"Lead to anything! What it will lead to is quite settled."
"You know what I mean. But how could I become your wife if your mother did not wish it?"
"Look here, Rachel; that's all very proper for a girl, I dare say. If your mother thought I was not fit to be your husband, I won't say but what you ought to take her word in such a matter. But it isn't so with a man. It will make me very unhappy if my mother cannot be friends with my wife; but no threats of hers to that effect would prevent me from marrying, nor should they have any effect upon you. I'm my own master, and from the nature of things I must look out for myself."
This was all very grand and masterful on Rowan's part, and might in theory be true; but there was that in it which made Rachel uneasy, and gave to her love its first shade of trouble. She could not be quite happy as Luke's promised bride, if she knew that she would not be welcomed to that place by Luke's mother. And then what right had she to think it probable that Luke's mother would give her such a welcome? At that first meeting, however, she said but little herself on the subject. She had pledged to him her troth, and she would not attempt to go back from her pledge at the first appearance of a difficulty. She would talk to her own mother, and perhaps his mother might relent. But throughout it all there ran a feeling of dismay at the idea of marrying a man whose mother would not willingly receive her as a daughter!
"But you must go," said she at last. "Indeed you must. I have things to do, if you have nothing."
"I'm the idlest man in the world at the present moment. If you turn me out I can only go and sit at the inn."
"Then you must go and sit at the inn. If you stay any longer mamma won't have any dinner."
"If that's so, of course I'll go. But I shall come back to tea."
As Rachel gave no positive refusal to this proposition, Rowan took his departure on the understanding that he might return.
"Good-bye," said he. "When I come this evening I shall expect you to walk with me."
"Oh, I don't know," said she.
"Yes, you will; and we will see the sun set again, and you will not run from me this evening as though I were an ogre." As he spoke he took her in his arms and held her, and kissed her before she had time to escape from him. "You're mine altogether now," said he, "and nothing can sever us. God bless you, Rachel!"
"Good-bye, Luke," and then they parted.
She had told him to go, alleging her household duties as her ground for dismissing him; but when he was gone she did not at once betake herself to her work. She sat on the seat which he had shared with her, thinking of the thing which she had done. She was now betrothed to this man as his wife, the only man towards whom her fancy had ever turned with the slightest preference. So far love for her had run very smoothly. From her first meetings with him, on those evenings in which she had hardly spoken to him, his form had filled her eye, and his words had filled her mind. She had learned to love to see him before she understood what her heart was doing for her. Gradually, but very quickly, all her vacant thoughts had been given to him, and he had become the hero of her life. Now, almost before she had had time to question herself on the matter, he was her affianced husband. It had all been so quick and so very gracious that she seemed to tremble at her own good fortune. There was that one little cloud in the sky,—that frown on his mother's brow; but now, in the first glow of her happiness, she could not bring herself to believe that this cloud would bring a storm. So she sat there dreaming of her happiness, and longing for her mother's return that she might tell it all;—that it might be talked of hour after hour, and that Luke's merits might receive their fitting mention. Her mother was not a woman who on such an occasion would stint the measure of her praise, or refuse her child the happiness of her sympathy.
But Rachel knew that she must not let the whole morning pass by in idle dreams, happy as those dreams were, and closely as they were allied to her waking life. After a while she jumped up with a start. "I declare there will be nothing done. Mamma will want her dinner though I'm ever so much going to be married."
But she had not been long on foot, or done much in preparation of the cold lamb which it was intended they should eat that day, before she heard her mother's footsteps on the gravel path. She ran out to the front door full of her own news, though hardly knowing as yet in what words she would tell it; but of her mother's news, of any tidings which there might be to tell as to that interview which had just taken place in Baslehurst, Rachel did not think much. Nothing that Dorothea could say would now be of moment. So at least Rachel flattered herself. And as for Dorothea and all her growlings, had they not chiefly ended in this;—that the young man did not intend to present himself as a husband? But he had now done so in a manner which Rachel felt to be so satisfactory that even Dorothea's criticism must be disarmed. So Rachel, as she met her mother, thought only of the tale which she had to tell, and nothing of that which she was to hear.
But Mrs. Ray was so full of her tale, was so conscious of the fact that her tidings were entitled to the immediate and undivided attention of her daughter, and from their first greeting on the gravel path was so ready with her words, that Rachel, with all the story of her happiness, was for a while obliterated.
"Oh, my dear," said Mrs. Ray, "I have such news for you!"
"So have I, mamma, news for you," said Rachel, putting out her hand to her mother.
"I never was so warm in my life. Do let me get in; oh dear, oh dear! It's no good looking in the basket, for when I came away from Dorothea I was too full of what I had just heard to think of buying anything."
"What have you heard, mamma?"
"I'm sure I hope she'll be happy; I'm sure I do. But it's a great venture, a terribly great venture."
"What is it, mamma?" And Rachel, though she could not yet think that her mother's budget could be equal in importance to her own, felt that there was that which it was necessary that she should hear.
"Your sister is going to be married to Mr. Prong."
"Dolly?"
"Yes, my dear. It's a great venture; but if any woman can live happy with such a man, she can do so. She's troubled about her money;—that's all."
"Marry Mr. Prong! I suppose she may if she likes. Oh dear! I can't think I shall ever like him."
"I never spoke to him yet, so perhaps I oughtn't to say; but he doesn't look a nice man to my eyes. But what are looks, my dear? They're only skin deep; we ought all of us to remember that always, Rachel; they're only skin deep; and if, as she says, she only wants to work in the vineyard, she won't mind his being so short. I dare say he's honest;—at least I'm sure I hope he is."
"I should think he's honest, at any rate, or he wouldn't be what he is."
"There's some of them are so very fond of money;—that is, if all that we hear is true. Perhaps he mayn't care about it; let us hope that he doesn't; but if so he's a great exception. However, she means to have it tied up as close as possible, and I think she's right. Where would she be if he was to go away some fine morning and leave her? You see, he's got nobody belonging to him. I own I do like people who have got people belonging to them; you feel sure, in a sort of way, that they'll go on living in their own houses."
Rachel immediately reflected that Luke Rowan had people belonging to him,—very nice people,—and that everybody knew who he was and from whence he came.
"But she has quite made up her mind about it," continued Mrs. Ray; "and when I saw that I didn't say very much against it. What was the use? It isn't as though he wasn't quite respectable. He is a clergyman, you know, my dear, though he never was at any of the regular colleges; and he might be a bishop, just as much as if he had been; so they tell me. And I really don't think that she would ever have come back to the cottage,—not unless you had promised to have been ruled by her in everything."
"I certainly shouldn't have done that;" and Rachel, as she made this assurance with some little obstinacy in her voice, told herself that for the future she meant to be ruled by a very different person indeed.
"No, I suppose not; and I'm sure I shouldn't have asked you, because I think it isn't the thing, dragging people away out of their own parishes, here and there, to anybody's church. And I told her that though I would of course go and hear Mr. Prong now and then if she married him, I wouldn't leave Mr. Comfort, not as a regular thing. But she didn't seem to mind that now, much as she used always to be saying about it."
"And when is it to be, mamma?"
"On Friday; that is, to-morrow."
"To-morrow!"
