Eleanor thought; and found herself determined, heart and soul, to follow the path of life laid before her that evening. Whether "peace" could visit her, in the course that seemed to lie through her future prospects, Eleanor much doubted; but at any rate she would have the rest of a satisfied conscience. She would take the Bible for her rule. Mr. Rhys's God should be her God, and with all she had of power and ability she would serve him. Dim as religious things still were to her vision, one thing was not dim, but shiningly clear; the duty of every creature to live the devoted servant of that Lord to whom he belongs by creation and redemption both. Here Eleanor's heart fixed, if it had a fixed point that tumultuous night; but long before it settled anywhere her thoughts were bathed in bitter tears; in floods of weeping that seemed fit to wash her very heart away. It occurred to Eleanor, if they could, how much trouble would be saved! She saw plenty before her. But there was the gripe of a fear and a wish upon her heart, that overmastered all others. The people had sung a hymn that evening, after the first one; a hymn of Christian gladness and strength, to an air as spirited as the words. Both words and air rang in her mind, through all the multifarious thoughts she was thinking; they floated through and sounded behind them like a strain of the blessed. Eleanor had taken one glance at Mr. Rhys while it was singing; and the remembrance of his face stung her as the sight of an angel might have done. The counter recollection of her own misery in the summer at the time she was ill; the longing want of that security and hope and consequent rest of mind, was vividly with her too. Pushed by fear and desire, Eleanor's resolution was taken. She saw not the way clear, she did not know yet the "wicket-gate" towards which Bunyan's Pilgrim was directed; like him however she resolved to "keep the light in her eye, and run."

The fire had died all out; the grey ashes were cold; she was very cold herself, but did not know it. The night had waned away, and a light had sprung in at the window which Eleanor thought must be the dawn. It was not; it was the old moon just risen, and struggling through the fog. But the moon was the herald of dawn; and Eleanor got up from the hearth, feeling old and stiff; as if she had suddenly put on twenty years of age more than she came to the village with. The room was quite too cold for Jane, she remembered; and softly she went up and down for kindling and lighted up the fire again. Till she had done that, she felt grey and stern, like the November morning; but when the fire crackled and sparkled before her, and gave its cheery look and comforting warmth to her chilled senses, some curious sympathy with times that were gone and that she dared not hope to see again, smote Eleanor with a softer sorrow; and she wept a very rain of new tears. These did her good; they washed some of the bitterness out of her; and after that she sat thinking how she should manage; when Mr. Rhys's parting words suddenly recurred to her. A blanker ignorance how they should be followed, can scarcely be imagined, in a person of general sense and knowledge. Nevertheless, she bowed herself on the hearth, surely not more in form than in feeling, and besought of that One whose aid she knew not how to ask, that he would yet give it to her and fulfil all her desires. Eleanor was exhausted then. She sat in a stupor of resting, till the faint illumination of the moon was really replaced by a growing and broadening light of day. The night was gone.



CHAPTER IX.

IN PERPLEXITIES.

"Look, a horse at the door, And little King Charles is snarling; Go back, my lord, across the moor, You are not her darling."

Eleanor set out early to go home. She would not wait to be sent for. The walk might set her pulses in motion again perhaps. The fog was breaking away under the sun's rays, but it had left everything wet; the morning was excessively chill. There was no grass in her way however, and Eleanor's thick shoes did not fear the road, nor her feet the three miles of way. The walk was good. It could not be said to be pleasant; yet action of any kind was grateful and helpful. She saw not a creature till she got home.

Home struck her with new sorrow, in the sense of the disappointment she was going to bring to so many there. She made her own room without having to speak to anybody; bathed and dressed for breakfast. How grave her face was, this morning! She could not help that. And she felt that it grew graver, when entering the breakfast room she found Mr. Carlisle there.

"What have you done to yourself?" said he after they were seated at the breakfast table.

"Taken a walk this morning."

"Judicious! in this air, which is like a suspended shower-bath! Where did you go?"

"On the Wiglands road."

"If I had come in time, I should have taken you up before me, and cut short such a proceeding. Mrs. Powle, you do not make use of your authority."

"Seems hardly worth while, when it is on the point of expiring," said Mrs. Powle blandly, with a smiling face.

"Why Eleanor had to come home," said Julia; "she spent the night in the village. She could not help walking—unless mamma had sent the carriage or something for her."

"Spent the night in the village!" said Mr. Carlisle.

"Eleanor took it into her head that she must go to take care of a sick girl there—the daughter of her nurse. It is great foolishness, I think, but Eleanor will do it."

"It don't agree with her very well," said Julia. "How you do look, Eleanor, this morning!"

"She looks very well," said the Squire—"for all I see. Walking won't hurt her."

What Mr. Carlisle thought he did not say. When breakfast was over he drew Eleanor off into the library.

"How do you do this morning?" said he stopping to look at her.

"Not very well."

"I came early, to give you a great gallop to the other end of the moor—where you wished to go the other day. You are not fit for it now?"

"Hardly."

"Did you sit up with that girl last night?

"I sat up. She did not want much done for her. My being there was a great comfort to her."

"Far too great a comfort. You are a naughty child. Do you fancy, Eleanor, your husband will allow you to do such things?"

"I must try to do what is right, Macintosh."

"Do you not think it will be right that you should pleasure me in what I ask of you?" he said very gently and with a caressing action which took away the edge of the words.

"Yes—in things that are right," said Eleanor, who felt that she owed him all gentleness because of the wrong she had done.

"I shall not ask you anything that is not right; but if I should,—the responsibility of your doing wrong will rest on me. Now do you feel inclined to practise obedience a little to day?"

"No, not at all," said Eleanor honestly, her blood rousing.

"It will be all the better practice. You must go and lie down and rest carefully, and get ready to ride with me this afternoon, if the weather will do. Eh, Eleanor?"

"I do not think I shall want to ride to-day."

"Kiss me, and say you will do as I bid you."

