 CHAPTER 52 One evening it was New Year's Eve. A large party was expected at Mr. Vincese. Ellen was not of an age to go abroad to parties, but at home her father and grandmother never could bear to do without her when they had company. Suddenly Ellen liked it very much, not called upon to take any active part herself. She had leisure to observe and enjoy in quiet, and often by Mr. Vincese's side listened to conversation in which she took great pleasure. Tonight, however, it happened that Ellen's thoughts were running on other things, and Mrs. Vincese's woman, who had come in to dress her, was not at all satisfied with her grave looks, and the little concern she seemed to take in what was going on. I wish, Miss Ellen, you'd please hold your head up, and look somewhere. I don't know when I'll get your hair done if you keep it down so. Oh, Mason, I think that'll do. It looks very well. You needn't do anything more. I beg your pardon, Miss Ellen, but you know it's your grandmother that must be satisfied, and she will have it just so. There, now that's going to look lovely. But indeed, Miss Ellen, she won't be pleased if you carry such a soberish face downstairs. And what will the Master say? Most young ladies would be as bright as a bee at being going to see so many people. And indeed, it's what you should. I had rather see one or two persons than one or two hundredths at Ellen, speaking half to herself and half to Mrs. Mason. Well, for pity's sake, Miss Ellen dear, if you can, don't look as if it was a funeral. There, take much trouble to fix you anyhow. If you'd only care a little more about it, it would be a blessing. Stop till I fix this lace. The Master will call you his white rosebud to-night, sure enough. That's nothing new to Ellen half-smiling. Mason left her, and feeling the want of something to raise her spirits, Ellen sorrowfully went to her Bible, and slowly turning it over, looked along its pages, to catch a sight of something cheering before she went downstairs. This God is our God for ever and ever. He will be our guide, even unto death. Isn't that enough, though, Ellen? As her eyes filled an answer, it ought to be. John would say it was. Oh, where is he? She went on, turning leaf after leaf. Oh, Lord of hosts, blessed is the man that trusts it than thee. That is true surely, she thought, and I do trust in him. I am blessed. I am happy. Come what may. He will let nothing come to those that trust in him, but what is good for them? If he is my God, I have enough to make me happy. I ought to be happy. I will be happy. I will trust him, and take what he gives me, and try to leave, as John used to tell me, my affairs in his hand. For a minute tears flowed. Then they were wiped away, and the smile she gave Mr. Lindsay when she met him in the hall was not less bright than usual. The company were gathered, but it was still early in the evening when a gentleman came, who declined to enter the drawing-room, and asked for Miss Lindsay. Miss Lindsay is engaged. In what force did ye say, Mr. Porterfield, cried the voice of the housekeeper, who was passing in the hall, when ye can as wheel as I do that Miss Ellen? The butler stopped her with saying something about my lady, and repeated his answer to the gentleman. The latter wrote a word or two on a card, which he drew from his pocket, and desired him to carry it to Miss Ellen. He carried it to Lady Keith. What sort of a person Porterfield, said Lady Keith, crumpling the paper in her fingers, and withdrawing a little from the company? Uncommon fine gentleman, my lady, Porterfield answered in a low tone. A gentleman, said Lady Keith inquiringly. Certainly, my lady, and as up and down spoken as if he was a prince of the blood, but he is somebody that is not accustomed to be said no to for sure. Lady Keith hesitated, recollecting, however, that she had just left Ellen safe in the music room. She made up her mind, and desired Porterfield to show the stranger in. As he entered unannounced, her eyes unwillingly verified the butler's judgment, and to the inquiry whether he might see Miss Lincey, she answered very politely, though with regrets, that Miss Lincey was engaged. May I be pardoned for asking, said the stranger, with the slightest possible approach to a smile, whether that decision is imperative? I leave Scotland tomorrow. My reasons for wishing to see Miss Lincey this evening are urgent. Lady Keith could hardly believe her ears, or command her countenance to keep company with her expressions of sorrow that it was impossible. Miss Lincey could not have the pleasure that evening. May I beg, then, to know at what hour I may hope to see her tomorrow? Hasteably resolving that Ellen should on the morrow accept a long given invitation, Lady Keith answered that she would not be in town. She would leave Edinburgh at an early hour. The stranger bowed and withdrew. That was all the bystanders saw. But Lady Keith, who had winced under an eye that she could not help fancying, read her too well, saw that in