The cloud overhead.
One day in the early part of September, she was standing in
front of the house at the little wicket that opened on the
road. With her back against the open gate, she was gently
moving it to and fro, half-enjoying the weather and the scene,
half-indulging the melancholy mood which drove her from the
presence of her bustling aunt. The gurgling sound of the brook
a few steps off was a great deal more soothing to her ear than
Miss Fortune's sharp tones. By-and-by a horseman came in sight
at the far end of the road, and the brook was forgotten. What
made Ellen look at him so sharply? Poor child! she was always
expecting news. At first she could only see that the man rode
a white horse; then, as he came nearer, an odd looped-up hat
showed itself and something queer in his hand what was it?
who is it? the old newsman! Ellen was sure. Yes she could
now see the saddle-bags, and the white horsetail set in a
handle, with which he was brushing away the flies from his
horse; the tin trumpet was in his other hand, to blow withal.
He was a venerable old figure, with all his oddities; clad in
a suit of snuff brown, with a neat, quiet look about him, he
and the saddle-bags and the white horse jogged on together as
if they belonged to nothing else in the world but each other.
In an ecstasy of fear and hope, Ellen watched the pace of the
old horse to see if it gave any sign of slackening near the
gate. Her breath came short, she hardly breathed at all, she
was trembling from head to foot. _Would_ he stop, or was he
going on? Oh! the long agony of two minutes! He stopped. Ellen
went towards him.
"What little gal is this?" said he.
"I am Ellen Montgomery, Sir," said Ellen, eagerly, "Miss
Fortune's niece I live here."
"Stop a bit," said the old man, taking up his saddle-bags;
"Miss Fortune's niece, eh? Well, I believe as I've got
somethin' for her somethin' here. Aunt well, eh?"
"Yes, Sir."
"That's more than you be, ain't it?" said he, glancing
sideways at Ellen's face. "How do you know but I've got a
letter for you here, eh?"
The colour rushed to that face, and she clasped her hands.
"No, dear, no," said he; "I han't got any for you it's for
the old lady; there, run in with it, dear."
But Ellen knew before she touched it that it was a foreign
letter, and dashed into the house with it. Miss Fortune coolly
sent her back to pay the postage.
When she came in again, her aunt was still reading the letter.
But her look, Ellen _felt_, was unpromising. She did not venture
to speak expectation was chilled. She stood till Miss
Fortune began to fold up the paper.
"Is there nothing for me?" she said then, timidly.
"No."
"Oh! why don't she write to me?" cried Ellen, bursting into
tears.
Miss Fortune stalked about the room, without any particular
purpose as far as could be seen.
"It is very strange," said Ellen, sorrowfully; "I am afraid
she is worse. Does papa say she is worse?"
"No."
"Oh! if she had only sent me a message! I should think she
might oh! I wish she had! three words! does papa say why
she don't write?"
"No."
"It is very strange!" repeated poor Ellen.
"Your father talks of coming home," said Miss Fortune, after a
few minutes, during which Ellen had been silently weeping.
"Home! then she must be better!" said Ellen, with new life;
"does papa say she is better?"
"No."
"But what does he mean?" said Ellen, uneasily; "I don't see
what he means; he doesn't say she is worse, and he doesn't say
she is better; what does he say?"
"He don't say much about anything."
"Does he say when they are coming home?"
Miss Fortune mumbled something about "spring," and whisked off
to the buttery; Ellen thought no more was to be got out of
her. She felt miserable. Her father and her aunt both seemed
to act strangely; and where to find comfort she scarcely knew.
She had one day been telling her doubts and sorrows to John.
He did not try to raise her hopes, but said
"Troubles will come in this world, Ellie; the best is to trust
them and ourselves to our dear Saviour, and let trials drive
us to him. Seek to love him more, and to be patient under his
will; the good Shepherd means nothing but kindness to any lamb
in his flock you may be sure of that, Ellie."
Ellen remembered his words, and tried to follow them now, but
she could not be "patient under his will" yet not quite. It
was very hard to be patient in such uncertainty. With swimming
eyes she turned over her Bible in search of comfort, and found
it. Her eye lit upon words she knew very well, but that were
like the fresh sight of a friend's face for all that, "Let
not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God, believe also in
me. In my Father's house are many mansions." There is no
parting there, thought little Ellen. She cried a long time,
but she was comforted, nevertheless. The heart that rests on
the blessed One who said those words can never be quite
desolate.
