The Wide, Wide World

A hard measure! but it was done. After the walk came dinner; after dinner Aunt Sophia had to be found and waited on, till she had fairly sought out and delivered to their hands the wished-for bundles of silks and satins. It gave great satisfaction.

"But how shall we do about dividing these?" said little Ellen; "shall we draw lots again?"

"No, Ellen," said Marianne, "that won't do, because we might every one get just the things we do not want. I want one colour or stuff to go with my morocco, and you want another to go with yours; and you might get mine and I might get yours. We had best each choose in turn what we like, beginning at Isabel."

"Very well," said little Ellen, "I'm agreed."

"Anything for a quiet life," said George Walsh.

But this business of choosing was found to be very long and very difficult, each one was so fearful of not taking the exact piece she wanted most. The elder members of the family began to gather for dinner, and several came and stood round the table where the children were, little noticed by them, they were so wrapped up in silks and satins. Ellen seemed the least interested person at the table, and had made her selections with the least delay and difficulty; and now, as it was not her turn, sat very soberly looking on with her head resting on her hand.

"I declare it's too vexatious!" said Margaret Dunscombe; "here I've got this beautiful piece of blue satin, and can't do anything with it; it just matches that blue morocco – it's a perfect match – I could have made a splendid thing of it, and I have got some cord and tassels that would just do – I declare it's too bad."

Ellen's colour changed.

"Well, choose, Margaret," said Marianne.

"I don't know what to choose – that's the thing. What can one do with red and purple morocco and blue satin? I might as well give up. I've a great notion to take this piece of yellow satin and dress up a Turkish doll to frighten the next young one I meet with."

"I wish you would, Margaret, and give it to me when it's done," cried little Ellen Chauncey.

"Tain't made yet," said the other dryly.

Ellen's colour had changed and changed; her hand twitched nervously, and she glanced uneasily from Margaret's store of finery to her own.

"Come, choose, Margaret," said Ellen Chauncey; "I dare say Ellen wants the blue morocco as much as you do."

"No, I don't!" said Ellen abruptly, throwing it over the table to her; "take it, Margaret, you may have it."

"What do you mean?" said the other astounded.

"I mean you may have it," said Ellen; "I don't want it."

"Well, I'll tell you what," said the other, "I'll give you yellow satin for it – or some of my red morocco?"

"No, I had rather not," repeated Ellen; "I don't want it – you may have it."

"Very generously done," remarked Miss Sophia; "I hope you'll all take a lesson in the art of being obliging."

"Quite a noble little girl," said Mrs. Gillespie.

Ellen crimsoned. "No, ma'am, I'm not indeed," she said, looking at them with eyes that were filling fast, "please don't say so – I don't deserve it."

"I shall say what I think, my dear," said Mrs. Gillespie, smiling, "but I'm glad you add the grace of modesty to that of generosity; it is the more uncommon of the two."

"I am not modest! I am not generous! you mustn't say so," cried Ellen. She struggled; the blood rushed to the surface, suffusing every particle of skin that could be seen; then left it, as with eyes cast down she went on – "I don't deserve to be praised! it was more Margaret's than mine. I oughtn't to have kept it at all, for I saw a little bit when I put my hand in. I didn't mean to, but I did!"

Raising her eyes hastily to Alice's face, they met those of John, who was standing behind her. She had not counted upon him for one of her listeners; she knew Mrs. Gillespie, Mrs. Chauncey, Miss Sophia, and Alice had heard her, but this was the one drop too much. Her head sank; she covered her face a moment, and then made her escape out of the room before even Ellen could follow her.

There was a moment's silence. Alice seemed to have some difficulty not to follow Ellen's example. Margaret pouted; Mrs. Chauncey's eyes filled with tears, and her little daughter seemed divided between doubt and dismay. Her first move, however, was to run off in pursuit of Ellen. Alice went after her.

"Here's a beautiful example of honour and honesty for you!" said Margaret Dunscombe, at length.

"I think it is," said John quietly.

"An uncommon instance," said Mrs. Chauncey.

"I'm glad everybody thinks so," said Margaret sullenly; "I hope I shan't copy it, that's all."

"I think you are in no danger," said John again.

