The wide world grown wider.
The voyage was peaceful and prosperous; in due time the whole
party found themselves safe in London. Ever since they set
out, Ellen had been constantly gaining on Mrs. Gillespie's
good-will; the Major hardly saw her but she had something to
say about that "best-bred child in the world." "Best-hearted,
too, I think," said the Major; and even Mrs. Gillespie owned
that there was something more than good-breeding in Ellen's
politeness. She had good trial of it; Mrs. Gillespie was much
longer ailing than any of the party; and when Ellen got well,
it was her great pleasure to devote herself to the service of
the only member of the Marshman family now within her reach.
She could never do too much. She watched by her, read to her,
was quick to see and perform all the little offices of
attention and kindness where a servant's hand is not so
acceptable; and withal never was in the way nor put herself
forward. Mrs. Gillespie's own daughter was much less helpful.
Both she and William, however, had long since forgotten the
old grudge, and treated Ellen as well as they did anybody
rather better. Major Gillespie was attentive and kind as
possible to the gentle, well-behaved little body that was
always at his wife's pillow; and even Lester, the maid, told
one of her friends "she was such a sweet little lady, that it
was a pleasure and gratification to do anything for her."
Lester acted this out; and in her kindly disposition Ellen
found very substantial comfort and benefit throughout the
voyage.
Mrs. Gillespie told her husband she should be rejoiced if it
turned out that they might keep Ellen with them and carry her
back to America; she only wished it were not for Mr.
Humphreys, but herself. As their destination was not now
Scotland, but Paris, it was proposed to write to Ellen's
friends to ascertain whether any change had occurred, or
whether they still wished to receive her. This, however, was
rendered unnecessary. They were scarcely established in their
hotel, when a gentleman from Edinburgh, an intimate friend of
the Ventnor family, and whom Ellen herself had more than once
met there, came to see them. Mrs. Gillespie bethought herself
to make inquiries of him.
"Do you happen to know a family of Lindsays, in Georgestreet,
Mr. Dundas?"
"Lindsays? yes, perfectly well. Do you know them?"
"No; but I am very much interested in one of the family. Is
the old lady living?"
"Yes, certainly; not very old, either not above sixty, or
sixty-five; and as hale and alert as at forty. A very fine old
lady."
"A large family?"
"Oh, no; Mr. Lindsay is a widower this some years, with no
children; and there is a widowed daughter lately come home
Lady Keith; that's all."
"Mr. Lindsay that is the son?"
"Yes. You would like them. They are excellent people
excellent family wealthy beautiful country-seat on the
south bank of the Esk, some miles out of Edinburgh; I was down
there two weeks ago entertain most handsomely and agreeably,
two things that do not always go together. You meet a
pleasanter circle nowhere than at Lindsay's."
"And that is the whole family?" said Mrs. Gillespie.
"That is all. There were two daughters married to Americans
some dozen or so years ago. Mrs. Lindsay took it very hard, I
believe, but she bore up, and bears up now, as if misfortune
had never crossed her path, though the death of Mr. Lindsay's
wife and son was another great blow. I don't believe there is
a gray hair on her head at this moment. There is some
peculiarity about them, perhaps some pride, too; but that is
an amiable weakness," he added, laughing, as he rose to go:
"Mrs. Gillespie, I am sure will not find fault with them for
it."
"That's an insinuation, Mr. Dundas; but look here, what I am
bringing to Mrs. Lindsay in the shape of a grand-daughter."
"What, my old acquaintance, Miss Ellen! is it possible! My
dear madam, if you had such a treasure for sale, they would
pour half their fortune into your lap to purchase it, and the
other half at her feet."
"I would not take it, Mr. Dundas."
"It would be no mean price, I assure you, in itself, however
it might be comparatively. I give Miss Ellen joy."
Miss Ellen took none of his giving.
"Ah, Ellen, my dear," said Mrs. Gillespie, when he was gone
"we shall never have you back in America again. I give up all
hopes of it. Why do you look so solemn, my love? You are a
strange child; most girls would be delighted at such a
prospect opening before them."
