Footsteps of Angels.
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, drily, 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 anyone 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 to."
"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 am 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, drily.
"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 up-stairs, 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 thunderclouds.
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, drily "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 up stairs. 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 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 every
body! 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 hand-writing 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 is 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 around 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
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 will 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
ladylike 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
blessings 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 letter 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."