For several days things went on in the old train, only her
aunt, she thought, was sometimes rather queer not quite as
usual in her manner towards her. Mr. Van Brunt was not _rather_,
but _very_ queer; he scarce spoke or looked at Ellen; bolted
down his food, and was off without a word; and even stayed
away entirely from two or three meals. She saw nobody else.
Weather and other circumstances prevented her going to the
mountain.
One afternoon, she was giving her best attention to a French
lesson, when she heard herself called. Miss Fortune was in the
lower kitchen, dipping candles. Ellen ran down.
"I don't know what's got into these candles," said Miss
Fortune. "I can't make 'em hang together; the tallow ain't
good, I guess. Where's the nearest place they keep bees?"
"They have got bees at Mrs. Hitchcock's," said Ellen.
"So they have in Egypt, for anything I know," said her aunt;
"one would be about as much good now as t'other. Mrs. Lowndes
that ain't far off. Put on your bonnet, Ellen, and run over
there, and ask her to let me have a little bees'-wax. I'll pay
her in something she likes best."
"Does Mrs. Lowndes keep bee-hives?" said Ellen, doubtfully.
"No; she makes the bees'-wax herself," said Miss Fortune, in
the tone she always took when anybody presumed to suppose she
might be mistaken in anything.
"How much shall I ask for?" said Ellen.
"Oh, I don't know a pretty good piece."
Ellen was not very clear what quantity this might mean.
However, she wisely asked no more questions, and set out upon
her walk. It was hot and disagreeable; just the time of day
when the sun had most power, and Mrs. Lowndes' house was about
half-way on the road to Alice's. It was not a place where
Ellen liked to go, though the people always made much of her;
she did not fancy them, and regularly kept out of their way
when she could. Miss Mary Lawson was sitting with Mrs. Lowndes
and her daughter, when Ellen came in and briefly gave her
aunt's message.
"Bees'-wax," said Mrs. Lowndes "well, I don't know How
much does she want?"
"I don't know, Ma'am, exactly: she said a pretty good piece."
"What's it for, do you know, honey?"
"I believe it's to put in some tallow for candles," said
Ellen; "the tallow was too soft, she said."
"I didn't know Miss Fortune's tallow was ever anything but the
hardest," said Sarah Lowndes.
"You had better not let your aunt know you've told on her,
Ellen," remarked Mary Lawson; "she won't thank you."
"Had she a good lot of taller to make up?" inquired the
mother, preparing to cut her bees'-wax.
"I don't know, Ma'am; she had a big kettle, but I don't know
how full it was."
"You may as well send a good piece, Ma, while you are about
it," said the daughter "and ask her to let us have a piece
of her sage cheese, will you?"
"Is it worth while to weigh it?" whispered Mrs. Lowndes.
Her daughter answered in the same tone, and Miss Mary joining
them, a conversation of some length went on over the bees'-
wax, which Ellen could not hear. The tones of the speakers
became lower and lower; till at length her own name and an
incautious sentence were spoken more distinctly, and reached
her.
"Shouldn't you think Miss Fortune might put a black ribbon at
least on her bonnet?"
"Anybody but her would."
"Hush!" They whispered again under breath.
The words entered Ellen's heart like cold iron. She did not
move hand or foot; she sat motionless with pain and fear, yet
what she feared she dared not think. When the bees'-wax was
given her, she rose up from her chair, and stood gazing into
Mrs. Lowndes' face as if she had lost her senses.
"My goodness, child, how you look!" said that lady. "What ails
you, honey?"
"Ma'am," said Ellen "what was that you said, about "
"About what, dear?" said Mrs. Lowndes, with a startled look at
the others.
"About a ribbon?" said Ellen, struggling to get the words
out of white lips.
"My goodness!" said the other; "did you ever hear anything
like that? I didn't say nothing about a ribbon, dear."
"Do you suppose her aunt han't told her?" said Miss Mary in an
under tone.
"Told me what?" cried Ellen; "Oh! what? what?"
"I wish I was a thousand miles off!" said Mrs. Lowndes; "I
don't know, dear I don't know what it is Miss Alice
knows."
