Rachel, as soon as she had made her mother the promise that she would write the letter, left the parlour and went up to her own room. She had many thoughts to adjust in her mind which could not be adjusted satisfactorily otherwise than in solitude, and it was clearly necessary that they should be adjusted before she could write her letter. It must be remembered, not only that she had never before written a letter to a lover, but that she had never before written a letter of importance to any one. She had threatened at one moment that she would leave the writing of it to her mother; but there came upon her a feeling, of which she was hardly conscious, that she herself might probably compose the letter in a strain of higher dignity than her mother would be likely to adopt. That her lover would be gone from her for ever she felt almost assured; but still it would be much to her that, on going, he should so leave her that his respect might remain, though his love would be a thing of the past. In her estimation he was a noble being, to have been loved by whom even for a few days was more honour than she had ever hoped to win. For a few days she had been allowed to think that her great fortune intended him to be her husband. But Fate had interposed, and now she feared that all her joy was at an end. But her joy should be so relinquished that she herself should not be disgraced in the giving of it up. She sat there alone for an hour, and was stronger, when that hour was over, than she had been when she left her mother. Her pride had supported her, and had been sufficient for her support in that first hour of her sorrow. It is ever so with us in our misery. In the first flush of our wretchedness, let the outward signs of our grief be what they may, we promise to ourselves the support of some inner strength which shall suffice to us at any rate as against the eyes of the outer world. But anon, and that inner staff fails us; our pride yields to our tears; our dignity is crushed beneath the load with which we have burdened it, and then with loud wailings we own ourselves to be the wretches which we are. But now Rachel was in the hour of her pride, and as she came down from her room she resolved that her sorrow should be buried in her own bosom. She had known what it was to love,—had known it, perhaps, for one whole week,—and now that knowledge was never to avail her again. Among them all she had been robbed of her sweetheart. She had been bidden to give her heart to this man,—her heart and hand; and now, when she had given all her heart, she was bidden to refuse her hand. She had not ventured to love till her love had been sanctioned. It had been sanctioned, and she had loved; and now that sanction was withdrawn! She knew that she was injured,—deeply, cruelly injured, but she would bear it, showing nothing, and saying nothing. With this resolve she came down from her room, and began to employ herself on her household work.
Mrs. Ray watched her carefully, and Rachel knew that she was watched; but she took no outward notice of it, going on with her work, and saying a soft, gentle word now and again, sometimes to her mother, and sometimes to the little maiden who attended them. "Will you come to dinner, mamma?" she said with a smile, taking her mother by the hand.
"I shouldn't mind if I never sat down to dinner again," said Mrs. Ray.
"Oh, mamma! don't say that; just when you are going to thank God for the good things he gives you."
Then Mrs. Ray, in a low voice, as though rebuked, said the grace, and they sat down together to their meal.
The afternoon went with them very slowly and almost in silence. Neither of them would now speak about Luke Rowan; and to neither of them was it as yet possible to speak about aught else. One word on the subject was said during those hours. "You won't have time for your letter after tea," Mrs. Ray said.
"I shall not write it till to-morrow," Rachel answered; "another day will do no harm now."
At tea Mrs. Ray asked her whether she did not think that a walk would do her good, and offered to accompany her; but Rachel, acceding to the proposition of the walk, declared that she would go alone. "It's very bad of me to say so, isn't it, when you're so good as to offer to go with me?" But Mrs. Ray kissed her; saying, with many words, that she was satisfied that it should be so. "You want to think of things, I know," said the mother. Rachel acknowledged, by a slight motion of her head, that she did want to think of things, and soon after that she started.
"I believe I'll call on Dolly," she said. "It would be bad to quarrel with her; and perhaps now she'll come back here to live with us;—only I forgot about Mr. Prong." It was agreed, however, that she should call on her sister, and ask her to dine at the cottage on the following day.
She walked along the road straight into Baslehurst, and went at once to her sister's lodgings. She had another place to visit before she returned home, but it was a place for which a later hour in the evening would suit her better. Mrs. Prime was at home; and Rachel, on being shown up into the sitting-room,—a room in which every piece of furniture had become known to her during those Dorcas meetings,—found not only her sister sitting there, but also Miss Pucker and Mr. Prong. Rachel had not seen that gentleman since she had learned that he was to become her brother-in-law, and hardly knew in what way to greet him; but it soon became apparent to her that no outward show of regard was expected from her at that moment.
"I think you know my sister, Mr. Prong," said Dorothea. Whereupon Mr. Prong rose from his chair, took Rachel's hand, pressing it between his own, and then sat down again. Rachel, judging from his countenance, thought that some cloud had passed also across the sunlight of his love. She made her little speech, giving her mother's love, and adding her own assurance that she hoped her sister would come out and dine at the cottage.
"I really don't know," said Mrs. Prime. "Such goings about do cut up one's time so much. I shouldn't be here againtill—"
"Of course you'd stay for tea with us," said Rachel.
"And lose the whole afternoon!" said Mrs. Prime.
"Oh do!" said Miss Pucker. "You have been working so hard; hasn't she now, Mr. Prong? At this time of the year a sniff of fresh air among the flowers does do a body so much good." And Miss Pucker looked and spoke as though she also would like the sniff of fresh air.
"I'm very well in health, and am thankful for it. I can't say that it's needed in that way," said Mrs. Prime.
"But mamma will be so glad to see you," said Rachel.
"I think you ought to go, Dorothea," said Mr. Prong; and even Rachel could perceive that there was some slight touch of authority in his voice. It was the slightest possible intonation of a command; but, nevertheless, it struck Rachel's ears.
Mrs. Prime merely shook her head and sniffed. It was not for a supply of air that she used her nostrils on this occasion, but that she might indicate some grain of contempt for the authority which Mr. Prong had attempted to exercise. "I think I'd rather not, Rachel, thank you;—not to dinner, that is. Perhaps I'll walk out in the evening after tea, when the work of the day is over. If I come then, perhaps my friend, Miss Pucker, may come with me."
"And if your esteemed mamma will allow me to pay my respects," said Mr. Prong, "I shall be most happy to accompany the ladies."
It will be acknowledged that Rachel had no alternative left to her. She said that her mother would be happy to see Mr. Prong, and happy to see Miss Pucker also. As to herself, she made no such assertion, being in her present mood too full of her own thoughts to care much for the ordinary courtesies of life.
"I'm very sorry you won't come to dinner, Dolly," she said; but she abstained from any word of asking the others to tea.
"If it had only been Mr. Prong," she said to her mother afterwards, "I should have asked him; for I suppose he'll have to come to the house sooner or later. But I wouldn't tell that horrid, squinting woman that you wanted to see her, for I'm sure you don't."
"But we must give them some cake and a glass of sweet wine," said Mrs. Ray.
"She won't have to take her bonnet off for that as she would for tea, and it isn't so much like making herself at home here. I couldn't bear to have to ask her up to my room."
On leaving the house in the High Street, which she did about eight o'clock, she took her way towards the churchyard,—not passing down Brewery Lane, by Mr. Tappitt's house, but taking the main street which led from the High Street to the church. But at the corner, just as she was about to leave the High Street, she was arrested by a voice that was familiar to her, and, turning round, she saw Mrs. Cornbury seated in a low carriage, and driving a pair of ponies. "How are you, Rachel?" said Mrs. Cornbury, shaking hands with her friend, for Rachel had gone out into the street up to the side of the carriage, when she found that Mrs. Cornbury had stopped. "I'm going by the cottage,—to papa's. I see you are turning the other way; but if you've not much delay, I'll stay for you and take you home."
