An ant dropped into the water; a wood pigeon took pity of her and
threw her a little bough.--L'ESTRANGE.
The afternoon was already half spent when Mr. Van Brunt's ox-cart was
seen returning. Ellen was standing by the little gate that opened on the
chip-yard; and with her heart beating anxiously she watched the
slow-coming oxen; how slowly they came! At last they turned out of the
lane and drew the cart up the ascent; and stopping beneath the
apple-tree Mr. Van Brunt leisurely got down, and flinging back his whip,
came to the gate. But the little face that met him there, quivering with
hope and fear, made his own quite sober. "I'm really _very_ sorry, Miss
Ellen----" he began.
That was enough. Ellen waited to hear no more, but turned away, the cold
chill of disappointment coming over her heart. She had borne the former
delays pretty well, but this was one too many, and she felt sick. She
went round to the front stoop, where scarcely ever anybody came, and
sitting down on the steps wept sadly and despairingly.
It might have been half-an-hour or more after, that the kitchen door
slowly opened and Ellen came in. Wishing her aunt should not see her
swollen eyes, she was going quietly through to her own room when Miss
Fortune called her. Ellen stopped. Miss Fortune was sitting before the
fire with an open letter lying in her lap and another in her hand. The
latter she held out to Ellen, saying, "Here, child, come and take this."
"What is it?" said Ellen, slowly coming towards her.
"Don't you see what it is?" said Miss Fortune, still holding it out.
"But who is it from?" said Ellen.
"Your mother."
"A letter from mamma, and not to me?" said Ellen with changing colour.
She took it quick from her aunt's hand. But her colour changed more as
her eye fell upon the first words, "My dear Ellen," and turning the
paper she saw upon the back, "Miss Ellen Montgomery." Her next look was
to her aunt's face, with her eye fired and her cheek paled with anger,
and when she spoke her voice was not the same.
"This is _my_ letter," she said, trembling; "who opened it?"
Miss Fortune's conscience must have troubled her a little, for her eye
wavered uneasily. Only for a second, though.
"Who opened it?" she answered; "_I_ opened it. I should like to know who
has a better right. And I shall open every one that comes, to serve you
for looking so; that you may depend upon."
The look and the words and the injury together, fairly put Ellen beside
herself. She dashed the letter to the ground, and livid and trembling
with various feelings--rage was not the only one--she ran from her
aunt's presence. She did not shed any tears now; she could not: they
were absolutely burnt up by passion. She walked her room with trembling
steps, clasping and wringing her hands now and then, wildly thinking
what _could_ she do to get out of this dreadful state of things, and
unable to see anything but misery before her. She walked, for she could
not sit down; but presently she felt that she could not breathe the air
of the house; and taking her bonnet she went down, passed through the
kitchen and went out. Miss Fortune asked where she was going, and bade
her stay within doors, but Ellen paid no attention to her.
She stood still a moment outside the little gate. She might have stood
long to look. The mellow light of an Indian summer afternoon lay upon
the meadow, and the old barn and chip-yard; there was beauty in them all
under its smile. Not a breath was stirring. The rays of the sun
struggled through the blue haze, which hung upon the hills and softened
every distant object; and the silence of nature all around was absolute,
made more noticeable by the far-off voice of somebody, it might be Mr.
Van Brunt, calling to his oxen, very far off, and not to be seen: the
sound came softly to her ear through the stillness. "Peace" was the
whisper of nature to her troubled child; but Ellen's heart was in a
whirl; she could not hear the whisper. It was a relief, however, to be
out of the house and in the sweet open air. Ellen breathed more freely,
and pausing a moment there, and clasping her hands together once more in
sorrow, she went down the road and out at the gate, and exchanging her
quick, broken step for a slow measured one, she took the way towards
Thirlwall. Little regarding the loveliness which that day was upon every
slope and roadside, Ellen presently quitted the Thirlwall road, and half
unconsciously turned into a path on the left which she had never taken
before--perhaps for that reason. It was not much travelled evidently;
the grass grew green on both sides, and even in the middle of the way,
though here and there the track of wheels could be seen. Ellen did not
care about where she was going; she only found it pleasant to walk on
and get farther from home. The road or lane led towards a mountain
somewhat to the northwest of Miss Fortune's; the same which Mr. Van
Brunt had once named to Ellen as "the Nose." After three-quarters of an
hour the road began gently to ascend the mountain, rising towards the
north. About one-third of the way from the bottom Ellen came to a little
footpath on the left, which allured her by its promise of prettiness,
and she forsook the lane for it. The promise was abundantly fulfilled;
it was a most lovely, wild, wood-way path; but withal not a little steep
and rocky. Ellen began to grow weary. The lane went on towards the
north; the path rather led off towards the southern edge of the
mountain, rising all the while; but before she reached that Ellen came
to what she thought a good resting-place, where the path opened upon a
small level platform or ledge of the hill. The mountain rose steep
behind her, and sank very steep immediately before her, leaving a very
superb view of the open country from the north-east to the south-east.
