The little spirit that haunted the big house.
The whole Marshman family returned to Ventnor immediately
after the funeral, Mr. George excepted; he stayed with Mr.
Humphreys over the Sabbath, and preached for him, and, much to
every one's pleasure, lingered still a day or two longer; then
he was obliged to leave them. John also must go back to
Doncaster for a few weeks; he would not be able to get home
again before the early part of August. For the month between,
and as much longer, indeed, as possible, Mrs. Marshman wished
to have Ellen at Ventnor; assuring her that it was to be her
home always whenever she chose to make it so. At first,
neither Mrs. Marshman nor her daughters would take any denial;
and old Mr. Marshman was fixed upon it. But Ellen begged with
tears that she might stay at home and begin at once, as far as
she could, to take Alice's place. Her kind friends insisted
that it would do her harm to be left alone for so long at such
a season. Mr. Humphreys at the best of times kept very much to
himself, and now he would more than ever; she would be very
lonely. "But how lonely he will be if I go away!" said Ellen
"I can't go." Finding that her heart was set upon it, and that
it would be a real grief to her to go to Ventnor, John at last
joined to excuse her; and he made an arrangement with Mrs.
Vawse instead, that she should come and stay with Ellen at the
parsonage till he came back. This gave Ellen great
satisfaction; and her kind Ventnor friends were obliged
unwillingly to leave her.
The first few days after John's departure were indeed sad days
very sad to every one; it could not be otherwise. Ellen
drooped miserably. She had, however, the best possible
companion in her old Swiss friend. Her good sense, her steady
cheerfulness, her firm principle, were always awake for
Ellen's good ever ready to comfort her, to cheer her, to
prevent her from giving undue way to sorrow, to urge her to
useful exertion. Affection and gratitude to the living and the
dead, gave powerful aid to these efforts. Ellen rose up in the
morning, and lay down at night, with the present pressing wish
to do and be, for the ease and comfort of her adopted father
and brother, all that it was possible for her. Very soon, so
soon as she could rouse herself to anything, she began to turn
over in her mind all manner of ways and means for this end.
And in general, whatever Alice would have wished, what John
did wish, was law to her.
"Margery," said Ellen, one day, "I wish you would tell me all
the things Alice used to do; so that I may begin to do them,
you know, as soon as I can."
"What things, Miss Ellen?"
"I mean the things she used to do about the house, or to help
you don't you know? all sorts of things. I want to know
them all, so that I may do them as she did. I want to very
much."
"Oh, Miss Ellen, dear," said Margery, tearfully, "you are too
little and tender to do them things I'd be sorry to see you,
indeed!"
"Why, no, I am not, Margery," said Ellen; "don't you know how
I used to do at Aunt Fortune's? Now, tell me, please, dear
Margery! If I can't do it, I won't, you know."
"Oh, Miss Ellen, she used to see to various things about the
house I don't know as I can tell 'em all directly; some was
to help me; and some to please her father, or Mr. John, if he
was at home; she thought of every one before herself, sure
enough."
"Well, what, Margery? what are they? Tell me all you can
remember."
"Why, Miss Ellen for one thing she used to go into the
library every morning, to put it in order, and dust the books
and papers and things; in fact, she took the charge of that
room entirely: I never went into it at all, unless once or
twice in the year, or to wash the windows."
Ellen looked grave; she thought with herself there might be a
difficulty in the way of her taking this part of Alice's daily
duties; she did not feel that she had the freedom of the
library.
"And then," said Margery, "she used to skim the cream for me,
most mornings, when I'd be busy; and wash up the breakfast
things "
"Oh, I forgot all about the breakfast things!" exclaimed Ellen
"how could I! I'll do them to be sure, after this. I never
thought of them, Margery. And I'll skim the cream too."
"Dear Miss Ellen, I wouldn't want you to: I didn't mention it
for that, but you was wishing me to tell you I don't want
you to trouble your dear little head about such work. It was
more the thoughtfulness that cared about me than the help of
all she could do, though that wasn't a little I'll get along
well enough."
