"Ride on, Ellen!" said her deliverer.
She obeyed. He stayed a moment to say to his fallen adversary a few words of pointed warning as to ever repeating his offence; then remounted and spurred forward to join Ellen. All her power of keeping up was gone, now that the necessity was over. Her head was once more bowed on her pony's neck, her whole frame shaking with convulsive sobs; she could scarce with great effort keep from crying out aloud.
"Ellie!" said her adopted brother, in a voice that could hardly be known for the one that had last spoken. She had no words, but as he gently took one of her hands, the convulsive squeeze it gave him showed the state of nervous excitement she was in. It was very long before his utmost efforts could soothe her, or she could command herself enough to tell him her story. When at last told, it was with many tears.
"Oh, how could he! how could he!" said poor Ellen "how could he do so! it was very hard!"
An involuntary touch of the spurs made John's horse start.
"But what took you to Thirlwall alone?" said he "you have not told me that yet."
Ellen went back to Timothy's invasion of the cabbages, and gave him the whole story of the morning.
"I thought when I was going for the doctor, at first," said she, "and then afterwards when I had found him, what a good thing it was that Timothy broke down the garden fence and got in this morning; for if it had not been for that, I should not have gone to Mr. Van Brunt's and then again, after that I thought, if he only hadn't!"
"Little things often draw after them long trains of circumstances," said John "and that shows the folly of those people who think that God does not stoop to concern himself about trifles; life, and much more than life, may hang upon the turn of a hand. But, Ellen, you must ride no more alone. Promise me that you will not."
"I will not to Thirlwall, certainly," said Ellen "but mayn't
I to Alice's? how can I help it?"
"Well to Alice's that is a safe part of the country; but I should like to know a little more of your horse before trusting you even there."
"Of the Brownie?" said Ellen "oh, he is as good as he can be; you need not be afraid of him; he has no trick at all; there never was such a good little horse."
John smiled. "How do you like mine?" said he.
"Is that your new one? Oh, what a beauty! Oh me, what a beauty! I didn't look at him before. Oh, I like him very much! he's handsomer than the Brownie do you like him?"
"Very well! this is the first trial I have made of him. I was at Mr. Marshman's last night, and they detained me this morning, or I should have been here much earlier. I am very well satisfied with him, so far."
"And if you had not been detained!" said Ellen.
"Yes, Ellie I should not have fretted at my late breakfast and having to try Mr. Marshman's favourite mare, if I had known what good purpose the delay was to serve. I wish I could have been here half an hour sooner, though."
"Is his name the Black Prince?" said Ellen, returning to the horse.
"Yes, I believe so; but you shall change it, Ellie, if you can find one you like better."
"Oh, I cannot! I like that very much. How beautiful he is!
Is he good?"
"I hope so," said John, smiling "if he is not, I shall be at the pains to make him so. We are hardly acquainted yet."
Ellen looked doubtfully at the black horse and his rider, and patting the Brownie's neck, observed with great satisfaction that he was very good.
John had been riding very slowly on Ellen's account; they now mended their pace. He saw, however, that she still looked miserably, and exerted himself to turn her thoughts from everything disagreeable. Much to her amusement, he rode round her two or three times, to view her horse and show her his own; commended the Brownie; praised her bridle hand; corrected several things about her riding; and by degrees engaged her in a very animated conversation. Ellen roused up; the colour came back to her cheeks; and when they reached home, and rode round to the glass door, she looked almost like herself.
She sprang off as usual without waiting for any help. John scarce saw that she had done so, when Alice's cry of joy brought him to the door, and from that together they went in to their father's study. Ellen was left alone on the lawn. Something was the matter; for she stood with swimming eyes and a trembling lip, rubbing her stirrup, which really needed no polishing, and forgetting the tired horses, which would have had her sympathy at any other time. What was the matter? Only that Mr. John had forgotten the kiss he always gave her on going or coming. Ellen was jealous of it as a pledge of sistership, and could not want it; and though she tried as hard as she could to get her face in order, so that she might go in and meet them, somehow it seemed to take a great while. She was still busy with her stirrup, when she suddenly felt two hands on her shoulders, and looking up, received the very kiss the want of which she had been lamenting. But John saw the tears in her eyes, and asked her, she thought with somewhat a comical look, what the matter was. Ellen was ashamed to tell, but he had her there by the shoulders, and besides, whatever that eye demanded, she never knew how to keep back; so with some difficulty she told him.
"You are very foolish child, Ellie," said he, gently, and kissing her again. "Run in out of the sun, while I see to the horses."
Ellen ran in, and told her long story to Alice; and then, feeling very weary and weak, she sat on the sofa, and lay resting in her arms in a state of the most entire and unruffled happiness. Alice, however, after a while, transferred her to bed, thinking, with good reason, that a long sleep would be the best thing for her.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Halcyon days.
When Ellen came out of Alice's room again, it was late in the afternoon. The sun was so low that the shadow of the house had crossed the narrow lawn and mounted up near to the top of the trees; but on them he was still shining brightly, and on the broad landscape beyond, which lay open to view through the gap in the trees. The glass door was open; the sweet summer air and the sound of birds and insects and fluttering leaves floated into the room, making the stillness musical. On the threshold pussy sat crouched, with his forefeet doubled under his breast, watching, with intense gravity, the operations of Margery, who was setting the table on the lawn, just before his eyes. Alice was paring peaches.
"Oh, we are going to have tea out of doors, aren't we!" said Ellen. "I'm very glad. What a lovely evening! isn't it? Just look at pussy, will you, Alice? don't you believe he knows what Margery is doing? Why didn't you call me to go along with you after peaches?"
"I thought you were doing the very best thing you possibly could, Ellie, my dear. How do you do?"
"Oh, nicely now! where's Mr. John? I hope he won't ask for my last drawing to-night; I want to fix the top of that tree before he sees it."
"Fix the top of your tree, you little Yankee!" said Alice; "what do you think John would say to that? _un_fix it, you mean; it is too stiff already, isn't it?"
"Well, what shall I say?" said Ellen, laughing. "I am sorry that is Yankee, for I suppose one must speak English. I want to do something to my tree, then. Where is he, Alice?"
"He is gone down to Mr. Van Brunt's, to see how he is, and to speak to Miss Fortune about you on his way back."
"Oh, how kind of him! he's very good; that is just what I want to know; but I am sorry, after this long ride "
"He don't mind that, Ellie. He'll be home presently."
"How nice those peaches look! they are as good as strawberries don't you think so? better I don't know which is best but Mr. John likes these best, don't he? Now you've done shall I set them on the table? and here's a pitcher of splendid cream, Alice!"
"You had better not tell John so, or he will make you define splendid."
