Kitabı oku: «The Clever Woman of the Family», sayfa 9
“Yes, you must let me,” said her visitor, looking up with her pretty imploring gesture, “you know I have known him so long, and he has been so good to me!”
“Indeed it is very kind in you,” said Ermine, fully feeling the force of the plea expressed in the winning young face and gentle eyes full of tears.
“Oh, no, I could not help it. I am only so sorry we kept him away from you when you wanted him so much; but we did not know, and he was Sir Stephen’s right hand, and we none of us knew what to do without him; but if he had only told—”
“Thank you, oh, thank you!” said Ermine, “but indeed it was better for him to be away.”
Even her wish to console that pleading little widow could not make her say that his coming would not have been good for her. “It has been such a pleasure to hear he had so kind and happy a home all these years.”
“Oh, you cannot think how Sir Stephen loved and valued him. The one thing I always did wish was, that Conrade should grow up to be as much help and comfort to his father, and now he never can! But,” driving back a tear, “it was so hard that you should not have known how distinguished and useful and good he was all those years. Only now I shall have the pleasure of telling you,” and she smiled. She was quite a different being when free from the unsympathizing influence which, without her understanding it, had kept her from dwelling on her dearest associations.
“It will be a pleasure of pleasures,” said Ermine, eagerly.
“Then you will do me a favour, a very great favour,” said Lady Temple, laying hold of her hand again, “if you and your sister and niece will come and stay with me.” And as Ermine commenced her refusal, she went on in the same coaxing way, with a description of her plans for Ermine’s comfort, giving her two rooms on the ground floor, and assuring her of the absence of steps, the immunity from all teasing by the children, of the full consent of her sister, and the wishes of the Colonel, nay, when Ermine was still unpersuaded of the exceeding kindness it would be to herself. “You see I am terribly young, really,” she said, “though I have so many boys, and my aunt thinks it awkward for me to have so many officers calling, and I can’t keep them away because they are my father’s and Sir Stephen’s old friends; so please do come and make it all right!”
Ermine was driven so hard, and so entirely deprived of all excuse, that she had no alternative left but to come to the real motive.
“I ought not,” she said, “it is not good for him, so you must not press me, dear Lady Temple. You see it is best for him that nobody should ever know of what has been between us.”
“What! don’t you mean—?” exclaimed Fanny, breaking short off.
“I cannot!” said Ermine.
“But he would like it. He wishes it as much as ever.”
“I know he does,” said Ermine, with a troubled voice; “but you see that is because he did not know what a wretched remnant I am, and he never has had time to think about any one else.”
“Oh no, no.”
“And it would be very unfair of me to take advantage of that, and give him such a thing as I am.”
“Oh dear, but that is very sad!” cried Fanny, looking much startled.
“But I am sure you must see that it is right.”
“It may be right,” and out burst Fanny’s ready tears; “but it is very, very hard and disagreeable, if you don’t mind my saying so, when I know it is so good of you. And don’t you mean to let him even see you, when he has been constant so long?”
“No; I see no reason for denying myself that; indeed I believe it is better for him to grow used to me as I am, and be convinced of the impossibility.”
“Well then, why will you not come to me?”
“Do you not see, in all your kindness, that my coming to you would make every one know the terms between us, while no one remarks his just coming to me here as an old friend? And if he were ever to turn his mind to any one else—”
“He will never do that, I am sure.”
“There is no knowing. He has never been, in his own estimation, disengaged from me,” said Ermine; “his brother is bent on his marrying, and he ought to be perfectly free to do so, and not under the disadvantage that any report of this affair would be to him.”
“Well, I am sure he never will,” said Fanny, almost petulantly; “I know I shall hate her, that’s all.”
Ermine thought her own charity towards Mrs. Colin Keith much more dubious than Lady Temple’s, but she continued—
“At any rate you will be so very kind as not to let any one know of it. I am glad you do. I should not feel it right that you should not, but it is different with others.”
“Thank you. And if you will not come to me, you will let me come to you, won’t you? It will be so nice to come and talk him over with you. Perhaps I shall persuade you some of these days after all. Only I must go now, for I always give the children their tea on Sunday. But please let your dear little niece come up to-morrow and play with them; the little Hammonds will be there, she is just their age.”