"You forget what I leave, Mrs. Gillespie."
"So will you, my love, in a few days; though I love you for
remembering so well those that have been kind to you. But you
don't realize yet what is before you."
"Why, you'll have a good time, Ellen," said Marianne; "I
wonder you are not out of your wits with joy. _I_ should be."
"You may as well make over the Brownie to me, Ellen," said
William; "I expect you'll never want him again."
"I cannot, you know, William; I lent him to Ellen Chauncey."
"_Lent_ him! that's a good one. For how long?"
Ellen smiled, though sighing inwardly to see how very much
narrowed was her prospect of ever mounting him again. She did
not care to explain herself to those around her. Still, at the
very bottom of her heart lay two thoughts, in which her hope
refuged itself. One was a peculiar assurance that whatever her
brother pleased, nothing could hinder him from accomplishing;
the other, a like confidence that it would not please him to
leave his little sister unlooked after. But all began to grow
misty, and it seemed now as if Scotland must henceforth be the
limit of her horizon.
Leaving their children at a relation's house, Major and Mrs.
Gillespie accompanied her to the north. They travelled post,
and arriving in the evening at Edinburgh, put up at a hotel in
Princes-street. It was agreed that Ellen should not seek her
new home till the morrow; she should eat one more supper and
breakfast with her old friends, and have a night's rest first.
She was very glad of it. The Major and Mrs. Gillespie were
enchanted with the noble view from their parlour windows;
while they were eagerly conversing together, Ellen sat alone
at the other window, looking out upon the curious Old Town.
There was all the fascination of novelty and beauty about that
singular picturesque mass of buildings, in its sober
colouring, growing more sober as the twilight fell; and just
before outlines were lost in the dusk, lights began feebly to
twinkle here and there, and grew brighter and more as the
night came on, till their brilliant multitude were all that
could be seen, where the curious jumble of chimneys and house-
tops and crooked ways had shown a little before. Ellen sat
watching this lighting up of the Old Town, feeling strangely
that she was in the midst of new scenes, indeed, entering upon
a new stage of life; and having some difficulty to persuade
herself that she was really Ellen Montgomery. The scene of
extreme beauty before her seemed rather to increase the
confusion and sadness of her mind. Happily, joyfully, Ellen
remembered, as she sat gazing over the darkening city and its
brightening lights, that there was One near her who could not
change; that Scotland was no remove from him; that His
providence as well as His heaven was over her there; that
there, not less than in America, she was His child. She
rejoiced, as she sat in her dusky window, over his words of
assurance, "I am the good shepherd, and know my sheep, and am
known of mine;" and she looked up into the clear sky (_that_ at
least was home like) in tearful thankfulness, and with earnest
prayer that she might be kept from evil. Ellen guessed she
might have special need to offer that prayer. And as again her
eye wandered over the singular bright spectacle, that kept
reminding her she was a stranger in a strange place, her heart
joyfully leaned upon another loved sentence "This God is our
God for ever and ever, He will be our guide even unto death."
She was called from her window to supper.
"Why, how well you look!" said Mrs. Gillespie; "I expected you
would have been half tired to death. Doesn't she look well?"
"As if she was neither tired, hungry, nor sleepy," said Major
Gillespie kindly; "and yet she must be all three."
Ellen _was_ all three. But she had the rest of a quiet mind.
In the same quiet mind, a little fluttered and anxious now,
she set out in the carriage the next morning with her kind
friends to No. , George-street. It was their intention, after
leaving her, to go straight on to England. They were in a
hurry to be there; and Mrs. Gillespie judged that the presence
of a stranger at the meeting between Ellen and her relations
would be desired by none of the parties. But when they reached
the house, they found the family were not at home; they were
in the country, at their place on the Tyne. The direction was
obtained, and the horses' heads turned that way. After a drive
of some length, through what kind of a country Ellen could
hardly have told, they arrived at the place.
