Little can be told of Ellen's journey. In ten minutes after leaving Colonel Melville's she found herself on board a steamboat, surrounded by a crowd of strangers. Unaccustomed to such scenes, she was bewildered by the confusion and bustle around her, and clung to Mr. Wallace as if he had been a friend of long years, instead of an acquaintance of a day. But so kind and good was Mr. Wallace, so thoughtful of Ellen's comfort, so considerate of her feelings, and so indulgent to her wishes, that under any circumstances he could not long have seemed a stranger to her. Ellen had travelled very little, and she soon began to feel an interest in what was passing around her. Mr. Wallace exerted himself to amuse her, pointing out to her the places they passed, or describing those through which their route lay. Thus engaged, Ellen's griefs were forgotten till she retired to her berth for the night, and then the remembrance of the sister, without whose good-night kiss she had never before slept since she could remember, came so vividly upon her, that bursting into tears, she sobbed herself to sleep. She was awakened early the next morning by the chambermaid, who came, at the request of Mr. Wallace, to assist her in dressing. From her Ellen learned that they had arrived in New York. Here Mr. Wallace remained a day and a night, that he might show Ellen something of the largest city in which she had ever been, and give her one good night's rest before they set out on the most fatiguing part of their journey. The next day they went by a steamboat to Albany, and from thence travelled on the railroad or the canal for three or four days and nights, passing through several large towns, of which Ellen saw nothing except the one street that formed part of their road. It was four o'clock in the afternoon when they entered the village of G——, situated on a small but beautiful lake. There Mr. Wallace resided, and here was the church in which he preached. He took her to his own house and introduced her to his wife, a lady with manners as kind and countenance as pleasing as his own. She placed some raspberry jam with bread and butter, both of her own making, on the table, and while Ellen partook of it, Mr. Wallace had his own little carriage prepared, and having placed her baggage in it, called to her to take her seat beside him. They were soon on the way to Mrs. Herbert's farm, which, though also on the borders of the lake, was three miles distant from G——. Ellen did not talk much on the way, for she could think of no more questions to ask about her Aunt Herbert or her cousins, and she could not talk of any thing else. It was a lovely afternoon. Though still early in May, the season was unusually forward, and the air was soft and balmy as June. As they approached Mrs. Herbert's place, the road descended to the very edge of the lake. There was not a ripple on the water, and its smooth surface glittered like gold beneath the beams of the almost setting sun. Orchards and gardens were full of bloom, and the long low farmhouse, which was so surrounded with trees that you scarce saw it till you had reached the very door, looked like the abode of peace and gentleness. Two boys who were fishing in the lake from its bank, about fifty yards from the house, were the only persons in sight. When they first saw the carriage, they stood looking steadily at it for a few minutes, as if to ascertain whose it was, then dropping their fishing rods, ran towards the house.
"There they go to give notice of our coming. Poor Charley, George has left him far behind. How hard he tries to get up with his brother! Suppose we stop and take him up," said the good-natured Mr. Wallace, at the same time checking his horse and standing up in the carriage to beckon to Charles.
The tired boy gladly obeyed the summons, having only one narrow field and a fence between him and the road.
"There, Charley," said Mr. Wallace as he helped him up the side of the carriage and placed him by Ellen, "you have been the first to see cousin Ellen, if George has carried the news of her coming to mamma."
"Oh! cousin Ellen," said Charles, "how glad I am you have come, it will make mamma so happy!"
Ellen looked with surprise upon her cousin Charles, he was so much younger and more delicate than she had expected to see him. Mr. Wallace had said that the eldest of Mrs. Herbert's sons was thirteen years old, and Ellen had forgotten to ask the age of the other, but she had supposed him to be nearly if not quite twelve. He had said too that they were manly, and Ellen had concluded that they must be very large for their age, and very strong and robust. But Charles, though really ten years old, looked scarcely eight, he was so small, fair, and delicate, having always had very feeble health. Yet he was manly in his feelings, and so ambitious to equal his brother George's exploits, that he would do many things that some older and stronger-looking boys would not have attempted.
Ellen had just recovered her surprise, and decided that she liked Charles better as he was, with his light brown curls, his fair childish face, and bright laughing blue eyes, than she would have done if he had been a great, blustering boy, when the carriage stopped at the door of the house, where already stood George, flushed and panting with his race, and Mrs. Herbert. Ellen was never very slow in determining the feelings with which she would regard any one, and she often afterwards said, that she loved her Aunt Herbert as soon as she looked upon her. Few faces were so well calculated to produce such an impression as was Mrs. Herbert's. She was in deep mourning, and wore one of those close plain caps commonly called widow's caps, under which her brown hair, being parted in the middle of the forehead, was put smoothly back behind the ears. The upper part of her face was serious in its expression, but the mouth, if it did not actually smile always, looked so gentle and pleasant, that you thought it was going to smile. When Ellen first saw her, however, she was actually smiling, though tears were in her eyes, as again and again she pressed her niece to her heart, and kissing her tenderly, thanked her for coming to her, and called her her daughter Ellen.
"Cousin Ellen," said George, who looked just as Ellen had expected, tall, and stout, and sun-burned, "Cousin Ellen, we are very glad to see you."
"Not cousin Ellen—sister Ellen, my son; you are all my children now," said Mrs. Herbert, as again she folded Ellen in her arms.
"You must always live with us then," said Charles; "we shall not let you go away again."
Ellen, half bewildered among so many new claimants of her affection, had scarce spoken a word in reply to their greetings. She now looked around for Mr. Wallace. He saw the look, and understood it.
