At this moment the parlor door was thrown open, and Ellen entered hastily. She was followed by Mrs. Merrill, neither of them wearing very placid faces. Mr. Villars, not desiring to hear the complaints on either side, rose from table, and still holding Mary's hand, said, as he gave Ellen his morning kiss, "Eat your breakfast, my dear, and then come to the library; you will find Mary there, and I have something to tell you."
CHAPTER V.
A SURPRISE.
When Ellen came into the library, she was surprised to see how very grave her uncle Villars looked. She turned her eyes on Mary, and saw that she had been weeping. Ellen would have asked what was the matter, but she was afraid that it was something connected with her and her wrong doings, and she thought it the safest course to be silent. Mr. Villars did not leave her long in doubt. Drawing her to him, he said, "I see, Ellen, that you are anxious to know what has distressed Mary so much; it is the thought of parting with her old uncle—for, Ellen, my dear child, I shall have to part with you both."
Before we attempt to describe Ellen's emotions, we must, to make them understood, tell our readers that Mrs. Merrill had more than once, when very much provoked by Ellen, hinted her conviction that Mr. Villars would not long be able to endure such an unquiet house—that he would certainly be obliged to send his nieces out to board, and that she doubted not people might be found able to curb the most unruly spirit. On such occasions, Ellen, being angry too, had very valorously declared, that she was ready and willing to go anywhere to get rid of Mrs. Merrill. But we regard things very differently when they are only talked about or threatened, and when they actually come. Ellen felt now that she was neither ready nor willing to go. This, however, she was too proud to acknowledge. Tears rushed to her eyes, but she kept them back, and would have answered boldly, perhaps saucily; but as she raised her head, she again saw Mary's sad face, and the thought that her sister was to suffer for her fault, subdued her spirit. Bursting into tears, she wept for a minute without speaking. Mr. Villars passed his hand kindly over her head, saying gently, "Poor little girl!—poor little girl!" Encouraged by this kindness, she at length exclaimed, though sobs still impeded her utterance, "Please, Uncle Villars, let Mary stay—don't send Mary away—I'm sure she is good—I can't help my bad temper—I try to do right—and if Mrs. Merrill would only let me alone, I am sure I would not trouble her; but send me away—I don't mind going—I shall be very glad to go,"—here Ellen's pride and anger were again conquering her better feelings,—"yes, I shall be very glad to go—I don't want to stay anywhere with people that don't like me"—again Ellen raised her head stiffly, and again she saw Mary, whose tears were now streaming—"but oh! Uncle Villars, let Mary stay—I know you love Mary, and she will always be good."
Mr. Villars had not interrupted Ellen. At first he was too much surprised at the feelings she expressed to do so, and then he continued silent, because he desired to hear all she had to say. When she stopped speaking, he said, "Ellen, do you suppose that I would send either of you away if I could help it? You are my children, now," and putting out his hand for Mary, he clasped both the weeping girls in his arms,—"both my children, and I love you both; but some of my property, as well as all your father's, has gone to pay his debts. They were honest debts, my dear children, and the people to whom they were owed wanted their money, and we must not regret that they have got it; but we are poor now, and we cannot continue to live as we have done. I must soon leave you to go on a journey to a distant place, with the hope of recovering some money which is due to your father's estate. I know not how long I may be gone; and even when I return I may not be able to come back to my old home, but may be obliged to look out some cheap country place where I can board for little money. To this place I shall not take you with me. I have good reasons for not doing so. Listen to me, and I will try to make you understand these reasons. I am now an old man, and it is very probable that I may not live many years. I once hoped that when I died I should be able to leave you sufficient property to support you in the way in which you have been accustomed to live; but this, I now fear, cannot be. You will be obliged to do something by which you may make money to assist in supporting yourselves. Many women, you know, support themselves entirely by their own work. Do you remember the young girl who came to make your mourning? She not only supplies her own wants, but those of an infirm mother, by her work."
"And must we go and hire ourselves out to people to sew for them as she does?" asked Ellen, with a heightened color and a curling lip.
"No, my dear Ellen, you could not do that, even if I wished it. Miss Fenner has been taught to make dresses,—she learned it as a trade, just as a shoemaker learns to make shoes or a carpenter to build houses. You have never learned it, and I fear nobody would hire you."
Ellen colored now from shame as much as she had just done from pride.