"'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."