"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.