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 Captain Dunscombe puthis wife on board, and had barely time to jump off the boat again when the plank was withdrawn.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 thinkshewas 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 thestairs, 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 agentleman 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 knowwhyHe 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, giveMethy heart.' Will you do it, Ellen?"
Ellen wept exceedingly while the gentleman was saying thesewords, 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 lovesyouso 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 orexpense 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 inHiskindness. 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 Helovedyou; 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 wefollow onto know theLord.' But then you must be in earnest. And if you are in earnest, is there nothing you have to do besidespraying?"
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 standsWith open heart and outstretched hands.Oh matchless kindness!—and He showsThis matchless kindness to His foes.Admit Him—for the human breastNe'er entertained so kind a guest.Admit Him—for the hour's at handWhen atHisdoor, 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."
"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 standsWith open heart and outstretched hands.Oh matchless kindness!—and He showsThis matchless kindness to His foes.
Admit Him—for the human breastNe'er entertained so kind a guest.Admit Him—for the hour's at handWhen atHisdoor, 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.
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 theyunfriends? 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 hispocket, 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.Theseare for you."
"Thank you, sir," said Ellen, delighted. "I shall not forget."
He knew from her face what she meant—not themarks.
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 whatsheapproved, 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 courselikethe 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 moreintently, 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'tlikeMrs. 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 Iamtired. We don't go in the steamboat to-morrow, do we, sir?"
"No, in the stage."
"Shallyoube 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 suddenlyspoke 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;—Ishould, 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, shecould, 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 takeherrest, 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 whethersomething 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'moneof 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—thankyou, 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 supper, the fire, and Timmins, Ellen mended rapidly. With tears in her eyes, she thanked the latter for her kindness.
"Now just don't say one word about that," said Timmins; "I never was famous for kindness, as I know; but people must be kind sometimes in their lives, unless they happen to be made of stone, which I believe some people are. You feel better, don't you?"
"A great deal," said Ellen. "Oh, if I only could go to bed now!"
"And you shall," said Timmins. "I know about your bed, and I'll go right away and have it brought in." And away she went.
While she was gone, Ellen drew from her pocket her little hymn-book, to refresh herself with looking at it. How quickly and freshly it brought back to her mind the friend who had given it, and his conversations with her, and the resolve she had made; and again Ellen's whole heart offered the prayer she had repeated many times that day—
"Open my heart, Lord, enter in;Slay every foe, and conquer sin."
"Open my heart, Lord, enter in;Slay every foe, and conquer sin."
Her head was still bent upon her little book when Timmins entered. Timmins was not alone; Miss Johns and a little cot bedstead came in with her. The latter was put at the foot of Mrs. Dunscombe's bed, and speedily made up by the chambermaid, while Timmins undressed Ellen; and very soon all the sorrows and vexations of the day were forgotten in a sound, refreshing sleep. But not till she had removed her little hymn-book from the pocket of her frock to a safe station under her pillow; it was with her hand upon it that Ellen went to sleep; and it was in her hand still when she was waked the next morning.
The next day was spent in a wearisome stage-coach, over a rough jolting road. Ellen's companions did nothing to make her way pleasant, but she sweetened theirs with her sugar-plums. Somewhat mollified, perhaps, after that, Miss Margaret condescended to enter into conversation with her, and Ellen underwent a thorough cross-examination as to all her own and her parents' affairs, past, present, and future, and likewise as to all that could be known of her yesterday's friend, till she was heartily worried and out of patience.
It was just five o'clock when they reached her stopping-place. Ellen knew of no particular house to go to; so Mrs. Dunscombe set her down at the door of the principal inn of the town, called the "Star" of Thirlwall.
The driver smacked his whip, and away went the stage again, and she was left standing alone beside her trunk before the piazza of the inn, watching Timmins, who was looking back at her out of the stage window, nodding and waving good-bye.