Rachel Ray

"I think she'd better not. Young men think so much of those things."

"And she's not to say 'Yours affectionately' at the end?"

"She'll understand all that when she comes to write the letter better than we can tell her. Give her my love; and tell her from me I'm quite sure she's a dear, good girl, and that it must be a great comfort to you to know that you can trust her so thoroughly." Then, having spoken these last words, Mr. Comfort took himself away.

Rachel, sitting in the window of Mrs. Sturt's large front kitchen on the other side of the green, could see Mr. Comfort come forth from the cottage and get into his low four-wheeled carriage, which, with his boy in livery, had been standing at the garden gate during the interview. Mrs. Sturt was away among the milk-pans, scalding cream or preparing butter, and did not watch either Rachel or the visitor at the cottage. But she knew with tolerable accuracy what was going on, and with all her heart wished that her young friend might have luck with her lover. Rachel waited for a minute or two till the little carriage was out of sight, till the sound of the wheels could be no longer heard, and then she prepared to move. She slowly got herself up from her chair as though she were afraid to show herself upon the green, and paused still a few moments longer before she left the kitchen.

"So, thou's off," said Mrs. Sturt, coming in from the back regions of her territory, with the sleeves of her gown tucked up, enveloped in a large roundabout apron which covered almost all her dress. Mrs. Sturt would no more have thought of doing her work in the front kitchen than I should think of doing mine in the drawing-room. "So thou's off home again, my lass," said Mrs. Sturt.

"Yes, Mrs. Sturt. Mr. Comfort has been with mamma, – about business; and as I didn't want to be in the way I just came over to you."

"Thou art welcome, as flowers in May, morning or evening; but thee knowest that, girl. As for Mr. Comfort, – it's cold comfort he is, I always say. It's little I think of what clergymen says, unless it be out of the pulpit or the like of that. What does they know about lads and lasses?"

"He's a very old friend of mamma's."

"Old friends is always best, I'll not deny that. But, look thee here, my girl; my man's an old friend too. He's know'd thee since he lifted thee in his arms to pull the plums off that bough yonder; and he's seen thee these ten years a deal oftener than Mr. Comfort. If they say anything wrong of thy joe there, tell me, and Sturt 'll find out whether it be true or no. Don't let ere a parson in Devonshire rob thee of thy sweetheart. It's passing sweet, when true hearts meet. But it breaks the heart, when true hearts part." With the salutary advice contained in these ancient local lines Mrs. Sturt put her arms round Rachel, and having kissed her, bade her go.

With slow step she made her way across the green, hardly daring to look to the door of the cottage. But there was no figure standing at the door; and let her have looked with all her eyes, there was nothing there to have told her anything. She walked very slowly, thinking as she went of Mrs. Sturt's words – "Don't let ere a parson in Devonshire rob thee of thy sweetheart." Was it not hard upon her that she should be subjected to the misery of such discussion, seeing that she had given no hope, either to her lover or to herself, till she had received full warranty for doing so? She would do what her mother should bid her, let it be what it might; but she would be wronged, – she felt that she would be wronged and injured, grievously injured, if her mother should now bid her think of Rowan as one thinks of those that are gone.

She entered the cottage slowly, and turning into the parlour, found her mother seated there on the old sofa, opposite to the fireplace. She was seated there in stiff composure, waiting the work which she had to do. It was no customary place of hers, and she was a woman who, in the ordinary occupations of her life, never deserted her customary places. She had an old easy chair near the fireplace, and another smaller chair close to the window, and in one of these she might always be found, unless when, on special occasions like the present, some great thing had occurred to throw her out of the grooves of her life.

"Well, mamma?" said Rachel, coming in and standing before her mother. Mrs. Ray, before she spoke, looked up into her child's face, and was afraid. "Well, mamma, what has Mr. Comfort said?"

Was it not hard for Mrs. Ray that at such a moment she should have had no sort of husband on whom to lean? Does the reader remember that in the opening words of this story Mrs. Ray was described as a woman who specially needed some standing-corner, some post, some strong prop to bear her weight, – some marital authority by which she might be guided? Such prop and such guiding she had never needed more sorely than she needed them now. She looked up into Rachel's face before she spoke, and was afraid. "He has been here, my dear," she said, "and has gone away."

"Yes, mamma, I knew that," said Rachel. "I saw his phaeton drive off; that's why I came over from Mrs. Sturt's."

