PR. ^660 CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY FROM forfeit all rights to the benefits and prii brary vintil s\ich fines or penalties are pali :«yt -Wi^^^li Cornell University Library PR5684.R11 1880 Rachel Ray. 3 1924 013 565 571 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 3565571 BAOHEL BAY. BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 3S. Vols. DOCTOK THORNS THE MACDERMOTS OF BAIXY- CLORAN RACHEL RAY THE KBLLYS AND THE 0'KELLy3 TALES OF ALL COUNTRIES CASTLE RICHMOND THE BERTRAMS MISS MACKENZIE THE BELTON ESTATE AN EDITOR S TALES RALPH THE HEIR LA VENDEE LADY ANNA VICAR OF BULLHAMPTpM SIR HARRY HOTSPUR IS HE POPENJOY? AN EYE FOR EYE COUSIN HENRY LOTTA SCHMIDT ORLEY FARM CAN YOU FORGIVE HER? PHINEAS FINN THE DUKE'S CHILDREN 2S. 6d. Vols. HE KNEW HE VFAS RIGHT EUSTACE DIAMONDS PHINEAS REDUX THE PRIME MINISTER LONDON: WARD, LOCK AND CO., SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C EAGHEL BAY. BY ANTHONY ^ROLLOPE, AUTHOR OF "tales of all couNTEiEa," "dootoe thobne," "oelet farm," etc. NEW EDITION. WARD, LOCK, AND CO., LONDON : "WAEWICK HOUSE, SALISBUEY SQUAEE, E.O. NEW YOEK : 10 BOND STREET. -PR l\(pi'l^fS' ,1,1 :-iiuin;' ^/•, 1 '• >! '.iX/ I Kill OONTBN'!P§. AAPTEB I. — THE KAY FAMILY . . . o e > II. — THE YOUNG MAN FROM THE BEBWEHT . . III. — THE AEM IN THE CLOUDS .... rV. WHAT SHALL BE BONE ABOUT IT? . . T. — MK. COMPOET GIVES HIS ADVICE . VI. PSEPABATIONS EOa MBS. TlPPITl'S PAETT . TIl.^AN ACCOUNT OP MB.3. TAPPITT'S BALL — COM- MENCED Vm. — AN ACCOUNT 0? UBS. TAPPITt's BALL — CON CLUDED «. — ME. PEONG AT HOME X. — tUKE ROWAN DECLARES HIS PLANS AS TO THE BEEWEEY XI. — LUKE EOIVAN TAKES HIS TEA QUITE LIKE A STEADY YOIi'KG MAN .... XII. — EACHEL BAY THINKS "SHE DOES LIKE HIM " XIII. — MR. TAPPITT IN HIS COUNTING-HOUSE . XIT. — LUKE ROVTAN PAYS A SECOND VIS.i.T TO BKAGG' END %Y. — liiLXil&NAL ELOI^UiliNl'S 1 12 22 37 48 69 71 S3 96 107 117 129 139 152 IV CONTENTS. CHAPTBft fAOfe XVI. — RACHEL bay's FIKST LOVE LETTEK . , . 175 XVII. — ELECTIONEEUINe 183 HVIII. — DB. HABl'OBD ....... 197 XIX. — MB. COMrOBT CALiS AT THE COTIAGH. . . . 209 XX.— SHOWING WHAT EACHEL BAY THOUGHT WHEN SHE SAT ON THE STILE, AND HOW SHE WEOTB HEB LETTEE AETEBWAEDS .... 221 XXI. — MES. BAY GOES TO BXETEE, AND MEETS A EEIEND 234 XXII. — DOMESTIC POLITICS AT THE BEEWEBY . . . 2i7 XXIII. — MBS. bat's PENITENCE ..... 259 XXIV. — THE ELECTION AT BASLEHUHST . • . . 272 XXV. — THE BASLEHUEST GAZETTE . . . . i 285 XXVI. — COENBUBY GBANGE 292 XXVII. — IN WHICH THE QUESTION OF THE BEEWEBY IS SETTLED „ 303 XXVIII. — ^WHAT TOOK PLACE AT JBRAGg's END FAEM . . 318 XXIX. — UBS. FBIME READS HEB BECANTATIOV . . .331 ^tX.-— «OMCL08I01f ...,., B . »*0 IIACHEL RAY, CHAPTEE L THE EAT FAMILY. There are women who cannot grow alone as standard trees j-" for whom the support and warmth of some wall, some paling, some post, is absolutely necessary ; — ^who, in their growth, will bend and incline themselves towards some such prop for their life, creeping with their tendrils along the groimd tUl they reach it when the circumstances of life have brought no such prop within their natural and immediate reach. Of most women it may be said that it would be well for them that they should marry, — as indeed of most men also, seeing that man and wife will each lend the other strength, and yet in lending lose none ; but to the women of whom I now speak some kind of marriage is quite indispensable, and by them some kind of marriage is always made, though the union is often imnatural. A woman in want of a wall agaiast which to nail herself will swear con- jugal obedience sometimes to her cook, sometimes to her grand- child, sometimes to her lawyer. Any standing comer, post, or stump, strong enough to bear her weight wOl suffice; but to some standing comer, post, or stump, she will find her way and attach herself, and there wiU she be married. Such a woman was our Mrs. Eay. As her name imports, she had been married in the way most popular among ladies, wit^ bell, book, and parson. She had been Uke a young peach tree that, in its early days, is carefully taught to grow agaiast a propitious southern wall. Her natura? prop >;ad been found for her, and all had been well. But her hn.'iven had been mado 2 EACHEL BAY. black witli Btorms ; the heavy -winds had come, and the warm sheltering covert against which she had felt herself so safe had been torn away from her branches as they were spreading them- selves forth to the fulness of life. She had been married at eighteen, and then, after ten years of wedded security, she had become a vndow. Her husband had been some years older than herself, — a steady, sober, hardworking, earnest man, well fitted to act as a protecting screen to such a woman as he had chosen. They had lived in Exeter, both of them having belonged to Devonshire from their birth ; and Mr. Eay, though not a clergyman himself, had been employed in matters ecclesiastical. He was a lawyer, — ^but a lawyer of that sort that is so nearly akin to the sacerdotal profession, as to make him quite clerical and almost a clergyman. He managed the property of the dean and chapter, and knew what were the rights, and also what were the wrongs, of prebendaries and minor canons, — of vicars choral, and even of choristers. But he had been dead many years before oui story commences, and so much as this is now said of bir/i simply to explain under what circumstances Mrs. Eay had received the first tinge of that colouring which was given to her life by church matters. They had been married somewhat over ten years when ho died, and she was left with two surviving daughters, the eldest and the youngest of the children she had borne. The eldest, Dorothea, was then more than nine years old, and as she took much after her father, being stem, sober, and steady, Mrs. Eay immediately married herself to her eldest child. Dorothea became the prop against which she would henceforth grow. And against Dorothea she had grown ever since, with the ex- ception of one short year. In that year Dorothea had taken a husband to herself and had lost him ; — so that there were two widows in the same house. She, like her mother, had married early, having joined her lot to that of a young clergyman near Baslehurst ; but he had lived but a fsw months, and Mrs. Ea/s eldest child had come back to her mother's cottage, black, and stiff, and stern, in widow's weeds, — Mrs. Prime by name. Black, and stiff, and stem, in widow's weeds, she had remained since, for nine years following, and those nine years will bring us to the beginning of our story. As regards Mrs. Eay herself, I think it was well that poor THE EAY FAMILY. 3 Mr. Prime had died. It assured to her the support which she needed. It must, however, he acknowledged that ]\Irs. Prime was a harder taskmaster than Dorothea Eay had heen, and that the mother might have undergone a gentler ruling had the daughter never hecome a wife. I think there was much in the hardness of the weeds she wore. It seemed as though Mrs. Prime in selecting her crape, her homhazine, and the models of her caps, had resolved to repress aU. ideas of feminine softness ; — as though she had sworn to herself, with a great oath, that man should never again look on her with gratiHed eyes. The materials she wore have made other widows very pleasant to be seen, — with a sad thoughtful pleasantness indeed, but stiU very- pleasant. There was nothing of that with Mrs. Prime. When she came back to her mother's cottage near Baslehuist she was not yet twenty years old, but she was rough with weeds. Her caps were lumpy, heavy, full of woe, and clean only as decency might require, — ^not nicely clean with feminine care. The very stuff of which they were made was brown, rather than white, and her dress was always the same. It was rough, and black, and cUnging,— disagreeable to the eye in its shape, as will always be the dress of any woman which is worn day after day through aU hours. By nature and education Mrs. Prime was a prim, tidy woman, but it seemed that her peculiar ideas of duty lequired her to militate against her nature and education, at any rate in appearance. And this was her lot in life before she had yet reached her twentieth year ! Dorothea Eay had not been wanting in some feminine attraction. She had ever been brown and homely, but her features had been well-formed, and her eyes had been bright. Now, as she approached to thirty years of age, she might have been as well-looking as at any earlier period of her life if it had beea her wish to possess good looks. But she had had no such TTish. On the contrary, her desire had been to be ugly, for- bidding, unattractive, almost repulsive; so that, in very truth, she might be known to be a widow indeed. And here I must not be misunderstood. There was nothing hypocritical about Mrs. Prime, nor did she make any attempt to appear before men to be weighted with a deeper sorrow than that which she truly bore ; hypocrisy was by no means her fault. Her fault was this ; that she had taught herself to believe that cheorfni- ness was a sin, and that the more she became morose, ths 4 EACHEL EAY. nearer ■would shei be to the fruition of those hopes of future happiness on which her heart was set. In all her words and thoughts she was genuine ; but, then, ia so very many of them she was mistaken ! This was the wall against which Mrs. Eay had allowed herself to be fastened for many years past, and though the support was strong it must be admitted that it could hardly have been at all times pleasant. Mrs. Eay had become a widow before she was thirty; and she had grieved for her husband with truest sorrow, pouring herself out at first iu tears, and afterwards expendiag herself ia long hours of vain regrets. But she had never been rough or hard in her widowhood. It had ever been her nature to be soft. She was a woman aU over, and had about her so much of a woman's prettiuess, that she had, not altogether divested her- self of it, even when her weepers had been of the broadest. To obtain favour in men's eyes had never been in her miad eince she had first obtained favour in the eyes of him who had been her lord ; but yet she had ne-rer absolutely divested herseU of her woman charms, of that look half retreating, half be- seeching, which had won the heart of the ecclesiastical lawyer. GraduiaUy her weeds and her deep heavy crapes had fallen away from her, and then, without much thought on the matter, she dressed herself much as did other women of forty or forty-five, — being driven, however, on certain occasions by her daughter to a degree of dinginess, not by any means rivalling that of the daughter herself, but which she would not have achieved had she been left to her own devices. She was a sweet-tempered, good-humoured, loving, timid woman, ever listening, and b& lieving, and learning, with a certain aptitude for gentle mirth at her heart which, however, was always being repressed and controlled by the circumstances of her Ufe. She could gossip' o:EfiI_j^cup of t^a-ffid-^jgy buttf.TP,fl,_toastjMid_hot pfegyary thQ]^^^^^if"^^]^^eI^s^iiojQBejj^_hei~to~whisper into Jier eM tESra5y~6 uchj,Tijnyinent w^" w^Wivl" In spite of the. sonows" she had suffered she would have taught herself to believe this world to be a pleasant place, were it not so often preached into her ears that it is a vale of tribulation in which no satisfaction can abide. And it may be said of Mrs. Eay that her religion, though it sufficed her, tormented her griev- ously. It sufficed her ; and if on such a subject I may venture to give an opinion, I think it was of a nature to suffice her in THE EAY FAMILY. 6 that great strait for which it had been prepared. But in this world it tormented her, carrying her hither and' thither, and leaving her in grievous douht, not as to its own truth in any of its details, but as to her own conduct under its injunctions, and also as to her own mode of believing in it. In truth sho believed too much. She could never divide the minister from the Bible ; — ^nay, the very clerk in the church was sacred to her while exercising hie fuactions thejein. It nwer occurred to her to question any word that was said to her. If a linen-draper were to tell her that one coloured calico was better for her than another, she would take that point as settled by the man's word, and for the time would be free from aU doubt on that heading. So also when the clergyman in his sermon told her that she should live simply and altogether for heaven, that all thoughts as to this world were wicked thoughts, and that nothing belonging to this world could be other than painful, fuU of sorrow and vexations, she would go home beUeving Tiim absolutely, and with tear-laden eyes would bethink herself how utterly she was a castaway, because of that tea, and cake, and innocent tittle tattle with which the hours of her Saturday evening had been beguiled. She would weakly resolve that she would laugh no more, and that she would live in truth in a vaUey of tears. But then as the bright sun came upon her, and the birds sang around her, and some one that she loved would cling to her and kiss her, she would be happy in her own despite, and would laugh with a low musical sweet tone, for- getting that such laughter was a sin. And then that very clergyman himself would torment her ; — he that told her from the pulpit on Sundays how frightfully vain were all attempts at worldly happiness. He would como to her on the Monday with a good-natured, rather rubicund face, and would ask after aU her Uttle worldly belongings, — ^for he knew of her history and her means, — and he would joke with her, and teU her comfortably of his grown sons and daughters, who were prospering in worldly matters, and express the fondest solicitude as to their worldly advancement. Twice or thrice a year Mrs. Eay would go to the parsonage, and such evenings would be by no means hours of wailing. Tea and buttered toast on such occasions would be very manifestly in the as- cendant. Mrs. Eay never questioned the propriety of hei clergyman's Ufe, nor taught herself to see a discrepancy between 6 EACHEL EAT. his doctrine and his conduct. But she belieTsd in both, and was unconsciously trouhled at having her belief so varied. She never thought about it, or discovered that her friend allowed himself to be carried away in his sermons by his zeal, and that he condemned this world in aU things, hoping that he might thereby teach his hearers to condemn it in some things. Mrs. Eay would allow herself the privilege of no such arguments as that. It was aU gospel to her. The parson in the church, and the parson out of the church, were alike gospels to her sweet, white, credulous mind ; but these differing gospels troubled her and tormented her. Of that particular clergyman, I may as well here say that he was the Eev. Charles Comfort, and that he was rector of Cawston, a parish in Devonshire, about two miles out of Baslehurst. Mr. Prime had for a year or two been his curate, and during that term of curacy he had married Dorothea Eay Then he had died, and his widow had returned from the house her husband had occupied near the church to her mother's cottage. Mr. Prime had been possessed of some property, and when he died he left his widow in the uncontrolled pos- session of two hundred a year. As it was well known that Mrs. Eay's icicome was considerably less than this, the people of Baslehurst and Cawston had declared how comfortable for Mrs. Kay would be this accession of wealth to the family. But Mrs. Eay had not become much the richer. Mrs. Prune did no doubt pay her fair cfuota towards the maintenance of the humble cottage at Bragg's End, for such was the name of the pot at which Mrs. Eay Uved. But she did not do more than this. She established a Dorcas society at Baslehurst, of which she became permanent president, and spent her money in carrying on this institution in the manner most pleasing to herself. I fear that Mrs. Prime liked to be more powerful at these charitable meetings than her sister labourers in the same vineyard, and that she achieved this power by the means of her money. I do not bring this as a heavy accusation against her. In such institutions there is generally need of a strong, stirring, leading mind. If some one would not assume power, the power needed would not be exercised. Such a one as Mrs. Prime is often netfessary. But we all have our own pet tempta- tions, and I think that Mrs. Prime's temptation was a love of power. THE EAY FAMILY. 7 It •will be understood that Basleliuist is a town, — a town with a market, and hotels, and a big brewery, and a square, and street] whereas Cawston is a village, or rather a rural parish, three miles out of Baslehurst, north of it, lying on the river Avon. But Bragg's End, though within the parish of Cawston, lies about a mile and a half from the church and viUage, on the road to Baslehurst, and partakes therefore almost as much of the township of Baslehurst as it does of the rusticity of Cawston. How Bragg came to such an end, or why this corner of the parish came to be thus united for ever to Bragg's name, no one in the parish knew. The place consisted of a Uttle green, and a little wooden bridge, over a Httle stream that trickled away into the Avon. Here were clustered haH a dozen labourers' cottages, and a beer or cider shop. Standing back from the green was the house and homestead of Farmer Sturt, and close upon the green, with its garden hedge running down to the bridge, was the pretty cottage of Mrs. Eay. Mr. Comfort had known her husband, and he had found for her this quiet home. It was a pretty place, with one small sitting-room opening back upon the little garden, and with another somewhat larger fronting towards the road and the green. In the front room Mrs. Bay lived, looking out upon so much of the world as Bragg's End green afforded to her view. The other seemed to be kept with some faint expectation of company that never came. Many of the widow's neatest belongings were here preserved in most perfect order ; but one may say that they were altogether thrown away, — unless indeed they afforded solace to their owner in the very act of dusting them. Here there were four or five books, prettily bound, with gUt leaves, arranged in shapes on the small round table. Here also was deposited a spangled mat of wondrous brightness, made of short white sticks of glass strung together. It must have taken care and time in its manufacture, but was, I should say, but of little efficacy either for domestic use or domestic ornament. There were shells on the chimney- piece, and two or three china figures. There was a bird-cage hung in the window but without a bird. It was aU very clean, but the room conveyed at the iirst glance an overpowering idea of its own absolute inutility and vanity. It was capable of answering no purpose for which men and women use rooms; but he who could have said so to Mrs. Eay must have been a cruel and a hardhearted man. 8 RACHEL RAT. The other room -wrhioh looked out npon the green wm sntig enough, and sufficed for all the widow's wants. There was a little book-case laden with books. There was the family table at which they ate their meals; and there was the Httle table near the window at which Mrs. Eay worked. There was an old sofa, and an old arm-chair; and there was, also, a carpet, alas, so old that the poor woman had become paiufuUy aware that she must soon have either no carpet or a new one. A word or two had abeady been said between her and Mrs. Prime on that matter, but the word or two had not as yet been comfortable. Then, over the fire, there was an old round mirror ; and, having told of that, I believe I need not further describe the furniture of the sittiug room at Bragg's End. But I have not as yet described the whole of Mrs. Ea/s family. Had I done so, her life would indeed have been sour, and sorrowful, for she was a woman who especially needed companionship. Though I have hitherto spoken but of one daughter, I have said that two had been left with her when her husband died. She had one whom she feared and obeyed, seeing that a master was necessary to her ; but she had another whom she loved and caressed, and I may declare, that some such object for her tenderness was as necessary to her as the master. She could not have lived without something to kiss, something to tend, something to which she might speak in short, loving, pet terms of affection. This youngest girl, Eachel, had been only two years old when her father died, and now, at the time of this story, was not yet quite twenty. Her sister was, in truth, only seven years her senior, but in all the facts and ways of life, she seemed to be the elder by at least half a century. Eachel indeed, at the time, felt herself to be much nearer of an age with her mother. With her mother she could laugh and talk, ay, ap,d form little wicked whispered schemes behind the tyrant's back, during some of these Dorcas hours, in which Mrs. Prime would be employed at Baslehurst ; schemes, however, for the fi-nal perpetration of which, the courage of the elder widow would too frequently be found insufficient. Eachel Eay was a fair-haired, weU-grown, comely girl, — very like her mother in all but this, that whereas about the mother's eyes there was always a look of weakness, there was a shadowing of coming strength of character round those of the daughter. On her brow there was written a capacity for sustained purposs is±m KAY FAMILY. ^ 9 which was wanting to Mrs. Eay. Not that the reader is to suppose that she -was masterful like her sister. She had hoen brought up under Mrs. Prime's directions, and had not, as yet, learned to rehel. Nor was she in any way prone to domineer. A little wickedness now and then, to the extent, perhaps, of a vain walk into Baslehurst on a summer evening, a little obstinacy in refusing to explain whither she had been and whom she had seen, a yawn in church, or a word of complaint as to the length of the second Sunday sermon, — ^these were her sins j and when rebuked for them by her sister, she would of late toss her head, and look slily across to her mother, with an eye that was not penitent. Then Mrs. Prime would become black and angry, and would foretell hard things for her sister, denouncing her as fashioning herself wilfully in the world's ways. On such occasions Mrs. Eay would become very unhappy, beHeviag first in the one child and then in the other. She would defend Eachel, till her weak defence would be knocked to shivers, and her poor vacLllating words taken from out of her mouth. "Then, when forced to acknowledge that Eachel was in danger of back- sliding, she would kiss her and cry over her, and beg her to listen to the sermons. Eachel hitherto had never rebelled. She had never declared that a walk into Baslehurst was better than a sermon. She had never said out boldly that she liked the world and its wickednesses. But an observer of physiog- nomy, had such observer been there, might have seen that the days of such rebellion were coming. She was a fair-haired girl, with hair, not flaxen, but of light- brown tint, — thick, and full, and glossy, so that its charms could not all be hidden away let Mrs. Prime do what she would to effect such hiding. She was well made, being tail and straight, with great appearance of health and strength. She walked as though the motion were pleasant to her, and easy,- - as though the very act of walking were a pleasure. She was bright too, and clever in their little cottage, striving hard with her needle to make things look well, and not sparing her strength in giving household assistance. One little maiden Mrs. Eay employed, and a gardener came to her for half a day once a week; — ^but I doubt whether the maiden in the house, or the gardener out of the house, did as much hard work as Eachel. How she had toiled over that carpet, patching it and piecing it !, Even Dorothea could not accusfi W of idleness. Therefore 10 KACHEL EAY. Dorothea accused her of profitless industry, because she would not attend more frequently at those Dorcas meetings. " But, Dolly, how on earth am I to make my own things, and look after mamma's? Charity begins at home." Then had Dorothea put down her huge Dorcas basket, and explained to her sister, at considerable length, her reading of that text of Scripture. " One's own clothes must be made all the same," Eachel said when the female preacher had finished. "And I don't suppose even you would like mamma to go to church without a decent gown." Then Dorothea had seized up her huge basket angrily, and had trudged off into Baslehurst at a quick pace, — at a pace much too quick when the summer's heat is considered ; — and as she went, unhappy thoughts filled her mind. A coloured dress belonging to Eachel herself had met her eye, and she had heard tidings of — a young man ! Such tidings, to her ears, were tidings of iniquity, of vanity, of terrible sin; they were tidings which hardly admitted of being discussed with decency, and which had to be spoken of below the breath. A young man ! Could it be that such dis- grace had fallen upon her sister ! She had not as yet mentioned the subject to Eachel, but she had given a dark hint to their aflfl-icted mother. "1^0, I didn't flee it myself, but I heard it from Miss Pucker." " She that was to have been married to WUliam Whitecoat, the baker's son, only he went away to Torquay and picked up with somebody else. People said he did it because she does squint so dreadfully." " Mother ! " — and Dorothea spoke very sternly as she answered — " what does it matter to us about WUliam Whitecoat, or Ikliss Pucker's squint ? She is a woman eager in doing good." " It's only since he left Baslehurst, my dear." " Mother ! — does that matter to Eachel ? Will that save her if she be in danger 1 I teU you that Miss Pucker saw her walk- ing with that young man from the brewery !" Though Mrs. Eay had been strongly inclined to throw what odium she could upon Miss Pucker, and though she hated Miss Pucker in her heart, — at this special moment, — ^for having carried tales against her darling, she could not deny, even to herself that a terrible state of things had arrived if it were reaUy true that Eachel had been seen walking with a young man. She was THE RAY FAAHLT. 11 not bitter on the subject as was Mrs. Prime and poor Misa Pucker, but she was filled full of indefinite horror with regard to young men in general. They were all regarded by her as wolves, — as wolves, either with or without sheep's clothing. I doubt whether she ever brought it home to herself that those whom she now recognized as the established and well-credited lords of the creation had eva; been young men themselves. When she heard of a wedding, — ^when she learned that some struggling son of Adam had taken to himself a wife, and had settled himself down to the sober work of the world, she rejoiced greatly, thinking that the son of Adam had done well to get himself married. But whenever it was whispered into her ear that any young man was looking after a young woman, — that he was taking the only step by which he could hope to find a wife for himself, — she was instantly shocked at the wickedness of the world, and prayed inwardly that the girl at least might be saved like a brand from the burning. A young man, in her estimation, was a wicked wild beast, seeking after young women to devour them, as a cat seeks after mice. This at least was her established idea, — ^the idea on which she worked, un- less some other idea on any special occasion were put into her head. When young Butler Combury, the eldest son of the neighbouring squire, came to Cawston after pretty Patty Comfort, — ^for Patty Comfort was said to have been the prettiest girl in Devonshire ; — and when Patty Comfort had been allowed to go to the assemblies at Torquay almost on purpose to meet him, Mrs. Eay had thought it all right, because it had been presented to her mind as all right. by the rector. Butler Cornbury had married Patty Comfort and it was all right. But had she heard of Patty's dancings without the assistance of a few hints from Mr. Comfort himself, her mind would have worked in a different way. She certainly desired that her own child Eachel should some day find a husband, and Eachel was already older than she had been when she married, or than Mrs. Prime had been at her wedding ; but nevertheless, there was something terrible in the very thought of — a young man ; and she, though she would fain have defended her child, hardly knew how to do so otherwise than by discrediting the words of Miss Pucker. " She always was very ill-natured, you know," Mrs. Eay ventured to hint. "Mother!" said Mrs. Prime, in that peculiarly stem voice of hers. " There can be no reason for supposing that Miss Fuckoi 12 RACHEL EAY. wishes to malign the child. It is my belief that Eachel -vnll ba in Baslehurst this evening. K so, she probably intends to meet him again," "I know she is going into Baslehurst after tea," said Mrs. Eay, "because she has promised to walk -with the Miss Tappitts. She told me so." " Exactly ; — ^with the brewery girls ! Oh, mother !" Now it is certainly true that the three Miss Tappitts were the daughters of Bungall and Tappitt, the old-estabHshed brewers of Baslehurst. They were, at least, the actual children of Mr. Tappitt, who was the sole surviving partner in the brewery. The name of Bungall had for many years been used merely to give soKdity and stand- ing to the Tappitt family. The Miss Tappitts certainly came from the brewery, and Miss Pucker had said that the young man came from the same quarter. There was ground in this for much suspicion, and Mrs. Eay became uneasy. This conversation between the two widows had occurred before dinner at the cottage on a Saturday ; — and it was after dinner that the elder sister had endeavoured to persuade the younger one to accompany her to the Dorcas workshop ; — ^but had endeavoured in vain. CHAPTEE n. THE YOUNG MAN FEOM THE BREWBBY. There were during the summer months four Dorcas afternoons held weekly in Baslehurst, at all of which Mrs. Prime presided. It was her custom to start soon after dinner, so as to reach the working room before three o'clock, and there she would remain tm nine, or as long as the dayhght remained. The meeting was held m a sitting room belonging to Miss Pucker, for the use of which the Institution paid some moderate rent. The other ladies, all belonging to Baslehurst, were accustomed to go home' to tea m the middle of their labours; but, as Mrs. Prime could not do this because of the distance, she remained with Miss Pucker, paying for such refreshment as she needed. In this way there came to be a great friendship between Mrs. Prime and THE YOUNG MAN FROM THE BREWERY. 13 Miss Pucker ; — or rather, perhaps, Mrs. Prime thus obtained the services of a most obedient minister. Eachel had on various occasions gone with her sister to the Dorcas meetings, and once or twice had remained at Miss Pucker's house, drinking tea there. But this she greatly dis- lilted. She was aware, when she did so, that her sister paid foi her, and she thought that Dorothea showed by her behaviour that she was mistress of the entertainment. And then Eachel greatly disliked Miss Pucker. She disliked that lady's squint, she disliked the tone of her voice, she dishked her subservience to Mrs. Prime, and she especially disliked the vehemence of her objection to — young men. When Eachel had last left Miss Pucker's room she had resolved that she would never again drink tea there. She had not said to herself positively that she would attend no more of the Dorcas meetings ; — ^but as regarded their summer arrangement this resolve against the tea-drinking amounted almost to the same thing. It was on this account, I protest, and by no means on account of that young man from the brewery, that Eachel had with determination opposed her sister's request on this special Satur- day. And the refusal had been made in an unaccustomed manner, owing to the request also having been pressed with unusual vigour, " Eachel, I particularly wish it, and I think that you ought to come," Dorothea had said. " I had rather not come, Dolly.'' " That means," continued Mrs. Prime, " that you prefer youi pleasure to your duty ; — ^that you boldly declare yourself deter- mined to neglect that which you know you ought to do." " I don't know any such thing," said Eachel. " If you think of it you will know it," said Mrs. Prime.- " At any rate I don't mean to go to Miss Pucker's this after- noon." — Then Eachel left the room. It was immediately after this conversation that Mrs. Prime uttered to Mrs. Eay that terrible hint about the young maii ; and at the same time uttered another hint by which she strove to impress upon her mother that Eachel ought to be kept in sub- ordination, — in fact, that the power should not belong to Eachel of choosing whether she would or would not go to Dorcas meetings. In aU such matters, according to Dorothea's view of the case, Eachel should do as she was bidden. But then how was Eachel to be made to do as she was bidden 1 Hotv was hei 14 RACHEL BAT. sister to enforce her attendance 1 Obedience in this world depends as frequently on the weakness of him who is governed as on the strength of him who governs. That man who was going to the left is ordered by you with some voice of command to go to the right. When he hesitates you put more command into your voice, more command into your eyes, — and he obeys. Mrs. Prime had tried this, but Eachel had not turned to the right. When Mrs. Prime applied for aid to their mother, it was a sign that the power of command was going from herself. Mter dinner the elder sister made another little futile attempt, and then, when she had again failed, she trudged off with her basket. Mrs. Eay and Eachel were left sitting at the open window, looking out upon the mignionette. It was now in July, when the summer sun is at the hottest, — and in. those southern parts ' of Devonshire the summer sun in July is very hot. There is no other part of England like it. The lanes are low and narrow, and not a breath of air stirs through them. The groimd rises in hills on all sides, so that every spot is a sheltered nook. The rich red earth drinks in the heat and holds it, and no breezes come up from the southern torpid sea. Of all counties in England, Devonshire is the fairest to the eye ; but, having known it in i&suBrnief^ory, I must confess that those southern regions are not fitted for much noonday summer walking. " I'm afraid she'U find it very hot with that big basket," said Mrs. Eay, after a short pause. It must not be supposed that either she or Eachel were idle because they remained at home. They both had their needles in their hands, and Eachel was at work, not on that coloured frock of her own which had roused her sister's suspicion, but on needful aid to her mother's Sunday gown. "She might have left it in Baslehurst if she liked," said Eachel, " or I would have carried it for her as far as the bridge, only that she was so angry with me when she went." " I don't think she was exactly angry, Eachel." " Oh, but she was, mamma ; — ^very angry. I know by her way of flinging out of the house." " I think she was sorry because you would not go with her." "But I don't like going there, mamma. I don't like that Miss Pucker. I can't go without staying to tea, and I don't like drinking tea there." liien there was a little pause. " Tott THE YOUNG MAK FEOM THE BEEWEET. 16 don't want me to go j — do you, mamma 1 How would the thinga get done here ? and you can't like having your tea alone." "I^o; I don't Hke that at all," said Mrs. Eay. But she hardly thought of what she was saying. Her mind was away, working on the subject of that young man. 8he felt that it was her duty to say something to Eachel, and yet she did not know what to say. Was she to quote Miss Pucker ? It went, moreover, sorely against the grain with her to disturb the comfort of their present happy moments by any disagreeable allusion. The world gave her nothing better than those hours in which Eachel was alone with her, — in which Eachel tended her and comforted her. No word has been said on a subject so wicked and fuU of vanity, but Mrs. Eay knew that her evening meal would be brought in at haW-past five in the shape of a little feast, — a feast which would not be spread if Mrs. Prime had remained at home. At five o'clock Eachel would slip away and make hot toast, and would run over the Green to Farmer Sturt's wife for a little thick cream, and there would be a batter cake, and so there would be a feast. Eachel was excellent at the preparation of such banquets, knowing how to coax the teapot into a good drawing humour, and being very clever in little comforts ; and she would hover about her mother, in a way very delightful to that lady, making the widow feel for the time that there was a gleam of sunshine in the raUey of tribulation. AU that must be over for this afternoon if she spoke of Miss Pucker and the young man. Yes ; and must it not be over for many an afternoon to come 1 If there were to be distrust be- tween her and Eachel, what would her Uf e be worth to her ? But yet there was her duty ! As she sat there looking out into the garden, indistinct ideas of what were a mother's duties to her cluld lay heavy on her mind, — ideas which were very ia- distinct, but which were not on that account the less powerful in their operation. She knew that it behoved her to sacrifice everything to her child's welfare, but she did not know what special sacrifice she was at this moment called upon to make. Would it be well that she should leave this matter altogether in the hands of Mrs. Prime, and thus, as it were, abdicate her own authority ? Mrs. Prime would undertake such a task with much more skill and power of language than she could use. But then would this be fair to Eachel, and would Eachel obey her sister J Any explicit direction from herself, — if only she could bring 16 EACHEL EAT. herself to give any, — Eachel wotild, she thciught, ohey. In thii way she resolved that she would break the ice and do her duty. "Are you going into Baslehurst this evening, dear?" she said. "Yes, mamma; I shall walk in after tea; — ^that is if you don't want me. I told the Miss Tappitte I would meet them.'-' " No ; I shan't want you. But Eachel — " "WeU, mamma?" Mrs. I^y did not know how to do it. The matter was sur- rounded with difficulties. How was she to begin, so as to intro- duce the subject of the young man without shocking her child and showing an amount of distrust which she did not feel? " Do you like those Miss Tappitts ?" she said. "Yes; — in a sort of a way. They are very good-natured, and one likes to know somebody. I think they are nicer than Miss Pucker." "Oh, yes; — I never did like Miss Pucker mysel£ But, Eachel—" " What is it, mamma ? I know you've something to say, and that you don't half like to say it. DoUy has been telling tales about me, and you want to lecture me, only you haven't got the heart. Isn't that it, mamma?" Then she put down her work, and coming close up to her mother, knelt before her and looked up into her face. " You want to scold me, and you haven't got the heart to do it." "My darling, my darling," said the mother, stroking her child's soft smooth hair. "I don't want to scold you; — ^I never want to scold you. I hate scolding anybody." " I know you do, mamma." "But they have told me something which has frightened me." "They! who are they?" " Your sister told me, and Miss Pucker told her." " Oh, Miss Pucker ! What business has Miss Pucker with me ? If she is to come between us all our happiness will be over." Then Eachel rose from her knees and began to look angry, whereupon her mother was more frightened than ever. " But let me hear it, mamma. I've no doubt it is something very awful." Mrs. Eay looked at her daughter with beseeching eyes, aa THE TOTJNG MAN FEOM THE BREWERY. 17 thougli praying to be forgiven for having introduced a subject so disagreeable. " Dorothea says that on "Wednesday evening you were walMng under the churchyard elms with — ^that young man from the brewery." At any rate everything had been said now. The extent of the depravity with which Eachel was to be charged had been made known to her ia the very plainest terms. Mrs. Eay as she uttered the terrible words turned first pale and then red, — pale with fear and red with shame. As soon as she had spoken them she wished the words unsaid. Her dislike to Miss Pucker amounted almost to hatred. She felt bitterly even towards her own eldest daughter.. She looked timidly into Eachel's face, and unconsciously construed iato their true meaning those lines which formed themselves on the girl's brow and over her eyes. " Well, mamma ; and what else 1" said Eachel. " Dorothea thinks that pediaps you are going into Baslehursfc to meet bim again." "And suppose I am?" From the tone in which this question was asked it was clear to Mrs. Eay that she was expected to answer it. And yet what answer could she make J It had never occurred to her that her child would take upon herself to defend such conduct as that imputed to her, or that any question would be raised as to the propriety or impropriety of the proceeding. She was by no means prepared to show why it was so very terrible and iniquitous. She regarded it as A sin, — ^known to be a sin generally, — as is stealing or lying. " Suppos? I am going to walk with him again, what then?" " Oh, Eachel, who is he ? I don't even know his name. I didn't believe it, when Dorothea told me ; only as she did teU me I thought I ought to mention it. Oh dear, oh dear ! I hope there is nothing wrong. You were always so good; — ^I can't believe anything wrong of you." " ISTo, mamma ; — don't. Don't think evil of me." " I never did, my darling." " I am not going into Baslehurst to walk with Mr. Eowan ; — for I suppose it is him you mean." ^ "I don't know, my dear; I never heard the young man a name." 18 RACHEL EAT. "It is Mr. Eowan. I did walk with liim along the church- yard path when that woman with her sharp squinting eyes saw me. He does helong to the hrowery. He is related in some way to the Tappitts, and was a nephew of old Mrs. BungaU's. He is there as a clerk, and they say he is to he a partner, — only I don't think he ever will, for he quarrels with Mr. Tappitt." "Dear, dear !" said Mrs. Eay. " And now, mamma, you know as much ahout him as I do ; only this, that he went to Exeter this morning, and does not come hack till Monday, so that it is impossible that I should meet him in Easlehurst this evening ; — and it was very unkind of DoUy to say so ; very unkind indeed." Then Eachel gave way and hegan to cry. It certainly did seem to Mrs. Eay that Eachel knew a good deal ahout Mr. Eowan. She knew of his kith and kin, she knew of his prospects and what was Hke to mar his prospects, and she knew also of his immediate proceedings, whereahouts, and intentions. Mrs. Eay did not logically draw any conclusion fix)m these premises, hut she became uncomfortably assured that there did exist a considerable intimacy between Mr. Eowan and her daughter. And how had it come to pass that this had been allowed to form itself without any knowledge on her part? Miss Pucker might be odious and disagreeable; — Mrs. Eay was inclined to think that the lady in question was very odious and disagreeable; — ^but must it not be admitted that her little story about the young man had proved itself to be true? " I never will go to those nasty rag meetings any more." " Oh Eachel, don't speak in that way." " But I won't. I will never put my foot in that woman's room again. They talk nothing but scandal all the time they are there, and speak any ill they can of the poor young girls whom they talk about. If you don't mind my knowing Mr. Eowan, what is it to them?" But this was assuming a great deaL Mrs. Eay was by no means prepared to say that she did not object to her daughter's acquaintance with Mr. Eowan. " But I don't know anything about him, my dear. I never heard his name before." " No, mamma ; you never did. And I know very Kttle of him ; so little that there has been nothing to teU, — at least next THE YOUNG M.UT FROM THE BREWERY. 19 to nothing. I don't want to have any secrets from yon, mamma." ' 'But, Eachel, — he isn't, is he — ? I mean there isn't any- thing particular between him and you ? How was it that you were walking with him alone?" " I wasn't wa l king with him alone ; at least only for a little way. He had been out with his cousins and we had all been together, and when they went in, of course I was obliged to come home. I couldn't help his coming along the churchyard path with me. And what if he did, mamma? He couldn't bite me." " But my dear — " "Oh mamma; — don't be afraid of me." Then she came across, and again knelt at her mother's feet. "If you'll trust me I'U tell you everything." Upon hearing this assurance, Mrs. Eay of course promised Eachel that she would trust her, and expected in return to be told everything then, at the moment But she perceived that her daughter did not mean to tell her anything further at that time. Eachel, when she had received her mother's promise, embraced her warmly, caressing her and petting her as was her custom, and then after a while she resumed her work. Mrs. Eay was delighted to have the evil thing over, but she coiild not but feel that the conversation had not terminated as it should have done. Soon after that the hour arrived for their little feast, and Eachel went about her work just as merrily and kindly as though there had been no words about the young man. She went across for the cream, and stayed gossiping for some few minutes with Mrs. Sturt. Then she bustled about the kitchen making the tea and toasting the bread. She had never been more anxious to make everything comfortable for her mother, and never more eager in her coaxing way of doing honour to the good things which she had prepared ; but, through it all, her mother was aware that everything was not right ; there was something in Eachel's voice which betrayed inward uneasiness ; — something in the vivacity of her movements that was not quite true to her usual nature. Mrs. Eay felt that it was so, and could not therefore be altogether at her ease. She pretended to enjoy herself ; — but Eachel knew that her joy was not real. Nothing further, however, was said, either regarding that 20 EACHEL EAT. evening's walk into Baslehuist, or toucliing that other walk as to wHch Miss Pucker's tale had been told. Mrs. Bay had done as much as her courage enabled her to attempt on that occasion. "When the tea-drinking was over, and the cups and spoons had been tidUy put away, Eachel prepared herself for her walk. She had been very careful that nothing should be hurried, — that there should be no apparent anxiety on her part to leave her mother quickly. And even when all was done, she would not go without some assurance of her mother's goodwill. " If you have any wish that I should stay, mamma, I don't care in the least about going." " K"o, my dear ; I don't want you to stay at all." "Your dress is finished." " Thank you, my dear ; you have been very good." " I haven't been good at all ; but I wUl be good if youll trust me." " I will trust you." " At any rate you need not be afraid to-night, for I am only going to take a walk with those three girls across the church meadows. They're always very civil, and I don't hke to turn my back upon them." " I don't wish you to turn your back upon them." " It's stupid not to know anybody ; isn't if!" " I dare say it is," said Mrs. Eay. Then Eachel had finished tying on her hat, and she walked forth. For more than two hours after that the widow sat alone, thinking of her children. As regarded Mrs. Prime, there was at any rate no cause for trembling, timid thoughts. She might be regarded as being safe from the world's wicked allurements. She was founded Uke a strong rock, and was, with her stedfast earnestness, a staff on which her weaker mother might lean with security. But then she was so stern, — and her very strength was so oppressive ! Eachel was weaker, more worldly, given terribly to vain desires and thoughts that were almost wicked ; but then it was so pleasant to live with her ! And Eachel, though weak and worldly and almost wicked, was so very good and kind and sweet ! As Mrs. Eay thought of this she began to doubt whether, after aU, the world was so very bad a place, and whgthgr.JJiS-.wif'kpilTiPss^ofJbea and toast, and of othei creature comforts, could be so very ^eat; " "-- _ THE YOUNG MAN FROM THE BEEWEET. 21 "I ■wonder what sort of a young man he is," she said to herself. Mrs. Prime's return was always timed with the regularity of clockwork. At this period of the year she invariably came in exactly at half-past nine. Mrs. Eay was very anxious that Eachel should come in first, so that nothing should he said of her walk on this evening. She had been unwUling to imply distrust by making any special request on this occasion, and had therefore said nothing on the subject as Eachel went ; but she had carefully watched the clock, and had become uneasy as the time came rcund for Mrs. Prune's appearance. Exactly at half- past nine she entered the house, bringing with her the heavy basket laden with work, and bringing with her also a face full of the deepest displeasure. She said nothing as she seated herself wearUy on a chair against the wall; but her manner was such as to make it impossible that her mother should not notice it. "Is there anything wrong, Dorothea?" she said. "Eachel has not come home yet, of course?" said Mrs. Prime. "No; not yet. She is with the Miss Tappitts." " No, mother, she is not with the Miss Tappitts :" and her voice, as she said these words, was dreadful to the mother's ears. "Isn't she? I thought she was. Do you knew "rhere she is?" "Who is to say where she is ? HaK an hour since I saw her alone with " " "With whom ? Not with that young man from the brewery, for he is at Exeter?" " Mother, he is here, — ^in Baslehurst ! Half an hour since he and Eachel were standing alone together beneath the elms in the chiu'chyard. I saw them with my own ejes." 22 RACHEL BA.T. CHAPTEE nL THE ARM IN THE OLOtTD* rHERB was plenty of time for full inquiiy and full reply between Mis. Eay and Mrs. Prime before Eachel opened the cottage door, and interrupted them. It was then nearly half-past ten. Eachel had never been so late before. The last streak of the sun's reflection in the east had vanished, the last ruddy Hae of evening light had gone, and the darkness of the coming night was upon them. The hour was late for any girl such as Eachel Eay to be out alone. There had been a long discussion between the mother and the elder daughter j and Mrs. Eay, believing implicitly in the last announcements made to her, was full of fears for her child. The utmost rigour of self-denying propriety should have been exercised by Eachel, whereas her conduct had been too dreadful almost to be described. Two or three hours since Mrs. Eay had fondly promised that she would trust her younger daughter, and had let her go forth alone, proud in seeing her so comely as she went. An idea had almost entered her mind that if the young man was very steady, such an acquaintance might perhaps be not altogether wicked. But everything was changed now. All the happiness of her trust was gone. All her sweet hopes were crushed. Her heart was filled with fear, and her face was pale with sorrow. " Why should she know where he was to be?" Dorothea had asked. "But he is not at Exeter; — he is here, and she was with him." Then the two had sat gloomily together till Eachel returned. As she came ia there was a little forced laugh upon her face. "I am late; am I not?" she said. "Oh, Eachel, very late!" said her mother. "It is half-past ten," said Mrs. Prime, "Oh, DoUy, don't speak with that terrible voice, as though the world were coming to an end," said Eachel ; and she looked up almost savagely, showing that she was resolved to 6ght. But it may be as wtll to sav a few words about the firm of THE AEM m THE CLOUDS. 23' Messrs. Bungall and Tappitt, about the Tappitt famay generally, and dbout Mr. Luke Eowan, before any further portion of the history of that evening is "written. Why there should have been any brewery at all at Baslehurst, seeing that everybody in that part of the world drinks cider, or how, under such circumstances, Messrs. Bungall and Tappitt had managed to live upon the proceeds of their trade, I cannot pretend to say. Baslehurst is in the heart of the Devonshire cider country. It is surrounded by orchards, and farmers talk there of their apples as they do of their cheese in Cheshire, or their wheat in Essex, or their sheep in Lincolnshire. Men drink cider by the gallon, — ^by the gallon daily ; cider presses are to be found at every squire's house, at every parsonage, and every farm homestead. The trade of a brewer at Baslehurst would seem to be as profitless as that of a breeches-maker in the Highlands, or a shoemaker in Connaught; — ^but nevertheless Bungall and Tappitt had been brewers in Baslehurst for the last fifty years, and had managed to live out of their brewery. It is not to be supposed that they were great men like the mighty men of beer known of old, — such as Barclay and Perkins, or Eeid and Co. ISTor were they new, and pink, and prosperous, going into Parliament for this borough and that, just as they pleased, like the modem heroes of the bitter cask. When the student at Oxford was asked what man had most benefited humanity, and when he answered "Bass," I think that he should not have been plucked. It was a fair average answer. But no student at any university could have said as much for Bungall and Tappitt without deserving utter disgrace, and whatever penance an outraged examiner could inflict. It was a aour and muddy stream that flowed from their vats ; a beverage disagreeable to the palate, and very cold and imcom- fortable to the stomach. Who drank it I oovld never learn. It was to be found at no respectable inn. It was admitted at no private gentleman's table. The farmers knew nothing of it. The labourers drenched themselves habitually with cider. Nevertheless the brewery of Messrs. Bungall and Tappitt was kept going, and the large ugly square brick house in which the Tappitt family. Hved was warm and comfortable. There ia something in the very name of beer that makes money. Old Bungall, he who first established the house, was still remembered by the seniors of Baslehurst, but he had b««n dead 24 RACHEL EAT. more than twenty years before the period of my story. _ He had been a short, fat old man, not much above five feet high, very silent, very hard, and very ignorant. But he had understood business, and had established the firm on a solid foundation. Late in life he had taken into partnership his nephew Tappitt, and during his life had been a severe taskmaster to his partner. Indeed the firm had only assumed its present name on the demise of Bungall. As long as he had lived it had been Bun- gaU's brewery. When the days of mourning were over, then — and not till then — Mr. Tappitt had put up a board with the joint names of the firm as at present called. It was believed in Baslehurst that Mr. BungaU had not bequeathed his undivided interest in the concern to his nephew. Indeed people went so far as to say that he had left away from Mr. Tappitt all that he could leave. The truth in that respect may as weU be told at once. His widow had possessed a third of the profits of the concern, in lieu of her right to a full half share in the concern, which would have carried with it the onus of a full haK share of the work. That third and those rights she had left to her nephew, — or rather to her great-nephew, Luke Eowan. It was not, however, in this young man's power to walk into the brewery and claim a seat there as a partner. It was not in his power to do so, even if such should be his wish. When old Mrs. BimgaU died at Dawlish at the very advanced age of ninety-seven, there came to be, as was natural, some little dispute between Mr. Tappitt and his distant con- nection, Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt suggested that Luke should take a thousand pounds down, and walk forth free from aU contamination of malt and hops. Luke's attorney asked foi ten thousand. Luke Eowan at the time was articled to a lawyer in London, and as the dinginess of the chambers which he frequented ia Lincoln's Tnn Fields appeared to him less attractive than the beautiful rivers of Devonshire, he offered to go into the brewery as a partner. It was at last settled that he should place himself there as a clerk for twelve months, drawing a certain moderate income out of the concern; and that if at the end of the year he should show himseK to be able, and feel himself to be willing, to act as a partner, the firm should be changed to Tappitt and Eowan, and he should be established permanently as a Baslehurst brewer. Some information, however, beyond this has alreajdy been given to the reader respecting llx. Kowfn'" THE ARM IN THE CLOUDS. 25 prospects. " I don't think lie ever will he a partntr," Eachel had said to her mother, "because he quarrels with Mr. Tappitt." She had heen very accurate in her statement. Mr. Eowan had now heen three months at Baslehurst, and had not altogether found the ways of his relative pleasant. Mr. Tappitt wished to treat him as a clerk, whereas he wished to be treated as a partner. And Mr. Tappitt had by no means found the ways of the young man. to be pleasant. Young Eowan was not idle, nor did he lack intelligence; indeed he possessed more energy and cleverness than, in Tappitt's opinion, were necessary to the position of a brewer in Baslehurt't ; but he was by no means willing to use these good gifts in the manner indicated by the sole existing owner of the concern. Mr. Tappitt wished that Eowan should learn brewing seated on a stool, and that the lessons should be purely arithmetical. Luke was instructed as to the use of certain dull, dingy, disagreeable ledgers, and in- formed that in them lay the natural work of a brewer. But he desired to learn the chemical action of malt and hops upon each other, and had not been a fortnight in the concern before he suggested to Mr. Tappitt that by a salutary process, which he described, the liquor might be made less muddy. "Let us brew good beer," he had said ; and then Tappitt had known that it would not do. "Yes," said Tappitt, "and sell for twopence a pint what will cost you threepence to make!" "That's what we've got to look to," said Eowan. " I believe it can be done for the money, — only one must learn how to do it." " I've been at it all my life," Tappitt said. " Yes, Mr. Tappitt ; but it is only now that men are beginning to appreciate all that chemistry- can do for them. If you'U allow me I'U make an experiment on a small scale." After that Mr. Tappitt had declared em~ phatically to his wife that Luke Eowan should never become a partner of his. "He would ruin any business in the world," said Tappitt. " And as to conceit!" It is true that Eowan was conceited, and perhaps true also that he would have ruined the brewery had he been allowed to have his own way. But Mrs. Tappitt by no means held him in such aversion as did her husband. He was a weU-grown, good-looking young man for whom his friends had made comfortable provision, and Mrs. Tappitt had three marriageable daughters. Her ideason the subject of young men in general were by no means identical with those held by Mrs. Eay. She was aware how fceauenlAy 26 EACHEL RAT. it happened that a young partner would marry a daughter of the senior in the house, and it seemed to her that special provision for such an arrangement was made in this case. Young Eowan was living in her house, and was naturally thrown into great iatimacy with her girls. It was clear to her quick eye that ho was of a susceptible disposition, fond of ladies' society, and altogether prone to those pleasant pre-matrimonial conversations, from the effects of which it is so difficult for an inexperienced young man to make his escape. Mrs. Tappitt was minded to devote to him Augusta, the second of her flock, — ^but not so miaded with any ohstiuacy of resolution. If Luke should prefer Martha, the elder, or Cherry, the younger girl, Mrs. Tappitt would make no objections; but she expected that he should do his duty by taking one of them. " Laws, T., don't be so foolish," she said to her husband, when he made his com- plaint to her. She always called her husband T., unless when the solemnity of some special occasion justified her in addressing him as Mr. Tappitt. To have called him Tom or Thomas, would, in her estimation, have been very vulgar. " Don't be so foolish. Did you never have to do with a young man before ? Those tantrums will all blow off when he gets himself into harness." The tantrums spoken of were Eowan's insane desire to brew good beer, but they were of so fatal a nature that Tappitt was determined not to submit himself to them. Luke Rowan should never be partner of his, — ^not though he had twenty daughters waiting to be married ! Eachel had been acquainted with the Tappitts before young Rowan had come to Baslehurst, and had been made known to him by them all collectively. Had they shared their mother's prudence they w^^d probably notjh^e done anything eo rash. Rachel was better-looking than(e^CT)of them, — ^though that fact perhaps might not have been^known to them. But in justice to them all I must say that they lacked their mother's prudence. They were good-humoured, laughing, ordinary girls, — ^very much alike, with long brown curls, fresh complexions, large mouths, and thick noses. Augusta was rather the taller of the three, and therefore, in her mother's eyes, the beauty. But the girls themselves, when their distant cousin had come amongst them, had not thought of appropriating him. When, after the first day, they became intimate with him, they promised to introducejhim to the beauties of the neighbourhood, and Cheny THE AEM IN THE CLOUDS. 27 had declared her conviction that he would fall m love with Eaehel Bay directly he saw her. " She is tall, you know," said Cherry, " a great deal taller than us." "Then I'm sure I shan't like her," Luke had said. " Oh, hut you must like her, because Bhe is a friend of ours," Cherry had answered ; "and I shouldn't be a hit surprised if you fell violently ia love with her." Mrs. Tappitt did not hear aR this, hut, nevertheless, she began to entertain a dislike to Eaehel. It must not be supposed that she admitted her daughter Augusta to any participation iu her plans. Mrs. Tappitt could scheme for her child, hut she could not teach her child to scheme. As regarded the girl, it must all fall out after the natural, pleasant, everyday fashion of such things ; but Mrs. Tappitt considered that her own natural advantages were so great that she could make the tiling fall out as she wished. When she was informed about a fortnight after Eowan's arrival in. Baslehurst that Eaehel Eay had been walking with the party from the brewery, she could not prevent herself from saying an iU-natiired word or two. "Eaehel Eay is aU very well," she said, "but she is not the person whom you shoidd show off as your particular friend." "Why not, mamma?" said Cherry. " Why not, my dear ! There are reasons why not. Mrs. Eay is very well in her way, but " " Her husband was a gentleman," said Martha, " and a great friend of Mr. Comfort's." "My dear, I have nothing to say agaiust her," said the mother, " only this ; that she does not go among the people we know. There is Mrs. Prime, the other daughter; her great friend is Miss Pucker. I don't suppose you want to be very tatimate with Miss Pucker." The brewer's wife had a position in Baslehurst and wished that her daughters should maiutain it. It will now be understood in what way Eaehel had formed her acquaintance with Luke Eowan, and I think it may certainly be admitted that sho had been guUty of no great impropriety;— unless, indeed, she had been wrong in saying nothing of the acquaintance to her mother. Previous to those ill-natured tidings brought home as to the first churchyard meeting, Eaehel had seen him but twice. On the first occasion she had thought but little of it,— but little of Luke himself or of Jjpr ac- q,uaintanr,e with him. In simple truth the matter had passed 28 BACHEL EAT. from her mind, and therefore she had not spoken of it. When they met the second time, Luke had walked much of the way home with her,— with her alone,— having joined himself to her when the Tappitt girls went into their house as Eachel had afterwards described to her mother. In all that she had said she had spoken absolutely the truth ; but it cannot be pleaded on her behalf that after this second meeting with lb. Eowan she had said nothing of him because she had thought nothing. She had indeed thought much, but it had seemed weU to her to keep her thoughts to herself. The Tappitt girls had by no means given up their friend because their mother had objected to Miss Pucker • and when. Eachel met them on that Saturday evening, — ^that fatal Saturday, — they were very gracious to her. The brewery at Baslehuist stood on the outskirts of the town, in a narrow lane which led from the church into the High-street. This lane, — Brewery- lane, as it was called, — was not the main approach to the church; but from the lane there was a stile into the churchyard, and a gate, opened on Sundays, by which people on that side reached the church. From the opposite side of the churchyard a road led away to the foot of the High-Street, and out towards the bridge which divided the town from the parish of Cawston. Along one side of this road there was a double row of elms, having a footpath beneath them. This old avenue began within the churchyard, running across the lower end of it, and was continued for some two hundred yards beyond its precincts. This, then, would be the way which I^chel would naturally take in going home, after leaving the Miss Tappitts at their door ; but it was by no means the way which was the nearest for Mrs. Prime after leaving Miss Pucker's lodgings in the High- street, seeing that the High-street itself ran direct to Cawston bridge. And it must also be explained that there was a third path out of the churchyard, not leading into any road, but going right away across the fields. The church stood rather high, so that the land sloped away from it towards the west, and the view there was very pretty. The path led down through a small field, vsdth high hedgerows, and by orchards, to two little hamlets belonging to Baslehurst, and this was a fevourite walk with A^e people of the town. It was here that Eachel had walked: with the Miss Tappitts oa thai evraiing when Luke THE ARM IN THE CLOUDS. 29 Eowan had first accompanied her as far as Cawston hridge, and it was here that they agreed to walk again on the Saturday when Eowan was supposed to he away at Exeter. Eachel was to come along under the elms, and was to mset her friends there, or in the churchyard, or, if not so, then she was to call for them at the hrewery. She found the three girls leaning against the rails near the churchyard stUe. "We have been waiting ever so long," said Cherry, who was more specially Eachel's friend. " Oh, hut I said you were not to wait," said Eachel, " for I never am quite sure whether I can come." " "We knew you'd come," said Atigusta, " hecause " " Because what ?" asked Eachel. " Because nothing," said Cherry. " She's only joking." Eachel said nothing more, not having understood the point of ■the joke. The joke was this, — that Lulve Eowan had come hack from Exeter, and that Eachel was supposed to have heard of his return, and therefore that her coming for the wallc was certain. But Augusta had not intended to be ill-natured, and had not realiy believed what she had been about to insinuate. "The^ fact is," said Martha, " that Mr. Eowan has come home ; but I don't suppose we shall see anything of him this evening as he is busy with papa." Eachel for a few minutes became sUent and thoughtful Her mind had not yet freed itself from the effects of her conversation with her mother, and she had been thinking of this young man dming the whole of her sohtary walk into town. But she had teen thinking of him as we think of matters which need not put us to any immediate trouble. He was away at Exeter, and she would have time to decide whether or no she would admit his proffered intimacy before she should see him again. " I do so hope we shall be friends," he had said to her as he gaVe her his hand when they parted on Cawston bridge. And then he "had muttered something, which she had not quite caught, as to Baslehurst being altogether another place to him since he had seen her. She had hurried home on that occasion with a feeling, half pleasant and half painful, that something out of the usual course had occurred to her. Btrt, after all, it amounted to nothing. -What was there that she could tell her mother ? She had no special tale to tell, and yet she could not speak of young Eowan as" she would have spoken of a chance acquaiutance. 30 KACHEL EAT. Was she not conscious that he had pressed her hand warmly as lie parted from her ? Eachel herself entertained much of that indefinite _ fear of young men which so strongly pervaded her mother's mind, and which, as regarded her sister, had altogether ceased to he in- definite. Eachel knew that they were the natural enemies of her special class, and that any kiud of friendship might be allowed to her, except a friendship with any of them. And as she was a good girl, loviag her mother, anxious to do well, guided hy pure thoughts, she felt aware that Mr. Eowan should be shunned. Had it not been that he himself had told her that he was to be in Exeter, she would not have come out to walk with the brewery girls on that evening.' What she might here- after decide upon doiug, how these aifairs might be made to arrange themselves, she by no means could foresee ; — ^but on that evening she had thought she would be safe, and therefore she had come out to walk. "What do you think 1" said Cherry; "we are going to have a party next week." " It won't be till the week after," said Augusta. , " At any rate, we are going to have a party, and you must come. You'U get a regular invite, you know, when they're sent out. Mr. Eowan's mother and sister are coming down on a visit to us for a few days, and so we're going to be quite smart." " I don't know about going to a party. I suppose it is for a dance?" " Of course it is for a dance," said Martha. " And of course you'll come and dance with Luke Eowan," said Cherry. Nothing could be more imprudent than Cherry Tappitt, and Augusta was beginning to be aware of this, though she had not been allowed to participate in her mother's schemes. After that, there was much talking about the party, but the conversation was chiefly kept up by the Tappitt girls. Eachel was almost sure that her mother would not Hke her to go to a dance, and was quite sure that her sister would oppose such uiiquity with all her power; therefore she made no promise. But she Ustened as the list was repeated of those who were expected to come, and asked some few questions as to Mrs, Eowan and her daughter. Then, at a sudden turn of a. lane, a THE AEM IN THE CLOUDS. 31 lane that led back to the town by another route, they met Luke Eowan himself. He was a cousin oi the Tappitts, and therefore, though the relationship was not near, he had already assumed the privilege of calling them by their Christian names ; and Martha who was nearly thirty years old, and four years liis senior, had taught herself to call him Lulie ; with the other two he was as yet Mr. Eowan. The greeting was of course very friendly, and he returned with them on theic path. To Eachel he raised his hat and then offered his hand. She had felt herself to be confused the moment she saw him, — so confused that she was not able to ask him how he was ynth ordinary composure. She was very angry with herself, and heartily wished that she was seated with the Dorcas women at Miss Pucker's. Any position would have been better for her than this, in which she was disgracing herself and showing that she could not bear herself before this young man as though he were no more than an ordinary acquaintance. Her mind would revert to that hand-squeezing, to those muttered words, and to her mother's caution. When he remarked to her that he had come back earlier than he expected, she could not take his words as though they signified nothing. His sudden return was a momentous fact to her, putting her out of her usual quiet mode of thought. She said little or nothing, and he, at any rate, did not observe that she was confused; but she was herself so conscious of it, that it seemed to her that all of them must have seen it. Thus they sauntered along, back to the outskirts of the town, and so into the brewery lane, by a route opposite to that of the churchyard. The whole way they talked of nothing but the party. "Was Miss Eowan fond of dancing? Then by degrees the girls called her Mary, declaring that as she was a cousin they intended so to do. And Luke said that he ought to be called by his Christian name ; and the two younger girls agreed that he was entitled to the privilege, only they would ask mamma first ; and in this way they were becoming very inti- mate. Eachel said but little, and perhaps not much that was said was addressed specially to her, but she seemed to feel that she was included in the friendliness of the gathering. _ Every now and then Luke Eowan would address her, and his voice was pleasant to her ears. He had made an effort to walk next to her. — ^an attempt almost too slight to be called an effort, 82 EACHEL KAT. wHcli Bhe had, almost tmconsciously, frustrated, by so placing herself that Augusta should be between them. Augusta was not quite in a good humour, and said one or two words which were sHghtly snubbing in their tendency; but this was more than atoned for by Cherry's high good-humour. When they reached the brewery they all declared themselves to be very much astonished on learning that it was already past nine. Eachel's surprise, at any rate, was real. " I must go home at once," she said ; " I don't know what mamma wiU think of me." And then, wishing them aU good-bye, without further delay she hurried on into the churchyard. "I'll see you safe through the ghosts at any rate," said Ruwan. "I'm not a bit afraid of churchyard ghosts," said Eachel, mo-ving on. But Eowan followed her. " I've got to go into town to meet your father," said he to the other girls, " and I'll be back with him." Augusta saw with some annoyance that he had overtaken Eachel before she had passed over the stile, and stood hngering at the door long enough to be aware that Luke was over first. "That girl is a flirt, after all," she said to her sister Martha. Luke was over the stile first, and then turned round to assist iliss Eay. She could not refuse him her hand in such a position ; or if she could have done so she lacked the presence of mind that was necessary for such refusal. " You must let me walk home with you," he said. " Indeed I will do no such thing. You told Augusta that you were going to her papa in the town." " So I am, but I wiU see you first as far as the bridge] you can't refuse me that." " Indeed I can, and indeed I wiU. I beg you won't come. I am sure you would not wish to annoy me." " Look," said he, pointing to the west ; " did you ever see Buch a setting sun as that ? Did you ever see such blood red colour?" The light was very wonderful, for the sun had just gone down and aU the western heavens were crimson with its departing glory. In the few moments that they stood there gazing it might almost have been believed that some portentous miracle had happened, so deep and dark, and yet so bright, were the hues of the horizon. It seemed as though the lands below the lull wore bathed in blood. The elm trees interrupted theii THE ASM IN THE CLOUDS. 33 vie-w, SO that they could only look out through the spaces bet-ween their trunks. "Come to the stile," said he. "If you were to live a thousand years you might never again, see such a sunset as that. You -would never forgive yourself if you missed it, just that you jnight save three minutes." Eachel stepped -with him towards the stile ; but it -was not solely his entreaty that made her do so. As he spoke of the sun's glory her sharp ear caught the sound of a -woman's foot close to the stile over -which she had passed, and kno-wing that she could not escape at once from Luke Eo-wan, she had left the maiu path through the churchyard, in order that the new comer might not see her there talking ^,o him. So she accompanied him on tOl they stood between the \rees, and then they remained encompassed as it were in the full light of the sun's rays. But if her ears had been sharp, so were the eyes of this new comer. And while she stood there -with Eowan beneath the elms, ho sister stood a while also on the churchyard path and recognized the figures of them both. " Eachel," said he, after they had remained there in silence for B, moment, "live as long as you may, never on God's earth will you look on any sight more lovely than that. Ah ! do you see the man's arm, as it were ; the deep purple cloud, like a huge hand stretched out from some other world to take you 1 Do you see it?" The sound of his voice was very pleasant. His words to her J oung ears seemed full of poetry and sweet mysterious romance. He spoke to her as no one, — no man or woman, — had ever spoken to her before. She had a feeling, as painful as it was delicious, that the man's words were sweet with a sweetness which she had kno-wn in her dreams. He had asked her a ques- tion, and repeated it, so that she was all but driven to answer him ; but stiU. she was full of the one great fact that he had called her Eachel, and that he must be rebuked for so calhng her. But how could she rebuke a man who had bid her look at God's beautiful works in such language as he had used 1 " Yes, I see it ; it is very grand ; but — " " There were the fingers, but you see how they are melting away. The arm is there still, but the hand is gone. You and I can "trace it because we saw it when it was clear, but we could not aow show it to another. I wonder xvhether any one else saw KACnEL RAY. that Land and arm, or only you and L I should like to think that it was shown to us, and us only." It was impossible for her now to go hack upon that word Edohel. She must pass it by as though she had not heard it. "AU the world might have seen it had they looked," said she. "Perhaps not. Do you think that all eyes can see alike r' " "Well, yes ; I suppose so." " AH eyes wUl see a loaf of bread alike, or a churchyard stile, but aU eyes wUl not see the clouds alike. Do you not often find worlds among the clouds ? I do." " Worlds f she said, amazed at his energy; and then she bethought herself that he was right. She would never have seen that hand and arm had he not been there to show it her. So she gazed down upon the changing colours of the horizon, and almost forgot that she should not have liagered there a moment. And yet there was a strong feeling upon her that she was sinkiag, — siriking, — sinking away into iniquity. She ought not to have stood there an instant, she ought not to have been there with him at all ; — and yet she lingered. ISTow that she was there she hardly knew how to move herseK away. " Yes ; worlds among the clouds," he continued ; but before he did so there had been silence between them for a minute or two. " Do you never feel that you look into other worlds beyond this one in which you eat, and drink, and sleep 1 Have you no other worlds in your dreams?" Yes; such dreams she had known, and now she almost thought that she could remember to have seen strange forms in the clouds. She knew that hence- forth she would watch the clouds and find them there. She looked down into the fiood of light beneath her, with a fidl consciousness that he was close to her, touching her ; with a fuU consciousness that every moment that she lingered there was a new sin ; with a full consciousness, too, that the beauty of those fading colours seen thus in his presence possessed a charm, a sense of soft delight, which she had never known before. At last she uttered a long sigh. "Why, what ails you?" said he. " Oh, I must go ; I have been so wrong to stand here. Gooi^ • byo; pray, pray do not eomo with me." THE AHM IN THE CLOUDS. 39 " But yoTi will shake hands with me." Then he got her hand, and held it. " Why should it he wrong for you to stand and look at the sunset? Am I an ogre? Have I done anything that should make you afraid of me?" " Do not hold me. Mr. Eowan I did not think you would behave like that." The gloom of the evening was now coming on, and though but a few minutes had passed since Mrs. Prime had walked through the churchyard, she would not have been able to recognize them had she waUced there now. " It is getting dark, and I must go instantly." " Lrit me go with you, then, as far as the bridge " " 1^0, no, no. Pray do not vex me." " I win not. You shall go alone. But stand while I say one word to you. Why should you be afraid of me?" "I am not afraid of you, — at least, — ^you know what I moan." " I wonder, — I wonder whether — you dislike me." " I don't dislike anybody. Good-night." He had however again got her hand. " I'U tell you why 1 ask ; — because I like you so much, so very much ! Why should ■we not be friends ? Well ; there. I -svill not trouble you now. I will not stir from here till you are out of sight. But mind, — remember this ; I intend that you shall hke me." She was gone from him, fleeing away along the path in a run while the last words were being spoken ; and yet, though they T.'ere spoken in. a low voice, she heard and remembered every syllable. What did the man mean by saying that he intended that she should like him ? Like him ! How could she fail of liking him 1 Only was it not incumbent on her to take some steps which might save her from ever seeing him again ? Like him, indeed ! What was the meaning of the word ? Had he intended to ask her to love him ? And if so, what answer must she make ? How beautiful had been those clouds ! As soon as she was beyond the chuich waU, so that she could look again to the west, she gazed with all her eyes to see if there were stUl a remnant left of that arm. I^o ; it had all melted into a monstrous shape, indistinct and gloomy, partaking of the darkness of night. The brightness of the vision was gone. But he made her look into the clouds for new worlds, and she seemed to feel that there was % hidden meaning in his words. As she looked out into tts 36 EACHEL EAT. coining darkness, a mystery crept over her, a sense of something wonderful that -was out there, aWay, — of something so full of mystery that she could not teR whether she was thinking of tha hidden distances of the horizon, or of the distances of her own future life, which were stiU further off and more closely hidden. She found herself trembling, sighing, almost sohbing, and then she ran again. He had wrapped her in his influence, and filled her fuU of the magnetism of his own being. Her woman's weakness, — the peculiar susceptibility of her nature, had never before been touched. She had now heard the first word of romance that had ever reached her ears, and it had falleji upon her with so great a power that she was overwhelmed. TVords of romance ! Words direct from the Evil One, Mrs. Prime would have caUed them ! And in saying so she would have spoken the beKef of many a good woman and many a good man. She herself was a good woman,— a sincere, honest, hard- working, self-denying woman ; a woman who struggled hard to do her duty as she believed it had been taught to her. She, as she walked through the churchyard, — ^having come down the brewery lane with some inkling that her sister might be there, — had been struck with horror at seeing Eachel standing with that man. What should she do? She paused a moment to ask herself whether she should return for her; but she said to herself that her sister was obstinate, that a scene would be occasioned, that she would do no good, — and so she passed on. Words of romance indeed ! Must not all such words be words from the Father, of Lies, seeing that they are words of falseness ? Some such thoughts passed through her mind as she waUied home, thinking of her sister's iniquity, — of her sistg who must be saved, like a brand from the fire, but whose saving could now be effected only by the sternest of discipline. The hours at the Dorcas meetings must be made longer, and Eachel must always be there. In the meantime Eachel hurried home with her spirits all a-tremble. Of her immediately-coming encounter with her sister she hardly thought much before she reached the door. She thought only of him, how beautiful he was, how grand, — and how dangerous ; of him and of his words, how beautiful they were, how grand, and how terribly dangerous ! She Imew that it was very late and she hurried her steps. Ske knew WHAT SHALL BE DONE ABOtTT IT? 37 that her mother must be appeased, and lier sister must ba opposed, — but neither to her mother nor to her sister -was given the depth of her thoughts. She was still thinking of him, and of the man's arm in the clouds, when she opened the door of the cottage at Bragg's End. CHAPTEE lY. WHAT SHALL BE DOIfB ABOUT IT? KachbIi was still thiiikiag of Luke Eowan and of the man's arm when she opened the cottage door, but the sight of her sister's face, and the tone of her sister's voice, soon brought her back to a full consciousness of her immediate present position. " Oh, Dolly, do not speak with that terrible voice, as though the world were coming to an end," she said, in answer to the first note of objurgation that was uttered ; but the notes that came afteFwards were so much more terrible, so much more severe, that Eachel foimd herself quite unable to stop them by any would-be joking tone. Mrs. Prime was desirous that her mother should speak the words of censure that must be spoken. She would have pre- ferred herself to remain silent, knowing that she could be as severe in her sUence as in her speech, if only her mother would use the occasion as it should be used. Mrs. Eay had been made to feel how great was the necessity for outspoken severity ; but when the moment came, and her dear beautiful chUd stood there before her, she could not utter the words with which she had been already prompted. "Oh, Eachel," she said, "Dorothea teUs me " and then she stopi^ed. " What has Dorothea told you ?" asked Piachel. "I have told her," said Mrs. Prime, now spealdng out, "that I saw you standing alone an hour since with that young man, — ■ in the churchyard. And yet you had said that he was to have been away in Exeter !" Eachel's cheeks and forehead were now suifused with red. We used to think, when we pretended to read the faces of oui EACHEL EAT. neighLouis, that a rising blush betrayed a conscious falsehood. For the most part we know better now, and have learnt to decipher more accurately the outward signs which are given by the impulses of the heart. An unmerited accusation of untruth wiU ever bring the blood to the face of the young and innocent. But Mrs. Eay was among the ignorant in this matter, and she groaned inwardly when she saw her child's confusion. "Oh, Eachel, is it true?" she said. "Is what true, mamma? It is true that Mr. Eowan spoke to me in the churchyard, though I did not know that Dorothea was acting as a spy on me." "Eachel, Eachel!" said the mother. "It is very necessary that some one should act the spy on you," said the sister. "A spy, indeed ! You think to anger me by using such a word, but I will not be angered by any words. I went there to look after you, fearing that there was occasion, — fearing it, but hardly thinking it. ISTow we know that there was occasion." "There was no occasion," said Eachel, looking into her sister's face with eyes of which the incipient strength was becoming manifest. "There was no occasion. Oh, mamma, you do not think there was an occasion for watching me?" "Why did you say that that young man was at Exeter?" asked Mrs. Prime. "Because he had told me that he would be there; — he had told us all so, as we were walking together. He came to-day instead of coming to-morrow. What would you say if I ques- tioned you in that way about your friends?" Then, when the words had passed from her Ups, she remembered that she should not have called Mr. Eowan her friend. She had never called him so, in thinking of him, to herself. She had never admitted that she had any regard for him. She had acknowledged to herself that it would be very dangerous to entertain friendship for such as he. "Friend, Eachel !" said !Mrs. Prime. "If you look for such friendship as that, who can say what will come to you?" "I haven't looked for it. I haven't ' looked for anything. People do get to know each other without any looking, and they can't help it." Then Mrs. Prime took off her bonnet and her shawl, and Eachel laid down her hat and her little light summer cloak; ■WHAT SHALL BE DONE ABOUT IT? 39 but it niTist not be supposed tliat the wai was suspended during these operations. Mrs. Prime was aware that a great deal more must be said, but she was yery anxious that her mother should say it. Eachel also knew that much more would be said, and she was by no means anxious that the subject should be dropped, if only she could talk her mother oyer to her side. "If mother thinks it right," exclaimed Mrs. Prime, "that you should be standing alone with a young man after night- fall in the churchyard, then I haye done. In that case I will say no more. But I must tell her, and I must teU you also, that if it is to be so, I cannot remain at the cottage any longer." "Oh, Dorothea !" said Mrs. Eay. "Indeed, mother, I cannot. If Eachel is not hindered from such meetings by her own sense of what is right, she must be hindered by the authority of those older than herself." "Hindered, — hindered from what?" said Eachel, who felt that her tears were coming, but struggled hard to retain them. "Mamma, I have done nothing that was wrong. Mamma, you will beHeye me, will you not?" Mrs. Eay did not know what to say. She strove to believe both of them, though the words of one were directly at variance with the words of the other. "Do you mean to claim it as your right," said Mrs. Prime, " to be standing out there alone at any hour of the night, with any young man that you please ? If so, you cannot be- my sister." "I do not want to be your sister if you think such hard things," said Eachel, whose tears now could no longer be restrained. Honi soit qui mal y pense. She did not, at the moment, remember the words to speak them, but they contain exactly the purport of her thought. And now, having become conscious of her oym. weakness by reason of those tears which would overwhelm her, she determined that she would say nothing further till she pleaded her cause before her mother alone. How could she describe before her sister the way in which that interview at the churchyard stile had been brought about ? But she could kneel at her mother's feet and teU her everything; — she thought, at least, that she could teU her mother everything. She occupied generally the same bedroom 08 her sister; but, on certaia occasions, — if her mother was 40 BACHEL BAY. anweU or the like,— slie would sleep in her mother's room. "Mamma," she said, "you wiU let me sleep with you to-mght. I will go now, and when you come I will teH you everything. Good night to you, DoUy." . "Good night, Eachelj" and the voice of Mrs. Prune, as she bade her sister adieu for the evening, soimded as the voice of the ravens. . . . • The two widows sat in silence for a while, each waiting tor the other to speak. Then Mrs. Prime got up and folded her shawl very carofuUy, and carefully put her honnet and_ gloves down upon it. It was her hahit to he very careful with her clothes, hut in her anger she had almost thrown them upon the httle sofa. "WiU J-ou have anything hefore you go to hed, Dorothea?" said Mrs. Eay. "Ifothing, thank you," said Mrs. Prime ; and her voice was very like the voice of the ravens. Then Mrs. Eay began to think it possible that she might escape away to Eachel without any further words. " I am very tired," she said, "and I think I will go, Dorothea." "Mother," said Mrs. Prime, " sompthing must he done about this." "Yes, my dear; she wiU talk to me to-night, and tell it me all." "But win she tell you the truth?" " She never told me a falsehood yet, Dorothea. I'm sure she didn't know that the young man was to he here. You know if he did come back from Exeter hefore he said he would she coiddn't help it." "And do you mean that she couldn't help heing with him tliere, — all alone? Mother, what would you think of any other girl of whom you heard such a thing?" ]\Irs. Eay shuddered ; and then some thought, some shadow perhaps of a remembrance, flitted across her mind, which seemed to have the effect of paUiating her child's iniquity. " Suppose " she said. " Suppose what ?" said Mrs. Prime, sternly. But Mrs. Eay did not dare to go on with her supposition. She did not dare to suggest that Mr. Eowan might perhaps he a very proper young man, and that the two young people might he growing fond of each other in a proper sort of way. She hardly believed in any such propriety herself, and she knew that her daughter would scout it to the winds. " Suppose what?" said Mrs. Prime again, more sternly than hefore. "If WHAT SHALL BE DONE AEODT IT? tlie other girls left her and went away to the brewBry, perhaps she could not have helped it," said Mrs. Eay. "But she was not walking with him. Her face was not turned towards home even. They were standing together under the trees, and, judging from the time at which I got home, they must have remained together for nearly half an horn- afterwards. And this with a perfect stranger, mother, — a man whose name she had never mentioned to us till she was told how Miss Pucker had seen them together ! You cannot suppose that I want to make her out worse than she is. She is your child, and my sister; and we are hound together for weal or for woe." "You talked about going away and leaving us," said Mrs. Ray, speaking in soreness rather than in anger. " So J did j and so I must, Tinless sometliing be done. It could not be right that I should remain here, seeing such things, if my voice is not allowed to be heard. But though I did go, she would stiU. be my sister. I should still share the sorrow, — and the shame." " Oh, Dorothea, do not say such words." " But they must be said, mother. Is it not from such meetings that shame comes, — shame, and sorrow, and sin ? You love her dearly, and so do I j and are we therefore to allow her to be a castaway? Those whom you love you must chastise. I have no authority over her, — as she has told me, more than once already, — and therefore I say again, that unless all this be stopped, I must leave the cottage. Good night, now, mother. I hope you will speak to her in earnest." Then Mrs. Prime took her candle and went her way. Por ten minutes the mother sat herself down, thiaking of the condition of her youngest daughter, and trying to think what words she would use when she found herself in her daughter's presence. Sorrow, and Shame, and Sin ! Her child a cast- away ! What terrible words they were ! And yet there had been nothing that she could allege in answer to them. That comfortable idea of a decent husband for her child had been banished from her mind almost before it had been entertained. Then she thought of Eachel's eyes, and knew that she would not be able to assume a perfect mastery over her girl. When the ten minutes were over she had made up her mind to nothing, and then she also took up her cam^lle and went to 42 EACHEL RAT. hef room. Wien she fiist entered it she did not see EacheL She had silently closed the door and come some steps within the chamber before her child showed herself from behind the bed, " Mamma," she said, " put down the candle that I may speak to you." Whereupon Mrs. Eay put down the candle and Eachel took hold of both her arms. "Mamma, you do not believe ill of me ; do you ? You do not think of me the things that Dorothea says? Say that you do not, or I shaU. die." "My darhng, I haye never thought anything bad of you before." "And do you think bad of me now? Did you not tell me before I went out that you would trust me, and have you so soon forgotten your trust ? Look at me, mamma. What have I ever done that you should think me to be such as she says?" " I do not think that you have done anything ; but you are very young, Ea,chels" " Young, mamma ! I am older than you were when you married, and older than DoUy was. I am old enough to know what is wrong. Shall I toU you what happened this evening ? He came and met us all in the fields. I knew before that he had come back, for the girls had said so, but I thought that he was in Exeter when I left here. Had I not believed that, I should not have gone. I think I should not have gone." " Then you are afraid of bim ?" " No, mamma ; I am not afraid of him. But he says such strange things to me j and I would not purposely have gone out to meet him. He came to us in the fields, and Ijjien we returned up the lane to the brewery, and there we left the girls. As I went through the churchyard he came there too, and then the sun was setting, and he stopped me to look at it ; I did stop with him, — ^for a few moments, and I felt ashamed of myself; but how was I to help it ? Mamma, if I could remember them I would tell you every word he said to me, and every look of his face. He asked me to be his friend. Mamma, if you wiU believe in me I will teU you everything. I will never deceive you." She was still holding her mother's arms while she spoke. Now she held her very close and nestled in against her bosom, ar.d gradually got her cheek against her mother's cheek, and her WHAT SHALL BE DONE ABOUT IT t 43 lips against her mother's neck. How could any motlier refuse such a caress as that, or remain hard and stern against such Bigns of love? Mrs. Eay, at any rate, was not possessed of strength to do so. She was vanquished, and put her arm round her girl and embraced her. She spoke soft words, and told Eachel that she was her dear, dear, dearest darling. She was stiU awed and dismayed by the tidings which she had heard of the young man; she stOl thought there was some terrible danger agaiast which it behoved them aU to be on their guard. But she no longer felt herself divided from her child, and had ceased to believe in the necessity of those terrible words which Mrs. Prime had used. " You will believe me?" said Eachel. "Tou will not think that I am making up stories to deceive you?" Then the mother assured the daughter with many kisses that she would be- lieve her. After that they sat long into the night, discussing all that Luke Eowan had said, and the discussion certainly took place after a fashion that would not have been considered satisfactory by Mrs. Prime had she heard it. Mrs. Eay was soon led into talking about Mi. Eowan as though he were not a wolf, — as though he might possibly be neither a wolf ravenous with his native wolfish fur and open wolfish greed ; or, worse than that, a wolf, more raveaous stO, in sheep's clothing. There was no word spoken of bim as a lover; but Eachel told her mother that the man had called her by her Christian name, and Mrs. Eay had fully understood the sign. " My darling, you mustn't let him do that." "ISTo, mamma; I won't. But he went on talking so fast that I had not time to stop him, and after that it was not worth while." The project of the party was also told to Mrs. Eay, and Eachel, sitting now with her head upon her mother's lap, owned that she would like to go to it. " Parties are not always wicked, mamma," she said. To this assertion Mrs. Eay expressed an undecided assent, but intimated hej decided belief that very many parties were wicked. "There wiU be dancing, and I do not like that," said Mrs. Eay. " Yet, I was taught dancing at school," said Piachel. When the matter had gone so far as this it must be acknowledged that Eachel had done much towards securing her share of mastery over her mother. " He wiU be there, of course," said Mrs. Eay. " Oh, yes ; he wiU be there," said Eachel. " But why should 44 BACHEL EAT. I be afraid of him? Wliy shoiad I live as though I -were afraid to meet him? Dolly thinks that I should he shut up close, to he taken care of ; hut you do not think of me like that. If I was miuded to he had, shutting me up would not keep me from it." Such arguments as these from Eachel's mouth sounded, at first, very terrihle to Mrs. Eay, hut yet she yielded to them. On the next morning Eachel was down first, and was found hy her sister fast engaged on the usual work of the house, as though nothing out of the way had ocouired on the previous evening. "Good morning, DoUy," she said, and then went on arranging the things on the hreakfast-tahle. " Good morning, liachel," said Mrs. Prime, stiU speaking like a raven. There was not a word said hetween them about the young man or the churchyard, and at nine o'clock Mrs. Eay came down to them, dressed ready for church. They seated themselves and ate their breakfast together, and stiU not a word was said. It was Mrs. Prime's custom to go to morning service at one of the churches at Baslehurst ; not at the old parish church which stood in the churchyard near the brewery, hut at a new church which had been built as auxiliary to the other, and at which the Eev. Samuel Prong was the ministering clergyman. As we shall have occasion to know Mr. Prong it may be as well to explain here that he was not simply a curate to old Dr. Harford, the rector of Bfislehurst. He had a separate district of his own, which had been divided from the old parish, not exactly in accordance with the rector's good pleasure. Dr. Harford had held the living for more than forty years ; he had held it for nearly forty years before the division had been made, and he had thought the parish should remain a parish entire, — ^more especially as the presentation to the new benefice was not conceded to him. Therefore Dr. Harford did not love Mr. Prong. ' But Mrs. Prime did love him, — ^with that sort of love which devout women bestow upon the church minister of their choice. Mr. Prong was an energetic, severe, hardworking, and, I fear, intolerant young man, who bestowed very much laudable care upon his sermons. The care and industry were laudable, but not so the pride with which he thought of them and theii results. He spoke much of preaching the Gospel, and waa WHAT SHALL BE DONE ABOUT IT? 45 eincere beyond all doubt in his desire to do so ; but lie allowed himself to be led away into a belief that his brethren in the ministry around him did not preach the Gospel, — that they were careless shepherds, or shepherd's dogs indifferent to the wolf, and in this way he had made himself unpopular among the clergy and gentry of the neighbourhood. It may well be understood that such a man coming down upon a district, cut out almost from the centre of Dr. Harford's parish, would be a thorn in the side of that old man. But Mr. Prong had his circle of friends, oi very ardent friends, and among them Mrs. Prime was one of the most ardent. Por the last year or two she had always attended morning service at his church, and very frequently had gone there twice in the day, though the walk was long and tedious, taking her the whole length of the town of Baslehurst. And there had been some little uneasiness between Mrs. Eay and Mrs. Prime on the matter of this church attendance. Mrs. Prime had wished her mother and sister to have the benefit of Mr. Prong's eloquence ; but Mrs. Eay, though she was weak in morals, was strong in her determination to adhere to Mr. Comfort of Cawston. It had been matter of great sorrow to her that her daughter should leave Mr. Comfort's church, and she had positively declined to be taken out of her own parish. Eachel had, of course, stuck to her mother in this controversy, and had said some sharp things about Mr. Prong. She declared that Mr. Prong had been educated at Islington, and that sometimes he forgot his "h's." When such things were said Mrs. Prime would wax very angry, and would declare that no one could be saved by the perfection of Dr. Harford's pronunciation. But there was no question as to Dr. Harford, and no justification for the introduction of his name into th-j dispute. Mrs. Prime, how- ever, did not choose to say anything against Mr. Comfort, mth whom her husband had been curate, and who, in her younger days, had been a lighfc to her own feet. Mr. Comfort was by no means such a one as Dr. Harford, though the two old men were friends. Mr. Comfort had been regarded as a Calvinist when he was young, as Evangelical in middle life, and was still known as a Low Churchman in his old age. Therefore Mrs. Prime would spare him in her sneers, though she left his ministry. He had become lukewarm, but not absolutely stone cold, like the old rector at Baslehurst. So said Mrs. Prime. Old men 46 RACHEL EAT. ■would 'become lukewarm, and therefore she could pardon Mr. Comfort. But Dr. Harford had never been warm at aU, — ^had never been warm with the warmth which she valued. Therefore she scorned him and sneered at him. In return for which Eachel scorned Mr. Prong and sneered at him. But though it was Mrs. Prime's custom to go to church at Baslehurst, on this special Sunday she declared her intention of accompanying her mother to Cawston. Ifot a word had been said about the young man, and they all started off on their walk together in silence and gloom. With such thoughts as they had in their miad it was impossible that they should make the journey pleasantly. Eachel had counted on the walk with her mother, and had determined that everything should be pleasant. She would have said a word or two about Luke Eowan, and would have gradually reconciled her mother to his name. But as it was she said nothing ; and it may be feared that her mind, during the period of her worship, was not at charity with her sister. Mr. Comfort preached his half-hour as usual, and then they all walked home. Dr. Harford never exceeded twenty minutes, and had often been known to finish his discourse within ten. What might be the length of a sermon of Mr. Prong's no man or woman could foretell, but he never spared himseK or his congregation much under an hour. They all walked home gloomily to their dinner, and ate their cold mutton and potatoes in sorrow and sadness. It seemed as though no sort of conversation was open to them. They could not talk of their usual Sunday subjects. Their minds were full of one matter, and it seemed that that matter was by common consent to be banished from their lips for the day. In the evening, after tea, the two sisters again went up to Cawston church, leaving their mother with her Bible ; but hardly a word was spoken between them, and in the same silence they sat tiU bed-time. To Mrs. Eay and to Eachel it had been one of the saddest, dreariest days that either of them had ever known. I doubt whether the suffering of Mrs. Prime was so great. She was kept up by the excitement of feeling that some great crisis was at hand. If Eachel were not made amenable to authority she would leave the cottage. When Eachel had run with hurrying steps from the stilo in Ihe churchyard, she left Luke Eowan stUl standing there. Ho WHAT SHALL BE DONE ABOUT IT? 47 watched hist till she crossed into the lane, and then he turned and again looked upon the still ruddy hne of the horizon. The blaze of light was gone, hut there were left, high up in the heavens, those wonderful hues which tinge with softly-chajiging colour the edges of the clouds when the hrightness of some glorious sunset has passed away. He sat himself on the wooden rail, watching till aL. of it should he over, and thinking, with lazy half-formed thoughts, of Eaohel Eay. He did not ask himself what he meant hy assuring her of his friendship, and by claiming hers, but he declared to himself that she was very lovely, — ^more lovely than beautiful, and then smiled inwardly at the prettiness of her perturbed spirit. He remembered well that he had called her Eachel, and that she had allowed hia doing so to pass by without notice ; but he understood also how and why she had done so. He knew that she had been flurried, and that she had skipped the thing because she had not known the moment at which to make her stand. He gave himself credit for no undue triumph, nor her discredit for any undue easiness. "What a woman she is!" he said to himself; "so womanly in everything." Then his mind rambled away to other subjects, possibly to the practicability of making good beer instead of bad. He was a young man, by no means of a bad sort, meaning to do weU, with high hopes in hfe, one who had never wronged a woman, or been untrue to a friend, full of energy and hope and pride. But he was conceited, prone to sarcasm, sometimes cynical, and perhaps sometimes affected. It may be that he was not altogether devoid of that Byronic weakness which was much more prevalent among young men twenty years since than it is now. His two trades had been those of an attorney and a brewer, and yet he dabbled in romance, and probably wrote poetry in his bedroom, l^evertheless there were worse young men about Baslehurst than Luke Eowan. "And now for Mr. Tappitt," said he, as he alowly took hia 1^ from off the laUing. 48 RACHEL EAV. CHAPTEE V. mi. COMFORT GIVES HIS ADVIOE. M'ua. Iappitt was very full of her party. It had grown in hex mind as those things do grow, till it had come to assume almost the dimensions of a ball. "When Mrs. Tappitt had first con- sulted her husband and obtaiued his permission for the gathering, it was simply intended that a few of her daughters' friends should be brought together to make the visit cheerful for Miss Eowan; but the mistress of the house had become ambitious; two fiddles, with a German horn, were to be introduced because the piano would be troublesome ; the drawing-room carpet was to be taken up, and there was to be a supper in the diniug-room. The thing in its altered shape loomed large by degrees upon Mr. Tappitt, and he found himself unable to stop its growth. The word ball would have been fatal; but Mrs. Tappitt was too good a general, and the girls were too judicious as lieutenants, to commit themselves by the presumption of any such term. It was still Mrs. Tappitt's evening tea-party, but it was understood in Baslehmrst that Mrs. Tappitt's evening tea-party was to be something considerable. A great success had attended this lady at the onset of her scheme. Mrs. Butler Cornbury had called at the brewery, and had promised that she would come, and that she would bring some of the Corn- bury family. Wow Mr. Butler Cornbury was the eldest son of the most puissant squire within five miles of Baslehurst, and was indeed almost as good as Squice himself, his father being a very old man. Mrs. Butler Cornbury had, it is true, not been estsemed as holding any very high rank while shining as a beauty under the name of Patty Comfort ; but she .had taken kindly to her new honours, and was now reckoned as a con- siderable magnate in that part of the county. She did not customarily join in the festivities of the town, and held herseK aloof from people even of higher standing than the Tappitts. But she was an ambitious woman, and had inspired her lord ME. COMFOKT GIVES HIS ADVICE. 49 with, the desire of representing Baslehurst in Parliament There would be an election at Baslehurst in the coming autumn, and Mrs. Cornhuiy was already preparing for the fight. Hence had arisen her visit at the brewery, and hence also her ready acqui- escence in Mrs. Tappitt's half-pronounced request. The party was to be celebrated on a Tuesday, — ^ Tuesday week after that Sunday which was passed so uncomfortably at Bragg's End ; and on the Monday Mrs. Tappitt and her daughters sat conning over the list of their expected guests, and preparing their invitations. It must be understood that the Eowan family had somewhat grown upon them in estimation since Luke had been living with them. They had not known much of him tm he came among them, and had been prepared to patronise him ; but they found him a young man not to be patronised by any means, and imperceptibly they learned to feel that his m.other and sister would have to be esteemed by them rather as great ladies. Luke was in nowise given to boasting, and had no intention of magnifying his mother and sister ; but things had been said which made the Tappitts feel that Mrs. Eowan must have the best bedroom, and that Mary Eowan must be provided with the best partners. "And what shall we do about Eachel Eay?" said Martha, who was sitting with the list before her. Augusta, who was leaning over her sister, puckered up her mouth and said nothing. She had watched from the house door on that Saturday evening, and had been perfectly aware that Luke Eowan had taken Eachel off towards the stile under the trees. She could not bring herself to say anything against Eachel, but she certainly wished that she might be excluded. " Of course she must be asked," said Cherry. Cherry waa sitting opposite to the other girls writing on a lot of envelopes the addresses of the notes which were afterwards to be prepared, "We told her we should ask her." And as she spoke she addressed a cover to "Miss Eay, Bragg's End Cottage, Cawston.' " Stop a moment, my dear," said Mrs. Tappitt from the corner of the sofa on which she was sitting. " Put that aside. Cherry. Eachel. Eay is all very well, but considering all things I am not sure that she ^vill quite do for Tuesday night. It's not quite in her line, I think." "But we have mentioned it to her already, mamma," said Martha. 50 EACHEL KAY. « Of course we did," said Cherry. " It would be the meanesi thing in the world not to ask her now ! " " I am not at all sure that Mrs. Eowan would like it," said Mjs. Tappitt. " And I don't think that Eachel is quite up to what Mary has heen used to," said Augusta. " If she has half a mind to flirt with Luke already," said Mrs. Tappitt, " I ought not to encourage it." "That is such nonsense, mamma," said Cherry. "If he likes her he'U find her somewhere if he doesn't find her here." "My. dear, you shouldn't say that what I say is nonsense," said Mia. Tappitt. " But, mamma, when we have already asked her ! — Besides, she is a lady," said Cherry. " I can't say that I think Mrs. Butler Cornhury would wish to meet her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Mrs. Butler Cornhury's father is their particidar friend," said Martha. " J'lrs. Eay always goes to Mr. Comfort's parties." In this way the matter was discussed, and at last Cherry's eagerness and Martha's sense of justice carried the day. The envelope which Cherry had addressed was brought into use, and the note to Eachel was deposited in the post with all those other notes, the destination of which was too far to be reached by the brewery boy without detrimental interference with the brewery work. "We will continue our story by following the note which was delivered by the Cawston postman at Bragg's End about seven o'clock on the Tuesday morning. It was delivered iato Eachel's own hand, and read by her as she stood by the kitchen dresser before either her mother or Mrs. Prime had come down from their rooms. There still was sadness and gloom at Bragg's End. During aU the Monday there had been no comfort in the house, and Eachel had continued to share hei mother's bedroom. At intervals, when Eachel had been away, much had been said between Mrs. Eay and Mrs. Prime ; but no conclusion had been reached ; no line of conduct had received their joint adhesion ; and the threat remained that Mrs. Prime would leave the cottage. Mrs. Eay, while listening to her elder daughter's words, still continued to fear that evil spirits were hovering around them ; but yet she would not consent to order Me. comfort gives his advice. 51 Eachel to become a devout attendant at the Dorcas meetings. Monday had not been a Dorcas day, and therefore it had been very dull and very tedious. Eacliel stood awhile with the note in her hand, fearing that the contest must be brought on again and fought out to an end before she could send her answer to it. She had told her mother that she was to be invited, and Mrs. Eay had lacked the courage at the moment which would have been necessary for an absolute and immediate rejection of the proposition. If Mrs. Prime had not been with them ia the house, Rachel little doubted but that she might have gone to the party. If Sirs. Prime had not been there, Eachel, as she was now gradually becoming aware, might have had her own way almost in every- thing. Without the supiport which Mrs. Prime gave her, Mrs. Eay would have gradually slid down from that stern code of morals which she had been iaduced to adopt by the teaching of those around her, and would have entered upon a new school of teacldng under Eachel's tutelage. But Mrs. Prime was stiU there, and Eachel herself was not inclined to fight, if fighting could be avoided. So she put the note into her pocket, and neither answered it or spoke of it tUl Mrs. Prime had started on her after-dinner walk into Baslehurst. Then she brought it forth and read it to her mother. " I suppose I ought to answer il by the post this evenmg, mamma?" " Oh, dear, this evening ! that's very short." "It can be put off tiU. to-morrow if there's any good in putting it off," said Eachel. Mrs. Eay seemed to think that there might be good in putting it off, or rather that there would be harm in doing it at once. "Do you particularly want to go, my dear?" Mrs. Eay said, ifter a pause. " Yes, mamma ; I should like to go." Then Mrs. Eay altered a little sovind which betokened uneasiness, and was again silent for a while. " I can't understand why you want to go to this place, — so particularly. You never used to care about such things. You know your sister won't like it, and I'm not at aU sure that you ought to go." " I'U teU you why I wish it particularly, only — " " Well, my dear." 62 EACHEI; BAY. "I don't know whetlier I can make you onderstand just what I mean." " If you tell me, I shall understand, I suppose." Eachel considered her words for a moment or two hefore she spoke, and then she endeavoured to explain herself. "It isn't that I care for this party especially, mamma, though I own that, after what the girls have said, I should like to he there ; hut I feel—" " You feel what, my dear 1" " It is this, mamma. DoUy and I do not agree about these things, and I don't intend to let her manage me just in the way she thinks right." "Oh, Eachel!" "Well, mamma, would you wish if? If you could teU mo that you really think it wrong to go to parties, I wotdd give them up. Indeed it wouldn't be very much to give up, for I don't often get the chance. But you don't say so. You only say that I had better not go, because Dolly doesn't like it. Now, I won't be ruled by her. Don't look at me in that way, mamma. Is it right that I should be 1" " You have heard what she says about going away." " I shall be very sorry if she goes, and I hope she won't ; but I can't think that her threatening you in that way ought to make any difference. And — I'll teU you more ; I do par- ticidarly wish to go to Mrs. Tappitt's, because of all that Dolly has said about, — about Mr. Eowan. I wish to show her and you that I am not afraid to meet him. Why should I be afraid of anyone?" " You should be afraid of doing wrong." " Yes ; and if it were wrong to meet any other young man I ought not to go ; but there is nothing specially -vvrong in my meeting him. She has said very unkiad things about it, and I intend that she shall know that I will not notice them." As llachel spoke Mrs. Eay looked up at her, and was surprised by the expression of imrelentiug purpose which she saw there. There had come over her face that motion in her eyes and that arching of her brows which Mrs. Eay had seen before, but which hitkerto she h.ad hardly construed into their true mean- ing. Now she was beginning to construe these signs aright, and to understand that there would be difficulty in managing iier little famUy. ME. COMFOEl? GiViiS HIS ADVICE. 53 'The conversation ended in an undertaking on Each el's part that sh.e -would not answer the note tOl the foUowing day. " Of course that means," said Eachel, " that I ,am to answer it just as DoUy thinks fit." But she repented of these words as soon as they were spoken, and repented of them almost ia ashes when lier mother declared, with tears ia her eyes, that it was not her intention to be guided by Dorothea ia this matter. " You ought not to say such things as that, Eachel," she said. "N"o, mamma, I ought not ; for there is no one so good as you are ; and if you'll say that you think I ought not to go, I'U write to Cherry, and explain it to her at once. I don't care a bit about the party, — as far as the party is concerned." But Mrs. Eay would not now pronounce any injunction on the matter. She had made up her mind as to what she would do. She would call upon Mr. Comfort at the parsonage, explain the whole thing to him, and be guided altogether by his counsel. ISTot a word was said in the cottage about the iavitation when Mrs. Prime came back ia the evening, nor was a word said on the following morning. Mrs. Eay had declared her intention of going up to the parsonage, and neither of her daughters had asked her why she was going. Eachel had no need to ask, for she well understood her mother's purpose. As to Mrs. Prime, she was .in these days black and fuU of gloom, asking but few questions, watching the progress of events with the eyes of an evil-singing prophetess, but teeping back her words till the moment should come in which she would be driven by her inner impulses to speak them forth with terrible strength. When the breakfast was over, Mrs. Eay took her bonnet and started forth to the parsonage. I do not know that a widow, circumstanced as was Mrs. Eay, could do better than go to her clergyman for advice, but, never- theless, when she got to Mr. Comfort's gate she felt that the task of explaining her purpose would not be without difficulty. It would be necessary to teU. everything; how Eachel had become suddenly an object of interest to Mr. Luke Eowan, how Dorothea suspected terrible things, and how Eachel was anxious for the world's vanities. The more she thought over it, the more sure she felt that Mr. Comfort would put an embargo upon the party. It seemed but yesterday that he had been telling her, with aU his pulpit unction, that the pleasures of this world should never be allowed \o creep near the heart. 54. RACHEL EAY. With douLting feet and doubting heart she walked up to tha parsonage door, and almost immediately found herself in the presence of her husband's old friend. Whatever faults there might be in Mr. Comfort's character, he was at any rate good-natured and patient. That he was sincere, too, no one who knew him well had ever doubted, — siaoere that is, as far as his intentions went. When he endeavoured to teach his flock that they should despise money, he thought that he despised it himself. When he told the little childien that this world should be as nothing to them, he did not remember that he himself enjoyed keenly the good things of this world. If he had a fault it was perhaps this, — that he was a hard man at a bargain. He liked to have all his temporalities, and make them go as far as they could be stretched. There was the less excuse for this, seeing that his children were well, and even richly, settled in Hfe, and that his wife, should she ever be left a widow, would have ample provision for her few remaining years. He had given his daughter a considerable fortune', without which perhaps the Combury Grange people would not have welcomed her so kindly as they had done, and now, as he was stiU. growing rich, it was supposed that he would leave her more. He listened to Mrs. Eay with the greatest attention, having jSrst begged her to recruit her strength with a glass of wine. As she continued to teU her story he interrupted her from time to time with good-natuied little words, and then, when she had done, he asked after Luke Eowan's worldly means. " The young man has got something, I suppose," said he, "Got something!" repeated Mrs. Eay, not exactly catching Ibis meaning. " He has some share in the brewery, hasn't he V " I believe he has, or is to have. So Eachel told me." "Yes, — yes; I've heard of him before. If Tappitt doesn't take him into the concern be'IL have to give him a very serious bit of money. There's no doubt about the young man having means. Well, Mrs. Eay, I don't suppose Eachel could do bettei than take him." "Take him!" " Yes,' — why not ? Between you and me, Eachel is growing into a very handsome girl, — a very handsome girl indeed. Td uo idea she'd be so tall, and carry herself so well" ME. COMFORT GIVES HIS ADVICE. 55 " Oh, Mr. Comfort, good looks are very dangerous for a yoiing woman." " "Well, yes ; indeed they are. But still, you knoTV, handsome girls very often do very 'weU; and if this young man fancies Miss Eachel — " "But, Mr. Comfort, there hasn't been anything of that. I don't suppose he has ever thought of it, and I'm sure she hasn't." " But young people get to think of it. I shouldn't he dis- posed to prevent their coming together in a proper sort of way. I don't like night walkings in churchyards, certainly, but I really think that was only an accident." " I'm sure Eachel didn't mean it." " I'm quite sure she didn't mean anjrthing improper. And as for him, if he admires her, it was natural enough that he should go after her. If you ask my advice, Mrs. Eay, I should just tell her to be cautious, but I shouldn't be especially careful to separate them. Marriage is the happiest condition for a young woman, and for a young man too. And how are young people to get married if they are not allowed to see each other?" "And about the party, Mr. Comfort?" " Oh, let her go ; there'U. be no harm. And I'U teU you what, Mrs. Eay ; my daughter, Mrs. Cornbury, is going from here, and she shall pick her up and bring her home. It's always well for a young girl to go with a married woman." Then Mrs. Eay did take her glass of sherry, and walked back to Bragg's End, won- dering a good deal, and not altogether at ease in her mind as to that great question, — what Hue of moral conduct might best befit a devout Christian. Something also had been said at the interview about Mrs. Prime. Mrs. Eay had intimated that Mrs. Prime would separate herself from her mother and her sister unless her views were allowed to prevail in this question regarding the young man from the brewery. But Mr. Comfort, in what few words he had said on this part of the subject, had shown no consideration whatever for Sirs. Prime. " Then she'll behave very wickedly,'" he had said. " But I'm afraid Mrs. Prime has learned to think too much of her own opinion lately. If that's what she has got by going to Mr. Prong she had better have remained in hei OTv-n parish," After that, nothing more was said about Mra. Prime. 56 BACHEL EAT. "Oh, let her go; there'll be no harm." That had been Mr. Comfort's dictum about the evening party. Such as it was, Mrs. Eay felt herself bound to be guided by it. She had told Eachel that she would ask the clergyman's advice, and take it, whatever it might be. Nevertheless she did not find herself to be easy as she walked home. Mr. Comfort's latter teachings tended to upset all the convictions of her Ufe. According to his teaching, as uttered iu the sanctum of his own study, young men were not to be regarded as ravening wolves. And that meeting in the churchyard, which had utterly overwhelmed Dorothea by the weight of its iniquity, and which even to her had been very terrible, was a mere nothing ; — a venial accident on Eachel's part, and the most natural proceeding in the world on the part of Luke Eowan ! That it was natural enough for a wolf Mrs. Eay could understand ; but she was now told that the lamb might go out and meet the woK without any danger ! And then those questions about Eowan's share in. the brewery, and Mr. Comfort's ready assertion that the young wolf, — ^man or wolf, as the case might be, — was well to do in the world ! In fact Mrs. Bay's interview with her clergyman had not gone exactly as she had expected, and she was bewildered ; and the path into evil, — if it was a path into evil, — ^was made so easy and pleasant ! Mrs. Eay had already considered the difficult question of Eachel's journey to the party, and journey home again ; but provision was now made for all that in a way that was indeed very comfortable, but which, might make Eachel very vain. She was to be ushered into Mrs. Tappitt's drawing-room under the wing of the most august lady of the neighbourhood. After that, for the remaining half-hour of her walk home, Mrs. Eay gave her mind up to the consideration of what dress Eachel should wear. When Mrs. Eay reached her own gate, Eachel was in the garden waiting for her. "Well, mamma?" she said. "Is Dorothea at home?" Mrs. Eay asked; and on being informed that Dorothea was at work within, she desired Eachel to follow ner up to her bedroom. When there she told her budget of news, — not stinting her child of the gratification which it was sure to give. She said nothing about Luke Eowan and his means, keeping that portion of Mr. Comfort's recommendation to herself; but she declared it out as a fact, that Eachel was to accept the invitation, and to be carried to the party by Mrs. Butler Combury. "Oh, mamma! dear mamma!" said Eachel, MR. COMFOET GIVES HIS ABVICE. 