The Wide, Wide World

Ellen was sorry she had asked, and both children were silent for a minute.

"I'll tell you what!" said little Ellen, jumping up, "mamma said we mustn't sit up too long talking, so I'll run and get my things and bring 'em here, and we can undress together; won't that be a nice way?"

CHAPTER XXVIII

He that loses anything, and gets wisdom by it, is a gainer by the loss.

    – L'Estrange.

Left alone in the strange room with the flickering fire, how quickly Ellen's thoughts left Ventnor and flew over the sea. They often travelled that road, it is true, but now perhaps the very home look of everything, where yet she was not at home, might have sent them. There was a bitter twinge or two, and for a minute Ellen's head drooped. "To-morrow will be Christmas eve – last Christmas eve – oh, mamma!"

Little Ellen Chauncey soon came back, and sitting down beside her on the foot of the bed, began the business of undressing.

"Don't you love Christmas time?" said she. "I think it's the pleasantest in all the year; we always have a house full of people, and such fine times. But then in summer I think that's the pleasantest. I s'pose they're all pleasant. Do you hang up your stocking?"

"No," said Ellen.

"Don't you? Why, I always did ever since I can remember. I used to think, when I was a little girl, you know," said she, laughing, "I used to think that Santa Claus came down the chimney, and I used to hang up my stocking as near the fireplace as I could; but I know better than that now; I don't care where I hang it. You know who Santa Claus is, don't you?"

"He's nobody," said Ellen.

"Oh yes, he is; he's a great many people; he's whoever gives you anything. My Santa Claus is mamma, and grandpapa, and grandmamma, and Aunt Sophia, and Aunt Matilda; and I thought I should have had Uncle George too this Christmas, but he couldn't come. Uncle Howard never gives me anything. I am sorry Uncle George couldn't come; I like him the best of all my uncles."

"I never had anybody but mamma to give me presents," said Ellen, "and she never gave me much more at Christmas than at other times."

"I used to have presents from mamma and grandpapa too, both Christmas and New Year; but now I have grown so old, mamma only gives me something Christmas and grandpapa only New Year. It would be too much, you know, for me to have both when my presents are so big. I don't believe a stocking would hold 'em much longer. But oh! we've got such a fine plan in our heads," said little Ellen, lowering her voice and speaking with open eyes and great energy; "we are going to make presents this year – we children. Won't it be fine? We are going to make what we like for anybody we choose, and let nobody know anything about it; and then New Year's morning, you know, when the things are all under the napkins, we will give ours to somebody to put where they belong, and nobody will know anything about them till they see them there. Won't it be fine? I'm so glad you are here, for I want you to tell me what I shall make."

"Who is it for?" said Ellen.

"Oh, mamma; you know I can't make for everybody, so I think I had rather it should be for mamma. I thought of making her a needle-book with white backs, and getting Gilbert Gillespie to paint them – he can paint beautifully – and having her name and something else written very nicely inside. How do you think that would do?"

"I should think it would do very nicely," said Ellen, "very nicely indeed."

"I wish Uncle George was at home, though, to write it for me; he writes so beautifully; I can't do it well enough."

"I am afraid I can't either," said Ellen. "Perhaps somebody else can."

"I don't know who. Aunt Sophia scribbles and scratches, and besides, I don't want her to know anything about it. But there's another thing I don't know how to fix, and that's the edges of the leaves – the leaves for the needles; they must be fixed somehow."

"I can show you how to do that," said Ellen, brightening. "Mamma had a needle book that was given to her that had the edges beautifully fixed; and I wanted to know how it was done, and she showed me. I'll show you that. It takes a good while, but that's no matter."

"Oh, thank you; how nice that is! Oh no, that's no matter. And then it will do very well, won't it? Now, if I can only catch Gilbert in a good-humour – he isn't my cousin, he's Marianne's cousin – that big boy you saw downstairs – he's so big he won't have anything to say to me sometimes – but I guess I'll get him to do this. Don't you want to make something for somebody?"

Ellen had had one or two feverish thoughts on this subject since the beginning of the conversation; but she only said —

"It's no matter – you know I haven't got anything here; and besides, I shall not be here till New Year."

