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.
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