"The earth has lost its power to drag me downward;
Its spell is gone;
My course is now right upward, and right onward,
To yonder throne."

She had three months of quiet time. Not more; and they would quickly speed away. What she had to do, she could not do too soon. Eleanor knew it. The soothed feeling of the first few days gave place to a restless mood almost as soon as Mr. Carlisle was gone. Three years seemed more like what she wanted than three months. She felt ignorant, dark, and unhappy; how was she to clear up this moral mist and see how the plan of life lay, without any hand to lead her or help her? There was only one she knew in the world that could; and from any application to him, or even any chance contact with him, Eleanor consciously shrank. That would never do; that must never be heard of her. With all this, she began to dread the disturbing and confusing effects of Mr. Carlisle's visits to the country. He would come; he had said so; and Mrs. Powle kept reminding her of it upon every occasion.

Eleanor had been forbidden to ride alone. She did not dare; she took to long lonely walks. It was only out of doors that she felt quite free; in her own room at home, though never so private, her mother would at any time come with distracting subjects of conversation. Eleanor fled to the moor and to the wilds; walked, and rested on the stones, and thought; till she found thinking degenerate into musing; then she started up and went on. She tired herself. She did not find rest.

One day she took her course purposely to the ruined priory. It was a long walk; but Eleanor courted long walks. And when she got there, musing, it must be confessed, had a good time. She stepped slowly down the grass-grown nave of the old church, recalling with much bitterness the day of her betrothal there; blaming herself, and blaming her mother more. Yet at any rate that day she had set seal to her own fate; would she be able, and had she a right,—that was the worst question,—to break it now? She wandered on, out of the church, away from the beautiful old ivied tower, which seemed to look down on her with grave reproach from the staidness of years and wisdom; wound about over and among the piles of shapeless ruin and the bits of lichened and moss-grown walls, yet standing here and there; not saying to herself exactly where she was going, but trying if she could find out the way; till she saw a thicket of thorn and holly bushes that she remembered. Yes, the latches too, and the young growth of beech trees. Eleanor plunged through this thicket, as well as she could; it was not easy; and there before her was the clear spot of grass, the angle of the thick old wall, and the deep window that she wanted to see again. All still and lonely and wild. Eleanor went across and took a seat in the window as she had done once before, to rest and think.

And then what she thought of, was not the old monks, nor the exquisite fair view out of the window that had belonged to them; though it was a soft December day, and the light was as winning fair on house and hill and tree-top as if it had been a different season of the year. No cloud in the sky, and no dark shadows upon the earth. But Eleanor's thoughts went back to the thunderstorm, and her need then first felt of an inward sunshine that would last in cloudy times. She recalled the talk about the Christian's helmet; with a weary, sorrowful, keen renewal of regret at her own want of it. The words Mr. Rhys had spoken about it at that time she could not very well remember; but well she remembered the impression of them, and the noble, clear calmness of his face and manner. Very unlike all other calmness and nobleness that she had seen. The nobleness of one whose head was covered by that royal basnet; the fearlessness of one whose brows were consciously shaded by it. The simplicity that had nothing to feign or conceal; the poise of manner that came from an established heart and conscience. Eleanor presently caught herself up. What was she thinking about Mr. Rhys for? True, the thought of him was very near the thought of his teaching; nevertheless the one thing concerned her, the other did not. Did it not? Eleanor sighed, and wished she could have a little of his wise guidance; for notwithstanding all she had heard him say, she felt in the dark.

In the midst of all this, Eleanor heard somebody humming a scrap of a tune on the other side of the holly bushes. Another instant told her it was a tune she had heard never but once before, and that once in Mr. Brooks's barn. There was besides a little rustling of the thorn bushes. Eleanor could think of but one person coming to that spot of the ruins; and in sudden terror she sprang from the window and rushed round the other corner of the wall. The tune ceased; Eleanor heard no more; but she dared not falter or look back. She was in a thicket on this side too, and in a mass of decayed ruins and rubbish which almost stopped her way. By determination and perseverance, with some knocks and scratches, she at last got free and stopped to breathe and think. Why was she so frightened? Mr. Carlisle. But what should she do now? Suppose she set off to walk home; she might be joined by the person she wished to shun; it was impossible to foresee that he would sit an hour meditating in the old window. Over against Eleanor, a little distance off, only plantations of shrubbery and soft turf between, was the Rector's house. Best go there and take refuge, and then be guided by circumstances. She went accordingly, feeling sorrowful that she should have to run away from the very person whose counsel of all others she most needed.

The door was opened to Eleanor by the Rector himself.

"Ha! my dear Miss Powle," said the good doctor,—"this is an honour to me. I don't know what you will do now, for my sister is away at Brompton—will you come in and see an old bachelor like myself?"

