CHAPTER VI.
Mac. What is the night? OCTOBER was now far advanced. One evening, the evening of the last Sunday in the month, Mrs. Montgomery was lying in the parlour alone. Ellen had gone to bed some time before; and now in the stillness of the Sabbath evening the ticking of the clock was almost the only sound to be heard. The hands were rapidly approaching ten. Captain Montgomery was abroad; and he had been so,—according to custom,—or in bed, the whole day. The mother and daughter had had the Sabbath to themselves; and most quietly and sweetly it had passed. They had read together, prayed together, talked together a great deal; and the evening had been spent in singing hymns; but Mrs. Montgomery's strength failed here, and Ellen sang alone. She was not soon weary. Hymn succeeded hymn, with fresh and varied pleasure; and her mother could not tire of listening. The sweet words, and the sweet airs,—which were all old friends, and brought of themselves many a lesson of wisdom and consolation, by the mere force of association,—needed not the recommendation of the clear childish voice in which they were sung which was of all things the sweetest to Mrs. Montgomery's ear. She listened,—till she almost felt as if earth were left behind, and she and her child already standing within the walls of that city where sorrow and sighing shall be no more, and the tears shall be wiped from all eyes for ever. Ellen's next hymn, however, brought her back to earth again, but though her tears flowed freely while she heard it, all her causes of sorrow could not render them bitter. God in Israel sows the seeds "It is so indeed, dear Ellen," said Mrs. Montgomery when she had finished, and holding the little singer to her breast,—"I have always found it so. God is faithful. I have seen abundant cause to thank him for all the evils he has made me suffer heretofore, and I do not doubt it will be the same with this last and worst one. Let us glorify him in the fires, my daughter; and if earthly joys be stripped from us, and if we be torn from each other, let us cling the closer to him,—he can and he will in that case make up to us more than all we have lost." Ellen felt her utter inability to join in her mother's expressions of confidence and hope; to her there was no brightness on the cloud that hung over them,—it was all dark. She could only press her lips in tearful silence to the one and the other of her mother's cheeks alternately. How sweet the sense of the coming parting made every such embrace! This one, for particular reasons, was often and long remembered. A few minutes they remained thus in each other's arms, cheek pressed against cheek, without speaking; but then Mrs. Montgomery remembered that Ellen's bedtime was already past, and dismissed her. For a while after Mrs. Montgomery remained just where Ellen had left her,
her busy thoughts roaming over many things in the far past, and the sad present,
and the uncertain future. She was unconscious of the passage of time, and
did not notice how the silence deepened as the night drew on, till scarce
a footfall was heard in the street, and the ticking of the clock sounded with
that sad distinctness which seems to say,—"Time is going on—time is going
on,—and you are going with it,—do what you will you can't help that." It
was just upon the stroke of ten, and Mrs. Montgomery was still wrapped in
her deep musings, when a sharp brisk footstep in the distance aroused her,
rapidly approaching;—and she knew very well whose it was, and that it would
pause at the door, before she heard the quick run up the steps, succeeded by her husband's tread upon the staircase. And yet she saw him open the door with a kind of startled feeling which his appearance now invariably caused her; the thought always darted through her head, "perhaps he brings news of Ellen's going." Something, it would have been impossible to say what, in his appearance or manner, confirmed this fear on the present occasion. Her heart felt sick, and she waited in silence to hear what he would say. He seemed very well pleased; sat down before the fire rubbing his hands, partly with cold and partly with satisfaction; and his first words were, "Well! we have got a fine opportunity for her at last." How little he was capable of understanding the pang this announcement gave his poor wife! But she only closed her eyes and kept perfectly quiet, and he never suspected it. He unbuttoned his coat, and taking the poker in his hand began to mend the fire, talking the while. "I am very glad of it indeed," said he,—"it's quite a load off my mind. Now we'll be gone directly, and high time it is—I'll take passage in the England the first thing to-morrow. And this is the best possible chance for Ellen—every thing we could have desired. I began to feel very uneasy about it,—it was getting so late,—but I am quite relieved now." "Who is it?" said Mrs. Montgomery, forcing herself to speak. "Why, it's Mrs. Dunscombe," said the captain, flourishing his poker by
way of illustration,—"you know her, don't you?—Captain Dunscombe's wife—she's
going right through Thirlwall, and will take charge of Ellen as far as that,
and there my sister will meet her with a wagon and take her straight home.
Couldn't be anything better. I write to let Fortune know when to expect her.
Mrs. Dunscombe is a lady of the first family and fashion—in the highest degree
respectable; she is going on to Fort Jameson, with her daughter and servant,
and her husband is to follow her in a few days. I happened to hear of it to-day,
and I immediately seized the opportunity to ask if she would not take Ellen
with her as far as Thirlwall, and Dunscombe was only too glad to oblige me.
I'm a very good friend of his, and he knows it." "How soon does she go?" "Why—that's the only part of the business I am afraid you won't like,—but there is no help for it;—and after all it is a great deal better so than if you had time to wear yourselves out with mourning—better and easier too, in the end." "How soon?" repeated Mrs. Montgomery, with an agonized accent. "Why,—I'm a little afraid of startling you—Dunscombe's wife must go, he told me, to-morrow morning; and we are arranged that she could call in the carriage at six o'clock to take up Ellen." Mrs. Montgomery put her hands to her face and sank back against the sofa. "I was afraid you would take it so," said her husband,—"but I don't think it is worth while. It is a great deal better as it is,—a great deal better than if she had a long warning. You would fairly wear yourself out if you had time enough; and you haven't any strength to spare." It was some while before Mrs. Montgomery could recover composure and firmness enough to go on with what she had to do, though knowing the necessity, she strove hard for it. For several minutes she remained quite silent and quiet, endeavouring to collect her scattered forces; then sitting upright and drawing her shawl around her she exclaimed, "I must waken Ellen immediately!" "Waken Ellen!" exclaimed her husband in his turn,—"what on earth for? That's the very last thing to be done." "Why you would not put off telling her until to-morrow morning?" said Mrs. Montgomery. "Certainly I would—that's the only proper way to do. Why in the world should you wake her up, just to spend the whole night in useless grieving?—unfitting her utterly for her journey, and doing yourself more harm than you can undo in a week. No, no,—just let her sleep quietly, and you can go to bed and do the same. Wake her up, indeed! I thought you were wiser." "But she will be so dreadfully shocked in the morning!" "Not one bit more that she would be to-night, and she won't have so much
time to feel it. In the hurry and bustle of getting off she will not have time to think about her feelings; and once on the way she will do well enough;—children always do." Mrs. Montgomery looked undecided and unsatisfied. "I'll take the responsibility of this matter on myself,—you must not waken her, absolutely. It would not do at all," said the captain, poking the fire very energetically,—"it would not do at all,—I cannot allow it." Mrs. Montgomery silently arose and lit a lamp. "You are not going into Ellen's room?" said the husband. "I must—I must put her things together." "But you'll not disturb Ellen?" said he, in a tone that required a promise. "Not if I can help it." Twice Mrs. Montgomery stopped before she reached to door of Ellen's room,
for her heart failed her. But she must go on, and
the necessary preparations for the morrow must be
made;—she knew it; and repeating this to herself she gently turned the handle
of the door and pushed it open, and guarding the light with her hand from
Ellen's eyes, she set it where it would not shine upon her. Having done this,
she set herself, without once glancing at her little daughter, to put all
things in order for her early departure on the following morning. But it was
a bitter piece of work for her. She first laid out all that Ellen would need
to wear,—the dark merino, the new nankeen coat, the white bonnet, the clean
frill that her own hands had done up, the little gloves and shoes, and all
the etceteras, with the thoughtfulness and the carefulness of love; but it
went through and through her heart that it was the very last time a mother's
fingers would ever be busy in arranging or preparing Ellen's attire; the very
last time she would ever see or touch even the little inanimate things that
belonged to her; and painful as the task was she was loth to have it come
to an end. It was with a kind of lingering unwillingness to quit her hold
of them that one thing after another was stowed carefully and neatly away
in the trunk. She felt it was love's last act; words might indeed a few times
yet come over the ocean on a sheet of paper;—but sight, and hearing, and
touch must all have done henceforth for ever. Keenly as Mrs. Montgomery felt
this, she went on busily with her work all the while; and when the last thing was safely packed, shut the trunk and locked it without allowing herself to stop and think, and even drew the straps. And then, having finished all her task, she went to the bedside; she had not looked that way before. Ellen was lying in the deep sweet sleep of childhood; the easy position,
the gentle breathing, and the flush of health upon the cheek showed that all
causes of sorrow were for the present far removed. Yet not so far either;—for
once when Mrs. Montgomery stooped to kiss her, light as the touch of that
kiss had been upon her lips, it seemed to awaken a train of sorrowful recollections
in the little sleeper's mind. A shade passed over her face, and with gentle
but sad accent the word, "Mamma!" burst from the parted lips. Only a moment,—and
the shade passed away, and the expression of peace settle again upon her brow;
but Mrs. Montgomery dared not try the experiment a second time. Long she stood
looking upon her, as if she knew she was looking her last; then she knelt
by the bedside and hid her face in the coverings,—but no tears came; the
struggle in her mind and her anxious fear for the morning's trial, made weeping
impossible. Her husband at length came to seek her, and it was well he did;
she would have remained there on her knees all night. He feared something
of the kind, and came to prevent it. Mrs. Montgomery suffered herself to be
led away without making any opposition; and went to bed as usual, but sleep
was far from her. The fear of Ellen's distress when she would be awakened
and suddenly told the truth, kept her in an agony. In restless wakefulness
she tossed and turned uneasily upon her bed, watching for the dawn, and dreading
unspeakably to see it. The captain, in happy unconsciousness of his wife's
distress and utter inability to sympathize with it, was soon in a sound sleep,
and his heavy breathing was an aggravation of her trouble; it kept repeating,
what indeed she knew already, that the only one in the world who ought to
have shared and soothed her grief was not capable of doing either. Wearied
with watching and tossing to and fro, she at length lost herself a moment
in uneasy slumber, from which she suddenly started in terror, and seizing
her husband's arm to arouse him, exclaimed, "It is time to wake Ellen!" but she had to repeat her efforts two or three times before she succeeded in making herself heard. "What is the matter?" said he heavily, and not over well pleased at the interruption. "It is time to wake Ellen." "No it isn't," said he, relapsing,—"it isn't time yet this great while." "Oh, yes it is," said Mrs. Montgomery;—"I am sure it is; I see the beginning of dawn in the east." "Nonsense! it's no such thing; it's the glimmer of the lamplight; what is the use of your exciting yourself so for nothing. It won't be dawn these two hours. Wait till I find my repeater, and I'll convince you." He found and struck it. "There! I told you so—only one quarter after four; it would be absurd to wake her yet. Do go to sleep and leave it to me; I'll take care it is done in proper time." Mrs. Montgomery sighed heavily, and again arranged herself to watch the eastern horizon, or rather with her face in that direction; for she could see nothing. But more quietly now she lay gazing into the darkness which it was in vain to try to penetrate; and thoughts succeeding thoughts in a more regular train, at last fairly cheated her into sleep, much as she wished to keep it off. She slept soundly for near an hour; and when she awoke the dawn had really begun to break in the eastern sky. She again aroused Captain Montgomery, who this time allowed it might be as well to get up; but it was with unutterable impatience that she saw him lighting a lamp, and moving about as leisurely as if he had nothing more to do than to get ready for breakfast at eight o'clock. "Oh, do go speak to Ellen!" she said, unable to control herself. "Never mind brushing your hair till afterwards. She will have no time for any thing. Oh, do not wait any longer! what are you thinking of?" "What are you thinking of?" said the captain;—"there's plenty of time. Do quiet yourself—you're getting as nervous as possible. I'm going immediately." Mrs. Montgomery fairly groaned with impatience and an agonizing dread of
what was to follow the disclosure to Ellen. But her husband coolly went on
with his preparations, which indeed were not long in finishing; and then taking the lamp he at last went. He had in truth delayed on purpose, wishing the final leave-taking to be as brief as possible; and the grey streaks of light in the east were plainly showing themselves when he opened the door of his little daughter's room. He found her lying very much as her mother had left her,—in the same quiet sleep, and with the same expression of calmness and peace spread over her whole face and person. It touched even him,—and he was not readily touched by any thing;—it made him loth to say the word that would drive all that sweet expression so quickly and completely away. It must be said, however; the increasing light warned him he must not tarry; but it was with a hesitating and almost faltering voice that he said, "Ellen!" She stirred in her sleep, and the shadow came over her face again. "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 conclusions 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 every thing 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. Not many minutes had passed in this sad embrace, and no word had yet been spoken, no sound uttered, except Ellen's first inarticulate cry of mixed affection and despair, when Captain Montgomery's step was again heard slowly ascending the stairs. "He is coming to take me away!" thought Ellen; and in terror lest she should go without a word from her mother, she burst forth with, "Mamma! speak!" A moment before, and Mrs. Montgomery could not have spoken. But she could now; and as clearly and calmly the words were uttered as if nothing had been the matter, only her voice fell a little toward the last. "God bless my darling child! and make her his own,—and bring her to that home where parting cannot be." Ellen's eyes had been dry until now; but when she heard the sweet sound
of her mother's voice, it opened all the fountains of tenderness within her.
