The Wide, Wide World

Ellen was silent.

"If it was anybody else," said Nancy, "I'd ha' seen 'em shot afore I'd ha' done it, or told of it either; but you ain't like anybody else. Look here!" said she, tapping her apron gently with one finger and slowly marking off each word, "this – came out of – your – aunt's – box – in – the closet upstairs – in – her room."

"Nancy!"

"Ay, Nancy! there it is. Now you look. 'Twon't alter it, Ellen; that's where it was, if you look till tea-time."

"But how came you there?"

"'Cause I wanted to amuse myself, I tell you. Partly to please myself, and partly because Mrs. Van would be so mad if she knew it."

"Oh, Nancy!"

"Well, I don't say it was right, but anyhow I did it; you ha'n't heard what I found yet."

"You had better put it right back again, Nancy, the first time you have a chance."

"Put it back again! – I'll give it to you, and then you may put it back again, if you have a mind. I should like to see you! Why, you don't know what I found."

"Well, what did you find?"

"The box was chuck full of all sorts of things, and I had a mind to see what was in it, so I pulled 'em out one after the other till I got to the bottom. At the very bottom was some letters and papers, and there – staring right in my face – the first thing I see was, 'Miss Ellen Montgomery.'"

"Oh, Nancy!" screamed Ellen, "a letter for me?"

"Hush! – and sit down, will you? – yes, a whole package of letters for you. Well, thought I, Mrs. Van has no right to that anyhow, and she ain't agoing to take the care of it any more; so I just took it up and put it in the bosom of my frock while I looked to see if there was any more for you, but there warn't. There it is."

And she tossed the package into Ellen's lap. Ellen's head swam.

"Well, good-bye!" said Nancy, rising; "I may go now, I suppose, and no thanks to me."

"Yes, I do – I do thank you very much, Nancy," cried Ellen, starting up and taking her by the hand – "I do thank you, though it wasn't right; but oh, how could she! how could she!"

"Dear me!" said Nancy; "to ask that of Mrs. Van! she could do anything. Why she did it, ain't so easy to tell."

Ellen, bewildered, scarcely knew, only felt, that Nancy had gone. The outer cover of her package, the seal of which was broken, contained three letters; two addressed to Ellen, in her father's hand, the third to another person. The seals of these had not been broken. The first that Ellen opened she saw was all in the same hand with the direction; she threw it down and eagerly tried the other. And yes! there was indeed the beloved character of which she never thought to have seen another specimen. Ellen's heart swelled with many feelings; thankfulness, tenderness, joy, and sorrow, past and present; that letter was not thrown down, but grasped, while tears fell much too fast for eyes to do their work. It was long before she could get far in the letter. But when she had fairly begun it, she went on swiftly, and almost breathlessly, to the end.

"My dear, dear little Ellen, – I am scarcely able – but I must write to you once more. Once more, daughter, for it is not permitted me to see your face again in this world. I look to see it, my dear child, where it will be fairer than ever here it seemed, even to me. I shall die in this hope and expectation. Ellen, remember it. Your last letters have greatly encouraged and rejoiced me. I am comforted, and can leave you quietly in that hand that has led me and I believe is leading you. God bless you, my child!

"Ellen, I have a mother living, and she wishes to receive you as her own when I am gone. It is best you should know at once why I never spoke to you of her. After your Aunt Bessy married and went to New York, it displeased and grieved my mother greatly that I too, who had always been her favourite child, should leave her for an American home. And when I persisted, in spite of all that entreaties and authority could urge, she said she forgave me for destroying all her prospects of happiness, but that after I should be married and gone she should consider me as lost to her entirely, and so I must consider myself. She never wrote to me, and I never wrote to her after I reached America. She was dead to me. I do not say that I did not deserve it.

"But I have written to her lately and she has written to me. She permits me to die in the joy of being entirely forgiven, and in the further joy of knowing that the only source of care I had left is done away. She will take you to her heart, to the place I once filled, and I believe fill yet. She longs to have you, and to have you as entirely her own, in all respects; and to this, in consideration of the wandering life your father leads, and will lead, I am willing and he is willing to agree. It is arranged so. The old happy home of my childhood will be yours, my Ellen. It joys me to think of it. Your father will write to your aunt and to you on the subject, and furnish you with funds. It is our desire that you should take advantage of the very first opportunity of proper persons going to Scotland who will be willing to take charge of you. Your dear friends, Mr. and Miss Humphreys, will, I dare say, help you in this.

"To them I could say much, if I had strength. But words are little. If blessings and prayers from a full heart are worth anything, they are the richer. My love and gratitude to them cannot – "

The writer had failed here; and what there was of the letter had evidently been written at different times. Captain Montgomery's was to the same purpose. He directed Ellen to embrace the first opportunity of suitable guardians, to cross the Atlantic and repair to No. – George Street, Edinburgh; and that Miss Fortune would give her the money she would need, which he had written to her to do, and that the accompanying letter Ellen was to carry with her and deliver to Mrs. Lindsay, her grandmother.

Ellen felt as if her head would split. She took up that letter, gazed at the strange name and direction which had taken such new and startling interest for her, wondered over the thought of what she was ordered to do with it, marvelled what sort of fingers they were which would open it, or whether it would ever be opened; and finally in a perfect maze, unable to read, think, or even weep, she carried her package of letters into her own room, the room that had been Alice's, laid herself on the bed, and them beside her; and fell into a deep sleep.

She woke up towards evening with the pressure of a mountain weight upon her mind. Her thoughts and feelings were a maze still; and not Mr. Humphreys himself could be more grave and abstracted than poor Ellen was that night. So many points were to be settled – so many questions answered to herself – it was a good while before Ellen could disentangle them, and know what she did think and feel, and what she would do.

