"Yes, mamma, three times. I should have stayed later only I was engaged to dance with him twice more; and I didn't choose to do so."
"Was he—? Did he—?"
"Oh, mamma; I can't tell you. I don't know how to tell you. I wish you knew it all without my saying anything. He says he shall come here to-morrow if I don't go up to the brewery; and I can't possibly go there now, after that."
"Did he say anything more than that, Rachel?"
"He calls me Rachel, and speaks—I can't tell you how he speaks. If you think it wrong, mamma, I won't ever see him again."
Mrs. Ray didn't know whether she ought to think it wrong or not. She was inclined to wish that it was right and to believe that it was wrong. A few minutes ago Rachel was unable to open her mouth, and was anxious to escape to bed; but, now that the ice was broken between her and her mother, they sat up for more than an hour talking about Luke Rowan.
"I wonder whether he will really come?" Rachel said to herself, as she laid her head upon her pillow—"and why does he want to come?"
Mrs. Tappitt's ball was celebrated on a Tuesday, and on the preceding Monday Mrs. Prime moved herself off, bag and baggage, to Miss Pucker's lodgings. Miss Pucker had been elated with a dismal joy when the proposition was first made to her. "Oh, yes; it was very dreadful. She would do anything;—of course she would give up the front bedroom up-stairs to Mrs. Prime, and get a stretcher for herself in the little room behind, which looked out on the tiles of Griggs' sugar warehouse. She hadn't thought such a thing would have been possible; she really had not. A ball! Mrs. Prime couldn't help coming away;—of course not. And there would be plenty of room for all her boxes in the small room behind the shop. Mrs. Ray's daughter go to a ball!" And then some threatening words were said as to the destiny of wicked people, which shall not be repeated here.
That flitting had been a very dismal affair. An old man out of Baslehurst had come for Mrs. Prime's things with a donkey-cart, and the old man, assisted by the girl, had carried them out together. Rachel had remained secluded in her mother's room. The two sisters had met at the same table at breakfast, but had not spoken over their tea and bread and butter. As Rachel was taking the cloth away Mrs. Prime had asked her solemnly whether she still persisted in bringing perdition upon herself and her mother. "You have no right to ask me such a question," Rachel had answered, and taking herself up-stairs had secluded herself till the old man with the donkey, followed by Mrs. Prime, had taken himself away from Bragg's End. Mrs. Ray, as her eldest daughter was leaving her, stood at the door of her house with her handkerchief to her eyes. "It makes me very unhappy, Dorothea; so it does." "And it makes me very unhappy, too, mother. Perhaps my sorrow in the matter is deeper than yours. But I must do my duty." Then the two widows kissed each other with a cold unloving kiss, and Mrs. Prime had taken her departure from Bragg's End Cottage. "It will make a great difference in the housekeeping," Mrs. Ray said to Rachel, and then she went to work at her little accounts.
It was Dorcas-day at Miss Pucker's, and as the work of the meeting began soon after Mrs. Prime had unpacked her boxes in the front bedroom and had made her little domestic arrangements with her friend, that first day passed by without much tedium. Mrs. Prime was used to Miss Pucker, and was not therefore grievously troubled by the ways and habits of that lady, much as they were unlike those to which she had been accustomed at Bragg's End; but on the next morning, as she was sitting with her companion after breakfast, an idea did come into her head that Miss Pucker would not be a pleasant companion for life. She would talk incessantly of the wickednesses of the cottage, and ask repeated questions about Rachel and the young man. Mrs. Prime was undoubtedly very angry with her mother, and much shocked at her sister, but she did not relish the outspoken sympathy of her confidential friend. "He'll never marry her, you know. He don't think of such a thing," said Miss Pucker over and over again. Mrs. Prime did not find this pleasant when spoken of her sister. "And the young men I'm told goes on anyhow, as they pleases at them dances," said Miss Pucker, who in the warmth of her intimacy forgot some of those little restrictions in speech with which she had burdened herself when first striving to acquire the friendship of Mrs. Prime. Before dinner was over Mrs. Prime had made up her mind that she must soon move her staff again, and establish herself somewhere in solitude.
After tea she took herself out for a walk, having managed to decline Miss Pucker's attendance, and as she walked she thought of Mr. Prong. Would it not be well for her to go to him and ask his further advice? He would tell her in what way she had better live. He would tell her also whether it was impossible that she should ever return to the cottage, for already her heart was becoming somewhat more soft than was its wont. And as she walked she met Mr. Prong himself, intent on his pastoral business. "I was thinking of coming to you to-morrow," she said, after their first salutation was over.
"Do," said he; "do; come early,—before the toil of the day's work commences. I also am specially anxious to see you. Will nine be too early,—or, if you have not concluded your morning meal by that time, half-past nine?"
Mrs. Prime assured him that her morning meal was always concluded before nine o'clock, and promised to be with him by that hour. Then as she slowly paced up the High Street to the Cawston Bridge and back again, she wondered within herself as to the matter on which Mr. Prong could specially want to see her. He might probably desire to claim her services for some woman's work in his sheepfold. He should have them willingly, for she had begun to feel that she would sooner co-operate with Mr. Prong than with Miss Pucker. As she returned down the High Street, and came near to her own door, she saw the cause of all her family troubles standing at the entrance to Griggs's wine-store. He was talking to the shopman within, and as she passed she frowned grimly beneath her widow's bonnet. "Send them to the brewery at once," said Luke Rowan to the man. "They are wanted this evening."
"I understand," said the man.
"And tell your fellow to take them round to the back door."
"All right," said the man, winking with one eye. He understood very well that young Rowan was ordering the champagne for Mrs. Tappitt's supper, and that it was thought desirable that Mr. Tappitt shouldn't see the bottles going into the house.
Miss Pucker possessed at any rate the virtue of being early, so that Mrs. Prime had no difficulty in concluding her "morning meal," and being at Mr. Prong's house punctually at nine o'clock. Mr. Prong, it seemed, had not been quite so steadfast to his purpose, for his teapot was still upon the table, together with the debris of a large dish of shrimps, the eating of small shell-fish being an innocent enjoyment to which he was much addicted.
"Dear me; so it is; just nine. We'll have these things away in a minute. Mrs. Mudge; Mrs. Mudge!" Whereupon Mrs. Mudge came forth, and between the three the table was soon cleared. "I wish you hadn't caught me so late," said Mr. Prong; "it looks as though I hadn't been thinking of you." Then he picked up the stray shell of a shrimp, and in order that he might get rid of it, put it into his mouth. Mrs. Prime said she hoped she didn't trouble him, and that of course she didn't expect him to be thinking about her particularly. Then Mr. Prong looked at her in a way that was very particular out of the corner of his eyes, and assured her that he had been thinking of her all night. After that Mrs. Prime sat down on a horsehair-seated chair, and Mr. Prong sat on another opposite to her, leaning back, with his eyes nearly closed, and his hands folded upon his lap.
"I don't think Miss Pucker's will quite do for me," said Mrs. Prime, beginning her story first.
"I never thought it would, my friend," said Mr. Prong, with his eyes still nearly closed.
"She's a very good woman,—an excellent woman, and her heart is full of love and charity.But—"
"I quite understand it, my friend. She is not in all things the companion you desire."
"I am not quite sure that I shall want any companion."
"Ah!" sighed Mr. Prong, shaking his head, but still keeping his eyes closed.
