As if to verify Mr. Van Brunt's remark, that "something is always happening most years," about the middle of May there came letters that, after all, determined John's going abroad. The sudden death of two relatives, one after the other, had left the family estate to Mr. Humphreys; it required the personal attendance either of himself or his son; he could not, therefore his son must, go. Once on the other side of the Atlantic, Mr. John thought it best his going should fulfil all the ends for which both Mr. Humphreys and Mr. Marshman had desired it; this would occasion his stay to be prolonged to at least a year, probably more. And he must set off without delay.
In the midst, not of his hurry for Mr. John seldom was or seemed to be in a hurry about anything but in the midst of his business, he took special care of everything that concerned, or could possibly concern, Ellen. He arranged what books she should read, what studies she should carry on; and directed that about these matters, as well as about all others, she should keep up a constant communication with him by letter. He requested Mrs. Chauncey to see that she wanted nothing, and to act as her general guardian in all minor things, respecting which Mr. Humphreys could be expected to take no thought whatever. And what Ellen thanked him for most of all, he found time for all his wonted rides, and she thought more than his wonted talks with her; endeavouring, as he well knew how, both to strengthen and cheer her mind in view of his long absence. The memory of those hours never went from her.
The family at Ventnor were exceeding desirous that she should make one of them during all the time John should be gone; they urged it with every possible argument. Ellen said little, but he knew she did not wish it; and finally compounded the matter by arranging that she should stay at the parsonage through the summer, and spend the winter at Ventnor, sharing all Ellen Chauncey's advantages of every kind. Ellen was all the more pleased with this arrangement that Mr. George Marshman would be at home. The church John had been serving were becoming exceedingly attached to him, and would by no means hear of giving him up; and Mr. George engaged, if possible, to supply his place while he should be away. Ellen Chauncey was in ecstatics. And it was further promised that the summer should not pass without as many visits on both sides as could well be brought about.
Ellen had the comfort, at the last, of hearing John say that she had behaved unexceptionably well where he knew it was difficult for her to behave well at all. That was a comfort, from him, whose notions of unexceptionable behaviour, she knew, were remarkably high. But the parting, after all, was a dreadfully hard matter; though softened as much as it could be at the time, and rendered very sweet to Ellen's memory by the tenderness, gentleness, and kindness with which her brother, without checking, soothed her grief. He was to go early in the morning; and he made Ellen take leave of him the night before; but he was in no hurry to send her away; and when at length he told her it was very late, and she rose up to go, he went with her to the very door of her room, and there bade her good night.
How the next days passed Ellen hardly knew; they were unspeakably long.
Not a week after, one morning, Nancy Vawse came into the kitchen, and asked in her blunt fashion
"Is Ellen Montgomery at home?"
"I believe Miss Ellen is in the parlour," said Margery, drily.
"I want to speak to her."
Margery silently went across the hall to the sitting-room.