_Mac._ What is the night?
_Lady Mac._ Almost at odds with morning, which is which.
--MACBETH.
October was now far advanced. One evening, the evening of the last
Sunday in the month, Mrs. Montgomery was lying in the parlour alone.
Ellen had gone to bed some time before; and now in the stillness of the
Sabbath evening the ticking of the clock was almost the only sound to
be heard. The hands were rapidly approaching ten. Captain Montgomery was
abroad; and he had been so--according to custom--or in bed, the whole
day. The mother and daughter had had the Sabbath to themselves; and most
quietly and sweetly it had passed. They had read together, prayed
together, talked together a great deal, and the evening had been spent
in singing hymns; but Mrs. Montgomery's strength failed here, and Ellen
sang alone. _She_ was not soon weary. Hymn succeeded hymn with fresh and
varied pleasure, and her mother could not tire of listening. The sweet
words, and the sweet airs--which were all old friends, and brought of
themselves many a lesson of wisdom and consolation, by the mere force of
association--needed not the recommendation of the clear childish voice
in which they were sung, which was of all things the sweetest to Mrs.
Montgomery's ear. She listened, till she almost felt as if earth were
left behind, and she and her child already standing within the walls of
that city where sorrow and sighing shall be no more, and the tears shall
be wiped from all eyes for ever. Ellen's next hymn, however, brought her
back to earth again, but though her tears flowed freely while she heard
it, all her causes of sorrow could not render them bitter--
God in Israel sows the seeds
Of affliction, pain, and toil;
These spring up and choke the weeds
Which would else o'erspread the soil.
Trials make the promise sweet--
Trials give new life to prayer--
Trials bring me to His feet,
Lay me low, and keep me there.
"It is so indeed, dear Ellen," said Mrs. Montgomery, when she had
finished, and holding the little singer to her breast; "I have always
found it so. God is faithful. I have seen abundant cause to thank Him
for all the evils He has made me suffer heretofore, and I do not doubt
it will be the same with this last and worst one. Let us glorify Him in
the fires, my daughter; and if earthly joys be stripped from us, and if
we be torn from each other, let us cling the closer to Him--He can and
He will in that case make up to us more than all we have lost."
Ellen felt her utter inability to join in her mother's expressions of
confidence and hope; to her there was no brightness on the cloud that
hung over them--it was all dark. She could only press her lips in
tearful silence to the one and the other of her mother's cheeks
alternately. How sweet the sense of the coming parting made every such
embrace! This one, for particular reasons, was often and long
remembered. A few minutes they remained thus in each other's arms, cheek
pressed against cheek, without speaking; but then Mrs. Montgomery
remembered that Ellen's bedtime was already past, and dismissed her.
For a while after Mrs. Montgomery remained just where Ellen had left
her, her busy thoughts roaming over many things in the far past, and the
sad present, and the uncertain future. She was unconscious of the
passage of time, and did not notice how the silence deepened as the
night drew on, till scarce a footfall was heard in the street, and the
ticking of the clock sounded with that sad distinctness, which seems to
say, "Time is going on--time is going on--and you are going with it,--do
what you will you can't help that." It was just upon the stroke of ten,
and Mrs. Montgomery was still wrapped in her deep musings, when a sharp,
brisk footstep in the distance aroused her, rapidly approaching; and she
knew very well whose it was, and that it would pause at the door, before
she heard the quick run up the steps, succeeded by her husband's tread
upon the staircase. And yet she saw him open the door with a kind of
startled feeling, which his appearance now invariably caused her; the
thought always darted through her head, "perhaps he brings news of
Ellen's going." Something, it would have been impossible to say what, in
his appearance or manner, confirmed this fear on the present occasion.
Her heart felt sick, and she waited in silence to hear what he would
say. _He_ seemed very well pleased; sat down before the fire rubbing his
hands, partly with cold and partly with satisfaction; and his first
words were, "Well, we have got a fine opportunity for her at last."
How little he was capable of understanding the pang this announcement
gave his poor wife! But she only closed her eyes and kept perfectly
quiet, and he never suspected it.
