The Wide, Wide World

A servant came to take the horse, and Ellen, being first rid of her moccasins, went with John and Alice up the broad flight of steps and into the house. They entered a large handsome square hall with a blue and white stone floor, at one side of which the staircase went winding up. Here they were met by a young lady, very lively and pleasant-faced, who threw her arms round Alice and kissed her a great many times, seeming very glad indeed to see her. She welcomed Ellen too with such warmth that she began to feel almost as if she had been sent for and expected; told Mr. John he had behaved admirably; and then led them into a large room where was a group of ladies and gentlemen.

The welcome they got here was less lively but quite as kind. Mr. and Mrs. Marshman were fine, handsome old people, of stately presence, and most dignified as well as kind in their deportment. Ellen saw that Alice was at home here, as if she had been a daughter of the family. Mrs. Marshman also stooped down and kissed herself, telling her she was very glad she had come, and that there were a number of young people there who would be much pleased to have her help them keep Christmas. Ellen could not make out yet who any of the rest of the company were. John and Alice seemed to know them all, and there was a buzz of pleasant voices and a great bustle of shaking hands.

The children had all gone out to walk, and as they had had their dinner a great while ago it was decided that Ellen should take hers that day with the elder part of the family. While they were waiting to be called to dinner and everybody else was talking and laughing, old Mr. Marshman took notice of little Ellen, and drawing her from Alice's side to his own, began a long conversation. He asked her a great many questions, some of them such funny ones that she could not help laughing, but she answered them all, and now and then so that she made him laugh too. By the time the butler came to say dinner was ready she had almost forgotten she was a stranger. Mr. Marshman himself led her to the dining-room, begging the elder ladies would excuse him, but he felt bound to give his attention to the greatest stranger in the company. He placed her on his right hand and took the greatest care of her all dinner-time; once sending her plate the whole length of the table for some particular little thing he thought she would like. On the other side of Ellen sat Mrs. Chauncey, one of Mr. Marshman's daughters; a lady with a sweet, gentle, quiet face and manner that made Ellen like to sit by her. Another daughter, Mrs. Gillespie, had more of her mother's stately bearing; the third, Miss Sophia, who met them first in the hall, was very unlike both the others, but lively and agreeable and good-humoured.

Dinner gave place to the dessert, and that in its turn was removed with the cloth. Ellen was engaged in munching almonds and raisins, admiring the brightness of the mahogany, and the richly-cut and coloured glass, and silver decanter stands, which were reflected in it, when a door at the farther end of the room half-opened, a little figure came partly in, and holding the door in her hand, stood looking doubtfully along the table, as if seeking for some one.

"What is the matter, Ellen?" said Mrs. Chauncey.

"Mrs. Bland told me, mamma," she began, her eye not ceasing its uneasy quest, but then breaking off and springing to Alice's side, she threw her arms around her neck, and gave her certainly the warmest of all the warm welcomes she had had that day.

"Hallo!" cried Mr. Marshman, rapping on the table, "that's too much for any one's share. Come here, you baggage, and give me just such another."

The little girl came near accordingly, and hugged and kissed him with a very good will, remarking, however, "Ah, but I've seen you before to-day, grandpapa!"

"Well, here's somebody you've not seen before," said he good-humouredly, pulling her round to Ellen. "Here's a new friend for you, a young lady from the great city, so you must brush up your country manners – Miss Ellen Montgomery, come from – pshaw! what is it? Come from – "

"London, grandpapa?" said the little girl, as with a mixture of simplicity and kindness she took Ellen's hand and kissed her on the cheek.

"From Carra-carra, sir?" said Ellen, smiling.

"Go along with you," said he, laughing, and pinching her cheek. "Take her away, Ellen, take her away, and mind you take good care of her. Tell Mrs. Bland she is one of grandpapa's guests."

The two children had not, however reached the door when Ellen Chauncey exclaimed, "Wait, oh! wait a minute! I must speak to Aunt Sophia about the bag." And flying to her side, there followed an earnest whispering, and then a nod and a smile from Aunt Sophia; and, satisfied, Ellen returned to her companion and led her out of the dining-room.

"We have both got the same name," said she, as they went along a wide corridor. "How shall we know which is which?"

