"Prodigious!"
In due time, Mr. Van Brunt was on his legs again, much to
everybody's joy, and much to the advantage of fields, fences,
and grain. Sam and Johnny found they must "spring to," as
their leader said; and Miss Fortune declared she was thankful
she could draw a long breath again, for, do what she would,
she couldn't be everywhere. Before this John and the Black
Prince had departed, and Alice and Ellen were left alone
again.
"How long will it be, dear Alice," said Ellen, as they stood
sorrowfully looking down the road by which he had gone,
"before he will be through that before he will be able to
leave Doncaster?"
"Next summer."
"And what will he do then?"
"Then he will be ordained."
"Ordained! what is that?"
"He will be solemnly set apart for the work of the ministry,
and appointed to it by a number of clergymen."
"And then will he come and stay at home, Alice?"
"I don't know what then, dear Ellen," said Alice, sighing; "he
may for a little; but Papa wishes very much that before he is
settled anywhere, he should visit England and Scotland, and
see our friends there; though I hardly think John will do it,
unless he sees some further reason for going. If he do not, he
will probably soon he called somewhere; Mr. Marshman wants him
to come to Randolph. I don't know how it will be."
"Well!" said Ellen, with a kind of acquiescing sigh, "at any
rate now we must wait until next Christmas."
The winter passed with little to mark it except the usual
visits to Ventnor; which, however, by common consent, Alice
and Ellen had agreed should not be when John was at home. At
all other times they were much prized and enjoyed. Every two
or three months Mr. Marshman was sure to come for them, or Mr.
Howard, or perhaps the carriage only with a letter; and it was
bargained for, that Mr. Humphreys should follow to see them
home. It was not always that Ellen could go, but the
disappointments were seldom; she, too, had become quite
domesticated at Ventnor, and was sincerely loved by the whole
family. Many as were the times she had been there, it had
oddly happened that she had never met her old friend of the
boat again; but she was very much attached to old Mr. and Mrs.
Marshman, and Mrs. Chauncey and her daughter; the latter of
whom reckoned all the rest of her young friends as nothing
compared with Ellen Montgomery. Ellen, in her opinion, did
everything better than any one else of her age.
"She has good teachers," said Mrs. Chauncey.
"Yes, indeed! I should think she had. Alice I should think
anybody would learn well with her; and Mr. John I suppose
he's as good, though I don't know so much about him; but he
must be a great deal better teacher than Mr. Sandford, Mamma,
for Ellen draws _ten times_ as well as I do!"
"Perhaps that is your fault, and not Mr. Sandford's," said her
mother; "though I rather think you overrate the difference."
"I am sure I take pains enough, if that's all," said the
little girl; "what more can I do, Mamma? But Ellen is so
pleasant about it always; she never seems to think she does
better than I; and she is always ready to help me, and take
ever so much time to show me how to do things; she is _so_
pleasant, isn't she, Mamma? I know I have heard you say she is
very polite."
"She is certainly that," said Mrs. Gillespie; "and there is a
grace in her politeness that can only proceed from great
natural delicacy and refinement of character. How she can have
such manners, living and working in the way you say she does,
I confess is beyond my comprehension."
"One would not readily forget the notion of good-breeding in
the society of Alice and John Humphreys," said Miss Sophia.
"And Mr. Humphreys," said Mrs. Chauncey.
"There is no society about him," said Miss Sophia; "he don't
say two dozen words a day."
"But she is not with them," said Mrs. Gillespie.
"She is with them a great deal, aunt Matilda," said Ellen
Chauncey, "and they teach her everything, and she does learn!
She must be very clever; don't you think she is, Mamma? Mamma,
she beats me entirely in speaking French, and she knows all
about English history; and arithmetic! and did you ever hear
her sing, Mamma?"
"I do not believe she beats you, as you call it, in generous
estimation of others," said Mrs. Chauncey, smiling, and
bending forward to kiss her daughter; "but what is the reason
Ellen is so much better read in history than you?"
"I don't know, Mamma, unless I wish I wasn't so fond of
reading stories."
"Ellen Montgomery is just as fond of them, I'll warrant," said
Miss Sophia.
"Yes oh, I know she is fond of them; but then Alice and Mr.
John don't let her read them, except now and then one."
"I fancy she does it, though, when their backs are turned,"
said Mrs. Gillespie.
"She! oh, aunt Matilda! she wouldn't do the least thing they
don't like for the whole world. I know she never reads a story
when she is here, unless it is my Sunday books, without asking
Alice first."
"She is a most extraordinary child!" said Mrs. Gillespie.
"She is a _good_ child!" said Mrs. Chauncey.
