Other days come back on meWith recollected music.
—Byron.
Though nothing could be smoother than the general course of her life, Ellen's principles were still now and then severely tried.
Of all in the house, next to Mr. Lindsay, she liked the company of the old housekeeper best. She was a simple-minded Christian, a most benevolent and kind-hearted, and withal sensible and respectable, person, devotedly attached to the family, and very fond of Ellen in particular. Ellen loved, when she could, to get alone with her, and hear her talk of her mother's young days; and she loved furthermore, and almost as much, to talk to Mrs. Allen of her own. Ellen could to no one else lisp a word on the subject; and without dwelling directly on those that she loved, she delighted to tell over to an interested listener the things she had done, seen, and felt, with them.
"I wish that child was a little more like other people," said Lady Keith one evening in the latter end of the winter.
"Humph!" said Mr. Lindsay, "I don't remember at this moment any one that I think she could resemble without losing more than she gained."
"Oh, it's of no use to talk to you about Ellen, brother! You can take up things fast enough when you find them out, but you never will see with other people's eyes."
"What do your eyes see, Catherine?"
"She is altogether too childish for her years; she is really a baby."
"I don't know," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling; "you should ask M. Muller about that. He was holding forth to me for a quarter of an hour the other day, and could not stint in her praises. She will go on, he says, just as fast as he pleases to take her."
"Oh yes, in intelligence and so on, I know she is not wanting; that is not what I mean."
"She is perfectly ladylike always," said Mrs. Lindsay.
"Yes, I know that, and perfectly childlike too."
"I like that," said Mr. Lindsay; "I have no fancy for your grown-up little girls."
"Well!" said Lady Keith in despair, "you may like it; but I tell you she is too much of a child nevertheless in other ways. She hasn't an idea of a thousand things. It was only the other day she was setting out to go, at mid-day, through the streets with a basket on her arm, with some of that fruit for M. Muller, I believe."
"If she has any fault," said Mr. Lindsay, "it is want of pride; but I don't know, I can't say I wish she had more of it."
"Oh no, of course! I suppose not. And it doesn't take anything at all to make the tears come in her eyes; the other day I didn't know whether to laugh or be vexed at the way she went on with a kitten for half-an-hour or more. I wish you had seen her! I am not sure she didn't cry over that. Now I suppose the next thing, brother, you will go and make her a present of one."
"If you have no heavier charges to bring," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling, "I'll take breath and think about it."
"But she isn't like anybody else; she don't care for young companions; she don't seem to fancy any one out of the family unless it is old Mrs. Allen, and she is absurd about her. You know she is not very well lately, and Ellen goes to see her I know every day regularly; and there are the Gordons and Carpenters and Murrays and Mackintoshes, she sees them continually, but Idon't think she takes a great deal of pleasure in their company. The fact is, she is too sober."
"She has as sweet a smile as I ever saw," said Mr. Lindsay, "and as hearty a laugh, when she does laugh; she is none of your gigglers."
"But when she does laugh," said Lady Keith, "it is not when other people do. I think she is generally grave when there is most merriment around her."
"I love to hear her laugh," said Mrs. Lindsay; "it is in such a low sweet tone, and seems to come so from the very spring of enjoyment. Yet I must say I think Catherine is half right."
"With half an advocate," said Lady Keith, "I shall not effect much."
Mr. Lindsay uttered a low whistle. At this moment the door opened, and Ellen came gravely in, with a book in her hand.
"Come here, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay, holding out his hand; "here's your aunt says you don't like anybody. How is it? are you of an unsociable disposition?"
Ellen's smile would have been a sufficient apology to him for a much graver fault.
"Anybody out of the house, I meant," said Lady Keith.
"Speak, Ellen, and clear yourself," said Mr. Lindsay.
"I like some people," said Ellen, smiling; "I don't think I like a great many peopleverymuch."
"But you don't like young people," said Lady Keith; "that is what I complain of, and it's unnatural. Now there's the other day, when you went to ride with Miss Gordon and her brother, and Miss MacPherson and her brother, I heard you say you were not sorry to get home. Now where will you find pleasanter young people?"
"Why don't you like them, Ellen?" said Mrs. Lindsay.
"I do like them, ma'am, tolerably."
"What does 'tolerably' mean?"
"I should have liked my ride better the other day," said Ellen, "if they had talked about sensible things."
"Nonsense!" said Lady Keith. "Society cannot be made up of M. Mullers."
"What did they talk about, Ellen?" said Mr. Lindsay, who seemed amused.
"About partners in dancing, at least the ladies did, and dresses, and different gentlemen, and what this one said and the other one said; it wasn't very amusing to me."
Mr. Lindsay laughed. "And the gentlemen, Ellen, how did you like them?"
"I didn't like them particularly, sir."
"What have you againstthem, Ellen?"
"I don't wish to say anything against them, Aunt Keith."
"Come, come—speak out."
"I didn't like their talking, sir, any better than the ladies'; and besides that, I don't think they were very polite."
"Why not?" said Mr. Lindsay, highly amused.
"I don't think it was very polite," said Ellen, "for them to sit still on their horses when I went out, and let Brocklesby help me to mount. They took me up at M. Muller's, you know, sir; M. Muller had been obliged to go out and leave me."
Mr. Lindsay threw a glance at his sister which she rather resented.
"And pray what do you expect, Ellen?" said she. "You are a mere child; do you think you ought to be treated as a woman?"
"I don't wish to be treated as anything but a child, Aunt Keith."
