Not all the whispers that the soft winds utter
Speak earthly things--
There mingleth there, sometimes, a gentle flutter
Of angels' wings.
--AMY LATHROP.
Sorrow and excitement made Ellen's eyelids heavy, and she slept late on
the following morning. The great dressing-bell waked her. She started up
with a confused notion that something was the matter; there was a weight
on her heart that was very strange to it. A moment was enough to bring
it all back; and she threw herself again on her pillow, yielding
helplessly to the grief she had twice been obliged to control the
evening before. Yet love was stronger than grief still, and she was
careful to allow no sound to escape her that could reach the ears of her
mother, who slept in the next room. Her resolve was firm to grieve her
no more with useless expressions of sorrow; to keep it to herself as
much as possible. But this very thought that she must keep it to herself
gave an edge to poor Ellen's grief, and the convulsive clasp of her
little arms round the pillow plainly showed that it needed none.
The breakfast-bell again startled her, and she remembered she must not
be too late downstairs, or her mother might inquire and find out the
reason. "I will _not_ trouble mother--I will not--I will not," she
resolved to herself as she got out of bed, though the tears fell faster
as she said so. Dressing was sad work to Ellen to-day; it went on very
heavily. Tears dropped into the water as she stooped her head to the
basin; and she hid her face in the towel to cry, instead of making the
ordinary use of it. But the usual duties were dragged through at last,
and she went to the window. "I'll not go down till papa is gone," she
thought; "he'll ask me what is the matter with my eyes."
Ellen opened the window. The rain was over; the lovely light of a fair
September morning was beautifying everything it shone upon. Ellen had
been accustomed to amuse herself a good deal at this window, though
nothing was to be seen from it but an ugly city prospect of back walls
of houses, with the yards belonging to them, and a bit of narrow street.
But she had watched the people that showed themselves at the windows,
and the children that played in the yards, and the women that went to
the pumps, till she had become pretty well acquainted with the
neighbourhood; and though they were for the most part dingy, dirty, and
disagreeable--women, children, houses, and all--she certainly had taken
a good deal of interest in their proceedings. It was all gone now. She
could not bear to look at them; she felt as if it made her sick; and
turning away her eyes she lifted them to the bright sky above her head,
and gazed into its clear depth of blue till she almost forgot that there
was such a thing as a city in the world. Little white clouds were
chasing across it, driven by the fresh wind that was blowing away
Ellen's hair from her face, and cooling her hot cheeks. That wind could
not have been long in coming from the place of woods and flowers, it was
so sweet still. Ellen looked till, she didn't know why, she felt calmed
and soothed,--as if somebody was saying to her softly, "Cheer up, my
child, cheer up;--things are not as bad as they might be:--things will
be better." Her attention was attracted at length by voices below; she
looked down, and saw there, in one of the yards, a poor deformed child,
whom she had often noticed before, and always with sorrowful interest.
Besides his bodily infirmity, he had a further claim on her sympathy, in
having lost his mother within a few months. Ellen's heart was easily
touched this morning; she felt for him very much. "Poor, poor little
fellow!" she thought; "he's a great deal worse off than I am. _His_
mother is dead; mine is only going away for a few months--not for
ever--oh, what a difference! and then the joy of coming back
again!"--poor Ellen was weeping already at the thought--"and I'll do,
oh, how much! while she is gone--I'll do more than she can possibly
expect from me--I'll astonish her--I'll delight her--I'll work harder
than ever I did in my life before; I'll mend all my faults, and give her
so much pleasure! But oh! if she only needn't go away! Oh, mamma!" Tears
of mingled sweet and bitter were poured out fast, but the bitter had the
largest share.
The breakfast-table was still standing, and her father gone, when Ellen
went downstairs. Mrs. Montgomery welcomed her with her usual quiet
smile, and held out her hand. Ellen tried to smile in answer, but she
was glad to hide her face in her mother's bosom; and the long close
embrace was too close and too long,--it told of sorrow as well as love;
and tears fell from the eyes of each that the other did not see.
