CHAPTER I.

Produced by Daniel Fromont

[Transcriber's note: Susan Warner (1819-1885), _The Old Helmet_ (1864),

Tauchnitz edition 1864, volume 2]

THE OLD HELMET.

BY

THE AUTHOR OF "WIDE, WIDE WORLD."

AUTHORIZED EDITION.

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOL. II.

LEIPZIG

BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ

1864.

THE OLD HELMET.

CHAPTER I.

IN THE SPRING.

"Let no one ask me how it came to pass;

It seems that I am happy, that to me

A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass,

A purer sapphire melts into the sea."

Eleanor could not stay away from the Wednesday meetings at Mrs.

Powlis's house. In vain she had thought she would; she determined she

would; when the day came round she found herself drawn with a kind of

fascination towards the place. She went; and after that second time

never questioned at all about it. She went every week.

It was with no relief to her mental troubles however. She was sometimes

touched and moved; often. At other times she felt dull and hopeless.

Yet it soothed her to go; and she came away generally feeling

inspirited with hope by something she had heard, or feeling at least

the comfort that she had taken a step in the right direction. It did

not seem to bring her much more comfort. Eleanor did not see how she

could be a Christian while her heart was so hard and so full of its own

will. She found it perverse, even now, when she was wishing so much to

be different. What hope for her?

It was a great help, that during all this time Mrs. Caxton left her

unquestioned and uncounselled. She made no remarks about Eleanor's

going to class-meeting; she took it as a perfectly natural thing; never

asked her anything about it or about her liking it. A contrary course

would have greatly embarrassed Eleanor's action; as it was she felt

perfectly free; unwatched, and at ease.

The spring was flushing into mature beauty and waking up all the

flowers on the hills and in the dales, when Eleanor one afternoon came

out to her aunt in the garden. A notable change had come over the

garden by this time; its comparatively barren-looking beds were all

rejoicing in gay bloom and sending up a gush of sweetness to the house

with every stir of the air that way. From the house to the river,

terrace below terrace sloped down, brimfull already of blossoms and

fragrance. The roses were making great preparations for their coming

season of festival; the mats which had covered some tender plants were

long gone. Tulips and hyacinths and polyanthuses and primroses were in

a flush of spring glory now; violets breathed everywhere; the

snowy-flowered gooseberry and the red-flowered currant, and berberry

with its luxuriant yellow bloom, and the almond, and a magnificent

magnolia blossoming out in the arms of its evergreen sister, with many

another flower less known to Eleanor, made the garden terraces a little

wilderness of loveliness and sweetness. Near the house some very fine

auriculas in pots were displaying themselves. In the midst of all this

Mrs. Caxton was busy, with one or two people to help her and work under

direction. Planting and training and seed-sowing were going on; and the

mistress of the place moved about among her floral subjects a very

pleasant representation of a rural queen, her niece thought. Few queens

have a more queenly presence than Mrs. Caxton had; and with a trowel in

hand just as much as if it were a sceptre. And few queens indeed carry

such a calm mind under such a calm brow. Eleanor sighed and smiled.

"Among your auriculas, aunty, as usual!"

"Among everything," said Mrs. Caxton. "There is a great deal to do.

Don't you want to help, Eleanor? You may plant gladiolus bulbs--or you

may make cuttings--or you may sow seeds. I can find you work."

"Aunty, I am going down to the village."

"O it is Wednesday afternoon!" said Mrs. Caxton. And she came close up

to her niece and kissed her, while one hand was full of bulbs and the

other held a trowel. "Well go, my dear. Not at peace yet, Eleanor?"--

There was so tender a tone in these last words that Eleanor could not

reply. She dashed away without making any answer; and all along the way

to Plassy she was every now and then repeating them to herself. "Not at

peace yet, Eleanor?"

She was in a tender mood this afternoon; the questions and remarks

addressed to the other persons in the meeting frequently moved her to

tears, so that she sat with her hand to her brow to hide the watering

eyes. She did not dread the appeal to herself, for Mr. Rhys never asked

her any troublesome questions; never anything to which she had to make

a troublesome answer; though there might be perhaps matter for thought

in it. He had avoided anything, whether in his asking or replying, that

would give her any difficulty _there_, in the presence of

others,--whatever it might do in her own mind and in secret. To-day he

asked her, "Have you found peace yet?"

"No," said Eleanor.

"What is the state of your mind--if you could give it in one word?"

"Confusion."

