So fair and foul a day I have not seen.
--MACBETH.
The long drive to the boat was only a sorrowful blank to Ellen's
recollection. She did not see the frowns that passed between her
companions on her account. She did not know that her white bonnet was
such a matter of merriment to Margaret Dunscombe and the maid, that they
could hardly contain themselves. She did not find out that Miss
Margaret's fingers were busy with her paper of sweets, which only a good
string and a sound knot kept her from rifling. Yet she felt very well
that nobody there cared in the least for her sorrow. It mattered
nothing; she wept on in her loneliness, and knew nothing that happened,
till the carriage stopped on the wharf; even then she did not raise her
head. Mrs. Dunscombe got out, and saw her daughter and servant do the
same; then, after giving some orders about the baggage, she returned to
Ellen.
"Will you get out, Miss Montgomery? or would you prefer to remain in the
carriage? We must go on board directly."
There was something, not in the words, but in the tone, that struck
Ellen's heart with an entirely new feeling. Her tears stopped instantly,
and wiping away quick the traces of them as well as she could, she got
out of the carriage without a word, aided by Mrs. Dunscombe's hand. The
party was presently joined by a fine-looking man, whom Ellen recognised
as Captain Dunscombe.
"Dunscombe, do put these girls on board, will you, and then come back to
me; I want to speak to you. Timmins, you may go along and look after
them."
Captain Dunscombe obeyed. When they reached the deck, Margaret Dunscombe
and the maid Timmins went straight to the cabin. Not feeling at all
drawn towards their company, as indeed they had given her no reason,
Ellen planted herself by the guards of the boat, not far from the
gangway, to watch the busy scene that at another time would have had a
great deal of interest and amusement for her. And interest it had now;
but it was with a very, very grave little face that she looked on the
bustling crowd. The weight on her heart was just as great as ever, but
she felt this was not the time or the place to let it be seen; so for
the present she occupied herself with what was passing before her,
though it did not for one moment make her forget her sorrow.
At last the boat rang her last bell. Captain Dunscombe put his wife on
board, and had barely time to jump off the boat again when the plank was
withdrawn. The men on shore cast off the great loops of ropes that held
the boat to enormous wooden posts on the wharf, and they were off!
At first it seemed to Ellen as if the wharf and the people upon it were
sailing away from them backwards; but she presently forgot to think of
them at all. She was gone!--she felt the bitterness of the whole truth;
the blue water already lay between her and the shore, where she so much
longed to be. In that confused mass of buildings at which she was
gazing, but which would be so soon beyond even gazing distance, was the
only spot she cared for in the world; her heart was there. She could not
see the place, to be sure, nor tell exactly whereabouts it lay in all
that wide-spread city; but it was there somewhere, and every minute was
making it farther and farther off. It's a bitter thing that sailing away
from all one loves; and poor Ellen felt it so. She stood leaning both
her arms upon the rail, the tears running down her cheeks, and blinding
her so that she could not see the place toward which her straining eyes
were bent. Somebody touched her sleeve,--it was Timmins.
"Mrs. Dunscombe sent me to tell you she wants you to come into the
cabin, miss."
Hastily wiping her eyes, Ellen obeyed the summons, and followed Timmins
into the cabin. It was full of groups of ladies, children, and
nurses,--bustling and noisy enough. Ellen wished she might have stayed
outside; she wanted to be by herself; but as the next best thing, she
mounted upon the bench which ran all round the saloon, and kneeling on
the cushion by one of the windows, placed herself with the edge of her
bonnet just touching the glass, so that nobody could see a bit of her
face, while she could look out near by as well as from the deck.
Presently her ear caught, as she thought, the voice of Mrs. Dunscombe,
saying in rather an undertone, but laughing too, "What a figure she does
cut in that outlandish bonnet!"