"But I should like to it would make me happier; and don't
you think I want to help you too, Margery?"
"The Lord bless you, Miss Ellen," said Margery, in a sort of
desperation, setting down one iron and taking up another;
"don't talk in that way, or you'll upset me entirely. I ain't
a bit better than a child," said she, her tears falling fast
on the sheet she was hurriedly ironing.
"What else, dear Margery?" said Ellen presently. "Tell me what
else?"
"Well, Miss Ellen," said Margery, dashing away the water from
either eye, "she used to look over the clothes when they went
up from the wash; and put them away; and mend them if there
was any places wanted mending."
"I am afraid I don't know how to manage that," said Ellen,
very gravely. "There is one thing I can do I can darn
stockings very nicely: but that's only one kind of mending. I
don't know much about the other kinds."
"Ah, well, but _she_ did, however," said Margery, searching in
her basket of clothes for some particular pieces. "A beautiful
mender she was, to be sure! look here, Miss Ellen just see
that patch the way it is put on so evenly by a thread all
round; and the stitches, see and see the way this rent is
darned down oh, that was the way she did everything!"
"I can't do it so," said Ellen, sighing "but I can learn
that I can do. You will teach me, Margery won't you?"
"Indeed, Miss Ellen, dear, it's more than I can myself; but I
will tell you who will, and that's Mrs. Vawse. I am thinking
it was her she learned of in the first place, but I ain't
certain. Anyhow, she's a first-rate hand."
"Then I'll get her to teach me," said Ellen: "that will do
very nicely. And now Margery, what else?"
"Oh, dear, Miss Ellen, I don't know; there was a thousand
little things that I'd only recollect at the minute; she'd set
the table for me when my hands was uncommon full: and often
she'd come out and make some little thing for the master when
I wouldn't have the time to do the same myself; and I can't
tell one can't think of those things but just at the minute.
Dear Miss Ellen, I'd be sorry, indeed, to see you a-trying
your little hands to do all that she done."
"Never mind, Margery," said Ellen and she threw her arms
round the kind old woman as she spoke "I won't trouble you
and you won't be troubled if I am awkward about anything at
first, will you?"
Margery could only throw down her holder to return most
affectionately as well as respectfully Ellen's caress, and
press a very hearty kiss upon her forehead.
Ellen next went to Mrs. Vawse, to beg her help in the mending
and patching line. Her old friend was very glad to see her
take up anything with interest, and readily agreed to do her
best in the matter. So some old clothes were looked up; pieces
of linen, cotton, and flannel gathered together: a large
basket found to hold all these rags of shape and no shape; and
for the next week or two Ellen was indefatigable. She would
sit making vain endeavours to arrange a large linen patch
properly, till her cheeks were burning with excitement; and
bend over a darn, doing her best to make invisible stitches,
till Mrs. Vawse was obliged to assure her it was quite
unnecessary to take _so much_ pains. Taking pains, however, is
the sure way to success. Ellen could not rest satisfied till
she had equalled Alice's patching and darning; and though when
Mrs. Vawse left her she had not quite reached that point, she
was bidding fair to do so in a little while.
In other things she was more at home. She could skim milk well
enough, and immediately began to do it for Margery. She at
once also took upon herself the care of the parlour cupboard
and all the things in it, which she well knew had been Alice's
office; and thanks to Miss Fortune's training, even Margery
was quite satisfied with her neat and orderly manner of doing
it. Ellen begged her, when the clothes came up from the wash,
to show her where everything went, so that for the future she
might be able to put them away; and she studied the shelves of
the linen closet, and the chests of drawers in Mr. Humphreys'
room, till she almost knew them by heart. As to the library,
she dared not venture. She saw Mr. Humphreys at meals and at
prayers only then. He had never asked her to come into his
study since the night she sang to him; and as for _her_ asking,
nothing could have been more impossible. Even when he was out
of the house, out by the hour, Ellen never thought of going
where she had not been expressly permitted to go.