It was beautifully situated; and through well-kept grounds
they drove up to a large, rather old-fashioned, substantial-
looking house. "The ladies were at home;" and that
ascertained, Ellen took a kind leave of Mrs. Gillespie, shook
hands with the Major at the door, and was left alone, for the
second time in her life, to make her acquaintance with new and
untried friends. She stood for one second looking after the
retreating carriage one swift thought went to her adopted
father and brother far away one to her Friend in heaven and
Ellen quietly turned to the servant and asked for Mrs.
Lindsay.
She was shown into a large room, where nobody was, and sat
down, with a beating heart, while the servant went upstairs;
looking with a strange feeling upon what was to be her future
home. The house was handsome, comfortably, luxuriously
furnished, but without any attempt at display. Things rather
old-fashioned than otherwise; plain, even homely, in some
instances; yet evidently there was no sparing of money in any
line of use or comfort; nor were reading and writing, painting
and music, strangers there. Unconsciously acting upon her
brother's principle of judging of people from their works,
Ellen, from what she saw gathered around her, formed a
favourable opinion of her relations, without thinking of it,
for indeed she was thinking of something else.
A lady presently entered, and said that Mrs. Lindsay was not
very well. Seeing Ellen's very hesitating look, she added,
"Shall I carry her any message from you?"
This lady was well-looking and well-dressed; but somehow there
was something in her face or manner that encouraged Ellen to
an explanation; she could make none. She silently gave her her
father's letter, with which the lady left the room.
In a minute or two she returned, and said her mother would see
Ellen upstairs, and asked her to come with her. This, then,
must be Lady Keith, but no sign of recognition. Ellen
wondered, as her trembling feet carried her upstairs, and to
the door of a room where the lady motioned her to enter; she
did not follow herself.
A large pleasant dressing-room but Ellen saw nothing but the
dignified figure and searching glance of a lady in black,
standing in the middle of the floor. At the look which
instantly followed her entering, however, Ellen sprang
forward, and was received in arms that folded her as fondly
and as closely as ever those of her own mother had done.
Without releasing her from their clasp, Mrs. Lindsay presently
sat down, and placing Ellen on her lap, and for a long time
without speaking a word, she overwhelmed her with caresses
caresses often interrupted with passionate bursts of tears.
Ellen herself cried heartily for company, though Mrs. Lindsay
little guessed why. Along with the joy and tenderness arising
from the finding a relation that so much loved and valued her,
and along with the sympathy that entered into Mrs. Lindsay's
thoughts, there mixed other feelings. She began to know, as if
by instinct, what kind of a person her grandmother was. The
clasp of the arms that were about her said as plainly as
possible, "I will never let you go!" Ellen felt it. She did
not know, in her confusion, whether she was most glad or most
sorry; and this uncertainty mightily helped the flow of her
tears.
When this scene had lasted some time, Mrs. Lindsay began with
the utmost tenderness to take off Ellen's gloves, her cape
(her bonnet had been hastily thrown off long before); and
smoothing back her hair, and taking the fair little face in
both her hands, she looked at it and pressed it to her own, as
indeed something most dearly prized and valued. Then saying,
"I must lie down; come in here, love," she led her into the
next room, locked the door, made Ellen stretch herself on the
bed, and placing herself beside her, drew her close to her
bosom again, murmuring, "My own child my precious child my
Ellen my own darling! why did you stay away so long from
me, tell me?"
It was necessary to tell; and this could not be done without
revealing Miss Fortune's disgraceful conduct. Ellen was sorry
for that. She knew her mother's American match had been
unpopular with her friends, and now what notions this must
give them of one at least of the near connections to whom it
had introduced her! She winced under what might be her
grandmother's thoughts. Mrs. Lindsay heard her in absolute
silence, and made no comment, and at the end again kissed her
lips and cheeks, embracing her, Ellen felt, as a recovered
treasure that would not be parted with. She was not satisfied
till she had drawn Ellen's head fairly to rest on her breast,
and then her caressing hand often touched her cheek, or
smoothed back her hair, softly now and then asking slight
questions about her voyage and journey, till, exhausted from
excitement more than fatigue, Ellen fell asleep.
