"What if she be fastened to this fool lord,
Dare I bid her abide by her word?"

The next morning nevertheless was bright, and Eleanor was early down stairs. And now she found that the day was begun at the farmhouse in the same way in which it was ended. A reverent, sweet, happy committing of all her affairs and her friends to God, in the presence and the company of her household, was Mrs. Caxton's entrance, for her and them, upon the work of the day. Breakfast was short and very early, which it had to be if Eleanor wanted to see the operations of the dairy; and then Mrs. Caxton and she went thither; and then first Eleanor began to have a proper conception of the magnitude and complication of the business her aunt presided over.

The dairies were of great extent, stretching along the ground floor of the house, behind and beyond the covered gallery where she and her aunt had held their first long conversation the day before. Tiled floors, as neat as wax; oaken shelves, tubs, vats, baskets, cheese-hoops, presses; all as neat and sweet as it was possible for anything to be, looked like a confusion of affairs to Eleanor's eye. However, the real business done that morning was sufficiently simple; and she found it interesting enough to follow patiently every part of the process through to the end. Several blue jackets were in attendance; some Welsh, some English; each as diligent at her work as if she only had the whole to do. And among them Eleanor noticed how admirably her aunt played the mistress and acted the executive head. Quietly, simply, as her words were spoken, they were nevertheless words that never failed to be instantly obeyed; and the service that was rendered her was given with what seemed the alacrity of affection, as well as the zeal of duty. Eleanor stood by, watching, amused, intent; yet taking in a silent lesson of character all the while, that touched her heart and made her draw a deep breath now and then. The last thing visited was the cheese house, the room where the cheeses were stored for ripening, quite away from all the dairies. Here there was a forest of cheeses; standing on end and lying on shelves, in various stages of maturity.

"Two a day!" said Eleanor looking at them. "That makes a wonderful many in the course of the year."

"Except Sundays," said Mrs. Caxton. "No cheese is made on Sunday in my dairy, nor any dairywork done, except milking the cows and setting the milk."

"I meant except Sundays, of course."

"It is not 'of course' here," said Mrs. Caxton. "The common practice in large dairy-farms is to do the same work on the seventh day that is done all the six."

"But that is wrong, aunty, it seems to me."

"Wrong? Of course it is wrong; but the defence is, that it is necessary. If Sunday's milk is not made at once into cheese, it must wait till Monday; and not only double work must be done then, for Monday will have its own milk, but double sets of everything will be needed; tubs and presses and all. So people think they cannot afford it."

"Well, how can they, aunt Caxton? There seems reason in that."

"Reason for what?"

"Why, I mean, it seems they have some reason for working on the
Sabbath—not to lose all that milk. It is one seventh of all they have."

Mrs. Caxton replied in a very quiet manner,—"'Thou shalt remember the
Lord thy God; for it is he that giveth thee power to get wealth.'"

"But aunt Caxton," said Eleanor a little doubtfully,—"he gives it in the use of means?"

"Do you think he blesses the use of means he has forbidden?"

Eleanor was silent a moment.

"Aunt Caxton, people do get rich so, do they not?"

"'The blessing of the Lord, it maketh rich,'" said Mrs. Caxton, contentedly,—"'and he addeth no sorrow with it.' That is the sort of riches I like best."

Eleanor did not answer; a kind of moisture came up in her eyes, for she felt poor in those riches.

"It is mere want of faith, Eleanor, that pleads such a reason," Mrs. Caxton went on. "It is taking the power to get wealth into our own hands. If it is in God's hands, it is just as easy certainly for him to give it to us in the obedient use of means as in the disobedient use of them; and much more likely that he will. Many a man has become poor by his disobedience, for one that has been allowed to prosper awhile in spite of it. If the statistics were made up, men would see. Meanwhile, never anybody trusted the Lord and was confounded."

"Then what do you do with the seventh day's milk, aunt Caxton?"

"I make butter of it. But I would pour it away down the river, Eleanor, before I would make it an excuse for disobeying God."

This was said without any heat, but as the quietest of conclusions. Eleanor stood silent, wondering at her aunt's cheeses and notions together. She was in a new world, surely. Yet a secret feeling of respect was every moment mounting higher.

"The principle is universally true, Eleanor, that the safe way in everything is the way of obedience. Consequences are not in our hands. It is only unbelief that would make consequences a reason for going out of the way. 'Trust in the Lord, and keep his way; so shall he exalt thee to inherit the land.' I have had nothing but prosperity, Eleanor, ever since I began the course which my neighbours and servants thought would destroy me."