57 who was leaning against the side of tlie bed. Tiien she gave a long sigh, and a bright colour came over her face, — almost aa though she were blushing. But she said no more at the moment, but allowed her mind to run oflf and revel in its own thoughts. She had indeed longed to go to this party, though she had taught herself to believe that she could bear being told that she was not to go without disappointment. "And now we must let Dorothea know," said Mrs. Eay. "Yes, — we must let her know," said Eachel; but her mind was away, straying, I fear, under the churchyard elms with Luke Eowan, and looking at the arm amidst the clouds. He had said that it was stretched out as though to take her ; and she had never shaken off from her imagination the idea that it was his arm on which she had been bidden to look, — ^the arm which had afterwards held her when she strove to go. Tt was tea-time before courage was mustered for telling the facts to Mia. Prime. Mrs. Prime, after dinner had gone into Baslehurst ; but the meeting at Miss Pucker's had not been a regular full gathering, and Mrs. Prime had come back to tea. There was no hot toast and no clotted cream. It may appear selfish on the part of Mrs. Eay and Eachel that they should have kept such good things for their only little private banquets, biit, in truth, such delicacies did not suit TyTrsj, Prime Mlc^ thiiigs"^^ggravated.her spijiLs and made Tierlretful. She liked the tea to be stringy and bitterj and. she liked the breadTo be sKle ; — as'sEe preferred also that her weeds should be battered and old. She was approaching ihat. stage of.,diacipli-ne_ at...which ashfis. become pleasant eating,, and sackcloth, is -grateful, to the ^m. The self-indulgences of the saints in this respect often exceed anything that is done by the sinners. "Dorothea," said Mrs. Eay, and she looked down upon the dark dingy fluid in her cup as she spoke, " I have been up to Mr. Comfort's to-day." " Yes ; I heard you say you were going there." " I went to ask him for advice." " Oh." "As I was in much doubt, I thought it right to go to the clergyman of my parish." " I don't think much about parishes myself. Mr. Comfort is an old man now, and I fear he does not give himself up to the Gospel aa he used to do. If people were called upon to bind 58 RACHEL RAT. themselves down to parislies, wliat would those poor creatures do who have oirei them such a pastor as Dr. Harford t" " Dr. Hfuford is a very good man, I beUeve," said Eachel, " and he keeps two curates." " I'm afraid, Eachel, you know hut little about iS. He does keep two curates, — ^but what are they? They go to cricket- matches, and among women with bows and arrows ! If you had really wanted advice, mamma, I would sooner have heard that you had gone to Mr. Prong." " But I didn't go to Mr. Prong, my dear ; — and I don't mean. Mr. Prong is all very well, I dare say, but I've known Mr. Comfort for nearly thirty years, and I don't Uke sudden changes.'' Then Mrs. Eay stirred her tea with rather a quick motion of her head. Eachel said not a word, but her mother's sharp speech and spirited manner was very pleasant to her. She was quite contented now that Mr. Comfort should be regarded as the family counsellor. She remembered how well she had loved Mr. Comfort always, and thought of days when Patty Comfort had been very good-natured to her as a child. " Oh, very well," said Mrs. Prime. " Of course, mamma, you must judge for yourself." " Yes, my dear, I must ; or rather, as I didn't wish to trust my own judgment, I went to Mr. Comfort for advice. He says that he sees no harm in Eachel goiug to this party." "Party! what party?" almost screamed Mrs. Prime. Mrs. Eay had forgotten that nothing had as yet been said to Dorothea about the iavitation. " Mrs. Tappitt is going to give a party at the brewery," said Eachel, in her very softest voice, " and she has asked me." "And you are going? You mean to let her cjo?" Mrs. Prime had asked two questions, and she received \,wo answers. " Yes," said Eachel ; " I suppose I shaU go, as mamma says so." " Mr. Comfort says there is no harm in it," said Mrs. Eay ; " and Mrs. Butler Cornbury is to come from the parsonage to take her up." AH question as to Dorcas discipline to be inflicted daily upon Eachel on account of that sin of which she had been guUty in standing under the elms with a young man was utterly lost in this terrible proposition ! Instead of being sent to Miss Pucker in her oldest merino dress, Eachel was to be decked in muslin and finery, and sent out to a dancing party at which this young man was to be the hero ! It was altogether too much foi PREPARATIONS FOR MRS. TAPPITT'S PARTY. 59 Dorothea Prime. She slowly wiped the crumhs from off her dingy crape, and with creaking noise pushed hack her chair. " Mother," she said, " I couldn't have helieved it ! I could not have helieved it !" Then she withdrew to her own chamber. Mrs. Eay was much afflicted ; but not the less did Eaohel look out for the returning postman, on his road into Baslehurst, that she might send her little note to Mrs. Tappitt, signifying her acceptance of that lady's kind invitation. CHAPTER VL PREPAEATIONS FOB MRS. TAPPITT S PAKTT. I AM disposed to think that Mrs. Butler Comhury did Mrs. Tappitt an injiaiy when she with so much ready goodnature accepted the invitation for the party, and that Mrs. Tappitt was aware of this before the night of the party arrived. She was put on her mettle in a way that was disagreeable to her, and forced into an amount of submissive siipplication to Mr. Tappitt for funds, which was vexatious to her spirit. Mrs, Tappitt was a good wife, who never ran her husband iato debt, and kept nothing secret from him in the management of her household, - — nothing at least which it behoved him to know. But she understood the privileges of her position, and could it have been possible for her to have carried through this party without extra household moneys, or without any violent departure fron her usual customs of life, she could have snubbed her husband's objections comfortably, and have put him into the background for the occasion without any inconvenience to herself or power of remonstrance from him. But when Mrs. Butler Comhury had been gracious, and when the fiddles and horn had become a fact to te accomplished, when Mrs. Rowan and Mary began to loom large on her imagination and a regular supper was pro- jected, then Mrs. Tappitt felt the necessity of superior aid, and found herself called upon to reconcile her lord. And this work was the more difficult and the more dis- 60 EACHEL EAT. agreeable to her feelings because she liad already pooli-p<»ohe5 and going. "Mamma was up at Mr. Comfort's yesterday," Eachel wrote, " and he -was so kind as to say tliat Mrs. Butisr Combiuy would take me and bring me back. I am very much obliged to you all the same, and to Mrs. Eule." "What do you think?" said Cherry, who had received her note in the midst of one of the family conferences ; "Augusta said that Mrs. Butler . Cornbury would not Kke to meet Eachel Eay j but she is going to bring her in her own carriage." "I never said anything of the kind," said Augusta. "Oh, but you did, Augusta; or mamma did, or somebody. How nice for Eachel to be chaperoned by ]\Irs. Butler Corn- bury !" " I wonder what she'll wear," said Mrs. Tappitt, who had on that morning achieved her victory over the wounded brewer in the matter of the three dresses. On the Friday morning Mrs. Eowan came with her daughter, Luke having met them at Exeter on the Thursday. Mrs. Eowan was a somewhat stately lady, slow in her movements and careful in her speech, so that the girls were at first very glad that they had vahantly worked up their finery before her coming. But Mary was by no means stately ; she was younger than them, very willing to be pleased, with pleasant round eager eyes, and a kindly voice. Before she had been three hours in the house Cherry had claimed Mary for her own, had told her all about the party, all about the dresses, all about Mrs. Butler Cornbury and the Miss Pawcetts, and a word or two also about Eachel Eay. " I can tell you somebody that's almost in love with her." "You don't mean Luke?" said Mary. "Yes, but I do," said Cherry ; " but of course I'm only in fim." On the Saturday Mary was hard at work herself assisting in the decoration of the drawing-room, and before the all-important Tuesday came even Mrs. Eowan and Mrs. Tappitt were con- fidential. Mrs. Eowan perceived at once th^t Mrs. Tappitt was provincial, — as she told her son, but she was a good motherly woman, and on the whole, Mrs. Eowan condescended to be gracious to her. At Bragg's End the preparations for the party required almost as much thought as did those at the brewery, and involved perhaps deeper care. It may be remembered that Mrs. Prime, vhen her ears were first astounded by that unexpected reve- 66 EACHEL KAir. iation, wiped the erumba from out of her lap acd walked o£Q wounded ia spirit, to her own room. On that evening Rachel sa-^ no more of her sister. Mis. Eay went up to her daughter's bedroom, but stayed there only a minute or two. " What does she say?" asked Rachel, almost in a whisper. "She is very unhappy. She says that unless I can be made to think better of this she must, leave the cottage. I told her what Mr, Comfort says, but she only sneers at Mr. Comfort. I'm sure I'm endeavouring to do the best I can." " It would not do, mamma, to say that she should manage everything, otherwise I'm sure I'd give up the party." " No, my dear ; I don't want you to do that, — not after what Mr. Comfort says." Mrs. Ray had in truth gone to the clergy- man feeling suie that he would have given his word against the party, and that, so strengthened, she could have taken a course that would have been offensive to neither of her daughters. She had expected, too, that she would have returned home armed with such clerical thunders against the young man as would have quieted Rachel and have satisfied Dorothea. But in all this she had been, — I may hardly say disappointed, — but dismayed and bewildered by advice the very opposite to that which she had expected. It was perplexing, but she seemed to be aware that she had no alternative now, but to fight the battle on Rachel's side. She had cut herself off from all anchorage except that given by Mr. Comfort, and therefore it behoved her to cling to that with absolute tenacity. Rachel must go to the pajty, even though Dorothea should carry out her threat. On that night nothing more was said about Dorothea, and Mrs. Ray allowed herself to be gradually drawn into a mUd discussion about Rachel's dress. But there was nearly a week left to them of this sort of life. Early on the following morning Mrs. Prime left the cottage, saying that she should dine with Miss Pucker, and betook her- self at once to a small house in a back street of the town, behind the new church, in \irhich lived Mr. Prong. Have I as yet said that Mr. Prong was a bachelor 1 Such was the fact ; and there were not wanting those in Baslehurst who declared that he would amend the fault by marrying Mrs. Prime. But this rvmiour, if it ever reached her, had no effect upon her. The world would be nothing to her if she were to be debarred by the wickedness of loose tongues from visiting the clergyman PKEPABATIONS FOR MltS. TAPPITT'S PAETY. 67 of Ler choice. She -went, therefore, in her present difficultj to Mr. Prong. Mr. Samuel Prong -was a little man, over thirty, -with scanty, light-bro-wn hair, -with a small, rather upturned nose, ivith eyes by no means deficient in light and expression, hut with a mean mouth. His forehead -was good, and had it not been for liis mouth his face -would have been expressive of intellect and of some firmness. But there was about his Ups an assumption of character and dignity -which his countenance and body generally failed to maintain ; and there was a something in the carriage of his head and in the occasional projection of hia chin, which was intended to add to his dignity, but which did, I think, only make the failure more palpable. He was a devout, good man ; not self-indulgent ; perhaps not more self-ambitious than it becomes a man to be; siucere, hard- working, sufficiently intelligent, true ia most things to the instincts of his calling, — ^but deficient in one -vital qualification for a clergyman of the Church of England ; he was not a gentleman. May I not call it a necessary qualification for a clergyman of any church? He was not a gentleman. I do not mean to say that he was a thief or a liar ; nor do I mean hereby to complain that he picked his teeth -with his fork and misplaced his " h's." I am by no means prepared to define what I do mean, — thinking, however, that most men and most women wiU understand me. Kor do I speak of this deficiency in his clerical aptitudes as being injurious to him simply, — or even chiefly, — among folk who are themselves gentle ; but that his efficiency for clerical purposes was marred altogether, among high and low, by his misfortune in this respect. It is nut the o-wner of a good coat that sees and admhes its beauty, It is not even they who have good coats themselves who recognize the article on the back of another. They who have not good coats- themselves have the keenest eyes for the coats of their better-clad neighbours. As it is -with coats, so it is with that which we call gentiUty. It is caught at a word, it is seen at a glance, it is appreciated unconsciously at a touch by those who have none of it themselves. It is the greatest of all aids to the doctor, the lawyer, the member of ParJiament,-— though in that position a man may perhaps prosper wiLlioiit it, — and to the statesman; but to the clergyman it is a vital necessity. Now Mr.. Prong was not a gentleman. 68 RACHEL RAT. Mrs. Prime told her tale to Mr. Prong, as Mrs. Ray tad told hers to Mr. Comfort. It need not be told again here. . I fear that she made the most of her sister's imprudence, hut she did not do so with intentional injustice. She 'declared her conviction that Eachel might still he made to go in a straight course, if only she could he guided by a hand sufficiejitly strict and armed with absolute power. Then she went, on, to tell Mr. Prong how Mrs. Eay had gone off to Mr. . Comfoii, as she herself had now come to him. It was hard, — was it^not? — for poor Eachel, that the story of her few minutes' whispering under the elm tree should thus be bruited about among ,the ecclesiastical counsellors of the locahty. Mr. Prong sat with patient face and with mild demeanour while the simple story of Eachel's conduct was being told; but when to thi.s was added the iniquity of Mr. Comfort's advice, the mouth assumed the would-be grandeur, the chia came out, and. to any one less infatuated than Mrs. Prime it would. have^.b^en apparent that the purse was not made of silk, but'tljat(as^'(^ser material had come to hand iu the manufacture. ' ■''' "What shall the slieep do," said Mr. Prong, "when th< shepherd slumbers in the folds?" Then he shook his head and puckered up his mouth. "Ah!" said Mrs. Prime; "it is well for the sheep that there are still left a few who do not run from their work, even in the heat of the noonday sun." Mr. Prong closed his eyes and bowed his head, and then reassumed that pecuharly disagreeable look about his mouth by which he thought to assert his dignity, iutendiog thereby to signify that he would willingly reject the compliment as unnecessary, were he not forced to accept it as being • true. He knew himself to be a shepherd who did not. fear the noonday heat; but he was wrong in this, — ^that he suspected aU other shepherds of stinting their work. It appeared to him that no sheep could nibble his grass in wholesome content, unless some shepherd were at work at him constantly -svith liis crook. It was for the shepherd, as he thought, to know what tufts' of grass were rank, and in what spots the herbage might be bitten down to the bare ground. A shepherd who would allow his flock to feed at large under his eye, merely watehiiig his fences and folding his ewes and lambs at night, was a truant who feared the noonday sun. Such & one had Mir. PREPAEATIONS FOR MRS. TAPPITT'S PARTY. 69 Comfort become, and therefore Mr. Prong despised liim in his heart. All sheep will not endure such ardent shepherding as that practised by Mr. Prong, and therefore he was dxiveTj to seek out for himself a peculiar flock. These to him wera the elect of Baslehurst, and of his elect, Mrs. Prime- was tlie most elect. Now this fault is not uncommon among young ardent clergymen. I will not repeat the conTcrsation that took place between the two, because they used holy words and spoke on holy subjects. In doing so they were both sincere, and not, as regarded their language, fairly subject to ridicule. In their judgment I think they were defective. He sustained Mrs. Prime in her resolution to quit the cottage unless she could induce her mother to put a stop to that great iniquity of the brewery. " The Tappitts," he said, " were worldly people, — Tery worldly people ; utterly uniit to be the associates of the sister of his friend. As to the ' young man,' he thought that nothing further should be said at present, but that Eachel should be closely watched, — very closely watched." Mrs. Prime asked him to call upon her mother and explain his views, but he declined to do this. " He would have been most willing, — so willing ! but he could not force himself where he would be imwelcome ! " Mrs. Prime was, if necessary, to quit the cottage and take up her temporary residence with Miss Pucker; but Mr. Prong was inclined to think, knowing something of Mrs. Eay's customary softness of character, that if Mrs. Prime were firm, things would not be driven to such a pass as that. Mrs. Prime said that she would be firm, and she looked as though she intended to keep her word. Mr. Prong's manner as he bade adieu to his favourite sheep ■was certainly of a nature to justify that rumour to which allusion has been made. He pressed Mrs. Prime's hand very closely, and invoked a blessing on her head in a warm whisper. But such signs among such people do not bear the meaiiing which they have in the outer world. These people are demon- strative and unctuous, — ^whereas the outer world is- reticent and dry. They are perhaps too free with their love, but the fault is better than that other faidt of no love at all. Mr. Prong was a little free with his love, but Mrs. Prime took it all in good part, and answered him with an equal fervour. "If I can help you, dear friend," — and he stiU held hei 70 KACUEL EAY. hand in his, "come to me always. You neyer can come too often." "You can help me, and I will come, always,'' she said, returning his pressure with mutual warmth. But there was no touch of earthly affection in her pressure ; and if there was any in his at its close, there had, at any rate, been none at ita commencement. While Mrs. Prime was thus employed, Eachel and her mother became warm upon the subject of the dress, and when the younger widow returned home to the cottage, the elder widow was actually engaged in Baslehurst on the purchase of trappings and vanities. Her little hoard was opened, and some pretty piece of muslin was purchased by the aid of which, with the needful ribbons, Eachel might be made, not fit, indeed, for Mrs. Butler Cornbury's carriage, — no such august fitness was at all contemplated by herself, — ^bnt nice and tidy, so that her presence need not be a disgrace. And it was pretty to see how Mrs. Ray revelled in these little gauds for her daughter now that the barrier of her religious awe was broken down, and that the waters of the world had made their way in upon her. She still had a feeling that she was being drowned, but she confessed that such drowning was very pleasant. She almost felt that such drowning was good for her. At any rate it had been ordered by Mr. Comfort, and if things went astray Mr. Comfort must bear the blame. When the bright muslin was laid out on the counter before her, she looked at it with a pleased eye and touched it with a willing hand. She held the ribbon against the muslin, leaning her head on one side, and enjoyed herself. Now and again she would turn her face upon Eachel's figure, and she would almost indulge a wish that this young man might like her child in the new dress. Ah ! — that was surely wicked. But if so, how wicked are most mothers in this Christian lend ! The morning had gone very comfortably with them during Dorothea's absence, llrs. Prime had hardly taken her departure before a note came from Mrs. Butler Cornbury, confirming Mr. Comfort's offer as to the earriage. "Oh, papa, what have you done?" — she had said when her father first told her. "JSTow I must stay there aD the night, for of co'irse she'U want to go on to the last danca !" But, lilce her father, she was good-natured, and therefure, though she would hardly have chosen the task, AS' ACCOUNT OF MKS. TAPPITT'S BALL. 71 she resolved, when lier first groans •were over, to do it well. She wrote a land note, saying how happy she should be, naming her hour, — and saying that Eachel should name the hour for her return. " It will he very nice," said Eachel, rejoicing more than she should have done in thinking of the comfortable grandeur of Mrs. Butler Cornbury's carriage. "And are you determined J" Mrs. Prime asked her mother that evening. " It is too late to go back now, Dorothea," said ilrs. Eay, almost crying. " Then I cannot remain in the house,'' said Dorothea. " I shall go to Miss Pucker's — but not tUl that morning ; so that if you think better of it, all may be prevented yet." But Mrs. Eay would not think better of it, and it was thus that the preparations were made for Mrs. Tappitt's — ^ball. The word " party " had now been dropped by common consent ibroughout Baslehurst. CHAPTEE VIL AS ACCOUNT OF MRS. TAPPITT's BALL — COMMENCEa Mrs. Butleb Cobnbtjrt was a very pretty woman. She pos- sessed that peculiar prettiness which is so often seen in England, and which is rarely seen anywhere else. She was bright, well- featured, with speaking lustrous eyes, with perfect complexion, and full bust, with head of glorious shape and figure Uke a Juno ; — and yet with aU her beauty she had ever about her an air of homeliness which made the sweetness of her womanhood almost more attractive than the loveUness of her personal charms. I have seen in Italy and in America women perhaps as beautiful as any that I have seen in England, but in neither country does it seem that such beauty is intended for domestic use. In Italy the beauty is soft, and of the flesh. In America it is hard, and 72 BACHEL RAY. of the mind. Here it is of the heart, I think, and as snch is the happiest of the three. I do not say that Mrs. Butler Com- bury was a woman of very strong feeling; hut her strongest feelings were home feelings. She was going to Mrs. Tappitt's party because it might serve her husband's purposes ; she was going to burden herself with Eachel Eay because her father had asked her ; and her greatest ambition was to improve the worldly position of the squires of Cornbury Grange. She was already calculating whether it might not some day be brought about that her little Butler should sit in Parliament for his county. At nine o'clock exactly on that much to be remembered Tuesday, the Cornbury carriage stopped at the gate of the cottage at Bragg's End, and Eachel, ready dressed, blushing, nervous, but yet happy, came out, and mounting on to the step was almost fearful to take her share of the seat. " Make your* self comfortable, my dear," said Mrs. Cornbury; "you can't crush me. Or rather I always make myseK crushable on such occasions as tbis. I suppose we are going to have a great crowd?" Eachel merely said that she didn't know. She sup- posed there would be a good many persons. Then she tried to thatik Mrs. Cornbury for being so good to her, and of course broke down. " I'm delighted, — quite delighted," said Mrs. Cornbury. " It's so good of you to come with me. Now that I don't dance myself, there's nothing I Hke so much as taking out girls that do." " And don't you dance at aU.?" " I stand up for a quadrille sometimes. AVhen a woman has five children I don't think she ought to do more than that." " Oh, I shaU not do more than that, Mrs. Cornbury." " You mean to say you won't waltz?" "Mamma never said anything about it, but I'm sure she would not like it. Besides — " " Well—" " I don't think I know how. I did learn once, when I was very little ; but I've forgotten. " It will soon come again to you if you like to try. I was very fond of waltziag before I was mamed." And this was the daughter of Mr. Comfort, the clergyman who preached with such strenuous eloquence against worldly vanities ! Even llacLel AN ACCOUNT OF MES. TAPPITT'S BAXL. 73 •was a little puzzled, and was almost afraid that b.ei Lead was fiinking beneath the waters. There was a great fuss made when Mrs. Butler Cornbury's carriage drove up to the brewery door, and Eaohel almost felt that she could have made her way up to the drawing-room more comfortably under Mrs. Eule's mild protection. AU the ser- vants seemed to rush at her, and when she found herself in the haU. and was conducted into some inner room, she was not al- lowed to shake herself into shape without the aid of a maid- servant. Mrs. Cornbury, — -who took everything as a matter of course and was ready in. a minute, — ^had turned the maid over to the young lady with a kind idea that the young lady's toUet •was more important than that of the married woman. Eachel was losing her head and knew that she was doing so. When she was again taken into the hall she hardly remembered where she was, and when Mrs. Cornbury took her by the arm and began to walk up-stairs with her, her strongest feeling was a wish that she was at home again. On the first landing, — for the dancing-room was up-stairs, — they encountered Mr. Tappitt, conspicuous in a blue satin waistcoat ; and on the second land- ing they found Mrs. Tappitt, magnificent in a green Irish poplin. " Oh, Mrs. Cornbury, we are so delighted. The Miss Fawcetts are here ; they are just come. How kind of you to bring Eachel Eay. How do you do, Eachel?" Then Mrs. Cornbury moved easily on into the dra-iving-room, and Eachel stiU found herself carried with her. She was half afraid that she ought to have slunk away from her magnificent chaperon as soon as she was conveyed safely •within the house, and that she was encroaching as she thus went on ; but still she could not find the moment in which to take herself off. In the di'awing-room, — ^the room from which the carpets had been taken, — they were at once encountered by the Tappitt girls, -with whom the Fawcett girls on the present occasion were so intermingled that Eachel hardly knew who was who. Mrs. Butler Cornbury waa soon surrounded, and a clatter of words went on. Eachel was in the middle of the fray, and some voices were addressed also to her ; but her "presence of mind was gone, and she never could remember what she said on the occasion. There had already been a dance, — ^the commencing operation of the night's work, — a thin quadrille, in which the early comers had taken part -without much animation, and to which they had 74 RACHEL EAT. teen driven up unwillLngly. At its close the Faivcelt girls liaij come in, as had now Mrs. Cornbury, so that it may be said that the eYening was beginning again. What had been as yet done was but the tuning of the iiddles before the commencement of the opera. No one likes to be in at the tuning, but there are those who never are able to avoid this annoyance. As it was, Eachel, under Mrs. Cornbury's care, had been brought upon the scene just at the right moment. As soon as, the great clatter had ceased, she found herseK taken by the hand by Cherry, and led a little on one side. " You must have a card, you know," said Cherry, handing her a ticket on which was printed the dances as they were to succeed each other. " That first one is over. Such a dull thing. I danced with Adolphus Griggs, just because I couldn't escape him for one quadrille." Eachel took the card, but never having seen such a thing before, did not in the least understand its object. "As you get engaged for the dances you must put down their names in this way, you see," — and Cherry showed her card, which aheady bore the designations of several cavaliers, scrawled in hieroglyphics which were intelligible to herself: " Haven't you got a pencil? "Well, you can come to me. I have one hanging here, you know." Eachel was beginning to understand, and to think that she should not have very much need for the pencU, when Mrs. Cornbury returned to her, bringing a young man in her wake. " I want to introduce my cousin to you, Walter Cornbury," said she. Mrs. Cornbury was a woman who knew' her duty as a chaperon, and who would not neglect it. " He waltzes de- lightfully," said Mrs. Cornbury, whispering, " and you needn't be afraid of being a little astray with him at first. He always does what I teU him." Then the introduction was made ; but Eachel had no opportunity of repeating herfears, or of saying again that she thought she had better not waltz. What to say to Mr. Walter Cornbury she hardly knew ; but before she had really said anything he had pricked her down for two dances, — for the first waltz, which was just going to begin, and some not long future quadrille. " She is very pretty," Mrs. Butler Corn- bury had said to her cousin, " and I want to be kind to her." " I'll take her in hand and puU her through," said Walter. "What a tribe of people they've got here, haven't theyi" "Yes, and you must dance with them aU. Every time you stand ux> may be as good as a vote." " Oh," said Walter, " I'm AS ACCOUNT OF MRS. TAPPITT'S BALL. 75 not particular ; — I'll dance as long as they keep the house cpen." Then he went back to Eachel, who had already been at work with Cherry's pencil. " If there isn't Eachel Eay going to waltz with Waltei Combury," said Augusta to her mother. Augusta had just refused the odious Griggs, and was about to stand up with a clerk in the brewery, who was almost as odious. "It's because she came in the carriage," said Mrs. Tappitt; "but I don't think she can waltz." Then she hurried oif to welcome other comers. Eachel had hardly been left alone for a minute, and had been 80 much bewildered by the lights and crowd and strangeness of everything around her, that she had been unable to turn her thoughts to the one subject on which during the last week her mind had rested constantly. She had not even looked round the room for Luke Eowan. She had just seen Mary Eowan in the crowd, but had not spoken to her. She had only known her from the manner in which Cherry Tappitt had spoken to her, and it must be explained that Eachel had not seen young Eowan since that parting under the elm-trees. Indeed, since then she had seen none of the Tappitt family. Her mother had said no word to her, cautioning her that she had better not seek them in her evening walks ; but she had felt herself debarred from going into Baslehurst by aU that her sister had said, and in avoiding Luke Eowan she had avoided the whole party from the brewery. Ifow the room was partially cleared, the non-dancers being pressed back into a border round the walks, and the music began. Eachel, with her heart in her mouth, was claimed by her partner, and was carried forward towards the ground for dancing, tacitly assenting to her fate because she lacked words in which to explain to Mr. Combury how very much she would have preferred to be left in obscurity behind the wall of crinoline. " Pray wait a minute or two," said she, almost panting. " Oh, certainly. There's no hurry, only we'U stand where we can get our place when we hke it. You need not be a bit afraid of going on with me. Patty has told me aU about it, and we'U make it right in a brace of turns." There was something very good-natured in his voice, and she almost felt that she could ask liim to let her sit down. " I don't think I can," she said. 76 RACHEL KAT. " Oh yei! ; come, we'll tiy !" Then he took her by the -waist, and away they went. Twice round the room he took her, very gently, as he thought ; but her head had gone from her instantly in a whirl of amazement ! Of her feet and their movements she had known nothing ; though she had followed the music with fair accuracy, she had done so unconsciously, and when he allowed her to stop she did not know which way she had been going, or at which end of the room she stood. And yet she had liked it, and felt some little triumph as a conviction came upon her that she had not conspicuously disgraced herself. " That's charming," said he. She essayed to speak a word in Jinswer, but her want of breath did not as yet permit it. "Charming!" he went on. "The music's perhaps a little slow, but we'U hurry them up presently." Slow ! It seemed to her that she had been carried round in a vortex, of which the rapidity, though pleasant, had been almost frightfuL " Come j we'U have another start," said he; and she was carried away agaia before she had spoken a word. "I'd no idea that girl could waltz," said Mrs. Tappitt to old Mrs. Eule. "I don't think her mother would like it if she saw it," said Mrs. Eule. "And what would Mrs. Prime say?" said Mrs. Tappitt. How- ever the ice was broken, and Rachel, when she was given to understand that that dance was done, felt herself to be aware that the world of waltzing was open to her, at any rate for that night. Was it very wicked t She had her doubts. If anybody had suggested to her, before Mrs. Combury's carriage had called for her, that she would waltz on that evening, she would have repudiated the idea almost with horror. How easy is the path down the shores of the Avernus ! but then, — was she goiag down the shores of the Avernus ? She was still waUdng through the crowd, leaning on her partner's arm, and answering his good-natured questions almost in monosyllables, when she was gently touched on the arm by a fan, and on turning found herself confronted by Luke Eowan and his sister. " I've been trying to get at you so long," said he, making some sort of half apology to Cornbury, " and haven't been able ; though once I very nearly danced you down without your knowing it." " We're so much obliged to you for letting us escape," said Cornbury; "are we not, Miss Eay?" " We carried heavy metal, I can tell you," said Eowan. " But AN ACCOUNT OF MES. TAPPITT'S BALL. 77 I must introduce you to my sister. Where on earth liave you been for these ten days V Then the introduction was made, and young Cornbury, finding that his partner was in the hands of another lady, slipped away. " I have heard a great deal about you, Miss Eay," said Maiy Eowan. " Have you? I don't know who should say much about me." Tlie words sounded uncivil, but she did not know what words to choose. " Oh, from Cherry especially; — and — and from my brother." " I am very glad to make your acquaintance," said Eachel. " He told me that you would have been sure to come and walk with us, and we have all been saying that you had disappeared." " I have been kept at home," said Eachel, who could not help remembering all the words of the churchyard interview, and feeling them down to her finger naiLs. He must ha 76 known why she had not again joined the girls from the brewery in their walks. Or had he forgotten that he had called her Rachel, and held her fast by the hand ? Perhaps he did these things so often to other girls that he thou^t nothing of them? "You have been keeping yourself up for the ball," said Eowan. " Precious people are right to make themselves scarce. And now what vacancies have you got for me V "Vacancies!" said Eachel. " You don't mean to say you've got none. Look here, I've kept all these on purpose for you, although twenty girls have begged me to dispose of them in their favour." " Oh, Luke, how can you tell such fibsf said his sister. " Well, here they are," and he showed his card. " I'm not engaged to anybody," said Eachel ; " except for one quadrille to Mr. Cornbury, — that gentleman who just went away." " Then you've no excuse for not filling up my vacancies, — kept on purpose for you, mind." And immediately her name was put down. for she knew not what dances. Then he took her card and scrawled his own name on it in various places. Sh« knew that she was weak to let him thus have his way in eveij- thing j but he was strong and she could not hinder him. She was soon left with Maiy Eowan, as Luke went off to 78 KACIIEL EAT. fulfil the first of his numerous engagements. " Do you like my hrotherl" said she. " But of course I don't mean you to answer that question. We all think him so very clever." " I'm sure he is very clever." " A great deal too clever to be a brew^er. But you mustn't say that I said so. I wanted him to go into the army." " I shouldn't at all like that for my brother — ^if I had one." " And what would you like 1" " Oh, I don't know. I never had a brother ; — perhaps to be a clergyman." " Yes ; that would be very nice ; but Luke would never be a clergyman. He was going to be an attorney, but he didn't like that at aU. lie says there's a good deal of poetry in brewing beer, but of course he's only quizzing us. Oh, here's my partner. I do so hope I shall see you very often while I'm at Baslehurst." Then Eachel was alone, but Mrs. Tappitt came up to her in a minute. " My dear," said she, " Mr. Griggs desires the honour of your hand for a quadrille." And thus Eachel found herself standing up with the odious Mr. Griggs. " I do so pity you," Baid Cherry, coming behind her for a moment. " Eemember, you need not do it more than once. I don't mean to do it again." After that she was allowed to sit still while a polka was beiug performed. Mrs. Cornbury came to her saying a word or two ; but she did not stay with her long, so that Eachel could think about Luke Eowan, and try to make up her mind as to ■VT'hat words she should say to him. She furtively looked down upon her card and found that he had written his own name to five dances, ending with Sir Eoger de Coverley at the close of the evening. It was quite impossible that she should dance five dances with him, so she thought that she would mark out two with her nail. The very next was one of them, and during that she would explain to him what she had done. The whole thing loomed large in her thoughts and made her feel anxious. She Would have been unhappy if he had not come to her at all, and now she was unhappy because he had .thrust himself upon her so violently, — or if not unhappy, she was at any rate uneasy. And what should she say about the elm-trees ? Nothing, unless he spoke to her about them. She fancied that he would say Bomething about the arm in the cloud, and if so, she must endeavour to make him uudcrstand thai. — that — that — . She AN ACCOUNT OF MKS. TAPPITT'S BALL. 79 did not taow bow to fix lier thoughts, vf ould it be possible to wake him understand that he ought not to have called her Kachel 1 While she ■was thinking of all this Mr. Tappitt oame and sat beside her. "Very pretty; isn't it?" said he. "Very pretty indeed, I call it." " Oh yes, very pretty. I had no idea it ■would be so nice." To Mr. Tappitt in his blue 'waistcoat she could speak ■without hesitation. Ah me ! It is the young men ■who receive aU the reverence that the world has to pay ; — aU the reverence that is worth receiving. When a man is turned forty and has become fat, anybody can speak to him without awe ! " Yes, it is nice," said Mr. Tappitt, who, however, was not quite easy in his mind. He had been into the supper room, and had found the waiter handling long-necked bottles, arrang- ing them in rows, apparently by the dozen. "What's that?" said he, sharply. " The champagne, sir ! there should have been ice, sir, but I suppose they forgot it." Where had Mrs. Tappitt procured all that wine ? It was very plain to him that she had got the better of him by some deceit. He would smile, and smile, and smile during the evening ; but he would have it out -with Mrs. Tappitt before he would allow that lady to have any rest. He lingered in the room, pretending that he was overlooking the arrangements, but in truth he was counting the bottles. After all there was but a dozen. He knew that at Griggs's they sold it for sixty shiUings. "Three pounds !" ha said to himself. " Three pounds more ; dear, dear !" " Yes, it is nice !" he said to Eachel. " Mind you get a glass of champagne when you go iu to supper. Ey-the-by, shall I get a partner for you ? Here, Buckett, come and dance the next dance with Miss Eay." Buckett was the clerk in the brewery, liachel had nothing to say for herself; so Buckett's name was put down on the card, though she would rather not have danced with Buckett. A week or two ago, before she had been taken up into Mrs. Cornbury's carriage, or had waltzed with IMrs. Cornbur5''s cousin, or had looked at the setting sun ■with Luke Eowan, she would have been sufficiently contented to dance with Mr. Buckett, — if ia those days she had ever dreamed of dancing with any one. Then Mrs. Cornbury came to her again, bring- ing other cavaHers, and Eachel's card began to be filled. " The quadrUle before supper you dance -with me." said Walter Cora- 80 KAGHEL KAY. huiy. " That's settled, joii know." ' Oil, wliat a new world i« was, and so different from the Dorcas meetings at Miss I'uoker's rooms ! Then cs.me the moment of the evening which, of all the mo- ments, was the most trying to her. Luke Eowan came to claim her hand for the next quadrille. She had already spoken to him, — or rather he to her ; but that had been in the presence of a third person, when, of course, nothing could be said about the sunset and the clouds, — nothing about that promise of friendship. But now she would have to stand again with him in solitude, — a solitude of another kind, — ia a solitude which was authorized, during which he might whisper what words he pleased to her, and from which she could not even run away. It had been thought to be a great sin on her part to have remaiaed a moment with him by the stile; but now she was to stand up with him beneath the glare of the lights, dressed in her best, on purpose that he might whisper to her what words he pleased. But she was sure — she thought that she was sure, that he would utter no words so sweet, so full of meaning, as those in which he bade her watch the arm in the clouds. Till the first figure was over for them he hardly spoke to her. " Tell me," said he then, " why has nobody seen you since Saturday week last V " I have been at home." " Ah ; but tell me the truth. Eemember what we said as we parted, — about being friends. One tells one's friend the real truth. But I suppose you do not remember what we said?" " I don't think I said anything, Mr. Eowan." " Did you not t Then I must have been dreaming. I thought you promised me your friendship." He paused for her answer, but she said nothing. She could not declare to him that she would not be his friend. " But you have not told me yet why it was that you remained at home. Come ; — answer me a fair question fairly. Had I offended you?" Again she paused and made him no reply. It seemed to her that the room was going round her, and that the music made her dizzy. If she told him that he had not offended her would she not thereby justify him in having called her Eachel ? "Then I did offend you?" said he. "Oh, Mr. Eowan,- -ntver muid now; you must go on with AX ACCOUNT OF MRS. TAPPITT'S BALL. 81 ttie figure," and thus for a moment slie was saved from her difficulty. "When he had done his work of dancing, she hegan hers, and as she placed hoth hor hands in his to make the fiuaj turn, she flattered herself that he would not go hack to the subject. Xor did he while the quadrille lasted. As they contiuued to dance he said very little to her, and before the last figure was over she had almost settled down to enjoyment. He merely spoke a word or two about Mrs. Cornbury's dress, and another word about the singular arrangement of Mr. Griggs' jewellery, at wliich word she almost laughed outright, and then a third word laudatory of the Tappitt girls. " As for Cherry," said he, " I'm quite in love with her for her pure good-nature and hearty manners ; and of all living female human beings Martha is the most honest and just." " Oh ! I'U ten her that," said Eachel. " She will so like it." "ISTo, you mustn't. You mustn't repeat any of the things I tell you in confidence." That word confidence again silenced her, and nothing more was said tUl he had offered her his arm at the end of the dance. " Come away and have some negus on the stairs," he said. " The reason I like these sort of parties is, that one is aUowed to go into such queer places. You see that httle room with the door open. That's where Mr. Tappitt keeps his old boots and the whip with which he drives his grey horse. There are four men playing cards there now, and one is seated on the end of an upturned portmanteau." " And where are the old boots t" " Packed away on the top of Mrs. Tappitt's bed. I helped to put them there. Some are stuck under the grate because there are no fixes now. Look here ; there's a seat in the window." Then he placed her in the enclosure of an old window on the staircase landing, and brought her lemonade, and when she had drunk it he sat down beside her. "Hadn't we better go back to the dancing?" " They won't begin for a few minutes. They're only timing up again. You should always escape from the hot air for a moment or two. Besides, you must answer me that question. Did I offend you?" " Plea.se don't talk of it. Please don't. It's all over row " KACHEL- RAT. " Ah, but it is not all over. I knew you were angry with me "because, — shall I say why?" "No, Mr. Eowan, don't say anything about it." " At any rate, I may think that you have forgiven me. But wliat if I offend in the same way again? What if I ask permission to do it, so that it may be no oifence ? Only think ; if I am to Uve here in Baslehurst aU my life, is it not reason- able that I should wish you to be my friend ? Are you going to separate yourself from Oherry Tappitt because you are afraid of me?" " Oh, no." " But is not that what you have done during the last week, Miss Eay; — if it must be Miss Eay?" Then he paused, but stiU she said nothing. " Rachel is such a pretty name." " Oh, I think it so ugly." " It's the prettiest name in the Bible, and the name most fit for poetic use. Who does not remember Eachel weeping for her children?" " That's the idea, and not the name. Euth is twice prettier, and Mary the sweetest of alL" " I never knew anybody before called Eachel," said he. " And I never knew anybody called Luke." " That's a coincidence, is it not ? — a coincidence that ought to make us friends. I may eaU you Eachel then 1" " Oh, no ; please don't. What would people think ?" " Perhaps they would think the truth," said he. " Perhapa they would imagine that I called you so because I liked you. But perhaps they might think also that you let me do so because you Hked me. People do make such mistakes." At this moment up came to them, with flushed face, Mr. Buckett. "I have been looking for you everywhere," said he to Eachel. " It's nearly over now." " I am so sorry," said Eachel, " but I quite forgot." " So I presume," said Mr. Buckett angrUy, but at the same time he gave his arm to Eachel and led her away. The fao end of some waltz remained, und he might get a turn with her. People in his hearing had spoken of her as the belle of the room, and he did not hke to lose his chance. " Oh Mr. Eoiffan," said Eachel, looking back as she was being led away. " I must speak one word to Mr. Eowan." Then she separated herself, and retiu-ning a step or two abiiost whispered to her AN ACCOUNT OF MRS. TAPPITT'S BALL. 83 late partner — " You have put me down for ever so many dances. You must scratch out two or three of them." " Not one," said he. "An engagement is an engagement." " Oh, but I reaUy can't." "Of course I cannot make you, but I vnU scratch out nothing, — and forget nothing." Then she rejoined Mr. Buckett, and was told by him that young Eowan was not liked in the brewery at all. " "We think hiin conceited, you know. He pretends to know more than anybody else," CHAPTEE YIIL AH ACCOUNT OF MES. TAPPITT S BALL CONCLUDED. It came to be voted by public acclamation that Eachel Eay was the beUe of the evening. I think this was brought about quite as much by Mrs. Butler Cornbury's powerful influence as by Eachel's beauty. Mrs. Butler Cornbury having begun the work of chaperon carried it on heartily, and talked her young friend up to the top of the tree. Long before supper her card was quite full, but filled in a manner that was not comfortable to herself, — for she knew that she had made mis- takes. As to those spaces on which the letter E was Avritten, she kept them very sacred. She was quite resolved that she would not stand up with him on all those occasions, — that she would omit at any rate two ; but she would accept no one else for those two dances, not choosing to select any special period for throwing him over. She endeavoured to explain this when she waltzed with him, shortly before supper; but her expla- nation did iLot come easy, and she wanted all her attention for the immediate work she had in hand. "If you'd only give yourself to it a little more eagerly," be faid, "you'd widta beautifully'.^' 84 EACHEL RAT. " I shall never do it well," slie answered. " I don't suppose I shall ever try again." " But you like it V " Oh yes ; I L'ke it excessively. But one can't do every- thing that one likes." " No ; I can't. You -won't let me do what I Hke." "Don't talk iu that way, Mr. Eowan. If you do you'll destroy aU my pleasure. You should let me enjoy it while it lasts." In this way she was hecoming iutimate with him. " How vei/ iiicely your house does for a dance," said Mrs. Comhury to Mrs. Tappitt. " Oh dear, — I don't think so. Our rooms are so small But it's very kind of you to say so. Indeed, I never can be sufficiently obliged " " By-the-by,'' said Mrs. Cornbury, " what a nice girl Eachel Hay has grown." " Yes, iudeed," said Mrs. Tappitt. " And dances so well ! I'd no idea of it. The young men seem rather taken with her. Don't you think so 1 " " I declare I think they are. I always fancy that is rather a misfortune to a young girl, — ^particularly when it must mean nothing, as of course it can't with poor Eachel." "I don't see that at all." "Her mother, you know, Mrs. Cornbury j — they are not in the way of seeing any company. It was so kind of you to bring her here, and really she does look very nice. My girls are very good-natured to her. I only hope her head won't be turned. Here's Mr. Tappitt. You must go down, Mrs. Corn- bury, and eat a little bit of supper." Then Mr. Tappitt in his blue waistcoat led Mrs. Cornbury away. " I am a very bad hand at supper," said the lady. "You must take just one glass of champagne," said the gentleman. Now that the wine was there, Mr. Tappitt appre- ciated the importance of the occasion. Por the last dance before supper, — or that which was in- tended to be the last,: — Eachel had by long agreement been the partner of "Walter Cornbury. But now that it was over, the majority of tho performers could not go into the supper-room, because of the crowd. Young Cornbury therefore proposed that they should loiter about till their time came. He was very well inclined for such loitering with Eachel. AN ACCOUNT OF MRS. TAPPITT'S BALL. 85 "You're flirting with that girl, Master "Walter," said IMrs, Cornbury. " I suppose that's what she came for," said the cousin. " By no means, and she's under my care ; therefore I beg you'll talk no nonsense to her." Walter Cornbury probably did talk a little nonsense to her, but it was very innocent nonsense. Most of such flirtations if they were done out loud would be very iunooent. Young men are not nearly so pointed in their compliments as their elders, and generally confine themselves to remarks of which neither mothers noi grandmothers could disapprove if they heard them. The romance ■ lies rather in. the thoughts than in the words of those concerned. "Walter Cornbury believed that he was flirting, and felt himself to be happy, but he had uttered nothing warmer to Eachel than a hope that he might meet her at the next Torquay ball. " I never go to public balls," said EacheL " But why not, Miss Eay ?" said "Walter. " I never went to a dance of any description before this." " But now that you've begun, of course you'U. go on." Mr. Combury's flirtation never reached a higher pitch than that. "WTien he had got as far as that, Luke Eowan played him a trick, — an inhospitable trick, seeing that he, Eowan, was in some sort at home, and that the people about him were bound to obey him. He desired the musicians to strike up again wliile the elders were eating their supper, — and then claimed Eachel's hand, so that he might have the pleasure of serving her with cold chicken and champagne. " Miss Eay is going into supper with me," said Cornbury. "But supper is not ready," said Eowan, and Miss Eay is engaged to dance with me." " Quite a mistake on your part," said Cornbury. " No mistake at all," said Eowan. " Indeed it is. Come, Miss Eay, we'll take a turn down into the hall, and see if places are ready for us." Cornbury rather despised Eowan, as being a brewer and mechanical; and probably he showed that he did so. " Places are not ready, so you need not trouble Miss Eay to go down as yet. But a couple is wanted for a quadrille, and therefore I'm sure ahe'U stand up." "Come aiong, Eachel," said Cherry. "We just want 86 RACHEL RAY. you. This will be tlie nicest of all, because we shall have room." Eachel had become unhappy, seeing that the two men were ia earnest. Had not Cherrj^ spoken she would have remained with ]\Ir. Cornbury, thinking that to be her safer conduct ; but Cherry's voice had overpowered her, and she gave her arm to young Eowan, moving away with slow, hesitating step. " Of course IMiss Eay will do as she pleases," said Cornbury, " Of course she wUl," said Eowan. " I am so sorry," said Eachel, " but I was engaged, and it seems I am really wanted." Walter Cornbury bowed very stiffly, and there was an end of his flirtation. " That's the sort of thing that always happens when a fellow comes among this sort of people !" It was thus he consoled himself as he went down solitary to his supper. "That's all right," said Eowan; "now we've Cherry for oirr vis-k-vis, and after that we'll go down to supper comfortably." " But I said I'd go with him." " You can't now, for he has gone without you. What a brick Cherry is ! Do you know what she said of you?" " No ; do ten me." " I won't. It will make you vain." " Oh, dear no ; but I want Cherry to like me, because I am so fond of her." "She says you're by far But I won't teU you. I hate compliments, and that would look like one. Come, who's for- getting the figure now 1 1 shouldn't wonder if young Cornbury went into the brewery and drowned himself in one of the vats." It was very nice, — very nice indeed. This was her third dance with Luke Eowan, and she was beginning to think that the other two might perhaps come off without any marked im- propriety on her part. She was a little unhappy about Mr. Cornbury, — on his cousin's account rather than on his own. Mrs. Cornbury had been so kind to her that she ought to have remained with Walter when he desired it. So she told herself • — but yet she hked beiag taken down to supper by Luke Eowan. She had one other cause of uneasiness. She constantly caue;ht :Mrs. Tappitt's eye fixed upon herseK, and whenever she did" so Mrs. Tappitt's eye seemed to look unkindly at her. Bhe liad also an instinctive feeling that Augusta did not regard her wi^i AN ACCOUNT OF MKS. TiPPITl'S BALL. 87 favour, and that this disfavoiir arose from Mr. Eowan's atten- tions. It was all very nice ; but still she felt that there was danger around her, and sometimes she would pause a moment in her happiness, and almost tremble as she thought of things. She was dividing herself poles asunder from Mrs. Prime. " And now we'll go to supper," said Eowan. " Come, Cherry ; do you and Boyd go on first." Boyd was a friend of Eowan's. " Do you know, I've done such a clever trick. This is my second descent among the eatables. As I belong in a manner to the house I took down Miss Harford, and hovered about her for five minutes. Then I managed to lose myself in the crowd, and coming up here got the music up. The fellows were just going off. "We've plenty of time now, because they're in the kitchen eating and drinking. I contrived aU that dodge that I might give you this glass of wine with my own hands. " " Oh, Mr. Eowan, it was very wrong !" " And that's my reward ! I don't care about its being wrong as long as it's pleasant." " What shocking morality ! " " AU is fair in ^Well, never mind, you'll own it is pleasant." " Oh, yes ; it's very pleasant." " Then I'm contented, and will leave the moral of it for Mr. Cornbury. I'll teU you something further if you'll let me." " Pray don't tell me anything that you ought not." " I've done all I could to get up this party on purpose that we might have you here." " Nonsense." " But I have. I have cared about it just because it would enable me to say one word to you j — and now I'm afraid to say it." She was sitting there close to him, and she couldn't go away. She couldn't run as she had done from the stile. She couldn't show any feeling of offence before all those who were around her ; and yet, — was it not her duty to do something to stop him ? " Pray don't say such things," she wMspered. " I tell you that I'm afraid to say it. Here ; give me some ■wine. You'U take some more. No ? "Well ; shaU we got I am afraid to say it." They were now out in the hall, standing idly there, with their backs to another door. "I wonder what answer you would make me !" " "We had better go up-stairs. Indeed we had." 88 JRACIIEI. HAT. " Slop a moment, Miss Eay. Why is it that you are so uii' willing even to stay a moment with me?" " I'm not unmLLing. Only we had better go now." " Do you remember when I held your arm at the stile ?" "No ; I don't remember anything about it. You ought not ts have done it. Do you know, I think you are very cruel." As she made the accusation, she looked do^vn upon the floor, and spoke in a low, trembling voice that almost convinced him that she was iu earnest. « Cruel?" said he. " That's hard too." " Or you wouldn't prevent me enjoying myself while I am here, by saying thmgs which you ought to know I don't Uke." " I have hardly thought whether you would like what I say or not ; but I know this ; I would give anything in the world to make myself sure that you would ever look back upon this evening as a happy one." " I wiU if you'll come up-stairs, and — " "And what?" "And go on without, — ^without seeming to mind me so much." " Ah, but I do mind you. Eachel — ^no ; you shall not go for a minute. Listen to me for one moment." Then he tried to stand before her, but she was off from him, and ran up-stairs by herself. What was it that he wished to say to her ? She knew that she would have hked to have heard it ; — nay, that she was longing to hear it. But she was startled and afraid of him, and as she gently crept in at the door of the dancing-room, she determined that she would tell Mrs. Combury that she was quite ready for the carriage. It was impossible that she should go through those other two dances with Luke Eowan ; and as for her other engagements, they must be allowed to shift for themselves. One had been made early ia the evening with Mr. Griggs. It would be a great thing to escape dancing with Mr. Griggs. She would ask Cherry to make her apologies to everybody. As she entered the room she felt ashamed of herself, and unable to take any place. She was oppressed by an idea that she ought not -to be walking about without some gentleman with her, and that people would observe her. She was still very near the door when she perceived that Mr. Eowan was also coming in. She determineJ to avoid him if she could, feeling AS ACCOUNT OF MES. TAT'PITT's Bj^ 89 sure that she could not stop him in anjiihrng that he might Hny, ■while so many people would be close around them. And ytt she felt almost disappointment when she heard his voice as "lie talked merrily with some one at the door. At that moment Mrs. Comhury came up to her, walking across the room on purpose to join her. " What, all alone ! I thought your hand was promised for every dance up to five o'clock." " I believe I'm engaged to some one now, but I declare I don't know who it is. I dare say he has forgotten." " Ah, yes ; people do get confused a little just about this time. Will you come and sit down?" " Thank you, I should like that. But, Mrs. Combury, when you are ready to go away, I am, — quite ready." " Go away ! Why I thought you intended to dance at least for the next two hours." In answer to this, Eachel declared that she was tired. "And, Mrs. Cornbury, I want to avoid that man," and she pointed out Mr. Griggs by a glance of her eye. " I think he'U say I'm engaged to him for the next waltz, and — I don't hke him." " Poor man ; he doesn't look very nice, certainly ; hut if that's aU I'll get you out of the scrape without running aw=y." Then Mr. Griggs came up, and, with a very low bow, struck out the point of his elbow towards Eachel, expecting her immediately to put her hand within it. "I'm afraid, sir, you must excuse Miss Eay just at present. She's too tired to dance immediately." Mr. Griggs looked at his card, then looked at Eachel, then looked at Mrs. Combury, and stood twiddling the buncli of little gilt playthings that hung from his chain. " That is too hard," said he ; " deuced hard." " I'm very sorry," said EacheL "So shall I be, — ^uncommon. Eeally, Mrs. Combury, I thiok a turn or two would do her good. Don't you 1 " " I can't say I do. She says she would rather not, and of course you won't press her." " I don't see it in that Ught, — I reaUy don't. A gentleman has his rights you know, Mrs. Combury. Miss Eay won't deny—" "Miss Eay wiU deny that she intends to stand up for this 90 0L" EACHEL RAY. dance. And one of the rights of a gentleman is to take a lady at hor word." " Really, llrs. Comhury, you are do-wn upon one so hard." "Eachel," said she, "would you mind coming across the room -with me; there are seats on the sofa on the other side." Then Mrs. Cornbury saUed across the floor, and Eachel crept after her more dismayed than ever. Mr. Griggs the while stood transfixed to his place, stroking his mustaches with his hand, and showing plainly by his countenance that he didn't know what he ought to do next. " Well, that's cool," said he ; "con- founded cool !" "Anything wrong, Griggs, my boy!" said a bank clerk, slapping bim oft the back. " I call it very wrong ; very wrong, indeed," said Griggs ; "but people do give themselves such airs ! Miss Cherry, may I have the honour of waltzing with you?" "Certainly not," said Cherry, who was passing by. Then Mr. Griggs made his way back to the door. Eachel felt that things were going wrong with her. It had so happened that she had parted on bad terms with three gentlemen. She had offended Mr. Cornbury and ]Mr. Griggs, and had done her best to make Mr. Eowan understand that ho had offended her ! She conceived that aU the room would know of it, and that Mrs. Cornbury would become ashamed of her. That Mrs. Tappitt was already very angry with her she was quite sure. She ■wished she had not come to the ball, and began to think that perhaps her sister might be right. It almost seemed to herself that she had not known how to behave herself. For a short time she had been happy, — ^very happy; but she feared that she had in some way committed herseK during the moments of her happiness. " I hope you are not angry with me," she said, "about Mr. Griggs!" appeal- ing to her friend in a plaintive voice. " Angry ! — oh dear, no. Why shoidd I be angry with you ! I should be angry with that man, only I'm a person that never gets angry with anybody. You were quite right not to dance with him. Never be made to dance with any man you don't like ; and remember that a young lady should always have her own way in a ball-room. She doesn't get much of it anywhere else ; does she, my dear 1 And now I'll go whenever you like it. but I'm not the least in a hurry. You're the young lady, and AN ACCOUNT OP MES. TAPPITT's BAJ^ 91 you're to liave your own way. If you're quite ia earnest, I'll get some one to order the carKage." — EacM said she was quite in earnest, and then "Walter was called. " So you're going, are you 1" said he. " Miss Eay has ill-treated me so dreadfully that I can't express my regret." "Ill-treated you, too, has she? Upon my word, my dear, you've shown yourself quite great upon the occasion. When I was a girl, there was nothing I liked so much as oilending aU my partners." But Eachel was red with dismay, and wretched that such an accusation should he made against her. " Oh, Mrs. Combury, I didn't mean to offend him ! I'll explain it all in the carriage. What will you think of me?" "Think, my dear?