"Well?"
"Well, Sir, that wasn't being quite true; and I was very sorry for it."
"Not true? Yes, it was; what do you mean? you had not seen
Edinburgh."
"No, Sir; but I mean that was true; but I said it to make you believe what wasn't true."
"How?"
"I meant you to think, Sir, that that was the reason why I wanted to go to church to see the city and the new sights; and it wasn't at all."
"What was it then?"
Ellen hesitated.
"I always love to go, Sir; and, besides, I believe I wanted to be alone."
"And you were not, after all," said Mr. Lindsay, again pressing her cheek to his, "for I followed you there. But, Ellen, my child, you were troubled without reason; you had said nothing that was false."
"Ah, Sir, but I had made you believe what was false."
"Upon my word," said Mr. Lindsay, "you are a nice reasoner.
And are you always true upon this close scale?"
"I wish I was, Sir; but you see I am not. I am sure I hate everything else!"
"Well, I will not quarrel with you for being true," said Mr.
Lindsay; "I wish there was a little more of it in the world.
Was this the cause of all those tears this afternoon?"
"No, Sir not all."
"What beside, Ellen?"
Ellen looked down, and was silent.
"Come, I must know."
"Must I tell you all, Sir?"
"You must, indeed," said he, smiling; "I will have the whole, daughter."
"I had been feeling very sorry all the week, because you, and grandmother, and aunt Keith, were displeased with me."
Again Mr. Lindsay's silent caress, in its tenderness, seemed to say she should never have the same complaint to make again.
"Was that all, Ellen?" as she hesitated.
"No, Sir."
"Well?"
"I wish you wouldn't ask me further; please do not. I shall displease you again."
"I will not be displeased."
"I was thinking of Mr. Humphreys," said Ellen, in a low tone.
"Who is that?"
"You know, Sir; you say I must not call him "
"What were you thinking of him?"
"I was wishing very much I could see him again."
"Well, you are a truth-teller," said Mr. Lindsay, "or bolder than I think you."
"You said you would not be displeased, Sir."
"Neither will I, daughter; but what shall I do to make you forget these people?"
"Nothing, Sir; I cannot forget them; I shouldn't deserve to have you love me a bit if I could. Let me love them, and do not be angry with me for it."
"But I am not satisfied to have your body here, and your heart somewhere else."
I must have a poor little kind of heart," said Ellen, smiling amidst her tears, "if I had room in it for only one person."
"Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay, inquisitively, "did you insinuate a falsehood there?"
"No, Sir."
"There is honesty in those eyes," said he, "if there is honesty anywhere in the world. I am satisfied, that is, half satisfied. Now lie there, my little daughter, and rest," said he, laying her upon the sofa; "you look as if you needed it."
"I don't need anything now," said Ellen, as she laid her cheek upon the grateful pillow, "except one thing if grandmother would only forgive me too."
"You must try not to offend your grandmother, Ellen, for she does not very readily forgive; but I think we can arrange this matter. Go you to sleep."
"I wonder," said Ellen, smiling as she closed her eyes, "why everybody calls me 'little;' I don't think I am very little. Everybody says 'little.' "
Mr. Lindsay thought he understood it, when a few minutes after he sat watching her as she really had fallen asleep. The innocent brow, the perfect sweet calm of the face, seemed to belong to much younger years. Even Mr. Lindsay could not help recollecting the housekeeper's comment "Heaven's peace within;" scarcely Ellen's own mother ever watched over her with more fond tenderness than her adopted father did now.
For several days after this he would hardly permit her to leave him. He made her bring her books and study where he was, he went out and came in with her, and kept her by his side whenever they joined the rest of the family at meals or in the evening. Whether Mr. Lindsay intended it or not, this soon had the effect to abate the displeasure of his mother and sister. Ellen was almost taken out of their hands, and they thought it expedient not to let him have the whole of her. And though Ellen could better bear their cold looks and words since she had Mr. Lindsay's favour again, she was very glad when they smiled upon her too, and went dancing about with quite a happy face.
She was now very busy. She had masters for the piano and singing and different branches of knowledge; she went to Mr. Muller regularly twice a week; and soon her riding attendance began. She had said no more on the subject, but went quietly, hoping they would find out their mistake before long. Lady Keith always accompanied her.
One day Ellen had ridden near her usual time, when a young lady with whom she attended a German class came up to where she was resting. This lady was several years older than Ellen, but had taken a fancy to her.