"Yes, ask Miss Alice," said Mary Lawson; "she knows better
than we do."
Ellen looked doubtfully from one to the other; then, as "Go
ask Miss Alice," was repeated on all sides, she caught up her
bonnet, and flinging the bees'-wax from her hand, darted out
of the house. Those she had left, looked at each other a
minute in silence.
"Ain't that too bad now!" exclaimed Mrs. Lowndes, crossing the
room to shut the door. "But what could I say?"
"Which way did she go?"
"I don't know I am sure I had no head to look, or anything
else. I wonder if I had ought to ha' told her. But I couldn't
ha' done it."
"Just look at her bees'-wax!" said Sarah Lowndes.
"She will kill herself if she runs up the mountain at that
rate," said Mary Lawson.
They all made a rush to the door to look after her.
"She ain't in sight," said Mrs. Lowndes; "if she's gone the
way to the Nose, she's got as far as them big poplars already,
or she'd be somewhere this side of 'em, where we could see
her."
"You hadn't ought to ha' let her go, Ma'am, in all this sun,"
said Miss Lowndes.
"I declare," said Mrs. Lowndes, "she scared me so, I hadn't
three idees left in my head. I wish I knew where she was,
though, poor little soul!"
Ellen was far on her way to the mountain, pressed forward by a
fear that knew no stay of heat or fatigue: they were little to
her that day. She saw nothing on her way; all within and
without were swallowed up in that one feeling; yet she dared
not think what it was she feared. She put that by. Alice knew:
Alice would tell her; on that goal her heart fixed, to that
she pressed on; but oh! the while, what a cloud was gathering
over her spirit, and growing darker and darker! Her hurry of
mind and hurry of body made each other worse; it must be so;
and when she at last ran round the corner of the house and
burst in at the glass door, she was in a frightful state.
Alice started up and faced her as she came in, but with a look
that stopped Ellen short. She stood still; the colour in her
cheeks, as her eyes read Alice's, faded quite away; words, and
the power to speak them were gone together. Alas! the need to
utter them was gone too. Alice burst into tears, and held out
her arms, saying only, "My poor child!" Ellen reached her
arms, and strength and spirit seemed to fail there. Alice
thought she had fainted; she laid her on the sofa, called
Margery, and tried the usual things, weeping bitterly herself
as she did so. It was not fainting, however; Ellen's senses
soon came back; but she seemed like a person stunned with a
great blow, and Alice wished grief had had any other effect
upon her. It lasted for days. A kind of stupor hung over her;
tears did not come; the violent strain of every nerve and
feeling seemed to have left her benumbed. She would sleep
long, heavy sleeps the greater part of the time, and seemed to
have no power to do anything else.
Her adopted sister watched her constantly, and for those days
lived but to watch her. She had heard all Ellen's story from
Mary Lawson and Mr. Van Brunt, who had both been to the
parsonage one on Mrs. Lowndes' part, the other on his own
to ask about her; and she dreaded that a violent fit of
illness might be brought on by all Ellen had undergone. She
was mistaken, however. Ellen was not ill; but her whole mind
and body bowed under the weight of the blow that had come upon
her. As the first stupor wore off, there were, indeed, more
lively signs of grief; she would weep till she wept her eyes
out, and that often, but it was very quietly; no passionate
sobbing, no noisy crying; sorrow had taken too strong hold to
be struggled with, and Ellen meekly bowed her head to it.
Alice saw this with the greatest alarm. She had refused to let
her go back to her aunt's; it was impossible to do otherwise;
yet it may be that Ellen would have been better there. The
busy industry to which she would have been forced at home
might have roused her; as it was, nothing drew her, and
nothing could be found to draw her from her own thoughts. Her
interest in everything seemed to be gone. Books had lost their
charm. Walks and drives and staying at home were all one
except, indeed, that she rather liked best the latter.
Appetite failed; her cheek grew colourless; and Alice began to
fear that if a stop were not soon put to this gradual sinking,
it would at last end with her life. But all her efforts were
without fruit; and the winter was a sorrowful one not to Ellen
alone.
