CHAPTER XLIII.

Those that were left.

The whole Marshman family arrived to-day from Ventnor; some to

see Alice's loved remains, and all to follow them to the

grave. The parsonage could not hold so many; the two Mr.

Marshmans, therefore, with Major and Mrs. Gillespie, made

their quarters at Thirlwall. Margery's hands were full enough

with those that were left.

In the afternoon, however, she found time for a visit to the

room — the room. She was standing at the foot of the bed,

gazing on the sweet face she loved so dearly, when Mrs.

Chauncey and Mrs. Vawse came up for the same purpose. All

three stood some time in silence.

The bed was strewn with flowers, somewhat singularly disposed.

Upon the pillow, and upon and about the hands, which were on

the breast, were scattered some of the rich late roses — roses

and rose-buds, strewn with beautiful and profuse carelessness.

A single stem of white lilies lay on the side of the bed; the

rest of the flowers, a large quantity, covered the feet,

seeming to have been flung there without any attempt at

arrangement. They were of various kinds, chosen, however, with

exquisite taste and feeling. Besides the roses, there were

none that were not either white or distinguished for their

fragrance. The delicate white verbena, the pure feverfew,

mignonette, sweet geranium, white myrtle, the rich-scented

heliotrope, were mingled with the late-blossoming damask and

purple roses; no yellow flowers, no purple, except those

mentioned; even the flaunting petunia, though white, had been

left out by the nice hand that had culled them. But the

arranging of these beauties seemed to have been little more

than attempted; though indeed it might be questioned whether

the finest heart could have bettered the effect of what the

overtasked hand of affection had left half done. Mrs.

Chauncey, however, after a while, began slowly to take a

flower or two from the foot, and place them on other parts of

the bed.

"Will Mrs. Chauncey pardon my being so bold," said Margery

then, who had looked on with no pleasure while this was doing,

"but if she had seen when those flowers had been put there, it

wouldn't be her wish, I am sure it wouldn't be her wish, to

stir one of them."

Mrs. Chauncey's hand, which was stretched out for a fourth,

drew back.

"Why, who put them there?" she asked.

"Miss Ellen, Ma'am."

"Where is Ellen?"

"I think she is sleeping, Ma'am. Poor child! she's the most

wearied of us all, with sorrow and watching," said Margery,

weeping.

"You saw her bring them up, did you?"

"I saw her, Ma'am. Oh, will I ever forget it as long as I

live!"

"Why?" said Mrs. Chauncey, gently.

"It's a thing one should have seen, Ma'am, to understand. I

don't know as I can tell in well."

Seeing, however, that Mrs. Chauncey still looked her wish,

Margery went on half under her breath —

"Why, Ma'am, the way it was — I had come up to get some linen

out of the closet, for I had watched my time; Mrs. Chauncey

sees, I was afeard of finding Mr. John here, and I knew he was

lying down just then, so —"

"Lying down was he?" said Mrs. Vawse. "I did not know he had

taken any rest to-day."

"It was very little he took, Ma'am, indeed — though there was

need enough I am sure; — he had been up with his father the

live-long blessed night. And then the first thing this morning

he was away after Miss Ellen, poor child! wherever she had

betaken herself to; I happened to see her before anybody was

out, going round the corner of the house, and so I knew when

he asked me for her."

"Was she going after flowers _then?"_ said Mrs. Chauncey.

"Oh, no, Ma'am — it was a long time after; it was this morning

some time. — I had come up to the linen closet, knowing Mr.

John was in his room, and I thought I was safe; and I had just

taken two or three pieces on my arm, you know, Ma'am, when

somehow I forgot myself, and forgot what I had come for; and

leaving what I should ha' been a-doing, I was standing there,

looking out this way at the dear features I never thought to

see in death — and I had entirely forgotten what I was there

for, Ma'am — when I heard Miss Ellen's little footstep coming

softly upstairs. I didn't want her to catch sight of me just

then, so I had just drew myself back a bit, so as I could see

her without her seeing me — back in the closet where I was.

But it had like to have got the better of me entirely, Ma'am,

when I see her come in with a lapful of them flowers, and

looking so as she did too! but with much trouble I kept quiet.

She went up and stood by the side of the bed, just where Mrs.