"What is it confused about? Do you understand--clearly--the fact that

you are a sinner? without excuse?"

"Fully!"

"Do you understand--clearly--that Christ has suffered for sins, the

just for the unjust, that he might bring us to God?"

"Yes. I understand it."

"Is there any confusion in your mind as to the terms on which the Lord

will receive you?--forsaking your sins, and trusting in him to pardon

and save you?"

"No--I see that."

"Do you think there is any other condition besides those two?"

"No."

"Why do you not accept them?"

Eleanor raised her eyes with a feeling almost of injustice. "I

cannot!"--she said.

"That makes no difference. God never gives a command that cannot with

his help be fulfilled. There was a man once brought to Jesus--carried

by foul men; he was palsied, and lay on a litter or bed, unable to move

himself at all. To this man the Lord said, 'Arise, take up thy bed, and

walk.' Suppose he had looked up and said, 'I cannot?'"

Eleanor struggled with herself. Was this fair? Was it a parallel case?

She could not tell. She kept silence. Mr. Rhys went on, with tones

subdued to great gentleness.

"My friend, Jesus invites to no empty board--to no cold reception. On

his part all is ready; the unreadiness lies somewhere with you, or the

invitation would be accepted. In your case it is not the bodily frame

that is palsied; it is the heart; and the command comes to you, sweet

as the invitation,--'_Give it to me_.' If you are entirely willing, the

thing is done. If it be not done, it is because, somewhere, you are not

willing--or do not believe. If you can trust Jesus, as that poor man

did, you may rise up and stand upon your feet this very hour. 'Believe

ye that I am able to do this?' he asked of the blind man whom he cured."

There was silence for an instant. And again, as he turned away from

her, Mr. Rhys broke out with the song, that Eleanor thought would break

her heart in twain this time,--

"How lost was my condition

Till Jesus made me whole;

There is but one physician

Can cure a sin-sick soul.

There's balm in Gilead--

To make the wounded whole.

There's power enough in Jesus

To save a sin-sick soul."

Eleanor had been the last one spoken to; the meeting soon was ended,

and she was on her way home. But so broken-spirited and humiliated that

she did not know what to do with herself. Could it be possible that she

was not _willing_--or that she wanted _faith_--or that there was some

secret corner of rebellion in her heart? It humbled her wonderfully to

think it. And yet she could not disprove the reasoning. God could not

be unfaithful; and if there were not somewhere on her part a failure to

meet the conditions, surely peace would have been made before now. And

she had thought herself all this while a subject for pity, not for

blame; nay, for blame indeed, but not in this regard. Her mouth was

stopped now. She rode home broken-hearted; would not see Mrs. Caxton at

supper; and spent the evening and much of the night in weeping and

self-searching. They were very downcast days that followed this day.

Mrs. Caxton looked at her anxiously sometimes; never interfered with

her.

Towards the end of the week there was preaching at Glanog, and the

family went as usual. Eleanor rode by herself, going and coming, and

held no communication with her aunt by the way. But late at night, some

time after Mrs. Caxton had gone to bed, a white-robed figure came into

her room and knelt down by the bedside.

"Is that you, Eleanor?"

"Aunt Caxton--it's all gone!"

"What?"

"My trouble. I came to tell you. It's all gone. I am so happy!"

"How is it, my dear child?"

"When Mr. Rhys was preaching to-night, it all came to me; I saw

everything clearly. I saw how Jesus loves sinners. I saw I had nothing

to do but to give myself to him, and he would do everything. I see how

sins are forgiven through his blood; and I trust in it, and I am sure

mine are; and I feel as if I had begun a new life, aunt Caxton!"

Eleanor's tears flowed like summer rain. Mrs. Caxton rose up and put

her arms round her.

"The Lord be praised!" she said. "I was waiting for this, Eleanor."

"Aunt Caxton, I had been trying and thinking to make myself good first.

I thought I was unworthy and unfit to be Christ's servant; but now I

see that I can be nothing but unworthy, and only he can make me fit for

anything; so I give up all, and I feel that he will do all for me. I am

so happy! I was so blind before!"

Mrs. Caxton said little; she only rejoiced with Eleanor so tenderly as

if she had been her own mother. Though that is speaking very coolly on

the present occasion. Mrs. Powle had never shewed her daughter so much

of that quality in her life, as Eleanor's aunt shewed now.

The breakfast next morning was unusually quiet. Happiness does not

always make people talkative.

"How do you do, my love?" said Mrs. Caxton when they were left alone.

