The Wide, Wide World

"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 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 et ceteras 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.

The 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 biscuits, though she no longer knew how they 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 difficult 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 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 book-cases are open – perhaps you can find something there; or there are prints in those portfolios; or you can go over 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 bygones be bygones. 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 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 ever 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 baby ever syne; she hasna stirred a finger. Oh, Mr. Lindsay, it's a bonny bairn, and a gude. What a blessing to the house!"