— why, I shall think that you are going to turn all the young men's heads in Baslehurst. But I shall hear all about it from Walter to-morrow He teUa me of all his loves and aU his disappointments." While the carriage was being brought round, Eachel kept close to her chaperon j but every now and again her eyes, in spite of herself, would wander away to Mr. Eowan. Was he in any way affected by her leaving him, or was it all a joke to him? He was dancing now witii Cherry Tappitt, and Eachel was sure that all of it was a joke. But it was a cruel joke, — cruel because it exposed her to so much iU-natured remark. With bim she would quarrel — quarrel really. She would let him know that he should not call her by her Christian name just when it suited him to do so, and then take himself off to play with others in the same way. She would teU Cherry, and make Cherry understand that all walks and visiting and friendly intercommunications must be abandoned because this young man would take advantage of her position to annoy her ! He should be made to understand that she was not in his power ! Then, as she thought of this, she caught his eye as he made a sudden stop in the dance close to her, and aU her hard thoughts died away. Ah, dear, what was it that she wanted of him ? At that moment they got up to go away. Such a person as Mrs. Butler Cornbury could not, of course, escape without a parade of adieus:. Mr. Tappitt was searched up from the httle room in which the card-party held their meeting in order that ie might hand the guest that had honoured him down to her carriage; and Mrs. Tappitt fluttered about, profuse in her acknowledgments for the favour done to them. " And we do BO hope Mr. Comburv will be successful," she said, as she bade 32 ^^ EACHEIi BAY, her last fareweU. This was spoken close To :N&. Tappitt's ear; and Mrs. Cornbuiy flattered herself that after that Mr. Tappitts vote wotdd be secure. Mr. Tappitt said nothing about his vote, but handed the lady down-stairs in solemn silence. The Tappitt girls came and clustered about Eachel as she was going "I can't conceive why you are off so early," said Martha. " No, indeed," said Mrs. Tappitt ; only of course it would be very wrong to keep Mrs. Cornbury waiting when she has been so excessively kind to you." " The naughty girl ! It isn't that at aU," said Cherry. " It's she that is hurrying Mrs. Cornbury away." " Good night," said Augusta, very coldly. "And Eachel," said Cherry, "mind you come up to-morrow and talk it aE over ; we shall have so much to say." Then Eachel turned to go, and found Luke Eowan at her elbow waiting to take her down. She had no alternative] — she must take his arm ; and thus they walked down-stairs into the haU together. " Tou'U come up here to-morrow," said he. " No, no ; tell Cherry that I shall not come." " Then I shall go to Bragg's End. WiU your mother let me calir' " No, don't come. Pray don't." " I certainly shall ; — certainly, certainly ! What things have you got ? Let me put your shawl on for you. K you do not come up to the girls, I shall certainly go down to you. Now, good night. Good night, Mrs. Cornbury." And Luke, getting hold of Eachel's reluctant hand, pressed it with all his warmth. "I don't want to ask indiscreet questions," said Mis. Corn- bury ; " but that young man seems rather smitten, I think," " Oh, no," said Eachel, not knowing what to say. " But I say, — oh yes ; a nice good-looking man he is too, and a gentleman, which is more than I can say for all of them there. What an escape you had of Mr. Griggs, my dear !" "Yes, I had. But I was so sorry that you should have to speak to him." " Of course I spoke to him. I was there to fight your battles for you. That's why married ladies go to balls. Ton were quite right not to dance with him. A girl should always avoid any iatimacy with such men as that. It is not that he would have done you any harm ; but they stand in the way of your satisfaction and contentment. Balls are given specially for young ladies ; and it is my theory that they aie to make AN ACCOtJNT OF MES. TAPPITT's EAIl!' 93 Stemselves happy -while they are there, and not sacrifice them- selves to men whom they don't wish to know. You can't always refuse tvhen you're asked, hut you can always get out of an engagement afterwards if you know what you're about. That was my way when I was a girl." And this was the daughter of Mr. Comfort, whose somewhat melancholy dis- courses against the world's pleasures and vanities had so often filled Eachel's bosom with awe ! Eachel sat silent, thinking of what had occurred at Mrs. Tappitt's j and thinking also that she ought to make some little speech to her friend, thanking her for all that she had done. Ought she not also to apologise in some way for her own conduct? "What was that between you and my cousin Walter?" Mrs. Cornbury asked, after a few moments. " I hope I wasn't to blame," said Eachel. " But " "But what? Of course you weren't to blame; — ^unless it was in being run after by so many gentlemen at once." " He was going to take me down to supper, — and it was so kind of him. And then while we were waiting because the room down-stairs was fuU there was another quadrille, and I was engaged to Mr. Eowan." " Ah, yes ; I understand. And so Master Walter got thrown once. His wrath in such matters never lasts very long. Here we are at Bragg's End. I've been so glad to have you with me, and I hope I may take you again with me somewhere before long. Eemember me kindly to your mother. There she is at ■ the door waiting for you." Then Eachel jumped out of the carriage, and ran across the little giavel-path into the house. Mrs. Eay had been waiting up for her daughter, and had been listening eagerly for the wheels of the carriage. It was not yet two o'clock, and by baU-going people the hour of Eachel's return would have been considered early; but to Mrs. Eay anything after midnight was very late. She was not, however, angry, or even vesed, but simply pleased that her girl had at last coma back to her. " Oh, mamma, I'm afraid it has been very hard upon you, waiting for me!" said Eachel; "but I did come away as soon as I could." Mrs. Eay declared that she had not found it at aU hard, and then, — ^with a laudable curiosity, seeing how little she had known about balls, — desired to have an immediate account of Eachel's doings. "And did you get anybody to dance with you?" asked the 94 EACHEL EAT. mother, feeling a mother's ambition that her daughter should have been " respectit like the lave." " Oh, yes ; plenty of people asked me to dance." " And did you find it come easy?" " Quite easy. I -was frightened about the waltzing at first" " Do you mean that you waltzed, Eachel 1" " Yes, mamma. Everybody did it. Mrs. Combiiry said eho always waltzed when she was a girl ; and as the things turned out I could not help myself. I began with her cousin. I didn't mean to do it, but I got so ashamed of myself that I coiddn't refuse." Mrs. Eay stiU was not angry; but she was surprised, and perhaps a little dismayed. " And did you like it J" " Yes, mamma." " "Were they all kind to you %" " Yes, mamma." " You seem to have very little to say about it ; but I suppose you're tired." " I am tired, but it isn't that. It seems that there is so much to think about. I'll teU you everything to-morrow, when I get quiet again. Kot that there is much to telL" " Then I'll wish you good night, dear." " Good night, mamma. Mrs. Cornbury was so Tdnd, — ^you can have no idea how good-natured she is." " She always was a good creature." " If I'd been her sister she couldn't have done more for me. I feel as though I were really quite fond of her. But she isn't a bit like what I expected. She chooses to have her own way ; but then she is so good-humoured ! And when I got into any Little trouble she " " WeU, what else did she do ; and what trouble had you !" " I can't quite describe what I mean. She seemed to make so much of me ; — just as she might have done if Fd been some grand young lady down from London, or any, any; you know what I mean." Mrs. Eay sat with her candle in her hand, receiving great comfort from the knowledge that her daughter had been " respectit." She knew weU what Eachel meant, and reflected, with perhaps a pardonable pride, that she LorseK had " come of decent people." The Tappitts were higher than her in the world, and no were the Giiggses. But she knew that her AST ACCOUNT OV MfiS. TAPPITT'S BALL. 95 forbears liad been gentlefolk, when there -were, so to speak, no Griggses and no Tappitts in existence. It was pleasant to beT to think that her daughter had been treated as a lad/. "And she did do me such a kindness. That horrid IVIr. Griggs was going to dance with me, and she wouldn't le*^ him." " I don't Hke that young man at aU." " Poor Cherry ! you should hear her talk of him ! And shs would have stayed ever so much longer if I had not pressed her to go ; and then she has such a nice way of saying things." " She always had that, when she was quite a young girl." " I declare I feel that I quite love her. And there was such a grand supper. Champagne !" "No!" " I got some cold turkey. Mr. Eowan took me down to supper." These last words were spoken very mildly, and Eachel, as she uttered them, did not dare to look into tier mother'? face. " Did you dance with him.1" " Yes, mamma, three times. I should have stayed later only I was engaged to dance with bim twice more; and I didn't choose to do so." " Was he 1 Did he V " Oh, mamma ; I can't tell you. I don't know how to teU. you. I wish you knew it all without my saying anything. He says he shall come here to-morrow if I don't go up to the brewery ; and I can't possibly go there now, after that." " Did he say anything more than that, Eachel?" "He calls me Eachel, and speaks — I can't tell you how he speaks. If you think it wrong, mamma, I won't ever see him. again" Mrs. Eay didn't know whether she ought to think it wrong or. not. She was inclined to wish that it was right and to beUeve that it was wrong. A few minutes ago Eachel was unable to open her mouth, and was anxious to escape to bed ; but, now that the ice was broken between her and her mother, they sat up for more than an hour talking about Luke Eowan. "I wonder whether he wiU really come?" Eachel said to herself, as she laid her head upon her piUow — "and why does ho want to coma J" lUOHiiL ViAl. CHAPTEE IX MR. PRONG AT HOME. Mrs. Tappitt's ball was celebrated on a Tuesday, and on the preceding Monday Mrs. Prime mored herself off, bag and baggage, to Miss Pucker's lodgings. Miss Pucker had been elated with a dismal joy when the proposition was first made to her. " Oh, yes ; it was very dreadfuL She would do anything ; — of course she would give up the front bedroom up-stairs to Mrs. Prime, and get a stretcher for herself in the little room behind, which looked out on the tiles of Griggs' sugar warehouse. She hadn't thought such a thing would have been possible ; she really had not. A ball ! Mrs. Prime couldn't help coming away ; — of course not. And there would be plenty of room for all her boxes in the small room behind the shop. Mrs. Eay's daughter go to a ball !" And then some threatening words were said as to the destiny of wicked people, which shall not be repeated here. That flitting had been a very dismal affair. An old man out of Baslehurst had come for Mrs. Prime's things with a donkey-cart, and the old man, assisted by the girl, had carried them out together. Eachel had remained secluded in her mother's room. The two sisters had met at the same table at breakfast, but had not spoken over their tea and bread and butter. As Eachel was taking the cloth away Mrs. Prime had asked her solemnly whether she still persisted in bringing perdition upon herself and her mother. " You have no right to ask me such a question," Eachel had answered, and taking herself up-stairs had secluded herself tiU. the old man with the donkey, followed by Mrs. Prime, had taken himself away from Bragg's End. Mrs. Eay, as her eldest daughter was leaving her, stood at the door of her house with her hand- kerchief to her eyes. " It makes me very unhappy, Dorothea j so it does." " And it makes me very unhappy, too, mother. Perhaps ray sorrow in the matter is deeper than yours. But ME. PEONG AT HUME. 97 I must do my duty." Then the two Tvido-ws kissed eaeSi other -with a cold unloTing kiss, and Mrs. Prime had taken her departure from Biagg's End Cottage. "It -will make a great difference in the housekeeping," Mrs. Eay said to Eachel, and then she went to work at her little accounts. It was Dorcas-day at Miss Pucker's, and as the work of the meeting hegan soon after Mrs. Prime had unpacked her boxes in the front 7js:$rt!0m and had made her little domestic arrangements with her friend, that fu-st day passed by without much tedium. Mrs, Prime was used to Miss Pucker, and was not therefore grlerously troubled by the ways and habits of that lady, much as they were unlike those to which she had been accustomed at Bragg's End ; but on the next morning, as she was sitting with her companion after breakfast, an idea did come into her head that Miss Pucker would not be a pleasant companion for life. She would talk incessantly of the wickednesses of the cottage, and ask repeated questions about Eachel and the young man. Mrs. Prime was im- doubtedly very angry with her mother, and much shocked at her sister, but she did not reHsh the outspoken sympathy of her conJidential friend. " He'll never marry her, you know. He don't think of such a thing," said Miss Pucker over and over again. Mrs. Prime did not find this pleasant when spoken of her sister. "And the young men I'm told goes on anyhow, as they pleases at them dances," said Miss Pucker, who in the warmth of her intimacy forgot some of those little restrictions in speech with which she had burdened herself when first striving to acquire the friendship of Mrs. Prime. Before dinner was over Mrs. Prime had made up her mind that she must soon move her staff again, and establish herself somewhere in solitude. After tea she took herself out for a walk, having managed to decline Miss Pucker's attendance, and as she walked she thought of Mr. Prong. Would it not be well for her to go to him and ask his further advice ? He would tell her in what way she had better live. He would tell her also whether it was impossible that she should ever return to the cottage, for already her heart was becoming somewhat more soft than was its wont. And as she walked she met Mr. Prong himself intent on his pastoral business. " I was thinking of coming to you to-morrow," she said, after their first salutation was over. 98 BACHGli BAT. «Do," said he; "do; come early,— tefore the toil of the day's work commences. I also am speciaUy aimoTis to see you. Will nine he too early,— or, if you have not concluded your morning meal by that time, half-past nine?" Mrs. Prime assured him that her morning meal was always concluded hefore nine o'clock, and promised to he with him hy that hour. Then, as she slowly paced up the High Street to the Cawston Bridge and back again, she wondered within herself as to the matter on which Mr. Prong could specially want to see her. He might probably desire to claim her services for some woman's work ia his sheepfold. He should have them wiU- ingly, for she had begua to feel that she would sooner co-operate with Mr. Prong than with Miss Pucker. As she returned down the High Street, and came near to her own door, she saw the cause of all her fanuly troubles standing at the entrance to Griggs's wine-store. He was talking to the shopman within, and as she passed she frowned grimly beneath her widow's bonnet. " Send them to the brewery at once," said Luke Eowan to the man. " They are wanted this evening." " I understand," said the man. "And teU your fellow to take them round to the baei door." " All right," said the man, winking with one eye. He under- stood very well that young Eowan was ordering the champagne for Mrs. Tappitt's supper, and that it was thought desirable that Mr. Tappitt shouldn't see the bottles going into the house. Miss Pucker possessed at any rate the virtue of being early, so that Mrs. Prime had no difficulty in concluding her " morning meal," and being at Mr. Prong's house punctually at nine o'clock. Mr. Prong, it seemed, had not been quite so steadfast to his purpose, for his teapot was stiU upon the table, together with the ddbris of a large dish of shrimps, the eating of smaU. shell- fish being an innocent enjoyment to which he was much addicted. "Dear me; so it is; just nine. We'U have these things away in a minute. Mrs. Mudge; Mrs. Mudge!" Whereupon Mrs. ^udge came forth, and between the three the table was soon cleared. " I wish you hadn't caught me so late," said Mr. Prong; "it looks as though I hadn't been thinking of you." Then he pieked up the stray shell of a shrimp, and in order that he misrht get rid of it, put it into his mouth. Mrs. Prime said she MB. PEONG AT HOME. 99 hoped she didn't trouble him, and that of comse she didn't expect him to he thinking about her particularly. Then Mr. Prong looked at her in a -way that was very particular out of the comer of hia eyes, and assured her that he had been thinking of her all night. After that Mrs. Prime sat down on a horsehair-seated chair, and Mr. Prong sat on another opposite to her, leaning back, with his eyes nearly closed, and his hands folded upon his lap. " I don't think Miss Pucker's will quite do for me," said Mrs, Prime, beginning her story first. " I never thought it would, my friend," said Mr. Prong, with his eyes stiU nearly closed. " She's a very good woman, — an excellent woman, and her heart is faU. of love and charity. But — " " I quite understand it, my friend. She is not in aU things the companion you desice." " I am not quite sure that I shall want any companion." " Ah !" sighed Mr. Prong, shaking his head, but stOl keeping his eyes closed. " I think I would rather be alone, if I do not return to them at the cottage. I would fain return if only they — " " If only they would return too. Yes ! That would be a glorious end to the struggle you have made, if you can bring them back with you from following after the Evil One ! But you cannot return to them now, if you are to countenance by your presence dancings and love-makings in the open air," — why worse in the open air than in a close little parlour in a back street, Mr. Prong did not say, — " and loud revellings, and the absence of all good works, and rebellion against the Spirit." Mr. Prong was becoming energetic in his language, and at one time had raised himself in his chair and opened his eyes. But he closed them at once, and again fell back. " No, my friend," said he, " no. It must not be so. They must be rescued fi-om the burning ; but not so, — ^not so." After that for a minute or two they both sat still in silence. " I think I shall get two small rooms for myself in one of the quiet streets, near the new church," said she. " Ah, yes, perhaps so, — for a time." " Till I may be able to go back to mother. It's a sad thing families being divided, Mr. Prong." " Yes, it is sad ; unless it tends to the doing of the I^ord'a woik." 100 RACHEL RA.Y "But I hope; — I do hope, that all this may be ehaneei Eachel I know is ohstinate, hut mother means well, Mr. Prong. She means to do her duty, if only she had good teaching neai her." " I hope she may, I hope she may. I trust that they may both be brought to see the true light. We wUl wrestle for them, — ^you and me. We wUl wrestle for them, — together. Mrs. Prime, my friend, if you are prepared to hear me with attention, I have a proposition to make which I think you will acknowledge to be one of importance." Then suddenly he sat bolt upright, opened his eyes wide, and dressed his mouth with all the solemn dignity of which he was the master. " Are you prepared to listen to me, Mrs. Prime?" Mrs. Prime, who was somewhat astonished, said in a low voice that she was prepared to listen. "Because I must beg you to hear me out. I shall fail altogether in reaching your intelligence, — ^whatever effect I might possibly have upon your heart, — unless you wUl hear me to the end." " I win hear you certainly, Mr. Prong.'' " Yes, my friend, for it will be necessary. If I could convey to your mind all that is now passing through my own, without any spoken word, how glad should I be ! The words of men, when taken at the best, how weak they axe ! They often tell a tale quite different fi'om that which the creature means who uses them. Every minister has felt that in addressing his flock from the pulpit. I feel it myself sadly, but I never felt it so sadly as I do now." Mrs. Prime did not quite understand him, but she assured him again that she would give his words her best attention, and that she would endeavour to gather from them no other meaning than that which seemed to be his. "Ah, — seemed!" said he. " There is so much of seeming in this deceitful world. But you will believe this of me, that whatever I do, I do as tending to the strengthening of my hands in the ministry." Mrs. Prime said that she would believe so much; and then as she looked into her companion's face, she became aware that there was something of weakness displayed in that assuming mouth. She did not argue about it within her own. mind, but the fact had in some way become revealed to her. "My fiiend," said he, — and as he spoke he drew his chaix MB. PEONG AT HOME. lOl across the rug, so as to bring it very near to that on which Mrs. Prime was sitting — "our destinies ia this world, yours and mine, are ia many things alike. We are both alone. "We both of us have our hands full of work, and of work which in many respects is the same. "We are devoted to the same cause ; is it not so ? " Mrs. Prime, who had been told that she was to listen and not to speak, did not at first make any answer. But she was pressed by a repetition of the question. " Is it not so, Mrs. Prime?" " I can never make my work equal to that of a minister of the Gospel," said she. " But you can share the work of such a minister. You under- stand me now. And let me assure you of this ; that ia making this proposition to you, I am not self-seeking. It is not my own worldly comfort and happiness to which I am chiefly looking." " Ah," said Mrs. Prime, " I suppose not." Perhaps there was in her voice the slightest touch of soreness. " !N"o ; — ^not chiefly to that, I want assistance, confidential intercourse, sympathy, a congenial mind, support when I am like to faint, counsel when I am pressing on, aid when the toil is too heavy for me, a kind word when the day's work ia over. And you, — do you not desire the same ? Are we not aUke in that, and would it not be well that we should come together?" Mr. Prong as he spoke had put out his hand, and rested it on the table with the palm upwards, as though expecting that she would put hers within it ; and he had tUted his chair so as to bring his body closer to hers, and had dropped from his face his assumed look of dignity. He was quite in earnest, and being so had fallen away into his natural dispositions of body. " I do not quite understand you," said Mrs. Prime. She did however imderstand him perfectly, but thought it expedient that he should be required to speak a little further before she answered him. She wanted time also to arrange her reply. As yet she had not made up her mind whether she would say yes or no. . " Mrs. Prime, I am offering to make you my wife. I have said nothing of love, of that human affection which one of God's creatures entertains for another ; — not, I can assure you, because I do not feel it, but because I think that you and I should be governed in our conduct by a sense of duty, rather than by tli« poor creature-longings of the heart." " The heart is very deceitful," said Mrs. Prime. 102 EACHEL EAY. " That is true, — ^very true ; but my heart, in this matter, is not deceitful. I entertain for you all that deep love which a man should feel for her who is to he the wife of his bosom." " But Mr. Prong " "Let me finish before you give me your answer. I have thought much of this, as you may believe; and by only one consideration have I been made to doubt the propriety of taking this step. People will say that I am marrying you for, — ^for your money, in short. It is an insinuation which would give me much pain, but I have resolved within my own mind, that it is my duty to bear it. K my motives are pure," — ^here he paused a moment for a word or two of encouragement, but received none, — "and if the thing itself be good, I ought not to be deterred by any fear of what the wicked may say. Do you not agree with me in that 1" Mrs. Prime still did not answer. She felt that any word of assent, though given by her to a minor proposition, might be taken as involving some amount of assent towards the major proposition. Mr. Prong had enjoyed the advantage of thinking over his matrimonial prospects in imdistuibed solitude, but she had as yet possessed no such advantage. As the idea had never before presented itself to her, she did not feel inclined to com- mit herself hastily. " And as regards money," he continued. " Well," said Mrs. Prime, looking down demurely upon the ground, for Mr. Prong had not at once gone on to say what were his ideas about money. "And as regards money, — ^need I hardly declare that my motives are pure and disinterested ? I am aware that in worldly affairs you are at present better off than I am. My professional income from the pew-rents is about a hundred and thirty pounds a year." — It must be admitted that it was very hard work. By this time Mr. Prong had withdrawn his hand from the table, finding that attempt to be hopeless, and had re-settled his chair upon its four feet. He had commenced by requesting Mrs. Prime to hear him patiently, but he had probably not calculated that she would have listened with a patience so cruel and unre- lenting. She did not even speak a word when he communicated to her the amount of his income. "That is what I receive here," he continued, " and you are probably aware that 1 have no private means of my own." MR PRONG AT HOME. 103 " I didn't kno-w," said Mrs. Prime. " No ; none. But what then V " Oh, dear no." " Money is but dross. Who feels that more strongly than you do?" Mr. Prong ia aU that he was saying intended to he honest, and in asserting that money was dross, he believed that he spoke his true mind. He thought also that he was passing a just eulogium on Mrs. Prime, in declaring that she was of the same opinion. But he was not quite correct in this, either as regarded himself, or as regarded her. He did not covet money, but he valued it very highly ; and as for Mrs. Prime, she had an almost unbounded satisfaction in her own independence. She had, after aU, but two hundred a year, out of which she gave very much in charity. But this giving in charity was her luxury. Pine raiment and dainty food tempted her not at all ; but nevertheless she was not free from temptations, and did not perhaps always resist them. To be mistress of her money, and to superintend the gifts, not only of herself but of others j to be great among the poor, and esteemed as a personage in her district, — ^that was her ambition. When Mr. Prong told her that money in her sight was dross, she merely shook her head. Why was it that she wrote those terribly caustic notes to the agent in Exeter if her quarterly payments were ever late by a single week 1 " Defend me from a lone widow," the agent used to say, "and especially if she's evangelical." Mrs. Prime de- lighted in the sight of the bit of paper which conveyed to her the possession of her periodical wealth. To her money certainly was not dross, and I doubt if it was truly so regarded by Mr. Prong himself. "Any arrangements that you choose as to settlements or the like of that, coidd of course be made." Mr. Prong when he began, or rather when he made up his mind to begin, had deter- mined that he would use all his best power of language in pressing his suit ; but the work had been so hard that his fine language had got itself lost in the struggle. I doubt whether this made much difference with Mrs. Prime ; or it may be, that he had sustained the propriety of his words as long as such propriety was needful and salutary to his purpose. Had he spoken of the " like of that " at the opening of the negotiation, he might have shocked his hearer ; but now she was too deeply 104 KAOHEL BAT. angaged in solid Berious considerations tc care much for the words which were used. "A hundred and thirty from pew- rents," she said to herself, as he endeavoured, unsuccessfully, to look under her bonnet into her face. "I think I have said it aU now," he continued. "If you win trust yourself iato my keeping I will endeavour, with God's assistance, to do my duty hy you. I have said hut little personally of myself or of my feelings, hopiag that it might he imnecessary." " Oh, quite so," said she. "I have spoken rather of those duties which we should undertake together ia sweet companionship, if you will consent to — ^to — ^to he Mrs. Pr^g, in short." Then he waited for an answer. As she sat in her widow's weeds, there was not, to the eye, the promise in her of much sweet companionship. Her old crape honnet had been lugged and battered about — ^not out of all shape, as hats and bonnets are sometimes battered by young ' ladies, in which guise, if the young ladies themselves be pretty, the battered hats and bonnets are often more becoming than ever they were in their proper shapes — ^but so as closely to fit her head, and almost hide her face. Her dress was so made, and so put on, as to give to her the appearance of almost greater age than her mother's. She had studied to divest herself of aU outward show of sweet companionship; but perhaps she was not the less, on that account, gratified to find that she had not altogether succeeded. "I have done with the world, and aU the world's vanities and cares," she said, shaking her head. " No one can have done with the world as long as there is work in it for him or her to do. The monks and nuns tried that, and you know what they came to." " But I am a widow." "Yes, my friend; and have shown yourself, as such, very wiUing to do your part But do you not know that you could be more active and more useful as a clergyman's wife than you can be as a "solitary woman 1" " But my heart is buried, Mr. Prong." " No ; not so. While the body remains in this vale of tears, the heart must remain with it." Mrs. Prime shook her head j but in an anatomical point of view, Mr. Prong was no doubt ME. PRONG AT HOME. 105 strictly correct. " Other hopes will arise, — and perhaps, too, other cares, hut they will be sources of gentle happiness." Mrs. Prime understood him as alluding to a small family, and again shook her head at the allusion. "What I have said may probably have taken you by surprise." " Yes, it has, Mr. Prong ; — very much." " And if so, it may be that you would wish time for con- sideration before you give me an answer." "Perhaps that will be best, Mr. Prong." " Let it be so. On what day shaU. we say ? Will Friday suit you? If I come to you on Friday morning, perhaps Miss Pucker will be there." "Yes, shewiU." " And in the afternoon." " We shall be at the Dorcas meeting." " I don't Hke to trouble you to come here again." Mrs. Prime herseK felt that there was a difficulty. Hitherto she had entertained no objection to calling on Mr. Prong at hi3 own house. His little sitting-room had been as holy ground to her, — almost as part of the church, and she had taken herself there without scruple. But things had now been put on a dif- ferent footing. It might be that that room would become her own peculiar property, but she could never again regard it in a simply clerical Hght. It had become as it were a bower of love, and she could not take her steps thither with the express object of assenting to the proposition made to her, — or even with thai of dissenting from it. " Perhaps," said she, " you could caU at ten on Saturday. Miss Pucker will be out marketing." To this Mr. Prong agreed, and then Mrs. Prime got up and took her leave. How fearfully wicked would Eachel have been in her eyes, had Eachel made an appointment with a young man at some hour and some place in which she might be found alone ! But then it is so easy to trust one's self, and so easy also to distrust others. " Good morning," said Mrs. Prime ; and as she went she gave her hand as a matter of course to her lover. " Good-bye," said he ; " and think well of this if you can do so. If you believe that you wiU be more useful as my wife than you can be in your present position, — then " " You think it would be my duty to " 106 EACHEL EAT. " Well, I will leave that for you to decide. I merely wish, to put the matter before you. But, pray, understand this ; money need he no hindrance." Then, having said that last word, he let her go. She walked away very slowly, and did not return hy the most direct road to Miss Pucker's rooms. There was much to be considered iu the offer that had been made to her. Her lot in life would be very lonely if this separation from her mother and sister should become permanent. She had already made up her mind that a continued residence with Miss Pucker would not suit her ; and although, on that very morning, she had felt that there would be much comfort in living by herself, now, as she looked forward to that loneUness, it had for her very little attraction. Might it not be true, also, that she could do more good as a clergyman's wife than could possibly come within her reach as a single woman ? She had tried that life once abeady, but then she had been very yoimg. As that memory came upon her, she looked back to her early life, and thought of the hopea which had been hers as she stood at the altar, now so many years ago. How different had been everything with her then ! She remembered the sort of love she had felt in her heart, and told herself that there could be no repetition of such love on Mr. Prong's behalf She had come round in her walk to that very churchyard stile at which she had seen Rachel standing with Luke Eowan, and as she remembered some passages in her own girlish days, she almost felt inclined to forgive her sister. But then, on a sudden, she drew herself up almost with a gasp, and went on quickly with her walk. Had she not herself in those days walked in darkness, and had it not since that been vouchsafed to her to see the light ? In her few months of married happiness it had been given to her to do but little of that work which might now be possible to her. Then she had been married in the flesh ; now she would be married in the spirit; — she would be married in the spirit, if it should, on final consideration, seem good to her to accept Mr. Prong's offer in that light. Then unconsciously, she began to reflect on the rights of a married woman with regard to money, — ^and also on the wrongs. She was not sure as to the law, and asked herseK whether it would be possible for her to consult an attorney. Finally, she thought it would not be practicable to do so before giving her answer to Mr, Prong. LUKE EOWAN DECLAKES HIS PLANS. 107 And she could not even ask her mother. As to that, too, she questioned herself, and resolved that she could not so far lower herself under existing circumstances. There was no one to whom she could go for advice. But we may say this of her, — let her have asked whom she would, she would have at least been guided by her own judgment. If only she could have obtained some slight amount of legal information, how useful it would have been ! CHAPTER X. WTKE ROWAN DECLAEES HIS PLANS AS TO THE BREWERY. " The truth is, T., there was some joking among the young people about the wine, and then Eowan went and ordered it." This was Mrs. Tappitt's explanation about the champagne, made to her husband on the night of the ball, before she was allowed to go to sleep. But this by no means satisfied him. He did not choose, as he declared, that any young man should order whatever he might think necessary for his house. Then Mrs. Tappitt made it worse. " To tell the truth, T., I think it was intended as a present to the girls. We are doing a great deal to make him comfortable, you know, and I fancy he thought it right to make them this little return." She should have known her husband better. It was true that he grudged the cost of the wine; but he would have preferred to endure that to the feeling that his table had been supplied by another man, — ^by a young man whom he wished to regard as subject to himself, but who would not be subject, and at whom he was beginning to look with very imfavourable eyes. " A present to the gida 1 I teU you I won't have such presents. And if it was so, I think he has been very impertinent, — ^very impertinent indeed. I shall tell him. so, — and I shall insist on paying for the wine. And I must say, you ought not to have taken it." " Oh, dear T., I have been working so hard all night ; and 108 KACHEL BAY. I do think you ought to let me go to sleep now, instead of scolding me." On the foUowing moniing the party was of course discussed *s the Tappitt family under various circumstances. At the '6reakfast-tahle Mrs. Eowan, with her son and daughter, were present; and then. a song of triumph was sung. Everything had gone off with honour and glory, and the brewery had been immortalized for years to come. Mrs. Butler Combury's praises were spoken, — ^with some little drawback of a sneer on them, because " she had made such a fuss with that girl Eachel Eayj" and then the girls had told of their partners, and Luie had declared it all to have been superb. But when the Eowans' backs were turned, and the Tappitts were alone together, others besides old Tappitt himself had words to say in dispraise of Luke. Mrs. Tappitt had been much inclined to make little of her husband's objections to the young man while she hoped that he might possibly become her son-in-law. He might have been a thorn in the brewery, among the vats, but he would have been a flourishing young bay-tree in the outer world of Baslehurst. She had, however, no wish to encourage the growth of a thorn within her own premises, in order that Eachel Hay, or such as she, might have the advantage of the hay-tree. Luke Eowan had behaved very badly at her party. /Tot only had he failed to distinguish either of her own girls, but he had, as Mrs. Tappitt said, made himself so conspicuous frith that foolish girl, that aU the world had been remark- ing it. " Mrs. Butler Combury seemed to think it all right," said Cherry. " Mrs. Butlet Combuiy is not everybody," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I didn't think it right I can assure you; — and what's more, your papa didn't think it right." " And he was going on all the evening as though he were quite master in the house," said Augusta. " He was ordering the musicians to do this and that aU the evening." "He'U find that he's not master. Your papa is going to speak to him this very day." "What ! — about Eachel?'' asked Cherry, in dismay. " About things in general," said Mrs. Tappitt. Then Mary Eowan returned to the room, and they aU. went back upon the glories of the baU, " I think it was nice," said Mrs. Tappitt^ LUKE ROWAN DECLARES HIS PLANS. 109 simpering. "I'm sure there was no trouble spared, — nor yet expense." She knew that she ought not to have uttered that last word, and she would have refrained if it had heen possible to her ; — ^but it was not possible. The man who tells you how much his wine costs a dozen, knows that he is wrong while the words are in his mouth j but they are in his mouth, and he cannot restrain them. Mr. Tappitt was not about to lecture Luke Eowan as to his conduct in. regard to Eachel Eay. He found some difficulty in speaking to his would-be partner, even on matters of busiaess, in a proper tone, and with becoming authority. As he was so much the senior, and Eowan so much the junior, some such tone of superiority was, as he thought, indispensable. But he had great difficulty in assuming it. Eowan had a way with him that was not exactly a way of submission, and Tappitt would certainly not have dared to encounter him on any such matter as his behaviour in a drawing-room. When the time came he had not even the courage to allude to those champagne bottles ; and it may be as well explained that Eowan paid the little bUl at Griggs's, without further reference to the matter. But the question of the brewery management was a matter vital to Tappitt. There, among the vats, he had reigned supreme since BungaU ceased to be king, and for contiaual mastery there it was worth his while to make a fight. That he was imder diffi- culties even in that fight he had abeady begun to know. He could not talk Luke Eowan down, and make him go about his work in an orderly, everyday, business-like fashion. Luke Eowan would not be talked down, nor would he be orderly, — not according to Mr. Tappitt's orders. ISTo doubt Mr. Tappitt, under these cicciunstances, coiild decline the partnership ; and this he was disposed to do ; but he had been consulting lawyers, consulting papers, and looking into old accounts, and he had reason to fear, that under Bungall's wiU, Luke Eowan would have the power of exacting from him much more than he was inclined to give. " You'd better take him into the concern," the lawyer had said. "A young head is always useful." " Not when the young head wants to be master," Tappitt had answered. " If I'm to do that, the whole thing wUl go to the dogs." He did not exactly explain to the lawyer that Eowan had carried his infatuation so far as to be desicous of brewing 110 RACHEL RAT. good beer, but he did make it very clear that such a partnez ■would, in his eyes, be anything but desirable. " Then, upon my word, I think you'U have to give him. the ten thousand pounds. I don't even know but what the demand is moderate." This was very bad news to Tappitt. " But suppose I haven't got ten thousand pounds !" I^ow it was very well known that the property and the business were worth money, and the lawyer suggested that Eowan might take steps to have the whole concern sold. - " Probably he might buy it himself and undertake to pay you so much a year," suggested the lawyer. But this view of the matter was not all in accordance with Mr. Tappitt's ideas. He had been brewer ia Baslehurst for nearly thirty years, and stiU wished to remaiu so. Mrs. Tappitt had been of opinion that all difi&culties might be overcome if only Luke would fall in love with one of her girls. Mrs. Eowan had been invited to Baslehurst specially with a view to some such arrangement. But Luke Eowan, as it seemed to them both now, was an obstinate young man, who, in matters of beer as well as in matters of love, would not be guided by those who best knew how to guide him. Mrs. Tappitt ha,d watched him closely at the ball, and had now given 'hirn up altogether. He had danced only once with Augusta, and then had left her the moment the dance was over. " I should offer him a hundred and fifty pounds a year out of the concern, and if he didn't like that let lum lump it," said Mrs. Tappitt. " Lump it !" said Mr. Tappitt. " That means going to a London lawyer." He felt the difficulties of his position as he prepared to speak his mind to young Eowan on the morning after the party ; but on that occasion, his strongest feeling was in favour of expelling the intruder. Any lot in life would be preferable to working in the brewery with such a partner as Luke Eowan. "I suppose your head's hardly cool enough for business," he said, as Luke came in and took a stool in his office. Tappitt was sitting in his customary chair, with his arm resting on a large old-fashioned leather-covered table, which was strewed with his papers, and which had never been reduced to cleanli- ness or order within the memory of any one connected with the estabHshment. He had turned his chair round from ita accustomed place so as to face Eowan, who had perched himself LtTKE EOWAN DKOLAEES HIS PLANS. Ill on a stool ■wtich. was commonly occupied by a boy -wborn Tappitt employed in bis own office. "My head not cool?" said Eowan. "It's as cool as a cucumber. I wasn't drioking last night." "I thought you might be tired with the dancing." Then Tappitt's mind flew off to the champagne, and he determined that the young man before him was too disagreeable to be endured. " Oh, dear, no. Those things never tire me. I was across here with the men before eight this morning. Do you know I'm sure we could save a third of the fuel by altering the flues. I never saw such contrivances. They must have been put in by the coal-merchants, for the sake of wasting coal." "K you please, we won't miad the flues at present." " I only teU you ; it's for your sake much more than my own. If you won't believe me, do you ask Ifewman to look at them the first time you see him. in Baslehurst." " I don't care a straw for Newman." " He's got the best concerns in Devonshire, and knows what he's about better than any man ia these parts." " I dare say. But now, if you please, we won't mind him. The concerns, as I have managed them, have done very weU for me for the last thirty years; — very well I may say also for your uncle, who understood what he was doing. I'm not very keen for so many changes. They cost a great deal of money, and as far as I can see don't often lead to much profit." "If we don't go on with the world," said Eowan, "the world wiU. leave us behind. Look at the new machinery they're introducing everywhere. People don't do it because they like to spend their money. It's competition; and there's competition in beer as well as in other things." For a minute or two Mr. Tappitt sat in silence collecting his thoughts, and then he began his speech. "I'U teR you what it is, Eowan, I don't like these new-fangled ways. They're very well for you, I dare say. You are young, and perhaps you may see yoiir way. I'm old, and I don't see mine among all these changes. It's clear to me that you and I could not go on together as partners in the same concern. I should expect to have my own way, — first because I've a deal of experience, and next because my share in the concern would be so much the greatest." 112 RACHEL EAT. "Stop a moment, Mr. Tappitt; I'a. not quite sure tliat it would be much the greatest. I don't want to say anything ahout that now ; only if I were to let your remark pass without notice it would seem that I had assented." "Ah; very well. I can only say that I hope you'll find yourself mistaken. I've been over thirty years in the concern, and it would be odd if I with my large family were to find myself only equal to you, who have never been in the business at all, and ain't even married yet." " I don't see what being married has to do with it." "Don't youl You'U find that's the way we look at these things down in these parts. You're not in London here, Mr. Eowan." " Certainly not ; but I suppose the laws are the same. This is an affair of capital." " Capital !" said Mr. Tappitt. " I don't know that you've brought in any capital." " BungaU did, and I'm here as his representative. But you'd better let that pass by just at present. If we can agree as to the management of the business, you won't find me a hard man to deal with as to our relative shares." Hereupon Tappitt scratched his head, and tried to think. " But I don't see how we are to agree about the management," he continued. " You won't be led by anybody." " I don't know about that. I certainly want to improve the concern." "Ah, yes; and so ruin it. Whereas Pve been making money out of it these thirty years. You and I won't do together ; that's the long of it and the short of it." " It would be a putting of new wine into old bottles, you tliink?" suggested Rowan. " I'm not saying anything about wine ; but I do think that I ought to know something about beer." " And I'm to understand," said Eowan, " that you have definitively determined not to carry on the old concern in conjunction with me as your partner." "Yes; I think I have." " But it will be as well to be sure. One can't allow one's self to depend upon thinking." " Well, I am sure ; I've made up my mind. I've no doubt you're a very clever yous-g man, but I am quite sure we should LTTKE ROW AX DECLARES HIS PLANS. 113 not do together ; and to tell yon the truth, Eowan, I don't think you'U ever make your fortune by "brewing." "You think not?" "Ifoj never." " I'm sorry for that." "I don't know that you need he sorry. You'll have a nice income for a siagle man to begin the world with, and there's other businesses besides brewing, — and a deal better." " Ah ! But I've made up my mind to be a brewer. I like it. There's opportunity for chemical experiments, and room for philosophical inquiry, which gives the trade a charm in my eyes. I dare say it seems odd to you, but I like being a brewer.'' Tappitt only scratched his head, and stared at him. " I do mdeed," continued Eowan. " l^ow a man can't do anything to improve his own trade as a lawyer. A great deal will be done; but I've made up my mind that all that must come from the outside. All trades want improving ; but I like a trade in which I can do the improvement myself, — from the inside. Do you under- stand me, Mr. Tappitt 1" Mr. Tappitt did not understand him, — ^was very far indeed from understanding him. "With such ideas as those I don't think Baslehurst is the ground for you," said Mr. Tappitt. " The very ground !" said Eowan. " That's just it ; — it's the very place I want. Brewing, as I take it, is at a lower ebb here than in any other part of England," — this at any rate was not complimentary to the brewer of thirty years' standing — " than in any other part of England. The people swiU themselves with the nasty juice of the apple because sound malt and hops have never been brought within their reach. I think Devon- shire is the very county for a man who means to work hard, and who wishes to do good ; and in all Devonshire I don't think there's a more fitting town than Baslehurst." Mr. Tappitt was dumbfounded. Did this young man mean him to understand that it was his intention to open a rival establishment under his nose ; to set up with Bungall's money another brewery in opposition to Bungall's brewery? Could Buch ingratitude as that be in the mind of any one ? " Oh," said Tappitt; " I don't quite understand, but I don't doubt but what you say is all very fine." " I don't think that it's fine at aU, Mr. Tappitt, but I believe that it'u true. I represent M:r. Bungall's interest here in Basle- 114 KACHEL BAT. hurst, and I intend to carry on Mr. Bungall's business in the town in which he established it." "This is Mr. Bungall's business; — ^this here, where I'm sitting, and it is in my hands." " The use of these premises depends on you certainly." " Yes J and the name of the firm, and the — ^the — ^the — . In point of fact, this is the old establishment. I never heard of such a thing in all my life." " Quite true ; it is the old establishment ; and if I should set up another brewery here, as I think it probable I may, I shall not make use of Bungall's name. In the first place it would hardly be fair ; and in the next place, by all accounts, he brewed such very bad beer that it would not be a credit to me. K you'll teU me what your plan is, then I'll teU you mine. You'll find that everything shall be above-board, Mr, Tappitt." " My plan i I've got no plan. I mean to go on here as I've always done."" "But I suppose you iatend to come to some arrangement with me. My claims are these : I will either come into this establishment on an equal footing with yourself, as regards share and management, or else I shaU. look to you to give me the sum of money to which my lawyers tell me I am entitled. In fact, you must either take me ia or buy me out." " I was thinking of a settled iacome." "No J it wouldn't suit me. I have told you what are my intentions, and to carry them out I must either have a concern of my own, or a share in a concern. A settled income would do me no good." " Two hundred a-year,'' suggested Tappitt. " Psha ! Three per cent, would give me three hundred." " Ten thousand pounds is out of the question, you know." " Very well, Mr. Tappitt. I can't say anything fairer than I have done. It will suit my own views much the best to start alone, but I do not wish to oppose you if 'I can help it. Start alone I certaioly vriU, if I cannot come in here on my own terms." After that there was nothing more said. Tappitt turned round, pretending to read his letters, and Eowan descending from his seat walked out into the yard of the brewery. His intention had been, ever since he had looked ground him in LUKE EOWAU DECLARES HIS PLANS. 115 BasleliTirst, to be master of that place, or if not of ttat, to be master of some other. " It ■would break my heart to he send- ing out such stuff as that all my life," he said to himseK, as he watched the muddy stream run out of the shallow coolers. He had resolved that he would brew good beer. As to that ambi- tion of putting down the consumption of cider, I myself am inchned to think that the habits of the country would be too strong for him. At the present moment he lighted a cigar and sauntered about the yard. He had now, for the first time, spoken openly of his purpose to Mr. Tappitt ; but, having done so, he resolved that there should be no more delay. " I'll give him tm Saturday for an answer," he said. " If he isn't ready with one by that time I'll manage it through the lawyers." After that he turned his mind to Eachel Eay and the events of the past evening. He had told Eachel that he would go out to Bragg's End if she did not come into town, and he was quite resolved that he would do so. He knew weU that she would not come in, understanding exactly those feelings of hers which would prevent it. Therefore his walk to Bragg's End on that afternoon was a settled thing with him. They were to dine at the brewery at three, and he would go almost imme- diately after dinner. But what would he say to her when he got there, and what would he say to her mother 1 He had not even yet made up his mind that he would positively ask her on that day to be his wife, and yet he felt that if he found her at home he would undoubtedly do so. "I'll arrange it all," said he, " as I'm walking over." Then he threw away the end of his cigar, and wandered about for the next half-hour among the vats, and tubs, and furnaces. Mr. Tappitt took himself into the house as soon as he found himself able to do so without being seen by young Eowan. He took himself into the house in order that he might consult with liis wife as to this unexpected revelation that had been made to him ; or rather that he might have an opportunity of saying to some one all the hard things which were now crowding them- selves upon his mind with reference to this outrageous young man. Had anything ever been known, or heard, or told, equal in enormity to this wickedness ! He was to be caUed upon to find capital for the establishment of a rival in his own town, or else he was to bind himself in a partnership with a youth who knew nothing of his business, bwt was nevertheless resolved 116 EACHEL EAT. to constitute himself the chief manager of it ! He who had been so true to Bungall in his young days was now to he sacrificed in his old age to Bungall's audacious representative ! In the iirst glow of his anger he declared to his wife that he would pay no money and admit of no partnership. If Eowan did not choose to take his iacome as old Mrs. Bungall had taken hers he might seek what redress the law would give him. It was in vain that Mrs. Tappitt suggested that they would all be ruined. " Then we wiU. be ruined," said Tappitt, hot with indignation ; " but all Baslehurst, — all Devonshire shall know why.' Pernicious young man ! He could not explain, — ^he could not even quite understand in what the atrocity of Eowan's proposed scheme consisted, but he was possessed by a full conviction that it was atrocious. He had admitted fine man into his house ; he was even now entertainiag as his guests the man's mother and sister ; he had allowed liim to have the run of the brewery, so that he Ijad seen both the nakedness and the fat of the land ; and this was to be his reward ! " If I were to tell it at the reading-room," said Tappitt, " he would never be able to show himself again in the High Street." Mrs. Tappitt, who was anxious but not enraged, did not see the matter quite iu the same light, but she was not able to oppose her husband in his indignation. When she suggested that it might be well for them to raise money and pay off their anemy's claim, merely stipulating that a rival brewery should not be established in Baslehurst, he swore an oath that he would raise no money for such a purpose. He would have no dealings with so foul a traitor except through his lawyer, Hony- man. "But Honyman thinks you'd better settle with him," pleaded Mrs. T. "Then I'll go to another lawyer," said Tappitt. " If Honyman won't stand to me I'U go to Sharpit and Longfite. They won't give way as long as there's a leg to stand on." For the time Mrs. Tappitt let this pass. She knew how useless it w^uld be to tell her husband at the present moment that Sharpit and Longfite would be the only winners in such a contest as that of which he spoke. At the present moment Mr. Tappitt felt a pride in his anger, and was almost happy in the fury of his wrath ; but Mrs. Tappitt was very wretched. If that nasty girl, Eachel Eay, had not come in the way aU might have been weU. LUKE BOWAN TAKES HIS TEA. 117 "He slmn't eat another meal in tMs house," said Tappitt " I don't care," he went on, when his wife pleaded that Luka Eowan must be admitted to their tahle because of Mrs. Eowan and Mary. "You can say what you like to them. They're welcome to stay if they like it, or welcome to go ; but he shan't put his feet under my mahogany again." On this point, how- ever, he was brought to relent before the hour of dinner. Baslehurst, his wife told him, would be against hiTn if he turned his guests away from his hous? hungry. If a fight was necessary for them, it would be eTerythmg to them that Easlehurst should be with them in ftie fight. It was there- fore arranged that Mrs. Tappitt sh6uld have a conversation with Mrs. Eowan after dinner, while the young people were out in the evening. "He shan't sleep in this house to-morrow," said Tappitt, riveting his assertion with very strong language ; and Mrs. Tappitt understood that her communications were to be carried on upon that basis. At three o'clock the Tappitts and Eowans all sat down to dinner. Mr. Tappitt ate his meal in absolute silence 5 but the young people were full of the ball, and the elder ladies were very gracious to each other. At suoh^entertamments Pater- familias is simply reg^uired^_ta-fiiLd_.tha provender ani to carve ifc — IT'ie— doe's 'that satisfactorily, silence on his part is not regarded as a great evil Mrs. Tappitt knew that her husband's mood was not happy, and Martha may have remarked that aU was not right with her father. To the others I am inclined to think his ill humoni .