AT THE COTTAGE.
"This floating life hath but this port of rest,
A heart prepared, that fears no ill to come."
The matter was in skilful hands; for the days rolled on, after that
eventful excursion, with great smoothness. Mr. Carlisle kept Eleanor
busy, with some pleasant little excitement, every day varied. She was
made to taste the sweets of her new position, and to depend more and
more upon the hand that introduced her to them. Mr. Carlisle ministered
carefully to her tastes. Eleanor daily was well mounted, generally on
Maggie; and enjoyed her heart's delight of a gallop over the moor, or a
more moderate pace through a more rewarding scenery. Mr. Carlisle
entered into the spirit of her gardening pursuits; took her to his
mother's conservatory; and found that he never pleased Eleanor better
than when he plunged her into the midst of flowers. He took good care
to advance his own interests all the time; and advanced them fast and
surely. He had Eleanor's liking before; and her nature was too sweet
and rich not to incline towards the person whom she had given such a
position with herself, yielding to him more and more of faith and
affection. And that in spite of what sometimes chafed her; the quiet
sway she felt Mr. Carlisle had over her, beneath which she was
powerless. Or rather, perhaps she inclined towards him secretly the
more on account of it; for to women of rich natures there is something
attractive in being obliged to look up; and to women of all natures it
is imposing. So Mr. Carlisle's threat, by Eleanor so stoutly resisted
and resented, was extremely likely to come to pass. Mrs. Powle was too
wise to touch her finger to the game.
Several weeks went by, during which Eleanor had no chance to think of
anything but Mr. Carlisle and the matters he presented for her notice.
At the end of that time he was obliged to go up to London on sudden
business. It made a great lull in the house; and Eleanor began to sit
in her garden parlour again and dream. While dreaming one day, she
heard the voice of her little sister sobbing at the door-step. She had
not observed before that she was sitting there.
"Julia!" said Eleanor--"What is the matter?"
Julia would not immediately say, but then faltered out, "Mr. Rhys."
"Mr. Rhys! What of him?"
"He's sick. He's going to die, I know."
"How do you know he is sick? Come, stop crying, Julia, and speak. What
makes you think he is sick?"
"Because he just lies on the sofa, and looks so white, and he can't
keep school. He sent away the boys yesterday."
"Does he see the doctor?"
"No. I don't know. No, I know he don't," said Julia; "because the old
woman said he ought to see him."
"What old woman, child?"
"His old woman--Mrs. Williams. And mamma said I might have some jelly
and some sago for him--and there is nobody to take it. Foster is out of
the way, and Jack is busy, and I can't get anybody."
Julia's tears were very sincere.
"Stop crying, child, and I will go with you myself. I have not had a
walk to-day, or a ride, or anything. Come, get ready, and you and I
will take it."
Julia did not wait even for thanks; she was never given to be
ceremonious; but sprang away to do as her sister had said. In a few
minutes they were off, going through the garden, each with a little
basket in her hand. Julia's tears were exchanged for the most sunshiny
gladness.
It was a sunshiny day altogether, in the end of summer, and the heat
was sultry. Neither sister minded weather of any sort; nevertheless
they chose the shady side of the road and went very leisurely, along by
the hedgerows and under the elms and beeches with which all the way to
the village was more or less shaded. It was a long walk, even to the
village. The cottage where Mr. Rhys had his abode was yet further on.
The village must be passed on the way to it.
It was a long line of cottages, standing for the most part on one side
the street only; the sweet hedgerow on the other side only here and
there broken by a white wicket gate. The houses were humble enough; yet
in universal neat order on the outside at least; in many instances
grown over with climbing roses and ivy, and overhung with deep thatched
roofs. They stood scatteringly; gardens and sometimes small crofts
intervening; and noble growth of old oaks and young elms shading the
way; the whole as neat, fresh, and picturesque in rural comfort and
beauty, as could be seen almost anywhere in England. The lords of
Rythdale held sway here, and nothing under their rule, of late, was out
of order. But there were poor people in the village, and very poor old
houses, though skilfully turned to the account of beauty in the outward
view. Eleanor was well known in them; and now Mrs. Benson came out to
the gate and told how she was to move to her new home in another
fortnight; and begged the sisters would come in to rest themselves from
the sun. And old Mrs. Shepherd curtsied in her doorway; and Matthew
Grimson's wife, the blacksmith that was, came to stop Eleanor with a
roundabout representation how her husband's business would thrive so
much better in another situation. Eleanor was seldom on foot in the
village now. She passed that as soon as she could and went on. From her
window on the other side of the lane, Miss Broadus nodded, and beckoned
too; but the sisters would not be delayed.
