Susan Warner (1849-1885), The Wide Wide World (1850),
Tauchnitz edition 1854
Produced by Daniel FROMONT
_The Wide, Wide World_ as seen by _The North American Review_, January
1853
'
Miss Warner
makes her young girl passionate, though
amiable, in her temper; fond of admiration, although withheld
by innate delicacy from seeking it unduly. She places her in
circumstances of peculiar trial to her peculiar traits, and
brings her, by careful gradations, to the state of self-
governed and stable virtue which fits woman for her great
office in the world; a fitness which would be impaired by the
sacrifice of a single grace, or the loss of one sentiment of
tenderness. To build such a character on any basis other than
a religious one, would have been to fix a palace upon the
shifting sands . . . Ellen and Fleda are reared, by their
truly feminine and natural experiences, into any thing but
"strong-minded women," at least if we accept Mr. Dickens's
notion of that dreadful order. They are both of velvet
softness; of delicate, downcast beauty; of flitting but
abundant smiles, and of even too many and ready tears
They
live in the affections, as the true woman must; yet they
cultivate and prize the understanding, and feel it to be the
guardian of goodness, as all wise women should
They are
conscious of having a power and place in the world, and they
claim it without assumption or affectation, and fill it with a
quiet self-respect, not inconsistent with modesty and due
humility. Such is the ideal presented, and with such skill
that we seem at times to be reading a biography. There is a
sweetness in the conception and execution that makes the heart
and the temper better as we read. So much for the _charm_ of the
books. But, on the other hand, we are compelled to say that
such magisterial lovers as Mr. Carleton and John Humphreys are
not at all to our taste, nor do we believe they would in
actual presence be very fascinating to most young ladies
'
COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS.
VOL. CCCVIII.
THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD BY ELIZABETH WETHERELL.
IN ONE VOLUME
THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD.
BY
ELIZABETH WETHERELL.
_AUTHOR'S EDITION_.
LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1854.
"Here at the portal thou dost stand,
And with thy little hand
Thou openest the mysterious gate,
Into the future's undiscovered land
I see its valves expand,
As at the touch of FATE!
Into those realms of Love and Hate."
LONGFELLOW.
THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD.
CHAPTER I.
Breaking the News.
"Mamma, what was that I heard papa saying to you this morning
about his lawsuit?"
"I cannot tell you just now. Ellen, pick up that shawl and
spread it over me."
"Mamma! are you cold in this warm room?"
"A little, there, that will do. Now, my daughter, let me be
quiet a while don't disturb me."
There was no one else in the room. Driven thus to her own
resources, Ellen betook herself to the window, and sought
amusement there. The prospect without gave little promise of
it. Rain was falling, and made the street and everything in it
look dull and gloomy. The foot-passengers plashed through the
water, and the horses and carriages plashed through the mud;
gaiety had forsaken the side-walks, and equipages were few,
and the people that were out were plainly there only because
they could not help it. But yet Ellen, having seriously set
herself to study everything that passed, presently became
engaged in her occupation; and her thoughts travelling
dreamily from one thing to another, she sat for a long time
with her little face pressed against the window-frame,
perfectly regardless of all but the moving world without.
Daylight gradually faded away, and the street wore a more and
more gloomy aspect. The rain poured, and now only an
occasional carriage or footstep disturbed the sound of its
steady pattering. Yet still Ellen sat with her face glued to
the window as if spell-bound, gazing out at every dusky form
that passed, as though it had some strange interest for her.
At length, in the distance, light after light began to appear;
presently Ellen could see the dim figure of the lamplighter
crossing the street, from side to side, with his ladder; then
he drew near enough for her to watch him as he hooked his
ladder on the lamp-irons, ran up and lit the lamp, then
shouldered the ladder and marched off quick, the light
glancing on his wet oil-skin hat, rough greatcoat, and
lantern, and on the pavement and iron railings. The veriest
moth could not have followed the light with more perseverance
than did Ellen's eyes, till the lamplighter gradually
disappeared from view, and the last lamp she could see was
lit; and not till then did it occur to her that there was such
a place as indoors. She took her face from the window. The
room was dark and cheerless, and Ellen felt stiff and chilly.
However, she made her way to the fire, and having found the
poker, she applied it gently to the Liverpool coal with such
good effect, that a bright ruddy blaze sprang up, and lighted
the whole room. Ellen smiled at the result of her experiment.
"That is something like," said she, to herself; "who says I
can't poke the fire? Now, let us see if I can't do something
else. Do but see how these chairs are standing one would
think we had had a sewing-circle here there, go back to your
places that looks a little better; now, these curtains must
come down, and I may as well shut the shutters too and now
this tablecloth must be content to hang straight, and Mamma's
box and the books must lie in their places, and not all
helter-skelter. Now, I wish Mamma would wake up; I should
think she might. I don't believe she is asleep either she
don't look as if she was."