When Mr. Van Brunt informed his wife of Ellen's purpose to
desert her service, and make her future home at the parsonage,
the lady's astonishment was only less than her indignation;
the latter not at all lessened by learning that Ellen was to
become the adopted child of the house. For a while her words
of displeasure were poured forth in a torrent; Mr. Van Brunt
meantime saying very little, and standing by like a steadfast
rock that the waves dash _past_, not _upon_. She declared this was
"the cap-sheaf of Miss Humphreys' doings; she _might_ have been
wise enough to have expected as much; she wouldn't have been
such a fool if she had! This was what she had let Ellen go
there for! a pretty return!" But she went on. "She wondered
who they thought they had to deal with: did they think she was
going to let Ellen go in that way? _she_ had the first and only
right to her; and Ellen had no more business to go and give
herself away than one of her oxen; they would find it out, she
guessed, pretty quick; Mr. John and all; she'd have her back
in no time!" What were her thoughts and feelings, when, after
having spent her breath, she found her husband quietly opposed
to this conclusion, words cannot tell. _Her_ words could not;
she was absolutely dumb, till he had said his say; and then,
appalled by the serenity of his manner, she left indignation
on one side for the present, and began to argue the matter.
But Mr. Van Brunt coolly said he had promised: she might get
as many help as she liked he would pay for them, and
welcome; but Ellen would have to stay where she was. He had
promised Miss Alice; and he wouldn't break his word "for king,
lords, and commons." A most extraordinary expletive for a good
republican which Mr. Van Brunt had probably inherited from
his father and grandfather. What can waves do against a rock?
Miss Fortune disdained a struggle which must end in her own
confusion, and wisely kept her chagrin to herself; never even
approaching the subject afterwards, with him or any other
person. Ellen had left the whole matter to Mr. Van Brunt,
expecting a storm, and not wishing to share it. Happily it all
blew over.
As the month drew to an end, and indeed long before, Ellen's
thoughts began to go forward eagerly to John coming home. She
had learned by this time how to mend clothes; she had grown
somewhat wonted to her new round of little household duties;
in everything else the want of him was felt. Study flagged;
though, knowing what his wish would be, and what her duty was,
she faithfully tried to go on with it. She had no heart for
riding or walking by herself. She was lonely; she was
sorrowful; she was weary; all Mrs. Vawse's pleasant society
was not worth the mere knowledge that _he_ was in the house; she
longed for his coming.
He had written what day they might expect him. But when it
came, Ellen found that her feeling had changed; it did not
look the bright day she had expected it would. Up to that time
she had thought only of herself; now she remembered what sort
of a coming home this must be to him; and she dreaded almost
as much as she wished for the moment of his arrival. Mrs.
Vawse was surprised to see that her face was sadder that day
than it had been for many past; she could not understand it.
Ellen did not explain. It was late in the day before he
reached home, and her anxious watch of hope and fear for the
sound of his horse's feet grew very painful. She busied
herself with setting the tea-table; it was all done; and she
could by no means do anything else. She could not go to the
door to listen there; she remembered too well the last time;
and she knew he would remember it.
He came at last. Ellen's feeling had judged rightly of his,
for the greeting was without a word on either side; and when
he left the room to go to his father, it was very, very long
before he came back. And it seemed to Ellen for several days
that he was more grave, and talked less, than even the last
time he had been at home. She was sorry when Mrs. Vawse
proposed to leave them. But the old lady wisely said they
would all feel better when she was gone; and it was so. Truly
as she was respected and esteemed on all sides, it was felt a
relief by every one of the family when she went back to her
mountain top. They were left to themselves; they saw what
their numbers were; there was no restraint upon looks, words,
or silence. Ellen saw at once that the gentlemen felt easier
that was enough to make her so. The extreme oppression that
had grieved and disappointed her the first few days after
John's return, gave place to a softened gravity; and the
household fell again into its old ways; only that upon every
brow there was a chastened air of sorrow, in everything that
was said a tone of remembrance, and that a little figure was
going about where Alice's used to move as mistress of the
house.
