



Produced by Daniel Fromont









[Transcriber's note: Susan Warner (1819-1885), _The Old Helmet_ (1864),
Tauchnitz edition 1864, volume 2]





THE OLD HELMET.

BY

THE AUTHOR OF "WIDE, WIDE WORLD."



AUTHORIZED EDITION.

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOL. II.



LEIPZIG

BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ

1864.







THE OLD HELMET.




CHAPTER I.

IN THE SPRING.


  "Let no one ask me how it came to pass;
  It seems that I am happy, that to me
  A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass,
  A purer sapphire melts into the sea."


Eleanor could not stay away from the Wednesday meetings at Mrs.
Powlis's house. In vain she had thought she would; she determined she
would; when the day came round she found herself drawn with a kind of
fascination towards the place. She went; and after that second time
never questioned at all about it. She went every week.

It was with no relief to her mental troubles however. She was sometimes
touched and moved; often. At other times she felt dull and hopeless.
Yet it soothed her to go; and she came away generally feeling
inspirited with hope by something she had heard, or feeling at least
the comfort that she had taken a step in the right direction. It did
not seem to bring her much more comfort. Eleanor did not see how she
could be a Christian while her heart was so hard and so full of its own
will. She found it perverse, even now, when she was wishing so much to
be different. What hope for her?

It was a great help, that during all this time Mrs. Caxton left her
unquestioned and uncounselled. She made no remarks about Eleanor's
going to class-meeting; she took it as a perfectly natural thing; never
asked her anything about it or about her liking it. A contrary course
would have greatly embarrassed Eleanor's action; as it was she felt
perfectly free; unwatched, and at ease.

The spring was flushing into mature beauty and waking up all the
flowers on the hills and in the dales, when Eleanor one afternoon came
out to her aunt in the garden. A notable change had come over the
garden by this time; its comparatively barren-looking beds were all
rejoicing in gay bloom and sending up a gush of sweetness to the house
with every stir of the air that way. From the house to the river,
terrace below terrace sloped down, brimfull already of blossoms and
fragrance. The roses were making great preparations for their coming
season of festival; the mats which had covered some tender plants were
long gone. Tulips and hyacinths and polyanthuses and primroses were in
a flush of spring glory now; violets breathed everywhere; the
snowy-flowered gooseberry and the red-flowered currant, and berberry
with its luxuriant yellow bloom, and the almond, and a magnificent
magnolia blossoming out in the arms of its evergreen sister, with many
another flower less known to Eleanor, made the garden terraces a little
wilderness of loveliness and sweetness. Near the house some very fine
auriculas in pots were displaying themselves. In the midst of all this
Mrs. Caxton was busy, with one or two people to help her and work under
direction. Planting and training and seed-sowing were going on; and the
mistress of the place moved about among her floral subjects a very
pleasant representation of a rural queen, her niece thought. Few queens
have a more queenly presence than Mrs. Caxton had; and with a trowel in
hand just as much as if it were a sceptre. And few queens indeed carry
such a calm mind under such a calm brow. Eleanor sighed and smiled.

"Among your auriculas, aunty, as usual!"

"Among everything," said Mrs. Caxton. "There is a great deal to do.
Don't you want to help, Eleanor? You may plant gladiolus bulbs--or you
may make cuttings--or you may sow seeds. I can find you work."

"Aunty, I am going down to the village."

"O it is Wednesday afternoon!" said Mrs. Caxton. And she came close up
to her niece and kissed her, while one hand was full of bulbs and the
other held a trowel. "Well go, my dear. Not at peace yet, Eleanor?"--

There was so tender a tone in these last words that Eleanor could not
reply. She dashed away without making any answer; and all along the way
to Plassy she was every now and then repeating them to herself. "Not at
peace yet, Eleanor?"

She was in a tender mood this afternoon; the questions and remarks
addressed to the other persons in the meeting frequently moved her to
tears, so that she sat with her hand to her brow to hide the watering
eyes. She did not dread the appeal to herself, for Mr. Rhys never asked
her any troublesome questions; never anything to which she had to make
a troublesome answer; though there might be perhaps matter for thought
in it. He had avoided anything, whether in his asking or replying, that
would give her any difficulty _there_, in the presence of
others,--whatever it might do in her own mind and in secret. To-day he
asked her, "Have you found peace yet?"

"No," said Eleanor.

"What is the state of your mind--if you could give it in one word?"

"Confusion."

"What is it confused about? Do you understand--clearly--the fact that
you are a sinner? without excuse?"

"Fully!"

"Do you understand--clearly--that Christ has suffered for sins, the
just for the unjust, that he might bring us to God?"

"Yes. I understand it."

"Is there any confusion in your mind as to the terms on which the Lord
will receive you?--forsaking your sins, and trusting in him to pardon
and save you?"

"No--I see that."

"Do you think there is any other condition besides those two?"

"No."

"Why do you not accept them?"

Eleanor raised her eyes with a feeling almost of injustice. "I
cannot!"--she said.

"That makes no difference. God never gives a command that cannot with
his help be fulfilled. There was a man once brought to Jesus--carried
by foul men; he was palsied, and lay on a litter or bed, unable to move
himself at all. To this man the Lord said, 'Arise, take up thy bed, and
walk.' Suppose he had looked up and said, 'I cannot?'"

Eleanor struggled with herself. Was this fair? Was it a parallel case?
She could not tell. She kept silence. Mr. Rhys went on, with tones
subdued to great gentleness.

