Oh, that _had_, how sad a passage 'tis!
--SHAKESPEARE.
The next day, about the middle of the afternoon, a light step crossed
the shed, and the great door opening gently, in walked Miss Alice
Humphreys. The room was all "redd up," and Miss Fortune and her mother
sat there at work, one picking over white beans at the table, the other
in her usual seat by the fire, and at her usual employment, which was
knitting. Alice came forward, and asked the old lady how she did.
"Pretty well. Oh, pretty well!" she answered, with the look of bland
good-humour her face almost always wore; "and glad to see you, dear.
Take a chair."
Alice did so, quite aware that the other person in the room was _not_
glad to see her.
"And how goes the world with you, Miss Fortune?"
"Humph! It's a queer kind of world, I think," answered that lady dryly,
sweeping some of the picked beans into her pan. "I get a'most sick of it
sometimes."
"Why, what's the matter?" said Alice pleasantly. "May I ask, has
anything happened to trouble you?"
"Oh no," said the other somewhat impatiently. "Nothing that's any matter
to any one but myself. It's no use speaking about it."
"Ah! Fortune never would take the world easy," said the old woman,
shaking her head from side to side. "Never would; I never could get
her."
"Now, do hush, mother, will you?" said the daughter, turning round upon
her with startling sharpness of look and tone. "Take the world easy! You
always did. I'm glad I ain't like you."
"I don't think it's a bad way, after all," said Alice. "What's the use
of taking it hard, Miss Fortune?"
"The way one goes on!" said that lady, picking away at her beans very
fast, and not answering Alice's question. "I'm tired of it. Toil, toil,
and drive, drive, from morning to night; and what's the end of it all?"
"Not much," said Alice gravely, "if our toiling looks no further than
_this_ world. When we go we shall carry nothing away with us. I should
think it would be very wearisome to toil only for what we cannot keep
nor stay long to enjoy."
"It's a pity you warn't a minister, Miss Alice," said Miss Fortune
dryly.
"Oh no, Miss Fortune," said Alice, smiling. "The family would be
overstocked. My father is one, and my brother will be another. A third
would be too much. You must be so good as to let me preach without
taking orders."
"Well, I wish every minister was as good a one as you'd make," said Miss
Fortune, her hard face giving way a little. "At any rate, nobody'd mind
anything you'd say, Miss Alice."
"That would be unlucky, in one sense," said Alice, "but I believe I know
what you mean. But, Miss Fortune, no one would dream the world went very
hard with you. I don't know anybody, I think, lives in more independent
comfort and plenty, and has things more to her mind. I never come to the
house that I am not struck with the fine look of the farm and all that
belongs to it."
"Yes," said the old lady, nodding her head two or three times, "Mr. Van
Brunt is a good farmer--very good. There's no doubt about that."
"I wonder what _he'd_ do," said Miss Fortune, quickly and sharply as
before, "if there warn't a head to manage for him! Oh, the farm's well
enough, Miss Alice. 'Tain't that. Every one knows where his own shoe
pinches."
"I wish you'd let me into the secret, then, Miss Fortune. I'm a cobbler
by profession."
Miss Fortune's ill-humour was giving way, but something disagreeable
seemed again to cross her mind. Her brow darkened.
"I say it's a poor kind of world, and I'm sick of it! One may slave and
slave one's life out for other people, and what thanks do you get? I'm
sick of it."
"There's a little body upstairs, or I'm much mistaken, who will give you
very sincere thanks for every kindness shown her."
Miss Fortune tossed her head, and brushing the refuse beans into her
lap, she pushed back her chair with a jerk to go to the fire with them.
"Much you know about her, Miss Alice! Thanks, indeed! I haven't seen the
sign of such a thing since she's been here, for all I have worked and
worked and had plague enough with her, I am sure. Deliver me from other
people's children, say I!"
"After all, Miss Fortune," said Alice soberly, "it is not what we _do_
for people that makes them love us; or at least, everything depends on
the way things are done. A look of love, a word of kindness, goes
further towards winning the heart than years of service or benefactions
mountain-high without them."
"Does she say I am unkind to her?" asked Miss Fortune fiercely.
"Pardon me," said Alice. "Words on her part are unnecessary. It is easy
to see from your own that there is no love lost between you, and I am
very sorry it is so."
