"Nasty man! I wish he'd never come near the place," said Augusta.
"I don't know that he's very nasty either," said Cherry. "We all liked him when he was staying here."
"But to be so false to papa!" said Augusta. "I call it swindling, downright swindling."
"One should know and understand all about it before one speaks in that way," said Martha. "I dare say it is very vexatious to papa; but after all perhaps Mr. Rowan may have some right on his side."
"I don't know about right," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I don't think he can have any right to come and set himself up here in opposition, as one may say, to the very ghost of his own uncle. I agree with Augusta, and think it is a very dirty thing to do."
"Quite shameful," said Augusta, indignantly.
"But if he has got the law on his side," continued Mrs. Tappitt, "it's no good your papa trying to go against that. Where should we be if we were to lose everything and be told to pay more money than your papa has got? It wouldn't be very pleasant to be turned out of the house."
"I don't think he'd ever do it," said Cherry.
"I declare, Cherry, I think you are in love with the man," said Augusta.
"If I ain't I know who was," said Cherry.
"As for love," said Mrs. Tappitt, "we all know who is in love with him,—nasty little sly minx! In the whole matter nothing makes me so angry as to think that she should have come here to our dance."
"That was Cherry's doing," said Augusta. This remark Cherry noticed only by a grimace addressed specially to her sister. A battle in Rachel's favour under present circumstances would have been so losing an affair that Cherry had not pluck enough to adventure it on her friend's behalf.
"But the question is,—what are we to do about the lawsuit?" said Mrs. Tappitt. "It is easy to see from your papa's manner that he is very much harassed. He won't admit him as a partner;—that's certain."
"Oh dear! I should hope not," said Augusta.
"That's all very well," said Martha; "but if the young man can prove his right, he must have it. Mamma, do you know what Mr. Honyman says about it?"
"Yes, my dear, I do." Mrs. Tappitt's manner became very solemn, and the girls listened with all their ears. "Yes, my dear, I do. Mr. Honyman thinks your father should give way."
"And take him in as a partner?" said Augusta. "Papa has got that spirit that he couldn't do it."
"It doesn't follow that your papa should take Mr. Rowan in as a partner because he gives up the lawsuit. He might pay him the money that he asks."
"But has he got it?" demanded Martha.
"Besides, it's such a deal; isn't it?" said Augusta.
"Or," continued Mrs. Tappitt, "your papa might accept his offer by retiring with a very handsome income for us all. Your papa has been in business for a great many years, working like a galley-slave. Nobody knows how he has toiled and moiled, except me. It isn't any joke being a brewer,—and having it all on himself as he has had. And if young Rowan ever begins it, I wish him joy of it."
"But would he pay the income?" Martha asked.
"Mr. Honyman says that he would; and if he did not, there would be the property to fall back upon."
"And where should we live?" said Cherry.
"That can't be settled quite yet. It must be somewhere near, so that your papa might keep an eye on the concern, and know that it was going all right. Perhaps Torquay would be the best place."
"Torquay would be delicious," said Cherry.
"And would that man come and live at the brewery?" said Augusta.
"Of course he would, if he pleased," said Martha.
"And bring Rachel Ray with him as his wife?" said Cherry.
"He'll never do that," said Mrs. Tappitt with energy.
"Never; never!" said Augusta,—with more energy.
In this way the large and influential feminine majority of the family at the brewery was brought round to look at one of the propositions made by Rowan without disfavour. It was not that that young man's sins had been in any degree forgiven, but that they all perceived, with female prudence, that it would be injudicious to ruin themselves because they hated him. And then to what lady living in a dingy brick house, close adjoining to the smoke and smells of beer-brewing, would not the idea of a marine villa at Torquay be delicious? None of the family, not even Mrs. Tappitt herself, had ever known what annual profit had accrued to Mr. T. as the reward of his life's work. But they had been required to live in a modest, homely way,—as though that annual profit had not been great. Under the altered circumstances, as now proposed, they would all know that papa had a thousand a year to spend;—and what might not be done at Torquay with a thousand a year? Before Mr. Tappitt came home for the evening,—which he did not do on that day till past ten, having been detained, by business, in the bar of the Dragon Inn,—they had all resolved that the combined ease and dignity of a thousand a year should be accepted.
Mr. Tappitt was still perturbed in spirit when he took himself to the marital chamber. What had been the nature of the business which had detained him at the bar of the Dragon he did not condescend to say, but it seemed to have been of a nature not well adapted to smooth his temper. Mrs. Tappitt perhaps guessed what that business had been; but if so, she said nothing of the subject in direct words. One little remark she did make, which may perhaps have had allusion to that business.
"Bah!" she exclaimed, as Mr. Tappitt came near her; "if you must smoke at all, I wish to goodness you'd smoke good tobacco."
"So I do," said Tappitt, turning round at her sharply. "It's best mixed bird's-eye. As if you could know the difference, indeed!"
"So I do, T. I know the difference very well. It's all poison to me,—absolute poison,—as you're very well aware. But that filthy strong stuff that you've taken to lately, is enough to kill anybody."
"I haven't taken to any filthy strong stuff," said Tappitt.
This was the beginning of that evening's conversation. I am inclined to think that Mrs. Tappitt had made her calculations, and had concluded that she could put forth her coming observations more efficaciously by having her husband in bad humour, than she could, if she succeeded in coaxing him into a good humour. I think that she made the above remarks, not solely because the fumes of tobacco were distasteful to her, but because the possession of a grievance might give her an opportunity of commencing the forthcoming debate with some better amount of justified indignation on her own side. It was not often that she begrudged Tappitt his pipe, or made ill-natured remarks about his gin and water.
"T.," she said, when Tappitt had torn off his coat in some anger at the allusion to "filthy strong stuff,"—"T., what do you mean to do about this lawsuit?"
"I don't mean to do anything."
"That's nonsense, T.; you must do something, you know. What does Mr. Honyman say?"
"Honyman is a fool."
"Nonsense, T.; he's not a fool. Or if he is, why have you let him manage your affairs so long? But I don't believe he's a fool at all. I believe he knows what he's talking about, quite as well as some others, who pretend to be so clever. As to your going to Sharpit and Longfite, it's quite out of the question."
"Who's talking of going to them?"
"You did talk of it."
"No I didn't. You heard me mention their names; but I never said that I should go to them at all. I almost wish I had."
"Now, T., don't talk in that way, or you'll really put me beside myself."
"I don't want to talk of it at all. I only want to go to bed."
"But we must talk of it, T. It's all very well for you to say you don't want to talk of things; but what is to become of me and my girls if everything goes astray at the brewery? You can't expect me to sit by quiet and see you ruined."
"Who talks about my being ruined?"
"Well, I believe all Baslehurst pretty well is talking about it. If a man will go on with a lawsuit when his own lawyer says he oughtn't, what else can come to him but ruin?"
"You don't know anything about it. I wish you'd hold your tongue, and let me go to bed."
"I do know something about it, Mr. Tappitt; and I won't hold my tongue. It's all very well for you to bid me hold my tongue; but am I to sit by and see you ruined, and the girls left without a bit to eat or a thing to wear? Goodness knows I've never thought much about myself. Nobody will ever say that of me. But it has come to this, T.; that something must be settled about Rowan's claim. If he hasn't got justice, he's got law on his side; and he seems to be one of those who don't care much as long as he's got that. If you ask me,T.—"
"But I didn't ask you," said Tappitt.