"Why," said Ellen, laughing, "when you say 'Ellen' I shall know you mean me, and when I say it you will know I mean you. I shouldn't be calling myself, you know."

"Yes, but when somebody else calls 'Ellen,' we shall both have to run. Do you run when you are called?"

"Sometimes," said Ellen, laughing.

"Ah, but I do always; mamma always makes me. I thought perhaps you were like Marianne Gillespie. She waits often as much as half-a-minute before she stirs when anybody calls her. Did you come with Miss Alice?"

"Yes."

"Do you love her?"

"Very much! Oh, very much!"

Little Ellen looked at her companion's rising colour with a glance of mixed curiosity and pleasure, in which lay a strong promise of growing love.

"So do I," she answered gaily. "I am very glad she is come, and I am very glad you are come, too."

The little speaker pushed open a door, and led Ellen into the presence of a group of young people rather older than themselves.

"Marianne," said she to one of them, a handsome girl of fourteen, "this is Miss Ellen Montgomery. She came with Alice, and she is come to keep Christmas with us. Aren't you glad? There'll be quite a parcel of us when what's-her-name comes, won't there?"

Marianne shook hands with Ellen.

"She is one of grandpapa's guests, I can tell you," said little Ellen Chauncey, "and he says we must brush up our country manners; she's come from the great city."

"Do you think we are a set of ignoramuses, Miss Ellen?" inquired a well-grown boy of fifteen, who looked enough like Marianne Gillespie to prove him her brother.

"I don't know what that is," said Ellen.

"Well, do they do things better in the great city than we do here?"

"I don't know how you do them here," said Ellen.

"Don't you? Come, stand out of my way, right and left, all of you, will you, and give me a chance? Now, then!"

Conscious that he was amusing most of the party, he placed himself gravely at a little distance from Ellen, and marching solemnly up to her, bowed down to her knees; then slowly raising his head, stepped back.

"Miss Ellen Montgomery, I am rejoiced to have the pleasure of seeing you at Ventnor. Isn't that polite, now? Is that like what you have been accustomed to, Miss Montgomery?"

"No, sir, thank you," said Ellen, who laughed in spite of herself. The mirth of the others redoubled.

"May I request to be informed, then," continued Gillespie, "what is the fashion of making bows in the great city?"

"I don't know," said Ellen. "I never saw a boy make a bow before."

"Humph! I guess country manners will do for you," said William, turning on his heel.

"You're giving her a pretty specimen of 'em, Bill," said another boy.

"For shame, William!" cried little Ellen Chauncey. "Didn't I tell you she was one of grandpapa's guests? Come here, Ellen; I'll take you somewhere else!"

She seized Ellen's hand and pulled her towards the door, but suddenly stopped again.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you!" she said. "I asked Aunt Sophia about the bag of moroccos, and she said she would have 'em early to-morrow morning, and then we can divide 'em right away."

"We mustn't divide 'em till Maggie comes," said Marianne.

"Oh no, not till Maggie comes," said little Ellen; and then ran off again.

"I am so glad you are come," said she; "the others are all so much older, and they have all so much to do together – and now you can help me think what I will make for mamma. Hush! don't say a word about it!"

They entered the large drawing-room, where old and young were gathered for tea. The children, who had dined early, sat down to a well-spread table, at which Miss Sophia presided; the elder persons were standing or sitting in different parts of the room. Ellen, not being hungry, had leisure to look about her, and her eye soon wandered from the tea-table in search of her old friends. Alice was sitting by Mrs. Marshman, talking with two other ladies; but Ellen smiled presently as she caught her eye from the far end of the room, and got a little nod of recognition. John came up just then to set down his coffee-cup, and asked her what she was smiling at.

"That's city manners," said William Gillespie, "to laugh at what's going on."

"I have no doubt we shall all follow the example," said John Humphreys gravely, "if the young gentleman will try to give us a smile."

The young gentleman had just accommodated himself with an outrageously large mouthful of bread and sweetmeats, and if ever so well-disposed, compliance with the request was impossible. None of the rest, however, not even his sister, could keep their countenances, for the eye of the speaker had pointed and sharpened his words; and William, very red in the face, was understood to mumble, as soon as mumbling was possible, that "he wouldn't laugh unless he had a mind to," and a threat to "do something" to his tormentor.