Ellen had no particular reason to think _she_ was meant, and yet she did
think so. She remained quite still, but with raised colour and quickened
breathing waited to hear what would come next. Nothing came at first,
and she was beginning to think she had perhaps been mistaken, when she
plainly heard Margaret Dunscombe say, in a loud whisper, "Mamma, I wish
you could contrive some way to keep her in the cabin--can't you? she
looks so odd in that queer sun-bonnet kind of a thing, that anybody
would think she had come out of the woods, and no gloves too; I
shouldn't like to have the Miss M'Arthurs think she belonged to
us;--can't you, mamma?"
If a thunderbolt had fallen at Ellen's feet, the shock would hardly have
been greater. The lightning of passion shot through every vein. And it
was not passion only; there was hurt feeling and wounded pride, and the
sorrow of which her heart was full enough before, now wakened afresh.
The child was beside herself. One wild wish for a hiding-place was the
most pressing thought,--to be where tears could burst and her heart
could break unseen. She slid off her bench and rushed through the crowd
to the red curtain that cut off the far end of the saloon; and from
there down to the cabin below,--people were everywhere. At last she
spied a nook where she could be completely hidden. It was in the
far-back end of the boat, just under the stairs by which she had come
down. Nobody was sitting on the three or four large mahogany steps that
ran round that end of the cabin and sloped up to the little cabin
window; and creeping beneath the stairs, and seating herself on the
lowest of these steps, the poor child found that she was quite screened
and out of sight of every human creature. It was time indeed; her heart
had been almost bursting with passion and pain, and now the pent-up
tempest broke forth with a fury that racked her little frame from head
to foot; and the more because she strove to stifle every sound of it as
much as possible. It was the very bitterness of sorrow, without any
softening thought to allay it, and sharpened and made more bitter by
mortification and a passionate sense of unkindness and wrong. And
through it all, how constantly in her heart the poor child was reaching
forth longing arms towards her far-off mother, and calling in secret on
her beloved name. "Oh, mamma! mamma!" was repeated numberless times,
with the unspeakable bitterness of knowing that she would have been a
sure refuge and protection from all this trouble, but was now where she
could neither reach nor hear her. Alas! how soon and how sadly missed.
Ellen's distress was not soon quieted, or, if quieted for a moment, it
was only to break out afresh. And then she was glad to sit still and
rest herself.
Presently she heard the voice of the chambermaid upstairs, at a distance
at first, and coming nearer and nearer. "Breakfast ready,
ladies--Ladies, breakfast ready!" and then came all the people in a
rush, pouring down the stairs over Ellen's head. She kept quite still
and close, for she did not want to see anybody, and could not bear that
anybody should see her. Nobody did see her; they all went off into the
next cabin, where breakfast was set. Ellen began to grow tired of her
hiding-place, and to feel restless in her confinement; she thought this
would be a good time to get away; so she crept from her station under
the stairs, and mounted them as quickly and as quietly as she could.
She found almost nobody left in the saloon, and, breathing more freely,
she possessed herself of her despised bonnet, which she had torn off her
head in the first burst of her indignation, and passing gently out at
the door, went up the stairs which led to the promenade deck; she felt
as if she could not get far enough from Mrs. Dunscombe.
The promenade deck was very pleasant in the bright morning sun; and
nobody was there except a few gentlemen. Ellen sat down on one of the
settees that were ranged along the middle of it, and much pleased at
having found herself such a nice place of retreat, she once more took up
her interrupted amusement of watching the banks of the river.
It was a fair, mild day, near the end of October, and one of the
loveliest of that lovely month. Poor Ellen, however, could not fairly
enjoy it just now. There was enough darkness in her heart to put a veil
over all nature's brightness. The thought did pass through her mind when
she first went up, how very fair everything was;--but she soon forgot to
think about it all. They were now in a wide part of the river; and the
shore towards which she was looking was low and distant, and offered
nothing to interest her. She ceased to look at it, and presently lost
all sense of everything around and before her, for her thoughts went
home. She remembered that sweet moment last night when she lay in her
mother's arms, after she had stopped singing: could it be only last
night? it seemed a long, long time ago. She went over again in
imagination her shocked waking up that very morning,--how cruel that
was!--her hurried dressing,--the miserable parting,--and those last
words of her mother, that seemed to ring in her ears yet. "That home
where parting cannot be." "Oh," thought Ellen, "how shall I ever get
there? who is there to teach me now? Oh, what shall I do without you?