Ermine felt obliged to grant this at least, though she was as doubtful of her shy Rose’s happiness as of the expedience of the intimacy; but there was no being ungracious to the gentle visitor, and no doubt Ermine felt rejoiced and elevated. She did not need fresh assurances of Colin’s constancy, but the affectionate sister-like congratulations of this loving, winning creature, showed how real and in earnest his intentions were. And then Lady Temple’s grateful esteem for him being, as it was, the reflection of her husband’s, was no small testimony to his merits.
“Pretty creature!” said Ermine to herself, “really if it did come to that, I could spare him to her better than to any one else. She has some notion how to value him.”
Alison and Rose had, in the meantime, been joined by Colonel Keith and the boys, whom Alick had early deserted in favour of a sunny sandy nook. The Colonel’s purpose was hard on poor Alison; it was to obtain her opinion of her sister’s decision, and the likelihood of persistence in it. It was not, perhaps, bad for either that they conversed under difficulties, the boys continually coming back to them from excursions on the rocks, and Rose holding her aunt’s hand all the time, but to be sure Rose had heard nearly all the Colonel’s affairs, and somehow mixed him up with Henry of Cranstoun.
Very tenderly towards Alison herself did Colin Keith speak. It was the first time they had ever been brought into close contact, and she had quite to learn to know him. She had regarded his return as probably a misfortune, but it was no longer possible to do so when she heard his warm and considerate way of speaking of her sister, and saw him only desirous of learning what was most for her real happiness. Nay, he even made a convert of Alison herself! She did believe that would Ermine but think it right to consent, she would be happy and safe in the care of one who knew so well how to love her. Terrible as the wrench would be to Alison herself, she thought he deserved her sister, and that she would be as happy with him as earth could make her. But she did not believe Ermine would ever accept him. She knew the strong, unvarying resolution by which her sister had always held to what she thought right, and did not conceive that it would waver. The acquiescence in his visits, and the undisguised exultant pleasure in his society, were evidences to Alison not of wavering or relenting, but of confidence in Ermine’s own sense of impossibility. She durst not give him any hope, though she owned that he merited success. “Did she think his visits bad for her sister?” he then asked in the unselfishness that pleaded so strongly for him.
“No, certainly not,” she answered eagerly, then made a little hesitation that made him ask further.
“My only fear,” she said candidly, “is, that if this is pressed much on her, and she has to struggle with you and herself too, it may hurt her health. Trouble tells not on her cheerfulness, but on her nerves.”
“Thank you,” he said, “I will refrain.”
Alison was much happier than she had been since the first apprehension of his return. The first pang at seeing Ermine’s heart another’s property had been subdued; the present state of affairs was indefinitely-prolonged, and she not only felt trust in Colin Keith’s consideration for her sister, but she knew that an act of oblivion was past on her perpetration of the injury. She was right. His original pitying repugnance to a mere unknown child could not be carried on to the grave, saddened woman devoted to her sister, and in the friendly brotherly tone of that interview, each understood the other. And when Alison came home and said, “I have been walking with Colin,” her look made Ermine very happy.
“And learning to know him.”
“Learning to sympathize with him, Ermine,” with steady eyes and voice. “You are hard on him.”
“Now, Ailie,” said Ermine, “once for all, he is not to set you on me, as he has done with Lady Temple. The more he persuades me, the better I know that to listen would be an abuse of his constancy. It would set him wrong with his brother, and, as dear Edward’s affairs stand, we have no right to carry the supposed disgrace into a family that would believe it, though he does not. If I were ever so well, I should not think it right to marry. I shall not shun the sight of him; it is delightful to me, and a less painful cure to him than sending him away would be. It is in the nature of things that he should cool into a friendly kindly feeling, and I shall try to bear it. Or if he does marry, it will be all right I suppose—” but her voice faltered, and she gave a sort of broken laugh.
“There,” she said, with a recovered flash of liveliness, “there’s my resolution, to do what I like more than anything in the world as long as I can; and when it is over I shall be helped to do without it!”
“I can’t believe—” broke out Alison.
“Not in your heart, but in your reason,” said Ermine, endeavouring to smile. “He will hover about here, and always be kind, loving, considerate; but a time will come that he will want the home happiness I cannot give. Then he will not wear out his affection on the impossible literary cripple, but begin over again, and be happy. And, Alison, if your love for me is of the sound, strong sort I know it is, you will help me through with it, and never say one word to make all this less easy and obvious to him.”
