The Old Helmet Volume II Part 22

"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 very room; you have as good as said to him every day that you would be his wife, and he has as good as said to you that he expected it. Has he not, now?"

"Yes, sir,--but--"

"Now why won't you have him, hey?"

"Papa, I do not like him well enough to marry him. That is reason enough."

"Why did you tell him all the winter that you _did?_"

"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 from 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 went 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 you please to repeat it, mamma?" Eleanor said, a little faintheartedly.

"If you had never been in a Methodist Chapel, 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 your 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 pa.s.sing the drawing-room door a certain impulse prompted her to go in. Mr. Carlisle was there, as something had told her he might be. Eleanor came in, looking white, and advanced towards him with a free steady step eyeing him fully. She was in a mood to meet anything.

"Mr. Carlisle," she said, "you are the cause of all the trouble that has come upon me."

He did not ask her what trouble. He only gently and gravely disclaimed the truth of her a.s.sertion.

"Mr. Carlisle," 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 meaning; perhaps he chose to misinterpret it; at all events he 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, waywardly, as impertinent questions will come, whether she was after all giving it up for sufficient cause? She was relinquis.h.i.+ng if she quitted him, all that the world values. Not quite that, perhaps; if turned out from her father's family 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 offered for 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 moment, 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 circ.u.mstances.

Would her father keep to his word? It seemed impossible; 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 banishment would be more than temporary she did not believe. Mr.

Carlisle would get over his disappointment, would marry somebody else; and in course of time her mother and father, the latter 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 happen 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 matters 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 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 Eleanor 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 glory, 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; therefore will I hope in him."

It is hard 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 attendance; it was manifest they must be so too.

Everything 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 was, 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, and made Eleanor more than ever feel his power. But 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 heightened by them; for now pride was touched, and some other feeling which he did not a.n.a.lyse. He had n.o.body 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, beautiful hair, every self-possessed movement, at times was torment to him. Her very dress was a subject of irritation. It was so plain, so evidently unworldly 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 control 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 constantly by antic.i.p.ation. So the first of June came.

CHAPTER VIII.

IN MAY.