The jingling of sleigh-bells.
Before Ellen's eyes were open the next morning almost before
she awoke the thought of the Christmas visit, the sleigh-
ride, John Humphreys, and the weather, all rushed into her
mind at once, and started her half up in the bed to look out
of the window. Well frosted the panes of glass were, but at
the corners and edges, unmistakeable bright gleams of light
came in.
"Oh, Alice, it's beautiful!" exclaimed Ellen; "look how the
sun is shining! and 'tisn't very cold. Are we going to-day?"
"I don't know yet, Ellie, but we shall know very soon. We'll
settle that at breakfast."
At breakfast it was settled. They were to go, and set off
directly. Mr. Humphreys could not go with them, because he had
promised to bury little John Dolan; the priest had declared _he_
would have nothing to do with it; and the poor mother had
applied to Mr. Humphreys, as being the clergyman her child had
most trusted and loved to hear. It seemed that little John had
pursuaded her out of half her prejudices by his affectionate
talk and blameless behaviour during some time past. Mr.
Humphreys, therefore, must stay at home that day. He promised,
however, to follow them the next, and would by no means permit
them to wait for him. He said the day was fine, and they must
improve it; and he should be pleased to have them with their
friends as long as possible.
So the little travelling-bag was stuffed, with more things
than it seemed possible to get into it. Among the rest, Ellen
brought her little red Bible, which Alice decided should go in
John's pocket; the little carpet-bag could not take it. Ellen
was afraid it never would be locked. By dint of much pushing
and crowding, however, locked it was; and they made themselves
ready. Over Ellen's merino dress and coat went an old fur
tippet; a little shawl was tied round her neck; her feet were
cased in a pair of warm moccassins, which, belonging to
Margery, were of course a world too big for her, but "anything
but cold," as their owner said. Her nice blue hood would
protect her head well, and Alice gave her a green veil to save
her eyes from the glare of the snow. When Ellen shuffled out
of Alice's room in this trim, John gave her one of his grave
looks, and saying she looked like Mother Bunch, begged to know
how she expected to get to the sleigh; he said she would want
a footman indeed to wait upon her, to pick up her slippers, if
she went in that fashion. However, he ended by picking _her_ up,
carried her, and set her down safely in the sleigh. Alice
followed, and in another minute they were off.
Ellen's delight was unbounded. Presently they turned round a
corner and left the house behind out of sight; and they were
speeding away along a road that was quite new to her. Ellen's
heart felt like dancing for joy. Nobody would have thought it,
she sat so still and quiet between Alice and her brother; but
her eyes were very bright as they looked joyously about her,
and every now and then she could not help smiling to herself.
Nothing was wanting to the pleasure of that ride. The day was
of winter's fairest; the blue sky as clear as if clouds had
never dimmed or crossed it. None crossed it now. It was cold,
but not bitterly cold, nor windy; the sleigh skimmed along
over the smooth frozen surface of the snow as if it was no
trouble at all to Prince Charlie to draw it; and the sleigh
bells jingled and rang, the very music for Ellen's thoughts to
dance to. And then with somebody she liked very much on each
side of her, and pleasures untold in the prospect, no wonder
she felt as if her heart could not hold any more. The green
veil could not be kept on, everything looked so beautiful in
that morning's sun. The long, wide slopes of untrodden and
unspotted snow, too bright sometimes for the eye to look at;
the shadows that here and there lay upon it, of woodland and
scattered trees; the very brown fences, and the bare arms and
branches of the leafless trees, showing sharp against the
white ground and clear bright heaven; all seemed lovely in
her eyes. For
"It is content of heart
Gives nature power to please."
She could see nothing that was not pleasant. And, besides,
they were in a nice little red sleigh, with a warm buffalo
robe, and Prince Charlie was a fine-spirited gray, that
scarcely ever needed to be touched with the whip; at a word of
encouragement from his driver, he would toss his head and set
forward with new life, making all the bells jingle again. To
be sure, she would have been just as happy if they had had the
poorest of vehicles on runners, with old John instead; but
still it was pleasanter so.
