Who knows what may happen? Patience and shuffle the cards!...
Perhaps after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and come back St.
Peter.
--LONGFELLOW.
The rest of the winter, or rather the early part of the spring, passed
happily away. March, at Thirlwall, seemed more to belong to the former
than the latter. Then spring came in good earnest; April and May brought
warm days and wild flowers. Ellen refreshed herself and adorned the room
with quantities of them; and as soon as might be she set about restoring
the winter-ruined garden. Mr. John was not fond of gardening; he
provided her with all manner of tools, ordered whatever work she wanted
to be done for her, supplied her with new plants, and seeds, and roots,
and was always ready to give her his help in any operations or press of
business that called for it. But for the most part Ellen hoed, and
raked, and transplanted, and sowed seeds, while he walked or read; often
giving his counsel, indeed, asked and unasked, and always coming in
between her and any difficult or heavy job. The hours thus spent were to
Ellen hours of unmixed delight. When he did not choose to go himself he
sent Thomas with her, as the garden was some little distance down the
mountain, away from the house and from everybody; he never allowed her
to go there alone.
As if to verify Mr. Van Brunt's remark, that "something is always
happening most years," about the middle of May there came letters that
after all determined John's going abroad. The sudden death of two
relatives, one after the other, had left the family estate to Mr.
Humphreys; it required the personal attendance either of himself or his
son; he could not, therefore his son must, go. Once on the other side
the Atlantic, Mr. John thought it best his going should fulfil all the
ends for which both Mr. Humphreys and Mr. Marshman had desired it; this
would occasion his stay to be prolonged to at least a year, probably
more. And he must set off without delay.
In the midst, not of his hurry, for Mr. John seldom was or seemed to be
in a hurry about anything; but in the midst of his business, he took
special care of everything that concerned or could possibly concern
Ellen. He arranged what books she could read, what studies she could
carry on; and directed that about these matters as well as about all
others she should keep up a constant communication with him by letter.
He requested Mrs. Chauncey to see that she wanted nothing, and to act as
her general guardian in all minor things, respecting which Mr. Humphreys
could be expected to take no thought whatever. And what Ellen thanked
him for most of all, he found time for all his wonted rides, and she
thought more than his wonted talks with her; endeavouring as he well
knew how, both to strengthen and cheer her mind in view of his long
absence. The memory of those hours never went from her.
The family at Ventnor were exceeding desirous that she should make one
of them during all the time John should be gone; they urged it with
every possible argument. Ellen said little, but he knew she did not wish
it; and finally compounded the matter by arranging that she should stay
at the parsonage through the summer, and spend the winter at Ventnor,
sharing all Ellen Chauncey's advantages of every kind. Ellen was all the
more pleased with this arrangement that Mr. George Marshman would be at
home. The church John had been serving were becoming exceedingly
attached to him, and would by no means hear of giving him up; and Mr.
George engaged, if possible, to supply his place while he should be
away. Ellen Chauncey was in ecstasies. And it was further promised that
the summer should not pass without as many visits on both sides as could
well be brought about.
Ellen had the comfort, at the last, of hearing John say that she had
behaved unexceptionably well where he knew it was difficult for her to
behave well at all. That _was_ a comfort from him, whose notions of
unexceptionable behaviour she knew were remarkably high. But the
parting, after all, was a dreadfully hard matter; though softened as
much as it could be at the time and rendered very sweet to Ellen's
memory by the tenderness, gentleness, and kindness, with which her
brother without checking soothed her grief. He was to go early in the
morning; and he made Ellen take leave of him the night before; but he
was in no hurry to send her away; and when at length he told her it was
very late, and she rose up to go, he went with her to the very door of
her room and there bade her good-night.
How the next days passed Ellen hardly knew; they were unspeakably long.
Not a week after, one morning Nancy Vawse came into the kitchen, and
asked in her blunt fashion--
"Is Ellen Montgomery at home?"
"I believe Miss Ellen is in the parlour," said Margery dryly.