Thanks to her brother, that little figure was an exceeding
busy one. She had in the first place her household duties, in
discharging which she was perfectly untiring. From the cream
skimmed for Margery, and the cups of coffee poured out every
morning for Mr. Humphreys and her brother, to the famous
mending, which took up often one half of Saturday, whatever
she did was done with her best diligence and care; and from
love to both the dead and the living, Ellen's zeal never
slackened. These things, however, filled but a small part of
her time, let her be as particular as she would; and Mr. John
effectually hindered her from being too particular. He soon
found a plenty for both her and himself to do.
Not that they ever forgot, or tried to forget Alice; on the
contrary, they sought to remember her, humbly, calmly,
hopefully, thankfully! By diligent performance of duty, by
Christian faith, by conversation and prayer, they strove to do
this; and after a time succeeded. Sober that winter was, but
it was very far from being an unhappy one.
"John," said Ellen, one day, some time after Mrs. Vawse had
left them, "do you think Mr. Humphreys would let me go into
his study every day when he is out, to put it in order and
dust the books?"
"Certainly. But why does not Margery do it?"
"She does, I believe, but she never used to; and I should like
to do it very much if I was sure he would not dislike it. I
would be careful not to disturb anything; I would leave
everything just as I found it."
"You may go when you please, and do what you please there,
Ellie."
"But I don't like to I couldn't without speaking to him
first; I should be afraid he might come back and find me
there, and he would think I hadn't had leave."
"And you wish _me_ to speak to him is that it? Cannot you
muster resolution enough for that, Ellie?"
Ellen was satisfied, for she knew by his tone he would do what
she wanted.
"Father," said John, the next morning at breakfast, "Ellen
wishes to take upon herself the daily care of your study, but
she is afraid to venture there without being assured it will
please you to see her there."
The old gentleman laid his hand affectionately on Ellen's
head, and told her she was welcome to come and go when she
would the whole house was hers.
The grave kindness and tenderness of the tone and action
spoiled Ellen's breakfast. She could not look at anybody nor
hold up her head for the rest of the time.
As Alice had anticipated, her brother was called to take the
charge of a church at Randolph, and at the same time another
more distant was offered him. He refused them both, rightly
judging that his place for the present was at home. But the
call from Randolph being pressed upon him very much, he at
length agreed to preach for them during the winter; riding
thither for the purpose every Saturday, and returning to
Carra-carra on Monday.
As the winter wore one, a grave cheerfulness stole over the
household. Ellen little thought how much she had to do with
it. She never heard Margery tell her husband, which she often
did with great affection, that "that blessed child was the
light of the house." And those who felt it the most said
nothing. Ellen was sure, indeed, from the way in which Mr.
Humphreys spoke to her, looked at her, now and then laid his
hand on her head, and sometimes, very rarely, kissed her
forehead, that he loved her and loved to see her about; and
that her wish of supplying Alice's place was in some little
measure fulfilled. Few as those words and looks were, they
said more to Ellen than whole discourses would from other
people: the least of them gladdened her heart with the feeling
that she was a comfort to him. But she never knew how much.
Deep as the gloom still over him was, Ellen never dreamed how
much deeper it would have been but for the little figure
flitting round and filling up the vacancy; how much he reposed
on the gentle look of affection, the pleasant voice, the
watchful thoughtfulness that never left anything undone that
she could do for his pleasure. Perhaps he did not know it
himself. She was not sure he even noticed many of the little
things she daily did or tried to do for him. Always silent and
reserved, he was more so now than ever; she saw him little,
and very seldom long at a time, unless when they were riding
to church together; he was always in his study or abroad. But
the trifles she thought he did not see were noted and
registered, and repaid with all the affection he had to give.