He unbuttoned his coat, and taking the poker in his hand began to mend
the fire, talking the while.
"I am very glad of it, indeed," said he; "it's quite a load off my mind.
Now we'll be gone directly, and high time it is--I'll take passage in
the _England_ the first thing to-morrow. And this is the best possible
chance for Ellen--everything we could have desired. I began to feel very
uneasy about it, it was getting so late, but I am quite relieved now."
"Who is it?" said Mrs. Montgomery, forcing herself to speak.
"Why, it's Mrs. Dunscombe," said the captain, flourishing his poker by
way of illustration; "you know her, don't you? Captain Dunscombe's wife;
she going right through Thirlwall, and will take charge of Ellen as far
as that, and there my sister will meet her with a waggon and take her
straight home. Couldn't be anything better. I'll write to let Fortune
know when to expect her. Mrs. Dunscombe is a lady of the first family
and fashion--in the highest degree respectable; she is going on to Fort
Jameson, with her daughter and a servant, and her husband is to follow
her in a few days. I happened to hear of it to-day, and I immediately
seized the opportunity to ask if she would not take Ellen with her as
far as Thirlwall, and Dunscombe was only too glad to oblige me. I'm a
very good friend of his, and he knows it."
"How soon does she go?"
"Why, that's the only part of the business I am afraid you won't like,
but there is no help for it; and after all it is a great deal better so
than if you had time to wear yourselves out with mourning--better and
easier too in the end."
"How soon?" repeated Mrs. Montgomery, with an agonised accent.
"Why, I'm a little afraid of startling you--Dunscombe's wife must go, he
told me, to-morrow morning; and we arranged that she should call in the
carriage at six o'clock to take up Ellen."
Mrs. Montgomery put her hands to her face and sank back against the
sofa.
"I was afraid you would take it so," said her husband, "but I don't
think it is worth while. It is a great deal better as it is--a great
deal better than if she had a long warning. You would fairly wear
yourself out if you had time enough, and you haven't any strength to
spare."
It was some while before Mrs. Montgomery could recover composure and
firmness enough to go on with what she had to do, though, knowing the
necessity, she strove hard for it. For several minutes she remained
quite silent and quiet, endeavouring to collect her scattered forces;
then, sitting upright and drawing her shawl around her, she exclaimed,
"I must waken Ellen immediately!"
"Waken Ellen!" exclaimed her husband in his turn; "what on earth for?
That's the very last thing to be done."
"Why, you would not put off telling her until to-morrow morning?" said
Mrs. Montgomery.
"Certainly I would--that's the only proper way to do. Why in the world
should you wake her up, just to spend the whole night in useless
grieving?--unfitting her utterly for her journey, and doing yourself
more harm than you can undo in a week. No, no; just let her sleep
quietly, and you go to bed and do the same. Wake her up, indeed! I
thought you were wiser."
"But she will be so dreadfully shocked in the morning!"
"Not one bit more than she would be to-night, and she won't have so much
time to feel it. In the hurry and bustle of getting off she will not
have time to think about her feelings; and once on the way she will do
well enough,--children always do."
Mrs. Montgomery looked undecided and unsatisfied.
"I'll take the responsibility of this matter on myself; you must not
waken her, absolutely. It would not do at all," said the captain, poking
the fire very energetically; "it would not do at all,--I cannot allow
it."
Mrs. Montgomery silently rose and lit a lamp.
"You are not going into Ellen's room?" said the husband.
"I must--I must put her things together."
"But you'll not disturb Ellen?" said he, in a tone that required a
promise.
"Not if I can help it."
