ORPHANS.
Mary, I have already said, had nursed her father through his long,
tedious illness. She had seen him grow weaker and weaker, and she was
therefore in some degree prepared to see him die. But with Ellen it was
very different. Mary always tried to save her pain. She would not let
her spend much time in the sick-room; and indeed, though Mr. Leslie was
a very fond father, and was always glad to see Ellen, he never wished
her to remain long,--for, if she thought him very ill, she would weep so
passionately that it agitated him, and if she thought him better, she
would be very noisy in her gladness. Then, if she attempted to do any
thing for him, she would move in such a hurried manner, that it was
awkwardly done, if she succeeded in doing it at all. All this proceeded
from Ellen's never having learned in any way to control her feelings. It
was love for her father which made Ellen weep or laugh, and caused her
to move in haste when she was told to hand him any thing; but Mary loved
her father quite as well as Ellen, and when she saw him suffering, tears
would often stream down her cheeks, yet she would keep down every sound
which could call his attention to her sorrows. If he was more
comfortable, you might tell it as soon as you entered the room by the
bright smile upon her face, yet she never disturbed his repose by loud
talking and laughing, and though delighted when called on to serve him,
she knew, that really to _serve_ him, she must move very quietly. This
was what is called self-control, and without it let me tell you, my
young friends, that however kind your feelings may be, however good your
intentions, you will never make yourselves either useful or agreeable to
others. Poor Ellen! she had it not--she had never learned to control
either her temper or her feelings, and you will see how sadly she
suffered in consequence.
I have told you that Mary, from being much with her father, was in some
degree prepared for his death, while to Ellen it was quite unexpected. I
need not tell you that to both of them it was a very sad event,--the
youngest of you can feel how very sorrowful it would be to part with the
father who has played with and patted you, who has nursed you in
sickness, and taken care of you in health, and been kind and loving to
you always,--to part with him, not for a day, or a week, or a month, or
a year,--but for as long as you live,--not to have him go where, though
you cannot see him, you may hear from him and know that he is well and
happy, and still cares for you, but to have him lie down in the grave,
the still grave, from which no voice of love can come to you. But
perhaps, if you were obliged to part with your father, you would have a
tender mother left to sooth you and take care of you; but Mary and Ellen
Leslie had not this comfort, and when they saw their father carried out
in his coffin, they might have felt that, except their kind Uncle
Villars, there was no one who would care very much if they were laid
alongside of him. As you grow older you will discover that persons who
grieve together, who sorrow for the same things, love each other far
more dearly than those who are only glad together. I cannot very well
explain to you why this is, but we all feel it,--and Mary and Ellen
Leslie felt it, as they lay the night after the funeral folded in each
other's arms, helpless, and but for one kind heart, friendless orphans.
Yet even then poor Ellen had a grief which was all her own. "Oh, Mary!
you were never in a passion with poor papa, and said angry words to him
and grieved him. Oh, dear Mary! do you think he remembers them now?"
Dear children who read this little book, hear me and forget not my
words,--this is the bitterest grief of all, to feel that you have given
pain to that kind heart which is gone from you, which never can come
back to hear your repentance or forgive your injustice. Save yourself
from such sorrow by kindness and gentleness to your friends, and
obedience to your parents while they are with you.
Mr. Villars soon removed these children from their now sad home to his
smaller and humbler, but more cheerful residence. Mr. Villars had never
been engaged in any business. His property was small, and while his
wealthier friend and brother-in-law, Mr. Leslie, had surrounded his
family with elegancies and luxuries, he had been obliged to content
himself with comforts. I say _obliged to content himself_, but I do not
know that Mr. Villars ever desired more. Indeed, I should have thought
him an unreasonable man if he had,--every thing around him was so neat,
so perfectly comfortable, and all was kept in order so quietly by the
very best old housekeeper in the country, who had lived with him ever
since his wife's death, and who thoroughly understood his ways. It was
no slight praise to good old Mrs. Merrill, his housekeeper, to say that
she understood Mr. Villars' ways, for I assure you they were by no means
so easy to understand as those of most people. Mr. Villars had lived so
long alone, with nobody's tastes to consult but his own, that he had
acquired all the set habits which people generally suppose to belong
only to an old bachelor. He was thought very whimsical, and certainly
often did things which to the rest of the world seemed very odd; and
though, when he gave his reasons, every one was compelled to acknowledge
them to be very good, they were often such as would have been thought of
by few but himself. Mrs. Merrill was a very kind woman, and received
Mary and Ellen with great tenderness, but she too had her oddities as
well as Mr. Villars. Like most persons who have had little to do with
children, she was constantly afraid of their getting into some trouble
or mischief, and she watched these girls, the youngest of whom was then
twelve years old, with as much care as if they were only four or five.
Even Mary felt this unusual degree of attention to be an unpleasant
restraint, but to poor Ellen, who had all her life done just as she
pleased, it was perfectly intolerable, and she could not restrain the
expression of her impatience under it.
"Be very careful of the light, Miss Mary, and do not put it so near the
curtains, my dear," said Mrs. Merrill, on the second evening that Mary
and Ellen Leslie had passed in their new home, as she was giving them
their night lamp, after they had said good-night to their uncle.
"I will be very careful, Mrs. Merrill," said Mary with a smile.
"And Miss Ellen, I am busy just now and cannot go with you to your room,
but your sister will untie your clothes, I dare say, if you ask her
kindly, and I will come by-and-by, and see that they are nicely folded
and put away."
"I always fold my clothes myself," was the somewhat ungracious reply to
the good woman's well-meant offer.
As the sisters entered their room Ellen shot the bolt of her door,
exclaiming, "There, we are safe from that teasing Mrs. Merrill!"
"Oh, Ellen! she is very kind, and we must not forget, my dear sister,
that there are not many in the world now, who take interest enough in us
to care what we do." Ellen was softened and went tearfully to bed. Mary
soon followed her, and they were just comfortably arranged when some one
tried to enter, and finding the door bolted, tapped.
"Who _is_ that?" exclaimed Ellen impatiently.
"It is only I, Miss Ellen," answered Mrs. Merrill, "I have come to put
the light out and cover you up nicely."
"The light _is_ out and we _are_ covered," was the peevish reply which
arose above Mary's "Thank you, Mrs. Merrill, we are in bed already."
"Oh, Ellen! how could you speak so angrily, and hurt the kind old
woman's feelings." Ellen could not bear to hurt anybody's feelings, and
the next moment she was out of bed, had unbolted the door, and was
running barefooted through the hall, calling to Mrs. Merrill. Mrs.
Merrill was half way down stairs, but she came back, hurried and
alarmed, exclaiming breathlessly, "What is the matter, my dear, what is
the matter?"
"Nothing, ma'am," said Ellen very respectfully and penitently, "except
that Mary said that I had hurt your feelings, and I am very sorry for
it. I only meant to say we were in bed already."
"Hurt my feelings--oh dear, no! poor child! and did she make you get up
for that," putting her hand kindly on Ellen's head as she spoke--"oh no!
you did not hurt my feelings--I never mind what children say."
Ellen flirted off and jumped into bed more angry than ever, that Mrs.
Merrill should have thought Mary had made her get up to speak to her,
and that she should think her of so little consequence as not to mind
what she said.