"I wanted to ask you that, aunt Caxton;—how it had been."

"But my dear," said Mrs. Caxton, the smile with which she had turned to
Eleanor fading into placid gravity again,—"if it had been otherwise,
it would have made no difference. I would rather be poor, with my
Lord's blessing, than have all the principality without it."

Eleanor went away thinking. All this applied to the decision of her own affairs; and perhaps Mrs. Caxton had intended it should. But yet, how should she decide? To do the thing that was right,—Eleanor wished that,—and did not know what it was. Her wishes said one thing, and prayed for freedom. A vague, trammelling sense of engagements entered into and expectations formed and pledges given, at times confused all her ideas; and made her think it might be her duty to go home and finish wittingly what she had begun in ignorance what she was doing. It would be now to sacrifice herself. Was she called upon to do that? What was right?

Mrs. Caxton never alluded any further to Eleanor's private affairs; and Eleanor never forgetting them, kept them in the darkness of her own thoughts and did not bring them up to the light and her aunt's eye. Only for this drawback, the days would have passed delightfully. The next day was Sunday.

"We have a long drive to church, Eleanor," said her aunt. "How will you go?"

"With you, aunty."

"I don't know about that; my car has no place for you. Are you a horsewoman?"

"O aunty, nothing would be so delightful! if you have anything I can ride. Nothing would be so delightful. I half live in the saddle at home."

"You do? Then you shall go errands for me. I will furnish you with a
Welsh pony."

And this very day Eleanor mounted him to ride to church. Her aunt was in a light car that held but herself and the driver. Another vehicle, a sort of dog cart, followed with some of the servants. The day was mild and pleasant, though not brilliant with sunbeams. It made no matter. Eleanor could not comprehend how more loveliness could have been crowded into the enjoyment of two hours. On her pony she had full freedom for the use of her eyes; the road was excellent, and winding in and out through all the crookedness of the valley they threaded, she took it at all points of view. Nothing could be more varied. The valley itself, rich and wooded, with the little river running its course, marked by a thick embowering of trees; the hills that enclosed the valley taking every form of beauty, sometimes wild and sometimes tame, heathery and barren, rough and rocky, and again rounded and soft. Along these hills came into view numberless dwellings, of various styles and sizes; with once in a while a bold castle breaking forth in proud beauty, or a dismantled ruin telling of pride and beauty that had been. Eleanor had no one to talk to, and she did not want to talk. On horseback, and on a Welsh pony, no Black Maggie or Tippoo, and in these wonderful new strange scenes, she felt free; free from Mr. Carlisle and his image for the moment; and though knowing that her bondage would return, she enjoyed her freedom all the more. The little pony was satisfactory; and as there was no need of taking a gallop to-day, Eleanor had nothing to desire.

The ride ended at the loveliest of all picturesque villages; so Eleanor thought; nestled in what seemed the termination of the valley. A little village, with the square tower of the church rising up above the trees; all the houses stood among trees; and the river was crossed by a bridge just above, and tore down a precipice just below; so near that its roar was the constant lullaby of the inhabitants. It was the only sound to-day, rising in Sabbath stillness over the hills. After all this ride, the service in the little church did not disappoint expectation; it was sound, warm and good; and Eleanor mounted her pony and rode home again, almost wishing she could take service with her aunt as a dairymaid forever. All the day was sweet to Eleanor. But at the end of it a thought darted into her mind, with the keenness of an arrow. Mr. Carlisle in a few days more might have learned of her run-away freak and of her hiding-place and have time to come after her. There was a barb to the thought; for Eleanor could not get rid of it.

She begged the pony the next day, and the next, and went very long rambling rides; in the luxury of being alone. They would have been most delightful, but for the idea that haunted her, and which made her actually afraid to enter the house on her return home. This state of things was not to be borne much longer.

"You have let the pony tire you, Eleanor," Mrs. Caxton remarked. It was the evening of the second day, and the two ladies were sitting in the light of the wood fire.

"Ma'am, he could not do that. I live half my life on horseback at home."

"Then how am I to understand the long-drawn breaths which I hear from you every now and then?"

Mrs. Caxton was twisting up paper lighters. She was rarely without something in her fingers. Eleanor was doing nothing. At her aunt's question she half laughed, and seized one of the strips of paper to work upon. Her laugh changed into a sigh.

"Aunt Caxton, do you always find it easy to know what is the right thing to do—in all circumstances?"

