Martha shook her head, but at last she did write a note in the mothers name. "My girls are having a little dance, to welcome a friend from London, and they would feel so much obliged if your young ladies would come. Mrs. Butler Cornbury has been kind enough to say that she would join us, &c., &c., &c." Mrs. Tappitt and Augusta were in a seventh heaven of happiness when Mrs. Fawcett wrote to say that three of her girls would be delighted to accept the invitation; and even the discreet Martha and the less ambitious Cherry were well pleased.
"I declare I think we've been very fortunate," said Mrs. Tappitt.
"Only the Miss Fawcetts will get all the best partners," said Cherry.
"I'm not so sure of that," said Augusta, holding up her head.
But there had been yet another trouble. It was difficult for them to get people proper to meet Mrs. Butler Cornbury; but what must they do as to those people who must come and who were by no means proper to meet her? There were the Griggses for instance, who lived out of town in a wonderfully red brick house, the family of a retired Baslehurst grocer. They had been asked before Mrs. Cornbury's call had been made, or, I fear, their chance of coming to the party would have been small. There was one young Griggs, a man very terrible in his vulgarity, loud, rampant, conspicuous with villainous jewellery, and odious with the worst abominations of perfumery. He was loathsome even to the Tappitt girls; but then the Griggses and the Tappitts had known each other for half a century, and among their ordinary acquaintances Adolphus Griggs might have been endured. But what should they do when he asked to be introduced to Josceline Fawcett? Of all men he was the most unconscious of his own defects. He had once shown some symptoms of admiration for Cherry, by whom he was hated with an intensity of dislike that had amounted to a passion. She had begged that he might be omitted from the list; but Mrs. Tappitt had been afraid of angering their father.
The Rules also would be much in the way. Old Joshua Rule was a maltster, living in Cawston, and his wife and daughter had been asked before the accession of the Butler Cornbury dignity. Old Rule had supplied the brewery with malt almost ever since it had been a brewery; and no more harmless people than Mrs. Rule and her daughter existed in the neighbourhood;—but they were close neighbours of the Comforts, of Mrs. Cornbury's father and mother, and Mr. Comfort would have as soon asked his sexton to dine with him as the Rules. The Rules never expected such a thing, and therefore lived on very good terms with the clergyman. "I'm afraid she won't like meeting Mrs. Rule," Augusta had said to her mother; and then the mother had shaken her head.
Early in the week, before Rachel had accepted the invitation, Cherry had written to her friend. "Of course you'll come," Cherry had said; "and as you may have some difficulty in getting here and home again, I'll ask old Mrs. Rule to call for you. I know she'll have a place in the fly, and she's very good-natured." In answer to this Rachel had written a separate note to Cherry, telling her friend in the least boastful words which she could use that provision had been already made for her coming and going. "Mamma was up at Mr. Comfort's yesterday," Rachel wrote, "and he was so kind as to say that Mrs. Butler Cornbury would take me and bring me back. I am very much obliged to you all the same, and to Mrs. Rule."
"What do you think?" said Cherry, who had received her note in the midst of one of the family conferences; "Augusta said that Mrs. Butler Cornbury would not like to meet Rachel Ray; but she is going to bring her in her own carriage."
"I never said anything of the kind," said Augusta.
"Oh, but you did, Augusta; or mamma did, or somebody. How nice for Rachel to be chaperoned by Mrs. Butler Cornbury!"
"I wonder what she'll wear," said Mrs. Tappitt, who had on that morning achieved her victory over the wounded brewer in the matter of the three dresses.
On the Friday morning Mrs. Rowan came with her daughter, Luke having met them at Exeter on the Thursday. Mrs. Rowan was a somewhat stately lady, slow in her movements and careful in her speech, so that the girls were at first very glad that they had valiantly worked up their finery before her coming. But Mary was by no means stately; she was younger than them, very willing to be pleased, with pleasant round eager eyes, and a kindly voice. Before she had been three hours in the house Cherry had claimed Mary for her own, had told her all about the party, all about the dresses, all about Mrs. Butler Cornbury and the Miss Fawcetts, and a word or two also about Rachel Ray. "I can tell you somebody that's almost in love with her." "You don't mean Luke?" said Mary. "Yes, but I do," said Cherry; "but of course I'm only in fun." On the Saturday Mary was hard at work herself assisting in the decoration of the drawing-room, and before the all-important Tuesday came even Mrs. Rowan and Mrs. Tappitt were confidential. Mrs. Rowan perceived at once that Mrs. Tappitt was provincial,—as she told her son, but she was a good motherly woman, and on the whole, Mrs. Rowan condescended to be gracious to her.
At Bragg's End the preparations for the party required almost as much thought as did those at the brewery, and involved perhaps deeper care. It may be remembered that Mrs. Prime, when her ears were first astounded by that unexpected revelation, wiped the crumbs from out of her lap and walked off, wounded in spirit, to her own room. On that evening Rachel saw no more of her sister. Mrs. Ray went up to her daughter's bedroom, but stayed there only a minute or two. "What does she say?" asked Rachel, almost in a whisper. "She is very unhappy. She says that unless I can be made to think better of this she must leave the cottage. I told her what Mr. Comfort says, but she only sneers at Mr. Comfort. I'm sure I'm endeavouring to do the best I can."
"It wouldn't do, mamma, to say that she should manage everything, otherwise I'm sure I'd give up the party."
"No, my dear; I don't want you to do that,—not after what Mr. Comfort says." Mrs. Ray had in truth gone to the clergyman feeling sure that he would have given his word against the party, and that, so strengthened, she could have taken a course that would have been offensive to neither of her daughters. She had expected, too, that she would have returned home armed with such clerical thunders against the young man as would have quieted Rachel and have satisfied Dorothea. But in all this she had been,—I may hardly say disappointed,—but dismayed and bewildered by advice the very opposite to that which she had expected. It was perplexing, but she seemed to be aware that she had no alternative now, but to fight the battle on Rachel's side. She had cut herself off from all anchorage except that given by Mr. Comfort, and therefore it behoved her to cling to that with absolute tenacity. Rachel must go to the party, even though Dorothea should carry out her threat. On that night nothing more was said about Dorothea, and Mrs. Ray allowed herself to be gradually drawn into a mild discussion about Rachel's dress.
But there was nearly a week left to them of this sort of life. Early on the following morning Mrs. Prime left the cottage, saying that she should dine with Miss Pucker, and betook herself at once to a small house in a back street of the town, behind the new church, in which lived Mr. Prong. Have I as yet said that Mr. Prong was a bachelor? Such was the fact; and there were not wanting those in Baslehurst who declared that he would amend the fault by marrying Mrs. Prime. But this rumour, if it ever reached her, had no effect upon her. The world would be nothing to her if she were to be debarred by the wickedness of loose tongues from visiting the clergyman of her choice. She went, therefore, in her present difficulty to Mr. Prong.
