The night was winter in his roughest mood.
The morning sharp and clear . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . The vault is blue
Without a cloud, and white without a speck
The dazzling splendour of the scene below.
--COWPER.
Before Ellen's eyes were open the next morning, almost before she awoke,
the thought of the Christmas visit, the sleigh-ride, John Humphreys, and
the weather, all rushed into her mind at once, and started her half up
in the bed to look out of the window. Well frosted the panes of glass
were, but at the corners and edges unmistakable bright gleams of light
came in.
"Oh, Alice, it's beautiful!" exclaimed Ellen; "look how the sun is
shining! and 'tisn't very cold. Are we going to-day?"
"I don't know yet, Ellie, but we shall know very soon. We'll settle that
at breakfast."
At breakfast it was settled. They were to go, and set off directly. Mr.
Humphreys could not go with them, because he had promised to bury little
John Dolan; the priest had declared _he_ would have nothing to do with
it, and the poor mother had applied to Mr. Humphreys, as being the
clergyman her child had most trusted and loved to hear. It seemed that
little John had persuaded her out of half her prejudices by his
affectionate talk and blameless behaviour during some time past. Mr.
Humphreys, therefore, must stay at home that day. He promised, however,
to follow them the next, and would by no means permit them to wait for
him. He said the day was fine, and they must improve it; and he should
be pleased to have them with their friends as long as possible.
So the little travelling bag was stuffed with more things than it seemed
possible to get into it. Among the rest Ellen brought her little red
Bible, which Alice decided should go in John's pocket; the little
carpet-bag could not take it. Ellen was afraid it never would be locked.
By dint of much pushing and crowding, however, locked it was; and they
made themselves ready. Over Ellen's merino dress and coat went an old
fur tippet; a little shawl was tied round her neck; her feet were cased
in a pair of warm moccasins, which belonging to Margery were of course a
world too big for her, but "anything but cold," as their owner said. Her
nice blue hood would protect her head well, and Alice gave her a green
veil to save her eyes from the glare of the snow. When Ellen shuffled
out of Alice's room in this trim, John gave her one of his grave looks,
and saying she looked like Mother Bunch, begged to know how she expected
to get to the sleigh; he said she would want a _foot_man indeed to wait
upon her, to pick up her slippers, if she went in that fashion. However,
he ended by picking _her_ up, carried her, and set her down safely in
the sleigh. Alice followed, and in another minute they were off.
Ellen's delight was unbounded. Presently they turned round a corner and
left the house behind out of sight; and they were speeding away along a
road that was quite new to her. Ellen's heart felt like dancing for joy.
Nobody would have thought it, she sat so still and quiet between Alice
and her brother; but her eyes were very bright as they looked joyously
about her, and every now and then she could not help smiling to herself.
Nothing was wanting to the pleasure of that ride. The day was of
winter's fairest; the blue sky as clear as if clouds had never dimmed or
crossed it. None crossed it now. It was cold, but not bitterly cold, nor
windy; the sleigh skimmed along over the smooth frozen surface of the
snow as if it was no trouble at all to Prince Charlie to draw it; and
the sleigh-bells jingled and rang, the very music for Ellen's thoughts
to dance to. And then with somebody she liked very much on each side of
her, and pleasures untold in the prospect, no wonder she felt as if her
heart could not hold any more. The green veil could not be kept on,
everything looked so beautiful in that morning's sun. The long wide
slopes of untrodden and unspotted snow too bright sometimes for the eye
to look at; the shadows that here and there lay upon it, of woodland and
scattered trees; the very brown fences, and the bare arms and branches
of the leafless trees showing sharp against the white ground and clear
bright heaven; all seemed lovely in her eyes. For
"It is content of heart
Gives nature power to please."