Their road at first was through a fine undulating country,
like that between the Nose and Thirlwall; farmhouses and
patches of woodland scattered here and there. It would seem
that the minds of all the party were full of the same
thoughts, for, after a very long silence, Alice's first word,
almost sigh, was
"This is a beautiful world, John!"
"Beautiful! wherever you can escape from the signs of man's
presence and influence."
"Isn't that almost too strong?" said Alice.
He shook his head, smiling somewhat sadly, and touched Prince
Charlie, who was indulging himself in a walk.
"But there are bright exceptions," said Alice.
"I believe it; never so much as when I come home."
"Are there none around you, then, in whom you can have
confidence and sympathy?"
He shook his head again. "Not enough, Alice. I long for you
every day of my life."
Alice turned her head quick away.
"It must be so, my dear sister," he said, presently; "we can
never expect to find it otherwise. There are, as you say,
bright exceptions many of them; but in almost all I find
some sad want. We must wait till we join the spirits of the
just made perfect, before we see society that will be all we
wish for."
"What is Ellen thinking of all this while?" said Alice,
presently, bending down to see her face. "As grave as a judge!
what are you musing about?"
"I was thinking," said Ellen, "how men could help the world's
being beautiful."
"Don't trouble your little head with that question," said
John, smiling "long may it be before you are able to answer
it. Look at those snow-birds!"
By degrees the day wore on. About one o'clock they stopped at
a farmhouse to let the horse rest, and to stretch their own
limbs, which Ellen, for her part, was very glad to do. The
people of the house received them with great hospitality, and
offered them pumpkin-pies and sweet cider. Alice had brought a
basket of sandwiches, and Prince Charlie was furnished with a
bag of corn Thomas had stowed away in the sleigh for him; so
they were all well refreshed and rested and warmed before they
set off again.
From home to Ventnor, Mr. Marshman's place, was more than
thirty miles, and the longest, because the most difficult,
part of the way was still before them. Ellen, however, soon
became sleepy, from riding in the keen air; she was content
now to have the green veil over her face, and sitting down in
the bottom of the sleigh, her head leaning against Alice, and
covered well with the buffalo robe, she slept in happy
unconsciousness of hill and dale, wind and sun, and all the
remaining hours of the way.
It was drawing towards four o'clock, when Alice, with some
difficulty, roused her to see the approach to the house, and
get wide awake before they should reach it. They turned from
the road, and entered by a gateway into some pleasure-grounds,
through which a short drive brought them to the house. These
grounds were fine, but the wide lawns were a smooth spread of
snow now; the great skeletons of oaks and elms were bare and
wintry; and patches of shrubbery offered little but tufts and
bunches of brown twigs and stems. It might have looked dreary,
but that some well-grown evergreens were clustered round the
house, and others scattered here and there relieved the eye;
a few holly-bushes, singly and in groups, proudly displayed
their bright dark leaves and red berries; and one unrivalled
hemlock, on the west, threw its graceful shadow quite across
the lawn, on which, as on itself, the white chimney-tops, and
the naked branches of oaks and elms, was the faint smile of
the afternoon sun.
A servant came to take the horse, and Ellen, being first rid
of her moccassins, went with John and Alice up the broad
flight of steps, and into the house. They entered a large,
handsome square hall, with a blue-and-white stone floor, at
one side of which the staircase went winding up. Here they
were met by a young lady, very lively and pleasant-faced, who
threw her arms round Alice, and kissed her a great many times,
seeming very glad indeed to see her. She welcomed Ellen, too,
with such warmth, that she began to feel almost as if she had
been sent for and expected told Mr. John he had behaved
admirably and then led them into a large room, where was a
group of ladies and gentlemen.
The welcome they got here was less lively, but quite as kind.
