I have seen angels by the sick one's pillow;
There was the soft tone and the soundless tread,
Where smitten hearts were drooping like the willow,
They stood "between the living and the dead."
--UNKNOWN.
The whole Marshman family arrived to-day from Ventnor, some to see
Alice's lovely remains, and all to follow them to the grave. The
parsonage could not hold so many; the two Mr. Marshmans, therefore, with
Major and Mrs. Gillespie, made their quarters at Thirlwall. Margery's
hands were full enough with those that were left.
In the afternoon, however, she found time for a visit to the room, _the_
room. She was standing at the foot of the bed, gazing on the sweet face
she loved so dearly, when Mrs. Chauncey and Mrs. Vawse came up for the
same purpose. All three stood some time in silence.
The bed was strewn with flowers, somewhat singularly disposed. Upon the
pillow, and upon and about the hands which were folded on the breast,
were scattered some of the rich late roses, roses and rosebuds, strewn
with beautiful and profuse carelessness. A single stem of white lilies
lay on the side of the bed; the rest of the flowers, a large quantity,
covered the feet, seeming to have been flung there without any attempt
at arrangement. They were of various kinds, chosen, however, with
exquisite taste and feeling. Beside the roses, there were none that were
not either white or distinguished for their fragrance. The delicate
white verbena, the pure feverfew, mignonette, sweet geranium, white
myrtle, the rich-scented heliotrope, were mingled with the late
blossoming damask and purple roses; no yellow flowers, no purple, except
those mentioned; even the flaunting petunia, though white, had been left
out by the nice hand that had culled them. But the arranging of these
beauties seemed to have been little more than attempted; though indeed
it might be questioned whether the finest art could have bettered the
effect of what the overtasked hand of affection had left half done. Mrs.
Chauncey, however, after a while began slowly to take a flower or two
from the foot and place them on other parts of the bed.
"Will Mrs. Chauncey pardon my being so bold," said Margery then, who had
looked on with no pleasure while this was doing, "but if she had seen
when those flowers were put there, it wouldn't be her wish, I am sure it
wouldn't be her wish, to stir one of them."
Mrs. Chauncey's hand, which was stretched out for a fourth, drew back.
"Why, who put them there?" she asked.
"Miss Ellen, ma'am."
"Where is Ellen?"
"I think she is sleeping, ma'am. Poor child! she's the most wearied of
us all with sorrow and watching," said Margery, weeping.
"You saw her bring them up, did you?"
"I saw her, ma'am. Oh, will I ever forget it as long as I live!"
"Why?" said Mrs. Chauncey gently.
"It's a thing one should have seen, ma'am, to understand. I don't know
as I can tell it well."
Seeing, however, that Mrs. Chauncey still looked her wish, Margery went
on, half under her breath.
"Why, ma'am, the way it was, I had come up to get some linen out of the
closet, for I had watched my time; Mrs. Chauncey sees, I was afeared of
finding Mr. John here, and I knew that he was lying down just then,
so----"
"Lying down, was he?" said Mrs. Vawse. "I did not know he had taken any
rest to-day."
"It was very little he took, ma'am, indeed, though there was need
enough, I am sure; he had been up with his father the live-long blessed
night. And then the first thing this morning he was away after Miss
Ellen, poor child! wherever she had betaken herself to; I happened to
see her before anybody was out, going round the corner of the house, and
so I knew when he asked me for her."
"Was she going after flowers _then_?" said Mrs. Chauncey.
"Oh no, ma'am, it was a long time after; it was this morning some time.