"I want to speak to her."
Margery silently went across the hall to the sitting-room.
"Miss Ellen, dear," she said softly, "here is that Nancy girl wanting to
speak with you--will you please to see her?"
Ellen eagerly desired Margery to let her in, by no means displeased to
have some interruption to the sorrowful thoughts she could not banish.
She received Nancy very kindly.
"Well, I declare, Ellen!" said that young lady, whose wandering eye was
upon everything but Ellen herself, "ain't you as fine as a fiddle? I
guess you never touch your fingers to a file nowadays, do you?"
"A file!" said Ellen.
"You ha'n't forgot what it means, I suppose," said Nancy, somewhat
scornfully, "'cause if you think I'm agoing to swallow that, you're
mistaken. I've seen you file off tables down yonder a few times, ha'n't
I?"
"Oh, I remember now," said Ellen, smiling; "it is so long since I heard
the word that I didn't know what you meant. Margery calls it a
dish-cloth, or a floor-cloth, or something else."
"Well, you don't touch one nowadays, do you?"
"No," said Ellen, "I have other things to do."
"Well, I guess you have. You've got enough of books now, for once,
ha'n't you? What a lot! I say, Ellen, have you got to read all these?"
"I hope so, in time," said Ellen, smiling. "Why haven't you been to see
me before?"
"Oh, I don't know!" said Nancy, whose roving eye looked a little as if
she felt herself out of her sphere. "I didn't know as you would care to
see me now."
"I am very sorry you should think so, Nancy; I would be as glad to see
you as ever. I have not forgotten all your old kindness to me when Aunt
Fortune was sick."
"You've forgotten all that went before that, I s'pose," said Nancy, with
a half laugh. "You beat all! Most folks remember and forget just
t'other way exactly. But besides, I didn't know but I should catch
myself in queer company."
"Well, I am all alone now," said Ellen, with a sigh.
"Yes, if you warn't I wouldn't be here, I can tell you. What do you
think I have come for to-day, Ellen?"
"For anything but to see me?"
Nancy nodded very decisively.
"What?"
"Guess."
"How can I possibly guess? What have you got tucked up in your apron
there?"
"Ah! that's the very thing," said Nancy. "What _have_ I got, sure
enough?"
"Well, I can't tell through your apron," said Ellen, smiling.
"And _I_ can't tell either; that's more, ain't it. Now listen, and I'll
tell you where I got it, and then you may find out what it is, for I
don't know. Promise me you won't tell anybody."
"I don't like to promise that, Nancy."
"Why?"
"Because it might be something I ought to tell somebody about."
"But it ain't."
"If it isn't I won't tell. Can't you leave it so?"
"But what a plague! Here I have gone and done all this just for you, and
now you must go and make a fuss. What hurt would it do you to promise?
it's nobody's business but yours and mine, and somebody else's that
won't make any talk about it, I promise you."
"I won't speak of it, certainly, Nancy, unless I think I ought; can't
you trust me?"
"I wouldn't give two straws for anybody else's say so," said Nancy; "but
as you're as stiff as the mischief, I s'pose I'll have to let it go.
I'll trust you! Now listen. It don't look like anything, does it?"
"Why, no," said Ellen, laughing; "you hold your apron so loose that I
cannot see anything."
"Well, now listen. You know I've been helping down at your aunt's--did
you?"
"No."
"Well, I have, these six weeks. You never see anything go on quieter
than they do, Ellen. I declare it's fun. Miss Fortune never was so good
in her days. I don't mean she ain't as ugly as ever, you know, but she
has to keep it in. All I have to do if I think anything is going wrong,
I just let her think I am going to speak to _him_ about it; only I have
to do it very cunning for fear she should guess what I am up to; and
the next thing I know it's all straight. He _is_ about the coolest
shaver," said Nancy, "I ever did see. The way he walks through her
notions once in a while--not very often, mind you, but when he takes a
fancy--it's fun to see! Oh, I can get along there first-rate, now.
_You'd_ have a royal time, Ellen."
