The Wide, Wide World

While poor Ellen was thinking these things over and over, her little face had a deep sadness of expression it was sorrowful to see. She was perfectly calm; her violent excitement had all left her; her lip quivered a very little sometimes, but that was all; and one or two tears rolled slowly down the side of her face. Her eyes were fixed upon the dancing water, but it was very plain her thoughts were not, nor on anything else before her; and there was a forlorn look of hopeless sorrow on her lip and cheek and brow, enough to move anybody whose heart was not very hard. She was noticed, and with a feeling of compassion, by several people; but they all thought it was none of their business to speak to her, or they didn't know how. At length a gentleman who had been for some time walking up and down the deck, happened to look, as he passed, at her little pale face. He went to the end of his walk that time, but in coming back he stopped just in front of her, and bending down his face towards hers, said, "What is the matter with you, my little friend?"

Though his figure had passed before her a great many times Ellen had not seen him at all; for "her eyes were with her heart, and that was far away." Her cheek flushed with surprise as she looked up. But there was no mistaking the look of kindness in the eyes that met hers, nor the gentleness and grave truthfulness of the whole countenance. It won her confidence immediately. All the floodgates of Ellen's heart were at once opened. She could not speak, but rising and clasping the hand that was held out to her in both her own, she bent down her head upon it, and burst into one of those uncontrollable agonies of weeping, such as the news of her mother's intended departure had occasioned that first sorrowful evening. He gently, and as soon as he could, drew her to a retired part of the deck where they were comparatively free from other people's eyes and ears; then taking her in his arms he endeavoured by many kind and soothing words to stay the torrent of her grief. This fit of weeping did Ellen more good than the former one; that only exhausted, this in some little measure relieved her.

"What is all this about?" said her friend kindly. "Nay, never mind shedding any more tears about it, my child. Let me hear what it is; and perhaps we can find some help for it."

"Oh no, you can't, sir," said Ellen sadly.

"Well, let us see," said he, "perhaps I can. What is it that has troubled you so much?"

"I have lost my mother, sir," said Ellen.

"Your mother! Lost her! – how?"

"She is very ill, sir, and obliged to go away over the sea to France to get well; and papa could not take me with her," said poor Ellen, weeping again, "and I am obliged to go to be among strangers. Oh, what shall I do?"

"Have you left your mother in the city?"

"Oh yes, sir! I left her this morning."

"What is your name?"

"Ellen Montgomery."

"Is your mother obliged to go to Europe for her health?"

"Oh yes, sir; nothing else would have made her go, but the doctor said she would not live long if she didn't go, and that would cure her."

"Then you hope to see her come back by-and-by, don't you?"

"Oh yes, sir; but it won't be this great, great, long while; it seems to me as if it was for ever."

"Ellen, do you know who it is that sends sickness and trouble upon us?"

"Yes, sir, I know; but I don't feel that that makes it any easier."

"Do you know why He sends it? He is the God of love, – He does not trouble us willingly, – He has said so; – why does He ever make us suffer? do you know?"

"No, sir."

"Sometimes He sees that if He lets them alone, His children will love some dear thing on the earth better than Himself, and He knows they will not be happy if they do so; and then, because He loves them, He takes it away, – perhaps it is a dear mother, or a dear daughter, – or else He hinders their enjoyment of it; that they may remember Him, and give their whole hearts to Him. He wants their whole hearts, that He may bless them. Are you one of His children, Ellen?"

"No, sir," said Ellen, with swimming eyes, but cast down to the ground.

"How do you know that you are not?"

"Because I do not love the Saviour."

"Do you not love Him, Ellen?"

"I am afraid not, sir."

"Why are you afraid not? what makes you think so?"

"Mamma said I could not love Him at all if I did not love Him best; and oh, sir," said Ellen, weeping, "I do love mamma a great deal better."

"You love your mother better than you do the Saviour?"

"Oh yes, sir," said Ellen; "how can I help it?"

"Then if He had left you your mother, Ellen, you would never have cared or thought about Him?"

Ellen was silent.

"Is it so? – would you, do you think?"

"I don't know, sir," said Ellen, weeping again; "oh, sir, how can I help it?"