I had come up to the linen closet, knowing Mr. John was in his room, and
I thought I was safe; and I had just taken two or three pieces on my
arm, you know, ma'am, when somehow I forgot myself, and forgot what I
had come for, and leaving what I should ha' been adoing, I was standing
there, looking out this way at the dear features I never thought to see
in death--and I had entirely forgotten what I was there for, ma'am--when
I heard Miss Ellen's little footstep coming softly upstairs. I didn't
want her to catch sight of me just then, so I had just drew myself back
a bit, so as I could see her without her seeing me back in the closet
where I was. But it had like to have got the better of me entirely,
ma'am, when I see her come in with a lap full of them flowers, and
looking so as she did too! but with much trouble I kept quiet. She went
up and stood by the side of the bed, just where Mrs. Chauncey is
standing, with her sweet sad little face--it's the hardest thing to see
a child's face look so--and the flowers all gathered up in her frock. It
was odd to see her, she didn't cry--not at all--only once I saw her brow
wrinkle, but it seemed as if she had a mind not to, for she put her hand
up to her face and held it a little, and then she began to take out the
flowers one by one, and she'd lay a rose here and a rose-bud there, and
so; and then she went round to the other side and laid the lilies, and
two or three more roses there on the pillow. But I could see all the
while it was getting too much for her; I see very soon she wouldn't get
through; she just placed two or three more, and one rose there in that
hand, and that was the last. I could see it working in her face; she
turned as pale as her lilies all at once, and just tossed up all the
flowers out of her frock on the bed-foot there--that's just as they
fell--and down she went on her knees, and her face in her hands on the
side of the bed. I thought no more about my linen," said Margery,
weeping--"I couldn't do anything but look at that child kneeling there,
and her flowers--and all beside her she used to call her sister, and
that couldn't be a sister to her no more; and she's without a sister now
to be sure, poor child!"
"She has a brother, unless I am mistaken," said Mrs. Chauncey, when she
could speak.
"And that's just what I was going to tell you, ma'am. She had been there
five or ten minutes without moving, or more--I am sure I don't know how
long it was, I didn't think how time went--when the first thing I knew I
heard another step, and Mr. John came in. I thought, and expected, he
was taking some sleep; but I suppose," said Margery sighing, "he
couldn't rest. I knew his step, and just drew myself back further. He
came just where you are, ma'am, and stood with his arms folded a long
time looking. I don't know how Miss Ellen didn't hear him come in; but
however she didn't; and they were both as still as death, one on one
side and the other on the other side. And I wondered he didn't see her;
but her white dress and all--and I suppose he had no thought but for one
thing. I knew the first minute he did see her, when he looked over and
spied her on the other side of the bed; I see his colour change; and
then his mouth took the look it always did whenever he sets himself to
do anything. He stood a minute, and then he went round and knelt down
beside of her, and softly took away one of her hands from under her
face, and held it in both of his own, and then he made such a prayer!
Oh," said Margery, her tears falling fast at the recollection, "I never
heard the like! I never did. He gave thanks for Miss Alice, and he had
reason enough, to be sure, and for himself and Miss Ellen--I wondered to
hear him! and he prayed for them too, and others--and--oh, I thought I
couldn't stand and hear him; and I was afeared to breathe the whole
time, lest he would know I was there. It was the beautifullest prayer I
did ever hear, or ever shall, however."
"And how did Ellen behave?" said Mrs. Chauncey, when she could speak.
"She didn't stir, nor make the least motion nor sound, till he had done,
and spoke to her. They stood a little while then, and Mr. John put the
rest of the flowers up there round her hands and the pillow--Miss Ellen
hadn't put more than half-a-dozen; I noticed how he kept hold of Miss
Ellen's hand all the time. I heard her begin to tell him how she didn't
finish the flowers, and he told her, 'I saw it all, Ellie,' he said; and
he said 'it didn't want finishing.' I wondered how he should see it, but
I suppose he did, however. _I_ understood it very well. They went away
downstairs after that."
"He is beautifully changed," said Mrs. Vawse.
"I don't know, ma'am," said Margery, "I've heard that said afore, but I
can't say as I ever could see it. He always was the same to me--always
the honourablest, truest, noblest--my husband says he was a bit fiery,
but I never could tell that the one temper was sweeter than the other;
only everybody always did whatever Mr. John wanted, to be sure; but he
was the perfectest gentleman, always."
"I have not seen either Mr. John or Ellen since my mother came," said
Mrs. Chauncey.
"No, ma'am," said Margery, "they were out reading under the trees for a
long time; and Miss Ellen came in the kitchen way a little while ago and
went to lie down."
"How is Mr. Humphreys?"
"Oh, I can't tell you, ma'am; he is worse than any one knows of, I am
afraid, unless Mr. John; you will not see him, ma'am; he has not been
here once, nor don't mean to, I think. It will go hard with my poor
master, I am afraid," said Margery, weeping; "dear Miss Alice said Miss
Ellen was to take her place; but it would want an angel to do that."