Eleanor obeyed, and went to her room feeling wretched. She must find some way quickly to alter this state of things—if she could alter them. In the mean time she had promised to rest. It was a comfort to lock the door and feel that for hours at any rate she was alone from all the world. But Eleanor's heart fainted. She lay down, and for a long time remained in motionless passive dismay; then nature asserted her rights and she slept.

If sleep did not quite "knit up the ravelled sleeve of care" for her, Eleanor yet felt much less ragged when she came out of her slumber. There was some physical force now to meet the mental demand. The first thing demanded was a letter to Mr. Carlisle. It was in vain to think to tell him in spoken words what she wanted him to know; he would cut them short or turn them aside as soon as he perceived their drift, before she could at all possess him with the facts of the case. Eleanor sat down before dressing, to write her letter, so that no call might break her off until it was done.

It was a weary, anxious, sorrowful writing; done with some tears and some mute prayers for help; with images constantly starting into her mind that she had to put aside together with the hot drops they called forth. The letter was finished, when Eleanor was informed that Mr. Carlisle waited for her.

"To ride, I suppose," she thought. "I will not go." She put on a house dress and went down to the library, where her mother and Mr. Carlisle were together; looking both of them so well pleased!

"You are not dressed for riding!" he said, taking her into his arms.

"As you see," returned Eleanor.

"I have brought a new horse for you. Will you change your dress?"

"I think not. I am not equal to anything new."

"Have you slept?"

"Yes, but I have not eaten; and it takes both to make muscle. I cannot even talk to you till after tea."

"Have you had no luncheon?"

"I was asleep."

"Mrs. Powle," said the gentleman, "you do not take care of my interests here. May I request you to have this want supplied—I am going to take Eleanor a great gallop presently; she must have something first." He put Eleanor in an easy chair as he spoke, and stood looking at her. Probably he saw some unusual lines of thought or care about the face, but it was by no means less fine for that. Mr. Carlisle liked what he saw. Refreshments came; and he poured out chocolate for her and served her with an affectionate supervision that watched every item. But when after a very moderate meal Eleanor's hand was stretched out for another piece of bread, he stopped her.

"No," he said; "no more now. Now go and put on your habit."

"But I am very hungry," said Eleanor.

"No matter—you will forget it in five minutes. Go and put on your habit."

Eleanor hesitated; thought that perhaps after all the ride would be the easiest way of passing the afternoon; and went.

"Well you do understand the art of command," said Mrs. Powle admiringly. "She would never have done that for me."

Mr. Carlisle did not look surprised, nor gratified, nor in fact shew anything whatever in his looks. Unless it were, that the difference of effects produced by himself and his future mother-in-law, was very much a matter of course. He stood before the fire, with no change at all in his clear hazel eyes, until Eleanor appeared. Then they sparkled. Eleanor was for some reason or other particularly lovely in his eyes to-day.

The horse he had brought for her was a superb Arabian, shewing nerve and fire in every line of his form and starting muscle, from the tips of the ears down to the long fetlock and beautiful hoof. Shewing fire in the bright eye too. A brown creature, with luxuriant flowing mane and tail.

"He is not quite so quiet as Black Maggie," Mr. Carlisle said as he put Eleanor upon his back; "and you must not curb him, Eleanor, or he will run."

They went to the moor; and by degrees getting wonted to her fiery charger and letting him display his fine paces and increase his speed, Eleanor found the sensation very inspiriting. Even Black Maggie was not an animal like this; every motion was instinct with life and power, and not a little indication of headstrongness and irritability gave a great additional interest and excitement to the pleasure of managing him. Mr. Carlisle watched her carefully, Eleanor knew; he praised her handling. He himself was mounted on a quiet, powerful creature that did not make much shew.

"If this fellow—what is his name?"

"Tippoo Sultan."

"If he were by any chance to run—would that horse you are riding keep up with him?"

"I hope you will not try."

"I don't mean it—but I am curious. There, Mr. Carlisle, there is the place where I was thrown."

"A villainous looking place. I wish it was mine. How do you like Tippoo?"

"Oh, he is delightful!"

Mr. Carlisle looked satisfied, as he might; for Eleanor's colour had become brilliant, and her face had changed greatly since setting out. Strength and courage and hope seemed to come to her on Tippoo's back, facing the wind on the moor and gallopping over the wild, free way. They took in part the route Eleanor had followed that day alone, coming back through the village by a still wider circuit. As they rode more moderately along the little street, if it could be called so—the houses were all on one side—Eleanor saw Mr. Rhys standing at Mrs. Lewis's door; he saw her. Involuntarily her bow in return to his salutation was very low. At the same instant Tippoo started, on a run to which all his former gallopping had been a gentle amble. This was not ungentle; the motion had nothing rough; only Eleanor was going in a straight line over the ground at a rate that took away her breath. She had presence of mind not to draw the curb rein, but she felt that she could hardly endure long the sort of progress she was making through the air. It did not seem to be on the ground. Her curiosity was gratified on one point; for after the first instant she found Mr. Carlisle's powerful grey straining close beside her. Nevertheless Tippoo was so entirely in earnest that it was some little time—it seemed a very long one—before the grey could get so close to the brown and so far up with him that Mr. Carlisle could lay his hand upon the thick brown mane of Tippoo and stoop forward to speak to him. As soon as that was done once or twice, Tippoo's speed gradually relaxed; and a perseverance in his master's appeals to his reason and sense of duty, brought the wild creature back to a moderate pace and the air of a civilized horse. Mr. Carlisle transferred his grasp from the mane to Eleanor's hand.

"Eleanor, what did you do that for?"

"Do what? I did nothing."

"You curbed him. You drew the rein, and he considered himself insulted. I told you he would not bear it."

"He has had nothing to bear from me. I have not drawn the curb at all, Robert."

"I must contradict you. I saw you do it. That started him."