She burst into uncontrollable weeping; it seemed as if she would pour out
her very heart in tears; and she clung to her mother with a force that made it a difficult task for her father to remove her. He could not do it at first; and Ellen seemed not to hear any thing that was said to her. He was very unwilling to use harshness; and after a little, though she had paid no attention to his entreaties or commands, yet sensible of the necessity of the case, she gradually relaxed her hold and suffered him to draw her away from her mother's arms. He carried her down stairs, and put her on the front seat of the carriage, beside Mrs. Dunscombe's maid,—but Ellen could never recollect how she got there, and she did not feel the touch of her father's hand, nor hear him when he bid her good-by; and she did not know that he put a large paper of candies and sugar-plums in her lap. She knew nothing but that she had lost her mother. "It will not be so long," said the captain, in a kind of apologizing way; "she will soon get over it, and you will not have any trouble with her." "I hope so," returned the lady, rather shortly; and then, as the captain was making his parting bow, she added, in no very pleased tone of voice, "Pray, Captain Montgomery, is this young lady to travel without a bonnet?" "Bless me! no," said the captain. "How is this? hasn't she a bonnet? I beg a thousand pardons, ma'am,—I'll bring it on the instant." After a little delay, the bonnet was found, but the captain overlooked the gloves in his hurry. "I am very sorry you have been delayed, ma'am," said he. "I hope we may be able to reach the boat yet," replied the lady. "Drive on as fast as you can!" A very polite bow from Captain Montgomery—a very slight one from the lady—and off they drove. "Proud enough," thought the captain, as he went up the stairs again. "I reckon she don't thank me for her travelling companion. But Ellen's off—that's one good thing—and now I'll go and engage berths in the England." |
CHAPTER VII.
"So fair and foul a day I have not seen." THE long drive to the boat was only a sorrowful blank to Ellen's recollection. She did not see the frowns that passed between her companions on her account. She did not know that her white bonnet was such a matter of merriment to Margaret Dunscombe and the maid, that they could hardly contain themselves. She did not find out that Miss Margaret's fingers were busy with her paper of sweets, which only a good string and a sound knot kept her from rifling. Yet she felt very well that nobody there cared in the least for her sorrow. It mattered nothing; she wept on in her loneliness, and knew nothing that happened, till the carriage stopped on the wharf; even then she did not raise her head. Mrs. Dunscombe got out, and saw her daughter and servant do the same; then after giving some orders about the baggage, she returned to Ellen. "Will you get out, Miss Montgomery? or would you prefer to remain in the carriage? We must go on board directly." There was something, not in the words, but in the tone, that struck Ellen's heart with an entirely new feeling. Her tears stopped instantly, and wiping away quick the traces of them as well as she could, she got out of the carriage without a word, aided by Mrs. Dunscombe's hand. The party was presently joined by a fine-looking man, whom Ellen recognised as Captain Dunscombe. "Dunscombe, do put these girls on board, will you? and then come back to me; I want to speak to you. Timmins, you may go along and look after them." Captain Dunscombe obeyed. When they reached the deck, Margaret Dunscombe and the maid Timmins went straight to the cabin. Not feeling at all drawn toward their company, as indeed they had given her no reason, Ellen planted herself by the guards of the boat, not far from the gangway, to watch the busy scene that at another time would have had a great deal of interest and amusement for her. And interest it had now; but it was with a very, very grave little face that she looked on the bustling crowd. The weight on her heart was just as great as ever, but she felt this was not the time or the place to let it be seen; so for the present she occupied herself with what was passing before her, though it did not for one moment make her forget her sorrow. At last the boat rang her last bell. Captain Dunscombe put his wife on board, and had barely time to jump off the boat again when the plank was withdrawn. The men on shore cast off the great loops of ropes that held the boat to enormous wooden posts on the wharf, and they were off! At first it seemed to Ellen as if the wharf and the people upon it were sailing away from them backwards; but she presently forgot to think of them at all. She was gone!—she felt the bitterness of the whole truth;—the blue water already lay between her and the shore, where she so much longed to be. In that confused mass of buildings at which she was gazing, but which would be so soon beyond even gazing distance, was the only spot she cared for in the world; her heart was there. She could not see the place, to be sure, nor tell exactly whereabouts it lay in all that wide-spread city; but it was there, somewhere,—and every minute was making it farther and farther off. It's a bitter thing, that sailing away from all one loves; and poor Ellen felt it so. She stood leaning both her arms upon the rail, the tears running down her cheeks, and blinding her so that she could not see the place toward which her straining eyes were bent. Somebody touched her sleeve,—it was Timmins. "Mrs. Dunscombe sent me to tell you she wants you to come into the cabin, miss." Hastily wiping her eyes, Ellen obeyed the summons, and followed Timmins
into the cabin. It was full of groups of ladies, children, and nurses,—bustling
and noisy enough. Ellen wished she might have stayed outside; she wanted
to be by herself; but as the next best thing, she mounted upon the bench which ran all round the saloon, and kneeling on the cushion by one of the windows, placed herself with the edge of her bonnet just touching the glass, so that nobody could see a bit of her face, while she could look out near by as well as from the deck. Presently her ear caught, as she thought, the voice of Mrs. Dunscombe, saying in rather an undertone, but laughing too, "What a figure she does cut in that outlandish bonnet." Ellen had no particular reason to think she was meant, and yet she did think so. She remained quite still, but with raised colour and quickened breathing waited to hear what would come next. Nothing came at first, and she was beginning to think she had perhaps been mistaken, when she plainly heard Margaret Dunscombe say, in a loud whisper, "Mamma, I wish you could contrive some way to keep her in the cabin—can't you? she looks so odd in that queer sun-bonnet kind of a thing, that any body would think she had come out of the woods, and no gloves too; I shouldn't like to have the Miss M'Arthurs think she belonged to us—can't you, mamma?" If a thunderbolt had fallen at Ellen's feet, the shock would hardly have
been greater. The lightning of passion shot through every vein. And it was
not passion only; there was hurt feeling and wounded pride, and the sorrow
of which her heart was full enough before, now wakened afresh. The child
was beside herself. One wild wish for a hiding-place was the most pressing
thought,—to be where tears could burst and her heart could break unseen.
She slid off her bench and rushed through the crowd to the red curtain that
cut off the far end of the saloon; and from there down to the cabin below,—people
were everywhere. At last she spied a nook where she could be completely hidden.
It was in the far-back end of the boat, just under the stairs by which she
had come down. Nobody was sitting on the three or four large mahogany steps
that ran round that end of the cabin and sloped up to the little cabin window;
and creeping beneath the stairs, and seating herself on the lowest of these
steps, the poor child found that she was quite screened and out of sight of
every human creature. It was time indeed; her heart had been almost bursting
with passion and pain, and now the pent-up tempest broke forth with a fury that racked her little frame from head to foot; and the more because she strove to stifle every sound of it as much as possible. It was the very bitterness of sorrow, without any softening thought to allay it, and sharpened and made more bitter by mortification and a passionate sense of unkindness and wrong. And through it all, how constantly in her heart the poor child was reaching forth longing arms toward her far-off mother, and calling in secret on her beloved name. "Oh, mamma! mamma!" was repeated numberless times, with the unspeakable bitterness of knowing that she would have been a sure refuge and protection from all this trouble, but was now where she could neither reach nor hear her. Alas! how soon and how sadly missed. Ellen's distress was not soon quieted, or, if quieted for a moment, it was only to break out afresh. And then she was glad to sit still and rest herself. Presently she heard the voice of the chambermaid up stairs, at a distance at first, and coming nearer and nearer. "Breakfast ready, ladies—Ladies, breakfast ready!" and then came all the people in a rush, pouring down the stairs over Ellen's head. She kept quite still and close, for she did not want to see any body, and could not bear that any body should see her. Nobody did see her; they all went off into the next cabin, where breakfast was set. Ellen began to grow tired of her hiding-place and to feel restless in her confinement; she thought this would be a good time to get away; so she crept from her station under the stairs and mounted them as quick and as quietly as she could. She found almost nobody left in the saloon,—and breathing more freely, she possessed herself of her despised bonnet, which she had torn off her head in the first burst of her indignation, and passing gently out at the door, went up the stairs which led to the promenade deck;—she felt as if she could not get far enough from Mrs. Dunscombe. The promenade deck was very pleasant in the bright morning sun; and nobody
was there except a few gentlemen. Ellen sat down on one of the settees that
were ranged along the middle of it, and, much pleased at having found herself
such a nice place of retreat, she once more took up her interrupted amusement of watching the banks of the river. It was a fair, mild day, near the end of October, and one of the loveliest of that lovely month. Poor Ellen, however, could not fairly enjoy it just now. There was enough darkness in her heart to put a veil over all nature's brightness. The thought did pass through her mind when she first went up, how very fair every thing was;—but she soon forgot to think about it at all. They were now in a wide part of the river; and the shore toward which she was looking was low and distant, and offered nothing to interest her. She ceased to look at it, and presently lost all sense of every thing around and before her, for her thoughts went home. She remembered that sweet moment last night when she lay in her mother's arms, after she had stopped singing, could it be only last night? it seemed a long, long time ago. She went over again in imagination her shocked waking up that very morning,—how cruel that was!—her hurried dressing,—the miserable parting,—and those last words of her mother, that seemed to ring in her ears yet. "That home where parting cannot be." "Oh," thought Ellen, "how shall I ever get there? who is there to teach me now? Oh, what shall I do without you? Oh, mamma! how much I want you already!" While poor Ellen was thinking these things over and over, her little face
had a deep sadness of expression it was sorrowful to see. She was perfectly
calm; her violent excitement had all left her; her lip quivered a very little
sometimes, but that was all; and one or two tears rolled slowly down the side
of her face. Her eyes were fixed upon the dancing water, but it was very
plain her thoughts were not, nor on any thing else before her; and there was
a forlorn look of hopeless sorrow on her lip and cheek and brow, enough to
move any body whose heart was not very hard. She was noticed, and with a
feeling of compassion, by several people; but they all thought it was none
of their business to speak to her, or they didn't know how. At length, a
gentleman who had been for some time walking up and down the deck, happened
to look, as he passed, at her little pale face. He went to the end of his
walk that time, but in coming back he stopped just in front of her, and bending down his face toward hers, said, "What is the matter with you, my little friend?" Though his figure had passed before her a great many times Ellen had not seen him at all; for "her eyes were with her heart, and that was far away." Her cheek flushed with surprise as she looked up. But there was no mistaking the look of kindness in the eyes that met hers, nor the gentleness and grave truthfulness of the whole countenance. It won her confidence immediately. All the floodgates of Ellen's heart were at once opened. She could not speak, but rising and clasping the hand that was held out to her in both her own, she bent down her head upon it, and burst into one of those uncontrollable agonies of weeping, such as the news of her mother's intended departure had occasioned that first sorrowful evening. He gently, and as soon as he could, drew her to a retired part of the deck where they were comparatively free from other people's eyes and ears; then taking her in his arms he endeavoured by many kind and soothing words to stay the torrent of her grief. This fit of weeping did Ellen more good than the former one; that only exhausted, this in some little measure relieved her. "What is all this about?" said her friend kindly. "Nay, never mind shedding any more tears about it, my child. Let me hear what it is; and perhaps we can find some help for it." "Oh, no you can't, sir," said Ellen sadly. "Well, let us see," said he,—"perhaps I can. What is it that has troubled you so much?" "I have lost my mother, sir," said Ellen. "Your mother! Lost her!—how?" "She is very ill, sir, and obliged to go away over the sea to France to get well; and papa could not take me with her," said poor Ellen, weeping again, "and I am obliged to go to be among strangers. Oh, what shall I do?" "Have you left your mother in the city?" "Oh, yes, sir! I left her this morning." "What is your name?" "Ellen Montgomery." "Is your mother obliged to go to Europe for her health?" "Oh, yes, sir; nothing else would have made her go, but the doctor said she would not live long if she didn't go, and that would cure her." "Then you hope to see her come back by and by, don't you?" "Oh, yes, sir; but it won't be this great, great, long while; it seems to me as if it was for ever." "Ellen, do you know who it is that sends sickness and trouble upon us?" "Yes, sir, I know; but I don't feel that that makes it any easier." "Do you know why he sends it? He is the God of love,—he does not trouble us willingly,—he has said so;—why does he ever make us suffer? do you know?" "No, sir." "Sometimes he sees that if he lets them alone, his children will love some dear thing on the earth better than himself, and he knows they will not be happy if they do so; and then, because he loves them, he takes it away,—perhaps it is a dear mother, or a dear daughter,—or else he hinders their enjoyment of it; that they may remember him, and give their whole hearts to him. He wants their whole hearts, that he may bless them. Are you one of his children, Ellen?" "No, sir," said Ellen, with swimming eyes, but cast down to the ground. "How do you know that you are not?" "Because I do not love the Saviour." "Do you not love him, Ellen?" "I am afraid not, sir." "Why are you afraid not? what makes you think so?" "Mamma said I could not love him at all if I did not love him best; and oh, sir," said Ellen weeping, "I do love mamma a great deal better." "You love your mother better than you do the Saviour?" "Oh, yes, sir," said Ellen; "how can I help it?" "Then if he had left you your mother, Ellen, you would never have cared or thought about him?" Ellen was silent. "Is it so?—would you, do you think?" "I don't know, sir," said Ellen, weeping again,—"oh, sir, how can I help it?" "Then Ellen, can you not see the love of your Heavenly Father in this trial? He saw that his little child was in danger of forgetting him, and he loved you, Ellen; and so he has taken your dear mother, and sent you away where you will have no one to look to but him; and now he says to you, 'My daughter, give me thy heart.'—Will you do it, Ellen?" Ellen wept exceedingly while the gentleman was saying these words, clasping his hands still in both hers; but she made no answer. He waited till she had become calmer, and then went on in a low tone,— "What is the reason that you do not love the Saviour, my child?" "Mamma says it is because my heart is so hard." "That is true; but you do not know how good and how lovely he is, or you could not help loving him. Do you often think of him, and think much of him, and ask him to show you himself that you may love him?" "No, sir," said Ellen,—"not often." "You pray to him, don't you?" "Yes, sir; but not so." "But you ought to pray to him so. We are all blind by nature, Ellen;—we are all hard-hearted; none of us can see him or love him unless he opens our eyes and touches our hearts; but he has promised to do this for those that seek him. Do you remember what the blind man said when Jesus asked him what he should do for him?