"Need I go to school to-day, mamma?" whispered Ellen.
"No; I spoke to your father about that. You shall not go any more. We
will be together now while we can."
Ellen wanted to ask how long that would be, but could not make up her
mind to it.
"Sit down, daughter, and take some breakfast."
"Have you done, mamma?"
"No; I waited for you."
"Thank you, dear mamma," with another embrace; "how good you are! but I
don't think I want any."
They drew their chairs to the table, but it was plain neither had much
heart to eat; although Mrs. Montgomery with her own hand laid on Ellen's
plate half of the little bird that had been boiled for her own
breakfast. The half was too much for each of them.
"What made you so late this morning, daughter?"
"I got up late in the first place, mamma; and then I was a long time at
the window."
"At the window! Were you examining into your neighbours' affairs as
usual?" said Mrs. Montgomery, surprised that it should have been
so.--"Oh no, mamma, I didn't look at them at all--except poor little
Billy. I was looking at the sky."
"And what did you see there that pleased you so much?"
"I don't know, mamma; it looked so lovely and peaceful--that pure blue
spread over my head, and the little white clouds flying across it. I
loved to look at it; it seemed to do me good."
"Could you look at it, Ellen, without thinking of Him who made it?"
"No, mamma," said Ellen, ceasing her breakfast, and now speaking with
difficulty; "I did think of Him; perhaps that was the reason."
"And what did you think of Him, daughter?"
"I hoped, mamma--I felt--I thought--He would take care of me," said
Ellen, bursting into tears, and throwing her arms round her mother.
"He will, my dear daughter, He will, if you will only put your trust in
Him, Ellen."
Ellen struggled hard to get back her composure, and after a few minutes
succeeded.
"Mamma, will you tell me what you mean exactly by my 'putting my trust'
in Him?"
"Don't you trust me, Ellen?"
"Certainly, mamma."
"How do you trust me?--in what?"
"Why, mamma;--in the first place I trust every word you say--entirely--I
know nothing could be truer. If you were to tell me black is white,
mamma, I should think my eyes had been mistaken. Then everything you
tell or advise me to do, I know it is right, perfectly. And I always
feel safe when you are near me, because I know you'll take care of me.
And I am glad to think I belong to you, and you have the management of
me entirely, and I needn't manage myself, because I know I can't; and if
I could, I'd rather you would, mamma."
"My daughter, it is just so; it is _just_ so that I wish you to trust in
God. He is truer, wiser, stronger, kinder, by far than I am, even if I
could always be with you; and what will you do when I am away from
you?--and what would you do, my child, if I were to be parted from you
for ever?"
"Oh, mamma!" said Ellen, bursting into tears, and clasping her arms
round her mother again--"Oh, dear mamma, don't talk about it!"
Her mother fondly returned her caress, and one or two tears fell on
Ellen's head as she did so, but that was all, and she said no more.
Feeling severely the effects of the excitement and anxiety of the
preceding day and night, she now stretched herself on the sofa and lay
quite still. Ellen placed herself on a little bench at her side, with
her back to the head of the sofa, that her mother might not see her
face; and possessing herself of one of her hands, sat with her little
head resting upon her mother, as quiet as she. They remained thus for
two or three hours, without speaking; and Mrs. Montgomery was part of
the time slumbering; but now and then a tear ran down the side of the
sofa and dropped on the carpet where Ellen sat; and now and then her
lips were softly pressed to the hand she held, as if they would grow
there. The doctor's entrance at last disturbed them. Doctor Green found
his patient decidedly worse than he had reason to expect; and his
sagacious eye had not passed back and forth many times between the
mother and daughter before he saw how it was. He made no remark upon it,
however, but continued for some moments a pleasant chatty conversation
which he had begun with Mrs. Montgomery. He then called Ellen to him; he
had rather taken a fancy to her.