Mr. Samuel Prong was a little man, over thirty, with scanty, light-brown hair, with a small, rather upturned nose, with eyes by no means deficient in light and expression, but with a mean mouth. His forehead was good, and had it not been for his mouth his face would have been expressive of intellect and of some firmness. But there was about his lips an assumption of character and dignity which his countenance and body generally failed to maintain; and there was a something in the carriage of his head and in the occasional projection of his chin, which was intended to add to his dignity, but which did, I think, only make the failure more palpable. He was a devout, good man; not self-indulgent; perhaps not more self-ambitious than it becomes a man to be; sincere, hard-working, sufficiently intelligent, true in most things to the instincts of his calling,—but deficient in one vital qualification for a clergyman of the Church of England; he was not a gentleman. May I not call it a necessary qualification for a clergyman of any church? He was not a gentleman. I do not mean to say that he was a thief or a liar; nor do I mean hereby to complain that he picked his teeth with his fork and misplaced his "h's." I am by no means prepared to define what I do mean,—thinking, however, that most men and most women will understand me. Nor do I speak of this deficiency in his clerical aptitudes as being injurious to him simply,—or even chiefly,—among folk who are themselves gentle; but that his efficiency for clerical purposes was marred altogether, among high and low, by his misfortune in this respect. It is not the owner of a good coat that sees and admires its beauty. It is not even they who have good coats themselves who recognize the article on the back of another. They who have not good coats themselves have the keenest eyes for the coats of their better-clad neighbours. As it is with coats, so it is with that which we call gentility. It is caught at a word, it is seen at a glance, it is appreciated unconsciously at a touch by those who have none of it themselves. It is the greatest of all aids to the doctor, the lawyer, the member of Parliament,—though in that position a man may perhaps prosper without it,—and to the statesman; but to the clergyman it is a vital necessity. Now Mr. Prong was not a gentleman.
Mrs. Prime told her tale to Mr. Prong, as Mrs. Ray had told hers to Mr. Comfort. It need not be told again here. I fear that she made the most of her sister's imprudence, but she did not do so with intentional injustice. She declared her conviction that Rachel might still be made to go in a straight course, if only she could be guided by a hand sufficiently strict and armed with absolute power. Then she went on to tell Mr. Prong how Mrs. Ray had gone off to Mr. Comfort, as she herself had now come to him. It was hard,—was it not?—for poor Rachel that the story of her few minutes' whispering under the elm tree should thus be bruited about among the ecclesiastical councillors of the locality. Mr. Prong sat with patient face and with mild demeanour while the simple story of Rachel's conduct was being told; but when to this was added the iniquity of Mr. Comfort's advice, the mouth assumed the would-be grandeur, the chin came out, and to any one less infatuated than Mrs. Prime it would have been apparent that the purse was not made of silk, but that a coarser material had come to hand in the manufacture.
"What shall the sheep do," said Mr. Prong, "when the shepherd slumbers in the folds?" Then he shook his head and puckered up his mouth.
"Ah!" said Mrs. Prime; "it is well for the sheep that there are still left a few who do not run from their work, even in the heat of the noonday sun."
Mr. Prong closed his eyes and bowed his head, and then reassumed that peculiarly disagreeable look about his mouth by which he thought to assert his dignity, intending thereby to signify that he would willingly reject the compliment as unnecessary, were he not forced to accept it as being true. He knew himself to be a shepherd who did not fear the noonday heat; but he was wrong in this,—that he suspected all other shepherds of stinting their work. It appeared to him that no sheep could nibble his grass in wholesome content, unless some shepherd were at work at him constantly with his crook. It was for the shepherd, as he thought, to know what tufts of grass were rank, and in what spots the herbage might be bitten down to the bare ground. A shepherd who would allow his flock to feed at large under his eye, merely watching his fences and folding his ewes and lambs at night, was a truant who feared the noonday sun. Such a one had Mr. Comfort become, and therefore Mr. Prong despised him in his heart. All sheep will not endure such ardent shepherding as that practised by Mr. Prong, and therefore he was driven to seek out for himself a peculiar flock. These to him were the elect of Baslehurst, and of his elect, Mrs. Prime was the most elect. Now this fault is not uncommon among young ardent clergymen.
I will not repeat the conversation that took place between the two, because they used holy words and spoke on holy subjects. In doing so they were both sincere, and not, as regarded their language, fairly subject to ridicule. In their judgment I think they were defective. He sustained Mrs. Prime in her resolution to quit the cottage unless she could induce her mother to put a stop to that great iniquity of the brewery. "The Tappitts," he said, "were worldly people,—very worldly people; utterly unfit to be the associates of the sister of his friend. As to the 'young man,' he thought that nothing further should be said at present, but that Rachel should be closely watched,—very closely watched." Mrs. Prime asked him to call upon her mother and explain his views, but he declined to do this. "He would have been most willing,—so willing! but he could not force himself where he would be unwelcome!" Mrs. Prime was, if necessary, to quit the cottage and take up her temporary residence with Miss Pucker; but Mr. Prong was inclined to think, knowing something of Mrs. Ray's customary softness of character, that if Mrs. Prime were firm, things would not be driven to such a pass as that. Mrs. Prime said that she would be firm, and she looked as though she intended to keep her word.
Mr. Prong's manner as he bade adieu to his favourite sheep was certainly of a nature to justify that rumour to which allusion has been made. He pressed Mrs. Prime's hand very closely, and invoked a blessing on her head in a warm whisper. But such signs among such people do not bear the meaning which they have in the outer world. These people are demonstrative and unctuous,—whereas the outer world is reticent and dry. They are perhaps too free with their love, but the fault is better than that other fault of no love at all. Mr. Prong was a little free with his love, but Mrs. Prime took it all in good part, and answered him with an equal fervour. "If I can help you, dear friend,"—and he still held her hand in his,—"come to me always. You never can come too often."
"You can help me, and I will come, always," she said, returning his pressure with mutual warmth. But there was no touch of earthly affection in her pressure; and if there was any in his at its close, there had, at any rate, been none at its commencement.
While Mrs. Prime was thus employed, Rachel and her mother became warm upon the subject of the dress, and when the younger widow returned home to the cottage, the elder widow was actually engaged in Baslehurst on the purchase of trappings and vanities. Her little hoard was opened, and some pretty piece of muslin was purchased by aid of which, with the needful ribbons, Rachel might be made, not fit, indeed, for Mrs. Butler Cornbury's carriage,—no such august fitness was at all contemplated by herself,—but nice and tidy, so that her presence need not be a disgrace. And it was pretty to see how Mrs. Ray revelled in these little gauds for her daughter now that the barrier of her religious awe was broken down, and that the waters of the world had made their way in upon her. She still had a feeling that she was being drowned, but she confessed that such drowning was very pleasant. She almost felt that such drowning was good for her. At any rate it had been ordered by Mr. Comfort, and if things went astray Mr. Comfort must bear the blame. When the bright muslin was laid out on the counter before her, she looked at it with a pleased eye and touched it with a willing hand. She held the ribbon against the muslin, leaning her head on one side, and enjoyed herself. Now and again she would turn her face upon Rachel's figure, and she would almost indulge a wish that this young man might like her child in the new dress. Ah!—that was surely wicked. But if so, how wicked are most mothers in this Christian land!
The morning had gone very comfortably with them during Dorothea's absence. Mrs. Prime had hardly taken her departure before a note came from Mrs. Butler Cornbury, confirming Mr. Comfort's offer as to the carriage. "Oh, papa, what have you done?"—she had said when her father first told her. "Now I must stay there all the night, for of course she'll want to go on to the last dance!" But, like her father, she was good-natured, and therefore, though she would hardly have chosen the task, she resolved, when her first groans were over, to do it well. She wrote a kind note, saying how happy she should be, naming her hour,—and saying that Rachel should name the hour for her return.
"It will be very nice," said Rachel, rejoicing more than she should have done in thinking of the comfortable grandeur of Mrs. Butler Cornbury's carriage.
