Trials within.
Though nothing could be smoother than the general course of
her life, Ellen's principles were still now and then severely
tried.
Of all in the house, next to Mr. Lindsay, she liked the
company of the old housekeeper best. She was a simple-minded
Christian, a most benevolent and kind-hearted, and withal
sensible and respectable person; devotedly attached to the
family, and very fond of Ellen in particular. Ellen loved,
when she could, to get alone with her, and hear her talk of
her mother's young days: and she loved furthermore, and almost
as much, to talk to Mrs. Allen of her own. Ellen could to no
one else lisp a word on the subject; and without dwelling
directly on those that she loved, she delighted to tell over
to an interested listener the things she had done, seen, and
felt, with them.
"I wish that child was a little more like other people," said
Lady Keith, one evening in the latter end of the winter.
"Humph!" said Mr. Lindsay, "I don't remember at this moment
any one that I think she could resemble without losing more
than she gained."
"Oh, it's of no use to talk to you about Ellen, brother! You
can take up things fast enough when you find them out, but you
never will see with other people's eyes."
"What do your eyes see, Catherine?"
"She is altogether too childish for her years; she is really a
baby."
"I don't know," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling: "you should ask M.
Muller about that. He was holding forth to me for a quarter of
an hour the other day, and could not stint in her praises. She
will go on, he says, just as fast as he pleases to take her."
"Oh, yes, in intelligence and so on, I know she is not
wanting; that is not what I mean."
"She is perfectly lady-like always," said Mrs. Lindsay.
"Yes, I know that, and perfectly child-like too."
"I like that," said Mr. Lindsay: "I have no fancy for your
grown-up little girls."
"Well," said Lady Keith, in despair, "you may like it; but I
tell you she is too much of a child, nevertheless, in other
ways. She hasn't an idea of a thousand things. It was only the
other day she was setting out to go, at mid-day, through the
streets, with a basket on her arm some of that fruit for M.
Muller, I believe."
"If she has any fault," said Mr. Lindsay, "it is want of pride
but I don't know I can't say I wish she had more of it."
"Oh, no, of course! I suppose not. And it doesn't take
anything at all to make the tears come in her eyes; the other
day I didn't know whether to laugh or be vexed at the way she
went on with a kitten, for half an hour or more. I wish you
had seen her! I am not sure she didn't cry over that. Now I
suppose the next thing, brother, you will go and make her a
present of one."
"If you have no heavier charges to bring," said Mr. Lindsay,
smiling, "I'll take breath and think about it."
"But she isn't like anybody else she don't care for young
companions she don't seem to fancy any one out of the family
unless it is old Mrs. Allen, and she is absurd about her. You
know she is not very well lately, and Ellen goes to see her, I
know, every day regularly; and there are the Gordons, and
Carpenters, and Murrays, and M'Intoshes she sees them
continually, but I don't think she takes a great deal of
pleasure in their company. The fact is, she is too sober."
"She has as sweet a smile as I ever saw," said Mr. Lindsay,
"and as hearty a laugh, when she does laugh; she is none of
your gigglers."
"But when she does laugh," said Lady Keith, "it is not when
other people do. I think she is generally grave when there is
most merriment around her."
"I love to hear her laugh," said Mrs. Lindsay; "it is in such
a low, sweet tone, and seems to come so from the very spring
of enjoyment. Yet, I must say, I think Catherine is half
right."
"With half an advocate," said Lady Keith, "I shall not effect
much."
Mr. Lindsay uttered a low whistle. At this moment the door
opened, and Ellen came gravely in, with a book in her hand.
"Come here, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay holding out his hand
"here's your aunt says you don't like anybody how is it? are
you of an unsociable disposition?"
Ellen's smile would have been a sufficient apology to him for
a much graver fault.
"Anybody out of the house, I meant," said Lady Keith.
"Speak, Ellen, and clear yourself," said Mr. Lindsay.
"I like some people," said Ellen, smiling; "I don't think I
like a great many people very much."
"But you don't like young people," said Lady Keith "that is
what I complain of; and it's unnatural. Now there's the other
day, when you went to ride with Miss Gordon and her brother,
and Miss M'Pherson and her brother I heard you say you were
not sorry to get home. Now, where will you find pleasanter
young people?"
"Why don't you like them, Ellen?" said Mrs. Lindsay.
"I do like them, Ma'am, tolerably."
"What does 'tolerably' mean?"
"I should have liked my ride better the other day," said
Ellen, "if they had talked about sensible things."
"Nonsense!" said Lady Keith. "Society cannot be made up of M.
Mullers."
"What did they talk about, Ellen?" said Mr. Lindsay, who
seemed amused.
