Deborah was touched. She took the girl’s hand and answered very gently:
“I don’t want to take him away from you. I shall be very glad if your aunt will take him in for a little while.”
So Rees was half-led, half-carried out of the house and along the little court, and lifted into a cab, in which he and Deborah and the faithful Marion were driven slowly as far as Hill street, where old Lady Susan Mortimer lived. As Lady Marion had prophesied, they were all made welcome by the little old lady, who was of a highly sentimental turn of mind, and took her grandniece’s part heartily against the girl’s more worldly-minded parents. She sent at once for her own doctor, and in the meantime had Rees carried into the best bed-room, a large and gloomy chamber, with a funereal four-post bedstead of carved wood, with hangings darkened by age.
When the young fellow had been laid carefully on this sombre couch, Deborah, who saw that he would have no lack of attention, attempted to retire from the bedside. But Rees, who had been lying with closed eyes, opened them suddenly to say:
“Where are you going, Deborah?”
“I’m going back to Carstow to tell mamma you are all right. She will be anxious.”
He half raised himself feebly.
“Very well, then, I shall come with you,” he whispered obstinately. “I’m not going to stay here without you.”
“Nonsense, Rees. You mustn’t be ungrateful. It would kill you to travel to-night.”
In the meantime, poor, meek-spirited Lady Marion had begged her great-aunt to invite Deborah to stay.