"Love, indeed!" said Miss Fortune, with great indignation. "There never
was any to lose, I can assure you. She plagues the very life out of me.
Why, she hadn't been here three days before she went off with that girl
Nancy Vawse, that I had told her never to go near, and was gone all
night. That's the time she got in the brook. And if you'd seen her face
when I was scolding her about it! It was like seven thunder-clouds. Much
you know about it! I dare say she's very sweet to you; that's the way
she is to everybody beside me. They all think she's too good to live,
and it just makes me mad!"
"She told me herself," said Alice, "of her behaving ill another time
about her mother's letter."
"Yes, that was another time. I wish you'd seen her."
"I believe she saw and felt her fault in that case. Didn't she ask your
pardon? She said she would."
"Yes," said Miss Fortune dryly, "after a fashion."
"Has she had her letter yet?"
"No."
"How is she to-day?"
"Oh, she's well enough--she's sitting up. You can go up and see her."
"I will directly," said Alice. "But now, Miss Fortune, I am going to ask
a favour of you. Will you do me a great pleasure?"
"Certainly, Miss Alice, if I can."
"If you think Ellen has been sufficiently punished for her
ill-behaviour--if you do not think it right to withhold her letter
still--will you let me have the pleasure of giving it to her? I should
take it as a great favour to myself."
Miss Fortune made no kind of reply to this, but stalked out of the room,
and in a few minutes stalked in again with the letter, which she gave to
Alice, only saying shortly, "It came to me in a letter from her father."
"You are willing she should have it?" said Alice.
"Oh yes; do what you like with it."
Alice now went softly upstairs. She found Ellen's door a little ajar,
and looking in, could see Ellen seated in a rocking-chair between the
door and the fire, in her double gown, and with her hymn-book in her
hand. It happened that Ellen had spent a good part of that afternoon in
crying for her lost letter; and the face that she turned to the door on
hearing some slight noise outside was very white and thin indeed; and
though it was placid too, her eye searched the crack of the door with a
keen wistfulness that went to Alice's heart. But as the door was gently
pushed open, and the eye caught the figure that stood behind it, the
sudden and entire change of expression took away all her powers of
speech. Ellen's face became radiant; she rose from her chair, and as
Alice came silently in and kneeling down to be near her, took her in her
arms, Ellen put both hers round Alice's neck and laid her face there;
one was too happy and the other too touched to say a word.
"My poor child!" was Alice's first expression.
"No, I ain't," said Ellen, tightening the squeeze of her arms round
Alice's neck; "I am not poor at all now."
Alice presently rose, sat down in the rocking-chair, and took Ellen in
her lap; and Ellen rested her head on her bosom, as she had been wont to
do of old time on her mother's.
"I am too happy," she murmured. But she was weeping, and the current of
tears seemed to gather force as it flowed. What was little Ellen
thinking of just then? Oh! those times gone by, when she had sat just
so; her head pillowed on another as gentle a breast; kind arms wrapped
round her, just as now; the same little old double-gown; the same weak,
helpless feeling; the same committing herself to the strength and care
of another; how much the same, and oh! how much not the same! And Ellen
knew both. Blessing as she did the breast on which she leaned and the
arms whose pressure she felt, they yet reminded her sadly of those most
loved and so very far away; and it was an odd mixture of relief and
regret, joy and sorrow, gratified and ungratified affection, that opened
the sluices of her eyes. Tears poured.
"What is the matter, my love?" said Alice softly.
"I don't know," whispered Ellen.
"Are you so glad to see me? or so sorry? or what is it?"
"Oh, glad and sorry both, I think," said Ellen, with a long breath, and
sitting up.
"Have you wanted me so much, my poor child?"
"I cannot tell you how much," said Ellen, her words cut short.
"And didn't you know that I have been sick too? What did you think had
become of me? Why, Mrs. Vawse was with me a whole week, and this is the
very first day I have been able to go out. It is so fine to-day I was
permitted to ride Sharp down."
"Was that it?" said Ellen. "I did wonder, Miss Alice; I did wonder very
much why you did not come to see me; but I never liked to ask Aunt
Fortune, because----"
"Because what?"
"I don't know as I ought to say what I was going to. I had a feeling she
would be glad about what I was sorry about."
"Don't know _that_ you ought to say," said Alice. "Remember, you are to
study English with me."
Ellen smiled a glad smile.
"And you have had a weary two weeks of it, haven't you, dear?"
"Oh," said Ellen, with another long-drawn sigh, "how weary! Part of that
time, to be sure, I was out of my head; but I have got _so_ tired lying
here all alone; Aunt Fortune coming in and out was just as good as
nobody."
"Poor child!" said Alice, "you have had a worse time than I."
"I used to lie and watch that crack in the door at the foot of my bed,"
said Ellen, "and I got so tired of it I hated to see it, but when I
opened my eyes I couldn't help looking at it, and watching all the
little ins and outs in the crack till I was as sick of it as could be.
And that button, too, that fastens the door, and the little round mark
the button has made, and thinking how far the button went round. And
then if I looked towards the windows I would go right to counting the
panes, first up and down and then across; and I didn't want to count
them, but I couldn't help it; and watching to see through which pane the
sky looked brightest. Oh, I got so sick of it all! There was only the
fire that I didn't get tired of looking at; I always liked to lie and
look at that, except when it hurt my eyes. And, oh, how I wanted to see
you, Miss Alice! You can't think how sad I felt that you didn't come to
see me. I couldn't think what could be the matter."
"I should have been with you, dear, and not have left you, if I had not
been tied at home myself."
"So I thought; and that made it seem so very strange. But, oh! don't you
think," said Ellen, her face suddenly brightening, "don't you think, Mr.
Van Brunt came up to see me last night? Wasn't it good of him? He even
sat down and read to me; only think of that. And isn't he kind? he asked
if I would like a rocking-chair; and of course I said yes, for these
other chairs are dreadful, they break my back; and there wasn't such a
thing as a rocking-chair in Aunt Fortune's house, she hates 'em, she
says; and this morning, the first thing I knew, in walked Mr. Van Brunt
with this nice rocking-chair. Just get up and see how nice it is; you
see the back is cushioned, and the elbows, as well as the seat; it's
queer looking, ain't it? but it's very comfortable. Wasn't it good of
him?"
"It was very kind, I think. But do you know, Ellen, I am going to have a
quarrel with you?"
"What about?" said Ellen. "I don't believe it's anything very bad, for
you look pretty good-humoured, considering."
"Nothing _very_ bad," said Alice, "but still enough to quarrel about.
You have twice said '_ain't_' since I have been here."
"Oh," said Ellen laughing, "is that all?"
"Yes," said Alice, "and my English ears don't like it at all."
"Then they shan't hear it," said Ellen, kissing her. "I don't know what
makes me say it; I never used to. But I've got more to tell you; I've
had more visitors. Who do you think came to see me?--you'd never
guess--Nancy Vawse!--Mr. Van Brunt came in the very nick of time, when I
was almost worried to death with her. Only think of _her_ coming up
here! unknown to everybody. And she stayed an age, and how she _did_ go
on. She cracked nuts on the hearth; she got every stitch of my clothes
out of my trunk and scattered them over the floor; she tried to make me
drink gruel till between us we spilled a great parcel on the bed; and
she had begun to tickle me when Mr. Van Brunt came. Oh, wasn't I glad to
see him! And when Aunt Fortune came up and saw it all she was as angry
as she could be; and she scolded and scolded, till at last I told her it
was none of my doing--I couldn't help it at all--and she needn't talk so
to me about it; and then she said it was my fault the whole of it! that
if I hadn't scraped acquaintance with Nancy when she had forbidden me,
all this would never have happened."
"There is some truth in that, isn't there, Ellen?"
"Perhaps so; but I think it might all have happened whether or no; and
at any rate it is a little hard to talk so to me about it now when it's
all over and can't be helped. Oh, I have been so tired to-day, Miss
Alice! Aunt Fortune has been in such a bad humour."
"What put her in a bad humour?"
"Why, all this about Nancy, in the first place; and then I know she
didn't like Mr. Van Brunt's bringing the rocking-chair for me; she
couldn't say much, but I could see by her face. And then Mrs. Van
Brunt's coming--I don't think she liked that. Oh, Mrs. Van Brunt came to
see me this morning, and brought me a custard. How many people are kind
to me!--everywhere I go."
