THE CLEVER WOMAN OF THE FAMILY

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> THE CLEVER WOMAN OF THE FAMILY

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"They must be very insolent people, then, to look at that brow and
eyes, and think even sisterly love could blind them," he said. "Yes,
Ermine, I was certain that unless Edward were more changed than I
could believe, there must be some such explanation. You have never
seen him since?"

"No, he was too utterly broken by the loss of his wife to feel
anything else. For a long time we heard nothing, and that was the
most dreadful time of all! Then he wrote from a little German town,
where he was getting his bread as a photographer's assistant. And
since that he has cast about the world, till just now he has some
rather interesting employment at the mines in the Oural Mountains,
the first thing he has really seemed to like or care for."

"The Oural Mountains! that is out of reach. I wish I could see him.
One might find some means of clearing him. What directed your
suspicion to Maddox?"

"Chiefly that the letters professed to have been sent in a parcel to
him to be posted from the office. If it had been so, Edward and Lucy
would certainly have written to us at the same time. I could have
shown, too, that Maddox had written to me the day before to ascertain
where Edward was, so as to be sure of the date. It was a little
country village, and I made a blunder in copying the spelling from
Lucy's writing. Ailie found that very blunder repeated in Dr. Long's
letter, and we showed him that Edward did not write it so. Besides,
before going abroad, Edward had lost the seal-ring with his crest,
which you gave him. You remember the Saxon's head?"

"I remember! You all took it much to heart that the engraver had
made it a Saracen's head, and not a long-haired Saxon."

"Well, Edward had renewed the ring, and taken care to make it a
Saxon. Now Ailie could get no one to believe her, but she is certain
that the letter was sealed with the old Saracen not the new Saxon.
But--but--if you had but been there--"

"Tell me you wished for me, Ermine."

"I durst not wish anything about you," she said, looking up through
a mist of tears.

"And you, what fixed you here?"

"An old servant of ours had married and settled here, and had written
to us of her satisfaction in finding that the clergyman was from
Hereford. We thought he would recommend Ailie as daily governess to
visitors, and that Sarah would be a comfortable landlady. It has
answered very well; Rose deserves her name far more than when we
brought her here, and it is wonderful how much better I have been
since doctors have become a mere luxury."

"Do you, can you really mean that you are supporting yourselves?"

"All but twenty-five pounds a year, from a legacy to us, that Mr.
Beauchamp would not let them touch. But it has been most remarkable,
Colin," she said, with the dew in her eyes, "how we have never wanted
our daily bread, and how happy we have been! If it had not been for
Edward, this would in many ways have been our happiest time. Since
the old days the little frets have told less, and Ailie has been
infinitely happier and brighter since she has had to work instead of
only to watch me. Ah, Colin, must I not own to having been happy?
Indeed it was very much because peace had come when the suspense had
sunk into belief that I might think of you as--, where you would not
be grieved by the sight of what I am now--"

As she spoke, a knock, not at the house, but at the room door, made
them both start, and impel their chairs to a more ordinary distance,
just as Rachel Curtis made her entrance, extremely amazed to find,
not Mr. Touchett, but a much greater foe and rival in that unexpected
quarter. Ermine, the least disconcerted, was the first to speak.
"You are surprised to find a visitor here," she said, "and indeed
only now, did we find out that 'our military secretary,' as your
little cousins say, was our clear old squire's nephew."

There was a ring of gladness in the usually patient voice that struck
even Rachel, though she was usually too eager to be observant, but
she was still unready with talk for the occasion, and Ermine
continued: "We had heard so much of the Major before-hand, that we
had a sort of Jupiter-like expectation of the coming man. I am not
sure that I shall not go on expecting a mythic major!"

Rachel, never understanding playfulness, thought this both audacious
and unnecessary, and if it had come from any one else, would have
administered a snub, but she felt the invalid sacred from her
weapons.

"Have you ever seen the boys?" asked Colonel Keith. "I am rather
proud of Conrade, my pupil; he is so chivalrous towards his mother."

"Alison has brought down a division or two to show me. How much
alike they are."

"Exactly alike, and excessively unruly and unmanageable," said
Rachel. "I pity your sister."

"More unmanageable in appearance than in reality," said the colonel:
"there's always a little trial of strength against the hand over
them, and they yield when they find it is really a hand. They were
wonderfully good and considerate when it was an object to keep the
house quiet."

