"But that is only one reason out of many, and not the greatest. It is a very refined pleasure, and to resolve it into its elements is something like trying to divide one of these same white rays of light into the many various coloured ones that go to form it; and not by any means so easy a task."

"Then it is no wonder I couldn't answer," said Ellen.

"No, you are hardly a full-grown philosopher yet, Ellie."

"The moonlight is so calm and quiet," Ellen observed admiringly.

"And why is it calm and quiet? I must have an answer to that."

"Because we are generally calm and quiet at such times!" Ellen ventured after a little thought.

"Precisely! we and the world. And association has given the moon herself the same character. Besides that her mild sober light is not fitted for the purposes of active employment, and therefore the more graciously invites us to the pleasures of thought and fancy."

"I am loving it more and more, the more you talk about it," said Ellen.

"And there you have touched another reason, Ellie, for the pleasure we have, not only in moonlight, but in most other things. When two things have been in the mind together, and made any impression, the mind associates them; and you cannot see or think of the one without bringing back the remembrance or the feeling of the other. If we have enjoyed the moonlight in pleasant scenes, in happy hours, with friends that we loved – though the sight of it may not always make us directly remember them, it yet brings with it a waft from the feeling of the old times, sweet as long as life lasts!"

"And sorrowful things may be associated too?" said Ellen.

"Yes, and sorrowful things. But this power of association is the cause of half the pleasure we enjoy. There is a tune my mother used to sing – I cannot hear it now without being carried swiftly back to my boyish days, to the very spirit of the time; I feel myself spring over the green sward as I did then."

"Oh, I know that is true," said Ellen. "The camellia, the white camellia, you know, I like it so much ever since what you said about it one day. I never see it without thinking of it; and it would not seem half so beautiful but for that."

"What did I say about it?"

"Don't you remember? you said it was like what you ought to be, and what you should be if you ever reached heaven; and you repeated that verse in the Revelation about 'those that have not defiled their garments.' I always think of it. It seems to give me a lesson."

"How eloquent of beautiful lessons all nature would be to us," said John musingly, "if we had but the eye and ear to take them in."

"And in that way you would heap associations upon associations?"

"Yes; till our storehouse of pleasure was very full."

"You do that now," said Ellen. "I wish you would teach me."

"I have read precious things sometimes in the bunches of flowers you are so fond of, Ellie. Cannot you?"

"I don't know – I only think of themselves, except sometimes they make me think of Alice."

"You know from any works we may form some judgment of the mind and character of their author?"

"From their writings, I know you can," said Ellen; "from what other works?"

"From any which are not mechanical; from any in which the mind, not the hand, has been the creating power. I saw you very much interested the other day in the Eddystone lighthouse; did it help you to form no opinion of Mr. Smeaton?"

"Why, yes, certainly," said Ellen, "I admired him exceedingly for his cleverness and perseverance; but what other works? I can't think of any."

"There is the lighthouse, that is one thing. What do you think of the ocean waves that now and then overwhelm it?"

Ellen half shuddered. "I shouldn't like to go to sea, John! But you were speaking of men's works and women's works?"

"Well, women's works; I cannot help forming some notion of a lady's mind and character from the way she dresses herself."

"Can you? do you?"

"I cannot help doing it. Many things appear in the style of a lady's dress that she never dreams of; the style of her thoughts among others."

"It is a pity ladies didn't know that," said Ellen, laughing; "they would be very careful."

"It wouldn't mend the matter, Ellie. That is one of the things in which people are obliged to speak truth. As the mind is, so it will show itself."

"But we have got a great way from the flowers," said Ellen.

"You shall bring me some to-morrow, Ellie, and we will read them together."

"There are plenty over there now," said Ellen, looking towards the little flower-stand, which was as full and as flourishing as ever, "but we can't see them well by this light."

"A bunch of flowers seems to bring me very near the hand that made them. They are the work of His fingers; and I cannot consider them without being joyfully assured of the glory and loveliness of their Creator. It is written as plainly to me in their delicate painting and sweet breath and curious structure, as in the very pages of the Bible; though no doubt without the Bible I could not read the flowers."

"I never thought much of that," said Ellen. "And then you find particular lessons in particular flowers?"

"Sometimes."

