Gives sorrow to the winds.
Sorrow and excitement made Ellen's eyelids heavy, and she
slept late on the following morning. The great dressing-bell
waked her. She started up with a confused notion that
something was the matter: there was a weight on her heart that
was very strange to it. A moment was enough to bring it all
back; and she threw herself again on her pillow, yielding
helplessly to the grief she had twice been obliged to control
the evening before. Yet love was stronger than grief still,
and she was careful to allow no sound to escape her that could
reach the ears of her mother, who slept in the next room. Her
resolve was firm to grieve her no more with useless
expressions of sorrow to keep it to herself as much as
possible. But this very thought, that she must keep it to
herself, gave an edge to poor Ellen's grief, and the
convulsive clasp of her little arms round the pillow plainly
showed that it needed none.
The breakfast-bell again startled her, and she remembered she
must not be too late down stairs, or her mother might inquire
and find out the reason. "I will _not_ trouble mother I will
not I will not!" she resolved to herself as she got out of
bed, though the tears fell faster as she said so. Dressing was
sad work to Ellen to-day; it went on very heavily. Tears
dropped into the water as she stooped her head to the basin;
and she hid her face in the towel to cry, instead of making
the ordinary use of it. But the usual duties were dragged
through at last, and she went to the window. "I'll not go down
till papa is gone," she thought "he'll ask me what is the
matter with my eyes."
Ellen opened the window. The rain was over; the lovely light
of a fair September morning was beautifying everything it
shone upon. Ellen had been accustomed to amuse herself a good
deal at this window, though nothing was to be seen from it but
an ugly city prospect of back walls of houses, with the yards
belonging to them, and a bit of narrow street. But she had
watched the people that showed themselves at the windows, and
the children that played in the yards, and the women that went
to the pumps, till she had become pretty well acquainted with
the neighbourhood; and though they were for the most part
dingy, dirty, and disagreeable women, children, houses, and
all she certainly had taken a good deal of interest in their
proceedings. It was all gone now. She could not bear to look
at them; she felt as if it made her sick; and turning away her
eyes, she lifted them to the bright sky above her head, and
gazed into its clear depth of blue till she almost forgot that
there was such a thing as a city in the world. Little white
clouds were chasing across it, driven by the fresh wind that
was blowing away Ellen's hair from her face, and cooling her
hot cheeks. That wind could not have been long in coming from
the place of woods and flowers, it was so sweet still. Ellen
looked till, she didn't know why, she felt calmed and soothed
as if somebody was saying to her softly, "Cheer up, my
child, cheer up; things are not so bad as they might be:
things will be better." Her attention was attracted at length
by voices below; she looked down, and saw there, in one of the
yards, a poor deformed child, whom she had often noticed
before, and always with sorrowful interest. Besides his bodily
infirmity, he had a further claim on her sympathy, in having
lost his mother within a few months. Ellen's heart was easily
touched this morning; she felt for him very much. "Poor, poor
little fellow!" she thought; "he's a great deal worse off than
I am. _His_ mother is dead; mine is only going away for a few
months not for ever oh, what a difference! and then the
joy of coming back again!" poor Ellen was weeping already at
the thought "and I will do, oh, how much! while she is gone
I'll do more than she can possibly expect from me I'll
astonish her I'll delight her I'll work harder than ever I
did in my life before I'll mend all my faults, and give her
so much pleasure! But oh! if she only needn't go away! oh,
Mamma!" Tears of mingled sweet and bitter were poured out
fast, but the bitter had the largest share.
The breakfast-table was still standing, and her father gone,
when Ellen went down stairs. Mrs. Montgomery welcomed her with
her usual quiet smile, and held out her hand. Ellen tried to
smile in answer, but she was glad to hide her face in her
mother's bosom; and the long close embrace was too close and
too long; it told of sorrow as well as love; and tears fell
from the eyes of each, that the other did not see.
"Need I go to school to-day, Mamma?" whispered Ellen.
