"My trust
Like a good parent did beget of him
A falsehood in its contrary as great
As my trust was, which had indeed no limit."--TEMPEST.
Rose found the wheeled chair, to which her aunt gave the preference, was
engaged, and shaking her little discreet head at "the shakey chair" and
"the stuffy chair," she turned pensively homeward, and was speeding down
Mackarel Lane, when she was stayed by the words, "My little girl!" and
the grandest and most bearded gentleman she had ever seen, demanded,
"Can you tell me if Miss Williams lives here?"
"My aunt?" exclaimed Rose, gazing up with her pretty, frightened-fawn
look.
"Indeed!" he exclaimed, looking eagerly at her, "then you are the child
of a very old friend of mine! Did you never hear him speak of his old
school-fellow, Colin Keith?"
"Papa is away," said Rose, turning back her neck to get a full view of
his face from under the brim of her hat.
"'Will you run on and ask your aunt if she would like to see me?" he
added.
Thus it was that Ermine heard the quick patter of the child's steps,
followed by the manly tread, and the words sounded in her ears, "Aunt
Ermine, there's a gentleman, and he has a great beard, and he says he is
papa's old friend! And here he is."
Ermine's beaming eyes as absolutely met the new comer as though she had
sprung forward. "I thought you would come," she said, in a voice serene
with exceeding bliss.
"I have found you at last," as their hands clasped; and they gazed into
each other's faces in the untroubled repose of the meeting, exclusive of
all else.
Ermine was the first to break silence. "Oh, Colin, you look worn and
altered."
"You don't; you have kept your sunbeam face for me with the dear brown
glow I never thought to have seen again. Why did they tell me you were
an invalid, Ermine?"
"Have you not seen Alison?" she asked, supposing he would have known
all.
"I saw her, but did not hear her name, till just now at luncheon, when
our looks met, and I saw it was not another disappointment."
"And she knows you are come to me?"
"It was not in me to speak to her till I had recovered you! One can
forgive, but not forget."
"You will do more when you know her, and how she has only lived and
worked for me, dear Ailie, and suffered far more than I--"
"While I was suffering from being unable to do anything but live for
you," he repeated, taking up her words; "but that is ended now--" and as
she made a negative motion of her head, "have you not trusted to me?"
"I have thought you not living," she said; "the last I know was your
letter to dear Lady Alison, written from the hospital at Cape Town,
after your wound. She was ill even when it came, and she could only give
it to Ailie for me."