The Wide, Wide World

"It is only a horse we brought with us," said Miss Sophia. "Ellen thinks it is a great beauty, and can't rest till you have seen it."

Ellen went accordingly to the door. There, to be sure, was Thomas before it holding a pony bridled and saddled. He was certainly a very pretty little creature; brown all over except one white forefoot; his coat shone, it was so glossy; his limbs were fine; his eye gentle and bright; his tail long enough to please the children. He stood as quiet as a lamb, whether Thomas held him or not.

"Oh, what a beauty!" said Ellen; "what a lovely little horse!"

"Ain't he!" said Ellen Chauncey; "and he goes so beautifully besides, and never starts nor nothing; and he is as good-natured as a little dog."

"As a good-natured little dog, she means, Ellen," said Miss Sophia; "there are little dogs of very various character."

"Well, he looks good-natured," said Ellen. "What a pretty head! and what a beautiful new side-saddle, and all. I never saw such a dear little horse in my life. Is it yours, Alice?"

"No," said Alice, "it is a present to a friend of Mr. Marshman's."

"She'll be a very happy friend, I should think," said Ellen.

"That's what I said," said Ellen Chauncey, dancing up and down, "that's what I said. I said you'd be happier by-and-by, didn't I?"

"I?" said Ellen, colouring.

"Yes, you – you are the friend it is for; it's for you, it's for you! you are grandpa's friend, aren't you?" she repeated, springing upon Ellen, and hugging her up in an ecstasy of delight.

"But it isn't really for me, is it?" said Ellen, now looking almost pale. "O Alice! – "

"Come, come," said Miss Sophia, "what will papa say if I tell him you received his present so? come, hold up your head! Put on your bonnet and try him: come, Ellen! let's see you."

Ellen did not know whether to cry or laugh, till she mounted the pretty pony; that settled the matter. Not Ellen Chauncey's unspeakable delight was as great as her own. She rode slowly up and down before the house, and once agoing would not have known how to stop if she had not recollected that the pony had travelled thirty miles that day and must be tired. Ellen took not another turn after that. She jumped down, and begged Thomas to take the tenderest care of him; patted his neck; ran into the kitchen to beg of Margery a piece of bread to give him from her hand; examined the new stirrup and housings, and the pony all over a dozen times; and after watching him as Thomas led him off, till he was out of sight, finally came back into the house with a face of marvellous contentment. She tried to fashion some message of thanks for the kind giver of the pony; but she wanted to express so much that no words would do. Mrs. Chauncey, however, smiled and assured her she knew exactly what to say.

"That pony has been destined for you, Ellen," she said, "this year and more; but my father waited to have him thoroughly well broken. You need not be afraid of him; he is perfectly gentle and well-trained; if he had not been sure of that my father would never have sent him; though Mr. John is making such a horsewoman of you."

"I wish I could thank him," said Ellen; "but I don't know how."

"What will you call him, Ellen?" said Miss Sophia. "My father has dubbed him 'George Marshman'; he says you will like that, as my brother is such a favourite of yours."

"He didn't really, did he?" said Ellen, looking from Sophia to Alice. "I needn't call him that, need I?"

"Not unless you like," said Miss Sophia, laughing, "you may change it; but what will you call him?"

"I don't know," said Ellen very gravely, "he must have a name to be sure."

"But why don't you call him that?" said Ellen Chauncey; "George is a very pretty name; I like that; I should call him 'Uncle George.'"

"Oh, I couldn't!" said Ellen, "I couldn't call him so; I shouldn't like it at all."

"George Washington!" said Mrs. Chauncey.

"No, indeed!" said Ellen. "I guess I wouldn't!"

"Why? is it too good, or not good enough?" said Miss Sophia.

"Too good! A great deal too good for a horse! I wouldn't for anything."

"How would Brandywine do then, since you are so patriotic?" said Miss Sophia, looking amused.

"What is 'patriotic'?" said Ellen.

"A patriot, Ellen," said Alice, smiling, "is one who has a strong and true love for his country."

"I don't know whether I am patriotic," said Ellen, "but I won't call him Brandywine. Why, Miss Sophia!"

"No, I wouldn't either," said Ellen Chauncey; "it isn't a pretty name. Call him 'Seraphine'! – like Miss Angell's pony – that's pretty."

