But we, who know Tappitt best, may declare now that his vote was to have been had by any one who would have joined him energetically in abuse of Luke Rowan. His mind was full of his grievance. His heart was laden with hatred of his enemy. His very soul was heavy with that sorrow. Honyman, whom he had not yet dared to desert, had again recommended submission to him, submission to one of the three terms proposed. Let him take the thousand a year and go out from the brewery. That was Honyman's first advice. If not that, then let him admit his enemy to a full partnership. If that were too distasteful to be possible, then let him raise ten thousand pounds on a mortgage on the whole property, and buy Rowan out. Honyman thought that the money might be raised if Tappitt were willing to throw into the lump the moderate savings of his past life. But in answer to either proposal Tappitt only raved. Had Mr. Hart known all about this, he might doubtless have secured Tappitt's vote.
Butler Cornbury refused to call at the brewery. "The man's a liberal," he said to his wife, "and what's the use? Besides he's just the man I can't stand. We've always hated each other."
Whereupon Mrs. B. Cornbury determined to call on Mrs. Tappitt, and to see Tappitt himself if it were possible. She had heard something of the Rowan troubles, but not all. She had heard, too, of Rowan's liking for Rachel Ray, having also seen something of it, as we know. But, unfortunately for her husband's parliamentary interests, she had not learned that the two things were connected together. And, very unfortunately also for the same interests, she had taken it into her head that Rachel should be married to young Rowan. She had conceived a liking for Rachel; and being by nature busy, fond of employment, and apt at managing other people's affairs, she had put her finger on that match as one which she would task herself to further. This, I say, was unfortunate as regards her husband's present views. Her work, now in hand, was to secure Tappitt's vote; and to have carried her point in that quarter, her surest method would have been to have entered the brewery open-mouthed against Luke Rowan and Rachel Ray.
But the conversation, almost at once, led to a word in praise of Rachel, and to following words in praise of Luke. Martha only was in the room with her mother. Mrs. Cornbury did not at once begin about the vote, but made, as was natural, certain complimentary speeches about the ball. Really she didn't remember when she had seen anything better done; and the young ladies looked so nice. She had indeed gone away early; but she had done so by no means on her own account, but because Rachel Ray had been tired. Then she said a nice good-natured genial word or two about Rachel Ray and her performance on that occasion. "It seemed to me," she added, "that a certain young gentleman was quite smitten."
Then Mrs. Tappitt's brow became black as thunder, and Mrs. Cornbury knew at once that she had trodden on unsafe ground,—on ground which she should specially have avoided.
"We are all aware," Mrs. Tappitt said, "that the certain young gentleman behaved very badly,—disgracefully, I may say;—but it wasn't our fault, Mrs. Cornbury."
"Upon my word, Mrs. Tappitt, I didn't see anything amiss."
"I'm afraid everybody saw it. Indeed, everybody has been talking of it ever since. As regards him, what he did then was only of a piece with his general conduct, which it doesn't become me to name in the language which it deserves. His behaviour to Mr. T. has been shameful;—quite shameful."
"I had heard something, but I did not know there was anything like that. I'm so sorry I mentioned his name."
"He has disagreed with papa about the brewery business," said Martha.
"It's more than that, Martha, as you know very well," continued Mrs. Tappitt, still speaking in her great heat. "He has shown himself bad in every way,—giving himself airs all over the town, and then going away without paying his debts."
"I don't think we know that, mamma."
"Everybody says so. Your own father heard Sam Griggs say with his own ears that there was a shop bill left there of I don't know how long. But that's nothing to us. He came here under false pretences, and now he's been turned out, and we don't want to have any more to do with him. But, Mrs. Cornbury, I am sorry about that poor foolish girl."
"I didn't think her poor or foolish at all," said Mrs. Cornbury, who had quite heart enough to forget the vote her husband wanted in her warmth for her young friend.
"I must say, then, I did;—I thought her very foolish, and I didn't at all like the way she went on in my house and before my girls. And as for him, he doesn't think of her any more than he thinks of me. In the first place, he's engaged to another girl."
"We are not quite sure that he's engaged, mamma," said Martha.
"I don't know what you call being sure, my dear. I can't say I've ever heard it sworn to, on oath. But his sister Mary told your sister Augusta that he was. I think that's pretty good evidence. But, Mrs. Cornbury, he's one of those that will be engaged to twenty, if he can find twenty foolish enough to listen to him. And for her, who never was at a dance before, to go on with him like that;—I must say that I thought it disgraceful!"
"Well, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, speaking with much authority in her voice, "I can only say that I didn't see it. She was under my charge, and if it was as you say I must be very much to blame,—very much indeed."
"I'm sure I didn't mean that," said Mrs. Tappitt, frightened.
"I don't suppose you did,—but I mean it. As for the young gentleman, I know very little about him. He may be everything that is bad."
"You'll find that he is, Mrs. Cornbury."