"I hope, dear Ellen, you don't forget whose kindness sends them all."
"I don't, Miss Alice; I always think of that now; and it seems you can't
think how pleasant to me sometimes."
"Then I hope you can bear unkindness from one poor woman--who, after
all, isn't as happy as you are--without feeling any ill-will towards her
in return."
"I don't think I feel ill-will towards her," said Ellen; "I always try
as hard as I can not to; but I can't _like_ her, Miss Alice; and I do
get out of patience. It's very easy to put me out of patience, I think;
it takes almost nothing sometimes."
"But remember, 'charity suffereth long and is kind.'"
"And I try all the while, dear Miss Alice, to keep down my bad
feelings," said Ellen, her eyes watering as she spoke; "I try and pray
to get rid of them, and I hope I shall by-and-by; I believe I am very
bad."
Alice drew her closer.
"I have felt very sad part of to-day," said Ellen presently; "Aunt
Fortune, and my being so lonely, and my poor letter, altogether; but
part of the time I felt a great deal better. I was learning that lovely
hymn--do you know it, Miss Alice? 'Poor, weak, and worthless though I
am'?----"
Alice went on:--
"'I have a rich almighty friend,
Jesus the Saviour is His name,
He freely loves and without end.'
"Oh, dear Ellen, whoever can say that has no right to be unhappy. No
matter what happens, we have enough to be glad of."
"And then I was thinking of those words in the Psalms--'Blessed is the
man'--stop, I'll find it; I don't know exactly how it goes;--'Blessed is
he whose transgression is forgiven; whose sin is covered.'"
"Oh yes, indeed!" said Alice. "It is a shame that any trifles should
worry much those whose sins are forgiven them, and who are the children
of the great King. Poor Miss Fortune never knew the sweetness of those
words. We ought to be sorry for her, and pray for her, Ellen; and never,
never, even in thought, return evil for evil. It is not like Christ to
do so."
"I will not, I will not, if I can help it," said Ellen.
"You can help it; but there is only one way. Now, Ellen dear, I have
three pieces of news for you that I think you will like. One concerns
you, another myself, and the third concerns both you and myself. Which
will you have first?"
"Three pieces of good news!" said Ellen, with opening eyes; "I think
I'll have my part first."
Directing Ellen's eyes to her pocket, Alice slowly made the corner of
the letter show itself. Ellen's colour came and went quick as it was
drawn forth; but when it was fairly out, and she knew it again, she
flung herself upon it with a desperate eagerness Alice had not looked
for; she was startled at the half-frantic way in which the child clasped
and kissed it, weeping bitterly at the same time. Her transport was
almost hysterical. She had opened the letter, but she was not able to
read a word; and quitting Alice's arms she threw herself upon the bed,
sobbing in a mixture of joy and sorrow that seemed to take away her
reason. Alice looked on surprised a moment, but only a moment, and
turned away.
When Ellen was able to begin her letter, the reading of it served to
throw her back into fresh fits of tears. Many a word of Mrs.
Montgomery's went so to her little daughter's heart that its very inmost
cords of love and tenderness were wrung. It is true the letter was short
and very simple, but it came from her mother's heart; it was written by
her mother's hand, and the very old-remembered handwriting had mighty
power to move her. She was so wrapped up in her own feelings that
through it all she never noticed that Alice was not near her, that Alice
did not speak to comfort her. When the letter had been read time after
time, and wept over again and again, and Ellen at last was folding it up
for the present, she bethought herself of her friend, and turned to look
after her. Alice was sitting by the window, her face hid in her hands,
and as Ellen drew near she was surprised to see that _her_ tears were
flowing, and her breast heaving. Ellen came quite close, and softly laid
her hand on Alice's shoulder. But it drew no attention.
"Miss Alice," said Ellen, almost fearfully, "_dear_ Miss Alice," and her
own eyes filled fast again, "what is the matter? won't you tell me? Oh,
don't do so! please don't!"
"I will not," said Alice, lifting her head; "I am sorry I have troubled
you, dear; I am sorry I could not help it."
She kissed Ellen, who stood anxious and sorrowful by her side, and
brushed away her tears. But Ellen saw she had been shedding a great
many.
