"Envelopes, Mamma?"
"To be sure; I had forgotten them. Envelopes of both sizes to match."
"Because, Mamma, you know I might, and I certainly shall, want to write upon the fourth page of my letter, and I couldn't do it unless I had envelopes."
A sufficient stock of envelopes was laid in.
"Mamma," said Ellen, "what do you think of a little note- paper?"
"Who are the notes to be written to, Ellen?" said Mrs.
Montgomery smiling.
"You needn't smile, Mamma; you know, as you said, if I don't know now, perhaps I shall by-and-by. Miss Allen's desk had note-paper that made me think of it."
"So shall yours, daughter; while we are about it, we will do the thing well. And your note-paper will keep quite safely in this nice little place provided for it, even if you should not want to use a sheet of it in half-a-dozen years."
"How nice that is!" said Ellen, admiringly.
"I suppose the note-paper must have envelopes too," said Mrs.
Montgomery.
"To be sure, Mamma; I suppose so," said Ellen, smiling; "Miss
Allen's had."
"Well, now we have got all the paper we want, I think," said Mrs. Montgomery; "the next thing is ink or an inkstand, rather."
Different kinds were presented for her choice.
"Oh, Mamma, that one won't do," said Ellen, anxiously; "you know the desk will be knocking about in a trunk, and the ink would run out, and spoil every thing. It should be one of those that shut tight. I don't see the right kind here."
The shopman brought one.
"There, Mamma do you see?" said Ellen. "It shuts with a spring, and nothing can possibly come out. Do you see, Mamma. You can turn it topsy-turvy."
"I see you are quite right, daughter; it seems I should get on very ill without you to advise me. Fill the inkstand, if you please."
"Mamma, what shall I do when my ink is gone? that inkstand will hold but a little, you know."
"Your aunt will supply you, of course, my dear, when you are out."
"I'd rather take some of my own, by half," said Ellen.
"You could not carry a bottle of ink in your desk without great danger to every thing else in it. It would not do to venture."
"We have excellent ink-powder," said the shopman, "in small packages, which can be very conveniently carried about. You see, Maam, there is a compartment in the desk for such things; and the ink is very easily made at any time."
"Oh, that will do nicely," said Ellen, "that is just the thing."
"Now, what is to go in this other square place, opposite the inkstand?" said Mrs. Montgomery.
"That is the place for the box of lights, Mamma."
"What sort of lights?"
"For sealing letters, Mamma, you know. They are not like your wax taper at all; they are little wax matches, that burn just long enough to seal one or two letters; Miss Allen showed me how she used them. Hers were in a nice little box, just like the inkstand on the outside; and there was a place to light the matches, and a place to set them in while they are burning. There, Mamma, that's it," said Ellen, as the shopman brought forth the article which she was describing, "that's it exactly; and that will just fit. Now, Mamma, for the wax."
"You want to seal your letter before you have written it," said Mrs. Montgomery "we have not got the pens yet."
"That's true, Mamma let us have the pens. And some quills too, Mamma?"
"Do you know how to make a pen, Ellen?"
"No, Mamma, not yet; but I want to learn very much. Miss Pichegru says that every lady ought to know how to make her own pens."
"Miss Pichegru is very right; but I think you are rather too young to learn. However, we will try. Now, here are steel points enough to last you a great while and as many quills as it is needful you should cut up for one year at least; we haven't a pen-handle yet."
"Here, Mamma," said Ellen, holding out a plain ivory one, "don't you like this? I think it is prettier than these that are all cut and fussed, or those other gay ones either."
"I think so too, Ellen; the plainer the prettier. Now, what comes next?"
"The knife, Mamma, to make the pens," said Ellen, smiling.
"True, the knife. Let us see some of your best penknives. Now, Ellen, choose. That one won't do, my dear; it should have two blades a large as well as a small one. You know you want to mend a pencil sometimes."
"So I do, Mamma to be sure you're very right; here's a nice one. Now, Mamma, the wax."
"There is a box full choose your own colours." Seeing it was likely to be a work of time, Mrs. Montgomery walked away to another part of the store. When she returned, Ellen had made up an assortment of the oddest colours she could find.
"I won't have any red, Mamma, it is so common," she said.
"I think it is the prettiest of all," said Mrs. Montgomery.
"Do you, Mamma? then I will have a stick of red on purpose to seal to you with."
"And who do you intend shall have the benefit of the other colours?" inquired her mother.
"I declare, Mamma," said Ellen, laughing; "I never thought of that; I am afraid they will have to go to you. You must not mind, Mamma, if you get green, and blue, and yellow seals once in a while."
"I dare say I shall submit myself to it with a good grace, said Mrs. Montgomery. "But come, my dear, have we got all that we want? This desk has been very long in furnishing."
"You haven't given me a seal yet, Mamma."
"Seals! There are a variety before you; see if you can find one that you like. By the way, you cannot seal a letter, can you?"
"Not yet, Mamma," said Ellen, smiling again; "that is another of the things I have got to learn."
"Then I think you had better have some wafers in the mean time."
While Ellen was picking out her seal, which took not a little time, Mrs. Montgomery laid in a good supply of wafers of all sorts; and then went on further to furnish the desk with an ivory leaf-cutter, a paper-folder, a pounce-box, a ruler, and a neat little silver pencil; also some drawing-pencils, India- rubber, and sheets of drawing-paper. She took a sad pleasure in adding everything she could think of that might be for Ellen's future use or advantage; but as with her own hands she placed in the desk one thing after another, the thought crossed her mind, how Ellen would make drawings with those very pencils, on those very sheets of paper, which her eyes would never see! She turned away with a sigh, and receiving Ellen's seal from her hand, put that also in its place. Ellen had chosen one with her own name.
"Will you send these things at once?" said Mrs. Montgomery; "I particularly wish to have them at home as early in the day as possible."
The man promised. Mrs. Montgomery paid the bill, and she and
Ellen left the store.
They walked a little way in silence.
"I cannot thank you, Mamma," said Ellen.
"It is not necessary, my dear child," said Mrs. Montgomery, returning the pressure of her hand; "I know all that you would say."
There was as much sorrow as joy at that moment in the heart of the joyfullest of the two.
"Where are we going now, Mamma?" said Ellen again, after a while.
"I wished and intended to have gone to St. Clair and Fleury's, to get you some merino and other things, but we have been detained so long already that I think I had better go home. I feel somewhat tired."
"I am very sorry, dear Mamma," said Ellen; "I am afraid I kept you too long about that desk."
"You did not keep me, daughter, any longer than I chose to be kept. But I think I will go home now, and take the chance of another fine day for the merino."
CHAPTER IV.