"Then, Ellen, can you not see the love of your Heavenly Father in this trial? He saw that His little child was in danger of forgetting Him, and He loved you, Ellen; and so He has taken your dear mother, and sent you away where you will have no one to look to but Him; and now He says to you, 'My daughter, give Me thy heart.' Will you do it, Ellen?"

Ellen wept exceedingly while the gentleman was saying these words, clasping his hands still in both hers; but she made no answer. He waited till she had become calmer, and then went on in a low tone —

"What is the reason that you do not love the Saviour, my child?"

"Mamma says it is because my heart is so hard."

"That is true; but you do not know how good and how lovely He is, or you could not help loving Him. Do you often think of Him, and think much of Him, and ask Him to show you Himself that you may love Him?"

"No, sir," said Ellen, "not often."

"You pray to Him, don't you?"

"Yes, sir; but not so."

"But you ought to pray to Him so. We are all blind by nature, Ellen; – we are all hard-hearted; none of us can see Him or love Him unless He opens our eyes and touches our hearts; but He has promised to do this for those that seek Him. Do you remember what the blind man said when Jesus asked him what He should do for him? – he answered, 'Lord, that I may receive my sight!' That ought to be your prayer now, and mine too; and the Lord is just as ready to hear us as He was to hear the poor blind man; and you know He cured him. Will you ask Him, Ellen?"

A smile was almost struggling through Ellen's tears as she lifted her face to that of her friend, but she instantly looked down again.

"Shall I put you in mind, Ellen, of some things about Christ that ought to make you love Him with all your heart?"

"Oh yes, sir! if you please."

"Then tell me first what it is that makes you love your mother so much?"

"Oh, I can't tell you, sir; – everything, I think."

"I suppose the great thing is that she loves you so much?"

"Oh yes, sir," said Ellen strongly.

"But how do you know that she loves you? how has she shown it?"

Ellen looked at him, but could give no answer; it seemed to her that she must bring the whole experience of her life before him to form one.

"I suppose," said her friend, "that, to begin with the smallest thing, she has always been watchfully careful to provide everything that could be useful or necessary for you; she never forgot your wants, or was careless about them?"

"No indeed, sir."

"And perhaps you recollect that she never minded trouble or expense or pain where your good was concerned; – she would sacrifice her own pleasure at any time for yours!"

Ellen's eyes gave a quick and strong answer to this, but she said nothing.

"And in all your griefs and pleasures you were sure of finding her ready and willing to feel with you and for you, and to help you if she could? And in all the times you have seen her tired, no fatigue ever wore out her patience, nor any naughtiness of yours ever lessened her love; she could not be weary of waiting upon you when you were sick, nor of bearing with you when you forgot your duty, – more ready always to receive you than you to return. Isn't it so?"

"Oh yes, sir."

"And you can recollect a great many words and looks of kindness and love – many and many endeavours to teach you and lead you in the right way – all showing the strongest desire for your happiness in this world, and in the next?"

"Oh yes, sir," said Ellen tearfully; and then added, "do you know my mother, sir?"

"No," said he, smiling, "not at all; but my own mother has been in many things like this to me, and I judged yours might have been such to you. Have I described her right?"

"Yes indeed, sir," said Ellen, "exactly."

"And in return for all this, you have given this dear mother the love and gratitude of your whole heart, haven't you?"

"Indeed I have, sir;" and Ellen's face said it more than her words.

"You are very right," he said gravely, "to love such a mother – to give her all possible duty and affection; she deserves it. But, Ellen, in all these very things I have been mentioning Jesus Christ has shown that He deserves it far more. Do you think, if you had never behaved like a child to your mother – if you had never made her the least return of love or regard – that she would have continued to love you as she does?"

"No, sir," said Ellen, "I do not think she would."

"Have you ever made any fit return to God for His goodness to you?"

"No, sir," said Ellen, in a low tone.

