"Come spur away!
I have no patience for a longer stay,
But must go down,
And leave the changeable noise of this great town;
I will the country see,
Where old simplicity,
Though hid in grey,
Doth look more gay
Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad."

Although Eleanor's judgment had said what the issue would be of that day's conference, she had made no preparation to leave home. That she could not do. She could not make certain before it came the weary foreboding that pressed upon her. She went to her father's room after dinner as usual, leaning her heart on that word which had been her walking-staff for three weeks past. "The Lord is my portion, saith my soul; therefore will I hope in him!"

Mrs. Powle was there, quietly knitting. The Squire had gathered himself up into a heap in his easy chair, denoting a contracted state of mind; after that curious fashion which bodily attitudes have, of repeating the mental. Eleanor took the newspaper and sat down.

"Is there anything there particular?" growled the Squire.

"I do not see anything very particular, sir. Here is the continuation of the debate on—"

"How about that bill of yours and Mr. Carlisle's?" broke in Mrs. Powle.

"It was ordered to be printed, mamma—it has not reached the second reading yet. It will not for some time."

"What do you suppose will become of it then?"

"What the Lord pleases. I do not know," said Eleanor with a pang at her heart. "I have done my part—all I could—so far."

"I suppose you expect Mr. Carlisle will take it up as his own cause, after it has ceased to be yours?"

Eleanor understood this, and was silent. She took up the paper again to find where to read.

"Put that down, Eleanor Powle," said her father who was evidently in a very bad humour, as he had cause, poor old gentleman; there is nobody so bad to be out of humour with as yourself;—"put that down! until we know whether you are going to read to me any more or no. I should like to know your decision."

Eleanor hesitated, for it was difficult to speak.

"Come!—out with it. Time's up. Now for your answer. Are you going to be an obedient child, and give Mr. Carlisle a good wife? Hey? Speak!"

"An obedient child, sir, in everything but this. I can give Mr.
Carlisle nothing, any more than he has."

"Any more than he has? What is that?"

"A certain degree of esteem and regard, sir—and perhaps, forgiveness."

"Then you will not marry him, as I command you?"

"No—I cannot."

"And you won't give up being a Methodist?"

"I cannot help being what I am. I will not go to church, papa, anywhere that you forbid me."

She spoke low, endeavouring to keep calm. The Squire got up out of his chair. He had no calmness to keep, and he spoke loud.

"Have you taught your sister to think there is any harm in dancing?"

"In dancing parties, I suppose I have."

"And you think they are wicked, and won't go to them?"

"I do not like them. I cannot go to them, papa; for I am a servant of Christ; and I can do no work for my Master there at all; but if I go, I bear witness that they are good."

"Now hear me, Eleanor Powle—" the Squire spoke with suppressed rage—"No such foolery will I have in my house, and no such disrespect to people that are better than you. I told you what would come of all this if you did not give it up—and I stand to my word. You come here to-morrow morning, prepared to put your hand in Mr. Carlisle's and let him know that you will be his obedient servant—or, you quit my house. To-morrow morning you do one thing or the other. And when you go, you will stay. I will never have you back, except as Mr. Carlisle's wife. Now go! I don't want your paper any more."

Eleanor went slowly away. She paused in the drawing-room; there was no one there this time; rang the bell and ordered Thomas to be sent to her. Thomas came, and received orders to be in readiness and have everything in readiness to attend her on a journey the next day. The orders were given clearly and distinctly as usual; but Thomas shook his head as he went down from her presence at the white face his young mistress had worn. "She don't use to look that way," he said to himself, "for she is one of them ladies that carry a hearty brave colour in their cheeks; and now there wasn't a bit of it." But the old servant kept his own counsel and obeyed directions.

Eleanor went through the evening and much of the night without giving herself a moment to think. Packing occupied all that time and the early hours of the next day; she was afraid to be idle, and even dreaded the times of prayer; because whenever she stopped to think, the tears would come. But she grew quiet; and was only pale still, when at an early hour in the morning she left the house. She could not bear to go through a parting scene with her father; she knew him better than to try it; and she shrank from one with her mother. She bid nobody good-bye, for she could not tell anybody that she was going. London streets looked very gloomy to Eleanor that morning as she drove through them to the railway station.

She had still another reason for slipping away, in the fear that else she would be detained to meet Mr. Carlisle again. The evening before she had had a note from him, promising her all freedom for all her religious predilections and opinions—leave to do what she would, if she would only be his wife. She guessed he would endeavour to see her, if she staid long enough in London after the receipt of that note. Eleanor made her escape.

