Night and Morning.
October was now far advanced. One evening the evening of the
last Sunday in the month Mrs. Montgomery was lying in the
parlour alone. Ellen had gone to bed some time before; and
now, in the stillness of the Sabbath evening, the ticking of
the clock was almost the only sound to be heard. The hands
were rapidly approaching ten. Captain Montgomery was abroad;
and he had been so according to custom or in bed, the
whole day. The mother and daughter had had the Sabbath to
themselves; and most quietly and sweetly it had passed. They
had read together, prayed together, talked together a great
deal; and the evening had been spent in singing hymns; but
Mrs. Montgomery's strength failed here, and Ellen sang alone.
_She_ was not soon weary. Hymn succeeded hymn, with fresh and
varied pleasure; and her mother could not tire of listening.
The sweet words, and the sweet airs which were all old
friends, and brought of themselves many a lesson of wisdom and
consolation, by the mere force of association needed not the
recommendation of the clear childish voice in which they were
sung, which was, of all things, the sweetest to Mrs.
Montgomery's ear. She listened till she almost felt as if
earth were left behind, and she and her child already standing
within the walls of that city where sorrow and sighing shall
be no more, and the tears shall be wiped from all eyes for
ever. Ellen's next hymn, however, brought her back to earth
again; but though her tears flowed freely while she heard it,
all her causes of sorrow could not render them bitter.
"God in Israel sows the seeds
Of affliction, pain, and toil;
These spring up and choke the weeds
Which would else o'erspread the soil.
Trials make the promise sweet
Trials give new life to prayer
Trials bring me to his feet,
Lay me low, and keep me there."
"It is so, indeed, dear Ellen," said Mrs. Montgomery, when she
had finished and holding the little singer to her breast
"I have always found it so. God is faithful. I have seen
abundant cause to thank him for all the evils he has made me
suffer heretofore, and I do not doubt it will be the same with
this last and worst one. Let us glorify him in the fires, my
daughter; and if earthly joys be stripped from us, and if we
be torn from each other, let us cling the closer to him he
can, and he will, in that case, make up to us more than all we
have lost."
Ellen felt her utter inability to join in her mother's
expressions of confidence and hope; to her there was no
brightness on the cloud that hung over them it was all dark.
She could only press her lips, in tearful silence, to the one
and the other of her mother's cheeks alternately. How sweet
the sense of the coming parting made every such embrace! This
one, for particular reasons, was often and long remembered. A
few minutes they remained thus in each other's arms, cheek
pressed against cheek, without speaking; but then Mrs.
Montgomery remembered that Ellen's bed-time was already past,
and dismissed her.
For a while after, Mrs. Montgomery remained just where Ellen
had left her, her busy thoughts roaming over many things, in
the far past, and the sad present, and the uncertain future.
She was unconscious of the passage of time, and did not notice
how the silence deepened as the night drew on, till scarce a
footfall was heard in the street, and the ticking of the clock
sounded with that sad distinctness which seems to say "Time
is going on time is going on, and you are going with it
do what you will, you can't help that." It was just upon the
stroke of ten, and Mrs. Montgomery was still wrapped in her
deep musings, when a sharp, brisk footstep in the distance
aroused her, rapidly approaching; and she knew very well whose
it was, and that it would pause at the door, before she heard
the quick run up the steps, succeeded by her husband's tread
upon the staircase. And yet she saw him open the door with a
kind of startled feeling, which his appearance now invariably
caused her; the thought always darted through her head,
"Perhaps he brings news of Ellen's going." Something, it would
have been impossible to say what, in his appearance or manner,
confirmed this fear on the present occasion. Her heart felt
sick, and she waited in silence to hear what he would say. _He_
seemed very well pleased sat down before the fire, rubbing
his hands, partly with cold and partly with satisfaction; and
his first words were "Well! we have got a fine opportunity
for her at last."
How little he was capable of understanding the pang this
announcement gave his poor wife! But she only closed her eyes
and kept perfectly quiet, and he never suspected it.