"Well, Nancy--your story?"
"Don't you be in a hurry! I am going to take my time. Well, I've been
there this six weeks; doing all sorts of things, you know, taking your
place, Ellen; don't you wish you was back in it? Well, a couple of weeks
since Mrs. Van took it into her head she would have up the waggon and go
to Thirlwall to get herself some things; a queer start for her; but at
any rate Van Brunt brought up the waggon, and in she got and off they
went. Now _she meant_, you must know, that I should be fast in the
cellar-kitchen all the while she was gone, and she thought she had given
me enough to keep me busy there; but I was up to her! I was as spry as a
cricket, and flew round, and got things put up; and then I thought I'd
have some fun. What do you think I did? Mrs. Montgomery was quietly
sitting in the chimney-corner, and I had the whole house to myself. How
Van Brunt looks out for her, Ellen; he won't let her be put out for
anything or anybody."
"I am glad of it," said Ellen, her face flushing and her eyes watering;
"it is just like him. I love him for it."
"The other night she was mourning and lamenting at a great rate because
she hadn't you to read to her; and what do you think he does but goes
and takes the book and sits down and reads to her himself. You should
have seen Mrs. Van's face!"
"What book?" said Ellen.
"What book?--why, your book--the Bible. There ain't any other book in
the house as I know. What on earth are you crying for, Ellen? He's
fetched over his mother's old Bible, and there it lays on a shelf in the
cupboard; and he has it out every once in a while. Maybe he's coming
round, Ellen. But do hold up your head and listen to me! I can't talk to
you while you lie with your head in the cushion like that. I ha'n't more
than begun my story yet."
"Well, go on," said Ellen.
"You see, I ain't in any hurry," said Nancy, "because as soon as I've
finished I shall have to be off; and it's fun to talk to you. What do
you think I did when I had done up all my chores?--where do you think I
found this, eh? _you'd_ never guess."
"What is it?" said Ellen.
"No matter what it is; I don't know; where do you think I found it?"
"How can I tell? I don't know."
"You'll be angry with me when I tell you."
Ellen was silent.
"If it was anybody else," said Nancy, "I'd ha' seen 'em shot afore I'd
ha' done it, or told of it either; but you ain't like anybody else. Look
here!" said she, tapping her apron gently with one finger and slowly
marking off each word, "this--came out of--your--aunt's--box--in--the
closet upstairs--in--her room."
"Nancy!"
"Ay, Nancy! there it is. Now you look. 'Twon't alter it, Ellen; that's
where it was, if you look till tea-time."
"But how came you there?"
"'Cause I wanted to amuse myself, I tell you. Partly to please myself,
and partly because Mrs. Van would be so mad if she knew it."
"Oh, Nancy!"
"Well, I don't say it was right, but anyhow I did it; you ha'n't heard
what I found yet."
"You had better put it right back again, Nancy, the first time you have
a chance."
"Put it back again!--I'll give it to you, and then _you_ may put it back
again, if you have a mind. I should like to see you! Why, you don't know
what I found."
"Well, what did you find?"
"The box was chuck full of all sorts of things, and I had a mind to see
what was in it, so I pulled 'em out one after the other till I got to
the bottom. At the very bottom was some letters and papers, and
there--staring right in my face--the first thing I see was, 'Miss Ellen
Montgomery.'"
"Oh, Nancy!" screamed Ellen, "a letter for me?"
"Hush!--and sit down, will you?--yes, a whole package of letters for
you. Well, thought I, Mrs. Van has no right to that anyhow, and she
ain't agoing to take the care of it any more; so I just took it up and
put it in the bosom of my frock while I looked to see if there was any
more for you, but there warn't. There it is."
And she tossed the package into Ellen's lap. Ellen's head swam.
"Well, good-bye!" said Nancy, rising; "I may go now, I suppose, and no
thanks to me."
"Yes, I do--I do thank you very much, Nancy," cried Ellen, starting up
and taking her by the hand--"I do thank you, though it wasn't right; but
oh, how could she! how could she!"
