My family don't feel my pangs of conscience.
The end being to bring you and Rachel together again, my wife and daughters pass over the means employed to gain it, as composedly as if they were Jesuits."
"I am infinitely obliged to them.
What is this key?"
"The key of the gate in my back-garden wall.
Be there at three this afternoon.
Let yourself into the garden, and make your way in by the conservatory door.
Cross the small drawing-room, and open the door in front of you which leads into the music-room.
There, you will find Rachel--and find her, alone."
"How can I thank you!"
"I will tell you how. Don't blame me for what happens afterwards."
With those words, he went out.
I had many weary hours still to wait through.
To while away the time, I looked at my letters.
Among them was a letter from Betteredge.
I opened it eagerly.
To my surprise and disappointment, it began with an apology warning me to expect no news of any importance.
In the next sentence the everlasting Ezra Jennings appeared again!
He had stopped Betteredge on the way out of the station, and had asked who I was.
Informed on this point, he had mentioned having seen me to his master Mr. Candy.
Mr. Candy hearing of this, had himself driven over to Betteredge, to express his regret at our having missed each other.
He had a reason for wishing particularly to speak to me; and when I was next in the neighbourhood of Frizinghall, he begged I would let him know.
Apart from a few characteristic utterances of the Betteredge philosophy, this was the sum and substance of my correspondent's letter.
The warm-hearted, faithful old man acknowledged that he had written "mainly for the pleasure of writing to me."
I crumpled up the letter in my pocket, and forgot it the moment after, in the all-absorbing interest of my coming interview with Rachel.
As the clock of Hampstead church struck three, I put Mr. Bruff's key into the lock of the door in the wall.
When I first stepped into the garden, and while I was securing the door again on the inner side, I own to having felt a certain guilty doubtfulness about what might happen next.
I looked furtively on either side of me; suspicious of the presence of some unexpected witness in some unknown corner of the garden.
Nothing appeared, to justify my apprehensions.
The walks were, one and all, solitudes; and the birds and the bees were the only witnesses.
I passed through the garden; entered the conservatory; and crossed the small drawing-room.
As I laid my hand on the door opposite, I heard a few plaintive chords struck on the piano in the room within.
She had often idled over the instrument in this way, when I was staying at her mother's house.
I was obliged to wait a little, to steady myself.
The past and present rose side by side, at that supreme moment--and the contrast shook me.
After the lapse of a minute, I roused my manhood, and opened the door.
CHAPTER VII
At the moment when I showed myself in the doorway, Rachel rose from the piano.
I closed the door behind me.
We confronted each other in silence, with the full length of the room between us.
The movement she had made in rising appeared to be the one exertion of which she was capable.
All use of every other faculty, bodily or mental, seemed to be merged in the mere act of looking at me.
A fear crossed my mind that I had shown myself too suddenly.
I advanced a few steps towards her.
I said gently,
"Rachel!"
The sound of my voice brought the life back to her limbs, and the colour to her face.
She advanced, on her side, still without speaking.
Slowly, as if acting under some influence independent of her own will, she came nearer and nearer to me; the warm dusky colour flushing her cheeks, the light of reviving intelligence brightening every instant in her eyes.
I forgot the object that had brought me into her presence; I forgot the vile suspicion that rested on my good name; I forgot every consideration, past, present, and future, which I was bound to remember.