—he answered, 'Lord, that I may receive my sight!' That ought to be your prayer now, and mine too; and the Lord is just as ready to hear us as he was to hear the poor blind man; and you know he cured him. Will you ask him, Ellen?" A smile was almost struggling through Ellen's tears as she lifted her face to that of her friend, but she instantly looked down again. "Shall I put you in mind, Ellen, of some things about Christ that ought to make you love him with all your heart?" "Oh, yes, sir! if you please." "Then tell me first what it is that makes you love your mother so much?" "Oh, I can't tell you, sir;—every thing, I think." "I suppose the great thing is that she loves you so much?" "Oh, yes, sir," said Ellen strongly. "But how do you know that she loves you? how has she shown it?" Ellen looked at him, but could give no answer; it seemed to her that she must bring the whole experience of her life before him to form one. "I suppose," said her friend, "that, to begin with the smallest thing, she has always been watchfully careful to provide every thing that would be useful or necessary for you:—she never forgot your wants, or was careless about them?" "No indeed, sir." "And perhaps you recollect that she never minded trouble or expense or pain where your good was concerned;—she would sacrifice her own pleasure at any time for yours?" Ellen's eyes gave a quick and strong answer to this, but she said nothing. "And in all your griefs and pleasures you were sure of finding her ready and willing to feel with you and for you, and to help you if she could? And in all the times you have seen her tried, no fatigue ever wore out her patience, nor any naughtiness of yours ever lessened her love; she could not be weary of waiting upon you when you were sick, nor of bearing with you when you forgot your duty,—more ready always to receive you than you to return. Isn't it so?" "Oh, yes, sir." "And you can recollect a great many words and looks of kindness and love—many and many endeavours to teach you and lead you in the right way—all showing the strongest desire for your happiness in this world, and in the next?" "Oh, yes, sir," said Ellen tearfully; and then added, "do you know my mother, sir?" "No," said he, smiling, "not at all; but my own mother has been in many things like this to me, and I judged yours might have been such to you. Have I described her right?" "Yes indeed, sir," said Ellen;—"exactly." "And in return for all this, you have given this dear mother the love and gratitude of your whole heart, haven't you?" "Indeed I have, sir"; and Ellen's face said it more than her words. "You are very right," he said gravely, "to love such a mother—to give her all possible duty and affection;—she deserves it. But, Ellen, in all these very things I have been mentioning, Jesus Christ has shown that he deserves it far more. Do you think, if you had never behaved like a child to your mother—if you had never made her the least return of love or regard—that she would have continued to love you as she does?" "No, sir," said Ellen,—"I do not think she would." "Have you ever made any fit return to God for his goodness to you?" "No, sir," said Ellen, in a low tone. "And yet there has been no change in his kindness. Just look at it, and see what he has done and is doing for you. In the first place, it is not your mother, but he, who has given you every good and pleasant thing you have enjoyed in your whole life. You love your mother because she is so careful to provide for all your wants; but who gave her the materials to work with? she has only been, as it were, the hand by which he supplied you. And who gave you such a mother?—there are many mothers not like her;—who put into her heart the truth and love that have been blessing you ever since you were born? It is all—all God's doing, from first to last; but his child has forgotten him in the very gifts of his mercy." Ellen was silent, but looked very grave. "Your mother never minded her own ease or pleasure when your good was concerned. Did Christ mind his? You know what he did to save sinners, don't you?" "Yes, sir, I know; mamma often told me." "'Though he was rich, yet for our sake he became poor, that we through
his poverty might be rich.' He took your burden of sin upon himself, and
suffered that terrible punishment—all to save you, and such as you. And
now he asks his children to leave off sinning and come back to him who has
bought them with his own blood. He did this because he loved you; does he not deserve to be loved in return?" Ellen had nothing to say; she hung down her head further and further. "And patient and kind as your mother is, the Lord Jesus is kinder and more patient still. In all your life so far, Ellen, you have not loved or obeyed him; and yet he loves you, and is ready to be your friend. Is he not even to-day taking away your dear mother for the very purpose that he may draw you gently to himself and fold you in his arms, as he has promised to do with his lambs? He knows you can never be happy anywhere else." The gentleman paused again, for he saw that the little listener's mind was full. "Has not Christ shown that he loves you better even than your mother does? And were there ever sweeter words of kindness than these?— "'Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of heaven.' "'I am the good shepherd; the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep.' "'I have loved thee with an everlasting love; therefore with loving kindness have I drawn thee.'" He waited a minute, and then added, gently, "Will you come to him, Ellen?" Ellen lifted her tearful eyes to his; but there were tears there too, and her own sank instantly. She covered her face with her hands, and sobbed out in broken words, "Oh, if I could—but I don't know how." "Do you wish to be his child, Ellen?" "Oh, yes, sir—if I could." "I know, my child, that sinful heart of yours is in the way, but the Lord Jesus can change it, and will, if you will give it to him. He is looking upon you now, Ellen, with more kindness and love than any earthly father or mother could, waiting for you to give that little heart of yours to him, that he may make it holy and fill it with blessing. He says, you know, 'Behold I stand at the door and knock.' Do not grieve him away, Ellen." Ellen sobbed, but all the passion and bitterness of her tears was gone.
Her heart was completely melted. "If your mother were here, and could do for you what you want, would you doubt her love to do it? would you have any difficulty in asking her?" "Oh, no!" "Then do not doubt his love who loves you better still. Come to Jesus. Do not fancy he is away up in heaven out of reach of hearing—he is here, close to you, and knows every wish and throb of your heart. Think you are in his presence and at his feet,—even now,—and say to him in your heart, 'Lord, look upon me—I am not fit to come to thee, but thou hast bid me come—take me and make me thine own—take this hard heart that I can do nothing with, and make it holy and fill it with thy love—I give it and myself into thy hands, oh, dear Saviour!'" These words were spoken very low, that only Ellen could catch them. Her bowed head sank lower and lower till he ceased speaking. He added no more for some time waited till she had resumed her usual attitude and appearance, and then said,— "Ellen, could you join in heart with my words?" "I did, sir,—I couldn't help it, all but the last." "All but the last?" "Yes, sir." "But, Ellen, if you say the first part of my prayer with your whole heart, the Lord will enable you to say the last too,—do you believe that?" "Yes, sir." "Will you not make that your constant prayer till you are heard and answered?" "Yes, sir." And he thought he saw that she was in earnest. "Perhaps the answer may not come at once,—it does not always;—but it will come as surely as the sun will rise to-morrow morning. 'Then shall we know, if we follow on to know the Lord.' But then you must be in earnest. And if you are in earnest, is there nothing you have to do besides praying? " Ellen looked at him without making any answer. "When a person is in earnest, how does he show it?" "By doing every thing he possibly can to get what he wants." "Quite right," said her friend, smiling;—"and has God bidden us to do nothing besides pray for a new heart?" "Oh, yes, sir,—he has told us to do a great many things." "And will he be likely to grant that prayer, Ellen, if he sees that you do not care about displeasing him in those 'great many things?'—will he judge that you are sincere in wishing for a new heart?" "Oh, no, sir." "Then if you are resolved to be a Christian, you will not be contented with praying for a new heart, but you will begin at once to be a servant of God. You can do nothing well without help, but you are sure the help will come; and from this good day you will seek to know and to do the will of God, trusting in his dear Son to perfect that which concerneth you.—My little child," said the gentleman softly and kindly, "are you ready to say you will do this?" As she hesitated, he took a little book from his pocket, and turning over the leaves, said, "I am going to leave you for a little while—I have a few moments' business down stairs to attend to; and I want you to look over this hymn and think carefully of what I have been saying, will you?—and resolve what you will do." Ellen got off his knee, where she had been sitting all this while, and silently taking the book, sat down in the chair he had quitted. Tears ran fast again, and many thoughts passed through her mind, as her eyes went over and over the words to which he had pointed: "Behold the Saviour at thy door, The last two lines Ellen longed to say, but could not; the two preceding were the very speech of her heart. Not more than fifteen minutes had passed when her friend came back again. The book hung in Ellen's hand; her eyes were fixed on the floor. "Well," he said kindly, and taking her hand, "what's your decision?" Ellen looked up. "Have you made up your mind on that matter we were talking about?" "Yes, sir," Ellen said in a low voice, casting her eyes down again. "And how have you decided, my child?" "I will try to do as you said, sir." "You will begin to follow your Saviour, and to please him, from this day forward?" "I will try, sir," said Ellen, meeting his eyes as she spoke. Again the look she saw made her burst into tears. She wept violently. "God bless you and help you, my dear Ellen," said he, gently passing his hand over her head;—" but do not cry any more—you have shed too many tears this morning already. We will not talk about this any more now." And he spoke only soothing and quieting words for a while to her; and then asked if she would like to go over the boat and see the different parts of it. Ellen's joyful agreement with this proposal was only qualified by the fear of giving him trouble. But he put that entirely by. |
CHAPTER VIII.
Time and the hour run through the roughest day. THE going over the boat held them a long time, for Ellen's new friend took kind pains to explain to her whatever he thought he could make interesting; he was amused to find how far she pushed her inquiries into the how and the why of things. For the time her sorrows were almost forgotten. "What shall we do now?" said he, when they had at last gone through the whole;—"would you like to go to your friends?" "I haven't any friends on board, sir," said Ellen, with a swelling heart. "Haven't any friends on board! what do you mean? Are you alone?" "No, sir," said Ellen,—"not exactly alone; my father put me in the care of a lady that is going to Thirlwall;—but they are strangers and not friends." "Are they unfriends? I hope you don't think, Ellen, that strangers cannot be friends too?" "No, indeed, sir, I don't," said Ellen, looking up with a face that was fairly brilliant with its expression of gratitude and love. But casting it down again, she added, "But they are not my friends, sir." "Well then," he said smiling, "will you come with me?" "Oh, yes, sir! if you will let me,—and if I shan't be a trouble to you, sir." "Come this way," said he, "and we'll see if we cannot find a nice place to sit down, where no one will trouble us." Such a place was found. And Ellen would have been quite satisfied though
the gentleman had done no more than merely permit her to remain there by his side; but he took out his little Bible, and read and talked to her for some time, so pleasantly that neither her weariness nor the way could be thought of. When he ceased reading to her and began to read to himself, weariness and faintness stole over her. She had had nothing to eat, and had been violently excited that day. A little while she sat in a dreamy sort of quietude,—then her thoughts grew misty,—and the end of it was, she dropped her head against the arm of her friend and fell fast asleep. He smiled at first, but one look at the very pale little face changed the expression of his own. He gently put his arm round her and drew her head to a better resting-place than it had chosen. And there she slept till the dinner-bell rang. Timmins was sent out to look for her, but Timmins did not choose to meddle with the grave protector Ellen seemed to have gained; and Mrs. Dunscombe declared herself rejoiced that any other hands should have taken the charge of her. After dinner, Ellen and her friend went up to the promenade deck again, and there for a while they paced up and down, enjoying the pleasant air and quick motion, and the lovely appearance of every thing in the mild hazy sunlight. Another gentleman however joining them, and entering into conversation, Ellen silently quitted her friend's hand and went and sat down at the side of the boat. After taking a few turns more, and while still engaged in talking, he drew his little hymn-book out of his pocket, and with a smile put it into Ellen's hand as he passed. She gladly received it, and spent an hour or more very pleasantly in studying and turning it over. At the end of that time, the stranger having left him, Ellen's friend came and sat down by her side. "How do you like my little book?" said he. "Oh, very much indeed, sir." "Then you love hymns, do you?" "Yes I do, sir, dearly." "Do you sometimes learn them by heart?" "Oh yes, sir, often. Mamma often made me. I have learnt two since I have been sitting here." "Have you?" said he;—"which are they?" "One of them is the one you showed me this morning, sir." "And what is your mind now about the question I asked you this morning?" Ellen cast down her eyes from his inquiring glance, and answered in a low tone, "Just what it was then, sir." "Have you been thinking of it since?" "I have thought of it the whole time, sir." "And are you resolved you will obey Christ henceforth?" "I am resolved to try, sir." "My dear Ellen, if you are in earnest you will not try in vain. He never yet failed any that sincerely sought him. Have you a Bible?" "Oh, yes sir! a beautiful one; mamma gave it to me the other day." He took the hymn-book from her hand, and turning over the leaves, marked several places in pencil. "I am going to give you this," he said, "that it may serve to remind you of what we have talked of to-day, and of your resolution." Ellen flushed high with pleasure. "I have put this mark," said he, showing her a particular one, "in a few places of this book, for you; wherever you find it, you may know there is something I want you to take special notice of. There are some other marks here too, but they are mine: these are for you." "Thank you, sir," said Ellen, delighted: "I shall not forget." He knew from her face what she meant;—not the marks. The day wore on, thanks to the unwearied kindness of her friend, with great comparative comfort to Ellen. Late in the afternoon they were resting from a long walk up and down the deck. "What have you got in this package that you take such care of?" said he, smiling. "Oh! candies," said Ellen; "I am always forgetting them. I meant to ask you to take some. Will you have some, sir?" "Thank you. What are they?" "Almost all kinds, I believe, sir; I think the almonds are the best." He took one. "Pray take some more, sir," said Ellen;—"I don't care for them in the least." "Then I am more of a child than you,—in this at any rate,—for I do care for them. But I have a little headache to-day; I mustn't meddle with sweets." "Then take some for to-morrow, sir;—please do!" said Ellen, dealing them out very freely. "Stop, stop!" said he,—"not a bit more; this won't do,—I must put some of these back again; you'll want them to-morrow too." "I don't think I shall," said Ellen;—"I haven't wanted to touch them to-day." "Oh, you'll feel brighter to-morrow, after a night's sleep. But aren't you afraid of catching cold? This wind is blowing pretty fresh, and you've been bonnetless all day;—what's the reason?" Ellen looked down, and coloured a good deal. "What's the matter?" said he laughing; "has any mischief befallen your bonnet?" "No, sir," said Ellen in a low tone, her colour mounting higher and higher;—"it was laughed at this morning." "Laughed at!—who laughed at it?" "Mrs. Dunscombe and her daughter, and her maid." "Did they! I don't see much reason in that, I confess. What did they think was the matter with it?" "I don't know, sir;—they said it was outlandish, and what a figure I looked in it." "Well, certainly that was not very polite. Put it on and let me see." Ellen obeyed. "I am not the best judge of ladies' bonnets, it is true," said he, "but I can see nothing about it that is not perfectly proper and suitable,—nothing in the world! So that is what has kept you bareheaded all day? Didn't your mother wish you to wear that bonnet?" "Yes, sir." "Then that ought to be enough for you. Will you be ashamed of what she approved, because some people that haven't probably
half her sense choose to make merry with it?—is that right?" he said gently. "Is that honouring her as she deserves?" "No, sir," said Ellen, looking up into his face, "but I never thought of that before;—I am sorry." "Never mind being laughed at, my child. If your mother says a thing is right, that's enough for you—let them laugh!" "I won't be ashamed of my bonnet any more," said Ellen, trying it on; "but they made me very unhappy about it, and very angry too." "I am sorry for that," said her friend, gravely. "Have you quite got over it, Ellen?" "Oh yes, sir,—long ago." "Are you sure?" "I am not angry now, sir." "Is there no unkindness left toward the people who laughed at you?" "I don't like them much," said Ellen;—"how can I?" "You cannot of course like the company of ill-behaved people, and I do not wish that you should; but you can and ought to feel just as kindly disposed toward them as if they had never offended you—just as willing and inclined to please them or do them good. Now, could you offer Miss what's her name?—some of your candies with as hearty goodwill as you could before she laughed at you?" "No, sir, I couldn't. I don't feel as if I ever wished to see them again." "Then, my dear Ellen, you have something to do, if you were in earnest in the resolve you made this morning. 'If ye forgive unto men their trespasses, my Heavenly Father will also forgive you; but if you forgive not men their trespasses, neither will my father forgive your trespasses!'" He was silent, and so was Ellen, for some time. His words had raised a
struggle in her mind; and she kept her face turned toward the shore, so that
her bonnet shielded it from view; but she did not in the least know what she
was looking at. The sun had been some time descending through a sky of cloudless
splendour, and now was just kissing the mountain-tops of the western horizon.
