University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
SOMETHING OF MYSTERY.

It is with joy—sincere, heart-felt joy—that, like the
artist with his pencil, we are permitted to dip our pen in
the brightest colors, and give some pleasing relief to a
sombre picture. The great city—with its collected thousands,
of all grades, from the millionaire to the beggar—
has its bright as well as dark spots; and if the fallen wayfarer

is passed by on one side by the Priest, and on the
other by the Levite, the good Samaritan is almost certain
to make his appearance, with oil for the wounded body and
consolation for the wounded heart. Let us, whatever may
be our affliction, ever keep this truth in view: that God,
who sees the sparrow fall, will not always permit us to
suffer; and that the promise of salvation is to him who
shall endure to the end.

When consciousness returned to little Ellen, she found
herself lying upon a soft bed, surrounded by silken curtains;
and her first feeling was one of extreme surprise
and wonder. Where was she? and how came she there?
She thought it must be a dream; and she attempted to
rouse herself to learn the truth. In doing this, she discovered
that she was as weak as an infant; and that the
slight movement she made, caused her much pain in her
limbs and several parts of her body. With this came a
dim recollection of a whirling crowd of human beings,
horses, and vehicles, all mixed up in wild confusion, with a
strange kind of noise, like the tinkling of many bells heard
amid the roar of a waterfall. This was all she could remember;
and this seemed rather to perplex and confuse,
than give her any clue to the unravelling of the mystery.

“Ah! where am I?” murmured Ellen, at length, beginning
to grow alarmed.

Scarcely had she spoken, when a small, white hand
gently parted the silken curtains, and a beautiful face—
which, to the excited mind of little Ellen, appeared to be
that of an angel—looked in upon her; and a voice, as
sweetly melodious and touchingly plaintive as the tones of
an Eolian harp, said:

“Did you speak, dear child?”

Poor little Ellen was more astonished than ever, and
more than ever convinced that what she saw was a vision

and not a reality. What! such words of sweetness and
kindness, from a being so beautiful, to be addressed to her!
Impossible. And yet, if a delusion of the senses, it seemed
likely to be prolonged, with a wonderful semblance of the
real—for soft eyes were compassionately beaming upon
her; and the lips of that lovely face again parting, the
silver-toned words again came forth:

“Did you speak, dear child?”

“Where am I?” murmured Ellen, with her eyes fixed
upon the apparition; “and what beautiful being are you,
that seem to speak to me?”

“Ah! I was certain I heard your voice!” cried the
beautiful stranger; while a gleam of joy, like a ray of sunlight
upon a lily, rested upon her pale, lovely countenance.
“I have waited long, and prayed often, to have words of
conscious intelligence pass your lips—and at last my
prayer is answered.”

“Are you one of the angels my dear mother used to tell
me about?” inquired Ellen, simply—for as yet she knew
not whether to regard the being she saw as celestial or terrestrial.

“No, child,” answered the other, with a sweet but
melancholy smile, “I am no angel, but a poor mortal like
yourself.”

“Then tell me how I came here, and what it means!
for it all seems to me like a dream,” said Ellen, wonderingly.

“Have you no recollection of being in Chestnut street
on Christmas morning?” inquired the other.

“No, lady—since you say you'er not an angel—I don't
remember of ever having heard of Chestnut street before,”
answered the wounded child.

“Perhaps you never did hear the name; but have you

no recollection of being in a gay street, crowded with people,
horses, and vehicles?”

“Oh, yes, lady—I do remember that, since you mention
it—and I was so astonished at all I saw! But wasn't that
a dream?”

“No, dear child, that was a reality—an almost fatal
reality to you, as it proved. You were knocked down, run
over, and picked up for dead. But you are alive now, you
see; and so you must offer up thanks to God for having
preserved your life.”

For a few moments Ellen did not reply, but looked very
serious and thoughtful. Then, to the surprise of her fair
friend, she said:

“Dear lady, for all your kindness to me, who haven't
any friends, I want you to think me very grateful; but
(and the tears came into her eyes) may be I should have
been better off if I had died. It is wrong, may be, for me
to say so, but I can't help my thoughts;” and as she concluded,
her tears flowed freely.

