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The Wide, Wide World
_The_ Wide, Wide World
_By_ SUSAN WARNER
[Illustration]
GROSSET AND DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS : : NEW YORK
Contents
CHAP. PAGE
I. BREAKING THE NEWS 9
II. GIVES SORROW TO THE WINDS 15
III. THE WORTH OF A FINGER-RING 26
IV. THE BITTER-SWEET OF LIFE 37
V. A PEEP INTO THE WIDE WORLD 43
VI. NIGHT AND MORNING 56
VII. "STRANGERS WALK AS FRIENDS" 66
VIII. LEAVES US IN THE STREET 77
IX. THE LITTLE QUEEN IN THE ARM-CHAIR 90
X. MUD--AND WHAT CAME OF IT 103
XI. RUNNING AWAY WITH THE BROOK 115
XII. SPLITTERS 125
XIII. HOPE DEFERRED 132
XIV. WORK _not_ DEFERRED 139
XV. MOTHER EARTH RATHER THAN AUNT FORTUNE 147
XVI. COUNSEL, CAKES, AND CAPTAIN PARRY 158
XVII. DIFFICULTY OF DOING RIGHT 172
XVIII. LOSES CARE ON THE CAT'S BACK 183
XIX. SHOWING THAT IN SOME CIRCUMSTANCES WHITE IS BLACK 196
XX. HEADSICK AND HEARTSICK 204
XXI. FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS 218
XXII. SHOWS HOW MR. VAN BRUNT COULD BE SHARP UPON SOME
THINGS 230
XXIII. HOW MISS FORTUNE WENT OUT AND PLEASURE CAME IN 239
XXIV. SWEEPING AND DUSTING 246
XXV. SHOWING WHAT A NOISE A BEE CAN MAKE WHEN IT GETS
INTO THE HOUSE 255
XXVI. SUNDRY THINGS ROUND A POT OF CHOCOLATE 267
XXVII. THE JINGLING OF SLEIGH-BELLS 281
XXVIII. SCRAPS--OF MOROCCO AND TALK 290
XXIX. STOCKINGS, TO WHICH THE "BAS BLEU" WAS NOTHING 300
XXX. SUNDAY AT VENTNOR 308
XXXI. FLOWERS AND THORNS 317
XXXII. THE BANKNOTE AND GEORGE WASHINGTON 329
XXXIII. A GATHERING CLOUD IN THE SPRING WEATHER 337
XXXIV. THE CLOUD OVERHEAD 345
XXXV. THIS "WORKING-DAY WORLD" 357
XXXVI. THE BROWNIE 374
XXXVII. TIMOTHY AND HIS MASTER 383
XXXVIII. WHEREIN THE BLACK PRINCE ARRIVES OPPORTUNELY 395
XXXIX. HALCYON DAYS 406
XL. "PRODIGIOUS!" 419
XLI. "THE CLOUDS RETURN AFTER THE RAIN" 428
XLII. ONE LESS IN THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD 438
XLIII. THOSE THAT WERE LEFT 448
XLIV. THE LITTLE SPIRIT THAT HAUNTED THE BIG HOUSE 458
XLV. THE GUARDIAN ANGEL 473
XLVI. "SOMETHING TURNS UP" 487
XLVII. THE WIDE WORLD GROWN WIDER 502
XLVIII. HOW OLD FRIENDS WERE INVESTED WITH THE REGALIA 515
XLIX. THOUGHT IS FREE 531
L. TRIALS WITHOUT 542
LI. TRIALS WITHIN 552
LII. "THOU!" 561
THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD
CHAPTER I
Enjoy the spring of love and youth,
To some good angel leave the rest,
For time will teach thee soon the truth,
"There are no birds in last year's nest."
--LONGFELLOW.
"Mamma, what was that I heard papa saying to you this morning about his
lawsuit?"
"I cannot tell you just now. Ellen, pick up that shawl and spread it
over me."
"Mamma!--are you cold in this warm room?"
"A little,--there, that will do. Now, my daughter, let me be quiet
awhile--don't disturb me."
