The Wide, Wide World

"I used to think so," said Alice, "but I do not now, Ellie; my feeling has changed. Do you feel so now, Ellie?"

"Oh, why do you talk about it, dear Alice?"

"For many reasons, dear Ellie. Come here and sit in my lap again."

"I am afraid you cannot bear it."

"Yes, I can. Sit here, and let your head rest where it used to;" and Alice laid her cheek upon Ellen's forehead. "You are a great comfort to me, dear Ellie."

"Oh, Alice, don't say so; you'll kill me!" exclaimed Ellen, in great distress.

"Why should I not say so, love?" said Alice soothingly. "I like to say it, and you will be glad to know it by-and-by. You are a great comfort to me."

"And what have you been to me?" said Ellen, weeping bitterly.

"What I cannot be much longer; and I want to accustom you to think of it, and to think of it rightly. I want you to know that if I am sorry at all in the thought, it is for the sake of others, not myself. Ellie, you yourself will be glad for me in a little while; you will not wish me back."

Ellen shook her head.

"I know you will not – after a while; and I shall leave you in good hands – I have arranged for that, my dear little sister."

The sorrowing child neither knew nor cared what she meant, but a mute caress answered the spirit of Alice's words.

"Look up, Ellie – look out again. Lovely – lovely! all that is – but I know heaven is a great deal more lovely. Feasted as our eyes are with beauty, I believe that eye has not seen, nor heart imagined, the things that God has prepared for them that love Him. You believe that, Ellie; you must not be so very sorry that I have gone to see it a little before you."

Ellen could say nothing.

"After all, Ellie, it is not beautiful things nor a beautiful world that make people happy – it is loving and being loved; and that is the reason why I am happy in the thought of heaven. I shall, if He receives me – I shall be with my Saviour; I shall see Him and know Him, without any of the clouds that come between here. I am often forgetting and displeasing Him now – never serving Him well nor loving Him right. I shall be glad to find myself where all that will be done with for ever. I shall be like Him! Why do you cry so, Ellie?" said Alice tenderly.

"I can't help it, Alice."

"It is only my love for you – and for two more – that could make me wish to stay here – nothing else; and I give all that up, because I do not know what is best for you or myself. And I look to meet you all again before long. Try to think of it as I do, Ellie."

"But what shall I do without you?" said poor Ellen.

"I will tell you, Ellie. You must come here and take my place, and take care of those I leave behind; will you? and they will take care of you."

"But," said Ellen, looking up eagerly, "Aunt Fortune – "

"I have managed all that. Will you do it, Ellen? I shall feel easy and happy about you, and far easier and happier about my father, if I leave you established here, to be to him, as far as you can, what I have been. Will you promise me, Ellie?"

In words it was not possible; but what silent kisses, and the close pressure of the arms round Alice's neck could say, was said.

"I am satisfied, then," said Alice presently. "My father will be your father – think him so, dear Ellie, and I know John will take care of you. And my place will not be empty. I am very, very glad."

Ellen felt her place surely would be empty, but she could not say so.

"It was for this I was so glad of your aunt's marriage, Ellie," Alice soon went on. "I foresaw she might raise some difficulties in my way, hard to remove perhaps; but now I have seen Mr. Van Brunt, and he has promised me that nothing shall hinder your taking up your abode and making your home entirely here. Though I believe, Ellie, he would truly have loved to have you in his own house."

"I am sure he would," said Ellen, "but oh, how much rather – "

"He behaved very well about it the other morning; in a very manly, frank, kind way; showed a good deal of feeling I think, too. He gave me to understand that for his own sake he should be extremely sorry to let you go; but he assured me that nothing over which he had any control should stand in the way of your good."

"He is very kind – he is very good – he is always so," said Ellen. "I love Mr. Van Brunt very much. He always was as kind to me as he could be."

They were silent for a few minutes, and Alice was looking out of the window again. The sun had set, and the colouring of all without was graver. Yet it was but the change from one beauty to another. The sweet air seemed still sweeter than before the sun went down.

"You must be happy, dear Ellie, in knowing that I am. I am happy now. I enjoy all this, and I love you all, but I can leave it and can leave you – yes, both – for I would seek Jesus! He who has taught me to love Him will not forsake me now. Goodness and mercy have followed me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. I thank Him! Oh, I thank Him!"

Alice's face did not belie her words, though her eyes shone through tears.

"Ellie, dear, you must love Him with all your heart, and live constantly in His presence. I know if you do He will make you happy in any event. He can always give more than He takes away. Oh, how good He is! and what wretched returns we make Him! I was miserable when John first went away to Doncaster; I did not know how to bear it. But now, Ellie, I think I can see it has done me good, and I can even be thankful for it. All things are ours, all things; the world, and life, and death too."