"Well, Miss Ellen," he said, rubbing one of her hands in his, "what do
you think of this fine scheme of mine?"
"What scheme, sir?"
"Why, this scheme of sending this sick lady over the water to get well.
What do you think of it, eh?"
"_Will_ it make her quite well, do you think, sir?" asked Ellen
earnestly.
"'Will it make her well?' To be sure it will; do you think I don't know
better than to send people all the way across the ocean for nothing? Who
do you think would want Dr. Green if he sent people on wildgoose chases
in that fashion?"
"Will she have to stay long there before she is cured, sir?" asked
Ellen.
"Oh, that I can't tell; that depends entirely on circumstances--perhaps
longer, perhaps shorter. But now, Miss Ellen, I've got a word of
business to say to you. You know you agreed to be my little nurse. Mrs.
Nurse, this lady whom I put under your care the other day, isn't quite
as well as she ought to be this morning; I am afraid you haven't taken
proper care of her; she looks to me as if she had been too much excited.
I've a notion she has been secretly taking half a bottle of wine, or
reading some furious kind of a novel, or something of that sort--you
understand? Now mind, Mrs. Nurse," said the doctor, changing his tone,
"she _must not_ be excited--you must take care that she is not--it isn't
good for her. You mustn't let her talk much, or laugh much, or cry at
all, on any account; she mustn't be worried in the least--will you
remember? Now you know what I shall expect of you; you must be very
careful--if that piece of toast of yours should chance to get burned,
one of these fine evenings, I won't answer for the consequences.
Good-bye," said he, shaking Ellen's hand, "you needn't look sober about
it; all you have to do is to let your mamma be as much like an oyster as
possible--you understand? Good-bye." And Dr. Green took his leave.
"Poor woman!" said the doctor to himself as he went down stairs (he was
a humane man). "I wonder if she'll live till she gets to the other side!
That's a nice little girl, too. Poor child! poor child!"
Both mother and daughter silently acknowledged the justice of the
doctor's advice, and determined to follow it. By common consent, as it
seemed, each for several days avoided bringing the subject of sorrow to
the other's mind, though no doubt it was constantly present to both. It
was not spoken of--indeed, little of any kind was spoken of, but that
never. Mrs. Montgomery was doubtless employed during this interval in
preparing for what she believed was before her; endeavouring to resign
herself and her child to Him in whose hands they were, and struggling to
withdraw her affections from a world which she had a secret misgiving
she was fast leaving. As for Ellen, the doctor's warning had served to
strengthen the resolve she had already made, that she would not distress
her mother with the sight of her sorrow; and she kept it, as far as she
could. She let her mother see but very few tears, and those were quiet
ones; though she drooped her head like a withered flower, and went about
the house with an air of submissive sadness that tried her mother
sorely. But when she was alone, and knew no one could see, sorrow had
its way; and then there were sometimes agonies of grief that would
almost have broken Mrs. Montgomery's resolution had she known them.
This, however, could not last. Ellen was a child, and of most buoyant
and elastic spirit naturally; it was not for one sorrow, however great,
to utterly crush her. It would have taken years to do that. Moreover,
she entertained not the slightest hope of being able by any means to
alter her father's will. She regarded the dreaded evil as an inevitable
thing. But though she was at first overwhelmed with sorrow, and for some
days evidently pined under it sadly, hope at length _would_ come back to
her little heart; and no sooner in again, hope began to smooth the
roughest, and soften the hardest, and touch the dark spots with light,
in Ellen's future. The thoughts which had passed through her head that
first morning as she had stood at her window, now came back again.
Thoughts of wonderful improvement to be made during her mother's
absence; of unheard-of efforts to learn and amend, which should all be
crowned with success; and, above all, thoughts of that "coming home,"
when all these attainments and accomplishments should be displayed to
the mother's delighted eyes, and her exertions receive their
long-desired reward; they made Ellen's heart beat, and her eyes swim,
and even brought a smile once more upon her lips. Mrs. Montgomery was
rejoiced to see the change; she felt that as much time had already been
given to sorrow as they could afford to lose, and she had not known
exactly how to proceed. Ellen's amended looks and spirits greatly
relieved her.
