Thought is free.
In a few weeks they moved to Edinburgh, where arrangements
were speedily made for giving Ellen every means of improvement
that masters and mistresses, books and instruments, could
afford.
The house in George street was large and pleasant. To Ellen's
great joy, a pretty little room opening from the first
landing-place of the private staircase was assigned for her
special use as a study and work-room, and fitted up nicely for
her with a small bookcase, a practising piano, and various
etceteras. Here her beloved desk took its place on a table in
the middle of the floor, where Ellen thought she would make
many a new drawing when she was by herself. Her work-box was
accommodated with a smaller stand near the window. A glass
door at one end of the room opened upon a small iron balcony;
this door and balcony Ellen esteemed a very particular
treasure. With marvellous satisfaction she arranged and
arranged her little sanctum till she had all things to her
mind, and it only wanted, she thought, a glass of flowers. "I
will have that, too, some of these days," she said to herself;
and resolved to deserve her pretty room by being very busy
there. It was hers alone, open indeed to her friends when they
chose to keep her company; but lessons were taken elsewhere
in the library, or the music-room, or more frequently her
grandmother's dressing-room. Wherever, or whatever, Mrs.
Lindsay or Lady Keith was always present.
Ellen was the plaything, pride, and delight of the whole
family. Not so much, however, Lady Keith's plaything as her
pride; while pride had a less share in the affection of the
other two, or rather, perhaps, was more over-topped by it.
Ellen felt, however, that all their hearts were set upon her,
felt it gratefully, and determined she would give them all the
pleasure she possibly could. Her love for other friends,
friends that they knew nothing of, American friends, was, she
knew, the sore point with them; she resolved not to speak of
any of those friends, nor allude to them, especially in any
way that should show how much of her heart was out of
Scotland. But this wise resolution it was very hard for poor
Ellen to keep. She was unaccustomed to concealments; and in
ways that she could neither foresee nor prevent, the unwelcome
truth would come up, and the sore was not healed.
One day Ellen had a headache and was sent to lie down. Alone,
and quietly stretched out on her bed, very naturally Ellen's
thoughts went back to the last time she had a headache at
home, as she always called it to herself. She recalled with a
straitened heart the gentle and tender manner of John's care
for her; how nicely he had placed her on the sofa; how he sat
by her side bathing her temples, or laying his cool hand on
her forehead, and once, she remembered, his lips. "I wonder,"
thought Ellen, "what I ever did to make him love me so much,
as I know he does!" She remembered how, when she was able to
listen, he still sat beside her, talking such sweet words of
kindness, and comfort, and amusement, that she almost loved to
be sick to have such tending, and looked up at him as at an
angel. She felt it all over again. Unfortunately, after she
had fallen asleep, Mrs. Lindsay came in to see how she was,
and two tears, the last pair of them, were slowly making their
way down her cheeks. Her grandmother saw them, and did not
rest till she knew the cause. Ellen was extremely sorry to
tell, she did her best to get off from it, but she did not
know how to evade questions; and those that were put to her
indeed admitted of no evasion.
A few days later, just after they came to Edinburgh, it was
remarked one morning at breakfast that Ellen was very
straight, and carried herself well.
"It is no thanks to me," said Ellen, smiling, "they never
would let me hold myself ill."
"Who is 'they'?" said Lady Keith.
"My brother and sister."
"I wish, George," said Lady Keith, discontentedly, "that you
would lay your commands upon Ellen to use that form of
expression no more. My ears are absolutely sick of it."
"You do not hear it very often, aunt Keith," Ellen could not
help saying.
"Quite often enough; and I know it is upon your lips a
thousand times when you do not speak it."
"And if Ellen does, we do not," said Mrs. Lindsay, "wish to
claim kindred with all the world."
"How came you to take up such an absurd habit?" said Lady
Keith. "It isn't like you."
"They took it up first," said Ellen; "I was too glad "
"Yes, I dare say they had their reasons for taking it up,"
said her aunt; "they had acted from interested motives, I have
no doubt; people always do."
"You are very much mistaken, aunt Keith," said Ellen, with
uncontrollable feeling; "you do not in the least know what you
are talking about!"
Instantly, Mr. Lindsay's fingers tapped her lips. Ellen
coloured painfully, but after an instant's hesitation she said
"I beg your pardon, Aunt Keith, I should not have said that."
