"What is your conclusion on the whole?" asked John, one day, as he stood beside her mending a pencil.
"Why," said Ellen, laughing and blushing, "how could you guess what I was thinking about, Mr. John?"
"Not very difficult, when you are eyeing me so hard."
"I was thinking," said Ellen, "I don't know whether it is right in me to tell it because somebody said you "
"Well?"
"Were like gunpowder."
"Very kind of somebody! And so you have been in doubt of an explosion?"
"No I don't know I wondered what he meant."
"Never believe what you hear said of people, Ellen; judge for yourself. Look here that house has suffered from a severe gale of wind, I should think all the uprights are slanting off to the right can't you set it up straight?"
Ellen laughed at the tumble-down condition of the house, as thus pointed out to her, and set about reforming it.
It was Thursday afternoon that Alice and Ellen were left alone in the library, several of the family having been called out to receive some visitors; Alice had excused herself, and Ellen, as soon as they were gone, nestled up to her side.
"How pleasant it is to be alone together, dear Alice! I don't have you even at night now."
"It is very pleasant, dear Ellie! Home will not look disagreeable again, will it, even after all our gaiety here?"
"No indeed! at least, your home won't I don't know what mine will. O me! I had almost forgotten Aunt Fortune!"
"Never mind, dear Ellie! You and I have each something to bear we must be brave, and bear it manfully. There is a Friend that sticketh closer than a brother, you know. We shan't be unhappy if we do our duty and love Him."
"How soon is Mr. John going away?"
"Not for all next week. And so long as he stays, I do not mean that you shall leave me."
Ellen cried for joy.
"I can manage it with Miss Fortune, I know," said Alice. "These fine drawing lessons must not be interrupted. John is very much pleased with your performances."
"Is he?" said Ellen delighted. "I have taken all the pains I could."
"That is the sure way to success, Ellie. But, Ellie, I want to ask you something. What was that you said to Margaret Dunscombe about wanting money for a New Year's present?"
"You know it, then!" cried Ellen, starting up. "Oh, I'm so glad! I wanted to speak to you about it, so I didn't know what to do, and I thought I oughtn't to. What shall I do about it, dear Alice? How did you know? George said you were not there."
"Mrs. Chauncey told me; she thought there had been some mistake, or something wrong; how was it, Ellen?"
"Why," said Ellen, "she was showing us her ear-rings, and asking us what we thought of them, and she asked me if I wouldn't like to have such a pair; and I thought I would a great deal rather have the money they cost, to buy other things with, you know, that I would like better; and I said so; and just then Mr. Marshman came in, and she called out to him, loud, that I wanted money for a present, or would like it better than anything else, or something like that. Oh, Alice, how I felt! I was frightened; but then I hoped Mr. Marshman did not hear her, for he did not say anything; but the next day George told me all about what she had been saying in there, and oh! it made me so unhappy!" said poor Ellen, looking very dismal. "What will Mr. Marshman think of me? He will think I expected a present, and I never dreamed of such a thing! It makes me ashamed to speak of it, even; and I can't bear he should think so I can't bear it! What shall I do, dear Alice?"
"I don't know what you can do, dear Ellie; but be patient Mr. Marshman will not think anything very hard of you, I dare say."
"But I think he does already; he hasn't kissed me since that as he did before; I know he does, and I don't know what to do. How could Margaret say that! oh, how could she! it was very unkind. What can I do?" said Ellen, again, after a pause, and wiping away a few tears. "Couldn't Mrs. Chauncey tell Mr. Marshman not to give me anything for that I never expected it, and would a great deal rather not?"
"Why, no, Ellie, I do not think that would be exactly the best or most dignified way."
"What then; dear Alice? I'll do just as you say."
"I would just remain quiet."
"But Ellen says the things are all put on the plates in the morning; and if there should be money on mine I don't know what I should do, I should feel so badly. I couldn't keep it, Alice! I couldn't!"
"Very well, you need not; but remain quiet in the mean while; and if it should be so, then say what you please, only take care that you say it in the right spirit and in a right manner. Nobody can hurt you much, my child, while you keep the even path of duty; poor Margaret is her own worst enemy."
"Then, if there should be money in the morning, I may tell Mr.
Marshman the truth about it?"
"Certainly only do not be in haste; speak gently."
"Oh, I wish everybody would be kind and pleasant always!" said poor Ellen, but half comforted.
"What a sigh was there!" said John, coming in. "What is the matter with my little sister?"
"Some of the minor trials of life, John," said Alice, with a smile.
"What is the matter, Ellie?"
"Oh, something you can't help," said Ellen.
"And something I mustn't know. Well, to change the scene suppose you go with me to visit the greenhouse and hothouses. Have you seen them yet?"
"No," said Ellen, as she eagerly sprang forward to take his hand; "Ellen promised to go with me, but we have been so busy."
"Will you come, Alice?"
"Not I," said Alice, "I wish I could, but I shall be wanted elsewhere."
"By whom, I wonder, so much as by me?" said her brother.
"However, after to-morrow I will have you all to myself."
As he and Ellen were crossing the hall, they met Mrs.
Marshman.
"Where are you going, John?" said she.
"Where I ought to have been before, Ma'am to pay my respects to Mr. Hutchinson."
"You've not seen him yet! that is very ungrateful of you. Hutchinson is one of your warmest friends and admirers. There are few people he mentions with so much respect, or that he is so glad to see, as Mr. John Humphreys."
"A distinction I owe, I fear, principally to my English blood," said John, shaking his head.
"It is not altogether that," said Mrs. Marshman, laughing; "though I do believe; I am the only Yankee good Hutchinson has ever made up his mind entirely to like. But go and see him do, he will be very much pleased."
"Who is Mr. Hutchinson?" said Ellen, as they went on.
"He is the gardener, or rather the head gardener. He came out with his master some thirty or forty years ago, but his old English prejudice will go to the grave with him, I believe."
"But why don't he like the Americans?"
John laughed. "It would never do for me to attempt to answer that question, Ellie; fond of going to the bottom of things as you are. We should just get to hard fighting about tea-time, and should barely make peace by mid-day to-morrow, at the most moderate calculation. You shall have an answer to your question, however."
Ellen could not conceive what he meant, but resolved to wait for his promised answer.
As they entered the large and beautifully-kept greenhouse, Hutchinson came from the further end of it to meet them an old man, of most respectable appearance. He bowed very civilly, and then slipped his pruning-knife into his left hand, to leave the right at liberty for John, who shook it cordially.
"And why 'aven't you been to see me before, Mr. John? I've thought it rather 'ard of you: Miss h'Alice has come several times."
"The ladies have more leisure, Mr. Hutchinson. You look flourishing here."
"Why, yes, Sir pretty middling, within doors; but I don't like the climate, Mr. John I don't the climate, Sir. There's no country like h'England, I believe, for my business. 'Ere's a fine rose, Sir if you'll step a bit this way quite a new kind I got it over last h'autumn the Palmerston it is. Those are fine buds, Sir."