"Not here till New Year! yes, you shall," said little Ellen, throwing herself upon her neck; "indeed you aren't going away before that. I know you aren't; I heard grandmamma and Aunt Sophia talking about it. Say you will stay here till New Year – do."

"I should like to very much indeed," said Ellen, "if Alice does."

In the midst of half-a-dozen kisses with which her little companion rewarded this speech, somebody close by said pleasantly —

"What time of night do you suppose it is?"

The girls started; there was Mrs. Chauncey.

"Oh, mamma!" exclaimed her little daughter, springing to her feet, "I hope you haven't heard what we have been talking about?"

"Not a word," said Mrs. Chauncey, smiling; "but as to-morrow will be long enough to talk in, hadn't you better go to bed now?"

Her daughter obeyed her immediately, after one more hug to Ellen, and telling her she was so glad she had come. Mrs. Chauncey stayed to see Ellen in bed, and press one kind motherly kiss upon her face, so tenderly that Ellen's eyes were moistened as she withdrew. But in her dreams that night the rosy sweet face, blue eyes, and little plump figure of Ellen Chauncey played the greatest part.

She slept till Alice was obliged to waken her the next morning, and then got up with her head in a charming confusion of pleasures past and pleasures to come – things known and unknown to be made for everybody's New Year presents – linen collars and painted needle-books; and no sooner was breakfast over than she was showing and explaining to Ellen Chauncey a particularly splendid and mysterious way of embroidering the edges of needle-book leaves. Deep in this they were still an hour afterwards, and in the comparative merits of purple and rose-colour, when a little hubbub arose at the other end of the room on the arrival of a new-comer. Ellen Chauncey looked up from her work, then dropped it, exclaiming, "There she is! now for the bag!" and pulled Ellen along with her towards the party. A young lady was in the midst of it, talking so fast that she had not time to take off her cloak and bonnet. As her eye met Ellen's, however, she came to a sudden pause. It was Margaret Dunscombe. Ellen's face certainly showed no pleasure; Margaret's darkened with a very disagreeable surprise.

"My goodness, Ellen Montgomery, how on earth did you get here?" said Margaret.

"Do you know her?" asked one of the girls, as the two Ellens went off after "Aunt Sophia."

"Do I know her? Yes, just enough – exactly. How did she get here?"

"Miss Humphreys brought her."

"Who's Miss Humphreys?"

"Hush!" said Marianne, lowering her tone; "that's her brother in the window."

"Who's brother? – hers or Miss Humphreys'?"

"Miss Humphreys'. Did you never see her? She is here, or has been here, a great deal of the time. Grandma calls her her fourth daughter, and she is just as much at home as if she was; and she brought her here."

"And she's at home too, I suppose. Well, it's no business of mine."

"What do you know of her?"

"Oh, enough – that's just it – don't want to know any more."

"Well, you needn't; but what's the matter with her?"

"Oh, I don't know; I'll tell you some other time; she's a conceited little piece. We had the care of her coming up the river, that's how I come to know about her. Ma said it was the last child she would be bothered with in that way."

Presently the two girls came back, bringing word to clear the table, for Aunt Sophia was coming with the moroccos. As soon as she came Ellen Chauncey sprang to her neck and whispered an earnest question. "Certainly!" Aunt Sophia said, as she poured out the contents of the bag; and her little niece delightedly told Ellen she was to have her share as well as the rest.

The table was now strewn with pieces of morocco of all sizes and colours, which were hastily turned over and examined with eager hands and sparkling eyes. Some were mere scraps, to be sure, but others showed a breadth and length of beauty which was declared to be "first-rate" and "fine," and one beautiful large piece of blue morocco in particular was made up in imagination by two or three of the party in as many different ways. Marianne wanted it for a book-cover, Margaret declared she could make a lovely reticule with it, and Ellen could not help thinking it would make a very pretty needle-box, such a one as she had seen in the possession of one of the girls, and longed to make for Alice.

"Well, what's to be done now?" said Miss Sophia, "or am I not to know?"

"Oh, you're not to know – you're not to know, Aunt Sophia," cried the girls; "you mustn't ask."