"My poor Ellie! my poor Ellie!" said Alice, pressing her little sister to her bosom "it must be! We must say 'the Lord's will be done;' we must not forget he does all things well."
But Ellen rallied; she raised her head again: she could not believe what Alice had told her. To her mind, it seemed an evil too great to happen; it could not be! Alice saw this in her look, and again sadly stroked her hair from her brow. "It must be, Ellie," she repeated.
"But have you seen somebody? have you asked somebody?" said
Ellen "some doctor?"
"I have seen, and I have asked," said Alice; "it was not necessary, but I have done both. They think as I do."
"But these Thirlwall doctors "
"Not them; I did not apply to them. I saw an excellent physician at Randolph, the last time I went to Ventnor."
"And he said "
"As I have told you."
Ellen's countenance fell fell.
"It is easier for me to leave you than for you to be left I know that, my dear little Ellie! You have no reason to be sorry for me I am sorry for you; but the hand that is taking me away is one that will touch neither of us but to do us good; I know that, too. We must both look away to our dear Saviour, and not for a moment doubt his love. I do not you must not. Is it not said that 'he loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus?' "
"Yes," said Ellen, who never stirred her eyes from Alice's.
"And might he not did it not rest with a word of his lips, to keep Lazarus from dying, and save his sisters from all the bitter sorrow his death caused them?"
Again Ellen said, "Yes," or her lips seemed to say it.
"And yet there were reasons, good reasons, why he should not, little as poor Martha and Mary could understand it. But had he at all ceased to love them when he bade all that trouble come? Do you remember, Ellie oh, how beautiful those words are! when at last he arrived near the place, and first one sister came to him with the touching reminder that he might have saved them from this, and then the other, weeping, and falling at his feet, and repeating 'Lord, if thou hadst been here!' when he saw their tears, and more, saw the torn hearts that tears could not ease he even wept with them too! Oh, I thank God for those words! He saw reason to strike, and his hand did not spare; but his love shed tears for them! and he is just the same now."
Some drops fell from Alice's eyes, not sorrowful ones; Ellen had hid her face.
'Let us never doubt His love, dear Ellie, and surely then we can bear whatever that love may bring upon us. I do trust it. I do believe it shall be well with them that fear God. I believe it will be well for me when I die well for you, my dear, dear Ellie well even for my father "
She did not finish the sentence, afraid to trust herself. But oh! Ellen knew what it would have been; and it suddenly startled into life all the load of grief that had been settling heavily on her heart. Her thoughts had not looked that way before; now, when they did, this new vision of misery was too much to bear. Quite unable to contain herself, and unwilling to pain Alice more than she could help, with a smothered burst of feeling she sprang away, out of the door, into the woods, where she would be unseen and unheard.
And there, in the first burst of her agony, Ellen almost thought she should die. Her grief had not now, indeed, the goading sting of impatience: she knew the hand that gave the blow, and did not raise her own against it; she believed, too, what Alice had been saying, and the sense of it was, in a manner, present with her in her darkest time. But her spirit died within her; she bowed her head as if she were never to lift it up again; and she was ready to say with Job, "What good is my life to me?"
It was long, very long after, when slowly and mournfully she came in again to kiss Alice before going back to her aunt's. She would have done it hurriedly and turned away; but Alice held her, and looked sadly for a minute into the woe-begone little face, then clasped her close, and kissed her again and again.
"Oh! Alice," sobbed Ellen, on her neck, "aren't you mistaken? maybe you are mistaken!"
"I am not mistaken, my dear Ellie my own Ellie," said Alice's clear, sweet voice; "nor sorry, except for others. I will talk with you more about this. You will be sorry for me at first, and then I hope you will be glad. It is only that I am going home a little before you. Remember what I was saying to you a while ago. Will you tell Mr. Van Brunt I should like to see him for a few minutes, some time when he has leisure? And come to me early to-morrow, love."
Ellen could hardly get home. Her blinded eyes could not see where she was stepping; and again and again her fulness of heart got the better of everything else, and, unmindful of the growing twilight, she sat down on a stone by the wayside, or flung herself on the ground, to let sorrows have full sway. In one of these fits of bitter struggling with pain, there came on her mind, like a sunbeam across a cloud, the thought of Jesus weeping at the grave of Lazarus. It came with singular power. Did He love them so well? thought Ellen, and is He looking down upon us with the same tenderness even now? She felt that the sun was shining still, though the cloud might be between; her broken heart crept to His feet, and laid its burden there, and after a few minutes she rose up and went on her way, keeping that thought still close to her heart. The unspeakable tears that were shed during those few minutes were that softened out-pouring of the heart that leaves it eased. Very, very sorrowful as she was, she went on calmly now, and stopped no more.
It was getting dark, and a little way from the gate, on the road, she met Mr. Van Brunt.
"Why, I was beginning to get scared about you," said he. "I was coming to see where you was. How come you so late?"
Ellen made no answer, and as he now came nearer, and he could see more distinctly, his tone changed.
"What's the matter?" said he; "you han't been well! what has happened? what ails you, Ellen?"
In astonishment, and then in alarm, he saw that she was unable to speak, and anxiously and kindly begged her to let him know what was the matter, and if he could do anything. Ellen shook her head.
"Ain't Miss Alice well?" said he; "you han't heerd no bad news up there on the hill, have you?"
Ellen was not willing to answer this question with yea or nay.
She recovered herself enough to give him Alice's message.
"I'll be sure and go," said he; "but you han't told me yet what's the matter. Has anything happened?"
"No," said Ellen; "don't ask me she'll tell you don't ask me."
"I guess I'll go up the first thing in the morning then," said he "before breakfast."
"No," said Ellen "better not; perhaps she wouldn't be up so early."
"After breakfast, then; I'll go up right after breakfast. I was a-going with the boys up into that 'ere wheat lot, but anyhow I'll do that first. They won't have a chance to do much bad or good before I get back to them, I reckon."
As soon as possible, she made her escape from Miss Fortune's eye and questions of curiosity, which she could not bear to answer, and got to her own room. There, the first thing she did was to find the eleventh chapter of John. She read it as she never had read it before; she found in it what she never had found before; one of those cordials that none but the sorrowing drink. On the love of Christ, as there shown, little Ellen's heart fastened; and with that one sweetening thought, amid all its deep sadness, her sleep that night might have been envied by many a luxurious roller in pleasure.
At Alice's wish, she immediately took up her quarters at the parsonage, to leave her no more. But she could not see much difference in her from what she had been for several weeks past; and with the natural hopefulness of childhood, her mind presently almost refused to believe the extremity of the evil which had been threatened. Alice herself was constantly cheerful, and sought by all means to further Ellen's cheerfulness; though careful, at the same time, to forbid, as far as she could, the rising of the hope she saw Ellen was inclined to cherish.
