The Wide, Wide World

"Well, I am seeking Him," she thought; "can it be that He loves me! Oh, I'm so glad!"

And they were glad tears that little Ellen wiped away as she went upstairs; for it was too cold to sit there long if the moon was ever so bright.

She had her hand on the latch of the door when her grandmother called out from the other room to know who was there.

"It's I, grandma."

"Ain't somebody there? Come in here – who is it?"

"It's I, grandma," said Ellen, coming to the door.

"Come in here, deary," said the old woman, in a lower tone; "what is it all? what's the matter? who's downstairs?"

"It's a bee, grandma; there's nothing the matter."

"A bee! who's been stung? what's all the noise about?"

"'Tisn't that kind of bee, grandma; don't you know? there's a parcel of people that came to pare apples, and they've been playing games in the parlour – that's all."

"Paring apples, eh? Is there company below?"

"Yes, ma'am; a whole parcel of people."

"Dear me!" said the old lady, "I oughtn't to ha' been abed! Why ha'n't Fortune told me? I'll get right up. Ellen, you go in that fur closet and bring me my paddysoy that hangs there, and then help me on with my things; I'll get right up. Dear me! what was Fortune thinking about?"

The moonlight served very well instead of candles. After twice bringing the wrong dresses Ellen at last hit upon the "paddysoy," which the old lady knew immediately by the touch. In haste, and not without some fear and trembling on Ellen's part, she was arrayed in it; her best cap put on, not over hair in the best order, Ellen feared, but the old lady would not stay to have it made better; Ellen took care of her down the stairs, and after opening the door for her went back to her room.

A little while had passed, and Ellen was just tying her night-cap strings and ready to go peacefully to sleep, when Nancy burst in.

"Ellen! hurry! you must come right downstairs."

"Downstairs! why, I am just ready to go to bed."

"No matter, you must come right away down. There's Mr. Van Brunt says he won't begin supper till you come."

"But does Aunt Fortune know?"

"Yes, I tell you! and the quicker you come the better she'll be pleased. She sent me after you in all sorts of a hurry. She said she didn't know where you was."

"Said she didn't know where I was! Why, she told me herself – ," Ellen began and stopped short.

"Of course!" said Nancy, "don't you think I know that? But he don't, and if you want to plague her you'll just tell him. Now come and be quick, will you. The supper's splendid."

Ellen lost the first view of the table, for everything had begun to be pulled to pieces before she came in. The company were all crowded round the table, eating and talking and helping themselves; and ham and bread and butter, pumpkin pies and mince pies and apple pies, cakes of various kinds, and glasses of egg-nogg and cider, were in everybody's hands. One dish in the middle of the big table had won the praise of every tongue; nobody could guess and many asked how it was made, but Miss Fortune kept a satisfied silence, pleased to see the constant stream of comers to the big dish till it was near empty. Just then Mr. Van Brunt, seeing Ellen had nothing, gathered up all that was left and gave it to her.

It was sweet and cold and rich. Ellen told her mother afterwards it was the best thing she had ever tasted except the ice-cream she once gave her in New York. She had taken, however, but one spoonful when her eye fell upon Nancy, standing back of all the company, and forgotten. Nancy had been upon her good behaviour all the evening, and it was a singular proof of this that she had not pushed in and helped herself among the first. Ellen's eye went once or twice from her plate to Nancy, and then she crossed over and offered it to her. It was eagerly taken, and, a little disappointed, Ellen stepped back again. But she soon forgot the disappointment. "She'll know now that I don't bear her any grudge," she thought.

"Ha'n't you got nothing?" said Nancy, coming up presently; "that wasn't your'n that you gave me, was it?"

Ellen nodded smilingly.

"Well, there ain't no more of it," said Nancy. "The bowl is empty."

"I know it," said Ellen.

"Why, didn't you like it?"

"Yes, very much."

"Why, you're a queer little fish," said Nancy. "What did you get Mr. Van Brunt to let me in for?"

"How did you know I did?"

"Cause he told me. Say – what did you do it for? Mr. Dennison, won't you give Ellen a piece of cake or something? Here – take this," said Nancy, pouncing upon a glass of egg-nogg which a gap in the company enabled her to reach; "I made it more than half myself. Ain't it good?"

"Yes, very," said Ellen, smacking her lips; "what's in it?"

"Oh, plenty of good things. But what made you ask Mr. Van Brunt to let me stop to-night? you didn't tell me – did you want me to stay?"