She could see nothing that was not pleasant. And besides they were in a
nice little red sleigh, with a warm buffalo robe, and Prince Charlie was
a fine spirited grey that scarcely ever needed to be touched with the
whip; at a word of encouragement from his driver he would toss his head
and set forward with new life, making all the bells jingle again. To be
sure she would have been just as happy if they had had the poorest of
vehicles on runners, with old John instead; but still it was pleasanter
so.
Their road at first was through a fine undulating country like that
between the Nose and Thirlwall; farmhouses and patches of woodland
scattered here and there. It would seem that the minds of all the party
were full of the same thoughts, for after a very long silence Alice's
first word, almost sigh, was--
"This is a beautiful world, John!"
"Beautiful!--wherever you can escape from the signs of man's presence
and influence."
"Isn't that almost too strong?" said Alice.
He shook his head, smiling somewhat sadly, and touched Prince Charlie,
who was indulging himself in a walk.
"But there are bright exceptions," said Alice.
"I believe it; never so much as when I come home."
"Are there none around you, then, in whom you can have confidence and
sympathy?"
He shook his head again. "Not enough, Alice. I long for you every day of
my life."
Alice turned her head quick away.
"It must be so, my dear sister," he said presently; "we can never expect
to find it otherwise. There are, as you say, bright exceptions--many of
them; but in almost all I find some sad want. We must wait till we join
the spirits of the just made perfect, before we see society that will be
all we wish for."
"What is Ellen thinking of all this while?" said Alice presently,
bending down to see her face. "As grave as a judge!--what are you musing
about?"
"I was thinking," said Ellen, "how men could help the world's being
beautiful."
"Don't trouble your little head with that question," said John, smiling;
"long may it be before you are able to answer it. Look at those
snowbirds!"
By degrees the day wore on. About one o'clock they stopped at a
farm-house to let the horse rest, and to stretch their own limbs, which
Ellen for her part was very glad to do. The people of the house received
them with great hospitality, and offered them pumpkin pies and sweet
cider. Alice had brought a basket of sandwiches, and Prince Charlie was
furnished with a bag of corn Thomas had stowed away in the sleigh for
him; so they were all well refreshed and rested and warmed before they
set off again.
From home to Ventnor, Mr. Marshman's place, was more than thirty miles,
and the longest, because the most difficult, part of the way was still
before them. Ellen, however, soon became sleepy, from riding in the keen
air; she was content now to have the green veil over her face, and
sitting down in the bottom of the sleigh, her head leaning against
Alice, and covered well with the buffalo robe, she slept in happy
unconsciousness of hill and dale, wind and sun, and all the remaining
hours of the way.
It was drawing towards four o'clock when Alice with some difficulty
roused her to see the approach to the house and get wide awake before
they should reach it. They turned from the road and entered by a gateway
into some pleasure-grounds, through which a short drive brought them to
the house. These grounds were fine, but the wide lawns were a smooth
spread of snow now; the great skeletons of oaks and elms were bare and
wintry; and patches of shrubbery offered little but tufts and bunches of
brown twigs and stems. It might have looked dreary, but that some
well-grown evergreens were clustered round the house, and others
scattered here and there relieved the eye; a few holly bushes, singly
and in groups, proudly displayed their bright dark leaves and red
berries; and one unrivalled hemlock on the west threw its graceful
shadow quite across the lawn, on which, as on itself, the white
chimney-tops, and the naked branches of oaks and elms, was the faint
smile of the afternoon sun.
A servant came to take the horse, and Ellen, being first rid of her
moccasins, went with John and Alice up the broad flight of steps and
into the house. They entered a large handsome square hall with a blue
and white stone floor, at one side of which the staircase went winding
up. Here they were met by a young lady, very lively and pleasant-faced,
who threw her arms round Alice and kissed her a great many times,
seeming very glad indeed to see her. She welcomed Ellen too with such
warmth that she began to feel almost as if she had been sent for and
expected; told Mr. John he had behaved admirably; and then led them into
a large room where was a group of ladies and gentlemen.