his parting look which made her uneasy, beckoning a servant who stood near, she ordered him to wait upon that gentleman to the door. The man obeyed, but the stranger did not take his cloak, and made no motion to go. No, sir, not that way, he said sternly, as the servant laid his hand on the lock. Show me to Miss Lincey. Miss Ellen, said the man, slowly, coming back and thinking from the gentleman's manner, that he must have misunderstood Lady Keith. Where is Miss Ellen, Arthur? The person addressed through his head back towards the door he had just come from on the other side of the hall. This way, sir, if you please. What name, sir? No name. Stand back, said the stranger, as he entered. There were a number of people gathered round a lady who was at the piano singing. Ellen was there in the midst of them. The gentleman advanced quietly to the edge of the group, and stood there without being noticed. Ellen's eyes were bent on the floor. The expression of her face touched and pleased him greatly. It was precisely what he wished to see. Without having the least shadow of sorrow upon it, there was in all its lines that singular mixture of gravity and sweetness that is never seen but where religion and discipline have done their work well, the writing of the wisdom that looks soberly, and the love that looks kindly on all things. He was not sure at first whether she were intently listening to the music, or whether her mind was upon something far different and far away. He thought the latter. He was right. Ellen at the moment had escaped from the company and the noisy sounds of the performer at her side, and while her eye was curiously tracing out the pattern of the carpet, her mind was resting itself in one of the verses she had been reading that same evening. Suddenly, and as it seemed, from no connection with anything in or out of her thoughts, there came to her mind the image of John as she had seen him that first evening she ever saw him at Cara Cara, when she looked up from the boiling chocolate and espied him, standing in an attitude of waiting near the door. Ellen at first wondered how that thought should have come into her head just then. The next moment, from a sudden impulse, she raised her eyes to search for the cause, and saw John smile. It would not be easy to describe the change in Ellen's face. Lightning makes as quick and as brilliant an illumination, but lightning does not stay. To the spring she reached him, and, seizing both his hands, drew him out of the door near which they were standing, and as soon as they were hidden from view, threw herself into his arms in an agony of joy. Before, however, either of them could say a word, she had caught his hand again, and led him back along the hall to the private staircase. She mounted it rapidly to her room, and there again she threw herself into his arms, exclaiming, Oh John, my dear John, my dear brother! But neither smiles nor words would do for the overcharged heart. The tide of joy ran too strong and too much swelled from the open sources of love and memory to keep any bounds, and it kept none. Ellen sat down, and bowing her head on the arm of the sofa, wept with all the vehement passion of her childhood, quivering from head to foot with convulsive sobs. John might guess, from the outpouring now, how much her heart had been secretly gathering for months past. For a little while he walked up and down the room. But this excessive agitation he was not willing should continue. He said nothing. Sitting down beside Ellen on the sofa, he quietly possessed himself of one of her hands, and when in her excitement the hand struggled to get away again it was not permitted. Ellen understood that very well, and immediately checked herself. Better than words, the calm, firm grasp of his hand quieted her. Her sobbing stilled, she turned from the arm of the sofa and leaning her head upon him, took his hand in both hers, and pressed it to her lips, as if she were half beside herself. But that was not permitted to last either, for his hand quickly imprisoned hers again. There was silence still. Ellen could not look up yet, and neither seemed very forward to speak. She sat gradually quieting down into fullness of happiness. I thought you would never come, John, at length Ellen half whispered, half said, And I cannot stay now, I must leave you tomorrow, Ellen. Ellen started up, and looked up now. Leave me for how long, where are you going? Home. To America, Ellen's heart died within her. Was this the end of all her hopes? Did her confidence end here? She shed no tears now. He could see that she grew absolutely still from intense feeling. What's the matter, Ellie, said the low, gentle tones? She so well remembered. I am leaving you for about a time. I must go home now. But if I live you will see me again. Oh, I wish I was going with you, Ellen exclaimed, bursting into tears. My dear Ellie said her brother in an altered voice, drawing her to his arms. You cannot wish it more than I. I never thought you would