"Never mind," said Ellen; "don't ask me any questions."

"Yes, but I will though, and you've got to answer me. Why did you? Come! do you like me? – say."

"I should like you, I dare say, if you would be different."

"Well, I don't care," said Nancy, after a little pause, "I like you, though you're as queer as you can be. I don't care whether you like me or not. Look here, Ellen, that cake there is the best, I know it is, for I've tried 'em all. You know I told Van Brunt I would tell him what you were crying about?"

"Yes, and I asked you not. Did you?"

Nancy nodded, being at the moment still further engaged in "trying" the cake.

"I am sorry you did. What did he say?"

"He didn't say much to me– somebody else will hear of it, I guess. He was mad about it, or I am mistaken. What makes you sorry?"

"It will only do harm, and make Aunt Fortune angry."

"Well, that's just what I should like if I were you. I can't make you out."

"I'd a great deal rather have her like me," said Ellen. "Was she vexed when grandma came down?"

"I don't know, but she had to keep it to herself if she was; everybody else was so glad, and Mr. Van Brunt made such a fuss. Just look at the old lady, how pleased she is. I declare, if the folks ain't talking of going. Come, Ellen, now for the cloaks! you and me'll finish our supper afterwards."

That, however, was not to be. Nancy was offered a ride home to Mrs. Van Brunt's and a lodging there. They were ready cloaked and shawled, and Ellen was still hunting for Miss Janet's things in the moonlit hall, when she heard Nancy close by, in a lower tone than common, say —

"Ellen, will you kiss me?"

Ellen dropped her armful of things, and taking Nancy's hands, gave her truly the kiss of peace.

When she went up to undress for the second time, she found on her bed – her letter! And with tears Ellen kneeled down and gave earnest thanks for this blessing, and that she had been able to gain Nancy's goodwill.

CHAPTER XXVI

He was a gentleman on whom I built an absolute trust.– Macbeth.

It was Tuesday, the 22nd of December, and late in the day. Not a pleasant afternoon. The grey snow-clouds hung low; the air was keen and raw. It was already growing dark, and Alice was sitting alone in the firelight, when two little feet came running round the corner of the house; the glass door opened, and Ellen rushed in.

"I have come! I have come!" she exclaimed. "Oh, dear Alice! I'm so glad!"

So was Alice, if her kiss meant anything.

"But how late, my child! how late you are."

"Oh, I thought I never was going to get done," said Ellen, pulling off her things in a great hurry, and throwing them on the sofa; "but I am here at last. Oh, I'm so glad!"

"Why, what has been the matter?" said Alice, folding up what Ellen laid down.

"Oh, a great deal of matter; I couldn't think what Nancy meant last night; I know very well now. I shan't want to see any more apples all winter. What do you think I have been about all to-day, dear Miss Alice?"

"Nothing that has done you much harm," said Alice, smiling, "if I am to guess from your looks. You are as rosy as a good Spitzenberg yourself."

"That's very funny," said Ellen, laughing, "for Aunt Fortune said awhile ago that my cheeks were just the colour of two mealy potatoes."

"But about the apples?" said Alice.

"Why, this morning I was thinking I would come here so early, when the first thing I knew Aunt Fortune brought out all those heaps and heaps of apples into the kitchen, and made me sit down on the floor, and then she gave me a great big needle, and set me to stringing them all together, and as fast as I strung them, she hung them up all round the ceiling. I tried very hard to get through before, but I could not, and I am so tired! I thought I never should get to the bottom of that big basket."

"Never mind, love; come to the fire; we'll try and forget all disagreeable things while we are together."

"I have forgotten it almost already," said Ellen, as she sat down in Alice's lap, and laid her face against hers; "I don't care for it at all now."

But her cheeks were fast fading into the uncomfortable colour Miss Fortune had spoken of; and weariness and weakness kept her for awhile quiet in Alice's arms, overcoming even the pleasure of talking. They sat so till the clock struck half-past five; then Alice proposed they should go into the kitchen and see Margery, and order the tea made, which she had no doubt Ellen wanted. Margery welcomed her with great cordiality. She liked anybody that Alice liked, but she had besides declared to her husband that Ellen was "an uncommon well-behaved child." She said she would put the tea to draw, and they should have it in a very few minutes.