~^&s a matter of indifference. CHAPTEE XL iAJKE EOWAN TAKES HIS TEA QUITE LIKE A STEADY TOTJNa MAN. It was the custom of the Miss Tappitts, during these long midsummer days, to start upon their evening walk at about seven x)'clock, the hour for the family gathering round the tea-table being fixed at six. But, in accordance with the same custom, dinner at the brewery was usually eaten at one. At 118 EACHEL EAT. this immediate time with, which we are now dealing, dinnei had been postponed tUl three, out of complunent to Mrs. Eowan, Mrs. Tappitt considering three o'clock more fashionable than one; and consequently the afternoon habits of the family were disarranged. Half-past seven, it was thought, would be a becoming hour for tea, and therefore the young ladies were driven to go out at five o'clock, while the sun was still hot in the heavens. "'No," said Luke, in answer to his sister's invitation; "I don't think I will mind walking to-day : you are aU going so early." He was sitting at the moment after dinner with his glass of brewery port winS before him. " The young ladies must be very unhappy that their hours can't be made to suit you," said Mrs. Tappitt, and the tone of her voice was sarcastic and acid. " I think we can do without him," said Cherry, laughing. " Of course we can," said Augusta, who was not laughing. " But you might as weU come all the same," said Mary. " There's metal more attractive somewhere else," said Augusta. "I cannot bear to see so much fuss made with the young men," said Mrs. Tappitt. " We never did it when I was young. Did we, Mrs. Eowan?" " I don't think there's much change," said Mrs. Eowan ; " we used to be very glad to get the young men when we could, and to do without them when we couldn't." " And that's just the way with tfs," said Cherry. " Speak for yourseK," said Augusta. During all this time Mr. Tappitt spoke never a word. He also sipped his glass of wine, and as he sipped it he brooded over his wrath. Who were these Eowans that they should have come about his house and premises, and forced everything out of its proper shape and position ? The young main sat there as though he were lord of everything, — so Tappitt declared to himself; and his own wife was snubbed in her own parlour as soon as she opened her mouth. There was an uncomfortable atmosphere of discord in the room, which gradually pervaded them aU, and made even the girls feel that things were going wrong. Mrs. Tappitt rose from her chair, and made a stiflf bow across the table to her guest, understanding that that was the proper wav in whipb to gffept » retreat into the diawing-roDm ; where- tUKE EOWAN TAKES HIS TEA. 119 upon Luke opened the door, and the ladies went. "Thank you, sir," said Mrs. Tappitt very solemnly as she passed hy him . Mrs. Eowan, going fist, had given him a loving little nod of recognition, and Mary had pinched his arm. Martha uttered a word of thanks, intended for conciliation ; Augusta passed him in silence with her nose in the air ; and Cherry, as she went hy, turned upon Viitti a look of dismay. He returned Cherry's look with a shake of his head, and hoth of them understood that things were going wrong. " I don't think I'll take any more wine, sir," said Eowan. " Do as you like," said Tappitt. " It's there if you choose to take it." " It seems to me, Mr. Tappitt, that you want to quarrel with me," said Luke. " You can form your own opiaion ahout that. I'm not hound to tell my mind to everyhody." " Oh, no ; certainly not. But it's very unpleasant going on in that way in the same house. I'm thinking particularly of Mrs. Tappitt and the girls." " Tou needn't trouhle yourself ahout them at aU. You may leave me to take care of them." Luke had not sat down since the ladies left the room, and now determined that he had hetter not do so. "I think I'U say good afternoon," said Eowan. " Good day to you," said Tappitt, with his face turned away, and his eyes fixed upon one of the open windows. " "Well, Mr. Tappitt, if I have to say good-hye to you in that way in your own house, of course it must he for the last time. I have not meant to offend you, and I don't think I've given you ground for offence." "You don't, don't you?" " Certainly not. If unfortunately, there must he any dis- agreement hetween us ahout matters of husiness, I don't see why that should he brought into private life." "Look here, young man," said Tappitt, turning upon him. " You lectured me in my counting-house this morning, and I don't intend that you shaU lecture me here also. I'm drinking my own wine in my own parlour, and choose to drink it in peace and quietness." "Very well, sir; I wiU not disturb you much longer, perhaps you wiU make my apologies to Mrs. Tappitt, and tell 120 RACHEL EAT. her how much obliged I am by ber hospitality, but that I 'wiU not trespass upon it any longer. I'll get a bed »t the ' Dragon,' and I'll •write a nne to my mother or sister." Then Luke left the room, took his hat up from the hall, and made his -way out of the house. He had much to occupy his miad at the present moment. He felt that he was being turned out of Mr. Tappitt's house, but would not much have regarded that if no one was concerned in it but Mr. Tappitt himself. He had, however, been on very iatimate terms with all the ladies of the family ; even for Mrs. Tappitt he had felt a friendship; and for the girls — especially for Cherry — ^he had learned to entertaia an easy brotherly affection, which had not weighed muck with him as it grew, but which it was not in his nature to throw off without annoyance. He had acknowledged to himself, as soon as he found himself among them, that the Tappitts did not possess, in. their ways and habits of life, quite all that he should desire in his dearest and most intimate friends. I do not know that he had thought much of this; but he had felt it. Nevertheless he had deter- mined that he would Hke them. He intended to make his way in life as a tradesman, and boldly resolved that he would not be above his trade. His mother sometimes reminded him, with perhaps not the truest pride, that he was a gentleman. €n answer to this he had once or twice begged her to define the word, and then there had been some slight, very slight, disagreement between them. In the end the mother always gave way to the son ; as to whom she believed that the sun shone with more special brilliancy for him than for any other of God's creatures. Now, as he left the brewery house, he remembered how intimate he had been with them all but a few hours since, arranging matters for their ball, and giving orders about the place as though he had belonged to the famUy. He had allowed himself to be at home with them. He was by nature impidsive, and had thus fallen instantly into the intimacy which had been permitted to him. Now he was turned out of the house; and as he walked across the churchyard to bespeak a bed for himself at the inn, and write the necessary note to his sister, he was melancholy and almost unhappy. He felt sure that he was right in his views regarding the business, and could not accuse himself of any fault in his manner of making them known to Mi. Tappitt; ; but, nevertheless, he was ill at ease LUKE ROWAN TAKES HIS TEA. 121 with himself in that he had given offence. And with all these thoughts were miagled other thoughts as to Eachel Eay. He did not in the least imagine that any of the anger felt towards him at the brewery had been caused by his open admiration of Kachel. It had never occurred to him that Mrs. Tappitt had regarded him as a possible son-in-law, or that, having so regarded him, she could hold him in displeasure because he had failed to fall iato her views. He had never regarded himself as beiag of value as a possible fature husband, or entertaiued the idea that he was a prize. He had taken hold iu good faith of the Tappitt right hand which had been stretched out to him, and was now grieved that that hand should be suddenly withdrawn. But as he was impulsive, so also was he light-hearted, and when he had chosen his bedroom and written the note to Mary, in which he desired her to pack up his belongings and send them to him, he was almost at ease as regarded that matter. Old Tappitt was, as he said to himself, an old ass, and if he chose to make that brewery business a cause of quarrel no one could help it. Mary was bidden in the note to say very civU things to Mrs. Tappitt ; but, at the same time, to speak out the truth boldly. "Tell her," said he, "that I am constrained to leave the house because Mr. Tappitt and I cannot agree at the present moment about matters of business." "When this was done he looked at his watch, and started off on his walk to Bragg's End. It has been said that Eowan had not made up his mind to ask Eachel to be his wife, — that he had not made up his mind on this matter, although he was going to Bragg's End in a mood which would very probably bring him to such a conclusion. It will, I fear, be thought ficom this that he was light in purpose as well as light in heart ; but I am not sure that he was open to any special animadversion of that nature. It is the way of men to cany on such affairs without any complete arrangement of their own plans or even wishes. He knew that he admired Eachel and Kked her. I doubt whether he had ever yet declared to himself that he loved her. I doubt whether he had done so when he started on that walk, — thinking it probable, however, that he had persuaded himself of the fact before he reached the cottage door. He had already, as we know, said words to Eachel which he should not l^ve said unless he mtended to seek her aa his wife; — ^he had spoken words and 122 RACHEL EAT. done tilings of that natuie, being by no means perfect In all his ■ways. But he had so spoken and so acted without premedita- tion, and now was about to follow up those little words and little acts to their natural consequence, — also without much premeditation. Eachel had told her mother, on her return from the ball, that Luke Eowan had promised to callj and had offered to take herseK off from the cottage for the whole afternoon, if her mother thought it wrong that she should see him. Mrs. Eay had never felt herseK to be in greater difficulty. " I don't know that you ought to run away from him," said she : " and besides, where are you to go to ?" Eachel said at once that if her absence were desirable she would find whither to betake herself. "I'd stay upstairs in my bedroom, for the matter of that, mamma." " He'd be sure to know it," said Mrs. Eay, speaking of the yoimg man as though he were much to be feared ; — as indeed he was much feared by her. " K you don't thiiik I ought to go, perhaps it would be best that I should stay," said Eachel, at last, speaking in a very low tone, but stUl with some firmness in her voice. " I'm sure I don't know what I'm to say to him," said Mrs. Eay. " That must depend 'upon what he says to you, mamma," said Eachel. After that there was no further talk of running away; but the morning did not pass with them lightly or pleasantly. They made an effort to sit quietly at their work, and to talk oyer the doings at Mrs. Tappitt's baU; but this coming of the young man threw its shadow, morfe or less, over everything. They could not talk or even look at each other, as they would have talked and looked had no such advent been expected. They dined at one, as was their custom, and after dinner I think it probable that each of them stood before her glass with more care than she would have done on ordinary days. It was no ordinary day, and Mrs. Eay certainly put on a clean cap. " Will that collar do?" she said to Eachel. " Oh, yes, mamma," said Eachel, almost angrily. She also had taken her little precautions, but she could not endure to have such precautions acknowledged, even by a word. The afternoon was very tedious. I don't know why Luke LUKE EOWAN TAKES HIS TEA. 123 BhoiJd iaye been expected exactly at three ; but Mrs. Eay had, I think, jnade up her miad that he might be looked for at that time with the greatesr*; certainty. But at three he was sitting down to dinner, ana even at half-past five had not as yet left his room at the " Dragon." " I suppose that we can't have tea tOl he's been," said Mib. Eay, just at that hour; "that is, if he does come at aU." Eachel felt that her mother was vexed, because she suspected that Mr. Eowan was not about to keep his word. "Don't let his coming make any difierence, mamma," said EacheL " I will go and get tea." " Wait a few minutes longer, my dear," said Mrs. Eay. It was all very well for Eachel to beg that it might make " no difference." It did make a very great deal of difference. " I thiuk I'll go over and see Mrs. Sturt for a few miautes," said Eachel, getting up. "Pray don't, my dear, — ^pray don't; I should never know what to say to him if he should come while you were away." ' So Eachel agaiu sat down. She had just, for the second time, declared her intention of getting tea, having now resolved that no weakness on her mother's part should hinder her, when Mrs. Eay, from her seat near the window, saw the young man coming over the green. He was walking very slowly, swinging a big stick as he came, and had taken himself altogether away from the road, almost to the verge of Mrs. Sturt's farmyard. "There he is," said Mrs. Eay, with a little start. Eachel, who was struggling hard to retain her composure, could not resist her impulse to jump up and look out upon the green from behind her mother's shoulder. But she did this from some little distance inside the room, so that no one might possibly see her from the green. "Yes; there he is, certainly," and having thus identified their visitor, she immediately sat down again. "He's talking to Farmer Sturt's ploughboy," said Mrs. Eay. "He's asking where we live," said EacheL " He's never been here before." Eowan, having completed his conversation with the plough- boy, which by the way seemed to Mrs. Eay to have been longer than was necessary for its alleged purpose, came boldly across the green, and without pausing for a moment made his way through the cottage gate. Mrs. Eay caught her breath, and could not keep herself quite steady in her chair. Eachel, 124 RACHEL RAT. feeling that BometMng nmst be done, got up from hex seat and went quickly out into tlie passage. She knew that the front door was open, and she was prepared to meet Eowan in the haU. " I told you I should call," said he. "I hope you'll let me come in." -j rm. i. " Mamma will he very glad to see you," she said. Then she brought him up and introduced him. Mrs. Eay rose from her chair and curtseyed, muttering something as to its being a long way for him to walk out there to the cottage. " I said I should come, Mrs. Eay, if Miss Eay did not make her appearance at the brewery in the morning. "We had such a nice party, and of course one wants to talk it over." " I hope Mrs. Tappitt is quite well after it, — and the girls," said Eachel. "Oh, yes. Ton know we kept it up two hours after you were gone. I can't say Mr. Tappitt is quite right this morning." "Is he iU?" asked Mrs. Eay. " "Well, no ; not Ul, I think, but I fancy that the party put him out a little. Middle-aged gentlemen don't like to have all their things poked away anywhere. Ladies don't mind it, I fancy." " Ladies know where to find them, as it is they who do the poking away," said Eachel. " But I'm sorry about Mr. Tappitt." " I'm sorry, too, for he's a good-natured sort of a man when he's not put out. I say, Mrs. Eay, what a very pretty place you have got here." " "We think so because we are proud of our flowers." " I do almost all the gardening myself," said EacheL " There's nothing I like so much as a garden, only I never can remember the names of the flowers. They've got suck grand names down here. "When I was a boy, in "Warwickshire, they used to have nothing but roses and sweetwilliams. One could remember them." " "We haven't got anything very grand here," §aid EacheL Soon after that they were sauntering out among the little paths, and Eachel was picking flowers for him. She felt no difficulty in doing it, as her mother stood by her, though she would f.ist for worlds have given him even a rose if they'd been alo^A. LUKE EOWAN TAKES HIS TEA. 125 "I wonder whether Mr. Eowan would come in and have some tea," said Mrs. Eay. " Oh, wouldn't I," said Eowan, " if I were asked ?" Eachel was highly delighted with her mother, not so much on account of her courtesy to their guest, as that she had shown herself equal to the occasion, and had behaved, in an unabashed manner, as a mistress of a house should do. Mrs. Eay had been in such a dread of the young man's coming, that Eachel had feared she would be speechless. iJfow the ice was broken, and she would do very weU. The merit, however, did not belong to Mrs. Eay, but to Eowan. He had the gift of making himself at home with people, and had done much towards winning the widow's heart, when, after an interval of ten minutes, they two followed Eachel into the house. Eachel then had her hat on, and was about to go over the green to the farmer's house. " Mamma, I'll just run over to Mrs. Sturt's for some cream," said she. " Mayn't I go with you V said Eowan. "Certainly not," Said Eachel. "You'd frighten Mrs. Sturt out of all her composure, and we shoidd never get the cream." Then Eachel went off, and Eowan was again left with her mother. He had seated himself at her request in an arm-chair, and there for a minute or two he sat silent. Mrs. Eay was busy with the tea-things, but she suddenly felt that she was oppressed by the stranger's presence. While Eachel had been there, ai^i even when they had been walking among the flower-beds, she had been quite comfortable; but now the knowledge that he was there, in the room with her, as he sat silent in the chair, was becoming alarming. Had she been right to ask him to stay for tea ? He looked and spoke like a.shesp ; but then, was it not known to aU the world that wolves dressed themselves often in. that guise, so that they might carry out their wicked pur- poses? Had she not been imprudent? And then there was the immediate trouble of his silence. "Wliat was she to sa.j to him to break it ? That trouble, however, was soon brought to an end by Eowan himself. " Mrs. Eay," said he, " I think your daughter is the nicest girl I ever saw in my life." Mrs. Eay instantly put down the tea-caddy which she had in her hand, and started, with a slight gasp in her throat, as though cold water had been thrown over her. At the instant 126 RACHEL EAT. elie said nothing. Wliat was she to say in answer to so violent a proposition ? "Upon my word I do," said Luke, who was too closely engaged with his own thoughts and his own feelings to pay much immediate attention to Mrs. Eay. "It isn't only that she's good looking, hut there's something, — ^I don't know what it is, — ^but she's just the sort of person I like. I told her I should come to-day, and I have come on purpose to say this to you. I hope you won't he angry with me." " Pray, sir, don't say anything to her to turn her head." " If I understand her, Mrs. Eay, it wouldn't he very easy to turn her head. But suppose she has turned mine?" "Ah, no. Young gentlemen like you are in no danger of that sort of thing. But for a poor girl " " I don't think you quite understand me, Mrs. Eay. I didn't mean anything about danger. My danger would he that she shouldn't care twopence for me; and I don't suppose she ever wUL But what I want to know is whether you would object to my comiag over here and seeing her. I don't doubt but she might do much better. " Oh dear no," said Mrs. Eay. " But I should Kke to have my chance." " You've not said anything to her yet, Mr. Eowan?" " Well, no ; I can't say I have. I meant to do so last nigM at the party, but she wouldn't stay and hear me. I don't think she cares very much about me, but I'll take my chance if you'll let me." " Here she is," said Mrs. Eay. Then she again went to work with the tea-caddy, so that Eachel might be led to believe that nothing special had occurred in her absence. Nevertheless, had Eowan been away, every word would have been told to her. " I hope you like clotted cream," said Eachel, taking off her hat. Luke declared that it was the one thing in all the world that he liked best, and that he had come into Devonshire with the express object of feasting upon it all his life. " Other Devonshire dainties were notf"' he said, "so much to his taste. He had another object in life. He intended to put down cider." " I beg you won't do anything of the kind," said Mrs. Eay, "for I always drink it at dinner." Then Eowan explained how LUKE EOWAN TAKES HIS TEA. 12? that he was a brewer, and that he looked upon it as his duty to put down so poor a beverage as cider. The people of Devon- shire, he averred, knew nothing of beer, and it was his ambition to teach them. Mrs. Eay grew eager in the defence of cider, and then they again became comfortable and happy. " I never heard of such a thing in. my hfe," said Mrs. Eay. " What are the farmers to do with all their apple trees? It would be the ruin of the whole country." " I don't suppose it can be done all at once," said Luke. " Not even by Mr. Eowan," said Eachel. He sat there for an hour after their tea, and Mrs. Eay had in truth become fond of him. "When he spoke to Eachel he did so with the utmost respect, and he seemed to be much more intimate with the mother than with the daughter. Mrs. Bay's mind was laden with the burden of what he had said in Eachel' s absence, and with the knowledge that she would have to discuss it when Eowan was gone ; but she felt herself to be happy while he remained, and had begun to hope that he would not go quite yet. Eachel also was perfectly happy. She said very little, but thought much of her different meetings with him, — of the arm in the clouds, of the promise of his friendship, of her first dance, of the httle fraud by which he had secured her company at supper, and then of those words he had spoken when he detained her after supper in the haU. She Imew that she Kked him well, but had feared that such liking might not be encouraged. But what could be nicer than this, — ^to sit and listen to him in her mother's presence? IsTow she was not afraid of him. Kow she feared no one's eyes. 'Now she was disturbed by no dread lest she might be sinning against rules of propriety. There was no Mrs. Tappitt by, to rebuke her with an angry look. " Oh, Mr. Eowan, I'm sure you need not go yet," she said, when he got up and sought his hat. "Mr. Eowan, my dear, has got other things to do besides talking to us." "Oh no, he has not. He can't go and brew after eight o'clock." "When my brewery is really going, I mean to brew all night; but just at present I'm the idlest man in Baslehurst. When I go away I shall sit upon Cawston Bridge and smoke for an hour, tUl some of the Briggses of the town come and 128 RACHEL RAY. drive me aivay. But I won't trouble you any longer, Good night, Mrs. Eay." " Good night, Mr. Eowan." " And I may come and see you again?" Mrs. Eay was sUent. "I'm sure mamma wiR he very happy," said Eachel. " I want to hear her say so herself," said Luke. Poor woman ! She felt that she was driven into a position firom which any safe escape was quite impossible. She could [not teU her guest that he would not be welcome. She could not even pretend to speak to him with cold words after having chatted with, him so pleasantly, and with such cordial good humour; and yet, were she to teU him that he might come, she would be granting bim permission to appear there as Eachel' s lover. If Eachel had been away, she would have appealed to his mercy, and have thrown herself, ia spirit, on her knees before him. But she could not do this in Eachel's presence. "I suppose business will prevent your coming so far out of town again very soon." It was a foolish subterfuge ; a vain, siUy attempt. "Oh dear no," said he; "I always walk somewhere every day, and you shall see me again before long." Then he turned to Eachel. " Shall you be at Mr. Tappitt's to-morrow?" " I don't quite know," said Eachel. " I suppose I might as weU tell you the truth and have done with it," said Luke, laughing. " I hate secrets among friends. The fact is Mr. Tappitt has turned me out of his house." "Turned you out?" " Oh, Mr. Eowan !" said Eachel. "' That's the truth," said Eowan. " It's about that horrid brewery. He means to be honest, and so do I. But in such matters it is so hard to know what the right of each party really is. I fear we shall have to go to law. But there's a lady coming in, so I'L. teU you the rest of it to-morrow. I want you to know it all, Mrs. Eay, and to understand it too." "A lady?" said Mrs. Eay, looking out through the open window. " Oh dear, if here isn't Dorothea !" Then Eowan shook hands with them both, pressing Eachel'a very warmly, close under her mother's eyes ; and as he went wt of the house into the garden, he passed Mrs. Prime on vne walk, and took off his hat to her with great composure. RICHEL RAY TEIUKS SHE DOES T.TKb: eIM. CHAPTEE XBL RACHEL EAT THINKS "SHE DOES LIKE HHB* Luke Eowan's appearance at Mrs. Eay's tea-table, as descrilbed in tlie last chapter, took place on Wednesday evening, and it may be remembered that on the morning of that same day Mrs. Prime had been closeted with Mr. Prong in that gentleman's parlour. She had promised to give Mr. Prong an answer to his proposal on Saturday, and had consequently settled herself down steadily to think of aU that was good and aU that might be evil in such an arrangement as that suggested to her. She wished much for legal advice, but she made up her mind that that was beyond her reach, was beyond her reach as a prelimi- nary assistance. She knew enough of the laws of her coimtry to enable her to be sure that, though she might accept the offer, her own m.oney could be so tied up on her behalf that her husband could not touch the principal of her wealth ; but she did not know whether things could be so settled that she might have in her own hands the spending of her income. By three o'clock on that day she thought that she would accept Mr. Prong, if she could be satisfied on that head. Her position aa a clergyman's wife, — a minister's wife she called it, — would b' unexceptionable. The company of Miss Pucker was distasteful Solitude was not charming to her. And then, could she not work harder as a married woman than in the position which she now held ? and also, could she not so work with increased power and increased perseverance? At three o'clock she had almost made up her mind, but still she was sadJy in need of counsel and information. Then it occurred to her that her mother might have some knowledge in. this matter. In most respects her mother was not a woman of the world ; but it was just possible that in this difficulty her mother might assist her. Her mother might at any rate ask of others, and there was no one else whom she could trust to seek such information for her. An d if she did this thing she must tell her mother. It is true 130 EACHBL EAT. that she had quarrelled with them both at Bragg's End; but there are affairs in Ufe which will ride over family quarrels and trample them out, unless they be deeper and of longer standing than that between Mrs. Prime and Mrs. Eay. Therefore it was that she appeared at the cottage at Bragg's End just aa Luke 'Eowan was leaving it. She had entered upon the green with something of the olive- branch in her spirit, and before she reached the gate had determined that, as far as was within her power, all unkindness should be buried on the present occasion; but when she saw Luke Eowan coming out of her mother's door, she was startled out of all her good feeling. She had taught herself to look on Eowan as the personification of mischief, as the very mischief itself in regard to Eachel. She had lifted up her voice against him. She had left her home and torn herself from her family because it was not compatible with the rigour of her principles that any one known to her should be known to him also ! But she had hardly left her mother's house when this most pernicious cause of war was admitted to aU the freedom of family inter- course ! It almost seemed to her that her mother must be a hypocrite. It was but the other day that Mrs. Ray could not hear Luke Eowan's name mentioned without wholesome horror. But where was that wholesome horror now? On Monday, Mrs. Prime had left the cottage ; on Tuesday, Eachel had gone to a baU, expressly to meet the young man ! and on "Wednesday the young man was drinking tea at Bragg's End cottage ! Mrs. Prime would have gone away without speaking a word to hei mother or sister, had such retreat been possible. Stately and solemn was the recognition which she accorded to Luke's salutation, and then she walked on into the house. "Oh, Dorothea!" said her mother, and there was a tone almost of shame in Mrs. Eay's voice^ ""We're so glad to see you, DoUy," said Eachel, and in Eachel's voice there was no tone of shame. It was all just as it should not be ! " I did not mean to disturb you, mother, while you were entertaining company." Mrs. Eay said nothing, — ^nothing at the moment ; but Rachel took upon herself to answer her sister. " You wouldn't! have disturbed us at all, even if you had come a little sooner. JJut you are not too late for tea. if you'll have some." RACHEL EAT THINKS SHE DOES LIKE HIM. 131 "IVe taken tea, thank you, two hours ago;" and she spoke as though there -were much virtue in the distance of time at which she had eaten and drunk, as compared with the existing rakish _ and dissipated appearance of her mother's tea-tahle. Tea-things ahout at eight o'clock 1 It was all of apiece to- gether. "We arevery glad to see you, at any rate," said Mrs. Eay; " I was afraid you would not have come out to us at aU." " Perhaps it would have been better if I had not come." " I don't see that," said Eachel. " I think it's much better. I hate quarreUiag, and I hope you're goiag to stay now you are here." " ISTo, Eachel, I'm not going to stay. Mother, it is impossible I should see that young man walking out of your house in that way without speaking of it ; although I'm weU aware that my voice here goes for nothing now." " That was Mr. Luke Eowan," said Mrs. Ray. " I know very well who it was," said Mrs. Prime, shaking her head. " Eachel will remember that I've seen him before." " And you'U be Ukely to see him again if you stay here; DoUy," said Eachel. This she said out of pure mischief, — that sort of mischief which her sister's rebuke was sure to engender. " I dare say," said Mrs. Prime ; " whenever he pleases, no doubt. But I shall not see him. If you approve of it, mother, of course I can say nothing further, — ^nothing further than this, that I don't approve of such things." " But what ails him that he shouldn't be a very good young man ?" says Mrs. Eay. " And if it was so that he was growing fond of Eachel, why shouldn't he 1 And if Eachel was to like him, I don't see why she shouldn't like somebody some day as well as other girls." Mrs. Eay had been a little put beside her- self or she would hardly have said so much in Eachel's presence. She had forgotten, probably, that Eachel had not as yet been made acquainted with the nature of Eowan's proposal " Mamma, don't talk in that way. There's nothing of that kind," said Eachel. " I don't believe there is," said Mrs. Prime. "I say there is then," said Mrs. Eay; "and it's very ill- natured in you, Dorothea, to speak and think in that way of j-oux sister." 132 RACHEL EAT. " Oh, very weE I see that I had better go back to Basle. hurst at once." " So it is very ill-natured. I can't bear to have these sort of quarrels ; but I must speak out for her. I beUeve he's a rerj good young man, with nothing bad about him at aU, and he is welcome to come here -whenever he pleases. And as for Eachel, I beheve she knows how to mind herself as well as you did when you were her age; only poor Mr. Prime was come and gone at that time. And as for his not intending, he came out here just because he did intend, and only to ask my permission. I didn't at first tell him he might, because Eachel was over at the farm getting the cream, and I thought she ought to be con- sulted first ; and if that's not straightforward and proper, I'm sure I don't know what is; and he having a business of his own, too, and able to maintain a wife to-morrow ! And if a young man isn't to be allowed to ask leave to see a young woman when he thinks he Kkes her, I for one don't know how yonx^ people are to get married at aU." Then Mrs. Eay sat i/ffTO., put her apron up to her eyes, and had a great cry. It was a most eloquent speech, and I cannot say which of ter daughters was the most surprised by it. As to Rachel, it must be remembered that very much was communicated to her of which she had hitherto known nothing. Very much indeed, we may say, so much that it was of a nature to alter the whole tone and tenor of her Hfe. This young man of whom she had thought so much, and of whom she had been so much in dread, — ^fearing that her many thoughts of him were becoming dangerous, — this young man who had interested her so warmly, had come out to Bragg's End simply to get her mother's leave to pay his court to her. And he had done this without saying a word to herself ! There was something in this infinitely sweeter to her than would have been any number of pretty speeches from himself. She had hitherto been a«gry with him, though likiag him well ; she had been angry with him though almost loving him. She had not known why it was so, but the cause had been this, — ^that he fead seemed in their inter- course together, to have been deficient in that respect which she had a right to claim. But now all that sin was washed away by such a deed as this. As the meaning of her mother's words sank into her heart, and as she came to understand her mother's declaration that Luke Eowan should be welcome to the cottage Rachel ray thinks she does like him. 133 as her lover, her eyes hecame full of tears, and the spuit of her animosity against her sister was quenched hy the waters of her happiness. And Mrs. Prime was almost equally surprised, hut was by no means equally delighted. Had the whole thing fallen out in a different way, she would probably have looked on a marriage with Luke Eowan as good and salutary for her sister. At aiy rate, seeing that the world is as it is, and that all men cannot be hard-working ministers of the Gospel, nor all women the wives of such or their assistants in godly ministrations, she would not have taken upon herself to oppose such a marriage. But as it was, she had resolved that Luke Eowan was a black sheep; that he was pitch, not to be touched without defile- ment ; that he was, ia short, a man to be regarded by religious people as anathema, — a, thing accursed j and of that idea she was not able to divest herself suddenly. Why had the young man walked about under the churchyard ebns at night ? Why, if he were not wicked and abandoned, did he wear that jaunty look, — ^that look which was so worldly? And, moreover, he went 'to balls, and tempted others to do the like ! In a word, he was a young man manifestly of that class which was esteemed by Mrs. Prime more dangerous than roaring Hons. It was not possible that she should give up her opinion merely because this roaring lion had came out to her mother with a plausible story. Upon her at that moment fell the necessity of forming a judgment to which it would be necessary that she should hereafter abide. She must either at once give in her adherence to the Eowan alliance; or else, if she opposed it, she must be prepared to cling to that opposition. She was aware that some such decision was now required, and paused for a moment before she declared herself. But that moment only strengthened her verdict against Eachel's lover. _ Could any serious young man have taken off Ms hat with the flippancy which had marked that action on his pari; J Would not any serious young man, properly intent on matrimonial prospects, have been subdued at such a moment to a more solemn deport- ment? Mrs. Prime's verdict was stiU agaiast him, and that verdict she proceeded to pronounce. "Oh, very well; then of course I shall interfere no further. I shouldn't have thought that Eachel's seeing him twice, in such a way as that, too,— hiding under the churchyard trees 1" 134 EACHEL EAT. " I wasn't hiding," said Eachel, " and youVe no business to say so." Her tears, however, prevented her from fighting hei own battle manfully, or with her usual courage. " It looked very much like it, Eachel, at any rate. I should have thought that mother would have wished you to haye known a great deal more about any young man before she encouraged you to regard him. in that way, than you can possibly know of Mr. Eowan." "But how are they to know each other, Dorothea, if they mustn't see one another ?" said Mrs. Eay. " I have no doubt he knows how to dance very cleverly. As Eachel is being taught to live now, that may perhaps be the chief thing necessary." This blow did reach poor Mrs. Eay, who a week or two since would certainly have agreed with her elder daughter in thinking that dancing was sinful. Into this difficulty, how- ever, she had been brought by Mr. Comfort's advice. "But what else can she know of hiin t" continued Mrs. Prime. " He is able to maintain a wife you say, — and is that all that is necessary to consider in the choice of a husband, or is that the chief thing? Oh, mother, you should think of your respon- sibility at such, a time as this. It may be very pleasant for Eachel to have this young man as her lover, very pleasant while it lasts. But what — ^what — what?" Then Mrs. Prime was so much oppressed by the black weight of her own thoughts, that she was unable further to express them. " I do think about it," said Mrs. Eay. " I think about it more than anything else." " And have you concluded that in this way you can best secure Eachel's welfare? Oh, mother!" " He always goes to church on Sundays," said EacheL " I don't knew why you are to make him out so bad." This she said with her eyes fixed upon her mother, for it seemed to her that her mother was almost about to yield. A good deal might be said in excuse for Mrs. Prime. She was not only acting for the best in accordance with her own lights, but the doctrine which she now preached was the doctrine which had been held by the inhabitants of the cottage at Bragg's End. The fault, if fault there was, had been in the teaching under which had lived both Mrs. Prime and her mother. In their desire to live in accordance vsdth that teach- RACHEL KAY THINKS SHE DOES LIKE HIM. 135 ing, they had agreed to regard all the outer -world, that is, aU the world except their world, as wicked and dangerous. They had never conceived that in forming this judgment they were deficient ia charity ; nor, indeed, were they conscious that they had formed any such judgment. In works of charity they had striveij. to he ahundant, but had taken simply the Dorcas view of that virtue. The younger and more energetic woman had become sour in her temper under the regime of this life, while the elder and weaker had letaiaed her own sweetness partly because of her weakness. But who can say that either of them were other than good women, — good according to such lights as had been lit for their guidance ? But now the younger was stanch to her old lessons while the elder was leaving them. The elder was leaving them, not by force of her own reason, but under the necessity of coming in contact with the world which was brought upon her by the vitality and instiaots of her younger child. This diSiculty she had sought to master, once and for ever, by a reference to her clergyman. What had been the result of that reference the reader already knows. " Mother," said Mrs. Prime, very solemnly, " is this young man such a one as you would have chosen for Eachel's husband six months ago V " I never wished to choose any man for her husband," said Mrs. Eay. "I don't think you ought to talk to me in that way, Dorothea." " I don't know in what other way to talk to you. I cannot be indifferent on such a subject as this. When you tell me, and that before Eachel herself, that you have given this young man leave to come and see her whenever he pleases." " I never said anything of the kiud, Dorothea." " Did you not, mother 1 I am sure I understood you so." " I said he had come to ask leave, and that I should be glad to see him when he did come, but I didn't say anything of having told him so. I didn't tell him anything of the kind ; did I, Eachel? But I know he wiU come, and I don't see why he shouldn't. And if he does, I can't turn him out. He took his tea here quite like a steady young man. He drank three large cups ; and if, as Eachel says, he always goes to church regularly, I don't know why we are to judge him and say that he's anythiag out of the way." 136 EACHBL IU.T. " I liave not judged him, mother." Then Eachel spoke out, and we may say that it was needful that she should do so. This offering of her heart had been dis- eussed in her presence in a manner that had been very paiuful to her, though the persons discussiug it had been her own mother and her own sister. But in truth she had been so much affected by what had been said, there had been so much in it that was first joyful and then painful to her, that she had not hitherto been able to repress her emotions so as to acquire the power of much speech. But she had struggled, and now so far succeeded as to be able to come to her mother's support. " I don't know, mamma, why anybody should judge him yet ; and as to what he has said to me, I'm sure no one has a right to judge TiiTTi Tinkindly. DoUy has been very angry with me because she saw me speaking to him in the churchyard, and has said that I was — ^hidiig." " I meant that he was hiding." " Neither of us were hiding, and it was an unkind word, not like a sister. I have never had to hide from anybody. And as for — ^for — for liking Mr. Eowan after such words as that, I will not say anything about it to anybody, except to mamma. If he were to ask me to be — his wife, I don't know what answer I should make, — not yet. But I shall never listen to anyone while mamma lives, if she wishes me not." Then she turned to her mother, and Mrs. Ray. who had before been driven to doubt by Mrs. Prime's words, now again became strong in her resolution to cherish Rachel's lover. "I don't believe she'U ever do anything to make me think that I oughtn't to have trusted her," said Mrs. Ray, embracing Rachel and speaking with her own eyes full of tears. It now seemed to Mrs. Prime that there was nothing left for her but to go. In her eagerness about her sister's affairs, she had for a while forgotten her own; and now, as she again remembered the cause that brought her on the present occasion to Bragg' s End, she felt that she must return without accom- plishing her object. After having said so much in reprobation of her sister's love affair, it was hardly possible that she should teU the tale of her own. And yet her need was m-gent. " She had pledged herself to give Mr. Prong an answer on Friday, and she could hardly bring herself to accept that gentleman's offer without first communicating with her mother on the subject EACHEL RAJ THINKS SHE DOES LIKE Um. 137 Any such commimication at the present moment was quite out of the question. " Perhaps it -would be better that I should go and leave you," she said. " If I can do no good, I certainly don't want to do any harm. I wish that Eachel would have taken to what I thmk a better course of life." "Why, what have I done!" said Eachel, turning round sharply. " I mean about the Dorcas meetings." " I don't like the women there ; — that's why I haven't gone.' "I believe them to be good, praiseworthy, godly women. But it is useless to talk about that now. Good night, Eachel," and she gave her hand coldly to her sister. " Good night, mother ; I wish I could see you alone to-morrow." " Come here for your dinner," said Mrs. Eay. " Ifo ; — but if you would come to me in the morning I should take it kindly." This Mrs. Eay promised to do, and then Mrs. Prime walked back to Baslehurst. Eachel, when her sister was gone, felt that there was much to be said between her and her mother. Mrs. Eay herself was so inconsequent in her mental workings, so shandy-pated if I may say so, that it did not occur to her that an entirely new view of Luke Eowan's purposes had been exposed to Eachel during this visit of Mrs. Prime's, or that anything had been said, which made a further explanation necessary. She had, as it were, authorized Eachel to regard Eowan as her lover, and yet was not aware that she had done so. But Eachel had remembered every word. She had resolved that she would permit herself to form no special intimacy with Luke Eowan without her mother's leave ; but she was also beginning to resolve that with her mother's leave, such intimacy would be very pleasant. Of this she was quite sure within her own heart, — that it should not be abandoned at her sister's instigation. " Mamma," she said, " I did not know that he had spoken to you in that way." "Li what way, Eachel?" Mrs. Eay's voice was not quite pleasant. N"ow that Mrs. Prime was gone, she would have been glad' to have had the dangerous subject abandoned for a while " That he had asked you to let him come here, and that he had said that about me." " He did then — ^while you were away at Mrs. Sturt's." 138 BACHEL EAT. " And what answer did yon give him ?" " I didn't give Viim any answer. Yon came back, and Tm sure I was very glad that you did, for I shouldn't have known what to say to him." " But what was it that he did say, mamma 1 — ^that is, if you don't think it wrong to tell me." " I hardly know ; hut I don't suppose it can be wrong, for no young man could have spoken nicer ; and it made me happy to hear him, — so it did, for the moment." " Oh, mamma, do teU me !" and Eachel kneeled down before her. " Well ; — ^he said you were the nicest girl he had ever seen." " Did he, mamma f And the girl clung closer to her mother as she heard the pleasant words. " But I oughtn't to tell you such nonsense as that ; and then he said that he wanted to come out here and see you, and — ^and — and — ; it is simply this, that he meant to ask you to be his sweetheart, if I would let him." "And what did you say, mamma ?" " I couldn't say anything because you came back." "But you told DoUy that you would be glad to see him whenever he might choose to come here." "Did I?" " Tes ; you said he was welcome to come whenever he pleased, and that you believed him to be a very good young man." " And so I do. Why should he be anything else ?" " I don't say that he's anything else ; but, mamma " " WeU, my dear." " What shall I say to him if he does ask me that question 1 He has called me by my name two or three times, and spoken to me as though he wanted me to like him. If he does say anything to me like that, what shall I answer?" " If you think you don't like him well enough, you must tell biin so, of course." "Tes, of course I must.'' Then Eachel was silent for a minute or two. She had not as yet received the full answer which she desired. In such an alternative as that which her mother had suggested, we may say that she would have known how to frame her answer to the young man without any advice from her mother. But there was another alternative as to which she thought it weU. that she should have her mother's judgment ME. TAPPITT IN HIS COUNTING-HOUSE, 139 and opinion. "But, mamma, I tliink I do like liim," said Eachel, burying her face. _ " I'm sure I don't wonder at it," said Mrs. Eay, " for I like him very much. He has a way with him. so much nicer than most of the young men now; and then, he's very well off, which, after all, must count for something. A young woman should never fall ia love with a man who can't earn his hread, not if he was ever so religious or steady. And he's very good- lookiug, too. G-ood looks are only skin deep I know, and they won't bring much comfort when sorrow comes ; but I do own I love to look on a young feUow w;.th a sonsy face and a quick, lively step. Mr. Comfort seemed to thiuk it would do very weU'-jtf there was to be any such thiag ; and if he's not able to teU, I'm sure I don't know who ought to be. And nothing could be fairer than his coming out here and telling me first. There's so many of them are slyj but there was nothing sly about that." In this way, with many more rambling words, with many kisses also, and with some tears, Eachel Eay received from hei mother permission to regard Luke Eowan as her lover. CHAPTEE XIIL MB. TAPPITT IN HIS COUNTING-HOUSIF, Luke Eowan, when he left the cottage, walked quickly back across the green towards Baslehurst. He had sauntered out slowly on his road from the brewery to Bragg's End, being in doubt as to what he would do when he reached his destination ; but there was no longer room for doubt now ; he had said that to Eachel's mother which made any further doubt impossible, and he was resolved that he would ask Eachel to be his wife. He had spoken to Mrs. Eay of his intention in that respect as though he thought that such an offer on his part might probably be rejected, and in so speaking had at the same time spoken the RACHEL fiA.T. truth ; but he was eager, sanguine, and self-confident by nature, and though he was by no means disposed to regard himself as a conquering hero by whom any young lady would only be too happy to find herself beloTsd, he did not at the present moment look forward to his future fate with despair. He walked quickly home along the dusty road, picturing to himself a happy prosperous future iu Baslehurst, with Eachel as his wife, and the Tappitts living in some neighbouring TUla on an income paid to old Tappitt by him out of the proceeds of the brewery. That was his present solution of the brewery difficulty. Tappitt was growing old, and it might be quite as well not only for him- self, but for the cause of humanity in DeTonshiie, that he should pass the remainder of his life in that dignity which comfortable retirement from business afibrds. He did not desire Tappitt for a partner any more than Tappitt desired him. Iferertheless he was determined to brew beer, and was anxious to do so if possible on the spot where his great-uncle BungaU had com- menced operations in that Hne. It may be well to explain here that Eowan was not without good standing-ground in his dispute with Tappitt. Old BungaU's will had somewhat confused matters, as it is in the nature of wills to^o ; but it had been BungaU's desire that his full share in the brewery should go to his nephew after his widow's death, should he on dying leave a widow. Now it had happened that he had left a widow, and that the widow had? contrived to live longer than the nephew. She had drawn an income of five himdred a year from the concern, by agreement between her and her lawyer and Tappitt and his lawyer; and Tappitt, when the elder Eowan, BungaU's nephew, died, had taught himself to beUeve that aU the affairs of the brewery must now remain for ever in his own hands, unless he himself might choose to make other provision. He knew that some property in the concern would pass away from him when the old lady died, but he had not acknowledged to himself that young Eowan would inherit from his father aU the rights which old Eowan would have possessed had he lived. Luke's father had gone into other walks of Ufe, and had lived prosperously, leaving behind him money for his widow, and money also for his children ; and Tappitt, when he found that there was a young man with a claim to a partnership in his business, had been not only much annoyed, but surprised also MR. TAPPITT IN HIS COUNTING-HOtrSB. 141 He had teen, as we have seen, persuaded to hold out the right hand of friendship, and the left hand of the partnership to the young man. He had thought that he might manage a young man from London who knew nothing of beer ; and his wife had thought that the young man might probahly like to take a wife as well as an income out of the concern ; but, as we have seen, they had both been wrong in their hopes. Luke chose to manage the brewery instead of being managed ; and had foolishly fallen in love with Eachel Eay instead of taking Augusta Tappitt to himseK as he should have done. There was much certauily of harshness and cruelty in that idea of an opposition brewery ia Baslehurst to be established ia enmity to BungaH and Tappitt, and to be so established with Bungall's money, and by BungaU's heir. But Luke, as he walked back to Baslehurst, thinking now of his beer and now of his love, declared to himself that he wanted only his own. Let Tappitt deal justly with him in. that matter of the partner- ship, and he would deal even generously with Tappitt. The con- cern gave an income of some fifteen hundred pounds, out of which Mrs. BungaU, as taking no share of the responsibility or work, had been allowed to have a third. He was informed by his lawyer that he was entitled to claim one-haM of the whole concern. K Tappitt would give in his adhesion to that vQla arrangement, he should stiU have his thousand a year for life, and Mrs. Tappitt afterwards should have due provision, and the girls should have aU that could fairly be claimed for them. Or, if the vOla scheme could not be carried out quite at present, he, Eowan, would do two shares of the work, and allow Tappitt to take two shares of the pay ; but then, in that case, he must be allowed scope for his improvements. Good beer should be brewed for the people of Baslehurst, and the eyes of Devonshire should be opened. Pondering over aU this, and resolving that he would speak out his mind openly to Eachel on the morrow Luke Eowan reached his inn. "There's a lady, sir, up-stairs, as wishes to speak to you," said the waiter. "A lady?" " Quite elderly, sir," said the waiter, intending to put an end to any excitement on Eowan's part. " It's the gentleman's own mother," said the chambermaid, in a tone of reproof, "and she's in number two sitting-roomj 142 RACHEL BAY, private." So Liike -vfent to number two sitting-room, private, and there lie found his mother waiting for him. " This is very sad," she said, when their first greetings were over. " About old Tappitt? yes it is ; but what could I do mother 1 He's a stupid old man, and pig-headed. He would quarrel with me, so that I was obliged to leave the house. If you and Mary like to come iato lodgings while you stay here, I can get rooms for you." But Mrs. Eowan explained that she herself did not wish to come to any absolute or immediate rupture with Mrs. Tappitt. Of course their visit would be shortened, but Mrs. Tappitt was disposed to be very civil, as were the girls. Then Mrs. Rowan suggested whether there might not be a reconciliation between Luke and the brewery family. " But, mother, I have not quarrelled with the family." " It comes to the same thing, Luke ; does it not ? Don't yon think you could say something civil to Mr. Tappitt, so as to^ to bring him round again ? He's older than you are, you know, Luke." Eowan perceived at once that his mother was ranging herself on the Tappitt side in the contest, and was therefore ready to fight with so much the more vigour. He was accustomed to yield to his mother in all little things, Mrs. Eowan being a woman who Hked such yieldiags; but for some time past he had held his own against her in all greater matters. Now and again, for an hour or so, she would show that she was vexed j but her admiration for him was so genuine, and her love so strong, that this vexation never endured, and Luke had been taught to think that his judgment was to be held supreme in all their joint concerns. " Yes, mother, he is older than I am ; but I do not know that I can say anything particularly civil to him, — ^that is, more civil than what I have said. The civility which he wants is the surrender of my rights. I can't be so civil as that." " "No, Luke, I should be the last to ask you to surrender any of your rights ; you must be sure of that. But — oh, Luke, if what I hear is true I shaU be so unhappy !" "And what have you heard, mother?" " I am afraid all this is not about the brewery altogether." "But it is about tha hrewarv altogether: — about that and MR. TAPPITT m HIS COUNTING-HOUSE. 143 about notMng else to any smallest extent. I don't at all know wliat you mean." " Luke, is tliere no young lady in the case 1" " Young lady ! in what case ; — in the case of my quarrel with old Tappitt ; — whether he and I have had a difference ahout a young lady?" " !N"o, Luke ; you know I don't mean that.'' "But what do you mean, mother?" " I'm afraid that you know too well. Is there not a young lady whom you've met at Mrs. Tappitt's, and whom you — you pretend to admire?" "And suppose there is, — for the sake of the argument, — what has that to do with my difference with Mr. Tappitt ? " As Eowan asked this question some slight conception of the truth flashed across his mind; some faint idea came home to him of the connecting link between his admiration for Eachel Eay and Mr. Tappitt's animosity. " But is it so, Luke 1" asked the anxious mother. " I care much more ahout that than I do ahout all the brewery put to- gether. Nothing would make me so wretched as to see you make a marriage that was beneath you." " I don't thmk I shall ever make you wretched in that way.'' " And you teU. me that there is nothing in this that I have heard ; — ^nothing at all." " No, by heavens ! — I tell you no such thing. I do not know what you may have heard. That you have heard falsehood and calumny I guess by your speaking of a marriage that would be beneath me. But, as you think it right to ask me, I wiU not deceive you by any subterfuge. It is my purpose to ask a gicl here in Baslehurst to be my wife." " Then you have not asked her yet ?" "You are cross-examining me very closely, mother. If I have not asked her I am bound to do so ; not that any binding is necessary, — for without being bound I certainly should do so." "And it is Miss Bay?" "Yes, it is Miss Bay." " Oh, Luke, then I shaU be very wretched." " Why so, mother? Have you heard anything against her J" " Against her ! well ; I wUl not say that, for I do not wish to say anything against anv young woman. But do you know who 144 EICHEL EAT. she is, Luke ; and vho her mother ia? They are quite pooi people." " And is that against them ?" " Not against their moral character certainly, but it is against them in considering the expediency of a connection -with them. You wotild hardly -wish to marry out of your own station. I am told that the mother lives in a little cottage, quite in a humhle sphere, and that the sister — " " I intend to many neither the mother nor the sister ; hut Eachel Eay I do intend to marry, — ^if she will have me. _ If ^ I had heen left to myself I should not have told you of this tni I had found myseK to be successful ; as you have asked me I have not liked to deceive you. But, mother, do not speak against her if you can say nothing worse of her than that she is poor?" " You misunderstand me, Luke." "I hope so. I do not like to think that that objection should be made by you." " Of course it is an objection, but it is not the one which -I meant to make. There may be many a young lady whom it would be quite fitting that you should wish to marry even though she had not got a shiUing. It would be much pleasanter of course that the lady should have something, though I should never think of making any serious objection about that. But what I should chiefly look to would be the young lady herself, and her position in hfe." " The young lady herself would certainly be the main thing," said Luke. " That's what I say ; — ^the young lady herself and her position in life. Have you made any inquiries?" "Yes, I have; — and am almost ashamed of myself for doing so." "I have no doubt Mrs. Bay is very respectable, but the sort of people who are her friends are not your friends. Their most particular friends are the farmer's family that lives near them." "How was it then that Mrs. Combuiy took her to the party?" " Ah, yes ; I can explain that. And Mrs. Tappitt has told me how sorry she is that people should have been deceived by what has occurred." Luke Eowan's brow grew black as Mrs. Tappitt's name was mentioned, but he said nothing, and his MR. TAPPITT IN HIS COUNTING-HOUSE. 145 mother contimied her speech. " Her girls have been very kind to Miss Eay, inviting her to walk with them and all that sort of thing, because of her being so much alone without any com- panions of her own." " Oh, that has been it, has it ? I thought she had the farmer's family out near where she lived." " If you choose to Usten to me, Luke, I shall be obliged to you, but if you take me up at every word in that way, of course I must leave you." Then she paused, but as Luke said nothing she went on with her discourse. " It was in that way that she came to know the Miss Tappitts, and then one of them, the youngest I think, asked her to come to the party. It was very indiscreet; but Mrs. Tappitt did not Uke to go back from her daughter's word, and so the girl was allowed to come." " And to make the blunder pass off easily, Mrs. Cornbury was induced to take her?" " Mrs. Cornbury happened to be staying with her father, in whose parish they had lived for many years, and it certainly was very kind of her. But it has been an uirfortunate mistake altogether. The poor girl has for a moment been lifted out of her proper sphere, and, — as you must have seen yourself,- — hardly knew how to behave herself. It made Mrs. Tappitt very unhappy." This was more than Luke Eowan was able to bear. His anger was not against his own mother, but against the mistress of the brewery. It was manifest that she had been maligning Eachel, and instigating his mother to take up the cudgels against her. And he was vexed also that his mother had not perceived that Eachel held, or was entitled to hold, among women a much higher position than could be fairly accorded to Mrs. Tappitt. " I do not care one straw for Mrs. Tappitt's unhappiness," he said ; " and as to Miss Hay's conduct at her house, I do not think that there was anything in it that did not become her. I do not know what you mean, the least in the world ; and I think you would have no such idea yourseK, if Mrs. Tappitt had not put it into your head." "You should not speak in that way to your mother, Luke." " I must speak strongly when I am defending my wife, — as I hope she will be. I never heard of anything in my life so little as this woman's conduct ! It is mean, paltry jealousy, 146 RACHEL RAY. and nothing else. You, as my mother, may think it hettel that I should not marry." " But, my dear, I want you to many." "Then I wUl do as you want. Or you may think that I should find some one with money, or with grand friends, or with a better connection. It is natural that you should think like this. But why should she want to heUttle a young girl like Eachel Bay, — a girl that her own daughters call their friend? I'll tell you why, mother. Because Eachel Bay was admired and they were not." "Is there anybody in Baslehurst that will say that she is your equal?" "I am not disposed to ask any one in Baslehurst just at present; and I would not advise any one in Baslehurst to volunteer an opinion to me on the subject. I intend that she shall be my equal, — my equal in every respect, if I can make her so. I shaU. certainly ask her to be my wife; and, mother, as my mind is positively made up on that point, — as nothing on earth will alter me, — I hope you will teach yourself to think kindly of her. I should be very unhappy if my house could not be your home when you may choose to make it so." But Mrs. Eowan, much as she was accustomed to yield to her son, coidd not bring herself to yield in this matter, — or, at least, not to yield with grace. She felt that the truth and wisdom all lay on her side in the argument, though she knew that she had lacked words in which to carry it on. She declared to herself that she was not at all inclined to despise anybody for living in a small cottage, or for being poor. She would have been delighted to be very civU to Mrs. Bay herself, and could have patronized Eachel quite as kindly, though perhaps not so graciously, as Mrs. Cornbury had done. But it was a different thing when her son came to think of making this young woman his wife ! Old Mrs. Cornbury would have been very sorry to see either of her sons make such an alliance. When anything so serious as marriage was to be considered, it was only proper to remember that Mrs. Eay lived in a cottage, and that farmer Sturt was her friend and neighbour. But to all this prudence and wisdom Luke would not listen at all, and at last Mrs. Rowan left him in dudgeon. Foolish and hasty as he was, he could, as she felt, talk bettej than she MK. TAPPITT IN HIS COUNTING-HOUSE. 147 could ; and therefore she retreated, feeling that she had been worsted. "I have done my duty," said she, going away. "I have warned you. Of course you are your own master and can do as you please." Then she left him, refusing his escort, and in the last fading light of the long summer evening, made her way back to the brewery. Luke's first impulse was to start off instantly to the cottage, ^nd settle the matter out of handj but before he had taken up his hat for this purpose he remembered that he could not very well call at Bragg's End on such a mission at eleven o'clock at night J so he threw himself back on the hotel sofa, and gave vent to his feelings against the Tappitt family. He would make them understand that they were not going to master him. He had come down there disposed to do them all manner of kindness, — to the extent even of greatly Lmprovirig their fortunes by improving the brewing business, — and they had taken upon themselves to treat him as though he were a dependent. He did not teU himself that a plot had been made to catch him for one of the girls ; but ho accused them of jealousy, meanness, selfishness, and aU those sins and abominations by which such a plot would be en- gendered. "When, about an hour afterwards, he took himself off to bed, he was full of wrath, and determined to display his wrath early on the morrow. As he prayed for forgiveness on condition that he forgave others, Ms conscience troubled him; but he gulped it down, and went on with his angry feehngs tiU. sleep came upon him. But in the morning some of this bitterness had worn away. His last resolve overnight had been to go to the brewery before breakfast, at which period of the day Mr. Tappitt was always to be found for half an hour in his counting-house, and curtly tell ,the brewer that aU further negotiations between them must be made by their respective lawyers ; but as he was dxessing he reflected that Mr. Tappitt's position was Certainly one of difficulty, that amicable arrangements would stiU be best if amicable arrangements were possible, and that something was due to the man who had for so many years been his uncle's partner. Mr. Tappitt, moreover, was not responsible for any of those evil things which had been said about Eachel by Mrs. Tappitt. Therefore, priding himself somewhat on his, 148 EACHEL EAT. charity, lie entered Mr. Tappitt's office without the display of any anger on his face. The hrewer was standing with his hack to the empty fireplace, with his hands behind the tails of his coat, and his eyes fixad upon a letter which he had just read, and which lay open upon his desk. Eowan advanced with his hand out, and Tappitt, hesitatiug a little as he obeyed the summons, put out his own and just touched that of his visitor ; then hastily he resumed his position, with his arm behind his coat-taiL "I have come down," said Eowan, "because I thought it might be well to have a little chat with you before break- fast." The letter which lay open on the desk was from Eowan's lawyer in London, and contained that offer on Eowan's part of a thousand a year and retirement, to which Luke stiU looked as the most comfortable termination of all their difficul- ties. Luke had almost forgotten that he had, ten days since, absolutely instructed his lawyer to make the offer; but there was the offer made, and lyiag on Tappitt's table. Tappitt had been considering it for the last iive minutes, and every additional moment had added to the enmity which he felt against Eowan. Eowan, at twenty-five, no doubt regarded Tappitt, who was nearer sixty than fifty, as a very old man ; but men of fifty-five do not like to he so regarded, and are not anxious to be laid upoa shelves by their juniors. And, moreover, where was Tappitt to find his security for a thousand a year, — as he had not failed to remark to himself on his first glance over the lawyer's letter. Buy hitn out, indeed, and lay him on one side? He hated Eowan with all his heart ; and his hatred was much more bitter iu its nature than that which Eowan was capable of feeling for him. He remembered the champagne; he remembered the young man's bu^ caUing for things in his own house ; he remembered the sneers agaiost the beer, and the want of respect with which his experience in the craft had been treated. Buy him out! Ko ; not as long as he had a five-pound note to spend, or a leg to stand upon. He was strong ia his resolution now, and capable of strength, for Mrs. Tappitt was also on his side. Mrs. Eowan had not quite kept her secret as to what had transpired at the inn, and Mrs. Tappitt was certain that Eachel Bay had succeeded. When Tappitt declared that he would fight it out to the last, Mrs. T. applauded his courage. ME. TAPPITT m HIS COUl(rTING-HOUSE. 149 " Oh ! a little chat, is it?" said Tappitt. " About this letter that I've just got, I suppose;" and he gave a contemptuous poke to the epistle with one of his hands. "What letter?" asked Eowan. " Come no"w, young man, don't let us have any humbug and trickery, whatever we may do. If there's anything I do hate, it's deceit." All Eowan's wrath returned upon hiTn instantly, redoubled and trebled in its energy. "What do you mean, sir!" said he. " Who is trying to deceive anybody ? How dare you speak to me in such language as that ?" " 1^0 w, look here, Mr. Eowan. This letter comes from your man in Craven Street, as of course you know very well. You have chosen to put our business in the hands of the lawyers, and in the hands of the lawyers it shall remain. I have been very wrong in attempting to have any deahngs with you. I should have known what sort of a man you were before I let you put your foot in the concern. But I know enough of you now, and, if you please, you'll keep yourself on the other side of those gates for the future. D'ye hear me? Unless you wish to be turned out by the men, don't you put your feet inside the brewery premises any more." And .Tappitt's face as he uttered these words was a face very unpleasant to behold. Luke was so astounded that he could not bethink himself at the moment of the most becomiug words ia which to answer his enemy. His first idea had prompted him to repudiate all present knowledge of the lawyer's letter, seeing that the lawyer's letter had been the ground of that charge against him of deceit. But having been thus kicked out, — ^kicked out as far as words could kick him, and threatened with personal violence should those words not be obeyed, he found himself unable to go back to the lawyer's letter. " I should hke to see any one of your men dare to touch me," said he. " You shall see it very soon if you don't take yourself oif," said Tappitt. Luckily the men were gone to breakfast, and opportunity for violence was wanting. Luke looked round, and then remembered that he and Tappitt were probably alone in the place. " JVIr. Tappitt," said he, " you're a very foolish man." " I dare say," said Tappitt; "very foolish not to give up my 150 EACHEL EAT. own bread, and my wife's and- children's bread, to an adventurei like you." " I bave endeaiTouied to treat you with kindness and also with honesty, and because you differ from me, as of course you bare a right to do, you think it best to iusult me with all the Billingsgate you can muster." " If you don't go out of my countiag-house, young man, I'll see if I can't put you out myself;" and Tappitt, in spite of his fifty-five years, absolutely put his hand down upon the poker. There is no personal encounter in which a young man is so sure to come by the worst as in that with a much older man. l^his is so surely the case that it ought to be considered cowardly in an old man to attack a young one. K an old man hit a young man over the head with a walking-stick, what can the young man do, except run away to avoid a second blow ? Then the old man, if he be a wicked old man, as so many are, tells aU his friends that he has licked the young man. Tappitt would certainly hare acted in this way if the weapon in his hand had been a stick instead of a poker. But Tappitt, when he saw his own poker in his own hand, was afraid of it. If a woman attack a man -with a knife, the man wiU be held to have fought fairly, though he shall have knocked her down in the encounter. And so also with an old man, if he take a poker instead of a stick, the world wiU refuse to him the advantage of his grey hairs. Some such an idea as this came upon Tappitt — ^by in- stinct, and thus, though he stiU held the poker, he refrained his hand. " The man must be mad this morning," said Eowan, standing firmly before him, with his two hands fixed upon his hips. " Am I to send for the poKce ?" said Tappitt. "Por a mad-doctor, I should think," said Eowan. Then Tappitt turned round and rang a beU very violently. But as the beU was intended to summon some brewery servant who was now away at his breakfast, it produced no result. " But I have no intention of staying here against your wish, Mr. Tappitt, whether you're mad or only foolish. This matter must of course be settled by the lawyers now, and I shall not again come on to these premises unless I acquire a legal ri^ht ta do so as the owner of them." And then, having so spoken, Luke Eowan walked off. ME. TAPPITT IN HIS COUH TING-HOUSB. 151 Gro-wling inwardly Tappitt deposited the poker within the upright fendar, and thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets stood scowling at the door through which his enemy had gone. He knew that he had been wrong ; he knew that he had been very foolish. He was a man who had made his way upwards through the world with fair success, and had walked his way not without prudence. He had not been a man of violence, or prone to an UUcit use of pokers. He had never been in diffi- culty for an assault ; and had on his conscience not even the blood of a bloody nose, or the crime of a blackened eye. He was hardworking and peaceable ; had been churchwarden three times, and mayor of Baslehurst once. He was poor-law guardian and way-warden, and filled customarily the various ofiices of a steady good citizen. What had he to do with pokers, unless it were to extract heat &om his coals 1 He was ashamed of himself as he stood scowling at the door. One fault he perhaps had ; and of that fault he had been ruthlessly told by Ups that should have been sealed for ever on such a subject. He brewed bad beer; and by whom had this been thrown in his teeth ? By BungaU's nephew — ^by Bungall's heir, — ^by him who claimed to stand in Bungall's shoes within that establishment ! Who had taught him to brew beer — bad or good? Had it not been BungaU? And now, because in his old age he would not change these things, and ruin himself in a vaiQ attempt to make some beverage that should look bright to the eye, he was to be turned out of his place by this chip from the BungaU. block, this stave out of one of Bungall's vats ! " Muat ccelum, fiat justitia," he said, as he walked forth to Ms own breakfast. He spoke to himself in other language, indeed, though the Eoman's sentiment was his own. "I'U stand ou mj rights, though I have to go into the poor-houae." 