AT SUPPER.
_Mar_. "Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan."
_Sir And_. "O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog."
_Sir Tob_. "What, for being a Puritan? thy exquisite reason,
dear knight?"
_Sir And_. "I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason
good enough."
What was to come now; as in darkness and silence the carriage rolled
over the road towards Wiglands? Eleanor did not greatly care. She felt
set free; outwardly, by her own daring act of separation; inwardly and
more effectually perhaps, by the influence of the evening upon her own
mind. In her own settled and matured conclusions, she felt that Mr.
Carlisle's power over her was gone. It was a little of an annoyance to
have him sitting there; nevertheless Eleanor's mind did not trouble
itself much with him. Leaning back in the carriage, she gave herself up
to the impressions of the scene she had been through. Her companion was
quiet and made no demands upon her attention. She recalled over and
over the words, and looks, of the sermon;--the swell of the music--it
had been like angel's melody; and the soft words which had been so
energetic in their whispered strength as she knelt at the railing. She
remembered with fresh wonder and admiration, with what effect the Bible
words in the first part of the sermon had come upon the audience
through that extreme quietness of voice and delivery; and then with
what sudden fire and life, as if he had become another man, the speaker
had burst out to speak of his Master; and how it had swayed and bent
the assembly. It was an entirely new view of Mr. Rhys, and Eleanor
could not forget it. In general, as she had always seen him, though
perfectly at ease in his manners he was very simple and
undemonstrative. She had not guessed there was such might in him. It
awed her; it delighted her. To live such a life and to do such work as
that man lived for,--that was living indeed! That was noble, high,
pure; unlike and O how far above all the manner of lives Eleanor had
ever seen before. And such, in so far as the little may resemble the
great, such at least so far as in her sphere and abilities and sadly
inferior moral qualities it might lie--such in aim and direction at
least, her own life should be. What had she to do with Mr. Carlisle?
Eleanor never spoke to him during the long drive, forgetting as far as
she could, though a little uneasiness grew upon her by degrees, that he
was even present. And he did not speak to her, nor remind her of his
presence otherwise than by pulling up the glass on her side when the
wind blew in too chill. It was _his_ carriage they were in, Eleanor
then perceived; and she wanted to ask a question; but on the whole
concluded it safe to be still; according to the proverb, _Let sleeping
dogs lie_. One other time he drew her shawl round her which she had let
slip off.
Mr. Carlisle was possessed of large self-control and had great
perfection of tact; and he never shewed either more consummately than
this night. What he underwent while standing in the aisle of the
Chapel, was known to himself; he made it known to nobody else. He was
certainly silent during the drive; that shewed him displeased; but
every movement was calm as ordinary; his care of Eleanor was the same,
in its mixture of gentle observance and authority. He had laid down
neither. Eleanor could have wished he had been unable to keep one or
the other. Would he keep her too, and everything else that he chose?
Nothing is more subduing in its effect upon others, than evident power
of self-command. Eleanor could not help feeling it, as she stepped out
of the carriage at home, and was led into the house.
"Will you give me a few minutes, when you have changed your dress?" her
conductor asked.
It must come, thought Eleanor, and as well now as ever; and she
assented. Mr. Carlisle led her in. Nobody was in waiting but Mrs.
Powle; and she waited with devouring anxiety. The Squire and Julia she
had carefully disposed of in good time.
"Eleanor is tired, Mrs. Powle, and so am I," said Mr. Carlisle. "Will
you let us have some supper here, by this fire--and I think Eleanor had
better have a cup of tea; as I cannot find out the wine that she
likes." And as Eleanor moved away, he added,--"And let me beg you not
to keep yourself from your rest any longer--I will take care of my
charge; at least I will try."
