The Wide, Wide World

"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 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 that 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 it 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 house-keeper'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 had soon 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 M. 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 some troublesome pronunciations."

"With nothing else, I suppose? Ah, well, we must submit to be stupid. How do you do to-day?"

"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 grey, isn't she beautiful? she's the loveliest creature in the whole stud."

"Oh, 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?"