One evening they were sitting together at the window, looking out upon the same old lawn and distant landscape, now in all the fresh greenness of the young spring. The woods were not yet in full leaf; and the light of the setting sun upon the trees bordering the other side of the lawn, showed them in the most exquisite and varied shades of colour. Some had the tender green of the new leaf, some were in the red or yellow browns of the half-opened bud; others in various stages of forwardness, mixing all the tints between, and the evergreens standing dark as ever, setting off the delicate hues of the surrounding foliage. This was all softened off in the distance; the very light of the spring was mild and tender compared with that of other seasons; and the air that stole round the corner of the house and came in at the open window was laden with aromatic fragrance. Alice and Ellen had been for some time silently breathing it, and gazing thoughtfully on the loveliness that was abroad.
"I used to think," said Alice, "that it must be a very hard thing to leave such a beautiful world. Did you ever think so, Ellie?"
"I don't know," said Ellen, faintly "I don't remember."
"I used to think so," said Alice, "but I do not now, Ellie; my feeling has changed. Do you feel so now, Ellie?"
"Oh, why do you talk about it, dear Alice?"
"For many reasons, dear Ellie. Come here and sit in my lap again."
"I am afraid you cannot bear it."
"Yes, I can. Sit here, and let your head rest where it used to;" and Alice laid her cheek upon Ellen's forehead; "you are a great comfort to me, dear Ellie."
"Oh, Alice, don't say so you'll kill me!" exclaimed Ellen, in great distress.
"Why should I not say so, love?" said Alice, soothingly. "I like to say it, and you will be glad to know it by-and-by. You are a great comfort to me."
"And what have you been to me?" said Ellen, weeping bitterly.
"What I cannot be much longer; and I want to accustom you to think of it, and to think of it rightly. I want you to know that, if I am sorry at all in the thought, it is for the sake of others, not myself. Ellie, you yourself will be glad for me in a little while; you will not wish me back."
Ellen shook her head.
"I know you will not, after a while; and I shall leave you in good hands I have arranged for that, my dear little sister!"
The sorrowing child neither knew nor cared what she meant, but a mute caress answered the spirit of Alice's words.
"Look up, Ellie look out again. Lovely, lovely! all that is; but I know heaven is a great deal more lovely. Feasted as our eyes are with beauty, I believe that eye has not seen nor heart imagined the things that God has prepared for them that love him. You believe that, Ellie; you must not be so very sorry that I have gone to see it a little before you."
Ellen could say nothing.
"After all, Ellie, it is not beautiful things nor a beautiful world that make people happy it is loving and being loved; and that is the reason why I am happy in the thought of heaven. I shall, if he receives me, I shall be with my Saviour; I shall see him and know him, without any of the clouds that come between here. I am often forgetting and displeasing him now never serving him well nor loving him right. I shall be glad to find myself where all that will be done with for ever. I shall be like him! Why do you cry so, Ellie?" said Alice, tenderly.
"I can't help it, Alice."
"It is only my love for you and for two more that could make me wish to stay here nothing else; and I give all that up, because I do not know what is best for you or myself. And I look to meet you all again before long. Try to think of it as I do, Ellie."
"But what shall I do without you?" said poor Ellen.
"I will tell you, Ellie. You must come here and take my place, and take care of those I leave behind; will you? and they will take care of you."
"But," said Ellen, looking up eagerly "Aunt Fortune"
"I have managed all that. Will you do it, Ellen? I shall feel easy and happy about you, and far easier and happier about my father, if I leave you established here, to be to him, as far as you can, what I have been. Will you promise me, Ellie?"
In words it was not possible; but what silent kisses and the close pressure of the arms round Alice's neck could say, was said.
"I am satisfied, then," said Alice, presently. "My father will be your father think him so, dear Ellie and I know John will take care of you. And my place will not be empty. I am very, very glad."
Ellen felt her place surely would be empty, but she could not say so.
"It was for this I was so glad of your aunt's marriage, Ellie," Alice soon went on. "I foresaw she might raise some difficulties in my way hard to remove, perhaps; but now I have seen Mr. Van Brunt, and he has promised me that nothing shall hinder your taking up your abode, and making your home entirely here. Though I believe, Ellie, he would truly have loved to have you in his own house."
"I am sure he would," said Ellen "but oh, how much rather!"
"He behaved very well about it the other morning in a very manly, frank, kind way showed a good deal of feeling, I think, too. He gave me to understand that for his own sake he should be extremely sorry to let you go; but he assured me that nothing over which he had any control should stand in the way of your good."
"He is very kind he is very good he is always so," said Ellen. "I love Mr. Van Brunt very much. He always was as kind to me as he could be."
They were silent for a few minutes, and Alice was looking out of the window again. The sun had set, and the colouring of all without was graver. Yet it was but the change from one beauty to another. The sweet air seemed still sweeter than before the sun went down.
"You must be happy, dear Ellie, in knowing that I am. I am happy now. I enjoy all this, and I love you all but I can leave it and can leave you yes, both for I would see Jesus! He who has taught me to love him, will not forsake me now. Goodness and mercy have followed me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. I thank him! Oh, I thank him!"
Alice's face did not belie her words, though her eyes shone through tears.
"Ellie, dear you must love Him with all your heart, and live constantly in his presence. I know if you do, he will make you happy, in any event. He can always give more than he takes away. Oh, how good he is! and what wretched returns we make him! I was miserable when John first went away to Doncaster; I did not know how to bear it. But now, Ellie, I think I can see it has done me good, and I can even be thankful for it. All things are ours all things the world, and life, and death too."
"Alice," said Ellen, as well as she could "you know what you were saying to me the other day?"
"About what, love?"
"That about you know that chapter."
"About the death of Lazarus?"
"Yes. It has comforted me very much."
"So it has me, Ellie. It has been exceeding sweet to me at different times. Come, sing to me 'How firm a foundation.' "
From time to time, Alice led to this kind of conversation, both for Ellen's sake and her own pleasure. Meanwhile she made her go on with her usual studies and duties; and but for these talks Ellen would have scarce known how to believe that it could be true which she feared.
The wedding of Miss Fortune and Mr. Van Brunt was a very quiet one. It happened at far too busy a time of the year, and they were too cool calculators, and looked upon their union in much too business-like a point of view, to dream of such a wild thing as a wedding-tour, or even resolve upon so troublesome a thing as a wedding-party. Miss Fortune would not have left her cheese and butter-making to see all the New Yorks and Bostons that ever were built; and she would have scorned a trip to Randolph. And Mr. Van Brunt would as certainly have wished himself all the while back among his furrows and crops. So one day they were quietly married at home, the Rev. Mr. Clark having been fetched from Thirlwall for the purpose. Mr. Van Brunt would have preferred that Mr. Humphreys should perform the ceremony; but Miss Fortune was quite decided in favour of the Thirlwall gentleman, and of course he it was.
