"But, mamma—"
"Well? Put your hair lower, Eleanor; that will not do."
"Mamma, isn't Mr. Carlisle there?"
"Mr. Carlisle? What if he is? I hope he is. You are well in that hat,
Eleanor."
"Mamma, if Mr. Carlisle is there,—"
"Hold your tongue, Eleanor!—take your whip and go. They are all waiting. You may talk to me when you come back, but now you must go. I should think Mr. Carlisle would like to be of the party, for there isn't such another figure on the ride. Now kiss me and go. You are a good girl."
Mrs. Powle said it with some feeling. She had never found Eleanor so obediently tractable as since her return; she had never got from her such ready and willing cooperation, even in matters that her mother knew were not after Eleanor's heart, as now when her heart was less in them than ever. And at this moment she was gratified by the quiet grave obedience rendered her, in doing what she saw plainly enough Eleanor did not like to do. She followed her daughter down stairs with a proud heart.
It happened again, as it was always happening, that Mr. Carlisle was Eleanor's special attendant. Eleanor meditated possible ways of hindering this in future; but for the present there was no remedy. Mr. Carlisle put her on her horse; it was not till she was taking the reins in her left hand that something struck her with a sense of familiarity.
"What horse is this?" she asked.
"No other than your old friend and servant—I hope you have not forgotten her. She has not forgotten you."