"Oh, come here!" said Ellen, pulling him towards the flower-stand, "and tell me what this daphne is like – you need not see that, only smell it, that's enough; do, John, and tell me what it is like!"

He smiled as he complied with her request, and walked away again.

"Well, what is it?" said Ellen; "I know you have thought of something."

"It is like the fragrance that Christian society sometimes leaves upon the spirit; when it is just what it ought to be."

"My Mr. Marshman!" exclaimed Ellen.

John smiled again. "I thought of him, Ellie. And I thought also of Cowper's lines —

"'When one who holds communion with the skies,
Has filled his urn where those pure waters rise,
Descends and dwells among us meaner things,
It is as if an angel shook his wings!'"

Ellie was silent a moment from pleasure.

"Well, I have got an association now with the daphne!" she said joyously; and presently added, sighing, "How much you see in everything that I do not see at all."

"Time, Ellie," said John; "there must be time for that. It will come. Time is cried out upon as a great thief; it is people's own fault. Use him but well, and you will get from his hand more than he will ever take from you."

Ellen's thoughts travelled on a little way from this speech, and then came a sigh, of some burden, as it seemed; and her face was softly laid against the arm she held.

"Let us leave all that to God," said John gently.

Ellen started. "How did you know – how could you know what I was thinking of?"

"Perhaps my thoughts took the same road," said he, smiling. "But, Ellie, dear, let us look to that one source of happiness that can never be dried up; it is not safe to count upon anything else."

"It is not wonderful," said Ellen in a tremulous voice, "if I – "

"It is not wonderful, Ellie, nor wrong. But we, who look up to God as our Father, who rejoice in Christ our Saviour, we are happy, whatever beside we may gain or lose. Let us trust Him, and never doubt that, Ellie."

"But still – " said Ellen.

"But still, we will hope and pray alike in that matter. And while we do, and may, with our whole hearts, let us leave ourselves in our Father's hand. The joy of the knowledge of Christ! the joy the world cannot intermeddle with, the peace it cannot take away! Let us make that our own, Ellie; and for the rest put away all anxious care about what we cannot control."

Ellen's hand, however, did not just then lie quite so lightly on his arm as it did a few minutes ago; he could feel that; and could see the glitter of one or two tears in the moonlight as they fell. The hand was fondly taken in his; and as they slowly paced up and down, he went on in low tones of kindness and cheerfulness with his pleasant talk, till she was too happy in the present to be anxious about the future; looked up again and brightly into his face, and questions and answers came as gaily as ever.

CHAPTER XLVI

Who knows what may happen? Patience and shuffle the cards!.. Perhaps after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and come back St. Peter.

– Longfellow.

The rest of the winter, or rather the early part of the spring, passed happily away. March, at Thirlwall, seemed more to belong to the former than the latter. Then spring came in good earnest; April and May brought warm days and wild flowers. Ellen refreshed herself and adorned the room with quantities of them; and as soon as might be she set about restoring the winter-ruined garden. Mr. John was not fond of gardening; he provided her with all manner of tools, ordered whatever work she wanted to be done for her, supplied her with new plants, and seeds, and roots, and was always ready to give her his help in any operations or press of business that called for it. But for the most part Ellen hoed, and raked, and transplanted, and sowed seeds, while he walked or read; often giving his counsel, indeed, asked and unasked, and always coming in between her and any difficult or heavy job. The hours thus spent were to Ellen hours of unmixed delight. When he did not choose to go himself he sent Thomas with her, as the garden was some little distance down the mountain, away from the house and from everybody; he never allowed her to go there alone.

As if to verify Mr. Van Brunt's remark, that "something is always happening most years," about the middle of May there came letters that after all determined John's going abroad. The sudden death of two relatives, one after the other, had left the family estate to Mr. Humphreys; it required the personal attendance either of himself or his son; he could not, therefore his son must, go. Once on the other side the Atlantic, Mr. John thought it best his going should fulfil all the ends for which both Mr. Humphreys and Mr. Marshman had desired it; this would occasion his stay to be prolonged to at least a year, probably more. And he must set off without delay.