"But as to Miss Ray, whom I've known all my life, and whose mother my father has known for all her life, I cannot allow anything of the kind to be said. She was under my charge; and when young ladies are under my charge I keep a close eye upon them,—for their own comfort's sake. I know how to manage for them, and I always look after them. On the night of your party I saw nothing in Miss Ray's conduct that was not nice, ladylike, and well-behaved. I must say so; and if I hear a whisper to the contrary in any quarter, you may be sure that I shall say so open-mouthed. How d'you do, Mr. Tappitt? I'm so glad you've come in, as I specially wanted to see you." Then she shook hands with Mr. Tappitt, who entered the room at the moment, and the look and manner of her face was altered.
Mrs. Tappitt was cowed. If her husband had not come in at that moment she might have said a word or two in her own defence, being driven to do so by the absence of any other mode of retreating. But as he came in so opportunely, she allowed his coming to cover her defeat. Strong as was her feeling on the subject, she did not dare to continue her attack upon Rachel in opposition to the defiant bravery which came full upon her from Mrs. Cornbury's eyes. The words had been bad, but the determined fire of those eyes had been worse. Mrs. Tappitt was cowed, and allowed Rachel's name to pass away without further remark.
Mrs. Cornbury saw it all at a glance;—saw it all and understood it. The vote was probably lost; but it would certainly be lost if Tappitt and his wife discussed the matter before he had pledged himself. The vote would probably be lost, even though Tappitt should, in his ignorance of what had just passed, pledge himself to give it. All that Mrs. Cornbury perceived, and knew that she could lose nothing by an immediate request.
"Mr. Tappitt," said she, "I have come canvassing. The fact is this: Mr. Cornbury says you are a liberal, and that therefore he has not the face to ask you. I tell him that I think you would rather support a neighbour from the county, even though there may be a shade of difference in politics between you, than a stranger, whose trade and religion cannot possibly recommend him, and whose politics, if you really knew them, would probably be quite as much unlike your own as are my husband's."
The little speech had been prepared beforehand, but was brought out quite as naturally as though Mrs. Cornbury had been accustomed to speak on her legs for a quarter of a century.
Mr. Tappitt grunted. The attack came upon him so much by surprise that he knew not what else to do but to grunt. If Mr. Cornbury had come with the same speech in his mouth, and could then have sided off into some general abuse of Luke Rowan, the vote would have been won.
"I'm sure Mrs. Tappitt will agree with me," said Mrs. Cornbury, smiling very sweetly upon the foe she had so lately vanquished.
"Women don't know anything about it," said Tappitt, meaning to snub no one but his own wife, and forgetting that Mrs. Cornbury was a woman. He blushed fiery red when the thought flashed upon him, and wished that his own drawing-room floor would open and receive him; nevertheless he was often afterwards heard to boast how he had put down the politician in petticoats when she came electioneering to the brewery.
"Well, that is severe," said Mrs. Cornbury, laughing.
"Oh, T.! you shouldn't have said that before Mrs. Cornbury!"
"I only meant my own wife, ma'am; I didn't indeed."
"I'll forgive your satire if you'll give me your vote," said Mrs. Cornbury, with her sweetest smile. "He owes it me now; doesn't he, Mrs. Tappitt?"
"Well,—I really think he do." Mrs. Tappitt, in her double trouble,—in her own defeat and her shame on behalf of her husband's rudeness,—was driven back, out of all her latter-day conventionalities, into the thoughts and even into the language of old days. She was becoming afraid of Mrs. Cornbury, and submissive, as of old, to the rank and station of Cornbury Grange. In her terror she was becoming a little forgetful of niceties learned somewhat late in life. "I really think he do," said Mrs. Tappitt.
Tappitt grunted again.
"It's a very serious thing," he said.
"So it is," said Mrs. Cornbury, interrupting him. She knew that her chance was gone if the man were allowed to get himself mentally upon his legs. "It is very serious; but the fact that you are still in doubt shows that you have been thinking of it. We all know how good a churchman you are, and that you would not willingly send a Jew to Parliament."
"I don't know," said Tappitt. "I'm not for persecuting even the Jews;—not when they pay their way and push themselves honourably in commerce."
"Oh, yes; commerce! There is nobody who has shown himself more devoted to the commercial interests than Mr. Cornbury. We buy everything in Baslehurst. Unfortunately our people won't drink beer because of the cider."
"Tappitt doesn't think a bit about that, Mrs. Cornbury."
"I'm afraid I shall be called upon in honour to support my party," said Tappitt.
"Exactly; but which is your party? Isn't the Protestant religion of your country your party? These people are creeping down into all parts of the kingdom, and where shall we be if leading men like you think more of shades of difference between liberal and conservative than of the fundamental truths of the Church of England? Would you depute a Jew to get up and speak your own opinions in your own vestry-room?"
"That you wouldn't, T.," said Mrs. Tappitt, who was rather carried away by Mrs. Cornbury's eloquence.
"Not in a vestry, because it's joined on to a church," said Tappitt.
"Or would you like a Jew to be mayor in Baslehurst;—a Jew in the chair where you yourself were sitting only three years ago?"
"That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Roundabout Sunday." Roundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed immediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration.
"Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?"
Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothing to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian.
"I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any."
"Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Rowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage returning to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost, lost unless she would denounce the man whom Rachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was offensive; she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Rowan,—if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-will and kindly feelings had fallen. Rachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Rowan would be a word said also against Rachel; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. "Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mr. Tappitt.