"Very well!" said Mr. Lindsay. "But understand, Ellen, however
you may have taken it up this habit you will lay it down
for the future. Let us hear no more of brothers and sisters. I
cannot, as your Grandmother says, fraternize with all the
world, especially with unknown relations."
"I am very glad you have made that regulation," said Mrs.
Lindsay.
"I cannot conceive how Ellen has got such a way of it," said
Lady Keith.
"It is very natural," said Ellen, with some huskiness of
voice, "that I should say so, because I feel so."
"You do not mean to say," said Mr. Lindsay, "that this Mr. and
Miss Somebody these people I don't know their names "
"There is only one now, Sir."
"This person you call your brother do you mean to say you
have the same regard for him as if he had been born so?"
"No," said Ellen, with cheek and eye suddenly firing, "but a
thousand times more!"
She was exceedingly sorry the next minute after she had said
this, for she knew it had given both pain and displeasure in a
great degree. No answer was made. Ellen dared not look at
anybody, and needed not; she wished the silence might be
broken; but nothing was heard except a low "whew!" from Mr.
Lindsay, till he rose up and left the room. Ellen was sure he
was very much displeased. Even the ladies were too much
offended to speak on the subject; and she was merely bade to
go to her room. She went there, and sitting down on the floor,
covered her face with her hands. "What shall I do? what shall
I do?" she said to herself, "I never shall govern this tongue
of mine. Oh, I wish I had not said that! they will never
forgive it. What can I do to make them pleased with me again?
Shall I go to my father's study and beg him but I can't ask
him to forgive me I haven't done wrong I can't unsay what
I said. I can do nothing. I can only go in the way of my duty,
and do the best I can, and maybe they will come round again.
But, oh dear!"
A flood of tears followed this resolution.
Ellen kept it; she tried to be blameless in all her work and
behaviour, but she sorrowfully felt that her friends did not
forgive her. There was a cool air of displeasure about all
they said and did; the hand of fondness was not laid upon her
shoulder, she was not wrapped in loving arms, as she used to
be a dozen times a day: no kisses fell on her brow or lips.
Ellen felt it, more from Mr. Lindsay than both the others; her
spirits sunk; she had been forbidden to speak of her absent
friends, but that was not the way to make her forget them; and
there was scarce a minute in the day when her brother was not
present to her thoughts.
Sunday came her first Sunday in Edinburgh. All went to
church in the morning; in the afternoon Ellen found that
nobody was going; her grandmother was lying down. She asked
permission to go alone.
"Do you want to go because you think you must, or for
pleasure?" said Mrs. Lindsay.
"For pleasure," said Ellen's tongue and her opening eyes at
the same time.
"You may go."
With eager delight Ellen got ready, and was hastening along
the hall to the door, when she met Mr. Lindsay.
"Where are you going?"
"To church, Sir."
"Alone! what do you want to go for! No, no, I shan't let you.
Come in here I want you with me; you have been once to-day
already, haven't you? You do not want to go again?"
"I do indeed, Sir, very much," said Ellen, as she reluctantly
followed him into the library, "if you have no objection. You
know I have not seen Edinburgh yet."
"Edinburgh! that's true, so you haven't," said he, looking at
her discomfited face. "Well, go, if you want to go so much."
Ellen got as far as the hall door, no further; she rushed back
to the library.
"I did not say right when I said that," she burst forth; "that
was not the reason I wanted to go. I will stay, if you wish
me, Sir."
"I don't wish it," said, he in surprise; "I don't know what
you mean; I am willing you should go, if you like it. Away
with you! it is time."
Once more Ellen set out, but this time with a heart full
much too full to think of anything she saw by the way. It was
with a singular feeling of pleasure that she entered the
church alone. It was a strange church to her never seen but
once before; and as she softly passed up the broad aisle, she
saw nothing in the building or the people around her that was
not strange no familiar face, no familiar thing. But it was
a church, and she was alone, quite alone in the midst of that
crowd; and she went up to the empty pew and ensconced herself
in the far corner of it, with a curious feeling of quiet and
of being at home. She was no sooner seated, however, than,
leaning forward as much as possible to screen herself from
observation, bending her head upon her knees, she burst into
an agony of tears. It was a great relief to be able to weep
freely; at home she was afraid of being seen, or heard, or
questioned; now she was alone and free, and she poured out her
very heart in weeping, that she with difficulty kept from
being loud weeping.
