The Bitter-sweet of Life.
When dinner was over and the table cleared away, the mother
and daughter were left, as they always loved to be, alone. It
was late in the afternoon, and already somewhat dark, for
clouds had gathered over the beautiful sky of the morning, and
the wind, rising now and then, made its voice heard. Mrs.
Montgomery was lying on the sofa, as usual, seemingly at ease;
and Ellen was sitting on a little bench before the fire, very
much at _her_ ease, indeed, without any seeming about it. She
smiled as she met her mother's eyes.
"You have made me very happy to-day, Mamma."
"I am glad of it, my dear child. I hoped I should. I believe
the whole affair has given me as much pleasure, Ellen, as it
has you."
There was a pause.
"Mamma, I will take the greatest possible care of my new
treasures."
"I know you will. If I had doubted it, Ellen, most assuredly I
should not have given them to you, sorry as I should have been
to leave you without them. So you see you have not established
a character for carefulness in vain."
"And, Mamma, I hope you have not given them to me in vain,
either. I will try to use them in the way that I know you wish
me to; that will be the best way I can thank you."
"Well, I have left you no excuse, Ellen. You know fully what I
wish you to do and to be; and when I am away I shall please
myself with thinking that my little daughter _is_ following her
mother's wishes; I shall believe so, Ellen. You will not let
me be disappointed?"
"Oh no, Mamma," said Ellen, who was now in her mother's arms.
"Well, my child," said Mrs. Montgomery, in a lighter tone, "my
gifts will serve as reminders for you if you are ever tempted
to forget my lessons. If you fail to send me letters, or if
those you send are not what they ought to be, I think the desk
will cry shame upon you. And if you ever go an hour with a
hole in your stocking, or a tear in your dress, or a string
off your petticoat, I hope the sight of your workbox will make
you blush."
"Workbox, Mamma!"
"Yes. Oh, I forgot you've not seen that."
"No, Mamma what do you mean?"
"Why, my dear, that was one of the things you most wanted, but
I thought it best not to overwhelm you quite this morning; so
while you were on an exploring expedition round the store, I
chose and furnished one for you."
"Oh Mamma, Mamma!" said Ellen, getting up and clasping her
hands, "what shall I do? I don't know what to say; I can't say
anything. Mamma, it's too much."
So it seemed, for Ellen sat down and began to cry. Her mother
silently reached out a hand to her, which she squeezed and
kissed with all the energy of gratitude, love, and sorrow;
till, gently drawn by the same hand, she was placed again in
her mother's arms and upon her bosom. And in that tried
resting-place she lay, calmed and quieted, till the shades of
afternoon deepened into evening, and evening into night, and
the light of the fire was all that was left to them.
Though not a word had been spoken for a long time, Ellen was
not asleep; her eyes were fixed on the red glow of the coals
in the grate, and she was busily thinking, but not of them.
Many sober thoughts were passing through her little head, and
stirring her heart; a few were of her new possessions and
bright projects more of her mother. She was thinking how
very, very precious was the heart she could feel beating where
her cheek lay she thought it was greater happiness to lie
there than anything else in life could be she thought she
had rather even die so, on her mother's breast, than live long
without her in the world she felt that in earth or in heaven
there was nothing so dear. Suddenly she broke the silence.
"Mamma, what does that mean, 'He that loveth father or mother
more than me, is not worthy of me?' "
"It means just what it says. If you love anybody or anything
better than Jesus Christ, you cannot be one of his children."
"But then, Mamma," said Ellen, raising her head, "how _can_ I be
one of his children? I do love you a great deal better: how
can I help it, Mamma?"
"You cannot help it, I know, my dear," said Mrs. Montgomery,
with a sigh, "except by His grace, who has promised to change
the hearts of his people to take away the heart of stone,
and give them a heart of flesh."
"But is mine a heart of stone, then, Mamma, because I cannot
help loving you best?"
"Not to me, dear Ellen," replied Mrs. Montgomery, pressing
closer the little form that lay in her arms; "I have never
found it so. But yet I know that the Lord Jesus is far, far
more worthy of your affection than I am; and if your heart
were not hardened by sin, you would see him so; it is only
because you do not know him that you love me better. Pray,
pray, my dear child, that he would take away the power of sin,
and show you himself; that is all that is wanting."
"I will, Mamma," said Ellen, tearfully. "Oh, Mamma, what shall
I do without you?"
Alas! Mrs. Montgomery's heart echoed the question she had no
answer.