Thomas was sorry at heart to see her cheeks so white yet when they set off; and he noticed that his young mistress hid her face during the first part of the journey. He watched to see it raised up again; and then saw with content that Eleanor's gaze was earnestly fixed on the things without the window. Yes, there was something there. She felt she was out of London; and that whatever might be before her, one sorrowful and disagreeable page of life's book was turned over. London was gone, and she was in the midst of the country again, and the country was at the beginning of June. Green fields and roses and flowery hedge-rows, and sweet air, all wooed her back to hopefulness. Hopefulness for the moment stole in. Eleanor thought things could hardly continue so bad as they seemed. It was not natural. It could not be. And yet—Mr. Carlisle was in the business, and mother and father were set on her making a splendid match and being a great lady. It might be indeed, that there would be no return for Eleanor, that she must remain in banishment, until Mr. Carlisle should take a new fancy or forget her. How long would that be? A field for calculation over which Eleanor's thoughts roamed for some time.

One comfort she had promised herself, in seeing Julia on the way; so she turned out of her direct course to go to Wiglands. She was disappointed. Julia and her governess had left the Lodge only the day before to pay a visit of a week at some distance. By order, Eleanor could not help suspecting it had been; of set purpose, to prevent the sisters meeting. This disappointment was bitter. It was hard to keep from angry thoughts. Eleanor fought them resolutely, but she felt more desolate than she had ever known in her life before. The old place of her home, empty and still, had so many reminders of childish and happy times; careless times; days when nobody thought of great marriages or settlements, or when such thoughts lay all hidden in Mrs. Powle's mind. Every tree and room and book was so full of good and homely associations of the past, that it half broke Eleanor's heart. Home associations now so broken up; the family divided, literally and otherwise; and worst of all, and over which Eleanor's tears flowed bitterest, her own ministrations and influence were cut off from those who most needed them and whom she most wished to benefit. Eleanor's day at home was a day of tears; it was impossible to help it. The roses with their sweet faces looked remonstrance at her; the roads and walks and fields where she had been so happy invited her back to them; the very grey tower of the Priory rising above the trees held out worldly temptation and worldly reproof, with a mocking embodiment of her causes of trouble. Eleanor could not bear it; she spent one night at home; wrote a letter to Julia which she entrusted to a servant's hands for her; and the next morning set her face towards Plassy. Julia lay on her heart. That conversation they had held together the morning when Eleanor waylaid her—it was the last that had been allowed. They had never had a good talk since then. Was that the last chance indeed, for ever? It was impossible to know.

In spite of June beauty, it was a dreary journey to her from home to her aunt's; and the beautiful hilly outlines beyond Plassy rose upon her view with a new expression. Sterner, and graver; they seemed to say, "It is life work, now, my child; you must be firm, and if necessary rugged, like us; but truth of action has its own beauty too, and the sunlight of Divine favour rests there always." A shadowless sunlight lay on the crowns and shoulders of the mountains as Eleanor drew near. She got out of the carriage to walk the last few steps and look at the place. Plassy never was more lovely. An aromatic breath, pure and strong, came from the hills and gathered the sweetness of the valleys. Roses and honeysuckles and jessamines and primroses, with a thousand others, loaded the air with their gifts to it, from Mrs. Caxton's garden and from all the fields and hedge-rows around. And one after another bit of hilly outline reminded Eleanor that off there went the narrow valley that led to the little church at Glanog; there went the road to the village, where she and Powis had gone so often of Wednesday afternoons; and in that direction lay the little cot where she had watched all night by the dying woman. Not much time for such remembrances was just now; for the farmhouse stood just before her. The dear old farmhouse! looking as pretty as everything else in its dark red stone walls and slate roof; stretching along the ground at that rambling, picturesque, and also opulent style. Eleanor would not knock now, and the door was not fastened to make her need it. Softly she opened it, went in, and stood upon the tiled floor.

No sound of anything in particular; only certain tokens of life in the house. Eleanor went on, opened the door of the sitting parlour and looked in. Nobody there; the room in its summer state of neatness and coolness as she had left it. Eleanor's heart began to grow warm. She would not yet summon a servant; she left that part of the house and wound about among the passages till she came to the back door that led out into the long tiled porch where supper was wont to be spread. And there was the table set this evening; and the wonted glow from the sunny west greeted her there, and a vision of the gorgeous flower-garden. But Eleanor hardly saw the one thing or the other; for Mrs. Caxton was there also, standing by the tea-table, alone, putting something on it. Eleanor moved forward without a word. Her voice would not come out of her throat very well.

"Eleanor!" exclaimed Mrs. Caxton. "My dear love! what has given me this happiness?"

