"Something turns up."
The rest of the winter, or rather the early part of the
spring, passed happily away. March, at Thirlwall, seemed more
to belong to the former than the latter. Then spring came in
good earnest; April and May brought warm days and wild
flowers. Ellen refreshed herself and adorned the room with
quantities of them; and, as soon as might be, she set about
restoring the winter-ruined garden. Mr. John was not fond of
gardening; he provided her with all manner of tools, ordered
whatever work she wanted to be done for her, supplied her with
new plants and seeds, and roots, and was always ready to give
her his help in any operations or press of business that
called for it. But, for the most part, Ellen hoed and raked
and transplanted, and sowed seeds, while he walked or read;
often giving his counsel, indeed, asked and unasked, and
always coming in between her and any difficult or heavy job.
The hours thus spent were to Ellen hours of unmixed delight.
When he did not choose to go himself, he sent Thomas with her,
as the garden was some little distance down the mountain, away
from the house and from everybody he never allowed her to go
there alone.
As if to verify Mr. Van Brunt's remark, that "something is
always happening most years," about the middle of May there
came letters that, after all, determined John's going abroad.
The sudden death of two relatives, one after the other, had
left the family estate to Mr. Humphreys; it required the
personal attendance either of himself or his son; he could
not, therefore his son must, go. Once on the other side of the
Atlantic, Mr. John thought it best his going should fulfil all
the ends for which both Mr. Humphreys and Mr. Marshman had
desired it; this would occasion his stay to be prolonged to at
least a year, probably more. And he must set off without
delay.
In the midst, not of his hurry for Mr. John seldom was or
seemed to be in a hurry about anything but in the midst of
his business, he took special care of everything that
concerned, or could possibly concern, Ellen. He arranged what
books she should read, what studies she should carry on; and
directed that about these matters, as well as about all
others, she should keep up a constant communication with him
by letter. He requested Mrs. Chauncey to see that she wanted
nothing, and to act as her general guardian in all minor
things, respecting which Mr. Humphreys could be expected to
take no thought whatever. And what Ellen thanked him for most
of all, he found time for all his wonted rides, and she
thought more than his wonted talks with her; endeavouring, as
he well knew how, both to strengthen and cheer her mind in
view of his long absence. The memory of those hours never went
from her.
The family at Ventnor were exceeding desirous that she should
make one of them during all the time John should be gone; they
urged it with every possible argument. Ellen said little, but
he knew she did not wish it; and finally compounded the matter
by arranging that she should stay at the parsonage through the
summer, and spend the winter at Ventnor, sharing all Ellen
Chauncey's advantages of every kind. Ellen was all the more
pleased with this arrangement that Mr. George Marshman would
be at home. The church John had been serving were becoming
exceedingly attached to him, and would by no means hear of
giving him up; and Mr. George engaged, if possible, to supply
his place while he should be away. Ellen Chauncey was in
ecstatics. And it was further promised that the summer should
not pass without as many visits on both sides as could well be
brought about.
Ellen had the comfort, at the last, of hearing John say that
she had behaved unexceptionably well where he knew it was
difficult for her to behave well at all. That _was_ a comfort,
from him, whose notions of unexceptionable behaviour, she
knew, were remarkably high. But the parting, after all, was a
dreadfully hard matter; though softened as much as it could be
at the time, and rendered very sweet to Ellen's memory by the
tenderness, gentleness, and kindness with which her brother,
without checking, soothed her grief. He was to go early in the
morning; and he made Ellen take leave of him the night before;
but he was in no hurry to send her away; and when at length he
told her it was very late, and she rose up to go, he went with
her to the very door of her room, and there bade her good
night.
How the next days passed Ellen hardly knew; they were
unspeakably long.
Not a week after, one morning, Nancy Vawse came into the
kitchen, and asked in her blunt fashion
"Is Ellen Montgomery at home?"
"I believe Miss Ellen is in the parlour," said Margery, drily.
"I want to speak to her."
Margery silently went across the hall to the sitting-room.