But Rachel had before her that other visit to make, and she was not minded either to omit it or postpone it. "I should like it so much," said Rachel,"only—"
"Ah! well; I see. You've got other fish to fry. But, Rachel, look here, dear." And Mrs. Cornbury almost whispered into her ear across the side of the pony carriage. "Don't you believe quite all you hear. I'll find out the truth, and you shall know. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Mrs. Cornbury," said Rachel, pressing her friend's hand as she parted from her. This allusion to her lover had called a blush up over her whole face, so that Mrs. Cornbury well knew that she had been understood. "I'll see to it," she said, driving away her ponies.
See to it! How could she see to it when that letter should have been written? And Rachel was well aware that another day must not pass without the writing of it.
She went down across the churchyard, leaving the path to the brewery on her left, and that leading out under the elm trees to her right, and went on straight to the stile at which she had stood with Luke Rowan, watching the reflection of the setting sun among the clouds. This was the spot which she had determined to visit; and she had come hither hoping that she might again see some form in the heavens which might remind her of that which he had shown her. The stile, at any rate, was the same, and there were the trees beneath which they had stood. There were the rich fields, lying beneath her, over which they two had gazed together at the fading lights of the evening. There was no arm in the clouds now, and the perverse sun was retiring to his rest without any of that royal pageantry and illumination with which the heavens are wont to deck themselves when their king goes to his couch. But Rachel, though she had come thither to look for these things and had not found them, hardly marked their absence. Her mind became so full of him and of his words, that she required no outward signs to refresh her memory. She thought so much of his look on that evening, of the tones of his voice, and of every motion of his body, that she soon forgot to watch the clouds. She sat herself down upon the stile with her face turned away from the fields, telling herself that she would listen for the footsteps of strangers, so that she might move away if any came near her; but she soon forgot also to listen, and sat there thinking of him alone. The words that had been spoken between them on that occasion had been but trifling,—very few and of small moment; but now they seemed to her to have contained all her destiny. It was there that love for him had first come upon her—had come over her with broad outspread wings like an angel; but whether as an angel of darkness or of light, her heart had then been unable to perceive. How well she remembered it all; how he had taken her by the hand, claiming the right of doing so as an ordinary farewell greeting; and how he had held her, looking into her face, till she had been forced to speak some word of rebuke to him! "I did not think you would behave like that," she had said. But yet at that very moment her heart was going from her. The warm friendliness of his touch, the firm, clear brightness of his eye, and the eager tone of his voice, were even then subduing her coy unwillingness to part with her maiden love. She had declared to herself then that she was angry with him; but, since that, she had declared to herself that nothing could have been better, finer, sweeter than all that he had said and done on that evening. It had been his right to hold her, if he intended afterwards to claim her as his own. "I like you so very much," he had said; "why should we not be friends?" She had gone away from him then, fleeing along the path, bewildered, ignorant as to her own feelings, conscious almost of a sin in having listened to him; but still filled with a wondrous delight that any one so good, so beautiful, so powerful as he, should have cared to ask for her friendship in such pressing words. During all her walk home she had been full of fear and wonder and mysterious delight. Then had come the ball, which in itself had hardly been so pleasant to her, because the eyes of many had watched her there. But she thought of the moment when he had first come to her in Mrs. Tappitt's drawing-room, just as she was resolving that he did not intend to notice her further. She thought of those repeated dances which had been so dear to her, but which, in their repetition, had frightened her so grievously. She thought of the supper, during which he had insisted on sitting by her; and of that meeting in the hall, during which he had, as it were, forced her to remain and listen to him,—forced her to stay with him till, in her agony of fear, she had escaped away to her friend and begged that she might be taken home! As she sat by Mrs. Cornbury in the carriage, and afterwards as she had thought of it all while lying in her bed, she had declared to herself that he had been very wrong;—but since that, during those few days of her permitted love, she had sworn to herself as often that he had been very right.
And he had been right. She said so to herself now again, though the words which he had spoken and the things which he had done had brought upon her all this sorrow. He had been right. If he loved her it was only manly and proper in him to tell his love. And for herself,—seeing that she had loved, had it not been proper and womanly in her to declare her love? What had she done; when, at what point, had she gone astray, that she should be brought to such a pass as this? At the beginning, when he had held her hand on the spot where she was now sitting, and again when he had kept her prisoner in Mr. Tappitt's hall, she had been half conscious of some sin, half ashamed of her own conduct; but that undecided fear of sin and shame had been washed out, and everything had been made white as snow, as pure as running water, as bright as sunlight, by the permission to love this man which had been accorded to her. What had she since done that she should be brought to such a pass as that in which she now found herself?
As she thought of this she was bitter against all the world except him;—almost bitter against her own mother. She had said that she would obey in this matter of the letter, and she knew well that she would in truth do as her mother bade her. But, sitting there, on the churchyard stile, she hatched within her mind plans of disobedience,—dreadful plans! She would not submit to this usage. She would go away from Baslehurst without knowledge of any one, and would seek him out in his London home. It would be unmaidenly;—but what cared she now for that;—unless, indeed, he should care? All her virgin modesty and young maiden fears,—was it not for him that she would guard them, for his delight and his pride? And if she were to see him no more, if she were to be forced to bid him go from her, of what avail would it be now to her to cherish and maintain the unsullied brightness of her woman's armour? If he were lost to her, everything was lost. She would go to him, and throwing herself at his feet would swear to him that life without his love was no longer possible for her. If he would then take her as his wife she would strive to bless him with all that the tenderness of a wife could give. If he should refuse her,—then she would go away and die. In such case what to her would be the judgment of any man or any woman? What to her would be her sister's scorn and the malignant virtue of such as Miss Pucker and Mr. Prong? What the upturned hands and amazement of Mr. Comfort? It would have been they who had driven her to this.
But how about her mother when she should have thus thrown herself overboard from the ship and cast herself away from the pilotage which had hitherto been the guide of her conduct? Why—why—why had her mother deserted her in her need? As she thought of her mother she knew that her plan of rebellion was nothing; but why—why had her mother deserted her?
As for him, and these new tidings which had come to the cottage respecting him, she would have cared for them not a jot. Mrs. Cornbury had cautioned her not to believe all that she heard; but she had already declined,—had altogether declined to believe any of it. It was to her, whether believed or disbelieved, matter altogether irrelevant. A wife does not cease to love her husband because he gets into trouble. She does not turn against him because others have quarrelled with him. She does not separate her lot from his because he is in debt! Those are the times when a wife, a true wife, sticks closest to her husband, and strives the hardest to lighten the weight of his cares by the tenderness of her love! And had she not been permitted to place herself in that position with regard to him when she had been permitted to love him? In all her thoughts she recognized the right of her mother to have debarred her from the privilege of loving this man, if such embargo had been placed on her before her love had been declared. She had never, even within her own bosom, assumed to herself the right of such privilege without authority expressed. But her very soul revolted against this withdrawal of the sanction that had been given to her. The spirit within her rebelled, though she knew that she would not carry on that rebellion by word or deed. But she had been injured;—injured almost to death; injured even to death itself as regarded all that life could give her worth her taking! As she thought of this injury that fierce look of which I have spoken came across her brow! She would obey her pastors and masters. Yes; she would obey them. But she could never again be soft and pliable within their hands. Obedience in this matter was a necessity to her. In spite of that wild thought of throwing off her maiden bonds and allowing her female armour to be splashed and sullied in the gutter, she knew that there was that which would hinder her from the execution of such scheme. She was bound by her woman's lot to maintain her womanly purity. Let her suffer as she might there was nothing for her but obedience. She could not go forth as though she were a man, and claim her right to stand or fall by her love. She had been injured in being brought to such plight as this, but she would bear her injury as best might be within her power.
