CHAPTER II.
THE SISTERS.
The next day an old gentleman, a Mr. Villars, dined at Mr. Melville's.Mr. Villars was a widower. His wife had been a sister of Mrs. Leslie,the mother of Mary and Ellen. She had been long dead, but having nevermarried again, he had remained much attached to her family, and havinghad no children of his own, he had always taken a deep interest in Maryand Ellen, petting them quite as much and perhaps scolding them a littlemore than their father. He was a favorite with children generally, forhe interested himself in their amusements and pursuits.
"And so, Miss Anna," said he, as he entered the parlor in which we weresitting after dinner, "you had a party last night. Pray, why was not Iinvited? Mary Leslie made me quite envious, I assure you, by telling meof the enjoyment you had."
"And what did Ellen say?" asked the talkative and thoughtless EmmaMelville.
"Oh, Ellen! I never mind her reports, for if they are not agreeable, Ialways suppose something has happened to put her out of temper. Poorchild! poor child!"
This exclamation was made with deep feeling, and we were all grave andsilent till Mr. Villars, turning to me, said, "I must not let you,ma'am, who are a stranger to her, suppose that our little Ellen has nogood in her. She is, I assure you, a very affectionate child, and thoughshe is so ready to fancy herself neglected or ill treated, and so quickto resent it, she is very grateful for kindness, and you have quite wonher heart by your efforts to amuse her last evening."
"I am pleased," I replied, "to have made so agreeable an impression, butI was repaid for my efforts by the interest she excited. I believe whatyou say, sir, that she is affectionate and grateful--indeed, that herfeelings are as quick as her temper. Forgive me if I add, that it seemsto me it must be in some degree the fault of those to whom her educationhas been confided, that, with such qualities, she is not more pleasingand amiable."
"You are right, ma'am, it is their fault. I have done my best to correctit, but all in vain. She has been spoiled from her very birth, for hermother's health had even then begun to fail, and she was quite unequalto the management of so spirited a child. Ellen was but four years oldwhen that gentle mother died, Mary was seven--"
"Is it possible," said I, interrupting him in my surprise, "that thereis so much difference in their ages?"
"Yes," he answered, "three years. Mary is now thirteen, though she doesnot look like it, and Ellen is only ten. Well, as I was about to tellyou, Mary at seven was a sedate, quiet, thoughtful child, and Mrs.Leslie, when she became sensible that she could not live long, used totalk much to her of Ellen's claims on her kindness, and dependence uponher tenderness, when she should be gone from them. She taught her topray morning and evening that God would make her gentle and kind to herlittle sister, as her mother had been to them both. Mary, I am sure, hasnever forgotten or omitted that prayer."
"Poor Mary!" said I, "these were very sad thoughts and heavy cares forone so young."
"So they were, ma'am, and so I once ventured to tell Mrs. Leslie. Nevershall I forget her reply. 'Ah, brother!' said she--she had always calledme brother from the time of my marriage with her sister--'ah, brother! amother, and a mother near death, sees far more clearly the dangers ofher children than any other can do. My gentle Mary has a strength ofcharacter you little dream of, and though never very gay, she will notlong remain unreasonably sad; but my poor Ellen,--with a nature soaffectionate that she cannot be happy unless she is loved, and a temperso passionate that she will often try the forbearance of her bestfriends almost beyond endurance,--how much suffering is before her! Donot blame me, if before I go from her, I strive to make Mary's love forher such as her mother's would have been--such as not even her faultsshall be able to overcome. Mary's path through life will be smooth, shemust support Ellen through her rough and thorny way.' I did not feelthat all this was right," continued Mr. Villars, "for I think that everyone should bear the consequences of their own faults; but I could notargue with a dying woman, and I comforted myself that all would comeright,--that Mary would forget all this, and scold and cross her sister,just as other elder sisters do," tapping Anna Melville playfully on thehead as he spoke, "or that Mr. Leslie would control her. But I wasmistaken, it has never come right. Mary, I verily believe, has nevercrossed Ellen's wishes in her life; and if Mr. Leslie has ever attemptedto do so, she has almost always stormed or coaxed him out of hisdesign,--more frequently stormed, for she has not patience for coaxing."