Oh, mamma! how much I want you already!"
While poor Ellen was thinking these things over and over, her little
face had a deep sadness of expression it was sorrowful to see. She was
perfectly calm; her violent excitement had all left her; her lip
quivered a very little sometimes, but that was all; and one or two tears
rolled slowly down the side of her face. Her eyes were fixed upon the
dancing water, but it was very plain her thoughts were not, nor on
anything else before her; and there was a forlorn look of hopeless
sorrow on her lip and cheek and brow, enough to move anybody whose heart
was not very hard. She was noticed, and with a feeling of compassion, by
several people; but they all thought it was none of their business to
speak to her, or they didn't know how. At length a gentleman who had
been for some time walking up and down the deck, happened to look, as he
passed, at her little pale face. He went to the end of his walk that
time, but in coming back he stopped just in front of her, and bending
down his face towards hers, said, "What is the matter with you, my
little friend?"
Though his figure had passed before her a great many times Ellen had not
seen him at all; for "her eyes were with her heart, and that was far
away." Her cheek flushed with surprise as she looked up. But there was
no mistaking the look of kindness in the eyes that met hers, nor the
gentleness and grave truthfulness of the whole countenance. It won her
confidence immediately. All the floodgates of Ellen's heart were at once
opened. She could not speak, but rising and clasping the hand that was
held out to her in both her own, she bent down her head upon it, and
burst into one of those uncontrollable agonies of weeping, such as the
news of her mother's intended departure had occasioned that first
sorrowful evening. He gently, and as soon as he could, drew her to a
retired part of the deck where they were comparatively free from other
people's eyes and ears; then taking her in his arms he endeavoured by
many kind and soothing words to stay the torrent of her grief. This fit
of weeping did Ellen more good than the former one; that only exhausted,
this in some little measure relieved her.
"What is all this about?" said her friend kindly. "Nay, never mind
shedding any more tears about it, my child. Let me hear what it is; and
perhaps we can find some help for it."
"Oh no, you can't, sir," said Ellen sadly.
"Well, let us see," said he, "perhaps I can. What is it that has
troubled you so much?"
"I have lost my mother, sir," said Ellen.
"Your mother! Lost her!--how?"
"She is very ill, sir, and obliged to go away over the sea to France to
get well; and papa could not take me with her," said poor Ellen, weeping
again, "and I am obliged to go to be among strangers. Oh, what shall I
do?"
"Have you left your mother in the city?"
"Oh yes, sir! I left her this morning."
"What is your name?"
"Ellen Montgomery."
"Is your mother obliged to go to Europe for her health?"
"Oh yes, sir; nothing else would have made her go, but the doctor said
she would not live long if she didn't go, and that would cure her."
"Then you hope to see her come back by-and-by, don't you?"
"Oh yes, sir; but it won't be this great, great, long while; it seems to
me as if it was for ever."
"Ellen, do you know who it is that sends sickness and trouble upon us?"
"Yes, sir, I know; but I don't feel that that makes it any easier."
"Do you know _why_ He sends it? He is the God of love,--He does not
trouble us willingly,--He has said so;--why does He ever make us suffer?
do you know?"
"No, sir."
"Sometimes He sees that if He lets them alone, His children will love
some dear thing on the earth better than Himself, and He knows they will
not be happy if they do so; and then, because He loves them, He takes it
away,--perhaps it is a dear mother, or a dear daughter,--or else He
hinders their enjoyment of it; that they may remember Him, and give
their whole hearts to Him. He wants their whole hearts, that He may
bless them. Are you one of His children, Ellen?"
"No, sir," said Ellen, with swimming eyes, but cast down to the ground.
"How do you know that you are not?"
