AT LUNCHEON.
"And, once wed,
So just a man and gentle, could not choose
But 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 abhor _all_ compliments?" 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 is
James 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 of
Earle, and would like to have him in one of the empty cottages at
Rythmoor, 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 of
_right_. 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 magnanimite est assez bien definie par son nom meme;
neanmoins 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 of
ambition may indicate a deficiency in that quality--or an excess of it.
Which, Eleanor?"
"Rochefoucauld says, 'La moderation est comme la sobriete: 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.