Slowly and with great majesty he sank behind the distant blue line, till only
a glittering edge appeared,—and then that was gone. There were no clouds hanging over his setting, to be gilded and purpled by the parting rays, but a region of glory long remained, to show where his path had been. The eyes of both were fixed upon this beautiful scene, but only one was thinking of it. Just as the last glimpse of the sun had disappeared Ellen turned her face, bright again, toward her companion. He was intently gazing toward the hills that had so drawn Ellen's attention a while ago, and thinking still more intently, it was plain; so though her mouth had been open to speak, she turned her face away again as suddenly as it had just sought his. He saw the motion, however. "What is it, Ellen?" he said. Ellen looked again with a smile. "I have been thinking, sir, of what you said to me." "Well?" said he, smiling in answer. "I can't like Mrs. Dunscombe and Miss Dunscombe as well as if they hadn't done so to me, but I will try to behave as if nothing had been the matter, and be as kind and polite to them as if they had been kind and polite to me." "And how about the sugar-plums?" "The sugar-plums! Oh," said Ellen, laughing, "Miss Margaret may have them all if she likes—I'm quite willing. Not but I had rather give them to you, sir." "You give me something a great deal better when I see you try to overcome a wrong feeling. You mustn't rest till you get rid of every bit of ill-will that you feel for this and any other unkindness you may suffer. You cannot do it yourself, but you know who can help you. I hope you have asked him, Ellen?" "I have sir, indeed." "Keep asking him, and he will do everything for you." A silence of some length followed. Ellen began to feel very much the fatigue of this exciting day, and sat quietly by her friend's side, leaning against him. The wind had changed about sundown, and now blew light from the south, so that they did not feel it all. The light gradually faded away, till only a silver glow in the west showed
where the sun had set, and the sober grey of twilight was gently stealing
over all the bright colours of sky, and river, and hill; now and then a twinkling light began to appear along the shores. "You are very tired," said Ellen's friend to her,—"I see you are. A little more patience, my child;—we shall be at our journey's end before a very great while." "I am almost sorry," said Ellen, "though I am tired. We don't go in the steamboat to-morrow; do we, sir?" "No,—in the stage." "Shall you be in the stage, sir?" "No, my child. But I am glad you and I have spent this day together." "Oh, sir!" said Ellen, "I don't know what I should have done if it hadn't been for you!" There was silence again, and the gentleman almost thought his little charge had fallen asleep, she sat so still. But she suddenly spoke again, and in a tone of voice that showed sleep was far away. "I wish I knew where mamma is now!" "I do not doubt, my child, from what you told me, that it is well with her wherever she is. Let that thought comfort you whenever you remember her." "She must want me so much," said poor Ellen, in a scarcely audible voice. "She has not lost her best friend, my child." "I know it, sir," said Ellen, with whom grief was now getting the mastery;—"but oh! it's just near the time when I used to make the tea for her—who'll make it now? she'll want me,—oh, what shall I do!" and overcome completely by this recollection, she threw herself into her friend's arms, and sobbed aloud. There was no reasoning against this. He did not attempt it; but with the
utmost gentleness and tenderness endeavoured, as soon as he might, to soothe
and calm her. He succeeded at last; with a sort of despairing submission,
Ellen ceased her tears, and arose to her former position. But he did not rest
from his kind endeavours till her mind was really eased and comforted; which,
however, was not long before the lights of the city began to appear in the
distance. And with them appeared a dusky figure ascending the stairs, which,
upon nearer approach, proved by the voice to be Timmins. "Is this Miss Montgomery?" said she;—"I can't see, I am sure, it's so dark. Is that you, Miss Montgomery?" "Yes," said Ellen, "it is I; do you want me?" "If you please, miss, Mrs. Dunscombe wants you to come right down; we're almost in, she says, miss." "I'll come directly, Miss Timmins," said Ellen. Don't wait for me,—I won't be a minute,—I'll come directly." Miss Timmins retired, standing still a good deal in awe of the grave personage whose protection Ellen seemed to have gained. "I must go," said Ellen, standing up and extending her hand;—"Good-by, sir." She could hardly say it. He drew her toward him and kissed her cheek once or twice; it was well he did; for it sent a thrill of pleasure to Ellen's heart that she did not get over that evening, nor all the next day. "God bless you, my child," he said gravely, but cheerfully; "and good-night!—you will feel better I trust when you have had some rest and refreshment." He took care of her down the stairs, and saw her safe to the very door of the saloon, and within it; and there again took her hand and kindly bade her good-night! Ellen entered the saloon only to sit down and cry as if her heart would break. She saw and heard nothing till Mrs. Dunscombe's voice bade her make haste and be ready, for they were going ashore in five minutes. And in less than five minutes ashore they went. "Which hotel, ma'am?" asked the servant who carried her baggage,—"the Eagle, or Foster's?" "The Eagle," said Mrs. Dunscombe. "Come this way, then, ma'am," said another man, the driver of the Eagle carriage,—"Now, ma'am, step in if you please." Mrs. Dunscombe put her daughter in. "But it's full!" said she to the driver; "there isn't room for another one." "Oh, yes, ma'am, there is," said the driver, holding the door open; "there's plenty of room for you, ma'am,—just get in, ma'am, if you please,—we'll be there in less than two minutes." "Timmins, you'll have to walk," said Mrs. Dunscombe. "Miss Montgomery, would you rather ride, or walk with Timmins?" "How far is it, ma'am?" said Ellen. "Oh, bless me! how can I tell how far it is? I don't know, I am sure,—not far;—say quick,—would you rather walk or ride?" "I would rather walk, ma'am, if you please," said Ellen. "Very well," said Mrs. Dunscombe, getting in;—"Timmins, you know the way." And off went the coach with its load; but tired as she was, Ellen did not wish herself along. Picking a passage-way out of the crowd, she and Timmins now began to make their way up one of the comparatively quiet streets. It was a strange place—that she felt. She had lived long enough in the place she had left to feel at home there; but here she came to no street or crossing that she had ever seen before; nothing looked familiar; all reminded her that she was a traveller. Only one pleasant thing Ellen saw on her walk, and that was the sky; and that looked just as it did at home; and very often Ellen's gaze was fixed upon it, much to the astonishment of Miss Timmins, who had to be not a little watchful for the safety of Ellen's feet while her eyes were thus employed. She had taken a great fancy to Ellen, however, and let her do as she pleased, keeping all her wonderment to herself. "Take care, Miss Ellen!" cried Timmins, giving her arm a great pull,—"I declare I just saved you out of that gutter! poor child! you are dreadfully tired, ain't you?" "Yes, I am very tired, Miss Timmins," said Ellen; "have we much farther to go?" "Not a great deal, dear; cheer up! we are almost there. I hope Mrs. Dunscombe will want to ride one of these days herself, and can't." "Oh, don't say so, Miss Timmins," said Ellen,—"I don't wish so, indeed." "Well, I should think you would," said Timmins,—"I should think you'd be fit to poison her;—I should, I know, if I was in your place." "Oh, no," said Ellen, "that wouldn't be right;—that would be very wrong."
"Wrong!" said Timmins,—"why would it be wrong? she hasn't behaved good to you." "Yes," said Ellen,—"but don't you know the Bible says if we do not forgive people what they do to us, we shall not be forgiven ourselves?" "Well, I declare!" said Miss Timmins, "you beat all! But here's the Eagle hotel at last,—and I am glad for your sake, dear." Ellen was shown into the ladies' parlour. She was longing for a place to rest, but she saw directly it was not to be there. The room was large, and barely furnished; and round it were scattered part of the carriage-load of people that had arrived a quarter of an hour before her. They were waiting till their rooms should be ready. Ellen silently found herself a chair and sat down to wait with the rest, as patiently as she might. Few of them had as much cause for impatience; but she was the only perfectly mute and uncomplaining one there. Her two companions however between them, fully made up her share of fretting. At length a servant brought the welcome news that their room was ready, and the three marched up stairs. It made Ellen's heart very glad when they got there, to find a good-sized, cheerful-looking bed-room, comfortably furnished, with a bright fire burning, large curtains let down to the floor, and a nice warm carpet upon it. Taking off her bonnet, and only that, she sat down on a low cushion by the corner of the fire-place, and leaning her head against the jamb, fell asleep almost immediately. Mrs. Dunscombe set about arranging herself for the tea-table. "Well!" she said,—"one day of this precious journey is over!" "Does Ellen go with us to-morrow, mamma?" "Oh, yes!—quite to Thirlwall." "Well, you haven't had much plague with her to-day, mamma." "No—I am sure I am much obliged to whoever has kept her out of my way." "Where is she going to sleep to-night?" asked Miss Margaret. "I don't know, I am sure.—I suppose I shall have to have a cot brought
in here for her." "What a plague!" said Miss Margaret. "It will lumber up the room so! There's no place to put it. Couldn't she sleep with Timmins?" "Oh, she could, of course—just as well as not, only people would make such a fuss about it;—it wouldn't do; we must bear it for once. I'll try and not be caught in such a scrape again." "How provoking!" said Miss Margaret; "how came father to do so without asking you about it?" "Oh, he was bewitched, I suppose,—men always are. Look here, Margaret,—I can't go down to tea with a train of children at my heels,—I shall leave you and Ellen up here, and I'll send up your tea to you." "Oh, no, mamma!" said Margaret eagerly; "I want to go down with you. Look here, mamma! she's asleep and you needn't wake her up—that's excuse enough; you can leave her to have her tea up here, and let me go down with you." "Well," said Mrs. Dunscombe,—"I don't care—but make haste to get ready, for I expect every minute when the tea-bell will ring." "Timmins! Timmins!" cried Margaret,—"come here and fix me—quick!—and step softly, will you?—or you'll wake that young one up, and then, you see, I shall have to stay up stairs." This did not happen, however. Ellen's sleep was much too deep to be easily
disturbed. The tea-bell itself, loud and shrill as it was, did not even make
her eyelids tremble. After Mrs. and Miss Dunscombe were gone down, Timmins
employed herself a little while in putting all things about the room to rights;
and then sat down to take her rest, dividing her attention
between the fire and Ellen, toward whom she seemed to feel more and more kindness,
as she saw that she was likely to receive it from no one else. Presently came
a knock at the door;—"The tea for the young lady," on a waiter. Miss Timmins
silently took the tray from the man, and shut the door. "Well!" said she to
herself,—"if that ain't a pretty supper to send up to a child that has gone
two hundred miles to-day, and had no breakfast!—a cup of tea, cold enough,
I'll warrant,—bread and butter enough for a bird,—and two little slices
of ham as thick as a wafer!—well, I just wish Mrs. Dunscombe had to eat it herself, and nothing else!—I'm not going to wake her up for that, I know, till I see whether something better ain't to be had for love or money. So just you sleep on, darling, till I see what I can do for you." In great indignation, down stairs went Miss Timmins; and at the foot of the stairs she met a rosy-cheeked, pleasant-faced girl coming up. "Are you the chambermaid?" said Timmins. "I'm one of the chambermaids," said the girl, smiling; "there's three of us in this house, dear." "Well, I am a stranger here," said Timmins, "but I want you to help me, and I am sure you will. I've got a dear little girl up stairs that I want some supper for—she's a sweet child, and she's under the care of some proud folks here in the tea-room that think it's too much trouble to look at her; and they've sent her up about supper enough for a mouse,—and she's half-starving; she lost her breakfast this morning by their ugliness. Now ask one of the waiters to give me something nice for her, will you?—there's a good girl." "James!"—said the girl in a loud whisper to one of the waiters who was crossing the hall. He instantly stopped and came toward them, tray in hand, and making several extra polite bows as he drew near. "What's on the supper-table, James?" said the smiling damsel. "Every thing that ought to be there, Miss Johns," said the man with another flourish. "Come, stop your nonsense," said the girl, "and tell me quick—I'm in a hurry." "It's a pleasure to perform your commands, Miss Johns. I'll give you the whole bill of fare. There's a very fine beefsteak, fricasseed chickens, stewed oysters, sliced ham, cheese, preserved quinces,—with the usual complement of bread and toast and muffins, and doughnuts, and new-year cake, and plenty of butter,—likewise salt and pepper,—likewise tea and coffee and sugar,—likewise—" "Hush!" said the girl. "Do stop, will you?"—and then laughing and turning
to Miss Timmins, she added, "What will you have?" "I guess I'll have some of the chickens and oysters," said Timmins; "that will be the nicest for her,—and a muffin or two." "Now, James, do you hear?" said the chambermaid; "I want you to get me now, right away, a nice little supper of chickens and oysters and a muffin—it's for a lady up stairs. Be as quick as you can." "I should be very happy to execute impossibilities for you, Miss Johns, but Mrs. Custers is at the table herself." "Very well—that's nothing—she'll think it's for somebody up stairs—and so it is." "Ay, but the up-stairs people is Tim's business—I should be hauled over the coals directly." "Then ask Tim, will you? How slow you are! Now, James, if you don't, I won't speak to you again." "Till to-morrow? I couldn't stand that. It shall be done, Miss Johns, instantum." Bowing and smiling, away went James, leaving the girls giggling on the staircase and highly gratified. "He always does what I want him to," said the good-humoured chambermaid, "but he generally makes a fuss about it first. He'll be back directly with what you want." Till he came, Miss Timmins filled up the time with telling her new friend as much as she knew about Ellen and Ellen's hardships; with which Miss Johns was so much interested that she declared she must go up and see her; and when James in a few minutes returned with a tray of nice things, the two women proceeded together to Mrs. Dunscombe's room. Ellen had moved so far as to put herself on the floor, with her head on the cushion for a pillow, but she was as sound asleep as ever. "Just see now!" said Timmins; "there she lies on the floor—enough to give her her death of cold; poor child, she's tired to death; and Mrs. Dunscombe made her walk up from the steamboat to-night rather than do it herself;—I declare I wished the coach would break down, only for the other folks. I am glad I have got a good supper for her though,—thank you, Miss Johns." "And I'll tell you what, I'll go and get you some nice hot tea," said the
chambermaid, who was quite touched by the sight of Ellen's little pale face.