She was still thinking of all this, and still sitting with her eyes turned towards the tower of the church, when she was touched on the back by a light hand. She turned round quickly, startled by the touch,—for she had heard no footstep,—and saw Martha Tappitt and Cherry. It was Cherry who had come close upon her, and it was Cherry's voice that she first heard. "A penny for your thoughts," said Cherry.
"Oh, you have so startled me!" said Rachel.
"Then I suppose your thoughts were worth more than a penny. Perhaps you were thinking of an absent knight." And then Cherry began to sing—"Away, away, away. He loves and he rides away."
Poor Rachel blushed and was unable to speak. "Don't be so foolish," said Martha to her sister. "It's ever so long since we've seen you, Rachel. Why don't you come and walk with us?"
"Yes, indeed,—why don't you?" said Cherry, whose good-nature was quite as conspicuous as her bad taste. She knew now that she had vexed Rachel, and was thoroughly sorry that she had done so. If any other girl had quizzed her about her lover it would not have annoyed her, and she had not understood at first that Rachel Ray might be different from herself. "I declare we have hardly seen you since the night of the party, and we think it very ill-natured in you not to come to us. Do come and walk to-morrow."
"Oh, thank you;—not to-morrow, because my sister is coming out from Baslehurst, to spend the evening with us."
"Well;—on Saturday, then," said Cherry, persistingly.
But Rachel would make no promise to walk with them on any day. She felt that she must henceforth be divided from the Tappitts. Had not he quarrelled with Mr. Tappitt; and could it be fitting that she should keep up any friendship with the family that was hostile to him? She was also aware that Mrs. Tappitt was among those who were desirous of robbing her of her lover. Mrs. Tappitt was her enemy as Mr. Tappitt was his. She asked herself no question as to that duty of forgiving them the injuries they had done her, but she felt that she was divided from them,—from Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt, and also from the girls. And, moreover, in her present strait she wanted no friend. She could not talk to any friend about her lover, and she could not bring herself even to think on any other subject.
"It's late," she said, "and I must go home, as mamma will be expecting me."
Cherry had almost replied that she had not been in so great a hurry once before, when she had stood in the churchyard with another companion; but she thought of Rachel's reproachful face when her last little joke had been uttered, and she refrained.
"She's over head and ears in love," said Cherry to her sister, when Rachel was gone.
"I'm afraid she has been very foolish," said Martha, seriously.
"I don't see that she has been foolish at all. He's a very nice fellow, and as far as I can see he's just as fond of her as she is of him."
"But we know what that means with young men," said Martha, who was sufficiently serious in her way of thinking to hold by that doctrine as to wolves in sheep's clothing in which Mrs. Ray had been educated.
"But young men do marry,—sometimes," said Cherry.
"But not merely for the sake of a pretty face or a good figure. I believe mamma is right in that, and I don't think he'll come back again."
"If he were my lover I'd have him back," said Cherry, stoutly;—and so they went away to the brewery.
Rachel on her way home determined that she would write her letter that night. Her mother was to read it when it was written; that was understood to be the agreement between them; but there would be no reason why she should not be alone when she wrote it. She could word it very differently, she thought, if she sat alone over it in her own bedroom, than she could do immediately under her mother's eye. She could not pause and think and perhaps weep over it, sitting at the parlour table, with her mother in her arm-chair, close by, watching her. It needed that she should write it with tears, with many struggles, with many baffled attempts to find the words that would be wanted,—with her very heart's blood. It must not be tender. No; she was prepared to omit all tenderness. And it must probably be short;—but if so its very shortness would be another difficulty. As she walked along she could not tell herself with what words she would write it; but she thought that the words would perhaps come to her if she waited long enough for them in the solitude of her own chamber.
She reached home by nine o'clock and sat with her mother for an hour, reading out loud some book on which they were then engaged.
"I think I'll go to bed now, mamma," she said.
"You always want to go to bed so soon," said Mrs. Ray. "I think you are getting tired of reading out loud. That will be very sad for me with my eyes."
"No, I'm not, mamma, and I'll go on again for half an hour, if you please; but I thought you liked going to bed at ten."
The watch was consulted, and as it was not quite ten Rachel did go on for another half-hour, and then she went up to her bedroom.
She sat herself down at her open window and looked out for a while upon the heavens. The summer moon was at its full, so that the green before the cottage was as clear before her as in the day, and she could see over into the gloom of Mr. Sturt's farmyard across it. She had once watched Rowan as he came over the turf towards the cottage swinging his stick in his hand, and now she gazed on the spot where the Baslehurst road came in as though she expected that his figure might again appear. She looked and looked, thinking of this, till she would hardly have been surprised had that figure really come forth upon the road. But no figure was to be seen, and after awhile she withdrew from the window and sat herself down at the little table. It was very late when she undressed herself and went to her bed, and later still when her eyes, red with many tears, were closed in sleep;—but the letter had been written and was ready for her mother's inspection. This was the letter as it stood after many struggles in the writing ofit,—
Bragg's End,Thursday, 186—My dear Mr. Rowan,I am much obliged to you for having written the letter which I received from you the other day, and I should have answered it sooner, only mamma thought it best to see Mr. Comfort first, as he is our clergyman here, and to ask his advice. I hope you will not be annoyed because I showed your letter to mamma, but I could not receive any letter from you without doing so, and I may as well tell you that she will read this before it goes.And now that I have begun I hardly know how to write what I have to say. Mr. Comfort and mamma have determined that there must be nothing fixed as an engagement between us, and that for the present, at least, I may not correspond with you. This will be my first and last letter. As that will be so, of course I shall not expect you to write any more, and I know that you will be very angry. But if you understood all my feelings I think that perhaps you would not be very, very angry. I know it is true that when you asked me that question, I nodded my head as you say in your letter. If I had sworn the twenty oaths of which you speak they would not, as you say, have bound me tighter. But neither could bind me to anything against mamma's will. I thought that you were very generous to come to me as you did;—oh, so generous! I don't know why you should have looked to such a one as me to be your wife. But I would have done my best to make you happy, had I been able to do as I suppose you then wished me. But you well know that a man is very different from a girl, and of course I must do as mamma wishes.They say that as the business here about the brewery is so very unsettled they think it probable that you will not have to come back to Baslehurst any more; and that as our acquaintance has been so very short, it is not reasonable to suppose that you will care much about me after a little while. Perhaps it is not reasonable, and after this I shall have no right to be angry with you if you forget me. I don't think you will quite forget me; but I shall never expect or even hope to see you again.
Bragg's End,Thursday, 186—
My dear Mr. Rowan,
I am much obliged to you for having written the letter which I received from you the other day, and I should have answered it sooner, only mamma thought it best to see Mr. Comfort first, as he is our clergyman here, and to ask his advice. I hope you will not be annoyed because I showed your letter to mamma, but I could not receive any letter from you without doing so, and I may as well tell you that she will read this before it goes.
And now that I have begun I hardly know how to write what I have to say. Mr. Comfort and mamma have determined that there must be nothing fixed as an engagement between us, and that for the present, at least, I may not correspond with you. This will be my first and last letter. As that will be so, of course I shall not expect you to write any more, and I know that you will be very angry. But if you understood all my feelings I think that perhaps you would not be very, very angry. I know it is true that when you asked me that question, I nodded my head as you say in your letter. If I had sworn the twenty oaths of which you speak they would not, as you say, have bound me tighter. But neither could bind me to anything against mamma's will. I thought that you were very generous to come to me as you did;—oh, so generous! I don't know why you should have looked to such a one as me to be your wife. But I would have done my best to make you happy, had I been able to do as I suppose you then wished me. But you well know that a man is very different from a girl, and of course I must do as mamma wishes.