"I have always infallible counsel that I can take."

"You mean the Bible? But the Bible does not tell one everything."

"I mean prayer."

"Prayer!—But my dear aunt Caxton!—"

"What is it, my dear?"

"I mean, that one wants an answer to one's perplexing questions."

"Mine never fail of an answer," said Mrs. Caxton. "If it is to be found in the Bible, I find it; if not, I go to the Lord, and get it from him."

"How, my dear aunt Caxton? How can you have an answer——in that way?"

"I ask to be directed—and I always am, Eleanor; always right. What do you think prayer is good for?"

"But aunt Caxton!—I never heard of such a thing in my life! Please forgive me."

"'If any man lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.' Did you never hear that, Eleanor?"

"Aunty—excuse me,—it is something I know nothing about."

"You never had an answer to your own prayers?"

"No, ma'am," said Eleanor drooping.

"My dear, there may be two reasons for that. Whoever wishes direction from the Lord, must be absolutely willing to follow it, whatever it be—we may not ask counsel of him as we do of our fellow-creatures, bent upon following our own all the while. The Lord knows our hearts, and withholds his answer when we ask so."

"How do you know what the answer is, aunty?"

"It may be given in various ways. Sometimes circumstances point it out; sometimes attention is directed to a word in the Bible; sometimes, 'thine ears shall hear a voice behind thee, saying, This is the way, walk ye in it, when ye turn to the right hand, and when ye turn to the left.'"

Eleanor did not answer; she thought her aunt was slightly fanatical.

"There is another reason for not getting an answer, Eleanor. It is, not believing that an answer will be given."

"Aunty, how can one help that?"

"By simply looking at what God has promised, and trusting it. 'But let a man ask in faith, nothing wavering. For he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed. For let not that man think that he shall receive anything of the Lord.'"

"Aunt Caxton, I am exactly like such a wave of the sea. And in danger of being broken to pieces like one."

"Many a one has been," said Mrs Caxton. But it was tenderly said, not coldly; and the impulse to go on was irresistible. Eleanor changed her seat for one nearer.

"Aunt Caxton, I want somebody's help dreadfully."

"I see you do."

"Do you see it, ma'am?"

"I think I have seen it ever since you have been here."

"But at the same time, aunty, I do not know how to ask it."

"Those are sometimes the neediest eases. But I hope you will find a way, my dear."

Eleanor sat silent nevertheless, for some minutes; and then she spoke in a lowered and changed tone.

"Aunt Caxton, you know the engagements I am under?"

"Yes. I have heard."

"What should a woman do—what is it her duty to do—who finds herself in every way bound to fulfil such engagements, except—"

"Except what?"

"Except her own heart, ma'am," Eleanor said low and ashamed.

"My dear, you do not mean that your heart was not in these engagements when you made them?"

"I did not know where it was, aunty. It had nothing to do with them."

"Where is it now?"

"It is not in them, ma'am."

"Eleanor, let us speak plainly. Do you mean that you do not love this gentleman whom you have promised to marry?"

Eleanor hesitated, covered her face, and hesitated; at last spoke.

"Aunt Caxton, I thought I did;—but I know now I do not; not as I think I ought;—I do not as he loves me." Eleanor spoke with burning cheeks, which her aunt could see even in the firelight and though Eleanor's hand endeavoured to shield them.

"What made you enter into these engagements, my dear?"

"The will and power of two other people, aunt Caxton—and, I am afraid, now, a little ambition of my own was at work in it. And I liked him too. It was not a person that I did not like. But I did not know what I was doing. I liked him, aunt Caxton."

"And now it is a question with you whether you will fulfil these engagements?"

"Yes ma'am,—because I do not wish to fulfil them. I do not know whether I ought, or ought not."

Mrs. Caxton was silent in her turn.

"Eleanor,—do you like some one else better?"

"Nobody else likes me better, aunt Caxton—there is nothing of that kind—"

"Still my question is not answered, Eleanor. Have you more liking for any other person?"

"Aunt Caxton—I do not know—I have seen—I do not know how to answer you!" Eleanor said in bitter confusion; then hiding her face she went on—"Just so much as this is true, aunt Caxton,—I have seen, what makes me know that I do not love Mr. Carlisle; not as he loves me."

Mrs. Caxton stooped forward, took Eleanor's hands down from her face and kissed her. It was a sad, drooping, pained face, hot with shame.