"I think I would rather be alone, if I do not return to them at the cottage. I would fain return if onlythey—"
"If only they would return too. Yes! That would be a glorious end to the struggle you have made, if you can bring them back with you from following after the Evil One! But you cannot return to them now, if you are to countenance by your presence dancings and love-makings in the open air,"—why worse in the open air than in a close little parlour in a back street, Mr. Prong did not say,—"and loud revellings, and the absence of all good works, and rebellion against the Spirit." Mr. Prong was becoming energetic in his language, and at one time had raised himself in his chair, and opened his eyes. But he closed them at once, and again fell back. "No, my friend," said he, "no. It must not be so. They must be rescued from the burning; but not so,—not so." After that for a minute or two they both sat still in silence.
"I think I shall get two small rooms for myself in one of the quiet streets, near the new church," said she.
"Ah, yes, perhaps so,—for a time."
"Till I may be able to go back to mother. It's a sad thing families being divided, Mr. Prong."
"Yes, it is sad;—unless it tends to the doing of the Lord's work."
"But I hope;—I do hope, that all this may be changed. Rachel I know is obstinate, but mother means well, Mr. Prong. She means to do her duty, if only she had good teaching near her."
"I hope she may, I hope she may. I trust that they may both be brought to see the true light. We will wrestle for them,—you and me. We will wrestle for them,—together. Mrs. Prime, my friend, if you are prepared to hear me with attention, I have a proposition to make which I think you will acknowledge to be one of importance." Then suddenly he sat bolt upright, opened his eyes wide, and dressed his mouth with all the solemn dignity of which he was the master. "Are you prepared to listen to me, Mrs. Prime?"
Mrs. Prime, who was somewhat astonished, said in a low voice that she was prepared to listen.
"Because I must beg you to hear me out. I shall fail altogether in reaching your intelligence,—whatever effect I might possibly have upon your heart,—unless you will hear me to the end."
"I will hear you certainly, Mr. Prong."
"Yes, my friend, for it will be necessary. If I could convey to your mind all that is now passing through my own, without any spoken word, how glad should I be! The words of men, when taken at the best, how weak they are! They often tell a tale quite different from that which the creature means who uses them. Every minister has felt that in addressing his flock from the pulpit. I feel it myself sadly, but I never felt it so sadly as I do now."
Mrs. Prime did not quite understand him, but she assured him again that she would give his words her best attention, and that she would endeavour to gather from them no other meaning than that which seemed to be his. "Ah,—seemed!" said he. "There is so much of seeming in this deceitful world. But you will believe this of me, that whatever I do, I do as tending to the strengthening of my hands in the ministry." Mrs. Prime said that she would believe so much; and then as she looked into her companion's face, she became aware that there was something of weakness displayed in that assuming mouth. She did not argue about it within her own mind, but the fact had in some way become revealed to her.
"My friend," said he,—and as he spoke he drew his chair across the rug, so as to bring it very near to that on which Mrs. Prime was sitting—"our destinies in this world, yours and mine, are in many things alike. We are both alone. We both of us have our hands full of work, and of work which in many respects is the same. We are devoted to the same cause: is it not so?" Mrs. Prime, who had been told that she was to listen and not to speak, did not at first make any answer. But she was pressed by a repetition of the question. "Is it not so, Mrs. Prime?"
"I can never make my work equal to that of a minister of the Gospel," said she.
"But you can share the work of such a minister. You understand me now. And let me assure you of this; that in making this proposition to you, I am not self-seeking. It is not my own worldly comfort and happiness to which I am chiefly looking."
"Ah," said Mrs. Prime, "I suppose not." Perhaps there was in her voice the slightest touch of soreness.
"No;—not chiefly to that. I want assistance, confidential intercourse, sympathy, a congenial mind, support when I am like to faint, counsel when I am pressing on, aid when the toil is too heavy for me, a kind word when the day's work is over. And you,—do you not desire the same? Are we not alike in that, and would it not be well that we should come together?" Mr. Prong as he spoke had put out his hand, and rested it on the table with the palm upwards, as though expecting that she would put hers within it; and he had tilted his chair so as to bring his body closer to hers, and had dropped from his face his assumed look of dignity. He was quite in earnest, and being so had fallen away into his natural dispositions of body.
"I do not quite understand you," said Mrs. Prime. She did however understand him perfectly, but thought it expedient that he should be required to speak a little further before she answered him. She wanted time also to arrange her reply. As yet she had not made up her mind whether she would say yes or no.
"Mrs. Prime, I am offering to make you my wife. I have said nothing of love, of that human affection which one of God's creatures entertains for another;—not, I can assure you, because I do not feel it, but because I think that you and I should be governed in our conduct by a sense of duty, rather than by the poor creature-longings of the heart."
"The heart is very deceitful," said Mrs. Prime.
"That is true,—very true; but my heart, in this matter, is not deceitful. I entertain for you all that deep love which a man should feel for her who is to be the wife of his bosom."
"But Mr. Prong—"
"Let me finish before you give me your answer. I have thought much of this, as you may believe; and by only one consideration have I been made to doubt the propriety of taking this step. People will say that I am marrying you for,—for your money, in short. It is an insinuation which would give me much pain, but I have resolved within my own mind, that it is my duty to bear it. If my motives are pure,"—here he paused a moment for a word or two of encouragement, but received none,—"and if the thing itself be good, I ought not to be deterred by any fear of what the wicked may say. Do you not agree with me in that?"
Mrs. Prime still did not answer. She felt that any word of assent, though given by her to a minor proposition, might be taken as involving some amount of assent towards the major proposition. Mr. Prong had enjoyed the advantage of thinking over his matrimonial prospects in undisturbed solitude, but she had as yet possessed no such advantage. As the idea had never before presented itself to her, she did not feel inclined to commit herself hastily.
"And as regards money," he continued.
"Well," said Mrs. Prime, looking down demurely upon the ground, for Mr. Prong had not at once gone on to say what were his ideas about money.
"And as regards money,—need I hardly declare that my motives are pure and disinterested? I am aware that in worldly affairs you are at present better off than I am. My professional income from the pew-rents is about a hundred and thirty pounds a year."—It must be admitted that it was very hard work. By this time Mr. Prong had withdrawn his hand from the table, finding that attempt to be hopeless, and had re-settled his chair upon its four feet. He had commenced by requesting Mrs. Prime to hear him patiently, but he had probably not calculated that she would have listened with a patience so cruel and unrelenting. She did not even speak a word when he communicated to her the amount of his income. "That is what I receive here," he continued, "and you are probably aware that I have no private means of my own."
"I didn't know," said Mrs. Prime.
"No; none. But what then?"
"Oh, dear no."
"Money is but dross. Who feels that more strongly than you do?"