152 EACKEL RAX. CHAPTEE XIV. l/CKE ROWAN PATS A SECOND VISIT TO BEAGG'S ENU Early after breakfast on that morrdng, — tliat mormng on which Tappitt had for a moment thought of braining Luke Eowan •with the poker, — Mrs. Eay started from the cottage on her mission iato Baslehurst. She was goiag to see her daughter, Mrs. Prime, at Miss Pucker's lodgings, and felt sure that the object of her visit was to be a further discourse on the danger of admitting that wolf Eowan into the sheepfold at Bragg's End. She would willingly have avoided the conference had she been able to do so, knowing well that Mrs. Prime would get the better of her in words when called upon to talk without having Eachel at her back. And indeed she was not happy in her mind. It had been conceded at the cottage as an imderstood thing that Eachel was to have this man as her lover ; but what, if after aU, the man didn't mean to be a lover in the proper sense ; and what, if so meaning, he should still turn out to be a lover of a bad sort, — a worldly, good-for-nothing, rakish lover i " I wonder," says the wicked man in the play, " I wonder any man alrv*, would ever rear a daughter !" Mrs. Eay knew nothing of the play, and had she done so, she would not have repeated such a line. But the hardness of the task which Providence had allotted to her struck her very forcibly on this morning. Eachel was dearer to her than aught else in the world. For Eachel's happiness she would have made any sacrifice. In Eachel's presence, and sweet smile, and winning caresses was the chief delight of her excellence. ^Nevertheless, in these days the possession of Eachel was hardly a blessing to her. The responsibility was so great; and, worse than that as regarded her own comfort, the doubts were so numerous ; and then, they recurred over and over again, as often as they were settled ! " I'm sure I don't know what she can have to say lo me." LUKE KOWAN PAYS A SECOND VISIT. 153 Mrs. Eay, as she spoko was tying on her honnet, and Eachel was standing close to her with her light summer shawl. " It will he the old story, mamma, I'm afraid ; my terrihle iniquity and hackslidiags, hecause I went to the haU, and hecanse I won't go to Miss Pucker's. She'll want you to say that I shall go or else he sent to hed without my supper." " That's nonsense, Eachel, Dorothea know right well that I can't make you go." Mrs. Eay was wont to hecome mildly petulant whep. things went against her. " But, mamma, you don't want me to go V " I don't suppose it's about Miss Pucker at alL It's about that other thing." " You mean Mr. Eowan. ' " Yes, my dear. I'm sure I don't know what's for the best. When she gets me to herseK she does say such terrible things to me that it quite puts me in a heat to have to go to her. I don't think anybody ought to say those sort of things to me except a clergyman, or a person's parents, or a schoolmaster, or masters and mistresses, or such like." Eachel thought so too, — ^thought at any rate a daughter should not so speak to such a mother as was her mother; but on that subject she said nothing. "And I don't like going to that Miss Pucker's house," continued Mrs. Eay. " I'm sure I don't want her to come here. I wouldn't go, only I said that I would." " I would go now, if I were you, mamma." " Of course I shall go ; haven't I got myself ready 1" " But I would not let her go on in that way." " That's very easy said, Eachel ; but how am I to help it 1 I can't tell her to hold her tongue ; and if I did she wouldn't. If I am to go I might as weU start. I suppose there's cold lamb enough for dinner ?" " Plenty, I should think." " And if I find poultry cheap, I can bring a chicken home in my basket, can't II" And so saying, with her mind fiiU of various cares, Mrs. Eay walked off to Baslehurst. " I wonder when he'll come." Eachel, as she said or thought these words, stood at the open door of the cottage looking after her mother as she made her way across the green. It was a delicious midsummer day, warm with the heat of the morning sun, but not yet oppressed with the full blaze of its noonday rays. The air was alive with the notes of birds, and the flowers 154 EACHEL EAT. were in their brightest beauty. " I wonder when heTl come." None of those doubts which so harassed her mother troubled her mind. Other doubts there were. Could it be possible that he would Hke her well enough to wish to make her his own 1 Could it be that anyone so bright, so prosperous in the world, so clever, so much above herself in aU. worldly advantages, should come and seek her as his wife, — take her from their little cottage and lowly ways of life ? "When he had first said that he would come to Bragg's End, she declared to herseK thA', it would be weU that he should see in how humble a way thej Uved. He would not call her Eachel after that, she said to herself ; or, if he did, he should learn from her that she knew how to rebuke a man who dared to take advantage of the humility of her position. He had come, and he had not called her Eachel. He had come, and taking advantage of her momentary absence, had spoken of her hehind her back as a lover speaks, and had told his love honestly to her mother. In Eachel's view of the matter no lover could have carried himself with better decorum or with a sweeter grace; but because he had so done, she would not hold him to be bound to her. He had been carried away by his feelings too rapidly, and had not as yet known how poor and lowly they were. He should stiU have opened to him. a clear path backwards. Then if the path backwards were not to his mind, then in that case , I am not sure that Eachel ever declared to herself in plain terms what in such case would happen ; but she stood at the door as though she was minded to stand there tiU he should appear upon the green. " I wonder when he'U come." She had watched her mother's figure disappear along the lane, and had plucked a flower or two to pieces before she returned within the house. He wiU not come tUl the evening, she determined, — tiU. the evening, when his day's work in the brewery would be over. Then she thought of the quarrel between him and Tappitt, and won- dered what it might be. She was quite sure that Tappitt was wrong, and thought of him at once as an obstinate, foolish, pig-headed old man. Yesj he would come to her and she would take care to be provided in that article of cream which he pretended to love so weU. She would not have to run away again. But how lucky on that previous evening had been that necessity, seeing that it had given oppo:.-tumty for LUKE ROWAN PATS A SECOND VISIT. 155 that great display of a lover's excellence on Eowan's part, Haring settled all this in her mind, she went into the house, and was beginning to think of her household work, when sha heard a man's steps in the passage. She went at once out from the sitting-room, and encountered Luke Eowan at the door. " How d'ye do V said he. " Is Mrs. Eay at home ?" "Mamma? — no. Yon must have met her on the road if you've come from Baslehurst." " But I could not meet her on the road, because I've come across the fields." " Oh ! — that accounts for it.'' " And she's away in Baslehurst, is she ?" " She's gone ia to see my sister, Mrs. Prime." Eachel, stili standing at the door of the sitting-room, made no attempt of asking Eowan into the parlour. " And mayn't I come ia.1" he said. Eachel was absolutelj ignorant whether, imder such circumstances, she ought to aUow him to enter. But there he was, ra the house, and at any rate she coTild not turn him out. " I'm afraid you'll have to wait a long time if you wait fot mamma," she said, slightly making way, so that he ohtainec? admittance. "Was she not a hypocrite 1 Did she not know that Mrs. Eay's absence would be esteemed by him as a great gain, and not a loss ? Why did she thus falsely talk of his waiting a long time ? Dogs fight with their teeth, and horses with their heels ; swans with their wings, and cats with their claws"; — so also do women use such weapons as nature has provided for them. " I came specially to see you," said he ; " not but what I should be very glad to see your mother, too, if she comes back before I am gone. But I don't suppose she will, for you won't let me stay so long as that." " Well, now you mention it, I don't think I shall, for I have got ever so many things to do ; — the dinner to get ready, and the house to look after." This she did by way of making him acquainted with her mode of life, — according to the plan which she had arranged for her own guidance. He had come into the room, had put down his hat, and had cot himself up to the window, so that his back was turned to her. " Eachel," he said, turning round quickly, and speaking almost suddenly. Now he had called her Eachel again, but she 156 KACHEL KAY. coulii find at the moment no better way of answering him than by the same plaintive observation which she had made before. "You shouldn't call me by my name in that way, Mr. Eowan; you know you shouldn't." "Did your mother tell you what I said to her yesterday]* he asked. " "What you said yesterday V " Yes, when you were away across the green." " What you said to mamma 1" " Yes ; I know she told you. I see it in your face. And I am glad she did so. May I not call you Eachel now 1" As they were placed the table was still between them, so that he was debarred from making any outward sign of his presence as a lover. He could not take her hand and press it. She stood perfectly silent, looking down upon the table on which she leaned, and gave no answer to his question. " May I not call yoa Eachel now 1" he said, repeating the question. I hape it will be understood that Eachel was quite a novice at this piece of work which she now had in hand. It must be the case that very many girls are not novices. A young lady who has rejected the first half-dozen suitors who have asked for her love, must probably feel herself mistress of the occasion when she rejects the seventh, and will not be quite astray when she accepts the eighth. There are, moreover, young ladies who, though they may have rejected and accepted none, have had so wide an advantage in society as to be able, when the moment comes, to have their wits about them. But Eachel had known nothing of what is called society, and had never before known either the trouble or the joy of being loved. So when the question was pressed upon her, she trembled, and felt that her breath was failing her. She had filled herself full of resolutions as to what she would do when this moment came, — ^as to how she would behave and what words she would utter. But all that was gone from her now. ' She could only stand stiU and tremble. Of course he might call her Eachel ; — ^might call her what he pleased. To him, with his wider experience, that now became manifest enough. " You must give me leave for more than that, Eachel, if you would not send me away wretched. You must let me call you my own." Then he moved round the table towards her ; and 31 ia moved, though she retreated from him-, she did not te- LUKE ROWAN PAYS A SECOND VISIT. 157 treat with a step as rapid as his o-ivn. " Eaohel," — and he put out his hand to her — " I want you to he my wife. ' She allowed the tips of her fingers to turn themselves toward him, as though uiiable altogether to refuse the greeting which he offered her, hut as she did so she turned away from him, and hent down her head. She had heard all she wanted to hear. Why did he not go away, and leave hor to think of it 1 He had named to her the word so sacred between man and woman. He had said that he sought her for his wife. What need was there that he should stay longer 1 He got her hand iu his, and then passed his arm round her waist. " Say, love ; say, Eachel ; — shall it be so ? Nay, but I will have an answer from you. You shall look it to me, if you will not speak it;" and he got his head roimd over her shoulder, as though to look into her eyes. " Oh, Mr. liowan ; pray don't ; — pray don't pull me." " But, dearest, say a word to me. You must say some word. Can you learn to love me, Eachel 1 " Learn to love him ! The lesson had come to her very easily. How was it possible, she had once thought, not to love him. " Say a word to me," said Eowan, stUl struggling to look into her face ; " one word, and then I avUI let you go." "What word?" " Say to me, ' Dear Luke, I wUl he your wife.'" She remained for a moment quite passive in his hands, trying to say it, but the words would not come. Of course she would be his wife. Why need he trouble her further ? " Naj, but, Eachel, you shall speak, or I wiU stay with you here till your mother comes, and she shaR answer for you. If you had disliked me I think you would have said so." " I don't dislike you," she whispered. "And do you love me?" She slightly bowed her head. "And you wiU. be my wife?" Again she went through the same little piece of acting. " And I may call you Eachel now ? " In answer to this question she shook herself free from his slackened grasp, and escaped away across the room. " You cannot forbid me now. Come and sit do"\vn by me, for of course I have got much to say to you. Come and sit down, and indeed I wiU not trouble you again," Then she went to him very slowly, and sat with him, leaving 158 EACHEL EAT. her hand in his, listening to his words, and feeling in her heart the full delight of having such a lover. Of the words that were then spoken, hut very few came from her lips ; he told her all his story of the brewery quarrel, and was very eloquent and djoU in describing Tappitt as he brandished the poker. "And was he going to hit you with it?" said Eachel, with all her eyes open. " "Well, he didn't hit me," said Luke ; " but to look at him he seemed mad enough to do anything." Then he told her how at the' present moment he was living at the inn, and how it became necessary, from this unfortunate quarrel, that he should go at once to London. " But under no circumstances would I have gone," said he, pressing her hand very closely, " without an answer from you." " But you ought not to think of anything Hke that when you are in such trouble." " Ought I not ? Well, but I do, you see." Then he ex- plained to her that part of his project consisted in his marrying her out of hand, — at once. He would go up to London for a week or two, and then, coming back, be married in the course of the next month." " Oh, Mr. Eowan, that would be impossible." " You must not call me Mr. Eowan, or I shall call you Mis? Eay." "But indeed it would be impossible." " Why impossible?" " Indeed it would. You can ask mamma ; — or, rather, you had better give over thinking of it. I haven't had time yet even to make up my mind what you are like." " But you say that you love me." " So I do, but I suppose I ought not ; for I'm sure I don'l know what you are like yet. It seems to me that you're very fond of having your own way, sir ; — and so you ought," she added; "but really you can't have youi own way in that. Nobody ever heard of such a thhig. Everybody would think we were mad." " I shouldn't care one straw for that." " Ah, but I should, — a great many straws." He sat there for two hours, telliug her of all things apper- tauiing to himself. He explaiaed to her that, irrespective of the brewery, he had ar. income sufficient to support a wife, — LUKE KOWAN PAYS A SECOND VISIT. 159 " though not enough to make her a fine lady like Mi-s. Corn- bury," he said. " If you can give me bread and cheese, it's as much as I have a right to expect," said Eachel. " I have over four hundred a year," said he : and Eachel, healing it, thought that he could indeed support a wife. Why should a man with four hundred a year want to brew beer ? " But I have got nothing," said Eachel ; " not a farthing." "Of course not," said Eowanj "it is my theory that un- married girls never ought to have anything. If they have, they ought to be considered as provided for, and then they ehouldn't have husbands. And I rather think it would be better if men didn't have anything either, so that tliey might be forced to earn their bread. Only they wo\ild want capital." Eachel listened to it aU with the greatest content, and most unalloyed happiness. She did not quite understand him, but she gathered from his words that her own poverty was not a reproach in his eyes, and that he under no circumstances would have looked for a wife with a fortune. Her happiness was unalloyed at all she heard from him, till at last he spoke of his mother. " And does she dislike me?" asked Eachel with dismay. " It isn't that she dislikes you, hut she's staying with that Mrs. Tappitt, who is furious against me because, — I suppose it's because of this brewery row. But indeed I can't understand it. A week ago I was at home there ; now I daren't show my nose in the house, and have been turned out of the brewery this morning with a poker." " I hope it's nothing about me," said Eachel. " How can it be about you?" " Because I thought Mrs. Tappitt looked at the ball as though . But I suppose it didn't mean anything." " It ought to be a matter of perfect indifference whether it meant anything or not." " But how can it be so about your mother ? If this is ever to lead to anythiug ." " Lead to anything ! What it wiU 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, Eachel ; that's all very proper for a girl, I dare ■ay. If your mother thought I was iiwt fit to be your husband, 160 tChel eat. I won't say hut wliat you ought to take lier word in such a matter. Bat it isn't so with a man. It will make me very unhappy i£' my mother cannot be friends with my wife ; hut 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 aU very grand and masterful on Eowan's part, and might in theory be true ; but there was that in it which made Ilachel 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 woidd 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 aU there ran a feeling of dismay at the idea of marrying a man whose mother would not willingly receive her as a daughter i " 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." " Th«n 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 Eachel gave no positive refusal to this proposition, EowaL 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 wiU 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, Eachel!" " Good-bye Luke,'' and then they parted. She had told him. to go, aUeging her household duties as her VAN PAYS A SECOND A'ISIT. ground for dismissing him ; but when he was gone she did not at once hetake 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 witli the slightest preference. So far love for her had run very smootlily. 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 quicldy, all her vacant thoughts had been given to him, and he had become the hero of her hfe. 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 happi- ness, she could not bring herself to beUeve that this cloud ^ould bring a storm. So she sat there dreaming of her happi- ness, and longing for her mother's return that she might tell it aU ; — ^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 Eachel knew that she must not let the whole morning pass by in idle dreams, happy as those dreams were, and closely as they were alUed to her waking life. After a while she jumped up with a start. " I declare there wiU be nothing done. JMamma wiU want her dinner, though I'm ever so much goi.-<' to be married." But she had not been long on foot, or done much in prepaivi. tion 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 yet in what words she should 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, Eachel did not think much. ISTothing that Dorothea could say would now be of moment. So at least Eachel flattered herself. And as for Dorothea and all her growUcga, RACHEL RAY. had they not chiefly ei.ded in tlds;— -that tho young man did not intend to present himself as a husband 1 But he had now done so in a- manner -wliich Eaohel felt to he so siitisfactory that even Dorothea's criticism must he disarmed. So Ilachol, 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. Eay was so full of her tale, was so conscious of the fact that her tidings were entitled to the immediate and undi- vided attention of her daughter, and from their first greeting on the gravel path was so ready with her words, that Eachel, with all the story of her happiness, was for a while ohliterated. " Oh, my dear," said Mrs. Eay, " I have such news for you !" " So have I, mamma, news for you," said Eachel, 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 1" And Eachel, 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.'' "DoUy]" " 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 aU." " 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 1 They're only skin deep ; we ought aU of us to re- member that always, Eachel ; 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 that 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 }>% what he is." LUKE KOWAif PAYS A SECOND VISIT. 163 " Tliere'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; hut 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 Borne 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." Eachel immediately reflected that Luke Eowan 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. Eay; "and when I saw that I didn't say very much against it. What was the use l 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 Eachel, "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 dif- ferent 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 lilr. Prong now and then if she married him, 1 wouldn't leave Mr. Ck)mfort, 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 ;Mjss Pucker has made her do it ; I do 164 RACHEL EAT. 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 sometliing to tell also." We'U leave Mrs. Eay to eat her dinner, and Eachel 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 prohahly the happiest of Bachel's existence, although its full proportions of joy were marred hy an unforeseen occurrence. At four o'clock a note came from Eowan to his " Dearest Eachel," saying that he had been called awa^ hy telegraph to London about that " horrid brewery business." He would write from there. But Eachel was almost as happy without him, talking about him, ae she would have been in his presence, listening to him. CHAPTEE XV. MATERNAL ELOQUENCE. On the Friday morning there was a solemn conference at the brewery between Mrs. Tappitt and Mrs. Eowan. Mrs. Eowan found herseK to be in some difiiculty 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 Mi's. Tappitt she had no strong liking. But then she was very averse to this proposed marriage with Eachel Eay, and was wiUing for a while to make a treaty with Mrs. Tappitt, offensive and defen- sive, 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 occur- rences of the day. He had described to her how Tappitt had turned him out of the brewery, poker in hand, and liow, in consequence of Tappitt's " pig-headed obstinacy," it was noi^ 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 longei MATEENAL ELOQUENCE. 165 any room for doubt or argument between them as regarding Eacliel. 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 Eachel to her heart at once. He went so far as to propose to her that she sliould 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. Eowan said very Uttle. 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 ?uoh occasions young men do, as to his privilege of choosing for himself, as to his knowing what wife would suit him, as to his uontempt 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 Eachel Eay 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. Eowan 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 herseK 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 Friilay morning, when ]\Ir. Prong was listening with enraptured cars to Mrs. Prime's acceptance of his suit, — under certain pecuniary conditions, — Mrs. Eowan and Mrs. Tappitt were silting in conference at the brewery. Thoy agrt^ed toyBllior at that meeting that Eachel Eay was tho Lead and front of the whole oflence, the source of all 166 RACHEL RAY. the evil done and to he done, and tlie one great sinuai in the matter. It was clear to Mrs. Eowan that Eachel 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 s husl 'and out of the brewery. If Eachel Eay had not ti?QQ t'lp,™ aU might have gone smoothly for both of them. M14 Xap^jitt lid 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 himseK 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 Eachel Eay, and that against Eachel and Eachel'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 neighbour- hood, of what stuff ]\Irs. Eay was made. "A very good sort of woman," she said to Mrs. Eowan, " and not at all headstrong and perverse like her daughter. If we fixid the young lady there we must ask her mamma to see us alone." To this proposition Mrs. Eowan assented, not eagerly, but with a slow, measured, dignified assent, feeUng that she was derogating somewhat from her ovioi position in allowing hecsalf to bii led by such a one as Mrs. Tappitt. It was needful that ov this occasion she should act with Mrs. Tappitt and conned herself with the Tappitt interests ; but all this sha did with an air that distinctly claimed for herself a personal superiority If Mrs. Tappitt did not perceive and understand this, it waa her fault, and not Mrs. Eowan's. At two o'clock they stepped into a fly at the brewery dcoi and had themselves driven out to Bragg' s End. " Mamma, there's a carriage," said EacheL " It can't be coming here," said Mrs. Eay. "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. Eowan and ^Iis. Tappitt ! Mamma, I shall go away." And Eachel, with- out another word, escaped out into the garden. Shs escaped-, utterly heedless of her mother's little weak pray^a that she would remain. She went away quicldy, so that lecA a skirt of her dress might be visible. She felt instantly, by instinct, that these two women had come out there espe-cially as her MATERNAL ELOQUENCE. 167 enemies, as upsetters of her happiness, as opponents of her one great hope in life ; and she Imew that she could not fight her hattle with them face to face. She could not herseK 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 Eachel 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. Eay's parlour. Mrs. Rowan and Mrs. Tappitt were large and stiff in their draperies, and did not fit themselves easily in among Mrs. Eay'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. Eowan in due form, and Mrs. Eowan made her little bow, if with some self-asserting supremacy, still with fitting courtesy. Mrs. Eay hoped that Mrs. Tappitt and the young ladies were quite well, and then there was a short silence, very oppressive to Mrs. Eay, but refreshing rather thaii other- Tise to Mrs. Eowan. It gave a proper business aspect to the visit, and paved the way for serious words. " Miss Eachel is out, I suppose," said Mrs. Tappitt. " Yes she is out," said Mrs. Eay. " But she's about tha 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 weU that she should be away just at present," said Mrs. Eowan, 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. Eay," said Mrs. Eowan. "That is whfl.t has brought us out so early," said Mrs. 168 EACH EL KAf. 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. Eay, about a very serious matter. I'm sure you know how glad I've always been to see Eachel 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. Eay. "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. Eay " "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt, you'U allow me,'' said Mrs. Eowan. " He's my son." " Oh yes, certainly ; that is, if you wish it,'' said Mrs. Tappitt, drawing herself up ia her chair; "but I thought that perhaps, as I knew Miss Eay so well " " If you don't mind, Mrs. Tappitt " and Mrs. Eowan, 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. Eowan's nature. "I believe you are aware, Mrs. Eay," said Mrs. Eowan, "that Mr. Luke Eowan 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. Eowan, — who at the moment, perhaps, forgot that de- ception is not truth; "and m saying that he has actually offered h im self, you may perhaps, — ^without meaning it, of course, — ^be attributing a more positive significance to his word than he has iutended." " God forbid !" said Mrs. Eay very solemnly. "That would be a very sad thing for my poor girl. But I think, Mrs. Eowan, you had better ask him. If he says he didn't intend it, of MA.TERNAL ELOQUENCE. 169 conrse tlmre will be an end of it, as far as Raclifal is con- cerned." " I can't a.sk him just at present," said Mrs. Eowan, " because lie lias gone up to London. He went away yesterday after- noon, 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. Eay, that that partnership between him and Mr. T. is all over." " He did tell ns 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. Eowan, ignoring Mrs. Tappitt and the partnership. " But of course, Mrs. Eay, our object ia this matter must be the same. We both wish to see our children happy and respectable." Mrs. Eowan, 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. Eay, with more heat than Mrs. Tappitt had thought her to possess. " No doubt ; no doubt. But what I'm coming to is this, Mrs. Eay ; 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 you suppose " " 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 Eachel came in from Parmer Sturt's opposite " "Farmer Sturt's !" said Mrs. Tappitt to Mrs. Eowan, in an under voice and nodding her head. Whereupon Mrs. Eowan nodded her head also. One of the great accusations made against Mrs. Eay had been that she lived on the Farmer Sturt level, and not on the Tappitt level ; — ^much less on the Eowan level. "Yes, — from Farmer Sturt's," continued Mrs. Eay, not at aU understanding this by-play. "So I didn't give him any answer at all." " You wouldn't encourage him," said Mrs. Eowan. "I don't know about that; but at any rate he encouraged himself, for he came again the next morning wh3n I was in Baslehurst." 170 RACHEL KAY. "I hope Mis? Eacliel didn't know he was coming in yova ahsence," said Mrs. Eowan. " It -would look so sly; — -wouldn't it?" said Mrs. Tappitt; " No, she didn't, and she isn't sly at aU. If she had kno-wn anything she -would have told me. I kno-w -what my girl is, Mrs. Eo-wan, and I can depend on her." Mrs. Hay's courage -was up, and she -was inclined to fight bravely, hut she -was sadly impeded by tears, -which she no-w fotuid it impossible to control. " I'm sure it isn't my -wish to distress you," said Mrs. Ro-wan. " It does distress me very much, then, for anybody to say that Eachel is sly." " I said I hoped she -wasn't sly," said Mrs. Tappitt. " I heard -what you said," continued Mrs. Eay ; " and I don't see -why you should be speaking against Eachel 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. Eowan, -with a toss of her head. It was a thousand pities that Mrs. Eay 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 Jlrs. Rowan paused a moment, and Mrs. Tappitt assumed a smile which was intended to indicate incredulity. " But Mrs. Eay," continued Mrs. Eowan, " that is neither here nor there. Luke.Eowan is my son, and I certainly have a right to speak. Such a marriage as this would be very impruden-t on his part, and very disagreeable to me. From the way in which things have turned out it's not likely that he'U settle himself at Baslehurst." " The most unlikely thing in the world," said Mrs. Tappitt, " I don't suppose he'U ever show himself in Baslehurst again." " As for sho-wing himself, Mrs. Tappitt, my son will never be ashamed of showing himself anywhere." " But he won't have any call to come to Baslehurst, Mis, Eowan. That's what I mean." " If he's a gentleman of his word, as I take him to be," said Mrs. Eay, " he'U 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 MiTEENAL ELOQUENCE 171 and see her any more ! I woTildn't believe it of hir not though, his own mother said it ! " " I don't say anything," said Mrs. Uowan, who felt that K^r position was one of some difficulty. " But we all do kno-w *-hat in affairs of that kind young men do allow themselves to go great lengths. And the greater lengths they go, Mrs. Eay, the more particular the young ladies ought to be." " Bat what's a young lady to do 1 How she's to know whether a young man is in earnest, or whether he's only going lengths, as you call it?" Mrs. Eay's eyes were stOl moist with tears ; and, I grieve to say that though, as far as immediate words are concerned, she was fighting Eachel's battle not badly, stUl the blows of the enemy were taking effect upon her. Sha was beginning to wish that Luke Eowan had never been s( «n, oi his name heard, at Bragg's End. "I think it's quite understood in the world," said AIra Eowan, " that a young lady is not to take a gentleman at his first word." " Oh, quite," said Mrs. Tappitt. " We've aU of us daughters," said Mrs. Eowan. " 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. Eowan." " 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 hue," said Mrs. Tappitt. "He has his way to make in the world," continued Mrs. Eowan, 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 wUl agree with me, Mrs. Eay, that long engagements are very bad, particularly for the lady." " He wanted to be married next month," said Mrs. Eay. " Ah, yes ; that shows that the whole thing couldn't come to much. If there was an engagement at aU, it must be a very long one. Years must roU by." From the artvtio manner in M 172 KACIIEL BAY. which Mrs. Eowan allowed her voice to dwell upon the worda which signified duration of space, any hope of a marriage between Luke and Rachel seemed to he put off at any rate to some future century. "Years must roll hy, and we allknow what that means. The lady dies of a hroken heart, while the gentleman lives in a hachelor's rooms, and dines always at his club. Nobody can wish such a state of things as that, Mrs. Eay." " 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 aU." '•' I'd sooner see my girl make up her mind to be an old maid than let her have a long engagement," said Mrs. Eowan. " And so would I, my girls, all three. If anybody comes, I eay to them, ' Let youf 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 al- most as much wit about them as I have. I won't mention any names, but there's a young man about here as weK-to-do as any young man in the South Hams, but Cherry won't as much as look at him." Mrs. Eowan 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. Eowan?" asked ]\Irs. Eay. "I want you and your daughter, who I am sure is a very nice young lady, and good-lookitig too, " " Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. " I want you laoth 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 fiist that has been foolish, and I'm afraid he won't be the last. But it can't be believed, Mrs. Eay, that marriages shc^ild 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 dif- ferences that there may be in their positions in life. Only you must be aware of this, Mrs. Eay, that such a mairi&ge as that would be very injurious to a young man like my son. Lake." " My child wouldn't wish to injure anybody." "And therefore, of courso, she won't think any more about MATEENAL ELOQUENCE. 113 It. All I want from you is that you should promise me that." "If Eachel will only just say that," said Mrs. Tappitt, "my daughters wiU be as happy to see her out -vvalking with them as ever." " Eachel 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 IVIrs. Tappitt. Then there was a pause among the three ladies, and it ap- peared that Mrs. Eowan was waiting for Mrs. Bay's answer. But Mrs. Eay did not know what answer she should make. She was already disposed to regard the comiag of Luke Eowan to Baslehurst as a curse rather than a blessing. She felt aU 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 Eowan in connection with her daughter she had been trembling. If she could have ».cted in accordance with her own feelings at this moment, she would have begged that Luke Eowan's name might never again he mentioned in her presence. It would be better for them, she thought, to hear what had already come upon them, than to rim further risk. But she could not give any answer to ]\Irs. Eowan without consulting Eachel; — she could not at least give any such answer as that contemplated without doing so. She had sanctioned Eachel's love, and could not now imdertake to oppose it. Eachel 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 lyirs. Eowan's views in the matter. " I will talk to Eachel," she said. " Give her my kindest respects," said Mrs. Eowan ; " and pray make her understand that I wouldn't interfere if I didn't think it was for both their advantages. Good-bye, Mrs. Eay." And Mrs. Eowan got up. " Good-bye, Mrs. Eay," said Mrs. Tappitt, putting out her hand. " Give my love to Eachel. I hope that we shall be good friends yet, for all that has come and gone." But Mrs. Eay would not accept Mrs. Tappitt's hand, uot would she vouchsafe any answer to Mrs. Tappitt's amenitifes. 174 EACHEL EAT. "Gowilyje, ma'am," she said to Mrs. Eowan. "I suppose you meap to rlo the test you can by your own child." '' And ty youis too," said Mrs. Eowan. " If so, I can only say that you -must think very badly of your own son. Good-bye, ma'am." Then Mrs. Eay curtseyed them out, — ^not without a certain amount of dignity, although ner eyes were red with tears, and her whole body trembhng with du inay. Very 'iittle was said in the fly between the two ladies on their way baok to the brewery, nor did Mrs. Eowan 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. Eay, but she felt in her heart a much stronger animosity to Mrs. Tappitt With Mrs. Eay she could have been very friendly, onl; 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. Eay had not known how to fan that flame of anger to her own and her daughter's advantage. "WeU, mamma," said Eachel, returning to the room as soot as sho heard the wheels of the fly in motion upon the road acTCss 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'U. never bear to lose him." " And must I lose him ?" " She says so. She saj's that he doesn't mean it, and that it's all nonsense." "I don't beueve her. Nothing shall make me believe that, tnaiima, " "£he says it would be ruinous to aU his prospects, especially just now when he has quarrelled about this brewery." " Euinous to him !" " His mother says so." " I wiU never wish him to do anything that shall be rainous to himself j nsvar; — not tho^igh I were broken-heaited, as you caU it.'' MATERNAL ELOQUENCE. 175 " Ah, that ia it, l^yhel, my darling ; I wish he had not come Lore." 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 sohs. 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 beUeve it of him, mamma; his manner is so stead fast, and his voice sounds so true." " But then she is so terribly against it." Then again they were sUent for a while, after which Eachel 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. K 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. Eay promised that she would not at present say anything to Mrs. Prime about Mrs. Eowan'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. Eowan and her daughter were going to London on the Monday, hut no letter came to them from Luke. By the Monday morning Mrs. Eay had quite made up her mind that Luke Eowan was lost to them for ever, and Eachel had already become worn with care. During that Saturday and Sunday nothing was seen of Mrs. Prime at Bragg's End. 17C RACHEL RA.Y. CHAPTEii XVX RACHEL RAT S FIRST LOVE-LETTKB. On the Monday evening, after tea, llrs. Prime came oxtt to tlie cottage. It was that Monday on which Mrs. Rowan and her (laughter 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 thijigs about her sister's lover. She had heard that the Eowans had gone away, and she had also heard that it was probable that they woidd be no more seen in IJaslehurst. 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. Primp, 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 iu Eachel's presence ; nor did she do so now. As long as Eachel remained in the room the conversation was very innocent and very uninteresting. Por 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. Bay 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 recom- mend him to Mrs. Eay. "And is she going to marry him 1" Eachel asked, as soon as her sister was gone. RACHEL ray's FIRST LOVE-LETTER. 177 "There's nothing settled as yet. Dorothea irarits to lic«-p her money in her owa hands." " I don't think that can he right. If a womrvn is married the money should helong 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 httle about him. He might go away any day to Australia, you know." " And did she say anything about — IVIr. Kowan." " iNot a word, my dear." And that was aU that was then said about Luke even between Rachel and her mother. How could they speak about himi 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 exprds-sed. What could be said between them now, — or ever afterwards, — unless, indeed, Rowan should take some steps to make it necessary that his doings shoiild 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 liand herself, she did not open it tUl she had shown it to her mother. " Of coiirse it's from liim," said Rachel. 178 RACHEL RAT. " I suppose so," said Mi-s. Eay, taking tlie unopened letter in ter liand and looking at it. She spoke almost in a whisper, aa though there were something terrible in the coming of the letter. " Is it not odd," said Eachel, " but I never saw his hjind- writing before? I shall know it now for ever and ever." She also spoke in a whisper, and stUl held the letter as though she dreaded to open it. " Well, my dear," said Mrs. Eay. " If you think you ought to read it first, mamma, you may.'' " No, Eachel. It is your letter. I do not msh you to imagine that I distrust you." Then Eachel sat herself down, and with extreme care opened the envelope. The letter, which she read to herself very slowly, was as follows : — " My own dearest Eachel, " 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 aU Baslehurst that I like the best. I ought to have written sooner, I know, and you wiU have been very angry with me; but I have had to go doTvn 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 doiag so had been a joke hetwe.en Luke and Eachel, — " 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 shaU be driven to ruin him and aU his family. I would have done, — and still would do,— anything for biTn in kindness ; but if he drives me to go to law to get what is as much my own aa his share is his own, I will bmld another brewery just iinder 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 smolte of my own vats. It is a fat, prosperous, money- making business, and one in which there is a clear Une between RACHEL KAY'S FIRST LOVE-LETTER. 179 right and wrong. JSTo man brews bad beer without knowing it, — or sells short measure. Whether the fatness and the honesty- can go together j — 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-makiug. I considered that that was all done when you nodded your head over my arm ia 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 ui Devonshire. I told you, you re- member, 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. 1 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 hfe 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 OUT setthng. 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 wiU 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 180 EACHEL BAT. 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 teU me everything that goes on. Give my kind love to your mother. " Tours, dearest Eachel, " Most affectionately, "Luke Eowan." The letter was not quite what Eachel had expected, hut, 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 iu possession of no strong precon- ceived 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 Uttle 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 confi- dently 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. Eay. " 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 afiairs." " I suppose, then, I mustn't see it." " Oh yes, mamma ! " And Eachel 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. Eay took the letter and spent quitfl ao much time in reading it as Eachel had done. " He writes as though he meant to have everything quite his own way," said Mrs. Eay. " That's what he does mean. I think he will do that alwaya. He's what people call imperious ; but that isn't bad in a man, is it?" Mrs. Eay did not quite know whether it was bad in. a man or RACHEL ray's FIRST LOVE-LETTLR. 181 no. But she mistrusted the letter, not construing it closely so as to discover wliat might really he its full meaning, hut perceiving that the young man took, or intended to take, very much into his own hands ; that he demanded that every- thing should he surrendered to his wiU and pleasure, without any guarantee on his part that such surrendering should he properly acknowledged. Mrs. Eay was disposed to douht people and things that were at a distance from her. Some check could he kept over a lover at Baslehurst; or, if per- chance the lover had removed himself only to Exeter, with which city Mrs. Eay was personally acquainted, she could have helieved in his return. He would not, in that case, have gone utterly heyond 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 Austraha. 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, — imder 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. Eay could place confidence as a lover for her pet lamb ? She read the letter very slowly, and then, as she gave it back to Bachol, she groaned. Por nearly half an hour after that nothing was said in the cottage about the letter. Eachel had perceived that it had nof^een thought satisfactory by her mother; but then she was incHned to believe that her mother would have regarded no letter as satisfactory until arguroeuls had been used tc prove to her that it was so. This, at any rate, was clear, — vcMst be clear to Mrs. Eay as it was clear te Eachel, — thai 182 BACHEL iiAT. 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 he confident? Had she not accepted Luke, telling him that she loved him? and was it not acknowledged by aU around her that such a marriage would he 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 Eachel 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 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 he safer, I think, that there shouldn't be any ; — very much safer." "Eut 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 Eachel, " because there were no railways and no postage stamps. I suppose I mu3t 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 shoidd you be in so much hurry, Eachel? It took kim four or five days to write to you." ELECTIONEERING. 183 " Yes ; but he was down in Northamptonsliire on business. Besides he hadn't any letter from me to answer. I shouldn't like him to think — " " To think what, Eachel V ' 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 Eachel eagerly. " ISTo ; 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 so much in need of somebody to advise me. Mr. Comfort is an old man, and you won't mind his seeing the letter." Eachel did mind it very much, but she had no means of saving herself from her fate. She did not Uke the idea of ha-ring 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. CHAPTEE XVIL ELECTIONEEEING. And now, in these days, — the days immediately following the departure of Luke Eowan 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 constraiued to do this by the necessities of their position ; and in doing so by no means showed themselve* to be such monsters of iniquity as the readers of the story wiil feel themselves inclined to call them. As for Tappitt himself 184 EACHEL EAT. he certainly believed that Rowan was so hase a scoundrel thai no evil words against him could be considered as maUcious or even unnecessary. Is it not good to denounce a scoundrel? And if the rascality of any rascal be specially directed against one's self 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 1 "When Tappitt declared in the read- ing-room at the "Dragon," and afterwards in the little room inside the bar at the "King's Head," and agaia to a circle of respectable farmers and tradesmen in the Com Market, that young Eowan had come down to the brewery and made his way into the brewejy-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 BungaU establishment with money left by BungaU, — that it would be a wickedness than w^hich 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 Tseer, 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 manufecturer 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'U be if he tries to undersell me," said young Griggs. "AH the same, I hope he'll come back, because he has left a Uttle 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 ani inclined to think that Mr. Tappitt can be almost justified in his evil thoughts and his evil words. ELECTIONEERl^JG. 185 I cannot mate out quite so good a case for Mrs. Tappitt and her two elder daughters ; — for even Martha, Martha the jast, shook her head in these days when Eowan's name was men- tioned ; — ^but something may be said even for them. It must not he supposed that Mrs. Tappitt's single grievance was her disappointment as regarded Augusta. Had there heen no Augu.sta on whose behalf a hope had been possible, the pre- dilection 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 1 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 1 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 he miserable when she saw her taken in hand by Mrs. Butler Combury, and made the heroine at her own party, to the detriment of her own daughters, by the fasliionable 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 Ms animosity against the sinner ? Augusta was less strong in her feelings than her parents, but ot course she disliked the man who coiild admire Rachel Ray. As regards Martha, her dislike to him, — or rather her judicial disapproval, — ^was founded on his social and commercial im- proprieties. 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 Ba^lehurst he owed no shill in g to any mai in it ; 186 UACHEL KAY, and, indeed, lie was a man ly 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 imusual 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 tlio end of it. He did not again say that Eowan owed money to liim ; but he never contradicted his former assertion, and r^Uowed the general report to go on, — that report which had been founded on his own first statement. Thus before Eowan 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 eaw each other daUy, and were affectionate in their intercoiuse, — ^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 Eowan aUianoe. " They say he owes money aU over the town." " So Miss Pucker tells me," said Mrs. Prime. " Does your mother know it 1" "Mother never knows anything that other people know. But he has gone now, and I don't suppose we shall hear of biTn or see him. again." " He has not written to her, Dorothea ?" "Not that Iknowof" " 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 pecimiary 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 ELECTIONEERING. 187 was allowed perhaps some display of pastoral manner on hei 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 meantime, she did agree with Mr. Prong that Eowan's proper chararcter should be made known to her mother, and with this view she went out to the cottage and whispered into Mrs. Eay's astonished ears the fact that Luke was terribly in debt. "You don't say so !" " But I do say so, mother. Everybody ia Baslehurst is talk- ing about it. And they aU say that he has treated Mr. Tappitt shamefully. Has anything come from him since he went?" Then Mrs. Eay 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 counseUor. " And what sort of B, letter was it V said Mrs. Prime, with a not unnatural desire to see it. " It was an honest letter enough, — ^very honest to my think- ing ; 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 bim the finest young man in the world. And I must say this for him, that he has always spoken of 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 j — 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. 188 RACHEL EAT. Prime went back home, having seen neither the letter nor hei 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 pohticians of the neighbourhood already knew to a nicety how the affair would go. Mr. Hart the great clothier from Houndsditch and Eegent Street, — Messrs. Hart and Jacobs of from 110 to 136 Houndsditch, and about as many more numbers in Eegent Street, — ^would come in at the top of the poU 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 ex- penditure 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 under- stood ; and men in Baslehurst talked about the result as though the matter were past a doubt. Ifevertheless there were those who were ready to bet oa 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, stUl 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 imwilling 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 ELECTIONEERING. 189 called _ npon Mm, but had not 136611 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 ia 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 ia 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 Combury he gives himself airs, and is too grand even to come and ask. I don't think I shall vote at aU." His wife had reminded him how civil to them Mrs. Combury 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. But we, who know Tappitt best, may declare now that his vote was to have been had by any one who would have joined him energetically in abuse of Luke Eowan. His mind was full of his grievance. His heart was laden with hatred of his enemy. His very soul was heavy with that sorrow. Honyman, whom he had not yet dared to desert, had again recommended submission to one of the three terms proposed. Let him take the thousand a year and go out from the brewery. That was Honyman's first advice. If not that, then let him admit his enemy to a full partnership. If that were too distasteful to be possible, then let him raise ten thousand pounds on a mortgage on the whole property, and buy Rowan out. Honyman thought that the money might be raised if Tappitt were willing to throw into the lump the moderate savings of his past life. But in answer to either proposal Tappitt only raved. Had Mr. Hart known all about this, he might doubtless have secured Tappitt's vote. Butler Combury refused to call at the brewery. " The man',? a liberal," he said to his wife, "and what's the use? Besides he's just the man I can't stand. "We've always hated each, other." Whereupon Mrs. B. Combury determined to call on Sirs. Tappitt, and to see Tappitt himseK if it were possible. She had heard something of the Eowan troubles, but not alL She bad beard, too, of Eowan's lilciiig for Eachel Eay, having a?fio 190 RACHEL EAT. seen something of it, as we know. But iinfortTmately for liei husband's parliamentary interests, she had not learned that the two things were connected together. And, very unfortunately also for the same interests, she had taken it into her head that Eachel should he married to young Eowan. She had conceived a liking for Eachel ; and heing by nature busy, fond of employ- ment, and apt at managing other people's affairs, she had put her finger on that match as one which she would task herself to further. This, I say, was unfortunate as regards her husband's present views. Her work, now in hand, was to secure Tappitt's vote ; and to have carried her point ia that quarter, her surest method would have been to have entered the brewery open- mouthed against Luke Eowan and Eachel Eay. But the conversation, almost at once, led to a word in praise of Eachel, and to following words in praise of Luke. Martha only was in the room with her mother. Mrs. Cornbury did not at once begin about the vote, but made, as was natural, certain complimentary speeches about the ball. Eeally she didn't re- member when she had seen anything better done; and the young ladies looked so nice. She had indeed gone away early ; but she had done so by no means on her own account, but because Eachel Eay had been tired. Then she said a nice good-natured genial word or two about Eachel Eay and her performance on that occasion. " It seemed to me," she added, " that a certain young gentleman was quite smitten. " Then Mrs. Tappitt's brow became black as thunder, and Mrs. Cornbury knew at once that she had trodden on unsafe ground, — on ground which she should specially have avoided. ""We are all aware," Mrs. Tappitt said, "that the certain young gentleman behaved very badly, — disgracefully, I may say ; — -but it wasn't our fault, Mrs. Cornbury." " Upon my word, Mrs. Tappitt, I didn't see anything amiss." " I'm afraid everybody saw it. Indeed, everybody has been talking of it ever since. As regards him, what he did then was only of a piece with his general conduct, wliich it doesn't be- come me to name in the language which it deserves. His behaviour to Mr. T. has been shameful ; — quite shameful." " I had heard something, but I did not know there was any- thing like that. I'm so sorry I mentioned his name." " He has disagreed with papa about the brewery businwjH," «aid Martha. ELEOTIONEEEIKa 191 "It's more than that, Martha, as you know very well," con- tinued Mrs. Tappitt, still speaking in her great heat. " He has shown himself bad in every way, — giving himself airs all o\'er the town, and then going away without paying his debts." '' I don't think we know that, mamma." "Everybody says so. Tour own father heard Sam Griggs say with his own ears that there was a shop bUl left there of I don't know how long. But that's nothing to us. He came here under false pretences, and now he's been turned out, and we don't want to have any more to do with him. But, Mrs. Combury, I am sorry about that poor foolish girl." " I didn't think her poor or foolish at aU," said Mrs. Corn- bury, who had quite heart enough to forget the vote her husband wanted in her warmth for her young friend. " I must say, then, I did ; — I thought her very foohsh, and I didn't at aU. like the way she went on in my house and before my girls. And as for him, he doesn't think of her any more than he thinks of me. In the first place, he's engaged to another girl." "We are not quite sure that he's engaged, mamma," said Martha. " I don't know what you call being sure, my dear. I can't say I've ever heard it sworn to, on oath. 33ut his sister Mary told your sister Augusta that he was. I think that's pretty good evidence. But, Mrs. Combury, he's one of those that will be engaged to twenty, if he can find twenty foolish enough to listen to him. And for her, who never was at a dance be- fore, to go on with him like that ; — I must say that I thought it disgraceful ! " "Well, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Combury, speaking with much authority in her voice, " I can only say that I didn't see it. She was under my charge, and if it was as you say I must be very much to blame, — very much indeed." " I'm sure I didn't mean that," said Mrs. Tappitt, frightened. " I don't suppose you did, — ^but I mean it. As for the young gentleman, I know very little about him. He may be every- thing that is bad." " You'U find that he is, Mrs. Combury." " But as to Miss Eay, whom I've known all my life, and whose mother my father has known for all her Hfe, I cannot allow anything of the kind to be said. She was under my 192 RACHEL BAT. charge ; and when young ladies are tindor my charge I keep a close eye upon them, — for their own comfort's sake. I know how to manage for them, and I always look after them. On the night of youi party I saw nothing ia Miss Say's condut't that was not nice, ladylike, and well-behaved. I must say so ; and if I hear a whisper to the contrary in any quarter, you may be sure that I shall say so open-mouthed. How d'you do, Mr. Tappitt ? I'm so glad you've come in, as I specially wanted to see you." Then she shook hands with Mr. Tappitt, who entered the room at the moment, and the look and manner of her face was altered. Mrs. Tappitt was cowed. If her husband had not come in at that moment she might have said a word or two in her own defence, being driven to do so by the absence of any other mode of retreating. But as he came in so opportunely, she allowed his coming to cover her defeat. Strong as was her feeling on the subject, she did not dare to continue her attack upon Eachel in opposition to the defiant bravery which came fuH upon her from Mrs. Combuiy's eyes. The words had been bad, but the determined fire of those eyes had been worse. Mrs. Tappitt was cowed, and allowed Eachel's name to pass away Tfrithout further remark. Mrs. Cornbury saw it all at a glance ; — saw it aU and under- stood it. The vote was probably lost ; but it would certainly be lost if Tappitt and his wife discussed the matter before he had pledged hjmself. The vote would probably be lost, even though Tappitt should, in his ignorance of what had just passed, pledge himself to give it. All that Mrs. Cornbury perceived, and knew that she could lose nothing by an imme- diate request. "Mr. Tappitt," said she, "I have come canvassiug. The fact is this : Mr. Cornbury says you are a liberal, and that therefore he has not the face to ask you. I tell him that I think you would rather support a neighbour from the coimty, even though there may be a shade of difference iu politics be- tween you, than a stranger, whose trade and religion cannot possibly recommend him, and whose politics, if you really knew them, woidd probably be quite as much tmlike your own as are my husband's." The little speech had been prepared beforehand, but was brought out quite as naturally as though Mrs. Cornbury had ELEOTIONEEEING. tiS been accustomed to speak on her legs for a quarter of a oentiir}'. Mr. Tappitt grunted. Tlie attack came upon him so much by surprise that he knew not what else to do but to gi'unt. If !Mr. Cornbury had come with the same speech in his mouth, and could then have sided oif into some general abuse of Luke Eowan, the vote would have been won. " I'm sure Mrs. Tappitt wiU agree with me," said Mrs. Corn- bury, smiling very sweetly upon the foe she had so lately vanquished. " "Women don't know anything about it," said Tappitt, mean- ing to snub no one but his own wife, and forgetting that Mrs. Cornbury was a woman. He blushed fiery red when the thought flashed upon him, and wished that his own drawing- room floor would open and receive bim ■ nevertheless he was often afterwards heard to boast how he had put down the politician in petticoats when she came electioneering to the brewery. "Well, that is severe,'' said Mrs. Cornbury, laughing. " Oh, T. ! you shouldn't have said that before Mrs. Corn- bury !" " I only meant my own wife, ma'am ; I didn't indeed." " I'U forgive your satire if you'll give me your vote," said Mrs. Cornbury, with her sweetest smUe. " He owes it me now ; doesn't he, Mrs. Tappitt?" "Well, — I really think he do." Mrs. Tappitt in her double trouble, in her own defeat and her shame on behalf of her husband's rudeness, — ^was driven back, out of all her latter-day conventionalities, into the thoughts and even into the language of old days. She was becoming afraid of Mrs. Cornbury, and submissive, as of old, to the rank and station of Cornbury Grange. In her terror she was becoming a little forgetful of niceties learned somewhat late in life. " I really think he do," said Mrs. Tappitt. Tappitt grunted again. " It's a very serious thing," he said. " So it is," said Mrs. Cornbury, interrupting him. She knew that her chance was gone if the man were allowed to get himself mentally upon his legs. " It is very serious ; but the fact that you are still in doubt shows that you have been thinking of it. We all know how good a churchman you are, and that yoa would not wiUingly send a Jew to ParUament." 194 ftACHl:L uxt. "I don't know," said Tappitt. "I'm not for persecuting even the Jews; — ^not when they pay their way and push themselves honourahly in commerce." " Oh, yes ; commerce ! There is nobody who has shown himself more devoted to the commercial interests than Mr. Cornbury. We buy everything in Baslehurst. Unfortunately our people won't drink beer because of the cider.'' " Tappitt doesn't think a bit about that, Mis. Cornbury." " I'm afraid I shall be called upon in honour to support my party," said Tappitt. "Exactly; but which is your party? Isn't the Protestant religion of your country your party ? These people are creeping dowa into aU parts of the kiigdom, and where shall we be if leadiug men Hke you think more of shades of difference between liberal and conservative than of the fundamental truths of the Church of England? "Would you depute a Jew to get up and speak your own opinions in yoiir own vestry-room?" " That you woiddn't, T.," said Mrs. Tappitt, who was rather carried away by Mrs. Combury's eloquence. " Ifot in a vestry, because it's joined on to a church," said Tappitt. " Or would you like a Jew to be mayor in Baslehurst ; — a Jew in the chair where you yourself were sitting only three years ago ? " "That wouldn't be seemly, because our mayor is expected to attend in church on Eoundabout Sunday." Eoundabout Sunday, so called for certain local reasons which it would be long to explain, followed inmiediately on the day of the mayor's inauguration. ""Would you like to have a Jew partner in your own business?" Mrs. Butler Cornbury should have said nothiag to Mr. Tappitt as to any partner in the brewery, Jew or Christian. "I don't want any partner, and what's more, I don't mean to have any." "Mrs. Cornbury is in favour of Luke Eowan; she takes his side," said Mrs. Tappitt, some portion of her courage retum- mg to her as this opportunity opened upon her. Mr. Tappitt turned his head full round and looked upon Mrs. Cornbury with an evil eye. That lady knew that the vote was lost ELECTIONEERING. 