"If you will let me, sir."

"I shall be delighted, my dear Miss Eleanor! You were always welcome, ever since you were so high; and now that you are going to occupy so important a position here, I do not know a lady in the neighbourhood that deserves so much consideration as yourself. Come in—come in! How did you get here?"

"Taking a long walk, sir. Perhaps you will give me some refreshments."

"I shall be delighted. Come in here, and we will have luncheon together in my study—which was never so honoured before; but I think it is the pleasantest place in the house. The other rooms my sister fills with gimcracks, till I cannot turn round there without fear of breaking something, Now my old folios and octavos have tried a fall many a time—and many a one has tried a fall with them—ha! ha!—and no harm to anybody. Sit down there now, Miss Eleanor, and rest. That's what I call a pretty window. You see I am in no danger of forgetting my friend Mr. Carlisle here."

Eleanor looked out of the window very steadily; yet she was not refreshing her remembrance of Mr. Carlisle neither. There were glimpses of a tall, alert figure, passing leisurely in and out among the trees and the ruins; finally coming out into full view and walking with brisk step over the greensward till he was out of sight. Eleanor knew it very well, the figure and the quick step; the energy and life in every movement. She heard no more of Dr. Cairnes for some time; though doubtless he was talking, for he had ordered luncheon and now it was served, and he was pressing her to partake of it. Dr. Cairnes' cheese was excellent; his hung beef was of prime quality; and the ale was of a superior brand, and the wine which he poured out for Eleanor was, he assured her, as its sparkling drops fell into the glass, of a purity and flavour "that even his friend Mr. Carlisle would not refuse to close his lips upon." Eleanor felt faint and weary, and she knew Mr. Carlisle's critical accuracy; but she recollected at the same time Mr. Rhys's cool abstinence, and she put the glass of wine away.

"Not?" said the doctor. "You would prefer a cup of chocolate. Bad taste, Miss Eleanor—wine is better for you, too. Ladies will sup chocolate, I believe; I wonder what they find in it. The thing is, my sister being away to-day, I don't know—"

Eleanor begged he would not mind that, nor her; however the chocolate was ordered and in due time brought.

"Now that will make you dull," said the doctor,—"sleepy. It does not have, even on you, the reviving, brilliant effect of this beverage." And he put the bright glass of wine to his lips. It was not the first filled.

"Before I get dull, dear doctor, I want to talk to you."

"Aye?" said the doctor, looking at her over the wine. "You do? What about? Say on, Miss Eleanor. I am yours doubly now, by the past and the future. You may command me."

"It is about the present, I wish to talk," said Eleanor.

"What is it?"

"My mind is not at rest," said Eleanor, laying her hands in her lap, and looking off again towards the ruins with their green and grey silent reminders,—"about religious subjects."

"Ah?" said Dr. Cairnes. "How is that, Miss Eleanor? Be a little more explicit with me, will you not."

"I will. Dr. Cairnes, I am young now, but by and by decay must come to me, as it has come to that old pile yonder—as it comes to everything. I want security for my head and heart when earthly security fails."

Eleanor spoke slowly, looking out as she spoke all the while.

"Security!" said the doctor. "But my dear Miss Eleanor, you know the articles of our holy religion?"

"Yes,—" she said without stirring her position.

"Security is given by them, most amply and abundantly, to every sincere applicant. Your life has been a sheltered one, Miss Eleanor, and a kind one; you can have no very grievous sins to charge yourself with."

"I would like to get rid of such as I have," answered Eleanor without moving.

"You were baptized in infancy?"

"Yes, sir."

"You have never been confirmed?"

"No, sir."

"Every baptized child of the Church, Miss Eleanor, owes it to God, to herself, and the Church, upon arriving at a proper age, to come forward and openly take upon herself—or himself—but I am talking of you,—the vows made for her in her infancy, at her baptism, by her sponsors. Upon doing this, she is received into full membership with the Church and entitled to all its privileges; and undoubtedly security is one of them. That is what you want to do, Miss Eleanor; and I am truly rejoiced that your mind is setting itself to the contemplation of its duties—and responsibilities. In the station you are preparing to occupy, the head of all this neighbourhood—Wiglands and Rythdale both—it is most important, most important, that your example should be altogether blameless and your influence thrown altogether on the right side. That influence, my dear Miss Eleanor, is very great."

"Dr. Cairnes, my one single present desire, is to do right and feel safe, myself."

"Precisely. And to do right, is the way to feel safe. I will give you a little work, preparatory to the ordinance of confirmation, Miss Eleanor, which I entreat you to study and prayerfully follow. That will relieve all your difficulties, I have no fear. There it is, Miss Eleanor."