CHAPTER VII. WAITNG FOR ROSE
“Not envy, sure! for if you gave me
Leave to take or to refuse
In earnest, do you think I’d choose
That sort of new love to enslave me?”
—R. BROWNING.
So, instead of going to Belfast, here was Colonel Keith actually taking a lodging and settling himself into it; nay, even going over to Avoncester on a horse-buying expedition, not merely for the Temples, but for himself.
This time Rachel did think herself sure of Miss Williams’ ear in peace, and came down on her with two fat manuscripts upon Human Reeds and Military Society, preluding, however, by bitter complaints of the “Traveller” for never having vouchsafed her an answer, nor having even restored “Curatocult,” though she had written three times, and sent a directed envelope and stamps for the purpose. The paper must be ruined by so discourteous an editor, indeed she had not been nearly so much interested as usual by the last few numbers. If only she could get her paper back, she should try the “Englishwoman’s Hobby-horse,” or some other paper of more progress than that “Traveller.” “Is it not very hard to feel one’s self shut out from the main stream of the work of the world when one’s heart is burning?”
“I think you overrate the satisfaction.”
“You can’t tell! You are contented with that sort of home peaceful sunshine that I know suffices many. Even intellectual as you are, you can’t tell what it is to feel power within, to strain at the leash, and see others in the race.”
“I was thinking whether you could not make an acceptable paper on the lace system, which you really know so thoroughly.”
“The fact is,” said Rachel, “it is much more difficult to describe from one’s own observation than from other sources.”
“But rather more original,” said Ermine, quite overcome by the naivete of the confession.
“I don’t see that,” said Rachel. “It is abstract reasoning from given facts that I aim at, as you will understand when you have heard my ‘Human Reeds,’ and my other—dear me, there’s your door bell. I thought that Colonel was gone for the day.”
“There are other people in the world besides the Colonel,” Ermine began to say, though she hardly felt as if there were, and at any rate a sense of rescue crossed her. The persons admitted took them equally by surprise, being Conrade Temple and Mr. Keith.
“I thought,” said Rachel, as she gave her unwilling hand to the latter, “that you would have been at Avoncester to-day.”
“I always get out of the way of horse-dealing. I know no greater bore,” he answered.
“Mamma sent me down,” Conrade was explaining; “Mr. Keith’s uncle found out that he knew Miss Williams—no, that’s not it, Miss Williams’ uncle found out that Mr. Keith preached a sermon, or something of that sort, so mamma sent me down to show him the way to call upon her; but I need not stay now, need I?”
“After that elegant introduction, and lucid explanation, I think you may be excused,” returned Alick Keith.
The boy shook Ermine’s hand with his soldierly grace, but rather spoilt the effect thereof by his aside, “I wanted to see the toad and the pictures our Miss Williams told me about, but I’ll come another time;” and the wink of his black eyes, and significant shrug of his shoulders at Rachel, were irresistible. They all laughed, even Rachel herself, as Ermine, seeing it would be worse to ignore the demonstration, said, “The elements of aunt and boy do not always work together.”
“No,” said Rachel; “I have never been forgiven for being the first person who tried to keep those boys in order.”
“And now,” said Ermine, turning to her other visitor, “perhaps I may discover which of us, or of our uncles, preached a sermon.”
“Mine, I suspect,” returned Mr. Keith. “Your sister and I made out at luncheon that you had known my uncle, Mr. Clare, of Bishopsworthy.”
“Mr. Clare! Oh yes,” cried Ermine eagerly, “he took the duty for one of our curates once for a long vacation. Did you ever hear him speak of Beauchamp?”
“Yes, often; and of Dr. Williams. He will be very much interested to hear of you.”
“It was a time I well remember,” said Ermine. “He was an Oxford tutor then, and I was about fourteen, just old enough to be delighted to hear clever talk. And his sermons were memorable; they were the first I ever listened to.”
“There are few sermons that it is not an infliction to listen to,” began Rachel, but she was not heard or noticed.
“I assure you they are even more striking now in his blindness.”
“Blindness! Indeed, I had not heard of that.”
Even Rachel listened with interest as the young officer explained that his uncle, whom both he and Miss Williams talked of as a man of note, of whom every one must have heard, had for the last four years been totally blind, but continued to be an active parish priest, visiting regularly, preaching, and taking a share in the service, which he knew by heart. He had, of course, a curate, who lived with him, and took very good care of him.