The welcome they got here was less lively but quite as kind. Mr. and
Mrs. Marshman were fine, handsome old people, of stately presence, and
most dignified as well as kind in their deportment. Ellen saw that Alice
was at home here, as if she had been a daughter of the family. Mrs.
Marshman also stooped down and kissed herself, telling her she was very
glad she had come, and that there were a number of young people there
who would be much pleased to have her help them keep Christmas. Ellen
could not make out yet who any of the rest of the company were. John and
Alice seemed to know them all, and there was a buzz of pleasant voices
and a great bustle of shaking hands.
The children had all gone out to walk, and as they had had their dinner
a great while ago it was decided that Ellen should take hers that day
with the elder part of the family. While they were waiting to be called
to dinner and everybody else was talking and laughing, old Mr. Marshman
took notice of little Ellen, and drawing her from Alice's side to his
own, began a long conversation. He asked her a great many questions,
some of them such funny ones that she could not help laughing, but she
answered them all, and now and then so that she made him laugh too. By
the time the butler came to say dinner was ready she had almost
forgotten she was a stranger. Mr. Marshman himself led her to the
dining-room, begging the elder ladies would excuse him, but he felt
bound to give his attention to the greatest stranger in the company. He
placed her on his right hand and took the greatest care of her all
dinner-time; once sending her plate the whole length of the table for
some particular little thing he thought she would like. On the other
side of Ellen sat Mrs. Chauncey, one of Mr. Marshman's daughters; a lady
with a sweet, gentle, quiet face and manner that made Ellen like to sit
by her. Another daughter, Mrs. Gillespie, had more of her mother's
stately bearing; the third, Miss Sophia, who met them first in the
hall, was very unlike both the others, but lively and agreeable and
good-humoured.
Dinner gave place to the dessert, and that in its turn was removed with
the cloth. Ellen was engaged in munching almonds and raisins, admiring
the brightness of the mahogany, and the richly-cut and coloured glass,
and silver decanter stands, which were reflected in it, when a door at
the farther end of the room half-opened, a little figure came partly in,
and holding the door in her hand, stood looking doubtfully along the
table, as if seeking for some one.
"What is the matter, Ellen?" said Mrs. Chauncey.
"Mrs. Bland told me, mamma," she began, her eye not ceasing its uneasy
quest, but then breaking off and springing to Alice's side, she threw
her arms around her neck, and gave her certainly the warmest of all the
warm welcomes she had had that day.
"Hallo!" cried Mr. Marshman, rapping on the table, "that's too much for
any one's share. Come here, you baggage, and give me just such another."
The little girl came near accordingly, and hugged and kissed him with a
very good will, remarking, however, "Ah, but I've seen you before
to-day, grandpapa!"
"Well, here's somebody you've not seen before," said he good-humouredly,
pulling her round to Ellen. "Here's a new friend for you, a young lady
from the great city, so you must brush up your country manners--Miss
Ellen Montgomery, come from--pshaw! what is it? Come from----"
"London, grandpapa?" said the little girl, as with a mixture of
simplicity and kindness she took Ellen's hand and kissed her on the
cheek.
"From Carra-carra, sir?" said Ellen, smiling.
"Go along with you," said he, laughing, and pinching her cheek. "Take
her away, Ellen, take her away, and mind you take good care of her. Tell
Mrs. Bland she is one of grandpapa's guests."
The two children had not, however reached the door when Ellen Chauncey
exclaimed, "Wait, oh! wait a minute! I must speak to Aunt Sophia about
the bag." And flying to her side, there followed an earnest whispering,
and then a nod and a smile from Aunt Sophia; and, satisfied, Ellen
returned to her companion and led her out of the dining-room.
"We have both got the same name," said she, as they went along a wide
corridor. "How shall we know which is which?"
"Why," said Ellen, laughing, "when you say 'Ellen' I shall know you mean
me, and when I say it you will know I mean you. I shouldn't be calling
myself, you know."