"Stay, stay, Charles, it takes two, you know, to make a bargain, and I have already promised that if Ellen wish it she shall go back in six months to her sister Mary—from whom, I assure you, it was no easy matter to get her away. So if you would keep her, you must make her love you so much in six months that she will not choose to leave you."
"So we will," said Charles, "so we will; and we'll bring sister Mary here too, mamma—won't we?"
"I hope so, my son; for Mary, too, I consider as my daughter, and would gladly have had her come now, if Mr. Villars had consented."
Ellen looked gratefully at her aunt, and began to doubt whether she ever should wish to leave her.
Ellen seemed so much fatigued after the first excitement of her arrival was over, that Mrs. Herbert had tea prepared immediately, and directly after it she led Ellen to her chamber. This was a small room opening into her own. It was furnished very plainly, as was indeed every room in Mrs. Herbert's house; but nothing could be more neat than its appearance, with its clean white window-curtains and coverlet. Mrs. Herbert assisted Ellen to undress herself, and when she was ready to lie down she kissed her tenderly, saying, "Good-night, my love: you will not forget before you sleep to thank our kind heavenly Father for bringing you in safety to us. We are early risers here, but I shall not wake you to-morrow, for you want rest."
Ellen lay down with very pleasant thoughts of her new home, but all thoughts were soon forgotten in a sound sleep.
Ellen slept so soundly that for a long time she did not even dream, or at least she did not remember any dreams; but at last she thought she was back again at H., sitting with Mary in their own room, and Mary was sewing and singing as she sewed,
But I will be a bee, to supPure honey from each flow'ry cup;Busy and pleased around I'll fly,And treasure win from earth and sky.
But I will be a bee, to supPure honey from each flow'ry cup;Busy and pleased around I'll fly,And treasure win from earth and sky.
And Ellen tried to sing with Mary, but in spite of all her efforts she could not make a sound, and she woke with her fruitless exertions. The sun was shining brightly on her window curtains, and she soon saw she was not at Mrs. Maclean's; yet still she heard singing, and it was the very same tune which she had fancied in her dream, but there were several voices, and Mary's was not among them. The music ceased very soon after she awoke, and Ellen lay wondering who had been singing so early, and whether they sang the words as well as the tune of Mary's song. She had been awake fifteen, or perhaps twenty minutes, when her door was cautiously opened, and Mrs. Herbert entered very softly.
"Oh—you are awake, Ellen," she said, as Ellen raised her head from her pillow to see who was entering: "I have looked in upon you once or twice this morning, but you were asleep, and I would not awake you."
"But I have been awake some time now, Aunt Herbert, and I want to know who it is that has been singing, 'I will not be a butterfly;' I was dreaming about Mary's singing it, and when I first awoke and heard it, I thought she was here."
"You did not hear those words, my dear, but only the tune, which the boys and I were singing to our morning hymn."
"Morning hymn?" repeated Ellen, looking inquiringly at her aunt, as she slowly proceeded in dressing herself.
"Is that a strange thing to you, Ellen?" asked Mrs. Herbert with a smile; "I hope you will be up to-morrow in time to join us in singing it: but now your breakfast is ready," and Mrs. Herbert led the way to the room in which they had taken tea the evening before, where Ellen found George and Charles. They greeted her very affectionately, begged permission to call her Ellen, because they should then feel more at home with her, than if they were obliged to say cousin or even sister Ellen, and before they had risen from breakfast had made many plans for her amusement. Charles would have carried her off at once to see his puppy, but Mrs. Herbert stopped them.
"I must have Ellen," she said, "a little while to myself this morning. This afternoon she shall go with you, if she like."
After the boys had gone out Mrs. Herbert went with Ellen to her room, and assisted her to put it in neat order. When this was done, Ellen in turn assisted her aunt in setting the breakfast things away and arranging the parlor.
As Ellen was rather of an indolent nature, and Mary had ever been ready to do for her what she did not like to do for herself, she had scarcely ever been actively employed for so long a time; yet she did not feel at all tired, but found herself more than once, when her aunt Herbert was silent, humming,
Busy and pleased around I'll fly,And treasure win from earth and sky.
Busy and pleased around I'll fly,And treasure win from earth and sky.
When Mrs. Herbert's domestic arrangements were completed, she said, "Now, my love, you have been of great service to me, and I must try to be of some service to you. I cannot expect you to study to-day, but we will unpack your books, and arrange some plan for your studies, which you will then be able to commence to-morrow."
When this had been done, it still wanted two hours to the dinner time, and Mrs. Herbert proposed that Ellen should sit by her and assist her with some needle-work. "And then," she added, "we shall be able to talk more quietly than we could do while moving about. There are many things that you can tell me, of which I am anxious to hear."
Ellen was much more willing to tell than she was to sew, but she was not yet sufficiently at ease with her aunt Herbert to object to any thing she proposed, and she accordingly found her thimble and scissors, and seating herself by her aunt's side, took the work she gave her without any expression of dissatisfaction.
"And now, Ellen," said Mrs. Herbert, when the work had all been so explained that there were no more questions to ask about it, "I want you to tell me something about Mary—is she like you?"
"Mary like me!" exclaimed Ellen; "oh no, Aunt Herbert, Mary is more like you than she is like me."
"Indeed! does she look like me?"
"Well, I do not mean exactly that she looks like you, but she looks pleased like you, and moves about quietly, and never seems to be out of patience: everybody loves Mary."