"And are you determined?" Mrs. Prime asked her mother that evening.
"It is too late to go back now, Dorothea," said Mrs. Ray, almost crying.
"Then I cannot remain in the house," said Dorothea. "I shall go to Miss Pucker's,—but not till that morning; so that if you think better of it, all may be prevented yet."
But Mrs. Ray would not think better of it, and it was thus that the preparations were made for Mrs. Tappitt's—ball. The word "party" had now been dropped by common consent throughout Baslehurst.
Mrs. Butler Cornbury was a very pretty woman. She possessed that peculiar prettiness which is so often seen in England, and which is rarely seen anywhere else. She was bright, well-featured, with speaking lustrous eyes, with perfect complexion, and full bust, with head of glorious shape and figure like a Juno;—and yet with all her beauty she had ever about her an air of homeliness which made the sweetness of her womanhood almost more attractive than the loveliness of her personal charms. I have seen in Italy and in America women perhaps as beautiful as any that I have seen in England, but in neither country does it seem that such beauty is intended for domestic use. In Italy the beauty is soft, and of the flesh. In America it is hard, and of the mind. Here it is of the heart, I think, and as such is the happiest of the three. I do not say that Mrs. Butler Cornbury was a woman of very strong feeling; but her strongest feelings were home feelings. She was going to Mrs. Tappitt's party because it might serve her husband's purposes; she was going to burden herself with Rachel Ray because her father had asked her; and her greatest ambition was to improve the worldly position of the squires of Cornbury Grange. She was already calculating whether it might not some day be brought about that her little Butler should sit in Parliament for his county.
At nine o'clock exactly on that much to be remembered Tuesday the Cornbury carriage stopped at the gate of the cottage at Bragg's End, and Rachel, ready dressed, blushing, nervous, but yet happy, came out, and mounting on to the step was almost fearful to take her share of the seat. "Make yourself comfortable, my dear," said Mrs. Cornbury, "you can't crush me. Or rather I always make myself crushable on such occasions as this. I suppose we are going to have a great crowd?" Rachel merely said that she didn't know. She supposed there would be a good many persons. Then she tried to thank Mrs. Cornbury for being so good to her, and of course broke down. "I'm delighted,—quite delighted," said Mrs. Cornbury. "It's so good of you to come with me. Now that I don't dance myself, there's nothing I like so much as taking out girls that do."
"And don't you dance at all?"
"I stand up for a quadrille sometimes. When a woman has five children I don't think she ought to do more than that."
"Oh, I shall not do more than that, Mrs. Cornbury."
"You mean to say you won't waltz?"
"Mamma never said anything about it, but I'm sure she would not like it.Besides—"
"Well—"
"I don't think I know how. I did learn once, when I was very little; but I've forgotten."
"It will soon come again to you if you like to try. I was very fond of waltzing before I was married." And this was the daughter of Mr. Comfort, the clergyman who preached with such strenuous eloquence against worldly vanities! Even Rachel was a little puzzled, and was almost afraid that her head was sinking beneath the waters.
There was a great fuss made when Mrs. Butler Cornbury's carriage drove up to the brewery door, and Rachel almost felt that she could have made her way up to the drawing-room more comfortably under Mrs. Rule's mild protection. All the servants seemed to rush at her, and when she found herself in the hall and was conducted into some inner room, she was not allowed to shake herself into shape without the aid of a maid-servant. Mrs. Cornbury,—who took everything as a matter of course and was ready in a minute,—had turned the maid over to the young lady with a kind idea that the young lady's toilet was more important than that of the married woman. Rachel was losing her head and knew that she was doing so. When she was again taken into the hall she hardly remembered where she was, and when Mrs. Cornbury took her by the arm and began to walk up-stairs with her, her strongest feeling was a wish that she was at home again. On the first landing,—for the dancing-room was upstairs,—they encountered Mr. Tappitt, conspicuous in a blue satin waistcoat; and on the second landing they found Mrs. Tappitt, magnificent in a green Irish poplin. "Oh, Mrs. Cornbury, we are so delighted. The Miss Fawcetts are here; they are just come. How kind of you to bring Rachel Ray. How do you do, Rachel?" Then Mrs. Cornbury moved easily on into the drawing-room, and Rachel still found herself carried with her. She was half afraid that she ought to have slunk away from her magnificent chaperon as soon as she was conveyed safely within the house, and that she was encroaching as she thus went on; but still she could not find the moment in which to take herself off. In the drawing-room,—the room from which the carpets had been taken,—they were at once encountered by the Tappitt girls, with whom the Fawcett girls on the present occasion were so intermingled that Rachel hardly knew who was who. Mrs. Butler Cornbury was soon surrounded, and a clatter of words went on. Rachel was in the middle of the fray, and some voices were addressed also to her; but her presence of mind was gone, and she never could remember what she said on the occasion.
There had already been a dance,—the commencing operation of the night's work,—a thin quadrille, in which the early comers had taken part without much animation, and to which they had been driven up unwillingly. At its close the Fawcett girls had come in, as had now Mrs. Cornbury, so that it may be said that the evening was beginning again. What had been as yet done was but the tuning of the fiddles before the commencement of the opera. No one likes to be in at the tuning, but there are those who never are able to avoid this annoyance. As it was, Rachel, under Mrs. Cornbury's care, had been brought upon the scene just at the right moment. As soon as the great clatter had ceased, she found herself taken by the hand by Cherry, and led a little on one side. "You must have a card, you know," said Cherry handing her a ticket on which was printed the dances as they were to succeed each other. "That first one is over. Such a dull thing. I danced with Adolphus Griggs, just because I couldn't escape him for one quadrille." Rachel took the card, but never having seen such a thing before did not in the least understand its object. "As you get engaged for the dances you must put down their names in this way, you see,"—and Cherry showed her card, which already bore the designations of several cavaliers, scrawled in hieroglyphics which were intelligible to herself. "Haven't you got a pencil? Well, you can come to me. I have one hanging here, you know." Rachel was beginning to understand, and to think that she should not have very much need for the pencil, when Mrs. Cornbury returned to her, bringing a young man in her wake. "I want to introduce my cousin to you, Walter Cornbury," said she. Mrs. Cornbury was a woman who knew her duty as a chaperon, and who would not neglect it. "He waltzes delightfully," said Mrs. Cornbury, whispering, "and you needn't be afraid of being a little astray with him at first. He always does what I tell him." Then the introduction was made; but Rachel had no opportunity of repeating her fears, or of saying again that she thought she had better not waltz. What to say to Mr. Walter Cornbury she hardly knew; but before she had really said anything he had pricked her down for two dances,—for the first waltz, which was just going to begin, and some not long future quadrille. "She is very pretty," Mrs. Butler Cornbury had said to her cousin, "and I want to be kind to her." "I'll take her in hand and pull her through," said Walter. "What a tribe of people they've got here, haven't they?" "Yes, and you must dance with them all. Every time you stand up may be as good as a vote." "Oh," said Walter, "I'm not particular;—I'll dance as long as they keep the house open." Then he went back to Rachel, who had already been at work with Cherry's pencil.
"If there isn't Rachel Ray going to waltz with Walter Cornbury," said Augusta to her mother. Augusta had just refused the odious Griggs, and was about to stand up with a clerk in the brewery, who was almost as odious.
"It's because she came in the carriage," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I don't think she can waltz." Then she hurried off to welcome other comers.