John came back in good time, and brought word that Mr. Van Brunt was doing very well, so far as could be known; also, that Miss Fortune consented to Ellen's remaining where she was. He wisely did not say, however, that her consent had been slow to gain, till he had hinted at his readiness to provide a substitute for Ellen's services; on which Miss Fortune had instantly declared she did not want her, and she might stay as long as she pleased. This was all that was needed to complete Ellen's felicity.
"Wasn't your poor horse too tired to go out again this afternoon, Mr. John?"
"I did not ride him, Ellie; I took yours."
"The Brownie! did you? I'm very glad! How did you like him? But perhaps he was tired a little, and you couldn't tell so well to-day."
"He was not tired with any work you had given him, Ellie perhaps he may be a little, now."
"Why?" said Ellen, somewhat alarmed.
"I have been trying him; and instead of going quietly along the road, we have been taking some of the fences in our way. As I intend practising you at the bar, I wished to make sure, in the first place, that he knew his lesson."
"Well, how did he do?"
"Perfectly well I believe he is a good little fellow. I wanted to satisfy myself if he was fit to be trusted with you; and I rather think Mr. Marshman has taken care of that."
The whole wall of trees was in shadow when the little family sat down to table; but there was still the sunlit picture behind; and there was another kind of sunshine in every face at the table. Quietly happy the whole four, or at least the whole three, were first, in being together after that, in all things beside. Never was tea so refreshing, or bread and butter so sweet, or the song of birds so delightsome. When the birds were gone to their nests, the cricket and grasshopper, and tree-toad and katydid, and nameless other songsters, kept up a concert nature's own in delicious harmony with woods and flowers, and summer breezes and evening light. Ellen's cup of enjoyment was running over. From one beautiful thing to another her eye wandered from one joy to another her thoughts went till her full heart fixed on the God who had made and given them all, and that Redeemer whose blood had been their purchase-money. From the dear friends beside her, the best loved she had in the world, she thought of the one dearer, yet from whom death had separated her; yet living still and to whom death would restore her, thanks to Him who had burst the bonds of death, and broken the gates of the grave, and made a way for his ransomed to pass over. And the thought of Him was the joyfullest of all.
"You look happy, Ellie," said her adopted brother.
"So I am," said Ellen, smiling a very bright smile.
"What are you thinking about?"
But John saw it would not do to press his question.
"You remind me," said he, "of some old fairy story that my childish ears received, in which the fountains of the sweet and bitter waters of life were said to stand very near each other, and to mingle their streams but a little way from their source. Your tears and smiles seem to be brothers and sisters; whenever we see one we may be sure the other is not far off."
"My dear Jack," said Alice, laughing "what an unhappy simile! Are brothers and sisters always found like that?"
"I wish they were," said John, sighing and smiling; "but my last words had nothing to do with my simile, as you call it."
When tea was over, and Margery had withdrawn the things, and taken away the table, they still lingered in their places. It was far too pleasant to go in. Mr. Humphreys moved his chair to the side of the house, and throwing a handkerchief over his head to defend him from the mosquitoes, a few of which were buzzing about, he either listened, meditated, or slept; most probably one of the two latter, for the conversation was not very loud nor very lively; it was happiness enough merely to breathe so near each other. The sun left the distant fields and hills; soft twilight stole through the woods, down the gap, and over the plain; the grass lost its green; the wall of trees grew dark and dusky; and very faint and dim showed the picture that was so bright a little while ago. As they sat quite silent, listening to what nature had to say to them, or letting fancy and memory take their way, the silence was broken hardly broken by the distinct far-off cry of a whip-poor-will. Alice grasped her brother's arm, and they remained motionless, while it came nearer, nearer, then quite near, with its clear, wild, shrill, melancholy note sounding close by them again and again strangely, plaintively then leaving the lawn, it was heard further and further off, till the last faint "whip-poor-will," in the far distance, ended its pretty interlude. It was almost too dark to read faces, but the eyes of the brother and sister had sought each other, remained fixed till the bird was out of hearing; then Alice's hand was removed to his, and her head found its old place on her brother's shoulder.
"Sometimes, John," said Alice, "I am afraid I have one tie too strong to this world. I cannot bear as I ought to have you away from me."
Her brother's lips were instantly pressed to her forehead.
"I may say to you, Alice, as Colonel Gardiner said to his wife, 'we have an eternity to spend together!' "
"I wonder," said Alice, after a pause, "how those can bear to love or be loved, whose affection can see nothing but a blank beyond the grave."
"Few people, I believe," said her brother, "would come exactly under that description; most flatter themselves with a vague hope of reunion after death."
"But that is a miserable hope very different from ours."
"Very different indeed! and miserable; for it can only deceive; but ours is sure. 'Them that sleep in Jesus will God bring with him.' "
"Precious!" said Alice. "How exactly fitted to every want and mood of the mind are the sweet Bible words!"
"Well!" said Mr. Humphreys, rousing himself "I am going in! These musquitoes have half eaten me up. Are you going to sit there all night?"
"We are thinking of it, Papa," said Alice, cheerfully.
He went in, and was heard calling Margery for a liglit.
They had better lights on the lawn. The stars began to peep out through the soft blue, and as the blue grew deeper, they came out more and brighter, till all heaven was hung with lamps. But that was not all. In the eastern horizon, just above the low hills that bordered the far side of the plain, a white light, spreading, and growing, and brightening, promised the moon, and promised that she would rise very splendid; and even before she came, began to throw a faint lustre over the landscape. All eyes were fastened and exclamations burst, as the first silver edge showed itself, and the moon, rapidly rising, looked on them with her whole, broad, bright face: lighting up not only their faces and figures, but the wide country view that was spread out below, and touching most beautifully the trees in the edge of the gap, and faintly the lawn; while the wall of wood stood in deeper and blacker shadow than ever.
"Isn't that beautiful!" said Ellen.
"Come round here, Ellie," said John; "Alice may have you all the rest of the year, but when I am at home you belong to me. What was your little head busied upon a while ago?"
"When?" said Ellen.
"When I asked you "
"Oh, I know I remember. I was thinking "
"Well?"
"I was thinking do you want me to tell you?"
"Unless you would rather not."
"I was thinking about Jesus Christ," said Ellen, in a low tone.
"What about him, dear Ellie?" said her brother, drawing her closer to his side.
"Different things; I was thinking of what he said about
little children; and about what he said, you know 'In my
Father's house are many mansions;' and I was thinking that
Mamma was there: and I thought that we all "
Ellen could get no further.
" 'He that believeth in him shall not be ashamed,' " said John, softly. " 'This is the promise that he hath promised us, even eternal life; and who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Not death, nor things present, nor things to come. But he that hath this hope in him, purifieth himself, even as he is pure;' let us remember that too."