He unbuttoned his coat, and taking the poker in his hand,
began to mend the fire, talking the while.
"I am very glad of it, indeed," said he; "it's quite a load
off my mind. Now we'll be gone directly, and high time it is
I'll take passage in the _England_ the first thing to-morrow.
And this is the best possible chance for Ellen every thing
we could have desired. I began to feel very uneasy about it
it was getting so late; but I am quite relieved now."
"Who is it?" said Mrs. Montgomery, forcing herself to speak.
"Why, it's Mrs. Dunscombe," said the captain, flourishing his
poker by way of illustration; "you know her, don't you?
Captain Dunscombe's wife she's going right through
Thirlwall, and will take charge of Ellen as far as that, and
there my sister will meet her with a waggon and take her
straight home. Couldn't be anything better. I write to let
Fortune know when to expect her. Mrs. Dunscombe is a lady of
the first family and fashion in the highest degree
respectable; she is going on to Fort Jameson, with her
daughter and a servant, and her husband is to follow her in a
few days. I happened to hear of it to-day, and I immediately
seized the opportunity to ask if she would not take Ellen with
her as far as Thirlwall, and Dunscombe was only too glad to
oblige me. I'm a very good friend of his, and he knows it."
"How soon does she go?"
"Why, that's the only part of the business I am afraid you
won't like but there is no help for it; and, after all, it
is a great deal better so than if you had time to wear
yourselves out with mourning; better, and easier too, in the
end."
"How soon?" repeated Mrs. Montgomery, with an agonized accent.
"Why, I'm a little afraid of startling you Dunscombe's wife
must go, he told me, to-morrow morning; and we arranged that
she could call in the carriage at six o'clock to take up
Ellen."
Mrs. Montgomery put her hands to her face and sank back
against the sofa.
"I was afraid you would take it so," said her husband, "but I
don't think it is worth while. It is a great deal better as it
is; a great deal better than if she had a long warning. You
would fairly wear yourself out if you had time enough, and you
haven't any strength to spare."
It was some while before Mrs. Montgomery could recover
composure and firmness enough to go on with what she had to
do, though, knowing the necessity, she strove hard for it. For
several minutes she remained quite silent and quiet,
endeavouring to collect her scattered forces; then sitting
upright and drawing her shawl around her, she exclaimed "I
must waken Ellen immediately!"
"Waken Ellen!" exclaimed her husband, in his turn; "what on
earth for? That's the very last thing to be done."
"Why, you would not put off telling her until to-morrow
morning?" said Mrs. Montgomery.
"Certainly I would; that's the only proper way to do. Why in
the world should you wake her up, just to spend the whole
night in useless grieving? unfitting her utterly for her
journey, and doing yourself more harm than you can undo in a
week. No, no; just let her sleep quietly, and you can go to
bed and do the same. Wake her up, indeed! I thought you were
wiser."
"But she will be so dreadfully shocked in the morning!"
"Not one bit more that she would be to-night, and she won't
have so much time to feel it. In the hurry and bustle of
getting off, she will not have time to think about her
feelings; and once on the way, she will do well enough;
children always do."
Mrs. Montgomery looked undecided and unsatisfied.
"I'll take the responsibility of this matter on myself; you
must not waken her, absolutely. It would not do at all," said
the captain, poking the fire very energetically; "it would not
do at all; I cannot allow it."
Mrs. Montgomery silently arose and lit a lamp.
"You are not going into Ellen's room?" said the husband.
"I must I must put her things together."
"But you'll not disturb Ellen?" said he, in a tone that
required a promise.
"Not if I can help it."