The talk ran high all over the country on the subject of this marriage, and opinions were greatly divided; some congratulating Mr. Van Brunt on having made himself one of the richest landholders "in town," by the junction of another fat farm to his own; some pitying him for having got more than his match within doors, and "guessing he'd missed his reckoning for once."
"If he has, then," said Sam Larkens, who heard some of these condoling remarks, "it's the first time in his life, I can tell you. If she ain't a little mistaken, I wish I mayn't get a month's wages in a year to come. I tell you, you don't know Van Brunt; he's as easy as anybody as long as he don't care about what you're doing; but if he once takes a notion, you can't make him gee nor haw no more than you can our near ox Timothy when he's out o' yoke and he's as ugly a beast to manage as ever I see when he ain't yoked up. Why, bless you! there han't been a thing done on the farm this five years but just what he liked she don't know it. I've heerd her," said Sam chucking "I've heerd her a-telling him how she wanted this thing done and t'other, and he'd just not say a word, and go and do it right t'other way. It'll be a wonder if somebody ain't considerably startled in her calculations afore summer's out."
CHAPTER XLII.
One less in the wide, wide world.
It was impossible at first to make Mr. Humphreys believe that Alice was right in her notion about her health. The greatness of the evil was such that his mind refused to receive it, much as Ellen's had done. His unbelief, however, lasted longer than hers. Constantly with Alice as she was, and talking to her on the subject, Ellen slowly gave up the hope she had clung to; though, still, bending all her energies to the present pleasure and comfort of her adopted sister, her mind shrank from looking at the end. Daily and hourly, in every way, she strove to be what Alice said she was, a comfort to her, and she succeeded. Daily and hourly Alice's look and smile and manner said the same thing over and over. It was Ellen's precious reward, and in seeking to earn it, she half the time earned another in forgetting herself. It was different with Mr. Humphreys. He saw much less of his daughter; and when he was with her, it was impossible for Alice, with all her efforts, to speak to him as freely and plainly as she was in the habit of speaking to Ellen. The consequences were such as grieved her, but could not be helped.
As soon as it was known that her health was failing, Sophia Marshman came and took up her abode at the parsonage. Ellen was almost sorry; it broke up in a measure the sweet and peaceful way of life she and Alice had held together ever since her own coming. Miss Sophia could not make a third in their conversations. But as Alice's strength grew less, and she needed more attendance and help, it was plain her friend's being there was a happy thing for both Alice and Ellen. Miss Sophia was active, cheerful, untiring in her affectionate care, always pleasant in manner and temper; a very useful person in a house where one was ailing. Mrs. Vawse was often there, too, and to her Ellen clung, whenever she came, as to a pillar of strength. Miss Sophia could do nothing to help her; Mrs. Vawse could, a great deal.
Alice had refused to write or allow others to write to her brother. She said he was just finishing his course of study at Doncaster; she would not have him disturbed or broken off by bad news from home. In August he would be quite through; the first of August he would be home.
Before the middle of June, however, her health began to fail much more rapidly than she had counted upon. It became too likely that, if she waited for his regular return at the first of August, she would see but little of her brother. She at last reluctantly consented that Mrs. Chauncey should write to him; and from that moment counted the days.
Her father had scarcely till now given up his old confidence respecting her. He came into her room one morning when just about to set out for Carra-carra to visit one or two of his poor parishioners.
"How are you to day, my daughter?" he asked, tenderly.
"Easy, Papa and happy," said Alice.
"You are looking better," said he. "We shall have you well again among us yet."
There was some sorrow for him in Alice's smile, as she looked up at him and answered, "Yes, Papa in the land where the inhabitant shall no more say, 'I am sick.' "
He kissed her hastily, and went out.
"I almost wish I was in your place, Alice," said Miss Sophia.
"I hope I may be half as happy when my time comes."
"What right have you to hope so, Sophia?" said Alice, rather sadly.
"To be sure," said the other, after a pause, "you have been ten times as good as I. I don't wonder you feel easy when you look back and think how blameless your life has been."
"Sophia, Sophia!" said Alice "you know it is not that. I never did a good thing in all my life that was not mixed and spoiled with evil. I never came up to the full measure of duty in any matter."
"But surely," said Miss Sophia, "if one does the best one can, it will be accepted?"
"It won't do to trust to that, Sophia. God's law requires perfection; and nothing less than perfection will be received as payment of its demand. If you owe a hundred dollars, and your creditor will not hold you quit for anything less than the whole sum, it is of no consequence whether you offer him ten or twenty."
"Why, according to that," said Miss Sophia. "it makes no difference what kind of life one leads."
Alice sighed, and shook her head.
"The fruit shows what the tree is. Love to God will strive to please him always."
"And is it of no use to strive to please him?"
"Of no manner of use, if you make that your trust."
"Well, I don't see what one is to trust to," said Miss Sophia, "if it isn't a good life."
"I will answer you," said Alice, with a smile in which there was no sorrow, "in some words that I love very much, of an old Scotchman, I think; 'I have taken all my good deeds and all my bad, and have cast them together in a heap before the Lord; and from them all I have fled to Jesus Christ, and in him alone I have sweet peace.' "
Sophia was silenced for a minute by her look.
"Well," said she, "I don't understand it; that is what George is always talking about; but I can't understand him."
"I am very sorry you cannot," said Alice, gravely.
They were both silent for a little while.
"If all Christians were like you," said Miss Sophia, "I might think more about it; but they are such a dull set; there seems to be no life nor pleasure among them."
Alice thought of these lines,
"Their pleasures rise to things unseen,
Beyond the bounds of time:
Where neither eyes nor ears have been,
Nor thoughts of mortals climb."
"You judge," said she, "like the rest of the world, of that which they see not. After all, they know best whether they are happy. What do you think of Mrs. Vawse?
"I don't know what to think of her; she is wonderful to me; she is past my comprehension entirely. Don't make her an example."
"No, religion has done that for me. What do you think of your brother?"
"George? He is happy, there is no doubt of that; he is the happiest person in the family, by all odds; but then I think he has a natural knack at being happy; it is impossible for anything to put him out."
Alice smiled, and shook her head again.
"Sophistry, Sophia. What do you think of me?"
"I don't see what reason you have to be anything but happy."
"What have I to make me so?"
Sophia was silent. Alice laid her thin hand upon hers.
"I am leaving all I love in this world. Should I be happy if I were not going to somewhat I love better? Should I be happy if I had no secure prospect of meeting with them again? or if I were doubtful of my reception in that place whither I hope to go?"
