Chapter XXII: A Letter

TWO or three months passed away. Ada and Arthur returned to school, a morning governess was engaged to teach Tom and the little girls in the nursery, while Nellie carried on the management of the household faithfully and steadily, as nearly as she could like their mamma would have done.

It was not all smooth, and many difficulties Nellie had to bear alone, and many she had to tell her father, and get his advice.

Mary, the nurse, was a great help to her, and behaved kindly and wisely to the young mistress. Simmons was so good a servant, that the sudden change made no difference to her in her dutifulness; but the cook, listening to a foolish, mischief-making friend, began to grumble that "Miss Nellie expected more than mistress had."

Nellie was sure this was not the case, and was much cast down that she could not manage it without worrying her papa; but she and Arthur talked it over, and they decided it would be better to mention it to Dr. Arundel.

"I will speak to her if you like," he said, when Nellie had explained it to him; "but it would be far better if you could talk to her yourself."

Nellie knew his advice was always sound, and determined to take it; but she had much misgiving as to whether she should do it properly.

The next morning, when she was downstairs giving orders for the day, the cook, in answer to some slight instruction, said rather uppishly, "It never was so in your ma's time, Miss Nellie!"

Nellie felt her time was come, and with an instant's prayer for strength and wisdom, she looked into the servant's face, and met her eyes calmly.

"Cook," she said gently, though she felt her voice trembled, "I try in everything to follow exactly what dear mamma would wish; but my father says I am to use my judgment, and if I think a thing ought to be done, it is to be done; not because it would have been mamma's wish, but because it is my wish. I am mistress of my father's house now, and the sooner you understand this, the happier we shall be."

Nellie paused, and the cook looked surprised, and then somewhat ashamed.

"You would not like to add to the cares I already find so heavy, by not behaving nicely to me, would you?" Nellie asked.

The cook twisted her apron, and then suddenly burst into tears. "It ain't a bit the same, now she's gone!" she exclaimed.

"Do you not think we must feel that, cook?" asked Nellie, with filling eyes. "Do you think I like being mistress?"

Cook was silent, wiping away her tears and thinking.

"I suppose not, miss," she answered at last.

"Then help me," said Nellie, turning away, "for it is sad work."

"I will, miss," cook answered with a sob; "I never thought."

It was now drawing on towards Christmas.

Wilmot Elliot, after the disappointment of his plans, altered his mind. A softer, humbler feeling came over him with regard to Nellie, and in the visits which he now made from time to time, he tried to show her that he was sorry for his hastiness.

He could not decide to his satisfaction whether Nellie had understood his manner before, or understood the alteration in it now.

She seemed always the same when he came; appeared to have no more to do with him than the rest had, and was just the quiet elder sister, playing the hostess with a calmness which hardly befitted her years.

What had altered her from the somewhat shy and blushing girl he had met at Shellford?

He tried in vain to answer this question. One possibility presented itself, but this he would not entertain as the solution for a moment.

He noticed that she quietly avoided any special conversation with himself, and held herself aloof. As however he had made up his mind that she was not to be won by impetuosity, he took this calmly, hoping that in time she would understand his love.

One day, very near to Christmas, being called by business near Covent Garden, he strolled in among the flowers, thinking of Nellie, and wondering if she would accept some.

He determined to try, and buying a lovely bunch of violets, hastened towards her home.

It was about twelve o'clock, and Simmons was busy upstairs. The cook opened the door to him, and without any preparation asked him into the dining-room, merely saying, "I believe they are in here, sir."

He entered, and Nellie started up from the sofa where she had been sitting, while a letter dropped on to the floor from her lap, and he found that she had been weeping violently.

He stood as dismayed as she was, and then all at once he felt a feeling of deepest tenderness come over him.

"Miss Nellie," he said, taking her hand, and leading her back to the sofa, "I want to comfort you, but I don't know how. What is the matter? Can you bear to tell me?"

Nellie struggled with her tears, and drew away her hand, which he still held.

"Don't take it away," he pleaded; "I want always to be able to comfort you. Oh, Nellie! What is it?"

"I—I think I will go away," she said in a broken voice. "I am not myself; but don't think me unkind. I will come back and see you presently."

He let go her hand, and she hastened from the room.

She ran up to her own chamber, and, locking the door, put both her hands to her head in a bewildered way.

"It has come at last," she said trembling. "Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?"

She threw herself on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. "He loves me," she whispered; "and I must not—must not—must not let him! Oh, what shall I do?"

Then she lifted her aching heart to Him who knew all its sorrow; and once more strengthened in her resolve, she got up, and bathing her swollen eyes, she went slowly downstairs again.

When she re-entered the dining-room, Wilmot came forward and met her, looking anxiously in her face.

"I have had a letter from Walter," she said, speaking calmly. "He sends me very unexpected news—very glad news—and that was what made me cry. He is coming home."

"Your brother in India? I thought it was to be some time. You must be glad!"

"He has been suddenly made a partner, and is to settle in England. It will make such a difference to us all; I can hardly believe it."

"And you were crying for joy? I would like to share the joy, and also the sorrow, Nellie. Will you let me? You cannot mistake what I mean?"

"You must not wish it," she answered, turning deadly pale; "I have wanted you to understand it for so long."

"But why? What do you tell me so for?"

"Because I must; if only you would spare my having to say any more."

"It would be of no use; I must hear what you have to say. But, Nellie, I can't get on without you."

How sweet the words sounded in her ears; but she resolutely shut out the thought, and answered—"They cannot do without me at home. Forgive me, Mr. Elliot; I would not cause you pain if I could possibly help it; but it can never be as you say."

He started up, and stood before her.

"Do you moan it?" he said hoarsely; "really mean what you say? Do you mean to tell me that you will blight my life, and perhaps yours, on a mistaken sense of duty to home?"

"It is not mistaken," she answered, rallying all her firmness. "No one who knows us intimately could advise me to decide otherwise."

"They would miss you," he said, sitting down again by her. "Who could help it? But it cannot be right; it cannot, Nellie."

"You must not call me Nellie," she said, rising; "I must say good-bye. If you could guess the pain I feel, you would say no more; but forgive me, and leave me."

"It is impossible," said the young man, turning bitterly away. "I'll leave you, if you wish it, and I will speak to your father; but to give you up utterly, I can't do it."

Nellie stood still, while he went to the window and looked out. At last he came back and asked—

"Do you love me, Nellie, as I love you?"

Her colour flushed suddenly into her face and died out again. She was silent, but she moved away from him.

He waited too; and then altering again from his passionate reproach, he said softly—

"I will wait for you, my Nellie, till you can be ready. I will wait any time you name."

"I am not 'your Nellie,'" she answered, "and you must not wait. Good-bye; I can bear no more."

She turned to the door, but he came up to her once more and stood between her and it.

"I will not oblige you to leave the room," he said bitterly; "I will go. Good-bye."

And in another moment, the front door slammed heavily, and he was gone.