"How finely you got on yesterday," said she, "making us all ashamed. Ah, I guess M. Muller helped you."
"Yes," said Ellen, smiling, "he did help me a little; he helped me with those troublesome pronunciations."
"With nothing else, I suppose! Ah, well, we must submit to be stupid. How do you do today?"
"I am very tired, Miss Gordon."
"Tired! Oh, you're not used to it."
"No, it isn't that," said Ellen; "I am used to it that is the reason I am tired. I am accustomed to ride up and down the country at any pace I like; and it is very tiresome to walk stupidly round and round for an hour."
"But do you know how to manage a horse? I thought you were only just beginning to learn."
"Oh, no, I have been learning this great while; only they don't think I know how, and they have never seen me. Are you just come, Miss Gordon?"
"Yes, and they are bringing out Sophronisbe for me do you know Sophronisbe? Look, that light gray; isn't she beautiful? she's the loveliest creature in the whole stud."
"O, I know!" said Ellen; "I saw you on her the other day; she went charmingly. How long shall I be kept walking here, Miss Gordon?"
"Why, I don't know; I should think they would find out. What does De Courcy say to you?"
"O, 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 eye soon singled out Ellen.
"My daughter sits well," he remarked to the riding-master.
"A merveille! Mademoiselle Lindesay 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 opinions 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 recommencé?"
"Monsieur, he led with the wrong foot."
"C'est ça justement!" he exclaimed.
"Have you practiced 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 pouvoit 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'd have a horse, and rides to her heart's content.
CHAPTER L.
Trials without.
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 and 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, canvas 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 realized 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 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 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."
"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 was 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 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.
"O, 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 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 i' 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 of 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 you," 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."
"Friends! and wha has mair frinds than yoursel,' Miss Ellen, or better frinds? father and mother and a'; where wad ye find thae that will love you mair?"
"Ah , but I haven't my brother!" sobbed Ellen.
"Your brither, Miss Ellen? An' wa'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 ought 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.
"My dear bairn, there is Ane abuve what disposes a' things for us; and he isna weel pleased when His children fash themselves wi' His dispensations. He has ta'en and placed you here for your ain gude, I trust I'm sure it's for the gude of us a' and if ye haena a' things ye wad wish, Miss Ellen, ye hae Him! dinna forget that, my ain bairn."
Ellen returned heartily and silently the embrace of the old Scotch-woman, and when she left her, set herself to follow her advice. She tried to gather her scattered thoughts, and smooth her ruffled feelings, in using this quiet time to the best advantage. At the end of half an hour she felt like another creature, and began to refresh herself with softly singing some of her old hymns.
The argument which was carried on in the parlour sunk at length into silence without coming to any conclusion.
"Where is Miss Ellen?" Mrs. Lindsay asked of a servant that came in.
"She is up in her room, Ma'am, singing."
"Mr. Lindsay stood still at the door."
"Tell her I want her."
"No stop," said Mr. Lindsay;"I'll go myself."
Her door was a little ajar, and he softly opened it without disturbing her. Ellen was still sitting on the floor before the window, looking out through it, and in rather a low tone singing the last verse of the hymn "Rock of Ages:"
"While I draw this fleeting breath
When my eyelids close in death
When I rise to worlds unknown,
And behold Thee on thy throne
Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!"
Mr. Lindsay stood still at the door. Ellen paused a minute, and then sung "Jerusalem my happy home." Her utterance was so distinct that he heard every word. He did not move till she had finished, and then he came softly in.
"Singing songs to the moon, Ellen?"
Ellen started, and got up from the floor.
"No, Sir; I was singing them to myself."
"Not entirely, for I heard the last one. Why do you make yourself sober singing such sad things?"
"I don't, Sir; they are not sad to me they are delightful,
I love them dearly."
"How came you to love them? It is not natural for a child of your age. What do you love them for, my little daughter?"
"Oh, Sir, there are a great many reasons I don't know how many."
"I will have patience, Ellen; I want to hear them all."
"I love them because I love to think of the things the hymns are about I love the tunes dearly, and I like both the words and the tunes better, I believe, because I have sung them so often with friends."
"Humph! I guessed as much. Isn't that the strongest reason of the three?"
"I don't know, Sir; I don't think it is."
"Is all your heart in America, Ellen, or have you any left to bestow on us?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Not very much!"
"I love you, father," said Ellen, laying her cheek gently alongside of his.