"Mr. John," said Ellen, presently "don't you like some of the chapters in the Revelation very much?"
"Yes very much. Why? do you?"
"Yes. I remember reading parts of them to Mamma, and that is one reason, I suppose; but I like them very much. There is a great deal I can't understand, though."
"There is nothing finer in the Bible than parts of that book," said Alice.
"Mr. John," said Ellen "what is meant by the 'white stone?' "
" 'And in the stone a new name written?' "
"Yes that I mean."
"Mr. Baxter says it is the sense of God's love in the heart; and, indeed, that is it 'which no man knoweth saving him that receiveth it.' This, I take it, Ellen, was Christian's certificate, which he used to comfort himself with reading in, you remember?"
"Can a child have it?" said Ellen, thoughtfully.
"Certainly many children have had it you may have it. Only seek it faithfully. 'Thou meetest him that rejoiceth and worketh righteousness, those that remember thee in thy ways.' And Christ said, 'He that loveth me shall be loved of my Father, and I will love him, and I will manifest myself to him.' There is no failure in these promises, Ellie; he that made them is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever."
For a little while each was busy with his own meditations. The moon, meanwhile, rising higher and higher, poured a flood of light through the gap in the woods before them, and stealing among the trees, here and there, lit up a spot of ground under their deep shadow. The distant picture lay in mazy brightness. All was still, but the ceaseless chirrup of insects, and gentle flapping of leaves; the summer air just touched their cheeks with the lightest breath of a kiss, sweet from distant hayfields, and nearer pines and hemlocks, and other of nature's numberless perfume boxes. The hay harvest had been remarkably late this year.
"This is higher enjoyment," said John, "than half those who make their homes in rich houses and mighty palaces have any notion of."
"But can not rich people look at the moon?" said Ellen.
"Yes, but the taste for pure pleasures is commonly gone, when people make a trade of pleasure."
"Mr. John" Ellen began.
"I will forewarn you," said he, "that Mr. John has made up his mind he will do nothing more for you. So if you have anything to ask, it must lie still unless you will begin again."
Ellen drew back. He looked grave, but she saw Alice smiling.
"But what shall I do?" said she, a little perplexed, and half- laughing. "What do you mean, Mr. John? What does he mean, Alice?"
"You could speak without a 'Mr.' to me this morning, when you were in trouble."
"Oh," said Ellen laughing, "I forgot myself then."
"Have the goodness to forget yourself permanently for the future."
"Was that man hurt this morning, John?" said his sister.
"What man?"
"That man you delivered Ellen from."
"Hurt? no nothing material; I did not wish to hurt him. He richly deserved punishment, but it was not for me to give it."
"He was in no hurry to get up," said Ellen.
"I do not think he ventured upon that till we were well out of the way. He lifted his head and looked after us as we rode off."
"But I wanted to ask something," said Ellen "oh what is the reason the moon looks so much larger when she first gets up, than she does afterwards?"
"Whom are you asking?"
"You."
"And who is you? Here are two people in the moonlight."
"Mr. John Humphreys, Alice's brother, and that Thomas calls 'the young master,' " said Ellen, laughing.
"You are more shy of taking a leap than your little horse is," said John, smiling; "but I shall bring you up to it yet. What is the cause of the sudden enlargement of my thumb?"
He had drawn a small magnifying-glass from his pocket, and held it between his hand and Ellen.
"Why, it is not enlarged," said Ellen "it is only magnified."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Why, the glass makes it look larger."
"Do you know how, or why?"
"No."
He put up the glass again.
"But what do you mean by that?" said Ellen, "there is no magnifying-glass between us and the moon to make her look larger."
"You are sure of that?"
"Why, yes," said Ellen, "I am perfectly sure; there is nothing in the world. There she is, right up there, looking straight down upon us, and there is nothing between."
"What is it that keeps up that pleasant fluttering of leaves in the wood?"
"Why, the wind."
"And what is the wind?"
"It is air air moving, I suppose."
"Exactly. Then there is something between us and the moon?"
"The air? But, Mr. John, one can see quite clearly through the air; it doesn't make things look larger or smaller."
"How far do you suppose the air reaches from us towards the moon?"
"Why, all the way don't it?"
"No only about forty miles. If it reached all the way, there would indeed be no magnifying-glass in the case."
"But how is it?" said Ellen. "I don't understand."
"I cannot tell you to-night, Ellie. There is a long ladder of knowledge to go up before we can get to the moon, but we will begin to mount to-morrow, if nothing happens. Alice, you have that little book of Conversations on Natural Philosophy, which you and I used to delight ourselves with in old time."
"Safe and sound in the book-case," said Alice. "I have thought of giving it to Ellen before, but she has been busy enough with what she had already."
"I have done Rollin, now, though," said Ellen; "that is lucky,
I am ready for the moon."
This new study was begun the next day, and Ellen took great delight in it. She would have run on too fast in her eagerness, but for the steady hand of her teacher; he obliged her to be very thorough. This was only one of her items of business. The weeks of John's stay were, as usual, not merely weeks of constant and varied delight, but of constant and swift improvement too.
A good deal of time was given to the riding-lessons. John busied himself one morning in preparing a bar for her on the lawn, so placed that it might fall if the horse's heels touched it. Here Ellen learned to take first standing, and then running leaps. She was afraid at first, but habit wore that off; and the bar was raised higher and higher, till Margery declared she "couldn't stand and look at her going over it." Then John made her ride without the stirrup, and with her hands behind her, while he, holding the horse by a long halter, made him go round in a circle, slowly at first, and afterwards trotting and cantering, till Ellen felt almost as secure on his back as in a chair. It took a good many lessons, however, to bring her to this, and she trembled very much at the beginning. Her teacher was careful and gentle, but determined; and whatever he said she did, tremble or no tremble; and, in general, loved her riding lessons dearly.
Drawing, too, went on finely. He began to let her draw things from nature; and many a pleasant morning the three went out together with pencils and books and work, and spent hours in the open air. They would find a pretty point of view, or a nice shady place where the breeze came, and where there was some good old rock with a tree beside it, or a piece of fence, or the house or barn in the distance, for Ellen to sketch; and while she drew and Alice worked, John read aloud to them. Sometimes he took a pencil too, and Alice read; and often, often, pencils, books, and work were all laid down; and talk lively, serious, earnest, always delightful took the place of them. When Ellen could not understand the words, at least she could read the faces; and that was a study she was never weary of. At home there were other studies and much reading; many tea-drinkings on the lawn, and even breakfastings, which she thought pleasanter still.