Rachel's voice was hard, and there was no comfort in it. It was so hard that Mrs. Ray felt it to be unkind. No doubt Rachel suffered; but did not she suffer also? Would not she have given blood from her breast, like the maternal pelican, to have secured from that clerical counsellor a verdict that might have been comforting to her child? Would she not have made any sacrifice of self for such a verdict, even though the effecting of it must have been that she herself would have been left alone and deserted in the world? Why, then, should Rachel be stern to her? If misery was to fall on both of them, it was not of her doing.

"I know you will think it's my fault, Rachel; but I cannot help it, even though you should say so. Of course I was obliged to ask some one; and who else was there that would be able to tell me so well as Mr. Comfort? You would not have liked it at all if I had gone to Dorothea; and as for Mr. Prong – "

"Oh! mamma, mamma, don't! I haven't said anything. I haven't complained of Mr. Comfort. What has he said now? You forget that you have not told me."

"No, my dear, I don't forget; I wish I could. He says that Mr. Rowan has behaved badly to Mr. Tappitt, and that he hasn't paid his debts, and that the lawsuit will be sure to go against him, and that he will never show his face in Baslehurst again; and he says, too, that it would be very wrong for you to correspond with him, – very; because a young girl like you must be so careful about such things; and he says he'll be much more likely to respect you if you don't, – don't, – don't just throw yourself into his arms like. Those were his very words; and then he says that if he really cares for you, he'll be sure to come back again, and so you're to answer the letter, and you must call him Dear Mr. Rowan. Don't call him Luke, because young men think so much about those things. And you are to tell him that there isn't to be any engagement, or any letter-writing, or anything of that sort at all. But you can just say something friendly, – about hoping he's quite well, or something of that kind. And then when you come to the end, you had better sign yourself 'Yours truly.' It won't do to say anything about affection, because one never knows how it may turn out. And, – let me see; there was only one thing more. Mr. Comfort says that you are a good girl, and that he is sure you have done nothing wrong, – not even in a word or a thought; and I say so too. You are my own beautiful child; and, Rachel, – I do so wish I could make it all right between you."

Nobody can deny that Mrs. Ray had given, with very fair accuracy, an epitome of Mr. Comfort's words; but they did not leave upon Rachel's mind a very clear idea of what she was expected to do. "Go away in debt!" she said; "who says so?"

"Mr. Comfort told me so just now. But perhaps he'll send the money in a money-order, you know."

"I don't think he would go away in debt. And why should the lawsuit go against him if he's got right on his side? He does not wish to do any harm to Mr. Tappitt."

"I don't know about that, my dear; but at any rate they've quarrelled."

"But why shouldn't that be Mr. Tappitt's fault as much as his? And as for not showing his face in Baslehurst – ! Oh, mamma! don't you know him well enough to be sure that he will never be ashamed of showing his face anywhere? He not show his face! Mamma, I don't believe a word of it all, – not a word."

"Mr. Comfort said so; he did indeed." Then Mrs. Sturt's words came back upon Rachel. "Don't let ere a parson in Devonshire rob thee of thy sweetheart." This lover of hers was her only possession, – the only thing of her own winning that she had ever valued. He was her great triumph, the rich upshot of her own prowess, – and now she felt that this parson was indeed robbing her. Had he been then present, she would have risen up and spoken at him, as she had never spoken before. The spirit of rebellion against all the world was strong within her; – against all the world except that one weak woman who now sat before her on the sofa. Her eyes were full of anger, and Mrs. Ray saw that it was so; but still she was minded to obey her mother.

"It's no good talking," said Rachel; "but when they say that he's afraid to show himself in Baslehurst, I don't believe them. Does he look like a man afraid to show himself?"

"Looks are so deceitful, Rachel."

"And as for debts, – people, if they're called away by telegraph in a minute, can't pay all that they owe. There are plenty of people in Baslehurst that owe a deal more than he does, I'm sure. And he's got his share in the brewery, so that nobody need be afraid."

"Mr. Comfort didn't say that you were to quarrel with him altogether."

"Mr. Comfort! What's Mr. Comfort to me, mamma?" This was said in such a tone that Mrs. Ray absolutely started up from her seat.

"But, Rachel, he is my oldest friend. He was your father's friend."

"Why did he not say it before, then? Why – why – why – ? Mamma, I can't throw him off now. Didn't I tell him that, – that, – that I would – love him? Didn't you say that it might be so, – you yourself? How am I to show my face, if I go back now? Mamma, I do love him, with all my heart and all my strength, and nothing that anybody can say can make any difference. If he owed ever so much money I should love him the same. If he had killed Mr. Tappitt it wouldn't make any difference."

"Oh, Rachel!"

"No more it would. If Mr. Tappitt began it first, it wasn't his fault."