"After being up half the night?"

"More fresh than I have felt for a year, aunt Caxton. Did you hear that

nightingale last night?"

"I heard him. I listened to him and thought of you."

"He sang--I cannot tell you what his song sounded like to me, aunt

Caxton. I could almost have fancied there was an angel out there."

"There were a great many rejoicing somewhere else. What glory to think

of it!" They were silent again till near the end of breakfast; then

Mrs. Caxton said,--"Eleanor, I shall be engaged the whole of this

morning. This afternoon, if you will, I will go with you into the

garden."

"This afternoon--is Wednesday, aunt Caxton."

"So it is. Well, before or after you go to the village, I want you to

dress some dishes of flowers for me--will you?"

"With great pleasure, ma'am. And I can get some hawthorn blossoms, I

know. I will do it before I go, ma'am."

Was it pleasant, that morning's work? Eleanor went out early to get her

sprays of May blossoms; and in the tender beauty of the day and season

was lured on and on, and tempted to gather other wild bits of

loveliness, till she at last found her hands full, and came home laden

with tokens of where she had been. "O'er the muir, amang the heather,"

Eleanor's walk had gone; and her basket was gay with gorse and broom

just opening; but from grassy banks on her way she had brought the

bright blue speedwell; and clematis and bryony from the hedges, and

from under them wild hyacinth and white campion and crane's-bill and

primroses; and a meadow she had passed over gave her one or two pretty

kinds of orchis, with daisies and cowslips, and grasses of various

kinds. Eleanor was dressing these in flower baskets and dishes, in the

open gallery that overlooked the meadows, when Mrs. Caxton passing

through on her own business stopped a moment to look at her.

"All those from your walk, my dear! Do you not mean to apply to the

garden?"

"Aunty, I could have got a great many more, if I could have gone into

the woods--but my walk did not lie that way. Yes, ma'am, I am going

into the garden presently, when I have ordered these dishes well. Where

are they to go, aunt Caxton?"

"Some in one place and some in another. You may leave them here,

Eleanor, when they are done, and I will take care of them. Shall I have

the garden flowers cut for you?"

"O no, ma'am, if you please!"

Mrs. Caxton stood a moment longer watching Eleanor; the pretty work and

the pretty worker; the confusion of fair and sweet things around her

and under her fingers, with the very fine and fair human creature busy

about them. Eleanor's face was gravely happy; more bright than Mrs.

Caxton had ever seen it; very much of kin to the flowers. She watched

her a moment, and then went nearer to kiss Eleanor's forehead. The

flowers fell from the fingers, while the two exchanged a look of mute

sympathy; then on one part and on the other, business went forward.

Eleanor's work held her all the morning. For after the wild beauties

had been disposed to her mind, there was another turn with their more

pretentious sisters of the garden. Azaleas and honeysuckles, lilies of

the valley, hyacinths and pomponium lilies, with Scotch roses and white

broom, and others, made superb floral assemblages, out of doors or in;

and Eleanor looked at her work lovingly when it was done.

So went the morning of that day, and Eleanor's ride in the afternoon

was a fit continuation. May was abroad in the bursting leaves as well

as in opening flowers; the breath of Eden seemed to sweep down the

valley of Plassy. Ay, there is a partial return to the lost paradise,

for those whom Christ leads thither, even before we get to the

everlasting hills.

Eleanor this day was the first person addressed in the meeting. It had

never happened so before. But now Mr. Rhys asked her first of all, "How

do you do to-day?"

Eleanor looked up and answered, "Well. And all changed."

"Will you tell us how you mean?"

"It was when you were preaching last night. It all I came to me. I saw

my mistake, when you told about I the love of Christ to sinners. I saw

I had been trying to make myself good."

"And how is it now?"

"Now,"--said Eleanor looking up again with full eyes,--"I will know

nothing but Christ."

The murmur of thanksgiving heard from one or two voices brought her

head down. It had nearly overcome her. But she controlled herself, and

presently went on; though not daring to look again into Mr. Rhys's

face, the expression of whose eyes of gladness was harder to meet than

the spoken thanksgivings.

"I see I have nothing, and am nothing," she said. "I see that Christ is

all, and will do all for me. I wish to be his servant. All is changed.

The very hills are changed. I never saw such colours or such sunlight,

as I have seen as I rode along this afternoon."

"A true judgment," said Mr. Rhys. "It has been often said, that the eye

sees what the eye brings the means of seeing; and the love of Christ

puts a glory upon all nature that far surpasses the glory of the sun.