Tappitt never actually succumbed in these matrimonial encounters, and would always maintain courage for a sharp word, even to the last.
"No, I know you didn't;—and more shame to you, not to consult the wife of your bosom and the mother of your children, when such an affair as this has to be settled. But if you think I'm going to hold my tongue, you're mistaken. I know very well how things are going. You must either let this young man come in as apartner—"
"I'll be ——"
Tappitt would not have disgraced himself by such an exclamation in his wife's bedroom as he then used if his business in the bar of the Dragon had been legitimate.
"Very well, sir. I say nothing about the coarseness of your language on the present occasion, though I might say a great deal if I pleased. But if you don't choose to have him for a partner,—why then you must do something else."
"Of course I must."
"Exactly;—and therefore the only thing is for you to take the offer of a thousand a year that he has made. Now, T., don't begin cursing and swearing again, because you know that can't do any good. Honyman says that he'll pay the income;—and if he don't,—if he gets into arrear with it, then you can come down upon him and turn him out. Think how you'd like that! You've only just to keep a little ready money by you, so that you'll have something for six months or so, if he should get into arrear."
"And I'm to give up everything myself?"
"No, T.; you would not give up anything; quite the other way. You would have every comfort round you that any man can possibly want. You can't go on at it always, toiling and moiling as you're doing now. It's quite dreadful for a man never to have a moment to himself at your time of life, and of course it must tell on any constitution if it's kept up too long. You're not the man you were, T.; and of course you couldn't expect it."
"Oh, bother!"
"That's all very well; but it's my duty to see these things, and to think of them, and to speak of them too. Where should I be, and the girls, if you was hurried into your grave by working too hard?" Mrs. Tappitt's voice, as this terrible suggestion fell from her, was almost poetic, through the depth of its solemnity. "Do you think I don't know what it is that takes you to the Dragon so late at night?"
"I don't go to the Dragon late at night."
"I'm not finding fault, T.; and you needn't answer me so sharp. It's only natural you should want something to sustain you after such slavery as you have to go through. I'm not unreasonable. I know very well what a man is, and what it is he can do, and what he can't. It would be all very well your going on if you had a partner you could trust."
"Nothing on earth shall induce me to carry on with that fellow."
"And therefore you ought to take him at his word and retire. It would be the gentlemanlike thing to do. Of course you'd have the power of going over and seeing that things was straight. And if we was living comfortable at some genteel place, such as Torquay or the like, of course you wouldn't want to be going out to Dragons every evening then. I shouldn't wonder if, in two or three years, you didn't find yourself as strong as ever again."
Tappitt, beneath the clothes, insisted that he was strong; and made some virile remark in answer to that further allusion to the Dragon. He by no means gave way to his wife, or uttered any word of assent; but the lady's scheme had been made known to him; the ice had been broken; and Mrs. Tappitt, when she put out the candle, felt that she had done a good evening's work.
Another fortnight went by, and still nothing further was heard at Bragg's End from Luke Rowan. Much was heard of him in Baslehurst. It was soon known by everybody that he had bought the cottages; and there was a widely-spread and well-credited rumour that he was going to commence the necessary buildings for a new brewhouse at once. Nor were these tidings received by Baslehurst with all that horror,—with that loud clamour of indignation,—which Tappitt conceived to be due to them. Baslehurst, I should say, as a whole, received the tidings with applause. Why should not Bungall's nephew carry on a brewery of his own? Especially why should he not, if he were resolved to brew good beer? Very censorious remarks about the Tappitt beer were to be heard in all bar-rooms, and were re-echoed with vehemence in the kitchens of the Baslehurst aristocracy.
"It ain't beer," said Dr. Harford's cook, who had come from the midland counties, and knew what good beer was. "It's a nasty muddle of stuff, not fit for any Christian who has to earn her victuals over a kitchen fire."
It came to pass speedily that Luke Rowan was expected to build a new brewery, and that the event of the first brick was looked for with anxious expectation. And that false report which had spread itself through Baslehurst respecting him and his debts had taken itself off. It had been banished by a contrary report; and there now existed in Baslehurst a very general belief that Rowan was a man of means,—of very considerable means,—a man of substantial capital, whom to have settled in the town would be very beneficial to the community. That false statement as to the bill at Griggs' had been sifted, and the truth made known,—and somewhat to the disgrace of the Tappitt faction. The only article supplied by Griggs to Rowan's order had been the champagne consumed at Tappitt's supper, and for this Rowan had paid ready money within a week of the transaction. It was Mrs. Cornbury who discovered all this, and who employed means for making the truth known in Baslehurst. This truth also became known at last to Mrs. Ray,—but of what avail was it then? She had desired her daughter to treat the young man as a wolf, and as a wolf he had been hounded off from her little sheep-cot. She heard now that he was expected back at Baslehurst;—that he was a wealthy man; that he was thought well of in the town; that he was going to do great things. With what better possible husband could any young woman have been blessed? And yet she had turned him away from her cottage as though he had been a wolf!
It was from Mrs. Sturt that Mrs. Ray first learned the truth. Mr. Sturt was a tenant on the Cornbury estate, and Mrs. Sturt was of course well known to Mrs. Cornbury. That lady, when she had sifted to the bottom the story of Griggs' bill, and had assured herself that Rowan was by no means minded to surrender his interest in Baslehurst, determined that the truth should be made known to Mrs. Ray. But she was not willing to call on Mrs. Ray herself, nor did she wish to present herself before Rachel at the cottage, unless she could bring with her some more substantial comfort than could be afforded by simple evidence as to Rowan's good character. She therefore took herself to Mrs. Sturt, and discussed the matter with her.
"I suppose she does care about him," said Mrs. Cornbury, sitting in Mrs. Sturt's little parlour that opened out upon the kitchen garden. Mrs. Sturt was also seated, leaning on the corner of the table, with the sleeves of her gown tucked up, ready for work when the Squire's lady should be gone, but very willing to postpone her work as long as the Squire's lady would stay and gossip with her.
"Oh! that she do, Mrs. Butler,—in her heart of hearts. If I know anything of true love, she do love that young man."
"And he did offer to her? There can be no doubt about that, I suppose."
"Not a doubt on earth, Mrs. Butler. She never told me so outright,—nor yet didn't her mother;—but if he didn't, I'll give my head for a cream cheese. Laws love you, Mrs. Butler, I know what's what well enough. I know when a girl's wild and flighty, and thinks of things as she oughtn't;—and I know when she's proper behaved, and gives a young man encouragement only when it becomes her."
"Of course you do, Mrs. Sturt."
"It isn't for me, Mrs. Butler, to say anything against your papa. Nobody can have more respect for their clergyman than Sturt has and I; and before it was all settled like, Sturt never had a word with Mr. Comfort about tithes; but, Mrs. Butler, I think your papa was wrong here. As far as I can learn, it was he that told Mrs. Ray that this young man wasn't all that he should be."
"Papa meant it for the best. There were strange things said about him, you know."
