The Wide, Wide World

"Wait? till when?" said Ellen, not a little reassured.

"I have no power now to remove you from your legal guardians, and you have no right to choose for yourself."

"And when shall I?"

"In a few years."

"A few years! But in the meantime, John, what shall I do without you? If I could see you once in a while, but there is no one here, not a single one to help me to keep right; no one talks to me as you used to; and I am all the while afraid I shall go wrong in something; what shall I do?"

"What the weak must always do, Ellie – seek for strength where it may be had."

"And so I do, John," said Ellen, weeping; "but I want you, oh, how much!"

"Are you not happy here?"

"Yes, I am happy, at least I thought I was half-an-hour ago, as happy as I can be. I have everything to make me happy except what would do it."

"We must both have recourse to our old remedy against sorrow and loneliness – you have not forgotten the use of it, Ellie?"

"No, John," said Ellen, meeting his eyes with a tearful smile.

"They love you here, do they not?"

"Very much – too much."

"And you love them?"

"Yes."

"That's a doubtful 'yes.'"

"I do love my father – very much; and my grandmother too, though not so much. I cannot help loving them, they love me so. But they are so unlike you!"

"That is not much to the purpose, after all," said John, smiling. "There are varieties of excellence in the world."

"Oh yes, but that isn't what I mean; it isn't a variety of excellence. They make me do everything they have a mind; I don't mean," she added, smiling, "that that is not like you, but you always had a reason; they are different. My father makes me drink wine every now and then; I don't like to do it, and he knows I do not, and I think that is the reason I have to do it."

"That is not a matter of great importance, Ellie, provided they do not make you do something wrong."

"They could not do that, I hope; and there is another thing they cannot make me do."

"What is that?"

"Stay here when you will take me away."

There was a few minutes' thoughtful pause on both sides.

"You are grown, Ellie," said John, "you are not the child I left you."

"I don't know," said Ellen, smiling. "It seems to me I am just the same."

"Let me see – look at me!"

She raised her face, and amidst smiles and tears its look was not less clear and frank than his was penetrating. "Just the same," was the verdict of her brother's eyes a moment afterwards. Ellen's smile grew bright as she read it there.

"Why have you never come or written before, John?"

"I did not know where you were. I have not been in England for many months until quite lately, and I could not get your address. I think my father was without it for a long time, and when at last he sent it to me, the letter miscarried – never reached me – there were delays upon delays."

"And when did you get it?"

"I preferred coming to writing."

"And now you must go home so soon!"

"I must, Ellie. My business has lingered on a great while, and it is quite time I should return. I expect to sail next week – Mrs. Gillespie is going with me – her husband stays behind till spring."

Ellen sighed.

"I made a friend of a friend of yours whom I met in Switzerland last summer – M. Muller."

"M. Muller! did you? Oh, I am very glad! I am very glad you know him – he is the best friend I have got here, after my father. I don't know what I should have done without him."

"I have heard him talk of you," said John, smiling.

"He has just come back; he was to be here this evening."

There was a pause again.

"It does not seem right to go home without you, Ellie," said her brother then. "I think you belong to me more than to anybody."

"That is exactly what I think!" said Ellen, with one of her bright looks, and then bursting into tears. "I am very glad you think so too! I will always do whatever you tell me – just as I used to – no matter what anybody else says."

"Perhaps I shall try you in two or three things, Ellie."

"Will you! in what? Oh, it would make me so happy – so much happier if I could be doing something to please you. I wish I was at home with you again!"

"I will bring that about, Ellie, by-and-by, if you make your words good."

"I shall be happy then," said Ellen, her old confidence standing stronger than ever, "because I know you will if you say so. Though how you will manage it I cannot conceive. My father and grandmother and aunt cannot bear to hear me speak of America. I believe they would be glad if there wasn't such a place in the world. They would not even let me think of it if they could help it; I never dare mention your name, or say a word about old times. They are afraid of my loving anybody, I believe. They want to have me all to themselves."

"What will they say to you then, Ellie, if you leave them to give yourself to me?"

"I cannot help it," replied Ellen, "they must say what they please;" and with abundance of energy, and not a few tears, she went on, "I love them, but I had given myself to you a great while ago; long before I was his daughter you called me your little sister – I can't undo that, John, and I don't want to – it doesn't make a bit of difference that we were not born so!"

John suddenly rose and began to walk up and down the room. Ellen soon came to his side, and leaning upon his arm, as she had been used to do in past times, walked up and down with him, at first silently.

"What is it you wanted me to do, John?" she said gently at length; "you said 'two or three' things?"