Eleonora’s nature was one to resent before grieving.  Her spirit was too high to break down under the first shock, and she carried her head proudly to the ball, betraying by no outward sign the stern despair of her heart, as she listened to the gay chatter of her companions, and with unflinching severity she carried out that judicial reply to Frank which she had already prepared, and then guarded herself among numerous partners against remonstrance or explanation.  It had been all one whirl of bewilderment; Lady Tyrrell tired, and making the girls’ intended journey on the morrow a plea for early departure; and the Strangeways, though dancing indefatigably, and laughing at fatigue, coming away as soon as they saw she really wished it.  All said good night and good-bye together, both to Lady Tyrrell and Sir Harry, and Lenore started at ten o’clock without having seen either.  Her sense of heroism lasted till after the glimpse of Frank on the road.  Her mood was of bitter disappointment and indignation.  Frank was given up, but not less so were her father, her sister, and the world.  Sir Harry had made Camilla suffice to him, he did not want her.  He had been the means of perverting Frank, and Lenore could not see that she need any longer be bound for his sake to the life she detested.  In a few weeks she would be of age, and what would then prevent her from finding a congenial home in the Sisterhood, since such kindred could have no just claim to her allegiance?  It was the hasty determination of one who had suffered a tacit persecution for three years, and was now smarting under the cruellest of blows.  Her lover perverted, her conditions broken, her pledge gambled away, and all this the work of her father and sister!

Conny and Bee thought her grave and more silent than usual, and when Lady Susan met them in London there was no time for thought.  Saturday was spent on a harvest festival at a suburban church, after which the daughters were despatched to their uncle’s by a late train.  Sunday was spent in the pursuit of remarkable services; and on Monday Lady Susan and Eleonora had gone to St. Faith’s and the Retreat began.

Here was to be the longed-for rest, for which she had thirsted all the more through those days of hurry and of religious spectacles, as she felt that, be they what they might to their regular attendants, to her, as an outsider, they could be but sights, into whose spirit her sick and wearied soul could not enter.

Here was no outward disturbance, no claim from the world, no importunate chatter, only religious services in their quietest, most unobtrusive form; and Dr. Easterby’s low tender tones, leading his silent listeners to deep heart-searchings, earnest thoughts, and steadfast resolutions.

Ah! so no doubt it was with many; but Lena, with book and pen, was dismayed to find that the one thing she recollected was the question, “Friend, how camest thou in hither?” After that, she had only heard her own thoughts.  Her mind had lapsed into one vague apprehension of the effects of having cut off all communication with home, imaginings of Frank’s despair, relentings of pity, all broken by dismay at her own involuntary hypocrisy in bringing such thoughts into the Retreat.  Had she any right to be there at all?  Was not a thing that should have been for her peace become to her an occasion of falling?