She very soon found out her own mind upon one subject – she would be exceeding sorry to be obliged to obey the directions in the letters. But must she obey them?

"I have promised Alice," thought Ellen; "I have promised Mr. Humphreys – I can't be adopted twice. And this Mrs. Lindsay, my grandmother! she cannot be nice or she wouldn't have treated my mother so. She cannot be a nice person; hard, she must be hard; I never want to see her. My mother! But then my mother loved her, and was very glad to have me go to her. Oh! oh! how could she! how could they do so! when they didn't know how it might be with me, and what dear friends they might make me leave! Oh, it was cruel! But then they did not know, that is the very thing – they thought I would have nobody but Aunt Fortune, and so it's no wonder – Oh, what shall I do! What ought I to do? These people in Scotland must have given me up by this time; it's, let me see – it's just about three years now, a little less, since these letters were written, and circumstances are changed; I have a home and a father and a brother; may I not judge for myself? But my mother and my father have ordered me, what shall I do! If John were only here – but perhaps he would make me go, he might think it right. And to leave him, and maybe never to see him again! and Mr. Humphreys! and how lonely he would be without me. I cannot! I will not! Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do!" Ellen's meditations gradually plunged her in despair; for she could not look at the event of being obliged to go, and she could not get rid of the feeling that perhaps it might come to that. She wept bitterly; it didn't mend the matter. She thought painfully, fearfully, long; and was no nearer an end. She could not endure to submit the matter to Mr. Humphreys; she feared his decision; and she feared also that he would give her the money Miss Fortune had failed to supply for the journey; how much it might be Ellen had no idea. She could not dismiss the subject as decided by circumstances, for conscience pricked her with the fifth commandment. She was miserable. It happily occurred to her at last to take counsel with Mrs. Vawse; this might be done she knew without betraying Nancy; Mrs. Vawse was much too honourable to press her as to how she came by the letters, and her word could easily be obtained not to speak of the affairs to any one. As for Miss Fortune's conduct, it must be made known; there was no help for that. So it was settled; and Ellen's breast was a little lightened of its load of care for that time; she had leisure to think of some other things.

Why had Miss Fortune kept back the letters? Ellen guessed pretty well, but she did not know quite all. The package, with its accompanying despatch to Miss Fortune, had arrived shortly after Ellen first heard the news of her mother's death, when she was refuged with Alice at the parsonage. At the time of its being sent Captain Montgomery's movements were extremely uncertain; and in obedience to the earnest request of his wife he directed that without waiting for his own return Ellen should immediately set out for Scotland. Part of the money for her expenses he sent; the rest he desired his sister to furnish, promising to make all straight when he should come home. But it happened that he was already this lady's debtor in a small amount, which Miss Fortune had serious doubts of ever being repaid; she instantly determined that if she had once been a fool in lending him money, she would not a second time in adding to the sum; if he wanted to send his daughter on a wild-goose chase after great relations, he might come home himself and see to it; it was none of her business. Quietly taking the remittance to refund his own owing, she of course threw the letters into her box, as the delivery of them would expose the whole transaction. There they lay till Nancy found them.

Early next morning after breakfast Ellen came into the kitchen, and begged Margery to ask Thomas to bring the Brownie to the door. Surprised at the energy in her tone and manner, Margery gave the message, and added that Miss Ellen seemed to have picked up wonderfully; she hadn't heard her speak so brisk since Mr. John went away.

The Brownie was soon at the door, but not so soon as Ellen, who had dressed in feverish haste. The Brownie was not alone; there was old John saddled and bridled, and Thomas Grimes in waiting.

"It's not necessary for you to take that trouble, Thomas," said Ellen; "I don't mind going alone at all."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Ellen (Thomas touched his hat) – but Mr. John left particular orders that I was to go with Miss Ellen whenever it pleased her to ride; never failing."

"Did he?" said Ellen; "but is it convenient for you now, Thomas? I want to go as far as Mrs. Vawse's."

"It's always convenient, Miss Ellen, always; Miss Ellen need not think of that at all, I am always ready."

Ellen mounted upon the Brownie, sighing for the want of the hand that used to lift her to the saddle; and, spurred by this recollection, set off at a round pace.

Soon she was at Mrs. Vawse's; and soon finding her alone, Ellen had spread out all her difficulties before her and given her the letters to read. Mrs. Vawse readily promised to speak on the subject to no one without Ellen's leave; her suspicions fell upon Mr. Van Brunt, not her grand-daughter. She heard all the story, and read the letters before making any remark.

"Now, dear Mrs. Vawse," said Ellen anxiously, when the last one was folded up and laid on the table, "what do you think?"

"I think, my child, you must go," said the old lady steadily.

Ellen looked keenly, as if to find some other answer in her face; her own changing more and more for a minute till she sunk it in her hands.

"Cela vous donne beaucoup de chagrin, je le vois bien," said the old lady tenderly. (Their conversations were always in Mrs. Vawse's tongue.)

"But," said Ellen presently, lifting her head again (there were no tears), "I cannot go without money."

"That can be obtained without any difficulty."

"From whom? I cannot ask Aunt Fortune for it, Mrs. Vawse; I could not do it!"

"There is no difficulty about the money. Show your letters to Mr. Humphreys."

"Oh, I cannot!" said Ellen, covering her face again.

"Will you let me do it? I will speak to him if you permit me."

"But what use? He ought not to give me the money, Mrs. Vawse! It would not be right; and to show him the letters would be like asking him for it. Oh, I can't bear to do that!"

"He would give it you, Ellen, with the greatest pleasure."

"Oh no, Mrs. Vawse," said Ellen, bursting into tears, "he would never be pleased to send me away from him! I know – I know – he would miss me. Oh what shall I do?"