There was something in the tone in which these last words were said that made Mrs. Herbert raise her eyes from her work and look at her niece. Ellen caught the glance, colored, and hung her head.
"And everybody loves Ellen too, I hope," said Mrs. Herbert, with a smile.
Ellen's head drooped yet lower, and she did not answer.
"Speak, my love; you were not jealous I hope of the love which was given to Mary?"
"Oh no, Aunt Herbert, I was not jealous of Mary; that is, I did not want people not to love Mary, but I did wish that they would love me too, and not to be so cross to me."
"Poor child," said Mrs. Herbert, feelingly, "was every one cross to you?"
"No, not every one. Mary never was cross to me—nor poor papa—nor Uncle Villars; though Uncle Villars did not love me as much as he did Mary."
"And why was this, Ellen? Did you think there was any reason for it?"
Mrs. Herbert spoke very gently, but again Ellen hung her head and looked abashed.
"Do not be ashamed to tell me, my love, what you thought was the cause. I love you, Ellen, very much, and all the more for telling me so freely what you think and feel. I think it a sad thing—a very great evil, not to be loved; and perhaps the cause of this in your own case may be one which, if I knew it, I could help you to remove."
"Oh no, Aunt Herbert, nobody can help me, for it is just my own bad temper."—Ellen was now weeping, and it was amidst sobs that she continued—"I cannot help it; I am sure I try to be good, and to please people and to make them love me. I do think I try a great deal harder than Mary does, and that makes me feel so much worse when they say unkind things to me; and then I cannot be still like Mary, but I get angry and talk back to them, and that makes them dislike me more and more, and I am sure it is not my fault, for I cannot help it."
Mrs. Herbert laid aside her work, put her arm around Ellen and drew her to her side, and laying her head upon her shoulder, spoke soothingly and tenderly to her, till she ceased to weep. When Ellen's sobs were hushed, she said, "My dear child, Aunt Herbert knows how you feel and how to feel for you, for she has suffered just as you do, from just such a bad temper."
"You, aunt Herbert!" exclaimed Ellen, raising her head and looking at her aunt with surprise, "did you ever have a bad temper?"
"I had just such a temper, Ellen, as you describe; wishing to be loved, anxious to please, so anxious that I was willing to do any thing for it, except control my hasty feelings or keep back my rash words."
"And how did you get over it, aunt Herbert?"
"The first step towards my deliverance from the evil, Ellen, was feeling that it was my own fault."
Ellen's face turned very red, and she answered quickly, "How can it be my fault when I try so hard to help it?"
"My child, the fault must lie somewhere; whose is it if it is not yours?"
"I didn't make myself," said Ellen, sullenly.
"And would you say, my dear Ellen, that the fault is His who made you?"
Ellen was silent—she dared not say this with her lips—yet it was the language of her heart.
"Ellen, since you began to notice your bad temper has it not become worse?—are you not more easily made angry now than you were formerly?"
Mrs. Herbert paused, but Ellen did not answer.
"Speak, my dear Ellen, you must place confidence in me, if you would have my help in getting rid of this evil. Is it not as I say, Ellen?"
"Yes," whispered Ellen, again hiding her face on her aunt's shoulder.
"Whose fault has this been, Ellen?—has God, do you think, continued to make your temper worse and worse?"
"I have lived with such cross, ill-natured people," murmured Ellen.
"Mary has lived with the same people; has it had the same effect on her?"
Ellen was silent.
"My dear child," said Mrs. Herbert, "I have not asked these questions to give you pain. It is not to mortify you, but to give you hope, that I would have you feel the fault to be yours, for your own fault you may correct; not so with the faults of others. And now, having convinced you, I hope, that the fault is your own, the next question is, what has been your fault—shall I tell you this, my love?"
Mrs. Herbert spoke so gently—so affectionately, that Ellen could not be angry. She answered very softly, "If you please."—"What this fault was, Ellen, your own words have shown. You say you have loved others and tried to please them, but you said nothing of loving God, and trying to please Him. You do not seem to have thought that the angry feelings and hasty words which displeased your friends were an offence to Him. You have thought of your temper as an unhappiness for which you were to be pitied, rather than as a great wrong for which you were to be blamed. You have even had hard thoughts of God, as if he had caused this unhappiness. Think of His kindness and love to you, Ellen, and be ashamed of such thoughts. Who but He gave you so tender a father—so kind a sister as Mary—and so generous a friend as your Uncle Villars? Look up at the sky and see the sun which He has placed there to give light and warmth—look around you on the earth, and see the flowers which clothe it with beauty and the fruits which it produces for your gratification—and be humbled, Ellen, that you should have thought this good God unkind?" Mrs. Herbert paused, for she was overcome for a moment by her own emotions.—"Do you not feel His love, Ellen?" she asked at length.
"But he did not make all these good and beautiful things for me," said Ellen, speaking in a whisper, as if she were ashamed of her own cavils.