"Thank you," said Timmins,—"you're a darling. This is as cold as a stone." While the chambermaid went forth on her kind errand, Timmins stooped down by the little sleeper's side. "Miss Ellen!" she said;—"Miss Ellen!—wake up, dear—wake up and get some supper—come! you'll feel a great deal better for it—you shall sleep as much as you like afterwards." Slowly Ellen raised herself and opened her eyes. "Where am I?" she asked, looking bewildered. "Here, dear," said Timmins;—"wake up and eat something—it will do you good." With a sigh, poor Ellen arose and came to the fire. "You're tired to death, ain't you?" said Timmins. "Not quite," said Ellen. "I shouldn't mind that if my legs would not ache so—and my head, too." "Now I'm sorry!" said Timmins; "but your head will be better for eating, I know. See here—I've got you some nice chicken and oysters,—and I'll make this muffin hot for you by the fire; and here comes your tea. Miss Johns, I'm your servant, and I'll be your bridesmaid with the greatest pleasure in life. Now, Miss Ellen, dear, just you put yourself on that low chair, and I'll fix you off." Ellen thanked her, and did as she was told. Timmins brought another chair to her side, and placed the tray with her supper upon it, and prepared her muffin and tea; and having fairly seen Ellen begin to eat, she next took off her shoes, and seating herself on the carpet before her, she made her lap the resting place for Ellen's feet, chafing them in her hands and heating them at the fire, saying there was nothing like rubbing and roasting to get rid of the leg-ache. By the help of the supper, the fire, and Timmins, Ellen mended rapidly. With tears in her eyes, she thanked the latter for her kindness. "Now just don't say one word about that," said Timmins; "I never was famous for kindness, as I know; but people must be kind sometimes in their lives,—unless they happen to be made of stone, which I believe some people are. You feel better, don't you?" "A great deal," said Ellen. "Oh, if I only could go to bed now!" "And you shall," said Timmins. "I know about your bed, and I'll go right away and have it brought in." And away she went. While she was gone, Ellen drew from her pocket her little hymn-book to refresh herself with looking at it. How quickly and freshly it brought back to her mind the friend who had given it, and his conversations with her, and the resolve she had made; and again Ellen's whole heart offered the prayer she had repeated many times that day,— "Open my heart, Lord, enter in; Her head was still bent upon her little book when Timmins entered. Timmins was not alone; Miss Johns and a little cot bedstead came in with her. The latter was put at the foot of Mrs. Dunscombe's bed, and speedily made up by the chambermaid, while Timmins undressed Ellen; and very soon all the sorrows and vexations of the day were forgotten in a sound, refreshing sleep. But not till she had removed her little hymn-book from the pocket of her frock to a safe station under her pillow; it was with her hand upon it that Ellen went to sleep; and it was in her hand still when she was waked the next morning. The next day was spent in a wearisome stage-coach, over a rough, jolting road. Ellen's companions did nothing to make her way pleasant, but she sweetened theirs with her sugar-plums. Somewhat mollified, perhaps, after that, Miss Margaret condescended to enter into conversation with her, and Ellen underwent a thorough cross-examination as to all her own and her parents' affairs, past, present, and future, and likewise as to all that could be known of her yesterday's friend, till she was heartily worried and out of patience. It was just five o'clock when they reached her stopping-place. Ellen knew of no particular house to go to; so Mrs. Dunscombe set her down at the door of the principal inn of the town, called the "Star" of Thirlwall. The driver smacked his whip, and away went the stage again, and she was left standing alone beside her trunk before the piazza of the inn, watching Timmins, who was looking back at her out of the stage window, nodding and waving good by. |
CHAPTER XV.
An ant dropped into the water; a wood-pigeon took pity of her and threw her a little bough.—L' ESTRANGE. THE afternoon was already half spent when Mr. Van Brunt's ox-cart was seen returning. Ellen was standing by the little gate that opened on the chip-yard; and with her heart beating anxiously she watched the slow-coming oxen;—how slowly they came! At last they turned out of the lane and drew the cart up the ascent; and stopping beneath the apple tree Mr. Van Brunt leisurely got down, and flinging back his whip came to the gate. But the little face that met him there, quivering with hope and fear, made his own quite sober. "I'm really very sorry, Miss Ellen,—" he began. That was enough. Ellen waited to hear no more, but turned away, the cold chill of disappointment coming over her heart. She had borne the former delays pretty well, but this was one too many, and she felt sick. She went round to the front stoop, where scarcely ever any body came, and sitting down on the steps wept sadly and despairingly. It might have been half an hour or more after, that the kitchen door slowly opened and Ellen came in. Wishing her aunt should not see her swollen eyes, she was going quietly through to her own room when Miss Fortune called her. Ellen stopped. Miss Fortune was sitting before the fire with an open letter lying in her lap and another in her hand. The latter she held out to Ellen, saying "Here, child, come and take this." "What is it?" said Ellen, slowly coming toward her. "Don't you see what it is?" said Miss Fortune, still holding it out. "But who is it from?" said Ellen. "Your mother." "A letter from mamma, and not to me!" said Ellen with changing colour. She took it quick from her aunt's hand. But her colour changed more as her eye fell upon the first words, "My dear Ellen," and turning the paper she saw upon the back, "Miss Ellen Montgomery." Her next look was to her aunt's face, with her eye fired and her cheek paled with anger, and when she spoke her voice was not the same. "This is my letter," she said trembling;—"who opened it?" Miss Fortune's conscience must have troubled her a little, for her eye wavered uneasily. Only for a second though. "Who opened it?" she answered; "I opened it. I should like to know who has a better right. And I shall open every one that comes to serve you for looking so;—that you may depend upon." The look and the words and the injury together, fairly put Ellen beside herself. She dashed the letter to the ground, and livid and trembling with various feelings—rage was not the only one,—she ran from her aunt's presence. She did not shed any tears now; she could not; they were absolutely burnt up by passion. She walked her room with trembling steps, clasping and wringing her hands now and then, wildly thinking what could she do to get out of this dreadful state of things, and unable to see any thing but misery before her. She walked, for she could not sit down; but presently she felt that she could not breathe the air of the house; and taking her bonnet she went down, passed through the kitchen and went out. Miss Fortune asked where she was going, and bade her stay within doors, but Ellen paid no attention to her. She stood still a moment outside the little gate. She might have stood
long to look. The mellow light of an Indian-summer afternoon lay upon the
meadow and the old barn and chip-yard; there was beauty in them all under
its smile. Not a breath was stirring. The rays of the sun struggled through
the blue haze, which hung upon the hills and softened every distant object;
and the silence of nature all around was absolute, made more noticeable by
the far-off voice of somebody, it might be Mr. Van Brunt, calling to his oxen, very far off and not to be seen; the sound came softly to her ear through the stillness. "Peace," was the whisper of nature to her troubled child; but Ellen's heart was in a whirl; she could not hear the whisper. It was a relief however to be out of the house and in the sweet open air. Ellen breathed more freely, and pausing a moment there, and clasping her hands together once more in sorrow, she went down the road and out at the gate, and exchanging her quick broken step for a slow measured one, she took the way toward Thirlwall. Little regarding the loveliness which that day was upon every slope and roadside, Ellen presently quitted the Thirlwall road and half unconsciously turned into a path on the left which she had never taken before,—perhaps for that reason. It was not much travelled evidently; the grass grew green on both sides and even in the middle of the way, though here and there the track of wheels could be seen. Ellen did not care about where she was going she only found it pleasant to walk on and get further from home. The road or lane led toward a mountain somewhat to the northwest of Miss Fortune's; the same which Mr. Van Brunt had once named to Ellen as "the Nose." After three quarters of an hour the road began gently to ascend the mountain, rising toward the north. About one-third of the way from the bottom Ellen came to a little foot-path on the left which allured her by its promise of prettiness, and she forsook the lane for it. The promise was abundantly fulfilled; it was a most lovely wild woodway path; but withal not a little steep and rocky. Ellen began to grow weary. The lane went on toward the north; the path rather led off toward the southern edge of the mountain, rising all the while; but before she reached that Ellen came to what she thought a good resting-place, where the path opened upon a small level platform or ledge of the hill. The mountain rose steep behind her, and sank very steep immediately before her, leaving a very superb view of the open country from the northeast to the southeast. Carpeted with moss, and furnished with fallen stones and pieces of rock, this was a fine resting-place for the wayfarer, or loitering place for the lover of nature. Ellen seated herself on one of the stones, and looked sadly and wearily toward the east, at first very careless of the exceeding beauty of what she beheld there. For miles and miles, on every side but the west, lay stretched before her a beautifully broken country. The November haze hung over it now like a thin veil, giving great sweetness and softness to the scene. Far in the distance a range of low hills showed like a misty cloud; near by, at the mountain's foot, the fields and farm-houses and roads lay a pictured map. About a mile and a half to the south rose the mountain where Nancy Vawse lived, craggy and bare; but the leafless trees and stern jagged rooks were wrapped in the haze; and through this the sun, now near the setting, threw his mellowing rays, touching every slope and ridge with a rich warm glow. Poor Ellen did not heed the picturesque effect of all this, yet the sweet influences of nature reached her, and softened while they increased her sorrow. She felt her own heart sadly out of tune with the peace and loveliness of all she saw. Her eye sought those distant hills,—how very far off they were! and yet all that wide tract of country was but a little piece of what lay between her and her mother. Her eye sought those hills,—but her mind overpassed them and went far beyond, over many such a tract, till it reached the loved one at last. But oh! how much between! "I cannot reach her!—she cannot reach me!" thought poor Ellen. Her eyes had been filling and dropping tears for some time, but now came the rush of the pent-up storm, and the floods of grief were kept back no longer. When once fairly excited, Ellen's passions were always extreme. During
the former peaceful and happy part of her life the occasions of such excitement
had been very rare. Of late unhappily they had occurred much oftener. Many
were the bitter fits of tears she had known within a few weeks. But now it
seemed as if all the scattered causes of sorrow that had wrought those tears
were gathered together and pressing upon her at once; and that the burden
would crush her to the earth. To the earth it brought her literally. She slid
from her seat at first, and embracing the stone on which she had sat, she
leaned her head there; but presently in her agony quitting her hold of that,
she cast herself down upon the moss, lying at full length upon the cold ground,
which seemed to her childish fancy the best friend she had left. But Ellen was wrought up to the last pitch of grief and passion. Tears brought no relief. Convulsive weeping only exhausted her. In the extremity of her distress and despair, and in that lonely place, out of hearing of every one, she sobbed aloud, and even screamed, for almost the first time in her life; and these fits of violence were succeeded by exhaustion, during which she ceased to shed tears and lay quite still, drawing only long sobbing sighs now and then. How long Ellen had lain there, or how long this would have gone on before her strength had been quite worn out, no one can tell. In one of these fits of forced quiet, when she lay as still as the rocks around her, she heard a voice close by say, "What is the matter, my child?" The silver sweetness of the tone came singularly upon the tempest in Ellen's mind. She got up hastily, and brushing away the tears from her dimmed eyes, she saw a young lady standing there, and a face whose sweetness well matched the voice looking upon her with grave concern. She stood motionless and silent. "What is the matter, my dear?" The tone found Ellen's heart and brought the water to her eyes again, though with a difference. She covered her face with her hands. But gentle hands were placed upon hers and drew them away; and the lady sitting down on Ellen's stone, took her in her arms; and Ellen hid her face in the bosom of a better friend than the cold earth had been like to prove her. But the change overcame her; and the soft whisper, "Don't cry any more," made it impossible to stop crying. Nothing further was said for some time; the lady waited till Ellen grew calmer. When she saw her able to answer, she said gently, "What does all this mean, my child? What troubles you? Tell me, and I think we can find a way to mend matters." Ellen answered the tone of voice with a faint smile, but the words with another gush of tears. "You are Ellen Montgomery, aren't you?" "Yes, ma'am " "I thought so. This isn't the first time I have seen you; I have seen you