"That is, she's to go and tell him to-morrow that she means to take him,—or he's to come to her at Miss Pucker's lodgings. It's not to be wondered at when one sees Miss Pucker, really; and I'm not sure I'd not have done the same if I'd been living with her too; only I don't think I ever should have begun. I think it's living with Miss Pucker has made her do it; I do indeed, my dear. Well, now that I have told you, I suppose I may as well go and get ready for dinner."
"I'll come with you, mamma. The potatoes are strained, and Kitty can put the things on the table. Mamma"—and now they were on the stairs,—"I've got something to tell also."
We'll leave Mrs. Ray to eat her dinner, and Rachel to tell her story, merely adding a word to say that the mother did not stint the measure of her praise, or refuse her child the happiness of her sympathy. That evening was probably the happiest of Rachel's existence, although its full proportions of joy were marred by an unforeseen occurrence. At four o'clock a note came from Rowan to his "Dearest Rachel," saying that he had been called away by telegraph to London about that "horrid brewery business." He would write from there. But Rachel was almost as happy without him, talking about him, as she would have been in his presence, listening to him.
On the Friday morning there was a solemn conference at the brewery between Mrs. Tappitt and Mrs. Rowan. Mrs. Rowan found herself to be in some difficulty as to the line of action which she ought to take, and the alliances which she ought to form. She was passionately attached to her son, and for Mrs. Tappitt she had no strong liking. But then she was very averse to this proposed marriage with Rachel Ray, and was willing for a while to make a treaty with Mrs. Tappitt, offensive and defensive, as against her own son, if by doing so she could put a stop to so outrageous a proceeding on his part. He had seen her before he started for London, and had told her both the occurrences of the day. He had described to her how Tappitt had turned him out of the brewery, poker in hand, and how, in consequence of Tappitt's "pig-headed obstinacy," it was now necessary that their joint affairs should be set right by the hand of the law. He had then told her also that there was no longer any room for doubt or argument between them as regarding Rachel. He had gone out to Bragg's End that morning, had made his offer, and had been accepted. His mother therefore would see,—so he surmised,—that, as any opposition on her part must now be futile, she might as well take Rachel to her heart at once. He went so far as to propose to her that she should go over to Rachel in his absence,—"it would be very gracious if you could do it to-morrow, mother," he said,—and go through that little process of taking her future daughter-in-law to her heart. But in answer to this Mrs. Rowan said very little. She said very little, but she looked much. "My dear, I cannot move so quick as you do; I am older. I am afraid, however, that you have been rash." He said something, as on such occasions young men do, as to his privilege of choosing for himself, as to his knowing what wife would suit him, as to his contempt for money, and as to the fact,—"the undoubted fact," as he declared it,—and in that declaration I am prepared to go hand-in-hand with him,—that Rachel Ray was a lady. But he was clear-headed enough to perceive that his mother did not intend to agree with him. "When we are married she will come round," he said to himself, and then he took himself off by the night mail train to London.
Under these circumstances Mrs. Rowan felt that her only chance of carrying on the battle would be by means of a treaty with Mrs. Tappitt. Had the affair of the brewery stood alone, Mrs. Rowan would have ranged herself loyally on the side of her son. She would have resented the uplifting of that poker, and shown her resentment by an immediate withdrawal from the brewery. She would have said a word or two,—a stately word or two,—as to the justice of her son's cause, and have carried herself and her daughter off to the inn. As things were now, her visit to the brewery must no doubt be curtailed in its duration; but in the mean time might not a blow be struck against that foolish matrimonial project,—an opportune blow, and by the aid of Mrs. Tappitt? Therefore on that Friday morning, when Mr. Prong was listening with enraptured ears to Mrs. Prime's acceptance of his suit,—under certain pecuniary conditions,—Mrs. Rowan and Mrs. Tappitt were sitting in conference at the brewery.
They agreed together at that meeting that Rachel Ray was the head and front of the whole offence, the source of all the evil done and to be done, and the one great sinner in the matter. It was clear to Mrs. Rowan that Rachel could have no just pretensions to look for such a lover or such a husband as her son; and it was equally clear to Mrs. Tappitt that she could have had no right to seek a lover or a husband out of the brewery. If Rachel Ray had not been there all might have gone smoothly for both of them. Mrs. Tappitt did not, perhaps, argue very logically as to the brewery business, or attempt to show either to herself or to her ally that Luke Rowan would have made himself an agreeable partner if he had kept himself free from all love vagaries; but she was filled with an indefinite woman's idea that the mischief, which she felt, had been done by Rachel Ray, and that against Rachel and Rachel's pretensions her hand should be turned.
They resolved therefore that they would go out together and call at the cottage. Mrs. Tappitt knew, from long neighbourhood, of what stuff Mrs. Ray was made. "A very good sort of woman," she said to Mrs. Rowan, "and not at all headstrong and perverse like her daughter. If we find the young lady there we must ask her mamma to see us alone." To this proposition Mrs. Rowan assented, not eagerly, but with a slow, measured, dignified assent, feeling that she was derogating somewhat from her own position in allowing herself to be led by such a one as Mrs. Tappitt. It was needful that on this occasion she should act with Mrs. Tappitt and connect herself with the Tappitt interests; but all this she did with an air that distinctly claimed for herself a personal superiority. If Mrs. Tappitt did not perceive and understand this, it was her fault, and not Mrs. Rowan's.
At two o'clock they stepped into a fly at the brewery door and had themselves driven out to Bragg's End.
"Mamma, there's a carriage," said Rachel.
"It can't be coming here," said Mrs. Ray.
"But it is; it's the fly from the Dragon. I know it by the man's white hat. And, oh dear, there's Mrs. Rowan and Mrs. Tappitt! Mamma, I shall go away." And Rachel, without another word, escaped out into the garden. She escaped, utterly heedless of her mother's little weak prayer that she would remain. She went away quickly, so that not a skirt of her dress might be visible. She felt instantly, by instinct, that these two women had come out there especially as her enemies, as upsetters of her happiness, as opponents of her one great hope in life; and she knew that she could not fight her battle with them face to face. She could not herself maintain her love stoutly and declare her intention of keeping her lover to his word; and yet she did intend to maintain her love, not doubting that he would be true to his word without any effort on her part. Her mother would make a very poor fight,—of that she was quite well aware. It would have been well if her mother could have run away also. But, as that could not be, her mother must be left to succumb, and the fight must be carried on afterwards as best it might. The two ladies remained at the cottage for about an hour, and during that time Rachel was sequestered in the garden, hardening her heart against all enemies to her love. If Luke would only stand by her, she would certainly stand by him.
There was a good deal of ceremony between the three ladies when they first found themselves together in Mrs. Ray's parlour. Mrs. Rowan and Mrs. Tappitt were large and stiff in their draperies, and did not fit themselves easily in among Mrs. Ray's small belongings; and they were stately in their demeanour, conscious that they were visiting an inferior, and conscious also that they were there on no friendly mission. But the interview was commenced with a show of much civility. Mrs. Tappitt introduced Mrs. Rowan in due form, and Mrs. Rowan made her little bow, if with some self-asserting supremacy, still with fitting courtesy. Mrs. Ray hoped that Mrs. Tappitt and the young ladies were quite well, and then there was a short silence, very oppressive to Mrs. Ray, but refreshing rather than otherwise to Mrs. Rowan. It gave a proper business aspect to the visit, and paved the way for serious words.
