One less in the wide, wide world.
It was impossible at first to make Mr. Humphreys believe that
Alice was right in her notion about her health. The greatness
of the evil was such that his mind refused to receive it, much
as Ellen's had done. His unbelief, however, lasted longer than
hers. Constantly with Alice as she was, and talking to her on
the subject, Ellen slowly gave up the hope she had clung to;
though, still, bending all her energies to the present
pleasure and comfort of her adopted sister, her mind shrank
from looking at the end. Daily and hourly, in every way, she
strove to be what Alice said she was, a comfort to her, and
she succeeded. Daily and hourly Alice's look and smile and
manner said the same thing over and over. It was Ellen's
precious reward, and in seeking to earn it, she half the time
earned another in forgetting herself. It was different with
Mr. Humphreys. He saw much less of his daughter; and when he
was with her, it was impossible for Alice, with all her
efforts, to speak to him as freely and plainly as she was in
the habit of speaking to Ellen. The consequences were such as
grieved her, but could not be helped.
As soon as it was known that her health was failing, Sophia
Marshman came and took up her abode at the parsonage. Ellen
was almost sorry; it broke up in a measure the sweet and
peaceful way of life she and Alice had held together ever
since her own coming. Miss Sophia could not make a third in
their conversations. But as Alice's strength grew less, and
she needed more attendance and help, it was plain her friend's
being there was a happy thing for both Alice and Ellen. Miss
Sophia was active, cheerful, untiring in her affectionate
care, always pleasant in manner and temper; a very useful
person in a house where one was ailing. Mrs. Vawse was often
there, too, and to her Ellen clung, whenever she came, as to a
pillar of strength. Miss Sophia could do nothing to help _her;_
Mrs. Vawse could, a great deal.
Alice had refused to write or allow others to write to her
brother. She said he was just finishing his course of study at
Doncaster; she would not have him disturbed or broken off by
bad news from home. In August he would be quite through; the
first of August he would be home.
Before the middle of June, however, her health began to fail
much more rapidly than she had counted upon. It became too
likely that, if she waited for his regular return at the first
of August, she would see but little of her brother. She at
last reluctantly consented that Mrs. Chauncey should write to
him; and from that moment counted the days.
Her father had scarcely till now given up his old confidence
respecting her. He came into her room one morning when just
about to set out for Carra-carra to visit one or two of his
poor parishioners.
"How are you to day, my daughter?" he asked, tenderly.
"Easy, Papa and happy," said Alice.
"You are looking better," said he. "We shall have you well
again among us yet."
There was some sorrow for him in Alice's smile, as she looked
up at him and answered, "Yes, Papa in the land where the
inhabitant shall no more say, 'I am sick.' "
He kissed her hastily, and went out.
"I almost wish I was in your place, Alice," said Miss Sophia.
"I hope I may be half as happy when my time comes."
"What right have you to hope so, Sophia?" said Alice, rather
sadly.
"To be sure," said the other, after a pause, "you have been
ten times as good as I. I don't wonder you feel easy when you
look back and think how blameless your life has been."
"Sophia, Sophia!" said Alice "you know it is not that. I
never did a good thing in all my life that was not mixed and
spoiled with evil. I never came up to the full measure of duty
in any matter."
"But surely," said Miss Sophia, "if one does the best one can,
it will be accepted?"
"It won't do to trust to that, Sophia. God's law requires
perfection; and nothing less than perfection will be received
as payment of its demand. If you owe a hundred dollars, and
your creditor will not hold you quit for anything less than
the whole sum, it is of no consequence whether you offer him
ten or twenty."
"Why, according to that," said Miss Sophia. "it makes no
difference what kind of life one leads."
Alice sighed, and shook her head.
"The fruit shows what the tree is. Love to God _will_ strive to
please him always."
"And is it of no use to strive to please him?"
"Of no manner of use, if you make that your _trust_."
"Well, I don't see what one _is_ to trust to," said Miss Sophia,
"if it isn't a good life."