"Ellen will do a great deal," said Mrs. Vawse; "Mr. Humphreys loves her
well now, I know."
"So do I, ma'am, I am sure; and so does every one; but still----"
Margery broke off her sentence and sorrowfully went downstairs. Mrs.
Chauncey moved no more flowers.
Late in the afternoon of the next day Margery came softly into Ellen's
room.
"Miss Ellen, dear, you are awake, aren't you?"
"Yes, Margery," said Ellen, sitting up on the bed; "come in. What is
it?"
"I came to ask Miss Ellen if she _could_ do me a great favour; there's a
strange gentleman come, and nobody has seen him yet, and it don't seem
right. He has been here this some time."
"Have you told Mr. John?"
"No, Miss Ellen; he's in the library with my master; and somehow I
dursn't go to the door; mayhap they wouldn't be best pleased. _Would_
Miss Ellen mind telling Mr. John of the gentleman's being here?"
Ellen would mind it very much, there was no doubt of that; Margery could
hardly have asked her to put a greater force upon herself; she did not
say so.
"You are sure he is there, Margery?"
"I am quite sure, Miss Ellen. I am very sorry to disturb you; but if you
wouldn't mind--I am ashamed to have the gentleman left to himself so
long."
"I'll do it, Margery."
She got up, slipped on her shoes, and mechanically smoothing her hair,
set off to the library. On the way she almost repented her willingness
to oblige Margery; the errand was marvellously disagreeable to her. She
had never gone to that room except with Alice; never entered it
uninvited. She could hardly make up her mind to knock at the door. But
she had promised; it must be done.
The first fearful tap was too light to rouse any mortal ears. At the
second, though not much better, she heard some one move, and John opened
the door. Without waiting to hear her speak he immediately drew her in,
very unwillingly on her part, and led her silently up to his father. The
old gentleman was sitting in his great study-chair with a book open at
his side. He turned from it as she came up, took her hand in his and
held it for a few moments without speaking. Ellen dared not raise her
eyes.
"My little girl," said he very gravely, though not without a tone of
kindness too, "are you coming here to cheer my loneliness?"
Ellen in vain struggled to speak an articulate word; it was impossible;
she suddenly stooped down and touched her lips to the hand that lay on
the arm of the chair. He put the hand tenderly upon her head.
"God bless you," said he, "abundantly, for all the love you showed
_her_. Come--if you will--and be, as far as a withered heart will let
you, all that she wished. All is yours--except what will be buried with
her."
Ellen was awed and pained very much. Not because the words and manner
were sad and solemn; it was the _tone_ that distressed her. There was no
tearfulness in it; it trembled a little; it seemed to come indeed from a
withered heart. She shook with the effort she made to control herself.
John asked her presently what she had come for.
"A gentleman," said Ellen--"there's a gentleman--a stranger----"
He went immediately out to see him, leaving her standing there. Ellen
did not know whether to go too or stay, she thought from his not taking
her with him he wished her to stay; she stood doubtfully. Presently she
heard steps coming back along the hall--steps of two persons--the door
opened, and the strange gentleman came in. No stranger to Ellen! she
knew him in a moment; it was her old friend, her friend of the boat--Mr.
George Marshman.
Mr. Humphreys rose up to meet him, and the two gentlemen shook hands in
silence. Ellen had at first shrunk out of the way to the other side of
the room, and now when she saw an opportunity she was going to make her
escape, but John gently detained her; and she stood still by his side,
though with a kind of feeling that it was not there the best place or
time for her old friend to recognise her. He was sitting by Mr.
Humphreys and for the present quite occupied with him. Ellen thought
nothing of what they were saying; with eyes eagerly fixed upon Mr.
Marshman she was reading memory's long story over again. The same
pleasant look and kind tone that she remembered so well came to comfort
her in her first sorrow--the old way of speaking, and even of moving an
arm or hand, the familiar figure and face; how they took Ellen's
thoughts back to the deck of the steamboat, the hymns, the talks; the
love and kindness that led and persuaded her so faithfully and
effectually to do her duty; it was all present again; and Ellen gazed at
him as at a picture of the past, forgetting for the moment everything
else. The same love and kindness were endeavouring now to say something
for Mr. Humphreys' relief; it was a hard task. The old gentleman heard
and answered, for the most part briefly, but so as to show that his
friend laboured in vain; the bitterness and hardness of grief were
unallayed yet. It was not till John made some slight remark that Mr.