As for Mr. John, it never came into Ellen's head to think
whether she was a comfort to him; he was a comfort to _her;_ she
looked at it in quite another point of view. He had gone to
his old sleeping-room upstairs, which Margery had settled with
herself he would make his study; and for that he had taken the
sitting-room. This was Ellen's study too, so she was
constantly with him; and of the quietest she thought her
movements would have to be.
"What are you stepping so softly for?" said he, one day,
catching her hand as she was passing near him.
"You were busy I thought you were busy," said Ellen.
"And what then?"
"I was afraid of disturbing you."
"You never disturb me," said he; "you need not fear it. Step
as you please, and do not shut the doors carefully. I see you
and hear you; but without any disturbance."
Ellen found it was so. But she was an exception to the general
rule; other people disturbed him, as she had one or two
occasions of knowing.
Of one thing she was perfectly sure, whatever he might be
doing that he saw and heard her; and equally sure, that if
anything were not right, she should sooner or later hear of
it. But this was a censorship Ellen rather loved than feared.
In the first place, she was never misunderstood; in the
second, however ironical and severe he might be to others
and Ellen knew he could be both when there was occasion he
never was either to her. With great plainness always, but with
an equally happy choice of time and manner, he either said or
looked what he wished her to understand. This happened,
indeed, only about comparative trifles; to have seriously
displeased him Ellen would have thought the last great evil
that could fall upon her in the world.
One day Margery came into the room with a paper in her hand.
"Miss Ellen," said she in a low tone "here is Anthony Fox
again he has brought another of his curious letters, that he
wants to know if Miss Ellen will be so good as to write out
for him once more. He says he is ashamed to trouble you so
much."
Ellen was reading, comfortably ensconced in the corner of the
wide sofa. She gave a glance, a most ungratified one, at the
very original document in Margery's hand. Unpromising it
certainly looked.
"Another! Dear me! I wonder if there isn't somebody else he
could get to do it for him, Margery? I think I have had my
share. You don't know what a piece of work it is to copy out
one of those scrawls. It takes me ever so long, in the first
place, to find out what he has written, and then to put it so
that any one else can make sense of it I've got about enough
of it. Don't you suppose he could find plenty of other people
to do it for him?"
"I don't know, Miss Ellen; I suppose he could."
"Then ask him, do; won't you, Margery? I'm so tired of it! and
this is the third one; and I've got something else to do. Ask
him if there isn't somebody else he can get to do it; if there
isn't, I will; tell him I am busy."
Margery withdrew, and Ellen buried herself again in her book.
Anthony Fox was a poor Irishman, whose uncouth attempts at a
letter Ellen had once offered to write out and make straight
for him, upon hearing Margery tell of his lamenting that he
could not make one fit to send _home_ to his mother.
Presently Margery came in again, stopping this time at the
table, which Mr. John had pushed to the far side of the room,
to get away from the fire.
"I beg your pardon, Sir," she said; "I am ashamed to be so
troublesome but this Irish body, this Anthony Fox, has
begged me, and I didn't know how to refuse him, to come in and
ask for a sheet of paper and a pen for him, Sir he wants to
copy a letter if Mr. John would be so good; a quill pen,
Sir, if you please; he cannot write with any other."
"No," said John, coolly. "Ellen will do it."
Margery looked in some doubt from the table to the sofa, but
Ellen instantly rose up, and with a burning cheek came forward
and took the paper from the hand where Margery still held it.
"Ask him to wait a little while, Margery," she, said
hurriedly; "I'll do it as soon as I can tell him in half an
hour."
It was not a very easy nor quick job. Ellen worked at it
patiently, and finished it well by the end of the half-hour;
though with a burning cheek still; and a dimness over her eyes
frequently obliged her to stop till she could clear them. It
was done, and she carried it out to the kitchen herself.