"Very well," said Margaret, who, between her desire of speaking and her desire of concealing her vexation, did not know what to do with herself; "everybody must judge for himself, I suppose; I've got enough of her, for my part."

"Where did you ever see her before?" said Isabel Hawthorn.

"Oh, she came up the river with us – mamma had to take care of her – she was with us two days."

"And didn't you like her?"

"No, I guess I didn't! she was a perfect plague. All the day on board the steamboat she scarcely came near us; we couldn't pretend to keep sight of her; mamma had to send her maid out to look after her I don't know how many times. She scraped acquaintance with some strange man on board, and liked his company better than ours, for she stayed with him the whole blessed day, waking and sleeping: of course mamma didn't like it at all. She didn't go a single meal with us; you know of course that wasn't proper behaviour."

"No, indeed," said Isabel.

"I suppose," said John coolly, "she chose the society she thought the pleasantest Probably Miss Margaret's politeness was more than she had been accustomed to."

Margaret coloured, not quite knowing what to make of the speaker or his speech.

"It would take much to make me believe," said gentle Mrs. Chauncey, "that a child of such refined and delicate feeling as that little girl evidently has, could take pleasure in improper company."

Margaret had a reply at her tongue's end, but she had also an uneasy feeling that there were eyes not far off too keen of sight to be baffled; she kept silence till the group dispersed, and she had an opportunity of whispering in Marianne's ear that "that was the very most disagreeable man she had ever seen in her life."

"What a singular fancy you have taken to this little pet of Alice's, Mr. John," said Mrs. Marshman's youngest daughter. "You quite surprise me."

"Did you think me a misanthrope, Miss Sophia?"

"Oh no, not at all; but I always had a notion you would not be easily pleased in the choice of favourites."

"Easily! When a simple, intelligent child of twelve or thirteen is a common character, then I will allow that I am easily pleased."

"Twelve or thirteen!" said Miss Sophia; "what are you thinking about? Alice says she is only ten or eleven."

"In years, perhaps."

"How gravely you take me up!" said the young lady, laughing. "My dear Mr. John, 'in years perhaps,' you may call yourself twenty, but in everything else you might much better pass for thirty or forty."

As they were called to dinner, Alice and Ellen Chauncey came back; the former looking a little serious, the latter crying, and wishing aloud that all the moroccos had been in the fire. They had not been able to find Ellen. Neither was she in the drawing-room when they returned to it after dinner; and a second search was made in vain. John went to the library, which was separate from the other rooms, thinking she might have chosen that for a hiding-place. She was not there; but the pleasant light of the room, where only the fire was burning, invited a stay. He sat down in the deep window, and was musingly looking out into the moonlight, when the door softly opened, and Ellen came in. She stole in noiselessly, so that he did not hear her, and she thought the room empty; till in passing slowly down toward the fire, she came upon him in the window. Her start first let him know she was there; she would have run, but one of her hands was caught, and she could not get it away.

"Running away from your brother, Ellie!" said he kindly. "What is the matter?"

Ellen shrunk from meeting his eye, and was silent.

"I know all, Ellie," said he, still very kindly; "I have seen all; why do you shun me?"

Ellen said nothing; the big tears began to run down her face and frock.

"You are taking this matter too hardly, dear Ellen," he said, drawing her close to him; "you did wrong, but you have done all you could to repair the wrong; neither man nor woman can do more than that."

But though encouraged by his manner, the tears flowed faster than ever.

"Where have you been? Alice was looking for you, and little Ellen Chauncey was in great trouble. I don't know what dreadful thing she thought you had done with yourself. Come! lift up your head and let me see you smile again."

Ellen lifted her head, but could not her eyes, though she tried to smile.

"I want to talk to you a little about this," said he. "You know you gave me leave to be your brother; will you let me ask you a question or two?"

"Oh yes; whatever you please," Ellen said.

"Then sit down here," said he, making room for her on the wide window-seat, but still keeping hold of her hand, and speaking very gently. "You said you saw when you took the morocco; I don't quite understand; how was it?"

"Why," said Ellen, "we were not to look, and we had gone three times round, and nobody had got that large piece yet, and we all wanted it; and I did not mean to look at all, but I don't know how it was, just before I shut my eyes, I happened to see the corner of it sticking up, and then I took it."