Devoutly hoping that he might succeed to his wishes, and not daring to
shew the anxiety he did not move to gratify, Mrs. Powle took the hint
of his gentle dismission; ordered the supper and withdrew. Meanwhile
Eleanor went to her room, relieved at the quiet entrance that had been
secured her, where she had looked for a storm; and a little puzzled
what to make of Mr. Carlisle. A little afraid too, if the truth must be
known; but she fell back upon Mr. Rhys's words of counsel--"Go no way,
till you see clearly; and then do what is right." She took off her
bonnet and smoothed her hair; and was about to go down, when she was
checked by the remembrance of Mr. Carlisle's words, "when you have
changed your dress." She told herself it was absurd; why should she
change her dress for that half hour that she would be up; why should
she mind that word of intimation; she called herself a fool for it;
nevertheless, while saying these things Eleanor did the very thing she
scouted at. She put off her riding dress, which the streets of Brompton
and the Chapel aisles had seen that day, and changed it for a light
grey drapery that fell about her in very graceful folds. She looked
very lovely when she reentered the drawing-room; the medium tint set
off her own rich colours, and the laces at throat and wrist were just
simple enough to aid the whole effect. Mr. Carlisle was a judge of
dress; he was standing before the fire and surveyed her as she came in;
and as Eleanor's foot faltered half way in the room, he came forward,
took both her hands and led her to the fire, where he set her in a
great chair by the supper-table; and then before he let her go, did
what he had not meant to do; gave a very frank kiss to the lips that
were so rich and pure and so near him. Eleanor's heart had sunk a
little at perceiving that her mother was not in the room; and this
action was far from reassuring. She would rather Mr. Carlisle had been
angry. He was far more difficult to meet in this mood.
Meanwhile Mr. Carlisle brought her chair into more convenient
neighbourhood to the table, and set a plate before her on which he went
on to place whatever he thought fit. "I know what you are wanting," he
said;--"but you shall not have a cup of tea unless I see you eat." And
Eleanor eat, feeling the need of it, and the necessity of doing
something likewise.
Mr. Carlisle poured himself out a glass of wine and slowly drank it,
watching her. Midway set it down; and himself made and poured out and
sugared and creamed a cup of tea which he set beside Eleanor. It was
done in the nicest way possible, with a manner that any woman would
like to have wait on her. Eleanor tasted, and could not hold her tongue
any more.
"I did not know this was one of your accomplishments,"--she said
without raising her eyes.
"For you"--said Mr. Carlisle. "I believe it will never be exercised for
anybody else."
He slowly finished his wine while he watched her. He eat nothing
himself, though Eleanor asked him, till she turned from her plate, and
did what she had not done till then but could no longer withhold; let
her eyes meet his.
"Now," said he throwing himself into an opposite chair,--"I will take a
cup of tea, if you will make it for me."
Eleanor blushed--what made her?--as she set about performing this
office. The tea was cold; she had to make fresh, and wait till it was
ready; and she stood by the table watching and preparing it, while Mr.
Carlisle sat in his chair observing her. Eleanor's cheeks flushed more
and more. There was something about this little piece of domesticity,
and her becoming the servitor in her turn, that brought up things she
did not wish to think of. But her neighbour liked what she did not
like, for he sat as quiet as a mouse until Eleanor's trembling hand
offered him the cup. She had to take a step or two for it, but he never
stirred to abridge them. Eleanor sat down again, and Mr. Carlisle
sipped his tea with an appearance of gratification.
"That is a young man of uncommon abilities"--he remarked
composedly,--"whom we heard this evening. Do you know who he is,
Eleanor?"
Eleanor felt as if the sky was falling. "It is Mr. Rhys--Alfred's old
tutor--" she answered, in a voice which she felt was dry and
embarrassed to the quick ears that heard her. "You have seen him."
"I thought I had, somewhere. But that man has power. It is a pity he
could not be induced to come into the Church--he would draw better
houses than Dr. Cairnes. Do you think we could win him over, Eleanor?"
"I believe--I have heard"--said Eleanor, "that he is going away from
England. He is going a missionary to some very far away region." She
was quite willing Mr. Carlisle should understand this.
