How old friends were invested with the regalia.
Mr. Lindsay had some reason that morning to wish that Ellen
would look merrier; it was a very sober little face he saw by
his side as the carriage rolled smoothly on with them towards
Edinburgh; almost pale in its sadness. He lavished the
tenderest kindness upon her, and without going back by so much
as a hint to the subjects of the morning, he exerted himself
to direct her attention to the various objects of note and
interest they were passing. The day was fine, and the country,
also the carriage and the horses; Ellen was dearly fond of
driving; and long before they reached the city, Mr. Lindsay
had the satisfaction of seeing her smile break again, her eye
brighten, and her happy attention fixing on the things he
pointed out to her, and many others that she found for herself
on the way, his horses first of all. Mr. Lindsay might relax
his efforts and look on with secret triumph; Ellen was in the
full train of delighted observation.
"You are easily pleased, Ellen," he said, in answer to one of
her simple remarks of observation.
"I have a great deal to please me," said Ellen.
"What would you like to see in Edinburgh?"
"I don't know, Sir; anything you please."
"Then I will show you a little of the city in the first
place."
They drove through the streets of Edinburgh, both the Old and
the New Town, in various directions. Mr. Lindsay was extremely
pleased to see that Ellen was so, and much amused at the
curiosity shown in her questions, which, however, were by no
means as free and frequent as they might have been had John
Humphreys filled her uncle's place.
"What large building is that over there?" said Ellen.
"That? that is Holyrood House."
"Holyrood! I have heard of that before; isn't that where Queen
Mary's rooms are? where Rizzio was killed?"
"Yes; would you like to see them?"
"Oh, _very_ much!"
"Drive to the Abbey! So you have read Scottish history, as
well as American, Ellen?"
"Not very much, Sir; only the _Tales of a Grandfather_ yet. But
what made me say that, I have read an account of Holyrood
House somewhere. Uncle "
"Ellen!"
"I beg your pardon, Sir; I forgot: it seems strange to me,"
said Ellen, looking distressed.
"It must not seem strange to you, my daughter; what were you
going to say?"
"I don't know, Sir; Oh, I was going to ask if the silver
cross is here now to be seen?"
"What silver cross?"
"That one from which the Abbey was named, Sir; the silver rood
that was given, they pretended, to I forget now what king."
"David First, the founder of the Abbey? No, it is not here,
Ellen; David the Second lost it to the English. But why do you
say _pretended_, Ellen? It was a very real affair; kept in
England for a long time with great veneration."
"Oh yes, Sir; I know the _cross_ was real; I mean, it was
pretended that an angel gave it to King David when he was
hunting here."
"Well, how can you tell but that was so? King David was made a
saint, you know."
"Oh, Sir," said Ellen, laughing, "I know better than that; I
know it was only a monkish trick."
"Monkish trick! which do you mean? the giving of the cross, or
the making the king a saint?"
"Both, Sir," said Ellen, still smiling.
"At that rate," said Mr. Lindsay, much amused, "if you are
such a sceptic, you will take no comfort in anything at the
Abbey; you will not believe anything is genuine."
"I will believe what you tell me, Sir."
"Will you? I must be careful what I say to you then, or I may
run the risk of losing my own credit."
Mr. Lindsay spoke this half-jestingly, half in earnest. They
went over to the palace.
"Is this very old, Sir?" asked Ellen.
"Not very; it has been burnt, and demolished, and rebuilt,
till nothing is left of the old Abbey of King David but the
ruins of the chapel, which you shall see presently. The oldest
part of the House is that we are going to see now, built by
James Fifth, Mary's father, where her rooms are."
At these rooms Ellen looked with intense interest. She pored
over the old furniture, the needlework of which she was told
was at least in part the work of the beautiful Queen's own
fingers; gazed at the stains in the floor of the bed-chamber,
said to be those of Rizzio's blood; meditated over the trap-
door in the passage, by which the conspirators had come up;
and finally sat down in the room, and tried to realize the
scene which had once been acted there. She tried to imagine
the poor Queen and her attendant and her favourite Rizzio,
sitting there at supper, and how that door, that very door,
had opened, and Ruthven's ghastly figure, pale, and weak from
illness, presented itself, and then others; the alarm of the
moment; how Rizzio knew they were come for him, and fled to
the Queen for protection; how she was withheld from giving it,
and the unhappy man pulled away from her, and stabbed with a
great many wounds, before her face; and there, there! no
doubt, his blood fell!