Her grandmother was beside her when she awoke, and busied
herself, with evident delight, in helping her to get off her
travelling clothes, and put on others, and then she took her
down stairs, and presented her to her aunt.
Lady Keith had not been at home, nor in Scotland, at the time
the letters passed between Mrs. Montgomery and her mother, and
the result of that correspondence respecting Ellen had been
known to no one except Mrs. Lindsay and her son. They had long
given her up, the rather as they had seen in the papers the
name of Captain Montgomery among those lost in the ill-fated
_Duc d'Orleans_. Lady Keith, therefore, had no suspicion who
Ellen might be. She received her affectionately, but Ellen did
not get rid of her first impression.
Her uncle she did not see until late in the day, when he came
home. The evening was extremely fair, and having obtained
permission, Ellen wandered out into the shrubbery, glad to be
alone, and glad, for a moment, to exchange new faces for old;
the flowers were old friends to her, and never had looked more
friendly than then. New and old, both were there. Ellen went
on softly from flower-bed to flower-bed, soothed and rested,
stopping here to smell one, or there to gaze at some old
favourite or new beauty, thinking curious thoughts of the past
and the future, and through it all taking a quiet lesson from
the flowers, when a servant came after her with a request from
Mrs. Lindsay that she would return to the house. Ellen hurried
in she guessed for what and was sure as soon as she opened
the door, and saw the figure of a gentleman sitting before
Mrs. Lindsay. Ellen remembered well she was sent to her uncle
as well as her grandmother, and she came forward with a
beating heart to Mrs. Lindsay's outstretched hand, which
presented her to this other ruler of her destiny. He was very
different from Lady Keith her anxious glance saw that at
once more like his mother. A man not far from fifty years
old, fine-looking and stately, like her. Ellen was not left
long in suspense his look instantly softened, as his
mother's had done; he drew her to his arms with great
affection, and evidently with very great pleasure; then held
her off for a moment, while he looked at her changing colour
and downcast eye, and folded her close in his arms again, from
which he seemed hardly willing to let her go, whispering, as
he kissed her, "you are my own child now you are my little
daughter: do you know that, Ellen? I am your father henceforth
you belong to me entirely, and I belong to you, my own
little daughter!"
"I wonder how many times one may be adopted," thought Ellen
that evening; "but, to be sure, my father and my mother have
quite given me up here that makes a difference; they had a
right to give me away if they pleased. I suppose I do belong
to my uncle and grandmother in good earnest, and I cannot help
myself. Well, but Mr. Humphreys seems a great deal more like
my father than my uncle Lindsay. I cannot help that, but how
they would be vexed if they knew it?"
That was profoundly true.
Ellen was in a few days the dear pet and darling of the whole
household, without exception, and almost without limit. At
first, for a day or two, there was a little lurking doubt, a
little anxiety, a constant watch, on the part of all her
friends, whether they were not going to find something in
their newly acquired treasure to disappoint them; whether it
could be that there was nothing behind to belie the first
promise. Less keen observers, however, could not have failed
to see very soon that there was no disappointment to be looked
for: Ellen was just what she seemed, without the shadow of a
cloak in anything. Doubts vanished, and Ellen had not been
three days in the house when she was taken home to two hearts,
at least, in unbounded love and tenderness. When Mr. Lindsay
was present, he was not satisfied without having Ellen in his
arms, or close beside him; and if not there, she was at the
side of her grandmother.
