“Perhaps,” said Ermine, with a shade of mimicry in her voice, “when Lady Temple is married to the Colonel. There now, I have gone and told you! I did try to resolve I would not.”
“And what did you say?”
“I thought it due to Lady Temple to tell him exactly how she regarded you.”
“Yes, Ermine, and it is due to tell others also. I cannot go on on these terms, either here or at Myrtlewood, unless the true state of the case is known. If you will not let me be a married man, I must be an engaged one, either to you or to the little Banksia.”
This periphrasis was needful, because Rose was curled up in a corner with a book, and her accessibility to outward impressions was dubious. It might be partly for that reason, partly from the tone of fixed resolve in his voice, that Ermine made answer, “As you please.”
It was calmly said, with the sweet, grave, confiding smile that told how she trusted to his judgment, and accepted his will. The look and tone brought his hand at once to press hers in eager gratitude, but still she would not pursue this branch of the subject; she looked up to him and said gently, but firmly, “Yes, it may be better that the true state of the case should be known,” and he felt that she thus conveyed that he must not press her further, so he let her continue, “At first I thought it would do him good, he began pitying us so vehemently; but when he found I did not pity myself, he was as ready to forget our troubles as—you are to forget his,” she added, catching Colin’s fixed eye, more intent on herself than on her narrative.
“I beg his pardon, but there are things that come more home.”
“So thought he,” said Ermine.
“Did you find out,” said Colin, now quite recalled, “what made him take courage?”
“When he had once come to the subject, it seemed to be a relief to tell it all out, but he was so faltering and agitated that I did not always follow what he said. I gather, though, that Lady Temple has used him a little as a defence from other perils.”