Marshman turned his head that way; he looked for a moment in some
surprise, and then said, his countenance lightening, "Is that Ellen
Montgomery?"
Ellen sprang across at that word to take his outstretched hand. But as
she felt the well-remembered grasp of it, and met the whole look, the
thought of which she had treasured up for years, it was too much. Back
as in a flood to her heart, seemed to come at once all the thoughts and
feelings of the time since then; the difference of this meeting from the
joyful one she had so often pictured to herself; the sorrow of that time
mixed with the sorrow now; and the sense that the very hand that had
wiped those first tears away was the one now laid in the dust by death.
All thronged on her heart at once; and it was too much. She had scarce
touched Mr. Marshman's hand when she hastily withdrew her own, and gave
way to an overwhelming burst of sorrow. It was infectious. There was
such an utter absence of all bitterness or hardness in the tone of this
grief; there was so touching an expression of submission mingled with
it, that even Mr. Humphreys was overcome. Ellen was not the only subdued
weeper there; not the only one whose tears came from a broken-up heart.
For a few minutes the silence of stifled sobs was in the room, till
Ellen recovered enough to make her escape; and then the colour of sorrow
was lightened, in one breast at least.
"Brother," said Mr. Humphreys, "I can hear you now better than I could a
little while ago. I had almost forgotten that God is good. 'Light in the
darkness'; I see it now. That child has given me a lesson."
Ellen did not know what had passed around her, nor what had followed her
quitting the room. But she thought when John came to the tea-table he
looked relieved. If his general kindness and tenderness of manner
towards herself _could_ have been greater than usual, she might have
thought it was that night; but she only thought he felt better.
Mr. Marshman was not permitted to leave the house. He was a great
comfort to everybody. Not himself overburdened with sorrow, he was able
to make that effort for the good of the rest, which no one yet had been
equal to. The whole family, except Mr. Humphreys, were gathered together
at this time; and his grave, cheerful, unceasing kindness made that by
far the most comfortable meal that had been taken. It was exceeding
grateful to Ellen to see and hear him, from the old remembrance as well
as the present effect. And he had not forgotten his old kindness for
her; she saw it in his look, his words, his voice, shown in every way;
and the feeling that she had got her old friend again and should never
lose him now gave her more deep pleasure than anything else could
possibly have done at that time. His own family too had not seen him in
a long time, so his presence was a matter of general satisfaction.
Later in the evening Ellen was sitting beside him on the sofa, looking
and listening--he was like a piece of old music to her--when John came
to the back of the sofa and said he wanted to speak to her. She went
with him to the other side of the room.
"Ellie," said he in a low voice, "I think my father would like to hear
you sing a hymn, do you think you could?"
Ellen looked up, with a peculiar mixture of uncertainty and resolution
in her countenance, and said yes.
"Not if it will pain you too much, and not unless you think you can
surely go through with it, Ellen," he said gently.
"No," said Ellen; "I will try."
"Will it not give you too much pain? do you think you can?"
"No--I will try!" she repeated.
As she went along the hall she said and resolved to herself that she
_would_ do it. The library was dark; coming from the light Ellen at
first could see nothing. John placed her in a chair, and went away
himself to a little distance where he remained perfectly still. She
covered her face with her hands for a minute, and prayed for strength;
she was afraid to try.
Alice and her brother were remarkable for beauty of voice and utterance.
The latter Ellen had in part caught from them; in the former she thought
herself greatly inferior. Perhaps she underrated herself; her voice,
though not indeed powerful, was low and sweet, and very clear; and the
entire simplicity and feeling with which she sang hymns was more
effectual than any higher qualities of tone and compass. She had been
very much accustomed to sing with Alice, who excelled in beautiful truth
and simplicity of expression; listening with delight, as she had often
done, and often joining with her, Ellen had caught something of her
manner.
She thought nothing of all this now; she had a trying task to go
through. Sing!--then, and there! And what should she sing? All that
class of hymns that bore directly on the subject of their sorrow must be
left on one side; she hardly dared think of them. Instinctively she took
up another class, that without baring the wound would lay the balm close
to it. A few minutes of deep stillness were in the dark room; then very
low, and in tones that trembled a little, rose the words--
"How sweet the name of Jesus sounds
In a believer's ear;
It soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds,
And drives away his fear."