Carpeted with moss, and furnished with fallen stones and pieces of rock,
this was a fine resting-place for the wayfarer, or loitering-place for
the lover of nature. Ellen seated herself on one of the stones, and
looked sadly and wearily towards the east, at first very careless of
the exceeding beauty of what she beheld there.
For miles and miles, on every side but the west, lay stretched before
her a beautifully broken country. The November haze hung over it now
like a thin veil, giving great sweetness and softness to the scene. Far
in the distance a range of low hills showed like a misty cloud; near by,
at the mountain's foot, the fields and farm-houses and roads lay a
pictured map. About a mile and a half to the south rose the mountain
where Nancy Vawse lived, craggy and bare; but the leafless trees and
stern, jagged rocks were wrapped in the haze; and through this the sun,
now near the setting, threw his mellowing rays, touching every slope and
ridge with a rich, warm glow.
Poor Ellen did not heed the picturesque effect of all this, yet the
sweet influences of nature reached her, and softened while they
increased her sorrow. She felt her own heart sadly out of tune with the
peace and loveliness of all she saw. Her eye sought those distant
hills--how very far off they were? and yet all that wide tract of
country was but a little piece of what lay between her and her mother.
Her eye sought those hills--but her mind overpassed them and went far
beyond, over many such a tract, till it reached the loved one at last.
But oh! how much between! "I cannot reach her!--she cannot reach me!"
thought poor Ellen. Her eyes had been filling and dropping tears for
some time, but now came the rush of the pent-up storm, and the floods of
grief were kept back no longer.
When once fairly excited Ellen's passions were always extreme. During
the former peaceful and happy part of her life the occasions of such
excitement had been very rare. Of late, unhappily, they had occurred
much oftener. Many were the bitter fits of tears she had known within a
few weeks. But now it seemed as if all the scattered causes of sorrow
that had wrought those tears were gathered together and pressing upon
her at once; and that the burden would crush her to the earth. To the
earth it brought her literally. She slid from her seat at first, and
embracing the stone on which she had sat, she leaned her head there; but
presently in her agony quitting her hold of that, she cast herself down
upon the moss, lying at full length upon the cold ground, which seemed
to her childish fancy the best friend she had left. But Ellen was
wrought up to the last pitch of grief and passion. Tears brought no
relief. Convulsive weeping only exhausted her. In the extremity of her
distress and despair, and in that lonely place, out of hearing of every
one, she sobbed aloud, and even screamed, for almost the first time in
her life; and these fits of violence were succeeded by exhaustion,
during which she ceased to shed tears and lay quite still, drawing only
long, sobbing sighs now and then.
How long Ellen had lain there, or how long this would have gone on
before her strength had been quite worn out, no one can tell. In one of
these fits of forced quiet, when she lay as still as the rocks around
her, she heard a voice close by say, "What is the matter, my child?"
The silver sweetness of the tone came singularly upon the tempest in
Ellen's mind. She got up hastily, and brushing away the tears from her
dimmed eyes, she saw a young lady standing there, and a face, whose
sweetness well matched the voice, looking upon her with grave concern.
She stood motionless and silent.
"What is the matter, my dear?"
The tone found Ellen's heart, and brought the water to her eyes again,
though with a difference. She covered her face with her hands. But
gentle hands were placed upon hers and drew them away; and the lady,
sitting down on Ellen's stone, took her in her arms; and Ellen hid her
face in the bosom of a better friend than the cold earth had been like
to prove her. But the change overcame her; and the soft whisper, "Don't
cry any more," made it impossible to stop crying. Nothing further was
said for some time; the lady waited till Ellen grew calmer. When she saw
her able to answer, she said gently--
"What does all this mean, my child? What troubles you? Tell me, and I
think we can find a way to mend matters."
Ellen answered the tone of voice with a faint smile, but the words with
another gush of tears.
"You are Ellen Montgomery, aren't you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I thought so. This isn't the first time I have seen you; I have seen
you once before."
Ellen looked up surprised.