"With your eyes open?"

"No, no, with them shut. And I had scarcely got it when I was sorry for it, and wished it back."

"You will wonder at me, perhaps, Ellie," said John, "but I am not very sorry this has happened. You are no worse than before; it has only made you see what you are – very, very weak, quite unable to keep yourself right without constant help. Sudden temptation was too much for you; so it has many a time been for me, and so it has happened to the best men on earth. I suppose if you had had a minute's time to think, you would not have done as you did?"

"No, indeed!" said Ellen. "I was sorry a minute after."

"And I dare say the thought of it weighed upon your mind ever since?"

"Oh yes!" said Ellen; "it wasn't out of my head a minute the whole day."

"Then let it make you very humble, dear Ellie, and let it make you in future keep close to our dear Saviour, without whose help we cannot stand a moment."

Ellen sobbed; and he allowed her to do so for a few minutes, then said, "But you have not been thinking much about Him, Ellie."

The sobs ceased; he saw his words had taken hold.

"Is it right," he said softly, "that we should be more troubled about what people will think of us, than for having displeased or dishonoured Him?"

Ellen now looked up, and in her look was all the answer he wished.

"You understand me, I see," said he. "Be humbled in the dust before Him; the more the better; but whenever we are greatly concerned, for our own sakes, about other people's opinion, we may be sure we are thinking too little of God and what will please Him."

"I am very sorry," said poor Ellen, from whose eyes the tears began to drop again; "I am very wrong, but I couldn't bear to think what Alice would think, and you, and all of them – "

"Here's Alice to speak for herself," said John.

As Alice came up with a quick step and knelt down before her, Ellen sprang to her neck, and they held each other very fast indeed. John walked up and down the room. Presently he stopped before them.

"All's well again," said Alice, "and we're going in to tea."

He smiled and held out his hand, which Ellen took, but he would not leave the library, declaring they had a quarter of an hour still. So they sauntered up and down the long room, talking of different things, so pleasantly that Ellen near forgot her troubles. Then came in Miss Sophia to find them, and then Mr. Marshman, and Marianne to call them to tea; so the going into the drawing-room was not half so bad as Ellen thought it would be.

She behaved very well; her face was touchingly humble that night; and all the evening she kept fast by either Alice or John, without budging an inch. And as little Ellen Chauncey and her cousin George Walsh chose to be where she was, the young party was quite divided; and not the least merry portion of it was that mixed with the older people. Little Ellen was half beside herself with spirits; the secret of which perhaps was the fact, which she several times in the course of the evening whispered to Ellen as a great piece of news, that "it was Christmas Eve!"

CHAPTER XXIX

As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure.Kings may be blest, but they were glorious,O'er all the ills o' life victorious.– Burns.

Christmas morning was dawning grey, but it was still far from broad daylight, when Ellen was awakened. She found little Ellen Chauncey pulling and pushing at her shoulders, and whispering, "Ellen! Ellen!" in a tone that showed a great fear of waking somebody up. There she was, in night-gown and night-cap, and barefooted too, with a face brimful of excitement, and as wide awake as possible. Ellen roused herself in no little surprise, and asked what the matter was.

"I am going to look at my stocking," whispered her visitor; "don't you want to get up and come with me? it's just here in the other room – come! don't make any noise."

"But what if you should find nothing in it?" said Ellen laughingly, as she bounded out of bed.

"Ah, but I shall, I know; I always do; never fear. Hush! step ever so softly; I don't want to wake anybody."

"It's hardly light enough for you to see," whispered Ellen, as the two little barefooted white figures glided out of the room.

"Oh yes, it is; that's all the fun. Hush! don't make a bit of noise – I know where it hangs – mamma always puts it at the back of her big easy chair – come this way – here it is! Oh, Ellen! there's two of 'em! There's one for you! there's one for you."

In a tumult of delight one Ellen capered about the floor on the tips of her little bare toes, while the other, not less happy, stood still for pleasure. The dancer finished by hugging and kissing her with all her heart, declaring she was so glad she didn't know what to do.

"But how shall we know which is which?"

"Perhaps they are both alike," said Ellen.

