With all the quietness of his speech, and it was very unimpa.s.sioned, his accent had a clear ring to it, which came from some unsounded spirit-depth of power; and Eleanor"s heart for a moment sunk before it in a secret convulsion of pain. She concealed this feeling, as she thought, successfully; but that single ray of light had shewed her the darkness; it was keen as an arrow, and the arrow rankled. And her neighbour"s next words made her feel that her heart lay bare; so quietly they touched it.
"You feel that you want something, Miss Powle."
Eleanor"s head drooped, as well as her heart. She wondered at herself; but there was a spell of power upon her, and she could by no means lift up either. It was not only that his words were true, but that he knew them to be so.
"Do you know _what_ you want?" her friend went on, in tons that were tender, along with that deliberate utterance that carried so much force with it. "You know yourself an offender before the Lord--and you want the sense of forgiveness in your heart. You know yourself inclined to be an offender again--and you want the renewing grace of G.o.d to make your heart clean, and set it free from the power of sin. Then you want also something to make you happy; and the love of Jesus alone can do that."
"What is the use of telling over the things one has not got?"--said Eleanor in somewhat smothered tones. The words of her companion came again clear as a bell--
"Because you may have them if you want them."
Eleanor struggled with herself, for her self-possession was endangered, and she was angry at herself for being such a fool; but she could not help it; yet she would not let her agitation come any more to the surface. She waited for clearness of voice, and then could not forbear the question,
"How, Mr. Rhys?"
"Jesus said, "If any man thirst, let him come unto me and drink." There is all fulness in him. Go to him for light--go to him for strength--go to him for forgiveness, for healing, for sanctification. "Whosoever will, let him take of the water of life freely.""
""Go to him?"" repeated Eleanor vaguely.
"Ask him."
Ask _Him!_ It was such a far-off, strange idea to her a heart, there seemed such a universe of distance between, Eleanor"s face grew visibly shadowed with the thought. _She?_ She could not. She did not know how.
She was silent a little while. The subject was getting unmanageable.
"I never had anybody talk to me so before, Mr. Rhys," she said, thinking to let it pa.s.s.
"Perhaps you never will again," he said. "Hear it now. The Lord Jesus is not far off--as you think--he is very near; he can hear the faintest whisper of a pet.i.tion that you send to him. It is his message I bring you to-day--a message to _you_. I am his servant, and he has given me this charge for you to-day--to tell you that he loves you--that he has given his life for yours--and that he calls Eleanor Powle to give him her heart, and then to give him her life, in all the obedience his service may require."
Eleanor felt her heart strangely bowed, subdued, bent to his words. "I will"--was the secret language of her thoughts--"but I must not let this man see all I am feeling, if I can help it." She held herself still, looking out of the window, where the rain fell in torrents yet, though the thunder and the lightning were no longer near. So did he; he added no more to his last words, and a silence lasted in the old ruined window as if its chance occupants were gone again. As the silence lasted, Eleanor felt it grow awkward. She was at a loss how to break it. It was broken for her then.
"What will you do, Miss Powle?"
"I will think about it"--she answered, startled and hesitating.
"How long, before you decide?"
"How can I tell?" she said.
"You are shrinking from a decision already formed. The answer is given in your secret thoughts, and something is rising up in the midst of them to thwart it. Shall I tell my Master that his message is refused?"
"Mr. Rhys!" said Eleanor looking up, "I never heard any one talk so in all my life! You speak as if--"
"As if, what?"
"You speak as if--I never heard any one speak as you do."
"I speak as if I were in the habit of telling my Master how his message is received? I often do that."
"But it seems superfluous to tell what is known already," said Eleanor, wondering secretly much more than she dared to say at her companion"s talk.
"Do you never, in speaking to those you love, tell them what is no information?"
Eleanor was now dumb. There was too great a gulf of difference between her companion and herself, to try to frame any words or thoughts that might bridge it over. She must remain on one side and he on the other; yet she went on wondering.
"Are you a clergyman, Mr. Rhys?" she said after a pause.
"I am not what you would call such."
"Do you not think the rain is over?"
"Nearly, for the present; but the gra.s.s is as wet as possible."
"O, I don"t mind that. There is somebody now in the shrubbery yonder, looking for me."
"He will not find you here," said Mr. Rhys. "I have this window all to myself. But we will find him."
The rain-drops fell now but scatteringly, the last of the shower; the sun was breaking out, and the green world was all in a glitter of wet leaves. Wet as they were, Eleanor and Mr. Rhys pushed through the thick bramble and holly bushes, which with honeysuckles, eglantine, and broom, and bryony, made a sweet wild wilderness. They got plentifully besprinkled in their way, shook that off as well as they could, and with quick steps sought to rejoin their companions. The person Eleanor had seen in the shrubbery was the first one found, as Mr. Rhys had said. It was Mr. Carlisle. He at once took charge of Eleanor.