"Only not eat me," said John, with a shade of expression in his look and tone which overcame the whole party, himself and poor William alone retaining entire gravity.

"What's all this – what's all this? What's all this laughing about?" said old Mr. Marshman, looking up.

"This young gentleman, sir," said John, "has been endeavouring – with a mouthful of arguments – to prove to us the inferiority of city manners to those learned in the country."

"Will!" said the old gentleman, glancing doubtfully at William's discomfited face; then added sternly, "I don't care where your manners were learnt, sir, but I advise you to be very particular as to the sort you bring with you here. Now, Sophia, let us have some music."

He set the children a-dancing, and as Ellen did not know how, he kept her by him, and kept her very much amused too, in his own way; then he would have her join in the dancing, and bade Ellen Chauncey give her lessons. There was a little backwardness at first, and then Ellen was jumping away with the rest, and thinking it perfectly delightful, as Miss Sophia's piano rattled out merry jigs and tunes, and little feet flew over the floor as light as the hearts they belonged to. At eight o'clock the young ones were dismissed, and bade good-night to their elders; and pleased with the kind kiss Mrs. Marshman had given her as well as her little granddaughter, Ellen went off to bed very happy.

The room to which her companion led her was the very picture of comfort. It was not too large, furnished with plain old-fashioned furniture, and lighted and warmed by a cheerful wood fire. The very old brass-headed andirons that stretched themselves out upon the hearth with such a look of being at home, seemed to say, "You have come to the right place for comfort." A little dark mahogany bookcase in one place – an odd toilet-table of the same stuff in another: and opposite the fire an old-fashioned high post-bedstead, with its handsome Marseilles quilt and ample pillows, looked very tempting. Between this and the far side of the room, in the corner, another bed was spread on the floor.

"This is Aunt Sophia's room," said little Ellen Chauncey; "this is where you are to sleep."

"And where will Alice be?" said the other Ellen.

"Oh, she'll sleep here, in this bed, with Aunt Sophia; that is because the house is so full, you know; and here is your bed, here on the floor. Oh, delicious! I wish I was going to sleep here. Don't you love to sleep on the floor? I do. I think it's fun."

Anybody might have thought it fun to sleep on that bed, for instead of a bedstead it was luxuriously piled on mattresses. The two children sat down together on the foot of it.

"This is Aunt Sophia's room," continued little Ellen, "and next to it, out of that door, is our dressing-room, and next to that is where mamma and I sleep. Do you undress and dress yourself?"

"To be sure I do," said Ellen, "always."

"So do I; but Marianne Gillespie won't even put on her shoes and stockings for herself."

"Who does it, then?" said Ellen.

"Why, Lester – Aunt Matilda's maid. Mamma sent away her maid when we came here, and she says if she had fifty she would like me to do everything I can for myself. I shouldn't think it was pleasant to have any one put on one's shoes and stockings for you, should you?"

"No, indeed," said Ellen. "Then you live here all the time?"

"Oh yes, ever since papa didn't come back from that long voyage – we live here since then."

"Is he coming back soon?"

"No," said little Ellen gravely, "he never came back – he never will come back any more."

Ellen was sorry she had asked, and both children were silent for a minute.

"I'll tell you what!" said little Ellen, jumping up, "mamma said we mustn't sit up too long talking, so I'll run and get my things and bring 'em here, and we can undress together; won't that be a nice way?"

CHAPTER XXVIII

He that loses anything, and gets wisdom by it, is a gainer by the loss.– L'Estrange.

Left alone in the strange room with the flickering fire, how quickly Ellen's thoughts left Ventnor and flew over the sea. They often travelled that road, it is true, but now perhaps the very home look of everything, where yet she was not at home, might have sent them. There was a bitter twinge or two, and for a minute Ellen's head drooped. "To-morrow will be Christmas eve – last Christmas eve – oh, mamma!"

Little Ellen Chauncey soon came back, and sitting down beside her on the foot of the bed, began the business of undressing.

"Don't you love Christmas time?" said she. "I think it's the pleasantest in all the year; we always have a house full of people, and such fine times. But then in summer I think that's the pleasantest. I s'pose they're all pleasant. Do you hang up your stocking?"

"No," said Ellen.