"Miss Rachel is out, I suppose," said Mrs. Tappitt.
"Yes, she is out," said Mrs. Ray. "But she's about the place somewhere, if you want to see her." This she added in her weakness, not knowing how she was to sustain the weight of such an interview alone.
"Perhaps it is as well that she should be away just at present," said Mrs. Rowan, firmly but mildly.
"Quite as well," said Mrs. Tappitt, as firmly, but less mildly.
"Because we wish to say a few words to you, Mrs. Ray," said Mrs. Rowan.
"That is what has brought us out so early," said Mrs. Tappitt. It was only half-past two now, and company visiting was never done at Baslehurst till after three. "We want to say a few words to you, Mrs. Ray, about a very serious matter. I'm sure you know how glad I've always been to see Rachel with my girls, and I had her at our party the other night, you know. It isn't likely therefore that I should be disposed to say anything unkind about her."
"At any rate not to me, I hope," said Mrs. Ray.
"Not to anybody. Indeed I'm not given to say unkind things about people. No one in Baslehurst would give me that character. But the fact is, Mrs.Ray—"
"Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt, you'll allow me," said Mrs. Rowan. "He's my son."
"Oh, yes, certainly;—that is, if you wish it," said Mrs. Tappitt, drawing herself up in her chair; "but I thought that perhaps, as I knew Miss Ray sowell—"
"If you don't mind, Mrs. Tappitt—" and Mrs. Rowan, as she again took the words out of her friend's mouth, smiled upon her with a smile of great efficacy.
"Oh, dear, certainly not," said Mrs. Tappitt, acknowledging by her concession the superiority of Mrs. Rowan's nature.
"I believe you are aware, Mrs. Ray," said Mrs. Rowan, "that Mr. Luke Rowan is my son."
"Yes, I'm aware of that."
"And I'm afraid you must be aware also that there have been some,—some,—some talkings as it were, between him and your daughter."
"Oh, yes. The truth is, ma'am, that he has offered himself to my girl, and that she has accepted him. Whether it's for good or for bad, the open truth is the best, Mrs. Tappitt."
"Truth is truth," said Mrs. Tappitt; "and deception is not truth."
"I didn't think it had gone anything so far as that," said Mrs. Rowan,—who at the moment, perhaps, forgot that deception is not truth; "and in saying that he has actually offered himself, you may perhaps,—without meaning it, of course,—be attributing a more positive significance to his word than he has intended."
"God forbid!" said Mrs. Ray very solemnly. "That would be a very sad thing for my poor girl. But I think, Mrs. Rowan, you had better ask him. If he says he didn't intend it, of course there will be an end of it, as far as Rachel is concerned."
"I can't ask him just at present," said Mrs. Rowan, "because he has gone up to London. He went away yesterday afternoon, and there's no saying when he may be in Baslehurst again."
"If ever—," said Mrs. Tappitt, very solemnly. "Perhaps he has not told you, Mrs. Ray, that that partnership between him and Mr. T. is all over."
"He did tell us that there had been words between him and Mr. Tappitt."
"Words indeed!" said Mrs. Tappitt.
"And therefore it isn't so easy to ask him," said Mrs. Rowan, ignoring Mrs. Tappitt and the partnership. "But of course, Mrs. Ray, our object in this matter must be the same. We both wish to see our children happy and respectable." Mrs. Rowan, as she said this, put great emphasis on the last word.
"As to my girl, I've no fear whatever but what she'll be respectable," said Mrs. Ray, with more heat than Mrs. Tappitt had thought her to possess.
"No doubt; no doubt. But what I'm coming to is this, Mrs. Ray; here has this boy of mine been behaving foolishly to your daughter, as young men will do. It may be that he has really said something to her of the kind yousuppose—"
"Said something to her! Why, ma'am, he came out here and asked my permission to pay his addresses to her, which I didn't answer because just at that moment Rachel came in from Farmer Sturt'sopposite—"
"Farmer Sturt's!" said Mrs. Tappitt to Mrs. Rowan, in an under voice and nodding her head. Whereupon Mrs. Rowan nodded her head also. One of the great accusations made against Mrs. Ray had been that she lived on the Farmer Sturt level, and not on the Tappitt level;—much less on the Rowan level.
"Yes,—from Farmer Sturt's," continued Mrs. Ray, not at all understanding this by-play. "So I didn't give him any answer at all."
"You wouldn't encourage him," said Mrs. Rowan.
"I don't know about that; but at any rate he encouraged himself, for he came again the next morning when I was in Baslehurst."
"I hope Miss Rachel didn't know he was coming in your absence," said Mrs. Rowan.
"It would look so sly;—wouldn't it?" said Mrs. Tappitt.
"No, she didn't, and she isn't sly at all. If she had known anything she would have told me. I know what my girl is, Mrs. Rowan, and I can depend on her." Mrs. Ray's courage was up, and she was inclined to fight bravely, but she was sadly impeded by tears, which she now found it impossible to control.
"I'm sure it isn't my wish to distress you," said Mrs. Rowan.
"It does distress me very much, then, for anybody to say that Rachel is sly."
"I said I hoped she wasn't sly," said Mrs. Tappitt.
"I heard what you said," continued Mrs. Ray; "and I don't see why you should be speaking against Rachel in that way. The young man isn't your son."
"No," said Mrs. Tappitt, "indeed he's not;—nor yet he ain't Mr. Tappitt's partner."
"Nor wishes to be," said Mrs. Rowan, with a toss of her head. It was a thousand pities that Mrs. Ray had not her wits enough about her to have fanned into a fire of battle the embers which glowed hot between her two enemies. Had she done so they might probably have been made to consume each other,—to her great comfort. "Nor wishes to be!" Then Mrs. Rowan paused a moment, and Mrs. Tappitt assumed a smile which was intended to indicate incredulity. "But Mrs. Ray," continued Mrs. Rowan, "that is neither here nor there. Luke Rowan is my son, and I certainly have a right to speak. Such a marriage as this would be very imprudent on his part, and very disagreeable to me. From the way in which things have turned out it's not likely that he'll settle himself at Baslehurst."
"The most unlikely thing in the world," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I don't suppose he'll ever show himself in Baslehurst again."
"As for showing himself, Mrs. Tappitt, my son will never be ashamed of showing himself anywhere."
"But he won't have any call to come to Baslehurst, Mrs. Rowan. That's what I mean."
"If he's a gentleman of his word, as I take him to be," said Mrs. Ray, "he'll have a great call to show himself. He never can have intended to come out here, and speak to her in that way, and ask her to marry him, and then never to come back and see her any more! I wouldn't believe it of him, not though his own mother said it!"
"I don't say anything," said Mrs. Rowan, who felt that her position was one of some difficulty. "But we all do know that in affairs of that kind young men do allow themselves to go great lengths. And the greater lengths they go, Mrs. Ray, the more particular the young ladies ought to be."
"But what's a young lady to do? How's she to know whether a young man is in earnest, or whether he's only going lengths, as you call it?" Mrs. Ray's eyes were still moist with tears; and, I grieve to say that though, as far as immediate words are concerned, she was fighting Rachel's battle not badly, still the blows of the enemy were taking effect upon her. She was beginning to wish that Luke Rowan had never been seen, or his name heard, at Bragg's End.