There was nothing, however, in the character of this fondness,
great as it was, that would have inclined any child to presume
upon it. Ellen was least of all likely to try; but if her
will, by any chance, had run counter to theirs, she would have
found it impossible to maintain her ground. She understood
this from the first with her grandmother; and in one or two
trifles since had been more and more confirmed in the feeling
that they would do with her, and make of her precisely what
they pleased, without the smallest regard to her fancy. If it
jumped with theirs, very well; if not, it must yield. In one
matter, Ellen had been roused to plead very hard, and even
with tears, to have her wish, which she verily thought she
ought to have had. Mrs. Lindsay smiled and kissed her, and
went on with the utmost coolness in what she was doing, which
she carried through without in the least regarding Ellen's
distress, or showing the slightest discomposure, and the same
thing was repeated every day till Ellen got used to it. Her
uncle she had never seen tried, but she knew it would be the
same with him. When Mr. Lindsay clasped her to his bosom,
Ellen felt it was as _his own;_ his eye always seemed to repeat,
"_my own_ little daughter;" and in his whole manner, love was
mingled with as much authority. Perhaps Ellen did not like
them much the worse for this, as she had no sort of
disposition to displease them in anything; but it gave rise to
sundry thoughts, however, which she kept to herself thoughts
that went both to the future and the past.
Lady Keith, it may be, had less _heart_ to give than her mother
and brother, but pride took up the matter instead; and
according to her measure, Ellen held with her the same place
she held with Mr. and Mrs. Lindsay, being the great delight
and darling of all three, and with all three seemingly the
great object in life.
A few days after her arrival, a week or more, she underwent
one evening a kind of catechizing from her aunt, as to her
former manner of life; where she had been, and with whom,
since her mother left her; what she had been doing; whether
she had been to school, and how her time was spent at home,
&c. &c. No comments whatever were made on her answers, but a
something in her aunt's face and manner induced Ellen to make
her replies as brief, and to give her as little information in
them as she could. She did not feel inclined to enlarge upon
anything, or to go at all further than the questions obliged
her; and Lady Keith ended without having more than a very
general notion of Ellen's way of life for three or four years
past. This conversation was repeated to her grandmother and
uncle.
"To think," said the latter the next morning at breakfast,
"to think that the backwoods of America should have turned us
out such a little specimen of "
"Of what, uncle?" said Ellen, laughing.
"Ah, I shall not tell you that," said he.
"But it is extraordinary," said Lady Keith, "how after living
among a parcel of thick-headed, and thicker-tongued Yankees,
she could come out and speak pure English in a clear voice; it
is an enigma to me."
"Take care, Catherine," said Mr. Lindsay, laughing, "you are
touching Ellen's nationality; look here," said he, drawing his
fingers down her cheek.
"She must learn to have no nationality but yours," said Lady
Keith, somewhat shortly.
Ellen's lips were open, but she spoke not.
"It is well you have come out from the Americans, you see,
Ellen," pursued Mr. Lindsay; "your aunt does not like them."
"But why, Sir?"
"Why," said he, gravely, "don't you know that they are a
parcel of rebels who have broken loose from all loyalty and
fealty, that no good Briton has any business to like?"
"You are not in earnest, uncle?"
"You are, I see," said he, looking amused. "Are you one of
those that make a saint of George Washington?"
"No," said Ellen, "I think he was a great deal better than
some saints. But I don't think the Americans were rebels."
"You are a little rebel yourself. Do you mean to say you think
the Americans were right?"
"Do you mean to say you think they were wrong, uncle?"
"I assure you," said he, "if I had been in the English army, I
would have fought them with all my heart."
"And if I had been in the American army, I would have fought
you with all my heart, Uncle Lindsay."
"Come, come," said he laughing; "you fight! you don't look as
if you would do battle with a good-sized mosquito."
"Ah, but I mean, if I had been a man," said Ellen.
"You had better put in that qualification. After all, I am
inclined to think it may be as well for you on the whole that
we did not meet. I don't know but we might have had a pretty
stiff encounter, though."
"A good cause is stronger than a bad one, uncle."
"But, Ellen, these Americans forfeited entirely the character
of good friends to England and good subjects to King George."
"Yes, but it was King George's fault, uncle; he and the
English forfeited their characters first."
"I declare," said Mr. Lindsay, laughing. "if your sword had
been as stout as your tongue, I don't know how I might have
come off in that same encounter."
