One fault, if fault it might be called, among so many excellencies in Ellen's character, was that of putting off "till to-morrow what should be done today." This had troubled Mr. Gorton exceedingly, who, prompt himself, would naturally wish others to be so also, and notwithstanding his constant complaints, and Ellen's desire to please him, she had not yet overcome her nature in that respect, though she had greatly improved. The evening preceding the intended departure, Mr. Gorton said to his wife,
"Now, Ellen, I hope you will have everything in readiness for an early departure in the morning. Have the boys and yourself all ready the moment the carriage is at the door, for you know I do not like to be obliged to wait."
Almost before the stars had disappeared in the sky, Ellen was busy in her final preparations. She was sure she should have everything in season, and wondered how her husband could suppose otherwise, upon an occasion in which she had so much interest. Several minutes before the appointed time, Ellen had all in readiness for departure, the trunks all packed and locked, the children in their riding dresses and caps; and proceeding from her dressing-room to the front hall door, she was thinking that this time, certainly, she should not hear the so oft repeated complaint—
"Ellen, you are always too late!"—when, to her dismay, she met Georgie, her youngest boy, dripping with mud and water from the brook, whence he had just issued, where, he said, he had ventured in chase of a goose, which had impudently hissed at him, which insult the young boy, in his own conception a spirited knight of the regular order, could not brook, and in his wrath had pursued the offender to his place of retreat, much to the detriment of his dress.
Ellen was in consternation; but one thing was evident—Georgie's dress must be changed. With trembling hands she unlocked a trunk, and sought for a change of dress, while the waiting-maid proceeded to disrobe the child.
Just at this moment Mr. Gorton entered, saying the carriage was at the door. Various things had occurred that morning to perplex him, and he was in a bad humour. Seeing Ellen thus engaged with the trunk, as he thought, not half packed, various articles being upon the carpet, and Georgie in no wise ready, the cloud came over his brow, and he said, harshly,
"I knew it would be thus, Ellen—I have never known you to be in readiness yet; but you must know I am not to be trifled with."
And with this, not heeding the explanation she attempted to make, he seized his valise and left the room. Jumping into the carriage, he commanded the driver to proceed.
Ellen heard the carriage rolling away in astonishment. She ran to the door, and watched it in the distance. But she thought it could not be possible he had gone without her—he would return: and she hastened the maid, and still kept watching at the door. She waited in vain, for he returned not.
The excitement into which Ellen was thrown by the anticipation of meeting her friends once more, may be readily imagined by those similarly constituted with her, and the reaction occasioned by her disappointment, also. Her heart had been entirely fixed upon it, and what but cruelty was it in her husband to deprive her thus so unreasonably of so great an enjoyment—to her so exquisite a pleasure?