Rachel had hardly been left alone for a minute, and had been so much bewildered by the lights and crowd and strangeness of everything around her, that she had been unable to turn her thoughts to the one subject on which during the last week her mind had rested constantly. She had not even looked round the room for Luke Rowan. She had just seen Mary Rowan in the crowd, but had not spoken to her. She had only known her from the manner in which Cherry Tappitt had spoken to her, and it must be explained that Rachel had not seen young Rowan since that parting under the elm-trees. Indeed, since then she had seen none of the Tappitt family. Her mother had said no word to her, cautioning her that she had better not seek them in her evening walks; but she had felt herself debarred from going into Baslehurst by all that her sister had said, and in avoiding Luke Rowan she had avoided the whole party from the brewery.
Now the room was partially cleared, the non-dancers being pressed back into a border round the walls, and the music began. Rachel, with her heart in her mouth, was claimed by her partner, and was carried forward towards the ground for dancing, tacitly assenting to her fate because she lacked words in which to explain to Mr. Cornbury how very much she would have preferred to be left in obscurity behind the wall of crinoline.
"Pray wait a minute or two," said she, almost panting.
"Oh, certainly. There's no hurry, only we'll stand where we can get our place when we like it. You need not be a bit afraid of going on with me. Patty has told me all about it, and we'll make it right in a brace of turns." There was something very good-natured in his voice, and she almost felt that she could ask him to let her sit down.
"I don't think I can," she said.
"Oh yes; come, we'll try!" Then he took her by the waist, and away they went. Twice round the room he took her, very gently, as he thought; but her head had gone from her instantly in a whirl of amazement! Of her feet and their movements she had known nothing; though she had followed the music with fair accuracy, she had done so unconsciously, and when he allowed her to stop she did not know which way she had been going, or at which end of the room she stood. And yet she had liked it, and felt some little triumph as a conviction came upon her that she had not conspicuously disgraced herself.
"That's charming," said he. She essayed to speak a word in answer, but her want of breath did not as yet permit it.
"Charming!" he went on. "The music's perhaps a little slow, but we'll hurry them up presently." Slow! It seemed to her that she had been carried round in a vortex, of which the rapidity, though pleasant, had been almost frightful. "Come; we'll have another start," said he; and she was carried away again before she had spoken a word. "I'd no idea that girl could waltz," said Mrs. Tappitt to old Mrs. Rule. "I don't think her mother would like it if she saw it," said Mrs. Rule. "And what would Mrs. Prime say?" said Mrs. Tappitt. However the ice was broken, and Rachel, when she was given to understand that that dance was done, felt herself to be aware that the world of waltzing was open to her, at any rate for that night. Was it very wicked? She had her doubts. If anybody had suggested to her, before Mrs. Cornbury's carriage had called for her, that she would waltz on that evening, she would have repudiated the idea almost with horror. How easy is the path down the shores of the Avernus! but then,—was she going down the shores of the Avernus?
She was still walking through the crowd, leaning on her partner's arm, and answering his good-natured questions almost in monosyllables, when she was gently touched on the arm by a fan, and on turning found herself confronted by Luke Rowan and his sister. "I've been trying to get at you so long," said he, making some sort of half apology to Cornbury, "and haven't been able; though once I very nearly danced you down without your knowing it."
"We're so much obliged to you for letting us escape," said Cornbury; "are we not, Miss Ray?"
"We carried heavy metal, I can tell you," said Rowan. "But I must introduce you to my sister. Where on earth have you been for these ten days?" Then the introduction was made, and young Cornbury, finding that his partner was in the hands of another lady, slipped away.
"I have heard a great deal about you, Miss Ray," said Mary Rowan.
"Have you? I don't know who should say much about me." The words sounded uncivil, but she did not know what words to choose.
"Oh, from Cherry especially;—and—and from my brother."
"I'm very glad to make your acquaintance," said Rachel.
"He told me that you would have been sure to come and walk with us, and we have all been saying that you had disappeared."
"I have been kept at home," said Rachel, who could not help remembering all the words of the churchyard interview, and feeling them down to her finger nails. He must have known why she had not again joined the girls from the brewery in their walks. Or had he forgotten that he had called her Rachel, and held her fast by the hand? Perhaps he did these things so often to other girls that he thought nothing of them!
"You have been keeping yourself up for the ball," said Rowan. "Precious people are right to make themselves scarce. And now what vacancies have you got for me?"
"Vacancies!" said Rachel.
"You don't mean to say you've got none. Look here, I've kept all these on purpose for you, although twenty girls have begged me to dispose of them in their favour."
"Oh, Luke, how can you tell such fibs?" said his sister.
"Well;—here they are," and he showed his card.
"I'm not engaged to anybody," said Rachel; "except for one quadrille to Mr. Cornbury,—that gentleman who just went away."
"Then you've no excuse for not filling up my vacancies,—kept on purpose for you, mind." And immediately her name was put down for she knew not what dances. Then he took her card and scrawled his own name on it in various places. She knew that she was weak to let him thus have his way in everything; but he was strong and she could not hinder him.
She was soon left with Mary Rowan, as Luke went off to fulfil the first of his numerous engagements. "Do you like my brother?" said she. "But of course I don't mean you to answer that question. We all think him so very clever."
"I'm sure he is very clever."
"A great deal too clever to be a brewer. But you mustn't say that I said so. I wanted him to go into the army."
"I shouldn't at all like that for my brother—if I had one."
"And what would you like?"
"Oh, I don't know. I never had a brother;—perhaps to be a clergyman."
"Yes; that would be very nice; but Luke would never be a clergyman. He was going to be an attorney, but he didn't like that at all. He says there's a great deal of poetry in brewing beer, but of course he's only quizzing us. Oh, here's my partner. I do so hope I shall see you very often while I'm at Baslehurst." Then Rachel was alone, but Mrs. Tappitt came up to her in a minute. "My dear," said she, "Mr. Griggs desires the honour of your hand for a quadrille." And thus Rachel found herself standing up with the odious Mr. Griggs. "I do so pity you," said Cherry, coming behind her for a moment. "Remember, you need not do it more than once. I don't mean to do it again."
After that she was allowed to sit still while a polka was being performed. Mrs. Cornbury came to her saying a word or two; but she did not stay with her long, so that Rachel could think about Luke Rowan, and try to make up her mind as to what words she should say to him. She furtively looked down upon her card and found that he had written his own name to five dances, ending with Sir Roger de Coverley at the close of the evening. It was quite impossible that she should dance five dances with him, so she thought that she would mark out two with her nail. The very next was one of them, and during that she would explain to him what she had done. The whole thing loomed large in her thoughts and made her feel anxious. She would have been unhappy if he had not come to her at all, and now she was unhappy because he had thrust himself upon her so violently,—or if not unhappy, she was at any rate uneasy. And what should she say about the elm-trees? Nothing, unless he spoke to her about them. She fancied that he would say something about the arm in the cloud, and if so, she must endeavour to make him understand that—that—that—. She did not know how to fix her thoughts. Would it be possible to make him understand that he ought not to have called her Rachel?
While she was thinking of all this Mr. Tappitt came and sat beside her. "Very pretty; isn't it?" said he. "Very pretty indeed, I call it."
"Oh yes, very pretty. I had no idea it would be so nice." To Mr. Tappitt in his blue waistcoat she could speak without hesitation. Ah me! It is the young men who receive all the reverence that the world has to pay;—all the reverence that is worth receiving. When a man is turned forty and has become fat, anybody can speak to him without awe!