"Yes, but when somebody else calls 'Ellen,' we shall both have to run.
Do you run when you are called?"
"Sometimes," said Ellen, laughing.
"Ah, but I do always; mamma always makes me. I thought perhaps you were
like Marianne Gillespie. She waits often as much as half-a-minute before
she stirs when anybody calls her. Did you come with Miss Alice?"
"Yes."
"Do you love her?"
"Very much! Oh, very much!"
Little Ellen looked at her companion's rising colour with a glance of
mixed curiosity and pleasure, in which lay a strong promise of growing
love.
"So do I," she answered gaily. "I am very glad she is come, and I am
very glad you are come, too."
The little speaker pushed open a door, and led Ellen into the presence
of a group of young people rather older than themselves.
"Marianne," said she to one of them, a handsome girl of fourteen, "this
is Miss Ellen Montgomery. She came with Alice, and she is come to keep
Christmas with us. Aren't you glad? There'll be quite a parcel of us
when what's-her-name comes, won't there?"
Marianne shook hands with Ellen.
"She is one of grandpapa's guests, I can tell you," said little Ellen
Chauncey, "and he says we must brush up our country manners; she's come
from the great city."
"Do you think we are a set of ignoramuses, Miss Ellen?" inquired a
well-grown boy of fifteen, who looked enough like Marianne Gillespie to
prove him her brother.
"I don't know what that is," said Ellen.
"Well, do they do things better in the great city than we do here?"
"I don't know how you do them here," said Ellen.
"Don't you? Come, stand out of my way, right and left, all of you, will
you, and give me a chance? Now, then!"
Conscious that he was amusing most of the party, he placed himself
gravely at a little distance from Ellen, and marching solemnly up to
her, bowed down to her knees; then slowly raising his head, stepped
back.
"Miss Ellen Montgomery, I am rejoiced to have the pleasure of seeing you
at Ventnor. Isn't that polite, now? Is that like what you have been
accustomed to, Miss Montgomery?"
"No, sir, thank you," said Ellen, who laughed in spite of herself. The
mirth of the others redoubled.
"May I request to be informed, then," continued Gillespie, "what is the
fashion of making bows in the great city?"
"I don't know," said Ellen. "I never saw a boy make a bow before."
"Humph! I guess country manners will do for you," said William, turning
on his heel.
"You're giving her a pretty specimen of 'em, Bill," said another boy.
"For shame, William!" cried little Ellen Chauncey. "Didn't I tell you
she was one of grandpapa's guests? Come here, Ellen; I'll take you
somewhere else!"
She seized Ellen's hand and pulled her towards the door, but suddenly
stopped again.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you!" she said. "I asked Aunt Sophia about the bag
of moroccos, and she said she would have 'em early to-morrow morning,
and then we can divide 'em right away."
"We mustn't divide 'em till Maggie comes," said Marianne.
"Oh no, not till Maggie comes," said little Ellen; and then ran off
again.
"I am so glad you are come," said she; "the others are all so much
older, and they have all so much to do together--and now you can help me
think what I will make for mamma. Hush! don't say a word about it!"
They entered the large drawing-room, where old and young were gathered
for tea. The children, who had dined early, sat down to a well-spread
table, at which Miss Sophia presided; the elder persons were standing or
sitting in different parts of the room. Ellen, not being hungry, had
leisure to look about her, and her eye soon wandered from the tea-table
in search of her old friends. Alice was sitting by Mrs. Marshman,
talking with two other ladies; but Ellen smiled presently as she caught
her eye from the far end of the room, and got a little nod of
recognition. John came up just then to set down his coffee-cup, and
asked her what she was smiling at.
"That's city manners," said William Gillespie, "to laugh at what's going
on."
"I have no doubt we shall all follow the example," said John Humphreys
gravely, "if the young gentleman will try to give us a smile."
