She enjoys sure peace for evermore.
As weather-beaten ship arrived on happy shore.
--SPENSER.
It was impossible at first to make Mr. Humphreys believe that Alice was
right in her notion about her health. The greatness of the evil was such
that his mind refused to receive it, much as Ellen's had done. His
unbelief, however, lasted longer than hers. Constantly with Alice as she
was, and talking to her on the subject, Ellen slowly gave up the hope
she had clung to; though still, bending all her energies to the present
pleasure and comfort of her adopted sister, her mind shrank from looking
at the end. Daily and hourly, in every way, she strove to be what Alice
said she was, a comfort to her, and she succeeded. Daily and hourly
Alice's look and smile and manner said the same thing over and over. It
was Ellen's precious reward, and in seeking to earn it she half the time
earned another in forgetting herself. It was different with Mr.
Humphreys. He saw much less of his daughter; and when he was with her,
it was impossible for Alice, with all her efforts, to speak to him as
freely and plainly as she was in the habit of speaking to Ellen. The
consequences were such as grieved her, but could not be helped.
As soon as it was known that her health was failing, Sophia Marshman
came and took up her abode at the parsonage. Ellen was almost sorry; it
broke up in a measure the sweet and peaceful way of life she and Alice
had held together ever since her own coming. Miss Sophia could not make
a third in their conversations. But as Alice's strength grew less and
she needed more attendance and help, it was plain her friend's being
there was a happy thing for both Alice and Ellen. Miss Sophia was
active, cheerful, untiring in her affectionate care, always pleasant in
manner and temper; a very useful person in a house where one was ailing.
Mrs. Vawse was often there too, and to her Ellen clung, whenever she
came, as to a pillar of strength. Miss Sophia could do nothing to help
_her_; Mrs. Vawse could, a great deal.
Alice had refused to write or allow others to write to her brother. She
said he was just finishing his course of study at Doncaster; she would
not have him disturbed or broken off by bad news from home. In August he
would be quite through; the first of August he would be home.
Before the middle of June, however, her health began to fail much more
rapidly than she had counted upon. It became too likely that if she
waited for his regular return at the first of August she would see but
little of her brother. She at last reluctantly consented that Mrs.
Chauncey should write to him; and from that moment counted the days.
Her father had scarcely till now given up his old confidence respecting
her. He came into her room one morning when just about to set out for
Carra-carra to visit one or two of his poor parishioners.
"How are you to-day, my daughter?" he asked tenderly.
"Easy, papa, and happy," said Alice.
"You are looking better," said he. "We shall have you well again among
us yet."
There was some sorrow for him in Alice's smile, as she looked up at him
and answered, "Yes, papa, in the land where the inhabitants shall no
more say 'I am sick.'"
He kissed her hastily and went out.
"I almost wish I was in your place, Alice," said Miss Sophia. "I hope I
may be half as happy when my time comes."
"What right have you to hope so, Sophia?" said Alice, rather sadly.
"To be sure," said the other, after a pause, "you have been ten times as
good as I. I don't wonder you feel easy when you look back and think how
blameless your life has been."
"Sophia, Sophia!" said Alice, "you know it is not that. I never did a
good thing in all my life that was not mixed and spoiled with evil. I
never came up to the full measure of duty in any matter."
"But surely," said Miss Sophia, "if one does the best one can, it will
be accepted?"
"It won't do to trust to that, Sophia. God's law requires perfection;
and nothing less than perfection will be received as payment of its
demand. If you owe a hundred dollars, and your creditor will not hold
you quit for anything less than the whole sum, it is of no manner of
signification whether you offer him ten or twenty."
"Why, according to that," said Miss Sophia, "it makes no difference what
kind of life one leads."
Alice sighed and shook her head.
"The fruit shows what the tree is. Love to God _will_ strive to please
Him--always."
"And is it of no use to strive to please Him?"
"Of no manner of use, if you make that your _trust_."
"Well, I don't see what one _is_ to trust to," said Miss Sophia, "if it
isn't a good life."
