Ellen was far on her way to the mountain, pressed forward by a fear that knew no stay of heat or fatigue; they were little to her that day. She saw nothing on her way; all within and without was swallowed up in that one feeling; yet she dared not think what it was she feared. She put that by. Alice knew, Alice would tell her! On that goal her heart fixed, to that she pressed on; but oh, the while, what a cloud was gathering over her spirit, and growing darker and darker. Her hurry of mind and hurry of body made each other worse; it must be so; and when she at last ran round the corner of the house and burst in at the glass door she was in a frightful state.
Alice started up and faced her as she came in, but with a look that stopped Ellen short. She stood still; the colour in her cheeks, as her eyes read Alice's, faded quite away; words and the power to speak them were gone together. Alas! the need to utter them was gone too. Alice burst into tears and held out her arms, saying only, "My poor child!" Ellen reached her arms, and strength and spirit seemed to fail there. Alice thought she had fainted; she laid her on the sofa, called Margery, and tried the usual things, weeping bitterly herself as she did so. It was not fainting, however; Ellen's senses soon came back, but she seemed like a person stunned with a great blow, and Alice wished grief had had any other effect upon her. It lasted for days. A kind of stupor hung over her; tears did not come; the violent strain of every nerve and feeling seemed to have left her benumbed. She would sleep long heavy sleeps the greater part of the time, and seemed to have no power to do anything else.
Her adopted sister watched her constantly, and for those days lived but to watch her. She had heard all Ellen's story from Mary Lawson and Mr. Van Brunt, who had both been to the parsonage, one on Mrs. Lowndes' part, the other on his own, to ask about her, and she dreaded that a violent fit of illness might be brought on by all Ellen had undergone. She was mistaken, however; Ellen was not ill; but her whole mind and body bowed under the weight of the blow that had come upon her. As the first stupor wore off there were indeed more lively signs of grief; she would weep till she wept her eyes out, and that often, but it was very quietly; no passionate sobbing, no noisy crying; sorrow had taken too strong hold to be struggled with, and Ellen meekly bowed her head to it. Alice saw this with the greatest alarm. She had refused to let her go back to her aunt's; it was impossible to do otherwise; yet it may be that Ellen would have been better there. The busy industry to which she would have been forced at home might have roused her. As it was, nothing drew her, and nothing could be found to draw her, from her own thoughts. Her interest in everything seemed to be gone. Books had lost their charm; walks and drives and staying at home were all one, except indeed that she rather liked best the latter. Appetite failed, her cheeks grew colourless, and Alice began to fear that if a stop were not soon put to this gradual sinking, it would at last end with her life; but all her efforts were without fruit; and the winter was a sorrowful one not to Ellen alone.
As it wore on, there came to be one thing in which Ellen again took pleasure, and that was her Bible. She used to get alone or into a corner with it, and turn the leaves over and over, looking out its gentle promises and sweet comforting words to the weak and the sorrowing. She loved to read about Christ, all He said and did; all His kindness to His people and tender care of them; the love shown them here, and the joys prepared for them hereafter. She began to cling more to that one unchangeable Friend from whose love neither life nor death can sever those that believe in Him; and her heart, tossed and shaken as it had been, began to take rest again in that happy resting-place with stronger affection and even with greater joy than ever before. Yet, for all that, this joy often kept company with bitter weeping; the stirring of anything like pleasure roused sorrow up afresh; and though Ellen's look of sadness grew less dark, Alice could not see that her face was at all less white and thin. She never spoke of her mother after once hearing when and where she had died; she never hinted at her loss, except exclaiming in an agony, "I shall get no more letters!" and Alice dared not touch upon what the child seemed to avoid so carefully, though Ellen sometimes wept on her bosom, and often sat for hours still and silent with her head in her lap.
The time drew nigh when John was expected home for the holidays. In the meanwhile they had had many visits from other friends. Mr. Van Brunt had come several times, enough to set the whole neighbourhood a-wondering, if they had only known it; his good old mother oftener still. Mrs. Vawse as often as possible. Miss Fortune once; and that because, as she said to herself, "everybody would be talking about what was none of their business if she didn't." As neither she nor Ellen knew in the least what to say to each other, the visit was rather a dull one, spite of all Alice could do. Jenny Hitchcock and the Huffs, and the Dennisons, and others, came now and then, but Ellen did not like to see any of them all but Mrs. Vawse. Alice longed for her brother.
