Speed.But tell me true, will't be a match?Laun.Ask my dog; if he say, ay, it will; if he say, no, it will; if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will.
Speed.But tell me true, will't be a match?
Laun.Ask my dog; if he say, ay, it will; if he say, no, it will; if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will.
—Two Gentlemen of Verona.
In due time Mr. Van Brunt was on his legs again, much to everybody's joy, and much to the advantage of fields, fences, and grain. Sam and Johnny found they must "spring to," as their leader said; and Miss Fortune declared she was thankful she could draw a long breath again, for do what she would she couldn't be everywhere. Before this John and the Black Prince had departed, and Alice and Ellen were left alone again.
"How long will it be, dear Alice," said Ellen, as they stood sorrowfully looking down the road by which he had gone, "before he will be through that—before he will be able to leave Doncaster?"
"Next summer."
"And what will he do then?"
"Then he will be ordained."
"Ordained?—what is that?"
"He will be solemnly set apart for the work of the ministry, and appointed to it by a number of clergymen."
"And then will he come and stay at home, Alice?"
"I don't know what then, dear Ellen," said Alice, sighing; "he may for a little; but papa wishes very much that before he is settled anywhere he should visit England and Scotland and see our friends there, though I hardly think John will do it unless he sees some further reason for going. If he do not, he will probably soon be called somewhere—Mr. Marshman wants him to come to Randolph. I don't know how it will be."
"Well!" said Ellen, with a kind of acquiescing sigh, "at any rate now we must wait until next Christmas."
The winter passed away with little to mark it except the usual visits to Ventnor; which, however, by common consent, Alice and Ellen had agreed shouldnotbe when John was at home. At all other times they were much prized and enjoyed. Every two or three months Mr. Marshman was sure to come for them, or Mr. Howard, or perhaps the carriage only with a letter; and it was bargained that Mr. Humphreys should follow to see them home. It was not always that Ellen could go, but the disappointments were seldom; she too had become quite domesticated at Ventnor, and was sincerely loved by the whole family. Many as were the times she had been there, it had oddly happened that she had never met her old friend of the boat again; but she was very much attached to old Mr. and Mrs. Marshman, and Mrs. Chauncey and her daughter, the latter of whom reckoned all the rest of her young friends as nothing compared with Ellen Montgomery. Ellen, in her opinion, did everything better than any one else of her age.
"She has good teachers," said Mrs. Chauncey.
"Yes, indeed! I should think she had. Alice—- I should think anybody would learn well with her; and Mr. John—I suppose he's as good, though I don't know so much about him; but he must be a great deal better teacher than Mr. Sandford, mamma, for Ellen drawsten timesas well as I do!"
"Perhaps that is your fault and not Mr. Sandford's," said her mother, "though I rather think you overrate the difference."
"I am sure I take pains enough, if that's all," said the little girl; "what more can I do, mamma? But Ellen is so pleasant about it always; she never seems to think she does better than I; and she is always ready to help me and take ever so much time to show me how to do things; she issopleasant; isn't she, mamma? I know I have heard you say she is very polite."
"She is certainly that," said Mrs. Gillespie, "and there is a grace in her politeness that can only proceed from great natural delicacy and refinement of character. How she can have such manners, living and working in the way you say she does, I confess is beyond my comprehension."
"One would not readily forget the notion of good-breeding in the society of Alice and John Humphreys," said Miss Sophia.
"And Mr. Humphreys," said Mrs. Chauncey.
"There is no society about him," said Miss Sophia; "he don't say two dozen words a day."
"But she is not with them," said Mrs. Gillespie.
"She is with them a great deal. Aunt Matilda," said Ellen Chauncey, "and they teach her everything, and she does learn! She must be very clever; don't you think she is, mamma? Mamma, she beats me entirely in speaking French, and she knows all about English history and arithmetic!—and did you ever hear her sing, mamma?"
"I do not believe she beats you, as you call it, in generous estimation of others," said Mrs. Chauncey smiling, and bending forward to kiss her daughter; "but what is the reason Ellen is so much better read in history than you?"
"I don't know, mamma, unless—I wish I wasn't so fond of reading stories."
"Ellen Montgomery is just as fond of them, I'll warrant," said Miss Sophia.
"Yes. Oh I know she is fond of them; but then Alice and Mr. John don't let her read them, except now and then one."
"I fancy she does it though when their backs are turned," said Mrs. Gillespie.
"She! Oh, Aunt Matilda! she wouldn't do the least thing they don't like for the whole world. I know she never reads a story when she is here, unless it is my Sunday books, without asking Alice first."
"She is a most extraordinary child!" said Mrs. Gillespie.
"She is agoodchild!" said Mrs. Chauncey.
"Yes, mamma, and that is what I wanted to say; I do not think Ellen is so polite because she is so much with Alice and John, but because she is so sweet and good. I don't think she couldhelpbeing polite."
"It is not that," said Mrs. Gillespie; "mere sweetness and goodness would never give so much elegance of manner. As far as I have seen, Ellen Montgomery is aperfectlywell-behaved child."
"That she is," said Mrs. Chauncey; "but neither would any cultivation or example be sufficient for it without Ellen's thorough good principle and great sweetness of temper."
"That's exactly whatIthink, mamma," said Ellen Chauncey.
Ellen's sweetness of temper was not entirely born with her; it was one of the blessed fruits of religion and discipline. Discipline has not done with it yet. When the winter came on, and the housework grew less, and with renewed vigour she was bending herself to improvement in all sorts of ways, it unluckily came into Miss Fortune's head that some of Ellen's spare time might be turned to account in a new line. With this lady, to propose and to do were two things always very near together. The very next day Ellen was summoned to help her downstairs with the big spinning-wheel. Most unsuspiciously, and with her accustomed pleasantness, Ellen did it. But when she was sent up again for the rolls of wool, and Miss Fortune, after setting up the wheel, put one of them into her hand and instructed her how to draw out and twist the thread of yarn, she saw all that was coming. She saw it with dismay. So much yarn as Miss Fortune might think it well she should spin, so much time must be taken daily from her beloved reading and writing, drawing and studying; her very heart sank within her. She made no remonstrance, unless her disconsolate face might be thought one; she stood half a day at the big spinning-wheel, fretting secretly, while Miss Fortune went round with an inward chuckle visible in her countenance, that in spite of herself increased Ellen's vexation. And this was not the annoyance of a day; she must expect it day after day through the whole winter. It was a grievous trial. Ellen cried for a great while when she got to her own room, and a long hard struggle was necessary before she could resolve to do her duty. "To be patient and quiet! and spin nobody knows how much yarn—and my poor history and philosophy and drawing and French and reading!" Ellen cried very heartily. But she knew what she ought to do: she prayed long, humbly, earnestly, that "her little rushlight might shine bright;" and her aunt had no cause to complain of her. Sometimes, if overpressed, Ellen would ask Miss Fortune to let her stop; saying, as Alice had advised her, thatshewished to have her do such and such things. Miss Fortune never made any objection; and the hours of spinning that wrought so many knots of yarn for her aunt, wrought better things yet for the little spinner: patience and gentleness grew with the practice of them; this wearisome work was one of themany seemingly untoward things which in reality bring out good. The time Ellendidsecure to herself was held the more precious and used the more carefully. After all it was a very profitable and pleasant winter to her.
John's visit came as usual at the holidays, and was enjoyed as usual; only that every one seemed to Ellen more pleasant than the last. The sole other event that broke the quiet course of things (beside the journeys to Ventnor) was the death of Mrs. Van Brunt. This happened very unexpectedly and after a short illness, not far from the end of January. Ellen was very sorry; both for her own sake and Mr. Van Brunt's, who she was sure felt much, though according to his general custom he said nothing. Ellen felt for him none the less. She little thought what an important bearing this event would have upon her own future well-being.