The Bitter-sweet of Life.
When dinner was over and the table cleared away, the mother and daughter were left, as they always loved to be, alone. It was late in the afternoon, and already somewhat dark, for clouds had gathered over the beautiful sky of the morning, and the wind, rising now and then, made its voice heard. Mrs. Montgomery was lying on the sofa, as usual, seemingly at ease; and Ellen was sitting on a little bench before the fire, very much at her ease, indeed, without any seeming about it. She smiled as she met her mother's eyes.
"You have made me very happy to-day, Mamma."
"I am glad of it, my dear child. I hoped I should. I believe the whole affair has given me as much pleasure, Ellen, as it has you."
There was a pause.
"Mamma, I will take the greatest possible care of my new treasures."
"I know you will. If I had doubted it, Ellen, most assuredly I should not have given them to you, sorry as I should have been to leave you without them. So you see you have not established a character for carefulness in vain."
"And, Mamma, I hope you have not given them to me in vain, either. I will try to use them in the way that I know you wish me to; that will be the best way I can thank you."
"Well, I have left you no excuse, Ellen. You know fully what I wish you to do and to be; and when I am away I shall please myself with thinking that my little daughter is following her mother's wishes; I shall believe so, Ellen. You will not let me be disappointed?"
"Oh no, Mamma," said Ellen, who was now in her mother's arms.
"Well, my child," said Mrs. Montgomery, in a lighter tone, "my gifts will serve as reminders for you if you are ever tempted to forget my lessons. If you fail to send me letters, or if those you send are not what they ought to be, I think the desk will cry shame upon you. And if you ever go an hour with a hole in your stocking, or a tear in your dress, or a string off your petticoat, I hope the sight of your workbox will make you blush."
"Workbox, Mamma!"
"Yes. Oh, I forgot you've not seen that."
"No, Mamma what do you mean?"
"Why, my dear, that was one of the things you most wanted, but I thought it best not to overwhelm you quite this morning; so while you were on an exploring expedition round the store, I chose and furnished one for you."
"Oh Mamma, Mamma!" said Ellen, getting up and clasping her hands, "what shall I do? I don't know what to say; I can't say anything. Mamma, it's too much."
So it seemed, for Ellen sat down and began to cry. Her mother silently reached out a hand to her, which she squeezed and kissed with all the energy of gratitude, love, and sorrow; till, gently drawn by the same hand, she was placed again in her mother's arms and upon her bosom. And in that tried resting-place she lay, calmed and quieted, till the shades of afternoon deepened into evening, and evening into night, and the light of the fire was all that was left to them.
Though not a word had been spoken for a long time, Ellen was not asleep; her eyes were fixed on the red glow of the coals in the grate, and she was busily thinking, but not of them. Many sober thoughts were passing through her little head, and stirring her heart; a few were of her new possessions and bright projects more of her mother. She was thinking how very, very precious was the heart she could feel beating where her cheek lay she thought it was greater happiness to lie there than anything else in life could be she thought she had rather even die so, on her mother's breast, than live long without her in the world she felt that in earth or in heaven there was nothing so dear. Suddenly she broke the silence.
"Mamma, what does that mean, 'He that loveth father or mother more than me, is not worthy of me?' "
"It means just what it says. If you love anybody or anything better than Jesus Christ, you cannot be one of his children."
"But then, Mamma," said Ellen, raising her head, "how can I be one of his children? I do love you a great deal better: how can I help it, Mamma?"
"You cannot help it, I know, my dear," said Mrs. Montgomery, with a sigh, "except by His grace, who has promised to change the hearts of his people to take away the heart of stone, and give them a heart of flesh."
"But is mine a heart of stone, then, Mamma, because I cannot help loving you best?"
"Not to me, dear Ellen," replied Mrs. Montgomery, pressing closer the little form that lay in her arms; "I have never found it so. But yet I know that the Lord Jesus is far, far more worthy of your affection than I am; and if your heart were not hardened by sin, you would see him so; it is only because you do not know him that you love me better. Pray, pray, my dear child, that he would take away the power of sin, and show you himself; that is all that is wanting."
"I will, Mamma," said Ellen, tearfully. "Oh, Mamma, what shall
I do without you?"
Alas! Mrs. Montgomery's heart echoed the question she had no answer.
"Mamma," said Ellen, after a few minutes, "can I have no true love to Him at all unless I love him best?"
"I dare not say that you can," answered her mother, seriously.
"Mamma," said Ellen, after a little, again raising her head, and looking her mother full in the face, as if willing to apply the severest test to this hard doctrine, and speaking with an indescribable expression, "do you love him better than you do me?"
She knew her mother loved the Saviour, but she thought it scarcely possible that herself could have but the second place in her heart; she ventured a bold question, to prove whether her mother's practice would not contradict her theory.
But Mrs. Montgomery answered steadily, "I do, my daughter;" and, with a gush of tears, Ellen sank her head again upon her bosom. She had no more to say; her mouth was stopped for ever as to the right of the matter, though she still thought it an impossible duty in her own particular case.
"I do, indeed, my daughter," repeated Mrs. Montgomery; "that does not make my love to you the less, but the more, Ellen."
"Oh, Mamma, Mamma!" said Ellen, clinging to her, "I wish you would teach me! I have only you, and I am going to lose you. What shall I do, Mamma?"
With a voice that strove to be calm, Mrs. Montgomery answered, " 'I love them that love me, and they that seek me early shall find me.' " And after a minute or two, she added, "He who says this has promised, too, that he will 'gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom.' "
The words fell soothingly on Ellen's ear, and the slight tremor in the voice reminded her also that her mother must not be agitated. She checked herself instantly, and soon lay as before, quiet and still, on her mother's bosom, with her eyes fixed on the fire; and Mrs. Montgomery did not know that when she now and then pressed a kiss upon the forehead that lay so near her lips, it every time brought the water to Ellen's eyes, and a throb to her heart. But after some half or three- quarters of an hour had passed away, a sudden knock at the door found both mother and daughter asleep; it had to be repeated once or twice before the knocker could gain attention.
"What is that, Mamma?" said Ellen, starting up.
"Somebody at the door. Open it quickly, love."
Ellen did so, and found a man standing there, with his arms rather full of sundry packages.
"Oh, Mamma, my things!" cried Ellen, clapping her hands; "here they are!"
The man placed his burden on the table and withdrew.
"Oh, Mamma, I am so glad they are come! Now, if I only had a light this is my desk, I know, for it's the largest; and I think this is my dressing-box, as well as I can tell by feeling yes, it is, here's the handle on top; and this is my dear workbox not so big as the desk, nor so little as the dressing-box. Oh, Mamma, mayn't I ring for a light?"