Mr. and Mrs. Marshman were fine, handsome old people, of
stately presence, and most dignified as well as kind in their
deportment. Ellen saw that Alice was at home here, as if she
had been a daughter of the family. Mrs. Marshman also stooped
down and kissed her herself, telling her she was very glad she
had come, and that there were a number of young people there,
who would be much pleased to have her help them keep
Christmas. Ellen could not make out yet who any of the rest of
the company were. John and Alice seemed to know them all, and
there was a buzz of pleasant voices, and a great bustle of
shaking hands.
The children had all gone out to walk, and, as they had had
their dinner a great while ago, it was decided that Ellen
should take hers that day with the elder part of the family.
While they were waiting to be called to dinner, and everybody
else was talking and laughing, old Mr. Marshman took notice of
little Ellen, and drawing her from Alice's side to his own,
began a long conversation. He asked her a great many
questions, some of them such funny ones, that she could not
help laughing, but she answered them all, and now and then so
that she made him laugh too. By the time the butler came to
say dinner was ready, she had almost forgotten she was a
stranger. Mr. Marshman himself led her to the dining-room,
begged the elder ladies would excuse him, but he felt bound to
give his attention to the greatest stranger in the company. He
placed her on his right hand, and took the greatest care of
her all dinner-time; once sending her plate the whole length
of the table for some particular little thing he thought she
would like. On the other side of Ellen sat Mrs. Chauncey, one
of Mr. Marshman's daughters; a lady with a sweet, gentle,
quiet face and manner, that made Ellen like to sit by her.
Another daughter, Mrs. Gillespie, had more of her mother's
stately bearing; the third, Miss Sophia, who met them first in
the hall, was very unlike both the others, but lively and
agreeable and good-humoured.
Dinner gave place to the dessert, and that in its turn was
removed with the cloth. Ellen was engaged in munching almonds
and raisins, admiring the brightness of the mahogany, and the
richly-cut and coloured glass, and silver decanter-stands,
which were reflected in it; when a door at the further end of
the room half-opened, a little figure came partly in, and
holding the door in her hand, stood looking doubtfully along
the table, as if seeking for some one.
"What is the matter, Ellen?" said Mrs. Chauncey.
"Mrs. Bland told me, Mamma," she began, her eye not ceasing
its uneasy quest; but then breaking off and springing to
Alice's side, she threw her arms round her neck, and gave her,
certainly, the warmest of all the warm welcomes she had had
that day.
"Hallo!" cried Mr. Marshman, rapping on the table; "that's too
much for any one's share. Come here, you baggage, and give me
just such another."
The little girl came near accordingly, and hugged and kissed
him with a very good will, remarking, however, "Ah, but I've
seen you before to-day, Grandpapa!"
"Well, here's somebody you've not seen before," said he, good-
humouredly, pulling her round to Ellen, "here's a new friend
for you a young lady from the great city, so you must brush
up your country manners. Miss Ellen Montgomery, come from
pshaw! what is it? come from "
"London, Grandpapa?" said the little girl, as with a mixture
of simplicity and kindness she took Ellen's hand, and kissed
her on the cheek.
"From Carra-carra, Sir," said Ellen, smiling.
"Go along with you," said he, laughing, and pinching her
cheek. "Take her away, Ellen, take her away, and mind you take
good care of her. Tell Mrs. Bland she is one of grandpapa's
guests."
The two children had not, however, reached the door, when
Ellen Chauncey exclaimed, "Wait oh, wait a minute! I must
speak to aunt Sophia about the bag." And, flying to her side,
there followed an earnest whispering, and then a nod and smile
from aunt Sophia; and, satisfied, Ellen returned to her
companion, and led her out of the dining-room.
"We have both got the same name," said she, as they went along
a wide corridor; "how shall we know which is which?"
"Why," said Ellen, laughing, "when you say 'Ellen,' I shall
know you mean me; and when I say it you will know I mean you.