"I never believes one word of what I hears, and never will. People are such liars; bean't they, Mrs. Butler? And I didn't believe a word again him. He's as fine a young man as you'd wish to see in a hundred years, and of course that goes a long way with a young woman. Well, Mrs. Butler, I'll tell Mrs. Ray what you say, but I'm afeard it's too late; I'm afeard it is. He's of a stubborn sort, I think. He's one of them that says, 'If you will not when you may, when you will you shall have nay.'"
Mrs. Cornbury still entertained hope that the stubbornness of the stubborn man might be overcome; but as to that she said nothing to Mrs. Sturt.
Mrs. Sturt, with what friendly tact she possessed, made her communication to Mrs. Ray, but it may be doubted whether more harm than good was not thus done. "And he didn't owe a shilling then?" asked Mrs. Ray.
"Not a shilling," said Mrs. Sturt.
"And he is going to come back to Baslehurst about this brewery business?"
"There's not a doubt in life about that," answered Mrs. Sturt. If these tidings could have come in time they would have been very salutary; but what was Mrs. Ray to do with them now? She felt that she could not honestly withhold them from Rachel; and yet she knew not how to tell them without adding to Rachel's misery. It was very improbable that Rachel should hear anything about Rowan from other lips than her own. It was clear that Mrs. Sturt did not intend to speak to her, and also clear that Mrs. Sturt expected that Mrs. Ray would do so.
Rachel's demeanour at this time was cause of great sorrow to Mrs. Ray. She never smiled. She sought no amusement. She read no books. She spoke but little, and when she did speak her words were hard and cold, and confined almost entirely to household affairs. Her mother knew that she was not ill, because she ate and drank and worked. Even Dorothea must have been satisfied with the amount of needlework which she produced in these days. But though not ill, she was thin and pale, and unlike herself. But perhaps of all the signs which her mother watched so carefully, the signs which tormented her most were those ever-present lines on her daughter's forehead,—lines which Mrs. Ray had now learned to read correctly, and which indicated some settled inward purpose, and an inward resolve that that purpose should become the subject of no outward discussion. Rachel had formerly been everything to her mother;—her friend, her minister, her guide, her great comfort;—the subject on which could be lavished all the soft tenderness of her nature, the loving object to whom could be addressed all the little innocent petulances of her life. But now Mrs. Ray did not dare to be either tender with Rachel, or petulant. She hardly dared to speak to her on subjects that were not indifferent. On this matter of Luke Rowan she did not dare to speak to her. Rachel never upbraided her with words,—had never spoken one word of reproach. But every moment of their passing life was an unspoken reproach, so severe and heavy that the poor mother hardly knew how to bear the burden of her fault.
As Mrs. Ray became more afraid of her younger daughter she became less afraid of the elder. This was occasioned partly, no doubt, by the absence of Mrs. Prime from the cottage. When there she only came as a visitor; and no visitor to a house can hold such dominion there as may be held by a domestic tyrant, present at all meals, and claiming an ascendancy in all conversations. But it arose in part also from the overwhelming solicitude which filled Mrs. Ray's heart from morning to night, as she watched poor Rachel in her misery. Her bowels yearned towards her child, and she longed to give her relief with an excessive longing. Had the man been a very wolf indeed,—such were her feelings at present,—I think that she would have welcomed him to the cottage. In ordering his repulse she had done a deed of which she had by no means anticipated the consequences, and now she repented in the sackcloth and ashes of a sorrow-stricken spirit. Ah me! what could she do to relieve that oppressed one! So thoroughly did this desire override all others in her breast, that she would snub Mrs. Prime without dreading or even thinking of the consequences. Her only hopes and her only fears at the present moment had reference to Rachel. Had Rachel proposed to her that they should both start off to London and there search for Luke Rowan, I doubt whether she would have had the heart to decline the journey.
In these days Mrs. Prime came to the cottage regularly twice a week,—on Wednesdays and Saturdays. On Wednesday she came after tea, and on Saturday she drank tea with her mother. On these occasions much was, of course, said as to the prospect of her marriage with Mr. Prong. Nothing was as yet settled, and Rachel had concluded, in her own mind, that there would be no such wedding. As to Mrs. Ray's opinion, she, of course, thought there would be a wedding or that there would not, in accordance with the last words spoken by Mrs. Prime to herself on the occasion of that special conversation.
"She'll never give up her money," Rachel had said, "and he'll never marry her unless she does."
Mrs. Prime at this period acknowledged to her mother that she was not happy.
"I want," said she, "to do what's right. But it's not always easy to find out what is right."
"That's very true," said Mrs. Ray, thinking that there were difficulties in the affairs of other people quite as embarrassing as those of which Mrs. Prime complained.
"He says," continued the younger widow, "that he wants nothing for himself, but that it is not fitting that a married woman should have a separate income."
"I think he's right there," said Mrs. Ray.
"I quite believe what he says about himself," said Mrs. Prime. "It is not that he wants my money for the money's sake, but that he chooses to dictate to me how I shall use it."
"So he ought if he's to be your husband," said Mrs. Ray.
These conversations usually took place in Rachel's absence. When Mrs. Prime came Rachel would remain long enough to say a word to her, and on the Saturdays would pour out the tea for her and would hand to her the bread and butter with the courtesy due to a visitor; but after that she would take herself to her own bedroom, and only come down when Mrs. Prime had prepared herself for going. At last, on one of these evenings, there came a proposition from Mrs. Prime that she should return to the cottage, and live again with her mother and sister. She had not said that she had absolutely rejected Mr. Prong, but she spoke of her return as though it had become expedient because the cause of her going away had been removed. Very little had been said between her and her mother about Rachel's love affair, nor was Mrs. Prime inclined to say much about it now; but so much as that she did say. "No doubt it's all over now about that young man, and therefore, if you like it, I don't see why I shouldn't come back."
"I don't at all know about it's being all over," said Mrs. Ray, in a hurried quick tone, and as she spoke she blushed with emotion.
"But I suppose it is, mother. From all that I can hear he isn't thinking of her; and I don't suppose he ever did much."
"I don't know what he's thinking about, Dorothea; and I ain't sure that there's any good talking about it. Besides, if you're going to have Mr. Prong atlast—"
"If I did, mother, it needn't prevent my coming here for a month or two first. It wouldn't be quite yet certainly,—if at all. And I thought that perhaps, if I am going to settle myself in that way, you'd be glad that we should be altogether again for a little while."
"So I should, Dorothea,—of course. I have never wanted to be divided from my children. Your going away was your own doing, not mine. I'm sure it made me so wretched I didn't know what to do at the time. Only other things have come since, that have pretty nearly put all that out of my mind."
"But you can't think I was wrong to go when I felt it to be right."
"I don't know how that may be," said Mrs. Ray. "If you thought it right to go I suppose you were right to go; but perhaps you shouldn't have had such thoughts."
"Well, mother, we won't go back to that."
"No; we won't, if you please."
"This at any rate is certain, that Rachel, in departing from our usual ways of life, has brought great unhappiness upon herself. I'm afraid she is thinking of this young man now more than she ought to do."
"Of course she is thinking of him. Why should she not think of him?"
"Why, mother! Surely it cannot be good that any girl should think of a man who thinks nothing of her!"
Then Mrs. Ray spoke out,—as perhaps she had never spoken before.
