'By God's help,' was the reverent answer which emboldened Albinia to
look up at him, as he stood with Maurice clinging by both hands to
him. She had done him injustice, and her heart bounded at the sight
of the flush on his cheek, the light in his eyes, and the expression
on his lips, making his face finer and more manly than she had ever
seen it, as if the grave necessity, and the awe of the unseen
glorious danger, were fixing and elevating his wandering purpose. To
have no choice was a blessing to an infirm will, and to be inevitably
out of his own power braced him and gave him rest. She held out her
hand to him, and there was a grasp of inexpressible feeling, the
first renewal of their old terms of sympathy and confidence.
There was no time to be lost; Mr. Kendal would go to London with him
by the last train that day, to fit him out as speedily as possible,
before he started for Cork.
Every one felt dizzy, and there was no space for aught but action.
Perhaps Albinia was glad of the hurry, she could not talk to Gilbert
till she had learnt to put faith in him, and she would rather do him
substantial kindnesses than be made the sharer of feelings that had
too often proved like the growth of the seed which found no depth of
earth.
She ran about for him, worked for him, contrived for him, and gave
him directions; she could not, or would not, perceive his yearning
for an effusion of penitent tenderness.
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