"And yet there has been no change in His kindness. Just look at it, and see what He has done and is doing for you. In the first place, it is not your mother, but He, who has given you every good and pleasant thing you have enjoyed in your whole life. You love your mother because she is so careful to provide for all your wants; but who gave her the materials to work with? She has only been, as it were, the hand by which He supplied you. And who gave you such a mother? – there are many mothers not like her; – who put into her heart the truth and love that have been blessing you ever since you were born? It is all – all God's doing, from first to last; but His child has forgotten Him in the very gifts of His mercy."

Ellen was silent, but looked very grave.

"Your mother never minded her own ease or pleasure when your good was concerned. Did Christ mind His? You know what He did to save sinners, don't you?"

"Yes, sir, I know; mamma often told me."

"'Though He was rich, yet for our sake He became poor, that we through His poverty might be rich.' He took our burden of sin upon Himself, and suffered that terrible punishment – all to save you and such as you. And now He asks His children to leave off sinning and come back to Him who has bought them with His own blood. He did this because He loved you; does He not deserve to be loved in return?"

Ellen had nothing to say; she hung down her head further and further.

"And patient and kind as your mother is, the Lord Jesus is kinder and more patient still. In all your life so far, Ellen, you have not loved or obeyed Him; and yet He loves you, and is ready to be your friend. Is He not even to-day taking away your dear mother for the very purpose that He may draw you gently to Himself and fold you in His arms, as He has promised to do with His lambs? He knows you can never be happy anywhere else."

The gentleman paused again, for he saw that the little listener's mind was full.

"Has not Christ shown that He loves you better even than your mother does? And were there ever sweeter words of kindness than these? —

"'Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of heaven.'

"'I am the good shepherd: the good shepherd giveth His life for the sheep.'

"'I have loved thee with an everlasting love; therefore with loving-kindness have I drawn thee.'"

He waited a minute, and then added gently, "Will you come to Him, Ellen?"

Ellen lifted her tearful eyes to his; but there were tears there too, and her own sank instantly. She covered her face with her hands, and sobbed out in broken words, "Oh, if I could – but I don't know how."

"Do you wish to be His child, Ellen?"

"Oh yes, sir – if I could."

"I know, my child, that sinful heart of yours is in the way, but the Lord Jesus can change it, and will, if you will give it to Him. He is looking upon you now, Ellen, with more kindness and love than any earthly father or mother could, waiting for you to give that little heart of yours to Him, that He may make it holy and fill it with blessing. He says, you know, 'Behold I stand at the door and knock.' Do not grieve Him away, Ellen."

Ellen sobbed, but all the passion and bitterness of her tears was gone. Her heart was completely melted.

"If your mother were here, and could do for you what you want, would you doubt her love to do it? would you have any difficulty in asking her?"

"Oh no!"

"Then do not doubt His love who loves you better still. Come to Jesus. Do not fancy He is away up in heaven out of reach of hearing – He is here, close to you, and knows every wish and throb of your heart. Think you are in His presence and at His feet, – even now, – and say to Him in your heart, 'Lord, look upon me – I am not fit to come to Thee, but Thou hast bid me come – take me and make me Thine own – take this hard heart that I can do nothing with, and make it holy and fill it with Thy love – I give it and myself into Thy hands, O dear Saviour!'"

These words were spoken very low, that only Ellen could catch them. Her bowed head sank lower and lower till he ceased speaking. He added no more for some time; waited till she had resumed her usual attitude and appearance, and then said —

"Ellen, could you join in heart with my words?"

"I did, sir, – I couldn't help it, all but the last."

"All but the last?"

"Yes, sir."

"But, Ellen, if you say the first part of my prayer with your whole heart, the Lord will enable you to say the last too, – do you believe that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Will you not make that your constant prayer till you are heard and answered?"

"Yes, sir."

And he thought he saw that she was in earnest.

"Perhaps the answer may not come at once, – it does not always; but it will come as surely as the sun will rise to-morrow morning. 'Then shall we know, if we follow on to know the Lord.' But then you must be in earnest. And if you are in earnest, is there nothing you have to do besides praying?"

Ellen looked at him without making any answer.

"When a person is in earnest, how does he show it?"

"By doing everything he possibly can to get what he wants."

"Quite right," said her friend, smiling; "and has God bidden us to do nothing besides pray for a new heart?"