As soon as it was decided that Mr. Van Brunt's leg was doing well, and in a fair way to be sound again, Ellen went to see him; and after that rarely let two days pass without going again. John and Alice used to ride with her so far, and taking a turn beyond while she made her visit, call for her on their way back. She had a strong motive for going in the pleasure her presence always gave, both to Mr. Van Brunt and his mother. Sam Larkens had been to Thirlwall and seen Mrs. Forbes, and from him they had heard the story of her riding up and down the town in search of the doctor; neither of them could forget it. Mrs. Van Brunt poured out her affection in all sorts of expressions whenever she had Ellen's ear; her son was not a man of many words; but Ellen knew his face and manner well enough without them, and read there, whenever she went into his room, what gave her great pleasure.
"How do you do, Mr. Van Brunt?" she said, on one of these occasions.
"Oh, I'm getting along, I s'pose," said he "getting along as well as a man can that's lying on his back from morning to night; prostrated, as Squire Dennison said his corn was t'other day."
"It is very tiresome, isn't it?" said Ellen.
"It's the tiresomest work that ever was, for a man that has two arms to be a-doing nothing, day after day. And what bothers me is the wheat in the ten-acre lot, that ought to be prostrated too, and ain't, nor ain't like to be, as I know, unless the rain comes and does it. Sam and Johnny'll make no headway at all with it I can tell as well as if I see 'em."
"But Sam is good, isn't he?" said Ellen.
"Sam's as good a boy as ever was; but then Johnny Low is mischievous, you see, and he gets Sam out of his tracks once in a while. I never see a finer growth of wheat. I had a sight rather cut and harvest the hull of it than to lie here and think of it getting spoiled. I'm a'most out o' conceit o' trap-doors, Ellen."
Ellen could not help smiling.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Van Brunt?"
"There ain't nothing," said he; "I wish there was. How are you coming along at home?"
"I don't know," said Ellen "I am not there just now, you know; I am staying up with Miss Alice again."
"Oh, ay! while her brother's at home. He's a splendid man, that young Mr. Humphreys, ain't he?"
"Oh, I knew that a great while ago," said Ellen, the bright colour of pleasure overspreading her face.
"Well, I didn't, you see, till the other day, when he came here, very kindly, to see how I was getting on. I wish something would bring him again. I never heerd a man talk I liked to hear so much."
Ellen secretly resolved something should bring him; and went on with a purpose she had had for some time in her mind.
"Wouldn't it be pleasant, while you are lying there and can do nothing wouldn't you like to have me read something to you, Mr. Van Brunt? I should like to, very much."
"It's just like you," said he, gratefully "to think of that; but I wouldn't have you be bothered with it."
"It wouldn't, indeed. I should like it very much."
"Well, if you've a mind," said he "I can't say but it would be a kind o' comfort to keep that grain out o' my head a while. Seems to me I have cut and housed it all three times over already. Read just whatever you have a mind to. If you was to go over a last year's almanac it would be as good as a fiddle to me."
"I'll do better for you than that, Mr. Van Brunt," said Ellen, laughing in high glee at having gained her point. She had secretly brought her Pilgrim's Progress with her, and now with marvellous satisfaction drew it forth.
"I han't been as much of a reader as I had ought to," said Mr. Van Brunt, as she opened the book and turned to the first page; "but, however, I understand my business pretty well; and a man can't be everything to once. Now let's hear what you've got there."
With a throbbing heart, Ellen began; and read, notes and all, till the sound of tramping hoofs and Alice's voice made her break off. It encouraged and delighted her to see that Mr. Van Brunt's attention was perfectly fixed. He lay still, without moving his eyes from her face, till she stopped; then thanking her, he declared that was a "first-rate book," and he "should like mainly to hear the hull on it."
From that time Ellen was diligent in her attendance on him. That she might have more time for reading than the old plan gave her, she set off by herself alone some time before the others, of course riding home with them. It cost her a little, sometimes, to forego so much of their company; but she never saw the look of grateful pleasure with which she was welcomed without ceasing to regret her self-denial. How Ellen blessed those notes as she went on with her reading! They said exactly what she wanted Mr. Van Brunt to hear, and in the best way, and were too short and simple to interrupt the interest of the story. After a while she ventured to ask if she might read him a chapter in the Bible. He agreed very readily; owning "he hadn't ought to be so long without reading one as he had been." Ellen then made it a rule to herself, without asking any more questions, to end every reading with a chapter in the Bible; and she carefully sought out those that might be most likely to take hold of his judgment or feelings. They took hold of her own very deeply, by the means; what was strong or tender, before, now seemed to her too mighty to be withstood; and Ellen read not only with her lips, but with her whole heart, the precious words, longing that they might come with their just effect upon Mr. Van Brunt's mind.
Once as she finished reading the tenth chapter of John, a favourite chapter, which, between her own feeling of it, and her strong wish for him, had moved her even to tears, she cast a glance at his face to see how he took it. His head was a little turned to one side, and his eyes closed; she thought he was asleep. Ellen was very much disappointed. She sank her head upon her book, and prayed that a time might come when he would know the worth of those words. The touch of his hand startled her.
"What is the matter?" said he. "Are you tired?"
"No," said Ellen, looking hastily up; "oh, no I'm not tired."
"But what ails you?" said the astonished Mr. Van Brunt; "what have you been a-crying for? what's the matter?"
"Oh, never mind," said Ellen, brushing her hand over her eyes
"it's no matter."
"Yes, but I want to know," said Mr. Van Brunt; "you shan't have anything to vex you that I can help; what is it?"
"It is nothing, Mr. Van Brunt," said Ellen, bursting into tears again "only I thought you were asleep I I thought you didn't care enough about the Bible to keep awake I want so much that you should be a Christian!"
He half groaned, and turned his head away.
"What makes you wish that so much?" said he, after a minute or two.
"Because I want you to be happy," said Ellen "and I know you can't without."
"Well, I am pretty tolerable happy," said he; "as happy as most folks, I guess."
"But I want you to be happy when you die, too," said Ellen
"I want to meet you in heaven"
"I hope I will go there, surely," said he, gravely "when the time comes."
Ellen was uneasily silent, not knowing what to say.
"I ain't as good as I ought to be," said he presently, with a half sigh: "I ain't good enough to go to heaven I wish I was. You are, I do believe."
"I! Oh no, Mr. Van Brunt, do not say that; I am not good at all I am full of wrong things."
"Well, I wish I was full of wrong things, too, in the same way," said he.
"But I am," said Ellen "whether you will believe it or not. Nobody is good, Mr. Van Brunt. But Jesus Christ has died for us, and if we ask him, he will forgive us, and wash away our sins, and teach us to love him, and make us good, and take us to be with him in heaven. Oh! I wish you would ask him!" she repeated, with an earnestness that went to his heart. "I don't believe any one can be very happy that doesn't love him."