Eleanor remained silent and a little pale. Was Mr. Carlisle right? The ride had until then done her a great deal of good; roused up her energies and restored in some degree her spirit; the involuntary race together with the sudden sight of Mr. Rhys, had the effect to bring back all the soberness which for the moment the delight and stir of the exercise had dissipated. She went on pondering various things. Eleanor's letter to Mr. Carlisle was in the pocket of her habit, ready for use; she determined to give it him when he left her that evening; that was one of her subjects of thought. Accordingly he found her very abstracted and cold the rest of the way; grave and uninterested. He fancied she might have been startled by her run on Tippoo's back, though it was not very like her; but he did not know what to fancy. And true it is, that a remembrance of fear had come up to Eleanor after that gallop. Afraid she was not, at the time; but she felt that she had been in a condition of some peril from which her own forces could not have extricated her; that brought up other considerations, and sadly in Eleanor's mind some words of the hymn they had sung last night in the barn floated over among her thoughts:

"When I can read my title clear, To mansions in the skies, I'll bid farewell to every fear, And wipe my weeping eyes."

Very simple words; words that to some ears have become trite with repetition; but thoughts that went down into the depths of Eleanor's heart and garrisoned themselves there, beyond the power of any attacks to dislodge. Her gravity and indifference piqued Mr. Carlisle, curiosity and affection both. He spent the evening in trying to overcome them; with very partial success. When he was leaving her, Eleanor drew the letter from her pocket.

"What is this?" said he taking it.

"Only a letter for you."

"From you! The consideration of that must not be postponed." He broke the seal. "Come, sit down again. I will read it here."

"Not now! Take it home, Macintosh, and read it there. Let it wait so long."

"Why?"

"Never mind why. Do! Because I ask you."

"I don't believe I can understand it without you beside me," said he smiling, and drawing the letter from its envelope while he looked at her.

"But there is everybody here," said Eleanor glancing at another part of the room where the rest of the family were congregated. "I would rather you took it home with you."

"It is something that requires serious treatment?"

"Yes."

"You are a wise little thing," said he, "and I will take your advice." He put the letter in his pocket; then took Eleanor's hand upon his arm and walked her off to the library. Nobody was there; lamplight and firelight were warm and bright. Mr. Carlisle placed his charge in an easy chair by the library table, much to her disappointment; drew another close beside it, and sat down with his arm over the back of hers to read the letter. Thus it ran:

"It is right you should know a change which has taken place in me since the time when I first became known to you. I have changed very much, though it is a change perhaps which you will not believe in; yet I feel that it makes me very different from my old self, and alters entirely my views of almost everything. Life and life's affairs—and aims—do not look to me as they looked a few months ago; if indeed I could be said to have taken any view at all of them then. They were little more than names to me, I believe. They are great realities now.

"I do not know how to tell you in what this change in me consists, for I doubt you will neither like it nor believe in it. Yet you must believe in it; for I am not the woman I was a little while ago; not the woman you think me now. If I suffered you to go on as you are, in ignorance of it, I should be deceiving you. I have opened my eyes to the fact that this life is not the end of life. I see another beyond,—much more lasting, unknown, strange, perhaps not very distant. The thought of it presses upon me like a cloud. I want to be ready for it—I feel I am not ready—and that before I can be ready, not only my views but my character must be changed. I am determined it shall. For, Mr. Carlisle, there is a Ruler whose government extends over this life and that, whose requisitions I have never met, whose commands I have never obeyed, whom consequently I fear; and until this fear is changed for another feeling I cannot be happy. I will not live the life I have been leading; careless and thoughtless; I will be the servant of this Ruler whom hitherto I have disregarded. Whatever his commands are, those I will follow; at all costs, at any sacrifice; whatever I have or possess shall be used for his service. One thing I desire; to be a true servant of God, and not fear his face in displeasure. To secure that, I will let everything else in the world go.

"I wish you to understand this thoroughly. It will draw on consequences that you would not like. It will make me such a woman as you would not, I feel, wish your wife to be. I shall follow a course of life and action that in many things, I know, would be extremely distasteful to you. Yet I must follow them—I can do no other—I dare do no other. I cannot live as I have lived. No, not for any reward or consideration that could be offered me. Nor to avoid any human anger.

"I think you would probably choose never to see me at the Priory, rather than to see me there such a woman as I shall be. In that case I shall be very sorry for all the disagreeable consequences which would to you attend the annulling of the contract formed between us. My own part of them I am ready to bear.

"ELEANOR POWLE."

The letter was read through almost under Eleanor's own eyes. She looked furtively, as she could, to see how Mr. Carlisle took it. He did not seem to take it at all; she could find no change in his face. If the brow slightly bent before her did slightly knit itself in sterner lines than common, she could not be sure of it, bent as it was; and when he looked up, there was no such expression there. He looked as pleasant as possible.

"Do you want me to laugh at you?" he said.

"That was not the precise object I had in writing," said Eleanor soberly.

"I do not suppose it, and yet I feel very much like laughing at you a little. So you think you can make yourself a woman I would not like,—eh, my darling?"

He had drawn Eleanor's head down to his shoulder, within easy reach of his lips, but he did not kiss her. His right hand smoothed back the masses of her beautiful hair, and then rested on her cheek while he looked into the face thus held for near inspection; much as one handles a child. The touch was light and caressing, and calm as power too. Eleanor breathed quick. She could not bear it. She forced herself back where she could look at him.

"You are taking it lightly, but I mean it very seriously," she said. "I think I could—I think I shall. I did not write you such a letter without very deep reason."

He still retained his hold of her, and in his right hand had captured one of hers. This hand he now brought to his lips, kissing and caressing it.

"I do not think I understand it yet," he said. "What are you going to do with yourself? Is it your old passion for a monastic life come up again? do you want the old Priory built up, and me for a Father Confessor?"

Did he mean ever to loose his hold of the little hand he held so lightly and firmly? Never! Eleanor's head drooped.