The winter passed and the spring came. One fine mild pleasant afternoon early in May, Mr. Van Brunt came into the kitchen and asked Ellen if she wanted to go with him and see the sheep salted. Ellen was seated at the table with a large tin pan in her lap, and before her a huge heap of white beans which she was picking over for the Saturday's favourite dish of pork and beans. She looked up at him with a hopeless face.
"I should like to go very much indeed, Mr. Van Brunt, but you see I can't. All these to do!"
"Beans, eh?" said he, putting one or two in his mouth. "Where's your aunt?"
Ellen pointed to the buttery. He immediately went to the door and rapped on it with his knuckles.
"Here, ma'am!" said he, "can't you let this child go with me? I want her along to help feed the sheep."
To Ellen's astonishment her aunt called to her through the closed door to "go along and leave the beans till she came back." Joyfully Ellen obeyed. She turned her back upon the beans, careless of the big heap which would still be there to pick over when she returned; and ran to get her bonnet. In all the time she had been at Thirlwall something had always prevented her seeing the sheep fed with salt, and she went eagerly out of the door with Mr. Van Brunt to a new pleasure.
They crossed two or three meadows back of the barn to a low rocky hill covered with trees. On the other side of this they came to a fine field of spring wheat. Footsteps must not go over the young grain; Ellen and Mr. Van Brunt coasted carefully round by the fence to another piece of rocky woodland that lay on the far side of the wheatfield. It was a very fine afternoon. The grass was green in the meadow; the trees were beginningto show their leaves; the air was soft and spring-like. In great glee Ellen danced along, luckily needing no entertainment from Mr. Van Brunt, who was devoted to his salt-pan. His natural taciturnity seemed greater than ever; he amused himself all the way over the meadow with turning over his salt and tasting it, till Ellen laughingly told him she believed he was as fond of it as the sheep were; and then he took to chucking little bits of it right and left, at anything he saw that was big enough to serve for a mark. Ellen stopped him again by laughing at his wastefulness; and so they came to the wood. She left him then to do as he liked, while she ran hither and thither to search for flowers. It was slow getting through the wood. He was fain to stop and wait for her.
"Aren't these lovely?" said Ellen as she came up with her hands full of anemones, "and look—there's the liverwort. I thought it must be out before now—the dear little thing! but I can't find any blood-root, Mr. Van Brunt."
"I guess they're gone," said Mr. Van Brunt.
"I suppose they must," said Ellen. "I am sorry; I like them so much. Oh, I believe I did get them earlier than this two years ago when I used to take so many walks with you. Only think of my not having been to look for flowers before this spring."
"It hadn't ought to ha' happened so, that's a fact," said Mr. Van Brunt. "I don't know how it has."
"Oh, there are my yellow bells!" exclaimed Ellen. "Oh, you beauties! Aren't they, Mr. Van Brunt?"
"I won't say but what I think an ear of wheat's handsomer," said he, with his half smile.
"Why, Mr. Van Brunt! how can you? but an ear of wheat's pretty too. Oh, Mr. Van Brunt, whatisthat? Do you get me some of it, will you, please? Oh, how beautiful! what is it?"
"That's black birch," said he; "'tiskind o' handsome; stop, I'll find you some oak blossoms directly. There's some Solomon's seal—do you want some of that?"
Ellen sprang to it with exclamations of joy, and before she could rise from her stooping posture discovered some cowslips to be scrambled for. Wild columbine, the delicate corydalis, and more uvularias, which she called yellow bells, were added to her handful, till it grew a very elegant bunch indeed. Mr. Van Brunt looked complacently on, much as Ellen would at a kitten running round after its tail.
"Now I won't keep you any longer, Mr. Van Brunt," said she, when her hands were as full as they could hold; "I have kept you a great while; you are very good to wait for me."
They took up their line of march again, and after crossing the last piece of rocky woodland came to an open hillside, sloping gently up, at the foot of which were several large flat stones.