"My child," she said, "your honesty has saved you. I could not have advised you, Eleanor, if you had not been frank with me. Poor child!"

Eleanor came down on the floor and hid her face in Mrs. Caxton's lap. Her aunt kept one hand softly resting on her hair while she spoke. She was silent first, and then she spoke very tenderly.

"You did not know, at the time you engaged yourself to this gentleman, that you were doing him wrong?"

"No, ma'am—I thought rather of wrong to myself."

"Why?"

"They were in such a hurry, ma'am."

"Since then, you have seen what you like better."

"Yes, ma'am,"—said Eleanor doubtfully,—"or what I know I could like better, if there was occasion. That is all."

"Now the question is, in these circumstances, what is your duty to Mr.
Carlisle."

Eleanor lifted her head to look into her aunt's face for the decision to come.

"The rule of judgment is not far off, Eleanor; it is the golden rule. 'Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.' My dear, take the case of the person you could like best in the world;—would you have such a person marry you if his heart belonged to somebody else?"

"Not for the whole world!" said Eleanor raising her head which had fallen again. "But aunt Caxton, that is not my case. My heart is not anybody's."

"Put it differently then. Would you marry such a man, if you knew that his mere liking for another was stronger than his love for you?"

"I think—I would rather die!" said Eleanor slowly.

"Then I think your question is answered."

"But aunt Caxton, it is not answered. Mr. Carlisle would not feel so. I know, he would have me marry him, if he knew that my heart was a thousand times another person's—which it is not."

"Don't alter the case," said Mrs. Caxton, "except to make it stronger. If he were the right sort of man, he would not have you do so. There is no rule that we should make other people's wishes our standard of right."

"But aunt Caxton, I have done Mr. Carlisle grievous wrong. O, I feel that!—"

"Yes. What then?"

"Am I not bound to make him all the amends in my power?"

"Short of doing further wrong. Keep right and wrong always clear,
Eleanor. They never mean the same thing."

"Aunty, what you must think of me!"

"I think of you just now as saved from shipwreck. Many a girl has drifted on in the course you were going, without courage to get out of the current, until she has destroyed herself; and perhaps somebody else."

"I do not think I had much courage, aunt Caxton," said Eleanor blushing.

"What had you, then?"

"It was mainly my horror of marrying that man, after I found I did not love him. And yet, aunt Caxton, I do like him; and I am very, very, very sorry! It has almost seemed to me sometimes that I ought to marry him and give him what I can; and yet, if I were ready, I would rather die."

"Is your doubt settled?"

"Yes, ma'am,"—said Eleanor sadly.

"My dear, you have done wrong,—I judge, somewhat ignorantly,—but mischief can never be mended by mischief. To marry one man, preferring another, is the height of disloyalty to both him and yourself; unless you can lay the whole truth before him; and then, as I think, in most cases it would be the height of folly."

"I will write to Mr. Carlisle to-morrow."

"And then, Eleanor, what was the other question you came here to settle?"

"It is quite a different question, aunty, and yet it was all twisted up with the other."

"You can tell it me; it will hardly involve greater confidence," said Mrs. Caxton, bending over and kissing Eleanor's brow which rested upon her knee. "Eleanor, I am very thankful you came to Plassy."

The girl rose up and kneeling beside her hid her face in Mrs. Caxton's bosom. "Aunt Caxton, I am so glad! I have wanted just this help so long! and this refuge. Put your arms both round me, and hold me tight."

Mrs. Caxton said nothing for a little while. She waited for Eleanor to take her own time and speak. Very still the two were. There were some straining sobs that came from the one and went to the heart of the other; heavy and hard; but with no sound till they were quieted.

"Aunt Caxton," said Eleanor at last, "the other question was that one of a refuge."

"A heavenly one?"

"Yes. I had heard of a 'helmet of salvation'—I wanted it;—but I do not know how to get it."

"Do you know what it is?"

"Not very clearly. But I have seen it, aunt Caxton;—I know it makes people safe and happy. I want it for myself."

"Safe from what?"

"From—all that I feared when I was dangerously ill last summer."

"What did you fear, Eleanor?"

"All the future, aunt Caxton. I was not ready, I knew, to go out of this world. I am no better now."

They had not changed their relative positions. Eleanor's face still lay on her aunt's bosom; Mrs. Caxton's arms still enfolded her.

"Bless the Lord! there is such a helmet," she said; "but we cannot manufacture it, Eleanor, nor even buy it. If you have it at all, you must take it as a free gift."

"How do you mean?"