"Don't you? Why, I always did ever since I can remember. I used to think, when I was a little girl, you know," said she, laughing, "I used to think that Santa Claus came down the chimney, and I used to hang up my stocking as near the fireplace as I could; but I know better than that now; I don't care where I hang it. You know who Santa Claus is, don't you?"

"He's nobody," said Ellen.

"Oh yes, he is; he's a great many people; he's whoever gives you anything. My Santa Claus is mamma, and grandpapa, and grandmamma, and Aunt Sophia, and Aunt Matilda; and I thought I should have had Uncle George too this Christmas, but he couldn't come. Uncle Howard never gives me anything. I am sorry Uncle George couldn't come; I like him the best of all my uncles."

"I never had anybody but mamma to give me presents," said Ellen, "and she never gave me much more at Christmas than at other times."

"I used to have presents from mamma and grandpapa too, both Christmas and New Year; but now I have grown so old, mamma only gives me something Christmas and grandpapa only New Year. It would be too much, you know, for me to have both when my presents are so big. I don't believe a stocking would hold 'em much longer. But oh! we've got such a fine plan in our heads," said little Ellen, lowering her voice and speaking with open eyes and great energy; "we are going to make presents this year – we children. Won't it be fine? We are going to make what we like for anybody we choose, and let nobody know anything about it; and then New Year's morning, you know, when the things are all under the napkins, we will give ours to somebody to put where they belong, and nobody will know anything about them till they see them there. Won't it be fine? I'm so glad you are here, for I want you to tell me what I shall make."

"Who is it for?" said Ellen.

"Oh, mamma; you know I can't make for everybody, so I think I had rather it should be for mamma. I thought of making her a needle-book with white backs, and getting Gilbert Gillespie to paint them – he can paint beautifully – and having her name and something else written very nicely inside. How do you think that would do?"

"I should think it would do very nicely," said Ellen, "very nicely indeed."

"I wish Uncle George was at home, though, to write it for me; he writes so beautifully; I can't do it well enough."

"I am afraid I can't either," said Ellen. "Perhaps somebody else can."

"I don't know who. Aunt Sophia scribbles and scratches, and besides, I don't want her to know anything about it. But there's another thing I don't know how to fix, and that's the edges of the leaves – the leaves for the needles; they must be fixed somehow."

"I can show you how to do that," said Ellen, brightening. "Mamma had a needle book that was given to her that had the edges beautifully fixed; and I wanted to know how it was done, and she showed me. I'll show you that. It takes a good while, but that's no matter."

"Oh, thank you; how nice that is! Oh no, that's no matter. And then it will do very well, won't it? Now, if I can only catch Gilbert in a good-humour – he isn't my cousin, he's Marianne's cousin – that big boy you saw downstairs – he's so big he won't have anything to say to me sometimes – but I guess I'll get him to do this. Don't you want to make something for somebody?"

Ellen had had one or two feverish thoughts on this subject since the beginning of the conversation; but she only said —

"It's no matter – you know I haven't got anything here; and besides, I shall not be here till New Year."

"Not here till New Year! yes, you shall," said little Ellen, throwing herself upon her neck; "indeed you aren't going away before that. I know you aren't; I heard grandmamma and Aunt Sophia talking about it. Say you will stay here till New Year – do."

"I should like to very much indeed," said Ellen, "if Alice does."

In the midst of half-a-dozen kisses with which her little companion rewarded this speech, somebody close by said pleasantly —

"What time of night do you suppose it is?"

The girls started; there was Mrs. Chauncey.

"Oh, mamma!" exclaimed her little daughter, springing to her feet, "I hope you haven't heard what we have been talking about?"

"Not a word," said Mrs. Chauncey, smiling; "but as to-morrow will be long enough to talk in, hadn't you better go to bed now?"

Her daughter obeyed her immediately, after one more hug to Ellen, and telling her she was so glad she had come. Mrs. Chauncey stayed to see Ellen in bed, and press one kind motherly kiss upon her face, so tenderly that Ellen's eyes were moistened as she withdrew. But in her dreams that night the rosy sweet face, blue eyes, and little plump figure of Ellen Chauncey played the greatest part.