"I think it's quite understood in the world," said Mrs. Rowan, "that a young lady is not to take a gentleman at his first word."
"Oh, quite," said Mrs. Tappitt.
"We've all of us daughters," said Mrs. Rowan.
"Yes, all of us," said Mrs. Tappitt. "That's what makes it so fitting that we should discuss this matter together in a friendly feeling."
"My son is a very good young man,—a very good young man indeed."
"But a little hasty, perhaps," said Mrs. Tappitt.
"If you'll allow me, Mrs. Tappitt."
"Oh, certainly, Mrs. Rowan."
"A very good young man indeed; and I don't think it at all probable that in such a matter as this he will act in opposition to his mother's wishes. He has his way to make in the world."
"Which will never be in the brewery line," said Mrs. Tappitt.
"He has his way to make in the world," continued Mrs. Rowan, with much severity; "and if he marries in four or five years' time, that will be quite as soon as he ought to think of doing. I'm sure you will agree with me, Mrs. Ray, that long engagements are very bad, particularly for the lady."
"He wanted to be married next month," said Mrs. Ray.
"Ah, yes; that shows that the whole thing couldn't come to much. If there was an engagement at all, it must be a very long one. Years must roll by." From the artistic manner in which Mrs. Rowan allowed her voice to dwell upon the words which signified duration of space, any hope of a marriage between Luke and Rachel seemed to be put off at any rate to some future century. "Years must roll by, and we all know what that means. The lady dies of a broken heart, while the gentleman lives in a bachelor's rooms, and dines always at his club. Nobody can wish such a state of things as that, Mrs. Ray."
"I knew a girl who was engaged for seven years," said Mrs. Tappitt, "and she wore herself to a thread-paper,—so she did. And then he married his housekeeper after all."
"I'd sooner see my girl make up her mind to be an old maid than let her have a long engagement," said Mrs. Rowan.
"And so would I, my girls, all three. If anybody comes, I say to them, 'Let your papa see them. He'll know what's the meaning of it.' It don't do for young girls to manage those things all themselves. Not but what I think my girls have almost as much wit about them as I have. I won't mention any names, but there's a young man about here as well-to-do as any young man in the South Hams, but Cherry won't as much as look at him." Mrs. Rowan again tossed her head. She felt her misfortune in being burthened with such a colleague as Mrs. Tappitt.
"What is it you want me to do, Mrs. Rowan?" asked Mrs. Ray.
"I want you and your daughter, who I am sure is a very nice young lady, and good-lookingtoo,—"
"Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt.
"I want you both to understand that this little thing should be allowed to drop. If my boy has done anything foolish I'm here to apologize for him. He isn't the first that has been foolish, and I'm afraid he won't be the last. But it can't be believed, Mrs. Ray, that marriages should be run up in this thoughtless sort of way. In the first place the young people don't know anything of each other; absolutely nothing at all. And then,—but I'm sure I don't want to insist on any differences that there may be in their positions in life. Only you must be aware of this, Mrs. Ray, that such a marriage as that would be very injurious to a young man like my son Luke."
"My child wouldn't wish to injure anybody."
"And therefore, of course, she won't think any more about it. All I want from you is that you should promise me that."
"If Rachel will only just say that," said Mrs. Tappitt, "my daughters will be as happy to see her out walking with them as ever."
"Rachel has had quite enough of such walking, Mrs. Tappitt; quite enough."
"If harm has come of it, it hasn't been the fault of my girls," said Mrs. Tappitt.
Then there was a pause among the three ladies, and it appeared that Mrs. Rowan was waiting for Mrs. Ray's answer. But Mrs. Ray did not know what answer she should make. She was already disposed to regard the coming of Luke Rowan to Baslehurst as a curse rather than a blessing. She felt all but convinced that Fate would be against her and hers in that matter. She had ever been afraid of young men, believing them to be dangerous, bringers of trouble into families, roaring lions sometimes, and often wolves in sheep's clothing. Since she had first heard of Luke Rowan in connection with her daughter she had been trembling. If she could have acted in accordance with her own feelings at this moment, she would have begged that Luke Rowan's name might never again be mentioned in her presence. It would be better for them, she thought, to bear what had already come upon them, than to run further risk. But she could not give any answer to Mrs. Rowan without consulting Rachel;—she could not at least give any such answer as that contemplated without doing so. She had sanctioned Rachel's love, and could not now undertake to oppose it. Rachel had probably been deceived, and must bear her misfortune. But, as the question stood at present between her and her daughter, she could not at once accede to Mrs. Rowan's views in the matter. "I will talk to Rachel," she said.
"Give her my kindest respects," said Mrs. Rowan; "and pray make her understand that I wouldn't interfere if I didn't think it was for both their advantages. Good-bye, Mrs. Ray." And Mrs. Rowan got up.
"Good-bye, Mrs. Ray," said Mrs. Tappitt, putting out her hand. "Give my love to Rachel. I hope that we shall be good friends yet, for all that has come and gone."
But Mrs. Ray would not accept Mrs. Tappitt's hand, nor would she vouchsafe any answer to Mrs. Tappitt's amenities. "Good-bye, ma'am," she said to Mrs. Rowan. "I suppose you mean to do the best you can by your own child."
"And by yours too," said Mrs. Rowan.
"If so, I can only say that you must think very badly of your own son. Good-bye, ma'am." Then Mrs. Ray curtseyed them out,—not without a certain amount of dignity, although her eyes were red with tears, and her whole body trembling with dismay.
Very little was said in the fly between the two ladies on their way back to the brewery, nor did Mrs. Rowan remain very long as a visitor at Mrs. Tappitt's house. She had found herself compelled by circumstances to take a part inimical to Mrs. Ray, but she felt in her heart a much stronger animosity to Mrs. Tappitt. With Mrs. Ray she could have been very friendly, only for that disastrous love affair; but with Mrs. Tappitt she could not again put herself into pleasant relations. I must point out how sadly unfortunate it was that Mrs. Ray had not known how to fan that flame of anger to her own and her daughter's advantage.
"Well, mamma," said Rachel, returning to the room as soon as she heard the wheels of the fly in motion upon the road across the green. She found her mother in tears,—hardly able to speak because of her sobs. "Never mind it, mamma: of course I know the kind of things they have been saying. It was what I expected. Never mind it."
"But, my dear, you will be broken-hearted."
"Broken-hearted! Why?"
"I know you will. Now that you have learned to love him, you'll never bear to lose him."
"And must I lose him?"
"She says so. She says that he doesn't mean it, and that it's all nonsense."
"I don't believe her. Nothing shall make me believe that, mamma."
"She says it would be ruinous to all his prospects, especially just now when he has quarrelled about this brewery."
"Ruinous to him!"
"His mother says so."
"I will never wish him to do anything that shall be ruinous to himself; never;—not though I were broken-hearted, as you call it."
"Ah, that is it, Rachel, my darling; I wish he had not come here."
Rachel went away across the room and looked out of the window upon the green. There she stood in silence for a few minutes while her mother was wiping her eyes and suppressing her sobs. Tears also had run down Rachel's cheeks; but they were silent tears, few in number and very salt. "I cannot bring myself to wish that yet," said she.
"But he has gone away, and what can you do if he does not come again?"