"Oh, how could I say that! how could I say that! Oh, what
_would_ John have thought of me if he had heard it? Am I
beginning already to lose my truth? am I going backward
already? Oh, what shall I do! what will become of me if I do
not watch over myself; there is no one to help me or lead me
right not a single one all to lead me wrong! what will
become of me? But there is One who has promised to keep those
who follow him he is sufficient, without any others. I have
not kept near enough to him! that is it; I have not remembered
nor loved him. 'If ye love me, keep my commandments' I have
not! I have not! Oh, but I will! I will; and he will be with
me, and help me, and bless me, and all will go right with me."
With bitter tears Ellen mingled as eager prayers for
forgiveness and help to be faithful. She resolved that
nothing, come what would, should tempt her to swerve one iota
from the straight line of truth; she resolved to be more
careful of her private hour; she thought she had scarcely had
her full hour a day lately; she resolved to make the Bible her
only and her constant rule of life in everything: and she
prayed such prayers as a heart thoroughly in earnest can pray,
for the seal to these resolutions. Not one word of the sermon
did Ellen hear; but she never passed a more profitable hour in
church in her life.
_All_ her tears were not from the spring of these thoughts and
feelings; some were the pouring out of gathered sadness of the
week; some came from recollections, oh, how tender and strong!
of lost and distant friends. Her mother, and Alice, and Mr.
Humphreys, and Margery, and Mr. Van Brunt, and Mr. George
Marshman; and she longed, with longing that seemed as if it
would have burst her heart, to see her brother. She longed for
the pleasant voice, the eye of thousand expressions, into
which she always looked as if she had never seen it before,
the calm look that told he was satisfied with her, the touch
of his hand, which many a time had said a volume. Ellen
thought she would give anything in the world to see him and
hear him speak one word. As this could not be, she resolved
with the greatest care to do what would please him; that when
she did see him, he might find her all he wished.
She had wept herself out; she had been refreshed and
strengthened herself by fleeing to the stronghold of the
prisoners of hope; and when the last hymn was given out, she
raised her head and took the book to find it. To her great
surprise, she saw Mr. Lindsay sitting at the other end of the
pew, with folded arms, like a man not thinking of what was
going on around him. Ellen was startled, but obeying the
instinct that told her what he would like, she immediately
moved down the pew and stood beside him while the last hymn
was singing; and if Ellen had joined in no other part of the
service that afternoon, she at least did in that with all her
heart. They walked home then without a word on either side.
Mr. Lindsay did not quit her hand till he had drawn her into
the library. There he threw off her bonnet and wrappers, and
taking her in his arms, exclaimed
"My poor little darling! what was the matter with you this
afternoon?"
There was so much kindness again in his tone, that, overjoyed,
Ellen eagerly returned his caress, and assured him that there
was nothing the matter with her now.
"Nothing the matter!" said he, tenderly pressing her face
against his own, "nothing the matter! with these pale cheeks
and wet eyes! nothing now, Ellen?"
"Only that I am so glad to hear you speak kindly to me again,
Sir."
"Kindly! I will never speak any other way but kindly to you,
daughter. Come! I will not have any more tears you have shed
enough for to-day, I am sure; lift up your face, and I will
kiss them away. What was the matter with you, my child?"
But he had to wait a little while for an answer.
"What was it, Ellen?"
"One thing," said Ellen, "I was sorry for what I had said to
you, Sir, just before I went out."
"What was that? I do not remember anything that deserved to be
a cause of grief."
"I told you, Sir, when I wanted you to let me go to church,
that I hadn't seen Edinburgh yet."
"Well?"
"Well, Sir, that wasn't being quite true; and I was very sorry
for it."
"Not true? Yes, it was; what do you mean? you had _not_ seen
Edinburgh."
"No, Sir; but I mean _that_ was true; but I said it to make
you believe what wasn't true."
"How?"
"I meant you to think, Sir, that that was the reason why I
wanted to go to church to see the city and the new sights;
and it wasn't at all."
"What was it then?"
Ellen hesitated.
"I always love to go, Sir; and, besides, I believe I wanted to
be alone."
"And you were not, after all," said Mr. Lindsay, again
pressing her cheek to his, "for I followed you there. But,
Ellen, my child, you were troubled without reason; you had
said nothing that was false."
"Ah, Sir, but I had made you believe what was false."