"What is it, Eleanor?"

"It is serious work, Mr. Carlisle; and you will not believe me."

"Make me serious too. Tell me a little more definitely what dreadful thing I am to expect. What sort of a woman is my wife going to be?"

"Such a one as you would not have, if you knew it;—such a one as you never would have sought, if I had known it myself earlier; I feel sure." Eleanor's colour glowed all over her face and brow; nevertheless she spoke steadily.

"Enigmatical!" said Mr. Carlisle. "The only thing I understand is this—and this—" and he kissed alternately her cheek and lips. "Here is my wife—here is what I wish her to be. It will be all right the twenty-first of next month. What will you do after that, Eleanor?"

Eleanor was silent, mortified, troubled, silenced. What was the use of trying to explain herself?

"What do you want to do, Eleanor? Give all your money to the poor? I believe that is your pet fancy. Is that what you mean to do?"

Eleanor's cheeks burnt again. "You know I have very little money to give, Mr. Carlisle. But I have determined to give myself."

"To me?"

"No, no. I mean, to duties and commands higher than any human obligation. And they may, and probably will, oblige me to live in a way that would not please you."

"Let us see. What is the novelty?"

"I am going to live—it is right I should tell you, whether you will believe me or not,—I am going to live henceforth not for this world but the other."

"How?" said he, looking at her with his clear brilliant eyes.

"I do not know, in detail. But you know, in the Church service, the pomps and vanities of the world are renounced; whatever that involves, it will find me obedient."

"What has put this fancy in your head, Eleanor?"

"A sense of danger, first, I think."

"A sense of danger! Danger of what?"

"Yes. A feeling of being unready for that other life to which I might at any time go;—that other world, I mean. I cannot be happy so." She was agitated; her colour was high; her nerves trembled.

"How came this 'sense of danger' into your head? what brought it, or suggested it?"

"When I was ill last summer—I felt it then. I have felt it since. I feel my head uncovered to meet the storm that may at any time break upon it. I am going to live, if I can, as people live whom you would laugh at; you would call them fanatics and fools. It is the only way for me to be happy; but you would not like it in one near you."

"Go in a black dress, Eleanor?"

She was silent. She very nearly burst into tears, but prevented that.

"You can't terrify me," said Mr. Carlisle, lazily throwing himself back in his chair. "I don't get up a 'sense of danger' as easily as you do, darling. One look in your face puts all that to flight at once. I am safe. You may do what you like."

"You would not say that by and by," said Eleanor.

"Would I not?" said he, rousing up and drawing her tenderly but irresistibly to his arms again. "But make proper amends to me for breaking rules to-night, and you shall have carte blanche for this new fancy, Eleanor. How are you going to ask my forgiveness?"

"You ought to ask mine—for you will not attend to me."

"Contumacious?" said he lightly, touching her lips as if they were a goblet and he were taking sips of the wine;—"then I shall take my own amends. You shall live as you please, darling, only take me along with you."

"You will not go."

"How do you know?"

"Neither your feeling nor your taste agree with it."

"What are you going to do!" said he half laughing, holding her fast and looking down into her face. "My little Eleanor! Make yourself a grey nun, or a blue Puritan? Grey becomes you, darling; it makes a duchess of you; and blue is set off by this magnificent brown head of yours. I will answer for my taste in either event; and I think you could bear, and consequently I could, all the other colours in the rainbow. As for your idea, of making yourself a woman that I would not like, I do not think you can compass it. You may try. I will not let you go too far."

"You cannot hinder it, Macintosh," said Eleanor in a low voice.

"Kiss me!" said he laughingly.

Eleanor slowly raised her head from his shoulder and obeyed, so far as a very dainty and shyly given permission went; feeling bitterly that she had brought herself into bonds from which only Mr. Carlisle's hand could release her. She could not break them herself. What possible reason could she assign? And so she was in his power.

"Cheeks hot, and hands cold," said Mr. Carlisle to himself as he walked away through the rooms. "I wish the twenty-first were to-morrow!" He stopped in the drawing-room to hold a consultation of some length with Mrs. Powle; in which however he confided to her no more than that the last night's attention to her nurse's daughter had been quite too much for Eleanor, and he should think it extremely injudicious to allow it again. Which Mrs. Powle had no idea of doing.

Neither had Eleanor any idea of attempting it. But she spent half that night in heart-ache and in baffled searchings for a path out of her difficulties. What could she do? If Mr. Carlisle would marry her, she saw no help for it; and to disgust him with her would be a difficult matter. For oh, Eleanor knew, that though he would not like a religious wife, he had good reason to trust his own power of regulating any tendency of that sort which might offend him. Once his wife, once let that strong arm have a right to be round her permanently; and Eleanor knew it would be an effectual bar against whatever he wished to keep at a distance.

Eleanor was armed with no Christian armour; no helmet or shield of protection had she; all she had was the strength of fear, and the resolute determination to seek until she should find that panoply in which she would be safe and strong. Once married to Mr. Carlisle, and she felt that her determination would be in danger, and her resolution meet another resolution with which it might have hard fighting to do. Ay, and who knew whether hers would overcome! She must not finish this marriage; yet how induce Mr. Carlisle to think of her as she wished?

"I declare," said Mrs. Powle coming into her room the next day, "that one night's sitting up, has done the work of a week's illness upon you, Eleanor! Mr. Carlisle is right."

"In what?"

"He said you must not go again."

"I think he is somewhat premature in arranging my movements."

"Don't you like it?" said Mrs. Powle laughing a little. "You must learn to submit to that. I am glad there is somebody that can control you, Eleanor, at last. It does me good. It was just a happiness that you never took anything desperate into your head, for your father and you together were more than a match for me; and it's just the same with Julia. But Julia really is growing tame and more reasonable, I think, lately."

"Good reason why," thought Eleanor moodily. "But that is a better sort of control she is under."

