The Wide, Wide World

Every day when the weather would permit, the Black Prince and the Brownie with their respective riders might be seen abroad in the country far and wide. In the course of their rides Ellen's horsemanship was diligently perfected. Very often their turning-place was on the top of the Cat's Back, and the horses had a rest and Mrs. Vawse a visit before they went down again. They had long walks, too, by hill and dale; pleasantly silent or pleasantly talkative, all pleasant to Ellen!

Her only lonely or sorrowful time was when John was gone to Randolph. It began early Saturday morning, and perhaps ended with Sunday night, for all Monday was hope and expectation. Even Saturday she had not much time to mope; that was the day for her great week's mending. When John was gone and her morning affairs were out of the way, Ellen brought out her work-basket, and established herself on the sofa for a quiet day's sewing, without the lest fear of interruption. But sewing did not always hinder thinking. And then certainly the room did seem very empty, and very still; and the clock, which she never heard the rest of the week, kept ticking an ungracious reminder that she was alone. Ellen would sometimes forget it in the intense interest of some nice little piece of repair which must be exquisitely done in a wristband or a glove; and then perhaps Margery would softly open the door and come in.

"Miss Ellen, dear, you're lonesome enough; isn't there something I can do for you? I can't rest for thinking of your being here all by yourself."

"Oh, never mind," said Ellen, smiling, "I am doing very well. I am living in hopes of Monday. Come and look here, Margery. How will that do? Don't you think I am learning to mend?"

"It's beautiful, Miss Ellen! I can't make out how you've learned so quick. I'll tell Mr. John some time who does these things for him."

"No indeed, Margery, don't you. Please not, Margery. I like to do it very much indeed, but I don't want he should know it, nor Mr. Humphreys. Now you won't, Margery, will you?"

"Miss Ellen, dear, I wouldn't do the least little thing as would be worrisome to you for the whole world. Aren't you tired sitting here all alone?"

"Oh, sometimes, a little," said Ellen, sighing. "I can't help that, you know."

"I feel it even out there in the kitchen," said Margery; "I feel it lonesome hearing the house so still; I miss the want of Mr. John's step up and down the room. How fond he is of walking so, to be sure! How do you manage, Miss Ellen, with him making his study here? Don't you have to keep uncommon quiet?"

"No," said Ellen; "no quieter than I like. I do just as I have a mind to."

"I thought, to be sure," said Margery, "he would have taken upstairs for his study, or the next room, one or t'other; he used to be mighty particular in old times; he didn't like to have anybody round when he was busy. But I am glad he is altered, however; it is better for you, Miss Ellen, dear, though I didn't know how you was ever going to make out at first."

Ellen thought for a minute, when Margery was gone, whether it could be that John was putting a force upon his liking for her sake, bearing her presence when he would rather have been without it. But she thought of it only a minute; she was sure, when she recollected herself, that however it happened, she was no hindrance to him in any kind of work; that she went out and came in, and as he had said, he saw and heard her without any disturbance. Besides, he had said so, and that was enough.

Saturday evening she generally contrived to busy herself in her books. But when Sunday morning came with its calmness and brightness; when the business of the week was put away, and quietness abroad and at home invited to recollection, then Ellen's thoughts went back to old times, and then she missed the calm, sweet face that had agreed so well with the day. She missed her in the morning when the early sun streamed in through the empty room. She missed her at the breakfast-table, where John was not to take her place. On the ride to church, where Mr. Humphreys was now her silent companion, and every tree on the road and every opening in the landscape seemed to call Alice to see it with her. Very much she missed her in church. The empty seat beside her, the unused hymn-book on the shelf, the want of her sweet voice in the singing, oh, how it went to Ellen's heart. And Mr. Humphreys' grave, steadfast look and tone kept it in her mind; she saw it was in his. Those Sunday mornings tried Ellen. At first they were bitterly sad; her tears used to flow abundantly whenever they could unseen. Time softened this feeling.