Sophia burst into tears.
"Well, I don't know," said she; "I suppose you are right; but
I don't understand it."
Alice drew her face down to hers, and whispered something in her ear.
Undoubtedly Alice had much around, as well as within her, to make a declining life happy. Mrs. Vawse and Miss Marshman were two friends and nurses not to be surpassed in their different ways. Margery's motherly affection, her zeal, and her skill, left nothing for heart to wish in her line of duty. And all that affection, taste, and kindness, which abundant means, could supply, was at Alice's command. Still her greatest comfort was Ellen; her constant, thoughtful care; the thousand tender attentions, from the roses daily gathered for her table, to the chapters she read and the hymns she sung to her; the smile that often covered a pang; the pleasant words and tone that many a time came from a sinking heart; they were Alice's daily and nightly cordial. Ellen had learned self- command in more than one school; affection, as once before, was her powerful teacher now, and taught her well. Sophia openly confessed that Ellen was the best nurse; and Margery, when nobody heard her, muttered blessings on the child's head.
Mr. Humphreys came in often to see his daughter, but never stayed long. It was plain he could not bear it. It might have been difficult, too, for Alice to bear, but she wished for her brother. She reckoned the time from Mrs. Chauncey's letter to that when he might be looked for; but some irregularities in the course of the post-office made it impossible to count with certainty upon the exact time of his arrival. Meanwhile, her failure was very rapid. Mrs. Vawse began to fear he would not arrive in time.
The weeks of June ran out; the roses, all but a few late kinds, blossomed and died; July came.
One morning, when Ellen went into her room, Alice drew her close to her and said
"You remember, Ellie, in the Pilgrim's Progress, when Christiana and her companions were sent to go over the river? I think the messenger has come for me. You mustn't cry, love; listen this is the token he seems to bring me 'I have loved thee with an everlasting love.' I am sure of it, Ellie; I have no doubt of it; so don't cry for me. You have been my dear comfort, my blessing we shall love each other in heaven, Ellie."
Alice kissed her earnestly several times, and then Ellen escaped from her arms and fled away. It was long before she could come back again. But she came at last, and went on through all that day as she had done for weeks before. The day seemed long, for every member of the family was on the watch for John's arrival, and it was thought his sister would not live to see another. It wore away; hour after hour passed without his coming, and the night fell. Alice showed no impatience, but she evidently wished and watched for him; and Ellen whose affection read her face and knew what to make of the look at the opening door, the eye turned towards the window, the attitude of listening grew feverish with her intense desire that she should be gratified.
From motives of convenience, Alice had moved upstairs to a room that John generally occupied when he was at home, directly over the sitting-room, and with pleasant windows towards the east. Mrs. Chauncey, Miss Sophia, and Mrs. Vawse, were all there. Alice was lying quietly on the bed, and seemed to be dozing; but Ellen noticed, after lights were brought, that every now and then she opened her eyes and gave an inquiring look round the room. Ellen could not bear it; slipping softly out, she went downstairs and seated herself on the threshold of the glass door, as if by watching there she could be any nearer the knowledge of what she wished for.
It was a perfectly still summer night. The moon shone brightly on the little lawn, and poured its rays over Ellen, just as it had done one well-remembered evening near a year ago. Ellen's thoughts went back to it. How like and how unlike! All around was just the same as it had been then; the cool moonlight upon the distant fields the trees in the gap lit up, as then the lawn a flood of brightness. But there was no happy party gathered there now; they were scattered. One was away; one a sorrowful watcher alone in the moonlight; one waiting to be gone where there is no need of moon or stars for evermore. Ellen almost wondered they could shine so bright upon those that had no heart to rejoice in them; she thought they looked down coldly and unfeelingly upon her distress. She remembered the whip-poor-will; none was heard to-night, near or far; she was glad of it; it would have been too much; and there were no fluttering leaves; the air was absolutely still. Ellen looked up again at the moon and stars. They shone calmly on, despite the reproaches she cast upon them; and as she still gazed up towards them in their purity and steadfastness, other thoughts began to come into her head of that which was more pure still, and more steadfast. How long they have been shining! thought Ellen; going on just the same, from night to night, and from year to year as if they never would come to an end. But they will come to an end the time will come when they stop shining, bright as they are; and then, when all they are swept away, then heaven will be only begun; that will never end! never! And in a few years, we who were so happy a year ago, and are so sorry now, shall be all glad together there this will be all over! And then as she looked, and the tears sprang to her thoughts, a favourite hymn of Alice's came to her remembrance:
"Ye stars are but the shining dust
Of my divine abode;
The pavements of those heavenly courts
Where I shall see my God.
"The Father of eternal lights
Shall there his beams display;
And not one moment's darkness mix
With that unvaried day.
" 'Not one moment's darkness?' Oh," thought little Ellen, "there are a great many here!" Still gazing up at the bright, calm heavens, while the tears ran fast down her face, and fell into her lap, there came trooping through Ellen's mind many of those words she had been in the habit of reading to her mother and Alice, and which she knew and loved so well.
"And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light: and they shall reign for ever and ever. And there shall be no more curse, but the throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it; and his servants shall serve him; and they shall see his face; and his name shall be in their foreheads. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things have passed away."
"And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also."
While Ellen was yet going over and over these precious things, with a strong sense of their preciousness in all her throbbing grief, there came to her ear, through the perfect stillness of the night, the faint, far-off, not to be mistaken sound of quick-coming horses' feet nearer and nearer every second. It came with a mingled pang of pain and pleasure, both very acute; she rose instantly to her feet, and stood pressing her hand to her heart, while the quick-measured beat of hoofs grew louder and louder, until it ceased at the very door. The minutes were few; but they were moments of intense bitterness. The tired horse stooped his head, as the rider flung himself from the saddle, and came to the door, where Ellen stood fixed. A look asked, and a look answered, the question that lips could not speak. Ellen only pointed the way and uttered the words, "upstairs," and John rushed thither. He checked himself, however, at the door of the room, and opened it, and went in as calmly as if he had but come from a walk. But his caution was very needless. Alice knew his step, she knew his horse's step too well; she had raised herself up, and stretched out both arms towards him before he entered. In another moment they were round his neck, and she was supported in his. There was a long, long silence.
"Are you happy, Alice?" whispered her brother.
"Perfectly. This was all I wanted. Kiss me, dear John!"
As he did so again and again, she felt his tears on her cheek, and put up her hands to his face to wipe them away; kissed him then, and then once again laid her head on his breast. They remained so a little while without stirring; except that some whispers were exchanged too low for others to hear, and once more she raised her face to kiss him. A few minutes after, those who could look saw his colour change; he felt the arms unclasp their hold, and, as he laid her gently back on the pillow, they fell languidly down the will and the power that had sustained them were gone. Alice was gone; but the departing spirit had left a ray of brightness on its earthly house; there was a half-smile on the sweet face, of most entire peace and satisfaction. Her brother looked for a moment closed the eyes kissed once and again the sweet lips and left the room.
Ellen saw him no more that night, nor knew how he passed it. For her, wearied with grief and excitement, it was spent in long, heavy slumber. From the pitch to which her spirits had been wrought by care, sorrow, and self-restraint, they now suddenly and completely sank down; naturally, and happily, she lost all sense of trouble in sleep.
When sleep at last left her, and she stole downstairs into the sitting-room in the morning, it was rather early. Nobody was stirring about the house but herself. It seemed deserted; the old sitting-room looked empty and forlorn the stillness was oppressive. Ellen could not bear it. Softly opening the glass door, she went out upon the lawn, where everything was sparkling in the early freshness of the summer morning. How could it look so pleasant without, when all pleasantness was gone within? It pressed upon Ellen's heart. With a restless feeling of pain, she went on, round the corner of the house, and paced slowly along the road till she came to the footpath that led up to the place on the mountain John had called the Bridge of the Nose. Ellen took that path, often travelled and much loved by her; and slowly, with slow-dripping tears, made her way up over moss wet with the dew, and the stones and rocks with which the rough way was strewn. She passed the place where Alice had first found her she remembered it well; there was the very stone beside which they had kneeled together, and where Alice's folded hands were laid. Ellen knelt down beside it again, and for a moment laid her cheek to the cold stone, while her arms embraced it, and a second time it was watered with tears. She rose up again quickly, and went on her way, toiling up the steep path beyond, till she turned the edge of the mountain, and stood on the old place, where she and Alice that evening had watched the setting sun. Many a setting sun they had watched from thence; it had been a favourite pleasure of them both to run up there for a few minutes, before or after tea, and see the sun go down at the far end of the long valley. It seemed to Ellen one of Alice's haunts she missed her there and the thought went keenly home that there she would come with her no more. She sat down on the stone she called her own, and leaning her head on Alice's, which was close by, she wept bitterly. Yet not very long she was too tired and subdued for bitter weeping; she raised her head again, and wiping away her tears, looked abroad over the beautiful landscape never more beautiful than then.
The early sun filled the valley with patches of light and shade. The sides and tops of the hills looking towards the east were bright with the cool brightness of the morning; beyond and between them deep shadows lay. The sun could not yet look at that side of the mountain where Ellen sat, nor at the long reach of ground it screened from his view, stretching from the mountain foot to the other end of the valley; but to the left, between that and the Cat's Back, the rays of the sun streamed through, touching the houses of the village, showing the lake, and making every tree and barn and clump of wood in the distance stand out in bright relief. Deliciously cool, both the air and the light, though a warm day was promised. The night had swept away all the heat of yesterday. Now, the air was fresh with the dew, and sweet from hayfield and meadow; and the birds were singing merrily all around. There was no answering echo in the little human heart that looked and listened. Ellen loved all things too well not to notice them even now; she felt their full beauty, but she felt it sadly. "She will look at it no more!" she said to herself. But instantly came an answer to her thought "Behold I create new heavens, and a new earth; and the former shall not be remembered, nor come into mind. Thy sun shall no more go down, neither shall thy moon withdraw itself; for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended."
"She is there now," thought Ellen; "she is happy; why should I be sorry for her? I am not; but oh! I must be sorry for myself Oh! Alice! dear Alice!"
She wept; but then again came sweeping over her mind the words with which she was so familiar, "the days of thy mourning shall be ended;" and again with her regret mingled the consciousness that it must be for herself alone. And for herself, "Can I not trust Him whom she trusted?" she thought. Somewhat soothed and more calm, she sat still looking down into the brightening valley, or off to the hills that stretched away on either hand of it; when up through the still air the sound of the little Carra-carra church bell came to her ear. It rang for a minute and then stopped.
It crossed Ellen's mind to wonder what it could be ringing for at that time of day; but she went back to her musings and had entirely forgotten it, when again, clear and full through the stillness, the sound came pealing up.
"One two!"
Ellen knew now! It went through her very heart.
It is the custom in the country to toll the church bell upon occasion of the death of any one in the township or parish. A few strokes are rung by way of drawing attention; these are followed, after a little pause, by a single one, if the knell is for man, or two for a woman. Then another short pause. Then follows the number of the years the person has lived, told in short, rather slow strokes, as one would count them up. After pausing once more, the tolling begins, and is kept up for some time; the strokes following in slow and sad succession, each one being permitted to die quite away before another breaks upon the ear.
Ellen had been told of this custom, but habit had never made it familiar. Only once she had happened to hear this notice of death given out; and that was long ago; the bell could not be heard at Miss Fortune's house. It came upon her now with all the force of novelty and surprise. As the number of the years of Alice's life was sadly tolled out, every stroke was to her as if it fell upon a raw nerve. Ellen hid her face in her lap, and tried to keep from counting, but she could not; and as the tremulous sound of the last of the twenty-four died away upon the air, she was shuddering from head to foot. A burst of tears relieved her when the sound ceased.
Just then a voice close beside her said low, as if the speaker might not trust its higher tones "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help."
How differently that sound struck upon Ellen's ear! With an indescribable air of mingled tenderness, weariness, and sorrow, she slowly rose from her seat, and put both her arms round the speaker's neck. Neither said a word; but to Ellen the arm that held her was more than all words; it was the dividing line between her and the world on this side everything, on that side nothing.
No word was spoken for many minutes.
"My dear, Ellen," said her brother, softly, "how came you here?"
"I don't know," whispered Ellen; "there was nobody there I couldn't stay in the house."
"Shall we go home now?"
"Oh, yes whenever you please."
But neither moved yet. Ellen had raised her head; she still stood with her arm upon her brother's shoulder; the eyes of both were on the scene before them the thoughts of neither. He presently spoke again.
"Let us try to love our God better, Ellie, the less we have left to love in this world; that is His meaning let sorrow but bring us closer to him. Dear Alice is well she is well, and if we are made to suffer, we know and we love the hand that has done it; do we not, Ellen?"
Ellen put her hand to her face; she thought her heart would break. He gently drew her to a seat on the stone beside him, and still keeping his arm round her, slowly and soothingly went on
"Think that she is happy; think that she is safe; think that she is with that blessed One whose face we seek at a distance satisfied with His likeness instead of wearily struggling with sin; think that sweetly and easily she has got home; and it is our home, too. We must weep, because we are left alone; but for her 'I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord!' "
As he spoke in low and sweet tones, Ellen's tears calmed and stopped; but she still kept her hands to her face.