"No; I spoke to your father about that; you shall not go any
more; we will be together now while we can."
Ellen wanted to ask how long that would be, but could not make
up her mind to it.
"Sit down, daughter, and take some breakfast."
"Have you done, Mamma?"
"No I waited for you."
"Thank you, dear Mamma" with another embrace "how good you
are! but I don't think I want any."
They drew their chairs to the table, but it was plain neither
had much heart to eat; although Mrs. Montgomery with her own
hands laid on Ellen's plate half of the little bird that had
been boiled for her own breakfast. The half was too much for
each of them.
"What made you so late this morning, daughter?"
"I got up late, in the first place, Mamma; and then I was a
long time at the window."
"At the window? Were you examining into your neighbours'
affairs, as usual?" said Mrs. Montgomery, surprised that it
should have been so.
"Oh, no, Mamma, I didn't look at them at all, except poor
little Billy. I was looking at the sky."
"And what did you see there that pleased you so much?"
"I don't know, Mamma; it looked so lovely and peaceful that
pure blue spread over my head, and the little white clouds
flying across it I loved to look at it; it seemed to do me
good."
"Could you look at it, Ellen, without thinking of Him who made
it?"
"No, Mamma," said Ellen, ceasing her breakfast, and now
speaking with difficulty; "I did think of Him; perhaps that
was the reason."
"And what did you think of Him, daughter?"
"I hoped, Mamma I felt I thought he would take care of
me," said Ellen, bursting into tears, and throwing her arms
around her mother.
"He will, my dear daughter, he will, if you will only put
your trust in Him, Ellen."
Ellen struggled hard to get back her composure, and after a
few minutes succeeded.
"Mamma, will you tell me what you mean exactly by my 'putting
my trust' in Him?"
"Don't you trust me, Ellen?"
"Certainly, Mamma."
"How do you trust me? in what?"
"Why, Mamma, in the first place I trust every word you say
entirely I know nothing could be truer; if you were to tell
me black is white, Mamma, I should think my eyes had been
mistaken. Then everything you tell or advise me to do, I know
it is right, perfectly. And I always feel safe when you are
near me, because I know you'll take care of me. And I am glad
to think I belong to you, and you have the management of me
entirely, and I needn't manage myself, because I know I can't;
and if I could, I'd rather you would, Mamma."
"My daughter, it is just so it is _just_ so that I wish you
to trust in God. He is truer, wiser, stronger, kinder by far
than I am, even if I could always be with you; and what will
you do when I am away from you? And what would you do, my
child, if I were to be parted from you forever?"
"Oh, Mamma!" said Ellen, bursting into tears, and clasping her
arms round her mother again "Oh, dear Mamma, don't talk
about it!"
Her mother fondly returned her caress, and one or two tears
fell on Ellen's head as she did so, but that was all, and she
said no more. Feeling severely the effects of the excitement
and anxiety of the preceding day and night, she now stretched
herself on the sofa, and lay quite still. Ellen placed herself
on a little bench at her side, with her back to the head of
the sofa, that her mother might not see her face; and,
possessing herself of one of her hands, sat with her little
head resting upon her mother, as quiet as she. They remained
thus for two or three hours without speaking; and Mrs.
Montgomery was part of the time slumbering; but now and then a
tear ran down the side of the sofa, and dropped on the carpet
where Ellen sat: and now and then her lips were softly pressed
to the hand she held, as if they would grow there.
The doctor's entrance at last disturbed them. Dr. Green found
his patient decidedly worse than he had reason to expect; and
his sagacious eye had not passed back and forth many times
between the mother and daughter before he saw how it was. He
made no remark upon it, however, but continued for some
moments a pleasant chatty conversation which he had begun with
Mrs. Montgomery. He then called Ellen to him; he had rather
taken a fancy to her.
"Well, Miss Ellen," he said, rubbing one of her hands in his,
"what do you think of this fine scheme of mine?"