Mr. Prong in all that he was saying intended to be honest, and in asserting that money was dross, he believed that he spoke his true mind. He thought also that he was passing a just eulogium on Mrs. Prime, in declaring that she was of the same opinion. But he was not quite correct in this, either as regarded himself, or as regarded her. He did not covet money, but he valued it very highly; and as for Mrs. Prime, she had an almost unbounded satisfaction in her own independence. She had, after all, but two hundred a year, out of which she gave very much in charity. But this giving in charity was her luxury. Fine raiment and dainty food tempted her not at all; but nevertheless she was not free from temptations, and did not perhaps always resist them. To be mistress of her money, and to superintend the gifts, not only of herself but of others; to be great among the poor, and esteemed as a personage in her district,—that was her ambition. When Mr. Prong told her that money in her sight was dross, she merely shook her head. Why was it that she wrote those terribly caustic notes to the agent in Exeter if her quarterly payments were ever late by a single week? "Defend me from a lone widow," the agent used to say, "and especially if she's evangelical." Mrs. Prime delighted in the sight of the bit of paper which conveyed to her the possession of her periodical wealth. To her money certainly was not dross, and I doubt if it was truly so regarded by Mr. Prong himself.
"Any arrangements that you choose as to settlements or the like of that, could of course be made." Mr. Prong when he began, or rather when he made up his mind to begin, had determined that he would use all his best power of language in pressing his suit; but the work had been so hard that his fine language had got itself lost in the struggle. I doubt whether this made much difference with Mrs. Prime; or it may be, that he had sustained the propriety of his words as long as such propriety was needful and salutary to his purpose. Had he spoken of the "like of that" at the opening of the negotiation, he might have shocked his hearer; but now she was too deeply engaged in solid serious considerations to care much for the words which were used. "A hundred and thirty from pew-rents," she said to herself, as he endeavoured, unsuccessfully, to look under her bonnet into her face.
"I think I have said it all now," he continued. "If you will trust yourself into my keeping I will endeavour, with God's assistance, to do my duty by you. I have said but little personally of myself or of my feelings, hoping that it might be unnecessary."
"Oh, quite so," said she.
"I have spoken rather of those duties which we should undertake together in sweet companionship, if you will consent to—to—to be Mrs. Prong, in short." Then he waited for an answer.
As she sat in her widow's weeds, there was not, to the eye, the promise in her of much sweet companionship. Her old crape bonnet had been lugged and battered about—not out of all shape, as hats and bonnets are sometimes battered by young ladies, in which guise, if the young ladies themselves be pretty, the battered hats and bonnets are often more becoming than ever they were in their proper shapes—but so as closely to fit her head, and almost hide her face. Her dress was so made, and so put on, as to give to her the appearance of almost greater age than her mother's. She had studied to divest herself of all outward show of sweet companionship; but perhaps she was not the less, on that account, gratified to find that she had not altogether succeeded.
"I have done with the world, and all the world's vanities and cares," she said, shaking her head.
"No one can have done with the world as long as there is work in it for him or her to do. The monks and nuns tried that, and you know what they came to."
"But I am a widow."
"Yes, my friend; and have shown yourself, as such, very willing to do your part. But do you not know that you could be more active and more useful as a clergyman's wife than you can be as a solitary woman?"
"But my heart is buried, Mr. Prong."
"No; not so. While the body remains in this vale of tears, the heart must remain with it." Mrs. Prime shook her head; but in an anatomical point of view, Mr. Prong was no doubt strictly correct. "Other hopes will arise,—and perhaps, too, other cares, but they will be sources of gentle happiness."
Mrs. Prime understood him as alluding to a small family, and again shook her head at the allusion.
"What I have said may probably have taken you by surprise."
"Yes, it has, Mr. Prong;—very much."
"And if so, it may be that you would wish time for consideration before you give me an answer."
"Perhaps that will be best, Mr. Prong."
"Let it be so. On what day shall we say? Will Friday suit you? If I come to you on Friday morning, perhaps Miss Pucker will be there."
"Yes, she will."
"And in the afternoon."
"We shall be at the Dorcas meeting."
"I don't like to trouble you to come here again."
Mrs. Prime herself felt that there was a difficulty. Hitherto she had entertained no objection to calling on Mr. Prong at his own house. His little sitting-room had been as holy ground to her,—almost as part of the church, and she had taken herself there without scruple. But things had now been put on a different footing. It might be that that room would become her own peculiar property, but she could never again regard it in a simply clerical light. It had become as it were a bower of love, and she could not take her steps thither with the express object of assenting to the proposition made to her,—or even with that of dissenting from it. "Perhaps," said she, "you could call at ten on Saturday. Miss Pucker will be out marketing." To this Mr. Prong agreed, and then Mrs. Prime got up and took her leave. How fearfully wicked would Rachel have been in her eyes, had Rachel made an appointment with a young man at some hour and some place in which she might be found alone! But then it is so easy to trust oneself, and so easy also to distrust others.
"Good-morning," said Mrs. Prime; and as she went she gave her hand as a matter of course to her lover.
"Good-bye," said he; "and think well of this if you can do so. If you believe that you will be more useful as my wife than you can be in your present position,—then—"
"You think it would be my duty to—"
"Well, I will leave that for you to decide. I merely wish to put the matter before you. But, pray, understand this; money need be no hindrance." Then, having said that last word, he let her go.
She walked away very slowly, and did not return by the most direct road to Miss Pucker's rooms. There was much to be considered in the offer that had been made to her. Her lot in life would be very lonely if this separation from her mother and sister should become permanent. She had already made up her mind that a continued residence with Miss Pucker would not suit her; and although, on that very morning, she had felt that there would be much comfort in living by herself, now, as she looked forward to that loneliness, it had for her very little attraction. Might it not be true, also, that she could do more good as a clergyman's wife than could possibly come within her reach as a single woman? She had tried that life once already, but then she had been very young. As that memory came upon her, she looked back to her early life, and thought of the hopes which had been hers as she stood at the altar, now so many years ago. How different had been everything with her then! She remembered the sort of love she had felt in her heart, and told herself that there could be no repetition of such love on Mr. Prong's behalf. She had come round in her walk to that very churchyard stile at which she had seen Rachel standing with Luke Rowan, and as she remembered some passages in her own girlish days, she almost felt inclined to forgive her sister. But then, on a sudden, she drew herself up almost with a gasp, and went on quickly with her walk. Had she not herself in those days walked in darkness, and had it not since that been vouchsafed to her to see the light? In her few months of married happiness it had been given to her to do but little of that work which might now be possible to her. Then she had been married in the flesh; now she would be married in the spirit;—she would be married in the spirit, if it should, on final consideration, seem good to her to accept Mr. Prong's offer in that light. Then unconsciously, she began to reflect on the rights of a married woman with regard to money,—and also on the wrongs. She was not sure as to the law, and asked herself whether it would be possible for her to consult an attorney. Finally, she thought it would not be practicable to do so before giving her answer to Mr. Prong.
And she could not even ask her mother. As to that, too, she questioned herself, and resolved that she could not so far lower herself under existing circumstances. There was no one to whom she could go for advice. But we may say this of her,—let her have asked whom she would, she would have at least been guided by her own judgment. If only she could have obtained some slight amount of legal information, how useful it would have been!
"The truth is, T., there was some joking among the young people about the wine, and then Rowan went and ordered it." This was Mrs. Tappitt's explanation about the champagne, made to her husband on the night of the ball, before she was allowed to go to sleep. But this by no means satisfied him. He did not choose, as he declared, that any young man should order whatever he might think necessary for his house. Then Mrs. Tappitt made it worse. "To tell the truth, T., I think it was intended as a present to the girls. We are doing a great deal to make him comfortable, you know, and I fancy he thought it right to make them this little return." She should have known her husband better. It was true that he grudged the cost of the wine; but he would have preferred to endure that to the feeling that his table had been supplied by another man,—by a young man whom he wished to regard as subject to himself, but who would not be subject, and at whom he was beginning to look with very unfavourable eyes. "A present to the girls? I tell you I won't have such presents. And if it was so, I think he has been very impertinent,—very impertinent indeed. I shall tell him so,—and I shall insist on paying for the wine. And I must say, you ought not to have taken it."