There was no one else in the room. Driven thus to her own resources,
Ellen betook herself to the window and sought amusement there. The
prospect without gave little promise of it. Rain was falling, and made
the street and everything in it look dull and gloomy. The
foot-passengers plashed through the water, and the horses and carriages
plashed through the mud; gaiety had forsaken the side-walks, and
equipages were few, and the people that were out were plainly there only
because they could not help it. But yet Ellen, having seriously set
herself to study everything that passed, presently became engaged in her
occupation; and her thoughts travelling dreamily from one thing to
another, she sat for a long time with her little face pressed against
the window-frame, perfectly regardless of all but the moving world
without.
Daylight gradually faded away, and the street wore a more and more
gloomy aspect. The rain poured, and now only an occasional carriage or
footstep disturbed the sound of its steady pattering. Yet still Ellen
sat with her face glued to the window as if spell-bound, gazing out at
every dusky form that passed, as though it had some strange interest
for her. At length, in the distance, light after light began to appear;
presently Ellen could see the dim figure of the lamplighter crossing the
street, from side to side, with his ladder;--then he drew near enough
for her to watch him as he hooked his ladder on the lamp-irons, ran up
and lit the lamp, then shouldered the ladder and marched off quick, the
light glancing on his wet oil-skin hat, rough greatcoat and lantern, and
on the pavement and iron railings. The veriest moth could not have
followed the light with more perseverance than did Ellen's eyes--till
the lamplighter gradually disappeared from view, and the last lamp she
could see was lit; and not till then did it occur to her that there was
such a place as indoors. She took her face from the window. The room was
dark and cheerless; and Ellen felt stiff and chilly. However, she made
her way to the fire, and having found the poker, she applied it gently
to the Liverpool coal with such good effect that a bright ruddy blaze
sprang up and lighted the whole room. Ellen smiled at the result of her
experiment. "That is something like," said she to herself; "who says I
can't poke the fire? Now, let us see if I can't do something else. Do
but see how those chairs are standing--one would think we had had a
sewing circle here--there, go back to your places,--that looks a little
better; now these curtains must come down, and I may as well shut the
shutters too--and now this tablecloth must be content to hang straight,
and mamma's box and the books must lie in their places and not all
helter-skelter. Now, I wish mamma would wake up; I should think she
might. I don't believe she is asleep, she don't look as if she was."
Ellen was right in this; her mother's face did not wear the look of
sleep, nor indeed of repose at all; the lips were compressed, and the
brow not calm. To try, however, whether she was asleep or no, and with
the half-acknowledged intent to rouse her at all events, Ellen knelt
down by her side and laid her face close to her mother's on the pillow.
But this failed to draw either word or sign. After a minute or two Ellen
tried stroking her mother's cheek very gently;--and this succeeded, for
Mrs. Montgomery arrested the little hand as it passed her lips, and
kissed it fondly two or three times.
"I haven't disturbed you, mamma, have I?" said Ellen.
Without replying, Mrs. Montgomery raised herself to a sitting posture,
and, lifting both hands to her face, pushed back the hair from her
forehead and temples, with a gesture which Ellen knew meant that she was
making up her mind to some disagreeable or painful effort. Then taking
both Ellen's hands, as she still knelt before her, she gazed in her face
with a look even more fond than usual, Ellen thought, but much sadder
too; though Mrs. Montgomery's cheerfulness had always been of a serious
kind.
"What question was that you were asking me awhile ago, my daughter?"
"I thought, mamma, I heard papa telling you this morning, or yesterday,
that he had lost that lawsuit."
"You heard right, Ellen--he has lost it," said Mrs. Montgomery sadly.
"Are you sorry, mamma?--does it trouble you?"
"You know, my dear, that I am not apt to concern myself overmuch about
the gain or the loss of money. I believe my Heavenly Father will give me
what is good for me."
"Then, mamma, why are you troubled?"
"Because, my child, I cannot carry out this principle in other matters,
and leave quietly my _all_ in His hands."
"What is the matter, dear mother? What makes you look so?"
"This lawsuit, Ellen, has brought upon us more trouble than ever I
thought a lawsuit could--the loss of it, I mean."
"How, mamma?"
"It has caused an entire change of all our plans. Your father says he is
too poor now to stay here any longer; and he has agreed to go soon on
some government or military business to Europe."