Twice Mrs. Montgomery stopped before she reached to door of
Ellen's room, for her heart failed her. But she _must_ go on,
and the necessary preparations for the morrow _must_ be made
she knew it; and repeating this to herself, she gently turned
the handle of the door, and pushed it open, and guarding the
light with her hand from Ellen's eyes, she set it where it
would not shine upon her. Having done this, she set herself,
without once glancing at her little daughter, to put all
things in order for her early departure on the following
morning. But it was a bitter piece of work for her. She first
laid out all that Ellen would need to wear; the dark merino,
the new nankeen coat, the white bonnet, the clean frill that
her own hands had done up, the little gloves and shoes, and
all the etceteras, with the thoughtfulness and the carefulness
of love; but it went through and through her heart that it was
the very last time a mother's fingers would ever be busy in
arranging or preparing Ellen's attire; the very last time she
would ever see or touch even the little inanimate things that
belonged to her; and painful as the task was, she was loth to
have it come to an end. It was with a kind of lingering
unwillingness to quit her hold of them, that one thing after
another was stowed carefully and neatly away in the trunk. She
felt it was love's last act; words might indeed a few times
yet come over the ocean on a sheet of paper; but sight, and
hearing, and touch, must all have done henceforth for ever.
Keenly as Mrs. Montgomery felt this, she went on busily with
her work all the while, and when the last thing was safely
packed, shut the trunk and locked, it without allowing herself
to stop and think, and even drew the straps. And then, having
finished all her task, she went to the bedside; she had not
looked that way before.
Ellen was lying in the deep, sweet sleep of childhood; the
easy position, the gentle breathing, and the flush of health
upon the cheek, showed that all causes of sorrow were for the
present far removed. Yet not so far either; for once, when
Mrs. Montgomery stooped to kiss her, light as the touch of
that kiss had been upon her lips, it seemed to awaken a train
of sorrowful recollections in the little sleeper's mind. A
shade passed over her face, and with gentle but sad accent the
word "Mamma!" burst from the parted lips. Only a moment and
the shade passed away, and the expression of peace settled
again upon her brow; but Mrs. Montgomery dared not try the
experiment a second time. Long she stood looking upon her, as
if she knew she was looking her last; then she knelt by the
bedside, and hid her face in the coverings but no tears
came; the struggle in her mind, and her anxious fear for the
morning's trial, made weeping impossible. Her husband at
length came to seek her, and it was well he did; she would
have remained there on her knees all night. He feared
something of the kind, and came to prevent it. Mrs. Montgomery
suffered herself to be led away without making any opposition,
and went to bed as usual; but sleep was far from her. The fear
of Ellen's distress when she should be awakened and suddenly
told the truth, kept her in an agony. In restless wakefulness
she tossed and turned uneasily upon her bed, watching for the
dawn, and dreading unspeakably to see it. The captain, in
happy unconsciousness of his wife's distress, and utter
inability to sympathize with it, was soon in a sound sleep,
and his heavy breathing was an aggravation of her trouble; it
kept repeating, what indeed she knew already, that the only
one in the world who ought to have shared and soothed her
grief was not capable of doing either. Wearied with watching
and tossing to and fro, she at length lost herself a moment in
uneasy slumber, from which she suddenly started in terror, and
seizing her husband's arm to arouse him, exclaimed, "It is
time to wake Ellen!" but she had to repeat her efforts two or
three times before she succeeded in making herself heard.
"What is the matter?" said he, heavily, and not over well
pleased at the interruption.
"It is time to wake Ellen."
"No it isn't," said he, relapsing; "it isn't time yet this
great while."
"Oh, yes, it is," said Mrs. Montgomery; "I am sure it is; I
see the beginning of dawn in the east."
"Nonsense! it's no such thing; it's the glimmer of the lamp-
light; what is the use of your exciting yourself so, for
nothing? It won't be dawn these two hours. Wait till I find my
repeater, and I'll convince you." He found and struck it.
"There! I told you so only one quarter after four; it would
be absurd to wake her yet. Do go to sleep, and leave it to me;
I'll take care it is done in proper time."
Mrs. Montgomery sighed heavily, and again arranged herself to
watch the eastern horizon, or rather with her face in that
direction; for she could see nothing. But, more quietly now,
she lay gazing into the darkness, which it was in vain to try
to penetrate; and thoughts succeeding thoughts in a more
regular train, at last fairly cheated her into sleep, much as
she wished to keep it off. She slept soundly for near an hour;
and when she awoke, the dawn had really begun to break in the
eastern sky. She again aroused Captain Montgomery, who this
time allowed it might be as well to get up; but it was with
unutterable impatience that she saw him lighting a lamp, and
moving about as leisurely as if he had nothing more to do than
to get ready for breakfast at eight o'clock.
