A SURPRISE.
When Ellen came into the library, she was surprised to see how very
grave her uncle Villars looked. She turned her eyes on Mary, and saw
that she had been weeping. Ellen would have asked what was the matter,
but she was afraid that it was something connected with her and her
wrong doings, and she thought it the safest course to be silent. Mr.
Villars did not leave her long in doubt. Drawing her to him, he said, "I
see, Ellen, that you are anxious to know what has distressed Mary so
much; it is the thought of parting with her old uncle--for, Ellen, my
dear child, I shall have to part with you both."
Before we attempt to describe Ellen's emotions, we must, to make them
understood, tell our readers that Mrs. Merrill had more than once, when
very much provoked by Ellen, hinted her conviction that Mr. Villars
would not long be able to endure such an unquiet house--that he would
certainly be obliged to send his nieces out to board, and that she
doubted not people might be found able to curb the most unruly spirit.
On such occasions, Ellen, being angry too, had very valorously declared,
that she was ready and willing to go anywhere to get rid of Mrs.
Merrill. But we regard things very differently when they are only talked
about or threatened, and when they actually come. Ellen felt now that
she was neither ready nor willing to go. This, however, she was too
proud to acknowledge. Tears rushed to her eyes, but she kept them back,
and would have answered boldly, perhaps saucily; but as she raised her
head, she again saw Mary's sad face, and the thought that her sister was
to suffer for her fault, subdued her spirit. Bursting into tears, she
wept for a minute without speaking. Mr. Villars passed his hand kindly
over her head, saying gently, "Poor little girl!--poor little girl!"
Encouraged by this kindness, she at length exclaimed, though sobs still
impeded her utterance, "Please, Uncle Villars, let Mary stay--don't
send Mary away--I'm sure she is good--I can't help my bad temper--I try
to do right--and if Mrs. Merrill would only let me alone, I am sure I
would not trouble her; but send me away--I don't mind going--I shall be
very glad to go,"--here Ellen's pride and anger were again conquering
her better feelings,--"yes, I shall be very glad to go--I don't want to
stay anywhere with people that don't like me"--again Ellen raised her
head stiffly, and again she saw Mary, whose tears were now
streaming--"but oh! Uncle Villars, let Mary stay--I know you love Mary,
and she will always be good."
Mr. Villars had not interrupted Ellen. At first he was too much
surprised at the feelings she expressed to do so, and then he continued
silent, because he desired to hear all she had to say. When she stopped
speaking, he said, "Ellen, do you suppose that I would send either of
you away if I could help it? You are my children, now," and putting out
his hand for Mary, he clasped both the weeping girls in his arms,--"both
my children, and I love you both; but some of my property, as well as
all your father's, has gone to pay his debts. They were honest debts, my
dear children, and the people to whom they were owed wanted their money,
and we must not regret that they have got it; but we are poor now, and
we cannot continue to live as we have done. I must soon leave you to go
on a journey to a distant place, with the hope of recovering some money
which is due to your father's estate. I know not how long I may be gone;
and even when I return I may not be able to come back to my old home,
but may be obliged to look out some cheap country place where I can
board for little money. To this place I shall not take you with me. I
have good reasons for not doing so. Listen to me, and I will try to make
you understand these reasons. I am now an old man, and it is very
probable that I may not live many years. I once hoped that when I died I
should be able to leave you sufficient property to support you in the
way in which you have been accustomed to live; but this, I now fear,
cannot be. You will be obliged to do something by which you may make
money to assist in supporting yourselves. Many women, you know, support
themselves entirely by their own work. Do you remember the young girl
who came to make your mourning? She not only supplies her own wants,
but those of an infirm mother, by her work."
"And must we go and hire ourselves out to people to sew for them as she
does?" asked Ellen, with a heightened color and a curling lip.
"No, my dear Ellen, you could not do that, even if I wished it. Miss
Fenner has been taught to make dresses,--she learned it as a trade, just
as a shoemaker learns to make shoes or a carpenter to build houses. You
have never learned it, and I fear nobody would hire you."
Ellen colored now from shame as much as she had just done from pride.
"But," Mr. Villars proceeded, "there are some things you can do. You can
embroider and paint, and do many fancy works for which the rich are
ready to pay money. Mary understands music well. She may give lessons in
music, and you can both of you teach a few small children. In this way,
that is, by doing whatever you can, you may make enough to clothe
yourselves. This is all I shall expect you to do at present,--I will pay
all your other expenses; and also I will continue to pay for your
French, Italian, and music lessons, till you have become so perfectly
acquainted with them as to be able to teach them yourselves. You will
then be always able to support yourselves respectably, even when you
have no Uncle Villars to help you."
I cannot attempt to describe to you the feelings with which Mary and
Ellen had listened to their uncle. They scarcely understood him, and
what they did understand seemed like a strange dream. That they, who had
always been waited on and surrounded with every luxury, should be
obliged to work for money to buy their clothes--just like those whom
they had been accustomed to call the poor--it seemed impossible; and
they looked at Mr. Villars steadily, with the hope that they should
discover something like a smile--something which would make them believe
that it was a jest, or, as Ellen said to herself, "just done to frighten
me." But on Uncle Villars' face there was no smile--all was graver,
sadder than usual. He read their thoughts, and, as if to assure them of
the truth of what he had said, told them to put on their bonnets and he
would show them their future home. They obeyed him, and he took them to
that small plain house in which I found them living, and introduced them
to Mrs. Maclean as her future lodgers.
The next day Mr. Villars called at Colonel Melville's, and having
related to him and Mrs. Melville his arrangements for Mary and Ellen,
asked what they thought of them. They both exclaimed together, "They
will never do--they will never do!"
"Why," proceeded Colonel Melville, "here are two children, Villars--two
mere children--the eldest is only fifteen, I believe;" he paused, and
Mr. Villars nodded. "Well, these children, hardly out of the nursery,
you are going to--"
Mr. Villars interrupted him somewhat impatiently, "Going to place them
in a comfortable room, with a kind and honest woman--going to demand of
them that they shall do just as much as they can to help themselves, and
no more; for all which they cannot do without injury to their health, I
will. My children shall not want--at least while I live," and the old
man's voice trembled. "From you, my friends, I ask that while I am
absent you will watch over them. Do not let them want any thing
necessary for comfort. I have told them to come to you, Mrs. Melville,
for advice in their outlay of money. I would wish their wardrobe to be
suited to their circumstances--plain, but neat, respectable, and
comfortable. If it be necessary at any time, Melville, advance money for
them, and I will repay you."
"Mr. Villars," said Mrs. Melville, earnestly, "I will do all you wish,
if you persist in this plan, but I pray you think better of it. I do not
doubt that Mrs. Brown would take Mary into her school as a
sub-governess, and her services in this capacity would pay for Ellen's
board and tuition, till she could do something for herself."
"My dear Mrs. Melville, I have not told you all the reasons which make
me prefer my plan to yours--fair as yours seems. Poor Ellen's ungoverned
temper must be subdued; but before Mrs. Brown could reduce her into a
proper behaved boarding-school Miss, she must inflict and Ellen endure a
course of discipline which would break Mary's heart to witness. Now I
would give Ellen a discipline which she cannot escape from--which she
will feel it is vain to fret against--which will be steady and
unyielding, but never cruel and tyrannical,--the discipline which was
God's own appointment for man--labor and privation. Do you think me
right now?" he asked.
"I think that you may be. I hope that you are," said Mrs. Melville.