"You are tired; this doesn't please you much," said Mr.
Lindsay, noticing her grave look.
"Oh, it pleases me _very_ much?" said Ellen, starting up; "I do
not wonder she swore vengeance."
"Who?" said Mr. Lindsay, laughing.
"Queen Mary, Sir."
"Were you thinking about her all this while? I am glad of it.
I spoke to you once without getting a word. I was afraid this
was not amusing enough to detain your thoughts."
"Oh yes, it is," said Ellen; "I have been trying to think
about all that. I like to look at old things very much."
"Perhaps you would like to see the regalia."
"The what, Sir?"
"The royal things, the old diadem and sceptre, &c. of the
Scottish kings. Well, come," said he, as he read the answer in
Ellen's face, "we will go; but first let us see the old
chapel."
With this Ellen was wonderfully pleased. This was much older
still than Queen Mary's rooms. Ellen admired the wild
melancholy look of the Gothic pillars and arches springing
from the green turf, the large carved window, empty of glass,
the broken walls; and, looking up to the blue sky, she tried
to imagine the time when the Gothic roof closed overhead, and
music sounded through the arches, and trains of stolid monks
paced through them, where now the very pavement was not.
Strange it seemed, and hard, to go back and realize it; but in
the midst of this, the familiar face of the sky set Ellen's
thoughts off upon a new track, and suddenly they were _at home_,
on the lawn before the parsonage. The monks and the abbey were
forgotten; she silently gave her hand to her uncle, and walked
with him to the carriage.
Arrived at the Crown-room, Ellen fell into another fit of
grave attention; but Mr. Lindsay, taught better, did not this
time mistake rapt interest for absence of mind. He answered
questions, and gave her several pieces of information, and let
her take her own time to gaze and meditate.
"This beautiful sword," said he, "was a present from Pope
Julius Second to James the Fourth."
"I don't know anything about the popes," said Ellen. "James
the Fourth! I forget what kind of king he was."
"He was a very good king; he was the one that died at
Flodden."
"Oh, and wore an iron girdle, because he had fought against
his father, poor man!"
"Why 'poor man,' Ellen? he was a very royal prince; why do you
say 'poor man?' "
"Because he didn't know any better, Sir."
"Didn't know any better than what?"
"Than to think an iron girdle would do him any good."
"But why wouldn't it do him any good?"
"Because you know, Sir, that is not the way we can have our
sins forgiven."
"What _is_ the way?"
Ellen looked at him, to see if he was in jest or earnest. Her
look staggered him a little, but he repeated his question. She
cast her eyes down, and answered
"Jesus Christ said, 'I am the way, the truth, and the life; no
man cometh unto the Father but by me.' "
Mr. Lindsay said no more.
"I wish that was the Bruce's crown," said Ellen, after a
while. "I should like to see anything that belonged to him."
"I'll take you to the field of Bannockburn some day; that
belonged to him with a vengeance. It lies over yonder."
"Bannockburn! will you? and Stirling castle! Oh, how I should
like that!"
"Stirling castle," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling at Ellen's
clasped hands of delight; "what do you know of Stirling
castle?"
"From the history, you know, Sir, and the _Lord of the Isles;_
" 'Old Stirling's towers arose in light ' "
"Go on," said Mr. Lindsay.
" 'And twined in links of silver bright,
Her winding river lay.' "
"That's this same river Forth, Ellen. Do you know any more?"
"Oh yes, Sir."
"Go on, and tell me all you can remember."
"_All!_ that would be a great deal, Sir."
"Go on till I tell you to stop."
Ellen gave him a good part of the battle, with the
introduction to it.
"You have a good memory, Ellen," he said, looking pleased.
"Because I like it, Sir; that makes it easy to remember. I
like the Scots people."
"Do you?" said Mr. Lindsay much gratified. "I did not know you
liked anything on this side of the water. Why do you like
them?"
"Because they never would be conquered by the English."
"So," said Mr. Lindsay, half-amused and half-disappointed,
"the long and the short of it is, you like them because they
fought the enemies you were so eager to have a blow at."