"If not made for your gratification, Ellen, why were you created with senses to enjoy them—why have you eyes to see, the sense of smell for this delicious perfume which the breeze is bringing to us, and taste to find pleasure in your food?—But the half of His love I have not yet told you. Do you not remember, Ellen, that knowing you to be weak—seeing that you would meet trials and temptations in the world—that you would commit great faults and endure great sufferings in consequence of those faults—He sent His son into the world to show you how these trials might be borne and these temptations resisted, to teach you that He loved you even when you were sinning and suffering, and if you would but love Him in return and strive to please Him, He would aid your weak efforts, would pardon your sins, and give you peace here and heaven hereafter? And it is in this way, dear Ellen, that you can alone hope to get rid of that bad, sinful temper which has caused you so much pain. Think much of the goodness and love of your kind heavenly Father, that you may love and strive to please Him. This will make you watchful over the first beginnings of evil, the first rising up of angry feelings in your heart, and you will strive then to overcome them before they have become strong by indulgence. Yet with all your efforts, Ellen, I do not promise you that you will not often fail; but as you learn to trust in the love of God, you will acknowledge your faults to Him even as you would to an earthly father, and humbly ask Him to pardon and help you: and He will, Ellen,—He will help you, and through His help you shall conquer all evil."
Mrs. Herbert was silent, and Ellen remained for some time with her face concealed, neither speaking nor moving; at length she whispered, "And you will try to love me, Aunt Herbert, though I have told you how bad I am."
"I love you, dear child, a thousand times better for having told me, and I will never love you less for faults which you honestly acknowledge and earnestly strive to correct."
"And you will not tell George and Charles."
"Never: but now go to your room, and wash your face, lest that should tell them that you have been grieving."
Ellen obeyed, and she removed the redness from her face, but the thoughts and feelings which her Aunt had awakened, did not depart from her mind. Ellen had heard of God's goodness and love before, but never had they been so urged upon her—never had she been made so to think about them and to feel them; and the impression was abiding, for her Aunt was ever ready to awaken her observation to new proofs of that goodness and love. She had now a new reason to endeavor to conquer her faults,—the desire to do right—to obey God and please Him.
It must not be supposed, however, that any lesson, however well remembered and deeply impressed, could overcome in a day or a week, or even a month, the habits of Ellen's whole life. On the contrary, she had yet often to exclaim, with bitter sorrow, "Oh, Aunt Herbert! do you think I ever shall do right?" But she never now thought it was the fault of others when she did wrong; and although on such occasions she was grieved, more grieved than formerly, she never long felt hopeless, for she remembered that her Aunt Herbert had once been like her, and that the same heavenly Father who had aided her aunt to overcome the evil of her nature, loved her, and would hear her prayers. Yet she still had many terrible sufferings to endure from the evil which she had so long indulged, and some of these I will relate to you.
I have said that Charles Herbert's health had never been very strong. He had in consequence been a petted child, and though Mrs. Herbert never failed to rebuke any improper temper ever manifested by him, she never checked his mirth or playfulness, even when something of the spirit of mischief entered into it. Thus, while Charles was one of the most amiable and affectionate boys in the world, he was often, to a person as irritable as Ellen, one of the most provoking.
"What shall be done to the owner of this?" exclaimed Charles, as, running up the steps to the piazza in which Ellen was standing, about ten days after her arrival, he held up a letter addressed in very legible characters to "Miss Ellen Leslie," and what was more, in characters which Ellen knew to be Mary's. "What shall be done to the owner of this?" Then answering his own interrogatory, "She shall speak a speech, sing a song, or tell a riddle."
"Charles, give me my letter," said Ellen, trying to get it from him; but he eluded her grasp, and springing on the bannister surrounding the piazza, held it far beyond her reach, while he continued to answer her demands with, "The speech, the song, or the riddle, Ellen. Surely, a letter is worth one of them, and such a long letter too, the lines are so close."
While he ran on thus, Ellen, who had commenced with entreaties, proceeded to commands, angry threatenings, and bitter accusations.
"I'll tell your mother, sir, that you took my letter from me; stole it, for it is stealing to take other people's things. I would not be so mean; but I will see what she will say to you, sir; I will see if she will let you take every thing away from me, and ill treat me, just because I have not anybody to take my part," and overcome by passion, Ellen burst into tears.
In an instant Charles was at her side. "Oh, Ellen, don't cry; here is your letter. I am sure, Ellen, I did not mean to make you feel so bad by my foolish play; take your letter, Ellen."
"I won't take it," said Ellen, passionately, "I won't take it. I know why you give it to me now; you think your mother is coming, and you don't want me to tell her; but I will, sir."
Ellen had not time to say more, for Mrs. Herbert stood before them.
"Ellen—Charles, what is the matter?"
"Charles took my letter, and would not give it to me, though I begged him, till he thought you were coming, and then he wanted me to take it, that I might not tell you; but I would not take it from him, for I think it is very hard if he is just to take my things, and keep them as long as he likes, and then give them back to me, and never get even a scolding for it," was Ellen's passionate reply.
"Mother, you know that I was only playing with Ellen," was the explanation of Charles.
"It is not a kind spirit that finds sport in another's suffering, Charles."—Charles hung his head, pained and abashed by his mother's rebuke.—"There is your letter, Ellen. I think I may promise for Charles that he will never again pain you and displease his mother by such thoughtless conduct, and we will forgive him now."
But Ellen's anger had been too thoroughly aroused to be so easily appeased, and many hours had passed before her face lost its resentful expression, or her manners their cold reserve towards Charles.
Not far from Mrs. Herbert's house the lake set up into the land, forming a deep but narrow bay, and dividing her farm into two almost equal parts. Across this bay was laid a rude bridge only two planks in width, and with no defence but a slender hand-rail on the sides. It was of course never used by horsemen, but was sufficiently safe for foot-passengers. On the farther side of this bay lived the man who attended to Mrs. Herbert's farming business. The dairy had also been built near his house, for the convenience of his wife, who attended to it. To this dairy was a favorite walk with the children, the good-natured Mrs. Smith never failing to treat them to some of its products.