They say that as the business here about the brewery is so very unsettled they think it probable that you will not have to come back to Baslehurst any more; and that as our acquaintance has been so very short, it is not reasonable to suppose that you will care much about me after a little while. Perhaps it is not reasonable, and after this I shall have no right to be angry with you if you forget me. I don't think you will quite forget me; but I shall never expect or even hope to see you again.
Twice in writing her letter Rachel cut out this latter assertion, but at last, sobbing in despair, she restored the words. What right would she have to hope that he would come to her, after she had taken upon herself to break that promise which had been conveyed to him, when she bent her head over his arm?
I shall not forget you, and I will always be your friend, as you said I should be. Being friends is very different to anything else, and nobody can say that I may not do that.I will always remember what you showed me in the clouds; and, indeed, I went there this very evening to see if I could see another arm. But there was nothing there, and I have taken that as an omen that you will not come back toBaslehurst.—
I shall not forget you, and I will always be your friend, as you said I should be. Being friends is very different to anything else, and nobody can say that I may not do that.
I will always remember what you showed me in the clouds; and, indeed, I went there this very evening to see if I could see another arm. But there was nothing there, and I have taken that as an omen that you will not come back toBaslehurst.—
"To me," had been the words as she had first written them; but there was tenderness in those words, and she found it necessary to alter them.
I will now say good-bye to you, for I have told you all that I have to tell. Mamma desires that I will remember her to you kindly.May God bless you and protect you always!Believe me to beYour sincere friend,Rachel Ray.
I will now say good-bye to you, for I have told you all that I have to tell. Mamma desires that I will remember her to you kindly.
May God bless you and protect you always!
Believe me to beYour sincere friend,
Rachel Ray.
In the morning she took down the letter in her hand and gave it to her mother. Mrs. Ray read it very slowly and demurred over it at sundry places. She especially demurred at that word about the omen, and even declared that it ought to be expunged. But Rachel was very stern and held her ground. She had put into the letter, she said, all that she had been bidden to say. Such a word from herself to one who had been so dear to her must be allowed to her.
The letter was not altered and was taken away by the postman that evening.
Six weeks passed over them at Bragg's End, and nothing was heard of Luke Rowan. Rachel's letter, a copy of which was given in our last chapter, was duly sent away by the postman, but no answer to it came to Bragg's End. It must, however, be acknowledged that it not only required no answer, but that it even refused to be answered. Rachel had told her lover that he was not to correspond with her, and that she certainly would not write to him again. Having so said, she had no right to expect an answer; and she protested over and over again that she did expect none. But still she would watch, as she thought unseen, for the postman's coming; and her heart would sink within her as the man would pass the gate without calling. "He has taken me at my word," she said to herself very bitterly. "I deserve nothing else from him; but—but—but—"In those days she was ever silent and stern. She did all that her mother bade her, but she did little or nothing from love. There were no more banquets, with clotted cream brought over from Mrs. Sturt's. She would speak a word or two now and then to Mrs. Sturt, who understood the whole case perfectly; but such words were spoken on chance occasions, for Rachel now never went over to the farm. Farmer Sturt's assistance had been offered to her; but what could the farmer do for her in such trouble as hers?
During the whole of these six weeks she did her household duties; but gradually she became slower in them and still more slow, and her mother knew that her disappointment was becoming the source of permanent misery. Rachel never said that she was ill; nor, indeed, of any special malady did she show signs: but gradually she became thin and wan, her cheeks assumed a haggard look, and that aspect of the brow which her mother feared had become habitual to her. Mrs. Ray observed her closely in all that she did. She knew well of those watchings for the postman. She was always thinking of her child, and, after a while, longing that Luke Rowan might come back to them, with a heart almost as sore with longing as was that of Rachel herself. But what could she do? She could not bring him back. In all that she had done,—in giving her sanction to this lover, and again in withdrawing it, she had been guided by the advice of her clergyman. Should she go again to him and beg him to restore that young man to them? Ah! no; great as was her trust in her clergyman she knew that even he could not do that for her.
During all these weeks hardly a word was spoken openly between the mother and daughter about the matter that chiefly occupied the thoughts of them both. Luke Rowan's name was hardly mentioned between them. Once or twice some allusion was made to the subject of the brewery, for it was becoming generally known that the lawyers were already at work on behalf of Rowan's claim; but even on such occasions as these Mrs. Ray found that her speech was stopped by the expression of Rachel's eyes, and by those two lines which on such occasions would mark her forehead. In those days Mrs. Ray became afraid of her younger daughter,—almost more so than she had ever been afraid of the elder one. Rachel, indeed, never spoke as Mrs. Prime would sometimes speak. No word of scolding ever passed her mouth; and in all that she did she was gentle and observant. But there was ever on her countenance that look of reproach which by degrees was becoming almost unendurable. And then her words during the day were so few! She was so anxious to sit alone in her own room! She would still read to her mother for some hours in the evening; but this reading was to her so manifestly a task, difficult and distasteful!
It may be remembered that Mrs. Prime, with her lover, Mr. Prong, and her friend Miss Pucker, had promised to call at Bragg's End on the evening after Rachel's walk into Baslehurst. They did come as they had promised, about half an hour after Rachel's letter to Luke had been carried away by the postman. They had come, and had remained at Bragg's End for an hour, eating cake and drinking currant wine, but not having, on the whole, what our American friends call a good time of it. That visit had been terrible to Mrs. Ray. Rachel had sat there cold, hard, and speechless. Not only had she not asked Miss Pucker to take off her bonnet, but she had absolutely declined to speak to that lady. It was wonderful to her mother that she should thus, in so short a time, have become wilful, masterful, and resolved in following out her own purposes. Not one word on that occasion did she speak to Miss Pucker; and Mrs. Prime, observing this, had grown black and still blacker, till the horror of the visit had become terrible to Mrs. Ray. Miss Pucker had grinned and smiled, and striven gallantly, poor woman, to make the best of it. She had declared how glad she had been to see Miss Rachel on the previous evening, and how well Miss Rachel had looked, and had expressed quite voluminous hopes that Miss Rachel would come to their Dorcas meetings. But to all this Rachel answered not a syllable. Now and then she addressed a word or two to her sister. Now and then she spoke to her mother. When Mr. Prong specially turned himself to her, asking her some question, she would answer him with one or two monosyllables, always calling him Sir; but to Miss Pucker she never once opened her mouth. Mrs. Prime became very angry,—very black and very angry; and the time of the visit was a terrible time to Mrs. Ray.
But this visit is to be noticed in our story chiefly on account of a few words which Mr. Prong found an opportunity of saying to Mrs. Ray respecting his proposed marriage. Mrs. Ray knew that there were difficulties about the money, and was disposed to believe, and perhaps to hope, that the match would be broken off. But on this occasion Mr. Prong was very marked in his way of speaking to Mrs. Ray, as though everything were settled. Mrs. Ray was thoroughly convinced by this that it was so, and her former beliefs and possible hopes were all dispersed. But then Mrs. Ray was easily convinced by any assertion. In thus speaking to his future mother-in-law he had contrived to turn his back round upon the other three ladies, so as to throw them together for the time, and thus make their position the more painful. It must be acknowledged that Rachel was capable of something great, after her determined resistance to Miss Pucker's blandishments under such circumstances as these.