"Oh no, Sir," said Ellen, laughing, "I do not mean that at
all; the French were England's enemies too, and helped us
besides; but I like the Scots a great deal better than the
French. I like them because they would be free."
"You have an extraordinary taste for freedom! And pray, are
all the American children as strong republicans as yourself?"
"I don't know, Sir; I hope so."
"Pretty well, upon my word! Then I suppose even the Bruce
cannot rival your favourite Washington in your esteem?"
Ellen smiled.
"Eh?" said Mr. Lindsay.
"I like Washington better, Sir, of course; but I like Bruce
very much."
"Why do you prefer Washington?"
"I should have to think to tell you that, Sir."
"Very well, think, and answer me."
"One reason, I suppose, is because he was an American," said
Ellen.
"That is not reason enough for so reasonable a person as you
are, Ellen; you must try again, or give up your preference."
"I like Bruce very much indeed," said Ellen musingly; "but he
did what he did for _himself_ Washington didn't."
"Humph! I am not quite sure as to either of your positions,"
said Mr. Lindsay.
"And besides," said Ellen, "Bruce did one or two wrong things.
Washington always did right."
"He did? eh? What do you think of the murder of André?"
"I think it was right," said Ellen, firmly.
"Your reasons, my little reasoner?"
"If it had not been right, Washington would not have done it."
"Ha!, ha! So at that rate you may reconcile yourself to
anything that chances to be done by a favourite."
"No, Sir," said Ellen, a little confused, but standing her
ground; "but when a person _always_ does right, if he happen to
do something that I don't know enough to understand, I have
good reason to think it is right, even though I cannot
understand it."
"Very well: but apply the same rule of judgement to the Bruce,
can't you?"
"Nothing could make me think the murder of the Red Comyn
right, Sir. Bruce didn't think so himself."
"But remember there is a great difference in the times; those
were rude and uncivilized compared to these; you must make
allowance for that."
"Yes, Sir, I do; but I like the civilized times best."
"What do you think of this fellow over here what's his name?
whose monument I was showing you Nelson!"
"I used to like him very much, Sir."
"And you do not now?"
"Yes, Sir, I do; I cannot help liking him."
"That is to say, you would if you could?"
"I don't think, Sir, I ought to like a man merely for being
great, unless he was good. Washington was great and good
both."
"Well, what is the matter with Nelson?" said Mr. Lindsay, with
an expression of intense amusement; "I 'used to think,' as you
would say, that he was a very noble fellow."
"So he was, Sir; but he wasn't a good man."
"Why not?"
"Why, you know, Sir, he left his wife; and Lady Hamilton
persuaded him to do one or two other very dishonourable
things; it was a great pity!"
"So you will not like any great man that is not good as well.
What is your definition of a good man, Ellen?"
"One who always does right because it is right, no matter
whether it is convenient or not," said Ellen, after a little
hesitation.
"Upon my word, you draw the line close. But opinions differ as
to what is right; how shall we know?"
"From the Bible, Sir," said Ellen, quickly, with a look that
half-amused and half-abashed him.
"And you, Ellen are you yourself _good_ after this nice
fashion?"
"No, Sir; but I wish to be."
"I do believe that. But after all, Ellen, you might like
Nelson; those were only the spots in the sun."
"Yes, Sir; but can a man be a truly great man who is not
master of himself?"
"That is an excellent remark."
"It is not mine, Sir," said Ellen, blushing; "it was told me;
I did not find out all that about Nelson, myself; I did not
see it all the first time I read his life; I thought he was
perfect."
"I know who _I_ think is," said Mr. Lindsay, kissing her.
They drove now to his house in George street. Mr. Lindsay had
some business to attend to, and would leave her there for an
hour or two. And that their fast might not be too long
unbroken, Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, was directed to furnish
them with some biscuits in the library, whither Mr. Lindsay
led Ellen.
She liked the looks of it very much. Plenty of books; old
looking comfortable furniture; pleasant light; all manner of
etceteras around which rejoiced Ellen's heart. Mr. Lindsay
noticed her pleased glance passing from one thing to another.
