"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."