Mar. "Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan."
Sir And. "O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog."
Sir Tob. "What, for being a Puritan? thy exquisite reason,
dear knight?"
Sir And. "I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason
good enough."

What was to come now; as in darkness and silence the carriage rolled over the road towards Wiglands? Eleanor did not greatly care. She felt set free; outwardly, by her own daring act of separation; inwardly and more effectually perhaps, by the influence of the evening upon her own mind. In her own settled and matured conclusions, she felt that Mr. Carlisle's power over her was gone. It was a little of an annoyance to have him sitting there; nevertheless Eleanor's mind did not trouble itself much with him. Leaning back in the carriage, she gave herself up to the impressions of the scene she had been through. Her companion was quiet and made no demands upon her attention. She recalled over and over the words, and looks, of the sermon;—the swell of the music—it had been like angel's melody; and the soft words which had been so energetic in their whispered strength as she knelt at the railing. She remembered with fresh wonder and admiration, with what effect the Bible words in the first part of the sermon had come upon the audience through that extreme quietness of voice and delivery; and then with what sudden fire and life, as if he had become another man, the speaker had burst out to speak of his Master; and how it had swayed and bent the assembly. It was an entirely new view of Mr. Rhys, and Eleanor could not forget it. In general, as she had always seen him, though perfectly at ease in his manners he was very simple and undemonstrative. She had not guessed there was such might in him. It awed her; it delighted her. To live such a life and to do such work as that man lived for,—that was living indeed! That was noble, high, pure; unlike and O how far above all the manner of lives Eleanor had ever seen before. And such, in so far as the little may resemble the great, such at least so far as in her sphere and abilities and sadly inferior moral qualities it might lie—such in aim and direction at least, her own life should be. What had she to do with Mr. Carlisle?

Eleanor never spoke to him during the long drive, forgetting as far as she could, though a little uneasiness grew upon her by degrees, that he was even present. And he did not speak to her, nor remind her of his presence otherwise than by pulling up the glass on her side when the wind blew in too chill. It was his carriage they were in, Eleanor then perceived; and she wanted to ask a question; but on the whole concluded it safe to be still; according to the proverb, Let sleeping dogs lie. One other time he drew her shawl round her which she had let slip off.

Mr. Carlisle was possessed of large self-control and had great perfection of tact; and he never shewed either more consummately than this night. What he underwent while standing in the aisle of the Chapel, was known to himself; he made it known to nobody else. He was certainly silent during the drive; that shewed him displeased; but every movement was calm as ordinary; his care of Eleanor was the same, in its mixture of gentle observance and authority. He had laid down neither. Eleanor could have wished he had been unable to keep one or the other. Would he keep her too, and everything else that he chose? Nothing is more subduing in its effect upon others, than evident power of self-command. Eleanor could not help feeling it, as she stepped out of the carriage at home, and was led into the house.

"Will you give me a few minutes, when you have changed your dress?" her conductor asked.

It must come, thought Eleanor, and as well now as ever; and she assented. Mr. Carlisle led her in. Nobody was in waiting but Mrs. Powle; and she waited with devouring anxiety. The Squire and Julia she had carefully disposed of in good time.

"Eleanor is tired, Mrs. Powle, and so am I," said Mr. Carlisle. "Will you let us have some supper here, by this fire—and I think Eleanor had better have a cup of tea; as I cannot find out the wine that she likes." And as Eleanor moved away, he added,—"And let me beg you not to keep yourself from your rest any longer—I will take care of my charge; at least I will try."

Devoutly hoping that he might succeed to his wishes, and not daring to shew the anxiety he did not move to gratify, Mrs. Powle took the hint of his gentle dismission; ordered the supper and withdrew. Meanwhile Eleanor went to her room, relieved at the quiet entrance that had been secured her, where she had looked for a storm; and a little puzzled what to make of Mr. Carlisle. A little afraid too, if the truth must be known; but she fell back upon Mr. Rhys's words of counsel—"Go no way, till you see clearly; and then do what is right." She took off her bonnet and smoothed her hair; and was about to go down, when she was checked by the remembrance of Mr. Carlisle's words, "when you have changed your dress." She told herself it was absurd; why should she change her dress for that half hour that she would be up; why should she mind that word of intimation; she called herself a fool for it; nevertheless, while saying these things Eleanor did the very thing she scouted at. She put off her riding dress, which the streets of Brompton and the Chapel aisles had seen that day, and changed it for a light grey drapery that fell about her in very graceful folds. She looked very lovely when she reËntered the drawing-room; the medium tint set off her own rich colours, and the laces at throat and wrist were just simple enough to aid the whole effect. Mr. Carlisle was a judge of dress; he was standing before the fire and surveyed her as she came in; and as Eleanor's foot faltered half way in the room, he came forward, took both her hands and led her to the fire, where he set her in a great chair by the supper-table; and then before he let her go, did what he had not meant to do; gave a very frank kiss to the lips that were so rich and pure and so near him. Eleanor's heart had sunk a little at perceiving that her mother was not in the room; and this action was far from reassuring. She would rather Mr. Carlisle had been angry. He was far more difficult to meet in this mood.