While Mr. Humphreys went on to his second service in the village beyond, Ellen stayed at Carra-carra, and tried to teach a Sunday-school. She determined as far as she could to supply beyond the home circle the loss that was not felt only there. She was able, however, to gather together but her own four children whom she had constantly taught from the beginning, and two others. The rest were scattered. After her lunch, which, having no companion but Margery, was now a short one, Ellen went next to the two old women that Alice had been accustomed to attend for the purpose of reading, and what Ellen called preaching. These poor old people had sadly lamented the loss of the faithful friend whose place they never expected to see supplied in this world, and whose kindness had constantly sweetened their lives with one great pleasure a week. Ellen felt afraid to take so much upon herself, as to try to do for them what Alice had done; however, she resolved; and at the very first attempt their gratitude and joy far overpaid her for the effort she had made. Practice and the motive she had soon enabled Ellen to remember and repeat faithfully the greater part of Mr. Humphreys' morning sermon. Reading the Bible to Mrs. Blockson was easy; she had often done that; and to repair the loss of Alice's pleasant comments and explanations she bethought her of her 'Pilgrim's Progress.' To her delight the old woman heard it greedily, and seemed to take great comfort in it; often referring to what Ellen had read before, and begging to hear such a piece over again. Ellen generally went home pretty thoroughly tired, yet feeling happy; the pleasure of doing good still far overbalanced the pains.

Sunday evening was another lonely time; Ellen spent it as best she could. Sometimes with her Bible and prayer, and then she ceased to be lonely; sometimes with so many pleasant thoughts that had sprung up out of the employments of the morning that she could not be sorrowful; sometimes she could not help being both. In any case, she was very apt when the darkness fell to take to singing hymns; and it grew to be a habit with Mr. Humphreys when he heard her to come out of his study and lie down upon the sofa and listen, suffering no light in the room but that of the fire. Ellen never was better pleased than when her Sunday evenings were spent so. She sang with wonderful pleasure when she sang for him; and she made it her business to fill her memory with all the beautiful hymns she ever knew or could find, or that he liked particularly.

With the first opening of her eyes on Monday morning came the thought, "John will be at home to-day!" That was enough to carry Ellen pleasantly through whatever the day might bring. She generally kept her mending of stockings for Monday morning, because with that thought in head she did not mind anything. She had no visits from Margery on Monday; but Ellen sang over her work, sprang about with happy energy, and studied the hardest; for John in what he expected her to do made no calculations for work of which he knew nothing. He was never at home till late in the day; and when Ellen had done all she had to do, and set the supper-table with punctilious care, and a face of busy happiness, it would have been a pleasure to see, if there had been any one to look at it, she would take what happened to be the favourite book and plant herself near the glass door; like a very epicure, to enjoy both the present and the future at once. Even then the present often made her forget the future; she would be lost in her book, perhaps hunting the elephant in India or fighting Nelson's battles over again, and the first news she would have of what she had set herself there to watch for would be the click of the door-lock or a tap on the glass, for the horse was almost always left at the further door. Back then she came, from India or the Nile; down went the book; Ellen had no more thought but for what was before her.

For the rest of that evening the measure of Ellen's happiness was full. It did not matter whether John were in a talkative or a thoughtful mood; whether he spoke to her and looked at her or not; it was pleasure enough to feel that he was there. She was perfectly satisfied merely to sit down near him, though she did not get a word by the hour together.

CHAPTER XLV

Ne in all the welkin was no cloud.– Chaucer.

One Monday evening, John being tired, was resting in the corner of the sofa. The silence had lasted a long time. Ellen thought so, and standing near, she by-and-by put her hand gently into one of his, which he was thoughtfully passing through the locks of his hair. Her hand was clasped immediately, and, quitting his abstracted look, he asked what she had been doing that day? Ellen's thoughts went back to toes of stockings and a long rent in her dress; she merely answered, smiling, that she had been busy.

"Too busy, I'm afraid. Come round here and sit down. What have you been busy about?"

Ellen never thought of trying to evade a question of his. She coloured and hesitated. He did not press it any further.

"Mr. John," said Ellen, when the silence seemed to have set in again, "there is something I have been wanting to ask you this great while – "

"Why hasn't it been asked this great while?"

"I didn't quite like to. I didn't know what you would say to it."

