The Old Helmet. Volume I

"There's no danger. I am in a fever."

"Is your head no better?"

"I hardly think I have a head. There is nothing there but pain and snapping."

"Poor Eleanor!" said her little sister, standing by the bedside like a powerless guardian angel. "Mr. Carlisle isn't good, if he wouldn't do what you want him."

"Do not open the door, Julia, if anybody knocks!"

"No. But wouldn't he, Eleanor, if you were to ask him?"

Eleanor made no answer. She knew, it needed but a glance at last night's experience to remind her, that she could not make head against Mr. Carlisle. If he came to talk to her about her proposed scheme, all was lost. Suddenly Eleanor threw herself off the bed, and began to dress with precipitation.

"Why, are you better, Eleanor?" Julia asked in surprise.

"No – but I must go down stairs. Bring me my blue dress, Julia; – and go and get me some geranium leaves – some strong-scented ones. Here – go down the back way."

No matter for head-splitting. Eleanor dressed in haste, but with delicate care; in a dress that Mr. Carlisle liked. Its colour suited her, and its simple make shewed her beauty; better than a more furbelowed one. The aromatic geranium leaves were for her head – but with them Julia had brought some of the brilliant red flowers; and fastened on her breast where Eleanor could feel their sweetness, they at the same time made a bright touch of adornment to her figure. She was obliged to sit down then and rest; but as soon as she could she went to the drawing-room.

There were as usual several people there besides the family; Dr. Cairnes and Miss Broadus and her sister making part. Entering with a slow quiet movement, most unlike the real hurry of her spirits, Eleanor had time to observe how different persons were placed and to choose her own plan of action. It was to slip silently into a large chair which stood empty at Mr. Carlisle's side, and which favoured her by presenting itself as the nearest attackable point of the circle. It was done with such graceful noiselessness that many did not at the moment notice her; but two persons were quick of vision where she was concerned. Mr. Carlisle bent over her with delight, and though Mrs. Powle's fair curls were not disturbed by any sudden motion of her head, her grey eyes dilated with wonder and curiosity as she listened to a story of Miss Broadus which was fitted to excite neither. Eleanor was beyond her, but she concluded that Mr. Carlisle held the key of this extraordinary docility.

Eleanor sat very quiet in her chair, looking lovely, and by degrees using up her geranium leaves; with which she went through a variety of manipulations. They were picked to pieces and rubbed to pieces and their aromatic essence crushed out of them with every kind of formality. Mr. Carlisle finding that she had a headache did not trouble her to talk, and relieved her from attention; any further than his arm or hand mounting guard on her chair constantly gave. For it gathered the broken geranium leaves out of her way and picked them up from her feet. At last his hand came after hers and made it a prisoner.

"You have a mood of destructiveness upon you," said he. "See there – you have done to death all the green of your bouquet."

"The geranium leaves are good to my head," said Eleanor. "I want some more. Will you go with me to get them?"

It gave her heart a shiver, the hold in which her hand lay. Though taken in play, the hold was so very cool and firm. Her hand lay there still, for Mr. Carlisle sat a moment after she spoke, looking at her.

"I will go with you – wherever you please," he said; and putting Eleanor's hand on his arm they walked off towards the conservatory. This was at some distance, and opened out of the breakfast room. It was no great matter of a conservatory, only pretty and sweet. Eleanor began slowly to pull geranium leaves.

"You are suffering, Eleanor," – said Mr. Carlisle.

"I do not think of it – you need not. Macintosh, I want to ask a favour of you."

She turned to him, without raising her eyes, but made the appeal of her whole pretty presence. He drew his arm round her and suspended the business of geranium leaves.

"What is it, my darling?"

"You know," said Eleanor, "that when the twenty-first of December was fixed upon – for what you wished – it was a more hurried day than I would have chosen, if the choice had been left to me. I wanted more time – but you and my mother said that day, and I agreed to it. Now, my mother has taken a notion to make it still earlier – she wants to cut off a whole week from me – she wants to make it next Monday. Don't join with her! Let me have all the time that was promised me!"

Eleanor could not raise her eyes; she enforced her appeal by laying her hand on Mr. Carlisle's arm. He drew her close up to him, held her fast, stooped his head to hers.

"What for, Eleanor? Laces and plums can be ready as well Monday as Monday s'ennight."

"For myself, Macintosh."

"Don't you think of me?"

"No!" said Eleanor, "I do not. It is quite enough that you should have your wish after Monday s'ennight – I ought to have it before."

He laughed and kissed her. He always liked any shew of spirit in Eleanor.

"My darling, what difference does a week make?"

"Just the difference of a week; and more than that in my mind. I want it. Grant me this favour, Mackintosh! I ask it of you."

Mr. Carlisle seemed to find it amazingly pleasant to have Eleanor sueing to him for favours; for he answered her as much with caresses as with words; both very satisfied.

"You try me beyond my strength, Eleanor. Your mother offers to give you to me Monday – Do you think I care so little about this possession that I will not take it a week earlier than I had hoped to have it?"