"Oh, dear T., I have been working so hard all night; and I do think you ought to let me go to sleep now, instead of scolding me."
On the following morning the party was of course discussed in the Tappitt family under various circumstances. At the breakfast-table Mrs. Rowan, with her son and daughter, were present; and then a song of triumph was sung. Everything had gone off with honour and glory, and the brewery had been immortalized for years to come. Mrs. Butler Cornbury's praises were spoken,—with some little drawback of a sneer on them, because "she had made such a fuss with that girl Rachel Ray;" and then the girls had told of their partners, and Luke had declared it all to have been superb. But when the Rowans' backs were turned, and the Tappitts were alone together, others besides old Tappitt himself had words to say in dispraise of Luke. Mrs. Tappitt had been much inclined to make little of her husband's objections to the young man while she hoped that he might possibly become her son-in-law. He might have been a thorn in the brewery, among the vats, but he would have been a flourishing young bay-tree in the outer world of Baslehurst. She had, however, no wish to encourage the growth of a thorn within her own premises, in order that Rachel Ray, or such as she, might have the advantage of the bay-tree. Luke Rowan had behaved very badly at her party. Not only had he failed to distinguish either of her own girls, but he had, as Mrs. Tappitt said, made himself so conspicuous with that foolish girl, that all the world had been remarking it.
"Mrs. Butler Cornbury seemed to think it all right," said Cherry.
"Mrs. Butler Cornbury is not everybody," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I didn't think it right, I can assure you;—and what's more, your papa didn't think it right."
"And he was going on all the evening as though he were quite master in the house," said Augusta. "He was ordering the musicians to do this and that all the evening."
"He'll find that he's not master. Your papa is going to speak to him this very day."
"What!—about Rachel?" asked Cherry, in dismay.
"About things in general," said Mrs. Tappitt. Then Mary Rowan returned to the room, and they all went back upon the glories of the ball. "I think it was nice," said Mrs. Tappitt, simpering. "I'm sure there was no trouble spared,—nor yet expense." She knew that she ought not to have uttered that last word, and she would have refrained if it had been possible to her;—but it was not possible. The man who tells you how much his wine costs a dozen, knows that he is wrong while the words are in his mouth; but they are in his mouth, and he cannot restrain them.
Mr. Tappitt was not about to lecture Luke Rowan as to his conduct in regard to Rachel Ray. He found some difficulty in speaking to his would-be partner, even on matters of business, in a proper tone, and with becoming authority. As he was so much the senior, and Rowan so much the junior, some such tone of superiority was, as he thought, indispensable. But he had great difficulty in assuming it. Rowan had a way with him that was not exactly a way of submission, and Tappitt would certainly not have dared to encounter him on any such matter as his behaviour in a drawing-room. When the time came he had not even the courage to allude to those champagne bottles; and it may be as well explained that Rowan paid the little bill at Griggs's, without further reference to the matter. But the question of the brewery management was a matter vital to Tappitt. There, among the vats, he had reigned supreme since Bungall ceased to be king, and for continual mastery there it was worth his while to make a fight. That he was under difficulties even in that fight he had already begun to know. He could not talk Luke Rowan down, and make him go about his work in an orderly, every-day, business-like fashion. Luke Rowan would not be talked down, nor would he be orderly,—not according to Mr. Tappitt's orders. No doubt Mr. Tappitt, under these circumstances, could decline the partnership; and this he was disposed to do; but he had been consulting lawyers, consulting papers, and looking into old accounts, and he had reason to fear, that under Bungall's will, Luke Rowan would have the power of exacting from him much more than he was inclined to give.
"You'd better take him into the concern," the lawyer had said. "A young head is always useful."
"Not when the young head wants to be master," Tappitt had answered. "If I'm to do that the whole thing will go to the dogs." He did not exactly explain to the lawyer that Rowan had carried his infatuation so far as to be desirous of brewing good beer, but he did make it very clear that such a partner would, in his eyes, be anything but desirable.
"Then, upon my word, I think you'll have to give him the ten thousand pounds. I don't even know but what the demand is moderate."
This was very bad news to Tappitt. "But suppose I haven't got ten thousand pounds!" Now it was very well known that the property and the business were worth money, and the lawyer suggested that Rowan might take steps to have the whole concern sold. "Probably he might buy it himself and undertake to pay you so much a year," suggested the lawyer. But this view of the matter was not at all in accordance with Mr. Tappitt's ideas. He had been brewer in Baslehurst for nearly thirty years, and still wished to remain so. Mrs. Tappitt had been of opinion that all difficulties might be overcome if only Luke would fall in love with one of her girls. Mrs. Rowan had been invited to Baslehurst specially with a view to some such arrangement. But Luke Rowan, as it seemed to them both now, was an obstinate young man, who, in matters of beer as well as in matters of love, would not be guided by those who best knew how to guide him. Mrs. Tappitt had watched him closely at the ball, and had now given him up altogether. He had danced only once with Augusta, and then had left her the moment the dance was over. "I should offer him a hundred and fifty pounds a year out of the concern, and if he didn't like that let him lump it," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Lump it!" said Mr. Tappitt. "That means going to a London lawyer." He felt the difficulties of his position as he prepared to speak his mind to young Rowan on the morning after the party; but on that occasion his strongest feeling was in favour of expelling the intruder. Any lot in life would be preferable to working in the brewery with such a partner as Luke Rowan.
"I suppose your head's hardly cool enough for business," he said, as Luke came in and took a stool in his office. Tappitt was sitting in his customary chair, with his arm resting on a large old-fashioned leather-covered table, which was strewed with his papers, and which had never been reduced to cleanliness or order within the memory of any one connected with the establishment. He had turned his chair round from its accustomed place so as to face Rowan, who had perched himself on a stool which was commonly occupied by a boy whom Tappitt employed in his own office.
"My head not cool!" said Rowan. "It's as cool as a cucumber. I wasn't drinking last night."
"I thought you might be tired with the dancing." Then Tappitt's mind flew off to the champagne, and he determined that the young man before him was too disagreeable to be endured.
"Oh, dear, no. Those things never tire me. I was across here with the men before eight this morning. Do you know, I'm sure we could save a third of the fuel by altering the flues. I never saw such contrivances. They must have been put in by the coal-merchants, for the sake of wasting coal."
"If you please, we won't mind the flues at present."
"I only tell you; it's for your sake much more than my own. If you won't believe me, do you ask Newman to look at them the first time you see him in Baslehurst."
"I don't care a straw for Newman."
"He's got the best concerns in Devonshire, and knows what he's about better than any man in these parts."
"I dare say. But now, if you please, we won't mind him. The concerns, as I have managed them, have done very well for me for the last thirty years;—very well I may say also for your uncle, who understood what he was doing. I'm not very keen for so many changes. They cost a great deal of money, and as far as I can see don't often lead to much profit."
"If we don't go on with the world," said Rowan, "the world will leave us behind. Look at the new machinery they're introducing everywhere. People don't do it because they like to spend their money. It's competition; and there's competition in beer as well as in other things."
