"Would I let you? You shall do what you will, my darling, except go to whispering conventicles. Assuredly I will not let you do that. But when you tell me seriously that you think a thing is wrong, I will never put my will in the way of your conscience. Did you think me a Mahometan? Hey?"
"No—but—"
"But what?"
Eleanor only sighed.
"I think I have something to forgive to-night, Eleanor,—but it is easy to forgive you." And wrapping both arms round her now, he pressed on brow and lip and cheek kisses that were abundantly reconciled.
"My presence just saved you to night. Eleanor—will you promise not to be naughty any more?—Eleanor?—"
"I will try," burst out Eleanor,—"O I will try to do what is right! I will try to do what is right!"
And in bitter uncertainty what that might be, she gave way under the strain of so many feelings, and the sense of being conquered which oppressed her, and burst into tears. Still held fast, the only hiding-place for her eyes was Mr. Carlisle's breast, and they flowed there bitterly though restrained as much as possible. He hardly wished to restrain them; he would have been willing to stand all night with that soft brown head resting like a child's on him. Nevertheless he called her to order with words and kisses.
"Do you know, it is late," he said,—"and you are tired. I must send you off. Eleanor! look up. Look up and kiss me."
Eleanor overcame the passion of tears as soon as possible, yet not till a few minutes had passed; and looked up; at least raised her head from its resting-place. Mr. Carlisle whispered, "Kiss me!"