"Yes, it is nice," said Mr. Tappitt, who, however, was not quite easy in his mind. He had been into the supper room, and had found the waiter handling long-necked bottles, arranging them in rows, apparently by the dozen. "What's that?" said he, sharply. "The champagne, sir! there should have been ice, sir, but I suppose they forgot it." Where had Mrs. T. procured all that wine? It was very plain to him that she had got the better of him by some deceit. He would smile, and smile, and smile during the evening; but he would have it out with Mrs. Tappitt before he would allow that lady to have any rest. He lingered in the room, pretending that he was overlooking the arrangements, but in truth he was counting the bottles. After all there was but a dozen. He knew that at Griggs's they sold it for sixty shillings. "Three pounds!" he said to himself. "Three pounds more; dear, dear!"
"Yes, it is nice!" he said to Rachel. "Mind you get a glass of champagne when you go in to supper. By-the-by, shall I get a partner for you? Here, Buckett, come and dance the next dance with Miss Ray." Buckett was the clerk in the brewery. Rachel had nothing to say for herself; so Buckett's name was put down on the card, though she would rather not have danced with Buckett. A week or two ago, before she had been taken up into Mrs. Cornbury's carriage, or had waltzed with Mrs. Cornbury's cousin, or had looked at the setting sun with Luke Rowan, she would have been sufficiently contented to dance with Mr. Buckett,—if in those days she had ever dreamed of dancing with any one. Then Mrs. Cornbury came to her again, bringing other cavaliers, and Rachel's card began to be filled. "The quadrille before supper you dance with me," said Walter Cornbury. "That's settled, you know." Oh, what a new world it was, and so different from the Dorcas meetings at Miss Pucker's rooms!
Then came the moment of the evening which, of all the moments, was the most trying to her. Luke Rowan came to claim her hand for the next quadrille. She had already spoken to him,—or rather he to her; but that had been in the presence of a third person, when, of course, nothing could be said about the sunset and the clouds,—nothing about that promise of friendship. But now she would have to stand again with him in solitude,—a solitude of another kind,—in a solitude which was authorized, during which he might whisper what words he pleased to her, and from which she could not even run away. It had been thought to be a great sin on her part to have remained a moment with him by the stile; but now she was to stand up with him beneath the glare of the lights, dressed in her best, on purpose that he might whisper to her what words he pleased. But she was sure—she thought that she was sure, that he would utter no words so sweet, so full of meaning, as those in which he bade her watch the arm in the clouds.
Till the first figure was over for them he hardly spoke to her. "Tell me," said he then, "why has nobody seen you since Saturday week last?"
"I have been at home."
"Ah; but tell me the truth. Remember what we said as we parted,—about being friends. One tells one's friend the real truth. But I suppose you do not remember what we said?"
"I don't think I said anything, Mr. Rowan."
"Did you not? Then I must have been dreaming. I thought you promised me your friendship." He paused for her answer, but she said nothing. She could not declare to him that she would not be his friend. "But you have not told me yet why it was that you remained at home. Come;—answer me a fair question fairly. Had I offended you?" Again she paused and made him no reply. It seemed to her that the room was going round her, and that the music made her dizzy. If she told him that he had not offended her would she not thereby justify him in having called her Rachel?
"Then I did offend you?" said he.
"Oh, Mr. Rowan,—never mind now; you must go on with the figure," and thus for a moment she was saved from her difficulty. When he had done his work of dancing, she began hers, and as she placed both her hands in his to make the final turn, she flattered herself that he would not go back to the subject.
Nor did he while the quadrille lasted. As they continued to dance he said very little to her, and before the last figure was over she had almost settled down to enjoyment. He merely spoke a word or two about Mrs. Cornbury's dress, and another word about the singular arrangement of Mr. Griggs' jewellery, at which word she almost laughed outright, and then a third word laudatory of the Tappitt girls. "As for Cherry," said he "I'm quite in love with her for her pure good-nature and hearty manners; and of all living female human beings Martha is the most honest and just."
"Oh! I'll tell her that," said Rachel. "She will so like it."
"No, you mustn't. You mustn't repeat any of the things I tell you in confidence." That word confidence again silenced her, and nothing more was said till he had offered her his arm at the end of the dance.
"Come away and have some negus on the stairs," he said. "The reason I like these sort of parties is, that one is allowed to go into such queer places. You see that little room with the door open. That's where Mr. Tappitt keeps his old boots and the whip with which he drives his grey horse. There are four men playing cards there now, and one is seated on the end of an upturned portmanteau."
"And where are the old boots?"
"Packed away on the top of Mrs. Tappitt's bed. I helped to put them there. Some are stuck under the grate because there are no fires now. Look here; there's a seat in the window." Then he placed her in the inclosure of an old window on the staircase landing, and brought her lemonade, and when she had drunk it he sat down beside her.
"Hadn't we better go back to the dancing?"
"They won't begin for a few minutes. They're only tuning up again. You should always escape from the hot air for a moment or two. Besides, you must answer me that question. Did I offend you?"
"Please don't talk of it. Please don't. It's all over now."
"Ah, but it is not all over. I knew you were angry with me because,—shall I say why?"
"No, Mr. Rowan, don't say anything about it."
"At any rate, I may think that you have forgiven me. But what if I offend in the same way again? What if I ask permission to do it, so that it may be no offence? Only think; if I am to live here in Baslehurst all my life, is it not reasonable that I should wish you to be my friend? Are you going to separate yourself from Cherry Tappitt because you are afraid of me?"
"Oh, no."
"But is not that what you have done during the last week, Miss Ray;—if it must be Miss Ray?" Then he paused, but still she said nothing. "Rachel is such a pretty name."
"Oh, I think it so ugly."
"It's the prettiest name in the Bible, and the name most fit for poetic use. Who does not remember Rachel weeping for her children?"
"That's the idea, and not the name. Ruth is twice prettier, and Mary the sweetest of all."
"I never knew anybody before called Rachel," said he.
"And I never knew anybody called Luke."
"That's a coincidence, is it not?—a coincidence that ought to make us friends. I may call you Rachel then?"
"Oh, no; please don't. What would people think?"
"Perhaps they would think the truth," said he. "Perhaps they would imagine that I called you so because I liked you. But perhaps they might think also that you let me do so because you liked me. People do make such mistakes."
At this moment up came to them, with flushed face, Mr. Buckett. "I have been looking for you everywhere," said he to Rachel. "It's nearly over now."
"I am so sorry," said Rachel, "but I quite forgot."
"So I presume," said Mr. Buckett angrily, but at the same time he gave his arm to Rachel and led her away. The fag end of some waltz remained, and he might get a turn with her. People in his hearing had spoken of her as the belle of the room, and he did not like to lose his chance. "Oh, Mr. Rowan," said Rachel, looking back as she was being led away. "I must speak one word to Mr. Rowan." Then she separated herself, and returning a step or two almost whispered to her late partner—"You have put me down for ever so many dances. You must scratch out two or three of them."
"Not one," said he. "An engagement is an engagement."
"Oh, but I really can't."
"Of course I cannot make you, but I will scratch out nothing,—and forget nothing."
Then she rejoined Mr. Buckett, and was told by him that young Rowan was not liked in the brewery at all. "We think him conceited, you know. He pretends to know more than anybody else."
