"The clouds return after the rain."
As soon as she could, Ellen carried this wonderful news to
Alice, and eagerly poured out the whole story, her walk and
all. She was somewhat disappointed at the calmness of her
hearer.
"But you don't seem half as surprised as I expected, Alice; I
thought you would be so much surprised."
"I am not surprised at all, Ellie."
"Not! aren't you? why, did you know anything of this before?"
"I did not _know_, but I suspected. I thought it was very
likely. I am very glad it is so."
"Glad! are you glad? I am so sorry. Why are you glad, Alice?"
"Why are you sorry, Ellie?"
"Oh because I don't know it seems so queer! I don't like
it at all. I am very sorry, indeed."
"For your aunt's sake, or for Mr. Van Brunt's sake?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, do you think he or she will be a loser by the
bargain?"
"Why, he to be sure I think he will I don't think she
will. I think he is a great deal too good. And, besides I
wonder if he wants to, really it was settled so long ago
maybe he has changed his mind since."
"Have you any reason to think so, Ellie?" said Alice, smiling.
"I don't know I don't think he seemed particularly glad."
"It will be safest to conclude that Mr. Van Brunt knows his
own mind, my dear; and it is certainly pleasanter for us to
hope so."
"But then, besides," said Ellen, with a face of great
perplexity and vexation "I don't know it don't seem right!
How can I ever must I do you think I shall have to call
him anything but Mr. Van Brunt?"
Alice could not help smiling again.
"What is your objection, Ellie?"
"Why, because I _can't!_ I couldn't do it, somehow. It would
seem so strange. Must I, Alice? Why in the world are you glad,
dear Alice?"
"It smooths my way for a plan I have had in my head; you will
know by-and-by why I am glad, Ellie."
"Well, I am glad if you are glad," said Ellen, sighing; "I
don't know why I was so sorry, but I couldn't help it. I
suppose I shan't mind it after a while."
She sat for a few minutes, musing over the possibility or
impossibility of ever forming her lips to the words "Uncle
Abraham," "Uncle Van Brunt," or barely "uncle;" her soul
rebelled against all three. "Yet, if he should think me
unkind, then I must oh! rather fifty times over than that!"
Looking up, she saw a change in Alice's countenance, and
tenderly asked
"What is the matter, dear Alice? what are you thinking about?"
"I am thinking, Ellie, how I shall tell you something that
will give you pain."
"Pain! you needn't be afraid of giving me pain," said Ellen,
fondly, throwing her arms around her. "Tell me, dear Alice; is
it something I have done that is wrong? what is it?"
Alice kissed her, and burst into tears.
"What is the matter; oh, dear Alice!" said Ellen, encircling
Alice's head with both her arms, "oh, don't cry! do tell me
what it is!"
"It is only sorrow for you, dear Ellie."
"But why?" said Ellen, in some alarm; "why are you sorry for
me? I don't care if it don't trouble you, indeed I don't?
Never mind me; is it something that troubles you, dear Alice?"
"No, except for the effect it may have on others."
"Then I can bear it," said Ellen; "you need not be afraid to
tell me, dear Alice; what is it? don't be sorry for me!"
But the expression of Alice's face was such that she could not
help being afraid to hear: she anxiously repeated, "what is
it?"
Alice fondly smoothed back the hair from her brow, looking
herself somewhat anxiously and somewhat sadly upon the
uplifted face.
"Suppose Ellie," she, said at length, "that you and I were
taking a journey together a troublesome, dangerous journey
and that _I_ had a way of getting at once safe to the end of it;
would you be willing to let me go, and you do without me for
the rest of the way?"
"I would rather you should take me with you," said Ellen, in a
kind of maze of wonder and fear; "why, where are you going,
Alice?"
"I think I am going home, Ellie before you."
"Home?" said Ellen.
"Yes, home, I feel it to be; it is not a strange land; I thank
God it is my home I am going to."
Ellen sat looking at her, stupefied.
"It is your home, too, love, I trust, and believe," said Alice
tenderly; "we shall be together at last. I am not sorry for
myself; I only grieve to leave you alone and others but
God knows best. We must both look to Him."