Ellen was right in this; her mother's face did not wear the
look of sleep, nor indeed of repose at all; the lips were
compressed, and the brow not calm. To try, however, whether
she was asleep or no, and with the half-acknowledged intent to
rouse her at all events, Ellen knelt down by her side, and
laid her face close to her mother's on the pillow. But this
failed to draw either word or sign. After a minute or two,
Ellen tried stroking her mother's cheek very gently and this
succeeded, for Mrs. Montgomery arrested the little hand as it
passed her lips, and kissed it fondly two or three times.
"I haven't disturbed you, Mamma, have I?" said Ellen.
Without replying, Mrs. Montgomery raised herself to a sitting
posture, and lifting both hands to her face, pushed back the
hair from her forehead and temples, with a gesture which Ellen
knew meant that she was making up her mind to some
disagreeable or painful effort. Then taking both Ellen's
hands, as she still knelt before her, she gazed in her face
with a look even more fond than usual, Ellen thought, but much
sadder too; though Mrs. Montgomery's cheerfulness had always
been of a serious kind.
"What question was that you were asking me a while ago, my
daughter?"
"I thought, Mamma, I heard papa telling you this morning, or
yesterday, that he had lost that lawsuit."
"You heard right, Ellen he has lost it," said Mrs.
Montgomery, sadly.
"Are you sorry, Mamma? does it trouble you?"
"You know, my dear, that I am not apt to concern myself
overmuch about the gain or the loss of money. I believe my
heavenly Father will give me what is good for me."
"Then, Mamma, why are you troubled?"
"Because, my child, I cannot carry out this principle in other
matters, and leave quietly my _all_ in His hands."
"What is the matter, dear mother? What makes you look so?"
"This lawsuit, Ellen, has brought upon us more trouble than I
ever thought a lawsuit could the loss of it, I mean."
"How, Mamma?"
"It has caused an entire change of all our plans. Your father
says he is too poor now to stay here any longer; and he has
agreed to go soon on some government or military business to
Europe."
"Well, Mamma, that is bad; but he has been away a great deal
before, and I am sure we were always very happy."
"But, Ellen, he thinks now, and the doctor thinks too, that it
is very important for my health that I should go with him."
"Does he, Mamma? and do you mean to go?"
"I am afraid I must, my dear child."
"Not, and leave _me_, mother?"
The imploring look of mingled astonishment, terror, and sorrow
with which Ellen uttered these words, took from her mother all
power of replying. It was not necessary; her little daughter
understood only too well the silent answer of her eye. With a
wild cry she flung her arms round her mother, and hiding her
face in her lap, gave way to a violent burst of grief, that
seemed for a few moments as if it would rend soul and body in
twain. For her passions were by nature very strong, and by
education very imperfectly controlled; and time, "that rider
that breaks youth," had not as yet tried his hand upon her.
And Mrs. Montgomery, in spite of the fortitude and calmness to
which she had steeled herself, bent down over her, and folding
her arms about her, yielded to sorrow deeper still, and for a
little while scarcely less violent in its expression than
Ellen's own.
Alas! she had too good reason. She knew that the chance of her
ever returning to shield the little creature who was nearest
her heart from the future evils and snares of life was very,
very small. She had at first absolutely refused to leave
Ellen, when her husband proposed it; declaring that she would
rather stay with her and die than take the chance of recovery
at such a cost. But her physician assured her she could not
live long without a change of climate; Captain Montgomery
urged that it was better to submit to a temporary separation,
than to cling obstinately to her child for a few months, and
then leave her for ever; said he must himself go speedily to
France, and that now was her best opportunity; assuring her,
however, that his circumstances would not permit him to take
Ellen with them, but that she would be secure of a happy home
with his sister during her mother's absence; and to the
pressure of argument Captain Montgomery added the weight of
authority insisting on her compliance. Conscience also asked
Mrs. Montgomery whether she had a _right_ to neglect any chance
of life that was offered her; and at last she yielded to the
combined influence of motives no one of which would have had
power sufficient to move her, and though with a secret
consciousness it would be in vain, she consented to do as her
friends wished. And it was for Ellen's sake she did it, after
all.
Nothing but necessity had given her the courage to open the
matter to her little daughter. She had foreseen and
endeavoured to prepare herself for Ellen's anguish; but nature
was too strong for her, and they clasped each other in a
convulsive embrace, while tears fell like rain.
It was some minutes before Mrs. Montgomery recollected
herself, and then, though she struggled hard, she could not
immediately regain her composure. But Ellen's deep sobs at
length fairly alarmed her; she saw the necessity, for both
their sakes, of putting a stop to this state of violent
excitement; self-command was restored at once.
"Ellen! Ellen! listen to me," she said. "My child, this is not
right. Remember, my darling, who it is that brings this sorrow
upon us; though we _must_ sorrow, we must not rebel."
Ellen sobbed more gently; but that and the mute pressure of
her arms was her only answer.
"You will hurt both yourself and me, my daughter, if you
cannot command yourself. Remember, dear Ellen, God sends no
trouble upon his children but in love; and though we cannot
see how, he will no doubt make all this work for our good."
"I know it, dear mother," sobbed Ellen, "but it's just as
hard!"
Mrs. Montgomery's own heart answered so readily to the truth
of Ellen's words, that for the moment she could not speak.
