"And, once wed,So just a man and gentle, could not chooseBut make my life as smooth as marriage-ring."
"Macintosh, do you ever condescend to do such a thing as walk?—take a walk, I mean?"
"You may command me," he answered somewhat lazily.
"May I? For the walk; but I want further to make a visit in the village."
"You may make twenty, if you feel inclined. I will order the horses to meet us there—shall I? or do you not wish to do anything but walk to-day?"
"O yes. After my visit is paid, I shall be ready."
"But it will be very inconvenient to walk so far in your habit. Can you manage that?"
"I expect to enlighten you a good deal as to a woman's power of managing," said Eleanor.
"Is that a warning?" said he, making her turn her face towards him.Eleanor gratified him with one of her full mischievous smiles.
"Did anybody ever tell you," said he continuing the inspection, "that you were handsome?"
"It never was worth anybody's while."
"How was that?"
"Simply, that he would have gained nothing by it."
"Then I suppose I should not, or you think so?"
"Nothing in the world. Mr. Carlisle, if you please, I will go and put on my hat."
The day was November in a mild mood; pleasant enough for a walk; and so one at least of the two found it. For Eleanor, she was in a divided mood; yet even to her the exercise was grateful, and brought some glow and stir of spirits through the body to the mind. At times, too, now, she almost bent before what seemed her fate, in hopelessness of escaping from it; and at those times she strove to accommodate herself to it, and tried to propitiate her captor. She did this from a twofold motive. She did fear him, and feared to have him anything but pleased with her; half slumbering that feeling lay; another feeling she was keenly conscious of. The love that he had for her; a gift that no woman can receive and be wholly unmoved by it; the affection she herself had allowed him to bestow, in full faith that it would not be thrown away; that stung Eleanor with grief and self-reproach; and made her at times question whether her duty did not lie where she had formally engaged it should. At such times she was very subdued in gentleness and in observance of Mr. Carlisle's pleasure; subdued to a meekness foreign to her natural mood, and which generally, to tell the truth, was accompanied by a very unwonted sedateness of spirits also; something very like the sedateness of despair.
She walked now silently the first half of the way; managing her long habit in a way that she knew Mr. Carlisle knew, though he took no open notice of it. The day was quite still, the road footing good. A slight rime hung about the distance, veiled faintly the Rythdale woods, enshrouded the far-off village, as they now and then caught glimpses of it, in its tuft of surrounding trees. Yet near at hand, the air seemed clear and mellow; there was no November chill. It was a brown world, however, through which the two walked; life and freshness all gone from vegetation; the leaves in most cases fallen from the trees, and where they still hung looking as sear and withered as frost and decay could make them.
"Do you abhorallcompliments?" said Mr. Carlisle, breaking a silence that for some time had been broken only by the quick ring of their footsteps upon the ground.
"No, sir."
"That is frank; yet I am half afraid to present the one which is on my lips."
"Perhaps it is not worth while," said Eleanor, with a gleam of a smile which was very alluring. "You are going to tell me, possibly, that I am a good walker."
"I do not know why I should let you silence me. No, I was not going to tell you that you are a good walker; you know it already. The compliment of beauty, that you scorned, was also perhaps no news to you. What I admire in you now, is something you do not know you have—and I do not mean you shall, by my means."
Eleanor's glance of amused curiosity, rewarded him.
"Are you expecting now, that I shall ask for it?"
"No; it would not be like you. You do not ask me for anything—that you can help, Eleanor. I shall have to make myself cunning in inventing situations of need that will drive you to it. It is pleasanter to me than you can imagine, to have your eyes seek mine with a request in them."
Eleanor coloured.
"There are the fieldfares!" she exclaimed presently.
"What is there melancholy in that?" said Mr. Carlisle laughingly.
"Nothing. Why?"
"You made the announcement as if you found it so."
"I was thinking of the time I saw the fieldfares last,—when they were gathering together preparing for their taking flight; and now here they are back again! It seems so little while—and yet it seems a long while too. The summer has gone."
"I am glad it has!" said Mr. Carlisle. "And I am glad Autumn has had the discretion to follow it. I make my bow to the fieldfares."
"You will not expect me to echo that," said Eleanor.
"No. Not now. I will make you do it by and by."
He thought a good deal of his power, Eleanor said to herself as she glanced at him; and sighed as she remembered that she did so too. She was afraid to say anything more. It had not been so pleasant a summer to her that she would have wished to live it over again; yet was she very sorry to know it gone, for more reasons than it would do to let Mr. Carlisle see.
"You do not believe that?" he said, coming with his brilliant eyes to find her out where her thoughts had plunged her. Eleanor came forth of them immediately and answered.
"No more, than that one of those fieldfares, if you should catch it and fasten a leash round its neck, would say it was well done that its time of free flying was over."
"My bird shall soar higher from the perch where I will place her, than ever she ventured before."
"Ay, and stoop to your lure, Mr. Carlisle!"
He laughed at this flash, and took instant tribute of the lips whose sauciness tempted him.
"Do you wonder," he said softly, "that I want to have my tassel-gentle on my hand?"
Eleanor coloured again, and was wisely silent.
"I am afraid you are not ambitious, Eleanor."
"Is that such a favourite vice, that you wish I were?"
"Vice! It is a virtue, say rather; but not for a woman," he added in a different tone. "No, I do not wish you any more of it, Nellie, than a little education will give."
"You are mistaken, though, Macintosh. I am very ambitious," Eleanor said gravely.
"Pray in what line? Of being able to govern Tippoo without my help?"
"Is it Tippoo that I am to ride to-day?"
"Yes. I will give you a lesson. What line does your ambition take, darling?"
"I have a great ambition—higher and deeper than you can think—to be a great deal better than myself."
She said it lowly and seriously, in a way that sufficiently spoke her earnestness. It was just as well to let Mr. Carlisle know now and then which way her thoughts travelled. She did not look up till the consciousness of his examining eyes upon her made her raise her own. His look was intent and silent, at first grave, and then changing into a very sunny smile with the words—
"My little Saint Eleanor?"—
They were inimitably spoken; it is difficult to say how. The graciousness, and affection, and only a very little tender raillery discernible with them, at once smote and won Eleanor. What could she do to make amends to this man for letting him love her, but to be his wife and give him all the good she could? She answered his smile, and if hers was shy and slight it was also so gentle that Mr. Carlisle was more than content.
"If you have no other ambition than that," he said, "then the wise man is proved wrong who said that moderation is the sloth of the soul, as ambition is its activity."
"Who said that?"
"Rochefoucauld, I believe."
"Like him—" said Eleanor.
"How is that? wise?"
"No indeed; false."
"He was a philosopher, and you are not even a student in that school."