leave me here, John. Neither would I if I could help it. Neither will I a minute longer than I can help. But we must both wait, my own Ellie. Do not cry so for my sake. Wait till when, said Ellen, not a little reassured. I have no power now to remove you from your legal guardians, and you have no right to choose for yourself. And when shall I? In a few years. A few years, but in the meantime, John, what shall I do without you? If I could see you once in a while, but there is no one here, not a single one, to help me to keep right. No one talks to me as you used to, and I am all the while afraid I shall go wrong in something. What shall I do? What the weak must always do, Ellie, seek for strength where it may be had. And so I do, John, said Ellen, weeping, but I want you. Oh, how much! Are you not happy here? Yes, I am happy. At least I thought I was half an hour ago. As happy as I can be. I have everything to make me happy, except what would do it. We must both have recourse to our old remedy against sorrow and loneliness. You have not forgotten the use of it, Ellie. No, John, said Ellen, meeting his eyes with a tearful smile. They love you here, do they not? Very much. Too much. Do you love them? Yes. That's a doubtful yes. I do love my father very much, and my grandmother too. They're not so much. I cannot help loving them. They love me so. But they are so unlike you. That is not much to the purpose, after all, said John, smiling. These are varieties of excellence in the world. Oh yes, but that isn't what I mean. It isn't a variety of excellence. They make me do everything that they have a mind. I don't mean she added smiling, that that is not like you. But you always had a reason. They are different. My father makes me drink wine every now and then. I don't like to do it, and he knows I do not. And I think that is a reason I have to do it. That's not a matter of great importance, Ellie, provided they do not make you do something wrong. They could not do that, I hope, and there is another thing they cannot make me do. What is that? Stay here when you will take me away. There was a few minutes' thoughtful pause on both sides. You were grown, Ellie, said John. You were not the child I loved you. I don't know, said Ellen, smiling. It seems to me I am just the same. Let me see. Let me see. She raised her face and amidst smiles and tears, its look was not less clear and frank than his was penetrating. Just the same was the verdict of her brother's eyes a moment afterwards. Ellen smiled grew bright as she read it there. Why have you never come or written before, John? I did not know where you were. I have not been in England for many months till quite lately. And I cannot get your address. I think my father was without it for a long time. And when at last he sent it to me, the letter miscarried, never reached me. There were delays upon delays. And when did you get it? I preferred coming to writing. And now you must go home so soon. It must, Ellie, my business has lingered on a great while, and it is quite time I should return. I expect to sail next week. Mrs. Gillespie is going with me. Her husband stays behind till spring. Ellen sighed. I made a friend of a friend of yours whom I met in Switzerland last summer. Maju Mueller. Maju Mueller, did you? Oh, I am very glad. I'm very glad you know him. He is the best friend I have got here after my father. I don't know what I should have done without him. I have heard him talk of you, said John, smiling. He has just come back. He was to be here this evening. There was a pause again. It does not seem right to go home without you, Ellie, said her brother then. I think you belong to me more than to anybody. That is exactly what I think, said Ellen, with one of her bright looks, and then bursting into tears. I am very glad you think so, too. I will always do whatever you tell me, just as I used to, no matter what anybody says. Perhaps I shall try you into our three things, Ellie. Will you, in what? Oh, what would make me so happy, so much happier, if I could be doing something to please you? I wish I was at home with you again. I will bring that about, Ellie, by and by, if you make your words good. I shall be happy, then, said Ellen, her old confidence standing stronger than ever, because I know you will, if you say so, though how you will manage I cannot conceive. My father and grandmother and aunt cannot bear to hear me speak of America. I believe they would be glad if there wasn't such a place in the world. They would not even let me think of it if they could help it. I never dare mention your name or say a word about old times. They are afraid of my loving anybody, I believe. They want to have me all to themselves. What will they say to you, then, Ellen, if you leave them to give yourself to me? I cannot help it, replied Ellen. They must say what they please. And with an abundance of energy and not a few tears she went on. I love them, but I have given myself to you a great while ago. Long before I was