"But where are the sheep, Mr. Van Brunt?" said Ellen.
"I guess they ain't fur," said he. "You keep quiet, 'cause they don't know you; and they are mighty scary. Just stand still there by the fence. Ca-nan! ca-nan! Ca-nan, nan, nan, nan, nan, nan, nan!"
This was the sheep call, and raising his voice, Mr. Van Brunt made it sound abroad far over the hills. Again and again it sounded; and then Ellen saw the white nose of a sheep at the edge of the woods on the top of the hill. On the call's sounding again the sheep set forward, and in a long train they came running along a narrow footpath down towards where Mr. Van Brunt was standing with his pan. The soft tramp of a multitude of light hoofs in another direction turned Ellen's eyes that way, and there were two more single files of sheep running down the hill from different points in the woodland. The pretty things came scampering along, seeming in a great hurry, till they got very near; then the whole multitude came to a sudden halt, and looked very wistfully and doubtfully indeed at Mr. Van Brunt and the strange little figure standing so still by the fence. They seemed in great doubt, every sheep of them, whether Mr. Van Brunt was not a traitor, who had put on a friend's voice and lured them down there with some dark evil intent, which he was going to carry out by means of that same dangerous-looking stranger by the fence. Ellen almost expected to see them turn about and go as fast as they had come. But Mr. Van Brunt gently repeating his call, went quietly up to the nearest stone and began to scatter the salt upon it, full in their view. Doubt was at an end; he had hung out the white flag; they flocked down to the stones, no longer at all in fear of double-dealing, and crowded to get at the salt; the rocks where it was strewn were covered with more sheep than Ellen would have thought it possible could stand upon them. They were like pieces of floating ice heaped up with snow, or queen cakes with an immoderately thick frosting. It was one scene of pushing and crowding; those which had not had their share of the feast forcing themselves to get at it, and shoving others off in consequence. Ellen was wonderfully pleased. It was a new and pretty sight, the busy hustling crowd of gentle creatures; with the soft noise of their tread upon grass and stones, and the eager devouring of the salt. She was fixed with pleasure, looking and listening; and did not move till the entertainment was over, and the body of the flock were carelessly scattering here and there, while a few that had perhaps beendisappointed of their part still lingered upon the stones in the vain hope of yet licking a little saltness from them.
"Well," said Ellen, "I never knew what salt was worth before. How they do love it! Is it good for them, Mr. Van Brunt?"
"Good for them?" said he, "to be sure it is good for them. There ain't a critter that walks as I know, that it ain't good for—'cept chickens, and it's very queer it kills them."
They turned to go homeward. Ellen had taken the empty pan to lay her flowers in, thinking it would be better for them than the heat of her hand; and greatly pleased with what she had come to see, and enjoying her walk as much as it was possible, she was going home very happy! yet she could not help missing Mr. Van Brunt's old sociableness. He was uncommonly silent, even for him, considering that he and Ellen were alone together; and she wondered what had possessed him with a desire to cut down all the young saplings he came to that were large enough for walking sticks. He did not want to make any use of them, that was certain, for as fast as he cut and trimmed out one he threw it away and cut another. Ellen was glad when they got out into the open fields where there were none to be found.
"It is just about this time a year ago," said she, "that Aunt Fortune was getting well of her long fit of sickness."
"Yes!" said Mr. Van Brunt, with a very profound air; "something is always happening most years."
Ellen did not know what to make of this philosophical remark.
"I am very glad nothing is happening this year," said she; "I think it is a great deal pleasanter to have things go on quietly."
"Oh, something might happen without hindering things going on quietly, I s'pose—mightn't it?"
"I don't know," said Ellen, wonderingly; "why, Mr. Van Brunt, whatisgoing to happen?"
"I declare," said he, half laughing, "you're as cute as a razor; I didn't say there was anything going to happen, did I?"
"But is there?" said Ellen.
"Ha'n't your aunt said nothing to you about it?"
"Why, no," said Ellen, "she never tells me anything; what is it?"