"Is that what makes you happy?" said he.
"I have a great many things to make me happy," said Ellen, soberly "but that is the greatest of all. It always makes me happy to think of him, and it makes everything else a thousand times pleasanter. I wish you knew how it is, Mr. Van Brunt!"
He was silent for a little, and disturbed, Ellen thought.
"Well!" said he at length " 'taint the folks that thinks themselves the best that is the best always if you ain't good, I should like to know what goodness is. There's somebody that thinks you be," said he, a minute or two afterwards, as the horses were heard coming to the gate,
"No, she knows me better than that," said Ellen.
"It isn't any she that I mean," said Mr. Van Brunt. "There's somebody else out there, ain't there?"
"Who?" said Ellen "Mr. John? Oh no, indeed he don't. It was only this morning he was telling me of something I did that was wrong." Her eyes watered as she spoke.
"He must have mighty sharp eyes, then," said Mr. Van Brunt "for it beats all my powers of seeing things."
"And so he has," said Ellen, putting on her bonnet; "he always knows what I am thinking of just as well as if I told him. Good-bye!"
"Good-bye," said he "I han't forgotten what you've been saying, and I don't mean to."
How full of sweet pleasure was the ride home!
The "something wrong," of which Ellen had spoken, was this. The day before, it happened that Mr. John had broken her off from a very engaging book to take her drawing lesson; and as he stooped down to give a touch or two to the piece she was to copy, he said, "I don't want you to read any more of that, Ellie; it is not a good book for you." Ellen did not for a moment question that he was right, nor wish to disobey; but she had become very much interested, and was a good deal annoyed at having such a sudden stop put to her pleasure. She said nothing, and went on with her work. In a little while Alice asked her to hold a skein of cotton for her while she wound it. Ellen was annoyed again at the interruption; the harpstrings were jarring yet, and gave fresh discord to every touch. She had, however, no mind to let her vexation be seen; she went immediately and held the cotton, and, as soon as it was done, set down again to her drawing. Before ten minutes had passed, Margery came to set the table for dinner; Ellen's papers and desk must move.
"Why, it is not dinner-time yet, this great while, Margery," said she "it isn't much after twelve."
"No, Miss Ellen," said Margery, under her breath, for John was in one corner of the room reading "but by-and-by I'll be busy with the chops and frying the salsify, and I couldn't leave the kitchen if you'll let me have the table now."
Ellen said no more, and moved her things to a stand before the window, where she went on with her copying till dinner was ready. Whatever the reason was, however, her pencil did not work smoothly; her eye did not see true; and she lacked her usual steady patience. The next morning, after an hour and more's work and much painstaking, the drawing was finished. Ellen had quite forgotten her yesterday's trouble. But when John came to review her drawing, he found several faults with it; pointed out two or three places in which it had suffered from haste and want of care; and asked her how it had happened. Ellen knew it happened yesterday. She was vexed again, though she did her best not to show it; she stood quietly and heard what he had to say. He then told her to get ready for her riding lesson.
"Mayn't I just make this right first?" said Ellen "it won't take me long."
"No," said he; "you have been sitting long enough; I must break you off. The Brownie will be here in ten minutes."
Ellen was impatiently eager to mend the bad places in her drawing, and impatiently displeased at being obliged to ride first. Slowly and reluctantly she went to get ready; John was already gone; she would not have moved so leisurely if he had been anywhere within seeing distance. As it was, she found it convenient to quicken her movements, and was at the door ready as soon as he and the Brownie. She was soon thoroughly engaged in the management of herself and her horse; a little smart riding shook all the ill-humour out of her, and she was entirely herself again. At the end of fifteen or twenty minutes they drew up under the shade of a tree to let the Brownie rest a little. It was a warm day, and John had taken off his hat and stood resting too, with his arm leaning on the neck of the horse. Presently he looked round to Ellen, and asked her, with a smile, if she felt right again.
"Why?" said Ellen, the crimson of her cheeks mounting to her forehead. But her eye sunk immediately at the answering glance of his. He then, in a very few words, set the matter before her, with such a happy mixture of pointedness and kindness, that while the reproof coming from him went to the quick, Ellen yet joined with it no thought of harshness or severity. She was completely subdued, however; the rest of the riding lesson had to be given up, and for an hour Ellen's tears could not be stayed. But it was, and John had meant it should be, a strong check given to her besetting sin. It had a long and lasting effect.
CHAPTER XL.
"Prodigious!"
In due time, Mr. Van Brunt was on his legs again, much to everybody's joy, and much to the advantage of fields, fences, and grain. Sam and Johnny found they must "spring to," as their leader said; and Miss Fortune declared she was thankful she could draw a long breath again, for, do what she would, she couldn't be everywhere. Before this John and the Black Prince had departed, and Alice and Ellen were left alone again.
"How long will it be, dear Alice," said Ellen, as they stood sorrowfully looking down the road by which he had gone, "before he will be through that before he will be able to leave Doncaster?"
"Next summer."
"And what will he do then?"
"Then he will be ordained."
"Ordained! what is that?"
"He will be solemnly set apart for the work of the ministry, and appointed to it by a number of clergymen."
"And then will he come and stay at home, Alice?"
"I don't know what then, dear Ellen," said Alice, sighing; "he may for a little; but Papa wishes very much that before he is settled anywhere, he should visit England and Scotland, and see our friends there; though I hardly think John will do it, unless he sees some further reason for going. If he do not, he will probably soon he called somewhere; Mr. Marshman wants him to come to Randolph. I don't know how it will be."
"Well!" said Ellen, with a kind of acquiescing sigh, "at any rate now we must wait until next Christmas."
The winter passed with little to mark it except the usual visits to Ventnor; which, however, by common consent, Alice and Ellen had agreed should not be when John was at home. At all other times they were much prized and enjoyed. Every two or three months Mr. Marshman was sure to come for them, or Mr. Howard, or perhaps the carriage only with a letter; and it was bargained for, that Mr. Humphreys should follow to see them home. It was not always that Ellen could go, but the disappointments were seldom; she, too, had become quite domesticated at Ventnor, and was sincerely loved by the whole family. Many as were the times she had been there, it had oddly happened that she had never met her old friend of the boat again; but she was very much attached to old Mr. and Mrs. Marshman, and Mrs. Chauncey and her daughter; the latter of whom reckoned all the rest of her young friends as nothing compared with Ellen Montgomery. Ellen, in her opinion, did everything better than any one else of her age.
"She has good teachers," said Mrs. Chauncey.
"Yes, indeed! I should think she had. Alice I should think anybody would learn well with her; and Mr. John I suppose he's as good, though I don't know so much about him; but he must be a great deal better teacher than Mr. Sandford, Mamma, for Ellen draws ten times as well as I do!"