"What has become of you?"
"What has become of _you_, Mr. Carlisle?" Eleanor"s gleaming smile was as bright as ever.
"Despair, nearly," said he; "for I feared business would hold me all day; but I broke away. Not time enough to protect you from this shower."
"Water will wet," said Eleanor, laughing; for the politeness of this speech was more evident than its plausibility. She was on the point of speaking of the protection that had been actually found for her, but thought better of it. Meantime they were joined by a little girl, bright and rather wild looking, who addressed Eleanor as her sister.
"O come!" she said,--"where have you been? We can"t go on till you come. We are going to lunch at Barton"s Tower--and mamma says she will make Mr. Carlisle build a fire, so that we may all dry ourselves."
"Julia!--how you speak!"
"She did say so," repeated the child. "Come--make haste."
Eleanor glanced at her companion, who met the glance with a smile. "I hope Mrs. Powle will always command me," he said, somewhat meaningly; and Eleanor hurried on.
She was destined to long _tete-a-tetes_ that day; for as soon as her little party was seen in the distance, the larger company took up their line of march again. Julia and Mr. Rhys had fallen behind; and the long walk to Barton"s Tower was made with Mr. Carlisle alone, who was in no haste to abridge it, and seemed to enjoy himself very well. Eleanor once or twice looked back, and saw her little sister, hand in hand with her companion of the old window, walking and talking in very eager and gay style; to judge by Julia"s lively movements.
"Who is that Mr. Rhys?" said Eleanor.
"I have hardly the honour to know him. May I ask, why you ask?"
"He is peculiar," said Eleanor.
"He can hardly be worthy your study." And the question was dismissed with a coolness which reminded Eleanor of Mr. Rhys"s own words, that he was not what she would call a clergyman. She would have asked another question, but the slight disdain which spoke in Mr. Carlisle"s eye and voice deterred her. She only noticed how well the object of it and her sister were getting along. However, Eleanor"s own walk was pleasant enough to drive Mr. Rhys out of her head. Mr. Carlisle was polished, educated, spirited, and had the great additional advantage of being a known and ascertained somebody; as he was in fact the heir of all the fine domain whose beauties they were admiring. And a beautiful heirdom it was. The way taken by the party led up the course of a valley which followed the windings of a small stream; its sides most romantic and woody in some places; in others taking the very mould of gentle beauty, and covered with rich gra.s.s, and sweet with broom; in others again, drawing near together, and a.s.suming a picturesque wildness, rocky and broken. Sweet flowers grew by the way in profusion, on the banks and along the sides of the stream; and the birds were very jocund in their solitudes. Through all this it was very pleasant wandering with the heir of the land; and neither wet shoes nor wet shoulders were much remembered by Eleanor till they reached Barton"s Tower.
This was a ruin of a different character; one of the old strongholds of the rough time when men lived by the might of hand. No delicate arches and graceful mouldings had ever been here; all was, or had been, grim, stern strength and ma.s.siveness. The strength was broken long ago; and grace, in the shape of cl.u.s.tering ivy, had mantled so much of the harsh outlines that their original impression was lost. It could be recalled only by a little abstraction. Within the enclosure of the thick walls, which in some places gave a sort of crypt-like shelter, the whole rambling party was now collected.
"Shall we have a fire?" Mr. Carlisle had asked Eleanor, just before they entered. And Eleanor could not find in her heart to deny that it would be good, though not quite prepared to have it made to _her_ order. However, the word was given. Wood was brought, and presently a roaring blaze went up within the old walls; not where the old chimney used to be, for there were no traces of such a thing. The sun had not shined bright enough to do away the mischief the shower had done; and now the ladies gathered about the blaze, and declared it was very comfortable. Eleanor sat down on a stone by the side of the fire, willing to be less in the foreground for a little while; as well as to dry her wet shoes. From there she had a view of the scene that would have pleased a painter.
The blazing fire threw a warm light and colour of its own upon the dark walls and on the various groups collected within them, and touched mosses and ferns and greensward with its gypsy glare. The groups were not all of one character. There was a light-hued gay company of muslins and scarfs around the burning pile; in a corner a medley of servants and baskets and hampers; and in another corner Eleanor watched Julia and Mr. Rhys; the latter of whom was executing some adventurous climbing, after a flower probably, or a fern, while Julia stood below eagerly following his progress. Mr. Carlisle was all about. It was a singularly pretty scene, and to Eleanor"s eye it had the sharp painting which is given by a little secret interest at work. That interest gave particular relief to the figures of the two gentlemen whose names have been mentioned; the other figures, the dark walls and ivy, the servants and the preparing collation, were only a rich mosaic of background for those two.