LEAVING HOME.
THE next morning brought the longed-for letter, which was entirely to
Ellen's satisfaction.
Her aunt was willing to teach her dressmaking, and, being in immediate
need of another assistant, would be glad for Ellen to come to her with
as little delay as possible.
Ellen busied herself with her preparations, and amid the bustle and
excitement of the few days that intervened before her departure, the
serious thoughts awakened in her mind by the preaching to which she
had listened were driven away. Her time was so fully occupied, that
her visits to Jerry's room were necessarily brief and hurried, and the
conversation narrated in the preceding chapter was not renewed.
Yet Jerry had not forgotten it. His thoughts constantly dwelt on Him
who made whole all who touched Him, and he read with deeper interest
than before, the records of His blessed life. Many a prayer breathed
from that couch of suffering reached the ear of the Great Physician,
who sent an answer of peace to the heart of the sick child.
Not for physical health alone did Jerry make petition. The words
repeated to him by his sister had revealed a deeper, more deadly malady
than that which deprived his limbs of strength and caused him such
pain. Jerry no longer doubted his sinfulness. Searching his heart by
the light of God's Word, he discovered its hidden evil, and with the
knowledge of sin came a longing for deliverance, which caused him to
pray as earnestly for health of soul as for health of body. He knew
that Jesus could forgive sins and he doubted not His willingness; so,
touching by faith the Almighty Saviour, he received the blessing, and
experienced a joyful assurance that his sins had been forgiven him for
His name's sake.
"Jesus has forgiven my sins, Nelly," he whispered to his sister, on
the morning of her departure, when she came to bid him good-bye. "And
I believe that He will make me well yet, if I wait patiently. You know
how long He kept that woman waiting who cried out to Him to heal her
daughter. And yet, He healed her after all. So I hope He will make me
whole, if I keep on asking Him. He has said to me, 'Be of good cheer,
thy sins are forgiven thee'; soon, perhaps, I shall hear Him say,
'Arise and walk.'"
"I am sure I hope so, dear Jerry," said Ellen, wondering at her little
brother's faith.
"I don't seem to mind lying here now," said Jerry. "I feel so much
happier than I did, and everything seems bright about me. Not but what
I am very sorry you are going to leave us, Ellen," he hastened to add,
throwing his arms affectionately about his sister's neck.
"Dear Jerry, I cannot bear to say good-bye to you," exclaimed Ellen,
with emotion. "But I will write to you as often as ever I can, and tell
you all that I think you will like to hear. And you'll be sure to write
to me, won't you, when you feel well enough?"
"Yes, I'll try to write, Nelly; but you know I'm not much of a hand at
that sort of thing."
"Never mind what a scribble it is; I'll make it out somehow, never
fear. I shall be only too glad to see your writing, whatever it looks
like."
They would have said much more to each other, but Mrs. Mansfield's
voice was now heard from below, bidding Ellen make haste, or she would
not get to the distant station in time for the train. The brother and
sister fondly but silently embraced, for both felt a choking sensation
that made words almost impossible. And then Ellen tore herself away and
ran downstairs. The light cart stood at the door with her small trunk
already placed in it, and her father was waiting to drive her to the
station.
Now that the moment of departure had come, Ellen found that it was more
trying to leave her home than she had anticipated. She fairly broke
down and cried heartily as she kissed her little brothers and sisters,
and received her mother's last anxious injunctions with respect to her
health and conduct. Willy had gathered a huge bunch of flowers for his
sister as a parting gift, and little Johnny a few strawberries, and all
had so much to say that Ellen would certainly have missed her train had
she stayed to listen to them. Her father was obliged hastily to cut
short the farewells, place her in the cart, and drive off without any
more ado.
Ellen felt sad as she drove away, waving her hand to her brothers and
sisters clustered at the gate, and her mother, who stood at the door
with the baby in her arms. But she soon ceased to cry, and began to
take a cheerful view of the separation. Her mind was busy with thoughts
of the pleasant future which she imagined lay before her as they drove
through the country lanes, between fields of ripening corn, or meadows
still covered with sweet-scented hay.
"Good-bye, my lass," said her father, kissing her affectionately, as
she sat in a third-class carriage, with her ticket for Charmouth in her
hand. "Be a good girl, and try to please your aunt. Your father will be
right glad to see you whenever you can come home."
The whistle sounded, and Ellen waved a last good-bye to her father as
the train glided out of the station. She was off at last, as she had so
often longed to be, going away from the irksome duties and restraints
of a home which was after all, dearer to her than she had hitherto
imagined, to new scenes and fresh employment, which she believed would
prove less distasteful.
She was nearly two hours getting to Charmouth, although it was no
great distance, for the train jogged along in a leisurely sort of way,
stopping at all the little country stations, whose officials never
seem to hurry themselves to secure its speedy departure. And, besides,
she had to wait half an hour at a junction on the way. The morning
had been bright and sunshiny when she started, but as she went along,
she observed dark clouds gathering in the sky, and when she reached
Charmouth it was raining heavily.
