The Wide, Wide World

"They took it up first," said Ellen; "I was too glad – "

"Yes, I daresay they had their reasons for taking it up," said her aunt; "they had acted from interested motives, 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, fraternise 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, 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 never will 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 sank; 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, her eyes opening 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 to 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 that 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 the 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 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 of 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 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.