"He was not a true man; and that I know by the lights he never knew."
"He told the time of day by the world's clock, Eleanor. You go by a private sun-dial of your own."
"The sun is right, Mr. Carlisle! He was a vile old maligner of human nature."
"Where did you learn to know him so well?" said Mr. Carlisle, amused.
"You may well ask. I used to study French sentences out of him; because they were in nice little detached bits; and when I came to understand him I judged him accordingly."
"By the sun. Few men will stand that, Eleanor. Give an instance."
"We are in the village."
"I see it."
"I told you I wanted to make a visit, Macintosh."
"May I go too?"
"Why certainly; but I am afraid you will not know what to do with yourself. It is at the house of Mrs. Lewis,—my old nurse."
"Do you think I never go into cottages?" said he smiling.
Eleanor did not know what to make of him; however, it was plain he would go with her into this one; so she took him in, and then had to tell who he was, and blushed for shame and vexation to see her old nurse's delighted and deep curtseys at the honour done her. She made her escape to see Jane; and leaving Mr. Carlisle to his own devices, gladly shut herself into the little stairway which led up from the kitchen to Jane's room. The door closed behind her, Eleanor let fall the spirit-mask she wore before Mr. Carlisle,—wore consciously for him and half unconsciously for herself,—and her feet went slowly and heavily up the stair. A short stairway it was, and she had short time to linger; she did not linger; she went into Jane's room. Eleanor had not been there since the night of her watch.
It was like coming out of the woods upon an open champaign, as she stood by the side of the sick girl. Jane was lying bolstered up, as usual; disease shewed no stay of its ravages since Eleanor had been there last; all that was as it had been. The thin cheek with its feverish hue; the unnaturally bright eyes; the attitude of feebleness. But the mouth was quiet and at rest to-day; and that mysterious region of expression around the eyes had lost all its seams and lines of care and anxiety; and the eyes themselves looked at Eleanor with that calm full simplicity that one sees in an infant's eyes, before care or doubt has ever visited them. Eleanor was silent with surprise, and Jane spoke first.
"I am glad to see you, Miss Eleanor."
"You are better, Jane, to-day."
"I think—I am almost well," said Jane, pausing for breath as she spoke, and smiling at the same time.
"What has happened to you since I was here last? You do not look like the same."
"Ma'am, I am not the same. The Lord's messenger has come—and I've heard the message—and O, Miss Eleanor, I'm happy!"
"What do you mean, Jane?" said Eleanor; though it struck coldly through all her senses what it did mean.
"Dear Miss Eleanor," said Jane, looking at her lovingly—"I wish you was as happy as I be!"
"What makes you happy?"
"O ma'am, because I love Jesus. I love Jesus!"
"You must tell me more, Jane. I do not understand you. The other night, when I was here, you were not happy."
"Miss Eleanor, I didn't know him then. Since then I've seen how good he is—and how beautiful—and what he has done for me;—and I'm happy!"
"Can't you tell me more, Jane? I want to understand it."
"Miss Eleanor, it's hard to tell. I'm thinking, one can't tell another—but the Lord must just shew himself."
"What has he shewn to you?" said Eleanor gloomily. The girl lifted her eyes with a placid light in them, as she answered,
"He has showed me how he loves me—and that he has forgiven me—O how good he is, Miss Eleanor!—and how he will take me home. And now I don't want for to stay—no more now."
"You were afraid of dying, the other night, Jane."
"That's gone,"—said the girl expressively.
"But how did it go?"
"I can't say, ma'am. I just saw how Jesus loves me—and I felt I loved him—and then how could I be feared, Miss Eleanor? when all's in his hand."
Eleanor stood still, looking at the transformed face before her, and feeling ready to sink on the floor and cry out for very sorrow of heart. Had this poor creature put on the invisible panoply which made her dare to go among the angels, while Eleanor's own hand was empty—could not reach it—could not grasp it? She stood still with a cold brow and dark face.
"Jane, I wish you could give me what you have got—so as not to lose it yourself."
"Jesus will give it to you, Miss Eleanor," said the girl with a brightening eye and smile. "I know he will."
"I do not know of him, Jane, as you do," Eleanor said gravely. "What did you do to gain this knowledge?"
"I? I did nought, ma'am—what could I do? I just laid and cried in my bitterness of heart—like the night you was here, ma'am; till the day that Mr. Rhys came again and talked—and prayed—O he prayed!—and my trouble went away and the light came. O Miss Eleanor, if you would hear Mr. Rhys speak! I don't know how;—but if you'd hear him, you'd know all that man can tell."
Eleanor stood silent. Jane looked at her with eyes of wistful regard, but panting already from the exertion of talking.
"But how are you different to-day, Jane, from what you were the other night?—except in being happy."
"Ma'am," said the girl speaking with difficulty, for she was excited,—"then I was blind. Now I see. I ain't different no ways—only I have seen what the Lord has done for me—and I know he loves me—and he's forgiven me my sins. He's forgiven me!—And now I go singing to myself, like, all the day and the night too, 'I love the Lord, and my Lord loves me.'"
The water had slowly gathered in Jane's eyes, and the cheek flushed; but her sweet happy regard never varied except to brighten.
"Jane, you must talk no more," said Eleanor. "What can I do for you? only tell me that."
"Would Miss Eleanor read a bit?"
What would become of Mr. Carlisle's patience? Eleanor desperately resolved to let it take care of itself, and sat down to read to Jane at the open page where the girl's look and finger had indicated that she wished her to begin. And the very first words were, "Let not your heart be troubled."
Eleanor felt her voice choke; then clearing it with a determined effort she read on to the end of the chapter. But if she had been reading the passage in its original Greek, she herself would hardly have received less intelligence from it. She had a dim perception of the words of love and words of glory of which it is full; she saw that Mr. Rhys's "helmet" was at the beginning of it, and the "peace" he had preached of, at the end of it; yet those words which ever since the day they were spoken have been a bed of rest to every heart that has loved their Author, only straitened Eleanor's heart with a vision of rest afar off.
"I must go now, dear Jane," she said as soon as the reading was ended."What else would you like, that I can do for you?"
"I'm thinking I want nothing, Miss Eleanor," said the girl calmly, without moving the eyes which had looked at Eleanor all through the reading. "But—"
"But what? speak out."
"Mother says you can do anything, ma'am."
"Well, go on."
"Dolly's in trouble, ma'am."
"Dolly? why she was to have been married to that young Earle?"
"Yes, ma'am, but—mother'll tell you, Miss Eleanor—it tires me. He has been disappointed of his money, has James; and Dolly, she couldn't lay up none, 'cause of home;—and she's got to go back to service at Tenby; and they don't know when they'll come together now."