"Because I do not love the Saviour."
"Do you not love Him, Ellen?"
"I am afraid not, sir."
"Why are you afraid not? what makes you think so?"
"Mamma said I could not love Him at all if I did not love Him best; and
oh, sir," said Ellen, weeping, "I do love mamma a great deal better."
"You love your mother better than you do the Saviour?"
"Oh yes, sir," said Ellen; "how can I help it?"
"Then if He had left you your mother, Ellen, you would never have cared
or thought about Him?"
Ellen was silent.
"Is it so?--would you, do you think?"
"I don't know, sir," said Ellen, weeping again; "oh, sir, how can I help
it?"
"Then, Ellen, can you not see the love of your Heavenly Father in this
trial? He saw that His little child was in danger of forgetting Him, and
He loved you, Ellen; and so He has taken your dear mother, and sent you
away where you will have no one to look to but Him; and now He says to
you, 'My daughter, give _Me_ thy heart.' Will you do it, Ellen?"
Ellen wept exceedingly while the gentleman was saying these words,
clasping his hands still in both hers; but she made no answer. He waited
till she had become calmer, and then went on in a low tone--
"What is the reason that you do not love the Saviour, my child?"
"Mamma says it is because my heart is so hard."
"That is true; but you do not know how good and how lovely He is, or you
could not help loving Him. Do you often think of Him, and think much of
Him, and ask Him to show you Himself that you may love Him?"
"No, sir," said Ellen, "not often."
"You pray to Him, don't you?"
"Yes, sir; but not so."
"But you ought to pray to Him so. We are all blind by nature, Ellen;--we
are all hard-hearted; none of us can see Him or love Him unless He opens
our eyes and touches our hearts; but He has promised to do this for
those that seek Him. Do you remember what the blind man said when Jesus
asked him what He should do for him?--he answered, 'Lord, that I may
receive my sight!' That ought to be your prayer now, and mine too; and
the Lord is just as ready to hear us as He was to hear the poor blind
man; and you know He cured him. Will you ask Him, Ellen?"
A smile was almost struggling through Ellen's tears as she lifted her
face to that of her friend, but she instantly looked down again.
"Shall I put you in mind, Ellen, of some things about Christ that ought
to make you love Him with all your heart?"
"Oh yes, sir! if you please."
"Then tell me first what it is that makes you love your mother so much?"
"Oh, I can't tell you, sir;--everything, I think."
"I suppose the great thing is that she loves _you_ so much?"
"Oh yes, sir," said Ellen strongly.
"But how do you know that she loves you? how has she shown it?"
Ellen looked at him, but could give no answer; it seemed to her that she
must bring the whole experience of her life before him to form one.
"I suppose," said her friend, "that, to begin with the smallest thing,
she has always been watchfully careful to provide everything that could
be useful or necessary for you; she never forgot your wants, or was
careless about them?"
"No indeed, sir."
"And perhaps you recollect that she never minded trouble or expense or
pain where your good was concerned;--she would sacrifice her own
pleasure at any time for yours!"
Ellen's eyes gave a quick and strong answer to this, but she said
nothing.
"And in all your griefs and pleasures you were sure of finding her ready
and willing to feel with you and for you, and to help you if she could?
And in all the times you have seen her tired, no fatigue ever wore out
her patience, nor any naughtiness of yours ever lessened her love; she
could not be weary of waiting upon you when you were sick, nor of
bearing with you when you forgot your duty,--more ready always to
receive you than you to return. Isn't it so?"
"Oh yes, sir."
"And you can recollect a great many words and looks of kindness and
love--many and many endeavours to teach you and lead you in the right
way--all showing the strongest desire for your happiness in this world,
and in the next?"
"Oh yes, sir," said Ellen tearfully; and then added, "do you know my
mother, sir?"
"No," said he, smiling, "not at all; but my own mother has been in many
things like this to me, and I judged yours might have been such to you.
Have I described her right?"
"Yes indeed, sir," said Ellen, "exactly."