Chauncey is standing, with her sweet, sad, little face — it's

the hardest thing to see a child's face look so — and the

flowers all gathered up in her frock. It was odd to see her,

she didn't cry — not at all — only once I saw her brow

wrinkle, but it seemed as if she had a mind not to, for she

put her hand up to her face and held it a little, and then she

began to take out the flowers one by one, and she'd lay a rose

here and a rosebud there, and so; and then she went round to

the other side and laid the lilies, and two or three more

roses on the pillow. But I could see all the while it was

getting too much for her; I see very soon she wouldn't get

through; she just placed two or three more, and one rose there

in that hand, and that was the last. I could see it working in

her face; she turned as pale as her lilies all at once, and

just tossed all the flowers out of her frock on the bed-foot

there — that's just as they fell — and down she went on her

knees, and her face in her hands on the side of the bed. I

thought no more about my linen," said Margery, weeping — "I

couldn't do anything but look at that child kneeling there,

and her flowers — and all beside her she used to call her

sister, and that couldn't be a sister to her no more; and

she's without a sister now, to be sure, poor child!"

"She has a brother, unless I am mistaken," said Mrs. Chauncey,

when she could speak.

"And that's just what I was trying to tell you, Ma'am. She had

been there five or ten minutes without moving, or more — I am

sure I don't know how long it was, I didn't think how time

went — when the first thing I knew I heard another step, and

Mr. John came in. I thought, and expected, he was taking some

sleep; but I suppose," said Margery, sighing, "he couldn't

rest. I knew his step, and just drew myself back further. He

came just where you are, Ma'am, and stood with his arms folded

a long time, looking. I don't know how Miss Ellen didn't hear

him come in; but, however, she didn't; — and they were both as

still as death, one on one side, and the other on the other

side. And I wondered he didn't see her; but her white dress

and all — and I suppose he had no thought but for one thing. I

knew the first minute he did see her, when he looked over and

spied her on the other side of the bed. I see his colour

change; and then his mouth took the look it always did

whenever he sets himself to do anything. He stood a minute,

and then he went round, and knelt down beside her, and softly

took away one of her hands from under her face, and held it in

both of his own, and then he made such a prayer! Oh," said

Margery, her tears falling fast at the recollection, "I never

heard the like! I never did. He gave thanks for Miss Alice —

and he had reason enough, to be sure — and for himself and

Miss Ellen — I wondered to hear him — and he prayed for them

too, and others — and — oh! I thought I couldn't stand and

hear him; and I was afeard to breathe the whole time, lest he

would know I was there. It was the beautifullest prayer I did

ever hear."

"And how did Ellen behave?" said Mrs. Chauncey, when she could

speak.

"She didn't stir, nor make the least motion nor sound, till he

had done, and spoke to her. They stood a little while then,

and Mr. John put the rest of the flowers up there round her

hands and the pillow — Miss Ellen hadn't put more than half a

dozen; — I noticed how he kept hold of Miss Ellen's hand all

the time. I heard her begin to tell him how she didn't finish

the flowers, and he told her — 'I saw it all, Ellie,' he said;

and he said, 'it didn't want finishing.' I wondered how he

should see it, but I suppose he did, however. _I_ understood it

very well. They went away downstairs after that."

"He is beautifully changed," said Mrs. Vawse.

"I don't know, Ma'am," said Margery; "I've heard that said

afore, but I can't say as I ever could see it. He always was

the same to me — always the honourablest, truest, noblest — my

husband says he was a bit fiery, but I never could tell that

the one temper was sweeter than the other; only everybody

always did whatever Mr. John wanted, to be sure; but he was

the perfectest gentleman always."

"I have not seen either Mr. John or Ellen since my mother

came," said Mrs. Chauncey.

"No, Ma'am," said Margery, "they were out reading under the

trees for a long time; and Miss Ellen came in the kitchen way

a little while ago, and went to lie down."

"How is Mr. Humphreys?"

"Oh, I can't tell you, Ma'am — he is worse than any one knows

of, I am afraid, unless Mr. John; you will not see him, Ma'am;

he has not been here once, nor don't mean to, I think. It will

go hard with my poor master, I am afraid," said Margery,

weeping; "dear Miss Alice said Miss Ellen was to take her

place; but it would want an angel to do that."

"Ellen will do a great deal," said Mrs. Vawse; "Mr. Humphreys

loves her well now, I know."