A fit of coughing punished Jane for the exertion she had made, and put a stop to her communication. Eleanor staid by her till it was over, would not let her say another word, kissed her, and ran down to the lower room in a divided state of spirits. There she learnt from Mrs. Lewis the details of Jane's confused story. The young couple wanted means to furnish a house; the money hoarded for the purpose had been lent by James in some stress of his parents' affairs and could not now be got back again; and the secret hope of the family, Eleanor found, was that James might be advanced to the gamekeeper's place at Rythdale, which they took care to inform her was vacant; and which would put the young man in possession of better wages and enable him to marry at once. Eleanor just heard all this, and hurried out to the gate where Mr. Carlisle was waiting for her. Her interview with Jane had left her with a desperate feeling of being cut off from the peace and light her heart longed for; and yet she was glad to see somebody else happy. She stood by Mr. Carlisle's side in a sort of subdued mood. There also stood Miss Broadus.
"Now Eleanor! here you are. Won't you help me? I want you two to come in and take luncheon with us. I shall never get over it if you do—I shall be so pleased. So will Juliana. Now do persuade this gentleman!—will you? We'll have luncheon in a little while—and then you can go on your ride. You'll never do it if you dc not to-day."
"It is hardly time, Miss Broadus," said Mr. Carlisle "We must ride some miles before luncheon."
"I think it must be very near time," said Miss Broadus "Do, Eleanor, look and tell us what it is. Now you are here, it would be such a good chance. Well, Eleanor? And the horses can wait."
"It is half past twelve by me, Miss Broadus. I do not know how it is by the world's clock."
"You can not take her word," said Mr. Carlisle, preparing to mount Eleanor. "She goes by an old-fashioned thing, that is always behind the time—or in advance of it."
"Well, I declare!" said Miss Broadus. "That beautiful little watch Mr.Powle gave her! Then you will come in after your ride?"
If they were near enough at luncheon time, Mr. Carlisle promised that should be done; and leaving Miss Broadus in startled admiration of their horses, the riders set forth. A new ride was promised Eleanor; they struck forward beyond Wiglands, leaving the road to Rythdale on the left hand. Eleanor was busily meditating on the question of making suit to Mr. Carlisle in James Earle's favour; but not as a question to be decided; she had resolved she would not do it, and was thinking rather how very unwilling she should be to do it; sensible at the same time that much power was in her hands to do good and give relief, of many kinds; but fixed in the mind that so long as she had not the absolute right and duty of Mr. Carlisle's wife, she would not assume it. Yet between pride and benevolence Eleanor's ride was likely to be scarce a pleasant one. It was extremely silent, for which Tippoo's behaviour on this occasion gave no excuse. He was as gentle as the day.
"What did you find in that cottage to give your thoughts so profound a turn?" said Mr. Carlisle at last.
"A sick girl."
"Cottages do not seem to agree with you, Eleanor."
"That would be unfortunate," said Eleanor rousing up, "for the people in them seem to want me very much."
"Do not let that impose on you," said Mr. Carlisle smiling. "Speaking of cottages—two of my cottages at Rythmoor are empty still."
"O are they!—" Eleanor exclaimed with sudden life.
"What then?"
"Is there anybody you mean to put in them, Mr. Carlisle?"
"No. Is there anybody you mean to put in them?"
"I know just who would like to have one."
"Then I know just who shall have it—or I shall know, when you have told me."
Did he smile to himself that his bait had taken? He did not smile outwardly. Riding close up to her, he listened with a bright face to the story which Eleanor gave with a brighter. She had a private smile at herself. Where were her scruples now? There was no help for it.
"It is one of your—one of the under gardeners at Rythdale; his name isJames Earle. I believe he is a good fellow."
"We will suppose that. What has he done to enlist your sympathy?"
"He wants to marry a sister of this girl I have been to see. They have been long betrothed; and James has been laying up money to set up housekeeping. They were to have been married this autumn,—now;—but James had lent all his earnings to get his old father out of some distress, and they are not forthcoming; and all Dolly's earnings go to support hers."
"And what would you like to do for them, Eleanor?"
Eleanor coloured now, but she could not go back. "If you think well ofEarle, and would like to have him in one of the empty cottages atRythmoor, I should be glad."
"They shall go in, the day we are married; and I wish you would find somebody for the other. Now having made a pair of people happy and established a house, would you like a gallop?"
Eleanor's cheeks were hot, and she would very much; but she answered,"One of Tippoo's gallops?"—
"You do not know them yet. You have tried only a mad gallop. Tippoo!" said Mr. Carlisle stooping and striking his riding glove against the horse's shoulder,—"I am going a race with you, do you hear?"
His own charger at the same time sprang forward, and Tippoo to match! But such a cradling flight through the air, Eleanor never knew until now. There seemed no exertion; there was no jar; a smooth, swift, arrowy passage over the ground, like what birds take under the clouds. This was the gentlest of gallops, certainly, and yet it was at a rare speed that cleared the miles very fast and left striving grooms in the distance. Eleanor paid no attention to anything but the delight of motion; she did not care where or how far she was carried on such magical hoofs; but indeed the ride was beyond her beat and she did not know the waymarks if she had observed them. A gradual slackening of this pace of delight brought her back to the earth and her senses again.
"How was that?" said Mr. Carlisle. "It has done you no harm."
"I do not know how it was," said Eleanor, caressing the head and neck of the magnificent animal she rode—"but I think this creature has come out of the Arabian Nights. Tippoo is certainly an enchanted prince."
"I'll take care he is not disenchanted, then," said Mr. Carlisle. "That gallop did us some service. Do you know where we are?"
"Not in the least."
"You will know presently."
And accordingly, a few minutes of fast riding brought them to a lodge and a gate.
"Is this Rythdale?" said Eleanor, who had noticed the manner of the gate-opener.
"Yes, and this entrance is near the house. You will see it in a moment or two."
It appeared presently, stately and lovely, on the other side of an extensive lawn; a grove of spruce firs making a beautiful setting for it on one side. The riders passed round the lawn, through a part of the plantations, and came up to the house at the before-mentioned left wing. Mr. Carlisle threw himself off his horse and came to Eleanor.
"What now, Macintosh?"
"Luncheon."
"O, I do not want any luncheon."
"I do. And so do you, love. Come!"
"Macintosh," said Eleanor, bending down with her hand resting on his shoulder to enforce her request, "I do not want to go in!"
"I cannot take you any further without rest and refreshment; and we are too far from Miss Broadus's now. Come, Eleanor!"
He took her down, and then observing the discomposed colour of Eleanor's cheek, he went on affectionately, as he was leading her in,—"What is there formidable in it, Nellie? Nothing but my mother and luncheon; and she will be much pleased to see you."