"And your grandmother, Ellen?" said Mr. Lindsay, clasping his arms around her.
"Yes, Sir."
But he well understood that the "yes" was fainter.
"And your aunt? speak, Ellen."
"I don't love her as much as I wish I did," said Ellen; "I love her a little, I suppose. Oh, why do you ask me such a hard question, father?"
"That is something you have nothing to do with," said Mr. Lindsay, half-laughing. "Sit down here," he added, placing her on his knee, "and sing to me again."
Ellen was heartened by the tone of his voice, and pleased with the request. She immediately sang with great spirit a little Methodist hymn she had learned when a mere child. The wild air and simple words singularly suited each other:
"O Canaan, bright Canaan,
I'm bound for the land of Canaan,
O Canaan! It is my happy, happy home!
I am bound for the land of Canaan."
"Does that sound sad, Sir?"
"Why yes,I think it does, rather, Ellen. Does it make you feel merry?"
"Not merry, Sir it isn't merry; but I like it very much."
"The tune or the words?"
"Both, Sir."
"What do you mean by the land of Canaan?"
"Heaven, Sir."
"And do you like to think about that, at your age?"
"Why, certainly, Sir! Why not?"
"Why do you?"
"Because it is a bright and happy place," said Ellen, gravely, "where there is no darkness, nor sorrow, nor death, neither pain nor crying; and my mother is there, and my dear Alice, and my Saviour is there; and I hope I shall be there too."
"You are shedding tears now, Ellen."
"And if I am, Sir, it is not because I am unhappy. It doesn't make me unhappy to think of these things it makes me glad; and the more I think of them the happier I am."
"You are a strange child. I am afraid your grandmother is right, and that you are hurting yourself with poring over serious matters that you are too young for."
"She would not think so if she knew," said Ellen, sighing. "I should not be happy at all without that, and you would not love me half so well, nor she either. Oh, father!" she exclaimed, pressing his hand in both her own, and laying her face upon it, "do not let me be hindered in that! forbid me anything you please, but not that! the better I learn to please my best Friend, the better I shall please you."
"Whom do you mean by 'your best friend?' "
"The Lord, my Redeemer."
"Where did you get these notions?" said Mr. Lindsay, after a short pause.
"From my mother, first, Sir."
"She had none of them when I knew her."
"She had afterwards, then, Sir; and oh!" Ellen hesitated
"I wish everybody had them too!"
"My little daughter," said Mr. Lindsay affectionately kissing the cheeks and eyes which were moist again, "I shall indulge you in this matter. But you must keep your brow clear, or I shall revoke my grant. And you belong to me now; and there are some things I want you to forget, and not remember you understand? Now, don't sing songs to the moon any more to- night. Good night, my daughter."
"They think religion is a strange melancholy thing," said Ellen to herself as she went to bed; "I must not give them reason to think so I must let my rushlight burn bright I must take care I never had more need!"
And with an earnest prayer for help to do so, she laid her head on the pillow.
Mr. Lindsay told his mother he had made up his mind to let Ellen have her way for a while, and begged that she might return to her old room and hours again. Mrs. Lindsay would not hear of it. Ellen had disobeyed her orders, she said; she must take the consequence.
"She is a bold little hussy, to venture it," said Mr. Lindsay, "but I do not think there is any naughtiness in her heart."
"No, not a bit. I could not be angry with her. It is only those preposterous notions she has got from somebody or other."
Mr. Lindsay said no more. Next morning he asked Ellen privately what she did the first thing after breakfast.
"Practise on the piano for an hour," she said.
"Couldn't you do it at any other time?"
"Yes, Sir, I could practise in the afternoon, only grandmother likes to have me with her."
"Let it be done then, Ellen, in future."
"And what shall I do with the hour after breakfast, Sir?"
"Whatever you please," said he, smiling.
Ellen thanked him in the way she knew he best liked, and gratefully resolved he should have as little cause as possible to complain of her. Very little cause indeed did he or any one else have. No fault could be found with her performance of duty; and her cheerfulness was constant and unvarying. She remembered her brother's recipe against loneliness, and made use of it; she remembered Mrs. Allen's advice, and followed it; she grasped the promises, "He that cometh to me shall never hunger," and "Seek and ye shall find" precious words that never yet disappointed any one; and though tears might often fall that nobody knew of, and she might not be so merry as her friends would have liked to see her; though her cheerfulness was touched with sobriety, they could not complain, for her brow was always unruffled, her voice clear, her smile ready.
