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THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 ■r 
 
 IHB AUTHOK OF "WIDE, WIDE WOKLD.' 
 
 "Nothing before, Dothlag bohinA 
 The steps of Faith 
 Fall on the seeming void, vnd And 
 The rock beneath." 
 
 Wbitties. 
 
 COMPLETE IN- ONE VOLUME. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 ROBERT CARTER *te BROTHERS, 
 
 No. 530 fiEOADWAY. 
 
ftihtereC according to Act of CongresA, In iao year * 4M. Wv 
 
 KOBERT CARTER & BROTHERS. 
 
 U tt* Vierk's Office of the District Court of the United tiucee lor tM 
 
 Boathetn District of New Torh. 
 
NOTE TO THE EEADEB. 
 
 The incidents and testimonies given in this work 
 as matters of fact, are not drawn from imagination, 
 b.it reported from excellent authority, though I have 
 used my own words. And in the cases of reported 
 words of third parties, the words stand unchanged, 
 without any meddling. 
 
THE OLD HELMET 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " she look'd and saw that all was ruinous^ 
 Here stood a shattered archway plumed with ten 
 Aud here had fall'n a great part of a tower, 
 Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliff, 
 And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers. 
 And high above a piece of turret stair, 
 Worn by the feet that now were silent. 
 Bare to the sun." 
 
 The first thing noticeable is a gleam of white teeth, 
 Now that is a pleasant thing generally ; yet its pleasant- 
 ness depends, after .ill, upon the way the lips part over 
 the ivory. There is a world of character discoverable in 
 the curve of those soft lines. In the present case, that 
 of a lady, as it is undoubtedly the very first thing you - 
 notice, the matter must be investigated. The mouth is 
 rather large, with well cut lips however ; and in the 
 smile which comes not infrequently, the lips part freely 
 and frankly, though not too far, over a wealth of white, 
 beautiful teeth. So free is the curve of the upper lip 
 and so ready its revelation of the treasures beneath, thai 
 there is an instant suspicion of a certain frankness and 
 daring, and perhaps of a little mischief, on the part of 
 their possessor ; so free, at the same time, as to forbid 
 the least notion of consciousness or design in that beau 
 tiful revelation. Bui how fine and full and regulai- are 
 tliose while treasures of her- ! seeming to speak for a 
 
THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 Strong and perfect physical organization ; and if yout 
 eye goes further, for her flat hat is on the ground, you 
 will see in the bountiful rich head of hair another token 
 of the same thing. Her figure is finely developed ; her 
 color clear and healthy ; not blonde ; the full brown tiair 
 and eyes agi-ee with the notion of a nature more lively 
 than we assign to the other extreme of complexion. 
 The features are not those of a beauty, thougli better 
 than that, perhaps ; there is a world of life and sense 
 and spirit in them. 
 
 It speaks for her good nature and feeling, that her 
 smile is as frank as ever just now, and as pleasant as 
 «ver ; for she is with about the last one of her party on 
 vhom she would have chosen to bestow herself. The 
 coasion is a visit to some celebrated ruins ; a day of 
 pleasure ; and Eleanor would a good deal rather be 
 walking and talking with anotlier much more interesting 
 member of the company, in whose society indeed her 
 day had begun ; but Mr. Carlisle had been obliged sud- 
 denly to return home for an hour or two ; and Eleanor 
 is sitting on a grassy bank,'with a gentleman beside her 
 whom she knows very little and does not care about at 
 aH. That is, she has no idea he can be very interesting ; 
 and he is a grave-looking personage, but we are not 
 going to describe him at present. 
 
 A word must be given to the place whei-e they arc 
 It is a little paradise. If the view is not vei-y extended, 
 it is rich in its parts ; and the eye and the mind are filled. 
 The grass is shaven smooth on the bank where the two 
 are sitting ; so it is all around, under trees which stand 
 with wilfid wildness of luxuriance, grouped and scat- 
 tered apparently as they would. They are very old, in 
 several varieties of kind, and in the perfect development 
 and thrift of each kind. Among them are tlie ruins of 
 an old priory. They peep f nth Jiere and there from the 
 trees. One broken tower stands free, with ivy masking 
 
THEKUINS. 7 
 
 its sides and crumbling top, and stains of weather and the 
 hues of lichen and moss enriching what was once its 
 plain grey colour. Other portions of the ruins are seen 
 by glimpses further on among the trees. Standing some- 
 what off by itself, yet encompassed by the congeners of 
 those same trees, almost swallowed up among them, is a 
 comfortable, picturesque little building, not in ruins: 
 though it has been built up from the ruins. It is thr 
 parsonage, where the rector of the parish lives. Beyond 
 this wood and these buildings, old and new, the eye can 
 catch only bits of hills and woods that promise beauty 
 further on ; but nearer than they, and making a boundary 
 line between the present and the distant, the flash of a 
 little river is seen, which curves about the old priory 
 lands. A somewhat doubtful sunlight is struggling over 
 it all ; casting a stray beam on the grass, and a light on 
 the ivy of the old tower. 
 
 " What a queer old place it must have been," said 
 Eleanor. 
 
 "How old is it?" 
 
 "01 don't know — ages ! Do you mean really hov» 
 old ? I am sure I can't tell; I never can keep those 
 things in my head. If Dr. Cairnes would come out, he 
 could tell you all about it, and more." 
 
 " Dr. Cairnes, the rector ?" 
 
 " Yes. He keeps it all in his head, I know. The ruins 
 are instead of a family to him." 
 
 " They must date back pretty far, judging by those 
 Norman arches." 
 
 " Norman arches ? — what those round ones ? O, they 
 do. The pi-iory was founded by some old courtier or 
 Boldier in the time of Henry the First, who got dis- 
 gusted with the world. That is the beginning of all 
 these placesi, isn't it ?" 
 
 " Do you mean, that it ii the beginning of all religioiw 
 feeling?" 
 
8 THE OLD HELMBT. 
 
 " I really think it is. I wouldn't tell Dr. Cairnes so, 
 however. How sweet these violets are. Dear little 
 blue things !" 
 
 " Do you suppose," said the young man, stooping to 
 pick one or two, " that they are less sweet to me than to 
 you?" 
 
 "Why should they be?" 
 
 " Because, religion is the most precious thing in the 
 world to me ; and by your rule, I must be disgusted 
 with the world, and all sweet things have lost their 
 savour." 
 
 He spoke with quiet gravity, and Eleanor's eye went 
 to his face with a bright glance of inquiry. It came 
 back with no change of opinion. 
 
 " You don't convert me," she said. " I do not know 
 what you have given up- for religion, so I cannot judge. 
 But all the other people I ever saw, grew religious only 
 because they had lost all care about everything else." 
 
 " I wonder how that discontented old soldier found 
 himself, when he got into these solitudes?" said the 
 young man, with a smile of his own then. It was sweel, 
 and a httle arch, and withal harmonized completely with 
 the ordinary gravity of his face, not denying it at all. 
 Eleanor looked, once and again, with some curiosity, 
 but the smile passed away as quietly as it had come. 
 
 " The solitude was not this solitude then." 
 
 " O no, it was very wild." 
 
 " These were Augustine canons, were they not ?" 
 
 " Who ?" 
 
 " The monks of this priory." 
 
 " I am sure I don't know. I forget. What was the 
 lifference ?" 
 
 "You know there were many orders of religious 
 louses. The Augustines were less severe in their rule, 
 »nd more genial in their allowed way of life, than most 
 jf the others ?" 
 
THEEUINS. t 
 
 " What was their rule ?" 
 
 " Beginning with discontent of the world, you knoW; 
 llicy went on with the principle that nothing worldly 
 wa= good." 
 
 '' Well, isn't that the principle of all religious people 
 now?" 
 
 " I like violets" — said the young man, smiling again. 
 
 " But do tell me, what did those old monks do ? 
 What was their ' rule ?' I don't know anything about 
 t, nor about them." 
 
 " Another old discontented soldier, who founded an 
 abbey in Wales, is said by the historian to have dis- 
 missed all his former companions, and devoted himself to 
 God. For his military belt, he tied a rope about his 
 waist ; instead of fine linen he put on haircloth. And it 
 is recorded of him, that the massive suit of armour which 
 he had been used to wear in battle, to protect him 
 against the arrows and spears and axes of the enemy, 
 he put on now and wore as a defence against the wiles 
 and assaults of the devil — and wore it till it rusted away 
 with age." 
 
 " Poor old soul !" said Eleanor. 
 
 " Does that meet your ideas of a religious life ?" 
 
 Eleanor laughed, but answered by another question. 
 " Was that the rule of all the Augustine monks?" 
 
 " It gives the key to it. Is that your notion of a 
 religious life ? You don't answer me." 
 
 " Well," said Eleanor laughing again, " it gives the 
 key to 4t, as you say. I do not suppose you wear a suit 
 of armour to protect yourself." 
 
 " I beg your pardon. I do." 
 
 " Armour P" s.jid Eleanor, looking incredulous. But 
 her friend fairly burst into a little laugh at that. 
 
 " Are you rested ?" said he. 
 
 And Eleanor gcit up, feeling a little indignant and a 
 little curious. Strolling towards the ruins, however 
 
10 THi; L 1> HBLMHT. 
 
 there was too much to start conversation and too miicl 
 to give delight, to permit either silence or pique to last. 
 
 " Isn't it beautiful !" burst from both at once. 
 
 "How exquisite that ivy is, climbing up that old 
 tower !" 
 
 " And what a pity it is crumbling away so !" said 
 Eleanor. " See that nearer angle — it is breaking down 
 fest. I wish it would stay as it is." 
 
 " Nothing will do that for you. What is all that col- 
 lection of rubbish yonder ?" 
 
 " That is where Mr. Carlisle is going to build a cottage 
 for one of his people — somebody to take care of the 
 ruins, I believe." 
 
 " And he takes the ruins to build it with, and the old 
 priory grounds too !" 
 
 Eleanor looked again at her companion. 
 
 " I think it is better than to have the broken stones 
 lying all over — don't you ?" 
 
 "I do not." 
 
 " Mr. Carlisle thinks so. Now here we are in the 
 body of the church — there you see where the roof went, 
 by the slanting lines on the tower wall; and we are 
 standing wiiere the congregation used to assemble." 
 
 " Not much of a congregation," said her companior. 
 " The neighbouring country furnished few attendants, I 
 fancy • the old monks and their retainers were about all. 
 The choir would nold most of them ; the nave, where 
 we are standing, would have been of little use except foj 
 processions." 
 
 " Processions ?" said Eleanor. 
 
 " On particular days there were processions of the " 
 brotherhood, with lighted candles — round and round in 
 the church. In the church at York twelve rounds made 
 a mile, and there were twelve holes at the great door, 
 w ith a little peg, so thrit any one curious about the mat 
 ter might reckou tiie miles." 
 
r n K 14 u I N s . 11 
 
 "And sc they used to go up and down here, burning 
 their fingers witli melted tiillow !" said Eleanor. " Poor 
 creatures ! What a melancholy existence ! Are you 
 preparing to renounce the world yourself, Mr. Rhys ?" 
 
 He smiled, but it was a compound smile, light and 
 earnest both at once, which Eleanor did not comprehend, 
 
 " Why do you suspect me ?" he asked. 
 
 " You seem to be studying the thing. Are you going 
 to be a white or a black monk — or a grey friar ?" 
 
 " There is a prior question. It is coming on to rain, 
 Miss Powle." 
 
 " Rain ! It is beginning this minute ! And all the 
 umbrellas are nobody knows where — only that it is 
 where we ought to be. I was glad just now that the old 
 roof is gone — but I think I would like a piece of it back." 
 
 " You can take shelter at the parsonage." 
 
 " No, I cannot — they have got fever there." 
 
 " Then come with me. I believe I can find you a piece 
 of roof somewhere." 
 
 Eleanor smiled to herself that he should think so, as 
 all traces of beam and rafter had long since disappeared 
 from the priory and its dependencies. However she 
 followed her conductor, who strode along among the 
 ruins at a pace which it taxed her powers to keep up 
 with. Presently he plunged down into a wilderness of 
 buslies and wild thorn and piled up stones which the 
 crumbling walls had left in confusion strewn over the 
 ground. It was difficult walking. E^jfenor had never 
 been there ; for in that quarter the decay of the build- 
 ings was more entire, and the growth of shrubs and 
 brambles had been allowed to mask the disorder. As 
 they went on, the footing grew very rough ; they wera 
 obliged to go over heaps and layers of the crumbling, 
 moss-grown ruins. Eleanor's conductor turned and 
 gave hei his liand to help ; it was a strong hand and 
 quickened her progress. Presently turning a sharp 
 
12 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 corner, tlirough a thicket of thorn and holly bushes 
 with young larches and beeches, a small space of clear 
 ance was gained, bounded on the other side by a thick 
 wall, one angle of which was standing. On this clear 
 spot the rain drops were falling fast. The hand that 
 held Eleanor's hurried her across it, to where an old 
 window remained sunk in the wall. The arch over the 
 window was still entire, and as the wall was one of the 
 outer walls and very thick, the shelter of a "piece of roof" 
 was literally afforded. Eleanor's conductor seated her 
 on the deep window sill, where she was perfectly 
 screened from the rain ; and apologizuig for the neces- 
 sity of the occasion, took his place beside her. The 
 window was narrow as well as deep ; and the two, who 
 hardly knew each other, were brought into very familiar 
 neighbourhood. Eleanor would have been privately 
 amused, if the first passing consciousness of amusement 
 had not been immediately chased away by one or two 
 other thoughts. The first was the extreme beauty of 
 her position as a point of view. 
 
 The ruins were all behind them. As they looked out 
 of the window, nothing was seen but the most exquisite 
 order and the most dainty. perfection of nature. The 
 ground, shaven and smooth, sloped away down to a 
 fringe of young wood, amidst which peeped out a pretty 
 eottage and above which a curl of smoke floated. The 
 cottage stood so low, and the trees were so open, that 
 above and beyond appeared the receding slopes and hills 
 of the river valley, in their various shades of colour, grass 
 and foliage. There was no sun on all this now, but a 
 beautiful light under the rain cloud from the distant 
 horizon. And the dark old stone window was the frame 
 for this picture. It was very perfect. It was very rare. 
 Eleanor exclaimed in delight. 
 
 "But I never was here — I never saw this before! 
 IIow did you know of it, Mr. Rhys ?" 
 
THERUINS. IS 
 
 " I have studied the ruins," he said lightl}'. 
 
 " But you have been at Wiglands only a few 
 months." 
 
 " I come here very often," he answered. " Happily 
 for you." 
 
 He might add that well enough, for the clouds poured 
 . down their rain now in torrents, or in sheets ; the light 
 which had come from the horizon a few minutes before 
 was hidden, and the gi'ey gloom of a summer storm was 
 over everything. The little window seemed dark, with 
 the two people sitting there. Then there came a blind- 
 ing flash otlightning. Eleanor started and cowered, 
 and the thunder rolled its deep tones over them, and 
 under them, for the earth shook. She raised her head 
 again, but only to shrink back the second time, when the 
 lightning and the thunder were repeated. This time hei 
 head was not raised again, and she kept her hand cov- 
 ered over her eyes. Yet whenever the sound of th«- 
 thunder came, Eleanor's frame answered it by a start 
 She said nothing ; it was merely the involuntary answer 
 of the nerves. The storm was a severe one, and when 
 the severity of it passed a little further off, the torrents 
 of rain still fell. 
 
 " You do not like thunder storms" — Mr. Rhys re- 
 marked, when the lightnings had ceased to be so vivid or 
 so near. 
 
 " Does anybody like them ?" 
 
 " Yes. I like everything." 
 
 " You are happy" — said Eleanor. 
 
 " Why are not you ?" 
 
 " I can't help it," said the girl, hfting up her head, 
 though she did not let hpr eyes go out of the window. 
 " T cannot bear to see the lightning. It is foolish, but I 
 cannot help it." 
 
 " Are you sure it is- foolish ? Is there not some rea« 
 SOD at the bottom of it ?" 
 
14 TUBOLDHELMET. 
 
 " I think there is a reason, though still it is foolish 
 There was a man killed by lightning just by our door, 
 once — when I was a child. I saw him — I never can 
 forget it, never !" 
 
 And a sort of shudder ran over Eleanor's shoulders as 
 she spoke. 
 
 " You want my armour," said her companion. Tho 
 tone of voice was not only grave but sympathizing. 
 Eleanor looked up at him. 
 
 " Your armour ?" 
 
 " You charged me with wearing armour — and I con- 
 fessed it," he said with something of a smile. "It is a 
 sort of armour that makes people safe in all circum- 
 stances." 
 
 He looked so quiet, so grave, so cool, and his eye had 
 such a light in it, that Eleanor could not throw off his 
 words. He looked like a man in armour. But no mail 
 of brass was to be seen. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" she said. 
 
 " Did you never hear of the helmet of salvation ?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Eleanor wonderingly. " I 
 think I have heard the words. I do not think I ever 
 attached any meaning to them." 
 
 "Did you never feel," he said, speaking with a 
 peculiar deliberation of manner, " that you were ex- 
 posed to danger — and to death—from which no effort 
 of yours could free you ; and that after death, there is a 
 great white throne to meet, for which you are not 
 ready?" 
 
 While he spoke slowly, his eyes were fixed upon 
 Eleanor with a clear piercing glance which she felt read 
 her through and through ; but she was fascinated instead 
 of angered, and submitted her own eyes to the reading 
 without wishing to turn them away. Cariying on two 
 trains of thought at the same time, at> the mind will, her 
 Jiwird reflection was, "I had no idea that you were sc 
 
THEEUINS. 15 
 
 good-looking !" — the answer in words was a sober, " 1 
 have felt so." 
 
 " Was the feeling a happy one ?" 
 
 Eleanor's lip suddenly trembled ; then she put down 
 that involuntary natural answer, and said evasively, 
 looking out of the window, " I suppose everybody has 
 Buch feelinos sometimes." 
 
 " Not with that helmet on" — said her companion. 
 
 With all the quietness of his speech, and it was very 
 nnlmpassioned, his accent had a clear i ing to it, which 
 came fiom some unsounded spirit-depth of power ; and 
 Eleanor's heart for a monvent sunk before it in a secret 
 convulsion of pain. She concealed this feeling, as she 
 thought, successfully ; but that single ray of light had 
 shewed her the darkness ; it was keen as an arrow, and 
 the arrow rankled. Apd her neighbour's next word* 
 made her feel that her heart lay bare ; so quietly the) 
 touched it. 
 
 " You feel that you want something. Miss Powle." 
 
 Eleanor's head drooped, as well as her heart. Siy 
 wondered at herself; but there was a spell of powpi 
 upon her, and she could by no means lift up either. l! 
 was not only that his woids were true, but that he knew 
 them to be so. 
 
 " Do you know what you want ?" her friend went on. 
 in tones that were tender, along with that deliberate 
 utterance that carried so much foice with it. " You know 
 yourself an offender before the Lord — and you want the 
 sense of forgiveness in your lieart. You know yourself 
 inclined to be an offender again— and you want the re- 
 newing grace of God to make your heart clean, and set 
 it free from the power of sin. Tlien you want also some- 
 thing to make you happy ; and the love of Jesus alone 
 can do that." 
 
 " Wiiat is tl e use of telling over the things one ha.< 
 not gcti"' — said Eleanor in somewhat smothered tones 
 
16 T H E OLD H ELM ET. 
 
 The words of her companion came again clear as a 
 bell— 
 
 " Because you may have them if you want thern." 
 
 Eleanor struggled with lierself, for her self-possessior 
 was endangered, and she was angry at herself for being 
 such a fool ; but she could not help it ; yet sh'? would 
 not let her agitation come any more to the surf;ii;e. She 
 ■waited for clearness of voice, and then could noc forbear 
 tl e question, 
 
 " How, Mr. Rhys ?" 
 
 " Jesus said, ' If any man thirst, let him come unto 
 me and drink.' There is all fulness in him. Go to him 
 for light — go to him for strength — go to him for forgive- 
 ness, for healing, for sanctification. ' Whosoever will, 
 let him take of the water of life freely.' " 
 
 " ' Go to him ?' " repeated Eleanor vaguely. 
 
 " Ask him." 
 
 Ask Him ! It was such a far-off, strange idea to her 
 heart, there seemed such a universe of distance between, 
 Eleanor's face grew visibly shadowed with the thought. 
 She ? She could not. She did not know how. She 
 was silent a little while. The subject was getting u<i 
 niiinageable. 
 
 " I never had anybody talk to me so before, Mr 
 Rhys," s!ie said, thinking to let it pass. 
 
 " Perhaps you never will again," he said. " Hear it 
 now. Tlie Lord Jesus is not far off — as you think — he 
 is very near ; he can hear the faintest whisper of a peti- 
 tion that you send to him. It is his message I bring 
 you to-day — a message to you. I am his servant, and 
 he has given me this charge for you to-day — to tell you 
 that he loves you — that ho has given his life for yours — 
 and that he calls Eleanor Powle to give him her heart, 
 and th^n to give him her life ; in all tlie obedience hia 
 ■ervice may require." 
 
 Eleai-or felt her heart strangely bowed, subdued, beni 
 
INTIIEEUINS. 1? 
 
 lo his -words. " I will" — was the secret language of het 
 thoughts — " but I must not let this man see all I am 
 feeling ; if I can help it." She held hefself still, looking 
 out of the window, where the rain fell in torrents yet, 
 though the thunder and the lightning were no longei 
 near. So did he ; he added no more to his last words, 
 and a silence lasted in the old ruined window as if ita 
 chance occupants were gone again. As the silence lasted, 
 Eleanor felt it grow awkward. She was at a loss how 
 to break it. It was broken for her then. 
 
 " What will you do, Miss Powle?" 
 
 " I will think about it" — she answered, startled and 
 hesitating. 
 
 "How long, before you decide?" 
 
 " How can I tell ?" she said. 
 
 " You are shrinking from a decision already formed. 
 The answer is given in your secret thoughts, and some- 
 thing is rising up in the midst of them to thwart it. 
 Shall I tell my Master that his message is refused ?" 
 
 " Mr. Rhys !" said Eleanor looking up, " I never heard 
 any one talk so in all my life ! You speak as if " 
 
 "As if, what?" 
 
 " You speak as if 1 never heard any one speak ae 
 
 you do." 
 
 " I speak as if I were in the habit of telling my Mas- 
 ter how his message is received ? I often do that." 
 
 " But it seems superfluous to tell what is knowp 
 already," said Eleanor, wondering secretly much more 
 than she dared to say at her companion's talk. 
 
 " Do you never, in speaking to those you love, tell 
 them what is no information ? 
 
 Eleanor was now dumb. There was too great a gulf 
 of difference between her companion and herself, to try 
 to frame any words or thoughts that might bridge it 
 over. She must remain on one side and he on the other ; 
 yet she went on wondering. 
 
18 THE OLE HELMET 
 
 •' Are you a clergyman, Mr. Rhys ?" she said after a 
 pause. 
 
 " I am not what you would call such ?" 
 
 "Do you not think the rain is over?" 
 
 " Nearly, for the present ; but the grass is as w<it aa 
 possible." 
 
 " O, I don't mind that. There is somebody now in 
 the shrubbery yonder, looking for me." 
 
 "He will not find you here," said Mr. Rhys. "I 
 have this window all to myself. But we will find him." 
 
 The rain-drops fell now but scatteringly, the last of the 
 shower ; the sun was breaking out, and the gieen world 
 was all in a glitter of wet leaves. Wet as they were, 
 Eleanor and Mr. Rhys pushed through the thick bram- 
 ble and holly bushes, which with honeysuckles, eglan- 
 tine, and broom, and bryony, made a sweet wild wilder- 
 ness. They got plentifully besprinkled in their way, 
 shook that off as well as they could, and with quick 
 steps sought to rejoin their companions. The person 
 Eleanor had seen in the shrubbery was the first one 
 foimd, as Mr. Rhys had said. It was Mr. Carlisle. He 
 at once took charge of Eleanor. 
 
 " What has become of you ?" 
 
 " What has become of yow, Mr. Carlisle ?" Eleanor's 
 gleaming smile was as bright as ever. 
 
 "Despair, nearly," said he; "for I feared business 
 A^ould hold me all day ; but I broke away. Not time 
 enough to protect you from this shower." 
 
 "Water will wet," said Eleanor, laughing; for the 
 politeness of this speech was more evident than its plau- 
 sibility. She was on the point of speaking of the pro- 
 tection that had been actually found for her, but thouo-ht 
 better of it. Meantime they were joined by a little girl, 
 bright and rather wild looking, who addressed Eleanor 
 as her sister. 
 
 " come!" she said,— "where have yf n been ? We 
 
INTHERUINS. it 
 
 can't go on till you come. "We are going to lunci at 
 Bai-ton's Tower- — and mamma says she will make 
 Mr. Carlisle bviild a fire, so that we may all dry our- 
 selves." 
 
 "Julia ! — how you speak !" 
 
 " She did say so," repeated the child. " Come — make 
 haste." 
 
 Eleanor glanqed at her companion, who met the glance 
 with a smile. " I hope Mrs. Powle will always com- 
 mand me," he said, somewhat mt^auingly ; and Eleanor 
 hurried on. 
 
 She was destined to long teie-d-tetes that day ; for as 
 soon as her little party was seen in the distance, the 
 larger company took up their line of march again. Julia 
 and Mr. Rhys had fallen behind ; and the long walk to 
 Barton's Tower was made with Mr. Carlisle alone, who 
 was in no haste to abridge it, and seemed to enjoy him- 
 self very well. Eleanor once or twice looked back, and 
 saw her little sister, hand in hand with her companion 
 of the old window, walking and talking in very eagei 
 and gay style ; to judge by Julia's hvely movements. 
 
 " Who is that Mr. Rhys ?" said Eleanor. 
 
 " 1 have hardly the honour to know him. May I ask, 
 why you ask ?" 
 
 " He is peculiar," said Eleanor. 
 
 " He can hardly be worthy your study." And the 
 question was dismissed with a coolness which reminded 
 Eleanor of Mr. Rhys's own words, that he was not what 
 she would call a clergyman. She would have asked 
 another question, but the slight disdain which spoke in 
 Mr. Carlisle's eye and voice deterred her. She only 
 noticed how well the object of it and her sister were 
 getting along. However, Eleanor's own walk whs plea- 
 sant enough to drive Mr. Rhys out of her head. Mr. 
 Carlisle was polished, educateil, spirited, and had the 
 great additional advantage of bemg a known and ascer 
 
20 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 taiued somebody ; as he was in fact the heir of all the 
 fine domain whose beauties they were admiring. And a 
 beautiful heirdom it was. The way taken by the party 
 led up the course of a valley which followed the wind- 
 ings of a small stream ; its sides most romantic and 
 woody in some places ; in others taking the very mould 
 of gentle beauty, and covered with rich grass, and sweet 
 with broom ; in others again, drawing near together, 
 and assuming a picturesque wildness, rocky and broken, 
 Sweet flowers grew by the way in profusion, on the 
 banks and along the sides of the stream ; and the birds 
 were very jocund in their solitudes. Through all this it 
 was very pleasant wandering with the heir of the land ; 
 and neither wet shoes nor wet shoulders were much re- 
 membered by Eleanor till they reached Barton's Tower. 
 
 This was a ruin of a different character ; one of the 
 old strongholds of the rough time when men lived by 
 the might of hand. No delicate arches and graceful 
 mouldings had ever been here ; all was, or had been, 
 grim, stern strength and massiveness. The strengt> 
 was broken long ago ; and grace, in the shape of clu(. 
 tering ivy, had mantled so much of the harsh outlina 
 that their original impression was lost. It could be re- 
 called only by a little abstraction. Within the enclosure 
 of the thick walls, which in some places gave a sort of 
 crypt-like shelter, the whole rambling party was now 
 collected. 
 
 "Shall we have a fire?" Mr. Carhsle had asked 
 Eleanor, just before they entered. And Eleanor could 
 not find in her heart to deny that it would be good, 
 though not quite prepared to have it made to her order. 
 However, the word was given. Wood was brought, 
 and presently a roaring blaze went up within the old 
 walls ; not where the old chimney used to be, for there 
 were no traces of such a thing. The sun had not shined 
 bright enough to do away the mischief the shower had 
 
IN TIIJS EUINS. 21 
 
 3one ; and now the ladies gathered about the blaze, and 
 declared it was very comfortable. Eleanor sat down on 
 a stone by the side of the fire, willing to be less in the 
 foreground for a little while ; as well as to dry her wet 
 shoes. From there she had a view of the scene that 
 >vould have pleased a painter. 
 
 The blazing lire threw a warm light and colour of its 
 own upon the dark walls and on the various groups col- 
 lected within them, and touched mosses and ferns and 
 greensward with its gypsy glare. The groups were 
 not all of one character. There was a light-hued gay 
 company of muslins and scarfs around the burning pile ; 
 in a corner a medley of servants and baskets and 
 liampers ; and in another corner Eleanor watched Julia 
 and Mr. Rhys ; the latter of whom was executing some 
 adventurous climbing, after a flower probably, or a fern, 
 while Julia stood below eagerly following his progress. 
 Mr. Carlisle was all about. It was a singularly pretty 
 scene, and to Eleanor's eve it had the sharp painting 
 which is given by a little secret interest at work. That 
 interest gave particular relief to the figures of the two 
 gentlemen whose names have been mentioned ; the other 
 figures, the dark walls and ivy, the servants and the 
 preparing collation, were only a rich mosaic of back 
 ground for those two. 
 
 There was Mr. Powle, a sturdy, well-to-do, country 
 gentleman ; looking it, and looking besides good-natured, 
 which he was if not crossed. There was Eleanor's 
 mother, good-natured under all circumstances ; fair and 
 handsome; every inch of her, from the close fair curls 
 on each side of her temples, to the tips of her neat 
 walking shoes, shewing the ample perfection of abundant 
 means and indulgent living. There were some friends 
 that formed part of their household just then, and the 
 young people of a neighboniing family ; with the Misa 
 Broadus's; twoelderl)' ladies from the village who wer« 
 
22 THEOLDHKl, ilKT. 
 
 always in everything. There was Dr. Cairnes the rector, 
 and his sister, a widow lady who spent part of every 
 year with him. All these Eleanor's eye passed ovei 
 with sliglit heed, aud busied itself furtively with the 
 remaining two ; the great man of the party, and the 
 itlier, the one certainly of least consideiation in it. 
 Why did she look at him, Eleanor asked herself? Mr. 
 Carlisle was a mark for everybody's eyes ; a very hand- 
 some man, the future lord of the manor, knowing and 
 using gracefully his advantages of many kinds. What 
 had the other, — that tall, quiet man, gathering flowers 
 with Julia in the angle of the old tower? He could not 
 be called handsome ; a dark thick head of hair, and 
 somewhat marked features alone distinguished him ; 
 except a pair of very clear keen eyes, the penetrating 
 quality of which Eleanor had felt that morning. " He 
 has a good figure, though," she said to herself, " a very 
 good figure — and he moves well and easily ; but what 
 is there about him to make me think of him ? What 
 is the difference between his face and that other face?" 
 
 " That other face" made frequent appeals for her 
 attention ; yet Eleanor could not forget the group in the 
 corner, where her sister seemed to be having a time of 
 more lively enjoyment than any one else of the com- 
 pany. No other person paid them any attention, even 
 in thought; and when the collation was spread, fileanor 
 half wondered that her morning's friond neithei came 
 forward nor was for some moments asked to do so. 
 Slu thought indeed she heard Julia ask him, but if so it 
 was without effect. Mr. Rhys remained in the distant 
 angliJ, studying the stones there; till Mr. Powlc shouted 
 to hini and brought him into the company. Having 
 done this good action, the squii-e felt benevolently dis- 
 posed towards the object of his care, and entered mto 
 conversation with him. It grew so satisfactory to Mr. 
 I'owle, that it absorbed his attention from all but the 
 
I N T I- E R U I N S . 23 
 
 iiieatR and wines which v 3 offered him, the eujoyinenl 
 of which it probably heightened ; the talk was pro- 
 longed, and seemed to grow more interesting as it went 
 on. Eleanor could not hear what it was about, her own 
 ear was so much engaged with business nearer at Land. 
 The whole play had not escaped her, however ; and 
 between question and answer of the rattling gayety going 
 on about her ears, and indeed on her own tongue, she 
 found time to wonder whether Mr. Rhys were shy, or 
 kept back by a feeling of inferiority ; so marked hia 
 conduct was by the absence of all voluntary self-asser- 
 tion. She could not determine that he was either. No 
 look or word favoured the one or the other supposition. 
 And Eleanor could not look at those keen eyes, without 
 feeling that it was extremely unlikely they would qnail 
 bi-fore anybody or anything. Vei-y different from those 
 fine hazel irids that were Hashing fun and gallantry inf 
 hers with every glance. Very different ; but what wa 
 the difference ? It was something deeper than coloui 
 and contour. Eleanor had no chance to make further 
 discoveries ; for her father engrossed his new acquaint- 
 ance all the way home, and only did not bring him to 
 I\ y Lodge to tea because Mr. Rhys refused it ; for tha 
 invijation was given. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 " To die — to sleep. 
 To Bleep I perchance to dream ; ay, there's the mb , 
 For in that sleep of death what dreams may coine'^-^ 
 
 The family at Ivy Lodge gathered round the tea-table 
 with spii-its rather whetted, apparently, for both talking 
 and eating. Certainly the one exercise had been inter- 
 mitted for some hom'S ; the other however had gone 
 on without cessation. It went on still. The party was 
 now reduced to the home party, with the addition 
 of Miss Broadns ; which lady, with her sister, was at 
 home at Ivy Lodge, as she was everywhere else. El- 
 derly, respectable and respected old ladies they were ; 
 and though they dealt in gossip, would not willingly 
 have hurt a fly. They dealt in receipts and in jellies too ; 
 in fashions, and in many kindnesses, both i-eceived and 
 given by all the neighbourhood. They were daughters 
 of a foi'mer rector of the parish, and poor, and asked 
 nobody to help them ; which indeed they had no need 
 to ask. 
 
 " You seemed to like your afternoon's acquaintance, 
 papa ?" said Eleanor. 
 
 " He is a fine fellow," said the squire. " He's a fine 
 fellow. Knows something. My dear, he teaches a 
 small school at Wiglands, I hear." 
 
 " Does he. I wonder who goes to it," said MifS 
 Powle 
 
AT TIIM GAEDEN-DOOK. 28 
 
 " I don't know," said the squire ; " but I mean to 
 Bend Alfred." 
 
 " My dear Mr. Powle ! to such a school as th.it ? 
 Nobody can go to it but some of the farmers' children 
 around — there is no one else." 
 
 " It won't hurt him, for a little while," said the squiro. 
 " I like the master, and that's of more importance th» 
 the children. Don't you worry." 
 
 " My dear Mr. Powle ! But I never heard of such a 
 thing in my life. I do not believe Dr. Cairnes will like 
 it at all. He will think it very strange, your sending 
 your boy to a man that is not a Churchman, and is not 
 anything, that anybody knows of." 
 
 " Dr. Cairnes be hanged !" said the squire, — " and mind 
 his own affairs. Hn wouldn't want me to send Alfred 
 to him.'''' 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Powle," said Miss Broadus, "I can 
 tell you this for your comfort — there are two sons of 
 Mr. Churchill, the Independent minister of Eastcombe — 
 that come over to liim ; besides one or two more that 
 are quite respectable." 
 
 " Why does not Mi-. Churchill send his boys to school 
 at Eastcombe ?" 
 
 " O well, it doesn't suit him, I suppose; and like goes 
 to like, you know, my dear." 
 
 " That is what I think," said Mrs. Powle, looking at 
 her husband, — "and I wonder Mr. Powle does not think 
 so too." 
 
 " If you mean me," said the squire, " I am not ' like' 
 anybody — that I can tell you. A good schoolmaster is 
 a good schoolmaster — I don't care what else he calls 
 himself" 
 
 " And Mr. Rhys is a good schoolmaster, I have no 
 doubt," said Miss Broadus. 
 
 " I know what lie is," said Julia ; " he is a nice man, 
 I likf him." 
 
 2 
 
26 THEOLDHELMET. 
 
 " I saw he kept you quiet," said Eleanor. " How did 
 he manage it ?" 
 
 " He didn't manage it. He told me about things," 
 said Julia ; " and he got flowers for me, and told me 
 about ferns. You never saw such lovely ferns as we 
 found ; and you would not know where to look for 
 them, either. I never saw such a nice man as Mr. Rliys 
 in my life." 
 
 " There, my dear," said her mother, " do not encourage 
 Julia in talking. She is always too ready." 
 
 " I am going to walk with him again, to get flowers,'' 
 said the child. 
 
 " I shall invite him to the Lodge," said the squire. 
 " He is a very sensible man, and knows what he ie 
 about." 
 
 " Do you know anything more about him, Mr. 
 Powle ?" 
 
 " He does more than teach three or four boys," said 
 Miss Broadus. " He serves a little Dissenting Chapel of 
 some sort, over at Lily Vale." 
 
 " Why does he not live there then ?" said Mrs. Powle. 
 " Lily Vale is two and a half miles ofi". Not very con- 
 venient, I should think." 
 
 "I don't know, ray dear. Perhaps he finds living 
 cheap at Wiglands, and I am sure he may. Do you 
 know, I get butter for less than one half what I paid 
 when I wa> in Leicester ?" 
 
 " It is summer time now, Miss Broadus," said the 
 squire. 
 
 " Yes, I know, but still — I am sure "Wiglands is thf 
 nicest, easiest place for poor people to live, that ever 
 was." 
 
 " Why you are not poor. Miss Broadus," said the 
 squire. 
 
 Miss Broadus chuckled. The fact was, that the Misa 
 Broddus's not being poor was a standing pleasant joke 
 
AT THE GARDEN-DOOR. 'Z'l 
 
 with them ; it being well known that they were not 
 liu-gely supplied with means, but contrived to make a 
 (ittle do the appai-ent work of much more than they 
 had. A way of achieving respectability upon which 
 they prided themselves. 
 
 " Eleanor," said her mother as they left the tablOj 
 " you look pale. Did you get your feet wet ?" 
 
 " Yes, mamma — there was no helping that." 
 
 " Then you'll be laid up !" 
 
 " She must not, Just now, my dear," said Miss Broadua 
 smilingly. ^ 
 
 Eleanor could not laugh off the prophecy, which an 
 internal warning told her was well founded. Slie went 
 to bed thinking of Mr. Rhys's helmet. She did not know 
 why ; she was not given to such thoughts ; neither did 
 she comprehend exactly what the helmet might be ; yet 
 now the thought came uneasily across her mind, that 
 just such a cold as she had taken had been many a one's 
 death ; and with that came a strange feeling of unpro- 
 tectedness — of want of defence. It was very uncom- 
 fortable to go to bed with that slight sensation of sore 
 throat and feverishness, and to remember that the begin- 
 ning of multitudes of last sicknesses had been no other 
 and no greater ; and it was most unlike Eleanor to have 
 such a cause make her uncomfortable. She charged it 
 upon the conversation of tiie morning, and supposed 
 herself nervous or feverish ; but this, if an explanation, 
 was no cure; and through the frequent wakings of a 
 disturbed night, the thought of tliat piece of armour 
 which made one of her fellow creatures so blessedly 
 calm, came up again and again to her mind. 
 
 " I am feverish — this is nightmare," said Eleanor to 
 herself But it must bo good to have no such nightmare. 
 And when the broad daylight had come, and she waa 
 pronounced to be very ill, and the doctor was sent for 
 Eleanor found her night's visions would not take theii 
 
28 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 departure. She could not get up ; she was a prisoner j 
 would she ever be free? 
 
 She was very ill ; the fever gained head ; and the old 
 doctor, who was a friend of the family, looked very 
 grave at her. Eleanor saw it. She knew that a battle 
 was to be fought between the powers of life and death ; 
 and the thought that no one could tell how the victory 
 would be, came like an ice wind upon flowers. Her 
 spirit shrank and cowered before it. Hopes and plear 
 Bures and plans, of which she was so full yesterday, 
 were chilled to the ground ; and acruss the cleared path- 
 way of vision, what appeared ? Eleanor would not 
 look. 
 
 But the battle must be fought ; and it had to be fought 
 amid pain and fever and weariness and the anxious 
 looks of friends ; and it was not soon decided. And 
 the wish for that helmet of shelter, whatever it might 
 be, came at times bitterly strong over Eleanor's heart. 
 Many a heavily drawn sigh, which her mother charged 
 to the body's weariness, came from the mind's longing. 
 And in the solitude of the night, when her breath was 
 quick and her pulse was high and she knew everything 
 was going wrong, the thought came with a sting of 
 agony, — if there was such a lielmet, and she could not 
 have it. O to be well and strong, and need none ! — or 
 while lying before death's door to see if it would open, 
 O to have that talisman that would make its opening 
 peace ! It was not at Eleanor's hand, and she did not 
 know where to find it. And wlien the daylight came 
 again, and the doctor looked grave, and her mother 
 turned away the anxious face she did not wish Eleanor 
 to read, the cold chill of fear crept over Eleanor's heart. 
 She hid it there. No creature in the house, she knew, 
 could meet or quiet it; if indeed her explanation of it 
 could have been understood. She banished it. as often 
 as it was possible ; but during many days that Eleano.' 
 
AT THE GARDEN-DOOR. 29 
 
 lay on a sick be<3, it was so frequent a visiter that her 
 lieart gi ew sore for its coming. 
 
 There were June roses and summer sunshine outside ; 
 and sweet breaths came in at the open windows, telling 
 the time of year. Julia reported how fine the straw- 
 beriies were, and went and came with words about 
 walks and flowers and joyous doings ; while Eleanor's 
 room was darkened, and phials of medicine and glasses 
 stood on the table, and the doctor went and came, and 
 Mrs. Powle hardly left her by day, and at night the 
 nurse slept, and Eleanor tossed and turned on her pil- 
 low and thought of another " night" that " cometh." 
 
 The struggle with fever and pain was over at last. 
 Then came weakness ; and though hope revived, fear 
 would not die. Besides, Eleanor said to herself, though 
 she should get entirely well of this sickness, who would 
 guar.anty her that another would not come ? And 
 must not one come — some time — that must be final ? 
 And how should that be met? Kay, though getting 
 well again and out of present danger, she would have 
 [iked \o have that armour of shelter still! 
 
 '' What are you crying for ?" said her little sister com- 
 ing suddenly into her room one day. Eleanor was so 
 tiir I'ccovered as to be up. 
 
 " I am weak and nervous, — foolish." 
 
 " I wouldn't be foolish," said Julia. 
 
 "I do not think I am f )olish," said Eleanor slowly. 
 
 "Then why do you say you are? But what is the 
 matter with you ?" 
 
 " Like all the rest of the world, child, — I want some- 
 thing I oan.not get. What have you there ?" 
 
 "Ferns," said Julia. "Do you know what ferna 
 are?" 
 
 " I suppose I do — when T see them." 
 
 " No, but when you (h^'i see them; that's the thing.'' 
 
 " Do you, pray." 
 
go THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " Tes ! A fern, is a plant which has its seeds come on 
 the back of the leaf, and no flower; and it comes up 
 juried like a catei-i)illar. Aren't those pretty ?" 
 
 " Where did you learn all that ?" 
 
 " I know more than tliat. This leaf is called s, frond." 
 
 "Who told you?" 
 
 " Mr. Rhys." 
 
 "Did you learn it from Mr. Rhys ?" 
 
 " Yes, to be sure I did, and a great deal more, lie la 
 going to teach me all about ferns." 
 
 " Where do you see Mr. Rhys ?" 
 
 " Why ! wherever I have a mind. Alfred goes walk- 
 ing with him, and the other boys, and I go too ; and he 
 tells us things. I always go along with Mr. Rhys,. and 
 he takes care of me." 
 
 " Does mamma know ?" 
 
 " Yes, but papa lets Mr. Rhys do just what he pleases. 
 Papa says Mr. Rhys is a wonderful man." 
 
 " What is he wonderful for ?" said Eleanor lan- 
 guidly. 
 
 "Well, i" think, because he is making Alfred a good 
 boy." 
 
 " I wonder how he has done it," said Eleanor. 
 
 "So do I. He knows how. What do you think — he 
 punished Alfred one day right before papa." 
 
 "Where?" said Eleanor, in astonishment. 
 
 " Down at the school. Papa was there. Papa told 
 about it. Alfred thought he wouldn't dare, when papa 
 was there ; and Alfred took the opportunity to be impu- 
 dent ; and Mr. Rhys just took him up by his waistband 
 and laid him down on the floor at his feet ; and Alfred 
 has behaved himself ever since." 
 
 " Was not papa angry ?" 
 
 " He said lie was at first, and I think it is likely ; but 
 after that, he said Mr. Rhys was a great man, and he 
 would not interfere with him." 
 
AT THE GARDEN-BOOK. 31 
 
 " And how rioes Alfred like Mr. Rhys?" 
 
 " He likes him — " said Julia, turning over her ferni. 
 "I like him. Mr. Rliys said he was sorry you wei? 
 sick. Now, that is a frond. That is what it is called. 
 Do you see, those are the seeds." 
 
 Eleanor sigheil. She would have liked to take lessons 
 of Mr. liliys on another subject. She half envied 
 Julia's liberty. There seemed a great wall built up 
 between her and the knowledge she wanted. Must it 
 be so always ? 
 
 " Julia, when are you going to take a walk with Mr. 
 Rhys again ?" 
 
 " To-morrow," was the quick answer. 
 
 " I will give you something to ask him about." 
 
 " I don't want it. I always have enough to ask him. 
 We are going after ferns ; we always have enough to 
 talk about." 
 
 " But there is a question I would like you to ask." 
 
 " What is it ? Why don't you a<k him yourself?" 
 
 Eleanor was silent, watching Julia's uncompromising 
 business-like air as she turned over her bunch of ferns. 
 The little one was full of her own aifairs ; her long locks 
 of hair waving with every turn of Ijer busy head. Sud- 
 denly she looked up. 
 
 " What is your question, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " You must not ask it as if from me." 
 
 " How then ?" 
 
 " Just ask it — as if you wanted to know yourself; 
 without saying anything." 
 
 " As if I wanted to know what ?" 
 
 Eleanor hesitated, and Mrs. Powle came into the 
 poom. 
 
 "What, Eleanor — what?" Julia repeatel. 
 
 " Nothing. Study your ferns." 
 
 "I lume studied them. This is the raohis— and dow. 
 here below this, is the rhiaoma ; and the little seed pla«« 
 
f2 THBOLDHELMET. 
 
 that come on the back of the frond, are tht-cae. I forget 
 what Mr. Ehys called the seeds now. I'll ask him." 
 
 " What nonsense is that you are talking, Julia ?" 
 
 " Sense, mamma. Or rather, it is knowledge." 
 
 " Mamma, liow do you like Mr. Rhys ? Julia sa/s 
 he is often here." 
 
 "He is a pleasant man," said Mrs. Powle. "1 have 
 nothing against him — except that your father and the 
 children are crazy abont him. I see nothing in him to 
 be crazy about." 
 
 " Alfred is a good deal less crazy than he used to be," 
 remarked Julia; "and I think papa hasn't lost any- 
 thing." 
 
 " You are a saucy girl," said her mother. " Mr. 
 Carlisle is very anxious to know when you will be down 
 stairs again, Eleanor." 
 
 Julia ran off with her ferns ; Eleanor went into a 
 muse ; and the conversation ceased. 
 
 It happened a few days after this, that the event about 
 which Mr. Carlisle was anxious came to pass. Eleanor 
 was able to leave her room. However, feeling yet very 
 wanting in strength, and not quite ready to face a com- 
 pany of gay talkers, she shunned the drawing-room 
 where such a company was gathered, and betook hersell 
 to a small summer-parlour in another part of the house. 
 This room she had somewhat appropriated to her own 
 use. It had once been a school-i'oom. Since the misbe 
 haviour of one governess, years ago, Mr. Powle had 
 vowed that he would never have another in the house, 
 come what would. Julia might run wild at home ; ha 
 should be satisfied if she learned to read, to ride, and to 
 walk ; and when she was old enough, he would send lier 
 to boarding-school. What the squire considered old 
 enough, did not appear. Julia was a fine child of eleven, 
 and still practi.sing her accomplishments of riding and 
 walking to her heart's content at home ; with little pro 
 
AT TUK GAKDEN-DOOK. 33 
 
 gress mnde in the other branches to which reading is the 
 door. The old schookoom had long forgotten even its 
 name, and had been fitted up simply and pleasantly for 
 summer occupation. It opened on one side by a glass 
 door upon a gay flower-garden ; Eleanor's special pet 
 and concern ; where she did a great deal of work her 
 self. It was after an elaborate geometi-ioal pattern ; and 
 beds of all sorts of angles M^ere filled and bright with 
 different colored verbenas, phloxes, geraniums, heliotrope, 
 and other flowers fit for such work ; making a briUiant 
 mosaic of scarlet, purple and gold, in Eastern gor 
 geousness, as the whole was seen from the glass door, 
 Eleanor sat down there to look at it and realize the fact 
 that she was getting well again ; with the dreamy real- 
 ization that goes along with present weakness and 
 remembered past pain. 
 
 On another side the room opened to a small lawn ; it 
 was quite shut off by its situation and by the plantations 
 of shrubbery, from the other part of the house ; and very 
 rarely visited by the chance comers who were frequent 
 there. So Eleanor was a good deal surprised this even- 
 ing to see a tall strange figure appear at the further 
 side of her flower garden ; then not at all surprised to 
 see that it was Mi-. Rhys accompanied by her sister 
 Julia. Julia flitted about through the garden, in very 
 irregular fashion, followed by her fritjnd ; till their wan- 
 derings brought them neai- the open door within which 
 Eleanor sat. To the door Julia immediately darted, 
 drawing her companion with her ; and as soon as she 
 came up exclaimed, as if she had been armed with a 
 search warrant and had brought her man, — 
 
 '-' Here's Mr. Ilhys, Eleanor. Now you can ask him 
 yourself whatever you like." 
 
 Eleanor felt startled. But it was with sucTi a pleasant 
 face that Mr. Rhys came up, such a cordial grasp of the 
 hand greeted her, that the feeling vanished immediately 
 2* 
 
i4 T H E O L D H E L M E T . 
 
 Perhaps that hand-clasp was all the warmer for Eleanor's 
 changed appearance. She was very unlike the giil of 
 superb health who had wandered over the old priory 
 grounds a few weeks before. Eleanor's colour was gone ; 
 the blue veins shewed distinctly on the temples ; the 
 full lips, instead of their brilliant gay smile, had a lan- 
 guid and much soberer line. Slie made quiie a different 
 impression now, of a fair delicate young creature, who 
 had lost and felt she had lost the proud strength in 
 which she had been so luxuriant a little while before. 
 Mr. Riiys looked at her attenti\'ely. 
 
 " You have been very ill. Miss Powle." 
 
 " I suppose I have — some of the time." 
 
 " I am rejoiced to see you well again." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 " Julia has been leading me over the garden and 
 grounds. I did not know where she was bringing me." 
 
 " How do you like my garden ?" 
 
 " For a garden of that sort — ^it seems to me well 
 arranged." 
 
 He was very cool, certainly, in giving his opinion, 
 Eleanor thought. Her gardening pride was touched 
 This was a pet of her own. 
 
 " Then you do not fincy gardens of this sort." 
 
 " I believe I think Nature is the best artist of all." 
 
 " Rut would you let Nature have her own way en- 
 tirely ?" 
 
 " No more in the vegetable than I would in the moral 
 world. She would grow weeds." 
 
 The quick clear sense and decision, in the eye and 
 uccent, were just what Eleanor did not want to copa 
 with. She was silent. So were her two companions ; 
 for Julia was busy with a nosegay she was making up. 
 Then Mr. Kliys turned to Eleanor, 
 
 " Julia said you had a question to ask of me, Miss 
 Powle. 
 
A T T 11 E G A K D E N - D O O K . 35 
 
 "Yes, I had," — said Eleanor colouring slightly and 
 hesitating. " But you cannot answer it standing — will 
 you come in, Mr. Rhys ?" 
 
 " Thank you — if you will allow me, I will take tlii? 
 instead," s.iid he, sitting down on one of the steps before 
 the glass door. " What was the question ?" 
 
 " That was the other day, when she brought in her 
 ferns — it was a wish I had. But she ought not to havw 
 troubled you with it." 
 
 "It will give me great pleasure to answer you — if 
 I can." 
 
 Eleanor half fancied he knew what the question was ; 
 and she hesitated again, feeling a good deal confused. 
 But when should she have another chance ? She made 
 a bold push. 
 
 " I felt a curiosity to ask you — I did not know any 
 one else who could tell me — what that ' helmet' was, you 
 spoke of one day ; — that day at the old priory ?" 
 
 Eleanor could not look up. She felt as if the clear 
 eyes opposite her were reading down in the depth 
 of her heart. They were very unflinching about it. It 
 was curiously disagreeable and agreeable both at once. 
 
 " Have you wan„oo it, these weeks past ?" said he. 
 
 The question was unexpected. It was put with a 
 penetrating sympathy. Eleanor felt if she opened her 
 lips to speak she could not command their steadiness. 
 She gave no answer but silence. 
 
 " A helmet ?" said JuHa looking up. " What is a 
 helmet ?" 
 
 " The warriors of old time," said Mr. Rhys, " used to 
 wear a helmet to protect their heads from danger. It 
 was a covering of leather and steel. With this head- 
 piece on, they felt safe ; where their lives would not 
 bave been worth a penny without it." 
 
 " But Eleanor — what does Eleanoi want of a hei- 
 
36 THE OLD HELM KT. 
 
 met ?" said Julia. And she went off into a shout of 
 ringing laughter. 
 
 "Perhaps you want one," said Mr. Rhys com 
 posedly. 
 
 " No, I don't. What should I want it for ? What 
 should I cover my head with leather and steel for, Mr. 
 Rhys ?" 
 
 " You want something stronger than that." 
 
 " Something sti-ongev ? What do I want, Mr. Rhys ?" 
 
 " To know that, you must find out first what the dan- 
 ger is." 
 
 " I am not in any danger." 
 
 " How do you know that ?" 
 
 " Am I, Mr. Rhys ?" 
 
 "Let us see. Do you know what the Lord Jesus 
 Christ has done for us all ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Do you know whether God has given us any com- 
 mandments ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I know the ten commandments. I have 
 learned them once, but I don't remember them." 
 
 " Have you obeyed them ?" 
 
 "Me?" 
 
 " Yes. You." 
 
 " I never thought about it." 
 
 " Have you disobeyed them then ?" 
 
 Eleanor breathed more freely, and listened. It was 
 curious to her to see the wayward, giddy child stand 
 and look into the eyes of her questioner as if fascinated. 
 The ordinary answer from Julia would have been a 
 toss and a fling. Now she stood and said sedately, 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " We can feoon tell," said her friend. "One of the 
 commandments is, to remember the Sabbath day and 
 keep it holy. Have you always done that V 
 
AT THE GARDKN-DOOK. 31 
 
 " No," said Julia bluntly. " I don't think anybody 
 else does." 
 
 "Never mind anybody else. Have you ahvaya 
 honoured the word and wish of your father and mo 
 ther ? That is another command." 
 
 " I have done it more than Alfred has." 
 
 " Let Alfred alone. Have yoii, always done it ?" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Have you loved the good God all your life, with all 
 your heart ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " You have loved to please yourself, rather than any 
 thing else ?" 
 
 The nod with which Julia answered this, if not polite, 
 was at least significant, accompanied with an emphatic 
 'Always!" Mr. Rhys could not help smiling at her, 
 »ut he went on gravely enough. 
 
 " What is to keep you then from being afraid ?" 
 
 "From being afraid ?" 
 
 " Yes. You want a helmet." 
 
 " Afraid ?" said Julia. 
 
 " Yes. Afraid of the justice of God. He never lets 
 I sin go unpunished. He is perfectly ^Vi&t" 
 
 " But I can't help it," said Julia. 
 
 " Then what is to become of you ? You need a 
 Lelmet." 
 
 " A helmet ?" said Julia again. " What sort of a 
 Lelmet?" 
 
 " You want to know that God has forgiven you ; that 
 he is not angry with you ; that he loves you, and has 
 made you his child." 
 
 " How can I ?" said the child, pressing closer to the 
 speaker where he sat on the step of the door. And no 
 wonder, for the words were given with a sweet earnest 
 Utterance which drew the hearts of both hearers. He 
 
38 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 went on without looking a'. Eleanor ; or without pcpih 
 ing to look that way. 
 
 " How can you what ? 
 
 " How can I have that ?" 
 
 " That helmet ? There is only one way." 
 
 " What is it, Mr. Rhys ?" 
 
 They were silent a minute, looking at each other, the 
 man and the child ; the child with her eyes bent on his. 
 
 "Suppose somebody had taken your punishment for 
 you ? borne the displeasure of God for your sins ?" 
 
 " Who would ?" said Julia. " Nobody would." 
 
 " One has." 
 
 « Who, Mr. Rhys ?" 
 
 " One that loved you, and that loved all of us, well 
 enough to pay the price of saving us." 
 
 "What price did he pay ?" 
 
 " His own life. He gave it up cruelly — that ours 
 might be redeemed." 
 
 " What for, Mr. Rhys ? what made him ?" 
 
 " Because he loved us. There was no other reason." 
 
 "Then people will be saved" — said Julia. 
 
 " Every one who will take the conditions. It depends 
 upon that. Thei-e are conditions." 
 
 " What conditions, Mr. Rhys ?" 
 
 " Do you know who did this for you ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " It is the Lord himself — the Lord Jesus Christ — the 
 Lord of glory. He thought it not robbery to be eqiia: 
 with God ; but he made himself of no reputation, and 
 took upon him the form of a servant, and was made in 
 the likeness of men ; and being fomid in fashion as a 
 man, he humbled himself and became obedient unto 
 death — even the death of the cross. So now he is 
 exalted a Prince and a Saviour — able to save all Avlic 
 will accept his conditions." 
 
 *' What are the conditions, Mr. Rhys ?" 
 
AT T tl E G A K D E N - i> O R . 36 
 
 " You must be his servant. And you must trust aU 
 your little heart and life to him." 
 
 " I must be his servant ?" said Julia. 
 
 " Yes, heart and soul, to obey him. And you must 
 trust him to forgi^ e you and save you for his blood'a 
 Bake." 
 
 Doubtless there had been something in the speaker 
 himself that had held the child's attention so fast all this 
 while. Her eyes had never wandered from his face ; 
 she had stood in docile wise looking at him and answer- 
 ing his questions and listening, won by the commentary 
 she read in his face on what her fiicnd was saying. A 
 strange light kindled in it as he spoke ; there were lines 
 of affection and tenderness that came in the play of lips 
 and eyes ; and when he named his Master, there had 
 shined in his face as it were the reflection of the glory 
 he alluded to. Julia's eyes were not the only ones that 
 had been held ; though it was only Julia's tongue that 
 said anything in re|)ly. Standing now and looking still 
 into the face she had been reading, her words were an 
 unconscious rendering of what she found there. 
 
 " Mr. Rhys, I think he was very good." 
 
 The water filled those clear eyes at tL it, but ho only 
 returned the child's gaze and said nothing. 
 
 " I will take the conditions, Mr. Rhys," Julia went on. 
 
 " The Lord make it so !" he said gravely. 
 
 " But what is the helmet, Mr. Rhys ?" 
 
 " When you have taken the conditions, little one, you 
 rt'ill know." He rose up. 
 
 " Mr. Rhys," said Eleanor rising also, " I have lis- 
 tened to you, but I do not quite understand you." 
 
 "I recommcud you to ask better teaching. Miss 
 Powle." 
 
 "But I would like to know exactly what you mean, 
 and what you meant, by that ' helmet' you speak of sc 
 otien?" 
 
to T II E O L I) H E L M E T . 
 
 He looked steadily now at the fair young face beside 
 hitn, which told so plainly of the danger lately passed 
 through. Eleanor could not return, though she suf- 
 fered the examination. His answer was delayed while 
 he made it. 
 
 " Do you ask from a sense of need ?" he said. 
 
 Eleanor looked up then and answered, " Yes." 
 
 " To say, ' I know that my Redeemer liveth'- -that is 
 it," he said. " Then the head is covered — even from 
 fear of evil." 
 
 It was impossible that Eleanor ever should forget the 
 look that went with the words, and which had pre- 
 vented her own gaze from seeking the ground again. 
 The. look of inward rejoicing and outward fearlessness ; 
 the fire and the softness that at once overspread his face. 
 " He was looking at his Master then"- — was the secret 
 conclusion of Eleanor's mind. Even while she thought 
 it, he had turned and was gone again with Julia. She 
 stood still some minutes, weak as she was. She was not 
 sure that she perfectly comprehended what that helmet 
 might be, but of its reality there could be no question- 
 ing. She had seen its plumes wave over one brow ! 
 
 " I know that my Redeemer liveth" — Eleanor sat 
 down and mused over the words. She had heard them 
 before ; they were an expression of somebody's faith, 
 she was not sure whose ; but what faith was it? Faith 
 that the Redeemer lived? Eleanor did not question 
 that. She had repeated the Apostle's Creed many a 
 time. Yet a vague feeling from the words she could 
 not analyze — or arising perhaps from the look that had 
 interpreted them — floated over her mind, disturbing it 
 with an exceeding sense of want. She felt desolate and 
 forlorn. What was to be done? Juha and Mr. Rhys 
 were gone. The garden was empty. There was no 
 more chance of counsel-taking to-night. Eleanor felt in 
 QO mood for gay gossip, and slowly mounted the stairs 
 
AT T !! E GAKDEN-DOOK. 41 
 
 to her own room, from whence she declmed to come 
 down again that night. She would like to find the set- 
 liement of this question, before she went back into tlie 
 business of the world and was swallowed up by it, as 
 she would soon be. Eleanor locked the door, and took 
 up a Bible, and tried to find some good by reading in it. 
 Her eyes and head were tired before her mind received 
 any lighrt. She was weak yet. She found the Bihls 
 very unsatisfactory ■ and gave it up. 
 
CHAPTEE III. 
 
 •* Why, P-U the souls that irere were forfeit ouoe- 
 And ho tliat might the vantage hest have took. 
 Found oat the remedy." 
 
 " You can come clown stairs to-night, Eleanor," said 
 Mrs. Powle the next morning. 
 
 " I was down stairs last night — in the afternoon, I 
 mean — mamma." 
 
 "Yes, but you did not stay. I want you in the 
 drawing-room this evening. You can bear it now." 
 
 " I am in no hurry, mamma." 
 
 " Other people are, however. If you wear a white 
 dress, do put a rose or some pink ribbands somewhere, 
 to give yourself a little colour." 
 
 " H;ive you invited any one for this evening ?" 
 
 " No, but people have promised themselves without 
 being asked. Dr. Cairnes wants to see you ; he said ha 
 would bi'ing Mrs. Wyoherly. Miss Broadus will be 
 hero of course ; she declared she would ; both of them. 
 And Mr. Carlisle desired my permission to present 
 himself." 
 
 " Ml-. Pihys is coming," said Julia. 
 
 " I d.are say. Mr. Powle wants him here all the time. 
 It is a mercy the man has a little consideration — or some 
 business to keep him at home — or lie would be the sauce 
 to ev'My dish. As it is, he really is not obtrusive." 
 
 " Aie all these people coming with th>j hope and intent 
 of scL'iiig me, mamma?" 
 
 " I can only guess at people's hopes, Eleanor. I am 
 
IN THE D K A W I N G - K O O M . 43 
 
 gnililess of anything but confessing that you were to 
 make your appearance." 
 
 "Ml-. Rhys is not coming to see you," said Julia. 
 " He wants to sec the books— that is what he wants." 
 
 Tiiere was some promise for Eleanor in the comjjany 
 announced for the evening. If anybody could be use- 
 ful to her in the matter of her late doubts and wishes, 
 it ought to be Dr. Cairnes, the rector. He at least wag 
 the only one she knew whom she could talk to about 
 them ; the only friend. Mr. Rhys was a sti'anger and 
 her brother's tutor ; that was all ; a chance of speaking 
 to him again was possible, but not to be depended on. 
 Dr. Cairnes was her pastor and old friend ; it is true, 
 she knew him best, out of the pulpit, as an antiquarian ; 
 then she had never tried him on religious questions. 
 Nor he her, she remembered ; it was a doubtful hope 
 altogether ; nevertheless the evening offered what an- 
 other evening might not in many a day. So Eleanor 
 dressed, and with her slow languid step made her way 
 down stairs to the scene of the social gayeties which 
 had been so long interrupted for her. 
 
 Ivy Lodge was a respectable, comfortable, old house ; 
 pretty by the combination of those advantages ; and 
 pleasant by the fact of making no pretensions beyond 
 what it was worth. It was not disturbed by the rage 
 after new fashions, nor the race after distant greatness. 
 Quiet respectability was the characteristic of the fam- 
 ily ; Mrs. Powle alone being burdened with the con- 
 sciousness of higher birth than belonged to the name of 
 Powle generally. She fell into her husband's ways, 
 however, outwardly, well enough ; did not dislodge the 
 old furniture, nor introduce new extravagances ; and th« 
 Lodge was a joleasant place. " A most enjoyable house, 
 my dear," — as Miss Broadus expressed it. So the gentry 
 of the neighbourhood found it universally. 
 
 The drawing-room was a pretty, spacious apartment 
 
1-4 THEOLDHBLMKT. 
 
 light and bright ; opening upon the lawn directly with 
 out intervention of piazza or terrace. Windows, or 
 rather glass doors, in deep recesses, stood open ; the 
 company seemed to be half in and half out. Dr. Cairnea 
 was there, talking with the squire. In another place 
 Mrs. Powle was engaged with Mr. Carlisle. Further 
 than those two groups, Eleanor's eye had no chance to 
 go ; those who composed the latter greeted her in- 
 stantly. Mrs. Powle's exclamation was of doubtful plea- 
 sure at Eleanor's appenrance ; there was no question of 
 her companion's gratification. He came forward to 
 Eleanor, gave her his chair ; brought her a cup of tea, 
 and then sat down to see her drink it ; with a manner 
 which bespoke pleasure in every step of the proceedings. 
 A manner which had rather the effect of a barrier to 
 Eleanor's vision. It was gratifying certainly; Eleanor 
 felt it ; only she felt it a little too gratifying. Mr. Car 
 lisle was getting on somewhat too fast for her. She 
 drank her tea and kept very quiet ; while Mrs. Powle 
 sat by a,nd fanned herself, as contentedly as a mother 
 duck swims that sees all her young ones taking to the 
 water kindly. 
 
 Now and then Eleanor's eyes went out of the win- 
 dow. On the lawn at a little distance was a group of 
 people, sitting close together and seeming very busy. 
 They were Mr. Rhys, Miss Broadus, Alfred and Julia. 
 Something interesting was going forward; they were 
 talking and listening, and looking at something thev 
 seemed to be turning over. Eleanor would have liked 
 to join them ; but here was Mr. Carlisle ; and remem- 
 bering the expression which had once o-ossed his face at 
 the mention of Mr. Rhys's name, she would not draw 
 attention to the group even by her eyes ; though they 
 wandered that way stealthily whenever they could. 
 Wliat a good time those people were having there on 
 the grass; and she sitting fenced iu bv Mr. Carlisle, 
 
IN THE DB AWING- liOOM. 45 
 
 Other members of the party who had not seen Eleanor 
 came up one after another to congratulate and welcome 
 her ; but Mr. Carlisle kept his place. Dr. Cairnes came, 
 and Eleanor wanted a chance to talk to him. None was 
 given her. Mr. Carlisle left his place for a moment to 
 can-y Eleanor's cup away, and Dr. Cairnes thoughtlessly 
 took the vacated chair ; but Mr. Carlisle stationed him- 
 self on the other side in the window ; and she was as 
 far from her opportunity as ever. 
 
 " Well my dear," said the doctor, " you have had a 
 hard time, eh ? We are glad to have you amongst us 
 again." 
 
 " Hardly," put in Mrs. Powle. " She looks like a 
 ghost." 
 
 " Rather a substantial kind of a ghost," said the doc- 
 tor, pinching Eleanor's cheek; '•'■ sovie flesh and blood 
 here yet — flesh at least ; — and now the blood speaks for 
 itself ! That's right, my dear— you are better so." 
 
 Mr. Carlisle's smile said so too, as the doctor glanced 
 at him. But the momentary colour faded again. Eleanor 
 remembered how near she had come to being a ghost 
 actually. Just then Mr. Carlisle's attention was forcibly 
 claimed, and Mrs. Powle moved away. Eleanor seized 
 her chance. 
 
 " Dr. Cairnes, I want your instruction in some- 
 thing." 
 
 " Well, my dear," said the doctor, lowering his tone 
 in imitation of Eleanor's — " I shall be happy to be your 
 instructor. I have been that, in some sort, ever since 
 you were five years old — a little tot down in your 
 mother's pew, sitting under ray ministrations. What is 
 it, Miss Eleanor ?" 
 
 " I am afraid I did not receive much in those days, 
 sir." 
 
 " Probably not. Hardly to be expected. I have no 
 doubt you received as nmch as a child could, from the 
 
46 THBOLD HELMET. 
 
 mysteries whioh were above its comprenension. What 
 is it now, Miss Eleanor ? 
 
 " Soraetliing in your line, sir. Dr. Cairnes, you re- 
 member the helmet spoken of in the Bible ?" 
 
 " Helmet ?" said the doctor. " Goliath's ? He had a 
 helmet of brass upon his head. Must have been heavy, 
 but I suppose he could carry it. The same thing essen. 
 tially as those worn by our ancestors — a little variation 
 in form. What about it, my dear ? I am glad to see 
 you smiling again." 
 
 " Nothing about that. I am speaking of anothei sort 
 of helmet — do you not remember ? — it is called some- 
 where the helmet of salvation." 
 
 ''That? O!— um! T7iat helmet \ Yes— it is in, 
 let me see — it is in the description of Christian armour, 
 in a fine passage in Ephesians, I think. What about 
 that. Miss Eleanor ?" 
 
 " I want to know, sir, what shape that helmet 
 takes." 
 
 It was odd, with what difficulty Eleanor brought out 
 her questions. It was touching, the concealed earnest- 
 ness which lingered behind her glance and smile. 
 
 " Shape ?" said the doctor, descending into his cravat ; 
 — " um ! a fair question ; easier asked than answered. 
 Why my dear, you should read a commentary." 
 
 " I like living commentaries, Dr. Cairne-i." 
 
 "Do you? Ha, ha! — well. Living commentaries, 
 eh ? and shapes of helmets. Well. What shape does 
 it take ? Why, my dear, you know of course that 
 those expressions are figurative. I think it takes the 
 shape of a certain composure and peace of mind which 
 the Christian soul feels, and justly feels, in regarding the 
 provision made for its welfare iu the gospel. It is 
 spoken of as the helmet of salvation ; and there is tha 
 shield of faith ; and so forth." 
 
IN THE DEAWING-EOOM. 47 
 
 Eleanor felt uttei'ly worried, and did not in the least 
 know how to frame her next question. 
 
 " Wliat has put you upon thinking of helmets, Misa 
 Eleanor ?" 
 
 " I was curious — " said Eleanor. 
 
 " You had some serious thoughts in your illness ?" 
 said the doctor. " Well, my dear — I am glad of it. 
 Serious thouglits do not in the least interfere with all 
 proper present enjoyments ; and with improper ones 
 you would not wish to have anything to do." 
 
 " May we not say that serious thoughts are the/oww- 
 datio7i of all true present enjoyment?" said another 
 voice. It was Mr. Rhys who spoke. Eleanor started 
 to hear him, and to see him suddenly in the place where 
 Mr. Carlisle had been, standing in the window. 
 
 "Eh? Well — no, — not just that," said Dr. Cairnes 
 coolly. " I have a good deal of enjoyment in various 
 things — this fair day and this fair company, for example, 
 and Mrs. Powle's excellent cup of tea— with which I 
 apprehend serious thoughts have nothing to do." 
 
 " But we are commanded to do everything in the 
 name of the Lord Jesus." 
 
 " Well — um ! That is to be taken of course in its 
 rational significance. A cup of tea is a cup of tea — and 
 notliing more. There is nothing at the bottom of it — 
 ha, ha ! — but a little sugar. Nothing more serious." 
 
 Mr. Rhys's figure standing in the window certainly 
 hindered a part of the light. To judge by the doctor's 
 face, he was keeping out the whole. 
 
 "What do you suppose the apostle means, sir, when 
 ho says, 'Henceforward know I no man after the 
 flesh ?' " 
 
 " Hum ! — Ah, — well, he was an apostle. I am not. 
 Perhaps you are?" 
 
 There was a degree of covert disdain in (his spooeh, 
 which Ele,anor wondered at in so well-bred a man as Dr 
 
t8 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 Caii-nes Mr. Rhys answei-ed with perfect steadiness, 
 witfi no change of tone or manner. 
 
 " Without being inspired — I think, in the sense of 
 messenger, evei-y minister of Christ is his apostle." 
 
 " Ah ! Well ! — I am not even apostolic," said the doc- 
 tor, with one or two contented and discontented grunts. 
 Eleanor understood them ; the content was his own, the 
 discontent referred to the speaker whose words were so 
 inopportune. The doctor rose and left the ground. Mr. 
 Rhys had gone even before him ; and Eleanor wondered 
 anew whether this man were indeed shy or not. He 
 was so little seen and heard ; yet spoke, when he spoke, 
 with such clearness and self-possession. He was gone 
 now, and Mr. Carlisle was siill busy. Up came Miss 
 Broadus and took the vacant seat. 
 
 It is impossible to describe Miss Broadus's face. It 
 was in a certain sense fair, and fat, and fresh-coloured ; 
 but the " windows of her soul" shewed very little light 
 from within ; they let out nothing but a little gleam now 
 and then. However, her tongue was fluent, and matter 
 for speech never wanting. She was kindly too, in man- 
 ner at least ; and extremely sociable with all her neigh- 
 bours, low as well as high ; none of whose affairs wanted 
 interest for her. It was in fact owing to Miss Broadus's 
 good offices with Mrs. Powle, that Mr. Rhys had been 
 invited to join the pleasure party with which the adven- 
 tures of this book begin. The good lady was as neat 
 as a pink in her dress ; and very fond of being as showy, 
 in a modest way. 
 
 " Among us again, Eleanor ?" she said " We are 
 glad to see you. So is Mr. Carlisle, I should judge. 
 We have missed you badly. You have been terribly ill, 
 haven't you? /es, you shew it. But ?Aa« will soon 
 pass away, my dear. I longed to get in to do some- 
 thing for you — but Mrs. Powle would not let me ; and I 
 knew you had the best of everything all the while. 
 
IN TUE DEAWING-EOOM. 49 
 
 Only I thought I would bring you a pot of my grape 
 jelly ; for Mrs. Powle don't make it ; and it is so re- 
 freshing." 
 
 " It was very nice, thank you." 
 
 " O it was nothing, my dear ; only we wanted to dc 
 something. I have been having such an interesting 
 time out there ; didn't you see us sitting on the grass ? 
 Mr. Rhys is quite a botanist — or a naturalist — or some- 
 thing ; and he was quite the centre of our entertain- 
 ment. He was shewing us ferns — fern leaves, my dear; 
 and talking about them. Do you know, as I told him, I 
 never looked at a fern leaf before ; but now really it's 
 quite curious ; and he has almost made mo believe I 
 could see a certain kind of beauty in them. You know 
 there is a sort of beauty which some people think they 
 find in a great many things ; and when they are enthu- 
 siastic, they almost make you think as ihey do. I think 
 there is great power in enthusiasm." 
 
 " Is Mr. Rhys enthusiastic ?" 
 
 "01 don't know, my dear, — I don't know what you 
 would call it ; I am not a philosopher ; but he is very 
 fond of ferns himself. He is a very fine man. He is a 
 great deal too good to go and throw himself away.'' 
 
 " Is that what he is going to do ?" ' 
 
 " Why yes, my dear ; that is what I should call it. It 
 is a great deal more than that. I never can remember 
 the place ; but it is the most dreadful place, I do suppose, 
 that ever was heard of. I never heard of such a place. 
 They do every horrible thing there — my dear, the ac- 
 counts make your blood creep. I think Mr. Rhys is a 
 gri-at deal too valuable a man to be lost there, among 
 such a pet of creatures — they are more like devils than 
 men. And Eleanor," said Miss Broadus looking round 
 to see that nobody was within hearing; of her communi- 
 cation, — " you have no idea what a plea'^ant man he is, 
 1 asked him to tea with Juliana and ine — you know one 
 
 3 
 
60 THBOLDHELMET. 
 
 must be kind and neighbourly at any rate— and he lias 
 no friends here ; I sometimes wonder if he has any any- 
 where ; but he came to tea, and he was as agreeable aa 
 possible. He was really excellent company, and very 
 well behaved. I think Juliana quite fell in love with 
 him ; but I tell her it's no use ; she never would go off to 
 that dreadful place with him." 
 
 And Miss Broadus laughed a laugh of simple amuse- 
 ment ; Miss Juliana being, though younger than herself, 
 Btill very near the age of an old lady. They kept the 
 light-hearted simplicity of young years, however, in a 
 remarkable degree ; and so had contrived to dispense 
 with wrinkles on their fresh old faces. 
 
 " -Where is that place. Miss Broadus ?" 
 
 " My dear, I never can remember the name of it. 
 They do say the country is beautiful, and the fruit, and 
 all that ; it is described to be a beautiful place, where, 
 asi Heber's hymn says, " only man is vile." But he is aa 
 vile as he can be, there. And I am sure Mr. Rhys would 
 be a great loss at Wiglands. My dear, how pleasant it 
 would be, I said to Juliana this ihoniing, how pleasant 
 it would be, if Mr. Rhys were only in the Church, and 
 could help good Dr. Cairnes. Tisn't likely they will let 
 him live long out there, if he goes." 
 
 " When is he going ?" 
 
 "01 don't know when, my dear ; he is waiting for 
 something. And I never can remember the name of 
 the place ; if a word has many syllables I cannot keep 
 them together in my memory ; only I know the vegeta- 
 bles there grow to an enormous size, and as if that 
 wasn't enough, men devour each other. It seems Kke 
 un abusing the gifts of providence, don't it ? But there 
 is nothing they do not abuse. I am afraid they will 
 abuse poor Mr. Rhys. And his boys would miss hira 
 very much, and I am sure we all should. I have got 
 quite acquainted with him, seeing him here ; and p»w 
 
IN THE DRAWING-EOOM. 6\ 
 
 Juliana has taken a fancy to ask him to onr cot- 
 tage — and I have come to quite like him. What a dif- 
 ferent looking man he is from Mr. Carlisle — now look at 
 them talking toscether ! — " 
 
 " Where did you learn all this, Miss Broadus ? did 
 Mr. Rhys tell you ?" 
 
 " No, my dear ; he never will talk about it or about 
 Jiimself. He lent me a pamphlet or something. — Mr. 
 Rhys is the tallest — ^but Mr. Carlisle is a splendid look- 
 ing man, — don't you think so Eleanor ?" 
 
 Miss Broadus's energetic whisper Eleanor thought fit 
 to ignor-e, though she did not fail to note the contrast 
 which a moment's colloquy between the two men pre- 
 sented. There was little in common between them ; be- 
 tween the marked features and grave keen expressirm of 
 the one face, and the cool, bright, somewhat supercilious 
 eye and smile of the other. There was power in both 
 faces, Eleanor thought, of different kinds ; and power is 
 attractive. Her eye was held till they parted from each 
 other. Two very different walks in life claimed the two 
 men ; so much Eleanor could see. For some time after 
 she was obliged to attend exclusively to that walk of 
 life which Mr. Carlisle represented, and to look at the 
 views he brought forward for her notice. 
 
 They were not so engrossing, however, that Eleanor 
 entirely forgot the earlier conversation of the afternoon or 
 the question which had troubled her. The evening had 
 been baflSing. She had not had a word with Mr. Rhys, 
 and he had disappi^ared long since from the party. So 
 -had Dr. Gairnes. There was no more chance of talk 
 upon that subject to-night ; and Eleanor feeling very 
 feeble still, thought best to cut short Mr. Carlisle's 
 enjoyment of other subjects for the evening. She left 
 the company, and slowly passed through the house, 
 from room to room, to get tc her own. In the course 
 t>f this progress she came to the library. There. 
 
62 THEOL I) HELMET. 
 
 seated at one of the tables and bending over a vol- 
 ntne, was Mi-. Rhys. He jumped up as she passed 
 through, and came forward with extended hand and 
 a word of kindly inquiry. His " good night" was so 
 genial, his clasp of her hand so frank and friendly, that 
 instead of going on, Eleanor stood still. 
 
 " Are you studying ?" 
 
 " Your father has kindly given rae liberty to avail 
 myself of his treasures here. My time is very scanty — 
 I was tempted to seize the moment that offered itself. 
 It is a very precious privilege to me, and one which I 
 shall not abuse." 
 
 " Pray do not speak of abusing," said Eleanor ; " no- 
 body minds the books here ; I am glad they are good to 
 anybody else. — I am interrupting you." 
 
 " Not at all !" said he bringing up a great chair for 
 her, — " or only agreeably. Pray sit down — you are not 
 fit to stand." 
 
 Eleanor however remained standing, and hesitating, 
 for a moment. 
 
 " I wish you would tell me a little more about what 
 we were talking of," she said with some effort. 
 
 " Do you feel your want of the helmet ?" he said 
 gravely. 
 
 " I feel that I haven't it," said Eleanor. 
 
 " "What is it that you are conscious of wanting ?" 
 
 She hesitated ; it was a home question ; and very un- 
 accustomed to speak of her secret thoughts and feelings 
 to any one, especially on religious subjects, which how- 
 ever had never occupied her before, Eleanor was hardly 
 ready to answer. Yet in the tones of the question there 
 was a certain quiet assurance and simplicity before 
 which she yielded. ' 
 
 " I felt — a little while ago — when I was sick — that I 
 was not exactly safe." 
 
 Eleanor spoke, hesitating between every few words, 
 
IN THE DEAWING-EOOM, 68 
 
 Lodkii.g down, and falling her voice at the end. So she 
 did not see the keen intentness of the look that was 
 fixed upon her. 
 
 " You felt that there was something wanting between 
 you and God ?" 
 
 " I believe so." 
 
 His accent was as dehberately clear as her's was hesi- 
 tating. Every word went into Eleanor's soul. 
 
 " Then you can understand now, that when one can 
 say, joyfully, " I know that my Redeemer liveth" ; — 
 when he is no vague abstraction, but felt to be a Re- 
 deemer ; — when one can say assuredly, he is my Re- 
 deemer ; I know he has bought back my soul from sin 
 and from the punishment of sin, which is death ; I feel I 
 am forgiven ; and I know he liveth — my Redeemer — 
 and according to his promise hves to deliver me from 
 every evil and will preserve me unto his heavenly king- 
 dom ; — do you see, now, that one who can say this has 
 on his head the covering of an infinite protection — an 
 infinite shelter from both danger and fear ? — a helmet, 
 placed on his head by his Lord's own hand, and of such 
 heavenly temper that no blows can break through it." 
 
 Eleanor was a little time silent, with downcast eyes. 
 
 " You do not mean to say, that this protection is 
 against all evil ; do you ? sickness and pain are evUs, are 
 tiiey not ?" 
 
 " Not to him." 
 
 " Not to him ?" 
 
 " No. The evil of them is gone. They can do hira 
 no harm ; if they come, they will do good. He that 
 wears this helmet has absolutely no evil to fear.~ All 
 things shall work good to him. There shall no evil hap- 
 pen to the just. Blessed be the Lord, who only doeth 
 wondrous tilings !" 
 
 Eleanor stood silenced, hnmoled, convinced ; till she 
 recollected she must not stand thei-e so, and she 
 
64 T H E O L D H E L M B T . 
 
 lifted her eyes to bid good-night. Then the face she 
 met gave a new turn to lier thoughts. It was a changed 
 face ; such a light of pure joy and dee)) triumph shone 
 over it, not hiding nor hindering the loving care with 
 which those penetrating eyes were reading herself. It 
 gave Eleanor a strange compression of heart ; it told 
 her more than his words had done ; it shewed her the 
 very reality of which he spoke. Eleanor went away 
 overwhelmed. 
 
 "Mr. Rhys is a happy man !" she said to herself; — 
 bappy, happy ! I wish, — I wish, I were as happy as he I" 
 
CHAPTEK IV. 
 
 •' She has two eyes, so soft and brown. 
 Take care 1 
 She gives a side-glance and looks down. 
 Beware I beware I" 
 
 A FEW days more saw Eleanor restored to all the 
 strength and beauty of health which she had been 
 accustomed to consider her natural possession. And 
 then — it is likely to be so — she was so happy in what 
 mind and body had, that she forgot her wish for what 
 the spirit had not. Or almost forgot it. Eleanor lived 
 a very full life. It was no dull languid existence that 
 she dragged on from diiy to day ; time counted out none 
 but golden pennies into her hand. Every minute was 
 filled with business or play, both heartily entered into, 
 and pui-sued •with till the energy oK a very energetic na- 
 ture. Study, wi'.en she touched it, was sweet to her ; 
 but Eleanor did not study much. Nature was an 
 enchanted palace of liglit and perfume. Bodily exer- 
 tion, I'iding and r/alking, was as pleasMut to her as it 
 is to a bird to use its wings. Family intercourse, and 
 neighbourly society, were nothing but pleasure. Benevo- 
 lent kindness, if it came in her way, \\as a laboui- of 
 love; and a Imndred liome occupations were gi-eatly 
 delighted in. They were not generally of an exalted 
 character ; Eleanor's ti'aiiiing and associations had not 
 led her into any very dignified path of human action ; 
 she had led only a buttei'fly's life of content and plea- 
 sure, and her character was not at all matured ; but the 
 capabilities were there; and the energy and will that 
 
66 TUE OLD HELMET. 
 
 might have done groater things, wrought beautiful em 
 bi-oidfciy, made endless fancy work, ordered well such 
 part of the household economy as was committed to 
 lier, carried her bright smile into every circle, and made 
 Eleanor's foot familiar with all the country where she 
 could go alone, and her pony's trot well known in 
 every lane and roadway where she could go with hia 
 company. 
 
 All these enjoyments of her life were taken with new 
 relish and zeal after her weeks of illness had laid her 
 aside fiom them. Eleanor's world was brighter than 
 ever. And round about all of these various enjoyments 
 now, circling them with a kind of halo of expectancy 
 or possibility, was the consciousness of a prospect that 
 Eleanor knew was opening before her — a brilliant life- 
 possession that she saw Fortune offering to her with a 
 gracious hand. Would Eleanor take it ? That Eleanor 
 did not quite know. Meanwhile her eyes could not help 
 looking tliat way ; and her feet, consciously or uncon- 
 sciously, now and then made a step towards it. 
 
 She and her mother were sitting at work one morn- 
 ing — that is to say, Eleanor was drawing and Mrs. 
 l-'owle cutting tissue paper in some very elaborate way, 
 for some unknown use or purpose ; when Julia dashed 
 in. She threw a bunch of bright blue flowers on the 
 table before her sister. 
 
 " There," she said — " do you know what that is ?" 
 
 " Why certainly," said Eleanor. " It is borage." 
 
 " Well, do you know what it means ?" 
 
 " What it means ? No. What does any flowei 
 mean ?" 
 
 " I'll tell you what this means" — said Julia. 
 
 " I, bornge 
 Bring courage." 
 
 "That is what people used to think it meant." 
 
INTHESADDLE. 51 
 
 ■'How do you know that." 
 
 " Mr. Rhys says so. This borage grew in Mrs. Wil 
 liams's garden ; and I dare say she believes it." 
 " Who is Mrs. Williams ?" 
 
 " Why ! — she's the old woman where Mr. Rhys lives 
 he lives in lier cottage; that's where he has his school. 
 He has a nice little room in her cottage, and there's 
 nobody else in the cottage but Mrs. Williams." 
 
 " Do, Juli:i, carry your flowers off, and do not be so 
 hoydeiiish," said Mrs. Powle. 
 
 " We have not seen Mr. Rhys here in a great while 
 mamma," said Eleanor. " I wonder what has become 
 of him.'' 
 
 " I'll toll you," said Julia—" he has become not well. 
 I know Mr. Rhys is sick, because he is so pale and weak. 
 And I know he is weak, because he cannot 'walk as he 
 used to do. We used to walk all over the hills ; and he 
 says he can't go now." 
 
 " Mamma, it would be right to send down and see 
 what is the matter with him. There must be s<miething. 
 It is a long time — mamma, I think it is weeks — since he 
 was at the Lodge." 
 
 " Your father will send, I dare say," said Mrs. Powle, 
 cutting her tissue paper. 
 
 " Mamma, did you hear," said Eleanor as Julia ran 
 off, " that Mr. Rhys was going to leave Wiglands and 
 bury himself in some dreadful place, somewhere ?" 
 " I heard so." 
 " What place is it ?" 
 
 •" I can't tell, I am sure. It is somewhere in the South 
 Seas, I believe — that region of horrors." 
 " Is it true he is going there, mamma ?" 
 " I am sure I can't tell. Miss Broadus says so ; and 
 she says, I believe, he told her so himself. If be did, I 
 Buppose it is true." 
 
 " Mamma, I think Mr. Rhys is a great deal too fine a 
 
fi8 THE OLD IIELIIKT. 
 
 man, to go and lose his life in such a place. Miss 
 Broadus says it is horrible. Do you know anything 
 about it ?" 
 
 " I have no taste for horrors," said Mrs. Powle. 
 
 " I think it is a great pity," Eleanor repeated. " I am 
 sorry. There is enough in England for such a man to 
 do, without going to the South Seas. I wonder how 
 anybody can leave England !" 
 
 Mrs. Powle looked up at her daughter and laughed. 
 Eleanor had suspended her drawing and was sending a 
 loving gaze out of the open window, where nature and 
 Bumnier were revelling in their conjoined riches. Art 
 shewed her hand too, stealthily, having drawn out of 
 the way of the others whatever might encumber the 
 revel. Across a wide stretch of wooded and cultivated 
 country, the eye caught tlie umbrageous heights on the 
 finther side of the valley of the Ryth. Eleanor's gaze 
 was fixt'd. Mrs. Powle's glance was sly. 
 
 *' I should like to ask your opinion of another place," 
 she said, — " which, being in England, is not horrible. 
 You see that bit of brown inasoii-work, high away there, 
 peeping out above the trees in the distance ? — You know 
 what house thai is ?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " What is it ?" 
 
 " It is tlie Priory. Tiie new Priory, it ought to be 
 called ; I am sure the old one is down there in the valley 
 yet — beneath it." But Eleanor's colour rose. 
 
 " What do you think of that place ?" 
 
 " Considering that the old priory and its grounds 
 belong to it, I think it must be one of the loveliest 
 places in Enoland." 
 
 " I should like to see it in your possession — " Mrs. 
 Powle remarked, going on with her tissue paper. 
 
 Eleanor also went on assiduously with her drawing, 
 
INTUBSADDLE. 59 
 
 and her colour remained a rich tint. But she went on 
 frankly with her words too. 
 
 " I am not sure, mamma, that I like the owner of i( 
 well enougli to I'eceive such a valuable gift from him." 
 
 " He likes you, quite well enough to bestow it on you, 
 without asking any questions," said Mrs. Powle. " Ho 
 hardly thinks it is worth having, unless you have it 
 too." 
 
 " That is inconvenient," said Eleanor. 
 
 " It strikes me the other way," said her mother. 
 
 " How do you know this, which you affirm so securely, 
 mamma ?" 
 
 " How should I know it ? The person in question 
 told me himself." 
 
 " Told you in so many words ?" 
 
 " 'No, in a great many more," said Mrs. Powle laugh- 
 ing. " I have merely presented a statement. He had a 
 great deal more to do than that." 
 
 The tissue paper rustled quietly for some time after 
 this, and Eleanor's pencil could be heard making quick 
 marks. Neither lady interrupted the other. 
 
 " Well, Eleanor, — how does it seem to you ?" began 
 the elder lady, in a tone of quiet satisfaction. 
 
 " Inconvenient, mamma, — as I said." 
 
 " How ?" 
 
 But Eleanor did not say how. 
 
 "Mr. 0:irlisle will be here for his answer this even 
 ing." 
 
 "I like him very well, mamma," said Eleanor after 
 another pause, — " but I do not like him enough." 
 
 " Nonsense ! You would like to be Lady Rythdale, 
 wouldn't you ?" 
 
 The silence wliich followed this was longer than 
 that whicli had been before. Knife and pencil pursued 
 their work, but Mrs. Powle glancing up furtively from 
 her tissue paper saw that Eleanor's hmw wis knitted 
 
60 THB OLD HELMET. 
 
 and that her pencil was moving under the infliietico of 
 something besides Art. So she let her alone for a long 
 time. And Eleanor's fancy saw a vision of fairy beauty 
 and baronial dignity before her. They lay in the wide 
 domains and stately appendages of Rythdale Priory. 
 How could she help seeing it ? The vision floated be- 
 fore her with point after point of entrancmg loveliness, 
 old history, present luxury, hereditary rank and splen- 
 dour, and modern power. It was like nothing in Elea- 
 nor's own home. Her father, though a comfortable 
 country gentleman, boasted nothing and had nothing to 
 boast ill the way of ancestry, beyond a respectable 
 descent of several generations. His means, though 
 ample enough for comfort and reasonable indulgence, 
 could make no pretensions to more. And Ivy Lodge 
 was indeed a pleasant home, and every field and hedge- 
 row belonging to it was lovely to Eleanor ; but the 
 broad manors of Rythdale Priory for extent would 
 swallow up many such, and for beauty and dignity were 
 as a damask rose to a bit of eglantine. Would Eleanor 
 be Lady Rythdale ?" 
 
 "He will be here this evening for his answer, Elea- 
 nor — " Mrs. Powle remarked in a quiet voice the second 
 tune. 
 
 " Then you must give it to him, mamma." 
 
 " I shall do nothing of the khid. You must see him 
 yourself. I will have no such shifting of your work 
 upon my shoulders." 
 
 " I do, not wish to see him to-night, mamma." 
 
 " I choose that you should. Don't talk any nonsense 
 to me, Eleanor." 
 
 " But mamma, if I am to give the answer, I am not 
 ready with any answer to give." 
 
 " Tell Mr. Carlisle so ; and lie will draw his own oca- 
 elusions, and make you sign them." 
 
 " I do not want to be made to sign anylliing." 
 
INTHESADDLE. 6i 
 
 •' Do it of free-will then," said Mrs. Powk laughing. 
 " It is coming Eleanor — one way or the other. If I 
 were you, I would do it gracefully. Is it a hard thing to 
 oe Lady Rythdale ?" 
 
 Eleanor did not say, and nothing further passed on the 
 Bubject; till as both parties were leaving the room 
 together, Mrs. Powle said significantly, 
 
 " You must give your own answer, Eleanor, and to- 
 night. I will have no skulking." 
 
 It was beyond Mrs. Powle's power, however, to pro- 
 vent skulking of a ceitain sort. Eleanor did not hide 
 herself in her room, but she left it late in the afternoon, 
 when she knew the company consisted of more thlm 
 one, and entered a tolerably well |illed drawing-room. 
 Mrs. Powle had not wished to have it so, but these 
 things do not arrange themselves for our wishes. Miss 
 Broadus was there, and Dr. Cairnes, and friends who 
 had come to make him and -his sister a visit ; and one or 
 two other neighbours. Eleanor came in without making 
 much use of her eye-!, and sheltered herself immediately 
 under the wing of Miss Broadus, who was the first per- 
 son she fell in with. Two pairs of eyes saw her en- 
 trance; with oddly enough the same thought and com- 
 ment. " She will make a lovely Lady Rythdale." All 
 the baronesses of that house had been famous for their 
 beauty, and the heir of Uie house remarked to himself 
 that this would prove not the least lovely of the race. 
 However, Eleanor did not even feel sure that he was 
 there, he kept at such a distance ; and s^he engaged Miss 
 Broadus in a conversation that seemed of interminable 
 resources. The sole thing that Eleanor was conscious 
 of concerning it, was its lasting q^iality; and to maintain 
 that was her only care. 
 
 Would Eleanor be Lady Rythdale ? she had made up 
 her mind to nothing, except, that it would be very dilH. 
 cult for her to say either yes or no. Naturally enougl 
 
C2 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 she dreaded the being obliged to say anything ; and was 
 ready to seize every expedient to stave oflF the moment 
 of emergency. As long as she was talking to IMisa 
 Broadus, she was safe ; bnt conversations cannot last al- 
 ways, even when they flow in a stream so full and co- 
 pious as that in which the woi'ds always poured from 
 that lady's lips. Eleanor saw signs at last that the 
 fountain was getting exhausted ; and as the next resort 
 proposed a game of chess. Now a game of chess was 
 the special delight of Miss Broadus ; and as it was the 
 detestation of her sister Miss Juli;ma, the delight was 
 seldom realized. The two sisters were harmonious in 
 everything except a few tastes, and perhaps their want 
 of hj,rmony in those points gave their life the variety it 
 needed. At any ime, such an offer as Eleanor's was 
 rarely refused by the elder sister ; and the two ladies 
 were soon deep in their business. One really, the other 
 seemingly. Though indeed it is true that Eleanor was 
 heartily engaged to prevent the game coming to a ter- 
 mination, and therefore played in good earnest, not for 
 conquest but for time. This had gone on a good while, 
 before she was aware that a footstep was drawing near 
 the chess table, and then that Mr. Carlisle stood beside 
 her chair. 
 
 " Now don't you come to help !" said Miss Broadus, 
 with a thoughtful face and a piece between her finger 
 and thumb. 
 
 " Why not ?" 
 
 " I know !" said Miss Broadus, never taking her eyes 
 from the board which held them as by a charm, — " I can 
 play a sort of a game ; but if you tiike part against me, 
 I shall be vanquished directly." 
 
 " Why should I take part against you ?" 
 
 Miss B'oadus at that laughed a good-humoured little 
 simple laiij-h. "Well"— she said, "it's the course of 
 events, I ,«« ppose. I never find anybody taking my part 
 
INTHE8ADDLE. 63 
 
 now-a-days. There ! I am afi-aid you have made me 
 place that piece wrong, Mr. Carlisle. I wish you would 
 be still. I cannot fight ngaiiist two such clever people." 
 
 " Do you find Miss Powle clever ?" 
 
 " I didn't know she was, So much, before," said Miss 
 Broadus, " but she has been playing like a witch this 
 evening, ^here Eleanor — you are in check." 
 
 Eleanor was equal to that emergency, and relieved 
 her king from danger with a very skilful move. She 
 could keep her wits, though her cheek was high-coloured 
 and her hand had a secret desire to be nervous. Eleanor 
 ■would not let it ; and Mr. Carlisle admired the very pret- 
 ty fingers which paused quietly upon the chess-men. 
 
 " Do not forget a proper regard fei; the interests of 
 the church. Miss Bi-oadus," he remarked. 
 
 " Why-I never do !" said Miss Broadus. " What do 
 you mean ? Oh my bishop ! — Thank you, Mr. Carlisle." 
 
 Eleanor did not thank him, for the bishop's move shut 
 up her play in a corner. She did her best, but her 
 king's resources' were cut off; and after a little shuffling 
 she was obliged to surrender at discretion. Miss Broadus 
 arose, pleased, and reiterating her thanks to Mr. Carlisle, 
 and walked away ; as conscious that her presence was no 
 more needed in that quarter. 
 
 " Will you play with me ?" said Mr. Carlisle, taking 
 the chair Miss Broadus had quitted. 
 
 " Yes," said Eleanor, glad of anything to stave off 
 what she dreaded ; "but I am not — " 
 
 " I am no match for you," she was going to say. She 
 stopped suddenly and coloured more deeply. 
 
 "What are. you not?" asked the gentleman, slowly 
 setting his pawns. 
 
 '* I am not a very good player. I shall hardly give 
 you amusement." 
 
 " I am not sorry for that — supposing it true. I d« 
 not like to see women good chess-players." 
 
64 THEOI, DHELMET 
 
 " IVay why do you not like it ?" 
 
 "Chess is a game of planning — scheming — contriv- 
 ing — calculating. Women ought not to be adepts in 
 those arts. I hate women that are." 
 
 He glanced up as he spolte, at the fair, frank lines of 
 the face opposite him. No art to scheme was shewn in 
 them ; there might be resolution ; he liked" that. He 
 liked it too that the fringe of the eyes drooped over 
 them, and that the tint of the cheek was so very rich. 
 
 " But they say, no one can equal a woman in scheming 
 and planning, if she takes to it," said Eleanor. 
 
 " Try your skill," said he. " It is your move." 
 
 The game began, and Eleanor tried to make good 
 play ; but she could not bring to it the same Coolness 
 or the same acumen that had fought with Miss Broadus. 
 The well-formed, well-knit hand with the coat sleeve be- 
 longing to it, which was all of her adversary that came 
 under her observation, distracted Eleanor's thoughts ; 
 she could not forget whose it was. Very different from 
 the weak flexile fingers of Miss Broadus, with their 
 hesitating movement and doubtful pauses, these did 
 their work and disappeared ; with no doubt or hesitancy 
 of acticm, and with agile firmness in every line of mus- 
 cle and play. Eleanor shewed very poor skill for her 
 part, at plMuniug and contriving on this occasion ; and 
 she had a feeling that her opponent might have ended 
 the game many a time if he had chosen it. Still the 
 game did not end. It was a very silent one. 
 
 " You are playing with me, Mr. Carlisle," she said at 
 length. 
 
 " What are you doing with me ?" 
 
 "Making no fight at all; but that is because I 
 cannot. Why don't you conquer me and end the 
 game ?" 
 
 " How can I ?" 
 
 " I am sure I don't kn nv ; but I believe you do. I< 
 
INTHESADDJLB. 65 
 
 is all a muddle to me ; and not a very interesting piece 
 ©f confusion to you, I should think," 
 
 He did not answer that, but moved a piece ; Eleanor 
 \nade the answering move; and the next step created a 
 lock. The game could go no further. Eleanor began 
 to put lip the pieces, feeling worsted in more ways than 
 one. She had not dared to raise her eyes higher than 
 that coat-sleeve ; and she knew at the same time that 
 she herself liad been thoroughly overlooked. Those 
 same fingers came now helping her to lay the chessmen 
 in the box, ordering them better than she did. 
 
 " I want to shew you some cottages I have been build- 
 ing beyond Rythdale tower," said the owner of the fin- 
 gers. " Will you ride with me to-morrow to look at 
 them ?" 
 
 He waited for her answer, which Eleanor hesitated to 
 give. But she could not say no, and finally she gave a 
 low ye-;. Her yes was so low, it was significant; 
 Eleanor knew it ; but Mr. Carlisle went on in the same 
 tone. 
 
 " At what hour ? At eleven ?" 
 
 " That will do," said Eleanor, after hesitating again. 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 He went on, taking the chessmen from her fingers as 
 fast as .=he gathered them up, and bestowing them in 
 the box after a leisurely manner; then rose and bowed 
 and took his departure. Eleanor saw that he did not 
 hold any communication with her mother on his way 
 out ; and in dread of Mrs. Powle's visitation of curiosity 
 upon herself; she too, made as quick and as quiet an es- 
 cape as possible to her own room. There locked the 
 door and walked the floor to think. 
 
 In eifect she had given her answer, by agreeing to 
 ride ; she knew it. She knew that Mr. Carlisle hud 
 takeh it so, even by the slight freedom with which his 
 Sngers touched hers in taking the chessmen from theia 
 
3(f TIIEOLDHELMET. 
 
 It w IS a very little thing ; and yet Eleanor could nevei 
 recall the willing contact of those fingers, repeated and 
 repeated, without a thrill of feeling that she had com- 
 mitted herself; that she had given the end of the clue into 
 Mr. Carlisle's hand, which duly wound up would laud 
 her safe enough, mistress of Rythdale Priory. And 
 was she unwilling to be that ? No — not exactly. And 
 did she dislike Rythdale Priory's master, or future mas- 
 ter ? No, not at all ; nevertheless, Eleanor did not feel 
 quite willing to have him hers just yet ; she was not ready 
 for that ; and she chafed at feeling that the end of that 
 clue was in the hand of hei- chess-playing antagonist, 
 and alternatives pretty well out of her power. An al- 
 ternative Eleanor would have liked. She would have 
 liked the play to have gone on for some time longer, 
 leaving her her liberty in all kinds ; liberty to make up 
 her mind at leisure, among other things. She was not 
 lust now eager to be mistress of anything but herself. 
 
 Eleanor watched for her mother's coming, but Mrs. 
 Powle was wiser. She had marked the air of both 
 parties on quitting the drawing-room ; and though 
 doubtless she would have lil<ed a little word reve- 
 lation of what she desired to know, she was content 
 to leave things in train. She judged that Mr. Carlisle 
 could manage his own affairs, and went to bed well 
 satisfied ; while Eleanor, finding that her mother was 
 not coming, at last laid herself also down to rest, with 
 a mixed feeling of pleasure and pain in her heart, but 
 vexation towering above all. It would have been vex- 
 ation still better grown, if she had known the hint her 
 mother had given Mr. Carlisle, when that evening he 
 h:id applied to her for what news she had for him? 
 Mrs. Powle referred him very smilingly to Eleanor to 
 learn it; at the same time teUiiig him that Eleanor 
 had been allowed to run wild — like her sister Julia — till 
 aow she was a little wilful and needed tamins. 
 
INTHESADDLE. 61 
 
 She looked the character siiffiuiently well when shf, 
 eame down the next morning. The colour on her cheek 
 was raised yet, and rich ; and Eleanor's beautiful lips 
 did not unbend to their brilliant mischievous smile. She 
 was soroewjiat quick and nervous too about her house- 
 Lold arrangements and orders, which yet Eleanor did not 
 neglect. It was time then to dress for her ride ; and 
 Eleanor dressed, not hurriedly but carefully, between 
 pleasure and irritation. By what impulse she could 
 not have told, she pulled the feather from her riding 
 cap. It was a long, jaunty black feather, that somewhat 
 shaded and softened her face in riding with its float- 
 ing play. Her cap now, and her whole dress, was sim- 
 plicity itself; but if Eleanor had meant to cheat Mr. 
 Carlisle of some pleasure, she had misjudged and lost 
 her aim ; the close little unadorned cap but shewed the 
 better her beautiful hair and a face and features which 
 nobody that loved them could wish even shaded from 
 view. 
 
 Mrs. Powle had maintained a discreet silence all the 
 morning ; nevertheless Eleanor was still afraid that she 
 might come to ask questions, and not enduring to answer 
 them, as soon as her toilet was finished she fled from her 
 room into the garden. This garden, into which the old 
 schoolroom opened, was Eleanor's particular property. 
 No other of the family were ever to be found in it. She 
 had arranged its gay curves and angles, and worked in 
 it and kept it in great part herself. The dew still 
 huno- on the leaves ; the air of a glorious summer 
 morning was sweet with the varied fragrance of the 
 flowers. Eleanor's heart sprung for the dear old liberty 
 she and the garden had had together; she went linger- 
 ingly and thoughtfully among her petunias and carna- 
 tions, remembering how joyous that liberty had been ; 
 and yet — she was not willing to say the word that would 
 secure it to her. She roved about among the walks. 
 
68 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 picking carnations in one hand and gathering up her 
 habit with the other. So her little sister found her. 
 
 " Why Eleanor ! — are you going to ride with Mr. 
 Carlisle ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well he has come — he is waiting for you. He has 
 brought the most splendid black horse for you that you 
 ever saw ; papa says she is magnificent." 
 
 "I ordered my pony" — said Eleanor. 
 
 " Well the pony is there, and so is the black horse. O 
 Buch a beauty, Eleanor! Come." 
 
 Eleanor would not go through the house, to see her 
 mother and father by the way. Instinctively she sheered 
 off by the shrubbery paths, which turning and winding 
 at last brought her out upon the front lawn. On the 
 whole a more marked entrance upon the scene the young 
 lady could not have contrived. From the green setting 
 of the shrubbery her excellent figure came out to view, 
 in its dark riding drapery ; and carnations in one hand, 
 her habit in the other, she was a pleasant object to sev- 
 eral pairs of eyes that were watching her ; Julia having 
 done them the kind office to say which way she was 
 coming. 
 
 Of them all, however, Eleanor only saw Mr. Carlisle, 
 who was on the ground to meet her. Perhaps he had 
 as great an objection to eyes as she had ; for his removal 
 of his cap in gi-eeting was as cool as if she had been a 
 stranger ; and so were his words. 
 
 " I have brought Black Maggie for you — will you do 
 me the honour to try her ?" 
 
 Eleanor did not say she would not, and did not say 
 anything. Hesitation and embarrassment were the two 
 pleasant feelings which possessed her and forbade her to 
 S[)eak. She stood before the superb animal, which 
 showed blood in every line of its head and bf?!i'itifu) 
 fi-ame ; and looked at it, and looked at the ground . ^[r 
 
INTHESADDLE. 69 
 
 Carlisle gently removed the carnations from her liand, 
 taking them into his own, then gave her the reins of 
 Black Maggie and put her into the saddle. In another 
 minul.3 they were off, and out of the reach of observa- 
 tion. But Eleanor had felt again, even in that instant oi 
 giving into her fingers the reins which he had taken 
 from the groom, the same thing that she had felt last 
 eight — the expression of something new between them. 
 She was in a very divided state of mind. She had not 
 told him he might take that tone with her. 
 
 " There are two ways to the head of the valley," said 
 the subject of her thoughts. " Shall we take the circuit 
 by the old priory, or go by the moor ?" 
 
 " By the moor," said Eleanor. 
 
 There, for miles, was a level plain road ; they could 
 ride any pace, and she could stave off talking. Accord- 
 ingly, as soon as they got quit of human habitations, 
 Eleanor gave Black Maggie secretly to understand that 
 she might go as fast as she liked. Black Maggie appa- 
 rently relished the intimation, for she sprang forward at 
 a rate Eleanor by experience knew nothing of. She had 
 never been quite so well mounted before. As swiftly 
 and as easily as if Black Maggie's feet had been wings, 
 they flew over the common. The air was fresh, the mo- 
 tion was quite sufSoient to make it breezy ; Eleanor felt 
 exhilarated. All the more because she felt rebellious, 
 and the stopping Mr. Carlisle's mouth was at least a grat- 
 ification, though she could not leave him behind. He 
 had not mounted her better than himself Fly as Black 
 Maggie would, her brown companion was precisely at 
 her side. Eleanor had a constant sense of that ; but 
 however, the ride whs so capital, the moor so wild, the 
 summer air so delicious, that by degrees she began to 
 grow soothed and come down from rebellion to good 
 humour. By and by. Black Maggie got excited. It was 
 with nothing but her own spirits and motion ; quit« 
 
?0 THEOLD HELMET. 
 
 enough thongli to make hoofs still more emulous ol 
 wings. Now she flew indeed. Eleanor's bridle rein wag 
 not sufficient to hold her in, or make any impression. 
 She could hardly see how they went. 
 
 " Is not this too much for you ?" the voice of Mr. Car- 
 lisle said quietly. 
 
 " Rather — but I can't check her," said Eleanor ; vexed 
 to make the admission, and vexed again when a word or 
 two from the rider at her side, who at the same moment 
 leaned forward and touched Maggie's bridle, brought 
 the wild creature instantly not only from her mad gallop 
 but back to a very demure and easy trot. So demure, 
 that there was no longer any bar to conversation ; but 
 then Eleanor reflected she could not gallop always, and 
 they were almost off the plain road of the moor. How 
 beautiful the moor had been to her that morning ! Now 
 Eleanor looked at Black Maggie's ears. 
 
 " How do you like her ?" said Mr. Carlisle. 
 
 " Charming ! She is perfection. She is delightful." 
 
 " She must learn to know her mistress," he rejoined, 
 leaning forward again and drawing Maggie's reins 
 through his fingers. " Take her up a little shorter — and 
 ppeak to her the next time she does not obey you." 
 
 The flush rose to Eleanor's cheeks, and over her brow, 
 and reddened her very temples. She made no sort of 
 answei-, yet she knew silence was answer, and that her 
 blood was speaking for her. It was pretty speaking, 
 but extremely inconvenient. And what business had 
 Mr. Carlisle to take things for granted in that way ? 
 Eleanor began to feel rebellious again. 
 
 "Do you always ride with so loose a rein?" began 
 Mr. Carlisle again. 
 
 " I don't know — I never think about it. My pony is 
 perfectly safe." 
 
 " So is Maggie — as to her foot ; but in general, it id 
 well to let everything under you feel your hand." 
 
INTHESADDLE. 7l 
 
 " That is what you do, I have ro doubt," thought 
 Eleanor, and bit her lip. She would have started into 
 another gallop ; but they were entering upon a narrow 
 and rough way where gallopping was inadmissible. It 
 descended .gradually and winding among roclcs and 
 broken ground, to a lower level, the upper part ot the 
 valley of the Ryth ; a beautiful clear little stream flow- 
 ing brightly in a rich meadow ground, with gently 
 shelving, softly broken sides ; the initiation of the wilder 
 scenery further down the valley. Here were the cottages 
 Mr. Carlisle had spoken of. They looked very pic- 
 turesque and very inviting too ; standing on either side 
 the stream, across which a rude rustic bridge was thrown. 
 Each cottage had its paling enclosure, and built of grey 
 rough stone, with deep sloping roofs and bright little 
 casements, they looked the very ideal of humble homes. 
 No smoke rose from the chimneys, and nobody was vis- 
 ible without or within. 
 
 " I want some help of you here," said Mr. Carlisle. 
 " Do you like the situation ?" 
 
 " Most beautiful !" said Eleanor heartily. " And the 
 houses are just the thing." 
 
 " Will you dismount and look a little closer ? "Wo 
 will cross the bridge first." 
 
 They drew bridle before one of the cottages. Elea- 
 nor had all the mind in the world to have thrown her- 
 self from Black Maggie's back, as she was accustomed 
 to do from her own pony; but she did not dare. Yes- 
 terday she would have dared ; to-day there was a slight 
 indefinable change in the manner of Mr. Carlisle towards 
 herself, which cast a spell over her. He stood beside 
 Black Maggie, the carnations making a rosy spot in the 
 buttonhole of his white jacket, while he gave some order 
 to the groom — Eleanor did not hear what, for her mind 
 was on something else ; then turned to her and took hot 
 down, that same indescribable quality of manner and 
 
7? THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 handling saying to all her senses that he regarded the 
 horse and the lady with the same ownership. Eleanor 
 felt proud, and vexed, and ashamed, and pleased ; her 
 mind divided between different feelings ; but Mr. Car- 
 lisle directed her attention now to the cottages. 
 
 It was impossible not to admire and be pleased with 
 them. The exterior was exceedingly homelike and 
 pretty ; within, there was yet more to excite admira- 
 tion. Nicely arranged, neatly and thoroughly fur- 
 nished, even to little details, they looked most desirable 
 homes for any persons of humble means, even though 
 the tastes had not been equally humble. From one to 
 another Mr. Carlisle took Eleanor ; displnying his ar- 
 rangements to a very silent observer ; for though she 
 thought all this admiration, she hardly said anything. 
 Between irritation, and pleasure, and a pretty well- 
 grown shyness, she felt very tongue-tied. At last, after 
 shewing her the view from the lattice of a nice little 
 cottage kitchen, Mr. Carlisle asked for her judgment upon 
 what had been done. 
 
 " It is thoroughly excellent," said Eleanor. " They 
 leave nothing to wish. I have never seen such nice cot- 
 tages. Theie is nobody in them yet ?" 
 
 "Is there any improvement to be made?'' 
 
 " Ncme to be desired, I think," said Eleanor. " They 
 ai-e just perfect little homes. They only want the peo- 
 ple now." 
 
 " And that is where I want your help. Do you think 
 of any good families, or poor people you approve of, 
 that you would like to put in some of these ?" 
 
 Eleanor's thought flew instantly to two or three such 
 families among her poor friends ; for she was a good 
 deal of a Lady Bountiful, as far as moderate means and 
 large sympathy could go ; and knew many of the lower 
 classes in her neighbourhood ; but again she struggled 
 with two feelings, for the question had been put not in a 
 
INTHESADDLE. ^S 
 
 tone of compliment but with a manner of simple con&nl- 
 tation. Slie fluslied and hesitated, until it was jiut 
 again. 
 
 " I know several, I think, that you would not dislike 
 to have here, and that would be very glad to come, Mr, 
 Carlisle." 
 
 "Who are they?" 
 
 " One is Mrs. Benson, who lives on nothii.'g with her 
 family of eight children, and brings them up well." 
 
 Mr. Carlisle took out his note-book. 
 
 " Another is Joe Shepherd and his wife ; but they ar^j 
 an old couple ; perhaps you do not want old people 
 here ?" 
 
 He looked up from his note-book with a little smile, 
 which brought the blood tingling to Eleanor's brow 
 again, and eiTectually drove away all her ideas. She 
 was very vexed with herself; she was never used to 
 be so troubled with blushing. She turned away. 
 
 " Suppose you sit down," said he, taking her hands 
 and placingher in a chair by the window. " You must have 
 some refresliment, I think, before we go any further." 
 He left the cottage, and Eleanor lookerl out of the open 
 casement, biting her lips. Theair came in with such a 
 sweet breath from the heathery moor, it seemed to blow 
 vexation away. Yet Eleanor w&s vexed. Here she was 
 making admissions with every breath, when she would 
 fain have not made any. She wanted her old liberty, 
 and to dispose of it at her leisure if at all ; and at least 
 not to have it taken from her. But here was Mr. Car- 
 lisle at her elbow again, and one of his servants bringing 
 dishes and glasses. The meats were spread on the little 
 table before which Eleanor sat, and Mr. Carlisle took 
 another chair. 
 
 " We will honour the house for once," he said smil- 
 tn;"!; ; " the futui-e shall be as the occupants deserve. If 
 tbii one to belong to some of your proteges ?" 
 
 4 
 
74 THBO I- D HELMET. 
 
 "I have not the gift of foresight," said Eleanor. 
 
 "You have another sort of gift which will do quite as 
 well. If you have any choice, choose the houses in 
 which Joe Shepherd, and Mrs. Benson, and anybody 
 else, shall thank you — and I will order the doors marked. 
 Which do you prefer ?" 
 
 Eleanor was forced to speak. " I think this is one of 
 the pleasan test situations," she said flushing deeply again; 
 " but the house highest up the valley " 
 
 " What of it ?" said Mr. Carlisle, smiling at her. 
 
 " That would be best for Joe Shepherd, because of his 
 business. It is nearer the common.'' 
 
 " Joe Shepherd shall have it. Now will you do me 
 the fkvour to eat that," said he putting a piece of cold 
 gHme on lier plate. " Do not look at it, but eat it. Tour 
 day's labour is by no means over." 
 
 It was easier to eat than to do nothing ; and easier 
 to look at her plate than where her carnations gleamed 
 on that white bi'east-ground. So Eleanor eat obediently. 
 
 "The day is so uncommonly fine, how would you like 
 to walk down tlie valley as far as the old priory, and let 
 the horses meet us there ?" 
 
 " I am willing" — said Eleanor. Which she was, only 
 because she was ashamed or afraid to say that she wanted 
 to gallop back by the moor, the same way she had come. 
 A long walk down the valley would give, fine opportu- 
 nity for all that she dreaded in the way of conversation. 
 However, the order Was given about the horses, and the 
 walk began. 
 
 The way was at first a continuation of the valley in 
 which the cottages were situated ; uncultivated, sweet, 
 and wild. They were a good distance beyond Barton's 
 Lower. The stream of the Rytli, not so large as it 
 became further down, spai kled along in a narrow meadow, 
 beset with flowers. Here and there a rude brid-re 
 crossed it ; :md the walkers pa^^sed as they listed from 
 
INTHBBADDLE. 7ft 
 
 Side to side, wandering down the vallej at great leisure, 
 remarking upon all sorts of things except what Eleanor 
 was dreading. The walk and talk went on without any- 
 thing formidable. Mr. Carlisle seemed to have nothing 
 on liis mind ; and Eleanor, full of what was on hers, 
 only felt through his quiet demeanour that he was taking 
 things for granted in a very cool way. She was vexed 
 and irritated, and at the same time subdued. And then 
 an opposite feeling would stir, of pleasure and pride, at 
 the place she was taking and the relations she was assum- 
 ing to the beautiful domain thi-ough which they wan- 
 dered. As they went down the valley it grew more and 
 moie lovely. Luxuriant growths of ash and oak, min- 
 gled with larches, crowned the rising borders of the 
 valley and crept down their sides, hanging a most exqui- 
 site clothing of vegetation over the banks which had 
 hitherto been mostly bare. As they went, from point to 
 point and in one after another region of beauty, her com- 
 panion's talk, quietly flowing on, called her attention to 
 one and another observation suggested by what they 
 were looking at ; not as if it were a foreign matter, but 
 with a tacit intimation that it concerned her or had a 
 right to her interest. It was a long walk. They were 
 some time before reaching the old tower ; then a long 
 stretch of beautiful scenes Iny between them and the old 
 prioiy ruins. This part of the valley was in the highest 
 degree picturesque. The sides drew together, close and 
 rocky and overshadowed with a thicket of trees. The 
 path of the river became steep an< encumbered ; the 
 way along its banks grew comparatively rough and diffi 
 cult. The day was delicious, without even a threatening 
 of rain ; yet the sun in some places was completely shut 
 out from the water by the overgrown, overhanging sid<!3 
 of rock and wood which shut in the doll. Cimversation 
 was broken here, by the ])leasant difliculty of pursumg 
 the way. Here too flowers were sweet and the birds 
 
Jd THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 busy. The way was> enough to delight any lover ol 
 nature; and it was impossible not to be delighted. 
 Nevei-theless Eleanor hailed for a sake not its o^vn, 
 every bit of broken ground and rough walking that 
 made connected conversation impossible ; and then w.13 
 glad to see the grey walls of the priory, where the horses 
 
 were to meet them. Once in the saddle again 
 
 she would be glad to be there ! 
 
 The horses were not in sight yet ; they strolled into 
 the ruin. It was lovely to-day ; the sunlight adding its 
 brightening touch to all that moss and ivy and lichen and 
 fern had done. They sauntered up what had been an 
 aisle of the church ; carpeted now with soft shaven turf, 
 close and smooth. 
 
 " The priory was founded a great while ago," said 
 Mr. Carlisle, " by one of the first Lords of Rythdale, on 
 account of the fact that he had slain his own brother in 
 mortal combat. It troubled his mind, I suppose, even in 
 those rough times." 
 
 " And he built the church to soothe it." 
 
 " Built the church and founded the establishment ; 
 gave it all the lands we have passed through to-day, and 
 much moi'e ; and great rights on hill and dale and moor. 
 We have them nearly all back again — by one happy 
 chance and another." 
 
 " What was this ?" said Eleanor, seating herself on a 
 great block of stone, the surface of which was rough 
 with decay. 
 
 " This was a to'ubstone — tradition says, of that same 
 elain Lord of Rj ihdale — but T think it very hypothetical. 
 However, your fancy can conjure back his image, if you 
 like, lying where you sit ; covered with the armour he 
 lived his life in, and probably with hands joined to 
 make the pra) ers his life had rendered desirable." 
 
 " He had not the helmet — " thought Eleanor. She 
 got up to look at the stone ; but it was worn away ; no 
 
INTHESADDLE. H 
 
 trace of the knight 'a armour who had lain there was 
 any longer to be seen. What long ago times those 
 were ! 
 
 " And then the old monks did nothing else but pray," 
 she remarked. 
 
 "A few other things," said her companion ; " if report 
 is true. But they said a great many prayers, it is cer- 
 tain. It was what they were speciall}^ put here for — to 
 do masses for that old stone figure that used to lie there. 
 They were paid well for doing it. I hope they did it." ' 
 
 The wind stirred gently through the ruin, bringing a 
 sweet scent of herbs and flowers, and a fern or an ivy 
 leaf here and there just moved lightly on its stalk. 
 
 " They must have lived a pleasant sort of life," said 
 Eleanor musingly, — " in this beautiful place !" 
 
 " Are you thinking of entering a monastery ?" said 
 her companion smiling. It brought back Eleanor's con- 
 ciousness, which had been for a moment forgotten, and 
 the deep colour flashed to her face. She stood confused. 
 Mr. Carlisle did not lot her go this time ; he took both 
 her hands. 
 
 '■ Do you think I am going to be satisfied with only 
 negjitive answers from you ?" said he changing his tone, 
 " What have you got to say to me ?" 
 
 Eleanor struggled with herself. " Nothing, Mr. Car- 
 lisle." 
 
 " Your mother has conveyed to you my wishes ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Eleanor softly. 
 
 " What are yours ?" 
 
 She hesitated, hi Id at hay, but he waited ; and at last 
 with a little of lier frank daring breaking out, she said, 
 Btill in her former soft voice, " I would let things alone." 
 
 " Suppose that could not be, — would you send me 
 away, or let me come near to you ?" 
 
 Eleanor could not send him away ; but he would not 
 come near. He stood keeping her hands in a light firm 
 
78 I'HEOLDHELMKT. 
 
 grasp ; she felt that he knew his hold of her ; her head 
 bowed in confusion. 
 
 " Speak, darling," he said. "Are you mine ?" 
 
 Eleanor shrank lower and lower from his observation ; 
 ut she answered in a whisper, — " I suppose so." 
 
 Her hands were released then, only to have herself 
 aken into more secure possession. She had given her 
 self upj and Mr. Carhsle's manner said that to touch hei 
 iheek was his right as well as his pleasure. Eleanor could 
 lot dispute it ; she knew that Mr. Carlisle loved her, but 
 she cei'tainly thought the sense of power had great 
 charms for him. So she presently thought, had the 
 exercise of it. 
 
 " You are mine now," he said, — " you are mine. Ton 
 are Eleanor Carlisle. But you have not said a word to 
 me. What is my name ?" 
 
 " Your name !" stammered Eleanor, — " Carlisle." 
 
 " Yes, bat the rest ?" 
 
 " [ knovv it," said Eleanor. 
 
 " Speak It, darling ?" 
 
 Ja'ow Eleanor had no mind to speak that or anything 
 eh-c upon compulsion ; it should be a grace from her 
 lipc, not th^ compliance with a requisition ; her spirit of 
 resistance sprung up. A frank refusal was on her 
 tongue, .'if-d her head which had been drooping was 
 thrown ha"k with an infinitely pretty air of defiance, to 
 give it. Thus she met Mr. Carhsle's look ; met the 
 bright has-el eyes that were bent upon her, full of affec- 
 tion and >"miling, but with something else in them as 
 well ; tVere was a calm power of exaction. Eleanor 
 read it, even in the half glance which took in incon- 
 gruously the graceful figure and easy attitude ; she did 
 not feel ready for contention with Mr. Carlisle ; the man's 
 nature was dominant over the woman's. Eleanor's head 
 Blooped again ; she spoke obediently the required words. 
 
 " Robert Macintosh." 
 
INTHESADDLH. 76 
 
 The kisses which met her lips before the words were 
 Well out, seemed to seal the whole transaction. Perhaps 
 it was Eleanor's fancy, but to her they spoke unqualified 
 content both with her opposition and her yielding. She 
 was chafed with the consciousness that she had been 
 obliged to yield ; vexed to feel that she was not her own 
 mistress ; even while the kisses that stopped her lips told 
 her how much love mingled with her captor's power. 
 There was no questioning that fact ; it only half soothed 
 Eleanor. 
 
 Mr. Carlisle bade her sit d(5wn and rest, while he went 
 to see if the horses were there. Eleanor sat down dream- 
 ily on the old tombstone, and in the space of three min- 
 utes went over whole fields of thought. Her mind was 
 in a perverse state. Before her the old tower of the 
 ruined priory rose in its time-worn beauty, with the 
 young honours of the ivy clinging all about it ; on either 
 side of her stretched the grey, ivied and mossy, crumb- 
 ling walls. It was a magnificent place ; if not her own 
 mistress, it was a pleasant thing to be mistress of such 
 as that ; and a vision of gay grandeur floated over her 
 mind. Still, in contrast with that vision, tlie quiet, 
 ruined priory tower spoke of a different life — brought 
 up a sepaj-ate vision ; of unworldly possessions, aims, 
 hopes, and occupations ; it was not famihar to Eleanor'^ 
 mind, yet now somehow it rose upon her, w ith the feel 
 ing of that once-wanted, still desired, — only she had for- 
 gotten it — armour of security. Why did she think of 
 it now ? was it because Eleanor's mind was in that dis- 
 ordered state which lets everything come to the surface 
 by turns ; or because i^he was still suffering from 
 vexation, and her spirit chose contraries with a natural 
 readiness and relish ? It was not more than three min- 
 utes, but Eleanor tiavelled far in dream-land ; so far that 
 the sudden feeling of two hands upon her shoulders, 
 brought her back with even a visible start. She was 
 
80 THEOLD HELMET. 
 
 rallied and laughed at ; then her hand was put upon Mr 
 Carlisle's arm and so Eleanor was walked out to where 
 Black Maggie stood waiting for her. Of course she felt 
 that her engagement was to he made known to all the 
 world immediately. Mr. Carlisle's servant must know 
 it now. It seemed to Eleanor that fine bands of cob- 
 webs had been cast round her, binding her hands and 
 feet, which loved their liberty. The feeling made one 
 little imprudent burst. As Mr. Carlisle put Maggie 9 
 reins into her hand, he repeated what he had before said, 
 that Eleanor should use her voice if the bridle failed to 
 win obedience. 
 
 " She is not of a rebellious disposition," he added. 
 
 " Do you read dispositions ?" said Eleanor, gathering 
 up the reins. He stood at her saddle-bow. 
 
 " Sometimes." 
 
 " Do you know mine ?" 
 
 " Partially." 
 
 " It is what you say Black Maggie's is not." 
 
 " Is it ? Take the reins a little shorter-, Eleanor." 
 
 It is difficult to say how much there may be in two 
 short words ; but as Mr. Carlisle went round to the other 
 side and mounted, he left his little lady in a state of 
 fume. Those two words said so plainly to Eleanor's ear, 
 that her announcement was neither denied nor disliked. 
 Nay, they expressed pleasure ; the sort of pleasure that 
 a man has in a spirited horse of which he is master. It 
 threw Eleanor's mind into a tumult, so great that for a 
 minute or two she hardly knew what she was about. 
 But for the sound, sweet good temper, which in spite of 
 Eleanor's self-characierizing was part of her nature, she 
 would have been in a rage. As it was, she only handled 
 Black Maggie in a more stately style than she had oared 
 about at the beginning of the ride ; putting her upon 
 her paces; and so rode through all the village, in a way 
 that certainly pleased Mr. Cailisle, though he said noth 
 
INTHESADDLE. 81 
 
 Xig about it. He contrived however to aid in the 
 soothing work done by Black Maggie's steps, so that 
 long before Ivy Lodge was reached Eleanor's smile 
 came free and sweet again, and her lip lost its ominous 
 curve. 
 
 "You area darling!" Mr. Carlisle whispered as he 
 took her down from her horse. 
 
 Eleanor went on into the drawing-room. He followed 
 her. Nobody was there. 
 
 " What have you to say to me, Eleanor ?" he said as 
 he held her hand before parting. 
 
 " Nothing whatever, Mr. Carlisle." Eleanor's frank 
 brilliacit smile gleamed mischievously upon him. 
 
 " Will you not give me a word of kindness before 
 I go?" 
 
 " No ! Mr. Carlisle, if I had my own way," said 
 Eletnor switching her riding-whip nervously about her 
 habit, — " I would be my own mistress for a good while 
 longer.'' 
 
 " Shall I give you back your liberty ?" said he, draw- 
 ing her into his arms. Eleanor was silent. Their touch 
 manifested no such intention. He bent his head lower 
 and said softly, " Kiss me, Eleanor." 
 
 There was as before, just that mingling of affection 
 and exaction which conquered her. She knew all she 
 was giving, but she half dared not and half cai'ed not 
 to refuse. 
 
 " You little witch — " said he as he took possession of 
 the just permitted lips, — " I will punish you for your 
 naughtiness, by taking you home very soon — into my 
 own management." 
 
 Mrs. Powle was in Eleanor's room when she entered 
 waiting there for her. 
 
 "Well Eleanor," she began, — "is it settled? Are 
 
 you to be Lady Rythdale ?" 
 
 " If Mr. Carlisle has his will, ma'am." 
 4* 
 
82 THHOLDIIBLMET. 
 
 " And what is your will ?" 
 
 •' I have none any longer. But if you and he try 
 to hurry on the day, mamma, it shall never come, — 
 never !" 
 
 Mrs. Powle thought she vfonld leave that matter is 
 more sidlful hands ; and went away well satisfied. 
 
OHAPTEE V. 
 
 ** This floating life hath but this port of relt, 
 A heart prepared, that fears no ill to come." 
 
 The matter was in skilful hands ; for the days rolled 
 on, after thai eventful excursion, with great smoothness, 
 Mr. Carlisle kept Eleanor busy, with some pleasant little 
 excitement, every day varied. She was made to taste 
 the sweets of her new position, and to depend more and 
 more upon the hand that introduced her to them. Mr. 
 Carlisle ministered carefully to her tastes. Eleanor daily 
 was well mounted, generally on Maggie ; and enjoyed 
 her heart's delight of a gallop over the moor, or a more 
 moderate pace through a more rewarding scenery. Mr. 
 Carlisle entered into the spirit of her gardening pur 
 suits ; took her to his mother's conservatory ; and found 
 that he never pleased Eleanor better than when he 
 plunged her into the midst of flowers. He took good 
 care to advance his own interests all the time ; and 
 advanced them fast and surely. He had Eleanor's liking 
 bef )re ; and her nature was too sweet and rich not to 
 incline towards the person whom she had given such a 
 position with herself, yielding to him more and more of 
 faith and affection. And that in spite of what sometimes 
 chafed her ; the quiet sway she felt Mr. Carlisle had 
 over her, beneath which she was powerless. Or rather, 
 perhaps she inclined towards him secretly the more on 
 account of it ; for to women of rich natures there is 
 something attractive in being obliged to look up ; and 
 \.o women of all natures it is imposing. So Mr. Car^ 
 
84 THE O L D II B L M E T . 
 
 'isle's threat, by Eleanor so stoutly resisted and resentedj 
 was extremely likely to come to pass. Mrs. Powle was 
 too wise to touch her finger to the game. 
 
 Several weeks Avent by, during whi(!h Eleanor had no 
 shance to think of anything but Mr. Carlisle and the 
 matters he presented for her notice. At the end of that 
 time he was obliged to go up to London on sudden 
 business. It made a great lull in the house ; and Elea*- 
 nor began to sit in hier gai'den parlour again and dream. 
 While drearaing one day, she heard the voice of her lit- 
 tle sister sobbing at the door-step. She had not observed 
 before that she was sitting there. 
 
 " Julia !" said Eleanor—" What is the matter ?" 
 
 Julia would not immediately say, but then faltered 
 out, " Mr. Rhys." 
 
 " Mr. Rhys ! What of him ?" 
 
 " He's sick. He's going to die, I know." 
 
 "How do you know he is sick? Come, stop crying, 
 Julia, and speak. What makes you think he is sick ?" 
 
 " Because he just lies on the sofa, and looks so white, 
 and he can't keep school. He sent away the boys yes- 
 terday." 
 
 " Does he see the doctor ?" 
 
 " No. I don't know. No, I know he don't," said 
 Julia ; " because the old woman said he onght to see 
 him." 
 
 " What old woman, child ?" 
 
 " His old woman — Mrs. Williams. And mamma said 
 I might have some jelly and some sago for him — and 
 there is nobody to take it. Foster is out of the way, 
 and Jack is busy, and I can't get anybody." 
 
 Julia's tears were very sincere. 
 
 " Stop crying, child, and I will go with you myself. 
 I have not had a walk to-day, or a ride, or anything. 
 Come, get ready, and you and I will take it." 
 
 Julia did not wait even for thanks ; she was never 
 
AITHECOTTAGE. tit 
 
 given to be ceremonious ; but sprang away to do as her 
 sister had said. In a few minutes they were off, goinj^ 
 through the garden, each with a little basket in her 
 hand. Julia's tears were exchanged for the most suti- 
 shiny gladness. 
 
 It was a sunshiny day altogether, in the end of sum 
 mer, and the heat was sultry. Neither sister minded 
 weather of any sort ; nevertheless they chose the shady 
 side of the road and went very leisurely, along by the 
 hedgerows and under the elms and beeches with which 
 all the way to the village was more or less shaded. It 
 was a long walk, even to the village. The cottage where 
 Mr. Rhys had his abode was yet further on. The vil- 
 lage must be passed on the way to it. 
 