"I hope Ellen will get rid of these strange notions about the
Americans," said Lady Keith, discontentedly.
"I hope not, Aunt Keith," said Ellen.
"Where did you get them?" said Mr. Lindsay.
"What, Sir?"
"These notions."
"In reading, Sir; reading different books; and talking."
"Reading! so you did read in the backwoods?"
"Sir!" said Ellen, with a look of surprise.
"What have you read on this subject?"
"Two lives of Washington, and some in the _Annual Register_, and
part of Graham's _United State;_ and one or two other little
things."
"But those gave you only one side, Ellen; you should read the
English account of the matter."
"So I did, Sir; the _Annual Register_ gave me both sides; the
bills and messages were enough."
"What _Annual Register?_"
"I don't know, Sir; it is English; written by Burke, I
believe."
"Upon my word! And what else have you read?"
"I think that's all, about America," said Ellen.
"No, but about other things."
"Oh, I don't know, Sir," said Ellen, smiling; "a great many
books; I can't tell them all."
"Did you spend all your time over your books?"
"A good deal, Sir, lately; not so much before."
"How was that?"
"I couldn't, Sir. I had a great many other things to do."
"What else had you to do?"
"Different things," said Ellen, hesitating, from the
remembrance of her aunt's manner the night before.
"Come, come! answer me."
"I had to sweep and dust," said Ellen, colouring, "and set
tables and wash and wipe dishes and churn and spin and
"
Ellen _heard_ Lady Keith's look in her, "Could you have
conceived it!"
"What shall we do with her?" said Mrs. Lindsay; "send her to
school, or keep her at home?"
"Have you never been to school, Ellen?"
"No, Sir; except for a very little while, more than three
years ago."
"Would you like it?"
"I would a _great_ deal rather study at home, Sir, if you will
let me."
"What do you know now?"
"Oh, I can't tell, Sir," said Ellen; "I don't know anything
very well, unless "
"Unless what?" said her uncle, laughing; "come! now for your
accomplishments."
"I had rather not say what I was going to, uncle; please don't
ask me."
"Yes, yes," said he; "I shan't let you off. Unless what?"
"I was going to say, unless riding," said Ellen, colouring.
"Riding! and pray how did you learn to ride? Catch a horse by
the mane, and mount him by the fence, and canter off bare-
backed? was that it eh?"
"Not exactly, Sir," said Ellen, laughing.
"Well, but about your other accomplishments. You do not know
anything of French, I suppose?"
"Yes, I do, Sir."
"Where did you get that?"
"An old Swiss lady in the mountains taught me."
"Country riding and Swiss French," muttered her uncle. "Did
she teach you to speak it?"
"Yes, Sir."
Mr. Lindsay and his mother exchanged glances, which Ellen
interpreted, "Worse and worse."
"One thing at least can be mended," observed Mr. Lindsay. "She
shall go to De Courcy's riding-school as soon as we get to
Edinburgh."
"Indeed, uncle, I don't think that will be necessary."
"Who taught you to ride, Ellen?" asked Lady Keith.
"My brother."
"Humph! I fancy a few lessons will do you no harm," she
remarked.
Ellen coloured and was silent.
"You know nothing of music, of course?"
"I cannot play, uncle."
"Can you sing?"
"I can sing hymns."
"Sing hymns! That's the only fault I find with you, Ellen; you
are too sober. I should like to see you a little more gay,
like other children."
"But, uncle, I am not unhappy because I am sober."
"But I am," said he. "I do not know precisely what I shall do
with you; I must do something!"
"Can you sing nothing but hymns?" asked Lady Keith.
"Yes, Ma'am," said Ellen, with some humour twinkling about her
eyes and mouth, "I can sing 'Hail Columbia!' "
"Absurd!" said Lady Keith.
"Why, Ellen," said her uncle, laughing, "I did not know you
could be so stubborn; I thought you were made up of gentleness
and mildness. Let me have a good look at you there's not
much stubbornness in those eyes," he said, fondly.