But Ellen remembered well one day at home when John had been before the door on horseback, and she had run out to give him a message, his instantly dismounting to hear it. "And I was more a child then," she thought, "and he wasn't a stranger."
"Whomdoyou like, Ellen?" inquired Mr. Lindsay, who looked extremely satisfied with the result of the examination.
"I like M. Muller, sir."
"Nobody else?"
"Mrs. Allen."
"There!" exclaimed Lady Keith.
"Have you come from her room just now?"
"Yes, sir."
"What's your fancy for going there?"
"I like to hear her talk, sir, and to read to her; it gives her a great deal of pleasure; and I like to talk to her."
"What do you talk about?"
"She talks to me about my mother——"
"And you?"
"I like to talk to her about old times," said Ellen, changing colour.
"Profitable conversation!" said Mrs. Lindsay.
"You will not go to her room any more, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay.
In great dismay at what Mrs. Allen would think, Ellen began a remonstrance. But only one word was uttered; Mr. Lindsay's hand was upon her lips. He next took the book she still held.
"Is this what you have been reading to her?"
Ellen bowed in answer.
"Who wrote all this?"
Before she could speak he had turned to the front leaf and read, "To my little sister." He quietly put the book in his pocket; and Ellen as quietly left the room.
"I am glad you have said that," said Lady Keith. "You are quick enough when you see anything for yourself, but you never will believe other people."
"There is nothing wrong here," said Mr. Lindsay, "only I will not have her going back to those old recollections she is so fond of. I wish I could make her drink Lethe!"
"What is the book?" said Mrs. Lindsay.
"I hardly know," said he, turning it over, "except it is from that person that seems to have obtained such an ascendency over her—it is full of his notes—it is a religious work."
"She reads a great deal too much of that sort of thing," said Mrs. Lindsay. "I wish you would contrive to put a stop to it. You can do it better than any one else; she is very fond of you."
That was not a good argument. Mr. Lindsay was silent; his thoughts went back to the conversation held that evening in Ellen's room, and to certain other things; and perhaps he was thinking that if religion had much to do with making her what she was, it was a tree that bore good fruits.
"I think," said Lady Keith, "that is one reason why she takes so little to the young people she sees. I have seen her sit perfectly grave when they were all laughing and talking around her—it really looks singular—I don't like it—I presume she would have thought it wicked to laugh with them. And the other night, I missed her from the younger part of the company, where she should have been, and there she was in the other room with M. Muller and somebody else, gravely listening to their conversation!"
"I saw her," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling, "and she looked anything but dull or sober; I would rather have her gravity, after all, Catherine, than anybody else's merriment, I know."
"I wish she had never been detained in America after the time when she should have come to us," said Mrs. Lindsay.
"I wish the woman had what she deserves that kept back the letters," said Mr. Lindsay.
"Yes, indeed," said his sister, "and I have been in continual fear of a visit from that very person that you say gave Ellen the book."
"He isn't here!" said Mr. Lindsay.
"I don't know where he is; but hewason this side of the water at the time Ellen came on; so she told me."
"I wish he was in Egypt!"
"I don't intend he shall see her if he comes," said Lady Keith, "if I can possibly prevent it. I gave Porterfield orders, if any one asked for her, to tell me immediately, and not her upon any account; but nobody has come hitherto, and I am in hopes none will."
Mr. Lindsay rose and walked up and down the room with folded arms in a very thoughtful style.
Ellen with some difficulty bore herself as usual throughout the next day and evening, though constantly on the rack to get possession of her book again. It was not spoken of nor hinted at. When another morning came she could stand it no longer; she went soon after breakfast into Mr. Lindsay's study, where he was writing. Ellen came behind him, and laying both her arms over his shoulders, said in his ear—
"Will you let me have my book again, father?"
A kiss was her only answer. Ellen waited.
"Go to the book-case," said Mr. Lindsay presently, "or to the book-store, and choose out anything you like, Ellen, instead."
"I wouldn't exchange it for all that is in them!" she answered with some warmth, and with the husky feeling coming in her throat. Mr. Lindsay said nothing.
"At any rate," whispered Ellen after a minute, "you will not destroy it, or do anything to it?—you will take care of it, and let me have it again, won't you, sir?"
"I will try to take care of you, my daughter."
Again Ellen paused; and then came round in front of him to plead to more purpose.
"I will do anything in the world for you, sir," she said earnestly, "if you will give me my book again."
"You must do anything in the world for me," said he, smiling and pinching her cheek, "without that."
"But it is mine!" Ellen ventured to urge, though trembling.
"Come, come!" said Mr. Lindsay, his tone changing; "and you are mine, you must understand."
Ellen stood silent, struggling between the alternate surgings of passion and checks of prudence and conscience. But at last the wave rolled too high and broke. Clasping her hands to her face, she exclaimed, not indeed violently, but with sufficient energy of expression, "Oh, it's not right! it's not right!"
"Go to your room and consider of that," said Mr. Lindsay. "I do not wish to see you again to-day, Ellen."
Ellen was wretched. Not for grief at her loss merely; that she could have borne; that had not even the greatest share in herdistress; she was at war with herself. Her mind was in a perfect turmoil. She had been a passionate child in earlier days; under religion's happy reign that had long ceased to be true of her; it was only very rarely that she or those around her were led to remember or suspect that it had once been the case. She was surprised and half-frightened at herself now, to find the strength of the old temper suddenly roused. She was utterly and exceedingly out of humour with Mr. Lindsay, and consequently with everybody and everything else; consequently conscience would not give her a moment's peace; consequently that day was a long and bitter fight betwixt right and wrong. Duties were neglected, because she could not give her mind to them; then they crowded upon her notice at undue times; all was miserable confusion. In vain she would try to reason and school herself into right feeling; at one thought of her lost treasure passion would come flooding up and drown all her reasonings and endeavours. She grew absolutely weary.