"Mamma," said Ellen, after a few minutes, "can I have no true
love to Him at all unless I love him _best?_"
"I dare not say that you can," answered her mother, seriously.
"Mamma," said Ellen, after a little, again raising her head,
and looking her mother full in the face, as if willing to
apply the severest test to this hard doctrine, and speaking
with an indescribable expression, "do _you_ love him _better than
you do me?_"
She knew her mother loved the Saviour, but she thought it
scarcely possible that herself could have but the second place
in her heart; she ventured a bold question, to prove whether
her mother's practice would not contradict her theory.
But Mrs. Montgomery answered steadily, "I do, my daughter;"
and, with a gush of tears, Ellen sank her head again upon her
bosom. She had no more to say; her mouth was stopped for ever
as to the _right_ of the matter, though she still thought it an
impossible duty in her own particular case.
"I do, indeed, my daughter," repeated Mrs. Montgomery; "that
does not make my love to you the less, but the more, Ellen."
"Oh, Mamma, Mamma!" said Ellen, clinging to her, "I wish you
would teach me! I have only you, and I am going to lose you.
What shall I do, Mamma?"
With a voice that strove to be calm, Mrs. Montgomery answered,
" 'I love them that love me, and they that seek me early shall
find me.' " And after a minute or two, she added, "He who says
this has promised, too, that he will 'gather the lambs with
his arm, and carry them in his bosom.' "
The words fell soothingly on Ellen's ear, and the slight
tremor in the voice reminded her also that her mother must not
be agitated. She checked herself instantly, and soon lay as
before, quiet and still, on her mother's bosom, with her eyes
fixed on the fire; and Mrs. Montgomery did not know that when
she now and then pressed a kiss upon the forehead that lay so
near her lips, it every time brought the water to Ellen's
eyes, and a throb to her heart. But after some half or three-
quarters of an hour had passed away, a sudden knock at the
door found both mother and daughter asleep; it had to be
repeated once or twice before the knocker could gain
attention.
"What is that, Mamma?" said Ellen, starting up.
"Somebody at the door. Open it quickly, love."
Ellen did so, and found a man standing there, with his arms
rather full of sundry packages.
"Oh, Mamma, my things!" cried Ellen, clapping her hands; "here
they are!"
The man placed his burden on the table and withdrew.
"Oh, Mamma, I am so glad they are come! Now, if I only had a
light this is my desk, I know, for it's the largest; and I
think this is my dressing-box, as well as I can tell by
feeling yes, it is, here's the handle on top; and this is my
dear workbox not so big as the desk, nor so little as the
dressing-box. Oh, Mamma, mayn't I ring for a light?"
There was no need, for a servant just then entered, bringing
the wished-for candles, and the not-wished-for _tea_. Ellen was
capering about in the most fantastic style, but suddenly
stopped short at sight of the tea things, and looked very
grave. "Well, Mamma, I'll tell you what I'll do," she said,
after a pause of consideration; "I'll make the tea the first
thing, before I untie a single knot; won't that be best,
Mamma? Because I know if I once begin to look, I shan't want
to stop. Don't you think that is wise, Mamma?
But alas! the fire had got very low; there was no making the
tea quickly; and the toast was a work of time. And when all
was over at length, it was then too late for Ellen to begin to
undo packages. She struggled with impatience a minute or two,
and then gave up the point very gracefully, and went to bed.
She had a fine opportunity the next day to make up for the
evening's disappointment. It was cloudy and stormy; going out
was not to be thought of, and it was very unlikely that
anybody would come in. Ellen joyfully allotted the whole
morning to the examination and trial of her new possessions;
and as soon as breakfast was over and the room clear, she set
about it. She first went through the desk and everything in
it, making a running commentary on the excellence, fitness,
and beauty of all it contained; then the dressing-box received
a share, but a much smaller share, of attention; and lastly,
with fingers trembling with eagerness, she untied the pack-
thread that was wound round the workbox, and slowly took off
cover after cover; she almost screamed when the last was
removed. The box was of satinwood, beautifully finished, and
lined with crimson silk; and Mrs. Montgomery had taken good
care it should want nothing that Ellen might need to keep her
clothes in perfect order.
"Oh, Mamma, how beautiful! Oh, Mamma, how good you are! Mamma,
I promise you I'll never be a slattern. Here is more cotton
than I can use up in a great while every number, I do think;
and needles, oh, the needles! what a parcel of them! and,
Mamma, what a lovely scissors! Did you choose it, Mamma, or
did it belong to the box?"
