My child is yet a stranger in the world.
She hath not seen the change of fourteen years.
--SHAKESPEARE.
The next day would not do for the intended shopping; nor the next. The
third day was fine, though cool and windy.
"Do you think you can venture out to-day, mamma?" said Ellen.
"I am afraid not. I do not feel quite equal to it; and the wind is a
great deal too high for me, besides."
"Well," said Ellen, in a tone of one who is making up her mind to
something, "we shall have a fine day by-and-by, I suppose, if we wait
long enough; we had to wait a great while for our first shopping day. I
wish such another would come round."
"But the misfortune is," said her mother, "that we cannot afford to
wait. November will soon be here, and your clothes may be suddenly
wanted before they are ready, if we do not bestir ourselves. And Miss
Rice is coming in a few days; I ought to have the merino ready for her."
"What will you do, mamma?"
"I do not know, indeed, Ellen; I am greatly at a loss."
"Couldn't papa get the stuffs for you, mamma?"
"No, he's too busy; and besides, he knows nothing at all about shopping
for me; he would be sure to bring me exactly what I do not want. I tried
that once."
"Well, what will you do, mamma? Is there nobody else you could ask to
get the things for you? Mrs. Foster would do it, mamma."
"I know she would, and I should ask her without any difficulty, but she
is confined to her room with a cold. I see nothing for it but to be
patient and let things take their course, though if a favourable
opportunity should offer you would have to go, clothes or no clothes; it
would not do to lose the chance of a good escort."
And Mrs. Montgomery's face showed that this possibility, of Ellen's
going unprovided, gave her some uneasiness. Ellen observed it.
"Never mind me, dearest mother; don't be in the least worried about my
clothes. You don't know how little I think of them or care for them.
It's no matter at all whether I have them or not."
Mrs. Montgomery smiled, and passed her hand fondly over her little
daughter's head, but presently resumed her anxious look out of the
window.
"Mamma!" exclaimed Ellen, suddenly starting up, "a bright thought has
just come into my head! _I'll_ do it for you, mamma!"
"Do what?"
"I'll get the merino and things for you, mamma. You needn't smile--I
will, indeed, if you will let me?"
"My dear Ellen," said her mother, "I don't doubt you would if goodwill
only were wanting; but a great deal of skill and experience is necessary
for a shopper, and what would you do without either?"
"But see, mamma," pursued Ellen eagerly, "I'll tell you how I'll manage,
and I know I can manage very well. You tell me exactly what coloured
merino you want, and give me a little piece to show me how fine it
should be, and tell me what price you wish to give, and then I'll go to
the store and ask them to show me different pieces, you know; and if I
see any I think you would like, I'll ask them to give me a little bit of
it to show you; and then I'll bring it home, and if you like it you can
give me the money, and tell me how many yards you want, and I can go
back to the store and get it. Why can't I, mamma?"
"Perhaps you could; but, my dear child, I am afraid you wouldn't like
the business."
"Yes, I should; indeed, mamma, I should like it dearly if I could help
you so. Will you let me try, mamma?"
"I don't like, my child, to venture you alone on such an errand, among
crowds of people; I should be uneasy about you."
"Dear mamma, what would the crowds of people do to me? I am not a bit
afraid. You know, mamma, I have often taken walks alone--that's nothing
new; and what harm should come to me while I am in the store! You
needn't be the least uneasy about me--may I go?"
Mrs. Montgomery smiled, but was silent.
"May I go, mamma?" repeated Ellen. "Let me go at least and try what I
can do. What do you say, mamma?"
"I don't know what to say, my daughter, but I am in difficulty on either
hand. I will let you go and see what you can do. It would be a great
relief to me to get this merino by any means."
"Then shall I go right away, mamma?"
"As well now as ever. _You_ are not afraid of the wind?"