"She thinks he'll come back to marry that young woman at Bragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I say that he'll never dare to show his face in Baslehurst again."
"That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, "if she trusts to a swindler like him."
"Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Ray. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Rowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I know nothing about it. What little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Ray, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt—; at any rate you'll think of it."
But had he not been defied in his own house? And as for her, the mother of those three finely educated girls, had not every word said in Rachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have risen under such provocation?
Mrs. Cornbury had got up to go, but the indignant, injured Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered.
"I'm an honest man, Mrs. Cornbury," said the brewer, "and I like to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a liberal, and I mean to support my party. Will you tell Mr. Cornbury so with my compliments? It's all nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or churchwardens, or anything like that. I shall vote for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in."
"And Mrs. Cornbury, if you have so much regard for Miss Rachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good; he's not indeed. If you ask, you'll find he's in debt everywhere."
"Swindler!" said Tappitt.
"I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Rachel yet, for she only saw him about three times,—though she was so intimate with him at our party."
Mrs. Butler Cornbury curtseyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the bell, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down to the hall door, went through the pretence of putting her into her carriage.
"She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife.
"And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about."
"And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have all the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'll rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark my words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house.
Mrs. Cornbury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Rachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-drolling way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. But when she got into her carriage, she was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That in which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Rowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears in debt. "I don't believe it." And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of unravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Rachel Ray of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Rachel Ray in her love by spreading the truth;—if, as she believed, the truth should speak in Rowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt.
As to Mr. Tappitt's vote for the election;—that was gone!
The current of events forced upon Rachel a delay of three or four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in learning whether or no she might answer it; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil. It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidings that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the young man from the brewery, angry as she had been with her sister, and disgusted as she had been with Miss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Rachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband. She had thought of him as having no right to call her Rachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger;—there had been conduct which she believed to be improper though she could not tell herself that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itself to her as having such a man to love her as Luke Rowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic,—liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child,—she had preached ascetisms till Rachel had learned to think that the world was all either ascetic or reprobate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made intelligible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny,—did not deny even to herself,—that it was wrong that she should even like to talk to Luke Rowan.
Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings; but because her female pride told her that it was well for her to claim the right of meeting this young man,—well for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand,—hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them,—may not be denied. She had been accused because of him; and she would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he,—would he give occasion for further accusation? She believed he would not; nay, she was sure; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hope; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched.
We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, inducing Mrs. Cornbury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from him as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in his eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to him with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her.
But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, till her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such expression,—so expressed that Mrs. Ray hardly knew that she had expressed it,—was not understood by Rachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Rachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was ill inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obedience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, "They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love;" but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be wronged if those rights were withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would be as one imprisoned unjustly,—as one robbed by those who should have been his friends,—as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously mutilated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared.
"I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray.
"No, mamma."
"I can see how impatient you are."
"I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything."
"If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so much; but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper."
"Oh, mamma, don't talk about it!"
"You don't like me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'll be sure to know what's right. Not that I should have liked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where."
"Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that way by anybody, that's all."
"But what was I to do? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of."
"Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Rachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. "Stop there. You shan't say another word."
"I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant."
"No, you did not; and I won't be impatient."
"Only I can't bear that look. And you know what his mother said,—and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care about Mrs. Tappitt; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose."
It must be acknowledged that Rachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were talking about her and Rowan. That Rowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Rachel everybody said; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tappitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances.
"I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was calling at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them.
"Oh yes;—very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt.
"Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother.
"She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford.
"Still waters run deepest, you know, Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her;—never. But she certainly met him half-way."
"But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford.
Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured; and though she had never gone half-way herself, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been unable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been willing to be admired by such a one as Luke Rowan.
"Well;—yes; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard,"—and she looked proudly round on Augusta,—"till we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any of the people here; he does indeed."
"That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Miss Harford, who in defending Rachel was well enough inclined to give up Luke. Indeed, Baslehurst was beginning to have a settled mind that Luke was a wolf.
"Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. "The poor girl has been very unfortunate no doubt."
After that she took her leave of the rectory.
On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table; but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Rowan.
It has already been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity, and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discontented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service still remained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Individual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man,—a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly half a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had supported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favour of the Reform Bill when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. Not that the Act of Parliament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. I doubt whether he had then thought much of it.
But when men calling themselves Commissioners came actually upon him and his, and separated off from him a district of his own town, taking it away altogether from his authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither,—then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six hundred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate,—could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and his clerical authority mutilated. He was no longertotus teres atque rotundus. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spending such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evil against his devoted country,—a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded!
But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners;—Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel;—that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life.
Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor.
"He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party."
"But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort.
"Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend."
"But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury.
"I don't know anything about yours, but mine are."
"I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain.
"Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way."
"It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship."
"Oh, well; you'll see."
"I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?"
"Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?"
"There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort.
"Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that."
"And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done.
"I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older."
"Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury.
"And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places."
"Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet."
"Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor.
The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may."
"We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort.
"I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends."
"I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor.
"He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults."
"But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours."
"The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life."
"I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor.
"I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes.