"I will answer you," said Alice, with a smile in which there
was no sorrow, "in some words that I love very much, of an old
Scotchman, I think; 'I have taken all my good deeds and all
my bad, and have cast them together in a heap before the Lord;
and from them all I have fled to Jesus Christ, and in him
alone I have sweet peace.' "
Sophia was silenced for a minute by her look.
"Well," said she, "I don't understand it; that is what George
is always talking about; but I can't understand him."
"I am _very_ sorry you cannot," said Alice, gravely.
They were both silent for a little while.
"If all Christians were like you," said Miss Sophia, "I might
think more about it; but they are such a dull set; there seems
to be no life nor pleasure among them."
Alice thought of these lines,
"Their pleasures rise to things unseen,
Beyond the bounds of time:
Where neither eyes nor ears have been,
Nor thoughts of mortals climb."
"You judge," said she, "like the rest of the world, of that
which they see not. After all, _they_ know best whether they are
happy. What do you think of Mrs. Vawse?
"I don't know what to think of her; she is wonderful to me;
she is past my comprehension entirely. Don't make _her_ an
example."
"No, religion has done that for me. What do you think of your
brother?"
"George? _He_ is happy, there is no doubt of that; he is the
happiest person in the family, by all odds; but then I think
he has a natural knack at being happy; it is impossible for
anything to put him out."
Alice smiled, and shook her head again.
"Sophistry, Sophia. What do you think of _me?_"
"I don't see what reason you have to be anything but happy."
"What have I to make me so?"
Sophia was silent. Alice laid her thin hand upon hers.
"I am leaving all I love in this world. Should I be happy if I
were not going to somewhat I love better? Should I be happy if
I had no secure prospect of meeting with them again? or if I
were doubtful of my reception in that place whither I hope to
go?"
Sophia burst into tears.
"Well, I don't know," said she; "I suppose you are right; but
I don't understand it."
Alice drew her face down to hers, and whispered something in
her ear.
Undoubtedly Alice had much around, as well as within her, to
make a declining life happy. Mrs. Vawse and Miss Marshman were
two friends and nurses not to be surpassed in their different
ways. Margery's motherly affection, her zeal, and her skill,
left nothing for heart to wish in her line of duty. And all
that affection, taste, and kindness, which abundant means,
could supply, was at Alice's command. Still her greatest
comfort was Ellen; her constant, thoughtful care; the thousand
tender attentions, from the roses daily gathered for her
table, to the chapters she read and the hymns she sung to her;
the smile that often covered a pang; the pleasant words and
tone that many a time came from a sinking heart; they were
Alice's daily and nightly cordial. Ellen had learned self-
command in more than one school; affection, as once before,
was her powerful teacher now, and taught her well. Sophia
openly confessed that Ellen was the best nurse; and Margery,
when nobody heard her, muttered blessings on the child's head.
Mr. Humphreys came in often to see his daughter, but never
stayed long. It was plain he could not bear it. It might have
been difficult, too, for Alice to bear, but she wished for her
brother. She reckoned the time from Mrs. Chauncey's letter to
that when he might be looked for; but some irregularities in
the course of the post-office made it impossible to count with
certainty upon the exact time of his arrival. Meanwhile, her
failure was very rapid. Mrs. Vawse began to fear he would not
arrive in time.
The weeks of June ran out; the roses, all but a few late
kinds, blossomed and died; July came.
One morning, when Ellen went into her room, Alice drew her
close to her and said
"You remember, Ellie, in the _Pilgrim's Progress_, when
Christiana and her companions were sent to go over the river?
I think the messenger has come for me. You mustn't cry,
love; listen this is the token he seems to bring me 'I
have loved thee with an everlasting love.' I am sure of it,
Ellie; I have no doubt of it; so don't cry for me. You have
been my dear comfort, my blessing we shall love each other
in heaven, Ellie."
Alice kissed her earnestly several times, and then Ellen
escaped from her arms and fled away. It was long before she
could come back again. But she came at last, and went on
through all that day as she had done for weeks before. The day
seemed long, for every member of the family was on the watch
for John's arrival, and it was thought his sister would not
live to see another. It wore away; hour after hour passed
without his coming, and the night fell. Alice showed no
impatience, but she evidently wished and watched for him; and
Ellen whose affection read her face and knew what to make of
the look at the opening door, the eye turned towards the
window, the attitude of listening grew feverish with her
intense desire that she should be gratified.