"Mrs. Ray," Mr. Prong had said,—and as he spoke his voice was soft with mingled love and sanctity,—"I cannot let this moment pass without expressing one word of what I feel at the prospect of connecting myself with your amiable family."
"I'm sure I'm much obliged," Mrs. Ray had answered.
"Of course I am aware that Dorothea has mentioned the matter to you."
"Oh yes; she has mentioned it, certainly."
"And therefore I should be remiss, both as regards duty and manners, if I did not take this opportunity of assuring you how much gratification I feel in becoming thus bound up in family affection with you and Miss Rachel. Family ties are sweet bonds of sanctified love; and as I have none of my own,—nearer, that is, than Geelong, the colony of Victoria, where my mother and brother and sisters have located themselves,—I shall feel the more pleasure in taking you and Miss Rachel to my heart."
This was complimentary to Mrs. Ray; but with her peculiar feelings as to the expediency of people having their own belongings, she almost thought that it would have been better for all parties if Mr. Prong had gone to Geelong with the rest of the Prong family: this opinion, however, she did not express. As to taking Mr. Prong to her heart, she felt some doubts of her own capacity for such a performance. It would be natural for her to love a son-in-law. She had loved Mr. Prime very dearly, and trusted him thoroughly. She would have been prepared to love Luke Rowan, had fate been propitious in that quarter. But she could not feel secure as to loving Mr. Prong. Such love, moreover, should come naturally, of its own growth, and not be demanded categorically as a right. It certainly was a pity that Mr. Prong had not made himself happy, with that happiness for which he sighed, in the bosom of his family at Geelong. "I'm sure you're very kind," Mrs. Ray had said.
"And when we are thus united in the bonds of this world," continued Mr. Prong, "I do hope that other bonds, more holy in their nature even than those of family, more needful even than them, may join us together. Dorothea has for some months past been a constant attendant at mychurch—"
"Oh, I couldn't leave Mr. Comfort; indeed I couldn't," said Mrs. Ray in alarm. "I couldn't go away from my own parish church was it ever so."
"No, no; not altogether, perhaps. I am not sure that it would be desirable. But will it not be sweet, Mrs. Ray, when we are bound together as one family, to pour forth our prayers in holy communion together?"
"I think so much of my own parish church, Mr. Prong," Mrs. Ray replied. After that Mr. Prong did not, on that occasion, press the matter further, and soon turned round his chair so as to relieve the three ladies behind him.
"I think we had better be going, Mr. Prong," said Mrs. Prime, rising from her seat with a display of anger in the very motion of her limbs. "Good-evening, mother: good-evening to you, Rachel. I'm afraid our visit has put you out. Had I guessed as much, we would not have come."
"You know, Dolly, that I am always glad to see you,—only you come to us so seldom," said Rachel. Then with a very cold bow to Miss Pucker, with a very warm pressure of the hand from Mr. Prong, and with a sisterly embrace for Dorothea, that was not cordial as it should have been, she bade them good-bye. It was felt by all of them that the visit had been a failure;—it was felt so, at least, by all the Ray family. Mr. Prong had achieved a certain object in discussing his marriage as a thing settled; and as regarded Miss Pucker, she also had achieved a certain object in eating cake and drinking wine in Mrs. Ray's parlour.
For some weeks after that but little had been seen of Mrs. Prime at the cottage; and nothing had been said of her matrimonial prospects. Rachel did not once go to her sister's lodgings; and, on the few occasions of their meeting, asked no questions as to Mr. Prong. Indeed, as the days and weeks went on, her heart became too heavy to admit of her asking any questions about the love affairs of others. She still went about her work, as I have before said. She was not ill,—not ill so as to demand the care due to an invalid. But she moved about the house slowly, as though her limbs were too heavy for her. She spoke little, unless when her mother addressed her. She would sit for hours on the sofa doing nothing, reading nothing, and looking at nothing. But still, at the postman's morning hours, she would keep her eye upon the road over which he came, and that dull look of despair would come across her face when he passed on without calling at the cottage.
But on a certain morning towards the end of the six weeks the postman did call,—as indeed he had called on other days, though bringing with him no letter from Luke Rowan. Neither now, on this occasion, did he bring a letter from Luke Rowan. The letter was addressed to Mrs. Ray; and, as Rachel well knew from the handwriting, it was from the gentleman who managed her mother's little money matters,—the gentleman who had succeeded to the business left by Mr. Ray when he died. So Rachel took the letter up to her mother and left it, saying that it was from Mr. Goodall.
Mrs. Ray's small income arose partly from certain cottages in Baslehurst, which had been let in lump to a Baslehurst tradesman, and partly from shares in a gas company at Exeter. Now the gas company at Exeter was the better investment of the two, and was considered to be subject to less uncertainty than the cottages. The lease under which the cottages had been let was out, and Mrs. Ray had been advised to sell the property. Building ground near the town was rising in value; and she had been advised by Mr. Goodall to part with her little estate. Both Mrs. Ray and Rachel were aware that this business, to them very important, was imminent; and now had come a letter from Mr. Goodall, saying that Mrs. Ray must go to Exeter to conclude the sale. "We should only bungle matters," Mr. Goodall had said, "if I were to send the deeds down to you; and as it is absolutely necessary that you should understand all about it, I think you had better come up on Tuesday; you can get back to Baslehurst easily on the same day."
"My dear," said Mrs. Ray, coming into the parlour, "I must go to Exeter."
"To-day, mamma?"
"No, not to-day, but on Tuesday. Mr. Goodall says I must understand all about the sale. It is a dreadful trouble."
But, dreadful as the trouble was, it seemed that Mrs. Ray was not made unhappy by the prospect of the little expedition. She fussed and fretted as ladies do on such occasions, but—as is also common with ladies,—the excitement of the journey was, upon the whole, a gratification to her. She asked Rachel to accompany her, and at first pressed her to do so strongly; but such work at the present moment was not in accord with Rachel's mood, and at last she escaped from it under the plea of expense.
"I think it would be foolish, mamma," she said. "Now that Dolly has gone you will be run very close; and when Mr. Goodall first spoke of selling the cottages, he said that perhaps you might be without anything from them for a quarter."
"But he has sold them now, my dear; and there will be the money at once."
"I don't see why you should throw away ten and sixpence, mamma," said Rachel.
And as she spoke in that resolved and masterful tone, her mother, of course, gave up the point. So when the Tuesday morning came, she went with her mother only as far as the station.
"Don't mind meeting me, because I can't be sure about the train," said Mrs. Ray. "But I shall be back to-night, certainly."
"And I'll wait tea for you," said Rachel. Then, when her mother was gone, she walked back to the cottage by herself.
