How Miss Fortune went out and pleasure came in.
She was thoroughly roused at last by the slamming of the
house-door after her aunt. She and Mr. Van Brunt had gone
forth on their sleighing expedition, and Ellen waked to find
herself quite alone.
She could not have doubted that her aunt was away, even if she
had not caught a glimpse of her bonnet going out of the shed
door the stillness was so uncommon. No such quiet could be
with Miss Fortune anywhere about the premises. The old
grandmother must have been abed and asleep, too, for a cricket
under the hearth, and the wood fire in the chimney, had it all
to themselves, and made the only sounds that were heard; the
first singing out every now and then in a very contented and
cheerful style, and the latter giving occasional little snaps
and sparks, that just served to make one take notice how very
quickly and steadily it was burning.
Miss Fortune had left the room put up in the last extreme of
neatness. Not a speck of dust could be supposed to lie on the
shining painted floor; the back of every chair was in its
place against the wall. The very hearth-stones shone, and the
heads of the large iron nails in the floor were polished to
steel. Ellen sat a while listening to the soothing chirrup of
the cricket, and the pleasant crackling of the flames. It was
a fine, cold winter's day. The two little windows at the far
end of the kitchen looked out upon an expanse of snow; and the
large lilac-bush that grew close by the wall, moved lightly by
the wind, drew its icy fingers over the panes of glass. Wintry
it was without, but that made the warmth and comfort within
seem all the more. Ellen would have enjoyed it very much if
she had had any one to talk to; as it was, she felt rather
lonely and sad. She had begun to learn a hymn; but it had set
her off upon a long train of thought; and with her head
resting on her hand, her fingers pressed into her cheek, the
other hand with the hymn-book lying listlessly in her lap, and
eyes staring into the fire, she was sitting the very picture
of meditation, when the door opened, and Alice Humphreys came
in. Ellen started up.
"Oh, I'm so glad to see you! I'm all alone."
"Left alone, are you?" said Alice, as Ellen's warm lips were
pressed again and again to her cold cheeks.
"Yes, aunt Fortune's gone out. Come and sit down here in the
rocking-chair. How cold you are! Oh, do you know she is going
to have a great bee here Monday evening? What is a _bee?_"
Alice smiled. "Why," said she, "when people here in the
country have so much of any kind of work to do that their own
hands are not enough for it, they send and call in their
neighbours to help them that's a bee. A large party in the
course of a long evening can do a great deal."
"But why do they call it a _bee?_"
"I don't know, unless they mean to be like a hive of bees for
the time. 'As busy as a bee,' you know."
"Then they ought to call it a hive, and not a bee, I should
think. Aunt Fortune is going to ask sixteen people. I wish you
were coming!"
"How do you know but I am?"
"Oh, I know you aren't. Aunt Fortune isn't going to ask you."
"You are sure of that, are you?"
"Yes, I wish I wasn't. Oh, how she vexed me this morning by
something she said!"
"You mustn't get vexed so easily, my child. Don't let every
little untowards thing roughen your temper."
"But I couldn't help it, dear Miss Alice; it was about you. I
don't know whether I ought to tell you; but I don't think
you'll mind it, and I know it isn't true. She said she didn't
want you to come because you were one of the proud set."
"And what did _you_ say?"
"Nothing. I had it just on the end of my tongue to say, 'It's
no such thing;' but I didn't say it."
"I am glad you were so wise. Dear Ellen, that is nothing to be
vexed about. If it were true, indeed, you might be sorry. I
trust Miss Fortune is mistaken. I shall try and find some way
to make her change her mind. I am glad you told me."
"I am _so_ glad you are come, dear Alice!" said Ellen again. "I
wish I could have you always!" And the long, very close
pressure of her two arms about her friend, said as much. There
was a long pause. The cheek of Alice rested on Ellen's head,
which nestled against her; both were busily thinking, but
neither spoke; and the cricket chirped, and the flames
crackled, without being listened to.
"Miss Alice," said Ellen, after a long time "I wish you
would talk over a hymn with me."
"How do you mean, my dear?" said Alice, rousing herself.
"I mean, read it over and explain it. Mamma used to do it
sometimes. I have been thinking a great deal about her to-day;
and I think I'm very different from what I ought to be. I wish
you would talk to me, and make me better, Miss Alice."
Alice pressed an earnest kiss upon the tearful little face
that was uplifted to her, and presently said
"I am afraid I shall be a poor substitute for your mother,
Ellen. What hymn shall we take?"
"Any one this one, if you like. Mamma likes it very much. I
was looking it over to-day:
'A charge to keep I have,
A God to glorify;
A never-dying soul to save
And fit it for the sky.' "
Alice read the first line, and paused.
"There, now," said Ellen "what is a charge?"
"Don't you know that?"
"I think I do, but I wish you would tell me."
"Try to tell me first."
"Isn't it something that is given to one to do? I don't know
exactly."