"No – at any rate one's for me, and t'other's for you. Stop! here are pieces of paper, with our names on, I guess – let's turn the chair a little bit to the light – there – yes! – Ellen – M-o-n – there, that's yours; my name doesn't begin with an M; and this is mine!"

Another caper round the room, and then she brought up in front of the chair where Ellen was still standing.

"I wonder what's in 'em," she said; "I want to look, and I don't want to. Come, you begin."

"But that's no stocking of mine," said Ellen, a smile gradually breaking upon her sober little face; "my leg never was as big as that."

"Stuffed, isn't it?" said Ellen Chauncey. "Oh, do make haste, and see what is in yours. I want to know, so I don't know what to do."

"Well, will you take out of yours as fast as I take out of mine?"

"Well!"

Oh, mysterious delight, and delightful mystery, of the stuffed stocking! Ellen's trembling fingers sought the top, and then very suddenly left it.

"I can't think what it is," said she, laughing; "it feels so funny."

"Oh, never mind! make haste," said Ellen Chauncey; "it won't hurt you, I guess."

"No, it won't hurt me," said Ellen; "but – "

She drew forth a great bunch of white grapes.

"Splendid! isn't it?" said Ellen Chauncey. "Now for mine."

It was the counterpart of Ellen's bunch.

"So far, so good," said she. "Now for the next."

The next thing in each stocking was a large horn of sugar-plums.

"Well, that's fine, isn't it?" said Ellen Chauncey; "yours is tied with white ribbon and mine with blue; that's all the difference. Oh, and your paper's red and mine is purple."

"Yes, and the pictures are different," said Ellen.

"Well, I had rather they would be different, wouldn't you? I think it's just as pleasant. One's as big as the other, at any rate. Come – what's next!"

Ellen drew out a little bundle, which being opened proved to be a nice little pair of dark kid gloves.

"Oh, I wonder who gave me this," she said; "it's just what I wanted. How pretty! Oh, I am so glad. I guess who it was."

"Oh, look here," said the other Ellen, who had been diving into her stocking, "I've got a ball – this is just what I wanted too; George told me if I'd get one he'd show me how to play. Isn't it pretty? Isn't it funny we should each get just what we wanted? Oh, this is a very nice ball. I'm glad I have got it. Why, here is another great round thing in my stocking! what can it be? they wouldn't give me two balls," said she, chuckling.

"So there is in mine!" said Ellen. "Maybe they're apples."

"They aren't! they wouldn't give us apples; besides, it is soft. Pull it out and see."

"Then they are oranges," said Ellen, laughing.

"I never felt such a soft orange," said little Ellen Chauncey. "Come, Ellen! stop laughing, and let's see."

They were two great scarlet satin pincushions, with E. C. and E. M. very neatly stuck in pins.

"Well, we shan't want pins for a good while, shall we?" said Ellen. "Who gave us these?"

"I know," said little Ellen Chauncey; "Mrs. Bland."

"She was very kind to make one for me," said Ellen. "Now for the next!"

The next thing was a little bottle of Cologne water.

"I can tell who put that in," said her friend; "Aunt Sophia. I know her little bottles of Cologne water. Do you love Cologne water? Aunt Sophia's is delicious."

Ellen did like it very much, and was extremely pleased. Ellen Chauncey had also a new pair of scissors, which gave entire satisfaction.

"Now, I wonder what all this toe is stuffed with," said she; "raisins and almonds, I declare! and yours the same, isn't it? Well, don't you think we have got enough sweet things? Isn't this a pretty good Christmas?"

"What are you about, you monkeys?" cried the voice of Aunt Sophia from the dressing-room door. "Alice, Alice! do look at them. Come right back to bed, both of you. Crazy pates! It is lucky it is Christmas day – if it was any other in the year we should have you both sick in bed; as it is, I suppose you will go scot free."

Laughing and rosy with pleasure, they came back and got into bed together; and for an hour afterwards the two kept up a most animated conversation, intermixed with long chuckles and bursts of merriment, and whispered communications of immense importance. The arrangement of the painted needle-book was entirely decided upon in this consultation; also two or three other matters; and the two children seemed to have already lived a day since daybreak by the time they came down to breakfast.

After breakfast Ellen applied secretly to Alice to know if she could write very beautifully; she exceedingly wanted something done.