"My friend, Jesus invites to no empty board--to no cold reception. On
his part all is ready; the unreadiness lies somewhere with you, or the
invitation would be accepted. In your case it is not the bodily frame
that is palsied; it is the heart; and the command comes to you, sweet
as the invitation,--'_Give it to me_.' If you are entirely willing, the
thing is done. If it be not done, it is because, somewhere, you are not
willing--or do not believe. If you can trust Jesus, as that poor man
did, you may rise up and stand upon your feet this very hour. 'Believe
ye that I am able to do this?' he asked of the blind man whom he cured."

There was silence for an instant. And again, as he turned away from
her, Mr. Rhys broke out with the song, that Eleanor thought would break
her heart in twain this time,--


  "How lost was my condition
  Till Jesus made me whole;
  There is but one physician
  Can cure a sin-sick soul.
  There's balm in Gilead--
  To make the wounded whole.
  There's power enough in Jesus
  To save a sin-sick soul."


Eleanor had been the last one spoken to; the meeting soon was ended,
and she was on her way home. But so broken-spirited and humiliated that
she did not know what to do with herself. Could it be possible that she
was not _willing_--or that she wanted _faith_--or that there was some
secret corner of rebellion in her heart? It humbled her wonderfully to
think it. And yet she could not disprove the reasoning. God could not
be unfaithful; and if there were not somewhere on her part a failure to
meet the conditions, surely peace would have been made before now. And
she had thought herself all this while a subject for pity, not for
blame; nay, for blame indeed, but not in this regard. Her mouth was
stopped now. She rode home broken-hearted; would not see Mrs. Caxton at
supper; and spent the evening and much of the night in weeping and
self-searching. They were very downcast days that followed this day.
Mrs. Caxton looked at her anxiously sometimes; never interfered with
her.

Towards the end of the week there was preaching at Glanog, and the
family went as usual. Eleanor rode by herself, going and coming, and
held no communication with her aunt by the way. But late at night, some
time after Mrs. Caxton had gone to bed, a white-robed figure came into
her room and knelt down by the bedside.

"Is that you, Eleanor?"

"Aunt Caxton--it's all gone!"

"What?"

"My trouble. I came to tell you. It's all gone. I am so happy!"

"How is it, my dear child?"

"When Mr. Rhys was preaching to-night, it all came to me; I saw
everything clearly. I saw how Jesus loves sinners. I saw I had nothing
to do but to give myself to him, and he would do everything. I see how
sins are forgiven through his blood; and I trust in it, and I am sure
mine are; and I feel as if I had begun a new life, aunt Caxton!"

Eleanor's tears flowed like summer rain. Mrs. Caxton rose up and put
her arms round her.

"The Lord be praised!" she said. "I was waiting for this, Eleanor."

"Aunt Caxton, I had been trying and thinking to make myself good first.
I thought I was unworthy and unfit to be Christ's servant; but now I
see that I can be nothing but unworthy, and only he can make me fit for
anything; so I give up all, and I feel that he will do all for me. I am
so happy! I was so blind before!"

Mrs. Caxton said little; she only rejoiced with Eleanor so tenderly as
if she had been her own mother. Though that is speaking very coolly on
the present occasion. Mrs. Powle had never shewed her daughter so much
of that quality in her life, as Eleanor's aunt shewed now.

The breakfast next morning was unusually quiet. Happiness does not
always make people talkative.

"How do you do, my love?" said Mrs. Caxton when they were left alone.
"After being up half the night?"

"More fresh than I have felt for a year, aunt Caxton. Did you hear that
nightingale last night?"

"I heard him. I listened to him and thought of you."

"He sang--I cannot tell you what his song sounded like to me, aunt
Caxton. I could almost have fancied there was an angel out there."

"There were a great many rejoicing somewhere else. What glory to think
of it!" They were silent again till near the end of breakfast; then
Mrs. Caxton said,--"Eleanor, I shall be engaged the whole of this
morning. This afternoon, if you will, I will go with you into the
garden."

"This afternoon--is Wednesday, aunt Caxton."

"So it is. Well, before or after you go to the village, I want you to
dress some dishes of flowers for me--will you?"

"With great pleasure, ma'am. And I can get some hawthorn blossoms, I
know. I will do it before I go, ma'am."

Was it pleasant, that morning's work? Eleanor went out early to get her
sprays of May blossoms; and in the tender beauty of the day and season
was lured on and on, and tempted to gather other wild bits of
loveliness, till she at last found her hands full, and came home laden
with tokens of where she had been. "O'er the muir, amang the heather,"
Eleanor's walk had gone; and her basket was gay with gorse and broom
just opening; but from grassy banks on her way she had brought the
bright blue speedwell; and clematis and bryony from the hedges, and
from under them wild hyacinth and white campion and crane's-bill and
primroses; and a meadow she had passed over gave her one or two pretty
kinds of orchis, with daisies and cowslips, and grasses of various
kinds. Eleanor was dressing these in flower baskets and dishes, in the
open gallery that overlooked the meadows, when Mrs. Caxton passing
through on her own business stopped a moment to look at her.

"All those from your walk, my dear! Do you not mean to apply to the
garden?"

"Aunty, I could have got a great many more, if I could have gone into
the woods--but my walk did not lie that way. Yes, ma'am, I am going
into the garden presently, when I have ordered these dishes well. Where
are they to go, aunt Caxton?"

"Some in one place and some in another. You may leave them here,
Eleanor, when they are done, and I will take care of them. Shall I have
the garden flowers cut for you?"

"O no, ma'am, if you please!"

Mrs. Caxton stood a moment