"Oh! do speak to Ellen!" she said, unable to control herself.
"Never mind brushing your hair till afterwards. She will have
no time for any thing. Oh! do not wait any longer! what are
you thinking of?"
"What are _you_ thinking of?" said the captain; "there's
plenty of time. Do quiet yourself you're getting as nervous
as possible. I'm going immediately."
Mrs. Montgomery fairly groaned with impatience, and an
agonizing dread of what was to follow the disclosure to Ellen.
But her husband coolly went on with his preparations, which
indeed were not long in finishing; and then taking the lamp,
he at last went. He had in truth delayed on purpose, wishing
the final leave-taking to be as brief as possible; and the
gray streaks of light in the east were plainly showing
themselves when he opened the door of his little daughter's
room. He found her lying very much as her mother had left her
in the same quiet sleep, and with the same expression of
calmness and peace spread over her whole face and person. It
touched even him, and he was not readily touched by any thing;
it made him loth to say the word that would drive all that
sweet expression so quickly and completely away. It must be
said, however; the increasing light warned him he must not
tarry; but it was with a hesitating and almost faltering voice
that he said, "Ellen!"
She stirred in her sleep, and the shadow came over her face
again.
"Ellen! Ellen!"
She started up broad awake now; and both the shadow and
the peaceful expression were gone from her face. It was a look
of blank astonishment at first with which she regarded her
father, but very soon indeed that changed into one of bleak
despair. He saw that she understood perfectly what he was
there for, and that there was no need at all for him to
trouble himself with making painful explanations.
"Come, Ellen," he said, "that's a good child make haste and
dress. There's no time to lose now, for the carriage will soon
be at the door; and your mother wants to see you, you know."
Ellen hastily obeyed him, and began to put on her stockings
and shoes.
"That's right now you'll be ready directly. You are going
with Mrs. Dunscombe I have engaged her to take charge of you
all the way quite to Thirlwall; she's the wife of Captain
Dunscombe, whom you saw here the other day, you know; and her
daughter is going with her, so you will have charming company.
I dare say you will enjoy the journey very much; and your aunt
will meet you at Thirlwall. Now, make haste I expect the
carriage every minute. I meant to have called you before, but
I overslept myself. Don't be long."
And nodding encouragement, her father left her.
"How did she bear it?" asked Mrs. Montgomery, when he
returned.
"Like a little hero. She didn't say a word, or shed a tear. I
expected nothing but that she would make a great fuss; but she
has all the old spirit that you used to have and have yet,
for any thing I know. She behaved admirably."
Mrs. Montgomery sighed deeply. She understood far better than
her husband what Ellen's feelings were, and could interpret
much more truly than he the signs of them; the conclusion she
drew from Ellen's silent and tearless reception of the news
differed widely from his. She now waited anxiously and almost
fearfully for her appearance, which did not come as soon as
she expected it.
It was a great relief to Ellen when her father ended his
talking, and left her to herself; for she felt she could not
dress herself so quick with him standing there and looking at
her, and his desire that she should be speedy in what she had
to do, could not be greater than her own. Her fingers did
their work as fast as they could, with every joint trembling.
But though a weight like a mountain was upon the poor child's
heart, she could not cry; and she could not pray, though, true
to her constant habit, she fell on her knees by her bedside,
as she always did: it was in vain: all was in a whirl in her
heart and head, and after a minute, she rose again, clasping
her little hands together with an expression of sorrow that it
was well her mother could not see. She was dressed very soon,
but she shrank from going to her mother's room while her
father was there. To save time she put on her coat, and
everything but her bonnet and gloves; and then stood leaning
against the bed-post, for she could not sit down, watching
with most intense anxiety to hear her father's step come out
of the room and go down-stairs. Every minute seemed too long
to be borne; poor Ellen began to feel as if she could not
contain herself. Yet five had not passed away when she heard
the roll of carriage-wheels, which came to the door and then
stopped, and immediately her father opening the door to come
out. Without waiting any longer, Ellen opened her own, and
brushed past him into the room he had quitted. Mrs. Montgomery
was still lying on the bed, for her husband has insisted on
her not rising. She said not a word, but opened her arms to
receive her little daughter; and with a cry of indescribable
expression, Ellen sprang upon the bed, and was folded in them.