Ellen had been about five weeks with her aunt when she and Charles set out together on this walk. The sun was only an hour high, yet it was still warm, and she sauntered slowly along. Charles had lately become very expert in walking on stilts. As this was a very recent accomplishment, he was still very vain of it, and might generally be seen looking over the heads of people taller than himself. Especially did Charles pride himself on his ability to go on stilts over the bridge, which was in reality as safe for him as the dry ground, so long as he kept steadily on. On the afternoon of which we are speaking, he was elevated as usual, and would at one time stride rapidly on before Ellen, and then turn and come slowly back to her, and then wheel around and around her, ever, as he went and came, discoursing, not of what he could do, but of what his brother George could, for proud as he might be of his own powers, Charles was always ready to acknowledge that George excelled him. Ellen's temper was perhaps a little influenced by the sultry weather. However this may be, she certainly did not feel very pleasantly, and had more than once during their walk evinced considerable impatience. Several times she begged that Charles would not wheel around her so, as it made her dizzy—that he would keep farther off, as she was afraid of his stilts striking her—and at length she exclaimed, "Do, Charles, talk about something else besides what George can do. I am sick of hearing of it. I wonder if there is any thing that you think he cannot do."
Charles was vexed at this disrespect to George, and there was a little malice in the reply, "Yes, I don't think George can write poetry, as some other people I know can. I found some poetry this morning," he added, looking archly at Ellen, "and I am sure you will like it when you see it published in the G—— Mirror."
Ellen's face became crimson. Did any of my young readers ever attempt to write poetry? If so, they have only to remember how carefully they concealed their first effort, how much abashed they were at the idea of its being seen, how sensitive to the least appearance of ridicule, to understand the cause of Ellen's blush. Ellen had made more than one effort, but there was only one of her productions which she had ever thought of sufficient importance to preserve. This was a piece addressed to Mary, which she had kept with the hope that she might one day gather courage to send it to her. She had supposed it safe at the very bottom of the black silk bag which she carried on her arm, but she now began to fear, from the manner of Charles, that he had in some way got it. In this she was right. Ellen had not been so careful as she supposed in putting the paper into her bag, and afterwards, in drawing her handkerchief out, it had fallen unperceived upon the floor. Here Charles had found it. He read it, and saw by the handwriting it was Ellen's. Remembering the letter scene, he faithfully resolved not to tease her about it, but after he should have shown it to George, to give it to her without saying a word of his acquaintance with the contents. Ellen had vexed him now, however, and it was impossible to avoid making use of such an excellent mode of punishment. Charles saw Ellen's blush, but this proof of his power only stimulated him to fresh mischief. He stopped, and taking off his cap drew the paper from the inner side of the crown lining, where it had been carefully placed to secure it from the observation of others. Ellen, in the mean time, desirous of appearing quite unconcerned, passed on to the bridge, and was already upon it when Charles overtook her, exclaiming, "Stop, Ellen: what are you running off for? stop and hear it," which only made Ellen walk the faster.
"Well," said Charles, "you have no idea what you are losing," and he commenced repeating a piece of doggerel which had been manufactured by some boy he had known in G——
"The gardens were full of bright young greens,The patches were full of corn and beans."
"The gardens were full of bright young greens,The patches were full of corn and beans."
The artifice was successful. Ellen, relieved from her fears, turned round with a smile to listen, and Charles, planting his stilts in such a manner that she could not pass him in either direction without approaching nearer to the edge of the narrow bridge than she would like to do, held a paper in his hand high above her reach, and read from it in a loud voice, and with much flourish and parade—
"To Mary.Companion of my early years,Who shared my joys, who soothed my tears."
"To Mary.
Companion of my early years,Who shared my joys, who soothed my tears."
"Let me go, Charles," exclaimed Ellen, endeavoring in vain to pass.
"Who smiled when others' looks grew dark?"
"Who smiled when others' looks grew dark?"
"Let me pass," almost shrieked Ellen, mad with anger, and losing all control of herself. "I will not stay to be laughed at," and she began with all her strength to push against one of the stilts.
"Oh! Ellen, just hear this line—'Whose patient love—'Stop, stop, Ellen, you'll throw me into the water," cried Charles hurriedly, as he felt the stilt yielding to the efforts of Ellen, to whom increasing anger lent new vigor. Ellen pushed on, either not hearing or not heeding. Perhaps she had not time to stay her hand, for it was but a moment and the stilt had passed off the bridge. Then came a crashing sound, as the hand-rail yielded beneath the weight of Charles—then a sharp cry of terror—a sudden plash—and Ellen stood alone upon the bridge, gazing in wild dismay upon the waters which had closed silently over the just now gay and animated boy.