From motives of convenience, Alice had moved upstairs to a
room that John generally occupied when he was at home,
directly over the sitting-room, and with pleasant windows
towards the east. Mrs. Chauncey, Miss Sophia, and Mrs. Vawse,
were all there. Alice was lying quietly on the bed, and seemed
to be dozing; but Ellen noticed, after lights were brought,
that every now and then she opened her eyes and gave an
inquiring look round the room. Ellen could not bear it;
slipping softly out, she went downstairs and seated herself on
the threshold of the glass door, as if by watching there she
could be any nearer the knowledge of what she wished for.
It was a perfectly still summer night. The moon shone brightly
on the little lawn, and poured its rays over Ellen, just as it
had done one well-remembered evening near a year ago. Ellen's
thoughts went back to it. How like and how unlike! All around
was just the same as it had been then; the cool moonlight upon
the distant fields the trees in the gap lit up, as then
the lawn a flood of brightness. But there was no happy party
gathered there now; they were scattered. One was away; one a
sorrowful watcher alone in the moonlight; one waiting to be
gone where there is no need of moon or stars for evermore.
Ellen almost wondered they could shine so bright upon those
that had no heart to rejoice in them; she thought they looked
down coldly and unfeelingly upon her distress. She remembered
the whip-poor-will; none was heard to-night, near or far; she
was glad of it; it would have been too much; and there were
no fluttering leaves; the air was absolutely still. Ellen
looked up again at the moon and stars. They shone calmly on,
despite the reproaches she cast upon them; and as she still
gazed up towards them in their purity and steadfastness, other
thoughts began to come into her head of that which was more
pure still, and more steadfast. How long they have been
shining! thought Ellen; going on just the same, from night
to night, and from year to year as if they never would come
to an end. But they _will_ come to an end the time _will_ come
when they stop shining, bright as they are; and then, when all
they are swept away, then heaven will be only begun; that will
never end! never! And in a few years, we who were so happy a
year ago, and are so sorry now, shall be all glad together
there this will be all over! And then as she looked, and the
tears sprang to her thoughts, a favourite hymn of Alice's came
to her remembrance:
"Ye stars are but the shining dust
Of my divine abode;
The pavements of those heavenly courts
Where I shall see my God.
"The Father of eternal lights
Shall there his beams display;
And not one moment's darkness mix
With that unvaried day.
" 'Not one moment's darkness?' Oh," thought little Ellen,
"there are a great many here!" Still gazing up at the
bright, calm heavens, while the tears ran fast down her face,
and fell into her lap, there came trooping through Ellen's
mind many of those words she had been in the habit of reading
to her mother and Alice, and which she knew and loved so well.
"And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle,
neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light:
and they shall reign for ever and ever. And there shall be no
more curse, but the throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in
it; and his servants shall serve him; and they shall see his
face; and his name shall be in their foreheads. And God shall
wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no
more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be
any more pain: for the former things have passed away."
"And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again
and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be
also."
While Ellen was yet going over and over these precious things,
with a strong sense of their preciousness in all her throbbing
grief, there came to her ear, through the perfect stillness of
the night, the faint, far-off, not to be mistaken sound of
quick-coming horses' feet nearer and nearer every second. It
came with a mingled pang of pain and pleasure, both very
acute; she rose instantly to her feet, and stood pressing her
hand to her heart, while the quick-measured beat of hoofs grew
louder and louder, until it ceased at the very door. The
minutes were few; but they were moments of intense bitterness.
The tired horse stooped his head, as the rider flung himself
from the saddle, and came to the door, where Ellen stood
fixed. A look asked, and a look answered, the question that
lips could not speak. Ellen only pointed the way and uttered
the words, "upstairs," and John rushed thither. He checked
himself, however, at the door of the room, and opened it, and
went in as calmly as if he had but come from a walk. But his
caution was very needless. Alice knew his step, she knew _his
horse's step_ too well; she had raised herself up, and
stretched out both arms towards him before he entered. In
another moment they were round his neck, and she was supported
in his. There was a long, long silence.