 It was a long line of cott.<tges, standing for the most 
 part on one side the street only ; the sweet hedgerow 
 on the other side only here and there broken by a white 
 wicket gate. The houses were humble enough ; yet in 
 universal neat order on the outside at least ; in many 
 instances grown over with climbing roses and ivy, and 
 overhung with deep thatched roofs. They stood scat- 
 teringly ; gardens and sometimes small crofts interven- 
 ing ; and noble growth of old oaks and young elms 
 shading the way ; the whole as neat, fresh, and pic- 
 turesque in rural comfort and beauty, as could be seen 
 almost anywhere in England. The lords of Eythdale 
 held sway here, and nothing under their rule, of laie, 
 was out of order. Bui, there were poor people in the 
 village, and very poor old houses, though skilfully turned 
 to the account of beauty in the outward view. Eleanor 
 was yjr(.M known in them ; and now Mrs. Benson came 
 out to the gate and to!d how she was to move to her 
 new home in another fortnight ; and begged the sisters 
 would come in to rest themselves from the sun. And 
 old Mrs. Shepherd curtsied in her doorway ; and Mat. 
 Grimsou's wife, the blacksmith that wan, came to stop 
 
«6 T II EOLD HELMET. 
 
 Eleanor with a roiindnbout representation how her hue- 
 band's business would thrive so much better in anothei- 
 situation. Eleanor was seldom on foot in the village 
 now. She passed that as soon as she could and went on. 
 Fi oin her window on the other side of the lane, Misa 
 Broadus nodded, and beckoned too ; but the sisters 
 would not be delayed. 
 
 " It is good Mr. Carlisle has gone to London," said 
 Juha. " He would not have let you come." 
 
 Eleanor felt stung. 
 
 " Why do you say so, Julia ?" 
 
 "Why you always do what he tells you," said Julia, 
 who was not apt to soften her communications. " He 
 says ' Eleanor' — and you go that way ; and he says 
 ' Eleanor' — and you go the other way." 
 
 " And why do you suppose he would have any objec- 
 tion to my going this way ?" 
 
 " I know" — said Julia. " I am glad he is in London. 
 1 hope he'll stay there." 
 
 Eleanor made no answer but to switch her dress and 
 the bushes as they went by, with a little rod in her hand. 
 There was more truth in the allegation than it pleased 
 her to remember. She did not always feel her bonds at 
 the time, they were so gently put on and the spell of 
 another's will was so natural and so. irresistible. But it 
 chafed her to be reminded of it and to feel that it was so 
 openly exerted and her own subjugation so complete. 
 The switching went on vigorously, taking the bushes and 
 her muslin dress impartially ; and Eleanor's mind was so 
 engrossed that she did not perceive how suddenly the 
 weather was changing. They had passed through the 
 village and left it behind, when Julia exclaimed, "There's 
 a storm coming, Eleanor ! maybe we can get in before it 
 rains." It was an un leniable fact ; and without further 
 parley both sisters set ofi" to run, seeing that there were 
 
AT THE COTTAGE. Si 
 
 ■fery few minutes to accomplish Julia's hope. It began 
 sprinkling already. 
 
 " It's going to he a real storm," said Julia gleefully. 
 " Over the moor it's as black as thuuder. I saw it 
 through the trees." 
 
 " But where are you going? — " For Julia had left the 
 )-oad, or rather lane, and dashed down a path through 
 the trees leading off from it. 
 
 " O this is the best — this leads round to the other side 
 of the house," Julia said. 
 
 Just as well, to go in at the kitchen, Eleanor 
 thought ; and let Julia tind her way with her sago and 
 jelly to Mr. Rhys's room if she so inclined. So they ran 
 on, reached a little strip of open ground at the back of 
 the cottage, and rushed in at the door like a small tor- 
 nado ; for the rain was by this time coming down 
 merrily. 
 
 The first thing Eleanor saw when she had pulled off 
 her flat, — was that she was not in a kitchen. A table 
 with writing implements met her eye ; and turning, she 
 discovered the person one of them at least had come to 
 see, lying on a sort of settee or rude couch, with a pil- 
 low under his head. He looked pale enough, and 
 changed, and lay wrapped in a dressing-gown. If 
 Eleanor was astonished, so certainly was he. But he 
 rose to his feet, albeit scarce able to stand, and received 
 his visiters with a simplicity and grace of nature which 
 was in singular contrast with all the dignities of conven- 
 tional life. 
 
 " Mr. Rhys !" stammered Eleanor, " I had no idea we 
 were breaking into your room. I thought Julia waa 
 taking me into Mrs. Williams's part of the honse." 
 
 " I am very glad to see you !" he said ; and the words 
 were endorsed by the pleasant grave face and the earn 
 "St grasp of the hand. But how ill and thin he looked ! 
 El(;ai;or was shocked. 
 
S8 THEOI. DHELMET 
 
 " It was beginning to vain," she repeated, " and I fol- 
 lowed where Julia led me. I thought she was bringing 
 me to Mrs. Williams's premises. 1 beg you will excuse 
 me." 
 
 " I have made Mrs. Williams give me this part of the 
 house because I think it is the pleasautest. Won't you 
 do me the honour to sit down ?" 
 
 He was bringing a chair for her, but looked so little 
 able for it that Eleanor took it from his hand. 
 
 " Please put yourself on the sofa again, Mr. Rhys — 
 We will not interrupt you a moment." 
 
 " Yes you ■will," said Julia, " unless you want to walk 
 in the rain. Mr. Rhys, are you better to-day?" 
 
 " I am as well as usual, thank you, Julia." 
 
 " I am sorry to see that is not very well, Mr. Rhys," 
 said Ele.mor. 
 
 " Not very strong — " he said with the smile that she 
 remembered, as he sank back in the corner of the couch 
 and rested his he id on his hand. His look and manner 
 altogether gave her a strange feeling. Ill and pale and 
 grave as he was, there was something else about him 
 different from all that she had touched in her own life 
 for- weeks. It was a new atmosphere. 
 
 " Ladies, I hope you are not wet ?" he said presently. 
 
 " Not at all," said Eleanor ; " nothing to signify. 
 We shall dry ourselves in the sun walking back." 
 
 " I think the sun is not going to be out immediately." 
 
 He rose and with slow steps made his way to the 
 inner door and spoke to some one within. Eleanor took 
 a view of her position. The rain was coming down 
 furiously ; no going home just yet was possible. That 
 was the out-of-door prospect. Within, she was a pris- 
 ontn-. The room was a plain little room, plain as a room 
 could be ; with no adornments or luxuries. Some books 
 were piled on deal shelves ; others covered two tables, 
 A large portfolio stood in one corner. On one of the 
 
A T T I-l E C O T T A G E . 89 
 
 tables were pons, ink and paper, not lying loose, but j/ut 
 up in order ; as not used nor wanted at present. Several 
 boxes of various sorts and sizes made up the rest of the 
 furniture, A\ith a few chairs of very simple i'ashion. It 
 was Mr. Rhys's own room they were in ; and all that 
 could be said of it was its nicety of order. Two little 
 windows with the door might give view of something 
 m fair weather ; at present they shewed little but grey 
 rain and a dim vision of trees seen through the rain. 
 Eleanor wanted to get away ; but it was impossible. 
 She must talk. 
 
 " You cannot judge of my prospect now," Mr. Rhys 
 said as she turned to him. 
 
 " Not in this rain. But I should think you could not 
 see much at any time, except trees." 
 
 " Much" is comparative. No, I do not see much ; but 
 thei'e is an opening from my window, through which 
 the eye goes a long way — across a long distance of the 
 moor. It is but a gleam ; however it serves a good 
 purpose for me." 
 
 An old woman here came in with a bundle of sticks 
 and began to lay them for a fire. She was an old-crone 
 looking person. Eleanor observed her, and thought 
 what it must be to have no nurse or companion but 
 that. 
 
 " We have missed you at the Lodge, Mr. Rhys." 
 
 " Thank you. I am missing from all my old haunts, — " 
 he answered gravely. And the thought and the look 
 went to something from which he was very sorry to be 
 missing. 
 
 " But you will be soon well again — will you not? and 
 among us again." 
 
 " I do not know," he said. " I am sometimes inchned 
 to think my work is done." 
 
 " What work, Mr. Rhys ?" said Julia. " Ferns, dc 
 you mean ?" 
 
80 THEOLD HELMET. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " What work, Mr. Rhys?" 
 
 " I mean the Lord's work, Julia, which he has gives 
 016 to do." 
 
 " Do you mean preaching ?" ' 
 
 " That is part of it." 
 
 " What else is your work, Mr. Rhys ?" said Juha, 
 hanging about the couch with an affectionate eye. So 
 affectionate, that her sister's rebuke of her forwardness 
 was checked. 
 
 " Doing all I can, Julia, in every way, to tell people 
 of the Lord Jesus." 
 
 " Was that the work you were going to that horrid 
 place to do ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then' I am glad you are sick !" 
 
 " That is very unkind of you, — " said he with a grav- 
 ity which Eleanor was not sure was real. 
 
 " It is better for you to be sick than to go away from 
 England," said Julia decidedly. 
 
 " But if I am not well enough to go there, I shall go 
 somewhere else." 
 
 " Where ?" 
 
 " What have you got in that saucer ?" 
 
 " Jelly for you. Won't you eat it, Mr. Rhys ? There 
 is sago in the basket. It will do you good." 
 
 " Will you not offer your sister some ?" 
 
 " No. She gets plenty at home. Eat it, Mr. Rhys, 
 won't you ?" 
 
 He took a few spoonfuls, smiled' at her, and told her 
 it was very good. It was a smile worth having. But 
 both sisters saw that he looked fearfully jiale and worn. 
 
 " [ must see if Mrs. Williams has not some berries to 
 offer you," he said. 
 
 " Where are you going, Mr. Rhys, if you do not go tc 
 that place ?" Julia pe-«isted. 
 
ATTHBCOTTAGE. 91 
 
 " If I do not go there, I think I shall go home." 
 
 " Home ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Where is that ?" said Julia hanging about him. 
 
 " I meant my everlasting home, Julia." 
 
 " O don't, Mr. Rhys !" cried the child in a half vexel 
 tone. " Eat some more jelly — do !" 
 
 " I am very willing to stay, Julia, if my Master has 
 work for me to do." 
 
 " You had charge of a chapel at Lily Dale, Mr. Rhys, 
 I am told ?" Eleanor said, feeling awkward. 
 
 " No — at Croydon, beyond." 
 
 " At Croydon ! that is nine miles off. How did you 
 get there ?" 
 
 • The question escaped Eleanor. He hesitated, and 
 answered simply, " I had no way but to walk. I found 
 that very pleasant in summer mornings." 
 
 " Walk to Croydon and back and preach there ! I do 
 not wonder you are sick, Mr. Rhys." 
 
 " I did not walk back the same day." 
 
 " But then where did you go in the evenings to 
 preach ?" said Julia. 
 
 " Tliat was not so far off." 
 
 " Did you serve two chapels on the same day, Mr. 
 Rhys?" Eleanor asked. 
 
 "No. The evenings Julia speaks of I preached nearer 
 home." 
 
 " And school all the week !" said Eleanor. 
 
 " It was no hardship," he said with a most pleasant 
 smile at her. " The King's work required haste — there 
 were many people at both places wh" had not heard the 
 truth or had not learned to love it. There are still." 
 
 His face grew very grave as he spoke ; grave even to 
 Badness as he added, "They are dying without the 
 knowledge of the true life !" 
 
 " Where was the other chapel you went to ?" 
 
92 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " llytlimoor." 
 
 Eleanor hurried on. " Bnt Mr. Rhys, will you allow 
 me to ask 3^ou a question that puzzles me ?" 
 
 " I beg you will do so !" 
 
 " It is just this. If there are so many in England that 
 want teaching — But I beg your pardon ! I am afraid 
 talking tires you." 
 
 "I assure you it is very pleasant to me. Will you 
 go on." 
 
 " If there are so many in England that want teaching, 
 why should you go to such a place as that Julia talks 
 of?" 
 
 " They are further yet from help." 
 
 " But is not the work here as good as the work 
 there ?" 
 
 " I am cut off from both," he said. " I long to go to 
 them. But the Lord has his own plans. ' Why art 
 thou cast down, O my soul; and why art thou disquieted 
 within me ? Hope thou in God !' — " 
 
 The grave, sweet, tender, strong intonation of these 
 words, slowly uttered, moved Eleanor much. Not 
 towards tears ; the effect was rather a great shaking of 
 heart. She saw, a glimpse of a life she had never 
 dreamed of; a power touched her that had never touched 
 her before. This life was something quite unearthly in 
 its spirit and aims; the power was the power of holi- 
 ness. 
 
 It is difficult or impossible to say in words how this 
 influence made itself felt. In the writing of the lines 
 of the face, in the motion of the lips, in the indefin- 
 able tones of voice, in the air and manner, there comes 
 out constantly in all characters an atmosphere of the 
 truth, which the words spoken, whether intended or not 
 intended, do not convey. Even unintentional feigning 
 fails here, and even self deception is belied. The trutli ol 
 a character will make itself felt and influential, for good 
 
A T T H E C O T T A G E. 9S 
 
 or evil, througn all disguises. So it was, that though the 
 words of Mr. Eli3'S might have been said by anybody, 
 the impression they produced belonged to him alone, of 
 all the people Eleanor had ever seen in her life. The 
 " helmet of salvation" was on this man's head, and gave 
 it a dignity more than that of a kingly crown. She sat 
 tliinking so, and recalling her lost wishes of the early 
 summer ; forgetting to carry on the conversation. 
 
 Meanwhile the old woman of the cottage came in 
 again with a fresh supply of sticks, 'and a blaze began to 
 brighten in the chimney. Julia exclaimed in delight. 
 Eleanor looked at the window. The rain still came 
 down heavily. She remembered the thunderstorm in 
 June, and her fears. Then Mr. Rhys begged her to go 
 to tlie fire and dry herself, and again spoke some unin- 
 telligible words to the old attendant. 
 
 " What is that, Mr. Rhys ?" said Julia, who seldom 
 refrained from asking anything she wished to know. 
 
 " I was enquiring of Mrs. Williams whether she had 
 not some fresh gathered berries she could bring for your 
 refreshment." 
 
 " But I mean, what language did you speak to her ?" 
 
 " Welsh." 
 
 "Are you Welsh?" 
 
 "No," said he smiling; "but I have Welsh bloody 
 and I had a Welsh nurse, Julia." 
 
 "I do not want a;ny refreshment, Mr. Rhys; but I 
 would like some berries." 
 
 "I hope you would like to ask pardon of Mr. Rhys 
 for your freedom," said Eleanor. " I am sure you 
 need it." 
 
 " Why Mrs. Williams very often gives me berries," 
 snid Julia ; " and they always taste better than ours. I 
 mean, Mr. Rhys gives me some." 
 
 Eleanor busied herself over the fire, in drying her 
 muslin dress. That did very well instead of talking 
 
94 THEOLDHELMET. 
 
 Mrs. Williams presently came in again, bearing a littla 
 tray with beri-ies and a pot of cream. Julia eagerly 
 played h istess and dealt them out. The service was 
 most homely ; nevertheless the wild berries deserved hei 
 commendation. The girls sat by the fire and eat, and 
 iheir host from the corner of his couch watched them 
 with his keen eyes. It was rather a romnutic adventui'e 
 altogether, Eleanor thought, in the midst of much graver 
 thoughts. But Julia liad quite got her spirits up. 
 
 " Aren't they good,' Eleanor ? They are better berries 
 than those that came from the Priory. Mr. Rhj^s, do 
 you know that after Eleanor is Mrs. Carlisle, she will be 
 Lady Rythdale ?" 
 
 This sliot drove Eleanor into desperation. She would 
 have started aside, to hide her cheeks, but it was no use. 
 Mr. Rhys had risen to add some more cream to her 
 saucer — perhaps on purpose. 
 
 " I understand," he said simply. " Has she made ar. 
 rangements to secure an everlasting ciown, after the 
 earthly coronet shall have faded away ?" 
 
 The question was fairly put to Eleanor. It gave a 
 turn to her confusion, yet liardly more manageable ; for 
 the gentle, winning tones in which it « as made found 
 their way down to some very deep and unguarded spot 
 in her consciousness. No one had ever probed her as 
 this man dared to do. Eleanor could hardly sit still. 
 The berries had no more any taste to her after that. Yet 
 the question demanded an answer ; and after hesitating 
 long she found none better than to say, as she set down 
 her saucer, 
 
 "No, Mr. Rhys." 
 
 Do ibtless he read deeper than the woi'ds of her an- 
 swer, but he made no remark. She w ould have been 
 glad he had. 
 
 The shower seemed to be slackening ; and while Julia 
 entered into lively cunveisatiou over her berries, Eleanor 
 
ATTHECOTTAGE. 95 
 
 Went to the window. She was doubtfully conscious of 
 anything but discomfort ; however she did perceive that 
 the rain was falling less thickly and light beginning to 
 break through the clouds. As she turned from the win- 
 dow she forced herself to speak. 
 
 "\Tliat is there we can do for you at home, Mr. 
 Ivhys? Mrs. Williams' resources, I am sure, must be 
 viry insufficient." 
 
 " I am very much obliged to you !" he said heartily. 
 " There is nothing that I know of. I have all that I 
 leqnire." 
 
 " You are better than you were ? you are gaining 
 strength ?" 
 " No, I think not. I am quite useless now." 
 " But you will get better soon and be useful again." 
 " If it pleases my Master ; — but I tliink not." 
 " Do you consider yourself so seriously ill, Mr. Rhys ?" 
 said Eleanor looking shocked. 
 
 "Do not take it so seriously," said he smiling at her. 
 " No harm can come to me any way. It is far worse 
 than death for me, to be cut off from doing my work, 
 and a while ago the thought of this troubled me ; it gave 
 me some dark hours. But at last I rested myself o^n 
 tliat word, ' Why art thou cast doun, my soul ? Hope 
 tho\i in God !' and now I am content about it. Life or 
 death — neither can bring but good to me; for my Father 
 sends it. You know," he said, again with a smile at her 
 but with a keen observant eye, — " they who are the 
 Lord's wear an invisible casque, which preserves them 
 from all fenr." 
 
 He saw that Eleanor's face was grave and troubled ; 
 he saw that at this last word there was a sort of avoid- 
 ance of feature, as if it reached a spot of -feeling some- 
 where that was seiisitive. He added nothing more, 
 except the friendly grasp of tiie hand, which drove the 
 we^ipbn home. 
 
96 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 The rain had ceased ; the sun was out ; and the two 
 girls sot forward on their return. They hurried at first, 
 for the afternoon had worn away. The rain drops lay 
 thick and spai-kling on every blade of grass, and dripped 
 upon them from tlie trees. 
 
 " Now you will get your feet wet again," said Julia ; 
 " and then you will have another sickness ; and Mr. Car- 
 lisle v/ill be angry." 
 
 " Do let Mr. Carlisle's anger alone !" said Eleanor. 
 " I shall not sit down in wet shoes, so I shall not get 
 hurt. Did you ever see him angry ?" 
 
 " No," said Julia ; " and I am glad he won't be angry 
 with me ?" 
 
 In spite of her words, the wet grass gave Eleanor a 
 disagi'eeable reminder of what wet grass had done for 
 her some months before. The remembrance of her sick- 
 ness came up with the immediate possibility of its return- 
 ing again ; the little feeling of danger and exposure 
 gave power to the things she had just heard. She could 
 not banish them ; she recalled freshly the miserable fear 
 and longing of those days when she lay ill and knew not 
 how her illness would turn ; the fearful want of a shelter ; 
 the comparative littleness of all things under the sun. 
 Rythdale Priory had not been worth a feather in that 
 day ; all the gay pleasures and hopes of the summer 
 could have found no entrance into her heart then. And 
 as she was then, so Eleanor knew herself now — defence- 
 less, if danger came. And the wet grass into which 
 every footstep plunged said that danger might be at any 
 time very near. Eleanor wished bitterly tha;t she had not 
 come this walk with Julia. It was strange, how utterly 
 shaken, miserable, forlorn, her innermost spirit felt, at 
 this possible approach of evil to her shelterless head. 
 And with double force, though they had been forcible at 
 the time, Mr. Rhys's words recurred to her — the words 
 that he had spoken half to himself as it were — " Hope 
 
A T T U E C O T T A G E . 97 
 
 thou in God." Eleanor had heard those words, read bv 
 different lips, at different times ; they were not new ; 
 but the meaning of them had never struck her before. 
 Now for the first time, as she heard the low, sweet, con- 
 fident utterance of a soul fleeing to its stronghold, of a 
 spirit absolutely secure there, she had an idea of what 
 " hope in Gcid" meant ; and every time she remembered 
 the tones of those words, spoken by failing lips too, it 
 gave a blow to her heart. There was something she 
 wanted. What else could be precious like that ? And 
 with them belonged in this instance, Eleanor felt, a 
 purity of character till now unimagined. Thoughts and 
 footsteps hurrying along together, they were past the 
 village and far on their way towards home, the two sis- 
 te]-s, before much was said between tliem. 
 
 " I wish Mr. Rhys would get well and stay here," 
 said Julia. " It is nice to go to see him, is'nt it, Elea- 
 nor ? He is so good." 
 
 " I don't know whether it is nice," said Eleanor. " I 
 wish almost I had not gone with you. I have not 
 thought of disagreeable things before in a great while." 
 
 " But is'nt he good ?" 
 
 " Good !" said Eleanor. " He makes me feel as black 
 as night." 
 
 " Well you aren't black," said Julia, pleased ; " and 
 I'll tell Mr. Carlisle what you say. He won't be angry 
 that time." 
 
 " Julia !" said Eleanor. " Do if you dare ! You shall 
 repeat no words of mine to Mr. Carlisle." 
 
 Julia only laughed ; and Eleanor hoped that the gen 
 fleraan would stay in London till her purpose, whatever 
 it might bo, was forgotten. He did stay some days ; 
 the Lodge had a comparatively quiet time. Perhaps 
 Eleanoi' missed the constant excitement of the weeks 
 past. She was very restless, and her thoughts would 
 not be diverted from the train into which the visit to 
 
 5 
 
98 THEOLDHELMET. 
 
 Mr. Rhys had thrown thera. Obstinately the idea kcpl 
 before her, that a defence was wanting to her which she 
 had not, and might have. She wanted some security 
 greater than dry shoes could afford. Yea, she could not 
 forget, that beyond that earthly coronet which of neces- 
 sity must some time fade, she might want something 
 that would endure in the air of eternity. Her musings 
 troubled Eleanor. As Black Maggie did not wait upon 
 her, these days, she ordered up her own little pony, and 
 went off upon long rides by herself. It soothed her to 
 be alone. She let no servant attend her ; she took the 
 comfort of good stirring gallops all over the moor ; and 
 then when she and the pony were both tired she let him 
 walk and her thoughts take up their train. But it did 
 not do her any good. Eleanor grew only more uneasy 
 from day to diiy. The more she thought, the deeper 
 her thoughts went ; and still the contrast of purity and 
 high Christian hope rose up to shame her own heart and 
 life. Eleanor felt her danger as a sinner ; her exposure 
 as guilty ; and the insufficiency of all she had or hoped 
 for, to meet future and coming contingencies. So far 
 she got ; there she stopped ; except that her sense of 
 these things grew more keen and deep day by day ; it 
 did not fade out. Friends she ha'd none to help her. 
 She wanted to see Dr. Cairnes and attack him in private 
 and bring him to a point on the subjects which agitated 
 her ; but she could not. I>r. Cairnes too was absent 
 I'rOm Wiglands at this time ; and Eleanor had to think 
 and wait all by herself. She had her Bible, it is true 
 but she did not know how to consult it. She took care 
 not to go near Mr. Rhys again ; though she was sorry 
 to hoar through Julia that he was not mending. She 
 wished herself a little girl, to have Julia's liberty ; but 
 she must do without it. And what would Mr. Carlisle 
 Bay to her thoughts ? Slie must not ask him. He ould 
 
AT TIE COTTAGE. 99 
 
 do nothing with them. She half feared, half wished foi 
 his influence to overthrow tliem. 
 
 He came ; but Eleanor did not find that he could 
 remove the trouble, the existence of which- he did not 
 suspect. Ilis presence did not remove it. In all her 
 renewed engagements and gayeties, there remained a 
 secret core of discomfort in her heart, whatever she 
 might be about. 
 
 They were taking tea one evening, half in and half out 
 of the open window, when Julia came up. 
 
 " Mr. Carlisle," said she, " I am going to pay you my 
 forfeit." He had caught her in some game of forfeits 
 the day before. " I am going to give you something 
 you will like very much." 
 
 " What can it be, Julia ?" 
 
 " You don't believe me. Now you do not desei've to 
 have it. I am going to give you something Eleanor 
 said." 
 
 Eleanor's hand was on her lips immediately and her 
 voice forbade the promised forfeit ; but there were two 
 words to that bargain. Mr. Carlisle captured the hand 
 and gave a counter order. 
 
 " Now you don't believe me, but you believe Eleanor," 
 said the lawless child. " She said, — she said it when 
 you went away, — that she had not thought of anything 
 disagreeable in a long while !" 
 
 Mr. Carlisle looked delighted, as well he might 
 Eleanor's temples flushed a painful scarlet. 
 
 " Dear me, how interesting these goings away and 
 comings home are, I suppose !" exclaimed Miss Broadus, 
 coming up to the gi-oup. " I see ! there is no need to 
 say anything. Mr. Carlisle, we are all rejoiced to see you 
 back at Wiglands. Or at the Lodge— for you do not 
 honour "Wiglands much, except when I see you riding 
 through it on that beautiful brown horse of yours. The 
 black and the brown ; I never saw suih a pair. And 
 
100 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 you do ride ! I should think you would be afraid that 
 ci-eature would lose a more precious head than its own." 
 
 " I take better care than that, Miss Broadus." 
 
 " Well, I suppose you do ; though for my part I can- 
 not see how a person on one horse can take care of a 
 person on another horse ; it is something I do not under- 
 stand. I never did ride myself; I suppose that is the 
 reason. Mr. Carlisle, what do you say to this lady rid- 
 ing all alone by herself^ — without any one to take care of 
 her ?" 
 
 Mr. Carlisle's eyes rather opened at this question, as 
 if he did not fully take in the idea. 
 
 " She does it — you should see her going by as I did — 
 as straight as a grenadier, and her pony on such a jump ! 
 I thought to myself, Mr. Carlisle is in London, sure 
 enough. But it was a pretty sight to see. My dear, 
 how sorry we are to miss some one else from our circle, 
 and he did honour us ^t Wiglands — my sister and me. 
 How sorry I am poor Mr. Rhys is so ill. Have you 
 heard from him to-day, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " You should ask Julia, Miss Broadus. Is he much 
 more ill than he was ? Julia hears of him every day, 
 I believe." 
 
 " Ah, the children all love him. I see Julia and 
 Alfred going by very often ; and the other boys come to 
 see him constantly, I believe. And my dear Eleanor, 
 how kind it was of you to go yourself with something 
 for him ! I saw you and Julia go past with your basket — 
 don't you remember ? — that day before the rain ; and I 
 said to myself, no, I said to Juliana, some very compli- 
 mentary things about you. Benevolence has flourished in 
 your absence, Mr. Carlisle. Here was this Indy, taking, 
 jelly with her own hands to a sick man. Now I call 
 that beautiful." 
 
 ■ Mr. Carlisle preferred to make his own compliments ; 
 for he did not echo those of the talkative lady. 
 
AT TUB COTTAGE. 101 
 
 " Bat I am afraid he is veiy ill, my dear," Miss 
 Broad us went on, turning to Eleanor again. " He 
 looked dreadfully when I saw him ; and he is so feeble, 
 I think there is very little hope of his life left. I think 
 he has just worked himself to death. But I do not be- 
 lieve, Eleanor, he is any more afraid of death, than I am 
 of going to sleep. I don't believe he is so much." 
 
 Miss Broadus was called oflf ; Mr. Carlisle had left the 
 window ; Eleanor sat sadly thinking. The last words 
 had struck a deeper note than all the vexations of Miss 
 Broadus's previous talk. " No more afraid of death 
 than of going to sleep." Ay ! for his head was covered 
 from danger. Eleanor knew it — saw it — felt it ; and felt 
 it to be blessed. Oh how should she make that same 
 covering her own ? There was an engagement to spend 
 the next afternoon at the Priory — the whole family. Dr. 
 Cairnes would most probably be there to meet them. 
 Perhaps she might catch or make an opportunity of speak- 
 ing to him in private and asking him what she wanted to 
 know. Not very likely, but she would try. Dr. Cairnes 
 was lier pastor ; it ought to be in his power to resolve her 
 (lifficnlties; it must be. At any rate, Eleanor would 
 ;i])ply to him and see. She had no one else to apply to. 
 Unless Mr. Rhys would get well. Eleanor wished that 
 might be. lie could help her, she knew, without a 
 peradventuie. 
 
 Mr. Carlisle appeared again, and the musings were 
 banished. He took her hand and put it upon his arm 
 and drew her out into the lawn. The action was caress- 
 ingly done ; nevertheless Eleanor felt that an inquiry in- 
 to her behavioin- would surely be the next thing. So 
 naif shrinking and half rebellious, she suffered herself to 
 be led on into the winding walks of the shrubbery. The 
 evening was delicious ; nothing could be more natur."J 
 a? pleasant than sauntering there. 
 
 " I am going to have Julia at the Priory to-morrow 
 
102 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 as a reward for her good gift to me," was Mr. Carlisle's 
 opening remark. 
 
 " I am sure she does not deserve it," said Eleanor 
 VPry sincerely. 
 
 " What do you deserve ?" 
 
 " Nothing — in the way of rewards." 
 
 Mr. Carlisle did not think so, or else regarded the 
 matter in the light of a reward to himself. 
 
 " Have you been good since I have been away ?" 
 
 " No !" said Eleanor bluntly. 
 
 " Do you always speak truth after this fashion ?" 
 
 " I speiik it as you will find it. Mr. Carlisle." 
 
 The questions were put between caresses ; but in all 
 his manner nevertheless, in kisses and questions alike, 
 there was that indefinable air of calm possession and 
 power, before which Eleanor always felt unable to offer 
 any resistance. He made her now change " Mr. Carlisle" 
 for a more familiar name, before he would go on. 
 Eleanor felt as a colt may be supposed to feel, which is 
 getting a skilful " breaking in ;" yielding obedience at 
 every step, and at every step secretly wishing to refuse 
 obedience, to refuse which is becoming more and more 
 impossible. 
 
 " Haven't you been a little too good to somebody else, 
 while I have been away ?" 
 
 " No !" said Eleanor. " I never am." - 
 
 " Darhng, I do not wish you to honour any one so far 
 as that woman reports you to have done." 
 
 " That ?" said Eleanor. " That was the merest act 
 of common kindness — Juha wanted some one to go with 
 her to take some things to a sick man ; and I wanted a 
 walk, and I went." 
 
 . " Ton were too kind. I must unlearn you a little of 
 your kindness. You are mine, now, darling; and I 
 want all of you for myself." 
 
AT THE COTTAGE. 103 
 
 " But the better I am," said Eleanor, " I am sure the 
 more there is to have." 
 
 " Be good for me," >said he kissing her, — " and in my 
 way. I will dispense with other goodness. I am in no 
 danger of not having enough in you." 
 
 Eleanor walked back to the house, foeling as if an 
 idditional barrier were somehow placed between her and 
 the light her mind wanted and the relief he- heart 
 sought after. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 *• Here he lives in state and bounty, 
 Lord of Burleigh, fair and free 
 Not a lord in all the county 
 Is so great a lord as he." 
 
 Ladt Rtthdale abhorred dinner-parties, in general 
 and in particular. She dined early herself, and begged 
 that the family from Ivy Lodge would come to tea. It 
 was the first occasion of the kind ; and the first time 
 they had ever been there, otherwise than as strangers 
 visitinw the grounds. Lady Rythdale was infirm and 
 unwell, and iie'\'er saw ht-r country neighbours or inter- 
 changed civilities with them. Of course this was laid to 
 something more than infirmity, by the surrounding 
 gentry who wei'e less in consequence than herself; but 
 however it were, few of them ever saw the inside of the 
 Priory House for anything but a ceremonious morning 
 visit. Now the family at the Lodge were to no on a 
 different footing. It was a great time, of curiosity, plea^ 
 sure, and pride. 
 
 " What are you going to wear this evening, Eleanor ?" 
 her mother asked. 
 
 " I suppose, ray habit, mamma." 
 
 " Your habit !" 
 
 " I cannot very well ride in anything else." 
 
 " Are you going to ride P" 
 
 " So it is arranged, ma'am. It will be infinitely lesa 
 tiresome than going in any other way." 
 
 "Tiresome!" echoed Mrs. Powle. "But what will 
 Lady Rythdale say to you in a riding-habit." 
 
AT THE PRIOET. 105 
 
 " Mamma, I liave ■\ery little notion what she would 
 say to me in anythir.g." 
 
 " I will tell you what you must do, Eleanor. You 
 must change your dress after you get there." 
 
 " No, mamma — I cannot. Mr. Carlisle has arr.anged 
 to have me go in a riding-habit. It is his responsibility 
 I will not have any fuss of changing, nor pay anybody 
 so much of a comphmeiit." 
 
 " It will not be liked, Eleanor." 
 
 " It will follow my fate, mamma, whatever that is." 
 
 " Yd u are a wilful girL You are fallen into just the 
 right hands. You will be managed now, for once." 
 
 "Mamma," said Eleanor colouring all over, "it is ex- 
 tremely unwise in you to say that ; for it rouses all the 
 fight there is in me ; and some day — '' 
 
 " Some day it will not break out," said Mrs. Powle. 
 
 " Well, I should not like to fight with Mr. Carlisle," 
 said Julia. " I am glad I nra going, at any rate." 
 
 Eleanor bit her lip. Nevertheless, when the afternoon 
 came and Mr. Carlisle appeared to summon her, nothing 
 was left of the morning's irritation but a little loftiness 
 of head and biow. It was very becoming ; no more; 
 and Mr. Carlisle's evident pleasure and satisfaction soon 
 soothed the feeling away. The party in the carriage had 
 gone on befure ; the i-iders followed thu same route, pass, 
 ing through the village of Wiglands, then a couple of 
 miles or more beyond through the village of Rythdale. 
 Further on, crossing a bridge, they entered upon the 
 old priory grounds ; the grey tower rose before them, 
 and the hor.-es' feet swept through the beautiful wilder- 
 ness of ruined art and flourisliing nature. As the caval- 
 cade wound along, for the carriage was just before them 
 now, through the dale and past the ruins, and as it* liad 
 gone in state through tie village, Eleanor could not help 
 a little tlirobhing of heart at the sense of the place she 
 was holding au/i about to hold ; at the feeling of tha 
 
106 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 relation all these beauties and dignities now held to her, 
 If she had been inclined to forget it, her companion's 
 lOok would have reminded her. She had no leisure to 
 analyze her thoughts, but these stirred her pulses. 
 It was beautiful, as the horses wound through the dale 
 and by the little river Ryth, where all the ground was 
 kept like a garden. It was beautiful, as they left the 
 valley and weut up a slow, gentle, ascending road, 
 through thick trees, to the higher land where the new 
 Priory stood. It stood on the brow of the height, look- 
 ing down over the valley and over the further plain 
 where the village nestled among its trees. Yes, and it 
 was fine when the first sight of the hodse opened upon 
 her, not coming now as a stranger, but as future rais- 
 trtss ; for whom every window and gable and chimney 
 liad the mysterious interest of a future home. Would 
 old Lady Rythdale like to see her there? Eleanor did 
 not Know ; but felt easy in the assurance that Mr. Car- 
 lisle, who could manage everything, could manage that 
 also. It-was his affair. 
 
 The house shewed well as they drew towards it, among 
 fine old trees. It was a new house ; that is, it did not 
 date further back than three generations. Like every- 
 thing else about the whole domain, it gave the idea of 
 pmfect order and management. It was a spacious build- 
 ing, spreading out amply upon the ground, not rising to 
 a great height ; and built in a simple style of no partic- 
 ular name or pretensions ; but massive, stately, and ele- 
 gant. No unfinished or half realized idea ; what had 
 been attempted had been done, and done well. The 
 house was built on three sides of a quadrangle. The 
 side of approach by which the cavalcade had come, wind- 
 ing np from the valley, led them round past the front 
 of the left wing. Mr. Carlisle made her draw bridle and 
 fall a little behind the carriage. 
 
 " Do you like this view ?" said he. 
 
AT TUB PKIORT. 107 
 
 •' Very much. I have never seen it before." 
 
 He smiled .it her, and .again extending his hand drew 
 Blacl? Maggie's rein till he brought her to a slow walk. 
 The cari-iage passed on out of t^ight. Ele;inor would 
 have remonstrated, but the view befoie her was lovely. 
 Three gables, of unequal height, rose over that fa5ade ; 
 the only ornamental part was in their fanciful but not 
 elaborate mouldings. The lower story, stretching along 
 the spread of a smooth little lawn, was almost masked 
 with ivy. It embedded the large but perfectly plain 
 windows, which reached so near the ground that one 
 might step out from them ; their clear amplitude was 
 set in a frame lif massive green. One angle especially 
 looked as if the room within must be a nest of ver- 
 duious beauty. The ivy encased all the doorways or 
 entrances on th.U side of the house ; and climbing 
 higher threatened to do for the story above what it had 
 accomplished below ; but perhaps some order had been 
 taken about that, for in the main its course had been 
 stayed at a certain stone moulding that separated the 
 stories, and only a branch here and there had been per- 
 mitted to shew what more it would like to do. One of 
 the upper windows was partly encased ; while its lace 
 curtains gave an assurance that all its garnishing had not 
 been left to nature. Eleanor could not help thinking it 
 was a very lovely looking place for any woman to be 
 placed in as her home ; and her heart beat a little high. 
 
 " Do you not like it ?" said Mr. Carlisle. 
 
 " Yes,— certainly !" 
 
 " What are you cunsideriug so attentively in Black 
 Maggie's ears ?" 
 
 Eleanor caused Maggie to prick up the said ears, by a 
 smart touch of her whip. The horses started f irward 
 to overtake the carriage. Perhaps however Mr. Car- 
 lisle was fascinated — he might well be — by the present 
 vww hf had of his charge ; tiiere was a blusliing shj 
 
108 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 gi-ace observable about her which it was protty to see 
 and not common ; and maybe he wanted the view to be 
 prolonged. He certainly did not follow the nearest road, 
 but turned off instead to a path which went winduig up 
 and down the hill and through plantations of wood, 
 giving Eleanor views also, of a different sort ; and so did 
 not come out upon the front of the house till long after 
 the carriage party had been safely housed. Eleanor 
 found she was alone and was not to be sheltered under 
 her mother's wing or any other ; and her conductor's 
 face was much too satisfied to invite comments. He 
 swung her down from the saddle, allowed her to re- 
 move her cap, and putting her hand on his arm walked 
 her into the drawing-room and the presence of his 
 mother. 
 
 Eleanor had seen Lady Rythdale once before, in a 
 stately visit which had been made at the Lodge ; never 
 except that one time. The old baroness was a dignified 
 looking person, and gave her a stately reception now ; 
 rather stiff and cold, Eleanor thought ; or careless and 
 cold, rather. 
 
 "My dear," said the old lady, "have you come in a 
 riding-habit? Tiiat will be very uncomfortable. Goto 
 my dressing-room, and let Aries change it for something 
 else. She can fit you. Macintosh, you shew her the 
 way." 
 
 No questions were asked. Mr. Carlisle obeyed, put- 
 ting Eleanor's hand on his arm agam, and walked her 
 off out of the room and through a gallery and up the 
 stairs, and along another gallery. He walked fast. 
 Eleanor felt exceedingly abashed and displeasL^d and dis- 
 comfited at this extraordinary proceeding, but she did 
 not know how to resist it. Her compliance was taken 
 for granted, and Mr. Carlisle was laughing at her dis- 
 comfiture, which was easy enough to be seen. Eleanor's 
 cheeks were glowing m.ignrficently. " I suppose he feels 
 
AT THE PRIOET. 109 
 
 ne lias me in his own dominions now," — she thought ; 
 and the thought made her very rebellious. Lady Ryth- 
 dale too ! 
 
 " Mr. Carlisle," she began, " there is really no occa- 
 Bion for all this. I am perfectly comfortable. I do not 
 wish to alter my dress." 
 
 " What do you call me ?" said he stopping short. 
 
 " Mr. Carlisle." 
 
 " Call me something else." 
 
 The steady bright hazel eyes which were looking at 
 her asserted their power. In spite of her irritation and 
 vexation she obeyed his wish, and asked him somewhat 
 loftily, to take her back again to the company. 
 
 " Against my mother's commands ? Do you not think 
 they are binding on you, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " No, I do not !" 
 
 " You will allow they are on me. My darling," said 
 he laughing and kissing her, " you must submit to be 
 displeased for your good." And he walked on again. 
 Eleanor was conquered ; she felt it, and chafed under it. 
 Mr. Carlisle opened a door and walked her into an apart- 
 ment, large and luxurious, the one evidenily that hia 
 mother had designated. He rang the bell. 
 
 " Aries," said he, " find this lady something that will 
 fit her. She wishes to change her dress. Do your 
 best." 
 
 He vrent out and left Eleanor in the hands of the lire- 
 woman. Eleanor felt utterly out of countenance, but 
 powerless ; though she longed to defy the maid and the 
 mistress and say, " I will wear my own and nothing 
 else." Why could she not sny it ? She did not like to 
 lefy the master. 
 
 So Aries had her way, and after one or two rapid 
 glances at the subject of her cares and a moment's re- 
 flection on her introduction there, she took her cue 
 ■' .Plushes lik<^ that are not for notlujig,' thought Aries 
 
no THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " and when Mr. Macintosh says ' Do your best' — why, ii 
 is easy to seel" 
 
 She was quick and skilful and silent ; but Eleanor felt 
 like a wild creature iu harness. Her riding-dress went 
 ofl^ — hei- hair received a touch, all it wanted, as the waiting 
 maid said ; and after one or two journeys to wardrobes, 
 Mrs. Aries brought out and proceeded to array Eleanor 
 in a robe of white lawn, verp flowing and full of laces. 
 Yet it was siniple in style, and Eleanor thought it useless 
 to ask for a change ; although when the robing was com- 
 pleted she was dressed more elegantly than she had ever 
 been in her life. She was sadly ashamed, greatly indig- 
 nant, and mortified at herself; that she should be so 
 facile to the will of a person who had no right to com- 
 mand her. But if she was dissatisfied, Aries was not ; 
 the deep colour in Eleanor's cheeks only relieved her 
 white drapei-y to perfection ; and her beautiful hair and 
 faultless figure harmonized with flowing folds and soft 
 laces which can do so much for outlines that are not soft. 
 Eleanor was not without a consciousness of this ; never- 
 theless, vanity was not her foible ; and her state of mind 
 w.as anything but enviable when she left the dressing, 
 room for the gallery. But Mr. Carlisle was there, tc 
 meet her and her mood too ; and Eleanor found herself 
 taken in hand at once. He had a way of mixing affec- 
 tion with his poH-er over her, in such a way as to sootho 
 and overawe at the same time ; and before they reached 
 the drawing-room now Eleanor was caressed and laughed 
 into good order ; leaving nevertheless a little root of 
 opposition in her secret heart, ^\'l^oh might grow fast 
 upon occasion. 
 
 She was taken into the drawing-room, set down and 
 left, under Lady liythdale's wing. Eleanor felt her 
 position much more conspicuous th.an agreeable. The old 
 baroness turned and surveyed her ; ^^■ent on with the con 
 rersation pending, then turned and surveyed her again 
 
ATTHBPKIORY. Ill 
 
 looked her well over; finally gave Eleanor some worsted 
 to hold for her, wliich she wound ; nor would she accept 
 any substitute offered by the gentlemen for her promised 
 daughter-in-law's pretty hands and arms. Worse and 
 rt'orse. Eleanor saw herself now not only a mark for 
 people's eyes, but put in an attitude as it were to be 
 looked at. She bore it bravely ; with steady outward 
 calmness and grace, though her cheeks remonstrated. 
 No movement of Eleanor's did that. She played worsted 
 reel with admirable good sense and skill, wisely keeping 
 her own eyes on the business in hand, till it was finished ; 
 and Lady Rythdale winding up the last end of the ball, 
 bestowed a pat of her hand, half commendation and 
 half I'aillery, upon Eleanor's red cheek; as if it had been 
 a child's. That was a little hard to bear ; Eleanor felt 
 for a moment as if she could have burst into tears. She 
 would have left her place if she had dared ; but she was 
 in a corner of a sofa by Lady Kythdale, and nobody 
 else near ; and she felt shy. She could use her eyes now 
 upon the company. 
 
 Lady Rythdale was busied in conversation with one 
 or two elderly ladies, of stately presence like herself, 
 who were, as Eleanor gathered, friends of long date, 
 staying at the Priory. They did not invite curiosity. 
 She saw her mother with Mrs. Wycherly, the vector's 
 sister, in another group, conversing with Dr. Cairnes 
 and a gentleman unknown. Mr. Powle had found con- 
 geniality in a second stranger. Mr. Carlisle, far off in a 
 window, one of those beautiful deep large windows, 
 WHS very much engaged with some ladies and gentlemen 
 likewise strange to Eleanor. Nobody was occupied 
 ■with her ; and from her sofa corner she went to musing. 
 The room and its treasures she had time to look at 
 quietly ; she had leisure to notice how fine it was in 
 proportions and adornments, and what luxuriou-f abun- 
 dance of everything that wealth buys and cultivalior 
 
112 THEOLDIIELWET. 
 
 takes pleasure in, had space to abound without the 
 seeming of multiplicity. The house was as stately vvi thin 
 as on the outside. The magniKcencu was new to Eleanor, 
 and drove her somehow to musings of a very opposite 
 character. Perhaps her unallayed spirit of opjjositioa 
 might have been with other causes at the bottom of this. 
 However that were, her thoughts went off in a perverse 
 train upon the former baronesses of Rythdale ; the 
 ladies lovely and stately who had inhabited this noble 
 abode. Eleanor would soon be one of the line, moving 
 in their place, where they had moved ; lovely and admired 
 in her turn ; but their turn was over. What when hera 
 should be ? — could she keep this heritage for ever ? It 
 was a very iinperti^'ent thought ; it had clearly no 
 business with either place or time ; but there it was, star- 
 ing at Eleanor out of the rich cornices, and looking in 
 at her from the magnificent plantations seen through the 
 window. Eleanor did not welcome the thought ; it was 
 an intruder. The fact was that having once made 
 entrance in her mind, the idea only seized opportunities 
 to start up and assert its claims to notice. It was always 
 lying in wait for her now ; and on this occasion held its 
 ground with great perversencss. Eleanor glanced again 
 at Dr. Cairnes ; no hope of him at present ; he was 
 busily engaged with a clever gentleman, a friend of Mr. 
 Carlisle's and an Oxford man, and with Mr. Carlisle him- 
 self. Eleanor grew impatient of her thoughts ; she 
 wondered if anybody else had such, in all that com- 
 pany. Nobody seemed to notice her ; and she meditated 
 an escape both from her sofa corner and from herself to 
 a porlfolio near by, which promised a resource in the 
 sh;ipe of engravings ; but just as she was moving, Lady 
 Rythdale laid a hand upon her lap. 
 
 " Sit still, my dear," she said turning paitly towards 
 her, — " I want you by me. I have a skein of silk here 
 I want wound for my work — a skein of green silk — here 
 
AT THE PRI O E r . 112 
 
 t is , it has tangled itself, I fear ; will you prepare it 
 for ine ?" 
 
 Eleanor took the silk, which was in pretty thorough 
 confusion, and began the task of unravelling and untie- 
 ing, preparatory to its being wound. This time Lady 
 R.ythdale did not turn away ; she sat considering 
 Eleanor, on whose white drapery and white fingers the 
 green silk threads made a pretty contrast, while they left 
 her helplessly exposed to that examining gaze. Eleanor 
 felt it going all over her ; taking in all the details of her 
 dress, figure and face. She could not help the blood 
 mounting, though she angrily tried to prevent it. The 
 green silk was in a great snarl. Eleanor bent her head 
 over her task. 
 
 " My dear, are you near-sighted ?" 
 
 " No, madam !" said the girl, giving the old lady a 
 moment's view of the orbs in question. 
 
 " You have very good eyes — uncommon colour," said 
 Lady Rythdale. " INIacintosh thinks he will have a 
 good little wife in you ;— is it true ?" 
 
 " I do not know, ma'am," said Eleanor haughtily. 
 
 " I think it is true. Look up here and let me see." 
 And putting her hand under Eleanor's chin, she chucked 
 np her face as if she were something to be examined for 
 ])urchase. Eleanor felt in no amiable mood certainly, 
 and her cheeks were flaming ; nevertheless the old lady 
 coolly held her under consideration and even with a 
 smile on her lips which seemed of satisfaction. Eleanor 
 did not see it, for her eyes could not look up ; but she 
 felt through all her uerves the kiss with which the 
 examination was dismissed. 
 
 " I thiidc it is true," the old baroness repeated. " I 
 hope it is true ; for my son would not be an easy man 
 i/i live with on any other terms, my dear." 
 
 " I suppose its truth depends in a high degree upoc 
 
114 THE0LDI1K1. JIKT. 
 
 himsolf, maJatn," said Eleanor, very much incensed 
 "Does your ladyship choose to wind this siik now?" 
 
 " You may hold it. I see you have got it into order. 
 That shews you possessed of the old qualification of 
 patience. — Tour hands a little higher. — ^My dear, I 
 would not advise you to regulate your beliaviour by 
 anything in other people. Macintosh will make you a 
 kind husband if you do not displease him ; but he ia 
 one of those men who must obeyed." 
 
 Eleanor had no escape ; she must sit holdmg the silk, 
 a mark for Lady Rythdale's eyes and tongue. She sat 
 drooping a little with indignation and shame, when Mr. 
 Carlisle came up. He had seen from a distance the tint 
 of his lady's cheeks and judged that she was going 
 through some sort of an ordeal. But though he came 
 to protect, he stood still to enjoy. The picture was so 
 very pretty. The mother and son exchanged glances. 
 
 " I think you can make her do," said the baroness 
 contentedly. 
 
 " Not as a permanent winding reel !" e.xclairaed 
 Eleanor jumping up. " Mr. Carlisle, I am tired ; — have 
 the goodness to take this silk from my fingers." 
 
 And slipping it over the gentleman's astonished hands, 
 before he had time quite to know what she was about, 
 Eleanor left the pair to ai-range the rest of the business 
 between them, and herself walked off to one of the deep 
 windows. She was engaged there immediately by Lord 
 Rythdale, in civil conversation enough ; then he intro- 
 duced other gentlemen ; and it was not till after a se- 
 ries of talks with one and another, that Eleanor had a 
 minute to herself. She was sitting in the window, 
 where an encroaching branch of ivy at one side reminded 
 her of the elegant work it was doing round tlie corner 
 Eleanor would have liked to go through the house — or 
 the grounds— if she might have got away alone and in- 
 dulged herself in a good musing fit. How beautiful tho 
 
ATTHKPRIORY. lib 
 
 sliavfn turf looked under the soft sun's light! how 
 stately stood old oaks and beeclies here and there < 
 how rich the thicker border of vegetation beyond the 
 lawn ! What beauty of order and keeping everywhere. 
 Nothing had been attempted here but what the resources 
 of the proprietors were fully equal to ; the impression 
 was of ample power to do more. Wliile musing, 
 Eleanor's attention was attracted by Mr. Carlisle, who 
 had stepped out upon the lawn with one or two of his 
 guests, and she looked at the place and its master to- 
 gether. He suited it very well. He was an undeniably 
 handsome man ; his bearing graceful and good. Eleanor 
 liked Mr. Carlisle, not the less perhaps that she feared 
 him a little. She only felt a little wilful rebellion against 
 the way in which she had come to occupy her present 
 position. If but she might have been permitted to take 
 her own time, and say yea for herself, without having it 
 said for her, she would have been content. As it was, 
 Eleanor was not very discontented. Her heart swelled 
 with a secret satisfaction and some pride, as without 
 seeing her the group passed the window and she was 
 left with the sunlit lawn and beautiful old trees again. 
 Close upon that feeling of pride came another thought. 
 What when this earthly coronet should fade ? — 
 
 " Dr. Cairnes," said Eleanor seizing an opportunity, — 
 " come here and sit down by me. I have not seen you 
 in a great while." 
 
 " You have not missed me, my dear lady," said the 
 doctor blandly. 
 
 " Yes I have," said Eleanor. " I want to talk to you. 
 I want you to tell me something." 
 
 " How soon I am to make yoff happy? ot help you to 
 make somebody else happy ? Well I shall be at your 
 service any time about Christmas." 
 
 " No, no !" said Eleanor colouring, " I want something 
 very different. I am talking seriously, Dr. Cairnes. 1 
 
116 THB OLD HBIMET. 
 
 w.'int you to tell me something. I want to know how 1 
 may be happy — for I am unhnppy now." 
 
 " You unhappy !" said the doctor. "I must talk to 
 my friend Mr. Carli>le about tiiat. We must call him in 
 for counsel. What would he say, to your being un- 
 happy ? hey ?" 
 
 He was there to speak for himself; there with a slight 
 cbud on his brow too, Eleanor thought. He had come 
 from within the room ; she thought he was safe away in 
 the grounds with his guests. 
 
 " Shall I break up this interesting conversation ?" 
 said he. 
 
 " It was growing very interesting," said the doctor ; 
 " for this lady was just acknowledging to me that she 
 is not happy. I give her over to you — this is a case 
 beyond my knowledge and resources. Only, when I can 
 do anything, 1 shall be most gratified at being called 
 upon." 
 
 The doctor rose up, shook himself, and left the field 
 to Mr. Carlisle. Eleanor felt vexed beyond description, 
 and very little inclined to call again upon Di'. Cairnes foi 
 anything whatever in any line of assi-itance. Her fac£ 
 burned. Mr. Carlisle took no notice ; only laid his hand 
 upon hers and said " Come !" — and w,alked her out of the 
 room and on the lawn, and sauntered with her down to 
 some of the thickly planted shrubbeiy beyond the house. 
 There went round about upon the soft turf, calling Elea- 
 nor's attention to this or that shrub or tree, and finding 
 her very pleasant amusement ; till the question in her 
 mind, of what was coming now, had almost faded away. 
 The lights and shadows stretched in long lines between 
 the trees, and lay witcningly over the lawn. An open- 
 ing in the plantations brought a fair view of it, and of 
 the Ifft wing of the house which Eleanor had admired, 
 dark and rich in its mantle of ivy, while the ligLl 
 
ATTHEPKIOKY. H!? 
 
 gleamed on the edges of the ornamented gables above, 
 it was a beautiful view. Mr. Carlisle paused. 
 
 " How do you like the house ?" said he. 
 
 " I think I prefer the luined old priory down yonder," 
 laid Eleanor. 
 
 " Do you still feel your attraction for a monastic life ?" 
 
 "Yes !" said Eleanor colouriny;, — "I think they must 
 have had peaceable old lives there, with nothing to 
 trouble them. Aud they could plant gardens as well as 
 you can." 
 
 " As the old ruins are rather uninhabitable, what do 
 you tliink of entering a modern Priory ?" 
 
 It pleased him to see the deep i-ich glow on Eleanor's 
 cheek, .nud the droop of her saucy eyelids. No wonder 
 it pleased him ; it was a pretty thing to see; and he en- 
 joyed it. 
 
 " You shall be Lady Abbess," he went on presently, 
 " and make your own rules. I only stipulate that there 
 shall be no Father Confessor except myself." 
 
 "I doubt your qualifications for that office," said 
 Eleanor. 
 
 " Suppose you try me. What were you confessing to 
 Dr. Cairn es just now in the wiudow ?" 
 
 "Nonsense, Robert!" said Eleanor. "I was talking 
 of something you would not understand." 
 
 " You underi-ate me," said be coolly. " My powers 
 cf understanding are equal to the old gentlemWs, unless 
 I am mistaken in myself. What are you unhappy about, 
 darling ?" 
 
 " Nothing that you could make anything of," said 
 Eleanor. "I was talking to Dr. Caii-nes in a langunge 
 that yoxt do not understand. Do let it alone !" 
 
 " Did he report you truly, to have used the English 
 word ' unhap])y' ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Eleanor; "but Mr. Carlisle, you do nol 
 know what you are taikmg about." 
 
118 THE OLD HELM BT. 
 
 " I am coming to it. Darling, do you think you would 
 be unhappy at the Priory ?" 
 
 " I did not say that — " said Eleanor, confused. 
 
 " Do you think I could make you happy there ? — 
 Speak, Eleanor — speak. 
 
 " Yes — if .1 could be happy anywhere." 
 
 " What makes you unhappy ? My wife must not 
 hide her heart from me." 
 
 " Yes, but I am not that yet," said Eleanor with spiiit, 
 rousing up to assert herself. 
 
 He laughed and kissed her. " How long first, Elea- 
 nor ?" 
 
 " I am sure I don't know. Very long." 
 
 " What is very long ?" 
 
 " I do not know. A year or two at least." 
 
 " Do you suppose I will agree to that ?" 
 
 Eleanor knew he would not ; and further saw a quiet 
 purpose in his face. She was sure he had fixed upon the 
 time, if not the day. She felt those cobweb bands all 
 around her. Heie she was, almost in bridal attire, at 
 his side already. She made no answer. 
 
 " Divide by twelve, and get a quotient, Eleanor." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 " I mean to have a merry Christmas — by your 
 leave." 
 
 Christmas ! that was what the doctor had said. 
 Was it so far without her Iciive ? Eleanor felt angry. 
 That did not hinder her feeling frightened. 
 
 " You cannot have it in the way you propose, Mr. 
 Carlisle. I am not ready for that." 
 
 " You will be," he said coolly. " I shall be oblioed to 
 go up to London after Ch-ristmas ; then I mean to instal 
 you in Berkeley Square; and in the summer you shall go 
 to Switzerland with me. Now tell me, my dai ling, what 
 you are unhappy about ?'' 
 
 Eleanor felt tongue-tied and powerless. The last 
 
ATTHEPKIORT. 119 
 
 words had been said very affectionately, and as she was 
 silent they were repeated. 
 
 " It is nothing you would understand." 
 
 " Try me." 
 
 " It is nothinjj; that would interest you at all." 
 
 " Not interest ine !" said he ; and if his manner had 
 been self-willeil, it wns also now as tender and gentle 
 as it was possible to be. He folded Eleanor in his arms 
 caressingly and waited for her words. " Not interest 
 me ! Do you know that from your riding-cap to the 
 very gloves you pull on and off, th.re is nothing that 
 touches you that does not interest me. And now I he.ar 
 my wife — she is almost that, Eleanor, — tell Dr. Cairnes 
 that she is not happy. I must know why." 
 
 -" I wish you would not think about it, Mr. Carlisle 1 
 It is nothing to care about at all. I was speaking to Dr. 
 Cairnes as a clergyman." 
 
 " You shall not call me Mr. Carlisle. Say that over 
 again, Eleanor." 
 
 " It is nothing to think twice about, Mr. Macintosh." 
 
 " You were speaking to Dr. Cairnes as a clergyman ?" 
 he said laiTghinff. "How was that? I can think but 
 of one way in which Dr. Cairnes' profession concerns 
 you and me — was it on that subject, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " No, no. It was only — I was only going to ask him 
 a religious question that interested me." 
 
 " A religiotcs question ! Was it that which made you 
 unhappy?" 
 
 " Yes, if you will have it. I knew you would not 
 like it." 
 
 "I don't like it; and I will not have it," said he. 
 You, my little Eleanor, getting up a religious uneasi- 
 ness ! that will never do. You, who are as sound as a 
 nut, and as sweet as a Cape jessamine ! I shall prove 
 your best counsellor. You have not had rides enouuh 
 over the moor lately. We will have an extra gallop to 
 
120 THE OLD HELMRT. 
 
 moiTow ; — and after Chi istmas I will take care of yon. 
 What were you uneasy about ?" 
 
 "Don't Robert 1" said Eleanor, — " do not ask me any 
 move about it. I do not want you to laugh at me." 
 
 " Laugh at you !" he said. " I should like to see any- 
 body else do that ! but I will, as much as I like. Do 
 you know you aie a darling ? and just as lovely in mind 
 as you are in person. Do not you have any questions 
 with the old pi-iest ; I do not like it ; come to me with 
 your difficulties, and I wiU manage them for you. Was 
 that all, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then we are all right — or we soon shall be." 
 
 They strolled a little longer over the soft turf, in the 
 6oft hght. 
 
 " We are not quite all right," said Eleanor ; " for you 
 think I will do — what I will not." 
 
 " What is that ?" 
 
 " I have not agreed to your arrangements " 
 
 " You will." 
 
 "Do not think it, Macintosh. I will not." 
 
 He looked down at her, smiling, not in the least dis- 
 concerted. She had spoken no otherwise than gently, 
 and with more secret effort than she would have liked 
 him to know. 
 
 " You shall say that for half the time between now 
 and Christmas," he said ; " and after that you will adopt 
 another form of expression." 
 
 " If I say it at all, I shall hold to it, Bfacintosh." 
 
 " Then do not say it at all, my little Eleanor," said he 
 lightly ; " I shall make you give it up. I think I will 
 make you give it up now." 
 
 " You are not generous, Robert." 
 
 " No — I suppose I am not," he said contentedly. " I 
 Rm forced to go to London after Christmas, and I can- 
 
AT THE PRIOET. 121 
 
 not go without you. Do you ncrc love me well enough 
 \o give me that, Eleanor ?" 
 
 Eleanor was silent. She was not willing to say no : 
 she could not with truth say yes. Mr. Carlisle bent 
 down to look into her face. 
 
 " What have you to say to me ?" 
 
 " Nothing — " said Eleanor avoiding his eye. 
 
 " Kiss me, Nellie, and promise that you will be my 
 good little wife at Christmas." 
 
 His mother's very phrase. Eleanor rebelled secretly, 
 but felt powerless under those commanding eyes. Per- 
 haps he was aware of her latent obstinacy ; if he was, 
 he also knew himself able to master it ; for the eyes 
 were sparkling with pleasure as well as with wilfulness. 
 The occasion was .not sufficient to justify a contest with 
 Mr. Carlisle ; Eleanor was not ready to brave one ; she 
 hesitated long enough to shew her rebellion, and then 
 yielded, ingloriously she felt, though on the whole wisely. 
 She met her punishment. The offered permission was 
 not only taken ; she was laughed at and rejoiced over 
 triumphantlj', to Mr. Carlisle's content. Eleanor bore it 
 as well at she could ; wishing that she had not tried to 
 assert herself in such vain fashion, and feeUng her dis-, 
 comfiture complete. 
 
 It was more than time to return to the company. 
 Eleanor knew what a mark she was for people's eyes, 
 and would gladly have screened herself behind somebody 
 in a corner ; but Mr. Carlisle kept full possession of her. 
 He walked her into the room, and gently retained her 
 hand in its place while he went from one to another, 
 obliging her to stand and talk or to be talked to with 
 him through the whole company. Eleanor winced , 
 neveitheless bore herself well and a little proudly until 
 the evening was over. 
 
 The weather had changed, and the ride home was be- 
 gun under a cloudy sky. It grew very dark as they 
 
122 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 went on ; impossible in many places to see the path 
 Mr. Carlisle was i-iding with her and the roads were well 
 known to him and to the horses, and Eleanor did not 
 mind it. She went on gayly with him, i-ather delighting 
 in the novelty and adventure ; till she heard a muttering 
 of thunder. It was the only thing Eleanor's nerves 
 dreaded. Her spirits were checked ; she became silent 
 and quiet, and hardly heard enough to respond to her 
 companion's talk. She was looking incessantly for that 
 which came at last as they were nearing the old ruins 
 in the valley ; a flash of lightning. It lit up the beauti- 
 ful tower with its clinging ivy, revealed for an instant 
 some bits of wall and the thick clustering trees ; then 
 left a blank darkness. The same illumination had entered 
 the hidden places of memory, and startled into vivid life 
 the scenes and the thoughts of a few months ago. All 
 Eleanor's latent uneasiness was aroused. Her attention 
 was absoi'bed now, from this point until they got home, 
 ill watching for flashes of lightning. They came fre- 
 quently, but the storm was after all a slight one. The 
 lightning lit up the way beautifully fur the other mem- 
 bers of the party. To Eleanor it revealed something 
 more. 
 
 Mr. Carlisle's leave-taking at the door bespoke him 
 well satisfied with the results of the evening. Eleanor 
 shunned the questions and remarks of her family and 
 went to her own room. There she sat down, in ker rid- 
 ing habit and with her head in her hands. What uso 
 was it for her to be baroness of Rythdale, to be mistress 
 o'f the Priory, to be Mr. Carlisle's petted and favoured 
 wife, while there was no shield between her head and 
 the stroke that any day and any moment might bring? 
 And what after all availed an enrtlily coronet, ever so 
 bright, which had nothing to replace it when its fad- 
 ing time should come ? Eleanor wanted sonething 
 more. 
 
OHAPTEE VII. - 
 
 " It is the little rift within the Inte, 
 That by and by will make the music mate,*' 
 
 It was impossible for Eleanor to shake off the feeling. 
 It rose fresh with her the next day, and neither her own 
 nor Mr. Carlisle's efforts could dispose of it. To do 
 Eleanor justice, she did not herself wish to lose it, unless 
 by the supply of her want ; while she took special cai-e 
 to hide her trouble from Mr. Carlisle. They took great 
 gallops on the moor, and long rides all about the coun- 
 try ; the rides were delightful ; the talks were gay ; but 
 in them all, or at the end of them certainly, Eleanor's 
 secret cry was for some shelter for her unprotected head. 
 The thought would come up in every possible connexion, 
 till it haunted her. Not her approaching marriage, nor 
 the preparations which were even beginning for it, nor 
 her involuntary subjection to all Mr. Carlisle's pleasure, 
 so much dwelt with Eleanor now as the question, — how 
 she should meet the storm which must break upon her 
 some day ; or rather the sense that she could not meet 
 it. The fairest and sweetest scene, or condition of 
 things, seemed but to bring up this thought more vividly 
 by very force of contrast. 
 
 Eleanor hid the whole within her own heart, and the 
 fire burned there all the more. Not a sign of it must 
 Mr. Carlisle see ; and as for Dr. Cairnes, Eleanor could 
 never get a chance for a safe talk with him. Somebody 
 was always near, or might be near. The very effort to 
 hide her thoughts grew sometimes irksome; and the 
 
124 THEOLD HELMET. 
 
 ^hii-1 of engagements and occupations in which she lived 
 gave her a stifled feeling. She conld not even indulge 
 herself in solitary consideration of that which there was 
 nobody to help her consider. 
 
 She hailed one day the announcement that Mr. Carlisle 
 must let the next day go by without riding or seeing 
 her. He would be kept away at a town some miles off, 
 on county business. Mr. Carlisle had a good deal to do 
 with county politics and country business generally; 
 made himself both important and popular, and lost no 
 thread of influence he had once gathered into his hand. 
 So Brompton would have him all the next day, and Elea- 
 nor would have her lime to herself 
 
 That she might secure full possession of it, she ordered 
 her pony and went out alone after luncheon. She could 
 not get free earlier. Now she took no servant to follow 
 her, and started off alone to the moors. It was a deli- 
 cious autumn day, mild and still and mellow. Eleanor 
 got out of sight or hearing of human habitations ; then 
 let her pony please himself in his paces while she dropped 
 the reins and thought. It was hardly in Eleanor's nature 
 to have bitter thoughts ; they came as near it on this 
 occasion as they were apt to do ; they were very dis- 
 satisfied thoughts. She was on the whole dissatisfied 
 with everybody ; herself most of all, it is true ; but her 
 mother and Mr. Carlisle had a share. She did not want 
 to be married at Christmas ; she did not even care ahout 
 going to Switzerland, unless by her own good leave 
 asked and obtained ; she waf not willing to be managed 
 as a child ; yet Eleanor was conscious that she was no 
 better in Mr. Carlisle's hands. " I wonder what sort of a 
 master he will make," she thought, " when he has me 
 entirely in his power? I have no sort of liberty now." 
 It humbled her ; it was her own fault ; yet Eleanor liked 
 Mr. Carlisle, and thought that she loved him. She was 
 foung yet and very inexperienced. She also liked all 
 
WITH THE FERNS. 125 
 
 the splendour of tlie position he gave her. Yet above 
 the gratification of this, through the dazzle of wealth 
 and [ileasnre and power, Eleanor discerned now a want 
 these could not fill. What should she do when they 
 foiled ? there was no provision in them for the want of 
 them. Eleanor forgot her loss of independence, and 
 pondered these thoughts till they grew bitter with pain. 
 By turns she wished she had never seen Mr. Rhys, who 
 she remember 3d first started them ; or wished she could 
 see him again. 
 
 In the stillness and freedom and peace of the wide 
 moor, Eleanor had fearlessly given herself up to her 
 musings, without thinking or caring which way she 
 went. The pony, finding the choice left to him, had 
 naturally enough turned off into a track leading over 
 some wild hills where he had been bred ; the locality 
 had pleasant associations for him. But it had none of 
 any kind for Eleanor ; and when she roused herself to 
 think of it, she found she was in a distant part of tha 
 moor and drawing near to the hills aforesaid ; a bleak 
 and dreary looking region, and very far from home. 
 Neither was she very sure by which way she might 
 soonest regain a neighbourhood that she knew. To fol- 
 low the path she was on and turn off into the first track 
 that branched in the right direction, seemed the best to 
 do ; and she roused up her pony to an energetic little 
 gallop. It seemed little after the long bounds Black 
 Maggie would take through the air; but it was brisk 
 work for the potiy. Eleanor kept him at his speed. It 
 was luxurious, to be alone ; ride as she liked, slow or 
 fast, and ' think as she liked, even forbidden thoughts. 
 Her own mistress once more. Eleanor exulted, all the 
 more because she was a rebel. The wild moor was 
 delicious; the freedom was delicious; only she was fai 
 from home and the afternoon was on the wane. Sba 
 kept the pony to his speed. 
 
126 TUB OLl) HELMET. 
 
 By the base of the hills near to which the road led 
 her, stood a miserable little house. It needed hut a look 
 at the place, to decide that the people who lived in it 
 must be also miserable, and probably in more ways than 
 one. Eleanor who had intended asking there for some 
 news of her whereabouts and the roads, changed her 
 mind as she drew near and resolved to pass the house at 
 a gallop. So much for wise resolves. The miseralile 
 children who dwelt in the house, had been that day mak- 
 ing a bonfire for their amusement right on her track. 
 The hot ashes were still there ; the pony set his feet in 
 them, reared high, and threw his rider, who had never 
 known the pony do such a thing before and had no 
 reason to expect it of him. Eleanor was thrown clean 
 off on the ground, and fell stunned. 
 
 She picked herself up after a few minutes, to find no 
 bones broken, the miserable hut close by, and two chil- 
 dren and an old crone looking at her. The pony had 
 concluded it a dangerous neighbourhood and departed, 
 shewing a clean pair of heels. Eleanor gathered her 
 dress in her hand and looked at the people who were 
 staring at her. Such faces ! 
 
 " What place is this ?" she asked, forcing herself to 
 be bold. The answer was utterly unintelligible. All 
 Eleanor could make out was the hoarsely or thickly put 
 question, " Be you hurted ?" 
 
 "No, thank you — not at all, I believe," she said 
 breathlessly, for she had not got over the shock of her 
 fall. " How far am I fronr the village of Wiglands ?" 
 
 Again the words that were spoken in reply gave no 
 meaning to her ear. 
 
 " Boys, will one of you shew me the nearest ■wa.v 
 there? I will give you something as soon as I get home." 
 
 The children stared, at her and at each other ; but 
 Eleanor was more comprehi'usible to them than they to 
 her. The old woman said some hoarse words to the 
 
■WITH THE FERNS. 127 
 
 ehildren ; and then one of them stepped forth and said 
 strangely, " I 'ze go wiz ye." 
 
 " I'll leward him for it," said Eleanor, nodding to the 
 old grandmother ; and set off, very glad to be walking 
 away. She did not breathe freely till a good many yards 
 of distance were between her and the hut, where the crone 
 anil the other child still remained watching her. There 
 might be others of the family coming home ; and Elea- 
 nor walked at a brave pace until she had well left the 
 little hut behind, out of all fear of pursuit. Then she 
 began to feel that she was somewhat shattered by her 
 fall, and getting tired, and she went more gently. But 
 it was a long, long way ; the reach of moor seemed end- 
 less ; for it was a very different thing to go over it on 
 Black Maggie's feet from going over it on her own. 
 Eleanor was exceedingly weary, and still the brown 
 common stretched away on all sides of her ; and the dis- 
 tant tuft of vegetation which announced the village of 
 AViglands, stood afar off, and seemed to be scarcely nearer 
 after miles of walking. Before they reached it Eleanor's 
 feet were dragging after one another in weariest style. 
 She could not possibly go on to the Lodge without stop- 
 phig to rest. How should she reward and send back 
 her guide? As she was tliinking of this, Ele;uior saw tli6 
 smoke curling up from a stray cottage hid atnong the 
 trees ; it was Mrs. Williams's cottage. Her heart sprang 
 with a sudden temptation — doubted, balanced, and re- 
 solved. She had excuse enough ; she would do a rebel- 
 lious thing. She would go there and rest. It might 
 give her a chance to see Mr. Rhys and hear him talk ; tt 
 might not. If the chance came, why she would beverj' 
 glad of it. Eleanor had no money about her ; she hastily 
 detached a gold pencil case from her watch chain and 
 put it into the ragged creature's hand who had guided 
 her ; saw him turn his back, then went with a sort of 
 
128 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 Btealtliy joy to the front of Mrs. Williams's cottage, 
 [)nshed the door open softly and went in. 
 
 Nobody was there ; not a cat ; it was all still. Amin 
 iier door stood ajar ; within there was a sound of voices, 
 low and pleasant. Eleanor supposed Mrs. Williams 
 would make her appearance in a minute, and sank down 
 on the first chair that offei-ed ; sank even her head in her 
 bands, for very weariness and the very sense of rest 
 and security gained. The chair was one standing by the 
 fire and near the open inner door ; the voices came quite 
 plainly through ; and the next minute let Eleanor 
 know that one of them was the voice of her little sister 
 Julia ; she heard one of JuUa's joyous utterances. The 
 other voice belonged to Mr. Rhys. No sound of Mrs. 
 Williams. Eleanor sat still, her head bowed in her 
 hands, an.d listened. 
 
 It seemed that Julia was looking at something — or 
 some collection of things. Eleanor could hear the slight 
 rustling of paper handled — then a pause and talk. Julia 
 had a gi-eat deal to say. Eleanor presently made out 
 that they were looking at a collection of plants. She 
 felt so tired that she had no inclination to move a single 
 muscle. Mind and body sat still to listen. 
 
 " And what is that ?" she heard Julia say. 
 
 " Mountain fern." 
 
 " Isn't it beautiful ! O that's as pretty as a feather." 
 
 " If you saw them growing, dozens of them springing 
 from the same root, you would think them beautiful. 
 Then those brown edgings are black as jet and glossy." 
 
 " Are those the thecm, Mr. Rhys ?" 
 
 " Yes. The Lastrseas, and all their family, have tlie 
 fruit in those little round spots, each with its own cov- 
 ering ; that is their mark." 
 
 " It is so funny that plants should have families," said 
 Julia. " Now is this one of the family, Mr. Rliys ?" 
 
 " Certainly ; that is a Cystopteris." 
 
WITH THE FBENS. 129 
 
 •' Iff a deal little thing ! "Where did you get it, Mr, 
 Rhys ?" 
 
 " I do not remember. They grow pretty nearly all 
 over ; you find them on rocks, and walls." 
 
 " 2 don't find them," said Julia. " I wish I could. 
 Now what is that ?" 
 
 " Another of the family, but not a Cystopteris. That 
 is the Holly fern. Do you see how stiff and prickly it 
 is ? That wns a troublesome one to manage. I gathered 
 it on a high mountain in Wales, I think." 
 
 " Are high mountains good places V" 
 
 " For the mountain ferns. That is another Lastraea 
 you have now ; that is very elegant. That grows on 
 mountains too, but also on many other places ; shoots 
 up in elegant tufts almost a yard high. I have seen it 
 very beautiful. When the fruit is ripe, the indusium is 
 something of a lOac colour, spotting the frond in double 
 rows — as you see it there. I have seen these Lastraeas 
 and others, growing in great profusion on a wild place 
 in Devonshire, in the neighbourhood of the rushing tor- 
 rent of a river. The spray flew up on the rocks and 
 stones along its banks, keeping them moist, and some- 
 times overflowed them ; and'there in the vegetable matter 
 that had by little and little collected, there was such a 
 show of feins as I have not often seen. Another, Las- 
 trtea grew, I should think, five feet high ; and this one, 
 and the Lady fern. Turn the next sheet^there it is. 
 That is the Lady fern." 
 
 " How perfectly beautiful !" Julia exclaimed. " la 
 that a Lastrsea too ?" 
 
 Mr. Rhys laughed a little ae he answered "No." Tlntil 
 then his voice had kept the quiet even tone of feeble 
 strength, 
 
 " Why is it caLed Lady fern ?" 
 
 " I do not know. Perhaps because it is so delicate in 
 
,'30 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 its Structure — perhaps because it is so tender. It does 
 not bear being broken from its root." 
 
 " But I think Eleanor is as strong as anybody," said 
 Julia. 
 
 "Don't you remember how ill she was, only fiom 
 hming wetted her feet, last summer?" said Mr. Rhys 
 with perfect gra\ ity. 
 
 " Well, what is that ?" said Julia, not liking the in- 
 ference they were coming to. 
 
 "That is a little fern that loves the wet. It grows 
 by waterfalls— those are its homes. It grows close to 
 the fall, where it will be constantly watered by the spi-ay 
 from it ; sometimes this little halt-brother it has, the Oak 
 fern, is found there along with it. They are elegant 
 species." 
 
 " It must be nice to go to the waterfalls and climb up 
 to get them," said Julia. " What do you call these lit- 
 tle wet beauties, Mr. Rhys ?" 
 
 " Polypodies." 
 
 "Polypodies! Now, Mr. Rhys, — O what is this? 
 This is prettiest of all." 
 
 " Yes, one of the very prettiest. I found that in a 
 cave, a wet cave, by the sea. That is the sort of home 
 it likes." 
 
 "In Wales?" 
 
 " In Wales I have found it, and elsewhere ; in the 
 south of England ; but always by the sea ; in places 
 where I have seen a great many other beautiful things." 
 
 " By the sea, Mr. Rhys ? Why I have been there, 
 and I did not see anything but the waves and the sand 
 and the rocks." 
 
 " You did not know where to look." 
 
 " Where did you look ?" 
 
 " Under the rocks ; — and in them." 
 
 " In the rocks, sir?" 
 
 " In their clefts and hollows and caves. In caves 
 
WITH TUB FEENS. 131 
 
 n'hich I could only reach in a boat, or by going in at low 
 tide; then I saw things more beautiful than a fairy 
 palace, Julia." 
 
 " What sort of things ?" 
 
 "Animals — and plants." 
 
 " Beautiful animals ?" 
 
 " Very beautiful." 
 
 " Wei I wish you would take me with you, Mr. Rhys. 
 I would not mind wetting my feet. I will be a Hard 
 fern — not a Lady fern. Eleanor shall be the lady. 
 Mr. Rhys, won't you hate to leave England ?" 
 
 " There are plenty of beautiful things where I am 
 going, Julia — if I get well." 
 
 " But the people are so bad !" 
 
 " That is wliy I want to go to them." 
 
 " But whnt can you do to them ?" 
 
 " I can tell them of the Lord Jesus, Julia. They 
 have never heard of him ; that is why they are so evil." 
 
 " Maybe they won't believe you, Mr. Rhys." 
 
 "Maybe they will. But the Lord has commanded me 
 to go, all the same." 
 
 "How, Mr. Rhys?" 
 
 He answered in the beautiful words of Paul — " How 
 shall they believe on him of whom they have not heard ? 
 and how shall they heai- without a preacher ?" There 
 was a sorrowful depth in his tones, speaking to himself 
 rather than to his little listener. 
 
 " Mr. Rhys, they are such dreadfully bad people, they 
 might kill you, and eat you." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Are you not afraid ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 There is strangely much sometimes expressed, one can 
 hardly say how, in the tone of a single word. So it 
 was with this word, even to the ears of Eleanor in trio 
 uext room. It was round and sweet, uutrembling, with 
 
132 THM OLD HELMRT. 
 
 something like a vibration of joy in its low attevanca 
 It was but a word, said in answer to a child's idle qnes. 
 tion ; it pierced like a barbed arrow through all the in- 
 volutions of another heart, down into the core. It was 
 an accent of strength and quiet and feark^ss security> 
 •hough spoken by lips that were very uticertaiu of their 
 (enure of life. It gave the chord that Eleanor wanted 
 Bounded in her own soul ; where now there was no har- 
 mony at all, but sometiiies a jarring clang, and some- 
 times an echo of fear. 
 
 " But Mr. Rhys, aren't they very dreadful^ over there 
 where you want to go ?" Julia said. 
 
 " Very dreadful ; more than you can possibly imagine, 
 or than I can, perhaps." 
 
 " Well I hope you won't go. Mr. Rhys, I think Mrs. 
 Williams stays a gref\t while — it is time the kettle was 
 on for your tea." 
 
 Eleanor had hardly time to be astonished at this most 
 novel display of careful housewifery on her little sister's 
 part, whom indeed she would have supposed to be igno- 
 rant that such a thing as a kettle existed ; when Julia came 
 bounding into the outer room to look .after the article, 
 or after the old dame who should take charge of it. She 
 stopped short, and Eleanor raised her head. Julia's ex- 
 clamation was heart)'. * 
 
 " Hush !" whispered Eleanor. 
 
 " What should I hush for ? there's nobody here but 
 Mr. Rhys in the other room ; and he was s.aying the 
 other daj that he wanted to see you." 
 
 Back she bounded. "Mr. Rhys, here's Eleanor m the 
 other room, and no Mrs. Williams." 
 
 Eleanor heard the quiet answer — " Tell your sister, 
 that as I cannot walk out to see her, perhaps she will do 
 me the favour to come in hera," 
 
 There was nothing better, in the circumstances ; in. 
 ieed Eleanor felt she must go in to explain l.erse'.f ; sho 
 
■WITH THE PER KS. 133 
 
 only waited for Julia's brisk summons — " Eleanor, Mr. 
 Rliys wants to see you !" — and gathering up her habit 
 she walked into the other room as steadily as if she had 
 all the right in the world to be there ; bearing herself a 
 little proudly, for a sudden thought of Mr. Carlisle came 
 over her. Mr. Rhys was lying on the couch, as she had 
 seen him before ; but she was startled at the puleness of 
 his faco, made more startling by the very dark eyebrows 
 and bushy hair. Pie raised himself on his elbow as she 
 came in, and Eleanor could not refuse to give him her 
 hand. 
 
 " I ought to apologize for not rising to receive you," 
 he said, — " but you see I cannot help it." 
 
 " I am very sorry, Mr. Rhys. Are you less strong 
 than you were a few weeks ago ?" 
 
 "I seem to have no strength at all now," he answered 
 ■with a half laugh. " Will you not sit down ? Julia, 
 suppose you coax the fire to burn a little brighter, for 
 your sister's welcome ?" 
 
 " She can do it herself," said Julia. " I am going to 
 see to the fire in the other room." 
 
 " No, that would be inhospitable," Mr. Rhys ».iid 
 with a smile ; " and I do not believe your sister knows 
 how, Julia. She has not learned as many things as you 
 have." 
 
 Julia gave her friend a very loving look and went at 
 the fire without more words. Eleanor sat under a strange 
 spell. She hardly knew her sister in that look ; and 
 there was about the pale pure face that lay on the couch, 
 wiih its shining eyes, an atmosphere of influence that 
 subdued and enthralled her. It was with an effort that 
 she roused herself to give the intended explanation of 
 hor being in that place. Mr. Rhys heard her throughout. 
 
 "I am very glad you were thrown," he said; "since 
 it has procured me the pleasure of seeing you." 
 
 "Mr. Carlisle will n-^ver let vou ride alone iwain — that 
 
134 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 .8 one thing !" said Julia. And having finished the fira 
 and hei- exclamatory comments togetlier, she ran off into 
 the other room. Her last words had called up a deep 
 flush on Eleanor's face. Mr. Rhys waited till it hmi 
 passed quite away, then he asked very calmly, and put. 
 ting the question also with his bright eyes, 
 
 " How have you been, since I saw you last ?" 
 
 The eyes were bright, not with the specular bright- 
 ness of many eyes, but with a sort of fulness of light 
 and keenness of intelligent vision. Eleanor knew per 
 fectly well to what they referred. She shrank withic 
 herself, cowered, and hesitated. Then made a brave effort 
 and threw back the question. 
 
 " How have you been, Mr. Rhys ?" 
 
 " I have been well," he sairl. " You know it is the 
 privilege of the children of God, to glory in tribula- 
 tions. That is what I am doing." 
 
 " Have you been so very ill ?" asked Eleanor. 
 
 " My illness gives me no pain," he answered ; " it only 
 incapacitates me for doing anything. And at firat that 
 was more grievous to me tiian you can understand. 
 With so ipuch to do, and with my heart in the work, it 
 seemed as if my Master had laid me aside and said, 
 ' You shall do no more ; you shall lie there and not speak 
 my name to men any longer.' It gave me great pain at 
 first — I WHS tempted to rebel ; but now I know that 
 patience Worketh experience. I thank him for the les- 
 sons he has tauglit me. I am willing to go out and be 
 useful, or to lie here and be comparatively useless, — just 
 as my Lord will '," 
 
 The slow deliberate utterance, which testified at once 
 of physical weakness and mental power ; the absohite 
 repose of the bright face, touched Eleanor profoundly 
 Sh<i sat spell-bound, forgetting her overthrow and he? 
 fatigue and everything el-e; only cimscious of her stru^ 
 gling thoughts and cares of the weeks pas' and of the 
 
WITH THE FEKN8 135 
 
 presence and influence of the one person she knew wlic 
 had the key to them. 
 
 " Having so lew opportunities," he went on, " you 
 will not be surprised that I hail every one that offers, 
 of speaking in my Master's name. I know that he has 
 summoned you to liis service. Miss Povvle — is he your 
 Master yet ?" 
 
 Eleanor pushed her chair round, grating it on the 
 floor, so as to tuin her face a little away, and answered, 
 " No." , 
 
 " You have heard his call to you ?" 
 Eleanor felt her whole heart convulsed in the struggle 
 to answer or not answer this question. With great diffi- 
 culty she kept herself outwardly perfectly quiet ; and at 
 last said hoarsely, looking away from Mr. Rhys into the 
 fire, 
 
 " How do you know anything about it ?" 
 " Have you yielded obedience to his commands?" he 
 said, disregarding her words. 
 
 " I do not know what they are — " Eleanor answered. 
 " Have you sought to find them out ?" 
 She hesitated, and said " no." Her face was com- 
 pletely turned away from him now ; but the tender 
 intonation of the next words thrilled ttirough every 
 nerve of her heart and brain. 
 
 " Then your head is uncovered yet by that helmet ol 
 security which you were anxious about a little time 
 ago ?" 
 
 It was the speech of somebody who saw right into 
 her heart and knew all th.it was going on there ; what 
 was the use of holding out and trying to maintain ap- 
 pearances ? Eleanor's head sank ; her iieart gave way ; 
 she burst into tears. Now was lier chance, she thought : 
 the ice was broken ; she would ask of Mr. Rhys all ^'he 
 wanted to know, for he could tell her. Before another 
 word was spoken, in rushed Julii. 
 
136 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " I've got that going," she said ; " yon shall hjv7C some 
 tea directly, Mr. Rhys. I hope Mrs. Williams will stay 
 away till I get through. Now it will take a litde while 
 — come here, Eleanor, and look at these beantiful ferns.' 
 
 Eleanor was sitting upright again ; she had driven the 
 tears back. She hoped for another chance of ypeaking, 
 when Julia should go to get her tea ready. In the mean 
 ■while she moved her seat, as her sister desii ed her, to 
 look over the ferns. This brought her into the neigh- 
 bourhood of the couch, where Julia sat on a low bench, 
 turning the great sheets of paper on the floor before her. 
 It brought Eleanor's face into full view, too, she knew ; 
 but now she did not care for that. Julia went on rap- 
 turously with the ferns, asking information as before ; 
 and in Mr. Rhys's answers there was a grave tone of 
 preoccupation which thrilled on Eleanor's ear and kept 
 her own mind to the point where it had been. 
 
 " Are there ferns out there where you are going if 
 you get well, Mr. Rhys? new ones?" 
 
 " I have no doubt of it." 
 
 " Then you will gather them and dry them, won't 
 you ?" 
 
 " I think it is very possible I may." 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't go ! O Mr. Rhys, tell Eleanor 
 about that place ; she don't know about it. Tell her 
 what you told me." 
 
 He did ; perhaps to fill up the time and take Eleanor' i* 
 attention from herself for the moment. He gave a short 
 account of the people in question ; a people of fipe 
 physical and even fine mental development, for ravages ; 
 inhabiting a country of great beauty and rich natural 
 resources ; but at the same time sunk in the most abjcd 
 depths of moral debasement. A country where thu 
 " works of the devil" had reached their utmost vigour; 
 where men lived but for vile ends, and took the lives of 
 their fellow-men and each other with the utmost ruth- 
 
WITHTIIEFEKNS. 137 
 
 tessiiess and carelessness and horrible cruelty ; and more 
 than that, where they dishonoured human life by abusing, 
 and even eating, the forms in which human life had resi- 
 dence. It was a terrible picture Mr. Rhys drew, in a 
 few words ; so terrible, that it did take Eleanor's atten- 
 tion from all else for tlie time. 
 
 " Is other life safe there ?" she asked. " Do the white 
 people Av'ho go there feel themselves secure ?" 
 
 " I presume they do not." 
 
 " Then why go to such a horrible place ?" 
 
 " Why not ?" he asked. " The darker they are, the 
 more they want light.'" 
 
 " But it is to jeopardize the very life you wish to use 
 for them." 
 
 Mr. Rhys was silent for a moment, and when he spoke 
 it was only to make a remark about the fern which lay 
 displayed on the floor before Julia. 
 
 " That Hart's-tongue," said he, " I gathered from a 
 cavern on the sea-coast — where it grew hanging down 
 from the roof, — quantities of it." 
 
 " In a dark cavern, Mr. Rhys ?" said Julia. 
 
 " Not in a dark part of the cavern. No, it grew only 
 where it could have the light. — Miss Powle, I am of 
 David's mind — " In God I have put my trust ; I will not 
 fear what flesh can do to me." 
 
 He looked up at Eleanor as he spoke. The slight 
 smile, the look, in Eleanor's mood of mind, were like a 
 coal of fire dropped into her heart. It burned. She 
 said nothing ; sat still and looked at the fern on the floor. 
 
 " But will you not feel afraid, Mr. Rhys ?" said Julia. 
 
 " Why no, Julia. I shall have nothing to be afraid 
 of. You tbrget who will be with me." 
 
 Julia with that jumped up and ran off to see about 
 her fire and kettle in the other room. E'eanor and Mr. 
 Rhys were left alone. The lattei- did not speak. Eleanor 
 longed to hear more, and made a great eft'ort. 
 
138 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " I do not inderstaiid you," she said hoarsely, for in 
 the stir of lior feelings she could not command a clear 
 voice. " You say, He will be with you. What do you 
 mean ? We cannot see him now. How wUl he be with 
 you ?" 
 
 She had raised her eyes, and she saw a strange softness 
 and light pass over the face she was looking at. Indefina- 
 ble, unaccountable, she yet saw it ; a shining from the spir- 
 itual glory within, which Eleanor recognized, though she 
 had never seen it before. Fire and water were in those 
 bright eyes at once ; and Eleanor guessed the latter evi- 
 dence of emotion was for his igno~ant questioner. She 
 had no heart left. By such a flash of revelation the 
 light from one spirit shewed the other its darkness ; 
 dimly known to her before ; but now, once and forever, 
 she kut'W where she stood and where he stood, and 
 what the want of her life must be, till she should stand 
 there too. Her face shewed but a little of the work 
 going on with heavings and stragglings in her mind ; vet 
 doubtiess it was as readable to her companion as his had 
 been to her. She could only hear at the time — after- 
 wards she pondered — the words of his reply. 
 
 " I cannot shew him to you ; — but he will shew himself 
 to you, if you seek him." 
 
 There w^as no chance for more words ; Julia came iu 
 again, and was thereafter bustling in and out, getting 
 her cup of tea ready. Eleanor could not meet her little 
 sister's looks and probable words ; she turned hastily 
 from the ferns and the couch and put herself at the win- 
 dow with her back to everj^body. There was a wild cry 
 in her heart—" What shall I do ! what shall I do !" One 
 thing she must have, or be miserable ; how was she to 
 make it her own. As soon as she turned her face from 
 Lhat cottage room and what was in it, she must meet the 
 fiiil blast of oi)posing currents ; unfavourable, adverse, 
 orerwncnnmg. Her lignt was not strong enough to 
 
WITH THE FERNS. 139 
 
 «tand that blast, Eleanor knew ; it would be blown out 
 direotly ; — and she left in darkness. In a desperate sense 
 of this, a desperate resolve to overcome it somehow, a 
 despniring powerlessness to contend, slie sat at the win- 
 dow seeing notliing. She was brought to herself at last by 
 Julia's, " Eleanor — Mr. Rhys wants you to take a cup of 
 tea." Eleanor turned round mechanically, took the cup, 
 and changed her place for one near the fire. 
 
 She never foi'got that scene. Julia's part in it gave it 
 a most strange air to Eleanor ; so did her own. Julia 
 was moving about, quite at home, preparing cups of tea 
 for everybody, hei'self included ; and waiting upon Mr. 
 Rhys with a steady care and affectionateness which evi- 
 dently met with an affectionate return. The cottage room 
 with its plain furniture — the little common blue cups in 
 whicli the tea was served — the fire in the chimney on the 
 coarse iron fire-dogs — the reclining figure on the couch, 
 and her own riding-habit in the middle of the room ; 
 were all stereotyped on Eleanor's memory for ever. The 
 tea refreshed her very much. 
 
 " How are you going to get home. Miss Powle ?" 
 asked her host. " Have you sent for a carriage ?" 
 
 " No — I saw nobody to send — I can walk it quite well 
 now," said Eleanor. And feeling that the time was 
 come, she set down her tea-cnp and came to bid her host 
 good-bye ; though she shrank from doing it. She gave 
 him her hand again, but she had no words to speak. 
 
 " Good-bye," said he. " I am sorry I am not well 
 enough to come and see you ; I would take that lib- 
 erty." 
 
 " And so I shall never see him again," thought Eleanor 
 as she went out of the cottage ; " and nobody will ever 
 speak any more words to me of what I want to hear ; 
 and what will become of me ! What chance shall I have 
 vei'y soon — what chance have I now — to attend to these 
 things ? to get right ? and what chance would aU these 
 
NO THE OlD HELMET. 
 
 ;,hiiigs have with Mr. Carlisle ? I could manage my 
 mother. What will become of me !" 
 
 Eleanor walked and thought, both hard, till she got 
 pa«t the village ; finding herself alone, thought got the 
 better of haste, and she threw herself down under a 
 tree to collect some order and steadiness in her mind if 
 possible before other interests and distractions broke in. 
 She sat with her face buried in her hands a good while. 
 And one conclusion Eleanor's thoughts came to ; that 
 there was a thing more needful than other things ; and 
 that she would hold that one thing first in her mind, and 
 keep it first in her endeavours, and make all her arrange- 
 ments accordingly. Eleanor was young and untried, 
 but her mind had a tolerable back-bone of stiffness when 
 once aroused to take action ; her conclusion meant some- 
 thing. She rose up, then ; looked to see how far down 
 the sun was ; and turning to pursue her walk vigor- 
 ously — found Mr. Carlisle at her side. He was as much 
 surprised as she. 
 
 " Why Eleanor ! what are you doing here ?" 
 
 " Trying to get home. I have been thrown from my 
 pony." 
 
 "Thrown ! where ?" 
 
 " Away on the moor — I don't know where. I never 
 was there before. I am not hurt." 
 
 " Then how come you here ?" 
 
 " Walked here, sir." 
 
 " And where are your servants ?" 
 
 " You forget. I am only Eleanor Powle — I do not 
 go with a train after me." — 
 
 But she was obliged to give an account of the whole 
 affair. 
 
 " You must not go alone in that way again," said ho 
 decidedly. " Sit down again." 
 
 " Look where the sue is I am going Lome," said 
 Eleanor. 
 
WITH THE KEKNS. 141 
 
 " Sit down. I am going to send for a oarriagc." 
 
 Eleanor protested, in vain. Mr. Carlisle sent his groom 
 on to the Loilge with the message, and the heels of the 
 horses were presently clattering in the distance. Eleanor 
 stood still. 
 
 " I do not want rest," she insisted. " I am ready to 
 walk home, and able. I have been resting." 
 
 " How long ?" 
 
 " A long while. I went into Mrs. Williams's cottage 
 and rested there. I would rather go on." 
 
 He put her hand upon his arm and turned towards 
 the Lodge, but permitted her after all to move only at 
 tlie gentlest of rates. 
 
 " You will not go out in this way again ?" he said ; 
 and the words were more an expression of his own will 
 than an enquiry as to hers. 
 
 " There is no reason why I should not," Eleanor an- 
 swered, 
 
 " I do not like that you should be walking over moors 
 and taking shelter in cottages, without protection." 
 
 " I can protect myself. I know what is due to me." 
 
 " You must remember what is due to me," he said 
 laughing, and stopping her lips when she would have 
 replied. Eleanor walked along, silenced, and for the 
 moment subdued. The wish was in her heart, to have 
 let Mr. Carlisle know in some degree what bent her spirit 
 was taking ; to have given him some hint of what he 
 must expect in her when she became his wife ; she coTild 
 not find how to do it. She could not see the way to be- 
 gin. So far was Mr. Carlisle from the whole world of 
 religious interests and couceYns, that to introduce it to 
 him seemed like bringing opposite poles together. She 
 walked by his side very silent and doubtful. He thought 
 she was tired ; put her into the cari-iage with great ten- 
 derness when it came ; and at parting from her in tha 
 evening desired her to go eiu'ly to rest. 
 
J 42 THB OLD HELMET. 
 
 Eleanor was very little likely to do it. The bodily 
 adventures of the day had left little trace, or little that was 
 regarded ; the mental journey had been much more last- 
 ing in its effects. That night there was a young moon, and 
 Eleanor sat at her window, looking out into the shadowy 
 indistinctness of the outer world, while she ti'ied to re- 
 solve the confusion of her mind into something like visi- 
 ble order and definiteness. Two points were clear, and 
 seemed to loom up larger and clearer the longei- she 
 jhought about them ; her supreme need of th:it which 
 she had not, the faith and deliverance of religion ; and 
 the adverse influence and opposition of Mr. Carlisle in 
 all the efforts she might make to secure or maintain it. 
 And under all this lurked a thought that was like a ser- 
 pent for its unrecognized coming and going and for the 
 sting it left, — a wish that she could put off her marriage. 
 No new thing in one way ; Eleanor had never been wil- 
 ling it should be fixed for so early a day ; nevertheless 
 she had accepted and submitted to it, and become accus- 
 tomed to the thought of it. Now repugnance started 
 up anew and with fresh energy. She could hardly un- 
 derstand herself ; her thoughts were a great turmoil; 
 they went over and over some of the experiences of the 
 day, with an aimless dwelling upon them ; yet Eleanor 
 was in general no dreamer. The words of Mr. Rhys, 
 that had pierced her with a sense of duty and need — the 
 looks, that even in the remembrance wrung her heart 
 with their silent lesson-bearing — the sympathy testified 
 for herself, which intensified all her own emotions, — and 
 in contrast, the very tender and affectionate but supreme 
 manner of Mr. Carlisle, in whose power she felt she was, — 
 the alternation of these images and tlie thoughts they 
 gave rise to, kept Eleanor at her window, until the youncr 
 moon went down behind the western horizon and the night 
 was dark with only stars. So dark she felt, and miser- 
 able ; and over and over and over again her cry of that 
 
WITHTHE FERNS. 14a 
 
 ifternoon was re-echoed, — " "What shall I do ! what will 
 become of me !" 
 
 Upon one thing she fixed. That Mr. Carlisle shoiild 
 know that he was not going to find a gay wife in liei', 
 but one wliose mind was set upon somewhat else and 
 u])on another way of life. This would be very distaste- 
 ful to him ; and he should know it. How she would 
 manage to let him know, Eleanor left to circumstance§ " 
 — ♦ she Tuent ?.o bed with that point determined. 
 
CHAPTEE YIIl. 
 
 " It bath been the longest night 
 That e*er 1 watched, and the most hcavleaL ' 
 
 Good resolutions are sometimes excellent things, but 
 they are susceptible of overturns. Eleanor's met with 
 one. 
 
 She was sitting with Mr. Carlisle the very next day, 
 in a disturbed mood of mind ; for he and her mother 
 had been laying plans and making dispositions with 
 reference to her approaching marriage ; plans and dispo- 
 sitions in which her voice was not asked, and in which 
 matters were carried rapidly forward towards their con- 
 summation. Eleanor felt that bands and chains were 
 getting multiplied round her, fastening her more and 
 more in the possession of her captor, while her own 
 mind was preparing what would be considered resist- 
 ance to the authority thus secured. The sooner she 
 spoke the better ; but how to begin ? She bent over her 
 embroidery frame with cheeks that gradually grew burn- 
 ing hot. The soft wind that blew in from the open win- 
 dow at her side would not cool them. Mr. Carlisle came 
 and sat down beside her. 
 
 " What does all this mean ?" said he laughingly, draw- 
 ing his finger soflly over Eleanor's rich cheek? 
 
 " It's hot !" said Eleanor. 
 
 " Is it? I have the advantage of you. It is the per- 
 fection of a day to me." 
 
 " Eleanor," cried Julia bounding in through the win 
 low, " Mr. Rhys is better to-day He says so." 
 
IN THE BARN. 145 
 
 • Is he ?" said Elennor. 
 
 "Yes ; you know how weak he was yesterday ; he ig 
 not q<iite so weak to-day." 
 
 "Who is Ml-. Khys?" said Mr. Cariislt. 
 
 " O he is nice ! Eleanor says nice rhymes to Ilhys. 
 Wasn't my tea nice, Elea vor ? We h:id Miss Broadiis 
 to tea this afternoon. We iiad you yesterday and Misa 
 Broadus to-day. I wonder who will come next." 
 
 " Is tiiis a sick friend you have been visiting?" said 
 Mr. Carlisle, as Julia ran off, Iiaving accomplished the 
 discomfiture of licr sister. 
 
 " No, not at iill — only I stopped at Mrs. Williams' cot- 
 tage to rest yesterday ; and he lives there." 
 
 " You saw him ?" 
 
 " Yes ; Julia found rae, and I could not help seeing 
 him." 
 
 " But you took tea there, Eleanor? With whom ?" 
 
 " I took tea with Julia and her sick friend. Why 
 not? She was making a cup of tea for him and gave 
 me one. I was very glad of it. There was no one else 
 in the house." 
 
 " How is your sister allowed to do such tilings ?" 
 
 " For a sick fiiend, Mr. Carlisle ? I think it is well 
 anybody's part to do such things." 
 
 "I think I will forbid embroidery frames at the 
 Priory, if they are to keep me from seeing your eyes," 
 said he, with one arm drawing her back from the frame 
 and with the other hand taking her fingers from it, and 
 looking into her face, but L'ssing her. " Now tell me 
 who is this gentleman ?" 
 
 Ele.mor was irritated ; yet the assumption of authority, 
 calm and prouil as it was, had a mixture of tenderness 
 which pai'tly soothed her. The demand however was 
 imperious. Eleanor answered. 
 
 "He was Alfred's tutoi — you have seen him— he has 
 
146 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 been very ill all summer. He is a sick man, staying in 
 the village." 
 
 "And what have you to do with such a person ?" 
 
 " Nothing in the world ! I stopped there to rest my. 
 self, because I was too tired to walk home." 
 
 He smiled at her kindling indiunation, and gave her 
 kiss by way of forgiveness for it ; then went on gravely 
 
 "You have been to that cottage before, Eleanor?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " How was that ?" 
 
 " I went with Julia when she was carrying some re- 
 freshments to lier sick friend. I will do that for any- 
 body, Mr. Carlisle." 
 
 " S:iy that over again," he said calmly, but with a 
 manner that shewed he would have it. And Eleanor 
 could not resist. 
 
 " I would do that for anybody, Macintosh," she said 
 gently, lading her hand upon his arm. 
 
 ,"No, darling. You shall send nurses and supplies to 
 all the folk in the kingdom — if you will — but you shall 
 pay such honour as this to nobody but me." 
 
 " Mr. Carlisle," said Eleanor rousing again, " if I am 
 not worthy your trust, I am nut fit to do either you or 
 anybody else honour." 
 
 She had straightened herself up to face him as she 
 said this, but it was mortifying to feel how little she 
 could rouse hira. He only drew her back ijito his arras, 
 folding her close and kissing her again and again. 
 
 "You are naughty," he saiil, "but you are good. 
 You are as sweet as a rose, Eleanor. My wife will obey 
 me, in a few things, and she shall command me in all 
 otheis. Darling, I wish you not to be seen in the vil- 
 lage again alone. Let some one attend \ ou, if I am not 
 at hanil." 
 
 He suffered her to return to her embroidery ; but 
 though Eleanor's heart beat anil her cheek was flushed 
 
IN THE BAEN. 147 
 
 wuh contending feelings, she could not find a word to 
 say. Her heart rebelled against the authority held over 
 her ; nevertheless it subdued her ; she dared not bring 
 her rebellion into oi)en light. She shrank from that ; 
 and hid now in her own thoughts all the new revelations 
 she had meant to draw forth for Mr. Carlisle's entertain- 
 ment. Now was no time. In fact Eleanor's conscious- 
 ness made her afraid that if she mentioned her religious 
 purposes and uneasiness, this man's aouteness would 
 catch at the connecting link between the new deielic- 
 tion of duty and the former which had been just re- 
 buked. That would lay her open to imputations and 
 suspicions too dishonouring to be risked, and impossible 
 to disprove, however false. She must hold her tongue 
 for the present ; and Eleanor worked on at her em- 
 broidery, her fingers pulling at it energetically, while 
 feeKng herself much more completely in another's power 
 than it suited her nature to be. Somehow at this time 
 the vision of Rythdale Priory was not the indemnifica- 
 tion it had seemed to her before. Eleanor liked Mr. 
 Carlisle, but she did not like to be governed by him ; 
 although with an odd inconsistency, it was that very 
 power of government which formed part of his attrac- 
 tion. Certainly women are strange creatures. Mean- 
 while she tugged on at her work with a hot cheek and a 
 divided mind, and a wisely silent tongue ; and Mr. Cai'- 
 lisle sat by and mwde himself very busy with hei-, finding 
 out ways of being both pleasant and useful. Finally he 
 put a stop to the embroidery and engaged Eleanor in a 
 game of chess with him ; began to teach her how to 
 play it, and succeeded in getting her thoroughly inter 
 ested and diverted from her troublesome thoughts. 
 They returned as soon as he left her. 
 
 " I can never speak to him about my religious feel- 
 ings," mused Eleanor as she walked slowly to her own 
 room,—-" never ! I .almost thinU, if I did, he. would find 
 
148 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 nieanu to clieat me out of them, in spite of all my deter- 
 niinatioas — until it would be too late. What is to become 
 of me? What a double part I shall play notv — my 
 heart all one way, my outer life all another. It must be 
 so. I can shew these thoughts to no one. Will they 
 live, shut up in the dark so ?" 
 
 Mr. Rhys's words about " seeking" recurred to her. 
 Eleanor did not know how, and felt strange. " I could 
 follow his prayers, if I heard them," she said to her- 
 self; — " I do not know how to set about it. I suppose 
 reading the Bible is good — that and good books." 
 
 And that Eleanor tried. Good books however were 
 by and by given up ; none that she had in the least 
 suited her wants ; only the Bible proved both a light 
 and a power to her. It had a great fascination for Elea- 
 nor, and it sometimes made her hopeful ; at any rate she 
 persevered in reading it, through gloom and cheer ; and 
 her mind when she was alone knew much more of tlie 
 former condition than of the latter. When not alone, 
 she was in a whirl of other occupations and interests. 
 The preparations for her marriage went on diligently ; 
 Eleanor saw it and knew it, and would not help though 
 she could not hinder. But she was very far from 
 happy. The style and title of Lady Rythdale had faded 
 in her imagination ; other honour and glory, though 
 dimly seen, seemed more desirable to Eleanor now, and 
 seemed endangered by this. She was very uneasy. She 
 st)-uggled between the remaining sense of pride, which 
 sometimes arose to life, and this thought of something 
 better ; at other times she felt as if her marriage with 
 Mr. Carlisle would doom her forever to go without any 
 treasure but what an earthly coronet well lined with 
 ermine might symbolize and ensure. Meanwhile weeks 
 flew by; while Eleanor studied the Bible and sought 
 for light in her solitary hours at night, and joined in all 
 Mr. Carlisle's plans of gayety by day. September and 
 
IN THE BARN. 149 
 
 October were both gone. November's short days begun, 
 And when the days should be at the shortest — "Then," 
 thought Eleanor, " ray fate will be settled. Mr. Carlisle 
 will have me ; and I can never disobey him. I cannot 
 now." 
 
 November reached the middle, and there wanted but 
 little more than a month to the wedding-day. Eleanor 
 sat one morning in her garden parlour, which a mild day 
 made pleasant ; working by the glass door. The old 
 thought, "What will become of me!" was in her heart. 
 A. shadow dark(^ned the door. Eleanor looked up, fear- 
 ing to see Mr. Carlisle ; it was her little sister Julia. 
 
 JuUa opened the door and came in. " It is nice in the 
 garden, Eleanor," she said. " The chrysanthemums are 
 so beautiful as I never saw them — white and yellow 
 and orange and rose-colour, and a hundred colours. They 
 are beautiful, Eleanor." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " May I have a great bunch of them to take to Mr. 
 Rhys?" 
 
 " Have what you like. I thought you used to take 
 them without asking." 
 
 Julia looked serious. 
 
 " I wish I could go down to the village to-night, I 
 know" — she said. 
 
 " To-night ! What do you wish that for ?" 
 
 " Because, Mr. Rhys is going to preach ; and I do 
 want to go so much ; but I can't." 
 
 " Going to preach ! — why is he so well as that ?" 
 
 "lie isn't well at all," said Julia, — "not what you 
 would call well. But he says he is well. He is whita 
 and weak enmigh yet ; and Zdon't think that is being 
 well. He can't ao to Lily Dale nor to RythdrJe ; so 
 eome of the people are coming to Wiglauds." 
 
 " AVhere is he going to prvach ?" 
 
 " Whore do you think ? In Mr. Brooks's barn. They 
 
150 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 won't let him preach at the inn, and he can't have the 
 church ; and I do want to see how he can preach in the 
 barn !" 
 
 Mr. Brooks was a well-to-do farmer, a tenant of the 
 Rythdale estate, living near the road to the old priory 
 and half a mile from the village of Wiglands. A coii- 
 Buming desire seize^ Eleanor to do as her little sistei had 
 Baid — hear Mr. Rhys preach. The desire was sc \iolent 
 that it half fiightened her with the possibility of its ful- 
 iilment. 
 
 She told Julia that it was an absurd wish, and imprac- 
 ticable, and dismissed her ; and then her whole mind 
 focussed itself on Mr. Brooks's bai-n. Eleanor saw noth- 
 ing else through the morning, whatever she was doing. 
 It was impossible she should get there, perfectly impos- 
 sible ! yet it was a first, last, and only chance, perhaps 
 in her life, of hearing the words of truth so spoken as 
 she knew they would be in that place that night. Be- 
 sides, she had a craving curiosity to know how they would 
 be spoken. One month more, Eleanor once securely 
 lodged in Rythdale Priory, and her chance of hearing 
 any words whatever spoken in a barn, was over for ever; 
 unless indeed she condescended to become an inspector 
 of agricultural proceedings. Yet she said to herself 
 over and over that she. had no chance now ; that her 
 being present was a matter of wild impossibility ; she 
 said it and re-said it, and with every time a growing 
 consciousness that impossibility should not stop her. At 
 last impossibility shaped itself into a plan. 
 
 " I am going down to see Jane Lew^is, mamma," was 
 Eleanor's announcement at luncheon. 
 
 " To-day, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 "But Mr. Carlisle will be here, and he will not 
 ike it." 
 
 " He will have enough of me by and by, ma'am. I 
 
IN 1 II E BARN. 15i. 
 
 shall in^ybe never have anothei- chance of tiiking care of 
 Jane. I know she wants to see me, and I am going to- 
 day. And if she wants me very much, I shall stay all 
 night ; so you need not send." 
 
 " What will Mr. Carlisle say to all that ?" 
 
 " He will saj^ nothing to it, if you do not give him an 
 opportunity, mamma. I am going, at all events." 
 
 " Eleanoi', I am afraid you have almost too much in- 
 dependence,.for one who is almost a married woman." 
 
 " Is independence a quality entirely given up, ma'am, 
 when ' the ring is on ' ?" 
 
 "Certainly! I thought you knew that. You must 
 make up your mind to it. You are a noble c;reature, 
 Eleanor ; but my comfort is that Mr. Carlisle will know 
 how to manage you. I never could, to my satisfaction. I 
 observe he has brought you in pretty well." 
 
 Eleanor left the room ; and if the tide of her inde- 
 pendence eould have run higher, her mother's words 
 would have furnished the necessary provocati\e. 
 
 Jane Lewis was a poor girl in the village; the daugh- 
 ter of one who had been Eleanor's nurse, and who now 
 old and infirm and unable to do much for jierself or 
 others, watched the declining days of her child withnut 
 the power to give them much relief. ■ Jane was dying 
 with consumption. The other member of the family 
 was the old father, still more helpless; past work and 
 dependent on another child for all but the house they 
 lived in. That, in earlier days, had been made their own. 
 Ek'anor was their best friend, and many a day, and night 
 too, had been a sunbeimi of comfort in the poor house. 
 She now, when the day was far enough on its wane, pro 
 vided herself \\ ith a little basket of grapes, ordered her 
 pony, and rode swiftly down to the village; not -with- 
 out attendance this time, though confessing litterly to 
 herself the truth of her mother's allegations. At tha 
 cottage door she took the basket; ordered the pony 
 
152 T H K OLD H K L M E T. 
 
 should come for lier next morning at eight o'clock, and 
 went into the cottage; feeling as if she had for a little 
 space turned her back upon troublesome people and 
 tilings and made herself free. She went in softly, and 
 was garrulously welcomed by her old nurse ami her hus- 
 band. It was so long since they had seen her! and she 
 was going to be such a great lady ! and they knew she 
 would not forget them nevertheless. It was not flattery 
 It was true speech. Eleanor asked for Jane, and with 
 her basket went on into the upper little roo'm where the 
 sick gill lay. There felt, when she had got above the 
 ground floor, as if she wns tolerably safe. 
 
 It was a little low room under the thatch, in which 
 Eleanor now hid herself. A mere large closet of a room, 
 though it boasted of a firepla.ce, happily. A small lattice 
 under the shelving roof let in what it could of the light 
 of a dying November day. The bed with its sick occu- 
 pant, two chairs, a little table, and a bit of carpet on the 
 flooi', were all the light revealed. Eleanor's welcome 
 here was also most sincere; less talkative, it was yet 
 more glad than that given by the old couple down stairs; 
 a light shone all over the pale face of the sick girl, and 
 the weary eye kindled, at sight of her friend. 
 
 Extreme neatness was not the characteristic of this 
 little low room, simply for want of able hands to ensure 
 it. Eleanor's first work was to set Jane to eating 
 grapes ; her next, to put the place in tidy order. " Lady 
 Rythdale shall be useful once more in her life," she 
 thought. She bruiihed up the floor, swept the-hearth, 
 demolished cobwebs on the walls, and rubbed down the 
 chairs. She had borrowed an apron and cap from old 
 Mrs, Lewis. The sick girl Avatched her with eager eves, 
 
 " I can't abear to see you a doing of that. Miss El. 
 eanor," she exclaimed. 
 
 "Hush, Jane ! Eat your grapes." 
 
 "You've a kind heart," said the girl sighing; "and 
 
IN THS BAKN. 153 
 
 It's gOv)d when them that has the power has the feel 
 ins^-s." 
 
 " How are your nights now, Jane ?" 
 
 " Tiiey're tedious — I lie awake so ; and then I get 
 coughing. I am always so glad to see the light come in 
 the mornings ! but it's long a coming now. I can't get 
 nobody to hear me at night if I want anything." 
 
 " Do you often want something?" 
 
 " Times, I do. Times, I get out of wanting, because 
 I can't have — and times I only want worse." 
 
 " IVJiat do you want, Jane ?" 
 
 " Well, Miss Eleanor, — I conceit I want to see some- 
 body. The nights is very long — and in tlie dark and by 
 myself — I gets feared." 
 
 To Eleanor's dismay she perceived Jane was weeping. 
 
 " What ill the world are you afraid of, Jane ? I never 
 saw you so before." 
 
 " Tisn't of anything in this world. Miss Eleanor," said 
 Jane. Her face was still covered with her hands, and 
 the grapes neglected. 
 
 Eleanor was utterly confounded. Had Jane caught 
 her feeling ? or was this something else ? 
 
 " Are you afraid of spirits, Jane ?" 
 
 " No, Miss Eleanor." 
 
 " What is it, then ? Jane, this is something new. I 
 never saw you feeling so before." 
 
 " No, ma'am — and I didn't. But there come a gentle- 
 man to see me, ma'am." 
 
 "A gentleman to see you ? What gentleman ?" 
 
 " I don't know, Miss Eleanor ; only he was tall, and 
 pale-like, and black hair. He asked me if I was ready 
 to die — and I said I didn't know what it was I wanted 
 
 if I wasn't ; and he told me Oh, I know I'll never 
 
 liave rest no nrore !" 
 
 A burst of weeping followed these words. Eleanor 
 felt as if a thunderbolt had broken at her feet; so tern 
 
154 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 ble to lier, in her own mood, was this revelation ol 
 Ifindred feeling. She stood by the bedside, dismayed, 
 shocked, a little disposed to echo Jane's despairing 
 prophecy in her own case. 
 
 " Did he say no more to you, Jane ?" 
 
 " Yes, Miss Eleanor, he did ; and every word he said 
 made me feel worser. His two eyes was like two swords 
 going through me ; and they went through me so softly, 
 ma'am, I couldn't abear it. They killed me." 
 
 " But, J.ane, he did not mean to kill you. What did 
 he say ?" 
 
 " I don't know. Miss Eleanor — he said a many things ; 
 but they only made me feel how I ain't fit " 
 
 There was no more talking. The words were broken 
 off by sobs. Eieanor turned aside to the fire-place and 
 began to make up the fire, in a blank confusio7i and dis- 
 tress ; feeling, to use an Arabic phrase, as if the sky had 
 fallen. She could give no comfort ; she wanted it her- 
 self. The best she could think of, was the suggestion 
 that the gentleman would come again, and that then he 
 would make all tilings plain. Would he come while 
 Eleanor was there, that afternoon? What a chance! 
 But she remembered it was very unlikely. He was to 
 preach in the evening ; he would want to keep all his 
 strength for ihat. And now the question arose, how 
 should she get to the barn. 
 
 The first thing was to soothe Jane. Eleanor succeed- 
 ed in doing that after a while. She made her a cup of 
 tea and a piece of toast, and took some herself; and sat 
 in the darkening light musing how she should do. One 
 good thing was becure. She had not been followed up 
 this afternoon, nor sent for home ; both which disagreea- 
 bles she had feared. Jane dozed, and she thought ; and 
 the twilight fell deeper and deeper. 
 
 There was after all only one way in which Eleanor 
 could accomplish her desire ; though she turned the 
 
IN THE BARN. 151 
 
 matter all round in her head before she would see it, or 
 determine upon adopting it. No mortal tliat she knew 
 could be trusted with the secret — if she meant to have 
 il remain a secret ; ;ind that at all cq_sts \\as Eleanor's 
 desire. Julia' might have been trusted, but Julia could 
 not have been brought along. Eleanor wa? alone. She 
 thought, and trembled, and made up her mind. 
 
 The hour must be waited for «hen people from the vil- 
 lage would be setting forth to go to Brooks' farm. It was 
 dark then, excopt some light from the stars Eleanor got 
 out a bonnet of Jane's, which the owner would never use 
 again ; a close httle straw bonnet ; and tied over it a 
 veil she had taken the precaution to bring. Her own 
 flat and mantle slie laid away out of sight, and wrapped 
 round her instead a thick camlet cloak of the sick girl's, 
 which enveloped her from head to feet. Pretty good 
 disguise — thought Eleanor to iierself. J^Ir. Carlisle 
 would not find her out in this. But there 'v^as no 
 danger of his seeing her. She was all ready to steal 
 out; when siie suddenly recollected that she might be 
 missed, and the old people in terror make a hue and cry 
 after her. That would not do. She stripped oiT the 
 bonnet again and awoke the sleeping girl. 
 
 " Jane," she said bending over her, " I have somebody 
 else to see — I am going out for a little while I will be 
 back and spend the night with you. Tell yorAr mother 
 to leave the door open for me, if she wishes to go to 
 bed ; and I will look after you. Now go to sleep again." 
 
 Without waiting for Jane to think about it, Eleanor 
 slipped out, bonnet in hand, and went softly down stairs. 
 The old man was already gone to bed in a little inner 
 cliamber ; the old mother sat dozing by the fire. Stand- 
 mg behind her Eleanor put on the bonnet, and then 
 gently opening the house door, with one step was in the 
 road. A moment stood still; tut the next moment set 
 off with quick, hasty steps. 
 
156 THE OLIJ UELMET. 
 
 It -was damp and dark; the stars were shining indeeJ; 
 yet tliey shed but a gUmraering and doubtful light upon 
 Eleanor's doubtful proceeding. She knew it was such , 
 her feet trembled and stumbled in hei- way, though thai 
 was as much with the fever of determination as with the 
 hinderings of doubt. Theie was little occasion for 
 bodily fear. People, she knew, would be going to the 
 preaching, all along the way; she would not be alone 
 either going or coming. Nevertheless it was dark, and 
 she was where she had no business to be ; and she hur- 
 ried along rathei- nervously till she caught sight of one 
 or two groups before her, evidently bent for the same 
 place with herself. She slackened her footsteps then, so 
 as to keep at a proper distance behin<i them, and felt 
 that for the present she was secure. Yet, it was a wild, 
 strange walk to Eleanor. Secure from personal harm 
 she might be, and was, no doubt ; but who could say 
 what moral consequences might follow her proceed- 
 ing. "What if her mother knew it? what if Mr. Car- 
 lisle ? Eleanor felt she was doing a very questionable 
 thing ; but the desire to do it on her part amounted 
 to a necessity. She must hear these words that would 
 be spoken in the barn to-night. They would be on the 
 subject that of all others interested her, and spoken by 
 the lips that of all others could alone speak to the pur- 
 pose. So Eleanor felt ; so was in some measure for hei 
 the truth ; and amid all her sense of doubt and dangei 
 and inward trembling, there was a wild thrill of delight 
 at accomplishing her object. She would hear — yes, she 
 would hear — what Mr. Rhys had to say to the people 
 that night. Nobody should ever know it ; neither ha 
 nor others ; but if they did, she would run all risks 
 rather than be balked. 
 
 It was a walk never to be forgotten. Alone, though 
 near people that knew not she was near ; in the darkness 
 of night; the stars shewing only the black forms of truee 
 
IN TH E I A EN. IS'' 
 
 and hedgerows, and a line of what could not be called 
 light, where the road ran; keeping in the shadow of tha 
 hedge and hurrying along over the undiscerned footway; 
 — it was a novel experience for one who had been all her 
 lite so tended and sheltered as she. It was strange and 
 disagreeable. Waymarks did not seem familiar ; di*:- 
 tances seemed long. Eleanor wished the walk would 
 come to an end. 
 
 It did at last. The people, — there was a stream of 
 them now pouring along the road, indeed so many that 
 Eleanor was gi'eatly surprised at them, — turned off' into 
 a field, within which at a few rods from the road stood 
 the barn in question ; at the door of which one or two 
 lamps hung out shewed that sometliing unusual was 
 going on there. Mr. Brooks had several barns, the 
 gables and roofs of which looked like a little settlement 
 in the starlight, not far off; but this pai'ticular barn stood 
 alone, and was probably known to the country people 
 from former occasions ; for they streamed towards it and 
 filed in without any wavering or question. So Eleanor 
 followed, trembling and wondering at herself; passed 
 the curtain that hung at the door, and went in with the 
 others. 
 
 The place that received them was a great threshing- 
 floor, of noble proportions, for a threshing-floor. Per- 
 haps Mr. Brooks had an eye to contingencies when he 
 built it. On two sides it was lined with grain, rising in 
 walls of cereal sweetness to a great height ; and certain- 
 ly, if Eleanor had been in many a statelier church, she 
 had never been in one better ventilated or where the air 
 was more fragrantly scented. But a new doubt struck 
 her. Could it be right to hold divine service in such a 
 place ? Was this a fit or decorous temple, for uses ol 
 such high and awful dignity? The floor was a bare piaiik 
 floor ; footfidls echoed over it. The roof was high in- 
 deed ; b'Jt po architect's groining of beams reminded on« 
 
153 THE OLD HULMET. 
 
 that the place was set apart to noble if not sacred pui". 
 poses. Nothing but common carpenter's joinery waj 
 over her head, in the roof of the bam. The heads of 
 wheat ears instead of carved cornices and pendents; and 
 if the lights were dim, which they certainly were, it did 
 not seem at all a religious light. Only at the further end, 
 where a table and chair stood ready for the preacher, 
 some tall wax candles threw a sufficient illumination for 
 all present to see him well. Was that his pulpit ? What 
 sort of preaching could possibly be had from it ? 
 
 Eleanor looked round the place. There was no really 
 lighted part of it except about that table and chair. It 
 was impossible for people to see each other well from a 
 little distance off, unless thoroughly well known. 
 
 Eleanor felt there was very little danger indeed that 
 anybody should recognize her identity, in Jane's bonnet 
 and cloak. That was so much comfort. Another com- 
 fort was, that the night was mild. It was not like No- 
 vember. A happy circumstance for everybody there; 
 but most of all for the convalescent preacher, whose ap- 
 ptarance Eleanor looked for now with a kind of fearful 
 auAioty. If he should have been hindered from coming, 
 aftei all ! Her heart beat hard. She stood far back be- 
 hind most of the people, near the door by which she had 
 entered. A few benches and chairs were in the floor, 
 given up to the use of the women and the aged people. 
 Eleanor marvelled much to see that there were soma 
 quite old people among the company. The barn was 
 getting very full. 
 
 " There is a seat yonder," said some one touching hei 
 on the elbow. " Won't you have it ?" 
 
 Eleanor shook her head. 
 
 " You had better," he said kindly ; " there's a seat 
 with nobody in it ; there's plenty of room up there. 
 Come this way " 
 
 Eleanor was unwilling to go further forward, yet did 
 
IN THE BAUN. 15* 
 
 not like to ti'iibt her voice to speak, nor choose to draw 
 atientioii to lierself in any way. She was needlessly 
 afraid. However, she yielded to the instance of her kind 
 neighbour and followed him among the crowd to the spot 
 Lc had picked out for her. She would have resisted fur- 
 ther, ii she had known where tliis spot was ; for it ■was 
 far forw ard in the barn, more than half way between 
 the door and the candle-hglited table, and in the very 
 midst of tlie assembly. There was no help for it now ; 
 she coulU not go back ; and Eleanor was thankful for 
 the support the seat gave her. She was trembling nil 
 over. A vague queer feeling of her being about some- 
 thing wrong, iiot merely in the circumstances of her get- 
 ting there, but in the OGcasion itself, haunted her with a 
 sort of superstition. Could such an assembly be right- 
 fully gathered for sach a purpose in such a place ? Could 
 it be right, to speak publicly of sacred things with 
 such an absence of any public recognition of their sacred- 
 ness ? In a bare barn ? an unconsecrated building, with 
 no beauty or dignity of observance to give homage to 
 the work and the occasion ? Eleanor was a compound of 
 strange feelings ; till she suddenly became conscious of 
 a stir in the gathered throng, and then heard on the phink 
 floor a step that she intuitively knew. As the step and 
 the tall figure that it bore passed close by her on the way 
 to the table, an instant sense of quiet and security settled 
 down on her. Nervousness died away. There was one 
 person there now that she knew ; the question of his com- 
 ing was settled, and hei- comina: was not for nothing ; and 
 moreover, whatever business he was concerned in was 
 right, in all its parts ! She was sure of that. She watched 
 him, with a great bound of exultation in lier heart ; 
 watched him kneel down for prayer as he reached his 
 place; and wondered, while awe mixed with her wonder, 
 liow he could do it, before and amongst all those people 
 as he was ; not shut off in a distant chancel alone by 
 
1 60 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 himself, but there with e\'ei-ybody. crowding upon him 
 Her wonder had but little space to exercise itself. Aftel 
 a few minutes Mr. Rhys rcise nnd gave out a hymn ; 
 and every thought of Eleanor's was concentrated on the 
 business and on the speaker. 
 
 She knew nothing about hymns except that they were 
 sung in church ; all such lyrics were unfamiliar to her, 
 though the music of tlieni was not. It was always state- 
 ly music, with an organ, in the swell of which the words 
 were lost. There could be no organ in a barn. Instead 
 of that, the whole assembly rose to their feet and struck 
 out together into a sweet air which they sung with a 
 vast deal of spirit. No difficulty about hearing the 
 words now ; the music was not- at a distance; the words 
 were coming from every lip near Eleanor, and were sung 
 as if they were a personal matter. Perhaps she was 
 in a mood to be easily touched ; but the singing did 
 reach her and move her profoundly. 
 
 " When I can read my title clear 
 To mansions in the skies, 
 I'll bid farewell to every fear, 
 And wipe my weeping eyes." 
 
 The sense of this, Eleanor did not thoroughly under- 
 stand, yet the general spirit of it was not to be mistaken. 
 And the soft repetition of the last line struck her heart 
 sori-owfuUy. Here was her want breathed out again. 
 " And wipe my weeping eyes. — I'll bid farewell to every 
 fear, and wipe my v/eeping eyes." Eleanor was perhaps 
 the only one who did not sing ; nobody paid better at- 
 tention. 
 
 The hymn was followed by a prayer. If the one had 
 
 touched Eleanor, the other prostrated her in tho dust. 
 
 She heard a child of God speaking to his Father ; with 
 
 ■ a simplicity of utterance, a freedom of access, and a glow 
 
 of happy affections, evident in every quietly spoken 
 
IN THE BARN. lOi 
 
 word, that testified to his possession of the heavenly trea- 
 sures th;it wave on his tongue ; and made Eleanor feel hum- 
 bled and poor with an extreme and bitter sense of want. 
 Her heart felt as empty as a deep well that had gone dry. 
 This man only had ever shewed her what a Christian 
 might be ; she saw him standing in a glory of heavenly 
 relationships and privileges and character, that were a 
 sort of transfiguration. And althougli Eleanor compre- 
 hended but very imperfectly wherein this glory might 
 lie, she yet saw the light, and mourned her own darkness. 
 Eleanor's mind went a great way during the minutes of 
 that prayer ; according to the strange fashion in which 
 the work of many days is sometimes done in one. She 
 was sorry when it ended ; however, every part of the 
 services had a vivid new interest for her. Another 
 hymn, and reading, dm-ing which her head was bowed 
 on her breast in still listening ; it was curious, how she 
 had forgot all about being in a barn ; and then the ser- 
 mon beg.in. She had to raise up her head when that 
 began ; and after a while Eleanor could not bear her veil, 
 and threw it back, trusting that the dim light would se- 
 cure hei from being known. But she felt that she must 
 see as well :is liear, this oiu' time. 
 
 Of all subjects in the world to fall in with Eleanor's 
 mood, the sermon to-night was on peace. The peace 
 that the Lord Jesus left as his parting gift to his peo- 
 ple ; the peace that is not as the world giveth. How the 
 world gives, Mr. Rhys briefly set forth ; — with one hand, 
 to take away with the other — as a handful of gold, what 
 proves but a clutch of ashes — as the will-o'-the-wisp 
 gives, promise but never possession. Eleanor would not 
 have much regarded these w<n'ds from any other lips; 
 they accorded with her old theory of disgust with the 
 world. FioniMr. Riiys she did regard them, because 
 no word uf liis fell unheeded by her. But when he 
 went on from that to speak if Christ's gift, and how 
 
162 THI OLD HELMET 
 
 that is bestowed — his speech was as bitter iu lier heart 
 as it was sweet in liis mouth. Tlie peace he held up to 
 her view, — the joy in which a child of God lives and 
 walks — and dies ; the security of every movement, the 
 confidence in every action, the rest in all turmoil, the 
 fearlessness in all danger ; the riches in the midst of 
 poverty, the rejoicing even in time of sorrow ; the vic- 
 tory over sin and death, wrought in him as well as for 
 him ; — Eleanor's heart seemed to die within her, and at 
 the same time started in a struggle for life. Had the 
 words been said coldly, or as mutter of speculative be- 
 lief, or as privilege not actually entered into, it would 
 have been a different thing. Eleanor might have sat 
 back in her chair and listened and sorrowed for herself 
 in outward quiet. But there was unconscious testimony 
 from every tone and look of the speaker that he told the 
 people but of what he knew. The pale face was illum- 
 ined by a high grave light, that looked like a halo from 
 the unseen world ; it was nothing less to Eleanor ; and 
 the mouth in its genei-al set so sober, broke occasionally 
 into a smile so sweet, that it straitened Eleanor's heart 
 with its unconscious tale-telling. As the time went on, 
 the speaker began to illustrate his words by instances ; 
 instances of the peace which Christians have shewn to 
 be theirs in all sorts of circumstances where the world 
 would have given them none, or would have surely with 
 drawn the gift once made. In poverty— in pain — ir 
 loneliness — in the want of all things — in the close pros 
 pect of suffering, and in the presence of death. Won- 
 derful instances they were ! glorious to the power of 
 that Redeemer, who had declared, " Not as the world 
 giveth, gi\'c I unto you. In the world ye shall have 
 tribulation ; but be of good cheer ; I have overcome the 
 world." How the speaker's eye flushed and fired 
 flushed with tears, and fired with triumph ; what a tint 
 rose on the pale cheek, testitying to the exultation he 
 
IN THE BAKN. 16£ 
 
 felt ; with what tremulous distinctness the words were 
 sometimes given — and heard in the breathless stillness to 
 the furthest corner of the place. It was too much at 
 last. Feeling was wrought too high. Eleanor could 
 not bear it. She bowed her head on her hand to hide 
 the tears that would come, and only struggled to keep 
 her sobs quiet that she might not lose a word. Tliere 
 wei'e other sobs in the assembly that were less well con- 
 trolled ; they were audible ; Eleanor could not endure to 
 hear them, tor she feared her excitement would become 
 Unmanageable. Nevertheless by strong effort she suc- 
 ceeded in keeping perfectly still ; though she dared not 
 raise her head again till the last hymn and prayers were 
 over, and the people made a general stir all round her. 
 Then she too rose up and turned her face in the direction 
 whither they were all turning, towards the door. 
 
 She made her way out with the crowd blindly, con- 
 scious that it was all over — that was the prominent 
 thought — and yet that work was done which would 
 never be "over" for her. So conscious of this, that she 
 had no care either of her whereabouts or of her walk 
 home, except in an incidental sort of way. She got out 
 into the starlight, and stepped over the grassy sward of 
 llie field in a maze ; she hardly felt the ground ; it was 
 not till she reached the fence and found herself in the 
 road, that Eleanor really roused up. Then it was neces- 
 sary to turn in one direction or the otlier ; and Eleanor 
 could not tell which to take. She stood still and tried 
 to collect heiself. Which side of the road was the barn ? 
 She could not remember; she was completely confused 
 and turned about ; and in the starlight she could be sure 
 of no tree or fence or other landniaik. She stood still, 
 while the people poured past her and in groups or in 
 pairs took the ore direction or the opposite. Part went 
 one way and pait went the other, to Wiglands and to 
 B^ thdale. Eleanor longed to ask which way somebody 
 
161 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 was going, but she was afraid of betraying herself. She 
 did not dare. Yet if she took the wrong turning, she 
 might find herself iu the Rythdale valley, a great dis- 
 tance from Wiglamls, find with a lone road to traverse 
 all the way back again. Her heart beat. What should 
 she do ? The people poured past her, dividing oif right 
 and left; they would be all st-attered soon to their sev- 
 eral homes, and she would be left alone. She must do 
 something quickly. Yet she shrank very much fiom 
 speaking, and still stood by the fence trembling and 
 hesitating. 
 