"No, no – 'Seraphine'! nonsense!" said Miss Sophia; "call him Benedict Arnold, Ellen; and then it will be a relief to your mind to whip him."

"Whip him!" said Ellen, "I don't want to whip him, I am sure; and I should be afraid to besides."

"Hasn't John taught you that lesson yet?" said the young lady; "he is perfect in it himself. Do you remember, Alice, the chastising he gave that fine black horse of ours we called the 'Black Prince'? – a beautiful creature he was – more than a year ago? My conscience! he frightened me to death."

"I remember," said Alice; "I remember I could not look on."

"What did he do that for?" said Ellen.

"What's the matter, Ellen Montgomery?" said Miss Sophia, laughing, "where did you get that long face from? Are you thinking of John or the horse?"

Ellen's eye turned to Alice.

"My dear Ellen," said Alice, smiling, though she spoke seriously, "it was necessary; it sometimes is necessary to do such things. You do not suppose John would do it cruelly or unnecessarily?"

Ellen's face shortened considerably.

"But what had the horse been doing?"

"He had not been doing anything; he would not do, that was the trouble; he was as obstinate as a mule."

"My dear Ellen," said Alice, "it was no such terrible matter as Sophia's words have made you believe. It was a clear case of obstinacy. The horse was resolved to have his own way and not to do what his rider required of him; it was necessary that either the horse or the man should give up; and as John has no fancy for giving up, he carried his point – partly by management, partly, I confess, by a judicious use of the whip and spur; but there was no such furious flagellation as Sophia seems to mean, and which a good horseman would scarce be guilty of."

"A very determined 'use,'" said Miss Sophia. "I advise you, Ellen, not to trust your pony to Mr. John; he'll have no mercy on him."

"Sophia is laughing, Ellen," said Alice. "You and I know John, do we not?"

"Then he did right?" said Ellen.

"Perfectly right – except in mounting the horse at all, which I never wished him to do. No one on the place would ride him."

"He carried John beautifully all the day after that though," said Miss Sophia, "and I dare say he might have ridden him to the end of the chapter if you would have let papa give him to him. But he was of no use to anybody else. Howard couldn't manage him – I suppose he was too lazy. Papa was delighted enough that day to have given John anything. And I can tell you Black Prince the Second is spirited enough; I am afraid you won't like him."

"John has a present of a horse too, Ellen," said Alice.

"Has he? – from Mr. Marshman?"

"Yes."

"I am very glad! Oh, what rides we can take now, can't we, Alice? We shan't want to borrow Jenny's pony any more. What kind of a horse is Mr. John's?"

"Black – perfectly black."

"Is he handsome?"

"Very."

"Is his name Black Prince?"

"Yes."

Ellen began to consider the possibility of calling her pony the Brown Princess, or by some similar title – the name of John's two charges seeming the very most striking a horse could be known by.

"Don't forget, Alice," said Mrs. Chauncey, "to tell John to stop for him on his way home. It will give us a chance of seeing him, which is not a common pleasure, in any sense of the term."

They went back to the subject of the name, which Ellen pondered with uneasy visions of John and her poor pony flitting through her head. The little horse was hard to fit, or else Ellen's taste was very hard to suit; a great many names were proposed, none of which were to her mind. Charley, and Cherry, and Brown, and Dash, and Jumper – but she said they had "John" and "Jenny" already in Thirlwall, and she didn't want a "Charley;" "Brown" was not pretty, and she hoped he wouldn't "dash" at anything, nor be a "jumper" when she was on his back. Cherry she mused awhile about, but it wouldn't do.

"Call him Fairy," said Ellen Chauncey; "that's a pretty name. Mamma says she used to have a horse called Fairy. Do, Ellen! call him Fairy."

"No," said Ellen; "he can't have a lady's name – that's the trouble."

"I have it, Ellen!" said Alice; "I have a name for you – call him 'The Brownie.'"

"'The Brownie?'" said Ellen.

"Yes – brownies are male fairies; and brown is his colour; so how will that do?"

It was soon decided that it would do very well. It was simple, descriptive, and not common; Ellen made up her mind that "The Brownie" should be his name. No sooner given, it began to grow dear. Ellen's face quitted its look of anxious gravity and came out into the broadest and fullest satisfaction. She never showed joy boisterously; but there was a light in her eye which brought many a smile into those of her friends as they sat round the tea-table.

