The Wide, Wide World

"I saw her," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling, "and she looked anything but dull or sober; I would rather have her gravity, after all, Catherine, than anybody else's merriment, I know."

"I wish she had never been detained in America after the time when she should have come to us," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"I wish the woman had what she deserves that kept back the letters," said Mr. Lindsay.

"Yes, indeed," said his sister, "and I have been in continual fear of a visit from that very person that you say gave Ellen the book."

"He isn't here!" said Mr. Lindsay.

"I don't know where he is; but he was on this side of the water at the time Ellen came on; so she told me."

"I wish he was in Egypt!"

"I don't intend he shall see her if he comes," said Lady Keith, "if I can possibly prevent it. I gave Porterfield orders, if any one asked for her, to tell me immediately, and not her upon any account; but nobody has come hitherto, and I am in hopes none will."

Mr. Lindsay rose and walked up and down the room with folded arms in a very thoughtful style.

Ellen with some difficulty bore herself as usual throughout the next day and evening, though constantly on the rack to get possession of her book again. It was not spoken of nor hinted at. When another morning came she could stand it no longer; she went soon after breakfast into Mr. Lindsay's study, where he was writing. Ellen came behind him, and laying both her arms over his shoulders, said in his ear —

"Will you let me have my book again, father?"

A kiss was her only answer. Ellen waited.

"Go to the book-case," said Mr. Lindsay presently, "or to the book-store, and choose out anything you like, Ellen, instead."

"I wouldn't exchange it for all that is in them!" she answered with some warmth, and with the husky feeling coming in her throat. Mr. Lindsay said nothing.

"At any rate," whispered Ellen after a minute, "you will not destroy it, or do anything to it? – you will take care of it, and let me have it again, won't you, sir?"

"I will try to take care of you, my daughter."

Again Ellen paused; and then came round in front of him to plead to more purpose.

"I will do anything in the world for you, sir," she said earnestly, "if you will give me my book again."

"You must do anything in the world for me," said he, smiling and pinching her cheek, "without that."

"But it is mine!" Ellen ventured to urge, though trembling.

"Come, come!" said Mr. Lindsay, his tone changing; "and you are mine, you must understand."

Ellen stood silent, struggling between the alternate surgings of passion and checks of prudence and conscience. But at last the wave rolled too high and broke. Clasping her hands to her face, she exclaimed, not indeed violently, but with sufficient energy of expression, "Oh, it's not right! it's not right!"

"Go to your room and consider of that," said Mr. Lindsay. "I do not wish to see you again to-day, Ellen."

Ellen was wretched. Not for grief at her loss merely; that she could have borne; that had not even the greatest share in her distress; she was at war with herself. Her mind was in a perfect turmoil. She had been a passionate child in earlier days; under religion's happy reign that had long ceased to be true of her; it was only very rarely that she or those around her were led to remember or suspect that it had once been the case. She was surprised and half-frightened at herself now, to find the strength of the old temper suddenly roused. She was utterly and exceedingly out of humour with Mr. Lindsay, and consequently with everybody and everything else; consequently conscience would not give her a moment's peace; consequently that day was a long and bitter fight betwixt right and wrong. Duties were neglected, because she could not give her mind to them; then they crowded upon her notice at undue times; all was miserable confusion. In vain she would try to reason and school herself into right feeling; at one thought of her lost treasure passion would come flooding up and drown all her reasonings and endeavours. She grew absolutely weary.

But the day passed and the night came, and she went to bed without being able to make up her mind; and she arose in the morning to renew the battle.

"How long is this miserable condition to last!" she said to herself. "'Till you can entirely give up your feeling of resentment, and apologise to Mr. Lindsay," said conscience. "Apologise! but I haven't done wrong." "Yes, you have," said conscience; "you spoke improperly; he is justly displeased; and you must make an apology before there can be any peace." "But I said the truth – it is not right – it is not right! it is wrong; and am I to go and make an apology? I can't do it." "Yes, for the wrong you have done," said conscience, "that is all your concern. And he has a right to do what he pleases with you and yours, and he may have his own reasons for what he has done; and he loves you very much, and you ought not to let him remain displeased with you one moment longer than you can help – he is in the place of a father to you, and you owe him a child's duty."

But pride and passion still fought against reason and conscience, and Ellen was miserable. The dressing-bell rang.

"There, I shall have to go down to breakfast directly, and they will see how I look, they will see I am angry and ill-humoured. Well, I ought to be angry. But what will they think then of my religion? is my rushlight burning bright? am I honouring Christ now? is this the way to make His name and His truth lovely in their eyes? Oh, shame! shame! I have enough to humble myself for. And all yesterday, at any rate, they know I was angry."

Ellen threw herself upon her knees; and when she rose up the spirit of pride was entirely broken, and resentment had died with self-justification.

The breakfast-bell rang before she was quite ready. She was afraid she could not see Mr. Lindsay until he should be at the table. "But it shall make no difference," she said to herself, "they know I have offended him, it is right they should hear what I have to say."