She walked back at once, but took a most devious course. She was determined to avoid the length of the High Street, and she was determined also to avoid Brewery Lane; but she was equally determined to pass through the churchyard. So she walked down from the railway station to the hamlet at the bottom of the hill below the church, and from thence went up by the field-path to the stile. In order to accomplish this she went fully two miles out of her way, and now the sun over her head was very hot. But what was the distance or the heat of the sun to her when her object was to stand for a few moments in that place? Her visit, however, to the spot which was so constantly in her thoughts did her no good. Why had she been so injured? Why had this sacrifice of herself been demanded from her? As she sat for a moment on the stile this was the matter that filled her breast. She had been exalted to the heavens when she first heard her mother speak of Mr. Rowan as an acceptable suitor. She had been filled with joy as though Paradise had been opened to her, when she found herself to be the promised bride of Luke Rowan. Then had come her lover's letter, and the clergyman's counsel, and her own reply; and after that the gates of her Paradise had been closed against her! "I wonder whether it's the same thing to him," she said to herself. "But I suppose not. I don't think it can be the same thing or he would come. Wouldn't I go to him if I were free as he is!" She barely rested in the churchyard, and then walked on between the elms at a quick pace, with a heart sore,—sore almost to breaking. She would never have been brought to this condition had not her mother told her that she might love him! Thence came her vexation of spirit. There was the cruelty. All the world knew that this man had been her lover;—all her world knew it. Cherry Tappitt had sung her little witless song about it. Mrs. Tappitt had called at the cottage about it. Mr. Comfort had given his advice about it. Mrs. Cornbury had whispered to her about it out of her pony carriage. Mrs. Sturt had counselled her about it. Mr. Prong had thought it very wrong on her part to love the man. Mr. Sturt had thought it very right, and had offered his assistance. All this would have been as nothing had her lover remained to her. Cherry might have sung till her little throat was tired, and Mr. Prong might have expressed his awe with outspread hands, and have looked as though he expected the skies to fall. Had her Paradise not been closed to her, all this talking would have been a thing of course. But such talking,—such wide-spread knowledge of her condition, with the gates of her Paradise closed against her, was very hard to bear! And who had closed the gates? Her own hands had done it. He, her lover, had not deserted her. He had done for her all that truth and earnestness demanded, and perhaps as much as love required. Men were not so soft as girls, she argued within her own breast. Let a man be ever so true it could not be expected that he should stand by his love after he had been treated with such cold indifference as had been shown in her letter! She would have stood by her love, let his letter have been as cold as it might. But then she was a woman, and her love, once encouraged, had become a necessity to her. A man, she said to herself, would be more proud but less stanch. Of course she would hear no more from him. Of course the gates of her Paradise were shut. Such were her thoughts as she walked home, and such the thoughts over which she sat brooding alone throughout the entire day.
At half-past seven in the evening Mrs. Ray came back home, wearily trudging across the green. She was very weary, for she had now walked above two miles from the station. She had also been on her feet half the day, and, which was probably worse than all the rest had she known it, she had travelled nearly eighty miles by railway. She was very tired, and would under ordinary circumstances have been disposed to reckon up her grievances in the evening quite as accurately as Rachel had reckoned hers in the morning. But something had occurred in Exeter, the recollection of which still overcame the sense of weariness which Mrs. Ray felt;—overcame it, or rather overtopped it; so that when Rachel came out to her at the cottage door she did not speak at once of her own weariness, but looked lovingly into her daughter's face,—lovingly and anxiously, and said some little word intended to denote affection.
"You must be very tired," said Rachel, who, with many self-reproaches and much communing within her own bosom, had for the time vanquished her own hard humour.
"Yes, I am tired, my dear; very. I thought the train never would have got to the Baslehurst station. It stopped at all the little stations, and really I think I could have walked as fast." A dozen years had not as yet gone by since the velocity of these trains had been so terrible to Mrs. Ray that she had hardly dared to get into one of them!
"And whom have you seen?" said Rachel.
"Seen!" said Mrs. Ray. "Who told you that I had seen anybody?"
"I suppose you saw Mr. Goodall."
"Oh yes, I saw him of course. I saw him, and the cottages are all sold. We shall have seven pounds ten a year more than before. I'm sure it will be a very great comfort. Seven pounds ten will buy so many things."
"But ten pounds would buy more."
"Of course it would, my dear. And I told Mr. Goodall I wished he could make it ten, as it would make it sound so much more regular like; but he said he couldn't do it because the gas has gone up so much. He could have done it if I had sixty pounds, but of course I hadn't."
"But, mamma, whom did you see except Mr. Goodall? I know you saw somebody, and you must tell me."
"That's nonsense, Rachel. You can't know that I saw anybody." It may, however, be well to explain at once the cause of Mrs. Ray's hesitation, and that this may be done in the proper course, we will go back to her journey to Exeter. All the incidents of her day may be told very shortly; but there was one incident in her day which filled her with so much anxiety, and almost dismay, that it must be narrated.
On arriving at Exeter she got into an omnibus which would have taken her direct to Mr. Goodall's office in the Close; but she was minded to call at a shop in the High Street, and had herself put down at the corner of one of those passages which lead from the High Street to the Close. She got down from the step of the vehicle, very carefully, as is the wont with middle-aged ladies from the country, and turned round to walk directly into the shop; but before her, on the pavement, she saw Luke Rowan. He was standing close to her, so that it was impossible that they should have pretended to miss seeing each other, even had they been so minded. Any such pretence would have been impossible to Mrs. Ray, and would have been altogether contrary to Luke Rowan's nature. He had been coming out of the shop, and had been arrested at once by Mrs. Ray's figure as he saw it emerging from the door of the omnibus.
"How d'you do?" said he, coming forward with outstretched hand, and speaking as though there was nothing between him and Mrs. Ray which required any peculiar word or tone.
"Oh, Mr. Rowan! is this you?" said she. "Dear, dear! I'm sure I didn't expect to see you in Exeter."
"I dare say not, Mrs. Ray; and I didn't expect to see you. But the odd thing is I've come here about the same business as you, though I didn't know anything about it till yesterday."
"What business, Mr. Rowan?"
"I've bought your cottages in Baslehurst."
"No!"
"But I have, and I've paid for them too, and you're going this very minute to Mr. Goodall to sign the deed of sale. Isn't that true? So you see I know all about it."
"Well, that is strange! Isn't it, now?"
"The fact is I must have a bit of land at Baslehurst for building. Tappitt will go on fighting; and as I don't mean to be beaten, I'll have a place of my own there."
"And you'll pull down the cottages?"
"If I don't pull him down first, so as to get the old brewery. I was obliged to buy your bit of ground now, as I might not have been able to get any just when I wanted it. You've sold it a deal too cheap. You tell Mr. Goodall I say so."
"But he says I'm to gain something by selling it."
"Does he? If it is so, I'm very glad of it. I only came down from London yesterday to finish this piece of business, and I'm going back to-day."
During all this time not a word had been said about Rachel. He had not even asked after her in the ordinary way in which men ask after their ordinary acquaintance. He had not looked as though he were in the least embarrassed in speaking to Rachel's mother, and now it seemed as though he were going away, as though all had been said between them that he cared to say. Mrs. Ray at the first moment had dreaded any special word; but now, as he was about to leave her, she felt disappointed that no special word had been spoken. But he was not as yet gone.
"I literally haven't a minute to spare," he said, offering her his hand for a second time; "for I've two or three people to see before I get to the train."
"Good-bye," said Mrs. Ray.
"Good-bye, Mrs. Ray. I don't think I've been very well treated among you. I don't indeed. But I won't say any more about that at present. Is she quite well?"
"Pretty well, thank you," said she, all of a tremble.
"I won't send her any message. As things are at present, no message would be of any service. Good-bye." And so saying he went from her.
Mrs. Ray at that moment had no time for making up her mind as to what she would do or say in consequence of this meeting,—or whether she would do or say anything. She looked forward to all the leisure time of her journey home for thinking of that; so she finished her shopping and hurried on to Mr. Goodall's office without resolving whether or no she would tell Rachel of the encounter. At Mr. Goodall's she remained some little time, dining at that gentleman's house as well as signing the deed, and asking questions about the gas company. He had grateful recollections of kindnesses received from Mr. Ray, and always exercised his hospitality on those rare occasions which brought Mrs. Ray up to Exeter. As they sat at table he asked questions about the young purchaser of the property which somewhat perplexed Mrs. Ray. Yes, she said, she did know him. She had just met him in the street and heard his news. Young Rowan, she told her friend, had been at the cottage more than once, but no mention had been made of his desire to buy these cottages. Was he well spoken of in Baslehurst? Well;—she was so little in Baslehurst that she hardly knew. She had heard that he had quarrelled with Mr. Tappitt, and she believed that many people had said that he was wrong in his quarrel. She knew nothing of his property; but certainly had heard somebody say that he had gone away without paying his debts. It may easily be conceived how miserable and ineffective she would be under this cross-examination, although it was made by Mr. Goodall without any allusion to Rachel.