"But Rachel, my darling, – what can we do? If he has gone away we cannot make him come back again."

"But he wrote almost immediately."

"And you are going to answer it; – are you not?"

"Yes; – but what sort of an answer, mamma? How can I expect that he will ever want to see me again when I have written to him in that way? I won't say anything about hoping that he's very well. If I may not tell him that he's my own, own, own Luke, and that I love him with all my heart, I'll bid him stay away and not trouble himself any further. I wonder what he'll think of me when I write in that way!"

"If he's constant-hearted he'll wait a while and then he'll come back again."

"Why should he come back when I've treated him in that way? What have I got to give him? Mamma, you may write the letter yourself, and put in it what you please."

"Mr. Comfort said that you had better write it."

"Mr. Comfort! I don't know why I'm to do all that Mr. Comfort tells me," and then those other words of Mrs. Sturt's recurred to her, "It's little I think of what a clergyman says unless it be out of a pulpit." After that there was nothing further said for some minutes. Mrs. Ray still sat on the sofa, and as she gazed upon the table which stood in the middle of the room, she wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. Rachel was now seated in a chair with her back almost turned to her mother, and was beating with her impatient fingers on the table. She was very angry, – angry even with her mother; and she was half broken-hearted, truly believing that such a letter as that which she was desired to write would estrange her lover from her for ever. So they sat, and for a few minutes no word was spoken between them.

"Rachel," said Mrs. Ray at last, "if wrong has been done, is it not better that it should be undone?"

"What wrong have I done?" said Rachel, jumping up.

"It is I that have done it, – not you."

"No, mamma; you have done no wrong."

"I should have known more before I let him come here and encouraged you to think of him. It has been my fault. My dear, will you not forgive me?"

"Mamma, there has been no fault. There is nothing to forgive."

"I have made you unhappy, my child," and then Mrs. Ray burst out into open tears.

"No, mamma, I won't be unhappy; – or if I am I will bear it." Then she got up and threw her arms round her mother's neck, and embraced her. "I will write the letter, but I will not write it now. You shall see it before it goes."

CHAPTER V.

SHOWING WHAT RACHEL RAY THOUGHT

WHEN SHE SAT ON THE STILE,

AND HOW SHE WROTE HER LETTER AFTERWARDS

Rachel, as soon as she had made her mother the promise that she would write the letter, left the parlour and went up to her own room. She had many thoughts to adjust in her mind which could not be adjusted satisfactorily otherwise than in solitude, and it was clearly necessary that they should be adjusted before she could write her letter. It must be remembered, not only that she had never before written a letter to a lover, but that she had never before written a letter of importance to any one. She had threatened at one moment that she would leave the writing of it to her mother; but there came upon her a feeling, of which she was hardly conscious, that she herself might probably compose the letter in a strain of higher dignity than her mother would be likely to adopt. That her lover would be gone from her for ever she felt almost assured; but still it would be much to her that, on going, he should so leave her that his respect might remain, though his love would be a thing of the past. In her estimation he was a noble being, to have been loved by whom even for a few days was more honour than she had ever hoped to win. For a few days she had been allowed to think that her great fortune intended him to be her husband. But Fate had interposed, and now she feared that all her joy was at an end. But her joy should be so relinquished that she herself should not be disgraced in the giving of it up. She sat there alone for an hour, and was stronger, when that hour was over, than she had been when she left her mother. Her pride had supported her, and had been sufficient for her support in that first hour of her sorrow. It is ever so with us in our misery. In the first flush of our wretchedness, let the outward signs of our grief be what they may, we promise to ourselves the support of some inner strength which shall suffice to us at any rate as against the eyes of the outer world. But anon, and that inner staff fails us; our pride yields to our tears; our dignity is crushed beneath the load with which we have burdened it, and then with loud wailings we own ourselves to be the wretches which we are. But now Rachel was in the hour of her pride, and as she came down from her room she resolved that her sorrow should be buried in her own bosom. She had known what it was to love, – had known it, perhaps, for one whole week, – and now that knowledge was never to avail her again. Among them all she had been robbed of her sweetheart. She had been bidden to give her heart to this man, – her heart and hand; and now, when she had given all her heart, she was bidden to refuse her hand. She had not ventured to love till her love had been sanctioned. It had been sanctioned, and she had loved; and now that sanction was withdrawn! She knew that she was injured, – deeply, cruelly injured, but she would bear it, showing nothing, and saying nothing. With this resolve she came down from her room, and began to employ herself on her household work.