"What right have you to say that he thinks nothing of her? Who can tell? He did think of her,—as honestly as any man ever thought of the woman he wished to mate with. He came to her fairly, and asked her to be his wife. What can any man do more by a girl than that? And she didn't say a word to him to encourage him till those she had a right to look to had encouraged him too. So she didn't. And I don't believe any woman ever had a child that behaved better, or truer, or more maidenly than she has done. And I was a fool, and worse than a fool, when I allowed any one to have an evil thought of her for a moment."
"Do you mean me, mother?"
"I don't mean anybody except myself; so I don't." Mrs. Ray as she spoke was weeping bitterly, and rubbing the tears from her red eyes with her apron. "I've behaved like a fool to her,—worse than a fool,—and I've broken her heart. Not think of him! How's a girl not to think of a man day and night when she loves him better than herself? Think of him! She'll think of him till she's in her grave. She'll think of him till she's past all other thinking. I hate such cruelty; and I hate myself for having been cruel. I shall never forgive myself, the longest day I have to live."
"You only did your duty, mother."
"No; I didn't do my duty at all. It can't be a mother's duty to break her child's heart and to be set against her by what anybody else can say. She was ever and always the best child that ever lived; and she came away from him, and strove to banish him from her thoughts, and wouldn't own to herself that she cared for him the least in the world, till he'd come here and spoken out straight, like a man as he is. I tell you what, Dorothea, I'd go to London, on my knees to him, if I could bring him back to her! I would. And if he comes here, I will go to him."
"Oh, mother!"
"I know he loves her. He's not one of your inconstant ones that take up with a girl for a week or so and then forgets her. But she has offended him, and he's stubborn. She has offended him at my bidding, and it's my doing;—and I'd humble myself in the dust to bring him back to her;—so I would. Never tell me of her not thinking of him. I tell you, Dorothea, she'll think of him always not because she has loved him, but because she has been brought to confess her love."
Mrs. Ray was so strong in her mingled passion and grief, that Mrs. Prime made no attempt to rebuke her. The daughter was indeed quelled by her mother's vehemence, and felt that for the present the subject of Rachel's love and Rachel's lover was not a fitting one for the exercise of her own talents as a preacher. The tragedy had progressed beyond the reach of her preaching. Mrs. Ray protested that Rachel had been right throughout, and that she herself had been wrong only when she had opposed Rachel's wishes. Such a view of the matter was altogether at variance with that entertained by Mrs. Prime, who was still of opinion that young people shouldn't be allowed to please themselves, and who feared the approach of any lover who came with lute in hand, and with light, soft, loving, worldly words. Men and women, according to her theory, were right to marry and have children; but she thought that such marriages should be contracted not only in a solemn spirit, but with a certain dinginess of solemnity, with a painstaking absence of mirth, that would divest love of its worldly alloy. Rachel had gone about her business in a different spirit, and it may almost be said that Mrs. Prime rejoiced that she had failed. She did not believe in broken hearts; she did believe in the efficacy of chastisement; and she thought that on the whole the present state of affairs would be beneficial to her sister. Had she been possessed of sufficient power she would now, on this occasion, have preached her sermon again as she had preached it before; but her mother's passion had overcome her, and she was unable to express her convictions.
"I hope that she will be better soon," she said.
"I hope she will," said Mrs. Ray.
At this moment Rachel came down from her own room and joined them in the parlour. She came in with that same look of sad composure on her face, as though she were determined to speak nothing of her thoughts to any one, and sat herself down near to her sister. In doing so, however, she caught a glimpse of her mother's face, and saw that she had been crying,—saw, indeed, that she was still crying at that moment.
"Mamma," she said, "what is the matter;—has anything happened?"
"No, dear, nothing;—nothing has happened."
"But you would not cry for nothing. What is it, Dolly?"
"We have been talking," said Dorothea. "Things in this world are not so pleasant in themselves that they can always be spoken of without tears,—either outward tears or inward. People are too apt to think that there is no true significance in their words when they say that this world is a vale of tears."
"All the same. I don't like to see mamma crying like that."
"Don't mind it, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "If you will not regard me I shall be better soon."
"I was saying that I thought I would come back to the cottage," said Mrs. Prime; "that is, if mother likes it."
"But that did not make mamma cry."
"There were other things arose out of my saying so." Then Rachel asked no further questions, but sat silent, waiting till her sister should go.
"Of course we shall be very glad to have you back again if it suits you to come," said Mrs. Ray. "I don't think it at all nice that a family should be divided,—that is, as long as they are the same family." Having received so much encouragement with reference to her proposed return, Mrs. Prime took her departure and walked back to Baslehurst.
For some minutes after they had been so left, neither Mrs. Ray nor Rachel spoke. The mother sat rocking herself in her chair, and the daughter remained motionless in the seat which she had taken when she first came into the room. Their faces were not turned to each other, but Rachel was so placed that she could watch her mother without being observed. Every now and again Mrs. Ray would put her hand up to her eyes to squeeze away the tears, and a low gurgling sound would come from her, as though she were striving without success to repress her sobs. She had thought that she would speak to Rachel when Mrs. Prime was gone,—that she would confess her error in having sent Rowan away, and implore her child to pardon her and to love her once again. It was not, however, that she doubted Rachel's love,—that she feared that Rachel was casting her out from her heart, or that she was learning to hate her. She knew well enough that her child still loved her. It was this,—that her life had become barren to her, cold, and altogether tasteless without those thousand little signs of ever-present affection to which she had been accustomed. If it was to be always thus between them, what would the world be to her for the remainder of her days? She could have borne to part with Rachel, had Rachel married, as in parting with her she would have looked forward to some future return of her girl's caresses; and in such case she would at least have felt that her loss had come from no cessation of the sweet loving nature of their mutual connexion. She would have wept as she gave Rachel over to a husband, but her tears would have been sweet as well as bitter. But there was nothing of sweetness in her tears as she shed them now,—nothing of satisfaction in her sorrow. If she could get Rachel to talk with her freely on the matter, if she could find an opportunity for confessing herself to have been wrong, might it not be that the soft caresses would be restored to her,—caresses that would be soft, though moistened with salt tears? But she feared to speak to her child. She knew that Rachel's face was still hard and stern, and that her voice was not the voice of other days. She knew that her daughter brooded over the injury that had been done to her,—though she knew also that no accusation was made, even in the girl's own bosom, against herself. She thoroughly understood the state of Rachel's mind, but she was unable to find the words that might serve to soften it.
"I suppose we may as well go to bed," she said at last, giving the matter up, at any rate for that evening.
"Mamma, why were you crying when I came into the room?" said Rachel.
"Was I crying, my dear?"
"You are crying still, mamma. Is it I that make you unhappy?"
Mrs. Ray was anxious to declare that the reverse of that was true,—that it was she who had made the other unhappy; but even now she could not find the words in which to say this. "No," she said; "it isn't you. It isn't anybody. I believe it's true what Mr. Comfort has told us so often when he's preaching. It's all vanity and vexation. There isn't anything to make anybody happy. I suppose I cry because I'm foolisher than other people. I don't know that anybody is happy. I'm sure Dorothea is not, and I'm sure you ain't."
"I don't want you to be unhappy about me, mamma."
