We found Aunt Ablewhite and Mr. Bruff at luncheon.  When Rachel declined eating anything, and gave as a reason for it that she was suffering from a headache, the lawyer’s cunning instantly saw, and seized, the chance that she had given him.

“There is only one remedy for a headache,” said this horrible old man.  “A walk, Miss Rachel, is the thing to cure you.  I am entirely at your service, if you will honour me by accepting my arm.”

“With the greatest pleasure.  A walk is the very thing I was longing for.”

“It’s past two,” I gently suggested.  “And the afternoon service, Rachel, begins at three.”

“How can you expect me to go to church again,” she asked, petulantly, “with such a headache as mine?”

Mr. Bruff officiously opened the door for her.  In another minute more they were both out of the house.  I don’t know when I have felt the solemn duty of interfering so strongly as I felt it at that moment.  But what was to be done?  Nothing was to be done but to interfere at the first opportunity, later in the day.

On my return from the afternoon service I found that they had just got back.  One look at them told me that the lawyer had said what he wanted to say.  I had never before seen Rachel so silent and so thoughtful.  I had never before seen Mr. Bruff pay her such devoted attention, and look at her with such marked respect.  He had (or pretended that he had) an engagement to dinner that day—­and he took an early leave of us all; intending to go back to London by the first train the next morning.

“Are you sure of your own resolution?” he said to Rachel at the door.

“Quite sure,” she answered—­and so they parted.

The moment his back was turned, Rachel withdrew to her own room.  She never appeared at dinner.  Her maid (the person with the cap-ribbons) was sent down-stairs to announce that her headache had returned.  I ran up to her and made all sorts of sisterly offers through the door.  It was locked, and she kept it locked.  Plenty of obstructive material to work on here!  I felt greatly cheered and stimulated by her locking the door.

When her cup of tea went up to her the next morning, I followed it in.  I sat by her bedside and said a few earnest words.  She listened with languid civility.  I noticed my serious friend’s precious publications huddled together on a table in a corner.  Had she chanced to look into them?—­I asked.  Yes—­and they had not interested her.  Would she allow me to read a few passages of the deepest interest, which had probably escaped her eye?  No, not now—­she had other things to think of.  She gave these answers, with her attention apparently absorbed in folding and refolding the frilling on her nightgown.  It was plainly necessary to rouse her by some reference to those worldly interests which she still had at heart.

“Do you know, love,” I said, “I had an odd fancy, yesterday, about Mr. Bruff?  I thought, when I saw you after your walk with him, that he had been telling you some bad news.”