"Oh yes, sir; He has told us to do a great many things."

"And will He be likely to grant that prayer, Ellen, if He sees that you do not care about displeasing Him in those 'great many things'? – will He judge that you are sincere in wishing for a new heart?"

"Oh no, sir."

"Then if you are resolved to be a Christian, you will not be contented with praying for a new heart, but you will begin at once to be a servant of God. You can do nothing well without help, but you are sure the help will come; and from this good day you will seek to know and to do the will of God, trusting in His dear Son to perfect that which concerneth you. My little child," said the gentleman, softly and kindly, "are you ready to say you will do this?"

As she hesitated, he took a little book from his pocket, and turning over the leaves said, "I am going to leave you for a little while – I have a few moments' business downstairs to attend to; and I want you to look over this hymn and think carefully of what I have been saying, will you? – and resolve what you will do."

Ellen got off his knee, where she had been sitting all this while, and silently taking the book, sat down in the chair he had quitted. Tears ran fast again, and many thoughts passed through her mind as her eyes went over and over the words to which he had pointed: —

"Behold the Saviour at the door,He gently knocks, – has knocked before, —Has waited long, – is waiting still, —You treat no other friend so ill.Oh lovely attitude! – He standsWith open heart and outstretched hands.Oh matchless kindness! – and He showsThis matchless kindness to His foes.Admit Him – for the human breastNe'er entertained so kind a guest.Admit Him – for the hour's at handWhen at His door, denied you'll stand.Open my heart, Lord, enter in;Slay every foe, and conquer sin.Here now to Thee I all resign, —My body, soul, and all are Thine."

The last two lines Ellen longed to say, but could not; the two preceding were the very speech of her heart.

Not more than fifteen minutes had passed when her friend came back again. The book hung in Ellen's hand; her eyes were fixed on the floor.

"Well," he said kindly, and taking her hand, "what's your decision?" Ellen looked up.

"Have you made up your mind on that matter we were talking about?"

"Yes, sir," Ellen said in a low voice, casting her eyes down again.

"And how have you decided, my child?"

"I will try to do as you said, sir."

"You will begin to follow your Saviour, and to please Him, from this day forward?"

"I will try, sir," said Ellen, meeting his eyes as she spoke. Again the look she saw made her burst into tears. She wept violently.

"God bless you and help you, my dear Ellen," said he, gently passing his hand over her head; "but do not cry any more – you have shed too many tears this morning already. We will not talk about this any more now."

And he spoke only soothing and quieting words for a while to her: and then asked if she would like to go over the boat and see the different parts of it. Ellen's joyful agreement with this proposal was only qualified by the fear of giving him trouble. But he put that entirely by.

CHAPTER VIII

Time and the hour run through the roughest day.– Shakespeare.

The going over the boat held them a long time, for Ellen's new friend took kind pains to explain to her whatever he thought he could make interesting; he was amused to find how far she pushed her inquiries into the how and the why of things. For the time her sorrows were almost forgotten.

"What shall we do now?" said he, when they had at last gone through the whole; "would you like to go to your friends?"

"I haven't any friends on board, sir," said Ellen, with a swelling heart.

"Haven't any friends on board! What do you mean? Are you alone?"

"No, sir," said Ellen, "not exactly alone; my father put me in the care of a lady that is going to Thirlwall; but they are strangers and not friends."

"Are they unfriends? I hope you don't think, Ellen, that strangers cannot be friends too?"

"No indeed, sir, I don't," said Ellen, looking up with a face that was fairly brilliant with its expression of gratitude and love. But casting it down again, she added, "But they are not my friends, sir."

"Well then," he said, smiling, "will you come with me?"

"Oh yes, sir! if you will let me, and if I shan't be a trouble to you, sir."

"Come this way," said he, "and we'll see if we cannot find a nice place to sit down, where no one will trouble us."

Such a place was found. And Ellen would have been quite satisfied though the gentleman had done no more than merely to permit her to remain there by his side; but he took out his little Bible, and read and talked to her for some time, so pleasantly that neither her weariness nor the way could be thought of.