But Ellen had not been the only spectator of this scene. The cry of Charles had been echoed from the bank. There had been a quick rush of some one to the spot where Ellen stood. She was conscious of a plunge into the water, on which her eyes were riveted with a stupifying, bewildering horror. How long it was she knew not—it seemed to her very, very long—ere George, for it was he who made the rush and the plunge, was seen swimming to the shore, bearing with him a body, which appeared to have no power to support itself, but rested a lifeless weight on his supporting arm. Ellen followed his every movement with a fixed, wild stare—she saw him land, still clasping one arm around that body—then her Aunt Herbert met him, and helped him to carry it. Ellen had not seen her before, but she now remembered that echoing cry, and knew that it had been hers. In all this time Ellen had uttered no sound—made no movement; but now Mrs. Herbert called her. Ellen drew near—near enough to see that still, pale face, with the bright eyes closed and the dripping hair hanging around it—to see the clinched hand, in which a remnant yet remained of the worthless paper for which she had done this. Ellen covered her face with her hands and shuddered. "Ellen," said Mrs. Herbert, and her voice was gentle as ever, though melancholy and full of pity, "he may live yet; at least let us not think of ourselves till we have done all we can for him. Run, Ellen, to Mr. Smith's—send him for the doctor—quick, quick, Ellen—then home—have a fire made—blankets got ready—send the first person you meet to help George and me in bearing—God grant," she exclaimed, suddenly interrupting herself and letting her head drop for a moment on the cold face which rested on her bosom, "God grant we may not be bearing the dead!"
Ellen flew rather than ran to Mr. Smith's, repeating to herself on the way the words which had put new life into her, "He may live—he may live." On the way she met a laborer, whom she sent forward to join her aunt and George. Her message to Mr. Smith delivered, she waited not to answer one of the many questions urged upon her, she did not seem to hear them, but rushing back, passed the sad, slow procession about half way, and had the fire made, the bed and blankets prepared, before they arrived. Then came the agony for her. To see that lifeless body, as she was called upon to help her aunt—to touch those cold limbs—to watch and wait in vain for some token of returning life—some mark that she was not henceforward to regard herself as a murderer—this was agony indeed.
Under Mrs. Herbert's direction all the usual restoratives for persons rescued from drowning were resorted to, and even before the physician who had been sent for appeared, some warmth was restored to the limbs, and a faint tinge of color to the cheeks. Oh the joy of that first hope of success—the yet greater joy, when those lips, which they had feared were sealed forever, unclosed, and a feeble voice proceeded from them murmuring "Mother."
"He is safe enough now," said the physician. Up to this moment Ellen had not made a sound expressive of her feelings. She was deadly pale, and had any one touched her, they would have found that she was scarcely less cold than the limbs she was chafing; but she was perfectly still. Now, however, as the physician's welcome words reached her ear, she clasped her hands together, uttered one cry, and would have fallen, had not George caught her. She was taken to her own apartment, and the doctor having given her a composing draught, ordered her to be put immediately to bed. Notwithstanding this, fever came on, and before morning Mrs. Herbert was called from her now quietly sleeping boy to the delirious Ellen. Ellen's constant cry during this delirium was, "I have killed him—I have killed him," repeated in every variety of tone, now low and plaintive, now wild and phrensied. At length, towards morning, she fell asleep.
Mrs. Herbert having seen that Charles was still quiet, and having obtained George's promise to call her if he awoke and inquired for her, returned to Ellen's room, and lay down beside her. Ellen continued to sleep for several hours, at first uttering low moans, and muttering to herself, as if disturbed by unpleasant dreams, but afterwards becoming quite still, and sleeping easily and naturally. Mrs. Herbert had arisen, and was seated beside her when she awoke, which she did with a start. She gazed for a moment at her aunt with some wildness in her countenance, but as Mrs. Herbert smiled upon her, this expression passed away, and putting out her hand to her, she said, "Aunt Herbert, I have had such a dreadful dream. I dreamed that I killed Charles. It is not true," she exclaimed quickly, "is it?" and Ellen raised herself on her elbow, and looked searchingly into her Aunt's face.
"No, my dear Ellen—Charles is almost well again."
"Almostwell again," she repeated, and then was silent for some minutes, during which she lay with her eyes closed. At length tears began to steal down her cheeks, and in a low, tremulous voice, Ellen said, "I remember all now, Aunt Herbert: I hoped it was a dream; but I remember it all now, and I know that if you and George had not been walking that way just then, Charles would have been drowned, and I should have killed him—have killed your child—my own dear cousin Charles. Aunt Herbert, do you not wish I had never come to you?"
"So far from it, dear Ellen, that the more proof I have of the strength of this evil in your nature, the more rejoiced I am that by coming to me you have given me the power of helping you to subdue it. You were the occasion of very bitter suffering to me yesterday evening, Ellen; and yet, now that God in His mercy has restored my child, I can be thankful even for this lesson to you, if it influence you as I hope and believe it will—if you learn from it to dread anger as the beginning of murder. Human passion, Ellen, is like a raging sea, to which only the infinite God can say, 'hitherto shalt thou go, and no farther, and here shall thy waves be stayed.'"
Ellen remained quite still. Tears slowly trickled down her cheeks; but she did not, as was usual with her when agitated, weep violently. She seemed softened, subdued, humbled.
After some minutes had passed thus, she said, "Aunt Herbert, it seems as if I never could forget yesterday evening; and as if, so long as I remembered it, I never could be angry again. But I have so often thought I was cured, that I am afraid; do pray for me, Aunt Herbert—pray to God that I may never forget."
Mrs. Herbert was accustomed to pray with her children morning and evening, and she now knelt by Ellen's bed, and in the simple language of a child revealing its feelings to a father, poured out before God all those feelings of which Ellen's heart and hers were full. Fervently did she thank Him for having given them back, as if from the very grave, her beloved boy; for having saved the dear child beside her from the wretchedness of having taken away the life of another; and earnestly, solemnly did she pray that he would cast out from her that evil spirit, which, if it were indulged, would destroy her soul's life—would take from her that eternal life which the blessed Saviour had come into the world to reveal as the portion of all those who loved God and obeyed His commands.
