"Strangers walk as friends."
The long drive to the boat was only a sorrowful blank to
Ellen's recollection. She did not see the frowns that passed
between her companions on her account. She did not know that
her white bonnet was such a matter of merriment to Margaret
Dunscombe and the maid, that they could hardly contain
themselves. She did not find out that Miss Margaret's fingers
were busy with her paper of sweets, which only a good string
and a sound knot kept her from rifling. Yet she felt very well
that nobody there cared in the least for her sorrow. It
mattered nothing; she wept on in her loneliness, and knew
nothing that happened, till the carriage stopped on the wharf;
even then she did not raise her head. Mrs. Dunscombe got out,
and saw her daughter and servant do the same; then after
giving some orders about the baggage, she returned to Ellen.
"Will you get out, Miss Montgomery, or would you prefer to
remain in the carriage? We must go on board directly."
There was something, not in the words, but in the tone, that
struck Ellen's heart with an entirely new feeling. Her tears
stopped instantly, and, wiping away quick the traces of them
as well as she could, she got out of the carriage without a
word, aided by Mrs. Dunscombe's hand. The party was presently
joined by a fine-looking man, whom Ellen recognised as Captain
Dunscombe.
"Dunscombe, do put these girls on board, will you? and then
come back to me; I want to speak to you. Timmins, you may go
along and look after them."
Captain Dunscombe obeyed. When they reached the deck, Margaret
Dunscombe and the maid Timmins went straight to the cabin. Not
feeling at all drawn towards their company, as indeed they had
given her no reason, Ellen planted herself by the guards of
the boat, not far from the gangway, to watch the busy scene
that at another time would have had a great deal of interest
and amusement for her. And interest it had now; but it was
with a very, very grave little face that she looked on the
bustling crowd. The weight on her heart was just as great as
ever, but she felt this was not the time or the place to let
it be seen; so for the present she occupied herself with what
was passing before her, though it did not for one moment make
her forget her sorrow.
At last the boat rang her last bell. Captain Dunscombe put his
wife on board, and had barely time to jump off the boat again
when the plank was withdrawn. The men on shore cast off the
great loops of ropes that held the boat to enormous wooden
posts on the wharf, and they were off!
At first it seemed to Ellen as if the wharf and the people
upon it were sailing away from them backwards; but she
presently forgot to think of them at all. She was gone! she
felt the bitterness of the whole truth; the blue water
already lay between her and the shore, where she so much
longed to be. In that confused mass of buildings at which she
was gazing, but which would be so soon beyond even gazing
distance, was the only spot she cared for in the world; her
heart was there. She could not see the place, to be sure, nor
tell exactly whereabouts it lay in all that wide-spread city;
but it was there, somewhere and every minute was making it
farther and farther off. It's a bitter thing, that sailing
away from all one loves; and poor Ellen felt it so. She stood
leaning both her arms upon the rail, the tears running down
her cheeks, and blinding her so that she could not see the
place towards which her straining eyes were bent. Somebody
touched her sleeve it was Timmins.
"Mrs. Dunscombe sent me to tell you she wants you to come into
the cabin, Miss."
Hastily wiping her eyes, Ellen obeyed the summons, and
followed Timmins into the cabin. It was full of groups of
ladies, children, and nurses bustling and noisy enough.
Ellen wished she might have stayed outside; she wanted to be
by herself; but, as the next best thing, she mounted upon the
bench, which ran all round the saloon, and kneeling on the
cushion by one of the windows, placed herself with the edge of
her bonnet just touching the glass, so that nobody could see a
bit of her face, while she could look out near by as well as
from the deck. Presently her ear caught, as she thought, the
voice of Mrs. Dunscombe, saying in rather an undertone, but
laughing too, "What a figure she does cut in that outlandish
bonnet!"