It came to be voted by public acclamation that Rachel Ray was the belle of the evening. I think this was brought about quite as much by Mrs. Butler Cornbury's powerful influence as by Rachel's beauty. Mrs. Butler Cornbury having begun the work of chaperon carried it on heartily, and talked her young friend up to the top of the tree. Long before supper her card was quite full, but filled in a manner that was not comfortable to herself,—for she knew that she had made mistakes. As to those spaces on which the letter R was written, she kept them very sacred. She was quite resolved that she would not stand up with him on all those occasions,—that she would omit at any rate two; but she would accept no one else for those two dances, not choosing to select any special period for throwing him over. She endeavoured to explain this when she waltzed with him, shortly before supper; but her explanation did not come easy, and she wanted all her attention for the immediate work she had in hand. "If you'd only give yourself to it a little more eagerly," he said, "you'd waltz beautifully."
"I shall never do it well," she answered. "I don't suppose I shall ever try again."
"But you like it?"
"Oh yes; I like it excessively. But one can't do everything that one likes."
"No; I can't. You won't let me do what I like."
"Don't talk in that way, Mr. Rowan. If you do you'll destroy all my pleasure. You should let me enjoy it while it lasts." In this way she was becoming intimate with him.
"How very nicely your house does for a dance," said Mrs. Cornbury to Mrs. Tappitt.
"Oh dear,—I don't think so. Our rooms are so small. But it's very kind of you to say so. Indeed, I never can be sufficientlyobliged—"
"By-the-by," said Mrs. Cornbury, "what a nice girl Rachel Ray has grown."
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Tappitt.
"And dances so well! I'd no idea of it. The young men seem rather taken with her. Don't you think so?"
"I declare I think they are. I always fancy that is rather a misfortune to a young girl,—particularly when it must mean nothing, as of course it can't with poor Rachel."
"I don't see that at all."
"Her mother, you know, Mrs. Cornbury;—they are not in the way of seeing any company. It was so kind of you to bring her here, and really she does look very nice. My girls are very good-natured to her. I only hope her head won't be turned. Here's Mr. Tappitt. You must go down Mrs. Cornbury, and eat a little bit of supper." Then Mr. Tappitt in his blue waistcoat led Mrs. Cornbury away.
"I am a very bad hand at supper," said the lady.
"You must take just one glass of champagne," said the gentleman. Now that the wine was there, Mr. Tappitt appreciated the importance of the occasion.
For the last dance before supper,—or that which was intended to be the last,—Rachel had by long agreement been the partner of Walter Cornbury. But now that it was over, the majority of the performers could not go into the supper-room because of the crowd. Young Cornbury therefore proposed that they should loiter about till their time came. He was very well inclined for such loitering with Rachel.
"You're flirting with that girl, Master Walter," said Mrs. Cornbury.
"I suppose that's what she came for," said the cousin.
"By no means, and she's under my care; therefore I beg you'll talk no nonsense to her."
Walter Cornbury probably did talk a little nonsense to her, but it was very innocent nonsense. Most of such flirtations if they were done out loud would be very innocent. Young men are not nearly so pointed in their compliments as their elders, and generally confine themselves to remarks of which neither mothers nor grandmothers could disapprove if they heard them. The romance lies rather in the thoughts than in the words of those concerned. Walter Cornbury believed that he was flirting and felt himself to be happy, but he had uttered nothing warmer to Rachel than a hope that he might meet her at the next Torquay ball.
"I never go to public balls," said Rachel.
"But why not, Miss Ray?" said Walter.
"I never went to a dance of any description before this."
"But now that you've begun of course you'll go on." Mr. Cornbury's flirtation never reached a higher pitch than that.
When he had got as far as that Luke Rowan played him a trick,—an inhospitable trick, seeing that he, Rowan, was in some sort at home, and that the people about him were bound to obey him. He desired the musicians to strike up again while the elders were eating their supper,—and then claimed Rachel's hand, so that he might have the pleasure of serving her with cold chicken and champagne.
"Miss Ray is going into supper with me," said Cornbury.
"But supper is not ready," said Rowan, "and Miss Ray is engaged to dance with me."
"Quite a mistake on your part," said Cornbury.
"No mistake at all," said Rowan.
"Indeed it is. Come, Miss Ray, we'll take a turn down into the hall, and see if places are ready for us." Cornbury rather despised Rowan, as being a brewer and mechanical; and probably he showed that he did so.
"Places are not ready, so you need not trouble Miss Ray to go down as yet. But a couple is wanted for a quadrille, and therefore I'm sure she'll stand up."
"Come along, Rachel," said Cherry. "We just want you. This will be the nicest of all, because we shall have room."
Rachel had become unhappy seeing that the two men were in earnest. Had not Cherry spoken she would have remained with Mr. Cornbury, thinking that to be her safer conduct; but Cherry's voice had overpowered her, and she gave her arm to young Rowan, moving away with slow, hesitating step.
"Of course Miss Ray will do as she pleases," said Cornbury.
"Of course she will," said Rowan.
"I am so sorry," said Rachel, "but I was engaged, and it seems I am really wanted." Walter Cornbury bowed very stiffly, and there was an end of his flirtation. "That's the sort of thing that always happens when a fellow comes among this sort of people!" It was thus he consoled himself as he went down solitary to his supper.
"That's all right," said Rowan; "now we've Cherry for our vis-à-vis, and after that we'll go down to supper comfortably."
"But I said I'd go with him."
"You can't now, for he has gone without you. What a brick Cherry is! Do you know what she said of you?"
"No; do tell me."
"I won't. It will make you vain."
"Oh, dear no; but I want Cherry to like me, because I am so fond of her."
"She says you're by far— But I won't tell you. I hate compliments, and that would look like one. Come, who's forgetting the figure now? I shouldn't wonder if young Cornbury went into the brewery and drowned himself in one of the vats."
It was very nice,—very nice indeed. This was her third dance with Luke Rowan, and she was beginning to think that the other two might perhaps come off without any marked impropriety on her part. She was a little unhappy about Mr. Cornbury,—on his cousin's account rather than on his own. Mrs. Cornbury had been so kind to her that she ought to have remained with Walter when he desired it. So she told herself;—but yet she liked being taken down to supper by Luke Rowan. She had one other cause of uneasiness. She constantly caught Mrs. Tappitt's eye fixed upon herself, and whenever she did so Mrs. Tappitt's eye seemed to look unkindly at her. She had also an instinctive feeling that Augusta did not regard her with favour, and that this disfavour arose from Mr. Rowan's attentions. It was all very nice; but still she felt that there was danger around her, and sometimes she would pause a moment in her happiness, and almost tremble as she thought of things. She was dividing herself poles asunder from Mrs. Prime.
"And now we'll go to supper," said Rowan. "Come, Cherry; do you and Boyd go on first." Boyd was a friend of Rowan's. "Do you know, I've done such a clever trick. This is my second descent among the eatables. As I belong in a manner to the house I took down Miss Harford, and hovered about her for five minutes. Then I managed to lose myself in the crowd, and coming up here got the music up. The fellows were just going off. We've plenty of time now, because they're in the kitchen eating and drinking. I contrived all that dodge that I might give you this glass of wine with my own hands."
"Oh, Mr. Rowan, it was very wrong!"
"And that's my reward! I don't care about its being wrong as long as it's pleasant."
"What shocking morality!"
"All is fair in— Well, never mind, you'll own it is pleasant."
"Oh, yes; it's very pleasant."