She slept till Alice was obliged to waken her the next morning, and then got up with her head in a charming confusion of pleasures past and pleasures to come – things known and unknown to be made for everybody's New Year presents – linen collars and painted needle-books; and no sooner was breakfast over than she was showing and explaining to Ellen Chauncey a particularly splendid and mysterious way of embroidering the edges of needle-book leaves. Deep in this they were still an hour afterwards, and in the comparative merits of purple and rose-colour, when a little hubbub arose at the other end of the room on the arrival of a new-comer. Ellen Chauncey looked up from her work, then dropped it, exclaiming, "There she is! now for the bag!" and pulled Ellen along with her towards the party. A young lady was in the midst of it, talking so fast that she had not time to take off her cloak and bonnet. As her eye met Ellen's, however, she came to a sudden pause. It was Margaret Dunscombe. Ellen's face certainly showed no pleasure; Margaret's darkened with a very disagreeable surprise.

"My goodness, Ellen Montgomery, how on earth did you get here?" said Margaret.

"Do you know her?" asked one of the girls, as the two Ellens went off after "Aunt Sophia."

"Do I know her? Yes, just enough – exactly. How did she get here?"

"Miss Humphreys brought her."

"Who's Miss Humphreys?"

"Hush!" said Marianne, lowering her tone; "that's her brother in the window."

"Who's brother? – hers or Miss Humphreys'?"

"Miss Humphreys'. Did you never see her? She is here, or has been here, a great deal of the time. Grandma calls her her fourth daughter, and she is just as much at home as if she was; and she brought her here."

"And she's at home too, I suppose. Well, it's no business of mine."

"What do you know of her?"

"Oh, enough – that's just it – don't want to know any more."

"Well, you needn't; but what's the matter with her?"

"Oh, I don't know; I'll tell you some other time; she's a conceited little piece. We had the care of her coming up the river, that's how I come to know about her. Ma said it was the last child she would be bothered with in that way."

Presently the two girls came back, bringing word to clear the table, for Aunt Sophia was coming with the moroccos. As soon as she came Ellen Chauncey sprang to her neck and whispered an earnest question. "Certainly!" Aunt Sophia said, as she poured out the contents of the bag; and her little niece delightedly told Ellen she was to have her share as well as the rest.

The table was now strewn with pieces of morocco of all sizes and colours, which were hastily turned over and examined with eager hands and sparkling eyes. Some were mere scraps, to be sure, but others showed a breadth and length of beauty which was declared to be "first-rate" and "fine," and one beautiful large piece of blue morocco in particular was made up in imagination by two or three of the party in as many different ways. Marianne wanted it for a book-cover, Margaret declared she could make a lovely reticule with it, and Ellen could not help thinking it would make a very pretty needle-box, such a one as she had seen in the possession of one of the girls, and longed to make for Alice.

"Well, what's to be done now?" said Miss Sophia, "or am I not to know?"

"Oh, you're not to know – you're not to know, Aunt Sophia," cried the girls; "you mustn't ask."

"I'll tell you what they are going to do with 'em," said George Walsh, coming up to her with a mischievous face, and adding in a loud whisper, shielding his mouth with his hand; "they're going to make pr – "

He was laid hold of forcibly by the whole party screaming and laughing, and stopped short from finishing his speech.

"Well then, I'll take my departure," said Miss Sophia; "but how will you manage to divide all these scraps?"

"Suppose we were to put them in the bag again, and you hold the bag, and we were to draw them out without looking," said Ellen Chauncey, "as we used to do with the sugar-plums."

As no better plan was thought of this was agreed upon, and little Ellen, shutting up her eyes very tight, stuck in her hand and pulled out a little bit of green morocco about the size of a dollar. Ellen Montgomery came next; then Margaret, then Marianne, then their mutual friend Isabel Hawthorn. Each had to take her turn a great many times, and at the end of the drawing the pieces were found to be pretty equally divided among the party, with the exception of Ellen, who, besides several other good pieces, had drawn the famous blue.

"That will do very nicely," said little Ellen Chauncey; "I am glad you have got that, Ellen. Now, Aunt Sophy! one thing more – you know the silks and ribbons you promised us."

"Bless me! I haven't done yet, eh? Well, you shall have them, but we are all going out to walk now; I'll give them to you this afternoon. Come! put these away, and get on your bonnets and cloaks."