But the day passed and the night came, and she went to bed without being able to make up her mind; and she arose in the morning to renew the battle.
"How long is this miserable condition to last!" she said to herself. "'Till you can entirely give up your feeling of resentment, and apologise to Mr. Lindsay," said conscience. "Apologise! but I haven't done wrong." "Yes, you have," said conscience; "you spoke improperly; he is justly displeased; and you must make an apology before there can be any peace." "But I said the truth—it isnotright—it is not right! it is wrong; and am I to go and make an apology? I can't do it." "Yes, for the wrong you have done," said conscience, "that is all your concern. And he has a right to do what he pleases with you and yours, and he may have his own reasons for what he has done; and he loves you very much, and you ought not to let him remain displeased with you one moment longer than you can help—he is in the place of a father to you, and you owe him a child's duty."
But pride and passion still fought against reason and conscience, and Ellen was miserable. The dressing-bell rang.
"There, I shall have to go down to breakfast directly, and they will see how I look, they will see I am angry and ill-humoured. Well, Ioughtto be angry. But what will they think then of my religion? is my rushlight burning bright? am I honouring Christ now? isthisthe way to make His name and His truth lovely in their eyes? Oh, shame! shame! I have enough to humble myself for. And all yesterday, at any rate, they know I was angry."
Ellen threw herself upon her knees; and when she rose upthe spirit of pride was entirely broken, and resentment had died with self-justification.
The breakfast-bell rang before she was quite ready. She was afraid she could not see Mr. Lindsay until he should be at the table. "But it shall make no difference," she said to herself, "they know I have offended him, it is right they should hear what I have to say."
They were all at the table. But it made no difference. Ellen went straight to Mr. Lindsay, and laying one hand timidly in his, and the other on his shoulder, she at once humbly and frankly confessed that she had spoken as she ought not the day before, and that she was very sorry she had displeased him, and begged his forgiveness. It was instantly granted.
"You are a good child, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay, as he fondly embraced her.
"Oh no, sir! don't call me so, I am everything in the world but that."
"Then all the rest of the world are good children. Why didn't you come to me before?"
"Because I couldn't, sir; I felt wrong all day yesterday."
Mr. Lindsay laughed and kissed her, and bade her sit down and eat her breakfast.
It was about a month after this that he made her a present of a beautiful little watch. Ellen's first look was of great delight; the second was one of curious doubtful expression, directed to his face, half tendering the watch back to him as she saw that he understood her.
"Why," said he, smiling, "do you mean to say you would rather have that than this?"
"A great deal!"
"No," said he, hanging the watch round her neck, "you shall not have it; but you may make your mind easy, for I have it safe and it shall come back to you again some time or other."
With this promise Ellen was obliged to be satisfied.
The summer passed in the enjoyment of all that wealth, of purse and of affection both, could bestow upon their darling. Early in the season the family returned to "The Braes." Ellen liked it there much better than in the city; there was more that reminded her of old times. The sky and the land, though different from those she best loved, were yet but another expression of nature's face; it was the same face still; and on many a sunbeam Ellen travelled across the Atlantic.[1]She was sorry to lose M. Muller, but shecould not have kept him in Edinburgh; he quitted Scotland about that time.
[1]"Then by a sunbeam I will climb to thee."—George Herbert.
[1]"Then by a sunbeam I will climb to thee."—George Herbert.
Other masters attended her in the country, or she went to Edinburgh to attend them. Mr. Lindsay liked that very well; he was often there himself, and after her lesson he loved to have her with him in the library and at dinner and during the drive home. Ellen liked it because it was so pleasant to him; and besides, there was a variety about it, and the drives were always her delight, and she chose his company at any time rather than that of her aunt and grandmother. So, many a happy day that summer had she and Mr. Lindsay together; and many an odd pleasure in the course of them did he find or make for her. Sometimes it was a new book, sometimes a new sight, sometimes a new trinket. According to his promise, he had purchased her a fine horse; and almost daily Ellen was upon his back, and with Mr. Lindsay in the course of the summer scoured the country far and near. Every scene of any historic interest within a good distance of "The Braes" was visited, and some of them again and again. Pleasures of all kinds were at Ellen's disposal; and to her father and grandmother she was truly the light of their eyes.
And Ellen was happy; but it was not all these things, nor even her affection for Mr. Lindsay, that made her so. He saw her calm and sunshiny face and busy, happy demeanour, and fancied, though he sometimes had doubts about it, that she did not trouble herself much with old recollections, or would in time get over them. It was so. Ellen never forgot; and sometimes when she seemed busiest and happiest, it was the thought of an absent and distant friend that was nerving her energies and giving colour to her cheeks. Still, as at first, it was in her hour alone that Ellen laid down care and took up submission; it was that calmed her brow and brightened her smile. And though now and then she shed bitter tears, and repeated her despairing exclamation, "Well! I will see him in heaven!" in general she lived on hope, and kept at the bottom of her heart some of her old feeling of confidence.