"Of course you don't. I know that. But how can I help it when I see how things have gone? I tried to do for the best, and I have—" broken my child's heart, Mrs. Ray intended to say; but she failed altogether before she got as far as that, and bursting out into a flood of tears, hid her face in her apron.
Rachel still kept her seat, and her face was still hard and unmoved. Her mother did not see it; she did not dare to look upon it; but she knew that it was so; she knew her daughter would have been with her, close to her, embracing her, throwing her arms round her, had that face relented. But Rachel still kept her chair, and Mrs. Ray sobbed aloud.
"I wish I could be a comfort to you, mamma," Rachel said after another pause, "but I do not know how. I suppose in time we shall get over this, and things will be as they used to be."
"They'll never be to me as they used to be before he came to Baslehurst," said Mrs. Ray, through her tears.
"At any rate that is not his fault," said Rachel, almost angrily. "Whoever may have done wrong, no one has a right to say that he has done wrong."
"I'm sure I never said so. It is I that have done wrong," exclaimed Mrs. Ray. "I know it all now, and I wish I'd never asked anybody but just my own heart. I didn't mean to say anything against him, and I don't think it. I'm sure I liked him as I never liked any young man the first time of seeing him, that night he came out here to tea; and I know that what they said against him was all false. So I do."
"What was all false, mamma?"
"About his going away in debt, and being a ne'er-do-well, and about his going away from Baslehurst and not coming back any more. Everybody has a good word for him now."
"Have they, mamma?" said Rachel. And Mrs. Ray learned in a moment, from the tone of her daughter's voice, that a change had come over her feeling. She asked her little question with something of the softness of her old manner, with something of the longing loving wishfulness which used to make so many of her questions sweet to her mother's ears. "Have they, mamma?"
"Yes they have, and I believe it was those wicked people at the brewery who spread the reports about him. As for owing anybody money, I believe he's got plenty. Of course he has, or how could he have bought our cottages and paid for them all in a minute? And I believe he'll come back and live at Baslehurst; so I do;only—"
"Only what, mamma?"
"If he's not to come back to you I'd rather that he never showed his face here again."
"He won't come to me, mamma. Had he meant it, he would have sent me a message."
"Perhaps he meant that he wouldn't send the message till he came himself," said Mrs. Ray.
But she made the suggestion in a voice so full of conscious doubt that Rachel knew that she did not believe in it herself.
"I don't think he means that, mamma. If he did why should he keep me in doubt? He is very true and very honest, but I think he is very hard. When I wrote to him in that way after accepting the love he had offered me, he was angered, and felt that I was false to him. He is very honest, but I think he must be very hard."
"I can't think that if he loved you he would be so hard as that."
"Men are different from women, I suppose. I feel about him that whatever he might do I should forgive it. But then I feel, also, that he would never do anything for me to forgive."
"I'll never forgive him, never, if he doesn't come back again."
"Don't say that, mamma. You've no right even to be angry with him, because it was we who told him that there was to be no engagement,—after I had promised him."
"I didn't think he'd take you up so at the first word," said Mrs. Ray;—and then there was again silence for a few minutes.
"Mamma," said Rachel.
"Well, Rachel."
Mrs. Ray was still rocking her chair, and had hardly yet repressed that faint gurgling sound of half-controlled sobs.
"I am so glad to hear you say that you—respect him, and don't believe of him what people have said."
"I don't believe a word bad of him, except that he oughtn't to take huff in that way at one word that a girl says to him. He ought to have known that you couldn't write just what letter you liked, as he could."
"We won't say anything more about that. But as long as you don't think himbad—"
"I don't think him bad. I don't think him bad at all. I think him very good. I'd give all I have in the world to bring him back again. So I would."
"Dear mamma!"
And now Rachel moved away from her chair and came up to her mother.
"And I know it's been all my fault. Oh, my child, I am so unhappy! I don't get half an hour's sleep at night thinking of what I have done;—I, that would have given the very blood out of my veins to make you happy."
"No, mamma; it wasn't you."
"Yes, it was. I'd no business going away to other people after I had told him he might come here. You, who had always been so good too!"
"You mustn't say again that you wish he hadn't come here."
"Oh! but I do wish it, because then he would have been nothing to you. I do wish he hadn't ever come, but now I'd do anything to bring him back again. I believe I'll go to him and tell him that it was my doing."
"No, mamma, you won't do that."
"Why should I not? I don't care what people say. Isn't your happiness everything to me?"
"But I shouldn't take him if he came in that way. What! beg him to come and have compassion on me, as if I couldn't live without him! No, mother; that wouldn't do. I do love him. I do love him. I sometimes think I cannot live without his love. I sometimes feel as though stories about broken hearts might be true. But I wouldn't have him in that way. How could he love me afterwards, when I was his wife? But, mamma, we'll be friends again;—shall we not? I've been so unhappy that you should have thought ill of him!"
That night the mother and daughter shared the same bed together, and Mrs. Ray was able to sleep. She would not confess to herself that her sorrow had been lightened, because nothing had been said or done to lessen that of her daughter; but on the morrow Rachel came and hovered round her again, and the bitterness of Mrs. Ray's grief was removed.
Towards the end of September the day of the election arrived, and with it arrived Luke Rowan at Baslehurst. The vacancy had been occasioned by the acceptance of the then sitting member of that situation under the crown which is called the stewardship of the manor of Helpholme. In other words an old gentleman who had done his life's work retired and made room for some one more young and active. The old member had kept his seat till the end of the session, just leaving time for the moving for a new writ, and now the election was about to be held, almost at the earliest day possible. It had been thought that a little reflection would induce the Baslehurst people to reject the smiles of the Jew tailor from London, and therefore as little time for reflection was given to them as possible. The wealth, the liberal politics, the generosity, and the successes of Mr. Hart were dinned into their ears by a succession of speeches, and by an overpowering flight of enormous posters; and then the Jewish hero, the tailor himself, came among them, and astonished their minds by the ease and volubility of his speeches. He did not pronounce his words with any of those soft slushy Judaic utterances by which they had been taught to believe he would disgrace himself. His nose was not hookey, with any especial hook, nor was it thicker at the bridge than was becoming. He was a dapper little man, with bright eyes, quick motion, ready tongue, and a very new hat. It seemed that he knew well how to canvass. He had a smile and a good word for all,—enemies as well as friends. The task of abusing the Cornbury party he left to his committee and backers. He spent a great deal of money,—throwing it away in every direction in which he could do so, without laying himself open to the watchful suspicion of the other side. He ate and drank like a Christian, and only laughed aloud when some true defender of the Protestant faith attempted to scare him away out of the streets by carrying a gammon of bacon up on high. Perhaps his strength as a popular candidate was best shown by his drinking a pint of Tappitt's beer in the little parlour behind the bar at the Dragon.
"He beats me there," said Butler Cornbury, when he heard of that feat.
But the action was a wise one. The question as to Tappitt's brewery and Tappitt's beer was running high at Baslehurst, and in no stronger way could Mr. Hart have bound to him the Tappitt faction than by swallowing in public that pint of beer. "Let me have a small glass of brandy at once," said Mr. Hart to his servant, having retired to his room immediately after the performance of the feat. His constitution was good, and I may as well at once declare that before half an hour had passed over his head he was again himself, and at his work.