"I should think not," said Ellen; and away she scampered upstairs to get
ready. With eager haste she dressed herself; then with great care and
particularity took her mother's instructions as to the article wanted;
and finally set out, sensible that a great trust was reposed in her, and
feeling busy and important accordingly. But at the very bottom of
Ellen's heart there was a little secret doubtfulness respecting her
undertaking. She hardly knew it was there, but then she couldn't tell
what it was that made her fingers so inclined to be tremulous while she
was dressing, and that made her heart beat quicker than it ought, or
than was pleasant, and one of her cheeks so much hotter than the other.
However, she set forth upon her errand with a very brisk step, which she
kept up till on turning a corner she came in sight of the place she was
going to. Without thinking much about it, Ellen had directed her steps
to St. Clair & Fleury's. It was one of the largest and best stores in
the city, and the one she knew where her mother generally made her
purchases; and it did not occur to her that it might not be the best for
her purpose on this occasion. But her steps slackened as soon as she
came in sight of it, and continued to slacken as she drew nearer, and
she went up the broad flight of marble steps in front of the store very
slowly indeed, though they were exceedingly low and easy. Pleasure was
not certainly the uppermost feeling in her mind now; yet she never
thought of turning back. She knew that if she could succeed in the
object of her mission her mother would be relieved from some anxiety;
that was enough; she was bent on accomplishing it.
Timidly she entered the large hall of the entrance. It was full of
people, and the buzz of business was heard on all sides. Ellen had for
some time past seldom gone a shopping with her mother, and had never
been in this store but once or twice before. She had not the remotest
idea where, or in what apartment of the building, the merino counter was
situated, and she could see no one to speak to. She stood irresolute in
the middle of the floor. Everybody seemed to be busily engaged with
somebody else; and whenever an opening on one side or another appeared
to promise her an opportunity, it was sure to be filled up before she
could reach it, and disappointed and abashed she would return to her old
station in the middle of the floor. Clerks frequently passed her,
crossing the store in all directions, but they were always bustling
along in a great hurry of business; they did not seem to notice her at
all, and were gone before poor Ellen could speak to them. She knew well
enough now, poor child, what it was that made her cheeks burn as they
did, and her heart beat as if it would burst its bounds. She felt
confused, and almost confounded, by the incessant hum of voices, and
moving crowd of strange people all around her, while her little figure
stood alone and unnoticed in the midst of them; and there seemed no
prospect that she would be able to gain the ear or the eye of a single
person. Once she determined to accost a man she saw advancing toward her
from a distance, and actually made up to him for the purpose, but with a
hurried bow, and "I beg your pardon, miss!" he brushed past. Ellen
almost burst into tears. She longed to turn and run out of the store,
but a faint hope remaining, and an unwillingness to give up her
undertaking, kept her fast. At length one of the clerks at the desk
observed her, and remarked to Mr. St. Clair who stood by, "There is a
little girl, sir, who seems to be looking for something, or waiting for
somebody; she has been standing there a good while." Mr. St. Clair upon
this advanced, to poor Ellen's relief.
"What do you wish, miss?" he said.
But Ellen had been so long preparing sentences, trying to utter them and
failing in the attempt, that now, when an opportunity to speak and be
heard was given her, the power of speech seemed to be gone.
"Do you wish anything, miss?" inquired Mr. St. Clair again.
"Mother sent me," stammered Ellen--"I wish, if you please, sir--mamma
wished me to look at merinoes, sir, if you please."
"Is your mamma in the store?"
"No, sir," said Ellen, "she is ill and cannot come out, and she sent me
to look at merinoes for her, if you please, sir."
"Here, Saunders," said Mr. St. Clair, "show this young lady the
merinoes."
Mr. Saunders made his appearance from among a little group of clerks
with whom he had been indulging in a few jokes by way of relief from the
tedium of business. "Come this way," he said to Ellen; and sauntering
before her, with a rather dissatisfied air, led the way out of the
entrance hall into another and much larger apartment. There were plenty
of people here too, and just as busy as those they had quitted. Mr.
