The Wide, Wide World

    – Good-natured Man.

One evening, it was New Year's eve, a large party was expected at Mr. Lindsay's. Ellen was not of an age to go abroad to parties, but at home her father and grandmother never could bear to do without her when they had company. Generally Ellen liked it very much; not called upon to take any active part herself, she had leisure to observe and enjoy in quiet; and often heard music, and often by Mr. Lindsay's side listened to conversation, in which she took great pleasure. To-night, however, it happened that Ellen's thoughts were running on other things; and Mrs. Lindsay's woman, who had come in to dress her, was not at all satisfied with her grave looks and the little concern she seemed to take in what was going on.

"I wish, Miss Ellen, you'd please hold your head up, and look somewhere; I don't know when I'll get your hair done if you keep it down so."

"Oh, Mason, I think that'll do; it looks very well; you needn't do anything more."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Ellen, but you know it's your grandmother that must be satisfied, and she will have it just so; there, now that's going to look lovely; but indeed, Miss Ellen, she won't be pleased if you carry such a soberish face downstairs, and what will the master say! Most young ladies would be as bright as a bee at being going to see so many people, and indeed it's what you should."

"I had rather see one or two persons than one or two hundred," said Ellen, speaking half to herself and half to Mrs. Mason.

"Well, for pity's sake, Miss Ellen, dear, if you can, don't look as if it was a funeral it was. There! 'tain't much trouble to fix you, anyhow; if you'd only care a little more about it, it would be a blessing. Stop till I fix this lace. The master will call you his white rose-bud to-night, sure enough."

"That's nothing new," said Ellen, half smiling.

Mason left her; and feeling the want of something to raise her spirits, Ellen sorrowfully went to her Bible, and slowly turning it over, looked along its pages to catch a sight of something cheering before she went downstairs.

"This God is our God for ever and ever; He will be our guide even unto death."

"Isn't that enough?" thought Ellen, as her eyes filled in answer. "It ought to be, John would say it was; oh! where is he?"

She went on turning leaf after leaf.

"O Lord of Hosts, blessed is the man that trusteth in thee!"

"That is true surely," she thought. "And I do trust in Him; I am blessed; I am happy, come what may. He will let nothing come to those that trust in Him but what is good for them; if He is my God, I have enough to make me happy; I ought to be happy; I will be happy; I will trust Him, and take what He gives me; and try to leave, as John used to tell me, my affairs in His hand."

For a minute tears flowed; then they were wiped away; and the smile she gave Mr. Lindsay when she met him in the hall was not less bright than usual.

The company were gathered, but it was still early in the evening, when a gentleman came who declined to enter the drawing-room, and asked for Miss Lindsay.

"Miss Lindsay is engaged."

"An' what for suld ye say sae, Mr. Porterfield?" cried the voice of the housekeeper, who was passing in the hall, "when ye ken as weel as I do that Miss Ellen – "

The butler stopped her with saying something about "my lady," and repeated his answer to the gentleman.

The latter wrote a word or two on a card which he drew from his pocket, and desired him to carry it to Miss Ellen. He carried it to Lady Keith.

"What sort of a person, Porterfield?" said Lady Keith, crumpling the paper in her fingers, and withdrawing a little from the company.

"Uncommon fine gentleman, my lady," Porterfield answered, in a low tone.

"A gentleman?" said Lady Keith inquiringly.

"Certain, my lady! and as up and down spoken as if he was a prince of the blood; he's somebody that is not accustomed to be said 'no' to, for sure."

Lady Keith hesitated. Recollecting, however, that she had just left Ellen safe in the music-room, she made up her mind, and desired Porterfield to show the stranger in. As he entered, unannounced, her eyes unwillingly verified the butler's judgment; and to the inquiry whether he might see Miss Lindsay she answered very politely, though with regrets, that Miss Lindsay was engaged.

"May I be pardoned for asking," said the stranger, with the slightest possible approach to a smile, "whether that decision is imperative? I leave Scotland to-morrow – my reasons for wishing to see Miss Lindsay this evening are urgent."

Lady Keith could hardly believe her ears, or command her countenance to keep company with her expressions of "sorrow that it was impossible – Miss Lindsay could not have the pleasure that evening."

"May I beg then to know at what hour I may hope to see her to-morrow?"

Hastily resolving that Ellen should on the morrow accept a long-given invitation, Lady Keith answered that she would not be in town – she would leave Edinburgh at an early hour.