"It is good Mr. Carlisle has gone to London," said Julia. "He would not
have let you come."
Eleanor felt stung.
"Why do you say so, Julia?"
"Why, you always do what he tells you," said Julia, who was not apt to
soften her communications. "He says 'Eleanor'--and you go that way; and
he says 'Eleanor'--and you go the other way."
"And why do you suppose he would have any objection to my going this
way?"
"I know"--said Julia. "I am glad he is in London. I hope he'll stay
there."
Eleanor made no answer but to switch her dress and the bushes as they
went by, with a little rod in her hand. There was more truth in the
allegation than it pleased her to remember. She did not always feel her
bonds at the time, they were so gently put on and the spell of
another's will was so natural and so irresistible. But it chafed her to
be reminded of it and to feel that it was so openly exerted and her own
subjugation so complete. The switching went on vigorously, taking the
bushes and her muslin dress impartially; and Eleanor's mind was so
engrossed that she did not perceive how suddenly the weather was
changing. They had passed through the village and left it behind, when
Julia exclaimed, "There's a storm coming, Eleanor! maybe we can get in
before it rains." It was an undeniable fact; and without further parley
both sisters set off to run, seeing that there were very few minutes to
accomplish Julia's hope. It began sprinkling already.
"It's going to be a real storm," said Julia gleefully. "Over the moor
it's as black as thunder. I saw it through the trees."
"But where are you going?"--For Julia had left the road, or rather
lane, and dashed down a path through the trees leading off from it.
"O this is the best--this leads round to the other side of the house,"
Julia said.
Just as well, to go in at the kitchen, Eleanor thought; and let Julia
find her way with her sago and jelly to Mr. Rhys's room, if she so
inclined. So they ran on, reached a little strip of open ground at the
back of the cottage, and rushed in at the door like a small tornado;
for the rain was by this time coming down merrily.
The first thing Eleanor saw when she had pulled off her flat,--was that
she was not in a kitchen. A table with writing implements met her eye;
and turning, she discovered the person one of them at least had come to
see, lying on a sort of settee or rude couch, with a pillow under his
head. He looked pale enough, and changed, and lay wrapped in a
dressing-gown. If Eleanor was astonished, so certainly was he. But he
rose to his feet, albeit scarce able to stand, and received his
visitors with a simplicity and grace of nature which was in singular
contrast with all the dignities of conventional life.
"Mr. Rhys!" stammered Eleanor, "I had no idea we were breaking into
your room. I thought Julia was taking me into Mrs. Williams's part of
the house."
"I am very glad to see you!" he said; and the words were endorsed by
the pleasant grave face and the earnest grasp of the hand. But how ill
and thin he looked! Eleanor was shocked.
"It was beginning to rain," she repeated, "and I followed where Julia
led me. I thought she was bringing me to Mrs. Williams's premises. I
beg you will excuse me."
"I have made Mrs. Williams give me this part of the house because I
think it is the pleasantest. Won't you do me the honour to sit down?"
He was bringing a chair for her, but looked so little able for it that
Eleanor took it from his hand.
"Please put yourself on the sofa again, Mr. Rhys--We will not interrupt
you a moment."
"Yes you will," said Julia, "unless you want to walk in the rain. Mr.
Rhys, are you better to-day?"
"I am as well as usual, thank you, Julia."
"I am sorry to see that is not very well, Mr. Rhys," said Eleanor.
"Not very strong--" he said with the smile that she remembered, as he
sank back in the corner of the couch and rested his head on his hand.
His look and manner altogether gave her a strange feeling. Ill and pale
and grave as he was, there was something else about him different from
all that she had touched in her own life for weeks. It was a new
atmosphere.
"Ladies, I hope you are not wet?" he said presently.
"Not at all," said Eleanor; "nothing to signify. We shall dry ourselves
in the sun walking back."
"I think the sun is not going to be out immediately."