"Are you happy, Alice?" whispered her brother.
"Perfectly. This was all I wanted. Kiss me, dear John!"
As he did so again and again, she felt his tears on her cheek,
and put up her hands to his face to wipe them away; kissed him
then, and then once again laid her head on his breast. They
remained so a little while without stirring; except that some
whispers were exchanged too low for others to hear, and once
more she raised her face to kiss him. A few minutes after,
those who could look saw his colour change; he felt the arms
unclasp their hold, and, as he laid her gently back on the
pillow, they fell languidly down the will and the power that
had sustained them were gone. _Alice_ was gone; but the
departing spirit had left a ray of brightness on its earthly
house; there was a half-smile on the sweet face, of most
entire peace and satisfaction. Her brother looked for a moment
closed the eyes kissed once and again the sweet lips and
left the room.
Ellen saw him no more that night, nor knew how he passed it.
For her, wearied with grief and excitement, it was spent in
long, heavy slumber. From the pitch to which her spirits had
been wrought by care, sorrow, and self-restraint, they now
suddenly and completely sank down; naturally, and happily, she
lost all sense of trouble in sleep.
When sleep at last left her, and she stole downstairs into the
sitting-room in the morning, it was rather early. Nobody was
stirring about the house but herself. It seemed deserted; the
old sitting-room looked empty and forlorn the stillness was
oppressive. Ellen could not bear it. Softly opening the glass
door, she went out upon the lawn, where everything was
sparkling in the early freshness of the summer morning. How
could it look so pleasant without, when all pleasantness was
gone within? It pressed upon Ellen's heart. With a restless
feeling of pain, she went on, round the corner of the house,
and paced slowly along the road till she came to the footpath
that led up to the place on the mountain John had called the
Bridge of the Nose. Ellen took that path, often travelled and
much loved by her; and slowly, with slow-dripping tears, made
her way up over moss wet with the dew, and the stones and
rocks with which the rough way was strewn. She passed the
place where Alice had first found her she remembered it
well; there was the very stone beside which they had kneeled
together, and where Alice's folded hands were laid. Ellen
knelt down beside it again, and for a moment laid her cheek to
the cold stone, while her arms embraced it, and a second time
it was watered with tears. She rose up again quickly, and went
on her way, toiling up the steep path beyond, till she turned
the edge of the mountain, and stood on the old place, where
she and Alice that evening had watched the setting sun. Many a
setting sun they had watched from thence; it had been a
favourite pleasure of them both to run up there for a few
minutes, before or after tea, and see the sun go down at the
far end of the long valley. It seemed to Ellen one of Alice's
haunts she missed her there and the thought went keenly
home that there she would come with her no more. She sat down
on the stone she called her own, and leaning her head on
Alice's, which was close by, she wept bitterly. Yet not very
long she was too tired and subdued for bitter weeping; she
raised her head again, and wiping away her tears, looked
abroad over the beautiful landscape never more beautiful
than then.
The early sun filled the valley with patches of light and
shade. The sides and tops of the hills looking towards the
east were bright with the cool brightness of the morning;
beyond and between them deep shadows lay. The sun could not
yet look at that side of the mountain where Ellen sat, nor at
the long reach of ground it screened from his view, stretching
from the mountain foot to the other end of the valley; but to
the left, between that and the Cat's Back, the rays of the sun
streamed through, touching the houses of the village, showing
the lake, and making every tree and barn and clump of wood in
the distance stand out in bright relief. Deliciously cool,
both the air and the light, though a warm day was promised.
The night had swept away all the heat of yesterday. Now, the
air was fresh with the dew, and sweet from hayfield and
meadow; and the birds were singing merrily all around. There
was no answering echo in the little human heart that looked
and listened. Ellen loved all things too well not to notice
them even now; she felt their full beauty, but she felt it
sadly. "_She_ will look at it no more!" she said to herself. But
instantly came an answer to her thought "Behold I create new
heavens, and a new earth; and the former shall not be
remembered, nor come into mind. Thy sun shall no more go down,
neither shall thy moon withdraw itself; for the Lord shall be
thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be
ended."
