Sunday at Ventnor.
Mr. Humphreys was persuaded to stay over Sunday at Ventnor;
and it was also settled that his children should not leave it
till after New Year. This was less their own wish than his; he
said Alice wanted the change, and he wished she looked a
little fatter. Besides, the earnest pleadings of the whole
family were not to be denied. Ellen was very glad of this,
though there was one drawback to the pleasures of Ventnor
she could not feel quite at home with any of the young people,
but only Ellen Chauncey and her cousin George Walsh. This
seemed very strange to her; she almost thought Margaret
Dunscombe was at the bottom of it all, but she recollected she
had felt something of this before Margaret came. She tried to
think nothing about it; and in truth it was not able to
prevent her from being very happy. The breach, however, was
destined to grow wider.
About four miles from Ventnor was a large town called
Randolph. Thither they drove to church Sunday morning, the
whole family; but the hour of dinner and the distance
prevented any one from going in the afternoon. The members of
the family were scattered in different parts of the house,
most in their own rooms. Ellen with some difficulty made her
escape from her young companions, whose manner of spending the
time did not satisfy her notions of what was right on that
day, and went to look in the library for her friends. They
were there, and alone; Alice half reclining on the sofa, half
in her brother's arms; he was reading or talking to her; there
was a book in his hand.
"Is anything the matter?" said Ellen, as she drew near;
"aren't you well, dear Alice? Headache? oh, I am sorry. Oh! I
know"
She darted away. In two minutes she was back again with a
pleased face, her bunch of grapes in one hand, her bottle of
Cologne water in the other.
"Won't you open that, please, Mr. John," said she; "I can't
open it; I guess it will do her good, for Ellen says it's
delicious. Mamma used to have Cologne water for her headaches.
And here, dear Alice, won't you eat these? do! try one."
"Hasn't that bottle been open yet?" said Alice, as she
smilingly took a grape.
"Why, no, to be sure it hasn't. I wasn't going to open it till
I wanted it. Eat them all, dear Alice please do!"
"But I don't think you have eaten one yourself, Ellen, by the
look of the bunch. And here are a great many too many for me."
"Yes, I have, I've eaten two; I don't want 'em. I give them
all to you and Mr. John. I had a great deal rather!"
Ellen took, however, as precious payment, Alice's look and
kiss; and then, with a delicate consciousness that perhaps the
brother and sister might like to be alone, she left the
library. She did not know where to go, for Miss Sophia was
stretched on the bed in her room, and she did not want any
company. At last, with her little Bible, she placed herself on
the old sofa in the hall above-stairs, which was perfectly
well warmed, and for some time she was left there in peace. It
was pleasant, after all the hubbub of the morning, to have a
little quiet time that seemed like Sunday; and the sweet Bible
words came, as they often now came to Ellen, with a healing
breath. But after half an hour or so, to her dismay she heard
a door open, and the whole gang of children come trooping into
the hall below, where they soon made such a noise that reading
or thinking was out of the question.
"What a bother it is that one can't play games on a Sunday!"
said Marianne Gillespie.
"One _can_ play games on a Sunday," answered her brother.
"Where's the odds? It's all Sunday's good for, _I_ think."
"William! William!" sounded the shocked voice of little
Ellen Chauncey "you are a real wicked boy!"
"Well, now!" said William, "how am I wicked? Now say I
should like to know. How is it any more wicked for us to play
games than it is for Aunt Sophia to lie a-bed and sleep, or
for Uncle Howard to read novels, or for Grandpa to talk
politics, or for mother to talk about the fashions? there
were she and Miss What's-her-name for ever so long this
morning doing everything but _make_ a dress. Now which is the
worst?"
"Oh, William! William! for shame! for shame!" said little
Ellen again.
"Do hush, Ellen Chauncey, will you?" said Marianne, sharply;
"and you had better hush too, William, if you know what is
good for yourself. I don't care whether it's right or wrong, I
do get dolefully tired with doing nothing."
"Oh, so do I!" said Margaret, yawning. "I wish one could sleep
all Sunday."
"I'll tell you what," said George "I know a game we can
play, and no harm either, for it's all out of the Bible."
"Oh, do you? let's hear it, George," cried the girls.