There was no need, for a servant just then entered, bringing the wished-for candles, and the not-wished-for tea. Ellen was capering about in the most fantastic style, but suddenly stopped short at sight of the tea things, and looked very grave. "Well, Mamma, I'll tell you what I'll do," she said, after a pause of consideration; "I'll make the tea the first thing, before I untie a single knot; won't that be best, Mamma? Because I know if I once begin to look, I shan't want to stop. Don't you think that is wise, Mamma?
But alas! the fire had got very low; there was no making the tea quickly; and the toast was a work of time. And when all was over at length, it was then too late for Ellen to begin to undo packages. She struggled with impatience a minute or two, and then gave up the point very gracefully, and went to bed.
She had a fine opportunity the next day to make up for the evening's disappointment. It was cloudy and stormy; going out was not to be thought of, and it was very unlikely that anybody would come in. Ellen joyfully allotted the whole morning to the examination and trial of her new possessions; and as soon as breakfast was over and the room clear, she set about it. She first went through the desk and everything in it, making a running commentary on the excellence, fitness, and beauty of all it contained; then the dressing-box received a share, but a much smaller share, of attention; and lastly, with fingers trembling with eagerness, she untied the pack- thread that was wound round the workbox, and slowly took off cover after cover; she almost screamed when the last was removed. The box was of satinwood, beautifully finished, and lined with crimson silk; and Mrs. Montgomery had taken good care it should want nothing that Ellen might need to keep her clothes in perfect order.
"Oh, Mamma, how beautiful! Oh, Mamma, how good you are! Mamma, I promise you I'll never be a slattern. Here is more cotton than I can use up in a great while every number, I do think; and needles, oh, the needles! what a parcel of them! and, Mamma, what a lovely scissors! Did you choose it, Mamma, or did it belong to the box?"
"I chose it."
"I might have guessed it, Mamma, it's just like you. And here's a thimble fits me exactly! and an emery-bag! how pretty! and a bodkin! this is a great nicer than yours, Mamma yours is decidedly the worse for wear; and what's this? oh, to make eyelet-holes with, I know. And oh, Mamma! here is almost everything, I think here are tapes, and buttons, and hooks and eyes, and darning-cotton, and silk- winders, and pins, and all sorts of things. What's this for, Mamma?"
"That's a scissors to cut button-holes with. Try it on that piece of paper that lies by you, and you will see how it works."
"Oh, I see!" said Ellen, "how very nice that is! Well, I shall take great pains now to make my button-holes very handsomely."
One survey of her riches could by no means satisfy Ellen. For some time she pleased herself with going over and over the contents of the box, finding each time something new to like. At length she closed it, and keeping it still in her lap, sat awhile looking thoughtfully into the fire; till, turning towards her mother, she met her gaze, fixed mournfully, almost tearfully, on herself. The box was instantly shoved aside, and getting up and bursting into tears, Ellen went to her.
"Oh, dear mother," she said, "I wish they were all back in the store, if I could only keep you!"
Mrs. Montgomery answered only by folding her to her heart.
"Is there no help for it, Mamma?"
"There is none. We know that all things shall work together for good to them that love God."
"Then it will be all good for you, Mamma but what will it be for me?" And Ellen sobbed bitterly.
"It will be all well, my precious child, I doubt not. I do not doubt it, Ellen. Do you not doubt it either, love; but from the hand that wounds, seek the healing. He wounds that he may heal. He does not afflict willingly. Perhaps he sees, Ellen, that you never would seek him while you had me to cling to."
Ellen clung to her at that moment yet not more than her mother clung to her.
"How happy we were, Mamma, only a year ago even a month."
"We have no continuing city here," answered her mother, with a sigh. "But there is a home, Ellen, where changes do not come; and they that are once gathered there are parted no more for ever; and all tears are wiped from their eyes. I believe I am going fast to that home; and now my greatest concern is, that my little Ellen my precious baby may follow me, and come there too."
No more was said, nor could be said, till the sound of the doctor's steps upon the stair obliged each of them to assume an appearance of composure as speedily as possible. But they could not succeed perfectly enough to blind him. He did not seem very well satisfied, and told Ellen he believed he should have to get another nurse he was afraid she didn't obey orders.
While the doctor was there, Ellen's Bible was brought in; and no sooner was he gone than it underwent as thorough an examination as the boxes had received. Ellen went over every part of it with the same great care and satisfaction but mixed with a different feeling. The words that caught her eye as she turned over the leaves seemed to echo what her mother had been saying to her. It began to grow dear already. After a little she rose and brought it to the sofa.
"Are you satisfied with it, Ellen?"
"Oh, yes, Mamma; it is perfectly beautiful, outside and inside. Now, Mamma, will you please write my name in this precious book my name, and anything else you please, mother? I'll bring you my new pen to write it with, and I've got ink here shall I?"
She brought it; and Mrs. Montgomery wrote Ellen's name and the date of the gift. The pen played a moment in her fingers, and then she wrote below the date
"I love them that love me; and they that seek me early shall find me."
This was for Ellen; but the next words were not for her; what made her write them?
"I will be a God to thee, and to thy seed after thee."
They were written almost unconsciously; and as, if bowed by an unseen force, Mrs. Montgomery's head sank upon the open page, and her whole soul went up with her petition:
"Let these words be my memorial that I have trusted in thee. And oh! when these miserable lips are silent for ever, remember the word unto thy servant, upon which thou hast caused me to hope; and be unto my little one all thou hast been to me! Unto thee I lift up mine eyes, O thou that dwellest in the heavens!"
She raised her face from the book, closed it, and gave it silently to Ellen. Ellen had noticed her action, but had no suspicion of the cause; she supposed that one of her mother's frequent feelings of weakness or sickness had made her lean her head upon the Bible, and she thought no more about it. However, Ellen felt that she wanted no more of her boxes that day. She took her old place by the side of her mother's sofa, with her head upon her mother's hand, and an expression of quiet sorrow in her face that it had not worn for several days.
CHAPTER V.
A peep into the Wide World.
The next day would not do for the intended shopping, nor the next. The third day was fine, though cool and windy.
"Do you think you can venture out to-day, Mamma?" said Ellen.
"I am afraid not. I do not feel quite equal to it, and the wind is a great deal too high for me, besides."
"Well," said Ellen, in the tone of one who is making up her mind to do something, "we shall have a fine day by-and-by, I suppose, if we wait long enough; we had to wait a great deal while for our first shopping-day. I wish such another would come round."
"But the misfortune is," said her mother, "that we cannot afford to wait. November will soon be here, and your clothes may be suddenly wanted before they are ready, if we do not bestir ourselves. And Miss Rice is coming in a few days I ought to have the merino ready for her."