Twice Mrs. Montgomery stopped before she reached the door of Ellen's
room, for her heart failed her. But she _must_ go on, and the necessary
preparations for the morrow _must_ be made;--she knew it; and repeating
this to herself, she gently turned the handle of the door and pushed it
open, and guarding the light with her hand from Ellen's eyes, she set it
where it would not shine upon her. Having done this, she set herself,
without once glancing at her little daughter, to put all things in order
for her early departure on the following morning. But it was a bitter
piece of work for her. She first laid out all that Ellen would need to
wear, the dark merino, the new nankeen coat, the white bonnet, the clean
frill that her own hands had done up, the little gloves and shoes, and
all the etceteras, with the thoughtfulness and the carefulness of love;
but it went through and through her heart that it was the very last time
a mother's fingers would ever be busy in arranging or preparing Ellen's
attire; the very last time she would ever see or touch even the little
inanimate things that belonged to her; and painful as the task was, she
was loth to have it come to an end. It was with a kind of lingering
unwillingness to quit her hold of them that one thing after another was
stowed carefully and neatly away in the trunk. She felt it was love's
last act; words might indeed a few times yet come over the ocean on a
sheet of paper;--but sight, and hearing, and touch must all have done
henceforth for ever. Keenly as Mrs. Montgomery felt this, she went on
busily with her work all the while; and when the last thing was safely
packed, shut the trunk and locked it without allowing herself to stop
and think, and even drew the straps. And then, having finished all her
task, she went to the bedside; she had not looked that way before.
Ellen was lying in the deep sweet sleep of childhood; the easy
position, the gentle breathing, and the flush of health upon the cheek
showed that all causes of sorrow were for the present far removed. Yet
not so far either; for once when Mrs. Montgomery stooped to kiss her,
light as the touch of that kiss had been upon her lips, it seemed to
awaken a train of sorrowful recollections in the little sleeper's mind.
A shade passed over her face, and with gentle but sad accent the word
"Mamma!" burst from the parted lips. Only a moment,--and the shade
passed away, and the expression of peace settled again upon her brow;
but Mrs. Montgomery dared not try the experiment a second time. Long she
stood looking upon her, as if she knew she was looking her last; then
she knelt by the bedside and hid her face in the coverings,--but no
tears came; the struggle in her mind and her anxious fear for the
morning's trial made weeping impossible. Her husband at length came to
seek her, and it was well he did; she would have remained there on her
knees all night. He feared something of the kind, and came to prevent
it. Mrs. Montgomery suffered herself to be led away without making any
opposition, and went to bed as usual, but sleep was far from her. The
fear of Ellen's distress when she would be awakened and suddenly told
the truth kept her in an agony. In restless wakefulness she tossed and
turned uneasily upon her bed, watching for the dawn, and dreading
unspeakably to see it. The captain, in happy unconsciousness of his
wife's distress and utter inability to sympathise with it, was soon in a
sound sleep, and his heavy breathing was an aggravation of her trouble;
it kept repeating, what indeed she knew already, that the only one in
the world who ought to have shared and soothed her grief was not capable
of doing either. Wearied with watching and tossing to and fro, she at
length lost herself a moment in uneasy slumber, from which she suddenly
started in terror, and seizing her husband's arm to arouse him,
exclaimed, "It is time to wake Ellen!" but she had to repeat her efforts
two or three times before she succeeded in making herself heard.
"What is the matter?" said he heavily, and not over well pleased at the
interruption.
"It is time to wake Ellen."
"No, it isn't," said he, relapsing; "it isn't time yet this great
while."
"Oh, yes it is," said Mrs. Montgomery; "I am sure it is. I see the
beginning of dawn in the east."
"Nonsense; it's no such thing--it's the glimmer of the lamplight. What
is the use of your exciting yourself so for nothing; it won't be dawn
these two hours. Wait till I find my repeater, and I'll convince you."
He found and struck it. "There! I told you so--only one quarter after
four; it would be absurd to wake her yet. Do go to sleep and leave it to
me; I'll take care it is done in proper time."