"Why, Alice," said Ellen, starting up suddenly; "what do you
mean? what do you mean? I don't understand you what do you
mean?"
"Do you not understand me, Ellie?"
"But, Alice! but Alice _dear_ Alice! what makes you say
so? is there anything the matter with you?"
"Do I look well, Ellie?"
With an eye sharpened to painful keenness, Ellen sought in
Alice's face for the tokens of what she wished and what she
feared. It _had_ once or twice lately flitted through her mind
that Alice was very thin, and seemed to want her old strength,
whether in riding or walking or any other exertion; and it _had_
struck her that the bright spots of colour in Alice's face
were just like what her mother's cheeks used to wear in her
last illness. These thoughts had just come and gone; but now,
as she recalled them, and was forced to acknowledge the
justness of them, and her review of Alice's face pressed them
home anew hope for a moment faded. She grew white, even to
her lips.
"My poor Ellie! my poor Ellie!" said Alice, pressing her
little sister to her bosom "it must be! We _must_ say 'the
Lord's will be done;' we must not forget he does all things
well."
But Ellen rallied; she raised her head again: she could not
believe what Alice had told her. To her mind, it seemed an
evil _too great to happen;_ it could not be! Alice saw this in
her look, and again sadly stroked her hair from her brow. "It
must be, Ellie," she repeated.
"But have you seen somebody? have you asked somebody?" said
Ellen "some doctor?"
"I have seen, and I have asked," said Alice; "it was not
necessary, but I have done both. They think as I do."
"But these Thirlwall doctors "
"Not them; I did not apply to them. I saw an excellent
physician at Randolph, the last time I went to Ventnor."
"And he said "
"As I have told you."
Ellen's countenance fell fell.
"It is easier for me to leave you than for you to be left I
know that, my dear little Ellie! You have no reason to be
sorry for me I _am_ sorry for you; but the hand that is taking
me away is one that will touch neither of us but to do us
good; I know that, too. We must both look away to our dear
Saviour, and not for a moment doubt his love. I do not you
must not. Is it not said that 'he loved Martha, and her
sister, and Lazarus?' "
"Yes," said Ellen, who never stirred her eyes from Alice's.
"And might he not did it not rest with a word of his lips,
to keep Lazarus from dying, and save his sisters from all the
bitter sorrow his death caused them?"
Again Ellen said, "Yes," or her lips seemed to say it.
"And yet there were reasons, good reasons, why he should not,
little as poor Martha and Mary could understand it. But had
he at all ceased to _love them_ when he bade all that trouble
come? Do you remember, Ellie oh, how beautiful those words
are! when at last he arrived near the place, and first one
sister came to him with the touching reminder that he might
have saved them from this, and then the other, weeping, and
falling at his feet, and repeating 'Lord, if thou hadst been
here!' when he saw their tears, and more, saw the torn
hearts that tears could not ease he even wept with them too!
Oh, I thank God for those words! He saw reason to strike, and
his hand did not spare; but his love shed tears for them! and
he is just the same now."
Some drops fell from Alice's eyes, not sorrowful ones; Ellen
had hid her face.
'Let us never doubt His love, dear Ellie, and surely then we
can bear whatever that love may bring upon us. I do trust it.
I do believe it shall be well with them that fear God. I
believe it will be well for me when I die well for you, my
dear, dear Ellie well even for my father "
She did not finish the sentence, afraid to trust herself. But
oh! Ellen knew what it would have been; and it suddenly
startled into life all the load of grief that had been
settling heavily on her heart. Her thoughts had not looked
that way before; now, when they did, this new vision of misery
was too much to bear. Quite unable to contain herself, and
unwilling to pain Alice more than she could help, with a
smothered burst of feeling she sprang away, out of the door,
into the woods, where she would be unseen and unheard.
And there, in the first burst of her agony, Ellen almost
thought she should die. Her grief had not now, indeed, the
goading sting of impatience: she knew the hand that gave the
blow, and did not raise her own against it; she believed, too,
what Alice had been saying, and the sense of it was, in a
manner, present with her in her darkest time. But her spirit
died within her; she bowed her head as if she were never to
lift it up again; and she was ready to say with Job, "What
good is my life to me?"