Perhaps her brow grew somewhat meeker and her smile less bright as the year rolled on. Months flew by, and brought her no letters. Ellen marvelled and sorrowed in vain. One day, mourning over it to Mrs. Allen, the good housekeeper asked her if her friends knew her address? Ellen at first said, "to be sure," but after a few minutes' reflection was obliged to confess that she was not certain about it. It would have been just like Mr. Humphreys to lose sight entirely of such a matter, and very natural for her, in her grief and confusion of mind and inexperience, to be equally forgetful. She wrote immediately to Mr. Humphreys and supplied the defect; and hope brightened again.Once before she had written, on the occasion of the refunding her expenses. Mr. Lindsay and his mother were very prompt to do this, though Ellen could not tell what the exact amount might be; they took care to be on the safe side, and sent more than enough. Ellen's mind had changed since she came to Scotland; she was sorry to have the money go; she understood the feeling with which it was sent, and it hurt her.
Two or three months after the date of her last letter, she received at length one from Mr. Humphreys—a long, very kind, and very wise one. She lived upon it for a good while. Mr. Lindsay's bills were returned. Mr. Humphreys declined utterly to accept them, telling Ellen that he looked upon her as his own child up to the time that her friends took her out of his hands, and that he owed her more than she owed him. Ellen gave the money—she dared not give the whole message—to Mr. Lindsay. The bills were instantly and haughtily re-enclosed and sent back to America.
Still nothing was heard from Mr. John. Ellen wondered, waited, wept; sadly quieted herself into submission, and as time went on, clung faster and faster to her Bible and the refuge she found there.
Hon.—Why didn't you show him up, blockhead?Butler.—Show him up, sir? With all my heart, sir,Up or down, all's one to me.
Hon.—Why didn't you show him up, blockhead?
Butler.—Show him up, sir? With all my heart, sir,Up or down, all's one to me.
—Good-natured Man.
One evening, it was New Year's eve, a large party was expected at Mr. Lindsay's. Ellen was not of an age to go abroad to parties, but at home her father and grandmother never could bear to do without her when they had company. Generally Ellen liked it very much; not called upon to take any active part herself, she had leisure to observe and enjoy in quiet; and often heard music, and often by Mr. Lindsay's side listened to conversation, in which she took great pleasure. To-night, however, it happened that Ellen's thoughts were running on other things; and Mrs. Lindsay's woman, who had come in to dress her, was not at all satisfied with her grave looks and the little concern she seemed to take in what was going on.
"I wish, Miss Ellen, you'd please hold your head up, and look somewhere; I don't know when I'll get your hair done if you keep it down so."
"Oh, Mason, I think that'll do; it looks very well; you needn't do anything more."
"I beg your pardon, Miss Ellen, but you know it's your grandmother that must be satisfied, and she will have it just so; there, now that's going to look lovely; but indeed, Miss Ellen, she won't be pleased if you carry such a soberish face downstairs, and what will the master say! Most young ladies would be as bright as a bee at being going to see so many people, and indeed it's what you should."
"I had rather see one or two persons than one or two hundred," said Ellen, speaking half to herself and half to Mrs. Mason.
"Well, for pity's sake, Miss Ellen, dear, if you can, don't look as if it was a funeral it was. There! 'tain't much trouble to fix you, anyhow; if you'd only care a little more about it, it would be a blessing. Stop till I fix this lace. The master will call you his white rose-bud to-night, sure enough."
"That's nothing new," said Ellen, half smiling.
Mason left her; and feeling the want of something to raise her spirits, Ellen sorrowfully went to her Bible, and slowly turning it over, looked along its pages to catch a sight of something cheering before she went downstairs.
"This God is our God for ever and ever; He will be our guide even unto death."
"Isn't that enough?" thought Ellen, as her eyes filled in answer. "It ought to be, John would say it was; oh! where is he?"
She went on turning leaf after leaf.
"O Lord of Hosts, blessed is the man that trusteth in thee!"
"That is true surely," she thought. "And I do trust in Him; I am blessed; I am happy, come what may. He will let nothing come to those that trust in Him but what is good for them; if He is my God, I have enough to make me happy; I ought to be happy; I will be happy; I will trust Him, and take what He gives me; and try to leave, as John used to tell me, my affairs in His hand."
For a minute tears flowed; then they were wiped away; and the smile she gave Mr. Lindsay when she met him in the hall was not less bright than usual.
The company were gathered, but it was still early in the evening, when a gentleman came who declined to enter the drawing-room, and asked for Miss Lindsay.
"Miss Lindsay is engaged."
"An' what for suld ye say sae, Mr. Porterfield?" cried the voice of the housekeeper, who was passing in the hall, "when ye ken as weel as I do that Miss Ellen——"
The butler stopped her with saying something about "my lady," and repeated his answer to the gentleman.
The latter wrote a word or two on a card which he drew from his pocket, and desired him to carry it to Miss Ellen. He carried it to Lady Keith.
"What sort of a person, Porterfield?" said Lady Keith, crumpling the paper in her fingers, and withdrawing a little from the company.
"Uncommon fine gentleman, my lady," Porterfield answered, in a low tone.
"A gentleman?" said Lady Keith inquiringly.
"Certain, my lady! and as up and down spoken as if he was a prince of the blood; he's somebody that is not accustomed to be said 'no' to, for sure."
Lady Keith hesitated. Recollecting, however, that she had just left Ellen safe in the music-room, she made up her mind, and desired Porterfield to show the stranger in. As he entered, unannounced, her eyes unwillingly verified the butler's judgment; and to the inquiry whether he might see Miss Lindsay she answered very politely, though with regrets, that Miss Lindsay was engaged.