"Have you, ma'am. I am sure I have never seen you."
"No, I know that. I saw you when you didn't see me. Where, do you
think?"
"I can't tell, I am sure," said Ellen; "I can't guess; I haven't seen
you at Aunt Fortune's, and I haven't been anywhere else."
"You have forgotten," said the lady. "Did you never hear of a little
girl who went to take a walk once upon a time, and had an unlucky fall
into a brook? and then went to a kind old lady's house where she was
dried and put to bed and went to sleep?"
"Oh yes," said Ellen. "Did you see me there, ma'am, and when I was
asleep?"
"I saw you there when you were asleep; and Mrs. Van Brunt told me who
you were and where you lived; and when I came here a little while ago I
knew you again very soon. And I knew what the matter was too, pretty
well; but, nevertheless, tell me all about it, Ellen; perhaps I can help
you."
Ellen shook her head dejectedly. "Nobody in this world can help me," she
said.
"Then there's one in heaven that can," said the lady steadily. "Nothing
is too bad for Him to mend. Have you asked _His_ help, Ellen?"
Ellen began to weep again. "Oh, if I could I would tell you all about
it, ma'am," she said; "but there are so many things, I don't know where
to begin; I don't know when I should ever get through."
"So many things that trouble you, Ellen?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I am sorry for that indeed. But never mind, dear, tell me what they
are. Begin with the worst, and if I haven't time to hear them all now,
I'll find time another day. Begin with the worst."
But she waited in vain for an answer, and became distressed herself at
Ellen's distress, which was extreme.
"Don't cry so, my child, don't cry so," she said, pressing her in her
arms. "What is the matter? Hardly anything in this world is so bad it
can't be mended. I think I know what troubles you so--it is that your
dear mother is away from you, isn't it?"
"Oh no, ma'am," Ellen could scarcely articulate. But struggling with
herself for a minute or two, she then spoke again, and more clearly.
"The worst is--oh! the worst is--that I meant--I meant--to be a good
child, and I have been worse than ever I was in my life before."
Her tears gushed forth.
"But how, Ellen?" said her surprised friend after a pause. "I don't
quite understand you. When did you 'mean to be a good child?' Didn't you
always mean so? and what have you been doing?"
Ellen made a great effort and ceased crying, straightened herself,
dashed away her tears, as if determined to shed no more, and presently
spoke calmly, though a choking sob every now and then threatened to
interrupt her.
"I will tell you, ma'am. The first day I left mamma, when I was on board
the steamboat and feeling as badly as I could feel, a kind, kind
gentleman, I don't know who he was, came to me and spoke to me, and took
care of me the whole day. Oh, if I could see him again! He talked to me
a great deal; he wanted me to be a Christian; he wanted me to make up
my mind to begin that day to be one; and, ma'am, I did. I did resolve
with my whole heart, and I thought I should be different from that time
from what I had ever been before. But I think I have never been so bad
in my life as I have been since then. Instead of feeling right I have
felt wrong all the time, almost, and I can't help it. I have been
passionate and cross, and bad feelings keep coming, and I know it's
wrong, and it makes me miserable. And yet, oh, ma'am, I haven't changed
my mind a bit; I think just the same as I did that day; I want to be a
Christian more than anything else in the world, but I am not; and what
shall I do?"
Her face sank into her hands again.
"And this is your great trouble?" said her friend.
"Yes."
"Do you remember who said, 'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are
heavy laden, and I will give you rest'?"
Ellen looked up inquiringly.
"You are grieved to find yourself so unlike what you would be. You wish
to be a child of the dear Saviour, and to have your heart filled with
His love, and to do what will please Him. Do you? Have you gone to Him
day by day, and night by night, and told Him so? have you begged Him to
give you strength to get the better of your wrong feelings, and asked
Him to change you, and make you His child?"
"At first I did, ma'am," said Ellen in a low voice.
"Not lately?"
"No, ma'am," in a low tone still, and looking down.
"Then you have neglected your Bible and prayer for some time past?"
Ellen hardly uttered, "Yes."
"Why, my child?"
"I don't know, ma'am," said Ellen, weeping, "that is one of the things
that made me think myself so very wicked. I couldn't like to read my
Bible or pray either, though I always used to before. My Bible lay down
quite at the bottom of my trunk, and I even didn't like to raise my
things enough to see the cover of it. I was so full of bad feelings I
didn't feel fit to pray or read either."