"Miss Ellen, dear," she said, softly, "here is that Nancy girl
wanting to speak with you will you please to see her?"
Ellen eagerly desired Margery to let her in; by no means
displeased to have some interruption to the sorrowful thoughts
she could not banish. She received Nancy very kindly.
"Well, I declare, Ellen!" said that young lady, whose
wandering eye was upon everything but Ellen herself "ain't
you as fine as a fiddle! I guess you never touch your fingers
to a file now-a-days do you?"
"A file!" said Ellen.
"You han't forgot what it means, I s'pose," said Nancy,
somewhat scornfully " 'cause if you think I'm a-going to
swallow that, you're mistaken. I've seen you file off tables
down yonder a few times, han't I?"
"Oh, I remember now," said Ellen, smiling; "it is so long
since I heard the word that I didn't know what you meant.
Margery calls it a dish-cloth, or a floor-cloth, or something
else."
"Well, you don't touch one now-a-days, do you?"
"No," said Ellen, "I have other things to do."
"Well, I guess you have. You've got enough of books now, for
once, han't you? What a lot! I say, Ellen, have you got to
read all these?"
"I hope so, in time," said Ellen, smiling. "Why haven't you
been to see me before?"
"Oh I don't know," said Nancy, whose roving eye looked a
little as if she felt herself out of her sphere. "I didn't
know as you would care to see me now."
"I am very sorry you should think so, Nancy; I would be as
glad to see you as ever. I have not forgotten all your old
kindness to me when Aunt Fortune was sick."
"You've forgotten all that went before that, I 'spose," said
Nancy, with a half-laugh. "You beat all! Most folks remember
and forget just t'other way exactly. But, besides, I didn't
know but I should catch myself in queer company."
"Well I am all alone now," said Ellen, with a sigh.
"Yes, if you warn't I wouldn't be here, I can tell you. What
do you think I have come for to-day, Ellen?"
"For anything but to see me?"
Nancy nodded very decisively.
"What?"
"Guess."
"How can I possibly guess? What have you got tucked up in your
apron there?"
"Ah! that's the very thing," said Nancy. "What _have_ I got,
sure enough?"
"Well, I can't tell through your apron," said Ellen, smiling.
"And _I_ can't tell either that's more, ain't it? Now listen,
and I'll tell you where I got it, and then you may find out
what it is, for I don't know. Promise you won't tell anybody."
"I don't like to promise that, Nancy."
"Why?"
"Because it might be something I ought to tell somebody
about."
"But it ain't."
"If it isn't I won't tell. Can't you leave it so?"
"But what a plague! Here I have gone and done all this just
for you, and now you must go and make a fuss. What hurt would
it do you to promise? it's nobody's business but yours and
mine, and somebody else's that won't make any talk about it, I
promise you."
"I won't speak of it, certainly, Nancy, unless I think I
ought; can't you trust me?"
"I wouldn't give two straws for anybody else's say so," said
Nancy; "but as you're as stiff as the mischief, I s'pose
I'll have to let it go. I'll trust you! Now listen. It don't
look like anything, does it?"
"Why, no," said Ellen, laughing; "you hold your apron so
loose, that I cannot see anything."
"Well, now listen. You know I've been helping down at your
aunt's did you?"
"No."
"Well, I have these six weeks. You never see anything go on
quieter than they do, Ellen. I declare it's fun. Miss Fortune
never was so good in her days. I don't mean she ain't as ugly
as ever, you know, but she has to keep it in. All I have to
do, if I think anything is going wrong, I just let her think I
am going to speak to _him_ about it; only I have to do it very
cunning, for fear she would guess what I am up to; and the
next thing I know, it's all straight. He _is_ about the coolest
shaver," said Nancy, "I ever did see. The way he walks through
her notions once in a while not very often, mind you, but
when he takes a fancy it's fun to see! O, I can get along
there first-rate, now. _You'd_ have a royal time, Ellen."
"Well, Nancy your story?"