I shouldn't be calling myself, you know."
"Yes, but when somebody else calls 'Ellen,' we shall both have
to run. Do you run when you are called?"
"Sometimes," said Ellen, laughing.
"Ah, but I do always; Mamma always makes me. I thought perhaps
you were like Marianne Gillespie she waits often as much as
half a minute before she stirs, when anybody calls her. Did
you come with Miss Alice?"
"Yes."
"Do you love her?"
"Very much! oh, very much!"
Little Ellen looked at her companion's rising colour, with a
glance of mixed curiosity and pleasure, in which lay a strong
promise of growing love.
"So do I," she answered, gaily; "I am very glad she is come,
and I am very glad you are come, too."
The little speaker pushed open a door, and led Ellen into the
presence of a group of young people, rather older than
themselves.
"Marianne," said she to one of them, a handsome girl of
fourteen, "this is Miss Ellen Montgomery she came with
Alice, and she is come to keep Christmas with us aren't you
glad? There'll be quite a parcel of us when what's-her-name
comes won't there?"
Marianne shook hands with Ellen.
"She is one of grandpapa's guests, I can tell you," said
little Ellen Chauncey; "and he says we must brush up our
country manners she's come from the great city."
"Do you think we are a set of ignoramuses, Miss Ellen?"
inquired a well-grown boy of fifteen, who looked enough like
Marianne Gillespie to prove him her brother.
"I don't know what that is," said Ellen.
"Well, do they do things better in the great city than we do
here?"
"I don't know how you do them here," said Ellen.
"Don't you? Come! Stand out of my way, right and left, all of
you, will you? and give me a chance. Now then!"
Conscious that he was amusing most of the party, he placed
himself gravely at a little distance from Ellen, and marching
solemnly up to her, bowed down to her knees then slowly
raising his head, stepped back.
"Miss Ellen Montgomery, I am rejoiced to have the pleasure of
seeing you at Ventnor. Isn't that polite, now? Is that like
what you have been accustomed to, Miss Montgomery?"
"No, Sir thank you," said Ellen, who laughed in spite of
herself. The mirth of the others redoubled.
"May I request to be informed then," continued Gillespie,
"what is the fashion of making bows in the great city?"
"I don't know," said Ellen; "I never saw a boy make a bow
before."
"Humph! I guess country manners will do for you," said
William, turning on his heel.
"You're giving her a pretty specimen of 'em, Bill," said
another boy.
"For shame, William!" cried little Ellen Chauncey; "didn't I
tell you she was one of grandpapa's guests? Come here, Ellen,
I'll take you somewhere else."
She seized Ellen's hand and pulled her towards the door, but
suddenly stopped again.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you," she said; "I asked aunt Sophia
about the bag of moroccoes, and she said she would have 'em
early to-morrow morning, and then we can divide 'em right
away."
"We mustn't divide 'em till Maggie comes," said Marianne.
"Oh, no not till Maggie comes," said little Ellen; and then
ran off again.
"I am so glad you are come!" said she; "the others are all so
much older, and they have all so much to do together and now
you can help me think what I will make for Mamma. Hush! don't
say a word about it!"
They entered the large drawing-room, where old and young were
soon gathered for tea. The children, who had dined early, sat
down to a well-spread table, at which Miss Sophia presided;
the elder persons were standing or sitting in different parts
of the room. Ellen, not being hungry, had leisure to look
about her, and her eyes soon wandered from the tea-table in
search of her old friends. Alice was sitting by Mrs. Marshman,
talking with two other ladies; but Ellen smiled presently, as
she caught her eye from the far end of the room, and got a
little nod of recognition. John came up just then to set down
his coffee-cup, and asked her what she was smiling at.
"That's city manners," said William Gillespie, "to laugh at
what's going on."
"I have no doubt we shall all follow the example," said John
Humphreys, gravely, "if the young gentleman will try to give
us a smile."