The old man was evidently much pleased to see his visitor, and presently plunged him deep into English politics, for which he seemed to have lost no interest by forty years' life in America. As Ellen could not understand what they were talking about, she quitted John's side, and went wandering about by herself. From the moment the sweet aromatic smell of the plants had greeted her, she had been in a high state of delight; and now, lost to all the world beside, from the mystery of one beautiful and strange green thing to another she went wondering and admiring, and now and then timidly advancing her nose to see if something glorious was something sweet too. She could hardly leave a superb cactus, in the petals of which there was such a singular blending of scarlet and crimson as almost to dazzle her sight; and if the pleasure of smell could intoxicate, she would have reeled away from a luxuriant daphne odorata in full flower, over which she feasted for a long time. The variety of green leaves alone was a marvel to her; some rough and brown-streaked, some shining as if they were varnished, others of hair-like delicacy of structure all lovely. At last she stood still with admiration, and almost held her breath before a white camellia.
"What does that flower make you think of, Ellen?" said John, coming up. His friend the gardener had left him to seek a newspaper in which he wished to show him a paragraph.
"I don't know," said Ellen "I couldn't think of anything but itself."
"It reminds me of what I ought to be and of what I shall be if I ever see heaven it seems to me the emblem of a sinless, pure spirit looking up in fearless spotlessness. Do you remember what was said to the old Church of Sardis? 'Thou hast a few names that have not defiled their garments; and they shall walk with me in white, for they are worthy.' "
The tears rushed to Ellen's eyes, she felt she was so very unlike this; but Mr. Hutchinson coming back prevented anything more from being said. She looked at the white camellia; it seemed to speak to her.
"That's the paragraph, Sir," said the old gardener, giving the paper to John. " 'Ere's a little lady that is fond of flowers, if I don't make a mistake; this is somebody I've not seen before? Is this the little lady Miss h'Ellen was telling me about."
"I presume so," said John. "She is Miss Ellen Montgomery a sister of mine, Mr. Hutchinson, and Mr. Marshman's guest."
"By both names h'entitled to my greatest respect," said the old man, stepping back, and making a very low bow to Ellen, with his hand upon his heart, at which she could not help laughing. "I am very glad to see Miss h'Ellen; what can I do to make her remember old 'Utchinson? Would Miss h'Ellen like a bouquet?"
Ellen did not venture to say yes, but her blush and sparkling eyes answered him. The old gardener understood her, and was as good as his word. He began with cutting a beautiful sprig of a large purple geranium, then a slip of lemon myrtle. Ellen watched him as the bunch grew in his hand, and could hardly believe her eyes as one beauty after another was added to what became a most elegant bouquet. And most sweet, too; to her joy, the delicious daphne and fragrant lemon blossom went to make part of it. Her thanks, when it was given her, were made with few words, but with all her face; the old gardener smiled, and was quite satisfied that his gift was not thrown away. He afterwards showed them his hothouses, where Ellen was astonished and very much interested to see ripe oranges and lemons in abundance, and pines, too, such as she had been eating since she came to Ventnor, thinking nothing less than that they grew so near home. The grapes had all been cut.
There was to be quite a party at Ventnor in the evening of New Year's day. Ellen knew this, and destined her precious flowers for Alice's adornment. How to keep them, in the meanwhile? She consulted Mr. John, and according to his advice, took them to Mrs. Bland, the housekeeper, to be put in water, and kept in a safe place for her till the time. She knew Mrs. Bland, for Ellen Chauncey and she had often gone to her room to work, where none of the children would find and trouble them. Mrs. Bland promised to take famous care of the flowers, and said she would do it with the greatest pleasure. "Mr. Marshman's guests," she added, smiling, "must have everything they wanted."
"What does that mean, Mrs. Bland?" said Ellen.
"Why, you see, Miss Ellen, there's a deal of company always coming, and some is Mrs. Gillespie's friends, and some Mr. Howard's, and some to see Miss Sophia more particularly, and some belong to Mrs. Marshman, or the whole family, maybe; but now and then Mr. Marshman, has an old English friend or so, that he sets the greatest store by; and then he calls his guests; and the best in the house is hardly good enough for them, or the country either."
"And so I am one of Mr. Marshman's guests?" said Ellen, "I didn't know what it meant."
She saved out one little piece of rose-geranium from her flowers for the gratification of her own nose; and skipped away through the hall to rejoin her companions, very light- hearted indeed.
CHAPTER XXXII.
The Bank-Note and George Washington.
New Year's morning dawned.
"How I wish breakfast was over!" thought Ellen as she was dressing. However, there is no way of getting over this life but by going through it; so when the bell rang she went down as usual. Mr. Marshman had decreed that he would not have a confusion of gifts at the breakfast table; other people might make presents in their own way; they must not interfere with his. Needlecases, bags, and so forth, must therefore wait another opportunity; and Ellen Chauncey decided it would just make the pleasure so much longer, and was a great improvement on the old plan. "Happy New Years" and pleasant greetings were exchanged, as the party gathered in the breakfast-room; pleasure sat on all faces, except Ellen's, and many a one wore a broad smile as they sat down to table. For the napkins were in singular disarrangement this morning; instead of being neatly folded up on the plates, in their usual fashion, they were in all sorts of disorder sticking up in curious angles, some high, some low, some half-folded, some quite unfolded, according to the size and shape of that which they covered. It was worth while to see that long tableful, and the faces of the company, before yet a napkin was touched. An anxious glance at her own, showed Ellen that it lay quite flat; Alice's, which was next, had an odd little rising in the middle, as if there were a small dumpling under it. Ellen was in an agony for this pause to come to an end. It was broken by some of the older persons, and then in a trice every plate was uncovered. And then, what a buzz! pleasure, and thanks, and admiration, and even laughter. Ellen dreaded at first to look at her plate; she bethought her, however, that if she waited long, she would have to do it with all eyes upon her; she lifted the napkin slowly; yes just as she feared there lay a clean bank-note of what value she could not see, for confusion covered her; the blood rushed to her cheeks and the tears to her eyes. She could not have spoken, and happily it was no time then; everybody else was speaking she could not have been heard. She had time to cool and recollect herself; but she sat with her eyes cast down, fastened upon her plate and the unfortunate bank-bill, which she detested with all her heart. She did not know what Alice had received; she understood nothing that was going on, till Alice touched her, and said gently, "Mr. Marshman is speaking to you, Ellen."
"Sir!" said Ellen, starting.
"You need not look so terrified," said Mr. Marshman, smiling; "I only asked you if your bill was a counterfeit something seems to be wrong about it."
Ellen looked at her plate and hesitated. Her lip trembled.
"What is it?" continued the old gentleman. "Is anything the matter."
Ellen desperately took up the bill, and with burning cheeks, marched to his end of the table.
"I am very much obliged to you, Sir, but I had a great deal rather not if you please if you will please to be so good as to let me give it back to you I should be very glad."