It was long, very long after, when slowly and mournfully she
came in again to kiss Alice before going back to her aunt's.
She would have done it hurriedly and turned away; but Alice
held her, and looked sadly for a minute into the woe-begone
little face, then clasped her close, and kissed her again and
again.
"Oh! Alice," sobbed Ellen, on her neck, "aren't you mistaken?
maybe you are mistaken!"
"I am not mistaken, my dear Ellie my own Ellie," said
Alice's clear, sweet voice; "nor sorry, except for others. I
will talk with you more about this. You will be sorry for me
at first, and then I hope you will be glad. It is only that I
am going home a little before you. Remember what I was saying
to you a while ago. Will you tell Mr. Van Brunt I should like
to see him for a few minutes, some time when he has leisure?
And come to me early to-morrow, love."
Ellen could hardly get home. Her blinded eyes could not see
where she was stepping; and again and again her fulness of
heart got the better of everything else, and, unmindful of the
growing twilight, she sat down on a stone by the wayside, or
flung herself on the ground, to let sorrows have full sway. In
one of these fits of bitter struggling with pain, there came
on her mind, like a sunbeam across a cloud, the thought of
Jesus weeping at the grave of Lazarus. It came with singular
power. Did He love them so well? thought Ellen, and is He
looking down upon us with the same tenderness even now? She
felt that the sun was shining still, though the cloud might be
between; her broken heart crept to His feet, and laid its
burden there, and after a few minutes she rose up and went on
her way, keeping that thought still close to her heart. The
unspeakable tears that were shed during those few minutes were
that softened out-pouring of the heart that leaves it eased.
Very, very sorrowful as she was, she went on calmly now, and
stopped no more.
It was getting dark, and a little way from the gate, on the
road, she met Mr. Van Brunt.
"Why, I was beginning to get scared about you," said he. "I
was coming to see where you was. How come you so late?"
Ellen made no answer, and as he now came nearer, and he could
see more distinctly, his tone changed.
"What's the matter?" said he; "you han't been well! what has
happened? what ails you, Ellen?"
In astonishment, and then in alarm, he saw that she was unable
to speak, and anxiously and kindly begged her to let him know
what was the matter, and if he could do anything. Ellen shook
her head.
"Ain't Miss Alice well?" said he; "you han't heerd no bad news
up there on the hill, have you?"
Ellen was not willing to answer this question with yea or nay.
She recovered herself enough to give him Alice's message.
"I'll be sure and go," said he; "but you han't told me yet
what's the matter. Has anything happened?"
"No," said Ellen; "don't ask me she'll tell you don't ask
me."
"I guess I'll go up the first thing in the morning then," said
he "before breakfast."
"No," said Ellen "better not; perhaps she wouldn't be up so
early."
"After breakfast, then; I'll go up right after breakfast. I
was a-going with the boys up into that 'ere wheat lot, but
anyhow I'll do that first. They won't have a chance to do much
bad or good before I get back to them, I reckon."
As soon as possible, she made her escape from Miss Fortune's
eye and questions of curiosity, which she could not bear to
answer, and got to her own room. There, the first thing she
did was to find the eleventh chapter of John. She read it as
she never had read it before; she found in it what she never
had found before; one of those cordials that none but the
sorrowing drink. On the love of Christ, as there shown, little
Ellen's heart fastened; and with that one sweetening thought,
amid all its deep sadness, her sleep that night might have
been envied by many a luxurious roller in pleasure.
At Alice's wish, she immediately took up her quarters at the
parsonage, to leave her no more. But she could not see much
difference in her from what she had been for several weeks
past; and with the natural hopefulness of childhood, her mind
presently almost refused to believe the extremity of the evil
which had been threatened. Alice herself was constantly
cheerful, and sought by all means to further Ellen's
cheerfulness; though careful, at the same time, to forbid, as
far as she could, the rising of the hope she saw Ellen was
inclined to cherish.
