The Wide, Wide World

"Oh, he comes and looks at me and says, 'Très bien, très bien,' and 'Allez comme ça,' and then he walks off."

"Well, I declare that is too bad," said Miss Gordon, laughing. "Look here, I've got a good thought in my head; suppose you mount Sophronisbe in my place, without saying anything to anybody, and let them see what you are up to. Can you trust yourself? she's very spirited."

"I could trust myself," said Ellen; "but, thank you, I think I had better not."

"Afraid?"

"No, not at all: but my aunt and father would not like it."

"Nonsense! how should they dislike it; there's no sort of danger, you know. Come! I thought you sat wonderfully for a beginner. I am surprised De Courcy hadn't better eyes. I guess you have learned German before, Ellen? Come, will you?"

But Ellen declined, preferring her plodding walk round the ring to any putting of herself forward. Presently Mr. Lindsay came in. It was the first time he had been there. His eyes soon singled out Ellen.

"My daughter sits well," he remarked to the riding-master.

"A merveille! Mademoiselle Lindsay does ride remarquablement pour une beginner; qui ne fait que commencer. Would it be possible that she has had no lessons before?"

"Why, yes; she has had lessons – of what sort I don't know," said Mr. Lindsay, going up to Ellen. "How do you like it, Ellen?"

"I don't like it at all, sir."

"I thought you were so fond of riding."

"I don't call this riding, sir."

"Ha! what do you call riding? Here, M. de Courcy, won't you have the goodness to put this young lady on another horse, and see if she knows anything about handling him?"

"With great pleasure!" M. de Courcy would do anything that was requested of him. Ellen was taken out of the ring of walkers, and mounted on a fine animal, and set by herself to have her skill tried in as many various ways as M. de Courcy's ingenuity could point out. Never did she bear herself more erectly; never were her hand and her horse's mouth on nicer terms of acquaintanceship; never, even to please her master, had she so given her whole soul to the single business of managing her horse and herself perfectly well. She knew as little as she cared that a number of persons besides her friends were standing to look at her; she thought of only two people there; Mr. Lindsay and her aunt; and the riding-master, as his opinion might affect theirs.

"C'est très bien – c'est très bien," he muttered – "c'est parfaitement – Monsieur, mademoiselle votre fille has had good lessons – voilà qui est entièrement comme il faut."

"Assez bien," said Mr. Lindsay smiling. "The little gipsy!"

"Mademoiselle," said the riding-master, as she paused before them, "pourquoi, wherefore have you stopped in your canter tantôt – a little while ago – et puis récommencé?"

"Monsieur, he led with the wrong foot."

"C'est ça – justement!" he exclaimed.

"Have you practised leaping, Ellen?"

"Yes, sir."

"Try her, M. de Courcy. How high will you go, Ellen?"

"As high as you please, sir," said Ellen, leaning over and patting her horse's neck to hide her smile.

"How you look, child!" said Mr. Lindsay in a pleased tone. "So this is what you call riding?"

"It is a little more like it, sir."

Ellen was tried with standing and running leaps, higher and higher, till Mr. Lindsay would have no more of it; and M. de Courcy assured him that his daughter had been taught by a very accomplished rider, and there was little or nothing left for him to do; il n'y pouvait plus; but he should be very happy to have her come there to practise, and show an example to his pupils.

The very bright colour in Ellen's face as she heard this might have been mistaken for the flush of gratified vanity, it was nothing less. Not one word of this praise did she take to herself, nor had she sought for herself; it was all for somebody else; and perhaps so Lady Keith understood it, for she looked rather discomfited. But Mr. Lindsay was exceedingly pleased, and promised Ellen that as soon as the warm weather came she should have a horse and rides to her heart's content.

CHAPTER L

She was his care, his hope, and his delight,
Most in his thought, and ever in his sight.

    – Dryden.

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 or 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, canvass 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 realised 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 acts 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 then 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."