"I am sorry I am at all terrible to you, Ellie!"

"Why, you are not!" said Ellen, laughing; "how you talk! But I don't much like to ask people things."

"I don't know about that," said he, smiling; "my memory rather seems to say that you ask things pretty often."

"Ah yes – those things; but I mean I don't like to ask things when I am not quite sure how people will take it."

"You are right, certainly, to hesitate when you are doubtful in such a matter; but it is best not to be doubtful when I am concerned."

"Well," said Ellen, "I wish very much – I was going to ask – if you would have any objection to let me read one of your sermons?"

"None in the world, Ellie," said he, smiling; "but they have never been written yet."

"Not written!"

"No; there is all I had to guide me yesterday."

"A half sheet of paper! and only written on one side! Oh, I can make nothing of this. What is this? Hebrew?"

"Shorthand."

"And is that all? I cannot understand it," said Ellen, sighing as she gave back the paper.

"What if you were to go with me next time? They want to see you very much at Ventnor."

"So do I want to see them," said Ellen; "very much indeed."

"Mrs. Marshman sent a most earnest request by me that you would come to her the next time I go to Randolph."

Ellen gave the matter a very serious consideration, if one might judge by her face.

"What do you say to it?"

"I should like to go —very much," said Ellen slowly; "but – "

"But you do not think it would be pleasant?"

"No, no," said Ellen, laughing, "I don't mean that; but I think I would rather not."

"Why?"

"Oh, I have some reasons."

"You must give me very good ones, or I think I shall overrule your decision, Ellie."

"I have very good ones – plenty of them – only – "

A glance, somewhat comical in its keenness, overturned Ellen's hesitation.

"I have indeed," said she, laughing, "only I did not want to tell you. The reason why I didn't wish to go was because I thought I should be missed. You don't know how much I miss you," said she, with tears in her eyes.

"That is what I was afraid of. Your reasons make against you, Ellie."

"I hope not. I don't think they ought."

"But, Ellie, I am very sure my father would rather miss you once or twice than have you want what would be good for you."

"I know that! I am sure of that! but that don't alter my feeling, you know. And besides – that isn't all."

"Who else will miss you?"

Ellen's quick look seemed to say that he knew too much already, and that she did not wish him to know more. He did not repeat the question, but Ellen felt that her secret was no longer entirely her own.

"And what do you do, Ellie, when you feel lonely?" he went on presently.

Ellen's eyes watered at the tone in which these words were spoken; she answered, "Different things."

"The best remedy for it is prayer. In seeking the face of our best Friend we forget the loss of others. That is what I try, Ellie, when I feel alone. Do you try it?" said he softly.

Ellen looked up; she could not well speak at that moment.

"There is an antidote in that for every trouble. You know who said, 'he that cometh to Me shall never hunger, and he that believeth on Me shall never thirst.'"

"It troubles me," said he, after a pause, "to leave you so much alone. I don't know that it were not best to take you with me every week."

"Oh no!" said Ellen; "don't think of me. I don't mind it indeed. I do not always feel so – sometimes, but I get along very well; and I would rather stay here, indeed I would. I am always happy as soon as Monday morning comes."

He rose up suddenly and began to walk up and down the room.

"Mr. John – "

"What, Ellie?"

"I do sometimes seek His face very much when I cannot find it."

She hid her face in the sofa cushion. He was silent a few minutes, and then stopped his walk.

"There is something wrong then with you, Ellie," he said gently. "How has it been through the week? If you can let day after day pass without remembering your best Friend, it may be that when you feel the want you will not readily find Him. How is it daily, Ellie? is seeking His face your first concern? do you give a sufficient time faithfully to your Bible and prayer?"

Ellen shook her head; no words were possible. He took up his walk again. The silence had lasted a length of time, and he was still walking when Ellen came to his side and laid her hand on his arm.

"Have you settled that question with your conscience, Ellie?"

She weepingly answered yes. They walked a few turns up and down.

"Will you promise me, Ellie, that every day when it shall be possible, you will give an hour at least to this business – whatever else may be done or undone?"