Rachel would not encourage him to talk of Lady Temple, so she turned
to Ermine on the business that had brought her, collecting and
adapting old clothes for emigrants.--It was not exactly gentlemen's
pastime, and Ermine tried to put it aside and converse, but Rachel
never permitted any petty consideration to interfere with a useful
design, and as there was a press of time for the things, she felt
herself justified in driving the intruder off the field and
outstaying him. She succeeded; he recollected the desire of the boys
that he should take them to inspect the pony at the "Jolly Mariner,"
and took leave with--"I shall see you to-morrow."

"You knew him all the time!" exclaimed Rachel, pausing in her
unfolding of the Master Temples' ship wardrobe. "Why did you not
say so?"

"We did not know his name. He was always the 'Major.'"

"Who, and what is he?" demanded Rachel, as she knelt before her
victim, fixing those great prominent eyes, so like those of Red
Riding Hood's grandmother, that Ermine involuntarily gave a backward
impulse to her wheeled chair, as she answered the readiest thing that
occurred to her,--"He is brother to Lord Keith of Gowan-brae."

"Oh," said Rachel, kneeling on meditatively, "that accounts for it.
So much the worse. The staff is made up of idle honourables."

"Quoth the 'Times!'" replied Ermine; "but his appointment began on
account of a wound, and went on because of his usefulness--"

"Wounded! I don't like wounded heroes," said Rachel; "people make
such a fuss with them that they always get spoilt."

"This was nine years ago, so you may forget it if you like," said
Ermine, diversion suppressing displeasure.

"And what is your opinion of him?" said Rachel, edging forward on her
knees, so as to bring her inquisitorial eyes to bear more fully.

"I had not seen him for twelve years," said Ermine, rather faintly.

"He must have had a formed character when you saw him last. The
twelve years before five-and-forty don't alter the nature."

"Five-and-forty! Illness and climate have told, but I did not think
it was so much. He is only thirty-six--"

"That is not what I care about," said Rachel, "you are both of you so
cautious that you tell me what amounts to nothing! You should
consider how important it is to me to know something about the person
in whose power my cousin's affairs are left."

"Have you not sufficient guarantee in the very fact of her husband's
confidence?"

"I don't know. A simple-hearted old soldier always means a very
foolish old man."

"Witness the Newcomes," said Ermine, who, besides her usual amusement
in tracing Rachel's dicta to their source, could only keep in her
indignation by laughing.

"General observation," said Rachel, not to be turned from her
purpose. "I am not foolishly suspicious, but it is not pleasant to
see great influence and intimacy without some knowledge of the person
exercising it."

"I think," said Ermine, bringing herself with difficulty to answer
quietly, "that you can hardly understand the terms they are on
without having seen how much a staff officer becomes one of the
family."

"I suppose much must be allowed for the frivolity and narrowness of
a military set in a colony. Imagine my one attempt at rational
conversation last night. Asking his views on female emigration,
absolutely he had none at all; he and Fanny only went off upon a
nursemaid married to a sergeant!"

"Perhaps the bearings of the question would hardly suit mixed
company."

"To be sure there was a conceited young officer there; for as ill
luck will have it, my uncle's old regiment is quartered at
Avoncester, and I suppose they will all be coming after Fanny. It is
well they are no nearer, and as this colonel says he is going to
Belfast in a day or two, there will not be much provocation to them
to come here. Now this great event of the Major's coming is over, we
will try to put Fanny upon a definite system, and I look to you and
your sister as a great assistance to me, in counteracting the follies
and nonsenses that her situation naturally exposes her to. I have
been writing a little sketch of the dangers of indecision, that I
thought of sending to the 'Traveller.' It would strike Fanny to see
there what I so often tell her; but I can't get an answer about my
paper on 'Curatocult,' as you made me call it."

"Did I!"

"You said the other word was of two languages. I can't think why
they don't insert it; but in the meantime I will bring down my 'Human
Reeds,' and show them to you. I have only an hour's work on them; so
I'll come to-morrow afternoon."

"I think Colonel Keith talked of calling again--thank you," suggested
Ermine in despair.