"May I be pardoned for asking," said the stranger, with the slightest possible approach to a smile, "whether that decision is imperative? I leave Scotland to-morrow—my reasons for wishing to see Miss Lindsay this evening are urgent."
Lady Keith could hardly believe her ears, or command her countenance to keep company with her expressions of "sorrow that it was impossible—Miss Lindsay could not have the pleasure that evening."
"May I beg then to know at what hour I may hope to see her to-morrow?"
Hastily resolving that Ellen should on the morrow accept a long-given invitation, Lady Keith answered that she would not be in town—she would leave Edinburgh at an early hour.
The stranger bowed and withdrew; that was all the bystanders saw. But Lady Keith, who had winced under an eye that she could not help fancying read her too well, saw that in his parting look which made her uneasy: beckoning a servant who stood near, she ordered him to wait upon that gentleman to the door.
The man obeyed; but the stranger did not take his cloak, and made no motion to go.
"No, sir! not that way," he said sternly, as the servant laid his hand on the lock; "show me to Miss Lindsay!"
"Miss Ellen?" said the man doubtfully, coming back, andthinking from the gentleman's manner that he must have misunderstood Lady Keith; "where is Miss Ellen, Arthur?"
The person addressed threw his head back towards the door he had just come from on the other side of the hall.
"This way, sir, if you please; what name, sir?"
"No name—stand back!" said the stranger, as he entered.
There were a number of people gathered round a lady who was at the piano singing. Ellen was there in the midst of them. The gentleman advanced quietly to the edge of the group and stood there without being noticed; Ellen's eyes were bent on the floor. The expression of her face touched and pleased him greatly; it was precisely what he wished to see. Without having the least shadow of sorrow upon it, there was in all its lines that singular mixture of gravity and sweetness that is never seen but where religion and discipline have done their work well; the writing of the wisdom that looks soberly, and the love that looks kindly, on all things. He was not sure at first whether she were intently listening to the music or whether her mind was upon something far different and far away; he thought the latter. He was right. Ellen at the moment had escaped from the company and the noisy sounds of the performer at her side; and while her eye was curiously tracing out the pattern of the carpet, her mind was resting itself in one of the verses she had been reading that same evening. Suddenly, and as it seemed from no connection with anything in or out of her thoughts, there came to her mind the image of John as she had first seen him that first evening she ever saw him at Carra-carra, when she looked up from the boiling chocolate and espied him standing in an attitude of waiting near the door. Ellen at first wondered how that thought should have come into her head just then; the next moment, from a sudden impulse, she raised her eyes to search for the cause, and saw John's smile.
It would not be easy to describe the change in Ellen's face. Lightning makes as quick and as brilliant an illumination, but lightning does not stay. With a spring she reached him, and seizing both his hands drew him out of the door near which they were standing; and as soon as they were hidden from view threw herself into his arms in an agony of joy. Before, however, either of them could say a word, she had caught his hand again, and led him back along the hall to the private staircase; she mounted it rapidly toher room; and there again she threw herself into his arms, exclaiming, "Oh, John! my dear John! my dear brother!"
But neither smiles nor words would do for the overcharged heart. The tide of joy ran too strong, and too much swelledfrom the open sources of love and memory to keep any bounds. And it kept none. Ellen sat down and, bowing her head on the arm of the sofa, wept with all the vehement passion of her childhood, quivering from head to foot with convulsive sobs. John might guess from the outpouring how much her heart had been secretly gathering for months past. For a little while he walked up and down the room; but this excessive agitation he was not willing should continue. He said nothing; sitting down beside Ellen on the sofa, he quietly possessed himself of one of her hands; and when in her excitement the hand struggled to get away again, it was not permitted. Ellen understood that very well and immediately checked herself. Better than words, the calm firm grasp of his hand quieted her. Her sobbing stilled; she turned from the arm of the sofa, and leaning her head upon him took his hand in both hers and pressed it to her lips as if she were half beside herself. But that was not permitted to last either, for his hand quickly imprisoned hers again. There was silence still. Ellen could not look up yet, and neither seemed very forward to speak; she sat gradually quieting down into fulness of happiness.
"I thought you never would come, John," at length Ellen half whispered, half said.
"And I cannot stay now. I must leave you to-morrow, Ellie."
Ellen started up and looked up now.
"Leave me! For how long? Where are you going?"
"Home."
"To America?" Ellen's heart died within her. Wasthisthe end of all her hopes? did her confidence endhere? She shed no tears now. He could see that she grew absolutely still from intense feeling.
"What's the matter, Ellie?" said the low gentle tones she so well remembered; "I am leaving you but for a time. Imustgo home now, but if I live you will see me again."
"Oh, I wish I was going with you!" Ellen exclaimed, bursting into tears.
"My dear Ellie!" said her brother in an altered voice, drawing her again to his arms, "you cannot wish it more than I."
"I never thought you would leave me here, John."
"Neither would I, if I could help it; neither will I a minute longer than I can help; but we must both wait, my own Ellie. Do not cry so, for my sake!"
"Wait? till when?" said Ellen, not a little reassured.
"I have no power now to remove you from your legal guardians, and you have no right to choose for yourself."
"And when shall I?"
"In a few years."
"A few years! But in the meantime, John, what shall I do without you? If I could see you once in a while, but there is no one here, not a single one to help me to keep right; no one talks to me as you used to; and I am all the while afraid I shall go wrong in something; what shall I do?"
"What the weak must always do, Ellie—seek for strength where it may be had."
"And so I do, John," said Ellen, weeping; "but I want you, oh, how much!"
"Are you not happy here?"
"Yes, I am happy, at least I thought I was half-an-hour ago, as happy as I can be. I have everything to make me happy except what would do it."
"We must both have recourse to our old remedy against sorrow and loneliness—you have not forgotten the use of it, Ellie?"
"No, John," said Ellen, meeting his eyes with a tearful smile.
"They love you here, do they not?"
"Very much—too much."
"And you love them?"
"Yes."
"That's a doubtful 'yes.'"
"I do love my father—very much; and my grandmother too, though not so much. I cannot help loving them, they love me so. But they are so unlike you!"
"That is not much to the purpose, after all," said John, smiling. "There are varieties of excellence in the world."
"Oh yes, but that isn't what I mean; it isn't a variety of excellence. They make me do everything they have a mind; I don't mean," she added, smiling, "thatthatis not like you, but you always had a reason; they are different. My father makes me drink wine every now and then; I don't like to do it, and he knows I do not, and I think that is the reason I have to do it."
"That is not a matter of great importance, Ellie, provided they do not make you do something wrong."
"They could not do that, I hope; and there is another thing they cannot make me do."
"What is that?"
"Stay here when you will take me away."
There was a few minutes' thoughtful pause on both sides.
"You are grown, Ellie," said John, "you are not the child I left you."
"I don't know," said Ellen, smiling. "It seems to me I am just the same."
"Let me see—look at me!"
She raised her face, and amidst smiles and tears its look was not less clear and frank than his was penetrating. "Just the same," was the verdict of her brother's eyes a moment afterwards. Ellen's smile grew bright as she read it there.
"Why have you never come or written before, John?"
"I did not know where you were. I have not been in England for many months until quite lately, and I could not get your address. I think my father was without it for a long time, and when at last he sent it to me, the letter miscarried—never reached me—there were delays upon delays."
"And when did you get it?"
"I preferred coming to writing."
"And now you must go home so soon!"
"I must, Ellie. My business has lingered on a great while, and it is quite time I should return. I expect to sail next week—Mrs. Gillespie is going with me—her husband stays behind till spring."
Ellen sighed.
"I made a friend of a friend of yours whom I met in Switzerland last summer—M. Muller."
"M. Muller! did you? Oh, I am very glad! I am very glad you know him—he is the best friend I have got here, after my father. I don't know what I should have done without him."
"I have heard him talk of you," said John, smiling.
"He has just come back; he was to be here this evening."
There was a pause again.
"It does not seem right to go home without you, Ellie," said her brother then. "I think you belong to me more than to anybody."
"That is exactly what I think!" said Ellen, with one of her bright looks, and then bursting into tears. "I am very glad you think so too! I will always do whatever you tell me—just as I used to—no matter what anybody else says."
"Perhaps I shall try you in two or three things, Ellie."
"Will you! in what? Oh, it would make me so happy—so much happier if I could be doing something to please you. I wish I was at home with you again!"
"I will bring that about, Ellie, by-and-by, if you make your words good."
"I shall be happy then," said Ellen, her old confidence standing stronger than ever, "because I know you will if you say so. Though how you will manage it I cannot conceive. My fatherand grandmother and aunt cannot bear to hear me speak of America. I believe they would be glad if there wasn't such a place in the world. They would not even let me think of it if they could help it; I never dare mention your name, or say a word about old times. They are afraid of my loving anybody, I believe. They want to have me all to themselves."
"What will they say to you then, Ellie, if you leave them to give yourself to me?"
"I cannot help it," replied Ellen, "they must say what they please;" and with abundance of energy, and not a few tears, she went on, "I love them, but I had given myself to you a great while ago; long before I was his daughter you called me your little sister—I can't undo that, John, and I don't want to—it doesn't make a bit of difference that we were not born so!"
John suddenly rose and began to walk up and down the room. Ellen soon came to his side, and leaning upon his arm, as she had been used to do in past times, walked up and down with him, at first silently.
"What is it you wanted me to do, John?" she said gently at length; "you said 'two or three' things?"
"One is that you keep up a regular and full correspondence with me."
"I am very glad that you will let me do that," said Ellen, "that is exactly what I should like, but——"
"What?"
"I am afraid they will not let me."
"I will arrange that."
"Very well," said Ellen joyously, "then it will do. Oh, it will make me so happy! And you will write to me?"
"Certainly!"
"And I will tell you everything about myself; and you will tell me how I ought to do in all sorts of things; that will be next best to being with you. And then you will keep me right."
"I won't promise you that, Ellie," said John, smiling, "you must learn to keep yourself right."
"I know you will, though, however you may smile. What next?"
"Read no novels."
"I never do, John. I knew you did not like it, and I have taken good care to keep out of the way of them. If I had told anybody why, though, they would have made me read a dozen."
"Why, Ellie!" said her brother, "you must need some care to keep a straight line where your course lies now."
"Indeed I do, John," said Ellen, her eyes filling with tears;"oh, now I have felt that sometimes! And then how I wanted you!"
Her hand was fondly taken in his, as many a time it had been taken of old, and for a long time they paced up and down; the conversation running sometimes in the strain that both loved and Ellen now never heard; sometimes on other matters; such a conversation as those she had lived upon in former days, and now drank in with a delight and eagerness inexpressible. Mr. Lindsay would have been in dismay to have seen her uplifted face, which, though tears were many a time there, was sparkling and glowing with life and joy in a manner he had never known it. She almost forgot what the morrow would bring, in the exquisite pleasure of the instant, and hung upon every word and look of her brother as if her life were there.
"And in a few weeks," said Ellen, at length, "you will be in our own dear sitting-room again, and riding on the Black Prince! and I shall be here! and it will be——"
"It will be empty without you, Ellie! but we have a friend that is sufficient; let us love Him and be patient."
"It is very hard to be patient," murmured Ellen. "But, dear John, there was something else you wanted me to do? what is it? you said 'two or three' things."
"I will leave that to another time."
"But why? I will do it, whatever it be—pray tell me."
"No," said he, smiling, "not now; you shall know by-and-by—the time is not yet. Have you heard of your old friend, Mr. Van Brunt?"
"No—what of him?"
"He has come out before the world as a Christian man."
"Has he?"
John took a letter from his pocket and opened it.
"You may see what my father says of him; and what he says of you too, Ellie; he has missed you much."
"Oh, I was afraid he would," said Ellen, "I was sure he did!"
She took the letter, but she could not see the words. John told her she might keep it to read at her leisure.
"And how are they all at Ventnor? and how is Mrs. Vawse? and Margery?"
"All well. Mrs. Vawse spends about half her time at my father's."
"I am very glad of that!"
"Mrs. Marshman wrote me to bring you back with me if I could, and said she had a home for you always at Ventnor."
"How kind she is," said Ellen; "how many friends I findeverywhere. It seems to me, John, that almost everybody loves me."
"Thatisa singular circumstance! However, I am no exception to the rule, Ellie."
"Oh, I know that," said Ellen, laughing. "And Mr. George?"
"Mr. George is well."
"How much I love him!" said Ellen. "How much I would give to see him. I wish you could tell me about poor Captain and the Brownie, but I don't suppose you have heard of them. Oh, when I think of it all at home, how I want to be there! Oh, John, sometimes lately I have almost thought I should only see you again in heaven."
"My dear Ellie! I shall see you there, I trust; but if we live we shall spend our lives here together first. And while we are parted we will keep as near as possible by praying for and writing to each other. And what God orders let us quietly submit to."
Ellen had much ado to command herself at the tone of these words and John's manner, as he clasped her in his arms and kissed her brow and lips. She strove to keep back a show of feeling that would distress and might displease him. But the next moment her fluttering spirits were stilled by hearing the few soft words of a prayer that he breathed over her head. It was a prayer for her and for himself, and one of its petitions was that they might be kept to see each other again. Ellen wrote the words on her heart.
"Are you going?"
He showed his watch.
"Well, I shall see you to-morrow!"
"Shall you be here?"
"Certainly; where else should I be? What time must you set out?"
"I need not till afternoon, but—How early can I see you?"
"As early as you please. Oh, spend all the time with me you can, John!"
So it was arranged.
"And now, Ellie, you must go downstairs and present me to Mr. Lindsay."
"To my father!"
For a moment Ellen's face was a compound of expressions. She instantly acquiesced, however, and went down with her brother, her heart, it must be confessed, going very pit-a-pat indeed. She took him into the library, which was not this evening thrown open to company, and sent a servant for Mr. Lindsay. While waiting for his coming, Ellen felt as if she had not the fair use of her senses. Was that John Humphreysquietly walking up and down the library?—Mr. Lindsay's library? and was she about to introduce her brother to the person who had forbidden her to mention his name? There was something, however, in Mr. John's figure and air, in his utter coolness, that insensibly restated her spirits. Triumphant confidence in him overcame the fear of Mr. Lindsay; and when he appeared, Ellen with tolerable composure met him, her hand upon John's arm, and said, "Father, this is Mr. Humphreys"—my brothershe dared not add.
"I hope Mr. Lindsay will pardon my giving him this trouble," said the latter; "we have one thing in common which should forbid our being strangers to each other. I, at least, was unwilling to leave Scotland without making myself known to Mr. Lindsay."
Mr. Lindsay most devoutly wished the "thing in common" had been anything else. He bowed, and was "happy to have the pleasure," but evidently neither pleased nor happy. Ellen could see that.
"May I take up five minutes of Mr. Lindsay's time to explain, perhaps to apologise," said John, slightly smiling, "for what I have said?"
A little ashamed, it might be, to have his feeling suspected, Mr. Lindsay instantly granted the request, and politely invited his unwelcome guest to be seated. Obeying a glance from her brother which she understood, Ellen withdrew to the further side of the room, where she could not hear what they said. John took up the history of Ellen's acquaintance with his family, and briefly gave it to Mr. Lindsay, scarce touching on the benefits by them conferred on her, and skilfully dwelling rather on Ellen herself and setting forth what she had been to them. Mr. Lindsay could not be unconscious of what his visitor delicately omitted to hint at, neither could he help making secretly to himself some most unwilling admissions; and though he might wish the speaker at the antipodes, and doubtless did, yet the sketch was too happily given, and his fondness for Ellen too great, for him not to be delightedly interested in what was said of her. And however strong might have been his desire to dismiss his guest in a very summary manner, or to treat him with haughty reserve, the graceful dignity of Mr. Humphreys' manners made either expedient impossible. Mr. Lindsay felt constrained to meet him on his own ground—the ground of high-bred frankness, and grew secretly still more afraid that his real feelings should be discerned.
Ellen from afar, where she could not hear the words, watched the countenances with great anxiety and great admiration. Shecould see that while her brother spoke with his usual perfect ease, Mr. Lindsay was embarrassed. She half read the truth. She saw the entire politeness while she also saw the secret discomposure, and she felt that the politeness was forced from him. As the conversation went on, however, she wonderingly saw that the cloud on his brow lessened—she saw him even smile; and when at last they rose, and she drew near, she almost thought her ears were playing her false when she heard Mr. Lindsay beg her brother to go in with him to the company and be presented to Mrs. Lindsay. After a moment's hesitation this invitation was accepted, and they went together into the drawing room.
Ellen felt as if she was in a dream. With a face as grave as usual, but with an inward exultation and rejoicing in her brother impossible to describe, she saw him going about among the company, talking to her grandmother—yes, and her grandmother did not look less pleasant than usual—recognising M. Muller, and in conversation with other people whom he knew. With indescribable glee Ellen saw that Mr. Lindsay managed most of the time to be of the same group. Never more than that night did she triumphantly think that Mr. John could do anything. He finished the evening there. Ellen took care not to seem too much occupied with him; but she contrived to be near when he was talking with M. Muller, and to hang upon her father's arm when he was in Mr. John's neighbourhood. And when the latter had taken leave, and was in the hall, Ellen was there before he could be gone. And there came Mr. Lindsay too behind her!
"You will come early to-morrow morning, John?"
"Come to breakfast, Mr. Humphreys, will you?" said Mr. Lindsay, with sufficient cordiality.
But Mr. Humphreys declined this invitation, in spite of the timid touch of Ellen's fingers upon his arm, which begged for a different answer.
"I will be with you early, Ellie," he said, however.
"And oh! John," said Ellen suddenly, "order a horse and let us have one ride together; let me show you Edinburgh."
"By all means," said Mr. Lindsay, "let us show you Edinburgh; but order no horses, Mr. Humphreys, for mine are at your service."
Ellen's other hand was gratefully laid upon her father's arm as this second proposal was made and accepted.
"Letusshow you Edinburgh," said Ellen to herself, as she and Mr. Lindsay slowly and gravely went back through the hall. "So there is an end of my fine morning! But, however, how foolish I am! John has his own ways of doing things—he can make it pleasant in spite of everything."
She went to bed, not to sleep indeed, for a long time, but to cry for joy and all sorts of feelings at once.
Good came out of evil, as it often does, and as Ellen's heart presaged it would when she arose the next morning. The ride was preceded by half-an-hour's chat between Mr. John, Mr. Lindsay, and her grandmother; in which the delight of the evening before was renewed and confirmed. Ellen was obliged to look down to hide the too bright satisfaction that she felt was shining in her face. She took no part in the conversation, it was enough to hear. She sat with charmed ears, seeing her brother overturning all her father's and grandmother's prejudices, and making his own way to their respect at least, in spite of themselves. Her marvelling still almost kept even pace with her joy. "I knew he would do what he pleased," she said to herself. "I knew they could not help that; but I did not dream he would ever make themlikehim—that I never dreamed!"
On the ride again, Ellen could not wish that her father were not with them. She wished for nothing; it was all a maze of pleasure, which there was nothing to mar but the sense that she would by-and-by wake up and find it was a dream. And no, not that either. It was a solid good and blessing, which, though it must come to an end, she should never lose. For the present there was hardly anything to be thought of but enjoyment. She shrewdly guessed that Mr. Lindsay would have enjoyed it too, but for herself; there was a little constraint about him still, she could see. There was none about Mr. John; in the delight of his words and looks and presence, Ellen half the time forgot Mr. Lindsay entirely; she had enough of them, she did not for one moment wish Mr. Lindsay had less.
At last the long, beautiful ride came to an end; and the rest of the morning soon sped away, though, as Ellen had expected, she was not permitted to spend any part of it alone with her brother. Mr. Lindsay asked him to dinner, but this was declined.
Not till long after he was gone did Ellen read Mr. Humphreys' letter. One bit of it may be given.
"Mr. Van Brunt has lately joined our little church. This has given me great pleasure. He has been a regular attendant for a long time before. He ascribes much to your instrumentality; but says his first thoughts (earnest ones) on the subject of religion were on the occasion of a tear that fell from Ellen's eye upon his hand one day when she was talking to him about the matter. He never got over the impression. In his own words, 'it scared him!' That was a dear child! I did not know how dear till I had lost her. I did not know how severely I should feel her absence; nor had I the least notion, when she was withus, of many things respecting her that I have learned since. I half hoped we should yet have her back, but that will not be. I shall be glad to see you, my son."
The correspondence with John was begun immediately, and was the delight of Ellen's life. Mrs. Lindsay and her daughter wished to put a stop to it; but Mr. Lindsay drily said that Mr. Humphreys had frankly spoken of it before him, and as he had made no objection then, he could not now.
Ellen puzzled herself a little to think what could be the third thing John wanted of her; but whatever it were, she was very sure she would do it!
For the gratification of those who are never satisfied, one word shall be added, to wit, that—
The seed so early sown in little Ellen's mind, and so carefully tended by sundry hands, grew in the course of time to all the fair structure and comely perfection it had bid fair to reach; storms and winds that had visited it did but cause the root to take deeper hold; and at the point of its young maturity it happily fell again into those hands that had of all been most successful in its culture. In other words, to speak intelligibly, Ellen did in no wise disappoint her brother's wishes, nor he hers. Three or four more years of Scottish discipline wrought her no ill; they did but serve to temper and beautify her Christian character; and then, to her unspeakable joy, she went back to spend her life with the friends and guardians she best loved, and to be to them still more than she had been to her Scottish relations, the "light of the eyes."
THE END