"So do I, Ma'am, I am sure; and so does every one; but still —

"

Margery broke off her sentence, and sorrowfully went

downstairs. Mrs. Chauncey moved no more flowers.

Late in the afternoon of the next day Margery came softly into

Ellen's room.

"Miss Ellen, dear, you are awake, aren't you?"

"Yes, Margery," said Ellen, sitting up in bed; "come in. What

is it?"

"I came to ask Miss Ellen if she _could_ do me a great favour?

There's a strange gentleman come, and nobody has seen him yet,

and it don't seem right. He has been here this some time."

"Have you told Mr. John?"

"No, Miss Ellen; he's in the library with my master; and

somehow I durstn't go to the door; mayhap they wouldn't be

best pleased. _Would_ Miss Ellen mind telling Mr. John of the

gentleman's being here?"

Ellen would mind it very much, there was no doubt of that;

Margery could hardly have asked her to put a greater force

upon herself; she did not say so.

"You are sure he is there, Margery?"

"I am quite sure, Miss Ellen. I am very sorry to disturb you;

but if you wouldn't mind — I am ashamed to have the gentleman

left to himself so long."

"I'll do it, Margery."

She got up, slipped on her shoes, and mechanically smoothing

her hair, set off to the library. On the way, she almost

repented her willingness to oblige Margery; the errand was

marvellously disagreeable to her. She had never gone to that

room except with Alice — never entered it uninvited. She could

hardly make up her mind to knock at the door. But she had

promised; it must be done.

The first fearful tap was too light to arouse any mortal ears.

At the second, though not much better, she heard some one

move, and John opened the door. Without waiting to hear her

speak, he immediately drew her in, very unwillingly on her

part, and led her silently up to his father. The old gentleman

was sitting in his great study-chair, with a book open at his

side. He turned from it as she came up, took her hand in his,

and held it for a few moments without speaking. Ellen dared

not raise her eyes.

"My little girl," said he, very gravely, though not without a

tone of kindness, too — "are you coming here to cheer my

loneliness?"

Ellen in vain struggled to speak an articulate word; it was

impossible; she suddenly stooped down and touched her lips to

the hand that lay on the arm of the chair. He put the hand

tenderly upon her head.

"God bless you," said he, "abundantly, for all the love you

showed her. Come— if you will — and be, as far as a withered

heart will let you, all that she wished. All is yours — except

what will be buried with her."

Ellen was awed and pained very much. Not because the words and

manner were sad and solemn; it was the _tone_ that distressed

her. There was no tearfulness in it; it trembled a little; it

seemed to come indeed from a withered heart. She shook with

the effort she made to control herself. John asked her

presently what she had come for.

"A gentleman," said Ellen — "there's a gentleman, a stranger."

He went immediately out to see him, leaving her standing

there. Ellen did not know whether to go too, or stay; she

thought, from his not taking her with him, he wished her to

stay; she stood doubtfully. Presently she heard steps coming

back along the hall — steps of two persons — the door opened,

and the strange gentleman came in. No stranger to Ellen! she

knew him in a moment — it was her old friend, her friend of

the boat — Mr. George Marshman.

Mr. Humphreys rose up to meet him, and the two gentlemen shook

hands in silence. Ellen at first had shrunk out of the way, to

the other side of the room, and now, when she saw her

opportunity, she was going to make her escape; but John gently

detained her; and she stood still by his side, though with a

kind of feeling that it was not there the best place or time

for her old friend to recognise her. He was sitting by Mr.

Humphreys, and for the present quite occupied with him. Ellen

thought nothing of what they were saying; with her eyes

eagerly fixed upon Mr. Marshman, she was reading memory's long

story over again. The same pleasant look and kind tone that

she remembered so well came to comfort her in her first sorrow

— the old way of speaking, and even of moving an arm or hand —

the familiar figure and face; how they took Ellen's thoughts

back to the deck of that steamboat, the hymns, the talks! the

love and kindness that led and persuaded her so faithfully and

eventually to do her duty — it was all present again; and

Ellen gazed at him as at a picture of the past, forgetting for

the moment everything else. The same love and kindness were

endeavouring now to say something for Mr. Humphreys' relief;

it was a hard task. The old gentleman heard and answered, for

the most part briefly, but so as to show that his friend

laboured in vain; the bitterness and hardness of grief were

unallayed yet. It was not till John made some slight remark,

that Mr. Marshman turned his head that way; he looked for a

moment in some surprise, and then said, his countenance

lightening, "Is that Ellen Montgomery?"

