The Old Helmet Volume II Part 57

And in the mean while you had better take care of your pins,"--he stooped as he spoke, to pick up one at her feet and presented it with comical gravity. "You must remember you are not in England. Here you could not spend pin-money even if you had it."

"If I were inclined to be extravagant," said Eleanor laughing at him, "your admonition would be thrown away; I have brought such quant.i.ties with me."

"Of pins?"

"Yes."

"I hope you will not ever use them!"

"Why not?"

"I do not see what a properly made dress has to do with pins."

But at this confession of masculine ignorance Eleanor first looked and then laughed and covered her face, till he came and sat down again and by forcible possession took her hands away.

"You have no particular present occasion to laugh at me," he said.

"Eleanor, what made you first willing to quit England and go anywhere?"

The answer to this was first an innocent look, and then an extreme scarlet flush. She could not hide it, with her hands prisoners; she sat in a pretty state of abashment. A slight giving way of the mouth bore witness that he read and understood it, though his immediate words were rea.s.suringly grave and unchanged in tone.

"I remember, you did not comprehend such a thing as possible, at one time. When was that changed? You used to have a great fear."

"I lost part of that at Pla.s.sy."

"Where did you lose the rest of it, Eleanor?"

"It was in London."

He saw by the light in Eleanor's eyes, which looked at him now, that there was something behind. Yet she hesitated.

"Sealed lips?" said he bending forward again to her face. "You must unseal them, Eleanor."

"Do you want me to tell you all that?" she asked questioningly.

"I want you to tell me everything."

"It is only a long story."

"Do not make it short."

An easy matter! to go on and tell it with her two hands prisoners, and those particularly clear eyes looking into her face. It served to shew the grace that belonged to Eleanor, the way that in these circ.u.mstances she began what she had to say. Where another woman would have been awkward, she spoke with the simple sweet poise of manner that had been the admiration of many a company, and that made Mr. Rhys now press the little hands closer in his own. A little evident shy reluctance only added to the grace.

"It is a good while ago--I felt, Mr. Rhys, that I wanted,--just that which makes one willing to go anywhere and do anything; though not for that reason. I expected to live in England always. I wanted to know more of Christ. I wanted it, not for work's sake but for happiness'

sake. I was a Christian, I suppose; but I knew--I had seen and felt--that there were things,--there was a height of Christian life and attainment, that I had not reached; but where I had seen other people, with a light upon their brows that I knew never shined upon mine. I knew whence it came--I knew what I wanted--more knowledge of Christ, more love of him."

"When was this?"

"It is a good while ago. It is--it was,--time seems so confused to me!--I know it was the winter after you went away. I think it was near the spring. We were in London."

"Yes."

"I was cold at the heart of religion. I was not happy. I knew what I wanted--more love to Christ."

"You did love him."

"Yes; but you know what it is just to love him a little. I went as duty bade me; but the love of him did not make all duty happy. I had seen you live differently--I saw others--and I could not be content as I was.

"We were in town then. One night I sat up all night, and gave the whole night to it."

"To seeking Jesus?"

"I wanted to get out of my coldness and find him!"

"And you found him?"

"Not soon. I spent the night in it. I prayed--and I walked the floor and prayed--and I shed a great many tears over the Bible. I felt as if I must have what I wanted--but I could not seem to get any nearer to it. The whole night pa.s.sed away--and I had wearied myself--and I had got nothing.

"The dawn was just breaking, when I got up from my knees the last time.

I was almost giving up in despair. I had done all I could--what could I do more? I went to the window and opened it. The light was just creeping up in the sky--there was a little streak of brightness along the horizon, or of light rather, but it was the herald of brightness. I felt desolate and tired, and like giving up hope and quest together.

The dull grey canopy overhead seemed just like my heart. I cannot tell you how enviously I looked at the eastern dawn, wishing the light would break upon my own horizon. I shall never forget it. It was dusky yet down in the streets and over the housetops; the city had not waked up in our quarter; it was still yet, and the breath of the morning's freshness came to me and revived me and mocked me both at once. I could have cried for sadness, if I had not been too down-hearted and weary.

"While I stood there, hearing the morning's promise, I suppose, without knowing it--there came up from the streets somewhere below me, and near, the song of a chimney-sweep. I can never tell you how it came! It came--but not yet; at first I only knew what he was singing by the notes of the air; but the next verse he began came up clear and strong to me at the window. He was singing those words--

"'Twas a heaven below My Redeemer to know; And the angels could do nothing more, Than to fall at his feet, And the story repeat, And the Lover of sinners adore.'

"I thought, it seemed that a band of angels came and carried those words up past my window! And the dawn came in my heart. I cannot tell you how,--I seemed to see everything at once. I saw what a heaven below it is, to know the love of Christ. I think my heart was something like the Ganges when the tide is coming in. I thought, if the angels could do nothing more than praise him, neither could I! I fell at his feet then--I do not think I have ever really left them since--not for long at a time; and since then my great wish has been to be allowed to glorify him. I have had no fears of anything in the way."

Eleanor had not been able to get through her "long story" without tears; but they came very much against her will. She could not see, yet somehow she felt the strong sympathetic emotion with which she was listened to. She could hear it, in the subdued intonation of Mr. Rhys's words.

"'Keep yourselves in the love of G.o.d.' How shall we do it, Eleanor?"

She answered without raising her eyes--"'The Lord is good unto them that wait for him.'"

"And, 'if ye keep my commandments, ye shall abide in my love.'"

There was silence a moment.

"That commandment must take me away for a while, Eleanor." She looked up.

"I thought," he said, with his sweet arch smile, "I might take so much of a honeymoon as one broken day--but there is a poor sick man a mile off who wants me; and brother Balliol has had the schooner affairs to attend to. I shall be gone an hour. Will you stay here? or shall I take you to the other house?"

"May I stay here?"

"Certainly. You can fasten the door, and then if any visiters come they will think I am not at home. I will give Solomon directions."

"Who is Solomon?"

"Solomon is--I will introduce him to you!" and with a very bright face Mr. Rhys went off into his study, coming back again in a moment and with his hat. He went to a door opposite that by which Eleanor had entered the house, and blew a shrill whistle.