Meanwhile Mr. Carlisle brought her chair into more convenient neighbourhood to the table, and set a plate before her on which he went on to place whatever he thought fit. "I know what you are wanting," he said;—"but you shall not have a cup of tea unless I see you eat." And Eleanor eat, feeling the need of it, and the necessity of doing something likewise.

Mr. Carlisle poured himself out a glass of wine and slowly drank it, watching her. Midway set it down; and himself made and poured out and sugared and creamed a cup of tea which he set beside Eleanor. It was done in the nicest way possible, with a manner that any woman would like to have wait on her. Eleanor tasted, and could not hold her tongue any more.

"I did not know this was one of your accomplishments,"—she said without raising her eyes.

"For you"—said Mr. Carlisle. "I believe it will never be exercised for anybody else."

He slowly finished his wine while he watched her. He eat nothing himself, though Eleanor asked him, till she turned from her plate, and did what she had not done till then but could no longer withhold; let her eyes meet his.

"Now," said he throwing himself into an opposite chair,—"I will take a cup of tea, if you will make it for me."

Eleanor blushed—what made her?—as she set about performing this office. The tea was cold; she had to make fresh, and wait till it was ready; and she stood by the table watching and preparing it, while Mr. Carlisle sat in his chair observing her. Eleanor's cheeks flushed more and more. There was something about this little piece of domesticity, and her becoming the servitor in her turn, that brought up things she did not wish to think of. But her neighbour liked what she did not like, for he sat as quiet as a mouse until Eleanor's trembling hand offered him the cup. She had to take a step or two for it, but he never stirred to abridge them. Eleanor sat down again, and Mr. Carlisle sipped his tea with an appearance of gratification.

"That is a young man of uncommon abilities"—he remarked composedly,—"whom we heard this evening. Do you know who he is, Eleanor?"

Eleanor felt as if the sky was falling. "It is Mr. Rhys—Alfred's old tutor—" she answered, in a voice which she felt was dry and embarrassed to the quick ears that heard her. "You have seen him."

"I thought I had, somewhere. But that man has power. It is a pity he could not be induced to come into the Church—he would draw better houses than Dr. Cairnes. Do you think we could win him over, Eleanor?"

"I believe—I have heard"—said Eleanor, "that he is going away from England. He is going a missionary to some very far away region." She was quite willing Mr. Carlisle should understand this.

"Just as well," he answered. "If he would not come into his right place, such a man would only work to draw other persons out of theirs. There is a sort of popular power of speech which wins with the common and uneducated mind. I saw it won upon you, Nellie; how was that?"

The light tone, in which a smile seemed but half concealed, disconcerted Eleanor. She was not ashamed, she thought she was not, but she did not know how to answer.

"You are a little tÊte-montÉe," he said. "If I had been a little nearer to you to-night, I would have saved you from taking one step; but I did not fancy that you could be so suddenly wrought upon. Pray how happened you to be in that place to-night?'

"I told you," said Eleanor after some hesitation, "that I had an unsatisfied wish of heart which made me uneasy—and you would not believe me."

"If you knew how this man could speak, I do not wonder at your wanting to hear him. Did you ever hear him before?"

"Yes," said Eleanor, feeling that she was getting in a wrong position before her questioner. "I have heard him once—I wanted to hear him again."

"Why did you not tell me your wish, that you might gratify it safely,
Eleanor?"

"I supposed—if I did—I should lose my chance of gratifying it at all."

"You are a real tÊte-montÉe," he said, standing now before her and taking hold lightly and caressingly of Eleanor's chin as he spoke. "It was well nobody saw you to-night but me. Does my little wife think she can safely gratify many of her wishes without her husband's knowledge?"

Eleanor coloured brightly and drew herself back. "That is the very thing," she said; "now you are coming to the point. I told you I had wishes with which yours would not agree, and it was better for you to know it before it was too late."

"Too late for what?"

"To remedy a great evil."

"There is generally a remedy for everything," said Mr. Carlisle coolly; "and this sort of imaginative fervour which is upon you is sure to find a cold bath of its own in good time. My purpose is simply in future, whenever you wish to hear another specimen of the kind of oratory we have listened to this evening, to be with you that I may protect you."

"Protect me from what?"

"From going too far, further than you know, in your present exaltÉe state. The Lady of Rythdale must not do anything unworthy of herself, or of me."

