The Wide, Wide World. Warner Susan

      CHAPTER VI

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      Mac. What is the night?

      Lady Mac. Almost at odds with morning, which is which.

      —Macbeth.

      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 bedtime 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—everything 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 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'll 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 agonised 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 should 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?