He placed her in a deep easy-chair, took off her bonnet and
threw it on the sofa, and kissing her fondly, asked her if she
felt at home. "Not yet," Ellen said; but her look said it
would not take long to make her do so. She sat enjoying her
rest, and munching her biscuit with great appetite and
satisfaction, when Mr. Lindsay poured her out a glass of sweet
wine.
That glass of wine looked to Ellen like an enemy marching up
to attack her. Because Alice and John did not drink it, she
had always at first, without other reason, done the same; and
she was determined not to forsake their example now. She took
no notice of the glass of wine, though she had ceased to see
anything else in the room, and went on, seemingly as before,
eating her biscuit, though she no longer knew how it tasted.
"Why don't you drink your wine, Ellen?"
"I do not wish any, Sir."
"Don't you like it?"
"I don't know, Sir; I have never drunk any."
"No! Taste it and see."
"I would rather not, Sir, if you please. I don't care for it."
"Taste it, Ellen!"
This command was not to be disobeyed. The blood rushed to
Ellen's temples as she just touched the glass to her lips, and
set it down again.
"Well?" said Mr. Lindsay.
"What, Sir?"
"How do you like it?"
"I like it very well, Sir, but I would rather not drink it."
"Why?"
Ellen coloured again at this exceedingly daring question, and
answered as well as she could, that she had never been
accustomed to it, and would rather not.
"It is of no sort of consequence what you have been accustomed
to," said Mr. Lindsay. "You are to drink it all, Ellen."
Ellen dared not disobey. When the biscuits and wine were
disposed of, Mr. Lindsay drew her close to his side, and
encircling her fondly with his arms, said
"I shall leave you now for an hour or two, and you must amuse
yourself as you can. The bookcases are open perhaps you can
find something there; or there are prints in those portfolios;
or you can go over to the house and make yourself acquainted
with your new home. If you want anything, ask Mrs. Allen. Does
it look pleasant to you?"
"Very," Ellen said.
"You are at home here, daughter; go where you will, and do
what you will. I shall not leave you long. But before I go,
Ellen, let me hear you call me father."
Ellen obeyed, trembling, for it seemed to her that it was to
set her hand and seal to the deed of gift her father and
mother had made. But there was no retreat it was spoken
and Mr. Lindsay, folding her close in his arms kissed her
again and again.
"Never let me hear you call me anything else, Ellen. You are
mine own now my own child my own little daughter. You
shall do just what pleases me in everything, and let by-gones
be by-gones. And now lie down there and rest daughter; you are
trembling from head to foot: rest and amuse yourself in any
way you like till I return."
He left the room.
"I have done it now!" thought Ellen, as she sat in the corner
of the sofa, where Mr. Lindsay had tenderly placed her; "I
have called him my father; I am bound to obey him after this.
I wonder what in the world they will make me do next. If he
chooses to make me drink wine every day, I must do it! I
cannot help myself. That is only a little matter. But what if
they were to want me to do something wrong? they might; John
never did I could not have disobeyed _him_, possibly! but I
could them, if it was necessary and if it is necessary, I
will! I should have a dreadful time I wonder if I could go
through with it. Oh yes, I could, if it was right; and
besides, I would rather bear anything in the world from them
than have John displeased with me a great deal rather! But
perhaps after all they will not want anything wrong of me. I
wonder if this is really to be my home always, and if I shall
never get home again! John will not leave me here! But I
don't see how in the world he can help it, for my father and
my mother, and I myself I know what he would tell me if he
was here, and I'll try to do it. God will take care of me if I
follow him: it is none of my business."
Simply and heartily commending her interests to his keeping,
Ellen tried to lay aside the care of herself. She went on
musing; how very different and how much greater her enjoyment
would have been that day if John had been with her! Mr.
Lindsay, to be sure, had answered her questions with abundant
kindness and sufficient ability; but his answers did not, as
those of her brother often did, skilfully draw her on from one
thing to another, till a train of thought was opened, which at
the setting out she never dreamed of; and along with the joy
of acquiring new knowledge, she had the pleasure of
discovering new fields of it to be explored, and the delight
of the felt exercise and enlargement of her own powers, which
were sure to be actively called into play. Mr. Lindsay told
her what she asked, and there left her. Ellen found herself
growing melancholy over the comparison she was drawing, and
wisely went to the book-cases to divert her thoughts. Finding
presently a history of Scotland, she took it down, resolving
to refresh her memory on a subject which had gained such new
and strange interest for her. Before long, however, fatigue
and the wine she had drunk effectually got the better of
studious thoughts; she stretched herself on the sofa and fell
asleep.