"Dear me!" said Nancy; "to ask that of Mrs. Van! she could do anything.
_Why_ she did it, ain't so easy to tell."
Ellen, bewildered, scarcely knew, only _felt_, that Nancy had gone. The
outer cover of her package, the seal of which was broken, contained
three letters; two addressed to Ellen, in her father's hand, the third
to another person. The seals of these had not been broken. The first
that Ellen opened she saw was all in the same hand with the direction;
she threw it down and eagerly tried the other. And yes! there was indeed
the beloved character of which she never thought to have seen another
specimen. Ellen's heart swelled with many feelings; thankfulness,
tenderness, joy, and sorrow, past and present; _that_ letter was not
thrown down, but grasped, while tears fell much too fast for eyes to do
their work. It was long before she could get far in the letter. But when
she had fairly begun it, she went on swiftly, and almost breathlessly,
to the end.
"MY DEAR, DEAR LITTLE ELLEN,--I am scarcely able--but I must write
to you once more. _Once_ more, daughter, for it is not permitted me
to see your face again in this world. I look to see it, my dear
child, where it will be fairer than ever here it seemed, even to me.
I shall die in this hope and expectation. Ellen, remember it. Your
last letters have greatly encouraged and rejoiced me. I am
comforted, and can leave you quietly in that hand that has led me
and I believe is leading you. God bless you, my child!
"Ellen, I have a mother living, and she wishes to receive you as her
own when I am gone. It is best you should know at once why I never
spoke to you of her. After your Aunt Bessy married and went to New
York, it displeased and grieved my mother greatly that I too, who
had always been her favourite child, should leave her for an
American home. And when I persisted, in spite of all that entreaties
and authority could urge, she said she forgave me for destroying all
her prospects of happiness, but that after I should be married and
gone she should consider me as lost to her entirely, and so I must
consider myself. She never wrote to me, and I never wrote to her
after I reached America. She was dead to me. I do not say that I did
not deserve it.
"But I have written to her lately and she has written to me. She
permits me to die in the joy of being entirely forgiven, and in the
further joy of knowing that the only source of care I had left is
done away. She will take you to her heart, to the place I once
filled, and I believe fill yet. She longs to have you, and to have
you as entirely her own, in all respects; and to this, in
consideration of the wandering life your father leads, and will
lead, I am willing and he is willing to agree. It is arranged so.
The old happy home of my childhood will be yours, my Ellen. It joys
me to think of it. Your father will write to your aunt and to you on
the subject, and furnish you with funds. It is our desire that you
should take advantage of the very first opportunity of proper
persons going to Scotland who will be willing to take charge of you.
Your dear friends, Mr. and Miss Humphreys, will, I dare say, help
you in this.
"To them I could say much, if I had strength. But words are little.
If blessings and prayers from a full heart are worth anything, they
are the richer. My love and gratitude to them cannot----"
The writer had failed here; and what there was of the letter had
evidently been written at different times. Captain Montgomery's was to
the same purpose. He directed Ellen to embrace the first opportunity of
suitable guardians, to cross the Atlantic and repair to No.--George
Street, Edinburgh; and that Miss Fortune would give her the money she
would need, which he had written to her to do, and that the accompanying
letter Ellen was to carry with her and deliver to Mrs. Lindsay, her
grandmother.
Ellen felt as if her head would split. She took up that letter, gazed at
the strange name and direction which had taken such new and startling
interest for her, wondered over the thought of what she was ordered to
do with it, marvelled what sort of fingers they were which would open
it, or whether it would ever be opened; and finally in a perfect maze,
unable to read, think, or even weep, she carried her package of letters
into her own room, the room that had been Alice's, laid herself on the
bed, and them beside her; and fell into a deep sleep.
She woke up towards evening with the pressure of a mountain weight upon
her mind. Her thoughts and feelings were a maze still; and not Mr.