He came at last, just before New Year's day. It was the middle of a fine afternoon, and Alice and her father had gone in the sleigh to Carra-carra. Ellen had chosen to stay behind, but Margery did not know this, and of course did not tell John. After paying a visit to her in the kitchen, he had come back to the empty sitting-room, and was thoughtfully walking up and down the floor, when the door of Alice's room slowly opened, and Ellen appeared. It was never her way, when she could help it, to show violent feeling before other people, so she had been trying to steel herself to meet John without crying, and now came in with her little grave face prepared not to give way. His first look had like to overset it all.
"Ellie!" said he; "I thought everybody was gone. My dear Ellie! – "
Ellen could hardly stand the tone of these three words, and she bore with the greatest difficulty the kiss that followed them; it took but a word or two more, and a glance at the old look and smile, to break down entirely all her guard. According to her usual fashion, she was rushing away; but John held her fast, and though gently, drew her close to him.
"I will not let you forget that I am your brother, Ellie," said he.
Ellen hid her face on his shoulder, and cried as if she had never cried before.
"Ellie," said he, after a while, speaking low and tenderly, "the Bible says, 'We have known and believed the love that God hath towards us'; have you remembered and believed this lately?"
Ellen did not answer.
"Have you remembered that God loves every sinner that has believed in His dear Son? and loves them so well that He will let nothing come near them to harm them? and loves them never better than when He sends bitter trouble on them? It is wonderful! but it is true. Have you thought of this, Ellie?"
She shook her head.
"It is not in anger He does it; it is not that He has forgotten you; it is not that He is careless of your trembling little heart, never, never! If you are His child, all is done in love, and shall work good for you; and if we often cannot see how, it is because we are weak and foolish, and can see but a very little way."
Ellen listened, with her face hid on his shoulder.
"Do you love Christ, Ellen?"
She nodded, weeping afresh.
"Do you love Him less since He has brought you into this great sorrow?"
"No," sobbed Ellen; "more."
He drew her closer to his breast, and was silent a little while.
"I am very glad to hear you say that! then all will be well. And haven't you the best reason to think that all is well with your dear mother?"
Ellen almost shrieked. Her mother's name had not been spoken before her in a great while, and she could hardly bear to hear it now. Her whole frame quivered with hysterical sobs.
"Hush, Ellie!" said John, in a tone that, low as it was, somehow found its way through all her agitation, and calmed her like a spell; "have you not good reason to believe that all is well with her?"
"Oh yes! oh yes!"
"She loved and trusted Him too; and now she is with Him; she has reached that bright home where there is no more sin, nor sorrow, nor death."
"Nor parting either," sobbed Ellen, whose agitation was excessive.
"Nor parting! and though we are parted from them, it is but for a little; let us watch and keep our garments clean, and soon we shall be all together, and have done with tears for ever. She has done with them now. Did you hear from her again?"
"Oh no; not a word!"
"That is a hard trial. But in it all, believe, dear Ellie, the love that God hath toward us; remember that our dear Saviour is near us, and feels for us, and is the same at all times. And don't cry so, Ellie."
He kissed her once or twice, and begged her to calm herself. For it seemed as if Ellen's very heart was flowing away in her tears; yet they were gentler and softer far than at the beginning. The conversation had been a great relief. The silence between her and Alice on the thing always in her mind, a silence neither of them dared to break, had grown painful. The spell was taken off; and though at first Ellen's tears knew no measure, she was easier even then; as John soothed her and went on with his kind talk, gradually leading it away from their first subject to other things, she grew not only calm, but more peaceful at heart than months had seen her. She was quite herself again before Alice came home.
"You have done her good already," exclaimed Alice as soon as Ellen was out of the room; "I knew you would; I saw it in her face as soon as I came in."
"It is time," said her brother. "She is a dear little thing!"
The next day, in the middle of the morning, Ellen, to her great surprise, saw Sharp brought before the door with the side-saddle on, and Mr. John carefully looking to the girth, and shortening the stirrup.
"Why, Alice," she exclaimed, "what is Mr. John going to do?"