There Mr. Lindsay found her a couple of hours afterwards,
under the guard of the housekeeper.
"I cam in, Sir," she said, whispering "it's mair than an
hour back, and she's been sleeping just like a babby ever
syne; she hasna stirred a finger. O, Mr. Lindsay, it's a bonny
bairn, and a gude. What a blessing to the house!"
"You're about right there, I believe, Maggie; but how have you
learned it so fast?"
"I canna be mista'en, Mr. George; I ken it as weel as if we
had a year auld acquentance; I ken it by thae sweet mouth and
een, and by the look she gied me when you tauld her, Sir, I
had been in the house near as lang's yoursel. An' look at her
eenow. There's heaven's peace within, I'm a'maist assured."
The kiss that wakened Ellen found her in the midst of a dream.
She thought that John was a king of Scotland, and standing
before her in regal attire. She offered him, she thought, a
glass of wine; but, raising the sword of state, silver
scabbard and all, he with a tremendous swing of it, dashed the
glass out of her hands; and then, as she stood abashed, he
went forward with one of his old grave kind looks to kiss her.
As the kiss touched her lips, Ellen opened her eyes, to find
her brother transformed into Mr. Lindsay, and the empty glass
standing safe and sound upon the table.
"You must have had a pleasant nap," said Mr. Lindsay; "you
wake up smiling. Come make haste I have left a friend in
the carriage. Bring your book along if you want it."
The presence of the stranger, who was going down to spend a
day or two at "the Braes," prevented Ellen from having any
talking to do. Comfortably placed in the corner of the front
seat of the barouche, leaning on the elbow of the carriage,
she was left to her own musings. She could hardly realize the
change in her circumstances. The carriage rolling fast and
smoothly on the two gentlemen opposite to her, one her
father! the strange, varied, beautiful scenes they were
flitting by the long shadows made by the descending sun the
cool evening air Ellen, leaning back in the wide easy seat,
felt as if she were in a dream. It was singularly pleasant;
she could not help but enjoy it all very much; and yet it
seemed to her as if she were caught in a net from which she
had no power to get free; and she longed to clasp that hand
that could, she thought, draw her whence and whither it
pleased. "But Mr. Lindsay, opposite! I have called him my
father I have given myself to him," she thought; "but I gave
myself to somebody else first; I can't undo that and I never
will!" Again she tried to quiet and resign the care of herself
to better wisdom and greater strength than her own. "This may
all be arranged easily in some way I could never dream of,"
she said to herself; "I have no business to be uneasy. Two
months ago, and I was quietly at home, and seemed to be fixed
there for ever; and now, and without anything extraordinary
happening, here I am just as fixed. Yes, and before that, at
Aunt Fortune's, it didn't seem possible that I could ever get
away from being her child; and yet how easily all that was
managed. And just so, in some way that I cannot imagine,
things may open so as to let me out smoothly from this." She
resolved to be patient, and take thankfully what she at
present had to enjoy; and in this mood of mind, the drive home
was beautiful; and the evening was happily absorbed in the
history of Scotland.
It was a grave question in the family that same evening,
whether Ellen should be sent to school. Lady Keith was decided
in favour of it; her mother seemed doubtful; Mr. Lindsay, who
had a vision of the little figure lying asleep on his library
sofa, thought the room had never looked so cheerful before,
and had near made up his mind that she should be its constant
adornment the coming winter. Lady Keith urged the school plan.
"Not a boarding-school," said Mrs. Lindsay; "I will not hear
of that."
"No, but a day-school; it would do her a vast deal of good, I
am certain; her notions want shaking up very much. And I never
saw a child of her age so much a child."
"I assure you I never saw one so much a woman. She has asked
me to-day, I suppose," said he, smiling, "a hundred questions
or less; and I assure you there was not one foolish or vain
one among them; not one that was not sensible, and most of
them singularly so."
"She was greatly pleased with her day," said Mrs. Lindsay.
"I never saw such a baby face in my life," said Lady Keith,
"in a child of her years."
"It is a face of uncommon intelligence!" said her brother.