"What are you thinking about, Ellen?" said she one morning.
Ellen was sewing, and while busy at her work her mother had two or three
times observed a light smile pass over her face. Ellen looked up, still
smiling, and answered, "Oh, mamma, I was thinking of different
things--things that I mean to do while you are gone."
"And what are these things?" inquired her mother.
"Oh, mamma, it wouldn't do to tell you beforehand. I want to surprise
you with them when you come back."
A slight shudder passed over Mrs. Montgomery's frame, but Ellen did not
see it. Mrs. Montgomery was silent. Ellen presently introduced another
subject.
"Mamma, what kind of a person is my aunt?"
"I do not know. I have never seen her."
"How has that happened, mamma?"
"Your aunt has always lived in a remote country town, and I have been
very much confined to two or three cities, and your father's long and
repeated absences made travelling impossible to me."
Ellen thought, but she did not say it, that it was very odd her father
should not sometimes, when he _was_ in the country, have gone to see his
relations and taken her mother with him.
"What is my aunt's name, mamma?"
"I think you must have heard that already, Ellen--Fortune Emerson."
"Emerson! I thought she was papa's sister?"
"So she is."
"Then how comes her name not to be Montgomery?"
"She is only his half-sister--the daughter of his mother, not the
daughter of his father."
"I am very sorry for that," said Ellen gravely.
"Why, my daughter?"
"I am afraid she will not be so likely to love me."
"You mustn't think so, my child. Her loving or not loving you will
depend solely and entirely upon yourself, Ellen. Don't forget that. If
you are a good child, and make it your daily care to do your duty, she
cannot help liking you, be she what she may; and on the other hand, if
she have all the will in the world to love you, she cannot do it unless
you will let her. It all depends on your behaviour."
"Oh, mamma, I can't help wishing dear aunt Bessy was alive, and I was
going to her."
Many a time the same wish had passed through Mrs. Montgomery's mind. But
she kept down her rising heart, and went on calmly--
"You must not expect, my child, to find anybody as indulgent as I am, or
as ready to overlook and excuse your faults. It would be unreasonable to
look for it, and you must not think hardly of your aunt when you find
she is not your mother; but then it will be your own fault if she does
not love you, in time, truly and tenderly. See that you render her all
the respect and obedience you could render me. That is your bounden
duty. She will stand in my place while she has the care of you--remember
that, Ellen. And remember, too, that she will deserve more gratitude at
your hands for showing you kindness than I do, because she cannot have
the same feeling of love to make trouble easy."
"Oh no, mamma," said Ellen, "I don't think so. It's that very feeling of
love that I am grateful for. I don't care a fig for anything people do
for me without that."
"But you can make her love you, Ellen, if you try."
"Well, I'll try, mamma."
"And don't be discouraged. Perhaps you may be disappointed in first
appearances, but never mind that. Have patience, and let your motto
be--if there's any occasion--Overcome evil with good. Will you put that
among the things you mean to do while I am gone?" said Mrs. Montgomery
with a smile.
"I'll try, dear mamma."
"You will succeed if you try, dear, never fear, if you apply yourself in
your trying to the only unfailing source of wisdom and strength, to Him
without whom you can do nothing."
There was silence for a little.
"What sort of a place is it where my aunt lives?" asked Ellen.
"Your father says it is a very pleasant place. He says the country is
beautiful and very healthy, and full of charming walks and rides. You
have never lived in the country. I think you will enjoy it very much."
"Then it is not in a town?" said Ellen.
"No; it is not a great way from the town of Thirlwall, but your aunt
lives in the open country. Your father says she is a capital
housekeeper, and that you will learn more, and be in all respects a
great deal happier and better off than you would be in a boarding-school
here or anywhere."
