"We will have rings, and things, and fine array;
And kiss me, Kate, we will be married o' Sunday."

Eleanor was too sick to go down even to a late breakfast; and a raging headache kept off any inquiries or remonstrances that Mrs. Powle might have made to her if she had been well. Later in the day her little sister Julia came dancing in.

"Aren't you going to get up, Eleanor? What's the matter? I am going to open your window. You are all shut up here."

Back went the curtain and up went the window; a breath of fresh mild air came sweetly in, and Julia danced back to the bedside. There suddenly sobered herself.

"Eleanor, aren't you better? Can't you get up? It is so nice to-day."

Julia's fresh, innocent, gay manner, the very light play of her waving hair, not lighter than the childlike heart, were almost too much for her sister. They made Eleanor's heart ache.

"Where is everybody?"

"Nowhere," said Julia. "I am all the house. Mr. Carlisle went home after breakfast; and mamma and Alfred are gone in the carriage to Brompton; and papa is out somewhere. Are you better, Nellie?"

"I shall never be better!" said Eleanor. She turned and hid her face.

"Oh why, Eleanor? What makes you say that? What is the matter? I knew yesterday you were not happy."

"I am never going to be happy. I hope you will."

"I am happy," said Julia. "And you will be. I told Mr. Rhys you were not happy,—and he said you would be by and by."

"Julia!" said Eleanor raising herself on her elbow and with a colour spreading all over her face,—"don't talk to Mr. Rhys about me or my concerns! What makes you do such a thing?"

"Why I haven't anybody else to talk to," said Julia. "Give me your foot, and I'll put on your stocking. Come! you are going to get up. And besides, he thinks a great deal of you, and we pray for you every day."

"Who?"

"He does, and I. Come!—give me your foot."

"He, and you!" said Eleanor.

"Yes," said Julia looking up. "We pray for you every day. What's the matter, Eleanor?"

Her hand was laid sorrowfully and tenderly on the shoulder of the sister whose face was again hid from her. But at the touch Eleanor raised her head.

"You seem a different child, Julia, from what you used to be."

"What's the matter, Nellie?"—very tenderly.

"I wish I was different too," said Eleanor, springing out of bed; "and I want time to go away by myself and think it out and battle it out, until I know just what is right and am ready to do it; and instead of that, mamma and Mr. Carlisle have arranged—"

"Stop and sit down," said Julia taking hold of her; "you look white and black and all colours. Wait and rest, Eleanor."

But Eleanor would not till she had tried the refreshment of cold water, and had put her beautiful hair in order; then she sat down in her dressing-gown. Julia had watched and now stood anxiously beside her.

"Oh, what is the matter, Eleanor?"

"I don't know, Julia. I do not know what is right."

"Have you asked God to make you know?"

"No," said Eleanor, drooping.

"That's what Mr. Rhys always does, so he is never troubled. I will tell you what he says—he says, 'What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee.' Then he feels safe, you know."

"It is a pity you cannot go to the South Seas with Mr. Rhys. You talk of nothing but him."

"I would like to go with him," said Julia simply. "But I have learned how to feel safe too, for I trust in Jesus too; and I know he will teach me right. So he will teach you, Eleanor."

Eleanor bowed her head on her hands, and wept and wept; but while she wept, resolutions were taking form in her mind. Mr. Rhys's words came back to her—"Go no way, till you see clear." The renewed thought of that helmet of salvation, and of that heavenly guidance, that she needed and longed for; so supremely, so much above everything else; gradually gained her strength to resolve that she would have them at all hazards. She must have time to seek them and to be sure of her duty; and then, she would do it. She determined she would not see Mr. Carlisle; he would conquer her; she would manage the matter with her mother. Eleanor thought it all over, the opposition and the difficulties, and resolved with the strength of desperation. She had grown old during this night. She had a long interval of quiet before her mother came.

"Well, Eleanor! in your dressing-gown yet, and only your hair done! When do you expect to be down stairs? Somebody will be here presently and expect to see you."

"Somebody will be disappointed. My head is splitting, mamma."

"I should think it would! after yesterday's gambade, What did Mr. Carlisle say to you, I should like to know? I thought you would have offended him past forgiveness. I was relieved beyond all expression this morning, at breakfast, when I saw all was right again. But he told me not to scold you, and I will not talk about it."

"Mamma, if you will take off your bonnet and sit down—I will talk to you about something else."

Mrs. Powle sat down, took her bonnet in her lap, and pushed her fair curls into place. They were rarely out of place; it was more a form than anything else. Yet Mrs. Powle looked anxious; and her anxiety found natural expression as she said,

"I wish the twenty-first was to-morrow!"

