feet,--even now,--and say to Him in
your heart, 'Lord, look upon me--I am not fit to come to Thee, but Thou
hast bid me come--take me and make me Thine own--take this hard heart
that I can do nothing with, and make it holy and fill it with Thy
love--I give it and myself into Thy hands, O dear Saviour!'"
These words were spoken very low, that only Ellen could catch them. Her
bowed head sank lower and lower till he ceased speaking. He added no
more for some time; waited till she had resumed her usual attitude and
appearance, and then said--
"Ellen, could you join in heart with my words?"
"I did, sir,--I couldn't help it, all but the last."
"All but the last?"
"Yes, sir."
"But, Ellen, if you say the first part of my prayer with your whole
heart, the Lord will enable you to say the last too,--do you believe
that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Will you not make that your constant prayer till you are heard and
answered?"
"Yes, sir."
And he thought he saw that she was in earnest.
"Perhaps the answer may not come at once,--it does not always; but it
will come as surely as the sun will rise to-morrow morning. 'Then shall
we know, if we _follow on_ to know the Lord.' But then you must be in
earnest. And if you are in earnest, is there nothing you have to do
besides _praying_?"
Ellen looked at him without making any answer.
"When a person is in earnest, how does he show it?"
"By doing everything he possibly can to get what he wants."
"Quite right," said her friend, smiling; "and has God bidden us to do
nothing besides pray for a new heart?"
"Oh yes, sir; He has told us to do a great many things."
"And will He be likely to grant that prayer, Ellen, if He sees that you
do not care about displeasing Him in those 'great many things'?--will He
judge that you are sincere in wishing for a new heart?"
"Oh no, sir."
"Then if you are resolved to be a Christian, you will not be contented
with praying for a new heart, but you will begin at once to be a servant
of God. You can do nothing well without help, but you are sure the help
will come; and from this good day you will seek to know and to do the
will of God, trusting in His dear Son to perfect that which concerneth
you. My little child," said the gentleman, softly and kindly, "are you
ready to say you will do this?"
As she hesitated, he took a little book from his pocket, and turning
over the leaves said, "I am going to leave you for a little while--I
have a few moments' business downstairs to attend to; and I want you to
look over this hymn and think carefully of what I have been saying, will
you?--and resolve what you will do."
Ellen got off his knee, where she had been sitting all this while, and
silently taking the book, sat down in the chair he had quitted. Tears
ran fast again, and many thoughts passed through her mind as her eyes
went over and over the words to which he had pointed:--
"Behold the Saviour at the door,
He gently knocks,--has knocked before,--
Has waited long,--is waiting still,--
You treat no other friend so ill.
Oh lovely attitude!--He stands
With open heart and outstretched hands.
Oh matchless kindness!--and He shows
This matchless kindness to His foes.
Admit Him--for the human breast
Ne'er entertained so kind a guest.
Admit Him--for the hour's at hand
When at _His_ door, denied you'll stand.
Open my heart, Lord, enter in;
Slay every foe, and conquer sin.
Here now to Thee I all resign,--
My body, soul, and all are Thine."
The last two lines Ellen longed to say, but could not; the two preceding
were the very speech of her heart.
Not more than fifteen minutes had passed when her friend came back
again. The book hung in Ellen's hand; her eyes were fixed on the floor.
"Well," he said kindly, and taking her hand, "what's your decision?"
Ellen looked up.
"Have you made up your mind on that matter we were talking about?"
"Yes, sir," Ellen said in a low voice, casting her eyes down again.
"And how have you decided, my child?"
"I will try to do as you said, sir."
"You will begin to follow your Saviour, and to please Him, from this day
forward?"
"I will try, sir," said Ellen, meeting his eyes as she spoke. Again the
look she saw made her burst into tears. She wept violently.
"God bless you and help you, my dear Ellen," said he, gently passing his
hand over her head; "but do not cry any more--you have shed too many
tears this morning already. We will not talk about this any more now."
And he spoke only soothing and quieting words for a while to her: and
then asked if she would like to go over the boat and see the different
parts of it. Ellen's joyful agreement with this proposal was only
qualified by the fear of giving him trouble. But he put that entirely
by.