Mrs. Ray watched her carefully, and Rachel knew that she was watched; but she took no outward notice of it, going on with her work, and saying a soft, gentle word now and again, sometimes to her mother, and sometimes to the little maiden who attended them. "Will you come to dinner, mamma?" she said with a smile, taking her mother by the hand.

"I shouldn't mind if I never sat down to dinner again," said Mrs. Ray.

"Oh, mamma! don't say that; just when you are going to thank God for the good things he gives you."

Then Mrs. Ray, in a low voice, as though rebuked, said the grace, and they sat down together to their meal.

The afternoon went with them very slowly and almost in silence. Neither of them would now speak about Luke Rowan; and to neither of them was it as yet possible to speak about aught else. One word on the subject was said during those hours. "You won't have time for your letter after tea," Mrs. Ray said.

"I shall not write it till to-morrow," Rachel answered; "another day will do no harm now."

At tea Mrs. Ray asked her whether she did not think that a walk would do her good, and offered to accompany her; but Rachel, acceding to the proposition of the walk, declared that she would go alone. "It's very bad of me to say so, isn't it, when you're so good as to offer to go with me?" But Mrs. Ray kissed her; saying, with many words, that she was satisfied that it should be so. "You want to think of things, I know," said the mother. Rachel acknowledged, by a slight motion of her head, that she did want to think of things, and soon after that she started.

"I believe I'll call on Dolly," she said. "It would be bad to quarrel with her; and perhaps now she'll come back here to live with us; – only I forgot about Mr. Prong." It was agreed, however, that she should call on her sister, and ask her to dine at the cottage on the following day.

She walked along the road straight into Baslehurst, and went at once to her sister's lodgings. She had another place to visit before she returned home, but it was a place for which a later hour in the evening would suit her better. Mrs. Prime was at home; and Rachel, on being shown up into the sitting-room, – a room in which every piece of furniture had become known to her during those Dorcas meetings, – found not only her sister sitting there, but also Miss Pucker and Mr. Prong. Rachel had not seen that gentleman since she had learned that he was to become her brother-in-law, and hardly knew in what way to greet him; but it soon became apparent to her that no outward show of regard was expected from her at that moment.

"I think you know my sister, Mr. Prong," said Dorothea. Whereupon Mr. Prong rose from his chair, took Rachel's hand, pressing it between his own, and then sat down again. Rachel, judging from his countenance, thought that some cloud had passed also across the sunlight of his love. She made her little speech, giving her mother's love, and adding her own assurance that she hoped her sister would come out and dine at the cottage.

"I really don't know," said Mrs. Prime. "Such goings about do cut up one's time so much. I shouldn't be here again till – "

"Of course you'd stay for tea with us," said Rachel.

"And lose the whole afternoon!" said Mrs. Prime.

"Oh do!" said Miss Pucker. "You have been working so hard; hasn't she now, Mr. Prong? At this time of the year a sniff of fresh air among the flowers does do a body so much good." And Miss Pucker looked and spoke as though she also would like the sniff of fresh air.

"I'm very well in health, and am thankful for it. I can't say that it's needed in that way," said Mrs. Prime.

"But mamma will be so glad to see you," said Rachel.

"I think you ought to go, Dorothea," said Mr. Prong; and even Rachel could perceive that there was some slight touch of authority in his voice. It was the slightest possible intonation of a command; but, nevertheless, it struck Rachel's ears.

Mrs. Prime merely shook her head and sniffed. It was not for a supply of air that she used her nostrils on this occasion, but that she might indicate some grain of contempt for the authority which Mr. Prong had attempted to exercise. "I think I'd rather not, Rachel, thank you; – not to dinner, that is. Perhaps I'll walk out in the evening after tea, when the work of the day is over. If I come then, perhaps my friend, Miss Pucker, may come with me."

"And if your esteemed mamma will allow me to pay my respects," said Mr. Prong, "I shall be most happy to accompany the ladies."

It will be acknowledged that Rachel had no alternative left to her. She said that her mother would be happy to see Mr. Prong, and happy to see Miss Pucker also. As to herself, she made no such assertion, being in her present mood too full of her own thoughts to care much for the ordinary courtesies of life.

"I'm very sorry you won't come to dinner, Dolly," she said; but she abstained from any word of asking the others to tea.

"If it had only been Mr. Prong," she said to her mother afterwards, "I should have asked him; for I suppose he'll have to come to the house sooner or later. But I wouldn't tell that horrid, squinting woman that you wanted to see her, for I'm sure you don't."

"But we must give them some cake and a glass of sweet wine," said Mrs. Ray.

"She won't have to take her bonnet off for that as she would for tea, and it isn't so much like making herself at home here. I couldn't bear to have to ask her up to my room."