"It is both," said Mrs. Lindsay.
"I was struck with it the other day," said Lady Keith "the
day she slept so long upon the sofa upstairs, after she was
dressed; she had been crying about something, and her
eyelashes were wet still, and she had that curious, grave,
innocent look you only see in infants; you might have thought
she was fourteen months instead of fourteen years old;
fourteen and a half, she says she is."
"Crying?" said Mr. Lindsay, "What was the matter?"
"Nothing," said Mrs. Lindsay, "but that she had been obliged
to submit to me in something that did not please her."
"Did she give you any cause of displeasure?"
"No; though I can see she has strong passions. But she is the
first child I ever saw, that I think I could not get angry
with."
"Mother's heart half misgave her, I believe," said Lady Keith,
laughing; "she sat there looking at her for an hour."
"She seems to me perfectly gentle and submissive," said Mr.
Lindsay.
"Yes, but don't trust too much to appearances," said his
sister. "If she is not a true Lindsay, after all, I am
mistaken. Did you see her colour once or twice this morning
when something was said that did not please her?"
"You can judge nothing from that," said Mr. Lindsay; "she
colours at everything. You should have seen her to-day when I
told her I would take her to Bannockburn."
"Ah, she has got the right side of you, brother; you will be
able to discern no faults in her presently."
"She has used no arts for it, sister; she is a straightforward
little hussy, and that is one thing I like about her; though I
was as near as possible being provoked with her once or twice
to-day. There is only one thing I wish was altered she has
her head filled with strange notions absurd for a child of
her age I don't know what I shall do to get rid of them."
After some more conversation, it was decided that school would
be the best thing for this end, and half decided that Ellen
should go.
But this half-decision Mr. Lindsay found it very difficult to
keep to, and circumstances soon destroyed it entirely. Company
was constantly coming and going at "the Braes," and much of it
a kind that Ellen exceedingly liked to see and hear;
intelligent, cultivated, well-informed people, whose
conversation was highly agreeable and always useful to her.
Ellen had nothing to do with the talking, so she made good use
of her ears.
One evening Mr. Lindsay, a M. Villars, and M. Muller, a Swiss
gentleman and a noted man of science, very much at home in Mr.
Lindsay's house, were carrying on, in French, a conversation,
in which the two foreigners took part against their host. M.
Villars began with talking about Lafayette; from him they went
to the American revolution and Washington, and from them to
other patriots and other republics, ancient and modern MM.
Villars and Muller taking the side of freedom, and pressing
Mr. Lindsay hard with argument, authority, example, and
historical testimony. Ellen, as usual, was fast by his side,
and delighted to see that he could by no means make good his
ground. The ladies at the other end of the room would several
times have drawn her away, but happily for her, and also, as
usual, Mr. Lindsay's arm was around her shoulders, and she was
left in quiet to listen. The conversation was very lively, and
on a subject very interesting to her; for America had always
been a darling theme; Scottish struggles for freedom were
fresh in her mind; her attention had long ago been called to
Switzerland and its history by Alice and Mrs. Vawse, and
French history had formed a good part of her last winter's
reading. She listened with the most eager delight, too much
engrossed to notice the good-humoured glances that were every
now and then given her by one of the speakers. Not Mr.
Lindsay, though his hand was upon her shoulder, or playing
with the light curls that fell over her temples; _he_ did not
see that her face was flushed with interest, or notice the
quick smile and sparkle of the eye that followed every turn in
the conversation that favoured her wishes, or foiled his; it
was M. Muller. They came to the Swiss, and their famous
struggle for freedom against Austrian oppression. M. Muller
wished to speak of the noted battle in which that freedom was
made sure, but for the moment its name had escaped him.
"Par ma foi," said M. Villars, "il m'a entièrement passé!"
Mr. Lindsay would not or could not help him out. But M. Muller
suddenly turned to Ellen, in whose face he thought he saw a
look of intelligence, and begged of her the missing name.
"Est-ce, Morgarten, Monsieur?" said Ellen, blushing.
"Morgarten! c'est ça!" said he with a polite pleased bow of
thanks. Mr. Lindsay was little less astonished than the Duke
of Argyle, when his gardener claimed to be the owner of a
Latin work on mathematics.