"I don't know, Ellie, I am sure; he does queer things sometimes. What makes you ask?"
Before she could answer, he opened the door.
"Come, Ellen, go and get ready. Bundle up well, for it is rather frosty. Alice, has she a pair of gloves that are warm enough? Lend her yours, and I'll see if I can find some at Thirlwall."
Ellen thought she would rather not go; to anybody else she would have said so. Half a minute she stood still, then went to put on her things.
"Alice, you will be ready by the time we get back? in half-an-hour."
Ellen had an excellent lesson, and her master took care it should not be an easy one. She came back looking as she had not done all winter. Alice was not quite ready; while waiting for her, John went to the bookcase and took down the first volume of "Rollin's Ancient History;" and giving it to Ellen, said he would talk with her to-morrow about the first twenty pages. The consequence was, the hour and a half of their absence, instead of being moped away, was spent in hard study. A pair of gloves was bought at Thirlwall; Jenny Hitchcock's pony was sent for; and after that, every day when the weather would at all do, they took a long ride. By degrees reading and drawing and all her studies were added to the history, till Ellen's time was well filled with business again. Alice had endeavoured to bring this about before, but fruitlessly. What she asked of her Ellen indeed tried to do; what John told her was done. She grew a different creature. Appetite came back; the colour sprang again to her cheek; hope, meek and sober as it was, relighted her eye. In her eagerness to please and satisfy her teacher, her whole soul was given to the performance of whatever he wished her to do. The effect was all that he looked for.
The second evening after he came, John called Ellen to his side, saying he had something he wanted to read to her. It was before candles were brought, but the room was full of light from the blazing wood fire. Ellen glanced at his book as she came to the sofa; it was a largish volume in a black leather cover a good deal worn; it did not look at all interesting.
"What is it?" she asked.
"It is called," said John, "'The Pilgrim's Progress from this World to a Better.'"
Ellen thought it did not sound at all interesting. She had never been more mistaken in her life, and that she found almost as soon as he began. Her attention was nailed; the listless, careless mood in which she sat down was changed for one of rapt delight; she devoured every word that fell from the reader's lips; indeed they were given their fullest effect by a very fine voice and singularly fine reading. Whenever anything might not be quite clear to Ellen, John stopped to make it so; and with his help, and without it, many a lesson went home. Next day she looked a long time for the book; it could not be found; she was forced to wait until evening. Then, to her great joy, it was brought out again, and John asked her if she wished to hear some more of it. After that, every evening while he was at home they spent an hour with the "Pilgrim." Alice would leave her work and come to the sofa too; and with her head on her brother's shoulder, her hand in his, and Ellen's face leaning against his other arm, that was the common way they placed themselves to see and hear. No words can tell Ellen's enjoyment of those readings. They made her sometimes laugh and sometimes cry; they had much to do in carrying on the cure which John's wisdom and kindness had begun.
They came to the place where Christian loses his burden at the cross; and as he stood looking and weeping, three shining ones came to him. The first said to him, "Thy sins be forgiven thee;" the second stripped him of his rags and clothed him with a change of raiment; the third also set a mark on his forehead.
John explained what was meant by the rags and the change of raiment.
"And the mark in his forehead?" said Ellen.
"That is the mark of God's children – the change wrought in them by the Holy Spirit – the change that makes them different from others, and different from their old selves."
"Do all Christians have it?"
"Certainly. None can be a Christian without it."
"But how can any one tell whether one has it or no?" said Ellen, very gravely.
"Carry your heart and life to the Bible and see how they agree. The Bible gives a great many signs and descriptions by which Christians may know themselves – know both what they are and what they ought to be. If you find your own feelings and manner of life at one with these Bible words, you may hope that the Holy Spirit has changed you and set His mark upon you."
"I wish you would tell me of one of those places," said Ellen.
"The Bible is full of them. 'To them that believe Christ is precious,' there is one. 'If ye love me keep my commandments'; 'He that saith He abideth in Him ought himself also so to walk even as He walked'; 'Oh how love I Thy law.' The Bible is full of them, Ellie; but you have need to ask for great help when you go to try yourself by them; the heart is deceitful."
Ellen looked sober all the rest of the evening, and the next day she pondered the matter a good deal.