When he ceased reading to her and began to read to himself, weariness and faintness stole over her. She had had nothing to eat, and had been violently excited that day. A little while she sat in a dreamy sort of quietude, then her thoughts grew misty, and the end of it was, she dropped her head against the arm of her friend and fell fast asleep. He smiled at first, but one look at the very pale little face changed the expression of his own. He gently put his arm round her and drew her head to a better resting-place than it had chosen.

And there she slept till the dinner-bell rang. Timmins was sent out to look for her, but Timmins did not choose to meddle with the grave protector Ellen seemed to have gained; and Mrs. Dunscombe declared herself rejoiced that any other hands should have taken the charge of her.

After dinner, Ellen and her friend went up to the promenade deck again, and there for a while they paced up and down, enjoying the pleasant air and the quick motion, and the lovely appearance of everything in the mild hazy sunlight. Another gentleman, however, joining them, and entering into conversation, Ellen silently quitted her friend's hand and went and sat down at the side of the boat. After taking a few turns more, and while still engaged in talking, he drew his little hymn-book out of his pocket, and with a smile put it into Ellen's hand as he passed. She gladly received it, and spent an hour or more very pleasantly in studying and turning it over. At the end of that time, the stranger having left him, Ellen's friend came and sat down by her side.

"How do you like my little book?" said he.

"Oh, very much indeed, sir."

"Then you love hymns, do you?"

"Yes, I do, sir, dearly."

"Do you sometimes learn them by heart?"

"Oh yes, sir, often. Mamma often made me. I have learnt two since I have been sitting here."

"Have you?" said he. "Which are they?"

"One of them is the one you showed me this morning, sir."

"And what is your mind now about the question I asked you this morning?"

Ellen cast down her eyes from his inquiring glance, and answered in a low tone, "Just what it was then, sir."

"Have you been thinking of it since?"

"I have thought of it the whole time, sir."

"And you are resolved you will obey Christ henceforth?"

"I am resolved to try, sir."

"My dear Ellen, if you are in earnest you will not try in vain. He never yet failed any that sincerely sought Him. Have you a Bible?"

"Oh yes, sir! a beautiful one. Mamma gave it to me the other day."

He took the hymn-book from her hand, and turning over the leaves, marked several places in pencil.

"I am going to give you this," he said, "that it may serve to remind you of what we have talked of to-day, and of your resolution."

Ellen flushed high with pleasure.

"I have put this mark," said he, showing her a particular one, "in a few places of this book for you. Wherever you find it, you may know there is something I want you to take special notice of. There are some other marks here too, but they are mine. These are for you."

"Thank you, sir," said Ellen, delighted. "I shall not forget."

He knew from her face what she meant – not the marks.

The day wore on, thanks to the unwearied kindness of her friend, with great comparative comfort to Ellen. Late in the afternoon they were resting from a long walk up and down the deck.

"What have you got in this package that you take such care of?" said he, smiling.

"Oh, candies," said Ellen. "I am always forgetting them. I meant to ask you to take some. Will you have some, sir?"

"Thank you. What are they?"

"Almost all kinds, I believe, sir. I think the almonds are the best."

He took one.

"Pray take some more, sir," said Ellen. "I don't care for them in the least."

"Then I am more of a child than you – in this, at any rate – for I do care for them. But I have a little headache to-day; I mustn't meddle with sweets."

"Then take some for to-morrow, sir. Please do!" said Ellen, dealing them out very freely.

"Stop, stop!" said he, "not a bit more. This won't do. I must put some of these back again. You'll want them to-morrow, too."

"I don't think I shall," said Ellen. "I haven't wanted to touch them to-day."

"Oh, you'll feel brighter to-morrow, after a night's sleep. But aren't you afraid of catching cold? This wind is blowing pretty fresh, and you've been bonnetless all day. What's the reason?"

Ellen looked down, and coloured a good deal.

"What's the matter?" said he, laughing. "Has any mischief befallen your bonnet?"

"No, sir," said Ellen in a low tone, her colour mounting higher and higher. "It was laughed at this morning."

"Laughed at! Who laughed at it?"

"Mrs. Dunscombe and her daughter and her maid."