Ellen sprang across at that word to take his outstretched

hand. But as she felt the well-remembered grasp of it, and met

the old look, the thought of which she had treasured up for

years — it was too much. Back as in a flood to her heart

seemed to come at once all the thoughts and feelings of the

time since then; — the difference of this meeting from the

joyful one she had so often pictured to herself; the sorrow of

that time mixed with the sorrow now; and the sense that the

very hand that had wiped those first tears away, was the one

now laid in the dust by death. All thronged on her heart at

once; and it was too much. She had scarce touched Mr.

Marshman's hand when she hastily withdrew her own, and gave

way to an overwhelming burst of sorrow. It was infectious.

There was such an utter absence of all bitterness or hardness

in the tone of this grief; there was so touching an expression

of submission mingled with it, that even Mr. Humphreys was

overcome. Ellen was not the only subdued weeper there — not

the only one whose tears came from a broken-up heart. For a

few minutes the silence of stifled sobs was in the room, till

Ellen recovered enough to make her escape, and then the colour

of sorrow was lightened, in one breast at least.

"Brother," said Mr. Humphreys, "I can hear you now better than

I could a little while ago. I had almost forgotten that God is

good. 'Light in the darkness,' — I see it now. That child has

given me a lesson."

Ellen did not know what had passed around her, nor what had

followed her quitting the room. But she thought when John came

to the tea-table he looked relieved. If his general kindness

and tenderness of manner towards herself could have been

greater than usual, she might have thought it was that night;

but she only thought he felt better.

Mr. Marshman was not permitted to leave the house. He was a

great comfort to everybody. Not himself overburdened with

sorrow, he was able to make that effort for the good of the

rest which no one yet had been equal to. The whole family,

except Mr. Humphreys, were gathered together at this time; and

his grave, cheerful, and unceasing kindness, made that by far

the most comfortable meal that had been taken. It was

exceeding grateful to Ellen to see and hear him, from the old

remembrance as well as the present effect. And he had not

forgotten his old kindness for her; she saw it in his look,

his words, his voice, shown in every way; and the feeling that

she had got her old friend again, and should never lose him,

now gave her more deep pleasure than anything else could

possibly have done at that time. His own family, too, had not

seen him in a long time, so his presence was matter of general

satisfaction.

Later in the evening, Ellen was sitting beside him on the

sofa, looking and listening — he was like a piece of old music

to her — when John came to the back of the sofa and said he

wanted to speak to her. She went with him to the other side of

the room.

"Ellie," he said, in a low voice, "I think my father would

like to hear you sing a hymn — do you think you could?"

Ellen looked up, with a peculiar mixture of uncertainty and

resolution in her countenance, and said, "Yes."

"Not if it will pain you too much — and not unless you think

you can surely go through with it, Ellen," he said, gently.

"No," said Ellen — "I will try."

"Will it not give you too much pain? do you think you can?"

"No — I will try," she repeated.

As she went along the hall she said and resolved to herself

that she _would_ do it. The library was dark; coming from the

light, Ellen at first could see nothing. John placed her in a

chair and went away himself to a little distance, where he

remained perfectly still. She covered her face with her hands

for a minute, and prayed for strength; she was afraid to try.

Alice and her brother were remarkable for beauty of voice and

utterance. The latter, Ellen in part caught from them; in the

former she thought herself greatly inferior. Perhaps she

underrated herself: her voice, though not indeed powerful, was

low and sweet, and very clear; and the entire simplicity and

feeling with which she sang hymns, was more effectual than any

higher qualities of tone and compass. She had been very much

accustomed to sing with Alice, who excelled in beautiful truth

and simplicity of expression; listening with delight, as she

often had done, and often joining with her, Ellen had caught

something of her manner.

She thought nothing of all this now; she had a trying task to

go through. Sing! — then and there! And what should she sing?

All that class of hymns that bore directly on the subject of

their sorrow must be left on one side; she hardly dared think

of them. Instinctively she took up another class, that without

baring the wound would lay the balm close to it. A few minutes

of deep stillness were in the dark room; then very low, and in

tones that trembled a little, rose the words —

"How sweet the name of Jesus sounds

In a believer's ear!