Humphreys himself could be more grave and abstracted than poor Ellen was
that night. So many points were to be settled--so many questions
answered to herself--it was a good while before Ellen could disentangle
them, and know what she did think and feel, and what she would do.
She very soon found out her own mind upon one subject--she would be
exceeding sorry to be obliged to obey the directions in the letters. But
must she obey them?
"I have promised Alice," thought Ellen; "I have promised Mr.
Humphreys--I can't be adopted twice. And this Mrs. Lindsay, my
grandmother! she cannot be nice or she wouldn't have treated my mother
so. She cannot be a nice person; hard, she must be hard; I never want to
see her. My mother! But then my mother loved her, and was very glad to
have me go to her. Oh! oh! how could she! how could they do so! when
they didn't know how it might be with me, and what dear friends they
might make me leave! Oh, it was cruel! But then they did _not_ know,
that is the very thing--they thought I would have nobody but Aunt
Fortune, and so it's no wonder--Oh, what shall I do! What _ought_ I to
do? These people in Scotland must have given me up by this time; it's,
let me see--it's just about three years now, a little less, since these
letters were written, and circumstances are changed; I have a home and a
father and a brother; may I not judge for myself? But my mother and my
father have ordered me, what shall I do! If John were only here--but
perhaps he would make me go, he might think it right. And to leave him,
and maybe never to see him again! and Mr. Humphreys! and how lonely he
would be without me. I cannot! I will not! Oh, what _shall_ I do! What
shall I do!" Ellen's meditations gradually plunged her in despair; for
she could not look at the event of being obliged to go, and she could
not get rid of the feeling that perhaps it might come to that. She wept
bitterly; it didn't mend the matter. She thought painfully, fearfully,
long; and was no nearer an end. She could not endure to submit the
matter to Mr. Humphreys; she feared his decision; and she feared also
that he would give her the money Miss Fortune had failed to supply for
the journey; how much it might be Ellen had no idea. She could not
dismiss the subject as decided by circumstances, for conscience pricked
her with the fifth commandment. She was miserable. It happily occurred
to her at last to take counsel with Mrs. Vawse; this might be done she
knew without betraying Nancy; Mrs. Vawse was much too honourable to
press her as to how she came by the letters, and her word could easily
be obtained not to speak of the affairs to any one. As for Miss
Fortune's conduct, it must be made known; there was no help for that. So
it was settled; and Ellen's breast was a little lightened of its load of
care for that time; she had leisure to think of some other things.
Why had Miss Fortune kept back the letters? Ellen guessed pretty well,
but she did not know quite all. The package, with its accompanying
despatch to Miss Fortune, had arrived shortly after Ellen first heard
the news of her mother's death, when she was refuged with Alice at the
parsonage. At the time of its being sent Captain Montgomery's movements
were extremely uncertain; and in obedience to the earnest request of his
wife he directed that without waiting for his own return Ellen should
immediately set out for Scotland. Part of the money for her expenses he
sent; the rest he desired his sister to furnish, promising to make all
straight when he should come home. But it happened that he was already
this lady's debtor in a small amount, which Miss Fortune had serious
doubts of ever being repaid; she instantly determined that if she had
once been a fool in lending him money, she would not a second time in
adding to the sum; if he wanted to send his daughter on a wild-goose
chase after great relations, he might come home himself and see to it;
it was none of her business. Quietly taking the remittance to refund his
own owing, she of course threw the letters into her box, as the delivery
of them would expose the whole transaction. There they lay till Nancy
found them.
Early next morning after breakfast Ellen came into the kitchen, and
begged Margery to ask Thomas to bring the Brownie to the door. Surprised
at the energy in her tone and manner, Margery gave the message, and
added that Miss Ellen seemed to have picked up wonderfully; she hadn't
heard her speak so brisk since Mr. John went away.
The Brownie was soon at the door, but not so soon as Ellen, who had
dressed in feverish haste. The Brownie was not alone; there was old John
saddled and bridled, and Thomas Grimes in waiting.
"It's not necessary for you to take that trouble, Thomas," said Ellen;
"I don't mind going alone at all."