 " Are you alone ?" said a voice at her shoulder that 
 she knew very well. If a cannon had gone off at her 
 feet, it would not have startled Eleanor more. The tone 
 of the question implied that she was known. She was 
 too startled to answer. The words were repeated. 
 " Are you alone ?" 
 
 Eleanor's "yes" got out, -with nothing distinguishable 
 except the last letter. 
 
 " I have a waggon here," said he. " Come with me." 
 
 The speaker waited for no ans«'er to the words which 
 were not a request ; and acting as decidedly as he had 
 spoken, took hold of Eleanor's arm and led lier forward 
 to a little vehicle «hich had just drawn up. He helped 
 her into it, took his place beside her, and drove away 
 but he said not another word. 
 
 It was Mr. Rhys, and Eleanor knew that he had rec 
 ognized her. She sat in a stupor of confusion and 
 shame. What would he think ot her ! and « hat could 
 she make him think ? Must she be a bold, wild girl in 
 his estimation for ever? Why would he not speak? 
 He drove on in perfect silence. Eleanor must say some- 
 thing to break it. And it was extrenjely difficult, and 
 she had to be bold to do that. 
 
 "I see you lecognize me, Mr. Rhys," she said. 
 
 "I recognized you iu the meeting," he answered iu 
 
IN THE BARN. 166 
 
 perfect gravity. Eleanor felt it. She was checked. She 
 was jmnished. 
 
 " Where are you taking me ?" she asked after a little 
 ttiore time. 
 
 " 1 will take you wherever yon tell me you' desire." 
 
 Grave and short. Eleanor could not bear it. 
 
 " You think very hardly of me, Mr. Rhys," she said ; 
 " but I was spending the niglit at a poor girl's house in 
 the village — she is ill, and I was going to sit np with her — 
 and I knew you were to preach at that place — and — " 
 Eleanor's voice choked and faltered. 
 
 " And what could prompt you to go alone, Misa 
 Powle ?" 
 
 " I wanted to go — " faltered Eleanor. " I knew it 
 would be my last chance. I felt I must go. And 1 
 >!ould go no way but alone." 
 
 " May I ask what you mean by ' your last chance?' " 
 
 " My last chance of hearing what I wanted to hear — 
 what I can't help thinking about lately. Mr. Rhys, I 
 am not happy." 
 
 " Did you understand what you he.ard to-night?" 
 
 " In part I did — I understood, Mr. Rhys, that you 
 have something I have not, — and that I want." Eleanor 
 spoke with great emotion. 
 
 " The Lord bless you !" he said, with a tenderness of 
 tone that broke her doAvn at once. " Trust Jesus, Mis? 
 Powle. He can give it to you. He only can. Go to 
 him for what you want, and for understanding of wha« 
 you do not understand. Trust the Lord ! Make your 
 requests known to him, and believe that he will hear 
 your prayers and answer them, and more than fulfil 
 them. Now where shall I set you down ?" 
 
 " Anywhere — " Eleanor said as well as she could. 
 " Here, if you please." 
 
 " Here is no house. We are just at the entrance of 
 the village." 
 
166 THE OLD HELMKT. 
 
 " This is a good place then," said Eleanor. " I da 
 not want anybody to see me." 
 
 " Miss Powle," said her guardian, and he spoke with 
 such extreme gravity that Eleanor was half fright- 
 ened, — ''did you come without the knowledge of your 
 friends at home?" 
 
 "Yes, to the place we have come from. Mamma 
 knew I was going to spend the night with a sick girl in 
 the village — she did not know any more." 
 
 " It was very dangerous !" he said in the same tone. 
 
 " I knew it. I risked that. I felt I must come." 
 
 " You did very wrong," said her companion. It hurt 
 her that he should say it, and have cause ; but she was 
 so miserable before, that it could be felt only in the dull 
 way in which pain added to pain sometimes makes itself 
 known. She was subdued, humbled, ashamed. She 
 said nothing more, nor did he, until after passing two or 
 three houses they arrived at a spot where the trees and 
 the road were the only village i epresentatives ; a clear 
 space, with no house very near, and no person in sight. 
 Mr. Rhys drew up by the side of the road, and helped 
 Eleanor out of the waggon. He said only " Good night," 
 but it was said kindly and sympathizingly, and with the 
 earnest grasp of the hand that Eleanor remembered. He 
 L'Ot into the waggon again, but did not drive away as 
 she expected ; she found he was ■^'alking his horse and 
 keeping abreast of her as she walked. Eleanor hurried 
 on, leached Mrs. Lewis's cottage, paused a second at the 
 door to let him see that she had reached her stopping 
 place, and went in. 
 
 All still ; the embers d\ ing on the hearth, a cricket 
 chirrupping under it. Mrs. Lewis was gone to bed, but 
 had not covered up the lire for (ear her young lady 
 might want it. Eleanor did not dare sit down there 
 She drew the bolt of the house door ; then softly went 
 up the stairs to Jane's room. Jane was asleep. Eleanor 
 
IN THE BABU 167 
 
 felt thankful, and rno^•ed about like a shadow. She put 
 the brands together in a sort of mechanical way ; foi 
 she knew she was chilly and needed fire bodily, though 
 hor spirit was in a fever. The night had turned raw, 
 and the ride home had been not so cheering mentally as 
 to do away with the physical influence of a cold fog. 
 Eleanor put off bonnet and cloak, softly piled the bi'auds 
 together and coaxed up a flame ; and sat down on a 
 low stool on the hearth to spread her hands over it, to 
 catch all the cumf )rt she could. 
 
 Comfort Avas not near, however. Jane waked up in a 
 violent fit of coughing ; and when that was subdued oi 
 died away, as diflicult a fit of restlessness was left be 
 hind. She was nervous and uneasy ; Eleanor had only 
 too much sympathy with both moods, nevertheless she 
 acted the part of a kind and delicate nurse ; soothed 
 Jane and ministered to her, even spoke cheerful words ; 
 until the poor girl's exhausted mind and body sank away 
 again into slumber, and Eleanor was free to sit down on 
 the hearth and fold her hands. 
 
 Then she began to think. Not till then. Indeed 
 what she did then at first was not to think, but to recall 
 lU musing all the scenes and as far as possible all the 
 words of that evening ; with a consciousness behind this 
 all the while that tliere was hard thinking coming. 
 Eleanor went dreamily over the last few hours, looking 
 in turn at each image so stamped upon her memory ; felt 
 over again the sermon, the hymns, the prayers ; then 
 suddenly broke from her musings to face this conscious- 
 ness that was menacing her. Set herself to think in 
 earnest. 
 
 What was it all abotit ? Eleanor might well have 
 shunned it, might well grasp it in desperation witli a 
 sudden inability to put it off any longer. Down in her 
 heart, as strong as the keop of an old castle, and as ( b- 
 stinate-looking, was the feeling — " I do not want to 
 
168 THE OLD HjTLMET. 
 
 marry Mr. Carlisle." Elea.ij'- did not immediately di» 
 sern its full outline and r/foportions, in the dim cunfu- 
 sion which filled her Yi'-.Aif, out a little steady looking 
 revealed it, revealed it rii-m and clear and estaolished 
 there. " I do not w?.nt to marry him — I will not marry 
 him"— she found the words surging up fioni this strong- 
 hold." Pride and an-.hition cjwdiiiig somewJiere said, 
 "Not ever? Do you meaii, noo at, ah? not ever?'' — 
 "Not ever!"- — was the r.ncoinjjiormsing answer; and 
 Eleanor's head dropped in agony. •' Why ?" was the 
 next question. And the answer was clear and strong 
 and ready. " I am bont upon another sort of life than his 
 life — I am going another way — I must live for aims and 
 objects which he will hate and thw.irt and maybe liinder 
 — I will not walk with liim in tiis way — I cannot walk 
 with him in mine — I cannot, oh, I do not wish, to walk 
 with him at all !" Eleanor sat face to face with tliia 
 blank consciousness, staring at it, and feeling as if the 
 life was gradually ebbing out of her. What was she to 
 do ? The diiferent life and temper and character, and 
 even the face, of Mr. Rhys, came up to her as so much 
 nobler, so much better, so much more what a man should 
 be, so much more worthy of being liked. But Eleanor 
 strove to put that image away, as having very truly she 
 said to herself, nothing to do with the present question. 
 However she thought she could not marry Mr. Carlisle ; 
 and intrenched herself a little while in that position, 
 until the next subject came up for ccmsideration ; how 
 she could escape from it? What reason could be as- 
 signed ? Only this religious one could be given — and 
 it might be, it might well be, that Mr. Carlisle would 
 not on his part consider thnt reasim enough. He would 
 certainly hope to overcome the foundation on which it 
 stood ; and if he could not, Eleanor was obliged to con- 
 fess to herself that she believed he loved her to that degree 
 that he would rather have her a religious wife than not hifi 
 
IN THE BARN. 
 
 wife at all. What should Eleanor do ? Was she not 
 bound ? hnd she not herself given him claims over her 
 '^liich she had no right to disallow? had he not a riglit 
 to all her fulfihneiit of them ? Elennor did not love 
 him as he loved her ; she saw that with singular and 
 sudden distinctness ; but there iigain, when she thought 
 of that as a reason for not fulfilling her contract, she was 
 obliged to own that it would be no reason to Mr. Car- 
 lisle. He never had had gtxiund to suppose that Eleanor 
 gave him more than she had expressed ; but he was en- 
 tirely content with what he had and his own contidence 
 thai he could cultivate it into what he pleased. There 
 was no shaking loose from him in that way. As Eleanor 
 sat on the hearth and looked at the ashes, in ixality look- 
 ing at Mr. Carlis'e, her own face grew wan .nt what she 
 saw there. She could give him no reason for changing 
 their relations to each other, that would make him hold 
 her a bit the less closely, no, nor tiie less fondly. What 
 could Eleanor do ? To go on and be Mr. Carlisle's w ife, 
 if necessary ; give him all the observance and regard 
 that she could, that she owed him, for having put her- 
 self in a felse position where she could not give him 
 more ; — Eleanor saw nothing else before her. But one 
 thing beside she would do. She wonld make Mr. Carlisle 
 clearly and fully understand what sort of a wom.in he 
 must expect in her. She would explain thoroughly 
 what sort of a life she meant to lead. Justly stated, 
 what would that be ? 
 
 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 ibr 
 lier rule. Mr. Rhys's God should be her God, and with 
 all she had of power and ability she wonld serve him. 
 
1?0 THE OLDHBLMET. 
 
 Dim as religions 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, liow 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 oveimastered all others. The people had sung a 
 hymn that evening, after the first one ; a hymn of Chris- 
 tian 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 straii. 
 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 sum- 
 mer at the time she was ill ; the longing want of that 
 security and hope and consequent lest of mind, was 
 vividly with her too. Pushed by fear and desire, Elea- 
 nor's resolution was taken. She s-iw not the way clear, 
 she did not know yet the "wicket-gate" towards which 
 Bunyaii's Pilgrim was directed ; like him however she 
 resolved to " keep the light in her e3''e, and run." 
 
 The fire had died all out ; the grey ashes were e.o'.d 
 she was very cold herself, but did not know it. The 
 iiiglil had waned away, and a light had spiung in at the 
 window which Eleanor thought must be the dav.n. It 
 was not ; it was the old moon just risen, and struggling 
 through the fog. But the moon was the herald of daw n ; 
 and Eleanor got jp from the hearth, feeling old and stiff"; 
 as if she liad suddenly put on twenty years of age more 
 
IN THE BARN. 1'71 
 
 than she came to the village with. The voou. was quite 
 too cold fi)r 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 com- 
 forting warmth to her chilled senses, some curious sym- 
 pathy with times that were gone and that she dared not 
 liope 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 be- 
 sought 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. 
 
CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 '* Look, a horse at the door. 
 
 And little King CharlsB is snarling! 
 Go hack, my lord, across th^moor. 
 You are not her darling.*' 
 
 Bleanoe set out early to go home. She would not 
 wait to he sent for. The 'walk might set her pulses in 
 motion again perhaps. The fog was hreaking away un- 
 der the sun's rays, but it had left everything wet ; the 
 morning was excessively chill. There was no grass in 
 her way howevei-, 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 manj"^ 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 aii-, which is like a suspended 
 shower-bath ! Where did you go ?'' 
 
 " On the Wiglaiids road." 
 
 " If I had coine in time, I should have taken you up 
 
IN PERPLEXITIES. 173 
 
 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 JuHa ; "she 
 spent the night in the village. She couid not help walk- 
 ing — 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 othei 
 (lay. 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 
 beins 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 
 pleasuie me in what I ask of you ?" lie said very gently 
 and wilh a caressing action which took away the edge 
 of the words. 
 
174 THE OLD HELMBT. 
 
 " f es — ill tilings that are right," said Eleanor, whc 
 felt that she owed him all gentleness because of the 
 wroflg she had done. 
 
 " I shall not ask you anything that is not right ; but 
 f I should, — the responsibility of your doing wrong will 
 est on me. Now do you feel inclined to practise obedi- 
 ence a little to day ?" 
 
 " No, not at all," said Eleanor honestly, her bl<iod 
 rousing. 
 
 " It will be all the better practice. Tou must go and 
 lie down and rest carefully, and get ready to ride with 
 me this afternoon, if the weather will do. Eh, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " 1 do not think I shall want to ride to-day." 
 
 " Kiss me, and say you will do as I bid you." 
 
 Ifleanor 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 th.it 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 dis- 
 may ; then n:iture 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 a ain 
 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 
 eonstantly starting into her mind that she had to put 
 
IX PERPLEXITIES. 178 
 
 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 tdgether ; look- 
 ing both of them so well pleased ! 
 
 " You are not dressed for riding !" he said, taking hel 
 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 look 
 ing at her. Probably he saw some unusual lines of 
 thought or care about the face, but it was by no me.-im 
 less tine for that. Mr. Carlisle liked what he saw. Re 
 freshments came ; and he poured out chocolate for he\ 
 and served her with an affectionate supervision thaV 
 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 ant very hungry," said Eleanor. 
 
 " No matter — you will forget it in five minutes. Gc 
 and put on your habit." 
 
1 76 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 Elbanov 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. Piiwle admiringly. " She would ne\er have don 
 that for me." 
 
 Mr. Carlisle did not look surprised, nor gi-atified, nor 
 in fact shew anything whatever in his looks. Unless it 
 were, that the difference of eifects produced by himself 
 and his future mother-in-law, was very much a matter of 
 course. He stood btfore the fire, with no change at all 
 in his clear hazel eyes, until Eleanor appeared. Then 
 they sparkled. Eleanor was for some reason or othei 
 particularly lovely in his eyes to-day. 
 
 The horse he had brought for her was a superb Ara- 
 bian, 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 flow- 
 ing mane and tail. 
 
 " He is not quite so quiet as Black Maggie," Mr. Car- 
 lisle 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 divSplay 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. Car- 
 lisle watched her carefully, Eleanor knew ; he praised 
 her handling. He himself whs mounted on a quiet, pow- 
 erful creature that did not make much shew. 
 
 " If this fellow — what is his name ?" 
 
 " Tippoo Sultau." 
 
IN PERPLEXITIES. 177 
 
 " 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. 
 IJarlisle, there is the place where I was thrown." 
 
 " A villainous looking place. I wish it was mine 
 llow do you like Tippoo ?" 
 
 " Oh, he is delightful !" 
 
 Mr. Carlisle looked satisfied, as he might ; for Elea- 
 nor's colour had become brilliant, and herfacehad 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 liouses were 
 all on one side; Eleanor saw Mr. Rhys standing at Mrs. 
 Lewis's door; he saw her. Involuntarily her bow ia 
 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 amb'e. 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 rehi, 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 be>ide her. Neveitheless Tippoo was so 
 entirely in earnest that it was some little time — it seemed 
 a very long one— before the grey could g.et so close to 
 the brown and so far up witli him that Mr. Carlisle 
 could lay his hand upon the thick brown mane of Tip- 
 poo and ptoop forward to speak to him. As soon as 
 
1 'S THE O 1. D H E L M E T . 
 
 that was clone, on<-e or twice, Tippoo's speed gradiiallj 
 relaxed ; and a perseverance in his master's appeals to 
 his reason and sense of duty, biought the wild creature 
 back to a moderate pace and the air of a civilized horse. 
 Mr. Carlisle transferred his grasp from the mane to 
 Ele.inor's hand. 
 
 " Eleanor, what did you do that for ?" 
 
 " Do what ? I did nothing." 
 
 " You curbed him. You drew the rein, and he con- 
 sidered 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 Mi'. 
 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 snberness 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 abtracted 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 u)j 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 brougnt up other con- 
 sideration--, and sadly in E'eanor's mind some words of 
 
INPEUFLEXITIES. IVS 
 
 the h3-mn they had sung last night in the barn floated 
 Dver among her thoughts. 
 
 "When I can read my title clear, 
 To mansions in tlie 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 tlioughts that went 
 down into the depths of Eleanor's heart and garrisoned 
 themselves there, beyond the power of any attacks to dis- 
 lodge. Her gravity and indifference piqued Mr. Carlisle, 
 curiosity and affection both. He spent the evening in 
 trying to overcome them ; with very pai-tial 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 van understand it without you be- 
 side me," snid he smiling, and drawing the letter from 
 its envelope while he looked at her. 
 
 " But th(-re is everybody here," said Eleanor glancing 
 at another part of the i oom where the rest of the family 
 were congregated. " I would rather you took it horn* 
 with you." 
 
 " It is something that requires serious treatment ?•' 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You are a wise little thing," said he, " and I wilj 
 take your advice." He put the letter in his pocket ■ 
 
ISO THB OLD HKLMBT. 
 
 then took Eleanor's hand upon his arm and wa'ked 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 lead 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 
 yon. 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 en- 
 tirely 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 be- 
 lieve 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 open- 
 ed my eyes to the fact that this life is not the end of life. 
 I see another beyond, — much more lasting, unknown, 
 'trange, perhaps not very distant. The thought of it 
 ses upon me like a cloud. I want to be ready for it 
 ' I am not ready — and that before I can be ready, 
 ^V views but my character must be changed, 
 'ed it shall. For, Mr. Carlisle, there is a 
 ■=^rnment extends over this life and that, 
 ' have never met, whose commands I 
 horn consequently I fear ; and 
 ""V another feeling I cannot be 
 ^ife I have been leading ; 
 
IN PERPLEXITIES. 181 
 
 aareless and thoughtless ; I will be the servant of this 
 Rnler 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 fir 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 ac- 
 tion that in many things, I know, would be extremely 
 distasteful to you. Yet I must follow them — I cnn 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 Pi'iory, 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. Pie 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 aa 
 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," 
 gaid Eleanor soberly. 
 
 "J do not suppose it, and }et I feel very much like 
 
182 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 laughing at yon a little. So you think you can makt 
 yourself a womiin 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 beauti- 
 ful hair, and then rested on her cheek while he looked 
 into the face thus held for near inspection ; much as one 
 bandies 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 seri- 
 ously," 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 pas- 
 sion 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 defi- 
 nitely 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 ; — 
 Buch a one as you never would have sought, if I had 
 inown it myself earlier ; I feel sure." Eleanor's colour 
 glowed all over her face and brow; neverthcl<;S8 slia 
 spoke steadily. 
 
IN PE E P I. 15 X IT 1 E S. 183 
 
 "Enigmatical!" said Mr. CaiTisle. "The only thing 
 i understand is this — and this — " and he kissed alter- 
 r.alely iier 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 exphiin 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 ?" 
 
 Elennor's cheeks burnt again. "You know I have 
 very little money to give, Mr. Carlisle. But I have 
 determined to give myself P 
 
 " 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 bril- 
 liant 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 obedi- 
 ent." 
 
 " 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; — thiit other world, I 
 mean. I cannot be happy so." She was agitated ; hei 
 «olour was high ; her nerves trembled. 
 
184 THE OLD IlEI, MBT. 
 
 " How came this ' sense of dmiger ' into your head ? 
 what brought it, or suggested it ?" 
 
 " When I was ill last summer — I fo.t it then. I have 
 felt it since. I feel my head uncovered to meet the storra 
 th.nt may at any time break upon it. I am going to live, 
 if I can, as peojile 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 throw- 
 ing 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-bla7iche for this new fancy, Eleanor. 
 How are you going to ask my foi'giveness ?" 
 
 " 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 1" 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 piakes a 
 
IH PERPLEXITIES. 185 
 
 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 conse- 
 quently 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 
 obej ed, so far as a very dainty and shyly given permis- 
 sion 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 tw(-nty first were to-morrow !" He stopped in the 
 drawing-room to hold a consultation of some length 
 with Mrs. Powle ; in which liowever he confidt'd 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 dif- 
 ficult matter. For oh, Eleanor knew, that though he 
 would not Ike a religious M'ife, he had good leason 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 rigL to be round her permar 
 
J 86 T n K O L D H E L M E 1 . 
 
 nently ; and Eleanor knew it would be an effectual bai 
 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. Car- 
 lisle, 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 fin- 
 ish 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. Car- 
 lisle is right." 
 
 " In what ?" 
 
 " He said you must not go again." 
 
 " I think he is somewhat premature in arranging ray 
 movements." 
 
 " Don't you like it ?" said Mrs. Powle laughing a lit- 
 tle. " 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 grow- 
 ing tame and more reasonable, I think, lately." 
 
 " Good reason why," thought Eleanor moodily. " But 
 hat is a better sort of control she is under." 
 
 " ( am charged with a commission to you, Eleanor." 
 
 " What is it, ma'am ?" 
 
 " To find out what particular kind of jewels you pr© 
 ter. I n-ally don't know, so am obliged to ask you^ 
 which was not in my commission." 
 
INPEKPLEXITIES. 181 
 
 ■* Jewels, maniina !" 
 
 *' 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 ba sure there is nothing I like so well as diamonds. 
 What is the matter ?" 
 
 For Eleanor's brown head had gone down on ttie 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 woi^ld 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 1 
 What sort of a religious life do you want to live ?" 
 
 " Such a one as the Bible bids, mamma," Eleanor saiA 
 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 ugainst 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,'' 
 
188 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " It changes nothing, mamma," said Eleanor. " I ara 
 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 1 
 and I am sure he did not. Beheve 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 ordei\ 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 chai-ge, " I suppose I am to tell liim 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 tits on," 
 said Mrs. Powle, " and I will go. I shall be a better 
 iViend 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 recorr.- 
 mend 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 
 baud, would keep all dissenting fools from coming to 
 
IN PERPLEXITIES. 186 
 
 Wiglands to preuch their pestiferous notions here ! and 
 that your father would not bring them to his house 1 
 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 tlie bit of an authority that she 
 did not love. So, while her mind was in a sea of tur- 
 moil, there came suddenly, like a sun-blink upon the con- 
 fusion, a soft question from her little sister Julia. Nei- 
 ther mother nor daughter had taken notice of her being 
 in tlie 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 vpistful 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 Elea- 
 nor's mind, this little dove's feather of a question, touch- 
 ing 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 i leant — 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 hia 
 face, which shewed her that theie was something in re- 
 ligion that she had never fathomed, nor ever before 
 
190 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 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 
 Beemed 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 sis- 
 ter 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. "7" love the Lord Jesus — 
 that is all, — and I thought, perhaps, from the way you 
 spoke, that yfiu 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 ob- 
 servant. The silence lasted some time. 
 
 " When does Mr. Rhys — \% 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 s 
 great many things. Bui he always prays for }ou." 
 
IN PB EPLBXITI ES. 191 
 
 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 import- 
 ance and thickening in its urgency of speed. Every day 
 the preparations converged more nearly towards their 
 great focus, the twenty-Krst of December. Eleanor felt 
 the whirl of circumstances, felt borne oif her feet and 
 carried away with them; and felt it hopelessly. She 
 knew not what to urg ■, that should be considered suffi- 
 cient reason either by her mother or Mr. Carlisle for even 
 delaying, much less breaking off the match. She was 
 grave and proud, and unsatisfictory, 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, lie 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, 
 quictlj'. 
 
 " 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 mmht 
 liave a breathing place, and get myself in order. 1 caa 
 not, now.'' 
 
192 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " Toil will have time to think, love, wheo you get to 
 the Priory," Mr. Carlisle observed in the same tone. 
 An absolnte tone. 
 
 "Yes. I know bow that would be!" Eleanor an- 
 swered bitterly. " But I can take no pleasui-e in any- 
 thing, — ^I cannot have any rest or comfort, — as long as I 
 know that if anything happened to ine — if death came 
 suddenly — I am utterly unready. I cannot be happy 
 
 BO." 
 
 " 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 wliere they need 
 him. But this is morbid, Eleanor. I know how it is. 
 These are only whims, my darling, that will never out- 
 live 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 
 ight 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 — 
 
INTEKPLEXITIES. 193 
 
 and there will be no more heljj for me. What shall 1 
 do ?" 
 
 She was desperate, but she saw no opening. She saw 
 however the next day that Mr. Carlisle was coldly dis- 
 pleased with her. She was afraid to have him remain 
 so ; and made conciliations. These were accepted im- 
 mediately 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 pas- 
 sage of arms ; in three days all was just as it had been, 
 except Eleanor's lost ground. And three days saoTC 
 were gone before the twenty-first of December. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 " And, once wed, 
 80 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, it 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 wo- 
 man'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." 
 
ATLUNCHEON. 195 
 
 The day was November in a mild mood ; plea'iant 
 enough for a walk ; and so one at least of. the two 
 found it. Foi 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. Siie did this from a two- 
 fold 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 en- 
 gaged it should. At such times she was very subdued 
 in gentleness and in observance of Mr. Carlisle's plea- 
 sure ; 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 waj"^ ; 
 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 Ryth- 
 dale woods, enshrouded the far-off village, as they now 
 and then caught glimpses of it, in its tuft of sur- 
 rounding trees. Tet 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 \egetation ; the leaves in 
 most cases fallen from the trees, and where they still 
 
196 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 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 beau- 
 ty', 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. Car 
 lisle 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 hero tboy are back, again ! It 
 
AIT, TJNCnBON. 197 
 
 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 remem- 
 bered that she did so too. She was afraid to say any- 
 thing 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 rea- 
 sons 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 tnore, 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 
 Avill 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 hava 
 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 
 womiin," he added in a different tone. "No, I do not 
 wish you any more of it, Nellie, than a little education 
 will ifive." 
 
198 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " You are mistaken, though, Macintosh. I am very 
 ambitious," Elsiuioi- said gravely. 
 
 " Pray in « hat 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 doe 
 four ambition take, darling ?" 
 
 " I ha\ e 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 suffi- 
 ciently 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 ujjon 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 ihem, at once smote and 
 won Eleanor. What could she do to mnke 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 gen- 
 tle that Mr. Carlisle was more than content. 
 
 " If you have no other ambition than th.at,V he said^ 
 " then the wise man is proved wrong who said that 
 moderation is the sloth of the soul, as ambition is itg 
 activity." 
 
 " Who said that ?" 
 
 " Rochefoacauld, I believe." 
 
 " Like him — " said Eleanor. 
 
 " How is that ? wise ?" 
 
 " No indeed ; falser" 
 
 " He was a philosopher, and you are not even a student 
 n that school." 
 
AT LUNCHEON. 199 
 
 " He was uot a true man ; and that I know by the 
 lights he never knew." 
 
 " I-Ie told the time of day by the world's clock, Elea- 
 nor. Yon 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 maj well ask. I used to study French sen- 
 tences out of him ; because they were in nice little de- 
 tached 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 n\irse." 
 
 " Do you think I never go into cottages ?" said ho 
 smiling. 
 
 Eleanor did not know what to make of him ; how- 
 ever, it was plain he would go with her into this one ; so 
 slie took him in, and then had to tell who he was, and 
 blushed for shame and vexation to see her oM nurse's 
 delighted and deep curtseys at the honour done her. 
 She made her escape to see .Jane ; and leaving Mr. Car- 
 lisle to his own devices, gl^idly shut herself into the littls 
 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 slowlj- and heavily up the stair. A short stairway 
 It was, and she had short time to linger ; she did not 
 
200 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 linger ; she went into Jane's room. Eleanor had no^ 
 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 tlie 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. Elea- 
 aor was silent with suiprise, 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 0,Miss Elea- 
 nor, 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 loving- 
 ly — "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 wha< 
 ne has done for n.e ; — and I'm happy !" 
 
AT LUNCHEON. 20) 
 
 " Can't you tell me more, Jane ? I want to under- 
 Btand it." 
 
 "Miss Eleanor, it's hnrd 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 ho 
 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 fear- 
 ed, Miss Eleanor ? when all's in his hand." 
 
 Eleanor stood still, looking at the transformed face be- 
 fore 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 stili 
 ivith a cold brow and dark face. 
 
 "Jane, I wish you could give me what you have go 
 •—so as not to lose it yourself." 
 
 " Jesus will give it to you. Miss Eleanor," said tha 
 girl with a brightening eye and smile. "I know he will." 
 
 " T do not know of him, Jane, as you do," Eleanor 
 said gravely. " What did you do to gain this knowl- 
 edge?" 
 
 " 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 — he prayed ! — and my 
 trouble went away and the light came. O Miss Eleanor, 
 
202 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 if you would hear Mr. Rhys speak ! I don't know how ; 
 — but if you'd hear him, you'd know all that man cau 
 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 difEciilty, 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 for- 
 given 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 ? Elea- 
 nor desperately resolved to let it take care of itself, and 
 sat down to read to Jane at the open page whei e 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 intel- 
 Igence from it. Siie had a dim perception of the words 
 uf 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 tlie end of it; 
 yet thosf words which ever since the day they wevo 
 
AT L0NCHEON. 203 
 
 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 atar off. 
 
 " I must go nov>r, 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." 
 
 "Do'ly? why she was to have been married to that 
 young Earle ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, but — mother '11 tell yon. 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. Elea- 
 nor staid by her till it was over, woidd 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 stoiy. 
 The young couple wanted means to furnish a house ; the 
 money hoarded for the purpose had been lent by Jamet 
 in some stress of his parents' affairs and could not now 
 be got back agniii ; and the secret hope of the family, 
 Eleanor found, was that James might be advanced to 
 the gamekeeper's place at, Rj thdale, 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 bur 
 
f 04 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 ried out to the gate where Mr. Carlisle was waiting for 
 her. Her interview with Jane had left her with a des- 
 perate feeling of being cut ofi" from the peaco and light 
 her heart longed for ; and yet she was glad to see some- 
 body else happy. She stood by Mr. Carlisle's side in a 
 sort of subdued mood. Tliere 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 tliis gentleman ! — will 
 you ? We'll have luncheon in a little while — and ther. 
 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 ar* 
 here, it would be such a good chance. Well, Eleanor t 
 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, pre- 
 paring to mount Eleanor. " She goes by .in old-fasliioned 
 thing, that is always behind the time — or in advance 
 of it." 
 
 " Well, I declare !" said Miss Broadus. "That beau- 
 tiful little watch Mr. Powle gave her ! Then you will 
 come in after your ride ?" 
 
 If they were near enough at luncheon time, Mr. Car- 
 lisle promised that should be done ; and leaving Miss 
 Broadus in startled admiration of their horses, the riders 
 set forth. A new lide was promised Eleanor; they 
 struck forward beyond Wiglands, leaving the road to 
 Rythdale on the left hand. Eleanor was busily meditat- 
 ing on the question of making suit to Mr. Carlisle in 
 James Earle's favour ; but not as a question to be decid' 
 
AT LTJNCKEON. 205 
 
 ed; she had resolved slie would not do it, and wastlihik 
 ing rather how very unwilling she should be to do it ; 
 sensible at the same time that much power was in her 
 liands 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 as- 
 sume it. Yet between pride and benevolence Eleanor's 
 ride was likely to be scarce a pleasant one. It was ex- 
 tremely 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 i/ou 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 ? lie 
 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 if one of your — one of th ■ under gardeners at 
 
206 THE OLD HELMICT. 
 
 Rythdale ; his name is James Earle. I believe he is t 
 good fellow." 
 
 " We will suppose that. What has he done to enlist 
 your sympathy ?" 
 
 " He wants to many 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 gnllop ?" 
 
 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 clonds. This was the gentlest of gallops, cer- 
 tainly, 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 car 
 
AT LUNCHEON. 201 
 
 ried on such magical hoofs ; but indeed the ride was be- 
 yond her beat and she did not know the waymarl<s if siie 
 had observed thern. 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 mak- 
 ing a beautiful setting for it on one side. The riders 
 piissed 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 het 
 nand resting on his shoulder to enforce her request, " ] 
 do not want to go in !" 
 
208 TUB OLD H E L SI B T . 
 
 " I cannot lake yoii any further without rest and r© 
 ireshment; and we are too fur from Miss Broadus's now. 
 Come, Eleanor !" — • 
 
 He took her down, and then observing the discom- 
 posed colour of Eleanor's cheek, he went ou affection- 
 ately, as he was leading her in, — "What is there 
 formidable in it, Nellie ? Nothing but my mother and 
 inncheon ; 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 sracious. 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, wiiile 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 feel- 
 ing 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 hur 
 own sweet self, if not lior heart's absorbing affection. 
 And this would satisfy Mr. Carlisle, Eleanor kne\V ; she 
 jould 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 
 K Other were waiting for her ; she was almost in the 
 fi mily already. Eleanor put several feelings in bonds. 
 
AT lUNCHEON. 20l( 
 
 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, afire 
 of noble logs softly burned in an ample chimney. All 
 4i-ound 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 house- 
 hold. She stood before the fire, feeling all this without 
 looking up, her eye resting on the exquisite mat of Ber- 
 lin 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 ansAvered for the moment with tact and tem 
 per 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 coloujf 
 
210 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 no doubt. A few commonplaces followed, and then ths 
 talk fell to the mothei- and son who had some affairs to 
 speak about. Eleanor's eye wentto the glass door be- 
 yond which the flowers beckoned her ; she longed to go 
 to til em ; 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 \NOuld assume nothing, not 
 even the right of a stranger. So she only looked at the 
 distant flowers, and thought, and ceased to hear the con- 
 versation 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 blnntly 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 6n her, mamma," said Mr. 
 Carlisle, walking off to a bookcase. " She has the un- 
 common 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. Th* 
 baroness laughed. Her son smiled. Eleanor was vexed 
 Bt 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 tos.'un^ 
 
A T L U N II IC O N, 211 
 
 the book into her lap and sitting down Leside her,— 
 "justify yourself." 
 
 Eleanor guessed he wanted to draw her out. She Mas 
 not very ready. She turned over slowly the Iciives of 
 the book. Meanwhile Lady Rythdale again enaaged 
 her son in conversation which entirely overlooked her ; 
 and Eleanor thought her own thoughts ; till Mr. Car- 
 lisle said with a little tone of triumph, " Well, Elea- 
 nor?—" 
 
 " What is it ?" said Lady Rythdale. 
 
 " Human n:iture, 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 1" said.Mr. Carlisle laughing. 
 
 " Take this. ' La magnauimite est assez bien defiuie 
 par son nom meme ; neanmoins on pourroit dire que 
 f.'est le bon sens de I'orgueil, et la voie la plus noble 
 pour recevoir des louanges.' Could anything be further 
 from the truth tlian that ?" 
 
 " What is your idea of magnanimity ? You do not 
 think ' the good sense of pride' expressts 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 indi 
 cate a deficiency in that quality — or an excess of it. 
 Which, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " Rochefoucauld says, " La moderation est comme la 
 Bobriete : on voudroit bien manger davantage, mais on 
 sraint de se faire mal." 
 
 "What have you to say against that ?" 
 
 "Nothing It speaks for itself. And these two say 
 
212 THK OLD HELMET. 
 
 ings alone prove that he had no knowledge of what ii 
 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 confu- 
 tation at ray side. 
 
 " Her accent is not perfect by any means," said Lady 
 Rythdale. 
 
 " You are right, madam," said Eleanor, with a mo- 
 ment's hesitation and a little colour. " I had good ad- 
 vantages 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 dif- 
 ferent channel. The roses looked sweetness at iiei- ; 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 sug- 
 gestion. Eleanor plucked a geranium leaf and bruised 
 it and thoughts together under her finger. Mr. Carlisle 
 was vjalled 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 haii'. Eleanor tried to 
 arrest his hand, but he prevented her. 
 
 "I do not like it, Macintosh. Laily 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 
 jke to hear you sing." 
 
 "Sing! I am afraid I should not please Lady Rytli dale." 
 
AT LUNCHEON. 213 
 
 " "Will yon plea'<e me ?" 
 
 Eleanor quitted his hand and went to the door of com- 
 Qinnic.ition with the red parlour, which was by" two or 
 three steps, on which she sat down. Her eyes were on 
 the floor, where tlie object they encountered was Mr. 
 Carlisle's spurs. That would not do ; she buried them 
 in the di'pths of a wonderful white lily, and so sang the 
 old b.iUad 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 trem- 
 bles 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 whUe to get accus- 
 tomed 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 h:id 
 be(!n htld and lookt'd over and caressed to the content 
 of the old baroness, an 1 Eleanor's cheeks were in a stata 
 
214 THB OLD HELMET. 
 
 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 be- 
 cause they have not force to be anything else, Macin- 
 tosh." 
 
 " I hope not." 
 
 After this, however, Eleanor was spared further dis- 
 cussion. Luncheon came in ; and during the whole dis- 
 cussion 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 be- 
 longed 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 ns 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 lun- 
 cheon 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 lastj and not till the after- 
 noon 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 Pri- 
 ory.' The priory buildings are here." 
 
 " There too," said Mr. Carlisle. " The oldest fouiida 
 
A.r LUNCHEON. 215 
 
 tions are really up there ; and part of the superstniotiire 
 is still hidden within the modern walls. After they had 
 established themselves up there, the monks became pos- 
 sessed 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 sur- 
 face. 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 gen- 
 tleness that had been upon her and which the day's work 
 had deepened. Nevertheless, when Eleanor uent in at 
 home, and the day's work lay behind her, and Ryth- 
 dale'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 aha 
 went to bed that night. 
 
CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 •• Why, and I trust, and I may go too. May I notf 
 What, shall I be appointed hours ; as though, beltt 
 I know not That to take and what to leave ? Ha 1** 
 
 " Eleanor, what is tlie matter ?" said Juli one day. 
 For Eleanor was found in her room in tears. 
 
 " Nothing — I am going to ruin only ; — thai is all." 
 
 " Going to what"} Why Eleanor — what '.i the mat- 
 ter?" 
 
 " Nothing — if not that." 
 
 " Why Eleanor !" said the little one in growing aston- 
 ishment, 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 inow that I ever shall leel 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 littl* 
 oi'.e, in a low, awe-struck voice. 
 
AT BEOMPTON. 21Y 
 
 "I want something else first," said Eleanor evab.vely. 
 " I am not ready to go anywhere, or do anything, till I 
 feel better." 
 
 " I wish you could see Mr. Rhys," said Julia. " He 
 *eould help you to feel better, I know." 
 
 Eleanor was silent, shedding tears quietly. 
 
 " Couldn't you cnme down and see him, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " Ciiild, 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." 
 
 " Wh)', 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 iiim." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " Next Monday evening." 
 
 " Monday evening ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I shall want to purchase things at Brompton Mon- 
 day," 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 1 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 rooks, or land me on shore. I will do 
 it. This is ray very last chance." 
 
 She sat before the fire, pondering over her arrange- 
 ments. Julia nestled up beside her, affectionate but 
 mute, and laid her head caressingly against her sister'* 
 
 10 
 
218 TtH!OI,T>HBLMET. 
 
 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 port- 
 folio ; 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 Elea- 
 nor, I thought of that the other day, but I had no 
 money. What do you think ?" 
 
 " Excellent," said Eleanor. " Keep your own coun- 
 sel, Julia ; and you and I will go some day soon, ar J see 
 what we can find." 
 
 " Where will you go ? to Brompton ?" 
 
 " Of course. There is no other place to gc to. But 
 keep your own counsel, Julia." 
 
 If Julia kept her own counsel, she did not vi well 
 know how to keep her sister's; for the very ftt;rt 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 mo^ ement was to rise and see that the 
 duor of communication with the next room was ser/i''ely 
 shut ; then as he sat down to his writing again ho f.aid 
 gravely. 
 
 " Yon ought to be very careful how you maLo 6ucl 
 
ATBROMPTON. 219 
 
 remarks, Julia. You might without knowing it, dc 
 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 >ip 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 sori'ow, quite uncon- 
 nected 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 Mon 
 day came. Eleanor had kept herself in order and giver, 
 general satisfaction. When Monday came slfe 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 
 
220 THE OI, D HELMET. 
 
 grumbled a little, not ill-humourefJly, but withdie-\« 
 opposition ; and Mrs. Powle made none, However the 
 day turned very disagreeable by afternoon, and she pro- 
 posed 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 sliine 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 hei-- 
 self from extreme depression ; and Julia, feeling 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 modernis- 
 ing had come, except in the contents of the shops, and the 
 exteriors of a few buildings. The tower of a vei-y beau- 
 tiful 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 a recess and projecting house-front or roof 
 or doorway ; the broad grey uniformity of dulness that 
 bi-ooded over the open landsc;ipe, was not here to be felt. 
 Quaint interest, quaint beauty, the suvo ir of things old 
 and quiet and stable, had a stimulating and a soothing 
 effect too. Eleanor roused up to business, and busines.s 
 gave its usual meed of refreshment and strength. Sho 
 
AT BKOMPTON. - 22 J 
 
 and Julia had a good shopping time. It was a burden 
 of love with the little one to see that everything about 
 tiie proposed purchase was precisely and entirely what 
 it should be ; and Ele.inor seconded her and gave her 
 her hean'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 I Does mamma know ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " But she will be frightened, if we are not come 
 home." 
 
 "Then j'ou can take the cnrriage 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 sliould have Mr. Carlisle come after 
 me. No, if I sen<l, 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 slay!" said Julia eagerly. "O 
 Eleanor, I want to stay ! But mamma would be sc 
 frightened. Eleanor do you think it is right ?" 
 
 " It is right for nie," f^aid Eleannr. " 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 ba ik again ; the waggon and 
 
222 . THE OLD HELilBT. 
 
 old Roger, or ray pony, would have to come for me — 
 witli Thomas." 
 
 Julia debated, sighed, shewed great anxiety for Elea- 
 nor, great difficulty of deciding, but finally concludi d 
 even with tears that it would not be right for her to 
 tay. The carriage went home with her and her piu*- 
 cliases; Thomas, the old coachman, having answeied 
 with surprised alacrity to the question, whethSr he knew 
 where the Wesleyau chapel in Bronipton was. He was 
 to come back for Eleanor and be with the waggon there. 
 Eleanor herself went to spend the intermediate time be- 
 fore 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 lier. It was not perhaps the best choice of a 
 I'esting-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 
 a'l things, not to take shelter in any house where a mes- 
 sage or an emissary from the Lodge or the Priory would 
 be likely to lind 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 lit- 
 tle fair curls all over her head and a piece of flannel round 
 her throat. She was very voluble, though her voice was 
 \ery 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 wat 
 happily in bed, and who she declared, when not in bed was 
 too much for her. Meanwhile Mr. Pinchbeck, who wag 
 a black-haiied, ordinarily somewliat grim looking man, 
 now with his grimness all gilded in smiles, p-essed the 
 sweetmeats ; and looked his beaming deUi;ht at the oo 
 
AT B E O M P T O N . 223 
 
 casion. Eleanor felt miserably out of place ; even Mrs. 
 Pinchbeck's flannel round her throat helped her to ques- 
 tion whether she were not altogether wrong and mis. 
 taken 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 hesi- 
 tate 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 qui coute. There shti 
 dared public opinion ; tiie opinion of the Priory and 
 the Lodge. Here, she confessed said opinion was light. 
 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 PiuchLc-cks were 
 satisfied. When tlie time of durance was over, for she 
 w'as nervously impatient, and the hour of the chapel ser- 
 vice 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 fhe was while 
 Mr. P. went to make inquiries. Or stay all night! Mrs. 
 Pinclibeck would be delighted. By steady determinar 
 tion Eleanor at la-it 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 alonii' the streets, feeling her. 
 self a wanderer, every way. The chapel she sought wafc 
 not fiir off; lights were blazing there, though the strc-cti 
 
224 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 were gloomy. Eleanor made a quiet entrance into the 
 wnrm house, and sat down ; feeling as if the crisis of hti 
 fate had come. She did not care now abont hiding her- 
 self; 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 al- 
 ready 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 bet- 
 ter than a barn, still was that a fit church ? The win- 
 dows 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. Nothino- of all 
 that ; nothing of what she esteemed dignified, or noljle, 
 or sacred ; a mere business-looking house, with that sim- 
 ple raised platform and little desk — was Eleanor right to 
 be there? Was anybody else? Poor child, she felt 
 Mrong every way, there or not there ; but these thouo;hts 
 tormented her. They tormented her only till Mr. Rhys 
 came in. When she saw him, as it had been that even- 
 ing in the barn, they quieted instantly. To her mind ho 
 was a guaranty for the righteousness of all in which ho 
 was concerned ; difierent as it might be from all to 
 which she had been accustomed. Such a guaranty, that 
 Eleanor's mind was ahnc>st feady to leap to the other 
 
AT BEOMPTON. 225 
 
 conclusion, and account wrong whatever the differenc« 
 put on another side from him. She watched him now, 
 as lie 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 accus- 
 tomed 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 propri- 
 ety ; the full-robed foi-m 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 seem- 
 ing 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 rich- 
 ness of Gothic work had ever brought. Then she re- 
 joiced that she was where she was. To be there, could 
 not be wrong. 
 
 The house was full and still. The beginning of the 
 service again was the singing; here richer and fuller 
 voiced than it had been in the barn. Somebody else 
 made the prayers ; to her sorrow ; but then Mr. Rhys 
 rose, and her eye and ear were all for him. She threw 
 back her veil now. She was quite willing that he should 
 see her ; quite willing that if he had any message of help 
 or warning for ht'V n the course of his sermon, he should 
 deliver it. He saw her, she knew, immediately. She 
 rather fancied that he saw everybody. 
 
 It was to be a missionary sermon, Eleanor had under- 
 stood ; but she the ight it was a very strange one. Thfl 
 
 10* 
 
226 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 text was, " Reiidei- to Caesar the things that are Cresar'g 
 and to God the things that are God's." 
 
 The question was, " Wliat are the Lord's things?" 
 
 Mr. Rhys seemed to be only talking to the people, as 
 his bright eye went ronnd the house and he went ou to 
 answer this question. Or rather to suggest answers. 
 
 Jacob's oifering of devotion and gratitude was a tenth 
 part of his possessions. " And Jacob vowed a vow, 
 saying, If God will be with me, and will keep me in this 
 way that I go, and will give me bread to eat, and rai- 
 ment to put on, so that I come again to my father's 
 house in peace ; then shall the Lord be my God : and 
 this stone, which I have set for a pillar, shall be God's 
 house ; and of all that thou shalt gi\e me, I will surely 
 give the tenth nnto thee." 
 
 Mr. Rhys announced this. He did not comment upon 
 it at all. He went on to say, that the commandment 
 given by Moses ap'pointed the same oifering. 
 
 "And all the tithe of the land, whether of the seed 
 of the land, or of the fruit of the tree, is the Lord's : it 
 is holy unto tlie Lord. And if a man will at all redeem 
 ought of his tithes, he shall add thereto the fifth pare 
 thereof. And concerning the tithe of the herd, or of the 
 flock, even of whatsoever passeth under the rod, the 
 tenth shall he holy unto the Lord. He shall not search 
 whether ii bu good or bad, neither shall he change it; 
 and if he obange it at all, then both it and the change 
 thereof shah be holy ; it shall not be redeemed." 
 
 So that it appeared, that the least the Lord would 
 leeeive as a due oAering to him from his people, was a 
 fair and full tenth part of all they possessed. This was 
 required, from these that were only nominally his people. 
 How about those tti'it render to him heart-service ? 
 
 David's declaration, when laying up provision for the 
 building of the teni\Ae, was that all was the Lord's. 
 " A\'ho am I, and what i'; my people, that we should bs 
 
AT BROMPTON. 227 
 
 able to offer so willingly after this sort ? fen- all thinga 
 come of thee, and of thine own have we given thee. . 
 O Lord our God, all this store that we have prepared td 
 build tliee an house for thy holy name coineth of thine 
 hand, and is all thine own," And God himself, in the 
 fiftieth psalm, claims to be the one sole owner and pro- 
 prietor, when he says, "Every beast of the forest is 
 mine, and the cattle upon a thousand hills." 
 
 But some people may think, that is a sort of natural 
 and providenti.il right, which the Creator exercises over 
 the works of his hands. Come a little closer. 
 
 " The silver _is mine, and the gold is mine, saith the 
 Lord of Hosts." — So it was declared by his prophet 
 Ilaggai. And by another of his servants, the Lord told 
 the people that their own prospering in the various goods 
 of this world, would be according to their faithfulness 
 in serving him with them. 
 
 " Will a man rob God ? Yet ye have robbed me. 
 But ye say. Wherein have we robbed thee ? In tithes 
 and offerings. Ye ai'e cursed with a curse ; for ye have 
 robbed me, even this whole nation. 
 
 " Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there 
 may be meat in mine house, and prove me now herewith, 
 saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the win- 
 dows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there 
 shall not be room enough to receive it." 
 
 So that it is not grace nor bounty the Lord receives 
 at our hands in such offeiings ; it is simply his own. 
 
 Then it must be considered that those were the times 
 of the old dispensation ; of an expensive systeru of 
 sacrifices and temple worship ; with a great body of the 
 priesthood to be maintained and supplied in all their 
 services and private household wants. We live in 
 changed times, under a different rule. What do the 
 Lord's servants owe him now ? 
 
 The speaker had gone on with the utmost quietness 
 
228 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 of manner from one of these instances to anotliei ; using 
 hardly any gestures ; uttering only with slow distinct- 
 ness and dclibeiation his sentences one after the other • 
 his face and eye meanwhile commanding the whole as- 
 sembly. He went on now with the same qjietness, 
 perhaps with a little more deliberateness of accentua- 
 tion, and an additional spark of fire now and then in his 
 glance. 
 
 There was a widow woman once, who threw into the 
 Lord's treasury two mites, which make a farthing ; but 
 it was all her living. Again, we read that among the 
 first Christians, " all that believed were togethei', and 
 had all things common ; and sold their possessions and 
 goods, and parted them to all men, as every man had 
 need." "The multitude of them that believed were of 
 one heart, and of one soul ; neither said any of them that 
 ought of the things which he possessed was his own ; 
 but they had all things common." 
 
 Were these people extravagant? They overwent the 
 judgment of the present day. By what rule shall we 
 try them ? 
 
 Christ's rule is, " Freely ye have received ; freely 
 give." What have we received ? 
 
 Friends, " you know the grace of our Lord Jesus 
 Christ, that, though he was rich, yet for your sakes he 
 became poor, that ye through his poverty might be 
 rich." And the' judgment of the old Christian church 
 accorded with this ; for they said, — " The love of Christ 
 constraineth us ; because we thus judge, that if one died 
 for all, then were all dead ; and that he died for all, that 
 they which live should not henceforth live unto thera- 
 eelves, but unto him which died for them, and rose 
 again." Were they extravagant? 
 
 But Christ has given us a closer rule to try the ques 
 tion by. He told his disciples, " This is my connnan<1- 
 men t, That ye love one another, us I have loved you." 
 
AT BROMPTON. 229 
 
 Does any one ask how that was ? The Lord tells us in 
 tlie next breath. It was no theoretical feeling. " Greater 
 love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his 
 life for his friends.^'' "A new commandment I give 
 nnto you, That ye love one another ; as I have loved 
 yon, that ye also love one another." 
 
 Pausing there in his course, with fire and tenderness 
 breaking out in his face and manner, that gave him a 
 kind of seraphic look, the speaker burst forth into a de- 
 scription of the love of Christ, that before long bowed 
 the heads and hearts of his audience as one man. Sobs 
 and whispers and smothered cries, murmured from all 
 parts of the church ; the whole assembly was broken 
 down, while the preacher stood like some heavenly mes- 
 senger and spoke his Master's name. When he ceased, 
 the suppressed noise of sobs was alone to be heard all 
 over the house. He paused a little, and began again 
 very quietly, but with an added tenderness in his voice. 
 
 " He that saith he abideth in him, ought himself also 
 so to walk, even as he walked." — " Plereby perceive we 
 the love of God, because he laid down his life for us ; 
 and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren." 
 
 He paused again ; every one there knew that lie was 
 ready to act on the principle he enounced ; that he was 
 speaking only of what he had proved ; and the heads of 
 the assembly bent lower still. 
 
 Does any one ask. What shall we do now ? there is 
 no temple to be maintained, nor course of sacrifices to. 
 be kept up, nor ceremonial worship, nor Levitical body 
 of priests to be supported and fed. What shall we give 
 our lives and our fortunes to now, if we give them ? 
 
 " Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, 
 do ye even so to them." Is the gospel dear to you ? 
 Is salvation worth having ? Think of those who know 
 nothing of it ; and then think of Christ's command, 
 " Feed my sheep." They are scattered upon all lands. 
 
230 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 the sheep tli.it he died for ; who shall gather them in ? 
 In China they worsliip a heap of ashes ; in India they 
 adore nionsterf ; in Fiji they live to kill and eat one an- 
 otlier ; in Africa they sit in the darkness of centuries, 
 till almost the spark of humanity is quenched out, 
 " Whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall 
 be saved." But " how shall they call on him iu whom 
 they have not believed ? and how shall they believe in 
 him of whom they have not heard ? and how shall they 
 hear without a preacher ? and how shall they preach, 
 except they be sent ? as it is written. How beautiful 
 are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace, and 
 bring glad tidings of good things !" 
 
 " O Zion, that bringest good tidings, get thee up into 
 tlie high mountain : O Jerusalem, that bringest good 
 tidings, lift up thy voice A\'ith strength ; lift it up, be 
 not afraid ; say unto the cities of Judah, Behold your 
 God !" 
 
 " The Spirit and the bride say, come. And let hiin 
 that heareth say, come. And let him that is athirst 
 come. And whosoever will, let him ti^ke the water of life 
 freely." 
 
 It was in the midst of the deepest stillness, and in 
 low kept-under tones, that the last words were spoken. 
 And when they ceased, a great hush still remained upon 
 the assembly. It was broken by prayer ; sweet, solemn, 
 rapt, such as some there had never heard before ; sucli 
 as some there knew well. When Mi-. Rhys hud stopped, 
 another began. The whole house was still with tears. 
 
 There was one bowed heart there, which had divided 
 subjects of consideration ; there w.as one hidden face 
 which had a double motive for being hid. Eleanor had 
 been absorbed in the entrancing interest of the time, lis- 
 tening with moveless eye.s, and borne away from all her 
 own subjects of care and difficulty on the swellin<>- tide 
 of thought and emotion which heaved the whole assem- 
 
AT BKOMPTON. 23] 
 
 bly. Till her own head was bent beneath its pow er, and 
 her tears songht to be covered from \ie\v. She did not 
 move from that attitude ; until, lifting her head near the 
 close of the sermon, as soon as she could get it up in 
 fact, that siie might see as much as possible of thoso 
 wonderful looks she miglit never see again ; a slight 
 chance turn of her head brought another idea into lier 
 mind. A little behind her in the aisle, standing but a 
 pace or two off, was a figure that for one instant made 
 all Eleanor's blood stand still. She could not see it dis- 
 tinctly ; she did not see the face of the person at all ; it 
 was only the merest glimpse of some outlines, the least 
 line of a coat and vision of an arm and hand resting on 
 a pew door. But if that arm and hand did not belong 
 to somebody she knew, in Eleanor's belief it belonged 
 to nobody living. It was not the colour of cloth nor the 
 cut of a dress ; it was the indefinable character of that 
 arm and man's glove, seen with but half an eye. But it 
 made her sure that Mr. Carlisle, in living flesh and blood, 
 stood there, in the Wesleyan chapel though it was. 
 Eleanor cared curiously little about it, after the first 
 start. She felt set free, in the deep high engagement of 
 her thoughts at the time, and the roused and determined 
 state of feeling they liad produced. She did not fear 
 JNIr. Carlisle. She was quite willing he should have seen 
 her there. It was what she wished, that he should know 
 i)f her doing. And his neighbourhood in that place did 
 not hinder her full attention and enjoyment of every 
 word that was spoken. It did not check her tears, nor 
 stifle the swelling of her heart under the preaching and 
 under the prayers. Nevertheless Eleanor was conscious 
 of it all the time ; and became conscious too that tha 
 service would before very long come to a close ; and 
 then without doubt that q,uiet g'ove would have some- 
 thing to do with her. Eleanor did not reason nor stop 
 to think about it. Hei- heart was full, full, under th«> 
 
232 TUB OLD HELlfET. 
 
 ap])ealg made and the working of conscience whh them 
 conscience and tenderer feelings, which strove logothei 
 and yet found no rest ; and this action the sight of Mi 
 Carlisle rather intensified. Were her head Liit covered 
 by that helmet of salvation, under which others lived 
 and walked so royally secure, — and she could bid defi- 
 ance to any disturbing force that could meet ner, she 
 thought, in this world. 
 
 It was while Eleanor's head was yet bowed, and her 
 heart busy with these struggling feelings, that she heard 
 an invitation given to all people who were not at peace 
 in theii- hearts and who desired that Christians should 
 pray for them, — to come forward and so signify their 
 wish. Eleanor did not understand what this could 
 mean ; and hearing a stir in the church, she looked up, 
 if perhaps her eyes might give her information. To her 
 surprise she saw that numbers of people were leaving 
 their seats and going forward to what she would have 
 called the chancel rails, where they ali knelt down. All 
 these persons, then, were in like condition with her ; un- 
 happy in the consciousness of their wants, and not know- 
 ing how to supply them. So many ! And so many will- 
 ing openly to confess it. Eleanor's heart moved strangely 
 towards them. And then darted into her head an im- 
 pulse, quick as lightning and almost as startling, that 
 she should join herself to them and go forward as they 
 were doing. Was not her heart mourning for the very 
 same want that they felt ? She had reason enough. No 
 one in that room sought the forgiveness of God and 
 peace with him more earnestly than she, nor with a sorer 
 heait ; nor felt more ignorant how to gain it. Together 
 with that another thought, both of them acting with the 
 swiftness and power of a lightning flash, moved Elea- 
 nor. Would it not utterly -disgust Mr. Carlisle, if she 
 took this step? would he wish to have any more to do 
 With her, after she should have gone forward publicly 
 
IN UEOJlrTON. 233 
 
 to ask ftr prayers in a Wcsleyan chapel? It would 
 prove to him at least liow far apart they were in all their 
 views and feelings. It would clear her way for her ; and 
 the next moment, doing it cunningly that she might not 
 be intercepted, Eleanor Powie slipped out of her scat 
 with a quick movement, just before some one else who was 
 coming up the aisle, and so put that person for that one 
 second of danger between her and the waiting figure 
 whom she knew without looking at. That second was 
 gained, and she went trembling with agitation, yet exult- 
 ingly, up the aisle and knelt on the low bench where the 
 others were. 
 
 Mr. Carlisle and escape from him, had been Eleanor's 
 one thought till she got there. But as her knees sank 
 upon the cushion and her head bowed upon the rails, a 
 flood of other feeling swept over her and Mr. Carlisle 
 was forgotten. The sense of what she was committing 
 herself to — -of the open stand she was tiiking as a sin- 
 ner, and one who desired to be a forgiven sinner, — over- 
 whelmed her ; and her heart's great cry for peace and 
 purity broke forth to the exclusion of everything else. 
 
 In the confusion of Eleanor's mind, she did not know 
 in the lea-it wliat was going on around her in the church. 
 She did not hear if tliey were praying or singing. She 
 tried to pray for herself; she knew not what others were 
 doing ; till she heard some low whispered words near her. 
 That sound startled her into attention ; for she knew the 
 accent of one voice that spoke. The other, if one an- 
 swered, she could not discern ; but she found with a 
 start of mingled fear and pleasure that Mr. Rhys was 
 Bj^eaking separately with the persons kneeling around ' 
 the rails. She had only time to clear her voice from 
 tears, before that same low whisper came beside her. 
 
 " What is your difficulty ?" 
 
 " Darkness — confusion — I do not see what way to go." 
 
 " Go no way," said the whisper impi-essively, " until 
 
234 THE OLD H K I, M E T . 
 
 j-ou see clcai-ly. Then do what is right.' That is the 
 first point. You know that Christ is tli« fountain of 
 light ?" 
 
 " But I see none." 
 
 " Seek him trustingly, and obediently ; and then look 
 for the light to come, as you would for the dawning 
 after a dark night. It is sure, if you will trust the Lord. 
 His going forth is prepared as the morning." It is 
 Bure to come, to all that seek him, trust him, and obey 
 nim. Seek him in prayer constantly, and in studying 
 your Bible ; and what you find to be your duty, do; 
 and the Lord be with you !" 
 
 He passed away from Eleanor ; and presently the 
 while assembly struck up a hymn. It sounded like a 
 sweet shout of melody at the time ; but Eleanor could 
 never recall a note of it afterwards. She knew the ser- 
 vice was nearly ended, and that in a few minutes she 
 must quit her kneeling, sheltered position, and go out 
 into the world again. She bent her heart to catch all 
 the sweetness of the place and the time ; for strange and 
 confused as she felt, there was nevertheless an atmos- 
 phere fragrant with peace about both. The hymn came 
 to an end ; the congregation were dismissed, and Elea- 
 noi- perforce turned her face to go down the aisle again. 
 
 Her veil was down and she did not look, but she knew 
 without looking just when she reached the spot where 
 Mr. Carlisle stood. He stood there yet ; he had only 
 stepped a little aside to let the stream of people go past 
 him ; and now as Eleanor came up he assumed his place 
 by her side and put her hand upon his arm as quietly a? 
 if he had been waiting there fo- her by appointment .ill 
 jilong. So he led her out to the cairiage in waiting for 
 her, helped her into it, and took his place beside her ; in 
 silence, but with the utmost gentleness of demeanour. 
 Tiie CMrringe door was closed, they drove off"; Eleanor's 
 evening w^as over, and she was al.ine with Mr. Carlisle. 
 
CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 Mar. ^* Man 7, sir, Bometimes he Is a kind of Puritan." 
 
 Sir And. "(), if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog." 
 
 Sir Tob. " What, for being a Puntan ? thy exquisite reason, dear knight T' 
 
 Sir And. "I have no exquisite reason for 't, hut I have reason good enough." 
 
 What was to come now ; as in darkness and silence 
 Ihe carriage rolled over the road towards Wiglands ? 
 Eleanor did not gi-eatly care. She felt set free ; out- 
 wardly, by her own daring act of separation ; inwardly 
 and more effectually perhaps, by the influence of the 
 evening upon her own mind. In her own settled and 
 matui'ed conclusions, she felt that Mr. Carlisle's power 
 over her was gone. It was a little of an annoyance to 
 have him sitting there ; nevertheless Eleanor's mind did 
 not trouble itself much with him. Leaning back in the 
 carriage, she gave herself up to the impressions of the scene 
 she had been through. Her companion was quiet and 
 made no demands upon her attention. She recalled over 
 and over the words, and looks, of the sermon ; — the swell 
 of the music — it had been like angel's melody; and the 
 soft words which had been so energetic in their whispered 
 strength as she knelt at the railing. She remembered 
 with tresh wonder and admiration, with what effect tho 
 Bible words in the first pai-t of the sermon had come 
 upon the audience through that extreme quietness of 
 voice and deUvery ; and then with what sudden lire and 
 life, as if he had become another man, the speaker had 
 bui-st out to speak of his Master ; and how it had swayed 
 and bent the assembly. It was an entirely new view 
 of Mr. Rhys, and Eleanor could not forget it. In gen- 
 eral, as she had always seen him, though perfectly at 
 
236 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 ease in his manners he was very simple and undemonstra- 
 tive. Slie had not sjuessed there was such might in him. 
 It awed her ; it delighted her. To live such a life ar.d 
 to do such work as that man lived for, — that was living 
 indeed 1 That was nob'e, high, pure ; unlike and O 
 how far above all the manner of lives Eleanor had ever 
 seen before. And such, in so far as the little may resem- 
 ble the great, — such at least so far as in her sphere and 
 abilities and sadly inferior moral qualities it might lie — 
 such in aim and direction at least, her own life should 
 be. What had she to do with Mr. Carlisle ? 
 
 Eleanor never spoke to him during the long drive, 
 forgetting as far as she could, though a little uneasiness 
 grew upon her by degrees, that he was even present. 
 And he did not speak to her, nor remind her of his pres- 
 ence otherwise than by pulling up the glass on her sido 
 when the wind blew in too chill. It was his carriage 
 they were in, Eleanor then perceived ; and she wanted 
 to ask a question ; but on the whole concluded it safe to 
 be still ; according to the proberb, Let sleeping dogs 
 lie. One other time he drew her shawl round her which 
 she had let slip off. 
 
 Mr. Carlisle was possessed of large self-control and 
 had grent perfection of tact; and he never shewed 
 either more consummately than this night. What he un- 
 derwent while standing in the aisle of the Chapel, was 
 known to iiimself ; he made it known to nobody else. 
 He was certainly silent during the drive ; that shewed 
 him displeased ; but every movement was calm as ordi 
 nary ; his care of Eleanor was the same, in its mixture 
 of gentle observance and authority. He had laid down 
 neither. Eleanor could have wished he had been unable 
 to keep one or the other. Would he keep her too, and 
 everything else that he chose ? Nothing is more sub- 
 duing in its effect upon others, than evident power of 
 Belf-coDimand. Eleanor could not help feeling it, as she 
 
AT SUPPER. 235 
 
 Stepped out of the carriage at home, and was led into 
 the house. 
 
 " Will you give me a few minutes, when you hav€ 
 changed your dress ?" her conductor asked. 
 
 It must come, thought Eleanor, and as well now as 
 e\er; and she assented. Mr. Carlisle led her in. No- 
 body was in waiting but Mrs. Powle ; and she waited 
 -with devouring anxiety. The Squire and Julia she had 
 carefully disposed of in good time. 
 
 " Eleanor is tired, Mrs. Powle, and so am I," said Mr. 
 Carlisle. " Will you let us have some supper here, by 
 this fire — and I think Eleanor had better have a cup of 
 tea ; as I cannot find out the wine that she likes." And 
 as Eleanor moved away, he added, — " And let me beg 
 you not to keep yourself from your rest any longer — I 
 will take care of my charge ; at least I will try.'' 
 
 Devoutly hoping that he might succeed to his wishes, 
 and not daring to shew the anxiety he did not move to 
 gratify, Mrs. Powle took the hint of his gentle dismis- 
 sion ; ordered the supper and withdrew. Meanwhile 
 Eleanor went to her room, relieved at the quiet entrance 
 that had been secured her, where she had looked for a 
 storm ; and a little puzzled what to make of Mr. Carlisle. 
 A little afraid too, if the truth must be known ; but she 
 fell back upon Mr. Rhys's words of counsel — " Go no 
 Avay, till you see clearly ; and then do what is right." 
 She took off her bonnet and smoothed her hair ; and 
 was about to go down, when she was cheeked by the 
 remembrance of Mr. Carlisle's words, " when you have 
 changed your dress." She told herself it was absurd ; 
 why should she change her dress for that half hour that 
 she would be up ; why should she mind that word of 
 intimation ; she called herself a fool for it ; nevertheless, 
 while saying these things Eleanor did the very thing she 
 Bcouted at. She put off her riding dress, whiih the 
 itieets of Brompton and the Chapel aisles had seen thai 
 
238 THE OLD HE I, MET. 
 
 day, and <!hanged it for a light grey drapery that fell 
 about her in very graceful folds. She looked very lovely 
 when she reentered the drawing-room ; tlie niedinin 
 tint set off her own rich colours, and the laces at thioat 
 and wrist wero just simple enough to aid the whole ef- 
 fect. Mr. Carlisle was a judge of dress ; he was stand- 
 ing before the fire and surveyed her as she came in ; and 
 as Eleanor's foot faltered halt' way in the room, he came 
 forward, took both her hands and led her to the fire, 
 where he set her in a great chair by the supper-table ; 
 and then before he let her go, did what he had not meant 
 to do ; gave a very fr,\nk kiss to the lips that were so 
 rich and pure and so near him. Eleanor's heart had 
 sunk a little at perceivirxf?; that her mother was not in 
 the room ; and this action was far from reassuring. She 
 would rather Mr. Carlisle had been angry. Ho was far 
 more difficult to meet in th'g roood. 
 
 Meanwhile Mr. Carlisle brorrht her chair into more 
 convenient neighbourhood to the table, and set a plate 
 before her on which he went on to place wliatevor lie 
 thought fit. " I know what yov are watiti^ig," he said ; 
 — " but you shall not have a cup of tes. unless I see you 
 eat." And Eleanor eat, feeling tho need of it, and the 
 necessity of doing something likewise. 
 
 Mr. Carlisle poured himself out a glass of wine and 
 fclowly drank it, watching her. Midway set it down ; 
 and himself made and poured out fjnd sugared and 
 creamed a cup of tea which he set beside Eleanor. It 
 was done in the nicest way possible, with a manner that 
 any woman would like to have wait on her. Eleanor 
 tasted, and could not hold her tongue any more. 
 
 " I did not know this was one of your aconM'lish- 
 ments," — she said without raisini; iier eyes. 
 
 " For you" — -said Mr. Carlisle. " I believe ':^ will 
 never be exercised for anybody else." 
 
 He slowly finished his wine wliile he watchet' '"w 
 
AT SUPPEH. 23ft 
 
 He eat nothing himself, though Eleanor asked him, till 
 she turned fi-ora her plate, and did wlmt she njid not 
 done till then but could no longer withhold ; let her eyes 
 meet hi<. 
 
 " Now," said he throwing himself into an opposite 
 jhair, — " I will take a cup of tea, if you will make it 
 for me." 
 
 Eleanor liluslied — what made her ? — as she set about 
 performiiiy this office. The tea was cold ; she had to 
 make fresh, and wait till it was ready ; and she stood by 
 the table watching and preparing it, while Mr. Carlisle 
 sat in his chair observing her. Eleanor's checks flushed 
 more and more. There was something about this little 
 piece of domesticity, and her becoming the servitor in 
 her turn, tliat brought up things she did not wish to 
 think of. But her neighbour liked what she did not 
 like, for he sat as quiet as a mouse until Eleanor's trem- 
 bling hand offered him the cup. She had to take a step 
 or two for it, but he never stirred to abridge them. 
 Eleanor sat down again, and Mr. Carlisle sipped his tea 
 with an appearance of gratification. 
 
 " That is a young man of uncommon abilities" — he 
 reniiirked composedly, — ''whom we heard this evening. 
 Do you know who lie is, Eleanor ?" 
 
 Eleanor felt as if the sky was falling. " It is Mr. 
 Rhys — Alfred's old tutor — " she answered, in a voice 
 which she felt was dry and embarrassed to the quick 
 ears that heard her. " You have seen him." 
 
 " I thought I had, somewhere. But that man has 
 power. It is a pity he could not be induced to come 
 into the Church — he would draw better houses than 
 Dr. Cairnes. Do you think we could win him over, 
 Eleanor ?" 
 
 " I believe — I have heard" — said Eleanor, " that he ia 
 going away from Ejigland. He is going a missionary to 
 
240 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 Bome very fiii- away region." She was quite willing Mr 
 Carlisle should understand this. 
 
 " Just as well," he answered. " If he would not 
 come into his right place, such a man would only woi'k 
 to draw other persons out of theirs. There is a sort ol 
 popular power of sjieech which wins with the common 
 and uneducated mind. I saw it won upon you, Nellie; 
 how was that ?" 
 
 The light tone, in which a smile seemed but half con- 
 cealed, disconcerted Eleanor. She was not ashamed, 
 she thought she was not, but she did not know how to 
 answer." 
 
 " You are a little tete montee" he said. " If I had 
 been a little nearer to you to-night, I would have saved 
 you from taking one step ; but I did not fancy that you 
 could be so suddenly wrought upon. Pray how happened 
 you to be in that place to-night ?'' 
 
 "I told you," said Eleanor after some hesitation, 
 " that I had an unsatisfied wish of heart which made me 
 uneasy — and you would not beheve me." 
 
 " If you knew how this man could speak, I do not 
 wonder at your wanting to hear him. Did you ever 
 hear him before ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Eleanor, feeling that she was getting in 
 a wrong position before her questioner. " I have heard 
 him once — I wanted to hear him again." 
 
 " Why did you not tell me your wish, that you might 
 gratify it safely, Eleanor?" 
 
 " I supposed — if I did — I should lose my chance of 
 gratifying it at all." 
 
 " You are a real tke-montee^'' he said, standing now 
 before her and taking hold Ughtly and caressingly of 
 Eleanor's chin as he spoke. " It was well nobody saw 
 you to-night but me. Does my little wife think she 
 can safely gratify many of her wishes without her hu» 
 band's knowledge ?" 
 
AT SUPPER. 241 
 
 Eleapor coloured brightly and drew herself back 
 " That is the very thing," she said ; " now you are com- 
 ing to the point. I told you I had wishes with which 
 yours would not agree, and it was better for you to 
 know it before it was too late." 
 
 " Too late for what ?" 
 
 " To remedy a great evil." 
 
 " There is generally a remedy for everything," said Mr 
 Carlisle oooUy ; " and this sort of imaginative fervour 
 which is upon you is sure to find a cold bath of its own 
 in good time. My purpose is simply in future, whenever 
 you wish to hear another specimen of the kind of oratory 
 we ha\e listened to this evening, to be with you that I 
 may protect you." 
 
 " Protect me from what ?" 
 
 " From going too far, further than you know, in your 
 present excdtee state. The Lady of Rythdale must not 
 do anything unworthy of herself, or of me." 
 
 " What do you mean, Mr. Carlisle ?" Eleanor ex- 
 claimed with burning cheeks. But he stood before her 
 quite cool, his arras folded, looking down at her. 
 
 " Do you wish me to speak ?" 
 
 " Certainly ! I do." 
 
 "I will tell you then. It would not accord with mj 
 wishes to have my wife f;rant whispered consultations in 
 public to any man ; especially a young man and one of 
 insinuating talents, which this one well may be. I could 
 have shot that man, as he was talking to you to-night, 
 Eleanor." 
 
 Eleanor put up her hands to her face to hide its colour 
 for a moment. Shame and anger and confusion strug- 
 gled together. Had she done anything unworthy of 
 hei ? Others did the same, but they belonged to a dif 
 ferent class of persons ; had she been where Eleanor 
 Powlc, or even Eleanor Carlisle, would be out of place? 
 And then there was the contrasted consciousness, how 
 
 11 
 
242 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 very pleasant and precious that whispered " consult aiion ' 
 had been to her. Mr. Carlisle stooped and took away 
 her hands from her face, holding, them in his own. 
 
 " Eleanor — had that young man anything to do with 
 those unmanageable wishes you expressed to me ?" 
 
 " So fir as his words and example set me upon think- 
 mg," said Eleanor. " But there was nothing in wliat 
 was said to-night that all the world might not hear." 
 She rose, for it was an uncomfortable position in which 
 her hands were held. 
 
 " All the world did not hear it, you will remember. 
 Eleanor, you are honest, and I am jealous — will you tell 
 me that you have no regard for this young man more 
 than my wife ought to have ?" 
 
 " Mr. Carlisle, I have never asked myself the ques- 
 tion !" exclaimed Eleanor with indignant eyes. " If you 
 doubt me, you cannot wish to have anything more to do 
 with me." 
 
 " Call me Macintosh," said he drawing her within hia 
 arm. 
 
 Eleanor would not. She would have freed herself, 
 but she could not without exerting too much force 
 She stood silent. 
 
 " Will you tell me," he said in a gentle changed tone, 
 " what words did pass between you and that young 
 man, — that you said all the world_might hear ?" 
 
 Eleanor hesitated. Her head was almost on Mr. Car- 
 lisle's shoulder ; his lips were almost at her downcast 
 brow ; the biilliant hazel eyes were looking with theii 
 powerful light into her .face. And she was his aflianced 
 wife. Was Eleanor free ? Had this man, who loved her, 
 no rights ? Along with all other feelings, a keen sense 
 of self-reproach stole in again. 
 
 " Macintosh," she saii droopingly, "it was entirely 
 about religious matters — that vou would laugh at, but 
 would not understand." 
 
AT SUPPER 243 
 
 "Indulge me — and tiy me — "' he said pressing his lips 
 first on Eleanor's cheek and then on her mouth. She 
 answered in the same tone as before, drooping in his 
 arms as a weary child. 
 
 " He asked me — as I suppose he asked others — what 
 the difficulties in my mind were, — religions difficulties ; 
 and I told him my inind was in confusion and I did not 
 see clearly before me. He advised me to do nothing in 
 the dark, but when I saw duty clear, then to do it. That 
 was what passed." 
 
 " What did all these difficulties and rules of action 
 refer to ?" 
 
 " Everything, I suppose," said Eleanor drooping more 
 and more inwardly. 
 
 '' And you do not see, my love, what all this tend- 
 ed to ?" 
 
 " I do not see what you mean." 
 
 " This is artful proselytism, Eleanor. In your brave 
 honesty, in your beautiful enthusiasm, you did not know 
 that the purpose of all this has been, to make a Metho- 
 dist of Eleanor Powle, and as a necessary preliminary 
 or condition, to break off her promised marriage with 
 me. If that fellow had succeeded, he should have been 
 made to feel my indignation — as it is, I shall let him go." 
 
 " You are entirely mistaken,-^-" began Eleanor. 
 
 " Am I ? Have you not been led to doubt whether 
 you could live a right life, and live it with me?" 
 
 "But would you be wiliing in everything to let me 
 do as I think i-ight ?" 
 
 " Would I let you ? You shall do what you will, my 
 darling, except go to whispering conventicles. Assured- 
 ly I will not let you do that. But when you tell ma 
 seiiouslj- that you think a thing is wrong, I will nevei 
 put my will in the way of your conscience. Did you 
 think me a Mahometan ? Hey ?" 
 
 " No— b»1^" 
 
244 THE O:. D HBLMET. 
 
 " But what ?" 
 
 Eleanor only sighed. 
 
 " I tlunk I have something to forgive to-night, Elea 
 nor, — but it is easy to forgive you." And wrapping 
 both arms round her now, he pressed on brow and lip 
 and cheek kisses that were abundantly reconciled. 
 
 "My presence just saved you to night. Eleanor — 
 will you promise not to be naughty any more ? — EleOr 
 aor ?— " 
 
 "I will try," burst out Eleanor, — "O I will try to 
 Jo what is right ! I will try to do what is right !" 
 
 And in bitter uncertainty what that ' might be, she 
 gave way under the strain of so many feelings, and the 
 sense of being conquered which oppressed her, and burst 
 into tears. Still held fast, the only hiding-place for her 
 eyes was Mr. Carlisle's breast, and they flowed there 
 bittex'ly though restrained as much as possible. Se 
 hardly wished to restrain them ; he would have been 
 willing to stand all night with that soft brown head rest- 
 ing like a child's on him. Neveitheless he called her 
 to order with words and kisses. 
 
 " Do you know, it is late," he said, — " and you are 
 tired. I must send you off. Eleanor ! look up. Look 
 up and kiss me." 
 
 Eleanor overcame the passion of tears as soon as pos- 
 sible, yet not till a few minutes had passed ; and looked 
 up ; at least raised her head from its resting-place. Mr. 
 Carlisle whispered, " Kiss me !" 
 
 How could Eleanor refuse ? what could she do ? 
 though it was sealing allegiance over again. She waa 
 utterly humbled and conquered. But there was a touch 
 of pride to be satisfied first. Laying one hand on Mr. 
 Carlisle's shoulder, so as to push herself a little back 
 where she could look him in the face, with eyes glitter- 
 ing yet, she confronted him ; and asked, " Do yon 
 doubt me now ?" 
 
AT SUPPEE. 246 
 
 Holding hei in both arms, at just that distance, h? 
 iooked down at her, a smile as caim as brilliant playing 
 all over his face, whigh spoke perfect content as well as 
 secure possession. But the trust in his eyes was as clear. 
 
 " No more than I doubt myself," he answered. 
 
 Pride was laid asleep ; and yielding to what seemed her 
 fate, Eleanor gave the required token of fealty — or sub 
 jugation — for so it seemed to her. Standing quite still, 
 with bent head and moveless attitude, the slightest smile 
 in the world upon the lips, Mr. Carlisle's whole air said 
 silently that it was not enough. Eleanor yielded again, 
 and once more touched her lips to those of her master. 
 He let her go then ; lit her candle and attended her to 
 the foot of the staii'case and dismissed her with all care. 
 
 " I wonder if he is going to stay here himself to-night 
 and meet me in the morning," thought Eleanor as she 
 went up the stairs. " It does not matter — I wUl go to 
 sleep and forget everything, for a while." 
 
 Would she ? There was no sleep for Eleanor that night, 
 and she knew it as soon as she reached her room. She 
 set down her candle and then herself in blank despair. 
 
 What had she done ? Nothing at all. The stand she 
 had niennt to take at the beginning of the evening, 
 slie had been 'unable even to set foot upon. The bold 
 step by which she had thought to set herself free from 
 Mr. Carlis'e, had only laid her more completely at his 
 feet. Eleanor got up and walked the room in agony. 
 
 What had she done ? She was this man's promised 
 wife ; she had made her own bonds ; it w.as her own 
 doing ; he had a right to her, he had claims upon her, 
 he had given his affection to her. Had she any rights 
 now, inconsistent with his? Must she not fulfil this 
 marriage ? And yet. could she do so, feeling as she did ? 
 would that be right? For no sooner was Eleanor alone 
 than the subdued cry if her heart broke out again, that 
 It could not be. And that cry grew desperate. Yel 
 
246 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 this evening's opporturaty had all come to nothing, 
 Worse than nothing, for it had laid an additional diffi- 
 culty in her. way. By her window, looking out into the 
 dark night, Eleanor stopped and looked at this difficult)'. 
 She drew from its lurking-place in the darkness jf lier 
 heart the question Mr. Carlisle had suggested, and ; on- 
 fronted it steadily. 
 
 Had " that young man," the preacher of this evening, 
 Eleanor's really best friend, had he anything to do with 
 her " unmanageable wishes ?" Had she any regard for 
 him that influenced her mind in this struggle — or that 
 raised the struggle ? With fiercely throbbing heart 
 Eleanor looked this question for the first time in the 
 face. "No!" she said to herself, — "no! I have not. I 
 have no such regard for him. How debasing to have 
 such a doubt raised !' But — I might have — I think that 
 is true — if circumsta,nces put me in the way of it. And 
 I think, seeing him and knowing his superior beauty of 
 character — how superior ! — h:is wakened me up to the 
 consciousness of what I do like, and what I like best ; 
 and made me conscious too that I do not love Mr. Car- 
 lisle as well as I ought, to be his wife — not as he loves 
 me. That I see now, — too late. Oh, mother, mother ! 
 why were you in such a hurry to seal this marriage — 
 when I told you, I told you, I was not ready. But then 
 I did not know any more than that. And now I cannot 
 marry him — and yet I shall — and I do not know but I 
 ought. And yet I cannot." 
 
 Eleanor walked her floor or stood by her window that 
 live-long ni^ht. It was a night of great agony and dis- 
 tracted searching for relief. Where sliould relief come 
 from ? To tell Mr. Carlisle frankly that she did not bear 
 the right kind of love towards him, she knew would be 
 the vainest of expedients. " He can make ine do any- 
 thing — he would say he can make me love him ; and so, 
 perhaps, he could — I believe he would — if I had not 
 
AT SUPPEB. 241 
 
 seen this other man." And then Eleanor drew the con 
 trast between one person and the other ; the high, pure, 
 spiritual nobleness of the one, and the social and per- 
 sonal graces and intellectual power of the other, all 
 used for selfish ends. It was a very unprofitable specu- 
 lation for Eleanor ; it left her further than ever from the 
 conclusion, and distressed her bitterly. Fiom her 
 mother she knew sadly there was no help to be had. 
 No considei-ation, of duty or pleasure, would outweigh 
 with her the loss of a splendid alliance and the scandal 
 of breaking off the pi-eparations for it. The Sphynx 
 would not look out more calmly over the desert waste 
 of all things, then Mrs. Powle's fair face would 
 overview a moral desolation more hopeless and more 
 cheerless, if but the pyramid of her ambition were firmly 
 planted there. And Eleanor's worst trouble after all 
 was her doubt about duty. If Mr. Carlisle had not 
 loved her — but he did love her truly and tenderly, and 
 she, however misled, had given him permission. Could 
 she now withdraw it? Could she do anything but, at 
 whatever risk, go on and meet the obligations she had 
 brought upon herself? Nature cried out strongly that 
 )t must not be ; but conscience and remorse, aided by 
 circumst;inces, withstood nature, and said it must be no 
 other way. Eleanor must marry Mr. Carlisle and be as 
 good to him as she could. And Eleanor's whole soul 
 began to rise up stronger and stronger in protest against 
 it, and cry that she never would marry him. 
 
 The weary long night seemed but as one thought of 
 pain ; and when the morning broke, Eleanor felt that 
 she had grown old. 
 
CHAPTEE Xlir. 
 
 " We will have rings, and things, and fine array • 
 And kiss me, Eate, we will he married o' Sunday.' 
 
 Eleanob was too sick to go down even to a late 
 breakfast ; and a laging headache kept oif any inquirieg 
 or remonstrances that Mrs. Powle might have made to 
 her if she had been well. Later in the day her little 
 sister Julia came dancing in. 
 
 " Aren't you going to get np, Eleanor ? What's the 
 matter ? I am going to open yom* window. You are 
 all shut up here." 
 
 Back went the curtain and up went the window ; a 
 breath of fresh mild air came sweetly in, and Julia danced 
 back to the bedside. There suddenly sobered herself. 
 
 " Eleanor, aren't you better ? Can't you get up ? It 
 is so nice to-day." 
 
 Julia's fresh, innocent, gay man/ur, the very light 
 play of her waving hair, not lighter t'jan. the childlike 
 heart, were almost too much for her csister. They made 
 Eleanor's heart ache. 
 
 " Where is everybody ?" 
 
 " Nowhere," said Julia. '' J am all the house. Mr. 
 Carlisle went home after bvjakfast ; and mamma and 
 Alfred are gone in the carnage to Brompton ; and papa 
 is out somewhere. Are jou better, Nellie ?" 
 
 "I shall never be bener !" said Eleanor. Slie turned 
 and hid her face. 
 
 " Oh why, Eleanry. ? What makes you say that ? 
 What is the matter i I knew yesterday you were nol 
 happy" 
 
IN DOUBT. 248 
 
 " T am never going tc be happy. I hope you will." 
 
 " I am happy," said Julia. " And you will be. I 
 :old Mr. Rhys you wei-e not happy, — and he said you 
 would be by and by." 
 
 "Julia!" said Eleanor raising herself on her elbow 
 and with a colour spreading all over her face, — " don't 
 talk to Mr. Rhys about me or my concerns ! What 
 makes you do such a thing?" 
 
 " Why I haven't anybody else to talk to," said Julia. 
 " Give me your foot, and I'll put on your stocking. 
 Come ! you are goiug to get up. And besidos, he 
 thinks a great deal of you, and we pray for you every 
 day." 
 
 " Who ?" 
 
 " He does, and I. Come ! — give me your foot." 
 
 " He, and you .'" said Eleanor. 
 
 " Yes," said Julia looking up. " We pray for you 
 every day. What's the matter, Eleanor?" 
 
 Her hand was laid sorrowfully and tenderly on the 
 shoulder of the sister whose face was again hid from 
 her. But at the touch Eleanor raised her head. 
 
 " You seem a different child, Julia, from what you 
 used to be." 
 
 "What's the matter, Nellie?" — very tenderly. 
 
 " I wish I was different too," said Eleanor, springing 
 out of bed ; " and I want time to go away by myself 
 and think it out and battle it out, until I know just what 
 is right and am ready to do it ; and instead of that, 
 mamma and Mr. Carlisle have arranged " 
 
 " Stop and sit down," said Julia taking hold of her ; 
 " you look white and black and all colours. Wait and 
 rest, Eleanor." 
 
 But Eleanor would not till she had tried the i-efresh 
 ment of cold water, and had put her beautiful hair in 
 ordei ; then she sat down in her dressing-gown. Julia 
 had watched and now stood anxiously beside her. 
 
250 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " Oh what is the mntter, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " I don't know, Juli.i. I do not know what is nght.' 
 
 " Have you asked God to make you know ?" 
 
 " No," said Eleanor, drooping. 
 
 "That's what Mr. Rhys always does, so he is never 
 troubled. I will tell you what he says — he says, ' What 
 time I am afraid, I will trust in thee.' Then he feela 
 safe, you know." 
 
 " It is a pity you cannot go to the South Seas with 
 Mr. Rhys. You talk of nothing but him." 
 
 " I would like to go with him," said Julia simply. 
 " But I have learned how to feel safe too, for I trust in 
 Jesus too ; and I know he will teach me right. So he 
 will teach you, Eleanor." 
 
 Eleanor bowed her head on her hands, and wept and 
 wept ; but while she wept, resolutions were taking form 
 in her mind. Mr. Rhys's words came bnck to her — " Go 
 no way, till you see clear." The renewed thought of that 
 helmet of salvation, and of that heavenly guidance, that 
 she needed and longed for ; so supremely, so much above 
 everything else ; gradually gained her strength to re- 
 solve that she would have them at all hazards. She must 
 have time to seek them and to be sure of lier duty; and 
 then, she would do it. She determined she would not 
 see Mr. Carlisle ; he would conquer her ; she would 
 manage the matter with her mother. Eleanor thought 
 it all over, the opposition and the difficulties, and re- 
 solved with the strength of desperation. She had grown 
 old during this night. She had a long interval of quiet 
 before her mother came. 
 
 " Well, Eleanor I in your dressing-gown yet, and only 
 your hair done ! When do you expect to be down 
 stairs? Somebody will be here presently and exf ect tc 
 Bee you." 
 
 " Somebody will be disappointed. My head is split 
 tiug, mamma." -^ 
 
INDOUBT. 25 
 
 " I should think it would I after yesterday's gamhade, 
 What did Mr. Carlisle say to yon, I should like to 
 iinovv ? I thouglit you would have offended him past 
 forgiveness. I was relieved beyond all expression this 
 morning, at breakfast, when I saw all was right again. 
 But he told me not to scold you, and I will not talk 
 about it." 
 
 " Mamma, if you will take off your bonnet and sit 
 down — I will talk to you about something else." 
 
 Mrs. Powle sat down, took her bonnet in her lap, 
 and pushed her fair curls into place. They were rarely 
 out of place ; it was more a form than anything else. 
 Yet Mrs. Powle looked anxious ; and her anxiety found 
 natural ex[)ressi()n as she said, 
 
 " I wish the twenty-first was to-morrow !" 
 
 " That is the thing I wish to speak about. Mamma, 
 that day, the day for my marriage, has been appointed 
 too early — I feel huiried, and not ready. I want to 
 study my own mind and know exactly what I am doing. 
 I am going to ask you to have it put off." 
 
 "Put it off! — " cried Mrs. Powle. Language con 
 tained no other words of equal importance to be spoken 
 in the same breath with those three. 
 
 " Yes. I want it put off." 
 
 " Till when, if you please. It might as well be dooms- 
 day at once." 
 
 " Till doomsday, if necessary ; but I want it put off. 
 I do not stipulate for so long a time as that," said Elea- 
 nor putting her hand to her head. 
 
 " What day would ■ron name, in lieu of the twenty- 
 first ? I should liivc to know how far your arrangements 
 CAteud." 
 
 " I want time to collect my thoughts and be ready for 
 so great a change. I want time to study, and think,^ 
 and pray. I shall ask for at least three months." 
 
 " Three mouths ! Till April ! And pi ay, what has 
 
252 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 ailed your ladyship not to study and think and pray il 
 you like, all these months that have passed ?" 
 
 " I have no chance. My time is all taken up. I can 
 do nothing, but go round in a whirl — till my head ia 
 spinning." 
 
 " And what will you do in these three months to 
 come ? I should like to know all you propose." 
 
 " I propose to go away from home — somewhere that I 
 can be quiet and alone. Then, if there is no reason 
 against it, I promise to come back and fulfil my engage- 
 ment with Mr. Carlisle." 
 
 " Eleanor, you are a fool !" burst out her mother. 
 " You are a fool, or worse. How dare you talk such 
 stuff to me ? I can hardly believe you serious, only for 
 your face. Do you suppose I will think for one moment 
 of such a thing as putting off the day ? — and if I would, 
 have you any idea that Mr. Carlisle would give his as- 
 sent to it ?" 
 
 " If you do not, both you and he, I shall break off the 
 marriage altogether." 
 
 " I dare you to do it !" said Mrs. Powle. " With the 
 wedding-dresses made, and almost the wedding cake — 
 every preparation — the whole world to be scandalized and 
 talking at any delay — your family disgraced, and j-^ourself 
 ruined for ever ; — and Mr. Carlisle — Eleanor, I think you 
 are crazy ! only you sit there with such a wicked 
 face !— " 
 
 " It is in danger of being wicked," said Eleanor, draw 
 ing both her hands over it ; — " for I warn you, mother, 
 lam determined. I have been hurried on. I will be 
 hurried no further. I will take poison, before I will be 
 married on the twenty-first ! As well lose ray soul one 
 way as another. Tou and Mr. Carlisle must give me 
 time — or I will break the match altogether. I will bear 
 the consequences." 
 
IN DOUBT. 25S 
 
 " Have you spoken to him of this precious arrange 
 oient?" 
 
 " No," said Eleanor, her manner failing a little. — ■ 
 " You must do it." 
 
 " I thought so !" said Mrs. Powle. " He knows how 
 to manage j'ou, my young lady ! which I never did yet. 
 I will just bring him up here to you — and you will be 
 like a whipped child in three minutes. O you know it. 
 I see it in your face. Eleanor, I am ashamed of you !" 
 
 " I will not see him up here, mamma." 
 
 " You will, if you cannot help it. Eleanor I wouldn't 
 try him too far. He is very fond of you — but he will 
 be your husband in a few days ; and he is not the sort ol 
 man I should like to have displeased with me, if I were 
 you." 
 
 " He never will, mamma, unless he waits three months 
 for it." 
 
 " 'Now I will tell you one thing," said Mrs. Powle ris- 
 ing in great anger — " I can put down my foot too. I 
 am tired of this sort of thing, and I cannot manage you, 
 and I will give you over to one who can. To-day is 
 Tuesday — the twenty-first is exactly one fortnight off. 
 Well my young lady, J will change the day. Next 
 Monday I will give you to Mr. Carlisle, and he will be 
 your master ; and I fancy he is not at all afraid to as- 
 sume the responsibility. He may take you to as quiet a 
 place as he likes ; and you may think at your leisure, and 
 more properly than in the way you propose. So, Elea 
 nor, yon shall be married o' Monday." 
 
 Mrs. Powle flourished out with her bonnet in her hand 
 Eleanor's first movement was to go after her and tuin 
 the key in the door securely ; then she threw up tlie win- 
 dow and flung herself on her face on the bed. Her 
 mother was quite capable of doing as she had said, fot 
 her fair features covered a not very tender heart. Mr 
 Carlisle would second her, no doubt, all the more eagerl-y 
 
254 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 for the List night's adventiives. Could Eleanor make 
 head against those two? And between Tuesday. and 
 Monday was very little time to mature plans or organize 
 resistance. Her head felt like splitting now indeed, for 
 very confusion. 
 
 " Eleanor," said Julia's voice gravely and anxiously, 
 " you will take cold — mayn't I shut the window ?" 
 
 " There's no danger. I am in a fever." 
 
 " Is your head no better ?" 
 
 " I hardly thiuk I have a head. There is nothing 
 there but pain and snapping." 
 
 " Poor Eleanor 1" said her little sister, standing by 
 the bedside like a powerless guardian angel. " Mr. Car- 
 lise 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. Slie 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 sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " 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 
 buck way." 
 
 No matter for head-splitting. Eleanor dressed in 
 haste, but with delicate care ; in a dress that Mr. Cai-lisle 
 liked. Its colour suited her, and iis simple make sliewed 
 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 flow- 
 ers ; and fastened on he- In-east where Eleanor could 
 
IN DorsT. , 255 
 
 &ei tlieir swee'.ness, they at the same time made ahright 
 touch of adornment to her figure. She was obliged to 
 iit down then and rest ; but as soon as she couhl she 
 went to the drawing-room. 
 
 There were as usual several people there besides the 
 family; Dr. Gairnes and Miss Broadus and her sister 
 making part. Entering with a slow quiet movement, 
 most unlike the real hurry of her spiiits, Eleanor had 
 time to observe how difFerynt perisons 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 mo- 
 ment 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 lis- 
 tened to a story of Miss Broailus which was fitted to 
 excite neither. Ele.inor was beyond her, but she con- 
 cluded that Mr. Carlisle held the key of tliis extraordi- 
 nary 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 head- 
 Rche 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 
 Irokcn geranium leaves out of her way and picked them 
 Uf. from her feet. At last his hand came after hers and 
 made it a prisoner. 
 
 " You have a mood of destructiveness upon yoiu' 
 
256 THE 1, D HELMET 
 
 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. Elea- 
 nor 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 
 ■eaves. 
 
 " 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 u]> to him, held her fast, stooped lit 
 head to hera. 
 
IN DOUBT 257 
 
 "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'ennigh 
 — I ought to have it before." 
 
 He laughed and kissed her. He always liked any 
 shew of spirit in Eleanor. 
 
 " My d;irling, 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. Mack- 
 intosh ! I ask it of you." 
 
 Mr. Carlisle seemed to find it amazingly pleasant to 
 have Eleanor sueingto him for favours; for he answered 
 her as much with caresses as with words ; both very 
 satisfied. 
 
 " You try me beyond my strength, Eleanor. Tour 
 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 h:ive 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 ca?i go the fifteenth in- 
 stead of the twenty-second, I must. Do you see, Nel- 
 lie ?" he asked vei-y 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 fi^lt stunned. 
 Holding her on one arm, Mr. Carlisle began to pluck 
 
258 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 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 ■\('ife, 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. 
 
 Elennor 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. Refuse 
 failed her. She was in despair. What could she arrann-e 
 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 expe- 
 dients occurred to her in the course of the night, al 
 though only to be rejected. Worn-out nature must have 
 some rest however ; and towards morning she slept. 
 
 It was late when she opened her eye*. Tliey fell first 
 ipon Julia, standing at her bedside. 
 
 " Are you awake, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " Yes. I wish I could sleep on." 
 
IN DOUBT. 25G 
 
 " There's news." 
 
 "News! What sort of news ?" said Eleanor, feeling 
 Ibat 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 
 lierself out of bed, exclaiming, " I am saved ! I am 
 srtved !" — 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 deliver- 
 ance. Oh, Julia ! — " 
 
 " Poor Eleanor !" said her little sister wonderingly. 
 "Tlien you don't want to be married and go to Ryth- 
 dale ?" 
 
 "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 tliey have got to 
 put off the other. O Julia, it is the saving of me!" 
 
 She caught the httle one in her arms and sat with hei 
 80, tlieir 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?" 
 
260 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 "I fchall never be married in a hurry. I have got 
 breatliiiig time — time to think. And I'll use it." 
 ' "And, Eleanor ! won't you io 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 gentle- 
 ness 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 aflfection- 
 ateness towards Eleanor to have full play, and the expres- 
 sion 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 immedi 
 ately after the funeral. 
 
 It was understood, however, between him and Mrs. 
 Powie, that the marriage should be delayed no longer 
 than till some time in the spring. Then, Mr. Carlisle 
 declared, he should catTry into effect his original plan of 
 going abroad, and take Eleanor ^ith him. Eleanof 
 
IN DOUBT. 261 
 
 heard them talk, and kept silence ; letting them arrange 
 it their own way. 
 
 " For a little while, Eleanor !" were the parting worda 
 which Mr. Cavlisle's lips left upon hers. And Eleanor 
 turned then to look at what was before her. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ••The earth has lost its power to drag me downward r 
 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 
 I'estless mood almost as soon as Mr. Carlisle was gone. 
 Three years seemed more like what she wanted than 
 three months. She felt ignorant, dark, and unhappy ; 
 how was she to clear up this moral mist and see how 
 the plan of life lay, without any hand to lead her or help 
 her? There was only one she knew in the world that 
 could ; and from any application to him, or even any 
 chance contact with him, Eleanor consciously shrank. 
 That woiild never do ; that must never be heard of her. 
 With all this, she began to dread the disturbing and 
 confusing efiects of Mr. Carlisle's visits to the country. 
 He would come ; he had said so ; and Mrs. Powle kept 
 reminding her of it upon eveiy 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 wild-!; walked, aii.i 
 rested on the stones, and thought; till she found lliiiifc 
 
AT THE RECTOKY. 263 
 
 ing degenerate into musing; then she started up an J 
 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, iiad a good time. She stepped slovvly down 
 tho grass-grown nave of the old chm'ch, 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 try- 
 ing if she could find out the way ; till she saw a thicket 
 of thorn arid holly bushes that she remembered. Yes, 
 the larches 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 da}', 
 arid 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 eo dark shadows u]ion the 
 earth. But Eleanor's thoug?its went back to the thunder- 
 storm, and her need then first felt of an inward stmshLn«» 
 
264 THE OLD HBLMBT. 
 
 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 fear- 
 lessness 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 teach- 
 ing ; 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 notwith- 
 standing all she had heard him say, she felt in the dark. 
 In the midst of all this, Eleanor heard somebody hum- 
 ming 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 fi-ightened ? Mr. Carlisle. 
 But what should she do now ? Suppose she set oflf to 
 walk home; she might be joined by the person ehe 
 
AT THE KEOTORT. £65 
 
 wished to shun ; it was impossible to foresee th;it he 
 would sit an Iiour 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 
 voi-y person whose counsel of all others she most needed. 
 
 The door was opened to Eleanor by the Rector him- 
 self. 
 
 " 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 posi 
 tiou 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 raa 
 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 
 giracracks, 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 dan- 
 ger of forgetting my fi-iend Mr. Carlisle here." 
 
 Eleanor looked out of the window very steadily ; yet 
 she was not refrtsliinii her remembrance of Mr. Carlisle 
 12 
 
306 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 neither. Tlicre were glimpses of a tall, alert fignre, 
 passing leisurely in and out among the trees and the 
 ruins ; finally coming out inlo full view and -fl-alking 
 with brisk step over the greensward till he was out «i" 
 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 lie 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 pnme quality ; and the ale was of 
 a superior brand, and the wme 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; T 
 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 reviv- 
 ing, brilliant effect of this beverage." And he put the 
 bright glass of wine to his lips. It was not the first 
 tilled. 
 
 " Before I get dull, dear doctor, I want to talk to 
 you." 
 
 " Ay ?" said the doctor, looking at her over the wiuo 
 "You do? What about? Say on. Miss Eleanor. I 
 
AT THE RECTORY. 267 
 
 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 re- 
 ligious subjects." 
 
 " Ah ?" said Dr. Cairnes. " How is that. Miss Elea- 
 nor ? 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 abun- 
 dantly, 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 f" 
 
 " 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 lier in her infancy, at her baptism, by her 
 sponsors. Upon doing this, she is received into full 
 membersliip witli the Church and entitled to all its priv 
 
268 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 ileges; and undoubtedly security is one of them. Tliat ia 
 ■what you want to do, Miss Eleanor ; and I am truly re- 
 joiced that your mind is setting itself to the contempla- 
 tion of its duties — and responsibilities. In the station 
 you are preparing to occupy, the head of all this neigh- 
 bourhood — Wiglands and Rythdale both — it is most im- 
 portant, most important, that your example should be 
 altogether blameless and your influence thrown altogether 
 on the right side. That influence, my dear Miss Elea- 
 nor, 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 ordi- 
 nance of conflrmation. Miss Eleanor, which I entreat you 
 to study and prayerfully follow. That will relieve all 
 your diiflculties, I have no fear. There it is, Miss Elea- 
 nor." 
 
 " Will this rite — will this ordinance," said Eleanor 
 closing her fingers on the book and for the first time 
 k)oking 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 cir- 
 cumstances I am sure it was natuial But to your ques- 
 tion. The benefit of confirmation, my dear young lady, 
 as wtAi as of every other ordinance of the Church, de- 
 pends of course on the manner and spirit with which we 
 
AT THE EECTOKT 269 
 
 angage 'n it. There is confirming and strengthening 
 grace in it undoubtedly for all who come to the ordi- 
 nance 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 con- 
 firmed ; 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 secur 
 ity and rest, is in doing one's duty. Do your duty now, 
 and it will come. Your conscience has taken up the mat- 
 ter, and will have satisfaction. Give it satisfaction, and 
 rest will come." 
 
 " How can I give it satisfaction ?" said Eleanor sitting 
 up and looking at the doctor. " I feel myself guilty — ^1 
 know myself exposed to ruin, to death that means death ; 
 what can 1 give to my conscience, to make it be still ?" 
 
 "The Church offers absolution for their sins to all that 
 are truly sorry for them," said the doctor. " Are you 
 penitent on account of your sins. Miss Eleanor ?" 
 
 " Penitent ? — I don't know," said Eleanor drooping a 
 little from her upright position. " I feel them, and know 
 tliem, and wish them away; but if I were penitent, 
 they would be gone, wouldn't they ? and they are not 
 gone." 
 
 " I see how it is," said the doctor. " You have too 
 much leisure to think, and your thoughts are turning iu 
 upon themselves and becoming morbid. I think this is 
 undue sensitiveness, my dear Miss Eleanor. The sins 
 we wish away, will never be made a subject of judg- 
 ment against us. I shall tell my friend Mr. Carlisle that 
 his presence is wanted here, for something more import- 
 ant \ han the interests of the county. I shall tell him he 
 must not ht you think too much. I think he and I to- 
 gether can put you right. In the mean whOe, you read 
 ray little book." 
 
270 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " Dr. Cairnes, what I have said to you is said in strict 
 confidence. I do not wish it spoken of, even to my 
 mother." 
 
 " Of course, of course !" said the doctor. " That ia 
 all understood. The Church never reveals her children'? 
 eecrets. But I shall only give hira a little gentle hint, 
 which will be quite sufficient, I have no doubt ; and 1 
 shall have just the cooperation that I desire." 
 
 " How excellent your cheese is. Dr. Cairnes." 
 
 " Ah ! you like it," said the dootoi-. " I am proud. I 
 always purchase my cheese myself — that is 'one thing I 
 do not leave to my sister. But this one I think is par- 
 ticularly fine. You won't take a Jialf glass of ale with 
 it ? — no, — I know Mr. Carlisle does not like ale. But it 
 would be a good sequent of your ride, nevertheless. 
 
 "I did not ride, sir. I walked." 
 
 " "Walked from Ivy Lodge ! All this way to see me, 
 Miss Eleanor ?" 
 
 " No sir — only for a walk, and to see the ruins. Then 
 I was driven to take shelter here." 
 
 " I am very glad of it ! I am very glad of it !" said 
 the doctor. " I have not enjoyed my luncheon so much 
 in a year's time ; and yon delight me too, my dear Miss 
 Eleanor, by your present dispositions. But walk ail the 
 way here ! I shall certainly write to Mr. Carlisle." 
 
 Eleanor's cheeks flushed, and she rose. " Not only 
 all the way here, but all the way back again,'^' said she ; 
 " so it is time I bade you good bye." 
 
 The doctor was very anxious to carry her home in 
 xhe chaise ; Eleanor was more determined that he should 
 aot ; and determination as usual carried the day. The 
 doctor shook his head as he watched her off. 
 
 " Are you going to shew this spirit to Mr. Carlisle ?" 
 he said. 
 
 Which remark gave Eleanor an imjietus that carried 
 her a third of her way home. During the remaining 
 
AT THE KKCTORY. 271 
 
 two thirds she did a good deal of thinlciiiQ; ; and arrived 
 at the Lodge with her mind made up. There was no 
 chance of peace and a good time for her, without going 
 away from home. Dr. Cairnes' officiousness would he 
 sure to do sometliing to arouse Mr. Carlisle's watchful- 
 ness ; and then — " the game will be up," said Eleanor to 
 herself " Between his being here and the incessant ex- 
 pectation of him, there will be no rest for me. I must 
 get away." She laid her plans. 
 
 After dinner she slipped away and sought her father in 
 his study. It was called his study, though very little of 
 that character trul}' belonged to it. More truly it bal- 
 anced between the two purposes of a smoking-room and 
 _ an office ; for county business was undoubtedly done 
 there ; and it was the nook of retirement where the 
 Squire indulged himself in his favoured luxury ; the 
 sweet weed. The Squire took it pure, in a pipe ; no 
 I'igars for him ; and filling his pipe Eleanor found him. 
 She lit the pipe for him, and contrary to custom sat 
 down. Tiie Squiie puffed away. 
 
 " I thought you didn't care for this sort of thing, 
 Eleanor," he remarked. " Are you learning not to mind 
 It already ? It is just as well ! Perhaps your husband 
 will want you to sit with him when he smokes." 
 
 " I would not do that for any ma.n in the world, pa]ia, 
 except you !" 
 
 " Ho ! Ho !" said the Squire. " Good wives, my dear, 
 do not mind trifles. They had better not, at any rate." 
 
 "Papa," said Eleanor, whose cheeks were flaming, 
 "do you not think, since a giil must give up her liberty 
 so completely in marrying, that she ought to be allowed 
 a good little taste of it beforehand ?" 
 
 "St. George and the Di-agon ! I do," said the Squire. 
 •'Your motbrr says it tends to lawlessness — and I say, I 
 don't care. That is not iiiij concern. If a man cannot 
 rule his tI/c, he had better not have one — that is my 
 
272 THE OLD HELMET. ■ 
 
 opinion ; and in your case, my dear, there is no fear, 
 Mr. Carlisle is quite equal to his duties, or I am mistakeu 
 in hira." 
 
 Eleanor felt neai'ly wild under her father's speeches ; 
 nevertheless she sat .perfectly quiet, only fiery about lier 
 cheeks. 
 
 "Then, papa, to come to the point, don't you think iii 
 the little time that remains to me for my own, I might 
 be allowed to do what I please with myself?" 
 
 "• I should say it was a plain case," said the Squire. 
 " Take your pleasure, Nellie ; I won't tether you. What 
 do you want to do, child ? I take it, you belong to me 
 till you belons; to somebody else." 
 
 " Papa, I want to run away, and make a visit to my« 
 aunt Caxton. I shall never have anotht,r chance in the 
 world — and I want to go off and be by myself and feel 
 free once more, and have a good time." 
 
 " Poor little duck !" said her father. " You are a sen- 
 sible girl, Nellie. Go oif ; nobody shall hinder you." 
 
 " Papa, unless you back me, mamma and Mr. Carlisle 
 will not hear of it." 
 
 "I'd go before he comes down then," said the Squire, 
 knookmg the ashes out of his pipe energetically. " St. 
 George ! I believe that man half thinks, sometimes, that 
 I am one of his tenantry! The lords of Rythdale 
 always did lord it over everything that came in their 
 way. Now is your only chance, Eleanor ; run away, if 
 you're a mind to ; Mr. Carlisle is master in his own 
 house, no doubt, but he is not master in mine ; and I 
 say, you may go. Do him no harm to be kept on short 
 commons for a little while." 
 
 With a joyful heart Eleanor went back to the draw- 
 ing-room ; and sat patiently still at some fancy work till 
 Mrs. Powle waked up from a n:ip. 
 
 "Mamma, Dr. Cairnes wants me to be confirmed." 
 
 " Confirmed !" — Mrs. Powle echoed the word, sitting 
 
AT THE EECTOET. 273 
 
 bolt upright in her chair 'and opening her sleepy eyea 
 wide at her daughter. 
 
 " Yes. He says I ought to be confirmed. Ho has 
 given me a book upon confirmation to study." 
 
 " I wonder what you will do next !" said Mrs. Powle, 
 sinking back. " Well, go on, if you like. Certainly, if 
 you are to be confitined, it ought to be done before your 
 marriage. I wish anything would confirm you in sober 
 ways." 
 
 " Mamma, I want to give this subject serious study, if 
 I enter into it ; and I cannot do it properly at home. I 
 want to go away for a visit." 
 
 " Well — " said Mrs. Powle, thinking of some cousins 
 in London. 
 
 " I want to be alone and quiet and have absolute 
 peace for awhile ; and this death of Lady Rythdale 
 makes it possible. I want to go and make a visit to my 
 aunt Caxton." 
 
 " Caxton !" — Mrs. Powle almost screamed. " Cax- 
 ton ! There ! In the mountains of Wales ! Eleanor, 
 you are perfectly absurd. It is no use to talk to you." 
 
 " Mamma, papa sees no objection." 
 
 " He does not ! So you have been speaking to him ! 
 Make your own fortunes, Eleanor ! I see you ruined 
 already. With what favour do you suppose Mr. Carlisle 
 will look upon such a project ? Pray have you asked 
 yourself?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ; and I am not going to consult him in 
 the matter." 
 
 The tea-equipage and the Squire came in together and 
 dtopped the conversation. Eleanor took care not to 
 renew it, knowing that her point was gained. She took 
 her father's hint, however, and made her preparations 
 short and sudden. She sent that night a word, telling 
 of her wish, to Mrs. Caxton ; and waited but till the 
 answer arrived, waited on thorns, to set off. The Squire 
 12* 
 
274 IHE OLD IIKLMET. 
 
 looked rather moody the next day after his promise to 
 Eleanor ; but he would not withdraw it ; and no other 
 hindrance came. Eleanor departed safely, under the 
 protection of old Thomas, the coachman, long a faithful 
 servitor in the family. The journey was only part of 
 the distance by railway; the rest was by posting; and n 
 night had to be spent on the road. 
 
 Towards evening of the second day, Eleanor began to 
 find herself in what seemed an enchanted region. High 
 mountains, with picturesque bold outlines, rose against 
 the sky ; and every step was bringing her deeper and 
 deeper among them, in a rich green meadow valley. 
 The scenery grew only wilder, richer, and lovelier, until 
 the sun sank behind the high western line ; and still its 
 loveliness was not lost ; while grey shades and duskiness 
 gathered over the mountain sides and gradually melted 
 the meadows and their scattered wood growth into one 
 hue. Then only the wild mountain outline cut against 
 the sky, and sometimes the rushing of a little river, told 
 Eleanor of the varied beauty the evening hid. 
 
 Little else she could see when the chaise stopped and 
 she got out. Dimly a long, low building stretched 
 beftre her at the side of the road ; the rippling of water 
 Bounded softly at a little distance; the fresh mountain 
 ur blew in her face ; then the house door opened. 
 
». 1APTEE XV. 
 
 •• t.ve to face iritb the true mountains 
 I t.,j,)ocl silently and bUU, 
 Drawing strength from fancy's dauntings, 
 From the air abont tlie hill, 
 And from Natui-e's open mercies, and most debonair good irifl." 
 
 TiiB house-door opened first to shew a girl in short 
 petticoats and blue jacket holding up a light. Eleanor 
 made towards it, across a narrow strip of courtyard. 
 She saw only the girl, and did not feel certain whetlier 
 she had come to the right house. For neither Mrs. Cax- 
 ton nor her home had ever been seen by any of Mr. 
 Powle's children ; though she was his own sister. But 
 Mrs. Caxton had man led quite out of Mrs. Powle's 
 world ; and though now a widow, she lived still the mis- 
 tress of a great cheese farm ; quite out of Mrs. Powle's 
 world still. The lattei- had therefore never encouraged 
 intercourse. Mrs. Caxton was an excellent woman, no 
 doubt, and extremely respectable ; still. Ivy Lodge and 
 the cheese farm were further apart in feeling than in 
 geographical miles ; and though Mrs. Caxton often in- 
 vited her brother's children to come and pick butter- 
 cups in her meadows. Mis. Powle always proved that to 
 gather primroses in Rythdale was a higher employment, 
 and much better for the children's manners, if not for 
 their health. The Squire at this late day had been uuaf. 
 fectedly glad of Eleanor's proposal; avowing himself not 
 ashamed of his sister or his children either. For Elea- 
 nor herself, she h.id no gieat expectation, except of ru«*al 
 retirement in a place where Mr. Carlisle would not foll'«w 
 
276 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 her. That was enough. She had heard besides thai tht 
 couutry was beautiful, and her aunt well off. 
 
 As she stepped up now doubtfully to the girl with the 
 light, looking to see whether she were right or wrong, 
 the girl moved a little aside so as to light the entrance, 
 and Eleanor passed on, discerning another figure behind. 
 A good wholesome voice exclaimed, " Yon are welcome, 
 my dear ! It is Eleanor ? — " and the next instant Mr. 
 Powle's daughter found herself taken into one of those 
 warm, gentle, genial embraces, that tell unmistakeably 
 what sort of a heart moves the enfolding arms. It was 
 rest and strength at once ; and the lips that kissed her 
 — there is a great deal of character in a kiss — were at 
 once sweet and firm. 
 
 " You have been all day travelling, my dear. You 
 must be in want of rest." 
 
 There was that sort of clear strength in the voice, to 
 which one gives, even in the dark, one's confidence. 
 Eleanor's foot fell more firmly on the tiled floor, as she 
 followed her aunt along a passage or two ; a little uncer- 
 tainty in her heart was quieted ; she was ready pre- 
 pared to expect anything pleasant ; and as they turned 
 in at a low door, the expectation was met. 
 
 The door admitted them to a low-ceiled room, also 
 with a tiled floor, large and light. A good wood fire 
 burned in the quaint chimney piece ; before it a table 
 stood prepared for supper. A bit of carpet was laid 
 down under the table and made & spot of extra comfort 
 in the middle of the floor. Dark plain wainscotting, 
 heavy furniture of simplest fashion, little windows well 
 curtained ; all nothing to speak of; all joined inexpli- 
 cably to produce the impression of ordei-, stability and 
 repose, which seized upon Eleanor almost before she had 
 time to observe details.* But the mute things in a house 
 have an odd way of telegraphing to a stranger what sor» 
 of a spirit dwells in the midst of them. It is alwajs so ; 
 
IN THE HILLS. 271 
 
 and Mi-s. Caxton's room assured Eleanor tJiat her first 
 notions of its mistress were not ill-founded. She had 
 opportunity to test and strengthen them now, in ihe 
 full blaze of lamp and firelight ; as her aunt stood be- 
 fore her taking off her bonnet and wrappers and hand- 
 ing them over 1o another attendant with a ciindle and 
 a blue jacket. 
 
 In the low room Mrs. Caxton looked even taller than 
 belonged to her ; and she was tall, and of noble full pro- 
 portions that set off her height. Eleanor thought she 
 had never seen a woman of more dignified presence; the 
 head was set well back on the shoulders, the carriage 
 straight, and the whole moral and physical bearing placid 
 and quiet. Of course the actual movement was easy 
 and fine; for that is with every one a compound of the 
 physical and moral. Scarcely Elizabeth Fry had finer 
 port or figure. The face was good, and strong ; the 
 eyes full of intelligence under the thick dark brows ; all 
 the lines of the face kind and commanding. A cap of 
 very plain construction covered the abundant hair, which 
 was only a little grey. Nothing else about Mrs. Caxton 
 fhfiwed age. Her dress was simple to quaintness ; but 
 relieved by her magnificent figure that effect was forgot- 
 ten, or only remembered as enhancing the other. Elea- 
 nor sat down in a great leather chair, where she had 
 been put, and looked on in a sort of charmed state ; 
 while her aunt moved about the table, gave quiet orders, 
 made quiet arrangements, and finallj- took Eleanor's 
 hand and seated her at the tea-table. 
 
 " Not poppies, nor mandragora — " could have had such 
 a power of soothing over Eleanor's spirits. She sat at the 
 table like a fairy princess under a friendly incantation ; 
 and the spell was not broken by any word or look on the 
 part of her hostess. No questions of curiosity ; no en- 
 deavours to find out more of Eleanor than she chose to 
 shew ; no surprise expressed at her mid- winter coming; 
 
278 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 nor so much jjleasnre as would have tlie effect of surprise 
 So naturally and cordially and with as much sim|.)licity 
 her visit was taken, as if it had been a yearly accustomed 
 thing, and one of Mr. Powle's children had not now seen 
 her aunt for the first time. Indeed so rare was the 
 good sense and kindness of this reception, that Eleanor 
 caught herself wondering whether her aunt could already 
 know more of her than she seemed to know ; and not 
 caring if she did ! Yet it was impossible, for her mother 
 would not tell her story, and her father could not ; and 
 Eleanor came round to admiring with fresh admiration 
 this noble-looking, new-found relation, whose manner to- 
 wards herself inspired her with such confidence and 
 exercised already such a powerful attraction. And this 
 was the mistress of a cheese-farm ! Eleanor could not 
 help being moved with a little curiosity on her part. 
 This lady had no children ; no near relations ; for she 
 was ignored by her brother's family. She lived alone ; 
 was she not lonely ? Would she not wear misanthropi- 
 cal or weary traces of such a life ? None ; none were 
 to be seen. Clear placidness dwelt on the brow, that 
 looked as if nothing ever ruffled it ; the eye was full of 
 business and command ; and the mouth, — its corners told 
 of a fountain of sweetness somewhere in the region of 
 the heart. Eleanor looked, and went back to her cup of 
 tea and her supper with a renewed sense of comfort. 
 
 The supper was excellent too. It would have belied 
 Mrs. Caxton's look of executive capacity if it had not 
 been. No fault was to be discerned anywhere. Tlie 
 tea-service was extremely plain and inexpensive ; such 
 as Mrs, Powle could not have used ■ that was certain 
 But then the bread, and the mutton chops, and the but- 
 ter, and even the tea, were such as Mrs. Powle's ohin.^ 
 was never privileged to bear. And though Mrs. Caxton 
 left in the backgi-ound every topic of doubtful agreeable- 
 nes8, the talk flowed steadily with abundance of mate 
 
IN THT5 HIL8. 279 
 
 rial and animation, during the wliole supper-time. Mrs. 
 Oaxton was the chief talker. She had plenty to tel! 
 Eleanor of the country and people in the neighbourhood 
 of thingvS to be seen and things to be done ; so that sup- 
 per moved slowly, and' was a refreshment of mind as 
 well as of body. 
 
 " You are very weary, my dear," said Mrs. Caxton, 
 after the table was cleared away, and the talk had con- 
 tinued tlirough all that time. And Eleanor confessed it. 
 In the calm which was settling down upon her, the 
 strain of hours and days gone by began to be felt. 
 
 " You shall go to your room presently," said Mrs. 
 Caxton ; " and you shall not get up to breakfast with 
 me. That would be too early for you." 
 
 Eleanor was going to enter a protest, when her aunt 
 turned and gave an order in Welsh to the blue jacket 
 then in the room. And then Eleanor had a surprise. 
 Mrs. Caxton took a seat at a little distance, before a 
 stand with a book ; and the door opening again, in 
 poured a stream of blue jackets, three or four, followed 
 by three men and a boy. All ranged themselves on 
 seats round the room ; and Mrs. Caxton opened her book 
 and read a chapter in the Bible. Eleanor listened, in 
 mute wonder where this would end. It ended hi all 
 kneeling down and Mrs. Caxton offering a prayer. An 
 extempore prayer, which for simplicity, strength, and 
 feeling, answered all Eleanor's sense of what a prayer 
 ought to be ; though how a woman could speak it be- 
 fore others and before men, filled her with astonishment. 
 But it filled he* with humility too, before it was done ; 
 and Eleanor rose to her feet with an intense feeling of 
 the difference between her aunt's character and her own ; 
 only equalled by her deep gladness at finding herself 
 ander the roof where she was. 
 
 Her aunt then took a candle and lighted hei- through 
 the tiled passages, up some low wooden stairs, uiicar 
 
280 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 peted ; along more passages ; finally into a large Iov» 
 matted chamber, with a row of little lattice windows. 
 Comfort and simplicity were in all its arrangements ; a 
 little fire bm-ning for her ; Eleanor's trunks in a closet. 
 When Mrs. Caxton had shewed her all that was neces- 
 sary, she set down her candle on the low mantelshelf^ 
 and took Eleanor in her arms. Again those peculiar, gen- 
 tle firm kisses fell upon her lips. But instead of " good 
 night," Mrs. Caxton's words were, 
 
 " Do you pray for yourself, Eleanor ?" 
 
 Eleanor dropped her head like a child on the breast 
 before her. " Aunt Caxton, I do not know how !" 
 
 " Then the Lord Jesus has not a servant in Eleanor 
 Powle ?" 
 
 Eleanor was silent, thoughts struggling. 
 
 " You have not learned to love hira, Eleanor?" 
 
 " I have only learned to wish to do it, aunt Caxton ! 
 1 Jo wish that. It was partly that I might seek it, that 
 I wanted to come here." 
 
 Then Eleanor heard a deep-spoken, " Praise the Lord!" 
 that seemed to come out from the very heart on which 
 she was leaning. " If you have a mind to seek him, my 
 dear, he is willing that you should find. ' The Lord is 
 jfood to the soul that seeketh him.' " 
 
 She kissed Eleanor on the two temples, released her 
 and went down stairs. And Eleanor sat down before 
 her fire, feeling as if she were in a pai-adise. 
 
 It was all the more so, from the unlikeness of every- 
 thing that met her eye, to all she had known before. 
 The chimney piece at which she was looking as she sat 
 th(^re — it was odd and quaint as possible, to a person ac- 
 customed only to the modern fashions of the elegant 
 world ; the fire-tongs and shovel would have been sui'ely 
 consigned to the kitchen department at Ivy Lodge. Yet 
 the little blazing fire, framed in by its rows of coloured 
 (piles, looked as cheerfully into Eh-anor's face as any blaz« 
 
IN THE HILLS. 281 
 
 Ihat had ever greeted it. All was of a piece with the 
 fire-place. Simple to quaintness, utterly plain and cost- 
 less, 3'et with none of the essentials of comfort forgotten 
 or negU'Ctod ; from the odd little lattice windows to the 
 tiled floor, everything said she was at a great distance 
 from her former life, and Mr. Carlisle. The room looked 
 as if it had been made for Eleanor to settle her two life- 
 questions in it. Accordingly she took them up without 
 delay ; but Eleanor's mind that night was like a kaleido- 
 scope. Images of different people and things started up, 
 with wearying perversity of change and combination ; 
 and the question, whether she would be a servant of God 
 like her annt Caxton, was inextricably twisted up with 
 the other question ; whether she could escape being the 
 baroness of Rythdale and the wife of Mr. Carlisle. 
 And Eleanor did nothing but tire herself with thinking 
 that night ; until the fire was burnt out and she went to 
 bed. Nevertheless she fell asleep with a sense of relief 
 more blissful than she had known for months. She 
 had put a little distance at least between her and her 
 enemies. 
 
 Eleanor had meant to be early next day, bnt rest had 
 taken too good hold of her; it was long past early when 
 she opened her eyes. The rays of the morning sun 
 were peeping in through the lattices. Eleanor sprang 
 up and threw open, or rather threw back, one of the 
 windows, for the lattice slid in grooves instead of hang- 
 ing on hinges. She would never have found out how to 
 open them, but tbat one lattice stood slightly pushed 
 back already. When it was quite out of her way, Elea- 
 nor's breath almost stopped. A view so wild, so pictur- 
 esque, so rai e in its outlines of beauty, she thought she 
 had never seen. BeTore her, at some distance, beyond a 
 piece of broken ground, rose a bare-looking height of 
 considerable elevation, crowned by an old tower mass- 
 ively constructed, broken, and ivy-grown. The little 
 
282 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 track of a footpath was visible that wound round the 
 hill ; probably going up to the tower. Further beyond, 
 with evidently a deep valley or gi>rge between, a line of 
 much higher hills swept off to the left ; bare also, and 
 moulded to suit a painter of weird scenes, yet most 
 lovely, and all seen now in the fair morning beams which 
 coloured and lighted them and the old tower together. 
 Nothing else. The road indeed by which she had come 
 passed close befoi-e Eleanor's window ; but trees embow- 
 ered it, though they had been kept down so as not to 
 hinder this distant view. Eleanor sat a long while spell 
 bound before the window. 
 
 A noise disturbed hei-. It was one of the blue jackets 
 bringing a tray with breakfast. Eleanor eagerly asked 
 if Mrs. Gaxton had taken breakfast ; but all she got in 
 return was a series of unintelligible sounds ; however as 
 the girl pointed to the sun, she concluded that the family 
 breakfast hour was past. Everything strange again ! 
 At Ivy Lodge the breakfast hour lasted till the lagging 
 members of the family had all come down ; and here 
 there was no family ! How could happiness belong to 
 anybody in such circumstances ? The prospect within 
 doors, Eleanor suddenly remembered, was yet more 
 interesting than the view without. She eat her break- 
 fast and dressed and went down. 
 
 But to find the room where she had been the evenmg 
 before, was more than her potters wei-e equal to. Going 
 from one passage to another, turning and turning back, 
 afraid to open doors to ask somebody; Eleanor was 
 quite bewildered, when she happily was met by her 
 aunt. The morning kiss and greeting renewed in her 
 heart all the peace of last night. 
 
 "I cannot find my way about in your house, aunt 
 Ca.vton. It, seems a labyrinih." 
 
 " It will not seem so long. Let me shew you the -w^y 
 out of it." 
 
IN THE IIIILS. 28S 
 
 Tlivough one or two more turnings Mi's. Caxton led 
 her niece, and opening a door took her out at the other 
 side, the back of the house, where Eleanor's eyes had 
 not been. Here there was a sort of covered gallery, ex- 
 tending to some length under what was either an upper 
 piazza or the projection of the second story floor. The 
 ground was paved with tiles as usual, and wooden set- 
 tles stood along the wall, and plaiti stone pillars sup- 
 ported the roof. But as Eleanor's eyes went out further 
 she caught her aunt's hand in ecstasy. 
 
 From almost the edge of the covered gallery, a little 
 terraced garden sloped down to the edge of a small 
 river. The house stood on a bank above the river, at a 
 commanding height : and on the river's further shore a 
 rich sweep of meadow and pasture land stretched to the 
 right and left and filled the whole breadth of the valley ; 
 on the other side of which, right up from the green 
 fields, rose another line of hills. These were soft, swell- 
 ing, round-topped hills, very difierent in their outlines 
 from those in another quarter which Eleanor had been 
 enjoying from her window. It was winter now, and the 
 garden had lost its glory ; yet Eleanor could see, for her 
 eye was ti'ained in such matters, that good and excellent 
 care was at home in it ; and some delicate things were 
 there for which a slight protection had been thought 
 needful. The river was lost to view immediately at the 
 right; it wound down from the other hand through the 
 rich meadows under a thick embowering bosky growtl 
 of trees ; and just below the house it was spanned by a 
 rude stone bridge, from which a hedged lane led off on 
 the other side. All along the fences or hedges which 
 enclosed the fields grew also beautiful old trees ; the 
 whole landscape was decked with wood growth, though 
 the hills had little or none. All the more the sweet con- 
 trast; the rare harmony ; the beautiful mingling of soft 
 cultivation with what was wild and picturesque and 
 
284 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 barren. And the river gurgled on, with a fresh sound 
 that told of its activity ; and a very large herd of cowa 
 spotted the green turf in some of the meadows on the 
 other side of the stream. 
 
 " I never saw any place so lovely," exclaimed Eleanor; 
 " never !" 
 
 " This is my favourite walking place in winter," said 
 Mrs. Caxton ; " when I want to walk under shelter, or 
 not to go far from home." 
 
 " How charming that garden must he when the spring 
 comes !" 
 
 " Are you fond of gardening ?" said Mrs. Caxton. 
 
 A talk upon the subject followed, in which Eleanor 
 perceived with some increase of respect that her aunt 
 was no ignoramus ; nay, that she was familiar with deli- 
 cacies both in the practice and the subjects of horticul- 
 ture that were not well known to Eleanor, in spite of her 
 advantages of the Lodge and Rythdale conservatories 
 and gardens both together. In the course of this talk, 
 Eleanor noticed anew all the indications that had pleased 
 her last night ; the calm good sense and self-possession ; 
 the quiet dignity ; the decision ; the kindness. And 
 pei'haps Mrs. Caxton too made her observations. But 
 this was the mistress of the cheese-farm ! 
 
 A pause fell in their talk at length ; probably both 
 had matter for reflection. 
 
 " Have you settled that question, Eleanor ?" said her 
 aimt meaningly. 
 
 " That question ? — O no, aunt Caxton ! It is all con 
 fusion ; and it is all confused with another question." 
 
 There was more than talk in this evidently, for Elea- 
 nor's face had all darkened. Mrs. Caxton answered 
 calmly, 
 
 " My dear, the first thing I would do, would be to 
 separate them." 
 
 " Aunty, they are like two wrestlers ; I cannot seem 
 
N THE HILLS. 28£ 
 
 to separate them. If I tliink of tlie one, I get hold of 
 the other ; and if I take up the other, I am obhged to 
 think of the one; and my mind is the fighting ground." 
 
 " Then the two questions are in reahty one ?" 
 
 " No, aunt Caxton — they are not. Only they botb 
 press for attention at once." 
 
 " Which is the most important ?" 
 
 " This one — about which you asked me," Eleanor 
 said, drooping her head a little. 
 
 " Then decide that to-day, Eleanor.'' 
 
 " Aunty, I have decided it — in one way. I am deter- 
 mined what I will be — if I can. Only I do not see how 
 And before I do see how, — perhaps — the other question 
 may have decided itself; and then — Aunty, I cannot tell 
 you about it to-day. Let me wait a few days ; till I 
 know you better and you have time to know me.'' 
 
 " Then, as it is desirable you should lose no time, I 
 shall keep you with me, Eleanor. Would you like to- 
 morrow to go through the dairies and see the operation 
 of cheese-making ? Did you ever see it ?" 
 
 " Aunt Caxton, I know no more about cheese than 
 that I have eaten it sometimes. I would like to go to- 
 morrow, or to-day ; whenever you please." 
 
 " The work is nearly over for to-day." 
 
 " Do they make cheese in your dairy every day, aunt 
 Caxton ?" 
 
 "Two every day." 
 
 "But you must have a great number of cows, 
 ma'am ?" 
 
 " There they are," said her aunt, looking towards the 
 opposite meadows. "We milk between forty and fifty 
 Bt present ; there are about thirty dry." 
 
 " Seventy or eighty cows !" exclaimed Eleanor 
 " Why aunt Caxton, you must want the \^ hole valley 
 for their pastuiing." 
 
 "I want no more than I have," said Mrs. Caxtofc 
 
286 THE OLD HBLMBT. 
 
 quietly. " You see, those meadows on the other side of 
 the river look rich. It is a very good cheese farm." 
 " How far does it extend, aunty ?" 
 " All along, the meadowland, as far as you see." 
 " I do not believe there is a pleasanter or prettier 
 home in all the kingdom !" Eleanor exclaimed. " How 
 charming, aunt Caxton, all this must be in summer, 
 when your garden is in bloom." 
 
 " There is a way of carrying summer along with us 
 throuo;h all the year, Eleanoi- ; do you know that ?" 
 
 " Do you wear the ' helmet' too ?" thought Eleanor. 
 "I have no doubt but you do, over that calm brow!" But 
 she only looked wistfully at her aunt, and Mrs. Caxton 
 changed the conversation. She sat down with Eleanor 
 on a settle, for the day was mild and tlie place shel- 
 tered ; and talked with her of home and her family. 
 She shewed an affectionate interest in all the details con- 
 cerning her brother's household and life, but Eleanor 
 admired with still increasing and profound respect, the 
 delicacy which stopped every inquiry at the point where 
 delicacy might wish to withhold the answer. The up- 
 rightest self-respect went hand in hand with the gentlest 
 regard and respect for others. To this reserve, Eleanor 
 was more communicative than she could have been to 
 another manner ; and on some points her hesitancy told 
 as much, perhaps, as her disclosures on other points; so 
 that Mis. Caxton was left with some general idea, if not 
 more, of the home Eleanor had lived her life in and the 
 various people who had made it what 'it was. On all 
 things that touched Ry thdale Eleanor was silent ; and so 
 was Mrs. Caxton. 
 