He rose and with slow steps made his way to the inner door and spoke to
some one within. Eleanor took a view of her position. The rain was
coming down furiously; no going home just yet was possible. That was
the out-of-door prospect. Within, she was a prisoner. The room was a
plain little room, plain as a room could be; with no adornments or
luxuries. Some books were piled on deal shelves; others covered two
tables. A large portfolio stood in one corner. On one of the tables
were pens, ink and paper, not lying loose, but put up in order; as not
used nor wanted at present. Several boxes of various sorts and sizes
made up the rest of the furniture, with a few chairs of very simple
fashion. It was Mr. Rhys's own room they were in; and all that could be
said of it was its nicety of order. Two little windows with the door
might give view of something in fair weather; at present they shewed
little but grey rain and a dim vision of trees seen through the rain.
Eleanor wanted to get away; but it was impossible. She must talk.
"You cannot judge of my prospect now," Mr. Rhys said as she turned to
him.
"Not in this rain. But I should think you could not see much at any
time, except trees."
"'Much' is comparative. No, I do not see much; but there is an opening
from my window, through which the eye goes a long way--across a long
distance of the moor. It is but a gleam; however it serves a good
purpose for me."
An old woman here came in with a bundle of sticks and began to lay them
for a fire. She was an old crone-looking person. Eleanor observed her,
and thought what it must be to have no nurse or companion but that.
"We have missed you at the Lodge, Mr. Rhys."
"Thank you. I am missing from all my old haunts," he answered gravely.
And the thought and the look went to something from which he was very
sorry to be missing.
"But you will be soon well again--will you not? and among us again."
"I do not know," he said. "I am sometimes inclined to think my work is
done."
"What work, Mr. Rhys?" said Julia. "Ferns, do you mean?"
"No."
"What work, Mr. Rhys?"
"I mean the Lord's work, Julia, which he has given me to do."
"Do you mean preaching?"
"That is part of it."
"What else is your work, Mr. Rhys?" said Julia, hanging about the couch
with an affectionate eye. So affectionate, that her sister's rebuke of
her forwardness was checked.
"Doing all I can, Julia, in every way, to tell people of the Lord
Jesus."
"Was that the work you were going to that horrid place to do?"
"Yes."
"Then I am glad you are sick!"
"That is very unkind of you," said he with a gravity which Eleanor was
not sure was real.
"It is better for you to be sick than to go away from England," said
Julia decidedly.
"But if I am not well enough to go there, I shall go somewhere else."
"Where?"
"What have you got in that saucer?"
"Jelly for you. Won't you eat it, Mr. Rhys? There is sago in the
basket. It will do you good."
"Will you not offer your sister some?"
"No. She gets plenty at home. Eat it, Mr. Rhys, won't you?"
He took a few spoonfuls, smiled at her, and told her it was very good.
It was a smile worth having. But both sisters saw that he looked
fearfully pale and worn.
"I must see if Mrs. Williams has not some berries to offer you," he
said.
"Where are you going, Mr. Rhys, if you do not go to that place?" Julia
persisted.
"If I do not go there, I think I shall go home."
"Home?"
"Yes."
"Where is that?" said Julia hanging about him.
"I meant my everlasting home, Julia."
"O don't, Mr. Rhys!" cried the child in a half vexed tone. "Eat some
more jelly--do!"
"I am very willing to stay, Julia, if my Master has work for me to do."
"You had charge of a chapel at Lily Dale, Mr. Rhys, I am told?" Eleanor
said, feeling awkward.
"No--at Croydon, beyond."
"At Croydon! that is nine miles off. How did you get there?"
The question escaped Eleanor. He hesitated, and answered simply, "I had
no way but to walk. I found that very pleasant in summer mornings."
"Walk to Croydon and back, and preach there! I do not wonder you are
sick, Mr. Rhys."
"I did not walk back the same day."
"But then where did you go in the evenings to preach?" said Julia.
"That was not so far off."
"Did you serve _two_ chapels on the same day, Mr. Rhys?" Eleanor asked.
"No. The evenings Julia speaks of I preached nearer home."
"And school all the week!" said Eleanor.
"It was no hardship," he said with a most pleasant smile at her. "The
King's work required haste--there were many people at both places who
had not heard the truth or had not learned to love it. There are still."
His face grew very grave as he spoke; grave even to sadness as he
added, "They are dying without the knowledge of the true life!"