his daughter, you called me your little sister. I can't undo that, John, and I don't want to. It doesn't make a bit of difference that we were not born so. John rose suddenly and began to walk up and down the room. Ellen soon came to his side and, leaning upon his arm as she had been used to do in past times, walked up and down with him. At first, silently. What is it you wanted me to do, John, she said gently, at length. You said two or three things. One is that you keep up a regular and full correspondence with me. I am very glad you will let me do that, said Ellen. That is exactly what I should like, but... What? I am afraid they will not let me. I will arrange that. Very well, said Ellen joyously. Then it will do. Oh, it would make me so happy. And you will write to me? Certainly. And I will tell you everything about myself, and you will tell me how I ought to do and all sorts of things. That will be next best to being with you. And to then you will keep me right. I won't promise you that, Ellie, said John, smiling. You must learn to keep yourself right. I know you will, though, however you may smile. What next? Read no novels. I never do, John. I knew you did not like them. And I have taken good care to keep out of the way of them. If I had told anybody why, though, they would have made me read a dozen. Why, Ellie, said her brother, you must need some care to keep a straight line where your course lies now. Indeed I do, John, said Ellen, her eyes filling with tears. Oh, how I have felt that sometimes. And then, how I wanted you. Her hand was fondly taken in his, as many a time it had been of old, and for a long time they paced up and down. The conversation running sometimes in the strain that both loved, and Ellen now never heard, sometimes on other matters, such a conversation as those she had lived upon in former days, and now drank in with a delight and eagerness inexpressible. Mr. Lindsay would have been in dismay to see her uplifted face, which, though tears were many a time there, was sparkling and glowing with life and joy in a manner he had never known it. She almost forgot what the Mara would bring in the exquisite pleasure of the instant, and hung upon every word and look of her brother, as if her life were there. And in a few weeks at Ellen, at length, you will be in our old dear sitting-groom again, and riding on the black prince, and I shall be here, and it will be—it will be empty without you, Ellie, but we have a friend that is sufficient. Let us love him and be patient. It is very hard to be patient, murmured Ellen. But, dear John, there was something else you wanted me to do. What is it? You said two or three things. I will leave that to another time. But why? I will do it whatever it be. Pray tell me. No, said he, smiling. Not now. You shall know by and by. The time is not yet. Have you heard of your old friend, Mr. Van Brunt? No, what of him? He has come out before the world as a Christian man. Has he? John took a letter from his pocket and opened it. You may see what my father says of him, and what he says of you, too, Ellie. He has missed you much. Oh, I was afraid he would, said Ellen. I was sure he did. She took the letter, but she could not see the words. John told her she might keep it to read at her leisure. And how are they all at Ventnor? And how is Mrs. Voss and Marjorie? All well. Mrs. Voss spends about half her time at my father's. I am very glad of that. Mrs. Marshman wrote me to bring you back with me if I could, and said she had a home for you always at Ventnor. How kind she is, said Ellen. How many friends I find everywhere. It seems to me, John, that everybody almost loves me. That is a singular circumstance. However, I am no exception to the rule, Ellie. Oh, I know that, said Ellen laughing. And Mr. George? Mr. George as well. How much I love him, said Ellen. How much I would give to see him. I wish you could tell me about poor Captain and the brownie, but I don't suppose you have heard of them. Oh, when I think of it all at home, how I want to be there. Oh, John, sometimes lately I have almost thought I should only see you again in heaven. My dear Ellie, I shall see you there, I trust. But if we live, we shall spend our lives here together first. And while we are parted, we will keep as near as possible by praying for and writing to each other. And what God orders, let us quietly submit to. Ellen had much to do to command herself at the tone of these words in John's manner, as he clasped her in his arms and kissed her brow and lips. She strove to keep back a show of feeling that would distress and might displease him. But the next moment, her fluttering spirits were stilled by hearing the few soft words of a prayer that he breathed over her head. It was a prayer for her and for himself, and one of its petitions was that they might be kept to see each other again. Ellen wrote the words on her heart. Are you going? He showed his watch. Well, I shall see you tomorrow. Shall you be here? Certainly, where else