Eleanor made no answer; she doubted it; at all events the pleasure would be all on one side. But the reception she got justified Mr. Carlisle. Lady Rythdale was pleased. She was even gracious. She sent Eleanor to her dressing-room to refresh herself, not to change her dress this time; and received her when she came into her presence again with a look that was even benign.
Bound, bound,—Eleanor felt it in everything her eye lit upon; she had thought it all over in the dressing-room, while she was putting in order the masses of hair which had been somewhat shaken down by the gallop. She was irritated, and proud, and afraid of displeasing Mr. Carlisle; and above all this and keeping it down, was the sense that she was bound to him. He did love her, if he also loved to command her; and he would do the latter, and it was better not to hinder his doing the other. But higher than this consideration rose the feeling ofright. She had given him leave to love her; and now it seemed that his love demanded of her all she had, if it was not all he wanted; duty and observance and her own sweet self, if not her heart's absorbing affection. And this would satisfy Mr. Carlisle, Eleanor knew; she could not ease her conscience with the thought that it would not. And here she was in his mother's dressing-room putting up her hair, and down stairs he and his mother were waiting for her; she was almost in the family already. Eleanor put several feelings in bonds, along with the abundant tresses of brown hair which made her hands full, and went down.
She looked lovely as she came in; for the pride and irritation and struggling rebellion which had all been at work, were smothered or at least kept under by her subdued feeling, and her brow wore an air of almost shy modesty. She did not see the two faces which were turned towards her as soon as she appeared, though she saw Mr. Carlisle rise. She came forward and stood before Lady Rythdale.
The feeling of shyness and of being bound were both rather increased by all she saw and felt around her. The place was a winter parlour or sitting-room, luxuriously hung and furnished with red, which made a rich glow in the air. At one side a glass door revealed a glow of another sort from the hues of tropical flowers gorgeously blooming in a small conservatory; on another side of the room, where Lady Rythdale sat and her son stood, a fire of noble logs softly burned in an ample chimney. All around the evidences of wealth and a certain sort of power were multiplied; not newly there but native; in a style of things very different from Eleanor's own simple household. She stood before the fire, feeling all this without looking up, her eye resting on the exquisite mat of Berlin wool on which Lady Rythdale's foot rested. That lady surveyed her.
"So you have come," she said. "Macintosh said he would bring you."
Eleanor answered for the moment with tact and temper almost equal to her lover's, "Madam—you know Mr. Carlisle."
How satisfied they both looked, she did not see; but she felt it, through every nerve, as Mr. Carlisle took her hands and placed her in a great chair, that she had pleased him thoroughly. He remained standing beside her, leaning on her chair, watching her varying colour no doubt. A few commonplaces followed, and then the talk fell to the mother and son who had some affairs to speak about. Eleanor's eye went to the glass door beyond which the flowers beckoned her; she longed to go to them; but though feeling that bands were all round her which were drawing her and would draw her to be at home in that house, she would not of her own will take one step that way; she would assume nothing, not even the right of a stranger. So she only looked at the distant flowers, and thought, and ceased to hear the conversation she did not understand. But all this while Lady Rythdale was taking note of her. A pause came, and Eleanor became conscious that she was a subject of consideration.
"You will have a very pretty wife, Macintosh," said the baroness bluntly and benignly.
The rush of colour to her face Eleanor felt as if she could hardly bear. She had much ado not to put up her hands like a child.
"You must have mercy on her, mamma," said Mr. Carlisle, walking off to a bookcase. "She has the uncommon grace of modesty."
"It is no use," said Lady Rythdale. "She may as well get accustomed to it. Others will tell her, if you do not."
There was silence. Eleanor felt displeased.
"Is she as good as she is pretty?" enquired Lady Rythdale.
"No, ma'am," said Eleanor in a low voice. The baroness laughed. Her son smiled. Eleanor was vexed at herself for speaking.
"Mamma, is not Rochefoucauld here somewhere?"
"Rochefoucauld? what do you want of him?"
"I want to call this lady to account for some of her opinions. Here he is. Now Eleanor," said he tossing the book into her lap and sitting down beside her,—"justify yourself."
Eleanor guessed he wanted to draw her out. She was not very ready. She turned over slowly the leaves of the book. Meanwhile Lady Rythdale again engaged her son in conversation which entirely overlooked her; and Eleanor thought her own thoughts; till Mr. Carlisle said with a little tone of triumph, "Well, Eleanor?—"
"What is it?" said Lady Rythdale.
"Human nature, ma'am; that is the question."
"Only Rochefoucauld's exposition of it," said Eleanor.
"Well, go on. Prove him false."
"But when I have done it by the sun-dial, you will make me wrong by the clock."
"Instance! instance!" said Mr. Carlisle laughing.
"Take this. 'La magnanimité est assez bien définie par son nom même; néanmoins on pourroit dire que c'est le bon sens de l'orgueil, et la voie la plus noble pour recevoir des louanges.' Could anything be further from the truth than that?"
"What is your idea of magnanimity? You do not think 'the good sense of pride' expresses it?"
"It is not a matter of calculation at all; and I do not think it is beholden to anything so low as pride for its origin."
"I am afraid we should not agree in our estimation of pride," said Mr.Carlisle, amused; "you had better go on to something else. The want ofambition may indicate a deficiency in that quality—or an excess of it.Which, Eleanor?"
"Rochefoucauld says, 'La modération est comme la sobriété: on voudroit bien manger davantage, mais on craint de se faire mal.'"
"What have you to say against that?"
"Nothing. It speaks for itself. And these two sayings alone prove that he had no knowledge of what is really noble in men."
"Very few have," said Mr. Carlisle dryly.
"But you do not agree with him?"
"Not in these two instances. I have a living confutation at my side."
"Her accent is not perfect by any means," said Lady Rythdale.
"You are right, madam," said Eleanor, with a moment's hesitation and a little colour. "I had good advantages at school, but I did not avail myself of them fully."
"I know whose temper is perfect," said Mr. Carlisle, drawing the book from her hand and whispering, "Do you want to see the flowers?"
He was not pleased, Eleanor saw; he carried her off to the conservatory and walked about with her there, watching her pleasure. She wished she could have been alone. The flowers were quite a different society from Lady Rythdale's, and drew off her thoughts into a different channel. The roses looked sweetness at her; the Dendrobium shone in purity; myrtles and ferns and some exquisite foreign plants that she knew not by name, were the very prime of elegant refinement and refreshing suggestion. Eleanor plucked a geranium leaf and bruised it and thoughts together under her finger. Mr. Carlisle was called in and for a moment she was left to herself. When he came back his first action was to gather a very superb rose and fasten it in her hair. Eleanor tried to arrest his hand, but he prevented her.