"And in return for all this, you have given this dear mother the love
and gratitude of your whole heart, haven't you?"
"Indeed I have, sir;" and Ellen's face said it more than her words.
"You are very right," he said gravely, "to love such a mother--to give
her all possible duty and affection; she deserves it. But, Ellen, in all
these very things I have been mentioning Jesus Christ has shown that He
deserves it far more. Do you think, if you had never behaved like a
child to your mother--if you had never made her the least return of love
or regard--that she would have continued to love you as she does?"
"No, sir," said Ellen, "I do not think she would."
"Have you ever made any fit return to God for His goodness to you?"
"No, sir," said Ellen, in a low tone.
"And yet there has been no change in _His_ kindness. Just look at it,
and see what He has done and is doing for you. In the first place, it is
not your mother, but He, who has given you every good and pleasant thing
you have enjoyed in your whole life. You love your mother because she is
so careful to provide for all your wants; but who gave her the materials
to work with? She has only been, as it were, the hand by which He
supplied you. And who gave you such a mother?--there are many mothers
not like her;--who put into her heart the truth and love that have been
blessing you ever since you were born? It is all--all God's doing, from
first to last; but His child has forgotten Him in the very gifts of His
mercy."
Ellen was silent, but looked very grave.
"Your mother never minded her own ease or pleasure when your good was
concerned. Did Christ mind His? You know what He did to save sinners,
don't you?"
"Yes, sir, I know; mamma often told me."
"'Though He was rich, yet for our sake He became poor, that we through
His poverty might be rich.' He took our burden of sin upon Himself, and
suffered that terrible punishment--all to save you and such as you. And
now He asks His children to leave off sinning and come back to Him who
has bought them with His own blood. He did this because He _loved_ you;
does He not deserve to be loved in return?"
Ellen had nothing to say; she hung down her head further and further.
"And patient and kind as your mother is, the Lord Jesus is kinder and
more patient still. In all your life so far, Ellen, you have not loved
or obeyed Him; and yet He loves you, and is ready to be your friend. Is
He not even to-day taking away your dear mother for the very purpose
that He may draw you gently to Himself and fold you in His arms, as He
has promised to do with His lambs? He knows you can never be happy
anywhere else."
The gentleman paused again, for he saw that the little listener's mind
was full.
"Has not Christ shown that He loves you better even than your mother
does? And were there ever sweeter words of kindness than these?--
"'Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not; for
of such is the kingdom of heaven.'
"'I am the good shepherd: the good shepherd giveth His life for the
sheep.'
"'I have loved thee with an everlasting love; therefore with
loving-kindness have I drawn thee.'"
He waited a minute, and then added gently, "Will you come to Him,
Ellen?"
Ellen lifted her tearful eyes to his; but there were tears there too,
and her own sank instantly. She covered her face with her hands, and
sobbed out in broken words, "Oh, if I could--but I don't know how."
"Do you wish to be His child, Ellen?"
"Oh yes, sir--if I could."
"I know, my child, that sinful heart of yours is in the way, but the
Lord Jesus can change it, and will, if you will give it to Him. He is
looking upon you now, Ellen, with more kindness and love than any
earthly father or mother could, waiting for you to give that little
heart of yours to Him, that He may make it holy and fill it with
blessing. He says, you know, 'Behold I stand at the door and knock.' Do
not grieve Him away, Ellen."
Ellen sobbed, but all the passion and bitterness of her tears was gone.
Her heart was completely melted.
"If your mother were here, and could do for you what you want, would you
doubt her love to do it? would you have any difficulty in asking her?"
"Oh no!"
"Then do not doubt His love who loves you better still. Come to Jesus.
Do not fancy He is away up in heaven out of reach of hearing--He is
here, close to you, and knows every wish and throb of your heart. Think
you are in His presence and at His feet,--even now,--and say to Him in
your heart, 'Lord, look upon me--I am not fit to come to Thee, but Thou
hast bid me come--take me and make me Thine own--take this hard heart
that I can do nothing with, and make it holy and fill it with Thy
love--I give it and myself into Thy hands, O dear Saviour!'"