"Don't you be in a hurry. I am going to take my time. Well,
I've been there this six weeks, doing all sorts of things, you
know taking your place, Ellen don't you wish you was back
in it? Well, a couple of weeks since, Mrs. Van took it into
her head she would have up the waggon, and go to Thirlwall, to
get herself some things a queer start for her; but, at any
rate, Van Brunt brought up the waggon, and in she got, and off
they went. Now, _she meant_, you must know, that I should be
fast in the cellar-kitchen all the while she was gone, and she
thought she had given me enough to keep me busy there; but I
was up to her. I was as spry as a cricket, and flew round, and
got things put up; and then I thought I'd have some fun. What
do you think I did? Mrs. Montgomery was quietly sitting in the
chimney-corner, and I had the whole house to myself. How Van
Brunt looks out for her, Ellen! he won't let her be put out
for anything or anybody."
"I am glad of it," said Ellen, her face flushing, and her eyes
watering "it is just like him. I love him for it."
"The other night she was mourning and lamenting at a great
rate because she hadn't you to read to her; and what do you
think he does, but goes and takes the book, and sits down and
reads to her himself! You should have seen Mrs. Van's face!"
"What book?" said Ellen.
"What book? why your book the Bible there ain't any other
book in the house, as I know. What on earth are you crying
for, Ellen? He's fetched over his mother's old Bible, and
there it lays on a shelf in the cupboard; and he has it out
every once in a while. Maybe he's coming round, Ellen. But do
hold up your head and listen to me! I can't talk to you while
you lie with your head in the cushion like that. I han't more
than begun my story yet."
"Well, go on," said Ellen.
"You see, I ain't in any hurry," said Nancy "because as soon
as I've finished I shall have to be off; and it's fun to talk
to you. What do you think I did, when I had done up all my
chores? where do you think I found this, eh? _you'd_ never
guess."
"What is it?" said Ellen.
"No matter what it is I don't know; where do you think I
found it?"
"How can I tell? I don't know."
"You'll be angry with me when I tell you."
Ellen was silent.
"If it was anybody else," said Nancy, "I'd ha' seen 'em shot
afore I'd ha' done it, or told of it either; but you ain't
like anybody else. Look here!" said she, tapping her apron
gently with one finger, and slowly marking off each word
"this come out of your aunt's box in the
closet upstairs in her room."
"Nancy!"
"Ay, Nancy! there it is. Now you look! 'Twon't alter it,
Ellen; that's where it was, if you look till tea-time."
"But how came you there?"
" 'Cause I wanted to amuse myself, I tell you. Partly to
please myself, and partly because Mrs. Van would be so mad if
she knew it."
"Oh, Nancy!"
"Well I don't say it was right but, anyhow, I did it; you
han't heard what I found yet."
"You had better put it right back again, Nancy, the first time
you have a chance."
"Put it back again! I'll give it to you, and then you may
put it back again, if you have a mind. I should like to see
you! Why, you don't know what I found."
"Well, what did you find?"
"The box was chuck full of all sorts of things, and I had a
mind to see what was in it, so I pulled 'em out one after the
other till I got to the bottom. At the very bottom was some
letters and papers, and there staring right in my face the
first thing I see was 'Miss Ellen Montgomery.' "
"Oh, Nancy!" screamed Ellen "a letter for me?"
"Hush! and sit down, will you? yes, a whole package of
letters for you. Well, thought I, Mrs. Van has no right to
that, anyhow, and she ain't agoing to take the care of it any
more; so I just took it up and put it in the bosom of my frock
while I looked to see if there was any more for you, but there
warn't. There it is!"
And she tossed the package into Ellen's lap. Ellen's head
swam.
"Well, good-bye!" said Nancy, rising; "I may go now, I
suppose, and no thanks to me."
"Yes, I do I do thank you very much, Nancy!" cried Ellen,
starting up and taking her by the hand "I do thank you
though it wasn't right; but oh! how could she! how could
she!"
