"Ellen! Ellen!"
She started up broad awake now; and both the shadow and the peaceful expression were gone from her face. It was a look of blank astonishment at first with which she regarded her father, but very soon indeed that changed into one of bleak despair. He saw that she understood perfectly what he was there for, and that there was no need at all for him to trouble himself with making painful explanations.
"Come, Ellen," he said, "that's a good child make haste and dress. There's no time to lose now, for the carriage will soon be at the door; and your mother wants to see you, you know."
Ellen hastily obeyed him, and began to put on her stockings and shoes.
"That's right now you'll be ready directly. You are going with Mrs. Dunscombe I have engaged her to take charge of you all the way quite to Thirlwall; she's the wife of Captain Dunscombe, whom you saw here the other day, you know; and her daughter is going with her, so you will have charming company. I dare say you will enjoy the journey very much; and your aunt will meet you at Thirlwall. Now, make haste I expect the carriage every minute. I meant to have called you before, but I overslept myself. Don't be long."
And nodding encouragement, her father left her.
"How did she bear it?" asked Mrs. Montgomery, when he returned.
"Like a little hero. She didn't say a word, or shed a tear. I expected nothing but that she would make a great fuss; but she has all the old spirit that you used to have and have yet, for any thing I know. She behaved admirably."
Mrs. Montgomery sighed deeply. She understood far better than her husband what Ellen's feelings were, and could interpret much more truly than he the signs of them; the conclusion she drew from Ellen's silent and tearless reception of the news differed widely from his. She now waited anxiously and almost fearfully for her appearance, which did not come as soon as she expected it.
It was a great relief to Ellen when her father ended his talking, and left her to herself; for she felt she could not dress herself so quick with him standing there and looking at her, and his desire that she should be speedy in what she had to do, could not be greater than her own. Her fingers did their work as fast as they could, with every joint trembling. But though a weight like a mountain was upon the poor child's heart, she could not cry; and she could not pray, though, true to her constant habit, she fell on her knees by her bedside, as she always did: it was in vain: all was in a whirl in her heart and head, and after a minute, she rose again, clasping her little hands together with an expression of sorrow that it was well her mother could not see. She was dressed very soon, but she shrank from going to her mother's room while her father was there. To save time she put on her coat, and everything but her bonnet and gloves; and then stood leaning against the bed-post, for she could not sit down, watching with most intense anxiety to hear her father's step come out of the room and go down-stairs. Every minute seemed too long to be borne; poor Ellen began to feel as if she could not contain herself. Yet five had not passed away when she heard the roll of carriage-wheels, which came to the door and then stopped, and immediately her father opening the door to come out. Without waiting any longer, Ellen opened her own, and brushed past him into the room he had quitted. Mrs. Montgomery was still lying on the bed, for her husband has insisted on her not rising. She said not a word, but opened her arms to receive her little daughter; and with a cry of indescribable expression, Ellen sprang upon the bed, and was folded in them. But then neither of them spoke or wept. What could words say? Heart met heart in that agony, for each knew all that was in the other. No not quite all. Ellen did not know that the whole of bitterness death had for her mother she was tasting then. But it was true. Death had no more power to give her pain after this parting should be over. His after-work the parting between soul and body would be welcome, rather; yes, very welcome. Mrs. Montgomery knew it all well. She knew this was the last embrace between them. She knew it would be the very last time that dear little form would ever lie on her bosom, or be pressed in her arms; and it almost seemed to her that soul and body must part company too, when they should be rent asunder. Ellen's grief was not like this; she did not think it was the last time; but she was a child of very high spirit and violent passions, untamed at all by sorrow's discipline; and in proportion violent was the tempest excited by this first real trial. Perhaps, too, her sorrow was sharpened by a sense of wrong, and a feeling of indignation at her father's cruelty in not waking her earlier.