After tea it was necessary to go home, much to the sorrow of all parties. Ellen knew, however, it would not do to stay; Miss Fortune was but just got well, and perhaps already thinking herself ill-used. She put on her things.

"Are you going to take your pony home with you?" inquired Miss Sophia.

"Oh no, ma'am, not to-night. I must see about a place for him; and besides, poor fellow, he is tired, I dare say."

"I do believe you would take more care of his legs than of your own," said Miss Sophia.

"But you'll be here to-morrow early, Ellie?"

"Oh, won't I!" exclaimed Ellen, as she sprang to Alice's neck; "as early as I can, at least; I don't know when Aunt Fortune will have done with me."

The way home seemed as nothing. If she was tired she did not know it. The Brownie! the Brownie! – the thought of him carried her as cleverly over the ground as his very back would have done. She came running into the chip-yard.

"Hollo!" cried Mr. Van Brunt, who was standing under the apple-tree cutting a piece of wood for the tongue of the ox-cart, which had been broken, "I'm glad to see you can run. I was afeard you'd hardly be able to stand by this time; but there you come like a young deer!"

"Oh, Mr. Van Brunt," said Ellen, coming close up to him and speaking in an undertone, "you don't know what a present I have had! What do you think Mr. Marshman has sent me from Ventnor?"

"Couldn't guess," said Mr. Van Brunt, resting the end of his pole on the log and chipping at it with his hatchet; "never guessed anything in my life; what is it?"

"He has sent me the most beautiful little horse you ever saw! – for my own – for me to ride; and a new beautiful saddle and bridle; you never saw anything so beautiful, Mr. Van Brunt; he is all brown, with one white forefoot, and I've named him 'The Brownie'; and oh, Mr. Van Brunt! do you think Aunt Fortune will let him come here?"

Mr. Van Brunt chipped away at his pole, and was looking very good-humoured.

"Because you know I couldn't have half the good of him if he had to stay away from me up on the mountain. I shall want to ride him every day. Do you think Aunt Fortune will let him be kept here, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"I guess she will," said Mr. Van Brunt soberly, and his tone said to Ellen, "I will, if she don't."

"Then will you ask her and see about it? – if you please, Mr. Van Brunt. I'd rather you would. And you won't have him put to plough or anything, will you, Mr. Van Brunt? Miss Sophia says it would spoil him."

"I'll plough myself first," said Mr. Van Brunt with his half smile; "there sha'n't be a hair of his coat turned the wrong way. I'll see to him – as if he was a prince."

"Oh thank you, dear Mr. Van Brunt! How good you are. Then I shall not speak about him at all till you do, remember. I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Van Brunt!"

Ellen ran in. She got a chiding for her long stay, but it fell upon ears that could not hear. The Brownie came like a shield between her and all trouble. She smiled at her aunt's hard words as if they had been sugar-plums. And her sleep that night might have been prairie land, for the multitude of horses of all sorts that chased through it.

"Have you heerd the news?" said Mr. Van Brunt, when he had got his second cup of coffee at breakfast next morning.

"No," said Miss Fortune. "What news?"

"There ain't as much news as there used to be when I was young," said the old lady; "seems to me I don't hear nothing nowadays."

"You might if you'd keep your ears open, mother. What news, Mr. Van Brunt?"

"Why, here's Ellen got a splendid little horse sent her a present from some of her great friends – Mr. Marshchalk – "

"Mr. Marshman," said Ellen.

"Mr. Marshman. There ain't the like in the country, as I've heerd tell; and I expect next thing she'll be flying over all the fields and fences like smoke."

There was a meaning silence. Ellen's heart beat.

"What's going to be done with him, do you suppose?" said Miss Fortune. Her look said, "If you think I am coming round you are mistaken."

"Humph!" said Mr. Van Brunt slowly, "I s'pose he'll eat grass in the meadow – and there'll be a place fixed for him in the stables."

"Not in my stables," said the lady shortly.

"No – in mine," said Mr. Van Brunt, half smiling; "and I'll settle with you about it by-and-by – when we square up our accounts."

Miss Fortune was very much vexed; Ellen could see that; but she said no more, good or bad, about the matter; so the Brownie was allowed to take quiet possession of meadow and stables, to his mistress's unbounded joy.