Ellen had no particular reason to think _she_ was meant, and yet
she did think so. She remained quite still, but with raised
colour and quickened breathing waited to hear what would come
next. Nothing came at first, and she was beginning to think
she had perhaps been mistaken, when she plainly heard Margaret
Dunscombe say, in a loud whisper
"Mamma, I wish you could contrive some way to keep her in the
cabin can't you? she looks so odd in that queer sun-bonnet
kind of a thing, that anybody would think she had come out of
the woods; and no gloves too; I shouldn't like to have the
Miss M'Arthurs think she belonged to us; can't you, Mamma?"
If a thunderbolt had fallen at Ellen's feet, the shock would
hardly have been greater. The lightning of passion shot
through every vein. And it was not passion only: there was
hurt feeling and wounded pride; and the sorrow of which her
heart was full enough before, now wakened afresh. The child
was beside herself. One wild wish for a hiding-place was the
most pressing thought to be where tears could burst and her
heart could break unseen. She slid off her bench and rushed
through the crowd to the red curtain that cut off the far end
of the saloon; and from there down to the cabin below people
were everywhere. At last she spied a nook where she could be
completely hidden. It was in the far-back end of the boat,
just under the stairs by which she had come down. Nobody was
sitting on the three or four large mahogany steps that ran
round that end of the cabin, and sloped up to the little cabin
window: and creeping beneath the stairs, and seating herself
on the lowest of these steps, the poor child found that she
was quite screened, and out of sight of every human creature.
It was time, indeed; her heart had been almost bursting with
passion and pain, and now the pent-up tempest broke forth with
a fury that racked her little frame from head to foot; and the
more because she strove to stifle every sound of it as much as
possible. It was the very bitterness of sorrow, without any
softening thought to allay it, and sharpened and made more
bitter by mortification and a passionate sense of unkindness
and wrong. And through it all, how constantly in her heart the
poor child was reaching forth longing arms towards her far-off
mother, and calling in secret on her beloved name. "Oh, Mamma!
Mamma!" was repeated numberless times, with the unspeakable
bitterness of knowing that she would have been a sure refuge
and protection from all this trouble, but was now where she
could neither reach nor hear her. Alas! how soon and how sadly
missed!
Ellen's distress was not soon quieted, or, if quieted for a
moment, it was only to break out afresh. And then she was glad
to sit still and rest herself.
Presently she heard the voice of the chambermaid upstairs, at
a distance at first, and coming nearer and nearer. "Breakfast
ready, ladies! Ladies, breakfast ready!" and then came all
the people in a rush pouring down the stairs over Ellen's
head. She kept quite still and close, for she did not want to
see anybody, and could not bear that anybody should see her.
Nobody did see her they all went off into the next cabin,
where breakfast was set. Ellen began to grow tired of her
hiding-place, and to feel restless in her confinement she
thought this would be a good time to get away; so she crept
from her station under the stairs, and mounted them as quick
and as quietly as she could. She found almost nobody left in
the saloon and, breathing more freely, she possessed herself
of her despised bonnet, which she had torn off her head in the
first burst of her indignation, and passing gently out at the
door, went up the stairs which led to the promenade deck she
felt as if she could not get far enough from Mrs. Dunscombe.
The promenade-deck was very pleasant in the bright morning
sun: and nobody was there except a few gentlemen. Ellen sat
down on one of the settees that were ranged along the middle
of it, and much pleased at having found herself such a nice
place of retreat, she once more took up her interrupted
amusement of watching the banks of the river.
It was a fair, mild day, near the end of October, and one of
the loveliest of that lovely month. Poor Ellen, however, could
not fairly enjoy it just now. There was enough darkness in her
heart to put a veil over all nature's brightness. The thought
did pass through her mind, when she first went up, how very
fair everything was; but she soon forgot to think about it at
all. They were now in a wide part of the river, and the shore
towards which she was looking was low and distant, and offered
nothing to interest her. She ceased to look at it, and
presently lost all sense of everything around and before her,
for her thoughts went home. She remembered that sweet moment,
last night, when she lay in her mother's arms, after she had
stopped singing could it be only last night? it seemed a
long, long time ago. She went over again, in imagination, her
shocked waking up that very morning how cruel that was!
her hurried dressing the miserable parting and those last
words of her mother, that seemed to ring in her ears yet
"That home where parting cannot be." "Oh!" thought Ellen, "how
shall I ever get there? Who is there to teach me now? Oh! what
shall I do without you? Oh, Mamma! how much I want you
already!"