"Do! Oh, I can do nothing. I could do nothing, even though he were here in Baslehurst every day of his life. If I once thought that he didn't wish me—to—be—his wife, I should not want to do anything. But, mamma, I can't believe it of him. It was only yesterday that he was here."
"They say that young men don't care what they say in that way now-a-days."
"I don't believe it of him, mamma; his manner is so steadfast, and his voice sounds so true."
"But then she is so terribly against it."
Then again they were silent for a while, after which Rachel ended the conversation. "It is clear, at any rate, that you and I can do nothing, mamma. If she expects me to say that I will give him up, she is mistaken. Give him up! I couldn't give him up, without being false to him. I don't think I'll ever be false to him. If he's false to me, then,—then, I must bear it. Mamma, don't say anything to Dolly about this just at present." In answer to which request Mrs. Ray promised that she would not at present say anything to Mrs. Prime about Mrs. Rowan's visit.
The following day and the Sunday were not passed in much happiness by the two ladies at Bragg's End. Tidings reached them that Mrs. Rowan and her daughter were going to London on the Monday, but no letter came to them from Luke. By the Monday morning Mrs. Ray had quite made up her mind that Luke Rowan was lost to them for ever, and Rachel had already become worn with care. During that Saturday and Sunday nothing was seen of Mrs. Prime at Bragg's End.
CHAPTER I.RACHEL RAY'S FIRST LOVE-LETTER.CHAPTER II.ELECTIONEERING.CHAPTER III.DR. HARFORD.CHAPTER IV.MR. COMFORT CALLS AT THE COTTAGE.CHAPTER V.SHOWING WHAT RACHEL RAY THOUGHTWHEN SHE SAT ON THE STILE, AND HOWSHE WROTE HER LETTER AFTERWARDS.CHAPTER VI.MRS. RAY GOES TO EXETER, AND MEETSA FRIEND.CHAPTER VII.DOMESTIC POLITICS AT THE BREWERY.CHAPTER VIII.MRS. RAY'S PENITENCE.CHAPTER IX.THE ELECTION AT BASLEHURST.CHAPTER X.THE BASLEHURST GAZETTE.CHAPTER XI.CORNBURY GRANGE.CHAPTER XII.IN WHICH THE QUESTION OF THE BREWERYIS SETTLED.CHAPTER XIII.WHAT TOOK PLACE AT BRAGG'S END FARM.CHAPTER XIV.MRS. PRIME READS HER RECANTATION.CHAPTER XV.CONCLUSION.
On the Monday evening, after tea, Mrs. Prime came out to the cottage. It was that Monday on which Mrs. Rowan and her daughter had left Baslehurst and had followed Luke up to London. She came out and sat with her mother and sister for about an hour, restraining herself with much discretion from the saying of disagreeable things about her sister's lover. She had heard that the Rowans had gone away, and she had also heard that it was probable that they would be no more seen in Baslehurst. Mr. Prong had given it as his opinion that Luke would not trouble them again by his personal appearance among them. Under these circumstances Mrs. Prime had thought that she might spare her sister. Nor had she said much about her own love affairs. She had never mentioned Mr. Prong's offer in Rachel's presence; nor did she do so now. As long as Rachel remained in the room the conversation was very innocent and very uninteresting. For a few minutes the two widows were alone together, and then Mrs. Prime gave her mother to understand that things were not yet quite arranged between herself and Mr. Prong.
"You see, mother," said Mrs. Prime, "as this money has been committed to my charge, I do not think it can be right to let it go altogether out of my own hands."
In answer to this Mrs. Ray had uttered a word or two agreeing with her daughter. She was afraid to say much against Mr. Prong;—was afraid, indeed, to express any very strong opinion about this proposed marriage; but in her heart she would have been delighted to hear that the Prong alliance was to be abandoned. There was nothing in Mr. Prong to recommend him to Mrs. Ray.
"And is she going to marry him?" Rachel asked, as soon as her sister was gone.
"There's nothing settled as yet. Dorothea wants to keep her money in her own hands."
"I don't think that can be right. If a woman is married the money should belong to the husband."
"I suppose that's what Mr. Prong thinks;—at any rate, there's nothing settled. It seems to me that we know so little about him. He might go away any day to Australia, you know."
"And did she say anything about—Mr. Rowan?"
"Not a word, my dear."
And that was all that was then said about Luke even between Rachel and her mother. How could they speak about him? Mrs. Ray also believed that he would be no more seen in Baslehurst; and Rachel was well aware that such was her mother's belief, although it had never been expressed. What could be said between them now,—or ever afterwards,—unless, indeed, Rowan should take some steps to make it necessary that his doings should be discussed?
The Tuesday passed and the Wednesday, without any sign from the young man; and during these two sad days nothing was said at the cottage. On that Wednesday his name was absolutely not mentioned between them, although each of them was thinking of him throughout the day. Mrs. Ray had now become almost sure that he had obeyed his mother's behests, and had resolved not to trouble himself about Rachel any further; and Rachel herself had become frightened if not despondent. Could it be that all this should have passed over her and that it should mean nothing?—that the man should have been standing there, only three or four days since, in that very room, with his arm round her waist, begging for her love, and calling her his wife;—and that all of it should have no meaning? Nothing amazed her so much as her mother's firm belief in such an ending to such an affair. What must be her mother's thoughts about men and women in general if she could expect such conduct from Luke Rowan,—and yet not think of him as one whose falsehood was marvellous in its falseness!
But on the Thursday morning there came a letter from Luke addressed to Rachel. On that morning Mrs. Ray was up when the postman passed by the cottage, and though Rachel took the letter from the man's hand herself, she did not open it till she had shown it to her mother.
"Of course it's from him," said Rachel.
"I suppose so," said Mrs. Ray, taking the unopened letter in her hand and looking at it. She spoke almost in a whisper, as though there were something terrible in the coming of the letter.
"Is it not odd," said Rachel, "but I never saw his handwriting before? I shall know it now for ever and ever." She also spoke in a whisper, and still held the letter as though she dreaded to open it.
"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Ray.
"If you think you ought to read it first, mamma, you may."
"No, Rachel. It is your letter. I do not wish you to imagine that I distrust you."