 The conversation flowed on to other topics ; and the 
 whole day was a gentle entertainment to Eleanor. The 
 perpetual good sense, information, and shrewdness of her 
 hostess was matter of constant surprise and interest. 
 Eleanor had never talked with anybody who talked sc 
 
IN THE HILLS. 28? 
 
 well ; and she felt obliged unconscionsls' all the time to 
 produce the best of herself That is not a disngreenble 
 exercise ; and on the whole the day reeled off on silver 
 wheels. It concluded as the former day had done ; and 
 in the wai-ni prayer uttered by her aunt, Eleanor could 
 not help feeling there was a pulse of the heart for her ; 
 for her darkness and necessities. It sent her to her room 
 touched, and humbled, and reminded ; but Eleanor'se 
 musings this night were no more fruitful of results than 
 those of last niiiht had been. They resolved themselves 
 into a long waking dream. Mr. Carlisle exercised too 
 much mastery over her imagination, for any other con- 
 cern to have fair chance till his question was disposed of. 
 Would he come to look for her there ? It was just like 
 him ; but she had a little hope that her mother's pride 
 would prevent his being furnished with the necessary in- 
 formation. That Eleanor should be sought and found by 
 him on a cheese farm, the mistress of the farm her own 
 near relation, would not probably meet Mrs. Powle's n.)- 
 tions of what it was expedient to do or suffer. A slender 
 thread of a hope ; but that was all. Supposing he came ? 
 Eleanor felt she had no time to lose. She could Ojvly 
 deal with Mr. Carlisle at a distance. In his presence, iihe 
 knew now; she was helpless. But a vague sense of 
 wrong combated all her thoughts of what she wished to 
 do; with a confused and conflicting question of what 
 was right. She wearied herself to tears with her dream- 
 ing, and went to bed to aggravate her troubles in actual 
 dreams ; in which the impossible came in to help th« 
 disagreeable 
 
CH APTEE' XTI. 
 
 '* What if she be fastened to this fool lord, 
 Dare I bid her abide by her word ?" 
 
 The next morning nevertheless was bright, and Elea- 
 nor was early down stairs. And now she found that the 
 day was begun at the farmhouse in the same way in 
 which it was ended. A reverent, sweet, happy commit- 
 ting of all her affairs and her friends to God, in the presence 
 and the company of her household, was Mrs. Caxton's 
 entrance, for her and them, upon the work of the day. 
 Breakfast was short and very early, which it had to be 
 if Eleanor wanted to see the operations of the dairy ; 
 and then Mrs. Caxton and she went thither; and then 
 first Eleanor began to have a proper conception of the 
 magnitude and complication of the business her aunt 
 presided over. 
 
 The dairies were of great extent, sti'etching along the 
 ground floor of the house, behind and beyond the cov- 
 ered gallery where she and her aunt had held their first 
 long conversation the day before. Tiled floors, as neat 
 as W.1X ; oaken shelves, tubs, vats, baskets, cheese-hoops, 
 presses ; all as neat and sweet as it was possible for any- 
 thing to be, looked like a confusion of affairs to Eleanor's 
 eye. However, the real business done that morning was 
 sufliciently simple ; and she found it interesting enough 
 to follow patiently evei-y part of the process through to 
 the end. Several blue jackets uere in attendance ; some 
 Welsh, some English ; each as diligent at her work as 
 
AT THE FARM. 280 
 
 if she only had the whole to do. And among them 
 Eleanor noticed how admirably her aunt played the mis- 
 tress and acted the executive head. Quietly, simply, as 
 her words were spoken, they were nevertheless words 
 that never failed to be instantly obeyed ; and the service 
 that was rendered her was given with what seemed the 
 alacrity of affection, as well as the zeal of duty. Elea- 
 nor stood by, watching, amused, intent ; yet taking in a 
 silent lesson of character all the while, that touched her 
 heart and made her draw a deep breath now and then. 
 The last thing visited was the cheese house, the room 
 where the cheeses were stored for ripening, quite away 
 from all the dairies. Here there was a forest of cheeses ; 
 standing on end and lying on shelves, in various stages 
 of maturity. 
 
 " Two a day !" said Eleanor looking at them. " That 
 makes a wonderful many in the course of the year." 
 
 " Except Sundays," said Mrs. Caxton. " No cheese is 
 made on Sunday in my dairy, nor any dairy work dona 
 except milking the cows and setting the milk." 
 
 " I meant except Sundays, of course." 
 
 " It is not " of course " here," said Mrs. (Jaxtoii. 
 "The common practice in large dairy farms is to do the 
 same work on the seventh day that is done all the six." ' 
 
 " But that is wrong, aunty, it seems to me." 
 
 " Wrong y Of course it is wrong ; but the defence is, 
 that it is necessary. If Sunday's milk is not made at 
 once into cheese, it must wait till Monday ; and not only 
 double work must be done then, for Monday will have 
 its own milk, b\it double sets of everything will be 
 needed ; tubs and presses and all. So people think they 
 cannot afford it." 
 
 "Well, how can they, aunt. Caxton? There seems 
 reason in that." 
 
 " Reason for what ?" 
 
 " Why, I mean, it seems the}' have some reason for 
 13 
 
290 THW OLD HELMBT. 
 
 working on the Sabbath — not to lose all that milk. Il 
 is one seventh of all they have." 
 
 Mrs. Caxton replied in a Very quiet manner, — " 'Thou 
 shalt remember the Lord thy God ; for it is he that jgiv- 
 eth thee power to get wealth.' " 
 
 " But annt Caxton," said Eleanor a little doubtfully,— 
 " he gives it in the use of means ?" 
 
 " Do you think he blesses the use of means he has for 
 bidden ?" 
 
 Eleanor was silent a moment. 
 
 " Aunt Caxton, people do get rich so, do they not ?" 
 
 " ' The blessing of the Lord, it maketh rich,' " said Mre. 
 Caxton contentedly, — '"and he addeth no sorrow with 
 it.' That is the sort of riches I like best." 
 
 Eleanor did not answer ; a kind of moisture came uj 
 in her eyes, for she felt poor in those riches. 
 
 "It is mere want of faith, Eleanor, that pleads such a 
 reason," Mrs. Caxton went on. " It is taking the power 
 to get wealth into our own hands. If it is in God's 
 hands, it is just as easy certainly for him to give it to ns 
 in the obedient use of means as in the disobedient use o< 
 them ; and much more likely that he will. Many a man 
 has become poor by his disobedience, for one that has 
 been allowed to prosper awhile in spite of it. If the 
 statistics were made up, men would see. Meanwhile, 
 uev('r anybody trusted the Lord and was confounded." 
 
 " Then what do you do with the seventh day's milk, 
 aunt Caxton ?" 
 
 " I make butter of it. But I would pour it away down 
 tlie river, Eleanor, before I would make it an excuse for 
 disobeying God." 
 
 This was said without any heat, but as the quietest oi 
 conclusions. Eleanor stood silent, wondering at her 
 aunt's cheeses and notions together. She was in a new 
 world, surely. Yet a secret feeling of respect was every 
 moment nionnting higher. 
 
AT THE FARM. 291 
 
 " The principle is universally true, Eleanor, that the 
 safe way in everything is the way of obedience. Conse- 
 quences are not in our hands. It is only unbelief that 
 would make consequences a reason for going out of the 
 way. ' Trust in the Lord, and keep his way ; so shalt 
 he exalt thee to inherit the land.' I have had nothing 
 but prosperity, Eleanor, ever since I began the course 
 which my neighbours and servants thought would de- 
 stroy me." 
 
 " I wanted to ask you that, aunt Caxton ; — how it 
 had been." 
 
 " But ray dear," said Mrs. Caxton, thi smile with 
 which she had turned to Eleanor fading into placid grav- 
 ity again, — " if it had been otherwise, it would have 
 made no difference. • I would rather be poor, with my 
 Lord's blessing, than have all the principality without it." 
 
 Eleanor went away thinking. All this applied to the 
 decision of her own affairs ; and perhaps Mrs. Caxton 
 had intended it should. But yet, how should she de- 
 cide ? To do the thing that was right, — Eleanor wished 
 that, — and did not know what it was. Her wishes said one 
 thing, and prayed for freedom. A vague, tramelling 
 sense of engagements entered into and expectations 
 formed and pledges given, at times confused all her 
 ideas ; and made her think it might be her duty to go 
 home and finish wittingly what she had begun in igno- 
 rance what she was doing. It would be now to sacrifice 
 herself. W.is she called upon to do that ? What wa? 
 right ? 
 
 Mrs. Caxton never alluded any further to Eleanor'? 
 private affairs ; and Eleanor never forgetting them, kept 
 theiTL in the darkness of her own thoughts and did not 
 bring them up to the light and her aunt's eye. Only for 
 this drawback, the days would have passed dehghtfully 
 The next day was Sunday. 
 
292 THE OLn HELMET. 
 
 " We liave a long drive to church, Eleanor," said her 
 aunt. " How will you go ?" 
 
 " With you, aunty." 
 
 "I don't know about that; my car has no place fo» 
 you. Are you a horsewoman ?" 
 
 " O aunty, nothing would be so delightful ! if yo' 
 have anything I can ride. Nothing would be so delight 
 fill. I half live in the saddle at home." 
 
 " You do ? Then you shall go errands for me. I will 
 furnish you with a Welsh pony." 
 
 And this very day Eleanor mounted him to ride to 
 church. Her aunt was in a light car that held but her- 
 self and the driver. Another vehicle, a sort of dog cart, 
 followed with some of the .servants. The day was mild 
 and pleasant, though not brilliant with sunbeams. It 
 made no matter. Eleanor could not comprehend how 
 more loveliness could have been crowded into the enjoy- 
 ment of two hours. On her pony she had full freedom 
 for the use of her eyes ; the road was excellent, and 
 winding in and out through all the crookedness of the 
 Talley they threaded, she took it at all points of view 
 Nothing could be more varied. The valley itself, rich 
 and wooded, with the little river running its course 
 marked by a thick embowering of trees ; the hUls that 
 enclosed the valley taking every form of beauty, some- 
 times wild and sometimes tame, heathery and barren, 
 rough and rocky, and again rounded and soft. Along 
 these hills came into view numberless dwellings, of vari- 
 ous styles and sizes ; with once in a while a bold castle 
 breaking forth in proud beauty, or a dismantled ruin 
 telling of pride and beauty that had been. Eleanor had 
 110 one to talk to, and she did not want to talk. On 
 horsebat:k, and on a Welsh pony, no Black Mnggie or 
 Tippoo, and in these wonderful new strange scenes, she 
 felt free ; free from Mr. Carlisle and his image for the 
 •noment ; and though knowing that her bondage would 
 
AT THE FARM. 293 
 
 return, she enjoyed her freedom all the more. The little 
 pony was satisfactory ; and as there was no need of 
 taking a gallop to-day, Eleanor had nothing to de- 
 sire. 
 
 The ride ended at the loveliest of all picturesque vil- 
 lages ; so Eleanor thought ; nestled in what seemed the 
 termination of the valley. A little village, with the 
 square tower of the church rising up above the trees ; all 
 the houses stood among trees ; and the river was crossed 
 by a bridge just above, and tore down a precipice just 
 below ; so near that its roar was the constant lullaby of 
 the inhabitants. It was the only sound to-day, rising in 
 Sabbath stillness over the hills. After all this ride, the 
 service in the little church did not disappoint expecta- 
 tion ; it was sound, warm and good ; and Eleanor 
 mounted her pony and rode home again, almost wishing 
 she could take service with her aunt as a dairymaid for- 
 ever. All the day was sweet to Eleanor. But at the 
 end of it a thought darted into her mind, with the 
 keenness of an arrow. Mr. Carlisle in a few days more 
 might have learned of her run-away freak and of her 
 hiding-place and have time to come after her. There 
 was a barb to the thought; for Eleanor could not get 
 rid of it. 
 
 She begged the pony the next day, and the next, and 
 went very long rambling rides ; in the luxury of being 
 alone. 'J'hey would have been most delightful, but for 
 the idea that haunted her, and which made her actually 
 afraid to enter the house on her return home. This 
 state of things was not to be borne much longer. 
 
 "You have let the pony tire you, Eleanor," Mrs. Cai 
 ton remarked. It was the evening of the second day 
 and the two ladies were silting in the light of the wood 
 fire. 
 
 " Ma'am, he could not do tha*^ I live half my life oc 
 hoi'sebauk at home." 
 
194 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " Then how am I to understand the long-di-awi 
 breaths which I hear from you every now and then ?" 
 
 Mrs. Caxton was twisting up paper lightei-s. She was 
 rarely without something in her lingers. Eleanor was 
 doing nothing. At her aunt's question she half laughed, 
 and seized one of the strips of paper to work upon. 
 Her laugh changed into a sigh. . 
 
 " Aunt Caxton, do you always find it easy to know 
 what is the fight thing to do — in all circumstances ?" 
 
 " I liave always infallible counsel that I can take " 
 
 " You m-san the Bible ? But the Bible does not tell 
 one everytoing." 
 
 " I mean prayer." 
 
 " Praypr ! — But my dear aunt Caxton ! — " 
 
 " What, is it, my dear ?" 
 
 " I mpan, that one wants an answer to one's perplex- 
 ing que»tions." 
 
 " Mine never fail of an answer," said Mrs. Caxton. 
 " If it 's to be found in the Bible, I find it ; if not, I go 
 ■to the Lord and get it from him." 
 
 " How, my dear aunt Caxton ? How can you have 
 an answer in that way ?" 
 
 " 1 ask to be directed — and I always am, Eleanor ; 
 aJwpys right. What do you think prayer is good 
 for *'" 
 
 *' But aunt Caxton! — I never heard of such a thing in 
 my life ! Please forgive me." 
 
 " If any man lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that 
 gi' Eth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it 
 shill he given liim" Did you never hear that, Elea- 
 u->r?" 
 
 " Aunty — excuse me, — it is something I know nothing 
 fboat." 
 
 " You ne\ er had an answer to your own prayers ?" 
 
 '• No, ma'am," said Eleanor drooping. 
 
 " My dear, there may be two reasons for that. Who. 
 
AT THE FAEM. 29£ 
 
 t.i«r wishes direction from the Lord, must be absolutely 
 ■w viling to follow it, whatever it be — we may not ask 
 ooansel of him as we do of our fellow-creatures, bent 
 U) on following our own all the while. The Lord knows 
 our hearts, and withholds his answer when we ask so." 
 
 *' How do you know what the answer is, aunty ?" 
 
 " It may be given in various ways. Sometimes circum- 
 s1 ^nces point it out ; sometimes attention is directed to 
 a word in the Bible ; sometimes, ' thine ears shall hear a 
 voice behind thee, saying. This is the way, walk ye in it, 
 when ye turn to the right hand, and when ye turn to tho 
 left.' " 
 
 Eleanor did not answer ; she thought her aunt was 
 slightly fanatical. 
 
 " Tliere is another reason for not getting an answer, 
 Eleanor. It is, not believing that an answer will be 
 given." 
 
 " Aunty, how can one help that ?" 
 
 " By simply looking at what God has promised, and 
 trusting it. ' But let a man ask in faith, nothing waver- 
 ing. For he that waveieth is like a wave of the sea 
 driven with the wind and tossed. For let not that man 
 think that he shall receive anything of the Lord.'" 
 
 " Aunt Caxton, I am exactly like such a « ave of the 
 sea. And in danger of being broken to pieces like one." 
 
 " Many a one lias been," said Mrs. Cnxton. But it 
 was tenderly said, not coldly ; and the impulse to go 
 on was iri-esistible. Eleanor changed her seat for one 
 nearer. 
 
 " Aunt Caxton, I want somebody's help dreadfully." 
 
 "I see you do." 
 
 "Do you see it, ma'am ?" 
 
 " I think I have seen it ever since you have been 
 here." 
 
 " But at the same time, aunty, I do not know how to 
 ask it." 
 
29(5 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " Those ave sometimes the neediest oases. But 1 hope 
 you will find a way, my dear." 
 
 Eleanor sat silent nevertheless, for some minutes; 
 and then she spoke in a lowered and changed tone. 
 
 "Aunt Caxton, you know the engagements I am 
 under ? 
 
 " Yes. I have heard." 
 
 " What should a woman do — what is it her duty to 
 do — who finds herself in every way bound to fulfil such 
 engagements, except — " 
 
 "Except what?" 
 
 " Except her own heart, ma'am," Eleanor said low 
 and ashamed. 
 
 " My dear, you do not mean that your heart was not 
 in these engagements when you made them ?" 
 
 " I did not know where it was, aunty. It had nothing 
 to do with them." 
 
 " Where is it now ?" 
 
 " It is not in them, ma'am." 
 
 "Eleanor, let us speak plainly. Do you mean that 
 you do not love this gentleman whom you have promised 
 to mai-ry ?" 
 
 Eleanor hesitated, covered her face, and hesitated ; at 
 last spoke. 
 
 " Aunt Caxton, I thought I did ; — but I know now I 
 do not ; not as I think I ought ; — I do not as he loves 
 me." Eleanor spoke with burning cheeks, which her 
 aunt could see even in the firelight and though Eleanor's 
 hand endeavoured to shield them. 
 
 " What made you enter into these engagements, my 
 dear ?" 
 
 " The will and power of two other people, aunt Cax- 
 ton — and, I am afraid, now, a little ambition of my own 
 was at work in it. And I liked him too. It was not a 
 person that I did not like. But I did not know what J 
 was doing. I liked him, aunt Caxton." 
 
AT THE FAKM. 291 
 
 " And now it is a question with you whether you will 
 fnliil tliese engagements?" 
 
 " Yes ma'am, — because I do not wish to fulfil them, 
 I do not know whether I ought, or ought not." 
 
 Mrs. ( Jaxton was silent in her turn. \ 
 
 " Eleanor, — do you like some one else better ?" 
 
 " N obody else likes me better, aunt Caxton — there is 
 nothing of that kind — " 
 
 " Still my question is not answered, Eleanor. Have 
 you more liking for any other person ?" 
 
 "-Aunt Caxton — I do not know — I have seen — I do 
 not know how to answer you !" Eleanor said in bitter 
 confusion ; then hiding her face she went on — " Just so 
 much as this is true, aunt Caxton, — I have seen, what 
 makes me know that I do not love Mr. CaiUsle ; not as 
 he loves me." 
 
 Mrs. Caxton stooped forward, took Eleanor's hands 
 down from her face and kissed her. It was a sad, 
 drooping, pained fice, hot with sliame. 
 
 " My child," she said, " your honesty has saved you. 
 I could not have advised you, Eleanor, if you had not 
 been frank with me. Poor child !" 
 
 Eleanor came down on the floor and hid her face in 
 Mrs. Caxton's lap. Her aunt kept one hand softly rest- 
 ing on her hair while she spoke. She was silent first, 
 and then she spoke very tenderly. 
 
 " You did not know, at the time you engaged your- 
 self to this gentleman, that you were doing him 
 wrong?" 
 
 " No, ma'am — I thought rather of wrong to myself." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " They were in such a hurry, ma'am." 
 
 " Since then, you have seen what you like better.'" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," — said Eleanor doubtfully, — " or what 
 
 I know I could like bettm-, if there was occasion. That 
 
 is all." 
 
 13* 
 
298 THE OLD HBLMET. 
 
 "Now the question is, in these circumstances, what if 
 your duty to Mr. Carlisle." 
 
 Eleanor lifted her head to look into her aunt's face foi 
 the decision to come. 
 
 "The rule of judgment is not far off, Eleanor ; it ia 
 the golden rule. ' "Whatsoever ye would that men 
 should do to you, do ye even so to them.' My dear, 
 take the case of the person you could like best in the 
 world; — would you have such a person marry you if his 
 heart belonged to somebody else ?" 
 
 " Not for the whole world !" said Eleanor raising her 
 head which had fallen again. "But aunt Caxton, that is 
 not my case. My heart is not anybody's." 
 
 "Put it differently then. Would you marry such a 
 man, if you knew that his mere liking for another was 
 stronger than his love for you ?" 
 
 " I think — I would rather die !" said Eleanor slowly. 
 
 " Then I think your question is answered." 
 
 " But aunt Caxton, it is not answered. Mr. Carlisle 
 would not feel so. I know, he would have me marry him, 
 if he knew that my heart was a thousand times another 
 pei'son's — which it is not." 
 
 " Don't alter the case," said Mrs. Caxton, " except to 
 make it stronger. If he were the right sort of man, he 
 would not have you do so. There is no rule that we 
 should make other people's wishes our standard of 
 right." 
 
 " But aunt Caxton, I have done Mr. Carlisle grievous 
 wrong. 0, I feel that ! — " 
 
 " Yes. What then ?" 
 
 " Am T not bound to make him all the amends in my 
 power ?" 
 
 " Short of doing further wrong. Keep right and 
 wrong always clear-, Eleanor. They never mean thfl 
 earae thing." 
 
 "Aunty, what you must think of me I" 
 
AT TEE FARM. 299 
 
 " I think of you just now as saved from shipwreck, 
 Many a girl las drifted on in the course you were going, 
 without coui age to get out of the current, until she has 
 destroyed herself; and perhaps somebody else." 
 
 " I do not think I had much courage, aunt Caxton," 
 said Eleanor blushing. 
 
 "What had you, then?" 
 
 " It was mainly my horror of marrying that man, 
 after I found I did not love him. And yet, aunt Cax-' 
 ton, I do like him ; and I am very, very, very sorry ! It 
 has almost seemed to me sometimes that I ought to 
 marry him and give him what I can ; and yet, if I were 
 ready, I would rather die." 
 
 " Is your doubt settled ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," — said Eleanor sadly. 
 
 "My dear, you have done wrong, — I judge, somewhat 
 ignorantly, — but mischief can never be mended by mis- 
 chief. 'J'o marry one man, preferring another, is the 
 height of disloyalty to boA him and yourself; unless 
 you can lay the whole truth before him; and tlien, as I 
 think, in most cases it would be the height of folly." 
 
 " I will \, r'te to Mr. Carlisle to-morrow." 
 
 "And the,,, Eleanor, what was the other question you 
 came here to settle ?" 
 
 " It is quite a different question, aunty, and yet it was 
 all twisted up with the othei-." 
 
 " You can tell it me ; it will hardly involve greater 
 crufidence," said Mrs. Caxton, bending over and Idssing 
 Eleanor's brow which rested upon her knee. " Eleanoi" 
 I am very thankful you came to Plassy." 
 
 The girl roso up and kneeling beside her hid her face 
 m Mrs. Caxton's bosom. " Aunt Caxton, I am so 
 glad! I have wanted just this help so long! and this 
 refuge. Put your arms both round me, and hold me 
 tight." 
 
 Mrs Caxton said nothing for a little while. Shu 
 
300 adE OLD HELMET. 
 
 waited for Eleanor to taie her own time and speak. 
 Very still the two were. There were some straining 
 Bobs that came from the one and went to the heart of 
 the other ; heavy and hai-d ; but with no sound till they 
 were quieted. 
 
 " Aunt Caxton," said Eleanor at last, " the other ques- 
 tian was that one of a refuge." 
 
 " A heavenly one ?" 
 
 " Yes. I had heard of a ' helmet of salvation ' — I 
 wanted it ; — but I do not know how to get it." 
 
 ' Do you know what it is ?" 
 
 " Not very clearly. But I have seen it, aunt Caxton ; 
 -I know it makes people safe and happy. I want it 
 lor myself." 
 
 "Safe from what?" 
 
 " From — all that I feared when I was dangerously ill 
 last summer." 
 
 " What did you fear, Eleanor ?" 
 
 "All the future, aunt Caxton. I was not ready 
 I knew, to go out of this world. I am no better 
 now." 
 
 They had not changed their relative positions. Elea- 
 nor's face still lay on her aunt's bosom ; Mrs. Caxton'a 
 arms still enfolded her. 
 
 " Bless the Lord ! there is such a helmet," she said 
 " but we cannot manufacture it, Eleanor, nor even bu) 
 it. K you have it at all, you must take it as a free 
 gift." 
 
 " How do you mean ?" 
 
 " If you are willing to be a soldier of Christ, he will 
 give you his armour." 
 
 " Aunt Caxton, I do not understand." 
 
 " It is only to take the promises of God, my dear, 
 if you will take them obediently. Jesus has declared 
 that "whosoever believeth on him, hath everlasting 
 jff'.'" 
 
AT TnE FA KM. 301 
 
 " But I cannot exactly understand what believing in 
 b.m means. I am very stupid." Eleanor raised her 
 head and looked now in her aunt's face. 
 
 ' Po yoa understand his work for us ?" 
 
 " I do not know, ma'am." 
 
 " My (itar, it is the work of love that was not willing 
 to let us be miiserable. "While we were yet sinners, 
 Christ died ibr ns. He gave himself a ransonj for all. 
 He suffered \ov sins, the just for the unjust, that he 
 might bring us to God." 
 
 "Yes, I boiieve I undwrstand that," said Eleanor 
 wearily. 
 
 "The only quflbtion is, wnether we will let him bring 
 us. The question is, whether we are willing to accept this 
 substitution of the iunocent ( )ne for our guilty selves, and 
 be his obedient children. Il we are — if we rely on him 
 and his blood only,, and are willing to give up ourselves 
 to him, then the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from 
 all sin. No matter though they be red like crimson, 
 they shall be as wool. There is no condemnation to 
 them \\hich are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the 
 flesh but after the Spirit." 
 
 " But I do not walk so," said Eleanor. 
 
 " Do you want to walk so ?" 
 
 " yes, ma'am ! yes !" said Eleanor clasping her 
 hands. " I desire it above all possible things. I want 
 to be such a one." 
 
 " If you truly desire it, my dear, it is certain that you 
 may have what you want ; for the Loi'd's will is not 
 different. He died for this very thing, that he might 
 be just, and the justifier of him that believeth in Jesus, 
 There is an open door before you ; all things are ready • 
 you have only to plead the promises and enter in. Tht 
 Lord himself says. Come." 
 
 "Aunt Caxton, I understand, I think; but I do not 
 feel ; not anything but fear, — and desire." 
 
302 THB OLl, HELSIET. 
 
 " This is the mere sta'emeLt of truth, my dear, it u 
 like the altar with the wood kid in readiness and the 
 sacrifice — all cold ; and till fire falls down from heaven 
 no incense will arise from earth. But if any man 
 lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all 
 men liberally and upbraideth not ; and it shall be given 
 him." 
 
 " I am a poor creaturt, aunt Caxton !" said Eleanor, 
 hiding her face again. And again Mrs. Caxton's arm 
 came tenderly round her. And again Eleanor's tears 
 flowed, this time in a flood. 
 
 " Certainly you are a poor creature, Eleanor. I am 
 glad you are finding it out. But will you flee to the 
 stronghold, you poor little prisoner of hope ?" 
 
 " I think I am rather the prisoner of fear, aunty." 
 
 " Hope is a better gaoler, my dear." 
 
 " But that is the very thing that I want." 
 
 " The Lord give it you !" 
 
 They sat a good while in stillness after that, each 
 thinking her own thoughts ; or perhaps those of the 
 elder lady took the form of prayers. At last Eleanor 
 raised her head and kissed her aunt's lip. earnestly. 
 
 " How good of J ou to let me come to Plassy !" she 
 said. 
 
 " I shall keep yon here now. You will not wish to be 
 at home again for some time." 
 
 " No, ma'am. No indeed I shall not." 
 
 " What are you going to do about Mr. Carlisle ?" 
 
 " I shall write to-morrow. Or to-night." 
 
 " And tell him ?— " 
 
 " The plain truth, aunt Canton. I mean, the truth of 
 the fact, of course. It is very hard !" — said Eleanor sor. 
 rowfully. 
 
 " It is doubtless hard ; but it is the least of all tlie 
 elioice of evils you have left yourself. Write to-nigh(,— 
 
AT THE FARM. 303 
 
 and here, if you «ill. If j'ou can without being dis- 
 turbed by me." 
 
 "The sight of you will only help me, aunt Caxton. 
 But 1 ilid not know the harm I was doing when I en- 
 tered into all this." 
 
 " I believe it. Go and write your letter." 
 
 Eleanor brought her paper-case and sat down at the 
 table. Mrs. Caxton ordered other lights and was mutely 
 busy at her own table. Not a word was spoken for a 
 good while. It was with a strange mixture of pain and 
 bursting gladness that Eleanor wrote the letter which 
 she hoped would set her free. But the gladness was 
 enough to make her sure it ought to be written ; and 
 the pain enough to make it a bittei- piece of work. The 
 letter was finished, folded, sealed ; and with a sigh Elea- 
 nor closed her paper-case. 
 
 " What sort of a clergyman have you at home ?" Mrs. 
 Caxton asked. She had not spoken till then. 
 
 " He is a kind old man — he is a good man," Eleanor 
 said, picking for words; "I like him. He is not a very 
 interesting preacher." 
 
 " Did you ever hold any talk with him on your 
 thoughts of hope, and fear?" 
 
 " I could not, ma'am. I have tried ; but I could not 
 bring him to the point. He referred me to confirmation 
 and to doing my duty ; he did not help rae." 
 
 " It is not a happy circumstance, that his public teach-, 
 ing should raise questions which his private teaching 
 cannot answer." 
 
 " O it did not !" said Eleanor. " Dr. Cairnes never 
 raised a question in anybody's mind, I am sure ; never 
 in mine." 
 
 " The light that sprung up in your mind then, came 
 you do not know w^hence ?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am, I do," said Eleanor with a httle diffi. 
 eulty. " It ca'"ie from the words and teaching of » 
 
'504 THE OLD HBLMJIl. 
 
 living example. But in me it seems to be only dark 
 ness." 
 
 Mrs. Caxton said no more, and Eleanor added nc 
 more. The servants came in to family prayer ; and then 
 they took their candles and bade each other an affec- 
 tionate good night. And Eleanor slept that night with- 
 out dreaming. 
 
OHAPTEE XYII. 
 
 " For something that ahode endued 
 
 With temple-like repose, an air 
 Of life's kind purposes pursued 
 
 With order'd freedom sweet and fair. 
 A tent pitched in a world not right 
 
 It seem'd, whose inmates, every one, 
 On tranquil faces, bore the light 
 
 Of duties beautifully done.'* 
 
 How did the days pass aftei- that ? In restless anxiety 
 with Eleanor ; in miserable uncertainty and remorse and 
 sorrow. She counted the hours till her despatch could 
 be in Mr. Carlisle's hands ; then she figured to herself 
 the pain it would cause him ; then she doubted fearfully 
 what the immediate effect would be. It might be, to 
 bring him down to Plassy with the utmost speed of post- 
 horses ; and again Eleanor reckoned the stages and esti- 
 mated the speed at which Mr. Carlisle's postillions could 
 be made to travel, and the time when it would be possi- 
 ble for this storm to burst upon Plassy. That day Elea- 
 nor begged the pony and went out. She wandered for 
 hours, among unnumbered, and almost unheeded, beau- 
 ties of mountain and vale; came home at a late hour, 
 and crept in by a back entrance. No stranger had come ; 
 the storm had not burst yet ; and Mrs. Caxton was 
 moved to pity all the supper time and hours of the even- 
 ing, at the state of fear and constraint in which Eleanor 
 evidently dwelt. 
 
 " My dear, did you like this man ?" she said when 
 they were bidding each other good night. 
 
506 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " Mr. Carlisle ?— yes, very well ; if only be had no« 
 wanted me to mairy him." 
 
 " But you fear him, Eleanor." 
 
 " Because, aunt Caxton, he always had a way of 
 making me do just what he wished." 
 
 " Are you so easily governed, Eleanor, by one whom 
 you do not love ? I should not have thought it." 
 
 " I do not know how it was, aunty. I had begun 
 wrong, in the first place ; I was in a false position ; — and 
 lately Mr. Cai'lisle has taken it into his head, very unnec- 
 essaril}', to be jealous ; and I could not move a step 
 without subjecting myself to a false imputation." 
 
 " Good night, my dear,'' said her aunt. " If he 
 comes, I will take all imputations on myself." 
 
 But Mr. Carlisle did not come. Dny passed after day ; 
 and the intense fear Eleanor had at first felt changed to 
 a somewhat quieter anticipation; though she never came 
 home from a ride without a good deal of circumspection 
 about getting into the house. At last, one day when she 
 was sitting with her aunt the messenger came from the 
 post, and one of those letters was handed to Eleanor that 
 she knew so well; with the proud seal and its crest. Par- 
 ticularly full and well made she thought this seal was • 
 though that was not so very uncommon, and perliaps she 
 was fanciful ; but it was a magnificent seal, and the lines 
 of the outer handwriting were very bold and firm. Elea- 
 nor's cheeks lost some colour as she opened the envel- 
 ope, which she did without breaking the bright black 
 wax. Pier own letter was all the enclosure. 
 
 The root of vsrong even unconsciously planted, will 
 bear its own proper and bitter fruits ; and Eleanor tastt d 
 them that day, and th6 next and the next. She was free ; 
 she was secure from even an attempt to draw her back 
 into the bonds she had broken , when Mr. Carlisle's pride 
 had taken up the question there was no danger of his 
 ever relenting or faltering ; and pride had thi-own back 
 
AT GLANOG. aOl 
 
 her letter of withdrawal iu lier face. She was free ; but 
 she knew she had given pain, and that more feeling was 
 stung in Mr. Carlisle's lieart than his pride. 
 
 " He will get over it, my dear," said her aunt coolly. 
 But Eleanor shed many tears for a day or two, over 
 the wrong she had done. Letters from Ivy Lodge did 
 not help her. 
 
 " Home is very disagreeable now," wrote her little 
 sister Julia ; " mamma is crying half the day, and the 
 other half she does not feel comfortable—" (a gentle 
 statement of the case.) " And papa is very much vexed, 
 and keeps out of doors the whole time and Alfred with 
 him ; and Mr. Rhys is gone away, and I have got no- 
 body. I shouldn't know what to do, if Mr. Rhys had 
 not taught me ; but now I can pray. Dear Eleanor, do 
 you pray ? I wish you were coming home again, but 
 mamma says you are not coming in a great while ; and 
 Mr. Rliys is never coming back. He said so." 
 
 Mrs. Powle's letter was in strict accordance with 
 Julia's description of matters ; desperately angry and mor- 
 tified. The only comfort was, that in her mortification 
 she dt'sired Eleanor to keep away from home and out of 
 her sight ; so Eleanor with a certain rest of heart in 
 spite of all, prepared herself for a long quiet sojourn 
 with her aunt at the cheese-farm of Plassy. Mrs. Cax- 
 ton composedly assured her that all this vexation wduld 
 blow over ; and Eleanor's own mind was soon fain to lay 
 off its care and content itself in a nest of peace. Mrs. 
 Caxton's house was that, to anybody worthy of enjoying 
 it ; and to Eleanor it had all the joy not only of fitness 
 but of novelty. But for a lingering care on the subject 
 of the other question that had occupied her, Eleanor 
 would in a little while have been happier than at any 
 former time in her life. How was it with that question, 
 which had pressed so painfully hard during weeks and 
 months past ? now that leisure and opportunity were 
 
308 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 full and broad to take it Tip and attend to it. So they 
 were ; but with the removal of difficulty came in soma 
 degree the relaxing of effort ; opportunity bred ease. It 
 was so simple a thing to be good at Plassy, that Elea- 
 nor's cry for it became less bitter. Mrs. Caxton's pres- 
 ence, words, and prayers, kept the thought constantly 
 alive ; yet with more of soothing and hopeful than of 
 exciting influence ; and while Eleanor constantly wished 
 she were happy like her, she nevertheless did not fail to 
 be happy in her own way. 
 
 The aunt and niece were excellently suited to each 
 other, and took abundant delight in each other's com- 
 pany. Eleanor found that what had been defective in 
 her own education was in the way to be supplied and ' 
 made up to her singularly ; here, of all places, on a 
 cheese-farm ! So it was. To her accomplishments and 
 materials of knowledge, she now found suddenly super- 
 added, the necessity and the practice of thinking. In 
 Mrs. Caxton's house it was impossible to help it. Judg- 
 ment, conscience, reason, and good sense, were constantly 
 brought into play ; upon things already known and 
 things until then not familiar. In the reading of books, 
 of which they did a good deal ; in the daily discussion 
 of the newspaper ; in the business of every hour, in the 
 intercourse with every neighbour, Eleanor found herself 
 al ways stimulated and obliged to look at things from a 
 new point of view ; to consider them with new lights ; 
 to try them by a new standard. As a living creature, 
 made and put here to live for something, she felt herself 
 now ; as in a world where everybody had like trusts to 
 fulfil and was living mindful or forgetful of his trust. 
 How mindful Mrs. Caxton was of hers, Eleanor began 
 every day with increasing admiration to see more and 
 more. To her servants, to her neiglibours, with her 
 money and her time and her sympathies, for little pres- 
 ent interests and for world-wide and everlastincc ones 
 
AT GLANOG. 309 
 
 Mrs. Caxtou was ever ready, active, watchful ; hands full 
 and head full and heart full. That motive power of hei 
 one mind and will, Eleanor grndually found, was the cen- 
 tre and spring of a vast machinery of good, working so 
 quif tly and so beneficently as proved it had been in oper- 
 ation a long, long time. It was a daily deep lesson 
 to Eleanor, going deeper and deeper every day. The 
 roots were striking down that would shoot up and bear 
 fruit by and by. 
 
 Eleanor was a sweet companion to her aunt all those 
 months. In her fresh, young, rich nature, Mrs. Caxton 
 had presently seen the signs of strength, without which 
 no character would have suited her ; while Eleanor's 
 temper was of the finest ; and her mind went to work 
 vigorously upon whatever was presented for its action. 
 Mrs. Caxton wisely took care to give it an abundance 
 of work ; and furthermore employed Eleanor in busy 
 oflices of kindness and help to others ; as an assistant in 
 some of her own plans and habits of good. Many k 
 i-ide Eleanor took on the Welsh pony, to see how some 
 sick person was getting on, or to carry supplies to an- 
 other, or to give instruction to another, or to oversee 
 and direct the progress of matters on which yet another 
 was engaged. This was not new work to her; yet now 
 it was done in the presence at least, if not under the 
 pressure, of a higher motive than she had been accns- 
 tomed to bring to it. It took in some degree another 
 character. Eleanor was never able to forget now that 
 these people to whom she was ministering had more of 
 the immortal in them than of even the earthly ; she was 
 never able to forget it of herself. And busy and happy 
 as the winter was, there often came over her those weary 
 longings for something which slie had not yet; the 
 something which made her aunt's course daily so clear 
 and calm and bright. What sort of happiness would be 
 Eleanor's when she got back to Ivy Lodge ? She asked 
 
310 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 herself that question sometimes. Her present happinesi 
 was superficial. 
 
 The spring meanwhile drew near, and signs of it began 
 to be seen and felt, and heard. And one evening Mrs. 
 Caxton got out the plan of her garden, and began to 
 consider in detail its arrangements, with a view to com- 
 ing operations. It was pleasant to see Mrs. Caxton at 
 this work, and to hear her ; she was in her element. 
 Eleanor was much surprised to find not only that her 
 aunt was her own head gardener, but that she had an 
 exquisite knowledge of the business. 
 
 "This sidphurea I think is dead," remarked Mrs. 
 Caxton. " I must have another. Eleanor — what is the 
 matter ?" 
 
 " Ma'am ?" 
 
 " You are drawing a very long breath, my dear. 
 Where did it come from ?" 
 
 The reserve which Eleanor had all her life practised 
 before other people, had almost from the first given way 
 before her aunt. 
 
 " From a thought of home, aunt Caxton. I shall not 
 be so happy when I get back there." 
 
 "The happiness that will not bear transportation, 
 Eleanor, is a very poor article. But they will not want 
 you at home." 
 
 " I am afraid of it." 
 
 " Without reason. You will not go home this spring 
 my dear ; trust me. You are mine for a good long time 
 yet." 
 
 Mrs. Caxton was wiser than Eleanor ; as was soon 
 proved. Mr.*. Powle wrote, desiring her daughter, 
 whatever she did, not to come home then ; nor soon. 
 People would think she was come home for her wed- 
 ding ; and questions innuraernb'e would be asked, the 
 mortification of which would be unbearable. Whereas, 
 if Eleanor kept away, the dismal cortainty would bj 
 
ATGLANOG. 31] 
 
 degrees become public, that there was to be no match at 
 all between Rythdale and the Lodge. " Stay away till 
 it is all blown over, Eleanor," wrote her mother ; "it is 
 the least you can do for your family." And the squire 
 «:ven sent a word of a letter, more kind, but to the same 
 effect. FTe wanted his bright daughter at home, he 
 said ; he missed her ; but in the circumstances, perhaps 
 it would be best, if her aunt would be so good as to 
 keep her, — 
 
 Eleanor carried these letters to Mrs. Caxton, with a 
 tear in her eye, and an humbled, pained face. 
 
 " I told you so," said her aunt. " How could people 
 expect that Mr. Carlisle's mari'iage would take place three 
 months after the death of his mother ? that is what I 
 do not understand." 
 
 " They arranged it so, and it was given out, I sup- 
 pose. Everything gets known. He was going abroad 
 in the spring, or immediately after ; and meant not to go 
 without me." 
 
 " Now you are my child, my dear, and shall help me 
 with my roses," said her aunt kissing her, and taking 
 Eleanor in her arms. " Eleanor, is that second question 
 settled yet ?" 
 
 " No, annt Caxton." 
 
 " You have not chosen yet which master you will 
 serve, — the world or the Lord ?" 
 
 " O yes, ma'am — I have decided that. I know which 
 I virant to be." 
 
 " But not which you will be. 
 
 " I mean that, ma'am." 
 
 " You are not a servant of the Lord now, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " No, aunt Caxton — I don't see how. I am dark." 
 
 " Christ says, ' He that is not with me is against me. 
 A question that is undecided, decides itself Eleanor 
 decide this question to-night." 
 
 " To-night, ma'am ?" 
 
S12 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " Yes. I am going to send you to church." 
 
 "To church ! There is no service to-night, aunt Car 
 ton." 
 
 " 'Not at the church where you have been — in the vil 
 lage. There is a little church in the valley beyond Mrs, 
 Pynce's cottage. You are going there." 
 
 "I do not remember any. Why aunt Caxton, the 
 valley is too narrow there for anything but the road and 
 the brook ; the mountains leave no room — hardly room 
 for her house." 
 
 " You have never been any further. Do you not 
 remember a sharp turn just beyond that place?" 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 " You will see the chapel when you get round the 
 turn." 
 
 The place Mrs. Caxton alluded to, was a wild, seclud- 
 ed, most beautiful valley, the bottom of which as Elea- 
 nor said was almost filled up with the road, and th" 
 brook which rushed along its course to meet the river 
 tself almost as large as another river. Where the peo 
 pie conld be found to go to a church in such a region, she 
 could not imagine. Heather clothed the hills; fairy cas- 
 cades leaped down the rocks at every turning, lovely as 
 a dream ; the whole scene was wild and lonely. Hardly 
 any human habitations or signs of human action broke 
 the wild reign of nature all the valley through. Elea- 
 nor was sure of a charming ride at least, whether there 
 was to be a congregation in the church at the end of it 
 or no ; and she prepared heiself accordingly. Mrs. 
 Caxton was detained at home ; the car did not go ; three 
 or four of the household, men and women, went on 
 ponies as Eleanor did. 
 
 They set off very early, while the light was fair and 
 beautiful yet, for the ride was of some length. It was 
 not on the way, to the village ; it turned off from the fine 
 high road to a less practised and more uneven track. It 
 
AT GLANOO. 313 
 
 was good for horses ; and riding in front, a little ahead 
 of her companions, Eleanor had the luxury of being 
 alone. Why had Sirs. Caxton bade her " settle that 
 question " to-niglit ? How could she; when her mind 
 was in so much darkness and confusion on the subject ? 
 Yet Eleanor hardly knew specifically what the hindrance 
 was ; only it was certain that while she wished and 
 intended to be a Christian, she was no neiirer the point, 
 so far as she could sue, than she had been months ago. 
 Nay, Eleanor confessed to herself that in the sweet 
 quiet and peace of hor aunt's house, and in her own 
 refease from pressing trouble, she had rather let all 
 troublesome thoughts slip away from her ; so that, 
 though not forgotten, the subject had been less painfully 
 on her mind than through the weeks that went before 
 ner coining to Plassy. She had wished for leisure and 
 quiet to attend to it and put that pain to rest for ever ; 
 and in leisure and quiet she had suffered pain to go to 
 sleep in a natural way and left all the business of dealing 
 with it to be deferred till the time of its waking. How 
 was all this? Eleanor walked her pony slowly along, 
 and thought. Tlien she had been freshly under the in- 
 fluence of Mr. Rhys and his preaching ; the very remem- 
 brance of which, now and ht-re, stirred her like an ^ 
 alarum bell. Ay, and more than that ; it wakened the 
 keen longing for that beauty and strength of life which 
 had so shewn her hei' own poverty. Humbled and sad, 
 Eleanor walked her pony on and on, while each little 
 crystal torrent that came with its sweet clear rush and 
 sparkle down the rocks, tinkled its own little silver bell 
 note in her ears ; a note of purity and action. Eleanor 
 Lad never heard it from them before ; now somehow 
 each rushing streamlet, with its bright leap over obsta- 
 cles and its joyous dash onward in its course, sounded 
 the same note. Notliing could be more lovely than 
 these cascades ; every one diffei'ent from the others, an 
 14 
 
814 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 if to shew how many forms of beanty water could take, 
 Eleanor noticed and heard them every one and the call 
 of every one, and rode on in a pensive mood till Mrs. 
 Pynce's cottage was passed and the turn in the valley 
 just beyond opened up a new scene for her. 
 
 How lovely ! how various ! The straitened dell 
 spread out gradually from this point into a compara- 
 tively broad valley, bordered with higher hills as it wid- 
 i-ned in the distance. The light still shewed its enti'an- 
 jing beauty ; wooded, and spotted with houses and 
 habitations of all kinds ; from the very humble to the 
 very lordly, and from the business factories of to-day, 
 back to the ruined strongholds of the time when war 
 was business. Wide and delicious the view was, as 
 much as it was unexpected ; and spring's softened col-^ 
 curing was all over it. Eleanor made a pause of a few 
 seconds as soon as all this buist upon her ; her next 
 thought was to look for the church. And it was plain 
 to see ; a small dark edifice, in excellent keeping with its 
 situation ; because of its colour and its simple structure, 
 which lialf merged it among the rocks and the hills. 
 
 " That is the church, John ?" Eleanor said to Mrs. 
 Caxton's factotum. 
 
 " That is it, ma'am. There's been no minister there 
 for a good piece of the year back." 
 
 " And what place is this ?" 
 
 "There's no jotece, to call it, ma'am. It's the valley 
 of Glanog." 
 
 Eleanor jumped off her pony and went into the church. 
 She had walked her pony too much ; it was late ; the 
 service had, begun ; and Eleanor was taken with a sudden 
 tremor at hearing the voice that was reading the hymn. 
 She had no need to look to see whose it was. She 
 walked up the aisle, seeking a vacant place to sit down, 
 anil exceedingly desirous to find it, for she was conscious 
 that she was right under the preacher's eye and observa- 
 
AT 6LANOO. 816 
 
 tion ; but as one never does well what one does in con^ 
 fusion, she overlooked one or two chances that offered, 
 and did not get a seat till she was far forward, in the 
 place of fullest view for both seeing and being seen. 
 And there she sat down, asking herself what should 
 make her tremble so. Why had her aunt Caxton sent 
 her that evening, alone, to hear Mr. Rhys preach ? And 
 why not ? what was there about it ? She was very 
 glad, she knew, to hear him ; but there would be no 
 more apathy or languor in her mind now on the subject 
 of that question her aunt had desired her to settle. No 
 more. The very sound of that speaker's voice woke her 
 conscience to a sharp sense of what she had been about 
 all these months since she had heard it last. She bent 
 her head in her hand for a little while, in a rushing of 
 thoughts — or ideas — that prevented her senses from act- 
 ing ; then the words the people were singing around her 
 made their entrance into her ear ; an entrance opened 
 by the sweet melody. The words were given very 
 plain. 
 
 " No room for mirth or trifling here, 
 For worldly hope, or worldly fear, 
 
 If life so soon is gone ; 
 If now the Judge is at the door, 
 And all mankind must stand before 
 
 Th' inexorable throne! 
 
 " No matter which my thoaghts employ 
 A moment's misery or joy ; 
 
 But I when both shall end, 
 Where shall I find my destiued place ? 
 Shall I my everlasting days 
 
 "With fiends or angels spend?" 
 
 Eleanor sat cowering before that thought. " Now 
 ve we going to have a terrible sermon ?" was her in- 
 ward question. Sht would not look up. The prelimi- 
 
318 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 nary services were all over, she found, and tue preachei 
 rose and gave out his text. 
 
 " A glorious high throne from the beginning, is the 
 place of our sanctuary.' " 
 
 Eleanor could not keep her eyes lowered anothei 
 second. The well-known deliberate utterance, and a 
 little unconscious indefinable ring of the tones in which 
 the words were spoken, brought her eyes to the speaker's 
 face; and they were never turned away again. "Do 
 we need a sanctuary ?" — was the first question the 
 pi'eacher started ; and very quietly he went on to discuss 
 that. Very quietly ; his manner and his voice were 
 neither in the slightest degree excited; how it was, 
 Eleanor did not know, that as he went on a tide of feel- 
 ing swept over the assembly. She could see it in the 
 evidences of tears, and she heard it in a deep sough of 
 the breath that went all over the house. The preacher 
 was reaching each one's secret consciousness, and stir- 
 ring into life that deep hidden want of every heart 
 which every heart knew differently. Some from sorrow; 
 some from sin ; some from weariness ; some from loneli- 
 ness; some from the battle of life; some from the strug- 
 gle with their own hearts ; all, from the wrath to come. 
 Nay, Eleanor's own heart was throbbing with the sense 
 that he had reached it and touched it, and knew its con- 
 dition. How was it, that with those quiet words he had 
 bowed every spirit before him, her own among the num- 
 ber ? It is true, that in the very containedness of his 
 tones and words there was an evidence of suppressed 
 power ; it flashed out once in a while ; and wrought 
 possibly with the more efiect from the feeling that it was 
 contained and kept down. However it were, the minds 
 of the assembly were already at a high state of tension, 
 when he passed to the other 'part of his subject — the 
 consideration of the sanctuary. It was no discourse 
 of regular heads and divisions ; it is impossible to reptirt, 
 
AT GLANOG. 3H 
 
 except as to its eifects. The preacher's head and heart 
 were both full, and words had no stint. But in this lat- 
 ter part of his subject, the power which had been so 
 contained was let loose, though still kept within bounds. 
 The eye fired now, and the voice quivered with its 
 charge, as he endeavoured to set before the minds of the 
 people the glorious vision which filled his own ; to make 
 known to others the " riches of glory" in which his own 
 soul rested and rejoiced. So evidently, that his hearers 
 half caught at what he would shew them, by the catch- 
 ing of sympathy ; and from different parts of the house 
 now there went up a suppressed cry, of want, or of ex- 
 ultation, as the case might be, which it was very thrill- 
 ing to hear. It was the sense of want and pain in Elea- 
 nor's mind ; not spoken indeed except by her counte- 
 nance ; but that toned strongly with the notes of feeling 
 that were uttered around her. As from the bottom of a 
 dark abyss into which he had fallen, a person might look 
 np to the bright sky, of which he could see but a little, 
 which yet would give him token of all the firmamental 
 light and beauty up there which he had not. From her 
 darkness Eleanor saw it ; saw it in the preacher's face 
 and words ; yes, and heard it in many a deep-breathed 
 utterance of gladness or thanksgiving at her side." She 
 had never felt so dark m her life as when she left the 
 church. She rushed away as soon as the service was 
 over, lest any one should speak to her ; however she had 
 to wait some time outside the door before John came 
 out. The people all tarried sti'angely. 
 
 " Beg pardon, ma'am," said John, " but we was wait- 
 ing a bit to see the minister." 
 
 Eleanor rode home fast, through fair moonlight with- 
 out and great obscurity within her own spirit. She 
 avoided her aunt ; she did not want to speak of the 
 meeting ; she succeeded in having no talk about it that 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 •* I glanced within a rock's cleft breast, 
 A lonely, Eafely-sheltered nest. 
 There as successlTe seasons go. 
 And tides alternate ebb and Row, 
 Full many a wing is traioed for flight 
 In heaven's blue field — ^in heaven's broad light." 
 
 The next morning at breakfast Eleanor and hei aoat 
 were alone as usual. There was no avoiding any- 
 thing. 
 
 " Did you have a pleasant evening ?" Mrs. Caxton 
 asked. 
 
 " I had a very pleasant ride, aunt Caxton." 
 
 " How was the sermon ?" 
 
 " It was — I suppose it was very good ; but it was vei-y 
 peculiar." 
 
 " In what way ?" 
 
 " I • don't know, ma'am ; — it excited the people very 
 much. They could not keep still." 
 
 " Do you like preaching better that does not excite 
 people ?" 
 
 Eleanor hesitated. "No, ma'am; but I do not like 
 them to make a noise." 
 
 " What sort of a noise ?" 
 
 Eleanor paused again, and to her astonishment found 
 her own lip quivering and her eyes watering as she an- 
 swered, — " It was a noise of weeping and of shouting — 
 not loud shouting ; but that is what it was." 
 
 " I have often known such effects under faithful pre 
 ienting of the truth," said Mrs. Caxton composedly 
 
AT MRS. POWLIS'S. 319 
 
 " When people's feelings are much moved, li is very 
 natural to give them expression." 
 
 " For uncultivated people, particularly." 
 
 " I don't know about the cultivation," said Mrs. Gas- 
 ton. " Robert Hall's sermons used to leave two thirds 
 of his hearers on theii' feet. I have seen a man in mid- 
 dle life, a judge in the courts, one of the heads of the 
 community in which he lived, so excited that he could 
 not undo the fastenings of his pew door; and he put his 
 foot on the seat and sprang over into the aisle." 
 
 " Do you like such things, aunt Caxton ?" 
 
 " I prefer another mode of getting out of church, my 
 dear." 
 
 " But shouting, or crying out, is what people of refine- 
 ment would not do, even if they could not open their 
 pew doors." 
 
 Eleanor was a little sorry the moment she had uttered 
 this speech ; her spirits were in a whirl of disorder and 
 uncomfortableness, and she had spoken hastily. Mrs. 
 Caxton answered with gi-eat composure. 
 
 " What do you call those words that you are accus- 
 tomed to hear, the ' Gloria in Excelsis' ? — ' Glory be to 
 God on high, and on earth peace, good will towards 
 men. We praise thee, we bless thee, we worship thee, 
 we glorify thee, we give thanks to tliee for thy great 
 glory, O Lord God, heavenly King.' " 
 
 " What do you call it, aunt Caxton ?" 
 
 " If it is not a shout of joy, I can make nothing of it. 
 Or the one hundred and fiftieth psalm — ' O praise God 
 in his holiness ; praise him in the firmament of his pow- 
 er. Praise him in his noble acts ; praise him according 
 to his excellent greatness. Praise him in the sound of 
 the trumpet ; praise him upon the lute and harp. . 
 Praise him in the cymbals and dances ; praise him upon 
 the strings and pipe. Praise him upon the well timed 
 cymbals ; praise him upon the loud cymbals Let every 
 
320 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 thing that hath breath praise the Lord.' — What is that 
 but a shout of praise ?" 
 
 " It never sounded like a shout," said Eleanor. 
 
 " It did once, I think," said Mrs. Caxton. 
 
 " When was that, ma'am ?" 
 
 " When Ezra sang it, with the priests a,nd the people 
 to help him, after they were returned from captivity. 
 Then the people shouted with a loud shout, and the 
 noise was heard afor off. All the people shouted with a 
 great shout, when they praised the Lord." 
 
 " But aunt Caxton," said Eleanor, who felt herself 
 taken down a little, as a secure talker is apt to be by a 
 manner very composed in his opponent — " it is surely the 
 habit of refined persons in these times not to get excited 
 — or not to express their feelings veiy publicly ?" 
 
 " A very good habit," said Mrs. Caxton. " Neverthe- 
 less I have seen a man — a gentleman — and a man in very 
 high standing, in a public assembly, go white with anger 
 and li^come absolutely speechless, with the strength of 
 passion, at some offence he had taken." 
 
 " O such passions, of course, will display themselves 
 sometimes," said Eleanor. "Bad passions often wUl. 
 They escape control." 
 
 " I have seen a lady — a lovely and refined lady — faint 
 away at the sudden tidings that a child's life was secure, 
 — whom she had almost given up for lost." 
 
 " But, dear aunt Caxton ! you do not call that a par- 
 allel case?" 
 
 " A parallel case with what ?" 
 
 " Anybody might be excited at such a thing. Yon 
 would wonder if they were not." 
 
 "I do not see the justness of your reasoning, Eleanor. 
 A man may turn white with passion, and it is natural ; 
 a woman may faint with joy at receiving back her cliUd 
 fr;:)m death; and you are not surprised. But the joy of 
 suddenly seeing eternal Ufe one's own — the joy of know 
 
AT MRS. POWLIS'S, 321 
 
 ing that God has forgiven our sins — you think may be 
 boine c.'dmly. I have knovi^n people faint under that 
 joy as well." 
 
 " Aunt Caxton," said Eleandr, her voice growing 
 hoarse, " I do not see how anybody can have it. How 
 can they know their sins are forgiven ?" 
 
 "You may find it in your Bible, Eleanor; did you 
 never see it there ? ' The Spirit witnesseth with our 
 spirit, that we are the children of God.' " 
 
 " But Paul was inspired ?" 
 
 " Yes, thank God ! — to declare that dividend of pres- 
 ent joy to all shareholders in the stock of eternal life. 
 But doubtless, only faith can take it out." 
 
 Eleanor sat silent, chewing bitter thoughts. " this 
 is what these people have !" — she said to herself; — "this 
 is the helmet of salvation ! And I am as far from it as 
 ever !" The conversation ended there. Eleanor was 
 miserable all day. She did not explain herself; Mrs. 
 Caxton only saw her preoccupied, moody, and silent. 
 
 " There is preaching again at Glanog to-night," she 
 said a few days afterwards ; " I am not yet quite well 
 enough to go. Do you choose to go, Eleanor?" 
 
 Eleanor looked down and answered yes. 
 
 She went ; and again, and again, and again. Sun- 
 days or week days, Eleanor missed no chance of riding 
 her pony to the little valley church. Mrs. Caxton gen- 
 erally went with her, after the first week ; but going in 
 her car she was no hindrance to the thoughtfulness and 
 solitude oF the rides on horseback ; and Eleanor some- 
 times wept all the way home, and oftener came with a 
 confused pain in her heart, dull or acute as the case 
 might be. She saw truth that seemed beautiful and glo- 
 rious to her ; she saw it in the faces and lives as well as 
 in the words of others ;. she longed to share their immu- 
 nity and the peace she perceived them possessed of' 
 but how to lay hold of it she could not find. Sh« 
 14* 
 
322 THE OLD HELMBT, 
 
 goemed to lierself too evil ever to become good ; she 
 tried, but her heart seemed as hard as a stone. She 
 prayed, but no relief came. She did not see how she 
 could be saved, while evil had such a hold of her ; and 
 to dislodge it she was powerless. Eleanor was in a con- 
 stant state of uneasiness and distress now. Her usually 
 fine temper was more easily roughened than she had ever 
 known it ; the services she had long been accustomed to 
 render to others who needed her, she felt it now very 
 hard to give. She was dissatisfied with herself and very 
 unhappy, and she said to herself that she was unfit to 
 properly minister to anybody else. Siie became a com- 
 paratively silent and ungenial companion to her aunt. 
 Mrs. Caxton perhaps understood her; for she made no 
 remark on this change, seemed to take no notice ; was 
 as evenly and tenderly afiVctionate to her niece as ever 
 before, with perhaps a little added expression of sympa- 
 thy now and then. She did not even ask an explanation 
 of Eleanor's manner of getting out of church. 
 
 Eleanor and her aunt, as it happened, always occupied 
 a seat very near the front and almost under the pulpit. 
 It had been Eleanor's custom ever since the first time she 
 came there, to slip out of her seat and make her way 
 down the aisle with eager though quiet haste; leaving 
 her aunt to follow at her leisure ; and she was generally 
 mounted and off before Mrs. Caxton reached the front 
 door. During the service always now, Eleanor's eyes 
 •were fastened upon the preacher; his often looked at 
 her; he recognized her of course ; and Eleanor had a 
 vague fear that if she were not out of the way he would 
 some time or other come down and accost her. It was 
 an unreasoning fear ; she gave no account of it to her- 
 self; except that her mind was in an unsettled, out-of- 
 order state, that would not bear questioning ; and if ho 
 came he would be certain to question her. So Eleanor 
 
AT MRS. rOWLIS'S. 323 
 
 fled and let her annt do the talking — if any there were. 
 Eleanor never asked and never knew. 
 
 This went on foi' some weeks. Spring had burst upon 
 the hills, and the valleys were green in beauty and flush- 
 ing with flowers ; and Eleanor's heart was barren and 
 cold more than she had ever felt it to be. She began to 
 have a most miserable opinion of herself. 
 
 It happened one night, what rarely happened, that Mr 
 Rhys had some one in the pulpit with him. Eleanor waa 
 sorry ; she grudged to have even the closing prayer or 
 hymn given by another voice. But it was so this even- 
 ing ; and when Eleanor rose as usual to make her quick 
 way out of the house, she found that somebody else had 
 been quick. Mr. Rhys stood beside her. It was impos- 
 sible to help speaking. He had clearly come down for 
 the very purpose. He shook hands with Eleanor. 
 
 " How do you do ?" he said. " I am glad to see you 
 here. Is your mind at rest yet ?" 
 
 " No," said Eleanor. However it waa, this meeting 
 which she had so shunned, was not entirely unwelcome 
 to her when it came. If anything would make her feel 
 better, or any counsel do her good, she was willing to 
 stand even questioning that might lead to it. Mr. Rhys's 
 questioning on this occasion was not very severe. He 
 only asked her, " Have you ever been to class ?" 
 
 " To what ?" said Eleanor. 
 
 " To a class-meeting. You know what that is ?" 
 
 "Yes,— I know a little. No, I have never been to one." 
 
 " I should like to see you at mine. We meet at Mrs. 
 Powlis's in the village of Plassy, Wednesday afternoon." 
 
 " But I could not Mr, Rhys. It would not be possi- 
 ble for me to say a word before other people ; it would 
 not be pos4ble." 
 
 " I will try not to trouble you with difiicult questions. 
 Promise me that you will come. It will not hurt you to 
 near others speak." 
 
324 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 Eleanor hesitated. 
 
 " Will you come and try ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " There !" said Eleanor to herself as she rode away,— « 
 " now I have got my head in a net, and I am fast. T 
 going to such a place ! What business have I there ? — " 
 And yet there was a secret gratification in the hope that 
 somehow this new plan might bring her good. But on 
 the whole Eleanor disliked it excessively, with all the 
 power of nature and cultivation. For though frank 
 enough to those whom she loved, a proud reserve was 
 Eleanor's nature in regard to all others whom she did not 
 love ; and the habits of her life were as far as possible 
 at variance with this proposed meeting, in its familiar 
 and social religious character. She could not conceive 
 how people should wish to speak of their intimate feel- 
 ings before other people. Her own shrank from expo- 
 sure as morbid flesh shrinks from the touch. However, 
 Wednesday came. 
 
 " Can I have Powis this afternoon, aunt Caxton ?" 
 
 " Certainly, my dear ; no need to ask. Powis is youre. 
 Are you going to Mrs. Pynce ?" 
 
 " No ma'am. — " Eleanor struggled. — " Mr. Rhys has 
 made me promise to go to his class. I do not like to go 
 at all ; but I have promised." 
 
 " You will like to go next time," said Mrs. Caxton 
 quietly. And she said no more than that. 
 
 " Will I ?" thought Eleanor as she rode away. Bu 
 if there was anything harsh or troubled in her mood of 
 mind, all nature breathed upon it to soften it. The trees 
 were leafing out again ; the meadows brilliant with fresh 
 green; the soft spring airs wooing into full blush and 
 beauty the numberless spring flowers ; every breath fra- 
 grant with new sweetness. Nothing could be loveliei 
 than Eleanor's ride to the village ; nothing more sooth- 
 ing to a rufiled condition of thought ; and she arrived 
 
AT MI?S. POWLIS'S. S2t 
 
 at Airs. Powlis's door with an odd kind of latent hope- 
 fulness that something good might be in stoic for hei 
 there. 
 
 Her strange and repugnant feelings returned when she 
 got into the house. She was shewn into a room where 
 several other persons were sitting, and where more kept 
 momently coming in. Greetings passed between these 
 persons, very frank and cordial ; they were all at home 
 there and accustomed to each other and to the business ; 
 Eleanor alone was strange, unwonted, not in her element. 
 That feeling however changed as soon as Mr. Rhys came 
 in. Where he was, there was at least one person with 
 whom she had sympathy, and who had some little de- 
 gree of sympathy with her. Eleanor's feelhigs were 
 destined to go through a course of discipline before the 
 meeting was over. 
 
 It began with some very sweet singing. There were 
 no books ; everybody knew the words that were sung, 
 and they burst out like a glad little chorus. Eleanor's 
 lips only were mute. The prayer that followed stirred 
 her very much. It was so simple, so pure, so heaven- 
 ward in its aspirations, so human in its humbleness, so 
 touching in its sympathies. For they reached her, Elea- 
 nor knew by one word. And when the prayer was 
 ended, whatever might follow, Eleanor was glud she had 
 come to that class-meeting. 
 
 But what followed she found to be intensely interest- 
 ing. In words, some few some many, one after another 
 of the persons present gave an account of his pi-ogress 
 or of his standing in the Christian life. Each spoke only 
 when called upon by Mr. Rhys ; and each was answered 
 in his turn with a word of counsel or direction or en- 
 couragement, as the case seemed to need. Sometimes 
 the answer was in the words of the Bible ; but always- 
 whatever it were, it was given, Eleanor felt, with sin- 
 gular appositeness to the intere«ts before him. Witb 
 
326 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 great skill too, and -with infinite sympathy and tender 
 ness if need called for it ; with sympathy invariably 
 And Eleanor admired the apt readiness and kindnesa 
 and wisdom with which the answers were framed ; so 
 as to suggest without fail the lesson desired to be given, 
 yet so suggest that it should be felt by nobod}' as an im- 
 putation or a rebuke. And ever and again the little 
 assembly broke out into a burst of song , a verse or two 
 of some hymn, that started naturally from the last words 
 that had been said. Those bursts of song touched Elea- 
 nor. They were so plainly heartfelt, so utterly glad in 
 their utterances, that she had never heard the like. No 
 choir, the best trained in the world, could give such an 
 effect with their voices, unless they were also trained 
 and meet to be singers in heaven. One of the choruses 
 pleased Eleanor particularly. It was sung in a wild 
 sweet tune, and with great energy. 
 
 " There's balm in Gilead, 
 To make the wounded whole. 
 There's power enough in Jesus — 
 To save a sin-sick soul." 
 
 It was just after this was finished, that Mr. Rhys in 
 his moving about the room came and stood before Elea- 
 nor. He asked her " Do you love Jesus ?" 
 
 It is impossible to express the shame and sorrow with 
 which Eleanor answered, " No." 
 
 " Do you wish to be a Christian ?" 
 
 Eleanor bowed her head. 
 
 " Do you intend to bo one ?" 
 
 Eleanor looked up, surprised at the word, and an- 
 swered, "If I can." 
 
 " Do you think," said he very tenderly, " that yon 
 have a right to that ' (/" — when Jesus has said, ' Come 
 unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and 7 
 will give you rest ?' " 
 
AT MKS. POtVLlS S. 32^ 
 
 He turned fvotn her and again struck the notes they 
 nad been singing. 
 
 " There's balm in Gilead — 
 To make the wounded whole. 
 There's power enough in Jesus 
 To save a sin-sick soul." 
 
 The closing prayei' followed, which almost broke Elea- 
 nor's heart in two ; it so dealt with her and for her. 
 While some of those present were afterward exchang- 
 ing low words and shakes of the hand, she slipped away 
 and mounted her pony. 
 
 She was in dreadful confusion during the first part of 
 her ride. Half resentful, half broken-hearted. It was 
 the last time, she said to herself, that ever she would be 
 found in a meeting like that. She would never go again ; 
 to make herself a mark for people's sympathy and a sub- 
 "ect for people's prayers. And yet — surely the human 
 mind seems an inconsistent thing at times, — the thought 
 of that sympathy and those prayers had a touch of 
 sweetness in it, which pi-esently drew a flood of tears 
 from Eleanor's eyes. There was one old man in partic- 
 ular, of venerable appearance, who had given a most 
 dignified testimony of faith and happiness, whose 
 " Amen !" recurred to her. It was uttered at the close 
 of a petition Mr. Rhys had made in her favour ; and 
 Eleanor recalled it now with a strange mixture of feel- 
 ings. Why was she so difl'ereiit from him and from the 
 rest of those good peojile ? She knew her duty ; why 
 was it not done ? She seemed to herself more hard 
 hearted and evil tlian Eleanor would formerly have sup- 
 posed possible of her ; she had never liked herself lesa 
 than she did during this ride home. Iler mind was in a 
 rare turmoil, of humiliation and darkness and sorrow; one 
 thing only was clear ; that she never would go to a class- 
 meeting again ! And yet it would be wrong to say that 
 
328 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 she was on the whole sorry she had gone once, or that 
 she really regretted anything that had been done or said 
 But this once should suffice her. So she went along, 
 dropping tears from her eyes and letting Powis find his 
 way as he pleased ; which he was quite competent 
 to do. 
 
 By degrees her eyes cleared to see how lovely the 
 evening was falling. The aii' sweet with exhalations 
 from the hedge-rows and meadows, yes and from the 
 more distant hills too ; fragrant and balmy. The cattle 
 were going home from the fields ; smoke curled up from 
 a hundred chimney tops along the hillsides and the valley 
 bottom ; the evening light spread here and there in a 
 broad glow of colour ; fair snatches of light were all 
 that in many a place the hills and the bottom could catch. 
 Every turn in the winding valley brought a new combi- 
 nation of wonderful beauty into view ; and shadows and 
 light, and flower-fragrance, and lowing cattle along the 
 ways, and wreaths of chimney smoke ; all spoke of 
 peace. Could the spell help reaching anybody's heart? 
 It reached Eleanor's ; or her mood in some inexplicable 
 way soothed itself down ; for when she reached the 
 farmhouse, though she thought of herself in the same 
 humbled forlorn way as ever, her thought of the clas» 
 meeting had changed 
 
THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 VOL. ii. 
 
THE OLD HELMET 
 
 BY 
 
 OCHB ITJTHOR OF "WIDE, WIDE WOKLa 
 
 IS XV'» F'»'MME8. 
 
 ' Kothlne iDefore, nothing behind : 
 The Btepg of Faith 
 Fttll on the seeming void, and fll 
 The rock beneath." 
 
 Whittiek. 
 
 VOL. n. 
 
 NEW YOKK : 
 BOBBRT CARTER & BROTHERS 
 
 No. 530 By^ 4 D W A Y. 
 
Sntored, sccordlng t« ^ct of GoDgress, in tbe year 186S, by 
 
 ROBERT OARTEK & BEOTHEES, 
 
 In Ota Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United StatM for tin 
 
 Bonthern District of Neir York. 
 
THE OLD HELMET 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Let; no one ask me how It came to pass ; 
 
 It seeraB that 1 am happy^ that to me 
 
 A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass, 
 
 A purer sapphire melts into the sea." 
 
 Eleanor could not stay away from the Wednesday 
 meetings at Mrs. Powlis's house. In vain she had 
 thought she would ; she determined she would ; when 
 the day came round she found herself drawn with a kind 
 of fascination towards the place. She went ; and after 
 that second time never questioned at all about it. She 
 went every week. 
 
 It was with no relief to her mental troubles however. 
 She was sometimes touched and moved ; often. At 
 other times she felt dull and hopeless. Yet it soothed 
 her to go; and she came away generally feeling inspirited 
 with hope by something she had heard, or feeling at 
 least the comfort that she had taken a step in the right 
 direction. It did not seem to bring her much more com- 
 fort. Eleanor did not see how she could be a Christian 
 while her heart was so hard and so full of its own will. 
 She found it perverse, even now, when she was wishing 
 so much to be different. What hope for her ? 
 
 It was a great help, that during all this time Mi-s. 
 Caxton left her unquestioned and uncounselled. She 
 made no remarks about Eleanor's going to class-meeting; 
 
6 THHOLDHELMET. 
 
 she took it as a perfectly natural thing ; . vri? ankoi «ei 
 anything about it or about her liking it. A contrarj 
 course would have greatly embarrassed Eleanor's action ; 
 as it was she felt perfectly free ; unwatched, and at ease. 
 
 The spring was flushing into mature beauty and wak- 
 ing up all the flowers on the hills and in the dales, when 
 Eleanor one afternoon came out to her aunt in the gar- 
 den. A notable change had come over the garden by 
 this time ; its comparatively barren-looking beds were 
 all rejoicing in gay bloom and sending up a gush of 
 sweetness to the house with every stir of the air that 
 way. From the house to the river, terrace below terrace 
 sloped down, biimfuU already of blossoms and fragrance. 
 The roses were making great preparations for their com- 
 ing season of festival ; the mats which had covered some 
 tender plants were long gone. Tulips and hyacinths and 
 polyanthuses and primroses were in a flush of spring 
 glory now ; violets breathed everywhere ; the snowy- 
 flowered gooseberry and the red-flowered currant, and 
 berberry with its luxuriant yellow bloom, and the al- 
 mond, and a magnificient Magnolia blossoming out in 
 the arms of its evergreen sister, with many another 
 flower less known to Eleanor, made the garden terraces 
 a little wilderness of loAeliness and sweetness. Near 
 the house some very fine auriculas in pots were display- 
 ing themselves. In the midst of all this Mrs. Caxton 
 was busy, with one or two people to help her and work 
 under direction. Planting and training and seed-sowing 
 were going on ; and the mistress of the place moved 
 about among her floral subjects a very pleasant represen- 
 tation of a rural queen, her niece thought. Few queens 
 have a more queenly presence than Mrs. Caxton had ; 
 and with a trowel in hand just as much as if it were a 
 Bceptre. And few queens indeed carry such a calm niind 
 under such a calm brow. Eleanor sighed and smiled. 
 
 " Among 5'our auricnlas. aunty, as usual !" 
 
iNTHESPRING. 7 
 
 " Among everything," said Mrs. Caxtcn. " There is 
 a great deal to do. Don't you want to help, Eleanor ? 
 You may plant Gladiolus bulbs — or you may make cut 
 lings — or you may sow seeds. I can find you work." 
 
 " Aunty, I am going down to the village." 
 
 " O it is Wednesday afternoon !" said Mrs. Caxton. 
 And slie came close up to her niece and kissed her, 
 while one hand was full of bulbs and the other held a 
 trowel. " Well go, my dear. Not at peace yet, Elea- 
 nor ?" 
 
 There was so tender a tone in these last words that 
 Eleanor could not reply. She dashed away without 
 making any answer ; and all along the way to Plassy 
 she was every now and then repeating them to herself. 
 " Not at peace yet, Eleanor ?" — 
 
 She was in a tender mood this afternoon ; the ques- 
 tions and remarks addressed to the other persons in the 
 meeting frequently moved her to tears, so that she sat 
 with her hand to her brow to hide the watering eyes. 
 Slie did not dread the appeal to herself, for Mr. Rhys 
 never asked her any troublesome questions ; never any- 
 thing to which she had to make a troublesome answer; 
 though there might be perhaps matter for thought in it. 
 He had avoided anything, whether in his asking or reply- 
 ing, that would give her any difficulty there, in the pres- 
 ence of others, — whatever it might do in her own mind 
 and in secret. To-day he asked her, " Have you found 
 peace yet ?" 
 
 " No," said Eleanor. 
 
 " What is the state of your mind — if you could give 
 it in one word ? ' 
 
 " Confusion." 
 
 " What is it confused about ? Do you understand — 
 dearly — the fact that you arc a sinner ? without excuse?" 
 
 « Fully !" 
 
 "Do you understand — clearly — that Christ has suffered 
 
8 THE OLD HBLMBT. 
 
 for sins, the just for the unjust, that he might bring 
 us to Go. J ?" 
 
 " Yes. I understand it." 
 
 " Is there any confusion in your mind as to the terms 
 on which the Lord will receive you ? — forsaking your 
 sins, and trusting in him to pardon and save you ?" 
 
 " No— I see that." 
 
 " Do you think there is any other condition besides 
 those two ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Why do you not accept them ?" 
 
 Eleanor raised her eyes with a feeling almost of injus- 
 tice. "I cannot!" — she said. 
 
 " That makes no difference. God never gives a com- 
 mand that cannot with his help be fulfilled. There was 
 a man once brought to Jesus — carried by four men ; he 
 was palsied, and lay on a litter or bed, unable to move 
 himself at all. To this man the Lord said, ' Arise, take 
 up thy bed, and walk.' Suppose he had looked up and 
 said, ' I cannot ?' " 
 
 Eleanor struggled with herself. Was this fair ? Wsts 
 it a parallel case? She could not tell. She kept silence. 
 Mr. Rhys went on, with tones subdued to great gentle- 
 ness. 
 
 " My friend, Jesus invites to no empty board — to no 
 cold reception. On his part all is ready ; the unre.'.di- 
 ness lies somewhere with you, or the invitation would be 
 accepted. In your case it is not the bodily frame that is 
 palsied ; it is the heart ; and the command comes to 
 you, sweet as the invitation, — ' Give it to me.'' If you 
 are entirely willing, the thing is done. If it be not 
 done, it is because, somewhere, you are not willing — or 
 do not believe. If you can trust Jesus, as that poor 
 man did, you may rise up and stand upon your feet thia 
 very hour. ' Believe ye that I am able to do t)iiy ?' ha 
 isked of the blind man whom he cured." 
 
INTHESPEING. 9 
 
 Tliore was silence for an instant. And again as he 
 turned away from her, Mr. Rhys broke out with the 
 song, that Eleanor thought would break her hear) in 
 twain this time, — 
 
 " How lost was my condition 
 Till Jesus made me whole ; 
 There Is but one physician 
 Can cure a sin-sick soul. 
 
 There's balm Iti Gilead — 
 
 To make the wounded whole. 
 There's power enough in Jesus 
 To save a siu-sick soul." 
 
 Eleanor had been the last one spoken to ; the meeting 
 soon was ended, and she was on her way home. But so 
 broken-spirited and humiliated that she did not know 
 what to do with herself. Could it be possible that she 
 was not willing — or that she wanted _/««</;. — or that there 
 was some secret corner of rebellion in her heart ? It 
 humbled her wonderfully to think it. And yet she could 
 not disprove the reasoning. God could not be unfaith- 
 ful ; and if there were not somewhere on her part a 
 failure to meet the conditions, surely peace would have 
 been made before now. And she had thought herself 
 all this while a subject for pity, not for blame ; nay., for 
 blame indeed, but not in this regard. Her mouth was 
 8t0]')ped now. She rode home broken-hearted; would 
 liot see Mrs. Caxton at supper ; and spent the evening 
 md much of the night in weeping and self-searching. 
 They were very downcast; days that follon-ed this day. 
 Mrs. Caxton looked at her anxiously sometimes ; never 
 interfered with her. 
 
 Towards the end of the week there was preaching at 
 Glanog, and the family went as usual. Eleanor rode by 
 herself, going and coming, and held no communication 
 with her aunt by the way. But late at night, snrae time 
 after Mrs. Caxtoji had gone to bed, a white-robi.d fig 
 
 1* 
 
]# THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 nre came into her room and knelt down by the bed 
 side. 
 
 " Is that you, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " Aunt Caxton — ^it's all gone !" 
 
 " What ?" 
 
 " My trouble. I came to tell you. It's all gone. I 
 am so happy !" 
 
 " How is it, my dear child ?" 
 
 "When Mr. Rhys was preaching to-night, it all came 
 to me ; I saw everything cleai-ly. I saw how Jesus 
 loves sinners. I saw I had nothing to do but to give 
 myself to him, and he would do everything. I see 
 how sins are forgiven through his blood ; and I trust in 
 it, and I am sure mine are ; and I feel as if I had begun 
 a new life, aunt Caxton !" 
 
 Eleanor's tears flowed like summer rain. Mrs. Cax- 
 ton rose up and put her arms round her. 
 
 " The Lord be praised !" she said. " I was waiting 
 for this, Eleanor." 
 
 " Aunt Caxton, I had been trying and thinking to 
 make myself good first. I thought I was unworthy and 
 mifit to be Christ's servant ; but now I see that I can 
 be nothing but unworthy, and only he can make me 
 fit for anything ; so I give up all, and I feel that he 
 will do all for me. I am so happy ! I was so blind 
 before !" 
 
 Mrs. Caxton said little ; she only rejoiced with Elea- 
 nor so tenderly as if she had been her own mother. 
 Though that is speaking very coolly on the present occa- 
 sion. Mrs. Powle had never shewed her daughter so 
 much of tliat quality in her life, as Eleanor's aunt shewed 
 now. 
 
 The breakfast next morning was unusually quiet. 
 Happiness dues not always make people talkative. 
 
 "IIow do you do, ray love?" said Mrs. Caxton when 
 they were left alone. " After being up half the night ?" 
 
INTHESPEING. 11 
 
 " More fresh than I have felt for a year, auut Caxton, 
 Did you hear that niglitin^ale last niiiht ?" 
 
 " I heard him. I listened to him and thought of 
 you." 
 
 " He sang — I cannot tell you what his song sounded 
 like to me, aunt Caxton. I could almost have fancied 
 there was an angel out there." 
 
 " There were a great many rejoicing somewhere else. 
 What glory to think of it !" They were silent again till 
 near the end of breakfast ; then Mrs. Caxton said, — 
 " Eleanor, I shall be engaged the whole of this morn- 
 ing. This afternoon, if you will, I will go with you into 
 the garden." 
 
 " This afternoon — is Wednesday, aunt Caxton." 
 
 " So it is. Well, before or after you go to the village, 
 I 'want you to dress some dishes of flowers for me — ■ 
 will you ?" 
 
 " With great pleasure, ma'am. And I can get some 
 hawthorn blossoms, I know. I will do it before I go, 
 ma'am." 
 
 Was it pleasant, that morning's work ? Eleanor went 
 out early to get her sprays of May blossoms ; and in 
 the tender beauty of the day and season was lured on 
 and on, and tempted to gather other wild bits of loveli- 
 ness, till she at last found her hands full, and came 
 home laden with tokens of where she had been. " O'er 
 the muir, amang the heather," Eleanor's walk had gone ; 
 and her basket was gay with gorse and broom just open- 
 mg ; but from grassy banks on her way she had brought 
 the bright blue speedwell; and clematis and bryony 
 from the hedges, and from under them wild hyacinth 
 and white campion and crane's-bill and primroses ; and 
 a meadow she had passed over gave her one or two 
 pretty kinds of orchis, with daisies and cowslips, and 
 grasses of various kinds. Eleanor was dressing these in 
 flower baskets and dishes, in the open gallery that over 
 
12 THE OLD HELM El. 
 
 looked the meadows, when Mrs. Caxton passing through 
 on her own business stopped amoment to look at her. 
 
 "All those from your walk, my dear! Do you not 
 mean to apply to the garden ?'' 
 
 " Aunty, I could have got a great many more, if I 
 could have gone into the woods — but my walk did not 
 lie that way. Yes, ma'am, I am going into the garden 
 presently, when I have ordered these dishes well. Where 
 are they to go, aunt Caxton ?" 
 
 " Some in one place and some in another. Tou may 
 leave them here, Eleanor, when they are done, and I 
 will take care of them. Shall I have the garden flowers 
 cut for you ?" 
 
 " O no, ma'am, if you please !" 
 
 Mrs. Caxton stood a moment longer watching Eleanor • 
 the pretty work and the pretty worker ; the confusion 
 of fair and sweet things around her and under her fin- 
 gers, with the very fine and fair human creature busy 
 about them. Eleanor's face was gravely happy ; more 
 bright than Mrs. Caxton had ever seen it ; very much of 
 kin to the flowers. She watched her a moment, and 
 then went nearer to kiss Eleanor's forehead. The flowers 
 fell from the fingers, while the two exchanged a look of 
 mute sympathy ; then on one part and on the other, busi- 
 ness went forward. 
 
 Eleanor's work held her all the morning. For after 
 the wild beauties had been disposed to her mind, there 
 was another turn with their more pretentious sisters of 
 the garden. Azaleas .ind honeysuckles, lilies of the 
 valley, hyacinths and pomponium lilies, with Scotch rosea 
 and white broom, and others, made superb floral assem- 
 blages, out of doors or in ; and Eleanor looked at her 
 work lovingly when it was done. 
 
 So went the morning of that day, and Eleanor's ride 
 ha the afternoon was a fit continuation. May was abroad 
 lU the bursting leaves as well as in opening flowers ; the 
 
INTHESPEING IS 
 
 breath of Eden seemed to sweep down the valley of 
 Plassy. Ay, there is a partial return to the lost para- 
 dise, for those whom Christ leads thither, even before 
 wc get to the everlasting hills. 
 
 Eleanor this day was the first person addressed in the 
 meeting. It had never happened so before. But now 
 Mr. Rhys asked her first of all, " How do you do tc 
 day ?" 
 
 Eleanor looked up and answered, "Well. And all 
 changed." 
 
 " Will you tell us how you mean ?" 
 
 " It was when you were preaching last night. It all 
 came to me. I saw my mistake, when you told about 
 the love of Christ to sinners. I saw I had been trying 
 to make myself good." 
 
 " And how is it now ?" 
 
 "Now," — said Eleanor looking up again with full 
 eyes, — " I will know nothing but Christ." 
 
 The murmur of thanksgiving heard from one or two 
 voices brought her head down. It had nearly overcome 
 Iier. But she controlled herself, and presently went on ; 
 though not daring to look again into Mr. Rhys's face, 
 the expression of whose eyes of gladness was harder to 
 meet than tlie spoken thanksgivings. 
 
 "I see I have notliing, and am nothing," she said. 
 " I see that Christ is all, and will do all for me. I wish 
 to be his servant. All is changed. The very hills are 
 changed. I never saw such colours or such sunlight, as 
 I have seen as I rode along this afternoon." 
 
 " A true judgment," said Mr. Rhys. " It has been 
 often said, that the eye sees what the eye brings the means 
 of seeing ; and the love of Christ puts a glory upon all 
 nature that far surpasses the glory of the sun. It is a 
 changed world, for those who know that love for the first 
 time ! Friends, most of us profess to have that know- 
 ledge. Do we ha\ e it so that it puts a glory on all the 
 
14 THEOLDHELMET. 
 
 outer world, in the midst of which we live and walk and 
 attend to our business ?" 
 
 " It does to me, sir," said the venerable old man whom 
 Eleanor had notiued ; — " it does to me. Praise the 
 Lord!" Instead of any other answer they broke out 
 singing,— 
 
 " how happy are they 
 
 Who the Saviour obey, 
 And have laid up their treasure above. 
 
 Tongue can never express 
 
 The sweet comfort and peace 
 Of a soul in its earliest love." 
 
 " The way to keep that joy," said Mr. Rhys returning 
 to Eleanor, " and to know more of it, is to take every 
 succeeding step in the Christian life exactly as you took 
 the first one ; — in self-renunciation, in entire dependence. 
 As ye have received Christ Jesus the Lord, .so walk ye 
 in him. It is a simple and huBible way, the way along 
 which the heavenly light shines. Do everything for 
 Christ — do everything in his strength ; — and you will 
 soon know that the secret of the Lord is with them that 
 fear him. Blessed be his name ! He giveth power to 
 the faint, and to them that have no might he increaseth 
 strength." 
 
 It was easy to see that the speaker made a personal 
 application here, with reference to himself; but after 
 that there was no more said directly to Eleanor. The 
 subject went round the circle, receiving the various tes- 
 timony of the persons there. Eleanor's heart gave 
 quick sympathy to many utterances, and took home with 
 intent interest the answering counsels and remarks, 
 which in some instances were framed to put a guard 
 against self-deception or mistake. One or two of her 
 neighbours when the exercises were o\er, came and took 
 her hand, with a warm simple expression of feeling which 
 made Eleanor's heart hot ; and then she rode home. 
 
INTHESPRING. lA 
 
 " Did you have a pleasant time ?" said her aunt. 
 
 " Aunt Caxton, I think that room whore we meet ia 
 the pleasantest place in the world !" 
 
 " What do yon think of the chapel at Glanog ?" 
 
 " I don't know. I believe that is as good or better." 
 
 " Are you too tired to go out again ?" 
 
 " Not at all. Who wants me ?" 
 
 " Nanny Croghan is very sick. I have been with her 
 all the afternoon ; and Jane is going to sit up with her 
 to-night ; but Jane cannot go yet." 
 
 " She need not. I will stay there myself. I like it, 
 aunt Caxton." 
 
 " Then I will send for you early in the morning." 
 
 Nanny Croghan lived a mile or two from the fart* 
 house. Eleanor walked there ; attended by John wits 
 a basket. The place was a narrow dell between tw 
 upi'ising hills covered with heather ; as wild and secluded 
 as it is possible to imagine. The poor woman who lived 
 there alone was dying of lingering disease. John deliv- 
 ered the basket, and left Eleanor alone with her charge 
 and the mountains. 
 
 It was not a night like that she had spent by the bed- 
 side of her old nurse's daughter. Nanny was dying fast ; 
 and she needed something done for her constantly. 
 Through all the hours of the darkness Eleanor was kepi 
 on the watch or actively employed, in administerhig 
 medicine, or food, or comfort. For when Nanny wanted 
 nothing else, she wanted that. 
 
 " Tell me something I can fix my mind onto," she 
 would say. " It seems slipping away from me, like. 
 And then I gets cold with fenr." 
 
 Eleanor was new at the business ; she had forgotten 
 to bring hei Bible with her, and she could find none in 
 «he house ; " her sister had been there," Nanny said, 
 " and liad carried it away." Eleanor was obliged to 
 draw on the slender stores of her memory; and to make 
 
16 TUB OLD HELMET. 
 
 tlie most of those, she was obliged to explain them tc 
 Nanny, and go them ovei- and over, and pick them tc 
 pieces, and make her rest upon each clause and almost 
 each word of a verse. There were some words that 
 surely Eleanor became well acquainted with that night. 
 For Nanny could sleep very little, and when she could 
 not sleep she wanted talking incessantly. Eleanor urged 
 lier to accept the promises and she would have the peace. 
 " The secret of the Lord is with them that fear him." 
 
 " Ay, but I never did fear him, you see, — till a bit 
 agone ; and now it's all fear. I fear furder'n I can 
 see." 
 
 "Nanny, Nanny, the blood of Christ will take all that 
 fear away — if only you will trust in it. He shed it for 
 you — to pay your debts to justice. There is no con- 
 demnation to them wliich are in him." 
 
 Nanny did not know exactly what so big a word as 
 condemnation meant ; Eleanor was obliged to explain 
 it ; then what was meant by being " in Christ." Towards 
 morning Nanny seemed somewhat soothed and fell into a 
 doze. Eleanor went to the cottage door and softly 
 opened it, to see how the night went. 
 
 The dawn was breaking fair over the hills, the tops of 
 which shewed the unearthly brightness of coining day. 
 It took Eleanor's eyes and thoughts right up. O for the 
 niglit of darkness to pass away from this weary earth ! 
 Down in the valley the shadows lay thicker ; how thick 
 they lay about the poor head just now resting in sleep. 
 How thick they lay but a day or two ago upon Eleanor 
 herself! Now she looked up. The light was flushing 
 upon the mountain tops every moment stronger. The 
 dewy scents of the May morning were filling the air with 
 their nameless and numberless tokens of rich natui'e's 
 bounty. The voice of a cataract, close at hand, inad<? 
 merry down 'he rocks along with the song of the black- 
 bird, woodpecker and titmouse. And still, as Eleanoi 
 
INTHESPRING. 11 
 
 itood tliere and looked and listened, the i-usn and the stir 
 of sweet life grew more and more; the spring breeza 
 wakened up and floated past her face bringing the breath 
 of the flowers fresher and nearer; and the hill tops ever 
 kindled into more and more glow. "It is Spring! and 
 it is Day !" thought Eleanor,—" and so it is in my heart. 
 The darkness is gone ; the light is like that liglit, — prom- 
 ising more ; my life is full of sweetness I never knew. 
 Surely this month shall bo the month of months to mft 
 for ever. O for this day — for this morning — to waken 
 over all the world !" 
 
 She stood there, for ISTanny still slept, till the sun- 
 beams struck the hills and crept down the sides of them ; 
 and till John and Jane came in sight round the angle of 
 the road. John had brought the pony to take Eleanor 
 home ; and a few minutes' ride brought her there. 
 Morning prayers were however done, before Eleanor 
 could refresh herself with cold water and a change of 
 dress. When she came down to the sitting-room Mrs. 
 Caxton had stepped out on some business ; and in her 
 place, sitting alone with a book, Eleanor was greatly 
 surprised to see Mr. Rhys. 
 
 He was not at all surprised to see her ; rose up and 
 gave her a very cordial grasp of the hand, and stirred 
 up the wood fire; which. May morning though it was, 
 the thick walls of the old stone house and the neigh- 
 bimrhood of the mountains made useful and agreeable. 
 In silence and with a good deal of skill Mi\ Rhys laid 
 the logs together so that a fresh blaze sprang up ; then 
 after a remark upon the morning he went back to his 
 bo ik. Eleanor sat down, also silent, feeling very much 
 delighted to see him there, and to think that they would 
 have his company at breakfast ; tut not at all inclined, 
 nor indeed competent, to open a conversation. She 
 looked into the fire and wondered at the turns that had 
 brought about this meeting ; wondered over the past 
 
18 rHEOLDHEI, MST. 
 
 year of her life; remembered her longing for the "helmet 
 of salvation " which her acquaintance with Mr. Rhys 
 had begun ; and sang for joy in her heart that now she 
 had it. Yes, it was hers, she believed ; & deep rest and 
 peace had taken place of craving and anxdety, such as 
 even now disturbed poor dying Nanny. Eleanor fell 
 vevy happy, in the midst of all her care for her. The 
 fire burneil beautifully. 
 
 " I was not aware," said Mr. Rhys looking up from 
 his book, " I was not aware till last night that you 
 lived with Mrs. Caxton." 
 
 Very odd, Eleanor thought ; most people would have 
 found out; however she took it simply. 
 
 " I am her niece." 
 
 " So I find, — so I am glad to find. I can wish nothing 
 better for any one, in that kind, than to be connected 
 with Mrs. Caxton." 
 
 He sat with his fingei- between the leaves of his book, 
 and Eleanor again wondered at the silence ; till Mrs. 
 Caxton came in. It was not very flattering ; but Elea- 
 nor was not troubled with vanity ; she dismissed it with 
 a thought, compounded of good-humour and humility. 
 At breakfast the talk went on pretty briskly ; it was all 
 between the other two and left her on one side ; yet it 
 was good enough to listen to it. Eleanor was well satis- 
 fied. Mr. Rhys was the princi[)al talker ; he was telling 
 Mrs. Caxton of different people and things in the course 
 of his labours ; which constantly gave a reflex gleam of 
 light upon those labours themselves and upon the labour- 
 er. Unconsciously of course, and merely from the neces- 
 sity of the case ; but it was very interesting to Eleanor, 
 and probably to Mrs. Caxton ; she looked so. At last 
 she turned to her niece. 
 
 " How did you leave Nanny ?" 
 
 " A little easier towards morning, I think ; at least 
 »he went to sleep, which all the night she could not da'- 
 
IjStiiespkinji, 10 
 
 " Nor you neither." 
 
 " O that's nothing. I don't mind tliat at all. It waa 
 worth watching, to see the dawn." 
 
 "Was the woman in so much pain?" Mr. Rhys 
 asked. 
 
 '• No ; not bodily ; she was uneasy in mind." 
 
 " In what way." 
 
 " Afraid of what lies before her ; seeing dimly, if at 
 all." 
 
 " Was she comforted by what you told her ?" 
 
 " I had very little to tell her," said Eleanor ; " I had 
 no Bible ; I had forgotten to take it ; and hers was 
 gone. I had to get what I conld from memory, for I 
 did not like to give her anything but the words of the 
 Bible itself to ground hope upon." 
 
 " Yes, but a good warm testimony of personal expe- 
 rience, coming from the heart, often goes to the heart. 
 I hope you tried that." 
 
 Eleanor had not ; she was silent. The testimony she 
 had given in the class-meeting somehow she had been 
 shy of uttering unasked in the ear of the dying woman. 
 Was that hundlity — or something else ? Again Mr. 
 Rhys had done for her what he so often did for her and 
 for others — probed her thoughts. 
 
 " It is a good plan," said Mrs. Caxton, " to have a 
 storehouse in one's memory of such things as may be 
 needed upon occasion ; passages of Scripture and hymns; 
 to be bnmght out when books are not at hand. I was 
 made to learn a great deal out of the Bible when I was 
 a girl ; and I have often made a practice of it since ; and 
 it always comes intc phiy." 
 
 " I never set myself lessons to get by heart," said Mr. 
 Rhys. " I never could learn anything in that way. Of 
 perhaps I should say, I never liked to do it. I nevei 
 did it." 
 
20 THEOLDHELMKT. 
 
 " What is your art, then ?" said Mrs. Caxton, looking 
 curious. 
 
 " No art. It is only that when anything impresses 
 itself strongly on my feelings, the words seem to en- 
 grave themselves in my memory. It is an unconscious 
 and purely natural operation." 
 
 Eleanor remembered the multitudinous quoting of the 
 Bible she had at different times heard from Mr. Rhys ; 
 arid again wondered mentally. All that, all those parts 
 of the Bible, he had not set himself to study, but had 
 felt them into his memory ! They had been put in like 
 gold letters, with a hot iron. 
 
 " Where is this woman ?" Mr. Rhys went on. 
 
 " She lives alone, in the narrow dell that stretches be- 
 hind Bengarten Castle — and nearly in a straight line 
 with it, from here. Do not go there this morning — you 
 want rest, and it is too far for you to walk. I am going 
 to take you into my garden, to see how my flowers 
 go." 
 
 " Won't you take me into your dairy ?" 
 
 " If you like it," said Mrs. Caxton smiling. 
 
 " I like it exceedingly. It is something like a musical 
 box to me; Miss Powle, to see Mrs. Caxton's cheese- 
 making. It soothes my nerves, the noiseless order of 
 everything. Do you know that wonderful cheese-house, 
 where they stand in ranks like yellow millstones ? I 
 never can get over my surprise at going in there. Cer- 
 tainly we, as a nation, are fond of cheese !" 
 
 " You think so because you are not," said Mrs. Caxton. 
 " It is too late for the dairy to-day. You shall give me 
 help in my garden, where I want it." 
 
 " I understand," says Mr. Rhys. " But it is my busi 
 ness to make flowers grow in the Lords's garden — 
 wherever I can. I wish I could do more of that garden- 
 ing work !" 
 
 Eleanor gave a quick glance up at the speaker. His 
 
INTHBSPKING. 21 
 
 brow rested on his hand for the moment ; she noticed 
 the sharply drawn lines of the face, the thin cheeks, the 
 complexion, which all witnessed to 'over-work already 
 attempted and done. The brow and eyes ^ere marked 
 with lines of watching and fatigue. It was but a glance, 
 and Eleanor's eyes went down again ; with an additional 
 lesson of unconscious testimony carried deep home 
 This man lived as he talked. The good of existence 
 was not one thing in his lips and another in his practice. 
 Eleanor looked at her phite with her heart burning. In 
 her old fancy for studying, or at least reading, hands, 
 she had noticed too in her glance the hand on which the 
 head rested ; and with surprise. It was almost a femi- 
 nine hand in make, with long slim fingers ; white withal, 
 and beautifully cared for. Certain refinenTcnts were 
 clearly necessary to this man, who was ready to plunge 
 himself into a country of savages nevertheless, where all 
 the refinement would be his own. To some natures it 
 would be easier to part with a hand altogether, than to 
 forego the necessity of having it clean. This was one. 
 And he was going to give himself up to Polynesia 
 and its practices. Eleanor eat with the rest of her 
 breakfast and swallowed with her tea, the remembered 
 words of the apostle — " But what things were gain to 
 me, those I counted loss for Christ." — " Neither count I 
 my life dear unto myself, so that I may finish my course 
 with joy, and tlie ministry, which I have received of the 
 J;Ord Jesus, to be faithful." — Eleanor's heart swelled. 
 Tears were very near. 
 
 After breakfast, a large part of the morning was spent 
 by her aimt and Mr. Rhys in the garden ; as Mrs. Cax- 
 ton had said ; and very busy they were. Eleanor was 
 not asked to join them, and she did not choose to volun 
 teer; she watched th^ m from the house. They were 
 very honestly busy ; planting and removing and con- 
 sulting ; in real garileu work ; yet it « as manifest theii 
 
22 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 minds had also much more in common, in matters oi 
 greater interest ; they stood and tallied for long inter- 
 vals when the flowers were forgotten. Tiiey were ^ery 
 near each other, those two, evidently, in regard and 
 mutual confidence and probably mutual admiration also. 
 It was very strange Eleanor should never have come to 
 the knowledge of it till to-day. And yet, why should 
 she ? She had never mentioned the name of Mr. Rhys 
 to her aunt in any of her stories of Wiglands. 
 
 He was away all the afternoon and the evening, and 
 came back again late ; a tired and exhausted man. He 
 said nothing, except to officiate at family prayers ; but 
 Eleanor was delighted that he was to spend the night at 
 the farm and they would have him at breakfast. Only 
 to see nim" and hear him talk to others, only the tones of 
 his voice, brought up to her everything that was good 
 and strong and pure and happy. He did not seem in- 
 clined to advance at all upon their Wiglands acquaint- 
 ance. He made no allusion to it. As far as she was 
 concerned, Eleanor thought that there was more reserve 
 in his manner towards her than he had shewed there. 
 No matter. With Mrs. Caxton he was very much at 
 home ; and she could study him at her ease all the bettei 
 for not talking to him. . 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 •* The flush of life may well be Been 
 
 Thrilling back over hills and valleya : 
 The cowslip startles in meadows green. 
 
 The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice. 
 And there's never a leaf or a blade too mean 
 To be some happy creature's palace." 
 
 " Mks. Caxton," said Mr. Rhys the next Biorjiiug, 
 when half the breakfast had been passed in silence, 
 " have you such a thing as a microscope in the house ?'' 
 
 " I am afraid not. Why do you ask ?" 
 
 " Only, that I have suddenly discovered myself to be 
 very ignorant, in a department of kiiov/ledge where it 
 Avould be very pleasant as well as proper to be other- 
 wise. I have been reading a book on some of the forms 
 of life which are only to be known through the help of 
 glasses ; and I find there is a world there I know noth- 
 ing about. That book has made a boy of me." 
 
 " How ?" said Mrs. Caxton smiling. 
 
 " You think I always retain more or less of that char- 
 acter ! Well — it has made me doubly a boy then ; in 
 my eagerness to put myself to school, on the one hand, 
 and my desire to see something new on the other. Mis? 
 Powle, have you ever studied the invisible inhabitants oi 
 pools, and ponds, and sea-weeds ':"' 
 
 "Not at all," said Elexnor. 
 
 " You do not know much more than the names, 
 then, of Infusoria, Rotifera, and Pedunculata, and such 
 Ihijigs?" 
 
24 THEO I, D HELMET. 
 
 "Not SO much as the names — except Infusoria. I 
 hope they are better than they sound." 
 
 "If the accounts are true — Mrs. Cnxton, the world thn.t 
 we do not see, because of the imperfection of our organs, 
 is even far more wonderful than the world that we do 
 see. Perhaps it seems so, because of the finiteness of 
 our own powers. But I never had a single tiling give 
 me such a view. of the infinite. glory of God, as one of 
 the things detailed in that book — one of the discoveries 
 of the microscope." 
 
 " His glory in creation," said Mrs. Caxton. 
 
 " More than that — There is to be sure the infiniteness 
 of wisdom and of power, that makes your brain dizzy 
 when you think of it ; but there is an infinite moral 
 glory also." 
 
 " What was the thing that struck you so much ?" 
 Eleanor inquired. 
 
 " It was a little fellow that lives in the water. He is 
 not bigger than the diameter of the slenderest needle — 
 and that is saying as much as I I'an for liis size. This 
 fellow builds himself a house of bricks, which he makes 
 himself; and under his head he carries a little cup mould 
 in which the bricks are made." 
 
 " Mr. Rhys," said Eleanor, " I am wondering what is 
 the slenderest needle of your acquaintance !" 
 
 '■ No," said he laughing, " you are mistaken. I have 
 Been my mother hem thin ruffles of muslin ; and you 
 know with what sort of a needle that should be done." 
 
 " Aunt Caxton," said Eleanor, " it is inconceivable !" 
 
 Mrs. Caxton did not make much answer, and the 
 conversation turned. After breakfast, and after, as 
 Eleanor judged, they had been a good while in the dair)"^, 
 the two went out together in the car. Eleanor supposed 
 it was to visit Nanny ; and so she found when her aunt 
 came home. 
 
 " I know he would go," said Mrs. Caxton ; " and then 
 
WITH TUB BASKET. 28 
 
 ».« made another call. Nanny is hopeful, and comfort- 
 able ; but the other — —Mr. Rhys came away very much 
 agitated. He is not fit for it. I wish I could keep hira 
 from work for a few weeks. It's the best economy. 
 I5ut I will keep him here as long as I can, at least." 
 " Is he going to stay here ?" 
 
 " Yes ; he was not comfortably situated in the village ; 
 and now I will have him at the farm, I hope, till he goes. 
 I shall trust you to keep the flowers fresh in his room, 
 Eleanor. — No, my dear ; Jane will stay with Nanny to- 
 night." 
 
 So Mr. Rhys stayed at the farm, and certainly wanted 
 for no comfort that the mistress of it could secure to 
 him. Neither did Eleanor neglect the flowei-s. Mr. 
 Rhys made his home there, and went out to his preach- 
 ing and visiting and teaching as vigorously as ever; and 
 was often a tired man when he came home. Neverthe- 
 less he gained ground, to Mrs. Caxton's great satisfaction. 
 He grew stronger ; and was less often a silent, prostrated, 
 done-over member of their little circle. At first he was 
 very often that. But when he felt well he was exceed- 
 ingly soci.ll and conversational ; and the Plassy farm- 
 house had never been so pleasant, nor the evenings and 
 mornings and meal times so full of interest. In all which 
 however -Mrs. Caxton thought Eleanor took a very quiet 
 part. 
 
 " You do not do your share, Eleanor," she said one 
 day ; " you are become nothing of a talker ; and I can 
 bear witness you had a tongue once. Has religion made 
 you silent, my de;ir ?" 
 
 " No, aunty," said Eleanor laughing ; "but you forget 
 — you have somebody else to talk to now." 
 
 " I am sure, and so have you." 
 
 " No ma'am — Mr. Rhys does not talk to me generally." 
 
 " I would i-eturn good tor evil, then ; and not silepofl 
 for silence." 
 
 VOL. I'. 2 
 
26 THEOLDHEI, MET. 
 
 " I can't, aunty. Don't you know, there are some 
 people that have a sort of quieting effect upon one?" 
 
 " I don't think anybody ever did upon me," said Mrs. 
 Caxton ; " and I am sure Mr. lihys would be shocked 
 if he knew the effect of his presence." 
 
 One morning Mrs. Caxton asked Mr. Rhys at break- 
 fast if he had leisure to unpack a box for her. He said 
 yes, with great alacrity ; and Mrs. Caxton had the box 
 brought in. 
 
 " What is it ?" said Mr. Rhys as he began his work. 
 " Am I to take care of china and glass — or to find gar- 
 dener's plants nicely done up — or best of all, books ?" 
 
 " I hope, something better yet," said Mrs. Caxton. 
 
 " There is a good deal of it, whatever it is," said Mr. 
 Rhys, taking out one and another and another carefully 
 wrapped up bit of something. " Curiosity can go no 
 further !" 
 
 He stopped unpacking, and took the wrapping papers 
 off one or two odd-looking little pieces of brass ; paused, 
 — then suddenly exclaimed, " Mrs. Caxton ! — " 
 
 " Well ?" said that lady smihng. 
 
 " It is just like you ! I might have known the other 
 morning what all that talk would end in." 
 
 Mrs. Caxton smiled in silence, and the gentleman went 
 on with his unpacking ; with added zeal and tenderness 
 now, it was evident. It stood full in view at last, an ex 
 quisitely made and mounted microscope of one of the 
 best London makers. Now was Mr. Rhys in his ele- 
 ment ; and proved how justly he had declared himself a 
 hoy. He got the microscope all into phice and arranged, 
 and then set himself to find out its powers and method 
 of management. There were some prepared objects 
 sent with the instrument, which gavj him enough to 
 work with ; and over them he was in an absorbed state 
 for hours ; not selfishly, however, for he allowed Eleanor 
 to take her full share of the pleasure of looking, when 
 
WI'IH THE BASKET. 27 
 
 once he had brought objects into view. At last he 
 brolie off and hurried away to an engagement. 
 
 The next day at breakfast, Eleanor was a good deal 
 surprised to be asked if she would take a walk ? 
 
 "Now?" said Eleanor. " You mean immediately after 
 breakfast ?" 
 
 " It is the only time I have to-day. All the time be- 
 fore dinner, I have ; but I supposed we should want the 
 \\ hole of it. I am going after objects for the microscope 
 — and I thought it would be selfish to go alone. Be- 
 sides, we may help one another." 
 
 " I shall be very glad to go," "said Eleanor laughing ; 
 " but don't expect any help of me ; unless it be in the 
 way of finding out such places as you want." 
 
 " I fancy I know those better than you do. Miss 
 Powle, a small basket would be desii-able to hold phials 
 of water." 
 
 " And phials." 
 
 " I will take care of those." 
 
 Much amused, and a little excited, Eleanor made ready 
 for the walk, and in the matter of the basket at least 
 proved helpful. It was bright and eai'ly when they set 
 out. Among those mountains and valleys, the dew was 
 not off the fields yet, while the air was freshly sweet 
 from roses and wild thyme, and primroses lingering, 
 and numberless other sweet things ; for hedgerow and 
 meiidow and mountain side were gay and rich with a 
 multitude of flowers. There was a mingling of shadow 
 and sunshine too, at that early time in the morning ; ami 
 as the two walkers passed along they were sometimes in 
 one, sometimes in the other. There was little conversa- 
 tion at first. Mr. Rhys went not with a lingering step, 
 but as if with some purpose to reach a definite locality. 
 Eleanor was musing to herself over the old walks taken 
 with Julia by her present companion ; never but once 
 Eleanor's walking companion till now. How often Julia 
 
28 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 had gone with him ; what a new and strange pleasure it 
 was for herself; and how oddly life changes about things ; 
 that the impossible thing at Wiglands should be possible 
 at Plassy. 
 
 " What sort of places are you looking for, Mr. Rhys ?" 
 Eleanor inquired at last. 
 
 " All sorts of places," he said smiling. " All sorts at 
 least of wet places. But I know nothing about it, you 
 know, except what I have read. They say, wherever 
 water is found, some or other species of these minute 
 wonders may be met with ; standing pools, and rivers, 
 and ditches all have them ; and some particularly beau 
 tiful are to be found in bog water ; so with, I am afraid 
 you will think, a not very commendable impatience, I 
 am pointing my steps towards a bog that I know — in 
 the wish to get some of the best first." 
 
 " That is being very impatient," said Eleanor laugh- 
 ing. "I should be satistied with almost anything, for 
 the first." 
 
 " So you will very probably have to be. I am by no 
 means sure of accomplishing my design. Am I walking 
 too fast for you, in the meanwhile ?" 
 
 " Not at all. I am thinking, Mr. Rhys, how we are 
 to bring home the bog waier when we have found it." 
 
 In answer to which, he put his hand in his pocket and 
 brought out thence and deposited in his basket one after 
 another of half a dozen or more little phials, all duly 
 corked. Eleanor was verj' much amused. 
 
 " And what is this stick to do, that you wanted me to 
 bring?" 
 
 " You will see." 
 
 The bog was reached in due time, afler a walk over a 
 most delicious country, for the most part new to Eleanor. 
 Water was found, though not exactly with the condi- 
 tions Mr. Rhys desired ; however a phia of it was dip- 
 ped up, corked and marked. Then they retraced theii 
 
WITH THE BASKET. 29 
 
 steps partially, diverging right and left. Just the right 
 Bort of pool was found at last ; covered with duck-weed. 
 Here Mr. Rhys stopped and tied one of the phials to 
 the end of the slick. With this he dipped watei' from 
 the surface, then he dipped from the bottom ; he took 
 from one side and from another side, where there was 
 sunshine and where there was shade ; pouring each dip- 
 ping into a fresh phial, while Eleanor in a great state of 
 amusement corked and labelled each as it was filled. At 
 last it was done. Mr. Rhys filled his last phial, looked 
 at Eleanor's face, and smiled. 
 
 " You do not think much is going to come of all 
 this ?" he said. 
 
 " Yes I do," said Eleanor. " At least I hope so." 
 
 " I know it. Look through that." 
 
 He put a pocket lens into her hand and bade her sur- 
 vey one of the phials with it. Eleanor's scepticism fled. 
 That something was there, in pretty active life, was evi- 
 dent. Somethings. The kinds were plural. 
 
 "It was like Mrs. Caxton, to order this lens with the 
 microscope," Mr. Rhys went on. " I suppose she made 
 her order general — to include everything that would be 
 necessary for a naturalist in making his observations. I 
 not being a naturalist. Did you ever see the ' Bundle ' 
 of Helig ?" 
 
 " I do not know what it is." 
 
 " 'Bundle ' or ' Bandel ' — I do not know how it got 
 the name, T am sure; but I suppose it is a corruption ot 
 something. Would you like to go a little out of your 
 way to see it ?" 
 
 "You can judge better than I, Mr. Rhys!" Eleanor 
 said with her full, rich smile, which that gentleman had 
 not often seen before. He ansvvered it with his own 
 very peculiar one, sober and sweet. 
 
 *' I will take so much responsibility. You ought not 
 to come so near and miss it." 
 
80 THEOLDHELMET. 
 
 Turning from the course of their return way, thisy 
 followed a wild woody dell for a little distance ; then 
 making a sudden angle with that, a few steps brought 
 them in sight of a waterfall. It poui'ed over a rocky 
 barrier of considerable height, the face of which was 
 corrugated, as it were, with great projecting ridges of 
 rock. Separated of necessity by these, the waters left 
 the top of the precipice in four or five distinct bands or 
 ribbands of bright wave and foam, soon dashed into 
 whiteness ; and towards the bottom of the fall at last 
 found their way all together ; which they celebrated 
 with a rush and a dance and a sparkle and a roar that 
 filled all the rocky abyss into which they plunged. The 
 life, the brightness, the peculiar form, the wild surround- 
 ings, of this cataract made it a noted beauty. In fi-ont 
 of it the rocks closed in so nearly that spectators could 
 only look at it through a wild narrow gap. Above, be- 
 yond the top of the fall, the waving branches could be 
 seen of the trees and bushes that stood on the boiders of 
 the water ; to reach which was a mere impossibility, 
 unless by takhig a very long way rounri. At the foot, 
 the waters turned off suddenly and sought their course 
 where the eye could not follow them. 
 
 It was out of the question to talk in the presence of 
 the shout of those glad waters. Mr. Rhys leaned 
 against the rock, and looked at them, so motionless that 
 more than once tbe eye of Eleanor went fi-om them to 
 him with a little note-taking. When at last he turned 
 away and they got back into the stillness of the glen, he 
 asked her, " how looking at such a thing maile her feel ?" 
 
 "Nothing but surprise and pleasure, I think," said 
 Eleanor ; " but a gieat deal of both those." Then as he 
 still remained silent, she went on, — " To tell the truth, 
 Mr. Rhys, I think my mental eye is only begiiming to 
 get educated. I used always to enjoy natural beairty, 
 but I think it was in a superficial kind of way. Since 1 
 
"VriTH THE BASKET. 31 
 
 have been at Plassy — and especially since a few weeka 
 back, — all nature is much more to me than it was." 
 
 " It is sui-e to be so," he said. " Nature without and 
 nature within are made for each other ; and till the two 
 are set to the same key, you cannot have a good tune. — 
 There is a fellow wlio is in pretty good order ! Do you 
 hear that blackbird ?" 
 
 "Sweet!" said Eleanor. "And what is* that other 
 note — ' chee, chee, chee,' so many times ?" 
 
 " That is a gre(!n wren." 
 
 " You are something of a naturalist, Mr. Rhys," said 
 Eleanor. 
 
 " Not at all ! no more than ray acquaintance with yon 
 and Mrs. Caxton makes me a philosopher." 
 
 Eleanor wanted to ask what looking at the cataract 
 made him think of; but as she had told her aunt, Mr. 
 Rhys exercised a sort of quieting influence over her. 
 No natural audacity, of which sheh"ad an innocent share, 
 remained to her in his company. She walked along in 
 demure silence. And to say the truth, the sun was now 
 growing warm, and the two had walked not a few good 
 miles that morning; which also has a quieting influence. 
 Eleanor queried with herself whether all the bright part 
 of the walk were ovei-. 
 
 " I think it is time we varied our attention," said Mr. 
 Rhys breaking silence. " We have been upon one class ol 
 subjects a good while ; — suppose we try another. Don't 
 you want to rest ?" 
 
 "I am not tired, — but I have no objection." 
 
 "You are not easily tired ?" 
 
 " Not about anything I like." 
 
 " You have struck a great secret of power and useful- 
 ness," he said gravely. "What do you think of this 
 bank ? — it is dry, and it is pleasant." 
 
 It would have been hardly possible to find a spot in 
 all their way tliat would not have been pleasant ; and 
 
32 THE OLD HELMET, 
 
 from this bank they looked over a wide ricih valley box 
 dered with hills. It was not the valley where the farm- 
 house of Plassy stood, with its meadows and river ; this 
 was diiferent in its features, and moreover some miles 
 distant. Eleanor and Mr. Rhys sat down on the moss at 
 the foot of the trees, which gave both shade and rest. 
 It was the edge of a piece of woods, and a blackbird 
 was again heard saluting them. 
 
 " Now if you want refreshment," said Mr. Rhys, " 1 
 can give it to you ; but only of one kind." 
 
 " I don't know — I should s&y of several kinds," said 
 Eleanor looking into the basket — " but the quality 
 doubtful." 
 
 " Did you think I meant that P" 
 
 Eleanor laughed at the earnest gravity of this speech. 
 " Mr. Rhys, I saw no other refreshment you had to offer 
 me ; but indeed I do not want any — more than I am 
 taking." 
 
 " I was going to offer it to you of another kind, but 
 there is no kind like it. What is your way of reading 
 the Bible ?" 
 
 " I have no particular ' way,' " said Eleanor in some 
 surprise. " I read several chapters a day — or at least 
 always a chapter at morning and another at evening 
 What ' way' do you mean ?" 
 
 " There are a great many ways ; and it is good to use 
 them all at different times. But what way would be 
 good for a half hour's refi-eshment, at such a time as this ?" 
 
 " I am sure, I don't know," said Eleanor. " I have 
 no way but the one." 
 
 " Yes, but we should not have seen the ' Bandel' of 
 Helig, if wo had not turned aside to look at it; and 
 you would not have heard the blackbird and the wren 
 perhaps, unless you had stopped to listen to them. I 
 suppose we have missed a million of other things, fin 
 want of looking." 
 
WITHTHEBASKET, S3 
 
 " Yes, but we could not look at everything all along 
 these miles of our way," said Eleanor, her smile break- 
 ing forth again. 
 
 •' Very true. On the other hand, if we go but a vei'y 
 little way, we can examine all around us. Have you a , 
 Bible with you ?" 
 
 " No. I never carry one." 
 
 " I am better oft' than you. Let us try a little of thig 
 — the first chapter of llomans. Will you read the first 
 verse, and consider it." 
 
 He handed her his Bible and Eleanor read. 
 
 " ' Paul, a servant of Jesus Christ, called to be an 
 apostle, separated unto the gospel of God' — " 
 
 " What do you find there ?" said her companion. 
 
 " Not much. This verse seems to be a sort of open- 
 ing, or introduction to the rest. Paul tells who he is, ot 
 what he is." 
 
 " And what does he say he is ?" 
 
 " A servant of Jesus Christ." 
 
 " You think that is ' not much ?' " 
 
 " Certainly it is mtich, in itself; but here I took it for 
 a mere statement of fact." 
 
 " But what a fact. A servant of Jesus Christ. Only 
 that! Do you know what a fact that is? What is it, 
 to be a servant of Je-ius Christ ?" 
 
 Without waiting for the answer, which was not readj% 
 Mr. Rhys rose up from his seat and began an abstracted 
 exploration of the bit of woodland at the edge of which 
 they had been sitting ; wandering in and out among the 
 trees, and stooping now and then to pluck a flower or a 
 fern or to exatnine one ; apparently too full of his thoughts 
 to be quiet. Eleanor heard him sometimes and watched 
 him when she could ; he was very busy ; she wished he 
 would give some of his thoughts to her. 
 
 " I thought you wanted rest, Mr. Rhys," she said 
 2* 
 
34 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 boldly, when she got a chance. " Please sit down here 
 and take it, along with your other refreshment." 
 
 He smiled and came immediately with a bunch of 
 Myosotis in his hand, which he threw into Eleanor's lap; 
 and turning to her he repeated very seriously his ques- 
 tion. 
 
 " What is it, to be a servaTit of Jesus Christ ?" 
 
 " I know very little," said Eleanor timidly. " I am 
 only just beginning to learn." 
 
 " You know the words bring for our refreshment 
 only the meaning that we attach to them — except so far 
 a* the Holy Spirit answering our prayers and endeavours 
 shews us new meaning and depth that we had not known 
 before." 
 
 " Of course — but I suppose I know very little. These 
 words convey only the mere fact to me." 
 
 " Let us weigh the words. A servant is a follower. 
 Christ said, ' If a man serve me, let him foUow me.^ " 
 
 " Yes,— I know." 
 
 "A fillower must know where his Master goes. How 
 did Chi-ist walk ?" 
 
 " He went about doing good." 
 
 " He did ; but mark, there are different ways of doing 
 that. Get to the root of the matter. The young man 
 who kept all the commandments from his youth, was not 
 following Christ; and when it came to the pinch ho 
 turned his back upon him." 
 
 " How then, Mr. Rhys ? You mean heart-following ?" 
 
 "That IS what the Lord means. Look here- Paul 
 says in the ninth verse, — ' Whom I serve loith my spirit 
 in the gospel' — Following cannot have a different end in 
 view from that of the person followed. And what was 
 Christ's ? — ' My meat is to do the will of him th:it sent 
 me, and to finish his work.' Are we servants of Christ 
 offer that rule. Miss Powle?" 
 
 The question had a singular intonntion, as if the q>ie» 
 
WITHTHEBASKET. Hi 
 
 tioner were charging it home upon himself. Yet Elea- 
 nor knew he could answer it in the affirmative and that 
 she could not; she sat silent without looking up. The old 
 contrast of character recurred to her, in spite of the 
 fact that her own had changed so much. She hung over 
 the book, while her companion half abstractedly re 
 peated, 
 
 " ' My meat is to do the will of him that sent me.'— 
 That makes a way of life of great simplicity." 
 
 " Is it always easy to find ?" ventured Eleanor. 
 
 " Very ! — if his will is all that we desire." 
 
 " But that is a very searching, deep question." 
 
 " Let it search, then. 'My meat is to do the will of 
 him — ' No matter what that may be, Mias Powle ; our 
 choice lies in this — that it is his will. And as soon as 
 we set our hearts upon one or the other particular sor< 
 of work, or labour in any particular place, or even upon 
 any given measure of success attending our efforts, so 
 that we are not willing to have him reverse our arrange- 
 ments, — we are getting to have too much will about 
 it." 
 
 Eleanor looked up with some effort. 
 
 " You are making it a great matter, to be a true ser 
 vant of Christ, Mr. Rhys." 
 
 " Would you have it a little matter ?" he said with a 
 smile of great sweetness and brightness. " Let the 
 Lord have all ! He was among us 'as one that serveth 
 — amid discouragements and disappointments, and abuse 
 and he has warned us that the servant is not greater 
 than his Lord. It is not a little thing, to be the minister 
 of Jesus Christ !" 
 
 "Now you are getting out of the general into the par- 
 ticular." 
 
 " No — I am not ; a ' minister' is but a servant ; what 
 we call a minister, is but in a more emphatic degree thfe 
 servant of all. The rules of service are the same for 
 
36 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 him and for others. Let us look at another one. Here 
 it is — in John — " 
 
 And tlie fingers that Eleanor had watched the other 
 morning, and with which she had a curious association, 
 oame turning over the leaves. 
 
 "'Ye call me Master, and Lord: and ye say well 
 for so I am. If I then, your Lord and Master, hav«3 
 washed your feet ; ye also ought to wash one another's 
 feet. For I have given you an example, that ye should 
 do as I have done to you.' — One thing is plain from that, 
 Miss Eleanor — we are not to consider ourselves too good 
 for anything." 
 
 " No — " said Eleanor ; — " but I suppose that does not 
 forbid a just judgment of ourselves or of others, in 
 respect of their adaptations and qualifications." 
 
 " Yes it does," he said quickly. " The only question 
 is. Has the Lord put that work in your hands? If he 
 has, never ask whether your hands are the right ones. 
 He knows. What our Lord stooped to do, well may 
 we!" 
 
 Eleanor dared not say any more ; she knew of what 
 he was thinking ; whether he had a like intuition with 
 respect to her thoughts she did not know, and would 
 not risk them any nearer discovery. 
 
 " There is another thing about being a servant of 
 Christ," he presently went on ; — " it ensures some kind 
 and degree of persecution." 
 
 "Do you think so?" said Eleanor; "in these days? 
 Why it is thought praiseworthy and honourable, is it 
 rot, through all the land, to be good? to be a member 
 of the Church, and to fulfil the requirements of religion? 
 Does anybody lose respect or liking from such a 
 3ause ?" 
 
 " No. But he suffers persecution. My dear friend, 
 what are the 'requirements of religion ?' We are just 
 considering them. Can you remember a servant of 
 
WITH THE BASKET. 31 
 
 Christ, such as vvu have seen the name means, in your 
 knowledge, whom the world allowed to live in peace ?" 
 
 Eleanor was silent. 
 
 " ' Remember the word that I said unto you, the ser- 
 vant is not greater than his Lord. If they have perse- 
 cuted me, they will also persecute you ; if they have 
 kept my saying, they will keep yours also.' " 
 
 " But in these days, Mr. Rhys ?" said Eleanor doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 " I can only say, that if you are of the world, the 
 world will love his own. I know no other way of secur- 
 ing that result. ' Because ye are not of the world,' 
 Jesus said, ' but I have chosen you out of the world, 
 therefore the world hateth you.' And it is declared 
 elsewhere, that all that will live godly in Christ Jesus 
 shall suffer persecution. Can you remember any instance 
 to the contrary ?" 
 
 Eleanor looked up and gave Mr. Rliys a good view of 
 her honest eyes ; they looked very intent now and some- 
 what sorrowful. 
 
 " Mr. Rhys, except in Plassy, I do not know such a 
 person as you ask me about." 
 
 " Is it possible!" he said. 
 
 " ^Ir. Rhys, I was thinking the servants of Christ 
 have good need of that ' hehnet of salvation ' I used to 
 wish for." 
 
 " Well, they have it !" he said biightly. " ' If any 
 man serve me, let him follow me; and where T am, there 
 shall also my servant be.'' Th:it is the end of all. But 
 there is another point of service that occurs to me. We 
 have seeti that we must not please ourselves ; I recollect 
 that in another place Paul says that if he pleased men, 
 he would not be the servant of Christ. There is a point 
 where he and the wo'ld would come in contact of oppo< 
 sition." 
 
38 THEOLDHELMET. 
 
 " But I thought -we ought to please everjbody at 
 much as we could ?" 
 
 He smiled, put his hand over and turned two OT 
 three leaves of the Bible which she kept open at tlie first 
 of Romans, and pointed to a word in the fifteenth chap- 
 ter. " Let every one of us please his neighbour for his 
 good, to edification." 
 
 " There is your limit," said he. " So far thou mayest 
 go, but no further. And to do that you will find requires 
 quite sufficiently that you should not please yourself And 
 now how shall we do all this ? — how shall we be all this ?" 
 
 "You are asking the very question!" said Eleanor 
 gravely. 
 
 " We must come to the root and spring of all this ser- 
 vice and following — it is our love of the Lord himself. 
 That will do it, and nothing else will. ' What things 
 were gain to me, those I counted loss for Christ.' " 
 
 " But suppose," said Eleanor, with some difficulty com- 
 manding her voice, — " suppose one is deficient in that 
 very thing? suppose one wants that love?" 
 
 "Ay !" he said, looking into lier face with his eyes of 
 light, — " suppose one does ; what then ?" 
 
 Eleanor could not bear them; her own eyes fell. 
 " What is one to do ?" — Mr. Rhys had risen up before 
 he answered, in his deliberate accents, 
 
 " ' Seek him, that maketh tlie seven stars and Orion, 
 and turnetii the shadow of night into morning.' " 
 
 He paced slowly up and down before Eleanor; then 
 went off upon a i-ambling search through the wood 
 again ; seeming to be busy with little things in his way. 
 Eleanor sat still. After a little he came and stood 
 before her with a bunch of ferns and Melic grass and 
 lilies of the valley, which he was ordering in his hands 
 as he spoke. 
 
 " The effect of our following Christ in this way, Miss 
 Powle, will be, that wo shall bear testimony to the 
 
WITH THE BASKET. 89 
 
 world that Ho, is our King, and what sort of a king he 
 IS. "We shall proclaim that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the 
 glory of God the Father. We shall have the invisible 
 ai'my of angels for our fellow-servants and co-workers ; 
 and we shall be passing on with the whole redeemed 
 world to the day of full triumph and final restoration ; 
 when Christ will come to be glorified in his saints and 
 to be admired in them that believe — because our testi- 
 mony among you was believed. But now our business 
 is to give the testimony." 
 
 He walked up and down, up and down, before Eleanor 
 for some minutes, in a thoughtful, abstracted way. Elea- 
 nor felt his manner as much as his words ; the subject 
 nad clearly gone home to himself She felt both so much 
 that she did not like to interrupt the silence, nor to look 
 up. At last he stopyjcd again before her and said in 
 quite a difierent tone, " What are the next words, Miss 
 IVwle ?" 
 
 " ' Called to be an apostle.' " 
 
 " We shall not get home to dinner, if we go into that," 
 S3 saiil smiling. 
 
 " You have preached a sermon to me, Mr. Rhys." 
 
 " I do tiiat very often to myself," he answered. 
 
 " To yourself?" said Eleanor. 
 
 " Yes. Nobody needs it more." 
 
 " But when you have so much real preaching to do — 
 1 should think it would be the last thing you would wish 
 to do in private, — at other times." 
 
 " For that very reason. I need to have a sermon al- 
 ways ready, and to be always ready myself Now, let 
 us get home and look at our ' rotifera '■ — if wo have any.'" 
 
 However, there was to be no microscopical cxamina 
 tion that morning. 
 
 " riie best laid schemes n' mice and men 
 Qaiiij aft acler " 
 
10 THK OLD HELMET. 
 
 They had gone but half a mile further homeward when 
 their course was again stopped. Tliey came up with a 
 man and a horse ; the horse standing still, the man lynig 
 on the gi'ound beside liim At first sight they thought 
 it was a case of drunkenness, for the face of the man wiia 
 very red and he was xmable to give any account of him- 
 self; but they were soon convinced it wassudden illnes-i, 
 not intoxication, which was the matter. He had fallen 
 from his horse evidently, and now was not unconscious 
 but in great pain ; the red in his face alternating with 
 sudden changes of colour. Apparently his condition was 
 that of a small farmer or upper farm servant, who had 
 been overtaken on some business errand by this attack of 
 severe sickness. His^ horse stood quietly beside him. 
 
 " This is no case for a lancet," said Mr. Rhys after 
 making a slight exnmination. " It calls for greater skill 
 than mine. How will you do? I must take the horse 
 and ride for it. But the first thing is to find where I 
 ought to go- — if I can — " 
 
 For this information he sought in the man's pockets ; 
 and found presently a pocket-book with one or two bills, 
 which gave the name he wanted. It was a name not 
 unknown to Mr. Rhys ; and let him know also the direc- 
 tion in which he must ride ; not towards the valley of 
 Piassy. 
 
 " What will you do. Miss Powle ? — will you be afraid 
 o find your way home alone ?" 
 
 " I will stay here till you come back." 
 
 " Will you ? But I may be gone some time — and 1 
 nust tell you," he said gravely, " the man is very ill." 
 
 " There is the more reason then, I am sure. I will 
 stay and do anything for him I can, Mi\ Rhys. You go 
 — [ will stay here." 
 
 Mr. Rhys said nothing more, though Eleanor felt sure 
 fi"om his face that he did not disapprove of her conclu 
 Bion. lie mounted the horse immediately. 
 
WITH THE BASKET. 45 
 
 " I will send help from the way if I can, though I 
 3oubt it. The way is lonely, till I get almost there." 
 
 He rode off at a sharp pace, and Eleanor was left quite 
 alone. Her attention came back to the sick person at 
 her feet. So near the light-hearted pleasure of ten min- 
 utes ago had been to pain and death ! And Mr. Rhys's 
 sermon was nearer still. The first thing to consider 
 was what she could do for the man. 
 
 He had fallen and lay on the grass in the broad sun- 
 shine. The sun had mounted high now ; its beams fell 
 hot and full on the sufferer's face. At a little distance 
 was a grove of oaks and beeches, and good shelter ; but 
 Eleanor's strength could not move the man thither ; he 
 was a great, thickset, burly fellow. Yet it was misera- 
 ble to see the sun beating upon his face where the sweat 
 of pain already stood. Eleanor went to the wood, and 
 with much trouble and searching managed to find or 
 break off two or thrSe sticks of a few feet in length. 
 She planted these for a frame near the sick man's head 
 and spread her light summer shawl over them to make a 
 screen. It was a light screen ; nevertheless much better 
 than nothing. Then Eleanor kneeled down by the man 
 to see what more she could do. Red and pale changed 
 fast and fearfully upon his face ; big drops stood on the 
 brow and cheeks. Eleanor doubted whether he were 
 conscious, he lay so still. She took her pocket-handker- 
 chief to wipe the wet brow. A groan answered her at 
 that. It startled her, for it was the first sound she had 
 heard the sick person utter. Putting down her face to 
 receive if possible some intimation of a wish, she thought 
 he said or tried to say something about ' drink.' Eleanor 
 rose up and sought to recollect where last and nearest 
 she had seen water. It was some distance behind ; a lit- 
 tle spring that had crossed their foot-\vay with its own 
 bright track. Then what could she bring some in ? 
 The phials ! Quick the precious pond water and bog 
 
42 THEOLD HELMET. 
 
 B'ater was poured out, with one thought of the nameless 
 treasures for Mr. Rliys's microscope that she was spilling 
 upon the ground ; and Eleanor took the basket again and 
 set off on the backward way. She was in a hurry, the 
 sun was warm, the distance was a good quarter of a mile ; 
 by the time she had found the stream and filled her phials 
 and retraced ag;un her steps to where the sick man lay, 
 she was lieated and weary ; for every step was hurried 
 with the thought of that suffeiing which the water might 
 alleviate. This wjis pure, sparkling, good water with 
 which the phials were now tilled. But when Eleanor 
 got back to him, the man could not open his lips to take 
 it. She feared he would die, and suddenly. 
 
 It was a wild uncultivated place they were in. No 
 signs of human habitation were to be seen, except far up 
 away on a hillside in the distance, where smoke went up 
 from a farmhouse or some sort of a house ; towards which 
 Eleanor looked with earnest longings that the human 
 help which was there could be brought within available 
 distance. It was greatly too far for that. How soon 
 would Mr. Rhys be back ? Impossible to say ; she could 
 not tell what length of road he might have to tra\ el. 
 And the man seemed dying. Eleanor knelt down again, 
 and with the precious contents of one of the phials 
 bathed the brow and the lips that she thought would 
 never retui-n to their natural colour again. She did it 
 perseveringly ; it was all she could do. Perhaps it gave 
 comfort. But Eleanor grew tired, and felt increasingly 
 lonely and desirous that some one should come. No one 
 did come by that way, nor was likely to come, until the 
 return of Mr. Rhys ; the place was not near a highway ; 
 only on a wild mountain track. It struck Eleanor then 
 that the sufferer's head lay too low, upon the ground. 
 She could not move him to a better position ; and finally 
 placing herself oh the grass beside him, she contrived 
 with great exertion to lift his head upon hei kp 
 
WITH THE BASKET. 43 
 
 He could not ihank her ; she did not know if he were 
 aware of what she did ; but then Eleanor had done all. 
 She schooled herself to sit patiently and wipe the brow 
 that lay upon her knee, and wait; knowing that dea.h 
 might come to take her charge before any other arriv il 
 relieved her of it. Eleanor had a great many thouoh''.s 
 meanwhile ; and as she sat there revolved Mr. Rhys's 
 ' sermon ' in her mind over and over, and from one end 
 to the other and back again. 
 