While poor Ellen was thinking these things over and over, her
little face had a deep sadness of expression it was sorrowful
to see. She was perfectly calm her violent excitement had
all left her her lip quivered a very little, sometimes, but
that was all; and one or two tears rolled slowly down the side
of her face. Her eyes were fixed upon the dancing water, but
it was very plain her thoughts were not, nor on anything else
before her; and there was a forlorn look of hopeless sorrow on
her lip, and cheek, and brow, enough to move anybody whose
heart was not very hard. She was noticed, and with a feeling
of compassion, by several people; but they all thought it was
none of their business to speak to her, or they didn't know
how. At length a gentleman, who had been for some time walking
up and down the deck, happened to look, as he passed, at her
little pale face. He went to the end of his walk that time,
but in coming back he stopped just in front of her, and,
bending down his face towards hers, said,
"What is the matter with you, my little friend?"
Though his figure had passed before her a great many times
Ellen had not seen him at all; for "her eyes were with her
heart, and that was far away." Her cheek flushed with surprise
as she looked up. But there was no mistaking the look of
kindness in the eyes that met hers, nor the gentleness and
grave truthfulness of the whole countenance. It won her
confidence immediately. All the floodgates of Ellen's heart
were at once opened. She could not speak, but rising, and
clasping the hand that was held out to her in both her own,
she bent down her head upon it, and burst into one of those
uncontrollable agonies of weeping, such as the news of her
mother's intended departure had occasioned that first
sorrowful evening. He gently, and as soon as he could, drew
her to a retired part of the deck, where they were
comparatively free from other people's eyes and ears; then,
taking her in his arms he endeavoured by many kind and
soothing words to stay the torrent of her grief. This fit of
weeping did Ellen more good than the former one; that only
exhausted, this in some little measure relieved her.
"What is all this about?" said her friend, kindly. "Nay, never
mind shedding any more tears about it, my child. Let me hear
what it is, and perhaps we can find some help for it."
"Oh, no! you can't, Sir," said Ellen, sadly.
"Well, let us see," said he "perhaps I can. What is it that
has troubled you so much?"
"I have lost my mother, Sir," said Ellen.
"Your mother! Lost her! how?"
"She is very ill, Sir, and obliged to go away over the sea to
France, to get well; and papa could not take me with her,"
said poor Ellen, weeping again, "and I am obliged to go to be
among strangers. Oh, what shall I do?"
"Have you left your mother in the city?"
"Oh yes, Sir! I left her this morning."
"What is your name?"
"Ellen Montgomery."
"Is your mother obliged to go to Europe for her health?"
"Oh yes, Sir; nothing else would have made her go, but the
doctor said she would not live long if she didn't go, and that
would cure her."
"Then you hope to see her come back by-and-by, don't you?"
"Oh yes, Sir; but it won't be this great, great, long while;
it seems to me as if it was for ever."
"Ellen, do you know who it is that sends sickness and trouble
upon us?"
"Yes, Sir, I know; but I don't feel that that makes it any
easier."
"Do you know _why_ he sends it? He is the God of love he does
not trouble us willingly he has said so; why does he ever
make us suffer? do you know?"
"No, Sir."
"Sometimes he sees that if he lets them alone, his children
will love some dear thing on the earth better than himself,
and he knows they will not be happy if they do so; and then,
because he loves them, he takes it away perhaps it is a dear
mother, or a dear daughter or else he hinders their
enjoyment of it, that they may remember him, and give their
whole hearts to him. He wants their whole hearts, that he may
bless them. Are you one of his children, Ellen?"
"No, Sir," said Ellen, with swimming eyes, but cast down to
the ground.
"How do you know that you are not?"
