"You are drawing a very long breath, my dear. Where did it come from?"
The reserve which Eleanor had all her life practised before other people, had almost from the first given way before her aunt.
"From a thought of home, aunt Caxton. I shall not be so happy when I get back there."
"The happiness that will not bear transportation, Eleanor, is a very poor article. But they will not want you at home."
"I am afraid of it."
"Without reason. You will not go home this spring, my dear; trust me.
You are mine for a good long time yet."
Mrs. Caxton was wiser than Eleanor; as was soon proved. Mrs. Powle wrote, desiring her daughter, whatever she did, not to come home then; nor soon. People would think she was come home for her wedding; and questions innumerable would be asked, the mortification of which would be unbearable. Whereas, if Eleanor kept away, the dismal certainty would by degrees become public, that there was to be no match at all between Rythdale and the Lodge. "Stay away till it all blown over, Eleanor," wrote her mother; "it is the least you can do for your family." And the squire even sent a word of a letter, more kind, but to the same effect. He wanted his bright daughter at home, he said; he missed her; but in the circumstances, perhaps it would be best, if her aunt would be so good as to keep her.
Eleanor carried these letters to Mrs. Caxton, with a tear in her eye, and an humbled, pained face.
"I told you so," said her aunt. "How could people expect that Mr. Carlisle's marriage would take place three months after the death of his mother? that is what I do not understand."
"They arranged it so, and it was given out, I suppose. Everything gets known. He was going abroad in the spring, or immediately after; and meant not to go without me."