But though life's valley be a vale of tears,
A brighter scene beyond that vale appears,
Whose glory, with a light that never fades,
Shoots between scattered rocks and opening shades.
--COWPER.
Mr. Humphreys was persuaded to stay over Sunday at Ventnor; and it was
also settled that his children should not leave it till after New Year.
This was less their own wish than his; he said Alice wanted the change,
and he wished she looked a little fatter. Besides the earnest pleading
of the whole family was not to be denied. Ellen was very glad of this,
though there was one drawback to the pleasures of Ventnor--she could not
feel quite at home with any of the young people, but only Ellen Chauncey
and her cousin George Walsh. This seemed very strange to her; she almost
thought Margaret Dunscombe was at the bottom of it all, but she
recollected she had felt something of this before Margaret came. She
tried to think nothing about it; and in truth it was not able to prevent
her from being very happy. The breach, however, was destined to grow
wider.
About four miles from Ventnor was a large town called Randolph. Thither
they drove to church Sunday morning, the whole family; but the hour of
dinner and the distance prevented any one from going in the afternoon.
The members of the family were scattered in different parts of the
house, most in their own rooms. Ellen with some difficulty made her
escape from her young companions, whose manner of spending the time did
not satisfy her notions of what was right on that day, and went to look
in the library for her friends. They were there, and alone; Alice half
reclining on the sofa, half in her brother's arms; he was reading or
talking to her; there was a book in his hand.
"Is anything the matter?" said Ellen, as she drew near; "aren't you
well, dear Alice?--Headache? oh, I am sorry. Oh! I know----"
She darted away. In two minutes she was back again with a pleased face,
her bunch of grapes in one hand, her bottle of Cologne water in the
other.
"Won't you open that, please, Mr. John," said she; "I can't open it; I
guess it will do her good, for Ellen says it's delicious. Mamma used to
have Cologne water for her headaches. And here, dear Alice, won't you
eat these?--do!--try one."
"Hasn't that bottle been open yet?" said Alice, as she smilingly took a
grape.
"Why, no, to be sure it hasn't. I wasn't going to open it till I wanted
it. Eat them all, dear Alice, please do!"
"But I don't think you have eaten one yourself, Ellen, by the look of
the bunch. And here are a great many too many for me."
"Yes, I have, I've eaten two; I don't want 'em. I give them all to you
and Mr. John. I had a great deal rather!"
Ellen took, however, as precious payment Alice's look and kiss; and then
with a delicate consciousness that perhaps the brother and sister might
like to be alone, she left the library. She did not know where to go,
for Miss Sophia was stretched on the bed in her room, and she did not
want any company. At last with her little Bible she placed herself on
the old sofa in the hall above stairs, which was perfectly well warmed,
and for some time she was left there in peace. It was pleasant, after
all the hubbub of the morning, to have a little quiet time that seemed
like Sunday; and the sweet Bible words came, as they often now came to
Ellen, with a healing breath. But after half-an-hour or so, to her
dismay she heard a door open, and the whole gang of children came
trooping into the hall below, where they soon made such a noise that
reading or thinking was out of the question.
"What a bother it is that one can't play games on a Sunday!" said
Marianne Gillespie.
"One _can_ play games on a Sunday," answered her brother, "Where's the
odds? It's all Sunday's good for, _I_ think."
"William! William!" sounded the shocked voice of little Ellen Chauncey,
"you're a real wicked boy!"
"Well now!" said William, "how am I wicked? Now say, I should like to
know. How is it any more wicked for us to play games than it is for Aunt
Sophia to lie abed and sleep, or for Uncle Howard to read novels, or for
grandpa to talk politics, or for mother to talk about the
fashions?--there was she and Miss What's-her-name for ever so long this
morning doing everything but _make_ a dress. Now, which is the worst?"
"Oh, William! William! for shame! for shame!" said little Ellen again.
"Do hush, Ellen Chauncey! will you?" said Marianne sharply; "and you had
better hush too, William, if you know what is good for yourself. I don't
care whether it's right or wrong, I do get dolefully tired with doing
nothing."
"Oh, so do I!" said Margaret, yawning. "I wish one could sleep all
Sunday."
"I'll tell you what," said George, "I know a game we can play, and no
harm, either, for it's all out of the Bible."