"Why, hoity-toity!" said the old gentleman "what's all this? what's the matter? don't you like it? I thought I was doing the very thing that would please you best of all."
"I am very sorry you should think so, Sir," said Ellen, who had recovered a little breath, but had the greatest difficulty to keep back her tears; "I never thought of such a thing as your giving me anything, Sir, till somebody spoke of it; and I had rather never have anything in the world than that you should think what you thought about me."
"What did I think about you?"
"George told me that somebody told you, Sir, I wanted money for my present."
"And didn't you say so?"
"Indeed I didn't, Sir!" said Ellen, with a sudden fire. "I never thought of such a thing!"
"What did you say then?"
"Margaret was showing us her ear-rings, and she asked me if I wouldn't like to have some like them; and I couldn't help thinking I would a great deal rather have the money they would cost to buy something for Alice; and just when I said so, you came in, Sir, and she said what she did. I was very much ashamed. I wasn't thinking of you, Sir, at all, nor of New Year."
"Then you would like something else better than money."
"No, Sir, nothing at all, if you please. If you'll only be so good as not to give me this, I will be very much obliged to you indeed; and please not to think I could be so shameful as you thought I was."
Ellen's face was not to be withstood. The old gentleman took the bill from her hand.
"I will never think anything of you," said he, "but what is the very tip-top of honourable propriety. But you make me ashamed now what am I going to do with this? here have you come and made me a present, and I feel very awkward indeed."
"I don't care what you do with it, Sir," said Ellen, laughing, though in imminent danger of bursting into tears! "I am very glad it is out of my hands."
"But you needn't think I am going to let you off so," said he "you must give me half a dozen kisses at least, to prove that you have forgiven me for making so great a blunder."
"Half a dozen is too many at once," said Ellen, gaily; "three now, and three to-night."
So she gave the old gentleman three kisses, but he caught her in his arms and gave her a dozen at least; after which he found out that the waiter was holding a cup of coffee at his elbow, and Ellen went back to her place with a very good appetite for her breakfast.
After breakfast the needlecases were delivered. Both gave the most entire satisfaction. Mrs. Chauncey assured her daughter that she would quite as lief have a yellow as a red rose on the cover, and that she liked the inscription extremely; which the little girl acknowledged to have been a joint device of her own and Ellen's. Ellen's bag gave great delight, and was paraded all over the house.
After the bustle of thanks and rejoicing was at last over, and when she had a minute to herself, which Ellen Chauncey did not give her for a good while, Ellen bethought her of her flowers a sweet gift still to be made. Why not make it now? why should not Alice have the pleasure of them all day? A bright thought! Ellen ran forthwith to the house-keeper's room, and after a long, admiring look at her treasures, carried them, glass and all, to the library, where Alice and John often were in the morning alone. Alice thanked her in the way she liked best, and then the flowers were smelled and admired afresh.
"Nothing could have been pleasanter to me, Ellie, except Mr.
Marshman's gift."
"And what was that, Alice? I haven't seen it yet."
Alice pulled out of her pocket a small, round, morocco case, the very thing that Ellen had thought looked like a dumpling under the napkin, and opened it.
"It's Mr. John!" exclaimed Ellen. "Oh, how beautiful!"
Neither of her hearers could help laughing.
"It is very fine, Ellie," said Alice; "you are quite right. Now I know what was the business that took John to Randolph every day, and kept him there so long, while I was wondering at him unspeakably. Kind, kind Mr. Marshman!"
"Did Mr. John get anything?"
"Ask him, Ellie."
"Did you get anything, Mr. John?" said Ellen, going up to him where he was reading on the sofa.
"I got this," said John, handing her a little book which lay beside him.
"What is this! Wime's Wiem's Life of Washington
Washington? he was may I look at it?"
"Certainly!"
She opened the book, and presently sat down on the floor where she was, by the side of the sofa. Whatever she had found within the leaves of the book, she had certainly lost herself. An hour passed. Ellen had not spoken or moved except to turn over leaves.
"Ellen!" said John.
She looked up her cheeks coloured high.
"What have you found there?" said he, smiling.
"Oh, a great deal! But did Mr. Marshman give you this?"
"No."
"O!" said Ellen, looking puzzled, "I thought you said you got this this morning."
"No, I got it last night. I got it for you, Ellie."
"For me!" said Ellen, her colour deepening very much; "for me! did you? Oh, thank you! oh, I'm so much obliged to you, Mr. John!"
"It is only an answer to one of your questions."
"This! is it? I don't know what, I am sure. Oh, I wish I could do something to please you, Mr. John!"
"You shall, Ellie; you shall give me a brother's right again."
Blushingly Ellen approached her lips to receive one of his grave kisses; and then, not at all displeased, went down on the floor, and was lost in her book.
Oh, the long joy of that New Year's day! how shall it be told? The pleasure of that delightful book, in which she was wrapped the whole day even when called off, as she often was, by Ellen Chauncey, to help her in fifty little matters of business or pleasure. These were attended to, and faithfully and cheerfully, but the book was in her head all the while. And this pleasure was mixed with Alice's pleasure, the flowers and the miniature, and Mr. Marshman's restored kindness. She never met John's or Alice's eye that day without a smile. Even when she went to be dressed, her book went with her, and was laid on the bed within sight, ready to be taken up the moment she was at liberty. Ellen Chauncey lent her a white frock, which was found to answer very well with a tuck let out; and Alice herself dressed her. While this was doing, Margaret Dunscombe put her head in at the door to ask Anne, Miss Sophia's maid, if she was almost ready to come and curl her hair.
"Indeed I can't say that I am, Miss Margaret," said Anne. "I've something to do for Miss Humphreys, and Miss Sophia hasn't so much as done the first thing towards beginning to get ready yet. It'll be a good hour, and more."
Margaret went away, exclaiming, impatiently, that she could get nobody to help her, and would have to wait till everybody was downstairs.
A few minutes after, she heard Ellen's voice at the door of her room, asking if she might come in.
"Yes who's that? what do you want?"
"I'll fix your hair if you'll let me," said Ellen.
"You? I don't believe you can."
"Oh, yes, I can; I used to do Mamma's very often; I am not afraid, if you'll trust me."
"Well, thank you, I don't care if you try, then," said Margaret, seating herself; "it won't do any harm, at any rate; and I want to be downstairs before anybody gets here; I think it's half the fun to see them come in. Bless me! you're dressed and all ready."
Margaret's hair was in long, thick curls; it was not a trifling matter to dress them. Ellen plodded through it patiently and faithfully, taking great pains, and doing the work well, and then went back to Alice. Margaret's thanks, not very gracefully given, would have been a poor reward for the loss of three-quarters of an hour of pleasure. But Ellen was very happy in having done right. It was no longer time to read; they must go downstairs.