The young gentleman had just accommodated himself with an outrageously
large mouthful of bread and sweetmeats, and if ever so well-disposed,
compliance with the request was impossible. None of the rest, however,
not even his sister, could keep their countenances, for the eye of the
speaker had pointed and sharpened his words; and William, very red in
the face, was understood to mumble, as soon as mumbling was possible,
that "he wouldn't laugh unless he had a mind to," and a threat to "do
something" to his tormentor.
"Only not eat me," said John, with a shade of expression in his look and
tone which overcame the whole party, himself and poor William alone
retaining entire gravity.
"What's all this--what's all this? What's all this laughing about?" said
old Mr. Marshman, looking up.
"This young gentleman, sir," said John, "has been endeavouring--with a
mouthful of arguments--to prove to us the inferiority of city manners to
those learned in the country."
"Will!" said the old gentleman, glancing doubtfully at William's
discomfited face; then added sternly, "I don't care where your manners
were learnt, sir, but I advise you to be very particular as to the sort
you bring with you here. Now, Sophia, let us have some music."
He set the children a-dancing, and as Ellen did not know how, he kept
her by him, and kept her very much amused too, in his own way; then he
would have her join in the dancing, and bade Ellen Chauncey give her
lessons. There was a little backwardness at first, and then Ellen was
jumping away with the rest, and thinking it perfectly delightful, as
Miss Sophia's piano rattled out merry jigs and tunes, and little feet
flew over the floor as light as the hearts they belonged to. At eight
o'clock the young ones were dismissed, and bade good-night to their
elders; and pleased with the kind kiss Mrs. Marshman had given her as
well as her little granddaughter, Ellen went off to bed very happy.
The room to which her companion led her was the very picture of comfort.
It was not too large, furnished with plain old-fashioned furniture, and
lighted and warmed by a cheerful wood fire. The very old brass-headed
andirons that stretched themselves out upon the hearth with such a look
of being at home, seemed to say, "You have come to the right place for
comfort." A little dark mahogany bookcase in one place--an odd
toilet-table of the same stuff in another: and opposite the fire an
old-fashioned high post-bedstead, with its handsome Marseilles quilt and
ample pillows, looked very tempting. Between this and the far side of
the room, in the corner, another bed was spread on the floor.
"This is Aunt Sophia's room," said little Ellen Chauncey; "this is where
you are to sleep."
"And where will Alice be?" said the other Ellen.
"Oh, she'll sleep here, in this bed, with Aunt Sophia; that is because
the house is so full, you know; and here is your bed, here on the
floor. Oh, delicious! I wish I was going to sleep here. Don't you love
to sleep on the floor? I do. I think it's fun."
Anybody might have thought it fun to sleep on that bed, for instead of a
bedstead it was luxuriously piled on mattresses. The two children sat
down together on the foot of it.
"This is Aunt Sophia's room," continued little Ellen, "and next to it,
out of that door, is our dressing-room, and next to that is where mamma
and I sleep. Do you undress and dress yourself?"
"To be sure I do," said Ellen, "always."
"So do I; but Marianne Gillespie won't even put on her shoes and
stockings for herself."
"Who does it, then?" said Ellen.
"Why, Lester--Aunt Matilda's maid. Mamma sent away her maid when we came
here, and she says if she had fifty she would like me to do everything I
can for myself. I shouldn't think it was pleasant to have any one put on
one's shoes and stockings for you, should you?"
"No, indeed," said Ellen. "Then you live here all the time?"
"Oh yes, ever since papa didn't come back from that long voyage--we live
here since then."
"Is he coming back soon?"
"No," said little Ellen gravely, "he never came back--he never will come
back any more."
Ellen was sorry she had asked, and both children were silent for a
minute.
"I'll tell you what!" said little Ellen, jumping up, "mamma said we
mustn't sit up too long talking, so I'll run and get my things and bring
'em here, and we can undress together; won't that be a nice way?"