The Wide, Wide World | Page 8

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 just passed through her head that first morning, as she 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 her 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 didn't 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