AT THE RECTORY.
"The earth has lost its power to drag me downward;
Its spell is gone;
My course is now right upward, and right onward,
To yonder throne."
She had three months of quiet time. Not more; and they would quickly
speed away. What she had to do, she could not do too soon. Eleanor knew
it. The soothed feeling of the first few days gave place to a restless
mood almost as soon as Mr. Carlisle was gone. Three years seemed more
like what she wanted than three months. She felt ignorant, dark, and
unhappy; how was she to clear up this moral mist and see how the plan
of life lay, without any hand to lead her or help her? There was only
one she knew in the world that could; and from any application to him,
or even any chance contact with him, Eleanor consciously shrank. _That_
would never do; that must never be heard of her. With all this, she
began to dread the disturbing and confusing effects of Mr. Carlisle's
visits to the country. He would come; he had said so; and Mrs. Powle
kept reminding her of it upon every occasion.
Eleanor had been forbidden to ride alone. She did not dare; she took to
long lonely walks. It was only out of doors that she felt quite free;
in her own room at home, though never so private, her mother would at
any time come with distracting subjects of conversation. Eleanor fled
to the moor and to the wilds; walked, and rested on the stones, and
thought; till she found thinking degenerate into musing; then she
started up and went on. She tired herself. She did not find rest.
One day she took her course purposely to the ruined priory. It was a
long walk; but Eleanor courted long walks. And when she got there,
musing, it must be confessed, had a good time. She stepped slowly down
the grass-grown nave of the old church, recalling with much bitterness
the day of her betrothal there; blaming herself, and blaming her mother
more. Yet at any rate that day she had set seal to her own fate; would
she be able, and had she a right,--that was the worst question,--to
break it now? She wandered on, out of the church, away from the
beautiful old ivied tower, which seemed to look down on her with grave
reproach from the staidness of years and wisdom; wound about over and
among the piles of shapeless ruin and the bits of lichened and
moss-grown walls, yet standing here and there; not saying to herself
exactly where she was going, but trying if she could find out the way;
till she saw a thicket of thorn and holly bushes that she remembered.
Yes, the latches too, and the young growth of beech trees. Eleanor
plunged through this thicket, as well as she could; it was not easy;
and there before her was the clear spot of grass, the angle of the
thick old wall, and the deep window that she wanted to see again. All
still and lonely and wild. Eleanor went across and took a seat in the
window as she had done once before, to rest and think.
And then what she thought of, was not the old monks, nor the exquisite
fair view out of the window that had belonged to them; though it was a
soft December day, and the light was as winning fair on house and hill
and tree-top as if it had been a different season of the year. No cloud
in the sky, and no dark shadows upon the earth. But Eleanor's thoughts
went back to the thunderstorm, and her need then first felt of an
inward sunshine that would last in cloudy times. She recalled the talk
about the Christian's helmet; with a weary, sorrowful, keen renewal of
regret at her own want of it. The words Mr. Rhys had spoken about it at
that time she could not very well remember; but well she remembered the
impression of them, and the noble, clear calmness of his face and
manner. Very unlike all other calmness and nobleness that she had seen.
The nobleness of one whose head was covered by that royal basnet; the
fearlessness of one whose brows were consciously shaded by it. The
simplicity that had nothing to feign or conceal; the poise of manner
that came from an established heart and conscience. Eleanor presently
caught herself up. What was she thinking about Mr. Rhys for? True, the
thought of him was very near the thought of his teaching; nevertheless
the one thing concerned her, the other did not. Did it not? Eleanor
sighed, and wished she could have a little of his wise guidance; for
notwithstanding all she had heard him say, she felt in the dark.
In the midst of all this, Eleanor heard somebody humming a scrap of a
tune on the other side of the holly bushes. Another instant told her it
was a tune she had heard never but once before, and that once in Mr.
Brooks's barn. There was besides a little rustling of the thorn bushes.