"Ah, yes, one does not want to be liable to interruptions in the most
interesting part. When he is gone to Belfast--"

"Yes, when he is gone to Belfast!" repeated Ermine, with an
irresistible gleam of mirth about her lips and eyes, and at that
moment Alison made her appearance. The looks of the sisters met, and
read one another so far as to know that the meeting was over, and for
the rest they endured, while Rachel remained, little imagining the
trial her presence had been to Alison's burning heart--sick anxiety
and doubt. How could it be well? Let him be loveable, let him be
constant, that only rendered Ermine's condition the more pitiable,
and the shining glance of her eyes was almost more than Alison could
bear. So happy as the sisters had been together, so absolutely
united, it did seem hard to disturb that calm life with hopes and
agitations that must needs be futile; and Alison, whose whole life
and soul were in her sister, could not without a pang see that
sister's heart belonging to another, and not for hopeful joy, but
pain and grief. The yearning of jealousy was sternly reproved and
forced down, and told that Ermine had long been Colin Keith's, that
the perpetrator of the evil had the least right of any one to murmur
that her own monopoly of her sister was interfered with; that she was
selfish, unkind, envious; that she had only to hate herself and pray
for strength to bear the punishment, without alloying Ermine's
happiness while it lasted. How it could be so bright Alison knew
not, but so it was she recognised by every tone of the voice, by
every smile on the lip, by even the upright vigour with which Ermine
sat in her chair and undertook Rachel's tasks of needlework.

And yet, when the visitor rose at last to go, Alison was almost
unwilling to be alone with her sister, and have that power of
sympathy put to the test by those clear eyes that were wont to see
her through and through. She went with Rachel to the door, and stood
taking a last instruction, hearing it not at all, but answering, and
relieved by the delay, hardly knowing whether to be glad or not that
when she returned Rose was leaning on the arm of her aunt's chair
with the most eager face. But Rose was to be no protection, for what
was passing between her and her aunt?

"O auntie, I am go glad he is coming back. He is just like the
picture you drew of Robert Bruce for me. And he is so kind. I never
saw any gentleman speak to you in such: a nice soft voice."

Alison had no difficulty in smiling as Ermine stroked the child's
hair, kissed her, and looked up with an arch, blushing, glittering
face that could not have been brighter those long twelve years ago.

And then Rose turned round, impatient to tell her other aunt her
story. "O aunt Ailie, we have had such a gentleman here, with a
great brown beard like a picture. And he is papa's old friend, and
kissed me because I am papa's little girl, and I do like him so very
much. I went where I could look at him in the garden, when you sent
me out, aunt Ermine."

"You did, you monkey?" said Ermine, laughing, and blushing again.
"What will you do if I send you out next time? No, I won't then, my
dear, for all the time, I should like you to see him and know him."

"Only, if you want to talk of anything very particular," observed
Rose.

"I don't think I need ask many questions," said Alison, smiling being
happily made very easy to her. "Dear Ermine, I see you are perfectly
satisfied--"

"O Ailie, that is no word for it! Not only himself, but to find him
loving Rose for her father's sake, undoubting of him through all.
Ailie, the thankfulness of it is more than one can bear."

"And he is the same?" said Alison.

"The same--no, not the same. It is more, better, or I am able to
feel it more. It was just like the morrow of the day he walked down
the lane with me and gathered honeysuckles, only the night between
has been a very, very strange time."

"I hope the interruption did not come very soon."

"I thought it was directly, but it could not have been so soon, since
you are come home. We had just had time to tell what we most wanted
to know, and I know a little more of what he is. I feel as if it
were not only Colin again, but ten times Colin. O Ailie, it must be
a little bit like the meetings in heaven!"

"I believe it is so with you," said Alison, scarcely able to keep the
tears from her eyes.

"After sometimes not daring to dwell on him, and then only venturing
because I thought he must be dead, to have him back again with the
same looks, only deeper--to find that he clung to those weeks so long
ago, and, above all, that there was not one cloud, one doubt about
the troubles--Oh, it is too, too much."

Ermine lent back with clasped hands. She was like one weary with
happiness, and lain to rest in the sense of newly-won peace. She
said little more that evening, and if spoken to, seemed like one
wakened out of a dream, so that more than once she laughed at
herself, begged her sister's pardon, and said that it seemed to her
that she could not hear anything for the one glad voice that rang in
her ear, "Colin is come home." That was sufficient for her, no need
for any other sympathy, felt Alison, with another of those pangs
crushed down. Then wonder came--whether Ermine could really
contemplate the future, or if it were absolutely lost in the present?

Colonel Keith went back to be seized by Conrade and Francis, and
walked off to the pony inspection, the two boys, on either side of
him, communicating to him the great grievance of living in a poky
place like this, where nobody had ever been in the army, nor had a
bit of sense, and Aunt Rachel was always bothering, and trying to
make mamma think that Con told stories.

"I don't mind that," said Conrade, stoutly; "let her try!"

"Oh, but she wanted mamma to shut you up," added Francis.

"Well, and mamma knows better," said Conrade, "and it made her leave
off teaching me, so it was lucky. But I don't mind that; only don't
you see, Colonel, they don't know how to treat mamma! They go and
bully her, and treat her like--like a subaltern, till I hate the very
sight of it."