"Where was the other chapel you went to?"
"Rythmoor."
Eleanor hurried on. "But Mr. Rhys, will you allow me to ask you a
question that puzzles me?"
"I beg you will do so!"
"It is just this. If there are so many in England that want
teaching--But I beg your pardon! I am afraid talking tires you."
"I assure you it is very pleasant to me. Will you go on."
"If there are so many in England that want teaching, why should you go
to such a place as that Julia talks of?"
"They are further yet from help."
"But is not the work here as good as the work there?"
"I am cut off from both," he said. "I long to go to them. But the Lord
has his own plans. 'Why art thou cast down, O my soul; and why art thou
disquieted within me? Hope thou in God!'--"
The grave, sweet, tender, strong intonation of these words, slowly
uttered, moved Eleanor much. Not towards tears; the effect was rather a
great shaking of heart. She saw a glimpse of a life she had never
dreamed of; a power touched her that had never touched her before. This
life was something quite unearthly in its spirit and aims; the power
was the power of holiness.
It is difficult or impossible to say in words how this influence made
itself felt. In the writing of the lines of the face, in the motion of
the lips, in the indefinable tones of voice, in the air and manner,
there comes out constantly in all characters an atmosphere of the
truth, which the words spoken, whether intended or not intended, do not
convey. Even unintentional feigning fails here, and even self-deception
is belied. The truth of a character will make itself felt and
influential, for good or evil, through all disguises. So it was, that
though the words of Mr. Rhys might have been said by anybody, the
impression they produced belonged to him alone, of all the people
Eleanor had ever seen in her life. The "helmet of salvation" was on
this man's head, and gave it a dignity more than that of a kingly
crown. She sat thinking so, and recalling her lost wishes of the early
summer; forgetting to carry on the conversation.
Meanwhile the old woman of the cottage came in again with a fresh
supply of sticks, and a blaze began to brighten in the chimney. Julia
exclaimed in delight. Eleanor looked at the window. The rain still came
down heavily. She remembered the thunderstorm in June, and her fears.
Then Mr. Rhys begged her to go to the fire and dry herself, and again
spoke some unintelligible words to the old attendant.
"What is that, Mr. Rhys?" said Julia, who seldom refrained from asking
anything she wished to know.
"I was enquiring of Mrs. Williams whether she had not some
fresh-gathered berries she could bring for your refreshment."
"But I mean, what language did you speak to her?"
"Welsh."
"Are you Welsh?"
"No," said he smiling; "but I have Welsh blood; and I had a Welsh
nurse, Julia."
"I do not want any refreshment, Mr. Rhys; but I would like some
berries."
"I hope you would like to ask pardon of Mr. Rhys for your freedom,"
said Eleanor. "I am sure you need it."
"Why Mrs. Williams very often gives me berries," said Julia; "and they
always taste better than ours. I mean, Mr. Rhys gives me some."
Eleanor busied herself over the fire, in drying her muslin dress. That
did very well instead of talking. Mrs. Williams presently came in
again, bearing a little tray with berries and a pot of cream. Julia
eagerly played hostess and dealt them out. The service was most homely;
nevertheless the wild berries deserved her commendation. The girls sat
by the fire and eat, and their host from the corner of his couch
watched them with his keen eyes. It was rather a romantic adventure
altogether, Eleanor thought, in the midst of much graver thoughts. But
Julia had quite got her spirits up.
"Aren't they good, Eleanor? They are better berries than those that
came from the Priory. Mr. Rhys, do you know that after Eleanor is Mrs.
Carlisle, she will be Lady Rythdale?"
This shot drove Eleanor into desperation. She would have started aside,
to hide her cheeks, but it was no use. Mr. Rhys had risen to add some
more cream to her saucer--perhaps on purpose.
"I understand," he said simply. "Has she made arrangements to secure an
everlasting crown, after the earthly coronet shall have faded away?"
The question was fairly put to Eleanor. It gave a turn to her
confusion, yet hardly more manageable; for the gentle, winning tones in
which it was made found their way down to some very deep and unguarded
spot in her consciousness. No one had ever probed her as this man dared
to do. Eleanor could hardly sit still. The berries had no more any
taste to her after that. Yet the question demanded an answer; and after
hesitating long she found none better than to say, as she set down her
saucer,
"No, Mr. Rhys."
Doubtless he read deeper than the words of her answer, but he made no
remark. She would have been glad he had.
The shower seemed to be slackening; and while Julia entered into lively
conversation over her berries, Eleanor went to the window. She was
doubtfully conscious of anything but discomfort; however she did
perceive that the rain was falling less thickly and light beginning to
break through the clouds. As she turned from the window she forced
herself to speak.
"What is there we can do for you at home, Mr. Rhys? Mrs. Williams'
resources, I am sure, must be very insufficient."
"I am very much obliged to you!" he said heartily. "There is nothing
that I know of. I have all that I require."
"You are better than you were? you are gaining strength?"
"No, I think not. I am quite useless now."
"But you will get better soon, and be useful again."
"If it pleases my Master;--but I think not."
"Do you consider yourself so seriously ill, Mr. Rhys?" said Eleanor
looking shocked.
"Do not take it so seriously," said he smiling at her. "No harm can
come to me any way. It is far worse than death for me, to be cut off
from doing my work; and a while ago the thought of this troubled me; it
gave me some dark hours. But at last I rested myself on that word, 'Why
art thou cast down, O my soul? Hope thou in God!' and now I am content
about it. Life or death--neither can bring but good to me; for my
Father sends it. You know," he said, again with a smile at her, but
with a keen observant eye,--"they who are the Lord's wear an invisible
casque, which preserves them from all fear."
He saw that Eleanor's face was grave and troubled; he saw that at this
last word there was a sort of avoidance of feature, as if it reached a
spot of feeling somewhere that was sensitive. He added nothing more,
except the friendly grasp of the hand, which drove the weapon home.
The rain had ceased; the sun was out; and the two girls set forward on
their return. They hurried at first, for the afternoon had worn away.
The rain drops lay thick and sparkling on every blade of grass, and
dripped upon them from the trees.
"Now you will get your feet wet again," said Julia; "and then you will
have another sickness; and Mr. Carlisle will be angry."
"Do let Mr. Carlisle's anger alone!" said Eleanor. "I shall not sit
down in wet shoes, so I shall not get hurt. Did you ever see him angry?"
"No," said Julia; "and I am glad he won't be angry with me?"
In spite of her words, the wet grass gave Eleanor a disagreeable
reminder of what wet grass had done for her some months before. The
remembrance of her sickness came up with the immediate possibility of
its returning again; the little feeling of danger and exposure gave
power to the things she had just heard. She could not banish them; she
recalled freshly the miserable fear and longing of those days when she
lay ill and knew not how her illness would turn; the fearful want of a
shelter; the comparative littleness of all things under the sun.
Rythdale Priory had not been worth a feather in that day; all the gay
pleasures and hopes of the summer could have found no entrance into her
heart then. And as she was then, so Eleanor knew herself
now--defenceless, if danger came. And the wet grass into which every
footstep plunged said that danger might be at any time very near.
Eleanor wished bitterly that she had not come this walk with Julia. It
was strange, how utterly shaken, miserable, forlorn, her innermost
spirit felt, at this possible approach of evil to her shelterless head.
And with double force, though they had been forcible at the time, Mr.
Rhys's words recurred to her--the words that he had spoken half to
himself as it were--"Hope thou in God." Eleanor had heard those words,
read by different lips, at different times; they were not new; but the
meaning of them had never struck her before. Now for the first time, as
she heard the low, sweet, confident utterance of a soul fleeing to its
stronghold, of a spirit absolutely secure there, she had an idea of
what "hope in God" meant; and every time she remembered the tones of
those words, spoken by failing lips too, it gave a blow to her heart.
There was something she wanted. What else could be precious like that?
And with them belonged in this instance, Eleanor felt, a purity of
character till now unimagined. Thoughts and footsteps hurrying along
together, they were past the village and far on their way towards home,
the two sisters, before much was said between them.
"I wish Mr. Rhys would get well and stay here," said Julia. "It is nice
to go to see him, isn't it, Eleanor? He is so good."
"I don't know whether it is nice," said Eleanor. "I wish almost I had
not gone with you. I have not thought of disagreeable things before in
a great while."
"But isn't he good?"
"Good!" said Eleanor. "He makes me feel as black as night."
