CHAPTER VII.

WITH THE FERNS.

It is the little rift within the lute,

That by-and-by will make the music mute.

T was impossible for Eleanor to shake off the feeling. It rose fresh with her the next day, and neither her own nor Mr. Carlisle's efforts could dispose of it. To do Eleanor justice, she did not herself wish to lose it, unless by the supply of her want; while she took special care to hide her trouble from Mr. Carlisle. They took great gallops on the moor, and long rides all about the country; the rides were delightful; the talks were gay; but in them all, or at the end of them certainly, Eleanor's secret cry was for some shelter for her unprotected head. The thought would come up in every possible connexion, till it haunted her. Not her approaching marriage, nor the preparations which were even beginning for it, nor her involuntary subjection to all Mr. Carlisle's pleasure, so much dwelt with Eleanor now as the question how she should meet the storm which must break upon her some day; or rather the sense that she could not meet it. The fairest and sweetest scene, or condition of things, seemed but to bring up this thought more vividly by very force of contrast.

Eleanor hid the whole within her own heart, and the fire burned there all the more. Not a sign of it must Mr. Carlisle see; and as for Dr. Cairnes, Eleanor could never get a chance for a safe talk with him. Somebody was always near, or might be near. The very effort to hide her thoughts grew sometimes irksome; and the whirl of engagements and occupations in which she lived gave her a stifled feeling. She could not even indulge herself in solitary consideration of that which there was nobody to help her consider.

She hailed one day the announcement that Mr. Carlisle must le the next day go by without riding or seeing her. He would be kept away at a town some miles off, on county business. Mr. Carlisle had a good deal to do with county politics and country business generally; made himself both important and popular, and lost no thread of influence he had once gathered into his hand. So Brompton would have him all the next day, and Eleanor would have her time to herself.

That she might secure full possession of it, she ordered her pony and went out alone after luncheon. She could not get free earlier. Now she took no servant to follow her, and started off alone to the moors. It was a delicious autumn day, mild, and still, and mellow. Eleanor got out of sight or hearing of human habitations; then let her pony please himself in his paces while she dropped her reins and thought. It was hardly in Eleanor's nature to have bitter thoughts; they came as near it on this occasion as they were apt to do; they

were very dissatisfied thoughts. She was on the whole dissatisfied with everybody; herself most of all, it is true; but her mother and Mr. Carlisle had a share. She did not want to be married at Christmas; she did not even care about going to Switzerland, unless by her own good leave asked and obtained; she was not willing to be managed as a child; yet Eleanor was conscious that she was no better in Mr. Carlisle's hands. "I wonder what sort of a master he will make," she thought, "when he has me entirely in his power? I have no sort of liberty now." It humbled her; it was her own fault; yet Eleanor liked Mr. Carlisle, and thought that she loved him. She was young yet and very inexperienced. She also liked all the splendour of the position he gave her. Yet above the gratification of this, through the dazzle of wealth, and pleasure, and power, Eleanor discerned now a want these could not fill. What should she do when they failed? there was no provision in them for the want of them. Eleanor forgot her loss of independence, and pondered these thoughts till they grew bitter with pain. By turns she wished she had never seen Mr. Rhys, who, she remembered, first started them, or wished she could see him again.

In the stillness, and freedom, and peace of the wide moor, Eleanor had fearlessly given herself up to her musings, without thinking or caring which way she went. The pony, finding the choice left to him, had naturally enough turned off into a track leading over some wild hills where he had been bred the locality had pleasant associations for him. But it had none of any kind for Eleanor ; and when she roused herself to think of it, she found she was in a distant part of the moor and drawing near to the hills aforesaid-a bleak and dreary looking region, and very far from home. Neither was she very sure by which way she might soonest regain a neighbourhood that she knew. To follow the path she was on and turn off into the first track that branched in the right direction, seemed the best to do; and she roused up her pony to an energetic little gallop. It seemed little after the long bounds Black Maggie would take through the air; but it was brisk work for the pony. Eleanor kept him at his speed. It was luxurious to be alone, ride as she liked slow or fast-and think as she liked, even forbidden thoughts. Her own mistress once more. Eleanor exulted all the more because she was a rebel. The wild moor was delicious; the freedom was delicious; only she was far from home and the afternoon was on the wane. She kept the pony to his speed.