"Will this rite—will this ordinance," said Eleanor closing her fingers on the book and for the first time looking the doctor straight in the face,—"will it give me that helmet of salvation, of which I have heard?"

"Hey? what is that?" said the doctor.

"I have heard—and read—of the Christian 'helmet of salvation.' I have seen that a person whose brows are covered by it, goes along fearless, hopeful, and happy, dreading nothing in this life or the next.—Will being confirmed, put this helmet upon my head?—make me fearless and happy too?"

"My dear Miss Eleanor, I cannot express how you astonish me. I always have thought you were one of the strongest-hearted persons I knew; and in your circumstances I am sure it was natural—But to your question. The benefit of confirmation, my dear young lady, as well as of every other ordinance of the Church, depends of course on the manner and spirit with which we engage in it. There is confirming and strengthening grace in it undoubtedly for all who come to the ordinance in humble obedience, with prayer and faith, and who truly take upon them their vows."

"But, Dr. Cairnes, I might die before I could be confirmed; and I want rest and security now. I do not have it, day nor night. I have not, ever since the time when I was so ill last summer. I want it now."

"My dear Miss Eleanor, the only way to obtain security and rest, is in doing one's duty. Do your duty now, and it will come. Your conscience has taken up the matter, and will have satisfaction. Give it satisfaction, and rest will come."

"How can I give it satisfaction?" said Eleanor sitting up and looking at the doctor. "I feel myself guilty—I know myself exposed to ruin, to death that means death; what can I give to my conscience, to make it be still?"

"The Church offers absolution for their sins to all that are truly sorry for them," said the doctor. "Are you penitent on account of your sins, Miss Eleanor?"

"Penitent?—I don't know," said Eleanor drooping a little from her upright position. "I feel them, and know them, and wish them away; but if I were penitent, they would be gone, wouldn't they? and they are not gone."

"I see how it is," said the doctor. "You have too much leisure to think, and your thoughts are turning in upon themselves and becoming morbid. I think this is undue sensitiveness, my dear Miss Eleanor. The sins we wish away, will never be made a subject of judgment against us. I shall tell my friend Mr. Carlisle that his presence is wanted here, for something more important than the interests of the county. I shall tell him he must not let you think too much. I think he and I together can put you right. In the mean while, you read my little book."

"Dr. Cairnes, what I have said to you is said in strict confidence. I do not wish it spoken of, even to my mother."

"Of course, of course!" said the doctor. "That is all understood. The Church never reveals her children's secrets. But I shall only give him a little gentle hint, which will be quite sufficient, I have no doubt; and I shall have just the co-operation that I desire."

"How excellent your cheese is, Dr. Cairnes."

"Ah! you like it," said the doctor. "I am proud. I always purchase my cheese myself—that is one thing I do not leave to my sister. But this one I think is particularly fine. You won't take a half glass of ale with it?—no,—I know Mr. Carlisle does not like ale. But it would be a good sequent of your ride, nevertheless."

"I did not ride, sir. I walked."

"Walked from Ivy Lodge! All this way to see me, Miss Eleanor?"

"No sir—only for a walk, and to see the ruins. Then I was driven to take shelter here."

"I am very glad of it! I am very glad of it!" said the doctor. "I have not enjoyed my luncheon so much in a year's time; and you delight me too, my dear Miss Eleanor, by your present dispositions. But walk all the way here! I shall certainly write to Mr. Carlisle."

Eleanor's cheeks flushed, and she rose. "Not only all the way here, but all the way back again," said she; "so it is time I bade you good bye."

The doctor was very anxious to carry her home in the chaise; Eleanor was more determined that he should not; and determination as usual carried the day. The doctor shook his head as he watched her off.

"Are you going to shew this spirit to Mr. Carlisle?" he said.

Which remark gave Eleanor an impetus that carried her a third of her way home. During the remaining two thirds she did a good deal of thinking; and arrived at the Lodge with her mind made up. There was no chance of peace and a good time for her, without going away from home. Dr. Cairnes' officiousness would be sure to do something to arouse Mr. Carlisle's watchfulness; and then—"the game will be up," said Eleanor to herself. "Between his being here and the incessant expectation of him, there will be no rest for me. I must get away." She laid her plans.

After dinner she slipped away and sought her father in his study. It was called his study, though very little of that character truly belonged to it. More truly it balanced between the two purposes of a smoking-room and an office; for county business was undoubtedly done there; and it was the nook of retirement where the Squire indulged himself in his favoured luxury, the sweet weed. The Squire took it pure, in a pipe; no cigars for him; and filling his pipe Eleanor found him. She lit the pipe for him, and contrary to custom sat down. The Squire puffed away.