"Just as well," he answered. "If he would not come into his right
place, such a man would only work to draw other persons out of theirs.
There is a sort of popular power of speech which wins with the common
and uneducated mind. I saw it won upon you, Nellie; how was that?"
The light tone, in which a smile seemed but half concealed,
disconcerted Eleanor. She was not ashamed, she thought she was not, but
she did not know how to answer.
"You are a little _tete-montee_," he said. "If I had been a little
nearer to you to-night, I would have saved you from taking one step;
but I did not fancy that you could be so suddenly wrought upon. Pray
how happened you to be in that place to-night?'
"I told you," said Eleanor after some hesitation, "that I had an
unsatisfied wish of heart which made me uneasy--and you would not
believe me."
"If you knew how this man could speak, I do not wonder at your wanting
to hear him. Did you ever hear him before?"
"Yes," said Eleanor, feeling that she was getting in a wrong position
before her questioner. "I have heard him once--I wanted to hear him
again."
"Why did you not tell me your wish, that you might gratify it safely,
Eleanor?"
"I supposed--if I did--I should lose my chance of gratifying it at all."
"You are a real _tete-montee_," he said, standing now before her and
taking hold lightly and caressingly of Eleanor's chin as he spoke. "It
was well nobody saw you to-night but me. Does my little wife think she
can safely gratify many of her wishes without her husband's knowledge?"
Eleanor coloured brightly and drew herself back. "That is the very
thing," she said; "now you are coming to the point. I told you I had
wishes with which yours would not agree, and it was better for you to
know it before it was too late."
"Too late for what?"
"To remedy a great evil."
"There is generally a remedy for everything," said Mr. Carlisle coolly;
"and this sort of imaginative fervour which is upon you is sure to find
a cold bath of its own in good time. My purpose is simply in future,
whenever you wish to hear another specimen of the kind of oratory we
have listened to this evening, to be with you that I may protect you."
"Protect me from what?"
"From going too far, further than you know, in your present _exaltee_
state. The Lady of Rythdale must not do anything unworthy of herself,
or of me."
"What do you mean, Mr. Carlisle?" Eleanor exclaimed with burning
cheeks. But he stood before her quite cool, his arms folded, looking
down at her.
"Do you wish me to speak?"
"Certainly! I do."
"I will tell you then. It would not accord with my wishes to have my
wife grant whispered consultations in public to any man; especially a
young man and one of insinuating talents, which this one well may be. I
could have shot that man, as he was talking to you to-night, Eleanor."
Eleanor put up her hands to her face to hide its colour for a moment.
Shame and anger and confusion struggled together. _Had_ she done
anything unworthy of her? Others did the same, but they belonged to a
different class of persons; had she been where Eleanor Powle, or even
Eleanor Carlisle, would be out of place? And then there was the
contrasted consciousness, how very pleasant and precious that whispered
"consultation" had been to her. Mr. Carlisle stooped and took away her
hands from her face, holding them in his own.
"Eleanor--had that young man anything to do with those unmanageable
wishes you expressed to me?"
"So far as his words and example set me upon thinking," said Eleanor.
"But there was nothing in what was said to-night that all the world
might not hear." She rose, for it was an uncomfortable position in
which her hands were held.
"All the world did not hear it, you will remember. Eleanor, you are
honest, and I am jealous--will you tell me that you have no regard for
this young man more than my wife ought to have?"
"Mr. Carlisle, I have never asked myself the question!" exclaimed
Eleanor with indignant eyes. "If you doubt me, you cannot wish to have
anything more to do with me."
"Call me Macintosh," said he drawing her within his arm.
Eleanor would not. She would have freed herself, but she could not
without exerting too much force. She stood silent.
"Will you tell me," he said in a gentle changed tone, "what words did
pass between you and that young man,--that you said all the world might
hear?"
