T CHAPTER V. AT THE COTTAGE. This floating life hath but this port of rest- after HE matter was in skilful hands; for the days rolled on, that 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 pursuits; 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 before; 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 to women of all natures it is imposing. So Mr. Carlisle's threat, by Eleanor so stoutly resisted and resented, was extremely likely to come to pass. Mrs. Powle was too wise to touch her finger to the game. Several weeks went by, during which Eleanor had no chance 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 Eleanor began to sit in her garden-parlour again and dream. While dreaming one day, she heard the voice of her little sister sobbing at the doorstep. 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 yesterday." "Does he see the doctor?" "No. I don't know. No, I know he don't," said Julia; "because the old woman said he ought 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 given to be ceremonious; but sprang away to do as her sister had said. In a few minutes they were off, going through the garden, each with a little basket in her hand. Julia's tears were exchanged for the most sunshiny gladness. It was a sunshiny day altogether, in the end of summer, and the heat was sultry. Neither sister minded weather of any sort ; nevertheless they chose the shady side of the 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 village must be passed on the way to it. It was a long line of cottages, standing for the most part on one side of 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 scatteringly; gardens and sometimes small crofts intervening; and noble growth of old oaks and young elms shading the way; the whole as neat, fresh, and picturesque in rural comfort and beauty, as could be seen almost anywhere in England. The Lords of Rythdale held sway here, and nothing under their rule, of late, was out of order. But 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 well known in them; and now Mrs. Benson came out to the gate and told 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 curtseyed in her doorway; and Mat. Grimson's wife, the blacksmith that was, came to stop Eleanor with a roundabout representation how her husband's business would thrive so much better in another situation. Eleanor was seldom on foot in the village now. She passed that as soon as she could and went on. From her window on the other side of the lane, Miss Broadus nodded, and beckoned, too; but the sisters would not be delayed. "It is good Mr. Carlisle has gone to London." said Julia. "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 saysEleanor,' and you go that way; and he says 'Eleanor,' and you go the other way.' "And why do you suppose he would have any objection to my going this way?" "I know," said Julia. "I am glad he is in London. I 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 undeniable fact; and without further parley both sisters set off to run, seeing that there were very few minutes to accomplish this hope. It began sprinkling already. "It's going to be a real storm," said Julia gleefully. "Over the moor it's as black as thunder. I saw it through the trees.' "But where are you going?" For Julia had left the road or, rather, lane, and dashed down a path through the trees leading off from it. 66 'Oh, this is the best; this leads round to the other side of the house," said Julia. Just as well to go in at the kitchen, Eleanor thought; and let Julia find 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 tornado; for the rain was by this time coming down merrily. The first thing Eleanor saw when she had pulled off her hat, was that she was not in the kitchen. A table with writing implements met her eye; and turning, she discovered the person one of them at leastl had come to see, lying on a sort of settee or rude couch, with a pillow 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 visitors with a simplicity and grace of nature which was in singular contrast with all the dignities of conventional life. "Mr. Rhys," stammered Eleanor, "I had no idea we were breaking into your room. I thought Julia was taking me into Mrs. Williams's part of the house." "I am very glad to see you," he said; and the words were endorsed by the pleasant, grave face and the earnest grasp of the hand. But how ill and thin he looked, Eleanor was shocked. "It was beginning to rain," she repeated, "and I followed where Julia led me. I thought she was bringing me to Mrs. Williams's premises. I beg you will excuse me. "I have made Mrs. Williams give me this part of the house because I think it is the pleasantest. 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. interrupt you a moment. "Yes, you will," said Julia, "unless you want to rain. Mr. Rhys, are you better to-day?" "I am as well as usual, thank you, Julia.' We will not walk in the "I am sorry to see that is not very well, Mr. Rhys," said Eleanor. "Not very strong," he said, with the smile that she remembered, as he sank back in the corner of the couch and rested his head 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 prisoner. 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 tables were pens, ink, and paper, not lying loose, but put up in order; as not used nor wanted at present. Several boxes of various sorts and sizes made up the rest of the furniture, with a few chairs of very simple fashion. 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 in fair weather; at present they showed but little 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. But I should think you could not see much at "Not in this rain. any time, except trees. "Much' is comparative. No, I do not see much; but there 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 inclined to think my work is done.' "What work, Mr. Rhys?" said Julia. "Ferns, do you mean?" "No." "What work, Mr. Rhys?" “I mean the Lord's work, Julia, which He has given me to do.” "Do you mean preaching?" "That is part of it." "What else is your work, Mr. Rhys?" said Julia, 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 gravity 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 spoonsful, smiled at her, and told her it was very good. It was a smile worth having. But both sisters saw that he looked fearfully pale and worn. "Imust sec if Mrs. Williams has not some berries to offer you," he said. "Where are you going, Mr. Rhys, if you do rt go to that place?" Julia persisted. "If I do not go there, I think I shall go home." "Home?" "Yes." "Where is that ?" said Julia, hanging about him. 66 I meant my everlasting home, Julia." 66 Oh, don't, Mr. Rhys!" cried the child in a half vexed tone. "Eat some more jelly-do!" |