Ellen promised; and then with her hand in his they continued their walk through the room till Mr. Humphreys and the servants came in. Her brother's prayer that night Ellen never forgot.

No more was said at that time about her going to Ventnor; but a week or two after, John smilingly told her to get all her private affairs arranged and to let her friends know they need not expect to see her the next Sunday, for that he was going to take her with him. As she saw he had made up his mind, Ellen said nothing in the way of objecting; and now that the decision was taken from her was really very glad to go. She arranged everything, as he had said, and was ready Saturday morning to set off with a very light heart.

They went in the sleigh. In a happy quiet mood of mind, Ellen enjoyed everything exceedingly. She had not been to Ventnor in several months; the change of scene was very grateful. She could not help thinking, as they slid along smoothly and swiftly over the hard-frozen snow, that it was a good deal pleasanter, for once, than sitting alone in the parlour at home with her work-basket. Those days of solitary duty, however, had prepared her for the pleasure of this one; Ellen knew that, and was ready to be thankful for everything. Throughout the whole way, whether the eye and mind silently indulged in roving, or still better loved talk interrupted, as it often did, Ellen was in a state of most unmixed and unruffled satisfaction. John had not the slightest reason to doubt the correctness of his judgment in bringing her. He went in but a moment at Ventnor, and leaving her there, proceeded himself to Randolph.

Ellen was received as a precious lending that must be taken the greatest care of and enjoyed as much as possible while one has it. Mrs. Marshman and Mrs. Chauncey treated her as if she had been their own child. Ellen Chauncey overwhelmed her with joyful caresses, and could scarcely let her out of her arms by night or by day. She was more than ever Mr. Marshman's pet; but indeed she was well petted by all the family. It was a very happy visit.

Even Sunday left nothing to wish for. To her great joy not only Mrs. Chauncey went with her in the morning to hear her brother (for his church was not the one the family attended), but the carriage was ordered in the afternoon also; and Mrs. Chauncey and her daughter and Miss Sophia went with her again. When they returned Miss Sophia, who had taken a very great fancy to her, brought her into her own room and made her lie down with her upon the bed, though Ellen insisted she was not tired.

"Well, you ought to be, if you are not," said the lady. "I am. Keep away, Ellen Chauncey, you can't be anywhere without talking. You can live without Ellen for half-an hour, can't ye? Leave us a little while in quiet."

Ellen for her part was quite willing to be quiet. But Miss Sophia was not sleepy, and it soon appeared had no intention of being silent herself.

"Well, how do you like your brother in the pulpit?" she began.

"I like him anywhere, ma'am," said Ellen, with a very unequivocal smile.

"I thought he would have come here with you last night! it is very mean of him! He never comes near us; he always goes to some wretched little lodging or place in the town there – always; never so much as looks at Ventnor, unless sometimes he may stop for a minute at the door."

"He said he would come here to-night," said Ellen.

"Amazing condescending of him! However, he isn't like anybody else; I suppose we must not judge him by common rules. How is Mr. Humphreys, Ellen?"

"I don't know, ma'am," said Ellen, "it is hard to tell; he doesn't say much. I think he is rather more cheerful – if anything – than I expected he would be."

"And how do you get along there, poor child! with only two such grave people about you?"

"I get along very well, ma'am," said Ellen, with what Miss Sophia thought a somewhat curious smile.

"I believe you will grow to be as sober as the rest of them," said she. "How does Mr. John behave?"

Ellen turned so indubitably curious a look upon her at this that Miss Sophia half laughed and went on.

"Mr. Humphreys was not always as silent and reserved as he is now; I remember him when he was different; though I don't think he ever was much like his son. Did you ever hear about it?"

"About what, ma'am?"

"Oh, about coming to this country; what brought him to Carra-carra?"

"No, ma'am."

"My father, you see, had come out long before, but the two families had been always very intimate in England, and it was kept up after he came away. He was a particular friend of an elder brother of Mr. Humphreys; his estate and my grandfather's lay very near each other; and besides, there were other things that drew them to each other; he married my aunt, for one. My father made several journeys back and forth in the course of years, and so kept up his attachment to the whole family, you know; and he became very desirous to get Mr. Humphreys over here – this Mr. Humphreys, you know. He was the younger brother – younger brothers in England generally have little or nothing; but you don't know anything about that, Ellen. He hadn't anything then but his living, and that was a small one; he had some property left him though, just before he came to America."