"At any rate we have got our money," said Mr. Goodall; "and I suppose that's all we care about. But I should say he's rather a harum-scarum sort of fellow. Why he should leave his debts behind him I can't understand, as he seems to have plenty of money."
All this made Mrs. Ray's task the more difficult. During the last two or three weeks she had been wishing that she had not gone to Mr. Comfort,—wishing that she had allowed Rachel to answer Rowan's letter in any terms of warmest love that she might have chosen,—wishing, in fact, that she had permitted the engagement to go on. But now she began again to think that she had been right. If this man were in truth a harum-scarum fellow was it not well that Rachel should be quit of him,—even with any amount of present sorrow? Thinking of this on her way back to Baslehurst she again made up her mind that Rowan was a wolf. But she had not made up her mind as to what she would, or what she would not tell Rachel about the meeting, even when she reached her own door. "I will send her no message," he had said. "As things are at present no message would be of service." What had he meant by this? What purpose on his part did these words indicate? These questions Mrs. Ray had asked herself, but had failed to answer them.
But no resolution on Mrs. Ray's part to keep the meeting secret would have been of avail, even had she made such resolution. The fact would have fallen from her as easily as water falls from a sieve. Rachel would have extracted from her the information, had she been ever so determined not to impart it. As things had turned out she had at once given Rachel to understand that she had met some one in Exeter whom she had not expected to meet.
"But, mamma, whom did you see except Mr. Goodall?" Rachel asked. "I know you saw somebody, and you must tell me."
"That's nonsense, Rachel; you can't know that I saw anybody."
After that there was a pause for some moments, and then Rachel persisted in her inquiry. "But, mamma, I do know that you met somebody."—Then there was another pause.—"Mamma, was it Mr. Rowan?"
Mrs. Ray stood convicted at once. Had she not spoken a word, the form of her countenance when the question was asked would have answered it with sufficient clearness. But she did speak a word. "Well; yes, it was Mr. Rowan. He had come down to Exeter on business."
"And what did he say, mamma?"
"He didn't say anything,—at least, nothing particular. It is he that has bought the cottages, and he had come down from London about that. He told me that he wanted some ground near Baslehurst, because he couldn't get the brewery."
"And what else did he say, mamma?"
"I tell you that he said nothing else."
"He didn't—didn't mention me then?"
Mrs. Ray had been looking away from Rachel during this conversation,—had been purposely looking away from her. But now there was a tone of agony in her child's voice which forced her to glance round. Ah me! She beheld so piteous an expression of woe in Rachel's face that her whole heart was melted within her, and she began to wish instantly that they might have Rowan back again with all his faults.
"Tell me the truth, mamma; I may as well know it."
"Well, my dear, he didn't mention your name, but he did say a word about you."
"What word, mamma?"
"He said he would send no message because it would be no good."
"He said that, did he?"
"Yes, he said that. And so I suppose he meant it would be no good sending anything till he came himself."
"No, mamma; he didn't mean quite that. I understand what he meant. As it is to be so, he was quite right. No message could be of any use. It has been my own doing, and I have no right to blame him. Mamma, if you don't mind, I think I'll go to bed."
"My dear, you're wrong. I'm sure you're wrong. He didn't mean that."
"Didn't he, mamma?" And as she spoke a sad, weary, wobegone smile came over her face,—a smile so sad and piteous that it went to her mother's heart more keenly than would have done any sound of sorrow, any sobs, or wail of grief. "But I think he did mean that, mamma. It's no good doubting or fearing any longer. It's all over now."
"And it has been my fault!"
"No, dearest. It has not been your fault, nor do I think that it has been mine. I think we'd better not talk of faults. Ah dear;—I do wish he had never come here!"
"Perhaps it may be all well yet, Rachel."
"Perhaps it may,—in another world. It will never be well again for me in this. Good-night, mamma. You must never think that I am angry with you."
Then she went up stairs, leaving Mrs. Ray alone with her sorrow.
In the mean time things were not going on very pleasantly at the brewery, and Mr. Tappitt was making himself unpleasant in the bosom of his family. A lawsuit will sometimes make a man extremely pleasant company to his wife and children. Even a losing lawsuit will sometimes do so, if he be well backed up in his pugnacity by his lawyer, and if the matter of the battle be one in which he can take a delight to fight. "Ah," a man will say, "though I spend a thousand pounds over it, I'll stick to him like a burr. He shan't shake me off." And at such times he is almost sure to be in a good humour, and in a generous mood. Then let his wife ask him for money for a dinner-party, and his daughters for new dresses. He has taught himself for the moment to disregard money, and to think that he can sow five-pound notes broadcast without any inward pangs. But such was by no means the case with Mr. Tappitt. His lawyer Honyman was not backing him up; and as cool reflection came upon him he was afraid of trusting his interests to those other men, Sharpit and Longfite. And Mrs. Tappitt, when cool reflection came on her, had begun to dread the ruin which it seemed possible that terrible young man might inflict upon them. She had learned already, though Mrs. Ray had not, how false had been that report which had declared Luke Rowan to be frivolous, idle, and in debt. To her it was very manifest that Honyman was afraid of the young man; and Honyman, though he might not be as keen as some others, was at any rate honest. Honyman also thought that if the brewery were given up to Rowan that thousand a year which had been promised would be paid regularly; and to this solution of the difficulty Mrs. Tappitt was gradually bending herself to submit as the best which an untoward fate offered to them. Honyman himself had declared to her that Mr. Tappitt, if he were well advised, would admit Rowan in as a partner, on equal terms as regarded power and ultimate possession, but with that lion's share of the immediate concern for himself which Rowan offered. But this she knew that Tappitt would not endure; and she knew, also, that if he were brought to endure it for a while, it would ultimately lead to terrible sorrows. "They would be knocking each other about with the pokers, Mr. Honyman," she had said; "and where would the custom be when that got into the newspapers?" "If I were Mr. Tappitt, I would just let him have his own way," Honyman had replied. "That shows that you don't know Tappitt," had been Mrs. Tappitt's rejoinder. No;—the thousand a year and dignified retirement in a villa had recommended itself to Mrs. Tappitt's mind. She would use all her influence to attain that position,—if only she could bring herself to feel assured that the thousand a year would be forthcoming.
As to Tappitt himself, he was by no means so anxious to prolong the battle as he had been at the time of Rowan's departure. His courage for fighting was not maintained by good backing. Had Honyman clapped him on the shoulder and bade him put ready money in his purse, telling him that all would come out right eventually, and that Rowan would be crushed, he would have gone about Baslehurst boasting loudly, and would have been happy. Then Mrs. T. and the girls would have had a merry time of it; and the Tappitts would have come out of the contest with four or five hundred a year for life instead of the thousand now offered to them, and nobody would have blamed anybody for such a result. But Honyman had not spirit for such backing. In his dull, slow, droning way he had shaken his head and said that things were looking badly. Then Tappitt had cursed and had sworn, and had half resolved to go to Sharpit and Longfite. Sharpit and Longfite would have clapped him on the back readily enough, and have bade him put plenty of money in his purse. But we may suppose that Fate did not intend the ruin of Tappitt, seeing that she did not make him mad enough to seek the counsels of Sharpit and Longfite. Fate only made him very cross and unpleasant in the bosom of his family. Looking out himself for some mode of escape from this terrible enemy that had come upon him, he preferred the raising of the sum of money which would be necessary to buy off Rowan altogether. Rowan had demanded ten thousand pounds, but Tappitt still thought that seven, or, at any rate, eight thousand would do it.