"Alice," said Ellen, as well as she could, "you know what you were saying to me the other day?"

"About what, love?"

"That about – you know – that chapter – "

"About the death of Lazarus?"

"Yes. It has comforted me very much."

"So it has me, Ellie. It has been exceeding sweet to me at different times. Come, sing to me – 'How firm a foundation.'"

From time to time Alice led to this kind of conversation, both for Ellen's sake and her own pleasure. Meanwhile she made her go on with all her usual studies and duties; and but for these talks Ellen would have scarce known how to believe that it could be true which she feared.

The wedding of Miss Fortune and Mr. Van Brunt was a very quiet one. It happened at far too busy a time of year, and they were too cool calculators, and looked upon their union in much too business-like a point of view, to dream of such a wild thing as a wedding-tour, or even resolve upon so troublesome a thing as a wedding-party. Miss Fortune would not have left her cheese and butter-making to see all the New Yorks and Bostons that ever were built; and she would have scorned a trip to Randolph. And Mr. Van Brunt would as certainly have wished himself all the while back among his furrows and crops. So one day they were quietly married at home, the Rev. Mr. Clark having been fetched from Thirlwall for the purpose. Mr. Van Brunt would have preferred that Mr. Humphreys should perform the ceremony; but Miss Fortune was quite decided in favour of the Thirlwall gentleman, and of course he it was.

The talk ran high all over the country on the subject of this marriage, and opinions were greatly divided; some, congratulating Mr. Van Brunt on having made himself one of the richest landholders "in town" by the junction of another fat farm to his own; some pitying him for having got more than his match within doors, and "guessing he'd missed his reckoning for once."

"If he has, then," said Sam Larkins, who heard some of these condoling remarks, "it's the first time in his life, I can tell you. If she ain't a little mistaken, I wish I mayn't get a month's wages in a year to come. I tell you, you don't know Van Brunt; he's as easy as anybody as long as he don't care about what you're doing; but if he once takes a notion you can't make him gee nor haw no more than you can our near ox Timothy when he's out o' yoke; and he's as ugly a beast to manage as ever I see when he ain't yoked up. Why, bless you! there ha'n't been a thing done on the farm this five years but just what he liked —she don't know it. I've heerd her," said Sam, chuckling, "I've heerd her a telling him how she wanted this thing done, and t'other, and he'd just not say a word and go and do it right t'other way. It'll be a wonder if somebody ain't considerably startled in her calculations afore summer's out."

CHAPTER XLII

She enjoys sure peace for evermore.
As weather-beaten ship arrived on happy shore.

    – Spenser.

It was impossible at first to make Mr. Humphreys believe that Alice was right in her notion about her health. The greatness of the evil was such that his mind refused to receive it, much as Ellen's had done. His unbelief, however, lasted longer than hers. Constantly with Alice as she was, and talking to her on the subject, Ellen slowly gave up the hope she had clung to; though still, bending all her energies to the present pleasure and comfort of her adopted sister, her mind shrank from looking at the end. Daily and hourly, in every way, she strove to be what Alice said she was, a comfort to her, and she succeeded. Daily and hourly Alice's look and smile and manner said the same thing over and over. It was Ellen's precious reward, and in seeking to earn it she half the time earned another in forgetting herself. It was different with Mr. Humphreys. He saw much less of his daughter; and when he was with her, it was impossible for Alice, with all her efforts, to speak to him as freely and plainly as she was in the habit of speaking to Ellen. The consequences were such as grieved her, but could not be helped.

As soon as it was known that her health was failing, Sophia Marshman came and took up her abode at the parsonage. Ellen was almost sorry; it broke up in a measure the sweet and peaceful way of life she and Alice had held together ever since her own coming. Miss Sophia could not make a third in their conversations. But as Alice's strength grew less and she needed more attendance and help, it was plain her friend's being there was a happy thing for both Alice and Ellen. Miss Sophia was active, cheerful, untiring in her affectionate care, always pleasant in manner and temper; a very useful person in a house where one was ailing. Mrs. Vawse was often there too, and to her Ellen clung, whenever she came, as to a pillar of strength. Miss Sophia could do nothing to help her; Mrs. Vawse could, a great deal.

Alice had refused to write or allow others to write to her brother. She said he was just finishing his course of study at Doncaster; she would not have him disturbed or broken off by bad news from home. In August he would be quite through; the first of August he would be home.

Before the middle of June, however, her health began to fail much more rapidly than she had counted upon. It became too likely that if she waited for his regular return at the first of August she would see but little of her brother. She at last reluctantly consented that Mrs. Chauncey should write to him; and from that moment counted the days.

Her father had scarcely till now given up his old confidence respecting her. He came into her room one morning when just about to set out for Carra-carra to visit one or two of his poor parishioners.