She had expected that her aunt would either come herself or send some
one to meet her; but, to her dismay, when she alighted from the train,
she found there was no one there. She stood alone on the platform
amidst the bustle and confusion created by the arrival of the train,
and which was so bewildering to one accustomed to the quietude of
country life, and wondered what she had better do. She watched her
fellow-travellers as they hurriedly collected their luggage, and, some
in conveyances, some on foot, took their departure from the station.
Then, she timidly made inquiries of an old porter, whose honest
countenance inspired her with trust, and who told her that the street
in which her aunt lived, was not very far off, and if she could wait
till after the arrival of the express, he would undertake to show her
the way, and carry her trunk thither.
To this proposal, Ellen was glad to agree. And after waiting till
the express had come snorting into the station and deposited its
passengers, and they had all satisfactorily obtained their luggage and
departed, the old man shouldered Ellen's trunk, and led the way along
wet, sloppy streets, which had a cheerless look to a stranger's eye.
The rain fell fast, and Ellen's print gown was wet through, and she
felt chilled both outwardly and inwardly before she reached her aunt's
house.
"Number 13, this is the place," said the porter. And Ellen was further
assured of the fact by seeing in the window, which prominently
displayed an open fashion-book, backed by some mantles and children's
dresses, a card, on which was printed in ornamental letters,—
"Miss Mansfield, dress and mantle maker."
The man gave a loud rap at the door, which was opened by a girl about
Ellen's age, smartly yet untidily dressed, who stared rudely at her as
she invited her to enter.
"If that's Ellen, tell her not to give the porter more than sixpence,"
cried a shrill voice from the top of the stairs.
But Ellen had already ungrudgingly given the man the shilling he asked.
"Tell Ellen to take off her boots before she comes upstairs," cried the
shrill voice again.
An injunction which Ellen was glad to obey, for her feet were damp.
"My! You are wet," remarked the girl who had admitted her, smiling as
she spoke, as though she found the fact amusing.
When Ellen had removed her muddy boots, she followed the other girl
upstairs to the work-room, in which her aunt was seated, engaged in
putting the finishing touches to a silk mantle, and at the same time
vigorously scolding her companion, a young girl, with pale, thin face,
and large dark eyes. It was many years since Ellen had seen her aunt,
for, although she did not live so very far from her brother's home,
Miss Mansfield was generally too busy to be able to pay him a visit.
Ellen looked at her timidly and anxiously as she entered the work-room.
Miss Mansfield was a tall, thin woman, with sallow complexion, sharp
features, a quick, observant glance, which nothing escaped, and an
equally active tongue. In the work-room, her tones were high, and
her manner marked by considerable asperity. But when addressing
her employers, her voice was soft and insinuating, and her bearing
graciousness itself. A tyrant to those about her, she could be
obsequious without measure to any one whose favour she was anxious to
win.
"So you've got here at last, then," she exclaimed as Ellen entered,
speaking quickly, in spite of the pins which she held between her thin
lips, and on account of which it doubtless was, that she gave Ellen no
kiss of welcome such as a niece had a right to expect. "I suppose you
did not think to be met, did you? I thought you were old enough to find
your way here alone, and I am too busy to afford to waste any time, I
can tell you. I hope you did not give that porter more than sixpence?"
"I had given him the shilling before you spoke, ma'am," replied Ellen.
"Then, my dear, you should not have done so. You should never give that
sort of people what they ask. They'll be sure to cheat you, if they
can. When you've lived in town a while, you'll know better, I trust,
than to let yourself be imposed on so easily. This is the first time
you've been from home, isn't it?"
"Yes, ma'am," replied Ellen timidly, with difficulty keeping back the
tears which were ready to fall.
"Why, what a tall girl you are, to be sure!" continued her aunt, taking
a pin from the front of her dress, which was so studded with needles
and pins as to give her the appearance of an animated pincushion.
"Goodness me! How wet your dress is! It looks like a soaked rag, and
it was clean on this morning, I daresay—wasn't it? I thought so," she
continued, as Ellen answered in the affirmative. "I hope you have
not brought many such dresses, for they'll be of no use to you here.
Anything so light as that, is not fit for town wear. You want something
that will not require washing every week, and that won't spoil with a
drop of rain. Well, you'd better go and take it off now, and then, I
daresay you'll like a cup of tea. Julia, show Ellen where she is to
sleep, and don't stop there chattering, but come back to your work
directly. By the bye, I hope you left them all well at home?"
"Yes, thank you; all are well except Jerry," Ellen replied, in a faint
voice, as she quitted the room, and followed her guide to a little
room at the top of the house, very barely furnished, and having, to
her eyes, accustomed to the purity of country surroundings, a dingy
appearance.
Left to herself here, Ellen sank down on the little bed, and gave vent
to the feelings of disappointment and discomfort produced by her aunt's
cold, brusque reception in a flood of tears.