The Wide, Wide World

"Not that, my dear Ellen," said the old lady coming to her and gently stroking her head with both hands. "You must do what is right; and you know it cannot be but that will be best and happiest for you in the end."

"Oh I wish – I wish," exclaimed Ellen from the bottom of her heart, "those letters had never been found!"

"Nay, Ellen, that is not right."

"But I promised Alice, Mrs. Vawse; ought I go away and leave him? Oh, Mrs. Vawse, it is very hard! Ought I?"

"Your father and your mother have said it, my child."

"But they never would have said it if they had known!"

"But they did not know, Ellen; and here it is."

Ellen wept violently, regardless of the caresses and soothing words which her old friend lavished upon her.

"There is one thing!" said she at last, raising her head, "I don't know of anybody going to Scotland, and I am not likely to; and if I only do not before autumn, that is not a good time to go, and then comes winter."

"My dear Ellen," said Mrs. Vawse sorrowfully, "I must drive you from your last hope. Don't you know that Mrs. Gillespie is going abroad with all her family? – next month, I think."

Ellen grew pale for a minute, and sat holding bitter counsel with her own heart. Mrs. Vawse hardly knew what to say next.

"You need not feel uneasy about your journeying expenses," she remarked after a pause; "you can easily repay them, if you wish, when you reach your friends in Scotland."

Ellen did not hear her. She looked up with an odd expression of determination in her face, determination taking its stand upon difficulties.

"I shan't stay there, Mrs. Vawse, if I go! I shall go, I suppose, if I must; but do you think anything will keep me there? Never!"

"You will stay for the same reason that you go for, Ellen; to do your duty."

"Yes, till I am old enough to choose for myself, Mrs. Vawse, and then I shall come back; if they will let me."

"Whom do you mean by 'they'?"

"Mr. Humphreys and Mr. John."

"My dear Ellen," said the old lady kindly, "be satisfied with doing your duty now; leave the future. While you follow Him, God will be your friend; is not that enough? and all things shall work for your good. You do not know what you will wish when the time comes you speak of. You do not know what new friends you may find to love."

Ellen had in her own heart the warrant for what she had said, and what she saw by her smile Mrs. Vawse doubted; but she disdained to assert what she could bring nothing to prove. She took a sorrowful leave of her old friend and returned home.

After dinner when Mr. Humphreys was about going back to his study, Ellen timidly stopped him and gave him her letters, and asked him to look at them sometime when he had leisure. She told him also where they were found and how long they had lain there, and that Mrs. Vawse had said she ought to show them to him.

She guessed he would read them at once, and she waited with a beating heart. In a little while she heard his step coming back along the hall. He came and sat down by her on the sofa and took her hand.

"What is your wish in this matter, my child?" he said gravely and cheerfully.

Ellen's look answered that.

"I will do whatever you say I must, sir," she said faintly.

"I dare not ask myself what I would wish, Ellen; the matter is taken out of our hands. You must do your parents' will, my child. I will try to hope that you will gain more than I lose. As the Lord pleases! If I am bereaved of my children, I am bereaved."

"Mrs. Gillespie," he said, after a pause, "is about going to England; I know not how soon. It will be best for you to see her at once and make all arrangements that may be necessary. I will go with you to-morrow to Ventnor, if the day be a good one."

There was something Ellen longed to say, but it was impossible to get it out; she could not utter a word. She had pressed her hands upon her face to try to keep herself quiet; but Mr. Humphreys could see the deep crimson flushing to the very roots of her hair. He drew her close within his arms for a moment, kissed her forehead, Ellen felt it was sadly, and went away. It was well she did not hear him sigh as he went back along the hall; it was well she did not see the face of more settled gravity with which he sat down to his writing; she had enough of her own.

They went to Ventnor. Mrs. Gillespie with great pleasure undertook the charge of her, and promised to deliver her safely to her friends in Scotland. It was arranged that she should go back to Thirlwall to make her adieus; and that in a week or two a carriage should be sent to bring her to Ventnor, where her preparations for the journey should be made, and whence the whole party would set off.

"So you are going to be a Scotchwoman after all, Ellen," said Miss Sophia.

"I had a great deal rather be an American, Miss Sophia."