"What do you mean, Mr. Carlisle?" Eleanor exclaimed with burning cheeks. But he stood before her quite cool, his arms folded, looking down at her.

"Do you wish me to speak?"

"Certainly! I do."

"I will tell you then. It would not accord with my wishes to have my wife grant whispered consultations in public to any man; especially a young man and one of insinuating talents, which this one well may be. I could have shot that man, as he was talking to you to-night, Eleanor."

Eleanor put up her hands to her face to hide its colour for a moment. Shame and anger and confusion struggled together. Had she done anything unworthy of her? Others did the same, but they belonged to a different class of persons; had she been where Eleanor Powle, or even Eleanor Carlisle, would be out of place? And then there was the contrasted consciousness, how very pleasant and precious that whispered "consultation" had been to her. Mr. Carlisle stooped and took away her hands from her face, holding them in his own.

"Eleanor—had that young man anything to do with those unmanageable wishes you expressed to me?"

"So far as his words and example set me upon thinking," said Eleanor. "But there was nothing in what was said to-night that all the world might not hear." She rose, for it was an uncomfortable position in which her hands were held.

"All the world did not hear it, you will remember. Eleanor, you are honest, and I am jealous—will you tell me that you have no regard for this young man more than my wife ought to have?"

"Mr. Carlisle, I have never asked myself the question!" exclaimed Eleanor with indignant eyes. "If you doubt me, you cannot wish to have anything more to do with me."

"Call me Macintosh," said he drawing her within his arm.

Eleanor would not. She would have freed herself, but she could not without exerting too much force. She stood silent.

"Will you tell me," he said in a gentle changed tone, "what words did pass between you and that young man,—that you said all the world might hear?"

Eleanor hesitated. Her head was almost on Mr. Carlisle's shoulder; his lips were almost at her downcast brow; the brilliant hazel eyes were looking with their powerful light into her face. And she was his affianced wife. Was Eleanor free? Had this man, who loved her, no rights? Along with all other feelings, a keen sense of self-reproach stole in again.

"Macintosh," she said droopingly, "it was entirely about religious matters—that you would laugh at, but would not understand."

"Indulge me—and try me—" he said pressing his lips first on Eleanor's cheek and then on her mouth. She answered in the same tone as before, drooping in his arms as a weary child.

"He asked me—as I suppose he asked others—what the difficulties in my mind were,—religious difficulties; and I told him my mind was in confusion and I did not see clearly before me. He advised me to do nothing in the dark, but when I saw duty clear, then to do it. That was what passed."

"What did all these difficulties and rules of action refer to?"

"Everything, I suppose," said Eleanor drooping more and more inwardly.

"And you do not see, my love, what all this tended to?"

"I do not see what you mean."

"This is artful proselytism, Eleanor. In your brave honesty, in your beautiful enthusiasm, you did not know that the purpose of all this has been, to make a Methodist of Eleanor Powle, and as a necessary preliminary or condition, to break off her promised marriage with me. If that fellow had succeeded, he should have been made to feel my indignation—as it is, I shall let him go."

"You are entirely mistaken,—" began Eleanor.

"Am I? Have you not been led to doubt whether you could live a right life, and live it with me?"

"But would you be willing in everything to let me do as I think right?"

"Would I let you? You shall do what you will, my darling, except go to whispering conventicles. Assuredly I will not let you do that. But when you tell me seriously that you think a thing is wrong, I will never put my will in the way of your conscience. Did you think me a Mahometan? Hey?"

"No—but—"

"But what?"

Eleanor only sighed.

"I think I have something to forgive to-night, Eleanor,—but it is easy to forgive you." And wrapping both arms round her now, he pressed on brow and lip and cheek kisses that were abundantly reconciled.

"My presence just saved you to night. Eleanor—will you promise not to be naughty any more?—Eleanor?—"

"I will try," burst out Eleanor,—"O I will try to do what is right! I will try to do what is right!"

And in bitter uncertainty what that might be, she gave way under the strain of so many feelings, and the sense of being conquered which oppressed her, and burst into tears. Still held fast, the only hiding-place for her eyes was Mr. Carlisle's breast, and they flowed there bitterly though restrained as much as possible. He hardly wished to restrain them; he would have been willing to stand all night with that soft brown head resting like a child's on him. Nevertheless he called her to order with words and kisses.

"Do you know, it is late," he said,—"and you are tired. I must send you off. Eleanor! look up. Look up and kiss me."

Eleanor overcame the passion of tears as soon as possible, yet not till a few minutes had passed; and looked up; at least raised her head from its resting-place. Mr. Carlisle whispered, "Kiss me!"

