"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 G.o.d; 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 G.o.d"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 b.u.t.ter of it. But I would pour it away down the river, Eleanor, before I would make it an excuse for disobeying G.o.d."
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 princ.i.p.ality 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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances?"
"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 G.o.d, 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?"