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'lldo 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 meexactly 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.Youare 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 thisoccasion. 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 colourdoesshe 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 andthrowing 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, shecouldnot 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 personthat 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 thechild, my honour as a gentleman would have made me interfere for thelady."
Mrs. Montgomery smiled, but looked through glistening eyes again on Ellen. "I amveryglad 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 theannoyance 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 arefor 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 andswiftly 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 bedishonourable, 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; andnotto do so, I assure you, Ellen, proves one wanting in true honour."
"Well, mamma, I don't care what his name is,—at least Iwon'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."
"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.
Mac.What is the night?Lady Mac.Almost at odds with morning, which is which.
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 ofthe 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.Shewas 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 seedsOf affliction, pain, and toil;These spring up and choke the weedsWhich 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.
God in Israel sows the seedsOf affliction, pain, and toil;These spring up and choke the weedsWhich 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 partingmade 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.Heseemed 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 theEnglandthe 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 meether 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 shemustgo on, and the necessary preparations for the morrowmustbe 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; theeasy 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! Itold 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 areyouthinking 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. Shewas 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;—shedid 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; andmake 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 theEngland."