By the base of the hills near to which the road led her, stood a miserable little house. It needed but a look at the place, to decide that the people who lived in it must be also miserable, and probably in more ways than one. Eleanor, who had intended asking there for some news of her whereabouts and the roads, changed her mind as she drew near and resolved to pass the house at a gallop. So much for wise resolves. The miserable children who dwelt in the house had been that day making a bonfire for their amusement right on her track. The hot ashes were still there; the pony set his feet in them, reared high, and threw his rider, who had never known the

pony do such a thing before, and had no reason to expect it of him. Eleanor was thrown clean off on the ground, and fell stunned.

She picked herself up after a few minutes, to find no bones broken, the miserable hut close by, and two children and an old crone looking at her. The pony had concluded it a dangerous neighbourhood and departed, showing a clean pair of heels. Eleanor gathered her dress in her hand and looked at the people who were staring at her. Such faces!

"What place is this?" she asked, forcing herself to be bold. The answer was utterly unintelligible. All Eleanor could make out was the hoarsely or thickly put question, "Be you hurted?"

"No, thank you; not at all, I believe," she said breathlessly, for she had not got over the shock of her fall. "How far am I from the village of Wiglands?"

Again the words that were spoken in reply gave no meaning to

her ear.

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'Boys, will one of you show me the nearest way there? I will give you something as soon as I get home."

The children stared at her and at each other; but Eleanor was more comprehensible to them than they to her. The old woman said some hoarse words to the children; and then one of them stepped forth and said strangely, “I 'ze go wiz ye."

"I'll reward him for it," said Eleanor, nodding to the old grandmother; and set off, very glad to be walking away. She did not breathe freely till a good many yards of distance were between her and the hut, where the crone and the other child still remained watching her. There might be others of the family coming home; and Eleanor walked at a brave pace until she had well left the little hut behind, out of all fear of pursuit. Then she began to feel that she was somewhat shattered by her fall, and getting tired, and she went more gently. But it was a long, long way; the reach of moor seemed endless; for it was a very different thing to go over it on Black Maggie's feet from going over it on her own. Eleanor was exceedingly weary, and still the brown common stretched away on all sides of her; and the distant tuft of vegetation which announced the village of Wiglands, stood afar off, and seemed to be scarcely nearer after miles of walking. Before they reached it Eleanor's feet were dragging after one another in weariest style. She could not possibly go on to the Lodge without stopping to rest. How should she reward and send back her guide? As she was thinking of this, Eleanor saw the smoke curling up from a stray cottage hid among the trees; it was Mrs. Williams's cottage. Her heart sprang with a sudden temptation-doubted, balanced, and resolved. She had excuse enough; she would do a rebellious thing. She would go there and rest. It might give her a chance to see Mr. Rhys and hear him talk; it might not. If the chance came, why she would be very glad of it. Eleanor had no money about her; she hastily detached a gold pencil-case from her watch-chain and put it into the ragged creature's hand who had guided her; saw him turn his back.

then went with a sort of stealthy joy to the front of Mrs. Williams's cottage, pushed the door open softly and went in.

Nobody was there; not a cat; it was all still. An inner door stood ajar; within there was a sound of voices, low and pleasant. Eleanor supposed Mrs. Williams would make her appearance in a minute, and sank down on the first chair that offered; sank even her head in her hands, for very weariness and the very sense of rest and security gained. The chair was one standing by the fire and near the open inner door; the voices came quite clearly through; and the next minute let Eleanor know that one of them was the voice of her little sister Julia; she heard one of Julia's joyous utter ances. The other voice belonged to Mr. Rhys. No sound of Mrs. Williams. Eleanor sat still, her head bowed in her hands, and listened.