CHAPTER VIII
Time and the hour run through the roughest day.
--SHAKESPEARE.
The going over the boat held them a long time, for Ellen's new friend
took kind pains to explain to her whatever he thought he could make
interesting; he was amused to find how far she pushed her inquiries into
the how and the why of things. For the time her sorrows were almost
forgotten.
"What shall we do now?" said he, when they had at last gone through the
whole; "would you like to go to your friends?"
"I haven't any friends on board, sir," said Ellen, with a swelling
heart.
"Haven't any friends on board! What do you mean? Are you alone?"
"No, sir," said Ellen, "not exactly alone; my father put me in the care
of a lady that is going to Thirlwall; but they are strangers and not
friends."
"Are they _un_friends? I hope you don't think, Ellen, that strangers
cannot be friends too?"
"No indeed, sir, I don't," said Ellen, looking up with a face that was
fairly brilliant with its expression of gratitude and love. But casting
it down again, she added, "But they are not my friends, sir."
"Well then," he said, smiling, "will you come with me?"
"Oh yes, sir! if you will let me, and if I shan't be a trouble to you,
sir."
"Come this way," said he, "and we'll see if we cannot find a nice place
to sit down, where no one will trouble us."
Such a place was found. And Ellen would have been quite satisfied though
the gentleman had done no more than merely to permit her to remain there
by his side; but he took out his little Bible, and read and talked to
her for some time, so pleasantly that neither her weariness nor the way
could be thought of.
When he ceased reading to her and began to read to himself, weariness
and faintness stole over her. She had had nothing to eat, and had been
violently excited that day. A little while she sat in a dreamy sort of
quietude, then her thoughts grew misty, and the end of it was, she
dropped her head against the arm of her friend and fell fast asleep. He
smiled at first, but one look at the very pale little face changed the
expression of his own. He gently put his arm round her and drew her head
to a better resting-place than it had chosen.
And there she slept till the dinner-bell rang. Timmins was sent out to
look for her, but Timmins did not choose to meddle with the grave
protector Ellen seemed to have gained; and Mrs. Dunscombe declared
herself rejoiced that any other hands should have taken the charge of
her.
After dinner, Ellen and her friend went up to the promenade deck again,
and there for a while they paced up and down, enjoying the pleasant air
and the quick motion, and the lovely appearance of everything in the
mild hazy sunlight. Another gentleman, however, joining them, and
entering into conversation, Ellen silently quitted her friend's hand and
went and sat down at the side of the boat. After taking a few turns
more, and while still engaged in talking, he drew his little hymn-book
out of his pocket, and with a smile put it into Ellen's hand as he
passed. She gladly received it, and spent an hour or more very
pleasantly in studying and turning it over. At the end of that time, the
stranger having left him, Ellen's friend came and sat down by her side.
"How do you like my little book?" said he.
"Oh, very much indeed, sir."
"Then you love hymns, do you?"
"Yes, I do, sir, dearly."
"Do you sometimes learn them by heart?"
"Oh yes, sir, often. Mamma often made me. I have learnt two since I have
been sitting here."
"Have you?" said he. "Which are they?"
"One of them is the one you showed me this morning, sir."
"And what is your mind now about the question I asked you this morning?"
Ellen cast down her eyes from his inquiring glance, and answered in a
low tone, "Just what it was then, sir."
"Have you been thinking of it since?"
"I have thought of it the whole time, sir."
"And you are resolved you will obey Christ henceforth?"
"I am resolved to try, sir."
"My dear Ellen, if you are in earnest you will not try in vain. He never
yet failed any that sincerely sought Him. Have you a Bible?"
"Oh yes, sir! a beautiful one. Mamma gave it to me the other day."
He took the hymn-book from her hand, and turning over the leaves, marked
several places in pencil.
"I am going to give you this," he said, "that it may serve to remind you
of what we have talked of to-day, and of your resolution."
Ellen flushed high with pleasure.
"I have put this mark," said he, showing her a particular one, "in a few
places of this book for you. Wherever you find it, you may know there is
something I want you to take special notice of. There are some other
marks here too, but they are mine. _These_ are for you."
