Trials without.
Ellen might now have been in some danger of being spoiled
not, indeed, with over-indulgence, for that was not the temper
of the family but from finding herself a person of so much
consequence. She could not but feel that in the minds of every
one of her three friends she was the object of greatest
importance; their thoughts and care were principally occupied
with her. Even Lady Keith was perpetually watching,
superintending, and admonishing; though she every now and then
remarked, with a kind of surprise, that "really she scarcely
ever had to say anything to Ellen; she thought she must know
things by instinct." To Mr. Lindsay and his mother she was the
idol of life; and except when by chance her will might cross
theirs, she had what she wished, and did what she pleased.
But Ellen happily had two safeguards which effectually kept
her from pride and presumption.
One was her love for her brother, and longing remembrance of
him. There was no one to take his place, not indeed in her
affections, for that would have been impossible, but in the
daily course of her life. She missed him in everything. She
had abundance of kindness and fondness shown her, but the
_sympathy_ was wanting. She was talked _to_, but not _with_. No
one now knew always what she was thinking of, nor, if they did,
would patiently draw out her thoughts, canvas them, set them
right, or show them wrong. No one now could tell what she was
_feeling_, nor had the art sweetly, in a way she scarce knew
how, to do away with sadness, or dulness, or perverseness, and
leave her spirits clear and bright as the noonday. With all
the petting and fondness she had from her new friends, Ellen
felt alone. She was petted and fondled as a darling possession
a dear plaything a thing to be cared for, taught,
governed, disposed of, with the greatest affection and
delight; but John's was a higher style of kindness, that
entered into all her innermost feelings and wants; and his was
a higher style of authority, too, that reached where theirs
could never attain an authority Ellen always felt it utterly
impossible to dispute; it was sure to be exerted on the side
of what was right; and she could better have borne hard words
from Mr. Lindsay than a glance of her brother's eye. Ellen
made no objection to the imperativeness of her new guardians;
it seldom was called up so as to trouble her, and she was not
of late particularly fond of having her own way; but she
sometimes drew comparisons.
"I could not any sooner I could not as soon have disobeyed
John; and yet he never would have spoken to me as they do if I
had."
"Some pride perhaps?" she said, remembering Mr. Dundas's
words; "I should say a great deal, John isn't proud; and yet,
I don't know, he isn't proud as they are; I wish I knew what
kinds of pride are right and what wrong; he would tell me if
he was here."
"What are you in a 'brown study' about, Ellen?" said Mr.
Lindsay?
"I was thinking, Sir, about different kinds of pride; I wish I
knew the right from the wrong or is there any good kind?"
"All good, Ellen, all good," said Mr. Lindsay, "provided you
do not have too much of it."
"Would you like me to be proud, Sir?"
"Yes," said he, laughing and pinching her cheek, "as proud as
you like, if you only don't let me see any of it."
Not very satisfactory; but that was the way with the few
questions of any magnitude Ellen ventured to ask; she was
kissed and laughed at, called metaphysical or philosophical,
and dismissed with no light on the subject. She sighed for her
brother. The hours with M. Muller were the best substitute she
had; they were dearly prized by her, and, to say truth, by
him. He had no family, he lived alone; and the visits of his
docile and intelligent little pupil became very pleasant
breaks in the monotony of his home life. Truly kind-hearted
and benevolent, and a true lover of knowledge, he delighted to
impart it. Ellen soon found she might ask him as many
questions as she pleased, that were at all proper to the
subject they were upon; and he, amused and interested, was
equally able and willing to answer her. Often when not
particularly busy, he allowed her hour to become two.
Excellent hours for Ellen. M. Muller had made his proposition
to Mr. Lindsay, partly from grateful regard for him, and
partly to gratify the fancy he had taken to Ellen on account
of her simplicity, intelligence, and good manners. This latter
motive did not disappoint him. He grew very much attached to
his little pupil; an attachment which Ellen faithfully
returned, both in kind, and by every trifling service that it
could fall in her way to render him. Fine flowers and fruit,
that it was her special delight to carry to M. Muller; little
jobs of copying, or setting in order some disorderly matters
in his rooms, where he soon would trust her to do anything; or
a book from her father's library; and once or twice when he
was indisposed, reading to him, as she did by the hour
patiently, matters that could neither interest nor concern
her. On the whole, and with good reason, the days when they
were to meet were hailed with as much pleasure, perhaps, by M.