Ellen's heart secretly questioned the truth of this last assertion very
much.
"Is there any school near?" she asked.
"Your father says there was an excellent one in Thirlwall when he was
there."
"Mamma," said Ellen, "I think the greatest pleasure I shall have while
you are gone will be writing to you. I have been thinking of it a good
deal. I mean to tell you everything--absolutely everything, mamma. You
know there will be nobody for me to talk to as I do to you" (Ellen's
words came out with difficulty), "and when I feel badly I shall just
shut myself up and write to you." She hid her face in her mother's lap.
"I count upon it, my dear daughter. It will make quite as much the
pleasure of my life, Ellen, as of yours."
"But then, mother," said Ellen, brushing away the tears from her eyes,
"it will be so long before my letters can get to you! The things I want
you to know right away, you won't know perhaps in a month."
"That's no matter, daughter; they will be just as good when they do get
to me. Never think of that; write every day, and all manner of things
that concern you,--just as particularly as if you were speaking to me."
"And you'll write to me, too, mamma?"
"Indeed I will--when I can. But Ellen, you say that when I am away and
cannot hear you, there will be nobody to supply my place. Perhaps it
will be so indeed; but then, my daughter, let it make you seek that
friend who is never far away, nor out of hearing. Draw nigh to God, and
He will draw nigh to you. You know He has said of His children: 'Before
they call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking, I will
hear.'"
"But, mamma," said Ellen, her eyes filling instantly, "you know He is
not my friend in the same way that He is yours." And hiding her face
again, she added, "Oh, I wish He was!"
"You know the way to make Him so, Ellen, _He_ is willing; it only rests
with you. Oh, my child, my child! if losing your mother might be the
means of finding you that Better Friend, I should be quite willing--and
glad to go--for ever."
There was silence, only broken by Ellen's sobs. Mrs. Montgomery's voice
had trembled, and her face was now covered with her hands; but she was
not weeping; she was seeking a better relief where it had long been her
habit to seek and find it. Both resumed their usual composure, and the
employments which had been broken off, but neither chose to renew the
conversation. Dinner, sleeping, and company prevented their having
another opportunity during the rest of the day.
But when evening came, they were again left to themselves. Captain
Montgomery was away, which indeed was the case most of the time;
friends had taken their departure; the curtains were down, the lamp lit,
the little room looked cosy and comfortable; the servant had brought the
tea-things, and withdrawn, and the mother and daughter were happily
alone. Mrs. Montgomery knew that such occasions were numbered, and fast
drawing to an end, and she felt each one to be very precious. She now
lay on her couch, with her face partially shaded, and her eyes fixed
upon her little daughter, who was now preparing the tea. She watched
her, with thoughts and feelings not to be spoken, as the little figure
went back and forward between the table and the fire, and the light
shining full upon her busy face, showed that Ellen's whole soul was in
her beloved duty. Tears would fall as she looked, and were not wiped
away; but when Ellen, having finished her work, brought with a satisfied
face the little tray of tea and toast to her mother, there was no longer
any sign of them left. Mrs. Montgomery arose with her usual kind smile,
to show her gratitude by honouring as far as possible what Ellen had
provided.
"You have more appetite to-night, mamma."
"I am very glad, daughter," replied her mother, "to see that you have
made up your mind to bear patiently this evil that has come upon us. I
am glad for your sake, and I am glad for mine; and I am glad too because
we have a great deal to do, and no time to lose in doing it."
"What have we so much to do, mamma?" said Ellen.
"Oh, many things," said her mother; "you will see. But now, Ellen, if
there is anything you wish to talk to me about, any question you want to
ask, anything you would like particularly to have, or to have done for
you, I want you to tell it me as soon as possible, now while we can
attend to it, for by-and-by perhaps we shall be hurried."