should I be? What time must you set out? I need not till afternoon. But how early can I see you? As early as you please, O spend all the time with me you can, John. So it was arranged. And now, Ellie, you must go downstairs and present me to Mr. Munze. To my father. For a moment Ellen's face was a compound of expressions. She instantly acquiesced, however, and went down with her brother, her heart must be confessed, going very pit-a-pat indeed. She took him into the library, which was not this evening thrown open to company, and sent a servant for Mr. Munze. While waiting for his coming, Ellen felt as if she had not the fair use of her senses. Was that John Humphrey's quietly walking up and down the library, Mr. Munze's library, and was she about to introduce her brother to the person who had forbidden her to mention his name? There was something, however, in Mr. John's figure and air, in his utter coolness, that insensibly restored her spirits. Triumphant confidence in him overcame the fear of Mr. Munze, and when he appeared, Ellen, with tolerable composure, met him, her hand upon John's arm, and said, Father, this is Mr. Humphrey's. My brother, she dared not add. I hope Mr. Munze will pardon my giving him this troubles at the latter. We have one thing in common which should forbid our being strangers to each other. I, at least, was unwilling to leave Scotland without making myself known to Mr. Munze. Mr. Munze most devoutly wished the thing in common had been anything else. He bowed, and was happy to have the pleasure, but evidently neither pleased nor happy. Ellen could see that. May I take up five minutes of Mr. Munze's time to explain, perhaps to apologize, said John, slightly smiling, for what I have said? A little ashamed it might be to have his feeling suspected. Mr. Munze instantly granted the request, and politely invited his unwelcome guest to be seated. Obeying a glance from her brother which she understood, Ellen withdrew to the further side of the room, where she could not hear what they said. John took up the history of Ellen's acquaintance with his family, and briefly gave it to Mr. Munze, scarce touching on the benefits by them conferred on her, and skillfully dwelling rather on Ellen herself, and setting forth what she had been to them. Mr. Munze could not be unconscious of what his visitor delicately omitted to hint at. Neither could he help making secretly to himself some most unwilling admissions, and though he might wish the speaker at the anapodes and doubtless did, yet the sketch was too happily given, and his fondness for Ellen too great, for him not to be delightedly interested in what was said of her. And however strong might have been his desire to dismiss his guest in a very summery manner, or to treat him with haughty reserve. The graceful dignity of Mr. Humphrey's manners made either expedient impossible. Mr. Munze felt constrained to meet him on his own ground, the ground of high-bred frankness, and grew secretly still more afraid that his real feelings should be discerned. Ellen from afar where she could not hear the words watched the countenances with great anxiety and great admiration. She could see that while her brother spoke with his usual perfect ease, Mr. Munze was embarrassed. She half-read the truth. She saw the entire politeness where she also saw the secret discomposure, and she felt that the politeness was forced from him. As the conversation went on, however, she wonderingly saw that the cloud on his brow lessened. She saw him even smile, and when they at last rose and she drew near, she almost thought her ears were playing her false. When she heard Mr. Munze beg her brother to go on with him to the company, and be presented to Mrs. Munze, after a moment's hesitation, this invitation was accepted, and they went together into the drawing-gram. Ellen felt as if she was in a dream, with a face as grave as usual, but with an inward exaltation and rejoicing in her brother, impossible to describe. She saw him going about among the company, talking to her grandmother. Yes, and her grandmother did not look less pleasant than usual, recognizing Maju Mueller, and in conversation with other people whom he knew. With indescribable glee, Ellen saw that Mr. Munze managed most of the time to be of the same group. Never more than that night did she triumphantly think that Mr. John could do anything. He finished the evening there. Ellen took care not to seem too much-occupied with him, but she contrived to be near when he was talking with Maju Mueller, and to hang upon her father's arm when he was in Mr. John's neighborhood, and when the letter had taken leave and was in the hall, Ellen was there before he could be gone, and there came Mr. Munze, too, behind her. You will come early to-morrow, John? Come to breakfast, Mr. Humphries, will you? said Mr. Munze, with sufficient cordiality. But Mr. Humphries declined his invitation, and spite of the timid touch of Ellen's fingers upon his arm, which begged for a different