Mrs. Montgomery sighed heavily, and again arranged herself to watch the
eastern horizon, or rather with her face in that direction, for she
could see nothing. But more quietly now she lay gazing into the darkness
which it was in vain to try to penetrate, and thoughts succeeding
thoughts in a more regular train, at last fairly cheated her into sleep,
much as she wished to keep it off. She slept soundly for nearly an hour,
and when she awoke the dawn had really begun to break in the eastern
sky. She again aroused Captain Montgomery, who this time allowed it
might be as well to get up; but it was with unutterable impatience that
she saw him lighting a lamp and moving about as leisurely as if he had
nothing more to do than to get ready for breakfast at eight o'clock.
"Oh, do speak to Ellen!" she said, unable to control herself. "Never
mind brushing your hair till afterwards. She will have no time for
anything. Oh, do not wait any longer! What are you thinking of?"
"What are _you_ thinking of?" said the captain; "there's plenty of time.
Do quiet yourself; you're getting as nervous as possible. I'm going
immediately."
Mrs. Montgomery fairly groaned with impatience and an agonising dread of
what was to follow the disclosure to Ellen; but her husband coolly went
on with his preparations, which indeed were not long in finishing, and
then taking the lamp, he at last went. He had in truth delayed on
purpose, wishing the final leave-taking to be as brief as possible, and
the grey streaks of light in the east were plainly showing themselves
when he opened the door of his little daughter's room. He found her
lying very much as her mother had left her--in the same quiet sleep and
with the same expression of calmness and peace spread over her whole
face and person. It touched even him, and he was not readily touched by
anything; it made him loth to say the word that would drive all that
sweet expression so quickly and completely away. It must be said,
however; the increasing light warned him he must not tarry, but it was
with a hesitating and almost faltering voice that he said "Ellen!"
She stirred in her sleep, and the shadow came over her face again.
"Ellen! Ellen!"
She started up, broad awake now, and both the shadow and the peaceful
expression were gone from her face. It was a look of blank astonishment
at first with which she regarded her father, but very soon indeed that
changed into one of blank despair. He saw that she understood perfectly
what he was there for, and that there was no need at all for him to
trouble himself with making painful explanations.
"Come, Ellen," he said; "that's a good child, make haste and dress.
There's no time to lose now, for the carriage will soon be at the door;
and your mother wants to see you, you know."
Ellen hastily obeyed him, and began to put on her stockings and shoes.
"That's right; now you'll be ready directly. You are going with Mrs.
Dunscombe; I have engaged her to take charge of you all the way quite to
Thirlwall. She's the wife of Captain Dunscombe, whom you saw here the
other day, you know; and her daughter is going with her, so you will
have charming company. I dare say you will enjoy the journey very much,
and your aunt will meet you at Thirlwall. Now, make haste; I expect the
carriage every minute. I meant to have called you before, but I
overslept myself. Don't be long."
And nodding encouragement, her father left her.
"How did she bear it?" asked Mrs. Montgomery when he returned.
"Like a little hero; she didn't say a word or shed a tear. I expected
nothing but that she would made a great fuss; but she has all the old
spirit that you need to have--and have yet, for anything I know. She
behaved admirably."
Mrs. Montgomery sighed deeply. She understood far better than her
husband what Ellen's feelings were, and could interpret much more truly
than he the signs of them; the conclusions she drew from Ellen's silent
and tearless reception of the news differed widely from his. She now
waited anxiously and almost fearfully for her appearance, which did not
come as soon as she expected it.
It was a great relief to Ellen when her father ended his talking and
left her to herself, for she felt she could not dress herself so quick
with him standing there and looking at her, and his desire that she
should be speedy in what she had to do could not be greater than her
own. Her fingers did their work as fast as they could, with every joint
trembling. But though a weight like a mountain was upon the poor child's
heart, she could not cry and she could not pray, though true to her
constant habit she fell on her knees by her bedside as she always did.