Anybody that knew Mr. Van Brunt would have been surprised to hear what he said that morning; for he was thought to be quite as keen a looker after the main chance as Miss Fortune herself, only somehow it was never laid against him as it was against her. However that might be, it was plain he took pleasure in keeping his word about the pony. Ellen herself could not have asked more careful kindness for her favourite than the Brownie had from every man and boy about the farm.

CHAPTER XXXVII

Thou must run to him; for thou hast stayed so long that going will scarce serve the turn.– Shakespeare.

Captain Montgomery did not come the next week, nor the week after; and what is more, the Duck Dorleens, as his sister called the ship in which he had taken passage, was never heard of from that time. She sailed duly on the 5th of April, as they learned from the papers; but whatever became of her she never reached port. It remained a doubt whether Captain Montgomery had actually gone in her; and Ellen had many weeks of anxious watching, first for himself, and then for news of him in case he were still in France. None ever came. Anxiety gradually faded into uncertainty; and by midsummer no doubt of the truth remained in any mind. If Captain Montgomery had been alive, he would certainly have written, if not before, on learning the fate of the vessel in which he had told his friends to expect him home.

Ellen rather felt that she was an orphan than that she had lost her father. She had never learned to love him, he had never given her much cause. Comparatively a small portion of her life had been passed in his society, and she looked back to it as the least agreeable of all; and it had not been possible for her to expect with pleasure his return to America and visit to Thirlwall; she dreaded it. Life had nothing now worse for her than a separation from Alice and John Humphreys; she feared her father might take her away and put her in some dreadful boarding-school, or carry her about the world wherever he went, a wretched wanderer from everything good and pleasant. The knowledge of his death had less pain for her than the removal of this fear brought relief.

Ellen felt sometimes, soberly and sadly, that she was thrown upon the wide world now. To all intents and purposes so she had been a year and three-quarters before; but it was something to have a father and mother living even on the other side of the world. Now, Miss Fortune was her sole guardian and owner. However, she could hardly realise that, with Alice and John so near at hand. Without reasoning much about it, she felt tolerably secure that they would take care of her interests, and make good their claim to interfere if ever need were.

Ellen and her little horse grew more and more fond of each other. This friendship, no doubt, was a comfort to the Brownie; but to his mistress it made a large part of the pleasure of her everyday life. To visit him was her delight at all hours, early and late; and it is to the Brownie's credit that he always seemed as glad to see her as she was to see him. At any time Ellen's voice would bring him from the far end of the meadow where he was allowed to run. He would come trotting up at her call, and stand to have her scratch his forehead or, pat him and talk to him; and though the Brownie could not answer her speeches, he certainly seemed to hear them with pleasure. Then, throwing up his head, he would bound off, take a turn in the field, and come back again to stand as still as a lamb as long as she stayed there herself. Now and then, when she had a little more time, she would cross the fence and take a walk with him; and there, with his nose just at her elbow, wherever she went the Brownie went after her. After a while there was no need that she should call him; if he saw or heard her at a distance it was enough; he would come running up directly. Ellen loved him dearly.

She gave him more proof of it than words and caresses. Many were the apples and scraps of bread hoarded up for him; and if these failed, Ellen sometimes took him a little salt to show that he was not forgotten. There were not, certainly, many scraps left at Miss Fortune's table; nor apples to be had at home for such a purpose, except what she gathered up from the poor ones that were left under the trees for the hogs; but Ellen had other sources of supply. Once she had begged from Jenny Hitchcock a waste bit that she was going to throw away; Jenny found what she wanted to do with it, and after that many a basket of apples and many a piece of cold short-cake was set by for her. Margery, too, remembered the Brownie when disposing of her odds and ends; likewise did Mrs. Van Brunt; so that among them all Ellen seldom wanted something to give him. Mr. Marshman did not know what happiness he was bestowing when he sent her that little horse. Many, many were the hours of enjoyment she had upon his back. Ellen went nowhere but upon the Brownie. Alice made her a riding-dress of dark gingham; and it was the admiration of the country to see her trotting or cantering by, all alone, and always looking happy. Ellen soon found that if the Brownie was to do her much good she must learn to saddle and bridle him herself. This was very awkward at first, but there was no help for it. Mr. Van Brunt showed her how to manage, and after a while it became quite easy. She used to call the Brownie to the bar-place, put the bridle on, and let him out; and then he would stand motionless before her while she fastened the saddle on; looking round sometimes as if to make sure that it was she herself, and giving a little kind of satisfied neigh when he saw that it was. Ellen's heart began to dance as soon as she felt him moving under her; and once off and away on the docile and spirited little animal, over the roads, through the lanes, up and down the hills, her horse her only companion, but having the most perfect understanding with him, both Ellen and the Brownie cast care to the winds. "I do believe," said Mr. Van Brunt, "that critter would a leetle rather have Ellen on his back than not." He was the Brownie's next best friend. Miss Fortune never said anything to him or of him.