"What scheme, Sir?"
"Why, this scheme of sending this sick lady over the water to
get well; what do you think of it, eh?"
"_Will_ it make her quite well, do you think, Sir?" asked Ellen,
earnestly.
" 'Will it make her well?' to be sure it will. Do you think
I don't know better than to send people all the way across the
ocean for nothing? Who do you think would want Dr. Green if he
sent people on wild-goose-chases in that fashion?"
"Will she have to stay long there before she is cured, Sir?"
asked Ellen.
"Oh, that I can't tell; that depends entirely on circumstances
perhaps longer, perhaps shorter. But now, Miss Ellen, I've
got a word of business to say to you; you know you agreed to
be my little nurse. Mrs. Nurse, this lady whom I put under
your care the other day, isn't quite as well as she ought to
be this morning; I am afraid you haven't taken proper care of
her; she looks to me as if she had been too much excited. I've
a notion she has been secretly taking half a bottle of wine,
or reading some furious kind of a novel, or something of that
sort you understand? Now mind, Mrs. Nurse," said the doctor,
changing his tone "she _must not_ be excited you must take
care that she is not it isn't good for her. You mustn't let
her talk too much, or laugh much, or cry at all, on any
account; she mustn't be worried in the least will you
remember? Now, you know what I shall expect of you; you must
be very careful; if that piece of toast of yours should chance
to get burned, one of these fine evenings, I won't answer for
the consequences. Good-bye," said he, shaking Ellen's hand;
"you needn't look sober about it; all you have to do is to let
your Mamma be as much like an oyster as possible; you
understand? Good-bye." And Dr. Green took his leave.
"Poor woman!" said the doctor to himself, as he went down
stairs (he was a humane man) "I wonder if she'll live till
she gets to the other side! That's a nice little girl, too.
Poor child! poor child!"
Both mother and daughter silently acknowledged the justice of
the doctor's advice, and determined to follow it. By common
consent, as it seemed, each for several days avoided bringing
the subject of sorrow to the other's mind; though no doubt it
was constantly present to both. It was not spoken of; indeed,
little of any kind was spoken of, but that never. Mrs.
Montgomery was doubtless employed, during this interval, in
preparing for what she believed was before her; endeavouring
to resign herself and her child to Him in whose hands they
were, and struggling to withdraw her affections from a world
which she had a secret misgiving she was fast leaving. As for
Ellen, the doctor's warning had served to strengthen the
resolve she had already made, that she would not distress her
mother with the sight of her sorrow; and she kept it, as far
as she could. She did not let her mother see but very few
tears, and those were quiet ones; though she drooped her head
like a withered flower, and went about the house with an air
of submissive sadness, that tried her mother sorely. But when
she was alone, and knew no one could see, sorrow had its way;
and then there were sometimes agonies of grief that would
almost have broken Mrs. Montgomery's resolution, had she known
them.
This, however, could not last. Ellen was a child, and of most
buoyant and elastic spirit naturally; it was not for one
sorrow, however great, to utterly crush her. It would have
taken years to do that. Moreover, she entertained not the
slightest hope of being able by any means to alter her
father's will. She regarded the dreaded evil as an inevitable
thing. But though she was at first overwhelmed with sorrow,
and for some days evidently pined under it sadly, hope at
length _would_ come back to her little heart; and no sooner in
again, hope began to smooth the roughest, and soften the
hardest, and touch the dark spots with light, in Ellen's
future. The thoughts which had just passed through her head
that first morning, as she stood at her window, now came back
again. Thoughts of wonderful improvement to be made during her
mother's absence; of unheard-of efforts to learn and amend,
which should all be crowned with success; and, above all,
thoughts of that "coming home," when all these attainments and
accomplishments should be displayed to her mother's delighted
eyes, and her exertions receive their long-desired reward;
they made Ellen's heart beat, and her eyes swim, and even
brought a smile once more upon her lips. Mrs. Montgomery was
rejoiced to see the change; she felt that as much time had
already been given to sorrow as they could afford to lose, and
she had not known exactly how to proceed. Ellen's amended
looks and spirits greatly relieved her.