"And how does she get what she wishes from you?" asked Col. Melvillewith a smile, for he knew that Mr. Villars was very indulgent to boththe children.
"Why, the cunning jade," said Mr. Villars laughing, "I will tell youhow. A long time ago I repeated to her Aesop's fable of the sun and thewind, and told her, Mary was the sun and she was the wind. Then, UncleVillars, said she, whenever I want to make you do any thing, I will sendMary to you; and she has been true to her word,--she always sends Mary."
"And what was the fable, Mr. Villars?" asked Emma Melville.
"Why, that the sun and the wind had a great quarrel once about which wasthe strongest, and a traveller passing by while the quarrel was at itsheight, they agreed that it should be decided in favor of the one whichshould soonest get his cloak from him. So the wind rose in its might,and blew and blew upon the poor traveller: but all in vain; he onlywrapped his cloak more closely round him. Then the sun came out andbeamed right down upon the man brighter and brighter, and warmer andwarmer: but not long; for the traveller was very soon glad to throw offhis thick, heavy cloak. So the sun conquered, as kindness andgentleness, Miss Emma, always will, sooner than blustering andstorming."
I saw little more of Mary and Ellen Leslie during this visit to H., andit was more than two years before I returned there again. When I did, Ifound that great changes had taken place in the situation of these younggirls. Their father had been dead for more than a year. Mr. Leslie was amerchant, and was thought quite rich even by his most intimate friends;yet when he died, and his affairs were examined, it was found that hewas poor--so poor, that, after his debts were paid, his children wouldhave nothing. But Mr. Villars it was thought would provide for them. Hedid take them to his house for a few months, till Mary, whose health hadbecome enfeebled by her close attention to her father during his longillness, grew well and strong again;--but then reports began to bewhispered about that Mr. Villars had lost much of his property throughMr. Leslie--that he was in debt, and could no longer afford to live ashe had done. Then it was said that he must give up his servants, that hemust let or sell his house and go to board in some cheap country place.Mary and Ellen would not go with him--he would leave them in H., for hecould only pay their board--they must do something for their ownsupport, and that could best be done among their old friends.Accordingly when I came to H., I found Mr. Villars gone, his houseoccupied by another family, and Mary and Ellen boarding with a widow wholived in a very plain, small house, in one of the humblest streets of H.Mary, I was told, gave lessons in music to two or three pupils, andgratefully accepted any employment offered her, either of plain sewing,embroidery, or fancy work. At first, she had some day scholars, and shewould probably have soon obtained a large school, for the children wereattached to her and the parents pleased with her success as a teacher,but Ellen had undertaken to assist her, and her passionate temper sooften evinced itself, that both parents and children were displeased,and the school was soon broken up.
"And what does Ellen do?" I asked.
"Assist her sister in the work when she can," replied Mrs. Melville,from whom I had heard these things. "But I fear," she added, "that shemuch more frequently hinders than assists her. Indeed, Mary would scarcehave to contend with any difficulty but for Ellen, for many would beglad to have her in their families, could she be persuaded to leave thatlittle termagant."
"Poor Ellen!" said I, "the bad name which she contracted in childhoodcleaves to her, when perhaps she may be greatly changed."
"Not if we are to trust the report of Mrs. Maclean, with whom
theyboard. She tells sad tales of Ellen's irritability and Mary'slong-suffering. To be sure, we are likely to hear the worst of the casefrom her, for, though an upright woman, she is irritable herself andvery positive, and I dare say she and Ellen have had many quarrels."
My first visit in H. was to these children, for children they stillwere, though thus thrown on the world to provide for themselves, Marybeing little more than fifteen and Ellen not yet thirteen. The room inwhich I found them was small, but Mr. Villars had seen it comfortablyfurnished before he left them, and it was neatly kept. Their clothingtoo was comfortable and neat, though very plain. But there was onEllen's countenance an expression of sullen gloom, and on Mary's, ofsweet, yet sad resignation, which was more distressing to me than evenan appearance of want would have been, because it was a strongerevidence of unhappiness. Poverty cheerfully borne is but a slight evilin comparison with a repining temper. But I have learned, since thattime, much more of Mary and Ellen than was then known to Mrs. Melvilleor any other person, and I will now tell their story from the time oftheir father's death, without interrupting the narrative to explain toyou how I heard this or that particular.
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