 So at last Mr. Rhys found her. He came as he had 
 gone, full speed ; jumped off his horse, and took a very 
 grave survey of the group on the ground. It was not 
 early. Mr. Rhys had been a long time away ; it seemed 
 half a day's length to Eleanor. 
 
 " Have you been there all this time ?" was his ques- 
 tion. 
 
 " O no." 
 
 " I will take your place," said he kneeling down and 
 lifting the unconscious head from Eleanor's lap. " There 
 is a waggiin coming. It will be here directly." 
 
 Eleanor got up, trembUng and stiff from her long con- 
 strained position. The waggon presently came in sight ; 
 a huge covered wain wliich had need to move slowly. 
 Mr. Rhys had stayed by it to guide it, and only spurred 
 forward when near enough to the place. Into it they 
 now lifted the sick man, and the horses' heads were 
 turned again. Mr. Rhys had not been able to bring a 
 doctor. 
 
 " Why here is Powis !" exclaimed Eleanor, as on tha 
 waggon coming round she discovered her pony hitched 
 to the back of it. Mr. Rhys unhitched him. Powis 
 was saddled. 
 
 " I thought you would have done enough for to-day," 
 said he ; " and I went round by the farm to bring him, 
 Now you will ride home as fast as you please." 
 
 "But I thought the farm was out of your way ?" 
 
44 THEOLDHELMET. 
 
 " I had time to gallop over there and meet the waggon 
 again ; it went so slowly." 
 
 " O thank you ! But I do not need Powis — I can 
 walk perfectly well. I am sure you need him more than 
 I do, Mr. Rhys. I do not need him at all." 
 
 " Come, mount !" said he. " I cannot ride on a side 
 saddle, child.'' 
 
 Eleanor mounted in silence, a little surprised to find 
 that Mr. Rhys helped her not awkwardly ; and not 
 knowing exactly whence came a curious warm glow that 
 filled her heart like a golden reflection. But it kept her 
 silent too ; and it did not go away even when Mr. Rhys 
 said in his usual manner, 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Miss Powle — I live among the 
 hills till I grow unceremonious." 
 
 Eleanor did not make any answer, and if she rode 
 home as fast as she pleased, it was her pleasure to ride 
 slowly ; for Mr. Rhys walked beside her all the way. 
 But she was too tired perhaps to talk much ; and he was 
 in one of his sileiit moods. 
 
 " What have you done with the phials ?" said he look- 
 ing into the basket as they neared home. 
 
 " I am very sorry, Mr. Rhys! I had to empty them 
 to get water for that poor man. I wasn't quite sure, 
 but I thought he asked for it." 
 
 " Oh ! — And where did you go to find water ?" 
 
 "Back — don't you remember? — some distance back 
 of where we found him, we had passed a little brook of 
 running clear water. I had to go there." 
 
 " Yes — I know. Well, we shall have to make anothei 
 expedition." 
 
CHAPTEK III. 
 
 " I win hftve hopes that cannot fade, 
 For flowers the valley yields I 
 I win have humble thoughts instead 
 
 Of silent, dewy fields I 
 My spirit and my God shall be 
 My sea-ward hill, my boundless sea." 
 
 Thb promised expedition came off; and a number of 
 others ; not too frequently however, for Mr. Rhys con- 
 tinued to be one of the world's busy people, and was 
 often engaged and often weary. "J^he walks after natural 
 history came between times ; when he was not under 
 the immediate pressure of duty, and felt that he needed 
 recreation to fit him for it. Eleanor was his companion 
 generally, and grew to be as much interested in his ob- 
 jects as he was himself. Perhaps that is saying too 
 much. In the house certainly Mr. Rhys bestowed an 
 amount of patient time and investigation upon his 
 microscopical studies which Eleanor did not emulate ; 
 time and pains wliich made him presently a capital ma- 
 nipul.itor, and probably slowed away quantities of knowl- 
 edge under that quiet brow of his. Many an hour Mr. 
 Rhys and his microscope were silent companions, during 
 which he was rapt and absorbed in hU contemplations 
 or his efforts — whichever it might be ; but then at other 
 times, and before and after these times, Eleanor and 
 Mis. Caxton weie constantly invited to a share in some 
 of the results at least of what was going on. 
 
 Perhaps three people rarely enjoy more comfort to 
 gether in themselves and in each other, than these three 
 did for some weeks following the date of the last chap 
 
46 THEOLDHKLMET-. 
 
 ter. Mr. Rhys was a wonderful pleasant addition to the 
 family. He was entirely at home, and not a person to 
 be trammelled by any ordinary considerations. He was 
 silent when he felt like it ; he kept alone when he was 
 busy ; he put no unnatural force upon himself when he 
 was fatigued ; but silent, -or weary, or busy, there was 
 always and at all times where he was, the feeling of the 
 presence of one who was never absent from God. It 
 was in the atmosphere about him ; it was in the look 
 that he woie, free and simple as that always was, in its, 
 gravity ; it was in the straightforward doing of duty, in 
 ail little things as much as in great things ; the little 
 things never forgotten, the great things never waived. 
 It was an unconscious testimony that Mr. Rhys carj ied 
 about with him ; and which his companions seeing, they 
 moved about with softened steps and strengthened hearts 
 al-1 the whUe. But he was not always tired and silent; 
 and when he was not, he was a most delightful com- 
 panion, as free to talk as a child and as full of matter ;is 
 a wise man ; and entirely social and sympathetic too in 
 his whole temper and behaviour. He would not enjoy his 
 natural historical discoveries alone ; Mrs. Caxton and 
 Eleanor were made to take their full share. The family 
 circle was, quietly, a very lively one ; there was no stag- 
 nating anywhere. He and Mrs. Caxton had many sub- 
 jects and interests in common of which they talked freely, 
 and Eleanor was only too glad to listen. There were 
 books and reviews read aloud sometimes, with very 
 pithy discussion of the same ; in fact, there was conver 
 siition, truly deserving the name; such as Eleanor had 
 never listened to before s-he came to Plassy, and which 
 slie enjoyed hugely. Then the walks after natural ol> 
 ieots were on the whole frequent ; and Mr llliys was sui o 
 to ask her to go along; and they were full of delightful 
 pleasure and of nice talk too, though it never happened 
 that they sat down under a tiee agiiu to sermonize au(? 
 
A T II OUK. 41 
 
 Mr. Rhys never forgot himself again to speak to her by 
 the undignified appellation he once had given her. But 
 Eleanor had got over her shyness of him pretty well, and 
 was inclined to think it quite honour and pleasure enough 
 to be allowed to share his walks ; waited very content- 
 edly when he was wrapped up in his own thoughts; 
 wrapped herself up in hers ; and was all ready for the 
 talk when it came. With all this she observed that lie 
 never distinguished her by any more familiarity than 
 Mrs. Caxton's niece and his daily neighbour at the table 
 and in the family, might demand from a gentleman and 
 Mrs. Caxton's fiiend and guest. The hills and the val- 
 leys around Plassy were verj beautiful that summer. 
 
 So was Mrs. Caxton's garden. The roses flushed out 
 into bloom, with all their cotemporaries ; the terraces 
 down to the river were aglow with richness and pro- 
 fusion of blossoms, and sweet with many fragrances. The 
 old farmhouse itself had become an object of admiration 
 to Eleanor. Long and low, built of dark red stone and 
 roofed with slate, it was now in different parts wreathed 
 and draped in climbing roses and honeysuckle as well as 
 in the ivy which did duty all winter. To stand under 
 these roses at the back of the house, and look down over 
 the gorgeous terraces, to the river and the bridge and 
 the outspread meadows on the other side, stretching 
 away down and up the valley and reaching to the foot 
 of the hills which rose beyond them ; to see all this, 
 was to see a combination of natural features rare even in 
 England, though w-ords may not make it seem so. 
 
 Mrs. Caxton and Eleanor were there one evening. It 
 was towards the end of the season of " June roses,' 
 though indeed it was later than the month of June 
 Mr. Rhys had been called away to some distance by 
 business, and been detained a week ; and this evening ho 
 might be expected home. They had missed him very 
 Diujb, Mrs. Caxton and Eleanor. They had missed 
 
48 THE O L D H E L M E T . 
 
 him exceedingly at prayer-time ; they had missed him 
 desolately at meals. To-niglit the tea-table wiis spread 
 where he loved to have it ; on the tiled floor und(-r the 
 projecting roof before mentioned. A dish was crowned 
 with red and white strawberries in the middle of the 
 table, and Eleanor stood decorating it slowly with ivy 
 leaves and blossoms of white heath. 
 
 " It is not certain, my dear, he will come home to- 
 night," Mrs. Caxton said as she watclied her. 
 
 " No, aunty," — said Eleanor with a slight start, but 
 then going on with her occupation. " What about it ?" 
 
 " Nothing. We will enjoy the flowers ourselves." 
 
 " But he thought he would be at home to-night, aunt 
 Caxton ?" 
 
 " He could not be sure. He might easily be detained. 
 You have got over your fear of Mr. Rhys, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " Aunt Caxton, I don't think I ever feared him !" 
 
 "He used to have a 'quieting influence' upon you," 
 Mrs. Caxton said smiling. 
 
 " Well, — he does now, ma'am. At least I am sure 
 Mr. Rhys is one of the persons I should never tare to 
 contradict." 
 
 " I should think not," said Mrs. Caxton quietly. EleSr 
 nor had coloured a little. 
 
 " But that is not because, merely, I do not think my- 
 self wise; because there are other persons before whom 
 I think myself no wiser, whom I would contradict — I 
 mean, in a polite w.ay — if it came into my head." 
 
 " We shall miss him when he goes/' said Mrs. Caxton 
 with a little bit of a sigh. Eleanor wanted to ask a 
 question, but the words did not come. The ornament 
 ing of the strawberry dish was finished. She turned 
 from it, and looked down where the long train of co'v:! 
 came winding through the meadows and over the bridge. 
 Pretty, peaceful, lovely, was tliis gentle rural scene; 
 what was the connection that made but a step in Elea- 
 
A. T II O M E . 49 
 
 noi-'s thoughts between the meadows of Plassyand some 
 fai--ofF islands in distant Polynesia ? Eleanor had changed 
 since some time ago. She could understand now wliy 
 Mr. Rhys wanted to go there ; she could comprehend 
 it; she could understand how it was that he was not 
 afraid to go and did not shrink from leaving all this love- 
 liness at her feet. All that was no mystery now ; but 
 her thoughts fastened on her aunt's words — how they 
 would " miss him." She was very still, and so was Mrs. 
 Caxton ; till a step brought both heads round to the 
 door. 
 
 It was only a servant that came out, bringing letters ; 
 one for Eleanor, one for Mrs. Caxton. Standing where 
 she was, Eleanor broke hers open. It was from her 
 mother, and it contained something both new and unex- 
 pected ; an urgent injunction on her to return imme- 
 diately home. The fomily were going at once to Brigh- 
 ton, the letter said ; Mrs. Powle wished Eleanor to lose 
 no time, in order that her wardrobe might be properly 
 cared for. Thomas was sent with the letter, and her 
 mother desired that Eleanor would immediately on the 
 receipt of it, " without an hour's delay," set off to come 
 home with him. Reasons for this sudden proceeding 
 there were none given ; and it came with the suddenness 
 of a hurricane upon Eleanor. Up to this time there had 
 been no intimation of her mother's wish to have her at 
 home again ever ; an interval of sevei'al weeks had 
 elapsed since any letters ; now Mrs. Powle said " she had 
 been gone long enough," and they all wanted her, and 
 must have her at once to go to Brighton. So suddenly 
 affeotionaie ? 
 
 Eleanor stood looking it her letter some time after she 
 bad ceased to read it, with a face that ^hewed turmoil- 
 Mrs. Caxton came up to her. Eleanor dropped the let 
 ter in her hand, but her eye avoided her aunt's. 
 VOL. II. 3 
 
60 THKOI, DHELMKT. 
 
 " What is all this haste, Eleanor?" Mrs. Caxton said 
 gravely. 
 
 " I don't know, ma'am." 
 
 " At any rate, my child, you cannot leave me to-night 
 It is too late." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " Does your mother assign no reason for this sudden 
 iemand of you ? She gives me none.'' 
 
 " She gives me none, ma'am." 
 
 " Eleanor " 
 
 It brought Eleanor's eye up, and that brought her 
 head down on Mrs. Caxton's shoulder. Her aunt clasped 
 her tenderly for a moment, and then said, 
 
 "Had yon not better see your mother's servant, my 
 dear, and give your orders ? — and then we will have 
 tea." 
 
 Eleanor steadied herself immediately ; went out and 
 had an interview with old Thomas, which however 
 brought her no enlightenment ; made her arrangements 
 with him, and returned to her aunt. Mrs. Caxton or 
 dered tea ; they would not wait for Mr. Ilhys any longer. 
 The aunt and niece sat down to the table behind the 
 honeysuckle drapery of the pillars ; the sunlight had left 
 the landscape ; the breath of the flowers floated up cool 
 and sweet from the terraced garden and waved about 
 them with every stir of the long rose and honeysuckle 
 sprays. Eleanor sat by the table and looked cut. Mrs. 
 Caxton poured out the tea and looked at her. 
 
 " Aren't you going to take some strawberries, my 
 love?" 
 
 " Shall T give you some, aunt Caxton ?" 
 
 " And yourseUi my dear." 
 
 She w atchfd while Eleanor slowly broke up the heath 
 and ivy adornment of the strawbei-ry dish, and carefully 
 afterwards replaced the sprays and leaves she had dig. 
 lodged. It is no harm foi- a lady's hand to be white • 
 
A T H O M E . 5l 
 
 but tvavelling fiom the liand to the face, Mrs. Caxtori's 
 eye round too liitie colour there. Eleanor's cheeks wei'e 
 not gt neraJly WMnting in a fine healthy tinge. The tinge 
 Avas fainter than usual to-night. Nc\'ertlitless she \va. 
 eating strawberries with apparent regularity. 
 
 "Eleanor, I do not understand this sudden recall 
 Have you any clue ?" 
 
 " No ma'am, not the least." 
 
 " What arrangements have you made, my dear ?" 
 
 " For to-morrow morning, ma'am. I had no choice." 
 
 " No, my dear, yo\i had not ; and I have not a word 
 to say. I hope Mr. Rhys will come l»t.uk before you go." 
 
 Absolute silence on Eleanor's part. 
 
 " You would like to bid him good bye before yoxi 
 leave Plassy." 
 
 There was a cessation of any attention to the straw- 
 berries, and Eleanor's hand took a position which rather 
 hindered observations of her face. You might have 
 heard a slight little sigh come from behind Mrs. Caxton's 
 tea-pot. 
 
 '' Eleanor, have you learned that the steps of a good 
 man are ordered by the Lord ? My love they are not left 
 to our own disposal, and we should not know how to 
 manage it. You are going to do the Lord's work, are 
 you not, wherever you may be ?" 
 
 " I hope so." 
 
 " Then trust him to place you where he wants tho 
 work to be done. Can you, Eleanor ?" 
 
 Eleanor left her seat, came round and knelt down by 
 Mrs. Caxton's side, putting her face in her lap. 
 
 " It is not like a good soldier, dear, to wish to play 
 general. You have soraetliing now to do at home- 
 perhaps not more for others than for yourself. Are yoM 
 willing to do it ?" 
 
 " Don't ask me if I am willing, aunt Caxton ! I Lav« 
 been too happy But I shall be willing." 
 
52 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 "That is all we li\e for, my dear — to do the Lord's 
 work ; and I am sure that in service as in everything 
 else, God loves a cheerfiil giver. Let us give him that 
 now, Eleanor; and trust him for the rest. My child, 
 you are not the only one who has to give up something." 
 
 And though Mrs. Caxton said little more than that 
 word on the subject of what Eleanor's departure cost 
 herself, she manifested it in a different way by the kind 
 incessant solicitude and care with which she watched 
 over Eleanor and helped her and kept with her that night 
 and the next morning. Eleanor made her preparations 
 and indulged in very few words. There was too much 
 to think of, in the last evening's society, the last night 
 in her happy room, the last morning hours. And yet 
 Eleanor did very little thiidcing. She was to go imme- 
 diately after breakfast. The early prayers were over, 
 and the aunt and niece were left by themselves a moment 
 before the meal was served. 
 
 " And what shall I say to Mr. Rhys ?" enquired Mi-s. 
 Caxton, as they stood silent together. Eleanor hesitated, 
 and hesitated ; and finally said, 
 
 " T believe, nothing, ma'am." 
 
 " You have given me messages for so many other peo- 
 ple, you know," s.iid Mrs. Caxton quietly. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am. I don't know how to make a message 
 for him." 
 
 " I think he will feel it," said Mrs. Caxton in the samr 
 manner. 
 
 Then she saw, for her eyes were good, the lightning 
 flash of emotion which worked in Eleanor's face. Proud 
 self-control kept it down, and she stood motionless, 
 though it did not prevent the perceptible paling of her 
 cheek which Mrs. Caxton had noticed last night. She 
 stood silent, then she said slowly, — 
 
 " If I thought that — You may give him any message 
 for me that you think good, aunt Caxton." 
 
A T H O M E . 53 
 
 The breakfast arrived, and few more words passed on 
 any topic. Another hour, and Eleanor was on her 
 journey. 
 
 She felt in a confusion of spirits and would not let 
 herself think, till they reached her stopping place for the 
 night. And then, instead of thinking, Eleanor to say 
 the truth could do nothing but weep. It was her time 
 for tears ; to-morrow would end such an indulgence. 
 At an early hour the next day she met her father's car- 
 riage which had been sent so far for hei' ; and the re- 
 ni.aining hours of her way Eleanor did think. Her 
 thoughts are her own. But at the bottom of some that 
 were sorrowful lay one deep subject of joy. That she 
 was not going helmet-less into the fight which she felt 
 might be before her. Of that she had an inward pre- 
 sentiment, though what form it would take she was en- 
 tirely uncertain. 
 
 Julia was the first person that met her, and that meet- 
 ing was rapturous. 
 
 " O Nell ! it has been so dreadful and dull since you 
 have been gone ! I'm so glad to have you home ! I'm 
 BO glad to have you home !" — she repeated with her arms 
 round Eleanor's neck. 
 
 " But what are you going to, Brighton for ?" said 
 Eleanor after the first salutations had satisfied the first 
 eagei-ness of the sisters. 
 
 "01 don't know. Papa isn't just well, I believe ; 
 and mamma thought it would do him good. Mamma's 
 in here." 
 
 It was to Eleanor's relief that her reception in this 
 quarter also was perfectly cordial. Mrs. Powle seemed 
 to have forgotten, or to be disposed to forget, old causes 
 of trouble ; and to begin again as if nothing had hap- 
 pened. 
 
 " You look well, Eleanor. Bless me, I never saw your 
 complexion better ! but how your hair is dressed ! That 
 
54 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 isn't the way now ; but you'll get to rights soon. I've 
 got a purple muslin for you that will be beautiful. Your 
 whole wardrobe will want attention, but I have every- 
 thing ready — dress-maker and all — only waiting for you. 
 Think of your being gone seven months and more I 
 But never mind — we'll let bygones be bygones. I am 
 not going to rake up anything. We'll go to Brighton 
 and have everything pleasant." 
 
 "How soon, mamma?" 
 
 " Just as soon as I can get you dressed. And Elea^ 
 nor ! I wish you would immediately take a review of 
 all your wardrobe and all I have got for you, and see if 
 I have omitted anything." 
 
 " What has put you into the notion of Brighton, 
 mamma ?" 
 
 " Everybody is there now — and we want a change. 
 I think it will do your father good." 
 
 To see her father was the next thing ; and here there 
 was some comfort. The squire was undoubtedly re- 
 joiced to see his daughter and welcomed her back right 
 heartily. Made much of her in his way. He was 
 the only one too who cared much to hear of Mrs. 
 Caxton and her way of life and her farm. The squire 
 did care. Eleanor was kept a long time answering 
 questions and giving details. It cost her some hard 
 work. 
 
 " She is a good woman, is my sister Caxton," sjiid the 
 Squire ; " and she has pluck enough for half a dozen. 
 The only thing I have against her is her being a Metho- 
 dist. She hasn't made a Methodist of you, hey, Elea- 
 nor ?" 
 
 " I don't think she has, papa," Eleanor answered 
 slowly. 
 
 " That's the only fault I have to find with her," the 
 Squire went on ; " but I suppose women must have •,\n 
 empty corner of their heads, where tliey will slick fen- 
 
A T H e M H . 65 
 
 oies if they dor'l stick flowers. I think fco^^ul■s are the 
 most becoming of the two. Wears a brown gown 
 always, don't she ?" 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " I thought they did," said the Squire ; " but she's a 
 .clover woman, for all that,, or she wouldn't carry on that 
 business of the farm as she does. Your mother don't 
 like the farm ; but I thjnk my sister is right. Better be 
 independent and ask leave ot nobody. Well, you must 
 get dressed, must you. I am glad to have you home, 
 child !" 
 
 " Why are we going to leave home, papa ?" 
 " St. George and the Dragon ! Ask your mother." 
 So Eleanor did not get much wiser on the subject till 
 dinner-time ; nor then either, though it was nearly the 
 only thing talked about, both directly and indirectly. A 
 great weariness came over her, as the contrast rose up 
 of Mrs. Caxton's dinner-table and the three faces round 
 it; with the sweet play of. talk, on things natural or 
 philosophical, religious or civil, but always sensible, fresh, 
 and original and strong. Always that; the party might 
 lapse into silence ; if one of them was tired it often did ; 
 but when the words came again, they came with a ready 
 life and purpose — with a sort of perfume of love and 
 purity — that it made Eleanor's heart ache now to think 
 of. Her mother was descanting on lodgings, on the peo- 
 ))le already at Brighton, or coming there; on dresses' 
 ready .and unready ; and to vary this topic the Squire 
 complained that his wine was not cooled properly. Elea^ 
 nor sank into silence and then into extreme depression of 
 spirits ; which grew more and more, until she caught her 
 little sister's eye looking at her wistfully. Julia had 
 hardly said a word all dinner-time. The look smote 
 Eleanor's conscience. " Is this the way' I am doing the 
 work given me ?" she thought ; " this selfish forgetting 
 of all others in myself? Am I standing in iny post like 
 
56 THEOLDHELMET. 
 
 a good soldier ? Is this ' pleasing all men for thcii 
 good ?' " Conscience thumped like a hammer ; and 
 Eleanor roused up, entered into what was going, talked 
 and made herself pleasant to both father and mother, 
 who grew sunshiny under the influence. Mrs. Powle 
 eat the remainder of her dinner with more appetite ; and 
 the Squire declared Eleanor had grown handsome and 
 Plassy had done her no harm. But Julia looked and lis- 
 tened and said never a word. It was very hard work 
 to Eleanor, though it brought its reward as she went 
 along, not only in comments but in the sense of duty 
 performed. She would not run away from he»post; she 
 kept at it ; when her father had gone away to smoke she 
 stayed by her mother; till Mrs. Powle dropped off into 
 her usual after dinner nap in her chair. Eleanor sat still 
 a minute or two longer, then made an escape. She 
 sought her old garden, by the way of her old summer 
 parlour. Things were not changed there, except that 
 the garden was a little neglected. It brought painful 
 things back, though the flowers were sweet and the 
 summer sunset glow was over them all. So it used to 
 be in old times. So it used to be in nearer times, last 
 summer. And now was another change. Eleanor 
 paced slowly down one walk and up another, looking 
 sorrowfully at her old friends, the roses, carnations and 
 petunias, which looked at her as cheerfully as ever ; when 
 a hand touched hers and she found Julia at her side. 
 
 " Eleanor," she said wistfully, "are you sorry to be at 
 home again ?" 
 
 "I am glad to see you, darling; and papa, and mamma." 
 
 " But you don't look glad. Was it so much pleasanter 
 where you liave been ?" 
 
 Eleanor stiuggled with herself. 
 
 "It was very difi'erent, Julia— and there were things 
 that you and I both love, that there are not here." 
 
 "What?" 
 
A T H M E . 61 
 
 " Here all is for the world, Juiia ; there, at Plassy, 
 nothing is for the world. I feel the difference just at 
 first — I suppose I shall get a little used to it presently." 
 
 " I have not thought so much about all that," said 
 Julia soberly, " since Mr. Rhys went away. But you 
 must have loved aunt Caxlon very much, Eleanor, to 
 make you sorry to come home." 
 
 Julia spoke almost sadly. Eleanor felt bitterly re- 
 proached. Was there not work at home here for her to 
 do ! Yet she could hardly speak at first. Putting her 
 arm round Julia she drew lier down beside her on a 
 green bank and took her little sister in her arms. 
 
 "You and I will help each other, Julia, will we not?" 
 
 "In what?" 
 
 " To love Christ, and please him." 
 
 "Why, do you love him?" said Julia. "Are you 
 like Mr. Rhys." 
 
 " Not much. But I do love the same Master he loves, 
 Julia; and I have come home to serve him. You will 
 help me?" 
 
 " Mamma don't like all that," remarked Julia. 
 
 Eleanor sighed. The burden on her heart seemed 
 growing heavy* Julia half rose up and putting both 
 arms round her neck covered her lips with kisses. 
 
 " You don't seem like yourself!" she said ; "and you 
 look as grave as if you had found us all dead. Eleanor 
 — are you afraid ?" she said with an earnest look. 
 
 " Afraid «f what, dear?" 
 
 " Of that man— afraid of Mr. Carlisle ?" 
 
 " No, I nm not afiaid of him, or of anything. Be- 
 sides, he is hundreds of miles away, in Switzerland or 
 somewhere." 
 
 " No he isn't ; he is here." 
 
 " What do you mean by ' here ?' " 
 
 "In England, I mean. He isn't at the Priory; bn 
 he was lieie at llu' Lodge the other day." 
 
88 THEOLD HELMET 
 
 Eleanor's heart made two or three springs one waj 
 and another. 
 
 " No dear, I am not afraid of him," she repeated, with 
 a quietness that was convincing; and Julia passed to 
 other subjects. Eleanor did not forget that one ; and as 
 Julia ran on with her talk, she pondered it, and made 
 a secret thanksgiving that she was so escaped both fi-om 
 danger and from fear. Nevertheless she could not help 
 thinking about the subject. It seemed that Mr. Carlisle's 
 wound had healed very rapidly. And moreover she had 
 not given him credit for finding any attraction in that 
 house, beyond her own personal presence in it. How- 
 ever, she reflected that Mr. Carlisle was busy in politics, 
 and perhaps cultivated her father. They went in again, 
 to take up the subject of Brighton. 
 
 And what followed ? Mushns, flowers, laces, bonnets 
 and ribbands. They were very irksome days to Eleanor, 
 that were spent in getting ready for Brighton ; and the 
 thought of the calm purity of Plassy with its different 
 occupations sometimes came over her and for the moment 
 unnerved her bands for the finery they had to handle. 
 Once Eleanor took a long rambling ride alone on her old 
 pony ; she did not try it again. Business and bustle was 
 better, at least was less painful, than such a time for 
 thinking and feeling. So the dresses were made, aod 
 they went to Brighton. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 * In fcbe world*6 broad field of battle, 
 In tbe bivouac of Life, 
 Be not like dumb, driven cattle I 
 Be a hero in the strife 1 
 
 Eleanok was at once plunged into a whirl of engage, 
 ments, with acquaintances new and old. And the former 
 class multiplied very rapidly. Mrs. Powle's fair curls 
 hung on either side of her face with almost their full 
 measure of complacency, as she saw and beheld her 
 daughter's successful attractions. It was true. Eleanor 
 was found to have something unique about her ; some 
 said it was her beauty, some said it was her manners ;_ 
 some insisted it was neither, but had a deeper origin ; at 
 any rate she was fresh. Something out of the common 
 line and that piqued curiosity, was delightfiil ; and in 
 despite of her very moderate worldly advantages, com- 
 pared with many others who were there, Eleanor Powle 
 seemed likely to become in a little while the belle of 
 Brisihton. Certain rumours which were afloat no doubt 
 facilitated and expedited this progress of things. Hap 
 pily Eleanor did not hear them. 
 
 The rush of engagements and whirl of society at first 
 was very wearying and painful to her. No heart had 
 Eleanor to give to it. Only by putting a force upon her- 
 self, to please her father and mother, she managed to 
 enter with some spirit into the amusements going for- 
 ward, in which she was expected to take an active part. 
 Perhaps this very fact had something to do with the 
 
80 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 noble aud sweet disengagedness of manner -which 
 marked her unlike those about her, m a world where 
 Belf-interest of some sort is the ruling motive. It was 
 not Eleanor's world ; it had nothing to do with the in- 
 terests that were dear in her regard ; and something of 
 that carelessness which she brought to it conferred a 
 grace that the world imitates in vain. Eleanor found 
 however after a little, that the rush and hurry of her 
 life and of all the people about her had a contagion in 
 it ; her own thoughts were beginning to be absorbed in 
 what absorbed everybody ; her own cherished interests 
 were getting pushed into a corner. Eleanor resolved to 
 make a stand then, and secure time enough to herself to 
 let her own inner life have play and breathing room. 
 But it was very difficult to make such a stand. Mrs. 
 Powle ever stood like a watchman at the door to drive 
 Eleanor out when she wanted t"^ be in. Time! there 
 seemed to be no time. 
 
 Eleanor had heard that Mr. Carlisle was expected 
 at Brighton ; so she was not greatly surprised one even- 
 ing to find herself in the same room with him. It was 
 at a public assembly. The glances that her curiosity cast, 
 found him moving about among people very like, and in 
 very exactly the manner of his old self. No difference 
 that she could see. She wondered whether he would 
 have the audacity to come and speak to her. Audacity 
 was not a point in which Mr. Carlisle was failing. He 
 came ; and as he came others scattered away ; melted 
 off, and left her alsne. 
 
 He came with the best air in the world ; a little con 
 scions, a little apologetic, wholly respectful, not alto- 
 gether devoid of the old familiarity. He offered liis 
 hand ; did not to be sure detain hers, which would have 
 been inconvenient in a public assenibly ; but he detained 
 Aer, falling into talk with an ease or an effrontery which 
 rt Mas impossible not to admire. And Eleanor admired 
 
AT A WATBEINS PLACE. 61 
 
 nim involuntarily. Certainly this man had capacities. 
 He did not detain her too long ; passed away as easily 
 as he had come up ; but returned again in the course of the 
 evening to offer her some civility; and it was Mr. Carlisle 
 who put her mother and herself into their carriage. Elea- 
 nor looked for a remark from her mother on the subject 
 during their drive home ; but Mrs. Powle made none. 
 
 The next evening he was at Mrs. Powle's rooms, 
 where a small company was gathered every Tuesday. 
 He might be excused if he watched, more than he wished 
 to be seen watching, the sweet unconscious grace and ease 
 with which Eleanor moved and spoke. Others noticed 
 it, but Mr. Carlisle drew comparisons ; and found to his 
 mystification that her six months on a cheese farm had re- 
 turned Eleanor with an added charm of eye and manner, 
 for which he could not account-; which he could not im- 
 mediately define. She was not expecting to see him this 
 time, for she started a little when he presented himself. 
 He came with the same pleasant expression that he had 
 worn last night. 
 
 " Will you excuse me for remarking, that your winter 
 has done you good ?" he said. 
 
 " Yes. I know it has," Eleanor answered. 
 
 " With yotir old frankness, you acknowledge it ?" 
 
 " Willingly." 
 
 Her accent was so simple and sweet, the attraction 
 was ii'resistible. He sat down by her. 
 
 " I hope you are as willing as I am to acknowledge 
 that all our last winter's work was not good. We ex- 
 changed letters." 
 
 " Hardly, Mr. Carlisle." 
 
 " Will you allow me to say, that I am ashamed of my 
 part in that transaction. Eleanoi', I want you to forget 
 it, and to receive me as if it had not happened." 
 
 Eleanor was in a mixture of astonishment and doubt, 
 »s to how far his words might be taken. In the doubt. 
 
62 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 Bhe hesitated one instant. Another person, a lady, dre^* 
 near, and Mr. Carlisle yielded to her the place he had 
 been occupying. The opportunity for an answer was 
 gone. And though he was often near her durino; the 
 evening, he did not recur again to the subject, and Elea- 
 nor could not. But the little bit of dialogue left her 
 Boraething to think of. 
 
 She had occasion often to think of it. Mr. Carlisle 
 was everywhere, of course, in Bi'ighton ; at least he was 
 in Eleanor's everywhere ; she saw him a great deal, and 
 was a little struck and puzzled by his manner. He was 
 very often in her immediate company ; often attending 
 upon her ; it constantly happened, she could not tell how, 
 that his arm was the one to which she was consigned, in 
 walks and evening escorts. In a measure, he assumed 
 his old place beside her ; his attentions were constant, 
 gracefully and freely paid ; they just lacked the expres- 
 sion which would have obliged and enabled her to throw 
 them off. It was rather the manner of a brother than 
 of a lover ; but it was familiar and confidential beyond 
 what those assume that are not brothers. Whatever it 
 meant, it dissatisfied Eleanor. The world, perhaps the 
 gentleman himself, might justly think if she permitted 
 this state of things that she allowed the conclusions 
 naturally to be drawn from it. She determined to with- 
 draw herself. It was curiously and inexplicably diflncult. 
 Too easily, too gracefully, too much as a matter of course, 
 things fell into train, for Eleanor often to do anything to 
 alter the train. But she was determined. 
 
 " Eleanor, do you know everybody is waiting ?" Mrs. 
 Powle exclaimed one morning bursting into Eleanor's 
 room. " There's the whole riding party — and you are 
 not ready !" 
 
 " No, mamma. I am not going." 
 
 " Not going ! Just put on your riding habit as quick 
 as you can — Julia, get her hat I — you said you would 
 
AT A WATEEING-PLACB. " «3 
 
 go, and I have no notion of disappointing people like 
 that. Get yourself ready immediately — do you hear 
 me?" 
 
 " But mamma — " 
 
 " Put on your habit ! — then talk if you like. It's all 
 nonsense. What are you doing ? studying? Nonsense! 
 there's time enough for studying when you are at home. 
 Now be quick !" 
 
 " But mamma — " 
 
 " Well ? Put your hair lower, Eleanor ; that will 
 not do." 
 
 " Mamma, isn't Mr. Carlisle there ?" 
 
 " Mr. Carlisle ? What if he is ? I hope he is. You 
 are well in that hat, Eleanor." 
 
 " Mamma, if Mr. Cailisle is there, — " 
 
 " Hold your tongue, Eleanor ! — take your whip and 
 go. They are all waiting. You may talk to me when 
 you come back, but now you must go. I should think 
 Mr. Carlisle would like to be of the party, foi- there isn't 
 such another figure on the ride. Now kiss me and go. 
 You are a good girl." 
 
 Mrs. Powle said it with some feeling. She had never 
 found Eleanor so obediently tractable as since her re- 
 turn ; she had never got from her such ready and will- 
 ing cooperation, even in matters that Jier mother knew 
 were not after Eleanor's heart, as now when her heart 
 was less in them ihan ever. And at this moment she 
 was gratified by the quiet grave obedience rendered her, 
 in doing what she saw plainly enough Eleanor did not 
 ike to do. She followed her daughter down stairs with 
 . proud heart. 
 
 It happened again, as it was always happening, that 
 ble. Carlvle was Ekanor's special attendant. Eleanor 
 molitated possible ways of hindering this in future ; but 
 foi the present llicrc was no remedy. Mr. Carlisle put 
 hcv on her horse ; it was not ti 1 she was taking the rcina 
 
64 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 in her loft hand that something struck her with a sense 
 of familiarity. 
 
 " What horse is this ?" she asked. 
 
 " No other than your old friend and sei'vant — I hope 
 you have not forgotten her. She has not forgotten 
 jou." 
 
 Eleanor perceived that. As surely as it was Black 
 Maggie, Maggie knew her ; and displeased though 
 Eleanor was with the master, she could not forbear a 
 little caress of I'ccognition to the beautiful creature he 
 had once given her. Maggie was faultless ;' she and 
 Eleanor were accustomed to each other; it was an un- 
 deniable pleasure to be so mounted again, as Eleanor 
 could not but acknowledge to herself during the first few 
 dainty dancing steps that Maggie made with her wonted 
 burden. Nevertheless it was a great deal too much like 
 old times that were destroyed ; and glancing at Mr. 
 Carlisle Eleanor saw that he was on Tippoo, and fur- 
 thermore that thei'e was a sparkle in his eye which meant 
 hope, or triumph. Something put Eleanor on her met- 
 tle ; she rode well that day. She rode with a careless 
 grace and ease that even drew a compliment from Mr. 
 Carlisle ; but beyond that, his companion at first gave 
 him little satisfacticm. She was grave and cold to all his 
 conversational efforts. However, there she was on his 
 black mare ; and Mr. Carlisle probably found an antidote 
 to whatever discouragement she threw in his way. 
 Chance threw something else in his way. 
 
 They had turned into one of the less frequented streets 
 of the town, in their way to get out of it, when Elea- 
 nor's eye was seized by a figure on the sidewalk. It 
 startled her inexpressibly ; and before she could be sure 
 her eyes did not deceive her the figure had almost passed, 
 or they had almost passed the person. But in passing 
 he had raised his hat; she knew then l.e had recognized 
 her, as she had known him ; and he had recognized hej 
 
AT A. WATEKING-PLACE. 65 
 
 ;n sncli company. And he was in Brighton. Without 
 a moment for thought or delay, Eleanor wheeled her 
 horse's head sharply round and in one or two smart 
 steps brought herself alongside of Mr. Ilhys. He stopped, 
 catne up to her stirrup and shook hands. He Ipoked 
 grave, Eleanor thought. She hastened to speak. 
 
 " I could not pass you, Mr." Rhys. I had to leave 
 Plassy without bidding you good bye." 
 
 "lam glad to meet you now," he said, — "before I 
 go." 
 
 " Do you leave Brighton very soon ?" 
 
 " To-morrow. I go up to London, and in a few days 
 I expeot to sail from there." 
 
 " For — ?" 
 
 " Yes, — for my post in the Southern Ocean. I have 
 an unexpected opportunity." 
 
 Eleanor was silent. Siie could not find anything to 
 say. She knew also that Mr. Cai lisle had wheeled his 
 horse after her, and that Tippoo wis taking steps some- 
 where in her close neighbourhood. But she sat motion- 
 less, unable to move as well as to speak. 
 
 " I must not detain you," said Mv. Rhj's. " Do you 
 find it as easy to live well at Brightor> as at Plassy ?" 
 
 Eleanor answered a low and gra''<; "no;" bending 
 down over her saddlebow. 
 
 " Keep that which is committed to thy charge," he 
 said gently. " Farewell — and the Lord bless you !" 
 
 Eleanor had bared her gauntleted hand; he gave it 
 the old earnest grasp, lifted his hat, and went on his 
 way. Eleanor turned lier horse's head again and found 
 herself alongside of Mr. Carlisle. She rode on briskly, 
 pointing out to him how far ahead were the rest of the 
 party. 
 
 " Was not your friend somebody that I know ?'' he 
 enquired as soon as there was a convenient pause. 
 
 " I am sure I do not know," said Eleanor. " I do not 
 
66 THEOLDIIKLMBT. 
 
 know liow good your memory may be. He is the gen- 
 tleman that was my brother's tutor at home — some time 
 ago." 
 
 "I thought I remembered. Is he tutoring some one 
 else now ?" 
 
 " I should think not. He just tells me he is about to 
 sail for tlie South Seas. . Mr. Carlisle, Maggie has a very 
 nice mouth." 
 
 "Her mistress has a very nice hand," he answered, 
 bendiilg forward to Maggie's bridle so that he could look 
 up in Eleanor's face. " Only you let her leiu be too 
 slack, as of old. You like her better than Tippoo ?" 
 
 " Tippoo is beyond my management." 
 
 " I am not going to let you say that. You shall mount 
 Tippoo next time, and become acquainted with your 
 own powers. You are not afraid of anything ?" 
 
 " Yes, I am." 
 
 "You did not use it." 
 
 " Well I have not grown cowardly," said Eleanor ; 
 " but I am afraid of mounting Tippoo ; and what I am 
 afraid of, Mr. Carlisle, I will not do." 
 
 " Just the reverse maxim from that which I should 
 have expected from you. Do you say your friend there 
 IS going to the South Seas ?" 
 
 " Mr. Rhys ?" said Eleanor, turning her face full upon 
 him. 
 
 "If that is his name— yes. Why does he not stick to 
 tutoring ?" 
 
 " Does anybody stick to tutoring that can help it ?" 
 
 "I should think not ; but then as a tutor he would be 
 in the way of better things; he could mount to some- 
 thing higher." 
 
 "I believe he has some expectation of that sort in 
 going to the Pacific," said Eleanor. She spoke it with a 
 most commonplace coolness. 
 
 " Seems a very roundabout road to promotion," said 
 
iT A WATKRING-PLACE. Q) 
 
 Mr. Carlisle, wSitoliing Eleanor's hand and stealthilj' Iiei 
 face ; " but I suppose he knows best. Your fiicnd is not 
 a Churchman, is he ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I remember h'im as a popu.ar orator of great powers. 
 "What is he leavinj/ England for ?" 
 
 " You assume somewhat too much knowledge on my 
 part of people's designs," said Eleanor carelessly. " I 
 must suppose that he hkes work on the other side of the 
 world better than to work here ; — for some reason or 
 other." 
 
 " How the reason <ihould be promotion, puzzles me," 
 iiaid her companion ; " but that may be owing to preju- 
 dice on my pait. I <lo not know how to conceive of 
 promotion out of the regular line. In England and in 
 the Church. To be sent to India to take a bishopric 
 seems to me a dosceuc in the scale. Have you this feel- 
 ing ?" 
 
 "About bishopiios ?" said Eleanor smiling. "They 
 are not in my Une. you know." 
 
 " Don't be wicked ! Have you this feeling aboat 
 England ?" 
 
 " If a bishopric in India were oiFered me ? — " 
 
 " Well, yes 1 Would you .accept it ?" 
 
 " I really never had occasion to consider the subject 
 before. It is such a very new thought, you see. But I 
 will tell you, I shoul.l lliink the humblest curacy in Eng- 
 land to be chosen rather, — unless for the sake of a wider 
 sphere of doing good." 
 
 "Do you knon," said Mr. Carlisle, looking very con 
 tented and coming up closer, " your bridle hand has im- 
 proved ? It is very nearly faultless. What have you 
 been riding this winter ?" 
 
 " A wiry little pony." 
 
 " Honour, Eleanor !" said Mr. Carlisle laughing and 
 bringing his hand again near enough to throw over a lock 
 
68 THE O L D H B L M ET . 
 
 of Maggie's mane which had fallen on the wrong side 
 " I am really curious." 
 
 " "Well I tell you the truth. But Mr. Carlisle, I won- 
 der you people in parliament do not stir yourselves up to 
 right some wrongs. People ought to live, if they are 
 curates ; and there was one where I was last winter — an 
 excellent one — living, or starving, I don't know which 
 you would call it, on thirty pounds a year." 
 
 Mr. Carlisle entered into the subject ; and questions 
 moral, legislative, and ecclesiastical, were discussed by 
 him and Eleanor with great earnestness and diligence ; 
 by him at least with singular delight. Eleanor kept up 
 the conversation with unflagging interest ; it was broken 
 by a proposal on Mr. Carlisle's part for a galhip, to which 
 she willingly agreed ; held her part in the ensuing scam- 
 per with perfect grace and steadiness, and as soon as it 
 was over, plunged Mr. Carlisle deep again into reform. 
 
 " Nobody has had such honour as I to-day," he as- 
 sured her as he took her down from her horse. " I 
 shall see you to-night, of course ?" 
 
 " Of course. I suppose," said Eleanor. 
 
 It cannot be said that Eleanor made any efibrt to 
 ' change the " of course," though the rest of the day as 
 usual was swallowed up in a round of engagements. 
 There was no breathing time, and the evening occasion 
 was a public one. Mrs. Powle was in a great state of 
 satisfaction with her daughter to-day ; Eleanor had 
 shunned no company nor exertion, had carried an unu- 
 sual spirit into all ; and a minute with Mr. Carlisle after 
 the ride had shewed him in a sort of exultant mood. 
 She looked over Eleanor's dress criticiilly when they 
 were about leaving home for the evening's entertain- 
 ment. It was very simple indeed ; yet Mrs. Ppwle in 
 the depth of her heai-t could not find that anything was 
 Wanting to the effect. 
 
 Nor could a yet more captious critic, Mr. Carlisle; 
 
AT A WATKEING-PLACE. 6S 
 
 why WHS on the ground before them and watched and 
 observed a little while from a distance. Admiration and 
 passion were roused within him, as ht watched anew 
 what he hnd already seen in Eleanor's manner since she 
 came to Brighton ; tliat grace of absolute ease and un- 
 consciousness, which only the very highest breeding can 
 successfully imitate. No Lady Rythdale, he was obliged 
 to confess, that ever lived, had better advanced the 
 honours of her house, than would this one ; could she 
 be persuaded to accept the position. This manner did 
 not use to be Eleanor's ; how had she got it on the bor- 
 ders of Wales? Neither was the sweetness of that 
 smile to be seen on her lip hi the times gone by ; and a 
 little gravity was wanting then, which gave a charn^ of 
 dignity to the exquisite poise which whether of charac- 
 ter or manner was so at home with her now. Was she 
 too grave ? The question rose ; but he answered it with 
 a negative. Her smile came readily, and it was the 
 sweeter for not being always seen. His meditations were 
 interrupted by a whisper at his elbow. 
 
 " She will not dance !" 
 
 " Who will not ?" said he, finding himself face to face 
 with Mrs. Powle. 
 
 " Eleanor. She will not. I am afraid it is one of her 
 new notions." 
 
 Mr. Carlisle smiled a peculiar smile. " Hardly a fault, 
 I think, Mrs. Powle. I am not inclined to quarrel with 
 it." 
 
 "You do not see any faults at all, I believe," said the 
 lady. " Now I am more discerning." 
 
 Mr. Carlisle did not speak his thoughts, which were 
 complimentary only in one direction, to say truih. 
 He went off to Eleanor, and prevented any more propo 
 sitions of dancing for the i-est of the evening. He could 
 not monopolize her, though. He was obliged to see her 
 attention divided in part among other people, and to take 
 
70 THEOLD HELMET. 
 
 a share which though perfecHy free and sufficiently gi'» 
 cious, gave him no acl\'antage in that respect over sev 
 era! others. The only advantage he could make sure of 
 was that of attending Eleanor home. Tlie evening left 
 him an excited man, not happy in his mind. 
 
 Eleanor, having quitted her escort, went slowly up 
 the stairs ; bade her mother good night ; went into her 
 own room and locked the door. Then methodically she 
 took off the several parts of her evening attire and laid 
 them away ; put on a dressing-gown, threw her window 
 open, and knelt down by it. 
 
 The stars kept watch over the night. A pleasant fresh 
 breeze blew in from the sea. They were Eleanor's only 
 companions, and they never missed her from the win- 
 dow the whole night long. I am bound to say, that the 
 morning found her there. 
 
 But nights so spent make a heavy draft on the follow- 
 ing day. In spite of all that cold water could do in the 
 way of refreshment, in spite of all that the morning cup 
 of tea could do, Eleanor was obliged to confess to a 
 headache. 
 
 " Why Eleanor, child, you look dreadfully !" said Mrs. 
 Powle, who came into her i-oom and found her lying 
 down. "Y(iu are as white! — and black rings under 
 your eyes. You will never be able to go with the riding 
 party this morning." 
 
 " I am afraid not, mamma. I am sorry. I would go 
 if I could ; but I believe I must lie still. Then I shall 
 be fit for this evening, perhaps." 
 
 She was not ; but that one day of solitude and 
 silence was all that Eleanor took for herself. The next 
 day she joined the riders again ; and from that time held 
 liei self back from no engagement to which her mother 
 or Mr. Carlisle urged her. 
 
 Mr. Carlisle felt it with a little of his old feeling of 
 pride. It was the only thing in which Eleanor could ba 
 
AT A W A T E KIN Q- PL A CE. 71 
 
 said to give the feeling much chance ; for while she rlid 
 not' reject his attendance, which she could not easily do, 
 nor do at all without first vanquishing her mother ; and 
 while she allowed a certain remains of the old wonted 
 familiarity, she at the same ne\er gave Mr. Carlisle any 
 reason to think that he had reg.iined the least power over 
 her. She received him well, but as she received a hun- 
 dred others. He was her continual attendant, but he 
 never felt that it was by Elemor's choice ; and he knew 
 sometimes that it was by her choice that he was thrown 
 out of his office. She bewildered him with her sweet 
 dignity, which was more utterly unmanageable than any 
 form of pride or passion. The pi'ide and passion were 
 left to be Mr. Carlisle's own. Pride was roused, that he 
 was stopped by so gentle a barrier in his advances ; and 
 passion was stimulated, by uncertainty not merely, but 
 by the calm grace and indefinable sweetness which he 
 did not remember in Eleanor, well as he had loved her 
 before. He loved her better now. That charm of man- 
 ner was the very thing to captivate Mr. Carlisle; he 
 valued it highly ; and did not appreciate it the less be- 
 cause it baffled him. 
 
 •' He's ten times worse than ever," Mrs. Powle said 
 exultingly to her husband. " I believe he'd go through 
 fire and water to make sure of her." 
 
 " And how's she ?" growled the Squire. 
 
 " She's playing with him, girl-fashion," said Mrs. 
 Powle chuckling. " Slie is using her power." 
 
 " What is she using it for ?" said the Squire threaten- 
 ingly. 
 
 " O to enjoy herself, and make him value her properly. 
 She will come round by and by." 
 
 How was Eleanor ? The world had opportunities of 
 jtidging most of the time, as far as the outside went ; 
 yet there were still a few times of the day which the 
 world did nut intrude ipon ; and of those there was an 
 
12 THEOLD HELMET. 
 
 hour before breakfast, wben Eleanor was pretty secure 
 against interruption even fiora her mother. Mrs. Powle 
 was a late riser. Julia, who was very much cust away 
 at Brighton and went wandering about like a rudderless 
 vessel, found out that Eleanor was diessed and using the 
 iinshine long before anybody else in the house knew the 
 day was begun. It was a golden discovery. Eleanor 
 ■«as alone, and Julia could have her to herself a little 
 while at least. Even if Eleanor was bent on reading or 
 writing, still it was a joy to be near her, to watch her, 
 to smooth her soft hair, and now and then break her off 
 from other occupations to have a talk. 
 
 " Eleanor," said Julia one day, a little while after these 
 oases in time had been discovered by her, " what has be- 
 come of Mr. Rhys ? do yon know ?" 
 
 " He has gone," said Eleanor. She was sitting by her 
 open window, a book open on her lap. She looked out 
 of the window as she spoke. 
 
 " Gone ? Do you mean he has gone away from Eng- 
 land ? You don't mean that ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " To that dreadful place ?" 
 
 " What dreadful place ?" 
 
 " Where he was going, you know, — somewhere. Are 
 you sure he has gone, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " Yes. I saw it in the paper — the mention of his 
 going — He and two others." 
 
 " And has he gone to that horrible place ?" 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so. That is where he wished to go." 
 
 " I dont see how he could !" said Julia. " How could 
 he ! where the people are so bad ! — and leave England ?" 
 
 " Why Julia, have you foi-gotten ? Don't you know 
 whose servant Mr. Rhys is ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Julia rautteringly, — "but I should think 
 he would be afraid. Why the people there are as wicked 
 as they can be." 
 
AT A WATEEING-PLACE. 7S. 
 
 " That IS no reason why he should be afraid. What 
 harm could they they do to him ?" 
 
 " Why ! — they could kill him, easily," said Julia. 
 
 " And would that bo great harm to Mr. Rhys ?" said 
 Eleanor looldng round at her. "What if they did, and 
 he were called quick home to the court of his King, — 
 do you think his reception there would be a sorrowful 
 thing ?" 
 
 " Why ISTell," said Julia, " do you mean heaven ?" 
 
 " Do you not think that is Mr. Rliys's home ?" 
 
 " I haven't tliought much about it at all," said Julia 
 laying her hc^ad down on Eleanor's shoulder. " You see, 
 nobody talked to me ever since he went away; and 
 mamma talks everything else." 
 
 " Come here in the moinings, and we'll talk about it," 
 said Els'anor. Her voice was a little husky. 
 
 " Shall we ?" said Jnlia rousing up again. " But Elea- 
 nor, what are your eyes full for ? Did you love Mr. 
 Rhys too ?" 
 
 It was an innocent question ; but instead of answering, 
 Eleanor turned again to the window. She sat with her 
 hand pressed upon her mouth, while the full eyes 
 brimmed and ran over, and filled again ; and drop after 
 drop plashed upon the window-sill. It was impossible 
 to help it, for that minute ; and Julia looked on wonder- 
 
 " O Nell," she repeated almost awe-struck, " what is 
 It ? What has made you sorry too ? — " But she had 
 M wait a little while for her answer. 
 
 " He was a good friend to me," said Eleanor at last, 
 wiping her eyes ; " and I suppose it is not very absurd 
 to cry for a friend that is gone, that one will never see 
 again." 
 
 "Majbe he will come back some time," said Julia 
 sorrowful ly. 
 
 " Not while there is work there for him to do," said 
 
 vol.. II. * • 
 
74 THEOLDHELMET. 
 
 Eleanor. She waited a little while. There was some 
 difficulty in going on. When she did speak her tone was 
 clear and firm. 
 
 " Julia, shall we follow the Lord as Mr. Rhys does ?'' 
 
 " How ?" 
 
 " By doing whatever Jesus gives us to do." 
 
 " What has he given us to do ?" said Julia. 
 
 " If you come to my room in the mornings, we wiL 
 read and find out. And we will pray, and ask to be 
 taught." 
 
 Julia's countenance lightened and clouded with alter- 
 nate changes. 
 
 "Will you, Eleanor! But what have we got to do?" 
 
 " Love Jesus." 
 
 " Well I— O I did use to, Eleanor ! and I think I do 
 now ; only I have forgotten to think about anything, 
 this ever so long." 
 
 " Then if we love him, we shall find plenty of things 
 to do for him." 
 
 " What, Eleanor ? I would like to do something." 
 
 " Just whatever he gives us, Julia. Come, darling, — 
 have yoa not duties ?" 
 
 " Duties ?— " 
 
 " Have you not things that it is your duty to do ? — or 
 not to do?" 
 
 " Studies !" said Julia. " But I don't like them." 
 
 " For Jesus' sake ?" 
 
 Julia burst into tears. Eleanor's tone was so loving 
 and gentle, it reached the memories that had been slum- 
 bering. 
 
 "How can I do them for him, Eleanor?" she asked, 
 half perversely still. 
 
 " ' "Whatsoever ye do, do all in the name of the Lord 
 Jesu-i.' So he has told us." 
 
 " But my studies, Eleanor ? how can I ?" 
 
 " Wlio gave you the opportunity, Julia ?" 
 
AT A WATERING-PLACE. 7fl 
 
 « Well-I know." 
 
 " Well, if God has given yon the opportunity, do yon 
 think he means it for nothing ? He has work for j'ou 
 to do, Julia, some time, for which you will want all these 
 things that you have a chance of learning now ; if you 
 miss tlie chance, you will certainly not be ready for the 
 work." 
 
 " Why, Eleanor !— that's funny." 
 
 « What is it ?" 
 
 " Why I never thought of such a thing." 
 
 " What did you think ?" 
 
 " I thought I had French and German to study, for 
 instance, because everybody else learned French and 
 German. I did not think there was any use in it." 
 
 " You forgot who had given you them to learn." 
 
 " No, mamma would have it. Just her notion. Papa 
 didn't care." 
 
 " But dear Julia, you forget who has made it your 
 duty to please mamma's notions. And you forget who 
 it is that has given you your place in the world. You 
 might have been born in poverty, with quite other les- 
 sons to learn, and quite other work in the world." 
 
 " You talk just as queer as ii" you were Mr. Rhys 
 hi'.nself," said Julia. "I never heai'd of such things. 
 Do you suppose all the girls who are learning Fi'ench 
 and German at school — all the girls in England — have the 
 same sort of work to do ? that they will want it for ?" 
 
 " No, not all the same. But God never gives the 
 preparation without the occasion." 
 
 " Then suppose they do not make the preparation ?" 
 
 " Then when the occasion comes, they will not be 
 ready for it. When their work is given them to do^ 
 they will be found wanting." 
 
 " It's so queer !" said Julia. 
 
 " What ?" 
 
 «' To think such things about lessons." 
 
?? THEOLDHBLMET 
 
 " You may think such things about everything. What 
 ever God gives you, he gives you to use in some wa} 
 for him." 
 
 " But how can I possibly know how, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " Come to me in tlie mornings, and you and I will try 
 to find out." 
 
 " Did you say, I must please all mamma's notions ?" 
 
 " Certainly — all you can." 
 
 " But I like papa's notions a great deal better than 
 mamma's." 
 
 " You must try to meet both," said Eleanor smiling. 
 
 " I do not like a great many of mamma's notions. I 
 ■Son't think there is any sense in them." 
 
 "But God likes obedience, Julia. He has bid yon 
 honour mamma and papa. Do it for him." 
 
 " Do you mean to please all mamma's notions?" said 
 Julia sharply. 
 
 " All that I can, certainly." 
 
 "Well it is one of her notions that Mr. Carlisle phould 
 get you to the Priory after all. Are you going to let 
 her ? Are you going to let him, I mean ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Then if it is your duty to please mamma's notions, 
 why mustn't you })lease this one ?" 
 
 " Because here I have my duty to others to think of." 
 
 " To whom ?" said Julia as quick as lightning. 
 
 " To myselt— and to Mr. Carlisle." 
 
 " Mr. Carhsle !" said Julia. " I'll be bound he thinks 
 your duty to him would make you do whatever he likes." 
 
 " It happens that I take a different view of the sub- 
 ject." 
 
 " But Eleanor, what work do you suppose I have to 
 do in the world, that I shall want French and German 
 for ? real work, I mean ?" 
 
 " I can't tell. But I know now you have a beautiful 
 example to set ?" 
 
AT A WATEKING-PLACB. 'ft 
 
 " Of what? learning my lessons well ?" 
 
 " Of whatever is lovely and of good report. Of what- 
 ever will please Jesus." 
 
 Julia put her arms round her sister's neck and hid her 
 face there. 
 
 " I am going to give you a word to remember to- 
 day ; keep it with you dear. ' Whatsoever ye do, do all 
 in the name of the Lord Jesus.' Just think of that, 
 whether you are busy or not busy. And we will ask 
 the Lord to make us so full of his love, that we cannot 
 help it." 
 
 They knelt and prayed tos;ether; after ^irhich Julia 
 gave her sister a great many eavnest <if\ress«,« ; and thay 
 went down to breakfast a much foWort-^ii p*rT. 
 
CHAPTEK V. 
 
 " London makeB mirth I but I knoT Q-od hears 
 The sobs i* the dark, and the dropping of teara.* 
 
 The morning meetings were kept up. Julia had 
 always been very fond of her sister ; now she almost 
 worshipped her. She would get as close as possible, put 
 her arm round Eleanor's waist, and sometimes lay her 
 head on her shoulder ; and so listen to the reading and 
 join in the talking. The talks were always finished with 
 prayer ; and at first it not seldom happened that Elea- 
 nor's prayer became choked with tears. It happened so 
 often that Julia remarked upon it; and after that it 
 never happened again. 
 
 " Eleanor, can you see much use in my learning to 
 dance?" was a question which Julia propounded one 
 morning. 
 
 " Not much." 
 
 " Mamma says I shall go to dancing school next win- 
 ter." 
 
 " Next winter ! "What, at Brompton ?" 
 
 " O we are going to London after we go from here. 
 So mamma says. Why didn't you know it?" 
 
 Eleanor remained silent. 
 
 " Now what good is that going to do ?" Julia went 
 on. "What woik is that to fit me for, Eleanor? — dan- 
 cing parties ?" 
 
 "I hope it will not fit you for those," the elder sister 
 replied gravely. 
 
INLONDON. 79 
 
 •' "Why not? doi. t you go to them ?" 
 
 " I am obliged to go sometimes — I never take part." 
 
 "Why not Eleanor? Why don't you? yon can 
 dance." 
 
 " Read," said Eleanor, pointing to the words. Julia 
 read. 
 
 " ' Whatsoevei- ye do, do all in the name of the Lord 
 Jesus; giving thanks to God and the Father by him.' — 
 Well Eleanor ?" 
 
 " I cannot find anything I can do in the Lord's service 
 at such places, except to stand by and say by my man- 
 ner that I do not enjoy them nor approve of them." 
 
 "That won't hinder other people enjoying them, 
 though." 
 
 "I do not think people enjoy them much. You and I 
 have a hundred times as much fun in one good scamper 
 over the moor. Dear old moor ! I wish we were back 
 again. But other people's doing is not my business." 
 
 " Then what makes you go, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " Mamma would be so exceedingly vexed if I did not. 
 I mean to get out of it soon — as soon as I can." 
 
 " Do you think you will, in London ?" 
 
 Eleanor was silent, and thoughtful. 
 
 "Well, I know one thing," said Julia, — "I am not 
 going to dancing school. Mamma says it will make me 
 graceful ; and I think I am as graceful as other people 
 now — as most other people. I don't think I am as grace- 
 ful as you are. Don't you think so, Eleanor ?" 
 
 Eleanor smiled, soberly enough. 
 
 ''• Eleanor, must I go to dancing school ?" 
 
 "Why do you wish not to go?" 
 
 " Because you think it is wrong." 
 
 " Darling, you cannot displease mamma tor such a 
 reason. You must always honour every wish of hers, 
 except you thought that honouring her would be to dis 
 Honour or displease the Lord." 
 
80 THEOLDHBtMET. 
 
 The words were spoken and listened to with intense 
 feeling and earnestness on both ■ sides ; and the tears 
 came back in Eleanor's prayer that morning. 
 
 With the world at large, things maintained a very un- 
 altered position during the rest of the stay at Brighton. 
 Mr. CarHsle kept his position, advancing a little where it 
 seemed possible. Eleanor kept hers ; neither advancing 
 nor retreating. She was very good to Mr. Carlisle ; she 
 did not throw him off; she gave him no occasion to com- 
 plain of an unready talker or an unwilling companion. 
 A little particular kindness indeed she had for him, left 
 from the old times. Julia would have been much mysti- 
 fied by the brightness and life and spirit Eleanor shewed 
 in company, and in his company especially ; which her 
 little sister did not see in their private intercourse alone. 
 Nevertheless, Mr. Carlisle's passion was rather stimula- 
 ted by difficulty than fed by hope; though hope lived 
 high sometimes. All that Eleanor gave him she gave 
 him readily, and as readily gave to others ; she gave 
 coolly too, as coolly as she gave to others. Mr. Carlisle 
 took in many things the place of an accepted suitor ; but 
 never in Eleanor's manner, he knew. It chafed him, it 
 piqued him ; it made him far more than ever bent on 
 obtaining her hand ; her heart he could manage then. 
 Just now it was beyond his management ; and when 
 Mrs. Powle smiled congratulation, Mr. Carlisle bit his 
 lip. However, he had strong aids ; he did not despair. 
 He hoped something from London. 
 
 So they all went to London. Eleanor could gain no 
 satisfactory explanation why. Only her mother asserted 
 that her father's health must have the advice of London 
 physicians. The Squire himself was not much more ex- 
 plicit. That his health was not good,'however, was true ; 
 the Squire was very unlike his hearty, boisterous, inde- 
 pendent self. He moped, and he suffered too. Eleanor 
 could not help thinking he would have suffered less, as 
 
INLONDON. 81 
 
 he certainly wonld have moped less, at home; and at; 
 unintelligible grunt and grumble now and then seemed 
 to confirm her view' of the case ; but there tliey were, 
 fixed in London, and Eleanor was called upon to enter 
 into all sorts of London gayeties, of ^^■hich always Mr 
 Carlisle made part and parcel. 
 
 Eleanor made »> stand, and declined to go to places 
 ■vrhere she could not enjoy nor sympathize with what was 
 done. She could not think it duty to go to the opera, or 
 the theatre, or to great routs, even to please her mother. 
 Mrs. Powle made a stand too, and insisted, and was very 
 angry ; but Eleanor stood firm ; and the end was, she 
 gained her point. Mr. Carlisle was disapjiointed, but 
 counselled acquiescence ; and Mrs. Powle with no very 
 good grace acquiesced ; for though a woman, she did 
 not like to be foiled. Eleanor gained one point only ; 
 she was not obliged to go where she could not go with 
 a good conscience. She did not thereby get her time to 
 herself. London has many ways of spending time ; nice 
 ways too ; and in one and another of these Eleanor found 
 hers all gone. Day by day it vva-i so. Nothing was left 
 but those hours before breakfast. And what was worse, 
 Mr. Carlisle was at her elbow in every place ; and Elea- 
 nor became conscious that she was in spite of herself 
 appearing before the world as his particular property, 
 and that the conclusion was endorsed by her mother 
 She walked as straight as she could ; but the days grew 
 to be heavy days. 
 
 She devoted herself to her father as nmch as possible ; 
 und in that found a refuge. The Squire was discon- 
 tented and unwell ; a good deal depressed in spirits 
 as a consequence ; he delighted to have Eleanor come 
 and sit with him and read to him after dinner. She 
 escaped many an engagement by that means. In vain 
 Mrs. Powle 5ame in witb her appeal, about Eleanor's 
 
 4* 
 
82 T H E O L D H E L M E T . 
 
 good requiring him to do without hor ; tlie Squire lis- 
 tened, struggled, and seliishness got the better. 
 
 " St. George and the Dragon !" he exclaimed, — " she 
 shall do as she likes, and as I like, for one hour in th« 
 twenty-four. You may haul her about the rest of the 
 lime — but from dinner for a ^^•hile or so you may spare 
 her. I choose she shall be with nie." 
 
 The " while" was often three hours. Eleanor enjoyed 
 repose then, and enjoyed ministering to her father ; who 
 spiedily became exceedingly weiided to hei- services, and 
 learned to delight in her presence after a new manner. 
 He would have her read to him ; she might read every- 
 thing she pleased except what had a religious bearing. 
 Thiit he disposed of at once, and bade her seek another 
 book. He loved to have her brush his hair, when his 
 nead ached, by the half hour together; at other times 
 he engaged her in a game of chess and a talk about 
 Plassy. The poor Squire was getting a good deal tamed 
 down, to take satisfaction in suL-h quiet pleasures ; but 
 I he truth was that ho found himself unable for what he 
 hked better. Strength and health were botti failing ; he 
 was often suffering ; drives in the park wearied him 
 almost as much as sitting alone in his room ; he swore at 
 them for the stupidest entertainment man ever pleased 
 himself with. What he did with the lonely hours he 
 spent entirely by himself, nobody knew ; Eleanor knew 
 tliat he was rejoiced every time to see her come in. His 
 eye brightened when she opened the door, and he settled 
 himself in his easy chair to have a good time ; and then 
 even the h ng columns of the newspaper, read ti-om one 
 end to the other, up and down, were pleasant to Eleanor 
 too. It was soothing repose, in contrast with the whirl 
 of hII the n St of her life. Until the time came when Mi-. 
 Carlisle began to join the j>arty. How he did it Eleanor 
 hardly knew ; but he did it. He iictually contrived to 
 make one at those evening entertainments, \^hich ad 
 
INLONDON. 83 
 
 mitted but two others ; and with his usual adroitness 
 and skill he made his presence so acceptable that Elea- 
 nor felt it would be quite in vain to attempt to hinder 
 him. And so her rest was gone, and her oi)portiinity ; 
 for she had cherished fond hopes of winning not only 
 her own way into her father's heart, but with that, in 
 time, a hearing for truths the Squire had always pushed 
 out of his path. 
 
 Mr. Carlisle was very pleasant ; there was no question. 
 He did not at all usurp her office, nor interfere with it. 
 But when he saw her getting weary of a parliamentary 
 discussion, or a long discourse on politics or parties, his 
 hand would gently draw away the paper from hers and 
 his voice carry on the reading. And his voice was 
 agreeable to her father ; Eleiinor saw it ; the Squire 
 would turn his head a little towards the new reader, and 
 an expression of anything but dissatisfaction steal over 
 his features. Eleanor sat by^ half mortified, half feeling 
 veal good will towards Mr Carlisle for his grace and 
 kindness. Or if a game of chess were on foot, Mr. Car- 
 lisle would sit by, he generally declined playing himself, 
 and make the play very lively with his talk ; teaching 
 Eleanor, whose part he invariably took, and keeping a 
 very general's watch over her as if she had been a sub- 
 ordinate officer. Mr. Powle liked that too ; it made his 
 fighting better fun ; he chuckled a good deal over Mr. 
 Carlisle's play by proxy. Eleanoi- could not help it, nor 
 withdraw herself She knew what brought Mr. Carlisle 
 there, and she could not avoid him, nor the very easy 
 familiar terms on which they all sat round the chess 
 table. She was admirably quiet and cool; but then it is 
 true she felt no unkindness towards Mr. Carlisle, and 
 sometimes she feared she shewed kindness too frankly. 
 It was very difficult to help that too. Nevertheless it 
 was plain the gentleman did not dare trust anything to 
 his present power over her, for he never tried it. Ha 
 
84 THEOLDHEL M-E T . 
 
 evidently relied on somewhat else in his advances. And 
 Eleanor felt that the odds were rather hard against her.^ 
 Father and mother, and such a suitor ! 
 
 She was cut off from her evening refreshment ; and 
 the next step was, that hfir morning pleasure with Julia 
 was also denied her. Mrs. Powle had been in a state ol 
 gratulation with reference to Julia's improvement ; Julia 
 had become latterly so docile, so decorous, and so dili- 
 gent. One unlucky day it came to Mrs. Powle's knowl- 
 edge that Julia objected to going to dancing school ; 
 objected to spending money on the accomplishment, and 
 time on the acquisition ; and furthermore, when pressed, 
 avowed that she did not believe in the use of it when 
 attained. It seemed to Mrs. Powle little less than a 
 judgment upon her, to have the second of her daughters 
 holding such language ; it was traced to Eleanor's influ- 
 ence of course ; and further and diligent questioning 
 brought out the fact of tbe sisters' daily studies in com- 
 pany. They should happen no more, Mrs. Powle im- 
 mediately decided. Julia was forbidden to go to her 
 sister's room for such purposes ; and to make matters 
 sure she was provided with other and abundant occupa- 
 tion to keep her engaged at the dangerous hour. With 
 Eleanor herself Mrs. Powle held no communication on 
 the subject ; having for certain reasons an unwillingness 
 to come into unnecessary collision with her ; but Eleanor 
 found her little sister's society was no more to be had. 
 Mrs. Powle would assuredly have sent Julia quite out ol 
 the house to get her away fi-om mischievous influences, 
 but that she could not prevail on her husband. No daugh- 
 ter of his, he declared, should be made a fool of in a 
 boarding-school, while he had a foot above ground to 
 prevent it, 
 
 " Why Mrs. Powle," he said, " don't you know your- 
 self that Eleanor is the only sensible girl in London ? 
 That's growing up at home?, just as you didn't want." 
 
IN LOUDON. 8^' 
 
 " If she only had not some notions — " said Mrs. Powle 
 dubiously. For between her husband and Mr. Carlisle 
 she was very much held in on Eleanor's subject ; both 
 insisting that she should let her alone. It was difficult 
 for Eleanor to be displeased with Mr. Carlisle in the^e 
 times ; his whole behaviour was so kind and gentlemanly. 
 The only fault to be found with him was his pursuit of 
 her. That was steady and incessant ; yet at the same 
 time so brotherly and well-bred in manner that Eleanor 
 sometimes feared she gave him unconsciously too much 
 encouragement. Feeling really grateful to him, it was 
 a little hard not to shew it. For although Mr. Carlisle 
 was the cause of her trouble, he was also a shield be- 
 tween her and its more active manifestations. He fa- 
 voured her not dancing ; that was like a jealous man, 
 Mrs. Powle said. He smiled at Eleanor's charities, and 
 would have helped them if he could. He would not have 
 her scolded on the score of religious duties ; he preferred 
 administering the antidote to them as quietly as possible- 
 
 " Eleanor !" said Mrs. Powle, putting her head out ol 
 the drawing-room door one Sunday evening as she heard 
 somebody come in — " Eleanor! is that you? come here. 
 Where have you been ? Here is Mr. Carlisle waiting 
 thi-i hour to go with you to hear the Bishop of London 
 preach." 
 
 Eleanor came into the room. She was dressed with 
 extreme plainness, and looking so calm and sweet that it 
 was no wonder Mr. Carlisle's eyes rested on her as 
 on a new object of admiration. Few of his acquaintance 
 looked so ; and Eleanor did not use it, in times past. 
 
 " Now here you .ai-e, child, almost too late. Make 
 haste and get yourself ready. Whir-re have you been?" 
 
 " She cannot be more ready than she is," remarked 
 the other member of the })arty. 
 
 " I think, mamma, I will not go to-night. I am a lit- 
 tie tired." 
 
86 THEOLDHKI. MET. 
 
 " That's nonsense, Eleanor ! When were you ever toe 
 unwell to go to church, this winter? Go and get ready, 
 What Mr. Carlisle says is all very well, but he does not 
 see you with my eyes." 
 
 " I shall not take her if she is tired," said Mr. Carlisle 
 gentl}'. And Eleanor sat still. 
 
 " Where have you been then, child, to tire yourself? 
 You do try me, Eleanor. What can you have found 
 to do ?" 
 
 " All London, mamma," said Eleanor pleasantly. 
 
 " All London ! I should like to know what that 
 means. All wrong, I suppose, according to you. Well, 
 what part of London have you been attacking to-day ? 
 I should think the best thing for London would be to 
 near its Bishop. What have you been about, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " Only to school, mamma — Sunday school." 
 
 " But you went there this morning ?" 
 
 " That was another." 
 
 Mrs. Powle looked appealingly to Mr. Carlisle, as say- 
 ng, How long would you let this go on ? Turned her 
 lissatisfied face again to Eleanor, 
 
 " What school is this, mistress ? and where?" 
 
 " Mamma, if I tell you where it is, I am afi-aid yon 
 jfill be frightened. It is a Ragged school." 
 
 " A Ragged school ! What does that mean, Eleanor ? 
 V¥hat is a Ragged school ?" 
 
 " A school to teach ragged children, mamma. Oi 
 rather, for ragged people — they are not most of them 
 children ; and perhaps I should not say they are ragged ; 
 for though some of them are, others of them are not. 
 They are some of the wretchedest of the ragged 
 class at any rate." 
 
 " And Eleanor Powle can find nothing more suitable 
 to do, than to go and teach such a set ! Why you ought 
 to have a policeman there to take care of you." 
 
 " We have several." 
 
IN LONDON. 84 
 
 " Policemen !" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " And it is not safe without thera !" 
 
 " It is safe with them, mamma." 
 
 "Mr. Carlisle, what do you think of such doings?" 
 B-iicl Mrs. Powle appealing in despair. , 
 
 " They move my curiosity," he said quietly. " I hope 
 Eleanor will go on to gratify it." 
 
 " And can you really find nothing better than that tc 
 do, of a Sunday ?" her mother went on. 
 
 " No, mamma, I do not think I can." 
 
 " What do they luarn ?" Mr. Carlisle inquired. 
 
 " A little reading, some of them ; but the main thing 
 to teach thetn is tiie truths of the Bible. They never 
 heard them before, anywhere, — nor can hear them any- 
 where else." 
 
 " Do you think they will hear them there?" 
 
 " I am sure they do." 
 
 " And remember?" 
 
 The tears filled Eleanor's eyes, as she answered, " I 
 am sure some of them will." 
 
 " And suppose you lose your life in this Ragged teach- 
 ing ?" said Mrs. Powle. " You might oatch your death 
 of some horrid disease, Eleanor. Do you tliink that i'^ 
 right ?" 
 
 " Mamma, there was One who did lay down his lift 
 for you imd for me. I am not going to oifer mine need 
 iessly. But I do not think it is in any danger here. 
 Many go besides me." 
 
 " She is a confirmed Methodist !" said Mrs. Powla 
 turning to Mr. Carlisle. He smiled. 
 
 " Where does your school meet, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " I am afraid of terrifying mnmma, if I tell you." 
 
 " We will take care of her in case she faints. I am 
 5n uo danger." 
 
 "It is the Field-Lane .-ichool, Mr Carlisle" 
 
88 TIIEOLDHPLMET. 
 
 " The Field-Lane ? Won't, )-ou enlighten me ?" 
 
 " Carter's Field-Lane ; but it is only called Field-Lime. 
 Did you never hear of it? It was in a wretolied plac€ 
 in Saffron Hill at first — now it is removed to an excellent 
 room ill a better street." 
 
 " Where ?" 
 
 " You know where Clerkenwell is?" 
 
 This name gave no intelligence whatever to Mrs 
 Powle, but Mr. Carlisle looked enlightened. His face 
 changed and grew dark with something very like horror 
 and aliirm. 
 
 " Do you know that is one of the worst parts of Lon- 
 don ?" he said. 
 
 " Pretty bad," said Eleanor, " and the school used to 
 be. It is wonderfully improved now." 
 
 " There, you see, Eleanor, Mr. Carlisle thinks it is a 
 very improper place for you to be; and I hope you will 
 go there no more. I do not mean you shall." 
 
 Eleanor was silent, looking a little anxious, though 
 not cast down. Mr. Carlisle marked her. 
 
 " It is not safe for you, Eleanor," he said. 
 
 " It is perfectly safe," she answered with a smile that 
 had a curious brightness in it. " I run no risk what- 
 ever." 
 
 " You are a bold creature," said her mother, " and 
 always were ; but that is no reason why you should be 
 allowed to go your own crazy ways. I will have no 
 more of this, Eleanor." 
 
 " Mamma, I am perfectly safe. I have nothing at al! 
 to feai". I would not fail of going for anything in the 
 world." She spoke with an earnest and shadowed face 
 now. She felt it. 
 
 "Who goes with yon? or do yon go alone?" 
 
 " No, ma'am — Thomas is with me always." 
 
 " How came you to get into such a strange place ?" 
 
 "I heard of it — and there is sure to be more to d« <^ 
 
INLONDON. 89 
 
 such a work than there are hands for. I know one or 
 iwo of the gentlemen that teach there also." 
 
 " Methodists, I suppose ?" said Mrs. Powle sneeringly. 
 
 " One of them is, mamma ; the other is a Chm-chman." 
 
 " And do you teach there ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am — a large class of boys." Eleanor's smile 
 came again — and went. 
 
 " I'll have no more of it, Eleanor. I will not. It is 
 just absurdity and fanaticism, the whole thing. Why 
 shouldn't those boys go to the regular schools, i"istead 
 of your giving your time and risking your life to teach 
 them Sundays ? You indeed !" 
 
 "You do not know what sort of boys they are, mam- 
 ma ; or j'ou would not ask that." 
 
 " I suppose they have learned some things toi well 
 already ?" said Mr. Carlisle. 
 
 " Well, I'll have no more of it !" said Mrs. Fowle. 
 " I am disgusted with the whole thing. If they are not 
 good boys, the House of Correction is the best pla?e for 
 them. Mr. Carlisle, do you not say so ?" 
 
 Mr. Carlisle's knowledge of the limits of Housrs of 
 Correction and the number of boys in London who were 
 not good boys, forbade him to give an aifirmalive an''wer; 
 his character as a reformer also came up before him. 
 More than all, Eleanor's face, which was somewhat s-'kA. 
 
 " Mrs. Powle, I am going to petition you to sufpend 
 judgment, and reconsider the case of the Ra'^ged 
 Schools. I confess to a selfish motive in my request — I 
 have a desiie to go there myself and see this lady with 
 her scholars around her. The picturesque eifect, I should 
 say, must be striking." 
 
 Mrs. Powle looked at him as a very unwise and cbsti- 
 uate man, who was bewitched into false action 
 
 " If you ha\e a fancy for such effects," she said ; " I 
 suppose you must do as you please. To me the effect is 
 striking and not picturesque. Just look at her I" 
 
90 THE OLD HK I. MET. 
 
 Mr. Carlisle did so, and the expression on his face was 
 so unsatisfactory that Mrs. Powle gave up the matter; 
 laughed, and went out of the room. 
 
 " I will be less striking," said Eleanor, " if you will 
 excuse me." And she left the room to change her dress. 
 But when she came back an hour after, Mr. Carlisle was 
 fctill there. , 
 
 " Eleanor," said he, coming and standing before her, 
 " may I go with you the next time you go to Field- 
 Lane?" 
 
 " No, I think not. You would not know what to do 
 iir such a place, Mr. Carlisle." 
 
 " Do you think so ?" 
 
 " They are a set of people whom you do not like ; 
 people who you think ought to be fined — and imprisoned 
 — and transported ; and all that sort of thing." 
 
 "And what do you think ought to be done with 
 them ?" 
 
 " I would try a different regimen." 
 
 " Pray what would it be ?" 
 
 " I would tell them of the love of One who died for 
 them. And I would shew them that the servants of 
 that One love them too." 
 
 She spoke quietly, but there was a light in her eye. 
 
 " How, for heaven's sake, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " Mr. Carlisle, I would never condemn a man or boy 
 very severely for stealing, when I had left him no other 
 way to live." 
 
 " So you v^ould make the rest of the world responsi- 
 ble ?" 
 
 " Are they not ? These fellows never heard a word 
 of right or of truth — never had a word of kindness— 
 never were brought under a good influence, — until they 
 found it in the Ragged school. What could you ex 
 pect ? May 1 illustrate ?" 
 
 " Pray do." 
 
IN LONDON. 91 
 
 " There is a boy in a class neighbouring to mine in the 
 room, whose teaclu'r I know. The boy is thirteen or 
 fourteen years old now ; he came to the school first some 
 four or five years ago, when he w.as a little bit of a fel- 
 low. Then he had already one brother transported foi 
 stealing, and another in prison for stealing — both only a 
 little older than he. They had often no other way of 
 getting food but stealing it. The father and mother 
 were both of them drunkards and swallowed up every- 
 thing in liquor. This little fellow used to come to the 
 morning school, which was held every day, without any 
 breakfast; many a time. Barefioted, over the cold 
 St reets, and no breakfast to warm him. But after what 
 he heard at the school he promised he would never do 
 as his brothers had done ; and he had some very hard 
 times in keeping his promise. At last he came to his 
 teacher and asked him for a loan of threepence ; if he 
 had a loan of threepence he thought he could make a 
 living." 
 
 Mr. Cai-lisle half turned on his heel, but instantly re- 
 sumed his look and attitude of fixed attention. 
 
 " Mr. Morrison lent him threepence. And Jemmy 
 Has supported himself respectably ever since, and is now 
 in honest employment as an errand boy." 
 
 " I hope you can tell me how he managed it ? I do 
 not understand doing business on such a capital." 
 
 " The threepence bought twelve boxes of matches. 
 Those were sold for a halfpenny each — doubling his cap- 
 ital at once. So he carried on that business for two years 
 All day he went to school. In the end of the day he 
 went out with twelve boxes of matches and hawked 
 them about until they were disposed of. That gave hira 
 threepence for the next day's trade, and threepence to 
 live upon. He spent one penny for brenkfast, he said; 
 another for dinner, and another for supper. So he did 
 for twfi years ; now he does better.'' 
 
92 THBOLUHELMET. 
 
 " He deserves it, if anybody in London docs. Is not 
 this a strange instance, Eleanor ? — on honour ?" 
 
 " If you like — but not solitary." 
 
 " What has been done for the mass of these boys in 
 these schools ? what has been accomplished, I mean ?" 
 
 " I have given you but one instance oup of many, 
 many individual instances." 
 
 "Then you can aiford to be generous and give me an- 
 other." 
 
 Perhaps he said this only because he wanted to have 
 her go on talking ; perhaps Eleanor divined that ; how- 
 ever she hesitated a moment and went on. 
 
 " Lord Cushlej'^, with some other friends, has just pro- 
 vided for the emigration to Australia of near a dozen pro- 
 mising cases of these boys." 
 
 " Was Eleanor Powle another of the friends ?" 
 
 " No ; I had not that honour. These are reclaimed 
 boys, mind; reclaimed from the very lowest and most mis- 
 erable condition ; and they are going out with every pros- 
 pect of respectability and every promise of doing well. 
 Do you want to know the antecedents of one among 
 them ?" 
 
 " By all means !" 
 
 " Notice them. First, slavery under two drunken peo- 
 ple, one of them his mother, who sent him out to steal 
 for them ; and refused him even the shelter of their 
 wretched home if he came to it with empty hands. At 
 such times, thrust out houseless and hungry, to wander 
 where he could, he led a life of such utter wretched- 
 ness, that at length he determined to steal for himself, 
 and to go home no more. Then came years of strug- 
 gling vagrancy — during which, Mr. Carlisle, the prison 
 was his pleasantest home and only comfortable shelter ; 
 and whenever he was turned out of it he stood in Lon- 
 don streets helpless and hopeless but to renew his old 
 ways of thieving and starvation. Nobody had told nim 
 
INLONDON. 95 
 
 Dfitter ; no one had shewed the child kindness ; was he 
 to blame ?" 
 
 " Somebody shewed him kindness at last," said Mr 
 Carlisle, looking into the lustrous eyes which were so fu'l 
 of their subject. 
 
 " Who, do you think ?" 
 
 "Impossible for me to guess — since you were not 
 hf,re." 
 
 " One of the most noted thieves in London went to 
 one of the city missionaries and told him of the boy 
 and recommended him to his kindness." 
 
 " Impelled by what earthly motive ?" 
 
 " The misery of the case." 
 
 " Why did he not teach him his own trade ?" 
 
 " The question the missionary put to him. The thief 
 answered that he knew a thief's life too well." 
 
 " I should like to see you before a committee of the 
 House of Commons," said Mr. Carlisle, taking two or 
 three steps away and then returning. " Well ?" 
 
 " Well — the missionary put the child with some de- 
 cent people, where he was washed and clothed. But it 
 is impossible for me to tell, as it was too bad to be told 
 to me, the state to which squalor, starvation, and all that 
 goes with it, had brought the child. He went to school ; 
 and two years after was well, healthy, flourishing, intelli- 
 gent, one of the best and most useful Lids at the estab- 
 lishment where he was employed. Now Jiord Cushley 
 has sent him to Australia." 
 
 " Eleanor, I will never say anything against Kaggec" 
 schools again." 
 
 " Then I have not spoken in vain," s^id Eleanor rising. 
 
 He took her hand, held it, bowed his lips to it, held it 
 Btill, too firmly for Eleanor to disengage it without vio 
 lence. 
 
 " Will you grant me one little favour ?" 
 
 " You take without asking, Mr. Carlisle !" 
 
94 THEOLDHELMET. 
 
 He smiled and kissed her hand again, not releasing it, 
 however. 
 
 " Let me go with you to Field-Lane in future." ^ 
 
 " What would you do there ?" 
 
 " Take care of you." ' 
 
 " As I do not need it, you would be exceedingly bored 
 finding yourself without either business or pleasure." 
 
 "Do. you think that what interests you will not inter- 
 est me ?" 
 
 A change came over her face — a high grave light, as 
 she answered, — " Not till you love the Master I do. Not 
 till his service is your delight, as it is mine. — Mr. Car- 
 lisle, if you will allow me, I will ring the bell for tea." 
 
 He rang the bell for her instantly, and then came to 
 her side again, and waited till the servant was with- 
 drawn. 
 
 " Eleanor, seriously, I am not satisfied to have you go 
 to that place alone." 
 
 " I do not. I am always attended." 
 
 " By a servant. Have you never been frightened ?" 
 
 " Never." 
 
 " Do you not meet a very ugly sort of crowd some 
 times, on your way ?" 
 
 " Yes — sometimes." 
 
 " And never feel afraid ?" 
 
 " No. Mr. Carlisle, would you like a cup of tea, if 
 you could get it ?" 
 
 She had met his questions with a full clear look of her 
 eyes, in which certainly, there lay no lurking shadow. 
 He read them, and drank his tea rather moodily. 
 
 " So, Eleanor," said Mrs. Powle the next day, " you 
 have enlisted Mr. Carlisle on your side as usual, and he 
 will have you go to your absurd school as you want to 
 do. How did people get along before Ragged schools 
 were invented, I should like to know ?" 
 
 " You would not like to know, mamma. It was in 
 
INLONDON. 95 
 
 misery and ignorance and crime, snch as you would be 
 made sick to hear of." 
 
 " Well, they live in it yet, I suppose ; or are they all 
 reclaimed already ?" 
 
 " They live in it yet — many a one." 
 
 " And it is among such people you go ! Well, I wash 
 my hands of it. Mr. Carlisle w'U not have you molested 
 He must have his own way." 
 
 " What has he to do with it, mamma ?" Eleanor asked, 
 a little indignantly. 
 
 " A good deal, I should say. You are not snch a fool 
 as not to know what he is with you all the time for, 
 Eleanor." 
 
 A hot colour came up in Eleanor's cheeks. 
 
 " It is not by my wish, mamma." 
 
 " It is rather late to say so. Don't you like hira, 
 Eleanor?" 
 
 " Yes ma'am — very much — if only he would be con 
 tent with that." 
 
 " Answer me only one thing. Do yon like any one 
 else better ? He is as jealous as a bear, and afraid you 
 do." 
 
 " Mamma," said Eleanor, a burning colour again ris- 
 ing to her brow, — "you know yourself that I see no one 
 that I favour more than I do Mr. Carlisle. I do not 
 hold him just in the regard he wishes, nevertheless." 
 
 " But do you like any one else better ? tell me that, 
 I just want that question answered." 
 
 " Mamma, why ? Answering it will not lielp the mat- 
 ter. In all England there is not a person out of my own 
 family whom I like so well ; — but that does not put Mr 
 Carlisle in the place where he wishes to be." 
 
 " I just wanted that question answered," said Mrs. 
 Powl«. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ' Btffl al. the day the iron wheels go onward, 
 
 ' Grinding life down from its mark ; 
 And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward 
 Spin on blindly in the dark.'* 
 
 " She declares there is not anybody in the ■« jiid sh< 
 ikes better than she does you — nor so well." 
 
 Mrs. Powle's fair curls hung on either side of a per- 
 plexed face. Mr. Carlisle stood opposite to her. Ilia 
 3ye brightened and fired, but he made no answer. 
 
 " It is only her absurd fanaticism that makes all tho 
 '^rouble." 
 
 " There will be no trouble to fear, ray dear madam, if 
 :,hat is true." 
 
 " Well I asked her the question, and she told me in 
 so many words ; and you know Eleanor. What she 
 3ays she means." 
 
 Mr. Carlisle was silent, and Mrs. Powle went on. He 
 was seldom loquacious in his consultations with her. 
 
 " For all that, she is just as fixed in her ways as a 
 mountain ; and I don't know how to manage her. Elea- 
 nor always was a hard child to manage ; and now she 
 has got these fanatical notions in her head she is worse 
 Jian ever." 
 
 There was a slight perceptible closing in of the fingers 
 of Mr. Carlisle's hand, but his words were quiet. 
 
 " Do not oppose them. Fanaticism opposed grows 
 rigid, and dies a martyr. Let her alone ; these things 
 will all pass away by and by. I am not afraid of them.'' 
 
ATFIEr, D-LANE. 97 
 
 "Then yon would let her go on with her absurd Rag 
 ged schools and such flummery? I am positively afraid 
 she will bring something dreadful into the house, or be 
 insulted herself some day. I do think charity begins at 
 home. I wish Lord Cushley, or whoever it is, had been 
 in better business. Such an example of course sets other 
 people wild." 
 
 " I will be there myself, and see that no harm comes 
 to Eleanor. I think I can manage that." 
 
 " Eleanor of all girls !" said Mrs. Powle. " That she 
 should be infected with religious fanaticism ! She was 
 just the girl most unlike it that could possibly be ; none 
 of these meek tame spirits, that seem to have nothing' 
 better to do." 
 
 " No, you are wrong," said Mr. Carlisle. " It is the 
 enthusiastic character, that takes everything strongly, 
 that is strong in this as in all the rest. Her fanaticism 
 will give me no trouble — if it will once let her be mine!" 
 
 " Then you would let her alone?" said Mrs. Powle. 
 
 " Let her alone." 
 
 " She is spoiling Julia as fast as she can ; but I stopped 
 that. Would you believe it ? the minx objected to tak- 
 hig lessons in dancing, because her sister had taught her 
 that dancing assemblies were not good places to go to! 
 But I take care that they are not together now. Julia 
 is completely under her influence." 
 
 " So am I," said Mr. Carlisle laughing ; " so much 
 that I believe I cannot bear to hear any more against her 
 than is necessary. I will be with her at Field-Lane next 
 Sunday." 
 
 Pie did not however this time insist on going with her. 
 He went by himself. It is certain that the misery of 
 London disclosed to him by this drive to Field-Lane, the 
 course of which gave him a good sample of it, did al- 
 most shake him in his opinion that Eleanor ought to be 
 let alone. Mr. Carlisle had not seen such aviewof Lod 
 VOL. u. 
 
98 T H E O L D H E L M E T . 
 
 don in liis life before ; he liad not been in such a district 
 of crime and wretchedness ; or if by chance be had 
 touched upon it, he hud made a principle of not seeing 
 what was before him. Now he looked; for he was going 
 where Eleanor was accustomed to go, and what he saw 
 she was obliged to meet also. He reitched the building 
 where the Field-Lane school was held, in a somewhat 
 excited state of mind. 
 
 He found at the door several policemen, who warned 
 him to guard well and in a safe place anything of value 
 he might have about his person. Then he was ushered 
 up stairs to the place where the school was held. He 
 entered a very Im-ge room, looking like a factory room, 
 wii h bare beams and rough sides, but spacious and con- 
 venient for the purpose it was used for. Down the 
 length t)f this room ran rows of square forms, with alleys 
 left between the rows ; and the forms were in good 
 measure filled with the rough scliolars. There must have 
 been hundreds collected there ; three-fourths of them 
 perhaps were girls, the rest boys and young men, from 
 seven years old and upwards. But the roughness of the 
 scholars bore no proportion to the roughness of the room. 
 That had oi der, shape, and some decency of preparation. 
 The poor young human creatures that clustered within 
 it were in every stMge of squalor, rags, and mental dis- 
 tortion. With a kind of wonder Mr. Carlisle's eye went 
 from one to another to note the individual varieties of 
 the general character; and as it took in the details, wan- 
 dered horror-stricken, from the nameless dirt and shape- 
 less rags which covered the person, to the wild or stupid 
 or cunning or devilish expression of vice in the face. 
 Beyond description, both. There were many there who 
 had never slept in a bed in their lives ; many who never had 
 their clothes off from one month's end to another; the 
 very Lirge proportion lived day and night by a course ot 
 wickedness. There they were gatheied tow, these 
 
ATFIELD-IANE. 99 
 
 wretches, eight or ten in a form, listening with more or 
 less of interest to the instructions of iheii- teachers who 
 sat before them ; and many, Mr. Carlisle saw, were shew- 
 ing deep interest in face and manner. Others were fii.l 
 of mischief, ami shewed that too. And others, who were 
 interested, were yet also restless ; and would manifest it 
 by the occasional irregularity of jumping up and turning 
 a somerset in the midst of the lesson. That frequently 
 hiippened. Suddenly, witliout note or warning, in the 
 midst of the most earnest deliverances of the teacher, a 
 boy would leap up and throw himself over ; come up all 
 right ; and sit down again and listen, as if he had only 
 been making himself comfortable ; which was very likely 
 the real state of the case in some instances. When how- 
 ever a general prevalence of somersets throughout the 
 room indicated that too large a proportion of the as- 
 semblige were growing uneasy in their minds, or their 
 seats, the director of the school stood up and gave the 
 signal for singing. Instantly the whole were on their 
 feet, and some verse or two of a hymn were shouted 
 heartily by the united lungs of the company. That 
 seemed to be a great safety valve ; they were quite 
 brought into order, and somersets not called for, till 
 some time liad passed again. 
 
 In the midst of this great assemblage of strange fig- 
 ui'es, small and large, Mr. Carlisle's eye sought for Elea- 
 nor. He could not immediately find her, standing at the 
 back of the room as he was ; and he did not ch(5(ise the 
 recognition to be first on her side, so would not go' for- 
 ward. No bonnet or cloak there recalled the imnge of 
 Eleanor ; he had seen her once in her school trim, it 
 is true, but that signified nothing. He had seen het 
 only, not her dress. It was only by a careful scrutiny 
 that he was able to satisfy himself which bonnet and 
 which outline of a cloak was Eleanor's. But once his 
 Ettentiou had alighted on the right figure, and he was 
 
100 THE OLD HELMET 
 
 sure, by a kmd of instinct. The turns of the head, the 
 fine proportions of the shoulders, could be none but 
 her's ; and Mr. Carlisle moved somewhat nearer and 
 took up a position a little in the rear of that form, sc 
 that he could watch all that « ent on there. 
 
 He scanned with infinite disgust one after another of 
 the miserable figures ranged upon it. They were well- 
 grown boys, young thieves some of them, to judge by 
 tlieir looks ; and dirty and ragged so as to be objects ol 
 abhorrence much more than of anything else to his eye. 
 Yet to these squalid, filthy, hardened looking little 
 wretches, scarcely decent in their rags, Eleanor was 
 most earnestly talking ; there was no avoidance in her 
 air. Her face he could not see ; he could guess at its 
 expression, from the turns of her head to one and an- 
 other, and the motions of her hands, with which she was 
 evidently helping out the meaning of her words ; and 
 also Irom the earnest gaze that her unpromising hearers 
 bent upon her. He could hear the soft varying play of 
 her voice as she addressed them. Mr. Carlisle grew rest- 
 less. There was a more evident and tremendous gap 
 between himself and her than he had counted upon. 
 Was she doing this like a Catholic, tor penance, or to 
 Mork out good deeds to earn heaven like a philanthro- 
 pist ? While he pondered the matter, in increasing rest- 
 lessness, mind and body helping each other ; for the 
 atmosphere of the room was heavy and stifling from tlie 
 foul liLftnan beings congregated there, and it must re- 
 quire a very strong motive in anybody to be there at 
 all ; he could hardly bear it himself; an incident occurred 
 which gave a little variety to his thoughts. As he stood 
 in the alley, leaning on the end of a form where no one 
 sat, a boy came in and passed him ; brushing so near 
 that Mr. Carlisle involuntarily shrank back. Such a look- 
 ing fellow-creature he had never seen until that day. Mr, 
 Clarligle had lived in the other half of the woiid. This 
 
AT FIEiB-LANE 101 
 
 was a half-gvown boy, inexpressibly forlorn in his rags 
 and wretchedness. An old coat hung about him, much 
 too large and long, that yet did not bide a great rent in 
 his trowsers which shewed that there was no shirt be- 
 neath. But the fiice ! The indescribable brutalized, 
 stolid, dirty, dumb look of badness and hardness ! Mr. 
 Carlisle thought he had never seen such a face. One 
 round portion of it had been washed, leaving the dark 
 ring of dirt all circling it like a border, where the blessed 
 touch of water had not come. The boy moved on, with 
 a shambling kind of gait, and to Mr. Carlisle's horror, 
 paused at the form of Eleanor's class. Yes, — he was 
 going in there, he belonged there ; for she looked up and 
 spoke to him ; Mr. Carlisle could hear her soft voice say- 
 ing something about his being late. Then came a trans- 
 formation such as Mr. Carlisle would never have believed 
 possible. A light broke upon that brutalized face ; 
 actually a light ; a smile that was like a heavenly sun- 
 beam in the midst of those rags and dirt irradiated it ; 
 as a rough thick voice spoke out in answer to her— 
 " Yes — if I didn't come, I knowed you would be disap- 
 pointed." 
 
 Evidently they were fi'iends, Eleanor and that boy ; 
 young thief, young rascal, though Mr. Carlisle's eye pro- 
 nounced him. They were on good terms, even of affec- 
 tion ; for only love begets love. The lesson went on, 
 but the gentleman stood in a maze till it was finished. 
 The notes of Eleanor's voice in the closing hymn, which 
 he was sure he could distinguish, brought him quite back 
 to himself. Now he might speak to her again. He had 
 felt as if there were a barrier between tliem. Now ha 
 would test it. 
 
 He had to wait yet a little while, for Eleanor waa 
 talking to one or two elderly gentlemen. Nobody to 
 move his jealousy however ; so Mr. Carlisle bore the 
 delay with what patience "he could ; which in that stifling 
 
102 THE OLD HELMET 
 
 atmosphere was not much. How could Eleanor endure 
 it ? As at last she came dtwn the room, he met her and 
 offered his arm. Eleanor took it, and they went out 
 together. 
 
 " I did not know you were in the school," she said. 
 
 " I would not disturb yon. Thomas is not here — Mrs 
 Powle wanted him at home." 
 
 Which was Mr. Carlisle's apology for taking his placo 
 Or somewhat more than Thomas's place ; for he not only 
 put Eleanor in a carriage, but took a seat beside her. 
 The drive began with a few moments of silence. 
 
 " How do you do ?" was his first question. 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 "Must I take it on trust? or do you not mean I 
 shall see for myself?" said he. For there had been 
 1 hidden music in Eleanor's voice, and she had not turned 
 her face from the window of the carriage. At this re- 
 quest however she gave him a view of it. The hidden 
 sweetness was there too ; he could not conceive what 
 made her look so happy. Yet the look was at once too 
 frank and too deep for his personal vanity to get any 
 food from it ; no surface work, but a lovely light on 
 brow and lip that came from within. It had nothing to 
 do with him. It was something though, that she was 
 not displeased at his being there; his own face light- 
 ened. 
 
 "What effect does Field-Lane generally have upon 
 you V" said he. 
 
 " It tires me a little' — generally. Not to-day." 
 
 " No, I see it has not ; and how you come out of that 
 den, looking as you do, I confess is a incomprehensibla 
 thing to me. What has pleased you there ?" 
 
 A srnile came upon Eleanor's face, so bright as shewed 
 it was but the outbreaking of the light he had seen there 
 before. His question she met with another. 
 
 " Did nothing thei-e please you ?" 
 
AT FIELD-LANE. lOS 
 
 " Do yon mean to evade my inquiry ?'' 
 
 " I will tell you what pleased me," said Eleanor " Per 
 haf.s you remarked — whereabouts were you?" 
 
 " A few feet behind you and your scholnrs." 
 
 " Then perhaps you remarked a boy who came in when 
 the lesson was partly done — midway in the time — a boy 
 "a'ho came in and took his seat in my class." 
 
 " I remarked him — and you will excuse me for saying, 
 I do not understand how pleasure can be connected in 
 anybody's mind with the sight of him." 
 
 " Of course you do not. That boy has been a most 
 notorious pickpocket and thief" 
 
 " Exactly what I should have supposed." 
 
 " Did you observe that he had washed his face ?" 
 
 " I think I observed how imperfectly it was done." 
 
 "Ah, but it is the first time probably in years that it 
 has touched water, except when his lips touched it to 
 drink. Do you know, that is a sign of reformation ?'' 
 
 "Water?" 
 
 " Washing. It is the hardest thing in the world to 
 get them to forego the seal and the bond of dirt. It is 
 a badge of the community of giiilt. If they will be 
 brought to wash, it is a sign that the bond is broken — 
 that they are willing to be out of the community ; which 
 will I suppose regard them as suspected persons from 
 that time. Now you can understand why I was glad." 
 
 Hardly; for the fire and water sparkling together in 
 Eleanor's eyes expressed so much gladness that it quite 
 went beyond Mr. Carlisle's power of sympathy. He 
 remained silent a few moments. 
 
 " Eleanor, I wish you would answer one question 
 which puzzles me. Why do you go to that place ?" 
 
 " You do not like it ?" 
 
 " No, nor do you. What takes you there ?" 
 
 "There are moro to be taught than there arc teachers 
 P.")!-," said Eleanor looking nt her questionei-. " Tlie.\ 
 
104 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 want help. You must have seen, there are none loo 
 many to take care of the crowds that come ; and many 
 of those teachers are fatigued with attendance in the 
 week." 
 
 " Do you go in the week ?" 
 
 " No, not hitherto." 
 
 " You must not think of it ! It is as much as your 
 life is worth to go Sundays. I met several compa- 
 nies of most disorderly people on my way — do you not 
 meet such ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " What takes you there, Eleanor, through such hor- 
 rors ?" 
 
 "I have no fear." 
 
 " No, I suppose not ; but will you answer my ques- 
 tion ?" 
 
 " You will hardly be able to understand me," said 
 Eleanor hesitating. " I like to go to these poor wretches, 
 because I love them. And if you ask me why I love 
 them, — I know that the Lord Jesus loves them ; and he 
 is not willing they should be in this forlorn condition ; 
 and so I go to try to help get them out of it." 
 
 " If the Supreme Ruler is not willing there should be 
 this class of people, Eleanor, how come they to exist ?" 
 
 " You are too good a philosopher, Mr. Carlisle, not to 
 know tliat men are free agents, and that God leaves them 
 the exercise of their free agency, even though others as 
 well as themselves suffer by it. I suppose, if those a 
 little above them in the social scale had lived according 
 to the gospel rule, this class of people never would have 
 existed." 
 
 " What ateformer you would make, Eleanor!" 
 
 " I should not suit you ? Yes — I do not believe in anj 
 radical way of reform but one." 
 
 " And that is, what ? — counsellor," 
 
AT FIELD-LANE. lOS 
 
 " Do unto others as you would that others should do 
 unto you." 
 
 "Radical enough ! You must reform the reformers 
 first, I suppose you know." 
 " I know it." 
 
 " Then, hard as it is for me to believe it, you do not 
 go to Field Lane by way of penance ?" 
 
 " The penance would be, to make me stay away." 
 "Mrs. Powle will do that, unless I contrive to disturb 
 the action of her free agency ; but I tliink I shall plunge 
 into the question of reform, Eleanor. Speaking of that, 
 how much reformation has been effected by these Rag- 
 ged institutions ?" 
 
 " Vei-y much ; and they are only as it were beginning, 
 you must remember." 
 
 " Room for amendment still," said Mr. Carlisle. " I 
 never saw such a disorderly set of scholars in my life 
 before. How do you find an occasional somersault helps 
 a boy's understanding of his lesson ?" 
 
 "Those things were constant at first ; not occasional," 
 said Eleanor smiling ; "somersaults, and leaping over the 
 forms, and shouts and catcalls, and all manner of up- 
 roarious behiiviour. That was before I ever knew them. 
 But now, think of th:it boy's washed face !" 
 
 " That was the most partial reformation I ever saw 
 rejoiced in," said Mr. Carlisle. 
 
 " It gives hope of everything else, though. You have 
 no idea what a bond that community of dirt is. But 
 there a'-e plenty of statistics, if you want those, Mr. Car- 
 lisle. I can give you enough of them; shewing what haa 
 been done.'' 
 
 " Will you shew them to me to-night ?" 
 " To-night ? it is Sunday. No, but to-morrow oigbt, 
 Mr. Carlisle ; or any other time." 
 " Eleanor, you are very strict !" 
 6* 
 
106 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " Not at all. That is not strictness ; but Suutlay is 
 too good to waste upon statistics." 
 
 She said it somewhat playfully, with a shining of her 
 old arch smile, which did not at all reassure her coni» 
 J (anion, 
 
 " Besides, Mr. Carlisle, you like strictness a great deal 
 better than I do. There is not a law made in oui- Queen's 
 reign or administered under her sceptre, ih-at you would 
 not have fulfilled to the letter — even down to the regula- 
 tions that keep little boys off the grass. It is only the 
 laws of the Great King which you do not think should 
 be strictly kept." 
 
 She was grave enough now, and Mr. Carlisle swal- 
 lowed the reproof as best he might. 
 
 "Eleanor, you are going to turn preacher too, as well 
 as reformer ? Well, I will come to you, dear, and put 
 myself under your influences. You shall do what you 
 please with me." 
 
 Too much of a promise, and more of a responsibility 
 thaa Eleanor chose to take. She went into the house 
 with a sober sense that she had a difficult part to play ; 
 that between Mr. Carlisle and her mother, she must walk 
 very warily or she would yet find herself entangled be- 
 fore she was aware. And Mr. Carlisle too had a sober 
 sense that Eleanor's religious character was not of a 
 kind to exhale, like a volatile oil, under the sun of pros- 
 pei'ity or the breezes of flattery. Ne^'ertheless, the 
 more hard to reach the prize, the more of a treasure 
 when reached. He never wanted her more than now ; 
 and Mr. Carlisle had always, by skill and power, ob- 
 tained what he wanted. He made no doubt he would 
 find this instance like tile others. 
 
 For the present, the thing wns to bring a bill into par- 
 liament "for the reformation of juvenile offenders" — :uid 
 upon its various provisions Mr. Carlisle came daily to 
 Bontiiilt Eleatfor, nnd take advice and receive information. 
 
AT IlELD-LANE. 107 
 
 Doubtless there was a great deal to be considered about 
 the bill, to make it just what it should be; to secure 
 enough and not insist upon too much ; its bearings 
 would be very important, and every point merited well 
 the deepest care and most circumspect management. 
 It enlisted Eleanor's heart and mind thoroughly ; how 
 should it not ? She spent hours and hours with Mr 
 Cai'lisle over it ; wrote for him, read for him, or rather 
 for those the bill wrought for ; talked and discussed and 
 argued, for and against various points which she felt 
 would make for or against its best success. Capital for 
 Mr. Carlisle. All this brought him into constant close 
 intercourse with he)-, and gave him opportunities of re- 
 commending himself. And not in vain. Eleanor saw 
 and appreciated the cool, clear business head; the calm 
 executive talent, which seeing its ends in the distance, 
 made no hurry but took the steps and the measuies 
 surest to attain them, with patient foresight. She ad- 
 mired it, and sometimes also could almost have trembled 
 when she thought of its being turned towards herself. 
 And was it not, all the while ? Was not Eleanor tacitly, 
 by little and little, yielding the ground she fought §o 
 hard to keep ? Was she not quietly giving her affirma- 
 tive to the world's question, — and to Mr. Carlisle's too ? 
 To the former, yes ; for the latter, she knew and Mr. 
 Carlisle knew that she shewed him no more than the 
 regard that would not satisfy him. But then, if this 
 went on indefinitely, would not he, and the world, and 
 her mother, all say that she hfid given him a sort of pre- 
 scriptive right to her ? Ay, and Eleanor must count 
 her father too now as among her adversaries' ranks. 
 She saw it and felt it somewhat bitterly. She had begun 
 to gain his ear and his heart ; by and by he might have 
 listened to her on wh.-it subject she pleased, and she 
 might have won him. to the knowledge of the truth th.it 
 Bfae held dearest. Now, she had gained bis love cer- 
 
108 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 tainly, in a measure, but so had Mr. Carlisle. Gently 
 skilfullj-, almost unconsciously it seemed, he was as much 
 domiciled in her father's room as she was ; and even 
 more acceptable. The Squire had come to depend on 
 him, to look for him, to delight in him ; and with very 
 evident admission that he was only anticipating by 
 a little the rights and privileges of sonship. Eleanor 
 could not absent herself neither ; she tried that ; her 
 father would have her there ; and there was Mr. Car- 
 lisle, as much at home, and sharing with her in filial 
 offices as' a matter of rule, and associating with her as 
 already one of the family. It is true, in his manner to 
 Eleanor herself he did not so step beyond bounds as to 
 give her opportunity to check him ; yet even over this 
 there stole insensibly a change ; and Eleanor felt herself 
 getting deeper and deeper in the toils. Her own man- 
 ner meanwhile was nearly perfect in its simple dignity. 
 Except in the interest of third party measures, which led 
 her sometimes further than she wanted to go, Eleanor 
 kept a very steady way, as graceful as it was steady. 
 So friendly and frank as to give no cause of umbrage ; 
 while it was so cool and self-poised as to make Mr. Car- 
 lisle very uneasy and very desperate. It was just the 
 manner he admired in a woman ; just what he would 
 like to see in his wife, towards all the rest of the world. 
 Eleanor charmed him more by her high-bred distance, 
 than ever she had done by the affection or submissive- 
 ness of former days. But he was pretty sure of his 
 game. Let this state of things go on long enough, and 
 she would have no power to withdraw ; and once his 
 own, let him have once again the right to take her to his 
 breast and whisper love or authority, and he knew he 
 ^ould wir that fine sweet nature to give him back love 
 as well as obedience, — in time. And so the bill went 
 on in its progress towards maturity. It did not go very 
 fast. 
 
AT FIELD -LANE. 109 
 
 All this wliile the sisters saw very little of each other. 
 One morning Eh^anor waylaid Julia as she was passing 
 her door, drew her in, and tuined the key in the lock. 
 The first impulse of the two was to spring to each other's 
 arr7is for a warm embrace. 
 
 " I never have a chance to speak to you, dariing," 
 said the elder sister. " What has become of you ?" 
 
 "01 am so busy, you see — all the times except when 
 you are gone out, or talking in the drawing-room to peo« 
 pie, or in papa's room. Then I am out, and you are out 
 too ; somewhere else." 
 
 " Out of what ?" 
 
 " Out of my studies, and teachers, and governesses. 
 I must go now in two minutes." 
 
 " No you must not. Sit down ; I want to see you. 
 Are you remembering what we have learnt together ?" 
 
 " Sometimes — and sometimes it is hard, you see. 
 Everything is so scratchy. Eleanor, are you going to 
 marry Mr. Carlisle?" 
 
 " No. I told you I was not." 
 
 " Everybody says you are, though. Are you sure you 
 are not ?" 
 
 " Quite sure." 
 
 " I aniost wish you were ; and then things would go 
 smooth agnin." 
 
 " What do you mean by their being 'scratchy'? that 
 is a new word." 
 
 "Well, everything goes cross. I am in ever so many 
 dictionaries besides English — and shut up to learn 'em — 
 and mamma don't care what becomes of me if she caq 
 only keep me fiom you ; and I don't know what you 
 are doing ; and I wish we were all home again !" 
 
 Eleanor sighed. 
 
 " I call it scratchy" said Jiilia. " Everybody is try- 
 ing to do what somebody else don't like." 
 
 " I hope yon are not going on that principle," — said 
 
no THEOLDHELMET. 
 
 her sister ; with a smile which made Julia spring to liei 
 neck again and load her lips with kisses over and over. 
 
 "I'll try to do what you like, Eleanor — only tell mo 
 what. Tell me something, and I will remember it." 
 
 " Julia, are you going to be a servant of Christ? have 
 you forgotten that you said you loved him ?" 
 
 " No, and I do, Eleanor ! and I want to do right; but 
 I am so busy, and then I get so vexed !" 
 
 " That is not like a servant of Jesus, darling." 
 
 " No. If I could only see you, Eleanor ! Tell me 
 something to remember, and I will keep it in my head, 
 in spite of all the dictionaries." 
 
 " Keep it in your life, Julia. Remember what Jesus 
 said his servants must be and how they must do — just in 
 this one little word — ' And ye yourselves like them that 
 wait for their Lord.' " 
 
 " How, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " That is what we are, dear. We are the Lord's ser- 
 vants, put here to work for him, put just in the post 
 where he wishes us to be, till he comes. Now let ua 
 stand in our post and do our work, ' like them that wait 
 for their Lord.' You know how that would be." 
 
 Julia again kissed and caressed her, not without some 
 tears. 
 
 " I know," she said ; " it is like Mr. Rhys, and it is 
 like you ; and I don't believe it is like anybody else." 
 
 " Shall it be like you, Julia ?" 
 
 " Yes, Eleanor, yes ! I will never forget it. O Elea- 
 nor, are you sure you are not going to Rythdale ?" 
 
 " What makes you ask me ?" 
 
 " Why everybody thinks so, and everybody says so : 
 and you — you are with Mr. Carlisle all the time, talking 
 to him." 
 
 " I have so many thoughts to put into his head," said 
 Eleanor gravely. 
 
 " What are you so busy with him about ?" 
 
AT FIELD-LANK. Ill 
 
 "Parliament business. It is for the poor of Lon Ion, 
 Julia. Mt. Carlisle is preparing a bill to brinij; into tha 
 House of Commons, and I know more about the matter 
 than he does ; and so he comes to ine." 
 
 "Don't you think he is glad of his ignorance?" said 
 Julia shrewdly. Eleanor leaned her head on her hand 
 and looked thoughtfully down. 
 
 " What do you give him thoughts about?" 
 
 " My poor boys would say, ' lots of things.' I hav* 
 to convince Mr. Carlisle that it would cost the country 
 less to reform than to punish these poor children, and 
 that reforming them is impossible unless we can give 
 them enough to keep th^m fi-om starvation; and that 
 the common prison is no place for them ; and then a 
 great many questions besides these and that spring out 
 of these have to be considered and talked over. And it 
 is important beyond measure; and if I should let it alone, 
 — the wholo might fall to the ground. There are two 
 objections now in Mr. Carlisle's mind — or in other peo- 
 ple's minds — to one thing that ought to be done, and 
 must be done; and I must shew Mr. Carlisle how false 
 the objections are. I have begun ; [ must go through 
 with it. The whole might fiill to the ground if I t0"k 
 away my hand ; and it would be such an incalculable 
 blessing to thousands and thousands in this dreadful 
 place " 
 
 " Do you think London is a dreadful place ?" said 
 Julia doubtfully. 
 
 " There are very few here who stand ' like them that 
 wait for their Lord,' " — said Eleanor, her face taking a 
 yearning look of tlioughtfulness. 
 
 " There aren't any « here, £ don't believe. Eleanor — 
 nren't you happy ?" 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 " You don't always look — just — so." 
 
1J2 THE OLD HKLMET. 
 
 " Perhaps not. But to live for Jesus mates happy 
 days — be sure of that, Juli;i ; however the face looks." 
 
 " Are you bothered about Mr. Carlisle ?" 
 
 " What words you use ! " said Eleanor smiling. 
 " 'Bother,' ai)d ' scratchy.' No, I am not bothered 
 about him — I am a little ti'oubled sometimes." 
 
 " What's the difference ?" 
 
 " The difference between seeing one's way clear, and 
 not seeing it ; and the difference between having a hand 
 to take care of one, and not having it." 
 
 " We'll why do you talk to him so much, if he troubles 
 yon ?" said Julia, reassured by her sister's smile. 
 
 " I must," said Eleanor. " I must see through this 
 business of the bill — at all hazards. I cannot let that 
 go. Mr. Carlisle knows I do not compromise myself." 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you what," said Julia getting up to 
 go, — " mamma means you shall go to Rythdale ; and 
 she thinks you are going." 
 
 With a very earnest kiss to Eleanor, repeated with an 
 emphasis which set the seal upon all the advices and pro- 
 mises of the morning, Julia went off. Eleanor sat a little 
 while thinking ; not long ; and met Mr. Carlisle the next 
 time he came, with precisely the same sweet self-posses- 
 sion, the unchanged calm cool distance, which drove that 
 gentlemnn to the last verge of passion and patience. 
 But he was master of himself and bided his time, and 
 talked over the bill as usual. 
 
 It was not Eleanor alone who had occasion for the exer- 
 cise of admiration in these business consultations. Some- 
 what to his surprise, Mr. Carlisle found that his quondam 
 fair mistress was good for much more than a plaything. 
 AVith the quick wit of a woman she joined a patience of 
 investigation, an independent strength of judgment, a 
 clearness of rational vision, that fairly met him and 
 obliged him to be the best man lie could in the business. 
 He could not get her into a sophistical maze ; she found 
 
AT FIELD-LANE. 113 
 
 Tier way through immediately ; he could not puzzle her, 
 for what she did not understand one day she had studied 
 out by the next. It is possible that Mr. Carlisle would 
 not have fallen in love with this clear intelligence, if he 
 had known it in the front of Eleanor's qualities ; for 
 Le was one of those men who do not care for an equal in 
 a wife ; but his case was by this time beyond cure. Nay, 
 what might have alienated him once, bound him now ; 
 he foimd himself matched with Eleanor in a game of 
 human life. The more she proved herself his equal, the 
 nobler the conquest, and the more the instinct of victory 
 stirred within him ; for pride, a poor sort of pride, began 
 to be stirred as well as love. 
 
 So the bill went on - and prisons and laws and reform- 
 atory measures and penal enactments and industrial 
 schools, and the question of interfering with the course 
 of labour, and the question of ofiering a premium upon 
 crime, and a host of questions, were discussed and redis- 
 cussed. And partly no doubt from policy, partly from 
 an intelligent view of the subject, but wholly moved 
 thereto by Eleanor, Mr. Carlisle gradually gave back the 
 ground and took just the position (on paper) that she 
 wished to see him take. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 " Why how one weep* 
 When one's too weary I Were a wibness ty, 
 He'd Bay some folly — ^ 
 
 So the bill went on. And the season too. Winter 
 merged into spring ; the change of temperature reminded 
 Eleanor of the changing face of the earth out of Lon- 
 don ; and even in London the parks gave testimony of 
 it. She longed for Wiglands and the Lodge ; but there 
 wiis no token of the family's going home at present. 
 Parliament was in session ; Mr. Carlisle was busy there 
 every night almost ; which did not in the least hinder his 
 being busied with Eleanor as well. Where she and her 
 mother went, for the most part he went ; and at home 
 he was very much at home indeed. Eleanor began to 
 feel that the motions of the family depended on him ; for 
 she could find no sufficient explanation in her fatheV's 
 health or her mothei-'s pleasure for their continued re- 
 maining in town. The Squire was mucli as he had been 
 all wintei- ; attended now and then by a physician, and 
 out of health and spirits certainly ; yet Eleanor could not 
 help thinking he W(5uld be better at home, and somewhat 
 suspected her father thought so. Mrs. Powle enjoyed 
 London, no doubt ; still, she was not a woman to run 
 mad after pleasure, or after anything else ; not so much 
 but that the pleasure of her Imsband would have out- 
 weighed hers. Nevertheless, both the Squire and she 
 were as quietly fixed in London, to judge by all ap- 
 
IN A P E I L. lie 
 
 pearanee, as if they had no other place to go to ; and the 
 rising of parliament was sometimes hinted at as giving 
 the only clue to the probable time of their departure. 
 
 Did you ever lay,brands together on a hearth, brands 
 ■with little life in them too, seemingly; when with no 
 breath blown or stirring of air to fan them, gradually, by 
 mere action and reaction upon each other, the cold grey 
 ends began to spaikle and glow, till by and by the fire 
 burst forth and flame sprang up ? Circumstances may 
 be laid together so, and with like eifect. 
 
 Everything went on in a train at the house in Cado- 
 gan Square ; nobody changed his attitude or behaviour 
 ■with respect to the others, except as by that most insen- 
 sible, minoticeable, quiet action of elements at work ; yet 
 the time came when Eleanor began to feel that things 
 ■were drawing towards a crisis. Her place was becom- 
 ing uncomfortable. She could not tell how, she did not 
 know when it began, but a change in the home atmos- 
 phere became sensible to her. It was growing to be op- 
 pressive. Mother, father, and friends seemed by concert 
 to say that she was Mr. Carlisle's ; and the gentleman 
 himself began to look it, Eleanor thought, though he did 
 not say it. A little tacit allowance of this mute lan- 
 guage of assignment, and either her truth would be for- 
 feited or her freedom. She must make a decided pro- 
 test. Yet also Eleanor felt that quality in the moral at- 
 mosphere which threatened that if any clouds came up 
 they would be stormy clouds ; and she dreaded to make 
 any move. Julia's society woidd have been a great solace 
 now ; when she never could have it. Julia comforted her, 
 whenever they were together in company or met for a 
 moment alone, by her energetic whisper — " I remember 
 Eleanor ! — " but that was all. Eleanor could get no 
 further speech of her. At the Ragged school Mr. Car- 
 lisle was pretty sure to be, and generally attended hei 
 home. Eleanor remonstrated witli her mother, and got 
 
116 THE OLD HELMUT. 
 
 a sharp answer, that it was only thanks tu Mr. Clarlisl* 
 she went there at all ; if it were not for him Mrs. Powla 
 certainly would put a stop to it. Eleanor pondered very 
 earnestly the question of putting a stop to it herself; 
 but it was at Mr. Carlisle's own risk ; the poor boys in 
 the school wanted hor ministrations ; and the " bill" was 
 in process of preparation. Eleanor's heart was set on 
 that bill, and her help she knew was greatly needed in 
 its construction ; she could not bear to give it np. So 
 she let matters take their course ; and tilked reform 
 diligently to Mr. Carlisle all the time they were driving 
 from West-Smithfield home. 
 
 At last to Eleanor's joy, the important paper was 
 drawn up according to her mind. It satisfied her. And 
 it was brought to a reading in the House and ordered to 
 be printed. So much wns gained. The very next day 
 Mr. Carlisle came to ask Eleanor to drive out with him 
 to Richmond, which she had never seen. Eleanor coolly 
 declined. He pressed the charms of the place, and of 
 the country at tliat season. Eleanor with the same cool- 
 ness of manner replied that she hoped soon to enjoy the 
 country at home ; and that she could not go to Rich- 
 mond. Mr. Carlisle withdrew his plea, sat and talked 
 some time, making himself very agreeable, though Elea- 
 nor could not quite enjoy his agreeableness that morning; 
 and went away. He had given no sign of understand- 
 ing her or of being rebufied ; and she was not satisfied. 
 The next morning early her mother came to her. 
 
 " Eleanor what do you say to a visit to Hampton 
 Court to-day ?" 
 
 " Who is going, mamma ?" 
 
 " Half the world, I suppose — there or somewhere 
 else — such a day ; but with you, your friend in parliar 
 ment." 
 
 " I have several friends in parliament." 
 
 "Pshaw, Eleanor! you know I mean Mr. Carlisla 
 
IN APRIL. 11^ 
 
 Fou had better dress immediatel}-, for he will be here 
 for VvHi early. He wants to have the wliole day. Put 
 on that green silk which becomes you so well. How it 
 does, I don't know ; for you are not blonde ; but you 
 look as handsome as a fairy queen in it. Come, Eleanor!" 
 
 " I do not care about going, mamma.'' 
 
 " Nonsense, child ; you do care. You have no idea 
 what Bushy Park is, Eleanor. It is not like Ryihdale — 
 though Rythdale will do in its way. Come, child, get 
 ready. You will enjoy it delightfully." 
 
 " I do not think I should, mamma. I do not think I 
 ought to go with Mr. Carlisle." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "You know, mamma," Eleanor said calmly, though 
 her heart beat ; " you know what conclusions people 
 draw about me and Mr. Carlisle. If I went to Hamp- 
 ton Court or to Richmond with him, I should give them, 
 and him too, a right to those conclusions." 
 
 " What have you been doing for months past, Elear 
 nor ? I should like to know." 
 
 " Giving him no right to any conclusions whatever, 
 mamma, that would be favorable to him. He knows 
 that." 
 
 " He knows no such thing. You are a fool, Eleanor. 
 Have you not said to all the world all this winter, by 
 your actions, that you belonged to him ? All the world 
 knows it was an engagement, and you have been telling 
 all the world that it is. Mr. Carlisle knows what to 
 espect." 
 
 Eleanor coloured. 
 
 " I cannot fulfil his expectations, mamma. He has no 
 right to them." 
 
 " I tell you, you have given him a right to them, by 
 your behaviour tliese months past. Ever since we wera 
 at Brighton. Why how you encouraged him there !" 
 
 A great flush ros3 to Eleanor's cheeks. » 
 
118 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " Mamma, — no more than I encouraged others: Grace 
 given to all is favour to none." 
 
 " Ay, but there was the particular favour in his case 
 of a promise to marry him." 
 
 " Broken off, mamma." 
 
 "The world did not know that, and you did not tell 
 them. You rode, you walked, you talked, you went 
 hither and thither with Mr. Carlisle, and suffered him to 
 attend you." 
 
 " Not alone, mamma ; rarely alone." 
 
 " Often alone, child ; often of evenings. You are 
 alone with a gentleman in the street, if there is a crowd 
 before and behind you." 
 
 "Mamma, all those things that I did, and that I was 
 sorry to do, I could hardly get out of or get rid of; they 
 were Mr. Carlisle's doing and yours." 
 
 " Granted ; and you made them yours by acceptance. 
 Now Eleanor, you are a good girl ; be a sensible girl. 
 You have promised yourself to Mr. Carlisle in the eye 
 of all the world ; now be honest, and don't be shy, and 
 fultil your engagements." 
 
 " 1 have made nune," said Eleanor getting up and be- 
 ginning to walk backwards and forwards in the room. 
 " Mr. Carlisle has been told distinctly that I do not love 
 him. I will never marry any man whom I have not a 
 right affection for." 
 
 " You did love him once, Eleanor." 
 
 " Never ! not the least ; not one bit of real — Mamma. 
 I liked him, and I do that now ; and then I did not 
 know any better ; but I will never, for I ought never, to 
 marry any man upon mere liking." 
 
 " How come you to know any better now ?" 
 
 Eleanor's blush was beautiful again for a minute; then 
 i faded. She did not immediately speak. 
 
 "Is Mr. Cavli.-le right aftei- all, and has he a rival?" 
 . " Mamma, you must say « hat you please. Surely it 
 
IN APRIL. 119 
 
 does not follow that a woman must love all the world 
 because she does not love one." 
 
 " And you may say what you please ; I know you like 
 Mr. Carlisle quite well enough, for you as good as told 
 me so; This is only girl's talk ; but you have got to 
 come to the point, Eleanor. I shall not suffer you to 
 make a fool of him in my house ; not to speak of making 
 a fool of yourself and me, and ruining — forever ruining 
 — all your prospects. You can't do it, Eleanor. You 
 have said yea, and you can't draw back. Put on your 
 green gown and go to Hampton Court, and come back 
 with the day fixed — ^for that I know is what Mr. Carlisle 
 wants." 
 
 " I cannot go, mamma." 
 
 " Eleanor, you would not forfeit your word ?" 
 
 " I have not given it." 
 
 " Do not contradict me ! You have given it all these 
 months. Everybody has understood it so. Your father 
 looks upon Mr. Carlisle as his son already. You would 
 be everlastingly disgraced if you pliiy false." 
 
 " I « ill play true, mamma. I will not say I give my 
 heart where I do not give it." 
 
 " Give your hand then. All one," said Mrs. Powie 
 laughing. " Come ! I oi-der you to obey me, Eleanor !" 
 
 " I must not, mamma. I will not go to Hampton 
 Court with Mr. Carlisle." 
 
 " What is the reason ?" 
 
 " I have told you." 
 
 "Do you mean, absolutely, that you will not fulfil 
 your engagement, nor obey me, nor save us all from dis- 
 honour, nor make your friend happy ?" 
 
 Eleanor grew paler than she had been, but answered, 
 " I mean not to marry Mr. Carlisle, mamma." 
 
 " I understand it tnen," said Mrs. Povvle rising. " It 
 is not your heart but your head. It is your religious 
 fanaticism I will put that out of the way I" 
 
120 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 And witlioiit anotlier word she departed. 
 
 Eleanor was much at a loss what would be the next 
 move. Nevertheless she was greatly surprised when it 
 caine. The atmosphere of the house was heavy that 
 day ; they did not see Mr. Carlisle in the evening. The 
 next day, when Eleanor went to her father's roi>ni after 
 dinner she found, not Mr. Carlisle, but her mother wiih 
 him. "Waiting for me" — thought Eleanor. The air 
 of Mrs. Powle said so. The squire was gathered up 
 into a kind of hard knot, hanging his head over his 
 knees. When he spoke, and was answered by his 
 daughter, the contrast of the two voices was striking, 
 and ill character ; one grufi^ the other sweet but steady. 
 
 " What's all tiiis, Eleanor ? what's all this ?" he said 
 abruptly. 
 
 " What, papa ?" 
 
 " Have you refused Mr. Carlisle ?" 
 
 " Long ago, sir." 
 
 " Yes, that's all past ; and now this winter you have 
 been accepting him again ; are you going to throw him 
 over now ?" 
 
 "Papa—" 
 
 " Only one thing!" roared the Squii'e, — "are you go- 
 ing to say no to him ? tell me that." 
 
 " I must, papa." 
 
 " I command you to say yes to him ! What do you 
 say now ?" 
 
 " I must say the same, sir. If you command me, I 
 must disobey you." 
 
 " You will disobey me, hey ?" 
 
 " I must, papa." 
 
 " Why won't you marry him ? what's the reason ?" 
 said the Squire, looking angry and perplexed at her, but 
 very glum. 
 
 "Papa—" 
 
 "I have seen you here myself, all winter, in this ven 
 
IN APR 1 1,. 1!4] 
 
 room ; you have as good as said to liitn every day that 
 you would be hi& wife, and he has as good as said to you 
 that he expected it. Has he not, now ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir.— but— " 
 
 " Now why M'oii't you have liini, hey ?" 
 
 " Papa, I do not Hke him well enough to marry him. 
 That is reason enough." 
 
 " Why did you tell him all the winter that you didf'' 
 
 "Sir, Mr. Carlisle knows I did not. He has never 
 been deceived." 
 
 " Why don't you like him well enough, then ? that's 
 the question ; what fool's nonsense ! Eleanor, I am 
 going to have you at the Priory and mistress of it before 
 the world is three months older. Tell me that you will 
 be a good girl, and do as I say." 
 
 " I cannot, papa. That is all past. I shall never be 
 At the Priory." 
 
 " What's the reason ?" roared her father. 
 
 " I have told you, sir." 
 
 " It's a lie ! You do like him. I have seen it. It's 
 some fool's nonsense." 
 
 " Let me ask one question," said Mrs. Powle, looking 
 up and down fiom her work. " If it had not been for 
 your religious notions, Eleanor, would you not have 
 married Mr. Carlisle more than a year ago ? before you 
 ivenl, to Wales?" 
 
 " I suppose I should, mamma." 
 
 " And if you had no religious notions, would you have 
 any difficulty about marrying him now ? You will speak 
 the truth, I know." 
 
 " Mamma — " 
 
 " SpeaK !" the Squire burst out violently — " speak 
 truth or falsehood, whichever you like. Speak out, and 
 don't go round about. Answer your mother's question." 
 
 " Will yon please to repeat it, mamma ?" Eleanor said, 
 a little faintheartedly. 
 
 VOL. II. 6 
 
122 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " If you had never been in a Methodist Cliapel, or had 
 anything to do with Methodists, — would you have any 
 difficulty now about being the wife of Mr. Carlisle, and 
 lady of Rythdale ?" 
 
 Eleanor's colour rose gradually and grew deep before 
 she ceased speaking. 
 
 " If I had never had anything to do with Methodists, 
 mamma, I should be so very different from what I am 
 now, that perhaps, it would be as you say." 
 
 " That's enough !" said the Squire, in a great state of 
 rage and determination. " Now Eleanor Powle, take 
 notice. I am as good as the Methodists any day, and as 
 well worth your minding. You'll mind me, or I'll have 
 nothing to do with you. Do you go to their chapels ?" 
 
 " Sometimes." 
 
 " You don't go any more ! St. George and the Dragon 
 fly away with all the Methodist Chapels that ever were 
 built! they shall hold no daughter of mine. And hark 
 ye, — you shall give up this foolery altogether and tell 
 me you will marry Mr. Carlisle, or I won't have you in 
 my family. You may go where you like, but you shall 
 not stay with me as long as I live. I give you a month 
 to think of it, Eleanor; — a month ? what's to-day? — the 
 tenth ? Then I give you till the first of next month. 
 You can think of it and make up yoiu* mind to give 
 yourself to Mr. Carlisle by that time ; or you shall be no 
 daughter of mine. St. George and the Dragon ! I have 
 said it, and you will find I mean it. Now go away." 
 
 Eleanor went, wondering whether her ears had served 
 her right ; so unnaturally strange seemed this turn of 
 affairs. She had had no time to think of it yet, when 
 passing the drawing-room door a certain impulse prompt- 
 ed her to go in. Mr. Cai lisle was there, as something 
 had told her he might be. Eleanor came in, looking 
 white, and advanced towards him with a free steady 
 
IN APRIL. 123 
 
 Btej> eyeing him fully. She was iii a mood to meet any- 
 thing. 
 
 " Mr. Carlisle," she said, "you are the cause of all the 
 trouble that has come upon me." 
 
 Ho did not ask her what trouble. He only gently and 
 gravely disclaimed the truth of her assertion. 
 
 " Mr. CarHsle," said Eleanor facing him, "do you want 
 the hand without the heart ?" There was brave beauty 
 in her face and air. 
 
 " Yes !" he said. " You do not know yourself, Eleanor 
 — you do not see yourself at this moment — or you would 
 know better how impossible it is to give other than one 
 answer to such a question." 
 
 His look had faced hers as frankly ; there was no evil 
 expression in it. Eleanor's head and her gaze sank a 
 little. She hesitated, and then turned away. But Mr. 
 Carlisle with a quick motion intercepted her. 
 
 "Eleanor, have you nothing kind to say to me?" he 
 asked, taking her hand. And he said it well. 
 