“No one else?” said Rachel. “I thought your sister lived at Bishopsworthy.”
“No, my sister lives, or has lived, at Little Worthy, the next parish, and as unlike it as possible. It has a railroad in it, and the cockneys have come down on it and ‘villafied’ it. My aunt, Mrs. Lacy Clare, has lived there ever since my sister has been with her; but now her last daughter is to be married, she wishes to give up housekeeping.”
“And your sister is coming to Lady Temple,” said Rachel, in her peculiar affirmative way of asking questions. “She will find it very dull here.”
“With all the advantages of Avoncester at hand?” inquired Alick, with a certain gleam under his flaxen eyelashes that convinced Ermine that he said it in mischief. But Rachel drew herself up gravely, and answered—
“In Lady Temple’s situation any such thing would be most inconsistent with good feeling.”
“Such as the cathedral?” calmly, not to say sleepily, inquired Alick, to the excessive diversion of Ermine, who saw that Rachel had never been laughed at in her life, and was utterly at a loss what to make of it.
“If you meant the cathedral,” she said, a little uncertainly, recollecting the tone in which Mr. Clare had just been spoken of, and thinking that perhaps Miss Keith might be a curatolatress, “I am afraid it is not of much benefit to people living at this distance, and there is not much to be said for the imitation here.”
“You will see what my sister says to it. She only wants training to be the main strength of the Bishopsworthy choir, and perhaps she may find it here.”
Rachel was evidently undecided whether chants or marches were Miss Keith’s passion, and, perhaps, which propensity would render the young lady the most distasteful to herself. Ermine thought it merciful to divert the attack by mentioning Mr. Clare’s love of music, and hoping his curate could gratify it. “No,” Mr. Keith said, “it was very unlucky that Mr. Lifford did not know one note from another; so that his vicar could not delude himself into hoping that his playing on his violin was anything but a nuisance to his companion, and in spite of all the curate’s persuasions, he only indulged himself therewith on rare occasions.” But as Ermine showed surprise at the retention of a companion devoid of this sixth sense, so valuable to the blind, he added—“No one would suit him so well. Mr. Lifford has been with him ever since his sight began to fail, and understands all his ways.”
“Yes, that makes a great difference.”
“And,” pursued the young man, coming to something like life as he talked of his uncle, “though he is not quite all that a companion might be, my uncle says there would be no keeping the living without him, and I do not believe there would, unless my uncle would have me instead.”
Ermine laughed and looked interested, not quite knowing what other answer to make. Rachel lifted up her eyebrows in amazement.
“Another advantage,” added Alick, who somehow seemed to accept Ermine as one of the family, “is, that he is no impediment to Bessie’s living there, for, poor man, he has a wife, but insane.”
“Then your sister will live there?” said Rachel. “What an enviable position, to have the control of means of doing good that always falls to the women of a clerical family.”
“Tell her so,” said the brother, with his odd, suppressed smile.
“What, she does not think so?”
“Now,” said Mr. Keith, leaning back, “on my answer depends whether Bessie enters this place with a character for chanting, croquet, or crochet. Which should you like worst, Miss Curtis?”
“I like evasions worst of all,” said Rachel, with a flash of something like playful spirit, though there was too much asperity in it.
“But you see, unfortunately, I don’t know,” said Alick Keith, slowly. “I have never been able to find out, nor she either. I don’t know what may be the effect of example,” he added. Ermine wondered whether he were in mischief or earnest, and suspected a little of both.
“I shall be very happy to show Miss Keith any of my ways,” said Rachel, with no doubts at all; “but she will find me terribly impeded here. When does she come?”
“Not for a month or six weeks, when the wedding will be over. It is high time she saw something of her respected guardian.”
“The Colonel?”
“Yes,” then to Ermine, “Every one turns to him with reliance and confidence. I believe no one in the army received so many last charges as he has done, or executes them more fully.”
“And,” said Ermine, feeling pleasure colour her cheek more deeply than was convenient, “you are relations.”
“So far away that only a Scotsman would acknowledge the cousinship.”
“But do not you call yourself Scotch?” said Ermine, who had for years thought it glorious to do so.
