“You would understand me better if you knew all—you would appreciate my earnestness, my anxiety to shield my sister from a deadly sorrow, ere it be too late. Ah!” she cried, clasping her hands, and speaking with more energy than she had hitherto displayed, “if you should set down what I say to wrong account—if you should misunderstand me!—”
“Believe me, Mrs Lyle,” answered Frankfort, with great emotion,—“believe me, when I say that, from the depths of my soul, I understand you.”
He lifted his eyes to her face as he spoke. At the mention of her name, “Mrs Lyle,” something like a spasm passed across her features, and he saw her slender fingers close convulsively together. His words admitted of opposite interpretations, but the deep sympathy expressed in that frank and earnest face was too manifest to be doubted for an instant. Eleanor’s eyes drooped beneath the melting gaze that fixed itself upon them. It was long since she had received such silent but expressive homage. She thought but little of it after the first instant of surprise. She put no trust in man.
The deep blush passed away, and left the cheek as cold and statue-like as ever. She went on speaking of her sister. “It may seem,” she continued, “that I am assuming my mother’s prerogative in opening this subject; but I wish to spare both her and my father pain and anxiety during this period of public harass and responsibility, and therefore, relying on, or rather treating to, your generosity, I hope I may depend on you to remonstrate with Mr Ormsby on his show of devotion to my sister, since it can mean nothing.”
“But,” said Frankfort, “is it fair to speak of it as a show of devotion? Your sister is one who would command admiration in any circle. She is so charmingly fresh and innocent—so unlike the young ladies who, as you say, would be pure in heart but for the heavy lessons taught them by our sex, that, putting beauty out of the question, my friend would be happy indeed in winning the affections of such a being as she appears to be.”
“As she appears to be! Oh, wise and cautious that you are!—more merciful though than he, you would not seek at first sight to win a prize, believing it to be pure gold, and then reject it, because, on nearer view, you discovered the dross of human weakness!” She spoke with a bitterness which Frankfort felt was foreign to her gentle nature. He had not been for ten days domesticated with this sorrow-laden woman without discovering, in those trifles which mark the character, how tender, how feminine she was! She ceased to speak—but he could not withdraw his gaze from her earnest, mournful face. Every word, every look, betokened the strangest associations of worldly experience with the simplicity of a naturally trusting heart. The nervous trepidation, the modest blush, the sweet, faltering voice, how deeply were they contrasted with the resolute way in which she urged her right of sisterly guardianship, and the opinions she permitted to escape her lips, albeit unused to rebuke, or to the expression of ungentle thoughts!
By what silver cords are we often drawn unconsciously towards each other! Frankfort, for aught Eleanor considered, might have been one of those who thought ill of the female sex because he had received its favours; Eleanor, for aught Frankfort knew, might be playing a part. A mere man of the world would have suspected her of laying a scheme to ensnare Ormsby for her sister’s sake, whilst willing to attract himself; but both were single-minded, honest-hearted people. The woman’s heart was full of anxiety, and she longed for help from a strong and steady hand; she met with an open palm, and she accepted its assistance in all confidence and security.
They parted, Frankfort promising to put the matter in a serious light before his thoughtless friend, Eleanor thanking him for her sister’s sake, and totally unconscious of the spell she was gradually weaving round the hitherto untouched heart of the thoughtful, high-souled soldier.
He knew the weight of his influence with Ormsby. That night, after Mr Daveney’s return, Eleanor looked from her window into the avenue, between the mansion and the gateway. Two figures were pacing beneath the over-arching trees. Now they stopped and talked; now the slighter of the two left the other, with an angry gesture, then returned; now they were linked, arm in arm, and approached nearer the house.
Eleanor had left her light in her sister’s room, and Marion was calling to her to say “Good night;” she was full of a ride next day. “How charming, after being shut up so long! Papa even thought these might be peace with Kafirland, after all. Some of the chiefs had sent him messengers, with flags of truce, and at any rate the open plains would be safe, and they should have a gallant escort, and—”