For a minute or two Mr. Tappitt sat in silence collecting his thoughts, and then he began his speech. "I'll tell you what it is, Rowan, I don't like these new-fangled ways. They're very well for you, I dare say. You are young, and perhaps you may see your way. I'm old, and I don't see mine among all these changes. It's clear to me that you and I could not go on together as partners in the same concern. I should expect to have my own way,—first because I've a deal of experience, and next because my share in the concern would be so much the greatest."
"Stop a moment, Mr. Tappitt; I'm not quite sure that it would be much the greatest. I don't want to say anything about that now; only if I were to let your remark pass without notice it would seem that I had assented."
"Ah; very well. I can only say that I hope you'll find yourself mistaken. I've been over thirty years in the concern, and it would be odd if I with my large family were to find myself only equal to you, who have never been in the business at all, and ain't even married yet."
"I don't see what being married has to do with it."
"Don't you? You'll find that's the way we look at these things down in these parts. You're not in London here, Mr. Rowan."
"Certainly not; but I suppose the laws are the same. This is an affair of capital."
"Capital!" said Mr. Tappitt. "I don't know that you've brought in any capital."
"Bungall did, and I'm here as his representative. But you'd better let that pass by just at present. If we can agree as to the management of the business, you won't find me a hard man to deal with as to our relative shares." Hereupon Tappitt scratched his head, and tried to think. "But I don't see how we are to agree about the management," he continued. "You won't be led by anybody."
"I don't know about that. I certainly want to improve the concern."
"Ah, yes; and so ruin it. Whereas I've been making money out of it these thirty years. You and I won't do together; that's the long of it and the short of it."
"It would be a putting of new wine into old bottles, you think?" suggested Rowan.
"I'm not saying anything about wine; but I do think that I ought to know something about beer."
"And I'm to understand," said Rowan, "that you have definitively determined not to carry on the old concern in conjunction with me as your partner."
"Yes; I think I have."
"But it will be as well to be sure. One can't allow one's self to depend upon thinking."
"Well, I am sure; I've made up my mind. I've no doubt you're a very clever young man, but I am quite sure we should not do together; and to tell you the truth, Rowan, I don't think you'll ever make your fortune by brewing."
"You think not?"
"No; never."
"I'm sorry for that."
"I don't know that you need be sorry. You'll have a nice income for a single man to begin the world with, and there's other businesses besides brewing,—and a deal better."
"Ah! But I've made up my mind to be a brewer. I like it. There's opportunity for chemical experiments, and room for philosophical inquiry, which gives the trade a charm in my eyes. I dare say it seems odd to you, but I like being a brewer."
Tappitt only scratched his head, and stared at him. "I do indeed," continued Rowan. "Now a man can't do anything to improve his own trade as a lawyer. A great deal will be done; but I've made up my mind that all that must come from the outside. All trades want improving; but I like a trade in which I can do the improvements myself,—from the inside. Do you understand me, Mr. Tappitt?" Mr. Tappitt did not understand him,—was very far indeed from understanding him.
"With such ideas as those I don't think Baslehurst is the ground for you," said Mr. Tappitt.
"The very ground!" said Rowan. "That's just it;—it's the very place I want. Brewing, as I take it, is at a lower ebb here than in any other part of England,"—this at any rate was not complimentary to the brewer of thirty years' standing—"than in any other part of England. The people swill themselves with the nasty juice of the apple because sound malt and hops have never been brought within their reach. I think Devonshire is the very county for a man who means to work hard, and who wishes to do good; and in all Devonshire I don't think there's a more fitting town than Baslehurst."
Mr. Tappitt was dumbfounded. Did this young man mean him to understand that it was his intention to open a rival establishment under his nose; to set up with Bungall's money another brewery in opposition to Bungall's brewery? Could such ingratitude as that be in the mind of any one? "Oh," said Tappitt; "I don't quite understand, but I don't doubt but what you say is all very fine."
"I don't think that it's fine at all, Mr. Tappitt, but I believe that it's true. I represent Mr. Bungall's interest here in Baslehurst, and I intend to carry on Mr. Bungall's business in the town in which he established it."
"This is Mr. Bungall's business;—this here, where I'm sitting, and it is in my hands."
"The use of these premises depends on you certainly."
"Yes; and the name of the firm, and the—the—the—.In point of fact, this is the old establishment. I never heard of such a thing in all my life."
"Quite true; it is the old establishment; and if I should set up another brewery here, as I think it probable I may, I shall not make use of Bungall's name. In the first place it would hardly be fair; and in the next place, by all accounts, he brewed such very bad beer that it would not be a credit to me. If you'll tell me what your plan is, then I'll tell you mine. You'll find that everything shall be above-board, Mr. Tappitt."
"My plan? I've got no plan. I mean to go on here as I've always done."
"But I suppose you intend to come to some arrangement with me. My claims are these: I will either come into this establishment on an equal footing with yourself, as regards share and management, or else I shall look to you to give me the sum of money to which my lawyers tell me I am entitled. In fact, you must either take me in or buy me out."
"I was thinking of a settled income."
"No; it wouldn't suit me. I have told you what are my intentions, and to carry them out I must either have a concern of my own, or a share in a concern. A settled income would do me no good."
"Two hundred a-year," suggested Tappitt.
"Psha! Three per cent. would give me three hundred."
"Ten thousand pounds is out of the question, you know."
"Very well, Mr. Tappitt. I can't say anything fairer than I have done. It will suit my own views much the best to start alone, but I do not wish to oppose you if I can help it. Start alone I certainly will, if I cannot come in here on my own terms."
After that there was nothing more said. Tappitt turned round, pretending to read his letters, and Rowan descending from his seat walked out into the yard of the brewery. His intention had been, ever since he had looked around him in Baslehurst, to be master of that place, or if not of that, to be master of some other. "It would break my heart to be sending out such stuff as that all my life," he said to himself, as he watched the muddy stream run out of the shallow coolers. He had resolved that he would brew good beer. As to that ambition of putting down the consumption of cider, I myself am inclined to think that the habits of the country would be too strong for him. At the present moment he lighted a cigar and sauntered about the yard. He had now, for the first time, spoken openly of his purpose to Mr. Tappitt; but, having done so, he resolved that there should be no more delay. "I'll give him till Saturday for an answer," he said. "If he isn't ready with one by that time I'll manage it through the lawyers." After that he turned his mind to Rachel Ray and the events of the past evening. He had told Rachel that he would go out to Bragg's End if she did not come into town, and he was quite resolved that he would do so. He knew well that she would not come in, understanding exactly those feelings of hers which would prevent it. Therefore his walk to Bragg's End on that afternoon was a settled thing with him. They were to dine at the brewery at three, and he would go almost immediately after dinner. But what would he say to her when he got there, and what would he say to her mother? He had not even yet made up his mind that he would positively ask her on that day to be his wife, and yet he felt that if he found her at home he would undoubtedly do so. "I'll arrange it all," said he, "as I'm walking over." Then he threw away the end of his cigar, and wandered about for the next half-hour among the vats and tubs and furnaces.
Mr. Tappitt took himself into the house as soon as he found himself able to do so without being seen by young Rowan. He took himself into the house in order that he might consult with his wife as to this unexpected revelation that had been made to him; or rather that he might have an opportunity of saying to some one all the hard things which were now crowding themselves upon his mind with reference to this outrageous young man. Had anything ever been known, or heard, or told, equal in enormity to this wickedness! He was to be called upon to find capital for the establishment of a rival in his own town, or else he was to bind himself in a partnership with a youth who knew nothing of his business, but was nevertheless resolved to constitute himself the chief manager of it! He who had been so true to Bungall in his young days was now to be sacrificed in his old age to Bungall's audacious representative! In the first glow of his anger he declared to his wife that he would pay no money and admit of no partnership. If Rowan did not choose to take his income as old Mrs. Bungall had taken hers he might seek what redress the law would give him. It was in vain that Mrs. Tappitt suggested that they would all be ruined. "Then we will be ruined," said Tappitt, hot with indignation; "but all Baslehurst,—all Devonshire shall know why." Pernicious young man! He could not explain,—he could not even quite understand in what the atrocity of Rowan's proposed scheme consisted, but he was possessed by a full conviction that it was atrocious. He had admitted this man into his house; he was even now entertaining as his guests the man's mother and sister; he had allowed him to have the run of the brewery, so that he had seen both the nakedness and the fat of the land; and this was to be his reward! "If I were to tell it at the reading-room," said Tappitt, "he would never be able to show himself again in the High Street."
Mrs. Tappitt, who was anxious but not enraged, did not see the matter quite in the same light, but she was not able to oppose her husband in his indignation. When she suggested that it might be well for them to raise money and pay off their enemy's claim, merely stipulating that a rival brewery should not be established in Baslehurst, he swore an oath that he would raise no money for such a purpose. He would have no dealings with so foul a traitor except through his lawyer, Honyman. "But Honyman thinks you'd better settle with him," pleaded Mrs. T. "Then I'll go to another lawyer," said Tappitt. "If Honyman won't stand to me I'll go to Sharpit and Longfite. They won't give way as long as there's a leg to stand on." For the time Mrs. Tappitt let this pass. She knew how useless it would be to tell her husband at the present moment that Sharpit and Longfite would be the only winners in such a contest as that of which he spoke. At the present moment Mr. Tappitt felt a pride in his anger, and was almost happy in the fury of his wrath; but Mrs. Tappitt was very wretched. If that nasty girl, Rachel Ray, had not come in the way all might have been well.
"He shan't eat another meal in this house," said Tappitt. "I don't care," he went on, when his wife pleaded that Luke Rowan must be admitted to their table because of Mrs. Rowan and Mary. "You can say what you like to them. They're welcome to stay if they like it, or welcome to go; but he shan't put his feet under my mahogany again." On this point, however, he was brought to relent before the hour of dinner. Baslehurst, his wife told him, would be against him if he turned his guests away from his house hungry. If a fight was necessary for them, it would be everything to them that Baslehurst should be with them in the fight. It was therefore arranged that Mrs. Tappitt should have a conversation with Mrs. Rowan after dinner, while the young people were out in the evening. "He shan't sleep in this house to-morrow," said Tappitt, riveting his assertion with very strong language; and Mrs. Tappitt understood that her communications were to be carried on upon that basis.
At three o'clock the Tappitts and Rowans all sat down to dinner. Mr. Tappitt ate his meal in absolute silence; but the young people were full of the ball, and the elder ladies were very gracious to each other. At such entertainments Paterfamilias is simply required to find the provender and to carve it. If he does that satisfactorily, silence on his part is not regarded as a great evil. Mrs. Tappitt knew that her husband's mood was not happy, and Martha may have remarked that all was not right with her father. To the others I am inclined to think his ill humour was a matter of indifference.
It was the custom of the Miss Tappitts, during these long midsummer days, to start upon their evening walk at about seven o'clock, the hour for the family gathering round the tea-table being fixed at six. But, in accordance with the same custom, dinner at the brewery was usually eaten at one. At this immediate time with which we are now dealing, dinner had been postponed till three, out of compliment to Mrs. Rowan, Mrs. Tappitt considering three o'clock more fashionable than one; and consequently the afternoon habits of the family were disarranged. Half-past seven, it was thought, would be a becoming hour for tea, and therefore the young ladies were driven to go out at five o'clock, while the sun was still hot in the heavens.
"No," said Luke, in answer to his sister's invitation; "I don't think I will mind walking to-day: you are all going so early." He was sitting at the moment after dinner with his glass of brewery port wine before him.
"The young ladies must be very unhappy that their hours can't be made to suit you," said Mrs. Tappitt, and the tone of her voice was sarcastic and acid.
"I think we can do without him," said Cherry, laughing.
"Of course we can," said Augusta, who was not laughing.
"But you might as well come all the same," said Mary.
"There's metal more attractive somewhere else," said Augusta.
"I cannot bear to see so much fuss made with the young men," said Mrs. Tappitt. "We never did it when I was young. Did we, Mrs. Rowan?"
"I don't think there's much change," said Mrs. Rowan; "we used to be very glad to get the young men when we could, and to do without them when we couldn't."
"And that's just the way with us," said Cherry.
"Speak for yourself," said Augusta.
During all this time Mr. Tappitt spoke never a word. He also sipped his glass of wine, and as he sipped it he brooded over his wrath. Who were these Rowans that they should have come about his house and premises, and forced everything out of its proper shape and position? The young man sat there as though he were lord of everything,—so Tappitt declared to himself; and his own wife was snubbed in her own parlour as soon as she opened her mouth. There was an uncomfortable atmosphere of discord in the room, which gradually pervaded them all, and made even the girls feel that things were going wrong.
Mrs. Tappitt rose from her chair, and made a stiff bow across the table to her guest, understanding that that was the proper way in which to effect a retreat into the drawing-room; whereupon Luke opened the door, and the ladies went. "Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Tappitt very solemnly as she passed by him. Mrs. Rowan, going first, had given him a loving little nod of recognition, and Mary had pinched his arm. Martha uttered a word of thanks, intended for conciliation; Augusta passed him in silence with her nose in the air; and Cherry, as she went by, turned upon him a look of dismay. He returned Cherry's look with a shake of his head, and both of them understood that things were going wrong.
"I don't think I'll take any more wine, sir," said Rowan.
"Do as you like," said Tappitt. "It's there if you choose to take it."
"It seems to me, Mr. Tappitt, that you want to quarrel with me," said Luke.
"You can form your own opinion about that. I'm not bound to tell my mind to everybody."
"Oh, no; certainly not. But it's very unpleasant going on in that way in the same house. I'm thinking particularly of Mrs. Tappitt and the girls."
"You needn't trouble yourself about them at all. You may leave me to take care of them."
Luke had not sat down since the ladies left the room, and now determined that he had better not do so. "I think I'll say good afternoon," said Rowan.
"Good day to you," said Tappitt, with his face turned away, and his eyes fixed upon one of the open windows.
"Well, Mr. Tappitt, if I have to say good-bye to you in that way in your own house, of course it must be for the last time. I have not meant to offend you, and I don't think I've given you ground for offence."
"You don't, don't you?"
"Certainly not. If, unfortunately, there must be any disagreement between us about matters of business, I don't see why that should be brought into private life."
"Look here, young man," said Tappitt, turning upon him. "You lectured me in my counting-house this morning, and I don't intend that you shall lecture me here also. I'm drinking my own wine in my own parlour, and choose to drink it in peace and quietness."