The poor man's thanks were very warm; but that was not what
Ellen wanted. She could not rest till she had got another word
from her brother. He was busy; she dared not speak to him; she
sat fidgeting and uneasy in the corner of the sofa till it was
time to get ready for riding. She had plenty of time to make
up her mind about the right and the wrong of her own conduct.
During the ride he was just as usual, and she began to think
he did not mean to say anything more on the matter. Pleasant
talk and pleasant exercise had almost driven it out of her
head, when as they were walking their horses over a level
place, he suddenly began
"By-the-bye, you are too busy, Ellie," said he. "Which of your
studies shall we cut off?"
"_Please_, Mr. John," said Ellen, blushing, "don't say anything
about that! I was not studying at all I was just amusing
myself with a book I was only selfish and lazy."
"_Only_ I would rather you were too busy, Ellie."
Ellen's eyes filled.
"I was wrong," she said "I knew it at the time at least,
as soon as you spoke I knew it; and a little before; I was
very wrong!"
And his keen eye saw that the confession was not out of
compliment to him merely; it came from the heart.
"You are right now," he said, smiling. "But how are your
reins?"
Ellen's heart was at rest again.
"Oh, I forgot them," said she, gaily: "I was thinking of
something else."
"You must not talk when you are riding, unless you can
contrive to manage two things at once; and no more lose
command of your horse than you would of yourself."
Ellen's eye met his, with all the contrition, affection, and
ingenuousness that even he wished to see there; and they put
their horses to the canter.
This winter was in many ways a very precious one to Ellen.
French gave her now no trouble; she was a clever
arithmetician; she knew geography admirably, and was tolerably
at home in both English and American history; the way was
cleared for the course of improvement in which her brother's
hand led and helped her. He put her into Latin; carried on the
study of natural philosophy they had begun the year before,
and which with his instructions was perfectly delightful to
Ellen; he gave her some works of stronger reading than she had
yet tried, besides histories in French and English, and higher
branches of arithmetic. These things were not crowded together
so as to fatigue, nor hurried through so as to overload.
Carefully and thoroughly she was obliged to put her mind
through every subject they entered upon; and just at that age,
opening as her understanding was, it grappled eagerly with all
that he gave her, as well from love to learning as from love
to him. In reading, too, she began to take new and strong
delight. Especially two or three new English periodicals,
which John sent for on purpose for her, were mines of pleasure
to Ellen. There was no fiction in them, either; they were as
full of instruction as of interest. At all times of the day
and night, in her intervals of business, Ellen might be seen
with one of these in her hand, nestled among the cushions of
the sofa, or on a little bench by the side of the fireplace in
the twilight, where she could have the benefit of the blaze,
which she loved to read by as well as ever. Sorrowful
remembrances were then flown, all things present were out of
view, and Ellen's face was dreamingly happy.
It was well there was always somebody by, who whatever he
might himself be doing, never lost sight of her. If ever Ellen
was in danger of bending too long over her studies, or
indulging herself too much in the sofa-corner, she was sure to
be broken off to take an hour or two of smart exercise, riding
or walking, or to recite some lesson (and their recitations
were very lively things), or to read aloud, or to talk.
Sometimes, if he saw that she seemed to be drooping or a
little sad, he would come and sit down by her side, or call
her to his, find out what she was thinking about, and then,
instead of slurring it over, talk of it fairly, and set it
before her in such a light that it was impossible to think of
it again gloomily, for that day at least. Sometimes he took
other ways, but never, when he was present, allowed her long
to look weary or sorrowful. He often read to her, and every
day made her read aloud to him. This Ellen disliked very much
at first, and ended with as much liking it. She had an
admirable teacher. He taught her how to manage her voice, and
how to manage the language, in both which he excelled himself,
and was determined that she should; and, besides this, their
reading often led to talking that Ellen delighted in. Always
when he was making copies for her she read to him, and once at
any rate in the course of the day.