"Try, my daughter," she said, after a pause, "try to compose
yourself. I am afraid you will make me worse, Ellen, if you
cannot; I am indeed."
Ellen had plenty of faults, but amidst them all, love to her
mother was the strongest feeling her heart knew. It had power
enough now to move her as nothing else could have done; and
exerting all her self-command, of which she had sometimes a
good deal, she _did_ calm herself; ceased sobbing; wiped her
eyes; arose from her crouching posture, and seating herself on
the sofa by her mother, and laying her head on her bosom, she
listened quietly to all the soothing words and cheering
considerations with which Mrs. Montgomery endeavoured to lead
her to take a more hopeful view of the subject. All she could
urge, however, had but very partial success, though the
conversation was prolonged far into the evening. Ellen said
little, and did not weep any more; but in secret her heart
refused consolation.
Long before this the servant had brought in the tea-things.
Nobody regarded it at the time, but the little kettle hissing
away on the fire now by chance attracted Ellen's attention,
and she suddenly recollected her mother had had no tea. To
make her mother's tea was Ellen's regular business. She
treated it as a very grave affair, and loved it as one of the
pleasantest in the course of the day. She used in the first
place to make sure that the kettle really boiled; then she
carefully poured some water into the teapot and rinsed it,
both to make it clean and to make it hot; then she knew
exactly how much tea to put into the tiny little teapot, which
was just big enough to hold two cups of tea; and having poured
a very little boiling water to it, she used to set it by the
side of the fire while she made half a slice of toast. How
careful Ellen was about that toast! The bread must not be cut
too thick, nor too thin; the fire must, if possible, burn
clear and bright; and she herself held the bread on a fork,
just at the right distance from the coals to get nicely
browned without burning. When this was done to her
satisfaction (and if the first piece failed, she would take
another), she filled up the little tea-pot from the boiling
kettle, and proceeded to make a cup of tea. She knew, and was
very careful to put in, just the quantity of milk and sugar
that her mother liked; and then she used to carry the tea and
toast on a little tray to her mother's side, and very often
held it there for her while she ate. All this Ellen did with
the zeal that love gives, and though the same thing was to be
gone over every night of the year, she was never wearied. It
was a real pleasure; she had the greatest satisfaction in
seeing that the little her mother could eat was prepared for
her in the nicest possible manner; she knew her hands made it
taste better; her mother often said so.
But this evening other thoughts had driven this important
business quite out of poor Ellen's mind. Now, however, when
her eyes fell upon the little kettle, she recollected her
mother had not had her tea, and must want it very much; and
silently slipping off the sofa, she set about getting it as
usual. There was no doubt this time whether the kettle boiled
or no; it had been hissing for an hour and more, calling as
loud as it could to somebody to come and make the tea. So
Ellen made it, and then began the toast. But she began to
think, too, as she watched it, how few more times she would be
able to do so how soon her pleasant tea makings would be
over and the desolate feeling of separation began to come
upon her before the time. These thoughts were too much for
poor Ellen; the thick tears gathered so fast, she could not
see what she was doing; and she had no more than just turned
the slice of bread on the fork when the sickness of heart
quite overcame her; she could not go on. Toast and fork and
all dropped from her hand into the ashes; and rushing to her
mother's side, who was now lying down again, and throwing
herself upon her, she burst into another fit of sorrow not
so violent as the former, but with a touch of hopelessness in
it which went yet more to her mother's heart. Passion in the
first said, "I cannot;" despair now seemed to say, "I must."
But Mrs. Montgomery was too exhausted to either share or
soothe Ellen's agitation. She lay in suffering silence; till
after some time she said faintly "Ellen, my love, I cannot
bear this much longer."
Ellen was immediately brought to herself by these words. She
arose, sorry and ashamed that she should have given occasion
for them, and tenderly kissing her mother, assured her, most
sincerely and resolutely, that she would not do so again. In a
few minutes she was calm enough to finish making the tea, and
having toasted another piece of bread, she brought it to her
mother. Mrs. Montgomery swallowed a cup of tea, but no toast
could be eaten that night.
Both remained silent and quiet awhile after this, till the
clock struck ten. "You had better go to bed, my daughter,"
said Mrs. Montgomery.
"I will, Mamma."
"Do you think you can read me a little before you go?"
"Yes, indeed, Mamma;" and Ellen brought the book. "Where shall
I read?"
"The twenty-third Psalm."
Ellen began it, and went through it steadily and slowly,
though her voice quivered a little.
" 'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
" 'He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me
beside the still waters.
" 'He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of
righteousness for his name's sake.
" 'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I
will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff
they comfort me.
" 'Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine
enemies; thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
" 'Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of
my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.'
"
Long before she had finished, Ellen's eyes were full, and her
heart too. "If I only could feel these words as Mamma does!"
she said to herself. She did not dare look up till the traces
of tears had passed away; then she saw that her mother was
asleep. Those first sweet words had fallen like balm upon the
sore heart; and mind and body had instantly found rest
together.
Ellen breathed the lightest possible kiss upon her forehead,
and stole quietly out of the room to her own little bed.