"Why, the story is," said Mr. Van Brunt, "at least I know, for I've understood as much from herself, that—I believe she is going to be married before long."
"She!" exclaimed Ellen. "Married!—Aunt Fortune!"
"I believe so," said Mr. Van Brunt, making a lunge at a tuftof tall grass and pulling off two or three spears of it, which he carried to his mouth.
There was a long silence, during which Ellen saw nothing in earth, air, or sky, and knew no longer whether she was passing through woodland or meadow. To frame words into another sentence was past her power. They came in sight of the barn at length. She would not have much more time.
"Will it be soon, Mr. Van Brunt?"
"Why, pretty soon, as soon as next week, I guess; so I thought it was time you ought to be told. Do you know to who?"
"I don'tknow" said Ellen in a low voice; "I couldn't help guessing."
"I reckon you've guessed about right," said he, without looking at her.
There was another silence, during which it seemed to Ellen that her thoughts were tumbling head over heels, they were in such confusion.
"The short and the long of it is," said Mr. Van Brunt, as they rounded the corner of the barn, "we have made up our minds to draw in the same yoke; and we're both on us pretty go-ahead folks, so I guess we'll contrive to pull the cart along. I had just as lief tell you, Ellen, that all this was as good as settled a long spell back—'afore ever you came to Thirlwall; but I was never agoing to leave my old mother without a home; so I stuck to her, and would, to the end of time, if I had never been married. But now she is gone, and there is nothing to keep me to the old place any longer. So now you know the hull on it, and I wanted you should."
With this particularly cool statement of his matrimonial views, Mr. Van Brunt turned off into the barn-yard, leaving Ellen to go home by herself. She felt as if she were walking on air while she crossed the chip-yard, and the very house had a seeming of unreality. Mechanically she put her flowers in water, and sat down to finish the beans; but the beans might have been flowers and the flowers beans for all the difference Ellen saw in them. Miss Fortune and she shunned each other's faces most carefully for a long time; Ellen felt it impossible to meet her eyes; and it is a matter of great uncertainty which in fact did first look at the other. Other than this there was no manner of difference in anything without or within the house. Mr. Van Brunt's being absolutely speechless was not averyuncommon thing.
Poor little, pretty, fluttering thing,Must we no longer live together?And dost thou prune thy trembling wingTo take thy flight thou knowest not whither?
—Prior.
As soon as she could, Ellen carried this wonderful news to Alice, and eagerly poured out the whole story, her walk and all. She was somewhat disappointed at the calmness of her hearer.
"But you don't seem half as surprised as I expected, Alice; I thought you would be so much surprised."
"I am not surprised at all, Ellie."
"Not!—aren't you!—why, did you know anything of this before?"
"I did notknow, but I suspected. I thought it was very likely. I amveryglad it is so."
"Glad! are you glad? I am so sorry;—why are you glad, Alice?"
"Why are you sorry, Ellie?"
"Oh, because!—I don't know—it seems so queer!—I don't like it at all. I am very sorry indeed."
"For your aunt's sake, or for Mr. Van Brunt's sake?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, do you think he or she will be a loser by the bargain?"
"Why, he, to be sure; I think he will; I don't think she will. I think he is a great deal too good. And besides—I wonder if he wants to really; it was settled so long ago—may-be he has changed his mind since."
"Have you any reason to think so, Ellie?" said Alice, smiling.
"I don't know; I don't think he seemed particularly glad."
"It will be safest to conclude that Mr. Van Brunt knows his own mind, my dear; and it is certainly pleasanter for us to hope so."
"But then, besides," said Ellen, with a face of great perplexity and vexation, "I don't know; it don't seem right! How can I ever? must I? do you think I shall have to call him anything but Mr. Van Brunt?"
Alice could not help smiling again.
"What is your objection, Ellie?"
"Why, because Ican't! I couldn't do it somehow. It would seem so strange. Must I, Alice? Why in the world are you glad, dear Alice?"