"Upon my word," said Mr. Lindsay, "you are a nice reasoner.
And are you always true upon this close scale?"
"I wish I was, Sir; but you see I am not. I am sure I hate
everything else!"
"Well, I will not quarrel with you for being true," said Mr.
Lindsay; "I wish there was a little more of it in the world.
Was this the cause of all those tears this afternoon?"
"No, Sir not all."
"What beside, Ellen?"
Ellen looked down, and was silent.
"Come, I must know."
"Must I tell you all, Sir?"
"You must, indeed," said he, smiling; "I will have the whole,
daughter."
"I had been feeling very sorry all the week, because you, and
grandmother, and aunt Keith, were displeased with me."
Again Mr. Lindsay's silent caress, in its tenderness, seemed
to say she should never have the same complaint to make again.
"Was that all, Ellen?" as she hesitated.
"No, Sir."
"Well?"
"I wish you wouldn't ask me further; please do not. I shall
displease you again."
"I will not be displeased."
"I was thinking of Mr. Humphreys," said Ellen, in a low tone.
"Who is that?"
"You know, Sir; you say I must not call him "
"What were you thinking of him?"
"I was wishing very much I could see him again."
"Well, you _are_ a truth-teller," said Mr. Lindsay, "or bolder
than I think you."
"You said you would not be displeased, Sir."
"Neither will I, daughter; but what shall I do to make you
forget these people?"
"Nothing, Sir; I cannot forget them; I shouldn't deserve to
have you love me a bit if I could. Let me love them, and do
not be angry with me for it."
"But I am not satisfied to have your body here, and your heart
somewhere else."
I must have a poor little kind of heart," said Ellen, smiling
amidst her tears, "if I had room in it for only one person."
"Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay, inquisitively, "did you _insinuate_ a
falsehood there?"
"No, Sir."
"There is honesty in those eyes," said he, "if there is
honesty anywhere in the world. I am satisfied, that is, half
satisfied. Now lie there, my little daughter, and rest," said
he, laying her upon the sofa; "you look as if you needed it."
"I don't need anything now," said Ellen, as she laid her cheek
upon the grateful pillow, "except one thing if grandmother
would only forgive me too."
"You must try not to offend your grandmother, Ellen, for she
does not very readily forgive; but I think we can arrange this
matter. Go you to sleep."
"I wonder," said Ellen, smiling as she closed her eyes, "why
everybody calls me 'little;' I don't think I am very little.
Everybody says 'little.' "
Mr. Lindsay thought he understood it, when a few minutes after
he sat watching her as she really had fallen asleep. The
innocent brow, the perfect sweet calm of the face, seemed to
belong to much younger years. Even Mr. Lindsay could not help
recollecting the housekeeper's comment "Heaven's peace
within;" scarcely Ellen's own mother ever watched over her
with more fond tenderness than her adopted father did now.
For several days after this he would hardly permit her to
leave him. He made her bring her books and study where he was,
he went out and came in with her, and kept her by his side
whenever they joined the rest of the family at meals or in the
evening. Whether Mr. Lindsay intended it or not, this soon had
the effect to abate the displeasure of his mother and sister.
Ellen was almost taken out of their hands, and they thought it
expedient not to let him have the whole of her. And though
Ellen could better bear their cold looks and words since she
had Mr. Lindsay's favour again, she was very glad when they
smiled upon her too, and went dancing about with quite a happy
face.
She was now very busy. She had masters for the piano and
singing and different branches of knowledge; she went to Mr.
Muller regularly twice a week; and soon her riding attendance
began. She had said no more on the subject, but went quietly,
hoping they would find out their mistake before long. Lady
Keith always accompanied her.
One day Ellen had ridden near her usual time, when a young
lady with whom she attended a German class came up to where
she was resting. This lady was several years older than Ellen,
but had taken a fancy to her.
"How finely you got on yesterday," said she, "making us all
ashamed. Ah, I guess M. Muller helped you."
"Yes," said Ellen, smiling, "he did help me a little; he
helped me with those troublesome pronunciations."
"With nothing else, I suppose! Ah, well, we must submit to be
stupid. How do you do today?"
"I am very tired, Miss Gordon."
"Tired! Oh, you're not used to it."
"No, it isn't that," said Ellen; "I _am_ used to it that is
the reason I am tired. I am accustomed to ride up and down the
country at any pace I like; and it is very tiresome to walk
stupidly round and round for an hour."