"I beg your pardon, Miss Ellen (Thomas touched his hat)--but Mr. John
left particular orders that I was to go with Miss Ellen whenever it
pleased her to ride; never failing."
"Did he?" said Ellen; "but is it convenient for you now, Thomas? I want
to go as far as Mrs. Vawse's."
"It's always convenient, Miss Ellen, always; Miss Ellen need not think
of that at all, I am always ready."
Ellen mounted upon the Brownie, sighing for the want of the hand that
used to lift her to the saddle; and, spurred by this recollection, set
off at a round pace.
Soon she was at Mrs. Vawse's; and soon finding her alone, Ellen had
spread out all her difficulties before her and given her the letters to
read. Mrs. Vawse readily promised to speak on the subject to no one
without Ellen's leave; her suspicions fell upon Mr. Van Brunt, not her
grand-daughter. She heard all the story, and read the letters before
making any remark.
"Now, dear Mrs. Vawse," said Ellen anxiously, when the last one was
folded up and laid on the table, "what do you think?"
"I think, my child, you must go," said the old lady steadily.
Ellen looked keenly, as if to find some other answer in her face; her
own changing more and more for a minute till she sunk it in her hands.
"Cela vous donne beaucoup de chagrin, je le vois bien," said the old
lady tenderly. (Their conversations were always in Mrs. Vawse's tongue.)
"But," said Ellen presently, lifting her head again (there were no
tears), "I cannot go without money."
"That can be obtained without any difficulty."
"From whom? I cannot ask Aunt Fortune for it, Mrs. Vawse; I could not do
it!"
"There is no difficulty about the money. Show your letters to Mr.
Humphreys."
"Oh, I cannot!" said Ellen, covering her face again.
"Will you let me do it? I will speak to him if you permit me."
"But what use? _He_ ought not to give me the money, Mrs. Vawse! It would
not be right; and to show him the letters would be like asking him for
it. Oh, I can't bear to do that!"
"He would give it you, Ellen, with the greatest pleasure."
"Oh no, Mrs. Vawse," said Ellen, bursting into tears, "he would never be
pleased to send me away from him! I know--I know--he would miss me. Oh
what shall I do?"
"Not _that_, my dear Ellen," said the old lady coming to her and gently
stroking her head with both hands. "You must do what is _right_; and you
know it cannot be but that will be best and happiest for you in the
end."
"Oh I wish--I wish," exclaimed Ellen from the bottom of her heart,
"those letters had never been found!"
"Nay, Ellen, _that_ is not right."
"But I promised Alice, Mrs. Vawse; ought I go away and leave him? Oh,
Mrs. Vawse, it is very hard! _Ought_ I?"
"Your father and your mother have said it, my child."
"But they never would have said it if they had known!"
"But they did not know, Ellen; and here it is."
Ellen wept violently, regardless of the caresses and soothing words
which her old friend lavished upon her.
"There is one thing!" said she at last, raising her head, "I don't know
of anybody going to Scotland, and I am not likely to; and if I only do
not before autumn, that is not a good time to go, and then comes
winter."
"My dear Ellen," said Mrs. Vawse sorrowfully, "I must drive you from
your last hope. Don't you know that Mrs. Gillespie is going abroad with
all her family?--next month, I think."
Ellen grew pale for a minute, and sat holding bitter counsel with her
own heart. Mrs. Vawse hardly knew what to say next.
"You need not feel uneasy about your journeying expenses," she remarked
after a pause; "you can easily repay them, if you wish, when you reach
your friends in Scotland."
Ellen did not hear her. She looked up with an odd expression of
determination in her face, determination taking its stand upon
difficulties.
"I shan't stay there, Mrs. Vawse, if I go! I shall go, I suppose, if I
must; but do you think anything will keep me there? Never!"
"You will stay for the same reason that you go for, Ellen; to do your
duty."
"Yes, till I am old enough to choose for myself, Mrs. Vawse, and then I
shall come back; if they will let me."