Then Rachel sat herself down, and with extreme care opened the envelope. The letter, which she read to herself very slowly, was asfollows:—
My own dearest Rachel,It seems so nice having to write to you, though it would be much nicer if I could see you and be sitting with you at this moment at the churchyard stile. That is the spot in all Baslehurst that I like the best. I ought to have written sooner, I know, and you will have been very angry with me; but I have had to go down into Northamptonshire to settle some affairs as to my father's property, so that I have been almost living in railway carriages ever since I saw you. I am resolved about the brewery business more firmly than ever, and as it seems that "T"
My own dearest Rachel,
It seems so nice having to write to you, though it would be much nicer if I could see you and be sitting with you at this moment at the churchyard stile. That is the spot in all Baslehurst that I like the best. I ought to have written sooner, I know, and you will have been very angry with me; but I have had to go down into Northamptonshire to settle some affairs as to my father's property, so that I have been almost living in railway carriages ever since I saw you. I am resolved about the brewery business more firmly than ever, and as it seems that "T"
—Mrs. Tappitt would occasionally so designate her lord, and her doing so had been a joke between Luke and Rachel,—
will not come to reason without a lawsuit, I must scrape together all the capital I have, or I shall be fifty years old before I can begin. He is a pig-headed old fool, and I shall be driven to ruin him and all his family. I would have done,—and still would do,—anything for him in kindness; but if he drives me to go to law to get what is as much my own as his share is his own, I will build another brewery just under his nose. All this will require money, and therefore I have to run about and get my affairs settled.But this is a nice love-letter,—is it not? However, you must take me as I am. Just now I have beer in my very soul. The grand object of my ambition is to stand and be fumigated by the smoke of my own vats. It is a fat, prosperous, money-making business, and one in which there is a clear line between right and wrong. No man brews bad beer without knowing it,—or sells short measure. Whether the fatness and the honesty can go together;—that is the problem I want to solve.You see I write to you exactly as if you were a man friend, and not my own dear sweet girl. But I am a very bad hand at love-making. I considered that that was all done when you nodded your head over my arm in token that you consented to be my wife. It was a very little nod, but it binds you as fast as a score of oaths. And now I think I have a right to talk to you about all my affairs, and expect you at once to get up the price of malt and hops in Devonshire. I told you, you remember, that you should be my friend, and now I mean to have my own way.You must tell me exactly what my mother has been doing and saying at the cottage. I cannot quite make it out from what she says, but I fear that she has been interfering where she had no business, and making a goose of herself. She has got an idea into her head that I ought to make a good bargain in matrimony, and sell myself at the highest price going in the market;—that I ought to get money, or if not money, family connexion. I'm very fond of money,—as is everybody, only people are such liars,—but then I like it to be my own; and as to what people call connexion, I have no words to tell you how I despise it. If I know myself I should never have chosen a woman as my companion for life who was not a lady; but I have not the remotest wish to become second cousin by marriage to a baronet's grandmother. I have told my mother all this, and that you and I have settled the matter together; but I see that she trusts to something that she has said or done herself to upset our settling. Of course, what she has said can have no effect on you. She has a right to speak to me, but she has none to speak to you;—not as yet. But she is the best woman in the world, and as soon as ever we are married you will find that she will receive you with open arms.You know I spoke of our being married in August. I wish it could have been so. If we could have settled it when I was at Bragg's End, it might have been done. I don't, however, mean to scold you, though it was your fault. But as it is, it must now be put off till after Christmas. I won't name a day yet for seeing you, because I couldn't well go to Baslehurst without putting myself into Tappitt's way. My lawyer says I had better not go to Baslehurst just at present. Of course you will write to me constantly,—to my address here; say, twice a week at least. And I shall expect you to tell me everything that goes on. Give my kind love to your mother.Yours, dearest Rachel,Most affectionately,Luke Rowan.
will not come to reason without a lawsuit, I must scrape together all the capital I have, or I shall be fifty years old before I can begin. He is a pig-headed old fool, and I shall be driven to ruin him and all his family. I would have done,—and still would do,—anything for him in kindness; but if he drives me to go to law to get what is as much my own as his share is his own, I will build another brewery just under his nose. All this will require money, and therefore I have to run about and get my affairs settled.
But this is a nice love-letter,—is it not? However, you must take me as I am. Just now I have beer in my very soul. The grand object of my ambition is to stand and be fumigated by the smoke of my own vats. It is a fat, prosperous, money-making business, and one in which there is a clear line between right and wrong. No man brews bad beer without knowing it,—or sells short measure. Whether the fatness and the honesty can go together;—that is the problem I want to solve.
You see I write to you exactly as if you were a man friend, and not my own dear sweet girl. But I am a very bad hand at love-making. I considered that that was all done when you nodded your head over my arm in token that you consented to be my wife. It was a very little nod, but it binds you as fast as a score of oaths. And now I think I have a right to talk to you about all my affairs, and expect you at once to get up the price of malt and hops in Devonshire. I told you, you remember, that you should be my friend, and now I mean to have my own way.
You must tell me exactly what my mother has been doing and saying at the cottage. I cannot quite make it out from what she says, but I fear that she has been interfering where she had no business, and making a goose of herself. She has got an idea into her head that I ought to make a good bargain in matrimony, and sell myself at the highest price going in the market;—that I ought to get money, or if not money, family connexion. I'm very fond of money,—as is everybody, only people are such liars,—but then I like it to be my own; and as to what people call connexion, I have no words to tell you how I despise it. If I know myself I should never have chosen a woman as my companion for life who was not a lady; but I have not the remotest wish to become second cousin by marriage to a baronet's grandmother. I have told my mother all this, and that you and I have settled the matter together; but I see that she trusts to something that she has said or done herself to upset our settling. Of course, what she has said can have no effect on you. She has a right to speak to me, but she has none to speak to you;—not as yet. But she is the best woman in the world, and as soon as ever we are married you will find that she will receive you with open arms.
You know I spoke of our being married in August. I wish it could have been so. If we could have settled it when I was at Bragg's End, it might have been done. I don't, however, mean to scold you, though it was your fault. But as it is, it must now be put off till after Christmas. I won't name a day yet for seeing you, because I couldn't well go to Baslehurst without putting myself into Tappitt's way. My lawyer says I had better not go to Baslehurst just at present. Of course you will write to me constantly,—to my address here; say, twice a week at least. And I shall expect you to tell me everything that goes on. Give my kind love to your mother.
Yours, dearest Rachel,Most affectionately,
Luke Rowan.
The letter was not quite what Rachel had expected, but, nevertheless, she thought it very nice. She had never received a love-letter before, and probably had never read one,—even in print; so that she was in possession of no strong preconceived notions as to the nature or requisite contents of such a document. She was a little shocked when Luke called his mother a goose;—she was a little startled when he said that people were "liars," having an idea that the word was one not to be lightly used;—she was amused by the allusion to the baronet's grandmother, feeling, however, that the manner and language of his letter was less pretty and love-laden than she had expected;—and she was frightened when he so confidently called upon her to write to him twice a week. But, nevertheless, the letter was a genial one, joyous, and, upon the whole, comforting. She read it very slowly, going back over much of it twice and thrice, so that her mother became impatient before the perusal was finished.
"It seems to be very long," said Mrs. Ray.
"Yes, mamma, it is long. It's nearly four sides."
"What can he have to say so much?"
"There's a good deal of it is about his own private affairs."
"I suppose, then, I mustn't see it."
"Oh yes, mamma!" And Rachel handed her the letter. "I shouldn't think of having a letter from him and not showing it to you;—not as things are now." Then Mrs. Ray took the letter and spent quite as much time in reading it as Rachel had done. "He writes as though he meant to have everything quite his own way," said Mrs. Ray.
"That's what he does mean. I think he will do that always. He's what people call imperious; but that isn't bad in a man, is it?"