On leaving the house in the High Street, which she did about eight o'clock, she took her way towards the churchyard, – not passing down Brewery Lane, by Mr. Tappitt's house, but taking the main street which led from the High Street to the church. But at the corner, just as she was about to leave the High Street, she was arrested by a voice that was familiar to her, and, turning round, she saw Mrs. Cornbury seated in a low carriage, and driving a pair of ponies. "How are you, Rachel?" said Mrs. Cornbury, shaking hands with her friend, for Rachel had gone out into the street up to the side of the carriage, when she found that Mrs. Cornbury had stopped. "I'm going by the cottage, – to papa's. I see you are turning the other way; but if you've not much delay, I'll stay for you and take you home."

But Rachel had before her that other visit to make, and she was not minded either to omit it or postpone it. "I should like it so much," said Rachel, "only – "

"Ah! well; I see. You've got other fish to fry. But, Rachel, look here, dear." And Mrs. Cornbury almost whispered into her ear across the side of the pony carriage. "Don't you believe quite all you hear. I'll find out the truth, and you shall know. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Mrs. Cornbury," said Rachel, pressing her friend's hand as she parted from her. This allusion to her lover had called a blush up over her whole face, so that Mrs. Cornbury well knew that she had been understood. "I'll see to it," she said, driving away her ponies.

See to it! How could she see to it when that letter should have been written? And Rachel was well aware that another day must not pass without the writing of it.

She went down across the churchyard, leaving the path to the brewery on her left, and that leading out under the elm trees to her right, and went on straight to the stile at which she had stood with Luke Rowan, watching the reflection of the setting sun among the clouds. This was the spot which she had determined to visit; and she had come hither hoping that she might again see some form in the heavens which might remind her of that which he had shown her. The stile, at any rate, was the same, and there were the trees beneath which they had stood. There were the rich fields, lying beneath her, over which they two had gazed together at the fading lights of the evening. There was no arm in the clouds now, and the perverse sun was retiring to his rest without any of that royal pageantry and illumination with which the heavens are wont to deck themselves when their king goes to his couch. But Rachel, though she had come thither to look for these things and had not found them, hardly marked their absence. Her mind became so full of him and of his words, that she required no outward signs to refresh her memory. She thought so much of his look on that evening, of the tones of his voice, and of every motion of his body, that she soon forgot to watch the clouds. She sat herself down upon the stile with her face turned away from the fields, telling herself that she would listen for the footsteps of strangers, so that she might move away if any came near her; but she soon forgot also to listen, and sat there thinking of him alone. The words that had been spoken between them on that occasion had been but trifling, – very few and of small moment; but now they seemed to her to have contained all her destiny. It was there that love for him had first come upon her – had come over her with broad outspread wings like an angel; but whether as an angel of darkness or of light, her heart had then been unable to perceive. How well she remembered it all; how he had taken her by the hand, claiming the right of doing so as an ordinary farewell greeting; and how he had held her, looking into her face, till she had been forced to speak some word of rebuke to him! "I did not think you would behave like that," she had said. But yet at that very moment her heart was going from her. The warm friendliness of his touch, the firm, clear brightness of his eye, and the eager tone of his voice, were even then subduing her coy unwillingness to part with her maiden love. She had declared to herself then that she was angry with him; but, since that, she had declared to herself that nothing could have been better, finer, sweeter than all that he had said and done on that evening. It had been his right to hold her, if he intended afterwards to claim her as his own. "I like you so very much," he had said; "why should we not be friends?" She had gone away from him then, fleeing along the path, bewildered, ignorant as to her own feelings, conscious almost of a sin in having listened to him; but still filled with a wondrous delight that any one so good, so beautiful, so powerful as he, should have cared to ask for her friendship in such pressing words. During all her walk home she had been full of fear and wonder and mysterious delight. Then had come the ball, which in itself had hardly been so pleasant to her, because the eyes of many had watched her there. But she thought of the moment when he had first come to her in Mrs. Tappitt's drawing-room, just as she was resolving that he did not intend to notice her further. She thought of those repeated dances which had been so dear to her, but which, in their repetition, had frightened her so grievously. She thought of the supper, during which he had insisted on sitting by her; and of that meeting in the hall, during which he had, as it were, forced her to remain and listen to him, – forced her to stay with him till, in her agony of fear, she had escaped away to her friend and begged that she might be taken home! As she sat by Mrs. Cornbury in the carriage, and afterwards as she had thought of it all while lying in her bed, she had declared to herself that he had been very wrong; – but since that, during those few days of her permitted love, she had sworn to herself as often that he had been very right.