The question of Tappitt's beer and Tappitt's brewery was running high in Baslehurst, and had gotten itself involved in the mouths of the people of Baslehurst, not only with the loves and sorrows of poor Rachel Ray, but with the affairs of this election. We know how Tappitt had been driven to declare himself a stanch supporter of the Jew. He had become very stanch,—stanch beyond the promising of his own vote,—stanch even to a final sitting on the Jew's committee, and an active canvasser on the Jew's behalf. His wife, whose passions were less strong than his own and her prudence greater, had remonstrated with him on the matter. "You can vote against Cornbury, if you please," she had said, "but do it quietly. Keep your toe in your pump and say nothing. Just as we stand at present about the business of Rowan's, it would almost be better that you shouldn't vote at all." But Tappitt was an angry man, at this moment uncontrollable by the laws of prudence, and he went into these election matters heart and soul, to his wife's great grief. Butler Cornbury, or Mrs. Butler Cornbury,—it was all the same to him which,—had openly taken up Rowan's part in the brewery controversy. A rumour had reached Tappitt that the inmates of Cornbury Grange had loudly expressed a desire for good beer! Under such circumstances it was not possible for him not to rush to the fight. He did rush into the thick of it, and boasted among his friends that the Jew was safe. I think he was right,—right at any rate as regarded his own peace of mind. Nothing gives a man such spirit for a fight, as the act of fighting. During these election days he was almost regardless of Rowan. He was to second the nomination of the Jew, and so keen was he as to the speech that he would make, and as to the success of what he was doing against Mr. Cornbury, that he was able to talk down his wife, and browbeat Honyman in his own office. Honyman was about to vote for Butler Cornbury, was employed in the Cornbury interest, and knew well on which side his bread was buttered. Sharpit and Longfite were local attorneys for the Jew, and in this way Tappitt was thrown into close intercourse with that eminent firm. "Of course we wouldn't interfere," said Sharpit confidently to the brewer. "We never do interfere with the clients of another firm. We never did such a thing yet, and don't mean to begin. We find people drop into us quick enough without that. But in a friendly way, Mr. Tappitt, let me caution you, not to let your fine business be injured by that young sharper."
Mr. Tappitt found this to be very kind,—and very sensible too. He gave no authority to Sharpit on that occasion to act for him; but he thought of it, resolving that he would set his shoulders firmly to that wheel as soon as he had carried through this business of the election.
But even in the matter of the election everything did not go well with Tappitt. He had appertaining to his establishment a certain foreman of the name of Worts, a heavy, respectable, useful man, educated on the establishment by Bungall and bequeathed by Bungall to Tappitt,—a man by no means ambitious of good beer, but very ambitious of profits to the firm, a servant indeed almost invaluable in such a business. But Tappitt had ever found him deficient in this,—that he had a certain objectionable pride in having been Bungall's servant, and that as such he thought himself absolved from the necessity of subserviency to his latter master. Once a day indeed he did touch his cap, but when that was done he seemed to fancy that he was almost equal to Mr. Tappitt upon the premises. He never shook in his shoes if Tappitt were angry, nor affected to hasten his steps if Tappitt were in a hurry, nor would he even laugh at Tappitt's jokes, if,—as was too usual,—such jokes were not mirth-moving in their intrinsic nature. Clearly he was not at all points a good servant, and Tappitt in some hours of his prosperity had ventured to think that the brewery could go on without him. Now, since the day in which Rowan's treachery had first loomed upon Tappitt, he had felt much inclined to fraternize on easier terms with his foreman. Worts when he touched his cap had been received with a smile, and his advice had been asked in a flattering tone,—not demanded as belonging to the establishment by right. Then Tappitt began to talk of Rowan to his man, and to speak evil things of him, as was natural, expecting a reciprocity of malignity from Worts. But Worts on such occasions had been ominously silent. "H—m, I bean't so zure o' that," Worts had once said, thus differing from his master on some fundamental point of Tappitt strategy as opposed to Rowan strategy. "Ain't you?" said Tappitt, showing his teeth. "You'd better go now and look after those men at the carts." Worts had looked after the men at the carts, but he had done so with an idea in his head that perhaps he would not long look after Tappitt's men or Tappitt's carts. He had not himself been ambitious of good beer, but the idea had almost startled him into acquiescence by its brilliancy.
Now Worts had a vote in the borough, and it came to Tappitt's ears that his servant intended to give that vote to Mr. Cornbury. "Worts," said he, a day or two before the election, "of course you intend to vote for Mr. Hart?"
Worts touched his cap, for it was the commencement of the day.
"I don't jest know," said he. "I was thinking of woting for the young squoire. I've know'd him ever since he was born, and I ain't never know'd the Jew gentleman;—never at all."
"Look here, Worts; if you intend to remain in this establishment I shall expect you to support the liberal interest, as I support it myself. The liberal interest has always been supported in Baslehurst by Bungall and Tappitt ever since Bungall and Tappitt have existed."
"The old maister, he wouldn't a woted for ere a Jew in Christendom,—not agin the squoire. The old maister was allays for the Protestant religion."
"Very well, Worts; there can't be two ways of thinking here, that's all; especially not at such a time as this, when there's more reason than ever why those connected with the brewery should all stand shoulder to shoulder. You've had your bread out of this establishment, Worts, for a great many years."
"And I've 'arned it hard;—no man can't say otherwise. The sweat o' my body belongs to the brewery, but I didn't ever sell 'em my wote;—and I don't mean." Saying which words, with an emphasis that was by no means servile, Worts went out from the presence of his master.
"That man's turning against me," said Tappitt to his wife at breakfast time, in almost mute despair.
"What! Worts?" said Mrs. Tappitt.
"Yes;—the ungrateful hound. He's been about the place almost ever since he could speak, for more than forty years. He's had two pound a week for the last ten years;—and now he's turning against me."
"Is he going over to Rowan?"
"I don't know where the d—— he's going. He's going to vote for Butler Cornbury, and that's enough for me."
"Oh, T., I wouldn't mind that; especially not just now. Only think what a help he'll be to that man!"
"I tell you he shall walk out of the brewery the week after this, if he votes for Cornbury. There isn't room for two opinions here, and I won't have it."
For a moment or two Mrs. Tappitt sat mute, almost in despair. Then she took courage and spoke out.
"T.," said she, "it won't do."
"What won't do?"
"All this won't do. We shall be ruined and left without a home. I don't mind myself; I never did; but think of the girls! What would they do if we was turned out of this?"
"Who's to turn you out?"
"I know. I see it. I am beginning to understand. T., that man would not go against you and the brewery if he didn't know which way the wind is blowing. Worts is wide awake,—quite wide; he always was. T., you must take the offer Rowan has made of a regular income and live retired. If you don't do it,—I shall!" And Mrs. Tappitt, as she spoke the audacious words, rose up from her chair, and stood with her arms leaning upon the table.
"What!" said Tappitt, sitting aghast with his mouth open.
"Yes, T.; if you don't think of your family I must. What I'm saying Mr. Honyman has said before; and indeed all Baslehurst is saying the same thing. There's an offer made to you that will put your family on a footing quite genteel,—no gentlefolks in the county more so; and you, too, that are getting past your work!"
"I ain't getting past my work."