"Oh, do you? let's hear it, George," cried the girls.
"I don't believe it's good for anything if it is out of the Bible," said
Margaret. "Now stare, Ellen Chauncey, do!"
"I _ain't_ staring," said Ellen indignantly, "but I don't believe it is
right to play it, if it _is_ out of the Bible."
"Well, it is though," said George. "Now listen; I'll think of somebody
in the Bible, some man or woman, you know; and you may all ask me twenty
questions about him to see if you can find out who it is."
"What kind of questions?"
"Any kind of questions, whatever you like."
"That will improve your knowledge of Scripture history," said Gilbert.
"To be sure; and exercise our memory," said Isabel Hawthorn.
"Yes, and then we are thinking of good people and what they did all the
time," said little Ellen.
"Or bad people and what they did," said William.
"But I don't know enough about people and things in the Bible," said
Margaret; "I couldn't guess."
"Oh, never mind; it will be all the more fun," said George. "Come! let's
begin. Who'll take somebody?"
"Oh, I think this will be fine!" said little Ellen Chauncey; "but
Ellen--where's Ellen? we want her."
"No, we don't want her! we've enough without her; she won't play!"
shouted William, as the little girl ran upstairs. She persevered,
however. Ellen had left her sofa before this, and was found seated on
the foot of her bed. As far and as long as she could she withstood her
little friend's entreaties, and very unwillingly at last yielded and
went with her downstairs.
"Now we are ready," said little Ellen Chauncey; "I have told Ellen what
the game is; who's going to begin?"
"We have begun," said William. "Gilbert has thought of somebody. Man or
woman?"
"Man."
"Young or old?"
"Why, he was young first and old afterwards."
"Pshaw, William! what a ridiculous question," said his sister. "Besides,
you mustn't ask more than one at a time. Rich or poor, Gilbert?"
"Humph! why, I suppose he was moderately well off. I dare say I should
think myself a lucky fellow if I had as much."
"Are you answering truly, Gilbert?"
"Upon my honour!"
"Was he in a high or low station of life?" asked Miss Hawthorn.
"Neither at the top nor the bottom of the ladder--a very respectable
person indeed."
"But we are not getting on," said Margaret. "According to you he wasn't
anything in particular; what kind of a person was he, Gilbert?"
"A very good man."
"Handsome or ugly?"
"History don't say."
"Well, what _does_ it say?" said George; "what did he do?"
"He took a journey once upon a time."
"What for?"
"Do you mean _why_ he went, or what was the _object_ of his going?"
"Why, the one's the same as the other, ain't it?"
"I beg your pardon."
"Well, what was the object of his going?"
"He went after a wife."
"Samson! Samson!" shouted William and Isabel and Ellen Chauncey.
"No, it wasn't Samson either."
"I can't think of anybody else that went after a wife," said George.
"That king--what's his name?--that married Esther?"
The children screamed. "_He_ didn't go after a wife, George; his wives
were brought to him. Was it Jacob?"
"No, he didn't go after a wife either," said Gilbert; "he married two of
them, but he didn't go to his uncle's to find them. You had better go on
with your questions. You have had eight already. If you don't look out
you won't catch me. Come!"
"Did he get the wife that he went after?" asked Ellen Chauncey.
"He was never married that I know of," said Gilbert.
"What was the reason he failed?" said Isabel.
"He did not fail."
"Did he bring home his wife, then? You said he wasn't married."
"He never was that I know of; but he brought home a wife
notwithstanding."
"But how funny you are, Gilbert," said little Ellen. "He had a wife and
he hadn't a wife; what became of her?"
"She lived and flourished. Twelve questions; take care."
"Nobody asked what country he was of," said Margaret; "what was he,
Gilbert?"
"He was a Damascene."
"A _what_?"
"Of Damascus--of Damascus. You know where Damascus is, don't you?"
"Fiddle!" said Marianne; "I thought he was a Jew. Did he live before or
after the Flood?"
"After. I should think you might have known that."
"Well, I can't make out anything about him," said Marianne. "We shall
have to give it up."
"No, no, not yet," said William. "Where did he go after his wife?"
"Too close a question."
"Then that don't count. Had he ever seen her before?"
"Never."
"Was she willing to go with him?"
