they were nearing
the old ruins in the valley; a flash of lightning. It lit up the
beautiful tower with its clinging ivy, revealed for an instant some
bits of wall and the thick clustering trees; then left a blank
darkness. The same illumination had entered the hidden places of
memory, and startled into vivid life the scenes and the thoughts of a
few months ago. All Eleanor's latent uneasiness was aroused. Her
attention was absorbed now, from this point until they got home, in
watching for flashes of lightning. They came frequently, but the storm
was after all a slight one. The lightning lit up the way beautifully
for the other members of the party. To Eleanor it revealed something
more.

Mr. Carlisle's leave-taking at the door bespoke him well satisfied with
the results of the evening. Eleanor shunned the questions and remarks
of her family and went to her own room. There she sat down, in her
riding habit and with her head in her hands. What use was it for her to
be baroness of Rythdale, to be mistress of the Priory, to be Mr.
Carlisle's petted and favoured wife, while there was no shield between
her head and the stroke that any day and any moment might bring? And
what after all availed an earthly coronet, ever so bright, which had
nothing to replace it when its fading time should come? Eleanor wanted
something more.

CHAPTER VII.

WITH THE FERNS.

"It is the little rift within the lute,
That by and by will make the music mute."

It was impossible for Eleanor to shake off the feeling. It rose fresh
with her the next day, and neither her own nor Mr. Carlisle's efforts
could dispose of it. To do Eleanor justice, she did not herself wish to
lose it, unless by the supply of her want; while she took special care
to hide her trouble from Mr. Carlisle. They took great gallops on the
moor, and long rides all about the country; the rides were delightful;
the talks were gay; but in them all, or at the end of them certainly,
Eleanor's secret cry was for some shelter for her unprotected head. The
thought would come up in every possible connexion, till it haunted her.
Not her approaching marriage, nor the preparations which were even
beginning for it, nor her involuntary subjection to all Mr. Carlisle's
pleasure, so much dwelt with Eleanor now as the question,--how she
should meet the storm which must break upon her some day; or rather the
sense that she could not meet it. The fairest and sweetest scene, or
co