The Wide, Wide World

"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.