"Thank you, sir," said Ellen, delighted. "I shall not forget."
He knew from her face what she meant--not the _marks_.
The day wore on, thanks to the unwearied kindness of her friend, with
great comparative comfort to Ellen. Late in the afternoon they were
resting from a long walk up and down the deck.
"What have you got in this package that you take such care of?" said he,
smiling.
"Oh, candies," said Ellen. "I am always forgetting them. I meant to ask
you to take some. Will you have some, sir?"
"Thank you. What are they?"
"Almost all kinds, I believe, sir. I think the almonds are the best."
He took one.
"Pray take some more, sir," said Ellen. "I don't care for them in the
least."
"Then I am more of a child than you--in this, at any rate--for I do care
for them. But I have a little headache to-day; I mustn't meddle with
sweets."
"Then take some for to-morrow, sir. Please do!" said Ellen, dealing them
out very freely.
"Stop, stop!" said he, "not a bit more. This won't do. I must put some
of these back again. You'll want them to-morrow, too."
"I don't think I shall," said Ellen. "I haven't wanted to touch them
to-day."
"Oh, you'll feel brighter to-morrow, after a night's sleep. But aren't
you afraid of catching cold? This wind is blowing pretty fresh, and
you've been bonnetless all day. What's the reason?"
Ellen looked down, and coloured a good deal.
"What's the matter?" said he, laughing. "Has any mischief befallen your
bonnet?"
"No, sir," said Ellen in a low tone, her colour mounting higher and
higher. "It was laughed at this morning."
"Laughed at! Who laughed at it?"
"Mrs. Dunscombe and her daughter and her maid."
"Did they? I don't see much reason in that, I confess. What did they
think was the matter with it?"
"I don't know, sir. They said it was outlandish, and what a figure I
looked in it."
"Well, certainly that was not very polite. Put it on and let me see."
Ellen obeyed.
"I am not the best judge of ladies' bonnets, it is true," said he, "but
I can see nothing about it that is not perfectly proper and
suitable--nothing in the world! So that is what has kept you bare-headed
all day? Didn't your mother wish you to wear that bonnet?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then that ought to be enough for you. Will you be ashamed of what _she_
approved, because some people that haven't probably half her sense
choose to make merry with it?--is that right?" he said gently, "Is that
honouring her as she deserves?"
"No, sir," said Ellen, looking up into his face, "but I never thought of
that before. I am sorry."
"Never mind being laughed at, my child. If your mother says a thing is
right, that's enough for you; let them laugh!"
"I won't be ashamed of my bonnet any more," said Ellen, tying it on,
"but they made me very unhappy about it, and very angry too."
"I am sorry for that," said her friend gravely. "Have you quite got over
it, Ellen?"
"Oh yes, sir, long ago."
"Are you sure?"
"I am not angry now, sir."
"Is there no unkindness left towards the people who laughed at you?"
"I don't like them much," said Ellen. "How can I?"
"You cannot of course _like_ the company of ill-behaved people, and I do
not wish that you should; but you can and ought to feel just as kindly
disposed towards them as if they had never offended you--just as willing
and inclined to please them or do them good. Now, could you offer
Miss--what's her name?--some of your candies with as hearty goodwill as
you could before she laughed at you?"
"No, sir, I couldn't. I don't feel as if I ever wished to see them
again."
"Then, my dear Ellen, you have something to do, if you were in earnest
in the resolve you made this morning. 'If ye forgive unto men their
trespasses, my Heavenly Father will also forgive you; but if you forgive
not men their trespasses, neither will my Father forgive your
trespasses!'"
He was silent, and so was Ellen for some time. His words had raised a
struggle in her mind, and she kept her face turned towards the shore, so
that her bonnet shielded it from view; but she did not in the least know
what she was looking at. The sun had been some time descending through a
sky of cloudless splendour, and now was just kissing the mountain tops
of the western horizon. Slowly and with great majesty he sank behind the
distant blue line, till only a glittering edge appeared, and then that
was gone. There were no clouds hanging over his setting, to be gilded
and purpled by the parting rays, but a region of glory long remained, to
show where his path had been.