Mrs. Ray did not quite know whether it was bad in a man or no. But she mistrusted the letter, not construing it closely so as to discover what might really be its full meaning, but perceiving that the young man took, or intended to take, very much into his own hands; that he demanded that everything should be surrendered to his will and pleasure, without any guarantee on his part that such surrendering should be properly acknowledged. Mrs. Ray was disposed to doubt people and things that were at a distance from her. Some check could be kept over a lover at Baslehurst; or, if perchance the lover had removed himself only to Exeter, with which city Mrs. Ray was personally acquainted, she could have believed in his return. He would not, in that case, have gone utterly beyond her ken. But she could put no confidence in a lover up in London. Who could say that he might not marry some one else to-morrow,—that he might not be promising to marry half a dozen? It was with her the same sort of feeling which made her think it possible that Mr. Prong might go to Australia. She would have liked as a lover for her daughter a young man fixed in business,—if not at Baslehurst, then at Totnes, Dartmouth, or Brixham,—under her own eye as it were;—a young man so fixed that all the world of South Devonshire would know of all his doings. Such a young man, when he asked a girl to marry him, must mean what he said. If he did not there would be no escape for him from the punishment of his neighbours' eyes and tongues. But a young man up in London,—a young man who had quarrelled with his natural friends in Baslehurst,—a young man who was confessedly masterful and impetuous,—a young man who called his own mother a goose, and all the rest of the world liars, in his first letter to his lady-love;—was that a young man in whom Mrs. Ray could place confidence as a lover for her pet lamb? She read the letter very slowly, and then, as she gave it back to Rachel, she groaned.
For nearly half an hour after that nothing was said in the cottage about the letter. Rachel had perceived that it had not been thought satisfactory by her mother; but then she was inclined to believe that her mother would have regarded no letter as satisfactory until arguments had been used to prove to her that it was so. This, at any rate, was clear,—must be clear to Mrs. Ray as it was clear to Rachel,—that Luke had no intention of shirking the fulfilment of his engagement. And after all, was not that the one thing as to which it was essentially necessary that they should be confident? Had she not accepted Luke, telling him that she loved him? and was it not acknowledged by all around her that such a marriage would be good for her? The danger which they feared was the expectation of such a marriage without its accomplishment. Even the forebodings of Mrs. Prime had shown that this was the evil to which they pointed. Under these circumstances what better could be wished for than a ready, quick, warm assurance on Luke's part, that he did intend all that he had said?
With Rachel now, as with all girls under such circumstances, the chief immediate consideration was as to the answer which should be given. Was she to write to him, to write what she pleased; and might she write at once? She felt that she longed to have the pen in her hand, and that yet, when holding it, she would have to think for hours before writing the first word. "Mamma," she said at last, "don't you think it's a good letter?"
"I don't know what to think, my dear. I doubt whether any letters of that sort are good for much."
"Of what sort, mamma?"
"Letters from men who call themselves lovers to young girls. It would be safer, I think, that there shouldn't be any;—very much safer."
"But if he hadn't written we should have thought that he had forgotten all about us. That would not have been good. You said yourself that if he did not write soon, there would be an end of everything."
"A hundred years ago there wasn't all this writing between young people, and these things were managed better then than they are now, as far as I can understand."
"People couldn't write so much then," said Rachel, "because there were no railways and no postage stamps. I suppose I must answer it, mamma?" To this proposition Mrs. Ray made no immediate answer. "Don't you think I ought to answer it, mamma?"
"You can't want to write at once."
"In the afternoon would do."
"In the afternoon! Why should you be in so much hurry, Rachel? It took him four or five days to write to you."
"Yes; but he was down in Northamptonshire on business. Besides he hadn't any letter from me to answer. I shouldn't like him tothink—"
"To think what, Rachel?"
"That I had forgotten him."
"Psha!"
"Or that I didn't treat his letter with respect."
"He won't think that. But I must turn it over in my mind; and I believe I ought to ask somebody."
"Not Dolly," said Rachel, eagerly.
"No, not your sister. I will not ask her. But if you don't mind, my dear, I'll take the young man's letter out to Mr. Comfort, and consult him. I never felt myself so much in need of somebody to advise me. Mr. Comfort is an old man, and you won't mind his seeing the letter."
Rachel did mind it very much, but she had no means of saving herself from her fate. She did not like the idea of having her love-letter submitted to the clergyman of the parish. I do not know any young lady who would have liked it. But bad as that was, it was preferable to having the letter submitted to Mrs. Prime. And then she remembered that Mr. Comfort had advised that she might go to the ball, and that he was father to her friend Mrs. Butler Cornbury.
And now, in these days,—the days immediately following the departure of Luke Rowan from Baslehurst,—the Tappitt family were constrained to work very hard at the task of defaming the young man who had lately been living with them in their house. They were constrained to do this by the necessities of their position; and in doing so by no means showed themselves to be such monsters of iniquity as the readers of the story will feel themselves inclined to call them. As for Tappitt himself, he certainly believed that Rowan was so base a scoundrel that no evil words against him could be considered as malicious or even unnecessary. Is it not good to denounce a scoundrel? And if the rascality of any rascal be specially directed against oneself and one's own wife and children, is it not a duty to denounce that rascal, so that his rascality may be known and thus made of no effect? When Tappitt declared in the reading-room at the Dragon, and afterwards in the little room inside the bar at the King's Head, and again to a circle of respectable farmers and tradesmen in the Corn Market, that young Rowan had come down to the brewery and made his way into the brewery-house with a ready prepared plan for ruining him—him, the head of the firm,—he thought that he was telling the truth. And again, when he spoke with horror of Rowan's intention of setting up an opposition brewery, his horror was conscientious. He believed that it would be very wicked in a man to oppose the Bungall establishment with money left by Bungall,—that it would be a wickedness than which no commercial rascality could be more iniquitous. His very soul was struck with awe at the idea. That anything was due in the matter to the consumer of beer, never occurred to him. And it may also be said in Tappitt's favour that his opinion,—as a general opinion,—was backed by those around him. His neighbours could not be made to hate Rowan as he hated him. They would not declare the young man to be the very Mischief, as he did. But that idea of a rival brewery was distasteful to them all. Most of them knew that the beer was almost too bad to be swallowed; but they thought that Tappitt had a vested interest in the manufacture of bad beer;—that as a manufacturer of bad beer he was a fairly honest and useful man;—and they looked upon any change as the work, or rather the suggestion, of a charlatan.
"This isn't Staffordshire," they said. "If you want beer like that you can buy it in bottles at Griggs'."
"He'll soon find where he'll be if he tries to undersell me," said young Griggs. "All the same, I hope he'll come back, because he has left a little bill at our place."
And then to other evil reports was added that special evil report,—that Rowan had gone away without paying his debts. I am inclined to think that Mr. Tappitt can be almost justified in his evil thoughts and his evil words.
I cannot make out quite so good a case for Mrs. Tappitt and her two elder daughters;—for even Martha, Martha the just, shook her head in these days when Rowan's name was mentioned;—but something may be said even for them. It must not be supposed that Mrs. Tappitt's single grievance was her disappointment as regarded Augusta. Had there been no Augusta on whose behalf a hope had been possible, the predilection of the young moneyed stranger for such a girl as Rachel Ray would have been a grievance to such a woman as Mrs. Tappitt. Had she not been looking down on Rachel Ray and despising her for the last ten years? Had she not been wondering among her friends, with charitable volubility, as to what that poor woman at Bragg's End was to do with her daughter? Had she not been regretting that the young girl should be growing up so big, and promising to look so coarse? Was it not natural that she should be miserable when she saw her taken in hand by Mrs. Butler Cornbury, and made the heroine at her own party, to the detriment of her own daughters, by the fashionable lady in catching whom she had displayed so much unfortunate ingenuity? Under such circumstances how could she do other than hate Luke Rowan,—than believe him to be the very Mischief,—than prophesying all manner of bad things for Rachel,—and assist her husband tooth and nail in his animosity against the sinner?
