The Clever Woman of the Family [51]
but merry just then, but she had some experience of Rose's powers of soothing, and signed assent. So in another second Colonel Keith was met in the hasty, agonized walk by which he was endeavouring to work off his agitation, and the slender child looked wistfully up at him from dark depths of half understanding eyes--"Please, please don't be so very sorry," she said. "Aunt Ermine does not like it. She never is sorry for herself--" "Have I shaken her--distressed her?" he asked, anxiously. "She doesn't like you to be sorry," said Rose, looking up. "And, indeed, she does not mind it; she is such a merry aunt! Please, come in again, and see how happy we always are--" The last words were spoken so near the window that Ermine caught them, and said, "Yes, come in, Colin, and learn not to grieve for me, or you will make me repent of my selfish gladness yesterday." "Not grieve!" he exclaimed, "when I think of the beautiful vigorous being that used to be the life of the place--" and he would have said more but for a deprecating sign of the hand. "Well," she said, half smiling, "it is a pity to think even of a crushed butterfly; but indeed, Colin, if you can bear to listen to me, I think I can show you that it all has been a blessing even by sight, as well as, of course, by faith. Only remember the unsatisfactoriness of our condition--the never seeing or hearing from one another after that day when Mr. Beauchamp came down on us. Did not the accident win for us a parting that was much better to remember than that state of things? Oh, the pining, weary feel as if all the world had closed on me! I do assure you it was much worse than anything that came after the burn. Yes, if I had been well and doing like others, I know I should have fretted and wearied, pined myself ill perhaps, whereas I could always tell myself that every year of your absence might be a step towards your finding me well; and when I was forced to give up that hope for myself, why then, Colin, the never seeing your name made me think you would never be disappointed and grieved as you are now. It is very merciful the way that physical trials help one through those of the mind." "I never knew," said the Colonel; "all my aunt's latter letters spoke of your slow improvement beyond hope." "True, in her time, I had not reached the point where I stopped. The last time I saw her I was still upstairs; and, indeed, I did not half know what I could do till I tried." "Yes," said he, brightened by that buoyant look so remarkable in her face; " and you will yet do more, Ermine. You have convinced me that we shall be all the happier together--" "But that was not what I meant to convince you of--" she said, faintly. "Not what you meant, perhaps; but what it did convince me was, that you--as you are, my Ermine--are ten thousand times more to me than even as the beautiful girl, and that there never can be a happier pair than we shall be when I am your hands and feet." Ermine sat up, and rallied all her forces, choked back the swelling of her throat, and said, "Dear Colin, it cannot be! I trusted you were understanding that when I told you how it was with me." He could not speak from consternation. "No," she said; "it would be wrong in me to think of it for an instant. That you should have done so, shows--0 Colin, I cannot talk of it; but it would be as ungenerous in me to consent, as it is noble of you to propose it." "It is no such thing," he answered; "it has been the one object and thought of my life, the only hope I have had all these years." "Exactly so," she said, struggling again to speak firmly; "and that is the very thing. You kept your allegiance to the bright, tall, walking, active girl, and it would be a shame in the scorched cripple to claim it." "Don't call yourself names. Have I not told you that you are more than the same?" "You do not know. You are pleased because my face is not burnt, nor grown much older, and because I can talk and laugh in the same voice still." (Oh, how it quivered!) "But it