The Old Helmet Volume II Part 24

"Yes."

"And is that all broken off?" said Mrs. Caxton, a little tone of eagerness discernible under her calm 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 Caxton," said Eleanor, pa.s.sing her hand somewhat after a troubled fas.h.i.+on over her brow. "Mr.

Carlisle knew I never encouraged 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 help it. So the report grew.

I had a difficult part to play," said Eleanor, repeating her troubled gesture and seeming ready to burst into tears.

"In what way, my love?"

Eleanor did not immediately answer; sat looking off over the meadow as if some danger existed to self-control; then, still silent, 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. Caxton's response to this strange look came half unconsciously; it came wholly naturally.

"Poor child!"--

The colour rose on Eleanor's cheek at that; she turned her eyes away.

"I think Mr. Carlisle's plan--and mamma's--was to make circ.u.mstances too strong for me; and to draw me by degrees. And they would, perhaps, but for all I learned here."

"For what you learned here, my dear?"

"Yes, aunty; if they could have got me into a whirl society--if they could have made me love dancing parties and theatres and the opera, and I had got bewildered and forgotten that a great worldly establishment not the best thing--perhaps temptation would have been too much for me.--Perhaps it would. I don't know."

There was a little more colour in Eleanor's cheeks than her words accounted for, as Mrs. Caxton noticed.

"Did you ever feel in danger from the temptation, Eleanor?"

"Never, aunty. I think it never so much as touched me."

"Then Mr. Carlisle has been at his own risk," said Mrs. Caxton. "Let us dismiss him, my love."

"Aunt Caxton, 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 them; Eleanor felt both, even without her aunt's words.

"Trust the Lord. You know who has been the dwelling-place of his people, from all generations. They cannot be homeless. And for 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 glad to get away and be alone for a moment. How homelike her old room seemed!--with the rose and honeysuckle breath of the air coming in at the cas.e.m.e.nts. How peaceful and undisturbed the old furniture 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 porch 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 Pla.s.sy the 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 were 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. From the cows they got to the garden. And all the while the lovely meadow valley lay spread out in its greenness before Eleanor; the beautiful old hills drew the same loved outline across the sunset sky; the lights and shadows were of June; and the garden at hand was a rich ma.s.s 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 dish 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 unremarkable 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 understand 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 a.s.signed to this banishment?"

"None. It is absolute--unless or until I will grant Mr. Carlisle's wishes, or giving up being, as papa says, a Methodist. But that makes it final--as far as I am concerned."

"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 have 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 wondering why."

"Let it be to the glory of G.o.d, Eleanor; that is all your concern. The rest you will understand by and by."

"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. "The Lord never puts his children anywhere where they cannot glorify him; and he never 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."

Eleanor's eyes filled very full; she made no answer.

But one thing is certain; peace settled down upon her heart. It would be difficult to help that at Pla.s.sy. 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 met together, and she heard her aunt's sweet and high pet.i.tions 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--"Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations."

CHAPTER IX.

IN CORRESPONDENCE.

"But there be million hearts accurst, where no sweet sunbursts s.h.i.+ne, 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 Pla.s.sy from that time. Eleanor threw herself again eagerly into all her aunt's labours and schemes for the good and comfort of those around her. There was plenty 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 garden when necessary; botanized a good deal; and began to grow as knowing in plants almost as Mrs. Caxton 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 hedge-rows 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, gra.s.ses of all kinds, and harebell, and a mult.i.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 that summer; 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 that Mrs. Caxton 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.