"Because I do not love the Saviour."
"Do you not love him, Ellen?"
"I am afraid not, Sir."
"Why are you afraid not? What makes you think so?"
"Mamma said I could not love him at all, if I did not love him
best; and, oh! Sir," said Ellen, weeping, "I do love Mamma a
great deal better."
"You love your mother better than you do the Saviour?"
"Oh yes, Sir," said Ellen; "how can I help it?"
"Then, if he had left you your mother, Ellen, you would never
have cared or thought about him?"
Ellen was silent.
"Is it so? would you, do you think?"
"I don't know, Sir," said Ellen, weeping again "oh, Sir! how
can I help it?"
"Then Ellen, can you not see the love of your heavenly Father
in this trial? He saw that his little child was in danger of
forgetting him; and he loved you, Ellen; and so he has taken
your dear mother, and sent you away where you will have no one
to look to but him; and now he says to you, 'My daughter, give
_me_ thy heart.' Will you do it, Ellen?"
Ellen wept exceedingly while the gentleman was saying these
words, clasping his hands still in both hers; but she made no
answer. He waited till she had become calmer, and then went on
in a low tone
"What is the reason that you do not love the Saviour, my
child?"
"Mamma says it is because my heart is so hard."
"That is true; but you do not know how good and how lovely he
is, or you could not help loving him. Do you often think of
him, and think much of him, and ask him to show you himself,
that you may love him?"
"No, Sir," said Ellen; "not often."
"You pray to him, don't you?"
"Yes, Sir; but not so."
"But you ought to pray to him so. We are all blind by nature,
Ellen; we are all hard-hearted; none of us can see him or
love him unless he opens our eyes and touches our hearts; but
he has promised to do this for those who seek him. Do you
remember what the blind man said when Jesus asked him what he
should do for him? he answered, 'Lord, that I may receive my
sight!' That ought to be your prayer now, and mine too; and
the Lord is just as ready to hear us as he was to hear the
poor blind man; and you know he cured him. Will you ask him,
Ellen?"
A smile was almost struggling through Ellen's tears as she
lifted her face to that of her friend, but she instantly
looked down again.
"Shall I put you in mind, Ellen, of some things about Christ
that ought to make you love him with all your heart?"
"Oh yes, Sir, if you please."
"Then tell me first what it is that makes you love your mother
so much?"
"Oh, I can't tell you, Sir; everything, I think."
"I suppose the great thing is that she loves _you_ so much?"
"Oh yes, Sir," said Ellen, strongly.
"But how do you know that she loves you? how has she shown
it?"
Ellen looked at him, but could give no answer; it seemed to
her that she must bring the whole experience of her life
before him to form one.
"I suppose," said her friend, "that, to begin with the
smallest thing, she has always been watchfully careful to
provide every thing that would be useful or necessary for you;
she never forgot your wants, or was careless about them?"
"No indeed, Sir."
"And perhaps you recollect that she never minded trouble, or
expense, or pain, where your good was concerned; she would
sacrifice her own pleasure at any time for yours?"
Ellen's eyes gave a quick and strong answer to this, but she
said nothing.
"And in all your griefs and pleasures you were sure of finding
her ready and willing to feel with you, and for you, and to
help you if she could? And in all the times you have seen her
tried, no fatigue ever wore out her patience, nor any
naughtiness of yours ever lessened her love; she could not be
weary of waiting upon you when you were sick, nor of bearing
with you when you forgot your duty more ready always to
receive you than you to return. Isn't it so?"
"Oh yes, Sir."
"And you can recollect a great many words and looks of
kindness and love many and many endeavours to teach you and
lead you in the right way all showing the strongest desire
for your happiness in this world, and in the next?"
"Oh yes, Sir, "said Ellen, tearfully; and then added, "Do you
know my mother, Sir?"
"No," said he, smiling, "not at all; but my own mother has
been in many things like this to me, and I judged yours might
have been such to you. Have I described her right?"
"Yes, indeed, Sir," said Ellen "exactly."