"Very well, sir; I will not disturb you much longer. Perhaps you will make my apologies to Mrs. Tappitt, and tell her how much obliged I am by her hospitality, but that I will not trespass upon it any longer. I'll get a bed at the Dragon, and I'll write a line to my mother or sister." Then Luke left the room, took his hat up from the hall, and made his way out of the house.
He had much to occupy his mind at the present moment. He felt that he was being turned out of Mr. Tappitt's house, but would not much have regarded that if no one was concerned in it but Mr. Tappitt himself. He had, however, been on very intimate terms with all the ladies of the family; even for Mrs. Tappitt he had felt a friendship; and for the girls—especially for Cherry—he had learned to entertain an easy brotherly affection, which had not weighed much with him as it grew, but which it was not in his nature to throw off without annoyance. He had acknowledged to himself, as soon as he found himself among them, that the Tappitts did not possess, in their ways and habits of life, quite all that he should desire in his dearest and most intimate friends. I do not know that he had thought much of this; but he had felt it. Nevertheless he had determined that he would like them. He intended to make his way in life as a tradesman, and boldly resolved that he would not be above his trade. His mother sometimes reminded him, with perhaps not the truest pride, that he was a gentleman. In answer to this he had once or twice begged her to define the word, and then there had been some slight, very slight, disagreement between them. In the end the mother always gave way to the son; as to whom she believed that the sun shone with more special brilliancy for him than for any other of God's creatures. Now, as he left the brewery house, he remembered how intimate he had been with them all but a few hours since, arranging matters for their ball, and giving orders about the place as though he had belonged to the family. He had allowed himself to be at home with them, and to be one of them. He was by nature impulsive, and had thus fallen instantly into the intimacy which had been permitted to him. Now he was turned out of the house; and as he walked across the churchyard to bespeak a bed for himself at the inn, and write the necessary note to his sister, he was melancholy and almost unhappy. He felt sure that he was right in his views regarding the business, and could not accuse himself of any fault in his manner of making them known to Mr. Tappitt; but, nevertheless, he was ill at ease with himself in that he had given offence. And with all these thoughts were mingled other thoughts as to Rachel Ray. He did not in the least imagine that any of the anger felt towards him at the brewery had been caused by his open admiration of Rachel. It had never occurred to him that Mrs. Tappitt had regarded him as a possible son-in-law, or that, having so regarded him, she could hold him in displeasure because he had failed to fall into her views. He had never regarded himself as being of value as a possible future husband, or entertained the idea that he was a prize. He had taken hold in good faith of the Tappitt right hand which had been stretched out to him, and was now grieved that that hand should be suddenly withdrawn.
But as he was impulsive, so also was he light-hearted, and when he had chosen his bedroom and written the note to Mary, in which he desired her to pack up his belongings and send them to him, he was almost at ease as regarded that matter. Old Tappitt was, as he said to himself, an old ass, and if he chose to make that brewery business a cause of quarrel no one could help it. Mary was bidden in the note to say very civil things to Mrs. Tappitt; but, at the same time, to speak out the truth boldly. "Tell her," said he, "that I am constrained to leave the house because Mr. Tappitt and I cannot agree at the present moment about matters of business." When this was done he looked at his watch, and started off on his walk to Bragg's End.
It has been said that Rowan had not made up his mind to ask Rachel to be his wife,—that he had not made up his mind on this matter, although he was going to Bragg's End in a mood which would very probably bring him to such a conclusion. It will, I fear, be thought from this that he was light in purpose as well as light in heart; but I am not sure that he was open to any special animadversion of that nature. It is the way of men to carry on such affairs without any complete arrangement of their own plans or even wishes. He knew that he admired Rachel and liked her. I doubt whether he had ever yet declared to himself that he loved her. I doubt whether he had done so when he started on that walk,—thinking it probable, however, that he had persuaded himself of the fact before he reached the cottage door. He had already, as we know, said words to Rachel which he should not have said unless he intended to seek her as his wife;—he had spoken words and done things of that nature, being by no means perfect in all his ways. But he had so spoken and so acted without premeditation, and now was about to follow up those little words and little acts to their natural consequence,—also without much premeditation.
Rachel had told her mother, on her return from the ball, that Luke Rowan had promised to call; and had offered to take herself off from the cottage for the whole afternoon, if her mother thought it wrong that she should see him. Mrs. Ray had never felt herself to be in greater difficulty.
"I don't know that you ought to run away from him," said she: "and besides, where are you to go to?"
Rachel said at once that if her absence were desirable she would find whither to betake herself. "I'd stay upstairs in my bedroom, for the matter of that, mamma."
"He'd be sure to know it," said Mrs. Rowan, speaking of the young man as though he were much to be feared;—as indeed he was much feared by her.
"If you don't think I ought to go, perhaps it would be best that I should stay," said Rachel, at last, speaking in a very low tone, but still with some firmness in her voice.
"I'm sure I don't know what I'm to say to him," said Mrs. Ray.
"That must depend upon what he says to you, mamma," said Rachel.
After that there was no further talk of running away; but the morning did not pass with them lightly or pleasantly. They made an effort to sit quietly at their work, and to talk over the doings at Mrs. Tappitt's ball; but this coming of the young man threw its shadow, more or less, over everything. They could not talk, or even look at each other, as they would have talked and looked had no such advent been expected. They dined at one, as was their custom, and after dinner I think it probable that each of them stood before her glass with more care than she would have done on ordinary days. It was no ordinary day, and Mrs. Ray certainly put on a clean cap.
"Will that collar do?" she said to Rachel.
"Oh, yes, mamma," said Rachel, almost angrily. She also had taken her little precautions, but she could not endure to have such precautions acknowledged, even by a word.
The afternoon was very tedious. I don't know why Luke should have been expected exactly at three; but Mrs. Ray had, I think, made up her mind that he might be looked for at that time with the greatest certainty. But at three he was sitting down to dinner, and even at half-past five had not as yet left his room at the "Dragon."
"I suppose that we can't have tea till he's been," said Mrs. Ray, just at that hour; "that is, if he does come at all."
Rachel felt that her mother was vexed, because she suspected that Mr. Rowan was not about to keep his word.
"Don't let his coming make any difference, mamma," said Rachel. "I will go and get tea."
"Wait a few minutes longer, my dear," said Mrs. Ray.
It was all very well for Rachel to beg that it might make "no difference." It did make a very great deal of difference.
"I think I'll go over and see Mrs. Sturt for a few minutes," said Rachel, getting up.
"Pray don't, my dear,—pray don't; I should never know what to say to him if he should come while you were away."
So Rachel again sat down.
She had just, for the second time, declared her intention of getting tea, having now resolved that no weakness on her mother's part should hinder her, when Mrs. Ray, from her seat near the window, saw the young man coming over the green. He was walking very slowly, swinging a big stick as he came, and had taken himself altogether away from the road, almost to the verge of Mrs. Sturt's farmyard. "There he is," said Mrs. Ray, with a little start. Rachel, who was struggling hard to retain her composure, could not resist her impulse to jump up and look out upon the green from behind her mother's shoulder. But she did this from some little distance inside the room, so that no one might possibly see her from the green. "Yes; there he is, certainly," and, having thus identified their visitor, she immediately sat down again. "He's talking to Farmer Sturt's ploughboy," said Mrs. Ray. "He's asking where we live," said Rachel. "He's never been here before."