"Ah! that is the way with the wisest of us," said her companion; "how
apt we are to shrink most from our Physician just when we are in most
need of Him! But, Ellen, dear, that isn't right. No hand but His can
touch that sickness you are complaining of. Seek it, love, seek it. He
will hear and help you, no doubt of it, in every trouble you carry
simply and humbly to His feet; He has _promised_, you know."
Ellen was weeping very much, but less bitterly than before; the clouds
were breaking and light beginning to shine through.
"Shall we pray together now?" said her companion after a few minutes'
pause.
"Oh, if you please, ma'am, do!" Ellen answered through her tears.
And they knelt together there on the moss beside the stone, where
Ellen's head rested and her friend's folded hands were laid. It might
have been two children speaking to their father, for the simplicity of
that prayer; difference of age seemed to be forgotten, and what suited
one suited the other. It was not without difficulty that the speaker
carried it calmly through, for Ellen's sobs went nigh to check her more
than once. When they rose Ellen silently sought her friend's arms again,
and laying her face on her shoulder and putting both arms round her
neck, she wept still,--but what different tears! It was like the gentle
rain falling through sunshine, after the dark cloud and the thunder and
the hurricane have passed by. And they kissed each other before either
of them spoke.
"You will not forget your Bible and prayer again, Ellen?"
"Oh no, ma'am."
"Then I am sure you will find your causes of trouble grow less. I will
not hear the rest of them now. In a day or two I hope you will be able
to give me a very different account from what you would have done an
hour ago; but besides that it is getting late, and it will not do for us
to stay too long up here; you have a good way to go to reach home. Will
you come and see me to-morrow afternoon?"
"Oh yes, ma'am, indeed I will!--if I can; and if you will tell me
where."
"Instead of turning up this little rocky path you must keep straight on
in the road, that's all; and it's the first house you come to. It isn't
very far from here. Where were you going on the mountain?"
"Nowhere, ma'am."
"Have you been any higher than this?"
"No, ma'am."
"Then before we go away I want to show you something. I'll take you over
the Bridge of the Nose; it isn't but a step or two more; a little rough
to be sure, but you mustn't mind that."
"What is the 'Bridge of the Nose,' ma'am?" said Ellen, as they left her
resting-place, and began to toil up the path which grew more steep and
rocky than ever.
"You know this mountain is called the Nose. Just here it runs out to a
very thin sharp edge. We shall come to a place presently where you turn
a very sharp corner to get from one side of the hill to the other; and
my brother named it jokingly the Bridge of the Nose."
"Why do they give the mountain such a queer name?" said Ellen.
"I don't know, I'm sure. The people say that from one point of view this
side of it looks very like a man's nose; but I never could find it out,
and have some doubt about the fact. But now here we are! Just come round
this great rock,--mind how you step, Ellen,--now look there!"
The rock they had just turned was at their backs, and they looked
towards the west. Both exclaimed at the beauty before them. The view was
not so extended as the one they had left. On the north and south sides
the broken wavy outline of mountains closed in the horizon; but far to
the west stretched an opening between the hills through which the
setting sun sent his long beams, even to their feet. In the distance all
was a golden haze; nearer, on the right and left, the hills were lit up
singularly, and there was a most beautiful mingling of deep hazy shadow
and bright glowing mountain sides and ridges. A glory was upon the
valley. Far down below at their feet lay a large lake gleaming in the
sunlight; and at the upper end of it a village of some size showed like
a cluster of white dots.
"How beautiful!" said the lady again. "Ellen, dear, He whose hand raised
up those mountains, and has painted them so gloriously, is the very same
One who has said to you and to me, 'Ask, and it shall be given you.'"
Ellen looked up; their eyes met; her answer was in that grateful glance.
The lady sat down and drew Ellen close to her. "Do you see that little
white village yonder, down at the far end of the lake? That is the
village of Carra-carra, and that is Carra-carra lake. That is where I go
to church; you cannot see the little church from here. My father
preaches there every Sunday morning."
"You must have a long way to go," said Ellen.
"Yes--a pretty long way, but it's very pleasant though. I mount my
little grey pony, and he carries me there in quick time, when I will let
him. I never wish the way shorter. I go in all sorts of weathers too,
Ellen; Sharp and I don't mind frost and snow."
"Who is Sharp?" said Ellen.
"My pony. An odd name, isn't it. It wasn't of my choosing, Ellen, but he
deserves it if ever pony did. He's a very cunning little fellow. Where
do you go, Ellen? To Thirlwall?"
"To church, ma'am? I don't go anywhere."