"That is the thing I wish to speak about. Mamma, that day, the day for my marriage, has been appointed too early—I feel hurried, and not ready. I want to study my own mind and know exactly what I am doing. I am going to ask you to have it put off."

"Put it off!—" cried Mrs. Powle. Language contained no other words of equal importance to be spoken in the same breath with those three.

"Yes. I want it put off."

"Till when, if you please. It might as well be doomsday at once."

"Till doomsday, if necessary; but I want it put off. I do not stipulate for so long a time as that," said Eleanor putting her hand to her head.

"What day would you name, in lieu of the twenty-first? I should like to know how far your arrangements extend."

"I want time to collect my thoughts and be ready for so great a change. I want time to study, and think,—and pray. I shall ask for at least three months."

"Three months! Till April! And pray, what has ailed your ladyship not to study and think and pray if you like, all these months that have passed?"

"I have no chance. My time is all taken up. I can do nothing, but go round in a whirl—till my head is spinning."

"And what will you do in these three months to come? I should like to know all you propose."

"I propose to go away from home—somewhere that I can be quiet and alone. Then, if there is no reason against it, I promise to come back and fulfil my engagement with Mr. Carlisle."

"Eleanor, you are a fool!" burst out her mother. "You are a fool, or worse. How dare you talk such stuff to me? I can hardly believe you serious, only for your face. Do you suppose I will think for one moment of such a thing as putting off the day?—and if I would, have you any idea that Mr. Carlisle would give his assent to it?!"

"If you do not, both you and he, I shall break off the marriage altogether."

"I dare you to do it!" said Mrs. Powle. "With the wedding-dresses made, and almost the wedding-cake—every preparation—the whole world to be scandalized and talking at any delay—your family disgraced, and yourself ruined for ever;—and Mr. Carlisle—Eleanor, I think you are crazy! only you sit there with such a wicked face!—"

"It is in danger of being wicked," said Eleanor, drawing both her hands over it;—"for I warn you, mother, I am determined. I have been hurried on. I will be hurried no further. I will take poison, before I will be married on the twenty-first! As well lose my soul one way as another. You and Mr. Carlisle must give me time—or I will break the match altogether. I will bear the consequences."

"Have you spoken to him of this precious arrangement?"

"No," said Eleanor, her manner failing a little.—"You must do it."

"I thought so!" said Mrs. Powle. "He knows how to manage you, my young lady! which I never did yet. I will just bring him up here to you—and you will be like a whipped child in three minutes. O you know it. I see it in your face. Eleanor, I am ashamed of you!"

"I will not see him up here, mamma."

"You will, if you cannot help it. Eleanor I wouldn't try him too far.
He is very fond of you—but he will be your husband in a few days; and
he is not the sort of man I should like to have displeased with me, if
I were you."

"He never will, mamma, unless he waits three months for it."

"Now I will tell you one thing," said Mrs. Powle rising in great anger—"I can put down my foot too. I am tired of this sort of thing, and I cannot manage you, and I will give you over to one who can. To-day is Tuesday—the twenty-first is exactly one fortnight off. Well my young lady, I will change the day. Next Monday I will give you to Mr. Carlisle, and he will be your master; and I fancy he is not at all afraid to assume the responsibility. He may take you to as quiet a place as he likes; and you may think at your leisure, and more properly than in the way you propose. So, Eleanor, you shall be married o' Monday."

Mrs. Powle flourished out with her bonnet in her hand. Eleanor's first movement was to go after her and turn the key in the door securely; then she threw up the window and flung herself on her face on the bed. Her mother was quite capable of doing as she had said, for her fair features covered a not very tender heart. Mr. Carlisle would second her, no doubt, all the more eagerly for the last night's adventures. Could Eleanor make head against those two? And between Tuesday and Monday was very little time to mature plans or organize resistance. Her head felt like splitting now indeed, for very confusion.

"Eleanor," said Julia's voice gravely and anxiously, "you will take cold—mayn't I shut the window?"

"There's no danger. I am in a fever."

"Is your head no better?"

"I hardly think I have a head. There is nothing there but pain and snapping."

"Poor Eleanor!" said her little sister, standing by the bedside like a powerless guardian angel. "Mr. Carlisle isn't good, if he wouldn't do what you want him."

"Do not open the door, Julia, if anybody knocks!"

"No. But wouldn't he, Eleanor, if you were to ask him?"

Eleanor made no answer. She knew, it needed but a glance at last night's experience to remind her, that she could not make head against Mr. Carlisle. If he came to talk to her about her proposed scheme, all was lost. Suddenly Eleanor threw herself off the bed, and began to dress with precipitation.

"Why, are you better, Eleanor?" Julia asked in surprise.