answer. I will be with you early, Ellie, he said, however. And oh, John, said Ellen, suddenly, order a horse, and let us have one ride together. Let me show you Edinburgh. By all means, said Mr. Munze, let us show you Edinburgh, but order no horses, Mr. Humphries, for mine are at your service. Ellen's other hand was gratefully laid upon her father's arm, as a second proposal was made and accepted. Let us show you Edinburgh, said Ellen to herself, as she and Mr. Munze slowly and gravely went back through the hall. So there is an end of my fine morning. But, however, how foolish I am, John has his own way of doing things, he can make it pleasant in spite of everything. She went to bed, not to sleep indeed, for a long time, but to cry for joy, and all sorts of feelings at once. Good came out of evil as it often does, and as Ellen's heart presaged at wood when she arose the next morning, the ride was preceded by half an hour's chat between Mr. John, Mr. Munze, and her grandmother, in which the delight of the evening before was renewed and confirmed. Ellen was obliged to look down to hide the too bright satisfaction she felt was shining in her face. She took no part in the conversation, it was enough to hear. She sat with charmed ears, seeing her brother overturning all her father's and grandmother's prejudices, and making his own way to their respect, at least, in spite of themselves. Her marveling still almost kept even pace with her joy. I knew he would do what he pleased, she said to herself. I knew they could not help that, but I did not dream he would ever make them like him, that I never dreamed. On the ride again, Ellen could not wish that her father were not with them. She wished for nothing. It was all a maze of pleasure, which there was nothing to mar but the sense that she would, by and by, wake up and find it was a dream. And no, not that either. It was a solid good and blessing, which, though it must come to an end, she should never lose. For the present there was hardly anything to be thought of but enjoyment. She shrewdly guessed that Mr. Lindsay would have enjoyed it too, but for herself. There was a little constraint about him still, she could see. There was not about Mr. John, in the delight of his words, and looks and presence. Ellen half the time forgot Mr. Lindsay entirely. She had enough of them. She did not for one moment wish Mr. Lindsay had less. At last the long beautiful ride came to an end, and the rest of the morning soon sped away. Though as Ellen had expected, she was not permitted to spend any part of it alone with her brother. Mr. Lindsay asked him to dinner, but this was declined. Not till long after he was gone did Ellen read Mr. Humphrey's letter. One bit of it may be given. Mr. Van Brunt has lately joined our little church. This has given me great pleasure. He had been a regular attendant for a long time before. He ascribes much to your instrumentality, but says his first thoughts, earnest ones, on the subject of religion, were on the occasion of a tear that fell from Ellen's eyes upon his hand one day when she was talking to him about the matter. He never got over the impression. In his own words, it scared him. That was a dear child. I did not know how dear till I had lost her. I did not know how severely I should feel her absence, nor had I the least notion when she was with us of many things respecting her that I have learned since. I half hope we should yet have her back, but that will not be. I shall be glad to see you, my son. The correspondence with John was begun immediately, and was the delight of Ellen's life. Mrs. Lindsay and her daughter wished to put a stop to it. But Mr. Lindsay dryly said that Mr. Humphrey's had frankly spoken of it before him, and as he made no objection then, he could not know. Ellen puzzled herself a little to think what could be the third thing John wanted of her. But whatever it were, she was very sure she would do it. For the gratification of those who are not ever satisfied, one word shall be added, to wit that, the seed so early sown in Ellen's little mind, and so carefully tended by sundry hands, grew in course of time to all the fair structure and comely perfection it had bid fair to reach. Storms and winds that had visited it did but cause the root to take deeper hold, and at the point of its young maturity, it happily fell again into those hands that had of all been most successful in its culture. In other words, to speak intelligibly, Ellen did in no wise disappoint her brother's wishes, nor he hers. Three or four more years of Scottish discipline wrought her no ill. They did but serve to temper and beautify her Christian character, and then, to her unspeakable joy, she went back to spend her life with the friends and guardians she best loved, and to be to them still more than she had been to her Scottish relations, the light of the eyes. THE END. END OF CHAPTER 52 RECORDING BY BRIDGET. END OF THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD by Susan Warner.