Every day, when the weather would permit, the Black Prince and
the Brownie, with their respective riders, might be seen
abroad in the country, far and wide. In the course of their
rides, Ellen's horsemanship was diligently perfected. Very
often their turning-place was on the top of the Cat's Back,
and the horses had a rest and Mrs. Vawse a visit before they
went down again. They had long walks, too, by hill and dale;
pleasantly silent or pleasantly talkative all pleasant to
Ellen!
Her only lonely or sorrowful time was when John was gone to
Randolph. It began early Saturday morning, and perhaps ended
with Sunday night; for all Monday was hope and expectation.
Even Saturday she had not much time to mope; that was the day
for her great week's mending. When John was gone, and her
morning affairs were out of the way, Ellen brought out her
work-basket, and established herself on the sofa for a quiet
day's sewing without the least fear of interruption. But
sewing did not always hinder thinking. And then, certainly,
the room did seem very empty, and very still; and the clock,
which she never heard the rest of the week, kept ticking an
ungracious reminder that she was alone. Ellen would sometimes
forget it, in the intense interest of some nice little piece
of repair which must be exquisitely done in a wrist-band or a
glove; and then perhaps Margery would softly open the door and
come in.
"Miss Ellen, dear, you're lonesome enough; isn't there
something I can do for you? I can't rest for thinking of your
being here all by yourself."
"Oh, never mind, Margery," said Ellen, smiling "I am doing
very well. I am living in hopes of Monday. Come and look here,
Margery how will that do? don't you think I am learning to
mend?"
"It's beautiful, Miss Ellen! I can't make out how you've
learned so quick. I'll tell Mr. John some time who does these
things for him."
"No, indeed, Margery! don't you. _Please_ not, Margery. I like
to do it very much, indeed, but I don't want he should know
it, nor Mr. Humphreys. Now you won't, Margery, will you?"
"Miss Ellen, dear, I wouldn't do the least little thing as
would be worrisome to you, for the whole world. Aren't you
tired sitting here all alone?"
"Oh, sometimes a little," said Ellen, sighing. "I can't help
that, you know."
"I feel it even out there in the kitchen," said Margery; "I
feel it lonesome hearing the house so still I miss the want
of Mr. John's step up and down the room. How fond he is of
walking so, to be sure! How do you manage, Miss Ellen, with
him making his study here? don't you have to keep uncommon
quiet?"
"No," said Ellen "no quieter than I like. I do just as I
have a mind to."
"I thought, to be sure," said Margery, "he would have taken
upstairs for his study, or the next room, one or t'other; he
used to be mighty particular in old times; he didn't like to
have anybody round when he was busy; but I am glad he is
altered, however; it is better for you, Miss Ellen, dear,
though I didn't know how you was ever going to make out at
first."
Ellen thought for a minute, when Margery was gone, whether it
could be that John was putting a force upon his liking for her
sake, bearing her presence when he would rather have been
without it. But she thought of it only a minute; she was sure,
when she recollected herself, that however it happened, she
was no hinderance to him in any kind of work; that she went
out and came in, and, as he had said, he saw and heard her
without any disturbance. Besides, he had said so; and that was
enough.
Saturday evening she generally contrived to busy herself in
her books. But when Sunday morning came, with its calmness and
brightness when the business of the week was put away, and
quietness, abroad and at home, invited to recollection then
Ellen's thoughts went back to old times, and then she missed
the calm, sweet face that had agreed so well with the day. She
missed her in the morning, when the early sun streamed in
through the empty room. She missed her at the breakfast-table,
where John was not to take her place. On the ride to church,
where Mr. Humphreys was now her silent companion, and every
tree in the road, and every opening in the landscape, seemed
to call for Alice to see it with her. Very much she missed her
in church. The empty seat beside her the unused hymn-book on
the shelf the want of her sweet voice in the singing oh!
how it went to Ellen's heart! And Mr. Humphreys' grave,
steadfast look and tone kept it in her mind; she saw it was in
his. Those Sunday mornings tried Ellen. At first they were
bitterly sad her tears used to flow abundantly whenever they
could, unseen. Time softened this feeling.