Saunders having brought Ellen to the merino counter, placed himself
behind it; and leaning over it and fixing his eyes carelessly upon her,
asked what she wanted to look at. His tone and manner struck Ellen most
unpleasantly, and made her again wish herself out of the store. He was a
tall, lank young man, with a quantity of fair hair combed down on each
side of his face, a slovenly exterior, and the most disagreeable pair of
eyes, Ellen thought, she had ever beheld. She could not bear to meet
them, and cast down her own. Their look was bold, ill-bred, and
ill-humoured; and Ellen felt, though she couldn't have told why, that
she need not expect either kindness or politeness from him.
"What do you want to see, little one?" inquired this gentleman, as if he
had a business on hand he would like to be rid of. Ellen heartily wished
he was rid of it, and she too. "Merinoes, if you please," she answered,
without looking up.
"Well, what kind of merinoes? Here are all sorts and descriptions of
merinoes, and I can't pull them all down, you know, for you to look at.
What kind do you want?"
"I don't know without looking," said Ellen, "won't you please to show me
some?"
He tossed down several pieces upon the counter, and tumbled them about
before her.
"There," said he, "is that anything like what you want? There's a pink
one, and there's a blue one, and there's a green one. Is that the kind?"
"This is the kind," said Ellen; "but this isn't the colour I want."
"What colour do you want?"
"Something dark, if you please."
"Well, there, that green's dark; won't that do? See, that would make up
very pretty for you."
"No," said Ellen; "mamma don't like green."
"Why don't she come and choose her stuffs herself, then? What colour
_does_ she like?"
"Dark blue, or dark brown, or a nice grey would do," said Ellen, "if it
is fine enough."
"'Dark blue,' or 'dark brown,' or a 'nice grey,' eh! Well, she's pretty
easy to suit. A dark blue I've showed you already; what's the matter
with that?"
"It isn't dark enough," said Ellen.
"Well," said he discontentedly, pulling down another piece, "how'll that
do? That's dark enough."
It was a fine and beautiful piece, very different from those he had
showed her at first. Even Ellen could see that, and fumbling for her
little pattern of merino, she compared it with the piece. They agreed
perfectly as to fineness.
"What is the price of this?" she asked, with trembling hope that she was
going to be rewarded by success for all the trouble of her enterprise.
"Two dollars a yard."
Her hopes and countenance fell together. "That's too high," she said
with a sigh.
"Then take this other blue; come--it's a great deal prettier than that
dark one, and not so dear; and I know your mother will like it better."
Ellen's cheeks were tingling and her heart throbbing, but she couldn't
bear to give up.
"Would you be so good as to show me some grey?"
He slowly and ill-humouredly complied, and took down an excellent piece
of dark grey, which Ellen fell in love with at once; but she was again
disappointed; it was fourteen shillings.
"Well, if you won't take that, take something else," said the man; "you
can't have everything at once; if you will have cheap goods, of course
you can't have the same quality that you like; but now here's this other
blue, only twelve shillings, and I'll let you have it for ten if you'll
take it."
"No, it is too light and too coarse," said Ellen; "mamma wouldn't like
it."
"Let me see," said he, seizing her pattern and pretending to compare it;
"it's quite as fine as this, if that's all you want."
"Could you," said Ellen timidly, "give me a little bit of this grey to
show mamma?"
"Oh no!" said he impatiently, tossing over the cloths and throwing
Ellen's pattern on the floor, "we can't cut up our goods; if people
don't choose to buy of us they may go somewhere else, and if you cannot
decide upon anything I must go and attend to those that can. I can't
wait here all day."
"What's the matter, Saunders?" said one of his brother clerks passing
him.
"Why, I've been here this half-hour showing cloths to a child that
doesn't know merino from a sheep's back," said he, laughing. And some
other customers coming up at the moment, he was as good as his word, and
left Ellen, to attend to them.
Ellen stood a moment stock still, just where he had left her, struggling
with her feelings of mortification; she could not endure to let them be
seen. Her face was on fire; her head was dizzy. She could not stir at
first, and, in spite of her utmost efforts, she _could_ not command back
one or two rebel tears that forced their way; she lifted her hand to her
face to remove them as quickly as possible. "What is all this about, my
little girl?" said a strange voice at her side. Ellen started, and
turned her face, with the tears but half wiped away, toward the speaker.