"We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made."—Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable.—"But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning."
"Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort.
"The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm."
"I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort.
"Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish."
"I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her."
Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years. No one in that room loved or felt for him anything like real friendship; but the old familiarity of the place was in his favour, and his form was known of old upon the High Street. He was not a drunkard, he lived becomingly with his wife, he had paid his way, and was a fellow-townsman. What was it to Dr. Harford, or even to Mr. Comfort, that he brewed bad beer? No man was compelled to drink it. Why should not a man employ himself, openly and legitimately, in the brewing of bad beer, if the demand for bad beer were so great as to enable him to live by the occupation? On the other hand, Luke Rowan was personally known to none of them; and they were jealous that a change should come among them with any view of teaching them a lesson or improving their condition. They believed, or thought they believed, that Mr. Tappitt had been ill-treated in his counting-house. It was grievous to them that a man with a wife and three daughters should have been threatened by a young unmarried man,—by a man whose shoulders were laden with no family burden. Whether Rowan's propositions had been in truth good or evil, just or unjust, they had not inquired, and would not probably have ascertained had they done so. But they judged the man and condemned him. Mr. Comfort was brought round to condemn him as thoroughly as did Dr. Harford,—not reflecting, as he did so, how fatal his condemnation might be to the happiness of poor Rachel Ray.
"The fact is, Butler," said the doctor, when Mr. Comfort had left them, and gone to the drawing-room;—"the fact is, your wife has not played her cards at the brewery as well as she usually does play them. She has been taking this young fellow's part; and after that I don't know how she was to expect that Tappitt would stand by you."
"No general can succeed always," said Cornbury, laughing.
"Well; some generals do. But I must confess your wife is generally very successful. Come; we'll go up-stairs; and don't you tell her that I've been finding fault. She's as good as gold, and I can't afford to quarrel with her; but I think she has tripped here."
When the old doctor and Butler Cornbury reached the drawing-room the names of Rowan and Tappitt had not been as yet banished from the conversation; but to them had been added some others. Rachel's name had been again mentioned, as had also that of Rachel's sister.
"Papa, who do you think is going to be married?" said Miss Harford.
"Not you, my dear, is it?" said the doctor.
"Mr. Prong is going to be married to Mrs. Prime," said Miss Harford, showing by the solemnity of her voice that she regarded the subject as one which should by its nature repress any further joke.
Nor was Dr. Harford inclined to joke when he heard such tidings as these. "Mr. Prong!" said he. "Nonsense; who told you?"
"Well, it was Baker told me." Mrs. Baker was the housekeeper at the Baslehurst rectory, and had been so for the last thirty years. "She learned it at Drabbit's in the High Street, where Mrs. Prime had been living since she left her mother's cottage."
"If that's true, Comfort," said the doctor, "I congratulate you on your parishioner."
"Mrs. Prime is no parishioner of mine," said the vicar of Cawston. "If it's true, I'm very sorry for her mother,—very sorry."
"I don't believe a word of it," said Mrs. Cornbury.
"Poor, wretched, unfortunate woman!" said the doctor. "Her little bit of money is all in her own hands; is it not?"
"I believe it is," said Mr. Comfort.
"Ah, yes; I dare say it's true," said the vicar. "She's been running after him ever since he's been here. I don't doubt it's true. Poor creature!—poor creature! Poor thing!" And the doctor absolutely sighed as he thought of the misery in store for Mr. Prong's future bride. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good," he said after a while. "He'll go off, no doubt, when he has got the money in his hand, and we shall be rid of him. Poor thing;—poor thing!"
Before the evening was over Mrs. Cornbury and her father had again discussed the question of Rachel's possible engagement with Luke Rowan. Mr. Comfort had declared his conviction that it would be dangerous to encourage any such hopes; whereas his daughter protested that she would not see Rachel thrown over if she could help it. "Don't condemn him yet, papa," she said.
"I don't condemn him at all, my dear; but I hardly think we shall see him back at Baslehurst. And he shouldn't have gone away without paying his debts, Patty!"
Mrs. Ray, in her trouble occasioned by Luke's letter, had walked up to Mr. Comfort's house, but had not found him at home. Therefore she had written to him, in his own study, a few very simple words, telling the matter on which she wanted his advice. Almost any other woman would have half hidden her real meaning under a cloud of ambiguous words; but with her there was no question of hiding anything from her clergyman. "Rachel has had a letter from young Mr. Rowan," she said, "and I have begged her not to answer it till I have shown it to you." So Mr. Comfort sent word down to Bragg's End that he would call at the cottage, and fixed an hour for his coming. This task was to be accomplished by him on the morning after Dr. Harford's dinner; and he had thought much of the coming conference between himself and Rachel's mother while Rowan's character was being discussed at Dr. Harford's house: but on that occasion he had said nothing to any one, not even to his daughter, of the application which had been made to him by Mrs. Ray. At eleven o'clock he presented himself at the cottage door, and, of course, found Mrs. Ray alone. Rachel had taken herself over to Mrs. Sturt, and greatly amazed that kindhearted person by her silence and confusion. "Why, my dear," said Mrs. Sturt, "you hain't got a word to-day to throw at a dog." Rachel acknowledged that she had not; and then Mrs. Sturt allowed her to remain in her silence.
"Oh, Mr. Comfort, this is so good of you!" Mrs. Ray began as soon as her friend was inside the parlour. "When I went up to the parsonage I didn't think of bringing you down here all the way;—I didn't indeed." Mr. Comfort assured her that he thought nothing of the trouble, declared that he owed her a visit, and then asked after Rachel.
"To tell you the truth, then, she's just stept across the green to Mrs. Sturt's, so as to be out of the way. It's a trying time to her, Mr. Comfort,—very; and whatever way it goes, she's a good girl,—a very good girl."
"You needn't tell me that, Mrs. Ray."
"Oh! but I must. There's her sister thinks she's encouraged this young man too freely,but—"
"By-the-by, Mrs. Ray, I've been told that Mrs. Prime is engaged to be married herself."
"Have you, now?"
"Well, yes; I heard it in Baslehurst yesterday;—to Mr. Prong."
"She's kept it so close, Mr. Comfort, I didn't think anybody had heard it."
"It is true, then?"
"I can't say she has accepted him yet. He has offered to her;—there's no doubt about that, Mr. Comfort,—and she hasn't said him no."
"Do let her look sharp after her money," said Mr. Comfort.
"Well, that's just it. She's not a bit inclined to give it up to him, I can tell you."
"I can't say, Mrs. Ray, that the connexion is one that I like very much, in any way. There's no reason at all why your eldest daughter should not marry again,but—"
"What can I do, Mr. Comfort? Of course I know he's not just what he should be,—that is, for a clergyman. When I knew he hadn't come from any of the colleges, I never had any fancy for going to hear him myself. But of course I should never have left your church, Mr. Comfort,—not if anybody had come there. And if I could have had my way with Dorothy, she would never have gone near him,—never. But what could I do, Mr. Comfort? Of course she can go where she likes."
"Mr. Prime was a gentleman and a Christian," said the vicar.
"That he was, Mr. Comfort; and a husband for a young woman to be proud of. But he was soon taken away from her—very soon! and she hasn't thought much of this world since."
"I don't know what she's thinking of now."
"It isn't of herself, Mr. Comfort; not a bit. Dorothy is very stern; but, to give her her due, it's not herself she's thinking of."
"Why does she want to marry him, then?"
"Because he's lonely without some one to do for him."
"Lonely!—and he should be lonely for me, Mrs. Ray."
"And because she says she can work in the vineyard better as a clergyman's wife."
"Pshaw! work in the vineyard, indeed! But it's no business of mine; and, as you say, I suppose you can't help it."
"Indeed I can't. She'd never think of asking me."
"I hope she'll look after her money, that's all. And what's all this about my friend Rachel? I'd a great deal sooner hear that she was going to be married,—if I knew that the man was worthy of her."
Then Mrs. Ray put her hand into her pocket, and taking out Rowan's letter, gave it to the vicar to read. As she did so, she looked into his face with eyes full of the most intense anxiety. She was herself greatly frightened by the magnitude of this marriage question. She feared the enmity of Mrs. Rowan; and she doubted the firmness of Luke. She could not keep herself from reflecting that a young man from London was very dangerous; that he might probably be a wolf; that she could not be safe in trusting her one lamb into such custody. But, nevertheless, she most earnestly hoped that Mr. Comfort's verdict might be in the young man's favour. If he would only say that the young man was not a wolf,—if he would only take upon his own clerical shoulders the responsibility of trusting the young man,—Mrs. Ray would become for the moment one of the happiest women in Devonshire. With what a beaming face,—with what a true joy,—with what smiles through her tears, would she then have welcomed Rachel back from the farm-house! How she would have watched her as she came across the green, beckoning to her eagerly, and telling all her happy tale beforehand by the signs of her joy! But there was to be no such happy tale as that told on this morning. She watched the vicar's face as he read the letter, and soon perceived that the verdict was to be given against the writer of it. I do not know that Mrs. Ray was particularly quick at reading the countenances of men, but, in this instance, she did read the countenance of Mr. Comfort. We, all of us, read more in the faces of those with whom we hold converse, than we are aware of doing. Of the truth, or want of truth in every word spoken to us, we judge, in great part, by the face of the speaker. By the face of every man and woman seen by us, whether they speak or are silent, we form a judgment,—and in nine cases out of ten our judgment is true. It is because our tenth judgment,—that judgment which has been wrong,—comes back upon us always with the effects of its error, that we teach ourselves to say that appearances cannot be trusted. If we did not trust them we should be walking ever in doubt, in darkness, and in ignorance. As Mr. Comfort read the letter, Mrs. Ray knew that it would not be allowed to her to speak words of happiness to Rachel on that day. She knew that the young man was to be set down as dangerous; but she was by no means aware that she was reading the vicar's face with precise accuracy. Mr. Comfort had been slow in his perusal, weighing the words of the letter; and when he had finished it he slowly refolded the paper and put it back into its envelope. "He means what he says," said he, as he gave the letter back to Mrs. Ray.
"Yes; I think he means what he says."
"But we cannot tell how long he may mean it; nor can we tell as yet whether such a connection would be good for Rachel, even if he should remain stedfast in such meaning. If you ask me, Mrs.Ray—"
"I do ask you, Mr. Comfort."
"Then I think we should all of us know more about him, before we allow Rachel to give him encouragement;—I do indeed."
Mrs. Ray could not quite repress in her heart a slight feeling of anger against the vicar. She remembered the words,—so different not only in their meaning, but in the tone in which they were spoken,—in which he had sanctioned Rachel's going to the ball: "Young people get to think of each other," he had then said, speaking with good-humoured, cheery voice, as though such thinking were worthy of all encouragement. He had spoken then of marriage being the happiest condition for both men and women, and had inquired as to Rowan's means. Every word that had then fallen from him had expressed his opinion that Luke Rowan was an eligible lover. But now he was named as though he were undoubtedly a wolf. Why had not Mr. Comfort said then, at that former interview, when no harm had as yet been done, that it would be desirable to know more of the young man before any encouragement was given to him? Mrs. Ray felt that she was injured; but, nevertheless, her trust in her counsellor was not on that account the less.
"I suppose it must be answered," said Mrs. Ray.
"Oh, yes; of course it should be answered."
"And who should write it, Mr. Comfort?"
"Let Rachel write it herself. Let her tell him that she is not prepared to correspond with him as yet, any further that is, you understand, than the writing of that letter."
"And about,—about,—about what he says as to loving her, you know? There has been a sort of promise between them, Mr. Comfort, and no young man could have spoken more honestly than he did."
"And he meant honestly, no doubt; but you see, Mrs. Ray, it is necessary to be so careful in these matters! It is quite evident his mother doesn't wish this marriage."
"And he shouldn't have called her a goose; should he?"
"I don't think much about that."
"Don't you, now?"
"It was all meant in good-humour. But she thinks it a bad marriage for him as regards money, and money considerations always go so far, you know. And then he's away, and you've got no hold upon him."
"That's quite true, Mr. Comfort."
"He has quarrelled with the people here. And upon my word I'm inclined to think he has not behaved very well to Mr. Tappitt."
"Hasn't he, now?"
"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Ray. They were talking about him last night in Baslehurst, and I'm afraid he has behaved badly at the brewery. There were words between him and Mr. Tappitt,—very serious words."
"Yes; I know that. He told Rachel as much as that. I think he said he was going to law with Mr. Tappitt."
"And if so, the chances are that he may never be seen here again. It's ill coming to a place where one is quarrelling with people. And as to the lawsuit, it seems to me, from what I hear, that he would certainly lose it. No doubt he has a considerable property in the brewery; but he wants to be master of everything, and that can't be reasonable, you know. And then, Mrs. Ray, there's worse than that behind."
"Worse than that!" said Mrs. Ray, in whose heart every gleam of comfort was quickly being extinguished by darkening shadows.
"They tell me that he has gone away without paying his debts. If that is so, it shows that his means cannot be very good." Then why had Mr. Comfort taken upon himself expressly to say that they were good at that interview before Mrs. Tappitt's party? That was the thought in the widow's mind at the present moment. Mr. Comfort, however, went on with his caution. "And then, when the happiness of such a girl as Rachel is concerned, it is impossible to be too careful. Where should we all be if we found that we had given her to a scamp?"
"Oh dear, oh dear! I don't think he can be a scamp;—he did take his tea so nicely."
"I don't say he is;—I don't judge him. But then we should be careful. Why didn't he pay his debts before he went away? A young man should always pay his debts."
"Perhaps he's sent it down in a money-order," said Mrs. Ray. "They are so very convenient,—that is if you've got the money."
"If he hasn't I hope he will, for I can assure you I don't want to think badly of him. Maybe he will turn out all right. And you may be sure of this, Mrs. Ray, that if he is really attached to Rachel he won't give her up, because she doesn't throw herself into his arms at his first word. There's nothing becomes a young woman like a little caution, or makes a young man think more of her. If Rachel fancies that she likes him let her hold back a while and find out what sort of stuff he's made of. If I were her I should just tell him that I thought it better to wait a little before I made any positive engagement."
"But, Mr. Comfort, how is she to begin it? You see he calls her Dearest Rachel."
"Let her say Dear Mr. Rowan. There can't be any harm in that."
"She mustn't call him Luke, I suppose."
"I think she'd better not. Young men think so much of those things."
"And she's not to say 'Yours affectionately' at the end?"
"She'll understand all that when she comes to write the letter better than we can tell her. Give her my love; and tell her from me I'm quite sure she's a dear, good girl, and that it must be a great comfort to you to know that you can trust her so thoroughly." Then, having spoken these last words, Mr. Comfort took himself away.
Rachel, sitting in the window of Mrs. Sturt's large front kitchen on the other side of the green, could see Mr. Comfort come forth from the cottage and get into his low four-wheeled carriage, which, with his boy in livery, had been standing at the garden gate during the interview. Mrs. Sturt was away among the milk-pans, scalding cream or preparing butter, and did not watch either Rachel or the visitor at the cottage. But she knew with tolerable accuracy what was going on, and with all her heart wished that her young friend might have luck with her lover. Rachel waited for a minute or two till the little carriage was out of sight, till the sound of the wheels could be no longer heard, and then she prepared to move. She slowly got herself up from her chair as though she were afraid to show herself upon the green, and paused still a few moments longer before she left the kitchen.
"So, thou's off," said Mrs. Sturt, coming in from the back regions of her territory, with the sleeves of her gown tucked up, enveloped in a large roundabout apron which covered almost all her dress. Mrs. Sturt would no more have thought of doing her work in the front kitchen than I should think of doing mine in the drawing-room. "So thou's off home again, my lass," said Mrs. Sturt.
"Yes, Mrs. Sturt. Mr. Comfort has been with mamma,—about business; and as I didn't want to be in the way I just came over to you."
"Thou art welcome, as flowers in May, morning or evening; but thee knowest that, girl. As for Mr. Comfort,—it's cold comfort he is, I always say. It's little I think of what clergymen says, unless it be out of the pulpit or the like of that. What does they know about lads and lasses?"
"He's a very old friend of mamma's."
"Old friends is always best, I'll not deny that. But, look thee here, my girl; my man's an old friend too. He's know'd thee since he lifted thee in his arms to pull the plums off that bough yonder; and he's seen thee these ten years a deal oftener than Mr. Comfort. If they say anything wrong of thy joe there, tell me, and Sturt 'll find out whether it be true or no. Don't let ere a parson in Devonshire rob thee of thy sweetheart. It's passing sweet, when true hearts meet. But it breaks the heart, when true hearts part." With the salutary advice contained in these ancient local lines Mrs. Sturt put her arms round Rachel, and having kissed her, bade her go.
With slow step she made her way across the green, hardly daring to look to the door of the cottage. But there was no figure standing at the door; and let her have looked with all her eyes, there was nothing there to have told her anything. She walked very slowly, thinking as she went of Mrs. Sturt's words—"Don't let ere a parson in Devonshire rob thee of thy sweetheart." Was it not hard upon her that she should be subjected to the misery of such discussion, seeing that she had given no hope, either to her lover or to herself, till she had received full warranty for doing so? She would do what her mother should bid her, let it be what it might; but she would be wronged,—she felt that she would be wronged and injured, grievously injured, if her mother should now bid her think of Rowan as one thinks of those that are gone.
She entered the cottage slowly, and turning into the parlour, found her mother seated there on the old sofa, opposite to the fireplace. She was seated there in stiff composure, waiting the work which she had to do. It was no customary place of hers, and she was a woman who, in the ordinary occupations of her life, never deserted her customary places. She had an old easy chair near the fireplace, and another smaller chair close to the window, and in one of these she might always be found, unless when, on special occasions like the present, some great thing had occurred to throw her out of the grooves of her life.
"Well, mamma?" said Rachel, coming in and standing before her mother. Mrs. Ray, before she spoke, looked up into her child's face, and was afraid. "Well, mamma, what has Mr. Comfort said?"
Was it not hard for Mrs. Ray that at such a moment she should have had no sort of husband on whom to lean? Does the reader remember that in the opening words of this story Mrs. Ray was described as a woman who specially needed some standing-corner, some post, some strong prop to bear her weight,—some marital authority by which she might be guided? Such prop and such guiding she had never needed more sorely than she needed them now. She looked up into Rachel's face before she spoke, and was afraid. "He has been here, my dear," she said, "and has gone away."
"Yes, mamma, I knew that," said Rachel. "I saw his phaeton drive off; that's why I came over from Mrs. Sturt's."
Rachel's voice was hard, and there was no comfort in it. It was so hard that Mrs. Ray felt it to be unkind. No doubt Rachel suffered; but did not she suffer also? Would not she have given blood from her breast, like the maternal pelican, to have secured from that clerical counsellor a verdict that might have been comforting to her child? Would she not have made any sacrifice of self for such a verdict, even though the effecting of it must have been that she herself would have been left alone and deserted in the world? Why, then, should Rachel be stern to her? If misery was to fall on both of them, it was not of her doing.
"I know you will think it's my fault, Rachel; but I cannot help it, even though you should say so. Of course I was obliged to ask some one; and who else was there that would be able to tell me so well as Mr. Comfort? You would not have liked it at all if I had gone to Dorothea; and as for Mr.Prong—"
"Oh! mamma, mamma, don't! I haven't said anything. I haven't complained of Mr. Comfort. What has he said now? You forget that you have not told me."
"No, my dear, I don't forget; I wish I could. He says that Mr. Rowan has behaved badly to Mr. Tappitt, and that he hasn't paid his debts, and that the lawsuit will be sure to go against him, and that he will never show his face in Baslehurst again; and he says, too, that it would be very wrong for you to correspond with him,—very; because a young girl like you must be so careful about such things; and he says he'll be much more likely to respect you if you don't,—don't,—don't just throw yourself into his arms like. Those were his very words; and then he says that if he really cares for you, he'll be sure to come back again, and so you're to answer the letter, and you must call him Dear Mr. Rowan. Don't call him Luke, because young men think so much about those things. And you are to tell him that there isn't to be any engagement, or any letter-writing, or anything of that sort at all. But you can just say something friendly,—about hoping he's quite well, or something of that kind. And then when you come to the end, you had better sign yourself 'Yours truly.' It won't do to say anything about affection, because one never knows how it may turn out. And,—let me see; there was only one thing more. Mr. Comfort says that you are a good girl, and that he is sure you have done nothing wrong,—not even in a word or a thought; and I say so too. You are my own beautiful child; and, Rachel,—I do so wish I could make it all right between you."