"I will answer you," said Alice, with a smile in which there was no
sorrow, "in some words that I love very much, of an old Scotchman, I
think--'I have taken all my good deeds and all my bad, and have cast
them together in a heap before the Lord; and from them all I have fled
to Jesus Christ, and in Him alone I have sweet peace.'"
Sophia was silenced for a minute by her look.
"Well," said she, "I don't understand it; that is what George is always
talking about; but I can't understand him."
"I am _very_ sorry you cannot," said Alice gravely.
They were both silent for a little while.
"If all Christians were like you," said Miss Sophia, "I might think more
about it; but they are such a dull set; there seems to be no life nor
pleasure among them."
Alice thought of these lines--
"Their pleasures rise to things unseen,
Beyond the bounds of time;
Where neither eyes nor ears have been,
Nor thoughts of mortals climb."
"You judge," she said, "like the rest of the world, of that which they
see not. After all, _they_ know best whether they are happy. What do you
think of Mrs. Vawse?"
"I don't know what to think of her; she is wonderful to me; she is past
my comprehension entirely. Don't make _her_ an example."
"No, religion has done that for me. What do you think of your brother?"
"George--_he_ is happy--there is no doubt of that; he is the happiest
person in the family, by all odds; but then I think he has a natural
knack at being happy; it is impossible for anything to put him out."
Alice smiled and shook her head again.
"Sophistry, Sophia. What do you think of _me_?"
"I don't see what reason you have to be anything but happy."
"What have I to make me so?"
Sophia was silent. Alice laid her thin hand upon hers.
"I am leaving all I love in this world. Should I be happy if I were not
going to somewhat I love better? Should I be happy if I had no secure
prospect of meeting with them again?--or if I were doubtful of my
reception in that place whither I hope to go to."
Sophia burst into tears. "Well, I don't know," said she; "I suppose you
are right; but I don't understand it."
Alice drew her face down to hers and whispered something in her ear.
Undoubtedly Alice had much around as well as within her to make a
declining life happy. Mrs. Vawse and Miss Marshman were two friends and
nurses not to be surpassed, in their different ways. Margery's motherly
affection, her zeal, and her skill, left nothing for heart to wish in
her line of duty. And all that affection, taste, and kindness, which
abundant means could supply, was at Alice's command. Still her greatest
comfort was Ellen. Her constant thoughtful care; the thousand tender
attentions, from the roses daily gathered for her table to the chapters
she read and the hymns she sung to her; the smile that often covered a
pang; the pleasant words and tone that many a time came from a sinking
heart; they were Alice's daily and nightly cordial. Ellen had learned
self-command in more than one school; affection, as once before, was her
powerful teacher now, and taught her well. Sophia openly confessed that
Ellen was the best nurse; and Margery, when nobody heard her, muttered
blessings on the child's head.
Mr. Humphreys came in often to see his daughter, but never stayed long.
It was plain he could not bear it. It might have been difficult too for
Alice to bear, but she wished for her brother. She reckoned the time
from Mrs. Chauncey's letter to that when he might be looked for; but
some irregularities in the course of the post-office made it impossible
to count with certainty upon the exact time of his arrival. Meanwhile
her failure was very rapid. Mrs. Vawse began to fear he would not arrive
in time.
The weeks of June ran out; the roses, all but a few late kinds,
blossomed and died.
July came.
One morning when Ellen went into her room, Alice drew her close to her
and said, "You remember, Ellie, in the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' when
Christiana and her companions were sent to go over the river?--I think
the messenger has come for me. You mustn't cry, love--listen--this is
the token he seems to bring me--'I have loved thee with an everlasting
love.' I am sure of it, Ellie; I have no doubt of it--so don't cry for
me. You have been my dear comfort--my blessing--we shall love each other
in heaven, Ellie."
Alice kissed her earnestly several times, and then Ellen escaped from
her arms and fled away. It was long before she could come back again.