once before." Ellen looked up surprised. "Have you, ma'am?—I am sure I have never seen you." "No, I know that. I saw you when you didn't see me. Where do you think?" "I can't tell, I am sure," said Ellen,—"I can't guess; I haven't seen you at aunt Fortune's, and I haven't been anywhere else." "You have forgotten," said the lady. "Did you never hear of a little girl who went to take a walk once upon a time, and had an unlucky fall into a brook?—and then went to a kind old lady's house where she was dried and put to bed and went to sleep." "Oh, yes," said Ellen. "Did you see me there, ma'am, and when I was asleep?" "I saw you there when you were asleep; and Mrs. Van Brunt told me who you were and where you lived; and when I came here a little while ago. I knew you again very soon. And I knew what the matter was too, pretty well; but nevertheless tell me all about it, Ellen; perhaps I can help you." Ellen shook her head dejectedly. "Nobody in this world can help me," she said. "Then there's one in heaven that can," said the lady steadily. "Nothing is too bad for him to mend. Have you asked his help, Ellen?" Ellen began to weep again. "Oh, if I could I would tell you all about it, ma'am," she said; "but there are so many things, I don't know where to begin, I don't know when I should ever get through." "So many things that trouble you, Ellen?" "Yes, ma'am." "I am sorry for that indeed. But never mind, dear, tell me what they are. Begin with the worst, and if I haven't time to hear them all now I'll find time another day. Begin with the worst." But she waited in vain for an answer, and became distressed herself at Ellen's distress, which was extreme. "Don't cry so, my child,—don't cry so," she said, pressing her in her
arms. "What is the matter? hardly any thing in this
world is so bad it can't be mended. I think I know what troubles you so—it is that your dear mother is away from you, isn't it?" "Oh, no, ma'am!"—Ellen could scarcely articulate. But struggling with herself for a minute or two, she then spoke again and more clearly. "The worst is,—oh the worst is—that I meant—I meant—to be a good child, and I have been worse than ever I was in my life before." Her tears gushed forth. "But how, Ellen?" said her surprised friend after a pause. "I don't quite understand you. When did you 'mean to be a good child?' Didn't you always mean so? and what have you been doing?" Ellen made a great effort and ceased crying; straightened herself; dashed away her tears as if determined to shed no more; and presently spoke calmly, though a choking sob every now and then threatened to interrupt her. "I will tell you, ma'am. That first day I left mamma—when I was on board the steamboat and feeling as badly as I could feel, a kind, kind gentleman, I don't know who he was, came to me and spoke to me, and took care of me the whole day. Oh, if I could see him again! He talked to me a great deal; he wanted me to be a Christian; he wanted me to make up my mind to begin that day to be one; and ma'am, I did. I did resolve with my whole heart, and I thought I should be different from that time from what I had ever been before. But I think I have never been so bad in my life as I have been since then. Instead of feeling right I have felt wrong all the time, almost,—and I can't help it. I have been passionate and cross, and bad feelings keep coming, and I know it's wrong, and it makes me miserable. And yet, oh! ma'am, I haven't changed my mind a bit,—I think just the same as I did that day; I want to be a Christian more than any thing else in the world, but I am not,—and what shall I do!" Her face sank in her hands again. "And this is your great trouble?" said her friend. "Yes." "Do you remember who said, 'Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest'?" Ellen looked up inquiringly. "You are grieved to find yourself so unlike what you would be. You wish to be a child of the dear Saviour and to have your heart filled with his love, and to do what will please him. Do you?—Have you gone to him day by day, and night by night, and told him so?—have you begged him to give you strength to get the better of your wrong feelings, and asked him to change you and make you his child?" "At first I did, ma'am,"—said Ellen in a low voice. "Not lately?" "No ma'am"; in a low tone still and looking down. "Then you have neglected your Bible and prayer for some time past?" Ellen hardly uttered, "Yes." "Why, my child?" "I don't know, ma'am," said Ellen weeping,—"that is one of the things that made me think myself so very wicked. I couldn't like to read my Bible or pray either, though I always used to before. My Bible lay down quite at the bottom of my trunk, and I even didn't like to raise my things enough to see the cover of it. I was so full of bad feelings I didn't feel fit to pray or read either." "Ah! that is the way with the wisest of us," said her companion; "how apt we are to shrink most from our Physician just when we are in most need of him. But Ellen, dear, that isn't right. No hand but his can touch that sickness you are complaining of. Seek it, love, seek it. He will hear and help you, no doubt of it, in every trouble you carry simply and humbly to his feet;—he has promised, you know." Ellen was weeping very much, but less bitterly than before; the clouds were breaking and light beginning to shine through. "Shall we pray together now?" said her companion after a few minutes' pause. "Oh, if you please, ma'am, do!" Ellen answered through her tears. And they knelt together there on the moss beside the stone, where Ellen's
head rested and her friend's folded hands were laid. It might have been two
children speaking to their father, for the simplicity of that prayer; difference
of age seemed to be forgotten, and what suited one suited the other. It was not without difficulty that the speaker carried it calmly through, for Ellen's sobs went nigh to check her more than once. When they rose Ellen silently sought her friend's arms again, and laying her face on her shoulder and putting both arms round her neck, she wept still,—but what different tears! It was like the gentle rain falling through sunshine, after the dark cloud and the thunder and the hurricane have passed by. And they kissed each other before either of them spoke. "You will not forget your Bible and prayer again, Ellen?" "Oh, no, ma'am." "Then I am sure you will find your causes of trouble grow less. I will not hear the rest of them now. In a day or two I hope you will be able to give me a very different account from what you would have done an hour ago; but besides that it is getting late, and it will not do for us to stay too long up here; you have a good way to go to reach home. Will you come and see me to-morrow afternoon?" "Oh, yes, ma'am, indeed I will!—if I can;—and if you will tell me where." "Instead of turning up this little rocky path you must keep straight on in the road,—that's all; and it's the first house you come to. It isn't very far from here. Where were you going on the mountain?" "Nowhere, ma'am." "Have you been any higher up than this?" "No, ma'am." "Then before we go away I want to show you something. I'll take you over the Bridge of the Nose; it isn't but a step or two more; a little rough to be sure, but you mustn't mind that." "What is the 'Bridge of the Nose,' ma'am?" said Ellen, as they left her resting-place, and began to toil up the path which grew more steep and rocky than ever. "You know this mountain is called the Nose. Just here it runs out to a
very thin sharp edge. We shall come to a place presently where you turn a
very sharp corner to get from one side of the hill to the other; and my brother
named it jokingly the Bridge of the Nose." "Why do they give the mountain such a queer name?" said Ellen. "I don't know I'm sure. The people say that from one point of view this side of it looks very like a man's nose; but I never could find it out, and have some doubt about the fact. But now here we are! Just come round this great rock,—mind how you step, Ellen,—now look there!" The rock they had just turned was at their backs, and they looked toward the west. Both exclaimed at the beauty before them. The view was not so extended as the one they had left. On the north and south the broken wavy outline of mountains closed in the horizon; but far to the west stretched an opening between the hills through which the setting sun sent his long beams, even to their feet. In the distance all was a golden haze; nearer, on the right and left the hills were lit up singularly, and there was a most beautiful mingling of deep hazy shadow and bright glowing mountain sides and ridges. A glory was upon the valley. Far down below at their feet lay a large lake gleaming in the sunlight; and at the upper end of it a village of some size showed like a cluster of white dots. "How beautiful!" said the lady again. "Ellen, dear,—he whose hand raised up those mountains and has painted them so gloriously is the very same One who has said, to you and to me, 'Ask and it shall be given you."' Ellen looked up; their eyes met; her answer was in that grateful glance The lady sat down and drew Ellen close to her. "Do you see that little white village yonder, down at the far end of the lake? that is the village of Carra-carra; and that is Carra-carra lake; that is where I go to church; you cannot see the little church from here. My father preaches there every Sunday morning." "You must have a long way to go," said Ellen. "Yes—a pretty long way, but it's very pleasant though. I mount my little grey pony, and he carries me there in quick time, when I will let him. I never wish the way shorter. I go in all sorts of weathers too, Ellen; Sharp and I don't mind frost and snow." "Who is Sharp?" said Ellen. "My pony. An odd name, isn't it. It wasn't of my choosing, Ellen, but he deserves it if ever pony did. He's a very cunning little fellow. Where do you go, Ellen? to Thirlwall?" "To church, ma'am?—I don't go anywhere." "Doesn't your aunt go to church?" "She hasn't since I have been here." "What do you do with yourself on Sunday?" "Nothing, ma'am; I don't know what to do with myself all the day long. I get tired of being in the house, and I go out of doors, and then I get tired of being out of doors and come in again. I wanted a kitten dreadfully, but Mr. Van Brunt said aunt Fortune would not let me keep one." "Did you want a kitten to help you keep Sunday, Ellen?" said her friend smiling. "Yes I did, ma'am," said Ellen, smiling again;—"I thought it would be a great deal of company for me. I got very tired of reading all day long, and I had nothing to read but the Bible; and you know, ma'am, I told you I have been all wrong ever since I came here, and I didn't like to read that much." "My poor child!" said the lady,—"you have been hardly bested I think. What if you were to come and spend next Sunday with me? Don't you think I should do instead of a kitten?" "Oh, yes, ma'am, I am sure of it," said Ellen clinging to her. "Oh, I'll come gladly if you will let me,—and if aunt Fortune will let me; and I hope she will, for she said last Sunday I was the plague of her life." "What did you do to make her say so?" said her friend gravely. "Only asked her for some books, ma'am." "Well, my dear, I see I am getting upon another of your troubles, and we haven't time for that now. By your own account you have been much in fault yourself; and I trust you will find all things mend with your own mending. But now there goes the sun!—and you and I must follow his example." The lake ceased to gleam, and the houses of the village were less plainly
to be seen; still the mountain heads were as bright as ever. Gradually the
shadows crept up their sides while the grey of evening settled deeper and deeper upon the valley. "There," said Ellen,—"that's just what I was wondering at the other morning; only then the light shone upon the top of the mountains first and walked down, and now it leaves the bottom first and walks up. I asked Mr. Van Brunt about it and he could not tell me. That's another of my troubles,—there's nobody that can tell me any thing." "Put me in mind of it to-morrow, and I'll try to make you understand it," said the lady, "but we must not tarry now. I see you are likely to find me work enough, Ellen." "I'll not ask you a question, ma'am, if you don't like it," said Ellen earnestly. "I do like, I do like," said the other. "I spoke laughingly, for I see you will be apt to ask me a good many. As many as you please, my dear." "Thank you, ma'am," said Ellen, as they ran down the hill; "they keep coming into my head all the while." It was easier going down than coming up. They soon arrived at the place where Ellen had left the road to take the wood-path. "Here we part," said the lady. "Good-night!" "Good-night, ma'am." There was a kiss and a squeeze of the hand, but when Ellen would have turned away the lady still held her fast. "You are an odd little girl," said she. "I gave you liberty to ask me questions." "Yes, ma'am," said Ellen, doubtfully. "There is a question you have not asked me that I have been expecting. Do you know who I am?" "No, ma'am." "Don't you want to know?" "Yes, ma'am, very much," said Ellen, laughing at her friend's look, "but mamma told me never to try to find out any thing about other people that they didn't wish me to know, or that wasn't my business." "Well, I think this is your business decidedly. Who are you going to ask
for when you come to see me to-morrow? Will you ask for 'the young lady that
lives in this house?' or will you give a description of my nose and eyes and
inches?" Ellen laughed. "My dear Ellen," said the lady, changing her tone, "do you know you please me very much? For one person that shows herself well-bred in this matter there are a thousand I think that ask impertinent questions. I am very glad you are an exception to the common rule. But, dear Ellen, I am quite willing you should know my name—it is Alice Humphreys. Now kiss me again and run home; it is quite, quite time; I have kept you too late. Good-night, my dear! Tell your aunt I beg she will allow you to take tea with me to-morrow." They parted; and Ellen hastened homewards, urged by the rapidly growing dusk of the evening. She trod the green turf with a step lighter and quicker than it had been a few hours before, and she regained her home in much less time than it had taken her to come from thence to the mountain. Lights were in the kitchen, and the table set; but though weary and faint she was willing to forego her supper rather than meet her aunt just then; so she stole quietly up to her room. She did not forget her friend's advice. She had no light; she could not read; but Ellen did pray. She did carry all her heart-sickness, her wants, and her woes, to that Friend whose ear is always open to hear the cry of those who call upon him in truth; and then, relieved, refreshed, almost healed, she went to bed and slept sweetly. |
CHAPTER XVI.