"I don't believe it is good for anything if it is out of the
Bible," said Margaret. "Now stare, Ellen Chauncey, do!"
"I _ain't_ staring," said Ellen, indignantly; "but I don't
believe it is right to play it, if it _is_ out of the Bible."
"Well, it is, though," said George. "Now listen; I'll think
of somebody in the Bible some man or woman, you know; and
you all may ask me twenty questions about him, to see if you
can find out who it is."
"What kind of questions?"
"Any kind of questions whatever you like."
"That will improve your knowledge of scripture history," said
Gilbert.
"To be sure; and exercise our memory," said Isabel Hawthorn.
"Yes, and then we are thinking of good people and what they
did all the time," said little Ellen.
"Or bad people and what they did," said William.
"But I don't know enough about people and things in the
Bible," said Margaret; "I couldn't guess."
"Oh, never mind it will be all the more fun," said George.
"Come! let's begin. Who'll take somebody?"
"Oh, I think this will be fine!" said little Ellen Chauncey;
"but, Ellen where's Ellen? we want her."
"No we don't want her! we've enough without her she won't
play!" shouted William, as the little girl ran upstairs. She
persevered, however. Ellen had left her sofa before this, and
was found seated on the foot of her bed. As far and as long as
she could, she withstood her little friend's entreaties, and
very unwillingly at last yielded and went with her downstairs.
"Now we are ready," said little Ellen Chauncey; "I have told
Ellen what the game is; who's going to begin?"
"We have begun," said William. "Gilbert has thought of
somebody. Man or woman?"
"Man."
"Young or old?"
"Why, he was young first, and old afterwards."
"Pshaw, William! what a ridiculous question," said his sister.
"Besides, you mustn't ask more than one at a time. Rich or
poor, Gilbert?"
"Humph! why, I suppose he was moderately well off. I dare
say I should think myself a lucky fellow if I had as much."
"Are you answering truly, Gilbert?"
"Upon my honour!"
"Was he in a high or low station of life?" asked Miss
Hawthorn.
"Neither at the top nor the bottom of the ladder a very
respectable person indeed."
"But we are not getting on," said Margaret. "According to you,
he wasn't anything in particular; what kind of a person was
he, Gilbert?"
"A very good man."
"Handsome or ugly?"
"History don't say."
"Well, what _does_ it say?" said George "what did he do?"
"He took a journey once upon a time."
"What for?"
"Do you mean _why_ he went, or what was the _object_ of his
going?"
"Why, the one's the same as the other, ain't it?"
"I beg your pardon."
"Well, what was the object of his going?"
"He went after a wife."
"Samson! Samson!" shouted William and Isabel and Ellen
Chauncey.
"No it wasn't Samson either."
"I can't think of anybody else that went after a wife," said
George. "That king what's his name? that married Esther?"
The children screamed. "_He_ didn't go after a wife, George
his wives were brought to him. Was it Jacob?"
"No, he didn't go after a wife, either," said Gilbert; "he
married two of them, but he didn't go to his uncle's to find
them. You had better go on with your questions. You have had
eight already. If you don't look out, you won't catch me.
Come!"
"Did he get the wife that he went after?" asked Ellen
Chauncey.
"He was never married that I know of," said Gilbert.
"What was the reason he failed?" said Isabel.
"He did not fail."
"Did he bring home his wife then? You said he wasn't married."
"He never was, that I know of; but he brought home a wife
notwithstanding."
"But how funny you are, Gilbert!" said little Ellen. "He had a
wife and he hadn't a wife: what became of her?"
"She lived and flourished. Twelve questions: take care."
"Nobody asked what country he was of," said Margaret, "what
was he, Gilbert?"
"He was a Damascene."
"A _what?_"
"Of Damascus of Damascus. You know where Damascus is, don't
you?"
"Fiddle!" said Marianne "I thought he was a Jew. Did he live
before or after the Flood?"
"After. I should think you might have known that."
"Well, I can't make out anything about him," said Marianne.
"We shall have to give it up."
"No, no not yet," said William. "Where did he go after his
wife?"
"Too close a question."
"Then that don't count. Had he ever seen her before?"
"Never."
"Was she willing to go with him?"
"Very willing. Ladies always are, when they go to be married."
"And what became of her?"
"She was married and lived happily, as I told you."
"But you said _he_ wasn't married?"
"Well, what then? I didn't say she married _him_."
"Whom did she marry?"
"Ah, that is asking the whole; I can't tell you."
"Had they far to go?" asked Isabel.
"Several days' journey I don't know how far."
"How did they travel?"
"On camels."
"Was it the Queen of Sheba?" said little Ellen.
There was a roar of laughter at this happy thought, and poor
little Ellen declared she forgot all but about the journey;
she remembered the Queen of Sheba had taken a journey, and the
camels in the picture of the Queen of Sheba, and that made her
think of her.
The children gave up. Questioning seemed hopeless; and Gilbert
at last told them his thought. It was Eliezer, Abraham's
steward, whom he sent to fetch a wife for his son Isaac.
"Why haven't _you_ guessed, little mumchance?" said Gilbert to
Ellen Montgomery.
"I have guessed," said Ellen; "I knew who it was, some time
ago."
"Then why didn't you say so? and you haven't asked a single
question," said George.
"No, you haven't asked a single question," said Ellen
Chauncey.
"She is a great deal too good for that," said William; "she
thinks it is wicked, and that we are not at all nice, proper-
behaved boys and girls to be playing on Sunday; she is very
sorry she could not help being amused."
"_Do_ you think it is wicked, Ellen?" asked her little friend.
"Do you think it isn't right?" said George Walsh.
Ellen hesitated; she saw they were all waiting to hear what
she would say. She coloured, and looked down at her little
Bible, which was still in her hand. It encouraged her.
"I don't want to say anything rude," she began; "I don't think
it is quite right to play such plays, or any plays."
She was attacked with impatient cries of "Why not?" "Why not?"
"Because," said Ellen, trembling with the effort she made, "I
think Sunday was meant to be spent in growing better and
learning good things; and I don't think such plays would help
one at all to do that; and I have a kind of feeling that I
ought not to do it."
"Well, I hope you'll act according to your _feeling_, then,"
said William; "I am sure nobody has any objection. You had
better go somewhere else, though, for we are going on; we have
been learning to be good long enough for one day. Come! I have
thought of somebody."
Ellen could not help feeling hurt and sorry at the half-sneer
she saw in the look and manner of the others, as well as in
William's words. She wished for no better than to go away; but
as she did so, her bosom swelled, and the tears started, and
her breath came quicker. She found Alice lying down and
asleep, Miss Sophia beside her; so she stole out again, and
went down to the library. Finding nobody, she took possession
of the sofa, and tried to read again; reading somehow did not
go well, and she fell to musing on what had just passed. She
thought of the unkindness of the children; how sure she was it
was wrong to spend any part of Sunday in such games; what
Alice would think of it, and John, and her mother; and how the
Sundays long ago used to be spent, when that dear mother was
with her; and then she wondered how _she_ was passing this very
one while Ellen was sitting here in the library alone, what
_she_ was doing in that far-away land; and she thought if there
only _were_ such things as oracles that could tell truly, how
much she should like to ask about her.
"Ellen!" said the voice of John from the window.
She started up; she had thought she was alone; but there he
was lying in the window-seat.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing," said Ellen.
"Come here. What are you thinking about? I didn't know you
were there till I heard two or three very long sighs. What is
the matter with my little sister?"
He took her hand and drew her fondly up to him. "What were you
thinking about?"
"I was thinking about different things nothing is the
matter," said Ellen.
"Then what are those tears in your eyes for?"
"I don't know," said she, laughing "there weren't any till I
came here. I was thinking just now about Mamma."
He said no more still, however, keeping her beside him.
"I should think," said Ellen presently, after a few minutes'
musing look out of the window, "it would be very pleasant if
there were such things as oracles don't you, Mr. John?"
"No."
"But wouldn't you like to know something about what's going to
happen?"
"I do know a great deal about it."
"About what is going to happen!"
He smiled.
"Yes a great deal, Ellen enough to give me work for all
the rest of my life."
"Oh, you mean from the Bible I was thinking of other
things."
"It is best not to know the other things, Ellie I am very
glad to know those the Bible teaches us."
"But is doesn't tell us much, does it? What does it tell us?"
"Go to the window, and tell me what you see."
"I don't see anything in particular," said Ellen, after taking
a grave look out.
"Well, what in general?"
"Why, there is the lawn covered with snow, and the trees and
bushes; and the sun is shining on everything, just as it did
the day we came; and there's the long shadow of that hemlock
across the snow, and the blue sky."
"Now look out again, Ellie, and listen. I know that a day is
to come, when those heavens shall be wrapped together as a
scroll they shall vanish away like smoke, and the earth
shall wax old like a garment and it, and all the works that
are therein, shall be burned up."
As he spoke, Ellen's fancy tried to follow to picture the
ruin and desolation of all that stood so fair, and seemed to
stand so firm before her; but the sun shone on, the branches
waved gently in the wind, the shadows lay still on the snow,
and the blue heaven was fair and cloudless. Fancy was baffled.
She turned from the window.
"Do you believe it?" said John.
"Yes," said Ellen "I know it; but I think it is very
disagreeable to think about it."
"It would be, Ellie," said he, bringing her again to his side
"very disagreeable very miserable indeed, if we knew no
more than that. But we know more read here."
Ellen took his little Bible and read at the open place.
" 'Behold, I create new heavens and a new earth, and the
former shall not be remembered, neither come into mind.' "
"Why won't they be remembered?" said Ellen "shall we forget
all about them?"
"No, I do not think that is meant. The new heavens and the new
earth will be so much more lovely and pleasant that we shall
not want to think of these."
Ellen's eyes sought the window again.
"You are thinking that it is hardly possible?" said John with
a smile.
"I suppose it is _possible_," said Ellen "but"
"But lovely as this world is, Ellie, man has filled it with
sin, and sin has everywhere brought its punishment, and under
the weight of both the earth groans. There will be no sin
_there;_ sorrow and sighing shall flee away; love to each other
and love to their blessed King will fill all hearts, and his
presence will be with them. Don't you see that, even if that
world shall be in itself no better than this, it will yet be
far, far more lovely than this can ever be, with the shadow of
sin upon it?"
"Oh, yes!" said Ellen. "I know, whenever I feel wrong in any
way, nothing seems pretty or pleasant to me, or not half so
much."
"Very well," said John "I see you understand me. I like to
think of that land, Ellen very much."
"Mr. John," said Ellen "don't you think people will know
each other again?"
"Those that love each other here! I have no doubt of it."
Before either John or Ellen had broken the long musing fit
that followed these words, they were joined by Alice. Her head
was better; and taking her place in the window-seat, the talk
began again, between the brother and sister now; Ellen too
happy to sit with them and listen. They talked of that land
again, of the happy company preparing for it; of their dead
mother, but not much of her; of the glory of their King, and
the joy of his service even here till thoughts grew too
strong for words, and silence again stole upon the group. The
short winter-day came to an end; the sunlight faded away into
moonlight. No shadows lay now on the lawn; and from where she
sat Ellen could see the great hemlock all silvered with the
moonlight, which began to steal in at the window. It was very,
very beautiful yet she could think now without sorrow that
all this should come to an end; because of that new heaven and
new earth wherein righteousness should dwell.
"We have eaten up all your grapes, Ellie," said Alice "or
rather _I_ have, for John didn't help me much. I think I never
ate so sweet grapes in my life; John said the reason was
because every one tasted of you."
"I am very glad," said Ellen, laughing.
"There is no evil without some good," Alice went on. "Except
for my headache, John would not have held my head by the hour
as he did; and you couldn't have given me the pleasure you
did, Ellie. Oh, Jack! there has been many a day lately when
I would gladly have had a headache for the power of laying my
head on your shoulder!"
"And if Mamma had not gone away, I should never have known
you," said Ellen. "I wish she never _had_ gone, but I am very,
very glad for this!"
She had kneeled upon the window-seat and clasped Alice round
the neck, just as they were called to tea. The conversation
had banished every disagreeable feeling from Ellen's mind. She
met her companions in the drawing-room, almost forgetting that
she had any cause of complaint against them. And this appeared
when in the course of the evening it came in her way to
perform some little office of politeness for Marianne. It was
done with the gracefulness that could only come from a spirit
entirely free from ungrateful feelings. The children felt it,
and for the time were shamed into better behaviour. The
evening passed pleasantly, and Ellen went to bed very happy.