Eleanor could think of but one person coming to that spot of the ruins;
and in sudden terror she sprang from the window and rushed round the
other corner of the wall. The tune ceased; Eleanor heard no more; but
she dared not falter or look back. She was in a thicket on this side
too, and in a mass of decayed ruins and rubbish which almost stopped
her way. By determination and perseverance, with some knocks and
scratches, she at last got free and stopped to breathe and think. Why
was she so frightened? Mr. Carlisle. But what should she do now?
Suppose she set off to walk home; she might be joined by the person she
wished to shun; it was impossible to foresee that he would sit an hour
meditating in the old window. Over against Eleanor, a little distance
off, only plantations of shrubbery and soft turf between, was the
Rector's house. Best go there and take refuge, and then be guided by
circumstances. She went accordingly, feeling sorrowful that she should
have to run away from the very person whose counsel of all others she
most needed.
The door was opened to Eleanor by the Rector himself.
"Ha! my dear Miss Powle," said the good doctor,--"this is an honour to
me. I don't know what you will do now, for my sister is away at
Brompton--will you come in and see an old bachelor like myself?"
"If you will let me, sir."
"I shall be delighted, my dear Miss Eleanor! You were always welcome,
ever since you were so high; and now that you are going to occupy so
important a position here, I do not know a lady in the neighbourhood
that deserves so much consideration as yourself. Come in--come in! How
did you get here?"
"Taking a long walk, sir. Perhaps you will give me some refreshments."
"I shall be delighted. Come in here, and we will have luncheon together
in my study--which was never so honoured before; but I think it is the
pleasantest place in the house. The other rooms my sister fills with
gimcracks, till I cannot turn round there without fear of breaking
something, Now my old folios and octavos have tried a fall many a
time--and many a one has tried a fall with them--ha! ha!--and no harm
to anybody. Sit down there now, Miss Eleanor, and rest. That's what I
call a pretty window. You see I am in no danger of forgetting my friend
Mr. Carlisle here."
Eleanor looked out of the window very steadily; yet she was not
refreshing her remembrance of Mr. Carlisle neither. There were glimpses
of a tall, alert figure, passing leisurely in and out among the trees
and the ruins; finally coming out into full view and walking with brisk
step over the greensward till he was out of sight. Eleanor knew it very
well, the figure and the quick step; the energy and life in every
movement. She heard no more of Dr. Cairnes for some time; though
doubtless he was talking, for he had ordered luncheon and now it was
served, and he was pressing her to partake of it. Dr. Cairnes' cheese
was excellent; his hung beef was of prime quality; and the ale was of a
superior brand, and the wine which he poured out for Eleanor was, he
assured her, as its sparkling drops fell into the glass, of a purity
and flavour "that even his friend Mr. Carlisle would not refuse to
close his lips upon." Eleanor felt faint and weary, and she knew Mr.
Carlisle's critical accuracy; but she recollected at the same time Mr.
Rhys's cool abstinence, and she put the glass of wine away.
"_Not?_" said the doctor. "You would prefer a cup of chocolate. Bad
taste, Miss Eleanor--wine is better for you, too. Ladies will sup
chocolate, I believe; I wonder what they find in it. The thing is, my
sister being away to-day, I don't know--"
Eleanor begged he would not mind that, nor her; however the chocolate
was ordered and in due time brought.
"Now that will make you dull," said the doctor,--"sleepy. It does not
have, even on you, the reviving, brilliant effect of _this_ beverage."
And he put the bright glass of wine to his lips. It was not the first
filled.
"Before I get dull, dear doctor, I want to talk to you."
"Aye?" said the doctor, looking at her over the wine. "You do? What
about? Say on, Miss Eleanor. I am yours doubly now, by the past and the
future. You may command me."
"It is about the present, I wish to talk," said Eleanor.
"What is it?"
"My mind is not at rest," said Eleanor, laying her hands in her lap,
and looking off again towards the ruins with their green and grey
silent reminders,--"about religious subjects."