Eleanor hesitated. Her head was almost on Mr. Carlisle's shoulder; his
lips were almost at her downcast brow; the brilliant hazel eyes were
looking with their powerful light into her face. And she was his
affianced wife. Was Eleanor free? Had this man, who loved her, no
rights? Along with all other feelings, a keen sense of self-reproach
stole in again.
"Macintosh," she said droopingly, "it was entirely about religious
matters--that you would laugh at, but would not understand."
"Indulge me--and try me--" he said pressing his lips first on Eleanor's
cheek and then on her mouth. She answered in the same tone as before,
drooping in his arms as a weary child.
"He asked me--as I suppose he asked others--what the difficulties in my
mind were,--religious difficulties; and I told him my mind was in
confusion and I did not see clearly before me. He advised me to do
nothing in the dark, but when I saw duty clear, then to do it. That was
what passed."
"What did all these difficulties and rules of action refer to?"
"Everything, I suppose," said Eleanor drooping more and more inwardly.
"And you do not see, my love, what all this tended to?"
"I do not see what you mean."
"This is artful proselytism, Eleanor. In your brave honesty, in your
beautiful enthusiasm, you did not know that the purpose of all this has
been, to make a Methodist of Eleanor Powle, and as a necessary
preliminary or condition, to break off her promised marriage with me.
If that fellow had succeeded, he should have been made to feel my
indignation--as it is, I shall let him go."
"You are entirely mistaken,--" began Eleanor.
"Am I? Have you not been led to doubt whether you could live a right
life, and live it with me?"
"But would you be willing in everything to let me do as I think right?"
"Would I let you? You shall do what you will, my darling, except go to
whispering conventicles. Assuredly I will not let you do that. But when
you tell me seriously that you think a thing is wrong, I will never put
my will in the way of your conscience. Did you think me a Mahometan?
Hey?"
"No--but--"
"But what?"
Eleanor only sighed.
"I think I have something to forgive to-night, Eleanor,--but it is easy
to forgive you." And wrapping both arms round her now, he pressed on
brow and lip and cheek kisses that were abundantly reconciled.
"My presence just saved you to night. Eleanor--will you promise not to
be naughty any more?--Eleanor?--"
"I will try," burst out Eleanor,--"O I will try to do what is right! I
will try to do what is right!"
And in bitter uncertainty what that might be, she gave way under the
strain of so many feelings, and the sense of being conquered which
oppressed her, and burst into tears. Still held fast, the only
hiding-place for her eyes was Mr. Carlisle's breast, and they flowed
there bitterly though restrained as much as possible. He hardly wished
to restrain them; he would have been willing to stand all night with
that soft brown head resting like a child's on him. Nevertheless he
called her to order with words and kisses.
"Do you know, it is late," he said,--"and you are tired. I must send
you off. Eleanor! look up. Look up and kiss me."
Eleanor overcame the passion of tears as soon as possible, yet not till
a few minutes had passed; and looked up; at least raised her head from
its resting-place. Mr. Carlisle whispered, "Kiss me!"
How could Eleanor refuse? what could she do? though it was sealing
allegiance over again. She was utterly humbled and conquered. But there
was a touch of pride to be satisfied first. Laying one hand on Mr.
Carlisle's shoulder, so as to push herself a little back where she
could look him in the face, with eyes glittering yet, she confronted
him; and asked, "Do you doubt me now?"
Holding her in both arms, at just that distance, he looked down at her,
a smile as calm as brilliant playing all over his face, which spoke
perfect content as well as secure possession. But the trust in his eyes
was as clear.
"No more than I doubt myself," he answered.
Pride was laid asleep; and yielding to what seemed her fate, Eleanor
gave the required token of fealty--or subjugation--for so it seemed to
her. Standing quite still, with bent head and moveless attitude, the
slightest smile in the world upon the lips, Mr. Carlisle's whole air
said silently that it was not enough. Eleanor yielded again, and once
more touched her lips to those of her master. He let her go then; lit
her candle and attended her to the foot of the staircase and dismissed
her with all care.
"I wonder if he is going to stay here himself to-night, and meet me in
the morning," thought Eleanor as she went up the stairs. "It does not
matter--I will go to sleep and forget everything, for a while."
Would she? There was no sleep for Eleanor that night, and she knew it
as soon as she reached her room. She set down her candle and then
herself in blank despair.
What had she done? Nothing at all, The stand she had meant to take at
the beginning of the evening, she had been unable even to set foot
upon. The bold step by which she had thought to set herself free from
Mr. Carlisle, had only laid her more completely at his feet. Eleanor
got up and walked the room in agony.
What had she done? She was this man's promised wife; she had made her
own bonds; it was her own doing; he had a right to her, he had claims
upon her, he had given his affection to her. Had _she_ any rights now,
inconsistent with his? Must she not fulfil this marriage? And yet,
could she do so, feeling as she did? would _that_ be right? For no
sooner was Eleanor alone than the subdued cry of her heart broke out
again, that it could not be. And that cry grew desperate. Yet this
evening's opportunity had all come to nothing. Worse than nothing, for
it had laid an additional difficulty in her way. By her window, looking
out into the dark night, Eleanor stopped and looked at this difficulty.
She drew from its lurking-place in the darkness of her heart the
question Mr. Carlisle had suggested, and confronted it steadily.
_Had_ "that young man," the preacher of this evening, Eleanor's really
best friend, had he anything to do with her "unmanageable wishes?"
_Had_ she any regard for him that influenced her mind in this
struggle--or that raised the struggle? With fiercely throbbing heart
Eleanor looked this question for the first time in the face. "No!" she
said to herself,--"no! I have not. I have no such regard for him. How
debasing to have such a doubt raised! But I _might_ have--I think that
is true--if circumstances put me in the way of it. And I think, seeing
him and knowing his superior beauty of character--how superior!--has
wakened me up to the consciousness of what I do like, and what I like
best; and made me conscious too that I do not love Mr. Carlisle as well
as I ought, to be his wife--not as he loves me. _That_ I see now,--too
late. Oh, mother, mother! why were you in such a hurry to seal this
marriage--when I told you, I told you, I was not ready. But then I did
not know any more than that. And now I cannot marry him--and yet I
shall--and I do not know but I ought. And yet I cannot."
Eleanor walked her floor or stood by her window that live-long night.
It was a night of great agony and distracted searching for relief.
Where should relief come from? To tell Mr. Carlisle frankly that she
did not bear the right kind of love towards him, she knew would be the
vainest of expedients. "He can make me do anything--he would say he can
make me love him; and so, perhaps, he could--I believe he would--if I
had not seen this other man." And then Eleanor drew the contrast
between one person and the other; the high, pure, spiritual nobleness
of the one, and the social and personal graces and intellectual power
of the other, all used for selfish ends. It was a very unprofitable
speculation for Eleanor; it left her further than ever from the
conclusion, and distressed her bitterly. From her mother she knew sadly
there was no help to be had. No consideration, of duty or pleasure,
would outweigh with her the loss of a splendid alliance and the scandal
of breaking off the preparations for it. The Sphynx would not look out
more calmly over the desert waste of all things, than Mrs. Powle's fair
face would overview a moral desolation more hopeless and more
cheerless, if but the pyramid of her ambition were firmly planted
there. And Eleanor's worst trouble after all was her doubt about duty.
If Mr. Carlisle had not loved her--but he did love her truly and
tenderly, and she, however misled, had given him permission. Could she
now withdraw it? Could she do anything but, at whatever risk, go on and
meet the obligations she had brought upon herself? Nature cried out
strongly that it must not be; but conscience and remorse, aided by
circumstances, withstood nature, and said it must be no other way.
Eleanor must marry Mr. Carlisle and be as good to him as she could. And
Eleanor's whole soul began to rise up stronger and stronger in protest
against it, and cry that she never would marry him.
The weary long night seemed but as one thought of pain; and when the
morning broke, Eleanor felt that she had grown old.