 " Not just now," said Eleanor slowly ; " but I will try 
 not to think unkindly of you, Mr. Carlisle." 
 
 Perhaps he understood that differently from her mean- 
 ing ; perhaps he chose to misinterpret it ; at all events ho 
 stooped forward and kissed her. It brought a flash of 
 colour into Eleanor's face, and she went up stairs much 
 more angry with her suitor than her last words had 
 spoke her. The angry mood faded fast when she reached 
 her own room and could be alone and be still. She sat 
 down and thought how, while he stood there and held 
 her hand, there had been a swift presentation to her 
 mind, swift and clear, of all she would be giving up 
 when she turned away from him. In one instant the 
 whole view had come ; the rank, the ease, the worldly 
 luxury, the affection ; and the question came too, way- 
 wardly, as impertinent questions will come, whether she 
 was aftei- all giving it up for sufiicient cause ? She was 
 
124 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 relinquishing if she quitted him, all that the world values. 
 Not quite that, perhaps ; if turned out from her father's 
 fainily even, she was in no danger of wanting food or 
 shelter or protection ; for she would be sure of those 
 and more in Mrs. Caxton's house. But looking forward 
 into the course of future years that might lie before her, 
 the one alternative ofiered fur her choice presented all 
 that is pleasant in worldly estimation ; and on the other 
 side there was a lonely life, and duty, and the affection 
 of one old woman. But though the two views came 
 with startling clearness before Eleanor just at this mo- 
 ment, the more attractive one brought no shadow of 
 temptation with it. She saw it, that was all, and turned 
 away from it to consider present circumstances. 
 
 Would her father keep to his word? It seemed im- 
 possible ; yet. coolly reflecting, Eleanor thought from 
 what she knew of him that he would ; so far at least as 
 to send her into immediate banishment. That such ban- 
 ishment would be more than temporary she did not be- 
 lieve. Mr. Carlisle would get over his disappointment, 
 would marry somebody else ; and in course of 'time her 
 mother and father, the Litter of whom certainly loved 
 her, would find out that they wanted her at home again. 
 But how long first ? That no one could tell, nor what 
 might hnppen in the interval ; and when she had got so 
 far in her thoughts, Eleanor's tears began to flow. She 
 let them flow ; it relieved her ; and somehow there was 
 a good fountain head of them. And again those two 
 pictures of future life rose up before her ; not as mat- 
 ters of choice, to take one and leave the other — but as 
 matters of contrast, in. somewhat that entered the spring 
 of tears and made them bitter. Was something gone 
 from her life, that could never be got back again ? had 
 she lost something that could never be found again ? 
 Was there a " bloom and fragrance" waving before her 
 on the one hand though unattainable, which the other 
 
IN APKIL. 12i 
 
 path of life with all its beauty did not offer ? To judge 
 by Eleanor's tears she had some such thoughts. But 
 after a time the tears cleared away, and her bowed face 
 looked up as fair as a blue sky after a storm. And Elt-a- 
 nor never had another time of weeping during the 
 month. 
 
 It was a dull .month to other people. It would have 
 been a dreary one to her, only that there is,.a private 
 sunshine in some hearts that defies cloudy weather 
 There is an anchor of the soul, sure and steadfast, by 
 which one rides contentedly in rough water ; there is a 
 hope of gloiy, in the presence of which no darkness can 
 abide ; and there is a word with which Eleanor dried 
 her tears that day and upon which she steadied her 
 heart all the days after. It was written by one who 
 knew trouble. " The Lord is my portion, saith my soul ; 
 'herefore will I hope in him." It is hai-d to take that 
 portion away from a man, or to make him poor while he 
 has it. 
 
 Eleanor had little else the remaining twenty-one days 
 of that month. What troubled her much, she could by 
 no means see Julia ; and she found that her sister had 
 been sent home, to the Lodge at Wiglands, under charge 
 of a governess ; Mrs. Powle averring that it was time 
 she should be in the country. London was not good for 
 Julia. Was it good for any of them, Eleanor thought ? 
 But parliament was still sitting ; Mr. Carlisle was in at- 
 tendance ; it was manifest they must be so too. Every 
 thing went on much as usual. Eleanor attended her 
 father after his early dinner, for Mr. Powle would not come 
 into London hours ; and Mr. Carlisle as usual shared her 
 office with her, except when he was obliged to be in the 
 House. When he vi^as, Mrs. Powle now took his place. 
 The Squire was surly and gloomy ; only brought out of 
 those moods by Mr. Carlisle himself That gentleman 
 held his ground, with excellent grace and self-control, 
 
136 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 and made Eleanor more than ever feel his power. Bui 
 she kept her ground too ; not without an effort and a 
 good deal of that old arm of defence which is called 
 " all-prayer ;" yet she kept it ; was gentle and humble 
 and kind to them all, to Mr. Carlisle himself, while he 
 was sensible her grave gentleness had no yielding in it. 
 How he admired her, those days ! how. he loved her ; 
 with a little fierce desire of triumph mingling, it must 
 be confessed, with his love and admiration, and height- 
 ened by them ; for now pride was touched, and some 
 other feeling which he did not analyze. He had nobody 
 to be jealous of, that he knew ; unless it were Eleanor 
 herself; yet her indifference piqued him. He could not 
 brook to be baffled. He shewed not a symptom of all 
 this ; but every line of her fine figure, every fold of her 
 rich, beautil'ul hair, every self-possessed movement, at 
 times was torment to him. Her very dress was a sub- 
 ject of irritation. It was so plain, so evidently un- 
 worldly in its simplicity, that unreasonably enough, for 
 Eleanor looked well in it, it put Mr. Carlisle in a fume 
 every day. She should not dress so when he had con 
 trol of her ; and to get the control seemed not easy ; and 
 the dress kept reminding him that he had it not. On 
 the whole probably all parties were glad when the sweet 
 month of May for that season came to an end. Even 
 Eleanor was glad ; for though she had made up her mind 
 what June would bring her, it is easier to grasp a fear 
 in one's hand, like a nettle, than to touch it constantlj 
 by anticipatioQ. So the first of June came. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 *' Come spur away ! 
 I have no patience for a longer stajr. 
 But must go down, 
 
 And leave the changeable noiGe of this great town ; 
 I will the country Bee, 
 Where old simplicity, 
 Though hid in grey, 
 Doth loolc more gay 
 Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad." 
 
 Althottgh Eleanor's judgment had said what t)>t 
 JBSue would be of tliat day's conference, she had made 
 no preparation to leave home. That she could not do 
 She could not make certain before it came the weary fore- 
 boding that pressed upon her. She went to her father's 
 room after dinner as usual, leaning her heart on that 
 word which had been her walking-staff for three weeks 
 past. " The Lord is my portion, saith my soul ; there- 
 fore will I hope in him !" 
 
 Mrs. Powle was there, quietly knitting. The Squire 
 had gathered himself up into a heap in his easy chair, 
 denoting a contracted state of mind ; a'ter that curiouj 
 fashion which bodily attitudes have, of repeating the 
 mental. Eleanor took the newspaper and sat down. 
 
 " Is there anything there particular ?" growled tha 
 Squire. 
 
 " I do not see anything very particular, sir. Here is 
 the continuation of the debate on — " 
 
 " How about that bill of yours and Mr, Carlisle's ?'■ 
 broke in Mrs. Fowl i. 
 
128 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " It was ordered to be printed, mamma — it has not 
 reached the second reading yet. It will not for soma 
 time." 
 
 " What do yon suppose will become of it then ?" 
 
 " What the Lord pleases. I do not know," said Elea- 
 nor with a pang at her heart. " I have done my part — 
 all I could — so far." 
 
 " I suppose you expect Mr. Carlisle will take it up as 
 his own cause, after it has ceased to be yours ?" 
 
 Eleanor understood this, and was silent. She took up 
 the paper again to find where to read. 
 
 " Put that down, Eleanor Powle," said her father who 
 was evidently in a very bad humour, as he had cause, 
 poor old gentleman ; thei-e is nobody so bad to be out ol 
 humour with as yourself; — "put that down! until we 
 know whether you are going to read to me any more or 
 no. I should like to know your decision." 
 
 Eleanor hesitated, for it was difficult to speak. 
 
 " Come ! — out with it. Time's up. Now for your 
 answer. Are you going to be- an obedient child, and 
 give Mr. Carlisle a good wife ? Hey ? Speak !" 
 
 " An obedient child, sir, in everything but this. I car 
 give Mr. Carlisle nothing, any more than he has." 
 
 " Any more than he has ? What is that ?" 
 
 " A certain degree of esteem and regard, sir — and per 
 hiips, forgiveness." 
 
 " Then you will not marry him, as I command you ?" 
 
 " No— I cannot." 
 
 " And you won't give up being a Methodist ?" 
 
 " I cannot help being what I am. I will not go to 
 church, papa, anywhere that you forbid me." 
 
 She spoke low, endeavouring to keep calm. The 
 Squire got up out of his chair. He had no calmness to 
 keep, and he spoke loud. 
 
 " Have you taught your sister to think there is any 
 Darm in dancing ?" 
 
IN MAT. ] 2S 
 
 " In dancing jjartiew, I suppose I have." 
 
 " And you think they are wicked, and won't go to 
 them ?" 
 
 " I do not like them. I cannot go to them, papa ; for 
 I am a servant of Christ ; and I can do no work for my 
 Master there at all ; but if I gti, I bear witness that .hey 
 are good." 
 
 "Now hear me, Eleanor Povvle — " the Squire spoke 
 with suppressed rage — " No sucit foolery will I have in 
 my house, and no such disrespect to people that are bet- 
 ter than you. I told you what would come of all this 
 if you did not give it up — and I stand to my word. You 
 come here to-morrow morning, prepared to put your 
 hand in Mr. Carlisle's and let him know that you will be 
 his obedient servant — or, you quit my house. To-mor- 
 row morning you do one thing or the other. And when 
 you go, you will stay. I will never have you back, ex- 
 cept as Mr. Carlisle's wife. Now go! I don't want your 
 paper any more." 
 
 Eleanor went slowly away. She paused in the draw- 
 ing-room ; there was no one there this time ; rang the 
 bell and ordered Thomas to be sent to her. Thomas 
 came, and received orders to be in readiness and have 
 everything in readiness to attend her on a journey the 
 next day. The orders were given clearly and distinctly 
 as usual ; but Thomas shook his head as he went down 
 from hei' presence at the white face his young mistress 
 had worn. " She don't use to look that way," he said 
 to himself, " for she is one of them ladies that carry a 
 hearty brave colour in their cheeks ; and now there 
 wasn't a bit of it." But the old servant kept his own 
 counsel and obeyed directions. 
 
 Eleanor went thiough the evening and much of the 
 night without giving herself a moment to think. Pack- 
 h)s»- Dccupied all that time and the earlv hours of the next 
 flav ; ftliL' was afraid to be idle, and even dreaded tho 
 
 6* 
 
130 THE OLDHET,MET. 
 
 times of prayer ; because whenever she stopped to think, 
 the tears would come. But she grew quiet ; and was 
 only pale still, when at an early hour in the morning she 
 left the house. She could not bear to go through a part- 
 ing scene with her father ; she knew him better than to 
 try it; and she shrank from one with her motlier. She 
 bid nobody good-bye, for she could not tell anybody that 
 she was going. London streets looked very gloomy to 
 Eleanor that morning as she di'ove through them to the 
 railway station. 
 
 She had still another reason for slipping away, in the 
 fear that else she would be detnined to meet Mr. Carlisle 
 again. The evening before she had had a note from 
 him, promising her all freedom for all her religious pre- 
 dilections and opinions— leave to do what she would, 
 if she would only be his wife. She guessed he would 
 endeavour to see her, if she staid long enough in London 
 after the receipt of that note. Eleanor made her escape. 
 
 Thomas was sorry at heart to see her cheeks so white 
 yet when they set off; and he noticed that his j'oung 
 mistress hid her face during the first part of the journey. 
 He watched to see it raised up again ; and then saw with 
 content that Eleanor's gaze was earnestly fixed on the 
 things without the window. Yes, there was something 
 there. She felt she was out of London ; and that what- 
 ever might b6 before her, one sorrowful and disagreeable 
 page of life's book was turned over. London was gone, 
 !ind she was in the midst of the country again, and the 
 country was at the beginning of Jnne. Green fields and 
 roses and flowery hedge-rows, and sweet air, all wooed 
 her back to hopefulness. Hopefulness for the moment 
 stole in. Eleanor thought things could Iiardly continue 
 80 bad as they seemed. It was nnt natural. It cnuld 
 not be. And yet — Mr. Carlisle was in the business, and 
 mother and father were set on her making a splendid 
 match and being a great lady. It might be indeed, 
 
IN MAT. ]S1 
 
 H;at there would be no return for Eleanor, that she must 
 remain in banishment, until Mr. Carlisle should take a new 
 fancy or fors^et her. How long would that be? A field 
 for calculation over which Eleanor's thf)ughts roamed for 
 some time. 
 
 One comfort she had promised herself, in seeing Julia 
 on the way ; so she turned out of her direct course to 
 go to Wiglands. She was disnppointed. Julia and her 
 governess had left the Lodge only the day before to pay 
 a visit of a week at some distance. By order, Eleanor 
 ci^uld not help suspecting it had been ; of set purpose, to 
 prevent the sisters meeting. This disappointment was 
 bittei'. It was hard to keep fi-om angry thoughts. Elea- 
 nor fought them resolutely, but she felt more desolate 
 than she had ever known in her life before. The old 
 place of her home, empty and still, had so many re- 
 minders of childish and happy times ; careless times ; 
 days when nobody thought of great mari-iages or settle- 
 ments, or when such thoughts lay all hidden in Mrs. 
 Powle's mind. Every tree and room and book was so 
 full of good and homely associations of the past, that it 
 half broke Eleanor's heart. Home associations now so 
 broken up ; the family divided, literally and otherwise ; 
 and worst of all, and over which Eleanor's tears flowed 
 bitterest, her own ministrations and influence were cut ofl 
 from those who most needed them and whom she most 
 wished to benefit.- Eleanor's day at home was a day of 
 tears ; it was impossible to help it. The roses with their 
 sweet faces looked remonstrance at her ; the roads and 
 walks and fields where she had been so happy invited her 
 back to them ; the very grey tower of the Priory lising 
 above the trees held out worldly temptation and worldly 
 j-eproof, with a mocking embodiment of her causes of 
 trouble. Eleanor could not bear it ; she spent one night 
 at home ; wrote a letter to .Tu.ia which she entrusted to 
 a servant's hands for her ; and the next morning set he» 
 
132 THE OLD HBLMBT. 
 
 face towards Plassy. Julia lay on her heart Tliat coii' 
 versatioii they bad held together the morning when Elea- 
 nor waylaid her — it was the last that had been allowed. 
 They had never had a good talk since then. Was that 
 the last chance indeed, for ever ? It was impossible to 
 know. 
 
 In spite of June beauty it was a dreary journey to 
 her from home to her aunt's ; and the beautiful hilly out- 
 lines beyond Plassy rose upon her view with a new c«- 
 pression. -Sterner, and graver ; they seemed to say, "It 
 is life work, now, my child; you must be firm, and if 
 necessary lugged, like us ; but truth of action has its own 
 beauty-too, and the sunlight of Divine favour rests there 
 always." A shadowless sunlight lay on the crowns and 
 shoulders of the mountains as Eleanor drew near. She 
 got out of the carriage to walk the last few steps and 
 look at the place. Plassy never was more lovely. An 
 aromatic breath, pure and strong, came fi-om the bills 
 and gathered the sweetness of the valleys. Roses and 
 honeysuckles and jessamines and primroses, with a 
 thousand others, loaded the air with their gifts to it, 
 from Mrs. Caxton's garden and from all the fields n/id 
 hedgerows around. And one after another bit of hilly 
 outline reminded Eleanor that off there went the narrow 
 valley that led to the little church at Glanog ; there went 
 the road to the village, where she and Powis had gone 
 so often of Wednesday afternoons ; and in that direction 
 lay the little cot where she had watched all night by the 
 dying woman. Not rauclt time for such remembrances 
 was just now ; for the farmhouse stood just before her. 
 The deal- old farmhouse ! looking as pretty as everything 
 else in its dark red stone walls and slate roof; stretching 
 along the ground at that rambling, picturesque, and also 
 opulent style. Eleanor would not knock now, and the 
 door was not fastened to make her need it. Softl) sh« 
 opened it, went in, and stood upon the tiled floor. 
 
IN MAT. 133 
 
 No sound of anything in particuliur; only certain 
 tokens of life in the house. Eleanor went on, opened 
 the door of the sitting parlour and looked in. Nobody 
 there; the room in its summer state of neatness and 
 coolness as she had left it. Eleanor's heart began to 
 grow warm. She would not yet summon a servant ; she 
 left that part of the house and wound about among the 
 passages till sho came to the back door that led out into 
 the long tiled porch where supper was wont to be spread. 
 And there was the table set this evening ; and the wont- 
 ed glow from the sunny west greeted her there, and a 
 vision of the gorgeous flowei-garden. Biit Eleanor 
 hai-dly saw the one thing or the other ; for Mrs. Caxton 
 was there also, standing by the tea-table, alone, putting 
 something on it. Eleanor moved forward without a 
 word. Her voice would not come out of her throat very 
 well. 
 
 " Eleanor !" exclaimed Mrs. Caxton. " My dear love ! 
 what has given me this happiness ?" 
 
 Very strong language for Mrs. Caxton to use. Elea- 
 nor felt it, every word of it, as well as the embrace of 
 those kind arms and her aunt's kisses upon her lips ; but 
 she was silent. 
 
 " How come you here, my darling ?" 
 
 " They have sent me away from home." 
 
 Mrs. Caxton saw that there was some difficulty of 
 speech, and she would not press matters. She put Elea- 
 nor into a seat, and looked at her, and took off her bon- 
 net with her own hands ; stooped down and kissed her 
 brow. Eleanor steadied herself .'ind looked up. 
 
 " It is true, aunt Caxton. I come to you because I 
 have nowhere else to be." 
 
 " My love, it is a great happiness to have you, for 
 any cause. Wait, and tell me what the matter is by 
 and by^." 
 
 She'^left Eleanor for a moment, only a moment; gave 
 
134 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 some orders, and returned to her side. She sat down 
 and took Eleanor's hand. 
 
 " What is It, my dear ?" 
 
 And then Eleanor's composure, which she had thought 
 Bure, gave way all of a sudden ; and she cried heartily 
 for a minute, laying her head in its old resting-place. 
 But that did her good ; and then she kissed Mrs. Caxton 
 over and over belbre she began to speak. 
 
 "They want me to make a great match, aunty; and 
 will not be satisiied with anything else." 
 
 "What, Mr. Carlisle?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And is that all broken off?" said Mrs. Caxton, a 
 little tone of eagerness discernible under her caltn manner. 
 
 " It was broken off a year ago," said Eleanor — " more 
 than a year ago. It has always been broken since." 
 
 " I heard that it was all going *on again. I expected 
 to hear of your marriage." 
 
 " It was not true. But it is true, that the world had 
 a great deal of reason to think so ; and I could not help 
 that." 
 
 "How so, Eleanor?" 
 
 " Mamma, and papa, and Mr. Carlisle. They managed 
 it." 
 
 " But in such a case, my dear, a woman owes it to 
 herself and to her suitor and to her parents too, to be 
 explicit." 
 
 " I do not think I compromised the truth, aunt Cax- 
 t(in," said Eleanor, passing her hand somewhat after a 
 troubled fashion over her brow. " Mr. Carlisle knew I 
 never encourfiged him with more favour than I gave 
 others. I could not help being with him, for mamma 
 and he had it so ; and they were too much for me. I 
 could not lielp it. So the report grew. I had a difficult 
 part to play," said Eleanor, repeating her ti'oubled ges- 
 ture and seeming ready to burst into tears 
 
I N M jv T . i 38 
 
 ^Iii what way, my love?" 
 
 Eleanor did not iinint'diately answer; sat coking off 
 over the meadow as if some danger existed to self-con- 
 trol ; then, still siletit, turned and met with an eloquent 
 soft eye the sympathizing yet questioning glance that 
 was fixed on her. It was curious how Eleanor's eye 
 met it; how her eye roved over Mrs. Caxton's face and 
 looked into her quiet grey eyes, with a kind of glinting 
 of some spirit fire within, which could almost be seen to 
 play and flicker as thought and feeling swayed to and 
 fro. Her eye said that much was to be said, looked into 
 Mrs. Caxton's face with an intensity of half-speech, — and 
 the lips remained silent. There was consciousness of 
 sympathy, consciousness of something that required 
 sympathy ; and the seal of silence. Perhaps Mrs. Cax- 
 ton's response to this strange look came half uncon- 
 sciously; it came wliolly naturally. 
 
 " Poor child !"— 
 
 " The colour rose on Eleanor's cheek at that ; she 
 tuineil her eyes away. 
 
 " I think Ml-. Carlisle's plan — and mamma's — -was to 
 make circumstances too strong for me ; and to draw me 
 on by degrees. And they would, perhaps, lint for all I 
 learned iiere." 
 
 " For what you learned here, my dear ?" 
 
 " Yes aimty ; if they could have got me into a whirl 
 of society — if they could have made me love danchig 
 parties and theatres and the opera, and I had got bewil- 
 dered and forgotten that a great worldly establishment 
 is not the best thing — perhaps temptation would have 
 been too much for me. — Peihaps it would. I don't 
 know." 
 
 There was a little more colour in Eleanoi's cheeks 
 than her words accounted for, as BIrs. Caxton noticed. 
 
 "Did you ever feel in danger fiom the temptation, 
 Eleanor ?" 
 
136 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " Ne^ er, aaniy. I think it never so much as tDti'jhed 
 me." 
 
 " Then Mr. Carlisle has been at his own risk,''' said 
 Mrs. Caxton. "Let us dismiss him, my love." 
 
 "Aunt Ciixton, I have a strange homeless, forlorn 
 feeling." 
 
 For answer to that, Mrs. Caxton put her arms round 
 Eleanor and gave her one or two good strong kisses 
 There was reproof as well as affection in ihem ; Eleanor 
 felt both, even without her aimt's words. 
 
 "Trust the Lord. You know who has been the 
 dwelling-place of his people, from all generations. They 
 cannot be homeless. And foi- the rest, remember that 
 whatever brings you here brings a great boon to me. 
 My love, do you wish to go to your room before you 
 have tea ?" 
 
 Eleanor was gl;id to get away and be alone for a mo- 
 ment. How homelike her old room seemed ! — with the 
 rose and honeysuckle breath of the air coming in at the 
 casements. How peaceful and undisturbed the old fur- 
 niture looked. The influence of the place began to settle 
 down upon Eleanor. She got rid of the dust of travel, 
 and came down presently to the poich with a face as 
 quiet as a lamb. 
 
 Tea went on with the same soothing influence. There 
 was much to tell Eleanor, of doings in and about Plassy 
 ihe year past ; for the fact was, that letters had not been 
 frequent. Who was sick and who was well ; who had 
 married, and who was dead ; who had set out on a 
 Christian walk, and who weie keeping up such a walk 
 to the happiness of themselves and of all about them. 
 Then how Mrs. Caxton's own household had prospered ; 
 how the dairy went on ; and there were some favourite 
 cows that Eleanor desired to hear of. Fr. m the cows 
 they got. to the garden. And all the while the lovely 
 meadow valley lay spread out in its greenness befors 
 
IN MAY. 137 
 
 Eleanor ; the beautiful old hills drew the same lo\'ed out. 
 line across the sunset sky ; the lights and shadows were 
 of J uue ; find the garden at hand was a rich mass of 
 beauty sloping its terraced sweetness down to the river. 
 Just as it was a year ago, when the summons came for 
 Eleanor to leave it ; only the garden seemed even more 
 gorgeously rich than then. Just the same ; even to the 
 disb of strawberries on the table. But that was not 
 wreathed with ivy and myrtle now. 
 
 " Aunt Caxton, this is like the very same evening that 
 I was here last." 
 
 " It is almost a year," said Mrs. Caxton. 
 
 Neither added anything to these two very unremark- 
 able remarks ; and silence fell with the evening light, as 
 the servants were clearing away the table. Perhaps the 
 mountains with the clear paling sky beyond them, were 
 suggestive. Both the ladies looked so. 
 
 " My dear," said Mrs. Caxton then, " let me under- 
 stand a little better about this affair that gives you to 
 me. Do you come, or are you sent ?" 
 
 "It is formal banishment, aunt Caxton. I am sent 
 from them at home ; but sent to go whither I will. So 
 I come, to you." 
 
 " What is the term assigned to this banishment ?" 
 
 " None. It is absolute — unless or until I will grant 
 Mr. Carlisle's wishes, or giving up being, as papa says, p 
 Methodist. But that makes it final — as far as I am con 
 ceined." 
 
 " They will think better of it by and by. 
 
 " I hope so," said Eleanor faintly. " It seems a strange 
 thing to me, aunt Caxton, that this should have happened 
 to me — _just now when I am so needed at home. Papa 
 is unwell — and I was beginning to get his ear, — and I 
 tiave great influence over Julia, who only wants leading 
 to go in the right way. And I am taken away from all 
 that. I cannot help wondericg whj ." 
 
138 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " Let it be to the glory of God, Eleanor ; that is ali 
 your concern. The rest you will understand liy and 
 Dy." 
 
 " But that is the very thing. It is hard to see how it 
 can be to his glory." 
 
 " Do not try," said Mrs. Caxton smiling. " Tlie Lord 
 never puts his children anywhere where they cannot 
 glorify him ; and be nevei' sends them where they have 
 not work to do or a lesson to learn. Perhaps this is 
 your lesson, Eleanor — to learn to have no home but in 
 him." 
 
 Eleanoi-'s eyes filled very full ; she made no answer. 
 
 But one thing is certain ; peace settled down upon 
 her heart. It would be difiioiiit to help that at Plassy. 
 We all know the effect of going home to the place of 
 our childhood after a time spent in other atmosphere ; 
 and there is a native air of the spirit, in which it feels 
 the like renovating influence. Eleanor breathed it while 
 they sat at the table ; she felt she had got back into her 
 element. She felt it more and more when at family 
 prayer the whole household were mGt together, and she 
 heaid her aunt's sweet and high petitions again. And the 
 blessing of peace fully settled down upon Eleanor when 
 she was gone up to her room and had recalled and prayed 
 over her aunt's words. She went to sleep with that 
 glorious saying running through her thoughts — " Lordj 
 thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generatious." 
 
CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 ''•But there be million hearts accurst, where no sweet sunbursts ahino. 
 And there be million hearts athirst for Love's immortal wine. 
 This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above ; 
 And if we did our duty, it might be full of love.*' 
 
 Peace had unbroken reign at Plassy from tliat time. 
 Eleanor tlirew herself ug.dn eagerly into all her aunt's 
 labours and schemes for the good and comfort of those 
 around her. 'J'here wa'^ j)loiity to do ; and she was Mrs. 
 Caxton's excellent helper. Powis came into requisition 
 anew ; and as before, Eleanor traversed the dales and 
 the hills on her various errands, swift and busy. That 
 was not the only business going. Her aunt and she 
 returned to their old literary habits, and read books and 
 talked ; and it was hard if Eleanor in her rides over the 
 hills and over the meadows and along the streams did 
 not bring back one hand full of wild flowers. She 
 dressed the house with them, getting help from the gar- 
 den when necessai-y ; botanized a good deal ; and began 
 to grow as knowing in plants almost as Mrs. Gaxton 
 herself She would come home loaded with wild thyme 
 and gorse and black bryony and saxifrage and orchis 
 flowers, having scoured hill and meadow and robbed the 
 hedgerows for them, which also gave her great tribute 
 of wild roses. Then later came crimson campion and 
 eyebright, dog roses and honeysuckles, columbine and 
 centaury, grasses of all kinds, and harebell, and a multi- 
 tude impossible to name ; though the very naming is 
 pleasant. Eleanor lived very much out of doors, and 
 Was likened by her aunt to a rural Flora or Proserpine 
 
140 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 that Slimmer ; though when in the house she was just 
 the most sonsy, sensible, companionable little earthly 
 maiden that could be fancied. Eleanor was not under 
 size indeed ; but so much like her own wild flowers in 
 pure simpleness and sweet natural good qualities tliat 
 Mrs. Caxtou was sometimes inclined to bestow the 
 endearing diminutive upon her; so sound and sweet she 
 was. 
 
 " And what are all these ?" said Mrs. Caxton one day 
 stopping before an elegant basket. 
 
 " Don't you like them ?" 
 
 " Very much. Why you have got a good many kinds 
 here." 
 
 " That is Hart's Tongue, you know — that is wall 
 spleen wort, and that is the other kind ; handsome things, 
 are they not ?" 
 
 "And this?" 
 
 " That is the forked spleenwort. You don't know it ? 
 I rode away, away up the mountain for it yesterday. 
 That is where I got those "Woodsia's too — aren't they 
 beautiful. I was gay to find those ; they are not com- 
 mon." 
 
 " No. And this is not common, to me." 
 
 " Don't you know it, aunt Caxton ? It grows just in 
 the spray of a waterfall — this and this ; they are poly- 
 podies. That is another — that came from the old round" 
 tower." 
 
 " And where did you get these ? — these waterfall 
 ferns ?" 
 
 " I got them at the Bandel of Helig." 
 
 "There? My dear child! how could you, withont 
 risk?" 
 
 " Without much risk, aunty." 
 
 " How did you ever know the Bandel ?" 
 
 "I have been there befoi-e, aunt Caxton." 
 
 ''I think I never shewed it to you?" 
 
IN CORE]!:'''-PONDENCE. 141 
 
 " No ma'am ;— Lut Mr. Rhys did." 
 
 His name had scarcely been mentioned before since 
 Eleanor had come to the farm. It was mentioned now 
 with a cognizance of that fact. Mrs. Caxton was silent 
 ft little. 
 
 " Why have you put these green things here without 
 a rose or two ? they are all alone in their greenness." 
 
 " I like them better so, aunty. They are beautiful 
 enough by themselves ; but if you put a rose there, you 
 cannot help looking at it." 
 
 Mrs. Caxton smiled and turned away. 
 
 One thing in the midst of all these natural explora- 
 tions, remained unused ; and that a thing most likely, 
 one would have thought, to be applied to for help. The 
 microscope stood on one side apparently forgotten. It 
 always stood there, in the sitting parlour, in full view; 
 but nobody seemed to be conscious of its existence. 
 Eleanor never touched it ; Mrs. Caxton never spoke of 
 it. 
 
 From home meantime, Eleanor heard little that was 
 satisfactory. Julia was the only one that wrote, and hor 
 letters gave painful subjects for thought. Her father was 
 very unlike himself, Julia said, and growing more feeble 
 and more ill every day ; though by slow degrees. She 
 wished Eleanor would write her letters without any 
 religion in them ; for she supjjosed that was what her 
 mother would not let her read ; so she never had the 
 comfort of seeing Eleanor's letters for herself, but Mrs. 
 Powle read aloud bits from them. " Very little bits, 
 too," added Julia, "I guess your letters ha\e more relig- 
 ion in them than anything el^^e. But you see it is no 
 asp." Eleanor read this passage aloud to Mrs. Caxton. 
 
 " Is that true, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " No, ma'am. I write to Julia of everything that I 
 do, all day long, and of everything and everybody that 
 lEterL'Stfi me. What mamma does not like comes in, of 
 
142 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 course, with it all ; but I do very little preaching, aunt 
 Gaxton." 
 
 " I would go on just so, ray dear. I would not altei 
 the style of my letters." 
 
 So the flowers of June were replaced by the flowers 
 of July ; and the beauties of July gave place to the 
 purple " ling " of August, with gentian and centaury 
 and St. John's wort ; and then came the Autumn chan- 
 ges, with the less delicate blossoms of that later time, 
 amidst which the eclipsed meadow-sweet came quite into 
 favour again. Still Eleanor brought wild things from 
 the hills and the streams, though she applied more now 
 to Mrs. Caxton's home store in the garden ; wild mints 
 and Artemisias and the Michaelmas daisy still came home 
 with her from her rides and walks ; the rides and walks 
 in which Eleanor was administering angel to many a poor 
 house, many an ignorant soul and many a faihng or ail- 
 ing body. 
 
 Then came October ; and with the first days of Octo- 
 ber the news that her ftither was dead. 
 
 It added much bitterness to Eleanor's grief, that Mrs. 
 Powle entirely declined to have her come home, even 
 for a brief stay. If she chose to submit to conditions, 
 her mother wrote, she would be welcome; it was not 
 too late ; but if she held to her perversity, she must 
 bear the consequences. She did not own her nor want 
 her. She gave her up to her aunt Oaxton. Her remain- 
 ing daughter was in her hands, and she meant to keep 
 her there. Eleanor, she knew, if she came home would 
 come to sow rebellion. She should not come to do that, 
 either then or at all. 
 
 Mildly quiet and decided Mrs. Powle's lettei was ; 
 very decided, and so cool as to give every assurance tho 
 decision would be persisted in. Eleanor felt this very 
 much. She kept on her usual way of life without any 
 variation; but the radiant briglit look of her face waa 
 
IN COEKESPONDENCB. 14S 
 
 pevmanontly saddened. She was jast as sweet and c(im. 
 panionnble an assistant to her aunt as ever ; Lut from 
 month to month Mrs. Caxton saw that a sh.adow lay 
 deep upon lier heart. No shadow could have less of 
 anything like hard edges. 
 
 They had been sitting at work one night late in the 
 winter, those two, the aunt and the niece ; and having 
 at last put up her work Eleanor sat gravely poring into 
 the red coals on the hearth ; those thought-pi'ovoking, 
 life-stu-ring, strange things, glowing and sparkling be- 
 tween life and death like ourselves. Eleanor's face was 
 very sober. 
 
 " Aunt Caxton," she said at length, — " my life seems 
 such a confusion to me !" 
 
 " So everything seems that we do not understand," 
 Mrs. Caxton said. 
 
 " But is it not, aunty ? I seem taken from everything 
 that I ought most naturally to do — papa, Julia, mamma. 
 I feel like a banished pers(m, I suppose ; only I have the 
 strange feeling of being banished from my place in the 
 world." 
 
 " What do you think of such a life as Mr. Rhys is 
 leading ?" 
 
 " I think it is straight, and beautiful," — Eleanor an- 
 swered, looking still into the fire. " Nothing can be 
 further from confusion. He is in his place." 
 
 " He is in a sort of banishment, however." 
 
 " Not from that ! And it is voluntary banishment — 
 for his Master's sake. That is not sorrowful, aunt 
 Caxton." 
 
 " Not when the Lord's banished ones make their 
 home in him. And I do not doubt but Mr. Rhys doe« 
 that." 
 
 " Have you ever heard from him, aunt Caxton." 
 
 " Nuc yet. It is almost time, I think." 
 
 " It is almost a year and a half since he went." 
 
144 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " The communication is slow and uncertain," said Mrs 
 Caxton. " They do not get letters there, often, till they 
 are a year old." 
 
 " How impossible it used to be to me," said Eleanor, 
 "to comprehend such n life; how impossible to undei- 
 stand, that anybody should leave home and friends and 
 comfort, and take his place voluntarily in distance and 
 danger and heathendom. It was an utter eniiTraa to me." 
 
 " And you understand it )iow ?" 
 
 " O yes, aunty," Eleanor went on in the s°>TOe tone ; 
 and she had not ceased gazing into the coals;— -"I see 
 that Christ ia all ; and with him one is never alo.T^e, and 
 under his hand one can never be in danger. I know 
 now how his love keeps one even from fear." 
 
 "You are no coward naturally." 
 
 " No, aunt Caxton — not about ordinary things ex- 
 cept v\ hen conscience made me so, some time ago." 
 
 " Thr.t is over now ?" 
 
 Eleanor took her eyes from the fire, to give Mrs. C'lx- 
 ton a smile with the words — " Thank the Lord !" 
 
 " Mr. Rhys is among scenes that might try any nit- 
 ural courage," said Mrs. Caxton. They are a desperate 
 set of savages to whom he is ministering." 
 
 " What a glory, to carry the name of Christ to them !" 
 
 " They are hearing it, too," said Mrs. Caxton. " But 
 there is enough of the devil's worst work going on there 
 to try any tender heart ; and horrors enough to shock 
 stout nerves. So it has been. I hope Mr. Rhys finds it 
 hotter." 
 
 " I don't know much about them," said Eleanor. 
 " Are they much worse than savages in general, aunt 
 Caxton ?" 
 
 " I think they are, — and better too, in being more in- 
 tellectually developed. Morally, I think I never read of 
 a lower fallen set of human beings. Human life is of no 
 »^ -ount ; such a thing as respect to humanity is unknown, 
 
IN COHRESPONDENCE. 145 
 
 for Ihe eating of liunian bodies has gone on to a most 
 ■wonderful extent, and the destroying them for that per. 
 pose. With all that, there is a very careful re-peet paid 
 to descent and rank ; but it is the observance of fear 
 Tiiat one fict gives you the key to the whole. M'here 
 a man is thought of no more worth than to be killed 
 and eaten, a woman is not thought worth anything at 
 all ; and society becomes a lively representation of the 
 infernal regions, without the knowledge and without the 
 remorse." 
 
 " Poor creatures !" said Eleanor. 
 
 " You comprehend that there must be a great deal of 
 trial to a person of fine sensibilities, in making a home 
 amongst such a people, for an indefinite length of 
 time." 
 
 " Yes, aunty, — ^but the Lord will make it all up to 
 him." 
 
 " Blessed be the name of the Lord !" it was Mrs. 
 Caxton's turn to answer ; and she said it with deep feel- 
 ing and emphasis. 
 
 " It seems the most glorious thing to me, aunt Cax- 
 ton, to tell the love of Christ to those that don't know 
 it. I wish I could do it." 
 
 " My love, you do." 
 
 " I do very little, ma'am. I wish I could do a thou- 
 sand times more !" 
 
 The conversation stopped there. Both ladies remained 
 very gravely thoughtful a little while longer and then 
 separated for the night. But the next evening when 
 they were seated at tea alone, Mrs. Caxton recurred to 
 the subject. 
 
 " You said last night, Eleanor, that you wished you 
 could do a great deal more work of a certain kind than 
 you do." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " Did 30ur words mean my love, that j'ou are discon- 
 
 VOL. IT. 7 
 
146 THEOLD HELMET. 
 
 tented with your own sphere of duty, or find it toe 
 narrow ?" 
 
 Eleanoi's eyes opened a little at that. "Aunt Caxton, 
 I never thought of such a thing. I do not remember 
 that I was considering my own sphere of duty at all. I 
 was thinking of the pleasure of preaching Christ — yes, 
 and the glory and honour — to such poor wretches as 
 those we were talking of, who have never had a glimpse 
 of the truth before." 
 
 "Then for your part you are satisfied with England?" 
 
 " Why yes, ma'am. I am satisfied, I think, — I mean 
 to be, — with any place that is given me. I should be 
 sorry to choose for myself." 
 
 " But if you had a clear call, you would like it, to go 
 to the Cape of Good Hope and teach the Hottentots ?" 
 
 " I do not mean that, aunty," said Eleanor laughing a 
 little.. " Surely you do not suspect me of any wander- 
 ing romantic notion about doing the Lord's, work in one 
 place rather than in another. I would rather teach Eng- 
 lish people than Hottentots. But if I saw that my place 
 was at the Cape of Good Hope, I would go there. If 
 my place we-" there, some way would be possible for 
 me to get ti.ore, 1 suppose." 
 
 " You would have no fear ?" said Mrs. Caxton. 
 
 " No aunty ; I think not. Ever since I can say ' The 
 Lord is my Shepherd — ' I have done with fear." 
 
 " My love, I sliould be very sorry to have you go to 
 the Cape of Good Hope. I am glad there is no prospect 
 of it. But you are right about not choosing. As soon 
 as we go where we are not sent, we are at oui own 
 chargeii." 
 
 The door here opened, and the party and the tea-tabi-\ 
 received an accession of one to their number. It was 
 an elderly, homely gentleman, to whom Mrs. Caxton 
 gave a vevy cordial reception and whom she introduced 
 to Eleanor as the Rev. Mr. Morrison. He had a pleasant 
 
IN COBKESPO NDENCE. n't 
 
 face, Eleanor saw, and as soon as he spoke, a pleasant 
 manner. 
 
 " I ought to be welcome, ma'am," he said rubbing his 
 hands with the cold as he sat down. " I bring you let- 
 ters from Brother Rhys." 
 
 " You are welcome without that, brother, as you 
 know," Mrs. Caxton answered. " But the letters are 
 welcome. Of how late date are they ?" 
 
 " Some pretty old — some not more than nine or ten 
 months ago ; when he had been stationed a good 
 while." 
 
 " How is he ?" 
 
 " Well, he says ; never better." 
 " And happy ?" 
 
 " I wish I was as happy !" said Mr. Morrison. — " He 
 bad got fast hold of his work already." 
 " He would do that immediately." 
 " He studied the language on shipboard, all the way 
 out ; and he was able to hold a service in it for the na- 
 tives only a few weeks after he had landed. Don't you 
 call that energy ?" 
 
 " There is energy wherever he is," said Mrs. Caxton. 
 " Yes, you know him pi-etty well. I suppose they 
 never have it so cold out there as we have it to-niaht," 
 Mr. Morrison said rubbing his hands. " It's stinging ! 
 That fire is the pleasantest thing I have seen to-day." 
 " Where is Mr. Rhys stationed ?" 
 " I forget — one of the islands down there, with an 
 unintelligible name. Horrid places !" 
 
 " Is the place itself disagreeable ?" Eleanor asked. 
 " The place itself, ma'am," said Mr. Morrison, his face 
 Btiffening from its genial unbent look into formality as he 
 turned to her, — " the pla ^e itself I do not understand to 
 be very disagreeable ; it is the character of the popula- 
 tion which must make it a hard place to live in. They 
 are exceedingly debased. VHe people !" 
 
V48 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " Mr. Rhys is not alone on his station ?" said Mra 
 Oaxton. 
 
 " No, he is with Mr. and Mrs. Leiferts. His lettei-i 
 will tell yon." 
 
 For the letters Mrs. Caxton was evidently impatient ; 
 but Mr. Morrison's I'efreshment had first to be attended 
 to. Only fair ; for he had come out of his way on pur- 
 pose to bring them to her ; and being one of a certain 
 Committee he had it in his power to bring for her pe- 
 rusal and pleasure more than her own letters from Mr 
 Rhys, and more than Mr. Rhys's own letters to the Com- 
 mittee. It was a relief to two of the party when Mr. 
 Mori-ison's cups of tea were at last disposed of, and the 
 far-come despatches were brought out on the green table- 
 cloth under the light of the lamp. 
 
 With her hand on her own particular packet of let- 
 ters, as if so much communication with them could not 
 be put off, Mrs. Caxton sat and listened to Mr. Morri- 
 son's reading. Eleanor had got her work. As the par- 
 ticular interest which made the. reading so absorbing to 
 them may possibly be shared in a slight degree by others, 
 it is fair to give a slight notion of the character of the 
 news contained in those closely written pages. The let- 
 ters Mr. Morrison read were voluminous ; from different 
 persons on different stations of the fai-off mission field. 
 They told of difficulties great, and encouragements 
 greater; of their work and its results ; and of their most 
 piessing wants ; especially the want of more men to 
 help. The work they said was spreading faster thaq 
 they could keep up with it. Thousands of heathen had 
 given up heathenism, who in miserable ignorance cried 
 for Christian instruction ; children as wild as the wild 
 birds, wanted teaching and were willing to have it ; 
 native teachers needed training, who had the will with- 
 out the kno wleilge to aid in the service. Thirty of them, 
 Mr. Lefierts said, he had under his care. With all tliis, 
 
IN CORBBSPONDEXCE. 149 
 
 they told of the wonderful beauty of the regiois where 
 their field of labour was. Mr. Lefferts wrote of a little 
 journey lately taken to another part of his island, which 
 had led him through almost every variety of natural 
 luxuriance. Mountains and hills and valleys, rivers and 
 little streams, rich woods and mangro\e swamps. Mr. 
 Lefferts' journey had been, like Paul's of old, to establish 
 the native churches formed at different small places by 
 the way. There he married couples and baptized chil- 
 dren and met classes and told the truth. At one place 
 where he had preached, married several couples, bap- 
 tized over thirty, young and old, and met as many in 
 classes, Mr. Lefferts told of a walk he took. It led him 
 to the top of a Uttle hill, from which a rich view was to 
 be had, while a multitude of exquisite shrubs in flower 
 gave another refreshment in their delicious fragrance. 
 A little stream running down the side of the hill was 
 used by the natives to water their plantations of taro, 
 for which the side hill was formed into terraced beds. 
 Paroquets and humming birds flew about, and the sun 
 was sinking brilliantly in the western ocean line as he 
 looked. So far, everything was fair, sweet, lovdly ; a 
 contrast to what he met when he reached the lower 
 grounds again. There the swarms of mosquitos com- ■ 
 pelled Mr. Lefferts to retreat for the night wi'.,hin a cur- 
 tain canopy tor protection ; and thither he v/as followed 
 by a fat savage who shared the protection (vith him all 
 night long. Another sort of experience '. and another 
 sort of neighbourhood from that of t'j/ starry white 
 Gardenia flowers on the top of the hill. 
 
 Nevertheless, of a neighbouring ot'.tion Mr. Rhya 
 wrote that the people were at war, ar,d the most horrible 
 heathen practices were going on. A c the principal town, 
 he said, more people were e.iten pc/haps than anywhere" 
 else in the islands. The cruelties and the horrors were 
 impossible to be told. A few days before he vrota 
 
150 THE OLD HELMBT. 
 
 twenty-eight persons had been killed and eaten in one 
 d;iy. They had been caught lishing — taken prisoners 
 and brought home — half killed, and in that state thrown 
 into the ovens ; still having life enough left to try to get 
 away fiom the fire. 
 
 " The first time I saw anything of this kind," wrote 
 Mr. Rhys, " was one evening when we had just finished 
 a class-meeting. The evening was most fair and peace- 
 ful as we came out of the house ; a fresh air from the 
 sea had relieved the heat of the day ; the leaves of the 
 trees were glittering in the sunlight ; the ocean all 
 sparkling under the breeze; when word came that some 
 bodies of slain people were bringing from Lauthala. I 
 could hardly understand the report, or credit it ; but 
 presently the horrible procession came in sight, and 
 eleven dead bodies were laid on the ground immediately 
 before us. Eleven only were brought to this village ; but 
 great numbers are. said to have been killed. Their crime 
 was the killing of one man ; and when they would have 
 submitted themselves and made amends, all this recora- 
 penee of death was demanded by the offended chief. 
 The manner in which these wretched creatures were 
 treated is not a thing to be described ; they were not 
 handled with the respect which we give to brute ani- 
 mals. The natives have looked dark upon us since that 
 time, and give us reason to know that as far as they are 
 concerned our lives are not safe. But we know in whose 
 hands our lives are ; they are the Lord's ; and he will do 
 with them what he pleases — not what the heathen please. 
 So we are under no concern about it." 
 
 That storm appeared to have passed away ; for jn 
 later letters Mr. Rhys and Mr. Lefferts spoke of accept- 
 able services among the people and an evidently mani- 
 fested feeling of trnst and good will on their part towards 
 the missionaries. Indeed these were often able to turn 
 the natives fi'om their devilish purposes and save life 
 
IN C O RKE8P ON D K NCE. Ifii 
 
 Not always. The old king of that part of the country 
 had died, and all the influence and all the offers of com- 
 pensation made by the missionaries, could not prevent 
 the slaugliter of half a dozen women, his wives, to do 
 him honour in his bui-ial. The scene as Mr. Leiierts de- 
 scribed il was heart-sickening. 
 
 As lie diew near the door of the king's house, with 
 the intent to prevail for the right or to protest .ngainst 
 the wrong, he saw the biers standing ready ; and so 
 knew that all the efforts previously made to hinder the 
 barbarous rites had been unavailing. The house as he 
 entered was in the hush of death. One woman lay 
 strangled. Another silting on the floor, covered with a 
 large veil, was in the hands of her murderers. A coi'd 
 was passed twice round her neck, and the ends were 
 held on each side of her by a group of eight or ten 
 strong men, the two groups pulling opposite ways. She 
 was dead, the poor victim underneath the veil, in a min- 
 ute or two after the missionaries entered ; and the veil 
 being taken off they saw that it was a woman who had 
 professed Christianity, Her sons were among those who 
 had strangled her. Another woman came forward with 
 great shew of bravery when her name was called ; of- 
 fered her hand to the missionaries as she passed them ; 
 and with great pride of bearing submitted herself to the 
 death which probably she knew she could not avoid. 
 Everybody was quiet and cheerful, and the whole thing 
 went on with the undisturbed order of a recognized and 
 accustorhed necessity ; only the old king's son, the reign- 
 ing chief for a long time back, was vtry uneasy at the ' 
 part he was playing before the missionaries ; he was the 
 only trembling or doubtful one there. Yet he would 
 not yield the point. Pride before all ; his futher must 
 not be buried without the due honours of his j-.osition. 
 Mr. Rhys and Mr. Lefferts had. staid to make their pro- 
 test and-iiffer their entreaties and warnings, lo the very 
 
162 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 last ; and then heart-sick and almost faint with the dis 
 gusting scene, had returned home. 
 
 Yet the influence of the truth was increasing and the 
 good work was spreading and growing around tliem, 
 steadily and in every direction. A great many had re- 
 nounced heathenism ; not a small number were earnest 
 Christians and shewed the truth of their religion in their 
 changed lives. A great number of reports proved this. 
 
 " It is work that tries what stuff men's hearts are of, 
 however," remarked Mr. Morrison as he folded up one 
 packet of letters. Neither of his hearers made him 
 any answer. Mrs. Caxton sat opposite to him, deeply 
 attentive but silent, with her hand always lying u|>ou 
 her own particular packet. Eleanor had turned a little 
 away and sat with her side face towards Mr. Morrison, 
 lookingrinto the fire. Her work was dropped ; she sat 
 motionless. 
 
 " I have a letter to read you now of a later date,"" Mr. 
 Morrison went on, — " from Mr. Rhys, which shews how 
 well he has got hold of the people and how much he is 
 regarded by them already. It shews the influence gained 
 by the truth, too, which is working there fast." 
 
 After giving some details of business and of his 
 labours, Mr. Rhys wrote — " My last notable piece of 
 work, has been in the character of an ambassador of 
 peace — not heavenly but earthly. News was brought 
 four or five days ago that the heathen inhabitants of two 
 neighbouring districts had engaged in open hostilities. 
 Home business claimed me one day ; the next morning I 
 set out on my mission, with one or two Christian natives. 
 The desolations of war soon met our eyes, in destroyed 
 crops and a deserted village. Nobody was to be seen. I 
 and those who were with me sat down in the shade of 
 some trees, while a native went to find the inhabitants 
 who had hid themselves in a thicket of mangroves. Aa 
 soon as the chief heard that I was there, and what I had 
 
tN CORRESPONJl>ENCE. 15S 
 
 conio for, he declaved he would be a Christian forthwith ; 
 and four or five of his principal men followed his exam- 
 ple. They came to ine, and entered fully into my object , 
 and it was decided that we should go on iniraediati'ly to 
 the fortress w here those who wished to carry on war 
 had intrenched themselves. We got there just as the 
 sun was setting ; and fi-om that time till midnight I 
 •was engaged in what I saw now for the first time ; a 
 savage council of war. Grim black warriors covered 
 with black powder sat or stood about, on a little clear 
 spot of ground where the moon shone down ; muskets 
 and clubs and spears lay on the grass and wore scattered 
 about among the boles of the trees ; a heathen-looking 
 scene. Till midnight we talked, and hard talking too ; 
 then it was ended as I had prayed it might. The party 
 with whom I was had suffered already in battle and had 
 not had their revenge ; it was difficult to give that up ; 
 but at last the chief got up and put his hand in mine. 
 " I should like to be a heathen a little longer," he said, 
 " but I will lotu as you so earnestly entreat me." Loh( 
 is their name for embracing Christianity. Another 
 young warrior joined him ; and there under the mid- 
 night moon, we worshipped God ; those two and those 
 who were with me. In another part of the village a 
 dozen women for the first time bowed the knee in the 
 same worship. 
 
 " So far was well ; but it yet remained to induce the 
 opposite hostile party to agree to peace ; you understand 
 only one side was yet persuaded. Early the next morn- 
 ing I set about it. Here a difficulty met me; The 
 Christian chiefs made ho objection to going with me to 
 parley with their enemies ; but I wanted the company 
 also of another, the chief of this district ; knowing it 
 very important. And he was afraid to go. He told me 
 80 plainly. ' If I do as you ask me,' said he, 'I am a 
 de:id man this day.' T did my best to make him think 
 
 7* 
 
154 THE OLD HHLMKT. 
 
 differently; a hundred men declared that they wo ild die 
 in defence of him ; and at last I gained my point. Tiii 
 Mbua agreed to go to the neighbourhood of the hostile 
 town, if I would bring its principal men to meet him at 
 an appointed place. So we went. This chosen place 
 was a fine plot of ground enclosed by magnificent chest- 
 nut trees. I went on to the town, with a few unarmed 
 men. The people received us well ; but it was difficult 
 to make the old heathen, brought up on treachery and 
 falsehood, believe that I was to be trusted. But in the 
 end the chief and twenty of his men consented to go 
 with us, and left their arms at home. They did it witli 
 forebodings, for I ovei'heard an old man say, as we set 
 out from the place, — ' We shall see death to-day.' I 
 lifted my voice and cried, ' To-day we live !' They took 
 up the words, and heart at the same time, and repeated, 
 ' To-day we live ' — to encourage themselves, I suppose, 
 as we went towards the chestnut-tree meeting ground. 
 
 " I felt that the peace of the whole region depended on 
 what was to be done there, and for my part went pray- 
 ing that all might go well. It was an anxious moment 
 when we entered the open place ; any ill-looks in either 
 party would chase away trust from the other. As we 
 went in I watched the chief who accompanied me. He 
 gently bowed to' Tui Mbua and approached him with due 
 and evidently honest respect. My heart leaped at that 
 moment. Tui Mbua looked at him keenly, sprang to 
 feis ffct, and casting his arms about his enemy's neck 
 - '>ve him a warm embrace. The people around shouted 
 jvjr joy ; I was still, I believe, for the very depth of 
 ■ idne. One of the Christian chiefs spoke out and cried, 
 ' We thank thee, O Lord, for thus bringing thy creatures 
 into the way of life ;' and he wept aloud tor very glad- 
 ness. 
 
 " After that we had speechifying; and I returaed homfl 
 veiy full of thankful joy." 
 
IN CORRESPONDENCE. 155 
 
 This was the last letter read. Mr. Monison folded up 
 his pacl<et amid a great silence. Mrs. Caxton seemed 
 thoughtful ; Eleanor was motionless. 
 
 " He is doing good work," remarked Mr. Morrison ; 
 " but it is hard work. He is the right sort of man to go 
 there — fears nothing, shirks nothing. So are they all, I 
 believe ; but almost all the rest of them have their wives 
 with them. How came Rhys to go alone ?" 
 
 "He does not write as if he felt lonely," said Mrs. 
 Caxton. 
 
 " It is better for a man to take a wife, though," said 
 Mr. Morrison. "He wants so much of comfort and 
 home as that. They get tired, and they get sick, and to 
 have no woman's hand about is something to be missed 
 at such times. O we are all dependent. Mr. Rhys ia 
 domesticated now with Brother Lefferts and his family. 
 I suppose he feels it less, because he has not had a home 
 of his own in a good while ; that makes a difference." 
 
 " He knows he has a home of his own too," said Mrs. 
 Caxton ; "though he has not reached it yet. I suppose 
 the thought of that makes hira content." 
 
 " Of course. But in a heathen land, with heathen 
 desolation and dark faces all around one, you have no 
 idea how at times one's soul longs for a taste of England. 
 Brother Rhys too is a man to feel all such things. He 
 has a good deal of taste, and what you might call sen- 
 sitiveness to externals." 
 
 "A good deal," said Mrs. Caxton quietly. "Then he 
 has some beautiful externals around him." 
 
 " So they say. But the humanity is deplorable. Well, 
 they will get their reward when the Master comes. A 
 man leaves everything indeed when he goes to th^ 
 South Seas as Rhys has done. He would have been 
 very popuhir in England." 
 
 "So he will in the islands." 
 
 " Well so it seems, ' said Mr. Monison. " He has got 
 
16B THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 the ear of those wild creatures evidently. That's the 
 man." 
 
 It was time for evening prayers; and afterwards the 
 party separated ; Mrs. Caxton carrying off with her her 
 packet of letters unbroken. The morning brought its 
 own business ; the breakfast was somewhat hurried 
 Mr. Morrison took his departure ; and nothing more was 
 said on the subject of South Sea missionaries till the 
 evening. Then the two ladies were again alone together. 
 
 " Are you well to-day, Eleanor ?" was Mrs. Caxton'a 
 first question at the tea-table. 
 
 " Some headache, aunt Caxton." 
 
 " How is that ? And I have noticed that your eyes 
 ■were heavy all daj'." 
 
 " There is no harm, ma'am. I did not sleep very well." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " I think the reading of those letters excited me, aunt 
 Caxton." 
 
 Mrs. Caxton looked at a line of faint crimson which 
 was stealing up into Eleanor's cheeks, and for a moment 
 stayed her words. 
 
 " My dear, there is as good work to be done here, as 
 ever in Polynesia." 
 
 " I do not know, aunt Caxton," said Eleanor leaning 
 her head on her hand in thoughtful wise. "England 
 has had the light a great while ; it iriust be grand to be 
 the first torch-bearers into the darkness." 
 
 " So Mr. Rhys feels. But then, my dear, I think we 
 aie to do the work given us — one here and one there ; — 
 and let the Lord place his servants, and our service, as 
 he will. 
 
 " I do not think otherwise, aunt Caxton." 
 
 " Would you like to hear some of what Mr. Rhys 
 has written to me ? there is a little difference between 
 what is sent to a Committee and what is for the private 
 •ye of a friend." 
 
IN CO KRESPONDENCE. 157 
 
 "Yes ma'am, I would like it," Eleanor said ; Lut she 
 did not say so at all eagerly ; and Mis. Caxton looked at 
 iier once or twice before she changed the subject and 
 spoke of something else. She held to her ofier, how- 
 ever ; and when the green cloth and the lamp were 
 again in readiness, she brought out the letters. Eleanor 
 took some work and bent her head over it. 
 
 " This is one of the latest dates," Mrs. Caxton said aa 
 she opened the paper ; " written after he had been there 
 a good many months and had got fairly acquainted with 
 the language and with the people. It seems to me he 
 has been very quick about it." 
 
 " Yes, I think so," Eleanor answered ; " but that is 
 his way." 
 
 Mrs. Caxton read. 
 
 " ' Mt deae friend, 
 
 " In spite of the world of ocean rolling between 
 us, I yet have a strange and sweet feeling of taking your 
 hand, wlien I set myself to write to you. Spirit and 
 matter seem at odds ; and far away as I am, with the 
 vegetation and the air of the tropics around me, as soon 
 as I begin upon this sheet of paper I seem to stand in 
 Plassy agniu. The dear old hills rear their wild outlines 
 before me ; the green wealth of vegetation is at my feet, 
 but cool and fresh as nothing looks to me under the 
 northerly wind which is blowing now ; and your image 
 is so distinct, that I almost can grasp your hand, and 
 almost hear you sjieak ; see yon speak, I do. Blessed be 
 the Lord for imagination, as well as for memory ! With- 
 out it, how slowly we should mount to the conception 
 of heavenly things and the understanding of himself; 
 and the distance between friends would be a sundering 
 of them indeed. But I must not waste time or f aper in 
 telling you what you know already. 
 
 " By which you will conclude that I am busy. I am 
 
158 THE OLD HBLMET. 
 
 as busy as I can possibly be. That is as I wish it. It i» 
 what I am here for. I would not have atnoment unused. 
 On Sunday I have four or five services, of different sorts. 
 Week days I have an English school, a writing school, 
 one before and the other after mid-dMy ; and later still, 
 a school for regular native instruction. Every mo- 
 ment of time that is free, or would be, is needed for 
 visiting the sick, whose demands upon us are constant. 
 But this gives great opportunity to preach the gospel 
 and win the hearts of the people. 
 
 "Some account of a little preaching and teaching 
 journey in which I took part some few mouths ago, I 
 have a mind to give you. Our object was specially an 
 island between one and two hundred miles away, where 
 many have become Christians, and not in name only ; 
 but where up to this time no missionary has been sta- 
 tioned. We visit them when we can. This time we 
 had the advantage of a brig to make tK. voyage in ; the 
 mission ship was here with the Superintendent and he 
 desired to ^■isit the place. We arrived at evening in 
 the neighbourhood ; at a little island close by, where 
 all the people are now Christian. Mr. Lefferts went 
 ashore in a canoe to make arrangements ; and the next 
 day we followed. It was a beautiful day and as beauti- 
 ful a sight as eyes could see. We visited the houses of 
 the native teachers, who were subjects of admiration in 
 every respect ; met candidates for baptism and examinee' 
 them; married a couple; and Bro. Griffiths preached. 
 There is a new chapel, of very neat n.itive workmanship ; 
 with a pulpit carved out of a solid piece of wood, oiled 
 to give it colour and gloss. In the chapel the whole 
 population of the island was assembled, dressed in new 
 dresses, attentive, and interested. So were we, you may 
 believe, when we remembered that only two years ago all 
 these people were heathens. O these islands arc a glori- 
 ous place now and then, in spots where the devil's reign 
 
IN COURESPOKDENCE. 154 
 
 is broken. I wish yon could have seen us afterwards, 
 my dear li-iend, at our native feast sp'read on the ground 
 under the trees ; you who never saw a table set but with 
 exact and elegant propriety. We had no table ; believe 
 mo, we were too happy and hungry to mind that. I do 
 not think you would have quarrelled with our dishes ; 
 tliey were no other and no worse than the thick broad 
 glossy leaves of the banana. No fault could be found 
 with their elegance ; and our napkins were of the green 
 rind of the same tree. Cocoanut shells were our substi- 
 tute for flint glass, and I like it very well ; especially 
 when cocoanut milk is the refreshment to be served in 
 them. Knives and forks we had none ! What would 
 you have said to that? Our meat was boiled fowls and 
 baked yams and fish dressed in various ways ; and the 
 fingers of the natives, or our own, were our only divi- 
 ders. But I have seen less pleasant entertainments ; and 
 I only could wish you had been there, — so you might 
 have whisked back to England the next minute afler it 
 was over, on some convenient fiiry carpet such as I used 
 to read of in Eastern tales when I was a boy. For us, 
 we had to make our way in haste back to the ship, whicli 
 lav in the ofling, and could not come neai' on account uf 
 the reef barrier. We got on board safely, passing tiie 
 reefs where once an American ship was wrecked and hei 
 crew killed and eaten by the people of these parts. 
 
 " The next day we made the land we sought ; and got 
 ashore through a tremendous surf Here we found the 
 island had lately been the seat of war — some of the 
 heathen having resolved to put an end by violence to the 
 Christian religion there, or as they call it, the lotu. The 
 Christians had gained the victory, and then had treated 
 their enemies with the utmost kindness ; which had pro7 
 duced a great effect upon them. The rest of the day 
 &fter onr landing was spent in making thorough inquiry 
 into this matter ; and in a somewhat extended preaching 
 
160 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 Bervice. At night we slept on a mat laid for us, or tried 
 to sleep ; but my thoughts were too busy ; and the clear 
 niglit sky was witness to a great m:my restless move- 
 ments, I am afraid, before I lost them in ftirgetfulness. 
 The occasion of which, I suppose, was the near prospect 
 of sending letters home to England by the ship. At Huy 
 rate, England and the South Seas were very near to- 
 gether that night; and I was fain to remember that 
 heaven is nearer yet. But the remembrance came, and 
 with it sleep. The next day was a day of business. 
 Marrying couples (over forty of them) baptizing con- 
 verts, preaching ; then meeting the teachers and class- 
 leaders and examining them as to their Christian expe- 
 rience, etc. From dawn till long past mid-day we were 
 busy so ; and then were ready for another feast in the 
 open air like that one I described to you — for we had 
 had no breakfast. We had done all the work we could 
 do at that time at Ono, and sought our ship immediately 
 after dinner ; passing through a surf too heavy for the 
 canoes to weather. 
 
 " Let me tell you some of the testimony gi\ en by these 
 converts from heathenism ; given simply and heartily, 
 by nien who have not learned their religion by book nor 
 copied it out of other men's mouths. It was a very 
 thrilling thing to hear them, these poor enterers ini o the 
 light, who have but just passed the line of darkness. 
 One said, 'I love the Lord, and I know he loves me; 
 not for anything in me, or tor anything I have done ; but 
 for Christ's sake alone. I trust in Christ and am happy. 
 I listen to God, that he may do with me as he pleases. 
 I am thankful to have lived until the Lord's work has be- 
 gun. I feel it in ray heart ! I hold Jesus ! I am happy ! 
 My heart is full of love to God !' 
 
 " Another said, ' One good thing ] know, — the sacred 
 blood of Jesus. I desire nothing else.' 
 
 "Anothei, — 'I know that God has justified mo 
 
IN COEEESPONDENCE. 161 
 
 (lirough the saored blood of Jesus. I know assuredly 
 tliat I am reconciled to God. I know of the work of 
 God in my soul. The sacred Spirit makes it clear to me, 
 I wish to preach the gospel, tliat others also may know 
 Jesus.' 
 
 " All these have been engaged the past year in teach- 
 ing or proclaiming the truth in various ways. Another 
 of their number who was dying, one or two of us went 
 to see. 0ne of us asked him if he was afraid to die ? 
 ' No,' he said, ' I am sheltered. The great Saviour died 
 for me. The Lord's wrath is removed. I am his.' And 
 another time he remarked, 'Death is a fearfully great 
 thing, but I fear it not. There is a Saviour below the 
 skies.' 
 
 " So there is a helmet of salvation for the poor Fijian 
 as well as for the favoured people at home. Praise be 
 to the Lord. Did I tell yon, my dear friend, I was rest- 
 less at the thought of sending letters home ? Let me 
 tell you now, I am happy ; as happy as I could be in any 
 place in the world ; and I would not be in any other 
 place, by my own choice, for all the things in the world. 
 I need only to be made more holy. Just in proportion 
 as I am that, I am happy and I am useful. I want to be 
 perfectly holy. But there is the same way of trusting 
 for the poor Fijian and for me ; and I believe in that 
 same precious blood I shall be made clewn, even as they. 
 I want to preach Christ a thousand times more than I 
 do. I long to make his love known to these poor peo- 
 ple. I rejoice in being here, where every minute may 
 tell actively for him. My dear friend, when we get 
 home, do what we will, we shall not think we have done 
 enough. 
 
 " Our life here is full of curious contrasts. Within 
 doors, what our old habits have stereotyped as propriety, 
 is sadly trenched upon. Before the ship came, Mrs. 
 Lefferts' stock of comfort in one line was reduced to a 
 
162 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 single tearcup ; and in other stores, the demands of tha 
 natives had caused us to run very short. You know it 
 is only by payment of various useful articles that we 
 Becure any service done or purchase any native prodac*;. 
 Money is unknown. Fruit and vegetablei^, figs, fish, 
 crabs, fowls, we buy with iron tools, pieces of calico, 
 and the like ; and if our supply of these gives out, W9 
 have to diaw upon the store of things needed by our- 
 selves ; and blankets and hardware come to be minus. 
 Then, forgetting this, which it is easy to do, all the 
 world without is a world of glorious beauty. How I 
 wish I could shew it to you ! These islands are of very 
 various character, and many of them like the garden of 
 Eden for natural loveliness ; shewing almost every kind 
 of scenery within a small area. Most of them are gii-dled 
 more or less entirely by what is called a barrier reef — an 
 outside and independent coral formation, sometimes nar- 
 row, sometimes miles in width, on the oiTter edge of 
 which the sea breaks in an endless line of white foam. 
 Within the reef the lagoon, as it is called, is perfectly 
 .still and clear ; and such glories of the animal and vege- 
 table world as lie beneath its surface I have no time to 
 describe to you now. I have had little time to examine 
 them ; but once or twice I have taken a canoe and a 
 piece of rest, gliding over this submarine ■ garden, and 
 rejoicing in the Lord who has made everything so beau- 
 tiful in its time. My writing hour is over for to-day. I 
 am going five or six miles to see a man who is said to bo 
 very ill. 
 
 "Feb. 16. The man had very little the matter with 
 him. I had my walk for nothing, so far as my character 
 of doctor or nurse was concerned. 
 
 " I will give you a little notion of the beauty of these 
 islands, in the description of one that I visited a short 
 time ago. It is one of our ont-stations — too small to 
 have a teacher given it; so it is visite 1 from time to time 
 
IN CORKBSPON HENCE. 103 
 
 by Mr. Lefferts and myself. With a fair wiiiil the dis- 
 tance is hardly a day's journey ; but sometimes as in this 
 case it consumes two days. The voyage was made in a 
 native canoe, mnnned by native s;iilors, some Christian, 
 some heathen. They are good navigators, for f=avages ; 
 and need to be, for the character of the seas here, 
 threaded with a network of coral reefs, makes navigation 
 a delicate matter. Our voyage proceeded very well, 
 antil we got to the entrance of the island. That seems 
 a strange sentence ; but the island itself is a circle, 
 nearly ; a band of volcanic rock, not very wide, enclos- 
 ing a lake or lagoon within its compass. There is only 
 a, rather narrow ehnnnel of entrance. Here we were 
 met by difficulty. The surf breaking shorewards was 
 tremendously high ; and meeting and struggling with it 
 came a rush of the current from within. Between the 
 two opposing waters the canoe was tossed and swayed 
 ilke a reed. It was, for a few moments, a scene to b§ 
 remembered, and not a little terrific. The shoutings and 
 exertions of tlie men, wlio felt the danger of their posi- 
 ti(in, added to the roar and the power of the waters, 
 which tossed us hither and thither as a thing of no con- 
 sequence, made it a strange wild minute, — till we 
 emerged from all that struggle and roar into the still 
 beautiful quiet of the lagoon inside. Imagine it, sur- 
 rounded with its border of rocky land covered with 
 noble trees, and spotted with islets covered in like man- 
 ner. The whole island is of volcanic formation, and its 
 rocks are of black scoria. The theory is, I believe, that 
 a volcano once occupied the whole centre of such islands; 
 which sinking after\\-ards away left its place to the occu- 
 jiancy of a lake instead. However produced, the effect is 
 singular in its wild beauty. The soil of this island is 
 poor for any purpose but growing timber ; the inhabi- 
 tants consequently are not many, and they live on roots 
 suid fish and what we should think still poo h food — a 
 
164 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 great wood maggot, which is found in plenty. There 
 are but four villages, two of them Christian. 1 staid 
 there one night and the next day, giving them all I 
 could ; and it was a good time to me. The day after I 
 returned home. O sweet gospel of Christ ! which is 
 lighting up these dark places ; and O my blessed Mas 
 ter, who stands by his servants and gives them his own 
 presence and love, when they are about his work and 
 the world is far from them, and men would call them 
 lonely. There is no lonehness where Christ is. I must 
 finish this long letter with giving you the dying testimo- 
 ny of a Tongan preacher who has just gone to hia 
 home. He came here a'^ a missionary from his own 
 land, and has worked hard and successfully. He said to 
 Mr. Calvert the day before his death, ' I have long 
 enjoyed religion and felt its power. In my former ill- 
 ness I was happy ; but now I am greatly blessed. The 
 Lord has come down with mighty power into my soul, 
 and I feel the blessedness oi full rest of soul in God. I 
 feel religion to be peculiarly sweet, and my rejoicing is 
 great. I see more fully and clearly the truth of the 
 word and Spirit of God, and the suitableness of the 
 Saviour. The whole of Christianity I see as exceedingly 
 excellent.' 
 
 " With this testimony I close, my dear friend. It is 
 mine ; I can ask no better for you than that it may be 
 yours." 
 
 Mrs. Caxton ended her reading and looked at Eleanor 
 She had done that several times in the course of the 
 reading. Eleanor was always bent over her work, and 
 busily attentive to it ; but on each cheek a spot of colour 
 had been fixed and deepening, till now it had reached 
 a broad flush. Silence fell as the reading ceased ; Elea- 
 nor did not look up ; Mi-s. Caxton did not take her eyes 
 from her niece's face. It was with a kind of subdued 
 
IN COIlEiSSPONDENCE. 16& 
 
 Mgb that at last she turned from the table and put hei 
 papers away. 
 
 " Mr. Morrison is not altogether in the wrong," she 
 remarked at length. " It is better for a man in tliose 
 far-off regions, and amidst so many labours and trials, to 
 have the comfort of his own home." 
 
 " Do you think Mr. Rhys writes as if he felt the 
 want ?" 
 
 " It is hard to tell what a man wants, by his writing. 
 I am not quite at rest on that point." 
 
 " How happened it that he did not marry, like every- 
 body else, before going there ?" 
 
 " He is a fastidious man," said Mrs. Caxton ; " one of 
 those men that are rather difficult to please, I fancy; and 
 that are apt enough to meet with hindrances because of 
 the very nice points of their own nature." 
 
 " I don't think you need wish any better for him, aunt 
 Caxton, than to judge by his letters he has and enjoys as 
 he is. He seems to me, and always did, a very envi- 
 able person." 
 
 " Can you tell why ?'"' 
 
 " Good — happy — and useful," said Eleanor. But her 
 voice was a little choked. 
 
 " You know grace is free," said Mrs. Caxton. " Ha 
 would tell you so. Ring the bell, my dear. And a sin> 
 ner saved in England is as precious as one saved in Fiji 
 Lof; MS work where our place is, and thank the Lord!" 
 
CHAPTEE X. 
 
 " Speak, is't bo J 
 If It be so, you have wound a goodly clue ; 
 If it be not, forswear't : however, I charge thee, 
 As heaven shall work in me for thine avail. 
 To tell me truly." 
 
 Mr. Morrison's visit had drifted off into the distance 
 of time ; and the subject of South Sea missions had 
 passed out of sight, for all that appeared. Mrs. Caxton 
 did not bring it up again after that evening, and Eleanor 
 did not. The household went on with its quiet ways. 
 Perhaps Mrs. Caxton was a trifle more silent and rumi- 
 native, and Eleanor more persistently busy. She had 
 been used to be busy ; in these weeks she seemed to 
 have forgotten how to rest. She looked tired accord- 
 ingly sometimes ; and Mrs. Caxton noticed it. 
 
 " What became of your bill, Eleanor ?" she said sud- 
 denly one evening. They had both been sitting at work 
 some time without a word. 
 
 " My bill, ma'am ? What do you mean, aunt Cax- 
 ton?" 
 
 " Your Ragged school bill." 
 
 " It reached its second reading, ma'am ; and there it 
 met with opposition." 
 
 " And fell through v" 
 
 " I suppose so- — for the present. Its time will come, 
 I hope ; the time for its essential provisions, I mean." 
 
 " Do you think Mr. Carlisle could have secured its 
 I?" 
 
IN NEWS. 16^ 
 
 " From what 1 know and have heard of him, I have no 
 doubt he could." 
 
 " His love is not very generous," remarked Mrs. 
 Caxton. 
 
 " It never was, aunt Caxton. After I left London I 
 had little hope of my bill. I am not disappointed." 
 
 " My dear, are you weary to-night ?" 
 
 " No ma'am ! not particularly." 
 
 " I shall have to find some play- work for you to da 
 Your voice speaks something like weariness." 
 
 " I do not feel it, aunt Caxton." 
 
 " Eleanor, have you any regret for any part of your 
 decisii)n and action with respect to Mr. Carlisle ?" 
 
 " Never, aunt Caxton. How can you ask me ?" 
 
 " I did not know but you might feel weariness now at 
 j-our long stay in Plassy and the prospect of a continued 
 life here." 
 
 Eleanor put down her work, came to Mrs. Caxton, 
 kneeled down and put her arms about her ; kissing her 
 with kisses that certainly carried conviction with tliem. 
 
 " It is the most wicked word I ever heard you say, 
 aunt Caxton. I love Plassy beyond all places i'l the 
 world, that I have ever been in. No part of my li'y has 
 been so pleasant as the part spent here. If I am we^iry, 
 I sometimes feel as if my life were singularly cut off 
 from its natural duties, and stranded somehow, all alone ; 
 but that is an unbelieving thought, and I do not give it 
 harbour at all. I am very content — very happy." 
 
 Mrs. Caxton brought her hand tenderly down the side 
 of tlie smooth cheek before her, and her eyes grewscnie- 
 what misty. But that was a rare occurrence, and the 
 exhibition of it immediately dismissed. She kissed lillea- 
 nor and returned to her ordinary manner. 
 
 " Talking about stranded lives," she said ; " to lako 
 another subject, — you must forgive me for that one, 
 dear, — I think of Mr. Rhys veiy often." 
 
168 THK OLD HELMET. 
 
 " His life is not stranded," said Eleanor ; " it is unOei 
 full sail." 
 
 " He is alone, though." 
 
 " I do not beheve he feels alone, aunt Caxton." 
 
 " I do not know," said Mrs. Caxton. " A man of a 
 sensitive nature must feel, I should think, in his ciroum 
 stances, that he has put an immense distance between 
 himself and all whom he loves." 
 
 " But I thought he had almost no family relationa 
 left ?" 
 
 " Did it never occur to you," said Mrs. Caxton, 
 " when you used to see him here, that there was some- 
 body, somewhere, who had a piece of his heart ?" 
 
 " No, ma'am, — never !" Eleanor said with some energy, 
 " I never thought he seemed like it." 
 
 " I did not know anything about it," Mrs. Caxton 
 went on slowly, " until a little while before he went 
 away — some time after you were here. Then I learned 
 that it was the truth." 
 
 Eleanor worked away very diligently and made no an- 
 swer. Mrs. Caxton furtively watched her ; Eleanor's 
 .'lead was bent down over her sewing, but when she 
 ra-sed it to change the position of her work, Mrs. Cax- 
 Un saw a set of her lips that was not natural. 
 
 " You never suspected anything -of the kind ?" she 
 repeated. 
 
 " No, ma'am, — and it would take strong testimony to 
 . oake me believe it." 
 
 " Why so, pray ?" 
 
 " I should have thought — but it is no matter what I 
 ^nought about it !" 
 
 • " Nay, if I ask you, it is matter. Why should it be 
 hard to believe, of Mr. Rhys especially ?" 
 
 "Nothing; only — I should have thought, if he liked 
 any one, a woman, — that she would have gone with 
 him." 
 
IN NEWS. 169 
 
 " You forget where he was bound to go. Do yon 
 think many women would have chosen to go witli him 
 to such a home — Derhaps for the remainder of their lives ? 
 1 think many would have hesitated." 
 
 " But you forget for what he was going ; and any 
 woman whom he would have liked, would have liked hia 
 object too." 
 
 " You think so," said Mrs. Caxton ; " but I cannot 
 wonder at his having doubted. There are a great many 
 questions about going such a journey, my dear." 
 
 " And did the lady refuse to go ?" said Eleanor bend- 
 ing over her work and speaking huskily. 
 
 " I do not think he ever asked her. I almost wish ho 
 had." 
 
 " Almost, aunt Caxton ? Why he may have done her 
 the greatest wrong. She might like him without his 
 knowing it>; it was not fair to go without giving her the 
 chance of saying what she would do." 
 
 " Well, he is gone," said Mrs. Caxton ; " and he went 
 alone. I think men make mistakes sometimes." 
 
 Eleanor sewed on nervously, with a more desperate 
 haste than she knew, or than was in the least called for 
 by the work in hand. Mrs. Caxton vvatched her, and 
 turned away to the contemplation of the fire. 
 
 " Did the thought ever occur to you, Eleanor," she 
 went on very gravely, " that he fancied you P" 
 
 Eleanor's glance up was even pitiful in its startled 
 appeal. 
 
 " No, ma'am, of course not !" she said hastily. " Ex- 
 cept — O aunt Caxton, v\hy do you ask me such a thmg !" 
 
 " Mecept, — my dear ?" 
 
 " Except a foolish fancy of an hour," said Eleanor in 
 overwhelmed confusion. " One day, for a little time — 
 aunt Caxton, how can you ask me such a thing ?" 
 
 " I had a little story to tell you, my dear ; and 1 
 wanted to make sure that I should do no harm vu 
 
 VOL. ir. 
 
170 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 * 
 
 telling it. What is there so dreadful in such a ques- 
 tion ?" 
 
 But Eleanov only brushed away a hot tear from her 
 flushed face and went on with her sewing. Or ess.iyed 
 to do it, for Mrs. Caxton thought her vision seemed to 
 be not very clear. 
 
 " What made you think so that time, Eleanor ? and 
 what is the matter, my dear ?" 
 
 " It hurts me, aunt Caxton, the question. Tou know 
 we were friends, and I liked him very much, as I had 
 reason ; but I never had cause to fancy that he thought 
 anything of me — only once I fancied it without cause." 
 
 " On what occasion, my love ?" 
 
 " It was only a little thing — a nothing — a chance word, 
 I saw immediately that I was mistaken." 
 
 " Did the thought displease you ?" 
 
 " Aunt Caxton, why should you bring up such a thing 
 now ?" said Eleanor in very great distress. 
 
 " Did it displease you, Eleanor ? 
 
 " No aunty" — said the girl ; and her head dropped in 
 her hands then. 
 
 " My love," Mrs. Caxton said very tenderly, " I 
 knew this before ; I thought I did ; but it was best to 
 bring it out openly, for I could not else have executed 
 my commission. I have a message from Mr. Rhys to 
 you, Eleanor." 
 
 " A message to me ?" said Eleanor without raising 
 her head. 
 
 " Yes. You were not mistaken." 
 
 " In what ?" 
 
 Eleanor looked up; and amidst sorrow and shame and 
 confusion, there was a light of fire, like the touch the 
 Buininer sun gives to the mountain tops before he gets 
 up. Mrs. Caxton looked at her flushed tearful face, and 
 the hidden light in her eye ; and her next words were a» 
 gentle as the very full of the simbeams themselves. 
 
IN NEWS. 171 
 
 " My love, it is trre." 
 
 " What, aunt Caxton ?" 
 
 " You were uot mistaken." 
 
 " In what, ma'am ?" 
 
 " In thinking \\'hat you thought that, day, when some- 
 thing — a mere nothing — made you think that Mr. Rhys 
 liked you." 
 
 " But aunty," said Eleanor, a scarlet flood refilling 
 Ihe cheeks which had partially faded, — "I had never the 
 least reason to think so again." 
 
 " That is Mr. Rhys's affair. But you may believe it 
 now, for he told me ; and I give it to you on his own 
 testimony." 
 
 It was curious to Mrs. Caxton to see Eleanor's face. 
 She did not hide it ; she turned it a little away from her 
 aunt's full view and sat very still, while the intense flush 
 p;issed away and left only a nameless rosy glow, that 
 almost reminded Mrs. Caxton of the perfume as well as 
 of the colour of the flower it was likened to. There 
 was a certain unfolding sweetness in Eleanor's face, that 
 was most like the opening of a rosebud just getting 
 into full blossom ; but the lips, unbent into happy lines, 
 wei e a little shame-faced, and would not open to sp»ak a 
 word or ask another question. Su they both sat still ; 
 the younger and elder lady. 
 
 " Do you want me to tell you any more, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " Why do you tell me this at all now, aunt Caxton ?" 
 Eleanor saidvery slowly and without stirring. 
 
 " Mr. Rhys desired I should." 
 
 "Why, aunt Caxton?" 
 
 " Why do gentlemen generally desire such things to 
 be made known to young ladies ?" 
 
 " But ma'am !" — said Eleanor, the crimson .starting 
 again. 
 
 " Well, my dear ?" 
 
 '' There is the whole breadth ol" the earth between us." 
 
172 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " Ships traverse it," said Mrs. Caxton coo^J^ 
 
 " Do you mean that he i:^ coming home ?" said E]ea>i 
 nor. Her face was a study, for its changing lights ; too 
 quick, too mingled, too subtle in their expression, to be 
 described. So it was at this instant. Half eager, and 
 half shame-faced ; an nnraistakeable glow of delight, and 
 yet something that was very like shrinking. 
 
 " No, my love," Mrs. Caxton made answer — " I do 
 not mean that. He would not leave his place and his 
 work, even for you." 
 
 " But then, ma'am — " 
 
 " What all this signifies ? you would ask. Are you 
 sorry — do you feel any regret — that it should be made 
 known to you ?" 
 
 " No, ma'am," said Eleanor low, and hanging her 
 head. 
 
 "What it signifies, I do not know. Thnt depends 
 upon the answer to a very practical question which I 
 must now put to you. If Mr. Rhys were stationed in 
 England and could tell you all this himself, what would 
 you say to him in answer ?" 
 
 " I could give him but one, aunt Caxton," said Elea- 
 nor fti the same manner. 
 
 " And that would be a grant of his demand ?" 
 
 " You know it would, ma'am, without asking me." 
 
 " Now we come to the question. He cannot leave his 
 work to come to you. Is your regard for him enough to 
 make you go to Fiji ?" 
 
 " Not without asking, aunt Caxton," Eleanor said, 
 turning away. 
 
 " Suppose he has asked you." 
 
 " But dear aunt Caxton," Eleanor said in a troubled 
 voice, " he never said one word to me of his liking foi 
 me, nor to draw out my feeling towards him." 
 
 " Suppose he has said it." 
 
 " How, ma'am ? By word, or in writing ?" 
 
IN NEWS. 178 
 
 "Tn writing." 
 
 Eleanor was silent a little, with her head turned awaj ; 
 t.hen she said in a subdued way, " May I have it, aunt 
 Caxton ?" 
 
 " My dear, I was not to give them to you except i 
 found that you were favourably disposed towards tha 
 object of them. If you ask me for them again, it must 
 be upon that understanding." 
 
 " Will you please to give them to me, aunt Caxton," 
 Eleanor said in the same subdued tone. 
 
 Mrs. Caxton rose and went to a secretary in the room 
 for one or two papers, which she brought and put in 
 Eleanor's hand. Then folding her arms round her, 
 stooped down and kissed the tnrned-away face. Eleanor 
 rose up to meet the embrace, and they held each other 
 fast for a little while, neither in any condition to speak. 
 
 " The Lord bless you, my child !" said Mrs. Caxton as 
 she released her. " You must make these letters a mat- 
 ter of prayer. And take care that you do the Lord's 
 will in this business — not your own." 
 
 "Aunt Caxton," said Eleanor presently, "why was 
 this not told me long ago — before Mr. Rhys went away ?" 
 She spoke the words with difficulty. 
 
 " It is too long a story to tell to-night," Mrs. Caxton 
 said after hesitating. " He was entirely ignorant of what 
 your feeling might be towards him — ignorant too how 
 far you might be willing to do and dare for Christ's sake 
 — and doubtful how far the world and Mr. Carlisle might 
 be able to prevail with you if they had a fair chance 
 He could not risk taking a wife to Fiji who had no« 
 fairly counted the cost." 
 
 " He was so doubtful of me, and yet liked me ?" said 
 Eleanor. 
 
 " My love, there is no accounting for these things," 
 Mrs. Caxton said with a smile. 
 
 " And he left these with you to give to me ?" 
 
174 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " One was left — the other was sent. One comes from 
 Fiji. I will tell you fibout them to-morrow. It is too 
 long a story for to-night ; and you have quite enough to 
 think about already. My dear Eleanor !" 
 
 They parted without more words, only with another 
 speaking embrace, more expressive than words ; and 
 without looking at tlie other each went to her own room. 
 Eleanor's was cosy and bright in . winter as well as in 
 summer ; a fire of the peculiar fuel used in the reijion of 
 the neighbourhood, made of cakes of coal and sand, 
 glowed in the grate, and the whole colouring of the dra- 
 pery and the furniture was of that warm rich cast wliich 
 comforts the eye and not a little disposes the mind to be 
 comfortable in confv)rmity. The only wood fii-e used in 
 the house was the one in the sitting parlour. Before her 
 grate-full of glowing coals Eleanor sat down ; and looked 
 at the two letters she held in her hand. Looked at the 
 handwriting too, with curious scrutiny, before she ven- 
 tured to open and read either paper. Wondered too, 
 with an odd side thought, why her fingers should trem- 
 ble so in handling these, when no letter of Mr. Carlisle's 
 writing had ever reminded her that her fingers had nerves 
 belonging to them. One was a little letter, which Mrs. 
 Caxton had told her was the first to be read ; it was ad- 
 dressed, " In the hand of Mrs. Caxton, for Miss Eleanor 
 Powle." That note Eleanor's Utile fingers opened with 
 as slight tearing of the paper as might be. It was in 
 few words indeed. 
 
 " Although I know that these lines will never meet the 
 eye of her for whom they are written, unless she bo 
 favourably inclined both to them and to me ; jet in the 
 extreme doubt which possesses me whether that condi- 
 tion will be e\ er fulfilled, and consequently whether I am 
 not writing what no one will ever read, I find it very 
 iifficult txy say anything. Sonietliing chaiges mo with 
 
lil NEWS. 178 
 
 foolhardiness, ard something with presumption; but 
 there is a something else, which is stronger, that over- 
 throws the charges and bids me go on. 
 
 " If you ever see these lines, dear Eleanor, yon will 
 know already what they have to tell you ; but it is fit 
 you should have it in ray own words ; that — not the 
 first place in my heart — but the second — is yours; and 
 yours without any rivalry. There is one thing dearer to 
 me than you — it is niy King and his service ; after that, 
 you have all the rest. 
 
 " What is it wonh to you ? anything ? and what will 
 you say to me in reply ? 
 
 "When you read this I shall be at a distance — before 
 I can read your answer I shall be at the other side of the 
 globe. I am not writing to gratify a vague sentiment, 
 but with a definite purpose — and even, though it mocks 
 me, a definite hope. It is much to ask — I hardly dare 
 put it in words — it is hardly possible — that you should 
 come to me. But if you are ready to do and venture 
 anything in the service of Christ — and if you ai-e willing 
 to share a life that is wholly given to God to be spent 
 where and how he pleases, and that is to take up its 
 portion for the present, and probably fur long, in the 
 depths of South Sea barbarism — let your own heart tell 
 you what welcome you will receive. 
 
 " I can say no more. May my Lord bless and keep 
 you. May you know the fulness of joy that Jesus can 
 give his beloved. May you want nothing that is good 
 for you. 
 
 "R. Rhys." 
 
 The other letter -was longer. It was dated " Island 
 Vnlanga, in the South Seas, March, 18 — . 
 
 Mt Dear Eleanor: — 
 
 " I do not know what presumption moves me to ad- 
 dress you again, and from this far-away pince. I say Us 
 
176 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 myself that it is presumption ; and yet I yield to the itr\- 
 pulse. Pei'haps it is partly the wish to enjoy once at 
 least even this fancied communion with you, before some 
 news comes which may shut me oft" from it for ever. 
 But I yield to the temptation. I feel very far from you 
 to-day ; the tops of the bread-fruit trees that I see from 
 my window, the banana tree with its bunches of fruit 
 and broad bright leaves just before my door — this very 
 hot north wind that is blowing and making it so difficult 
 to do anything and almost to breathe — all remind me 
 that I am in another land ; and by the very force of con- 
 trast, the fresh Welsh mountains, the green meadows, 
 the cool sweet air of Plassy — and your face — come 
 before me. " Your face, most of all. My mind can think 
 of nothing it would be so refreshing to see. I will write 
 what I please ; for you wUl never read it if the reading 
 would be impertinent ; and something tells me you will 
 read it. 
 
 " This is one of the hot months, when exertion is at 
 times very difficult. The heat is oppressive and taket 
 away strength and endurance. But it is for my Master. 
 That thought cures all. To be weary for Christ, is not 
 to be weary ; it is better than any delights without him. 
 So each day is a boon ; and each day that I have been 
 able to fill up well with work for God, I rejoice and give 
 thanks. There is no limit here to the work to be done ; 
 it presses upon us at all points. We cannot teach all 
 that ask for teaching ; we can hardly attend to the calls 
 of the sick ; hundreds and hundreds stand stretching out 
 their hands to us with the prayer that we would come 
 and tell them about I'eligion, and we cannot go ! Our 
 hands are aliv ady full ; our hearts break for the multi- 
 tudes who want the truth, to whom we cannot give it, 
 We wish that every talent we have were multiplied. 
 We wish that we could work all night as well as all day. 
 Above all / want to be more like my Lord. When J 
 
IN NEWS. 171 
 
 am all Christ's, then I shall be to the pYaise of his glory, 
 who called me out of darkness into his marvellous light. 
 I want to be altogether holy ; then I shall be quite happy 
 and useful, and there is no other way. Are you aatisHed 
 with less, Eleanor ? If you are, you are satisfied with less 
 than satisfies Christ. Find out where you stand. Re- 
 uember, it is as true for you a^ it was for Paul to say, 
 'Through Christ I can do all things.' 
 
 " There are a few native Christians here who are 
 earnestly striving to be holy. But around them all is 
 darkness — blacker than you can even conceive. Where 
 the Sun of rigliteoustiess has shined, there the golden 
 beams of Fiji's morning lie ; it is a bright spot here and 
 there ; but our eyes long for the day. We know and 
 believe it is coming. But when ? I understand out here 
 the meaning of that recommendation — ' Pray ye there- 
 for the Lord of the harvest, that he would send forth 
 labourers into the harvest.' You can hardly understand 
 it in England. Do you pray tliat prayer, Eleanor ?" 
 
 Before I lelt England I wrote you a note. Amid the 
 exquisite pleasure and pain of which lurked a hope — 
 without which it would not have been written, but which 
 I now see to have been very vi.-ionary. It is possible that 
 circumstances may be so that the note may have been read 
 by you; in that case Mrs. Caxton will give you this; 
 but at the distance of sp.ice and time that intervenes 
 now, and with cooler thoughts and better knowledge, I 
 feel it to be scarcely possible that; you should comply 
 •with the request I was daring Cinough to make to ycu. 
 I do not expect it. I have ceased to allow myself to 
 hope for it. I think I was unreasonable to ask — and I 
 will never think you unreasonable for refusing — so extra- 
 vagant a demand. Even if you were willing, yoni 
 fi lends would not ;d'ow it. And I would not disguise 
 from you that thi^ difficuliies and dangers to be met in 
 Coining here, arc iiiore and greater than can possibly 
 
 «*' 
 
1Y8 THEOLDHBLMKT. 
 
 have been represented to you. Humanly speaking, that 
 is ; I have myself no fear, and never have felt any. But 
 the evils that surround us — that come to our knowledge 
 and under our very eyes — are real and tangible and 
 dreadful. So much the more reason for our being heve ; 
 — but so much the less likely that yon, gently reared and 
 delicately cared for, will be allowed to risk your delicate 
 nurture in this land of savages. Theie is cannibalism 
 here, and to the most dreadful extent ; there is all the de- 
 filement of life and manners that must be where human 
 beings have no respect for humanity ; and all this must 
 come more or less under the immediate knowledge and 
 notice of those that live here. The Lord God is a sun 
 and shield ; we dwell in him and not in the darkness; 
 nevertheless our eyes see what our hearts grieve over. 
 I could not shield you from it entirely were you here ; 
 you would have to endure what in England you could 
 not endure. There are minor trials many and often to be 
 encountered ; some of which you will have learned from 
 other letters of the mission. 
 
 The heathen around us are not to be trusted, and will 
 occasionally lay their hands upon something we need very 
 much, and carry it off. Not long ago the house of Mr. 
 Thomas, on a neighbouring station, was entered at night 
 and robbed of almost all the wearing apparel it con- 
 tained. The entrance was effected silently, by cutting 
 into the thin reed and grass wall of the house ; and nobody 
 knew anything of the matter till next morning. Then 
 the signs shewed that the depredators had been prepared 
 to commit violence if resisted. I do not know — but I 
 am inclined to think such a thing would not happen in 
 my house. I have been enabled to gain the good will ol 
 the people very generally, by kindness to the sick, <fco ; 
 and two or three of the most powerful chiefs in thifi 
 vicinity have declared themselves each formally my 
 friend ' — a title of houour which I scrupulously giv<.< 
 
tar NEWS. 170 
 
 and take with tliem. Nevertheless they are not to be 
 relied upon. What of that ? The eternal God is our 
 refuge ! After all I come back into feeling how safe we 
 £.re, rather than how exposed. 
 
 " Yet all I have told you is true, and much more. Let 
 no one come here who does not love Christ well enough 
 to suffer the loss of all things for his sake, if necessary 
 for it may be demanded of him. He wants the helmet 
 of salvation on his head ; but with that, it does not mat- 
 ter where we are — glory to the Captain of our salvation! 
 Fiji is very near heaven, Eleanor; nearer than England; 
 and if I dared, I would say, I wish you were here; — but 
 I do not dare. I do not know what is best. I leave you 
 to your own judgment of what you ought to do, and to 
 that better direction which will tell you. For me, I 
 know that I shall not want ; not so but that I can find 
 my supply ; and soon I shall be where I shall not want 
 at all. Meanwhile every day is a glad day to me, for it 
 is given to my Lord ; and Jesus is with ine. The peopk 
 hfcAr the word gladly, and with some fruit of it continn 
 ally our hearts are cheered. I would not be anywherr 
 else than I am. My choice would be, if I had my choice, 
 to live and die in Fiji." 
 
 •' I dare not trust myself to say the thoughts that come 
 surging up for utterance; it is wiser not. If my first 
 note to you was presumptuous, this at least is the writing 
 of a calmer and wiser man. I have resigned the expec- 
 tations of a moment. But it is no harm for me to say I 
 love you as well as ever ; that T shall do, I think, till I 
 die ; although I shall never see you again, and dare not 
 promise myself I shall ever again write to you. It may 
 be It will be best not, even as a friend, to do that. Per 
 hajs as a friend I could not. It is not as a friend, that 
 I sign myself now, 
 
 "RoivLAND Rhys." 
 
180 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 P<)()r Eleanor ! She was of all people in the world 
 the least given to be sentimental or soft-hearted in a fool- 
 ish way ; but strong as she was, there was something in 
 these letters — or some mixture of things — that entered 
 her heart like an arrow through the joints of an armour, 
 and found her as defenceless. Tears came with that resist- 
 less, ceaseless, measureless flow, as when the secret nerve 
 of tenderness has been reached, and every barrier of 
 pride or self-consideration is broken down or passed over. 
 So keen the touch was to Eleanor, that weeping could 
 not quiet it. After all it was only a heavy summer 
 shower — not a winter storm. Eleanor hushed her sobs 
 at last to begin her prayers ; and there the rest of the 
 night left her. The morning was dawning giey in the 
 east, when she threw herself upon her bed for an hour's 
 sleep. Sleep came then without waiting. 
 
 Perhaps Mrs. Caxton had not been much more repose- 
 ful than her niece; for she was not the first one down 
 stairs. Eleanor was there before her; Mrs. Caxton 
 watched her as she came in ; she was ceremoniously 
 putting the fire in best burning condition, and brushing 
 up the ashes from the hearth. As Mrs. Caxton came 
 near, Eleanor looked up and a silent greeting passed be- 
 tween them ; very affectionate, but silent evidently of 
 purpose. Neither of them was ready to speak. The 
 bell was rung, the servants were gathered ; and imme- 
 diately after prayers breakfast was brought in. It was 
 a silent meal for the first half of it. Mrs. Caxton still 
 watched Eleanor, whose eyes did not readily meet hers. 
 What about her ? Her manner was as usual, one would 
 ha'\'e said, yet it was not ; nor was she. A little deli- 
 cate undefined difference made itself felt ; and that Mrs. 
 Caxton was studying. A little added grace; a little 
 added deftness and alacrity ; Mrs. Caxton had seen it in 
 that order taken of the fire before breakfast ; she saw it 
 imd read it then. And in Eleanor's face correspondingly 
 
IN NEWS. 181 
 
 there was the same diflereiioe ; impossible to tell where 
 it lay, it was equally impossible not to peixeive it, 
 Though her face was grave enough, there was a beauty 
 in the lines of it that yesterday had not seen ; a name- 
 less witness in the corners of her moutli, that told' talea 
 the tongue would not. Mrs. Caxton looked on and saw 
 it and read it, for half the breakfast time, before she 
 spoke. Maybe she had a secret sigh or two to cover ; 
 but at any rate there was nothing like that in her look 
 or her voice when she spoke. 
 
 " So you will go, Eleanor !" 
 
 Eleanor started, and coloured ; then looked down at 
 her plate, the blush growing universal. 
 
 " Have you decided, my love ?" 
 
 Eleanor leaned her head upon her hand, as if with the 
 question came the remembrance of last night's burden 
 of thoughts ; but her answer was a quiet low " yes." 
 
 "May I know — for I feel myself responsible to a 
 degree in this matter, — may I know, on what ground ?" 
 
 Eleanor's look was worth five hundred pounds. The 
 little gbince of surprise and consciousness — the flash of 
 hidden light, there was no need to ask from what maga- 
 zine, answered so completely, so involuntarily. She 
 cast down her eyes immediately and answered in words 
 sedate enough — 
 
 " Because I am unable to come to any other decision, 
 ma'am." 
 
 " But Eleanoi-, my dear," said Mrs. Caxton, — " do 
 you know, Mi'. Rhys himself would be unwilling you 
 should come to him for his own sake alone — in Fiji." 
 
 Eleanor turned away from the table at that and cov- 
 ered her face with her liands ; a perfect rush of confusion 
 bringing ovt^r face and neck and almo.^t even over the 
 little white fingers, a suffusing crimson glow. She spoke 
 presently. 
 
 " I cannot say anything to that, aunt Caxton, I have 
 
182 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 tried myself as well as I can. I think I would go any 
 whei-e and do anything where I saw clearly my work 
 and my place were put for me. I do not know anything 
 more about it." 
 
 " My love, that is enough. I believe you. I entirely 
 approve your decision. I spoke, because I needed to 
 ask the question he would have asked if he had been 
 here. Mr. Rhys has written to me very stringently on 
 the subject. 
 
 " So he has to me, ma'am." 
 
 " If you have settled that question with your con- 
 science, my dear, there is no more necessary to be said 
 about it. Conscience should be clear on that point, and 
 the question settled securely. If it is not, you liad bet- 
 ter take time for thought and self-searching." 
 
 '" I do not need it, aunt Caxton." 
 
 Mrs. Caxton left her place and came round to Eleanor, 
 for the sole purpose of taking her in her arms and kiss- 
 ing her. Grave, earnest kisses, on brow and cheek, 
 Sfieaking a heart full of sympathy, full of tenderness, 
 full of appreciation of all that this decision of Eleanor's 
 involved, full of satisfaction with it too. A very unu- 
 sual sort of demonstration from Mrs. Caxton, as was thd 
 occasion that called for it. Eleanor received it as the 
 seal of the whole business between them. Her aunt's 
 ai'ms detained her lovingly while she pressed her lips to 
 every part of Eleanor's face ; then Mrs. Caxton went 
 back to her place and poured herself out another cup of 
 coifee; Sentiment she had plenty ; she was not in the 
 least bit sentimental. She creamed her coifee thought- 
 fully and broke bread and eat it, before she came out 
 with another question 
 
 " When will you go, Eleanor ?" 
 
 Eleanor looked up doubtfully. " Where, aunt Cax- 
 ton f" 
 
 " To Fiji." 
 
IN NEWS. 183 
 
 There seemed to be some irresolution or uncertainty 
 ill the girl's mind ; for she hesitated. 
 
 " Aunt Caxton, I doubt much — my mother will oppose 
 my going." 
 
 " I think she will. But I think also that her opposi- 
 tion can be overcome. When will you write to her V" 
 
 " I will write to-day, ma'am." 
 
 " We must have an answer before we send any other 
 letters. Supposing she does not oppose, Or that her op- 
 position is set aside, I come back to my question. When 
 will you go ?" 
 
 Eleanor looked up doubtfully again. " I don't know, 
 ma'am — I suppose opportunities of going only occur 
 now and then. 
 
 " That is all — with long intervals sometimes. Oppor- 
 tunities for yo?w going would come only larely. You 
 must tliiiik about it, Eleanor; for we must know what 
 we are to tell Mr. Rhys." 
 
 Eleanor was silent ; her colour went and came. 
 
 " You must think about it, my dear. If you write to 
 Mr. Rhys to-day and send it, we may get an answer 
 from him possibly in twenty months — possibly in tweniy- 
 four months. Then if you wait four or five nKmths for 
 an opportunity to make the voyage, and have a reason- 
 ably good passage, you may see your friend in three 
 years from now. But it might \vell happen that letters 
 might be delayed, and that you might wait much longer 
 than four or five months for a ship and company in which 
 you could sail ; so that the three years might be nearer 
 four." 
 
 " I have thought of all that, aunt Caxton," Eleanor 
 said, wiiile the colour which had been varying in her 
 cheeks fixed itself in two deep crimson spots. 
 
 Mrs. Caxton was now silent on her part, slowly fii\ish. 
 ins; her cotfee and jjutting the cups together on the tray 
 She loft it fur her niece to speak next. 
 
184 TUB OLDHEIiMKT. 
 
 "I have thought of all that, aunt Caxton," Eleanoi 
 repeated after a little while, — "and — " 
 
 " Well, my love ?" 
 
 " Aunt Caxton," said the girl, looking up now while 
 hur cheeks and brow were all one crimson flush — "is it 
 unmaidenly in me — would it be — to go so, without being 
 ssked ?" 
 
 " Has he not asked you ?" 
 
 "Yes ma'am. But—" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Not since he got there." 
 
 " Have you reason to think his mind is altered on the 
 subject ?" 
 
 " No ma'am," said Eleanor, drooping her head. 
 
 "What does your own feeling bid you do, my love?" 
 
 " I have thought it all over, aunt Caxton," said the 
 girl slowly, — " I did that last night ; I have thought of 
 everything about it ; and my feeling was — " 
 
 "Well, my love?" 
 
 " My feeling, as fai as I am concerned — was to take 
 the first good opportunity that offered." 
 
 " My love, that is just what I thought you would do. 
 And what I would have you do, if you go at all. It is 
 not unmaidenly. Simple honest frankness, is the most 
 maidenly thing in the world, when it is a woman's time 
 to speak. The fact that your speaking must be action 
 does not alter the matter. When it takes two years for 
 people to hear from each other, life would very soon be 
 spent in the asking of a few questions and getting the 
 answers to them. I am a disinterested witness, Eleanor; 
 for when you are gone, all I care for in this world is gone. 
 You are my own child to me now." 
 
 Eleanor's head bent lower. 
 
 " But I am glad to have you go, nevertheless, my 
 child. I think Mr. Rhys wants you even more than 1 
 do ; and I have known for some time that you wanted 
 
IN NEWS. 185 
 
 something. And besides — I shall only be separated from 
 you in body." 
 
 Eleanor made no response. 
 
 " What are you going to do now ?" was Mrs. Caxton's 
 question in her usual cabn tone. 
 
 " Write to mamma." 
 
 " Very well. Do not send your letter to her without 
 letting mine go with it." 
 
 "But aunt Caxton," said Eleanor lifting up her head, 
 — " my only fear is — I am quite satisfied in my own 
 mind, and I do not care for people — my only fear is, lest 
 Mr. Rhys himself should think I come too easily. You 
 know, he is fastidious in his notions." She spoke with 
 great difficulty and with her face a flame. 
 
 " Your fear will go away when you have heard my 
 story," said Mrs. Caxton tranquilly. " I will give you 
 that to-night. He is fastidious; but he is a sensible 
 man." 
 
 Quiete i with which suggestion, Eleanor went off tfl 
 her desk. 
 
CHAPTEK XI. 
 
 *' But never llglit and shade 
 Gonrsed one another more on open ground. 
 Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale 
 AcroBB the face of Enid hearing her/^ 
 
 Various letters were written that day. In the even- 
 ing the two ladies came together again cheerfully. The 
 time between had not all been spent in letter-writing, for 
 the world does not stand still for love matters. Eleanor 
 had been out the whole afternoon on visits of kindness 
 and help to sick and poor people. Mrs. Caxton had been 
 obliged to ai tend to the less inierestina: company of one 
 or two cheese-factors. At the tea-table the subject of 
 the morning came back. 
 
 " You posted your letter and mine, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am. But I cannot think mamma's answer 
 will be favournble. I cannot fancy it." 
 
 " Well, we shall see. The world is a curious world ; 
 and the wind does not always blow from the quarter 
 whence we expect it. We must wait and pray." 
 
 " 1 am puzzled to imagine', aunt Caxton," Eleanor said 
 after some pause, " how you came to know all about 
 this matter in the first place. How came you to know 
 what r never knew ?" 
 
 " That is my story," said Mrs. Caxton. " We will 
 let the table be cleared first, my dear." 
 
 So it was done. But Eleanor left her work by her 
 eide to-night, and looked into her aunt's face to listen. 
 
 "I nevej- should have known about it, child, till you 
 
IN CHANGES. 187 
 
 had, if 3'ou had been here. You veinember liow you 
 went auay in a hurry. Who knows ? Perhaps, but for 
 that, none of us would have been any wiser to-day on 
 the subject than we were tlien. It is very possible." 
 
 " How, ma'am ?" 
 
 " You disappeared, you know, in one night, and were 
 gone. When Mr. Rhys came home, the next day or the 
 same day, I saw that he was very much disappointed. 
 That roused my suspicions of him ; they had been only 
 doubtful before. He is not a person to shew what he 
 thinks, unless he chooses." 
 
 " So I knew ; that made me surprised." 
 
 " I saw that he was very much disappointed, and 
 looked very sober ; but he said hardly anything about 
 it, and I was forced to be silent. Then in a little while 
 — a few weeks, I think — he received his appointment, 
 with the new^s that he must sail very soon. He had to 
 leave Plassy then in a very few days ; for he wanted 
 some time in London and elsewhere. I saw there was 
 something more than leaving Plassy, upon his mind ; he 
 was graver tlian that could make him, I knew ; and he 
 was giving up something more than England, I knew by 
 his prayei's. 
 
 " One night we were sitting here by the fire — it was a 
 remarkably chill evening and we had kindled a blaze in 
 the chimney and shut the windows. Mr. Rhys sat silent, 
 watching the fire and keeping up the blaze ; too busy 
 with his own thoughts to talk to me. I was taken with 
 a spii'it of meddling which does not very often possess 
 me ; nnd asked him how much longer he had to stay. 
 He said how long, in so many words ; they were short, aa 
 pain makes words. 
 
 " ' How comes it,' I asked, plunging into the matter, 
 ' that you do not take a wife with you ? like everybody 
 else.' 
 
 " He answered, in diy phrases, ' that it would be pre- 
 
188 THB OLD HELMET. 
 
 S'.imption in him to suppose that anybody would go with 
 him, if he were to ask.' 
 
 " I said quietly, I thought he was mistaken ; that 
 anybody who was worthy of him would go ; and it 
 could not be preswnptio^i to ask anybody else. 
 
 " ' Tou do not realize, Mrs. Caxton, bow much it 
 would be asking of any one,' he said ; ' you do not hnow 
 what sacrifices it wtjuld call for.' 
 
 " ' Love does not care for sacrifices,' I reminded 
 liim. 
 
 " ' I have no right to suppose that anybody has such 
 a degree of regard for me,' he said. 
 
 " I can't tell what in his manner and words told me 
 there was more behind. They were a little short and 
 dry ; and his ordinary way of speaking is short some- 
 times, but never with a sort of edge like this — a hard 
 edge. You know it is as frank and simple when he 
 speaks short as when his words come out in the gentlest 
 way. It hurt me, for I saw that something hurt him. 
 
 " I asked if there was not anybody in England good 
 enough for him ? He said there were a great many too 
 good. 
 
 " ' Mr. Rhys,' said I, — I don't know what possessed 
 me to be so bold, — 'I hope you are not going to leave 
 vour heart behind with somebody, when you go to 
 Fiji?' 
 
 " He got up and walked once or twice through the 
 room, went out and presently came back again. I was 
 afraid I had ofiended him, and I was a good deal trou- 
 bled ; but I did not know what to say. He sat down 
 again and spoke first. 
 
 " ' Mrs. Caxton,' said he, ' since you have probed the 
 truth, I may as well confess it. I am going to do the 
 unwise thing you have mentioned.' 
 
 " ' "Who are you going to leave your heart with, Mr 
 Rhys?' Tasked. 
 
IN CHANGES. 189 
 
 " ' With the lady who has just left you.' 
 
 "'Eleanor?' 
 
 " ' Yes,' he said. 
 
 " ' Have you told her, Mr. Rhj s ?' I asked. 
 
 " He said no. 
 
 " ' You are not going to do her the injustice to go and 
 not speak to her ?' 
 
 " ' Why should I tell her ?' he said. 
 
 " ' There might be several answers given to that,' I 
 said ; ' but the best one at present seems to be, why 
 should you notf 
 
 " ' For several reasons,' he said. ' In the first place I 
 do not know at all whether Miss Powle has that degree 
 of love to Christ that she would be willing to forsake all 
 her earthly prospects^home and friends — for hard work 
 in his service. In the second place, even if she have 
 that, I have not the slightest reason to believe that she 
 — that she cares enough for me to go with me at my 
 asking.' 
 
 " ' And do you mean to go in ignorance ?' I said. 
 
 " ' Yes— I must.' 
 
 " I waited a little, and then I told him I thought he 
 was wrong. 
 
 " ' Why '?' he asked quickly. 
 
 " ' People cannot see each other's hearts,' I said. ' Sup- 
 pose that she have the same secret feeling towards you 
 that you have towards her. She cannot speak ; you 
 will not ; and so both would be unhappy for nothing. 
 
 " ' I never saw the least thing like it,' he said. 
 
 " ' I suppose she might say the same of you — might she 
 not?' 
 
 " ' Yes and with truth ; for knowing the unceitainties 
 —or rather the certainties — of my position, I have not 
 given her the least cause.' 
 
 " ' You could hardly expect demonstrations from her in 
 that case,' I said. 
 
190 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " ' There is uo chance, Mrs. Caxton, even if it were ao 
 cording to your supposition. Her friends would nevei 
 permit her to marry a man with my lot in life ; — and I 
 do not know that I ought to ask her, even if they would. 
 She has a very fair prospect for this world's happiness.' 
 
 "'What do you think of your own lot in life?' I 
 asked him. 
 
 "'I would not exchange it, you know,' he said, "for 
 any other the world could offer me. It is brighter and 
 better.' 
 
 " ' It strikes me yon are selfish, — ' I told him. 
 
 " He laughed a little, for the first time ; but he grew 
 as grave as possible immediately after. 
 
 " ' I have not meant to be selfish,' he said. ' But I 
 sould not take a woman to Fiji, who had not thoroughly 
 considered the matter and counted the cost. That could 
 not be done in a little while. The world has a fair 
 chance now to see if it can weaken Miss Powle's princi- 
 ples or overcome her faithfulness to them. It is better 
 that she should try herself perhaps, before having such a 
 question asked of her. 
 
 " ' And suppose she comes clear out of the trial ?' I 
 said. 
 
 " ' Then I shall be in Fiji.' 
 
 " We were both silent a while. He began then. 
 
 " ' Mrs. Caxton, without invading any confidences or 
 seeking to know anything that should not be known, — 
 may I ask you a question ?' 
 
 "'Certainly,' I said. 'I reserve the discretion of 
 answering.' 
 
 " ' Of course. Your words look like a rebuke of the 
 attitude I have taken towards this subject. Is it proper 
 for me to ask, whether you have any foundation for theru 
 beyond your general kno«'ledge of human nature and 
 your good will towards me ? I mean — whether you, as 
 a friend, see any ground of hope for me ?' 
 
IN CHANGES. 19i 
 
 " ' If you were going to stay in England,' I said, ' 1 
 wonld answer no snoh question. Every man mnst make 
 his own observations and run his own risk. But these 
 circumstances are difFe'rent. And appealed to as a friend 
 —and answering on my own observations simply — 1 
 should say, that I think your case not hopeless.' 
 
 " I could see the colour rise in his cheek ; but he sat 
 quite still and did not speak, till it faded again. 
 
 " ' I have never heard a word on the subject,' I told 
 him. ' I do not say I am certain of anything. I may 
 mistake. Only, seeing you are going to the other end of 
 the world, without the chance of finding out anything 
 for yourself, I think it fair to tell you what, as a woman, 
 I should judge of the case.' 
 
 " ' Why do you tell me ?' he said quickly. 
 
 " ' I am but aus^.'^ering your question. You must 
 judge whether the answer is woith anything.' 
 
 " He half laughed again, at himself; at least I could 
 see the beginning of a smile ; but he was too terribly in 
 earnest to be anything but serious. He sat silent ; got 
 up and fidgetted round the room ; then came and stood 
 by the chimney piece looking down at me. 
 
 " ' Mrs. Caxton,' he said, ' I am going to venture to 
 ask something from you — to fulfil a contingent commis- 
 sion. When I am gone, if Miss Powle returns to you, 
 or when you have otherwise opportunity, — will yon, if 
 you can, find out the truth of her feeling on these sub- 
 jects, which I have failed to find out ? You tempt ine 
 beyond my power of self-abnegation.' 
 
 " ' What shall I do with the truth, if I find it, Mr. 
 Rhys ?" 
 
 " ' In that case,' he said, — ' if it is as you suppose it 
 possible it may be, though I dare not and do not 1 ope 
 it ; — if it be so, then you may tell her all I have confessed 
 to you to-night.' 
 
 " ' Why ?' 
 
1 92 THB OLD HELMET. 
 
 " ' You are uncoraraonly practical to-night,' he said 
 ' I could have but one motive in discovering it to her.' 
 
 " ' To ask her to follovi' you to Fiji ?' 
 
 " ' I dare not put it in words. I do not believe the 
 chance will ever come. But I am unable to go and leave 
 the chance changed into an impossibility.' 
 
 " ' We are talking of what may be,' I said. ' But you 
 do not suppose that she could follow you on my report 
 of your words alone ?' 
 
 " ' I shall be too far off to speak them myself.' 
 
 " ' You can write then,' I said. 
 
 " ' Do you remember what the distances are, and the 
 intervals of time that must pnss between letter and let- 
 ter ? When should I write ?' 
 
 " " Now — this evening. I am not thinking of such 
 courtship as took place in the antediluvian days.' 
 
 " ' I cannot write on such an utter uncertainty. I 
 have not hope enough ; although I cannot bear to leave 
 the country without enlisting you to act for me.' 
 
 " ' I shall reconsider the question of acting,' I said, ' if 
 I have no credentials to produce. I cannot undertake to 
 tell anything to Eleanor merely to give her pleasure — or 
 merely to give he • pain.' 
 
 " ' Would you have me w.-it ; to her here — now ?' he 
 asked. 
 
 " ' Yes, I would,' I told him. 
 
 " He sat pondering the matter a little while, making 
 up the fire as you did this morning — only with a very 
 different face ; and then with a half laugh he said I was 
 making a fool of him, and he went off. I sat still — and 
 in a few minutes he came down and handed me that note 
 for you." 
 
 Eleanor's choaks would have rivalled the scarlet Lobe- 
 , lia or Indian Mallow, or anything else that is brilliant. 
 She kept profound silence. It was plain enough what 
 Mr. Rhys expected Iier to do — that is, supposing he had 
 
:n'cuanges. 193 
 
 any expectations Now her question was, what ■woulri 
 tier mother say ? And Eleanor in her secret heart looked 
 at the probability of obstinate opposition in that quarter ; 
 and then of long, long waiting and delay ; perha))s never 
 to be ended but with the time and the power of doing 
 what now her heart longed to do. The more she thought 
 of it, the less she could imagine that her mother would 
 yield her consent ; or that her opposition would be any- 
 thing but determined and unqualified. Then what could 
 she do ? Eleanor sighed. 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Caxton. " Have patience, my dear, 
 and believe that all will go right — however it goes, Elea- 
 nor. We will do our part ; but we must be content with 
 our part. There is another part, which is the Lord's ; 
 let him do that, and let us say it is well, Eleanor. Till 
 we have learnt that, we have not learnt our lesson." 
 
 " I do say it, and will, aunt Caxton," said the girl. 
 But she said nothing more that night. 
 
 To tell the truth, they were rather silent days that fol- 
 lowed. Mrs. Powle's letters of answer did not come 
 speedily ; indeed no one knew at Plassy just where she 
 mio'ht be at this time, nor how far the Plassy letters 
 might have to travel in order to reach her; for commu- 
 nicMtion was not frequent between the two faml'ies. 
 And till her answer came, Eleanor could not forget that 
 the question of her life was undecided ; nor Mrs, Cax- 
 ton, that the decision might take away from her, probably 
 for ever, the only living thing that was very dear to her. 
 That was Eleanor now. They were very affectionate to 
 each other those days, very tender and thoughtful for 
 each other ; not given to much talking. Eleanor was a 
 good deal out of the house ; partly busy with her errands 
 of kindness, partly stilling her troublesome and impatient 
 thoughts with long roamings on foot or on horseback 
 over the moimtains and moors. 
 
 " The spring has come, aunt Caxton," she said, com. 
 
 VOL. II. 9 
 
194 THE OLD HBLMBT. 
 
 ing in herself one day, fresh enough to be spring's im 
 personation. " I heard a blackbird and a wheat-ear : and 
 I have found a violet for you." 
 
 " You must have heard blackbirds before. And you 
 have got more than violets there." 
 
 " Yes ma'am — not much. I found the Nepeta and the 
 ivy-leaved Veronica under the hedge; and whitlow grass 
 near the old tower. That's the willow catkin you know 
 of course — and sloe. That's all — but it's spiing." 
 
 A shade came over the faces of both. Where might 
 another spring find her. 
 
 " I have got something more for you," said Mrs. Cax- 
 ton. 
 
 " My letter, ma'am ! — Had you one, aimt Caxton ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Eleanor could not tell from her aunt's answer what 
 the letter might be. She went off with her own, having 
 parted suddenly with all the colour she had brought in 
 with her. It returned again however soon. 
 
 Mis. Powle declared that according to all her^ experi- 
 ence and power of judging of the world, her daughter 
 and her sister Mrs. Caxton were both entirely crazy. 
 She had never, in her life, heard of anything so utterly 
 absurd and ridiculous as the proposition upon which 
 they had required her to give an opinion. Her opinion 
 found no words in the English language strong enough 
 in which to give it. That Eleanor should be willing to 
 forego every earthly prospect of good or pleasure, was 
 like Eleanor; that is, it was like the present Eleanor; an 
 entirely infatuated, blind, fanatical, unreasonable thing. 
 Mrs. Powle had given up the expectation of anything 
 wiser or better from her, until years and the consequen- 
 ces of her foil}' should have taught her when it woulo 
 be too late. Why Eleanor, if she wished to throw her 
 self away, should pitch upon the South Seas for the place 
 of her retirement, was a pi ice of the same mysterious 
 
tlKCUANGES. 196 
 
 tatuity wliich marked the whole proceeding. Why shs 
 could think of no pleasanter wedding journey than a 
 voy \ge of twelve thousand miles in search of a husband, 
 was but another incomprehensibk' point. Mrs. Powle 
 had d curiosity to know what Eleanor ex[)ected to live 
 upon out there, where she presumed the natives practised 
 no agJculture and wheateu flour was a luxury un- 
 known ? And what she expected to do ? However, 
 h.aving thas given her opinion, Mrs. Powle went on to 
 say, that shj must quite decline to give it. She regarded 
 Eleanor as e.itirely the child of her aunt Caxton, as she 
 understood v. as also Mrs. Caxton's own view; most 
 justly, in Mi,.^. Powle's opinion, since conversion and 
 adoption to Mrs,. Caxton's own family and mind must be 
 amply sufficient ij supersede the accident of birth. At 
 any rate, Mrs. Powlfe claimed no jurisdiction in the mat- 
 tor ; did not choosw to exercise any. She felt herself 
 incompetent. One daughter she had still remaining, 
 whom she hoped to keep her own, guarding her against 
 the influences which Lad made so wide a separatinn be- 
 tween her eldest and tLe family and sphere to which she 
 belonged. Julia, she ht-ped, would one day do her hon- 
 our. As for the islands of the South Seas, or the pecu- 
 liar views and habits of li/e entertained by those white 
 people who chose them foi thtir residence, Mrs. Powle 
 declared she was incapable /rem very ignorance of under- 
 standing or giving judgment about them. She made 
 the «'hole question, togethei with her daughter, over to 
 her sister Mrs. Caxton, who rflie did not doubt would do 
 wisely according to her notions. But as they were not 
 the notions of the world genorally, they were quite in- 
 comprehensible to the writer, and in a sphere entirely 
 beyond and without her cogniiance. She hoped Elea. 
 nor would be hap py — if it were not absurd to hope an 
 ttnpossibility. 
 But on one point the letter was clear, if on no other. 
 
198 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 Eleanor should not come home. She had ruined her own 
 prospects ; Mrs. Powle could not help that ; she should 
 not ruin Julia's. Whether she stayed in England or 
 whether she went on her fool's voyage, this was a cer- 
 tain thing. She should not see Julia, to infect her. Mrs. 
 Powle desired to be informed of Eleanor's movements ; 
 that if she went she herself might meet her in London 
 before she sailed. But she would not let her see Julia 
 either then or at any time. 
 
 This cruel letter broke Eleanor down completely. It 
 settled the question of her life indeed ; and settled it 
 according to her wish and against her fears ; but for all 
 that, it was a letter of banishment and reutmciation. 
 With something of the feeling which makes a wounded 
 creature run to shelter, Eleanor gathered up her papers 
 and went down to Mrs. Caxton ; threw them into her 
 lap, and kneeling beside her put herself in her arms. 
 
 "What is it, my child?" said Mrs, Caxton. "What 
 does your mother say to you ?" 
 
 " She gives her consent — but she gives me up to you, 
 aunt Caxton. She counts me your child and not hers." 
 
 " My love, I asked her to do so. You have been mine, 
 in my own mind, for a long time past. My Eleanor !" — 
 And Mrs. Caxton's kiss and her warm clasping arms 
 spoke more than her words. 
 
 " But she renounces me — and she will not let me see 
 Julia." — Eleanor was in very great distress. 
 
 " She will by and by. She will not hold to that." 
 
 " She says she will not at all. O aunt Caxton, I want 
 to see Julia again !" — 
 
 "Were you faithful to Julia while you v/ere with 
 her ?" 
 
 " Yes — I think 60 — while I could. I had hardly any 
 chance the last winter I was at home ; we were never 
 together ; but I seized what I could." 
 
 " Your mother kept you apart?' 
 
IN CHANGES. 191 
 
 " I believe so." " 
 
 " My child, remember, as one day is with the Lord aa 
 a thousand years, so one word is as a thousand words ; 
 he can make it do his work. All we have to do is to be 
 faithful, and then trust. You recollect the words of 
 that grand hymn on the Will of God — 
 
 " ' I do the little I can do, 
 
 And leave the rest to thee.' " 
 
 " I don't think I know it." 
 Mrs. Caxton went on. 
 
 " ' When obstacles and trials seem 
 Like prison walls to be, 
 I do the little I can do, 
 And leave the rest to thee. 
 
 *' ' I know not what it It is to doubt ; 
 My heart is ever gay ; 
 I run no risk, for, come what will, 
 Thou always hast thy way. 
 
 " ' I have no cares, blessed will I 
 For all my cares are thine. 
 I live in triumph, Lord, for thou 
 Hast made thy triumphs mine.' " 
 
 Eleanor lifted up her face and pressed a long kiss on 
 her aunt's lips. " But I want to see Julia !" 
 
 " My love, I think you will. It will be some time yet 
 before you can possibly leave England. I think your 
 motlier will withdraw her prohibition before that time. 
 Meanwhile—" 
 
 Eleanor lay with her head on Mrs. Caxton's bosom, 
 ber brown eyes looking out with a sweet and sorrowful 
 wistfulness towards the light. Mrs. Caxton read them. 
 
 " This gift would be very precious to me, my child," 
 she said, tightening the pressure of the arms which stiU 
 were wrapped round Eleanor, — " if I were not obliged 
 
198 THE OLD HELMUT. 
 
 BO soon to make it over to Romebody else. But I wiD 
 not be selfish. It is unspeakably precious lo me now. 
 It gives me the right to take care of you. I asked your 
 mother for it. I am greatly obliged to her. Now what 
 are you going to do to-day ?" 
 
 " "Write — to Fiji," said Eleanor slowly and without 
 moving. 
 
 " Right ; and so will I. And do not you be overmuch 
 concerned about Julia. There is another verse of that 
 hymn, which I often think of — 
 
 " ' I love to see thee bring to nought, 
 The plans of wUy men ; 
 When simple hearts outwit the wiie^ 
 O thou art loveliest then I' " 
 
CH APTEE XII. 
 
 '* If Proteus like your journey, when you come. 
 No matter who's displeasM when you are gone 
 I fear me he will scarce he pleasM withal.*' 
 
 The way was clear, and Eleanor wrote to Fiji as she 
 lad said. She could not however get rid of her surprise 
 that her mother had permitted the tenor of these letters 
 to be what it was. What had moved Mrs. Powle, so to 
 act against all her likings and habits of ai^tion ? How 
 came she to allow hei' daughter to go to the South Seas 
 and be a missionary ? 
 
 Several things which Eleanor knew nothing of, and 
 which so affected the drift of- Mrs. Powle's current of 
 life that she was only, according to custom, sailing with 
 it and not struggling against it. When people seem to 
 act unlike themselves, it is either that you do not know 
 themselves, or do not know some other things which 
 they know. So in this case. For one thing, to name 
 the gieatest first, Mr. Carlisle was unmistakeably turning 
 his attention to another lady, a new star in the world of 
 society ; an earl's daughter and an heiress. Whether 
 heart-whole or not, which was best known to himself, 
 Mr. Carlisle was prosecuting his addresses in this new 
 quarter with undoubted zeal and determination. It was 
 not the time for Eleanor now to come home ! Let her 
 do anything else, — ^was the dictate of pride. Nbio to 
 come home, or even not to come home, remaining Elea- 
 nor Powle, was to confess in the worldV eye a lament- 
 ably lost game ; to take place as a rejected or \ ainly 
 
200 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 ambitious girl ; the would-have-been lady of Rythdale 
 Anything but that ! Eleanor might almost better die at 
 once. She would not only have ruined her own pros- 
 pects, but would greatly injure those of Julia, on ^rhora 
 her mother's hopes and pride were now all staked. Alfred 
 was taken from her and put under guardians ; Mrs. 
 Powle did not. build anything on him; he was a boy, 
 aad when he was a man he would be only Alfred Powle. 
 Julia promised to be a beauty ; on her making a fine 
 match rested all Mrs. Powle's expectations from this 
 world ; and she was determined to spare no pains, ex- 
 pense, nor precautions. Therefore she resolved that the 
 sisters should not be together, cost what it might. Good 
 bye to all her cares or hopes on Julia's behalf, looking tc 
 a great establishment, if Julia became a Methodist ! She 
 might go on a farm like her aunt and sell cheeses. The 
 thought of those cheeses froze the blood in Mrs. Powle's 
 veins ; that was a characteristic of good blood, she 
 firmly believed. Therefore on every account, for every 
 reason, nothing better could happen than that Eleanor 
 should go to the South Seas. She would escape the 
 shame of coming home ; Julia would be out of danger 
 of religious contamination ; and she herself would be 
 saved fiom the necessary odium of keeping one daugh- 
 ter in banishment and the other in seclusion ; which 
 odium she must incur if both of them remained in Eng- 
 land and neither of them ever saw the other. All this 
 would be cleverly saved. Then also, if Eleanor married 
 a missionary and went to the other end of the world, 
 her case could be very well dismissed as one of a relig- 
 ious enthusiasm — a visionary, fanatical excitement. Nay, 
 there could be made even a little eclat abotit it. There 
 would be no mortification, at any rate, comparable to 
 that which nmst attend supposed overthrown schemes 
 and disappciinted ambition. Eleanor had cho-en her own 
 course, backed, by her wealthy relation, Mrs. Caxton, 
 
IS WAITING. 201 
 
 who had adopted her ; and whose views were entirely 
 not of this world. Mrs. Powle deplored it, of course, 
 but was unable to help it. Besides, Mrs. Caxton had an- 
 swered, on her own knowledge, for the excellent charac- 
 ter and superior qualities of the gentleman Eleanor was 
 to marry ; there was no fault to be found with him at 
 all, except that he was a fanatic ; and as Eleanor was a 
 fanatic herself, that was only a one-sided objection. 
 
 Yes, Mrs. Caxton had answered for all that, on her 
 own knowledge, of many years' standing ; and she had 
 said something more, which also weighed with Mrs, 
 Powle and which Mrs. Powle could also mention among 
 the good features of the case, without stating that it had 
 had the force of an inducement with herself. Mrs. Cax- 
 ton had asked indeed to be permitted to consider Elea- 
 nor her own, and had promised in that case to make 
 Eleanor entirely her own care, both during Mrs. Caxton's 
 life and afterwards; leaving Mrs. Powle free to devote 
 all her fortune to Julia that would have been shared with 
 Julia's sister. Mrs. Powle's means were not in her esti- 
 mation large ; she wanted every penny of them for the 
 perfecting and carrying out of her plans which regarded 
 her youngest daughter ; she consented that the elder 
 should own another mother and guardian. Mrs. Powle 
 agreed to it all. But not satisfied with any step of the 
 whole affair nevertheless, which all displeased her, from 
 beginning to end, her own action included, she expressed 
 her determination to Eleanor in terms which half broke 
 Eleanor's heart ; and left a long, lingering, sore spot 
 there. To Mrs. Caxton Mrs. Powle's writing was much 
 better worded ; civil if not kind, and well mannered if 
 not motherly. 
 
 The thijig was done, at all events; Eleanor was for- 
 mally made over to another mother and left free tc do 
 whatever her new guardian pleased. Letters of a differ- 
 ent sort of temper were sent off upon their long journey 
 9* 
 
202 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 to the South Seas ; and there began a busy time aX 
 Plassy, in anticipation of Eleanor's following them. It 
 ■"vas still very uncertain when that might be ; opportuni- 
 ties must be waited for ; such an opportunity as would 
 satisfy Mrs. Caxton. In the mean while a great deal of 
 business was on hand. Mrs. Caxton even made a jour- 
 ney up to London and took Eleanor with her ; for tha 
 sake of inquiries and arrangements which could not be 
 attended to from a distance. For the sake of purchases 
 too, which could be made nowhere but in London. For 
 Mrs. Caxton was bent, not only on supplying Eleanor 
 with all that could be be thought of in the way of out- 
 fit; but also on getting together to accompany or pre 
 cede her everything that could be sent that might be 
 useful or helpful to Mr. Rhya or comfortable in the house 
 hold ; in short, to transfer England as nearly as possible 
 to Fiji. As freights of couree were expensive, all these 
 matters must be found and compressed in the smallest 
 compass they could possibly know as their limits; and 
 Mrs. Caxton was very busy. London did not hold them 
 but a fortnight ; the rest of the time work was done at 
 Plassy. 
 
 And the months rolled on. Cheeses were turned oflf ' 
 as usual, and Mrs. Caxton's business was as brisk as ever, 
 Eleanor's outfit gradually got rendy ; and before and 
 after that was true, Eleanor's visits among her neigh 
 hours and poor peofile were the same as ever. She had 
 strength and spirit enough for all calls upon either ; and 
 her sweet diligence seemed to be even more than ever, 
 now that work at Plassy was drawing towards a close. 
 Still Eleanor gathered the spoils of the moors and the 
 hedge-rows, as she went and came on her errands ; 
 climbed the mountain on Powis and ex|ilored the rocks 
 and the waterfalls on her way. As usuhI her hands came 
 norae full. The house was gay with broom .ng.ain in its 
 season ; before that the violets and wood anemone had 
 
IS WAITING. 203 
 
 made the tea-tablp and the breakfast table sweet with 
 their presence. Bhie-bells and butter-cups and priini-osea 
 liad their time, and lovely they looked, helped out by the 
 yellow furze blossoms which Eleanor was very fond of. 
 Then the scorpion grass, of both kinds, proclaimed that 
 it was summer ; and borage was bright in the sitting- 
 room. Eleanor could hardly look at it without an inward 
 smile and sigh, remembering the cheering little couplet 
 which attached to it by old usage ; and .Tulia from whose 
 lips she had first heard it ; and the other lips that had 
 given it to Julia. Corn-marigold was gay again in July, 
 and the white blackberry blossoms came with crane's 
 bill and flax, campion and willow-herb, speedwell and 
 vetchling. Any one well acquainted with the wild 
 things that grow and blossom in the land, might have 
 known any day what time of the year it was by going 
 into Mrs. Caxton's sitting parlour and using his eyes. 
 Until the purple ling and loosestrife, gave place to mint 
 and maiden pink and late meadow sweet ; and then the 
 hop vine and meadow saffron proclaimed that summer 
 was over. But ferns had their representatives at all 
 times. 
 