"Yes, Mamma, and that is what I wanted to say. I do not think
Ellen is so polite because she is so much with Alice and John,
but because she is so sweet and good. I don't think she could
_help_ being polite."
"It is not that," said Mrs. Gillespie; "mere sweetness and
goodness would never give so much elegance of manner. As far
as I have seen, Ellen Montgomery is a _perfectly_ well-behaved
child."
"That she is," said Mrs. Chauncey; "but neither would any
cultivation or example be sufficient for it without Ellen's
thorough good principle and great sweetness of temper."
"That's exactly what _I_ think, Mamma," said Ellen Chauncey.
Ellen's sweetness of temper was not entirely born with her; it
was one of the blessed fruits of religion and discipline.
Discipline had not done with it yet. When the winter came on,
and the house-work grew less, and with renewed vigour she was
bending herself to improvement in all sorts of ways, it
unluckily came into Miss Fortune's head, that some of Ellen's
spare time might be turned to account in a new line. With this
lady, to propose and to do were two things always very near
together. The very next day Ellen was summoned to help her
down-stairs with the big spinning-wheel. Most unsuspiciously,
and with her accustomed pleasantness, Ellen did it. But when
she was sent up again for the rolls of wool, and Miss Fortune,
after setting up the wheel, put one of them into her hand and
instructed her how to draw out and twist the thread of yarn,
she saw all that was coming. She saw it with dismay. So much
yarn as Miss Fortune might think it well she should spin, so
much time must be taken daily from her beloved reading and
writing, drawing, and studying; her very heart sunk with her.
She made no remonstrance, unless her disconsolate face might
be thought one; she stood half a day at the big spinning-
wheel, fretting secretly, while Miss Fortune went round with
an inward chuckle visible in her countenance, that in spite of
herself increased Ellen's vexation. And this was not the
annoyance of a day; she must expect it day after day through
the whole winter. It was a grievous trial. Ellen cried for a
great while when she got to her own room, and a long hard
struggle was necessary before she could resolve to do her
duty. "To be patient and quiet! and spin nobody knows how
much yarn and my poor history and philosophy and drawing and
French and reading!" Ellen cried very heartily. But she knew
what she ought to do; she prayed long, humbly, earnestly, that
"her little rushlight might shine bright;" and her aunt had
no cause to complain of her. Sometimes, if over-pressed, Ellen
would ask Miss Fortune to let her stop; saying, as Alice had
advised her, that she wished to have her do such and such
things; Miss Fortune never made any objection; and the hours
of spinning that wrought so many knots of yarn for her aunt,
wrought better things yet for the little spinner: patience and
gentleness grew with the practice of them; this wearisome work
was one of the many seemingly untoward things which in reality
bring out good. The time Ellen _did_ secure to herself was held
the more precious, and used the more carefully. After all it
was a very profitable and pleasant winter to her.
John's visit came as usual at the holidays, and was enjoyed as
usual; only that every one seemed to Ellen more pleasant than
the last. The only other event that broke the quiet course of
things (besides the journeys to Ventnor) was the death of Mrs.
Van Brunt. This happened very unexpectedly and after a short
illness, not far from the end of January. Ellen was very
sorry, both for her own sake and Mr. Van Brunt's, who she was
sure felt much, though, according to his general custom, he
said nothing. Ellen felt for him none the less. She little
thought what an important bearing this event would have upon
her own future well-being.
The winter passed and the spring came. One fine, mild,
pleasant afternoon, early in May, Mr. Van Brunt came into the
kitchen and asked Ellen if she wanted to go with him and see
the sheep salted. Ellen was seated at the table with a large
tin pan in her lap, and before her a huge heap of white beans,
which she was picking over for the Saturday's favourite dish
of pork and beans. She looked up at him with a hopeless face.
"I should like to go very much indeed, Mr. Van Brunt, but you
see I can't. All these to do!"
"Beans, eh?" said he, putting one or two in his mouth.
"Where's your aunt?"
"Here, Ma'am!" said he "can't you let this child go with me?
I want her along to help feed the sheep."
To Ellen's astonishment, her aunt called to her through the
closed door to "go along, and leave the beans till she came
back." Joyfully Ellen obeyed. She turned her back upon the
beans, careless of the big heap which would still be there to
pick over when she returned, and ran to get her bonnet. In all
the time she had been at Thirlwall, something had always
prevented her seeing the sheep fed with salt, and she went
eagerly out of the door with Mr. Van Brunt to a new pleasure.