19.5 unless she would denounce the man whom Eachel loved; and she determined at once that she would not denounce him. There are many things which such a woman will do to gain such an object. She could smile when Tappitt was oifensivej she could smile again when Mrs. Tappitt talked like a kitchenmaid. She could flatter them both, and pretend to talk seriously with them about Jews and her own Church feelings. She could have given up to them Luke Eowan, — if he had stood alone. But she could not give up the girl she had chaperoned, and upon whom, during that chaperoning, her good-win and kindly feelings had fallen. Eachel had pleased her eye, and gratified her sense of feminine nicety. She felt that a word said against Eowan would bo a word said also against Eachel ; and therefore, throwing her husband over for the nonce, she resolved to sacrifice the vote and stand up for her friend. ""Well, yes; I do," said she, meeting Tappitt's eye steadily. She was not going to be looked out of countenance by Mi. Tappitt. " She thinks he'U come back to marry that young woman at Eragg's End," said Mrs. Tappitt ; " but I say that he'll never dare to show his face iu Baslehurst agaia." " That young woman is making a great fool of herself," said Tappitt, " if she trusts to a swindler like him." "Perhaps, Mrs. Tappitt," said Mrs. Cornbury, "we needn't mind discussing Miss Eay. It's not good to talk about a young lady in that way, and I'm sure I never said that I thought she was engaged to Mr. Eowan. Had I done so I should have been very wrong, for I knew nothing about it. Wbat little I saw of the gentleman I liked;" and as she used the word gentleman she looked Tappitt full in the face; "and for Miss Eay, I've a great regard for her, and think very highly of her. Independently of her acknowledged beauty and pleasant, ladylike manners, she's a very charming girl. About the vote, Mr. Tappitt — ; at any rate you'll think of it." But had he not been defied in his own house? And as fcr lier, the mother of those three finely-educated girls, had not every word said in Eachel's favour been a dagger planted in her own maternal bosom? Whose courage would not have rise7i under such provocation? Mrs. Cornbiiry had got up to go, but the indignant, injured ?06 RACllEL SAY. Tappitts resolved mutually, though without concert, that she should be answered. "I'm an honest man, Mrs. Combury," said the brewer, "and I hke to speak out my mind openly. Mr. Hart is a hberal, and I mean to support my party. WiU you tell Mr. Combury so with my compliments 1 It's aU nonsense about Jews not being in Parliament. It's not the same as being mayors or church- wardens, or anything like that. I shall votd for Mr. Hart; and, what's more, we shall put him in." " And Mrs. Combury, if you have so much regard for Miss Eachel, you'd better advise her to think no more of that young man. He's no good ; he's not indeed. If you ask you'll find he's in debt everywhere." « Swindler !" said Tappitt. " I don't suppose it can be very bad with Miss Eachel yet, for she only saw him about three times, — ^though she was so intimate with him at our party." Mrs. Butler Combury ciui;seyed and smiled, and got herself out of the room. Mrs. Tappitt, as soon as she remembered herself, rang the beU, and Mr. Tappitt, following her down, to the haU door, went through the pretence of puttiag her into her carriage. " She's a nasty meddlesome woman," said Tappitt, as soon as he got back to his wife. " And how ever she can stand up and say all those things for that girl, passes me!" said Mrs. Tappitt, holding up both her hands. "She was flighty herself, when young; she was, no doubt; and now I suppose she likes others to be the same. If that's what she calls manners, I shouldn't like her to take my girls about." "And him a gentleman!" said Tappitt. "If those are to be our gentlemen I'd sooner have aU the Jews out of Jerusalem. But they'll find out their gentleman; they'll find him out! He'U rob that old mother of his before he's done; you mark niy words else." Comforting himself with this hope he took himself back to his counting-house. Mrs. Combury had smiled as she went, and had carried herself through the whole interview without any sign of temper. Even when declaring that she intended to take Eachel's part open-mouthed, she had spoken in a half-droUing way which had divested her words of any tone of offence. Dfi. fiABFOED. 197 But when she got into her carriage, she -was in truth very angry. "I don't believe a word of it," she said to herself; "not a word of it." That ia which she professed to herself her own disbelief was the general assertion that Eowan was a swindler, supported by the particular assertion that he had left Baslehurst over head and ears ia debt. " I don't beHeve it" And she resolved that it should be her business to find out whether the accusation were true or false. She knew the ins and outs of Baslehurst life and Baslehurst doings with tolerable accuracy, and was at any rate capable of un- ravelling such a mystery as that. If the Tappitts in their jealousy were striving to rob Eachel Bay of her husband by spreading false reports, she would encourage Eachel Bay in her love by spreading the truth ; — ^if as she beheved, the truth should speak in Eowan's favour. She would have considerable pleasure in countermining Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt. Aa to Mr. Tappitt'a vote for the election j — that was gone 1 CHAPTEE XVm DB. HABFOBD. Thb current of events forced upon Eachel a delay of three oi four days in answering her letter, or rather forced upon her that delay in leamiag whether or no she might answer it ; and this was felt by her to be a grievous evil It had been arranged that she should not write until such writing should have received what might almost be called a parochial sanction, and no idea of acting in opposition to that arrangement ever occurred to her ; but the more she thought of it the more she was vexed ; and the more she thought of it the more she learned to doubt whether or no her mother was placing her in safe tutelage. During these few weeks a great change came upon the girl's character. When first Mrs. Prime had brought home tidinga that Miss Pucker had seen her walking and talking with the 198 RACHEL SAY. young man from the brewery, angry as she had heen with hei sister, and disgusted as she had heen with iliss Pucker, she had acknowledged to herself that such talking and walking were very dangerous, if not very improper, and she had half resolved that there should be no more of them. And when Mrs. Prime had seen her standing at the stile, and had brought home that second report, Eachel, knowing what had occurred at that stile, had then felt sure that she was in danger. At that time, though she had thought much of Luke Rowan, she had not thought of him as a man who could possibly be her husband She had thought of him as having no right to call her Eachel, because he could not possibly become so. There had been great danger; — there had been conduct which she beheved to be improper, though she could not tell herseH that she had been guilty. In her outlook into the world nothing so beautiful had promised itseK to her as having such a man to love her as Luko Eowan. Though her mother was not herself ascetic, — liking tea and buttered toast dearly, and liking also little soft laughter with her child, — she had preached ascetisms till Eachel had learned to think that the world was aU either ascetic or repro- bate. The Dorcas meetings had become distasteful to her because the women were vulgar ; but yet she had half believed herself to be wrong in avoiding the work and the vulgarity together. Idle she had never been. Since a needle had come easy to her hand, and the economies of a household had been made inteUigible to her, she had earned her bread and assisted in works of charity. She had read no love stories, and been taught to expect no lover. She was not prepared to deny, — did not deny even to herseK, — that it was wrong that she should even Kke to talk to Luke Eowan. Then came the ball; or, rather, first came the little evening party, which afterwards grew to be a ball. She had been very desirous of going, not for the sake of any pleasure that she promised herself ; not for the sake of such pleasure as girls do promise themselves at such gatherings ; but because her female pride told her that it was weU for her to claim the right ol meeting this young man, — ^weU for her to declare that nothing had passed between them which should make her afraid to meet him. That some other hopes had crept in as the evening had come nigh at hand, — hopes of which she had been made aware only by her efforts in repressing them, — ^may not be denied. DE. HAErOED. 199 Bhe had been, accused because of him ; and she ■would show that no such accusation had daunted her. But would he, — would he give occasion for further accusation ? She believed he would not ; nay, she was sure ; at any rate she hoped he would not. She told herself that such was her hopes ; but had he not noticed her she would have been wretched. We know now in what manner he had noticed her, and we know also whether she had been wretched. She had certainly fled from him. When she left the brewery-house, iuducing Mrs. Combury to bring her away, she did so in order that she might escape from him. But she ran from bim as one runs from some great joy in order that the mind may revel over it in peace. Then, little as she knew it, her love had been given. Her heart was his. She had placed him upon her pinnacle, and was prepared to worship him. She was ready to dress herself in ius eyes, to believe that to be good which he thought good, and to repudiate that which he repudiated. When she bowed her head over his breast a day or two afterwards, she could have spoken to bi-m with the full words of passionate love had not maiden fear repressed her. But she had not even bowed her head for him, she had not acknowledged to herself that such love was possible to her, tiU her mother had consented. That her mother's consent had been wavering, doubtful, expressed without intention of such ex- pression, — so expressed that Mrs. Eay hardly knew that she had expressed it, — ^was not understood by Eachel. Her mother had consented, and, that consent having been given, Eachel was not now disposed to allow of any steps backwards. She seemed to have learned her rights, or to have assumed that she had rights. Hitherto her obedience to her mother had been pure and simple, although, from the greater force of her character, she had in many things been her mother's leader. But now, though she was iU. inclined to rebel, though in this matter of the letter she had obeyed, she was beginning to feel that obe- dience might become a hardship. She did not say to herself, " They have let me love him, and now they must not put out their hands to hold back my love/' but the current of her feelings ran as though such unspoken words had passed across her mind. She had her rights; and though she did not presume that she could insist on them in opposition to her mother or her mother's advisers, she knew that she would be soo EACHEL EAT. wronged if those rights were ■withheld from her. The chief of those rights was the possession of her lover. If he was taken from her she would he as one imprisoned unjustly^ — as one lohhed by those who shoald have heen his friends, — as one injured, wounded, stricken in the dark, and treacherously muti- lated by hands that should have protected him. During these days she was silent, and sat with that look upon her brow which her mother feared. " I could not make Mr. Comfort come any sooner, Eachel," said Mrs. Eay. , " No, mamma." " I see how impatient you are." " I don't know that I'm impatient. I'm sure that I haven't said anything." "If you said anything I shouldn't mind it so muchj but I can't bear to see you with that unhappy look. I'm sure I only- wish to do what's best. You can't think it right that you should be writing letters to a gentleman without being sure that it is proper." " Oh, mamma, don't talk about it !" "You don't Kke me to ask your sister; and I'm sure it's natural I should want to ask somebody. He's nearly seventy years old, and he has known you ever since you were born. And then he's a clergyman, and therefore he'U be sure to know what's right. ITot that I should have Kked to have said a word about it to Mr. Prong, because there's a difference when they come from one doesn't know where." " Pray, mamma, don't. I haven't made any objection to Mr. Comfort. It isn't nice to be talked over in that wav bv anv- body, that's aU." " But what was I to do ? I'm sure I liked the young man very much. I never knew a young man who took his tea so pleasant. And as for his manners and his way of talking, I had it in my heart to fall in love with him myself. I had indeed. As far as that goes, he's just the young man that I could make a son of." "Dear mamma! my own dearest mamma!" and Eachel, jumping up, threw herself upon her mother's neck. " Stop there. You shan't say another word." " I'm sure I didn't mean to say anything unpleasant." "No, you did not; and I won't be impatient." DE. HAEFOED. 201 "Only I can't bear that look. And /on know what his mother said, — and Mrs. Tappitt. Not that I care ahont Mrs. Tappitt ; only a person's mother is his mother, and he shouldn't have called her a goose." It must be acknowledged that Eachel's position was not comfortable; and it certainly would not have been improved had she known how many people in Baslehurst were taUiing about her and Eowan. That Eowan was gone everybody knew; that he had made love to Eachel everybody said ; that he never meant to come back any more most professed to believe. Tap pitt's tongue was loud in proclaiming his iniquities ; and her follies and injuries Mrs. Tappitt whispered into the ears of all her female acquaintances. " I'm sorry for her," Miss Harford said, mildly. Mrs. Tappitt was caUing at the rectory, and had made her way in. Mr. Tappitt was an upholder of the old rector, and there was a fellow-townsman's friendship between them. " Oh yes ; — very sorry for her," said Mrs. Tappitt. "Very sorry indeed," said Augusta, who was with her mother. " She always seemed to me a pretty, quiet, well-behaved girl," said Miss Harford. " StiU waters run deepest, you know. Miss Harford," said Mrs. Tappitt. "I should never have imagined it of her; — never. But she certainly met him haK-way." "But we all thought he was respectable, you know," said Miss Harford. Miss Harford was thoroughly good-natured ; and though she had never gone half-way herseK, and had perhaps lost her chance from having been tmable to go any part of the way, she was not disposed to condemn a girl for having been will in g to be admired by such a one as Luke Eowan. " Well ; — yes ; at first we did. He had the name of money, you know, and that goes so far with some girls. We were on our guard," — and she looked proudly round on Augusta, — " tUl we should hear what the young man really was. He has thrown off his sheep's clothing now with a vengeance. Mr. Tappitt feels quite ashamed that he should have introduced him to any one of the people here ; he does indeed." " That may be her misfortune, and not her fault," said Misa Harford, who in defending Eachel was well enough inclined to 202 KACHEL BAY. give up Luke. Indeed, Basleliurst was beginning to have a settled mind tliat Luke was a wolf. " Oh, quite so," said Mrs. Tappitt. " The poor giil has heen very unfortunate no doubt." After that she took her leave of the rectory. On that evening Mr. Comfort dined with Dr. Harford, as did also Butler Cornbury and his wife, and one or two others. The chances of the election formed, of course, the chief subject of conversation both in the drawing-room and at the dinner-table j but in talking of the election they came to talk of Mr. Tappitt, and in talking of Tappitt they came to talk of Luke Eowan. It has aheady been said that Dr. Harford had been rector of Baslehurst for many years at the period to which this story refers. He had nearly completed half a century of work in that capacity; and had certainly been neither an idle nor an inefficient clergyman. But, now in his old age, he was discon- tented and disgusted by the changes which had come upon him; and though some bodily strength for further service stiU re- mained to him, he had no longer any aptitude for useful work. A man cannot change as men change. Lidividual men are like the separate links of a rotatory chain. The chain goes on with continuous easy motion, as though every part of it were capable of adapting itself to a curve, but not the less is each link as stiff and sturdy as any other piece of wrought iron. Dr. Harford had in his time been an active, popular man, — a man possessing even some liberal tendencies in politics, though a country rector of nearly haK a century's standing. In his parish he had been more than a clergyman. He had been a magistrate, and a moving man in municipal affairs. He had been a politician, and though now for many years he had sup- ported the Conservative candidate, he had been loudly in favoui of the Eeform BOI when Baslehurst was a close borough in the possession of a great duke, who held property hard by. But liberal politics had gone on and had left Dr. Harford high and dry on the standing-ground which he had chosen for himself in the early days of his manhood. And then had come that pestilent act of the legislature under which his parish had been divided. ITot that the Act of ParHament itself had been violently condemned by the doctor on its becoming law. 1 doubt whether he had then thought much of it. But when men calling themselves Commissioners came DB. HARFORD. 203 actually upon him and his, and separated oif from >iini a district of his own to'vvn, taking it away altogether from hid authority, and giving it over to such inexperienced hands as chance might send thither, — ^then Dr. Harford became a violent Tory. And my readers must not conceive that this was a question touching his pocket. One might presume that his pocket would be in some degree benefited, seeing that he was saved from the necessity of supplying the spiritual wants of a certain portion of his parish. No shilling was taken from his own income, which, indeed, was by no means excessive. His whole parish gave him barely six himdred a year, out of which he had kept always one, and latterly two curates. It was no question of money in any degree. Sooner than be invaded and mutilated he would have submitted to an order calling upon him to find a third curate, — could any power have given such order. His parish had been invaded and Ms clerical authority mutilated. He was no longer totus teres atque rotundus. The beauty of his life was over, and the contentment of his mind was gone. He knew that it was only left for him to die, spend- ing such days as remained to him in vague prophecies of evU against his devoted country, — a country which had allowed its ancient parochial landmarks to be moved, and its ecclesiastical fastnesses to be invaded ! But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting fiocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had under- gone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissent- ing ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mi-. Prong was to him the evU thing ! Anathema ! He believed aU bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong diank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners; — Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who at- 204 EACHEL EAY. tended Mr. Prong's chapel; — that he had left a deserted wife on some parish ; that he -was prohably not in truth ordained. Th«ire was nothing which Dr. Harford could not heHeve of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life. Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Combury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor. " He calls Mmself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. " You can't expect that he shoidd desert his own party." " But a Jew !" said old Mr. Comfort. "WeU; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Cdmfort, and Butler Combury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, " I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer ; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend." " But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Combury. " I don't know anything about yours, but mine are." " I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain. " Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the com- mand of a land-lubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way." "It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship." «Oh,weU; you'Usee." DK. HAKFOED. 205 "I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?" "Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that he a carrying on of the curse?" " There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses hia election," said Mr. Comfort. "Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no douht about that." " And who is to blame ?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Eeform Bill as his neighbour had done. " I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get T*orse as they grow older." "Dr. Harford thints Parliament is worn out," said Butler Combury. "And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay ? Did not the Eoman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the cvirse upon them but the wear- ing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out ; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thia places." " Ifow I believe just the contrary," said the captaiu. " I don't think we have come to our full growth yet." " Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor. The captain, thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity, "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may." " We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort. " I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Combury. " Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote J but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. TTis beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends." " I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor. "He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults." 206 EACHEL EAT. " But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad - as well as yours." " The truth is," said Combury, " that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear witTi a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love afiaii, and my wife has been^ there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life." " I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor. " I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Eachel and hei Hopes. "We aU hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made." — ^Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condi- tion, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable. — " But I fear this feUoW Eowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning." " Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort. " The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. " I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all I hear that he's in debt ; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. !N"qw that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm." " I think he should leave the brewery alone," said _Mr. Comfort. " Of course he should," said the doctor. " And I hear, more- over, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish." " I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. " It won't be a wicked game if he marries her." Then Eachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieva DR. HAHFOED. 207 to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harfoid'a dining- room, went agaiast Luke Eowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer : he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument ; but such as he was he had been known for many years. No one in that room loved or felt for him anything lilce real friendship ; but the old familiarity of the place was iu his favour, and his form was known of old upon the High Street. He was not a drunkard, he lived becomingly with his wife, he had paid his way, and was a feUow-townsman. "What was it to Dr. Harford, or even to Mr. Comfort, that he brewed bad beer? ISTo man was compelled to drink it. Why should not a man employ himself, openly and legitimately, in the brewing of bad beer, if the demand for bad beer were so great as to enable him to live by the occupation ? On the other hand, Luke Eowan was per- sonally known to none of them ; and they were jealous that a change should come among them with any view of teaching them a lesson or improving their condition. They believed, or thought they believed, that Mr. Tappitt had been ill-treated in his counting-hou^e. It was grievous to them that a man with a wife and three daughters should have been threatened by a young unmarried man, — ^by a man whose shoulders were laden with no family burden. Whether Eowan's propositions had been in truth good or evil, just or unjust, they had not inquired, and would not probably have asceitaiued had they done so. But they judged the man and condemned him. Mr. Comfort was brought round to condemn bim as thoroughly as did Dr. Harford, — ^not refleotiug, as he did so, how fatal his condemna- tion might be to the happiness of poor Eachel Eay. " The fact is, Butler," said the doctor, when Mr. Comfort had left them, and gone to the drawiug-room ; — "the fact is, your wife has not played her cards at the brewery as weU. as she usually does play them. She has been taking this young fellow's part; and after that I don't know how she was to expect that Tappitt would stand by you." " ISTo general can succeed always," said Cornbury, laughing. " Well ; some generals do. But I must confess your wife is generally very successful. Come ; we'U go upstairs ; and don't you tell her that I've been finding fault. She's as good as gold, and I can't afford to quarrel with her; but I think she has tripped here." 208 EACHEL EAT. When the old dcctor and Eutler Cornbury reached the drawing-room the names of Eowan and Tappitt had not been as yet banished from the conversation ; but to them had been added some others. Eachel's name had been again mentioned, as had also that of Eachel's sister. " Papa, who do you think is going to be married?" said Miss Harford. " Not you, my dear, is it ? " said the doctor. " Mr. Prong is going to be married to Mrs. Prime," said Miss Harford, showing by the solemnity of her voice that she regarded the subject as one which should by its nature repress any further joke. Not was doctor Harford iachned to joke when he heard such tidings as these. " Mr. Prong?" said he. " i^Tonsense ; who told you?" " WeU, it was Baker told me." Mrs. Baker was the house- keeper at the Baslehurst rectory, and had been so for the last thirty years. " She learned it at Drabbit's in the High Street, where Mrs. Prime had been living since she left her mother's cottage." " If that's true, Comfort," said the doctor, " I congratulate you on your parishioner." "Mrs. Prime is no parishioner of mine," said the vicar of Cawston. "If it's true, I'm very sorry for her mother, — ^very sorry." " I don't believe a word of it," said Mrs. Cornbury. "Poor, wretched, unfortunate woman!" said the doctor. " Her Kttle bit of money is all in her own hands ; is it not i" " I believe it is," said Mr. Comfort. " Ah, yes ; I dare say it's true," said the vicar. " She's been running after Vn'm ever since he's been here. I don't doubt it's true. Poor creature ! — ^poor creature ! Poor thing !" And the doctor absolutely sighed as he thought of the misery in store for Mr. Prong's future bride. " It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good," he said after a while. "He'U go off, no doubt, when he has got the money in his hand, and we shall be rid of him. Poor thing ; — ^poor thing !" Before the evening was over Mrs. Cornbury and her father had again discussed the question of Eachel's possible engagement with Luke Eowan. Mr. Comfort had declared his conviction that it would be dangerous to encourage any such hopes; ME. COMFORT CALLS AT THE COTTAGE. 209 whereas Ids daugMer protested that she would not see Eachel thrown over if she could help it. "Don't condemn Vii'tti yet, papa," she said. " I don't condemn him at aU, my dear ; hut I hardly think we shall see him hack at Baslehurst. And he shouldn't have gone away without paying his dehts, Patty 1" CHAPTEE XIX. MB. COMPORT CALLS AT THE OOTTAGB, Mrs. Eat, in her trouhle occasioned hy Luke's letter, had walked up to Mr. Comfort's house, hut had not found him at home. Therefore she had written to him, in his own study, a few very simple words, telling the matter on which she wanted his advice. Almost any other woman would have half hidden her real meaning under a cloud of amhiguous words ; hut with her there was no question of hiding anything from her clergy- man. " Eachel has had a letter from young Mr. Eowan," she said, " and I have begged her not to answer it till I have shown it to yoiL" So Mr. Comfort sent word dovm to Bragg's End that he would call at the cottage, and fixed an hour for his coming. This task was to be accomphshed by him on the morning after Dr. Harford's dinner ; and he had thought much of the coming conference between him self and Eachel's mother while Eowan's character was being discussed at Dr. Harford's house ; but on that occasion he had said nothing to any one, not even to his daughter, of the appUcation which had been made to him by Mrs. Eay. At eleven o'clock he presented himself at the cottage door, and, of course, found Mrs. Eay alone. Eachel had taken herself over to Mrs. Sturt, and greatly amazed that kind- hearted person by her silence and confusion. " Why, my dear," said Mrs. Sturt, "you haia't got a word to-day to throw at a dog." Eachel acknowledged that she had not ; and then Mrs. Sturt allowed her to remaia in her silence. 210 EACHEL KAY. "Oh, Mr. Comfort, this is so good of you !" Mrs. Eay liegni as soon as her friend was inside tlie parlour. " When I Went up to the parsonage I didn't think of hringiug you down here all the -way ; — I didn't indeed." Mr. Comfort assured hex that ha thought nothing of the trouhle, declared that he owed her a visit, and then asked after Eachel. " To tell you the truth, then, she's just stept across the green to Mrs. Sturt's, so as to he out of the way. It's a trying time to her, Mr. Comfort, — ^very ; and whatever way it goes, she's a good girl, — a very good girl." " You needn't teU me that, Mrs. Eay." " Oh ! hut I must. There's her sister thinks she's encouraged this young man too freely, hut — " "By-the-hy, Mrs. Eay, I've been told that Mrs. Prime is engaged to he married herself." " Have you, now?" ""Well, yes; I heard it in Baslehurst yesterday; — ^to Mr. Prong." " She's kept it so close, Mr. Comfort, I didn't think anybody had heard it." "It is true, then?" "I can't say she has accepted him yet. He has oifered to her ; — there's no doubt ' about that, Mr. Comfort, — and she hasn't said him no." " Do let her look sharp after her money," said Mr. Comfort. " "Well, that's just it. She's not a bit iucUned to give it up to him, I can tell you." " I can't say, Mrs. Eay, that the connexion is one that I like very much, in any vs^ay. There's no reason at all why your eldest daughter should not marry again, but — -" " "What can I do, Mr. Comfort ? Of course I know he's not just what he should be, — that is, for a clergyman. When I knew he hadn't come from any of the colleges, I never had any fancy for going to hear him myself. But of course I should never have left your church, Mr. Comfort, — not if anybody had come there. And if I could have had my v?^ay with Dorothea, she "would never have gone near him, — ^never. But what could I do, Mr. Comfort ? Of course she can go where she likes." " Mr. Prime veas a gentleman and a Christian," said the vicar. "That he was, Mr. Comfort; and a husband for a young MR. COMFORT CALLS AT THE COTTAGE. 211 woman to be proud of. But he was soon taken away from her —very soon ! and slie hasn't thought much of this world since." " I don't know what she's thinkirig of now." " It isn't of herself, Mr. Comfort ; not a bit, Dorothea is very stern; but, to give her her due, it's not herself she's thinking of." " Why does she want to marry him, then ?" " Because he's lonely without some one to do for him." " Lonely ! — and he should be lonely for me, Mrs. Eay." " And because she says she can work in the vineyard better as a clergyman's wife." " Pshaw ! work ia the vineyard, indeed ! But it's no busiuesa of mine ; and, as you say, I suppose you can't help it." " Indeed I can't. She never think of asking me." " I hope she'll look after her money, that's aU. And what's aU this about my friend Eachel 1 I'd a great deal sooner hear that she was going to be married, — ^if I knew that the man was worthy of her." Then Mrs. Eay put her hand into her pocket, and taking out Eowan's letter, gave it to the vicar to read. As she did so, she looked into his face -with eyes full of the most intense anxiety. She was herself greatly frightened by the magnitude of this marriage question. She feared the enmity of Mrs. Eowan ; and she doubted the iimmess of Luke. She could not keep herself from reflecting that a young man from London was very dan- gerous ; that he might probably be a wolf ; that she could not be safe in trusting her one lamb into such custody. But, never- theless, she most earnestly hoped that Mr. Comfort's verdict might be in the young man's favour. If he would only say that the young man was not a wolf, — ^if he would only take upon his own clerical shoulders the responsibility of trusting the young man, — Mrs. Eay would become for the moment one of the happiest women in Devonshire. With what a beaming face, — with what a true joy, — ^with what smiles through her tears, would she then have welcomed Eachel back from the farm-house ! How she would have watched her as she came across the green, beckoning to her eagerly, and teUing all her happy tale beforehand by the signs of her joy ! But there was lo be no such happy tale as that told on this morning. She •watched the vicar's face as he read the letter, and soon perceived that the verdict was to be given against the writer of it. I do 212 EACHEL EAT. not know that Mrs. Eay was particularly quick at reading th« countenances of men, but, in this instance, she did read the countenance of Mr. Comfort. We, all of us, read more in the faces of those with whom we hold converse, than we are aware of doing. Of the truth, or want of truth in every word spoken to us, we judge, in. great part, by the face of the speaker. By the face of every man and woman seen by us, whether they speak or are silent, we form a judgment, — and in nine cases out of ten our judgment is true. It is because our tenth judgment, — ^that judgment which has been wrong, — comes back upon us always with the effects of its error, that we teach ourselves to say that appearances cannot be trusted. If we did not trust them we should be walking ever in doubt, in darkness, and in ignorance. As Mr. Comfort read the letter, Mrs. Eay knew that it would not be allowed to her to speak words of happiness to Eachel on that day. She knew that the young man was to be set down as dangerous ; but she was by no means aware that she was reading the vicar's face with precise accuracy. Mr. Comfort had been slow in his perusal, weighing the words of the letter ; and when he had finished it he slowly refolded the paper and put it back into its envelope. " He means what he says," said he, as he gave the letter back to Mrs. Eay. " Yes ; I think he means what he says." " But we cannot teU. how long he may mean it j nor can we tell as yet whether such a connection would be good for Eachel, even if he should remain stedfast in such meaning. If you ask me, Mrs. Eay — " " I do ask you, Mr. Comfort." " Then I think we should all of us know more about him, before we allow Eachel to give him. encouragement; — I do indeed." Mrs. Eay coidd not quite repress in her heart a slight feeling of anger against the vicar. She remembered the words, — so different not only in their meaning, but in the tone in which they were spoken, — in which he had sanctioned Eachel's going to the ball : " Young people get to think of each other," he had then said, speaking with good-humoured, cheery voice, as though such thinking were worthy of all encouragement. He had spoken then of marriage being the happiest condition for both men and women, and had inquired as to Eowan's means. Every word that had fallen from him had expressed his opinion MB. COMFORT CALLS AT THE COTTAGE. 213 that Luke Eowan was an eligible lover. But now he was named as though he were undoubtedly a wolf. Why had not Mr. Comfort said then, at that former interview, when no harm had as yet been done, that it would be desirable to know more of the young man before any encouragement was given to him 1 Mrs. Eay felt that she was iajured ; but, nevertheless, her trust iu her counsellor was not on that account the less. " I suppose it must be answered," said Mrs. Eay. " Oh, yes ; of course it should be answered." " And who should write it, Mr. Comfort 1" "Let Eachel write it herself. Let her tell him that she is not prepared to correspond with him as yet, any further that is, you understand, than the writrag of that letter." " And about, — about, — about what he says as to loving her, you know? There has been a sort of promise between them, Mr. Comfort, and no young man could have spoken more honestly than he did." " And he meant honestly, no doubt ; but you see, Mrs. Eay, it is necessary to be so careful in these matters ! It is quite evident his mother doesn't wish this marriage." " And he shouldn't have called her a goose ; should he 1" " I don't think much about that." "Don't you, now?" "It was all meant in good-humour. But she thinks it a bad marriage for him as regards money, and money considera- tions always go so far, you know. And then he's away, and you've got no hold upon him." " That's quite true, Mr. Comfort." " He has quarrelled with the people here. And upon my word I'm inclined to think he has not behaved very well to Mr. Tappitt." "Hasn't he, now?" "I'm afraid not, Mrs. Eay. They were talking about him last night in Baslehurst, and I'm afraid he has behaved badly at the brewery. There were words between him and Mr. Tappitt, — ^very serious words." "Tes; I know that. He told Eachel as much as that. I think he said he was going to law with Mr. Tappitt." "And if so, the chances are that he may never be seen here again. It's iH coming to a place where one is quarrelling with people. And as to the lawsuit, it seems tp me, from what I 214 RACHEL RAT. hear, that he -would certainly lose it. Ko doubt he has a con- siderable property in the brewery j but he -wants to be master of everytlung, and that can't be reasonable, you kno-w. And then, Mrs. Eay, there's -worse than that behind." "Worse than that!" said Mrs. Eay, in -whose heart every gleam of comfort -was quickly being extinguished by darkening shado-ws. "They teU me that he has gone away -without paying his debts. If that is so, it shows that his means cannot be very good." Then why had Mr. Comfort taken upon himself expressly to say that they were good at that interview before Mrs. Tappitt's party? That was the thought in the -wido-w's mind at the present moment. Mr. Comfort, however, went on -with his caution. "And then, when the happiness of such a girl as Eachel is concerned, it is impossible to be too careful. Where should we all be if we found that we had given her to a scamp 1" " Oh dear, oh dear ! I don't think he can be a scamp ; — he did take his tea so nicely." "I don't say he is; — I don't judge him. But then we should be careful. Why didn't he pay- his debts before he went away ? A young man should always pay his debts." "Perhaps he's sent it do-wn in a money order," said Mrs. Eay. "They are so very convenient, — ^that is if you've got the money." "If he hasn't I hope he -will, for I can assure you I don't want to think badly of him. Maybe he wOl turn out all right. And you may be sure of this, Mrs. Eay, that if he is really attached to Eachel he won't give her up, because she doesn't throw herseK into his arms at his first word. There's nothing becomes a young woman like a little caution, or makes a young man think more of her. If Eachel fancies that she hkes him let her hold back a while and find out what sort of stuff he's made of. If I were her I should just teU him that I thought it better to wait a little before I made any positive engagement." "But, Mr. Comfort, how is she to begin it? You see he calls her Dearest Eachel." "Let her say Dear Mr. Eowan. There can't be any harm in that." " She mustn't call him Luke, I suppose." MB. COMFOET CALLS AT THE COTTAGE. 215 "I tTiiTiTt ste'd better not. Yoimg men tMnk so much of those things." "And she's not to say 'Tours affectionately' at the end?" " She'll understand aH 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 gii'l, 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. Eachel, 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 hvery, 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 Eachel or the visitor at the cottage. But she knew with tolerable accuracy what was going on, and with aU her heart wished that her young friend might have luck with her loyer. Eachel waited for a minute or two tOl 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 momenta 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 doiug ■jnine 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 httle I think of what clergy- inen says, unless it be out of the pulpit or the like of that. Wbat do» they know about lads and lasses 1" " He's a veiy old friend of mamma's." " Old friends is always best, I'll not deny that. But, look 216 RACHEL EAY. thee here, my girl ; my man's an old friend too. He's knoVd tliee since he l&ted 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 Stuit '11 find out whether it be true or no. Don't let ere a parson in Devonshire rob thee of thy sweetheart. ' It's passiug sweet, when true hearts meet. But it breaks the heart, when true hearts part.' " With the salutary advice con- tained in these ancient local lines Mrs. Sturi put her arms round Eachel, 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 aU 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 ia Devonshire rob thee of thy sweetheart." Was it not hard upon her that she should be subjected to the misery of such discussion, seeiag 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 sha would .be wronged, — she felt that she would be wronged and injured, grievously injured, if her mother should now bid her thinlc of Eowan as one thinks of those that are gone. She entered the garden slowly, and turning into the parlour, found het mother seated there on the old sofa, opposite to the fireplace. She was seated there in stUl 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 Uke the present, some great thing had occurred to throw her out of the grooves of her hfe. "Well, mammal" said Eachel, coming in and standing before her mother. Mrs. Eay, 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. Eay that at such a moment she shoidd have had no sort of husband on whom to lean 1 Does the reader remember that in. the opening words of this story MK. COMFOET CALLS AT THE COTTAGB. 217 Mrs. Eay 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 1 Such prop and such guiding she had never needed more sorely than she needed them now. She looked up iato Eachel'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 Eachel. "I saw his phaeton drive off; that's why I came over from Mrs. Stuit's." Eachel's voice was hard, and there was no comfort in it. It was so hard that Mrs. Eay felt it to be unMnd. No doubt Eachel 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 t "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 Eachel be stem to her? If misery was to fall on both of them, it was not of her doing. " I know you wUl think it's my fault, Eachel j 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 aU 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 1 You forget that you have not told me." " ISTo, my dear, I don't forget ; I wish I could. He says that Mr. Eowan 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'U. 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 reaUy cares for you he'U be sure to come back again, and so you're to answer the letter, and you must caU him Dear Mr. Eowan. Don't call him Luke, because 218 EACHEL RAT. young men think so much about those things. And you are to tell Mm that there isn't to he any engagement, or any letter- ■writiug, or anything of that sort at alL But you can just say something friendly, — ahout hoping he's qidte well, or something of that Mnd. And then when you come to the end, you had better sign yourself ' Yours truly.' It won't do to say anything about ajBfection, because one never knows how it may turn out. And, — let me see; there was only one thiug 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, Eachel, — I do so wish I could make it all right between you." Nobody can deny that Mrs. Eay had given, with very fair accuracy, an epitome of Mr. Comfort's words ; but they did not leave upon Eachel'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 wouH 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 Eachel. " 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 qh the sofa. Her eyes were full of ME. COMFORT CALLS AT THE COTTAGE. 219 anger, and Mrs. Eay saiv that it was so; but still she -was niiuJed to otey her mother. "It's no good taUdng," said Eachel; "hut when they say that he's afraid to show himself ta 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 tele- graph 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 ia such a tone that Mrs. Eay absolutely started up from her seat. " But, Eachel, he is my oldest friend. He was your father's friend." " Why did he not say it before, then ? Why — why — why — 1 Mamma, I can't throw him. off now. Didn't I tell liim 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 1 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, Eachel!" " No more it would. If Mr. Tappitt began it first, it wasn't Ms fault." " But Eachel, 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 wUl ever want to see me agaia when I have written to liim in that way ? I won't say anything about hoping that he's very weU. If I may not teU 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 wondei what be'U think of me when I write in that way !" 220 EACHEL EAY. " If he's constant-hearted he'll wait a while and then hell come hack again." " Why should he come back when I've treated him in that way 1 What have I got to give him 1 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 Ti-J, to do all that Mr. Comfort teUs 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 pidpit.' After that there was nothing further said for some minutes. Mrs. Eay still sat on the sofa, and as she gazed upon the table which stood ia the middle of the room, she wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. Eachel 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 miuutes no word was spoken between them. " Eachel," said Mrs. Eay at last, " if wrong has been done, ia it not better that it should be undone?" " What wrong have I done ?" said Eachel, 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 thfnk 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. Eay burst out into open tears. " 2fo, mamma, I won't be unhappy ; — or if I am I will beat it." Then she got up and threw her arms round her mother's neck, and embraced her. " I wiU write the letter, but I will not write it now. You shall see it before it goes." SHOWING WHAi BACHEL BAY THOUGHT. 221 CHAPTEE XX. aHO-nNG WDAT EACHEL RAT THOUGHT WHEN SHE SAT ON I'HB STILE, AND HOW SHE WROTE HER LETTER AFTERWaRDh. Eachel, as soon aa 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 a 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 leeHng 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 liusband. 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 oui misery. In the first flush of our vnretchedness, let the outward signs of our grief be what they may, we promise to ourselves the support of some inner strength which shaU suffice 222 EACHEL SAT. to us at any rate as against tlie eyes of the outer worM. Bnt anon, and that inner staff fails us ; our pride yields to our tears ; our dignity is crushed beneath the load -with which we have hurdened it, and then with loud wailings we own ourselves to he the wretches which we are. But now Eachel was in the hour of her pride, and as she came down from her room she resolved that her sorrow should he 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 aU she had been robbed of her sweet- heart. 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 do\vn from her room, and began to employ herself on her household work. Mrs. Bay watched her carefuUy, and Eachel 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. "WOl 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. Eay. " Oh, mamma ! don't say that ; just when you are going to thank God for the good things he gives you." Then Mrs. Eay, 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 Eowan ; and to neither of them was it as yet possible to speak about Bught else. One word on the subject was said during those hours. "You won't have time for your letter after tea," Mrs. Eay said. " I shall not write it till to-morrow," Eachel answered ; "another day will do no harm now." At tea Mrs. Eay asked her whether she did not think that a walk would do her grod, and offered to accompany herj but SHOWING WHAT EACHKL RAY THOUGHT. 223 Rachel, acceding to the proposition of the walk, declared that she would go alone. " It's very had of me to say so, isn't it, when you are 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. IMrs. 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 Mm ; 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. " 1 really don't know," said Mrs. Prime. " Such goings about do cut up one's time so much. I shouldn't be here again tiU— " " 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 jBniff' of fresh air among the iiowers does do a body so much 224 HACHEL SAY. jOod." And Miss Pucker looked and spoke as though she also would like the sniff of fresh air. " I'm Tery 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 Eachel. " I think you ought to go, Dorothea," said Mr. Prong ; and even Eachel could perceive that there was soma slight touch of authority ia his voice. It was the slightest possible intonation of a command ; but, nevertheless, it struck Eaohel'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 attempted to exercise. " I think I'd rather not, Eachel, thank you ;— not to dinner, that is. Perhaps I'll walk out ia 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 shaU. be most happy to accompany the ladies." It wlR be acknowledged that Eachel 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'U have to come to the house sooner or later. But I wouldn't tell that horrid, squinting woman that you wanted to see her, lor I'm siire you don't." " But we must give them some cake and a glass of sweet wine," said Mrs. Eay. " She won't have to take ner bonnet off for that as she would for tea, and it isn't so much hke 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 SHOWING WHAT RACHEL RAT THOffGHT. 225 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 famihar to her, and, turning round, she saw Mrs. Cornbury seated in a low carriage, and driving a pair of ponies. "How are you, Eachel?" said Mrs. Cornbury, shaldng hands with her friend, for Eachel 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 Eachel 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 Eachel, " only — " "Ah! well; I see. You've got other fish to fiy. But, Eachel, look here, dear." And j\Irs. Cornbury almost whispered into her ear across the side of the pony carriage. " Don't you believe quite aU you hear. I'll fmd out the truth, and you shall know. Good-bye." " Good-bye, Mrs. Cornbury," said Eachel, 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 Eachel 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 ehn trees to her right, and went on straight to the stile at which she had stood with Luke Eowan, 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 hghts of the evening. There was no arm in the clouds now, and the per- verse sun was retiring to his rest without any of that royal pageantry and illumination with which the heavens are wont 226 EACHEL RAY. tc deck themselves -when their king goes to liis couch. Sut Kachel, though she had come thither to look for these things and had not found them, hardly marked their absence. Her mind hecame 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 hody, that she soon forgot to watch the clouds. She sat herself down upon the stUe 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 aU her destiny. It was there that love for liitn had first come upon her — had come over her with broad out- spread wings like an angel ; but whether as an angel of dark- ness or of hght, her heart had then been unable to perceive. How well she remembered it aU ; 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 liim ! " 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 bright- ness of his eye, and the eager tone of his voice, were even then subduing her coy unwillingness to part with her maiden 'ove. 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 aU 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 lilie you so very much," he had said ; " why should we not be friends?" She had gone away from hi:a then, fleeing along the path, bewildered, ignorant as to her own feelings, conscious almost of a sin in having listened to him ; but still fllled with a wondrous delight that any one so good, so beautiful, so power- fid as he, should have cared to ask for her friendship in such pressing words. During aU her walk home she had been full of fear and wonder and mysterious dehght. Then had come the ball, which in itself had hardly been so pleasant to her, because SHOWING WHAT RACHEL RAY THOUGHT. 227 the eyes of many had watched her there. But she thought of the moment when he had first come to her in Mrs. Tappitt'a irawing-room, just as she was re'solving that he did not intend to notice her further. She had thought of those repeated dances which had teen so dear to her, hut 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 aU wMle lying in her bed, she had declared to herseK that he had been very wrong ; — but since that, during those few days of her permitted love, she had sworn to herself as often that he had been very right. And he had been right. She said so to herself now again, though the words which he had spoken and the things which he had done had brought upon her all this sorrow. He had been right. If he loved her it was only manly and proper in him to tell his love. And for herself, — seeing that she had loved, had it not been proper and womanly in her to declare her level What had she done ; when, at what point, had she gone astray, that she should be brought to such a pass as this? At the beginning, when he had held her hand on the spot where she was now sitting, and again when he had kept her prisoner in Mr. Tappitt's hall, she had been half conscious of some sin, half ashamed of her own conduct ; but that undecided fear of sin and shame had been washed out, and everything had been made white as snow, as pure as running water, as bright as sunlight, by the permission to love this man which had been accorded to her. What had she since done that she should be brought to such a pass as that in which she now found herself? As she thought of this she was bitter against all the world except him ; — almost bitter against her own mother. She had said that she would obey in this matter of the letter, and she knew well that she would in truth do as her mother bade her. But, sitting there, on the churchyard stile, she hatched within hor mind plans of disobedience, — dreadful plans ! She would not submit to tliis usage. She would go away from Baslehurst without knowledge of anyone, and would seek him out in Jus 228 RACHEL RAT. London home. It would be unmaidenly ; — but what cared she now for that; — unless, indeed, he should care? All her virgin modesty and young maiden fears, — was it not for him that she would guard them, for his delight and his pride ? And if she were to see him no more, if she were to be forced to bid him go from her, of what avail would it be now to her to cherish and maintaiu the unsullied brightness of her woman's armour ? If he were lost to her, everything was lost. She would go to him and throwing herself at his feet would swear to him that life without his love was no longer possible for her. If he would then take her as his wife she would strive to bless him with aU that the tenderness of a wife could give. If he should refose her, — then she would go away and die. In such case what to her would be the judgment of any man or any woman ? What to her would be her sister's scorn and the malignant virtue of such as Miss Pucker and Mr. Prong? What the upturn. >1 hands and amazement of Mr. Comfort? It would have been they who had driven her to this. But how about her mother when she should have thus thrown herself overboard from the ship and cast herself away from the pilotage which had hitherto been the guide of her conduct? Why — ^why— why had her mother deserted her in her need? As she thought of her mother she knew that her plan of rebellion was nothing ; but why — ^why had her mother deserted her? As for him, and these new tidings which had come to the cottage respecting him, she would have cared for them not a jot. Mrs. Cornbury had cautioned her not to believe all that she heard; but she had already declined, — ^had altogether decHned to believe any of it. It was to her, whether believed or dis- believed, matter altogether irrelevant. A wife does not cease to love her husband because he gets into trouble. She does not turn against him because others have quarrelled with him. She does not separate her lot from his because he is in debt ! Those are the times when a vnfe, a true wife, sticks closest to bet husband, and strives the hardest to lighten the weight of his cares by the tenderness of her love ! And had she not been permitted to place herself in that position with regard to him when she had been permitted to love him ? In all her thoughts she recognized the right of her mother to have debarred her from the privilege of loving this man, if such embargo had SHOWING WHAT EACHEL EAT THOUGHf. been placed on her before her love bad been declared. She had never, even within her own bosom, assumed to herself the right of such privilege without authority expressed. But her very soul revolted agaiast this withdrawal of the sanction that had been given to her. The spirit within her rebelled, though she knew that she would not carry on that rebellion by ■Jford or deed. But she had been injured; — ^iajured almost to death; injured even to death itself as regarded all that life could give her worth her taking! As she thought of tliis injury that fierce look of which I have spoken came across her brow ! She would obey her pastors and masters. Yes ; she would obey them. But she could never again be soft and pliable within their hands. Obedience m tHs matter was a necessity to her. In spite of that wild thought of throwing off her maiden bonds and allowing her female armour to be splashed and sullied in the gutter, she knew that there was that which would hinder her from the execution of such scheme. She was bound by her woman's lot to maiatain her womanly purity. Let her suffer as she might there was nothing for her but obedience. She could not go forth as though she were a man, and claim her right to stand or fall by her love. She had been injured in being brought to such plight as this, but she would b^r her injury as best might be within her power. She was stUl thinking of all this, and still sitting with her eyes turned towards the tower of the church, when she was touched on the back by a Hght hand. She turned round quickly, startled by the touch, — for she had heard no footstep, — and saw Martha Tappitt and Cherry. It was Cherry who had come elose upon her, and it was Cherry's voice that she first heard. " A penny for your thoughts," said Cherry. " Oh, you have so startled me !" said Eachel. " Then I suppose your thoughts were worth more than a penny. Perhaps you were thinking of an absent knight." And then Cherry began to sing — "Away, away, away. He loves and he rides away." Poor Eachel blushed and was unable to speak. " Don't be so foolish," said Martha to her sister. " It's ever so long since we've seen you, Eachel. "Why don't you come and walk mth us." "Yes, indeed, — ^why don't you?" said Cherry, whose good- nature waa quite as conspicuous as her bad taste. She knew 230 RACHEL RAT. aow that she had vexed Eachel, and was thoroughly sony that she had done so. If any other girl had quizzed her about her lover it would not have annoyed her, and she had not under- stood at first that Eachel Eay might he different from hersel£ " I declare we have hardly seen you siuce the night of the party, and we think it very ill-natured in you not to come to us. Do come and walk to-morrow." " Oh, thank you ; — not to-morrow, hecause my sister is coming out from Baslehurst, to spend the evening with us." " Well ; — on Saturday, then," said Cherry, persistiagly. But Eachel would make no promise to walk with them on any day. She felt that she must henceforth be divided from the Tappitts. Had not he quarrelled with Mr. Tappitt ; and could it be fittiag that she should keep up any friendship with the family that was hostile to hiTn ? She was also aware that Mrs. Tappitt was among those who were desirous of robbing her of her lover. Mrs. Tappitt was her enemy as Mr. Tappitt was his. She asked herself no question as to that duty of forgiving them the injuries they had done her, but she felt that she was divided from them, — from Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt, and also from the girls. And, moreover, in her present strait she wanted no iriend. She coidd not talk to any friend about her lover, and she could not bring herself even to think on any other subject. " It's late," she said, " and I must go home, as mamma will be expecting me." Cherry had almost repKed that she had not been in so great a hurry once before, when she had stood in the churchyard with another companion; but she thought of Eachel's reproachful face when her last little joke had been uttered, and she re- frained. " She's over head and ears in love," said Cherry to her sister, when Eachel was gone. " I'm afraid she has been very foolish," said Martha, seriously. " I don't see that she has been fooKsh at all. He's a very nice fellow, and as far as I can see he's just as fond of her as she is of him." " But we know what that means with young men," said Martha, who was sufficiently serious in her way of thinking to hold by that doctrine as to wolves in. sheep's clothing in which 'Mis. Eay had been educated. SHOWING WHAT EACHEL KAY THOUGHT. 