 Summer was over ; and no chance for Eleanor's sailing 
 had yet presented itself. Preparations were all made ; 
 and the two ladies lived on in waiting and in the enjoy- 
 ment of each other, and doubtless with a mixture of 
 thoughts that were not enjoyment. But a very sweet 
 even glow of love and peace and patience filled the 
 house. Letters were written and once and again let- 
 ters had arrived, even from Air. Rhys. They told of 
 everything going on at his staticm ; of his work and 
 pleasures ; of the progress the truth was making ; and 
 the changes coming even while he looked, upon the pop 
 ulation of the islands, their manners and character. 
 There never were letters, I suppose, more thoroughly 
 read and studied and searched out in every detail, tlian 
 
204 IHJE OLD HELMBT. 
 
 all those letters were by Eleanor ; for every fact was of 
 importance to her ; and the manner of every word told 
 her something. They told her what made her eyes fill 
 and her pulse beat quick. But among them there was 
 not a word to herself. No, and not even a woi'd about 
 herself. In vain Eleanor hoped for it and searched for 
 't. There was not even an allusion that" looked her way. 
 " Do you want to know what I am doing ?" Mr. Rhys 
 wrote in one of these letters. " You see by my date 
 that I am not in the place I last wrote from. I am alone 
 on this island, which has never had a resident missionary 
 and which has people enough that need the care of one; 
 so it has been decided that I should pitch my tent here 
 for some months. There is not a large population — not 
 quite five hundred people in the whole island ; but almost 
 all of them that are grown up are professing Christians 
 — members of the church, and not disgracing their pro- 
 fession. The history of the church in this place is won- 
 derful and even of romantic interest. One of their chiefs, 
 being in another part of Fiji, fell in with a chief who 
 was a Christian. From him he learned something of the 
 new religion, and carried back to Ono thus nauch of 
 truth — that Jehovah is th5 only God and that all wor- 
 ship and praise is his due. Further than this, and the 
 understanding that the se\enth day should be especially 
 spent in his service, the Ono chief knew nothing. Was 
 not that a little seed for a great tree to grow from ? 
 But his island had just been ravaged by disease and by 
 war ; in their distress the people had applied in vain to 
 their old gods to save them ; they were convinced now 
 from what they heard that help is in the Lord alone, and 
 they resolved to seek him. But thej knew not the Lord, 
 nor his ways, and there was no one to teach them. Fancy 
 that company of heathens renouncing heathenism — se^ 
 ting apart the seventh day for worship, preparing food 
 befoi-ehand so that the day might be hallowed, putting 
 
IN WAITING. 205 
 
 on their best drosses and fresh oil, and meeting to seek 
 the unknown God 1 Oh kingdom of Chrisi, come, 
 come ! — 
 
 " When they were met, they did not know how to 
 begin their service. However, as old custom referred 
 them to their priests for intercourse with heaven, they 
 bethought them to apply td one now, and told him what 
 'tliey wanted. I do not understand what influenced the 
 man ; but however, heathen pi'iest of a heathen god as he 
 was, he consented to officiate for this Christian service. 
 The priest came ; the assembly sat down ; and the priest 
 ma(le a prayer, after this fashion as it has been reported 
 to me. -He did not then renounce heathenism, you un- 
 derstand. 
 
 " Lord, Jehovah ! here are thy people ; they worship 
 thee. I turn my back on thee for the present, and am 
 on another tack, worshipping another god. But do thou 
 bless these thy people ; keep them from harm, and do 
 them good." 
 
 Tiiat was the beginnings and doubtless the Lord 
 hearkened and heard it. For awhile they went on as 
 they had begun ; then wanting sometliing more, they sent 
 messengers to Tonga to beg for teachers. Now, as I 
 said, the people are nearly all Christians, and not in name 
 only; and all the children are brought to be taught. Here 
 am I ; don't you think I am in a good place? But I am 
 here only for a little while ; more cannot be spared to so 
 small a population at this time. 
 
 " To get here one has to shoot something such a gulf 
 as I described to you at Vulatiga. The barrier reef has 
 a small opening. At particular times of tide a boat can 
 go through ; but with the rush of waves from without, 
 meeting the tremendous cun-ent from within, it is an ex 
 citini>- business ; somewhat dangerous as well as fearful. 
 The ships cannot get inside the barrier. The night I 
 came, canoes came out to meet me, bringing a present 
 
206 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 ot yams as their contribution to our fund ; they brought 
 as many as the vessel could find room for. In the canoe 
 with the Ono people I felt myself with friends ; I ha(l 
 visited the place before, and they knew^ me. The current 
 made fearfully hard work for them ; but it was love's 
 labour ; they felt about me, I suppose, something as the 
 Galatians did towai-ds Paul. The next day was Sunday. 
 I preached to an attentive congregation, and had a happy ^ 
 time. Now I will give you a notion of my run of em- 
 ployments at the present time. 
 
 First. Playing bookbinder. Fact. One has to play 
 all sorts of things here — and the more the better ! My 
 work was to stitch, fold, (fold fii'st) and cover, so many 
 copies of the New Testament as I had brought with me 
 — printed, but in sheets. I did them strong ! more than 
 that I will not answer for ; but I wish I could send you 
 a copy. It would be only a curiosity in art, though ; 
 you could not read it. It is an admii-able translation in 
 Fijian. As I have had but very slight previous practice 
 in bookbinding, my rate of progress was at first some- 
 what slow ; and after a few days of solitary labour I 
 was glad to accept the ofier of help from four or five na- 
 tive apprentices — some of our local preachers. They 
 took to the work kindly ; and in five weeks we finished 
 the edition — sixty copies. I could do the next sixty 
 quicker. These are the first Fijian testaments in Ono, 
 and you can understand — or you cannot — what a trea- 
 sure. The natives who came to purchase them found no 
 fault with the binding, I assure you. So you see I have 
 been bookseller as well as the other thing ; and I received 
 pay (or my testaments in sinnet— yon know what that is. 
 It is as good as money for the mission use here in tFiji. 
 During these bookbinding weeks I was making excur- 
 sions hither and thither, to preach and baptize. Twice 
 a week I took a time to see the loo.il preachers and teachers 
 Bad examine them and hear them read and talk to them 
 
IN WAITING. 207 
 
 and be talked to by them. Every Tuesday and Friday 
 I did this. Tiie whole course of the week's work is now 
 something like the following : 
 
 " Sunday begins with a prayer-meeting. Afterwards 
 old and young have a catechism exercise together. Morn- 
 ing and afternoon, preaching. 
 
 •' Monday, the morning there is a children's school, and 
 ' the afternoon a school for grown people. I question 
 both classes on the sermons of the preceding day ; and 
 I hope English people have as good memories. The 
 afternoon school is followed by a prayer-meeting. Tues- 
 days and Fridays I have the teachers' meeting in addi- 
 tion. 
 
 " Wednesday I preach, have leaders' meeting, and 
 give out work for the week to come. 
 
 " Thursdays, preaching at one of the neighbouring 
 towns, and a sort of young class-meeting. 
 
 " Friday I have said what I do. 
 
 " Saturday has a prayer-meeting. 
 
 " So much for the regular work. Then there are the 
 sick to look alter, and my own private studies ; and there 
 is not a minute to spare. A few that cannot be spared 
 are claimed by the mosquitos, which hold their high 
 court and revel her*' at Ono ; of all places on the earth 
 that I know, their headquarters. When I was here be- 
 fore with Brother Lefferts and others, two of them could 
 not sit still to read something that wanted to be read ; 
 they walked the floor, one holding the candle, the other 
 the paper ; both fighting mosquitos with both hands. I 
 am of a less excitable temperament — for I contrive to 
 live a little more quietly. 
 
 '' Shall I tell you some of these native testimonies of 
 Christians who a little while ago worshipped idols ? At 
 our lo^■e-feast lately some thirty or forty spoke. They 
 did my heart good. So may they yours. These people 
 
208 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 Baid but few words, full of feeling ; my report ci.nnot at 
 all give the effect. I wish it could. 
 
 " One old chief who could hardly speak for feeling, 
 paid, ' These are new things to me in tlie-e days ;' (ho 
 meant the love-feasts) 'I did not know i hem formerly. 
 My soul is humbled. I rejoice greatly in the Lord. I 
 rejoice greatly for sending his servants.' 
 
 " A Tongan teacher — ' I desire that God may rule over 
 me,' (i. e. direct me) ' I desire not to govern myself. I 
 know that I am a child of God : I know that God is 
 my father. My friends wrote for me to go to Tonga ; 
 but I wondered at it. I wish to obey the Father of my 
 soul.' 
 
 " A local preacher — ' I know that God is near, and 
 helps me sometimes in my work. I love all men. I do 
 not fear death ; one thing I fear, the Lord." 
 
 " Leva Soko, a female class-leader, a very holy wo- 
 man, said, — this is but a part of what she said, — ' My 
 child died, but I loved God the more. My body has 
 been much afflicted, but I love him the more. I know 
 that death would only unite me to God.' 
 
 "A teacher, a native of Ono, who had gone to a much 
 less pleasant place to preach the gospel, and was home 
 on a visit, spoke exceedingly well. ' I did not leave Ono 
 that I might have more food. I desired to go that I 
 might preach Christ. I was struck with stones twice 
 while in ray own house ; but I coidd bear it. When the 
 canoes came, they pillaged my garden ; but my mind 
 was not pained at it : I bore it only.' 
 
 " A local preacher — ' I am a very bad man ; there is 
 no good thing in me ; but I know the love of God. 
 There are not two great things in my mind ; there is one 
 only, — the love of God for the sake of Christ. I know 
 that I am a cliild of God. I wish to repent and believe 
 every day till I die.' 
 
 " These are but a specimen, my dear friend. The 
 
IN WAITING. 209 
 
 •Jtlier (lay in our teachers' meeting we ware reading the 
 nineteenth chapter of John. An old teacher read the 
 eighteenth verse in his turn — the words, * Where they 
 crucified liim, and two other with him, on either side 
 one, and Jesus in the midst.' He could hardly get 
 through it, and then burst into tears and wept aloud. 
 This man was a cannibal once. And now his life speaka 
 for the truth of his tears. 
 
 " Good night. The mosquitos are not favourable to 
 epistle writing. I am well. Remember me, as I re^ 
 member you." R. R. 
 
 " Aunt Caxton," said Eleanor after reading this letter 
 for the second or third time, — " have we a supply of 
 mosquito netting amono; my boxes? I could get the bet- 
 ter of the mosquitos, I think.'' 
 
 " How would you like to help bind books ?" said Mrs. 
 Caxton. " Or translate ? Mr. Rhys seems to be about 
 that business, by what he sajs in the other letter." 
 
 " He would not want help in that," said Eleanor, mus- 
 ing and flushing. " Aunt Caxton — is it foolish in me to 
 wish I could hear once more from Mr. Rhys before I go ?" 
 
 " Only a little foolish, my love ; and very natural." 
 
 " Then why is it foolish ?" 
 
 " Because reason would tell you that it is simply im 
 possible your letters could receive an answer by this 
 time. They have perhaps but barely got to Mr. Rhys 
 this minute. And reason would tell you further that 
 there is no ground for supposing he is in any diiferent 
 mind from that expressed when he wrote to you." 
 
 " But — you know — since then he does not say one 
 word about it, nor about me," said Eleanor flushing 
 pretty deep. 
 
 " Thore is reason for that, too. He would not allow 
 himself to indulge hope ; and therefoi e he would not act 
 
110 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 as ]f he bad any. That sight of you at Brighton threw 
 him off a good deal, I judge." 
 
 " He told you he saw me ?" 
 
 " He wrote to me about it." 
 
 " Did he tell you how he saw me ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " What more ?" 
 
 "He said he thought there was little channe I would 
 have any use for his letters ; he saw the world was clos- 
 ing its nets around you fast : how far they were already 
 successful he could not know ; but he was glad he had 
 seen what forbade him in time to indulge vain antici- 
 pations." 
 
 " Oh aunt Caxton !" said Eleanor — " Oh aunt Caxton I 
 what a strange world this is, for the way people's lives 
 cross each other, and the work that is done without peo- 
 ple's knowing it ! If you knew — what that meeting 
 cost me ! — " 
 
 " My dear child ! I can well believe it." 
 
 " And it aroused Mr. Carlisle's suspicions instantly, I 
 knew. If I made any mistake — if I erred at all, in my 
 behaviour with regard to him, it was then and in conse- 
 quence of that. If I had faltered a bit then — looked 
 grave or hung back from what was going on, I should 
 have exposed niysetf to most cruel interpretation. I could 
 not risk it. I threw myself right into whatever presented 
 itself — went into the whirl— welcomed everybody and 
 everything— only, I hoped, with so general and impartial 
 a welcome as should prove I preferred none exclu- 
 sively." 
 
 Eleanor stopped and the tears came into her eyes. 
 
 " My child! if I had known what danger you were in, 
 I should have spent even more time than I did in praying 
 for you." 
 
 " I suppose I was in danger," said Eleanor thought 
 
IN WAITING. 211 
 
 fii'.ly. " It was a difficult winter. Tlien do you think — i 
 Mr. Rhys gave me up ?" 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Caxton smilino'. " You remember 
 be wrote to you after thnt, fi'om Fiji; but I suppose he 
 tried to make himself gi\ e you up, as far as hope went." 
 
 " For all that appears, I may be here long enough yet 
 to have letters before I go. We have heard of no o]> 
 portunity that is likely to present itself soon. Aunt 
 Caxton, if my feeling is foolish, why is it natural ?" 
 
 " Because you are a woman, my dear." 
 
 " And foolish ?" 
 
 " Not at all ; but feeling takes little counsel of reason 
 in some cases. I am afraid you will find that out again 
 before you get to Mr. Rhys — after that, I do not think 
 you will." 
 
 The conversation made Eleanor rather more anxious 
 than she had been before to hear of a ship; but October 
 and November passed, and the prospect of her voyage 
 was as misty as ever. 
 
 Again and again, all summer, both she and Mrs. Cax- 
 ton had written begging that Mrs. Powle would make a 
 Fisit to Plassy, and bring or send Julia. In vain. Mrs, 
 Powle would not come. Julia could not. 
 
CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 " A wild dedication of youraelvw 
 To nnpatbM waters, nndTeam'd shores ; most certaia, 
 To miseries enough,'* 
 
 In a neat plain drawing-room in a plain part of Lon- 
 don, sat Mrs. Caxton and Eleanor. Eleanor however 
 Boon left her seat and took post at the window ; and 
 silence I'eigned in the room unbroken for some length of 
 time except by the soft rustle of Mrs. Caxton's work. 
 Her fingers were rarely idle. Nor were Eleanor's hands 
 often empty ; .but to-day she stood still as a statue before, 
 the window, while now and then a tear softly rolled 
 down and dropped on her folded hands. There were no 
 signs of the tears however, when the girl turned round 
 with the short announcement, 
 
 " She's here." 
 
 Mrs. Caxton looked up a little bit anxiously at her 
 adopted child ; but Eleanor's face was only still and pale. 
 The next moment the door opened, and for all the world 
 as in old times the fair face and fair curls of Mrs. Powlo 
 appeared. Just the same; unless just now she appeared 
 a trifle frightened. The good lady felt so. Two fanat- 
 ics. She hardly knew how to encounter thfim. And 
 then, her own action, though she could not certainly 
 have called it fanatical, had been peculiai', and might be 
 judged divers ways. Moreover, Mrs. Powle was Elea- 
 nor's mother. 
 
 There was one in the company who remembered that ; 
 
IN MEETINGS. 213 
 
 * 
 
 witness the still close embr&ce which Eleanor threw 
 around her, and the still hiding of the girl's face on her 
 mother's bosom. Mrs. Powle returned the embrace 
 heartily enough ; but when Eleanor's motionless clasp 
 had lasted as long as she knew how to do anything with 
 it and longer than she felt to be graceful, Mrs. Powlo 
 whispered, 
 
 " Won't you introduce me to your aunt, my dear, — if 
 this is she." 
 
 Eleanor released her mother, but sobbed helplessly for 
 a few minutes ; then she raised her head and threw off 
 her tears ; and there was to one of the two ladies an 
 exquisite grace in the way she performed the required 
 office of making them known to each other. The gen- 
 tleness of a chastened heart, the strength of a loving 
 one, the dignity of an humble one, made her face and 
 manner so lovely that Mrs. Caxton involuntarily wished 
 Mr. Rhys could have seen it. " But he will have chance 
 enough," she thought, somewhat incongruously, as she 
 met and returned her sister-in-law's gi-eetings. Mrs. 
 Powle made them with ceremonious respect, not make 
 believe, and with a certain eagerness which welcomed a 
 diversion from Eleanor's somewhat troublesome agita- 
 tion. Eleanor's agitation troubled no one any more, 
 however ; she sat down calm and quiet ; and Mrs. Powle 
 had leisure, glancing at her from time to time, to get into 
 smooth sailing intercourse with Mrs. Caxton. She took 
 off her bonnet, and talked about indifferent things, and 
 sipped chocolate ; for it was just luncheon time. Ever 
 and anon her eyes came back to Eleanor; evidently as 
 to something which troubled her and which puzzled her ; 
 and Mrs. Caxton saw, which had also the effect of irrita- 
 tion too. Very likely, Mrs. Caxton thought! Con- 
 science on one hand not satisfied, and ambition on the 
 other hand disappointed, and Eleanor the point of meet- 
 ing for both imeasy feelings to concentrate their forces. 
 
214 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 It would come out in words soon, Mrs. Caxton kuew 
 But how lovely Eleanor seemed to her. There was not 
 even a cloud upon her brow now ; fair as it was pure and 
 strong. 
 
 " And so you are going ?" Mrs. Powle began at last, 
 in a somewhat constrained voice. Eleanor smiled. 
 
 " And when are you going V 
 
 " My letter said. Next Tuesday the ship sails." 
 
 " And pray, Eleanor, you are not going alone ?" 
 
 " No, mamma. A gentleman and his wife are going 
 the whole voyage with me." 
 
 "Who are they?" 
 
 " A Mr. Amos and his wife." 
 
 " What are they then ? missionaries ?" 
 
 " Tes, ma'am." 
 
 " Going to that same place ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am — very nicely for me." 
 
 " Pray how long do you expect the voyage will take 
 you ?" 
 
 " I am not certain — ^it is made, or can be made, in four 
 or five months ; but then we may have to stop awhile at 
 Sydney." 
 
 "Sydney? what Sydney ? Where is that ?" 
 
 " Australia, mamma," said Eleanor smiling. " New 
 South Wales. Don't you know ?" 
 
 "Australia/ Are you going there? To Botany 
 Bay ?" 
 
 " No, mamma ; not to Botany Bay. And I only take 
 Australia by the way. I go further." 
 
 " further than Botany Bay ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " Well certainly, ' said Mrs. Powle with an accent of 
 restrained despair, " the present age is enterprising be- 
 yond what was ever known in my young days. What 
 do you think, sister Caxton, of a young lady taking a 
 voyage five months long after her husband, instead of 
 
IN MEETINGS. 21* 
 
 hfcr husband taking it for her? He ought to be a grate- 
 ful man, I think !" 
 
 " Certainly ; but not too grateful," Mrs. Gaxton 
 answered composedly ; '• for in this case necessity altera 
 the rule." 
 
 "I do not understand such necessities," said Mrs. 
 Powle ; " at least if a thing cannot be done properly, I 
 should say it was better not to do it at all. However, I 
 suppose it is too Lite to speak now. I would not have 
 my daughter hold herself so lightly as to confer such an 
 honour on any man ; but I gave her to you to dispose of, 
 so no doubt it is all right. I hope Mr. What's-his-name 
 is worthy of it." 
 
 " Mamma, let me give you another cup of chocolate," 
 said Eleanor. And she served her with the chocolate 
 and the toast and the hung beef, in a way that gave Mrs. 
 Caxtoii's heart a feast. There was the beautiful calm 
 and high grace with which Eleanor used to meet her 
 social difficulties two years ago, and baffle both her trialfj 
 and her tempters. Mrs. Caxton had never seen it called 
 for. Her face shewed not the slightest embarrassment 
 at her mother's words; not a shade of rising colour 
 did dishonour to Mr. Rhys by proving that she so much 
 as even felt the slurs against him or the jealousy pro- 
 fessed on her own behalf. Eleanor's calm sweet face 
 •was an assertion both of his dignity and her own. Per- 
 haps Mi-s. Powle felt herself in a hopeless case. 
 
 " What do you expect to live on out there ?" she said, 
 changing her ground, as she dipped her toast into choco- 
 late. " You won't have this sort of thing." 
 
 " I have never thought much about it," said Eleanor 
 smiling. " "Where other people live and grow strong, I 
 Bujjpose I can." 
 
 " No, it does not follow at all," replied her mother. 
 " You are accustomed to d-rtain things, and you would 
 
216 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 feel the want of them. For instance, ■will you have 
 bread like this out there ? wheat bread ?" 
 
 " I shall not want chocolate," said Eleanor. " The 
 climate is too hot." 
 
 " But bread ?" 
 
 " Wheat flour is shipped for the use of the mission fami- 
 lies," said Mrs. Caxton. " It is known that many per- 
 sons would suffer without it ; and we do not wish unne- 
 cessary suffering should be undergone." 
 
 " Have they cows there ?" 
 
 " Mamma !" said Eleanor laughing. 
 
 " Well, have they ? Because Miss Broadus or some- 
 body was saying^ the other day, that in New Zealand 
 they never had them till we sent them out. So I won- 
 dered directly whether they had in this place." 
 
 " I fancy not, mamma. You will have to think of me 
 as drinking my tea without cream." 
 
 " So you will take tea there with you ?" 
 
 " Why liot ?" 
 
 " I have got the impression," said Mrs. Powle, 
 " somehow, that you would do nothing as other peo 
 pie do. You win diink tea, will you ? I'll give you a 
 box." 
 
 " Thank you, mamma," said Eleanor, but the colour 
 flushed now to the roots of her hair, — "aunt Caxton haa 
 given me a great stock already." 
 
 " And coffee ?" 
 
 " Yes, mamma — for great occasions — and concentrated 
 milk for that." 
 
 " Do tell me what sort of a place it is, Eleanor." 
 
 " It is a great many places, mamma. It is a great 
 many islands, large and small, scattered over some hun- 
 dreds of miles of ocean ; but they are so many and so 
 near each other often, and so surrounded with interlac- 
 ing coral reefs, that navigation there is in a kind of net- 
 work of chaimels. The islands are of many varittres, 
 
IN MEETINGS. 217 
 
 »nd of fahy land beauty ; rich in vegetation and in aU 
 sorts of natural stores." 
 
 " Not cows." 
 
 " No, raa'am. I meant, the things that grow out jf 
 the ground," said Eleanor smiling again. " Cows and 
 steep and horses are not among them." 
 
 "Nor horses either? How do you go when you 
 travel ?" 
 
 " In a canoe, I suppose." 
 
 " With savages ?" exclaimed Mrs. Powle. 
 
 " Not necessarily. Many of them are Christians." 
 
 « The natives ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " Then I don't see what you are going for. Those 
 that are Christians already might teach those that are 
 uot. But Eleanor, who will marry you ?" 
 
 A bright rose-colour came upon the girl's cheeks. 
 "Mamma, there are clergymen enough there." 
 
 " Clergymen ? of the Church ?" 
 
 " I beg your pardon, mamma ; no. That is not essen- 
 tial ?" 
 
 " Well, that is as you look at things. I know you and 
 my sister Caxton have wandered away, — but for me, I 
 should feel lost out of the Church. It would be very 
 essential to me. Are there no Church people in the 
 islands at all ?" 
 
 " I believe not, mamma." 
 
 " And what on earth do you expect to do there, Elea- 
 nor ?" 
 
 " I cannot tell you yet, mamma ; but I understand 
 everybody finds more than enough." 
 
 " What, pray ?" 
 
 " The general great business, you know, is to carry 
 light to those that sit in darkness." 
 
 " Yes, but you do not expect to preach, do you ?" 
 Eleanor smiled, she could not help it, at the bewildered 
 
 VOL. II. 10 
 
218 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 lir with which this question was put. "I don't know 
 mamma. Do not you think I could preach to a class 
 of children ?" 
 
 " But Eleanor ! such horrid work. Such work for 
 you !" 
 
 " Why, mamma ?" 
 
 " Why ? With your advantages and talents and edu 
 cation. Mr. — no matter who, but who used to be a good 
 judge, said that your talents would give anybody else's 
 talents enough to do ; — and that you should throw them 
 away upon a class of half-naked children at the anti- 
 podes !" 
 
 "There will be somebody else to take the benefit of them 
 first," Mrs. Caxton said veiy composedly. " I rather 
 think Mr. Rhys will see to it that they are not wasted." 
 
 " Mamma, I think you do not understand this matter," 
 Eleanor said gently. " Whoever made that speech flat- 
 tered me ; but I wish my talents were ten times so much 
 as they are, that I might give them to this work." 
 
 "To this gentleman, you mean!" Mrs. Powie said 
 tartly. 
 
 A light came into Eleanor's eyes ; she was silent a 
 minute and then with the colour rising all over her face 
 she said, " He is abundantly worthy of all and much 
 more than I am." 
 
 " Well I do not understand this rtiatter, as you said," 
 Mrs. Powle answered in some discomfiture. " Tell me 
 of something I do understand. What society will you 
 have where you are going, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " I shall be too busy to have much time for society, 
 mamma," Eleanor answered good-humouredly. 
 
 " No such thing — you will want it all the more. Sister 
 Caxton, is it not so ?" 
 
 " PooplsS do not go out there without consenting to 
 forego many things," Mrs. Caxton answered ; "but thero 
 is One \\ ho has promised to be w th Lis servants when 
 
IN mjsetings. 2ia 
 
 they are about his wcrk ; and I never heard that any one 
 who had that society, pined greatly for want of other." 
 
 Mrs. Powie opened her eyes at Mrs. Caxton's quiet 
 face; she set this speech down in her mind as uncon 
 taminSited fanaticism. She turned to Eleanor. 
 
 " Do the people there wear clothes ?" 
 
 " The Christians clothe themselves, mamma ; the hea- 
 then portion of the people hardly do, I believe. The 
 climate requires nothing. They have a fashion of dress 
 of their own, but it is not much." 
 
 " And can you help seeing these heathen ?" 
 
 " No, of course not." 
 
 " Well yon are changed !" said Mrs. Powle. " I would 
 never have thought you would have consented to such 
 degradation." 
 
 " I go that I may help mend it, mamma." 
 
 " Yes, you must stoop yourself first." 
 
 "Think how Jesus stooped — to what degradation — 
 for us all." 
 
 Mrs. Powle paused, at the view of Eleanor's glisten- 
 ing eyes. It was not easy to answer, moreover. 
 
 " I cannot help it," she said. " You and I take differ- 
 ent views on the subject. Do let us talk of something 
 else ; I am always getting on something where <ve cannot 
 agree. Tell me about the place, Eleanor." 
 
 " What, mamma ? I have not been there." 
 
 " No, but of course j'ou know. What do you liva 
 in ? houses or tents ?" 
 
 " I do not know which you would call them ; they are 
 not stone or wood. There is a skeleton frame of posts 
 to uphold the building ; but the walls are made of dif- 
 ferent thicknesses of reeds, laid different ways and laced 
 together with sinnet." 
 
 " What's sinnet ?" 
 
 " A strong braid made of 'he fibre of the cocoanut — 
 of the husk of the cocoanut. It i« made of more and 
 
220 THE OLD HELMBT. 
 
 less size and strength, and is used instead of iron to 
 fasten a great many sorts of things ; carpentry and boat 
 building among them." 
 
 " Goodness ! what a p' ^ce. Well go on with your 
 house." 
 
 " That is all," said Eleanor smiling; "except that it 
 is thatched with palm leaves, or grass, or cane leaves. 
 Sometimes the walls are covered with grass ; and the 
 braid work done in patterns, so as to have a Tery artistio 
 effect." 
 
 " And what is inside ?" 
 
 " Not much beside the people." 
 
 " Well tell me what, for instance. There is something, 
 I suppose. The walls are not bare ?" 
 
 " Not quite. There are apt to be mats, to sit and lie 
 on ; — and pots for cooking, and baskets and a chest per- 
 haps, and a great mosquito curtain." 
 
 " Are you going to live in a house like that, Elea- 
 nor ?" 
 
 Mrs. Powle's face expressed distress. Eleanor laughed 
 and declared she did not know. 
 
 " It will have some chairs for her to sit upon," said 
 Mrs. Caxton ; " and I shall send some china cups, that 
 she may not have to drink out of a cocoanut shell." 
 
 " But I should like that very well," said Eleanor ; 
 " and I certainly think a Fijian wooden dish, spread with 
 green leaves, is as nice a vessel for food as can be." 
 
 Mrs. Powle rose up and began to arrange her shaw' 
 with an air which said, " I do not understand it !" 
 
 " Mamma, what are you about ?" 
 
 "Eleanor, you make me very uncomfortable." 
 
 " Do I ? Why should I, mamma ?" 
 
 " It is no use talking." Then suddenly facing round 
 on Eleanor she said, " What are you going to do for 
 servants in that dreadful place ?" 
 
 " Mr. Rhys says he has s most faithful servant — who 
 
IN MEETINGS. 221 
 
 18 much attached to him, and does as well as he can 
 desire." 
 
 " One of those native savages ?" 
 
 " He ivas ; he is a Christian now, and a good one." 
 
 Mrs. Powie looked as it' she did not know how to be- 
 lieve her daughter. 
 
 " Aren't you afraid of what you are about, Eleanor — 
 to venture among those creatures ? and to take all that 
 voyage first, alone ? Are you not afraid ?" 
 
 There was that in the very simpleness and quietness 
 of Eleanor's answer that put her negative bt-yond a 
 question. Mrs. Powle sat down again for very bewil- 
 derment. 
 
 " Why are you not afraid ?" she said. " You never 
 were afraid of little things, I know ; but those houses — 
 Are there no thieves among those heathen ?" 
 
 " A good many." 
 
 " What is to keep them out of your house ? Any- 
 body could cut through a reed wall with a knife — and 
 make no noise about it. Where is yoxir security ?" 
 
 Alas, in the one face there was such ignorance, in the 
 other such sorrowful consciousness of that ignorance, 
 that the two faces at first looked mutely into each other 
 across the gulf between them. 
 
 " Mamma," said Eleanor, " why will you not under- 
 stand me ? Do you not know, — the Eternal God is our 
 refuge !" 
 
 The still, grand expression of faith Mrs. Powle could 
 not receive ; but the speaking of Eleanor's eyes she did. 
 She turned from them. 
 
 "Good morning, sister Caxton," she said. "I will 
 go. I cannot bear it. any longt r to-day." 
 
 " You will come to-morrow, sister Powle ?" 
 
 " Yes. O yes. I'll 'be here to-moriow. I will get 
 my feelii\gs quieted by that time. Good bye, Elea- 
 Dor." 
 
222 THB OLD HELMET. 
 
 " Mamma," said the girl trembling, " when will yon 
 bring Julia ?" 
 
 " 'Now Eleanor, don't let us talk about anything more 
 that is disagreeable. I do not want to say anything 
 about Julia. You have taken your way — and I do not 
 mean to unsettle you in it; but Julia is in another line, 
 and I cannot have you interfere with her. I am very 
 sorry it is so, — but it is not my doing. I cannot help it. 
 I do not want to give you pain — " 
 
 Mrs. Powle departed. Eleanor came back from at- 
 tending her to the door, stopped in the middle of the 
 room, and her cheeks grew white as she spoke. 
 
 " I shall never see her again !" 
 
 " My love," said Mrs. Caxton pityingly, — " I hardly 
 know how to believe it possible." 
 
 " I knew it all along," said Eleanor. She sat down 
 and covered her face. Mrs. Caxton sighed. 
 
 " It is as true now as it was in the old time," she said, 
 ■ — " He that will live godly in Christ Jesus, shall suffer 
 persecution.' So surely as we walk like Christ, so surely 
 the world will call us odd and strange and fanatical, and 
 treat us accordingly." 
 
 Eleanor's head was bent low. 
 
 " And Jesus is our only refuge — and our sufficient 
 consolation." 
 
 " O yes !— but— " 
 
 " ' And he can make our silent witness-bearing bring 
 fruits for his glory, and for our dear ones' good, as much 
 as yeai-s of talking to them, Eleanor." 
 
 " You are good comfort, aunt Caxton," said the giii 
 putting her arms ai-ound her and straining her close ; — 
 "but — this is something I cannot help just now — " 
 
 It was a natural sorrow not to be struggled with suc- 
 cessfully ; and Eleanor took it t« her own room. So did 
 Mrs. Caxton take it to hers. But the struggle w;is ended 
 then and there. No trace of ii remained the next day 
 
IJS MEETINGS. 228 
 
 Eleanor met her mother most cheerfully, and contrived 
 admirably to keep her from the gulf of discussion into 
 which she had been continually plunging at her tirst visit. 
 With so much of grace and skill, and of tliat poise of hur 
 own mind which left her free to extend help to another's 
 vacillations and uncertainties, Eleanor guided the con- 
 versation ;ind bore herself generally that day, that Mi-s. 
 I'owle's sighing cominentary as she went away, was, 
 " Ah, Eleanor ! — you might have been a duchess !" 
 
 But the paleness of sorrow came over her duchess's 
 face again so soon as she was gone. Mrs. Caxton saw 
 that if the struggle was ended, the pain was not ; and 
 lier heart bled for Eleanor. These were days not to be 
 prolonged. It was good for everybody that Tuesday, 
 the day of sailing, was so near. 
 
 They were heavy, the hours that intervened. In spite 
 of keeping herself close and making no needless adver- 
 tisement of her proceedings, Eleanor could not escape 
 many an encounter with old friends or acquaintances. 
 They heard of her from her mother ; learned her ad- 
 dress ; and then curiosity was enough, without aifection, 
 to bring several ; and affection mingled with curiosity to 
 bring a few. Among others, the two Miss Bioadus's, 
 Eleanor's friends and associates at Wiglands ever since 
 she had been a child, could not keep away from her and 
 could not be denied when they came ; though they took 
 precious time, and though they tried Eleanor sorely. 
 They wanted to know everything; if their wishes had 
 sufficed, they would have learned the whole history of 
 Mr. Rhys's courtship. Failing that, their inquiries went 
 to everything else, past and future, to which Eleanor's own 
 knowledge could be supposed to extend. What she had 
 been doing through the year which was gone, and what 
 she expected the coming year would find her to do ; 
 when she would get to her place of destination,and what 
 sort of a life she would have of it when once thtre. 
 
224 THB OLD BELHBi: 
 
 Houses, and horses, and cows and sheep, were as inte^ 
 esting to these good ladies as they were to Mrs. Powle ; 
 and feeling less concern in the matter they were free to 
 take more amusement, and so no side feeling or hidden 
 feeling disturbed their satisfaction in the flow oF infor- 
 mation they were receiving. For Eleanor gratified them 
 patiently, in all which did not touch immediately herself; 
 but when they were gone she sighed. Even Mrs. Powle 
 was less trying ; for her annoyances were at least of a 
 more dignified kind. Eleanor could meet them better. 
 
 " And this is the end of you !" she exclaimed the 
 evening before Eleanor was to sail. " This is the end of 
 your life and expectations ! To look at you and think 
 of it !" Despondency could no further go. 
 
 " Not the end of either, mamma, I hope," Eleanor re- 
 sponded cheerfully. 
 
 " The expectation of the righteous shall be for ever, 
 you forget," said Mrs. Caxton smihng. " There is no 
 fall nor failure to that." 
 
 • " O yes, I know !" said Mrs. Powle impatiently ; " but 
 just look at that girl and see what she is. She might bo 
 presented at Court now, and reigning like a princess in 
 her own house ; yes, she might ; and to-morrow she ia 
 going off as if she were a convict, to Botany Bay !" 
 
 " No, mamma," said Eleanor smiling. " I never can 
 persuade you of Australian geography." 
 
 " Well it's New South Wales, isn't it ?" said Mrs. 
 '•^owle. 
 
 Eleanor assented. 
 
 " Very well. The girl that brings you your luncheon 
 when you get there, may be the very one that stole my 
 spoons throe years ago. It's all the same thing. And 
 you, Eleanor, you are so handsome, and you have the 
 manners of a queen — Sister Caxton, you have no notion 
 what admiration this girl excited, and what rtdmiration 
 she could command !" 
 
IN MEETINGS. 225 
 
 Mrs. Caxton looked from the calm face of the girl, cer- 
 tainly handsome enough, to the vexed countenance of 
 the mother ; whose fair curls failed to look complacent 
 for once. 
 
 " I suppose Eleanor thinks of another day," she said ; 
 " when the Lord will come to be admired in his sainta 
 and to be glorified in all them that believe. That will 
 be admiration worth having — if Eleanor thinks so, I 
 confess I think so too." 
 
 " Dear sister Caxton," said Mrs. Pof »le restraining 
 herself, " what has the one thing to do with the other?" 
 
 " Nothing," said Mrs. Caxton. " To seek both is im 
 possible." 
 
 " Do you think it is wicked to receive admiration ? 
 / did not think you went so far." 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Caxton, with her genial smile. " Wc 
 were talking of seeking it." 
 
 Mrs. Powle was silent, and went away in a very ill 
 hamoar. 
 
 20* 
 
CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 ** Tbe Bun came tip upon the left. 
 Out of the sea came he I 
 And be shone bright, and on tbe right 
 Went doTm into the sea.'* 
 
 And the I'uesday came, and was fair ; and tinder a 
 Dright sky tlie steamer ran down to Giavesend with 
 Eleanor and her friends on board. Not Julia ; Eleanor 
 had given up all hopes of that ; but Mrs. Caxton was 
 beside her, and on the other side of her was Mrs. Powle. 
 It was a terribly disagreeable journey to the latter ; 
 every feeling in her somewhat passionless nature was in 
 a state of fretful rebellion. The other stronger and 
 deeper characters were ready for the time and met 
 it bravely. Met it cheerfully too. The crisping breeze 
 that curled the waters of the river, the blue sky and fair 
 sunlight, the bright and beautiful of the scene around 
 them, those two saw and tasted ; with hopeful though 
 very grave hearts. The other poor lady, saw nothing 
 but a dirty steamboat and a very unpropitious company. 
 Among these however were Eleanor's fellow-voyagers, 
 Mr. Amos and his wife ; and she was introduced to 
 them now for the first time. Various circumstances had 
 prevented their meeting in London. 
 
 "A very common-looking man," — whispered Mrs. 
 Powle to Eleanor. 
 
 " I don't know, mamma, — but very good," Eleanor 
 returned. 
 
 " You are mad on goodness !" said Mrs. Powle 
 " Don't you see anything else in a man or the want of 
 
IN PARTINGS. 227 
 
 anything else ? I do ; a thousand things ; and if a man 
 is ever so good, I want him to be a gentleman too." 
 
 " So do I," said Eleanor smiling. " But much more, 
 mamma, if a man is ever so much a gentleman, I want 
 him to be good. Isn't that the more important of the 
 two ?" 
 
 " No !" said Mrs. Powle. " I don't think it is ; not for 
 society." 
 
 Eleanor thought of Paul's words — " Henceforth know 
 I no man after the flesh " — What was the use of talking ? 
 she and her mother must iiave the same vision before 
 they could see the same things. And she presently for- 
 got Mr. Amos and all about him ; for in the distance she 
 discerned signs that the steamer was approaching Graves- 
 end ; and knew that the time of parting drew near. 
 
 It came and was gone, and Eleanor was alone on the 
 deck of the "Diana ;" and in that last moment of trial 
 Mrs. Powle had been the most overcome of the three. 
 Eleanor's sweet face bore itself strongly as well; and 
 Mrs. Caxton was sti-ong both by life-habit and nature ; 
 and the view of each of them was far above that little 
 ship-deck. Mrs. Powle saw nothing else. Her distress 
 was very deep. 
 
 " I wish I had taken Julia to her !" was the outburst 
 of her penitent relentings ; and Mrs. Caxton was only 
 thankful, since they had come too late, that they were 
 uttered too late for Eleanor to hear. She went homo 
 like a person whose earthly treasure is all lodged away 
 from her; not lost at all, indeed, but yet only to be on- 
 joyed and watched over from a distance. Even then 
 she reckoned herself rich beyond what she had been 
 before Eleanor ever came to her. 
 
 For Eleanor, left on the ship's deck, at first it was hard 
 to realize that she had any earthly treasure at all. One 
 part of it quitted, perhaps for ever, with the home and 
 the country of h(;'- childhood ; the other, so far so vague, 
 
228 THM 1 D HELMET. 
 
 BO uncertainly grasped in this moment of distraction 
 that she felt utterly broken-hearted and alone. She had 
 not counted upon this ; she had not expected her self- 
 command would so completely fail her ; but it was so • 
 and although without one shadow of a wish to turn back 
 or in any wise alter her course, the first beginning of her 
 journey was made amidst mental storms. Julia was the 
 particular bitter thought over which her tears poured ; 
 but they flooded every image that rose of home things, 
 and childish things and things at Plassy. Mr. Amos 
 came to her help. 
 
 " It is nothing," Eleanor said as well as she could 
 speak, — " it is nothing but the natural feeling which will 
 have its way. Thank you — don't be concerned. I don't 
 want anything — if I only could have seen my sister ! — " 
 
 "Mrs. Amos is about as bad," snid her comforter with 
 a sigh. " Ah well ! feeling must have its way, and bet- 
 ter it should. You will both be better by and by, I 
 hope." 
 
 They were worse before they were better. For in- a 
 few hours sickness took its place among present grievan. 
 ces ; and perhaps on the whole it acted as a relief by 
 effecting a diversion from mental to bodily concerns. It 
 seemed to Eleanor that she felt them both together ; 
 nevertheless, when at the end of a few days the sea-siofc 
 ness left her and she was able to get up again, it wag 
 with the sweet fresh quietness of convalescence in mind 
 as well as in body. She was herself again. Things 
 took their place. England was behind indeed — but Fiji 
 was forward — and Heaven was over all. 
 
 As soon as she was able to be up she went upon deck. 
 Strength came immediately with the fresh breeze. It 
 was a cool cloudy day ; the ship speeding along xinder a 
 good spread of canvas ; the sea in a beautiful state of 
 life, but not boisterous. Nobody was on deck but some 
 of the sailors. Eleanor took a seat by the guards, and 
 
IN PARTINGS. 229 
 
 b»){ran to drink in vofreshment. It stole hi fast, on n^ind 
 as well as body, she hardly knew how ; only both were 
 birfced up together. She felt now a curious gladness 
 th.^t the parting was over, the journey begun, and Eng- 
 Innd fairly out of sight. The going away had been like 
 deatl>j ; a new life was rising upon her now ; and Eleanor 
 turne>\ herself towards it with the same sweet readiness 
 as the xood ship wliose head is laid upon a new course. 
 
 There is a state of mind in which the soul may be 
 aptly cahvvii the garden of the Lord ; when answering to 
 his culture a b^-ings forth flowers and fruits for his plea- 
 sure. In such a state, the paradise which ^V.dam lost is 
 half reentered 'again ; the moral victoi-y is won over "the 
 works of the dewl " which Christ came to destroy. The 
 body is dead, no doubt, because of sin ; but the spirit is 
 life, because of righteousness. The air of that garden is 
 peace ; no hurricanes blow there ; the sunshine dwells 
 therein ; the odours of sweet things come forth, and 
 make known all abroad whose garden it is. 
 
 Eleanor had sat awhile very still, very busy lookiiig 
 over into the sea, when she heard a step near her on the 
 deck. She looked up, and saw a man whom she recog- 
 nized as the master of the vessel. A rather hard-featured 
 m;m, tall and strong set, with a pair of small eyes that 
 did not give forth their expression readily. What thei-tf 
 was struck her as not pleasant. 
 
 " So you've got up !" said he, in a voice which wasleski 
 Larsh than his looks. " Do you feel better ?" 
 
 " Much better, thank you." 
 
 " Hearty, eh ?" 
 
 " Pretty well," said Eleanor smiling, " since I have gov. 
 this suit air into my lungs." 
 
 " Ah ! you'll have enough of that. 'Totli^r- lady ii 
 down jet, eh ? She has not got up." 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Are you all going to the same place?" 
 
230 THE OLP HBLMXT. 
 
 " I believe so." 
 
 "Missionaries, eh?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Think you'll get those dark fellows to listen to you ?" 
 
 "Why not?" said Eleanor brightly. 
 
 " It's all make-believe. They only want to get your 
 sxes and hatchets, and such things." 
 
 " Well, we want their yams and potatoes and fish and 
 labour," said Eleanor ; " so it is a fair bargain ; and no 
 make-believe on either side." 
 
 " Why don't you stay in the Colonies ? there is work 
 enough to be done ; people enough- that need it ; and a 
 fine country. Everything in the world that you need ; 
 a7id not so far from home either." 
 
 Eleanor made no answer. 
 
 " Why don't you stay in the Colonies ?" 
 
 " One can only be in one place," said Eleanor lightly. 
 
 " And that must always be the place where somebody 
 else is," said the captain maliciously. " That's the way 
 people will congregate together, instead of scattering 
 where they are wanted." 
 
 " Do you know the Colonies well ?" said Eleanor coolly 
 in answer to this rude speech. 
 
 " I ought. I have spent about a third of my life in 
 them. I have a brother at Melbourne too, as rich in 
 flocks and herds almost as Job was. That's the place ! 
 Thai's a country ! But you are going to Sydney ?" 
 
 " Yes." , 
 
 " Friends there ?" 
 
 " I have one friend there who expects me." 
 
 " Who's he ? Maybe I know him." 
 
 " Egbert Esthwaite is his name." 
 
 "Don't know him, though. And so you have left 
 England to find yourself a new home in the wilder 
 ness ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
IN PAETINGS. 231 
 
 " Pretty t jugh change you'll find it. Don't you find 
 it already ?" 
 
 " No. Don't you know," said Eleanor giving him a 
 good look, " when one's real home is in heaven, it does 
 not make so much difference ?" 
 
 The captain would have answered the words fast 
 enough ; but in the strong sweet eye that had looked into 
 his so full, there was something that silenced him. He 
 turned off abruptly, with the internal conviction — " That 
 girl thinks what she says, anyhow !" 
 
 Eleanor's eyes left contemplating the waters, and were 
 busy for some time with the book which had Iain in her 
 lap until her colloquy with the captain. Somebody cam* 
 and sat down beside her. 
 
 " Mr. Amos ! I am glad to see you," said Eleanor. 
 
 " I am glad to see you, sister," he replied ; " and glad 
 to see you able to be here. You look well again." 
 
 "01 am." 
 
 " Mrs. Amos cannot raise her head. What are you 
 iloing ? — if I may ask so blunt a question upon so short 
 an acquaintance." 
 
 " This is the first time I have been on deck. I was 
 studying the sea, in the first place ; — and then something 
 drove me to study the Bible." 
 
 " Ah, we are diiven to that on every hand," he an- 
 swered. " Now go on, and tell me the point of your 
 studies, will you ?" 
 
 There was something in the utmost genial and kind in 
 his look and way ; he was not a person from whom one 
 would keep back anything he wanted to know ; as also 
 evidently he was not one to ask anything he should not. 
 The request did not even startle Eleanor. She looked 
 thoughtfully over tlie heaving sea while she answered. 
 
 " I had been taking a great new view of the glory of 
 creation —over the ship's side here. Then I had the sor- 
 row to find — or f")!""-— that we have an unbeliever in our 
 
232 THEOLDHBLMBT. 
 
 eaptain. From that, I suppose, I took hold of Paul's 
 reasoning — how without excuse people are in unbelief; 
 how the invisible things of God from the creation of the 
 world are clearly seen, beitg understood by the things that 
 are made ; even his eternal power and Godhead. And 
 those glorious last words were what my heart fixed 
 upon." 
 
 " 'His eternal power and Godhead.'" 
 
 Eleanor looked round without speaking ; a look full 
 of the human echo to those words; the joy of weakness, 
 the strength of ignorance, the triumph of humility. 
 
 " What a grand characterizing Paul gives in those 
 other words," said Mi-. Amos — ' the King eternal, im- 
 mortal, invisible, the only wise God.' Unto him be 
 honour and glory forever !" 
 
 " And then those other words," said Eleanor low, — 
 ' ' The eternal God is thy refuge.' " 
 
 " That is a good text for us to keep," said Mr. Amos. 
 " But really, with that refuge, I don't see what we should 
 be afraid of." 
 
 " Not even of want of success," said Eleanor. 
 
 " No. If faith didn't fail. Paul could give thanks 
 that he was made always to triumph in Christ, — and by 
 the power that wrought with him, so may we." He 
 spoke very gravely, as if looking into himself and pon- 
 dering his own responsibilities and privileges and short- 
 comings. Eleanor kept silence. 
 
 " How do you like this way of life ?" Mr. Amos said 
 presently. 
 
 " The sea is beautiful. I have hardly tried the ship." 
 
 "Haven't you?" said Mr. Amos smiling. "That 
 Bpeaks a candid good traveller. Another would have 
 made the first few days the type of the whole." 
 
 And he also took to his book, and the silence lasted 
 this time. 
 
 Mrs. Amos cojtinued prostrated by sea-sickness ; uii< 
 
IN PAETINQS. 233 
 
 ab.e to raise her head from her pillow. Eleanor could 
 do little for her. The evil was remediless, and admitted 
 of very small amelioration. But the weather was very 
 fine and the ship's progress excellent ; and Eleancn- spent 
 gnat part of her time on deck. All day, except when 
 she was at the side of Mrs. Amos, she was there. The 
 Bailors watched the figure in the dark neat sea-dress and 
 cloak and the little close straw bonnet with chocolate rib- 
 bands ; and every now and then made pretences to get neai 
 and see how the face looked that was hidden under it 
 The report of the first venturers was so f ivourable that 
 Eleanor hnd an unconscious sort of levee the next day oi 
 two ; and then, the fresh sweet face that was so like a 
 dower was found to have more attractions when known 
 than it had before whun unknown. There was not a 
 hand on board but seized or made opportunities every 
 day and as often as he could to get near her ; if a chance 
 oflfered and he could edge in a word and have a smile 
 and word in answer, that man went away esteemed both 
 by himself and his comrades a lucky fellow. Eleanor 
 awoke presently to the sense of her opportunities, though 
 too genuinely humble to guess at the cause of them ; 
 and she began to make every one tell for her work. 
 Every sailor on board soon knew what Eleanor valued 
 more than all other things ; every one knew, " sure as 
 guns," as he would have expressed it, that if she had a 
 chance of speaking to him, she would one way or an- 
 other contrive before it was ended to make him think of 
 his duty and to remember to whom it was owed ; and 
 yet — strange to say — there was not one of them that for 
 any such reason was willing to lose or to shun one of 
 those chances. " If all were like she" — was the coni' 
 ment if one Jack tar ; and the rest were precisely of his 
 opinion. The captain himself was no exception. He 
 could not help frequently coming to Eleanor's side, to 
 break off her studies or her musings with some inform* 
 
284 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 tion or some suggestion of his own and have a bit of a 
 talk. His manners mended. He grew thovougbly ci-\ il 
 to her. 
 
 Meanwhile the vessel was speeding southwards. Fast, 
 fast, every day they lowered their latitude. Higher and 
 higher rose the snn ; the stars that had been Eleanor's 
 familiars ever since she had eyes to see them, sank one 
 by one below the northern horizon ; and the beauty of 
 the new, strange, brilliant constellations of the southern 
 sky began to tell her in curious language of her approach 
 to her new home. They had a most magical charm for 
 Eleanor. She studied and watched them unweariedly ; 
 they had for her that curious interest which we give to 
 any things that are to be our life-companions. Here Mr. 
 Amos could render her some help; but with or without 
 help, Eleanor nightly studied the southern stai's, watched 
 and pondered them till she knew them well ; and then 
 she watched them because she knew them, as well as be- 
 cause she was to know them all the rest of her life. 
 
 By day she studied other things ; and the days .were 
 not weary. The ocean was a storehouse of plea-sure for 
 her ; and Captain Fox declared his ship had never earned 
 such a clever passenger ; " a girl who had plenty of staff, 
 and knew what to do with herself." Certainly the last 
 piece of praise was true ; for Eleanor had no weary mo- 
 ments. She had interests on board, as well as outside 
 the ship. She picked up the sailors' legends and super- 
 stitions ; ay, and many a little bit of life history came in 
 too, by favour of the sympathy and friendliness they 
 saw in those fine brown eyes. Never a voyage went 
 better ; and the sailors if not the captain were very much 
 of the mind that they had a good angel on board. 
 
 " Well how do you like this ?" said Mr. Amos coming 
 up one day. N. B. It was the seventh day of a calm 
 in the tropics. 
 
 " I would like a wind better," Eleanor said smiling. 
 
IN PARTINGS. 23fi 
 
 " Can you possess your soul in patience ?" 
 
 " Yes," she said, but gently and with a slight intou» 
 don that spoke of several latent things. 
 
 "We are 'well on our way now, — if a wind would 
 come!" 
 
 " It will come." 
 
 " I have never asked you," said Mr. Amos. " How do 
 you expect to find life in the islands ?" 
 
 " In what respect ? In general, I should say, as unlike 
 this as possible." • 
 
 "Of course. I understand there is no stagnation 
 there. But as to hardships — as to the people ?" 
 
 " The people are part Chi'istianized and part unchris- 
 tianized ; that gives every variety of experience among 
 them, I suppose. The uiichristianized are as bad as they 
 can be, very nearly ; the good, very good. As to hard- 
 ships, I have no expectation." 
 
 " You have not data to form one ?" 
 
 " I cannot say that ; but things are so different accord- 
 ing to circumstances ; and there is so great a change 
 going on continually in the character of the people." 
 
 " How do you feel about leaving behind you all the 
 arts and refinements and delights of taste in the old 
 world ?" 
 
 " Will you look over the side of the ship, Mr. Amos ? 
 — down below there — do you see anything ?" 
 
 '• Dolphin — ," said Mr. Amos. 
 
 " What do you think of them ?" 
 
 " Beautiful !" said Mr. Amos. " Beautiful, undoubt- 
 edly ! as brilliant as if they had just come out of the 
 jeweller's shop, polished silver. How cleai the water is I 
 I can see them perfectly — far below." 
 
 "Isn't the Sda better than a jeweller's shop?" 
 
 " I never thought of it before," said Mr. Amos laugh* 
 ino- ; " but it certainly is ; though I think it is the first 
 time the comparison has been made." 
 
236. THE OLD HELMBT. 
 
 " Did you ever go to Tenby ?" 
 
 "I never did." 
 
 " Nor I ; but I have heard the sea-caves in its neigh- 
 bourliood described as moi-e splendid in their natural 
 treasures of vegetable and animal growth, than any jew- 
 eller's shop could be — were he the richest in London." 
 
 " Splendid .^" said Mr. Amos. 
 
 " Yes — for brilliance and variety of colour." 
 
 " Is it possible ? These are things that I do not 
 know." • 
 
 " You will be likely to know them. The lagoons 
 around the Polynesian islands — the still waters within 
 the barrier-reefs, you understand — are lined with most 
 gorgeous and wonderful displays of this kind. One 
 seems to be sailing over a mine of gems — only not in the 
 r-ough, but already cut and set as no workman of earth 
 could do them." * 
 
 " Ah," said Mr. Amos, " I fancy you have had advan- 
 tages of hearing about these inlands, that I have not 
 enjoyed." 
 
 Eleanor was checked, and coloured a little ; then ral- 
 lied herself. 
 • " Look now over yonder, Mr. Amos — at those clouds.'' 
 
 " I have looked at them every evening," he said. 
 
 Their eyes were turned towards the western heavens, 
 where the setting sun was gathering his mantle of pur- 
 ple and gold around him before saying good night to the 
 ■world. Every glory of light and colouring was there, 
 among the thick folds of his vapourous drapery ; and 
 changing and blending and shifting softly from one hue 
 of richness to another. 
 
 "I suppose you will tell me now," said Mr. Amos with 
 a smile of some humour, " that no upholsterer's hang- 
 ings can rival that. I give up— as the schoolboys say, 
 Yet we do lose some things. What do you say to a 
 land without churches ?" 
 
IN PAKTING8. 231 
 
 •'O it is not," said Elennov. " Cliapels are lising 
 liverywhere — in every village, on some islands ; and very 
 neat ones." 
 
 "1 am afraid," said Mr. Amos with his former look of 
 qniet humour, " you would not be of the mind of a lady 
 I heard rejoicing once over the celebration of the church 
 Bervice at Oxford. She remai'ked, that it was a subject 
 of joyful thought and remembrance, to know that praise 
 80 near perfection was offered somewhere on the earth. 
 There was the music, you know, and the beautiful build- 
 ing in which we heard it, and all the accessories. You 
 will have nothing like that in Fiji." 
 
 " She must have forgotten those words," said Eleanor 
 — " ' Where is the house that ye build unto me, and where 
 18 the place of my rest ? ... to this man will I look, even 
 to him that is poor and of a conti'ite spirit, and trem- 
 bleth at my word.' You will find that in Fiji." 
 
 " Ah," said Mi-. Amos, — " I see. My friend will 
 have a safe wife in you. Do you know, when I first saw 
 you I stood in doubt. I thought you looked like — Well, 
 never mind ! It's all right." 
 
 " Right !" said Captain Fox coming up behind them, 
 " I am glad somebody thinks so. Right ! — lying broil- 
 ing here all day, and sleeping all night as if we were in 
 port and had nothing to do — when we're a long way 
 from that. Drove you down to-day, didn't it ?" said he 
 turning to Eleanor. 
 
 " It was so hot ; I could not get a bit of permanent 
 shade anywhere. I went below for a little while." 
 
 " And yet it's all right !" said the captiiin. " I arn 
 afraid you are not in a hurry to get to the end of the 
 voyage." 
 
 Mr. Amos smiled and Eleanor blushed. The truth 
 was, she never let herself think of the end of the voy 
 awe. The thought would come — the image standing 
 there would siart up— -but she always put it aside and 
 
238 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 kept to the present ; and that wafs one reason certainly 
 why Eleanor's mind was so quiet and fi-ee and why the 
 enjoyable and useful things of the hour were not let 
 slip and wasted. So her spirits maintained their healthy 
 tone ; no doubt spurred to livelier action by the abiding 
 consciousnesa of that spot of brightness in the future 
 towards which she would not allow herself to look in 
 bewildering imaginations. 
 
 Meanwhile the calm came to an end, as all things will; 
 the beneficent trade wind took charge of the vessel again, 
 and they sped on, south, south ; till the sky over Elea- 
 nor's head was a new one from that all her life had 
 known, and the bright stars at night looked at her a8 
 strangers. For study them as she would, she could not 
 but feel theirs were new faces. The captain one day 
 shewed her St. Helena in the distance ; then the Cape 
 of Good Hope was neared — and rounded — and in the 
 Indian Ocean the travellers ploughed their way eastward. 
 The island of St. Paul was passed ; and still the ship 
 sailed on and on to the east. 
 
 Eleanor had observed for a day or two that there was 
 an unusual degree of activity among the sailors. They 
 seemed to be getting things into new trim ; clearing up 
 and cleaning ; and the chain cable one day made its ap- 
 pearance on deck, where room had been made for it, 
 Eleanor-looked on at the proceedings, with a half guess 
 at their meaning that made her heart beat. 
 
 " What is it ?" she asked C«ptain Fox. 
 
 " What's all this rigging up ? Why we expect to sea 
 land soon. You like the sea so well, you'll be sorry." 
 
 " How soon ?" 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder, in a day or two. Tou will stoj 
 in Sydney till you get a chance to go on ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I wish I could take you the whole way, I declare 
 but I would not take an angel into those awful islands 
 
IN PARTINGS. 239 
 
 Why if you get shipwrecked there, they will kill and 
 eat you." 
 
 " There would he little danger of that now, Captain 
 Fox ; none at all in most of the islands. Instead of kill- 
 ing and eating, they relieve and comfort their ship- 
 wrecked countrymen." 
 
 " Believe that ?" said the captain. 
 
 " I know it. I know instances." 
 
 " Whereabouts are you going among them ?" said he 
 looking at her. " If I get driven out of ray reckoning 
 ever and find myself in those latitudes, I'd like to know 
 which way to steer. Where's your place ?" 
 
 He was not uncivil ; but he liked to see, when he 
 could manage to bring it, that beautiful tinge of rose 
 in Eleanor's cheeks which answered such an appeal u 
 this. 
 
CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 ** AniJ Mie magic charm of foreign lands, 
 With Biiadows of palms, and Bhining ssmda. 
 Where the tumbling surf 
 O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar, 
 Washes the feet of the swarthy ' X.ascar.> — " 
 
 li was but the next day, and Eleanor was sitting at 
 nsual on deck looking over the waters in a lovely bright 
 morning, when a sound was heard which almost stopped 
 her heart's -beating for a moment. It was the cry, rung 
 out from the mast-head, " Land, ho !" 
 
 " Where is it ?" she said to the captain, who was be- 
 hind her. " I do not see it anywhere." 
 
 " You will see it in a little while. Wait a bit. K you 
 could go aloft I could shew it you now." 
 
 " What land ? do you know ?" 
 
 " Australia — the finest land the sun shines upon !" 
 
 " I suppose you mean, besides England." 
 
 " No, I don't, begging your pardon. England is very 
 well for those who can take the I'ipe side of the cherry ; 
 poorer folks had better come here, if they want anj 
 chance at all." 
 
 The lucky sailor was coming down from the mast- 
 head, and the captain went off to join those who were 
 giving him sundry rewarding tokens of theii- joy for hia 
 news. Eleanor looked over the waste of waters east- 
 ward, feeling as if her breath had been taken away. 
 
 So much of her journey done ! The rest seemed, and 
 was, but little. Australia was almost — home. And what 
 Bort of a home ? And could Mr. Rhys possibly be a; 
 
IN PORT. 241 
 
 Sydney to meet her ? Eleanor knew he could not ; yet 
 the physical possibility would assert itself in spite of all 
 the well-allowed moral impossibility. But at any rate at 
 Sydney she would find letters; at Sydney she would find, 
 perhaps very soon, the means of making the remainder 
 of her voyage; at Sydney she could no lunger prevent 
 herself from thinking. Eleanor had staved off thought 
 all the way by wisely saying and insisting to herselfj 
 " Time enough when I get to Sydney." Yes ; she was 
 Hearing home now. So deep, so engrossing, were her 
 meditations and sensations, that Mr. Amos who had come 
 up to congratulate her on the approaching termination 
 of the voyage, spoke to her once and again without be- 
 ing heard. He could not see her face, but the little 
 straw bonnet was as motionless as if its wearer had been 
 in a dream. He smiled and went away. 
 
 Then appeared on the distant horizon somewhat like a 
 low blue cloud, which gathered distinctness and strength 
 of outline by degrees. It was the land, beyond doubt ; 
 the coast of New Holland itself, as the captain informed 
 Eleanor; and going on and passing through Bass'e 
 Strait the vessel soon directed her course northward. 
 Little remained then before reaching port. 
 
 It was under a fail- and beautiful sunlight morning 
 that they were at last approaching Sydney. Mr. Amos 
 was on deck as well as Eleanor, the captain standing 
 with them; for a pilot had come on board ; the captain 
 had given up his charge, and was in command no longer. 
 Before the watching three stretched a low unpromising 
 shore of sandstone cliffs and sand. 
 
 " It is good to see it," said Mr. Amos ; " but in this 
 first view it don't shew for much." 
 
 " Don't shew for anything," said Captain Fox. " Wait 
 till we get inside the Heads. It don't shew for any- 
 thinw ; but it's the most glorious land the sun shines 
 oaP 
 
 VOL. 11. 11 
 
242 THE OliD HELMET. 
 
 " In what particular respects ?" said Mr. Amos 
 
 " In every respect of making a living and enjoying it," 
 said the captain. " That makes a good land, don't it ?" 
 
 Mr. Amos allowed that it did. 
 
 " It's the most beautiful country, if you come to that," 
 Captain Fox went on ; — " that's what Miss Powle thinks 
 of. I wish this was Melbourne we were coming to, in- 
 stead of Sydney. I'd like to have her look at it." 
 
 " Better than this ?" said Mr. Amos, for Eleanor was 
 silent. 
 
 " A better colony, for beauty and riches," said the 
 captain. " It's the most glorious country, sir, you ever 
 saw ! hundreds of square miles of it are as handsome as 
 a duke's park ; and good for something, which a duke's 
 park ain't. There's a great tract of countiy up round 
 Mt. Macedon — thirty or forty miles back into the land — 
 its softly rolling ground without a stone on it, as nice aa 
 ever you saw ; and spotted with the trees they call she- 
 oaks — beautiful trees ; and they don't grow in a wood, 
 but just stand round in clumps and ones or twos here and 
 there, like a picture ; and then through the openings in 
 the ground you can see miles off more of just the same, 
 till it gets blue in the distance ; and mountains beyond 
 all. And when you put here and there a flock of thous- 
 ands of sheep spotting the country Avith their white 
 backs — I ain't poetical, sir, but I tell you ! vi-hcn I saw 
 that country first, I thought maybe I was ; but it's likely 
 I was mistaken," said the captain laughing, " for the fit 
 has never come back since. Miss Powle thinks there's 
 as much poetry in the water as on the land." 
 
 Still Eleanor did not move to answer ; and Mr. Araos, 
 perhaps for her sake, went on, 
 
 " What is it that countiy s so good for ? gold ? oi 
 Bheep ?" 
 
 " Sheep, sir, sheep ! the gold grows in another pai-t. 
 Th<M'e'n enough of that too; but I'd as lievo make mj 
 
IN PORT. 243 
 
 money some other way. Victoria is the country foi 
 wool-growing, sir. I've a brother there — Stephen Fox 
 — he went with little more than nothing ; and now he 
 hiis a flock of sheep — well, I'm afraid to say how many; 
 but I kni vv he needs and uses a tract of twelve thousand 
 acres of land for them." 
 
 " That is being a pretty large land-owner, as well as 
 sheep-owner," Mr. Amos said with a smile. 
 
 " O he don't own it. That wouldn't do, you know. 
 The interest of the money would buy all the wool on 
 his sheep's backs." 
 
 « How then ?" 
 
 " He has the use of it, — that's all. Don't you know 
 how they work it ? He pays a license fee to Grovern- 
 ment for the privilege of using the land for a year — 
 wherever he pitches upon a place ; then he stocks it, and 
 goes on occupying by an annual license fee, until he has 
 got too many neighbours and the land is getting all 
 taken up in his neighbourhood. Then some one comes 
 along who has money and don't want the plague of a new 
 settlement ; and he sells off his stock and claim to him, 
 packs up his traf)S, pokes off through the bush with his 
 compass till he has found a new location somewhere; 
 then he comes back, pays a new license fee, and stocks 
 the new place with flocks and shepherds and begins 
 again. And I never saw in my life anything so fine as 
 one of those Victoria sheep or cattle farms." 
 
 " Why don't you go into it ?" 
 
 " Well — it's best to divide the business just now. I can 
 be of use to Stephen and he can be of use to me. And 
 I'm a little of this lady's opinion." 
 
 " How is it in this colony we are coming to ?" 
 
 " Well, they are very prosperous ; it's a good place to 
 get rich. They have contrived to get along with their 
 gold mines without ruining every other interest, as the 
 Other colonies have done foi a time. But I think Vio- 
 
244 THE OLD HELMKT, 
 
 toria is the queen of them all ; Victoria sends home 
 more wool than either of the others ; and she has gold, 
 and she has other mines ; different. She has copper 
 equal to Burra-Burra — and she has coal, within a few 
 miles of Melbourne, and other things ; but the coal is a 
 great matter here, you see." 
 
 The ship all the while was rapidly approaching the 
 Heads, which mark, and make, the entrance to the har- 
 bour of Port Jackson. They assumed more dignity of 
 elevation and feature as they were nearer seen ; the 
 rocks rising some two or three hundred feet high, with 
 the sea foaming at their foot. Passhig swiftly onward, 
 the vessel by and by doubled Bradley's Head, and the 
 magnificent sheet of water that forms the harbour was 
 suddenly revealed to the strangers gaze. Full of islands, 
 full of sailing craft, bordered with varying shores of 
 " promontory, creek, and bay," pleasantly wooded, and 
 Bpotted along its woody shores with spots of white that 
 marked where people had pretty country homes, the 
 quiet water glittering in the light ; the view to the sea- 
 tossed travellers was nothing short of enchanting. Mrs. 
 Amos had come on deck, though scarce able to stand ; a 
 quiet, gentle, sweet-looking person ; her eyes were full 
 of tears now. Her husband's arm was round her, sup- 
 porting her strength that she might keep up ; his face 
 was moved and grave. Eleanor was afraid to shew any- 
 body her face ; yet it was outwardly in good order 
 enough ; she felt as if her heart would never get back to 
 its accustomed beat. She sat still, breathlessly drinking 
 in the scene, rejoicing and trembling at once. She heard 
 Mrs. Amos's softly whispered, ' Praise the Lord !^' 
 and her husband's firm ' Amen !' It had like to have 
 overset her. She pressed her hands tight together t« 
 keep her heart still. 
 
 " They know we are coming," said the captain, 
 
 " Who ?" said Eleanor quickly. 
 
IN POET. 24fi 
 
 Mr. Amos pressed his wife's arm ; the captain's eyea 
 twinkled. 
 
 " Is there anybody there on the look-out for you ?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " I suppose there may be," said Eleanor calmly. 
 
 " Well, he lias got notice then, some hours ago," s.aid 
 the captain. " The pilot telegraphed to the South Head, 
 and from the South Head the news has gone nil over 
 Sydney and Paramatta. Pretty good-looking city, is 
 Sydney." 
 
 It was far more than that. It had been the point of 
 the travellers' attention for some time. From the water 
 up, one height above another, the white buildings of the 
 town rose and spread ; a white city ; with forts and 
 windmills, and fair looking country seats in its neigh- 
 bourhood. 
 
 " Where is Paramatta ?" said Eleanor, " and what 
 is it?" 
 
 " It's a nice little pleasure place, up the Paramatta 
 river ; fifteen miles above Sydney. Fine scenery ; it's as 
 good as going to Richmond," added the captain. 
 
 " What is that splendid large white buUding?" Mrs. 
 Amos asked, " on the hill ?" 
 
 " No great things of a hill," said the captain. " That's 
 the Government-house. Nice gardens and pleasure 
 grounds there too." 
 
 " How beautiful it is !" said Mrs. Amos almost with 
 a sigh. 
 
 " It is almost like a Scottish lake !" said her husband 
 " I remember one that this scene reminds me of at this 
 moment." 
 
 " A little of this is worth all Scotland," said the cap- 
 tain. " There's pretty much everything hiire that a mnn 
 M'ants — and not hard to come by, either. O you'll stay 
 in Sydney ! why should'nt you ? There's people enough 
 
246 THE OLD BEIiMET. 
 
 here that want teaching, worse than the savages. I do 
 olare, I think they do." 
 
 " Somebody else will have to teach them," said Mr. 
 Amos. " What an array of ships and sails of all sorts J 
 This gives one an idea of the business of the place." 
 
 " Business, and growing business," said the captain. 
 " Sydney is getting ahead »» fast as it can." 
 
 " How sweet the air is ! said Eleanor. 
 
 " Ay !" said the captain. " Now you smell green 
 things again. I'll wager you won't want to put to sea 
 any more, after you once get a firm foot on laud. Why 
 this is the very place for you. Enough to do, and every 
 luxury a man need want, at hand when your work ia 
 done." 
 
 " When is one's work done ?" said Eleanor. 
 
 " I should say, when one has worked enough and got 
 what one is after," said the captain. " That's my idea. 
 I never was for working till I couldn't enjoy." 
 
 " What are we after ? do you think — " said Eleanor 
 looking round at him. 
 
 " What everybody else is !" the captain answered 
 somewhat shortly. 
 
 " Luxury, namely ?" 
 
 " Yes ! it comes to that. Everybody is seeking hap- 
 piness in his own way ; and when he has got it, then it 
 is luxury." 
 
 Eleanor only looked at him ; she did not say anything 
 further, and turned again to the contemplation of the 
 scene they had in view. The captain bustled oif and was 
 gone a few minutes. 
 
 " I wish you'd sing, sister Powle," said Mr. Amos in 
 that interval. 
 
 " Do !" said his wife. " Please do !" 
 
 Whether Eleanor was precisely in a singing mood or 
 no, she began as desired. Mr. Amos joined her, in 
 somewhat subdued tones, and Mrs. Amos gave a stiU 
 
IN POET. 241 
 
 gentler seconding; while the rich notes of hei own 
 voice filled the air ; so mellow that their full power wag 
 scarcely recognized ; so powerful that the mellow sound 
 seemed to fill the ship's rigging. The sailors moved 
 Boflly. They were accustomed to that music. All the 
 way out, on every Sunday service or any other that was 
 held, Eleanor had served for choir to the whole com- 
 pany, joined by here and there a rough voice that broke 
 in as it could, and just backed by Mr. Anios's steady 
 support. There was more than one in that ship's com- 
 pany to whom memory would never cease to bring a 
 reminder that ' thei'e is balm in Gilead ;' for some reason 
 or other that was one of Eleanor's favouiite songs. 
 Now she gave another — sweet, clear, and wild; — the fur- 
 thest-off sailors stood still to hearken. They had heard 
 it often enough to know what the words were. 
 
 " who's like Jeaus 1 
 From sins and fears he frees us. 
 He died for yOu, 
 He died for me, 
 
 He died to set poor sinners free. 
 who's like Jesus 1" 
 
 The chorus floated all over after each verse of the 
 hymn was ended ; it went clear to the ship's bows ; but 
 Eleanor sat quite still in her old position, clasping her 
 hands fost on the rail and not moving her head. During 
 the singing the captain came back and stood behind them 
 listening ; while people on the vessels that they passed, 
 suspended their work and looked up to hear. Just as 
 the singing was finished, a little boat was seen swiftly 
 coming alongside ; and in another minute they were 
 boarded by the gentleman who had been its solitary pas- 
 senger. The captain turned to meet him. He was a 
 man rather under middle size, black hixir curling all 
 round his head, eyes quick and bright, and whole appear- 
 
248 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 ance handsome at once and business-like. He came for« 
 ward briskly, and so he spoke. 
 
 " Have you got anybody here that belongs to me ?'' 
 he said. " Captain, is there a Miss Powle on board of 
 your ship ?" 
 
 Captain Fox silently stepped on one side and made a 
 motion of his hand towards Eleanor. Eleanor hearing 
 herself called, slowly rose and faced the new-corner. 
 There was a second's pause, as the two confronted each 
 other ; then the gentleman bowed very low and ad- 
 vanced to touch the lady's hand, which however when 
 he touched he held. 
 
 " Is this Miss Powle ? Miss Eleanor Powle ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I am honoured in having such a cousin ! I hope 
 you have heard somebody speak of a Mr. Esthwaite in 
 these parts ?" 
 
 " I have heard Mrs. Caxton speak of Mr. Esthwaite — 
 very often." 
 
 " All right !" said the gentleman letting go Eleanor's 
 hand. " Identity proved. Captain, I am going to take 
 charge of this lady. Will you see that her luggage, 
 pei'sonal eifects and so on, are brought on deck ?" — then 
 turning to Eleanor with real deference and cordiality in 
 his manner, he went on, — "Mrs. Esthwaite is longing to 
 see you. It is such a pleasure to have a cousin come 
 from England, as you can but feebly appreciate ; she 
 hopes to learn the new fashions from you, and all that 
 sort of thing ; and she has been dressing your room 
 with flowers, I believe, for these three months past. If 
 you please, we will not wait for the ship's slow motions 
 but I will carry you straight to land in my boat ; and 
 glad you will be ! Will you f^ignify your assent to this 
 arrangement? — as I perceive the captain is a servant of 
 yours and will do nothing without you bid him." 
 
 " Thank you," said Eleanor^ — " I will go wiih you ;— 
 
1 H PORT. 24& 
 
 but what will be done with all my boxes in the hold ?' 
 This enquiry was addressed to the captain. 
 
 " Don't you fear anything," Sidd Mr. Esthwaitc, " now 
 you have overcome so many troubles and got to this 
 haven of rest. We will take care of your boxes. I 
 suppose you have brought enough to stock the wholi 
 Navigator's group — or Fiji, is it, you are going to ? I 
 ■R'ould go to any other one rathei — but never mind ; the 
 boxes shall be stored ; and maybe you'll unpack them 
 here after all. Captain, whiit about that luggage? — " 
 
 Eleanor went down to give directions, and presently 
 came on deck again, ail ready to go ashore. There was 
 a little delay on account of the baggage ; andmeanwhila 
 Mr. Esthwaite was introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Amos. 
 
 " I am very much obliged to you for taking care of 
 this cousin of miup," he said to them. "I am sure she 
 is worth taking care of And now I should like to take 
 care of j'ou in turn. Will you go to my house, and 
 make tis happy ?" 
 
 They explained that they were going elsewhere. 
 
 " Well, come and see her then ; for she will be want- 
 ing to see somebody. We will do the best for her wo 
 can ; but still — you know — absent friends have the best 
 claim. By the way ! didn't I hear some sweet Metho- 
 dist singing as I came up ? was it on this ship ? You 
 haven't got any Methodists ou board, captain ; have 
 you ?" 
 
 " I've been one myself, this voyage !" said the cap- 
 tain. 
 
 "I wouldn't," said Mr. EsLhwaite. "The Church 
 service is the only one to be used at sea. Every other 
 sounds — I don't know bow — incompatible. There is 
 something in the gentle swell of the rolling waves, and in 
 the gr;indenr of the riorizon, that calls for the finest 
 form of words mortals could ])ut togiither ; and when 
 you have got such a form, why not use it ?" 
 
 U* 
 
'i60 THB OLD HELMET. 
 
 " You did not like the foim of the siuging then ?" 
 said Mr. Amos smiling. 
 
 "No," said Mr. Esthwaite drily, — " it struck me tliat 
 if there had been a cathedral roof over it, one of thosa 
 voices would have lifted the rafters and gone on ; and 
 that would not have been reverential, you know. Now, 
 my young cousin ! — " 
 
 " Mr. Amos," said Eleanor aside to him and colouring 
 deeply, " if there are any letters for me at the house 
 where you are going, or at the post-office, will you send 
 them to me ?" 
 
 " T will certainly make it my care, and bring them to 
 you myself." 
 
 " I'll send for anything you want," said Mr. Esth- 
 waite. " What's that ? letters ? We'll get all there is 
 , in Sydney, and there is a good deal, waiting for this 
 young lady. I've had one floor of my warehouse half 
 full for some months back already. No use of it for my- 
 self" 
 
 At last they got off; and it was not quickly, for Ele.i- 
 nor had to give a good bye to everybody on board. Mr. 
 Esthwaite looked on smiling, until he was permitted to 
 hand her down the vessel's side, and lodged her in the 
 wherry. 
 
 " Now you are out of the ship," said he looking 
 keenly at her. " Aren't you glad ?" 
 
 " I have some good friends in her," said Eleanor. 
 
 " Friends ! I should think so. Those were salt tears 
 that were shed for your coming away. Positively, I 
 don't think a man of them could see clear to take his lust 
 look at you." 
 
 Neither were Eleanor's feelings quite unmixed at this 
 moment. She expected to se^ Mr. and Mrs. Amos 
 again; with the rest her iniercouvse was finished; and 
 it had been of that character which leaves longing and 
 tender memories behind. She felt all that now. And 
 
IN PORT. 231 
 
 she felt much more. With the end of her voyage in the 
 " Diana" came, at least for the present, an end to her 
 mward tranquillity. Now there were letters awaiting 
 her; letters for which she had wished nervously so long; 
 now she was near Fiji and her new life ; now she dared 
 to realize, she could not help it, what all the voyage she 
 had refused to think of, as still in a hazy distance of the 
 ■•xiture. Here it was, nigh at hand, looming up through 
 the haze, taking distinctness and pi-oportions ; and Elea- 
 nor's heart was in a state of agitation to which that 
 sound little member was very little accustomed. How- 
 ever, the outward effect of all this was to give her man- 
 ner even an unwonted degree of cool quietness ; and 
 Mr. Esthwaite was in a state between daunted and ad- 
 miring. Both of them kept silence for a little while 
 after leaving the ship, while the wherry pulled along in 
 the beautiful bay, passing among a crowd of vessels of 
 all sorts and descriptions, moving and still. The scene 
 was lively, picturesque, pleasant, in the highest degree. 
 
 " How does my cousin like us on a first view ?" 
 
 "It is a beautiful scene!" said Eleanor. "What a 
 gi-eat variety of vessels are here !" 
 
 "And isn't this just the finest harbour in the world ?" 
 ^ " I have heard a great deal of Port Philip," said Elea- 
 nor sniihng. " I understand there is a second Bay of 
 Naples thei'e." 
 
 " I don't care for the Bay of Naples ! We have sunk 
 all that. We are in a new world. Wait till you see 
 what I will shew you to-morrow. Now look at tliat 
 wooded point, with the white houses spotting it; those 
 are fine seats ; beautiful view and all that ; and at Syd- 
 ney you can have everything you want, almost at com- 
 mand." 
 
 " You know," said Eleanor, " that is not absolutely a 
 new experience to me. In England, we have not far to 
 seek." 
 
252 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " O you say so ! Much you know about it. Yon liavt 
 been in such a nest of a place as my cousin Caxton 
 spreads her wings over. I never was in a nest, till I 
 made one for myself. How is my good cousin ?" 
 
 The talk ran upon home things now until they reached 
 the town and landed at a fine stone quay. Then to the 
 Custom House, where business was easily despatched ; 
 then Mr. Esthwaite put Eleanor into a cab and they 
 drove away through the streets for his hoixse in the 
 higher part of the city. Eleanor's eyes were full of bu- 
 siness. How strange it was ! So far away from home, 
 and so long living on the sea, now on landing to be 
 greeted by such a multitude of familiar sounds and 
 sights. The very cab she was driving in ; the omnibuses 
 and carts they passed ; the English-cut faces ; the same 
 street cries ; the same trades. revealing themselves, as she 
 had been nccustomed to in London. But now and then 
 there came a ditference of Australasia. There would be a 
 dray drawn by three or four pair of bullocks; London 
 streets never saw that turn-out ; and then Eleanor would 
 start at seeing a little group of the natives of the coun- 
 try, dressed in English leavings of costume. Those 
 made her feel where she was ; otherwise the streets and 
 houses and shops had very much of a home air. Except 
 indeed when a curious old edifice built of logs peeped in 
 among white stone fronts and handsome shop windows ; 
 the relics, Mr. Esthwaite told her, of that not so A'ery 
 far distant time when the town fii-st began to grow up, 
 and the " bush " covered almost all the ground now occu- 
 pied by it. Eleanor was well pleased to be so busi(!d in 
 looking out that she had little leisure for talking ; and 
 Mr. Esthwaite sat by and smiled in satisfaction. But 
 this blessed immunity could not last. The cab stopped 
 before a house in George street. 
 
 " Has she come ?" exclaimed a voice as the door 
 opened ; and a head full of curls put itself out into the 
 
IN PORT. 253 
 
 hall; — " have you brought her ? Oh delightful! IIow 
 glad I am ? — -" and the owner of the curls came near to 
 be introduced, hardly waiting for the introduction, and 
 to give Eleanor tKe most gleeful sort of a welcome. 
 
 " And she was on that ship, the ' Diana,' Egbert ? how 
 nice ! Just as you thought ; and I was so afraid it waa 
 nothing but another disappointment. I was afraid to 
 look out when the cab came. Now come up stairs, 
 cousin Eleanor, and I will take you to your room. You 
 must be tired to death, are you not ?" 
 
 " Why should I ?" said Eleanor as she tripped up stairs 
 after her hostess. " I have done nothing for four months." 
 
 "Look here!" shouted Mr. Esthwaite from the hall — ■ 
 " Louisa, don't stop to talk over the fashions now — it is 
 dinner-time. How soon will you be down ?" — 
 
 " Don't mind hira," said pretty Mrs. Esthwaite, lead- 
 ing the way into a light pleasant room oveHooking the 
 bay ; — " sit down and rest yourself. Would you like 
 anything before you dress ? Now just think you are at 
 home, will you ? It's too delightful to have you here !" 
 
 Eleanor went to the window, which overlooked a 
 magnificent view of the harbour. Very oddly, the 
 thought in her mind at that moment was, how soon an 
 opportunity could be found for her to make the rest of 
 her voyage. Scarce landed, she wanted to see the means 
 of getting away again. Her way she saw, over the har. 
 hour; where was her conveyance? While she stood 
 looking, her new-found cousin was considering her; the 
 erect beautiful figure, in all the simiilicity of its dress ; 
 the close little bonnet with chocolate ribbands, the tine 
 grave fece under it, lastly the little hand which rested on 
 the back of the chair, for Eleanor's sea-glove was off. 
 Arid a certain awe grew up in Mrs. Esthwaite's mind. 
 
 " Cousin Eleanor," 'said she, " shall I leave you to 
 dross ? Dinner will be ready presently, and Egbert will 
 be impatient, I know, till you come down stairs again." 
 
254 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " Thank you. I will be but a few minutes. How 
 beautiful this is ! O how beautiful, — ^to my eyes that 
 have seen no beauty but sea beauty for so long. And 
 the air is so good." 
 
 " I am glad you like it. Is it prettier than England ?" 
 
 " Prettier than England !" Eleanor looked round 
 smiling. " Nothing could be that." 
 
 " Well I didn't know. Mr. Esthwaite is always run- 
 ning down England, you see, and I don't know how 
 much of it he means. I came away when I was so little, 
 I don't remember anything of course — -" 
 
 Here came such a shout of "Louisa! — ^Louisa!" — 
 fi-om below, that Mrs. Esthwaite laughing was obliged 
 to obey it and go, and Eleanor was left. Tlieve was not 
 much time then for anything; yet a minute Eleanor was 
 held at the window by the bay with its wooded shores 
 and islands 'glittering in the evening light; then slie 
 turned from it to pray, for her heart needed strength, 
 and a great sense of loneliness had suddenly come over 
 her. Fighting this feeling, and dressing, both eagerly, in 
 a little time she was ready to descend and encounter Mr. 
 Esthwaite and dinner. 
 
 An encounter it was to Mr. Esthwaite. He had put 
 himself in very careful order ; tfiough that, to do him 
 justice, was an habitual weakness of his ; and he met 
 his guest when she appeared with a bow of profound re- 
 cognition and appreciation. Yet Eleanor was only in 
 the simplest of all white dresses ; without lace or em- 
 broidery. No matter. The rich hair was in perfect 
 arrangement ; the -fine figure and fine carnage in their 
 unconscious ease were more imposing than anything pre- 
 tentious can ever be, even to such persons as Mr. Esth- 
 waite. He measured his young guest coi-rectly and ' at 
 once. His wife took the measure of Eleanor's gown 
 meanwhile, and privately studied what it was that mad* 
 
IN P O B T . 253 
 
 it 60 giHcefiil ; a problem she had not solved when they 
 sat down to dinner. 
 
 The dinner wms snmptnoua, and well served. Mr, 
 Esthwaite took delight e\idently in phiying his part of 
 host, a*id some pride both housekeeping and patriotic in 
 sliewitig to Eleanor all the means he had to play it with. 
 The turtle soup he declared was good, though she might 
 have seen better ; the fish from Botany Bay, the wild 
 fowl from the interior, the game of other kinds from the 
 Hunter river, he declared slie could not have known sur- 
 passed anywhere. Then the vegetables were excellent ; 
 the potatoes from Van Dieman's Land, were just better 
 than all others in the world ; and the dessert certainly in 
 its abundance of tre.isiires justified his boasting that 
 Australia was a grand country for anybody that liked 
 fruit. The growth of the tropics and of the cooler lati- 
 tudes of Eniiland met together in confusion of beauty 
 and sweetness on Mr. Esthwaite's table. There were 
 oranges and pineapples on one hand, peaches, plums, 
 melons, from the neighbouring country ; with all sorts of 
 English-grown fruits from Van Dieman's Land ; goose- 
 berries, pears and grapes. Native wines also lie pressed 
 on his guest, assuring her that some of them were as 
 good as Sauterne, and others very fair claiet and cham- 
 pagne. Eleanor look the wines on credit; for the rest, 
 Jier eyes enabled her to give admiration where her taste 
 fell short. And admiration was expected of her. Mr. 
 Esthwaite was in a great stale of satisfact'on, having 
 very much to do in the admiring way himself. 
 
 " Did Louisa keep you up stairs to begin upon the 
 fashions ?" said he, as he pulled a pineapple to pieces. 
 
 " I see you have very little appreciation of that sub- 
 ject," said Eleanor. 
 
 " Yes !" said Mrs. Esthwaite, — "just ask him whether 
 he thinks it important that his clotiies should be cut in 
 the newest pattern, and how many good hats he haa 
 
256 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 thrown away because he got hold of something new 
 that he Hked better. Just ask him ! He never will 
 hear me." 
 
 "lam going to ask her something," said Mr. Esth- 
 waite. " See here; — you are not going to tliose %ii,v8ge 
 and inhospitable islands, are you ?" 
 
 Eleanor's smile and answer were as cool as if her 
 whole nature had not been in a stir of excitement. 
 
 " What in the world do you expect to do there ?" 
 said her host with a strong tone of disapprobation. 
 " ' Wasting sweetness on the desert air' is nothing to it ; 
 this is positive desecration !" 
 
 Eleanor let the opinion pass, and eat the pineapple 
 which he gave her with an apparently unimpaired relish. 
 
 " You don't know what sort of a place it is !" he in- 
 sisted. 
 
 " I cannot know, I suppose, without going." 
 
 " Suppose you stay here," said Mr. Eathwaite ; " and 
 we'll send for anybody in the worfd you please ! to make 
 you comfortable. Si-riously, we want good people in this 
 colony ; we have got a supply of all other sorts, but 
 those are in a deficient minority." 
 
 " In that case, I think everybody that stays here is 
 bound to supply one." 
 
 " See here — who is that gentleman that is so fortunate 
 as to be expecting you ? what is his name ?" 
 
 "Mr. Esthwaite ! for shame !" said his wife. " I think 
 you are a very presuming cousin." 
 
 Mr. Esthwaite knew quite well that he was, but he 
 smiled to himself with sntisfaction to see ihe answer his 
 question had called up into Eleanor's cheeks. The rich 
 dye of crimson was pretty to behold ; her words wero 
 delayed long enough to mark either diffictilty of speak- 
 ing or displeasure at the necessity for it. J\[r. Esthvvaitu 
 did not care which it was. At last Eleanor answered 
 with calm distinctness though without facing him. 
 
IN POET. 261 
 
 " l)o you not know the name ?" 
 
 " I — I believe Mrs. Caxton must have mentioned it in 
 one of her letters. She ought, and I think she did." 
 
 An impatient throb of displeasure passed through 
 Eleanor's veins. It did not appear. She said com 
 posedly, " The name is Rhys — it is a Welsh name — ■ 
 spelled R, h, y, s." 
 
 " Hm 1 I remember. What sort of a man is he ?" 
 
 Eleanor looked up, fairly startled with the audacity of 
 her host ; and only replied gravely, " I am unable to 
 say." 
 
 Mr. Esthwaite at least had a sense of humour in him; 
 for he smiled, and his lips kept pertinaciously unsteady 
 for some time, even while he went on talking. 
 
 " I mean — is he a man calculated for savage, or for 
 civilized life ?" 
 
 " I hope so," said Eleanor wilfully. 
 
 " Mr. Esthwaite ! you astonish me!" said his wife. 
 
 Mr. Esthwaite seemed however highly amused. "Do 
 you know what savage life is ?" he said to Eleanor. 
 " It is not what you think. It is not a garden of roses, 
 with a pineapple tucked away behind every bush. Now 
 if you would come here — here is a grand opening. 
 Here is every sort of work wanting you — and Mr. Rhys 
 — whatever the line of his talents may be. We'll build 
 him a church, and we'll go and hear him, and we'll make 
 much of you. Seriously, if my good cousin had known 
 what she was sending you to, she would have wislied the 
 ' Diana' should sink with you on board, rather than get 
 to the end of her voyage. It is quite self-denial enough 
 to come here — when one does not expect to gain any- 
 thing by it." 
 
 "Mr. Esthwaite! Egbert !" cried his wife. "Now 
 you ai-e caught ! Self-denial to come here ! That is 
 what you mean by all your talk about the Colonies an<i 
 England I" 
 
t58 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " Don't be — silly, — ^my dear," said her husbaud. 
 "These people would think it so. 7" don't; but I am 
 adi^'essing myself to their prejudices. Self-denial is what 
 they are after." 
 
 " It is not what I am after," said Eleanor laughing 
 " I must break up your prejudices." 
 
 " What are you after, then. Seriously, what are you 
 going to those barbarous islands for — putting friendship 
 and all such regards out of the question ? What takes 
 you there, — without humbug? You must excuse me — 
 but you are a very extraordinary person to look at, — as 
 a missionary." 
 
 Eleanor could hardly help laughing. She doubted 
 whether or no this was a question to be answered ; dis- 
 cerning a look of seriousness, as she thought, beneath 
 the gleam in her host's eyes, she chose to run the risk of 
 answering. She faced him, and them, as she spoke. 
 
 " I love Jesus. And I love to do his work, wherever 
 he gives it to me ; or, as I am a woman and cannot do 
 much, I am glad to help those who can." 
 
 Mr. Esthwaite was put out a little. He had words on 
 his lips that he did not speak ; and piled Eleanor's plate 
 with various fruit dainties, and diank one or two glasses 
 of his Australian claret before he said anything more ; 
 an interval occupied by Eleanor in cooling down after 
 her last speech, which had flushed her cheeks prodi- 
 giously. 
 
 " That's a sort of work to be done anywhere," he said 
 finally, as if Eleanor had but just spoken. "I am sure 
 it can be done here, and much better for you. Now see 
 here — I like you. Don't you suppose, if you were to 
 try, you could persuade this Mr. Rhys to quit those re- 
 gions of darkness and come and take the same sort of 
 work at Sydney that he is doing there ?" 
 
 « Fo." 
 
 " Seems decided I — " said Mr. Esthwaite humourously 
 
IN POET. 259 
 
 looting towards his wife. " I am afraid this gentle, 
 man is a positive sort of character. Well ! — there is no 
 use in strutrgling against fate. My dear, take your 
 cousin off and give her some coffee. I will be there 
 directly." 
 
 The ladies left him accordingly; and in the pretty 
 drawing-room Mrs. Esthwaite plied Eleanor wiili ques- 
 tions relating to her voyage, her destination, and above 
 all, the England of which she had heard so much and 
 knew so little. Her curiosity was huge, and extended 
 to the smallest of imaginable details ; and one thing fol- 
 lowed another with very little of congruous nature 
 between them. And Eleanor answered, and related, and 
 described, and the while thought — where her letters 
 were ? Nevertheless she gave herself kindly to her host- 
 ess's gratification, and patiently put her own by ; and the 
 evening ended with Mrs. Esthwaite being in a state of 
 ecstatic delight with her new-found relation. Mr. Esth- 
 waite had kept silence and played the part of listener for 
 the larger portion of the evening, using his eyes and 
 probably his judgment freely during that time. As they 
 were separating, he asked Eleanor whether she could 
 get up at six o'clock ? 
 
 Eleanor asked what for ? 
 
 " Do, for once ; and I will take you a drive in the 
 Domain ?" 
 
 " What Domain ? yours, do yon mean ?" 
 
 " Not exactly. I have not got so far as that. No ; 
 it's the Government Domain — everybody rides and drives 
 there, and almost everybody goes at six o'clock. It's 
 worth going ; botanical gardens, and all that sort of 
 thing." 
 
 Eleanor swiftly thought, that it was scarce likely Mr. 
 Amos would have her letters for her, or -at least bring 
 them, so early as that ; and she might as well indulge 
 her host's fancy if not h,;i' own. She agreed to the pro 
 
B60 THJE OLD HBLMET. 
 
 posaL and Mrs. Esthwaite went rejoicing with her to hcf 
 room. 
 
 " You'll like it," she said. " The botanical gardens 
 are beautiful, and I dare say you will know a great dea 
 more about them than I do. O it's delightful to have yor 
 here ! I only cannot bear to think you must go away 
 again." 
 
 " You are very kind to me," said Eleanor gratefully, 
 " My dear aunt Caxton will be made glad to know what 
 friends I have found among strangers." 
 
 " Don't speak about it !" said Mrs. Esthwaite, her 
 eyes fairly glistening with earnestness. " I am sui-e if 
 Egbert can do anything he will be too glad. 'Now won't 
 you do just as if you were at home ? I want you to be 
 completely at home with us — now and always. You 
 must feel very much the want of your old home in Eng- 
 land ! being so far from it, too." 
 
 " Heaven is my home," said Eleanor cheerfully ; " I do 
 not feel the loss of England so much as you think. That 
 other home always seems near." 
 
 " Does it ?" said Mrs. Esthwaite, " It seems such an 
 immense way off, to me !" 
 
 " I used to think so ; but it is near to me now. So it 
 does not so much matter whereabouts on the earth 
 I am." 
 
 " It must be nice to feel so !" said Mrs. Esthwaite 
 with an unconscious sigh. 
 
 " Do you not feel so ?" Eleanor asked. 
 
 " O no. I do not know anything about it. I am not 
 good — ^like you." 
 
 " It is not goodness — not my goodness^that makes 
 heaven my home," said Eleanor smiling at her and tak- 
 ing her hands. 
 
 " But I am SHre you are good ?" said Mrs. Esthwsutfl 
 earnestly. 
 
IN PORT. 201 
 
 " Just as you are, — except for the giace of God, which 
 is free to all." 
 
 "But," said Mrs. Esthwaite looking at her as if she were 
 Bomething hardly of earth like ordinary mortals,—" I 
 have not given up the world as you have. I cannot. I 
 like it too well." 
 
 " I have not given it up jither," said Eleanor smiling 
 again ; " not in the sense y ou mean. I have not given up 
 anything but sin. I enjoy everything else in the world 
 as much as you do." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" said Mrs. Esthwaite, much 
 bewildered. 
 
 " Only thi^," said Eleanor, with very sweet gravity 
 now. " I do not love anything that my King hates. 
 All that I have given up, and all that leads to it ; but I 
 am all the more fi'ee to enjoy everything that is ■ really 
 worth enjoying, quite as wdl as you can, or any body 
 else." 
 
 " But — you do not go to parties and dances, and you 
 do not drink wine, and the theatre, and all that sort of 
 thing ; do you ?" 
 
 " I do not love anything that my King hates," said 
 Eleanor shaking her head gently. 
 
 " But dancing, and wine, — what harm is in them?" 
 
 " Think what they lead to!—" 
 
 " Well wine — excuse me, I know so little about those 
 things ! and I want to know what yon think ; — wine, 1 
 know, if people will drink too much, — but what harm is 
 in dancing?" 
 
 " None that I know of," said Eleanor, — " if it were 
 always suited to womanly delicacy, and if it took one 
 into the society of those that love Christ — or helped one 
 to witness for him before those who do not." 
 
 " Well, I will tell you the truth," said Mrs. Esthwaite 
 with a sort of penitent laugh, — " I love dancing." 
 
 "Ay, but I love Christ," fraid Eleanor; "and what. 
 
262 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 ever is not for his honour I am glad to give up. It is n« 
 cross to me. I used to like some things too ; but now 1 
 love Him ; and his vi'ill is my vi'ill." 
 
 "Ah, that is what I said ! you are good, that is the 
 reason. I can't help doing wrong things, even if I want 
 to do it ever so much, and when I know they are wrong; 
 and I shouldn't like to give up anything." 
 
 " Listen," said Eleanor, holding her hands fast. " It 
 18 not that I am good. It is that I love Jesus and he 
 helps me. I cannot do anything of myself — I cannot 
 give up anything — but I trust in my Lord and he does 
 it for me. It is he that does all in me that you would 
 call good." 
 
 " Ah, but you love him." 
 
 " Should I not?" said Eleanor, "when he loved rae, and 
 gave himself for me, that he might bring me from my- 
 self and sin to know him and be happy." 
 
 " And you are happy, are you not ?" said Mrs. Esth- 
 waite, looking at her as if it were something that she 
 had come to believe against evidence. There was gooii 
 evidence for it now, in Eleanor's smile ; which would 
 bear studying. 
 
 "There is nothing but happiness where Christ is." 
 
 " But I couldn't undei'Stand it — those places where you 
 are going are so dreadful; — and why you should go 
 there at all — " 
 
 " No, you do not understand, and cannot till you tiy 
 it. I have such joy in the love of Christ sometimes, that 
 I wish for nothing so much in the world, as to bring 
 others to know what I know !" 
 
 There was power in the lighting face, which Mrs, 
 Esthwaite gazed at and wondered. 
 
 "I think I am willing to go anywhere and do any- 
 thing, which ray King may give rae, in that service." 
 
 " To be sure," said Mrs. Esthwaite, as if adding a con- 
 vincing corollary from her own mind, — " you have some 
 
IN POET. 263 
 
 ether reason to wish to get there — to the Islands, I 
 mean." 
 
 That brought a flood of crimson over Eleanor's face; 
 she let go her hostess's hands and turned away. 
 
 " But there was something else I wanted to ask," said 
 Mrs. Esthwaite hastily. "Egbert said — Are you very 
 tired, my dear ?" 
 
 " Not at all, I assure you." 
 
 " Egbert said there was some most beautiful singing 
 as he came up alongside the ship to-day — was it you ?" 
 
 " In part it was I." 
 
 " He said it was hymns. Won't you sing me one ?" 
 
 Eleanor liked it very well ; it suited her better than 
 talking. They sat down together, and Eleanor sang : 
 
 " ' There's balm in Gilead, 
 
 To make the wounded whole. 
 There's power enough in Jeaua 
 To save a sin-aick soul.' " 
 
 And somewhat to her siirpiise, before the hymn had 
 gone far, her companion was weeping ; and kept her face 
 hidden in her handkerchief till the last words were sung, 
 
 " ' Come then to this physician ; 
 His help he'll freely give. 
 He aaka no hard condition, — 
 'Tis only, look, and live. 
 For there's balm in Gilead, 
 
 To make the wounded whole. 
 There's power enough in Jesus 
 To 'save a sin-siok soul.' " 
 
 " I never heard anything so sweet in all my life !" said 
 Mrs. Esthwaite as she got up and wiped her eyes. " I've 
 been keeping yoii up. But do tell nie," said she looking 
 at her innocently, — " are all Methodists like you ?" 
 
 " No," said Eleanoir laughing ; and then she was vexed 
 ftt herself that the laugh changed to a sob and the tears 
 
864 THB OLD HELMET. 
 
 came. Was she hysterical ? It was very unlike her. 
 but this seemed something like it. Neither could she 
 immediately conquer the strangling sensation, between 
 laughter and crying, which threatened her. 
 
 " My dear ! I'm very sorry," said Mrs. Esthwaitc. 
 " Tou are too tired ! — and it is my fault. Egbert will be 
 properly angry with me." 
 
 But Eleanor conquered the momentary oppression, 
 threw off her tears, and gave her hostess a peaceful kiss 
 tor good night ; with which the little lady went off com- 
 forted. Then Eleanor sat down by her window, and 
 with tears wet on her eyelashes yet, looked off to the 
 beautiful moonlit harbour in the distance — and thought. 
 Her thoughts were her own. Only some of them had a 
 reference to certain words that speak of " sowing beside 
 all waters," and a tender earnest remembrance of the 
 seed she hftd just been scattering. " Beside all waters" 
 — yes ; and as Eleanor looked over towards the fair, 
 peace-speaking view of Port Jackson, in New South 
 Wales, she recollected the prayer that labourei's might 
 be sent forth into the vineyard. 
 
CHAPTEH XYI. 
 
 " Know- well, my soul, God's hand controU 
 Whate'er thou fearestj 
 Sound Him in calmest music rolls 
 Whate*er thou hearest." 
 
 " That girl is the most lovely creature !" said Mrs, 
 Estliwaite when she rejoined lier husband. 
 
 " What have you been talking to her about ? Now 
 Bhe will not be up in time to take a drive in the 
 Domain." 
 
 " Yes, she will. She has got plenty of spirit. But 
 oh, Egbint ! to think of that girl going to put herself 
 in those savage islands, where she won't see anybody !"' 
 
 " It is absurd ?" said her husband, but somewhat 
 faintly. 
 
 " I couldn't but think to-night as I looked at her — you 
 should have seen her — Something upset her and set her 
 to crying ; then she wouldn't cry ; and tlie little white 
 hand she brushed across her eyes and then rested on the 
 cliair-back to keep herself steady — I looked at it, and I 
 couldn't bear to think of her going to teach those bar- 
 barians. And Iier eyes were all such a glitter with 
 tears and her feelings — I've fallen in love with her, 
 Egbert." 
 
 " She's a magnificent creature," said Mr. Esthwaite. 
 " Wouldn't she set Sydney a fire, if she was to be here a 
 little while ! But somebody has been beforehand with 
 Sydney — so it's no use talking." 
 
 Eleanor was ready in good time for the drive, and 
 
 VOL. II. " 
 
266 THB OLD HELMET. 
 
 ■with spirits entirely refreshed by the night's sleep and 
 the morning's renewing power. Things looked like. new 
 things, unlike those which yesterday saw. All feeling 
 of strangeness and loneliness was gone ; her spirits, were 
 primed' for enjoyment. Mr. and Mrs. Esthwaite both 
 watched eagerly to see the eflfeot of the drive and the 
 scene upon her ; one was satisfied, the other was not. 
 The intent delight in Eleanor's eyes escaped Mrs. Esth- 
 waite ; she looked for more expression in words ; her 
 husband was content that Eleanor's mind was full of 
 what he gave it to act upon. The Domain was an ex- 
 quisite place for a moining drive ; and the more styli-h 
 inhabitants of Sydney found it so ; there was a good 
 display of equipages, varying in show and pretension. 
 To Mrs. Esthwaite's disappointment neither these nor 
 theii' owners drew Eleanor's attention ; she did not even 
 seem to see them ; while the flowers in the woods through 
 which part of the drive was cut, the innumerable, gor- 
 geous, novel and sweet flowers of a new land, were a 
 very great delight to her. All of them were new, or 
 nearly so ; how Eleanor contrasted them with the wild 
 things of Plassy which she knew so well. And instead 
 of the blackbird and green wren, there were birds of 
 brilliant hues, almost as gay as the flowers over which 
 their bright wings went, and yet stranger tlian they. It 
 was a sort of drive of enchantment to Eleanor ; the air 
 was delightful, though warm ; with no feeling of lassi- 
 tude or oppression resulting from the heat. 
 
 There were other pleasures. From point to point, as 
 they drove through the "bush," views opened , upon 
 them of the harbour and its islands, glittering in tha 
 raoniing sun. Changes of beauty ; for every view was a 
 little unlike the others and revealed the loveliness with a 
 differeni-e. Eleanor felt herself in a new woild. She 
 was quite rea<ly for the gardens, when they got through 
 the " bush." 
 
TN VIEWS. 267 
 
 The gardens were fine. Here she Iiad a feast which 
 neither of her companions could enjoy with her in any- 
 thing like fellowship. Eleanor had not lived so long 
 with Mrs. Caxton, entering into all her pursuits, without 
 becoming somewhat well acquainted with plants ; and 
 now she was almost equally charmed at seeing her dear 
 old home friends, and at making acquaintance with the 
 glorious beauties that outshone them but could never 
 look so kindly. Slowly Eleanor went through the gar- 
 dens, followed by her host and hostess who took their 
 enjoyment in observing her. In the Botanical Gardens 
 Mr. Esthwaite came up alongside again, to tell her names 
 and discuss specimens ; he found Eleanor knew more 
 about them than he did. 
 
 " All this was a wild ' bush' — nothing but rocks and 
 trees, a few years ago," he remarked. 
 
 " This ? this garden ?" 
 
 " Yes, only so long ago as 1825." 
 
 " Somebody has deserved well of the community^ 
 then," said Eleanor. " It is a delicious place." 
 
 " General Sir Ralph Darling had that good desert. 
 It is a fine thing to be in high place and able to execute 
 great plans ; isn't it ?" 
 
 Eleanor rose up from a flower and gave Mr. Esthwaite 
 one of her thoughtful glances. 
 
 "I don't know," she said. "His gardeners did the 
 work, after all." 
 
 " They don't get the thanks." 
 
 " That is not what one works for," said Eleanor smil- 
 ing. " So the thing is done — what matter ?" 
 
 " If it isnUt done, what matter ? No, no ! I want to 
 get the good of what I do, — in praise or in something 
 ■else." ^ 
 
 " What is Sir Ralph Darling the better of my thanks 
 now ?" 
 
 " Well, he's dead !" said Mr. Esthwaite. 
 
288 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " So I was thinking." 
 
 " Well what do you mean ? Do you mean that yo« 
 would do nothing while you are alive, for fear you would 
 Dot hear of it after you have left the world ?" 
 
 " Not exactly." 
 
 " What then ? I don't know what you are after." 
 
 " You say this was all a wilderness a few years ago — 
 ■why should you despair of what you call the 'black 
 blands ?' " 
 
 " O ho !" said Mr. Esthwaite, — " we are there, are 
 we ? By a hop, skip, and jump — leaving the argument. 
 That's like a woman ?" 
 
 " Are you sure ?" said Eleanor. 
 
 " Like all the women I ever saw. Not one of them 
 can stick to the point." 
 
 " Then I will return to mine," said Eleanor laughing; 
 — " or rather bring you up to it. I referred — and meant 
 to refer you — to another sort of gardening, in which the 
 labourer receives wages and gathers fruit ; but the 
 beauty of it is, that his wages go with him — he does 
 not leave them behind — ^and the fruit is unto life eternal." 
 
 "That's fair," said Mr. Esthwaite. "See here — you 
 don't preach, do you ?" 
 
 " I will not, to you," said Eleanor. " Mr. Esthwaite, 
 I will look at no more flowers I believe, this morning, 
 since you leave the time of our stay to me." 
 
 Mr. Esthwaite behaved himself, and though a speech 
 was on his tongue he was silent, and attended Eleanor 
 home in an unexceptionable manner. Mrs. Esthwaite 
 was in a dissatisfied mood of mind. 
 
 " I hope it will be a great while before you find a good 
 chance to go to Fiji !" she said. 
 
 "Do not wish that," said Eleanor; " for in that case 
 I may have to take a chance that is not good." 
 
 " Ah but, you are not the sort of person to go 
 there." 
 
IN VIEWS. 269 
 
 *' I should be very sorry to think that," said Eleanor 
 Bniiling. 
 
 " Well it is clear you are not. Just to look at you 1 
 I am sure you are exactly a person to look always as 
 nice as you do now." 
 
 " I hope never to look less nice than I do now," said 
 Eleanor, rather opening her eyes. 
 
 " What, in that place ?" 
 
 " Why yes, certainly. Why not ?" 
 
 " But you will not wear that flat there ?" 
 
 Eleanor and Mr. Esthwaite here both gave way in a 
 fit of laughter. 
 
 " Why yes I will ; if I find it, as I suppose I shall, the 
 most comfortable thing." 
 
 " But you cannot wear white dresses there ?" 
 
 " If I cannot, I will submit to it ; but my dear cousin, 
 I have brought little else but white dresses with me. 
 For such a climate, what else is so good ?" 
 
 " Not like that you wore yesterday ?" 
 
 " They are all very much alike, I believe. What was 
 the matter with that ?" 
 
 " Why, it was so — " Mrs. Esthwaite paused. " But 
 how can you get them washed ? do you expect to have 
 servants there ?" 
 
 " There are plenty of servants, I believe ; not very 
 well trained, indeed, or it would not be necessary to 
 have so many. At any rate, they can wash, whatever 
 else they can do." 
 
 " I don't believe they would know how, to wash youi 
 dresses." 
 
 " Then I can teach them," said Eleanor merrily. 
 
 " You I To wash a cambrick dress !" 
 
 " That, or any other." 
 
 " Eleanor, do not talk so !" 
 
 " Certainly not, if you do not wish it. I was only 
 putting you to rest on the srore of my laundry woik." 
 
270 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " With those hands !" said Mrs. -Esthwaite txpre* 
 sively. 
 
 Eleanor looked down at her hands, for a moment a 
 higher and graver expression flitted over her face, then 
 she smiled again. 
 
 " I should be ashamed of my hands if they were good 
 for nothing." 
 
 " Capital !" said Mr. Esthwaite. " That's what I like. 
 That is what I call having spirit. I like to see a woman 
 have some character of her own ; something besides 
 hands, in fact." 
 
 " But Eleanor, I do not understand. I am serious. 
 You never washed ; how can you know how ?" 
 
 " That was precisely my reasoning ; so I learned." 
 
 " Learned to wash f You ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You did it with your own hands ?" 
 
 " The dress you were so good as to approve," said 
 Eleanor smiling, " it was washed and done up by my- 
 self" 
 
 "Do you expect to have to do it for yourself?" said 
 Mrs. Esthwaite looking intensely horrified. 
 
 " No, not generally ; but to teach somebody, or upon 
 occasion, you know. You see," she said smiling again 
 her full rich smile, " I am bent upon having my white 
 dresses." 
 
 Mrs. Esthwaite was too full for speech, and her hus- 
 band looked at his new cousin with an eye of more abso- 
 lute admiration than he had yet bestowed on her. Elea- 
 nor's thoughts were already on something else ; spring- 
 ing forward to meet Mr. Amos and his letters. 
 
 Breakfast was over however before he ai'rived. Much 
 to her chagrin, she was obliged to receive him in the 
 company of ]V[r. and Mrs. Esthwaite; no private talk 
 was possible. Mr. Esthwaite engaged him inimedij-tely 
 in an earnest but desultory cmnersatioii, about Sydney, 
 
IN VIE-W S. 271 
 
 Eleanor, and the mission, and the prospect of their get- 
 ting to their destination ; which Mr. Estli waite prophesied 
 would not be within any moderate limits of time. M r. 
 Amos owned that he had heard of no opportunity, near 
 or far. The t.ilk lasted a good while and it was not till 
 he was. taking leave that Eleanor contrived to follow him 
 out and gain a word to herself. 
 
 " There are no letters for you," said Mr. Amos, speak- 
 ing under his breath, and turning a cheerful but con- 
 cerned face towards Eleanor. " I have made every en- 
 quiry — at the post-office, and of everybody likely to know 
 about such things. There are none, and they know of 
 none." 
 
 Eleanor said nothing ; her face grew perceptibly 
 white. 
 
 " There is nothing the matter with brother Rhys," 
 said Mr. Amos hastily ; " we have plenty of news from 
 him — all right — he is quite well, and for a year past has 
 been on another station ; different from the one he was 
 on when you last heard from him. There is nothing the 
 matter — only there are no letters for you ; and there 
 must be some explanation of that." 
 
 He paused, but Eleanor was silent, only her colour 
 returned a little. 
 
 " We want to get away from here as soon as possible, 
 I suppose," Mr. Amos went on half under breath; " but 
 as yet I see no opening. It will come." 
 
 " Yes," said Eleanor somewhat mechanically. " You 
 will let me know — •" 
 
 " Certainly — as soon as I know anything myself; and 
 I will continue to make enquiry for those letters. Mr 
 Armitage is away in the country — he might know some- 
 thing about them, but nobody else does ; and he ought 
 to have left them with somebody else if he liad thf-m. 
 But there can be nothing wrong about it ; there is only 
 some mL=take, or mischance ; the letters from Vuliva 
 
272 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 where brother Rhys is, are quite recent and everything 
 is going on most prosperously ; himself included. And 
 we are to proceed to the same station. I am very glad 
 for ourselves and for you." 
 
 " Thank you — " Eleanor said ; but she was not equal 
 to saying much. She listened quietly, and with her usual 
 air, and Mr. Amos never discovered the work his tidings 
 wrought ; he told his wife, sister Powle looked a little 
 blank, he thought, at missing her expected despatches, 
 and no wonder. It was an awkward thing. 
 
 Eleanor slowly made her way up to her room and sat 
 down, feeling as if the foundations of the earth, to her 
 Btandiug, had given way. She was more overwhelmed 
 with dismay than she would have herself anticipated in 
 England, if she could have looked forward to such a 
 catastrophe. Reason said there was not sufficient cause ; 
 but poor Eleanor was to feel the truth of Mrs. Caxton's 
 prediction, that she would find out again that certain 
 feelings might be natural that were not reasonable. Nay, 
 reason said on this occasion that the failure of letters 
 proved too much to justify the distress she felt ; it 
 proved a combination of things, that no carelessness nor 
 indifference nor unwillingness to write, on the part of 
 Mr. Rhys, could possibly have produced. Let him feel 
 how he would, he would have written, he must have 
 written to meet her there ; all his own delicacy and bis 
 knowledge of hei's affirmed and reaffirmed that letters 
 were in existence somewhere, though it might be at the 
 bottom of the ocean. Reason fought well ; to what use, 
 when nature trembled, and shivered, and shrank. Poor 
 Eleanor ! slie felt alone now, without a mother and with- 
 out siielter ; and the fair shores of Port Jackson looked 
 very strange and desolate to her ; a very foreign land, 
 far from home. What if Mr. Rhys, with his fastidious 
 notions of delicacy, did not fancy so bold a proceeding 
 as her coining out to him ? what if he disapproved t 
 
1 IT V I B W 8 . 2'. J 
 
 What if, on further knowledge of the place and the work, 
 he had judged both unfit for her ; and did not, for his 
 own sake only in a selfish point of view, choose to en- 
 courage her coming ? in that case her being come would 
 make no difference ; he would not shelter himself from a 
 judgment displeasing to him, because the escape from 
 its decisions was rendered easy. What if for his own 
 sake his feeling had changed, and he wanted her no lon- 
 ger ? years had gone by since he had seen her ; it must 
 have been a wayward fancy that could ever have made 
 him think of her at first ; and now, about his grave 
 work in a distant land, and with leisure to coirect 
 blunders of fancy, pei'haps he had settled into the 
 opinion that it was just as well that his coming away had 
 separated them ; and did not feel able to welcome her 
 appearance in Australia, and was too sincere to write 
 what he did not teel ; so wrote nothing ? Not very like 
 Mr. Rhys, reason whispered ; but reason's whisper, 
 though heard, could not quiet the sensitive delicacy 
 which trembled at doubt. So miserable, so chilled, so 
 forlorn, Eleanor had never felt in her life ; not when the 
 ' Diana ' first carried her away from the shores of her 
 native land. 
 
 What was she to do ? that question throbbed at her 
 heart ; but it answered itself soon. Stay in Australia 
 she could not ; go home to England she could not ; no, 
 not upon this mere deficiency of testimony. There was 
 only one alternative left ; she must go on whenever Mr. 
 and Mrs. Amos should move. Nature might tremble and 
 quiver, and all Eleanor's nerves did ; but there was no 
 other cotn-se to pursue. "I can tell," she thought, — 
 " I shall know — the first word, the first look, will tell me 
 the whole ; I cannot he deceived. I must go on and 
 meet that word and look, whatever it costs me — I must ; 
 and then, if it is — if it is not satisfying to me, then 
 Buut Caxton shall have me ! I can go back, as well as I 
 12* 
 
2T4 THE OLD HELMBT. 
 
 have come. Shame and misery would not hinder mo — 
 they would not be so bad as my staying heie then." 
 
 So the question of action was settled ; but the ques- 
 tion of feeling not so soon. Eleanor's enjoyment was 
 gone, of all the things she had enjoyed those first twenty 
 four hours, and of all others which her entertainers 
 brought forward for her pleasure. Yet Eleanor kept lier 
 own counsel, and as they did not know the cause she had 
 for trouble, so neither did they discover any tokens of it. 
 She did not withdraw herself from their kind eiforts to 
 please her, and they spared no pains. They took her in 
 boat excursions round the beautiful harbour. They 
 shewed her the pretty environs of the Parramatta river. 
 Nay, though it was not very easy for him to leave his 
 business, Mr. Esthwaite went with her and his wife to 
 the beautiful Illawarra district ; put the whole party on 
 horses, and shewed Eleanor a land of tropical beauty 
 under the clear, bracing, delicious warm weather of Aus- 
 tralia. Pern trees springing up to the dimensions of trees 
 indeed, with the very fern foliage she was a(!cnstomed to 
 in low herbaceous growth at home ; only magnified su- 
 perbly. There were elegant palms, too, with other ever- 
 greens, and magnificent creepers; and floating out and 
 in among them in great numbers were gay red-crested 
 cockatoos and other tropical birds. The character of 
 the scenery was exquisite. Eleanor saw one or two of 
 tlie fair lake-hke lagoons of that district, eat of the fish 
 from them ; for they made a kind of gypsey expedition, 
 camping out and providing for themselves fascinatingly ; 
 and finally returned in the steamer from Wollongong to 
 Sydney. Her friends would have taken her to see the gold 
 diggings if it had been possible. But Eleanor saw it all, 
 all they could shew her, with ha'f a heart. She had 
 learned long ago to conceal what she felt. 
 
 " I think she wants to get away," said Mrs. Esthwaite 
 one night, half vexed, wholly sorry. 
 
IN VIEWS. 275 
 
 " That's what it is to be in love !" said her husband. 
 " You won't keep her in Sydnej'. Do you notice she has 
 given up smiling?" 
 
 " No !" said his wife indignantly ; " I notice no such 
 thing. She is as ready to smile as an) body I ever saw." 
 —And I wish I had as good reason ! was the mertal 
 conclusion ; for Eleanor and she had had many an 
 evening talk by that time and many a hymu had be( n 
 listened to. 
 
 " All very well," said Mr. Esthwaite ; " but she don't 
 smile as she did at first. Don't you remember ? — that 
 full smile she used to give once in a while, with a little 
 world of mischief in the corners ? I would like to see 
 it the next time ! — " 
 
 " I declare," said Mrs. Esthwaite, " I think you taka 
 quite an impertinent interest in people's concerns. She 
 wouldn't let you see it, besides." 
 
 At which Mr. Esthwaite laughed. 
 
 So near people came to it ; and Eleanor covered up 
 her troublesome thoughts within her own heart, and 
 gave Mr. Esthwaite the benefit of that impenetrable cool- 
 ness and sweetness of manner which a good while ago 
 had used to bewitch London circles. ' In the effort 
 to hide her real thoughts and feelings she did not quite 
 accommodate it to the difierent latitude of New South 
 Wales ; and Mr. Esthwaite was a good deal struck and 
 somewhat bewildered. 
 
 "You have mistaken your calling," he said one even- 
 ing, standing before Eleanor and considering her. 
 
 " Do you think so ?" 
 
 "There! Yes, I do. I think you were born to govern." 
 
 " I am sadly out of my line then," said Eleanor laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 " Yes. You are. That is what I say. You ought to 
 bo this minute a duchess — or a governor's lady — or some- 
 thing else in the imperial line." 
 
ilO THE OLD HELMKT. 
 
 " You mistake my Jiastes, if you think so." 
 
 " I do not mistake something else," muttered Mr. 
 Esthwaite ; and then Mr. Amos entered the room. 
 
 " Here, Amos," said he, " you have made an error in 
 judging of this lady — she is no more fit to go a mis- 
 fiionary than I am. She — she goes about with the air 
 of a princess !" 
 
 Mrs. Esthwaite exclaimed, and Mr. Amos took a look 
 at the supposed princess's face, as if to reassure or in- 
 form his judgment. Apparently he saw nothing to alarm 
 him. 
 
 " I am come to prove the question," he said com- 
 posedly ; then turning to Eleanor, — " I have heard at 
 last of a schooner that is going to Fiji, or will go, if we 
 desire it." 
 
 This simple announcement shot through Eleanor's 
 head and heart with the force of a hundred pounder. 
 An extreme and painful flush of colour answered it ; 
 nobody guessed at the pain. 
 
 " What's that ?" exclaimed Mr. Esthwaite getting up 
 again and standing before Mr. Amos, — " you have found 
 a vessel, you say ?" 
 
 " Yes. A small schooner, to sail in a day or two." 
 
 " What schooner ? whom does she belong to ? Law- 
 sons, or Hildreth ?" 
 
 " To nobody, I think, but her master. I believe he 
 sails the vessel for his own ends and profits." 
 
 " What schooner is it ? what name ?" 
 
 " The ' Queen Esther,' I think." 
 
 " You cannot go in that !" said Mr. Esthwaite turn- 
 ing off. "The 'Queen Esther' !— I know her. She's 
 not fit for you ; she's a leaky old thing, that that man 
 Hawkins sails on all sorts of petty business ; she'll go to 
 pieces some day. She ain't sga-worthy, I don't believe." 
 
 " It is not as good a chance as might be, but it is the 
 first that has oflered, and the fii-st that is likely to offer 
 
IN VIEWS. 2Y7 
 
 for an unknown time," Mr. Amos said, looking again to 
 Eleanor. 
 
 " When does she sail ?" 
 
 " In two days. She is small, and not in first-rate order ; 
 bat tlie voyage is not for very long. I think we had 
 better go in her." 
 
 " Certainly. How long is the voyage, regularly ?" 
 
 " A fortnight in a good ship, and a month in a bad 
 one," struck in Mr. Esthwaite. " You'll never get there, 
 if you depend on the ' Queen Esther' to bring you." 
 
 " "We go to Tonga first," said Mr. Amos. "The ' Queen 
 Esther^ sails with stores for the stations at Tonga and 
 the neighbom-hood ; and will carry us further only by 
 special agreement ; but the master is willing, and I 
 came to know your mind about it." 
 
 " I will go," said Eleanor. " Tell Mrs. Amos I will 
 meet her on board — when ?" 
 
 " Day after to-morrow morning." 
 
 " Veiy well. I will be there. Will she take the addi- 
 tional lading of my boxes ?" 
 ■ " O yes ; no difficulty about that. It's all right." 
 
 " How can I do with the things you have stored for 
 me ?" Eleanor said to Mr. Esthwaite. " Can the schoonei 
 take them too ?" 
 
 "What things?" 
 
 "Excuse me — perhaps I misunderstood you. I thought 
 you said you had half your warehouse, one loft of it, 
 taken up with tilings for me ?" 
 
 " Those things are gone, long ago," said Mr. Esth- 
 waite in a dogged kind of mood which did not approve 
 of the proposed journey or conveyance. 
 
 "Gone?" ■ 
 
 " Yes. According to order. Mrs. Caxton wrote, 
 Forward as soon as i)ossible ; so I did." 
 
 Again Eleanor's brow and cheeks and her very 
 throat were covered with a rush of crimson ; but whec 
 
278 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 Mr. Amos took her hand on going away its touch made 
 him ask involuntarily if she were well ? 
 
 " Perfectly well," Eleanor answered, with something 
 in her maimer that reminded Mr. Amos, though he could 
 not tell why, of the charge Mr. Esthwaite had brought. 
 Another look into Eleanor's eyes quieted the thought. 
 
 " Tour hand is very cold !" he said. 
 
 "It's a sign of" — Mr. Esthwaite would Iiave said 
 " fevei'," but Eleanor had composedly faced him and he 
 Avas silent; only busied himself in shewing Mr. Amos 
 out, without a word that he ought not to have spoken. 
 Mr. Amos went home and told his wife. 
 
 " I think she is all right," he said ; " but she does not 
 look to me just as she did before we landed. I dare say 
 she has had a great deal of admiration here — " 
 
 " I dare say she feels bad," said good Mrs. Amos. 
 
 " Why ?" 
 
 " If you were not a man, you would know," Mrs. 
 Amos said laughing. " She is in a very trying situa^ 
 tion." 
 
 " Is she ? O, those letters ! It is unfortunate, to be 
 sure. But there must be some explanation." 
 
 "The explanation will be good when she gets it," 
 Mrs. Amos remarked. " I hope somebody who is ex- 
 pecting her is worthy of her. Poor thing 1 I couldn't 
 have done it, I beheve, even for you." 
 
CHAPTEK XVII 
 
 •* But soon I heard the dash of oars, 
 I heard the pilot's cheer; 
 My head was turned perforce away, 
 And I saw a boat appear.'* 
 
 The morning came for the " Queen Esther " td sail. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Amos were on board first, and watched 
 with eyes both kind and anxious to see Eleanor when 
 she should come. The little bonnet with chocolate rib- 
 bands did not keep them waiting; and the first' smile and 
 kiss to Mrs. Amos made her sure that all was right. She 
 liad been able to see scarce anything of Eleanor during 
 the weeks on" shore; it was a refreshment to have her 
 near again. But, Eleanor had turned immediately to at- 
 tend to Mr. Esth\v:iite. 
 
 " This is the meanest, most abominable thing of a ves- 
 sel," he said, " that ever Christians travelled in ! It U 
 an absurd proceeding altogether. Why if the boards 
 don't part company and go to pieces bef )re you get to 
 Tonga — which I think they will — they don't give room 
 for all three of you to sit down in the cabin at once." 
 
 " The deck is of better capacity," Eleanor told bim 
 briskly. 
 
 " Snch a deck . I wonder you, cousin Eleanor, cau 
 make up your mind to endure it. There is not a maa 
 living who is worth snch a sacrifice. Horrid !" 
 
 " We hope it won't last a great while," Mr. Amos told 
 him. 
 
 "It won't! That's what I say. You will all be d© 
 
280 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 posited in the bottom of the ocean, to pay you for no< 
 having been contented on shore. I would not send a dog 
 to sea in such a ship !" 
 
 " Cousin Esthwaite, you had better not stay in a situa- 
 tion so disagreeable to you. You harass yourself for 
 nothing. Shake hands. You see the skipper is going to 
 make sail directly." 
 
 Eleanor with a little play in the manner of this dis- 
 missal, was enough in earnest to secure her point. Mr. 
 Esthwaite felt in a manner constrained to take his depar- 
 ture. He presumed however in the circumstances to 
 make interest for a cousinly kiss for good bye ; which 
 was refused him with a cooler demonstration of dignity 
 than he had yet met with. It nettled him. 
 
 " There was the princess," whispered Mr. Amos to his 
 wife. 
 
 " Good!" said Mrs. Amos. 
 
 " Good bye !" cried Mr. Esthwaite, disappearing over 
 the schooner's side. " You are not fit for a missionary ! 
 I told you so before." 
 
 Eleanor turned to Mrs. Amos, ignoring entirely this 
 little transaction, and smiled at her. " I hope he has not 
 made yoii nervous," she said. 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Amos ; " I am not nervous. If I did 
 not get sick I should enjoy it; but I suppose I shall be 
 sick as soon as we get out of the harbour." 
 
 " Let us take the good of it then, until we are out of 
 the .harbour," said Eleanor. " If the real ' Queen Esther ' 
 was at all like her namesake, Ahasuerus must have had 
 a disorderly household." 
 
 They sat down together on the little vessel's deck, and 
 watched the beautiful shores from which they were glid- 
 ing away. Eleanor was glad to be off. The stay at 
 Sydney had become oppressive to her ; she wanted to be 
 at the end of her journey and know her fiite ; and hope 
 and reason whispered tb"* she had reason to be glad. 
 
IN SMOOTH WATBE. 29] 
 
 For all that, the poor child had a great many slirinkinga 
 of he.irt. A vision of Mr. Rhys never came up in one 
 of its aspects, — that of stern and fastidious delicacy,- - 
 without her heart seeming to die away within her. She 
 could not talk now. She watched the sunny islands and 
 promontories of the bay, changing and passing as the 
 vessel slowly moved on ; watched the white houses of 
 Sydney, grateful for the home she had found ihere, long 
 • ing exceedingly for a home once again thai should be 
 hers by right ; hope and trcmulousness holding her heart 
 together. This was a conflict that prayer and fnith did 
 not quell ; she could only come to a state of humble sub- 
 missiveness ; and she never thought of reaching Vuliva 
 without a painful thrill that almost took away hei breath. 
 But she was glad to be on the way. 
 
 The vessel was very small, not of so much as eighty 
 tons burthen ; its accommodations were of course a good 
 deal as Mr. Esthwaite had said ; and more than that, the 
 condition of the vessel and of its appointments was such 
 that Mrs. Amos felt as if she could hardly endure to shut 
 herself up in the cabin. Eleanor resolved immedistely 
 that she would not ; the deck was a better place ; and 
 she prevailed to have a mattress brought there for IVCrs. 
 Amos, where the good lady, though miserably ill as soon 
 as they were upon the ocean roll, yet could be spared 
 the close air and other horrors of the place belnw de'ik. 
 Eleanor wrapped herself in her sea cloak, and lived as 
 she could on deck with her ; having a fine opportunity 
 to read the stars at night, and using it. The weather 
 was very fine ; the wind favouring and steady ; and in 
 the Southern Ocean, under such conditions, there were 
 Bome good things to be had, even on board the " Queen 
 Esther." There were glorious hymn-singings in the 
 early night-time ; and Eleanor had never sung with mere 
 power on the " Diana." There were beautiful Bible dis- 
 cussions between her and Mr. Amos — Bible contempU 
 
282 THE OLD HKT, MKT. 
 
 tions, rather ; in which they brought Scripture to Scrip, 
 tnre to ilhistrnte their point; until Mr. Amos declhred 
 he thought it would be a grand way of holding a Bible- 
 class ; and poor Mrs. Amos listened, delighted, though 
 too sick to put in more than a word now and then. And 
 Eleanor's heart gave a throb every time she recollected 
 that another day had gone, — so many more miles were 
 travelled over, — they were so much nearer the journey's 
 end. Her companions found no fault in her. There was 
 nothing of the princess now, but a gentle, thoughtful, 
 excellent nurse, and capital cook. On board the "Diana" 
 there had been little need of her sei"vicesfor Mrs. Amos ; 
 little indeed that could be done. Now, in the fresh air 
 on the open deck of the little schooner, Mrs. Amos suf- 
 fered less in one way ; but all the party were sharers in 
 the discomforts of close accommodations and utter want 
 of nicety in anything done or furnished on board. The 
 condition of everything was such that it was scarcely 
 possible to Gat at all for well people. Poor Mrs. Amos 
 would have had no chance except for Eleanor's helpful- 
 ness and clever management. As on board the " Diana," 
 there was nobody in the schooner that would refuse her 
 anything ; and Mr. Amos smiled to himself to see where 
 she would go and what she would do to secure some 
 little comfort for her sick friend, and how placidly she 
 herself munched sea biscuit and bad bread, after their 
 little stock of fruit from Sydney had given out. She 
 would bring a cup of tea and a bit of toast to Mrs. 
 Amos, and herself take a crust with the equanimity of a 
 philosopher. Eleanor did not care much what she eat, 
 those days. Her own good times were when everybody 
 else was asleep except the man at the wheel ; and she 
 would k?ieel by the guards and watch the strange con- 
 stellations, and pray, and sometimes weep a flood of 
 tears. Julia, her mother and Alfred, Mi-s. Caxton, hei 
 own intense loneliness and shrinking delicacy in the uq 
 
IN SMOOTH WATBB. 283 
 
 certainly of her position ; they were all well wntered in 
 tears at some of those watching hours when nobody 
 saw. 
 
 The ' Queen Esther " made the Friendly Islands in 
 something less than a month, notwithstanding Mr. Esth- 
 waite's unfavourable predictions. At Tonga she was 
 detained a week and more ; unlading and taking in 
 stores. The party improved the time in a survey of the 
 island and mission premises and in pleasant intercourse 
 with their friends stationed there. Or what would have 
 been pleasant intercourse ; it was impossible for Eleanor 
 to enjoy it. So near her destination now, she was impa- 
 tient to be off; and drew short breaths until the days of 
 delay were ended, and the little schooner once more 
 made sail and turned her head towards Vuliva. She 
 had seen Tonga with but half an eye. 
 
 Two or three days would finish their journey now. 
 The weather and wind continued fair ; they dipped 
 Tonga in the salt wave, and stood on and on towards the 
 unseen haven of their hopes and duties. A new change 
 came over Eleanor. It could not be reason, for reason 
 had striven in vain. Perhaps it was nature, which turn- 
 ing a corner took a new view of the subject. But from 
 the time of their leaving Tonga, she was unable to enter- 
 tain such troublesome apprehensions of what the end of 
 the voyage might have in store for her. Something 
 whispered it could be nothing very bad ; and that point 
 that she had so dreaded began to gather aglow of widely 
 diflerent promise. A little nervousness and trepidation 
 remained about the thought of it ; the determinalion 
 abode fast to see the very first word and look and know 
 •what they portended ; but in place of the rest of Elea- 
 nor's downhearted fear, there came now an overwhelm- 
 ing sense of shamefacedness. This was something quite 
 new and unexpected ; she had never known in her life 
 more than a slight touch of it before ; and now it con- 
 
284 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 sumed her. Even before Mr. and Mrs. Amos she felt it J 
 and her eyes shunned theirs the last day or two as if sha 
 had been a shy child. Why was it? She coulii not help 
 it. This seemed to be as natural and as unreasonable as 
 the other ; and in her lonely night watches, instead of 
 trembling and sinking of heart, Eleanor was conscious 
 that her cheeks dyed themselves with that unconquerable 
 feeling of shame. Very inconsistent indeed with her 
 former state of feeling ; and that was according to Mrs. 
 Caxton's words ; not being reasonable, reason could not 
 be expected from them in anything. Her fiiends had 
 not penetrated her former mood ; this they saw and 
 smiled at ; and indeed it made Eleanor very lovely. 
 There was a shy, blushing grace about her the last day 
 or two of the voyage which touched all she did ; indeed 
 Mrs. Amos declared she could see it through the little 
 close straw bonnet, and it made her want to take Elea- 
 nor in her arms and keep her there. Mr. Amos re- 
 sponded in his way of subdued fun, that it was lucky she 
 could not ; as it would be likely to be a disputed posses- 
 sion, and he did not want-to get into a quarrel with his 
 brethren the first minute of his getting to land. 
 