Augusta was less strong in her feelings than her parents, but of course she disliked the man who could admire Rachel Ray. As regards Martha, her dislike to him,—or rather, her judicial disapproval,—was founded on his social and commercial improprieties. She understood that he had threatened her father about the business,—and she had been scandalized in that matter of the champagne. Cherry was very brave, and still stood up for him before her mother and sisters;—but even Cherry did not dare to say a word in his favour before her father. Mr. Tappitt had been driven to forget himself, and to take a poker in his hand as a weapon of violence! After that let no one speak a word on the offender's behalf in Tappitt's house and within Tappitt's hearing!
In that affair of the champagne Rowan was most bitterly injured. He had ordered it, if not at the request, at least at the instigation of Mrs. Tappitt;—and he had paid for it. When he left Baslehurst he owed no shilling to any man in it; and, indeed, he was a man by no means given to owing money to any one. He was of a spirit masterful, self-confident, and perhaps self-glorious;—but he was at the same time honest and independent. That wine had been ordered in some unusual way,—not at the regular counter, and in the same way the bill for it had been paid. Griggs, when he made his assertion in the bar-room at the King's Head, had stated what he believed to be the truth. The next morning he chanced to hear that the account had been settled, but not, at the moment, duly marked off the books. As far as Griggs went that was the end of it. He did not again say that Rowan owed money to him; but he never contradicted his former assertion, and allowed the general report to go on,—that report which had been founded on his own first statement. Thus before Rowan had been a week out of the place it was believed all over the town that he had left unpaid bills behind him.
"I am told that young man is dreadfully in debt," said Mr. Prong to Mrs. Prime. At this time Mr. Prong and Mrs. Prime saw each other daily, and were affectionate in their intercourse,—with a serious, solemn affection; but affairs were by no means settled between them. That affection was, however, strong enough to induce Mr. Prong to take a decided part in opposing the Rowan alliance. "They say he owes money all over the town."
"So Miss Pucker tells me," said Mrs. Prime.
"Does your mother know it?"
"Mother never knows anything that other people know. But he has gone now, and I don't suppose we shall hear of him or see him again."
"He has not written to her, Dorothea?"
"Not that I know of."
"You should find out. You should not leave them in this danger. Your mother is weak, and you should give her the aid of your strength. The girl is your sister, and you should not leave her to grope in darkness. You should remember, Dorothea, that you have a duty in this matter."
Dorothea did not like being told of her duty in so pastoral a manner, and resolved to be more than ever particular in the protection of her own pecuniary rights before she submitted herself to Mr. Prong's marital authority once and for ever. By Miss Pucker she was at any rate treated with great respect, and was allowed perhaps some display of pastoral manner on her own part. It began to be with her a matter of doubt whether she might not be of more use in that free vineyard which she was about to leave, than in that vineyard with closed doors and a pastoral overseer, which she was preparing herself to enter. At any rate she would be careful about the money. But, in the mean time, she did agree with Mr. Prong that Rowan's proper character should be made known to her mother, and with this view she went out to the cottage and whispered into Mrs. Ray's astonished ears the fact that Luke was terribly in debt.
"You don't say so!"
"But I do say so, mother. Everybody in Baslehurst is talking about it. And they all say that he has treated Mr. Tappitt shamefully. Has anything come from him since he went?"
Then Mrs. Ray told her elder daughter of the letter, and told her also that she intended to consult Mr. Comfort. "Oh, Mr. Comfort!" said Mrs. Prime, signifying her opinion that her mother was going to a very poor counsellor. "And what sort of a letter was it?" said Mrs. Prime, with a not unnatural desire to see it.
"It was an honest letter enough,—very honest to my thinking; and speaking as though everything between them was quite settled."
"That's nonsense, mother."
"Perhaps it may be nonsense, Dorothea; but I am only telling you what the letter said. He called his mother a goose; that was the worst thing in it."
"You cannot expect that such a one as he should honour his parents."
"But his mother thinks him the finest young man in the world. And I must say this for him, that he has always spoken of her as though he loved her very dearly; and I believe he has been a most excellent son. He shouldn't have said goose;—at any rate in a letter;—not to my way of thinking. But perhaps they don't mind those things up in London."
"I never knew a young man so badly spoken of at a place he'd left as he is in Baslehurst. I think it right to tell you; but if you have made up your mind to ask Mr.Comfort—"
"Yes; I have made up my mind to ask Mr. Comfort. He has sent to say he will call the day after to-morrow." Then Mrs. Prime went back home, having seen neither the letter nor her sister.
It may be remembered that an election was impending over the town of Baslehurst, the coming necessities of which had induced Mrs. Butler Cornbury to grace Mrs. Tappitt's ball. It was now nearly the end of July, and the election was to be made early in September. Both candidates were already in the field, and the politicians of the neighbourhood already knew to a nicety how the affair would go. Mr. Hart the great clothier from Houndsditch and Regent Street,—Messrs. Hart and Jacobs of from 110 to 136 Houndsditch, and about as many more numbers in Regent Street,—would come in at the top of the poll with 173 votes, and Butler Cornbury, whose forefathers had lived in the neighbourhood for the last four hundred years and been returned for various places in Devonshire to dozens of parliaments, would be left in the lurch with 171 votes. A petition might probably unseat the Jew clothier; but then, as was well known, the Cornbury estate could not bear the expenditure of the necessary five thousand pounds for the petition, in addition to the twelve hundred which the election itself was computed to cost. It was all known and thoroughly understood; and men in Baslehurst talked about the result as though the matter were past a doubt. Nevertheless there were those who were ready to bet on the Cornbury side of the question.
But though the thing was thus accurately settled, and though its termination was foreseen by so many and with so perfect a certainty, still the canvassing went on. In fact there were votes that had not even yet been asked, much less promised,—and again, much less purchased. The Hart people were striving to frighten the Cornbury people out of the field by the fear of the probable expenditure; and had it not been for the good courage of Mrs. Butler Cornbury would probably have succeeded in doing so. The old squire was very fidgety about the money, and the young squire declared himself unwilling to lean too heavily upon his father. But the lady of the household declared her conviction that there was more smoke than fire, and more threats of bribery than intention of bribing. She would go on, she declared; and as her word passed for much at Cornbury Grange, the battle was still to be fought.
Among the votes which certainly had not as yet been promised was that of Mr. Tappitt. Mr. Hart in person had called upon him, but had not been quite satisfied with his reception. Mr. Tappitt was a man who thought much of his local influence and local privileges, and was by no means disposed to make a promise of his vote on easy terms, at a moment when his vote was becoming of so much importance. He was no doubt a liberal as was also Mr. Hart; but in small towns politics become split, and a man is not always bound to vote for a liberal candidate because he is a liberal himself. Mr. Hart had been confident in his tone, and had not sufficiently freed himself from all outer taint of his ancient race to please Mr. Tappitt's taste. "He's an impudent low Jew," he had said to his wife. "As for Butler Cornbury he gives himself airs, and is too grand even to come and ask. I don't think I shall vote at all." His wife had reminded him how civil to them Mrs. Cornbury had been;—this was before the morning of the poker;—but Tappitt had only sneered, and declared he was not going to send a man to Parliament because his wife had come to a dance.