It is a changed world, for those who know that love for the first time!

Friends, most of us profess to have that knowledge. Do we have it so

that it puts a glory on all the outer world, in the midst of which we

live and walk and attend to our business?"

"It does to me, sir," said the venerable old man whom Eleanor had

noticed;--"it does to me. Praise the Lord!" Instead of any other answer

they broke out singing,--

"O how happy are they

Who the Saviour obey,

And have laid up their treasure above.

Tongue can never express

The sweet comfort and peace

Of a soul in its earliest love."

"The way to keep that joy," said Mr. Rhys returning to Eleanor, "and to

know more of it, is to take every succeeding step in the Christian life

exactly as you took the first one;--in self-renunciation, in entire

dependence. As ye have received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk ye in

him. It is a simple and humble way, the way along which the heavenly

light shines. Do everything for Christ--do everything in his

strength;--and you will soon know that the secret of the Lord is with

them that fear him. Blessed be his name! He giveth power to the faint,

and to them that have no might he increaseth strength."

It was easy to see that the speaker made a personal application here,

with reference to himself; but after that there was no more said

directly to Eleanor. The subject went round the circle, receiving the

various testimony of the persons there. Eleanor's heart gave quick

sympathy to many utterances, and took home with intent interest the

answering counsels and remarks, which in some instances were framed to

put a guard against self-deception or mistake. One or two of her

neighbours when the exercises were over, came and took her hand, with a

warm simple expression of feeling which made Eleanor's heart hot; and

then she rode home.

"Did you have a pleasant time?" said her aunt.

"Aunt Caxton, I think that room where we meet is the pleasantest place

in the world!"

"What do you think of the chapel at Glanog?"

"I don't know. I believe that is as good or better."

"Are you too tired to go out again?"

"Not at all. Who wants me?"

"Nanny Croghan is very sick. I have been with her all the afternoon;

and Jane is going to sit up with her to-night; but Jane cannot go yet."

"She need not. I will stay there myself. I like it, aunt Caxton."

"Then I will send for you early in the morning."

Nanny Croghan lived a mile or two from the farmhouse. Eleanor walked

there, attended by John with a basket. The place was a narrow dell

between two uprising hills covered with heather; as wild and secluded

as it is possible to imagine. The poor woman who lived there alone was

dying of lingering disease. John delivered the basket, and left Eleanor

alone with her charge and the mountains.

It was not a night like that she had spent by the bedside of her old

nurse's daughter. Nanny was dying fast; and she needed something done

for her constantly. Through all the hours of the darkness Eleanor was

kept on the watch or actively employed, in administering medicine, or

food, or comfort. For when Nanny wanted nothing else, she wanted that.

"Tell me something I can fix my mind onto," she would say. "It seems

slipping away from me, like. And then I gets cold with fear."

Eleanor was new at the business; she had forgotten to bring her Bible

with her, and she could find none in the house; "her sister had been

there," Nanny said, "and had carried it away." Eleanor was obliged to

draw on the slender stores of her memory; and to make the most of

those, she was obliged to explain them to Nanny, and go them over and

over, and pick them to pieces, and make her rest upon each clause and

almost each word of a verse. There were some words that surely Eleanor

became well acquainted with that night. For Nanny could sleep very

little, and when she could not sleep she wanted talking incessantly.

Eleanor urged her to accept the promises and she would have the peace.

"The secret of the Lord is with them that fear him."

"Ay, but I never did fear him, you see,--till a bit agone; and now it's

all fear. I fear furder'n I can see."

"Nanny, Nanny, the blood of Christ will take all that fear away--if

only you will trust in it. He shed it for you--to pay your debts to

justice. There is no condemnation to them which are in him."

Nanny did not know exactly what so big a word as condemnation meant;

Eleanor was obliged to explain it; then what was meant by being "in

Christ." Towards morning Nanny seemed somewhat soothed and fell into a

doze. Eleanor went to the cottage door and softly opened it, to see how

the night went.