After long storms and tempests overblowne, EARLY next morning Ellen awoke with a sense that something pleasant had happened. Then the joyful reality darted into her mind, and jumping out of bed she set about her morning work with a better heart than she had been able to bring to it for many a long day. When she had finished she went to the window. She had found out how to keep it open now, by means of a big nail stuck in a hole under the sash. It was very early, and in the perfect stillness the soft gurgle of the little brook came distinctly to her ear. Ellen leaned her arms on the window-sill, and tasted the morning air; almost wondering at its sweetness and at the loveliness of field and sky and the bright eastern horizon. For days and days all had looked dark and sad. There were two reasons for the change. In the first place Ellen had made up her mind to go straight on in the path of duty; in the second place, she had found a friend. Her little heart bounded with delight and swelled with thankfulness at the thought of Alice Humphreys. She was once more at peace with herself, and had even some notion of being by and by at peace with her aunt; though a sad twinge came over her whenever she thought of her mother's letter. "But there is only one way for me," she thought; "I'll do as that dear
Miss Humphreys told me—it's good and early, and I shall have a fine time
before breakfast yet to myself. And I'll get up so every morning and have
it!—that'll be the very best plan I can hit upon." As she thought this she drew forth her Bible from its place at the bottom of her trunk; and opening it at hazard she began to read the l8th chapter of Matthew. Some of it she did not quite understand but she paused with pleasure at the 14th verse. "That means me," she thought. The 21st and 22d verses struck her a good deal, but when she came to the last she was almost startled. "There it is again!" she said. "That is exactly what that gentleman said to me. I thought I was forgiven, but how can I be, for I feel I have not forgiven aunt Fortune." Laying aside her book, Ellen kneeled down; but this one thought so pressed upon her mind that she could think of scarce any thing else; and her prayer this morning was an urgent and repeated petition that she might be enabled "from her heart" to forgive her aunt Fortune "all her trespasses." Poor Ellen! she felt it was very hard work. At the very minute she was striving to feel at peace with her aunt, one grievance after another would start up to remembrance, and she knew the feelings that met them were far enough from the spirit of forgiveness. In the midst of this she was called down. She rose with tears in her eyes, and "What shall I do?" in her heart. Bowing her head once more she earnestly prayed that if she could not yet feel right toward her aunt, she might be kept at least from acting or speaking wrong. Poor Ellen! In the heart is the spring of action; and she found it so this morning. Her aunt and Mr. Van Brunt were already at the table. Ellen took her place in silence, for one look at her aunt's face told her that no "good-morning" would be accepted. Miss Fortune was in a particularly bad humour, owing among other things to Mr. Van Brunt's having refused to eat his breakfast unless Ellen were called. An unlucky piece of kindness. She neither spoke to Ellen nor looked at her; Mr. Van Brunt did what in him lay to make amends. He helped her very carefully to the cold pork and potatoes, and handed her the well-piled platter of griddle-cakes. "Here's the first buckwheats of the season," said he,—"and I told Miss
Fortune I warn't a going to eat one on 'em if you didn't come down to enjoy
'em along with us. Take two—take two!—you want 'em to keep each other hot." Ellen's look and smile thanked him, as following his advice she covered one generous "buckwheat" with another as ample. "That's the thing! Now here's some prime maple. You like 'em, I guess, don't you?" "I don't know yet—I have never seen any," said Ellen. "Never seen buckwheats! why, they're most as good as my mother's splitters. Buckwheat cakes and maple molasses,—that's food fit for a king, I think—when they're good; and Miss Fortune's are always first-rate." Miss Fortune did not relent at all at this compliment. "What makes you so white this morning?" Mr. Van Brunt presently went on;—"you ain't well, be you?" "Yes,"—said Ellen doubtfully,—"I'm well—" "She's as well as I am, Mr. Van Brunt, if you don't go and put her up to any notions!" Miss Fortune said in a kind of choked voice. Mr. Van Brunt hemmed, and said no more to the end of breakfast-time. Ellen rather dreaded what was to come next, for her aunt's look was ominous. In dead silence the things were put away, and put up, and in course of washing and drying, when Miss Fortune suddenly broke forth. "What did you do with yourself yesterday afternoon?" "I was up on the mountain," said Ellen. "What mountain?" "I believe they call it the 'Nose.'" "What business had you up there?" "I hadn't any business there." "What did you go there for?" "Nothing." "Nothing!—you expect me to believe that? you call yourself a truth-teller, I suppose?" "Mamma used to say I was," said poor Ellen, striving to swallow her feelings. "Your mother!—I dare say—mothers always are blind. I dare say she took every thing you said for gospel!" Ellen was silent, from sheer want of words that were pointed enough to suit her. "I wish Morgan could have had the gumption to marry in his own country;
but he must go running after a Scotch woman! A Yankee would have brought up his child to be worth something. Give me Yankees!" Ellen set down the cup she was wiping. "You don't know any thing about my mother," she said. "You oughtn't to speak so—it's not right." "Why ain't it right, I should like to know?" said Miss Fortune;—"this is a free country, I guess. Our tongues ain't tied—we're all free here." "I wish we were," muttered Ellen;—"I know what I'd do." "What would you do?" said Miss Fortune. Ellen was silent. Her aunt repeated the question in a sharper tone. "I oughtn't to say what I was going to," said Ellen;—"I'd rather not." "I don't care," said Miss Fortune, "you began, and you shall finish it. I will hear what it was." "I was going to say, if we were all free I would run away." "Well, that is a beautiful, well-behaved speech! I am glad to have heard it. I admire it very much. Now what were you doing yesterday up on the Nose? Please to go on wiping. There's a pile ready for you. What were you doing yesterday afternoon?" Ellen hesitated. "Were you alone or with somebody?" "I was alone part of the time." "And who were you with the rest of the time?" "Miss Humphreys." "Miss Humphreys!—what were you doing with her?" "Talking." "Did you ever see her before?" "No, ma'am." "Where did you find her?" "She found me, up on the hill." "What were you talking about?" Ellen was silent. "What were you talking about?" repeated Miss Fortune. "I had rather not tell." "And I had rather you should tell—so out with it." "I was alone with Miss Humphreys," said Ellen; "and it is no matter what we were talking about—it doesn't concern any body but her and me." "Yes it does, it concerns me," said her aunt, "and I choose to know;—what were you talking about?" Ellen was silent. "Will you tell me?" "No," said Ellen, low but resolutely. "I vow you're enough to try the patience of Job! Look here," said Miss Fortune, setting down what she had in her hands,—"I will know! I don't care what it was, but you shall tell me or I'll find a way to make you. I'll give you such a—" "Stop! stop!" said Ellen wildly,—"you must not speak to me so! Mamma never did, and you have no right to! If mamma or papa were here you would not dare talk to me so." The answer to this was a sharp box on the ear from Miss Fortune's wet hand. Half stunned, less by the blow than the tumult of feeling it roused, Ellen stood a moment, and then throwing down her towel she ran out of the room, shivering with passion, and brushing off the soapy water left on her face as if it had been her aunt's very hand. Violent tears burst forth as soon as she reached her own room,—tears at first of anger and mortification only; but conscience presently began to whisper, "You are wrong! you are wrong!"—and tears of sorrow mingled with the others. "Oh," said Ellen, "why couldn't I keep still!—when I had resolved so this morning, why couldn't I be quiet!—But she ought not to have provoked me so dreadfully,—I couldn't help it." "You are wrong," said conscience again, and her tears flowed faster. And then came back her morning trouble—the duty and the difficulty of forgiving. Forgive her aunt Fortune!—with her whole heart in a passion of displeasure against her. Alas! Ellen began to feel and acknowledge that indeed all was wrong. But what to do? There was just one comfort, the visit to Miss Humphreys in the afternoon. "She will tell me," thought Ellen; "she will help me. But in the mean while?" Ellen had not much time to think; her aunt called her down and set her
to work. She was very busy till dinner-time, and very unhappy; but twenty
times in the course of the morning did Ellen pause for a moment, and covering her face with her hands pray that a heart to forgive might be given her. As soon as possible after dinner she made her escape to her room that she might prepare for her walk. Conscience was not quite easy that she was going without the knowledge of her aunt. She had debated the question with herself, and could not make up her mind to hazard losing her visit. So she dressed herself very carefully. One of her dark merinos was affectionately put on; her single pair of white stockings; shoes, ruffle, cape,—Ellen saw that all was faultlessly neat, just as her mother used to have it; and the nice blue hood lay upon the bed ready to be put on the last thing, when she heard her aunt's voice calling. "Ellen!—come down and do your ironing—right away, now! the irons are hot." For one moment Ellen stood still in dismay; then slowly undressed, dressed again, and went down stairs. "Come! you've been an age," said Miss Fortune; "now make haste; there ain't but a handful and I want to mop up." Ellen took courage again; ironed away with right good will; and as there was really but a handful of things she had soon done, even to taking off the ironing blanket and putting up the irons. In the mean time she had changed her mind as to stealing off without leave; conscience was too strong for her; and though with a beating heart, she told of Miss Humphreys' desire and her half engagement. "You may go where you like—I am sure I do not care what you do with yourself," was Miss Fortune's reply. Full of delight at this ungracious permission, Ellen fled up stairs, and dressing much quicker than before, was soon on her way. But at first she went rather sadly. In spite of all her good resolves and
wishes, every thing that day had gone wrong; and Ellen felt that the root
of the evil was in her own heart. Some tears fell as she walked. Further from
her aunt's house, however, her spirits began to rise; her foot fell lighter
on the greensward. Hope and expectation quickened her steps; and when at length
she passed the little wood-path it was almost on a run. Not very far beyond
that her glad eyes saw the house she was in quest of. It was a large white house; not very white either, for its last dress of paint had grown old long ago. It stood close by the road, and the trees of the wood seemed to throng round it on every side. Ellen mounted the few steps that led to the front door, and knocked; but as she could only just reach the high knocker, she was not likely to alarm any body with the noise she made. After a great many little faint raps, which if any body heard them might easily have been mistaken for the attacks of some rat's teeth upon the wainscot, Ellen grew weary of her fruitless toil of standing on tiptoe, and resolved, though doubtfully, to go round the house and see if there was any other way of getting in. Turning the far corner, she saw a long, low out-building or shed jutting out from the side of the house. On the further side of this Ellen found an elderly woman standing in front of the shed, which was there open and paved, and wringing some clothes out of a tub of water. She was a pleasant woman to look at, very trim and tidy, and a good-humored eye and smile when she saw Ellen. Ellen made up to her and asked for Miss Humphreys. "Why, where in the world did you come from?" said the woman. "I don't receive company at the back of the house." "I knocked at the front door till I was tired," said Ellen, smiling in return. "Miss Alice must ha' been asleep. Now, honey, you have come so far round to find me, will you go a little further and find Miss Alice? Just go round this corner and keep straight along till you come to the glass door—there you'll find her. Stop!—maybe she's asleep; I may as well go along with you myself." She wrung the water from her hands and led the way. A little space of green grass stretched in front of the shed, and Ellen
found it extended all along that side of the house like a very narrow lawn;
at the edge of it shot up the high forest trees; nothing between them and
the house but the smooth grass and a narrow worn foot-path. The woods were
now all brown stems, except here and there a superb hemlock and some scattered
silvery birches. But the grass was still green, and the last day of the
Indian summer hung its soft veil over all; the foliage of the forest was hardly
missed. They passed another hall door, opposite the one where Ellen had tried her strength and patience upon the knocker; a little further on they paused at the glass door. One step led to it. Ellen's conductress looked in first through one of the panes, and then opening the door motioned her to enter. "Here you are, my new acquaintance," said Alice, smiling and kissing her. "I began to think something was the matter, you tarried so late. We don't keep fashionable hours in the country, you know. But I'm very glad to see you. Take off your things and lay them on that settee by the door. You see I've a settee for summer and a sofa for winter; for here I am, in this room, at all times of the year; and a very pleasant room I think it, don't you?" "Yes, indeed I do, ma'am," said Ellen, pulling off her last glove. "Ah, but wait till you have taken tea with me half a dozen times, and then see if you don't say it is pleasant. Nothing can be so pleasant that is quite new. But now come here and look out of this window, or door, whichever you choose to call it. Do you see what a beautiful view I have here? The wood was just as thick all along as it is on the right and left; I felt half smothered to be so shut in, so I got my brother and Thomas to take axes and go to work there; and many a large tree they cut down for me, till you see they opened a way through the woods for the view of that beautiful stretch of country. I should grow melancholy if I had that wall of trees pressing on my vision all the time; it always comforts me to look off, far away, to those distant blue hills." "Aren't those the hills I was looking at yesterday?" said Ellen. "From up on the mountain?—the very same; this is part of the very same view, and a noble view it is. Every morning, Ellen, the sun rising behind those hills shines in through this door and lights up my room; and in winter he looks in at that south window, so I have him all the time. To be sure if I want to see him set I must take a walk for it, but that isn't unpleasant; and you know we cannot have every thing at once." It was a very beautiful extent of woodland, meadow, and hill, that was