"I am charged with a commission to you, Eleanor."

"What is it, ma'am?"

"To find out what particular kind of jewels you prefer. I really don't know, so am obliged to ask you—which was not in my commission."

"Jewels, mamma!"

"Jewels, my lady."

"O mamma! don't talk to me of jewels!"

"Nor of weddings, I suppose; but really I do not see how things are to be done unless they are to be talked about. For instance, this matter of your liking in jewellery—I think rubies become you, Eleanor; though to be sure there is nothing I like so well as diamonds. What is the matter?"

For Eleanor's brown head had gone down on the table before her and her face was hidden in her hands. She slowly raised it at her mother's question.

"Mamma, Mr. Carlisle does not know what he is doing!"

"Pray what do you mean?"

"He thinks he is marrying a person who will be gay and live for and in the world, as he lives—and as he would wish me. Mamma, I will not! I never will. I never shall be what he likes in that respect. I mean to live a religious life."

"A religious life! What sort of a life is that?"

"It is what you do not like—nor he."

"A religious life! Eleanor, you do not suppose Mr. Carlisle would wish his wife to lead an irreligious life?"

"Yes—I do."

"I should not like you to tell him that," said Mrs. Powle colouring with anger. "How dare you say it? What sort of a religious life do you want to live?"

"Such a one as the Bible bids, mamma," Eleanor said in a low voice and drooping her head. "Such a one as the Prayer Book recommends, over and over."

"And you think Mr. Carlisle would not like that? What insinuations you are making against us all, Eleanor. For of course, I, your mother, have wished you also to live this irreligious life. We are a set of heathens together. Dr. Cairnes too. He was delighted with it."

"It changes nothing, mamma," said Eleanor. "I am resolved to live in a different way; and Mr. Carlisle would not like it; and if he only knew it, he would not wish to marry me; and I cannot make him believe it."

"You have tried, have you?"

"Yes, I have tried. It was only honest."

"Well I did not think you were such a fool, Eleanor! and I am sure he did not. Believe you, you little fool? he knows better. He knows that he will not have had you a week at the Priory before you will be too happy to live what life he pleases. He is just the man to bring you into order. I only wish the wedding-day was to-morrow."

Eleanor drew herself up, and her face changed from soft and sorrowful to stubborn. She kept silence.

"In this present matter of jewels," said Mrs. Powle returning to the charge, "I suppose I am to tell him that a plain set of jet is as much as you can fancy; or that, as it would be rather uncommon to be married in black, you will take bugles. What he will say I am sure I don't know."

"You had better not try, mamma," said Eleanor. "If the words you last said are true, and I should be unable to follow my conscience at Rythdale Priory, then I shall never go there; and in that case the jewels will not be wanted, except for somebody else whose taste neither bugles nor jet would suit."

"Now you have got one of your obstinate fits on," said Mrs. Powle, "and I will go. I shall be a better friend to you than to tell Mr. Carlisle a word of all this, which I know will be vanished in another month or two; and if you value your good fortune, Eleanor, I recommend you to keep a wise tongue between your teeth in talking to him. I know one thing—I wish Dr. Cairnes, or the Government, or the Church, or whoever has it in hand, would keep all dissenting fools from coming to Wiglands to preach their pestiferous notions here! and that your father would not bring them to his house! That is what I wish. Will you be reasonable, and give me an answer about the jewels, Eleanor?"

"I cannot think about jewels, mamma."

Mrs. Powle departed. Eleanor sat with her head bowed in her hands; her mind in dim confusion, through which loomed the one thought, that she must break this marriage. Her mother's words had roused the evil as well as the good of Eleanor's nature; and along with bitter self-reproaches and longings for good, she already by foretaste champed the bit of an authority that she did not love. So, while her mind was in a sea of turmoil, there came suddenly, like a sun-blink upon the confusion, a soft question from her little sister Julia. Neither mother nor daughter had taken notice of her being in the room. The question came strangely soft, for Julia.

"Eleanor, do you love Jesus?"

Eleanor raised her head in unspeakable astonishment, startled and even shocked, as one is at an unheard-of thing. Julia's face was close beside her, looking wistful and anxious, and tender also. The look struck Eleanor's heart. But she only stared.

"Do you?" said Julia wistfully.

It wrought the most unaccountable convulsion in Eleanor's mind, this little dove's feather of a question, touching the sore and angry feelings that wrestled there. She flung herself off her chair, and on her knees by the table sobbed dreadfully. Julia stood by, looking as sober as if she had been a ministering angel.

Eleanor knew what the question meant—that was all. She had heard Mr. Rhys speak of it; she had heard him speak of it with a quiver on his lip and a flush in his face, which shewed her that there was something in religion that she had never fathomed, nor ever before suspected; there was a hidden region of joy the entrance to which was veiled from her. To Eleanor the thing would have been a mere mystery, but that she had seen it to be a reality; once seen, that was never to be forgotten. And now, in the midst of her struggles of passion and pain, Julia's question came innocently asking whether she were a sharer in that unearthly wonderful joy which seemed to put its possessor beyond the reach of struggles. Eleanor's sobs were the hard sobs of pain. As wisely as if she had really been a ministering angel, her little sister stood by silent; and said not another word until Eleanor had risen and taken her seat again. Nor then either. It was Eleanor that spoke.

"What do you know about it, Julia?"

"Not much," said the child. "I love the Lord Jesus—that is all,—and I thought, perhaps, from the way you spoke, that you did. Mr. Rhys would be so glad."

"He? Glad? what do you mean, Julia?"

"I know he would; because I have heard him pray for you a great many times."

"No—no," said Eleanor turning away,—"I know nothing but fear. I do not feel anything better. And they want me to think of everything else in the world but this one thing!"

"But you will think of it, Eleanor, won't you?"

Eleanor was silent and abstracted. Her sister watched her with strange eyes for Julia, anxiously observant. The silence lasted some time.

