“Ellen,” said Colonel Ross to his daughter one day, “I have been mortified this morning, but I own not surprised. I have had a note from your music-master, declining to give you any more lessons. I believe the honest man knows I can ill afford the expense, and he is candid enough to tell me that my ‘daughter’s extreme volatility, and total neglect of practising, render it perfectly useless for him to continue to attend her’—Ellen,” continued Colonel Ross, glancing sadly at a beautiful pianoforte which stood in the otherwise simply-furnished drawing-room, “I had hoped that that instrument, which indeed I did not purchase without a sacrifice, would have become the source of many an hour of solace, and that my little girl would have loved to have played away some of her papa’s weary evenings when his shattered health and spirits unfit him for employment. But don’t cry, my love,—and, Ellen, do not ask me to let you learn again. I have long seen your dislike to practising, and as my little girl does every thing else so well, perhaps I ought to have released her from the one irksome thing sooner; but I have had reason to be fond of music,” and Colonel Ross’s eye rested on the portrait of Ellen’s mother, painted as a St. Cecilia. “Good night, my child,” added he, “let us never mention this subject again,—let me see your last drawing when you come down to-morrow morning, love. I will try and centre my amusement in a pursuit which is a favourite one with you also.”
Ellen received her papa’s kiss in silence, and restrained her tears till, as she had nearly crossed the hall, a sound reached her, which sent them rapidly down her cheeks. She heard her papa lock the pianoforte, and as he did it, sigh deeply.
Till within the last year Ellen Ross’s had been a wandering life: she had accompanied her parents from climate to climate in search of that health for her dear mother, which it, however, pleased Providence to withhold from her. She died in Italy, and her husband and child had returned to England, and were now fixed in a retired village on the edge of the New Forest. Ellen’s wanderings, though they had in many respects cultivated her taste and contributed to her accomplishments, for she had acquired the French and Italian languages without trouble, and warbled their national airs as if she had been born amongst their own purple vineyards, had prevented her from gaining those steady habits of perseverance which are never more wanted than during the first drudgery which the learning music must inflict. Poor Ellen’s love of sweet sounds, and recollection of having heard them abroad in their utmost perfection, gave her no assistance now. The tedious scales, and the childish tunes which she blundered through, offended her ear exactly in proportion as it was alive to the delights of real music; and she would quit the instrument in disgust, and wander in the garden to do what she could do—to warble the airs which found their own way so naturally from her heart to her lips. But now, now she had a motive which no selfish repugnance could weaken. Her papa had been mortified—disappointed. Her indolence had robbed him of an expected pleasure—a pleasure which he had said he “made a sacrifice to obtain.” Ere she closed her eyes that night, Ellen’s plan was formed, and the instant she opened them in the morning, she exclaimed, “Ah! it is nearly day-light already, and Caroline Sydney always gets up early—she is never idle.”
Another hour found the two friends closeted in Caroline’s school-room, and Mrs. Sydney was soon called in to aid the consultation. It was settled that Ellen was to have the use of Caroline’s pianoforte for the purpose of practising, and as she had always been in the habit of passing two or three hours every day with her young friend, her absence from home for this object could excite no inquiry. Mrs. Sydney and Caroline readily promised to assist her with all the instruction she could require; and with such a motive, such teachers, and a natural talent for music, who can wonder that her progress was indeed rapid?
“How delighted her papa will be!” exclaimed Caroline Sydney to her mama one day, while Ellen was playing one of Colonel Ross’s most favourite airs. “He will indeed, Caroline,” replied Mrs. Sydney, “and that remark of yours calls out Ellen’s powers like magic.”—“I know it does, mama,” said Caroline, “and I can always guess when Ellen is thinking of her papa’s surprise,—she plays her tunes then with as much spirit as if she had composed them herself. I can hardly wait for Colonel Ross’s birth-day; and yet,” she added, addressing Ellen, “you must not betray the secret sooner, for you know I always spend that day with you, and it would break my heart not to be present.”
“O Caroline!” said Ellen, springing from the music-stool, and throwing her arms round her friend’s neck, “how can you think I could be so ungrateful as to cheat you of your share of a pleasure which I should never, never have enjoyed without your own and your dear mama’s kindness?”
The birth-day at length arrived. “Ellen, my love,” said Colonel Ross, entering the room in which she was sitting, putting the last touch to a drawing which was to be one of the offerings of the evening, and which she slipped into her portfolio as her papa came in, “I fear your own and Caroline Sydney’s pleasure will be rather spoiled this evening by the arrival of a stranger; but General Malcolm is a very old friend of mine, who has taken Earl Court. He has just found out that I am in his neighbourhood, and has written to propose spending to-day with me. We were old soldiers together, and I have not seen him for many years, and I cannot do so ungracious a thing as to refuse to receive him.”