They crossed two or three meadows back of the barn, to a low
rocky hill covered with trees. On the other side of this, they
came to a fine field of spring wheat. Footsteps must not go
over the young grain; Ellen and Mr. Van Brunt coasted
carefully round by the fence to another piece of rocky
woodland, that lay on the far side of the wheat-field. It was
a very fine afternoon. The grass was green in the meadow; the
trees were beginning to show their leaves; the air was soft
and spring-like. In great glee Ellen danced along, luckily
needing no entertainment from Mr. Van Brunt, who was devoted
to his salt-pan. His natural taciturnity seemed greater than
ever; he amused himself all the way over the meadow, with
turning over his salt and tasting it, till Ellen laughingly
told him, she believed he was as fond of it as the sheep were;
and then he took to chucking little bits of it right and left,
at anything he saw that was big enough to serve for a mark.
Ellen stopped him again, by laughing at his wastefulness; and
so they came to the wood. She left him then to do as he liked,
while she ran hither and thither to search for flowers. It was
slow getting through the wood. He was fain to stop and wait
for her.
"Aren't these lovely?" said Ellen, as she came up with her
hands full of anemones "and look there's the liverwort. I
thought it must be out before now the dear little thing!
but I can't find any blood-root, Mr. Van Brunt."
"I guess they're gone," said Mr. Van Brunt.
"I suppose they must," said Ellen. "I am sorry; I like them so
much. Oh, I believe I did get them earlier than this two years
ago, when I used to take so many walks with you. Only think of
my not having been to look for flowers before, this spring."
"It hadn't ought to ha' happened so, that's a fact," said Mr.
Van Brunt; "I don't know how it has."
"Oh! there are my yellow bells!" exclaimed Ellen "oh, you
beauties! Aren't they, Mr. Van Brunt?"
"I won't say but what I think an ear of wheat's handsomer,"
said he, with his half smile.
"Why, Mr. Van Brunt! How can you? but an ear of wheat's
pretty, too. Oh, Mr. Van Brunt, what _is_ that? Do you get me
some of it, will you, please? Oh, how beautiful! what is
it?"
"That's black birch," said he; " '_tis_ kind o' handsome;
stop, I'll find you some oak blossoms directly. There's some
Solomon's seal do you want some of that?"
Ellen sprang to it with exclamations of joy, and, before she
could rise from her stooping posture, discovered some cowslips
to be scrambled for. Wild columbine, the delicate corydalis,
and more uvularias, which she called yellow bells, were added
to her handful, till it grew a very elegant bunch indeed. Mr.
Van Brunt looked complacently on, much as Ellen would at a
kitten running round after its tail.
"Now, I won't keep you any longer, Mr. Van Brunt," said she,
when her hands were as full as they could hold; "I have kept
you a great while; you are very good to wait for me."
They took up their line of march again, and after crossing the
last piece of rocky woodland, came to an open hill-side,
sloping gently up, at the foot of which were several large
flat stones.
"But where are the sheep, Mr. Van Brunt?" said Ellen.
"I guess they ain't fur," said he. "You keep quiet, 'cause
they don't know you; and they are mighty scary. Just stand
still there by the fence. Ca-nan! ca-nan! ca-nan, nan, nan,
nan, nan, nan, nan!"
This was the sheep-call, and raising his voice, Mr. Van Brunt
made it sound abroad far over the hills. Again and again it
sounded; and then Ellen saw the white nose of a sheep, at the
edge of the woods, on the top of the hill. On the call's
sounding again, the sheep set forward, and in a long train
they came running along a narrow footpath, down towards where
Mr. Van Brunt was standing with his pan. The soft tramp of a
multitude of light hoofs in another direction, turned Ellen's
eyes that way, and there were two more single files of sheep
running down the hill from different points in the woodland.
The pretty things came scampering along, seeming in a great
hurry, till they got very near; then the whole multitude came
to a sudden halt, and looked very wistfully and doubtfully
indeed at Mr. Van Brunt, and the strange little figure
standing so still by the fence. They seemed in great doubt,
every sheep of them, whether Mr. Van Brunt were not a traitor,
who had put on a friend's voice, and lured them down there
with some dark evil intent, which he was going to carry out by
means of that same dangerous-looking stranger by the fence.
Ellen almost expected to see them turn about and go as fast as
they had come. But Mr. Van Brunt, gently repeating his call,
went quietly up to the nearest stone, and began to scatter the
salt upon it, full in their view. Doubt was at an end; he had
hung out the white flag; they flocked down to the stones, no
longer at all in fear of double-dealing, and crowded to get at
the salt; the rocks where it was strewn were covered with more
sheep than Ellen would have thought it possible could stand
upon them. They were like pieces of floating ice, heaped up
with snow, or queen-cakes with an immoderately thick frosting.