The dawn was breaking fair over the hills, the tops of which shewed the

unearthly brightness of coming day. It took Eleanor's eyes and thoughts

right up. O for the night of darkness to pass away from this weary

earth! Down in the valley the shadows lay thicker; how thick they lay

about the poor head just now resting in sleep. How thick they lay but a

day or two ago upon Eleanor herself! Now she looked up. The light was

flushing upon the mountain tops every moment stronger. The dewy scents

of the May morning were filling the air with their nameless and

numberless tokens of rich nature's bounty. The voice of a cataract,

close at hand, made merry down the rocks along with the song of the

blackbird, woodpecker and titmouse. And still, as Eleanor stood there

and looked and listened, the rush and the stir of sweet life grew more

and more; the spring breeze wakened up and floated past her face

bringing the breath of the flowers fresher and nearer; and the hill

tops ever kindled into more and more glow. "It is Spring! and it is

Day!" thought Eleanor,--"and so it is in my heart. The darkness is

gone; the light is like that light,--promising more; my life is full of

sweetness I never knew. Surely this month shall be the month of months

to me for ever. O for this day--O for this morning--to waken over all

the world!"

She stood there, for Nanny still slept, till the sunbeams struck the

hills and crept down the sides of them; and till John and Jane came in

sight round the angle of the road. John had brought the pony to take

Eleanor home; and a few minutes' ride brought her there. Morning

prayers were however done, before Eleanor could refresh herself with

cold water and a change of dress. When she came down to the

sitting-room Mrs. Caxton had stepped out on some business; and in her

place, sitting alone with a book, Eleanor was greatly surprised to see

Mr. Rhys.

He was not at all surprised to see her; rose up and gave her a very

cordial grasp of the hand, and stirred up the wood fire; which, May

morning though it was, the thick walls of the old stone house and the

neighbourhood of the mountains made useful and agreeable. In silence

and with a good deal of skill Mr. Rhys laid the logs together so that a

fresh blaze sprang up; then after a remark upon the morning he went

back to his book. Eleanor sat down, also silent, feeling very much

delighted to see him there, and to think that they would have his

company at breakfast; but not at all inclined, nor indeed competent, to

open a conversation. She looked into the fire and wondered at the turns

that had brought about this meeting; wondered over the past year of her

life; remembered her longing for the "helmet of salvation" which her

acquaintance with Mr. Rhys had begun; and sang for joy in her heart

that now she had it. Yes, it was hers, she believed; a deep rest and

peace had taken place of craving and anxiety, such as even now

disturbed poor dying Nanny. Eleanor felt very happy, in the midst of

all her care for her. The fire burned beautifully.

"I was not aware," said Mr. Rhys looking up from his book, "I was not

aware till last night that you lived with Mrs. Caxton."

Very odd, Eleanor thought; most people would have found out; however

she took it simply.

"I am her niece."

"So I find,--so I am glad to find. I can wish nothing better for any

one, in that kind, than to be connected with Mrs. Caxton."

He sat with his finger between the leaves of his book, and Eleanor

again wondered at the silence; till Mrs. Caxton came in. It was not

very flattering; but Eleanor was not troubled with vanity; she

dismissed it with a thought compounded of good-humour and humility. At

breakfast the talk went on pretty briskly; it was all between the other

two and left her on one side; yet it was good enough to listen to it.

Eleanor was well satisfied. Mr. Rhys was the principal talker; he was

telling Mrs. Caxton of different people and things in the course of his

labours; which constantly gave a reflex gleam of light upon those

labours themselves and upon the labourer. Unconsciously of course, and

merely from the necessity of the case; but it was very interesting to

Eleanor, and probably to Mrs. Caxton; she looked so. At last she turned

to her niece.

"How did you leave Nanny?"

"A little easier towards morning, I think; at least she went to sleep,

which all the night she could not do."

"Nor you neither."

"O that's nothing. I don't mind that at all. It was worth watching, to

see the dawn."

"Was the woman in so much pain?" Mr. Rhys asked.

"No; not bodily; she was uneasy in mind."

"In what way."

"Afraid of what lies before her; seeing dimly, if at all."

"Was she comforted by what you told her?"

"I had very little to tell her," said Eleanor; "I had no Bible; I had

forgotten to take it; and hers was gone. I had to get what I could from

memory, for I did not like to give her anything but the words of the

Bible itself to ground hope upon."

"Yes, but a good warm testimony of personal experience, coming from the

heart, often goes to the heart. I hope you tried that."

Eleanor had not; she was silent. The testimony she had given in the

class-meeting somehow she had been shy of uttering unasked in the ear

of the dying woman. Was that humility--or something else? Again Mr.

Rhys had done for her what he so often did for her and for

others--probed her thoughts.

"It is a good plan," said Mrs. Caxton, "to have a storehouse in one's

memory of such things as may be needed upon occasion; passages of

Scripture and hymns; to be brought out when books are not at hand. I

was made to learn a great deal out of the Bible when I was a girl; and

I have often made a practice of it since; and it always comes into

play."