After a while she was restored to her own sleeping room again, and permitted to take up her former habits.
CHAPTER LI.
Trials within.
Though nothing could be smoother than the general course of her life, Ellen's principles were still now and then severely tried.
Of all in the house, next to Mr. Lindsay, she liked the company of the old housekeeper best. She was a simple-minded Christian, a most benevolent and kind-hearted, and withal sensible and respectable person; devotedly attached to the family, and very fond of Ellen in particular. Ellen loved, when she could, to get alone with her, and hear her talk of her mother's young days: and she loved furthermore, and almost as much, to talk to Mrs. Allen of her own. Ellen could to no one else lisp a word on the subject; and without dwelling directly on those that she loved, she delighted to tell over to an interested listener the things she had done, seen, and felt, with them.
"I wish that child was a little more like other people," said
Lady Keith, one evening in the latter end of the winter.
"Humph!" said Mr. Lindsay, "I don't remember at this moment any one that I think she could resemble without losing more than she gained."
"Oh, it's of no use to talk to you about Ellen, brother! You can take up things fast enough when you find them out, but you never will see with other people's eyes."
"What do your eyes see, Catherine?"
"She is altogether too childish for her years; she is really a baby."
"I don't know," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling: "you should ask M. Muller about that. He was holding forth to me for a quarter of an hour the other day, and could not stint in her praises. She will go on, he says, just as fast as he pleases to take her."
"Oh, yes, in intelligence and so on, I know she is not wanting; that is not what I mean."
"She is perfectly lady-like always," said Mrs. Lindsay.
"Yes, I know that, and perfectly child-like too."
"I like that," said Mr. Lindsay: "I have no fancy for your grown-up little girls."
"Well," said Lady Keith, in despair, "you may like it; but I tell you she is too much of a child, nevertheless, in other ways. She hasn't an idea of a thousand things. It was only the other day she was setting out to go, at mid-day, through the streets, with a basket on her arm some of that fruit for M. Muller, I believe."
"If she has any fault," said Mr. Lindsay, "it is want of pride but I don't know I can't say I wish she had more of it."
"Oh, no, of course! I suppose not. And it doesn't take anything at all to make the tears come in her eyes; the other day I didn't know whether to laugh or be vexed at the way she went on with a kitten, for half an hour or more. I wish you had seen her! I am not sure she didn't cry over that. Now I suppose the next thing, brother, you will go and make her a present of one."
"If you have no heavier charges to bring," said Mr. Lindsay, smiling, "I'll take breath and think about it."
"But she isn't like anybody else she don't care for young companions she don't seem to fancy any one out of the family unless it is old Mrs. Allen, and she is absurd about her. You know she is not very well lately, and Ellen goes to see her, I know, every day regularly; and there are the Gordons, and Carpenters, and Murrays, and M'Intoshes she sees them continually, but I don't think she takes a great deal of pleasure in their company. The fact is, she is too sober."
"She has as sweet a smile as I ever saw," said Mr. Lindsay, "and as hearty a laugh, when she does laugh; she is none of your gigglers."
"But when she does laugh," said Lady Keith, "it is not when other people do. I think she is generally grave when there is most merriment around her."
"I love to hear her laugh," said Mrs. Lindsay; "it is in such a low, sweet tone, and seems to come so from the very spring of enjoyment. Yet, I must say, I think Catherine is half right."
"With half an advocate," said Lady Keith, "I shall not effect much."
Mr. Lindsay uttered a low whistle. At this moment the door opened, and Ellen came gravely in, with a book in her hand.
"Come here, Ellen," said Mr. Lindsay holding out his hand "here's your aunt says you don't like anybody how is it? are you of an unsociable disposition?"
Ellen's smile would have been a sufficient apology to him for a much graver fault.
"Anybody out of the house, I meant," said Lady Keith.
"Speak, Ellen, and clear yourself," said Mr. Lindsay.
"I like some people," said Ellen, smiling; "I don't think I like a great many people very much."
"But you don't like young people," said Lady Keith "that is what I complain of; and it's unnatural. Now there's the other day, when you went to ride with Miss Gordon and her brother, and Miss M'Pherson and her brother I heard you say you were not sorry to get home. Now, where will you find pleasanter young people?"
"Why don't you like them, Ellen?" said Mrs. Lindsay.