Mrs. Herbert did not suffer either Ellen or Charles to rise on this day. When they met the next morning, nothing could be more touching than the humility with which Ellen entreated the forgiveness of Charles, and the generosity with which he declared that it was all his own fault, and that he never would tease her again.
I Fear my story has seemed hitherto sad and gloomy to my young readers; but this could not be avoided, for over the fairest scenes and happiest circumstances, one such uncontrolled temper as Ellen's will spread sorrow and gloom. This temper was no longer uncontrolled, and what has since passed of her life is in beautiful and delightful contrast with its earlier portion. I say her temper was no longeruncontrolled. Her nature was as sensitive as ever—as quick to feel joy or pain, pleasure or displeasure; but Ellen had learned to rule these feelings, and not to be ruled by them—not to speak or act as they dictated, till satisfied that the speech or the action was right.
I cannot deny myself the pleasure of relating one or two scenes, which may illustrate the effect of this change upon the happiness of Ellen's future life.
The bloom of spring and the sultriness of summer had given place to the varied foliage and cool bracing breeze of November. It was a bright but cool day, and a cheerful fire blazed in the open fireplace of Mrs. Herbert's parlor. Around it were seated all her own family, and Mr. and Mrs. Wallace, who were spending the day with her. All the ladies of the party had some employment for the fingers. Mrs. Wallace had brought her knitting, Mrs. Herbert was sewing on a shirt, and on Ellen's lap lay a half-stitched wristband, which had just been put down at the request of Charles, that she might sew a ball for him. Mr. Wallace loved children, and was very observant of them. For some minutes he had silently watched Ellen, interested by the patience with which she had listened to the manifold directions of both her cousins, and once, when her work seemed nearly completed, had taken it all out, to make some alterations which had occurred to George as desirable. As she gave Charles the ball and resumed her wristband, Mr. Wallace said, "Ellen, do you remember at what time you came here?"
"Yes, sir; in May last."
"But what time in May?"
"I do not know what day of the month, sir," said Ellen, looking up with some surprise at her friend.
"It was the tenth of May," said Mr. Wallace; "and now do you know what day of the month this is?"
"The tenth of November, sir, I believe."
"You are right, it is the tenth, and your six months of trial are finished. You can now fairly judge between your home here and in H——; and as I shall be obliged to return to H—— in a week or two, on the same business which caused my visit there in the spring, if you desire to return, we can again be fellow-travellers. What say you to it, Ellen?"
Ellen glanced rapidly at her Aunt Herbert, and meeting her eyes fixed on her earnestly, tenderly, turned hers as quickly to the floor. She remained silent, but her cheek, now red, now pale, and the quivering motion of her lips, showed her agitation.
"Speak, my love," said Mrs. Herbert, laying her hand on Ellen's, "speak just as you feel. You have a perfect right to choose your home, and whatever the choice may be, none can complain."
"Oh, Ellen," began Charles, who did not altogether approve of his mother's neutrality, but a look from Mrs. Herbert silenced him.
Ellen opened her lips more than once as if to speak, but seemed unable to utter a word. Suddenly she turned again to her aunt, and passing her arms around her neck, hid her face upon her bosom. Mrs. Herbert folded her arms around her, and in a voice which in spite of herself faltered, asked, "Do you stay with us, Ellen?"
"Yes," said Ellen, looking up with a face on which there were both smiles and tears.
George seized her hand and shook it warmly, while Charles shouted for joy; and in the exuberance of his delight, threw his ball first to the ceiling and then across the room, making it pass in its second transit so near Mrs. Wallace's head that the old lady started and dropped her knitting.
"And what shall I tell Mary, Ellen?" asked Mr. Wallace.
"That she must come to me, sir."
"I shall say that you have not forgotten her."
"Forgotten Mary!" exclaimed Ellen; "oh no—tell her I never thought so much of her goodness to me or loved her so dearly as I do now. Oh, how happy I shall be when she comes!—but I cannot leave Aunt Herbert," and Ellen again put her arm around her aunt's neck.
"You are my daughter now, and daughters, you know, do not leave their mothers willingly even for their sisters," said Mrs. Herbert, with an affectionate smile.
Ellen returned the smile as she answered, "Yes, and that is not all."
"What more is there, Ellen?" asked Mr. Wallace.
"Why, I first learned to be happy here, sir; and I am afraid if I went away, that—that—"
"That you would forget the lesson?" inquired Mr. Wallace.
"Yes, sir."
"There is no danger of that, I think, Ellen—it is a lesson you have learned very thoroughly," said Mrs. Herbert; "and it is one," she added, "not easily forgotten."
Something more than a year had now elapsed since Mr. Villars' departure for the South, and still his return was delayed. He now wrote that he hoped by the next spring to bring the business which had taken him there to a prosperous conclusion. The property which he was endeavoring to recover had risen in value of late, and should he be successful, Mary and Ellen would possess fortune sufficient for all their reasonable wants. But as Mr. Villars, though hopeful, was not certain of success, he was still unwilling that Mary should leave H. for her Aunt Herbert's, thus relinquishing the employment she had already received there, while for the same reason he rejoiced that Ellen was under the care of one so capable of giving to her a thoroughly accomplished education as was Mrs. Herbert.
