y allowed his affectionateness towards Eleanor to
have full play, and the expression of that was changed. He did not
appeal to her for sympathy which perhaps he had a secret knowledge she
could not give; but with lofty good breeding and his invariable tact he
took it for granted. Eleanor's part was an easy one through those days
which passed before Mr. Carlisle's going up to London. He went
immediately after the funeral.

It was understood, however, between him and Mrs. Powle, that the
marriage should be delayed no longer than till some time in the spring.
Then, Mr. Carlisle declared, he should carry into effect his original
plan of going abroad, and take Eleanor with him. Eleanor heard them
talk, and kept silence; letting them arrange it their own way.

"For a little while, Eleanor!" were the parting words which Mr.
Carlisle's lips left upon hers. And Eleanor turned then to look at what
was before her.

CHAPTER XIV.

AT THE RECTORY.

"The earth has lost its power to drag me downward;
Its spell is gone;
My course is now right upward, and right onward,
To yonder throne."

She had three months of quiet time. Not more; and they would quickly
speed away. What she had to do, she could not do too soon. Eleanor knew
it. The soothed feeling of the first few days gave place to a restless
mood almost as soon as Mr. Carlisle was gone. Three years seemed more
like what she wanted than three months. She felt ignorant, dark, and
unhappy; how was she to clear up this moral mist and see how the plan
of life lay, without any hand to lead her or help her? There was only
one she knew in the world that could; and from any application to him,
or even any chance contact with him, Eleanor consciously shrank. _That_
would never do; that must never be heard of her. With all this, she
began to dread the disturbing and confusing effects of Mr. Carlisle's
visits to the country. He would come; he had said so; and Mrs. Powle
kept reminding her of it upon every occasion.

Eleanor had been forbidden to ride alone. She did not dare; she took to
long lonely walks. It was only out of doors that she felt quite free;
in her own room at home, though never so private, her mother would at
any time come with distracting subjects of conversation. Eleanor fled
to the moor and to the wilds; walked, and rested on the stones, and
thought; till she found thinking degenerate into musing; then she
started up and went on. She tired herself.