Nobody can deny that Mrs. Ray had given, with very fair accuracy, an epitome of Mr. Comfort's words; but they did not leave upon Rachel's mind a very clear idea of what she was expected to do. "Go away in debt!" she said; "who says so?"
"Mr. Comfort told me so just now. But perhaps he'll send the money in a money-order, you know."
"I don't think he would go away in debt. And why should the lawsuit go against him if he's got right on his side? He does not wish to do any harm to Mr. Tappitt."
"I don't know about that, my dear; but at any rate they've quarrelled."
"But why shouldn't that be Mr. Tappitt's fault as much as his? And as for not showing his face inBaslehurst—!Oh, mamma! don't you know him well enough to be sure that he will never be ashamed of showing his face anywhere? He not show his face! Mamma, I don't believe a word of it all,—not a word."
"Mr. Comfort said so; he did indeed." Then Mrs. Sturt's words came back upon Rachel. "Don't let ere a parson in Devonshire rob thee of thy sweetheart." This lover of hers was her only possession,—the only thing of her own winning that she had ever valued. He was her great triumph, the rich upshot of her own prowess,—and now she felt that this parson was indeed robbing her. Had he been then present, she would have risen up and spoken at him, as she had never spoken before. The spirit of rebellion against all the world was strong within her;—against all the world except that one weak woman who now sat before her on the sofa. Her eyes were full of anger, and Mrs. Ray saw that it was so; but still she was minded to obey her mother.
"It's no good talking," said Rachel; "but when they say that he's afraid to show himself in Baslehurst, I don't believe them. Does he look like a man afraid to show himself?"
"Looks are so deceitful, Rachel."
"And as for debts,—people, if they're called away by telegraph in a minute, can't pay all that they owe. There are plenty of people in Baslehurst that owe a deal more than he does, I'm sure. And he's got his share in the brewery, so that nobody need be afraid."
"Mr. Comfort didn't say that you were to quarrel with him altogether."
"Mr. Comfort! What's Mr. Comfort to me, mamma?" This was said in such a tone that Mrs. Ray absolutely started up from her seat.
"But, Rachel, he is my oldest friend. He was your father's friend."
"Why did he not say it before, then? Why—why—why—?Mamma, I can't throw him off now. Didn't I tell him that,—that,—that I would—love him? Didn't you say that it might be so,—you yourself? How am I to show my face, if I go back now? Mamma, I do love him, with all my heart and all my strength, and nothing that anybody can say can make any difference. If he owed ever so much money I should love him the same. If he had killed Mr. Tappitt it wouldn't make any difference."
"Oh, Rachel!"
"No more it would. If Mr. Tappitt began it first, it wasn't his fault."
"But Rachel, my darling,—what can we do? If he has gone away we cannot make him come back again."
"But he wrote almost immediately."
"And you are going to answer it;—are you not?"
"Yes;—but what sort of an answer, mamma? How can I expect that he will ever want to see me again when I have written to him in that way? I won't say anything about hoping that he's very well. If I may not tell him that he's my own, own, own Luke, and that I love him with all my heart, I'll bid him stay away and not trouble himself any further. I wonder what he'll think of me when I write in that way!"
"If he's constant-hearted he'll wait a while and then he'll come back again."
"Why should he come back when I've treated him in that way? What have I got to give him? Mamma, you may write the letter yourself, and put in it what you please."
"Mr. Comfort said that you had better write it."
"Mr. Comfort! I don't know why I'm to do all that Mr. Comfort tells me," and then those other words of Mrs. Sturt's recurred to her, "It's little I think of what a clergyman says unless it be out of a pulpit." After that there was nothing further said for some minutes. Mrs. Ray still sat on the sofa, and as she gazed upon the table which stood in the middle of the room, she wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. Rachel was now seated in a chair with her back almost turned to her mother, and was beating with her impatient fingers on the table. She was very angry,—angry even with her mother; and she was half broken-hearted, truly believing that such a letter as that which she was desired to write would estrange her lover from her for ever. So they sat, and for a few minutes no word was spoken between them.
"Rachel," said Mrs. Ray at last, "if wrong has been done, is it not better that it should be undone?"
"What wrong have I done?" said Rachel, jumping up.
"It is I that have done it,—not you."
"No, mamma; you have done no wrong."
"I should have known more before I let him come here and encouraged you to think of him. It has been my fault. My dear, will you not forgive me?"
"Mamma, there has been no fault. There is nothing to forgive."
"I have made you unhappy, my child," and then Mrs. Ray burst out into open tears.
"No, mamma, I won't be unhappy;—or if I am I will bear it." Then she got up and threw her arms round her mother's neck, and embraced her. "I will write the letter, but I will not write it now. You shall see it before it goes."