"Shall we go home, Ellie?" said her brother, after another silence. She rose up instantly, and said, "Yes." But he held her still, and looking for a moment at the tokens of watching and grief and care in her countenance, he gently kissed the pale little face, adding a word of endearment, which almost broke Ellen's heart again. Then taking her hand, they went down the mountain together.
CHAPTER XLIII.
Those that were left.
The whole Marshman family arrived to-day from Ventnor; some to see Alice's loved remains, and all to follow them to the grave. The parsonage could not hold so many; the two Mr. Marshmans, therefore, with Major and Mrs. Gillespie, made their quarters at Thirlwall. Margery's hands were full enough with those that were left.
In the afternoon, however, she found time for a visit to the room the room. She was standing at the foot of the bed, gazing on the sweet face she loved so dearly, when Mrs. Chauncey and Mrs. Vawse came up for the same purpose. All three stood some time in silence.
The bed was strewn with flowers, somewhat singularly disposed. Upon the pillow, and upon and about the hands, which were on the breast, were scattered some of the rich late roses roses and rose-buds, strewn with beautiful and profuse carelessness. A single stem of white lilies lay on the side of the bed; the rest of the flowers, a large quantity, covered the feet, seeming to have been flung there without any attempt at arrangement. They were of various kinds, chosen, however, with exquisite taste and feeling. Besides the roses, there were none that were not either white or distinguished for their fragrance. The delicate white verbena, the pure feverfew, mignonette, sweet geranium, white myrtle, the rich-scented heliotrope, were mingled with the late-blossoming damask and purple roses; no yellow flowers, no purple, except those mentioned; even the flaunting petunia, though white, had been left out by the nice hand that had culled them. But the arranging of these beauties seemed to have been little more than attempted; though indeed it might be questioned whether the finest heart could have bettered the effect of what the overtasked hand of affection had left half done. Mrs. Chauncey, however, after a while, began slowly to take a flower or two from the foot, and place them on other parts of the bed.
"Will Mrs. Chauncey pardon my being so bold," said Margery then, who had looked on with no pleasure while this was doing, "but if she had seen when those flowers had been put there, it wouldn't be her wish, I am sure it wouldn't be her wish, to stir one of them."
Mrs. Chauncey's hand, which was stretched out for a fourth, drew back.
"Why, who put them there?" she asked.
"Miss Ellen, Ma'am."
"Where is Ellen?"
"I think she is sleeping, Ma'am. Poor child! she's the most wearied of us all, with sorrow and watching," said Margery, weeping.
"You saw her bring them up, did you?"
"I saw her, Ma'am. Oh, will I ever forget it as long as I live!"
"Why?" said Mrs. Chauncey, gently.
"It's a thing one should have seen, Ma'am, to understand. I don't know as I can tell in well."
Seeing, however, that Mrs. Chauncey still looked her wish,
Margery went on half under her breath
"Why, Ma'am, the way it was I had come up to get some linen out of the closet, for I had watched my time; Mrs. Chauncey sees, I was afeard of finding Mr. John here, and I knew he was lying down just then, so "
"Lying down was he?" said Mrs. Vawse. "I did not know he had taken any rest to-day."
"It was very little he took, Ma'am, indeed though there was need enough I am sure; he had been up with his father the live-long blessed night. And then the first thing this morning he was away after Miss Ellen, poor child! wherever she had betaken herself to; I happened to see her before anybody was out, going round the corner of the house, and so I knew when he asked me for her."
"Was she going after flowers then?" said Mrs. Chauncey.
"Oh, no, Ma'am it was a long time after; it was this morning some time. I had come up to the linen closet, knowing Mr. John was in his room, and I thought I was safe; and I had just taken two or three pieces on my arm, you know, Ma'am, when somehow I forgot myself, and forgot what I had come for; and leaving what I should ha' been a-doing, I was standing there, looking out this way at the dear features I never thought to see in death and I had entirely forgotten what I was there for, Ma'am when I heard Miss Ellen's little footstep coming softly upstairs. I didn't want her to catch sight of me just then, so I had just drew myself back a bit, so as I could see her without her seeing me back in the closet where I was. But it had like to have got the better of me entirely, Ma'am, when I see her come in with a lapful of them flowers, and looking so as she did too! but with much trouble I kept quiet. She went up and stood by the side of the bed, just where Mrs. Chauncey is standing, with her sweet, sad, little face it's the hardest thing to see a child's face look so and the flowers all gathered up in her frock. It was odd to see her, she didn't cry not at all only once I saw her brow wrinkle, but it seemed as if she had a mind not to, for she put her hand up to her face and held it a little, and then she began to take out the flowers one by one, and she'd lay a rose here and a rosebud there, and so; and then she went round to the other side and laid the lilies, and two or three more roses on the pillow. But I could see all the while it was getting too much for her; I see very soon she wouldn't get through; she just placed two or three more, and one rose there in that hand, and that was the last. I could see it working in her face; she turned as pale as her lilies all at once, and just tossed all the flowers out of her frock on the bed-foot there that's just as they fell and down she went on her knees, and her face in her hands on the side of the bed. I thought no more about my linen," said Margery, weeping "I couldn't do anything but look at that child kneeling there, and her flowers and all beside her she used to call her sister, and that couldn't be a sister to her no more; and she's without a sister now, to be sure, poor child!"
"She has a brother, unless I am mistaken," said Mrs. Chauncey, when she could speak.
"And that's just what I was trying to tell you, Ma'am. She had been there five or ten minutes without moving, or more I am sure I don't know how long it was, I didn't think how time went when the first thing I knew I heard another step, and Mr. John came in. I thought, and expected, he was taking some sleep; but I suppose," said Margery, sighing, "he couldn't rest. I knew his step, and just drew myself back further. He came just where you are, Ma'am, and stood with his arms folded a long time, looking. I don't know how Miss Ellen didn't hear him come in; but, however, she didn't; and they were both as still as death, one on one side, and the other on the other side. And I wondered he didn't see her; but her white dress and all and I suppose he had no thought but for one thing. I knew the first minute he did see her, when he looked over and spied her on the other side of the bed. I see his colour change; and then his mouth took the look it always did whenever he sets himself to do anything. He stood a minute, and then he went round, and knelt down beside her, and softly took away one of her hands from under her face, and held it in both of his own, and then he made such a prayer! Oh," said Margery, her tears falling fast at the recollection, "I never heard the like! I never did. He gave thanks for Miss Alice and he had reason enough, to be sure and for himself and Miss Ellen I wondered to hear him and he prayed for them too, and others and oh! I thought I couldn't stand and hear him; and I was afeard to breathe the whole time, lest he would know I was there. It was the beautifullest prayer I did ever hear."
"And how did Ellen behave?" said Mrs. Chauncey, when she could speak.