"I do not like it, Macintosh. Lady Rythdale does not know me. Do not adorn me here!"
"Your appearance here is my affair," said he coolly. "Eleanor, I have a request to make. My mother would like to hear you sing."
"Sing! I am afraid I should not please Lady Rythdale."
"Will you please me?"
Eleanor quitted his hand and went to the door of communication with the red parlour, which was by two or three steps, on which she sat down. Her eyes were on the floor, where the object they encountered was Mr. Carlisle's spurs. That would not do; she buried them in the depths of a wonderful white lily, and so sang the old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence. And so sweet and pure, so natural and wild, was her giving of the wild old song, as if it could have come out of the throat of the flower. The thrill of her voice was as a leaf trembles on its stem. No art there; it was unadulterated nature. A very delicious voice had been spoiled by no master; the soul of the singer rendered the soul of the song. The listeners did both of them, to do them justice, hold their breath till she had done. Then Mr. Carlisle brought her in, to luncheon, in triumph; rose and all.
"You have a very remarkable voice, my dear!" said Lady Rythdale. "Do you always sing such melancholy things?"
"You must take my mother's compliments, Nellie, as you would olives—it takes a little while to get accustomed to them."
Eleanor thought so.
"Do not you spoil her with sweet things," said the baroness. "Come here, child—let me look at you. You have certainly as pretty a head of hair as ever I saw. Did you put in that rose?"
"No, ma'am," said Eleanor, blushing with somewhat besides pleasure.
Much to her amazement, the next thing was Lady Rythdale's taking her in her arms and kissing her. Nor was Eleanor immediately released; not until she had been held and looked over and caressed to the content of the old baroness, and Eleanor's cheeks were in a state of furious protestation. She was dismissed at last with the assurance to Mr. Carlisle that she was "an innocent little thing."
"But she is not one of those people who are good because they have not force to be anything else, Macintosh."
"I hope not."
After this, however, Eleanor was spared further discussion. Luncheon came in; and during the whole discussion of that she was well petted, both by the mother and son. She felt that she could never break the nets that enclosed her; this day thoroughly achieved that conclusion to Eleanor's mind. Yet with a proud sort of mental reservation, she shunned the delicacies that belonged to Rythdale House, and would have made her luncheon with the simplicity of an anchorite on honey and bread, as she might at home. She was very gently overruled, and made to do as she would not at home. Eleanor was not insensible to this sort of petting and care; the charm of it stole over her, even while it made her hopeless. And hopelessness said, she had better make the most of all the good that fell to her lot. To be seated in the heart of Rythdale House and in the heart of its master, involved a worldly lot as fair at least as imagination could picture. Eleanor was made to taste it to-day, all luncheon time, and when after luncheon Mr. Carlisle pleased himself with making his mother and her quarrel over Rochefoucauld; in a leisurely sort of enjoyment that spoke him in no haste to put an end to the day. At last, and not till the afternoon was waning, he ordered the horses. Eleanor was put on Black Maggie and taken home at a gentle pace.
"I do not understand," said Eleanor as they passed through the ruins, "why the House is called 'the Priory.' The priory buildings are here."
"There too," said Mr. Carlisle. "The oldest foundations are really up there; and part of the superstructure is still hidden within the modern walls. After they had established themselves up there, the monks became possessed of the richer sheltered lands of the valley and moved themselves and their headquarters accordingly."
The gloom of the afternoon was already gathering over the old tower of the priory church. The influence of the place and time went to swell the under current of Eleanor's thoughts and bring it nearer to the surface. It would have driven her into silence, but that she did not choose that it should. She met Mr. Carlisle's conversation, all the way, with the sort of subdued gentleness that had been upon her and which the day's work had deepened. Nevertheless, when Eleanor went in at home, and the day's work lay behind her, and Rythdale's master was gone, and all the fascinations the day had presented to her presented themselves anew to her imagination, Eleanor thought with sinking of heart—that what Jane Lewis had was better than all. So she went to bed that night.
"Why, and I trust, and I may go too. May I not?What, shall I be appointed hours: as though, belike,I know not what to take and what to leave? Ha!"
"Eleanor, what is the matter?" said Julia one day. For Eleanor was found in her room in tears.
"Nothing—I am going to ruin only;—that is all."
"Going towhat?Why Eleanor—what is the matter?"
"Nothing—if not that."
"Why Eleanor!" said the little one in growing astonishment, for Eleanor's distress was evidently great, and jumping at conclusions with a child's recklessness,—"Eleanor!—don't you want to be married?"
"Hush! hush!" exclaimed Eleanor rousing herself up. "How dare you talk so, I did not say anything about being married."
"No, but you don't seem glad," said Julia.
"Glad! I don't know that I ever shall feel glad again—unless I get insensible—and that would be worse."
"Oh Eleanor! what is it? do tell me!"
"I have made a mistake, that is all, Julia," her sister said with forced calmness. "I want time to think and to get right, and to be good—then I could be in peace, I think; but I am in such a confusion of everything, I only know I am drifting on like a ship to the rocks. I can't catch my breath."
"Don't you want to go to the Priory?" said the little one, in a low, awe-struck voice.
"I want something else first," said Eleanor evasively. "I am not ready to go anywhere, or do anything, till I feel better."
"I wish you could see Mr. Rhys," said Julia. "He would help you to feel better, I know."
Eleanor was silent, shedding tears quietly.
"Couldn't you come down and see him, Eleanor?"
"Child, how absurdly you talk! Do not speak of Mr. Rhys to me or to any one else—unless you want him sent out of the village."
"Why, who would send him?" said Julia. "But he is going without anybody's sending him. He is going as soon as he gets well, and he says that will be very soon." Julia spoke very sorrowfully. "He is well enough to preach again. He is going to preach at Brompton. I wish I could hear him."
"When?"
"Next Monday evening."
"Mondayevening?"
"Yes."
"I shall want to purchase things at Brompton Monday," said Eleanor to herself, her heart leaping up light. "I shall take the carriage and go."
"Where will he preach in Brompton, Julia? Is it anything of an extraordinary occasion?"
"No. I don't know. O, he will be in the—I don't know! You know whatMr. Rhys is. He is something—he isn't like what we are."
"Now if I go to the Methodist Chapel at Brompton," thought Eleanor, "it will raise a storm that will either break me on the rocks, or land me on shore. I will do it. This is my very last chance."
She sat before the fire, pondering over her arrangements. Julia nestled up beside her, affectionate but mute, and laid her head caressingly against her sister's arm. Eleanor felt the action, though she took no notice of it. Both remained still for some little time.
"What would you like, Julia?" her sister began slowly. "What shall I do to please you, before I leave home? What would you choose I should give you?"