Ellen, however, reaped a reward for her faithful steadiness to duty while her aunt was ill. Things were never after that as they had been before. She was looked on with a different eye. To be sure, Miss Fortune tasked her as much as ever, spoke as sharply, was as ready to scold if anything went wrong; all that was just as it used to be, but beneath all that Ellen felt with great satisfaction that she was trusted and believed. She was no longer an interloper, in everybody's way; she was not watched and suspected; her aunt treated her as one of the family and a person to be depended on. It was a very great comfort to little Ellen's life. Miss Fortune even owned that "she believed she was an honest child and meant to do right," a great deal from her; Miss Fortune was never over forward to give any one the praise of honesty. Ellen now went out and came in without feeling she was an alien. And though her aunt was always bent on keeping herself and everybody else at work, she did not now show any particular desire for breaking off Ellen from her studies; and was generally willing, when the work was pretty well done up, that she should saddle the Brownie and be off to Alice or Mrs. Vawse.

Though Ellen was happy, it was a sober kind of happiness; the sun shining behind a cloud. And if others thought her so, it was not because she laughed loudly or wore a merry face.

"I can't help but think," said Mrs. Van Brunt, "that that child has something more to make her happy than what she gets in this world."

There was a quilting party gathered that afternoon at Mrs. Van Brunt's house.

"There is no doubt of that, neighbour," said Mrs. Vawse; "nobody ever found enough here to make him happy yet."

"Well, I don't want to see a prettier girl than that," said Mrs. Lowndes; "you'll never catch her, working at home or riding along on that handsome little critter of her'n, that she ha'n't a pleasant look and a smile for you, and as pretty behaved as can be. I never see her look sorrowful but once."

"Ain't that a pretty horse?" said Mimy Lawson.

"I've seen her look sorrowful though," said Sarah Lowndes; "I've been up at the house when Miss Fortune was hustling everybody round, and as sharp as vinegar, and you'd think it would take Job's patience to stand it; and for all there wouldn't be a bit of crossness in that child's face, she'd go round, and not say a word that wasn't just so; you'd ha' thought her bread was all spread with honey; and everybody knows it ain't. I don't see how she could do it, for my part. I know I couldn't."

"Ah, neighbour," said Mrs. Vawse, "Ellen looks higher than to please her aunt; she tries to please her God; and one can bear people's words or looks when one is pleasing Him. She is a dear child!"

"And there's 'Brahm," said Mrs. Van Brunt, "he thinks the hull world of her. I never see him take so to any one. There ain't an airthly thing he wouldn't do to please her. If she was his own child I've no idee he could set her up more than he does."

"Very well!" said Nancy, coming up, "good reason! Ellen don't set him up any, does she? I wish you'd just seen her once, the time when Miss Fortune was abed, the way she'd look out for him! Mr. Van Brunt's as good as at home in that house, sure enough; whoever's downstairs."

"Bless her dear little heart!" said his mother.

"A good name is better than precious ointment."

August had come, and John was daily expected home. One morning Miss Fortune was in the lower kitchen, up to the elbows in making a rich fall cheese; Ellen was busy upstairs, when her aunt shouted to her to "come and see what was all that splashing and crashing in the garden." Ellen ran out.

"Oh, Aunt Fortune," said she, "Timothy has broken down the fence and got in."

"Timothy!" said Miss Fortune, "what Timothy?"

"Why, Timothy, the near ox," said Ellen laughing; "he has knocked down the fence over there where it was low, you know."

"The near ox!" said Miss Fortune, "I wish he warn't quite so near this time. Mercy! he'll be at the corn and over everything. Run and drive him into the barn-yard, can't you?"

But Ellen stood still and shook her head. "He wouldn't stir for me," she said; "and besides I am as afraid of that ox as can be. If it was Clover I wouldn't mind!"