"I think I am changed," she said to herself at last. "I didn't use to like to read the Bible, and now I do very much; I never liked praying in old times, and now, oh, what should I do without it! I didn't love Jesus at all, but I am sure I do now. I don't keep His commandments, but I do try to keep them; I must be changed a little. Oh, I wish mamma had known it before – "
Weeping with mixed sorrow and thankful joy, Ellen bent her head upon her little Bible to pray that she might be more changed; and then, as she often did, raised the cover to look at the text in the beloved handwriting.
"I love them that love me, and they that seek me early shall find me."
Ellen's tears were blinding her. "That has come true," she thought.
"I will be a God to thee, and to thy seed after thee."
"That has come true too!" she said, almost in surprise, "and mamma believed it would." And then, as by a flash, came back to her mind the time it was written; she remembered how when it was done her mother's head had sunk upon the open page; she seemed to see again the thin fingers tightly clasped; she had not understood it then; she did now! "She was praying for me," thought Ellen; "she was praying for me! she believed that would come true."
The book was dashed down, and Ellen fell upon her knees in a perfect agony of weeping.
Even this, when she was calm again, served to steady her mind. There seemed to be a link of communion between her mother and her that was wanting before. The promise, written and believed in by the one, realised and rejoiced in by the other, was a dear something in common, though one had in the meanwhile removed to heaven, and the other was still a lingerer on the earth. Ellen bound the words upon her heart.
Another time, when they came to the last scene of Christian's journey, Ellen's tears ran very fast. John asked if he should pass it over? if it distressed her? She said, Oh no, it did not distress her; she wanted him to go on, and he went on, though himself much distressed, and Alice was near as bad as Ellen. But the next evening, to his surprise, Ellen begged that before he went on to the second part he would read that piece over again. And when he lent her the book, with only the charge that she should not go further than he had been, she pored over that scene with untiring pleasure till she almost had it by heart. In short, never was a child more comforted and contented with a book than Ellen was with the "Pilgrim's Progress." That was a blessed visit of John's. Alice said he had come like a sunbeam into the house; she dreaded to think what would be when he went away.
She wrote him, however, when he had been gone a few weeks, that his will seemed to carry all before it, present or absent. Ellen went on steadily mending; at least she did not go back any. They were keeping up their rides, also their studies, most diligently. Ellen was untiring in her efforts to do whatever he had wished her, and was springing forward, Alice said, in her improvement.
CHAPTER XXXV
I keep his house, and I wash, wring, brew, bake, scour, dress meat, and make the beds, and do all myself.
– Shakespeare.
The spring had come, and Alice and Ellen were looking forward to pleasanter rides and walks after the sun should have got a little warmth and the snow should be gone, when one morning, in the early part of March, Mr. Van Brunt made his appearance. Miss Fortune was not well, and had sent him to beg that Ellen would come back to her. He was sorry, he said; he knew Ellen was in the best place: but her aunt wanted her, and "he s'posed she'd have to go." He did not know what was the matter with Miss Fortune; it was a little of one thing and a little of another; "he s'posed she'd overdid, and it was a wonder, for he didn't know she could do it. She thought she was as tough as a piece of shoe-leather, but even that could be wore out."
Ellen looked blank. However, she hurriedly set herself to get her things together, and with Alice's help, in half-an-hour she was ready to go. The parting was hard. They held each other fast a good while, and kissed each other many times without speaking.
"Good-bye, dear Ellie," whispered Alice at last; "I'll come and see you soon. Remember what John said when he went away."
Ellen did not trust herself to speak. She pulled herself away from Alice, and turned to Mr. Van Brunt, saying by her manner that she was ready. He took her bundle, and they went out of the house together.
Ellen made a manful effort all the way down the hill to stifle the tears that were choking her. She knew they would greatly disturb her companion, and she did succeed, though with great difficulty, in keeping them back. Luckily for her, he said hardly anything during the whole walk; she could not have borne to answer a question. It was no fault of Mr. Van Brunt's that he was so silent. He was beating his brains the whole way to think of something it would do to say, and could not suit himself. His single remark was, "that it was like to be a fine spring for the maple, and he guessed they'd make a heap of sugar."