“Indeed it is wrong for you to say so, dear child,” replied
the other, tenderly; “for God sent you a preserver,
and He does all things for the best. Come! come! you
must not weep—brighter days are in store for you—and in
me you shall henceforth have one friend at least. I know
something of your history, I think—for at times, for several
days, you have been delirious; and from what has
fallen from your lips, I judge you are a friendless orphan,
whom mankind has treated all too roughly.”

“But where am I now, dear lady? how came I here?
and who are you?” inquired Ellen, much astonished and
perplexed.

“A few words will explain all, dear child. But perhaps
we had better defer our conversation till you have gained

strength; you are weak now, and should rather sleep than
talk, or even think.”

“But, dear lady, unless you tell me all now, I shall not
be able to sleep for thinking.”

“I will let you judge your own case then. Do you think
it will injure you if we converse on the subject that most
interests you?”

“No, lady, I'm sure it will not.”

“Well, keep your mind calm, and let nothing excite
you. You must know, then, that on Christmas morning,
as I was passing along Chestnut street, in company with
a friend, I saw, among the crowd of human beings swaying
to and fro, a little face, so beautiful, and yet so thin,
pale, and sorrowful, that I found my gaze riveted there as
by some magic spell. A strange, unaccountable feeling
at the same time took possession of me; and I seemed to
know—though by what means, and for what purpose, I
cannot tell—that my destiny, and that of the sweet, lovely,
but seemingly heart-broken, little wayfarer, were intimately
connected.”

She paused a moment, apparently abstracted from her
narration by some curious reflections; and then, rather
thinking aloud than addressing her little companion, she
continued:

“It is certainly very strange that I should arrive at so
singular a conclusion, without the aid of a single reasoning
faculty—nay, with all the powers of reason arrayed
against it! By what wonderful process was that knowledge
of a something in the future conveyed to my soul with
the startling rapidity of a flash of lightning? Is it possible
that when two strange spirits meet, which are destined
to act materially on each other for good or evil, there is
an electric or magnetic emanation which telegraphs to one
or both the important truth? Or may it not rather be

that we catch up a fancy of our own, and believing that a
certain event is foreordained, so govern our actions afterward,
that we of ourselves bring to pass that which we had
thought fated? Ah! who knows? Life is a mystery!”

Again addressing the wondering Ellen, she continued:

“Well, as I have said, my attention was arrested and
riveted by a sweet, sad face among the moving crowd; and
I felt a strong inclination to spring forward and clasp the
poor and friendless little creature in my arms—for that she
was poor and friendless, could be seen at a single glance. I
restrained my desire, however, and passed the little wayfarer,
so closely that my garments brushed hers. I turned
to look after her; but a crowd had already filled up the
space between us, and I barely caught a glimpse of her
thin form edging its way amid the throng. I walked on a
few steps further, when something seemed to tell me that I
must turn back; and with a half intention of doing so, I had
already halted, much to my friend's surprise, when I heard
cries of alarm, and saw numbers hurrying to a certain spot
at no great distance. Why was it then my heart assured
me that something awful had happened to the little being
in whom I had just taken so deep an interest? I cannot
tell; but so it was; and like a mother flying to the rescue
of her child, I hurried to the excited group, already gathered
around the bloody and senseless form of the little
stranger. Not to prolong my story, dear child, I had you
conveyed hither—”

“Me?” interrupted Ellen, with a look of astonishment.

“Yes, my child, you. Why, do you not know that it is
of you I have been all this time speaking?”

“No, lady—I thought you meant some other little girl.
I didn't know as there was anything about me to interest
anybody, and particularly such a kind and beautiful lady as
you are.”

“God bless you, poor child!” exclaimed the other, fervently;
“you shall not always think so;” and bending
over, she kissed the little sufferer, with such affectionate
tenderness, that the latter was forced to give vent to her
feelings in a flood of tears. “Come! come!” she continued,
as if chiding herself—“I am acting a very imprudent part,
and against the orders of the Surgeon, who told me, if
your senses returned, I must be so careful not to agitate
you!”

“Don't go away yet!” said Ellen: “I want to talk
more: I know I'll not be any worse for it. How long have
I been here?”

“This is the ninth day.”

“The ninth day?” repeated Ellen, all amazement.
“Why, isn't this Christmas morning?”