"I shouldn't say so, T., if it weren't for your own good,—and if I'm not to know about that, who is? It's all very well going about electioneering; and indeed it's just what gentlefolks is fit for when they're past their regular work; And I'm sure I shan't begrudge it so long as it don't cost anything; but that's not work you know, T."
"Ain't I in the brewery every day for seven or eight hours, and often more?"
"Yes, T., you are; and what's like to come of it if you go on so? What would be my feelings if I saw you brought into the house struck down with apoplepsy and paralepsy because I let you go on in that way when you wasn't fit? No, T.; I know my duty and I mean to do it. You know Dr. Haustus said only last month that you were thatbilious—"
"Pshaw! bilious! it's enough to make any man bilious!"
"Or any dog," he would have added, had he thought of it. Thereupon Tappitt rushed away from his wife, back into his little office, and from that soon made his way to the Jew's committee-room at the Dragon, at which he was detained till nearly eleven o'clock at night.
"It's a kind of work in which one has to do as much after dinner as before," he said to his wife when he got back.
"For the matter of that," said she, "I think the after-dinner work is the chief part of it."
On the day of the election Luke Rowan was to be seen standing in the High Street talking to Butler Cornbury the candidate. Rowan was not an elector, for the cottages had not been in his possession long enough to admit of his obtaining from them a qualification to vote; but he was a declared friend of the Cornbury party. Mrs. Butler Cornbury had sent a message to him saying that she hoped to see him soon after the election should be over: on the following day or on the next, and Butler Cornbury himself had come to him in the town. Though absent from Baslehurst Rowan had managed to declare his opinions before that time, and was suspected by many to have written those articles in the "Baslehurst Gazette" which advocated the right of any constituency to send a Jew to Parliament if it pleased, but which proved at the same time that any constituency must be wrong to send any Jew to Parliament, and that the constituency of Baslehurst would in the present instance be specially wrong to send Mr. Hart to Parliament. "We have always advocated," said one of these articles, "the right of absolute freedom of choice for every borough and every county in the land; but we trust that the day is far distant in which the electors of England shall cease to look to their nearest neighbours as their best representatives." There wasn't much in the argument, but it suited the occasion, and added strength to Rowan's own cause in the borough. All the stanch Protestants began to feel a want of good beer. Questions very ill-natured as toward Tappitt were asked in the newspapers. "Who owns The Spotted Dog at Busby-porcorum; and who compels the landlord to buy his liquor at Tappitt's brewery?" There were scores of questions of the same nature, all of which Tappitt attributed, wrongly, to Luke Rowan. Luke had written that article about freedom of election, but he had not condescended to notice the beer at the Spotted Dog.
And there was another quarrel taking place in Baslehurst, on the score of that election, between persons with whom we are connected in this story. Mr. Prong had a vote in the borough, and was disposed to make use of it; and Mrs. Prime, regarding her own position as Mr. Prong's affianced bride, considered herself at liberty to question Mr. Prong as to the use which he proposed to make of that vote. To Mrs. Prime it appeared that anything done in any direction for the benefit of a Jew was a sin not to be forgiven. To Mr. Prong it seemed to be as great a sin not to do anything in his power for the hindrance and vexation of those with whom Dr. Harford and Mr. Comfort were connected by ties of friendship. Mrs. Prime, who, of the two, was the more logical, would not disjoin her personal and her scriptural hatreds. She also hated Dr. Harford; but she hated the Jews more. She was not disposed to support a Jew in Baslehurst because Mr. Comfort, in his doctrines, had fallen away from the purity of his early promise. Her idea was that a just man and a good Christian could not vote for either of the Baslehurst candidates under the present unhappy local circumstances;—but that under no circumstances should a Christian vote for a Jew. All this she said, in a voice not so soft as should be the voice of woman to her betrothed.
"Dorothea," said Mr. Prong very solemnly;—they were sitting at the time in his own little front parlour, as to the due arrangement of the furniture in which Mrs. Prime had already ventured to make some slight alterations which had not been received favourably by Mr. Prong,—"Dorothea, in this matter you must allow me to be the best judge. Voting for Members of Parliament is a thing which ladies naturally are not called upon to understand."
"Ladies can understand as well as gentlemen," said Mrs. Prime, "that a curse has gone out from the Lord against that people; and gentlemen have no more right than ladies to go against the will of the Lord."
It was in vain that Mr. Prong endeavoured to explain to her that the curse attached to the people as a nation, and did not necessarily follow units of that people who had adopted other nationalities.
"Let the units become Christians before they go into Parliament," said Mrs. Prime.
"I wish they would," said Mr. Prong. "I heartily wish they would: and Mr. Hart, if he be returned, shall have my prayers."
But this did not at all suffice for Mrs. Prime, who, perhaps, in the matter of argument had the best of it. She told her betrothed to his face that he was going to commit a great sin, and that he was tempted to this sin by grievous worldly passions. When so informed Mr. Prong closed his eyes, crossed his hands meekly on his breast, and shook his head.
"Not from thee, Dorothea," said he, "not from thee should this have come."
"Who is to speak out to you if I am not?" said she.
But Mr. Prong sat in silence, and with closed eyes again shook his head.
"Perhaps we had better part," said Mrs. Prime, after an interval of five minutes. "Perhaps it will be better for both of us."
Mr. Prong, however, still shook his head in silence; and it was difficult for a lady in Mrs. Prime's position to read accurately the meaning of such shakings under such circumstances. But Mrs. Prime was a woman sufficiently versed in the world's business to be able to resolve that she would have an answer to her question when she required an answer.
"Mr. Prong," she said, "I remarked just now that perhaps we had better part."
"I heard the words," said Mr. Prong,—"I heard the cruel words." But even then he did not open his eyes, or remove his hands from his breast. "I heard the words, and I heard those other words, still more cruel. You had better leave me now that I may humble myself in prayer."
"That's all very well, Mr. Prong, and I'm sure I hope you will; but situated as we are, of course I should choose to have an answer. It seems to me that you dislike that kind of interference which I regard as a wife's best privilege and sweetest duty. If this be so, it will be better for us to part,—as friends of course."
"You have accused me of a great sin," he said; "of a great sin;—of a great sin!"
"And so in my mind it would be."
"Judge not, lest ye be judged, Dorothea; remember that."
"That doesn't mean, Mr. Prong, that we are not to have our opinions, and that we are not to warn those that are near us when we see them walking in the wrong path. I might as well say the same to you, whenyou—"
"No, Dorothea; it is my bounden duty. It is my work. It is that to which I am appointed as a minister. If you cannot see the difference I have much mistaken your character,—have much mistaken your character."
"Do you mean to say that nobody but a clergyman is to know what's right and what's wrong? That must be nonsense, Mr. Prong. I'm sorry to say anything to grieveyou,—"Mr. Prong was now shaking his head again, with his eyes most pertinaciously closed,—"but there are some things which really one can't bear."