It was in vain; all was in a whirl in her heart and head, and after a
minute she rose again, clasping her little hands together with an
expression of sorrow that it was well her mother could not see. She was
dressed very soon, but she shrank from going to her mother's room while
her father was there. To save time she put on her coat, and everything
but her bonnet and gloves, and then stood leaning against the bed-post,
for she could not sit down, watching with most intense anxiety to hear
her father's step come out of the room and go downstairs. Every minute
seemed too long to be borne; poor Ellen began to feel as if she could
not contain herself. Yet five had not passed away when she heard the
roll of carriage-wheels which came to the door and then stopped, and
immediately her father opening the door to come out. Without waiting any
longer Ellen opened her own, and brushed past him into the room he had
quitted. Mrs. Montgomery was still lying on the bed, for her husband had
insisted on her not rising. She said not a word, but opened her arms to
receive her little daughter; and with a cry of indescribable expression
Ellen sprang upon the bed, and was folded in them. But then neither of
them spoke or wept. What could words say? Heart met heart in that agony,
for each knew all that was in the other. No,--not quite all. Ellen did
not know that the whole of bitterness death had for her mother she was
tasting then. But it was true. Death had no more power to give her pain
after this parting should be over. His afterwork--the parting between
soul and body--would be welcome rather; yes, very welcome. Mrs.
Montgomery knew it all well. She knew this was the last embrace between
them. She knew it was the very last time that dear little form would
ever lie on her bosom, or be pressed in her arms; and it almost seemed
to her that soul and body must part company too when they should be rent
asunder. Ellen's grief was not like this;--_she_ did not think it was
the last time;--but she was a child of very high spirit and violent
passions, untamed at all by sorrow's discipline; and in proportion
violent was the tempest excited by this first real trial. Perhaps, too,
her sorrow was sharpened by a sense of wrong and a feeling of
indignation at her father's cruelty in not waking her earlier.
Not many minutes had passed in this sad embrace, and no word had yet
been spoken, no sound uttered, except Ellen's first inarticulate cry of
mixed affection and despair, when Captain Montgomery's step was again
heard slowly ascending the stairs. "He is coming to take me away!"
thought Ellen; and in terror lest she should go without a word from her
mother she burst forth with "Mamma! speak!"
A moment before, and Mrs. Montgomery could not have spoken. But she
could now; and as clearly and calmly the words were uttered as if
nothing had been the matter, only her voice fell a little towards the
last--"God bless my darling child; and make her His own,--and bring her
to that home where parting cannot be."
Ellen's eyes had been dry until now; but when she heard the sweet sound
of her mother's voice, it opened all the fountains of tenderness within
her. She burst into uncontrollable weeping; it seemed as if she would
pour out her very heart in tears; and she clung to her mother with a
force that made it a difficult task for her father to remove her. He
could not do it at first; and Ellen seemed not to hear anything that was
said to her. He was very unwilling to use harshness; and after a little,
though she had paid no attention to his entreaties or commands, yet
sensible of the necessity of the case, she gradually relaxed her hold
and suffered him to draw her away from her mother's arms. He carried her
downstairs, and put her on the front seat of the carriage, beside Mrs.
Dunscombe's maid,--but Ellen could never recollect how she got there,
and she did not feel the touch of her father's hand, nor hear him when
he bid her good-bye; and she did not know that he put a large paper of
candies and sugar-plums in her lap. She knew nothing but that she had
lost her mother.
"It will not be so long," said the captain, in a kind of apologising
way; "she will soon get over it, and you will not have any trouble with
her."
"I hope so," returned the lady, rather shortly; and then, as the captain
was making his parting bow, she added, in no very pleased tone of voice,
"Pray, Captain Montgomery, is this young lady to travel without a
bonnet?"
"Bless me! no," said the captain. "How is this? Hasn't she a bonnet? I
beg a thousand pardons, ma'am,--I'll bring it on the instant."
After a little delay the bonnet was found, but the captain overlooked
the gloves in his hurry.
"I am very sorry you have been delayed, ma'am," said he.
"I hope we may be able to reach the boat yet," replied the lady; "drive
on as fast as you can."
A very polite bow from Captain Montgomery--a very slight one from the
lady--and off they drove.
"Proud enough," thought the captain, as he went upstairs again. "I
reckon she don't thank me for her travelling companion. But Ellen's
off--that's one good thing; and now I'll go and engage berths in the
_England_."