But then neither of them spoke or wept. What could words say?
Heart met heart in that agony, for each knew all that was in
the other. No not quite all. Ellen did not know that the
whole of bitterness death had for her mother she was tasting
then. But it was true. Death had no more power to give her
pain after this parting should be over. His after-work the
parting between soul and body would be welcome, rather; yes,
very welcome. Mrs. Montgomery knew it all well. She knew this
was the last embrace between them. She knew it would be the
very last time that dear little form would ever lie on her
bosom, or be pressed in her arms; and it almost seemed to her
that soul and body must part company too, when they should be
rent asunder. Ellen's grief was not like this; _she_ did not
think it was the last time; but she was a child of very high
spirit and violent passions, untamed at all by sorrow's
discipline; and in proportion violent was the tempest excited
by this first real trial. Perhaps, too, her sorrow was
sharpened by a sense of wrong, and a feeling of indignation at
her father's cruelty in not waking her earlier.
Not many minutes had passed in this sad embrace, and no word
had yet been spoken; no sound uttered, except Ellen's first
inarticulate cry of mixed affection and despair, when Captain
Montgomery's step was again heard slowly ascending the stairs.
"He is coming to take me away!" thought Ellen; and in terror
lest she should go without a word from her mother, she burst
forth with, "Mamma! speak!"
A moment before, and Mrs. Montgomery could not have spoken.
But she could now; and as clearly and calmly the words were
uttered as if nothing had been the matter, only her voice fell
a little toward the last.
"God bless my darling child! and make her his own and bring
her to that home where parting cannot be!"
Ellen's eyes had been dry until now; but when she heard the
sweet sound of her mother's voice, it opened all the fountains
of tenderness within her. She burst into uncontrollable
weeping; it seemed as if she would pour out her very heart in
tears; and she clung to her mother with a force that made it a
difficult task for her father to remove her. He could not do
it at first; and Ellen seemed not to hear any thing that was
said to her. He was very unwilling to use harshness; and after
a little, though she had paid no attention to his entreaties
or commands, yet, sensible of the necessity of the case, she
gradually relaxed her hold and suffered him to draw her away
from her mother's arms. He carried her down stairs, and put
her on the front seat of the carriage, beside Mrs. Dunscombe's
maid but Ellen could never recollect how she got there, and
she did not feel the touch of her father's hand, nor hear him
when he bid her good-bye; and she did not know that he put a
large paper of candies and sugar-plums in her lap. She knew
nothing but that she had lost her mother.
"It will not be so long," said the captain, in a kind of
apologizing way; "she will soon get over it, and you will not
have any trouble with her."
"I hope so," returned the lady, rather shortly; and then, as
the captain was making his parting bow, she added, in no very
pleased tone of voice "Pray, Captain Montgomery, is this
young lady to travel without a bonnet?"
"Without a bonnet! no," said the captain. "How is this?
hasn't she a bonnet? I beg a thousand pardons, Maam I'll
bring it on the instant."
After a little delay, the bonnet was found, but the captain
overlooked the gloves in his hurry.
"I am very sorry you have been delayed, Maam," said he.
"I hope we may be able to reach the boat yet," replied the
lady. "Drive on as fast as you can!"
A very polite bow from Captain Montgomery a very slight one
from the lady and off they drove.
"Proud enough," thought the captain, as he went up the stairs
again. "I reckon she don't thank me for her travelling
companion. But Ellen's off that's one good thing and now
I'll go and engage berths in the England."