It was one scene of pushing and crowding those which had not
had their share of the feast forcing themselves up to get at
it, and shoving others off in consequence. Ellen was
wonderfully pleased. It was a new and pretty sight, the busy
hustling crowd of gentle creatures, with the soft noise of
their tread upon grass and stones, and the eager devouring of
the salt. She was fixed with pleasure, looking and listening,
and did not move till the entertainment was over, and the body
of the flock were carelessly scattering here and there, while
a few that had perhaps been disappointed of their part, still
lingered upon the stones, in the vain hope of yet licking a
little saltness from them.
"Well," said Ellen, "I never knew what salt was worth before.
How they do love it! Is it good for them, Mr. Van Brunt?"
"Good for them!" said he "to be sure it is good for them.
There ain't a critter that walks, as I know, that it ain't
good for 'cept chickens, and, it's very queer, it kills
them."
They turned to go homeward. Ellen had taken the empty pan to
lay her flowers in, thinking it would be better for them than
the heat of her hand; and, greatly pleased with what she had
come to see, and enjoying her walk as much as it was possible,
she was going home very happy, yet she could not help missing
Mr. Van Brunt's old sociableness. He was uncommonly silent,
even for him, considering that he and Ellen were alone
together; and she wondered what had possessed him with a
desire to cut down all the young saplings he came to that were
large enough for walking-sticks. He did not want to make any
use of them that was certain, for as fast as he cut and
trimmed out one he threw it away and cut another. Ellen was
glad when they got out into the open fields where there were
none to be found.
"It is just about this time a year ago," said she, "that Aunt
Fortune was getting well of her long fit of sickness."
"Yes!" said Mr. Van Brunt, with a very profound air;
"something is always happening most years."
Ellen did not know what to make of this philosophical remark.
"I am very glad nothing is happening this year," said she; "I
think it is a great deal pleasanter to have things go on
quietly."
"Oh, something might happen without hindering things going on
quietly, I s'pose mightn't it?"
"I don't know," said Ellen, wonderingly. "Why, Mr. Van Brunt,
what is going to happen?"
"I declare," said he, half-laughing, "you're as 'cute as a
razor; I didn't say there was anything going to happen, did
I?"
"But is there?" said Ellen.
"Han't your aunt said nothing to you about it?"
"Why, no," said Ellen "she never tells me anything; what is
it?"
"Why, the story is," said Mr. Van Brunt "at least I know,
for I've understood as much from herself, that I believe
she's going to be married before long."
"She!" exclaimed Ellen. "Married! Aunt Fortune!"
"I believe so," said Mr. Van Brunt, making a lunge at a tuft
of tall grass, and pulling off two or three spears of it,
which he carried to his mouth.
There was a long silence, during which Ellen saw nothing in
earth, air, or sky, and knew no longer whether she was passing
through woodland or meadow. To frame words into another
sentence was past her power. They came in sight of the barn at
length. She would not have much more time.
"Will it be soon, Mr. Van Brunt?"
"Why pretty soon as soon as next week, I guess; so I thought
it was time you ought to be told. Do you know to who?"
"I don't _know_," said Ellen, in a low voice; "I couldn't help
guessing."
"I reckon you've guessed about right," said he, without
looking at her.
There was another silence, during which it seemed to Ellen
that her thoughts were tumbling head over heels, they were in
such confusion.
"The short and the long of it is," said Mr. Van Brunt, as they
rounded the corner of the barn "we have made up our minds to
draw in the same yoke; and we're both on us pretty go-ahead
folks, so I guess we'll contrive to pull the cart along. I had
just as lief tell you, Ellen, that all this was as good as
settled a long spell back afore ever you came to Thirlwall;
but I was never a-going to leave my old mother without a home,
so I stuck to her, and would, to the end of time, if I had
never been married. But now she is gone, and there is nothing
to keep me to the old place any longer. So now you know the
hull on it, and I wanted you should."
With this particularly cool statement of his matrimonial
views, Mr. Van Brunt turned off into the barnyard, leaving
Ellen to go home by herself. She felt as if she were walking
on air while she crossed the chip-yard, and the very house had
a seeming of unreality. Mechanically she put her flowers in
water, and sat down to finish the beans; but the beans might
have been flowers, and the flowers beans, for all the
difference Ellen saw in them. Miss Fortune and she shunned
each other's faces most carefully for a long time Ellen felt
it impossible to meet her eyes; and it is a matter of great
uncertainty which, in fact, did first look at the other. Other
than this there was no manner of difference in anything
without or within the house. Mr. Van Brunt's being absolutely
speechless was not a _very_ uncommon thing.