The young gentleman had just accommodated himself with an
outrageously large mouthful of bread and sweetmeats, and if
ever so well-disposed, compliance with the request was
impossible. None of the rest, however, not even his sister,
could keep their countenances, for the eye of the speaker had
pointed and sharpened his words; and William, very red in the
face, was understood to mumble, as soon as mumbling was
possible, that "he wouldn't laugh unless he had a mind to,"
and a threat to "do something" to his tormentor.
"Only not eat me," said John, with a shade of expression in
his look and tone which overcame the whole party, himself and
poor William alone retaining entire gravity.
"What's all this? what's all this? what's all this laughing
about?" said old Mr. Marshman, coming up.
"This young gentleman, Sir," said John, "has been endeavouring
with a mouthful of arguments to prove to us the
inferiority of city manners to those learned in the country."
"Will," said the old gentleman, glancing doubtfully at
William's discomfited face; then added, sternly, "I don't care
where your manners were learned, Sir, but I advise you to be
very particular as to the sort you bring with you here. Now,
Sophia, let us have some music."
He set the children a-dancing, and as Ellen did not know how,
he kept her by him, and kept her very much amused, too, in his
own way; then he would have her join in the dancing, and bade
Ellen Chauncey give her lessons. There was a little
backwardness at first, and then Ellen was jumping away with
the rest, and thinking it perfectly delightful, as Miss
Sophia's piano rattled out merry jigs and tunes, and little
feet flew over the floor as light as the hearts they belonged
to. At eight o'clock the young ones were dismissed, and bade
good-night to their elders; and, pleased with the kind kiss
Mrs. Marshman had given her, as well as her little
granddaughter, Ellen went off to bed very happy.
The room to which her companion led her was the very picture
of comfort. It was not too large, furnished with plain, old-
fashioned furniture, and lighted and warmed by a cheerful
wood-fire. The very old brass-headed hand-irons that stretched
themselves out upon the hearth with such a look of being at
home, seemed to say, "You have come to the right place for
comfort." A little, dark, mahogany book-case in one place an
odd toilet-table of the same stuff in another; and opposite
the fire an old-fashioned high-post bedstead, with its
handsome Marseilles quilt and ample pillows, looked very
tempting. Between this and the far side of the room, in the
corner, another bed was spread on the floor.
"This is aunt Sophia's room," said little Ellen Chauncey;
"this is where you are to sleep."
"And where will Alice be?" said the other Ellen.
"Oh, she'll sleep here, in this bed, with aunt Sophia; that is
because the house is so full, you know; and here is your
bed, here on the floor. Oh, delicious! I wish I was going to
sleep here! Don't you love to sleep on the floor? I do. I
think it's fun."
Anybody might have thought it fun to sleep on that bed, for,
instead of a bedstead, it was luxuriously piled on mattresses.
The two children sat down together on the foot of it.
"This is aunt Sophia's room," continued little Ellen, "and
next to it, out of that door, is our dressing-room, and next
to that is where Mamma and I sleep. Do you undress and dress
yourself?"
"To be sure I do," said Ellen "always."
"So do I; but Marianne Gillespie won't even put on her shoes
and stockings for herself."
"Who does it, then?" said Ellen.
"Why, Lester aunt Matilda's maid. Mamma sent away her maid
when we came here, and she says if she had fifty she would
like me to do everything I can for myself. I shouldn't think
it was pleasant to have any one put on one's shoes and
stockings for you, should you?"
"No, indeed," said Ellen. "Then you live here all the time?"
"Oh, yes ever since papa didn't come back from that long
voyage we live here since then."
"Is he coming back soon?"
"No," said little Ellen, gravely "he never will came back
he never will come back any more."
Ellen was sorry she had asked, and both children were silent
for a minute.
"I'll tell you what," said little Ellen, jumping up "Mamma
said we mustn't sit up too long talking, so I'll run and get
my things and bring 'em here, and we can undress together;
won't that be a nice way?"