The eyes of both were fixed upon this beautiful scene, but only one was
thinking of it. Just as the last glimpse of the sun had disappeared
Ellen turned her face, bright again, towards her companion. He was
intently gazing towards the hills that had so drawn Ellen's attention a
while ago, and thinking still more intently, it was plain; so though
her mouth had been open to speak, she turned her face away again as
suddenly as it had just sought his. He saw the motion, however.
"What is it, Ellen?" he said.
Ellen looked again with a smile.
"I have been thinking, sir, of what you said to me."
"Well?" said he, smiling in answer.
"I can't _like_ Mrs. and Miss Dunscombe as well as if they hadn't done
so to me, but I will try to behave as if nothing had been the matter,
and be as kind and polite to them as if they had been kind and polite to
me."
"And how about the sugar-plums?"
"The sugar-plums! Oh," said Ellen, laughing, "Miss Margaret may have
them all if she likes--I'm quite willing. Not but I had rather give them
to you, sir."
"You give me something a great deal better when I see you try to
overcome a wrong feeling. You mustn't rest till you get rid of every bit
of ill-will that you feel for this and any other unkindness you may
suffer. You cannot do it yourself, but you know who can help you. I hope
you have asked him, Ellen?"
"I have, sir, indeed."
"Keep asking Him, and He will do everything for you."
A silence of some length followed. Ellen began to feel very much the
fatigue of this exciting day, and sat quietly by her friend's side,
leaning against him. The wind had changed about sundown, and now blew
light from the south, so that they did not feel it at all.
The light gradually faded away till only a silver glow in the west
showed where the sun had set, and the sober grey of twilight was gently
stealing over all the bright colours of sky, and river, and hill; now
and then a twinkling light began to appear along the shores.
"You are very tired," said Ellen's friend to her--"I see you are. A
little more patience, my child; we shall be at our journey's end before
a very great while."
"I am almost sorry," said Ellen, "though I _am_ tired. We don't go in
the steamboat to-morrow, do we, sir?"
"No, in the stage."
"Shall _you_ be in the stage, sir?"
"No, my child. But I am glad you and I have spent this day together."
"Oh, sir," said Ellen, "I don't know what I should have done if it
hadn't been for you."
There was silence again, and the gentleman almost thought his little
charge had fallen asleep, she sat so still. But she suddenly spoke
again, and in a tone of voice that showed sleep was far away.
"I wish I knew where mamma is now!"
"I do not doubt, my child, from what you told me that it is well with
her wherever she is. Let that thought comfort you whenever you remember
her."
"She must want me so much," said poor Ellen, in a scarcely audible
voice.
"She has not lost her best friend, my child."
"I know it, sir," said Ellen, with whom grief was now getting the
mastery; "but oh, it's just near the time when I used to make the tea
for her--who'll make it now? she'll want me--oh, what shall I do?" and
overcome completely by this recollection, she threw herself into her
friend's arms and sobbed aloud.
There was no reasoning against this; he did not attempt it; but with the
utmost gentleness and tenderness endeavoured, as soon as he might, to
soothe and calm her. He succeeded at last; with a sort of despairing
submission, Ellen ceased her tears, and arose to her former position.
But he did not rest from his kind endeavours till her mind was really
eased and comforted; which, however, was not long before the lights of a
city began to appear in the distance. And with them appeared a dusky
figure ascending the stairs, which, upon nearer approach, proved by the
voice to be Timmins.
"Is this Miss Montgomery?" said she; "I can't see, I am sure, it's so
dark. Is that you, Miss Montgomery?"
"Yes," said Ellen, "it is I; do you want me?"
"If you please, miss, Mrs. Dunscombe wants you to come right down; we're
almost in, she says, miss."
"I'll come directly, Miss Timmins," said Ellen. "Don't wait for me--I
won't be a minute--I'll come directly."
Miss Timmins retired, standing still a good deal in awe of the grave
personage whose protection Ellen seemed to have gained.
"I must go," said Ellen, standing up and extending her hand "Good-bye,
sir."