"No—but I must go down stairs. Bring me my blue dress, Julia;—and go and get me some geranium leaves—some strong-scented ones. Here—go down the back way."

No matter for head-splitting. Eleanor dressed in haste, but with delicate care; in a dress that Mr. Carlisle liked. Its colour suited her, and its simple make shewed her beauty; better than a more furbelowed one. The aromatic geranium leaves were for her head—but with them Julia had brought some of the brilliant red flowers; and fastened on her breast where Eleanor could feel their sweetness, they at the same time made a bright touch of adornment to her figure. She was obliged to sit down then and rest; but as soon as she could she went to the drawing-room.

There were as usual several people there besides the family; Dr. Cairnes and Miss Broadus and her sister making part. Entering with a slow quiet movement, most unlike the real hurry of her spirits, Eleanor had time to observe how different persons were placed and to choose her own plan of action. It was to slip silently into a large chair which stood empty at Mr. Carlisle's side, and which favoured her by presenting itself as the nearest attackable point of the circle. It was done with such graceful noiselessness that many did not at the moment notice her; but two persons were quick of vision where she was concerned. Mr. Carlisle bent over her with delight, and though Mrs. Powle's fair curls were not disturbed by any sudden motion of her head, her grey eyes dilated with wonder and curiosity as she listened to a story of Miss Broadus which was fitted to excite neither. Eleanor was beyond her, but she concluded that Mr. Carlisle held the key of this extraordinary docility.

Eleanor sat very quiet in her chair, looking lovely, and by degrees using up her geranium leaves; with which she went through a variety of manipulations. They were picked to pieces and rubbed to pieces and their aromatic essence crushed out of them with every kind of formality. Mr. Carlisle finding that she had a headache did not trouble her to talk, and relieved her from attention; any further than his arm or hand mounting guard on her chair constantly gave. For it gathered the broken geranium leaves out of her way and picked them up from her feet. At last his hand came after hers and made it a prisoner.

"You have a mood of destructiveness upon you," said he. "See there—you have done to death all the green of your bouquet."

"The geranium leaves are good to my head," said Eleanor. "I want some more. Will you go with me to get them?"

It gave her heart a shiver, the hold in which her hand lay. Though taken in play, the hold was so very cool and firm. Her hand lay there still, for Mr. Carlisle sat a moment after she spoke, looking at her.

"I will go with you—wherever you please," he said; and putting Eleanor's hand on his arm they walked off towards the conservatory. This was at some distance, and opened out of the breakfast room. It was no great matter of a conservatory, only pretty and sweet. Eleanor began slowly to pull geranium leaves.

"You are suffering, Eleanor,"—said Mr. Carlisle.

"I do not think of it—you need not. Macintosh, I want to ask a favour of you."

She turned to him, without raising her eyes, but made the appeal of her whole pretty presence. He drew his arm round her and suspended the business of geranium leaves.

"What is it, my darling?"

"You know," said Eleanor, "that when the twenty-first of December was fixed upon—for what you wished—it was a more hurried day than I would have chosen, if the choice had been left to me. I wanted more time—but you and my mother said that day, and I agreed to it. Now, my mother has taken a notion to make it still earlier—she wants to cut off a whole week from me—she wants to make it next Monday. Don't join with her! Let me have all the time that was promised me!"

Eleanor could not raise her eyes; she enforced her appeal by laying her hand on Mr. Carlisle's arm. He drew her close up to him, held her fast, stooped his head to hers.

"What for, Eleanor? Laces and plums can be ready as well Monday as
Monday s'ennight."

"For myself, Macintosh."

"Don't you think of me?"

"No!" said Eleanor, "I do not. It is quite enough that you should have your wish after Monday s'ennight—I ought to have it before."

He laughed and kissed her. He always liked any shew of spirit in
Eleanor.

"My darling, what difference does a week make?"

"Just the difference of a week; and more than that in my mind. I want it. Grant me this favour, Mackintosh! I ask it of you."

Mr. Carlisle seemed to find it amazingly pleasant to have Eleanor sueing to him for favours; for he answered her as much with caresses as with words; both very satisfied.

"You try me beyond my strength, Eleanor. Your mother offers to give you to me Monday—Do you think I care so little about this possession that I will not take it a week earlier than I had hoped to have it?"

"But the week is mine—it is due to me, Macintosh. No one has a right to take it from me. You may have the power; and I ask you not to use it."

"Eleanor, you break my heart. My love, do you know that I have business calling for me in London?—it is calling for me now, urgently. I must carry you up to London at once; and this week that you plead for, I do not know how to give. If I can go the fifteenth instead of the twenty-second, I must. Do you see, Nellie?" he asked very tenderly.