"Why, Hutchinson will tell you," said the young lady, "that it is infinitely more desirable to be a Scotchwoman than that."

Ellen's face, however, looked so little inclined to be merry that she took up the subject in another tone.

"Seriously, do you know," said she, "I have been thinking it is a very happy thing for you. I don't know what would become of you alone in that great parsonage house. You would mope yourself to death in a little while; especially now that Mr. John is gone."

"He will be back," said Ellen.

"Yes; but what if he is? he can't stay at Thirlwall, child. He can't live thirty miles from his church, you know. Did you think he would? They think all the world of him already. I expect they'll barely put up with Mr. George while he is gone; they will want Mr. John all to themselves when he comes back, you may rely on that. What are you thinking of, child?"

For Ellen's eyes were sparkling with two or three thoughts which Miss Sophia could not read.

"I should like to know what you are smiling at," she said, with some curiosity. But the smile was almost immediately quenched in tears.

Notwithstanding Miss Sophia's discouraging talk, Ellen privately agreed with Ellen Chauncey that the Brownie should be sent to her to keep and use as her own, till his mistress should come back; both children being entirely of opinion that the arrangement was a most unexceptionable one.

It was not forgotten that the lapse of three years since the date of the letters left some uncertainty as to the present state of affairs among Ellen's friends in Scotland; but this doubt was not thought sufficient to justify her letting pass so excellent an opportunity of making the journey, especially as Captain Montgomery's letter spoke of an uncle, to whom, equally with her grandmother, Ellen was to be consigned. In case circumstances would permit it, Mrs. Gillespie engaged to keep Ellen with her, and bring her home to America when she herself should return.

And in little more than a month they were gone; adieus and preparations and all were over. Ellen's parting with Mrs. Vawse was very tender and very sad; with Mr. Van Brunt, extremely and gratefully affectionate, on both sides; with her aunt, constrained and brief; with Margery, very sorrowful indeed. But Ellen's longest and most lingering adieu was to Captain Parry, the old grey cat. For one whole evening she sat with him in her arms; and over poor pussy were shed the tears that fell for many better loved and better deserving personages, as well as those not a few that were wept for him. Since Alice's death Parry had transferred his entire confidence and esteem to Ellen; whether from feeling a want, or because love and tenderness had taught her the touch and the tone that were fitted to win his regard. Only John shared it. Ellen was his chief favourite and almost constant companion. And bitterer tears Ellen shed at no time than that evening before she went away, over the old cat. She could not distress kitty with her distress, nor weary him with the calls upon his sympathy, though indeed it is true that he sundry times poked his nose up wonderingly and caressingly in her face. She had no remonstrance or interruption to fear; and taking pussy as the emblem and representative of the whole household, Ellen wept them all over him, with a tenderness and a bitterness that were somehow intensified by the sight of the grey coat, and white paws, and kindly face, of her unconscious old brute friend.

The old people at Carra-carra were taken leave of; the Brownie too, with great difficulty. And Nancy.

"I'm really sorry you are going, Ellen," said she; "you're the only soul in town I care about. I wish I'd thrown them letters in the fire after all! Who'd ha' thought it!"

Ellen could not help in her heart echoing the wish.

"I'm really sorry, Ellen," she repeated. "Ain't there something I can do for you when you are gone?"

"Oh yes, dear Nancy," said Ellen, weeping, "if you would only take care of your dear grandmother. She is left alone now. If you would only take care of her, and read your Bible, and be good, Nancy. Oh, Nancy, Nancy! do, do!"

They kissed each other, and Nancy went away fairly crying.

Mrs. Marshman's own woman, a steady, excellent person, had come in the carriage for Ellen. And the next morning early after breakfast, when everything else was ready, she went into Mr. Humphreys' study to bid the last dreaded good-bye. She thought her obedience was costing her dear.

It was nearly a silent parting. He held her a long time in his arms; and there Ellen bitterly thought her place ought to be. "What have I to do to seek new relations?" she said to herself. But she was speechless; till gently relaxing his hold he tenderly smoothed back her disordered hair, and kissing her, said a very few grave words of blessing and counsel. Ellen gathered all her strength together then, for she had something that must be spoken.

"Sir," said she, falling on her knees before him and looking up in his face, "this don't alter – you do not take back what you said, do you?"