"Giveme?Are you going to give me anything?"
"I would like to please you before I go away—if I knew how. Do you know how I can?"
"O Eleanor! Mr. Rhys wants something very much—If I could give it to him!—"
"What is it?"
"He has nothing to write on—nothing but an old portfolio; and that don't keep his pens and ink; and for travelling, you know, when he goes away, if he had a writing case like yours—wouldn't it be nice? O Eleanor, I thought of that the other day, but I had no money. What do you think?"
"Excellent," said Eleanor. "Keep your own counsel, Julia; and you and I will go some day soon, and see what we can find."
"Where will you go? to Brompton?"
"Of course. There is no other place to go to. But keep your own counsel, Julia."
If Julia kept her own counsel, she did not so well know how to keep her sister's; for the very next day, when she was at Mrs. Williams's cottage, the sight of the old portfolio brought up her talk with Eleanor and all that had led to it; and Julia out and spoke.
"Mr. Rhys, I don't believe that Eleanor wants to be married and go toRythdale Priory."
Mr. Rhys's first movement was to rise and see that the door of communication with the next room was securely shut; then as he sat down to his writing again he said gravely,
"You ought to be very careful how you make such remarks, Julia. You might without knowing it, do great harm. You are probably very much mistaken."
"I am careful, Mr. Rhys. I only said it to you."
"You had better not say it to me. And I hope you will say it to nobody else."
"But I want to speak to somebody," said Julia; "and she was crying in her room yesterday as hard as she could. I do not believe, she wants to go to Rythdale!"
Julia spoke the last words with slow enunciation, like an oracle. Mr. Rhys looked up from his writing and smiled at her a little, though he answered very seriously.
"You ought to remember, Julia, that there might be many things to trouble your sister on leaving home for the last time, without going to any such extravagant supposition as that she does not want to leave it. Miss Eleanor may have other cause for sorrow, quite unconnected with that."
"I know she has, too," said Julia. "I think Eleanor wants to be aChristian."
He looked up again with one of his grave keen glances.
"What makes you think it, Julia?"
"She said she wanted to be good, and that she was not ready for anything till she felt better; and I knowthatwas what she meant. Do you think Mr. Carlisle is good, Mr. Rhys?"
"I have hardly an acquaintance with Mr. Carlisle. Pray for your sister,Julia, but do not talk about her; and now let me write."
The days rolled on quietly at Ivy Lodge, until Monday came. Eleanor had kept herself in order and given general satisfaction. When Monday came she announced boldly that she was going to give the afternoon of that day to her little sister. It should be spent for Julia's pleasure, and so they two would take the carriage and go to Brompton and be alone. It was a purpose that could not very well be interfered with. Mr. Carlisle grumbled a little, not ill-humouredly, but withdrew opposition; and Mrs. Powle made none. However the day turned very disagreeable by afternoon, and she proposed a postponement.
"It is my last chance," said Eleanor. "Julia shall have this afternoon, if I never do it again." So they went.
The little one full of joy and anticipation; the elder grave, abstracted, unhappy. The day was gloomy and cloudy and windy. Eleanor looked out upon the driving grey clouds, and wondered if she was driving to her fate, at Brompton. She could not help wishing the sun would shine on her fate, whatever it was; but the chill gloom that enveloped the fields and the roads was all in keeping with the piece of her life she was traversing then. Too much, too much. She could not rouse herself from extreme depression; and Julia, felling it, could only remark over and over that it was "a nasty day."
It was better when they got to the town. Brompton was a quaint old town, where comparatively little modernising had come, except in the contents of the shops, and the exteriors of a few buildings. The tower of a very beautiful old church lifted its head above the mass of house-roofs as they drew near the place; in the town the streets were irregular and narrow and of ancient fashion in great part. Here however the gloom of the day was much lost. What light there was, was broken and shadowed by many a jutting out stone in the old mason-work, many, many a recess and projecting house-front or roof or doorway; the broad grey uniformity of dulness that brooded over the open landscape, was not here to be felt. Quaint interest, quaint beauty, the savour of things old and quiet and stable, had a stimulating and a soothing effect too. Eleanor roused up to business, and business gave its usual meed of refreshment and strength. She and Julia had a good shopping time. It was a burden of love with the little one to see that everything about the proposed purchase was precisely and entirely what it should be; and Eleanor seconded her and gave her her heart's content of pleasure; going from shop to shop, patiently looking for all they wanted, till it was found. Julia's joy was complete, and shone in her face. The face of the other grew dark and anxious. They had got into the carriage to go to another shop for some trifle Eleanor wanted.
"Julia, would you like to stay and hear Mr. Rhys speak to-night?"
"O wouldn't I! But we can't, you know."
"I am going to stay."
"And going to hear him?"
"Yes."
"O Eleanor! Does mamma know?"
"No."
"But she will be frightened, if we are not come home."
"Then you can take the carriage home and tell her; and send the little waggon or my pony for me."
"Couldn't you send one of the men?"
"Yes, and then I should have Mr. Carlisle come after me. No, if I send, you must go."
"Wouldn't he like it?"
"It is no matter whether he would like it or no. I am going to stay.You can do as you please."
"I would like to stay!" said Julia eagerly. "O Eleanor, I want to stay!But mamma would be so frightened. Eleanor, do you think it is right?"
"It is right for me," said Eleanor. "It is the only thing I can do. If it displeased all the world, I should stay. You may choose what you will do. If the horses go home, they cannot come back again; the waggon and old Roger, or my pony, would have to come for me—with Thomas."
Julia debated, sighed, shewed great anxiety for Eleanor, great difficulty of deciding, but finally concluded even with tears that it would not berightfor her to stay. The carriage went home with her and her purchases; Thomas, the old coachman, having answered with surprised alacrity to the question, whether he knew where the Wesleyan chapel in Brompton was. He was to come back for Eleanor and be with the waggon there. Eleanor herself went to spend the intermediate time before the hour of service, and take tea, at the house of a little lawyer in the town whom her father employed, and whose wife she knew would be overjoyed at the honour thus done her. It was not perhaps the best choice of a resting-place that Eleanor could have made; for it was a sure and certain fountain head of gossip; but she was in no mood to care for that just now, and desired above all things, not to take shelter in any house where a message or an emissary from the Lodge or the Priory would be likely to find her; nor in one where her proceedings would be gravely looked into. At Mrs. Pinchbeck's hospitable tea-table she was very secure from both. There was nothing but sweetmeats there!
