“I don’t think I like him at all,” she said, with some petulance. “He looks at us all as if we were natives of an undiscovered country. He is very cautious, not intending to make us proud by too much notice. Oh, it is different with you. You knew him before—you are not one of the barbarous people. As for me, I am jaundiced, I am not a fair judge; because he is determined, whatever happens, that not a single glass bead, not a cowrie or a bangle, or whatever you call them, will he give to me.”
“That is not what he means, Nora. He is a little bewildered. Fancy coming into an entirely new place, which you know nothing about, and realising all at once that you belong to it, and that here is your place in the world. That happened to us too. I sympathise with him. We felt just the same when we came to Lindores.”
“But you were not afraid of the natives, Edith. Young men, however,” said Nora, with an air of grave impartiality, “are to be pitied in that way; they think themselves so dreadfully important. If they speak to a girl, they suppose immediately that they may be putting false hopes into her head and making her think—and then that frightens them. Well, it is natural it should frighten them. Suppose that Mr. Erskine, by merely speaking civilly to me, should run the risk of breaking my heart—is not that something to be afraid of? for he is quite nice, I am sure, and would not, if he could help it, break any girl’s heart.”
“You are talking nonsense, Nora. How did you get so much acquaintance with the conceits of young men?”
“I see them through the boys. Jamie and Ned are like a pair of opera-glasses; you can see through them what that kind of creature thinks.”
“I am sure,” said Edith, with some heat, “Rintoul is not like that.”
“Oh, I was not thinking of Lord Rintoul,” cried Nora, precipitately. She blushed, and Edith observed it, making her own conclusions. And thereupon she on her side had something to say.
“Rintoul, when he was only Robin, was a delightful brother. He never was clever—even I was cleverer than he was; and Carry, of course, was always ever so far above us both. But now that he is Rintoul, he is a little changed. One is fond of him, of course, all the same. But it is different; he has ideas—of money, of getting on in the world, of people making good marriages, and that sort of thing. I think we have had enough of that in our family,” Edith added, with a sigh; “but Rintoul has got corrupted. To be heir to anything seems to corrupt people somehow. It is not so very much: but he has got ideas—of what his rank demands—that sort of thing. Because there is a title, he must marry for money. Well, perhaps not quite so broad as that: but he must not marry where there is no money. I cannot put up with it,” Edith cried.
And it was true that she could not put up with it. Yet there was a certain intention, too, even in this little outburst. One girl cannot chatter with another without meanings, without secret intimations of dangers in the way. Nora’s countenance clouded over, the blush on her cheek grew deeper; but she laughed, putting a little force on herself.
“Is not that quite right? I have always been taught so. Not to marry for money. That is putting it a great deal too broadly, as you say—but only when you are going to marry, that it should not be a penniless person. It is so much better for both parties, mamma always says.”
“I wonder if you mean to conform to the rule?” her friend asked, with an impulse half of mockery, half of curiosity.
“I don’t mean to conform to any rule,” said Nora. “One has to wait, you know, when one is a girl, till somebody is kind enough to fall in love with one; and then you are allowed to say whether you will have him or no. Don’t you remember what Beatrice says?—‘It is my cousin’s duty to make courtesy and say, “Father, as it please you,” ’ only with that little reservation, ‘Let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another courtesy—’ ”
“It is worse than that,” said Edith, very gravely. “You say some things are hard upon young men; but oh, how much, much harder upon girls! It is in town that one feels that. There was something, after all, to be said for Carry marrying in the country, without going through the inspection of all these men. If I speak to anyone or dance with anyone who would be a good match, they will say immediately that mamma has got her eye upon him—that she is trying to catch him for me—that she means to make up a marriage. My mother,” cried Edith, with an inference in the very emphasis with which she uttered the word; “as if she were not more romantic than I am a hundred times, and more intolerant of scheming! The fatal thing is,” added the girl, with her serious face, “that, if a crisis should come, mamma would give in. Against her conscience she will try to find reasons for doing what my father wishes, whether it is right or wrong.”
“But isn’t it a woman’s duty to do what her husband wishes?” said Nora. “I have always heard that, too, at home.”
These two young women belonged to their period. They considered the subject gravely, willing to be quite impartial; but neither she who suggested that conjugal obedience was a duty, nor she who objected to it in her
