The Wide, Wide World. Warner Susan
Many a time the same wish had passed through Mrs. Montgomery's mind. But she kept down her rising heart, and went on calmly
"You must not expect, my child, to find anybody as indulgent as I am, or as ready to overlook and excuse your faults. It would be unreasonable to look for it; and you must not think hardly of your aunt when you find she is not your mother; but then it will be your own fault if she does not love you, in time, truly and tenderly. See that you render her all the respect and obedience you could render me; that is your bounden duty; she will stand in my place while she has the care of you remember that, Ellen; and remember, too, that she will deserve more gratitude at your hands for showing you kindness than I do, because she cannot have the same feeling of love to make trouble easy."
"Oh, no, Mamma," said Ellen, "I don't think so; it's that very feeling of love that I am grateful for; I don't care a fig for anything people do for me without that."
"But you can make her love you, Ellen, if you try."
"Well, I'll try, Mamma."
"And don't be discouraged. Perhaps you may be disappointed in first appearances, but never mind that; have patience; and let your motto be (if there's any occasion), 'Overcome evil with good'. Will you put that among the things you mean to do while I am gone?" said Mrs. Montgomery, with a smile.
"I'll try, dear Mamma."
"You will succeed if you try, dear, never fear if you apply yourself in your trying to the only unfailing source of wisdom and strength to Him without whom you can do nothing."
There was silence for a little.
"What sort of a place is it where my aunt lives?" asked Ellen.
"Your father says it is a very pleasant place; he says the country is beautiful, and very healthy, and full of charming walks and rides. You have never lived in the country; I think you will enjoy it very much."
"Then it is not a town?" said Ellen.
"No; it is not far from the town of Thirlwall, but your aunt lives in the open country. Your father says she is a capital housekeeper, and that you will learn more, and be in all respects a great deal happier and better off, than you would be in a boarding-school here or anywhere."
Ellen's heart secretly questioned the truth of this last assertion very much.
"Is there any school near?" she asked.
"Your father says there was an excellent one in Thirlwall when he was there."
"Mamma," said Ellen, "I think the greatest pleasure I shall have while you are gone will be writing to you. I have been thinking of it a good deal. I mean to tell you everything absolutely everything, Mamma. You know there will be nobody for me to talk to as I do to you" (Ellen's words came out with difficulty); "and when I feel badly, I shall just shut myself up and write to you." She hid her face in her mother's lap.
"I count upon it, my dear daughter; it will make quite as much the pleasure of my life, Ellen, as of yours."
"But then, mother," said Ellen, brushing away the tears from her eyes, "it will be so long before my letters can get to you! The things I want you to know right away, you won't know, perhaps, in a month."
"That's no matter, daughter; they will be just as good when they do get to me. Never think of that; write every day, and all manner of things that concern you just as particularly as if you were speaking to me."
"And you'll write to me, too, Mamma?"
"Indeed I will when I can. But, Ellen, you say that when I am away, and cannot hear you, there will be nobody to supply my place. Perhaps it will be so, indeed; but then, my daughter, let it make you seek that Friend who is never far away nor out of hearing. Draw nigh to God, and he will draw nigh to you. You know he has said of his children 'Before they call, I will answer; and while they are yet speaking, I will hear.' "
"But, Mamma," said Ellen, her eyes filling instantly, "you know he is not my friend in the same way that he is yours." And, hiding her face again, she added, "Oh, I wish he was!"
"You know the way to make him so, Ellen. He is willing; it only rests with you. Oh, my child, my child! if losing your mother might be the means of finding you that better Friend, I should be quite willing and glad to go for ever."
There was silence, only broken by Ellen's sobs. Mrs. Montgomery's voice had trembled, and her face was now covered with her hands; but she was not weeping; she was seeking a better relief where it had long been her habit to seek and find it. Both resumed their usual composure, and the employments which had been broken off; but neither chose to renew the conversation. Dinner, sleeping, and company prevented their having another opportunity during the rest of the day.
But when evening came, they were again left to themselves. Captain Montgomery was away, which indeed was the case most of the time; friends had taken their departure; the curtains were down, the lamp lit, the little room looked cozy and comfortable; the servant had brought the tea-things, and withdrawn, and the mother and daughter were happily alone. Mrs. Montgomery knew that such occasions were numbered, and fast drawing to an end, and she felt each one to be very precious. She now lay on her couch, with her face partially shaded, and her eyes fixed upon her little daughter, who was now preparing the tea. She watched her, with thoughts and feelings not to be spoken, as the little figure went back and forward between the table and the fire, and the light shining full upon her face, showed that Ellen's whole soul was in her beloved duty. Tears would fall as she looked, and were not wiped away; but when Ellen, having finished her work, brought with a satisfied face the little tray of tea and toast to her mother, there was no longer any sign of them left; Mrs. Montgomery arose with her usual kind smile, to show her gratitude by honouring, as far as possible, what Ellen had provided.
"You have more appetite to-night, Mamma."
"I am very glad, daughter," replied her mother, "to see that you have made up your mind to bear patiently this evil that has come upon us. I am glad for your sake, and I am glad for mine; and I am glad, too, because we have a great deal to do, and no time to lose in doing it."
"What, have we so much to do, Mamma?" said Ellen.
"Oh, many things," said her mother, "you will see. But now, Ellen, if there is anything you wish to talk to me about, any question you want to ask, anything you would like particularly to have, or to have done for you I want you to tell it me as soon as possible, now, while we can attend to it for by-and- by perhaps we shall be hurried."
"Mamma," said Ellen, with brightening eyes, "there is one thing I have thought of that I should like to have shall I tell it you now?"
"Yes."
"Mamma, you know I shall want to be writing a great deal; wouldn't it be a good thing for me to have a little box with some pens in it, and an inkstand, and some paper and wafers? Because, Mamma, you know I shall be among strangers at first, and I shan't like asking them for these things as often as I shall want them, and may be they wouldn't want to let me have them if I did."
"I have thought of that already, daughter," said Mrs. Montgomery, with a smile and a sigh. "I will certainly take care that you are well provided in that respect before you go."
"How am I to go, Mamma?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, who will go with me? You know I can't go alone,
Mamma."
"No, my daughter. I'll not send you alone. But your father says it is impossible for him to take the journey at present, and it is yet more impossible for me. There is no help for it, daughter, but we must intrust you to the care of some friend going that way; but He that holds the winds and waters in the hollow of his hand, can take care of you without any of our help, and it is to his keeping above all that I shall commit you."
Ellen made no remark, and seemed much less surprised and troubled than her mother had expected. In truth, the greater evil swallowed up the less. Parting from her mother, and for so long a time, it seemed to her comparatively