"Dear me!" said Nancy; "to ask that of Mrs. Van! she could do
anything. _Why_ she did it ain't so easy to tell."
Ellen, bewildered, scarcely knew, only _felt_, that Nancy had
gone. The outer cover of her package, the seal of which was
broken, contained three letters; two addressed to Ellen, in
her father's hand, the third to another person. The seals of
these had not been broken. The first that Ellen opened she saw
was all in the same hand with the direction; she threw it down
and eagerly tried the other. And yes! there was indeed the
beloved character of which she never thought to have seen
another specimen. Ellen's heart swelled with many feelings;
thankfulness, tenderness, joy, and sorrow, past and present
that letter was not thrown down, but grasped, while tears fell
much too fast for eyes to do their work. It was long before
she could get far in the letter. But when she had fairly begun
it she went on swiftly, and almost breathlessly, to the end.
"MY DEAR, DEAR LITTLE ELLEN,
"I am scarcely able but I must write to you once more. Once
more, daughter, for it is not permitted me to see your face
again in this world. I look to see it, my dear child, where it
will be fairer than ever here it seemed, even to me. I shall
die in this hope and expectation. Ellen, remember it. Your
last letters have greatly encouraged and rejoiced me. I am
comforted, and can leave you quietly in that hand that has led
me, and I believe is leading you. God bless you, my child!
"Ellen, I have a mother living, and she wishes to receive you
as her own when I am gone. It is best you should know at once
why I never spoke to you of her. After your aunt Bessy married
and went to New York, it displeased and grieved my mother
greatly that I too, who had always been her favourite child,
should leave her for an American home. And when I persisted,
in spite of all that entreaties and authority could urge, she
said she forgave me for destroying all her prospects of
happiness, but that after I should be married and gone, she
should consider me as lost to her entirely, and so I must
consider myself. She never wrote to me, and I never wrote to
her after I reached America. She was dead to me. I do not say
that I did not deserve it.
"But I have written to her lately, and she has written to me.
She permits me to die in the joy of being entirely forgiven,
and in the further joy of knowing that the only source of care
I had left is done away. She will take you to her heart, to
the place I once filled, and I believe fill yet. She longs to
have you, and to have you as entirely her own, in all
respects; and to this, in consideration of the wandering life
your father leads, and will lead, I am willing and he is
willing to agree. It is arranged so. The old happy home of my
childhood will be yours, my Ellen. It joys me to think of it.
Your father will write to your aunt and to you on the subject,
and furnish you with funds. It is our desire that you should
take advantage of the very first opportunity of proper persons
going to Scotland, who will be willing to take charge of you.
Your dear friends, Mr. and Miss Humphreys, will, I dare say,
help you in this.
"To them I could say much, if I had strength. But words are
little. If blessings and prayers from a full heart are worth
anything, they are the richer. My love and gratitude to them
cannot "
The writer had failed here; and what there was of the letter
had evidently been written at different times. Captain
Montgomery's was to the same purpose. He directed Ellen to
embrace the first opportunity of suitable guardians, to cross
the Atlantic, and repair to No. , Georgestreet, Edinburgh;
said that Miss Fortune would give her the money she would
need, which he had written to her to do, and that the
accompanying letter Ellen was to carry with her, and deliver
to Mrs. Lindsay, her grandmother.
Ellen felt as if her head would split. She took up that
letter, gazed at the strange name and direction which had
taken such new and startling interest for her, wondered over
the thought of what she was ordered to do with it, marvelled
what sort of fingers they were which would open it, or whether
it would ever be opened; and finally, in a perfect maze,
unable to read, think, or even weep, she carried her package
of letters into her own room, the room that had been Alice's,
laid herself on the bed, and them beside her, and fell into a
deep sleep.
She woke up towards evening, with the pressure of a mountain
weight upon her mind. Her thoughts and feelings were a maze
still; and not Mr. Humphreys himself could be more grave and
abstracted than poor Ellen was that night. So many points were
to be settled, so many questions answered to herself, it was a
good while before Ellen could disentangle them, and know what
she did think and feel, and what she would do.