In the midst, not of his hurry, for Mr. John seldom was or seemed to be in a hurry about anything; but in the midst of his business, he took special care of everything that concerned or could possibly concern Ellen. He arranged what books she could read, what studies she could carry on; and directed that about these matters as well as about all others she should keep up a constant communication with him by letter. He requested Mrs. Chauncey to see that she wanted nothing, and to act as her general guardian in all minor things, respecting which Mr. Humphreys could be expected to take no thought whatever. And what Ellen thanked him for most of all, he found time for all his wonted rides, and she thought more than his wonted talks with her; endeavouring as he well knew how, both to strengthen and cheer her mind in view of his long absence. The memory of those hours never went from her.

The family at Ventnor were exceeding desirous that she should make one of them during all the time John should be gone; they urged it with every possible argument. Ellen said little, but he knew she did not wish it; and finally compounded the matter by arranging that she should stay at the parsonage through the summer, and spend the winter at Ventnor, sharing all Ellen Chauncey's advantages of every kind. Ellen was all the more pleased with this arrangement that Mr. George Marshman would be at home. The church John had been serving were becoming exceedingly attached to him, and would by no means hear of giving him up; and Mr. George engaged, if possible, to supply his place while he should be away. Ellen Chauncey was in ecstasies. And it was further promised that the summer should not pass without as many visits on both sides as could well be brought about.

Ellen had the comfort, at the last, of hearing John say that she had behaved unexceptionably well where he knew it was difficult for her to behave well at all. That was a comfort from him, whose notions of unexceptionable behaviour she knew were remarkably high. But the parting, after all, was a dreadfully hard matter; though softened as much as it could be at the time and rendered very sweet to Ellen's memory by the tenderness, gentleness, and kindness, with which her brother without checking soothed her grief. He was to go early in the morning; and he made Ellen take leave of him the night before; but he was in no hurry to send her away; and when at length he told her it was very late, and she rose up to go, he went with her to the very door of her room and there bade her good-night.

How the next days passed Ellen hardly knew; they were unspeakably long.

Not a week after, one morning Nancy Vawse came into the kitchen, and asked in her blunt fashion —

"Is Ellen Montgomery at home?"

"I believe Miss Ellen is in the parlour," said Margery dryly.

"I want to speak to her."

Margery silently went across the hall to the sitting-room.

"Miss Ellen, dear," she said softly, "here is that Nancy girl wanting to speak with you – will you please to see her?"

Ellen eagerly desired Margery to let her in, by no means displeased to have some interruption to the sorrowful thoughts she could not banish. She received Nancy very kindly.

"Well, I declare, Ellen!" said that young lady, whose wandering eye was upon everything but Ellen herself, "ain't you as fine as a fiddle? I guess you never touch your fingers to a file nowadays, do you?"

"A file!" said Ellen.

"You ha'n't forgot what it means, I suppose," said Nancy, somewhat scornfully, "'cause if you think I'm agoing to swallow that, you're mistaken. I've seen you file off tables down yonder a few times, ha'n't I?"

"Oh, I remember now," said Ellen, smiling; "it is so long since I heard the word that I didn't know what you meant. Margery calls it a dish-cloth, or a floor-cloth, or something else."

"Well, you don't touch one nowadays, do you?"

"No," said Ellen, "I have other things to do."

"Well, I guess you have. You've got enough of books now, for once, ha'n't you? What a lot! I say, Ellen, have you got to read all these?"

"I hope so, in time," said Ellen, smiling. "Why haven't you been to see me before?"

"Oh, I don't know!" said Nancy, whose roving eye looked a little as if she felt herself out of her sphere. "I didn't know as you would care to see me now."

"I am very sorry you should think so, Nancy; I would be as glad to see you as ever. I have not forgotten all your old kindness to me when Aunt Fortune was sick."

"You've forgotten all that went before that, I s'pose," said Nancy, with a half laugh. "You beat all! Most folks remember and forget just t'other way exactly. But besides, I didn't know but I should catch myself in queer company."

"Well, I am all alone now," said Ellen, with a sigh.

"Yes, if you warn't I wouldn't be here, I can tell you. What do you think I have come for to-day, Ellen?"

"For anything but to see me?"

Nancy nodded very decisively.

"What?"

"Guess."

"How can I possibly guess? What have you got tucked up in your apron there?"

"Ah! that's the very thing," said Nancy. "What have I got, sure enough?"

"Well, I can't tell through your apron," said Ellen, smiling.