"What will you do, Mamma?"
"I do not know, indeed, Ellen; I am greatly at a loss."
"Couldn't papa get the stuffs for you, Mamma?"
"No, he's too busy; and besides, he doesn't know about shopping for me."
"Well, what will you do, Mamma? Is there nobody else you could ask to get the things for you? Mrs. Foster would do it, Mamma."
"I know she would, and I should ask her without any difficulty, but she is confined to her room with a cold. I see nothing for it but to be patient and let things take their course though, if a favourable opportunity should offer, you would have to go, clothes or no clothes; it would not do to lose the chance of a good escort."
And Mrs. Montgomery's face showed that this possibility of Ellen's going unprovided gave her some uneasiness. Ellen observed it.
"Never mind me, dearest mother; don't be in the least worried about my clothes. You don't know how little I think of them or care for them. It's no matter at all whether I have them or not."
Mrs. Montgomery smiled, and passed her hand fondly over her little daughter's head, but presently resumed her anxious look out of the window.
"Mamma!" exclaimed Ellen, suddenly starting up, "a bright thought has just come into my head! I'll do it for you, Mamma!"
"Do what?"
"I'll get the merino and things for you, Mamma. You needn't smile I will, indeed, if you let me."
"My dear Ellen," said her mother, "I don't doubt you would, if goodwill only were wanting; but a great deal of skill and experience is necessary for a shopper, and what would you do without either?"
"But see, Mamma," pursued Ellen, eagerly, "I'll tell you how I'll manage, and I know I can manage very well. You tell me exactly what colour of merino you want, and give me a little piece to show me how fine it should be, and tell me what price you wish to give, and then I'll go to the store and ask them to show me different pieces, you know, and if I see any I think you would like, I'll ask them to give me a little bit of it to show you; and then I'll bring it home, and if you like it, you can give me the money, and tell me how many yards you want, and I can go back to the store and get it. Why can't I, Mamma?"
"Perhaps you could; but my dear child, I am afraid you wouldn't like the business."
"Yes, I should; indeed, Mamma, I should like it dearly, if I could help you so. Will you let me try, Mamma?"
"I don't like, my child, to venture you alone on such an errand, among crowds of people; I should be uneasy about you."
"Dear Mamma, what would the crowds of people do to me? I am not a bit afraid. You know, Mamma, I have often taken walks alone that's nothing new; and what harm should come to me while I am in the store? You needn't be the least uneasy about me; may I go?"
Mrs. Montgomery smiled, but was silent.
"May I go, Mamma?" repeated Ellen. "Let me go at least and try what I can do. What do you say, Mamma?"
"I don't know what to say, my daughter, but I am in difficulty on either hand. I will let you go and see what you can do. It would be a great relief to me to get this merino by any means."
"Then shall I go right away, Mamma?"
"As well now as ever. You are not afraid of the wind?"
"I should think not," said Ellen; and away she scampered upstairs to get ready. With eager haste she dressed herself; then with great care and particularity took her mother's instructions as to the article wanted; and finally set out, sensible that a great trust was reposed in her, and feeling busy and important accordingly. But at the very bottom of Ellen's heart there was a little secret doubtfulness respecting her undertaking. She hardly knew it was there, but then she couldn't tell what it was that made her fingers so inclined to be tremulous while she was dressing, and that made her heart beat quicker than it ought, or than was pleasant, and one of her cheeks so much hotter than the other. However, she set forth upon her errand with a very brisk step, which she kept up till, on turning a corner, she came in sight of the place she was going to. Without thinking much about it, Ellen had directed her steps to St.Clair and Fleury's. It was one of the largest and best stores in the city, and the one she knew where her mother generally made her purchases; and it did not occur to her that it might not be the best for her purpose on this occasion. But her steps slackened as soon as she came in sight of it, and continued to slacken as she drew nearer, and she went up the broad flight of marble steps in front of the store, very slowly indeed, though they were exceeding low and easy. Pleasure was not certainly the uppermost feeling in her mind now; yet she never thought of turning back. She knew that if she could succeed in the object of her mission, her mother would be relieved from some anxiety; that was enough; she was bent on accomplishing it.
Timidly she entered the large hall of entrance. It was full of people, and the buzz of business was heard on all sides. Ellen had for some time past seldom gone a-shopping with her mother, and had never been in this store but once or twice before. She had not the remotest idea where, or in what apartment of the building, the merino counter was situated, and she could see no one to speak to. She stood irresolute in the middle of the floor. Everybody seemed to be busily engaged with somebody else; and whenever an opening on one side or another appeared to promise her an opportunity, it was sure to be filled up before she could reach it, and, disappointed and abashed, she would return to her old station in the middle of the floor. Clerks frequently passed her, crossing the store in all directions, but they were always bustling along in a great hurry of business; they did not seem to notice her at all, and were gone before poor Ellen could get her mouth open to speak to them. She knew well enough now, poor child! what it was that made her cheeks burn as they did, and her heart beat as if it would burst its bounds. She felt confused, and almost confounded by the incessant hum of voices, and moving crowd of strange people all around her, while her little figure stood alone and unnoticed in the midst of them; and there seemed no prospect that she would be able to gain the ear or the eye of a single person. Once she determined to accost a man she saw advancing toward her from a distance, and actually made up to him for the purpose, but with a hurried bow, and "I beg your pardon, Miss!" he brushed past. Ellen almost burst into tears. She longed to turn and run out of the store, but a faint hope remaining, and an unwillingness to give up her undertaking, kept her fast. At length one of the clerks in the desk observed her, and remarked to Mr. St. Clair, who stood by, "There is a little girl, Sir, who seems to be looking for something, or waiting for somebody; she has been standing there a good while." Mr. St. Clair, upon this, advanced to poor Ellen's relief.
"What do you wish, miss?" he said.
But Ellen had been so long preparing sentences, trying to utter them, and failing in the attempt, that now, when an opportunity to speak and be heard was given her, the power of speech seemed to be gone.
"Do you wish anything, Miss?" inquired Mr. St. Clair again.
"Mother sent me," stammered Ellen "I wish, if you please, Sir Mamma wished me to look at the merinoes, Sir, if you please."
"Is your Mamma in the store?"
"No, Sir," said Ellen, "she is ill, and cannot come out, and she sent me to look at merinoes for her, if you please, Sir."
"Here, Saunders," said Mr. St. Clair, "show this young lady the merinoes."