"But, Miss Alice, there's an Irish body out by, waiting to speak to you. I was just coming in to tell you; will you please to see her now?"

"Certainly, let her come in. Is she in the cold, Margery?"

"No, Miss Alice; there's a fire there this evening. I'll call her."

The woman came up from the lower kitchen at the summons. She was young, rather pretty, and with a pleasant countenance, but unwashed, uncombed, untidy; no wonder Margery's nicety had shrunk from introducing her into her spotless upper kitchen. The unfailing Irish cloak was drawn about her, the hood brought over her head, and on the head and shoulders the snow lay white, not yet melted away.

"Did you wish to speak to me, my friend?" said Alice pleasantly.

"If ye plase, ma'am, it's the master I'm wanting," said the woman, dropping a curtsey.

"My father? Margery, will you tell him?"

Margery departed.

"Come nearer the fire," said Alice, "and sit down; my father will be here presently. It is snowing again, is it not?"

"It is, ma'am; a bitter storm."

"Have you come far?"

"It's a good bit, my lady, it's more nor a mile beyant Carra, just right forgin the ould big hill they call the Catchback; in Jemmy Morrison's woods, where Pat M'Farren's clearing is; it's there I live, my lady."

"That is a long distance, indeed, for a walk in the snow," said Alice kindly; "sit down and come nearer the fire. Margery will give you something to refresh you."

"I thank ye, my lady, but I want nothing man can give me the night; and when one's on an arrant of life and death, it's little the cold or the storm can do to put out the heart's fire."

"Life and death? who is sick?" said Alice.

"It's my own child, ma'am; my own boy; all the child I have; and I'll have none by the morning light."

"Is he so ill?" said Alice; "what is the matter with him?"

"Myself doesn't know."

The voice was fainter; the brown cloak was drawn over her face; and Alice and Ellen saw her shoulders heaving with the grief she kept from bursting out. They exchanged glances.

"Sit down," said Alice again presently, laying her hand upon the wet shoulder; "sit down and rest; my father will be here directly. Margery – oh, that's right; a cup of tea will do her good. What do you want with my father?"

"The Lord bless ye! I'll tell you, my lady."

She drank off the tea, but refused something more substantial that Margery offered her.

"The Lord bless ye! I couldn't. My lady, there wasn't a stronger, nor a prettier, nor a swater child, nor couldn't be, nor he was when we left it; it'll be three years come the fifteenth of April next; but I'm thinking the bitter winters o' this cowld country has chilled the life out o' him, and trouble's cowlder than all," she added, in a lower tone. "I seed him grow waker an' waker, an' his daar face grew thinner an' thinner, and the red all left it; only two burning spots was on it some days; an' I worried the life out o' me for him, an' all I could do, I couldn't do nothing at all to help him, but he just growd waker an' waker. I axed the father wouldn't he see the doctor about him; but he's an 'asy kind o' man, my lady, an' he said he would, an' he never did to this day; an' John, he always said it was no use sinding for the doctor, an' looked so swate at me, an' said for me not to fret, for sure he'd be better soon, or he'd go to a better place. An' I thought he was like a heavenly angel itself already, an' always was, but then more nor ever. Och! it's soon that he'll be one entirely, let Father Shannon say what he will."

She sobbed for a minute, while Alice and Ellen looked on, silent and pitying.

"An' to-night, my lady, he's very bad," she went on, wiping away the tears that came quickly again; "an' I seed he was going fast from me, an' I was breaking my heart wid the loss of him, whin I heard one of the men that was in it say, 'What's this he's saying?' says he. 'An' what is it thin?' says I. 'About the jantleman that praaches at Carra,' says he; 'he's a calling for him,' says he. I knowed there wasn't a praast at all at Carra, an' I thought he was draaming, or out o' his head, or crazy wid his sickness, like; an' I went up close to him, an' says I, 'John,' says I, 'what is it you want?' says I; 'an' sure if it's anything in heaven above or in earth beneath that yer own mother can get for ye,' says I, 'ye shall have it,' says I. An' he put up his two arms to my neck, an' pulled my face down to his lips, that was hot wid the faver, an' kissed me, he did; an', says he, 'Mother daar,' says he, 'if ye love me,' says he, 'fetch me the good jantleman that praaches at Carra till I spake to him.' 'Is it the praast you want, John, my boy?' says I; 'sure he's in it,' says I; for Michael had been for Father Shannon, an' he had come home wid him half-an-hour before. 'Oh no, mother,' says he, 'it's not him at all that I maan; it's the jantleman that spakes in the little white church at Carra; he's not a praast at all,' says he. 'An' who is he thin?' says I, getting up from the bed, 'or where will I find him, or how will I get to him?' 'Ye'll not stir a fut for him thin the night, Kitty Dolan,' says my husband; 'are ye mad?' says he; 'sure it's not his own head the child has at all at all, or it's a little hiritic, he is,' says he; 'an' ye won't show the disrespect to the praast in yer own house.' 'I'm maaning none,' says I; 'nor more he isn't a hiritic; but if he was, he's a born angel to Michael Dolan anyhow,' says I; 'an' wid the kiss of his lips on my face wouldn't I do the arrant of my own boy, an' he a-dying? by the blessing an' I will, if twenty men stud between me an' it. So tell me where I'll find him, this praast, if there's the love o' mercy in any sowl o' ye,' says I. But they wouldn't spake a word for me, not one of them; so I axed an' axed at one place an' other, till here I am. An' now, my lady, will the master go for me to my poor boy? for he'd maybe be dead while I stand here."

