“Indeed!” said Ermine, her colour rising. “Would it not be better—”
“Oh, I know what you mean, but don’t scruple on that score. At my age, with a mother like mine, it is simply to avoid teasing and excitement that I am silent.”
“I was going to say I was hardly a fair—”
“Because of your different opinions? But those go for nothing. You are a worthy antagonist, and enter into my views as my mother and sister cannot do, even while you oppose them.”
“But I don’t think I can help you, even if—”
“I don’t want help; I only want you to judge of the composition. In fact, I read it to you that I may hear it myself.”
Ermine resigned herself.
“‘Curatolatry is a species—‘”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Curatolatry. Ah! I thought that would attract attention.”
“But I am afraid the scholars would fall foul of it.”
“Why, have not they just made Mariolatry?”
“Yes; but they are very severe on hybrids between Latin and Greek.”
“It is not worth while to boggle at trifles when one has an expressive term,” said Rachel; “if it turns into English, that is all that is wanted.”
“Would it not be rather a pity if it should turn into English? Might it not be hard to brand with a contemptuous name what does more good than harm?”
“That sickly mixture of flirtation and hero worship, with a religious daub as a salve to the conscience.”
“Laugh it down, and what do you leave? In Miss Austen’s time silly girls ran to balls after militiamen, now, if they run to schools and charities more for the curate’s sake than they quite know, is not the alternative better?”
“It is greater humbug,” said Rachel. “But I knew you would not agree, at least beforehand, it is appreciation that I want.”
Never did Madame de Genlis make a cleverer hit than in the reading of the Genius Phanor’s tragedy in the Palace of Truth. Comically absurd as the inconsistency is of transporting the lecture of a Parisian academician into an enchanted palace, full of genii and fairies of the remotest possible connexion with the Arab jinn, the whole is redeemed by the truth to nature of the sole dupe in the Palace of Truth being the author reading his own works. Ermine was thinking of him all the time. She was under none of the constraint of Phanor’s auditors, though she carried a perpetual palace of truth about with her; she would not have had either fears or compunctions in criticising, if she could. The paper was in the essay style, between argument and sarcasm, something after the model of the Invalid’s Letters; but it was scarcely lightly touched enough, the irony was wormwood, the gravity heavy and sententious, and where there was a just thought or happy hit, it seemed to travel in a road-waggon, and be lost in the rumbling of the wheels. Ermine did not restrain a smile, half of amusement, half of relief, at the self-antidote the paper contained; but the smile passed with the authoress as a tribute to her satire.
“In this age,” she said, “we must use those lighter weapons of wit, or no one will attend.”
“Perhaps,” said Ermine, “if I approve your object, I should tell you you don’t use them lightly.”
“Ah! but I know you don’t approve it. You are not lay woman enough to be impartial, and you belong to the age that was trying the experiment of the hierarchy modified: I to that which has found it will not do. But at least you understand my view; I have made out my case.”
“Yes, I understand your view; but—”
“You don’t sympathize. Of course not; but when it receives its full weight from the printer’s bands, you will see that it will tell. That bit about the weak tea fumes I thought of afterwards, and I am afraid I did not read it well.”
“I remember it; but forgive me if I say first I think the whole is rather too—too lengthy to take.”
“Oh, that is only because manuscript takes long to read aloud. I counted the words, so I can’t be mistaken, at least I collated twenty lines, and multiplied; and it is not so long as the Invalid’s last letter about systematic reading.”
“And then comes my question again, Is good to come of it?”
“That I can’t expect you to see at this time; but it is to be the beginning of a series, exposing the fallacies of woman’s life as at present conducted; and out of these I mean to point the way to more consistent, more independent, better combined exertion. If I can make myself useful with my pen, it will compensate for the being debarred from so many more obvious outlets. I should like to have as much influence over people’s minds as that Invalid for instance, and by earnest effort I know I shall attain it.”
“I—I—” half-laughing and blushing, “I hope you will, for I know you would wish to use it for good; but, to speak plainly, I doubt about the success of this effort, or—or if it ought to succeed.”
“Yes, I know you do,” said Rachel. “No one ever can judge of a manuscript. You have done all I wished you to do, and I value your sincerity. Of course I did not expect praise, since the more telling it is on the opposite side, the less you could like it. I saw you appreciated it.”
And Rachel departed, while Rose crept up to her aunt, asking, “Aunt Ermine, why do you look so very funny? It was very tiresome. Are not you glad it is over?”
“I was thinking, Rose, what a difficult language plain English is sometimes.”
“What, Miss Rachel’s? I couldn’t understand one bit of her long story, except that she did not like weak tea.”
“It was my own that I meant,” said Ermine. “But, Rose, always remember that a person who stands plain speaking from one like me has something very noble and generous in her. Were you here all the time, Rosie? I don’t wonder you were tired.”
“No, Aunt Ermine, I went and told Violetta and Augustus a fairy tale out of my own head.”
“Indeed; and how did they like it?”
“Violetta looked at me all the time, and Augustus gave three winks, so I think he liked it.”
“Appreciated it!” said Aunt Ermine.
CHAPTER IV. THE HERO
“And which is Lucy’s? Can it be
That puny fop, armed cap-a-pie,
Who loves in the saloon to show
The arms that never knew a foe.”
“My lady’s compliments, ma’am, and she would he much obliged if you would remain till she comes home,” was Coombe’s reception of Alison. “She is gone to Avoncester with Master Temple and Master Francis.”
“Gone to Avoncester!” exclaimed Rachel, who had walked from church to Myrtlewood with Alison.
“Mamma is gone to meet the Major!” cried three of the lesser boys, rushing upon them in full cry; then Leoline, facing round, “Not the major, he is lieutenant-colonel now—Colonel Keith, hurrah!”
“What—what do you mean? Speak rationally, Leoline, if you can.”
“My lady sent a note to the Homestead this morning,” explained Coombe. “She heard this morning that Colonel Keith intended to arrive to-day, and took the young gentlemen with her to meet him.”
Rachel could hardly refrain from manifesting her displeasure, and bluntly asked what time Lady Temple was likely to be at home.
“It depended,”