“What?” said Hester, raising her eyes and fixing them upon him. “I should like, not that, but to do as Catherine Vernon did,” she cried, lighting up in every line of her animated countenance. “I should like to step in when ruin was coming and prop it up on my shoulders as she did, and meet the danger, and overcome it—”
“I thought you hated Catherine Vernon,” Roland cried.
“I never said so,” cried Hester; and then, after a pause, “but if I did, what does that matter? I should like to do what she did. Something of one’s own free will—something that no one can tell you or require you to do—which is not even your duty bound down upon you. Something voluntary, even dangerous—” She paused again, with a smile and a blush at her own vehemence, and shook her head. “That is exactly what I shall never have it in my power to do.”
“I hope not, indeed, if it is dangerous,” said Roland, with all that eyes could say to make the words eloquent. “Pardon me; but don’t you think that is far less than what you have in your power? You can make others do: you can inspire (isn’t that what Lord Lytton says?) and reward. That is a little high-flown, perhaps. But there is nothing a man might not do, with you to encourage him. You make me wish to be a hero.”
He laughed, but Hester did not laugh. She gave him a keen look, in which there was a touch of disdain. “Do you really think,” she said, “that the charm of inspiring, as you call it, is what any reasonable creature would prefer to doing? To make somebody else a hero rather than be a hero yourself? Women would need to be disinterested indeed if they like that best. I don’t see it. Besides, we are not in the days of chivalry. What could you be inspired to do—make better bargains on your Stock Exchange? and reward—Oh, that is not the way it is looked at nowadays. You think it is you who—” Here Hester paused, with a rising colour, “I will not say what I was going to say,” she said.
“What you were going to say was cruel. Besides, it was not true. I must know best, being on the side of the slandered. A man who is worth calling a man can have but one opinion on that subject.”
Hester looked at him again with a serious criticism, which embarrassed Roland. She was not regarding the question lightly, as a mere subject of provocative talk, but was surveying him as if to read how far he was true and how far fictitious. Before he could say anything she shook her head with a little sigh.
“Besides,” she said, “it was not a hero I was thinking of. If anybody, it was Catherine Vernon.”
“Whom you don’t like. These women, who step out of their sphere, they may do much to be respected, they may be of great use; but—”
“You mean that men don’t like them,” said Hester, with a smile; “but then women do; and, after all, we are the half of creation—or more.”
“Women do! Oh, no; that is a mistake. Let us ask the company present—your mother and my sister.”
Hester put out her hand to stop him. “That goes far deeper,” she said, with a rising blush. What did she mean? Roland was sufficiently versed in all the questions of this kind, which are discussed in idleness to promote flirtation. But he did not know why she should blush so deeply, or why her forehead should contract when he claimed his sister and her mother together as representatives of women. They were so, better than Hester herself was. Mrs. John represented all the timid opinions and obstinate prejudices of weakness; all that is gently conventional and stereotyped in that creature conventionally talked about as Woman from the beginning of time; while the other represented that other, vulgarer type of feminine character which, without being either strong enough or generous enough to strike out a new belief, makes a practical and cynical commentary upon the old one, and considers man as the natural provider of woman’s comfort, and, therefore, indispensable, to be secured as any other source of income and ease ought to be secured. Hester was wounded and ashamed that her mother should be classed with Emma, but could say nothing against it; and she was moved with a high indignation to think that Roland was right. But he had not the least idea what she could mean, and she had no mind to enlighten him. Their conversation came to an end accordingly; and the sound of the others came in.
“I don’t see why I should go away,” said Emma. “For, whatever he may choose to say, Roland doesn’t want me, not a bit. Elizabeth is a very good cook, and that’s all a man thinks of. I couldn’t do him any good at home, and he doesn’t like my acquaintances. A girl can’t live without friends, can she, Mrs. John? If you are to have any amusement at all, you must be getting it when you’re about twenty, that is the time. But men never care: they go out, and they have their own friends separate, and they never think of you. But here, without bothering him a bit, I have lots of nice people, and grandmamma has never said she was tired of me. Then why should he take me away?”
“There is no reason for talking of that just now at all,” said Mrs. John politely, “for Mr. Roland is not going away himself as yet.”
“Oh, he cannot stay long,” cried Emma, “he oughtn’t to stay; he has got his business—not like me that have nothing to call me. Edward Vernon wouldn’t like it a bit if Roland stayed away from his business.”
“I am always hearing the name of Edward Vernon,” said Mrs. John; “you mentioned it to Hester just now. What