“My great grandfather came from Gowan-brae,” said Alick, “but our branch of the family has lived and died in the —th Highlanders for so many generations that we don’t know what a home is out of it. Our birthplaces—yes, and our graves—are in all parts of the world.”
“Were you ever in Scotland?”
“Never; and I dread nothing so much as being quartered there. Just imagine the trouble it would be to go over the pedigree of every Keith I met, and to dine with them all upon haggis and sheeps’ head!”
“There’s no place I want to sea as much as Scotland,” said Rachel.
“Oh, yes! young ladies always do.”
“It is not for a young lady reason,” said Rachel, bluntly. “I want to understand the principle of diffused education, as there practised. The only other places I should really care to see are the Grand Reformatory for the Destitute in Holland, and the Hospital for Cretins in Switzerland.”
“Scotch pedants, Dutch thieves, Swiss goitres—I will bear your tastes in mind,” said Mr. Keith, rising to take leave.
“Really,” said Rachel, when he was gone, “if he had not that silly military tone of joking, there might be something tolerable about him if he got into good hands. He seems to have some good notions about his sister. She must be just out of the school-room, at the very turn of life, and I will try to get her into my training and show her a little of the real beauty and usefulness of the career she has before her. How late he has stayed! I am afraid there is no time for the manuscripts.”
And though Ermine was too honest to say she was sorry, Rachel did not miss the regret.
Colonel Keith came the next day, and under his arm was a parcel, which was laid in little Rose’s arms, and, when unrolled, proved to contain a magnificent wax doll, no doubt long the object of unrequited attachment to many a little Avoncestrian, a creature of beauteous and unmeaning face, limpid eyes, hair that could be brushed, and all her members waxen, as far as could be seen below the provisional habiliment of pink paper that enveloped her. Little Rose’s complexion became crimson, and she did not utter a word, while her aunt, colouring almost as much, laughed and asked where were her thanks.
“Oh!” with a long gasp, “it can’t be for me!”
“Do you think it is for your aunt?” said the Colonel.
“Oh, thank you! But such a beautiful creature for me!” said Rose, with another gasp, quite oppressed. “Aunt Ermine, how shall I ever make her clothes nice enough?”
“We will see about that, my dear. Now take her into the verandah and introduce her to Violetta.”
“Yes;” then pausing and looking into the fixed eyes, “Aunt Ermine, I never saw such a beauty, except that one the little girl left behind on the bench on the esplanade, when Aunt Ailie said I should he coveting if I went on wishing Violetta was like her.”
“I remember,” said Ermine, “I have heard enough of that ‘ne plus ultra’ of doll! Indeed, Colin, you have given a great deal of pleasure, where the materials of pleasure are few. No one can guess the delight a doll is to a solitary imaginative child.”
“Thank you,” he said, smiling.
“I believe I shall enjoy it as much as Rose,” added Ermine, “both for play and as a study. Please turn my chair a little this way, I want to see the introduction to Violetta. Here comes the beauty, in Rose’s own cloak.”
Colonel Keith leant over the back of her chair and silently watched, but the scene was not quite what they expected. Violetta was sitting in her “slantingdicular” position on her chair placed on a bench, and her little mistress knelt down before her, took her in her arms, and began to hug her.
“Violetta, darling, you need not be afraid! There is a new beautiful creature come, and I shall call her Colinette, and we must be very kind to her, because Colonel Keith is so good, and knows your grandpapa; and to tell you a great secret, Violetta, that you must not tell Colinette or anybody, I think he is Aunt Ermine’s own true knight.”
“Hush!” whispered the Colonel, over Ermine’s head, as he perceived her about to speak.
“So you must be very good to her, Violetta, and you shall help me make her clothes; but you need not be afraid I ever could love any one half or one quarter as much as you, my own dear child, not if she were ten times as beautiful, and so come and show her to Augustus. She’ll never be like you, dear old darling.”
“It is a study,” said the Colonel, as Rose moved off with a doll in either hand; “a moral that you should take home.”
Ermine shook her head, but smiled, saying, “Tell me, does your young cousin know—”
“Alick Keith! Not from me, and Lady Temple is perfectly to be trusted; but I believe his father knew it was for no worse reason that I was made to exchange. But never mind, Ermine, he is a very good fellow, and what is the use of making a secret of what even Violetta knows?”