One evening they were sitting together at the window, looking
out upon the same old lawn and distant landscape, now in all
the fresh greenness of the young spring. The woods were not
yet in full leaf; and the light of the setting sun upon the
trees bordering the other side of the lawn, showed them in the
most exquisite and varied shades of colour. Some had the
tender green of the new leaf, some were in the red or yellow
browns of the half-opened bud; others in various stages of
forwardness, mixing all the tints between, and the evergreens
standing dark as ever, setting off the delicate hues of the
surrounding foliage. This was all softened off in the
distance; the very light of the spring was mild and tender
compared with that of other seasons; and the air that stole
round the corner of the house and came in at the open window
was laden with aromatic fragrance. Alice and Ellen had been
for some time silently breathing it, and gazing thoughtfully
on the loveliness that was abroad.
"I used to think," said Alice, "that it must be a very hard
thing to leave such a beautiful world. Did you ever think so,
Ellie?"
"I don't know," said Ellen, faintly "I don't remember."
"I used to think so," said Alice, "but I do not now, Ellie; my
feeling has changed. Do _you_ feel so now, Ellie?"
"Oh, why do you talk about it, dear Alice?"
"For many reasons, dear Ellie. Come here and sit in my lap
again."
"I am afraid you cannot bear it."
"Yes, I can. Sit here, and let your head rest where it used
to;" and Alice laid her cheek upon Ellen's forehead; "you are
a great comfort to me, dear Ellie."
"Oh, Alice, don't say so you'll kill me!" exclaimed Ellen,
in great distress.
"Why should I not say so, love?" said Alice, soothingly. "I
like to say it, and you will be glad to know it by-and-by. You
are a _great_ comfort to me."
"And what have you been to me?" said Ellen, weeping bitterly.
"What I cannot be much longer; and I want to accustom you to
think of it, and to think of it rightly. I want you to know
that, if I am sorry at all in the thought, it is for the sake
of others, not myself. Ellie, you yourself will be glad for me
in a little while; you will not wish me back."
Ellen shook her head.
"I know you will not, after a while; and I shall leave you
in good hands I have arranged for that, my dear little
sister!"
The sorrowing child neither knew nor cared what she meant, but
a mute caress answered the _spirit_ of Alice's words.
"Look up, Ellie look out again. Lovely, lovely! all that is;
but I know heaven is a great deal more lovely. Feasted as our
eyes are with beauty, I believe that eye has not seen nor
heart imagined the things that God has prepared for them that
love him. _You_ believe that, Ellie; you must not be so very
sorry that I have gone to see it a little before you."
Ellen could say nothing.
"After all, Ellie, it is not beautiful things nor a beautiful
world that make people happy it is loving and being loved;
and that is the reason why I am happy in the thought of
heaven. I shall, if he receives me, I shall be with my
Saviour; I shall see him and know him, without any of the
clouds that come between here. I am often forgetting and
displeasing him now never serving him well nor loving him
right. I shall be glad to find myself where all that will be
done with for ever. I shall be like him! Why do you cry so,
Ellie?" said Alice, tenderly.
"I can't help it, Alice."
"It is only my love for you and for two more that could
make me wish to stay here nothing else; and I give all that
up, because I do not know what is best for you or myself. And
I look to meet you all again before long. Try to think of it
as I do, Ellie."
"But what shall I do without you?" said poor Ellen.
"I will tell you, Ellie. You must come here and take my place,
and take care of those I leave behind; will you? and they
will take care of you."
"But," said Ellen, looking up eagerly "Aunt Fortune"
"I have managed all that. Will you do it, Ellen? I shall feel
easy and happy about you, and far easier and happier about my
father, if I leave you established here, to be to him, as far
as you can, what I have been. Will you promise me, Ellie?"
In words it was not possible; but what silent kisses and the
close pressure of the arms round Alice's neck could say, was
said.
"I am satisfied, then," said Alice, presently. "My father will
be your father think him so, dear Ellie and I know John
will take care of you. And my place will not be empty. I am
very, very glad."
Ellen felt her place surely would be empty, but she could not
say so.
"It was for this I was so glad of your aunt's marriage,
Ellie," Alice soon went on. "I foresaw she might raise some
difficulties in my way hard to remove, perhaps; but now I
have seen Mr. Van Brunt, and he has promised me that nothing
shall hinder your taking up your abode, and making your home
entirely here. Though I believe, Ellie, he would truly have
loved to have you in his own house."