But she came at last; and went on through all that day as she had done
for weeks before. The day seemed long, for every member of the family
was on the watch for John's arrival, and it was thought his sister would
not live to see another. It wore away; hour after hour passed without
his coming; and the night fell. Alice showed no impatience, but she
evidently wished and watched for him; and Ellen, whose affection read
her face and knew what to make of the look at the opening door--the eye
turned towards the window--the attitude of listening--grew feverish with
her intense desire that she should be gratified.
From motives of convenience, Alice had moved upstairs to a room that
John generally occupied when he was at home, directly over the
sitting-room, and with pleasant windows towards the east. Mrs. Chauncey,
Miss Sophia, and Mrs. Vawse were all there. Alice was lying quietly on
the bed, and seemed to be dozing; but Ellen noticed, after lights were
brought, that every now and then she opened her eyes and gave an
inquiring look round the room. Ellen could not bear it; slipping softly
out, she went downstairs and seated herself on the threshold of the
glass door, as if by watching there she could be any nearer the
knowledge of what she wished for.
It was a perfectly still summer night. The moon shone brightly on the
little lawn and poured its rays over Ellen, just as it had done one
well-remembered evening near a year ago. Ellen's thoughts went back to
it. How like and how unlike! All around was just the same as it had been
then; the cool moonlight upon the distant fields, the trees in the gap
lit up, as then, the lawn a flood of brightness. But there was no happy
party gathered there now; they were scattered. One was away; one a
sorrowful watcher alone in the moonlight; one waiting to be gone where
there is no need of moon or stars for evermore. Ellen almost wondered
they could shine so bright upon those that had no heart to rejoice in
them; she thought they looked down coldly and unfeelingly upon her
distress. She remembered the whip-poor-will; none was heard to-night,
near or far; she was glad of it; it would have been too much; and there
were no fluttering leaves; the air was absolutely still. Ellen looked up
again at the moon and stars. They shone calmly on, despite the
reproaches she cast upon them; and as she still gazed up towards them in
their purity and steadfastness, other thoughts began to come into her
head of that which was more pure still, and more steadfast. How long
they have been shining, thought Ellen; going on just the same from night
to night and from year to year, as if they never would come to an end.
But they _will_ come to an end; the time _will_ come when they stop
shining, bright as they are; and then, when all they are swept away,
then heaven will be only begun; that will never end! never. And in a few
years we who were so happy a year ago and are so sorry now, shall be all
glad together there, this will be all over! And then as she looked, and
the tears sprang to her thoughts, a favourite hymn of Alice's came to
her remembrance.
"Ye stars are but the shining dust
Of my divine abode;
The pavements of those heavenly courts
Where I shall see my God.
The Father of eternal lights
Shall there His beams display;
And not one moment's darkness mix
With that unvaried day."
"'Not one moment's darkness!' Oh," thought little Ellen, "there are a
great many here!" Still gazing up at the bright calm heavens, while the
tears ran fast down her face, and fell into her lap, there came trooping
through Ellen's mind many of those words she had been in the habit of
reading to her mother and Alice, and which she knew and loved so well.
"And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither
light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light; and they shall
reign for ever and ever. And there shall be no more curse, but the
throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it; and His servants shall
serve Him; and they shall see His face; and His name shall be in their
foreheads. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there
shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there
be any more pain: for the former things have passed away."
"And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive
you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also."
While Ellen was yet going over and over these precious things, with a
strong sense of their preciousness in all her throbbing grief, there
came to her ear through the perfect stillness of the night the faint,
far-off, not-to-be-mistaken sound of quick-coming horse's feet, nearer
and nearer every second. It came with a mingled pang of pain and
pleasure, both very acute; she rose instantly to her feet, and stood
pressing her hand to her heart while the quick-measured beat of hoofs
grew louder and louder, until it ceased at the very door. The minutes
were few, but they were moments of intense bitterness. The tired horse
stooped his head, as the rider flung himself from the saddle and came
to the door where Ellen stood fixed. A look asked, and a look answered,
the question that lips could not speak. Ellen only pointed the way, and
uttered the words, "up stairs;" and John rushed thither. He checked
himself, however, at the door of the room, and opened it and went in as
calmly as if he had but come from a walk. But his caution was very
needless. Alice knew his step, she knew _his horse's step_ too well; she
had raised herself up and stretched out both arms towards him before he
entered. In another moment they were round his neck, and she was
supported in his. There was a long, long silence.