"Perhaps that is your fault, and not Mr. Sandford's," said her mother; "though I rather think you overrate the difference."
"I am sure I take pains enough, if that's all," said the little girl; "what more can I do, Mamma? But Ellen is so pleasant about it always; she never seems to think she does better than I; and she is always ready to help me, and take ever so much time to show me how to do things; she is so pleasant, isn't she, Mamma? I know I have heard you say she is very polite."
"She is certainly that," said Mrs. Gillespie; "and there is a grace in her politeness that can only proceed from great natural delicacy and refinement of character. How she can have such manners, living and working in the way you say she does, I confess is beyond my comprehension."
"One would not readily forget the notion of good-breeding in the society of Alice and John Humphreys," said Miss Sophia.
"And Mr. Humphreys," said Mrs. Chauncey.
"There is no society about him," said Miss Sophia; "he don't say two dozen words a day."
"But she is not with them," said Mrs. Gillespie.
"She is with them a great deal, aunt Matilda," said Ellen Chauncey, "and they teach her everything, and she does learn! She must be very clever; don't you think she is, Mamma? Mamma, she beats me entirely in speaking French, and she knows all about English history; and arithmetic! and did you ever hear her sing, Mamma?"
"I do not believe she beats you, as you call it, in generous estimation of others," said Mrs. Chauncey, smiling, and bending forward to kiss her daughter; "but what is the reason Ellen is so much better read in history than you?"
"I don't know, Mamma, unless I wish I wasn't so fond of reading stories."
"Ellen Montgomery is just as fond of them, I'll warrant," said
Miss Sophia.
"Yes oh, I know she is fond of them; but then Alice and Mr.
John don't let her read them, except now and then one."
"I fancy she does it, though, when their backs are turned," said Mrs. Gillespie.
"She! oh, aunt Matilda! she wouldn't do the least thing they don't like for the whole world. I know she never reads a story when she is here, unless it is my Sunday books, without asking Alice first."
"She is a most extraordinary child!" said Mrs. Gillespie.
"She is a good child!" said Mrs. Chauncey.
"Yes, Mamma, and that is what I wanted to say. I do not think Ellen is so polite because she is so much with Alice and John, but because she is so sweet and good. I don't think she could help being polite."
"It is not that," said Mrs. Gillespie; "mere sweetness and goodness would never give so much elegance of manner. As far as I have seen, Ellen Montgomery is a perfectly well-behaved child."
"That she is," said Mrs. Chauncey; "but neither would any cultivation or example be sufficient for it without Ellen's thorough good principle and great sweetness of temper."
"That's exactly what I think, Mamma," said Ellen Chauncey.
Ellen's sweetness of temper was not entirely born with her; it was one of the blessed fruits of religion and discipline. Discipline had not done with it yet. When the winter came on, and the house-work grew less, and with renewed vigour she was bending herself to improvement in all sorts of ways, it unluckily came into Miss Fortune's head, that some of Ellen's spare time might be turned to account in a new line. With this lady, to propose and to do were two things always very near together. The very next day Ellen was summoned to help her down-stairs with the big spinning-wheel. Most unsuspiciously, and with her accustomed pleasantness, Ellen did it. But when she was sent up again for the rolls of wool, and Miss Fortune, after setting up the wheel, put one of them into her hand and instructed her how to draw out and twist the thread of yarn, she saw all that was coming. She saw it with dismay. So much yarn as Miss Fortune might think it well she should spin, so much time must be taken daily from her beloved reading and writing, drawing, and studying; her very heart sunk with her. She made no remonstrance, unless her disconsolate face might be thought one; she stood half a day at the big spinning- wheel, fretting secretly, while Miss Fortune went round with an inward chuckle visible in her countenance, that in spite of herself increased Ellen's vexation. And this was not the annoyance of a day; she must expect it day after day through the whole winter. It was a grievous trial. Ellen cried for a great while when she got to her own room, and a long hard struggle was necessary before she could resolve to do her duty. "To be patient and quiet! and spin nobody knows how much yarn and my poor history and philosophy and drawing and French and reading!" Ellen cried very heartily. But she knew what she ought to do; she prayed long, humbly, earnestly, that "her little rushlight might shine bright;" and her aunt had no cause to complain of her. Sometimes, if over-pressed, Ellen would ask Miss Fortune to let her stop; saying, as Alice had advised her, that she wished to have her do such and such things; Miss Fortune never made any objection; and the hours of spinning that wrought so many knots of yarn for her aunt, wrought better things yet for the little spinner: patience and gentleness grew with the practice of them; this wearisome work was one of the many seemingly untoward things which in reality bring out good. The time Ellen did secure to herself was held the more precious, and used the more carefully. After all it was a very profitable and pleasant winter to her.
John's visit came as usual at the holidays, and was enjoyed as usual; only that every one seemed to Ellen more pleasant than the last. The only other event that broke the quiet course of things (besides the journeys to Ventnor) was the death of Mrs. Van Brunt. This happened very unexpectedly and after a short illness, not far from the end of January. Ellen was very sorry, both for her own sake and Mr. Van Brunt's, who she was sure felt much, though, according to his general custom, he said nothing. Ellen felt for him none the less. She little thought what an important bearing this event would have upon her own future well-being.
The winter passed and the spring came. One fine, mild, pleasant afternoon, early in May, Mr. Van Brunt came into the kitchen and asked Ellen if she wanted to go with him and see the sheep salted. Ellen was seated at the table with a large tin pan in her lap, and before her a huge heap of white beans, which she was picking over for the Saturday's favourite dish of pork and beans. She looked up at him with a hopeless face.
"I should like to go very much indeed, Mr. Van Brunt, but you see I can't. All these to do!"
"Beans, eh?" said he, putting one or two in his mouth.
"Where's your aunt?"
"Here, Ma'am!" said he "can't you let this child go with me?
I want her along to help feed the sheep."
To Ellen's astonishment, her aunt called to her through the closed door to "go along, and leave the beans till she came back." Joyfully Ellen obeyed. She turned her back upon the beans, careless of the big heap which would still be there to pick over when she returned, and ran to get her bonnet. In all the time she had been at Thirlwall, something had always prevented her seeing the sheep fed with salt, and she went eagerly out of the door with Mr. Van Brunt to a new pleasure.