The stranger bowed and withdrew; that was all the bystanders saw. But Lady Keith, who had winced under an eye that she could not help fancying read her too well, saw that in his parting look which made her uneasy: beckoning a servant who stood near, she ordered him to wait upon that gentleman to the door.

The man obeyed; but the stranger did not take his cloak, and made no motion to go.

"No, sir! not that way," he said sternly, as the servant laid his hand on the lock; "show me to Miss Lindsay!"

"Miss Ellen?" said the man doubtfully, coming back, and thinking from the gentleman's manner that he must have misunderstood Lady Keith; "where is Miss Ellen, Arthur?"

The person addressed threw his head back towards the door he had just come from on the other side of the hall.

"This way, sir, if you please; what name, sir?"

"No name – stand back!" said the stranger, as he entered.

There were a number of people gathered round a lady who was at the piano singing. Ellen was there in the midst of them. The gentleman advanced quietly to the edge of the group and stood there without being noticed; Ellen's eyes were bent on the floor. The expression of her face touched and pleased him greatly; it was precisely what he wished to see. Without having the least shadow of sorrow upon it, there was in all its lines that singular mixture of gravity and sweetness that is never seen but where religion and discipline have done their work well; the writing of the wisdom that looks soberly, and the love that looks kindly, on all things. He was not sure at first whether she were intently listening to the music or whether her mind was upon something far different and far away; he thought the latter. He was right. Ellen at the moment had escaped from the company and the noisy sounds of the performer at her side; and while her eye was curiously tracing out the pattern of the carpet, her mind was resting itself in one of the verses she had been reading that same evening. Suddenly, and as it seemed from no connection with anything in or out of her thoughts, there came to her mind the image of John as she had first seen him that first evening she ever saw him at Carra-carra, when she looked up from the boiling chocolate and espied him standing in an attitude of waiting near the door. Ellen at first wondered how that thought should have come into her head just then; the next moment, from a sudden impulse, she raised her eyes to search for the cause, and saw John's smile.

It would not be easy to describe the change in Ellen's face. Lightning makes as quick and as brilliant an illumination, but lightning does not stay. With a spring she reached him, and seizing both his hands drew him out of the door near which they were standing; and as soon as they were hidden from view threw herself into his arms in an agony of joy. Before, however, either of them could say a word, she had caught his hand again, and led him back along the hall to the private staircase; she mounted it rapidly to her room; and there again she threw herself into his arms, exclaiming, "Oh, John! my dear John! my dear brother!"

But neither smiles nor words would do for the overcharged heart. The tide of joy ran too strong, and too much swelled from the open sources of love and memory to keep any bounds. And it kept none. Ellen sat down and, bowing her head on the arm of the sofa, wept with all the vehement passion of her childhood, quivering from head to foot with convulsive sobs. John might guess from the outpouring how much her heart had been secretly gathering for months past. For a little while he walked up and down the room; but this excessive agitation he was not willing should continue. He said nothing; sitting down beside Ellen on the sofa, he quietly possessed himself of one of her hands; and when in her excitement the hand struggled to get away again, it was not permitted. Ellen understood that very well and immediately checked herself. Better than words, the calm firm grasp of his hand quieted her. Her sobbing stilled; she turned from the arm of the sofa, and leaning her head upon him took his hand in both hers and pressed it to her lips as if she were half beside herself. But that was not permitted to last either, for his hand quickly imprisoned hers again. There was silence still. Ellen could not look up yet, and neither seemed very forward to speak; she sat gradually quieting down into fulness of happiness.

"I thought you never would come, John," at length Ellen half whispered, half said.

"And I cannot stay now. I must leave you to-morrow, Ellie."

Ellen started up and looked up now.

"Leave me! For how long? Where are you going?"

"Home."

"To America?" Ellen's heart died within her. Was this the end of all her hopes? did her confidence end here? She shed no tears now. He could see that she grew absolutely still from intense feeling.

"What's the matter, Ellie?" said the low gentle tones she so well remembered; "I am leaving you but for a time. I must go home now, but if I live you will see me again."

"Oh, I wish I was going with you!" Ellen exclaimed, bursting into tears.

"My dear Ellie!" said her brother in an altered voice, drawing her again to his arms, "you cannot wish it more than I."

"I never thought you would leave me here, John."

"Neither would I, if I could help it; neither will I a minute longer than I can help; but we must both wait, my own Ellie. Do not cry so, for my sake!"