The New Year's party was a nondescript young and old together; a goodly number of both were gathered from Randolph and the neighbouring country. There were games for the young, dancing for the gay, and a superb supper for all; and the big, bright rooms were full of bright faces. It was a very happy evening to Ellen. For a good part of it, Mr. Marshman took possession of her, or kept her near him; and his extreme kindness would alone have made the evening pass pleasantly; she was sure he was her firm friend again.
In the course of the evening, Mrs. Chauncey found occasion to ask her about her journey up the river, without at all mentioning Margaret, or what she had said. Ellen answered that she had come with Mrs. Dunscombe and her daughter.
"Did you have a pleasant time?" asked Mrs. Chauncey.
"Why, no, Ma'am." Said Ellen "I don't know it was partly pleasant, and partly unpleasant."
"What made it so, love?"
"I had left Mamma that morning, and that made me unhappy."
"But you said it was partly pleasant?"
"Oh, that was because I had such a good friend on board," said
Ellen, her face lighting up, as his image came before her.
"Who was that?"
"I don't know, Ma'am, who he was."
"A stranger to you?"
"Yes, Ma'am I never saw him before I wish I could see him again."
"Where did you find him?"
"I didn't find him he found me, when I was sitting up on the highest part of the boat."
"And your friends with you?"
"What friends?"
"Mrs. Dunscombe and her daughter."
"No, Ma'am they were down in the cabin."
"And what business had you to be wandering about the boat alone?" said Mr. Marshman, good-humouredly.
"They were strangers, Sir," said Ellen, colouring a little.
"Well, so was this man your friend a stranger, too, wasn't he?"
"Oh, he was a very different stranger," said Ellen, smiling, "and he wasn't a stranger long, besides."
"Well, you must tell me more about him come, I'm curious; what sort of a strange friend was this?"
"He wasn't a strange friend," said Ellen, laughing; "he was a very, very good friend; he took care of me the whole day; he was very good and very kind."
"What kind of a man?" said Mrs. Chauncey; "a gentleman?"
"Oh, yes, Ma'am!" said Ellen, looking surprised at the question. "I am sure he was."
"What did he look like?"
Ellen tried to tell, but the portrait was not very distinct.
"What did he wear? Coat or cloak?"
"Coat dark brown, I think."
"This was the end of October, wasn't it?"
Ellen thought a moment and answered, "yes."
"And you don't know his name?"
"No, Ma'am; I wish I did."
"I can tell you," said Mrs. Chauncey, smiling; "he is one of my best friends, too, Ellen; it is my brother, Mr. George Marshman."
How Ellen's face crimsoned! Mr. Marshman asked how she knew.
"It was then he came up the river, you know, Sir; and don't you remember his speaking of a little girl on board the boat, who was travelling with strangers, and whom he endeavoured to befriend? I had forgotten it entirely till a minute or two ago."
"Miss Margaret Dunscombe!" cried George Walsh, "what kind of a person was that you said Ellen was so fond of when you came up the river?"
"I don't know, nor care," said Margaret. "Somebody she picked up somewhere."
"It was Mr. George Marshman!"
"It wasn't."
"Uncle George!" exclaimed Ellen Chauncey, running up to the group her cousin had quitted; "my uncle George? Do you know uncle George, Ellen?"
"Very much I mean yes," said Ellen.
Ellen Chauncey was delighted. So was Ellen Montgomery. It seemed to bring the whole family nearer to her, and they felt it, too. Mrs. Marshman kissed her when she heard it, and said she remembered very well her son's speaking of her, and was very glad to find who it was. And now, Ellen thought, she would surely see him again some time.
The next day they left Ventnor. Ellen Chauncey was very sorry to lose her new friend, and begged she would come again "as soon as she could." All the family said the same. Mr. Marshman told her she must give him a large place in her heart, or he should be jealous of her "strange friend;" and Alice was charged to bring her whenever she came to see them.
The drive back to Carra-carra was scarcely less pleasant than the drive out had been; and home, Ellen said, looked lovely; that is, Alice's home, which she began to think more her own than any other. The pleasure of the past ten days, though great, had not been unmixed; the week that followed was one of perfect enjoyment. In Mr. Humphreys' household there was an atmosphere of peace and purity, that even a child could feel, and in which such a child as Ellen throve exceedingly. The drawing lessons went on with great success; other lessons were begun; there were fine, long walks, and charming sleigh-rides, and more than one visit to Mrs. Vawse; and what Ellen, perhaps, liked the best of all, the long evenings of conversation, and reading aloud, and bright fire-lights, and brighter sympathy, and intelligence, and affection. That week did them all good, and no one more than Ellen.
It was a little hard to go back to Miss Fortune's, and begin her old life there. She went on the evening of the day John had departed. They were at supper.
"Well!" said Miss Fortune, as Ellen entered, "have you got enough of visiting? I should be ashamed to go where I wasn't wanted, for my part."
"I haven't, Aunt Fortune," said Ellen.
"She's been nowhere but what's done her good," said Mr. Van
Brunt; "she's reely growed handsome since she's been away."
"Grown a fiddlestick!" said Miss Fortune.
"She couldn't grow handsomer than she was before," said the old grandmother, hugging and kissing her little grand-daughter with great delight; "the sweetest posie in the garden she always was!"
Mr. Van Brunt looked as if he entirely agreed with the old lady. That, while it made some amends for Miss Fortune's dryness, perhaps increased it. She remarked, that "she thanked Heaven she could always make herself contented at home;" which Ellen could not help thinking was a happiness for the rest of the world.
In the matter of the collar, it was hard to say whether the giver or receiver had the most satisfaction. Ellen had begged him not to speak of it to her aunt; and accordingly, one Sunday, when he came there with it on, both he and she were in a state of exquisite delight. Miss Fortune's attention was at last aroused; she made a particular review of him, and ended it by declaring, that "he looked uncommonly dandified, but she could not make out what he had done to himself;" a remark which transported Mr. Van Brunt and Ellen beyond all bounds of prudence.
Nancy's Bible, which had been purchased for her at Randolph, was given to her the first opportunity. Ellen anxiously watched her as she slowly turned it over, her face showing, however, very decided approbation of the style of the gift. She shook her head once or twice, and then said
"What did you give this to me for, Ellen?"
"Because I wanted to give you something for New Year," said Ellen "and I thought that would be the best thing if you would only read it it would make you so happy and good."
"You are good, I believe," said Nancy, "but I don't expect ever to be, myself I don't think I could be. You might as well teach a snake not to wriggle."
"I am not good at all," said Ellen "we're none of us good;" and the tears rose to her eyes; "but the Bible will teach us how to be. If you'll only read it! please, Nancy, do! say you will read a little every day."
"You don't want me to make a promise I shouldn't keep, I guess, do you?"
"No," said Ellen.
"Well, I shouldn't keep that, so I won't promise it; but I tell you what I will do, I'll take precious fine care of it and keep it always for your sake."
"Well," said Ellen, sighing "I am glad you will even do so much as that. But, Nancy, before you begin to read the Bible, you may have to go where you never can read it, nor be happy nor good neither."
Nancy made no answer, but walked away, Ellen thought, rather more soberly than usual.
This conversation had cost Ellen some effort. It had not been made without a good deal of thought and some prayer. She could not hope she had done much good, but she had done her duty. And it happened that Mr. Van Brunt, standing behind the angle of the wall, had heard every word.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
A gathering cloud in the spring weather.
Ellen's life had nothing to mark it for many months. The rest of the winter passed quietly away, every day being full of employment. At home the state of matters was rather bettered. Either Miss Fortune was softened by Ellen's gentle, inoffensive ways and obedient usefulness, or she had resolved to bear what could not be helped, and make the best of the little inmate she could not get rid of. She was certainly resolved to make the most of her. Ellen was kept on the jump a great deal of the time: she was runner of errands and maid of all work to set the table and clear it was only a trifle in the list of her every-day duties and they were not ended till the last supper dish was put away and the hearth swept up. Miss Fortune never spared herself, and never spared Ellen, so long as she had any occasion for her.
There were, however, long pieces of time that were left free these Ellen seized for her studies and used most diligently; urged on by a three or four-fold motive; for the love of them, and for her own sake, that John might think she had done well that she might presently please and satisfy Alice above all, that her mother's wishes might be answered. This thought, whenever it came, was a spur to her efforts so was each of the others; and Christian feeling added another, and kept all the rest in force. Without this, indolence might have weakened, or temptation surprised her resolution; little Ellen was open to both; but if ever she found herself growing careless from either cause, conscience was sure to smite her; and then would rush in all the motives that called upon her to persevere. Soon faithfulness began to bring its reward. With delight she found herself getting the better of difficulties, beginning to see a little through the mists of ignorance, making some sensible progress on the long road of learning. Study grew delightful her lessons with Alice one of her greatest enjoyments. And as they were a labour of love to both teacher and scholar, and as it was the aim of each to see quite to the bottom of every matter, where it was possible, and to leave no difficulties behind them on the road which they had not cleared away, no wonder Ellen went forward steadily and rapidly. Reading also became a wonderful pleasure. Weems' Life of Washington was read, and read, and read over again, till she almost knew it by heart; and from that she went to Alice's library, and ransacked it for what would suit her. Happily it was a well-picked one, and Ellen could not light upon many books that would do her mischief. For those, Alice's wish was enough she never opened them. Furthermore, Alice insisted that when Ellen had once fairly begun a book she should go through with it not capriciously leave it for another, nor have half a dozen about at a time. But when Ellen had read it once she commonly wanted to go over it again, and seldom laid it aside until she had sucked the sweetness all out of it.
As for drawing, it could not go on very fast while the cold weather lasted. Ellen had no place at home where she could spread out her paper and copies without danger of being disturbed. Her only chance was at the parsonage. John had put all her pencils in order before he went, and had left her an abundance of copies, marked as she was to take them. They, or some of them, were bestowed in Alice's desk; and whenever Ellen had a spare hour or two, of a fine morning or afternoon, she made the best of her way to the mountain; it made no difference whether Alice were at home or not she went in, coaxed up the fire, and began her work. It happened many a time that Alice, coming home from a walk or a run in the woods, saw the little hood and cloak on the settee before she opened the glass door, and knew very well how she should find Ellen, bending intently over her desk. These runs to the mountain were very frequent; sometimes to draw, sometimes to recite, always to see Alice and be happy. Ellen grew rosy, and hardy, and in spite of her separation from her mother, she was very happy, too. Her extreme and varied occupation made this possible. She had no time to indulge useless sorrow; on the contrary, her thoughts were taken up with agreeable matters, either doing or to be done; and at night, she was far too tired and sleepy to lie awake musing. And besides she hoped that her mother would come back in the spring, or the summer at farthest. It is true Ellen had no liking for the kind of business her aunt gave her it was often-times a trial of temper and patience. Miss Fortune was not the pleasantest work-mistress in the world, and Ellen was apt to wish to be doing something else; but, after all, this was not amiss. Besides, the discipline of character, these trials made the pleasant things with which they were mixed up seem doubly pleasant the disagreeable parts of her life relished the agreeable wonderfully. After spending the whole morning with Miss Fortune in the depths of house-work, how delightful it was to forget all in drawing some nice little cottage, with a bit of stone wall, and a barrel in front! or to go with Alice, in thought, to the south of France, and learn how the peasants manage their vines, and make the wine from them; or run over the Rock of Gibraltar with the monkeys; or, at another time, seated on a little bench in the chimney corner, when the fire blazed up well, before the candles were lighted, to forget the kitchen, and the supper, and her bustling aunt, and sail round the world with Captain Cook. Yes these things were all the sweeter for being tasted by snatches.
Spring brought new occupation; household labours began to increase in number and measure; her leisure times were shortened. But pleasures were increased too. When the snow went off, and spring-like days began to come, and birds' notes were heard again, and the trees put out their young leaves, and the brown mountains were looking soft and green, Ellen's heart bounded at the sight. The springing grass was lovely to see; dandelions were marvels of beauty; to her each wild wood- flower was a never to be enough admired and loved wonder. She used to take long rambles with Mr. Van Brunt when business led him to the woods, sometimes riding part of the way on the ox- sled. Always a basket for flowers went along; and when the sled stopped, she would wander all around seeking among the piled-up dead leaves for the white wind-flower, and pretty little hang-head uvularia, and delicate blood-root, and the wild geranium and columbine; and many others, the names of which she did not know. They were like friends to Ellen; she gathered them affectionately as well as admiringly into her little basket, and seemed to purify herself in their pure companionship. Even Mr. Van Brunt came to have an indistinct notion that Ellen and flowers were made to be together. After he found what a pleasure it was to her to go on these expeditions, he made it a point, whenever he was bound to the woods of a fine day, to come to the house for her. Miss Fortune might object as she pleased; he always found an answer; and at last Ellen, to her great joy, would be told, "Well! go get your bonnet and be off with yourself." Once under the shadow of the big trees, the dried leaves crackling beneath her feet, and alone with her kind conductor and Miss Fortune and all in the world that was disagreeable was forgotten forgotten, no more to be remembered till the walk should come to an end. And it would have surprised anybody to hear the long conversations she and Mr. Van Brunt kept up he, the silentest man in Thirlwall! Their talk often ran upon trees, among which Mr. Van Brunt was at home. Ellen wanted to become acquainted with them, as well as with the little flowers that grew at their feet; and he tried to teach her how to know each separate kind by the bark and leaf and manner of growth. The pine and hemlock and fir were easily learnt; the white birch, too; beyond those, at first, she was perpetually confounding one with another. Mr. Van Brunt had to go over and over his instructions never weary, always vastly amused. Pleasant lessons these were! Ellen thought so, and Mr. Van Brunt thought so too.
Then there were walks with Alice, pleasanter still, if that could be. And even in the house, Ellen managed to keep a token of spring-time. On her toilet-table, the three uncouth legs of which were now hidden by a neat dimity cover, there always stood a broken tumbler with a supply of flowers. The supply was very varied, it is true; sometimes only a handful of dandelions, sometimes a huge bunch of lilac flowers, which could not be persuaded to stay in the glass without the help of the wall, against which it leaned in very undignified style; sometimes the bouquet was of really delicate and beautiful wild-flowers. All were charming in Ellen's eyes.
As the days grew long and the weather warm, Alice and she began to make frequent trips to the Cat's Back, and French came very much into fashion. They generally took Sharp to ease the long way, and rested themselves with a good stay on the mountain. Their coming was always a joy to the old lady. She was dearly fond of them both, and delighted to hear from their lips the language she loved best. After a time they spoke nothing else when with her. She was well qualified to teach them; and, indeed, her general education had been far from contemptible, though nature had done more for her. As the language grew familiar to them, she loved to tell and they to hear long stories of her youth and native country scenes and people so very different from all Ellen had ever seen or heard of; and told in a lively, simple style, which she could not have given in English, and with a sweet colouring of Christian thought and feeling. Many things made these visits good and pleasant. It was not the least of Alice's and Ellen's joy to carry their old friend something that might be for her comfort in her lonely way of life. For even Miss Fortune now and then told Ellen "she might take a piece of that cheese along with her;" or, "she wondered if the old lady would like a little fresh meat; she guessed she'd cut her a bit of that nice lamb; she wouldn't want but a little piece." A singular testimony this was to the respect and esteem of Mrs. Vawse had from everybody. Miss Fortune very, very seldom was known to take a bit from her own comforts to add to those of another. The ruling passion of this lady was thrift; her next, good housewifery. First, to gather to herself and heap up of what the world most esteems; after that, to be known as the most thorough housekeeper and the smartest woman in Thirlwall.
Ellen made other visits she did not like so well. In the course of the winter and summer she became acquainted with most of the neighbourhood. She sometimes went with her aunt to a formal tea-drinking, one, two, three, or four miles off, as the case might be. They were not very pleasant. To some places she was asked by herself; and though the people invariably showed themselves very kind, and did their best to please her, Ellen seldom cared to go a second time liked even home and Miss Fortune better. There were a few exceptions; Jenny Hitchcock was one of her favourites, and Jane Huff was another; and all of their respective families came in, with good reason, for a share of her regard Mr. Juniper, indeed, excepted. Once they went to a quilting at Squire Dennison's; the house was spotlessly neat and well-ordered; the people all kind; but Ellen thought they did not seem to know how to be pleasant. Dan Dennison alone had no stiffness about him. Miss Fortune remarked with pride, that even in this family of pretension, as she thought it, the refreshments could bear no comparison with hers. Once they were invited to tea at the Lawsons'; but Ellen told Alice, with much apparent disgust, that she never wanted to go again. Mrs. Van Brunt she saw often. To Thirlwall, Miss Fortune never went.
Twice in the course of the summer Ellen had a very great pleasure in the company of little Ellen Chauncey. Once Miss Sophia brought her, and once her mother; and the last time they made a visit of two weeks. On both occasions Ellen was sent for to the parsonage, and kept while they stayed; and the pleasure that she and her little friend had together cannot be told. It was unmixed now. Rambling about through the woods and over the fields, no matter where, it was all enchanting; helping Alice garden; helping Thomas make hay, and the mischief they did his haycocks by tumbling upon them, and the patience with which he bore it; the looking for eggs; the helping Margery to churn, and the helping each other to set tables; the pleasant mornings, and pleasant evenings, and pleasant mid-days it cannot be told. Long to be remembered, sweet and pure, was the pleasure of those summer days, unclouded by a shade of discontent or disagreement on either brow. Ellen loved the whole Marshman family now, for the sake of one, the one she had first known; and little Ellen Chauncey repeatedly told her mother in private that Ellen Montgomery was the very nicest girl she had ever seen. They met with joy, and parted with sorrow, entreating and promising if possible, a speedy meeting again.
Amidst all the improvement and enjoyment of these summer months and they had a great deal of both for Ellen there was one cause of sorrow she could not help feeling, and it began to press more and more. Letters they came slowly and when they came, they were not at all satisfactory. Those in her mother's hand dwindled and dwindled, till at last there came only mere scraps of letters from her; and sometimes, after a long interval, one from Captain Montgomery would come alone. Ellen's heart sickened with long-deferred hope. She wondered what could make her mother neglect a matter so necessary for her happiness; sometimes she fancied they were travelling about, and it might be inconvenient to write; sometimes she thought, perhaps they were coming home without letting her know, and would suddenly surprise her some day, and make her half lose her wits with joy. But they did not come, nor write; and, whatever was the reason, Ellen felt it was very sad, and sadder and sadder as the summer went on. Her own letters became pitiful in their supplications for letters; they had been very cheerful, and filled with encouraging matter, and in part they were still.
For a while her mind was diverted from this sad subject, and her brow cleared up, when John came home in August. As before, Alice gained Miss Fortune's leave to keep her at the parsonage the whole time of his stay, which was several weeks. Ellen wondered that it was so easily granted, but she was much too happy to spend time in thinking about it. Miss Fortune had several reasons. She was unwilling to displease Miss Humphreys, and conscious that it would be a shame to her to stand openly in the way of Ellen's good. Besides, though Ellen's services were lost for a time, yet she said she got tired of setting her to work; she liked to dash round the house alone, without thinking what somebody else was doing or ought to be doing. In short, she liked to have her out of the way for a while. Furthermore, it did not please her that Mr. Van Brunt and her little handmaid were, as she expressed it, "so thick." His first thought, and his last thought, she said, she believed, were for Ellen, whether she came in or went out; and Miss Fortune was accustomed to be chief, not only in her own house, but in the regards of all who came to it. At any rate, the leave was granted and Ellen went.
And now was repeated the pleasure of the first week in January. It would have been increased, but that increase was not possible. There was only the difference between lovely winter and lovely summer weather; it was seldom very hot in Thirlwall. The fields and hills were covered with green instead of white; fluttering leaves had taken the place of snow-covered sprays and sparkling icicles; and for the keen north and brisk northwester, soft summer airs were blowing. Ellen saw no other difference except that, perhaps, if it could be, there was something more of tenderness in the manner of Alice and her brother towards her. No little sister could have been more cherished and cared for. If there was a change, Mr. Humphreys shared it. It is true, he seldom took much part in the conversation, and seldomer was with them in any of their pursuits or pleasures. He generally kept by himself in his study. But whenever he did speak to Ellen, his tone was particularly gentle, and his look kind. He sometimes called her "My little daughter," which always gave Ellen great pleasure; she would jump at such times with double zeal, to do anything he asked her.
Now drawing went on with new vigour under the eye of her master. And many things beside. John took a great deal of pains with her in various ways. He made her read to him; he helped her and Alice with their French; he went with them to Mrs. Vawse's; and even Mr. Humphreys went there too, one afternoon to tea. How much Ellen enjoyed that afternoon! They took with them a great basket of provisions, for Mrs. Vawse could not be expected to entertain so large a party; and borrowed Jenny Hitchcock's pony, which, with old John and Sharp, mounted three of the company; they took turns in walking. Nobody minded that. The fine weather, the beautiful mountain-top, the general pleasure, Mr. Humphreys' uncommon spirits and talkableness, the oddity of their way of travelling, and of a tea-party up on the "Cat's Back," and, furthermore, the fact that Nancy stayed at home and behaved very well the whole time, all together filled Ellen's cup of happiness, for the time, as full as it could hold. She never forgot that afternoon. And the ride home was the best of all. The sun was low by the time they reached the plain; long shadows lay across their road; the soft air just stirred the leaves on the branches; stillness and loveliness were over all things; and down the mountain and along the roads, through the open country, the whole way, John walked at her bridle; so kind in his care of her, so pleasant in his talk to her, teaching her how to sit in the saddle, and hold the reins and whip, and much more important things, too, that Ellen thought a pleasanter thing could not be than to ride so. After that they took a great many rides, borrowing Jenny's pony or some other, and explored the beautiful country far and near. And almost daily, John had up Sharp and gave Ellen a regular lesson. She often thought, and sometimes looked, what she had once said to him, "I wish I could do something for you, Mr. John;" but he smiled at her, and said nothing.
At last he was gone. And in all the week he had been at home, and in many weeks before, no letter had come for Ellen. The thought had been kept from weighing upon her by the thousand pleasures that filled up every moment of his stay; she could not be sad then, or only for a minute; hope threw off the sorrow as soon as it was felt; and she forgot how time flew. But when his visit was over, and she went back to her old place and her old life at her aunt's, the old feeling came back in greater strength. She began again to count the days and the weeks; to feel the bitter unsatisfied longing. Tears would drop down upon her Bible; tears streamed from her eyes when she prayed that God would make her mother well and bring her home to her quickly oh! quickly! and little Ellen's face began to wear once more something of its old look.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
The cloud overhead.
One day in the early part of September, she was standing in front of the house at the little wicket that opened on the road. With her back against the open gate, she was gently moving it to and fro, half-enjoying the weather and the scene, half-indulging the melancholy mood which drove her from the presence of her bustling aunt. The gurgling sound of the brook a few steps off was a great deal more soothing to her ear than Miss Fortune's sharp tones. By-and-by a horseman came in sight at the far end of the road, and the brook was forgotten. What made Ellen look at him so sharply? Poor child! she was always expecting news. At first she could only see that the man rode a white horse; then, as he came nearer, an odd looped-up hat showed itself and something queer in his hand what was it? who is it? the old newsman! Ellen was sure. Yes she could now see the saddle-bags, and the white horsetail set in a handle, with which he was brushing away the flies from his horse; the tin trumpet was in his other hand, to blow withal. He was a venerable old figure, with all his oddities; clad in a suit of snuff brown, with a neat, quiet look about him, he and the saddle-bags and the white horse jogged on together as if they belonged to nothing else in the world but each other. In an ecstasy of fear and hope, Ellen watched the pace of the old horse to see if it gave any sign of slackening near the gate. Her breath came short, she hardly breathed at all, she was trembling from head to foot. Would he stop, or was he going on? Oh! the long agony of two minutes! He stopped. Ellen went towards him.
"What little gal is this?" said he.
"I am Ellen Montgomery, Sir," said Ellen, eagerly, "Miss
Fortune's niece I live here."
"Stop a bit," said the old man, taking up his saddle-bags; "Miss Fortune's niece, eh? Well, I believe as I've got somethin' for her somethin' here. Aunt well, eh?"
"Yes, Sir."
"That's more than you be, ain't it?" said he, glancing sideways at Ellen's face. "How do you know but I've got a letter for you here, eh?"
The colour rushed to that face, and she clasped her hands.
"No, dear, no," said he; "I han't got any for you it's for the old lady; there, run in with it, dear."
But Ellen knew before she touched it that it was a foreign letter, and dashed into the house with it. Miss Fortune coolly sent her back to pay the postage.
When she came in again, her aunt was still reading the letter.
But her look, Ellen felt, was unpromising. She did not venture
to speak expectation was chilled. She stood till Miss
Fortune began to fold up the paper.
"Is there nothing for me?" she said then, timidly.
"No."
"Oh! why don't she write to me?" cried Ellen, bursting into tears.
Miss Fortune stalked about the room, without any particular purpose as far as could be seen.
"It is very strange," said Ellen, sorrowfully; "I am afraid she is worse. Does papa say she is worse?"
"No."
"Oh! if she had only sent me a message! I should think she might oh! I wish she had! three words! does papa say why she don't write?"
"No."
"It is very strange!" repeated poor Ellen.
"Your father talks of coming home," said Miss Fortune, after a few minutes, during which Ellen had been silently weeping.
"Home! then she must be better!" said Ellen, with new life; "does papa say she is better?"
"No."
"But what does he mean?" said Ellen, uneasily; "I don't see what he means; he doesn't say she is worse, and he doesn't say she is better; what does he say?"
"He don't say much about anything."
"Does he say when they are coming home?"
Miss Fortune mumbled something about "spring," and whisked off to the buttery; Ellen thought no more was to be got out of her. She felt miserable. Her father and her aunt both seemed to act strangely; and where to find comfort she scarcely knew. She had one day been telling her doubts and sorrows to John. He did not try to raise her hopes, but said
"Troubles will come in this world, Ellie; the best is to trust them and ourselves to our dear Saviour, and let trials drive us to him. Seek to love him more, and to be patient under his will; the good Shepherd means nothing but kindness to any lamb in his flock you may be sure of that, Ellie."
Ellen remembered his words, and tried to follow them now, but she could not be "patient under his will" yet not quite. It was very hard to be patient in such uncertainty. With swimming eyes she turned over her Bible in search of comfort, and found it. Her eye lit upon words she knew very well, but that were like the fresh sight of a friend's face for all that, "Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions." There is no parting there, thought little Ellen. She cried a long time, but she was comforted, nevertheless. The heart that rests on the blessed One who said those words can never be quite desolate.
For several days things went on in the old train, only her aunt, she thought, was sometimes rather queer not quite as usual in her manner towards her. Mr. Van Brunt was not rather, but very queer; he scarce spoke or looked at Ellen; bolted down his food, and was off without a word; and even stayed away entirely from two or three meals. She saw nobody else. Weather and other circumstances prevented her going to the mountain.
One afternoon, she was giving her best attention to a French lesson, when she heard herself called. Miss Fortune was in the lower kitchen, dipping candles. Ellen ran down.
"I don't know what's got into these candles," said Miss Fortune. "I can't make 'em hang together; the tallow ain't good, I guess. Where's the nearest place they keep bees?"
"They have got bees at Mrs. Hitchcock's," said Ellen.