“No, my dear, it is the eighth day from Christmas.”

“And have I been asleep all this time?”

“You have been all this time unconscious, or delirious.
But you must not think of it now; when you get better I
will tell you all about it.”

“Am I badly hurt?”

“So seriously, that we feared you would not recover.
There! I must stop talking with you; try and compose
yourself to sleep. How do you feel now?”

“I feel as if it wouldn't do me any harm to talk more—
but I'll do just as you say.”

“Yes, do—that is a good little girl. By-the-by, you may
tell me your name, if you please, so that I shall know what
to call you.”

“My name is Ellen Norbury.”

“How? Norbury?” exclaimed the other, starting and
changing color: “Norbury, did you say?”

“Yes, lady, that is my name—I hope it don't offend
you.”

“And what was your father's Christian name?”

“William.”

“Was he an Englishman by birth?”

“Yes, lady, I think he was—but he lived in Dublin when
I was born.”

“Indeed! What was his occupation?”

“He was an artist.”

“It must be the same!” mused the other. “Strange!”

“Did you know him?” inquired Ellen, not a little surprised
at the impression which the name of her father
seemed to produce on the other.

“I never saw him, my child; but you must ask me no
questions now; when you get stronger I will tell you more.
Meantime, I must enjoin upon you, to let no one else in
this house—neither my father nor the servants—hear you
mention the name of Norbury! Should my father, who is
a strange kind of man, chance to inquire your name, you
must on no account let him know it is Norbury! From
what you said, while delirious, I judge that both your
parents are dead?”

“Yes!” sighed Ellen.

“Did they die in this country?”

“My mother did—but my father died on the passage
over,” sobbed the other. “Oh! lady, if you please, don't
ask me any more questions about them now—it makes me
so sad to talk about them.”

“Only one more, Ellen,” returned the other, with a kind
of eager earnestness. “Did you ever hear either of your
parents mention the name of Clendennan?”

Ellen shuddered as she replied:

“Yes—I heard my father—once.”

“What did he say?” and the fair questioner fairly held
her breath for the answer.

“He said he hoped the curse of God would light upon
him!”

Instantly the features of the young lady grew deadly
pale; and stepping back, the curtains came together, shutting
her from the view of Ellen, who was thus left to ponder
upon a new mystery. After waiting some minutes, in
the vain expectation of being again addressed by her fair
protectress, she ventured to inquire if she were still present.
Immediately the curtains were gently parted again, and, to
the surprise of Ellen, another strange face appeared. It
was that of a woman turned the prime of life, who wore a
cap, and had a neat, tidy appearance, and whose countenance
had a sedate, though somewhat stern, expression.

“I am glad to find you rational, my child,” she said, in
a slow, dignified tone; “but it is not proper that you
should talk more at present. Is there any thing I can do
for you?”

“No, ma'am, I thank you,” answered Ellen. “I was
asking if the lady, who was just now with me, were still
here.”

“No, child, Miss Rosalind has just left the apartment,
and I have come to take her place.”

“It is very kind of you, ma'am,” said Ellen. “Are you
her mother?”

“No, child—her mother has been dead some years. I am
her Governess.”

“Will you please to tell me her last name?”

“It is Clendennan.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed little Ellen, in a tone of so much
surprise, that Mrs. Wyndham inquired if she were previously
acquainted with the name.

“I have heard it mentioned before,” said Ellen, with as
much indifference as she could assume—for the recollection
of her conversation with Miss Rosalind, caused her no little

agitation, which she effectually strove to conceal from the
Governess.

“Very likely,” was the rejoinder, “for it is a noble
name, and ranks among the proudest of the chivalrous sons
of Ireland.”

“Has Mr. Clendennan been long in this country?” inquired
Ellen.

“Some five years, my child,” answered Mrs. Wyndham.
“But you must ask no more questions now—it will do you
harm to talk. Here,” she continued, retiring for a minute,
and returning with some liquid in a tea-spoon—“here, take
this, and compose yourself to sleep.”

Ellen did as directed; and in a few minutes, notwithstanding
her recent nervous agitation, she felt a soothing,
drowsy influence begin to steal over her; and presently
her troubled spirit began to glide away from the cares of
mortality, and rejoice in the gorgeous scenes of the fairy
realm of dreams.