How could Eleanor refuse? what could she do? though it was sealing allegiance over again. She was utterly humbled and conquered. But there was a touch of pride to be satisfied first. Laying one hand on Mr. Carlisle's shoulder, so as to push herself a little back where she could look him in the face, with eyes glittering yet, she confronted him; and asked, "Do you doubt me now?"

Holding her in both arms, at just that distance, he looked down at her, a smile as calm as brilliant playing all over his face, which spoke perfect content as well as secure possession. But the trust in his eyes was as clear.

"No more than I doubt myself," he answered.

Pride was laid asleep; and yielding to what seemed her fate, Eleanor gave the required token of fealty—or subjugation—for so it seemed to her. Standing quite still, with bent head and moveless attitude, the slightest smile in the world upon the lips, Mr. Carlisle's whole air said silently that it was not enough. Eleanor yielded again, and once more touched her lips to those of her master. He let her go then; lit her candle and attended her to the foot of the staircase and dismissed her with all care.

"I wonder if he is going to stay here himself to-night, and meet me in the morning," thought Eleanor as she went up the stairs. "It does not matter—I will go to sleep and forget everything, for a while."

Would she? There was no sleep for Eleanor that night, and she knew it as soon as she reached her room. She set down her candle and then herself in blank despair.

What had she done? Nothing at all, The stand she had meant to take at the beginning of the evening, she had been unable even to set foot upon. The bold step by which she had thought to set herself free from Mr. Carlisle, had only laid her more completely at his feet. Eleanor got up and walked the room in agony.

What had she done? She was this man's promised wife; she had made her own bonds; it was her own doing; he had a right to her, he had claims upon her, he had given his affection to her. Had she any rights now, inconsistent with his? Must she not fulfil this marriage? And yet, could she do so, feeling as she did? would that be right? For no sooner was Eleanor alone than the subdued cry of her heart broke out again, that it could not be. And that cry grew desperate. Yet this evening's opportunity had all come to nothing. Worse than nothing, for it had laid an additional difficulty in her way. By her window, looking out into the dark night, Eleanor stopped and looked at this difficulty. She drew from its lurking-place in the darkness of her heart the question Mr. Carlisle had suggested, and confronted it steadily.

Had "that young man," the preacher of this evening, Eleanor's really best friend, had he anything to do with her "unmanageable wishes?" Had she any regard for him that influenced her mind in this struggle—or that raised the struggle? With fiercely throbbing heart Eleanor looked this question for the first time in the face. "No!" she said to herself,—"no! I have not. I have no such regard for him. How debasing to have such a doubt raised! But I might have—I think that is true—if circumstances put me in the way of it. And I think, seeing him and knowing his superior beauty of character—how superior!—has wakened me up to the consciousness of what I do like, and what I like best; and made me conscious too that I do not love Mr. Carlisle as well as I ought, to be his wife—not as he loves me. That I see now,—too late. Oh, mother, mother! why were you in such a hurry to seal this marriage—when I told you, I told you, I was not ready. But then I did not know any more than that. And now I cannot marry him—and yet I shall—and I do not know but I ought. And yet I cannot."

Eleanor walked her floor or stood by her window that live-long night. It was a night of great agony and distracted searching for relief. Where should relief come from? To tell Mr. Carlisle frankly that she did not bear the right kind of love towards him, she knew would be the vainest of expedients. "He can make me do anything—he would say he can make me love him; and so, perhaps, he could—I believe he would—if I had not seen this other man." And then Eleanor drew the contrast between one person and the other; the high, pure, spiritual nobleness of the one, and the social and personal graces and intellectual power of the other, all used for selfish ends. It was a very unprofitable speculation for Eleanor; it left her further than ever from the conclusion, and distressed her bitterly. From her mother she knew sadly there was no help to be had. No consideration, of duty or pleasure, would outweigh with her the loss of a splendid alliance and the scandal of breaking off the preparations for it. The Sphynx would not look out more calmly over the desert waste of all things, than Mrs. Powle's fair face would overview a moral desolation more hopeless and more cheerless, if but the pyramid of her ambition were firmly planted there. And Eleanor's worst trouble after all was her doubt about duty. If Mr. Carlisle had not loved her—but he did love her truly and tenderly, and she, however misled, had given him permission. Could she now withdraw it? Could she do anything but, at whatever risk, go on and meet the obligations she had brought upon herself? Nature cried out strongly that it must not be; but conscience and remorse, aided by circumstances, withstood nature, and said it must be no other way. Eleanor must marry Mr. Carlisle and be as good to him as she could. And Eleanor's whole soul began to rise up stronger and stronger in protest against it, and cry that she never would marry him.

The weary long night seemed but as one thought of pain; and when the morning broke, Eleanor felt that she had grown old.