"About partners in dancing at least the ladies did and
dresses, and different gentlemen, and what this one said and
the other one said it wasn't very amusing to me."
Mr. Lindsay laughed. "And the gentlemen, Ellen; how did you
like them?"
"I didn't like them particularly, Sir."
"What have you against _them_, Ellen?"
"I don't wish to say anything against them, Aunt Keith."
"Come, come; speak out."
"I didn't like their talking, Sir, any better than the ladies,
and besides that, I don't think they are very polite."
"Why not?" said Mr. Lindsay, highly amused.
"I don't think it was very polite," said Ellen, "for them to
sit still on their horses when I went out, and let Brocklesby
help me to mount. They took me up at M. Muller's, you know,
Sir; M. Muller had been obliged to go out and leave me."
Mr. Lindsay threw a glance at his sister, which she rather
resented.
"And pray what do you expect, Ellen?" said she. "You are a
mere child; do you think you ought to be treated as a woman?"
"I don't wish to be treated as anything but a child, Aunt
Keith."
But Ellen remembered well one day at home when John had been
before the door on horseback, and she had run out to give him
a message, his instantly dismounting to hear it. "And I was
more a child then," she thought; "and he wasn't a stranger."
"Whom _do_ you like, Ellen?" inquired Mr. Lindsay, who looked
extremely satisfied with the result of the examination.
"I like M. Muller, Sir."
"Nobody else?"
"Mrs. Allen."
"There!" exclaimed Lady Keith.
"Have you come from her room just now?"
"Yes, Sir."
"What's your fancy for going there?"
"I like to hear her talk Sir, and to read to her; it gives her
a great deal of pleasure; and I like to talk to her."
"What do you talk about?"
"She talks to me about my mother "
"And you?"
"I like to talk to her about old times," said Ellen, changing
colour.
"Profitable conversation!" said Mrs. Lindsay.
"You will not go to her room any more, Ellen," said Mr.
Lindsay.
In great dismay at what Mrs. Allen would think, Ellen began a
remonstrance. But only one word was uttered; Mr. Lindsay's
hand was upon her lips. He next took the book she still held.
"Is this what you have been reading to her?"
Ellen bowed in answer.
"Who wrote all this?"
Before she could speak, he had turned to the front leaf, and
read, "To my little sister." He quietly put the book in his
pocket, and Ellen as quietly left the room.
"I am glad you have said that," said Lady Keith. "You are
quick enough when you see anything for yourself, but you never
will believe other people."
"There is nothing wrong here," said Mr. Lindsay; "only I will
not have her going to those old recollections she is so fond
of. I wish I could make her drink Lethe!"
"What is the book?" said Mrs. Lindsay.
"I hardly know," said he, turning it over; "except it is from
that person that seems to have obtained such an ascendency
over her it is full of his notes it is a religious work."
"She reads a great deal too much of that sort of thing," said
Mrs. Lindsay. "I wish you would contrive to put a stop to it.
You can do it better than any one else; she is very fond of
you."
That was not a good argument. Mr. Lindsay was silent; his
thoughts went back to the conversation held that evening in
Ellen's room, and to certain other things; and perhaps he was
thinking that if religion had much to do with making her what
she was, it was a tree that bore good fruits.
"I think," said Lady Keith, "that is one reason why she takes
so little to the young people she sees. I have seen her sit
perfectly grave when they were all laughing and talking around
her it really looks singular I don't like it I presume
she would have thought it wicked to laugh with them. And the
other night I missed her from the younger part of the company,
where she should have been, and there she was in the other
room with M. Muller and somebody else,gravely listening to
their conversation!"
"I saw her," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling; "and she looked
anything but dull or sober. I would rather have her gravity,
after all, Catherine, than anybody else's merriment I know."
"I wish she had never been detained in America after the time
when she should have come to us," said Mrs. Lindsay.
"I wish the woman had what she deserves that kept back the
letters!" said Mr. Lindsay.
"Yes, indeed!" said his sister; "and I have been in continual
fear of a visit from that very person that you say gave Ellen
the book."
"He isn't here!" said Mr. Lindsay.
"I don't know where he is; but he was on this side of the
water, at the time Ellen came on; so she told me."
"I wish he was in Egypt!"
"I don't intend he shall see her if he comes," said Lady
Keith, "if I can possibly prevent it. I gave Porterfield
orders, if any one asked for her, to tell _me_ immediately, and
not _her_ upon any account; but nobody has come hitherto, and I
am in hopes none will."
Mr. Lindsay arose, and walked up and down the room with folded
arms, in a very thoughtful style.