"If you are willing to be a soldier of Christ, he will give you his armour."

"Aunt Caxton, I do not understand."

"It is only to take the promises of God, my dear, if you will take them obediently. Jesus has declared that 'whosoever believeth on him, hath everlasting life.'"

"But I cannot exactly understand what believing in him means. I am very stupid." Eleanor raised her head and looked now in her aunt's face.

"Do you understand his work for us?"

"I do not know, ma'am."

"My dear, it is the work of love that was not willing to let us be miserable. While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. He gave himself a ransom for all. He suffered for sins, the just for the unjust, that he might bring us to God."

"Yes, I believe I understand that," said Eleanor wearily.

"The only question is, whether we will let him bring us. The question is, whether we are willing to accept this substitution of the innocent One for our guilty selves, and be his obedient children. If we are—if we rely on him and his blood only, and are willing to give up ourselves to him, then the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin. No matter though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool. There is no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh but after the Spirit."

"But I do not walk so," said Eleanor.

"Do you want to walk so?"

"O yes, ma'am! yes!" said Eleanor clasping her hands. "I desire it above all possible things. I want to be such a one."

"If you truly desire it, my dear, it is certain that you may have what you want; for the Lord's will is not different. He died for this very thing, that he might be just, and the justifier of him that believeth in Jesus. There is an open door before you; all things are ready; you have only to plead the promises and enter in. The Lord himself says, Come."

"Aunt Caxton, I understand, I think; but I do not feel; not anything but fear,—and desire."

"This is the mere statement of truth, my dear; it is like the altar with the wood laid in readiness and the sacrifice—all cold; and till fire falls down from heaven, no incense will arise from earth. But if any man lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him."

"I am a poor creature, aunt Caxton!" said Eleanor, hiding her face again. And again Mrs. Caxton's arm came tenderly round her. And again Eleanor's tears flowed, this time in a flood.

"Certainly you are a poor creature, Eleanor. I am glad you are finding it out. But will you flee to the stronghold, you poor little prisoner of hope?"

"I think I am rather the prisoner of fear, aunty."

"Hope is a better gaoler, my deal."

"But that is the very thing that I want."

"The Lord give it you!"

They sat a good while in stillness after that, each thinking her own thoughts; or perhaps those of the elder lady took the form of prayers. At last Eleanor raised her head and kissed her aunt's lips earnestly.

"How good of you to let me come to Plassy!" she said.

"I shall keep you here now. You will not wish to be at home again for some time."

"No, ma'am. No indeed I shall not."

"What are you going to do about Mr. Carlisle?"

"I shall write to-morrow. Or to-night."

"And tell him?—"

"The plain truth, aunt Caxton. I mean, the truth of the fact, of course. It is very hard!"—said Eleanor sorrowfully.

"It is doubtless hard; but it is the least of all the choice of evils you have left yourself. Write to-night,—and here, if you will. If you can without being disturbed by me."

"The sight of you will only help me, aunt Caxton. But I did not know the harm I was doing when I entered into all this."

"I believe it. Go and write your letter."

Eleanor brought her paper-case and sat down at the table. Mrs. Caxton ordered other lights and was mutely busy at her own table. Not a word was spoken for a good while. It was with a strange mixture of pain and bursting gladness that Eleanor wrote the letter which she hoped would set her free. But the gladness was enough to make her sure it ought to be written; and the pain enough to make it a bitter piece of work. The letter was finished, folded, sealed; and with a sigh Eleanor closed her paper-case.

"What sort of a clergyman have you at home?" Mrs. Caxton asked. She had not spoken till then.

"He is a kind old man—he is a good man," Eleanor said, picking for words; "I like him. He is not a very interesting preacher."

"Did you ever hold any talk with him on your thoughts of hope, and fear?"

"I could not, ma'am. I have tried; but I could not bring him to the point. He referred me to confirmation and to doing my duty; he did not help me."

"It is not a happy circumstance, that his public teaching should raise questions which his private teaching cannot answer."

"O it did not!" said Eleanor. "Dr. Cairnes never raised a question in anybody's mind, I am sure; never in mine."

"The light that sprung up in your mind then, came you do not know whence?"

"Yes, ma'am, I do," said Eleanor with a little difficulty. "It came from the words and teaching of a living example. But in me it seems to be only darkness."

Mrs. Caxton said no more, and Eleanor added no more. The servants came in to family prayer; and then they took their candies and bade each other an affectionate good night. And Eleanor slept that night without dreaming.