"Doesn't your aunt go to church?"
"She hasn't since I have been here."
"What do you do with yourself on Sunday?"
"Nothing, ma'am; I don't know what to do with myself all the day long. I
get tired of being in the house, and I go out of doors, and then I get
tired of being out of doors and come in again. I wanted a kitten
dreadfully, but Mr. Van Brunt said Aunt Fortune would not let me keep
one."
"Did you want a kitten to help you keep Sunday, Ellen," said her friend,
smiling.
"Yes, I did, ma'am," said Ellen, smiling again; "I thought it would be a
great deal of company for me. I got very tired of reading all day long,
and I had nothing to read but the Bible; and you know, ma'am, I told you
I have been all wrong ever since I came here, and I didn't like to read
that much."
"My poor child," said the lady, "you have been hardly bestead, I think.
What if you were to come and spend next Sunday with me? Don't you think
I should do instead of a kitten?"
"Oh yes, ma'am, I am sure of it," said Ellen, clinging to her. "Oh, I'll
come gladly if you will let me, and if Aunt Fortune will let me; and I
hope she will, for she said last Sunday I was the plague of her life."
"What did you do to make her say so?" said her friend gravely.
"Only asked her for some books, ma'am."
"Well, my dear, I see I am getting upon another of your troubles, and we
haven't time for that now. By your own account you have been much in
fault yourself; and I trust you will find all things mend with your own
mending. But now there goes the sun!--and you and I must follow his
example."
The lake ceased to gleam, and the houses of the village were less
plainly to be seen; still the mountain heads were as bright as ever.
Gradually the shadows crept up their sides, while the grey of evening
settled deeper and deeper upon the valley.
"There," said Ellen, "that's just what I was wondering at the other
morning; only then the light shone upon the top of the mountains first
and walked down, and now it leaves the bottom first and walks up. I
asked Mr. Van Brunt about it, and he could not tell me. That's another
of my troubles,--there's nobody that can tell me anything."
"Put me in mind of it to-morrow, and I'll try to make you understand
it," said the lady, "but we must not tarry now. I see you are likely to
find me work enough, Ellen."
"I'll not ask you a question, ma'am, if you don't like it," said Ellen
earnestly.
"I do like, I do like," said the other. "I spoke laughingly, for I see
you will be apt to ask me a good many. As many as you please, my dear."
"Thank you, ma'am," said Ellen, as they ran down the hill, "they keep
coming into my head all the while."
It was easier going down than coming up. They soon arrived at the place
where Ellen had left the road to take the wood-path.
"Here we part," said the lady. "Good-night."
"Good-night, ma'am."
There was a kiss and a squeeze of the hand, but when Ellen would have
turned away the lady still held her fast.
"You are an odd little girl," said she. "I gave you liberty to ask me
questions."
"Yes, ma'am," said Ellen doubtfully.
"There is a question you have not asked me that I have been expecting.
Do you know who I am?"
"No, ma'am."
"Don't you want to know?"
"Yes, ma'am, very much," said Ellen, laughing at her friend's look; "but
mamma told me never to try to find out anything about other people that
they didn't wish me to know, or that wasn't my business."
"Well, I think this is your business decidedly. Who are you going to ask
for when you come to see me to-morrow? Will you ask for 'the young lady
that lives in this house?' or will you give a description of my nose,
and eyes, and inches?"
Ellen laughed.
"My dear Ellen," said the lady, changing her tone, "do you know you
please me very much? For one person that shows herself well-bred in this
matter there are a thousand, I think, that ask impertinent questions. I
am very glad you are an exception to the common rule. But, dear Ellen, I
am quite willing you should know my name--it is Alice Humphreys. Now,
kiss me again and run home; it is quite, quite time; I have kept you too
late. Good-night, my dear. Tell your aunt I beg she will allow you to
take tea with me to-morrow."
They parted, and Ellen hastened homewards, urged by the rapidly-growing
dusk of the evening. She trod the green turf with a step lighter and
quicker than it had been a few hours before, and she regained her home
in much less time than it had taken her to come from thence to the
mountain. Lights were in the kitchen, and the table set; but though
weary and faint she was willing to forego her supper rather than meet
her aunt just then; so she stole quietly up to her room. She did not
forget her friend's advice. She had no light; she could not read; but
Ellen did pray. She did carry all her heart-sickness, her wants, and her
woes, to that Friend whose ear is always open to hear the cry of those
who call upon Him in truth; and then, relieved, refreshed, almost
healed, she went to bed and slept sweetly.