When they reached the door he told her she would find her aunt upstairs, and himself turned off to the barn. Ellen stopped a minute upon the threshold to remember the last time she had crossed it, and the first time. How changed everything now! And the thought came, was this now to be her home for ever? She had need again to remember John's words. When bidding her good-bye he had said, "My little pilgrim, I hope you will keep the straight road, and win the praise of the servant who was faithful over a few things." "I will try!" thought poor Ellen; and then she passed through the kitchen and went up to her own room. Here, without stopping to think, she took off her things, gave one strange look at the old familiar place and her trunk in the corner, fell on her knees for one minute, and then went to her aunt's room.
"Come in!" cried Miss Fortune, when Ellen had knocked. "Well, Ellen, there you are. I am thankful it is you. I was afraid it might be Mimy Lawson or Sarah Lowndes, or some of the rest of the set; I know they'll all come scampering here as soon as they hear I'm laid up."
"Are you very sick, Aunt Fortune?" said Ellen.
"La! no, child. I shall be up again to-morrow; but I felt queer this morning, somehow, and I thought I'd try lying down. I expect I've caught some cold."
There was no doubt of this, but this was not all. Besides catching cold, and doing her best to bring it about, Miss Fortune had overtasked her strength; and by dint of economy, housewifery, and smartness, had brought on herself the severe punishment of lying idle and helpless for a much longer time than she at first reckoned on.
"What can I do for you, Aunt Fortune?" said Ellen.
"Oh, nothing as I know," said Miss Fortune, "only let me alone and don't ask me anything, and keep people out of the house. Mercy! my head feels as if it would go crazy! Ellen, look here," said she, raising herself on her elbow, "I won't have anybody come into this house, if I lie here till doomsday, I won't. Now, you mind me. I ain't agoing to have Mimy Lawson, nor nobody else, poking all round into every hole and corner, and turning every cheese upside down to see what's under it. There ain't one of 'em too good for it, and they sha'n't have a chance. They'll be streaking here, a dozen of 'em, to help take care of the house; but I don't care what becomes of the house – I won't have anybody in it. Promise me you won't let Mr. Van Brunt bring any one here to help. I know I can trust to you to do what I tell you. Promise me!"
Ellen promised, a good deal gratified at her aunt's last words, and once more asked if she could do anything for her.
"Oh, I don't know!" said Miss Fortune, flinging herself back on her pillow. "I don't care what you do if you only keep the house clear. There's the clothes in the basket under the table downstairs – you might begin to iron 'em; they're only rough dry. But don't come asking me about anything; I can't bear it. Ellen, don't let a soul go into the buttery except yourself. And, Ellen! I don't care if you make me a little catnip tea. The catnip's up in the storeroom, the furthest door in the back attic – here's the keys. Don't go fussing with anything else there."
Ellen thought the prospect before her rather doleful when she reached the kitchen. It was in order, to be sure, and clean; but it looked as if the mistress was away. The fire had gone out, the room was cold; even so little a matter as catnip tea seemed a thing far off and hard to come by. While she stood looking at the great logs in the fireplace, which she could hardly move, and thinking it was rather a dismal state of things, in came Mr. Van Brunt with his good-natured face, and wanted to know if he could do anything for her. The very room seemed more comfortable as soon as his big figure was in it. He set about kindling the fire forthwith, while Ellen went up to the storeroom. A well-filled storeroom! Among other things, there hung at least a dozen bunches of dried herbs from one of the rafters. Ellen thought she knew catnip, but after smelling of two or three she became utterly puzzled, and was fain to carry a leaf of several kinds down to Mr. Van Brunt to find out which was which. When she came down again she found he had hung on the kettle for her, and swept up the hearth; so Ellen, wisely thinking it was best to keep busy, put the ironing blanket on the table, and folded the clothes, and set the irons to the fire. By this time the kettle boiled. How to make catnip tea Ellen did not exactly know, but supposed it must follow the same rules as black tea, in the making of which she felt herself very much at home. So she put a pinch or two of catnip leaves into the pot, poured a little water on them, and left it to draw. Meanwhile came in kind Mr. Van Brunt with an armful or two of small short sticks for the fire, which Ellen could manage.
"I wish I could stay here and take care of you all the while," said he; "but I'll be round. If you want anything you must come to the door and holler."
Ellen began to thank him.
