The Old Helmet. Volume I

"What makes you unhappy? My wife must not hide her heart from me."

"Yes, but I am not that yet," said Eleanor with spirit, rousing up to assert herself.

He laughed and kissed her. "How long first, Eleanor?"

"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. Here 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 leave? 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 obliged to go up to London after Christmas; then I mean to instal you in Berkeley Square; and in the summer you shall go to Switzerland with me. Now tell me, my darling, what you are unhappy about?"

Eleanor felt tongue-tied and powerless. The last words had been said very affectionately, and as she was silent they were repeated.

"It is nothing you would understand."

"Try me."

"It is nothing that would interest you at all."

"Not interest me!" said he; and if his manner had been self-willed, it was 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, there is nothing that touches you that does not interest me. And now I hear 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! 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 laughing. "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 religious 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 uneasiness! 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 enough over the moor lately. We will have an extra gallop to-morrow; – and after Christmas I will take care of you. What were you uneasy about?"

"Don't Robert!" said Eleanor, – "do not ask me any more about it. I do not want you to laugh at me."

"Laugh at you!" he said. "I should like to see anybody else do that! but I will, as much as I like. Do you know you are a darling? and just as lovely in mind as you are in person. Do not you have any questions with the old priest; I do not like it; come to me with your difficulties, and I will 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 soft light.

"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 disconcerted. 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, Macintosh."

"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 am forced to go to London after Christmas, and I cannot go without you. Do you not love me well enough to 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. Perhaps 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 triumphantly, 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 feeling her discomfiture 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; nevertheless bore herself well and a little proudly until the evening was over.

The weather had changed, and the ride home was begun under a cloudy sky. It grew very dark as they went on; impossible in many places to see the path. Mr. Carlisle was riding 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, rather 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 beautiful 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 absorbed now, from this point until they got home, in watching for flashes of lightning. They came frequently, but the storm was after all a slight one. The lightning lit up the way beautifully for the other members of the party. To Eleanor it revealed something more.