"Well, mamma, that is bad; but he has been away a great deal before, and
I am sure we were always very happy?"
"But, Ellen, he thinks now, and the doctor thinks too, that it is very
important for my health that I should go with him."
"Does he, mamma? And do you mean to go?"
"I am afraid I must, my dear child."
"Not, and leave _me_, mother?"
The imploring look of mingled astonishment, terror, and sorrow with
which Ellen uttered these words took from her mother all power of
replying. It was not necessary, her little daughter understood only too
well the silent answer of her eye. With a wild cry she flung her arms
round her mother, and hiding her face in her lap gave way to a violent
burst of grief that seemed for a few moments as if it would rend soul
and body in twain. For her passions were by nature very strong, and by
education very imperfectly controlled; and time, "that rider that breaks
youth," had not as yet tried his hand upon her. And Mrs. Montgomery, in
spite of the fortitude and calmness to which she had steeled herself,
bent down over her, and folding her arms about her, yielded to sorrow
deeper still, and for a little while scarcely less violent in its
expression than Ellen's own.
Alas! she had too good reason. She knew that the chance of her ever
returning to shield the little creature who was nearest her heart from
the future evils and snares of life was very, very small. She had at
first absolutely refused to leave Ellen when her husband proposed it,
declaring that she would rather stay with her and die than take the
chance of recovery at such a cost. But her physician assured her she
could not live long without a change of climate; Captain Montgomery
urged that it was better to submit to a temporary separation than to
cling obstinately to her child for a few months and then leave her for
ever; said he must himself go speedily to France, and that now was her
best opportunity; assuring her, however, that his circumstances would
not permit him to take Ellen along, but that she would be secure of a
happy home with his sister during her mother's absence; and to the
pressure of argument Captain Montgomery added the weight of
authority--insisting on her compliance. Conscience also asked Mrs.
Montgomery whether she had a _right_ to neglect any chance of life that
was offered her; and at last she yielded to the combined influence of
motives no one of which would have had power sufficient to move her, and
though with a secret consciousness it would be in vain, she consented to
do as her friends wished. And it was for Ellen's sake she did it after
all.
Nothing but necessity had given her the courage to open the matter to
her little daughter. She had foreseen and endeavoured to prepare herself
for Ellen's anguish; but nature was too strong for her, and they clasped
each other in a convulsive embrace while tears fell like rain.
It was some minutes before Mrs. Montgomery recollected herself, and then
though she struggled hard she could not immediately regain her
composure. But Ellen's deep sobs at length fairly alarmed her; she saw
the necessity, for both their sakes, of putting a stop to this state of
violent excitement; self-command was restored at once.
"Ellen! Ellen! listen to me," she said; "my child, this is not right.
Remember, my darling, who it is that brings this sorrow upon us--though
we _must_ sorrow, we must not rebel."
Ellen sobbed more gently; but that and the mute pressure of her arms was
her only answer.
"You will hurt both yourself and me, my daughter, if you cannot command
yourself. Remember, dear Ellen, God sends no trouble upon His children
but in love; and though we cannot see how, He will no doubt make all
this work for our good."
"I know it, dear mother," sobbed Ellen; "but it's just as hard!"
Mrs. Montgomery's own heart answered so readily to the truth of Ellen's
words that for the moment she could not speak.
"Try, my daughter," she said after a pause; "try to compose yourself. I
am afraid you will make me worse, Ellen, if you cannot--I am indeed."
Ellen had plenty of faults, but amidst them all love to her mother was
the strongest feeling her heart knew. It had power enough now to move
her as nothing else could have done; and exerting all her self-command,
of which she had sometimes a good deal, she _did_ calm herself, ceased
sobbing, wiped her eyes, arose from her crouching posture, and seating
herself on the sofa by her mother and laying her head on her bosom, she
listened quietly to all the soothing words and cheering considerations
with which Mrs. Montgomery endeavoured to lead her to take a more
hopeful view of the subject. All she could urge, however, had but very
partial success, though the conversation was prolonged far into the
evening. Ellen said little, and did not weep any more; but in secret her
heart refused consolation.