"Mamma," said Ellen with brightening eyes, "there is one thing I have
thought of that I should like to have; shall I tell it you now?"
"Yes."
"Mamma, you know I shall want to be writing a great deal; wouldn't it be
a good thing for me to have a little box with some pens in it, and an
inkstand, and some paper and wafers? Because, mamma, you know I shall be
among strangers at first, and I shan't feel like asking them for these
things as often as I shall want them, and maybe they wouldn't want to
let me have them if I did."
"I have thought of that already, daughter," said Mrs. Montgomery with a
smile and a sigh. "I will certainly take care that you are well provided
in that respect before you go."
"How am I to go, mamma?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, who will go with me? You know I can't go alone, mamma."
"No, my daughter, I'll not send you alone. But your father says it is
impossible for _him_ to take that journey at present, and it is yet more
impossible for me. There is no help for it, daughter, but we must
entrust you to the care of some friend going that way; but He that holds
the winds and waters in the hollow of His hand can take care of you
without any of our help, and it is to His keeping above all that I shall
commit you."
Ellen made no remark, and seemed much less surprised and troubled than
her mother had expected. In truth, the greater evil swallowed up the
less. Parting from her mother, and for so long a time, it seemed to her
comparatively a matter of little importance with whom she went, or how,
or where. Except for this, the taking a long journey under a stranger's
care would have been a dreadful thing to her.
"Do you know yet who it will be that I shall go with, mamma?"
"Not yet; but it will be necessary to take the first good opportunity,
for I cannot go till I have seen you off; and it is thought very
desirable that I should get to sea before the severe weather comes."
It was with a pang that these words were spoken and heard, but neither
showed it to the other.
"It has comforted me greatly, my dear child, that you have shown
yourself so submissive and patient under this affliction. I should
scarcely have been able to endure it if you had not exerted
self-control. You have behaved beautifully."
This was almost too much for poor Ellen. It required her utmost stretch
of self-control to keep within any bounds of composure; and for some
moments her flushed cheek, quivering lip, and heaving bosom told what a
tumult her mother's last words had raised. Mrs. Montgomery saw she had
gone too far, and willing to give both Ellen and herself time to
recover, she laid her head on the pillow again and closed her eyes. Many
thoughts coming thick upon one another presently filled her mind, and
half-an-hour had passed before she again recollected what she had meant
to say. She opened her eyes; Ellen was sitting at a little distance,
staring into the fire, evidently as deep in meditation as her mother had
been.
"Ellen," said Mrs. Montgomery, "did you ever fancy what kind of a Bible
you would like to have?"
"A Bible! mamma," said Ellen with sparkling eyes, "do you mean to give
me a Bible?"
Mrs. Montgomery smiled.
"But, mamma," said Ellen gently, "I thought you couldn't afford it?"
"I have said so, and truly," answered her mother; "and hitherto you have
been able to use mine, but I will not leave you now without one. I will
find ways and means," said Mrs. Montgomery, smiling again.
"Oh, mamma, thank you!" said Ellen, delighted; "how glad I shall be!"
And after a pause of consideration she added, "Mamma, I never thought
much about what sort of a one I should like; couldn't I tell better if I
were to see the different kinds in the store?"
"Perhaps so. Well, the first day that the weather is fine enough and I
am well enough, I will go out with you and we will see about it."
"I am afraid Dr. Green won't let you, mamma."
"I shall not ask him. I want to get you a Bible, and some other things
that I will not leave you without, and nobody can do it but myself. I
shall go, if I possibly can."
"What other things, mamma?" asked Ellen, very much interested in the
subject.
"I don't think it will do to tell you to-night," said Mrs. Montgomery,
smiling. "I foresee that you and I should be kept awake quite too late
if we were to enter upon it just now. We will leave it till to-morrow.
Now read to me, love, and then to bed."
Ellen obeyed; and went to sleep with brighter visions dancing before her
eyes than had been the case for some time.