Muller as by Ellen herself.
Her other safeguard was the precious hour alone, which she had
promised John never to lose when she could help it. The only
time she could have was the early morning, before the rest of
the family were up. To this hour, and it was often more than
an hour, Ellen was faithful. Her little Bible was extremely
precious now; Ellen had never gone to it with a deeper sense
of need; and never did she find more comfort in being able to
disburden her heart in prayer of its load of cares and wishes.
Never more than now had she felt the preciousness of that
Friend who draws closer to his children the closer they draw
to him; she had never realized more the joy of having him to
go to. It was her special delight to pray for those loved ones
she could do nothing else for; it was a joy to think that He
who hears prayer is equally present with all his people, and
that though thousands of miles lie between the petitioner and
the petitioned-for, the breath of prayer may span the distance
and pour blessings on the far-off head. The burden of thoughts
and affections gathered during the twenty-three hours, was
laid down in the twenty-fourth; and Ellen could meet her
friends at the breakfast-table with a sunshiny face. Little
they thought where her heart had been, or where it had got its
sunshine.
But notwithstanding this, Ellen had too much to remember and
regret, than to be otherwise than sober, soberer than her
friends liked. They noticed with sorrow that the sunshine wore
off as the day rolled on; that though ready to smile upon
occasion, her face always settled again into a gravity they
thought altogether unsuitable. Mrs. Lindsay fancied she knew
the cause, and resolved to break it up.
From the first of Ellen's coming, her grandmother had taken
the entire charge of her toilet. Whatever Mrs. Lindsay's
notions in general might be as to the propriety of young girls
learning to take care of themselves, Ellen was much too
precious a plaything to be trusted to any other hands, even
her own. At eleven o'clock regularly every day she went to her
grandmother's dressing-room for a very elaborate bathing and
dressing; though not a very long one, for all Mrs. Lindsay's
were energetic. Now, without any hint as to the reason, she
was directed to come to her grandmother an hour before the
breakfast-time, to go through the course of cold-water,
sponging, and hair-gloving that Mrs. Lindsay was accustomed to
administer at eleven. Ellen heard in silence, and obeyed, but
made up her hour by rising earlier than usual, so as to have
it before going to her grandmother. It was a little difficult
at first, but she soon got into the habit of it, though the
mornings were dark and cold. After a while it chanced that
this came to Mrs. Lindsay's ears, and Ellen was told to come
to her as soon as she was out of bed in the morning.
"But Grandmother," said Ellen, "I am up a great while before
you; I should find you asleep; don't I come soon enough?"
"What do you get up so early for?"
"You know, Ma'am, I told you some time ago. I want some time
to myself."
"It is not good for you to be up so long before breakfast, and
in these cold mornings. Do not rise in future till I send for
you."
"But, Grandmother, that is the only time for me there isn't
an hour after breakfast that I can have regularly to myself;
and I cannot be happy if I do not have some time."
"Let it be as I said," said Mrs. Lindsay.
"Couldn't you let me come to you at eleven o'clock again,
Ma'am? do, Grandmother!"
Mrs. Lindsay touched her lips; a way of silencing her that
Ellen particularly disliked, and which both Mr. Lindsay and
his mother was accustomed to use.
She thought a great deal on the subject, and came soberly to
the conclusion that it was her duty to disobey. "I promised
John," she said to herself; "I will never break that promise!
I'll do anything rather. And besides, if I had not, it is just
as much my duty, a duty that no one here has a right to
command me against. I will do what I think right, come what
may."
She could not, without its coming to the knowledge of her
grandmother. A week or two after the former conversation, Mrs.
Lindsay made inquiries of Mason, her woman, who was obliged to
confess that Miss Ellen's light was always burning when she
went to call her.
"Ellen," said Mrs. Lindsay the same day, "have you obeyed me
in what I told you the other morning? about lying in bed till
you are sent for?"
"No, Ma'am."
"You are frank! to venture to tell me so. Why have you
disobeyed me?"
"Because, Grandmother, I thought it was right."
"You think it is right to disobey, do you?"
"Yes, Ma'am, if "
"If what?"
"I mean, Grandmother, there is One I must obey even before
you."
"If what?" repeated Mrs. Lindsay.
"Please do not ask me, Grandmother; I don't want to say that."
"Say it at once, Ellen."