They crossed two or three meadows back of the barn, to a low rocky hill covered with trees. On the other side of this, they came to a fine field of spring wheat. Footsteps must not go over the young grain; Ellen and Mr. Van Brunt coasted carefully round by the fence to another piece of rocky woodland, that lay on the far side of the wheat-field. It was a very fine afternoon. The grass was green in the meadow; the trees were beginning to show their leaves; the air was soft and spring-like. In great glee Ellen danced along, luckily needing no entertainment from Mr. Van Brunt, who was devoted to his salt-pan. His natural taciturnity seemed greater than ever; he amused himself all the way over the meadow, with turning over his salt and tasting it, till Ellen laughingly told him, she believed he was as fond of it as the sheep were; and then he took to chucking little bits of it right and left, at anything he saw that was big enough to serve for a mark. Ellen stopped him again, by laughing at his wastefulness; and so they came to the wood. She left him then to do as he liked, while she ran hither and thither to search for flowers. It was slow getting through the wood. He was fain to stop and wait for her.
"Aren't these lovely?" said Ellen, as she came up with her hands full of anemones "and look there's the liverwort. I thought it must be out before now the dear little thing! but I can't find any blood-root, Mr. Van Brunt."
"I guess they're gone," said Mr. Van Brunt.
"I suppose they must," said Ellen. "I am sorry; I like them so much. Oh, I believe I did get them earlier than this two years ago, when I used to take so many walks with you. Only think of my not having been to look for flowers before, this spring."
"It hadn't ought to ha' happened so, that's a fact," said Mr.
Van Brunt; "I don't know how it has."
"Oh! there are my yellow bells!" exclaimed Ellen "oh, you beauties! Aren't they, Mr. Van Brunt?"
"I won't say but what I think an ear of wheat's handsomer," said he, with his half smile.
"Why, Mr. Van Brunt! How can you? but an ear of wheat's pretty, too. Oh, Mr. Van Brunt, what is that? Do you get me some of it, will you, please? Oh, how beautiful! what is it?"
"That's black birch," said he; " 'tis kind o' handsome; stop, I'll find you some oak blossoms directly. There's some Solomon's seal do you want some of that?"
Ellen sprang to it with exclamations of joy, and, before she could rise from her stooping posture, discovered some cowslips to be scrambled for. Wild columbine, the delicate corydalis, and more uvularias, which she called yellow bells, were added to her handful, till it grew a very elegant bunch indeed. Mr. Van Brunt looked complacently on, much as Ellen would at a kitten running round after its tail.
"Now, I won't keep you any longer, Mr. Van Brunt," said she, when her hands were as full as they could hold; "I have kept you a great while; you are very good to wait for me."
They took up their line of march again, and after crossing the last piece of rocky woodland, came to an open hill-side, sloping gently up, at the foot of which were several large flat stones.
"But where are the sheep, Mr. Van Brunt?" said Ellen.
"I guess they ain't fur," said he. "You keep quiet, 'cause they don't know you; and they are mighty scary. Just stand still there by the fence. Ca-nan! ca-nan! ca-nan, nan, nan, nan, nan, nan, nan!"
This was the sheep-call, and raising his voice, Mr. Van Brunt made it sound abroad far over the hills. Again and again it sounded; and then Ellen saw the white nose of a sheep, at the edge of the woods, on the top of the hill. On the call's sounding again, the sheep set forward, and in a long train they came running along a narrow footpath, down towards where Mr. Van Brunt was standing with his pan. The soft tramp of a multitude of light hoofs in another direction, turned Ellen's eyes that way, and there were two more single files of sheep running down the hill from different points in the woodland. The pretty things came scampering along, seeming in a great hurry, till they got very near; then the whole multitude came to a sudden halt, and looked very wistfully and doubtfully indeed at Mr. Van Brunt, and the strange little figure standing so still by the fence. They seemed in great doubt, every sheep of them, whether Mr. Van Brunt were not a traitor, who had put on a friend's voice, and lured them down there with some dark evil intent, which he was going to carry out by means of that same dangerous-looking stranger by the fence. Ellen almost expected to see them turn about and go as fast as they had come. But Mr. Van Brunt, gently repeating his call, went quietly up to the nearest stone, and began to scatter the salt upon it, full in their view. Doubt was at an end; he had hung out the white flag; they flocked down to the stones, no longer at all in fear of double-dealing, and crowded to get at the salt; the rocks where it was strewn were covered with more sheep than Ellen would have thought it possible could stand upon them. They were like pieces of floating ice, heaped up with snow, or queen-cakes with an immoderately thick frosting. It was one scene of pushing and crowding those which had not had their share of the feast forcing themselves up to get at it, and shoving others off in consequence. Ellen was wonderfully pleased. It was a new and pretty sight, the busy hustling crowd of gentle creatures, with the soft noise of their tread upon grass and stones, and the eager devouring of the salt. She was fixed with pleasure, looking and listening, and did not move till the entertainment was over, and the body of the flock were carelessly scattering here and there, while a few that had perhaps been disappointed of their part, still lingered upon the stones, in the vain hope of yet licking a little saltness from them.
"Well," said Ellen, "I never knew what salt was worth before.
How they do love it! Is it good for them, Mr. Van Brunt?"
"Good for them!" said he "to be sure it is good for them. There ain't a critter that walks, as I know, that it ain't good for 'cept chickens, and, it's very queer, it kills them."
They turned to go homeward. Ellen had taken the empty pan to lay her flowers in, thinking it would be better for them than the heat of her hand; and, greatly pleased with what she had come to see, and enjoying her walk as much as it was possible, she was going home very happy, yet she could not help missing Mr. Van Brunt's old sociableness. He was uncommonly silent, even for him, considering that he and Ellen were alone together; and she wondered what had possessed him with a desire to cut down all the young saplings he came to that were large enough for walking-sticks. He did not want to make any use of them that was certain, for as fast as he cut and trimmed out one he threw it away and cut another. Ellen was glad when they got out into the open fields where there were none to be found.
"It is just about this time a year ago," said she, "that Aunt
Fortune was getting well of her long fit of sickness."
"Yes!" said Mr. Van Brunt, with a very profound air; "something is always happening most years."
Ellen did not know what to make of this philosophical remark.
"I am very glad nothing is happening this year," said she; "I think it is a great deal pleasanter to have things go on quietly."
"Oh, something might happen without hindering things going on quietly, I s'pose mightn't it?"
"I don't know," said Ellen, wonderingly. "Why, Mr. Van Brunt, what is going to happen?"
"I declare," said he, half-laughing, "you're as 'cute as a razor; I didn't say there was anything going to happen, did I?"
"But is there?" said Ellen.
"Han't your aunt said nothing to you about it?"
"Why, no," said Ellen "she never tells me anything; what is it?"
"Why, the story is," said Mr. Van Brunt "at least I know, for I've understood as much from herself, that I believe she's going to be married before long."
"She!" exclaimed Ellen. "Married! Aunt Fortune!"
