The Old Helmet. Volume II

"Well, my love?"

"My feeling, as far 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 I do; and I have known for some time that you wanted 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 calm 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."

Quieted with which suggestion, Eleanor went off to her desk.

CHAPTER XI

IN CHANGES

"But never light and shade
Coursed one another more on open ground,
Beneath a troubled heaven, than red and pale
Across the face of Enid hearing her."

Various letters were written that day. In the evening 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 attend to the less interesting 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 favourable. 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."

"I 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 I 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 side to-night, and looked into her aunt's face to listen.

"I never should have known about it, child, till you had, if you had been here. You remember how you went away 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 then. 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 news 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 than that could make him, I knew; and he was giving up something more than England, I knew by is prayers.

"One night we were sitting here by the fire – it was a remarkably chill evening and we had kindled a blaze in he 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 spirit of meddling which does not very often possess me; and asked him how much longer he had to stay. He said how long, in so many words; they were short, as 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 dry phrases, 'that it would be presumption 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 presumption to ask anybody else.

"'You do not realize, Mrs. Caxton, how much it would be asking of any one,' he said; 'you do not know what sacrifices it would call for.'

"'Love does not care for sacrifices,' I reminded him.

"'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 sometimes, 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 your 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 offended him, and I was a good deal troubled; 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?' I asked.

"'With the lady who has just left you.'

"'Eleanor?'

"'Yes,' he said.

"'Have you told her, Mr. Rhys?' 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 not?'

"'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.'