"I should not like to venture, Ellie, if it must be so superfine; but John can do it for you."

"Can he? Do you think he would?"

"I am sure he will if you ask him."

"But I don't like to ask him," said Ellen, casting a doubtful glance at the window.

"Nonsense! he's only reading the newspaper. You won't disturb him."

"Well, you won't say anything about it?"

"Certainly not."

Ellen accordingly went near and said gently, "Mr. Humphreys," but he did not seem to hear her. "Mr. Humphreys!" – a little louder.

"He has not arrived yet," said John, looking round gravely.

He spoke so gravely that Ellen could not tell whether he was joking or serious. Her face of extreme perplexity was too much for his command of countenance. "Whom do you want to speak to?" said he, smiling.

"I wanted to speak to you, sir," said Ellen, "if you are not now too busy."

"Mr. Humphreys is always busy," said he, shaking his head, "but Mr. John can attend to you at any time, and John will do for you whatever you please to ask him."

"Then, Mr. John," said Ellen, laughing, "if you please, I wanted to ask you to do something for me very much indeed, if you are not too busy; Alice said I shouldn't disturb you."

"Not at all; I've been long enough over this stupid newspaper. What is it?"

"I want you, if you will be so good," said Ellen, "to write a little bit for me on something, very beautifully."

"'Very beautifully!' Well – come to the library; we will see."

"But it is a great secret," said Ellen; "you won't tell anybody?"

"Tortures shan't draw it from me – when I know what it is," said he, with one of his comical looks.

In high glee Ellen ran for the pieces of Bristol board which were to form the backs of the needle-book, and brought them to the library; and explained how room was to be left in the middle of each for a painting, a rose on one, a butterfly on the other; the writing to be as elegant as possible, above, beneath, and roundabout, as the fancy of the writer should choose.

"Well, what is to be inscribed on this most original of needle-books?" said John, as he carefully mended his pen.

"Stop!" said Ellen, "I'll tell you in a minute – on this one, the front, you know, is to go, 'To my dear mother, many happy New Years;' – and on this side, 'From her dear little daughter, Ellen Chauncey.' You know," she added, "Mrs. Chauncey isn't to know anything about it till New Year's day; nor anybody else."

"Trust me," said John. "If I am asked any questions they shall find me as obscure as an oracle."

"What is an oracle, sir?"

"Why," said John, smiling, "this pen won't do yet – the old heathens believed there were certain spots of earth to which some of their gods had more favour than to others, and where they would permit mortals to come nearer to them, and would even deign to answer their questions."

"And they did?" said Ellen.

"Did they what?"

"Did they answer their questions?"

"Did who answer their questions?"

"The – oh! to be sure," said Ellen, "there were no such gods. But what made people think they answered them? and how could they ask questions?"

"I suppose it was a contrivance of the priests to increase their power and wealth. There was always a temple built near, with priests and priestesses; the questions were put through them; and they would not ask them except on great occasions, or for people of consequence who could pay them well by making splendid gifts to the god."

"But I should think the people would have thought the priests or priestesses had made up the answer themselves."

"Perhaps they did sometimes. But people had not the Bible then, and did not know as much as we know. It was not unnatural to think the gods would take care a little for the poor people that lived on the earth. Besides, there was a good deal of management and trickery about the answers of the oracle that helped to deceive."

"How was it?" said Ellen; "how could they manage? and what was the oracle?"

"The oracle was either the answer itself, or the god who was supposed to give it, or the place where it was given; and there were different ways of managing. At one place the priest hid himself in the hollow body or among the branches of an oak tree, and the people thought the tree spoke to them. Sometimes the oracle was delivered by a woman who pretended to be put into a kind of fit – tearing her hair and beating her breast."

"But suppose the oracle made a mistake? – what would the people think then?"

"The answers were generally contrived so that they would seem to come true in any event."

"I don't see how they could do that," said Ellen.

"Very well – just imagine that I am an oracle, and come to me with some question; I'll answer you."

"But you can't tell what's going to happen?"

"No matter – you ask me truly and I'll answer you oracularly."

"That means, like an oracle, I suppose!" said Ellen. "Well – Mr. John, will Alice be pleased with what I am going to give her for her New Year?"