“In the truest sense of the word,” he answered. And Rachel looked up with one moment’s brightening at the old allusion, but her oppression was too great for cheerfulness, and she answered—
“Dear Fanny, yes, she will be a rebuke to me forever! But,” she added, before he had time to inquire for her health, “I wanted—I wanted to beg you to do me a service. You were so kind the other night.”
His reply was to lean earnestly forward, awaiting her words, and she told him briefly of her grievous perplexity about the title-deeds.
“Then,” he said, “you would wish for me to see the man and ascertain how he has disposed of them.”
“I should be most grateful!”
“I will do my utmost. Perhaps I may not succeed immediately, as I believe visitors are not admitted every day, and he is said to be busy preparing his defence, but I will try, and let you know.”
“Thanks, thanks! The doubt is terrible, for I know worry about it would distract my mother.”
“I do not imagine,” he said, “that much worse consequences than worry could ensue. But there are none more trying.”
“Oh not none!”
“Do not let worry about this increase other ills,” he said, kindly; “do not think about this again till you hear from me.”
“Is that possible?”
“I should not have thought so, if I had not watched my uncle cast off troubles about his eyesight and the keeping his living.”
“Ah! but those were not of his own making.”
“ ‘There is a sparkle even in the darkest water.’ That was a saying of his,” said Alick, looking anxiously at her pale cheek and downcast eye.
“Not when they are turbid.”
“They will clear,” he said, and smiled with a look of encouraging hope that again cheered her in spite of herself. “Meantime remember that in any way I can help you, it will be the greatest favour—” he checked himself as he observed the exceeding languor and lassitude apparent in her whole person, and only said, “My sister is too much at the bottom of it for me not to feel it the greatest kindness to me to let me try to be of the slightest use. I believe I had better go now,” as he rose and looked at her wistfully; “you are too much tired to talk.”
“I believe I am,” she said, almost reluctantly; “but thank you, this has done me good.”
“And you are really getting better?”
“Yes, I believe so. Perhaps I may feel it when this terrible day is over.”
What a comfort it would be, she said to herself, when he was gone, if we had but a near relation like him, who would act for the mother, instead of our being delivered up, bound hand and foot, to Mr. Cox. It would have been refreshing to have kept him now, if I could have done it without talking; it really seemed to keep the horrible thoughts in abeyance, to hear that wonderfully gentle tone! And how kind and soft the look was! I do feel stronger for it! Will it really be better after next week? Alas! that will have undone nothing.
Yet even this perception of a possibility of hope that there would be relief after the ordeal, was new to Rachel; and it soon gave way to that trying feature of illness, the insurmountable dread of the mere physical fatigue. The Dean of Avoncester, a kind old friend of Mrs. Curtis, had insisted on the mother and daughters coming to sleep at the Deanery, on the Tuesday night, and remaining till the day after the trial; but Rachel’s imagination was not even as yet equal to the endurance of the long drive, far less of the formality of a visit. Lady Temple was likewise asked to the Deanery, but Conrade was still too ill for her to think of leaving him for more than the few needful hours of the trial; nor had Alison been able to do more than pay an occasional visit at her sister’s window to exchange reports, and so absorbed was she in her boys and their mother, that it was quite an effort of recollection to keep up to Ermine’s accounts of Colonel Keith’s doings.
It was on the Monday afternoon, the first time she had ventured into the room, taking advantage of Rose having condescended to go out with the Temple nursery establishment, when she found Ermine’s transparent face all alive with expectation. “He may come any time now,” she said; “his coming today or tomorrow was to depend on his getting his business done on Saturday or not.”
And in a few minutes’ time the well-known knock was heard, and Ermine, with a look half arch half gay, surprised her sister by rising with the aid of the arm of her chair, and adjusting a crutch that had been leaning against it.
“Why Ermine! you could not bear the jarring of that crutch—”
“Five or six years ago, Ailie, when I was a much poorer creature,” then as the door opened, “I would make you a curtsey, Colonel Keith, but I am afraid I can’t quite do that,” though still she moved nearer to meet him, but perhaps there was a look of helplessness which made her exultation piteous, for he responded with an exclamation of alarm, put out his arm to support her, and did not relax a frown of anxiety till he had placed her safe in her chair again, while she laughed perhaps a little less freely, and said, “See what it is to have had to shift for oneself!”
“You met me with your eyes the first time, Ermine, and I never missed anything.”
“Well, I think it is hard not to have been more congratulated on my great achievement! I thought I should have had at least as much credit as Widdrington, my favourite hero and model.”
“When you have an arm to support you it may be all very well, and I shall never stand