While Mr. Humphreys went on to his second service in the
village beyond, Ellen stayed at Carra-carra, and tried to
teach a Sunday-school. She determined, as far as she could, to
supply beyond the home circle the loss that was not felt only
there. She was able, however, to gather together but her own
four children, whom she had constantly taught from the
beginning, and two others. The rest were scattered. After her
lunch, which, having no companion but Margery, was now a short
one, Ellen went next to the two old women that Alice had been
accustomed to attend for the purpose of reading, and what
Ellen called preaching. These poor old people had sadly
lamented the loss of the faithful friend whose place they
never expected to see supplied in this world, and whose
kindness had constantly sweetened their lives with one great
pleasure a week. Ellen felt afraid to take so much upon
herself as to try to do for them what Alice had done; however,
she resolved; and at the very first attempt their gratitude
and joy far overpaid her for the effort she had made.
Practice, and the motive she had, soon enabled Ellen to
remember and repeat faithfully the greater part of Mr.
Humphreys' morning sermon. Reading the Bible to Mrs. Blockson
was easy she had often done that; and to repair the loss of
Alice's pleasant comments and explanations, she bethought her
of her _Pilgrim's Progress_. To her delight the old woman heard
it greedily, and seemed to take great comfort in it; often
referring to what Ellen had read before, and begging to hear
such a piece over again. Ellen generally went home pretty
thoroughly tired, yet feeling happy; the pleasure of doing
good still far overbalanced the pains.
Sunday evening was another lonely time; Ellen spent it as best
she could. Sometimes with her Bible and prayer, and then she
ceased to be lonely; sometimes with so many pleasant thoughts
that had sprung up out of the employments of the morning, that
she could not be sorrowful; sometimes she could not help being
both. In any case, she was very apt, when the darkness fell,
to take to singing hymns; and it grew to be a habit with Mr.
Humphreys, when he heard her, to come out of his study and lie
down upon the sofa and listen, suffering no light in the room
but that of the fire. Ellen never was better pleased than when
her Sunday evenings were spent so. She sung with wonderful
pleasure when she sang for him; and she made it her business
to fill her memory with all the beautiful hymns she ever knew
or could find, or that he liked particularly.
With the first opening of her eyes on Monday morning came the
thought, "John will be at home to-day!" That was enough to
carry Ellen pleasantly through whatever the day might bring.
She generally kept her mending of stockings for Monday
morning, because with that thought in her head she did not
mind anything. She had no visits from Margery on Monday; but
Ellen sang over her work, sprang about with happy energy, and
studied her hardest; for John, in what he expected her to do,
made no calculations for work of which he knew nothing. He was
never at home till late in the day; and when Ellen had done
all she had to do, and set the supper-table with punctilious
care, and a face of busy happiness it would have been a
pleasure to see if there had been any one to look at it, she
would take what happened to be the favourite book, and plant
herself near the glass door, like a very epicure, to enjoy
both the present and the future at once. Even then, the
present often made her forget the future; she would be lost in
her book, perhaps hunting the elephant in India, or fighting
Nelson's battles over again; and the first news she would have
of what she had set herself there to watch for, would be the
click of the door-lock or a tap on the glass, for the horse
was almost always left at the further door. Back then she came
from India or the Nile; down went the book; Ellen had no more
thought but for what was before her.
For the rest of that evening the measure of Ellen's happiness
was full. It did not matter whether John were in a talkative
or a thoughtful mood; whether he spoke to her and looked at
her or not; it was pleasure enough to feel that he was there.
She was perfectly satisfied merely to sit down near him,
though she did not get a word by the hour together.