"It smooths my way for a plan I have had in my head; you will know by-and-by why I am glad, Ellie."
"Well, I am glad if you are glad," said Ellen, sighing; "I don't know why I was so sorry, I couldn't help it; I suppose I shan't mind it after a while."
She sat for a few minutes, musing over the possibility or impossibility of ever forming her lips to the words "Uncle Abraham," "Uncle Van Brunt," or barely "Uncle;" her soul rebelled against all three. "Yet if he should think me unkind, then I must; oh, rather fifty times over than that!" Looking up, she saw a change in Alice's countenance, and tenderly asked—
"What is the matter, oh dear Alice? what are you thinking about?"
"I am thinking, Ellie, how I shall tell you something that will give you pain."
"Pain! you needn't be afraid of giving me pain," said Ellen, fondly, throwing her arms around her, "tell me, dear Alice; is it something I have done that is wrong? what is it?"
Alice kissed her, and burst into tears.
"What is the matter, oh dear Alice?" said Ellen, encircling Alice's head with both her arms; "oh don't cry! do tell me what it is?"
"It is only sorrow for you, dear Ellie."
"But why?" said Ellen, in some alarm; "why are you sorry for me? I don't care, if it don't trouble you, indeed I don't! Never mind me; is it something that troubles you, dear Alice?"
"No, except for the effect it may have on others."
"Then I can bear it," said Ellen; "you need not be afraid to tell me, dear Alice; what is it? don't be sorry for me!"
But the expression of Alice's face was such that she could not help being afraid to hear; she anxiously repeated "What is it?"
Alice fondly smoothed back the hair from her brow, looking herself somewhat anxiously and somewhat sadly upon the uplifted face.
"Suppose, Ellie," she said at length, "that you and I were taking a journey together—a troublesome, dangerous journey—and thatIhad a way of getting at once safe to the end of it; would you be willing to let me go, and you do without me for the rest of the way?"
"I would rather you should take me with you," said Ellen, in a kind of maze of wonder and fear; "why, where are you going, Alice?"
"I think I am going home, Ellie, before you."
"Home?" said Ellen.
"Yes, home I feel it to be; it is not a strange land; I thank God it is myhomeI am going to."
Ellen sat looking at her, stupefied.
"It is your home too, love, I trust and believe," said Alice, tenderly; "we shall be together at last. I am not sorry for myself; I only grieve to leave you alone, and others, but God knows best. We must both look to Him."
"Why, Alice," said Ellen, starting up suddenly, "what do you mean? what do you mean? I don't understand you; what do you mean?"
"Do you not understand me, Ellie?"
"But Alice! but Alice,dearAlice, what makes you say so? is there anything the matter, with you?"
"Do I look well, Ellie?"
With an eye sharpened to painful keenness, Ellen sought in Alice's face for the tokens of what she wished and what she feared. Ithadonce or twice lately flitted through her mind that Alice was very thin, and seemed to want her old strength, whether in riding, or walking, or any other exertion; and ithadstruck her that the bright spots of colour in Alice's face were just like what her mother's cheeks used to wear in her last illness. These thoughts had just come and gone; but now as she recalled them and was forced to acknowledge the justness of them, and her review of Alice's face pressed them home anew, hope for a moment faded. She grew white, even to the lips.
"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 eviltoo 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; Iamsorry 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 tolove themwhen 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 outpouring 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 ha'n'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 ha'n'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 ha'n'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 agoing 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 allthe 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. Doyoufeel 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 agreatcomfort 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 thespiritof 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.Youbelieve that, Ellie; you must not be soverysorry 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 entirelyhere. 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 isverykind—he isverygood—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 seek 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, bothfor Ellen's sake and her own pleasure. Meanwhile she made her go on with all 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 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 Larkins, who heard some of these condoling remarks, "it's the first time in his life, I can tell you. Ifsheain'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 ha'n't been a thing done on the farm this five years but just what he liked—shedon't know it. I've heerd her," said Sam, chuckling, "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."