She very soon found out her own mind upon one subject she
would be exceeding sorry to be obliged to obey the directions
in the letters. But must she obey them?
"I have promised Alice," thought Ellen "I have promised Mr.
Humphreys; I can't be adopted twice. And this Mrs. Lindsay
my grandmother! she cannot be nice, or she wouldn't have
treated my mother so. She cannot be a nice person; hard
she must be hard; I never want to see her. My mother! But
then my mother loved her, and was very glad to have me go to
her. Oh! oh! how could she! how could they do so! when
they didn't know how it might be with me, and what dear
friends they might make me leave! Oh, it was cruel! But then
they did _not_ know, that is the very thing they thought I
would have nobody but Aunt Fortune, and so it's no wonder
oh, what shall I do! What _ought_ I to do? These people in
Scotland must have given me up by this time; it's let me see
it's just about three years now a little less since
these letters were written. I am older now, and circumstances
are changed; I have a home, and a father, and a brother; may I
not judge for myself? But my mother and my father have ordered
me what shall I do! If John were only here but perhaps he
would make me go he might think it right. And to leave him,
and maybe never to see him again! and Mr. Humphreys! and how
lonely he would be without me! I cannot! I will not! Oh,
what _shall_ I do! What shall I do!"
Ellen's meditations gradually plunged her in despair; for she
could not look at the event of being obliged to go, and she
could not get rid of the feeling, that perhaps it might come
to that. She wept bitterly it didn't mend the matter. She
thought painfully, fearfully, long and was no nearer an end.
She could not endure to submit the matter to Mr. Humphreys;
she feared his decision; and she feared also that he would
give her the money Miss Fortune had failed to supply for the
journey; how much it might be, Ellen had no idea. She could
not dismiss the subject as decided by circumstances, for
conscience pricked her with the fifth commandment. She was
miserable. It happily occurred to her, at last, to take
counsel with Mrs. Vawse; this might be done, she knew, without
betraying Nancy; Mrs. Vawse was much too honourable to press
her as to how she came by the letters, and her word could
easily be obtained not to speak of the affairs to any one. As
for Miss Fortune's conduct, it must be made known; there was
no help for that. So it was settled; and Ellen's breast was a
little lightened of its load of care for that time; she had
leisure to think of some other things.
Why had Miss Fortune kept back the letters? Ellen guessed
pretty well, but she did not know quite all. The package, with
its accompanying despatch to Miss Fortune, had arrived shortly
after Ellen first heard the news of her mother's death, when
she was refuged with Alice at the parsonage. At the time of
its being sent, Captain Montgomery's movements were extremely
uncertain; and, in obedience to the earnest request of his
wife, he directed that, without waiting for his own return,
Ellen should immediately set out for Scotland. Part of the
money for her expenses he sent; the rest he desired his sister
to furnish, promising to make all straight when he should come
home. But it happened that he was already this lady's debtor
in a small amount, which Miss Fortune had serious doubts of
ever being repaid: she instantly determined that if she had
once been a fool in lending him money, she would not a second
time in adding to the sum; if he wanted to send his daughter
on a wild-goose-chase after great relations, he might come
home himself and see to it; it was none of her business.
Quietly taking the remittance to refund his own owing, she of
course threw the letters into her box, as the delivery of them
would expose the whole transaction. There they lay till Nancy
found them.
Early next morning, after breakfast, Ellen came into the
kitchen, and begged Margery to ask Thomas to bring the Brownie
to the door. Surprised at the energy in her tone and manner,
Margery gave the message, and added, that Miss Ellen seemed to
have picked up wonderfully; she hadn't heard her speak so
brisk since Mr. John went away.
The Brownie was soon at the door, but not so soon as Ellen,
who had dressed in feverish haste. The Brownie was not alone;
there was old John saddled and bridled, and Thomas Grimes in
waiting.
"It's not necessary for you to take that trouble, Thomas,"
said Ellen; "I don't mind going alone at all."
"I beg your pardon, Miss Ellen (Thomas touched his hat)
but Mr. John left particular orders that I was to go with Miss
Ellen whenever it pleased her to ride; never failing."
"Did he?" said Ellen; "but is it convenient for you now,
Thomas? I want to go as far as Mrs. Vawse's."
"It's always convenient, Miss Ellen always; Miss Ellen need
not think of that at all, I am always ready."
Ellen mounted upon the Brownie, sighing for the want of the
hand that used to lift her to the saddle; and spurred by this
recollection, set off at a round pace.
Soon she was at Mrs. Vawse's; and soon, finding her alone,
Ellen had spread out all her difficulties before her and given
her the letters to read. Mrs. Vawse readily promised to speak
on the subject to no one without Ellen's leave; her suspicions
fell upon Mr. Van Brunt, not her grand-daughter. She heard all
the story and read the letters before making any remark.
"Now, dear Mrs. Vawse," said Ellen, anxiously, when the last
one was folded up and laid on the table, "what do you think?"
"I think, my child, you must go," said the old lady, steadily.
Ellen looked keenly, as if to find some other answer in her
face; her own changing more and more for a minute, till she
sunk it in her hands.
"Cela vous donne beaucoup de chagrin je le vois bien," said
the old lady, tenderly. (Their conversations were always in
Mrs. Vawse's tongue.)
"But," said Ellen, presently, lifting her head again (there
were no tears) "I cannot go without money."
"That can be obtained without any difficulty."
"From whom? I cannot ask Aunt Fortune for it, Mrs. Vawse; I
could not do it."
"There is no difficulty about the money. Show your letters to
Mr. Humphreys."
"Oh, I cannot!" said Ellen, covering her face again.
"Will you let me do it? I will speak to him if you permit me."
"But what use? _He_ ought not to give me the money, Mrs. Vawse.
It would not be right; and to show him the letters would be
like asking him for it. Oh, I can't bear to do that!"
"He would give it you, Ellen, with the greatest pleasure."
"Oh, no, Mrs. Vawse!" said Ellen, bursting into tears; "he
would never be pleased to send me away from him! I know I
know he would miss me. Oh, what shall I do?"
"Not _that_, my dear Ellen," said the old lady, coming to her,
and gently stroking her head with both hands. "You must do
what is _right;_ and you know it cannot be but that will be the
best and happiest for you in the end."
"Oh! I wish I wish," exclaimed Ellen from the bottom of her
heart, "those letters had never been found!"
"Nay, Ellen, _that_ is not right."
"But I promised Alice, Mrs. Vawse; ought I go away and leave
him? Oh, Mrs. Vawse, it is very hard! _Ought_ I?"
"Your father and your mother have said it, my child."
"But they never would have said it if they had known!"
"But they did not know, Ellen; and here it is."
Ellen wept violently, regardless of the caresses and soothing
words which her old friend lavished upon her.
"There is one thing," said she at last, raising her head; "I
don't know of anybody going to Scotland, and I am not likely
to; and if I only do not before autumn that is not a good
time to go, and then comes winter."
"My dear Ellen!" said Mrs. Vawse, sorrowfully, "I must drive
you from your last hope. Don't you know that Mrs. Gillespie is
going abroad with all her family? next month, I think."
Ellen grew pale for a minute, and sat holding bitter counsel
with her own heart. Mrs. Vawse hardly knew what to say next.
"You need not feel uneasy about your journeying expenses," she
remarked, after a pause; "you can easily repay them if you
wish, when you reach your friends in Scotland."
Ellen did not hear her. She looked up with an odd expression
of determination in her face, determination taking its stand
upon difficulties.
"I shan't stay there, Mrs. Vawse, if I go! I shall go, I
suppose, if I must; but do you think anything will keep me
there? Never!"
"You will stay for the same reason that you go for, Ellen,
to do your duty."
"Yes, till I am old enough to choose for myself, Mrs. Vawse,
and then I shall come back if they will let me."
"Whom do you mean by 'they?' "
"Mr. Humphreys and Mr. John."
"My dear Ellen," said the old lady, kindly, "be satisfied with
doing your duty now; leave the future. While you follow him,
God will be your friend is not that enough? and all things
shall work for your good. You do not know what you will wish
when the time comes you speak of. You do not know what new
friends you may find to love."
Ellen had in her own heart the warrant for what she had said,
and what she saw by her smile Mrs. Vawse doubted; but she
disdained to assert what she could bring nothing to prove. She
took a sorrowful leave of her old friend, and returned home.
After dinner, when Mr. Humphreys was about going back to his
study, Ellen timidly stopped him and gave him her letters, and
asked him to look at them some time when he had leisure. She
told him also where they were found and how long they had lain
there, and that Mrs. Vawse had said she ought to show them to
him.
She guessed he would read them at once and she waited with a
beating heart. In a little while she heard his step coming
back along the hall. He came and sat down by her on the sofa,
and took her hand.
"What is your wish in this matter, my child?" he said, gravely
and cheerfully.
Ellen's look answered that.
"I will do whatever you say I must, Sir," she said, faintly.
"I dare not ask myself what _I_ would wish, Ellen; the matter is
taken out of our hands. You must do your parents' will, my
child. I will try to hope that you will gain more than I lose.
As the Lord pleases! If I am bereaved of my children, I am
bereaved."
"Mrs. Gillespie," he said, after a pause, "is about going to
England I know not how soon. It will be best for you to see
her at once, and make all arrangements that may be necessary.
I will go with you tomorrow to Ventnor, if the day be a good
one."
There was something Ellen longed to say, but it was impossible
to get it out she could not utter a word. She had pressed
her hands upon her face to try to keep herself quiet; but Mr.
Humphreys could see the deep crimson flushing to the very
roots of her hair. He drew her close within his arms for a
moment, kissed her forehead, Ellen _felt_ it was sadly, and went
away. It was well she did not hear him sigh as he went back
along the hall it was well she did not see the face of more
settled gravity with which he sat down to his writing she
had enough of her own.
They went to Ventnor. Mrs. Gillespie with great pleasure
undertook the charge of her, and promised to deliver her
safely to her friends in Scotland. It was arranged that she
should go back to Thirlwall to make her adieus; and that, in a
week or two, a carriage should be sent to bring her to
Ventnor, where her preparations for the journey should be
made, and whence the whole party would set off.
"So you are going to be a Scotchwoman, after all, Ellen," said
Miss Sophia.
"I had a great deal rather be an American, Miss Sophia."
"Why, Hutchinson will tell you," said the young lady, "that it
is infinitely more desirable to be a Scotchwoman than that."
Ellen's face, however, looked so little inclined to be merry,
that she took up the subject in another tone.
"Seriously, do you know," said she, "I have been thinking it
is a very happy thing for you. I don't know what would become
of you alone in that great parsonage-house. You would mope
yourself to death in a little while, especially now that Mr.
John is gone."
"He will be back," said Ellen.
"Yes; but what if he is? he can't stay at Thirlwall, child
he can't live thirty miles from his church, you know did you
think he would? They think all the world of him already. I
expect they'll barely put up with Mr. George while he is gone;
they will want Mr. John all to themselves when he comes back,
you may rely on that. What _are_ you thinking of, child?"
For Ellen's eyes were sparkling with two or three thoughts,
which Miss Sophia could not read.
"I should like to know what you are smiling at," she said,
with some curiosity; but the smile was almost immediately
quenched in tears.
Notwithstanding Miss Sophia's discouraging talk, Ellen
privately agreed with Ellen Chauncey that the Brownie should
be sent to her to keep and use as her own, _till his mistress
should come back_ both children being entirely of opinion
that the arrangement was a most unexceptionable one.
It was not forgotten that the lapse of three years since the
date of the letters, left some uncertainty as to the present
state of affairs among Ellen's friends in Scotland; but this
doubt was not thought sufficient to justify her letting pass
so excellent an opportunity of making the journey; especially
as Captain Montgomery's letter spoke of an _uncle_, to whom,
equally with her grandmother, Ellen was to be consigned. In
case circumstances would permit it, Mrs. Gillespie engaged to
keep Ellen with her, and bring her home to America when she
herself should return.
And in little more than a month they were gone; adieus and
preparations and all were over. Ellen's parting with Mrs.
Vawse was very tender and very sad; with Mr. Van Brunt,
extremely and gratefully affectionate on both sides; with
her aunt, constrained and brief; with Margery very sorrowful
indeed. But Ellen's longest and most lingering adieu was to
Captain Parry, the old gray cat. For one whole evening she sat
with him in her arms; and over poor pussy were shed the tears
that fell for many better loved and better deserving
personages, as well as those not a few that were wept for him.
Since Alice's death Parry had transferred his entire
confidence and esteem to Ellen; whether from feeling a want,
or because love and tenderness had taught her the touch and
the tone that were fitted to win his regard. Only John shared
it. Ellen was his chief favourite and almost constant
companion. And bitterer tears Ellen shed at no time than that
evening before she went away, over the old cat. She could not
distress kitty with her distress, nor weary him with the calls
upon his sympathy, though, indeed, it is true that he sundry
times poked his nose up wonderingly and caressingly in her
face. She had no remonstrance or interruption to fear: and
taking pussy as the emblem and representative of the whole
household, Ellen wept them all over him; with a tenderness and
a bitterness that were somehow intensified by the sight of the
gray coat and white paws, and kindly face of her unconscious
old brute friend.
The old people at Carra-carra were taken leave of; the Brownie
too with great difficulty. And Nancy.
"I am real sorry you are going, Ellen," said she "you're the
only soul in town I care about. I wish I'd thrown them letters
in the fire after all! Who'd ha' thought it?"
Ellen could not help in her heart echoing the wish.
"I'm real sorry, Ellen," she repeated. "Ain't there something
I can do for you when you are gone?"
"Oh, yes, dear Nancy," said Ellen, weeping "if you would
only take care of your dear grandmother. She is left alone
now. If you would only take care of her, and read your Bible,
and be good, Nancy oh, Nancy, Nancy! do, do!"
They kissed each other, and Nancy went away fairly crying.
Mrs. Marshman's own woman, a steady, excellent person, had
come in the carriage for Ellen. And the next morning, early
after breakfast, when everything else was ready, she went into
Mr. Humphrey's study to bid the last dreaded good-bye. She
thought her obedience was costing her dear.
It was nearly a silent parting. He held her a long time in his
arms; and there Ellen bitterly thought her place ought to be.
"What have I to do to seek new relations?" she said to
herself. But she was speechless; till gently relaxing his
hold, he tenderly smoothed back her disordered hair, and
kissing her, said a very few grave words of blessing and
counsel. Ellen gathered all her strength together then, for
she had something that _must_ be spoken.
"Sir," said she, falling on her knees before him, and looking
up in his face "this don't alter you do not take back what
you said, do you?"
"What's that I said, my child?"
"That," said Ellen, hiding her face in her hands on his knee,
and scarce able to speak with great effort "that which you
said when I first came that which you said about "
"About what, my dear child?"
"My going away don't change anything, does it, Sir? Mayn't I
come back, if ever I can?"
He raised her up and drew her close to his bosom again.
"My dear little daughter," said he, "you cannot be so glad to
come back as my arms and my heart will be to receive you. I
scarce dare hope to see that day, but all in this house is
yours, dear Ellen, as well when in Scotland as here. I take
back nothing, my daughter. Nothing is changed."
A word or two more of affection and blessing, which Ellen was
utterly unable to answer in any way and she went to the
carriage; with one drop of cordial in her heart, that she fed
upon a long while. "He called me his daughter! he never said
that before, since Alice died! Oh! so I will be as long as I
live, if I find fifty new relations. But what good will a
daughter three thousand miles off do him?"