"I think it is right to disobey if I am told to do what is
wrong," said Ellen, in a low voice.
"Are you to be the judge of right and wrong?"
"No, Ma'am."
"Who then?"
"The Bible."
"I do not know what is the reason," said Mrs. Lindsay, "that I
cannot be very angry with you. Ellen, I repeat the order I
gave you the other day. Promise me to obey."
"I cannot, Grandmother; I must have that hour; I cannot do
without it."
"So must I be obeyed, I assure you, Ellen. You will sleep in
my room henceforth."
Ellen heard her in despair; she did not know what to do.
_Appealing_ was not to be thought of. There was, as she said, no
time she could count upon after breakfast. During the whole
day and evening she was either busy with her studies or
masters, or in the company of her grandmother or Mr. Lindsay;
and if not there, liable to be called to them at any moment.
Her grandmother's expedient for increasing her cheerfulness
had marvellous ill success. Ellen drooped under the sense of
wrong, as well as the loss of her greatest comfort. For two
days she felt and looked forlorn; and smiling now seemed to be
a difficult matter. Mr. Lindsay happened to be remarkably busy
those two days, so that he did not notice what was going on.
At the end of them, however, in the evening, he called Ellen
to him, and whisperingly asked what was the matter.
"Nothing Sir," said Ellen, "only grandmother will not let me
do something I cannot be happy without doing."
"Is it one of the things you want to do because it is right,
whether it is convenient or not?" he asked, smiling. Ellen
could not smile.
"O, father," she whispered, putting her face close to his, "if
you would only get grandmother to let me do it!"
The words were spoken with a sob, and Mr. Lindsay felt her
warm tears upon his neck. He had, however, far too much
respect for his mother to say anything against her proceedings
while Ellen was present; he simply answered that she must do
whatever her grandmother said. But when Ellen had left the
room, which she did immediately, he took the matter up. Mrs.
Lindsay explained, and insisted that Ellen was spoiling
herself for life and the world by a set of dull religious
notions that were utterly unfit for a child; that she would
very soon get over thinking about her habit of morning prayer,
and would then do much better. Mr. Lindsay looked grave; but
with Ellen's tears yet wet upon his cheek, he could not
dismiss the matter so lightly, and persisted in desiring that
his mother should give up the point, which she utterly refused
to do.
Ellen, meanwhile, had fled to her own room. The moonlight was
quietly streaming in through the casement; it looked to her
like an old friend. She threw herself down on the floor, close
by the glass, and after some tears, which she could not help
shedding, she raised her head and looked thoughtfully out. It
was very seldom now that she had a chance of the kind; she was
rarely alone but when she was busy.
"I wonder if that same moon is this minute shining in at the
glass door at home? no, to be sure it can't this minute
what am I thinking of? but it was there, or will be there
let me see east west it was there some time this
morning, I suppose, looking right into our sitting-room. Oh,
moon, I wish I was in your place for once, to look in there
too! But it is all empty now there's nobody there Mr.
Humphreys would be in his study how lonely, how lonely he
must be! Oh, I wish I was back there with him! John isn't
there, though no matter, he will be and I could do so much
for Mr. Humphreys in the meanwhile. He must miss me. I wonder
where John is nobody writes to me; I should think some one
might; I wonder if I am ever to see them again. Oh, he will
come to see me surely before he goes home! but then he will
have to go away without me again I am fast now, fast enough
but oh! am I to be separated from them for ever! Well! I
shall see them in heaven!"
It was a "well" of bitter acquiescence, and washed down with
bitter tears.
"Is it my bonny Miss Ellen?" said the voice of the
housekeeper, coming softly in; "is my bairn sitting a' her
lane i' the dark? Why are ye no wi' the rest o' the folk, Miss
Ellen?"
"I like to be alone, Mrs. Allen, and the moon shines in here
nicely."
"Greeting!" exclaimed the old lady, drawing nearer, "I ken it
by the sound of your voice; greeting eenow! Are ye no weel,
Miss Ellen? What vexes my bairn? Oh, but your father would be
vexed an he kenned it!"
"Never mind, Mrs. Allen," said Ellen; "I shall get over it
directly; don't say anything about it."
"But I'm wae to see you," said the kind old woman, stooping
down and stroking the head that again Ellen had bowed on her
knees; "will ye no tell me what vexes ye? Ye suld be as blithe
as a bird the lang day."
