The Wide, Wide World

"Myself doesn't know."

The voice was fainter; the brown cloak was drawn over her face; and Alice and Ellen saw her shoulders heaving with the grief she kept from bursting out. They exchanged glances.

"Sit down," said Alice again presently, laying her hand upon the wet shoulder; "sit down and rest; my father will be here directly. Margery – oh, that's right; a cup of tea will do her good. What do you want with my father?"

"The Lord bless ye! I'll tell you, my lady."

She drank off the tea, but refused something more substantial that Margery offered her.

"The Lord bless ye! I couldn't. My lady, there wasn't a stronger, nor a prettier, nor a swater child, nor couldn't be, nor he was when we left it; it'll be three years come the fifteenth of April next; but I'm thinking the bitter winters o' this cowld country has chilled the life out o' him, and trouble's cowlder than all," she added, in a lower tone. "I seed him grow waker an' waker, an' his daar face grew thinner an' thinner, and the red all left it; only two burning spots was on it some days; an' I worried the life out o' me for him, an' all I could do, I couldn't do nothing at all to help him, but he just growd waker an' waker. I axed the father wouldn't he see the doctor about him; but he's an 'asy kind o' man, my lady, an' he said he would, an' he never did to this day; an' John, he always said it was no use sinding for the doctor, an' looked so swate at me, an' said for me not to fret, for sure he'd be better soon, or he'd go to a better place. An' I thought he was like a heavenly angel itself already, an' always was, but then more nor ever. Och! it's soon that he'll be one entirely, let Father Shannon say what he will."

She sobbed for a minute, while Alice and Ellen looked on, silent and pitying.

"An' to-night, my lady, he's very bad," she went on, wiping away the tears that came quickly again; "an' I seed he was going fast from me, an' I was breaking my heart wid the loss of him, whin I heard one of the men that was in it say, 'What's this he's saying?' says he. 'An' what is it thin?' says I. 'About the jantleman that praaches at Carra,' says he; 'he's a calling for him,' says he. I knowed there wasn't a praast at all at Carra, an' I thought he was draaming, or out o' his head, or crazy wid his sickness, like; an' I went up close to him, an' says I, 'John,' says I, 'what is it you want?' says I; 'an' sure if it's anything in heaven above or in earth beneath that yer own mother can get for ye,' says I, 'ye shall have it,' says I. An' he put up his two arms to my neck, an' pulled my face down to his lips, that was hot wid the faver, an' kissed me, he did; an', says he, 'Mother daar,' says he, 'if ye love me,' says he, 'fetch me the good jantleman that praaches at Carra till I spake to him.' 'Is it the praast you want, John, my boy?' says I; 'sure he's in it,' says I; for Michael had been for Father Shannon, an' he had come home wid him half-an-hour before. 'Oh no, mother,' says he, 'it's not him at all that I maan; it's the jantleman that spakes in the little white church at Carra; he's not a praast at all,' says he. 'An' who is he thin?' says I, getting up from the bed, 'or where will I find him, or how will I get to him?' 'Ye'll not stir a fut for him thin the night, Kitty Dolan,' says my husband; 'are ye mad?' says he; 'sure it's not his own head the child has at all at all, or it's a little hiritic, he is,' says he; 'an' ye won't show the disrespect to the praast in yer own house.' 'I'm maaning none,' says I; 'nor more he isn't a hiritic; but if he was, he's a born angel to Michael Dolan anyhow,' says I; 'an' wid the kiss of his lips on my face wouldn't I do the arrant of my own boy, an' he a-dying? by the blessing an' I will, if twenty men stud between me an' it. So tell me where I'll find him, this praast, if there's the love o' mercy in any sowl o' ye,' says I. But they wouldn't spake a word for me, not one of them; so I axed an' axed at one place an' other, till here I am. An' now, my lady, will the master go for me to my poor boy? for he'd maybe be dead while I stand here."

"Surely I will," said Mr. Humphreys, who had come in while she was speaking. "Wait but one moment."

In a moment he came back ready, and he and the woman set forth to their walk. Alice looked out anxiously after them.

"It storms very hard," she said, "and he has not had his tea! But he couldn't wait. Come, Ellen love, we'll have ours. How will he ever get back again! it will be so deep by that time."