Mr. Saunders made his appearance from among a little group of clerks, with whom he had been indulging in a few jokes by way of relief from the tedium of business. "Come this way," he said to Ellen; and sauntering before her, with a rather dissatisfied air, led the way out of the entrance-hall into another and much larger apartment. There were plenty of people here too, and just as busy as those they had quitted. Mr. Saunders having brought Ellen to the merino counter, placed himself behind it, and leaning over it and fixing his eyes carelessly upon her, asked what she wanted to look at. His tone and manner struck Ellen most unpleasantly, and made her again wish herself out of the store. He was a tall, lank young man, with a quantity of fair hair combed down on each side of his face, a slovenly exterior, and the most disagreeable pair of eyes, Ellen thought, she had ever beheld. She could not bear to meet them, and cast down her own. Their look was bold, ill-bred, and ill-humoured; and Ellen felt, though she couldn't have told why, that she need not expect either kindness or politeness from him.
"What do you want to see, little one?" inquired this gentleman, as if he had a business on hand he would like to be rid of. Ellen heartily wished he was rid of it, and she too.
"Merinoes, if you please," she answered, without looking up.
"Well, what kind of merinoes? Here are all sorts and descriptions of merinoes, and I can't pull them all down, you know, for you to look at. What kind do you want?"
"I don't know without looking," said Ellen. "Won't you please to show me some?"
He tossed down several pieces upon the counter, and tumbled them about before her.
"There," said he, "is that anything like what you want? There's a pink one and there's a blue one and there's a green one. Is that the kind?"
"This is the kind," said Ellen; "but this isn't the colour I want."
"What colour do you want?"
"Something dark, if you please."
"Well, there, that green's dark; won't that do? See, that would make up very pretty for you."
"No," said Ellen, "Mamma don't like green."
"Why don't she come and choose her stuffs herself, then? What colour does she like?"
"Dark blue, or dark brown, or a nice gray would do," said
Ellen, "if it is fine enough."
" 'Dark blue,' or 'dark brown,' or a 'nice gray,' eh? Well, she's pretty easy to suit. A dark blue I've showed you already what's the matter with that?"
"It isn't dark enough," said Ellen.
"Well," said he, discontentedly, pulling down another piece, "how'll that do? That's dark enough."
It was a fine and beautiful piece, very different from those he had showed her first. Even Ellen could see that, and fumbling for her little pattern of merino, she compared it with the piece. They agreed perfectly as to fineness.
"What is the price of this?" she asked, with trembling hope that she was going to be rewarded by success for all the trouble of her enterprise.
"Two dollars a yard."
Her hopes and countenance fell together. "That's too high," she said, with a sigh.
"Then take this other blue; come it's a great deal prettier than that dark one, and not so dear; and I know your mother will like it better."
Ellen's cheeks were tingling and her heart throbbing, but she couldn't bear to give up.
"Would you be so good as to show me some gray?"
He slowly and ill-humouredly complied, and took down an excellent piece of dark gray, which Ellen fell in love with at once; but she was again disappointed; it was fourteen shillings.
"Well, if you won't take that, take something else," said the man; "you can't have everything at once; if you will have cheap goods, of course you can't have the same quality that you like; but now, here's this other blue, only twelve shillings, and I'll let you have it for ten, if you'll take it."
"No, it is too light and too coarse," said Ellen; "Mamma wouldn't like it."
"Let me see," said he, seizing her pattern, and pretending to compare it; "it's quite as fine as this, if that's all you want."
"Could you," said Ellen, timidly, "give me a little bit of this gray to show Mamma!"
"Oh, no!" said he, impatiently tossing over the cloths and throwing Ellen's pattern on the floor; "we can't cut up our goods; if people don't choose to buy of us, they may go somewhere else; and if you cannot decide upon anything, I must go and attend to those that can. I can't wait here all day."
"What's the matter, Saunders?" said one of his brother clerks, passing him.
"Why, I've been here this half hour showing cloths to a child that doesn't know merino from a sheep's back," said he, laughing. And, some other customers coming up at the moment, he was as good as his word, and left Ellen, to attend to them.
Ellen stood a moment stock still, just where he had left her, struggling with her feelings of mortification; she could not endure to let them be seen. Her face was on fire; her head was dizzy. She could not stir at first, and, in spite of her utmost efforts, she could not command back one or two rebel tears that forced their way; she lifted her hand to her face to remove them as quietly as possible. "What is all this about, my little girl?" said a strange voice at her side. Ellen started, and turned her face, with the tears but half wiped away, towards the speaker. It was an old gentleman an odd old gentleman, too, she thought one she certainly would have been rather shy of, if she had seen him under other circumstances. But though his face was odd, it looked kindly upon her, and it was a kind tone of voice in which his question had been put; so he seemed to her like a friend. "What is all this?" repeated the old gentleman. Ellen began to tell what it was, but the pride which had forbidden her to weep before strangers, gave way at one touch of sympathy, and she poured out tears much faster than words, as she related her story, so that it was some little time before the old gentleman could get a clear notion of her case. He waited very patiently till she had finished; but then he set himself in good earnest about righting the wrong. "Hallo! you, Sir!" he shouted, in a voice that made everybody look round; "you merino man! come and show your goods. Why aren't you at your post, Sir?" as Mr. Saunders came up, with an altered countenance "here's a young lady you've left standing unattended to, I don't know how long; are these your manners?"
"The young lady did not wish anything, I believe, Sir," returned Mr. Saunders, softly.
"You know better, you scoundrel!" retorted the old gentleman, who was in a great passion; "I saw the whole matter with my own eyes. You are a disgrace to the store, Sir, and deserve to be sent out of it, which you are like enough to be."
"I really thought, Sir," said Mr. Saunders, smoothly for he knew the old gentleman, and knew very well he was a person that must not be offended "I really thought I was not aware, Sir, that the young lady had any occasion for my services."
"Well, show your wares, Sir, and hold your tongue. Now, my dear, what did you want?"
"I wanted a little bit of this gray merino, Sir, to show to Mamma. I couldn't buy it, you know, Sir, until I found out whether she would like it."
"Cut a piece, Sir, without any words," said the gentleman. Mr.
Saunders obeyed.
"Did you like this best?" pursued the old gentleman.
"I like this dark blue very much, Sir, and I thought Mamma would; but it's too high."
"How much is it?" inquired he.
"Fourteen shillings," replied Mr. Saunders.
"He said it was two dollars!" exclaimed Ellen.
"I beg pardon," said the crest-fallen Mr. Saunders "the young lady mistook me; I was speaking of another piece when I said two dollars."
"He said this was two dollars, and the gray was fourteen shillings," said Ellen.
"Is the gray fourteen shillings," inquired the old gentleman.
"I think not, Sir," answered Mr. Saunders "I believe not,
Sir, I think it's only twelve I'll inquire, if you please,
Sir."