"I can't, Mrs. Allen, while I am away from my friends."
"Friends! and wha has mair frinds than yoursel,' Miss Ellen,
or better frinds? father and mother and a'; where wad ye find
thae that will love you mair?"
"Ah , but I haven't my brother!" sobbed Ellen.
"Your brither, Miss Ellen? An' wa's he?"
"He's everything, Mrs. Allen! he's everything! I shall never
be happy without him! never! never!"
"Hush, dear Miss Ellen! for the love of a' that's gude; dinna
talk that gate, and dinna greet sae! your father wad be sair
vexed to hear ye or to see ye."
"I cannot help it," said Ellen; "it is true."
"It may be sae; but dear Miss Ellen, dinna let it come to your
father's ken; ye're his very heart's idol; he disna merit
ought but gude frae ye."
"I know it, Mrs. Allen," said Ellen, weeping, "and so I do
love him better than anybody in the world, except two. But
oh! I want my brother; I don't know how to be happy or good
either without him. I want him all the while."
"Miss Ellen, I kenned and loved your dear mither weel for mony
a day will ye mind if I speak a word to her bairn?"
"No, dear Mrs. Allen, I'll thank you. Did you know my mother?"
"Wha suld if I didna? she was brought up in my arms, and a
dear lassie. Ye're no muckle like her, Miss Ellen; ye're mair
bonny than her; and no a'thegither sae frack; though she was
douce and kind too."
"I wish," Ellen began, and stopped.
"My dear bairn, there is Ane abuve what disposes a' things for
us; and he isna weel pleased when His children fash themselves
wi' His dispensations. He has ta'en and placed you here for
your ain gude, I trust I'm sure it's for the gude of us a'
and if ye haena a' things ye wad wish, Miss Ellen, ye hae Him!
dinna forget that, my ain bairn."
Ellen returned heartily and silently the embrace of the old
Scotch-woman, and when she left her, set herself to follow her
advice. She tried to gather her scattered thoughts, and smooth
her ruffled feelings, in using this quiet time to the best
advantage. At the end of half an hour she felt like another
creature, and began to refresh herself with softly singing
some of her old hymns.
The argument which was carried on in the parlour sunk at
length into silence without coming to any conclusion.
"Where is Miss Ellen?" Mrs. Lindsay asked of a servant that
came in.
"She is up in her room, Ma'am, singing."
"Mr. Lindsay stood still at the door."
"Tell her I want her."
"No stop," said Mr. Lindsay;"I'll go myself."
Her door was a little ajar, and he softly opened it without
disturbing her. Ellen was still sitting on the floor before
the window, looking out through it, and in rather a low tone
singing the last verse of the hymn "Rock of Ages:"
"While I draw this fleeting breath
When my eyelids close in death
When I rise to worlds unknown,
And behold Thee on thy throne
Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!"
Mr. Lindsay stood still at the door. Ellen paused a minute,
and then sung "Jerusalem my happy home." Her utterance was so
distinct that he heard every word. He did not move till she
had finished, and then he came softly in.
"Singing songs to the moon, Ellen?"
Ellen started, and got up from the floor.
"No, Sir; I was singing them to myself."
"Not entirely, for I heard the last one. Why do you make
yourself sober singing such sad things?"
"I don't, Sir; they are not sad to me they are delightful,
I love them dearly."
"How came you to love them? It is not natural for a child of
your age. What do you love them for, my little daughter?"
"Oh, Sir, there are a great many reasons I don't know how
many."
"I will have patience, Ellen; I want to hear them all."
"I love them because I love to think of the things the hymns
are about I love the tunes dearly, and I like both the words
and the tunes better, I believe, because I have sung them so
often with friends."
"Humph! I guessed as much. Isn't that the strongest reason of
the three?"
"I don't know, Sir; I don't think it is."
"Is all your heart in America, Ellen, or have you any left to
bestow on us?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Not very much!"
"I love you, father," said Ellen, laying her cheek gently
alongside of his.
"And your grandmother, Ellen?" said Mr. Lindsay, clasping his
arms around her.
"Yes, Sir."
But he well understood that the "yes" was fainter.
"And your aunt? speak, Ellen."
"I don't love her as much as I wish I did," said Ellen; "I
love her a little, I suppose. Oh, why do you ask me such a
hard question, father?"