Winter passed away; spring again brought flowers and perfume and balmy airs to all—and to Ellen bright hopes. Mr. Villars had written lately more sanguinely than ever of his success, at any rate, when he wrote last, in a week the lawsuit on which all depended would be decided. He would then return, and then Mary and Ellen would meet. You have seen that during the year of their separation a great change had taken place in Ellen's character, and you will readily believe that there had also been some alteration in her personal appearance. She was now fourteen, and she had grown tall and womanly in figure, while there was far more of the glad-heartedness of early childhood shining in her face, than could have been seen there a year before. Her heavy indolent movements, too, were replaced by a springy, elastic step. In a word, Ellen was happy, and that happiness showed itself in words, and looks, and tones. No sullen resentment clouded her brow, no angry passion made her voice harsh, no bitter self-reproach for unjust thoughts and unkind speeches lay heavy upon her heart; all looked kindly on her, and Ellen no longer feared that she was not loved.
It was about three weeks after the reception of that letter from Mr. Villars to which we have alluded, that returning from an afternoon's ramble with her cousin, Ellen, on entering the piazza, saw through the open parlor window a gentleman's head. Her heart beat quickly—it might be her Uncle Villars; she approached nearer the window, and looked anxiously in—there was a lady, but too tall for Mary. Ellen forgot that Mary was seventeen, and had had a year in which to grow, since she saw her. The lady turned her head—the next moment the sisters were in each other's arms. "My own dear Mary!" "My darling Ellen!" were their only words—their feelings, who shall describe?
"And, Uncle Villars, you can live in your own house again, now, and have poor Mrs. Merrill back—can you not?" asked Ellen, after Mr. Villars had announced that he had gained the object of his southern journey.
"Yes, Ellen, for it is no longer necessary for me to be so careful of my expenditures, since you and Mary no longer want any assistance from me. The house has been unoccupied for some months, and Mrs. Merrill is already there getting every thing in readiness for us against we return."
Ellen seemed lost in thought for a moment, then looking up with a merry smile, she said, "Uncle Villars, I have a puzzle that is more difficult than the fox and the goose, and nobody can help me with it but you and Aunt Herbert."
"Well, what is it, Ellen?"
"Why, how am I to stay with Aunt Herbert and George and Charles, and yet go with you and Mary?—One thing is certain, I cannot part with any of you."
"I have thought of this myself, Ellen, and I have a plan for the accomplishment of your wishes, if you can win your Aunt Herbert's consent to it."
"What is it?" exclaimed Ellen, eagerly.
"That she should remove to H., which was her own early home, and which offers much greater advantages for the education of her sons and their entrance into life, than their present situation."
"That would be delightful," said Ellen.
The day after this conversation, Mrs. Herbert was walking with Mr. Villars over to the Dairy Farm, as the residence of Farmer Smith was called. In passing the bridge she related to him the circumstances attending the fall and rescue of Charles—the great distress of Ellen, and the unremitting and successful efforts she had since made to overcome that evil nature which had so nearly produced such fatal consequences.
"Since that time," continued Mrs. Herbert, "though I have seen Ellen's temper tried, and her anger excited, I have only known that it was so by the sudden sparkle of the eye, or the quick flush of the cheek. She knows the danger of yielding for a moment, and you can see on such occasions that her whole nature is aroused to resist the evil, to subdue the passion. Of late these conflicts with herself are very rare, for she grows every day more gentle and forbearing. I cannot express to you, Mr. Villars, how dear she has become to me. To her cousins she is a patient, affectionate sister, to me a tender and devoted daughter; our home will long be darkened by her departure. How can I let her go from us—yet how can I ask you and her sister to give her up!"
Mrs. Herbert spoke with deep emotion, and Mr. Villars felt that there could not be a more fortunate moment for his proposal. When Mrs. Herbert first heard it, she shook her head, and looking around her said, "I cannot part with this place, Mr. Villars, it has too many endearing associations."
"If by parting with it you mean selling it, there is no necessity for your doing so; let Mr. Smith, whom you know to be an honest man, continue to farm it as he now does: you can even spend part or the whole of every summer here, for travelling costs little now. The board which, as the guardian of Mary and Ellen, I should feel bound to pay you, would meet any difference in the expense of your establishment here and in H——; and the advantages which your care would ensure to them, I would endeavor to repay to your boys in the direction of their education and the advancement of their objects in life."
And Mrs. Herbert consented, and Ellen's puzzle was solved.
It was decided that Mrs. Herbert should remove in the following October. In the mean time Mary and Ellen would both remain with her, while Mr. Villars would return to H——, to make the necessary arrangements for her reception there. Mrs. Merrill had been delighted at being recalled as Mr. Villars' housekeeper; her happiness was complete when she learned that he was again to live alone. Mr. Villars took care, however, that Mrs. Herbert's house should be so near his own that no weather should prevent daily intercourse between her family and himself. In this house, when I next visited H——, I found my young friends established.
Ellen I soon discovered was as great a favorite with her young companions, and as welcome a guest at their gatherings, as her sister Mary. Calling at Mrs. Herbert's one morning, I found Ellen and Mary dressed for a walk, which I insisted they should not give up on account of my visit; so after chatting a while with me, they went out. After they reached the door Ellen turned around, saying earnestly, "Remember, Uncle Villars."
"Yes, gipsy," said Mr. Villars playfully; "and do you remember that I mean to say no to your very next request, just to prove that I have a will of my own."
Ellen did not seem much disturbed by this threat, for she laughed gayly as she closed the door.
"I suspect, sir," said I, "that it is difficult to tell which has most influence now, the sun or the wind," alluding to the names which he had formerly given the sisters.
"No—no," replied he, "the truth is, they are both suns now, and the consequence is, that they make me do just what they please."