"I chose it."
"I might have guessed it, Mamma, it's just like you. And
here's a thimble fits me exactly! and an emery-bag! how
pretty! and a bodkin! this is a great nicer than yours,
Mamma yours is decidedly the worse for wear; and what's
this? oh, to make eyelet-holes with, I know. And oh, Mamma!
here is almost everything, I think here are tapes, and
buttons, and hooks and eyes, and darning-cotton, and silk-
winders, and pins, and all sorts of things. What's this for,
Mamma?"
"That's a scissors to cut button-holes with. Try it on that
piece of paper that lies by you, and you will see how it
works."
"Oh, I see!" said Ellen, "how very nice that is! Well, I shall
take great pains now to make my button-holes very handsomely."
One survey of her riches could by no means satisfy Ellen. For
some time she pleased herself with going over and over the
contents of the box, finding each time something new to like.
At length she closed it, and keeping it still in her lap, sat
awhile looking thoughtfully into the fire; till, turning
towards her mother, she met her gaze, fixed mournfully, almost
tearfully, on herself. The box was instantly shoved aside, and
getting up and bursting into tears, Ellen went to her.
"Oh, dear mother," she said, "I wish they were all back in the
store, if I could only keep you!"
Mrs. Montgomery answered only by folding her to her heart.
"Is there no help for it, Mamma?"
"There is none. We know that all things shall work together
for good to them that love God."
"Then it will be all good for you, Mamma but what will it be
for me?" And Ellen sobbed bitterly.
"It will be all well, my precious child, I doubt not. I do not
doubt it, Ellen. Do _you_ not doubt it either, love; but from
the hand that wounds, seek the healing. He wounds that he _may_
heal. He does not afflict willingly. Perhaps he sees, Ellen,
that you never would seek him while you had me to cling to."
Ellen clung to her at that moment yet not more than her
mother clung to her.
"How happy we were, Mamma, only a year ago even a month."
"We have no continuing city here," answered her mother, with a
sigh. "But there is a home, Ellen, where changes do not come;
and they that are once gathered there are parted no more for
ever; and all tears are wiped from their eyes. I believe I am
going fast to that home; and now my greatest concern is, that
my little Ellen my precious baby may follow me, and come
there too."
No more was said, nor could be said, till the sound of the
doctor's steps upon the stair obliged each of them to assume
an appearance of composure as speedily as possible. But they
could not succeed perfectly enough to blind him. He did not
seem very well satisfied, and told Ellen he believed he should
have to get another nurse he was afraid she didn't obey
orders.
While the doctor was there, Ellen's Bible was brought in; and
no sooner was he gone than it underwent as thorough an
examination as the boxes had received. Ellen went over every
part of it with the same great care and satisfaction but
mixed with a different feeling. The words that caught her eye
as she turned over the leaves seemed to echo what her mother
had been saying to her. It began to grow dear already. After a
little she rose and brought it to the sofa.
"Are you satisfied with it, Ellen?"
"Oh, yes, Mamma; it is perfectly beautiful, outside and
inside. Now, Mamma, will you please write my name in this
precious book my name, and anything else you please, mother?
I'll bring you my new pen to write it with, and I've got ink
here shall I?"
She brought it; and Mrs. Montgomery wrote Ellen's name and the
date of the gift. The pen played a moment in her fingers, and
then she wrote below the date
"I love them that love me; and they that seek me early shall
find me."
This was for Ellen; but the next words were not for her; what
made her write them?
"I will be a God to thee, and to thy seed after thee."
They were written almost unconsciously; and as, if bowed by an
unseen force, Mrs. Montgomery's head sank upon the open page,
and her whole soul went up with her petition:
"Let these words be my memorial that I have trusted in thee.
And oh! when these miserable lips are silent for ever,
remember the word unto thy servant, upon which thou hast
caused me to hope; and be unto my little one all thou hast
been to me! Unto thee I lift up mine eyes, O thou that
dwellest in the heavens!"
She raised her face from the book, closed it, and gave it
silently to Ellen. Ellen had noticed her action, but had no
suspicion of the cause; she supposed that one of her mother's
frequent feelings of weakness or sickness had made her lean
her head upon the Bible, and she thought no more about it.
However, Ellen felt that she wanted no more of her boxes that
day. She took her old place by the side of her mother's sofa,
with her head upon her mother's hand, and an expression of
quiet sorrow in her face that it had not worn for several
days.