"Whom do you mean by 'they'?"
"Mr. Humphreys and Mr. John."
"My dear Ellen," said the old lady kindly, "be satisfied with doing your
duty now; leave the future. While you follow Him, God will be your
friend; is not that enough? and all things shall work for your good. You
do not know what you will wish when the time comes you speak of. You do
not know what new friends you may find to love."
Ellen had in her own heart the warrant for what she had said, and what
she saw by her smile Mrs. Vawse doubted; but she disdained to assert
what she could bring nothing to prove. She took a sorrowful leave of her
old friend and returned home.
After dinner when Mr. Humphreys was about going back to his study, Ellen
timidly stopped him and gave him her letters, and asked him to look at
them sometime when he had leisure. She told him also where they were
found and how long they had lain there, and that Mrs. Vawse had said she
ought to show them to him.
She guessed he would read them at once, and she waited with a beating
heart. In a little while she heard his step coming back along the hall.
He came and sat down by her on the sofa and took her hand.
"What is your wish in this matter, my child?" he said gravely and
cheerfully.
Ellen's look answered that.
"I will do whatever you say I must, sir," she said faintly.
"I dare not ask myself what _I_ would wish, Ellen; the matter is taken
out of our hands. You must do your parents' will, my child. I will try
to hope that you will gain more than I lose. As the Lord pleases! If I
am bereaved of my children, I am bereaved."
"Mrs. Gillespie," he said, after a pause, "is about going to England; I
know not how soon. It will be best for you to see her at once and make
all arrangements that may be necessary. I will go with you to-morrow to
Ventnor, if the day be a good one."
There was something Ellen longed to say, but it was impossible to get it
out; she could not utter a word. She had pressed her hands upon her face
to try to keep herself quiet; but Mr. Humphreys could see the deep
crimson flushing to the very roots of her hair. He drew her close within
his arms for a moment, kissed her forehead, Ellen _felt_ it was sadly,
and went away. It was well she did not hear him sigh as he went back
along the hall; it was well she did not see the face of more settled
gravity with which he sat down to his writing; she had enough of her
own.
They went to Ventnor. Mrs. Gillespie with great pleasure undertook the
charge of her, and promised to deliver her safely to her friends in
Scotland. It was arranged that she should go back to Thirlwall to make
her adieus; and that in a week or two a carriage should be sent to bring
her to Ventnor, where her preparations for the journey should be made,
and whence the whole party would set off.
"So you are going to be a Scotchwoman after all, Ellen," said Miss
Sophia.
"I had a great deal rather be an American, Miss Sophia."
"Why, Hutchinson will tell you," said the young lady, "that it is
infinitely more desirable to be a Scotchwoman than that."
Ellen's face, however, looked so little inclined to be merry that she
took up the subject in another tone.
"Seriously, do you know," said she, "I have been thinking it is a very
happy thing for you. I don't know what would become of you alone in that
great parsonage house. You would mope yourself to death in a little
while; especially now that Mr. John is gone."
"He will be back," said Ellen.
"Yes; but what if he is? he can't stay at Thirlwall, child. He can't
live thirty miles from his church, you know. Did you think he would?
They think all the world of him already. I expect they'll barely put up
with Mr. George while he is gone; they will want Mr. John all to
themselves when he comes back, you may rely on that. What _are_ you
thinking of, child?"
For Ellen's eyes were sparkling with two or three thoughts which Miss
Sophia could not read.
"I should like to know what you are smiling at," she said, with some
curiosity. But the smile was almost immediately quenched in tears.
Notwithstanding Miss Sophia's discouraging talk, Ellen privately agreed
with Ellen Chauncey that the Brownie should be sent to her to keep and
use as her own, _till his mistress should come back_; both children
being entirely of opinion that the arrangement was a most
unexceptionable one.
