THE SISTERS.
The next day an old gentleman, a Mr. Villars, dined at Mr. Melville's.
Mr. Villars was a widower. His wife had been a sister of Mrs. Leslie,
the mother of Mary and Ellen. She had been long dead, but having never
married again, he had remained much attached to her family, and having
had no children of his own, he had always taken a deep interest in Mary
and Ellen, petting them quite as much and perhaps scolding them a little
more than their father. He was a favorite with children generally, for
he interested himself in their amusements and pursuits.
"And so, Miss Anna," said he, as he entered the parlor in which we were
sitting after dinner, "you had a party last night. Pray, why was not I
invited? Mary Leslie made me quite envious, I assure you, by telling me
of the enjoyment you had."
"And what did Ellen say?" asked the talkative and thoughtless Emma
Melville.
"Oh, Ellen! I never mind her reports, for if they are not agreeable, I
always suppose something has happened to put her out of temper. Poor
child! poor child!"
This exclamation was made with deep feeling, and we were all grave and
silent till Mr. Villars, turning to me, said, "I must not let you,
ma'am, who are a stranger to her, suppose that our little Ellen has no
good in her. She is, I assure you, a very affectionate child, and though
she is so ready to fancy herself neglected or ill treated, and so quick
to resent it, she is very grateful for kindness, and you have quite won
her heart by your efforts to amuse her last evening."
"I am pleased," I replied, "to have made so agreeable an impression, but
I was repaid for my efforts by the interest she excited. I believe what
you say, sir, that she is affectionate and grateful--indeed, that her
feelings are as quick as her temper. Forgive me if I add, that it seems
to me it must be in some degree the fault of those to whom her education
has been confided, that, with such qualities, she is not more pleasing
and amiable."
"You are right, ma'am, it is their fault. I have done my best to correct
it, but all in vain. She has been spoiled from her very birth, for her
mother's health had even then begun to fail, and she was quite unequal
to the management of so spirited a child. Ellen was but four years old
when that gentle mother died, Mary was seven--"
"Is it possible," said I, interrupting him in my surprise, "that there
is so much difference in their ages?"
"Yes," he answered, "three years. Mary is now thirteen, though she does
not look like it, and Ellen is only ten. Well, as I was about to tell
you, Mary at seven was a sedate, quiet, thoughtful child, and Mrs.
Leslie, when she became sensible that she could not live long, used to
talk much to her of Ellen's claims on her kindness, and dependence upon
her tenderness, when she should be gone from them. She taught her to
pray morning and evening that God would make her gentle and kind to her
little sister, as her mother had been to them both. Mary, I am sure, has
never forgotten or omitted that prayer."
"Poor Mary!" said I, "these were very sad thoughts and heavy cares for
one so young."
"So they were, ma'am, and so I once ventured to tell Mrs. Leslie. Never
shall I forget her reply. 'Ah, brother!' said she--she had always called
me brother from the time of my marriage with her sister--'ah, brother! a
mother, and a mother near death, sees far more clearly the dangers of
her children than any other can do. My gentle Mary has a strength of
character you little dream of, and though never very gay, she will not
long remain unreasonably sad; but my poor Ellen,--with a nature so
affectionate that she cannot be happy unless she is loved, and a temper
so passionate that she will often try the forbearance of her best
friends almost beyond endurance,--how much suffering is before her! Do
not blame me, if before I go from her, I strive to make Mary's love for
her such as her mother's would have been--such as not even her faults
shall be able to overcome. Mary's path through life will be smooth, she
must support Ellen through her rough and thorny way.' I did not feel
that all this was right," continued Mr. Villars, "for I think that every
one should bear the consequences of their own faults; but I could not
argue with a dying woman, and I comforted myself that all would come
right,--that Mary would forget all this, and scold and cross her sister,
just as other elder sisters do," tapping Anna Melville playfully on the
head as he spoke, "or that Mr. Leslie would control her. But I was
mistaken, it has never come right. Mary, I verily believe, has never
crossed Ellen's wishes in her life; and if Mr. Leslie has ever attempted
to do so, she has almost always stormed or coaxed him out of his
design,--more frequently stormed, for she has not patience for coaxing."
"And how does she get what she wishes from you?" asked Col. Melville
with a smile, for he knew that Mr. Villars was very indulgent to both
the children.