"When does Mr. Rhys—Is he going to preach again, Julia, that you know of?"

"I guess not. He was very tired after he preached the other night; he lay on the couch and did not move the whole next day. He is better to-day."

"You have seen him this morning?"

"O yes. I see him every day; and he teaches me a great many things. But he always prays for you."

Eleanor did not wish to keep up the conversation, and it dropped. And after that, things went on their train.

It was a very fast train, too; and growing in importance and thickening in its urgency of speed. Every day the preparations converged more nearly towards their great focus, the twenty-first of December. Eleanor felt the whirl of circumstances, felt borne off her feet and carried away with them; and felt it hopelessly. She knew not what to urge that should be considered sufficient reason either by her mother or Mr. Carlisle for even delaying, much less breaking off the match. She was grave and proud, and unsatisfactory, as much as it was in her nature to be, partly on purpose; and Mr. Carlisle was not satisfied, and hurried on things all the more. He kept his temper perfectly, whatever thoughts he had; he rode and walked with Eleanor, when she would go, with the same cool and faultless manner; when she would not, he sometimes let it pass and sometimes made her go; but once or twice he failed in doing this; and recognized the possibility of Eleanor's ability to give him trouble. He knew his own power however; on the whole he liked her quite as well for it.

"What is the matter with you, my darling?" he said one day. "You are not like yourself."

"I am not happy," said Eleanor. "I told you I had a doubt unsettled upon my mind; and till that doubt is put at rest I cannot be happy; I cannot have peace; you will take no pleasure in me."

"Why do you not settle it then?" said Mr. Carlisle, quietly.

"Because I have no chance. I have not a moment to think, in this whirl where I am living. If you would put off the twenty-first of next month to the twenty-first of some month in the spring—or summer—I might have a breathing place, and get myself in order. I cannot, now."

"You will have time to think, love, when you get to the Priory," Mr. Carlisle observed in the same tone—an absolute tone.

"Yes. I know how that would be!" Eleanor answered bitterly. "But I can take no pleasure in anything,—I cannot have any rest or comfort,—as long as I know that if anything happened to me—if death came suddenly—I am utterly unready. I cannot be happy so."

"I think I had better send Dr. Cairnes to see you," said Mr. Carlisle. "He is in duty bound to be the family physician in all things spiritual where they need him. But this is morbid, Eleanor. I know how it is. These are only whims, my darling, that will never outlive that day you dread so much."

He had drawn her into his arms as he spoke; but in his touch and his kiss Eleanor felt or fancied something masterful, which irritated her.

"If I thought that, Mr. Carlisle," she said,—"if I knew it was true,—that day would never come!"

Mr. Carlisle's self-control was perfect; so was his tact. He made no answer at all to this speech; only gave Eleanor two or three more of those quiet ownership kisses. No appearance of discomposure in his manner or in his voice when he spoke; still holding her in his arms.

"I shall know how to punish you one of these days for this," he said. "You may expect to be laughed at a little, my darling, when you turn penitent. Which will not hinder the moment from coming."

And so, dismissing the matter and her with another light touch of her lips, he left her.

"Will it be so?" thought Eleanor. "Shall I be so within his control, that I shall even sue to him to forget and pardon this word of my true indignation? Once his wife—once let the twenty-first of December come—and there will be no more help for me. What shall I do?"

She was desperate, but she saw no opening. She saw however the next day that Mr. Carlisle was coldly displeased with her. She was afraid to have him remain so; and made conciliations. These were accepted immediately and frankly, but so at the same time as made her feel she had lost ground and given Mr. Carlisle an advantage; every inch of which he knew and took. Nobody had seen the tokens of any part of all this passage of arms; in three days all was just as it had been, except Eleanor's lost ground. And three days more were gone before the twenty-first of December.



CHAPTER X.

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.



CHAPTER XI.

AT BROMPTON.

"Why, and I trust, and I may go too. May I not? What, shall I be appointed hours: as though, belike, I know not what to take and what to leave? Ha!"

"Eleanor, what is the matter?" said Julia one day. For Eleanor was found in her room in tears.

"Nothing—I am going to ruin only;—that is all."

"Going to what? Why Eleanor—what is the matter?"

"Nothing—if not that."

"Why Eleanor!" said the little one in growing astonishment, for Eleanor's distress was evidently great, and jumping at conclusions with a child's recklessness,—"Eleanor!—don't you want to be married?"

"Hush! hush!" exclaimed Eleanor rousing herself up. "How dare you talk so, I did not say anything about being married."

"No, but you don't seem glad," said Julia.

"Glad! I don't know that I ever shall feel glad again—unless I get insensible—and that would be worse."

"Oh Eleanor! what is it? do tell me!"

"I have made a mistake, that is all, Julia," her sister said with forced calmness. "I want time to think and to get right, and to be good—then I could be in peace, I think; but I am in such a confusion of everything, I only know I am drifting on like a ship to the rocks. I can't catch my breath."

"Don't you want to go to the Priory?" said the little one, in a low, awe-struck voice.

"I want something else first," said Eleanor evasively. "I am not ready to go anywhere, or do anything, till I feel better."

"I wish you could see Mr. Rhys," said Julia. "He would help you to feel better, I know."

Eleanor was silent, shedding tears quietly.

"Couldn't you come down and see him, Eleanor?"

"Child, how absurdly you talk! Do not speak of Mr. Rhys to me or to any one else—unless you want him sent out of the village."

"Why, who would send him?" said Julia. "But he is going without anybody's sending him. He is going as soon as he gets well, and he says that will be very soon." Julia spoke very sorrowfully. "He is well enough to preach again. He is going to preach at Brompton. I wish I could hear him."

"When?"

"Next Monday evening."

"Monday evening?"

"Yes."

"I shall want to purchase things at Brompton Monday," said Eleanor to herself, her heart leaping up light. "I shall take the carriage and go."

"Where will he preach in Brompton, Julia? Is it anything of an extraordinary occasion?"