"I am sure he would," said Ellen "but oh, how much rather!"
"He behaved very well about it the other morning in a very
manly, frank, kind way showed a good deal of feeling, I
think, too. He gave me to understand that for his own sake he
should be extremely sorry to let you go; but he assured me
that nothing over which he had any control should stand in the
way of your good."
"He is _very_ kind he is _very_ good he is always so," said
Ellen. "I love Mr. Van Brunt very much. He always was as kind
to me as he could be."
They were silent for a few minutes, and Alice was looking out
of the window again. The sun had set, and the colouring of all
without was graver. Yet it was but the change from one beauty
to another. The sweet air seemed still sweeter than before the
sun went down.
"You must be happy, dear Ellie, in knowing that I am. I am
happy now. I enjoy all this, and I love you all but I can
leave it and can leave you yes, both for I would see
Jesus! He who has taught me to love him, will not forsake me
now. Goodness and mercy have followed me all the days of my
life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. I
thank him! Oh, I thank him!"
Alice's face did not belie her words, though her eyes shone
through tears.
"Ellie, dear you must love Him with all your heart, and live
constantly in his presence. I know if you do, he will make you
happy, in any event. He can always give more than he takes
away. Oh, how good he is! and what wretched returns we make
him! I was miserable when John first went away to Doncaster; I
did not know how to bear it. But now, Ellie, I think I can see
it has done me good, and I can even be thankful for it. All
things are ours all things the world, and life, and death
too."
"Alice," said Ellen, as well as she could "you know what you
were saying to me the other day?"
"About what, love?"
"That about you know that chapter."
"About the death of Lazarus?"
"Yes. It has comforted me very much."
"So it has me, Ellie. It has been exceeding sweet to me at
different times. Come, sing to me 'How firm a foundation.' "
From time to time, Alice led to this kind of conversation,
both for Ellen's sake and her own pleasure. Meanwhile she made
her go on with her usual studies and duties; and but for these
talks Ellen would have scarce known how to believe that it
could be true which she feared.
The wedding of Miss Fortune and Mr. Van Brunt was a very quiet
one. It happened at far too busy a time of the year, and they
were too cool calculators, and looked upon their union in much
too business-like a point of view, to dream of such a wild
thing as a wedding-tour, or even resolve upon so troublesome a
thing as a wedding-party. Miss Fortune would not have left her
cheese and butter-making to see all the New Yorks and Bostons
that ever were built; and she would have scorned a trip to
Randolph. And Mr. Van Brunt would as certainly have wished
himself all the while back among his furrows and crops. So one
day they were quietly married at home, the Rev. Mr. Clark
having been fetched from Thirlwall for the purpose. Mr. Van
Brunt would have preferred that Mr. Humphreys should perform
the ceremony; but Miss Fortune was quite decided in favour of
the Thirlwall gentleman, and of course he it was.
The talk ran high all over the country on the subject of this
marriage, and opinions were greatly divided; some
congratulating Mr. Van Brunt on having made himself one of the
richest landholders "in town," by the junction of another fat
farm to his own; some pitying him for having got more than his
match within doors, and "guessing he'd missed his reckoning
for once."
"If he has, then," said Sam Larkens, who heard some of these
condoling remarks, "it's the first time in his life, I can
tell you. If _she_ ain't a little mistaken, I wish I mayn't get
a month's wages in a year to come. I tell you, you don't know
Van Brunt; he's as easy as anybody as long as he don't care
about what you're doing; but if he once takes a notion, you
can't make him gee nor haw no more than you can our near ox
Timothy when he's out o' yoke and he's as ugly a beast to
manage as ever I see when he ain't yoked up. Why, bless you!
there han't been a thing done on the farm this five years but
just what he liked _she_ don't know it. I've heerd her," said
Sam chucking "I've heerd her a-telling him how she wanted
this thing done and t'other, and he'd just not say a word, and
go and do it right t'other way. It'll be a wonder if somebody
ain't considerably startled in her calculations afore summer's
out."