"Well, you aren't black," said Julia, pleased; "and I'll tell Mr.
Carlisle what you say. He won't be angry that time."
"Julia!" said Eleanor. "Do if you dare! You shall repeat no words of
mine to Mr. Carlisle."
Julia only laughed; and Eleanor hoped that the gentleman would stay in
London till her purpose, whatever it might be, was forgotten. He did
stay some days; the Lodge had a comparatively quiet time. Perhaps
Eleanor missed the constant excitement of the weeks past. She was very
restless, and her thoughts would not be diverted from the train into
which the visit to Mr. Rhys had thrown them. Obstinately the idea kept
before her, that a defence was wanting to her which she had not, and
might have. She wanted some security greater than dry shoes could
afford. Yea, she could not forget, that beyond that earthly coronet
which of necessity must some time fade, she might want something that
would endure in the air of eternity. Her musings troubled Eleanor. As
Black Maggie did not wait upon her, these days, she ordered up her own
little pony, and went off upon long rides by herself. It soothed her to
be alone. She let no servant attend her; she took the comfort of good
stirring gallops all over the moor; and then when she and the pony were
both tired she let him walk and her thoughts take up their train. But
it did not do her any good. Eleanor grew only more uneasy from day to
day. The more she thought, the deeper her thoughts went; and still the
contrast of purity and high Christian hope rose up to shame her own
heart and life. Eleanor felt her danger as a sinner; her exposure as
guilty; and the insufficiency of all she had or hoped for, to meet
future and coming contingencies. So far she got; there she stopped;
except that her sense of these things grew more keen and deep day by
day; it did not fade out. Friends she had none to help her. She wanted
to see Dr. Cairnes and attack him in private and bring him to a point
on the subjects which agitated her; but she could not. Dr. Cairnes too
was absent from Wiglands at this time; and Eleanor had to think and
wait all by herself. She had her Bible, it is true; but she did not
know how to consult it. She took care not to go near Mr. Rhys again;
though she was sorry to hear through Julia that he was not mending. She
wished herself a little girl, to have Julia's liberty; but she must do
without it. And what would Mr. Carlisle say to her thoughts? She must
not ask him. He could do nothing with them. She half feared, half
wished for his influence to overthrow them.
He came; but Eleanor did not find that he could remove the trouble, the
existence of which he did not suspect. His presence did not remove it.
In all her renewed engagements and gaieties, there remained a secret
core of discomfort in her heart, whatever she might be about.
They were taking tea one evening, half in and half out of the open
window, when Julia came up.
"Mr. Carlisle," said she, "I am going to pay you my forfeit." He had
caught her in some game of forfeits the day before. "I am going to give
you something you will like very much."
"What can it be, Julia?"
"You don't believe me. Now you do not deserve to have it. I am going to
give you something Eleanor said."
Eleanor's hand was on her lips immediately, and her voice forbade the
promised forfeit; but there were two words to that bargain. Mr.
Carlisle captured the hand and gave a counter order.
"Now you don't believe me, but you believe Eleanor," said the lawless
child. "She said,--she said it when you went away,--that she had not
thought of anything disagreeable in a long while!"
Mr. Carlisle looked delighted, as well he might. Eleanor's temples
flushed a painful scarlet.
"Dear me, how interesting these goings away and comings home are, I
suppose!" exclaimed Miss Broadus, coming up to the group. "I see! there
is no need to say anything. Mr. Carlisle, we are all rejoiced to see
you back at Wiglands. Or at the Lodge--for you do not honour Wiglands
much, except when I see you riding through it on that beautiful brown
horse of yours. The black and the brown; I never saw such a pair. And
you do ride! I should think you would be afraid that creature would
lose a more precious head than its own."
"I take better care than that, Miss Broadus."
"Well, I suppose you do; though for my part I cannot see how a person
on one horse can take care of a person on another horse; it is
something I do not understand. I never did ride myself; I suppose that
is the reason. Mr. Carlisle, what do you say to this lady riding all
alone by herself--without any one to take care of her?"
Mr. Carlisle's eyes rather opened at this question, as if he did not
fully take in the idea.
"She does it--you should see her going by as I did--as straight as a
grenadier, and her pony on such a jump! I thought to myself, Mr.
Carlisle is in London, sure enough. But it was a pretty sight to see.