"And I can't tell either; that's more, ain't it. Now listen, and I'll tell you where I got it, and then you may find out what it is, for I don't know. Promise me you won't tell anybody."

"I don't like to promise that, Nancy."

"Why?"

"Because it might be something I ought to tell somebody about."

"But it ain't."

"If it isn't I won't tell. Can't you leave it so?"

"But what a plague! Here I have gone and done all this just for you, and now you must go and make a fuss. What hurt would it do you to promise? it's nobody's business but yours and mine, and somebody else's that won't make any talk about it, I promise you."

"I won't speak of it, certainly, Nancy, unless I think I ought; can't you trust me?"

"I wouldn't give two straws for anybody else's say so," said Nancy; "but as you're as stiff as the mischief, I s'pose I'll have to let it go. I'll trust you! Now listen. It don't look like anything, does it?"

"Why, no," said Ellen, laughing; "you hold your apron so loose that I cannot see anything."

"Well, now listen. You know I've been helping down at your aunt's – did you?"

"No."

"Well, I have, these six weeks. You never see anything go on quieter than they do, Ellen. I declare it's fun. Miss Fortune never was so good in her days. I don't mean she ain't as ugly as ever, you know, but she has to keep it in. All I have to do if I think anything is going wrong, I just let her think I am going to speak to him about it; only I have to do it very cunning for fear she should guess what I am up to; and the next thing I know it's all straight. He is about the coolest shaver," said Nancy, "I ever did see. The way he walks through her notions once in a while – not very often, mind you, but when he takes a fancy – it's fun to see! Oh, I can get along there first-rate, now. You'd have a royal time, Ellen."

"Well, Nancy – your story?"

"Don't you be in a hurry! I am going to take my time. Well, I've been there this six weeks; doing all sorts of things, you know, taking your place, Ellen; don't you wish you was back in it? Well, a couple of weeks since Mrs. Van took it into her head she would have up the waggon and go to Thirlwall to get herself some things; a queer start for her; but at any rate Van Brunt brought up the waggon, and in she got and off they went. Now she meant, you must know, that I should be fast in the cellar-kitchen all the while she was gone, and she thought she had given me enough to keep me busy there; but I was up to her! I was as spry as a cricket, and flew round, and got things put up; and then I thought I'd have some fun. What do you think I did? Mrs. Montgomery was quietly sitting in the chimney-corner, and I had the whole house to myself. How Van Brunt looks out for her, Ellen; he won't let her be put out for anything or anybody."

"I am glad of it," said Ellen, her face flushing and her eyes watering; "it is just like him. I love him for it."

"The other night she was mourning and lamenting at a great rate because she hadn't you to read to her; and what do you think he does but goes and takes the book and sits down and reads to her himself. You should have seen Mrs. Van's face!"

"What book?" said Ellen.

"What book? – why, your book – the Bible. There ain't any other book in the house as I know. What on earth are you crying for, Ellen? He's fetched over his mother's old Bible, and there it lays on a shelf in the cupboard; and he has it out every once in a while. Maybe he's coming round, Ellen. But do hold up your head and listen to me! I can't talk to you while you lie with your head in the cushion like that. I ha'n't more than begun my story yet."

"Well, go on," said Ellen.

"You see, I ain't in any hurry," said Nancy, "because as soon as I've finished I shall have to be off; and it's fun to talk to you. What do you think I did when I had done up all my chores? – where do you think I found this, eh? you'd never guess."

"What is it?" said Ellen.

"No matter what it is; I don't know; where do you think I found it?"

"How can I tell? I don't know."

"You'll be angry with me when I tell you."

Ellen was silent.

"If it was anybody else," said Nancy, "I'd ha' seen 'em shot afore I'd ha' done it, or told of it either; but you ain't like anybody else. Look here!" said she, tapping her apron gently with one finger and slowly marking off each word, "this – came out of – your – aunt's – box – in – the closet upstairs – in – her room."

"Nancy!"

"Ay, Nancy! there it is. Now you look. 'Twon't alter it, Ellen; that's where it was, if you look till tea-time."

"But how came you there?"

"'Cause I wanted to amuse myself, I tell you. Partly to please myself, and partly because Mrs. Van would be so mad if she knew it."

"Oh, Nancy!"

