"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."