It seemed that Julia was looking at something, or some collection of things. Eleanor could hear the slight rustling of paper handled; then a pause and talk. Julia had a great deal to say. Eleanor presently made out that they were looking at a collection of plants. She felt so tired that she had no inclination to move a single muscle. Mind and body sat still to listen.

"And what is that?" she heard Julia say.

"Mountain fern."

"Isn't it beautiful! Oh, that's as pretty as a feather."

"If you saw them growing, dozens of them springing from the same root, you would think them beautiful.

edgings are black as jet, and glossy."

"Are those the thecæ, Mr. Rhys?"

Then those brown

"Yes. The Lastræas, and all their family, have the fruit in those little round spots, each with its own covering; that is their mark."

"It is so funny that plants should have families,” said Julia. "Now is this one of the family, Mr. Rhys?"

"Certainly; that is a Cystopteris."

"It's a dear little thing. Where did you get it, Mr. Rhys ?" "I do not remember. They grow pretty nearly all over; you find them on rocks, and walls."

"I don't find them," said Julia. "I wish I could. Now what is that?"

"Another of the family, but not a Cystopteris. That is the Holly fern. Do you see how stiff and prickly it is? That was a troublesome one to manage. I gathered it on a high mountain in Wales, I think.'

"Are high mountains good places ?"

"For the mountain ferns. That is another Lastrea you have now; that is very elegant. That grows on mountains too, but also on many other places; shoots up in clegant tufts almost a yard high. I have seen it very beautiful. When the fruit is ripe, the indusium is something of a lilac colour, spotting the frond in double rows-as you see it there. I have seen these Lastræas, and others, growing in great profusion on a wild place in Devonshire, in the neighbour

hood of the rushing torrent of a river. The spray flew up on the rocks and stones along its banks, keeping them moist, and sometimes overflowed them; and there in the vegetable matter that had by little and little collected, there was such a show of ferns as I have not often seen. Another Lastrea grew, I should think, five feet high; and this one, and the Lady fern. Turn the next sheet— there it is. That is the Lady fern.

"How perfectly beautiful!" Julia exclaimed. Lastræa, too?"

"Is that a

Mr. Rhys laughed a little as he answered, "No." Until then his voice had kept the quiet even tone of feeble strength. "Why is it called Lady fern?"

"I do not know. Perhaps because it is so delicate in its structure-perhaps because it is so tender. It does not bear being broken from its root.

"But I think Eleanor is as strong as anybody," said Julia.

"Don't you remember how ill she was, only from having wetted her feet, last summer?" said Mr. Rhys with perfect gravity.

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'Well, what is that?" said Julia, not liking the inference they were coming to.

"That is a little fern that loves the wet. It grows by waterfalls -those are its homes. It grows close to the fall, where it will be constantly watered by the spray from it; sometimes this little halfbrother it has, the Oak fern, is found there along with it. They are elegant species."

"It must be nice to go to the waterfalls and climb up to get them," said Julia. "What do you call these little wet beauties, Mr. Rhys ?"

"Polypodies."

"Polypodies! Now, Mr. Rhys,-oh what is this? This is prettiest of all."

"Yes one of the very prettiest. I found that in a cave-a wet cave-by the sea. That is the sort of home it likes."

"In Wales?"

"In Wales I have found it, and elsewhere; in the south of England; but always by the sea; in places where I have seen a great many other beautiful things.'

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'By the sea, Mr. Rhys? Why I have been there, and I did not see anything but the waves, and the sand, and the rocks."

"You did not know where to look."

"Where did you look?"

"Under the rocks, and in them."

"In the rocks, sir?

"In their clefts, and hollows, and caves.

In caves which I could

only reach in a boat, or by going in at low tide; then I saw things

more beautiful than a fairy palace, Julia."

"What sort of things?"

"Animals and plants."

"Very beautiful.”

"Well I wish you would take me with you, Mr. Rhys. I would