"Well, I don't say it was right, but anyhow I did it; you ha'n't heard what I found yet."

"You had better put it right back again, Nancy, the first time you have a chance."

"Put it back again! – I'll give it to you, and then you may put it back again, if you have a mind. I should like to see you! Why, you don't know what I found."

"Well, what did you find?"

"The box was chuck full of all sorts of things, and I had a mind to see what was in it, so I pulled 'em out one after the other till I got to the bottom. At the very bottom was some letters and papers, and there – staring right in my face – the first thing I see was, 'Miss Ellen Montgomery.'"

"Oh, Nancy!" screamed Ellen, "a letter for me?"

"Hush! – and sit down, will you? – yes, a whole package of letters for you. Well, thought I, Mrs. Van has no right to that anyhow, and she ain't agoing to take the care of it any more; so I just took it up and put it in the bosom of my frock while I looked to see if there was any more for you, but there warn't. There it is."

And she tossed the package into Ellen's lap. Ellen's head swam.

"Well, good-bye!" said Nancy, rising; "I may go now, I suppose, and no thanks to me."

"Yes, I do – I do thank you very much, Nancy," cried Ellen, starting up and taking her by the hand – "I do thank you, though it wasn't right; but oh, how could she! how could she!"

"Dear me!" said Nancy; "to ask that of Mrs. Van! she could do anything. Why she did it, ain't so easy to tell."

Ellen, bewildered, scarcely knew, only felt, that Nancy had gone. The outer cover of her package, the seal of which was broken, contained three letters; two addressed to Ellen, in her father's hand, the third to another person. The seals of these had not been broken. The first that Ellen opened she saw was all in the same hand with the direction; she threw it down and eagerly tried the other. And yes! there was indeed the beloved character of which she never thought to have seen another specimen. Ellen's heart swelled with many feelings; thankfulness, tenderness, joy, and sorrow, past and present; that letter was not thrown down, but grasped, while tears fell much too fast for eyes to do their work. It was long before she could get far in the letter. But when she had fairly begun it, she went on swiftly, and almost breathlessly, to the end.

"My dear, dear little Ellen, – I am scarcely able – but I must write to you once more. Once more, daughter, for it is not permitted me to see your face again in this world. I look to see it, my dear child, where it will be fairer than ever here it seemed, even to me. I shall die in this hope and expectation. Ellen, remember it. Your last letters have greatly encouraged and rejoiced me. I am comforted, and can leave you quietly in that hand that has led me and I believe is leading you. God bless you, my child!

"Ellen, I have a mother living, and she wishes to receive you as her own when I am gone. It is best you should know at once why I never spoke to you of her. After your Aunt Bessy married and went to New York, it displeased and grieved my mother greatly that I too, who had always been her favourite child, should leave her for an American home. And when I persisted, in spite of all that entreaties and authority could urge, she said she forgave me for destroying all her prospects of happiness, but that after I should be married and gone she should consider me as lost to her entirely, and so I must consider myself. She never wrote to me, and I never wrote to her after I reached America. She was dead to me. I do not say that I did not deserve it.

"But I have written to her lately and she has written to me. She permits me to die in the joy of being entirely forgiven, and in the further joy of knowing that the only source of care I had left is done away. She will take you to her heart, to the place I once filled, and I believe fill yet. She longs to have you, and to have you as entirely her own, in all respects; and to this, in consideration of the wandering life your father leads, and will lead, I am willing and he is willing to agree. It is arranged so. The old happy home of my childhood will be yours, my Ellen. It joys me to think of it. Your father will write to your aunt and to you on the subject, and furnish you with funds. It is our desire that you should take advantage of the very first opportunity of proper persons going to Scotland who will be willing to take charge of you. Your dear friends, Mr. and Miss Humphreys, will, I dare say, help you in this.

"To them I could say much, if I had strength. But words are little. If blessings and prayers from a full heart are worth anything, they are the richer. My love and gratitude to them cannot – "

The writer had failed here; and what there was of the letter had evidently been written at different times. Captain Montgomery's was to the same purpose. He directed Ellen to embrace the first opportunity of suitable guardians, to cross the Atlantic and repair to No. – George Street, Edinburgh; and that Miss Fortune would give her the money she would need, which he had written to her to do, and that the accompanying letter Ellen was to carry with her and deliver to Mrs. Lindsay, her grandmother.

Ellen felt as if her head would split. She took up that letter, gazed at the strange name and direction which had taken such new and startling interest for her, wondered over the thought of what she was ordered to do with it, marvelled what sort of fingers they were which would open it, or whether it would ever be opened; and finally in a perfect maze, unable to read, think, or even weep, she carried her package of letters into her own room, the room that had been Alice's, laid herself on the bed, and them beside her; and fell into a deep sleep.

She woke up towards evening with the pressure of a mountain weight upon her mind. Her thoughts and feelings were a maze still; and not Mr. Humphreys himself could be more grave and abstracted than poor Ellen was that night. So many points were to be settled – so many questions answered to herself – it was a good while before Ellen could disentangle them, and know what she did think and feel, and what she would do.

She very soon found out her own mind upon one subject – she would be exceeding sorry to be obliged to obey the directions in the letters. But must she obey them?

"I have promised Alice," thought Ellen; "I have promised Mr. Humphreys – I can't be adopted twice. And this Mrs. Lindsay, my grandmother! she cannot be nice or she wouldn't have treated my mother so. She cannot be a nice person; hard, she must be hard; I never want to see her. My mother! But then my mother loved her, and was very glad to have me go to her. Oh! oh! how could she! how could they do so! when they didn't know how it might be with me, and what dear friends they might make me leave! Oh, it was cruel! But then they did not know, that is the very thing – they thought I would have nobody but Aunt Fortune, and so it's no wonder – Oh, what shall I do! What ought I to do? These people in Scotland must have given me up by this time; it's, let me see – it's just about three years now, a little less, since these letters were written, and circumstances are changed; I have a home and a father and a brother; may I not judge for myself? But my mother and my father have ordered me, what shall I do! If John were only here – but perhaps he would make me go, he might think it right. And to leave him, and maybe never to see him again! and Mr. Humphreys! and how lonely he would be without me. I cannot! I will not! Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do!" Ellen's meditations gradually plunged her in despair; for she could not look at the event of being obliged to go, and she could not get rid of the feeling that perhaps it might come to that. She wept bitterly; it didn't mend the matter. She thought painfully, fearfully, long; and was no nearer an end. She could not endure to submit the matter to Mr. Humphreys; she feared his decision; and she feared also that he would give her the money Miss Fortune had failed to supply for the journey; how much it might be Ellen had no idea. She could not dismiss the subject as decided by circumstances, for conscience pricked her with the fifth commandment. She was miserable. It happily occurred to her at last to take counsel with Mrs. Vawse; this might be done she knew without betraying Nancy; Mrs. Vawse was much too honourable to press her as to how she came by the letters, and her word could easily be obtained not to speak of the affairs to any one. As for Miss Fortune's conduct, it must be made known; there was no help for that. So it was settled; and Ellen's breast was a little lightened of its load of care for that time; she had leisure to think of some other things.

Why had Miss Fortune kept back the letters? Ellen guessed pretty well, but she did not know quite all. The package, with its accompanying despatch to Miss Fortune, had arrived shortly after Ellen first heard the news of her mother's death, when she was refuged with Alice at the parsonage. At the time of its being sent Captain Montgomery's movements were extremely uncertain; and in obedience to the earnest request of his wife he directed that without waiting for his own return Ellen should immediately set out for Scotland. Part of the money for her expenses he sent; the rest he desired his sister to furnish, promising to make all straight when he should come home. But it happened that he was already this lady's debtor in a small amount, which Miss Fortune had serious doubts of ever being repaid; she instantly determined that if she had once been a fool in lending him money, she would not a second time in adding to the sum; if he wanted to send his daughter on a wild-goose chase after great relations, he might come home himself and see to it; it was none of her business. Quietly taking the remittance to refund his own owing, she of course threw the letters into her box, as the delivery of them would expose the whole transaction. There they lay till Nancy found them.

Early next morning after breakfast Ellen came into the kitchen, and begged Margery to ask Thomas to bring the Brownie to the door. Surprised at the energy in her tone and manner, Margery gave the message, and added that Miss Ellen seemed to have picked up wonderfully; she hadn't heard her speak so brisk since Mr. John went away.