I describe this aimless flitting about from one place of residence to

another--this insatiate restlessness of body and appalling stagnation

of soul--merely with the view to arriving at results. The event which

(under Providence) proved to be the means of bringing Rachel Verinder

and myself together again, was no other than the hiring of the house at

Brighton.

My Aunt Ablewhite is a large, silent, fair-complexioned woman, with one

noteworthy point in her character. From the hour of her birth she has

never been known to do anything for herself. She has gone through life,

accepting everybody's help, and adopting everybody's opinions. A

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more hopeless person, in a spiritual point of view, I have never met

with--there is absolutely, in this perplexing case, no obstructive

material to work upon. Aunt Ablewhite would listen to the Grand Lama of

Thibet exactly as she listens to Me, and would reflect his views quite

as readily as she reflects mine. She found the furnished house at

Brighton by stopping at an hotel in London, composing herself on a

sofa, and sending for her son. She discovered the necessary servants

by breakfasting in bed one morning (still at the hotel), and giving her

maid a holiday on condition that the girl "would begin enjoying herself

by fetching Miss Clack." I found her placidly fanning herself in her

dressing-gown at eleven o'clock. "Drusilla, dear, I want some servants.

You are so clever--please get them for me." I looked round the untidy

room. The church-bells were going for a week-day service; they suggested

a word of affectionate remonstrance on my part. "Oh, aunt!" I said

sadly. "Is THIS worthy of a Christian Englishwoman? Is the passage from

time to eternity to be made in THIS manner?" My aunt answered, "I'll put

on my gown, Drusilla, if you will be kind enough to help me." What was

to be said after that? I have done wonders with murderesses--I have

never advanced an inch with Aunt Ablewhite. "Where is the list," I

asked, "of the servants whom you require?" My aunt shook her head; she

hadn't even energy enough to keep the list. "Rachel has got it, dear,"

she said, "in the next room." I went into the next room, and so saw

Rachel again for the first time since we had parted in Montagu Square.

She looked pitiably small and thin in her deep mourning. If I attached

any serious importance to such a perishable trifle as personal

appearance, I might be inclined to add that hers was one of those

unfortunate complexions which always suffer when not relieved by a

border of white next the skin. But what are our complexions and our

looks? Hindrances and pitfalls, dear girls, which beset us on our way

to higher things! Greatly to my surprise, Rachel rose when I entered the

room, and came forward to meet me with outstretched hand.




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