"What is the matter, dear Miss Alice? what has happened to trouble you?
won't you tell me?" Ellen was almost crying herself.
Alice came back to the rocking-chair, and took Ellen in her arms again;
but she did not answer her. Leaning her face against Ellen's forehead
she remained silent. Ellen ventured to ask no more questions; but
lifting her hand once or twice caressingly to Alice's face, she was
distressed to find her cheek wet still. Alice spoke at last.
"It isn't fair not to tell you what is the matter, dear Ellen, since I
have let you see me sorrowing. It is nothing new, nor anything I would
have otherwise if I could. It is only that I have had a mother once, and
have lost her; and you brought back the old time so strongly, that I
could not command myself."
Ellen felt a hot tear drop upon her forehead, and again ventured to
speak her sympathy only by silently stroking Alice's cheek.
"It's all past now," said Alice; "it is all well. I would not have her
back again. I shall go to her, I hope, by-and-by."
"Oh no! you must stay with me," said Ellen, clasping both arms round
her.
There was a long silence, during which they remained locked in each
other's arms.
"Ellen dear," said Alice, at length, "we are both motherless, for the
present at least--both of us almost alone; I think God has brought us
together to be a comfort to each other. We will be sisters while He
permits us to be so. Don't call me Miss Alice any more. You shall be my
little sister and I will be your elder sister, and my home shall be your
home as well."
Ellen's arms were drawn very close round her companion at this, but she
said nothing, and her face was laid in Alice's bosom. There was another
very long pause. Then Alice spoke in a livelier tone.
"Come, Ellen! look up; you and I have forgotten ourselves; it isn't good
for sick people to get down in the dumps. Look up and let me see these
pale cheeks. Don't you want something to eat?"
"I don't know," said Ellen faintly.
"What would you say to a cup of chicken broth?"
"Oh, I should like it very much!" said Ellen, with new energy.
"Margery made me some particularly nice, as she always does; and I took
it into my head a little might not come amiss to you; so I resolved to
stand the chance of Sharp's jolting it all over me, and I rode down with
a little pail of it on my arm. Let me rake open these coals and you
shall have some directly."
"And did you come without being spattered?" said Ellen.
"Not a drop. Is this what you use to warm things in? Never mind, it has
had gruel in it; I'll set the tin pail on the fire; it won't hurt it."
"I am so much obliged to you," said Ellen, "for do you know, I have got
quite tired of gruel, and panada I can't bear."
"Then I am very glad I brought it."
While it was warming Alice washed Ellen's gruel cup and spoon, and
presently she had the satisfaction of seeing Ellen eating the broth with
that keen enjoyment none know but those that have been sick and are
getting well. She smiled to see her gaining strength almost in the very
act of swallowing.
"Ellen," said she presently, "I have been considering your
dressing-table. It looks rather doleful. I'll make you a present of some
dimity, and when you come to see me you shall make a cover for it that
will reach down to the floor and hide those long legs."
"That wouldn't do at all," said Ellen; "Aunt Fortune would go off into
all sorts of fits."
"What about?"
"Why, the washing, Miss Alice--to have such a great thing to wash every
now and then. You can't think what a fuss she makes if I have more than
just so many white clothes in the wash every week."
"That's too bad," said Alice. "Suppose you bring it up to me--it
wouldn't be often--and I'll have it washed for you, if you care enough
about it to take the trouble."
"Oh, indeed I do!" said Ellen; "I should like it very much, and I'll get
Mr. Van Brunt to--no, I can't, Aunt Fortune won't let me. I was going to
say I would get him to saw off the legs and make it lower for me, and
then my dressing-box would stand so nicely on the top. Maybe I can yet.
Oh, I never showed you my boxes and things."
Ellen brought them all out and displayed their beauties. In the course
of going over the writing-desk she came to the secret drawer and a
little money in it.
"Oh, that puts me in mind," she said. "Miss Alice, this money is to be
spent for some poor child. Now, I've been thinking that Nancy has
behaved so to me I should like to give her something to show her that I
don't feel unkindly about it; what do you think would be a good thing?"
"I don't know, Ellen; I'll take the matter into consideration."
"Do you think a Bible would do?"
"Perhaps that would do as well as anything; I'll think about it."
"I should like to do it very much," said Ellen, "for she has vexed me
wonderfully."
