The Wide, Wide World

"Will it make her quite well, do you think, sir?" asked Ellen earnestly.

"'Will it make her well?' To be sure it will; do you think I don't know better than to send people all the way across the ocean for nothing? Who do you think would want Dr. Green if he sent people on wildgoose chases in that fashion?"

"Will she have to stay long there before she is cured, sir?" asked Ellen.

"Oh, that I can't tell; that depends entirely on circumstances – perhaps longer, perhaps shorter. But now, Miss Ellen, I've got a word of business to say to you. You know you agreed to be my little nurse. Mrs. Nurse, this lady whom I put under your care the other day, isn't quite as well as she ought to be this morning; I am afraid you haven't taken proper care of her; she looks to me as if she had been too much excited. I've a notion she has been secretly taking half a bottle of wine, or reading some furious kind of a novel, or something of that sort – you understand? Now mind, Mrs. Nurse," said the doctor, changing his tone, "she must not be excited – you must take care that she is not – it isn't good for her. You mustn't let her talk much, or laugh much, or cry at all, on any account; she mustn't be worried in the least – will you remember? Now you know what I shall expect of you; you must be very careful – if that piece of toast of yours should chance to get burned, one of these fine evenings, I won't answer for the consequences. Good-bye," said he, shaking Ellen's hand, "you needn't look sober about it; all you have to do is to let your mamma be as much like an oyster as possible – you understand? Good-bye." And Dr. Green took his leave.

"Poor woman!" said the doctor to himself as he went down stairs (he was a humane man). "I wonder if she'll live till she gets to the other side! That's a nice little girl, too. Poor child! poor child!"

Both mother and daughter silently acknowledged the justice of the doctor's advice, and determined to follow it. By common consent, as it seemed, each for several days avoided bringing the subject of sorrow to the other's mind, though no doubt it was constantly present to both. It was not spoken of – indeed, little of any kind was spoken of, but that never. Mrs. Montgomery was doubtless employed during this interval in preparing for what she believed was before her; endeavouring to resign herself and her child to Him in whose hands they were, and struggling to withdraw her affections from a world which she had a secret misgiving she was fast leaving. As for Ellen, the doctor's warning had served to strengthen the resolve she had already made, that she would not distress her mother with the sight of her sorrow; and she kept it, as far as she could. She let her mother see but very few tears, and those were quiet ones; though she drooped her head like a withered flower, and went about the house with an air of submissive sadness that tried her mother sorely. But when she was alone, and knew no one could see, sorrow had its way; and then there were sometimes agonies of grief that would almost have broken Mrs. Montgomery's resolution had she known them.

This, however, could not last. Ellen was a child, and of most buoyant and elastic spirit naturally; it was not for one sorrow, however great, to utterly crush her. It would have taken years to do that. Moreover, she entertained not the slightest hope of being able by any means to alter her father's will. She regarded the dreaded evil as an inevitable thing. But though she was at first overwhelmed with sorrow, and for some days evidently pined under it sadly, hope at length would come back to her little heart; and no sooner in again, hope began to smooth the roughest, and soften the hardest, and touch the dark spots with light, in Ellen's future. The thoughts which had passed through her head that first morning as she had stood at her window, now came back again. Thoughts of wonderful improvement to be made during her mother's absence; of unheard-of efforts to learn and amend, which should all be crowned with success; and, above all, thoughts of that "coming home," when all these attainments and accomplishments should be displayed to the mother's delighted eyes, and her exertions receive their long-desired reward; they made Ellen's heart beat, and her eyes swim, and even brought a smile once more upon her lips. Mrs. Montgomery was rejoiced to see the change; she felt that as much time had already been given to sorrow as they could afford to lose, and she had not known exactly how to proceed. Ellen's amended looks and spirits greatly relieved her.

"What are you thinking about, Ellen?" said she one morning.

Ellen was sewing, and while busy at her work her mother had two or three times observed a light smile pass over her face. Ellen looked up, still smiling, and answered, "Oh, mamma, I was thinking of different things – things that I mean to do while you are gone."

"And what are these things?" inquired her mother.

"Oh, mamma, it wouldn't do to tell you beforehand. I want to surprise you with them when you come back."

A slight shudder passed over Mrs. Montgomery's frame, but Ellen did not see it. Mrs. Montgomery was silent. Ellen presently introduced another subject.

"Mamma, what kind of a person is my aunt?"

"I do not know. I have never seen her."

"How has that happened, mamma?"

"Your aunt has always lived in a remote country town, and I have been very much confined to two or three cities, and your father's long and repeated absences made travelling impossible to me."

Ellen thought, but she did not say it, that it was very odd her father should not sometimes, when he was in the country, have gone to see his relations and taken her mother with him.

"What is my aunt's name, mamma?"

"I think you must have heard that already, Ellen – Fortune Emerson."

"Emerson! I thought she was papa's sister?"

"So she is."

"Then how comes her name not to be Montgomery?"

"She is only his half-sister – the daughter of his mother, not the daughter of his father."

"I am very sorry for that," said Ellen gravely.

"Why, my daughter?"

"I am afraid she will not be so likely to love me."

"You mustn't think so, my child. Her loving or not loving you will depend solely and entirely upon yourself, Ellen. Don't forget that. If you are a good child, and make it your daily care to do your duty, she cannot help liking you, be she what she may; and on the other hand, if she have all the will in the world to love you, she cannot do it unless you will let her. It all depends on your behaviour."

"Oh, mamma, I can't help wishing dear aunt Bessy was alive, and I was going to her."

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 in a town?" said Ellen.

"No; it is not a great way 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.'"