"I thought you didn't care for this sort of thing, Eleanor," he remarked. "Are you learning not to mind it already? It is just as well! Perhaps your husband will want you to sit with him when he smokes."

"I would not do that for any man in the world, papa, except you!"

"Ho! Ho!" said the Squire. "Good wives, my dear, do not mind trifles.
They had better not, at any rate."

"Papa," said Eleanor, whose cheeks were flaming, "do you not think, since a girl must give up her liberty so completely in marrying, that she ought to be allowed a good little taste of it beforehand?"

"St. George and the Dragon! I do," said the Squire. "Your mother says it tends to lawlessness—and I say, I don't care. That is not my concern. If a man cannot rule his wife, he had better not have one—that is my opinion; and in your case, my dear, there is no fear. Mr. Carlisle is quite equal to his duties, or I am mistaken in him."

Eleanor felt nearly wild under her father's speeches; nevertheless she sat perfectly quiet, only fiery about her cheeks.

"Then, papa, to come to the point, don't you think in the little time that remains to me for my own, I might be allowed to do what I please with myself?"

"I should say it was a plain case," said the Squire. "Take your pleasure, Nellie; I won't tether you. What do you want to do, child? I take it, you belong to me till you belong to somebody else."

"Papa, I want to run away, and make a visit to my aunt Caxton. I shall never have another chance in the world—and I want to go off and be by myself and feel free once more, and have a good time."

"Poor little duck!" said her father. "You are a sensible girl, Nellie.
Go off; nobody shall hinder you."

"Papa, unless you back me, mamma and Mr. Carlisle will not hear of it."

"I'd go before he comes down then," said the Squire, knocking the ashes out of his pipe energetically. "St. George! I believe that man half thinks, sometimes, that I am one of his tenantry? The lords of Rythdale always did lord it over everything that came in their way. Now is your only chance, Eleanor; run away, if you're a mind to; Mr. Carlisle is master in his own house, no doubt, but he is not master in mine; and I say, you may go. Do him no harm to be kept on short commons for a little while."

With a joyful heart Eleanor went back to the drawing-room, and sat patiently still at some fancy work till Mrs. Powle waked up from a nap.

"Mamma, Dr. Cairnes wants me to be confirmed."

"Confirmed!"—Mrs. Powle echoed the word, sitting bolt upright in her chair and opening her sleepy eyes wide at her daughter.

"Yes. He says I ought to be confirmed. He has given me a book upon confirmation to study."

"I wonder what you will do next!" said Mrs. Powle, sinking back. "Well, go on, if you like. Certainly, if you are to be confirmed, it ought to be done before your marriage. I wish anything would confirm you in sober ways."

"Mamma, I want to give this subject serious study, if I enter into it; and I cannot do it properly at home. I want to go away for a visit."

"Well?" said Mrs. Powle, thinking of some cousins in London.

"I want to be alone and quiet and have absolute peace for awhile; and this death of Lady Rythdale makes it possible. I want to go and make a visit to my aunt Caxton."

"Caxton!"—Mrs. Powle almost screamed. "Caxton! There! In the mountains of Wales! Eleanor, you are perfectly absurd. It is no use to talk to you."

"Mamma, papa sees no objection."

"He does not! So you have been speaking to him! Make your own fortunes, Eleanor! I see you ruined already. With what favour do you suppose Mr. Carlisle will look upon such a project? Pray have you asked yourself?"

"Yes, ma'am; and I am not going to consult him in the matter."

The tea-equipage and the Squire came in together and stopped the conversation. Eleanor took care not to renew it, knowing that her point was gained. She took her father's hint, however, and made her preparations short and sudden. She sent that night a word, telling of her wish, to Mrs. Caxton; and waited but till the answer arrived, waited on thorns, to set off. The Squire looked rather moody the next day after his promise to Eleanor; but he would not withdraw it; and no other hindrance came. Eleanor departed safely, under the protection of old Thomas, the coachman, long a faithful servitor in the family. The journey was only part of the distance by railway; the rest was by posting; and a night had to be spent on the road.

Towards evening of the second day, Eleanor began to find herself in what seemed an enchanted region. High mountains, with picturesque bold outlines, rose against the sky; and every step was bringing her deeper and deeper among them, in a rich green meadow valley. The scenery grew only wilder, richer, and lovelier, until the sun sank behind the high western line; and still its loveliness was not lost; while grey shades and duskiness gathered over the mountain sides and gradually melted the meadows and their scattered wood growth into one hue. Then only the wild mountain outline cut against the sky, and sometimes the rushing of a little river, told Eleanor of the varied beauty the evening hid.

Little else she could see when the chaise stopped and she got out. Dimly a long, low building stretched before her at the side of the road; the rippling of water sounded softly at a little distance; the fresh mountain air blew in her face; then the house-door opened.