Very strong language for Mrs. Caxton to use. Eleanor felt it, every word of it, as well as the embrace of those kind arms and her aunt's kisses upon her lips; but she was silent.

"How come you here, my darling?"

"They have sent me away from home."

Mrs. Caxton saw that there was some difficulty of speech, and she would not press matters. She put Eleanor into a seat, and looked at her, and took off her bonnet with her own hands; stooped down and kissed her brow. Eleanor steadied herself and looked up.

"It is true, aunt Caxton. I come to you because I have nowhere else to be."

"My love, it is a great happiness to have you, for any cause. Wait, and tell me what the matter is by and by."

She left Eleanor for a moment, only a moment; gave some orders, and returned to her side. She sat down and took Eleanor's hand.

"What is it, my dear?"

And then Eleanor's composure, which she had thought sure, gave way all of a sudden; and she cried heartily for a minute, laying her head in its old resting-place. But that did her good; and then she kissed Mrs. Caxton over and over before she began to speak.

"They want me to make a great match, aunty; and will not be satisfied with anything else."

"What, Mr. Carlisle?"

"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, passing her hand somewhat after a troubled fashion 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 circumstances 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. My love, do you wish to go to your room before you have tea?"

Eleanor was glad to get away and be alone for a moment. How homelike her old room seemed!—with the rose and honeysuckle breath of the air coming in at the casements. How peaceful and undisturbed the old furniture looked. The influence of the place began to settle down upon Eleanor. She got rid of the dust of travel, and came down presently to the porch with a face as quiet as a lamb.

Tea went on with the same soothing influence. There was much to tell Eleanor, of doings in and about Plassy the year past; for the fact was, that letters had not been frequent. Who was sick and who was well; who had married, and who was dead; who had set out on a Christian walk, and who were keeping up such a walk to the happiness of themselves and of all about them. Then how Mrs. Caxton's own household had prospered; how the dairy went on; and there were some favourite cows that Eleanor desired to hear of. From the cows they got to the garden. And all the while the lovely meadow valley lay spread out in its greenness before Eleanor; the beautiful old hills drew the same loved outline across the sunset sky; the lights and shadows were of June; and the garden at hand was a rich mass of beauty sloping its terraced sweetness down to the river. Just as it was a year ago, when the summons came for Eleanor to leave it; only the garden seemed even more gorgeously rich than then. Just the same; even to the dish of strawberries on the table. But that was not wreathed with ivy and myrtle now.

"Aunt Caxton, this is like the very same evening that I was here last."

"It is almost a year," said Mrs. Caxton.

Neither added anything to these two very unremarkable remarks; and silence fell with the evening light, as the servants were clearing away the table. Perhaps the mountains with the clear paling sky beyond them, were suggestive. Both the ladies looked so.

"My dear," said Mrs. Caxton then, "let me understand a little better about this affair that gives you to me. Do you come, or are you sent?"

"It is formal banishment, aunt Caxton. I am sent from them at home; but sent to go whither I will. So I come, to you."

"What is the term assigned to this banishment?"

"None. It is absolute—unless or until I will grant Mr. Carlisle's wishes, or giving up being, as papa says, a Methodist. But that makes it final—as far as I am concerned."

"They will think better of it by and by."

"I hope so," said Eleanor faintly. "It seems a strange thing to me, aunt Caxton, that this should have happened to me—just now when I am so needed at home. Papa is unwell—and I was beginning to get his ear,—and I have great influence over Julia, who only wants leading to go in the right way. And I am taken away from all that. I cannot help wondering why."

"Let it be to the glory of God, Eleanor; that is all your concern. The rest you will understand by and by."

"But that is the very thing. It is hard to see how it can be to his glory."

"Do not try," said Mrs. Caxton smiling. "The Lord never puts his children anywhere where they cannot glorify him; and he never sends them where they have not work to do or a lesson to learn. Perhaps this is your lesson, Eleanor—to learn to have no home but in him."

Eleanor's eyes filled very full; she made no answer.

But one thing is certain; peace settled down upon her heart. It would be difficult to help that at Plassy. We all know the effect of going home to the place of our childhood after a time spent in other atmosphere; and there is a native air of the spirit, in which it feels the like renovating influence. Eleanor breathed it while they sat at the table; she felt she had got back into her element. She felt it more and more when at family prayer the whole household were met together, and she heard her aunt's sweet and high petitions again. And the blessing of peace fully settled down upon Eleanor when she was gone up to her room and had recalled and prayed over her aunt's words. She went to sleep with that glorious saying running through her thoughts—"Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations."