"Why bring that up again now?"

"Why did it go off?" insisted Lenore.

"Because Mrs. Poynsett could not give up and turn into a dowager, as if she were not the mistress herself."

"Was that all?"

"So it was said."

"I want to get to the bottom of it. It was not because Lord Tyrrell came in the way."

"I am afraid they thought so here."

"Then," said Eleonora, in a hard, dry way, "I know the reason of our being brought back here, and of a good deal besides."

"My dear Lena, I am very sorry for you; but I think you had better keep this out of your mind, or you will fall into a hard, bitter, suspicious mood."

"That is the very thing. I am in a hard, bitter, suspicious mood, and I can't see how to keep out of it; I don't know when opposition is right and firm, and when it is only my own self-will."

"Would it not be a good thing to talk to Julius Charnock? You would not be betraying anything."

"No! I can't seem to make up to the good clergyman! Certainly not.

Besides, I've heard Camilla talking to his wife!"

"Talking?"

"Admiring that dress, which she had been sneering at to your mother, don't you remember? It was one of her honey-cups with venom below-- only happily, Lady Rosamond saw through the flattery. I'm ashamed whenever I see her!"

"I don't think that need cut you off from Julius."

"Tell me _truly_," again broke in Lenore, "what Mrs. Poynsett really is. She is a standing proverb with us for tyranny over her sons; not with Camilla alone, but with papa."

"See how they love her!" cried Jenny, hotly.

"Camilla thinks that abject; but I can't forget how Frank talked of her in those happy Rockpier days."

"When you first knew him?" said Jenny.

They must have come at length to the real point, for Eleonora began at once--"Yes; he was with his sick friend, and we were so happy; and now he is being shamefully used, and I don't know what to do!"

"Indeed, Lenore," said Jenny, in her downright way, "I do not understand. You do not seem to care for him."

"Of course I am wrong," said the poor girl; "but I hoped I was doing the best thing for him." Then, as Jenny made an indignant sound, "See, Jenny, when he came to Rockpier, Camilla had been a widow about three months. She never had been very sad, for Lord Tyrrell had been quite imbecile for a year, poor man! And when Frank came, she could not make enough of him; and he and I both thought the two families had been devotedly fond of each other, and that she was only too glad to meet one of them."

"I suppose that was true."

"So do I, as things stood then. She meant Frank to be a sort of connecting link, against the time when she could come back here; but we, poor children, never thought of that, and went on together, not exactly saying anything, but quite understanding how much we cared.

Indeed, I know Camilla impressed on him that, for his mother's sake, it must go no farther then, while he was still so young; and next came our journey on the Continent, ending in our coming back here last July."

Jenny remembered that Raymond's engagement had not been made known till August, and Frank had only returned from a grouse-shooting holiday a week or two before the arrival of the brides.

"Now," added Eleonora, "Camilla has made me understand that nothing will induce her to let papa consent; and though I know he would, if he were left to himself, I also see how all this family must hate and loathe the connection."

"May I ask, has Frank ever spoken?"

"Oh no! I think he implied it all to Camilla when she bade him wait till our return, fancying, I suppose, that one could forget the other."

"But why does she seem so friendly with him?"

"It is her way; she can't be other than smooth and caressing, and likes to have young men about; and I try to be grave and distant, because--the sooner he is cured of me the better for him," she uttered, with a sob; "but when he is there, and I see those grieved eyes of his, I can't keep it up! And papa does like him! Oh! if Camilla would but leave us alone! See here, Jenny!" and she showed, on her watch-chain, a bit of ruddy polished pebble. "Is it wrong to keep this? He and I found the stone in two halves, on the beach, the last day we were together, and had them set, pretending to one another it was only play. Sometimes I think I ought to send mine back; I know he has his, he let me see it one day. Do you think I ought to give it up?"

"Why should you?"

"Because then he would know that it must be all over."

"But _is_ it all over? Within, I mean?"

"Jenny, you know better!"

"Then, Lenore, if so, and it is only your sister who objects, not your father himself, ought you to torment poor Frank by acting indifference when you do not feel it?"

"Am I untrue? I never thought of that. I thought I should be sacrificing myself for his good!"

"His good? O, Lenore, I believe it is the worst wrong a woman can do a man, to let him think he has wasted his heart upon her, and that she is trifling with him. You don't know what a bad effect this is having, even on his prospects. He cannot get his brain or spirits free to work for his examination."

"How hard it is to know what is right! Here have I been thinking that what made me so miserable must be the best for him, and would it not make it all the worse to relax, and let him see?"

"I do not think so," returned Jenny. "His spirits would not be worn by doubt of _you_--the worst doubt of all: and he would feel that he had something to strive for."

Eleonora walked on for some steps in silence, then exclaimed, "Yes, but there's his family. It would only stir up trouble for them there. They can't approve of me."

"They don't know you. When they do, they will. Now they only see what looks like--forgive me, Lena--caprice and coquetry; they will know you in earnest, if you will let them."

"You don't mean that they know anything about it!" exclaimed Eleonora.

Jenny almost laughed. "Not know where poor Frank's heart is? You don't guess how those sons live with their mother!"

"I suppose I have forgotten what sincerity and openness are," said Eleonora, sadly. "But is not she very much vexed?"

"She was vexed to find it had gone so deep with him," said Jenny; "but I know that you can earn her affection and trust by being staunch and true yourself--and it is worth having, Lena!"

For Jenny knew Eleonora of old, through Emily's letters, and had no doubt of her rectitude, constancy, and deep principle, though she was at the present time petrified by constant antagonism to such untruthfulness as, where it cannot corrupt, almost always hardens those who come in contact with it. And this cruel idea of self- sacrifice was, no doubt, completing the indurating process.

Jenny knew the terrible responsibility of giving such advice. She had not done it lightly. She had been feeling for years past that "'Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all;" and she knew that uncertainty of the right to love and trust would have been a pang beyond all she had suffered. To give poor Eleonora, situated as she now was, admission to the free wholesome atmosphere of the Charnock family, was to her kind heart irresistible; and it was pleasant to feel the poor girl clinging to her, as people do to those who have given the very counsel the heart craved for.

It was twilight when the walk was over, and the drawing-room was empty; but Anne came to invite them to Mrs. Poynsett's tea, saying that Cecil had Lady Tyrrell in her own sitting-room. Perhaps Mrs.

Poynsett had not realized who was Jenny's companion, for she seemed startled at their entrance; and Jenny said, "You remember Lenore Vivian?"

"I must have seen you as a child," said Mrs. Poynsett, courteously.