As it wore on, there came to be one thing in which Ellen again
took pleasure, and that was her Bible. She used to get alone
or into a corner with it, and turn the leaves over and over;
looking out its gentle promises, and sweet comforting words to
the weak and the sorrowing. She loved to read about Christ
all he said and did; all his kindness to his people, and
tender care of them; the love shown them here and the joys
prepared for them hereafter. She began to cling more to that
one unchangeable Friend from whose love neither life nor death
can sever those that believe in him; and her heart, tossed and
shaken as it had been, began to take rest again in that happy
resting-place with stronger affection, and even with greater
joy, than ever before. Yet for all that, this joy often kept
company with bitter weeping; the stirring of anything like
pleasure roused sorrow up afresh, and though Ellen's look of
sadness grew less dark, Alice could not see that her face was
at all less white and thin. She never spoke of her mother,
after once hearing when and where she had died; she never
hinted at her loss, except exclaiming in an agony, "I shall
get no more letters!" and Alice dared not touch upon what the
child seemed to avoid so carefully: though Ellen sometimes
wept on her bosom, and often sat for hours still and silent,
with her head in her lap.
The time drew nigh when John was expected home for the
holidays. In the meanwhile they had had many visits from other
friends. Mr. Van Brunt had come several times, enough to set
the whole neighbourhood a-wondering, if they had only known
it; his good old mother oftener still; Mrs. Vawse as often as
possible; Miss Fortune once; and that because, as she said to
herself, "Everybody would be talking about what was none of
their business if she didn't." As neither she nor Ellen knew
in the least what to say to each other, the visit was rather a
dull one, spite of all Alice could do. Jenny Hitchcock, and
the Huffs, and the Dennisons and others, came now and then;
but Ellen did not like to see any of them all but Mrs. Vawse.
Alice longed for her brother.
He came at last, just before New Year. It was the middle of a
fine afternoon, and Alice and her father had gone in the
sleigh to Carra-carra. Ellen had chosen to stay behind, but
Margery did not know this, and of course did not tell John.
After paying a visit to her in the kitchen, he had come back
to the empty sitting-room, and was thoughtfully walking up and
down the floor, when the door of Alice's room slowly opened,
and Ellen appeared. It was never her way, when she could help
it, to show violent feeling before other people; so she had
been trying to steel herself to meet John without crying, and
now came in with her little grave face, prepared not to give
way. His first look had like to overset it all.
"Ellie!" said he; "I thought everybody was gone. My dear
Ellie!"
Ellen could hardly stand the tone of these three words, and
she bore with the greatest difficulty the kiss that followed
them; it took but a word or two more, and a glance at the old
look and smile, to break down entirely all her guard.
According to her usual fashion, she was rushing away; but John
held her fast, and, though gently, drew her close to him.
"I will not let you forget that I am your brother, Ellie,"
said he.
Ellen hid her face on his shoulder, and cried as if she had
never cried before.
"Ellie," said he after a while, speaking low and tenderly,
"the Bible says, 'We have known and believed the love that God
hath towards us;' have you remembered and believed this
lately?"
Ellen did not answer.
"Have you remembered that God loves every sinner that has
believed in his dear Son? and loves them so well, that He
will let nothing come near them to harm them? and loves them
never better than when He sends bitter trouble on them? It is
wonderful! but it is true. Have you thought of this, Ellie?"
She shook her head.
"It is not in anger He does it; it is not that He has
forgotten you: it is not that He is careless of your trembling
little heart never, never! If you are his child, all is done
in love, and shall work good for you; and if we often cannot
see how, it is because we are weak and foolish, and can see
but a very little way."
Ellen listened with her face hid on his shoulder.
"Do you love Christ, Ellen?"
She nodded, weeping afresh.
"Do you love him less since he has brought you into this great
sorrow?"
"No," sobbed Ellen, "_more!_"
He drew her closer to his breast, and was silent a little
while.
"I am very glad to hear you say that! then all will be well.
And haven't you the best reason to think that all _is_ well with
your dear mother?"
Ellen almost shrieked. Her mother's name had not been spoken
before her in a great while, and she could hardly bear to hear
it now. Her whole frame quivered with hysterical sobs.
"Hush, Ellie!" said John, in a tone that, low as it was,
somehow found its way through all her agitation, and calmed
her like a spell; "have you not good reason to believe that
all is well with her?"
"Oh, yes! oh, yes!"
"She loved and trusted Him, too; and now she is with Him she
has reached that bright home where there is no more sin, nor
sorrow, nor death."
"Nor parting either," sobbed Ellen, whose agitation was
excessive.
"Nor parting! and though _we_ are parted from them, it is but
for a little; let us watch, and keep our garments clean, and
soon we shall be all together, and have done with tears for
ever. _She_ has done with them now. Did you hear from her
again?"
"Oh, no! not a word!"
"That is a hard trial. But, in it all, believe, dear Ellie,
the love that God hath towards us; remember that our dear
Saviour is near us, and feels for us, and is the same at all
times. And don't cry so, Ellie!"
He kissed her once or twice, and begged her to calm herself.
For it seemed as if Ellen's very heart was flowing away in her
tears; yet they were gentler and softer far than at the
beginning. The conversation had been a great relief. The
silence between her and Alice on the thing always in her mind
a silence neither of them dared to break had grown
painful. The spell was taken off; and though, at first,
Ellen's tears knew no measure, she was easier even then; as
John soothed her, and went on with his kind talk, gradually
leading it away from their first subject to other things, she
grew not only calm, but more peaceful at heart than months had
seen her. She was quite herself again before Alice came home.
"You have done her good already," exclaimed Alice, as soon as
Ellen was out of the room; "I knew you would; I saw it in
her face as soon as I came in."
"It is time," said her brother. "She is a dear little thing!"
The next day, in the middle of the morning, Ellen, to her
great surprise, saw Sharp brought before the door, with the
side-saddle on, and Mr. John carefully looking to the girth,
and shortening the stirrup.
"Why, Alice," she exclaimed, "what is Mr. John going to do?"
"I don't know, Ellie, I am sure; he does queer things
sometimes. What makes you ask?"
Before she could answer, he opened the door.
"Come, Ellen, go and get ready. Bundle up well, for it is
rather frosty. Alice, has she a pair of gloves that are warm
enough? Lend her yours, and I'll see if I can find some at
Thirlwall."
Ellen thought she would rather not go; to anybody else she
would have said so. Half a minute she stood still then went
to put on her things.
"Alice, you will be ready by the time we get back? in half
an hour."
Ellen had an excellent lesson, and her master took care it
should not be an easy one. She came back, looking as she had
not done all winter. Alice was not quite ready; while waiting
for her, John went to the book-case and took down the first
volume of Rollin's _Ancient History;_ and giving it to Ellen, he
said he would talk with her to-morrow about the first twenty
pages. The consequence was, the hour and a half of their
absence, instead of being moped away, was spent in hard study.
A pair of gloves was bought at Thirlwall; Jenny Hitchcock's
pony was sent for; and, after that, every day, when the
weather would at all do, they took a long ride. By degrees,
reading, and drawing, and all her studies, were added to the
history, till Ellen's time was well filled with business
again. Alice had endeavoured to bring this about before, but
fruitlessly. What she asked of her, Ellen indeed _tried_ to do;
what John told her, _was done_. She grew a different creature.
Appetite came back; the colour sprang again to her cheek; hope
meek and sober as it was re-lighted her eye. In her
eagerness to please and satisfy her teacher, her whole soul
was given to the performance of whatever he wished her to do.
The effect was all that he looked for.
The second evening after he came, John called Ellen to his
side, saying he had something he wanted to read to her. It was
before candles were brought, but the room was full of light
from the blazing wood fire. Ellen glanced at his book as she
came to the sofa; it was a largish volume, in a black leather
cover, a good deal worn; it did not look at all interesting.
"What is it?" she asked.
"It is called," said John, "_The Pilgrim's Progress from this
World to a better_."
Ellen thought it did not _sound_ at all interesting. She had
never been more mistaken in her life, and that she found
almost as soon as he begun. Her attention was nailed; the
listless, careless mood in which she sat down was changed for
one of rapt delight; she devoured every word that fell from
the reader's lips; indeed they were given their fullest effect
by a very fine voice and singularly fine reading. Whenever
anything might not be quite clear to Ellen, John stopped to
make it so; and with his help, and without it, many a lesson
went home. Next day she looked a long time for the book; it
could not be found; she was forced to wait until evening.
Then, to her great joy, it was brought out again, and John
asked her if she wished to hear some more of it. After that,
every evening while he was at home, they spent an hour with
the "Pilgrim." Alice would leave her work and come to the
sofa, too; and with her head on her brother's shoulder, her
hand in his, and Ellen's face leaning against his other arm,
that was the common way they placed themselves to see and
hear. No words can tell Ellen's enjoyment of those readings.
They made her sometimes laugh and sometimes cry; they had much
to do in carrying on the cure which John's wisdom and kindness
had begun.
They came to the place where Christian loses his burden at the
cross; and as he stood looking and weeping, three shining ones
came to him. "The first said to him, 'Thy sins be forgiven
thee;' the second stripped him of his rags, and clothed him
with a change of raiment; the third also set a mark on his
forehead."
John explained what was meant by the rags and the change of
raiment.
"And the mark in his forehead?" said Ellen.
"That is the mark of God's children the change wrought in
them by the Holy Spirit the change that makes them different
from others, and different from their old selves."
"Do all Christians have it?"
"Certainly. None can be a Christian without it."
"But how can one tell whether one has it or no?" said Ellen,
very gravely.
"Carry your heart and life to the Bible, and see how they
agree. The Bible gives a great many signs and descriptions, by
which Christians may know themselves know both what they are
and what they ought to be. If you find your own feelings and
manner of life at one with these Bible words, you may hope
that the Holy Spirit has changed you, and set his mark upon
you."
"I wish you would tell me of one of those places," said Ellen.
"The Bible is full of them. 'To them that believe _Christ is
precious_,' there is one. 'If ye love me, _keep my
commandments;_' 'He that saith he abideth in him, ought
himself also _so to walk even as he walked_' 'O how _love I thy
law!_' The Bible is full of them, Ellie; but you have need to
ask for great help when you go to try yourself by them; the
heart is deceitful."
Ellen looked sober all the rest of the evening, and the next
day she pondered the matter a good deal.
"I think I am changed," she said to herself, at last. "I
didn't use to like to read the Bible, and now I do very much;
I never liked praying in old times, and now, oh! what should
I do without it! I didn't love Jesus at all, but I am sure I
do now. I don't keep his commandments, but I do _try_ to keep
them; I _must_ be changed a little. Oh! I wish Mamma had known
it before!"
Weeping with mixed sorrow and thankful joy, Ellen bent her
head upon her little Bible to pray that she might be _more_
changed; and then, as she often did, raised the cover to look
at the texts in the beloved handwriting.
"I love them that love me, and they that seek me early shall
find me."
Ellen's tears were blinding her. "That has come true," she
thought.
"I will be a God to thee, and to thy seed after thee."
"That has come true, too!" she said, almost in surprise "and
Mamma believed it would." And then, as by a flash, came back
to her mind the time it was written; she remembered how, when
it was done, her mother's head had sunk upon the open page
she seemed to see again the thin fingers tightly clasped she
had not understood it then she did now. "She was praying for
me," thought Ellen "she was praying for me; she believed
that would come true."
The book was dashed down, and Ellen fell upon her knees, in a
perfect agony of weeping.
Even this, when she was calm again, served to steady her mind.
There seemed to be a link of communion between her mother and
her that was wanting before. The promise, written and believed
in by the one, realized and rejoiced in by the other, was a
dear something in common, though one had in the meanwhile
removed to heaven, and the other was still a lingerer on the
earth. Ellen bound the words upon her heart.
Another time, when they came to the last scene of Christian's
journey, Ellen's tears ran very fast. John asked if he should
pass it over, if it distressed her? She said, "Oh, no, it did
not distress her;" she wanted him to go on, and he went on,
though himself much distressed, and Alice was near as bad as
Ellen. But the next evening, to his surprise, Ellen begged
that before he went on to the second part, he would read that
piece over again. And when he lent her the book, with only the
charge that she should not go further than he had been, she
pored over that scene with untiring pleasure, till she almost
had it by heart. In short, never was a child more comforted
and contented with a book than Ellen was with the _Pilgrim's
Progress_. That was a blessed visit of John's. Alice said he
had come like a sunbeam into the house; she dreaded to think
what would be when he went away.
She wrote, him, however, when he had been gone a few weeks,
that his will seemed to carry all before it, present or
absent. Ellen went on steadily mending at least she did not
go back any. They were keeping up their rides, also their
studies, most diligently; Ellen was untiring in her efforts to
do whatever he had wished her, and was springing forward,
Alice said, in her improvement.