There was a cloud on the fair brow for a few minutes, but it passed away, and quiet and calm as ever she sat down at the little tea-table with Ellen. From her face all shadows seemed to have flown for ever. Hungry and happy, she enjoyed Margery's good bread and butter, and the nice honey, and from time to time cast very bright looks at the dear face on the other side of the table, which could not help looking bright in reply. Ellen was well pleased for her part that the third seat was empty. But Alice looked thoughtful sometimes as a gust of wind swept by, and once or twice went to the window.

After tea Alice took out her work, and Ellen put herself contentedly down on the rug, and sat leaning back against her. Silent for very contentment for a while, she sat looking gravely into the fire; while Alice's fingers drove a little steel hook through and through some purse silk in a mysterious fashion that no eye could be quick enough to follow, and with such skill and steadiness that the work grew fast under her hand.

"I had such a funny dream last night," said Ellen.

"Did you? What about?"

"It was pleasant too," said Ellen, twisting herself round to talk – "but very queer. I dreamed about that gentleman that was so kind to me on board the boat – you know? – I told you about him?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Well, I dreamed of seeing him somewhere, I don't know where, and he didn't look a bit like himself, only I knew who it was; and I thought I didn't like to speak to him for fear he wouldn't know me, but then I thought he did, and came up and took my hand, and seemed so glad to see me; and he asked me if I had been pious since he saw me."

Ellen stopped to laugh.

"And what did you tell him?"

"I told him yes. And then I thought he seemed so very pleased."

"Dreamers do not always keep close to the truth, it seems."

"I didn't," said Ellen. "But then I thought I had, in my dream."

"Had what? Kept close to the truth?"

"No, no; – been what he said."

"Dreams are queer things," said Alice.

"I have been far enough from being good to-day," said Ellen thoughtfully.

"How so, my dear?"

"I don't know, Miss Alice – because I never am good, I suppose."

"But what has been the matter to-day?"

"Why, those apples! I thought I would come here so early, and then when I found I must do all those baskets of apples first I was very ill-humoured; and Aunt Fortune saw I was, and said something that made me worse. And I tried as hard as I could to get through before dinner, and when I found I couldn't I said I wouldn't come to dinner, but she made me, and that vexed me more, and I wouldn't eat scarcely anything, and then when I got back to the apples again I sewed so hard that I ran the needle into my finger ever so far – see there! what a mark it left! – and Aunt Fortune said it served me right and she was glad of it, and that made me angry. I knew I was wrong afterwards, and I was very sorry. Isn't it strange, dear Alice, I should do so when I have resolved so hard I wouldn't?"

"Not very, my darling, as long as we have such evil hearts as ours are – it is strange they should be so evil."

"I told Aunt Fortune afterwards I was sorry, but she said 'actions speak louder than words, and words are cheap.' If she only wouldn't say that just as she does! it does worry me so."

"Patience!" said Alice, passing her hand over Ellen's hair as she sat looking sorrowfully up at her; "you must try not to give her occasion. Never mind what she says, and overcome evil with good."

"That is just what mamma said!" exclaimed Ellen, rising to throw her arms round Alice's neck, and kissing her with all the energy of love, gratitude, repentance, and sorrowful recollection.

"Oh, what do you think!" she said suddenly, her face changing again – "I got my letter last night!"

"Your letter!"

"Yes, the letter the old man brought – don't you know? And it was written on the ship, and there was only a little bit from mamma, and a little bit from papa, but so good! Papa says she is a great deal better, and he has no doubt he will bring her back in the spring or summer quite well again. Isn't that good?"

"Very good, dear Ellen. I am very glad for you."

"It was on my bed last night. I can't think how it got there – and don't care either, so long as I have got it. What are you making?"

"A purse," said Alice, laying it on the table for her inspection.

"It will be very pretty. Is the other end to be like this?"

"Yes, and these tassels to finish them off."

"Oh, that's beautiful!" said Ellen, laying them down to try the effect; "and these rings to fasten it with. Is it black?"

"No, dark green. I am making it for my brother John."

"A Christmas present!" exclaimed Ellen.

"I am afraid not; he will hardly be here by that time. It may do for New Year."

"How pleasant it must be to make Christmas and New Year presents!" said Ellen, after she had watched Alice's busy fingers for a few minutes. "I wish I could make something for somebody. Oh, I wonder if I couldn't make something for Mr. Van Brunt! Oh, I should like to very much!"

Alice smiled at Ellen's very wide-open eyes.

"What could you make for him?"