These words were spoken very low, that only Ellen could catch them. Her
bowed head sank lower and lower till he ceased speaking. He added no
more for some time; waited till she had resumed her usual attitude and
appearance, and then said--
"Ellen, could you join in heart with my words?"
"I did, sir,--I couldn't help it, all but the last."
"All but the last?"
"Yes, sir."
"But, Ellen, if you say the first part of my prayer with your whole
heart, the Lord will enable you to say the last too,--do you believe
that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Will you not make that your constant prayer till you are heard and
answered?"
"Yes, sir."
And he thought he saw that she was in earnest.
"Perhaps the answer may not come at once,--it does not always; but it
will come as surely as the sun will rise to-morrow morning. 'Then shall
we know, if we _follow on_ to know the Lord.' But then you must be in
earnest. And if you are in earnest, is there nothing you have to do
besides _praying_?"
Ellen looked at him without making any answer.
"When a person is in earnest, how does he show it?"
"By doing everything he possibly can to get what he wants."
"Quite right," said her friend, smiling; "and has God bidden us to do
nothing besides pray for a new heart?"
"Oh yes, sir; He has told us to do a great many things."
"And will He be likely to grant that prayer, Ellen, if He sees that you
do not care about displeasing Him in those 'great many things'?--will He
judge that you are sincere in wishing for a new heart?"
"Oh no, sir."
"Then if you are resolved to be a Christian, you will not be contented
with praying for a new heart, but you will begin at once to be a servant
of God. You can do nothing well without help, but you are sure the help
will come; and from this good day you will seek to know and to do the
will of God, trusting in His dear Son to perfect that which concerneth
you. My little child," said the gentleman, softly and kindly, "are you
ready to say you will do this?"
As she hesitated, he took a little book from his pocket, and turning
over the leaves said, "I am going to leave you for a little while--I
have a few moments' business downstairs to attend to; and I want you to
look over this hymn and think carefully of what I have been saying, will
you?--and resolve what you will do."
Ellen got off his knee, where she had been sitting all this while, and
silently taking the book, sat down in the chair he had quitted. Tears
ran fast again, and many thoughts passed through her mind as her eyes
went over and over the words to which he had pointed:--
"Behold the Saviour at the door,
He gently knocks,--has knocked before,--
Has waited long,--is waiting still,--
You treat no other friend so ill.
Oh lovely attitude!--He stands
With open heart and outstretched hands.
Oh matchless kindness!--and He shows
This matchless kindness to His foes.
Admit Him--for the human breast
Ne'er entertained so kind a guest.
Admit Him--for the hour's at hand
When at _His_ door, denied you'll stand.
Open my heart, Lord, enter in;
Slay every foe, and conquer sin.
Here now to Thee I all resign,--
My body, soul, and all are Thine."
The last two lines Ellen longed to say, but could not; the two preceding
were the very speech of her heart.
Not more than fifteen minutes had passed when her friend came back
again. The book hung in Ellen's hand; her eyes were fixed on the floor.
"Well," he said kindly, and taking her hand, "what's your decision?"
Ellen looked up.
"Have you made up your mind on that matter we were talking about?"
"Yes, sir," Ellen said in a low voice, casting her eyes down again.
"And how have you decided, my child?"
"I will try to do as you said, sir."
"You will begin to follow your Saviour, and to please Him, from this day
forward?"
"I will try, sir," said Ellen, meeting his eyes as she spoke. Again the
look she saw made her burst into tears. She wept violently.
"God bless you and help you, my dear Ellen," said he, gently passing his
hand over her head; "but do not cry any more--you have shed too many
tears this morning already. We will not talk about this any more now."
And he spoke only soothing and quieting words for a while to her: and
then asked if she would like to go over the boat and see the different
parts of it. Ellen's joyful agreement with this proposal was only
qualified by the fear of giving him trouble. But he put that entirely
by.