Long before this the servant had brought in the tea-things. Nobody
regarded it at the time, but the little kettle hissing away on the fire
now by chance attracted Ellen's attention, and she suddenly recollected
her mother had had no tea. To make her mother's tea was Ellen's regular
business. She treated it as a very grave affair, and loved it as one of
the pleasantest in the course of the day. She used in the first place to
make sure that the kettle had really boiled; then she carefully poured
some water into the teapot and rinsed it, both to make it clean and to
make it hot; then she knew exactly how much tea to put into the tiny
little teapot, which was just big enough to hold two cups of tea, and
having poured a very little boiling water to it, she used to set it by
the side of the fire while she made half a slice of toast. How careful
Ellen was about that toast! The bread must not be cut too thick nor too
thin; the fire must, if possible, burn clear and bright, and she herself
held the bread on a fork, just at the right distance from the coals to
get nicely browned without burning. When this was done to her
satisfaction (and if the first piece failed she would take another), she
filled up the little teapot from the boiling kettle, and proceeded to
make a cup of tea. She knew, and was very careful to put in, just the
quantity of milk and sugar that her mother liked; and then she used to
carry the tea and toast on a little tray to her mother's side, and very
often held it there for her while she ate. All this Ellen did with the
zeal that love gives, and though the same thing was to be gone over
every night of the year, she was never wearied. It was a real pleasure;
she had the greatest satisfaction in seeing that the little her mother
could eat was prepared for her in the nicest possible manner; she knew
her hands made it taste better; her mother often said so.
But this evening other thoughts had driven this important business quite
out of poor Ellen's mind. Now, however, when her eyes fell upon the
little kettle, she recollected her mother had not had her tea, and must
want it very much; and silently slipping off the sofa she set about
getting it as usual. There was no doubt this time whether the kettle
boiled or no; it had been hissing for an hour and more, calling as loud
as it could to somebody to come and make the tea. So Ellen made it, and
then began the toast. But she began to think too, as she watched it, how
few more times she would be able to do so--how soon her pleasant
tea-makings would be over--and the desolate feeling of separation began
to come upon her before the time. These thoughts were too much for poor
Ellen; the thick tears gathered so fast she could not see what she was
doing; and she had no more than just turned the slice of bread on the
fork when the sickness of heart quite overcame her; she could not go on.
Toast and fork and all dropped from her hand into the ashes; and rushing
to her mother's side, who was now lying down again, and throwing herself
upon her, she burst into another fit of sorrow; not so violent as the
former, but with a touch of hopelessness in it which went yet more to
her mother's heart. Passion in the first said, "I cannot;" despair now
seemed to say, "I must."
But Mrs. Montgomery was too exhausted to either share or soothe Ellen's
agitation. She lay in suffering silence; till after some time she said
faintly, "Ellen, my love, I cannot bear this much longer."
Ellen was immediately brought to herself by these words. She arose,
sorry and ashamed that she should have given occasion for them; and
tenderly kissing her mother, assured her most sincerely and resolutely
that she would not do so again. In a few minutes she was calm enough to
finish making the tea, and having toasted another piece of bread, she
brought it to her mother. Mrs. Montgomery swallowed a cup of tea, but no
toast could be eaten that night.
Both remained silent and quiet awhile after this, till the clock struck
ten. "You had better go to bed, my daughter," said Mrs. Montgomery.
"I will, mamma."
"Do you think you can read me a little before you go?"
"Yes, indeed, mamma;" and Ellen brought the book: "where shall I read?"
"The twenty-third psalm."
Ellen began it, and went through it steadily and slowly, though her
voice quavered a little.
"'The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
"'He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the
still waters.
"'He restoreth my soul; He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for
His name's sake.
"'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear
no evil; for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.
"'Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou
anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
"'Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and
I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.'"
Long before she had finished Ellen's eyes were full, and her heart too.
"If I only could feel these words as mamma does!" she said to herself.
She did not dare look up till the traces of tears had passed away; then
she saw that her mother was asleep. Those first sweet words had fallen
like balm upon the sore heart; and mind and body had instantly found
rest together.
Ellen breathed the lightest possible kiss upon her forehead, and stole
quietly out of the room to her own little bed.