"No. I don't know. O, he will be in the—I don't know! You know what Mr. Rhys is. He is something—he isn't like what we are."

"Now if I go to the Methodist Chapel at Brompton," thought Eleanor, "it will raise a storm that will either break me on the rocks, or land me on shore. I will do it. This is my very last chance."

She sat before the fire, pondering over her arrangements. Julia nestled up beside her, affectionate but mute, and laid her head caressingly against her sister's arm. Eleanor felt the action, though she took no notice of it. Both remained still for some little time.

"What would you like, Julia?" her sister began slowly. "What shall I do to please you, before I leave home? What would you choose I should give you?"

"Give me? Are you going to give me anything?"

"I would like to please you before I go away—if I knew how. Do you know how I can?"

"O Eleanor! Mr. Rhys wants something very much—If I could give it to him!—"

"What is it?"

"He has nothing to write on—nothing but an old portfolio; and that don't keep his pens and ink; and for travelling, you know, when he goes away, if he had a writing case like yours—wouldn't it be nice? O Eleanor, I thought of that the other day, but I had no money. What do you think?"

"Excellent," said Eleanor. "Keep your own counsel, Julia; and you and I will go some day soon, and see what we can find."

"Where will you go? to Brompton?"

"Of course. There is no other place to go to. But keep your own counsel, Julia."

If Julia kept her own counsel, she did not so well know how to keep her sister's; for the very next day, when she was at Mrs. Williams's cottage, the sight of the old portfolio brought up her talk with Eleanor and all that had led to it; and Julia out and spoke.

"Mr. Rhys, I don't believe that Eleanor wants to be married and go to Rythdale Priory."

Mr. Rhys's first movement was to rise and see that the door of communication with the next room was securely shut; then as he sat down to his writing again he said gravely,

"You ought to be very careful how you make such remarks, Julia. You might without knowing it, do great harm. You are probably very much mistaken."

"I am careful, Mr. Rhys. I only said it to you."

"You had better not say it to me. And I hope you will say it to nobody else."

"But I want to speak to somebody," said Julia; "and she was crying in her room yesterday as hard as she could. I do not believe, she wants to go to Rythdale!"

Julia spoke the last words with slow enunciation, like an oracle. Mr. Rhys looked up from his writing and smiled at her a little, though he answered very seriously.

"You ought to remember, Julia, that there might be many things to trouble your sister on leaving home for the last time, without going to any such extravagant supposition as that she does not want to leave it. Miss Eleanor may have other cause for sorrow, quite unconnected with that."

"I know she has, too," said Julia. "I think Eleanor wants to be a Christian."

He looked up again with one of his grave keen glances.

"What makes you think it, Julia?"

"She said she wanted to be good, and that she was not ready for anything till she felt better; and I know that was what she meant. Do you think Mr. Carlisle is good, Mr. Rhys?"

"I have hardly an acquaintance with Mr. Carlisle. Pray for your sister, Julia, but do not talk about her; and now let me write."

The days rolled on quietly at Ivy Lodge, until Monday came. Eleanor had kept herself in order and given general satisfaction. When Monday came she announced boldly that she was going to give the afternoon of that day to her little sister. It should be spent for Julia's pleasure, and so they two would take the carriage and go to Brompton and be alone. It was a purpose that could not very well be interfered with. Mr. Carlisle grumbled a little, not ill-humouredly, but withdrew opposition; and Mrs. Powle made none. However the day turned very disagreeable by afternoon, and she proposed a postponement.

"It is my last chance," said Eleanor. "Julia shall have this afternoon, if I never do it again." So they went.

The little one full of joy and anticipation; the elder grave, abstracted, unhappy. The day was gloomy and cloudy and windy. Eleanor looked out upon the driving grey clouds, and wondered if she was driving to her fate, at Brompton. She could not help wishing the sun would shine on her fate, whatever it was; but the chill gloom that enveloped the fields and the roads was all in keeping with the piece of her life she was traversing then. Too much, too much. She could not rouse herself from extreme depression; and Julia, felling it, could only remark over and over that it was "a nasty day."

It was better when they got to the town. Brompton was a quaint old town, where comparatively little modernising had come, except in the contents of the shops, and the exteriors of a few buildings. The tower of a very beautiful old church lifted its head above the mass of house-roofs as they drew near the place; in the town the streets were irregular and narrow and of ancient fashion in great part. Here however the gloom of the day was much lost. What light there was, was broken and shadowed by many a jutting out stone in the old mason-work, many, many a recess and projecting house-front or roof or doorway; the broad grey uniformity of dulness that brooded over the open landscape, was not here to be felt. Quaint interest, quaint beauty, the savour of things old and quiet and stable, had a stimulating and a soothing effect too. Eleanor roused up to business, and business gave its usual meed of refreshment and strength. She and Julia had a good shopping time. It was a burden of love with the little one to see that everything about the proposed purchase was precisely and entirely what it should be; and Eleanor seconded her and gave her her heart's content of pleasure; going from shop to shop, patiently looking for all they wanted, till it was found. Julia's joy was complete, and shone in her face. The face of the other grew dark and anxious. They had got into the carriage to go to another shop for some trifle Eleanor wanted.

"Julia, would you like to stay and hear Mr. Rhys speak to-night?"

"O wouldn't I! But we can't, you know."

"I am going to stay."

"And going to hear him?"

"Yes."

"O Eleanor! Does mamma know?"

"No."

"But she will be frightened, if we are not come home."

"Then you can take the carriage home and tell her; and send the little waggon or my pony for me."

"Couldn't you send one of the men?"

"Yes, and then I should have Mr. Carlisle come after me. No, if I send, you must go."

"Wouldn't he like it?"

"It is no matter whether he would like it or no. I am going to stay. You can do as you please."

"I would like to stay!" said Julia eagerly. "O Eleanor, I want to stay! But mamma would be so frightened. Eleanor, do you think it is right?"