"I hope you will never salute my ears with your American
ditty," said Lady Keith.
"Tut, tut," said Mr. Lindsay, "she shall sing what she
pleases, and the more the better."
"She has a very sweet voice," said her grandmother.
"Yes, in speaking, I know; I have not heard it tried
otherwise; and very nice English it turns out. Where did you
get your English, Ellen?"
"From my brother," said Ellen, with a smile of pleasure.
Mr. Lindsay's brow rather clouded.
"Whom do you mean by that?"
"The brother of the lady that was so kind to me." Ellen
disliked to speak the loved names in the hearing of ears to
which she knew they would be unlovely.
"How was she so kind to you?"
"Oh, Sir! in everything I cannot tell you; she was my friend
when I had only one beside; she did everything for me."
"And who was the other friend? your aunt?"
"No, Sir."
"This brother?"
"No, Sir; that was before I knew him."
"Who then?"
"His name was Mr. Van Brunt."
"Van Brunt! Humph! And what was he?"
"He was a farmer, Sir."
"A Dutch farmer, eh? How came you to have anything to do with
him?"
"He managed my aunt's farm, and was a great deal in the
house."
"He was? And what makes you call this other your brother?"
"His sister called me her sister and that makes me his."
"It is very absurd," said Lady Keith, "when they are nothing
at all to her, and ought not to be."
"It seems, then, you did not find a friend in your aunt,
Ellen, eh?"
"I don't think she loved me much," said Ellen, in a low voice.
"I am very glad we are clear of obligation on her score," said
Mrs. Lindsay.
"Obligation! And so you had nothing else to depend on,
Ellen, but this man this Van something this Dutchman! What
did he do for you?"
"A great deal, Sir." Ellen would have said more, but a feeling
in her throat stopped her.
"Now, just hear that, will you?" said Lady Keith. "Just think
of her in that farmhouse, with that sweeping and dusting woman
and a Dutch farmer, for these three years!"
"No," said Ellen, "not all the time; this last year I have
been"
"Where, Ellen?"
"At the other house, Sir."
"What house is that?"
"Where that lady and gentleman lived that were my best
friends."
"Well, it's all very well," said Lady Keith; "but it is past
now; it is all over, you need not think of them any more. We
will find you better friends than any of these Dutch Brunters
or Grunters."
"Oh, aunt Keith!" said Ellen, "if you knew" But she burst
into tears.
"Come, come," said Mr. Lindsay, taking her into his arms, "I
will not have that. Hush, my daughter. What is the matter,
Ellen?"
But Ellen had with some difficulty contained herself two or
three times before in the course of the conversation, and she
wept now rather violently.
"What is the matter, Ellen?"
"Because," sobbed Ellen, thoroughly roused, "I love them
dearly! and I ought to love them with all my heart. I cannot
forget them, and never shall; and I can never have better
friends never! it's impossible Oh, it's impossible."
Mr. Lindsay said nothing at first, except to soothe her; but
when she had wept herself into quietness upon his breast, he
whispered
"It is right to love these people if they were kind to you;
but, as your aunt says, that is past. It is not necessary to
go back to it. Forget that you were American, Ellen you
belong to me; your name is not Montgomery any more, it is
Lindsay; and I will not have you call me 'uncle;' I am your
father you are my own little daughter, and must do precisely
what I tell you. Do you understand me?"
He would have a "yes" from her, and then added "Go and get
yourself ready, and I will take you with me to Edinburgh."
Ellen's tears had been like to burst forth again at his words;
with great effort she controlled herself, and obeyed him.
"I shall do precisely what he tells me, of course," she said
to herself, as she went to get ready; "but there are some
things he cannot command; nor I neither I am glad of that!
Forget, indeed!"
She could not help loving her uncle; for the lips that kissed
her were very kind as well as very peremptory; and if the hand
that pressed her cheek was, as she felt it was, the hand of
power, its touch was also exceeding fond. And as she was no
more inclined to despite his will than he to permit it, the
harmony between them was perfect and unbroken.