"And in return for all this, you have given this dear mother
the love and gratitude of your whole heart, haven't you?"
"Indeed I have, Sir;" and Ellen's face said it more than her
words.
"You are very right," he said, gravely, "to love such a mother
to give her all possible duty and affection; she deserves
it. But, Ellen, in all these very things I have been
mentioning, Jesus Christ has shown that he deserves it far
more. Do you think, if you had never behaved like a child to
your mother if you had never made her the least return of
love or regard that she would have continued to love you as
she does?"
"No, Sir," said Ellen "I do not think she would."
"Have you ever made any fit return to God for his goodness to
you?"
"No, Sir," said Ellen, in a low tone.
"And yet there has been no change in _his_ kindness. Just look
at it, and see what he has done and is doing for you. In the
first place, it is not your mother, but he, who has given you
every good and pleasant thing you have enjoyed in your whole
life. You love your mother, because she is so careful to
provide for all your wants; but who gave her the materials to
work with? She has only been, as it were, the hand by which
he supplied you. And who gave you such a mother? There are
many mothers not like her; who put into her heart the truth
and love that have been blessing you ever since you were born?
It is all all God's doing, from first to last: but his child
has forgotten him in the very gifts of his mercy."
Ellen was silent, but looked very grave.
"Your mother never minded her own ease or pleasure when your
good was concerned. Did Christ mind his? You know what he did
to save sinners, don't you?"
"Yes, Sir, I know; Mamma often told me."
" 'Though he was rich, yet for our sakes he became poor, that
we through his poverty might be rich.' He took your burden of
sin upon himself, and suffered that terrible punishment all
to save you, and such as you. And now he asks his children to
leave off sinning and come back to him, who has bought them
with his own blood. He did this because he _loved_ you; does he
not deserve to be loved in return?'
Ellen had nothing to say; she hung down her head further and
further.
"And patient and kind as your mother is, the Lord Jesus is
kinder and more patient still. In all your life so far, Ellen,
you have not loved or obeyed him; and yet he loves you, and is
ready to be your friend. Is he not even to-day taking away
your dear mother for the very purpose that he may draw you
gently to himself, and fold you in his arms, as he has
promised to do with his lambs? He knows you can never be happy
anywhere else."
The gentleman paused again, for he saw that the little
listener's mind was full.
"Has not Christ shown that he loves you better even than your
mother does? And were there ever sweeter words of kindness
than these?
" 'Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them
not; for of such is the kingdom of heaven.'
" 'I am the good shepherd; the good shepherd giveth his life
for the sheep.'
" 'I have loved thee with an everlasting love; therefore with
loving-kindness have I drawn thee.' "
He waited a minute, and then added, gently
"Will you come to him, Ellen?"
Ellen lifted her tearful eyes to his; but there were tears
there too, and her own sank instantly. She covered her face
with her hands, and sobbed out in broken words
"Oh, if I could! but I don't know how."
"Do you wish to be his child, Ellen?"
"Oh yes, Sir if I could."
"I know, my child, that sinful heart of yours is in the way,
but the Lord Jesus can change it, and will, if you will give
it to him. He is looking upon you now, Ellen, with more
kindness and love than any earthly father or mother could,
waiting for you to give that little heart of yours to him,
that he may make it holy, and fill it with blessing. He says,
you know, 'Behold, I stand at the door and knock.' Do not
grieve him away, Ellen."
Ellen sobbed, but all the passion and bitterness of her tears
was gone. Her heart was completely melted.
"If your mother were here, and could do for you what you want,
would you doubt her love to do it? would you have any
difficulty in asking her?"
"Oh no!"
"Then do not doubt his love who loves you better still. Come
to Jesus. Do not fancy he is away up in heaven out of reach of
hearing; he is here, close to you, and knows every wish and
throb of your heart. Think you are in his presence and at his
feet even now and say to him in your heart, 'Lord, look
upon me I am not fit to come to thee, but thou hast bid me
come take me and make me thine own take this hard heart
that I can do nothing with, and make it holy and fill it with
thy love I give it and myself into thy hands, O dear
Saviour!' "
These words were spoken very low, that only Ellen could catch
them. Her bowed head sank lower and lower till he ceased
speaking. He added no more for some time, waited till she had
resumed her usual attitude and appearance, and then said
"Ellen, could you join in heart with my words?"