"It is right for me," said Eleanor. "It is the only thing I can do. If it displeased all the world, I should stay. You may choose what you will do. If the horses go home, they cannot come back again; the waggon and old Roger, or my pony, would have to come for me—with Thomas."

Julia debated, sighed, shewed great anxiety for Eleanor, great difficulty of deciding, but finally concluded even with tears that it would not be right for her to stay. The carriage went home with her and her purchases; Thomas, the old coachman, having answered with surprised alacrity to the question, whether he knew where the Wesleyan chapel in Brompton was. He was to come back for Eleanor and be with the waggon there. Eleanor herself went to spend the intermediate time before the hour of service, and take tea, at the house of a little lawyer in the town whom her father employed, and whose wife she knew would be overjoyed at the honour thus done her. It was not perhaps the best choice of a resting-place that Eleanor could have made; for it was a sure and certain fountain head of gossip; but she was in no mood to care for that just now, and desired above all things, not to take shelter in any house where a message or an emissary from the Lodge or the Priory would be likely to find her; nor in one where her proceedings would be gravely looked into. At Mrs. Pinchbeck's hospitable tea-table she was very secure from both. There was nothing but sweetmeats there!

Mrs. Pinchbeck was a lively lady, in a profusion of little fair curls all over her head and a piece of flannel round her throat. She was very voluble, though her voice was very hoarse. Indeed she left nothing untold that there was time to tell. She gave Eleanor an account of all Brompton's doings; of her own; of Mr. Pinchbeck's; and of the doings of young Master Pinchbeck, who was happily in bed, and who she declared, when not in bed was too much for her. Meanwhile Mr. Pinchbeck, who was a black-haired, ordinarily somewhat grim looking man, now with his grimness all gilded in smiles, pressed the sweetmeats; and looked his beaming delight at the occasion. Eleanor felt miserably out of place; even Mrs. Pinchbeck's flannel round her throat helped her to question whether she were not altogether wrong and mistaken in her present undertaking. But though she felt miserable, and even trembled with a sort of speculative doubt that came over her, she did not in the least hesitate in her course. Eleanor was not made of that stuff. Certainly she was where she had no business to be, at Mrs. Pinchbeck's tea-table, and Mr. Pinchbeck had no business to be offering her sweetmeats; but it was a miserable necessity of the straits to which she found herself driven. She must go to the Wesleyan chapel that evening; she would, coute que coute. There she dared public opinion; the opinion of the Priory and the Lodge. Here, she confessed said opinion was right.

One good effect of the vocal entertainment to which she was subjected, was that Eleanor herself was not called upon for many words. She listened, and tasted sweetmeats; that was enough, and the Pinchbecks were satisfied. When the time of durance was over, for she was nervously impatient, and the hour of the chapel service was come, Eleanor had not a little difficulty to escape from the offers of attendance and of service which both her host and hostess pressed upon her. If her carriage was to meet her at a little distance, let Mr. Pinchbeck by all means see her into it; and if it was not yet come, at least let her wait where she was while Mr. P. went to make inquiries. Or stay all night! Mrs. Pinchbeck would be delighted. By steady determination Eleanor at last succeeded in getting out of the house and into the street alone. Her heart beat then, fast and hard; it had been giving premonitory starts all the evening. In a very sombre mood of mind, she made her way in the chill wind along the streets, feeling herself a wanderer, every way. The chapel she sought was not far off; lights were blazing there, though the streets were gloomy. Eleanor made a quiet entrance into the warm house, and sat down; feeling as if the crisis of her fate had come. She did not care now about hiding herself; she went straight up the centre aisle and took a seat about half way in the building, at the end of a pew already filled all but that one place. The house was going to be crowded and a great many people were already there, though it was still very early.

The warmth after the cold streets, and the silence, and the solitude, after being exposed to Mrs. Pinchbeck's tongue and to her observation, made a lull in Eleanor's mind for a moment. Then, with the waywardness of action which thought and feeling often take in unwonted situations, she began to wonder whether it could be right to be there—not only for her, but for anybody. That large, light, plain apartment, looking not half so stately as the saloon of a country house; could that be a proper place for people to meet for divine service? It was better than a barn, still was that a fit church? The windows blank and staring with white glass; the woodwork unadorned and merely painted; a little stir of feet coming in and garments rustling, the only sound. She missed the full swell of the organ, which itself might have seemed to clothe even bare boards. Nothing of all that; nothing of what she esteemed dignified, or noble, or sacred; a mere business-looking house, with that simple raised platform and little desk—was Eleanor right to be there? Was anybody else? Poor child, she felt wrong every way, there or not there; but these thoughts tormented her. They tormented her only till Mr. Rhys came in. When she saw him, as it had been that evening in the barn, they quieted instantly. To her mind he was a guaranty for the righteousness of all in which he was concerned; different as it might be from all to which she had been accustomed. Such a guaranty, that Eleanor's mind was almost ready to leap to the other conclusion, and account wrong whatever the difference put on another side from him. She watched him now, as he went with a quick step to the pulpit, or platform as she called it, and mounting it, kneeled down beside one of the chairs that stood there. Eleanor was accustomed to that action; she had seen clergymen a million of times come into the pulpit, and always kneel; but it was not like this. Always an ample cushion lay ready for the knees that sank upon it; the step was measured; the movement slow; every line was of grace and propriety; the full-robed form bowed reverently, and the face was buried in a white cloud of cambric. Here, a tall figure, attired only in his ordinary dress, went with quick, decided step up to the place; there dropped upon one knee, hiding his face with his hand; without seeming to care where, and certainly without remembering that there was nothing but an ingrain carpet between his knee and the floor. But Eleanor knew what this man was about; and an instant sense of sacredness and awe stole over her, beyond what any organ-peals or richness of Gothic work had ever brought. Then she rejoiced that she was where she was. To be there, could not be wrong.