It was not forgotten that the lapse of three years since the date of the
letters left some uncertainty as to the present state of affairs among
Ellen's friends in Scotland; but this doubt was not thought sufficient
to justify her letting pass so excellent an opportunity of making the
journey, especially as Captain Montgomery's letter spoke of an _uncle_,
to whom, equally with her grandmother, Ellen was to be consigned. In
case circumstances would permit it, Mrs. Gillespie engaged to keep Ellen
with her, and bring her home to America when she herself should return.
And in little more than a month they were gone; adieus and preparations
and all were over. Ellen's parting with Mrs. Vawse was very tender and
very sad; with Mr. Van Brunt, extremely and gratefully affectionate, on
both sides; with her aunt, constrained and brief; with Margery, very
sorrowful indeed. But Ellen's longest and most lingering adieu was to
Captain Parry, the old grey cat. For one whole evening she sat with him
in her arms; and over poor pussy were shed the tears that fell for many
better loved and better deserving personages, as well as those not a few
that were wept for him. Since Alice's death Parry had transferred his
entire confidence and esteem to Ellen; whether from feeling a want, or
because love and tenderness had taught her the touch and the tone that
were fitted to win his regard. Only John shared it. Ellen was his chief
favourite and almost constant companion. And bitterer tears Ellen shed
at no time than that evening before she went away, over the old cat. She
could not distress kitty with her distress, nor weary him with the calls
upon his sympathy, though indeed it is true that he sundry times poked
his nose up wonderingly and caressingly in her face. She had no
remonstrance or interruption to fear; and taking pussy as the emblem and
representative of the whole household, Ellen wept them all over him,
with a tenderness and a bitterness that were somehow intensified by the
sight of the grey coat, and white paws, and kindly face, of her
unconscious old brute friend.
The old people at Carra-carra were taken leave of; the Brownie too, with
great difficulty. And Nancy.
"I'm really sorry you are going, Ellen," said she; "you're the only soul
in town I care about. I wish I'd thrown them letters in the fire after
all! Who'd ha' thought it!"
Ellen could not help in her heart echoing the wish.
"I'm really sorry, Ellen," she repeated. "Ain't there something I can do
for you when you are gone?"
"Oh yes, dear Nancy," said Ellen, weeping, "if you would only take care
of your dear grandmother. She is left alone now. If you would only take
care of her, and read your Bible, and be good, Nancy. Oh, Nancy, Nancy!
do, do!"
They kissed each other, and Nancy went away fairly crying.
Mrs. Marshman's own woman, a steady, excellent person, had come in the
carriage for Ellen. And the next morning early after breakfast, when
everything else was ready, she went into Mr. Humphreys' study to bid the
last dreaded good-bye. She thought her obedience was costing her dear.
It was nearly a silent parting. He held her a long time in his arms; and
there Ellen bitterly thought her place ought to be. "What have I to do
to seek new relations?" she said to herself. But she was speechless;
till gently relaxing his hold he tenderly smoothed back her disordered
hair, and kissing her, said a very few grave words of blessing and
counsel. Ellen gathered all her strength together then, for she had
something that _must_ be spoken.
"Sir," said she, falling on her knees before him and looking up in his
face, "this don't alter--you do not take back what you said, do you?"
"What that I said, my child?"
"That," said Ellen, hiding her face in her hands on his knee, and scarce
able to speak with great effort, "that which you said when I first
came--that which you said about----"
"About what, my dear child?"
"My going away don't change anything, does it, sir? Mayn't I come back,
if ever I can?"
He raised her up and drew her close to his bosom again.
"My dear little daughter," said he, "you cannot be so glad to come back
as my arms and my heart will be to receive you. I scarce dare hope to
see that day, but all in this house is yours, dear Ellen, as well when
in Scotland as here. I take back nothing, my daughter. Nothing is
changed."
A word or two more of affection and blessing, which Ellen was utterly
unable to answer in any way, and she went to the carriage; with one drop
of cordial in her heart, that she fed upon a long while. "He called me
his daughter! he never said that before since Alice died! Oh, so I will
be as long as I live, if I find fifty new relations. But what good will
a daughter three thousand miles off do him?"