 Up came Eleanor with some trifle for Mrs. Amos 
 which she had been preparing. 
 
 " W*e are almost in, sister Eleanor !" said Mr. Amos. 
 " The captain says he sees the land." 
 
 Eleanor's start was somewhat prompt, to look in the 
 direction of ' Queen Esther's ' figure-head. 
 
 " The light is failing — I don't believe you can see it," 
 said Mr. Amos ; " not to know it from the clouds. Tho 
 captain says he shall stand off and on through the night, 
 BO as to have daylight to go in. The entrance is nariow. 
 I suppose, if all is well, we shall have a wedding to. 
 morrow ?" 
 
 Eleanor asked Mrs. Amos somewhat hastUy, if whal 
 she had brought her was good ? 
 
IN SMOOTH WATER. 285 
 
 " Delicious !" Mrs. Amos said ; and piilling Eleanor's 
 face down to her she gave it a kiss wlnoh sjjoke iiioio 
 things than her mere thanks. She was rewarded wiih 
 the sight of that crimson veil which spread itself ovur 
 Eleanor's cheeks, which most people thought it was a 
 pleasure to see. 
 
 Eleanor thought she should get little sleep that night; 
 but she was disappointed. She slept long and sweeily 
 on her mattress ; and awoke to find it quite day, with f jir 
 wind, and the schooner setting her head full on the land 
 which rose up before her fresh and green, yes, and ex- 
 ceeding lovely. Ele:inor got up and shook herself oat ; 
 her companions were still sleeping. She rolled her mat- 
 tress together and sat down upon it, to watch the ap- 
 proaches to the laud. Fresher and fairer and greener 
 every moment it lifted itself to her view ; she could 
 hardly bear to look steadily ; her head went down for a 
 minute often under the pressure of the thoughts that 
 crowded together. And when she raised it up, the lovely 
 hills of the island, with their novel outline and green 
 luxuiiance, were nearer and clearer and higher than they 
 had been a minute before. Now she could discern here 
 and there, she thought, something that must be a dwell- 
 ing house ; then trees began to detach themselves from 
 the universal mass ; she saw smoke rising ; and^she be- 
 came aware too, that along the face of the island, front- 
 ing the approach of the schooner, was a uall of surf; 
 and a line of breakers that seemed to stretch right and 
 left and to be without an interval in their white cun- 
 tinuity. Eleanor did not see how the schooner was 
 going to get in ; for the surf did not break evidently on 
 the shore of the island, but on a reef extending around 
 the shore and at some little distance from it. Yet the 
 vessel stood straight on; and the sweet smell of tlie 
 land began to come with the fi-eshness of the morning 
 air. 
 
286 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " la this V uliva before us ?" she asked of the skippeT 
 whom she found standing near. 
 
 "Ay, ay!" 
 
 " Where are you going to get in ? I see no opening.'" 
 
 "Ay, ay ! There is an opening, though." 
 
 And soon, looking keenly, Eleanor thought she could 
 discern it. Not until they were almost upon it however ; 
 and then it was a place of rough water enough, though 
 the regular fall of the surf was inteirupted and there was 
 only a general upheaving and commotion of the waves 
 among themselves. It was nf^thing very terrific ; the 
 tide was in a good state ; and presently Eleanor saw 
 that they had passed the barrier, thoy were in smooth 
 water, and making for an opening in the land immedi- 
 ately opposite which might be either the mouth of a 
 river or an inlet of the sea. They neared it fast, sailed 
 up into it; and there to Eleanor's mortification the 
 skipper dropped anchor and swung to. She saw no set- 
 tlement. Some few scattered houses were plain enough 
 now to be seen ; but nothing even like a village. Tufts 
 of trees waved gracffully; rock and hill and rich-coloured 
 lowland spread out a variety of beauty ; where was 
 Vuliva, the station ? This might be the island. Where 
 Avere the people ? Could they come no nearer than 
 this? « 
 
 Mr. Amos made enquiry. The village, the skipper 
 said, was "round the pint;" in other words, behind a 
 woody headland which just before them bent the course 
 of the river into a shaj-p angle. The sihooner would go 
 no further ; passengers and effects were to be trans- 
 ported the rest of the way in boats. People they v ould 
 Bee soon enough ; so the master of the " Queen Esthei" 
 advised them. 
 
 "I suppose the natives will carry the news of the 
 schooner being here, and our friends will come and look 
 after us," Mr. Amos said. 
 
TN SMOOTH WATER 28? 
 
 Eleanor changed colonr, and sat with a beating heart 
 looking at the fair fresh landscape which was to be — 
 perhaps — the scene of her future home. The scene was 
 peace itself. Still water after the npheavings of the 
 ocean ; the smell and almost the fluttering sound of the 
 green leaves in the delicious wind ; the ripple on the sur- 
 face of the little river ; the soft stillness of land sounds, 
 with the heavy beat of the surf left behind on the reef 
 outside. Eleanor drew a long breath. People would 
 find them out soon, the skipper had said. She was ex- 
 ceedingly disposed to get rid of her sea dress and put on 
 something that looked like the summer morning ; for 
 without recollecting what the seasons were in the 
 Southern Ocean, that was what the time seemed like 
 to her. She looked round at Mrs. Amos, who was sit- 
 ting up and beginning to realize that she had done with 
 the sea for the present. 
 
 " How do you do ?" said Eleanor. 
 
 " I should feel better if I could get on something 
 clean." 
 
 " Come, then !" 
 
 The two ladies disappeared down the companion way, 
 into one of the most sorry tiring rooms, surely, that 
 ever nicety used for that purpose. But it served two 
 purposes with Eleanor just now ; and the second was a 
 hiding place. She did not want to be taken unawares, nor 
 to be seen before she could see. So under the circum- 
 stances she made both Mrs. Amos and herself comfort- 
 able, and was as helpful as usual in a new line. Theo 
 she went to look out ; but nobody was in sight yet, gen 
 tie or savage ; all was safe ; she went back to Mrs. Amos 
 and fastened the door. 
 
 " Let us kneel down and pray together, will you ?" 
 Bhe said. " I cannot get my breath freely till we have 
 done that." 
 
 Mrs. Araos'a lips trembled as she knelt. And Eleanor 
 
288 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 and she joined in many petitions there, while the vory 
 stillness of their little cabin floor reminded them they 
 were come to their desired haven, and the long sea 
 journey was over. They rose up and kissed each other. 
 
 " J am so glad I have known you !" said Mrs. Amos. 
 " What a blessing you have been to us ! I wish we 
 might be stationed somewhere together." 
 
 " I suppose that would be too good to hope for," said 
 Eleanor. " I am going to recdunoitre again." 
 
 Mrs. Amos half guessed why, and smiled to herself at 
 Eleanor's blushing shyness. "Poor child, her hands 
 were all trembling too," she said in her thoughts. They 
 were broken off by a low summons to the cabin door, 
 which Eleanor held slightly ajar. Through the crack 
 of the door they had a vision. 
 
 On the deck of the " Queen Esther" stood a specimen 
 of the native inhabitants oi the land. A man of tall 
 stature, nobly developed in limbs and muscles, he looked 
 in his native undress almost of giant proportions. His 
 'clothing was on.Iy a hmg piece of figured native cloth 
 wound about his loins, one end falling like a tr.ain to the 
 very sloop's deck. A thorough black skin was the only 
 covering of the rest of his person, and shewed his 
 breadth of shoulder and strength of muscle to good ad- 
 vantage ; as if carved in blnck marble ; only there wai" 
 sufficient graceful mobility and dignified ease of carriage 
 and attitude ; no marble rigidity. Black he was, this 
 savage, but not negro. The features were well cut and 
 good. What the hair might be naturally could only be 
 guessed at ; the work of a skilful hair-dresser had left it 
 something for the uninitiated to marvel at. A band of 
 three or four inches in breadth, completely white, bor- 
 dered the face ; the rest, a very luxuriant head, was jet 
 black and dressed into a perfectly regular and smooth 
 roundish form, projecting everywhere beyond the white 
 inner border. He bad an uncouth necklace, made of 
 
IN SMOOTH WATEB. 289 
 
 irhat it was impossible to say, except that part of it 
 looked like shells and part like some animal's teeth ; 
 rings of one or two colours were on Ids fingers ; he car- 
 ried no weapon. But in his huge, powerful black frame, 
 uncouth hair-dressing, and strange unco\eredness, he 
 was a sufficiently terrible object to unused eyes. In 
 Tonga the ladies had seen no sucl> sight. 
 
 "Do shut the door!" said Mrs. Amos. "He m.ay 
 come this way, and there is nobody that knows how tc 
 speak to him." 
 
 Eleanor shut the door, and looked round at her friend 
 with a smile. 
 
 " I am foolish !" said Mrs. Amos laughing ; " but I 
 don't want to see him just yet — till there is somebody to 
 talk to him." 
 
 The door being fast, Eleanor applied herself to a some- 
 what large knot-hole she had long ago discovered in it; 
 one which she strongly suspected the skipper had fos 
 tered, if not originated, for his own convenience of spy; 
 ing what was going on. Through this knot-hole Eleanor 
 had a fair view of a good part of the deck, savage and 
 all. He was gesticuhiting now and talking, evidently to 
 the captain and Mr. Amos, the former of whom either 
 did not understand or did not agree with him. Mr. 
 Amos, of course, was in the former condition. Eleanor 
 watched them with absorbed interest ; when suddenly 
 this vision was crossed by another, that looked to her 
 eyes much as a white angel might, coming across a cloud 
 of both moral and physical blackness. Mr. Rhys him- 
 self; his very self, and looking very much like it; only 
 in a white dress literally, which in England she had 
 cever seer him wear. But the white dress alone did 
 not make the impression to her e\ es ; there was that air 
 f freshness and purity which s^ome people always carry 
 about with them, and whicli has to do with the c'ear look 
 of temperance as well as with great particularity of per 
 
 VOL. II. 13 
 
290 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 Bonal care, find in part also grows out of the moral con- 
 dition. In three breatliless seconds Eleanor took noto 
 of it all, characteristics well known, but seen now with 
 the novelty of long disuse and with the background of 
 that huge black savage, to whom Mr. Rhys was address- 
 ing some words of explanation or exhortation — Eleanor 
 could not tell which. She noticed the quiet pleasant 
 manner of his speech, which certainly looked not as if 
 Mrs. Amos had any reason for her fears ; but he was 
 speaking earnestly, and she observed too the unbending 
 look of the savage in answer and a certain pleasant defer- 
 ence with which he appeared to be listening. Mr. Tlhys 
 had taken off his hat for a moment — it hung in his hand 
 while the other brushed the hair from his forehead. 
 Eleanor's eye even in that moment fell to the hand which 
 carried the hat ; it was the same, — she recognized it 
 with a curious sense of bringing great and little things 
 together, — it was the same white and carefully looked- 
 after hand that she remembered it in England. Mr. 
 Rhys's own personal civilization went about with him. 
 
 Eleanor did not hear any of Mrs. Amos's words to her, 
 w^hiuh were several ; and though Mrs. Amos, half alarmed 
 by her deafness, did not know but she might be witness- 
 ing something dreadful on deck, and spoke with some 
 importunity. Eleanor was thinking she had not a minute 
 to lose. Beyond the time of Mr. Rhys's talking to the 
 other visiter on the schooner's deck, there could be but 
 small interval before he would learn all about her being 
 on board ; two words to the skipper or Mr. Amos would 
 bring it out ; and if she wished to gain that first min- 
 ute's testimony of look and word, she must be before- 
 hand with them. She thought of all that witb a beating 
 he.nt in one instant's flash cf thought, hastily caught up 
 her ship cloak without daiing to stop to put it on, slipped 
 back the bolt of the door, and noiselessly passed out 
 npon the deck. She neither heard uor saw anybodj 
 
IN SMOOTH WATEE. 291 
 
 else ; she was conscious of an intense and pitiful shamo 
 at being there and at l-hus presenting herself; but every 
 thing else was second to that necessity, to know from 
 Mr. Rhys's look, with an absolute certainty, where he 
 stood. She was not at that moment much afraid ; yet 
 the look she must see. She went forward while he was 
 yet speaking to his black neighbour, she stood still a lit- 
 tle behind him, and waited. She longed to hide her 
 eyes, yet she looked steadfastly. How she looked, 
 neither she nor perhaps anybody else knew. There was 
 short opportunity for observation. 
 
 Mr. Rhys had no sooner finished his business with his 
 sable friend, when he turned the other way ; and of 
 course the motionless figure standing so near his elbow, 
 the woman's bonnet and drapery, caught his first glance. 
 Eleanor was watching, with eyes that were strained al- 
 ready with the effort ; they got leave to go down now. 
 The fl.ash of joy in those she had been looking at, the 
 deep tone of the low uttered, "Oh, Eleanor! — " which 
 burst from him, made her feel on the instant as if she 
 were paid to the full, not only for all she had done, but 
 for all that life might have of disagreeable in store for 
 her. Her eyes fell ; she stood still in a sudden trance of 
 contentment which made her as blind and deaf as another 
 feeling had made her just before. Those two words — 
 there had been such a depth in them, of tenderness and 
 gladness ; and somehow she felt in them too an apprecia- 
 tion of all she had done and gone through. Eleanor 
 was satisfied. She felt it as we'l in the hold of her hand, 
 which was taken and kept in a clasp as who should say, 
 ' This is mine.' 
 
 Perhaps it was out of consideration for her state, that 
 without any further reference to her he turned to Mr. 
 Amos and claimed acquaintance and brotterhood with 
 him ; and for a little while talked, informmg himself of 
 various particulars of their journey and welfare ; aevei 
 
292 THE OLD liELMET. 
 
 all the while loosing his l.old of that hand, thoigh not 
 bringing her into the conversation, and indeed standing 
 so as somewhat to shield her. The question of landing 
 came up and was discussed. The skipper objected to 
 send the schooner's bont, on the score that it would 
 leuve too few men on board to take care of the vessel. 
 Mr. Rhys had only a small canoe with him, manned by a 
 single native. So he decided forthwith to return to the 
 village and despatch boats large enough to bring the 
 missionaries and their effects to land ; but about that 
 there might be some delay. Then for the first time he 
 bent down and spoke to Eleanor ; again that subdued, 
 tender tone. 
 
 " Are you ready to go ashore ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I will take you with me. Do you want anything 
 out of this big ship ? The canoes may not be immedi- 
 ately obtained, for anything but the live freitrht." 
 
 He took the grey ship cloak from Eleanor's arm and 
 put it round her shoulders. She felt that she was alone 
 and forlorn no more ; she had got home. She was a 
 different creature that went into the cabin to kiss Mrs. 
 Amos, from the Eleanor that had come out. 
 
 " I've /Seen him !" whispered Mrs. Amos. "Eleanor! 
 you will not be married till we ccmie, will you ?" 
 
 " I hope not — I don't know," said Eleanor hurriedly 
 seizing her bag and passing out again. Another minute, 
 and it and she were taken down the side of thesolioonci 
 and lodged in the canoe ; and their dark oarsman pad 
 dledolE 
 
CHAPTEE XVTII. 
 
 *' Nor did she lift an eye nor Bpealc a word. 
 Rapt in the fear and in tlie wonder of it." 
 
 Eleainou's shamefaceduess was upon hev in full force 
 when she found lierself in the canoe pushing off from 
 the schooner and her friends there. She felt exceeding 
 ehy and sti-ange, and with that a feeling very like awe of 
 her companion. A feeling not quite unknown to her in 
 former days with the same person, and in tenfold foi'ce 
 now. There was no doubt to be sui'e of the secret mind 
 of them both towards each other ; nevertheless, he had 
 never spoken to her of his affection, nor given her the 
 least sign of it, except on paper, np to that day ; and 
 now he sat for all she could see as cool and gi-ave as ever 
 by her side. The old and the new state of things it was 
 hard to reconcile all at once. To do Eleanor justice, she 
 saw, as one sees without looking ; she was too shame- 
 faced to look ; she bent her outward attention upon 
 their boatman. He was another native, of course, but 
 attired in somewhat more civilized style, though in no 
 costume of civilized lands. What he wore was moi'e 
 like a carman's frock at home than anything else it could 
 be likened to. He was of pleasant countenance, and 
 paddled along with great activity and skill. 
 
 They had been silent for the first few minutes since 
 leaving the schooner, till at length Mr. Rhys asked her, 
 with a little of the sweet arch smile she remembered so 
 well, " how she had liked the first sight of a Fijian ?" 
 
294 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 It brought such a rush upon Eleanor of past things and 
 present, old times and clianges, that it was with tha 
 utmost difficulty she could make any answer at all. 
 
 " I was too much interested to think of liking or dis. 
 Uking." 
 
 " You were not startled ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "That was a heathen chief, of the opposite village." 
 
 " He wanted somethinjr, did he not?" 
 
 " Yes ; that the captain of the schooner should accom- 
 modate him in something he thought would be foi hia 
 advantage. It was impossible, and so I told him." 
 
 Eleanor looked again towards the oarsman. 
 
 " This is one of our Christian brethren." 
 
 " Are there many ?" she asked, though feeling as if 
 she had no breath to ask. 
 
 "Yes. And we have cause to be thankful every day 
 at hearing of more. We want ten times as many hands 
 as we have got. How has the long voyage been to you?" 
 
 Eleanor answered briefly ; but then she was obliged 
 to go on and tell of Mrs. Caxton, and of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Amos, and of various other matters ; to all which still 
 she answered in as few words as possible. She could 
 not be fluent, with that sense of strangeness upon her ; 
 conscious not only that one of her hands was again in 
 Mr. Rhys's hold, but that his eyes were never off her 
 face. He desisted at last from questions, and they both 
 sat silent ; until the headland was rounded, and " There 
 is Vuliva !" came from Mr. Rhys's lips. 
 
 In a little bay curve of the river, behind the promon- 
 tory, lay the village ; looking pretty and foreign enough. 
 But very pretty it was. The odd, or rather the strangfj- 
 looking houses, sitting apart from each other, some-large 
 and some small, intermingled gracefully with trees whose 
 shape and leafage were as new, made a sweet jiicture. 
 ( )ne house in particular as they neared the shore strut-ls 
 
AT D.NNEB. 296 
 
 Eleanor ; it had a neat colonnade of slender pillars in 
 front, and a liio-h roof, almost like a Mansard in form, 
 but thatched with native thatch. A very neat paling 
 fence stretched along in front of this. Very near it, a 
 little further oft" rose another building that made Elea- 
 nor almost give a start of joy ; so homelike and pleasant 
 it looked, as well as surprising. This was an exceeding 
 pretty chapel ; again with a high thatched roof, and also 
 with a neat slight bell-tower rising from one end. In 
 front two doors at each side were separated by a large 
 and not inelegant window ; other windows and doors 
 down the side of the building promised light and airi- 
 ness ; and the walls were wrought into a curious pattern ; 
 reminding Eleanor of the fanciful brick work of a past 
 style of architecture. Near the shore and back behind 
 the chapel and houses, reared themselves here and there 
 the slender stems of palm and cocoanut trees, with their 
 graceful tufts of feathery foliage waving at top ; other 
 trees of various kinds were mingled among them. Fig 
 ures were seen moving about, in the medium attire worn 
 by their oarsman. It was a pretty scene; cheerful and 
 home-hke, though so unlike home. Further back fi-om 
 the river, on the opposite shore, other houses could be 
 seen ; the houses of the heathen village ; but Eleanoi's 
 eyes were fastened on this one. Mr. Rhys said not one 
 word ; only he held her hand in a still closer grasp which 
 was not meaningless. 
 
 " How pretty it is !" Eleanor forced herself to say. 
 He only answered, "Do you like it ?" but it was in snch 
 a satisfied tone of preoccupation that Eleanor blnshed 
 and thought she might as well leave his meditations 
 alone. 
 
 Yet though full of content in her heart, Mr. Rhys and 
 his aftectjon seemed both at a distance. It was so ex- 
 actly the Mr. Rhys of Plassy, that Eleanor could not in 
 a moment realize their changed relations and tind hor 
 
288 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 own place. A little thing administered a slight corree 
 tive to this reckoning. 
 
 Tlie little canoe hnd come to land. Eleanor was taken 
 out of it safely, and then for a moment left to herseif 
 for Mr. Rhys was engaged in a coUoqny with his boat- 
 man and another native who had come up. Not being 
 able to understand a word of what was going on, though 
 from the tones and gestures she guessed it had reference 
 to the disembarkation of the schooner's party, and a lit- 
 tle ready to turn her face from view, Eleanor stood look- 
 ing landward ; in a maze of strangeness that was not at 
 all unhappy. The cocoanut tops waved gently a welcome 
 to her ; she took it so ; the houses looked neat and invit- 
 ing ; glimpses of other unknown foliage helped to assure 
 her she had got home ; the country outlines, so far as 
 she could see them, looked fair and bright. Eleanor was 
 taking note of details in a dreamy way, when she was 
 surprised by the sudden frank contact of lips with hers ; 
 lips that had no strangeness of their own to contend 
 with. Turning hastily, she saw that the natives with 
 whom Mr. Rhys had been talking had run off different 
 ways, and they two were alone. Eleanor trembled as 
 much as she had done when she first read Mr. Rhys's 
 note at Plassy. And his words when he spoke did not 
 help her, they were spoken so exactly like the Mr. Rhys 
 she had known there. Not exactly, neither, though he 
 only said, 
 
 " Do you want this cloak on any longer ?" 
 
 " Yes, thank you," said Eleanor stammering, — " I dc 
 not feel it." 
 
 Whicli was most literally true, for at that moment she 
 did not feel anything external. He looked at her, and 
 exercising his own judgment proceeded to unclasp the 
 cloak from her shoulders and hang it on his arm, while 
 he put her hand on the other. 
 
 " There is no need for you to be troubled with thjij 
 
AT DINNER. 297 
 
 now," said he. " I onlj put it routnl you to protect 
 your dress." And with her bag in his hand, they went 
 up from t!ie river-side and past the large house witii the 
 colonnade. " Whither now ?" thought Eleanor, but she 
 asked nothing. One or two more houses were passed ; 
 then a little space without houses ; then came a paling 
 enclosure, of considerable size, apparently, filled with 
 trees and vines. A gate opened in this and let them 
 through, and Mr. Rhys led Eleanor up a walk in the gar- 
 den-like plantation, to a house which stood encompassed 
 by it. " Not at home yet !" he remarked to her as they 
 stood at the door ; with a slight smile which again 
 brought the blood to her cheeks. He opened the door 
 and they went in. 
 
 " The good news is true, sister Balliol !" he said to 
 somebody that met them. " I have brought you one of 
 our friends, and there are more to come, that I must gj 
 and look after. Is brother Balliol at home ?" 
 
 " No, he is not ; he has gone over the river." 
 
 " Then I will leave this lady in your care, and I wi'l 
 go and see if I can find canoes. I meant to have pressed 
 him into my service. This is Miss Powle, sister Balliol." 
 
 The lady so called had come forward to meet them, 
 and now took Eleanor by the hand and kissed her cor- 
 dially. Mr. Rhys took her hand then, when she was 
 released, and explained. 
 
 " I am going back to the schooner after our friends — 
 if I can find a canoe-—" 
 
 And without more words, off he went. Eleanor and 
 Mrs. Balliol were left to look at each other. 
 
 This latter was a lady of middle height, ard kindly if 
 not fine features. A pair of good black eyes too. But 
 what struck Eleanor most about her was her aii ; the 
 general style of her figure and dress, which to Miss 
 Powle's eyes was peculiar. She wore her hair in a crop ; 
 and that seemed to Eleanor a characteristic of the whole 
 13* 
 
298 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 make up. Her dress was not otherwise than neat, acd 
 yet that epithet would never have occurred to one in 
 describing it ; all graces of style or attire were so ignored. 
 Her gown sat without any ; so did her collar ; both 
 were rather uncivilized, without partaking of the pic- 
 turesqueness of savage costume. The face was by nc 
 means disagreeable ; lacking neither in sense, nor in 
 spirit nor in kindliness ; but Eleanor perceived at once 
 that the mind must have a serious want somewhere, in 
 refinement or discernment : the exterior was so ruth- 
 lessly abandoned to ungainliness. 
 
 Mrs. Balliol took her to an inner room, where the 
 cloak and the bonnet were left ; and returned then to 
 her occupations in the other apartment, while Eleanor 
 set herself down at the window to make observations. 
 The room was large and high, cheerful and airy, with 
 windows at two sides. The one where she sat com- 
 manded a view of little beside the g.arden, with its luxu- 
 riant growth of fruit trees and shrubs and flowers. A 
 tropical looking garden ; for the broad leaves of the 
 banana waved there around its great bunches of fruit; 
 the canopy of a cocoanut palm fluttered slightly over- 
 head ; and various fruits that Eleanor did not know dis- 
 played themselves along with the pineapples that she did 
 know. This garden view seemed very interesting to 
 Eleanor, to judge by her intentness ; and so it was for 
 its own qualities, besides that a bit of the walk could be 
 seen by which she had come and the wicket which had 
 et her in and by which Mr. Rhys had gone out ; but in 
 good truth, as often as she turned her eyes to the scene 
 within, she had such a sense of being herself an object 
 of observation and perhaps of speculation, that she was 
 fain to seek the garden again. And it was true, thai 
 while Mrs. Balliol plied her needle she used her eyes as 
 well, and her thouglits with her needle flew in and out, 
 as she suiveyed Eleanor's figure in her neat fresh print 
 
AT DIKNBR. 299 
 
 liress. And the lady's eyebrows grew prophetical, not 
 to say ominous. 
 
 " She's too handsome !" — that was the first conclusion. 
 " She is quite too handsome ; she cannot h,ave those 
 looks without knowing it. Better have brought a plain 
 face to Fiji, than a spirit of vanity. Hair done as if she 
 was just come out of a hair-dresser's ! — hum — ruffle all 
 down the neck of her dress— flowing sleeves too, and 
 ruffles round them. And a buckle in her belt — a gold 
 buckle, I do believe. And shoes ?" — 
 
 The shoes were unexceptionable, but they fitted well 
 on a niee foot ; and the hands — were too small and white 
 and delicate ever to have done anything, or ever to be 
 willing to do anything. That was the point. No harm 
 in small hands, Mrs. Balliol allowed, if they did not 
 betray their owner into daintiness of living. She pur- 
 sued her lucubrations for some time without interrupting 
 those of Eleanor. 
 
 " Are you from England, sister ?" 
 
 " Prom England — yes ; but we made some stay in 
 Australia by the way," said Eleamor turning from tha 
 window to take a more sociable position nearer he( 
 hostess. 
 
 " A long voyage ?" 
 
 " Not remarkably long. I had good companions." 
 
 "From what part of England?" 
 
 "The borders of Wales, last." 
 
 " Brother Rhys is from Wales — isn't he ?" 
 
 " I do not know," said Eleanor, vexed to feel the 
 flush of blood to her cheeks. 
 
 " Ah ? You have known brother Rhys before ?" with 
 a searching look. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And how do you think you shall like it in Fiji ?" 
 
 " You can hardly expect me to tell under such short 
 trial," said Eleanor smiling. 
 
800 THM OLD HELMET, 
 
 "There are trials enough. I suppose you expect 
 ihose, do you not ?" 
 
 " I do not mean to expect them till they come," said 
 Eleanor, still smiling. 
 
 " Do you think that is wise ?" said the other gravely. 
 " They will come, I assure you, fast enough ; do you not 
 think it is well to prepare the mind for what it has to go 
 through, by looking at it beforehand ?" 
 
 '" You never know beforehand what is to be gone 
 through," said Eleanor. 
 
 "But you know some things ; and it is well, I think, 
 to harden oneself against what is coming. I have found 
 that sort of discipline very useful. Sister, may I ask you 
 a searching question ?" 
 
 " Certainly ! If you please," said Eleanor. 
 
 " You know, we should be ready to give every one a 
 reason of the hope that is in us. I want to ask you, sis- 
 ter, what moved you to go on a mission ?" 
 
 Astonishment almost kept Eleanor silent ; then notio- 
 ing the quick eyes of Mrs. Balliol repeating the enquiry 
 at her face, the difficulty of answering met and joined 
 with a small tide of indignation at its being demanded 
 of her. She did not want to be angry, and she was very 
 near being ready to ciy. Her mind was in that state oi 
 overwrought fulness when a little stir is more than the 
 feelings can bear. Among conflicting tides, the sense of 
 the ludicrous at last got the uppermost ; and she laughed, 
 as one laughs whose nerves are not just under control; 
 heartily and merrily. Mrs. Balliol was confounded. 
 
 " I should not have thought it was a laughing matter," 
 — she remarked at length. But the gravity of that 
 threw Eleanor off again ; and the little hands and ruffled 
 sleeves wore reviewed under new circumstances. And 
 when Eleanor got command of herself, she still kept her 
 hand over her eyes, for she found that she was just 
 
AT DINNER. SOI 
 
 trembling into tears. She held it close pressed upon 
 them. 
 
 " Perhaps you are fatigued, sister ?" said Mrs. Balliol, 
 in utter incapacity to account for this demonstration. 
 
 " Not much. I beg your pardon !" said Eleanor. " I 
 believe I am a little unsettled at first getting here. If 
 you please, I will try being quite quiet for awhile — if 
 you will let me be so discourteous ?" 
 
 " Do so !" said Mrs. Balliol. " Anything to rest you." 
 And Eleanor went back to her window, and turning her 
 face to the garden agt.in rested her head on her hand ; 
 and there was a hush. Mrs. Balliol worked and mused, 
 probably. Eleanor did as she had said ; kept quiet. The 
 quiet lasted a long time, and the tropical day grew up 
 into its meridian heats ; yet it was not oppressive ; a fine 
 breeze relieved it and made it no other than pleasant. 
 Home at last ! This great stillness and quiet, after the 
 ocean tossings, and months of voyaging, and change, 
 and heart-uncertainty. The peace of heart now was as 
 profound ; but so profound, and so thankfully recognized, 
 thnt Eleanor's mood was a little unsteady. She needed 
 to be still and recollect herself, as she could looking out 
 into the leaves of a great banana tree there in the gar- 
 den, and forgetting the house and Mrs. Balliol. 
 
 The quiet lasted a long time, and was broken then by 
 the entrance of Mr. B.alliol. His wife introduced him ; 
 and after learning that he could now render no aid to Mr. 
 Rhys, he immediately entered into a brisk conversation 
 with the new comer Mr. Ivhys had brought. That went 
 well, and was also strengthening. Eleanor was greatly 
 pleased vviih him. He was evidently a man of learning 
 and sense and spirit ; a man of excellent parts, in good 
 cultivatiim, and tilled with a most benign and gentle tem. 
 per of goodness. It was a pleasure to talk to him ; and 
 while they were talking the j-— *v from the schooner 
 aiTived. 
 
S02 THE OLD HELMBT. 
 
 Eleanor felt her " shamefastness" return upon her, whila 
 all the rest were making acquaintance, welcoming and 
 receiving welcome. She stood aside. Did they know 
 her position ? While she was thinking, Mr. Rhys carae 
 to her and put her again in her chair by the window. 
 Mrs. Amos had been carried off by Mrs. Balliol. The 
 two other gentlemen were in earnest converse. Mr. 
 Rhys took a seat in front of Eleanor and asked in a low 
 Voice if she wished for any delay? 
 
 " In what ?" said Eleanor, though she knew the 
 answer. 
 
 " Coming home." 
 
 He was almost sorry for her, to see the quick blood 
 flash into her face. But she caught her breath and said 
 « No." 
 
 " You know," he said ; how exactly like the Mr. Rhys 
 ©f Plassy ! — " I would not hurry you beyond your plea- 
 sure. If you would like to remain here a day or two, 
 domiciled with Mrs. Balliol, and lest, and see the land — 
 you liiive only to say what you wish." 
 
 " I do not wish it," said Eleanor, finding it very diffi- 
 cult to answer at all — " I wish it to be just as you 
 please." 
 
 " You must know what my pleasure is. Does your 
 heart not fail you, now you are here ? ' he asked still 
 lower and in a very gentle way. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Eleanor, have you had any doubts or failings of 
 heart at any time, since you left England ?" 
 
 " No. Yes ! — I did, once — at Sydney." 
 
 " At Sydney ?" — repeated Mr. Rhys in a perceptibly 
 graver tone. 
 
 " Yes — at Sydney — when I did not get any letters 
 from yon." 
 
 " You got no letters from me ?" 
 
 « No." 
 
AT DINNER. 303 
 
 « At Sydney ?" 
 
 " No," said Eleanor venturing to look up. 
 
 " Did you not, see Mr. Armitage ?" 
 
 "Mr. Armitnge ! O he was in the back country — 1 
 remember now Mr. Amos said that ; and lienever re- 
 turned to Sydney while we were there." 
 
 An inarticulate sound came from Mr. Rhys's lips, be- 
 tween indignation and impatience ; the strongest expres- 
 sion of either that Eleanor had ever heard fiom hirn. 
 
 " Then Mr. Armitage had the letters ?" 
 
 " Certainly ! and I am in the utmost surprise at his 
 carelessness. He ought to have left them in somebody 
 else's charge, if he was quitting the place himself. When 
 did you hear from me ?" 
 
 The flush rose again, not so vividly, to Eleanor's face. 
 
 " I heard in England — those letters — you know." 
 
 " Those letters I trusted to Mrs. Caxton ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And not since ! "Well, you are excused for your 
 heart foiling that ont'e. Who is to do it, Eleanor ? — 
 Mr. Amos ?" 
 
 " If yon please — T should like — " 
 
 He left her for a moment to make his arrangements ; 
 and for thut moment Eleanor's thoughts leaped to those 
 who should have been by her side at such a time, with a 
 little of a woman's heart-longing. Mrs. Caxton, or her 
 mother ! If one of them might have stood by her then ! 
 Eleanor's head bent with the moment's poor wish. But 
 vvith the touch of Mr. Rhys's liaud when he returned to 
 her, with the sound of his voice, there came as it always 
 did to Eleanor, healing and strength. The one little 
 word " Come," fron. his lips, diove away all mental hob- 
 goblins. He said nothing more, but there was a great 
 tenderness in the manner of his taking her upcm liis arm. 
 His look Eleanor dared not meet. She felt very strange 
 yet ; phe coidd not get accustomed to the reality of 
 
304 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 things. This man had never spoken one word of Jovo 
 to her, and now she was standing up to be married tc 
 him. 
 
 'J'he whole little party stood together, while the marriage 
 service of the English church was read. It was preceded 
 however by a prayer that was never read nor written. 
 After the service was over, and after Eleanor had been 
 saluted by the two ladies who were all the representa- 
 tives of mother and sister and friends for her on the 
 occasion, Mr. Rliys whispered to her to get her bonnet. 
 Eleanor gladly obeyed. But as soon as it appeared, there 
 was a general outcry and protest. What were they 
 going to do ?" 
 
 " Take her to see how her house looks," said Mr. Rhys. 
 " You forget I have something to shew." 
 
 "But you will bring her back to dinner? do, brother 
 Rhys ! We shall have dinner presently. You'll be 
 back ?" 
 
 " If the survey is over in time — but I do not think it 
 will," he answered gravely. 
 
 " Then tea— you will come then ? Let us all be to- 
 gether at tea. Will you ?" 
 
 " It is a happiness we have had no visiters before din- 
 ner ! I vviU see about it, sister Balliol, thank you ; and 
 take advice." 
 
 And glad was Eleanor when they got away ; which 
 was immediately, for Mr. Rhys's motions were prompt. 
 He led her now not to the wicket by which she had come, 
 but another way, through the garden M'ilderness still, 
 till another slight paling with a wicktt in it was passed 
 and the wilderness took a somewhat ditferent character. 
 'J'he same plants and trees were to be seen, but order 
 and pleasantness of arrangement were in place cf vege- 
 table confusion ; neat walks ran between the luxuriant 
 growing bananas, and led gradually nearer to the river ; 
 till another house came in view ; and passing round the 
 
AT DINNBK. 308 
 
 gable end of it, Eleanor could cast her eye along the 
 buildino- and take the effect. It was long and low, with 
 a high picturesque thatched roof, and the walls fancifully- 
 wrought in a pattern, making a not unpretty appearance. 
 The door was in the middle ; she had no time to sea 
 more, for Mr. Rhys unlocked it and led her in. 
 
 The interior was high, wide, and cool and pleasant 
 after the hot sun without ; but again she had no time to 
 make observations. Mr. Rhys led her immediately on to 
 an inner room. Eleanor's eyes were dazed and her heart 
 was beating ; she could hardly see anything, except, as 
 one takes impressions without seeing, that this answered 
 to the inner room at Mrs. Balliol's and had far more the 
 air of being furnished and pleasantly habitable. What 
 gave it the air she could not tell ; for Mi-. Rhys was un- 
 fastening her bonnet and throwing it off, and then taking 
 her sea-cloak from his arm and casting that somewhat 
 carelessly away ; and then his arms enfolded her. It 
 was the first time they had been really alone since her 
 coming ; and now he was silent, so silent that Eleanor 
 could scarcely bear it. She was aware his eyes were 
 studying her fixedly, and she felt as if they could see 
 nothing beside the conscious mounting of the blood from 
 cheek to brow, which reached what to her was a painful 
 flush. Probably he saw it, for the answer came in a lit- 
 tle closer pressure of the arms that were about her. She 
 ventured to look up at last; she was unable to endure 
 this silent inspection ; and then she saw that his face 
 was full of emotion that wrought too deep for words, too 
 deep even for caresses, beyond the one or two grave 
 kisses with which he had welcomed her. It overcame 
 Eleanor completely. She could not meet the look. It 
 was much more than mere joy or affection ; there was an 
 expression of the sort of tenderness with which a mother 
 would clasp a lost child ; a full keen sympathy for all she 
 had done and gone through and ventured for him, for all 
 
J06 THK OLD HELMET. 
 
 her loneliness and fovlornness that had been, and that 
 was still with respect to all the guardians of her child- 
 hood or womanhood up to that hour. Eleanor's head 
 sank down. She felt none of ihut now for which his 
 looks expressed such keen regard ; she had got to her 
 resting-pkee, not the less for all the awe and strangeness 
 of it, which were upon her yet. She could have cried 
 for a very different feeling ; but she would not ; it did 
 not suit her. Mr. Rhys let her be still for afew minutes. 
 When he did speak, his voice was gravely tender indeed, 
 as it had been to her all day, but there was no sentimen- 
 tality about it. He spoke clear and abrupt, as he often 
 did. 
 
 " Do you want to go back to the other house to 
 dinner ?" 
 
 " Do you wish it ?" said Eleanor looking up to find 
 out. 
 
 " I wish to see nothing earthly, this afternoon, but 
 your face." ,' 
 
 " Then do let it be so !" said Eleanor. 
 
 He laughed and kissed her, more gaily this time, with- 
 out seeming able to let her out of his arms ; and left her at 
 last with the injunction to keep still a minute till he should 
 return, and on no account to begin an examination of the • 
 house by herself. Very little danger there was ! Elea- 
 nor had not the free use of her eyes yet for anything. 
 Presently he came back, put her hand on his arm and 
 led her out into the middle apartment. 
 
 " Do you know," he said as he passed through this, 
 keeping her hand in his own and looking down at her 
 face, — " what is the first lesson you have to learn ?" 
 
 " No," said Eleanor, most unaflTectedly frightened ; 
 she did not know why. 
 
 " The first thing we have to do, on taking possessfon 
 here to-day is, to give our thanks and offer our prayers 
 in company. Do not you think so ?" 
 
A T D I N N E E . 301 
 
 " Yes—" said Eleanor breathlessly. " But what 
 then ?" 
 
 " I mean tooether, — not that it should bo all on one 
 side. You with me, as well as I with you." 
 
 " Oh no, Mr. Rhys !" 
 
 " Why not ?— Mrs. Rhys ?" 
 
 " Do not ask me ! That would be dreadful !" ' 
 
 " I do not think you will find it so." 
 
 Eleanor stopped short, near the other end of the great 
 apartment. " I cannot do it !" she exclaimed with 
 tears in her eyes, appealing to him. He put his arms 
 round her again, but spoke gravely. 
 
 " One can always do what is right." • 
 
 " Not to-day — " whispered Eleanor. 
 
 " One can always do right to-day,'' he answered smil- 
 ing. " And it is best to begin as we are going on. 
 Come!" 
 
 He took her hand and led her forward into the room 
 at the other end of the house ; his study, Eleanor saw 
 with half a ghmce by the books and papers and tables 
 that weie there. Still keeping her hand fast in his, they 
 knelt together ; and certainly the prayer that followed 
 was good for nervousness, and like the sunshine to dispel 
 all manner of clouds. Eleanor was quieted and sub- 
 dued ; she could not help it ; all sorts of memories and 
 associations of Plassy and Wiglands gathered in her 
 mind, back of the thoughts that immediately filled it. 
 Hallowed, precious, soothing and joyful, those minutes 
 of ]3rayer were while Mr. Rhys spoke ; in spite of the 
 minutes to follow that Eleanor dreaded. And though 
 her own words were few, and stammering, they wera 
 difierent from what she would have thought possible a 
 quarter of an hour before ; and not unhappy to look 
 back upon. 
 
 Detaining her when they arose, Mr. Rhys asked with 
 something of his old comical look, whether she thought 
 
808 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 she could eat a dinner of his ordering ? Eleanor had in 
 doubt of it. 
 
 " You think you could eat anything by this time !' 
 said he. " Poor child ! But my credit is at stake — cup 
 pose you wait here a few minutes, until I see wheihei 
 all is right." 
 
 He went oif, and Eleanor sat still, feeling too ha; py 
 to want to look about her. He came again presently,, to 
 lead Eleanor to the dining-room. 
 
 In the lofty, spacious, and by no means inelegant mid- 
 dle apartment of the house, a little table stood spread, 
 looking exceeding diminutive in contrast with the wide 
 ai-ea and high ceiling of the room. Here Mr. Rhys with 
 a very bright look established Eleanor, and proceeded to 
 make amends for keeping her so long from Mrs. Balliol's 
 table. Much to her astonishment there was a piece of 
 broiled chicken and a dish of eggs nicely cooked, and 
 Mr. Rhys was pouring out for her some tea in delicate 
 little cups of china. 
 
 " You see atmt Caxton, do you not ?" he said. 
 
 " O aunt Caxton ! in these cups. I thought so. But 
 I had no idea you had such cooks in Fiji ?" 
 
 " They will learn — in time," said he shortly. " You 
 perceive this is an unorganized establishment. I have 
 not indulged in tablecloths yet ; but you will put thingf* 
 to rights." 
 
 " Tablecloths ?" said Eleanor. 
 
 " Yes — you have such things lying in wait for you. 
 You have a great deal to do. And in the first place, you 
 are to find out the good qualities of these fruits of the 
 land," he said, giving her portions of several vegetable 
 preparations with which and with fruits the table was 
 filled. 
 
 " What is this ?" said Eleanor. 
 
 "Taro; one of the valuable things with which nature 
 has blessed Fiji. The natives cultivate it well and care- 
 
AT DINNER. 309 
 
 fully. That is yam; and came f!-om a root five and a 
 half feet long. Eleanor — I do not at all comprehend how 
 you come to be sitting there !" 
 
 It was so strange and new to Eleanor, and Mr. llliya 
 was such a compound of things new and things old to 
 her, that a little chance word like this was enough to 
 make her flutter and change colour. He perceived it, 
 and bent his attention to amuse her with the matters of 
 the table ; and told her wonders of the natural pi-oduo- 
 tions of Fiji. But in the midst of this Mr. Rhys's hand 
 would come abstracting her tea-cup to fill it again ; and 
 then Eleanor watched while he did it ; and he made him- 
 self a little private amuseraimt about getting it sugared 
 right and finding how she liked it ; and Eleanor wonder- 
 ed at him and her tea-cup together, and stirred her tea 
 in a subdued state of mind. 
 
 " One hardly expects to see such a nice little teaspoon 
 in Fiji," she remarked. 
 
 " Aunt Caxton, again," said Mr. Khys." 
 
 " But Mr. Rhys, your Fijians must be remarkable 
 cooks ! Or have you taught them ?" 
 
 " I have taught nobody in that line." 
 
 " Then are they not remarkable for their skill in 
 cookery ?" 
 
 "As a nation, I think they are; and it is one evidence 
 of their mental development. They have a great variety 
 of native dishes, some of which, I believe, are not des- 
 picable." 
 
 "But these are English dishes." 
 
 "Do justice to them then, like a good Englishwo- 
 man." 
 
 Eleanor's praise was not undeserved ; for the chicken 
 and yam were excellent, and the sweet potatoe which 
 Mr. Rhys put upon her plate was roasted very like one 
 that had been in some hot ashes at home. But every- 
 thing except the dishes was strange, Mr. Rhys's hand 
 
810 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 included. Through the whole length of the house, and 
 of course through the middle apartment, ran a douhlo 
 row of columns, upholding the roof. If Eleanor's eye 
 followed them up, there was no ceiling, but the lofty roof 
 of thatch over her head. Under her foot was a mat, of 
 native workmanship ; substantial and neat, and very for 
 eign looking. And here were aunt Caxton's cups ; and 
 if she lifted her eyes — Eleanor felt most strange then, 
 although most at home. 
 
 The taro and yam and sweet potatoe were only an 
 introduction to the fruit, which was beautiful as a shew. 
 A native servant came in and removed the dishes, and 
 then set on the table a large basket, in which the whole 
 dessert was very simply served. Cocoanuts and bananas, 
 oranges and wild plums, bread-fruit and Malay apples, 
 came yiled together in beautiful mingling. Mr. Rhys 
 went himself to a sort of beaufet in the room and 
 brought plates. 
 
 " Servants cannot be said to be in complete training," 
 he said with a humourous look as he seated himself. " It 
 would be strange if they were, when there has been no 
 one to train them. And in Fiji." 
 
 "I do not understand," said Eleanor. "Have you 
 been keeping house here all by yourself? I thought not, 
 from what Mrs. Balliol said." 
 
 " You may trust sister Balliol for being always cor- 
 rect. No, for the last few months, until lately, I have 
 been building this house. Since it was finished I have 
 lived in it, partly ; but I have taken my principal meals 
 at the other house." 
 
 " Tbu have been building it?" 
 
 " Or else you would not be in it at this moment. 
 There is no carpenter to be depended on in Fiji but 
 yourself You have got to go over the house presently 
 and see how you like it. Are you ready for a banana f 
 
AT DINNER. 311 
 
 or an orange ? I think you must try one of these 
 cocoanuts." 
 
 " But you had people to help you ?" 
 " Yes. At the rate of two boards a day." 
 " But Mr. Rhys, if you cannot get carpenters, where 
 can you get cooks ? — or do the people have this by 
 nature ?" 
 
 " When you ask me properly, I will tell you," he said, 
 with a little pucker in the corners of his mouth that 
 made Eleanor take warning and draw off. She gave her 
 attention to the cocoanut, which she found she must 
 learn how to eat. Mr. Rhys played with an orange in 
 the mean time, but she knew was really busy with noth- 
 ing but her and her cocoanut. When she would be 
 tempted by no more fruit, he went off and brought a 
 little wooden bowl of water and a napkin, which he pre- 
 sented for her fingers, standing before her to hold it. 
 Eleanor dipped in her fingers, and then looked up. 
 
 " You should not do this for me, Mr. Rhys !" she said 
 half earnestly. 
 
 But he stooped down and took his own payment; and 
 on the whole Eleanor did not feel that she had greatly 
 the advantage of him. Indeed Mr. Rhys had payment 
 of more sorts than one ; for cheeks were rosy as the fin- 
 gers were white which she was drying, as she had risen 
 and stood before him. She looked on then with great 
 edification, to see his fingers deliberately dipped in the 
 same bowl and dried on the same napkin ; for very well 
 Eleanor knew they would have done it for no mortal 
 beside her. And then she was carried off to look at tho 
 walls of Ivcr house. 
 
CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 " Thou hast fo md .... 
 Th^ cocoas and hanauaB, palms and yamB, 
 And homestall thatched with leaves " 
 
 Tinj walls of the house were, to an English worn \n, a 
 cnriosity. They were made of reeds ; three layers or 
 thicknesses of them being placed different waj's, and 
 bound and laced together with sinnet ; the strong braid 
 made of the fibre of the cocoanut-husk. It was this 
 braid, woven in and out, which produced the pretty 
 mosaic effect Eleanor had observed upon the outside. 
 Mr. Rhys took her to a doorway, where she could exam- 
 ine from within and from without this novel construc- 
 tion ; and explained minutely how it was managed. 
 
 " This looks like a foreign land," said Eleanor. " You 
 had described it, and I thought I had imagined it ; but 
 sight and feeling are quite a different matter." 
 
 " I did not describe it to yon ?" 
 
 " No — O no ; you described it to aunt Caxton." 
 
 He drew her back a step or two and laid her hand 
 upon the post of the door. 
 
 " What is this ?" said Eleanor. 
 
 " That is a piece of the stem of the palm-fern." 
 
 " And these are its natural mouldings and markings 
 It W like elegant carved work ! It is natural, is it not ?' 
 sho said suddenly. 
 
 "Certainly. The natives do execul e very marvellous 
 carving in wood, with tools that would drive a workman 
 at home to despair ; but I have not learned the art. 
 
I N T IT E II O U S H. 313 
 
 Uome here — the pillars that hold up the roof of youi 
 house are of the same wood." 
 
 A double row of pillars through the whole length of 
 ■the house gave it stability ; they were stems of the same 
 palm fern, and as they had been chosen and placed with 
 a careful eye to size and position, the effect of them was 
 not at all ineler.ant. The building itself was of gener- 
 ous length and width ; and with a room cut oif at each 
 end, as the fashion was, the centre apartment was left of 
 really noble proportions ; broad, roomy, and lofty ; with 
 its palm columns springing up to its high roof of thatch. 
 Standing beside one of them, Eleanor looked up and de- 
 clared it a beautiful room. 
 
 " Do not look at the doors and windows," said Mr. 
 Rhys. "I did not make those — they were sent out 
 framed. I had only the pleasure of putting them in." 
 
 "And how did that agree with all your other work?" 
 
 " Well," he said decidedly. " That was my recreation." 
 
 " There is the prettiest mixture of wild and tame in 
 this house," said Eleanor, speaking a little timidly ; for 
 she was conscious all the while how little Mr. Rhys was 
 thinking of anything but herself. " Are these mats 
 made here ?" 
 
 "Pure Fijian!" 
 
 The one at which Eleanor was looking, her eyes hav- 
 ing fallen to the floor, was both large and elegant. It 
 was very substantially and neatly made, and had a bor- 
 der fancifully wrought all round it, a few inches in width. 
 The pattern of the border was made with bits of worsted 
 and little white feathers. This mat covered all the cen- 
 tre of the room ; under it the whole floor was spread 
 with other and coarser ones ; and others of a still differ- 
 ent manufacture lined the walls of the room. 
 
 " One need not want a prettier carpet," said Eleanor, 
 keeping her eyes on the mat. Mr. Rhys put his arm 
 round her and drew her off to one side of the room, 
 VOL. II. 14 < 
 
S14 THE OLD n E I. M B T . 
 
 wnere he made her pause before a large, square space 
 which was sunk a foot deep in the earth and bordered 
 massively with a frame of logs of hard wood. 
 
 " What do you think of that ?" 
 
 " Mr. Rhys, what is it ?" 
 
 " You would not take it for a fireplace ?" he said with 
 a comical look. 
 
 " But is it a fireplace ?" 
 
 " That is what it is intended for. The Fijians make 
 their fireplaces in this manner. 
 
 " And you are a Fijian, I suppose." 
 
 " So are you." 
 
 " But Mr. Rhys, can a fireplace of this sort be useful 
 in an English house ?" 
 
 " No. But in a Fijian house it may — as I have proved. 
 The natives would have a wooden frame hei'e, at one 
 side, to hold cooking vessels. You do not need that, for 
 you have a kitchen." 
 
 " With a fireplace like this ?" 
 
 " Yes," he said, with a smile that had some raillery in 
 it, which Eleanor would not provoke. 
 
 " Suppose you come and look at something that is not 
 Fijian," he went on. " You must vary your attention." 
 
 He drew her before a little unostentatious piece of 
 furniture, that looked certainly as if it was made out of 
 a good bit of English oak. What it was, did not ap. 
 pear ; it was very plain and ratlier massively made. 
 Now Mr. Rhys produced keys, and opened first doors ; 
 then a drawer, which displayed all the characteristic con- 
 tents and arrangements of a lady's work-box on au 
 extended scale. Love's work ; Eleanor could see her 
 adopted mnther in every carefully disposed supply of 
 needles and silks and braids and glittering Sheffield ware, 
 and the thousand and one appliances and provisions ibr 
 one who was to be jit a very large distance from Shef- 
 field and every home source of needle furniture. Lova 
 
IX THE HotrsE. 315 
 
 "•ecognized love's work, as Eleanor looked into the 
 drawer. 
 
 " Now you are ready to say this is a small thread and 
 needle shop," said Mr. Rhys ; " but you will be mis- 
 taken if you do. Look further." 
 
 And that she might, he unlocked a pair of smaller 
 inner doors ; the little piece of furniture developed itseH 
 immediately into a capital secretary. As thoroughgoing 
 as the work-box, but still more comprehensive, here were 
 more than mere materials and conveniences for writing ; 
 it was a depository for several small but very precious 
 treasures of a scientific and other kinds ; and even a few 
 books l.'iy nestling among ihem, and there was room for 
 more. 
 
 " What is this !" Eleanor exclaimed when she had got 
 her breath. 
 
 " This is — Mrs. Caxton ! I do not know whether she 
 expected you to turn sempstress immediately for the 
 colony — or whether she intended you for another voca- 
 tion, as I do." 
 
 " She sent this from England !" 
 
 " It was made by nobody worse than a London cabi- 
 net-maker. I did not know whether you would choose 
 to have it stand in this place, or in the only room that 
 can properly be called your own. Come in here ; — the 
 other part of the house is, you will find, pretty much 
 public." 
 
 " Even your study ?" 
 
 " That is no exception, sometimes. I am a public 
 man, myself." 
 
 The partition wall of this room was nicely lined with 
 mats; the door was like a piece of the wall, swinging to 
 noiselessly, but Mr. Rhys shewed Eleanor how she could 
 fasten it securely on the inside. Eleanor had been taken 
 into this room on her first arrival ; but had then been 
 unable to see anything. Now her eyes were in requisir 
 
516 THE OLD HELMBT. 
 
 tioTi. Hero tliere was even more attention paid lo com- 
 fort and appearances than in the dining-room. In the 
 simplest possible manner; but somebody had been at 
 work there who knew that elegance is attainable without 
 the help of opulence ; and that eye and hand can do 
 what money cannot. Eye and hand had been busy 
 everywhere. Very pretty and soft native mats w^ere on 
 the floor; the windows were shaded with East Indian 
 jalousies ; and not only personal convenience but tastes 
 were regarded in the various articles of furniture and 
 the arrangement of them. Good sense was regarded 
 too. Camp chairs and tables were useful for packing 
 and moving, as well as neat to the eye ; white draperies 
 relieved their sim[)licity ; shelves were hung against the 
 wall in one place for books, and filled ; and in the floor 
 stood an easy chair of excellent workmanship, into 
 which Mr. Rhys immediately put Eleanor. But she 
 started up to look at it. 
 
 " Did aunt Caxton send all these things ?" she said 
 with a tear in her eye. 
 
 " She has sent almost too many. These are but the 
 beginning. Look here, Eleanor." 
 
 He opened a door at one end of the room, hidden 
 under mat hangings like the other, whit-h disclosed a 
 large space lined with shelves ; several ai'ticles reposing 
 on them, and on the floor below sundry chests and 
 boxes. 
 
 "This is your storeroom. Here you may revel in the 
 riches you do not immediately wish to display. This is 
 yours ; I have a storeroom on my own part." 
 
 " And what is in those chests and boxes, Mr. Rhys ?" 
 
 "I don't know ! except that it is aunt Caxton again. 
 You will find tablecloths and napkins — I can certify that 
 — foi- I stumbled upon them ; but I thought they had 
 best not see the light till their owner came. So I locked 
 them up — and here are the keys." 
 
IN THE HOUSE. rtH 
 
 " And who put up all these nice shelves ?" 
 
 " Your head carpenter." 
 
 " And have you been doing all this for me ?" said 
 Eleanor. 
 
 He laughed ami took her in his arms again, looking 
 at lier with that mixture of expressions. 
 
 " I wish I could give you some of my content !" he 
 said. 
 
 " I do not want it !" said Eleanor laughing. 
 
 " Is that declaration entirely generous ?" 
 
 Eleanor had no mind, like a wise woman, to answer 
 this question ; but she was held under the inspection of 
 an eye that she knew of old clear and keen beyond all 
 others to untie the knot of anybody's meaning. She 
 flushed up very much and tried to turn it oif, for she saw 
 he had a mind to have the answer. 
 
 " You do not want me to give accoimt of every idle 
 word after that fashion ?" she said lightly. 
 
 " Hush — hush," he said with a gravity that had much 
 sweetness in it. " I cannot have you speak in that 
 way." 
 
 " I will not — " said Eleanor, suddenly much more 
 sober than he was. 
 
 " There are too many that have the habit of using 
 thfir Master's words to point their own sentences. Do 
 not let us use it. Come to my study — you did not see it 
 before dinner, I think." 
 
 Eleanor was glad he could smile again, for at that 
 minute she could not. She felt whirled back to Plassy, 
 and to Wiglands, to the time of their old and very dif- 
 ferent relations. She could not realize the new, nor 
 quietly understand her own happiness ; and a very fresh 
 vivid sense of his chnracter made her feel almost as much 
 awe of him as aifeolion. That was according to old 
 habit too. But if she felt shy and strange, she was the 
 only one ; for Mr Rhys was in a very gay mood. As 
 
818 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 they went through the dining-room he slopped to shew 
 and display to her numerous odd little contrivances and 
 arrangements ; here a cupboard of rustic, and very 
 pretty too, native work ; or at least native materials. 
 There a more sophisticated beaufet, which had come 
 from Sydney by Mrs. Caxton's order. " Dear Mrs, 
 Caxton !" said Mr. Rliys, — " she has forgotten nothing. 
 I am only in astonishment what she can have found to 
 fill your new invoice of boxes." 
 
 " Why there are not many," said Eleanor. 
 
 He looked at her and laughed. " You will be doing 
 nothing but unpacking for days to come," he said. " I 
 have done what I never thought I should do — married 
 a rich wife." 
 
 " Why aunt Caxton sends the things quite as much to 
 you as to me." 
 
 "Does she." 
 
 " I am sure, if anybody is poor, I am." 
 
 " If that speech means me" said Mr. Rhys with a 
 little bit of provokingness in the corners of his mouth, 
 — "I don't take it. I do not feel poor; and never did. 
 Not to-day certainly, with whole shiploads coming in." 
 
 " I do not know of a single unnecessary thing but 
 your microscope." 
 
 " Have you brought that ?" he said with a change of 
 tone. "It would be just like Mrs. Caxton to come out 
 and make us a visit some day ! I cannot think of any 
 tiling else she could give us, that she has not given 
 Look at my book-cases." 
 
 Eleanor did, thinking of their owner. They were of 
 plainest construction, but so made that they would take 
 to pieces in five minutes and become packing cases with 
 the books packed, all ready for travel ; or at pleasure, as 
 now, stand up in their place in the study in the form of 
 very neat bookcases. They were not largo ; a Fijian 
 missionary's library had need be not too extensive ; but 
 
IN THE HOUSE. 319 
 
 Eleanor looked over their contents with huriicd de- 
 light. 
 
 The rest of the room also spoke of Mrs. Caxtori ; in 
 light neat tables and chairs and other things. Here too, 
 liioiigh not a hand's turn had apparently been wasted, 
 everything, simple as it was, had a sort of pleasantness 
 of order and fitness which left the eye gratified. Eleanor 
 read that and the meaning of it. Here were contrivan- 
 ces again tliat Mr. Rhys had done; shelves, and brack- 
 ets, and pins to hang things ; nothing out of use, but all.so 
 contrived as to give a certain elegant effect to this pluin 
 •work-room. Even the book and paper disorder was not 
 that of a careless man. Still it was not like the room at 
 the other end of the house. The mats that flooied and 
 lined it were coarser ; there were no jalousies at the win- 
 dows ; and no easy chair anywhere. One thing it had 
 like the other ; a storeroom cut off from it. This was a 
 large one, like Eleanor's, and filled. His money-drawer, 
 Mr. Rhys called it. All sorts of articles valued by the 
 natives were there ; Mrs. Caxton had taken care to send 
 a large supply. These were to serve the purposes of 
 barter. Mr. Rhys displayed to Eleanor the stores of 
 iron tools, cotton prints, blankets, and articles of cloth- 
 ing, that were stowed away there ; stowed away with an 
 absolute order and method vifhich again she looked at as" 
 significant of one side at least of Mr. Rhys's character 
 He amused himself with displaying everything ; shewed 
 her the whole of the new and strangely appointed estab- 
 lishment over which she had come to preside, so far at 
 least as the house contained it ; and when he had brought 
 her to something like an apparent share in his own gay 
 mood, at last placed her in a camp chair in the dining- 
 room, which he had set in the middle of the floor, and 
 opened the door of the house. It gave Eleanor a lovely 
 view. The plantations had been left open, so that tiiO 
 eye had a fair range-down to the river and to the oppo. 
 
S20 THE OLD HBLMET. 
 
 site shore, where anotjier village stood. It wus seen 
 under bright sunshine now. Mr. Rhys let her look a 
 moment, then shut the door, and came and sat down he- 
 fore her, taking both her hands in his own ; and Eleanor 
 knew from a glance at his face that the same thoughts 
 were working within him that had wrouglit that moved 
 look before dinner — when she first came. She felt her 
 colour mounting ; it tried her to be silent under his eye 
 in that way. 
 
 "Mr. Rliys, do you remember preaching to me one 
 day at Plassy^ — ^when we were out walking ?" 
 
 "Yes," he said- with a half laugh. 
 
 " I wish you would do it again." 
 
 " I will preach you a sermon every morning if you 
 like." 
 
 " No, but now. I wish you would, so as to make me 
 realize that you are the same person." 
 
 " I am not the same person at all !" he said. 
 
 " Why are you not ?" said Eleanor opening her eyes 
 at him. 
 
 " In those days I was your pastor and friend simply. 
 The difference is, that I have "acquired the right to love 
 you — take care of you — and scold you." 
 
 " It seems to me that last was a privilege you exer- 
 cised occasionally in those times," said Eleanor archly. 
 
 " Not at all ! In those days I was a poor fellow that 
 did not dare say a word to you." 
 
 Eleanor's recollections were of sundry exceptions to 
 this rule, so marked and prominent in her memory that 
 she could not help laughing. 
 
 " O Mr. Ilhys, don't you remember — " 
 
 " What ?" said he with the utmost gravity. 
 
 But Eleanor had stopped, and coloured now bril- 
 liantly. 
 
 " It seems that your recollections are of a question* 
 Die character," li e said. Eleanor did not deny it. 
 
IN THE HOUSE. 321 
 
 "What is it yon wish me not to fememlcr?" 
 
 " It was a time when you said I was very wrong," 
 *aid Eleanor meeklj', " so do not call it back." 
 
 He bent forward to kiss her, which did not steady 
 Eleanor's thoughts at all. 
 
 "Do you want preaching?" he saiil. 
 
 " Yes indeed ! It will do me good." 
 
 " I will give you some words to think of, that I lived 
 m all yesterday. ' Beloved of God.' They are wonder- 
 ful words, that Paul says belong to all the saints ; and 
 they were about me yesterday like a halo of glory, from 
 morning to night." 
 
 Now Eleanor was all right ; now she recognized Mr. 
 Rhys and herself, and listened to every word with her 
 old delight in them. Now she could use her eyes and 
 look at him, though she well saw that he was consider- 
 ing her with that full, moved tenderness that she had felt 
 in him all day ; even when he was talking and thinking 
 of other things he did not cease to remember her. 
 
 "Eleanor, what do you know about the meaning of 
 those words ?" 
 
 " Little !" she said. " And yet, a little." 
 
 " You know that we were Gentiles, carried away unto 
 these dumb idols — or after others in our own hearts — as 
 helplessly as the poor heathen around us. But we have 
 got the benefit of that word, — 'I will call them my 
 people, which were not my people ; and her beloved, 
 which was not beloved.' " 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "Then look at our privileges — 'The beloved of tho 
 Lord shall dwell in safety by him ; and the Lord shal. 
 cover him all the day long, and he shall dwell betweei 
 his shoulders.' — Heavenly security ; unearthly joy ; a 
 hiding-place wl ere the troubles of earth cannot reach 
 
 UB." 
 
 Mr. Rhys left his position before Eleanor at this, and 
 14* 
 
322 THB OLD HELMET. 
 
 with a brow all alight with its thoughts began to pace 
 np and down in front of her ; just as he had done at 
 Plassy, she remembered. She ventured not a word. 
 Her lieart was very full. 
 
 " Then look how we are bidden to increase our rejoic- 
 ing and to delight ourselves in the store laid up for us ; 
 we are not only safe and happy, but fed with dainties. 
 All things are ready ; Christ says he will sup with us ; 
 and we are bidden — 'Eat, O Iricnds; drink, yea, drink 
 abundantly, O beloved.' ' He that cometh to me shall 
 never hunger, and he that believeth on me shall never 
 thirst.' " 
 
 " And then, Eleanor, if we ai-e the elect of God, holy 
 and beloved, what bowels of mercies should be in us ; 
 how precious all other beloved of him should be to us ; 
 how we should be constrained by his love. Are you ? 
 I am. I am willing to spend and be spent for these peo- 
 ple among whom we are. I am sure there are many, 
 many children of God among them, come and coming. 
 I seek no better than to labour for them. It is the de- 
 -ight of ray soul ! Eleanor, how is it with you ?" 
 
 He had stood still before her during these last words, 
 and now sat down again, taking her hands and looking 
 with his undeceivable gaze into her face. 
 
 " I desire the same thing. I dare not say, I desire it 
 as strongly as you do, — but it is my vei-y wish." 
 
 " Is it for the love of Christ — -or for love of these poor 
 creatures ? or for any other reason ?" 
 
 " I can hardly separate the first two," said Eleanor, 
 looking a little wistfully. " The love of Christ is at the 
 bottom of it all." 
 
 " There is no other motive," he said ; " no other that 
 will do the work ; nothhig else that will work true Iovh 
 to Ihem. But when I think of tiiy Master — I am will- 
 ing to do or be anything, I think, in his service I" 
 
IK THE HOUSE. 328 
 
 He quitted her hands and began slowly walking up 
 and down again. 
 
 " Mr. Khys," said Eleanor, " what can I do ?" 
 
 " Ave you ready to encounter disagreeablen esses, and 
 hardships, and privations, in the work ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and discouragements." 
 
 " There are no such things. There ought to be no 
 such things. I never feel nor have felt discouraged. 
 That is want of faith. Do you remember, Eleanor, 'The 
 clouds are the dust of his feet ?' Think — our eyes are 
 blinded by the dust, we look at nothing else, and we do 
 not see the glory of the steps that are taken." 
 
 " That is true. O Mr. Rhys, that is glorious !" 
 
 " Then you are not afraid ? I forewarn you, little 
 annoyances are sometimes harder to bear than great 
 ones. It is one of the most trying things that I have to 
 meet," said Mr. Rhys standing still with a funny face, — 
 " to have Ra Mbombo's beard sweep my plate when I 
 am at dinner." 
 
 " What (ftes he do that for ?" 
 
 " He is so fond of me." 
 
 " That is being too fond, certainly." 
 
 " It is an excess of affectionate attention, — • he gets so 
 close to me that we have a community of things. And 
 you will have, Eleanor, some days, a perpetual levee of 
 visiters. But what is all that, for Christ ?" 
 
 " I am not afraid," said Eleanor with a most unruffled 
 smile. 
 
 " I wrote to frighten you." 
 
 " But I was not frightened. Are things no better in 
 the islands than when you wrote ?" 
 
 " Changing — changing every day ; from darkness to 
 light, and from the power of Satan to God. Literally. 
 There are heathen temples here, in which a few years ago 
 if a woman or a child had dared cross the threshold they 
 would have been done to denth immediately. Now 
 
824 THK OLD HELMBT. 
 
 those very temples are used as our schools. On our way 
 to the chapel we shall pass almost over a place where 
 there used to be one of the ovens for cooking human 
 bodies ; now the grass and wild tomatoes are growing 
 over it. I can take you to house after house, where 
 men and women used to be eaten, where now if you 
 Btand to listen you may hear hynms of praise to Jesua 
 and prayer going up in his name. Praise the Lord ! It 
 is grand to be permitted to live in Fiji now !" — 
 
 Eleanor was hushed and silent a few minutes, while 
 Mr. Rhys walked slowly up and down. Then she spoke 
 with her eyes full of sympathetic tears. 
 
 " Mr. Rhys, what can I do ?" 
 
 " What you have to do at present," he said with a 
 change of tone, " is to take care of me and leam the 
 language, — both languages, I should say ! And in the 
 mean while you had better take care of your pins," — he 
 stooped as he spoke, to pick up one at her feet and pre- 
 sented it with comical gravity. " You must remember 
 you are not in England. Here you could not spend pin- 
 money even if you had it." 
 
 " If I were inclined to be extravagant," said Elea- 
 nor laughing at him, " your admonition would be 
 thrown away ; I have brought such quantities with 
 me?" 
 
 " Of pins ?" 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 " I hope you will not ever use them !" 
 
 " Why not ?" 
 
 " I do not see what a properly made di-ess has to do 
 with pins." 
 
 But at this confession of masculine ignorance Eleanor 
 first looked and then laughed and covered her face, till 
 he came and sat down again and by forcible possession 
 took her hands away. 
 
 " You have no particular present occasion to laugh at 
 
IN THE HOUSK. 325 
 
 me," he said. " Eleanor, what niarle you first willing 
 to qnit England and go anywhere ?" 
 
 The answer to this was first an innocent look, and 
 then an extreme scarlet flush. She could not hide it, 
 with her hands prisoners ; she sat in a pretty state of 
 abashment. A slight giving way of the mouth bore 
 witness that he read and understood it, though his im- 
 mediate words were reassuringly grave and unchanged 
 in tone. 
 
 " I remember, you did not comprehend such a thing 
 as possible, at one time. When was that changed ? 
 You used to have a great fear." 
 
 " I lost part of that at Plassy." 
 
 " Where did you lose the rest of it, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " It was in London." 
 
 He saw by the light in Eleanor's eyes, which looked 
 at him now, that there was something behind. Yet she 
 hesitated. 
 
 " Sealed lips ?" said he bending forward again tc \er 
 face. " You must unseal them, Eleanor." 
 
 " Do you want me to tell you all that ?" she asked 
 questioningly. 
 
 " I want yon to tell me everything." 
 
 " It is only a long story." 
 
 " Do not make it short." 
 
 An easy matter! to go on and tell it with her two 
 hands prisoners, and those particularly clear eyes looking 
 into her face. It served to shew the grace that belonged 
 to Eleanor, the way that in these circumstances she 
 began what she had to say. Where another woman 
 would have been awkward, she spoke with the simple 
 sweet poise of manner that had been the admiration of 
 many a company, and that made Mr. Rhys now press 
 the little hands closer in his own. A little evident shy 
 reluctance only added to the grace. 
 
 "It is a good while ago — I felt, Mr. Rhys, that I 
 
326 THE OLD HELMBT. 
 
 wanted, — just that which makes one wilhng to go any 
 where and do anything ; though not for that reason. 1 
 exj)ected to live in England always. I wanted to know 
 more of Christ. I wanted it, not for work's sake but for 
 happiness' sake. I was a Christian, I suppose ; but 1 
 knew — I had seen and felt — that there weie things, — 
 there was a height of Christian life and attainment, that 
 I had not reached ; but where I had seen other people, 
 with a light upon their brows that I knew never shined 
 apon mine. I knew whence it came— I knew what I 
 wanted — more knowledge of Christ, more love 'of him." 
 
 " When was this ?" 
 
 " It is a good while ago. It is — it was, — time seems 
 60 confused to me ! — I know it was the winter after you 
 went away. I think it was near the spring. We were 
 m London." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I was cold at the heari of leligion. I was not happy. 
 I knew what I wanted — more love to Christ." 
 
 " '\'ou did love him." 
 
 " Ym ; but you know what it is just to love him a little. 
 I went as duty bade me ; but the love of him did not 
 make all duty happy. I had seen you live differently — 
 i saw otliers — and I could not be content as I was. 
 
 " We wei-e in town then. One night I sat up all night, 
 and gave the whole night to it." 
 
 " To Geeking Jesus ?" 
 
 "I wanted to get out of my coldness and find him!" 
 
 " And you found him ?" 
 
 " I^ot soon. I spent the night in it. I prayed — and 
 \ walkeu \he floor and prayed — and I shed a great many 
 tears over the Bible. I felt as if I must have what I 
 wanted — but I could not seem to get any nearer to it. 
 The whole night passed away — i nd I had wearied my- 
 self — an<l I had got nothing. 
 
 " The dawn was just breaking, when I got up from my 
 
IN THE HOUSE. 327 
 
 Icnees tlie last time. I was almost giving up in despair. 
 I had done all I could — what could I do more? 1 
 went to the win low and opened it. The light was 
 just creeping up in the sky — there was a little streak of 
 brightness along the horizon, or of light rather, but it 
 was the herald of brightness. I felt desolate and tired^ 
 and like giving up hope and quest together. The duli 
 grey canopy overhead seemed just like my heart. I can- 
 not tell you how enviously I looked at the eastern dawn, 
 wishing the light would break upon my own horizon. I 
 shall never forget it. It was dusky )'et down in the 
 streets and over the housetops ; the city had not waked 
 up in our quarter ; it was still yet, and the breath of the 
 Diorning's freshness came to me and revived me and 
 mocked me both at once. I could have cried for sad- 
 I) ?ss, if I had not been too down-hearted and weary. 
 
 " Wliile I stood there, hearing the morning's promise, 
 I suppose, without knowing it, — there came up from the 
 streets somewhere below me, and near, the song of a 
 chinmey-swcep. I can never tell you how it ciime! It 
 came — but not yet ; at first I only knew what he was 
 singing by the notes of the air; but the next verse he 
 began came up clear and strong to me at the window. 
 Ho was singing those words — 
 
 " 'Twas a heaven below 
 
 My Redeemer to know ; 
 And the angels could do nothing more, 
 
 Than to fall at his feet, 
 
 And the story repeat, 
 And the Lover of sinners adore." 
 
 " I thought, it seemed that a band of angels cprop and 
 carried those words up past my window ! -And the 
 dawn came in my heait. I cannot tell you how, — I 
 seemed to see everything at once. I saw what a heaven 
 below it is, to know tlie love if Christ. I thi"k my 
 
S28 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 heart was something like the Ganges when the tide is 
 coming in. I thought, if the angels could do nothing 
 more than praise him, neither could I ! I fell at his feet 
 then — I do not think I have ever really left them since — 
 not for long at a time; and since then iny great wish has 
 been to be allowed to glorify him. I have had no fears 
 of anything in the way." 
 
 Eleanor had not been able to get through her " long 
 story" without tears ; but they came very much against 
 her will. She could not see, yet somehow she felt the 
 strong sympathetic emotion with which she was listened 
 to. She could hear it, in the subdued intonation of Mr. 
 Rhys's words. 
 
 " ' Keep yourselves in the love of God.' How shall 
 we do it, Eleanor ?" 
 
 She answered without Hiising her eyes — " ' The Lord 
 IB good unto them that wait for him.' " 
 
 " And, ' if ye keep my commandments, ye shall abide 
 in my love.' " 
 
 There was silence a moment. 
 
 " That commandment must take me away for a while, 
 Eleanor.'' She looked up. 
 
 " I thought," he said with his sweet arch smile, " I 
 might take so much of a honeymoon as one broken day 
 — but tliere is a poor sick man a mile off who wants me ; 
 and brother Balliol has had the schooner affairs to attend 
 to. I shall be gone an hour. Will you i^tay here ? or 
 Bhall I take you to the other house ?" 
 
 " May I stay here ?" 
 
 " Certainly. You can fasten the door, and then if 
 any visitei'S come they will think I am not at home. I 
 will give Solomon directions." 
 
 " Who is Solomon ?" 
 
 " Solomon is — I will introduce him to you !" -ind with 
 a very bright face Mr. Rhys went off into his study, 
 coming back again in a moment and with his hat. Ha 
 
IN THE HOUSE. 329 
 
 went to a door opposite that by -v^^hioh Eleanor had 
 entered the house, and blew a shrill whistle. 
 
 " Solomon is my fast friend and very faithful servant," 
 he said returning to Eleanor. " You saw him at dinner 
 — but it is time he should know you." 
 
 In came Solomon ; a very black specimen of the 
 islanders, in a dress something like that which Eleanor 
 had noticed on the man in the canoe. Solomon's fea 
 tures were undeniably good, if somewhat heavy ; they 
 had sense and manliness ; and his eye was mildly quiet 
 and genial in its expression. It brightened, Eleanor 
 saw, as he listened to Mr. Rhys's words ; to which she 
 also listened without being able to understand them, and 
 wondering at the warm feeling of her cheeks. Solo- 
 mon's gratulations were mainly given with his face, for 
 all the English words he could get out were, " glad — see 
 — Misi Risi" — Mr. Rhys laughed and dismissed him, 
 and went off himself. 
 
 Eleanor was half glaS to be left alone for a time. She 
 fastened the door, not for fear, but that her solitude 
 might not be intruded upon ; then walked up and down 
 over the soft mats of the centre room and tried to bring 
 her spirits to some quiet of realization. But she could 
 not. The change had been so sudden, from her wandering 
 state of uncertainty and expectation to absolute content 
 and rest, of body and mind at once, that her mental like 
 her actual footing seemed to sway and heave yet with 
 the upheavings that were past. She could not settle 
 down to anything like a composed state of mind. She 
 could not get accustomed yet to Mr. Rhys in his new char- 
 acter. As the children say, it was " too good to be 
 true." 
 
 A little unready to be still, she went oif again into 
 the room specially prepared for her, where the green 
 jalousies shaded the windows. One window here was 
 »t the end ; a direction in which Eleanor had not looked. 
 
330 THE OLD HE T, MET. 
 
 She softiy raised the jalousies a little, expeicting to see 
 just the waving bananas and other plants of the trcpical 
 garden that surrounded the house; or perhaps servants' 
 offices, about which she had a good deal of curiosity. 
 
 Instead of that, the window revealed a landscape of 
 such beauty that Eleanor involuntarily pulled up the 
 blind and sat entranced before it. No such thing as ser- 
 vants or servants' offices. A wide receding stretch of 
 broken country, rising in the distance to the dignity ot 
 blue precipitous hills ; a gorge of which opened far 
 away, to delight and draw the eye into its misty depth ; 
 a middle distance of lordly forest, with patches of clear- 
 ing ; bits of tropical \ egetation at hand, and over them 
 and over it all a tropical sky. In one direction the view 
 was very open. Eleanor could discern a bit of a path- 
 way winding through it, and once or twice a dark figure 
 moving along its course. This was Vuliva ! this was 
 her foreign home ! the region whei-e darkness and light 
 were struggling foot by foot for the mastery ; where 
 heathen temples were (ailing and heathen misery giving 
 place to the joy of the gospel, but where the gospel had 
 to fight them yet. Eleanor looked tUl her heart was too 
 full to look any longer ; and then turned aside to get the 
 only possible relief in prayer. 
 
 The hour was near gone when she went to her window 
 again. The day was cooling towards the evening. Well 
 she guessed that this window had been specially ar- 
 ranged for her. In everything that had been done in 
 the house she had seen that same watchful care for her 
 pleasure and comfort. There never was a house that 
 seemed to be so love's work ; Mr. Rhys's own hand had 
 most manifestly been everywhere ; asid the furniture 
 that Mrs. Caxton had sent he had placed. But Mrs. 
 Caxton had not sent all. Eleanor's eye rested on a 
 dressing-table that certainly never came from England. 
 L& was pretty enough ; it was very pretty, even to her 
 
IN THE HOUSS. 331 
 
 notions ; yet it ha 1 cost nothing, and was as nearly as 
 possible made of nothing. Yes, for she looked ; the 
 frame was only some nati\ e reeds or canes and a bit of 
 board ; the rest was white muslin drapery, which would 
 pack away in a very few square inches of room, but 
 now hung in pretty folds around the glass and covered 
 the frame. Eleanor just looked and wondered; no 
 more ; for the hour was up, and she went to her window 
 and raised the jalousies again. She was more quiet now, 
 she thought ; but ter heart throbbed with the thought 
 of Mr. Rhys and his return. 
 
 Slie looked over the beautiful wild country, watching 
 for him. The light was fair on the blue hills ; the sea- 
 breeze fluttered the leaves of the cocoanut trees and 
 waved the long thick leaves of the banana. She heard 
 no other sound near or far, till the quick swift tread she 
 was listening for came to her ear. Nobody was to be 
 seen ; but the si ep was not to be mistaken. Eleanor 
 got to the front door and had it open just in time to see 
 him come. 
 
 They stood then together in the doorway, for the view 
 was fair on the river side too. The opposite shore was 
 beautiful, and the houses of the heathen village had a 
 great interest for Eleanor, aside from their effect as part 
 of the landscape ; but her shyness was upon her again, 
 and she had a thorough consciousness that Mr. Rhys did 
 not see how the light fell on either shore. At last ho 
 put his arm round her and drew her up to his side, 
 saying, 
 
 " And so you did not get my letters in Sydney. — 
 I'oor little dove !" 
 
 It struck Eleanor with a curious pleasure, these words. 
 They would have been true, she knew, in the lips of no 
 other mortal, as also certainly to no other mortal would 
 it have' occurred to use them. She was not tlie sort of 
 person by any means to whoin such an appellation would 
 
S32 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 generally be given. To be sui-e her temper was of the 
 finest, but then also it had a body to it. Yet here she 
 knew it was true ; and he knew ; it was spoken not by 
 any arrogance, but by a purely frank and natural under- 
 standing of their mutual natures and relations. She an- 
 swered by a smile, exceeding sweet and sparkling, as 
 well as conscious, to the face that was looking down at 
 ber with a little bit of provoking archness upon its 
 gravity ; and their lips met in a long sealing kiss. Hus- 
 band and wife understood each other. 
 
 Perhaps Mr. Rhys knew it, for it seemed as if his 
 lips could hardly leave hers ; and Eleanor's face was all 
 maimer of lights. 
 
 " What has become of Alfred ?" he asked in aft irrel- 
 evant kind of manner, by way of parenthesis. 
 
 " I have not seen him — hardly — since you left Eng- 
 land. He is not under mamma's care now." 
 
 "And my friend Julia? Tou have told me but a 
 mite yet about everybody." 
 
 "Julia is your friend still. But Julia — I have not 
 seen her in a long, long time." 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 " Mamma would n6t let me. O Mr. Rhys ! — we have 
 been kept apart I could not even see her when I came 
 away." 
 
 " Why ?" 
 
 " Mamma — she was afraid of my influence over her." 
 
 " Is it possible !" 
 
 " Julia was going on well — setting her face to do 
 right. Now — I do not know how it will be. Even our 
 letters are overlooked." 
 
 " I need not ask how your mother is. I suppose she 
 is trying to save one of her daughters for the world." 
 
 Eleanor's thoughts swept a wide course in a few mm- 
 ntes ; remembered whose hand instrumentality haS saved 
 her from such a fate and had striven for Julia. With a 
 
IN THE HOUSE. 333 
 
 gigh that was part sorrow and part gratitude, Elt^anor 
 Inid her head softly pn Mr. Rliys's slioulder. With such 
 tenderness as one gives to a child, and yet larer, because 
 deeper and graver, she was made at home theie. 
 
 "Don't you want to take a walk to the chapel?" 
 
 " O yes !"— But she was held fast still. 
 
 " And shall we give sister Balliol the pleasure of ou 
 compnny to tea, as we come back ?" 
 
 " If you please — if you like." 
 
 " I do not like it at all," said Mr. Rhys frankly—" bat 
 I suppose we must." 
 
 "Think of finding the restraints of society even m 
 Fiji !" said Eleanor trying to laugli, as she brought her 
 bonnet and they set out. 
 
 " You must find them everywhere — unless you live to 
 please yourself," said Mr. Rhys, with his sweet grave 
 look ; and Eleanor was consoled. 
 
 The walk to the chm-ch was not very long, and she 
 could have desired it longer. The river shore, and the 
 view on the other side, and the village by which they 
 passed, the trees and the vegetable gardens and the odd 
 thatched roof's — everything was pretty and new to Elea- 
 nor's eyes. They passed all they had seen in coming 
 from the landing that morning, taking this time a path 
 outside the mission premises. Past the house with the 
 row of pillars in front, which Eleanor learned was a 
 building for the use of the various schools. A little fur- 
 ther on stood the chapel. It was neat and tasteful 
 enough to please even an Englisli eye ; and indeed looked 
 more English than foreign on a distant view ; and stand- 
 ing there in the wilderness, with its little bell-tower ris- 
 mg like a witness for all that was good in the midst of a 
 heathen land, the feelings of those who looked upon it 
 h/id need be very tender and very deep. 
 
 "This chapel is dear to our eyes," said Mr. Rhys, 
 " Everything is, that costs such pains. This poor people 
 
334 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 have made it ; and it is one of the best pieces of work 
 in Fiji. It was all done by the labour of their hearts 
 and hands." 
 
 " That seems to be the style of carpentry in this coun- 
 try," said Eleanor. 
 
 " The chief made up his mind on a good principle — 
 that for a house of the true God, neither time nor mate- 
 rial could be too precious. On that principle they went 
 to work. The timber used in the building is what we 
 call green-heart — the best there is in Fiji. To find it, 
 they had to travel over many a mile of the country; and 
 remember, there are no oxen here, no horses ; they had 
 no teams to help them. All must be done by the labour 
 of the hands. I think there were about eighty beams 
 of green-heart timber needed for the house — some of 
 them twelve and some of them fifty feet long. In about 
 three months these were collected ; found and brought 
 in from the woods and hills, sometimes from ten mil(!s 
 away. While the young men were doing this; the old 
 men at home were all day beating cocoanut husk, to sep- 
 arate the fibre for making siniiet. All day long I used 
 to hear their beaters going; it was good music; and 
 when at the end of every few days the woodcutters came 
 homo with their timber — so soon as they were heard 
 shouting the news of their coming — there was a general 
 burst and cry and every creature in the village set off to 
 meet them. and help drag the logs home. Women and 
 children and all went ; and you never saw people so 
 happy. 
 
 "Then the building was done in the same spirit. Many 
 a time when- 1 w as busy with them, overlooking their 
 work, I have heard them clianting to each other words 
 from the Bible — band agMinst band. One side would 
 sing — ' But wiil God indeed dwell on the earth ? Be- 
 hold, the heaven of heavens cannot contain thee ; how 
 much less this house that I have builded.' — Then th« 
 
IN TH7C ilOUSE. 334 
 
 Other side would answer, ' The Lord hath cho-ien Zion ; 
 he hatli desired it for his habitation.' I cannot tell you 
 how sweet it was. There was another chant they were 
 very fond of. A few would bettin with Solomon's peti- 
 tion — ' Have thou respect unto the prayer of thy servant, 
 and to his supplication, O Lord my God, to hearken unto 
 the cry and to the pi-ayer, which thy servant prayeth 
 before thee to-day : that thine eyes may be open toward 
 this house night and day, even toward the place of which 
 thou hast said. My name shall be there : that thou mayest 
 liearken unto the prayer which thy servant shall'make 
 toward this place,' — and here a number of the other 
 builders would join in with their cry — ' Hearken unto 
 the prayer which thy servant shall make !' And so in 
 the next verse, when it came near the end the others 
 would join in — ' And when thou hearest, forgive !' — " 
 
 " I should think you would love it !" said Eleanor with 
 her eyes full of tears. " And I should think the Lord 
 would love it." 
 
 " Come in, and see how it looks on the inside." 
 The inside was both simple and elegant, ai'ter a quaint 
 fashion ; for it was Fijian elegance and Fijian simplicity. 
 A double row of columns led dov/n the centre of the 
 building; they loi iked like mahogany, but it was only 
 native wood ; and the ornamental work at top which 
 served f )r their capitals, was done in sinnet. Over the 
 doors and windows triangular pediments were elabo- 
 rately wrought iu black with the same sinnet. The roof 
 was both quaint and elegant. It was done in alternate 
 open and close reed-work, with broad black lines divid- 
 ing it ; and ornamental lashings and bandings of sinnet 
 were used about the fa-tenings and groinings of spnra 
 and beams. Then the wings of the communioii rail 
 were made of reed work, ornamented ; the rail was a 
 beautiful piece of nut timber, and the balusters of sweet 
 
536 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 sandal wood. The whole effect excoediug pretty and 
 graceful, though produced with snch simple means. 
 
 " Mr. Ruskin ought to have had this as an illustration 
 of his - Lamp of Sacrifice,' " said Eleanor. " How beau- 
 tiful !— " 
 
 " The ' Lamp of Truth,' too," said Mr. Rhys. " It is 
 all honest work. That side was done by our heatlien 
 neighbours. The heathen chief sent us his compliments, 
 said he heard we were engaged in a great work, and if 
 we pleased he would come and help us. So he did. 
 They built that side of the wall and the roof." 
 
 " Did they do it well ?" 
 
 " Heartily." 
 
 "Do they come to attend worship in it?" 
 
 " The chapel is a great attraction. Strangers come tc 
 see — if not to worship, — and then we get a chance to 
 tell the truth to them." 
 
 "And Mr. Rhys, how is the truth prospering gener- 
 ally ?" 
 
 " Eleanor, we want men ! — and that seems to be all 
 we want. My heart fi'els ready to break sometimes, for 
 the want of helpers. I am glad of brother Amos com- 
 ing — very glad ! — but we want a hundred where we have 
 one. It is but a few weeks since a young man came 
 over from one of the islands, a large and important 
 island, bringing tidings that a number of towns there 
 had given up heathenism — all wanting teachers — and 
 there were no teachers for them. In one place the peo- 
 ple had built a chapel ; they had gone so far as that ; it 
 was at Koroivonu — and they gathered together the next 
 Sunday after it was finished, great numbers of the peo- 
 ple, filled the chapel and stood under some bread-fruit trees 
 in front of it, and stood there waiting to have some one 
 3orae and tell them the truth — and there was no one. 
 My heart is ready to weep blood when I think of these 
 things! The Tongan who came with the news came 
 
IN TTIK HOUSE. 337 
 
 « /th his eyes full of tears. And this is no strange nor 
 soUtary case of Koroivonu." 
 
 Mr. Rhys walked the floor of the little chapel, his fea- 
 tures working, Ilia breast heaving. Eleanor sat thinking 
 liow little she could do — how much she would ! 
 
 "You have native helpers — ?" she ssiid gently. 
 
 "Praise the Lord for what they are! but we want 
 missionaries. We want help from England. We can- 
 not get it from th* Colonies — not fast enough. Eleanor," 
 ' — and he stopped short and faced her — " a few months 
 ago, to give you another instance, I was beholder of such 
 a scene as this. I was to preach to a community that 
 were for the first time publicly renouncing heathenism. 
 It was Sunday." — Mr. Rhys spoke slowly, evidently 
 exeicising some control over himself; how often Eleanor 
 had seen him do that in the pulpit ! — 
 
 " I stood on the shores of a bay, reefed in from the 
 ocean. I wish I could put the scene before you ! On 
 the land side, one of the most magnificent landscapes 
 stretched back into the country, with almost every sort 
 of natural beauty. Before me the bay, with ten large 
 canoes moored in it. An island in the bay, I remember, 
 caught the light beautifully ; and beyond that there was 
 the white fence of breakers on the reef barrier. The 
 smallest of tlie canoes would hold a hundred men ; they 
 were the fleet of Thakomban, one of Fiji's fiercest kings 
 formerly, with himself and his warriors on board. 
 
 " My preaching place was on what had been the dan- 
 cing grounds of a village. I had a mat stretched on 
 three poles foi- an awning — such a mat as they make for 
 sails ; — and aiound me were nine others prepared in like 
 manner. This was my chapel. Just at my left hand 
 was a spot of ground where were ten boiling springs ; 
 and until that Sunday, one of them had been the due 
 Bjipointed place for cooking human bodies. That wag 
 
 VOL. II. — 15 
 
338 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 the place an 3 the preparation I looked at in the still Sun 
 day morning, before service time. 
 
 " At that time, the time appointed for service, a drum 
 was beat and the conch sliell blown ; the same shell 
 which had been used to give the war call. Directly all 
 those canoes were covered with men, and they were 
 plunging into the water and wading to shore. These 
 were Thakombau and his warriors. Not blacked and 
 stripped and armed for fighting, but washed and clothed. 
 They were stopping in that place on their way some- 
 where else, and now coming and gathering to hear the 
 preaching. On the other side came a procession from 
 the village ; and down every hillside and along every 
 path, I could see scattering groups and lines of comers 
 fi'om the neighbouring country. These, weie the heathen 
 inhabitants, coming up now to hear the truth and pi-o^ 
 fess by a public act of worship that they were lieathens 
 no longer. They all gathered round me there imder the 
 mat awnings, and sat on the grass looking up to hear, 
 while I told them of Jesus. — " 
 
 Mr. Rhys's voice was choked and he broke off ab- 
 ruptly. Eleanor guessed how he had talked to that au- 
 dience ; she could see it in his flushing face and quivering 
 lip. She could not find a word to say, and let him lead 
 her in silence and slowly away from the chapel and 
 towards the mission house. Before enteiing the planta- 
 tion again, Eleanor stopped and said in a low voice, 
 
 " What can I do ?" 
 
 He gave her a look of that moved sweetness she had 
 seen in him all day, and answered with his usual abrupt- 
 ness, 
 . " You can pray." 
 
 " I do that." 
 
 " Pray as Paul prayed — for your mother, and for Julia, 
 Bud for Fiji, and for me. Do you know how that was?* 
 
 "I know what some of his prayers were." 
 
IN THE HOUSE. 339 
 
 " Yes, but I never thought how Paul prayed, until the 
 other day. You must put the scattered hints together. 
 Wait niitil we are at home — I will shew you." 
 
 He pushed open the wicket and they went in ; and the 
 rest of the evening Eleanor talked to Mrs. Amos or to 
 1^-. Balliol; she sheered oif a little from his wife. There 
 was plenty of interesting conversation going on with 
 one and another ; but Eleanor had a little the sense of 
 being to that lady an object of observation, and drew 
 into a corner or into the shade as much as she could. 
 
 " Your wife is very handsome, brother Rhys," Mrs. 
 Balliol remarked in an aside, towards the end of the 
 evening. 
 
 " That is hardly much praise from you, sister Balliol," 
 he answered gravely. " I know you do not set much 
 store by appearances." 
 
 " She is very young !" 
 
 Both looked over to the opposite corner where Elea- 
 nor was talking to Mrs. Amos, sitting on a low seat and 
 looking up ; a little drawn back into the shade, yet not 
 so shaded but that the womanly modest sweetness of her 
 face could be seen well enough. Mr. Rhys made no 
 answer. 
 
 " I judge, brother Rhys, that she has been brought up 
 in the great world," — Mrs. Balliol went on, looking 
 across to the ruffled sleeve. 
 
 " She is not in it now," Mr. Rhys observed quietly. 
 
 " No ; — she is in good hands. But, brother Rhys, do 
 you think our sister understands exactly what sort of 
 work she has come to do here ?" 
 
 " She is teachable," he answered with great impertur- 
 bability. 
 
 " Well, you will be able to train her, if she wants it. 
 I am glad to know she is in such good hands. I think 
 she has hardly yet a just notion of what lies before her, 
 brother Rhys." 
 
S40 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 " When did you make your observations ?" 
 
 " She was with me, you know — you left her with rat 
 this mortiing. We were alone, and we had a little con- 
 i^ersation." 
 
 " Mrs Balliol, do you think a just notion of anything 
 san be formed in half an hour ?" -^ ^ 
 
 His question was rather grave, and the lady's eyea 
 wavered from meeting his. She fidgetted a little. 
 
 " O you know best, of course," she said ; " I have had 
 very little opportunity — I only judged from the want of 
 seriousness ; but that might have been from some other 
 cause. You must excuse me, if I spoke too frankly." 
 
 "You can never do that to me," he said. "Thank 
 you, sister Balliol. I will take care of her." 
 
 Mrs. Balliol was reassured. But neither during their 
 walk home nor ever after, did Mr. Rhys tell Eleanor of 
 this little bit of talk that had concerned her. 
 
CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 •• My Lady o jraes ; my Lady goes ; he can see her day by day, 
 And bless his eyes with her beauty, and with blessings strew Iter Tray." 
 
 The breakfast-table was as much of a mystei-y to 
 Eleanor as the dinner had been. Not because it looked 
 BO homelike; though in the early morning the doors 
 and windows were all open and the sunlight streaming 
 through on Mrs. Caxton's china cups and silver spoons. 
 It all looked foreign enough yet, among those palm-fern 
 pillai's, and on the Fijian mat with its border made of 
 red worsted ends and little white feathers. The basket 
 of fruit, too, on the table, did not look like England. 
 But the tea was unexceptionable, and there was a piece 
 of fresh fish as perfectly broiled as if it had been brought 
 over by some genius or fairy, smoking hot, from an En- 
 glish gridiron. And in the order and arrangements of 
 the table, there had been something more than native 
 ekill and taste, Eleanor was sure. 
 
 "It seems to me, Mr. Rhys," she said, "that the Fiji- 
 ans are remarkably good cooks !" 
 
 " Uncommon, for savages," said Mr. Rhys with per- 
 fect gravity. 
 
 " Hjaia fish is excellent." 
 
 " There is no better fish-market in the world, for 
 variety and abundance, than we have here." 
 
 " But I mean, it is broiled just like an English fish 
 {saac Walton himself would be satisfied with it." 
 
 " Isaac Walton never saw such fishing as is carried on 
 here. The natives are at home in the water from theii 
 
842 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 childhood — men and women both ; — and the women do 
 a good deal of the fishing. But the serious business is 
 the turtle fishing. It is a hand to hand conflict. The 
 men plunge into the water and grapple bodily with the 
 turtle, after they have brought them into an enclosure 
 with their nets. Four or five men lay hold of one, if it 
 is a large fellow, and they struggle together under water 
 till the turtle thinks he has the worst of the bai'gain, and 
 concludes to come to tlie surface." 
 
 " Does not the turtle sometimes get the better ?" 
 
 " Sometimes." 
 
 " Mr. Rhys, have you any particular duty to-day ?" 
 
 " I don't see how you can keep up that form of ex- 
 pression !" said he, with a comic gravity of dislike. 
 
 " Why not ?" 
 
 " It is not treating me with proper confidence." 
 
 Her look in reply was so very pretty, both blushing 
 and winsome, that the corners of his mouth were obliged 
 to give way. 
 
 " You know what my first name is, do not you ?" 
 
 " Tes," said Eleanor. 
 
 " The people about call me ' Misi Risi' 1 am not 
 
 going to have my wife a Fijian to me." 
 
 The lights on Eleanor's face were very pretty. With 
 the same contained smile he went on. 
 
 " I gave you my name yesterday. It is yours to do 
 vrhat you like with ; but the greatest dishonour you can 
 shew to a gift, is not to use it at all." 
 
 " That is the most comical putting of the case that 
 ever I heard," said Eleanor, quite unable to ret^ju her 
 own gravity. 
 
 " Very good sense," said Mr. Rhys, with a dry pre- 
 servation of his. 
 
 '■■But after all," said Eleanor, "you gave me your 
 second name, if you please — I do not know what I have 
 to do with the first." 
 
AT W O E K . 343 
 
 " You do not ? Is it possible you think your name ia 
 Henry or Jnmes, or something else ? You are Rowland 
 Rhys as truly as I am — only you are the mistress, and I 
 am the master." 
 
 Eleanor's look went over the table with something 
 besides laughter in the brown eyes, which made them a 
 gentle thing to see. 
 
 " Mr. Rh^'s, I atn thinking, what you will do to this 
 part of you to make it like the other?" 
 
 He gave her a glance, at which her eyes went down 
 instantly. 
 
 " I do not know," he said with infinite gravity. "I 
 will think about it. Preaching does hot seem to do yov. 
 any good." 
 
 Eleanor bent her attention upon her bi'ead and fruit. 
 He spoke next with a cliange of tone, giving up his 
 gravity. 
 
 " Do you know your particular duty to-day ?" 
 
 " I thought," said Eleanor, — " that as yesterday you 
 shewed me the head-carpenter, perhaps this morning 
 you would let me see the chief cook." 
 
 " That is not the first thing. You must have a lesson 
 in Fijian; now that I hope you are instructed in 
 English." 
 
 He carried her off to his study to get it. The lesson 
 was a matter of amusement to Mr. Rhys, but Eleanor 
 set herself earnestly to learn. Then he said he supposed 
 she might as well see her establishment at once, and took 
 her out to the side of the house where she had not 
 been. 
 
 It was a plantation wilderness here too, though par- 
 ticularly devoted to all that in Fiji could belong to a 
 kitchen garden. English beans and peas had been sown, 
 and were flourishing ; most of the luxuriance that met 
 ihe eye had a foreign character. Beaulifiil order was 
 noticeable everywhere. Mr. Rhys seemed to have for 
 
844 THB OLD HELMET. 
 
 (jotten all about the sei'vants ; he pleased himself with 
 leading Eleanor through the walks and shewing her 
 which were the plants of tlie yam and the kumera and 
 other native fruits and vegetables. Bananas were hei-e 
 too, and the graceful stems of the sugar cane ; and over- 
 head the cocoanut trees waved their feathery plumes in 
 the air. 
 
 " Who did all this ?" Eleanor asked admiringly. 
 
 " Solomon — with a head gardener over him." 
 
 " Solomon is — I saw him yesterday ?" 
 
 " Yes. He came with me from Vuknga. He is a 
 nice fellow. He is a Christian, as I told you ; and a 
 true labourer in the great vineyard. I believe he never 
 misses an opportunity to speiik to his countrymen in a 
 quiet way and tell them the truth. He has brought a 
 great many to know it. In my service he is very faith- 
 ful." 
 
 " No wonder this garden looks nice," said Eleanor. 
 
 " I asked Solomon one day about his religious expe- 
 rience. He said he was very happy ; he had enjoyed re- 
 ligion all the day. He said he rose early in the morning 
 and prayed that the Lord would greatly bless him and 
 keep him ; and that it had been so, and generally was so 
 wlien he attended to religious duties early in the morn- 
 ing. 'But if I neglect and rush into the world,' he 
 said, ' without properly attending to my religious duties, 
 nothmg goes right. I am wrong in my own heart, and 
 no one round me is right.' " 
 
 " Good testimony," said Eleanor. " Is he your cook 
 as well as your gardener ?" 
 
 " I had forgotten all about the cook," said Mr. Rhya. 
 " Come and see the kitchen." 
 
 Near the main dwelling house, in this planted enclo- 
 sure, were several smaller houses. Mr. Rhys at last 
 took Eleanor that way and permitted her to inspect 
 vhem. The one nearest the main building was fitted uj 
 
AT WORK. 34* 
 
 foi a laundry. The fuithest was a sleeping house for 
 the servants. The middle one was the tcitchen. It was 
 a li'ijian kitchen. Here w<as a large fireplace, of the 
 original fashion which had moved Eleanor's wonder in 
 the dining-room ; with a Fijian framework of wood at 
 ono side of it, holding native vessels of pottery, larger 
 and smaller, and variously shaped, for cooking purposes. 
 SoTne more homeHke iron utensils were to be seen also ; 
 with other kitchen appurtenances, water jars and so forth. 
 Afire had been in the fireplace, and the ,-;igris of cookery 
 were remaining ; but in all the houses, nobody was any- 
 where visible. 
 
 " Solomon is gone to collect your servants," said Mr. 
 Rhys. " That explains the present solitude." 
 
 " Did he cook that fish ?" 
 
 " I have not tried hhn in cooking," said Mr. Rhys with 
 a gravity that was perfect. " I do not know what he 
 could do if he was tried?" 
 
 " Who did it then?" 
 
 His smile was wondei-fully pleasant— now that it could 
 be no longer kept back — as he answered, " Your ser- 
 vant." 
 
 " ZoM, Rowland ! And the dinner yesterday ?" 
 
 "Do not praise me," he said with the same look,^ 
 " lest I should spoil the dinner to-day. I do not expect 
 there will be anybody here till afternoon." 
 
 " Then you shall see what I can do !" 
 
 " I do not "believe you know how. I have been long 
 enough in the wilderness to learn all trades. You nevet 
 learned how to cook at Wiglands." 
 
 " But at Plassy I did." 
 
 " Did aunt Caxton let you into her kitchen ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I shall not let you into mine." 
 
 " She went with me there. I have not come out he-e 
 to be useless. I will take care of the dinner to-day." 
 
 15* 
 
H6 THE OLD HBLUET. 
 
 "No, you shall not," said Mr. Rhys, drawing her 
 away from the*kitclien. "You have got enough to do 
 to-day in unpacking boxes. There will be servants this 
 evening to attend to all you want ; and for the present 
 you are my care." 
 
 " Rowland, I should like it." 
 
 Which view of the case did not seem to be material. 
 At least it was answered in a silencing kind of way, as 
 with his arm about her hejed her in through the bana- 
 nas to the house. It silenced Eleanor effectually, in 
 spite of being very serious iu hei- wish. She put it 
 away to bide another opportunity. 
 
 Mr. Rhys gave her something else to do, as he had 
 said". The boxes had in part been brought from the 
 schooner, and there was employment for both of them. 
 He drew out nails, and took off covers, and did the 
 rough impacking ; while the arranging and bestowing 
 of the goods thus put under her disposal kept Eleanor 
 very busy. His part of the work was finished long be- 
 fore hers, and Mr. Rhys withdrew to his study for some 
 other work. Eleanor, happy and busy, with touched 
 thoughts of Mrs. Caxton, put away blankets and clothes 
 and linen and calicos, and unpacked glass, and stowed 
 OQ her shelves a whole store of home comforts and 
 necessaries ; marvelling between whiles at Mr. Rhys's 
 varieties of power in making himself useful and wishing 
 she could do what she thought was better her work than 
 his — the work to be done in the kitchen before the ser- 
 vants came home. By and by, Mr. Rhys came out of 
 the study again, and found Eleanor sitting on the mat 
 before a huge round hamper, uncovered, filled with Aus- 
 tralian fruit. This was a late arrival, brought while he 
 liad been shut up at his work. Grapes and peaches 
 and pears and apricots were crowded side by side in rich 
 and beautiful abundance and confusion. Eleanor sat 
 iOoking at it. She was in a working dress, of thebrovvu 
 
AT W O E K . 347 
 
 Btuff her aunt's maids wore at home ; short sleeves left hei 
 arms bare to the elbow ; and the full jacket and hooplesa 
 skirt did no wrong to a figure the soft outlines of which 
 they only disclosed. Mr. Rhys stopped and stood still. 
 Eleanor looked up. 
 
 " Mr. Esthwaite has sent these on in the schooner 
 unknown to me ! What shall I do with them all ?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Mr. Rhys. " It is the penalty 
 that attaches to wealth." 
 
 " But you said you never were poor ?" said Eleanor, 
 laughing at his look. 
 
 " I never was, in feeling. I never was in an embar 
 rassment of riches, either. I can't help you !" 
 
 " But these are yours, Rowland. What are you talk- 
 ing of?" 
 
 " Are you going to make me a present of the whole ?" 
 said Mr. Rhys, stooping down for a grape. 
 
 " No, Mr. Esthwaite has done that. The embarrass- 
 ment is yours." 
 
 " I am in no embarrassment ; you are mistaken. By 
 what right do you say that Mr. Esthwaite has sent these 
 to me ?" 
 
 " Because he sent them to me," said Eleanor. " It is 
 the same thing." 
 
 " That is dutiful, and loyal, and all that sort of thing," 
 said Mr. Rhys, helping himself to another grape, and 
 looking with his keen eyes and imperturbable gravity at 
 Eleanor. Peihaps he liked to see the scarlet bloom he 
 could so easily call up in her cheeks, which was now 
 accompanied with a little impatient glance at him 
 " Nevertheless, I do not consider myself to be within the 
 scope of the gift. The disposition of it remains with 
 you. I do not like the responsibilities of other people's 
 wealth to rest on my shoulders." 
 
 " But this fruit is different from what we have on the 
 
S48 THE OLD HELMET, 
 
 island ; is there not something you would like to have 
 done with it ?" 
 
 " I should like yon to give me one bunch of grai>es — 
 to be chosen by yourself." 
 
 He looked on, with a satisfied expression of face, while 
 Eleanor's fingers separated and overhauled the fruit tiU 
 she had got a bunch to her mind ; and stood still in his 
 place to let her bring it to him. Then took possession 
 of her and the grapes at once, neglecting the latter how- 
 ever entirely, to consider her. 
 
 " What would you like to have done with the rest, 
 Rowland ?" said Eleanoi-, while her face glowed uuder 
 his caresses and examination. 
 
 " This is a very becoming dress you have on !" 
 
 " I did not know you noticed ladies' dresses." 
 
 " I always notice my own." 
 
 Eleanor's head drooped a little, to hide the rush of 
 pleasure and shame. 
 
 "But, Rowland," she said with gentle persistence, 
 " what would you like to have done with that basket ? 
 Isn't there some meaning behind your words about it ?" 
 
 " What makes you think so ?" said he, curling the 
 corners of his mouth in an amused way. 
 
 " I thought so. Please teU it me ! Tou have some- 
 thing to tell me." 
 
 " The fruit is yours, Eleanor." 
 
 " And what am I ?" 
 
 The tears came into her eyes with a little vexed ear- 
 nestness, for she fancied that Mr. Rhys would not speak 
 because the fruit was hers. His manner changed again, to 
 the deep tenderness which he had shewn so frequently ; 
 holding her close and looking down into her face ; not 
 answering at once ; half enjoying, half soothing, ths 
 feeling he had raised. 
 
 " Eleanor," he said, " I do not want that fruit." 
 
 " Tell me what to do with it." 
 
AT WOEK. 349 
 
 " If you like to send some of those grapes to sistei 
 Balliol, at the other house, I think they would do a 
 great deal of good." 
 
 " I will just take out a few for you, and I will send the 
 w hole basket over there just as it is. Is there anybody 
 to take it ?" 
 
 " Do not save any for me." 
 
 " Why not ?" 
 
 " Because I do not want anything more than I have 
 got." 
 
 " I suppose I may do about that as I please ?" said 
 Eleanor, laughing a little. 
 
 " No — you may not. I only want this bunch that I 
 have in my hand, for a poor sick fellow whom I think 
 they will comfort. If you feel as I do, and like to send 
 the rest over to the mission house, I think they will 
 be well and gratefully used." 
 
 "But Rowland, why did you not tell me that just at 
 first ?" she said a little wistfully. 
 
 " Do you feel as I do ? Tell me that first." 
 
 But as Eleanor was not ready with her answer to this 
 question, of course her own got the go-by. Mr. Rhys 
 laughed at her a little, and then tuld her she might get 
 the house ready for dinner. Very much Eleanor wished 
 she could rather get the dinner i-eady for the house; yet 
 somehow she had an instinctive knowledge that it would 
 be no use to ask him ; and she had a curious uuwilliug- 
 nesa to niake the request. ^^ 
 
 " Do you know," she said, looking up in his face, " I 
 do not know how it is, but you are the only person I 
 ever was afraid of, where ray natural courage had full 
 )lay ?" 
 
 " Does that sentiment possess you at present ?" 
 
 " Yes— a little." 
 
 He laughed again, and said it was wholesome ; and 
 Went off without seeiuintr i'l the least disifiayed by tha 
 
350 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 intelligence. If Eleanor had ventured that remark as a 
 feeler, she was utterly discomfited. She went about her 
 pretty work of getting the little table ready and ac- 
 quainting herself with the details of her cupboard ar 
 rangements, feeling a little amused at herself, and with 
 many deeper thoughts about Mr. Rhys and the basket 
 of fruit. 
 
 They were sitting in the study after dinner, alternately 
 talking and studying Fijian, when Mr. Rhys suddenly 
 asked, 
 
 " Of whom have you ever been afraid, Eleanor, wherp 
 your natural courage did not have full play ?" 
 
 " Mr. Carlisle." ' 
 
 " How was that ?" 
 
 " I was in a false position." 
 
 " I feared that, at one time," said Mr. Rhys thought- 
 fully. 
 
 " I was a bondwoman — under engagements that tied 
 me — I did not dare do as I felt. I understand it all 
 now." 
 
 " Do you like to tell me how it happened ?" 
 
 " I like it very much. I want that you should know 
 just how it was. I was pressed into those engagements 
 without my heart being in them, and indeed very mucii 
 against my will ; but I was dazzled by a vision of worldly 
 glory that made me too weak to resist. Then thoughts 
 of another kind began to rise within me ; I saw that 
 worldly glory was not the sufiicient thing I had thought 
 it ; and as my eyes got clear, I found I had given no 
 love where I had given my promise. Then that con- 
 sciousness hampered me in every action." 
 
 " But you did not break with him — with Mr. Car 
 lisle ?" 
 
 " Because 1 was such a bondwoman, as I told yon 
 y did not know what I might do — what was right, — and 
 
AT W O K K . 351 
 
 I wanted to do right then ; till I went to Plassy. Aunt 
 Caxton set me free." 
 
 Mr. Rhys was silent a little. 
 
 " Do you remember coming to visit the old window in 
 the ruins, just before you went to Plassy that time ?" he 
 eiid, looking round at her with a smile. 
 
 His wife though she was, Eleanor could not help a 
 warm flush of cousciousuess coming over her at the re- 
 collection. 
 
 " I remember," she said demurely. " It was in De- 
 cember." 
 
 " What were you afraid of at that time ?" 
 
 " Mr. Carlisle." 
 
 " Did you think it was he whom you heard ?"' 
 
 " No. I thought it was you." 
 
 " Then why were you afraid ?" 
 
 " I had reason enough," said Eleanor, in a low voice.. 
 " Mr. Cailisle had taken it into his head to become jealous 
 of you." 
 
 She answered with a certain straightforward dignity, 
 but Mr. Rhys had a view of dyed cheeks and a face which 
 shrank from his eye. He beheld it, no doubt, for a litile 
 while ; at least he was silent ; and ended with one or two 
 kisses which to Eleanor's feeling, for she dared not look, 
 spoke him very full of satisfaction. But he never 
 brought up the subject again. 
 
 The thoughts raised by the talk about the basket of 
 fruit recurred again a few days later. Eleanor had got 
 into full train of her island life by this time. She was 
 studying hard to learn the language, and beginning to 
 speak words of it with her strange muster of servants. 
 Housekeeping duties were fairly in hand. She had be- 
 gun to find out, too, what Mr. Rhys had foretold her 
 respecting visiters. They came iu groups and singly, 
 at all hours nearly on some da3'S, to see the new house 
 snd the new furniture and the new wife of " Misi RisL'' 
 
352 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 Eleanor could not talk to them ; she could only bo 
 looked at, and answer through an interpreter their 
 questions and requests, and watch with unspeakable in- 
 terest these strange poor people, and admire with uii- 
 censing admiration Mr. Rhys's untiling kindness, pa- 
 tience, and skill, in receiving and entertaining thera. 
 They wanted to see and understand every new thiEg 
 and every new custom. They were polite in their curi- 
 osity, but insatiable; and Mr. Rhys would shew and 
 explain and talk, and never seem annoyed or weary; and 
 then, whenever he got a chance, put in his own claim 
 for attention, and tell them of the Gospel. Eleanor 
 always knew from his face and manner, and fi'om theirs, 
 ■when this sort of talk was going on ; and she listened 
 strangely to the unknown words in which her heart 
 went along so blindly. When he thought her not 
 needed, or when he thought her tired, Mr. Rhys would 
 dismiss her to her own room, which he would not have 
 invaded ; and Eleanor's reverence for her husband grew 
 with every day, although she would not at the begin- 
 ning have thought that possible. 
 
 _At the end of these first few days, Eleanor went one 
 afternoon into Mr. Rhys's study. He was in full tide of 
 work now. The softly swinging door let her in without 
 much noise, and she stood still in the middle of the room, 
 in doubt whether to disturb him or no. He was busy 
 at his writing-table. But Mr. Rhys had good ears, even 
 wlien he was busy. While she stood there, he looked up 
 at her. She was a pretty vision for a man to see and 
 call wife. She was in one of the white dresses that hUd 
 stirred Mrs. Esthwaite's admiration ; its spotless dra- 
 peries were in as elegant order as ever they had been for 
 Mrs. Powle's drawing room; the rich banded brown hail 
 was in as graceful order. She stood there very bright 
 rery still, looking at him. 
 
AT TTOEK. 353 
 
 "' Ton liave been wovkiug a long time, Rowland 
 You want to stop and rest." 
 
 " Come here, and rest me," he answered stretching out . 
 his liand. 
 
 "llowland," said Eleanor when she had been standing 
 a minute beside him. "Mrs. Balliol wants me to cut off 
 my hair." 
 
 Mr. Rhys looked up at her, for with one arm i-ound 
 her he was still bending attention upon his work. He 
 glanced up as if in doubt or wonder. 
 
 " I have been over to see her," Eleanor repeated, " and 
 she counsels me to cut off my hair ; cut it short." 
 
 " See you don't !" he said sententiously. 
 
 " Why ?" said Eleanor. 
 
 " It would be the cause of our first and last quarrel." 
 
 " Our first," said Eleanor stifling some hidden amuse- 
 ment ; " but how could you tell that it would be the 
 last ?" 
 
 " It would be so very disagreeable ! — " Mr. Rhys said, 
 with a gravity so dryly comic tliat Eleanor's gravity was 
 destroyed. 
 
 " Mrs. Balliol says I shall find it, my hair, I mean, very 
 much in my way." 
 
 " It would be in my way, if it was cut off." 
 
 " She says it will take a great deal of precious time. 
 She thinks that your razor would be better applied t« 
 my head." 
 
 "Than to what other object?" 
 
 "Than to its legitimate use and application. She 
 wants mo to get you to let your beard grow, and to cut 
 off my hiir. ' It's unekal ' — as Sam Weller says." 
 
 Eleanor was laughing; she couM not see Mr. Rhys's 
 face very well ; it was somewhat bent over his papers ; 
 but the side view was of unprovokable gravity. A grav- 
 ity however which she had learned to know covered a 
 wealth of amusement or of mischief, as the case might 
 
354 THE OLD HELMKT. 
 
 be. She knelt down to bring herself within bettet 
 speaking and seeing distance. 
 
 " Rowland, what sort of people are your coadjutors r" 
 
 " They are the Lord's people," he answered. 
 
 Eleanor felt somewhat checked ; the gravity of this 
 aiiswei' was of a different character ; but she could not 
 refrain from carrying the matter further ; she could not 
 let it rest there. 
 
 " Do you mean," she said a little timidly, but per- 
 sistently, " tliaUyou are not willing to speak of them as 
 they are, to me ?" 
 
 He was quite silent half a minute, and Eleanor grew 
 increasingly sober. He said then, gently but decidedly, 
 
 " There are two persons in the field, of whose faults I 
 am willing to talk to you ; yours and my own." 
 
 " And of others you think it is wrong, then, to speak 
 even so privately and kindly as we are speaking ?" Elea- 
 nor was very much chagrined. Mr. Rhys waited a 
 moment and then said, in the same manner, 
 
 " I cannot do it, Eleanor." 
 
 He got up a moment after and went out of the room. 
 Eleanor felt almost stunned with surpiise and discom'ort. 
 This was the second time, in the few days that she had 
 been with him, that he had found her wrong in somethina:. 
 It troubled her strangely ; and the sense of how much 
 he was better than she — how much higher his sphere of 
 lining than the one she moved in — pressed her heart 
 down almost to the ground. She stood by the writing- 
 table where she had risen to her feet, with her eyes 
 brimful of tears, but so still even to her eyelids that the 
 tears had not overflowed. She supposed Mr. Rhy^ 
 had gone out. In another moment however she heard 
 his step returning and he entered the study. Eleanor 
 moved instantly to leave it, but he met and stayed her 
 ■with a look infinitely sweet; turned herab 'Ut, and made 
 her kneel down with him. And then he poured out • 
 
AT WORK. 35B 
 
 prayer for charity ; not merely the kindness that thrown 
 a covering over the failings of others, or that holds back 
 the rei)ort of -what they have been ; bnt the overabtmnd- 
 ing heavenly love that will send its brightness into tho 
 dark places of human society and with its own i-ichness till 
 the barren spots ; and above all, for that love of Jesus 
 the King, that makes all his servants dear ; for that spirit 
 of Christ tiiat looks with his own love and forbearance 
 on all that need it. And so, as the speaker praj^ed, he 
 shewed his own possession of that which he asked for ; 
 so revealed the tender and high walk of his own mind 
 and its near familiarity with heavenly things, that Elea- 
 nor thought her heart would break. The feeling, how 
 far he stood above her in knowledge and in goodness, 
 while it was a secret and deep joy, yet gave her acute 
 pain such as she never had felt before. She would not 
 weep ; it was a dry aching pain, that took part of its 
 strength from the thought of having done or shewn 
 something that he did not like. But Mr. Rhys went on 
 to pray for her alone ; and Eleanor was conquered then. 
 Tears came and she cried like a little child, and all the 
 hard pain of pride or of fear was washed away ; like the 
 dust from the leaves in a summer shower. 
 
 She was so far healed, but she would have run away 
 when they rose from their knees if he had permitted her. 
 He had no such intention. Keeping fast hold of her 
 hand he brought her to a seat by the window, opened it, 
 for the day was now cooling off and the sea-breeze was 
 fresh ; and taking the book of their studies he put her 
 into a lesson of Fijian practice ; till Eleanor's spirits 
 were thoroughly restored. Then throwing away the 
 book and taking her in his arms he almost kissed the 
 tears back again. 
 
 " Eleanor " he said, when he saw that her eyes 
 
 were wet, and hei colour and her voice were fluttering 
 together. 
 
856 THB OLD HBLMET. 
 
 " What ?" 
 
 " Tou must bear the inconvenience of your Iiair foi 
 my sake. Tell sister Balliol you wear it by ray express 
 ordei-s." 
 
 Eleanor's look was lovely. She saw that the gentle- 
 ness of this speech was intended to give her back just 
 that liberty she might think was forbidden. Humble- 
 ness and aifection danced in her face together. 
 
 " And you do not object to white dresses, Rowland ?" 
 
 " Kever — when they are white — " he said with one of 
 his peculiar smiles. 
 
 "Rowland," said Eleanor, now completely happy 
 again, " you ought to have those jalousie blinds at these 
 windows. Tou want them here much more than I do." 
 
 "How will you prove that?" 
 
 " By putting them here ; and then you will confess it." 
 
 " Don't you do it!" said he smiling, seeing that Elea- 
 nor's eye was in earnest. 
 
 " Please let me ! Do let me ! Ton want them much 
 more than I do, Rowland.' 
 
 " Then you will have to let them stand ; for they are 
 just where I want them." 
 
 "But the shade of them is much more needed hei'e." 
 
 " I could have had it. You need not disturb your- 
 Belf. There is a whole stack of them lying under the 
 ghelves in your store-room." 
 
 " Why are they lying there?" said Eleanor in great 
 surprise. 
 
 " I did not want them. I left them for you to dis- 
 pose of." 
 
 " I'or me ! Then I shall dispose some of them here." 
 
 " Not with my leave." 
 
 " May I not know why ?" said Eleanor putting hei 
 band in his to plead for it. 
 
 "I do not want to fare too much better than my 
 brethren," he answered with a smile of infinite pleasant 
 
AT WOEK. 35'( 
 
 nessathcr. Eleanor's face shewed a sudden iiccessioii 
 of intelligence. 
 
 "Then, Rowland, let us send the other jalousies tc 
 Mr- Balliol to shade his study — with all my heart ; and 
 you put up mine here. I did not think about that be- 
 fore. Will you do it ?" 
 
 " There are plenty of them without taking yours, 
 child." 
 
 " Then, O Rowland, why did you not do it before ?" 
 
 " I have an objection to using other people's property 
 — even for the benefit of my neighbours" — he said with 
 the provoking smile in the corners of his mouth. 
 
 " But it is yours now." 
 
 " Well, I make it over to you, to be offered and pre- 
 sented as it seems good to you, to brother Balliol, or to 
 sister Balliol, for his use and behoof" 
 
 " Do you mean that I must do it ?" 
 
 " If it is your pleasure."'' 
 
 " Then I will speak of it immediately." 
 
 " You can have an opportunity to-night. But Elea- 
 nor, — yon must call her, sister Balliol." 
 
 " I can't, Rowland !" 
 
 Silence fell between the parties. Mr. Rhys's face was 
 impenetrable. Eleanor glanced at it and glanced at it ; 
 got no help. Finally laid her hand on his shoulder and 
 spoke a little apprehensively. 
 
 " Rowland — are you serious ?" 
 
 " Perfectly." So he was, outwardly. 
 
 "Do you think it matters really whether I call her 
 one thing or another ? If it were Mrs. Amos, I should 
 not have the least difficulty. I could call her sister 
 Amos. What does it matter ?" 
 
 " Why can't you use a Christian form of address with 
 her as well as with me ?" 
 
 " Do you consider it a matter of vrincir''^ ^' 
 
 " Onlj- as it regards the feelinsa of the indiviciual. m 
 
358 THE OLD HELMET. 
 
 either case." Mr. Rhys's mouth was looking \ery coift 
 ical. 
 
 " Would she care, Rowland ?" 
 
 " I should like to have you try," he said, getting up 
 and arranging his papers to leave. And Eleanor saw lie 
 was not going to tell her any more. 
 
 " What is the opportunity you spoke of, Rowland ?" 
 
 " This is our evening for being together — it has hardly 
 been a Class before this, we were so few ; but we met to 
 talk and think together, and usually considered some 
 given subject. To-night it is, the ' glory to be re- 
 vealed.' " 
 
 " That is what Mr. Amos and I used to do on board 
 the schooner ; and we had that subject too, just after we 
 left Tonga. So we shall be ready." 
 
 " We ought to go there to tea ; but I have to go 
 over first to If awaile ; it will keep me till after tea-time. 
 Do not wait for me, unless you choose." 
 
 Eleanor chose, and told him so. While he was gone 
 she sat at the door of the house watching and thinking ; 
 thinking of him especially, and of things that his talk 
 that afternoon had brought up. It was a pleasant hour 
 or two. The sea-breeze fresh from the sea ; the waving 
 broad banana leaves ; the sweet perfume of flowers, 
 which were rarely profuse and beautiful in their garden ; 
 the beautiful southern sky of night, with ihe stars which 
 Eleanor had learned to know as strangers coming over 
 in the ship, and now loved as the companions of her 
 new home. Stillness, and flapping of leaves, and sweet 
 thoughts; until it was time to be expecting Mr. Rhys 
 back again, and Eleanor made the tea, that he might at 
 least not miss so much refreshment. She knew his step 
 rods ofi", and long before she could see him ; his cup was 
 all ready for him when he stepped in. He drank it, 
 looking at Eleanor over it ; would stop for nothing else, 
 and carried her ofil 
 
AT W O K K . 359 
 
 "I hnd n happy lime," he said as they went tlirough 
 the plantations. " I have been to see an old man wlio 
 lies there dying, or very near it. He has been a Chris- 
 tian two years. He is very glad to see me when I come, 
 and ready to talk; but he will not talk witli his neigh- 
 bours. He says he wants to keep his thoughts fixed on 
 God ; and if he listened to these people they would talk 
 to him of village affairs, and turn his mind off." 
 
 "Then, if you had a happy time, I suppose he is 
 happy ?" 
 
 "He is happy. How beautiful upnn the mountains are 
 the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that puhhsh- 
 eth peace ! Think of old Csesar, going to glory from the 
 darkness of Fiji. He said to me to-night — ' I am weak, 
 and I am old ; my time is come, but I am not afraid to 
 die ; through Jesus I feel courageous for death. Jesus 
 is my Chief, and I wish to obey him : if he says I am 
 yet to lie here, I will praise him ; and if he says I am to 
 go above to him, I will praise him. I do not wish to 
 eat ; his word is my food ; I think on it, and lean entirely 
 on Jesus.' — Do you know how good it is to be a mistion- 
 ary, Eleanor ?" 
 
 They exchanged looks ; that was all ; they were x tha 
 door and went in. The party there were expecting and 
 waiting for them, and it was more than a common ivel- 
 come, Eleanor saw, that was given to them. She did 
 not wonder at it. After exchanging warm greetiitfr-ri all 
 round, she sat down ; but Mr. Rhys began walking the 
 floor. The rest were silent. There was a somewhat 
 dim light from a lamp in the room ; the windows and 
 doors were open ; the air, sweet with flowei's and fresh 
 from the sea, came in gently ; the soft sounds of leaves 
 and insects could be heai'd through the fall of Mr. Rhys's 
 steps upon the matted floor. The hour had a strange 
 charm to Eleanor. 
 
 Sileiu^e Listed, until Mr. Rhys interrupted it with 
 
860 THE OLD HHI, MET. 
 
 kneeling down for prayer. Then followed one of thoss 
 prayers, in which it always seemed to Eleanor as if some- 
 body had taken her hand, who was leading her v/here 
 she could almost look in at the gates of that city which 
 Bunyan called the Cele-itial. Somewhere above earth it 
 took her, and rapt her up as Milton's angel is said to 
 have descended, upon a sunbeam. One came to earth 
 again at the end of the prayer 5^ but not without a I'e- 
 merabrance of where one had been. 
 
 " Sister Balliol," said Mi-. Rhys, " will you put us in 
 mind concerning our subject this evening?" 
 
 " It is the glory to be revealed ; and I find that it is a 
 glory to be revealed in us" Mrs. Balliol made answer. 
 " Sufferings come first. It is a glory that goes along 
 with sufferings in the present life; but it is so ranch 
 greater than the sufferings, that no comparison can be 
 made of them. For my part, I do not think the glory 
 would be half so much glory, if it were not for the suf- 
 ferings going before." 
 
 "To suffer with Christ, and for him, that is glory 
 now," said Mr. Rhys ; " to have been so honoured will 
 always be part of our joy. If any man suffer a>< a Chris- 
 tian, let him not be ashamed, but rather let hira gloi'ity 
 God on this behalf. Those be tears that Christ's own 
 hand will wipe off; and what glory will that be !" 
 
 "The word of God fails to express it," said Mr. 
 Amos, " and calls it ' riches of glory.' Riches of glory, 
 to be poured into vessels prepared to receive it. Surely, 
 being such heirs, none of us has a right to call himself 
 poor? we are heirs of an inheritance incorruptible, and 
 nndefiled, and not subject to decadence or failure. We 
 may well be content with our penny earnest in this life, 
 who have such an estate coming in." 
 
 " I feel poor very often," said gentle Mrs. Amos ; 
 " and I suppose that must be my own fault ; for tlie 
 
AT W B K . 861 
 
 woid says, 'Riches and honour are with me ; yea, dura- 
 ble riches, and righteousness.' " 
 
 " Those are riches that none bnt the poor come into 
 possession of," said Mr. Rhys. " The poor in spirit in- 
 herit the Icingdom, and nobody else. It is our very 
 emptiness, that tits us for receiving those unsearcliabla 
 riches. But having those, sister Amos, it is no depriva- 
 tion of this world's good things that would make you 
 feel poor ?" 
 
 " O no, indeed !" said Mrs. Amos. " I did not mean 
 tfiat sort of poor." 
 
 " The rich he will send empty away" — Mr. Rhys weut 
 on. 
 
 " So in the- matter of suffering," said Mr. Balliol tak- 
 ing up the word. "If we are partakers of Christ's suf- 
 ferings now, we are told to rejoice. For when his glory 
 is revealed, the word is, that we shall be glad also, and 
 with exceeding joy. When his glory is revealed here, a 
 little, now, we are glad ; our joy seems to be exceeding, 
 now, brother Rhys. I wonder what it will be when 
 God calls it exceeding joy!" 
 
 There was a pause ; and then Mrs. Amos, for the sake 
 simply of starting Eleanoi-, whose voice she knew in it, 
 began softly the song, " Burst, ye emerald gates !" She 
 Lad her success, f )r Eleanor with the others took up tlio 
 words, and carried it — Mrs. Amos thought — where Mr. 
 Rhys's prayer had been. When the song ceased, there 
 was silence ; till Mr. Rhys said, " Eleanor !" — It was her 
 turn to speak. 
 
 " I do not believe," she said speaking low and slowly, 
 — " that either sufferings, or promises, or duties, will 
 bring the hope of glory into the heart; until Jesus him- 
 self brings it there. And if he brings it, it Jiardly scema 
 to nie that sufferings will enhance it — except in so far aa 
 they lead to greater knowledge of him or are the imme- 
 diate fruit of love to him; and then, as Mr. Rhys giys, 
 
 VOL. ii; 16 
 
902 THE OLD IISLMBT. 
 
 they are honour themselves already. The liches of the 
 glory of this mystery, is Christ in you. the hope of 
 yloryP 
 
 Mr. Rhys was standing at the back of Eleanor's chiiir, 
 Isaning upon it. He bent his head and whispered to her 
 to tell her story that she had told him. At that whis- 
 per, Eleanor would have steadily gone through the fire 
 if necessary ; this was not quite as hard ; and tliouyh 
 not for her own sake caring to do it, she told the story 
 and told it freely and well. She told it so that every 
 head there was bowed. And then there was silence 
 again ; till Mr. Rhys began, or rather went on with 
 what she had been saying ; in a voice that seemed to 
 come fi-om every heart. 
 
 " Whom having not seen, ye love ; in whom, though 
 now ye see him not, yet believing, ye rejoice \yith joy 
 unspeakable and full of glory." 
 
 " Friends, we have the present honour, of being 
 Christ's ambassadors. Do we know what honour that 
 is ? ' Whosoever shall receive this child in my name, 
 receiveth me; and \yhosoever shall receive me, receiveth 
 him that sent me.' That is honour umler which we 
 
 may tremble !" And standing thei-e at the back of 
 
 Eleanor's chair, Mr. Rhys began to talk; on the joy oF 
 carrying Christ's message, the honour of being his serv- 
 ants and co-workers, and the gladness of bringing the 
 water of life to lips dry and failing in death. He told 
 the instance of that evening which he had told to 
 Eleanor ; and leaving his station behind her, he walked 
 up and down again, speaking as she had sometimes 
 heard him spe^ik, till every he;id was raised and turned, 
 and every eye followed him. With fire and tears, speak- 
 ing of the work to be done and the joy of doing it, and 
 the need of more to do it; and of the carelessness people 
 have of that glory which will make nieu shine as tha 
 stars for ever and e^er. 
 
* T W O E K . 363 
 
 ••Ay, wo shall know then, brother Balliol, when the 
 great supper is served, and Christ shall gh'd himst'lf, and 
 make his faithful servants sit down to meat, and he shall 
 come forth and serve them — we shall know then, if wo 
 are there, what glory means ! And we shall know what it 
 means to have no want unsatisfied and no joy left out I — 
 when the Lamb that is in the midst of the (hrone shall 
 feed them, and shall lead them to living fountains of 
 waters." 
 
 Mr. Balliol answered — 
 
 " If any man serve me, let him follow me ; and where 
 I am, there shall also my servants be : if any man servo 
 me, him will my Father honour." 
 
 Mr. Rhys went on — "Feed the flock of God which 
 is among you, taking the oversight thereof, not by con- 
 straint, but willingly ; not for filthy lucre, but of a ready 
 mind ; neither as being lords over God's heritage, but 
 being ensamples to the flock. And when the chief 
 Shepherd shall appear, ye shall receive a crown of glory 
 that fadeth not away." 
 
 They knelt together again, and then separated ; and 
 the ti-opical moon lighted home the two who did not 
 belong to Mrs. Balliol's household. 
 
 XBs sn».