"I never set myself lessons to get by heart," said Mr. Rhys. "I never

could learn anything in that way. Or perhaps I should say, I never

_liked_ to do it. I never did it."

"What is your art, then?" said Mrs. Caxton, looking curious.

"No art. It is only that when anything impresses itself strongly on my

feelings, the words seem to engrave themselves in my memory. It is an

unconscious and purely natural operation."

Eleanor remembered the multitudinous quoting of the Bible she had at

different times heard from Mr. Rhys; and again wondered mentally. All

that, all those parts of the Bible, he had not set himself to study,

but had _felt_ them into his memory! They had been put in like gold

letters, with a hot iron.

"Where is this woman?" Mr. Rhys went on.

"She lives alone, in the narrow dell that stretches behind Bengarten

Castle--and nearly in a straight line with it, from here. Do not go

there this morning--you want rest, and it is too far for you to walk. I

am going to take you into my garden, to see how my flowers go."

"Won't you take me into your dairy?"

"If you like it," said Mrs. Caxton smiling.

"I like it exceedingly. It is something like a musical box to me, Miss

Powle, to see Mrs. Caxton's cheese-making. It soothes my nerves, the

noiseless order of everything. Do you know that wonderful cheese-house,

where they stand in ranks like yellow millstones? I never can get over

my surprise at going in there. Certainly we, as a nation, are fond of

cheese!"

"You think so because you are not," said Mrs. Caxton. "It is too late

for the dairy to-day. You shall give me help in my garden, where I want

it."

"I understand," says Mr. Rhys. "But it is my business to make flowers

grow in the Lord's garden--wherever I can. I wish I could do more of

_that_ gardening work!"

Eleanor gave a quick glance up at the speaker. His brow rested on his

hand for the moment; she noticed the sharply drawn lines of the face,

the thin cheeks, the complexion, which all witnessed to _over_-work

already attempted and done. The brow and eyes were marked with lines of

watching and fatigue. It was but a glance, and Eleanor's eyes went down

again; with an additional lesson of unconscious testimony carried deep

home. This man lived as he talked. The good of existence was not one

thing in his lips and another in his practice. Eleanor looked at her

plate with her heart burning. In her old fancy for studying, or at

least reading, hands, she had noticed too in her glance the hand on

which the head rested; and with surprise. It was almost a feminine hand

in make, with long slim fingers; white withal, and beautifully cared

for. Certain refinements were clearly necessary to this man, who was

ready to plunge himself into a country of savages nevertheless, where

all the refinement would be his own. To some natures it would be easier

to part with a hand altogether, than to forego the necessity of having

it clean. This was one. And he was going to give himself up to

Polynesia and its practices. Eleanor eat with the rest of her breakfast

and swallowed with her tea, the remembered words of the apostle--"But

what things were gain to me, those I counted loss for

Christ."--"Neither count I my life dear unto myself, so that I may

finish my course with joy, and the ministry, which I have received of

the Lord Jesus, to be faithful."--Eleanor's heart swelled. Tears were

very near.

After breakfast, a large part of the morning was spent by her aunt and

Mr. Rhys in the garden; as Mrs. Caxton had said; and very busy they

were. Eleanor was not asked to join them, and she did not choose to

volunteer; she watched them from the house. They were very honestly

busy; planting and removing and consulting; in real garden work; yet it

was manifest their minds had also much more in common, in matters of

greater interest; they stood and talked for long intervals when the

flowers were forgotten. They were very near each other, those two,

evidently, in regard and mutual confidence and probably mutual

admiration also. It was very strange Eleanor should never have come to

the knowledge of it till to-day. And yet, why should she? She had never

mentioned the name of Mr. Rhys to her aunt in any of her stories of

Wiglands.

He was away all the afternoon and the evening, and came back again

late; a tired and exhausted man. He said nothing, except to officiate

at family prayers; but Eleanor was delighted that he was to spend the

night at the farm and they would have him at breakfast. Only to see him

and hear him talk to others, only the tones of his voice, brought up to

her everything that was good and strong and pure and happy. He did not

seem inclined to advance at all upon their Wiglands acquaintance. He

made no allusion to it. As far as she was concerned, Eleanor thought

that there was more reserve in his manner towards her than he had

shewed there. No matter. With Mrs. Caxton he was very much at home; and

she could study him at her ease all the better for not talking to him.