Emily.—“Mama, I like the evening after you have dined out, for you have always something to tell. You have either seen some little boys or girls, or heard some amusing story; so pray now think of some nice thing to entertain us with.”
“Well, I believe I can satisfy you to-night, for I have something to tell, and something to read also.
“When the ladies went into the drawing-room after dinner, we found, besides the little Russells, a sweet-looking girl who was staying with them. She had been seated at the pianoforte playing for the little Russells’ amusement; but she got up hastily on our entering the room, and placed herself modestly behind her young friends. ‘That was a beautiful air that we heard as we crossed the hall, and appeared to be most beautifully played,’ said one of the party.
“‘Yes,’ replied Mrs. Russell, ‘Ellen Ross does play beautifully, and I shall not allow her a very long respite before I ask her to let us hear her.’
“In a short time, then, Ellen was again seated at the pianoforte, and her playing was really quite astonishing for so young a girl. I expressed my admiration to Mrs. Russell, who said, ‘The story attached to that dear girl’s playing is more singular than her playing itself. Last summer I was staying with the Sydneys in Hampshire, who are the Ross’s nearest neighbours and great friends. Mrs. Sydney, who doats on Ellen, told me a story of her which pleased me so much, that I wrote it down immediately for the amusement of my own little girls, who, after hearing it, never let me rest till I had invited Ellen Ross to stay with us. If you like, I will lend it to you to read to your Emily.’ And here it is; so as we are all together, I will read it to you at once.”
THE BIRTH-DAY.
“Ellen,” said Colonel Ross to his daughter one day, “I have been mortified this morning, but I own not surprised. I have had a note from your music-master, declining to give you any more lessons. I believe the honest man knows I can ill afford the expense, and he is candid enough to tell me that my ‘daughter’s extreme volatility, and total neglect of practising, render it perfectly useless for him to continue to attend her’—Ellen,” continued Colonel Ross, glancing sadly at a beautiful pianoforte which stood in the otherwise simply-furnished drawing-room, “I had hoped that that instrument, which indeed I did not purchase without a sacrifice, would have become the source of many an hour of solace, and that my little girl would have loved to have played away some of her papa’s weary evenings when his shattered health and spirits unfit him for employment. But don’t cry, my love,—and, Ellen, do not ask me to let you learn again. I have long seen your dislike to practising, and as my little girl does every thing else so well, perhaps I ought to have released her from the one irksome thing sooner; but I have had reason to be fond of music,” and Colonel Ross’s eye rested on the portrait of Ellen’s mother, painted as a St. Cecilia. “Good night, my child,” added he, “let us never mention this subject again,—let me see your last drawing when you come down to-morrow morning, love. I will try and centre my amusement in a pursuit which is a favourite one with you also.”
Ellen received her papa’s kiss in silence, and restrained her tears till, as she had nearly crossed the hall, a sound reached her, which sent them rapidly down her cheeks. She heard her papa lock the pianoforte, and as he did it, sigh deeply.
Till within the last year Ellen Ross’s had been a wandering life: she had accompanied her parents from climate to climate in search of that health for her dear mother, which it, however, pleased Providence to withhold from her. She died in Italy, and her husband and child had returned to England, and were now fixed in a retired village on the edge of the New Forest. Ellen’s wanderings, though they had in many respects cultivated her taste and contributed to her accomplishments, for she had acquired the French and Italian languages without trouble, and warbled their national airs as if she had been born amongst their own purple vineyards, had prevented her from gaining those steady habits of perseverance which are never more wanted than during the first drudgery which the learning music must inflict. Poor Ellen’s love of sweet sounds, and recollection of having heard them abroad in their utmost perfection, gave her no assistance now. The tedious scales, and the childish tunes which she blundered through, offended her ear exactly in proportion as it was alive to the delights of real music; and she would quit the instrument in disgust, and wander in the garden to do what she could do—to warble the airs which found their own way so naturally from her heart to her lips. But now, now she had a motive which no selfish repugnance could weaken. Her papa had been mortified—disappointed. Her indolence had robbed him of an expected pleasure—a pleasure which he had said he “made a sacrifice to obtain.” Ere she closed her eyes that night, Ellen’s plan was formed, and the instant she opened them in the morning, she exclaimed, “Ah! it is nearly day-light already, and Caroline Sydney always gets up early—she is never idle.”
Another hour found the two friends closeted in Caroline’s school-room, and Mrs. Sydney was soon called in to aid the consultation. It was settled that Ellen was to have the use of Caroline’s pianoforte for the purpose of practising, and as she had always been in the habit of passing two or three hours every day with her young friend, her absence from home for this object could excite no inquiry. Mrs. Sydney and Caroline readily promised to assist her with all the instruction she could require; and with such a motive, such teachers, and a natural talent for music, who can wonder that her progress was indeed rapid?