CHAPTER XIII.
RACHEL ON THE PHILOSOPHY OF MARRIAGE.
PROBABLY no girl of nineteen—probably no man or woman of any age—ever died of a broken heart, unless when that complaint was complicated and aggravated by the presence of physical disease of some sort.
Rachel's constitution was sound, albeit her nervous organisation was extremely delicate, and she did not die, neither under this bitter first blow, nor later on, when she had still sharper provocations.
A little tender petting and coddling at the hands of her cousin Beatrice, who was now her devoted ally and friend, did more to restore her than all the doctor's medicines and all her aunt's jellies and broths.
The very talking of her troubles eased and soothed her, and gave her a sense of refreshment and rest, and though Beatrice offered her no encouragement on Mr. Dalrymple's behalf—and indeed hinted pretty broadly that the terrible thing which had happened was an inevitable sequel and corrective to a lapse of reason that partook of the character of temporary insanity, to say the least of it—she was heartily if not demonstratively sympathetic.
Within a fortnight of her cousin's return she reached that stage of convalescence which made the removal to South Yarra justifiable, and in the doctor's opinion expedient.
Mrs. Reade had great difficulty in carrying out this little enterprise. Her mother had never shown herself so impracticable.
She was determined not to let Rachel out of her sight, she said; and she stuck to that determination against many artful manœuvres so steadily that the powerful small woman, little accustomed to be thwarted, and still less to own to it, nearly made up her mind to confess herself beaten, and to break the disappointment to Rachel.