"What are you thinking about, Ellen?" said she, one morning.
Ellen was sewing, and while busy at her work her mother had
two or three times observed a light smile pass over her face.
Ellen looked up, still smiling, and answered, "Oh, Mamma, I
was thinking of different things things that I mean to do
while you are gone."
"And what are these things?" inquired her mother.
"Oh, Mamma, it wouldn't do to tell you beforehand; I want to
surprise you with them when you come back."
A slight shudder passed over Mrs. Montgomery's frame, but
Ellen did not see it. Mrs. Montgomery was silent. Ellen
presently introduced another subject.
"Mamma, what kind of a person is my aunt?"
"I do not know I have never seen her."
"How has that happened, Mamma?"
"Your aunt has always lived in a remote country town, and I
have been very much confined to two or three cities, and your
father's long and repeated absences made travelling impossible
to me."
Ellen thought, but she didn't say it, that it was very odd her
father should not sometimes, when he _was_ in the country, have
gone to see his relations, and taken her mother with him.
"What is my aunt's name, Mamma?"
"I think you must have heard that already, Ellen Fortune
Emerson."
"Emerson! I thought she was papa's sister!"
"So she is."
"Then how comes her name not to be Montgomery?"
"She is only his half-sister the daughter of his mother, not
the daughter of his father."
"I am very sorry for that," said Ellen, gravely.
"Why, my daughter?"
"I am afraid she will not be so likely to love me."
"You mustn't think so, my child. Her loving or not loving you
will depend solely and entirely upon yourself, Ellen. Don't
forget that. If you are a good child, and make it your daily
care to do your duty, she cannot help liking you, be she what
she may; and, on the other hand, if she have all the will in
the world to love you, she cannot do it unless you will let
her it all depends on your behaviour."
"Oh, Mamma, I can't help wishing dear aunt Bessy was alive,
and I was going to her."
Many a time the same wish had passed through Mrs. Montgomery's
mind. But she kept down her rising heart, and went on calmly
"You must not expect, my child, to find anybody as indulgent
as I am, or as ready to overlook and excuse your faults. It
would be unreasonable to look for it; and you must not think
hardly of your aunt when you find she is not your mother; but
then it will be your own fault if she does not love you, in
time, truly and tenderly. See that you render her all the
respect and obedience you could render me; that is your
bounden duty; she will stand in my place while she has the
care of you remember that, Ellen; and remember, too, that
she will deserve more gratitude at your hands for showing you
kindness than I do, because she cannot have the same feeling
of love to make trouble easy."
"Oh, no, Mamma," said Ellen, "I don't think so; it's that very
feeling of love that I am grateful for; I don't care a fig for
anything people do for me without that."
"But you can make her love you, Ellen, if you try."
"Well, I'll try, Mamma."
"And don't be discouraged. Perhaps you may be disappointed in
first appearances, but never mind that; have patience; and let
your motto be (if there's any occasion), 'Overcome evil with
good'. Will you put that among the things you mean to do while
I am gone?" said Mrs. Montgomery, with a smile.
"I'll try, dear Mamma."
"You will succeed if you try, dear, never fear if you apply
yourself in your trying to the only unfailing source of wisdom
and strength to Him without whom you can do nothing."
There was silence for a little.
"What sort of a place is it where my aunt lives?" asked Ellen.
"Your father says it is a very pleasant place; he says the
country is beautiful, and very healthy, and full of charming
walks and rides. You have never lived in the country; I think
you will enjoy it very much."
"Then it is not a town?" said Ellen.
"No; it is not far from the town of Thirlwall, but your aunt
lives in the open country. Your father says she is a capital
housekeeper, and that you will learn more, and be in all
respects a great deal happier and better off, than you would
be in a boarding-school here or anywhere."