"But do you know how to manage a horse? I thought you were
only just beginning to learn."
"Oh, no, I have been learning this great while; only they
don't think I know how, and they have never seen me. Are you
just come, Miss Gordon?"
"Yes, and they are bringing out Sophronisbe for me do you
know Sophronisbe? Look, that light gray; isn't she beautiful?
she's the loveliest creature in the whole stud."
"O, I know!" said Ellen; "I saw you on her the other day; she
went charmingly. How long shall I be kept walking here, Miss
Gordon?"
"Why, I don't know; I should think they would find out. What
does De Courcy say to you?"
"O, he comes and looks at me, and says, 'Très bien très
bien,' and 'Allez comme ça,' and then he walks off."
"Well, I declare that is too bad," said Miss Gordon, laughing.
"Look here I've got a good thought in my head: suppose you
mount Sophronisbe in my place, without saying anything to
anybody, and let them see what you are up to. Can you trust
yourself? she's very spirited."
"I could trust myself," said Ellen; "but, thank you, I think I
had better not."
"Afraid?"
"No, not at all; but my aunt and father would not like it."
"Nonsense! how should they dislike it? There's no sort of
danger, you know. Come! I thought you sat wonderfully for a
beginner. I am surprised De Courcy hadn't better eyes. I guess
you have learned German before, Ellen? Come, will you?"
But Ellen declined, preferring her plodding walk round the
ring to any putting of herself forward. Presently Mr. Lindsay
came in. It was the first time he had been there. His eye soon
singled out Ellen.
"My daughter sits well," he remarked to the riding-master.
"A merveille! Mademoiselle Lindesay does ride
remarquablement pour une beginner qui ne fait que commencer.
Would it be possible that she has had no lessons before?"
"Why, yes, she has had lessons of what sort I don't know,"
said Mr. Lindsay, going up to Ellen. "How do you like it,
Ellen?"
"I don't like it at all, Sir."
"I thought you were so fond of riding."
"I don't call this riding, Sir."
"Ha! what _do_ you call riding? Here, M. De Courcy, won't you
have the goodness to put this young lady on another horse, and
see if she knows anything about handling him?"
"With great pleasure!" M. De Courcy would do anything that was
requested of him. Ellen was taken out of the ring of walkers
and mounted on a fine animal, and set by herself to have her
skill tried in as many various ways as M. De Courcy's
ingenuity could point out. Never did she bear herself more
erectly; never were her hand and her horse's mouth on nicer
terms of acquaintanceship; never, even to please her master,
had she so given her whole soul to the single business of
managing her horse and herself perfectly well. She knew, as
little as she cared, that a number of persons besides her
friends were standing to look at her. She thought of only two
people there, Mr. Lindsay and her aunt; and the riding-master,
as his opinions might affect theirs.
"C'est très bien c'est très bien," he muttered; "c'est
parfaitement, Monsieur, mademoiselle votre fille has had
good lessons; voilà qui est entièrement comme il faut."
"Assez bien," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling. "The little gipsy!"
"Mademoiselle," said the riding-master, as she paused before
them, "pourquoi, wherefore have you stopped in your canter
tantôt a little while ago et puis recommencé?"
"Monsieur, he led with the wrong foot."
"C'est ça justement!" he exclaimed.
"Have you practiced leaping, Ellen?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Try her, M. De Courcy. How high will you go, Ellen?"
"As high as you please, Sir," said Ellen, leaning over and
patting her horse's neck to hide her smile.
"How you look, child!" said Mr. Lindsay, in a pleased tone.
"So this is what you call riding?"
"It is a little more like it, Sir."
Ellen was tried with standing and running leaps, higher and
higher, till Mr. Lindsay would have no more of it; and M. De
Courcy assured him that his daughter had been taught by a very
accomplished rider, and there was little or nothing left for
him to do; "il n'y pouvoit plus;" but he should be very happy
to have her come there to practise, and show an example to his
pupils.
The very bright colour in Ellen's face as she heard this might
have been mistaken for the flush of gratified vanity: it was
nothing less. Not one word of this praise did she take to
herself, nor had she sought for herself; it was all for
somebody else; and perhaps so Lady Keith understood it, for
she looked rather discomfited. But Mr. Lindsay was exceedingly
pleased, and promised Ellen that as soon as the warm weather
came she'd have a horse, and rides to her heart's content.