It may be guessed that Ellen’s first feeling was that of consternation. The fondly cherished scheme of a whole year seemed to be at once disconcerted. A stranger was to be with them on that evening on which the discovery was to have taken place; and as Caroline was so engaged that she could not be present till after dinner, the birth-day must, she thought, pass away without a chance of the surprise which was to have made it for her the happiest she had ever hailed.
However, no selfish feeling could find a resting-place for many moments in Ellen’s mind. She remembered how often she had wished that her papa had some friend within his reach of his own habits and profession, whose society might beguile the gloom with which ill health and sad recollections would sometimes overshadow his fine mind and naturally even temper, and she said cheerfully, “Then, dear papa, I must offer you my drawing now, though I think I could have improved it before the evening; but I should be shy at showing it before a stranger.” The drawing was full of taste, and the kiss full of affection with which it was received, and Colonel Ross left the room to write an acceptance of General Malcolm’s offered visit.
The afternoon came, and with it General Malcolm. Ellen presided at the dinner-table in compliment to the day, and then retired to the drawing-room to await her young friend’s arrival.
“Poor Caroline!” thought she, “how disappointed she will be! I cannot expect she will be comforted as completely as I am, when I tell her how very, very much dear papa seems to enjoy having his old friend with him. But, ah! I hear her coming.”
In spite of the comfort of which Ellen had been boasting, a tear accompanied the kiss with which she greeted her friend. Poor Caroline was indeed in dismay, and many a reproachful epithet did she lavish on the unconscious general for his ill-timed arrival. “How I shall hate the very sight of him, provoking creature! Could he not have fixed on any day but this? I shall not be able to speak to him civilly, or to look at him with common patience—But, Ellen, could you not play still?”—“O Caroline! how can I before a stranger?—You know I shall be quite sure to cry; and” added she, her sweet eyes filling with tears, “I should not wonder if my dear papa cried too.”
The little girls were now interrupted by the entrance of the two gentlemen. During tea, the conversation turned on the general’s new house. “Have you completed the furnishing it?” asked Colonel Ross. “There is only one thing I believe materially wanting; though, as an old bachelor, I have no constant means of enjoying the luxury of music, I cannot bear to deprive myself of the chance of hearing it occasionally from my lady-guests.—You do not, I fear,” continued General Malcolm, “chance to know of a fine-toned pianoforte to be disposed of in the neighbourhood?”—“I have been for the last year looking out for a purchaser for the one you see before you,” replied Colonel Ross, with a sigh; “Ellen does not play, and it is useless to me.”—“What, devotedly fond as I know you are of music, have you not made a point of your daughter’s learning?” exclaimed General Malcolm. “She did begin, but she does not like it, and music is not an accomplishment to be forced. It requires too great a sacrifice of time, unless there is a certainty of success.”—“I should not have thought that your daughter disliked music,” said General Malcolm, almost unconsciously glancing at the picture of her mother, whose talent had so often charmed him; and then resting his eyes on Ellen’s countenance, beaming with the same seraphic sweetness, “I should have thought the very soul of music dwelt there:—But could I not hear a few notes?—a chord or the simplest scale would enable me to judge of the tone of the instrument.”—“Caroline Sydney has unfortunately sprained her wrist,” said Colonel Ross, “or we should have no difficulty.” Caroline cast a beseeching look on the blushing, hesitating Ellen. “Papa,” said she, timidly, “I think I could remember a few notes.”—“Well, you may at least try,” said her papa; and as he took the key from the drawer in which it had so long lain useless, Ellen once more heard it turn in the lock of the pianoforte, and heard also once again the sigh which accompanied the action, but with feelings how different from her former ones! She sat down, and after a light and brilliant prelude, played one of her mother’s most favourite airs, adding variations full of taste and beauty of her own arranging.
“Good Heavens, Ross!” exclaimed General Malcolm, in a tone of equal astonishment and admiration; “and is this the instrument you would part with?—And is this the daughter who is not fond of music?” But how was the explanation given? It was not by words, but by Colonel Ross’s folding his beloved child in his arms, and letting his tears fall on her lovely forehead as he sobbed, “My Ellen, I shall now be able to close my eyes, and fancy that your sainted mother lives again to bless me!”
A year has passed away, and the warm-hearted General Malcolm is no more. His landed property has descended to a distant relation, but his will contained a bequest of the sum of ten thousand pounds to “Ellen Ross, as a token of affectionate admiration, and to enable her to increase the comforts of her beloved father.”