It was an old gentleman, an odd old gentleman too, she thought; one she
certainly would have been rather shy of if she had seen him under other
circumstances. But though his face was odd, it looked kindly upon her,
and it was a kind tone of voice in which this question had been put; so
he seemed to her like a friend. "What is all this?" repeated the old
gentleman. Ellen began to tell what it was, but the pride which had
forbidden her to weep before strangers gave way at one touch of
sympathy, and she poured out tears much faster than words as she related
her story, so that it was some little time before the old gentleman
could get a clear notion of her case. He waited very patiently till she
had finished; but then he set himself in good earnest about righting the
wrong. "Hallo! you, sir!" he shouted, in a voice that made everybody
look round; "you merino man! come and show your goods: why aren't you at
your post, sir?"--as Mr. Saunders came up with an altered
countenance--"here's a young lady you've left standing unattended to I
don't know how long; are these your manners?"
"The young lady did not wish anything, I believe, sir," returned Mr.
Saunders softly.
"You know better, you scoundrel," retorted the old gentleman, who was in
a great passion; "I saw the whole matter with my own eyes. You are a
disgrace to the store, sir, and deserve to be sent out of it, which you
are like enough to be."
"I really thought, sir," said Mr. Saunders smoothly,--for he knew the
old gentleman, and knew very well he was a person that must not be
offended,--"I really thought--I was not aware, sir, that the young lady
had any occasion for my services."
"Well, show your wares, sir, and hold your tongue. Now, my dear, what
did you want?"
"I wanted a little bit of this grey merino, sir, to show to mamma. I
couldn't buy it, you know, sir, until I found out whether she would like
it."
"Cut a piece, sir, without any words," said the old gentleman. Mr.
Saunders obeyed.
"Did you like this best?" pursued the old gentleman.
"I like this dark blue very much, sir, and I thought mamma would; but
it's too high."
"How much is it?" inquired he.
"Fourteen shillings," replied Mr. Saunders.
"He said it was two dollars!" exclaimed Ellen.
"I beg pardon," said the crestfallen Mr. Saunders, "the young lady
mistook me; I was speaking of another piece when I said two dollars."
"He said this was two dollars and the grey fourteen shillings," said
Ellen.
"Is the grey fourteen shillings?" inquired the old gentleman.
"I think not, sir," answered Mr. Saunders; "I believe not, sir--I think
it's only twelve--I'll inquire, if you please, sir."
"No, no," said the old gentleman, "I know it was only twelve--I know
your tricks, sir. Cut a piece off the blue. Now, my dear, are there any
more pieces of which you would like to take patterns to show your
mother?"
"No, sir," said the overjoyed Ellen; "I am sure she will like one of
these."
"Now shall we go, then?"
"If you please, sir," said Ellen, "I should like to have my bit of
merino that I brought from home; mamma wanted me to bring it back
again."
"Where is it?"
"That gentleman threw it on the floor."
"Do you hear, sir?" said the old gentleman; "find it directly."
Mr. Saunders found and delivered it, after stooping in search of it till
he was very red in the face; and he was left, wishing heartily that he
had some safe means of revenge, and obliged to come to the conclusion
that none was within his reach, and that he must stomach his dignity in
the best manner he could. But Ellen and her protector went forth most
joyously together from the store.
"Do you live far from here?" asked the old gentleman.
"Oh no, sir," said Ellen, "not very; it's only at Green's Hotel in
Southing Street."
"I'll go with you," said he, "and when your mother has decided which
merino she will have, we'll come right back and get it. I do not want to
trust you again to the mercy of that saucy clerk."
"Oh, thank you, sir!" said Ellen, "that is just what I was afraid of.
But I shall be giving you a great deal of trouble, sir," she added in
another tone.