"Why, the cunning jade," said Mr. Villars laughing, "I will tell you
how. A long time ago I repeated to her Aesop's fable of the sun and the
wind, and told her, Mary was the sun and she was the wind. Then, Uncle
Villars, said she, whenever I want to make you do any thing, I will send
Mary to you; and she has been true to her word,--she always sends Mary."
"And what was the fable, Mr. Villars?" asked Emma Melville.
"Why, that the sun and the wind had a great quarrel once about which was
the strongest, and a traveller passing by while the quarrel was at its
height, they agreed that it should be decided in favor of the one which
should soonest get his cloak from him. So the wind rose in its might,
and blew and blew upon the poor traveller: but all in vain; he only
wrapped his cloak more closely round him. Then the sun came out and
beamed right down upon the man brighter and brighter, and warmer and
warmer: but not long; for the traveller was very soon glad to throw off
his thick, heavy cloak. So the sun conquered, as kindness and
gentleness, Miss Emma, always will, sooner than blustering and
storming."
I saw little more of Mary and Ellen Leslie during this visit to H., and
it was more than two years before I returned there again. When I did, I
found that great changes had taken place in the situation of these young
girls. Their father had been dead for more than a year. Mr. Leslie was a
merchant, and was thought quite rich even by his most intimate friends;
yet when he died, and his affairs were examined, it was found that he
was poor--so poor, that, after his debts were paid, his children would
have nothing. But Mr. Villars it was thought would provide for them. He
did take them to his house for a few months, till Mary, whose health had
become enfeebled by her close attention to her father during his long
illness, grew well and strong again;--but then reports began to be
whispered about that Mr. Villars had lost much of his property through
Mr. Leslie--that he was in debt, and could no longer afford to live as
he had done. Then it was said that he must give up his servants, that he
must let or sell his house and go to board in some cheap country place.
Mary and Ellen would not go with him--he would leave them in H., for he
could only pay their board--they must do something for their own
support, and that could best be done among their old friends.
Accordingly when I came to H., I found Mr. Villars gone, his house
occupied by another family, and Mary and Ellen boarding with a widow who
lived in a very plain, small house, in one of the humblest streets of H.
Mary, I was told, gave lessons in music to two or three pupils, and
gratefully accepted any employment offered her, either of plain sewing,
embroidery, or fancy work. At first, she had some day scholars, and she
would probably have soon obtained a large school, for the children were
attached to her and the parents pleased with her success as a teacher,
but Ellen had undertaken to assist her, and her passionate temper so
often evinced itself, that both parents and children were displeased,
and the school was soon broken up.
"And what does Ellen do?" I asked.
"Assist her sister in the work when she can," replied Mrs. Melville,
from whom I had heard these things. "But I fear," she added, "that she
much more frequently hinders than assists her. Indeed, Mary would scarce
have to contend with any difficulty but for Ellen, for many would be
glad to have her in their families, could she be persuaded to leave that
little termagant."
"Poor Ellen!" said I, "the bad name which she contracted in childhood
cleaves to her, when perhaps she may be greatly changed."
"Not if we are to trust the report of Mrs. Maclean, with whom they
board. She tells sad tales of Ellen's irritability and Mary's
long-suffering. To be sure, we are likely to hear the worst of the case
from her, for, though an upright woman, she is irritable herself and
very positive, and I dare say she and Ellen have had many quarrels."
My first visit in H. was to these children, for children they still
were, though thus thrown on the world to provide for themselves, Mary
being little more than fifteen and Ellen not yet thirteen. The room in
which I found them was small, but Mr. Villars had seen it comfortably
furnished before he left them, and it was neatly kept. Their clothing
too was comfortable and neat, though very plain. But there was on
Ellen's countenance an expression of sullen gloom, and on Mary's, of
sweet, yet sad resignation, which was more distressing to me than even
an appearance of want would have been, because it was a stronger
evidence of unhappiness. Poverty cheerfully borne is but a slight evil
in comparison with a repining temper. But I have learned, since that
time, much more of Mary and Ellen than was then known to Mrs. Melville
or any other person, and I will now tell their story from the time of
their father's death, without interrupting the narrative to explain to
you how I heard this or that particular.