The tremble in her voice ceased, as she went on---
"It makes the wounded spirit whole,
And calms the troubled breast;
'Tis manna to the hungry soul,
And to the weary, rest.
By him my prayers acceptance gain,
Although with sin defiled;
Satan accuses me in vain,
And I am owned a child.
Weak is the effort of my heart,
And cold my warmest thought,--
But when I see thee as thou art,
I'll praise thee as I ought.
Till then I would thy love proclaim
With every lab'ring breath;
And may the music of thy name
Refresh my soul in death."
Ellen paused a minute. There was not a sound to be heard in the room.
She thought of the hymn, "Loving Kindness;" but the tune, and the spirit
of the words, was too lively. Her mother's favourite, "'Tis my happiness
below," but Ellen could not venture that; she strove to forget it as
fast as possible. She sang, clearly and sweetly as ever now--
"Hark, my soul, it is the Lord,
'Tis thy Saviour, hear his word;
Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee,
'Say, poor sinner, lov'st thou me!
'I delivered thee when bound,
And when bleeding healed thy wound;
Sought thee wandering, set thee right,
Turned thy darkness into light.
'Can a mother's tender care
Cease toward the child she bare?
Yea--_she_ may forgetful be,
Yet will I remember thee.
'Mine is an unchanging love;
Higher than the heights above,
Deeper than the depths beneath,
Free and faithful, strong as death.
'Thou shalt see my glory soon,
When the work of life is done,
Partner of my throne shalt be,
Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me?'
Lord, it is my chief complaint
That my love is weak and faint;
Yet I love thee and adore,
Oh for grace to love thee more!"
Ellen's task was no longer painful, but most delightful. She hoped she
was doing some good; and that hope enabled her, after the first
trembling beginning, to go on without any difficulty. She was not
thinking of herself. It was very well she could not see the effect upon
her auditors. Through the dark her eyes could only just discern a dark
figure stretched upon the sofa and another standing by the mantelpiece.
The room was profoundly still, except when she was singing. The choice
of hymns gave her the greatest trouble. She thought of "Jerusalem, my
happy home," but it would not do; she and Alice had too often sung it in
strains of joy. Happily came to her mind the beautiful,
"How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord," &c.
She went through all the seven long verses. Still, when Ellen paused at
the end of this, the breathless silence seemed to invite her to go on.
She waited a minute to gather breath. The blessed words had gone down
into her very heart; did they ever seem half so sweet before? She was
cheered and strengthened, and thought she could go through with the next
hymn, though it had been much loved and often used, both by her mother
and Alice.
"Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to thy bosom fly,
While the billows near me roll,
While the tempest still is nigh.
Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,
Till the storm of life be past:--
Safe into the haven guide,--
O receive my soul at last!
Other refuge have I none,
Hangs my helpless soul on thee--
Leave, ah! leave me not alone!
Still support and comfort me.
All my trust on thee is stayed,
All my help from thee I bring:--
Cover my defenceless head,
Beneath the shadow of thy wing.
Thou, O Christ, art all I want;
More than all in thee I find;
Raise the fallen, cheer the faint,
Heal the sick, and lead the blind.
Just and holy is thy name,
I am all unrighteousness;
Vile and full of sin I am,
Thou art full of truth and grace."
Still silence; "silence that spoke!" Ellen did not know what it said,
except that her hearers did not wish her to stop. Her next was a
favourite hymn of them all.
"What are these in bright array," &c.
Ellen had allowed her thoughts to travel too far along with the words,
for in the last lines her voice was unsteady and faint. She was fain to
make a longer pause than usual to recover herself. But in vain; the
tender nerve was touched; there was no stilling its quivering.
"Ellen," said Mr. Humphreys then, after a few minutes. She rose and went
to the sofa. He folded her close to his breast.
"Thank you, my child," he said presently; "you have been a comfort to
me. Nothing but a choir of angels could have been sweeter."
As Ellen went away back through the hall her tears almost choked her;
but for all that there was a strong throb of pleasure at her heart.
"I have been a comfort to him," she repeated. "Oh, dear Alice! so I
will."