Ellen's heart secretly questioned the truth of this last
assertion very much.
"Is there any school near?" she asked.
"Your father says there was an excellent one in Thirlwall when
he was there."
"Mamma," said Ellen, "I think the greatest pleasure I shall
have while you are gone will be writing to you. I have been
thinking of it a good deal. I mean to tell you everything
absolutely everything, Mamma. You know there will be nobody
for me to talk to as I do to you" (Ellen's words came out with
difficulty); "and when I feel badly, I shall just shut myself
up and write to you." She hid her face in her mother's lap.
"I count upon it, my dear daughter; it will make quite as much
the pleasure of my life, Ellen, as of yours."
"But then, mother," said Ellen, brushing away the tears from
her eyes, "it will be so long before my letters can get to
you! The things I want you to know right away, you won't know,
perhaps, in a month."
"That's no matter, daughter; they will be just as good when
they do get to me. Never think of that; write every day, and
all manner of things that concern you just as particularly
as if you were speaking to me."
"And you'll write to me, too, Mamma?"
"Indeed I will when I can. But, Ellen, you say that when I
am away, and cannot hear you, there will be nobody to supply
my place. Perhaps it will be so, indeed; but then, my
daughter, let it make you seek that Friend who is never far
away nor out of hearing. Draw nigh to God, and he will draw
nigh to you. You know he has said of his children 'Before
they call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking, I
will hear.' "
"But, Mamma," said Ellen, her eyes filling instantly, "you
know he is not my friend in the same way that he is yours."
And, hiding her face again, she added, "Oh, I wish he was!"
"You know the way to make him so, Ellen. _He_ is willing; it
only rests with you. Oh, my child, my child! if losing your
mother might be the means of finding you that better Friend, I
should be quite willing and glad to go for ever."
There was silence, only broken by Ellen's sobs. Mrs.
Montgomery's voice had trembled, and her face was now covered
with her hands; but she was not weeping; she was seeking a
better relief where it had long been her habit to seek and
find it. Both resumed their usual composure, and the
employments which had been broken off; but neither chose to
renew the conversation. Dinner, sleeping, and company
prevented their having another opportunity during the rest of
the day.
But when evening came, they were again left to themselves.
Captain Montgomery was away, which indeed was the case most of
the time; friends had taken their departure; the curtains were
down, the lamp lit, the little room looked cozy and
comfortable; the servant had brought the tea-things, and
withdrawn, and the mother and daughter were happily alone.
Mrs. Montgomery knew that such occasions were numbered, and
fast drawing to an end, and she felt each one to be very
precious. She now lay on her couch, with her face partially
shaded, and her eyes fixed upon her little daughter, who was
now preparing the tea. She watched her, with thoughts and
feelings not to be spoken, as the little figure went back and
forward between the table and the fire, and the light shining
full upon her face, showed that Ellen's whole soul was in her
beloved duty. Tears would fall as she looked, and were not
wiped away; but when Ellen, having finished her work, brought
with a satisfied face the little tray of tea and toast to her
mother, there was no longer any sign of them left; Mrs.
Montgomery arose with her usual kind smile, to show her
gratitude by honouring, as far as possible, what Ellen had
provided.
"You have more appetite to-night, Mamma."
"I am very glad, daughter," replied her mother, "to see that
you have made up your mind to bear patiently this evil that
has come upon us. I am glad for your sake, and I am glad for
mine; and I am glad, too, because we have a great deal to do,
and no time to lose in doing it."
"What, have we so much to do, Mamma?" said Ellen.
"Oh, many things," said her mother, "you will see. But now,
Ellen, if there is anything you wish to talk to me about, any
question you want to ask, anything you would like particularly
to have, or to have done for you I want you to tell it me as
soon as possible, now, while we can attend to it for by-and-
by perhaps we shall be hurried."
"Mamma," said Ellen, with brightening eyes, "there is one
thing I have thought of that I should like to have shall I
tell it you now?"
