"I will go with you—wherever you please," he said; and putting Eleanor's hand on his arm they walked off towards the conservatory. This was at some distance, and opened out of the breakfast room. It was no great matter of a conservatory, only pretty and sweet. Eleanor began slowly to pull geranium leaves.
"You are suffering, Eleanor,"—said Mr. Carlisle.
"I do not think of it—you need not. Macintosh, I want to ask a favour of you."
She turned to him, without raising her eyes, but made the appeal of her whole pretty presence. He drew his arm round her and suspended the business of geranium leaves.
"What is it, my darling?"
"You know," said Eleanor, "that when the twenty-first of December was fixed upon—for what you wished—it was a more hurried day than I would have chosen, if the choice had been left to me. I wanted more time—but you and my mother said that day, and I agreed to it. Now, my mother has taken a notion to make it still earlier—she wants to cut off a whole week from me—she wants to make it next Monday. Don't join with her! Let me have all the time that was promised me!"
Eleanor could not raise her eyes; she enforced her appeal by laying her hand on Mr. Carlisle's arm. He drew her close up to him, held her fast, stooped his head to hers.
"What for, Eleanor? Laces and plums can be ready as well Monday as
Monday s'ennight."
"For myself, Macintosh."
"Don't you think of me?"