"Ah?" said Dr. Cairnes. "How is that, Miss Eleanor? Be a little more
explicit with me, will you not."
"I will. Dr. Cairnes, I am young now, but by and by decay must come to
me, as it has come to that old pile yonder--as it comes to everything.
I want security for my head and heart when earthly security fails."
Eleanor spoke slowly, looking out as she spoke all the while.
"Security!" said the doctor. "But my dear Miss Eleanor, you know the
articles of our holy religion?"
"Yes,--" she said without stirring her position.
"Security is given by them, most amply and abundantly, to every sincere
applicant. Your life has been a sheltered one, Miss Eleanor, and a kind
one; you can have no very grievous sins to charge yourself with."
"I would like to get rid of such as I have," answered Eleanor without
moving.
"You were baptized in infancy?"
"Yes, sir."
"You have never been confirmed?"
"No, sir."
"Every baptized child of the Church, Miss Eleanor, owes it to God, to
herself, and the Church, upon arriving at a proper age, to come forward
and openly take upon herself--or himself--but I am talking of you,--the
vows made for her in her infancy, at her baptism, by her sponsors. Upon
doing this, she is received into full membership with the Church and
entitled to all its privileges; and undoubtedly security is one of
them. That is what you want to do, Miss Eleanor; and I am truly
rejoiced that your mind is setting itself to the contemplation of its
duties--and responsibilities. In the station you are preparing to
occupy, the head of all this neighbourhood--Wiglands and Rythdale
both--it is most important, most important, that your example should be
altogether blameless and your influence thrown altogether on the right
side. That influence, my dear Miss Eleanor, is very great."
"Dr. Cairnes, my one single present desire, is to do right and feel
safe, myself."
"Precisely. And to do right, is the way to feel safe. I will give you a
little work, preparatory to the ordinance of confirmation, Miss
Eleanor, which I entreat you to study and prayerfully follow. That will
relieve all your difficulties, I have no fear. There it is, Miss
Eleanor."
"Will this rite--will this ordinance," said Eleanor closing her fingers
on the book and for the first time looking the doctor straight in the
face,--"will it give me that helmet of salvation, of which I have
heard?"
"Hey? what is that?" said the doctor.
"I have heard--and read--of the Christian 'helmet of salvation.' I have
seen that a person whose brows are covered by it, goes along fearless,
hopeful, and happy, dreading nothing in this life or the next.--Will
being confirmed, put this helmet upon my head?--make me fearless and
happy too?"
"My dear Miss Eleanor, I cannot express how you astonish me. I always
have thought you were one of the strongest-hearted persons I knew; and
in your circumstances I am sure it was natural--But to your question.
The benefit of confirmation, my dear young lady, as well as of every
other ordinance of the Church, depends of course on the manner and
spirit with which we engage in it. There is confirming and
strengthening grace in it undoubtedly for all who come to the ordinance
in humble obedience, with prayer and faith, and who truly take upon
them their vows."
"But, Dr. Cairnes, I might die before I could be confirmed; and I want
rest and security now. I do not have it, day nor night. I have not,
ever since the time when I was so ill last summer. I want it _now_."
"My dear Miss Eleanor, the only way to obtain security and rest, is in
doing one's duty. Do your duty now, and it will come. Your conscience
has taken up the matter, and will have satisfaction. Give it
satisfaction, and rest will come."
"How can I give it satisfaction?" said Eleanor sitting up and looking
at the doctor. "I feel myself guilty--I know myself exposed to ruin, to
death that means death; what can I give to my conscience, to make it be
still?"
"The Church offers absolution for their sins to all that are truly
sorry for them," said the doctor. "Are you penitent on account of your
sins, Miss Eleanor?"
"Penitent?--I don't know," said Eleanor drooping a little from her
upright position. "I feel them, and know them, and wish them away; but
if I were penitent, they would be gone, wouldn't they? and they are not
gone."
"I see how it is," said the doctor. "You have too much leisure to
think, and your thoughts are turning in upon themselves and becoming
morbid. I think this is undue sensitiveness, my dear Miss Eleanor. The
sins we wish away, will never be made a subject of judgment against us.
I shall tell my friend Mr. Carlisle that his presence is wanted here,
for something more important than the interests of the county. I shall
tell him he must not let you think too much. I think he and I together
can put you right. In the mean while, you read my little book."
"Dr. Cairnes, what I have said to you is said in strict confidence. I
do not wish it spoken of, even to my mother."
"Of course, of course!" said the doctor. "_That_ is all understood. The
Church never reveals her children's secrets. But I shall only give him
a little gentle hint, which will be quite sufficient, I have no doubt;
and I shall have just the co-operation that I desire."
"How excellent your cheese is, Dr. Cairnes."
"Ah! you like it," said the doctor. "I am proud. I always purchase my
cheese myself--that is one thing I do not leave to my sister. But this
one I think is particularly fine. You won't take a half glass of ale
with it?--no,--I know Mr. Carlisle does not like ale. But it would be a
good sequent of your ride, nevertheless."
"I did not ride, sir. I walked."
"Walked from Ivy Lodge! All this way to see me, Miss Eleanor?"
"No sir--only for a walk, and to see the ruins. Then I was driven to
take shelter here."
"I am very glad of it! I am very glad of it!" said the doctor. "I have
not enjoyed my luncheon so much in a year's time; and you delight me
too, my dear Miss Eleanor, by your present dispositions. But walk all
the way here! I shall certainly write to Mr. Carlisle."
Eleanor's cheeks flushed, and she rose. "Not only all the way here, but
all the way back again," said she; "so it is time I bade you good bye."
The doctor was very anxious to carry her home in the chaise; Eleanor
was more determined that he should not; and determination as usual
carried the day. The doctor shook his head as he watched her off.
"Are you going to shew this spirit to Mr. Carlisle?" he said.
Which remark gave Eleanor an impetus that carried her a third of her
way home. During the remaining two thirds she did a good deal of
thinking; and arrived at the Lodge with her mind made up. There was no
chance of peace and a good time for her, without going away from home.
Dr. Cairnes' officiousness would be sure to do something to arouse Mr.
Carlisle's watchfulness; and then--"the game will be up," said Eleanor
to herself. "Between his being here and the incessant expectation of
him, there will be no rest for me. I must get away." She laid her plans.
After dinner she slipped away and sought her father in his study. It
was called his study, though very little of that character truly
belonged to it. More truly it balanced between the two purposes of a
smoking-room and an office; for county business was undoubtedly done
there; and it was the nook of retirement where the Squire indulged
himself in his favoured luxury, the sweet weed. The Squire took it
pure, in a pipe; no cigars for him; and filling his pipe Eleanor found
him. She lit the pipe for him, and contrary to custom sat down. The
Squire puffed away.
"I thought you didn't care for this sort of thing, Eleanor," he
remarked. "Are you learning not to mind it already? It is just as well!
Perhaps your husband will want you to sit with him when he smokes."
"I would not do that for any man in the world, papa, except you!"
"Ho! Ho!" said the Squire. "Good wives, my dear, do not mind trifles.
They had better not, at any rate."
"Papa," said Eleanor, whose cheeks were flaming, "do you not think,
since a girl must give up her liberty so completely in marrying, that
she ought to be allowed a good little taste of it beforehand?"
"St. George and the Dragon! I do," said the Squire. "Your mother says
it tends to lawlessness--and I say, I don't care. That is not my
concern. If a man cannot rule his wife, he had better not have
one--that is my opinion; and in your case, my dear, there is no fear.
Mr. Carlisle is quite equal to his duties, or I am mistaken in him."
Eleanor felt nearly wild under her father's speeches; nevertheless she
sat perfectly quiet, only fiery about her cheeks.
"Then, papa, to come to the point, don't you think in the little time
that remains to me for my own, I might be allowed to do what I please
with myself?"
"I should say it was a plain case," said the Squire. "Take your
pleasure, Nellie; I won't tether you. What do you want to do, child? I
take it, you belong to me till you belong to somebody else."
"Papa, I want to run away, and make a visit to my aunt Caxton. I shall
never have another chance in the world--and I want to go off and be by
myself and feel free once more, and have a good time."
"Poor little duck!" said her father. "You are a sensible girl, Nellie.
Go off; nobody shall hinder you."
"Papa, unless you back me, mamma and Mr. Carlisle will not hear of it."
"I'd go before he comes down then," said the Squire, knocking the ashes
out of his pipe energetically. "St. George! I believe that man half
thinks, sometimes, that I am one of his tenantry? The lords of Rythdale
always did lord it over everything that came in their way. Now is your
only chance, Eleanor; run away, if you're a mind to; Mr. Carlisle is
master in his own house, no doubt, but he is not master in mine; and I
say, you may go. Do him no harm to be kept on short commons for a
little while."
With a joyful heart Eleanor went back to the drawing-room, and sat
patiently still at some fancy work till Mrs. Powle waked up from a nap.
"Mamma, Dr. Cairnes wants me to be confirmed."
"Confirmed!"--Mrs. Powle echoed the word, sitting bolt upright in her
chair and opening her sleepy eyes wide at her daughter.
"Yes. He says I ought to be confirmed. He has given me a book upon
confirmation to study."
"I wonder what you will do next!" said Mrs. Powle, sinking back. "Well,
go on, if you like. Certainly, if you are to be confirmed, it ought to
be done before your marriage. I wish anything _would_ confirm you in
sober ways."
"Mamma, I want to give this subject serious study, if I enter into it;
and I cannot do it properly at home. I want to go away for a visit."
"Well?" said Mrs. Powle, thinking of some cousins in London.
"I want to be alone and quiet and have absolute peace for awhile; and
this death of Lady Rythdale makes it possible. I want to go and make a
visit to my aunt Caxton."
"Caxton!"--Mrs. Powle almost screamed. "Caxton! _There!_ In the
mountains of Wales! Eleanor, you are perfectly absurd. It is no use to
talk to you."
"Mamma, papa sees no objection."
"_He_ does not! So you have been speaking to him! Make your own
fortunes, Eleanor! I see you ruined already. With what favour do you
suppose Mr. Carlisle will look upon such a project? Pray have you asked
yourself?"
"Yes, ma'am; and I am not going to consult him in the matter."
The tea-equipage and the Squire came in together and stopped the
conversation. Eleanor took care not to renew it, knowing that her point
was gained. She took her father's hint, however, and made her
preparations short and sudden. She sent that night a word, telling of
her wish, to Mrs. Caxton; and waited but till the answer arrived,
waited on thorns, to set off. The Squire looked rather moody the next
day after his promise to Eleanor; but he would not withdraw it; and no
other hindrance came. Eleanor departed safely, under the protection of
old Thomas, the coachman, long a faithful servitor in the family. The
journey was only part of the distance by railway; the rest was by
posting; and a night had to be spent on the road.
Towards evening of the second day, Eleanor began to find herself in
what seemed an enchanted region. High mountains, with picturesque bold
outlines, rose against the sky; and every step was bringing her deeper
and deeper among them, in a rich green meadow valley. The scenery grew
only wilder, richer, and lovelier, until the sun sank behind the high
western line; and still its loveliness was not lost; while grey shades
and duskiness gathered over the mountain sides and gradually melted the
meadows and their scattered wood growth into one hue. Then only the
wild mountain outline cut against the sky, and sometimes the rushing of
a little river, told Eleanor of the varied beauty the evening hid.
Little else she could see when the chaise stopped and she got out.
Dimly a long, low building stretched before her at the side of the
road; the rippling of water sounded softly at a little distance; the
fresh mountain air blew in her face; then the house-door opened.