"My boy," said the Colonel, who had been giving only half attention;
"you must make up your mind to your mother not being at the head of
everything, as she used to be in your father's time. She will always
be respected, but you must look to yourself as you grow up to make a
position tor her!"

"I wish I was grown up!" sighed Conrade; "how I would give it to Aunt
Rachel! But why must we live here to have her plaguing us?"

Questions that the Colonel was glad to turn aside by moans of the
ponies, and by a suggestion that, if a very quiet one were found, and
if Conrade would be very careful, mamma might, perhaps, go out riding
with them. The motion was so transcendant that, no sooner had the
ponies been seen, than the boys raced home, and had communicated it
at the top of their voices to mamma long before their friend made his
appearance. Lady Temple was quite startled at the idea. "Dear
papa," as she always called her husband, "had wished her to ride, but
she had seldom done so, and now--" The tears came into her eyes.

"I think you might," said the Colonel, gently; "I could find you a
quiet animal, and to have you with Conrade would be such a protection
to him," he added, as the boys had rushed out of the room.

"Yes; perhaps, dear boy. But I could not begin alone; it is so long
since I rode. Perhaps when you come back from Ireland."

"I am not going to Ireland."

"I thought you said--" said Fanny looking up surprised; "I am very
glad! But if you wished to go, pray don't think about us! I shall
learn to manage in time, and I cannot bear to detain you."

"You do not detain me," he said, sitting down by her; "I have found
what I was going in search of, and through your means."

"What--what do you mean! You were going to see Miss Williams this
afternoon, I thought!"

"Yes, and it was she whom I was seeking." He paused, and added
slowly, as if merely for the sake of dwelling on the words, "I have
found her!"

"Miss Williams!" said Fanny, with perplexed looks.

"Miss Williams!--my Ermine whom I had not seen since the day after
her accident, when we parted as on her deathbed!"

"That sister! Oh, poor thing, I am so glad! But I am sorry!" cried
the much confused Fanny, in a breath; "were not you very much
shocked?"

"I had never hoped to see her face in all its brightness again," he
said. "Twelve years! It is twelve years that she has suffered, and
of late she has been brought to this grievous state of poverty, and
yet the spirit is as brave and cheerful as ever! It looks out of the
beautiful eyes--more beautiful than when I first saw them,--I could
see and think of nothing else!"

"Twelve years!" repeated Fanny; "is it so long since you saw her?"

"Almost since I heard of her! She was like a daughter to my aunt at
Beauchamp, and her brother was my schoolfellow. For one summer, when
I was quartered at Hertford, I was with her constantly, but my family
would not even hear of the indefinite engagement that was all we
could have looked to, and made me exchange into the --th."

"Ah! that was the way we came to have you! I must tell you, dear Sir
Stephen always guessed. Once when he had quite vexed poor mamma by
preventing her from joking you in her way about young ladies, he told
me that once, when he was young, he had liked some one who died or
was married, I don't quite know which, and he thought it was the same
with you, from something that happened when you withdrew your
application for leave after your wound."

"Yes! it was a letter from home, implying that my return would be
accepted as a sign that I gave her up. So that was an additional
instance of the exceeding kindness that I always received."

And there was a pause, both much affected by the thought of the good
old man's ever ready consideration. At last Fanny said, "I am sure
it was well for us! What would he have done without you?--and," she
added, "do you really mean that you never heard of her all these
years?"

"Never after my aunt's death, except just after we went to Melbourne,
when I heard in general terms of the ruin of the family and the false
imputation on their brother."

"Ah! I remember that you did say something about going home, and Sir
Stephen was distressed, and mamma and I persuaded you because we saw
he would have missed you so much, and mamma was quite hurt at your
thinking of going. But if you had only told him your reason, he
would never have thought of standing in your way."

"I know he would not, but I saw he could hardly find any one else
just then who knew his ways so well. Besides, there was little use
in going home till I had my promotion, and could offer her a home;
and I had no notion how utter the ruin was, or that she had lost so
much. So little did I imagine their straits that, but for Alison's
look, I should hardly have inquired even on hearing her name."

"How very curious--how strangely things come round!" said Fanny; then
with a start of dismay, "but what shall I do? Pray, tell me what you
would like. If I might only keep her a little while till I can find
some one else, though no one will ever be so nice, but indeed I would
not for a moment, if you had rather not."

"Why so? Alison is very happy with you, and there can be no reason
against her going on."