The conversation presently took a new turn with M. Villars;
and M. Muller withdrawing from it, addressed himself to Ellen.
He was a pleasant-looking elderly gentleman; she had never
seen him before that evening.
"You know French well, then?" said he, speaking to her in that
tongue.
"I don't know, Sir," said Ellen, modestly.
"And you have heard of the Swiss mountaineers?"
"Oh yes, Sir; a great deal."
He opened his watch and showed her in the back of it an
exquisite little painting, asking her if she knew what it was.
"It is an Alpine chalet, is it not, Sir?"
He was pleased, and went on, always in French, to tell Ellen
that Switzerland was his country; and drawing a little aside
from the other talkers, he entered into a long, and to her
most delightful conversation. In the pleasantest manner he
gave her a vast deal of very entertaining detail about the
country, and the manners and habits of the people of the Alps,
especially in the Tyrol, where he had often travelled. It
would have been hard to tell whether the child had most
pleasure in receiving, or the man of deep study and science
most pleasure in giving, all manner of information. He saw, he
said, that she was very fond of the heroes of freedom, and
asked if she had ever heard of Andrew Hofer, the Tyrolese
peasant, who had led on his brethren in their noble endeavours
to rid themselves of French and Bavarian oppression. Ellen had
never heard of him.
"You know William Tell?"
"Oh yes," Ellen said; "she knew him."
"And Bonaparte?"
"Yes, very well."
He went on then to give her, in a very interesting way the
history of Hofer; how when Napoleon made over his country to
the rule of the king of Bavaria, who oppressed them, they rose
in mass, overcame army after army that were sent against them
in their mountain fastnesses, and freed themselves from the
hated Bavarian government; how, years after, Napoleon was at
last too strong for them; Hofer and his companions defeated,
hunted like wild beasts, shot down like them; how Hofer was at
last betrayed by a friend, taken and executed, being only seen
to weep at parting with his family. The beautiful story was
well told, and the speaker was animated by the eager, deep
attention and sympathy of his auditor, whose changing colour,
smiles, and even tears, showed how well she entered into the
feelings of the patriots in their struggle, triumph, and
downfall; till, as he finished, she was left full of pity for
them and hatred for Napoleon. They talked of the Alps again.
M. Muller put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a little
painting in mosaic to show her, which he said had been given
him that day. It was a beautiful piece of pietra-dura work
Mont Blanc. He assured her the mountain often looked exactly
so. Ellen admired it very much. It was meant to be set for a
brooch, or some such thing, he said, and he asked if she would
keep it and sometimes wear it, to "remember the Swiss, and to
do him a pleasure."
"Moi, Monsieur!" said Ellen, colouring high with surprise and
pleasure, "je suis bien obligée; mais, Monsieur, je ne saurais
vous remercier?"
He would count himself well paid, he said, with a single touch
of her lips.
"Tenez, Monsieur!" said Ellen, blushing, but smiling, and
tendering back the mosaic.
He laughed, and bowed, and begged her pardon, and said she
must keep it to assure him that she had forgiven him; and then
he asked by what name he might remember her.
"Monsieur, je m'appelle Ellen M "
She stopped short, in utter and blank uncertainty what to call
herself; Montgomery she dared not; Lindsay stuck in her
throat,
"Have you forgotten it?" said M. Muller, amused at her look,
"or is it a secret?"
"Tell M. Muller your name, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay, turning
round from a group where he was standing at a little distance.
The tone was stern and displeased. Ellen felt it keenly, and
with difficulty and some hesitation still, murmured
"Ellen Lindsay."
"Lindsay! Are you the daughter of my friend Mr. Lindsay?"
Again Ellen hesitated, in great doubt how to answer, but
finally, not without starting tears, said
"Oui, Monsieur."
"Your memory is bad to-night," said Mr. Lindsay, in her ear;
"you had better go where you can refresh it."
Ellen took this as a hint to leave the room, which she did
immediately, not a little hurt at the displeasure she did not
think she had deserved; she loved Mr. Lindsay the best of all
her relations, and really loved him. She went to bed and to
sleep again that night with wet eyelashes.