"No, you won't," said the old gentleman; "I can't be troubled, so you
needn't say anything about that."
They went gaily along--Ellen's heart about five times as light as the
one with which she had travelled that very road a little while before.
Her old friend was in a very cheerful mood too, for he assured Ellen,
laughingly, that it was of no manner of use for her to be in a hurry,
for he could not possibly set off and skip to Green's Hotel, as she
seemed inclined to do. They got there at last. Ellen showed the old
gentleman into the parlour, and ran upstairs in great haste to her
mother. But in a few minutes she came down again, with a very April
face, for smiles were playing in every feature, while the tears were yet
wet upon her cheeks.
"Mamma hopes you'll take the trouble, sir, to come upstairs," she said,
seizing his hand; "she wants to thank you yourself, sir."
"It is not necessary," said the old gentleman, "it is not necessary at
all;" but he followed his little conductor, nevertheless, to the door of
her mother's room, into which she ushered him with great satisfaction.
Mrs. Montgomery was looking very ill--he saw that at a glance. She rose
from her sofa, and extending her hand, thanked him with glistening eyes
for his kindness to her child.
"I don't deserve any thanks, ma'am," said the old gentleman; "I suppose
my little friend has told you what made us acquainted?"
"She gave me a very short account of it," said Mrs. Montgomery.
"She was very disagreeably tried," said the old gentleman. "I presume
you do not need to be told, ma'am, that her behaviour was such as would
have become any years. I assure you, ma'am, if I had no kindness in my
composition to feel for the _child_, my honour as a gentleman would have
made me interfere for the _lady_."
Mrs. Montgomery smiled, but looked through glistening eyes again on
Ellen. "I am _very_ glad to hear it," she replied. "I was very far from
thinking, when I permitted her to go on this errand, that I was exposing
her to anything more serious than the annoyance a timid child would
feel at having to transact business with strangers."
"I suppose not," said the old gentleman; "but it isn't a sort of thing
that should be often done. There are all sorts of people in this world,
and a little one alone in a crowd is in danger of being trampled upon."
Mrs. Montgomery's heart answered this with an involuntary pang. He saw
the shade that passed over her face as she said sadly--
"I know it, sir; and it was with strong unwillingness that I allowed
Ellen this morning to do as she had proposed; but in truth I was making
a choice between difficulties. I am very sorry I chose as I did. If you
are a father, sir, you know better than I can tell you how grateful I am
for your kind interference."
"Say nothing about that, ma'am; the less the better. I am an old man,
and not good for much now, except to please young people. I think myself
best off when I have the best chance to do that, so if you will be so
good as to choose that merino, and let Miss Ellen and me go and despatch
our business, you will be conferring and not receiving a favour. And any
other errand that you please to entrust her with I'll undertake to see
her safe through."
His look and manner obliged Mrs. Montgomery to take him at his word. A
very short examination of Ellen's patterns ended in favour of the grey
merino; and Ellen was commissioned not only to get and pay for this, but
also to choose a dark dress of the same stuff, and enough of a certain
article for a nankeen coat; Mrs. Montgomery truly opining that the old
gentleman's care would do more than see her scathless,--that it would
have some regard to the justness and prudence of her purchases.
In great glee Ellen set forth again with her new old friend. Her hand
was fast in his, and her tongue ran very freely, for her heart was
completely opened to him. He seemed as pleased to listen as she was to
talk; and by little and little Ellen told him all her history; the
troubles that had come upon her in consequence of her mother's illness,
and her intended journey and prospects.
That was a happy day to Ellen. They returned to St. Clair and Fleury's;
bought the grey merino, and the nankeen, and a dark brown merino for a
dress. "Do you want only one of these?" asked the old gentleman.
"Mamma said only one," said Ellen; "that will last me all the winter."
"Well," said he, "I think two will be better. Let us have another off
the same piece, Mr. Shopman."
"But I am afraid mamma won't like it, sir," said Ellen gently.