"But the week is mine – it is due to me, Macintosh. No one has a right to take it from me. You may have the power; and I ask you not to use it."

"Eleanor, you break my heart. My love, do you know that I have business calling for me in London? – it is calling for me now, urgently. I must carry you up to London at once; and this week that you plead for, I do not know how to give. If I can go the fifteenth instead of the twenty-second, I must. Do you see, Nellie?" he asked very tenderly.

Eleanor hardly saw anything; the world and all in it seemed to be in a swimming state before her eyes. Only Mr. Carlisle's "can's" and "must's" obeyed him, she felt sure, as well as everything else. She felt stunned. Holding her on one arm, Mr. Carlisle began to pluck flowers and myrtle sprays and to adorn her hair with them. It was a labour of love; he liked the business and played with it. The beautiful brown masses of hair invited and rewarded attention.

"Then my mother has spoken to you?" she said at length.

"Yes," – he said, arranging a spray of heath with white blossoms. "Do you blame me?" Eleanor sought to withdraw herself from his arm, but he detained her.

"Where are you going?"

"Up stairs – to my room."

"Do you forgive me, Eleanor?" he said, looking down at her.

"No, – I think I do not."

He laughed a little, kissing her downcast face.

"I will make you my wife, Monday, Eleanor; and after that I will make you forgive me; and then – my wife shall ask me nothing that she shall not have."

Keeping her on his arm, he led her slowly from the conservatory, through the rooms, and up the staircase, to the door of her own apartment.

Eleanor tore out the flowers as soon as she was alone, locked her door, meaning at least not to see her mother that night; took off her dress and lay down. Refuge failed her. She was in despair. What could she arrange between Tuesday night and Monday? – short of taking poison, or absconding privately from the house, and so disgracing both herself and her family. Yet Eleanor was in such desperation of feeling that both those expedients occurred to her in the course of the night, although only to be rejected. Worn-out nature must have some rest however; and towards morning she slept.

It was late when she opened her eyes. They fell first upon Julia, standing at her bedside.

"Are you awake, Eleanor?"

"Yes. I wish I could sleep on."

"There's news."

"News! What sort of news?" said Eleanor, feeling that none concerned her.

"It's bad news – and yet – for you – it is good news."

"What is it, child? Speak."

"Lady Rythdale – she is dead."

Eleanor raised herself on her elbow and stared at Julia. "How do you know? how do you know?" she said.

"A messenger came to tell us – she died last night. The man came a good while ago, but – "

She never finished her sentence; for Eleanor threw herself out of bed, exclaiming, "I am saved! I am saved!" – and went down on her knees by the bedside. It was hardly to pray, for Eleanor scarce knew how to pray; yet that position seemed an embodiment of thanks she could not speak. She kept it a good while, still as death. Julia stood motionless, looking on.

"Don't think me wicked," said Eleanor getting up at last. "I am not glad of anything but my own deliverance. Oh, Julia!"

"Poor Eleanor!" said her little sister wonderingly. "Then you don't want to be married and go to Rythdale?"

"Not Monday!" said Eleanor. "And now I shall not. It is not possible that a wedding and a funeral should be in one house on the same day. I know which they would put off if they could, but they have got to put off the other. O Julia, it is the saving of me!"

She caught the little one in her arms and sat with her so, their two heads nestling together, Eleanor's bowed upon her sister's neck.

"But Eleanor, will you not marry Mr. Carlisle after all?"

"I cannot, – for a good while, child."

"But then?"

"I shall never be married in a hurry. I have got breathing time – time to think. And I'll use it."

"And, O Eleanor! won't you do something else?"

"What?"

"Won't you be a servant of the Lord?"

"I will – if I can find out how," Eleanor answered low.

It poured with rain. Eleanor liked it that day, though generally she was no lover of weather that kept her within. A spell of soothing had descended upon her. Life was no longer the rough thing it had seemed to her yesterday. A constant drop of thankfulness at her heart kept all her words and manner sweet with its secret perfume. Eleanor's temper was always as sound as a nut; but there was now a peculiar grace of gentleness and softness in all she did. She was able to go faultlessly through all the scenes of that day and the following days; through her mother's open discomfiture and half expressed disappointment, and Mr. Carlisle's suppressed impatience. His manner was perfect too; his impatience was by no word or look made known; grave, quiet, self-contained, he only allowed his affectionateness towards Eleanor to have full play, and the expression of that was changed. He did not appeal to her for sympathy which perhaps he had a secret knowledge she could not give; but with lofty good breeding and his invariable tact he took it for granted. Eleanor's part was an easy one through those days which passed before Mr. Carlisle's going up to London. He went immediately after the funeral.

It was understood, however, between him and Mrs. Powle, that the marriage should be delayed no longer than till some time in the spring. Then, Mr. Carlisle declared, he should carry into effect his original plan of going abroad, and take Eleanor with him. Eleanor heard them talk, and kept silence; letting them arrange it their own way.

"For a little while, Eleanor!" were the parting words which Mr. Carlisle's lips left upon hers. And Eleanor turned then to look at what was before her.

CHAPTER XIV.

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. Thatwould 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."