Ellen, with some difficulty, bore herself as usual throughout
the next day and evening, though constantly on the rack to get
possession of her book again. It was not spoken of nor hinted
at. When another morning came she could stand it no longer;
she went, soon after breakfast, into Mr. Lindsay's study,
where he was writing. Ellen came behind him, and, laying both
her arms over his shoulders, said in his ear
"Will you let me have my book again, father?"
A kiss was her only answer. Ellen waited.
"Go to the bookcases," said Mr. Lindsay, presently, "or to the
book-store, and choose out anything you like, Ellen, instead."
"I wouldn't exchange it for all that is in them!" she answered
with some warmth, and with the husky feeling coming in her
throat. Mr. Lindsay said nothing.
"At any rate," whispered Ellen, after a minute, "you will not
destroy it, or do anything to it? you will take care of it,
and let me have it again, won't you, Sir?"
"I will try to take care of you, my daughter."
Again Ellen paused, and then came round in front of him to
plead to more purpose.
"I will do anything in the world for you, Sir," she said,
earnestly, "if you will give me my book again."
"You must do anything in the world for me," said he, smiling,
and pinching her cheek, "without that."
"But it is mine!" Ellen ventured to urge, though trembling.
"Come, come!" said Mr. Lindsay, his tone changing, "and you
are mine, you must understand."
Ellen stood silent, struggling between the alternate surgings
of passion and checks of prudence and conscience. But at last
the wave rolled too high, and broke. Clasping her hands to her
face, she exclaimed, not indeed violently, but with sufficient
energy of expression, "Oh, it's not right! it's not right!"
"Go to your room, and consider of that," said Mr. Lindsay. "I
do not wish to see you again to-day, Ellen."
Ellen was wretched. Not from grief at her loss merely; that
she could have borne; that had not even the greatest share in
her distress; she was at war with herself. Her mind was in a
perfect turmoil. She had been a passionate child in earlier
days; under religion's happy reign, that had long ceased to be
true of her; it was only very rarely that she, or those around
her, were led to remember or suspect that it had once been the
case. She was surprised, and half frightened at herself now,
to find the strength of the old temper suddenly roused. She
was utterly and exceedingly out of humour with Mr. Lindsay,
and with everybody and everything else; consequently,
conscience would not give her a moment's peace! and that day
was a long and bitter fight betwixt right and wrong. Duties
were neglected, because she could not give her mind to them;
then they crowded upon her notice at undue times; all was
miserable confusion. In vain she would try to reason and
school herself into right feeling; at one thought of her lost
treasure, passion would come flooding up, and drown all her
reasonings and endeavours. She grew absolutely weary.
But the day passed, and the night came, and she went to bed
without being able to make up her mind, and she arose in the
morning to renew the battle.
"How long is this miserable condition to last?" she said to
herself. "Till you can entirely give up your feeling of
resentment, and apologize to Mr. Lindsay," said conscience.
"Apologize! but I haven't done wrong." "Yes, you have," said
conscience, "you spoke improperly; he is just displeased; and
you must make an apology before there can be any peace." "But
I said the truth it is _not_ right! it is not right it is
wrong; and am _I_ to go and make an apology! I can't do it."
"Yes, for the wrong you have done," said conscience, "that is
all your concern. And he has a right to do what he pleases
with you and yours, and he may have his own reasons for what
he has done; and he loves you very much, and you ought not to
let him remain displeased with you one moment longer than you
can help; he is in the place of a father to you, and you owe
him a child's duty."
But pride and passion still fought against reason and
conscience, and Ellen was miserable. The dressing-bell rang.
"There! I shall have to go down to breakfast directly, and
they will see how I look they will see I am angry and ill-
humoured. Well, I _ought_ to be angry! But what will they think,
then, of my religion? Is my rushlight burning bright? Am I
honouring Christ now? Is _this_ the way to make his name and his
truth lovely in their eyes? Oh, shame! shame! I have enough to
humble myself for. And all yesterday, at any rate, they know I
was angry."
Ellen threw herself upon her knees, and when she rose up, the
spirit of pride was entirely broken, and resentment had died
with self-justification.
The breakfast-bell rang before she was quite ready. She was
afraid she could not see Mr. Lindsay until he should be at the
table. "But it shall make no difference," she said to herself,
"they know I have offended him it is right they should hear
what I have to say."
They were all at the table. But it made no difference. Ellen
went straight to Mr. Lindsay, and laying one hand timidly in
his, and the other on his shoulder, she at once humbly and
frankly confessed that she had spoken as she ought not the day
before, and that she was very sorry she had displeased him,
and begged his forgiveness. It was instantly granted.
"You are a good child, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay as he fondly
embraced her.
"Oh no, Sir! don't call me so; I am everything in the world
but that."