seen picture-fashion through the gap cut in the forest;—the wall of trees on each side serving as a frame to shut it in, and the descent of the mountain, from almost the edge of the lawn, being very rapid. The opening had been skilfully cut; the effect was remarkable and very fine; the light on the picture being often quite different from that on the frame or on the hither side of the frame. "Now, Ellen," said Alice turning from the window, "take a good look at my room. I want you to know it and feel at home in it; for whenever you can run away from your aunt's this is your home,—do you understand?" A smile was on each face. Ellen felt that she was understanding it very fast. "Here, next the door, you see, is my summer settee; and in summer it very often walks out of doors to accommodate people on the grass plat. I have a great fancy for taking tea out of doors, Ellen, in warm weather; and if you do not mind a mosquito or two I shall be always happy to have your company. That door opens into the hall; look out and see, for I want you to get the geography of the house.—That odd-looking, lumbering, painted concern, is my cabinet of curiosities. I tried my best to make the carpenter man at Thirlwall understand what sort of a thing I wanted, and did all but show him how to make it; but as the Southerners say, 'he hasn't made it right no how!' There I keep my dried flowers, my minerals, and a very odd collection of curious things of all sorts that I am constantly picking up. I'll show you them some day, Ellen. Have you a fancy for curiosities?" "Yes, ma'am, I believe so." "Believe so!—not more sure than that? Are you a lover of dead moths, and empty beetle-skins, and butterflies' wings, and dry tufts of moss, and curious stones, and pieces of ribbon-grass, and strange bird's nests? These are some of the things I used to delight in when I was about as old as you." "I don't know, ma'am," said Ellen. "I never was where I could get them." "Weren't you! Poor child! Then you have been shut up to brick walls and paving-stones all your life?" "Yes, ma'am, all my life." "But now you have seen a little of the country,—don't you think you shall
like it better?" "Oh, a great deal better!" "Ah, that's right. I am sure you will. On that other side, you see, is my winter sofa. It's a very comfortable resting-place I can tell you, Ellen, as I have proved by many a sweet nap; and its old chintz covers are very pleasant to me, for I remember them as far back as I remember any thing." There was a sigh here; but Alice passed on and opened a door near the end of the sofa. "Look in here, Ellen; this is my bedroom." "Oh, how lovely!" Ellen exclaimed. The carpet covered only the middle of the floor; the rest was painted white. The furniture was common but neat as wax. Ample curtains of white dimity clothed the three windows, and lightly draped the bed. The toilet-table was covered with snow-white muslin, and by the toilet-cushion stood, late as it was, a glass of flowers. Ellen thought it must be a pleasure to sleep there. "This," said Alice when they came out,—"between my door and the fireplace, is a cupboard. Here be cups and saucers, and so forth. In that other corner beyond the fireplace you see my flower-stand. Do you love flowers, Ellen?" "I love them dearly, Miss Alice." "I have some pretty ones out yet, and shall have one or two in the winter; but I can't keep a great many here; I haven't room for them. I have hard work to save these from frost. There's a beautiful daphne that will be out by and by, and make the whole house sweet. But here, Ellen, on this side between the windows, is my greatest treasure—my precious books. All these are mine. —Now, my dear, it is time to introduce you to my most excellent of easy chairs—the best things in the room, aren't they? Put yourself in that—now do you feel at home?" "Very much indeed, ma'am," said Ellen laughing, as Alice placed her in the deep easy chair. There were two things in the room that Alice had not mentioned, and while
she mended the fire Ellen looked at them. One was the portrait of a gentleman,
grave and good-looking; this had very little of her attention. The other was
the counter-portrait of a lady; a fine dignified countenance that had a charm for Ellen. It hung over the fireplace in an excellent light; and the mild eye and somewhat of a peculiar expression about the mouth bore such likeness to Alice, though older, that Ellen had no doubt whose it was. Alice presently drew a chair close to Ellen's side, and kissed her. "I trust, my child," she said, "that you feel better to-day than you did yesterday?" "Oh, I do, ma'am,—a great deal better," Ellen answered. "Then I hope the reason is that you have returned to your duty, and are resolved, not to be a Christian by and by, but to lead a Christian's life now?" "I have resolved so, ma'am,—I did resolve so last night and this morning,—but yet I have been doing nothing but wrong all to-day." Alice was silent. Ellen's lips quivered for a moment, and then she went on, "Oh, ma'am, how I have wanted to see you to-day to tell me what I should do! I resolved and resolved this morning, and then as soon as I got down stairs I began to have bad feelings toward aunt Fortune, and I have been full of bad feelings all day and I couldn't help it." "It will not do to say that we cannot help what is wrong, Ellen.—What is the reason that you have bad feelings toward your aunt?" "She don't like me, ma'am." "But how happens that, Ellen? I am afraid you don't like her." "No, ma'am, I don't to be sure; how can I?" "Why cannot you, Ellen?" "Oh, I can't, ma'am! I wish I could. But oh, ma'am, I should have liked her—I might have liked her, if she had been kind, but she never has. Even that first night I came she never kissed me, nor said she was glad to see me." "That was failing in kindness certainly, but is she unkind to you, Ellen?" "Oh, yes, ma'am, indeed she is. She talks to me, and talks to me, in a
way that almost drives me out of my wits; and to-day she even struck me! She
has no right to do it," said Ellen, firing with passion,—"she has no right to!—and she has no right to talk as she does about
mamma. She did it to-day, and she has done it before;—I can't bear it!—and I can't bear her! I can't bear her!" "Hush, hush," said Alice, drawing the excited child to her arms, for Ellen had risen from her seat;—"you must not talk so, Ellen;—you are not feeling right now." "No, ma'am, I am not," said Ellen coldly and sadly. She sat a moment, and then turning to her companion put both arms round her neck, and hid her face on her shoulder again; and without raising it she gave her the history of the morning. "What has brought about this dreadful state of things?" said Alice after a few minutes. "Whose fault is it, Ellen?" "I think it is aunt Fortune's fault," said Ellen raising her head; "I don't think it is mine. If she had behaved well to me I should have behaved well to her. I meant to, I am sure." "Do you mean to say you do not think you have been in fault at all in the matter?" "No, ma'am—I do not mean to say that. I have been very much in fault—very often—I know that. I get very angry and vexed, and sometimes I say nothing, but sometimes I get out of all patience and say things I ought not. I did so to-day; but it is so very hard to keep still when I am in such a passion;—and now I have got to feel so toward aunt Fortune that I don't like the sight of her; I hate the very look of her bonnet hanging up on the wall. I know it isn't right; and it makes me miserable; and I can't help it, for I grow worse and worse every day —and what shall I do?" Ellen's tears came faster than her words. "Ellen, my child," said Alice after a while,—"There is but one way. You know what I said to you yesterday?" "I know it, but dear Miss Alice, in my reading this morning I came to that verse that speaks about not being forgiven if we do not forgive others; and, oh! how it troubles me; for I can't feel that I forgive aunt Fortune; I feel vexed whenever the thought of her comes into my head; and how can I behave right to her while I feel so?" "You are right there, my dear; you cannot indeed; the heart must be set right before the life can be." "But what shall I do to set it right?" "Pray." "Dear Miss Alice, I have been praying all this morning that I might forgive aunt Fortune, and yet I cannot do it." "Pray, still, my dear," said Alice, pressing her closer in her arms,—"pray still; if you are in earnest the answer will come. But there is something else you can do, and must do, Ellen, besides praying, or praying may be in vain." "What do you mean, Miss Alice?" "You acknowledge yourself in fault—have you made all the amends you can? Have you, as soon as you have seen yourself in the wrong, gone to your aunt Fortune and acknowledged it, and humbly asked her pardon?" Ellen answered "no" in a low voice. "Then, my child, your duty is plain before you. The next thing after doing wrong is to make all the amends in your power—confess your fault, and ask forgiveness, both of God and man. Pride struggles against it,—I see yours does,—but my child, 'God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace unto the humble.' Ellen burst into tears and cried heartily. "Mind your own wrong doings, my child, and you will not be half so disposed to quarrel with those of other people. But, Ellen dear, if you will not humble yourself to this you must not count upon an answer to your prayer. 'If thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath aught against thee,'—what then?—'Leave there thy gift before the altar;' go first and be reconciled to thy brother, and then come." "But it is so hard to forgive?" sobbed Ellen. "Hard? yes it is hard when our hearts are so. But there is little love to Christ and no just sense of his love to us in the heart that finds it hard. Pride and selfishness make it hard; the heart full of love to the dear Saviour cannot lay up offences against itself." "I have said quite enough," said Alice after a pause; "you know what you want, my dear Ellen, and what you ought to do. I shall leave you for a little while to change my dress, for I have been walking and riding all the morning. Make a good use of the time while I am gone." Ellen did make good use of the time. When Alice returned she met her with
another face than she had worn all that day, humbler and quieter; and flinging her arms around her, she said, "I will ask aunt Fortune's forgiveness;—I feel I can do it now." "And how about forgiving, Ellen?" "I think God will help me to forgive her," said Ellen; "I have asked him. At any rate I will ask her to forgive me. But oh, Miss Alice! what would have become of me without you. " "Don't lean upon me, dear Ellen; remember you have a better friend than I always near you; trust in him; if I have done you any good, don't forget it was he brought me to you yesterday afternoon." "There's just one thing that troubles me now," said Ellen,—"mamma's letter. I am thinking of it all the time; I feel as if I should fly to get it!" "We'll see about that. Cannot you ask your aunt for it?" "I don't like to." "Take care, Ellen; there is some pride there yet." "Well, I will try," said Ellen, "but sometimes, I know, she would not give it to me if I were to ask her. But I'll try, if I can." "Well, now to change the subject—at what o'clock did you dine to-day?" "I don't know, ma'am,—at the same time we always do, I believe." "And that is twelve o'clock, isn't it?" "Yes, ma'am; but I was so full of coming here and other things that I couldn't eat." "Then I suppose you would have no objection to an early tea?" "No, ma'am,—whenever you please," said Ellen laughing. "I shall please it pretty soon. I have had no dinner at all today, Ellen; I have been out and about all the morning, and had just taken a little nap when you came in. Come this way and let me show you some of my housekeeping." She led the way across the hall to the room on the opposite side; a large, well-appointed, and spotlessly neat kitchen. Ellen could not help exclaiming at its pleasantness. "Why, yes—I think it is. I have been in many a parlour that I do not like
as well. Beyond this is a lower kitchen where Margery does all her rough work; nothing comes up the steps that lead from that to this but the very nicest and daintiest of kitchen matters. Margery, is my father gone to Thirlwall?" "No, Miss Alice—he's at Carra-carra—Thomas heard him say he wouldn't be back early." "Well, I shall not wait for him. Margery, if you will put the kettle on and see to the fire, I'll make some of my cakes for tea." "I'll do it, Miss Alice; it's not good for you to go so long without eating." Alice now rolled up her sleeves above the elbows, and tying a large white apron before her, set about gathering the different things she wanted for her work,—to Ellen's great amusement. A white moulding-board was placed upon a table as white; and round it soon grouped the pail of flour, the plate of nice yellow butter, the bowl of cream, the sieve, tray, and sundry etceteras. And then, first sifting some flour into the tray, Alice began to throw in the other things one after another and toss the whole about with a carelessness that looked as if all would go wrong, but with a confidence that seemed to say all was going right. Ellen gazed in comical wonderment. "Did you think cakes were made without hands?" said Alice, laughing at her look. "You saw me wash mine before I began." "Oh, I'm not thinking of that," said Ellen; "I am not afraid of your hands." "Did you never see your mother do this?" said Alice, who was now turning and rolling about the dough upon the board in a way that seemed to Ellen curious beyond expression. "No, never," she said. "Mamma never kept house, and I never saw any body do it." "Then your aunt does not let you into the mysteries of bread and butter-making!" "Butter-making! Oh," said Ellen with a sigh, "I have enough of that!" Alice now applied a smooth wooden roller to the cake, with such quickness
and skill that the lump forthwith lay spread upon the board in a thin even
layer, and she next cut it into little round cakes with the edge of a tumbler. Half the board was covered with the nice little white things, which Ellen declared looked good enough to eat already, and she had quite forgotten all possible causes of vexation, past, present, or future,—when suddenly a large grey cat jumped upon the table, and coolly walking upon the moulding-board planted his paw directly in the middle of one of his mistress's cakes. "Take him off—Oh, Ellen!" cried Alice,—"take him off! I can't touch him." But Ellen was a little afraid. Alice then tried gently to shove puss off with her elbow; but he seemed to think that was very good fun,—purred, whisked his great tail over Alice's bare arm, and rubbed his head against it, having evidently no notion that he was not just where he ought to be. Alice and Ellen were too much amused to try any violent method of relief, but Margery happily coming in seized puss in both hands and set him on the floor. "Just look at the print of his paw in that cake," said Ellen. "He has set his mark on it certainly. I think it is his now, by the right of possession if not the right of discovery." "I think he discovered the cakes too," said Ellen laughing. "Why, yes. He shall have that one baked for his supper." "Does he like cakes?" "Indeed he does. He is very particular and delicate about his eating, is Captain Parry." "Captain Parry!" said Ellen,—"is that his name?" "Yes," said Alice laughing; "I don't wonder you look astonished, Ellen. I have had that cat five years, and when he was first given me by my brother Jack, who was younger then than he is now, and had been reading Captain Parry's Voyages, he gave him that name and would have him called so. Oh, Jack!"—said Alice, half laughing and half crying. Ellen wondered why. But she went to wash her hands, and when her face was again turned to Ellen it was unruffled as ever. "Margery, my cakes are ready," said she, "and Ellen and I are ready too." "Very well, Miss Alice—the kettle is just going to boil; you shall have
tea in a trice. I'll do some eggs for you." "Something—any thing," said Alice; "I feel one cannot live without eating. Come, Ellen, you and I will go and set the tea-table." Ellen was very happy arranging the cups and saucers and other things that Alice handed her from the cupboard; and when a few minutes after the tea and the cakes came in, and she and Alice were cosily seated at supper, poor Ellen hardly knew herself in such a pleasant state of things. |