"She didn't stir, nor make the least motion nor sound, till he had done, and spoke to her. They stood a little while then, and Mr. John put the rest of the flowers up there round her hands and the pillow Miss Ellen hadn't put more than half a dozen; I noticed how he kept hold of Miss Ellen's hand all the time. I heard her begin to tell him how she didn't finish the flowers, and he told her 'I saw it all, Ellie,' he said; and he said, 'it didn't want finishing.' I wondered how he should see it, but I suppose he did, however. I understood it very well. They went away downstairs after that."
"He is beautifully changed," said Mrs. Vawse.
"I don't know, Ma'am," said Margery; "I've heard that said afore, but I can't say as I ever could see it. He always was the same to me always the honourablest, truest, noblest my husband says he was a bit fiery, but I never could tell that the one temper was sweeter than the other; only everybody always did whatever Mr. John wanted, to be sure; but he was the perfectest gentleman always."
"I have not seen either Mr. John or Ellen since my mother came," said Mrs. Chauncey.
"No, Ma'am," said Margery, "they were out reading under the trees for a long time; and Miss Ellen came in the kitchen way a little while ago, and went to lie down."
"How is Mr. Humphreys?"
"Oh, I can't tell you, Ma'am he is worse than any one knows of, I am afraid, unless Mr. John; you will not see him, Ma'am; he has not been here once, nor don't mean to, I think. It will go hard with my poor master, I am afraid," said Margery, weeping; "dear Miss Alice said Miss Ellen was to take her place; but it would want an angel to do that."
"Ellen will do a great deal," said Mrs. Vawse; "Mr. Humphreys loves her well now, I know."
"So do I, Ma'am, I am sure; and so does every one; but still "
Margery broke off her sentence, and sorrowfully went downstairs. Mrs. Chauncey moved no more flowers.
Late in the afternoon of the next day Margery came softly into
Ellen's room.
"Miss Ellen, dear, you are awake, aren't you?"
"Yes, Margery," said Ellen, sitting up in bed; "come in. What is it?"
"I came to ask Miss Ellen if she could do me a great favour? There's a strange gentleman come, and nobody has seen him yet, and it don't seem right. He has been here this some time."
"Have you told Mr. John?"
"No, Miss Ellen; he's in the library with my master; and somehow I durstn't go to the door; mayhap they wouldn't be best pleased. Would Miss Ellen mind telling Mr. John of the gentleman's being here?"
Ellen would mind it very much, there was no doubt of that; Margery could hardly have asked her to put a greater force upon herself; she did not say so.
"You are sure he is there, Margery?"
"I am quite sure, Miss Ellen. I am very sorry to disturb you; but if you wouldn't mind I am ashamed to have the gentleman left to himself so long."
"I'll do it, Margery."
She got up, slipped on her shoes, and mechanically smoothing her hair, set off to the library. On the way, she almost repented her willingness to oblige Margery; the errand was marvellously disagreeable to her. She had never gone to that room except with Alice never entered it uninvited. She could hardly make up her mind to knock at the door. But she had promised; it must be done.
The first fearful tap was too light to arouse any mortal ears. At the second, though not much better, she heard some one move, and John opened the door. Without waiting to hear her speak, he immediately drew her in, very unwillingly on her part, and led her silently up to his father. The old gentleman was sitting in his great study-chair, with a book open at his side. He turned from it as she came up, took her hand in his, and held it for a few moments without speaking. Ellen dared not raise her eyes.
"My little girl," said he, very gravely, though not without a tone of kindness, too "are you coming here to cheer my loneliness?"
Ellen in vain struggled to speak an articulate word; it was impossible; she suddenly stooped down and touched her lips to the hand that lay on the arm of the chair. He put the hand tenderly upon her head.
"God bless you," said he, "abundantly, for all the love you showed her. Come if you will and be, as far as a withered heart will let you, all that she wished. All is yours except what will be buried with her."
Ellen was awed and pained very much. Not because the words and manner were sad and solemn; it was the tone that distressed her. There was no tearfulness in it; it trembled a little; it seemed to come indeed from a withered heart. She shook with the effort she made to control herself. John asked her presently what she had come for.
"A gentleman," said Ellen "there's a gentleman, a stranger."
He went immediately out to see him, leaving her standing there. Ellen did not know whether to go too, or stay; she thought, from his not taking her with him, he wished her to stay; she stood doubtfully. Presently she heard steps coming back along the hall steps of two persons the door opened, and the strange gentleman came in. No stranger to Ellen! she knew him in a moment it was her old friend, her friend of the boat Mr. George Marshman.
Mr. Humphreys rose up to meet him, and the two gentlemen shook hands in silence. Ellen at first had shrunk out of the way, to the other side of the room, and now, when she saw her opportunity, she was going to make her escape; but John gently detained her; and she stood still by his side, though with a kind of feeling that it was not there the best place or time for her old friend to recognise her. He was sitting by Mr. Humphreys, and for the present quite occupied with him. Ellen thought nothing of what they were saying; with her eyes eagerly fixed upon Mr. Marshman, she was reading memory's long story over again. The same pleasant look and kind tone that she remembered so well came to comfort her in her first sorrow the old way of speaking, and even of moving an arm or hand the familiar figure and face; how they took Ellen's thoughts back to the deck of that steamboat, the hymns, the talks! the love and kindness that led and persuaded her so faithfully and eventually to do her duty it was all present again; and Ellen gazed at him as at a picture of the past, forgetting for the moment everything else. The same love and kindness were endeavouring now to say something for Mr. Humphreys' relief; it was a hard task. The old gentleman heard and answered, for the most part briefly, but so as to show that his friend laboured in vain; the bitterness and hardness of grief were unallayed yet. It was not till John made some slight remark, that Mr. Marshman turned his head that way; he looked for a moment in some surprise, and then said, his countenance lightening, "Is that Ellen Montgomery?"
Ellen sprang across at that word to take his outstretched hand. But as she felt the well-remembered grasp of it, and met the old look, the thought of which she had treasured up for years it was too much. Back as in a flood to her heart seemed to come at once all the thoughts and feelings of the time since then; the difference of this meeting from the joyful one she had so often pictured to herself; the sorrow of that time mixed with the sorrow now; and the sense that the very hand that had wiped those first tears away, was the one now laid in the dust by death. All thronged on her heart at once; and it was too much. She had scarce touched Mr. Marshman's hand when she hastily withdrew her own, and gave way to an overwhelming burst of sorrow. It was infectious. There was such an utter absence of all bitterness or hardness in the tone of this grief; there was so touching an expression of submission mingled with it, that even Mr. Humphreys was overcome. Ellen was not the only subdued weeper there not the only one whose tears came from a broken-up heart. For a few minutes the silence of stifled sobs was in the room, till Ellen recovered enough to make her escape, and then the colour of sorrow was lightened, in one breast at least.