"No, no," said the old gentleman, "I know it was only twelve I know your tricks, Sir. Cut a piece off the blue. Now, my dear, are there any more pieces of which you would like to take patterns, to show your mother?"
"No, Sir," said the overjoyed Ellen; "I am sure she will like one of these."
"Now, shall we go, then?"
"If you please, Sir," said Ellen, "I should like to have my bit of merino that I brought from home; Mamma wanted me to bring it back again."
"Where is it?"
"That gentleman threw it on the floor."
"Do you hear, Sir?" said the old gentleman; "find it directly."
Mr. Saunders found and delivered it, after stooping in search of it till he was very red in the face; and he was left, wishing heartily that he had some safe means of revenge, and obliged to come to the conclusion that none was within his reach, and that he must stomach his indignity in the best manner he could. But Ellen and her protector went forth most joyously together from the store.
"Do you live far from here?" asked the old gentleman.
"Oh, no, Sir," said Ellen, "not very; it's only at Green's
Hotel, in Southing-street."
"I'll go with you," said he; "and when your mother has decided which merino she will have, we'll come right back and get it. I do not want to trust you again to the mercy of that saucy clerk."
"Oh, thank you, Sir!" said Ellen, "that is just what I was afraid of. But I shall be giving you a great deal of trouble, Sir," she added, in another tone.
"No, you won't," said the old gentleman; "I can't be troubled, so you needn't say anything about that."
They went gaily along Ellen's heart about five times as light as the one with which she had travelled that very road a little while before. Her old friend was in a very cheerful mood, too, for he assured Ellen, laughingly, that it was of no manner of use for her to be in a hurry, for he could not possibly set off and skip to Green's Hotel, as she seemed inclined to do. They got there at last. Ellen showed the old gentleman into the parlour, and ran up stairs in great haste to her mother. But in a few minutes she came down again, with a very April face, for smiles were playing in every feature, while the tears were yet wet upon her cheeks.
"Mamma hopes you'll take the trouble, Sir, to come up stairs," she said, seizing his hand; "she wants to thank you herself, Sir."
"It is not necessary," said the old gentleman "it is not necessary at all;" but he followed his little conductor, nevertheless, to the door of her mother's room, into which she ushered him with great satisfaction.
Mrs. Montgomery was looking very ill he saw that at a glance. She rose from her sofa, and extending her hand, thanked him, with glistening eyes, for his kindness to her child.
"I don't deserve any thanks, Maam," said the old gentleman; "I suppose my little friend has told you what made us acquainted?"
"She gave me a very short account of it," said Mrs.
Montgomery.
"She was very disagreeably tried," said the old gentleman. "I presume you do not need to be told, Maam, that her behaviour was such as would have become any years. I assure you, Maam, if I had had no kindness in my composition to feel for the child, my honour as a gentleman would have made me interfere for the lady."
Mrs. Montgomery smiled, but looked through glistening eyes again on Ellen. "I am very glad to hear it," she replied. "I was very far from thinking, when I permitted her to go on this errand, that I was exposing her to anything more serious than the annoyance a timid child would feel at having to transact business with strangers."
"I suppose not," said the gentleman; "but it isn't a sort of thing that should be often done. There are all sorts of people in this world, and a little one alone in a crowd is in danger of being trampled upon."
Mrs. Montgomery's heart answered this with an involuntary pang. He saw the shade that passed over her face, as she said sadly
"I know it, Sir; and it was with strong unwillingness that I allowed Ellen this morning to do as she had proposed; but in truth I was but making a choice between difficulties. I am very sorry I chose as I did. If you are a father, Sir, you know better than I can tell you, how grateful I am for your kind interference."
"Say nothing about that, Maam; the less the better. I am an old man, and not good for much now, except to please young people. I think myself best off when I have the best chance to do that. So if you will be so good as to choose that merino, and let Miss Ellen and me go and despatch our business, you will be conferring, and not receiving, a favour. And any other errand that you please to intrust her with, I'll undertake to see her safe through."
His look and manner obliged Mrs. Montgomery to take him at his word. A very short examination of Ellen's patterns ended in favour of the gray merino; and Ellen was commissioned, not only to get and pay for this, but also to choose a dark dress of the same stuff, and enough of a certain article called nankeen for a coat; Mrs. Montgomery truly opining that the old gentleman's care would do more than see her scathless that it would have some regard to the justness and prudence of her purchases.
In great glee Ellen set forth again with her new old friend. Her hand was fast in his, and her tongue ran very freely, for her heart was completely opened to him. He seemed as pleased to listen as she was to talk; and by little and little Ellen told him all her history the troubles that had come upon her in consequence of her mother's illness, and her intended journey and prospects.
That was a happy day to Ellen. They returned to St. Clair and Fleury's bought the gray merino and the nankeen, and a dark brown merino for a dress.
"Do you want only one of these?" asked the old gentleman.
"Mamma said only one," said Ellen; "that will last me all the winter."
"Well," said he, "I think two will be better. Let us have another off the same piece, Mr. Shopman."
"But I am afraid Mamma won't like it, Sir," said Ellen, gently.
"Pooh, pooh," said he, "your mother has nothing to do with this; this is my affair." He paid for it accordingly. "Now, Miss Ellen," said he, when they left the store, "have you got anything in the shape of a good warm winter bonnet? for it's precious cold up there in Thirlwall; your pasteboard things won't do; if you don't take good care of your ears, you will lose them some fine frosty day. You must quilt and pad, and all sorts of things, to keep alive and comfortable. So you haven't a hood, eh? Do you think you and I could make out to choose one that your mother would think wasn't quite a fright! Come this way, and let us see. If she don't like it, she can give it away, you know."
He led the delighted Ellen into a milliner's shop, and after turning over a great many different articles chose her a nice warm hood, or quilted bonnet. It was of dark blue silk, well made and pretty. He saw with great satisfaction that it fitted Ellen well, and would protect her ears nicely; and having paid for it, and ordered it home, he and Ellen sallied forth into the street again. But he wouldn't let her thank him. "It is just the very thing I wanted, Sir," said Ellen; "Mamma was speaking about it the other day, and she did not see how I was ever to get one, because she did not feel at all able to go out, and I could not get one myself; I know she'll like it very much."
"Would you rather have something for yourself or your mother,
Ellen, if you could choose, and have but one?"
"Oh, for Mamma, Sir," said Ellen "a great deal!"
"Come in here," said he; "let us see if we can find anything she would like."
It was a grocery store. After looking about a little, the old gentleman ordered sundry pounds of figs and white grapes to be packed up in papers; and being now very near home, he took one parcel and Ellen the other, till they came to the door of Green's Hotel, where he committed both to her care.