Meanwhile M. Muller was gratifying Mr. Lindsay in a high
degree by the praises he bestowed upon his daughter, her
intelligence, her manners, her modesty, and her _French_. He
asked if she was to be in Edinburgh that winter, and whether
she would be at school; and Mr. Lindsay declaring himself
undecided on the latter point, M. Muller said he should be
pleased, if she had leisure, to have her come to his rooms two
or three times a week to read with him. This offer, from a
person of M. Muller's standing and studious habits, Mr.
Lindsay justly took as both a great compliment and a great
promise of advantage to Ellen. He at once and with much
pleasure accepted it. So the qiestion of school was settled.
Ellen resolved the next morning to lose no time in making up
her difference with Mr. Lindsay, and schooled herself to use a
form of words that she thought would please him. Pride said,
indeed, "Do no such thing; don't go to making acknowledgements
when you have not been in the wrong; you are not bound to
humble yourself before unjust displeasure." Pride pleaded
powerfully. But neither Ellen's heart not her conscience would
permit her to take this advice. "He loves me very much." she
thought, "and perhaps he did not understand me last night; and
besides, I owe him yes, I do! a child's obedience now. I
ought not to leave him displeased with me a moment longer than
I can help. And besides, I couldn't be happy so. God gives
grace to the humble; I will humble myself."
To have a chance for executing this determination, she went
down-stairs a good deal earlier than usual; she knew Mr.
Lindsay was generally there before the rest of the family, and
she hoped to see him alone. It was too soon even for him,
however; the rooms were empty; so Ellen took her book from the
table, and being perfectly at peace with herself, sat down in
the window, and was presently lost in the interest of what she
was reading. She did not know of Mr. Lindsay's approach till a
little imperative tap on her shoulder startled her.
"What were you thinking of last night? what made you answer M.
Muller in the way you did?"
Ellen started up, but to utter her prepared speech was no
longer possible.
"I did not know what to say," she said, looking down.
"What do you mean by that?" said he, angrily. "Didn't you know
what I wished you to say?"
"Yes but do not speak to me in that way!" exclaimed Ellen,
covering her face with her hands. Pride struggled to keep back
the tears that wanted to flow.
"I shall choose my own method of speaking. Why did you not say
what you knew I wished you to say?"
"I was afraid I didn't know but he would think what wasn't
true."
"That is precisely what I wish him and all the world to think.
I will have no difference made, Ellen, either by them or by
you. Now lift up your head and listen to me," said he, taking
both her hands. "I lay my commands upon you, whenever the like
questions may be asked again, that you answer simply according
to what I have told you, without any explanation or addition.
It is true, and if people draw conclusions that are not true,
it is what I wish. Do you understand me?"
Ellen bowed.
"Will you obey me?"
She answered again in the same mute way.
He ceased to hold her at arms length, and sitting down in her
chair drew her close to him, saying more kindly
"You must not displease me, Ellen."
"I had no thought of displeasing you, Sir," said Ellen,
bursting into tears; "and I was very sorry for it last night.
I did not mean to disobey you; I only hesitated."
"Hesitate no more. My commands may serve to remove the cause
of it. You are my daughter, Ellen, and I am your father. Poor
child," said he, for Ellen was violently agitated; "I don't
believe I shall have much difficulty with you."
"If you will only not speak and look at me so," said Ellen;
"it makes me very unhappy."
"Hush!" said he, kissing her; "do not give me occasion."
"I did not give you occasion, Sir?"
"Why, Ellen!" said Mr. Lindsay, half-displeased again, "I
shall begin to think your aunt Keith is right, that you are a
true Lindsay. But so am I, and I will have only obedience from
you, without either answering or argumenting."
"You shall," murmured Ellen. "But do not be displeased with
me, father."
Ellen had schooled herself to say that word; she knew it would
greatly please him; and she was not mistaken, though it was
spoken so low that his ears could but just catch it.
Displeasure was entirely overcome. He pressed her to his
heart, kissing her with great tenderness, and would not let
her go from his arms till he had seen her smile again; and
during all the day he was not willing to have her out of his
sight.
It would have been easy that morning for Ellen to have made a
breech between them that would not readily have been healed.
One word of humility had prevented it all, and fastened her
more firmly than ever in Mr. Lindsay's affection. She met with
nothing from him but tokens of great and tender fondness; and
Lady Keith told her mother apart that there would be no doing
anything with George; she saw he was getting bewitched with
that child.