"That is something you have nothing to do with," said Mr.
Lindsay, half-laughing. "Sit down here," he added, placing her
on his knee, "and sing to me again."
Ellen was heartened by the tone of his voice, and pleased with
the request. She immediately sang with great spirit a little
Methodist hymn she had learned when a mere child. The wild air
and simple words singularly suited each other:
"O Canaan, bright Canaan,
I'm bound for the land of Canaan,
O Canaan! It is my happy, happy home!
I am bound for the land of Canaan."
"Does that sound sad, Sir?"
"Why yes,I think it does, rather, Ellen. Does it make you feel
merry?"
"Not merry, Sir it isn't merry; but I like it very much."
"The tune or the words?"
"Both, Sir."
"What do you mean by the land of Canaan?"
"Heaven, Sir."
"And do you like to think about that, at your age?"
"Why, certainly, Sir! Why not?"
"Why _do_ you?"
"Because it is a bright and happy place," said Ellen, gravely,
"where there is no darkness, nor sorrow, nor death, neither
pain nor crying; and my mother is there, and my dear Alice,
and my Saviour is there; and I hope I shall be there too."
"You are shedding tears now, Ellen."
"And if I am, Sir, it is not because I am unhappy. It doesn't
make me unhappy to think of these things it makes me glad;
and the more I think of them the happier I am."
"You are a strange child. I am afraid your grandmother is
right, and that you are hurting yourself with poring over
serious matters that you are too young for."
"She would not think so if she knew," said Ellen, sighing. "I
should not be happy at all without that, and you would not
love me half so well, nor she either. Oh, father!" she
exclaimed, pressing his hand in both her own, and laying her
face upon it, "do not let me be hindered in that! forbid me
anything you please, but not that! the better I learn to
please my best Friend, the better I shall please you."
"Whom do you mean by 'your best friend?' "
"The Lord, my Redeemer."
"Where did you get these notions?" said Mr. Lindsay, after a
short pause.
"From my mother, first, Sir."
"She had none of them when I knew her."
"She had afterwards, then, Sir; and oh!" Ellen hesitated
"I wish everybody had them too!"
"My little daughter," said Mr. Lindsay affectionately kissing
the cheeks and eyes which were moist again, "I shall indulge
you in this matter. But you must keep your brow clear, or I
shall revoke my grant. And you belong to me now; and there are
some things I want you to forget, and not remember you
understand? Now, don't sing songs to the moon any more to-
night. Good night, my daughter."
"They think religion is a strange melancholy thing," said
Ellen to herself as she went to bed; "I must not give them
reason to think so I must let my rushlight burn bright I
must take care I never had more need!"
And with an earnest prayer for help to do so, she laid her
head on the pillow.
Mr. Lindsay told his mother he had made up his mind to let
Ellen have her way for a while, and begged that she might
return to her old room and hours again. Mrs. Lindsay would not
hear of it. Ellen had disobeyed her orders, she said; she must
take the consequence.
"She is a bold little hussy, to venture it," said Mr. Lindsay,
"but I do not think there is any naughtiness in her heart."
"No, not a bit. I could not be angry with her. It is only
those preposterous notions she has got from somebody or
other."
Mr. Lindsay said no more. Next morning he asked Ellen
privately what she did the first thing after breakfast.
"Practise on the piano for an hour," she said.
"Couldn't you do it at any other time?"
"Yes, Sir, I could practise in the afternoon, only grandmother
likes to have me with her."
"Let it be done then, Ellen, in future."
"And what shall I do with the hour after breakfast, Sir?"
"Whatever you please," said he, smiling.
Ellen thanked him in the way she knew he best liked, and
gratefully resolved he should have as little cause as possible
to complain of her. Very little cause indeed did he or any one
else have. No fault could be found with her performance of
duty; and her cheerfulness was constant and unvarying. She
remembered her brother's recipe against loneliness, and made
use of it; she remembered Mrs. Allen's advice, and followed
it; she grasped the promises, "He that cometh to me shall
never hunger," and "Seek and ye shall find" precious words
that never yet disappointed any one; and though tears might
often fall that nobody knew of, and she might not be so merry
as her friends would have liked to see her; though her
cheerfulness was touched with sobriety, they could not
complain, for her brow was always unruffled, her voice clear,
her smile ready.
After a while she was restored to her own sleeping room again,
and permitted to take up her former habits.