She could hardly say it. He drew her towards him and kissed her cheek
once or twice; it was well he did, for it sent a thrill of pleasure to
Ellen's heart that she did not get over that evening, nor all the next
day.
"God bless you, my child," he said gravely, but cheerfully; "and
good-night!--you will feel better, I trust, when you have had some rest
and refreshment."
He took care of her down the stairs, and saw her safe to the very door
of the saloon, and within it; and there again took her hand and kindly
bade her good-night.
Ellen entered the saloon only to sit down and cry as if her heart would
break. She saw and heard nothing till Mrs. Dunscombe's voice bade her
make haste and be ready, for they were going ashore in five minutes.
And in less than five minutes ashore they went.
"Which hotel, ma'am?" asked the servant who carried her baggage--"the
Eagle, or Foster's?"
"The Eagle," said Mrs. Dunscombe.
"Come this way, then, ma'am," said another man, the driver of the Eagle
carriage. "Now, ma'am, step in, if you please."
Mrs. Dunscombe put her daughter in.
"But it's full!" said she to the driver; "there isn't room for another
one."
"Oh yes, ma'am, there is," said the driver, holding the door open;
"there's plenty of room for you, ma'am--just get in, ma'am, if you
please,--we'll be there in less than two minutes."
"Timmins, you'll have to walk," said Mrs. Dunscombe. "Miss Montgomery,
would you rather ride, or walk with Timmins?"
"How far is it, ma'am?" said Ellen.
"Oh, bless me! how can I tell how far it is? I don't know, I am
sure,--not far; say quick,--would you rather walk or ride?"
"I would rather walk, ma'am, if you please," said Ellen.
"Very well," said Mrs. Dunscombe, getting in;--"Timmins, you know the
way."
And off went the coach with its load; but tired as she was, Ellen did
not wish herself along.
Picking a passage-way out of the crowd, she and Timmins now began to
make their way up one of the comparatively quiet streets.
It was a strange place--that she felt. She had lived long enough in the
place she had left to feel at home there; but here she came to no street
or crossing that she had ever seen before; nothing looked familiar; all
reminded her that she was a traveller. Only one pleasant thing Ellen saw
on her walk, and that was the sky; and that looked just as it did at
home; and very often Ellen's gaze was fixed upon it, much to the
astonishment of Miss Timmins, who had to be not a little watchful for
the safety of Ellen's feet while her eyes were thus employed. She had
taken a great fancy to Ellen, however, and let her do as she pleased,
keeping all her wonderment to herself.
"Take care, Miss Ellen!" cried Timmins, giving her arm a great pull. "I
declare I just saved you out of that gutter! poor child! you are
dreadfully tired, ain't you?"
"Yes, I am very tired, Miss Timmins," said Ellen; "have we much further
to go?"
"Not a great deal, dear; cheer up! we are almost there. I hope Mrs.
Dunscombe will want to ride one of these days herself, and can't."
"Oh, don't say so, Miss Timmins," said Ellen, "I don't wish so, indeed."
"Well, I should think you would," said Timmins. "I should think you'd be
fit to poison her;--_I_ should, I know, if I was in your place."
"Oh no," said Ellen, "that wouldn't be right; that would be very wrong."
"Wrong!" said Timmins,--"why would it be wrong? she hasn't behaved good
to you."
"Yes," said Ellen, "but don't you know the Bible says if we do not
forgive people what they do to us, we shall not be forgiven ourselves?"
"Well, I declare!" said Miss Timmins, "you beat all! But here's the
Eagle at last, and I am glad for your sake, dear."
Ellen was shown into the ladies' parlour. She was longing for a place to
rest, but she saw directly it was not to be there. The room was large,
and barely furnished; and round it were scattered part of the
carriage-load of people that had arrived a quarter of an hour before
her. They were waiting till their rooms should be ready. Ellen silently
found herself a chair and sat down to wait with the rest, as patiently
as she might. Few of them had as much cause for impatience; but she was
the only perfectly mute and uncomplaining one there. Her two companions,
however, between them, fully made up her share of fretting. At length a
servant brought the welcome news that their room was ready, and the
three marched upstairs. It made Ellen's very heart glad when they got
there, to find a good-sized, cheerful-looking bed-room, comfortably
furnished, with a bright fire burning, large curtains let down to the
floor, and a nice warm carpet upon it. Taking off her bonnet, and only
that, she sat down on a low cushion by the corner of the fire-place, and
leaning her head against the jamb, fell fast asleep almost immediately.
