The Wide, Wide World

"Let it be as I said," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"Couldn't you let me come to you at eleven o'clock again, ma'am? do, grandmother!"

Mrs. Lindsay touched her lips; a way of silencing her that Ellen particularly disliked, and which both Mr. Lindsay and his mother were accustomed to use.

She thought a great deal on the subject, and came soberly to the conclusion that it was her duty to disobey. "I promised John," she said to herself, "I will never break that promise! I'll do anything rather. And besides, if I had not, it is just as much my duty – a duty that no one here has a right to command me against. I will do what I think right, come what may."

She could not without its coming to the knowledge of her grandmother. A week, or rather two, after the former conversation, Mrs. Lindsay made inquiries of Mason, her woman, who was obliged to confess that Miss Ellen's light was always burning when she went to call her.

"Ellen," said Mrs. Lindsay the same day, "have you obeyed me in what I told you the other morning about lying in bed till you are sent for?"

"No, ma'am."

"You are frank, to venture to tell me so. Why have you disobeyed me?"

"Because, grandmother, I thought it was right."

"You think it is right to disobey, do you?"

"Yes, ma'am, if – "

"If what?"

"I mean, grandmother, there is One I must obey even before you."

"If what?" repeated Mrs. Lindsay.

"Please do not ask me, grandmother; I don't want to say that."

"Say it at once, Ellen!"

"I think it is right to disobey if I am told to do what is wrong," said Ellen in a low voice.

"Are you to be the judge of right and wrong?"

"No, ma'am."

"Who, then?"

"The Bible."

"I do not know what is the reason," said Mrs. Lindsay, "that I cannot be very angry with you. Ellen, I repeat the order I gave you the other day. Promise me to obey."

"I cannot, grandmother; I must have that hour; I cannot do without it."

"So must I be obeyed, I assure you, Ellen. You will sleep in my room henceforth."

Ellen heard her in despair; she did not know what to do. Appealing was not to be thought of. There was, as she said, no time she could count upon after breakfast. During the whole day and evening she was either busy with her studies or masters, or in the company of her grandmother or Mr. Lindsay; and if not there, liable to be called to them at any moment. Her grandmother's expedient for increasing her cheerfulness had marvellous ill-success. Ellen drooped under the sense of wrong, as well as the loss of her greatest comfort. For two days she felt and looked forlorn, and smiling now seemed to be a difficult matter. Mr. Lindsay happened to be remarkably busy those two days, so that he did not notice what was going on. At the end of them, however, in the evening, he called Ellen to him, and whisperingly asked what was the matter.

"Nothing, sir," said Ellen, "only grandmother will not let me do something I cannot be happy without doing."

"Is it one of the things you want to do because it is right, whether it is convenient or not?" he asked, smiling. Ellen could not smile.

"Oh, father," she whispered, putting her face close to his, "if you would only get grandmother to let me do it!"

The words were spoken with a sob, and Mr. Lindsay felt her warm tears upon his neck. He had, however, far too much respect for his mother to say anything against her proceedings while Ellen was present; he simply answered that she must do whatever her grandmother said. But when Ellen had left the room, which she did immediately, he took the matter up. Mrs. Lindsay explained and insisted that Ellen was spoiling herself for life and the world by a set of dull religious notions that were utterly unfit for a child; that she would very soon get over thinking about her habit of morning prayer, and would then do much better. Mr. Lindsay looked grave; but with Ellen's tears yet wet upon his cheek, he could not dismiss the matter so lightly, and persisted in desiring that his mother should give up the point, which she utterly refused to do.

Ellen meanwhile had fled to her own room. The moonlight was quietly streaming in through the casement; it looked to her like an old friend. She threw herself down on the floor, close by the glass, and after some tears which she could not help shedding, she raised her head and looked thoughtfully out. It was very seldom now that she had a chance of the kind; she was rarely alone but when she was busy.

"I wonder if that same moon is this minute shining in at the glass door at home? – no, to be sure it can't this minute – what am I thinking of? – but it was there or will be there, let me see, east, west, it was there some time this morning, I suppose; looking right into our old sitting-room. Oh, moon, I wish I was in your place for once, to look in there too! But it is all empty now, there's nobody there, Mr. Humphreys would be in his study, how lonely, how lonely he must be! Oh, I wish I was back there with him! – John isn't there though – no matter – he will be, and I could do so much for Mr. Humphreys in the meanwhile. He must miss me. I wonder where John is – nobody writes to me; I should think some one might. I wonder if I am ever to see them again. Oh, he will come to see me surely before he goes home! but then he will have to go away without me again – I am fast now – fast enough – but oh! am I to be separated from them for ever? Well! I shall see them in heaven!"

It was a "Well" of bitter acquiescence, and washed down with bitter tears.

"Is it my bonny Miss Ellen?" said the voice of the housekeeper, coming softly in; "is my bairn sitting a' her lane in the dark? Why are ye no wi' the rest o' the folk, Miss Ellen?"

"I like to be alone, Mrs. Allen, and the moon shines in here nicely?"

"Greeting!" exclaimed the old lady, drawing nearer; "I ken it by the sound o' your voice; greeting eenow! Are ye no weel, Miss Ellen? What vexes my bairn? Oh, but your father would be vexed an' he kenned it!"

"Never mind, Mrs. Allen," said Ellen; "I shall get over it directly; don't say anything about it."

"But I'm wae to see ye," said the kind old woman, stooping down and stroking the head that again Ellen had bowed on her knees. "Will ye no tell me what vexes ye? Ye suld be as blithe as a bird the lang day."

"I can't, Mrs. Allen, while I am away from my friends."

"Frinds! and wha has mair frinds than yoursel', Miss Ellen, or better frinds? – father and mither and a'; where wad ye find thae that will love ye mair?"

"Ah, but I haven't my brother!" sobbed Ellen.

"Your brither, Miss Ellen? An' wha's he?"

"He's everything, Mrs. Allen! he's everything! I shall never be happy without him! – never! never!"

"Hush, dear Miss Ellen! for the love of a' that's gude; dinna talk that gate! and dinna greet sae! your father wad be sair vexed to hear ye or to see ye."

"I cannot help it," said Ellen; "it is true."

"It may be sae; but dear Miss Ellen, dinna let it come to your father's ken; ye're his very heart's idol; he disna merit aught but gude frae ye."

"I know it, Mrs. Allen," said Ellen, weeping, "and so I do love him – better than anybody in the world, except two. But oh, I want my brother! – I don't know how to be happy or good either without him. I want him all the while."

"Miss Ellen, I kenned and loved your dear mither weel for mony a day. Will ye mind if I speak a word to her bairn?"

"No, dear Mrs. Allen; I'll thank you. Did you know my mother!"

"Wha suld if I didna? She was brought up in my arms, and a dear lassie. Ye're no muckle like her, Miss Ellen; ye're mair bonny than her; and no a'thegither sae frack; though she was douce and kind too."

"I wish – " Ellen began, and stopped.