“The higher style of clergyman does not govern by curatocult. I hope this one may be of that description, as he comes through Mr. Clare. I wonder if this poor man will return?”
“Perhaps,” said Ermine, with a shade of mimicry in her voice, “when Lady Temple is married to the Colonel. There now, I have gone and told you! I did try to resolve I would not.”
“And what did you say?”
“I thought it due to Lady Temple to tell him exactly how she regarded you.”
“Yes, Ermine, and it is due to tell others also. I cannot go on on these terms, either here or at Myrtlewood, unless the true state of the case is known. If you will not let me be a married man, I must be an engaged one, either to you or to the little Banksia.”
This periphrasis was needful, because Rose was curled up in a corner with a book, and her accessibility to outward impressions was dubious. It might be partly for that reason, partly from the tone of fixed resolve in his voice, that Ermine made answer, “As you please.”
It was calmly said, with the sweet, grave, confiding smile that told how she trusted to his judgment, and accepted his will. The look and tone brought his hand at once to press hers in eager gratitude, but still she would not pursue this branch of the subject; she looked up to him and said gently, but firmly, “Yes, it may be better that the true state of the case should be known;” and he felt that she thus conveyed that he must not press her further, so he let her continue, “At first I thought it would do him good, he began pitying us so vehemently; but when he found I did not pity myself, he was as ready to forget our troubles as—you are to forget his,” she added, catching Colin’s fixed eye, more intent on herself than on her narrative.
“I beg his pardon, but there are things that come more home.”
“So thought he,” said Ermine.
“Did you find out,” said Colin, now quite recalled, “what made him take courage?”
“When he had once come to the subject, it seemed to be a relief to tell it all out, but he was so faltering and agitated that I did not always follow what he said. I gather, though, that Lady Temple has used him a little as a defence from other perils.”
“Yes, I have seen that.”
“And Miss Keith’s fun has been more encouragement than she knew; constantly summoning him to the croquet-ground, and giving him to understand that Lady Temple liked to have him there. Then came that unlucky day, it seems, when he found Bessie mounting her horse at the door, and she called out that it was too wet for croquet, but Lady Temple was in the garden, and would be glad to see him. She was going to make visits, and he walked down with her, and somehow, in regretting the end of the croquet season, he was surprised into saying how much it had been to him. He says she was exceedingly kind, and regretted extremely that anything should have inspired the hope, said she should never marry again, and entreated him to forget it, then I imagine she fled in here to put an end to it.”
“She must have been much more gentle this time than she was with Keith. I had never conceived her capable of being so furious as she was then. I am very sorry, I wish we could spare her these things.”
“I am afraid that can only be done in one way, which you are not likely at present to take,” said Ermine with a serious mouth, but with light dancing in her eyes.
“I know no one less likely to marry again,” he continued, “yet no one of whom the world is so unlikely to believe it. Her very gentle simplicity and tenderness tell against her! Well, the only hope now is that the poor man has not made his disappointment conspicuous enough for her to know that it is attributed to her. It is the beginning of the fulfilment of Keith’s prediction that offers and reports will harass her into the deed!”
“There is nothing so fallacious as prophecies against second marriages, but I don’t believe they will. She is too quietly dignified for the full brunt of reports to reach her, and too much concentrated on her children to care about them.”
“Well, I have to see her tomorrow to make her sign some papers about her pension, so I shall perhaps find out how she takes it.”
He found Fanny quite her gentle composed self, as usual uncomprehending and helpless about her business affairs, and throwing the whole burden on him of deciding on her investments; but in such a gracious, dependent, grateful way that he could not but take pleasure in the office, and had no heart for the lesson he had been meditating on the need of learning to act for herself, if she wished to do without a protector. It was not till she had obediently written her “Frances Grace Temple” wherever her prime minister directed, that she said with a crimson blush, “Is it true that poor Mr. Touchett is going away for the winter?”
“I believe he is even going before Sunday.”
“I am very glad—I mean I am very sorry. Do you think anyone knows why it is?”
“Very few are intimate enough to guess, and those who are, know you too well to think it was otherwise than very foolish