"So they have in Egypt, for anything I know," said her aunt; "one would be about as much good now as t'other. Mrs. Lowndes that ain't far off. Put on your bonnet, Ellen, and run over there, and ask her to let me have a little bees'-wax. I'll pay her in something she likes best."
"Does Mrs. Lowndes keep bee-hives?" said Ellen, doubtfully.
"No; she makes the bees'-wax herself," said Miss Fortune, in the tone she always took when anybody presumed to suppose she might be mistaken in anything.
"How much shall I ask for?" said Ellen.
"Oh, I don't know a pretty good piece."
Ellen was not very clear what quantity this might mean. However, she wisely asked no more questions, and set out upon her walk. It was hot and disagreeable; just the time of day when the sun had most power, and Mrs. Lowndes' house was about half-way on the road to Alice's. It was not a place where Ellen liked to go, though the people always made much of her; she did not fancy them, and regularly kept out of their way when she could. Miss Mary Lawson was sitting with Mrs. Lowndes and her daughter, when Ellen came in and briefly gave her aunt's message.
"Bees'-wax," said Mrs. Lowndes "well, I don't know How much does she want?"
"I don't know, Ma'am, exactly: she said a pretty good piece."
"What's it for, do you know, honey?"
"I believe it's to put in some tallow for candles," said
Ellen; "the tallow was too soft, she said."
"I didn't know Miss Fortune's tallow was ever anything but the hardest," said Sarah Lowndes.
"You had better not let your aunt know you've told on her,
Ellen," remarked Mary Lawson; "she won't thank you."
"Had she a good lot of taller to make up?" inquired the mother, preparing to cut her bees'-wax.
"I don't know, Ma'am; she had a big kettle, but I don't know how full it was."
"You may as well send a good piece, Ma, while you are about it," said the daughter "and ask her to let us have a piece of her sage cheese, will you?"
"Is it worth while to weigh it?" whispered Mrs. Lowndes.
Her daughter answered in the same tone, and Miss Mary joining them, a conversation of some length went on over the bees'- wax, which Ellen could not hear. The tones of the speakers became lower and lower; till at length her own name and an incautious sentence were spoken more distinctly, and reached her.
"Shouldn't you think Miss Fortune might put a black ribbon at least on her bonnet?"
"Anybody but her would."
"Hush!" They whispered again under breath.
The words entered Ellen's heart like cold iron. She did not move hand or foot; she sat motionless with pain and fear, yet what she feared she dared not think. When the bees'-wax was given her, she rose up from her chair, and stood gazing into Mrs. Lowndes' face as if she had lost her senses.
"My goodness, child, how you look!" said that lady. "What ails you, honey?"
"Ma'am," said Ellen "what was that you said, about "
"About what, dear?" said Mrs. Lowndes, with a startled look at the others.
"About a ribbon?" said Ellen, struggling to get the words out of white lips.
"My goodness!" said the other; "did you ever hear anything like that? I didn't say nothing about a ribbon, dear."
"Do you suppose her aunt han't told her?" said Miss Mary in an under tone.
"Told me what?" cried Ellen; "Oh! what? what?"
"I wish I was a thousand miles off!" said Mrs. Lowndes; "I don't know, dear I don't know what it is Miss Alice knows."
"Yes, ask Miss Alice," said Mary Lawson; "she knows better than we do."
Ellen looked doubtfully from one to the other; then, as "Go ask Miss Alice," was repeated on all sides, she caught up her bonnet, and flinging the bees'-wax from her hand, darted out of the house. Those she had left, looked at each other a minute in silence.
"Ain't that too bad now!" exclaimed Mrs. Lowndes, crossing the room to shut the door. "But what could I say?"
"Which way did she go?"
"I don't know I am sure I had no head to look, or anything else. I wonder if I had ought to ha' told her. But I couldn't ha' done it."
"Just look at her bees'-wax!" said Sarah Lowndes.
"She will kill herself if she runs up the mountain at that rate," said Mary Lawson.
They all made a rush to the door to look after her.
"She ain't in sight," said Mrs. Lowndes; "if she's gone the way to the Nose, she's got as far as them big poplars already, or she'd be somewhere this side of 'em, where we could see her."
"You hadn't ought to ha' let her go, Ma'am, in all this sun," said Miss Lowndes.
"I declare," said Mrs. Lowndes, "she scared me so, I hadn't three idees left in my head. I wish I knew where she was, though, poor little soul!"
Ellen was far on her way to the mountain, pressed forward by a fear that knew no stay of heat or fatigue: they were little to her that day. She saw nothing on her way; all within and without were swallowed up in that one feeling; yet she dared not think what it was she feared. She put that by. Alice knew: Alice would tell her; on that goal her heart fixed, to that she pressed on; but oh! the while, what a cloud was gathering over her spirit, and growing darker and darker! Her hurry of mind and hurry of body made each other worse; it must be so; and when she at last ran round the corner of the house and burst in at the glass door, she was in a frightful state.
Alice started up and faced her as she came in, but with a look that stopped Ellen short. She stood still; the colour in her cheeks, as her eyes read Alice's, faded quite away; words, and the power to speak them were gone together. Alas! the need to utter them was gone too. Alice burst into tears, and held out her arms, saying only, "My poor child!" Ellen reached her arms, and strength and spirit seemed to fail there. Alice thought she had fainted; she laid her on the sofa, called Margery, and tried the usual things, weeping bitterly herself as she did so. It was not fainting, however; Ellen's senses soon came back; but she seemed like a person stunned with a great blow, and Alice wished grief had had any other effect upon her. It lasted for days. A kind of stupor hung over her; tears did not come; the violent strain of every nerve and feeling seemed to have left her benumbed. She would sleep long, heavy sleeps the greater part of the time, and seemed to have no power to do anything else.
Her adopted sister watched her constantly, and for those days lived but to watch her. She had heard all Ellen's story from Mary Lawson and Mr. Van Brunt, who had both been to the parsonage one on Mrs. Lowndes' part, the other on his own to ask about her; and she dreaded that a violent fit of illness might be brought on by all Ellen had undergone. She was mistaken, however. Ellen was not ill; but her whole mind and body bowed under the weight of the blow that had come upon her. As the first stupor wore off, there were, indeed, more lively signs of grief; she would weep till she wept her eyes out, and that often, but it was very quietly; no passionate sobbing, no noisy crying; sorrow had taken too strong hold to be struggled with, and Ellen meekly bowed her head to it. Alice saw this with the greatest alarm. She had refused to let her go back to her aunt's; it was impossible to do otherwise; yet it may be that Ellen would have been better there. The busy industry to which she would have been forced at home might have roused her; as it was, nothing drew her, and nothing could be found to draw her from her own thoughts. Her interest in everything seemed to be gone. Books had lost their charm. Walks and drives and staying at home were all one except, indeed, that she rather liked best the latter. Appetite failed; her cheek grew colourless; and Alice began to fear that if a stop were not soon put to this gradual sinking, it would at last end with her life. But all her efforts were without fruit; and the winter was a sorrowful one not to Ellen alone.