"I believe so," said Mr. Van Brunt, making a lunge at a tuft of tall grass, and pulling off two or three spears of it, which he carried to his mouth.
There was a long silence, during which Ellen saw nothing in earth, air, or sky, and knew no longer whether she was passing through woodland or meadow. To frame words into another sentence was past her power. They came in sight of the barn at length. She would not have much more time.
"Will it be soon, Mr. Van Brunt?"
"Why pretty soon as soon as next week, I guess; so I thought it was time you ought to be told. Do you know to who?"
"I don't know," said Ellen, in a low voice; "I couldn't help guessing."
"I reckon you've guessed about right," said he, without looking at her.
There was another silence, during which it seemed to Ellen that her thoughts were tumbling head over heels, they were in such confusion.
"The short and the long of it is," said Mr. Van Brunt, as they rounded the corner of the barn "we have made up our minds to draw in the same yoke; and we're both on us pretty go-ahead folks, so I guess we'll contrive to pull the cart along. I had just as lief tell you, Ellen, that all this was as good as settled a long spell back afore ever you came to Thirlwall; but I was never a-going to leave my old mother without a home, so I stuck to her, and would, to the end of time, if I had never been married. But now she is gone, and there is nothing to keep me to the old place any longer. So now you know the hull on it, and I wanted you should."
With this particularly cool statement of his matrimonial views, Mr. Van Brunt turned off into the barnyard, leaving Ellen to go home by herself. She felt as if she were walking on air while she crossed the chip-yard, and the very house had a seeming of unreality. Mechanically she put her flowers in water, and sat down to finish the beans; but the beans might have been flowers, and the flowers beans, for all the difference Ellen saw in them. Miss Fortune and she shunned each other's faces most carefully for a long time Ellen felt it impossible to meet her eyes; and it is a matter of great uncertainty which, in fact, did first look at the other. Other than this there was no manner of difference in anything without or within the house. Mr. Van Brunt's being absolutely speechless was not a very uncommon thing.
CHAPTER XLI.
"The clouds return after the rain."
As soon as she could, Ellen carried this wonderful news to Alice, and eagerly poured out the whole story, her walk and all. She was somewhat disappointed at the calmness of her hearer.
"But you don't seem half as surprised as I expected, Alice; I thought you would be so much surprised."
"I am not surprised at all, Ellie."
"Not! aren't you? why, did you know anything of this before?"
"I did not know, but I suspected. I thought it was very likely. I am very glad it is so."
"Glad! are you glad? I am so sorry. Why are you glad, Alice?"
"Why are you sorry, Ellie?"
"Oh because I don't know it seems so queer! I don't like it at all. I am very sorry, indeed."
"For your aunt's sake, or for Mr. Van Brunt's sake?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, do you think he or she will be a loser by the bargain?"
"Why, he to be sure I think he will I don't think she will. I think he is a great deal too good. And, besides I wonder if he wants to, really it was settled so long ago maybe he has changed his mind since."
"Have you any reason to think so, Ellie?" said Alice, smiling.
"I don't know I don't think he seemed particularly glad."
"It will be safest to conclude that Mr. Van Brunt knows his own mind, my dear; and it is certainly pleasanter for us to hope so."
"But then, besides," said Ellen, with a face of great perplexity and vexation "I don't know it don't seem right! How can I ever must I do you think I shall have to call him anything but Mr. Van Brunt?"
Alice could not help smiling again.
"What is your objection, Ellie?"
"Why, because I can't! I couldn't do it, somehow. It would seem so strange. Must I, Alice? Why in the world are you glad, dear Alice?"
"It smooths my way for a plan I have had in my head; you will know by-and-by why I am glad, Ellie."
"Well, I am glad if you are glad," said Ellen, sighing; "I don't know why I was so sorry, but I couldn't help it. I suppose I shan't mind it after a while."
She sat for a few minutes, musing over the possibility or impossibility of ever forming her lips to the words "Uncle Abraham," "Uncle Van Brunt," or barely "uncle;" her soul rebelled against all three. "Yet, if he should think me unkind, then I must oh! rather fifty times over than that!" Looking up, she saw a change in Alice's countenance, and tenderly asked
"What is the matter, dear Alice? what are you thinking about?"
"I am thinking, Ellie, how I shall tell you something that will give you pain."
"Pain! you needn't be afraid of giving me pain," said Ellen, fondly, throwing her arms around her. "Tell me, dear Alice; is it something I have done that is wrong? what is it?"
Alice kissed her, and burst into tears.
"What is the matter; oh, dear Alice!" said Ellen, encircling Alice's head with both her arms, "oh, don't cry! do tell me what it is!"
"It is only sorrow for you, dear Ellie."
"But why?" said Ellen, in some alarm; "why are you sorry for me? I don't care if it don't trouble you, indeed I don't? Never mind me; is it something that troubles you, dear Alice?"
"No, except for the effect it may have on others."
"Then I can bear it," said Ellen; "you need not be afraid to tell me, dear Alice; what is it? don't be sorry for me!"
But the expression of Alice's face was such that she could not help being afraid to hear: she anxiously repeated, "what is it?"
Alice fondly smoothed back the hair from her brow, looking herself somewhat anxiously and somewhat sadly upon the uplifted face.
"Suppose Ellie," she, said at length, "that you and I were taking a journey together a troublesome, dangerous journey and that I had a way of getting at once safe to the end of it; would you be willing to let me go, and you do without me for the rest of the way?"
"I would rather you should take me with you," said Ellen, in a kind of maze of wonder and fear; "why, where are you going, Alice?"
"I think I am going home, Ellie before you."
"Home?" said Ellen.
"Yes, home, I feel it to be; it is not a strange land; I thank
God it is my home I am going to."
Ellen sat looking at her, stupefied.
"It is your home, too, love, I trust, and believe," said Alice tenderly; "we shall be together at last. I am not sorry for myself; I only grieve to leave you alone and others but God knows best. We must both look to Him."
"Why, Alice," said Ellen, starting up suddenly; "what do you mean? what do you mean? I don't understand you what do you mean?"
"Do you not understand me, Ellie?"
"But, Alice! but Alice dear Alice! what makes you say so? is there anything the matter with you?"
"Do I look well, Ellie?"
With an eye sharpened to painful keenness, Ellen sought in Alice's face for the tokens of what she wished and what she feared. It had once or twice lately flitted through her mind that Alice was very thin, and seemed to want her old strength, whether in riding or walking or any other exertion; and it had struck her that the bright spots of colour in Alice's face were just like what her mother's cheeks used to wear in her last illness. These thoughts had just come and gone; but now, as she recalled them, and was forced to acknowledge the justness of them, and her review of Alice's face pressed them home anew hope for a moment faded. She grew white, even to her lips.