"Very willing. Ladies always are when they go to be married."
"And what became of her?"
"She was married and lived happily, as I told you."
"But you said _he_ wasn't married."
"Well, what then? I didn't say she married _him_."
"Whom did she marry?"
"Ah, that is asking the whole; I can't tell you."
"Had they far to go?" asked Isabel.
"Several days' journey; I don't know how far."
"How did they travel?"
"On camels."
"Was it the Queen of Sheba?" said little Ellen.
There was a roar of laughter at this happy thought, and poor little
Ellen declared she forgot all but about the journey; she remembered the
Queen of Sheba had taken a journey, and the camels in the picture of the
Queen of Sheba, and that made her think of her.
The children gave up. Questioning seemed hopeless; and Gilbert at last
told them his thought. It was Eleazar, Abraham's steward, whom he sent
to fetch a wife for his son Isaac.
"Why haven't _you_ guessed, little mumchance?" said Gilbert to Ellen
Montgomery.
"I have guessed," said Ellen; "I knew who it was some time ago."
"Then why didn't you say so? and you haven't asked a single question,"
said George.
"No, you haven't asked a single question," said Ellen Chauncey.
"She is a great deal too good for that," said William; "she thinks it is
wicked, and that we are not at all nice proper-behaved boys and girls to
be playing on Sunday; she is very sorry she could not help being
amused."
"_Do_ you think it is wicked, Ellen?" asked her little friend.
"Do you think it isn't right?" said George Walsh.
Ellen hesitated; she saw they were all waiting to hear what she would
say. She coloured, and looked down at her little Bible which was still
in her hand. It encouraged her.
"I don't want to say anything rude," she began; "I don't think it is
quite right to play such plays, or any plays."
She was attacked with impatient cries of "Why not? Why not?"
"Because," said Ellen, trembling with the effort she made, "I think
Sunday was meant to be spent in growing better and learning good things;
and I don't think such plays would help one at all to do that; and I
have a kind of _feeling_ that I ought not to do it."
"Well, I hope you'll act according to your _feelings_ then," said
William; "I am sure nobody has any objection. You had better go
somewhere else though, for we are going on; we have been learning to be
good long enough for one day. Come! I have thought of somebody."
Ellen could not help feeling hurt and sorry at the half sneer she saw in
the look and manner of the others as well as in William's words. She
wished for no better than to go away, but as she did so her bosom
swelled and the tears started and her breath came quicker. She found
Alice lying down and asleep, Miss Sophia beside her; so she stole out
again and went down to the library. Finding nobody, she took possession
of the sofa and tried to read again; reading somehow did not go well,
and she fell to musing on what had just passed. She thought of the
unkindness of the children; how sure she was it was wrong to spend any
part of Sunday in such games; what Alice would think of it, and John,
and her mother; and how the Sundays long ago used to be spent, when that
dear mother was with her; and then she wondered how _she_ was passing
this very one--while Ellen was sitting here in the library alone, what
_she_ was doing in that far-away land; and she thought if there only
_were_ such things as oracles that could tell truly, how much she would
like to ask about her.
"Ellen!" said the voice of John from the window.
She started up; she had thought she was alone; but there he was lying in
the window seat.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing," said Ellen.
"Come here. What are you thinking about? I didn't know you were there
till I heard two or three very long sighs. What is the matter with my
little sister?"
He took her hand and drew her fondly up to him. "What were you thinking
about?"
"I was thinking about different things; nothing is the matter," said
Ellen.
"Then what are those tears in your eyes for?"
"I don't know," said she, laughing; "there weren't any till I came here.
I was thinking just now about mamma."
He said no more, still, however, keeping her beside him.
"I should think," said Ellen presently, after a few minutes' musing look
out of the window, "it would be very pleasant if there were such things
as oracles--don't you, Mr. John?"
"No."
"But wouldn't you like to know something about what's going to happen?"
"I do know a great deal about it."
"About what is going to happen?"
He smiled.
"Yes, a great deal, Ellie, enough to give me work for all the rest of my
life."
"Oh, you mean from the Bible!--I was thinking of other things."
"It is best not to know the other things, Ellie; I am very glad to know
those the Bible teaches us."
"But it doesn't tell us much, does it? What does it tell us?"
"Go to the window and tell me what you see."