"Are you happy, Alice?" whispered her brother.
"Perfectly. This was all I wanted. Kiss me, dear John."
As he did so, again and again, she felt his tears on her cheek, and put
up her hands to his face to wipe them away; kissed him then, and then
once again laid her head on his breast. They remained so a little while
without stirring, except that some whispers were exchanged too low for
others to hear, and once more she raised her face to kiss him. A few
minutes after those who could look saw his colour change; he felt the
arms unclasp their hold; and as he laid her gently back on the pillow,
they fell languidly down; the will and the power that had sustained them
were gone. _Alice_ was gone; but the departing spirit had left a ray of
brightness on its earthly house; there was a half smile on the sweet
face, of most entire peace and satisfaction. Her brother looked for a
moment, closed the eyes, kissed, once and again, the sweet lips, and
left the room.
Ellen saw him no more that night, nor knew how he passed it. For her,
wearied with grief and excitement, it was spent in long heavy slumber.
From the pitch to which her spirits had been wrought by care, sorrow,
and self-restraint, they now suddenly and completely sank down;
naturally and happily, she lost all sense of trouble in sleep.
When sleep at last left her, and she stole downstairs into the
sitting-room in the morning, it was rather early. Nobody was stirring
about the house but herself. It seemed deserted; the old sitting-room
looked empty and forlorn; the stillness was oppressive. Ellen could not
bear it. Softly opening the glass door, she went out upon the lawn,
where everything was sparkling in the early freshness of the summer
morning. How could it look so pleasant without, when all pleasantness
was gone within? It pressed upon Ellen's heart. With a restless feeling
of pain, she went on, round the corner of the house, and paced slowly
along the road till she came to the footpath that led up to the place on
the mountain John had called the Bridge of the Nose. Ellen took that
path, often travelled and much loved by her; and slowly, with
slow-dripping tears, made her way up over moss wet with the dew, and the
stones and rocks with which the rough way was strewn. She passed the
place where Alice at first found her; she remembered it well; there was
the very stone beside which they had kneeled together, and where Alice's
folded hands were laid. Ellen knelt down beside it again, and for a
moment laid her cheek to the cold stone while her arms embraced it, and
a second time it was watered with tears. She rose up again quickly and
went on her way, toiling up the steep path beyond, till she turned the
edge of the mountain and stood on the old place where she and Alice that
evening had watched the setting sun. Many a setting sun they had watched
from thence; it had been a favourite pleasure of them both to run up
there for a few minutes before or after tea and see the sun go down at
the far end of the long valley. It seemed to Ellen one of Alice's
haunts; she missed her there; and the thought went keenly home that
there she would come with her no more. She sat down on the stone she
called her own, and leaning her head on Alice's, which was close by, she
wept bitterly, yet not very long; she was too tired and subdued for
bitter weeping; she raised her head again, and wiping away her tears,
looked abroad over the beautiful landscape. Never more beautiful than
then.
The early sun filled the valley with patches of light and shade. The
sides and tops of the hills looking towards the east were bright with
the cool brightness of the morning; beyond and between them deep shadows
lay. The sun could not yet look at that side of the mountain where Ellen
sat, nor at the long reach of ground it screened from his view,
stretching from the mountain foot to the other end of the valley; but to
the left, between that and the Cat's Back, the rays of the sun streamed
through, touching the houses of the village, showing the lake, and
making every tree and barn and clump of wood in the distance stand out
in bright relief. Deliciously cool, both the air and the light, though a
warm day was promised. The night had swept away all the heat of
yesterday. Now, the air was fresh with the dew and sweet from hayfield
and meadow; and the birds were singing like mad all around. There was no
answering echo in the little human heart that looked and listened. Ellen
loved all these things too well not to notice them even now; she felt
their full beauty; but she felt it sadly. "_She_ will look at it no
more!" she said to herself. But instantly came an answer to her thought:
"Behold I create new heavens, and a new earth; and the former shall not
be remembered, nor come into mind. Thy sun shall no more go down;
neither shall thy moon withdraw itself: for the Lord shall be thine
everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended."