"She is there now," thought Ellen; "she is happy; why should I
be sorry for her? I am not; but oh! I must be sorry for myself
Oh! Alice! dear Alice!"
She wept; but then again came sweeping over her mind the words
with which she was so familiar, "the days of thy mourning
shall be ended;" and again with her regret mingled the
consciousness that it must be for herself alone. And for
herself, "Can I not trust Him whom she trusted?" she
thought. Somewhat soothed and more calm, she sat still looking
down into the brightening valley, or off to the hills that
stretched away on either hand of it; when up through the still
air the sound of the little Carra-carra church bell came to
her ear. It rang for a minute and then stopped.
It crossed Ellen's mind to wonder what it could be ringing for
at that time of day; but she went back to her musings and had
entirely forgotten it, when again, clear and full through the
stillness, the sound came pealing up.
"One two!"
Ellen knew now! It went through her very heart.
It is the custom in the country to toll the church bell upon
occasion of the death of any one in the township or parish. A
few strokes are rung by way of drawing attention; these are
followed, after a little pause, by a single one, if the knell
is for man, or two for a woman. Then another short pause. Then
follows the number of the years the person has lived, told in
short, rather slow strokes, as one would count them up. After
pausing once more, the tolling begins, and is kept up for some
time; the strokes following in slow and sad succession, each
one being permitted to die quite away before another breaks
upon the ear.
Ellen had been told of this custom, but habit had never made
it familiar. Only once she had happened to hear this notice of
death given out; and that was long ago; the bell could not be
heard at Miss Fortune's house. It came upon her now with all
the force of novelty and surprise. As the number of the years
of Alice's life was sadly tolled out, every stroke was to her
as if it fell upon a raw nerve. Ellen hid her face in her lap,
and tried to keep from counting, but she could not; and as the
tremulous sound of the last of the twenty-four died away upon
the air, she was shuddering from head to foot. A burst of
tears relieved her when the sound ceased.
Just then a voice close beside her said low, as if the speaker
might not trust its higher tones "I will lift up mine eyes
unto the hills, from whence cometh my help."
How differently _that_ sound struck upon Ellen's ear! With an
indescribable air of mingled tenderness, weariness, and
sorrow, she slowly rose from her seat, and put both her arms
round the speaker's neck. Neither said a word; but to Ellen
the arm that held her was more than all words; it was the
dividing line between her and the world on this side
everything, on that side nothing.
No word was spoken for many minutes.
"My dear, Ellen," said her brother, softly, "how came you
here?"
"I don't know," whispered Ellen; "there was nobody there I
couldn't stay in the house."
"Shall we go home now?"
"Oh, yes whenever you please."
But neither moved yet. Ellen had raised her head; she still
stood with her arm upon her brother's shoulder; the eyes of
both were on the scene before them the thoughts of neither.
He presently spoke again.
"Let us try to love our God better, Ellie, the less we have
left to love in this world; that is His meaning let sorrow
but bring us closer to him. Dear Alice is well she is well,
and if we are made to suffer, we know and we love the hand
that has done it; do we not, Ellen?"
Ellen put her hand to her face; she thought her heart would
break. He gently drew her to a seat on the stone beside him,
and still keeping his arm round her, slowly and soothingly
went on
"Think that she is happy; think that she is safe; think
that she is with that blessed One whose face we seek at a
distance satisfied with His likeness instead of wearily
struggling with sin; think that sweetly and easily she has got
home; and it is our home, too. We must weep, because we are
left alone; but for her 'I heard a voice from heaven saying
unto me, Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord!' "
As he spoke in low and sweet tones, Ellen's tears calmed and
stopped; but she still kept her hands to her face.
"Shall we go home, Ellie?" said her brother, after another
silence. She rose up instantly, and said, "Yes." But he held
her still, and looking for a moment at the tokens of watching
and grief and care in her countenance, he gently kissed the
pale little face, adding a word of endearment, which almost
broke Ellen's heart again. Then taking her hand, they went
down the mountain together.