"Pho, pho," said he, "your mother has nothing to do with this; this is
my affair." He paid for it accordingly. "Now, Miss Ellen," said he, when
they left the store, "have you got anything in the shape of a good warm
winter bonnet? For it's as cold as the mischief up there in Thirlwall;
your pasteboard things won't do; if you don't take good care of your
ears you will lose them some fine frosty day. You must quilt and pad,
and all sorts of things, to keep alive and comfortable. So you haven't a
hood, eh? Do you think you and I could make out to choose one that your
mother would think wasn't quite a fright? Come this way, and let us see.
If she don't like it she can give it away, you know."
He led the delighted Ellen into a milliner's shop, and after turning
over a great many different articles, chose her a nice warm hood, or
quilted bonnet. It was of dark blue silk, well made and pretty. He saw
with great satisfaction that it fitted Ellen well, and would protect her
ears nicely; and having paid for it and ordered it home, he and Ellen
sallied forth into the street again. But he wouldn't let her thank him.
"It is just the very thing I wanted, sir," said Ellen; "mamma was
speaking about it the other day, and she did not see how I was ever to
get one, because she did not feel at all able to go out, and I could not
get one myself; I know she'll like it very much."
"Would you rather have something for yourself or your mother, Ellen, if
you could choose, and have but one?"
"Oh, for mamma, sir," said Ellen--"a great deal!"
"Come in here," said he; "let us see if we can find anything she would
like."
It was a grocery store. After looking about a little, the old gentleman
ordered sundry pounds of figs and white grapes to be packed up in
papers; and being now very near home he took one parcel and Ellen the
other till they came to the door of Green's Hotel, where he committed
both to her care.
"Won't you come in, sir?" said Ellen.
"No," said he, "I can't this time--I must go home to dinner."
"And shan't I see you any more, sir?" said Ellen, a shade coming over
her face, which a minute before had been quite joyous.
"Well, I don't know," said he kindly; "I hope you will. You shall hear
from me again, at any rate, I promise you. We've spent one pleasant
morning together, haven't we? Good-bye, good-bye."
Ellen's hands were full, but the old gentleman took them in both his,
packages and all, and shook them after a fashion, and again bidding her
good-bye, walked away down the street.
The next morning Ellen and her mother were sitting quietly together, and
Ellen had not finished her accustomed reading, when there came a knock
at the door. "My old gentleman?" cried Ellen, as she sprang to open it.
No--there was no old gentleman, but a black man with a brace of
beautiful woodcocks in his hand. He bowed very civilly, and said he had
been ordered to leave the birds with Miss Montgomery. Ellen, in
surprise, took them from him, and likewise a note which he delivered
into her hand. Ellen asked from whom the birds came, but with another
polite bow the man said the note would inform her, and went away. In
great curiosity she carried them and the note to her mother, to whom the
letter was directed. It read thus:--
"Will Mrs. Montgomery permit an old man to please himself in his own
way, by showing his regard for her little daughter, and not feel that he
is taking a liberty? The birds are _for Miss Ellen_."
"Oh, mamma!" exclaimed Ellen, jumping with delight, "did you ever see
such a dear old gentleman? Now I know what he meant yesterday, when he
asked me if I would rather have something for myself or for you. How
kind he is! to do just the very thing for me that he knows would give me
the most pleasure. Now, mamma, these birds are mine, you know, and I
give them to you. You must pay me a kiss for them, mamma; they are worth
that. Aren't they beauties?"
"They are very fine indeed," said Mrs. Montgomery; "this is just the
season for woodcock, and these are in beautiful condition."
"Do you like woodcocks, mamma?"
"Yes, very much."
"Oh, how glad I am!" said Ellen. "I'll ask Sam to have them done very
nicely for you, and then you will enjoy them so much."
The waiter was called, and instructed accordingly, and to him the birds
were committed, to be delivered to the care of the cook.
"Now, mamma," said Ellen, "I think these birds have made me happy for
all day."
"Then I hope, daughter, they will make you busy for all day. You have
ruffles to hem, and the skirts of your dresses to make, we need not wait
for Miss Rice to do that; and when she comes you will have to help her,
for I can do little. You can't be too industrious."