"Won't you come in, Sir?" said Ellen.
"No," said he, "I can't this time I must go home to dinner."
"And shan't I see you any more, Sir?" said Ellen, a shade coming over her face, which a minute before had been quite joyous.
"Well, I don't know," said he, kindly "I hope you will. You shall hear from me again at any rate, I promise you. We've spent one pleasant morning together, haven't we? Good-bye, good-bye."
Ellen's hands were full, but the old gentleman took them in both his, packages and all, and shook them after a fashion, and again bidding her good-bye, walked away down the street.
The next morning Ellen and her mother were sitting quietly together, and Ellen had not finished her accustomed reading, when there came a knock at the door. "My old gentleman!" cried Ellen, as she sprung to open it. No there was no old gentleman, but a black man with a brace of beautiful woodcocks in his hand. He bowed very civilly, and said he had been ordered to leave the birds with Miss Montgomery. Ellen, in surprise, took them from him, and likewise a note which he delivered into her hand. Ellen asked from whom the birds came, but with another polite bow the man said the note would inform her, and went away. In great curiosity she carried them and the note to her mother, to whom the latter was directed. It read thus
"Will Mrs. Montgomery permit an old man to please himself in his own way, by showing his regard for her little daughter, and not feel that he is taking a liberty? The birds are for Miss Ellen."
"Oh, Mamma!" exclaimed Ellen, jumping with delight, "did you ever see such a dear old gentleman? Now I know what he meant yesterday, when he asked me if I would rather have something for myself or for you. How kind he is! to do just the very thing for me that he knows would give me the most pleasure! Now, Mamma, these birds are mine, you know, and I give them to you. You must pay me a kiss for them, Mamma; they are worth that. Aren't they beauties?"
"They are very fine, indeed," said Mrs. Montgomery; "this is just the season for woodcock, and these are in beautiful condition."
"Do you like woodcocks, Mamma?"
"Yes, very much."
"Oh, how glad I am!" said Ellen. "I'll ask Sam to have them done very nicely for you, and then you will enjoy them so much."
The waiter was called, and instructed accordingly, and to him the birds were committed, to be delivered to the care of the cook.
"Now, Mamma," said Ellen, "I think these birds have made me happy for all day."
"Then I hope, daughter, they will make you busy for all day. You have ruffles to hem, and the skirts of your dresses to make we need not wait for Miss Rice to do that; and when she comes, you will have to help her, for I can do little. You can't be too industrious."
"Well, Mamma, I am as willing as can be."
This was the beginning of a pleasant two weeks to Ellen weeks to which she often looked back afterwards, so quietly and swiftly the days fled away, in busy occupation and sweet intercourse with her mother. The passions, which were apt enough to rise in Ellen's mind upon occasions, were, for the present, kept effectually in check. She could not forget that her days with her mother would very soon be at an end, for a long time at least; and this consciousness, always present to her mind, forbade even the wish to do anything that might grieve or disturb her. Love and tenderness had absolute rule for the time, and even had power to overcome the sorrowful thoughts that would often rise; so that in spite of them peace reigned. And perhaps both mother and daughter enjoyed this interval the more keenly because they knew that sorrow was at hand.
All this while there was scarcely a day that the old gentleman's servant did not knock at their door, bearing a present of game. The second time he came with some fine larks; next was a superb grouse; then woodcock again. Curiosity strove with astonishment and gratitude in Ellen's mind.
"Mamma," she said, after she had admired the grouse for five minutes, "I cannot rest without finding out who this old gentleman is."
"I am sorry for that," replied Mrs. Montgomery, gravely, "for
I see no possible way of your doing it."
"Why, Mamma, couldn't I ask the man that brings the birds what his name is? He must know it."
"Certainly not; it would be very dishonourable."
"Would it, Mamma? why?"
"This old gentleman has not chosen to tell you his name; he wrote his note without signing it, and his man has obviously been instructed not to disclose it. Don't you remember, he did not tell it when you asked him, the first time he came? Now this shows the old gentleman wishes to keep it secret, and to try to find it out in any way would be a very unworthy return for his kindness."
"Yes, it wouldn't be doing as I would be done by, to be sure; but would it be dishonourable, Mamma?"
"Very. It is very dishonourable to try to find out that about other people which does not concern you, and which they wish to keep from you. Remember that, my dear daughter."
"I will, Mamma. I'll never do it, I promise you."
"Even in talking with people, if you discern in them any unwillingness to speak upon a subject, avoid it immediately, provided, of course, that some higher interest do not oblige you to go on. That is true politeness, and true kindness, which are nearly the same; and not to do so, I assure you, Ellen, proves one wanting in true honour."
"Well, Mamma, I don't care what his name is at least I won't try to find out; but it does worry me that I cannot thank him. I wish he knew how much I feel obliged to him."
"Very well; write him and tell him so."
"Mamma!" said Ellen, opening her eyes very wide "can I? would you?"
"Certainly if you like. It would be very proper."
"Then I will! I declare that is a good notion. I'll do it the first thing, and then I can give it to that man if he comes to-morrow, as I suppose he will. Mamma," said she, on opening her desk, "how funny! don't you remember you wondered who I was going to write notes to? Here is one now, Mamma; it is very lucky I have got note-paper."
More than one sheet of it was ruined before Ellen had satisfied herself with what she wrote. It was a full hour from the time she began when she brought the following note for her mother's inspection:
"Ellen Montgomery does not know how to thank the old gentleman who is so kind to her. Mamma enjoys the birds very much, and I think I do more; for I have the double pleasure of giving them to Mamma, and of eating them afterwards; but your kindness is the best of all. I can't tell you how much I am obliged to you, Sir, but I will always love you for all you have done for me.
"ELLEN MONTGOMERY."
This note Mrs. Montgomery approved; and Ellen having, with great care and great satisfaction, enclosed it in an envelope, succeeded in sealing it according to rule, and very well. Mrs. Montgomery laughed when she saw the direction, but let it go. Without consulting her, Ellen had written on the outside, "To the old gentleman." She sent it the next morning by the hands of the same servant, who this time was the bearer of a plump partridge "To Miss Montgomery;" and her mind was a great deal easier on this subject from that time.
CHAPTER VI.
Night and Morning.