"Yes."
"Mamma, you know I shall want to be writing a great deal;
wouldn't it be a good thing for me to have a little box with
some pens in it, and an inkstand, and some paper and wafers?
Because, Mamma, you know I shall be among strangers at first,
and I shan't like asking them for these things as often as I
shall want them, and may be they wouldn't want to let me have
them if I did."
"I have thought of that already, daughter," said Mrs.
Montgomery, with a smile and a sigh. "I will certainly take
care that you are well provided in that respect before you
go."
"How am I to go, Mamma?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, who will go with me? You know I can't go alone,
Mamma."
"No, my daughter. I'll not send you alone. But your father
says it is impossible for _him_ to take the journey at present,
and it is yet more impossible for me. There is no help for it,
daughter, but we must intrust you to the care of some friend
going that way; but He that holds the winds and waters in
the hollow of his hand, can take care of you without any of
our help, and it is to his keeping above all that I shall
commit you."
Ellen made no remark, and seemed much less surprised and
troubled than her mother had expected. In truth, the greater
evil swallowed up the less. Parting from her mother, and for
so long a time, it seemed to her comparatively a matter of
little importance with whom she went, or how, or where. Except
for this, the taking a long journey under a stranger's care?
would have been a dreadful thing to her.
"Do you know yet who it will be that I shall go with, Mamma?"
"Not yet; but it will be necessary to take the first good
opportunity, for I cannot go till I have seen you off. and it
is thought very desirable that I should get to sea before the
severe weather comes."
It was with a pang that these words were spoken and heard, but
neither showed it to the other.
"It has comforted me greatly, my dear child, that you have
shown yourself so submissive and patient under this
affliction. I should scarcely have been able to endure it if
you had not exerted self-control. You have behaved
beautifully."
This was almost too much for poor Ellen. It required her
utmost stretch of self-control to keep within any bounds of
composure; and for some moments her flushed cheek, quivering
lip, and heaving bosom, told what a tumult her mother's words
had raised. Mrs. Montgomery saw she had gone too far, and,
willing to give both Ellen and herself time to recover, she
laid her head on the pillow again, and closed her eyes. Many
thoughts coming thick upon one another presently filled her
mind, and half an hour had passed before she again recollected
what she had meant to say. She opened her eyes; Ellen was
sitting at a little distance, staring into the fire
evidently as deep in meditation as her mother had been.
"Ellen," said Mrs. Montgomery, "did you ever fancy what kind
of a Bible you would like to have?"
"A Bible, Mamma!" said Ellen, with sparkling eyes; "do you
mean to give me a Bible?"
Mrs. Montgomery smiled.
"But, Mamma," said Ellen, gently, "I thought you couldn't
afford it?"
"I have said so, and truly," answered her mother; "and
hitherto you have been able to use mine, but I will not leave
you now without one. I will find ways and means," said Mrs.
Montgomery, smiling again.
"Oh, Mamma, thank you," said Ellen, delighted; "how glad I
shall be!" And, after a pause of consideration, she added,
"Mamma, I never thought much about what sort of a one I should
like couldn't I tell better if I were to see the different
kinds in the store?"
"Perhaps so. Well, the first day that the weather is fine
enough, and I am well enough, I will go out with you, and we
will see about it."
"I am afraid Dr. Green won't let you, Mamma."
"I shall not ask him. I want to get you a Bible, and some
other things that I will not leave you without, and nobody can
do it but myself. I shall go, if I possibly can."
"What other things, Mamma?" asked Ellen, very much interested
in the subject.
"I don't think it will do to tell you to-night," said Mrs.
Montgomery, smiling. "I foresee that you and I should be kept
awake too late if we were to enter upon it just now. We will
leave it till to-morrow. Now read to me, love, and then to
bed."
Ellen obeyed; and went to sleep with brighter visions dancing
before her eyes than had been the case for some time.