"Just don't say anything about that," said he, moving his hands as if he were shaking her thanks out of them; "I'd back all the wood you could burn every day for the pleasure of having you hum again, if I didn't know you was better where you was; but I can't help that. Now, who am I going to get to stay with you? Who would you like to have?"
"Nobody, if you please, Mr. Van Brunt," said Ellen; "Aunt Fortune don't wish it, and I had rather not, indeed."
He stood up and looked at her in amazement.
"Why, you don't mean to say," said he, "that you are thinking, or she is thinking, you can get along here alone without help?"
"I'll get along somehow," said Ellen. "Never mind, please let me, Mr. Van Brunt; it would worry Aunt Fortune very much to have anybody; don't say anything about it."
"Worry her!" said he; and he muttered something Ellen did not quite understand, about "bringing the old woman to reason."
However he went off for the present; and Ellen filled up her teapot and carried it upstairs. Her old grandmother was awake; before, when Ellen was in the room, she had been napping; now she showed the greatest delight at seeing her; fondled her, kissed her, cried over her, and finally insisted on getting up directly and going downstairs. Ellen received and returned her caresses with great tenderness, and then began to help her to rise and dress.
"Yes, do," said Miss Fortune; "I shall have a little better chance of sleeping. My stars! Ellen, what do you call this?"
"Isn't it catnip?" said Ellen, alarmed.
"Catnip! it tastes of nothing but the tea-kettle. It's as weak as dish-water. Take it down and make some more. How much did you put in? you want a good double handful, stalks and all; make it strong. I can't drink such stuff as that. I think if I could get into a sweat I should be better."
Ellen went down, established her grandmother in her old corner, and made some more tea. Then, her irons being hot, she began to iron; doing double duty at the same time, for Mrs. Montgomery had one of her talking fits on, and it was necessary to hear and answer a great many things. Presently the first visitor appeared in the shape of Nancy.
"Well, Ellen!" said she; "so Miss Fortune is really sick for once, and you are keeping house. Ain't you grand?"
"I don't feel very grand," said Ellen. "I don't know what is the matter with these clothes; I cannot make 'em look smooth."
"Irons ain't hot," said Nancy.
"Yes they are, too hot. I've scorched a towel already."
"My goodness, Ellen! I guess you have. If Miss Fortune was down you'd get it. Why, they're bone dry!" said Nancy, plunging her hand into the basket; "you haven't sprinkled 'em, have you?"
"To be sure," said Ellen, with an awakened face, "I forgot it!"
"Here, get out of the way, I'll do it for you," said Nancy, rolling up her sleeves, and pushing Ellen from the table; "you just get me a bowl of water, will you? and we'll have 'em done in no time. Who's acoming to help you?"
"Nobody."
"Nobody! you poor chicken; do you think you're agoing to do all the work of the house yourself?"
"No," said Ellen, "but I can do a good deal, and the rest will have to go."
"You ain't going to do no such thing; I'll stay myself."
"No, you can't, Nancy," said Ellen quietly.
"I guess I will if I've a mind to. I should like to know how you'd help it; Miss Fortune's abed."
"I could help it though," said Ellen; "but I am sure you won't when I ask you not."
"I'll do anything you please," said Nancy, "if you'll get Miss Fortune to let me stay. Come do, Ellen! It will be splendid; and I'll help you finely, and I won't bother you neither. Come! go ask her; if you don't, I will."
"I can't, Nancy; she don't want anybody; and it worries her to talk to her. I can't go and ask her."
Nancy impatiently flung down the cloth she was sprinkling and ran upstairs. In a few minutes she came down with a triumphant face, and bade Ellen go up to her aunt.
"Ellen," said Miss Fortune, "if I let Nancy stay will you take care of the keys and keep her out of the buttery?"
"I'll try to, ma'am, as well as I can."
"I'd as lief have her as anybody," said Miss Fortune, "if she'd behave; she was with me a little in the winter; she is smart and knows the ways; if I was sure she would behave herself, but I am afraid she will go rampaging about the house like a wild cat."
"I think I could prevent that," said Ellen, who, to say truth, was willing to have anybody come to share what she felt would be a very great burden. "She knows I could tell Mr. Van Brunt if she didn't do right, and she would be afraid of that."