"Surely I will," said Mr. Humphreys, who had come in while she was speaking. "Wait but one moment."

In a moment he came back ready, and he and the woman set forth to their walk. Alice looked out anxiously after them.

"It storms very hard," she said, "and he has not had his tea! But he couldn't wait. Come, Ellen love, we'll have ours. How will he ever get back again! it will be so deep by that time."

There was a cloud on the fair brow for a few minutes, but it passed away, and quiet and calm as ever she sat down at the little tea-table with Ellen. From her face all shadows seemed to have flown for ever. Hungry and happy, she enjoyed Margery's good bread and butter, and the nice honey, and from time to time cast very bright looks at the dear face on the other side of the table, which could not help looking bright in reply. Ellen was well pleased for her part that the third seat was empty. But Alice looked thoughtful sometimes as a gust of wind swept by, and once or twice went to the window.

After tea Alice took out her work, and Ellen put herself contentedly down on the rug, and sat leaning back against her. Silent for very contentment for a while, she sat looking gravely into the fire; while Alice's fingers drove a little steel hook through and through some purse silk in a mysterious fashion that no eye could be quick enough to follow, and with such skill and steadiness that the work grew fast under her hand.

"I had such a funny dream last night," said Ellen.

"Did you? What about?"

"It was pleasant too," said Ellen, twisting herself round to talk – "but very queer. I dreamed about that gentleman that was so kind to me on board the boat – you know? – I told you about him?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Well, I dreamed of seeing him somewhere, I don't know where, and he didn't look a bit like himself, only I knew who it was; and I thought I didn't like to speak to him for fear he wouldn't know me, but then I thought he did, and came up and took my hand, and seemed so glad to see me; and he asked me if I had been pious since he saw me."

Ellen stopped to laugh.

"And what did you tell him?"

"I told him yes. And then I thought he seemed so very pleased."

"Dreamers do not always keep close to the truth, it seems."

"I didn't," said Ellen. "But then I thought I had, in my dream."

"Had what? Kept close to the truth?"

"No, no; – been what he said."

"Dreams are queer things," said Alice.

"I have been far enough from being good to-day," said Ellen thoughtfully.

"How so, my dear?"

"I don't know, Miss Alice – because I never am good, I suppose."

"But what has been the matter to-day?"

"Why, those apples! I thought I would come here so early, and then when I found I must do all those baskets of apples first I was very ill-humoured; and Aunt Fortune saw I was, and said something that made me worse. And I tried as hard as I could to get through before dinner, and when I found I couldn't I said I wouldn't come to dinner, but she made me, and that vexed me more, and I wouldn't eat scarcely anything, and then when I got back to the apples again I sewed so hard that I ran the needle into my finger ever so far – see there! what a mark it left! – and Aunt Fortune said it served me right and she was glad of it, and that made me angry. I knew I was wrong afterwards, and I was very sorry. Isn't it strange, dear Alice, I should do so when I have resolved so hard I wouldn't?"

"Not very, my darling, as long as we have such evil hearts as ours are – it is strange they should be so evil."

"I told Aunt Fortune afterwards I was sorry, but she said 'actions speak louder than words, and words are cheap.' If she only wouldn't say that just as she does! it does worry me so."