"It is something given one in trust to be done, or taken care
of. I remember very well once, when I was about your age, my
mother had occasion to go out for half an hour, and she left
me in charge of my little baby sister; she gave me a _charge_
not to let anything disturb her while she was away, and to
keep her asleep if I could. And I remember how I kept my
charge, too. I was not to take her out of the cradle, but I
sat beside her the whole time; I would not suffer a fly to
light on her little fair cheek; I scarcely took my eyes from
her; I made John keep pussy at a distance; and whenever one of
the little, round, dimpled arms was thrown out upon the
coverlet, I carefully drew something over it again."
"Is she dead?" said Ellen, timidly, her eyes watering in
sympathy with Alice's.
"She is dead, my dear; she died before we left England."
"I understand what a charge is," said Ellen, after a little;
"but what is this charge the hymn speaks of? What charge have
I to keep?"
"The hymn goes on to tell you. The next line gives you part of
it. 'A God to glorify.' "
"To glorify?" said Ellen, doubtfully.
"Yes, that is, to honour to give him all the honour that
belongs to him."
"But can _I_ honour _Him?_"
"Most certainly; either honour or dishonour; you cannot help
doing one."
"I!" said Ellen, again.
"Must not your behaviour speak either well or ill for the
mother who has brought you up?"
"Yes, I know that."
"Very well; when a child of God lives as he ought to do,
people cannot help having high and noble thoughts of that
glorious One whom he serves, and of that perfect law he obeys.
Little as they may love the ways of religion in their own
secret hearts, they _cannot help_ confessing that there is a
God, and that they ought to serve him. But a worldling, and
still more, an unfaithful Christian, just helps people to
forget there is such a Being, and makes them think either that
religion is a sham, or that they may safely go on despising
it. I have heard it said, Ellen, that Christians are the only
Bible some people ever read; and it is true; all they know of
religion is what they get from the lives of its professors;
and oh! were the world but full of the right kind of example,
the kingdom of darkness could not stand. 'Arise, shine!' is a
word that every Christian ought to take home."
"But how can I shine?" asked Ellen.
"My dear Ellen in the faithful, patient, self-denying
performance of every duty as it comes to hand 'Whatsoever
thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.' "
"It is very little that I can do," said Ellen.
"Perhaps more than you think but never mind that. All are
not great stars in the church; you may be only a little
rushlight see you burn well."
"I remember," said Ellen, musing, "Mamma once told me, when I
was going somewhere, that people would think strangely of _her_
if I didn't behave well."
"Certainly. Why, Ellen, I formed an opinion of her very soon
after I saw you."
"Did you?" said Ellen, with a wonderfully brightened face
"what was it? was it good? ah! do tell me!"
"I am not quite sure of the wisdom of that," said Alice,
smiling: "you might take home the praise that is justly her
right and not yours."
"Oh no, indeed," said Ellen; "I had rather she should have it
than I. Please tell me what you thought of her, dear Alice I
know it was good, at any rate."
"Well, I will tell you," said Alice, "at all risks. I thought
your mother was a lady, from the honourable notions she had
given you; and, from your ready obedience to her, which was
evidently the obedience of love, I judged she had been a good
mother in the true sense of the term. I thought she must be a
refined and cultivated person, from the manner of your speech
and behaviour; and I was sure she was a Christian, because she
had taught you the truth, and evidently had tried to lead you
in it."
The quivering face of delight with which Ellen began to listen
gave way, long before Alice had done, to a burst of tears.
"It makes me so glad to hear you say that!" she said.
"The praise of it is your mother's, you know, Ellen."
"I know it but you make me so glad!" And hiding her face in
Alice's lap, she fairly sobbed.
"You understand now, don't you, how Christians may honour or
dishonour their Heavenly Father?"
"Yes, I do; but it makes me afraid to think of it."
"Afraid! It ought rather to make you glad. It is a great
honour and happiness for us to be permitted to honour Him
'A never-dying soul to save
And fit it for the sky.'
Yes that is the great duty you owe yourself. Oh, never
forget it, dear Ellen! And whatever would hinder you, have
nothing to do with it. 'What shall it profit a man though he
gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?'
'To serve the present age,
My calling to fulfil ' "
"What is 'the present age?' " said Ellen.
"All the people who are living in the world at this time."
"But, dear Alice, what can I do to the present age?"
"Nothing to the most part of them, certainly; and yet, dear
Ellen, if your little rushlight shines well, there is just so
much the less darkness in the world though perhaps you light
only a very little corner. Every Christian is a blessing to
the world another grain of salt to go towards sweetening and
saving the mass."
"That is very pleasant to think of," said Ellen, musing.
"Oh, if we were but full of love to our Saviour, how pleasant
it would be to do anything for him! how many ways we should
find of honouring him by doing good."
"I wish you would tell me some of the ways that I can do it,"
said Ellen.
"You will find them fast enough if you seek them, Ellen. No
one is so poor or so young but he has one talent at least to
use for God."
"I wish I knew what mine is," said Ellen.
"Is your daily example as perfect as it can be?"
Ellen was silent, and shook her head.
"Christ pleased not himself, and went about doing good; and he
said, 'If any man serve me, let him _follow me_.' Remember that.