Mrs. Dunscombe set about arranging herself for the tea-table.
"Well!" she said, "one day of this precious journey is over!"
"Does Ellen go with us to-morrow, mamma?"
"Oh yes!--quite to Thirlwall."
"Well, you haven't had much plague with her to-day, mamma."
"No--I am sure I am much obliged to whoever has kept her out of my way."
"Where is she going to sleep to-night?" asked Miss Margaret.
"I don't know, I am sure. I suppose I shall have to have a cot brought
in here for her."
"What a plague!" said Miss Margaret. "It will lumber up the room so!
There's no place to put it. Couldn't she sleep with Timmins?"
"Oh, she _could_, of course--just as well as not, only people would make
such a fuss about it!--it wouldn't do;--we must bear it for once. I'll
try and not be caught in such a scrape again."
"How provoking!" said Miss Margaret. "How came father to do so without
asking you about it?"
"Oh, he was bewitched, I suppose--men always are. Look here, Margaret, I
can't go down to tea with a train of children at my heels. I shall leave
you and Ellen up here, and I'll send up your tea to you."
"Oh no, mamma!" said Margaret eagerly; "I want to go down with you. Look
here, mamma! she's asleep, and you needn't wake her up--that's excuse
enough. You can leave her to have tea up here, and let me go down with
you."
"Well," said Mrs. Dunscombe, "I don't care; but make haste to get ready,
for I expect every minute the tea-bell will ring."
"Timmins! Timmins!" cried Margaret, "come here and fix me--quick! and
step softly, will you? or you'll wake that young one up, and then, you
see, I shall have to stay upstairs."
This did not happen, however; Ellen's sleep was much too deep to be
easily disturbed. The tea-bell itself, loud and shrill as it was, did
not even make her eyelids tremble. After Mrs. and Miss Dunscombe were
gone down, Timmins employed herself a little while in putting all things
about the room to rights, and then sat down to take _her_ rest, dividing
her attention between the fire and Ellen, towards whom she seemed to
feel more and more kindness, as she saw that she was likely to receive
it from no one else. Presently came a knock at the door--"The tea for
the young lady," on a waiter. Miss Timmins silently took the tray from
the man and shut the door. "Well!" said she to herself, "if that ain't a
pretty supper to send up to a child that has gone two hundred miles
to-day and had no breakfast--a cup of tea, cold enough I'll warrant,
bread and butter enough for a bird, and two little slices of ham as
thick as a wafer! Well, I just wish Mrs. Dunscombe had to eat it
herself, and nothing else! I'm not going to wake her up for that, I
know, till I see whether something better ain't to be had for love or
money. So just you sleep on, darling, till I see what I can do for you."
In great indignation downstairs went Miss Timmins, and at the foot of
the stairs she met a rosy-cheeked, pleasant-faced girl coming up.
"Are you the chambermaid?" said Timmins.
"I'm _one_ of the chambermaids," said the girl, smiling; "there's three
of us in this house, dear."
"Well, I am a stranger here," said Timmins; "but I want you to help me,
and I am sure you will. I've got a dear little girl upstairs that I want
some supper for; she's a sweet child, and she's under the care of some
proud folks here in the tea-room that think it too much trouble to look
at her, and they've sent her up about supper enough for a mouse--and
she's half-starving; she lost her breakfast this morning by their
ugliness. Now ask one of the waiters to give me something nice for her,
will you?--there's a good girl."
"James!" said the girl in a loud whisper to one of the waiters who was
crossing the hall. He instantly stopped and came towards them, tray in
hand, and making several extra polite bows as he drew near.
"What's on the supper-table, James?" said the smiling damsel.
"Everything that ought to be there, Miss Johns," said the man, with
another flourish.