But he only shook his head. His inward feelings were too many for him, so that he could not at the present moment bring himself to give a reply to the momentous proposition which his betrothed had made him. Nor, indeed, had he at this moment fixed his mind as to the step which Duty and Wisdom combined would call upon him to take in this matter. The temper of the lady was not certainly all that he had desired. As an admiring member of his flock she had taken all his ghostly counsels as infallible; but now it seemed to him as though most of his words and many of his thoughts and actions were made subject by her to a bitter criticism. But in this matter he was inclined to rely much upon his own strength. Should he marry the lady, as he was still minded to do for many reasons, he would be to her a loving, careful husband; but he would also be her lord and master,—as was intended when marriage was made a holy ordinance. In this respect he did not doubt himself or his own powers. Hard words he could bear, and, as he thought, after a time control. So thinking, he was not disposed to allow the lady to recede from her troth to him, simply because in her anger she expressed a wish to do so. Therefore he had wisely been silent, and had shaken his head in reproach. But unfortunately the terms of their compact had not been finally settled with reference to another heading. Mrs. Prime had promised to be his wife, but she had burdened her promise with certain pecuniary conditions which were distasteful to him,—which were much opposed to that absolute headship and perfect mastery, which, as he thought, should belong to the husband as husband. His views on this subject were very strong, and he was by no means inclined to abate one jot of his demand. Better remain single in his work than accept the name of husband without its privileges! But he had hoped that by mingled firmness and gentle words he might bring his Dorothea round to a more womanly way of thinking. He had flattered himself that there was a power of eloquence in him which would have prevailed over her. Once or twice he thought that he was on the brink of success. He knew well that there were many points in his favour. A woman who has spoken of herself, and been spoken of, as being on the point of marriage, does not like to recede; and his Dorothea, though not specially womanly among women, was still a woman. Moreover he had the law on his side,—the old law as coming from the Scriptures. He could say that such a pecuniary arrangement as that proposed by his Dorothea was sinful. He had said so,—as he had then thought not without effect; but now she retaliated upon him with accusation of another sin! It was manifestly in her power to break away from him on that money detail. It seemed now to be her wish to break away from him; but she preferred doing so on that other matter. He began to fear that he must lose his wife, seeing that he was resolved never to yield on the money question; but he did not choose to be entrapped into an instant resignation of his engagement by Dorothea's indignation on a point of abstruse Scripturo-political morality. His Dorothea had assumed her indignation as a cloak for her pecuniary obstinacy. It might be that he must yield; but he would not surrender thus at the sound of a false summons. So he closed his eyes very pertinaciously and shook his head.
"I think upon the whole," said she again, "that we had better make up our minds to part." Then she stood up, feeling that she should thus employ a greater power in forcing an answer from him. He must have seen her motion through some cranny of his pertinaciously closed eyes, for he noticed it by rising from his own chair, with both his hands firmly fixed upon the table; but still he did not open his eyes,—unless it might be to the extent of that small cranny.
"Good-bye, Mr. Prong," said she.
Then he altered the form of his hands, and taking them from the table he dashed them together before his face. "God bless you, Dorothea!" said he. "God bless you! God bless you!" And he put out his hands as though blessing her in his darkness. She, perceiving the inutility of endeavouring to shake hands with a man who wouldn't open his eyes, moved away from her chair towards the door, purposely raising a sound of motion with her dress, so that he might know that she was going. In that I think she took an unnecessary precaution, for the cranny at the corner of his eye was still at his disposal.
"Good-bye, Mr. Prong," she said again, as she opened the door for herself.
"God bless you, Dorothea!" said he. "May God bless you!"
Then, without assistance at the front door she made her way out into the street, and as she stepped along the pavement, she formed a resolve,—which no eloquence from Mr. Prong could ever overcome,—that she would remain a widow for the rest of her days.
At twelve o'clock on the morning of the election Mr. Hart was declared by his own committee to be nine ahead, and was admitted to be six ahead by Mr. Cornbury's committee. But the Cornbury folk asserted confidently that in this they saw certain signs of success. Their supporters were not men who could be whipped up to the poll early in the day, whereas Hart's voters were all, more or less, under control, and had been driven up hurriedly to the hustings so as to make this early show of numbers. Mr. Hart was about everywhere speaking, and so was Butler Cornbury; but in the matter of oratory I am bound to acknowledge that the Jew had by much the mastery over the Christian. There are a class of men,—or rather more than a class, a section of mankind,—to whom a power of easy expression by means of spoken words comes naturally. English country gentlemen, highly educated as they are, undaunted as they usually are, self-confident as they in truth are at the bottom, are clearly not in this section. Perhaps they are further removed from it, considering the advantages they have for such speaking, than any other class of men in England,—or I might almost say elsewhere. The fact, for it is a fact, that some of the greatest orators whom the world has known have been found in this class, does not in any degree affect the truth of my proposition. The best grapes in the world are perhaps grown in England, though England is not a land of grapes. And for the same reason. The value of the thing depends upon its rarity, and its value instigates the efforts for excellence. The power of vocal expression which seems naturally to belong to an American is to an ordinary Englishman very marvellous; but in America the talking man is but little esteemed. "Very wonderful power of delivery,—that of Mr. So-and-So," says the Englishman, speaking of an American.
"Guess we don't think much of that kind of thing here," says the Yankee. "There's a deal too much of that coin in circulation."
English country gentlemen are not to be classed among that section of mankind which speaks easily in public, but Jews, I think, may be so classed. The men who speak thus easily and with natural fluency, are also they who learn languages easily. They are men who observe rather than think, who remember rather than create, who may not have great mental powers, but are ever ready with what they have, whose best word is at their command at a moment, and is then serviceable though perhaps incapable of more enduring service.
At any rate, as regarded oratory in Baslehurst the dark little man with the bright new hat from London was very much stronger than his opponent,—so much stronger that poor Butler Cornbury began to sicken of elections and to wish himself comfortably at home at Cornbury Grange. He knew that he was talking himself down while the Israelitish clothier was talking himself up. "It don't matter," Honyman said to him comfortably. "It's only done for the show of the thing and to fill up the day. If Gladstone were here he wouldn't talk a vote out of them one way or the other;—nor yet the devil himself." This consoled Butler Cornbury, but nevertheless he longed that the day might be over.
And Tappitt spoke too more than once,—as did also Luke Rowan, in spite of various noisy interruptions in which he was told that he was not an elector, and in spite also of an early greeting with a dead cat. Tappitt, in advocating the claims of Mr. Hart to be returned to Parliament as member for Baslehurst, was clever enough to introduce the subject of his own wrongs. And so important had this brewery question become that he was listened to with every sign of interest when he told the people for how many years Bungall and Tappitt had brewed beer for them, there in Baslehurst. Doubtless he was met by sundry interruptions from the Rowanites.
"What sort of tipple has it been, T.?" was demanded by one voice.
"Do you call that beer?" said a second.
"Where do you buy your hops?" asked a third.
But he went on manfully, and was buoyed up by a strong belief that he was fighting his own battle with success.
Nor was Rowan slow to answer him. He was proud to say that he was Bungall's heir, and as such he intended to continue Bungall's business. Whether he could improve the quality of the old tap he didn't know, but he would try. People had said a few weeks ago that he had been hounded out of Baslehurst, and did not mean to come back again. Here he was. He had bought property in Baslehurst. He meant to live in Baslehurst. He pledged himself to brew beer in Baslehurst. He already regarded himself as belonging to Baslehurst. And, being a bachelor, he hoped that he might live to marry a wife out of Baslehurst. This last assurance was received with unqualified applause from both factions, and went far in obtaining for Rowan that local popularity which was needful to him. Certainly the Rowan contest added much to the popular interest of that election.