Rowan, having completed his conversation with the ploughboy, which by the way seemed to Mrs. Ray to have been longer than was necessary for its alleged purpose, came boldly across the green, and without pausing for a moment made his way through the cottage gate. Mrs. Ray caught her breath, and could not keep herself quite steady in her chair. Rachel, feeling that something must be done, got up from her seat and went quickly out into the passage. She knew that the front door was open, and she was prepared to meet Rowan in the hall.
"I told you I should call," said he. "I hope you'll let me come in."
"Mamma will be very glad to see you," she said. Then she brought him up and introduced him. Mrs. Ray rose from her chair and curtseyed, muttering something as to its being a long way for him to walk out there to the cottage.
"I said I should come, Mrs. Ray, if Miss Ray did not make her appearance at the brewery in the morning. We had such a nice party, and of course one wants to talk it over."
"I hope Mrs. Tappitt is quite well after it,—and the girls," said Rachel.
"Oh, yes. You know we kept it up two hours after you were gone. I can't say Mr. Tappitt is quite right this morning."
"Is he ill?" asked Mrs. Ray.
"Well, no; not ill, I think, but I fancy that the party put him out a little. Middle-aged gentlemen don't like to have all their things poked away anywhere. Ladies don't mind it, I fancy."
"Ladies know where to find them, as it is they who do the poking away," said Rachel. "But I'm sorry about Mr. Tappitt."
"I'm sorry, too, for he's a good-natured sort of a man when he's not put out. I say, Mrs. Ray, what a very pretty place you have got here."
"We think so because we're proud of our flowers."
"I do almost all the gardening myself," said Rachel.
"There's nothing I like so much as a garden, only I never can remember the names of the flowers. They've got such grand names down here. When I was a boy, in Warwickshire, they used to have nothing but roses and sweetwilliams. One could remember them."
"We haven't got anything very grand here," said Rachel. Soon after that they were sauntering out among the little paths and Rachel was picking flowers for him. She felt no difficulty in doing it, as her mother stood by her, though she would not for worlds have given him even a rose if they'd been alone.
"I wonder whether Mr. Rowan would come in and have some tea," said Mrs. Ray.
"Oh, wouldn't I," said Rowan, "if I were asked?"
Rachel was highly delighted with her mother, not so much on account of her courtesy to their guest, as that she had shown herself equal to the occasion, and had behaved, in an unabashed manner, as a mistress of a house should do. Mrs. Ray had been in such dread of the young man's coming, that Rachel had feared she would be speechless. Now the ice was broken, and she would do very well. The merit, however, did not belong to Mrs. Ray, but to Rowan. He had the gift of making himself at home with people, and had done much towards winning the widow's heart, when, after an interval of ten minutes, they two followed Rachel into the house. Rachel then had her hat on, and was about to go over the green to the farmer's house. "Mamma, I'll just run over to Mrs. Sturt's for some cream," said she.
"Mayn't I go with you?" said Rowan.
"Certainly not," said Rachel. "You'd frighten Mrs. Sturt out of all her composure, and we should never get the cream." Then Rachel went off, and Rowan was again left with her mother.
He had seated himself at her request in an arm-chair, and there for a minute or two he sat silent. Mrs. Ray was busy with the tea-things, but she suddenly felt that she was oppressed by the stranger's presence. While Rachel had been there, and even when they had been walking among the flower-beds, she had been quite comfortable; but now the knowledge that he was there, in the room with her, as he sat silent in the chair, was becoming alarming. Had she been right to ask him to stay for tea? He looked and spoke like a sheep; but then, was it not known to all the world that wolves dressed themselves often in that guise, so that they might carry out their wicked purposes? Had she not been imprudent? And then there was the immediate trouble of his silence. What was she to say to him to break it? That trouble, however, was soon brought to an end by Rowan himself. "Mrs. Ray," said he, "I think your daughter is the nicest girl I ever saw in my life."
Mrs. Ray instantly put down the tea-caddy which she had in her hand, and started, with a slight gasp in her throat, as though cold water had been thrown over her. At the instant she said nothing. What was she to say in answer to so violent a proposition?
"Upon my word I do," said Luke, who was too closely engaged with his own thoughts and his own feelings to pay much immediate attention to Mrs. Ray. "It isn't only that she's good-looking, but there's something,—I don't know what it is,—but she's just the sort of person I like. I told her I should come to-day, and I have come on purpose to say this to you. I hope you won't be angry with me."
"Pray, sir, don't say anything to her to turn her head."
"If I understand her, Mrs. Ray, it wouldn't be very easy to turn her head. But suppose she has turned mine?"
"Ah, no. Young gentlemen like you are in no danger of that sort of thing. But for a poorgirl—"
"I don't think you quite understand me, Mrs. Ray. I didn't mean anything about danger. My danger would be that she shouldn't care twopence for me; and I don't suppose she ever will. But what I want to know is whether you would object to my coming over here and seeing her. I don't doubt but she might do much better."
"Oh dear no," said Mrs. Ray.
"But I should like to have my chance."
"You've not said anything to her yet, Mr. Rowan?"
"Well, no; I can't say I have. I meant to do so last night at the party, but she wouldn't stay and hear me. I don't think she cares very much about me, but I'll take my chance if you'll let me."
"Here she is," said Mrs. Ray. Then she again went to work with the tea-caddy, so that Rachel might be led to believe that nothing special had occurred in her absence. Nevertheless, had Rowan been away, every word would have been told to her.
"I hope you like clotted cream," said Rachel, taking off her hat. Luke declared that it was the one thing in all the world that he liked best, and that he had come into Devonshire with the express object of feasting upon it all his life. "Other Devonshire dainties were not," he said, "so much to his taste. He had another object in life. He intended to put down cider."
"I beg you won't do anything of the kind," said Mrs. Ray, "for I always drink it at dinner." Then Rowan explained how that he was a brewer, and that he looked upon it as his duty to put down so poor a beverage as cider. The people of Devonshire, he averred, knew nothing of beer, and it was his ambition to teach them. Mrs. Ray grew eager in the defence of cider, and then they again became comfortable and happy. "I never heard of such a thing in my life," said Mrs. Ray. "What are the farmers to do with all their apple trees? It would be the ruin of the whole country."
"I don't suppose it can be done all at once," said Luke.
"Not even by Mr. Rowan," said Rachel.
He sat there for an hour after their tea, and Mrs. Ray had in truth become fond of him. When he spoke to Rachel he did so with the utmost respect, and he seemed to be much more intimate with the mother than with the daughter. Mrs. Ray's mind was laden with the burden of what he had said in Rachel's absence, and with the knowledge that she would have to discuss it when Rowan was gone; but she felt herself to be happy while he remained, and had begun to hope that he would not go quite yet. Rachel also was perfectly happy. She said very little, but thought much of her different meetings with him,—of the arm in the clouds, of the promise of his friendship, of her first dance, of the little fraud by which he had secured her company at supper, and then of those words he had spoken when he detained her after supper in the hall. She knew that she liked him well, but had feared that such liking might not be encouraged. But what could be nicer than this,—to sit and listen to him in her mother's presence? Now she was not afraid of him. Now she feared no one's eyes. Now she was disturbed by no dread lest she might be sinning against rules of propriety. There was no Mrs. Tappitt by, to rebuke her with an angry look.