"But, Miss Sophia" – Ellen hesitated – "are you sure they would like I should hear all this?"

"Why, yes, child! – of course they would; everybody knows it. Some things made Mr. Humphreys as willing to leave England about that time as my father was to have him. An excellent situation was offered him in one of the best institutions here, and he came out. That's about – let me see – I was just twelve years old and Alice was one year younger. She and I were just like sisters always from that time. We lived near together, and saw each other every day, and our two families were just like one. But they were liked by everybody. Mrs. Humphreys was a very fine person – very; oh very! I never saw any woman I admired more. Her death almost killed her husband; and I think Alice – I don't know – there isn't the least sign of delicate health about Mr. Humphreys nor Mr. John – not the slightest – nor about Mrs. Humphreys either. She was a very fine woman!"

"How long ago did she die?" said Ellen.

"Five – six, seven – seven years ago. Mr. John had been left in England till a little before. Mr. Humphreys was never the same after that. He wouldn't hold his professorship any longer; he couldn't bear society; he just went and buried himself at Carra-carra. That was a little after we came here."

How much all this interested Ellen! She was glad however when Miss Sophia seemed to have talked herself out, for she wanted very much to think over John's sermon. And as Miss Sophia happily fell into a doze soon after, she had a long quiet time for it, till it grew dark, and Ellen Chauncey, whose impatience could hold no longer, came to seek her.

John came in the evening. Ellen's patience and politeness were severely tried in the course of it; for while she longed exceedingly to hear what her brother and the older members of the family were talking about – animated, delightful conversation she was sure – Ellen Chauncey detained her in another part of the room; and for a good part of the evening she had to bridle her impatience, and attend to what she did not care about. She did it, and Ellen Chauncey did not suspect it; and at last she found means to draw both her and herself near the larger group. But they seemed to have got through what they were talking about; there was a lull. Ellen waited; and hoped they would begin again.

"You had a full church this afternoon, Mr. John," said Miss Sophia.

He bowed gravely.

"Did you know whom you had among your auditors? the – and – were there;" naming some distinguished strangers in the neighbourhood.

"I think I saw them."

"You 'think' you did! Is that an excess of pride or an excess of modesty? Now, do be a reasonable creature, and confess that you are not insensible to the pleasure and honour of addressing such an audience!"

Ellen saw something like a flash of contempt for an instant in his face, instantly succeeded by a smile.

"Honestly, Miss Sophia, I was much more interested in an old woman that sat at the foot of the pulpit stairs."

"That old thing!" said Miss Sophia.

"I saw her," said Mrs. Chauncey; "poor old creature! she seemed most deeply attentive when I looked at her."

"I saw her," cried Ellen Chauncey, "and the tears were running down her cheeks several times."

"I didn't see her," said Ellen Montgomery, as John's eye met hers. He smiled.

"But do you mean to say," continued Miss Sophia, "that you are absolutely careless as to who hears you?"

"I have always one hearer, Miss Sophia, of so much dignity, that it sinks the rest into great insignificance."

"That is a rebuke," said Miss Sophia; "but nevertheless I shall tell you that I liked you very much this afternoon."

He was silent.

"I suppose you will tell me next," said the young lady, laughing, "that you are sorry to hear me say so."

"I am," said he gravely.

"Why, may I ask?"

"You show me that I have quite failed in my aim, so far at least as one of my hearers was concerned."

"How do you know that?"

"Do you remember what Louis the Fourteenth said to Massillon? – Mon père, j'ai entendu plusieurs grands orateurs dans ma chapelle; j'en ai été fort content, pour vous, toutes les fois que je vous ai entendu, j'ai été très mécontent de moi-même!"

Ellen smiled. Miss Sophia was silent for an instant.

"Then you really mean to be understood, that provided you fail of your aim, as you say, you do not care a straw what people think of you?"