"Patience!" said Alice, passing her hand over Ellen's hair as she sat looking sorrowfully up at her; "you must try not to give her occasion. Never mind what she says, and overcome evil with good."

"That is just what mamma said!" exclaimed Ellen, rising to throw her arms round Alice's neck, and kissing her with all the energy of love, gratitude, repentance, and sorrowful recollection.

"Oh, what do you think!" she said suddenly, her face changing again – "I got my letter last night!"

"Your letter!"

"Yes, the letter the old man brought – don't you know? And it was written on the ship, and there was only a little bit from mamma, and a little bit from papa, but so good! Papa says she is a great deal better, and he has no doubt he will bring her back in the spring or summer quite well again. Isn't that good?"

"Very good, dear Ellen. I am very glad for you."

"It was on my bed last night. I can't think how it got there – and don't care either, so long as I have got it. What are you making?"

"A purse," said Alice, laying it on the table for her inspection.

"It will be very pretty. Is the other end to be like this?"

"Yes, and these tassels to finish them off."

"Oh, that's beautiful!" said Ellen, laying them down to try the effect; "and these rings to fasten it with. Is it black?"

"No, dark green. I am making it for my brother John."

"A Christmas present!" exclaimed Ellen.

"I am afraid not; he will hardly be here by that time. It may do for New Year."

"How pleasant it must be to make Christmas and New Year presents!" said Ellen, after she had watched Alice's busy fingers for a few minutes. "I wish I could make something for somebody. Oh, I wonder if I couldn't make something for Mr. Van Brunt! Oh, I should like to very much!"

Alice smiled at Ellen's very wide-open eyes.

"What could you make for him?"

"I don't know – that's the thing. He keeps his money in his pocket – and besides, I don't know how to make purses."

"There are other things besides purses. How would a watch-guard do? Does he wear a watch?"

"I don't know whether he does or not. He doesn't every day, I am sure; but I don't know about Sundays."

"Then we won't venture upon that. You might knit him a nightcap."

"A nightcap? You're joking, Alice, aren't you? I don't think a nightcap would be pretty for a Christmas present, do you?"

"Well, what shall we do, Ellen?" said Alice, laughing. "I made a pocket pin-cushion for papa once when I was a little girl; but I fancy Mr. Van Brunt would not know exactly what use to make of such a convenience. I don't think you could fail to please him though, with anything you should hit upon."

"I have got a dollar," said Ellen, "to buy stuff with; it came in my letter last night. If I only knew what!"

Down she went on the rug again, and Alice worked in silence, while Ellen's thoughts ran over every possible and impossible article of Mr. Van Brunt's dress.

"I have some nice pieces of fine linen," said Alice; "suppose I cut out a collar for him, and you can make it and stitch it, and then Margery will starch and iron it for you, all ready to give to him. How will that do? Can you stitch well enough?"

"Oh yes, I guess I can," said Ellen. "Oh, thank you, dear Alice! you are the best help that ever was. Will he like that, do you think?"

"I am sure he will very much."

"Then that will do nicely," said Ellen, much relieved. "And now, what do you think about Nancy's Bible?"

"Nothing could be better, only that I am afraid Nancy would either sell it for something else, or let it go to destruction very quickly. I never heard of her spending five minutes over a book, and the Bible, I am afraid, last of all."

"But I think," said Ellen slowly, "I think she would not spoil it or sell it either if I gave it to her."

And she told Alice about Nancy's asking for the kiss last night.

"That's the most hopeful thing I have heard about Nancy for a long time," said Alice. "We will get her the Bible by all means, my dear – a nice one – and I hope you will be able to persuade her to read it."

She rose as she spoke and went to the glass door. Ellen followed her, and they looked out into the night. It was very dark. She opened the door a moment, but the wind drove the snow into their faces, and they were glad to shut it again.

"It's almost as bad as the night we were out, isn't it?" said Ellen.

"Not such a heavy fall of snow, I think, but it is very windy and cold. Papa will be late getting home."

"I am sorry you are worried, dear Alice."

"I am not much worried, love. I have often known papa out late before, but this is rather a hard night for a long walk. Come, we'll try to make a good use of the time while we are waiting. Suppose you read to me while I work."

She took down a volume of Cowper and found his account of the three pet hares. Ellen read it, and then several of his smaller pieces of poetry. Then followed a long talk about hares and other animals; about Cowper and his friends and his way of life. Time passed swiftly away; it was getting late.