"I don't see anything in particular," said Ellen, after taking a grave
look out.
"Well, what in general?"
"Why, there is the lawn covered with snow, and the trees and bushes; and
the sun is shining on everything just as it did the day we came; and
there's the long shadow of that hemlock across the snow, and the blue
sky."
"Now, look out again, Ellie, and listen. I know that a day is to come
when those heavens shall be wrapped together as a scroll--they shall
vanish away like smoke, and the earth shall wax old like a garment; and
it and all the works that are therein shall be burned up."
As he spoke Ellen's fancy tried to follow, to picture the ruin and
desolation of all that stood so fair and seemed to stand so firm before
her; but the sun shone on, the branches waved gently in the wind, the
shadows lay still on the snow, and the blue heaven was fair and
cloudless. Fancy was baffled. She turned from the window.
"Do you believe it?" said John.
"Yes," said Ellen, "I know it; but I think it is very disagreeable to
think about it."
"It would be, Ellie," said he, bringing her again to his side, "very
disagreeable--very miserable indeed, if we knew no more than that. But
we know more--read here."
Ellen took his little Bible and read at the open place.
"'Behold, I create new heavens and a new earth, and the former shall not
be remembered, neither come into mind.'"
"Why won't they be remembered?" said Ellen; "shall we forget all about
them?"
"No, I do not think that is meant. The new heavens and the new earth
will be so much more lovely and pleasant that we shall not want to think
of these."
Ellen's eyes sought the window again.
"You are thinking that it is hardly possible," said John, with a smile.
"I suppose it is _possible_," said Ellen, "but----"
"But lovely as this world is, Ellie, man has filled it with sin, and sin
has everywhere brought its punishment, and under the weight of both the
earth groans. There will be no sin _there_; sorrow and sighing shall
flee away; love to each other and love to their blessed King will fill
all hearts, and His presence will be with them. Don't you see that even
if that world shall be in itself no better than this, it will yet be
far, far more lovely than this can ever be with the shadow of sin upon
it?"
"Oh yes!" said Ellen. "I know whenever I feel wrong in any way nothing
seems pretty or pleasant to me, or not half so much."
"Very well," said John. "I see you understand me. I like to think of
that land, Ellen--very much."
"Mr. John," said Ellen, "don't you think people will know each other
again?"
"Those that love each other here? I have no doubt of it."
Before either John or Ellen had broken the long musing fit that followed
these words, they were joined by Alice. Her head was better; and taking
her place in the window-seat, the talk began again, between the brother
and sister now; Ellen too happy to sit with them and listen. They talked
of that land again, of the happy company preparing for it; of their dead
mother, but not much of her; of the glory of their King, and the joy of
His service, even here--till thoughts grew too strong for words, and
silence again stole upon the group. The short winter day came to an end;
the sunlight faded away into moonlight. No shadows lay now on the lawn;
and from where she sat Ellen could see the great hemlock all silvered
with the moonlight which began to steal in at the window. It was very,
very beautiful: yet she could think now without sorrow that all this
should come to an end, because of that new heaven and new earth wherein
righteousness should dwell.
"We have eaten up all your grapes, Ellie," said Alice, "or rather _I_
have, for John didn't help me much. I think I never ate so sweet grapes
in my life. John said the reason was because every one tasted of you."
"I am very glad," said Ellen, laughing.
"There is no evil without some good," Alice went on; "except for my
headache, John would not have held my head by the hour as he did; and
you couldn't have given me the pleasure you did, Ellie. Oh, Jack! there
has been many a day lately when I would gladly have had a headache for
the power of laying my head on your shoulder."
"And if mamma had not gone away I should never have known you," said
Ellen. "I wish she never _had_ gone, but I am very, very glad for this."
She had kneeled upon the window-seat and clasped Alice round the neck,
just as they were called to tea. The conversation had banished every
disagreeable feeling from Ellen's mind. She met her companions in the
drawing-room, almost forgetting that she had any cause of complaint
against them. And this appeared when in the course of the evening it
came in her way to perform some little office of politeness for
Marianne. It was done with the gracefulness that could only come from a
spirit entirely free from ungrateful feelings. The children felt it, and
for the time were shamed into better behaviour. The evening passed
pleasantly, and Ellen went to bed very happy.