Eleanor hardly saw anything; the world and all in it seemed to be in a swimming state before her eyes. Only Mr. Carlisle's "can's" and "must's" obeyed him, she felt sure, as well as everything else. She felt stunned. Holding her on one arm, Mr. Carlisle began to pluck flowers and myrtle sprays and to adorn her hair with them. It was a labour of love; he liked the business and played with it. The beautiful brown masses of hair invited and rewarded attention.

"Then my mother has spoken to you?" she said at length.

"Yes,"—he said, arranging a spray of heath with white blossoms. "Do you blame me?" Eleanor sought to withdraw herself from his arm, but he detained her.

"Where are you going?"

"Up stairs—to my room."

"Do you forgive me, Eleanor?" he said, looking down at her.

"No,—I think I do not."

He laughed a little, kissing her downcast face.

"I will make you my wife, Monday, Eleanor; and after that I will make you forgive me; and then—my wife shall ask me nothing that she shall not have."

Keeping her on his arm, he led her slowly from the conservatory, through the rooms, and up the staircase, to the door of her own apartment.

Eleanor tore out the flowers as soon as she was alone, locked her door, meaning at least not to see her mother that night; took off her dress and lay down. Refuge failed her. She was in despair. What could she arrange between Tuesday night and Monday?—short of taking poison, or absconding privately from the house, and so disgracing both herself and her family. Yet Eleanor was in such desperation of feeling that both those expedients occurred to her in the course of the night, although only to be rejected. Worn-out nature must have some rest however; and towards morning she slept.

It was late when she opened her eyes. They fell first upon Julia, standing at her bedside.

"Are you awake, Eleanor?"

"Yes. I wish I could sleep on."

"There's news."

"News! What sort of news?" said Eleanor, feeling that none concerned her.

"It's bad news—and yet—for you—it is good news."

"What is it, child? Speak."

"Lady Rythdale—she is dead."

Eleanor raised herself on her elbow and stared at Julia. "How do you know? how do you know?" she said.

"A messenger came to tell us—she died last night. The man came a good while ago, but—"

She never finished her sentence; for Eleanor threw herself out of bed, exclaiming, "I am saved! I am saved!"—and went down on her knees by the bedside. It was hardly to pray, for Eleanor scarce knew how to pray; yet that position seemed an embodiment of thanks she could not speak. She kept it a good while, still as death. Julia stood motionless, looking on.

"Don't think me wicked," said Eleanor getting up at last. "I am not glad of anything but my own deliverance. Oh, Julia!"

"Poor Eleanor!" said her little sister wonderingly. "Then you don't want to be married and go to Rythdale?"

"Not Monday!" said Eleanor. "And now I shall not. It is not possible that a wedding and a funeral should be in one house on the same day. I know which they would put off if they could, but they have got to put off the other. O Julia, it is the saving of me!"

She caught the little one in her arms and sat with her so, their two heads nestling together, Eleanor's bowed upon her sister's neck.

"But Eleanor, will you not marry Mr. Carlisle after all?"

"I cannot,—for a good while, child."

"But then?"

"I shall never be married in a hurry. I have got breathing time—time to think. And I'll use it."

"And, O Eleanor! won't you do something else?"

"What?"

"Won't you be a servant of the Lord?"

"I will—if I can find out how," Eleanor answered low.

It poured with rain. Eleanor liked it that day, though generally she was no lover of weather that kept her within. A spell of soothing had descended upon her. Life was no longer the rough thing it had seemed to her yesterday. A constant drop of thankfulness at her heart kept all her words and manner sweet with its secret perfume. Eleanor's temper was always as sound as a nut; but there was now a peculiar grace of gentleness and softness in all she did. She was able to go faultlessly through all the scenes of that day and the following days; through her mother's open discomfiture and half expressed disappointment, and Mr. Carlisle's suppressed impatience. His manner was perfect too; his impatience was by no word or look made known; grave, quiet, self-contained, he only allowed his affectionateness towards Eleanor to have full play, and the expression of that was changed. He did not appeal to her for sympathy which perhaps he had a secret knowledge she could not give; but with lofty good breeding and his invariable tact he took it for granted. Eleanor's part was an easy one through those days which passed before Mr. Carlisle's going up to London. He went immediately after the funeral.

It was understood, however, between him and Mrs. Powle, that the marriage should be delayed no longer than till some time in the spring. Then, Mr. Carlisle declared, he should carry into effect his original plan of going abroad, and take Eleanor with him. Eleanor heard them talk, and kept silence; letting them arrange it their own way.

"For a little while, Eleanor!" were the parting words which Mr. Carlisle's lips left upon hers. And Eleanor turned then to look at what was before her.