“‘His sister she went beyond the seas,
And died an old maid among black savagees.’
“That’s the most remarkable instance of female emigration on record, isn’t it?” observed Alick.
“What; her dying an old maid?” said Colonel Keith. “I am not sure. Wholesale exportations of wives are spoiling the market.”
“I did not mean marriage,” said Rachel, stoutly. “I am particularly anxious to know whether there is a field open to independent female labour.”
“All the superior young women seemed to turn nurserymaids,” said the Colonel.
“Oh,” interposed Fanny, “do you remember that nice girl of ours who would marry that Orderly-Sergeant O’Donoghoe? I have had a letter from her in such distress.”
“Of course, the natural termination,” said Alick, in his lazy voice.
“And I thought you would tell me how to manage sending her some help,” proceeded Fanny.
“I could have helped you, Fanny. Won’t an order do it?”
“Not quite,” said Fanny, a shade of a smile playing on her lip. “It is whether to send it through one of the officers or not. If Captain Lee is with the regiment, I know he would take care of it for her.”
So they plunged into another regiment, and Rachel decided that nothing was so wearisome as to hear triflers talk shop.
There was no opportunity of calling Fanny to order after dinner, for she went off on her progress to all the seven cribs, and was only just returning from them when the gentlemen came in, and then she made room for the younger beside her on the sofa, saying, “Now, Alick, I do so want to hear about poor, dear little Bessie;” and they began so low and confidentially, that Rachel wondered if her alarms wore to be transfered from the bearded colonel to the dapper boy, or if, in very truth, she must deem poor Fanny a general coquette. Besides, a man must be contemptible who wore gloves at so small a party, when she did not.
She had been whiling away the time of Fanny’s absence by looking over the books on the table, and she did not regard the present company sufficiently to desist on their account. Colonel Keith began to turn over some numbers of the “Traveller” that lay near him, and presently looked up, and said, “Do you know who is the writer of this?”
“What is it? Ah! one of the Invalid’s essays. They strike every one; but I fancy the authorship is a great secret.”
“You do not know it?”
“No, I wish I did. Which of them are you reading? ‘Country Walks.’ That is not one that I care about, it is a mere hash of old recollections; but there are some very sensible and superior ones, so that I have heard it sometimes doubted whether they are man’s or woman’s writing. For my part, I think them too earnest to be a man’s; men always play with their subject.”
“Oh, yes,” said Fanny, “I am sure only a lady could have written anything so sweet as that about flowers in a sick-room; it so put me in mind of the lovely flowers you used to bring me one at a time, when I was ill at Cape Town.”
There was no more sense to be had after those three once fell upon their reminiscences.
That night, after having betrayed her wakefulness by a movement in her bed, Alison Williams heard her sister’s voice, low and steady, saying, “Ailie, dear, be it what it may, guessing is worse than certainty.”
“Oh, Ermine, I hoped—I know nothing—I have nothing to tell.”
“You dread something,” said Ermine; “you have been striving for unconcern all the evening, my poor dear, but surely you know, Ailie, that nothing is so bad while we share it.”
“And I have frightened you about nothing.”
“Nothing! nothing about Edward?”
“Oh, no, no!”
“And no one has made you uncomfortable?”
“No.”
“Then there is only one thing that it can be, Ailie, and you need not fear to tell me that. I always knew that if he lived I must be prepared for it, and you would not have hesitated to tell me of his death.”
“It is not that, indeed it is not, Ermine, it is only this—that I found to-day that Lady Temple’s major has the same name.”
“But you said she was come home. You must have seen him.”
“Yes, but I should not know him. I had only seen him once, remember, twelve years ago, and when I durst not look at him.”
“At least,” said Ermine, quickly, “you can tell me what you saw to-day.”
“A Scotch face, bald head, dark beard, grizzled hair.”
“Yes I am grey, and he was five years older; but he used not to have a Scotch face. Can you tell me about his eyes?”
“Dark,” I think.
“They were very dark blue, almost black. Time and climate must have left them alone. You may know him by those eyes, Ailie. And you could not make out anything about him?”
“No, not even his Christian name nor his regiment. I had only the little ones and Miss Rachel to ask, and they knew nothing. I wanted to keep this from you till I was sure, but you always find me out.”
“Do you think I couldn’t see the misery you were in all the evening, poor child? But now you have had it out, sleep, and don’t be distressed.”
“But, Ermine, if you—”
“My dear, I am thankful that nothing is amiss with you or Edward. For the rest, there is nothing but patience. Now, not another word; you must not lose your sleep, nor take away my chance of any.”
How much the sisters slept they did not confide to one another, but when they rose, Alison shook her head at her sister’s heavy eyelids, and Ermine retorted with a reproachful smile at certain dark tokens of sleeplessness under Alison’s eyes.
“No, not the flowered flimsiness, please,” she said, in the course of her toilette, “let me have the respectable grey silk.” And next she asked for a drawer, whence she chose a little Nuremberg horn brooch for her neck. “I know it is very silly,” she said, “but I can’t quite help it. Only one question, Ailie, that I thought of too late. Did he hear your name?”
“I think not, Lady Temple named nobody. But why did you not ask me last night?”
“I thought beginning to talk again would destroy your chance of sleep, and we had resolved to stop.”
“And, Ermine, if it be, what shall I do?”
“Do as you feel right at the moment,” said Ermine, after a moment’s pause. “I cannot tell how it may be. I have been thinking over what you told me about the Major and Lady Temple.”
“Oh, Ermine, what a reproof this is for that bit of gossip.”
“Not at all, my dear, the warning may be all the better for me,” said Ermine, with a voice less steady than her words. “It is not what, under the circumstances, I could think likely in the Colin whom I knew; but were it indeed so, then, Ailie, you had better say nothing about me, unless he found you out. We would get employment elsewhere.”
“And I must leave you to the suspense all day.”
“Much better so. The worst thing we could do would be to go on talking about it. It is far better for me to be left with my dear little unconscious companion.”
Alison tried to comfort herself with this belief through the long hours of the morning, during which she only heard that mamma and Colonel Keith were gone to the Homestead, and she saw no one till she came forth with her troop to the midday meal.
And there, at sight