"Then all the rest of the world are good children. Why didn't
you come to me before?"
"Because I couldn't, Sir; I felt wrong all day yesterday."
Mr. Lindsay laughed, and kissed her, and bade her sit down and
eat her breakfast.
It was about a month after this that he made her a present of
a beautiful little watch. Ellen's first look was of great
delight; the second was one of curious doubtful expression,
directed to his face, half tendering the watch back to him, as
she saw that he understood her.
"Why," said he, smiling, "do you mean to say you would rather
have that than this?"
"A great deal."
"No," said he, hanging the watch round her neck, "you shall
not have it; but you may make your mind easy, for I have it
safe, and it shall come back to you again some time or other."
With this promise Ellen was obliged to be satisfied.
The summer passed in the enjoyment of all that wealth of purse
and of affection both could bestow upon their darling. Early
in the season the family returned to "the Braes." Ellen liked
it there much better than in the city; there was more that
reminded her of old times. The sky and the land, though
different from those she best loved, were yet but another
expression of nature's face; it was the same face still; and
on many a sunbeam Ellen travelled across the Atlantic.* [*
"Then by a sunbeam I will climb to thee." GEORGE HERBERT.]
She was sorry to lose M. Muller, but she could not have kept
him in Edinburgh; he quitted Scotland about that time.
Other masters attended her in the country, or she went to
Edinburgh to attend them. Mr. Lindsay liked that very well; he
was often there himself, and after her lesson he loved to have
her with him in the library, and at dinner, and during the
drive home. Ellen liked it, because it was so pleasant to him;
and besides, there was a variety about it, and the drives were
always her delight, and she chose his company at any time
rather than that of her aunt and grandmother. So, many a happy
day, that summer, had she and Mr. Lindsay together, and many
an odd pleasure, in the course of them, did he find or make
for her. Sometimes it was a new book, sometimes a new sight,
sometimes a new trinket. According to his promise, he had
purchased her a fine horse, and almost daily Ellen was upon
his back, and, with Mr. Lindsay, in the course of the summer,
scoured the country, far and near. Every scene of any historic
interest, within a good distance of "the Braes," was visited,
and some of them again and again. Pleasures of all kinds were
at Ellen's disposal; and to her father and grandmother she was
truly the light of the eyes.
And Ellen was happy; but it was not all these things, nor even
her affection for Mr. Lindsay, that made her so. He saw her
calm, sunshiny face, and busy happy demeanour, and fancied,
though he had sometimes doubts about it, that she did not
trouble herself much with old recollections, or would, in
time, get over them. It was not so. Ellen never forgot; and
sometimes, when she seemed busiest and happiest, it was the
thought of an absent and distant friend that was nerving her
energies, and giving colour to her cheek. Still, as at first,
it was in her hour alone that Ellen laid down care and took up
submission; it was that calmed her brow and brightened her
smile. And though now and then she shed bitter tears, and
repeated her despairing exclamation, "Well! I will see him in
heaven!" in general she lived on hope, and kept at the bottom
of her heart some of her old feeling of confidence.
Perhaps her brow grew somewhat meeker, and her smile less
bright, as the year rolled on. Months flew by, and brought her
no letters. Ellen marvelled and sorrowed in vain. One day,
mourning over it to Mrs. Allen, the good housekeeper asked her
if her friends knew her address? Ellen at first said, "to be
sure," but after a few minutes' reflection, was obliged to
confess that she was not certain about it. It would have been
just like Mr. Humphreys to lose sight entirely of such a
matter, and very natural for her, in her grief and confusion
of mind, and inexperience, to be equally forgetful. She wrote
immediately to Mr. Humphreys and supplied the defect, and hope
brightened again. Once before she had written, on the occasion
of the refunding her expenses. Mr. Lindsay and his mother were
very prompt to do this, though Ellen could not tell what the
exact amount might be; they took care to be on the safe side,
and sent more than enough. Ellen's mind had changed since she
came to Scotland; she was sorry to have the money go; she
understood the feeling with which it was sent, and it hurt
her.
Two or three months after the date of her last letter, she
received at length one from Mr. Humphreys, a long, very kind,
and very wise one. She lived upon it for a good while. Mr.
Lindsay's bills were returned. Mr. Humphreys declined utterly
to accept them, telling Ellen that he looked upon her as his
own child up to the time that her friends took her out of his
hands, and that he owed her more than she owed him. Ellen gave
the money, she dared not give the whole message, to Mr.
Lindsay. The bills were instantly and haughtily re-enclosed
and sent back to America.
Still nothing was heard from Mr. John; Ellen wondered, waited,
wept; sadly quieted herself into submission, and as time went
on, clung faster and faster to her Bible, and the refuge she
found there.