It smoothes his sorrows, heals his wounds,

And drives away his fear."

The tremble in her voice ceased, and she went on —

"It makes the wounded spirit whole,

And calms the troubled beast;

'T is manna to the hungry soul,

And to the weary, rest.

"By Him my prayers acceptance gain,

Although with sin defiled;

Satan accuses me in vain,

And I am own'd a child.

Weak is the effort of my heart,

And cold my warmest thought —

But when I see thee as thou art,

I'll praise thee as I ought.

Till then, I would thy love proclaim

With every lab'ring breath;

And may the music of thy name

Refresh my soul in death."

Ellen paused a minute. There was not a sound to be heard in

the room. She thought of the hymn, "Loving Kindness;" but the

tune, and the spirit of the words was too lively. Her mother's

favourite, " 'T is my happiness below," but Ellen could not

venture that; she strove to forget it as fast as possible. She

sang clearly and sweetly as ever now —

"Hark, my soul, it is the Lord,

'T is thy Saviour, hear his word, —

Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee:

'Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me?

" 'I deliver'd thee when bound,

And when bleeding heal'd thy wound;

Sought thee wandering, set thee right

Turn'd thy darkness into light.

" 'Can a mother's tender care

Cease toward the child she bare?

Yea — _she_ may forgetful be,

Yet will I remember thee.

" 'Mine is an unchanging love;

Higher than the heights above,

Deeper than the depths beneath,

Free and faithful, strong as death.

" 'Thou shalt see my glory soon,

When the work of life is done,

Partner of my throne shalt be —

Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me?

"Lord, it is my chief complaint

That my love is weak and faint;

Yet I love thee and adore —

Oh for grace to love thee more!"

Ellen's task was no longer painful, but most delightful. She

hoped she was doing some good; and that hope enabled her,

after the first trembling beginning, to go on without any

difficulty. She was not thinking of herself. It was very well

she could not see the effect upon her auditors. Through the

dark, her eyes could only just discern a dark figure stretched

upon the sofa, and another standing by the mantle-piece. The

room was profoundly still, except when she was singing. The

choice of hymns gave her the greatest trouble. She thought of

"Jerusalem, my happy home;" but it would not do; she and Alice

had too often sung it in strains of joy. Happily came to her

mind the beautiful —

"How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord," &c.

She went through all seven long verses. Still when Ellen

paused at the end of this, the breathless silence seemed to

invite her to go on. She waited a minute to gather breath. The

blessed words had gone down into her very heart; did they ever

seem half so sweet before? She was cheered and strengthened,

and thought she could go through with the next hymn, though it

had been much loved and often used, both by her mother and

Alice: —

"Jesus, lover of my soul,

Let me to thy bosom fly,

While the billows near me roll,

While the tempest still is nigh.

Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,

Till the storm of life be past —

Safe into the haven guide,

Oh, receive my soul at last!

"Other refuge have I none,

Hangs my helpless soul on thee —

Leave, ah! leave me not alone!

Still support and comfort me.

All my trust on thee is stay'd,

All my help from thee I bring; —

Cover my defenceless head

Beneath the shadow of thy wing.

"Thou, O Christ, art all I want;

More than all in thee I find;

Raise the fallen, cheer the faint,

Heal the sick, and lead the blind.

Just and holy is thy name,

I am all unrighteousness;

Vile and full of sin I am,

Thou art full of truth and grace."

Still silence; — "silence that spoke!" Ellen did not know what

it said, except that her hearers did not wish her to stop. Her

next was a favourite hymn of them all —

"What are these in bright array?" &c.

Ellen had allowed her thoughts to travel too far along with

the words, for in the last lines her voice was unsteady and

faint. She was fain to make a longer pause than usual to

recover herself. But in vain; the tender nerve was touched;

there was no stilling its quivering.

"Ellen!" said Mr. Humphreys then, after a few minutes. She

rose and went to the sofa. He folded her close to his breast.

"Thank you, my child," he said, presently — "you have been a

comfort to me. Nothing but a choir of angels could have been

sweeter."

As Ellen went away back through the hall, her tears almost

choked her; but for all that there was a strong throb of

pleasure at her heart.

"I have been a comfort to him," she repeated. "Oh, dear Alice!

— so I will."