"I did, Sir I couldn't help it all but the last."
"All but the last?"
"Yes, Sir."
"But, Ellen, if you say the first part of my prayer with your
whole heart, the Lord will enable you to say the last too do
you believe that?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Will you not make that your constant prayer till you are
heard and answered?"
"Yes, Sir."
And he thought he saw that she was in earnest.
"Perhaps the answer may not come at once it does not always;
but it will come, as surely as the sun will rise to-morrow
morning. 'Then shall we know, if we _follow on_ to know the
Lord.' But then you must be in earnest. And if you are in
earnest, is there nothing you have to do besides _praying?_"
Ellen looked at him without making any answer.
"When a person is in earnest, how does he show it?"
"By doing every thing he possibly can to get what he wants."
"Quite right," said her friend, smiling; "and has God bidden
us to do nothing besides pray for a new heart?"
"Oh yes, Sir, he has told us to do a great many things."
"And will he be likely to grant that prayer, Ellen, if he sees
that you do not care about displeasing him in those 'great
many things?' will he judge that you are sincere in wishing
for a new heart?"
"Oh no, Sir."
"Then, if you are resolved to be a Christian, you will not be
contented with praying for a new heart, but you will begin at
once to be a servant of God. You can do nothing well without
help, but you are sure the help will come; and from this good
day you will seek to know and to do the will of God, trusting
in his dear Son to perfect that which concerneth you. My
little child," said the gentleman, softly and kindly, "are you
ready to say you will do this?"
As she hesitated, he took a little book from his pocket, and
turning over the leaves, said
"I am going to leave you for a little while I have a few
moments' business downstairs to attend to: and I want you to
look over this hymn and think carefully of what I have been
saying, will you? and resolve what you will do."
Ellen got off his knee, where she had been sitting all this
while, and silently taking the book, sat down in the chair he
had quitted. Tears ran fast again, and many thoughts passed
through her mind, as her eyes went over and over the words to
which he had pointed
"Behold the Saviour at thy door;
He gently knocks, has knock'd before,
Has waited long, is waiting still,
You treat no other friend so ill.
"Oh, lovely attitude! he stands
With open heart and outstretch'd hands:
Oh, matchless kindness! and he shows
This matchless kindness to his foes.
"Admit him for the human breast
Ne'er entertain'd so kind a guest;
Admit him or the hour's at hand
When at _His_ door, denied, you'll stand.
"Open my heart, Lord, enter in;
Slay every foe, and conquer sin.
Here now to thee I all resign
My body, soul, and all are thine."
The last two lines Ellen longed to say, but could not: the two
preceding were the very speech of her heart.
Not more than fifteen minutes had passed when her friend came
back again. The book hung in Ellen's hand; her eyes were fixed
on the floor.
"Well," he said, kindly, and taking her hand, "what's your
decision?"
Ellen looked up.
"Have you made up your mind on that matter we were talking
about?"
"Yes, Sir," Ellen said, in a low voice, casting her eyes down
again.
"And how have you decided, my child?"
"I will try to do as you said, Sir."
"You will begin to follow your Saviour, and to please him,
from this day forward?"
"I will try, Sir," said Ellen, meeting his eyes as she spoke.
Again the look she saw made her burst into tears. She wept
violently.
"God bless you, and help you, my dear Ellen!" said he, gently
passing his hand over her head; "but do not cry any more
you have shed too many tears this morning already. We will not
talk about this any more now."
And he spoke only soothing and quieting words for a while to
her; and then asked if she would like to go over the boat and
see the different parts of it. Ellen's joyful agreement with
this proposal was only qualified by the fear of giving him
trouble. But he put that entirely by.