"I don't think he'll take less than ten," said Honyman, "because his share is really worth as much as that."
This was very provoking; and who can wonder that Tappitt was not pleasant company in his own house?
On the day after Mrs. Ray's visit to Exeter, Tappitt, as was now his almost daily practice, made his way into Mr. Honyman's little back room, and sat there with his hat on, discussing his affairs.
"I find that Mr. Rowan has bought those cottages of the widow Ray's," said Honyman.
"Nonsense!" shouted Tappitt, as though such a purchase on Rowan's part was a new injury done to himself.
"Oh, but he has," said Honyman. "There's not a doubt in life about it. If he does mean to build a new brewery, it wouldn't be a bad place. You see it's out of the thoroughfare of the town, and yet, as one may say, within a stone's throw of the High Street."
I will not repeat Mr. Tappitt's exclamation as he listened to these suggestions of his lawyer, but it was of a nature to show that he had not heard the news with indifference.
"You see he's such a fellow that you don't know where to have him," continued Honyman. "It's not only that he don't mind ruining you, but he don't mind ruining himself either."
"I don't believe he's got anything to lose."
"Ah! that's where you're wrong. He has paid ready money for this bit of land to begin with, or Goodall would never have let him have it. Goodall knows what he's about as well as any man."
"And do you mean to tell me that he's going to put up buildings there at once?" And Tappitt's face as he asked the question would have softened the heart of any ordinary lawyer. But Honyman was one whom nothing could harden and nothing soften.
"I don't know what he's going to put up, Mr. Tappitt, and I don't know when. But I know this well enough; that when a man buys little bits of property about a place it shows that he means to do something there."
"If he had twenty thousand pounds, he'd lose it all."
"That's very likely; but the question is, how would you fare in the mean time? If he hadn't this claim upon you, of course you'd let him build what he liked, and only laugh at him." Then Mr. Tappitt uttered another exclamation, and pulling his hat tighter on to his head, walked out of the lawyer's office and returned to the brewery.
They dined at three o'clock at the brewery, and during dinner on this day the father of the family made himself very disagreeable. He scolded the maid-servant till the poor girl didn't know the spoons from the forks. He abused the cook's performances till that valuable old retainer declared that if "master got so rampageous he might suit hisself, the sooner the better; she didn't care how soon; she'd cooked victuals for his betters and would again." He snarled at his daughters till they perked up their faces and came silently to a mutual agreement that they would not condescend to notice him further while he held on in his present mood. And he replied to his wife's questions,—questions intended to be soothing and kindly conjugal,—in such a tone that she determined to have it out with him before she allowed him to go to bed. "She knew her duty," she said to herself, "and she could stand a good deal. But there were some things she couldn't stand and some things that weren't her duty." After dinner Tappitt took himself out at once to his office in the brewery, and then, for the first time, saw the "Baslehurst Gazette and Totnes Chronicle" for that week. The "Baslehurst Gazette and Totnes Chronicle" was an enterprising weekly newspaper, which had been originally intended to convey on Sunday mornings to the inhabitants of South Devonshire the news of the past week, and the paper still bore the dates of successive Sundays. But it had gradually pushed itself out into the light of its own world before its own date, gaining first a night and then a day, till now, at the period of which I am speaking, it was published on the Friday morning.
"You ought just to look at this," a burly old foreman had said, handing him the paper in question, with his broad thumb placed upon a certain column. This foreman had known Bungall, and though he respected Tappitt, he did not fear him. "You should just look at this. Of course it don't amount to nothing; but it's as well to see what folks say." And he handed the paper to his master, almost making a hole in it by screwing his thumb on to the spot he wished to indicate.
Tappitt read the article, and his spirit was very bitter within him. It was a criticism on his own beer written in no friendly tone. "There is no reason," said the article, "why Baslehurst should be flooded with a liquor which no Christian ought to be asked to drink. Baslehurst is as capable of judging good beer from bad as any town in the British empire. Let Mr. Tappitt look to it, or some young rival will spring up beneath his feet and seize from his brow the hop-leaf wreath which Bungall won and wore." This attack was the more cruel because the paper had originally been established by Bungall's money, and had, in old days, been altogether devoted to the Bungall interest. That this paper should turn against him was very hard. But what else had he a right to expect? It was known that he had promised his vote to the Jew candidate, and the paper in question supported the Cornbury interest. A man that lives in a glass house should throw no stones. The brewer who brews bad beer should vote for nobody.
But Tappitt would not regard this attack upon him in its proper political light. Every evil at present falling upon him was supposed to come from his present enemy. "It's that dirty underhand blackguard," he said to the foreman.
"I don't think so, Mr. Tappitt," said the foreman. "I don't think so indeed."
"But I tell you it is," said Tappitt, "and I don't care what you think."
"Just as you please, Mr. Tappitt," said the foreman, who thereupon retired from the office, leaving his master to meditate over the newspaper in solitude.
It was a very bitter time for the poor brewer. He was one of those men whose spirit is not wanting to them while the noise and tumult of contest are around them, but who cannot hold on by their own convictions in the quiet hours. He could storm, and talk loud, and insist on his own way while men stood around him listening and perhaps admiring; but he was cowed when left by himself to think of things which seemed to be adverse. What could he do, if those around him, who had known him all his life as those newspaper people had known him,—what could he do if they turned against him, and talked of bad beer as Rowan had talked? He was not man enough to stand up and face this new enemy unless he were backed by his old friends. Honyman had told him that he would be beaten. How would it fare with him and his family if he were beaten? As he sat in his little office, with his hat low down over his eyes, balancing himself on the hind legs of his chair, he abused Honyman roundly. Had Honyman been possessed of wit, of skill, of professional craft,—had he been the master of any invention, all might have been well. But the attorney was a fool, an ass, a coward. Might it not be that he was a knave? But luckily for Honyman, and luckily also for Mr. Tappitt himself, this abuse did not pass beyond the precincts of Tappitt's own breast. We all know how delightful is the privilege of abusing our nearest friends after this fashion; but we generally satisfy ourselves with that limited audience to which Mr. Tappitt addressed himself on the present occasion.
In the mean time Mrs. Tappitt was sitting up-stairs in the brewery drawing-room with her daughters, and she also was not happy in her mind. She had been snubbed, and almost browbeaten, at dinner time, and she also had had a little conversation in private with Mr. Honyman. She had been snubbed, and, if she did not look well about her, she was going to be ruined. "You mustn't let him go on with this lawsuit," Mr. Honyman had said. "He'll certainly get the worst of it if he does, and then he'll have to pay double." She disliked Rowan quite as keenly as did her husband, but she was fully alive to the folly of spiting Rowan by doing an injury to her own face. She would speak to Tappitt that night very seriously, and in the mean time she turned the Rowan controversy over in her own mind, endeavouring to look at it from all sides. It had never been her custom to make critical remarks on their father's conduct to any of the girls except Martha; but on the present great occasion she waived that rule, and discussed the family affairs in full female family conclave. "I don't know what's come over your papa," she began by saying. "He seems quite beside himself to-day."
"I think he is troubled about Mr. Rowan and this lawsuit," said the sagacious Martha.