"Brother," said Mr. Humphreys, "I can hear you now better than I could a little while ago. I had almost forgotten that God is good. 'Light in the darkness,' I see it now. That child has given me a lesson."
Ellen did not know what had passed around her, nor what had followed her quitting the room. But she thought when John came to the tea-table he looked relieved. If his general kindness and tenderness of manner towards herself could have been greater than usual, she might have thought it was that night; but she only thought he felt better.
Mr. Marshman was not permitted to leave the house. He was a great comfort to everybody. Not himself overburdened with sorrow, he was able to make that effort for the good of the rest which no one yet had been equal to. The whole family, except Mr. Humphreys, were gathered together at this time; and his grave, cheerful, and unceasing kindness, made that by far the most comfortable meal that had been taken. It was exceeding grateful to Ellen to see and hear him, from the old remembrance as well as the present effect. And he had not forgotten his old kindness for her; she saw it in his look, his words, his voice, shown in every way; and the feeling that she had got her old friend again, and should never lose him, now gave her more deep pleasure than anything else could possibly have done at that time. His own family, too, had not seen him in a long time, so his presence was matter of general satisfaction.
Later in the evening, Ellen was sitting beside him on the sofa, looking and listening he was like a piece of old music to her when John came to the back of the sofa and said he wanted to speak to her. She went with him to the other side of the room.
"Ellie," he said, in a low voice, "I think my father would like to hear you sing a hymn do you think you could?"
Ellen looked up, with a peculiar mixture of uncertainty and resolution in her countenance, and said, "Yes."
"Not if it will pain you too much and not unless you think you can surely go through with it, Ellen," he said, gently.
"No," said Ellen "I will try."
"Will it not give you too much pain? do you think you can?"
"No I will try," she repeated.
As she went along the hall she said and resolved to herself that she would do it. The library was dark; coming from the light, Ellen at first could see nothing. John placed her in a chair and went away himself to a little distance, where he remained perfectly still. She covered her face with her hands for a minute, and prayed for strength; she was afraid to try.
Alice and her brother were remarkable for beauty of voice and utterance. The latter, Ellen in part caught from them; in the former she thought herself greatly inferior. Perhaps she underrated herself: her voice, though not indeed powerful, was low and sweet, and very clear; and the entire simplicity and feeling with which she sang hymns, was more effectual than any higher qualities of tone and compass. She had been very much accustomed to sing with Alice, who excelled in beautiful truth and simplicity of expression; listening with delight, as she often had done, and often joining with her, Ellen had caught something of her manner.
She thought nothing of all this now; she had a trying task to go through. Sing! then and there! And what should she sing? All that class of hymns that bore directly on the subject of their sorrow must be left on one side; she hardly dared think of them. Instinctively she took up another class, that without baring the wound would lay the balm close to it. A few minutes of deep stillness were in the dark room; then very low, and in tones that trembled a little, rose the words
"How sweet the name of Jesus sounds
In a believer's ear!
It smoothes his sorrows, heals his wounds,
And drives away his fear."
The tremble in her voice ceased, and she went on
"It makes the wounded spirit whole,
And calms the troubled beast;
'T is manna to the hungry soul,
And to the weary, rest.
"By Him my prayers acceptance gain,
Although with sin defiled;
Satan accuses me in vain,
And I am own'd a child.
Weak is the effort of my heart,
And cold my warmest thought
But when I see thee as thou art,
I'll praise thee as I ought.
Till then, I would thy love proclaim
With every lab'ring breath;
And may the music of thy name
Refresh my soul in death."
Ellen paused a minute. There was not a sound to be heard in the room. She thought of the hymn, "Loving Kindness;" but the tune, and the spirit of the words was too lively. Her mother's favourite, " 'T is my happiness below," but Ellen could not venture that; she strove to forget it as fast as possible. She sang clearly and sweetly as ever now
"Hark, my soul, it is the Lord,
'T is thy Saviour, hear his word,
Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee:
'Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me?
" 'I deliver'd thee when bound,
And when bleeding heal'd thy wound;
Sought thee wandering, set thee right
Turn'd thy darkness into light.
" 'Can a mother's tender care
Cease toward the child she bare?
Yea she may forgetful be,
Yet will I remember thee.
" 'Mine is an unchanging love;
Higher than the heights above,
Deeper than the depths beneath,
Free and faithful, strong as death.
" 'Thou shalt see my glory soon,
When the work of life is done,
Partner of my throne shalt be
Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me?
"Lord, it is my chief complaint
That my love is weak and faint;
Yet I love thee and adore
Oh for grace to love thee more!"
Ellen's task was no longer painful, but most delightful. She hoped she was doing some good; and that hope enabled her, after the first trembling beginning, to go on without any difficulty. She was not thinking of herself. It was very well she could not see the effect upon her auditors. Through the dark, her eyes could only just discern a dark figure stretched upon the sofa, and another standing by the mantle-piece. The room was profoundly still, except when she was singing. The choice of hymns gave her the greatest trouble. She thought of "Jerusalem, my happy home;" but it would not do; she and Alice had too often sung it in strains of joy. Happily came to her mind the beautiful
"How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord," &c.
She went through all seven long verses. Still when Ellen paused at the end of this, the breathless silence seemed to invite her to go on. She waited a minute to gather breath. The blessed words had gone down into her very heart; did they ever seem half so sweet before? She was cheered and strengthened, and thought she could go through with the next hymn, though it had been much loved and often used, both by her mother and Alice:
"Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to thy bosom fly,
While the billows near me roll,
While the tempest still is nigh.
Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,
Till the storm of life be past
Safe into the haven guide,
Oh, receive my soul at last!
"Other refuge have I none,
Hangs my helpless soul on thee
Leave, ah! leave me not alone!
Still support and comfort me.
All my trust on thee is stay'd,
All my help from thee I bring;
Cover my defenceless head
Beneath the shadow of thy wing.
"Thou, O Christ, art all I want;
More than all in thee I find;
Raise the fallen, cheer the faint,
Heal the sick, and lead the blind.
Just and holy is thy name,
I am all unrighteousness;
Vile and full of sin I am,
Thou art full of truth and grace."
Still silence; "silence that spoke!" Ellen did not know what it said, except that her hearers did not wish her to stop. Her next was a favourite hymn of them all
"What are these in bright array?" &c.
Ellen had allowed her thoughts to travel too far along with the words, for in the last lines her voice was unsteady and faint. She was fain to make a longer pause than usual to recover herself. But in vain; the tender nerve was touched; there was no stilling its quivering.
"Ellen!" said Mr. Humphreys then, after a few minutes. She rose and went to the sofa. He folded her close to his breast.