"Then I'm contented, and will leave the moral of it for Mr. Cornbury. I'll tell you something further if you'll let me."
"Pray don't tell me anything that you ought not."
"I've done all I could to get up this party on purpose that we might have you here."
"Nonsense."
"But I have. I have cared about it just because it would enable me to say one word to you;—and now I'm afraid to say it."
She was sitting there close to him, and she couldn't go away. She couldn't run as she had done from the stile. She couldn't show any feeling of offence before all those who were around her; and yet,—was it not her duty to do something to stop him? "Pray don't say such things," she whispered.
"I tell you that I'm afraid to say it. Here; give me some wine. You'll take some more. No? Well; shall we go? I am afraid to say it." They were now out in the hall, standing idly there, with their backs to another door. "I wonder what answer you would make me!"
"We had better go up-stairs. Indeed we had."
"Stop a moment, Miss Ray. Why is it that you are so unwilling even to stay a moment with me?"
"I'm not unwilling. Only we had better go now."
"Do you remember when I held your arm at the stile?"
"No; I don't remember anything about it. You ought not to have done it. Do you know, I think you are very cruel." As she made the accusation, she looked down upon the floor, and spoke in a low, trembling voice that almost convinced him that she was in earnest.
"Cruel!" said he. "That's hard too."
"Or you wouldn't prevent me enjoying myself while I am here, by saying things which you ought to know I don't like."
"I have hardly thought whether you would like what I say or not; but I know this; I would give anything in the world to make myself sure that you would ever look back upon this evening as a happy one."
"I will if you'll come up-stairs, and—"
"And what?"
"And go on without,—without seeming to mind me so much."
"Ah, but I do mind you. Rachel—no; you shall not go for a minute. Listen to me for one moment." Then he tried to stand before her, but she was off from him, and ran up-stairs by herself. What was it that he wished to say to her? She knew that she would have liked to have heard it;—nay, that she was longing to hear it. But she was startled and afraid of him, and as she gently crept in at the door of the dancing-room, she determined that she would tell Mrs. Cornbury that she was quite ready for the carriage. It was impossible that she should go through those other two dances with Luke Rowan; and as for her other engagements, they must be allowed to shift for themselves. One had been made early in the evening with Mr. Griggs. It would be a great thing to escape dancing with Mr. Griggs. She would ask Cherry to make her apologies to everybody. As she entered the room she felt ashamed of herself, and unable to take any place. She was oppressed by an idea that she ought not to be walking about without some gentleman with her, and that people would observe her. She was still very near the door when she perceived that Mr. Rowan was also coming in. She determined to avoid him if she could, feeling sure that she could not stop him in anything that he might say, while so many people would be close around them. And yet she felt almost disappointment when she heard his voice as he talked merrily with some one at the door. At that moment Mrs. Cornbury came up to her, walking across the room on purpose to join her.
"What, all alone! I thought your hand was promised for every dance up to five o'clock."
"I believe I'm engaged to some one now, but I declare I don't know who it is. I dare say he has forgotten."
"Ah, yes; people do get confused a little just about this time. Will you come and sit down?"
"Thank you, I should like that. But, Mrs. Cornbury, when you're ready to go away, I am,—quite ready."
"Go away! Why I thought you intended to dance at least for the next two hours."
In answer to this, Rachel declared that she was tired. "And, Mrs. Cornbury, I want to avoid that man," and she pointed out Mr. Griggs by a glance of her eye. "I think he'll say I'm engaged to him for the next waltz, and—I don't like him."
"Poor man; he doesn't look very nice, certainly; but if that's all I'll get you out of the scrape without running away." Then Mr. Griggs came up, and, with a very low bow, struck out the point of his elbow towards Rachel, expecting her immediately to put her hand within it.
"I'm afraid, sir, you must excuse Miss Ray just at present. She's too tired to dance immediately."
Mr. Griggs looked at his card, then looked at Rachel, then looked at Mrs. Cornbury, and stood twiddling the bunch of little gilt playthings that hung from his chain. "That is too hard," said he; "deuced hard."
"I'm very sorry," said Rachel.
"So shall I be,—uncommon. Really, Mrs. Cornbury, I think a turn or two would do her good. Don't you?"
"I can't say I do. She says she would rather not, and of course you won't press her."
"I don't see it in that light,—I really don't. A gentleman has his rights you know, Mrs. Cornbury. Miss Ray won'tdeny—"
"Miss Ray will deny that she intends to stand up for this dance. And one of the rights of a gentleman is to take a lady at her word."
"Really, Mrs. Cornbury, you are down upon one so hard."
"Rachel," said she, "would you mind coming across the room with me? There are seats on the sofa on the other side." Then Mrs. Cornbury sailed across the floor, and Rachel crept after her more dismayed than ever. Mr. Griggs the while stood transfixed to his place, stroking his mustaches with his hand, and showing plainly by his countenance that he didn't know what he ought to do next. "Well, that's cool," said he; "confounded cool!"
"Anything wrong, Griggs, my boy?" said a bank clerk, slapping him on the back.
"I call it very wrong; very wrong, indeed," said Griggs; "but people do give themselves such airs! Miss Cherry, may I have the honour of waltzing with you?"
"Certainly not," said Cherry, who was passing by. Then Mr. Griggs made his way back to the door.
Rachel felt that things were going wrong with her. It had so happened that she had parted on bad terms with three gentlemen. She had offended Mr. Cornbury and Mr. Griggs, and had done her best to make Mr. Rowan understand that he had offended her! She conceived that all the room would know of it, and that Mrs. Cornbury would become ashamed of her. That Mrs. Tappitt was already very angry with her she was quite sure. She wished she had not come to the ball, and began to think that perhaps her sister might be right. It almost seemed to herself that she had not known how to behave herself. For a short time she had been happy,—very happy; but she feared that she had in some way committed herself during the moments of her happiness. "I hope you are not angry with me," she said, "about Mr. Griggs?" appealing to her friend in a plaintive voice.
"Angry!—oh dear, no. Why should I be angry with you? I should be angry with that man, only I'm a person that never gets angry with anybody. You were quite right not to dance with him. Never be made to dance with any man you don't like; and remember that a young lady should always have her own way in a ball-room. She doesn't get much of it anywhere else; does she, my dear? And now I'll go whenever you like it, but I'm not the least in a hurry. You're the young lady, and you're to have your own way. If you're quite in earnest, I'll get some one to order the carriage."—Rachel said that she was quite in earnest, and then Walter was called. "So you're going, are you?" said he. "Miss Ray has ill-treated me so dreadfully that I can't express my regret." "Ill-treated you, too, has she? Upon my word, my dear, you've shown yourself quite great upon the occasion. When I was a girl, there was nothing I liked so much as offending all my partners." But Rachel was red with dismay, and wretched that such an accusation should be made against her. "Oh, Mrs. Cornbury, I didn't mean to offend him! I'll explain it all in the carriage. What will you think of me?" "Think, my dear?—why, I shall think that you are going to turn all the young men's heads in Baslehurst. But I shall hear all about it from Walter to-morrow. He tells me of all his loves and all his disappointments."