"Oh!" cried Lady Temple, with an odd sound of satisfaction, doubt,
and surprise, "but I thought you would not like it."

"I should like, of course, to set them all at ease, but as I can do
no more than make a home for Ermine and her niece, I can only rejoice
that Alison is with you."

"But your brother!"

"If he does not like it, he must take the consequence of the utter
separation he made my father insist on," said the Colonel sternly.
"For my own part, I only esteem both sisters the more, if that were
possible, for what they have done for themselves."

"Oh! that is what Rachel would like! She is so fond of the sick--I
mean of your--Miss Williams. I suppose I may not tell her yet."

"Not yet, if you please. I have scarcely had time as yet to know
what Ermine wishes, but I could not help telling you."

"Thank you--I am so glad," she said, with sweet earnestness, holding
out her hand in congratulation. "When may I go to her? I should
like for her to come and stay here. Do you think she would?"

"Thank you, I will see. I know how kind you would be--indeed, have
already been to her."

"And I am so thankful that I may keep Miss Williams! The dear boys
never were so good. And perhaps she may stay till baby is grown up.
Oh! how long it will be first!"

"She could not have a kinder friend," said the Colonel, smiling, and
looking at his watch.

"Oh, is it time to dress? It is very kind of my dear aunt; but I do
wish we could have stayed at home to-night. It is so dull for the
boys when I dine out, and I had so much to ask you. One thing was
about that poor little Bessie Keith. Don't you think I might ask her
down here, to be near her brother?"

"It would be a very kind thing in you, and very good for her, but you
must be prepared for rather a gay young lady."

"Oh, but she would not mind my not going out. She would have Alick,
you know, and all the boys to amuse her; but, if you think it would
be tiresome for her, and that she would not be happy, I should be
very sorry to have her, poor child."

"I was not afraid for her," said Colonel Keith, smiling, "but of her
being rather too much for you."

"Rachel is not too much for me," said Fanny, "and she and Grace will
entertain Bessie, and take her out. But I will talk to Alick. He
spoke of coming to-morrow. And don't you think I might ask Colonel
and Mrs. Hammond to spend a day? They would so like the sea for the
children."

"Certainly."

"Then perhaps you would write--oh, I forgot," colouring up, "I never
can forget the old days, it seems as if you were on the staff still."

"I always am on yours, and always hope to be," he said, smiling,
"though I am afraid I can't write your note to the Hammonds for you."

"But you won't go away," she said. "I know your time will be taken
up, and you must not let me or the boys be troublesome; but to have
you here makes me so much less lost and lonely. And I shall have
such a friend in your Erminia. Is that her name?"

"Ermine, an old Welsh name, the softest I ever heard. Indeed it is
dressing time," added Colonel Keith, and both moved away with the
startled precision of members of a punctual military household, still
feeling themselves accountable to somebody.

CHAPTER VI

ERMINE'S RESOLUTION

"For as his hand the weather steers,
So thrive I best 'twixt joys and tears,
And all the year have some green ears."--H. VAUGHAN.

Alison had not been wrong in her presentiment that the second
interview would be more trying than the first. The exceeding
brightness and animation of Ermine's countenance, her speaking eyes,
unchanged complexion, and lively manner--above all, the restoration
of her real substantial self--had so sufficed and engrossed Colin
Keith in the gladness of their first meeting that he had failed to
comprehend her helpless state; and already knowing her to be an
invalid, not entirely recovered from her accident, he was only
agreeably surprised to see the beauty of face he had loved so long,
retaining all its vivacity of expression. And when he met Alison the
next morning with a cordial brotherly greeting and inquiry for her
sister, her "Very well," and "not at all the worse for the
excitement," were so hearty and ready that he could not have guessed
that "well" with Ermine meant something rather relative than
positive. Alison brought him a playful message from her, that since
he was not going to Belfast, she should meet him with a freer
conscience if he would first give her time for Rose's lessons, and,
as he said, he had lived long enough with Messrs. Conrade and Co. to
acknowledge the wisdom of the message. But Rose had not long been at
leisure to look out for him before he made his appearance, and walked
in by right, as one at home; and sitting down in his yesterday's
place, took the little maiden on his knee, and began to talk to her
about the lessons he had been told to wait for. What would she have
done without them? He knew some people who never could leave the
house quiet enough to hear one's-self speak if they were deprived of
lessons. Was that the way with her? Rose laughed like a creature,
her aunt said, "to whom the notion of noise at play was something
strange and ridiculous; necessity has reduced her to Jacqueline
Pascal's system with her pensionnaires, who were allowed to play one
by one without any noise."

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