October was now far advanced. One evening the evening of the last Sunday in the month Mrs. Montgomery was lying in the parlour alone. Ellen had gone to bed some time before; and now, in the stillness of the Sabbath evening, the ticking of the clock was almost the only sound to be heard. The hands were rapidly approaching ten. Captain Montgomery was abroad; and he had been so according to custom or in bed, the whole day. The mother and daughter had had the Sabbath to themselves; and most quietly and sweetly it had passed. They had read together, prayed together, talked together a great deal; and the evening had been spent in singing hymns; but Mrs. Montgomery's strength failed here, and Ellen sang alone. She was not soon weary. Hymn succeeded hymn, with fresh and varied pleasure; and her mother could not tire of listening. The sweet words, and the sweet airs which were all old friends, and brought of themselves many a lesson of wisdom and consolation, by the mere force of association needed not the recommendation of the clear childish voice in which they were sung, which was, of all things, the sweetest to Mrs. Montgomery's ear. She listened till she almost felt as if earth were left behind, and she and her child already standing within the walls of that city where sorrow and sighing shall be no more, and the tears shall be wiped from all eyes for ever. Ellen's next hymn, however, brought her back to earth again; but though her tears flowed freely while she heard it, all her causes of sorrow could not render them bitter.
"God in Israel sows the seeds
Of affliction, pain, and toil;
These spring up and choke the weeds
Which would else o'erspread the soil.
Trials make the promise sweet
Trials give new life to prayer
Trials bring me to his feet,
Lay me low, and keep me there."
"It is so, indeed, dear Ellen," said Mrs. Montgomery, when she had finished and holding the little singer to her breast "I have always found it so. God is faithful. I have seen abundant cause to thank him for all the evils he has made me suffer heretofore, and I do not doubt it will be the same with this last and worst one. Let us glorify him in the fires, my daughter; and if earthly joys be stripped from us, and if we be torn from each other, let us cling the closer to him he can, and he will, in that case, make up to us more than all we have lost."
Ellen felt her utter inability to join in her mother's expressions of confidence and hope; to her there was no brightness on the cloud that hung over them it was all dark. She could only press her lips, in tearful silence, to the one and the other of her mother's cheeks alternately. How sweet the sense of the coming parting made every such embrace! This one, for particular reasons, was often and long remembered. A few minutes they remained thus in each other's arms, cheek pressed against cheek, without speaking; but then Mrs. Montgomery remembered that Ellen's bed-time was already past, and dismissed her.
For a while after, Mrs. Montgomery remained just where Ellen had left her, her busy thoughts roaming over many things, in the far past, and the sad present, and the uncertain future. She was unconscious of the passage of time, and did not notice how the silence deepened as the night drew on, till scarce a footfall was heard in the street, and the ticking of the clock sounded with that sad distinctness which seems to say "Time is going on time is going on, and you are going with it do what you will, you can't help that." It was just upon the stroke of ten, and Mrs. Montgomery was still wrapped in her deep musings, when a sharp, brisk footstep in the distance aroused her, rapidly approaching; and she knew very well whose it was, and that it would pause at the door, before she heard the quick run up the steps, succeeded by her husband's tread upon the staircase. And yet she saw him open the door with a kind of startled feeling, which his appearance now invariably caused her; the thought always darted through her head, "Perhaps he brings news of Ellen's going." Something, it would have been impossible to say what, in his appearance or manner, confirmed this fear on the present occasion. Her heart felt sick, and she waited in silence to hear what he would say. He seemed very well pleased sat down before the fire, rubbing his hands, partly with cold and partly with satisfaction; and his first words were "Well! we have got a fine opportunity for her at last."
How little he was capable of understanding the pang this announcement gave his poor wife! But she only closed her eyes and kept perfectly quiet, and he never suspected it.
He unbuttoned his coat, and taking the poker in his hand, began to mend the fire, talking the while.
"I am very glad of it, indeed," said he; "it's quite a load off my mind. Now we'll be gone directly, and high time it is I'll take passage in the England the first thing to-morrow. And this is the best possible chance for Ellen every thing we could have desired. I began to feel very uneasy about it it was getting so late; but I am quite relieved now."
"Who is it?" said Mrs. Montgomery, forcing herself to speak.
"Why, it's Mrs. Dunscombe," said the captain, flourishing his poker by way of illustration; "you know her, don't you? Captain Dunscombe's wife she's going right through Thirlwall, and will take charge of Ellen as far as that, and there my sister will meet her with a waggon and take her straight home. Couldn't be anything better. I write to let Fortune know when to expect her. Mrs. Dunscombe is a lady of the first family and fashion in the highest degree respectable; she is going on to Fort Jameson, with her daughter and a servant, and her husband is to follow her in a few days. I happened to hear of it to-day, and I immediately seized the opportunity to ask if she would not take Ellen with her as far as Thirlwall, and Dunscombe was only too glad to oblige me. I'm a very good friend of his, and he knows it."
"How soon does she go?"
"Why, that's the only part of the business I am afraid you won't like but there is no help for it; and, after all, it is a great deal better so than if you had time to wear yourselves out with mourning; better, and easier too, in the end."
"How soon?" repeated Mrs. Montgomery, with an agonized accent.
"Why, I'm a little afraid of startling you Dunscombe's wife must go, he told me, to-morrow morning; and we arranged that she could call in the carriage at six o'clock to take up Ellen."
Mrs. Montgomery put her hands to her face and sank back against the sofa.
"I was afraid you would take it so," said her husband, "but I don't think it is worth while. It is a great deal better as it is; a great deal better than if she had a long warning. You would fairly wear yourself out if you had time enough, and you haven't any strength to spare."
It was some while before Mrs. Montgomery could recover composure and firmness enough to go on with what she had to do, though, knowing the necessity, she strove hard for it. For several minutes she remained quite silent and quiet, endeavouring to collect her scattered forces; then sitting upright and drawing her shawl around her, she exclaimed "I must waken Ellen immediately!"
"Waken Ellen!" exclaimed her husband, in his turn; "what on earth for? That's the very last thing to be done."
"Why, you would not put off telling her until to-morrow morning?" said Mrs. Montgomery.
"Certainly I would; that's the only proper way to do. Why in the world should you wake her up, just to spend the whole night in useless grieving? unfitting her utterly for her journey, and doing yourself more harm than you can undo in a week. No, no; just let her sleep quietly, and you can go to bed and do the same. Wake her up, indeed! I thought you were wiser."
"But she will be so dreadfully shocked in the morning!"
"Not one bit more that she would be to-night, and she won't have so much time to feel it. In the hurry and bustle of getting off, she will not have time to think about her feelings; and once on the way, she will do well enough; children always do."
Mrs. Montgomery looked undecided and unsatisfied.
"I'll take the responsibility of this matter on myself; you must not waken her, absolutely. It would not do at all," said the captain, poking the fire very energetically; "it would not do at all; I cannot allow it."
Mrs. Montgomery silently arose and lit a lamp.
"You are not going into Ellen's room?" said the husband.