Mrs. Pinchbeck was a lively lady, in a profusion of little fair curls all over her head and a piece of flannel round her throat. She was very voluble, though her voice was very hoarse. Indeed she left nothing untold that there was time to tell. She gave Eleanor an account of all Brompton's doings; of her own; of Mr. Pinchbeck's; and of the doings of young Master Pinchbeck, who was happily in bed, and who she declared, whennotin bed was too much for her. Meanwhile Mr. Pinchbeck, who was a black-haired, ordinarily somewhat grim looking man, now with his grimness all gilded in smiles, pressed the sweetmeats; and looked his beaming delight at the occasion. Eleanor felt miserably out of place; even Mrs. Pinchbeck's flannel round her throat helped her to question whether she were not altogether wrong and mistaken in her present undertaking. But though she felt miserable, and even trembled with a sort of speculative doubt that came over her, she did not in the least hesitate in her course. Eleanor was not made of that stuff. Certainly she was where she had no business to be, at Mrs. Pinchbeck's tea-table, and Mr. Pinchbeck had no business to be offering her sweetmeats; but it was a miserable necessity of the straits to which she found herself driven. She must go to the Wesleyan chapel that evening; she would,coûte que coûte.Thereshe dared public opinion; the opinion of the Priory and the Lodge.Here, she confessed said opinion was right.
One good effect of the vocal entertainment to which she was subjected, was that Eleanor herself was not called upon for many words. She listened, and tasted sweetmeats; that was enough, and the Pinchbecks were satisfied. When the time of durance was over, for she was nervously impatient, and the hour of the chapel service was come, Eleanor had not a little difficulty to escape from the offers of attendance and of service which both her host and hostess pressed upon her. If her carriage was to meet her at a little distance, let Mr. Pinchbeck by all means see her into it; and if it was not yet come, at least let her wait where she was while Mr. P. went to make inquiries. Or stay all night! Mrs. Pinchbeck would be delighted. By steady determination Eleanor at last succeeded in getting out of the house and into the street alone. Her heart beat then, fast and hard; it had been giving premonitory starts all the evening. In a very sombre mood of mind, she made her way in the chill wind along the streets, feeling herself a wanderer, every way. The chapel she sought was not far off; lights were blazing there, though the streets were gloomy. Eleanor made a quiet entrance into the warm house, and sat down; feeling as if the crisis of her fate had come. She did not care now about hiding herself; she went straight up the centre aisle and took a seat about half way in the building, at the end of a pew already filled all but that one place. The house was going to be crowded and a great many people were already there, though it was still very early.
The warmth after the cold streets, and the silence, and the solitude, after being exposed to Mrs. Pinchbeck's tongue and to her observation, made a lull in Eleanor's mind for a moment. Then, with the waywardness of action which thought and feeling often take in unwonted situations, she began to wonder whether it could be right to be there—not only for her, but for anybody. That large, light, plain apartment, looking not half so stately as the saloon of a country house; could that be a proper place for people to meet for divine service? It was better than a barn, still was that a fitchurch?The windows blank and staring with white glass; the woodwork unadorned and merely painted; a little stir of feet coming in and garments rustling, the only sound. She missed the full swell of the organ, which itself might have seemed to clothe even bare boards. Nothing of all that; nothing of what she esteemed dignified, or noble, or sacred; a mere business-looking house, with that simple raised platform and little desk—was Eleanor right to be there? Was anybody else? Poor child, she felt wrong every way, there or not there; but these thoughts tormented her. They tormented her only till Mr. Rhys came in. When she saw him, as it had been that evening in the barn, they quieted instantly. To her mind he was a guaranty for the righteousness of all in which he was concerned; different as it might be from all to which she had been accustomed. Such a guaranty, that Eleanor's mind was almost ready to leap to the other conclusion, and account wrong whatever the difference put on another side from him. She watched him now, as he went with a quick step to the pulpit, or platform as she called it, and mounting it, kneeled down beside one of the chairs that stood there. Eleanor was accustomed to that action; she had seen clergymen a million of times come into the pulpit, and always kneel; but it was not like this. Always an ample cushion lay ready for the knees that sank upon it; the step was measured; the movement slow; every line was of grace and propriety; the full-robed form bowed reverently, and the face was buried in a white cloud of cambric. Here, a tall figure, attired only in his ordinary dress, went with quick, decided step up to the place; there dropped upon one knee, hiding his face with his hand; without seeming to care where, and certainly without remembering that there was nothing but an ingrain carpet between his knee and the floor. But Eleanor knew what this man was about; and an instant sense of sacredness and awe stole over her, beyond what any organ-peals or richness of Gothic work had ever brought. Then she rejoiced that she was where she was. To be there, could not be wrong.
The house was full and still. The beginning of the service again was the singing; here richer and fuller voiced than it had been in the barn. Somebody else made the prayers; to her sorrow; but then Mr. Rhys rose, and her eye and ear were all for him. She threw back her veil now. She was quite willing that he should see her; quite willing that if he had any message of help or warning for her in the course of his sermon, he should deliver it. He saw her, she knew, immediately. She rather fancied that he saw everybody.
It was to be a missionary sermon, Eleanor had understood; but she thought it was a very strange one. The text was, "Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar's; and to God the things that are God's."
The question was, "What are the Lord's things?"
Mr. Rhys seemed to be only talking to the people, as his bright eye went round the house and he went on to answer this question. Or rather to suggest answers.
Jacob's offering of devotion and gratitude was a tenth part of his possessions. "And Jacob vowed a vow, saying, If God will be with me, and will keep me in this way that I go, and will give me bread to eat, and raiment to put on, so that I come again to my father's house in peace; then shall the Lord be my God: and this stone, which I have set for a pillar, shall be God's house; and of all that thou shalt give me, I will surely give the tenth unto thee."
Mr. Rhys announced this. He did not comment upon it at all. He went on to say, that the commandment given by Moses appointed the same offering.
"And all the tithe of the land, whether of the seed of the land, or of the fruit of the tree, is the Lord's: it is holy unto the Lord. And if a man will at all redeem ought of his tithes, he shall add thereto the fifth part thereof. And concerning the tithe of the herd, or of the flock, even of whatsoever passeth under the rod, the tenth shall be holy unto the Lord. He shall not search whether it be good or bad, neither shall he change it; and if he change it at all, then both it and the change thereof shall be holy; it shall not be redeemed."
So that it appeared, that the least the Lord would receive as a due offering to him from his people, was a fair and full tenth part of all they possessed. This was required, from those that were only nominally his people. How about those that render to him heart-service?
David's declaration, when laying up provision for the building of the temple, was thatallwas the Lord's. "Who am I, and what is my people, that we should be able to offer so willingly after this sort? for all things come of thee, and of thine own have we given thee… O Lord our God, all this store that we have prepared to build thee an house for thy holy name cometh of thine hand, and is all thine own." And God himself, in the fiftieth psalm, claims to be the one sole owner and proprietor, when he says, "Every beast of the forest is mine, and the cattle upon a thousand hills."