"I do like them, Ma'am, tolerably."
"What does 'tolerably' mean?"
"I should have liked my ride better the other day," said
Ellen, "if they had talked about sensible things."
"Nonsense!" said Lady Keith. "Society cannot be made up of M.
Mullers."
"What did they talk about, Ellen?" said Mr. Lindsay, who seemed amused.
"About partners in dancing at least the ladies did and dresses, and different gentlemen, and what this one said and the other one said it wasn't very amusing to me."
Mr. Lindsay laughed. "And the gentlemen, Ellen; how did you like them?"
"I didn't like them particularly, Sir."
"What have you against them, Ellen?"
"I don't wish to say anything against them, Aunt Keith."
"Come, come; speak out."
"I didn't like their talking, Sir, any better than the ladies, and besides that, I don't think they are very polite."
"Why not?" said Mr. Lindsay, highly amused.
"I don't think it was very polite," said Ellen, "for them to sit still on their horses when I went out, and let Brocklesby help me to mount. They took me up at M. Muller's, you know, Sir; M. Muller had been obliged to go out and leave me."
Mr. Lindsay threw a glance at his sister, which she rather resented.
"And pray what do you expect, Ellen?" said she. "You are a mere child; do you think you ought to be treated as a woman?"
"I don't wish to be treated as anything but a child, Aunt
Keith."
But Ellen remembered well one day at home when John had been before the door on horseback, and she had run out to give him a message, his instantly dismounting to hear it. "And I was more a child then," she thought; "and he wasn't a stranger."
"Whom do you like, Ellen?" inquired Mr. Lindsay, who looked extremely satisfied with the result of the examination.
"I like M. Muller, Sir."
"Nobody else?"
"Mrs. Allen."
"There!" exclaimed Lady Keith.
"Have you come from her room just now?"
"Yes, Sir."
"What's your fancy for going there?"
"I like to hear her talk Sir, and to read to her; it gives her a great deal of pleasure; and I like to talk to her."
"What do you talk about?"
"She talks to me about my mother "
"And you?"
"I like to talk to her about old times," said Ellen, changing colour.
"Profitable conversation!" said Mrs. Lindsay.
"You will not go to her room any more, Ellen," said Mr.
Lindsay.
In great dismay at what Mrs. Allen would think, Ellen began a remonstrance. But only one word was uttered; Mr. Lindsay's hand was upon her lips. He next took the book she still held.
"Is this what you have been reading to her?"
Ellen bowed in answer.
"Who wrote all this?"
Before she could speak, he had turned to the front leaf, and read, "To my little sister." He quietly put the book in his pocket, and Ellen as quietly left the room.
"I am glad you have said that," said Lady Keith. "You are quick enough when you see anything for yourself, but you never will believe other people."
"There is nothing wrong here," said Mr. Lindsay; "only I will not have her going to those old recollections she is so fond of. I wish I could make her drink Lethe!"
"What is the book?" said Mrs. Lindsay.
"I hardly know," said he, turning it over; "except it is from that person that seems to have obtained such an ascendency over her it is full of his notes it is a religious work."
"She reads a great deal too much of that sort of thing," said
Mrs. Lindsay. "I wish you would contrive to put a stop to it.
You can do it better than any one else; she is very fond of
you."
That was not a good argument. Mr. Lindsay was silent; his thoughts went back to the conversation held that evening in Ellen's room, and to certain other things; and perhaps he was thinking that if religion had much to do with making her what she was, it was a tree that bore good fruits.
"I think," said Lady Keith, "that is one reason why she takes so little to the young people she sees. I have seen her sit perfectly grave when they were all laughing and talking around her it really looks singular I don't like it I presume she would have thought it wicked to laugh with them. And the other night I missed her from the younger part of the company, where she should have been, and there she was in the other room with M. Muller and somebody else,gravely listening to their conversation!"
"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 arose, 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 bookcases," 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 from 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 with everybody and everything else; consequently, conscience would not give her a moment's peace! and 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 apologize to Mr. Lindsay," said conscience. "Apologize! but I haven't done wrong." "Yes, you have," said conscience, "you spoke improperly; he is just 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.* [* "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 the 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, sunshiny face, and busy happy demeanour, and fancied, though he had sometimes doubts about it, that she did not trouble herself much with old recollections, or would, in time, get over them. It was not 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 cheek. 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.
"Thou!"
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! There! 't ain'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 rosebud 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.