"Come, stop your nonsense," said the girl, "and tell me quick; I'm in a
hurry."
"It's a pleasure to perform your commands, Miss Johns. I'll give you the
whole bill of fare. There's a very fine beefsteak, fricasseed chickens,
stewed oysters, sliced ham, cheese, preserved quinces--with the usual
complement of bread and toast and muffins, and doughnuts, and new-year
cake, and plenty of butter, likewise salt and pepper, likewise tea and
coffee and sugar, likewise----"
"Hush!" said the girl. "Do stop, will you?" and then laughing and
turning to Miss Timmins, she added, "What will you have?"
"I guess I'll have some of the chickens and oysters," said Timmins;
"that will be the nicest for her, and a muffin or two."
"Now, James, do you hear?" said the chambermaid; "I want you to get me
now, right away, a nice little supper of chickens and oysters and a
muffin--it's for a lady upstairs. Be as quick as you can."
"I should be very happy to execute impossibilities for you, Miss Johns;
but Mrs. Custers is at the table herself."
"Very well--that's nothing; she'll think it's for somebody upstairs--and
so it is."
"Ay, but the upstairs people is Tim's business--I should be hauled over
the coals directly."
"Then ask Tim, will you? How slow you are! Now, James, if you don't I
won't speak to you again."
"Till to-morrow? I couldn't stand that. It shall be done, Miss Johns,
instantum."
Bowing and smiling, away went James, leaving the girls giggling on the
staircase and highly gratified.
"He always does what I want him to," said the good-humoured chambermaid;
"but he generally makes a fuss about it first. He'll be back directly
with what you want."
Till he came, Miss Timmins filled up the time with telling her new
friend as much as she knew about Ellen and Ellen's hardships, with which
Miss Johns was so much interested that she declared she must go up and
see her; and when James in a few minutes returned with a tray of nice
things, the two women proceeded together to Mrs. Dunscombe's room. Ellen
had moved so far as to put herself on the floor with her head on the
cushion for a pillow, but she was as sound asleep as ever.
"Just see now!" said Timmins; "there she lies on the floor--enough to
give her her death of cold. Poor child, she's tired to death, and Mrs.
Dunscombe made her walk up from the steamboat to-night rather than do it
herself; I declare I wished the coach would break down, only for the
other folks. I am glad I have got a good supper for her though--thank
_you_, Miss Johns."
"And I'll tell you what, I'll go and get you some nice hot tea," said
the chambermaid, who was quite touched by the sight of Ellen's little
pale face.
"Thank you," said Timmins, "you're a darling. This is as cold as a
stone."
While the chambermaid went forth on her kind errand, Timmins stooped
down by the little sleeper's side. "Miss Ellen!" she said; "Miss Ellen!
wake up, dear--wake up and get some supper--come! you'll feel a great
deal better for it; you shall sleep as much as you like afterwards."
Slowly Ellen raised herself and opened her eyes. "Where am I?" she
asked, looking bewildered.
"Here, dear," said Timmins; "wake up and eat something--it will do you
good."
With a sigh, poor Ellen arose and came to the fire. "You're tired to
death, ain't you?" said Timmins.
"Not quite," said Ellen. "I shouldn't mind that if my legs would not
ache so--and my head too."
"Now I'm sorry!" said Timmins; "but your head will be better for eating,
I know. See here, I've got you some nice chicken and oysters, and I'll
make this muffin hot for you by the fire; and here comes your tea. Miss
Johns, I'm your servant, and I'll be your bridesmaid with the greatest
pleasure in life. Now, Miss Ellen, dear, just you put yourself on that
low chair, and I'll fix you off."
Ellen thanked her, and did as she was told. Timmins brought another
chair to her side, and placed the tray with her supper upon it, and
prepared her muffin and tea; and having fairly seen Ellen begin to eat,
she next took off her shoes, and seating herself on the carpet before
her, she made her lap the resting-place for Ellen's feet, chafing them
in her hands and heating them at the fire, saying there was nothing like
rubbing and roasting to get rid of the leg-ache. By the help of the
supp
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/28376