But some people may think, that is a sort of natural and providential right, which the Creator exercises over the works of his hands. Come a little closer.
"The silver is mine, and the gold is mine, saith the Lord of Hosts."—So it was declared by his prophet Haggai. And by another of his servants, the Lord told the people that their own prospering in the various goods of this world, would be according to their faithfulness in serving him with them.
"Will a man rob God? Yet ye have robbed me. But ye say, Wherein have we robbed thee? In tithes and offerings. Ye are cursed with a curse; for ye have robbed me, even this whole nation.
"Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in mine house, and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it."
So that it is not grace nor bounty the Lord receives at our hands in such offerings; it is simplyhis own.
Then it must be considered that those were the times of the old dispensation; of an expensive system of sacrifices and temple worship; with a great body of the priesthood to be maintained and supplied in all their services and private household wants. We live in changed times, under a different rule. What do the Lord's servants owe him now?
The speaker had gone on with the utmost quietness of manner from one of these instances to another; using hardly any gestures; uttering only with slow distinctness and deliberation his sentences one after the other; his face and eye meanwhile commanding the whole assembly. He went on now with the same quietness, perhaps with a little more deliberateness of accentuation, and an additional spark of fire now and then in his glance.
There was a widow woman once, who threw into the Lord's treasury two mites, which make a farthing; but it wasall her living. Again, we read that among the first Christians, "all that believed were together, and had all things common; and sold their possessions and goods, and parted them to all men, as every man had need." "The multitude of them that believed were of one heart, and of one soul; neither said any of them that ought of the things which he possessed was his own; but they had all things common."
Were these people extravagant? They overwent the judgment of the present day. By what rule shall we try them?
Christ's rule is, "Freely ye have received; freely give." What have we received?
Friends, "you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that, though he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, that ye through his poverty might be rich." And the judgment of the old Christian church accorded with this; for they said,—"The love of Christ constraineth us; because we thus judge, that if one died for all, then were all dead; and that he died for all, that they which live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto him which died for them, and rose again." Were they extravagant?
But Christ has given us a closer rule to try the question by. He told his disciples, "This is my commandment, That ye love one another,as I have loved you." Does any one ask how that was? The Lord tells us in the next breath. It was no theoretical feeling. "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." "A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another."
Pausing there in his course, with fire and tenderness breaking out in his face and manner, that gave him a kind of seraphic look, the speaker burst forth into a description of the love of Christ, that before long bowed the heads and hearts of his audience as one man. Sobs and whispers and smothered cries, murmured from all parts of the church; the whole assembly was broken down, while the preacher stood like some heavenly messenger and spoke his Master's name. When he ceased, the suppressed noise of sobs was alone to be heard all over the house. He paused a little, and began again very quietly, but with an added tenderness in his voice,
"He that saith he abideth in him, ought himself also so to walk, even as he walked."—"Hereby perceive we the love of God, because he laid down his life for us; and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren."
He paused again; every one there knew that he was ready to act on the principle he enounced; that he was speaking only of what he had proved; and the heads of the assembly bent lower still.
Does any one ask, What shall we do now? there is no temple to be maintained, nor course of sacrifices to be kept up, nor ceremonial worship, nor Levitical body of priests to be supported and fed. What shall we give our lives and our fortunes to now, if we give them?
"Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them." Is the gospel dear to you? Is salvation worth having? Think of those who know nothing of it; and then think of Christ's command, "Feed my sheep." They are scattered upon all lands, the sheep that he died for; who shall gather them in? In China they worship a heap of ashes; in India they adore monsters; in Fiji they live to kill and eat one another; in Africa they sit in the darkness of centuries, till almost the spark of humanity is quenched out. "Whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved." But "how shall they call on him in whom they have not believed? and how shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard? and how shall they hear without a preacher? and how shall they preach, except they be sent? as it is written, How beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace, and bring glad tidings of good things!"
"O Zion, that bringest good tidings, get thee up into the high mountain: O Jerusalem, that bringest good tidings, lift up thy voice with strength; lift it up, be not afraid; say unto the cities of Judah, Behold your God!"
"The Spirit and the bride say, come. And let him that heareth say, come. And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely."——
It was in the midst of the deepest stillness, and in low kept-under tones, that the last words were spoken. And when they ceased, a great hush still remained upon the assembly. It was broken by prayer; sweet, solemn, rapt, such as some there had never heard before; such as some there knew well. When Mr. Rhys had stopped, another began. The whole house was still with tears.
There was one bowed heart there, which had divided subjects of consideration; there was one hidden face which had a double motive for being hid. Eleanor had been absorbed in the entrancing interest of the time, listening with moveless eyes, and borne away from all her own subjects of care and difficulty on the swelling tide of thought and emotion which heaved the whole assembly. Till her own head was bent beneath its power, and her tears sought to be covered from view. She did not move from that attitude; until, lifting her head near the close of the sermon, as soon as she could get it up in fact, that she might see as much as possible of those wonderful looks she might never see again; a slight chance turn of her head brought another idea into her mind. A little behind her in the aisle, standing but a pace or two off, was a figure that for one instant made all Eleanor's blood stand still. She could not see it distinctly; she did not see the face of the person at all; it was only the merest glimpse of some outlines, the least line of a coat and vision of an arm and hand resting on a pew door. But if that arm and hand did not belong to somebody she knew, in Eleanor's belief it belonged to nobody living. It was not the colour of cloth nor the cut of a dress; it was the indefinable character of that arm and man's glove, seen with but half an eye. But it made her sure that Mr. Carlisle, in living flesh and blood, stood there, in the Wesleyan chapel though it was. Eleanor cared curiously little about it, after the first start. She felt set free, in the deep high engagement of her thoughts at the time, and the roused and determined state of feeling they had produced. She did not fear Mr. Carlisle. She was quite willing he should have seen her there. It was what she wished, that he should know of her doing. And his neighbourhood in that place did not hinder her full attention and enjoyment of every word that was spoken. It did not check her tears, nor stifle the swelling of her heart under the preaching and under the prayers. Nevertheless Eleanor was conscious of it all the time; and became conscious too that the service would before very long come to a close; and then without doubt that quiet glove would have something to do with her. Eleanor did not reason nor stop to think about it. Her heart was full, full, under the appeals made and the working of conscience with them; conscience and tenderer feelings, which strove together and yet found no rest; and this action the sight of Mr. Carlisle rather intensified. Were her head but covered by that helmet of salvation, under which others lived and walked so royally secure,—and she could bid defiance to any disturbing force that could meet her, she thought, in this world.