"Well, Ellen, would you like to hear my other pieces of news? or have
you no curiosity?"
"Oh yes, indeed," said Ellen; "I had forgotten it entirely; what is it,
Miss Alice?"
"You know I told you one concerns only myself, but it is great news to
me. I learnt this morning that my brother will come to spend the
holidays with me. It is many months since I have seen him."
"Does he live far away?" said Ellen.
"Yes; he has gone far away to pursue his studies, and cannot come home
often. The other piece of news is that I intend, if you have no
objection, to ask Miss Fortune's leave to have you spend the holidays
with me too."
"Oh, delightful!" said Ellen, starting up and clapping her hands, and
then throwing them round her adopted sister's neck; "dear Alice, how
good you are!"
"Then I suppose I may reckon upon your consent," said Alice, "and I'll
speak to Miss Fortune without delay."
"Oh, thank you, dear Miss Alice; how glad I am! I shall be happy all the
time from now till then thinking of it. You aren't going?"
"I must."
"Ah, don't go yet! Sit down again; you know you're my sister--don't you
want to read mamma's letter?"
"If you please, Ellen, I should like it very much."
She sat down, and Ellen gave her the letter, and stood by while she read
it, watching her with glistening eyes; and though as she saw Alice's
fill her own overflowed again, she hung over her still to the last;
going over every line this time with a new pleasure.
"NEW YORK, _Saturday, Nov. 22, 18--_,
"MY DEAR ELLEN,--I meant to have written to you before, but have
been scarcely able to do so. I did make one or two efforts which
came to nothing; I was obliged to give it up before finishing
anything that could be called a letter. To-day I feel much stronger
than I have at any time since your departure.
"I have missed you, my dear child, very much. There is not an hour
in the day, nor a half-hour, that the want of you does not come home
to my heart; and I think I have missed you in my very dreams. This
separation is a very hard thing to bear. But the hand that has
arranged it does nothing amiss; we must trust Him, my daughter, that
all will be well. I feel it _is_ well, though sometimes the thought
of your dear little face is almost too much for me. I will thank God
I have had such a blessing so long, and I now commit my treasure to
Him. It is an unspeakable comfort to me to do this, for nothing
committed to His care is ever forgotten or neglected. Oh, my
daughter, never forget to pray; never slight it. It is almost my
only refuge, now I have lost you, and it bears me up. How often--how
often, through years gone by, when heart-sick and faint, I have
fallen on my knees, and presently there have been, as it were, drops
of cool water sprinkled upon my spirit's fever. Learn to love
prayer, dear Ellen, and then you will have a cure for all the
sorrows of life. And keep this letter, that if ever you are like to
forget it, your mother's testimony may come to mind again.
"My tea, that used to be so pleasant, has become a sad meal to me. I
drink it mechanically and set down my cup, remembering only that the
dear little hand which used to minister to my wants is near me no
more. My child! my child! words are poor to express the heart's
yearnings; my spirit is near you all the time.
"Your old gentleman has paid me several visits. The day after you
went came some beautiful pigeons. I sent word back that you were no
longer here to enjoy his gifts, and the next day he came to see me.
He has shown himself very kind. And all this, dear Ellen, had for
its immediate cause your proper and lady-like behaviour in the
store. That thought has been sweeter to me than all the old
gentleman's birds and fruit. I am sorry to inform you that though I
have seen him so many times I am still perfectly ignorant of his
name.
"We set sail Monday in the _England_. Your father has secured a nice
state-room for me, and I have a store of comforts laid up for the
voyage. So next week you may imagine me out on the broad ocean,
with nothing but sky and clouds and water to be seen around me, and
probably much too sick to look at those. Never mind that; the
sickness is good for me.
"I will write you as soon as I can again, and send by the first
conveyance.
"And now, my dear baby--my precious child--farewell. May the
blessing of God be with you!--Your affectionate mother,
"E. MONTGOMERY."
"You ought to be a good child, Ellen," said Alice, as she dashed away
some tears. "Thank you for letting me see this; it has been a great
pleasure to me."
"And now," said Ellen, "you feel as if you knew mamma a little."
"Enough to honour and respect her very much. Now, good-bye, my love; I
must be at home before it is late. I will see you again before Christmas
comes."