"Well, mamma, I am as willing as can be."
This was the beginning of a pleasant two weeks to Ellen; weeks to which
she often looked back afterwards, so quietly and swiftly the days fled
away in busy occupation and sweet intercourse with her mother. The
passions which were apt enough to rise in Ellen's mind upon occasion
were for the present kept effectually in check. She could not forget
that her days with her mother would very soon be at an end, for a long
time at least; and this consciousness, always present to her mind,
forbade even the wish to do anything that might grieve or disturb her.
Love and tenderness had absolute rule for the time, and even had power
to overcome the sorrowful thoughts that would often rise, so that in
spite of them peace reigned. And perhaps both mother and daughter
enjoyed this interval the more keenly because they knew that sorrow was
at hand.
All this while there was scarcely a day that the old gentleman's servant
did not knock at their door, bearing a present of game. The second time
he came with some fine larks; next was a superb grouse; then woodcock
again. Curiosity strove with astonishment and gratitude in Ellen's mind.
"Mamma," she said, after she had admired the grouse for five minutes, "I
cannot rest without finding out who this old gentleman is."
"I am sorry for that," replied Mrs. Montgomery gravely, "for I see no
possible way of your doing it."
"Why, mamma, couldn't I ask the man that brings the birds what his name
is? He must know it."
"Certainly not; it would be very dishonourable."
"Would it, mamma?--why?"
"This old gentleman has not chosen to tell you his name; he wrote his
note without signing it, and his man has obviously been instructed not
to disclose it; don't you remember, he did not tell it when you asked
him the first time he came. Now this shows that the old gentleman wishes
to keep it secret, and to try to find it out in any way would be a very
unworthy return for his kindness."
"Yes, it wouldn't be doing as I would be done by, to be sure; but would
it be _dishonourable_, mamma?"
"Very. It is very dishonourable to try to find out that about other
people which does not concern you, and which they wish to keep from you.
Remember that, my dear daughter."
"I will, mamma. I'll never do it, I promise you."
"Even in talking with people, if you discern in them any unwillingness
to speak upon a subject, avoid it immediately, provided, of course, that
some higher interest does not oblige you to go on. That is true
politeness, and true kindness, which are nearly the same; and _not_ to
do so, I assure you, Ellen, proves one wanting in true honour."
"Well, mamma, I don't care what his name is,--at least I won't try to
find out,--but it does worry me that I cannot thank him. I wish he knew
how much I feel obliged to him."
"Very well; write and tell him so."
"Mamma!" said Ellen, opening her eyes very wide, "can I--would you?"
"Certainly,--if you like. It would be very proper."
"Then I will! I declare that is a good notion. I'll do it the first
thing, and then I can give it to that man if he comes to-morrow, as I
suppose he will. Mamma," said she, on opening her desk, "how funny!
don't you remember you wondered who I was going to write notes to? here
is one now, mamma; it is very lucky I have got note-paper."
More than one sheet of it was ruined before Ellen had satisfied herself
with what she wrote. It was a full hour from the time she began when she
brought the following note for her mother's inspection:--
"Ellen Montgomery does not know how to thank the old gentleman who
is so kind to her. Mamma enjoys the birds very much, and I think I
do more; for I have the double pleasure of giving them to mamma, and
of eating them afterwards; but your kindness is the best of all. I
can't tell you how much I am obliged to you, sir, but I will always
love you for all you have done for me.
"ELLEN MONTGOMERY."
This note Mrs. Montgomery approved; and Ellen having with great care and
great satisfaction enclosed it in an envelope, succeeded in sealing it
according to rule, and very well. Mrs. Montgomery laughed when she saw
the direction, but let it go. Without consulting her, Ellen had written
on the outside, "To the old gentleman." She sent it the next morning by
the hands of the same servant, who this time was the bearer of a plump
partridge "To Miss Montgomery;" and her mind was a great deal easier on
this subject from that time.