They were all at the table. But it made no difference. Ellen went straight to Mr. Lindsay, and laying one hand timidly in his, and the other on his shoulder, she at once humbly and frankly confessed that she had spoken as she ought not the day before, and that she was very sorry she had displeased him, and begged his forgiveness. It was instantly granted.

"You are a good child, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay, as he fondly embraced her.

"Oh no, sir! don't call me so, I am everything in the world but that."

"Then all the rest of the world are good children. Why didn't you come to me before?"

"Because I couldn't, sir; I felt wrong all day yesterday."

Mr. Lindsay laughed and kissed her, and bade her sit down and eat her breakfast.

It was about a month after this that he made her a present of a beautiful little watch. Ellen's first look was of great delight; the second was one of curious doubtful expression, directed to his face, half tendering the watch back to him as she saw that he understood her.

"Why," said he, smiling, "do you mean to say you would rather have that than this?"

"A great deal!"

"No," said he, hanging the watch round her neck, "you shall not have it; but you may make your mind easy, for I have it safe and it shall come back to you again some time or other."

With this promise Ellen was obliged to be satisfied.

The summer passed in the enjoyment of all that wealth, of purse and of affection both, could bestow upon their darling. Early in the season the family returned to "The Braes." Ellen liked it there much better than in the city; there was more that reminded her of old times. The sky and the land, though different from those she best loved, were yet but another expression of nature's face; it was the same face still; and on many a sunbeam Ellen travelled across the Atlantic.[1 - "Then by a sunbeam I will climb to thee." – George Herbert.] She was sorry to lose M. Muller, but she could not have kept him in Edinburgh; he quitted Scotland about that time.

Other masters attended her in the country, or she went to Edinburgh to attend them. Mr. Lindsay liked that very well; he was often there himself, and after her lesson he loved to have her with him in the library and at dinner and during the drive home. Ellen liked it because it was so pleasant to him; and besides, there was a variety about it, and the drives were always her delight, and she chose his company at any time rather than that of her aunt and grandmother. So, many a happy day that summer had she and Mr. Lindsay together; and many an odd pleasure in the course of them did he find or make for her. Sometimes it was a new book, sometimes a new sight, sometimes a new trinket. According to his promise, he had purchased her a fine horse; and almost daily Ellen was upon his back, and with Mr. Lindsay in the course of the summer scoured the country far and near. Every scene of any historic interest within a good distance of "The Braes" was visited, and some of them again and again. Pleasures of all kinds were at Ellen's disposal; and to her father and grandmother she was truly the light of their eyes.

And Ellen was happy; but it was not all these things, nor even her affection for Mr. Lindsay, that made her so. He saw her calm and sunshiny face and busy, happy demeanour, and fancied, though he sometimes had doubts about it, that she did not trouble herself much with old recollections, or would in time get over them. It was so. Ellen never forgot; and sometimes when she seemed busiest and happiest, it was the thought of an absent and distant friend that was nerving her energies and giving colour to her cheeks. Still, as at first, it was in her hour alone that Ellen laid down care and took up submission; it was that calmed her brow and brightened her smile. And though now and then she shed bitter tears, and repeated her despairing exclamation, "Well! I will see him in heaven!" in general she lived on hope, and kept at the bottom of her heart some of her old feeling of confidence.

Perhaps her brow grew somewhat meeker and her smile less bright as the year rolled on. Months flew by, and brought her no letters. Ellen marvelled and sorrowed in vain. One day, mourning over it to Mrs. Allen, the good housekeeper asked her if her friends knew her address? Ellen at first said, "to be sure," but after a few minutes' reflection was obliged to confess that she was not certain about it. It would have been just like Mr. Humphreys to lose sight entirely of such a matter, and very natural for her, in her grief and confusion of mind and inexperience, to be equally forgetful. She wrote immediately to Mr. Humphreys and supplied the defect; and hope brightened again. Once before she had written, on the occasion of the refunding her expenses. Mr. Lindsay and his mother were very prompt to do this, though Ellen could not tell what the exact amount might be; they took care to be on the safe side, and sent more than enough. Ellen's mind had changed since she came to Scotland; she was sorry to have the money go; she understood the feeling with which it was sent, and it hurt her.

Two or three months after the date of her last letter, she received at length one from Mr. Humphreys – a long, very kind, and very wise one. She lived upon it for a good while. Mr. Lindsay's bills were returned. Mr. Humphreys declined utterly to accept them, telling Ellen that he looked upon her as his own child up to the time that her friends took her out of his hands, and that he owed her more than she owed him. Ellen gave the money – she dared not give the whole message – to Mr. Lindsay. The bills were instantly and haughtily re-enclosed and sent back to America.

Still nothing was heard from Mr. John. Ellen wondered, waited, wept; sadly quieted herself into submission, and as time went on, clung faster and faster to her Bible and the refuge she found there.

CHAPTER LII

Hon.– Why didn't you show him up, blockhead?
Butler.– Show him up, sir? With all my heart, sir,
Up or down, all's one to me.