There was no debating the point, for her desire of secrecy was prompted by the resolution to leave him unbound, whereas his wish for publicity was with the purpose of binding himself, and Ermine was determined that discussion was above all to be avoided, and that she would, after the first explanation, keep the conversation upon other subjects. So she only answered with another reproving look and smile, and said, “And now I am going to make you useful. The editor of the ‘Traveller’ is travelling, and has left his work to me. I have been keeping some letters for him to answer in his own hand, because mine betrays womanhood; but I have just heard that he is to stay about six weeks more, and people must be put out of their misery before that. Will you copy a few for me? Here is some paper with the office stamp.”
“What an important woman you are, Ermine.”
“If you had been in England all this time, you would see how easy the step is into literary work; but you must not betray this for the ‘Traveller’s’ sake or Ailie’s.”
“Your writing is not very womanish,” said the colonel, as she gave him his task. “Or is this yours? It is not like that of those verses on Malvern hills that you copied out for me, the only thing you ever gave me.”
“I hope it is more to the purpose than it was then, and it has had to learn to write in all sorts of attitudes.”
“What’s this?” as he went on with the paper; “your manuscript entitled ‘Curatocult.’ Is that the word? I had taken it for the produce of Miss Curtis’s unassisted genius.”
“Have you heard her use it!” said Ermine, disconcerted, having by no means intended to betray Rachel.
“Oh yes! I heard her declaiming on Sunday about what she knows no more about than Conrade! A detestable, pragmatical, domineering girl! I am thankful that I advised Lady Temple only to take the house for a year. It was right she should see her relations, but she must not be tyrannized over.”
“I don’t believe she dislikes it.”
“She dislikes no one! She used to profess a liking for a huge Irishwoman, whose husband had risen from the ranks; the most tremendous woman I ever saw, except Miss Curtis.”
“You know they were brought up together like sisters.”
“All the worse, for she has the habit of passive submission. If it were the mother it would be all right, and I should be thankful to see her in good keeping, but the mother and sister go for nothing, and down comes this girl to battle every suggestion with principles picked up from every catchpenny periodical, things she does not half understand, and enunciates as if no one had even heard of them before.”
“I believe she seldom meets any one who has. I mean to whom they are matters of thought. I really do like her vigour and earnestness.”
“Don’t say so, Ermine! One reason why she is so intolerable to me is that she is a grotesque caricature of what you used to be.”
“You have hit it! I see why I always liked her, besides that it is pleasant to have any sort of visit, and a good scrimmage is refreshing; she is just what I should have been without papa and Edward to keep me down, and without the civilizing atmosphere at the park.”
“Never.”
“No, I was not her equal in energy and beneficence, and I was younger when you came. But I feel for her longing to be up and doing, and her puzzled chafing against constraint and conventionality, though it breaks out in very odd effervescences.”
“Extremely generous of you when you must be bored to death with her interminable talk.”
“You don’t appreciate the pleasure of variety! Besides, she really interests me, she is so full of vigorous crudities. I believe all that is unpleasing in her arises from her being considered as the clever woman of the family; having no man nearly connected enough to keep her in check, and living in society that does not fairly meet her. I want you to talk to her, and take her in hand.”
“Me! Thank you, Ermine! Why, I could not even stand her talking about you, though she has the one grace of valuing you.”
“Then you ought, in common gratitude, for there is no little greatness of soul in patiently coming down to Mackarel Lane to be snubbed by one’s cousin’s governess’s sister.”
“If you will come up to Myrtlewood, you don’t know what you may do.”
“No, you are to set no more people upon me, though Lady Temple’s eyes are very wistful.”
“I did not think you would have held out against her.”
“Not when I had against you? No, indeed, though I never did see anybody more winning than she is in that meek, submissive gentleness! Alison says she has cheered up and grown like another creature since your arrival.”
“And Alexander Keith’s. Yes, poor thing, we have brought something of her own old world, where she was a sort of little queen in her way. It is too much to ask me to have patience with these relations, Ermine. If you could see the change from the petted creature she was with her mother and husband, almost always the first lady in the place, and latterly with a colonial court of her own, and now, ordered about, advised, domineered over, made nobody of, and taking it as meekly and sweetly as if she were grateful for it! I verily believe she is! But she certainly ought to come away.”
“I am not so sure of that. It seems to me rather a dangerous responsibility to take her away from her own relations, unless there were any with equal claims.”