"She is there now," thought Ellen, "she is happy, why should I be sorry
for her? I am not; but oh! I must be sorry for myself. Oh, Alice! dear
Alice!"
She wept; but then again came sweeping over her mind the words with
which she was so familiar, "the days of thy mourning shall be ended;"
and again with her regret mingled the consciousness that it must be for
herself alone. And for herself, "Can I not trust Him whom she trusted?"
she thought. Somewhat soothed and more calm, she sat still looking down
into the brightening valley or off to the hills that stretched away on
either hand of it; when up through the still air the sound of the little
Carra-carra church bell came to her ear. It rang for a minute and then
stopped. It crossed Ellen's mind to wonder what it could be ringing for
at that time of day; but she went back to her musings and had entirely
forgotten it, when again, clear and full through the stillness, the
sound came pealing up.
"One--two!"
Ellen knew now! It went through her very heart.
It is the custom in the country to toll the church bell upon occasions
of death of any one in the township or parish. A few strokes are rung by
way of drawing attention; these are followed after a little pause by a
single one if the knell is for a man, or two for a woman. Then another
short pause. Then follows the number of years the person has lived, told
in short, rather slow strokes, as one would count them up. After pausing
once more the tolling begins, and is kept up for some time; the strokes
following in slow and sad succession, each one being permitted to die
quite away before another breaks upon the ear.
Ellen had been told of this custom, but habit had never made it
familiar. Only once she had happened to hear this notice of death given
out; and that was long ago; the bell could not be heard at Miss
Fortune's house. It came upon her now with all the force of novelty and
surprise. As the number of the years of Alice's life was sadly told out,
every stroke was to her as if it fell upon a raw nerve. Ellen hid her
face in her lap and tried to keep from counting, but she could not; and
as the tremulous sound of the last of the twenty-four died away upon the
air, she was shuddering from head to foot. A burst of tears relieved her
when the sound ceased.
Just then a voice close beside her said low, as if the speaker might not
trust its higher tones, "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from
whence cometh my help!"
How differently _that_ sound struck upon Ellen's ear! With an
indescribable air of mingled tenderness, weariness, and sorrow, she
slowly rose from her seat and put both her arms round the speaker's
neck. Neither said a word; but to Ellen the arm that held her was more
than all words; it was the dividing line between her and the world, on
this side everything, on that side nothing.
No word was spoken for many minutes.
"My dear Ellen," said her brother softly, "how came you here?"
"I don't know," whispered Ellen, "there was nobody there--I couldn't
stay in the house."
"Shall we go home now?"
"Oh yes--whenever you please."
But neither moved yet. Ellen had raised her head; she still stood with
her arm upon her brother's shoulder; the eyes of both were on the scene
before them; the thoughts of neither. He presently spoke again.
"Let us try to love our God better, Ellie, the less we have left to love
in this world; that is His meaning--let sorrow but bring us closer to
Him. Dear Alice is well--she is well, and if we are made to suffer, we
know and we love the hand that has done it, do we not, Ellie?"
Ellen put her hands to her face; she thought her heart would break. He
gently drew her to a seat on the stone beside him, and still keeping his
arm round her, slowly and soothingly went on--
"Think that she is happy; think that she is safe; think that she is with
that blessed One whose face we seek at a distance, satisfied with His
likeness instead of wearily struggling with sin; think that sweetly and
easily she has got home; and it is our home too. We must weep, because
we are left alone; but for her 'I heard a voice from heaven saying unto
me, Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord'!"
As he spoke in low and sweet tones, Ellen's tears calmed and stopped;
but she still kept her hands to her face.
"Shall we go home, Ellie?" said her brother, after another silence.
She rose up instantly and said yes. But he held her still, and looking
for a moment at the tokens of watching and grief and care in her
countenance, he gently kissed the pale little face, adding a word of
endearment which almost broke Ellen's heart again. Then taking her hand
they went down the mountain together.