My dear, how sorry we are to miss some one else from our circle, and he
did honour us at Wiglands--my sister and me. How sorry I am poor Mr.
Rhys is so ill. Have you heard from him to-day, Eleanor?"
"You should ask Julia, Miss Broadus. Is he much more ill than he was?
Julia hears of him every day, I believe."
"Ah, the children all love him. I see Julia and Alfred going by very
often; and the other boys come to see him constantly, I believe. And my
dear Eleanor, how kind it was of you to go yourself with something for
him! I saw you and Julia go past with your basket--don't you
remember?--that day before the rain; and I said to myself--no, I said
to Juliana, some very complimentary things about you. Benevolence has
flourished in your absence, Mr. Carlisle. Here was this lady, taking
jelly with her own hands to a sick man. Now I call that beautiful."
Mr. Carlisle preferred to make his own compliments; for he did not echo
those of the talkative lady.
"But I am afraid he is very ill, my dear," Miss Broadus went on,
turning to Eleanor again. "He looked dreadfully when I saw him; and he
is so feeble, I think there is very little hope of his life left. I
think he has just worked himself to death. But I do not believe,
Eleanor, he is any more afraid of death, than I am of going to sleep. I
don't believe he is so much."
Miss Broadus was called off; Mr. Carlisle had left the window; Eleanor
sat sadly thinking. The last words had struck a deeper note than all
the vexations of Miss Broadus's previous talk. "No more afraid of death
than of going to sleep." Ay! for his head was covered from danger.
Eleanor knew it--saw it--felt it; and felt it to be blessed. Oh how
should she make that same covering her own? There was an engagement to
spend the next afternoon at the Priory--the whole family. Dr. Cairnes
would most probably be there to meet them. Perhaps she might catch or
make an opportunity of speaking to him in private and asking him what
she wanted to know. Not very likely, but she would try. Dr. Cairnes was
her pastor; it ought to be in his power to resolve her difficulties; it
must be. At any rate, Eleanor would apply to him and see. She had no
one else to apply to. Unless Mr. Rhys would get well. Eleanor wished
that might be. _He_ could help her, she knew, without a peradventure.
Mr. Carlisle appeared again, and the musings were banished. He took her
hand and put it upon his arm, and drew her out into the lawn. The
action was caressingly done; nevertheless Eleanor felt that an inquiry
into her behaviour would surely be the next thing. So half shrinking
and half rebellious, she suffered herself to be led on into the winding
walks of the shrubbery. The evening was delicious; nothing could be
more natural or pleasant than sauntering there.
"I am going to have Julia at the Priory to-morrow, as a reward for her
good gift to me," was Mr. Carlisle's opening remark.
"I am sure she does not deserve it," said Eleanor very sincerely.
"What do you deserve?"
"Nothing--in the way of rewards."
Mr. Carlisle did not think so, or else regarded the matter in the light
of a reward to himself.
"Have you been good since I have been away?"
"No!" said Eleanor bluntly.
"Do you always speak truth after this fashion?"
"I speak it as you will find it, Mr. Carlisle."
The questions were put between caresses; but in all his manner
nevertheless, in kisses and questions alike, there was that indefinable
air of calm possession and power, before which Eleanor always felt
unable to offer any resistance. He made her now change "Mr. Carlisle"
for a more familiar name, before he would go on. Eleanor felt as a colt
may be supposed to feel, which is getting a skilful "breaking in;"
yielding obedience at every step, and at every step secretly wishing to
refuse obedience, to refuse which is becoming more and more impossible.
"Haven't you been a little too good to somebody else, while I have been
away?"
"No!" said Eleanor. "I never am."
"Darling, I do not wish you to honour any one so far as that woman
reports you to have done."
"That!" said Eleanor. "That was the merest act of common
kindness--Julia wanted some one to go with her to take some things to a
sick man; and I wanted a walk, and I went."
"You were too kind. I must unlearn you a little of your kindness. You
are mine, now, darling; and I want all of you for myself."
"But the better I am," said Eleanor, "I am sure the more there is to
have."
"Be good for _me_," said he kissing her,--"and in my way. I will
dispense with other goodness. I am in no danger of not having enough in
you."
Eleanor walked back to the house, feeling as if an additional barrier
were somehow placed between her and the light her mind wanted and the
relief her heart sought after.