Perhaps your aunt is unreasonable and unkind see with how
much patience and perfect sweetness of temper you can bear and
forbear; see if you cannot win her over by untiring
gentleness, obedience, and meekness. Is there no improvement
to be made here?"
"Oh me, yes!" answered Ellen, with a sigh.
"Then your old grandmother. Can you do nothing to cheer her
life in her old age and helplessness? can't you find some way
of giving her pleasure some way of amusing a long and
tedious hour, now and then?"
Ellen looked very grave; in her inmost heart she knew this was
a duty she shrank from.
"He 'went about doing good.' Keep that in mind. A kind word
spoken a little thing to smooth the way of one, or lighten
the load of another teaching those who need teaching
entreating those who are walking in the wrong way. Oh! my
child, there is work enough!
'To serve the present age,
My calling to fulfil;
Oh, may it all my powers engage
To do my Maker's will!
Arm me with jealous care,
As in thy sight to live;
And oh! thy servant, Lord, prepare,
A strict account to give!' "
"An account of what?" said Ellen.
"You know what an account is. If I give Thomas a dollar to
spend for me at Carra-carra, I expect he will give me an exact
_account_, when he comes back, what he has done with every
shilling of it. So must we give an account of what we have
done with everything our Lord has committed to our care our
hands, our tongues, our time, our minds, our influence; how
much we have honoured him, how much good we have done to
others, how fast and how far we have grown holy and fit for
heaven."
"It almost frightens me to hear you talk, Miss Alice."
"Not _frighten_, dear Ellen that is not the word; _sober_ we
ought to be mindful to do nothing we shall not wish to
remember in the great day of account. Do you recollect how
that day is described? Where is your Bible?"
She opened at the 20th chapter of Revelation.
"And I saw a great white throne, and him that sat on it, from
whose face the earth and the heaven flew away; and there was
found no place for them.
"And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God: and
the books were opened; and another book was opened, which is
the book of life; and the dead were judged out of those things
which were written in the books, according to their works. And
the sea gave up the dead which were in it; and death and hell
delivered up the dead which were in them: and they were judged
every man according to their works. And death and hell were
cast into the lake of fire. This is the second death.
"And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was
cast into the lake of fire."
Ellen shivered. "That is dreadful!" she said.
"It will be a dreadful day to all but those whose names are
written in the Lamb's book of life; not dreadful to them,
dear Ellen."
"But how shall I be sure, dear Alice, that _my_ name is written
there? and I can't be happy if I am not sure."
"My dear child," said Alice, tenderly, as Ellen's anxious face
and glistening eyes were raised to hers, "if you love Jesus
Christ, you may know you are his child, and none shall pluck
you out of his hand."
"But how can I tell whether I do love him really? Sometimes I
think I do, and then again sometimes I am afraid I don't at
all."
Alice answered in the words of Christ: "He that hath my
commandments and keepeth them, he it is that loveth me."
"Oh, I don't keep his commandments!" said Ellen, the tears
running down her cheeks.
"_Perfectly_, none of us do. But, dear Ellen, _that_ is not the
question. Is your heart's desire and effort to keep them? Are
you grieved when you fail? There is the point. You cannot love
Christ without loving to please him."
Ellen rose, and putting both arms round Alice's neck, laid her
head there, as her manner sometimes was, tears flowing fast.
"I sometimes think I do love him a little," she said; "but I
do so many wrong things. But he will teach me to love him if I
ask him, won't he, dear Alice?"
"Indeed he will, dear Ellen," said Alice, folding her arms
round her little adopted sister "_indeed_ he will. He has
promised that. Remember what he told somebody who was almost
in despair 'Fear not; only believe.' "
Alice's neck was wet with Ellen's tears; and after they had
ceased to flow, her arms kept their hold, and her head its
resting-place on Alice's shoulder for some time. It was
necessary at last for Alice to leave her.
Ellen waited till the sound of her horse's footsteps died away
on the road; and then, sinking on her knees beside her
rocking-chair, she poured forth her whole heart in prayers and
tears. She confessed many a fault and short-coming that none
knew but herself; and most earnestly besought help that "her
little rushlight might shine bright." Prayer was to little
Ellen what it is to all that know it the satisfying of
doubt, the soothing of care, the quieting of trouble. She had
knelt down very uneasy; but she knew that God has promised to
be the hearer of prayer, and she rose up very comforted, her
mind fixing on those most sweet words Alice had brought to her
memory "Fear not, only believe." When Miss Fortune returned,
Ellen was quietly asleep again in her rocking-chair, with a
face very pale, but calm as an evening sunbeam.
"Well, I declare if that child ain't sleeping her life away!"
said Miss Fortune. "She's slept this whole blessed forenoon; I
suppose she'll want to be alive and dancing the whole night,
to pay for it."
"I can tell you what she'll want a sight more," said Mr. Van
Brunt, who had followed her in it must have been to see
about Ellen, for he was never known to do such a thing before
or since "I'll tell you what she'll want, and that's a right
hot supper. She's ate as nigh as possible nothing at all this
noon. There ain't much danger of her dancing a hole in your
floor this some time."