Volume II Part 24 (1/2)
”Yes.”
”And is that all broken off?” said Mrs. Caxton, a little tone of eagerness discernible under her calm manner.
”It was broken off a year ago,” said Eleanor--”more than a year ago. It has always been broken since.”
”I heard that it was all going on again. I expected to hear of your marriage.”
”It was not true. But it is true, that the world had a great deal of reason to think so; and I could not help that.”
”How so, Eleanor?”
”Mamma, and papa, and Mr. Carlisle. They managed it.”
”But in such a case, my dear, a woman owes it to herself and to her suitor and to her parents too, to be explicit.”
”I do not think I compromised the truth, aunt Caxton,” said Eleanor, pa.s.sing her hand somewhat after a troubled fas.h.i.+on over her brow. ”Mr.
Carlisle knew I never encouraged him with more favour than I gave others. I could not help being with him, for mamma and he had it so; and they were too much for me. I could not help it. So the report grew.
I had a difficult part to play,” said Eleanor, repeating her troubled gesture and seeming ready to burst into tears.
”In what way, my love?”
Eleanor did not immediately answer; sat looking off over the meadow as if some danger existed to self-control; then, still silent, turned and met with an eloquent soft eye the sympathizing yet questioning glance that was fixed on her. It was curious how Eleanor's eye met it; how her eye roved over Mrs. Caxton's face and looked into her quiet grey eyes, with a kind of glinting of some spirit fire within, which could almost be seen to play and flicker as thought and feeling swayed to and fro.
Her eye said that much was to be said, looked into Mrs. Caxton's face with an intensity of half-speech,--and the lips remained silent. There was consciousness of sympathy, consciousness of something that required sympathy; and the seal of silence. Perhaps Mrs. Caxton's response to this strange look came half unconsciously; it came wholly naturally.
”Poor child!”--
The colour rose on Eleanor's cheek at that; she turned her eyes away.
”I think Mr. Carlisle's plan--and mamma's--was to make circ.u.mstances too strong for me; and to draw me by degrees. And they would, perhaps, but for all I learned here.”
”For what you learned here, my dear?”
”Yes, aunty; if they could have got me into a whirl society--if they could have made me love dancing parties and theatres and the opera, and I had got bewildered and forgotten that a great worldly establishment not the best thing--perhaps temptation would have been too much for me.--Perhaps it would. I don't know.”
There was a little more colour in Eleanor's cheeks than her words accounted for, as Mrs. Caxton noticed.
”Did you ever feel in danger from the temptation, Eleanor?”
”Never, aunty. I think it never so much as touched me.”
”Then Mr. Carlisle has been at his own risk,” said Mrs. Caxton. ”Let us dismiss him, my love.”
”Aunt Caxton, I have a strange homeless, forlorn feeling.”
For answer to that, Mrs. Caxton put her arms round Eleanor and gave her one or two good strong kisses. There was reproof as well as affection in them; Eleanor felt both, even without her aunt's words.
”Trust the Lord. You know who has been the dwelling-place of his people, from all generations. They cannot be homeless. And for the rest, remember that whatever brings you here brings a great boon to me.