"In what?"
"To love Christ, and please him."
"Why, do you love him?" said Julia. "Are you like Mr. Rhys?"
"Not much. But I do love the same Master he loves, Julia; and I have come home to serve him. You will help me?"
"Mamma don"t like all that," remarked Julia.
Eleanor sighed. The burden on her heart seemed growing heavy. Julia half rose up and putting both arms round her neck covered her lips with kisses.
"You don"t seem like yourself!" she said; "and you look as grave as if you had found us all dead. Eleanor--are you afraid?" she said with an earnest look.
"Afraid of what, dear?"
"Of that man--afraid of Mr. Carlisle?"
"No, I am not afraid of him, or of anything. Besides, he is hundreds of miles away, in Switzerland or somewhere."
"No he isn"t; he is here."
"What do you mean by "here?""
"In England, I mean. He isn"t at the Priory; but he was here at the Lodge the other day."
Eleanor"s heart made two or three springs one way and another.
"No dear, I am not afraid of him," she repeated, with a quietness that was convincing; and Julia pa.s.sed to other subjects. Eleanor did not forget that one; and as Julia ran on with her talk, she pondered it, and made a secret thanksgiving that she was so escaped both from danger and from fear. Nevertheless she could not help thinking about the subject. It seemed that Mr. Carlisle"s wound had healed very rapidly.
And moreover she had not given him credit for finding any attraction in that house, beyond her own personal presence in it. However, she reflected that Mr. Carlisle was busy in politics, and perhaps cultivated her father. They went in again, to take up the subject of Brighton.
And what followed? Muslins, flowers, laces, bonnets and ribbands. They were very irksome days to Eleanor, that were spent in getting ready for Brighton; and the thought of the calm purity of Pla.s.sy with its different occupations sometimes came over her and for the moment unnerved her hands for the finery they had to handle. Once Eleanor took a long rambling ride alone on her old pony; she did not try it again.
Business and bustle was better, at least was less painful, than such a time for thinking and feeling. So the dresses were made, and they went to Brighton.
CHAPTER IV.
AT A WATERING-PLACE.
"In the world"s broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!"
Eleanor was at once plunged into a whirl of engagements, with acquaintances new and old. And the former cla.s.s multiplied very rapidly. Mrs. Powle"s fair curls hung on either side of her face with almost their full measure of complacency, as she saw and beheld her daughter"s successful attractions. It was true. Eleanor was found to have something unique about her; some said it was her beauty, some said it was her manners; some insisted it was neither, but had a deeper origin; at any rate she was fresh. Something out of the common line and that piqued curiosity, was delightful; and in despite of her very moderate worldly advantages, compared with many others who were there, Eleanor Powle seemed likely to become in a little while the belle of Brighton. Certain rumours which were afloat no doubt facilitated and expedited this progress of things. Happily Eleanor did not hear them.
The rush of engagements and whirl of society at first was very wearying and painful to her. No heart had Eleanor to give to it. Only by putting a force upon herself, to please her father and mother, she managed to enter with some spirit into the amus.e.m.e.nts going forward, in which she was expected to take an active part. Perhaps this very fact had something to do with the n.o.ble and sweet disengagedness of manner which marked her unlike those about her, in a world where self-interest of some sort is the ruling motive. It was not Eleanor"s world; it had nothing to do with the interests that were dear in her regard; and something of that carelessness which she brought to it conferred a grace that the world imitates in vain. Eleanor found however after a little, that the rush and hurry of her life and of all the people about her had a contagion in it; her own thoughts were beginning to be absorbed in what absorbed everybody; her own cherished interests were getting pushed into a corner. Eleanor resolved to make a stand then, and secure time enough to herself to let her own inner life have play and breathing room. But it was very difficult to make such a stand.
Mrs. Powle ever stood like a watchman at the door to drive Eleanor out when she wanted to be in. Time! there seemed to be no time.
Eleanor had heard that Mr. Carlisle was expected at Brighton; so she was not greatly surprised one evening to find herself in the same room with him. It was at a public a.s.sembly. The glances that her curiosity cast, found him moving about among people very like, and in very exactly the manner of his old self. No difference that she could see.
She wondered whether he would have the audacity to come and speak to her. Audacity was not a point in which Mr. Carlisle was failing. He came; and as he came others scattered away; melted off, and left her alone.
He came with the best air in the world; a little conscious, a little apologetic, wholly respectful, not altogether devoid of the old familiarity. He offered his hand; did not to be sure detain hers, which would have been inconvenient in a public a.s.sembly; but he detained _her_, falling into talk with an ease or an effrontery which it was impossible not to admire. And Eleanor admired him involuntarily.
Certainly this man had capacities. He did not detain her too long; pa.s.sed away as easily as he had come up; but returned again in the course of the evening to offer her some civility; and it was Mr.
Carlisle who put her mother and herself into their carriage. Eleanor looked for a remark from her mother on the subject during their drive home; but Mrs. Powle made none.
The next evening he was at Mrs. Powle"s rooms, where a small company was gathered every Tuesday. He might be excused if he watched, more than he wished to be seen watching, the sweet unconscious grace and ease with which Eleanor moved and spoke. Others noticed it, but Mr.
Carlisle drew comparisons; and found to his mystification that her six months on a cheese-farm had returned Eleanor with an added charm of eye and manner, for which he could not account; which he could not immediately define. She was not expecting to see him this time, for she started a little when he presented himself. He came with the same pleasant expression that he had worn last night.
"Will you excuse me for remarking, that your winter has done you good?"
he said.
"Yes. I know it has," Eleanor answered.
"With your old frankness, you acknowledge it?"
"Willingly."
Her accent was so simple and sweet, the attraction was irresistible. He sat down by her.
"I hope you are as willing as I am to acknowledge that all our last winter"s work was not good. We exchanged letters."
"Hardly, Mr. Carlisle."
"Will you allow me to say, that I am ashamed of my part in that transaction. Eleanor, I want you to forget it, and to receive me as if it had not happened."
Eleanor was in a mixture of astonishment and doubt, as to how far his words might be taken. In the doubt, she hesitated one instant. Another person, a lady, drew near, and Mr. Carlisle yielded to her the place he had been occupying. The opportunity for an answer was gone. And though he was often near her during the evening, he did not recur again to the subject, and Eleanor could not. But the little bit of dialogue left her something to think of.
She had occasion often to think of it. Mr. Carlisle was everywhere, of course, in Brighton; at least he was in Eleanor"s everywhere; she saw him a great deal and was a little struck and puzzled by his manner. He was very often in her immediate company; often attending upon her; it constantly happened, she could not tell how, that his arm was the one to which she was consigned, in walks and evening escorts. In a measure, he a.s.sumed his old place beside her; his attentions were constant, gracefully and freely paid; they just lacked the expression which would have obliged and enabled her to throw them off. It was rather the manner of a brother than of a lover; but it was familiar and confidential beyond what those a.s.sume that are not brothers. Whatever it meant, it dissatisfied Eleanor. The world, perhaps the gentleman himself, might justly think if she permitted this state of things that she allowed the conclusions naturally to be drawn from it. She determined to withdraw herself. It was curiously and inexplicably difficult. Too easily, too gracefully, too much as a matter of course, things fell into train, for Eleanor often to do anything to alter the train. But she was determined.
"Eleanor, do you know everybody is waiting?" Mrs. Powle exclaimed one morning bursting into Eleanor"s room. "There"s the whole riding party--and you are not ready!"
"No, mamma. I am not going."
"Not going! Just put on your riding-habit as quick as you can--Julia, get her hat!--you said you would go, and I have no notion of disappointing people like that. Get yourself ready immediately--do you hear me?"
"But, mamma--"
"Put on your habit!--then talk if you like. It"s all nonsense. What are you doing? studying? Nonsense! there"s time enough for studying when you are at home. Now be quick!"
"But, mamma--"
"Well? Put your hair lower, Eleanor; that will not do."
"Mamma, isn"t Mr. Carlisle there?"
"Mr. Carlisle? What if he is? I hope he is. You are well in that hat, Eleanor."