While the carriage was being brought round, Rachel kept close to her chaperon; but every now and again her eyes, in spite of herself, would wander away to Mr. Rowan. Was he in any way affected by her leaving him, or was it all a joke to him? He was dancing now with Cherry Tappitt, and Rachel was sure that all of it was a joke. But it was a cruel joke,—cruel because it exposed her to so much ill-natured remark. With him she would quarrel,—quarrel really. She would let him know that he should not call her by her Christian name just when it suited him to do so, and then take himself off to play with others in the same way. She would tell Cherry, and make Cherry understand that all walks and visiting and friendly intercommunications must be abandoned because this young man would take advantage of her position to annoy her! He should be made to understand that she was not in his power! Then, as she thought of this, she caught his eye as he made a sudden stop in the dance close to her, and all her hard thoughts died away. Ah, dear, what was it that she wanted of him?
At that moment they got up to go away. Such a person as Mrs. Butler Cornbury could not, of course, escape without a parade of adieux. Mr. Tappitt was searched up from the little room in which the card-party held their meeting in order that he might hand the guest that had honoured him down to her carriage; and Mrs. Tappitt fluttered about, profuse in her acknowledgments for the favour done to them. "And we do so hope Mr. Cornbury will be successful," she said, as she bade her last farewell. This was spoken close to Mr. Tappitt's ear; and Mrs. Cornbury flattered herself that after that Mr. Tappitt's vote would be secure. Mr. Tappitt said nothing about his vote, but handed the lady down stairs in solemn silence.
The Tappitt girls came and clustered about Rachel as she was going. "I can't conceive why you are off so early," said Martha. "No, indeed," said Mrs. Tappitt; "only of course it would be very wrong to keep Mrs. Cornbury waiting when she has been so excessively kind to you." "The naughty girl! It isn't that at all," said Cherry. "It's she that is hurrying Mrs. Cornbury away." "Good night," said Augusta very coldly. "And Rachel," said Cherry, "mind you come up to-morrow and talk it all over; we shall have so much to say." Then Rachel turned to go, and found Luke Rowan at her elbow waiting to take her down. She had no alternative;—she must take his arm; and thus they walked down stairs into the hall together.
"You'll come up here to-morrow," said he.
"No, no; tell Cherry that I shall not come."
"Then I shall go to Bragg's End. Will your mother let me call?"
"No, don't come. Pray don't."
"I certainly shall;—certainly, certainly! What things have you got? Let me put your shawl on for you. If you do not come up to the girls, I shall certainly go down to you. Now, good-night. Good-night, Mrs. Cornbury." And Luke, getting hold of Rachel's reluctant hand, pressed it with all his warmth.
"I don't want to ask indiscreet questions," said Mrs. Cornbury; "but that young man seems rather smitten, I think."
"Oh, no," said Rachel, not knowing what to say.
"But I say,—oh, yes; a nice good-looking man he is too, and a gentleman, which is more than I can say for all of them there. What an escape you had of Mr. Griggs, my dear!"
"Yes, I had. But I was so sorry that you should have to speak to him."
"Of course I spoke to him. I was there to fight your battles for you. That's why married ladies go to balls. You were quite right not to dance with him. A girl should always avoid any intimacy with such men as that. It is not that he would have done you any harm; but they stand in the way of your satisfaction and contentment. Balls are given specially for young ladies; and it is my theory that they are to make themselves happy while they are there, and not sacrifice themselves to men whom they don't wish to know. You can't always refuse when you're asked, but you can always get out of an engagement afterwards if you know what you're about. That was my way when I was a girl." And this was the daughter of Mr. Comfort, whose somewhat melancholy discourses against the world's pleasures and vanities had so often filled Rachel's bosom with awe!
Rachel sat silent, thinking of what had occurred at Mrs. Tappitt's; and thinking also that she ought to make some little speech to her friend, thanking her for all that she had done. Ought she not also to apologise in some way for her own conduct? "What was that between you and my cousin Walter?" Mrs. Cornbury asked, after a few moments.
"I hope I wasn't to blame," said Rachel. "But—"
"But what? Of course you weren't to blame;—unless it was in being run after by so many gentlemen at once."
"He was going to take me down to supper,—and it was so kind of him. And then while we were waiting because the room down-stairs was full, there was another quadrille, and I was engaged to Mr. Rowan."
"Ah, yes; I understand. And so Master Walter got thrown once. His wrath in such matters never lasts very long. Here we are at Bragg's End. I've been so glad to have you with me; and I hope I may take you again with me somewhere before long. Remember me kindly to your mother. There she is at the door waiting for you." Then Rachel jumped out of the carriage, and ran across the little gravel-path into the house.
Mrs. Ray had been waiting up for her daughter, and had been listening eagerly for the wheels of the carriage. It was not yet two o'clock, and by ball-going people the hour of Rachel's return would have been considered early; but to Mrs. Ray anything after midnight was very late. She was not, however, angry, or even vexed, but simply pleased that her girl had at last come back to her. "Oh, mamma, I'm afraid it has been very hard upon you, waiting for me!" said Rachel; "but I did come away as soon as I could." Mrs. Ray declared that she had not found it all hard, and then,—with a laudable curiosity, seeing how little she had known about balls,—desired to have an immediate account of Rachel's doings.
"And did you get anybody to dance with you?" asked the mother, feeling a mother's ambition that her daughter should have been "respectit like the lave."
"Oh, yes; plenty of people asked me to dance."
"And did you find it come easy?"
"Quite easy. I was frightened about the waltzing, at first."
"Do you mean that you waltzed, Rachel?"
"Yes, mamma. Everybody did it. Mrs. Cornbury said she always waltzed when she was a girl; and as the things turned out I could not help myself. I began with her cousin. I didn't mean to do it, but I got so ashamed of myself that I couldn't refuse."
Mrs. Ray still was not angry; but she was surprised, and perhaps a little dismayed. "And did you like it?"
"Yes, mamma."
"Were they all kind to you?"
"Yes, mamma."
"You seem to have very little to say about it; but I suppose you're tired."
"I am tired, but it isn't that. It seems that there is so much to think about. I'll tell you everything to-morrow, when I get quiet again. Not that there is much to tell."
"Then I'll wish you good-night, dear."
"Good-night, mamma. Mrs. Cornbury was so kind,—you can have no idea how good-natured she is."
"She always was a good creature."
"If I'd been her sister she couldn't have done more for me. I feel as though I were really quite fond of her. But she isn't a bit like what I expected. She chooses to have her own way; but then she is so good-humoured! And when I got into any little troubleshe—"
"Well, what else did she do; and what trouble had you?"
"I can't quite describe what I mean. She seemed to make so much of me;—just as she might have done if I'd been some grand young lady down from London, or any, any;—you know what I mean."
Mrs. Ray sat with her candle in her hand, receiving great comfort from the knowledge that her daughter had been "respectit." She knew well what Rachel meant, and reflected, with perhaps a pardonable pride, that she herself had "come of decent people." The Tappitts were higher than her in the world, and so were the Griggses. But she knew that her forbears had been gentlefolk, when there were, so to speak, no Griggses and no Tappitts in existence. It was pleasant to her to think that her daughter had been treated as a lady.
"And she did do me such a kindness. That horrid Mr. Griggs was going to dance with me, and she wouldn't let him."
"I don't like that young man at all."
"Poor Cherry! you should hear her talk of him! And she would have stayed ever so much longer if I had not pressed her to go; and then she has such a nice way of saying things."
"She always had that, when she was quite a young girl."
"I declare I feel that I quite love her. And there was such a grand supper. Champagne!"
"No!"
"I got some cold turkey. Mr. Rowan took me down to supper." These last words were spoken very mildly, and Rachel, as she uttered them, did not dare to look into her mother's face.
"Did you dance with him?"