231 " But yoimg men do marry, — sometimes," — said Cherry. "But not merely for the sake of a pretty face or a good figure. I believe mamma is right in that, and I don't think lio'll come hack again." " If he were my lover I'd have him back," said Cherry, stoutly; — and so they went away to the brewery. Eachel on her way home determined that she would write her letter that night. Her mother was to read it when it was written; that was understood to be the agreement between them; but there would be no reason why she should not be alone when she vreote it. She could word it very differently, she thought, if she sat alone over it in her own bedroom, than she could do immediately under her mother's eye. She could not pause and think and perhaps weep over it, sitting at the parloiir table, with her mother in her armchair, close by, watch- ing her. It needed that she should write it with tears, with many struggles, with many baffled attempts to find the words that would be wanted, — with her very heart's blood. It must not be tender. No ; she was prepared to omit aU tenderness. And it must probably be short ; — but if so its very shortness would be another difficulty. As she walked along she could not teU herself with what words she would write it ; but she thought that the words would perhaps come to her if she waited long enough for them in the soHtude of her own chamber. She reached home by nine o'clock and sat with her mother for an hour, reading out loud some book on which they were then engaged. " I think rU go to bed now, mamma," she said. " You always want to_ go to bed so soon," said Mrs. Eay. " I think you are getting tired of reading out loud. That will be very sad for me with my eyes." " No, I'm not, mamma, and I'll "go on again for half an hour, if you please; but I thought you Hked going to bed at ten." The watch was consulted, and as it was not quite ten Eachel did go on for another half-hour, and then she went up to her bedroom. She sat herself down at her open window and looked out for a while upon the heavens. The summer moon was at its ftiU, BO that the green before the cottage was as clear before her as in 232 EACHEL EAT. the day, and she could see over into the gloom of Mr. Stnrt's farmyard across it. She had once watched Eowan as he came over the tuif towards the cottage swinging his stick in his hand, and now she gazed on the spot where the Baslehurst road came in as though she expected that his iigure might again appear. She looked and looked, thinking of this, till she would hardly have been surprised had that figure really come forth upon the road. But no figure was to he seen, and after awhile she with- drew &om the window and sat herself down at the little table. It was very late when she undressed herself and went to her bed, and later still when her eyes, red with many tears, were closed in sleep ; — but the letter had been written and was ready for her mother's inspection. This was the letter aa it stood after many struggles in the writing of it, — "Bragg's End, "Tlrarsaay, 186— . "Mt dear Me. Eowan, " I am much obliged to you for having written the letter which I received from you the other day, and I should have answered it sooner, only mamma thought it best to see Mr, Comfort first, as he is our clergyman here, and to ask his advice. I hope you will not be annoyed because I showed your letter to mamma, but I could not receive any letter from you without doing so, and I may as well teU you that she will read this be- fore it goes. " And now that I have begun I hardly know how to write what I have to say. Mr. Comfort and mamma have determined that there must be nothing fixed as an engagement between us, and that for the present, at least, I may not correspond with you. This will be my first and last letter. As that will be so, of course I shall not expect you to write any more, and I know that you wiU be very angry. But if you understood aU my feelings I think that perhaps you would not be very, very angry I know it is true that when you asked me that ques- tion, I nodded my head as yoU say in your letter. K I had Bwom the twenty oaths of which you speak they would not, as you say, have bound me tighter. But neither could bind me to anything against mamma's wUL I thought that you were veiy generous to come to me as you did ; — oh, so generous ! I don't SHOWING WHAT EACHEL BAY THOUGHT. 233 know why you should have looked to such a one as me to be your wife. But I would have done my best to make you happy, had I been able to do as I suppose you then wished me. iJut you well know that a man is very different from a girl, and of course I must do as mamma wishes. " They say that as the business here about the brewery is so very unsettled they think it probable that you mil not have to come back to Baslehurst any more ; and that as our acquaintance has been so very short, it is not reasonable to suppose that you will care much about me after a httle while. Perhaps it is not reasonable, and after this I shall have no right to be angry with you if you forget me. I don't think you will quite forget me ; but I shall never expect or even hope to see you again." Twice in writing her letter Eachel cut out this latter assertion, but at last, sobbing in despair, she restored the words. What right would she have to hope that he would come to her, after she had taken upon herself to break that promise which had been conveyed to him, when she bent her head over his arm t "I shall not forget you, and I will always be your friend, as you said I should be. Being friends is very different to anything else, and nobody can say that I may not do that. " I will always remember what you showed me in the clouds ; and, indeed, I went there this very evening to see if I could see another arm. But there was nothing there, and I have taken that as an omen that you will not come back to Baslehurst." ' To me,' had been the words as she had first written them; but there was tenderness in those words, and she found it neces- sary to alter them. " I will now say good-bye to you, for I have told you all that I have to teU. Mamma desires that I will remember her to you kmdly. " May God bless you and protect you always ! " Beheve me to be " Your sincere friend, "Eachel Eat." In the morning she took down the letter in her hand and gave it to her mother. Mrs. Eay read it very slowly and de- murred over it at sundry places. She especially demurred at that word about the omen, and even declared that it ought to be expunged. But Eachel was very stern and held her ground. She had put into the letter, she said, all that she had been 234 EACHEL EAT. bidden to say. Such a word from herself to one who had been 80 dear to her must be allowed to her. The letter was not altered and was taken away by the post- man that evening. CHAPTEE XXI. MRS. EAT GOES TO EXETER, AND MEETS A FRTEITD. Six weeks passed over them at Bragg's End, and nothing was hoard of Luke Eowan. Eachel's letter, a copy of which was given in our last chapter, was duly sent away by the postman, but no answer to it came to Bragg's End. It must, however, be acknowledged that it not only required no answer, but that it even refused to be answered. Eachel had told her lover that lie was not to correspond with her, and that she certainly would not write to Iiitti again.. Having so said, she had no right to oxpect an answer ; and she protested over and over again that she did expect none. But still she would watch, as she thought nnseen, for the postman's coming; and her heart would sink within her as the man would pass the gate without calling. " He has taken me at my word," she said to herself very bitterly. "I deserve nothing else from him; but — but — ^but — -" In those days she was ever sUent and stem. She did all that her TO.other bade her, but she did little or nothing from love. There ^ were no more banquets, with clotted cream brought over from Mr. Sturt's. She would speak a word or two now and then to Mrs. Sturt, who understood the whole case perfectly ; but such words were spoken on chance occasions, for Eachel now never w^ent over to the farm. Farmer Sturt's assistance had been cffered to her ; but what could the farmer do for her in such trouble as hers 1 During the whole of these six weeks she did her household duties ; but gradually she became slower in them and stiU. more alow, and her mother knew that her disappointment was becom- MRS. EAY GOES TO EXETEE. 235 ing the source of permanent misery. Eachel never said that Bhe was iU ; nor, indeed, of any special malady did she show signs : hut gradually she became thin and wan, her cheeks assumed a haggard look, and that aspect of the brow -which her mother feared had become habitual to her. Mrs. Eay observed her closely in all that she did. She knew well of those watch- ings for the postman. She was always thinking of her child, and, after a while, longing that Luke Rowan might come back to them, with a heart almost as sore with longing as was that of Eachel herself. Eat what could she do? She could not bring him back. In all that she had done, — in giving her sanction to this lover, and again in withdrawing it, she had been g-uided by the advice of her clergyroan. Should she go again to him and beg him to restore that young man to them t Ah ! no ; great as was her trust in her clergyman she knew that even he could not do that for her. During all these weeks hardly a word was spoken openly between the mother and daughter about the matter that chiefly occupied the thoughts of them both. Luke Eowan's name was hariUy mentioned between them. Once or twice some allusion was made to the subject of the brewery, for it was becoming generally known that the lawyers were already at work on behalf of Eowan's claim ; but even on such occasions as these ^Irs. Eay found that her speech was stopped by the expression of Eachel's eyes, and by those two lines which on such occasions would mark her forehead. Li those days Mrs. Eay became afraid of her younger daughter, — almost more so than she had ever been afraid of the elder one. Eachel, indeed, never spoke as Mrs. Prime would sometimes speak. ISTo word of scolding ever passed her mouth ; and in all that she did she was gentle and observant. But there was ever on her coimtenance that loc>k of reproach which by degrees was becoming almost im- endur%ble. And then her words during the day were so few ! She was so anxious to sit alone in her own room ! She would still read to her mother for some hours in the evening ; but this reading was to her so manifestly a task, difficult and distasteful ! It may be remembered that Mrs. Prime, with her lover, Mr. Prong, and her friend IMiss Pucker, had promised to call at Eragg's End on the evening after Eachel's walk into Baslehurst. , They did come as they had promised, about half an hour after ■Rachel's letter to Luke had been carried away by the postman. 236 RACHEL EAY. They had come, and had remained at Bragg's End for an hour, eating cake and driaking currant wine, but not having, on tlia whole, what oui American friends call a good time of it. That visit had heen terrible to Mrs. Eay. Eachel had sat there cold, hard, and speechless. Ifot only had she not asked Miss Pucker to take off her bonnet, but she had absolutely declined to speak to that lady. It was wonderful to her mother that she should thus, in so short a time, have become wilful, masterful, and resolved in following out her own purposes. Not one wgrd on that occasion did she speak to Miss Pucker ; and Mrs. Prime, observing this, had grown black and stiU blacker, till the horroi of the visit had become terrible to Mrs. Eay. Miss Pucker had grinned and smiled, and striven gallantly, poor woman, to make the best of it. She had declared how glad she had been to see Miss Eachel on the previous evening, and how weU Miss Eachel had looked, and had expressed quite voluminous hopes that Miss Eachel would come to their Dorcas meetings. But to all this Eachel answered not a syllable. Now and then she addressed a word or two to her sister. Now and then she spoke to her mother. When Mr. Prong specially turned hims elf to her, asking her some question, she would answer him with one or two monosyllables, always calling him Sir ; but to Miss Packer she never once opened her moutL Mrs. Prime became very angry, — ^very black and very angry ; and the time of tha visit was a terrible time to Mrs. Eay. But this visit is to be noticed ia our story chiefly on account of a few words which Mr. Prong found an opportunity of saying to Mrs. Eay respecting his proposed marriage. Mrs. Eay knew that there were difficulties about the money, and was disposed to believe, and perhaps to hope, that the match would be broken off. But on this occasion Mr. Prong was very marked in his way of speaking to Mrs. Eay, as though everything were settled. Mrs. Eay was thoroughly convinced by this that it was so, and her former beliefs and possible hopes were all dispersed. But then Mrs. Eay was easily convinced by any assertion. In thus speaking to his future mother-in-law he had contrived to turn his back round upon the other three ladies, so as to throw them together for the time, and thus make their position the more painful It must be acknowledged that Eachel was capable of something great, after her determined resistance to Miss Pucker's blandishments under such circumstances as these. MRS. EAT GOES TO EXETER. 237 " Mrs. Ray," Mi. Prong had said, — and as lie spoke his Toice was soft with mingled love and sanctity, — " I cannot let this moment pass without expressing one word of what I feel at the prospect of connecting myself with your amiable family." " I'm sure I'm much olDliged," Mrs. Eay had answered. " Of course 1 am aware that Dorothea has mentioned the matter to you." " Oh yes ; she has mentioned it, certainly." " And therefore I should be remiss, both as regards duty and manners, if I did not take this opportunity of assuring you how much gratification I feel in becoming thus bound up in family affection -with you and Miss Eachel. Family ties are sweet bonds of sanctified love ; and as I have none of my own, nearer, that is, than Geelong, the colony of Victoria, where my mother and brother and sisters have located themselves, — I shall fuel the more pleasure in taking you and Miss Eachel to my heart." This was complimentary to Sirs. Eay ; but with her peculiar feelings as to the expediency of people having their own belongings, she almost thought that it would have been better for all parties if Mr. Prong had gone to Geelong with the rest of the Prong family : this opinion, however she did not express. As to taking Mr. Prong to her heart, she felt some doubts of her own capacity for such a performance. It would be natural for her 'to love a son-in-law. She had loved Mr. Prime very dearly, and trusted him thoroughly. She would have been prepared to love Luke Eowan, had fate been propitious in that quarter. But she could not feel secure as to loving Mr. Prong. Such love, moreover, should come naturally, of its own growth, and not be demanded categorically as a right. It certainly was a pity that Mr. Prong had not made himself happy, with that happiness for which he sighed, in the bosom of his family at Geelong. " I'm sure you're very kind," Mrs. Eay had said. "And when we are thus united in the bonds of this world," continued Mr. Prong, " I do hope that other bonds, more holy in their nature even than those of family, more needful even than them, may join us together. Dorothea has for some months past been a constant attendant at my church — " " Oh, I couldn't leave Mr. Comfort ; indeed I couldn't," said Mrs. Eay, in alarm. " I couldn't go away from my own parish church was it ever so." 238 EACHEL KAY. "ITo, io, not altogether, perhaps. I am not sure that it t suits you to come," said Mrs. Eay. " I don't thinlc it at all nice that a family should be divided, — ^that is, as long as they are the same family." Having received so much encouragement with reference to her proposed return, Mrs. Prime took her departure and walked back to Baslehurst. I"or some minutes after they had been so left, neither Mi-s. Eay nor Eachel spoke. The mother sat rocking herself in her ihair, and the daughter remained motionless in the seat which she had taken when she first came into the room. Their faces were not turned to each other, but Eachel was so placed that she could watch her mother without being observed. Every now and again Mrs. Eay would put her hand up to her eyes to squeeze away the tears, and a low gurgling sound wouJd 268 RACHEL RAY. come from her, as though, she -were striving without succass to repress her sobs. She had thought that she would speak to Eachel when Mrs. Prime was gone, — ^that "she would confess her error in having sent Eowan away, and implore her child to pardon her and to love her once again. It was not, however, that she doubted Eachel's love, — that she feared that Eachel was casting her out from her heart, or that she was learning to hate her. She knew well enough that her child stOl loved her. It was this, — that her life had become barren to her, cold, and altogether tasteless without these thousand little signs of ever-present affection to which she had been ac- customed. If it was to be always thus between them, what would the world be to her for the remainder of her daysl She could have borne to part with Eachel, had Eachel married, as in parting with het she would have looked forward to some future return of her girl's caresses ; and in such case she would at least have felt that her loss had come from no cessation of the sweet loving natm-e of their mutual connexion. She would have wept as she gave Eachel over to a husband, but her tears would have been sweet as well as bitter. But there was nothing of sweetness in her tears as she shed them now, — ^nothing oi satisfaction in her sorrow. If she could get Eachel to talk with her freely on the matter, if she could jBnd an opportunity for confessing herself to have been wrong, might it not be thai the soft caresses would be restored to her, — caresses that would be soft, though moistened with salt tears? But she feared tc speak to her child. She knew that Eachel's face was stiU hard and stem, and that her voice was not the voice of other days. She knew' that her daughter brooded over the injury that had been done to her, — ^though she knew also that no accusatio.^i was made, even in the girl's own bosom, against herself. Slw thoroughly understood the state of Eachel's mind, but she was unable to find the words that might serve to soften it. " I suppose we may as well go to bed," she said at last, giving the matter up, at any rate for that evening. " Mamma, why were you crying when I came into the room?" said Eachel. "Was I crying, my dear?" "Ton are crying still, mamma. Is it I that make you unhappy 1" Mrs, Eay was anxious to declare that the reverse of that was MES. rat's penitence. 26S true, — that it was she who had made the other unhappy ; hut even now she could not find the words in which to say this. "1^0," she said; "it isn't you. It isn't anyhody. I believe it's true what Mr. Comfort has told us so oftsn when he's preaching. It's aU. vanity and vexation. There isn't anything to make anyhody happy. I suppose I cry because I'm fooHsher than other people. I don't know that anybody is happy. I'm sure Dorothea is not, and I'm sure you ain't." " I don't want you to be unhappy about me, mamma.'' " Of course you don't. I know that. But how can I help it when I see how things have gone ? I tried to do for the best, and I have — " broken my child's heart, Mrs. Eay intended to say ; but she failed altogether before she got as far as that, and bursting out into a flood of tears, hid her face in her apron. Eachel stOl kept her seat, and her face was stOl hard and unmoved. Her mother did not see it ; she did not dare to look upon it ; but she knew that it was so ; she knew her daughter would have been with her, close to her, embracing her, throwing her arms round her, had her face relented. But Eachel still kept her chair, and Mrs. Eay sobbed aloud. " I wish I could be a comfort to you, mamma,'' Eachel said after another pause, "but I do not know how. I suppose in time we shall get over this, and things will be as they used to be." " They'll never be to me as they used to be before he came to Baslehurst," said Mrs. Eay, through her tears. " At any rate that is not his fault," said Eachel, almost angrily. " "Whoever may have done wrong, no one has a right to say that he has done wrong." " I'm sure I never said so. It is I that have done wrong," exclaimed Mrs. Eay. " I know it all now, and I wish I'd never asked anybody but just my own heart. I didn't mean to say anything agaiast him, and I don't think it. I'm sure I liked him as I never liked any young man the first time of seeing him, that night he came out here to tea ; and I know that what they said against him was all false. So I do." " What was aU false, mamma?" " About his going away in debt, and being a ne'er-do-well, and about his going away from Baslehurst and not coming back any more. Everj'body has a good word for him now." " Have they, mamma }" said Eachel. And Mrs. Eay learned 270 EACHEL EAT. in a moment, firom the tone of her daughter's voice, that a change had come over her feeling. She asked her little question with something of the softness of her old manner, with some- thing of the longing loving wishfulness which used to make so many of her questions sweet to her mother's ears. "Have they, mamma 1" " Yes they have, and I helieve it was those wicked people at the hrewery who spread the reports about him. As for owing anybody money, I believe he's got plenty. Of course he has, or how could he have bought our cottages and paid for them all in a minute 1 And I believe he'll come back and hve at Baslehurst ; 80 I do ; only " " Only what, mamma?" " If he's not to come back to you I'd rather that he never showed his face here again." " He won't come to me, mamma. Had he meant it, he would have sent me a message." " Perhaps he meant that he wouldn't send the message till he came himself," said Mrs. Eay. But she made the suggestion iu a voice so full of conscious doubt that Eachel knew that she did not believe in it herself. " I don't think he means that, mamma. If he did why should he keep me in doubt 1 He is very true and very honest, but I think he is very hard. When I wrote to him in that way, after acceptiag the love he had offered me, he was angered, and felt that I was false to him. He is very honest, bui; I think he must be very hard." " I can't think that if he loved you he would be so hard as that." "Men are difi'erent from women, I suppose. I feel about him that whatever he might do I should forgive it. But then I feel, also, that he would never do anything for me to forgive." " I'll never forgive him, never, if he doesn't come back again." " Don't say that, mamma. You've no right even to be angry with him, because it was we who told him that there was to be no engagement, — after I had promised him." " 1 didn't think he'd take you up so at the first word," said Mxs. Eay ; — ^and then there was again silence for a few minutes, " Mamma," said EacheL "Well, EacheL" MEs. hay's penitence. 271 Mrs. Eay was still rocking Iter chair, and had hardly yet repressed that faitifc gurglmg sound of half-controlled sobs. " I am. so glad to hear you say that you — ^respect him, and don't believe of him what people have said." " I don't believe a word bad of him, except that he oughtn't to take huif in that way at one word that a girl says to him. He ought to have known that you couldn't write just what letter you liked, as he could." " We won't say anything more about that. But as long as you don't think bim bad — " " I don't think him bad, I don't think him bad at aU. I think him very good. I'd give aU I have in the world to bring him back again. So I would." " Dear mamma !" And now Eachel moved away from her chair and came up to her mother. " Jpid I know it's been aU. my fault. Oh, my child, I am so unhappy ! I don't get half an hour's sleep at night thinking of what I have done; — I, that would have given the very blood out of my veins to make you happy." " No, mamma ; it wasn't you." " Yes, it was. I'd no business going away to other people after I had told him he might come here. You, who had always been so good too !" " You mustn't say again that you wish he hadn't come here." " Oh ! but I do wish it, because then he would have been nothing to you. I do wish he hadn't ever come, but now I'd do anything to bring bim back again. I believe I'll go to him and tell him that it was my doing." " No, mamma, you won't do that." " "Why should I not ? I don't care what people say. Isn't your happiness everything to me?" " But I shouldn't take him if he came in that way. "What ! beg him to come and have compassion on me, as if I couldn't live without bim ! No, mother ; that wouldn't do. I do love him. I do love him. I sometimes think I cannot Uve without his love. I sometimes feel as though stories about broken hearts might be true. But I wouldn't have him in that way. How could he love me afterwards when I was his wife ? But, mamma, we'U be friends again ; — shall we not ? I've been so unhappy that you ahnuW bs"v« thought iU of him !" 272 nXCtCEt RAT. That night the mother and daughter shared the same bed together, and Mrs. Eay was able to sleep. She would not ccnfess to herself that her sorrow had been lightened, because nothing had been said or done to lessen that of her daughter ; but on the morrow Eachel came and hovered round her again, and the bitterness of Mrs. Eay's grief was removed. CHAPTEE XXIV. THE ELECTION AT BASLEHUK8X. TowaSes the end of September the day of the election arrived, and with it arrived Liike Eowan at Baslehurst. The vacancy had been occasioned by the acceptance of the then sitting member of that situation under the crown which is called the stewardship of the manor of Helpholme. In other words an old gentleman who had done his fife's work retired and made room for some one more young and active. The old member had kept his seat till the end of the session, just leaving time for the moving for a new writ, and now the election was about to be held, almost at the earliest day possible. It had been thought that a little reflection would induce the Baslehurst people to reject the smiles of the Jew tailor from London, and therefore as little time for reflection was given to them aa possible. The wealth, tlie liberal poHtios, the generosity, and the successes of Mr. Hart were dinned into their ears by a suc- cession of speeches, and by an overpowering flight of enormous posters J and then the Jewish hero, the tailor himself, came among them, and astonished their minds by the ease and volubility of his speeches. He did not pronounce his words with any of those soft slushy Judaic utterances by which they had been taught to beheve he would disgrace himself. His nose was not hookey, with any especial hook, nor was it thicker at the bridge than was becoming. He was a dapper little man, with bright eyes, quick motion, ready tongue, and a very new THE ELECTION AT EASLEHUEST. 273 hat. It seemed that he knew well how to canvass. He had a smile and a good word for all, — enemies as well as fi:iends. The task of ahusing the Cornbury party he left to his committee and hackers. He spent a great deal of money, — thro-wing it away in every direction in which he covdd do so, without laying himself open to the watchful suspicion of the other side. He ate and drank like a Christian, and only laughed aloud when some true defender of the Protestant faith attempted to scare him away out of the streets by carrying a gammon of bacon up on high. Perhaps his strength as a popular candidate was best shown by his drinkiag a prut of Tappitt's beer in the littk parlour behind the bar at the " Dragon." " He beats me there," said Butler Cornbury, when he heard of that feat. But the action was a wise one. The question as to Tappitt's brewery and Tappitt's beer was running high at Baslehurst, and in no stronger way could Mr. Hart have bound to him the Tappitt iaction than by swallowiag in public that pint of beer. " Let me have a small glass of brandy at once," said Mr, Hart to his servant, having retired to his room immediately after the performance of the feat. His constitution was good, and I may as well at once declare that before half an hour had passed over his head he was again himself, and at his work. The question of Tappitt's beer and Tappitt's brewery was running high in Baslehurst, and had gotten itself involved in the mouths of the people of Baslehurst, not only with the. loves and sorrows of poor Eachel Pay, but with the affairs of this election. We know how Tappitt had been driven to declare himself a stanch supporter of the Jew. He had become very stanch, — stanch beyond the promising of his own vote, — stanch even to a final sitting on the Jew's committee, and an active canvasser on the Jew's behalf. His wife, whose passions were less strong than his own and her prudence greater, had remon- strated with him on the matter. "You can vote against Cornbury, if you please," she had said, "but do it quietly. Keep your toe in your pump and say nothing. Just aa we stand at present about the business of Eowan'a, it would almost be better that you shouldn't vote at all." But Tappitt was an angry man, at this moment uncontrollable by the laws of prudence, and he went into these election matters heart and soul, to his wife's great grief. Butler Cornbury, EACHEii EA'?. or Mrs. Bufcler Combmy, — it was all the same to Mm which, — Lad openly taken np Eowan's pait in the brewery controversy. A mmour had reached Tappitt that the inmates of Cornljury Grange had loudly expressed a desire for good beer ! Under such circumstances it was not possible for him not to rush to the fight. He did rush into the thick of it, and boasted among his friends that the Jew was safe. I think he was right, — aright at any rate as regarded his own peace of mind. Nothing gives a man such spirit for a fight, as the act of fighting. During these election days he was almost regardless of Eowan. He was to second the nomination of the Jew, and so keen was he as to the speech that he would make, and as to the success of what he was doing against Mr. Combury, that he was able to talk down his wife, and browbeat Honyman in his own office. Honyman was about to vote for Butler Combury, was employed in the Combury interest, and knew well on which side his bread was buttered. Sharpit and Longfite were local attorneys for the Jew, and in this way Tappitt was thrown into close intercourse with that eminent firm. " Of course we wouldn't interfere," said Sharpit confidently to the brewer. " "We never do interfere with the clients of another firm. We never did such a thing yet, and don't mean to begin. "We find people drop into us quick enough without that. But in a friendly way, Mr. Tappitt, let me caution you, not to let your fine business be injured by that young sharper." Mr. Tappitt found this to be very kind, — and very sensible too. He gave no authority to Sharpit on that occasion to act for him ; but he thought of it, resolving that he would set his shoulders firmly to that wheel as soon as he had carried through this business of the election. But even in the matter of the election everything did not go well with Tappitt. He had appertaining to his establishment a certain foreman of the name of Worts, a heavy, respectable, useful man, educated on the establishment by BungaU and bequeathed by Bungall to Tappitt, — a man by no means ambitious of good beer, but very ambitious of profits to the firm, a servant indeed almost invaluable in such a business. But Tappitt had ever found him deficient in this,— that he had a certain objectionable pride in having been Bungall's servant, and that as such he thought himself absolved from the necessity of subserviency to his latter master. Once a day indeed he did THE ELECTION AT BASLEHUKST. 275 touch, his cap, hut when that was done he seemed to fancy that he was almost equal to Mr. Tappitt upon the premises. He never shook in hiis shoes if Tappitt were angry, nor affected to hasten his steps if Tappitt were ia a hurry, nor would he even laugh at Tappitt's jokes, if, — as was too usual, — such jokes were not mirth-moving in their intriasic nature. Clearly he was not at all pouits a good servant, and Tappitt ia some hours of his prosperity had ventured to think that the hrewery could go on without him. Now, since the day in which Eowan's treachery had first loomed upon Tappitt, he had felt much iacliaed to fraternize on easier terms with his foreman. Worts when he touched his cap had heen received with a smUe, and his advice had been asked ia a flattering tone, — not demanded as belonging to the estabHshment by right. Then Tappitt began to talk of Eowan to his man, and to speak evU things of him, as was natural, expecting a reciprocity of malignity from Worts. But Worts on such occasions had been ominously silent. " H — m, I bean't so zure o' that," Worts had once said, thus differing from his master on some fundamental point of Tappitt strategy as opposed to Eowan strategy. "Ain't you?" said Tappitt, showiag his teeth. " You'd better go now and look after those men at the carts." Worts had looked after the men at the carts, but he had done so with an idea in his head that perhaps he would not long look after Tappitt's men or Tappitt's carts. He had not himself been ambitious of good beer, but the idea had almost startled him into acquiescence by its brilliancy. Now Worts had a vote ia the borough, and it came to Tappitt's ears that his servant intended to give that vote to Mr. Combury. "Worts," said he, a day or two before the election, " of coirrse you iatend to vote for Mr. Hart?" Worts touched his cap, for it was the commencement of the day. " I don't jest kno^," said he. " I was thinking of woting for the young squoire. I've know'd him ever since he was born, and I ain't never know'd the Jew gentleman ; — never at all." " Look here, Worts ; if you intend to remain in this estab- lishment I shall expect you to support the liberal interest, as I support it myself. The liberal iaterest has always been sapported in Baslehurst by Bungali and Tappitt ever since Buiigall and Tappitt have existed." " The old maister, he wouldn't a woted for ere a .Tew iu 276 SACHEL EAY. Christendom, — not agin the squoire, the old maister was always for the Protestant religion." "Very well, "Worts; there can't he two ways of thinking here, that's all; especially not at such a time as this, when there's more reason than ever why those connected with the brewery should aU stand shoulder to shoulder. You'ye had your bread out of this establishment, "Worts, for a great many years." " And I've 'amed it hard ; — no man can't say otherwise. The sweat o' my body belongs to the brewery, but I didn't ever sell 'em my wote; and I don't mean." Saying which words, with an emphasis that was by no means servile, Worts went out from the presence of his master. " That man's turning against me," said Tappitt to his wife at breakfast time, in almost mute despair. ""What! Worts?" said Mrs. Tappitt. "Yes; — ^the ungrateful hound. He's been about the place almost ever since he could speak, for more than forty years. He's had two pound a week for the last ten years ; — and now he's turning against me." "Is he going over to Kowan?" " I don't know where the d he's going. He's going to vote for Butler Cornbuiy, and that's enough for me." " Oh, T., I wouldn't mind that ; especially not just now. Only think what a help he'll be to that man !" " I teU you he shaU. walk out of the brewery the week after this, if he votes for Combury. There isn't room for two opinions here, and I won't have it." FoT a moment or two Mrs. Tappitt sat mute, almost in despair. Then she took courage and spoke out. "T.," said she, "it won't do." ""What won't do?" ■ " All this won't do. We shall be ruined and left without a home. I don't mind myself; I never did; but think of tho girls ! "What would they do if we was turned out of this 1" "Who's to turn you out?" "I know. I see it. I am beginning to understand. T., that man would not go against you and the brewery if he didn't know which way the wind is blowing. Worts is wide awake, — quite wide; he always was. T., you must take the oifer Rowan has made of a legalar income and live retired. If you don't do TttE ELECTiON A* BASLEHUEST. S?? it, — I shall?" And Mrs. Tappitt, as slie spoke tlie audacious ■words, rose up from her chair, and stood with her arms leaning upon the table. " What !" said Tappitt, sittiag aghast with his mouth open. " Yes, T. ; if you don't think of your family I must. What I'm saying Mr. Honyman has said before ; and indeed all Basle- hurst is saying the same thing. There's an offer made to you that wQl put your family on a footing quite genteel, — ^no gentle- foUcs in the country more so ; and you, too, that are getting past your work ! " " I ain't getting past my work." " I shouldn't say so, T., if it weren't for your own good, — and if I'm not to know about that, who is ? It's all very well going about electioneering ; and indeed it's just what gentlefolks is fit for when they are past their regular work. And I'm sure I shan't begrudge it so long as it don't cost anything ; but that's not work you know, T." " Ain't I in the brewery every day for seven or eight hours, and often more !" " Yes, T., you are ; and what's like to come of it if you go on so 1 What would be my feelings if I saw you brought into the house struck down with apoplepsy and paralepsy because I let you go on in that way when you wasn't fit 1 'No, T. ; I know my duty and I mean to do it. You know Dr. Haustus said only last month that you were that bUious " " Pshaw ! bilious ! It's enough to make any man bilious !" " Or any dog," he would have added, had he thought of it. Thereupon Tappitt rushed away from his wife, back into ^ little office, and from that soon made his way to the Jew's c^id.- mittee-room at the "Dragon," at which he was detained tOl nearly eleven o'clock at night. " It's a kind of work in which one has to do as much after dinner as before," he said to his wif® when he got back. " For the matter of that," said she, " I think the after- dinner work is the chief part of it." On the day of the election Luke Eowan was to be seen standing in the High Street talking to Butler Combury tha candidate. Eowan was not an elector, for the cottages had not been in his possession long enough to admit of his obtaining from them a qualification to vote j but he was a declared friend 278 EACHEL EAT. of the ComlDury party. Mrs. Butler Combury had sent a message to 'him saying that she hoped to see him soon after the election should he over : on the following day or on the next, and Butler Cornhury himself had come to him in the town. Though ahsent from Baslehurst Eowan had managed to declare his opinions before that time, and was suspected by many to have written those articles in the ' Baslehurst Grazette,' which advocated the right of any constituency to send a Jew to Par- liament if it pleased, but which proved at the same time that any constituency must be wrong to send any Jew to Parliament, and that the constituency of Baslehurst would in the present instance be specially wrong to send Mr. Hart to Parliament. " We have always advocated," said one of these articles, " the right of absolute freedom of choice for every borough and every county in the land ; but we trust that the day is far distant in which the electors of England shall cease to look to their nearest neighbours as their best representatives." There wasn't much in the argument, but it suited the occasion, and added strength to Eowan's own cause in the borough. All the stanch Protest- ants began to feel a want of good beer. Questions very ill- natured as toward Tappitt were asked in the newspapers. " Who owns the "Spotted Dog" at Busby-porcorum ; and who compels the landlord to buy his liquor at Tappitt's brewery?" There were scores of questions of the same nature, aU of which Tappitt attributed, wrongly, to Luke Eowan. Luke had written that article about freedom of election, but he had not conde- scended to notice the beer at the " Spotted Dog." And there was another quarrel taking place in Baslehurst, on the score of that election, between persons with whom we are sonnected in this story. Mr. Prong had a vote in the borough, and was disposed to make use of it ; and Mrs. Prime, regarding her own position as Mr. Prong's af&anced bride, considered her- self at liberty to question Mr. Prong as to the use which he proposed to make of that vote. To Mrs. Prime it appeared that anything done in any direction for the benefit of a Jew was a sin not to be forgi.ven. To ilr. Prong it seemed to be as great a sin not to do anything in his power for the hindrance and vexation of those with whom Dr. Harford and Mi. Comfort were connected by ties of friendship. Mrs. Prime, who, of th* two, was the more logical, would not disjoin her psrsonal and lier scriptural hatreds. She also hated Dr. Harford ^ but she THE ELECTION AT BASLEHTJEST. 279 haled the Jews more. She was not disposed to support a Jeyt m Baslehurst because Mr. Comfort, in his doctrines, had fallen away from the purity of his early promise. Her idea was that a just man and a good Christian could not vote for either of the Baslehurst candidates uader the present unhappy local circum- stances ; — ^but that under no circumstances should a Christian Tote for a Jew. All this she said, in a voice not so soft aa should he the voice of woman to her betrothed. "Dorothea," said Mr. Prong very solemnly j-- they were sitting at the time in his own little front parlour, aa to the due arrangement of the furniture in which Mrs. Prime had already ventured to make some slight alterations which had not been received favourably by Mr. Prong, — " Dorothea, in this matter you must allow me to be the best judge. Voting for Members of ParUament is a thing which ladies naturally are not called upon to understand." "Ladies can understand as well as gentlemen," said Mrs. Prime, "that a curse has gone out from the Lord against that people; and gentlemen have no more right than ladies to go against the will of the Lord." It was in vain that Mr. Prong endeavoured to explain to her that the curse attached to the people as a nation, and did not necessarily follow units of that people who had adopted other nationalities. "Let the units become Christians before they go into Pa^ liament," said Mrs. Prime. " I wish they woxdd," said Mr. Prong. " I heartily wish they would ; and Mr. Hart, if he be returned, shall have my prayers." But this did not at all suffice for Mrs. Prime, who, perhaps, in the matter of argument had the best of it. She told her betrothed to his face that he was going to commit a great sin, and that he was tempted to this sin by grievous worldly passions. When so informed Mr. Prong closed his eyes, crossed his hands meekly on his breast, and shook his head. " Not fi-om thee, Dorothea," said he, " not from thee should this have come." " Who is to speak out to you if I am not?" said she. But Mr. Prong sat in silence, and with closed eyes again shook his head. "Perhaps we had better part," said Mrs. Prime, after an 280 -RACHEL RAY. interval of five minutes. " Perhaps it mil be better for both of us." Mr. Piong, however, still shook his head in silence ; and it ■was difficult for a lady in Mrs. Prime's position to read aecu- rately the meaning of such shakings under such circumstances. But Mis. Prime was a woman sufficiently versed in the world's business to be able to resolve that she would have an answer to her question when she required an answer. " Mr. Prong," she said, " I remarked just now that perhaps we had better part." " I heard the words," said Mr. Prong, — " I heard the cruel words." But even then he did not open his eyes, or remove his hands from his breast. " I heard the words, and I heard those other words, still more cruel. You had better leave me now that I may humble mw-self in prayer." " That's all very well, Mr. Prong, and I'm sure I hope you will ; but situated as we are, of course I should choose to have an answer. It seems to me that you dislike that kind of inter- ference which I regard as a wife's best privilege and sweetest duty. If this be so, it wiU be better for us to part, — as friends of course.'' " Tou have accused me of a great sin," he said ; " of a great sin ; — of a great sin !" " And so in my mind it would be.'' " Judge not, lest ye be judged, Dorothea ', remember that." " That doesn't mean, Mr. Prong, that we are not to have oui' opinions, and that we are not to warn those that are near us when we see them walking in the wrong path. I might as well say the same to you, when you " " No, Dorothea ; it is my bounden duty. It is my work. It is that to which I am appointed as a minister. If you cannot see the diflference I have much mistaken your character, — have much mistaken your character." " Do you mean to say that nobody but a clergyman is to know what's right and what's wrong? That must be nonsense, 3»Ir. Prong. I'm sorry to say anything to grieve you, — " Mr. Prong was now shaking his head again, with his eyes most portiouciously closed, — " but there are some things which really 3vie can't bear." Bat he only shook his head. His inward feelings were too many for him, so that he could not at the present moment bring THE ELECTION AT BASLEHXTEST. 281 Mmself to give a reply to the momentous proposition which hia betrothed had made him. Hor, indeed, had he at this moment fixed his mind as to the step which Duty and Wisdom combined would call upon him to take in this matter. The temper of the lady was not certainly all that he had desired. As an admiring member of his flock she had taken aU his ghostly counsels as infallible; but now it seemed to him as though most of his words and many of his thoughts and actions were made subject by her to a bitter criticism. But in this matter he was incliaed to rely much upon his own strength. Should he marry the lady, as he was still minded to do for many reasons, he would be to her a loving, careful husband ; but he would also be her lord and master, — as was intended when marriage was made a holy ordinance. In this respect he did not doubt himself or his own powers. Hard words he could bear, and, as he thought, after a time control. So thinking, he was not disposed to allow the lady to recede from her troth to him, simply because in hei anger she expressed a wish to do so. Therefore he had wisely been silent, and had shaken his head in reproach. But unfor- tunately the terms of their compact had not been finally settled with reference to another heading. Mrs. Prime had promised to be his wife, but she had burdened her promise with certain pecuniary conditions which were distasteful to him, — which were much opposed to that absolute headship and perfect mastery, which, as he thought, should belong to the husband as husband. His views on this subject were very strong, and he was|, by no means inclined to abate one jot of his demand. Better remain single in his work than accept the name of husband without its privileges ! But he had hoped that by mingled firmness and gentle words he might bring his Dorothea round to a more womanly way of thinking. He had flattered himself that there was a power of eloquence in him which would have prevailed over her. Once or twice he thought that he was on the brink of success. He knew weU that there were many points in his favour. A woman who has spoken of her- self, and been spoken of, as being on the point of marriage, does not like to recede; and his Dorothea, though not specially womanly among women, was still a woman. Moreover he had the law on his side, — the old law as coming from the Scriptures. He could say that such a pecuniary arrangement as that proposed by his Dorothea was sinful. He had said so, — as he had then 282 EACHEL BAT. tJionght not without effect ; but now she retaliat-jd upon faim vith accusation of another sin ! It was manifestly in her power to break away from him on that money detail. It seemed now to be her wish to break away from him ; but she preferred doing 30 on that other matter. He began to fear that he must lose his wife, seaiag that he was resolved never to yield on the money question ; but he did not choose to be entrapped into an instant resignation of his engagement by Dorothea's indignation on a point of abstmse vScripturo-political morahty. His Dorothea had assumed her indignation as a cloak for her pecuniary obsti- nacy. It might be that he must yield; but he would not surrender thus at the sound of a false summons. So he closed his eyes very pertinaciously and shook his head. "I think upon the whole," said she again, "that we had better make up our minds to part." Then she stood up, feeling that she should thus employ a greater power ia forcing an answer from him. He must have seen her motion through some cranny of his pertinaciously closed eyes, for he noticed it by rising from his own chair, with both his hands firmly iixed upon the table ; but stdl he did not open his eyes, — unless it might be to the extent of that small cranny. " Good-bye, Mr. Prong," said she. Then he altered the form of his hands, and taking them from the table he dashed them together before his face. " God bless you, Dorothea!" said he. "God bless you! God bless you!" And he put out his hands as though blessing her in his dark- ness. She, perceiving the inutility of endeavouring to shake hands with a man who wouldn't open his eyes, moved away from her chair towards the door, purposely raising a sound of motion with her dress, so that he might know that she was going. In that I think she took an unnecessary precaution, for the cranny at the corner of his eye was stid at his disposal. " Good-bye, Mr. Prong," she said again, as she opened the door for herself. "God bless you, Dorothea!" said he. "May God bless you!" Then, without assistance at the front dooi she made her way out into the street, and as she stepped along the pavement, she' formed a resolve,— which no eloquence from Mr. Prong could ever overc her days. THE ELECTION AT BASLEHUEST. 283 At twelve o'clock on the morning of the election Mr. Hart tras declared by Ms own committee to be nine ahead, and was admitted to be six ahead by Mr. Cornbury's committee. But the Coinbury folk asserted confidently that in this they saw certain signs of success. Their supporters were not men who coiiid be whipped up to the poU early in the day, whereas Hart's voters were all, more or less, under control, and had been driven up hurriedly to the hustings so as to make this early show of numbers. Mr. Hart was about everywhere speaking, and so was Butler Cornbury ; but in the matter of oratory I am bound to acknowledge that the Jew had by much the mastery over the Christian. There are a class of men, — or rather more than a class, a section of mankind, — to whom a power of easy expression by means of spoken words comes naturally. English country gentlemen, highly educated as they are, undaunted as they usually are, self-confident as they in truth are at the bottom, are clearly not in this section. Perhaps they are further removed from it, considering the advantages they have for such speaking, than any other class of men in England, — or I might almost say elsewhere. The fact, for it is a fact, that some of the greatest orators whom the world have known have been foimd in this class, does not in any degree affect the truth of my pro- position. TTie best grapes in the world are perhaps grown in England, though England is not a land of grapes. And for the same reason. The value of the thing depends upon its rarity, and its value instigates the efforts for excellence. The power of vocal expression which seems naturally to belong to an American is to an ordinary Englishman very marvellous ; but iu America the talking man is but little esteemed. " Very wonderful power cf delivery, — that of Mr. So-and-So," says the Englishman, speaking of an American. " Guess we don't think much of that kind of thing here," says the Yankee. "There's a deal too much of that coin in circulation." English country gentlemen are not to be classed among that section of manldnd which speaks easily in public, but Jews, I tliiok, may be so classed. The men who speak thus easily and with natural fluency, are also they who learn languages easily. They are men who observe rather than thiak, who lemember rather than create, who may not have great mental po-rers, but axe ever ready with what they have, whose tea* 284 RACHEL KAY. wuid is at their command at a moment, and is then serviceahle though perhaps incapable of more enduring service. At any rate, as regarded oratory in Baslehurst the dark little man with the bright new hat from London was very much stronger than his opponent, — so much stronger that poor Butler Combury began to sicken of elections and to wish himself comfortably at home at Combury Grange. He knew that he was talking himself down whUe the IsraeHtish clothier was talking himself up. "It don't matter," Honyman said to bim comfortably. "It's only done for the show of the thing and to fill up the day. If Gladstone were here he wouldn't talk a Tote out of them one way or the other; — nor yet the devil himself." This consoled Butler Combury, but neverthe- less he longed that the day might be over. . And Tappitt spoke too more than once, — as did also Luke Eowan, in spite of various noisy -interruptions in which ha was told that he was not an elector, and in spite also of an early greeting with a dead cat. Tappitt, in advocating the claims of Mr. Hart to be returned to Parliament as member for Baslehurst, was clever enough to introduce the -subject of bis own wrongs. And so important had this brewery question, become that he was listened to with every sign of iaterest when he told the people for how many years BungaU and Tappitt had brewed beer for them, there in Baslehurst. Doubt- less he was met by sundry interruptions from the Eowanites. "What sort of tipple has it been, T. ?" was demanded by one voice. " Do you call that beer 1" said a second. " Where do you buy your hops ]" asked a third. But he went on manfully, and was buoyed up by a strong belief that he was fighting his own battle with success. Nor was Eowan slow to answer him. He was proud to say that he was BungaH's heir, and as such he intended to oontinna Bungall's business. Whether he could improve the quality of the old tap he didn't know, but he would try. People had said a few weeks ago that he had been hounded out of Baslehurst, and did not mean to come back again. Here h9 was. He had bought property in Baslehurst. He meant to live in Baslehurst. He pledged himself to brew beer ia Basleb-urat. Ho already regarded himself as belonging to Baslehurst. And, being a bachelor, he hoped that he might THE BASLEHUEST GAZETTE. 285 live to marry a wife out of Baslehurst. This last assuianoo was received with, unqualified applause froni toth factions, and went far in obtainiag for Eowan that local popularity which was needful to him. Certainly the Eowan contest added much to the popular interest of that election. At the close of the poll on that evening it was declared by the mayor that Mr. Butler Combury had been elected to servo the Lorough. in Parliament by a majority of one vota. CHAPTEE XXV. THE BASLEHURST GAZETTE. By one vote ! Old Mr. Combury when he heard of it gasped with dismay, and in secret regretted that his son had not been beaten. What seat could be gained by one vote and not be contested, ^specially when the beaten candidate was a Jew clothier rolling in money? And what sums would not a petition and scrutiny cost? Butler Combury himself was dismayed, and could hardly participate in the exultation of his more enthusiastic wife. Mr. Hart of course declared that he would petition, and that he was as sure of the seat as though he already occupied it. But as it was known that every possible electioneering device had been put in practice on his behalf during the last two hours of the poU, the world at large in Baslehurst believed that young Cornbur/s position was .secure. Tappitt and soma few others were of a different opinion. At the present moment Tappitt could not endure to acknowledge to himself that he had been beaten. Nothing but the prestige and inward support of immediate success could support hiin in that cjutest, so much moro important to himself, in which he was now about to be engaged. That matter of the petition, hoivover, can hardly ■fee brought into the present story. The political world will understand that it would be canied on with great vigo'ir. The news of the election of Butler Cornbuiy reached tha 2H6 EACHEL EAT. cottage at Bragg'a End by the Toice of Mr. Sturt on the sama evening; and Mrs. Eay, in her quiet way, expressed much joy that Mr. Comfort's son-in-law should have heen successful, and that Baslehurst should not have disgraced itself by any connexion with a Jew. To her it had appeared monstrous that such a one should have been even permitted to show himself in the town as a candidate for its representation. To such she would have denied aU civil rights, and almost all social rights. For a true spirit of persecution one should always go to a woman; and the milder, the sweeter, the more loving, the more womanly, the woman, the stronger will be that spirit within her. Strong love for the thing loved necessitates strong hatred for the thing hated, and thence comes the spirit of persecution.' They in England who are now keenest against the Jews, who would again take from them rights that they have lately won, are certainly those who think most of the faith of a Christian. The most deadly enemies of the Eoman Catholics are they who love best their religion as Protestants. "When we look to individuals we always find it so, though it hardly suits us to admit as much when we discuss these subjects broadly. To Mrs. Eay it was wonderful that a Jew should have been entertained in Baslehurst as a future member for the borough, and that he should have been admitted to speak aloud within a few yards of the church tower ! On the day but one after the election Mrs. Sturt brought over to the cottage an extra sheet of the ' Baslehurst Gtazette,' which had been published out of its course, and which was devoted to the circumstances of the election. I am not sure that Mrs. Sturt would have regarded this somewhat dull report of the election speeches as having any peculiar interest for Mrs. Eay and her daughter had it not been for one special passage, Luka Eowan's speech about Baslehurst Avas given at length, and in it was contained that public promise as to his matiimoidal inten- tions. Mrs. Sturt came into the cottage parlour with the paper doubled into four, and with her finger on a particular spot. To her it had seemed that Eowan's promise must have been intende . . " But what 1 Is it ahout money ?" " Oh, dear, no ! Nothing ahout money at all. If you do come hack, — and I'm sure I hope you wiU ; and indeed it seems quite unnatural that you should he staying in Baslehurst, while we are living here. But I think you ought to say, my dear, that Eachel behaved just as she ought to behave in aU that matter about about Mr. Eowan, you know." "Don't mind me, mamma," said Eachel,- — ^who could, how- ever, have smothered her mother with kisses on hearing these words. " But I think we aU ought to understand each other, EacheL You and your sister can't go on comfortably together, if there's to be more black looks about that." " I don't know that there have been any black looks," said Mrs. Prime, looking very black as she spoke. "At any rate we should understand each other," continued Mrs. Eay, with admirable courage. " I've thought a great deal ahout it since you've been away. Indeed I haven't thought about much else. And I don't think I shall ever forgive myself for haviag let a hard word be said to Eachel about it." " Oh, mamma, don't, — don't," said Eachel. But those medi- tated embraces were continued in her imagination. " I don't want to say any hard words," said Mrs. Prime. "Ifo; I'm sure you don't; — only they were said, — weren't they, now 1 Didn't we blame her about being out there in the churchyard that evening 1 " "Mamma !" exclaimed Eachel. " WeU, my dear, I won't say any more ; — only this. Your sister went away because she thought you weren't good enough for her to live with ; and if she comes back again, — which I'm sure I hope she wOl, — I think she ought to say that she's been mistaken." Mrs. Prime looked very black, and no word fell from her. She sat there silent and gloomy, whUe Mrs. Eay looked at the fireplace, lost in wonder at her own effort. Whether she would have given way or not, had she and Mrs. Prime been alone, I cannot say. That Mrs. Prime would have uttered no outspoken lecantalion I feel sure. It was Eachel at last who settled tho matter. 292 EACHEL RAlf. " If Dolly comes back to live here, mamma," said ahe, " I shall take that as an. acknowledgment on her part that she thinks I am good enough to live with." "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Eay, "perhaps that'll do; only there should be an understanding, you know." Mrs. Prime at the moment said nothing ; but when next she spoke her words showed her intention of having her thxLgs brought back to the cottage on the next day. I think it must be felt that Eachel had won the victory. She felt it so herself, and was conscious that no further attempt would be made to carry her off to Dorcas meetings against her own wilL CHAPTEE XXVL OOKNBUHT GBAI7GE. Luke Eowan had been told that Mrs. Butler Cornbury wished to see him when the election should be over j and on the even- ing of the election the victorious candidate, before he returned home, asked Luke to come to the Grange on the following Monday and stay till the next Wednesday. Now it must be understood that Eowan during this period of the election had become, in a public way, very intimate with Cornbury. They were both young men, the new Member o-f Parliament not being over thirty, and for the time they were together employed on the same matter. Luke Eowan was one with whom such a man as Mr. Cornbury could not zealously co-operate without reaching a considerable extent of personal intimacy. He was pleasant-mannered, free in speech, with a bold eye, assuming though not asserting his equality with the best of those with whom he might be brought in contact. Had Cornbury chosen to consider himself by reason of his social station too high for Eowan's fellowship, he might of course have avoided him ; but h achieved. On the present occasion Mrs. Tappitt went on talk- ing to the girls of their father in language that was quite eulogistic. No threat against the absent brewer passed her mouth, — or theirs. But they all understood each other, and were agreed that everything was to be done to induce papa to accept Mr. Eowan's offer. " Then,'-' said Cherry, " he'll marry Eachel Eay, and she'll be mistress of the brewery house." " Never !" said Mrs. Tappitt, very solemnly. " Never ! He'll never be such a fool as that." " Never !" said Augusta. " Never !" In the meantime the meeting went on at the "Dragon." 1 ean't say that Mr. Tappitt was on this occasion called upon to preside over the petition. He was simply invited to take the chair at a meeting of a dozen men at Baslehurst who were brought together by Mr. Sharpit in order that they might be induced by him to recommend Mr. Hart to employ him, Mr. Sharpit, in getting up the petition in question ; and in order that there might be some sufficient temptation to these twelve men to gather themselves together, the dinner at the "Dragon" was added to the meeting. Mr. Tappitt took the chair in the big, uncarpeted, fua+y room upstairs, in which masonic meetings 810 RACHEL EAT. were held once a month, and in which the fanuors of the neighhourhood dined once a week, on market days. He took the chair, and some seven or eight of his townsmen clustered round him. The others had sent word that they would manage to come in time for the dianer. Mr. Sharpit, before he put the hrewer in his place of authority, prompted him as to what he was to do, and in the course of a quarter of an hour two resolu- tions, aheady prepared by Mr. Sharpit, had been passed unani- mously. Mr. Hart was to be told by the assembled people of Baslehurst that he would certainly be seated by a scrutiny, and he was to be advised to commence his proceedings at once. These resolutions were duly committed to paper by one of Mr. Sharpit's clerks, and Mr. Tappitt, before he sat down to dianer, signed a letter to Mr. Hart on behalf of the electors of Basle- hurst. When the work of the meeting was completed it stUl wanted haK an hour to dinner, during which the nine electors of Baslehurst sauntered about the yard of the inn, looked into -(he stables, talked to the landlady at the bar, indulged them- selves with gin-and-bitters, and found the tinie very heavy on their hands. They were nine decent-looking middle-aged men, dressed in black not of the newest, in swaUow-taUed coats and black trousers, with chimney-pot hats, and red faces; and as they pottered about the premises of the "Dragon" they seemed to be very little at their ease. " What's up, Jhn.1" said one of the postboys to the ostler. " Sharpit's got 'em all here to get some more money out of that ere Jew gent ; — that's about the ticket," said the ostler. " He's a clever un," said the postboy. At last the dinner was ready ; and the total number of the party having now completed itseK, the liberal electors of Basle- hurst prepared to enjoy themselves. K"o bargain had been made on the subject, but it was understood by them all that they would not be asked to pay for their dinner. Sharpit would see to that. He would probably know how to put it into his little bill ; and if he failed in that the risk was his own. But while the body of the liberal electors was peeping into the stables and drinking gin-and-bitters, Mr. Sharpit and Mr. Tappitt were engaged in a private conference. " If you come to me," said Sharpit, " of course I must take it up. The etiquette of the profession don't allow me to dechiie." THE BEEAVEEY QUESTION SETTLED. 311 "But why should you wish to decline?" said Tappitt, not altogether pleased by Mr. Sharpit's manner. " Oh, by no means ; no. It's just the sort of work I like ; — not much to be made by it, but there's injury to be redressed and justice to be done. Only you see poor Honyman hasn't got much of a practice left to him, and I don't want to take his bread out of his mouth." " But I'm not to be ruined because of that !" " As I said before, if you bring the business to me I must take it up. I can't help myself, if I would. And if I do take it up I'U see you through it. Everybody who knows me knows that of me." " I suppose I shall find you at home about ten to-morrow?" •' Yes ; — I'll be in my office at ten ; — only you should think it well over, you know, ilr. Tappitt. I've nothing to say against Mr. Honyman, — not a word. You'U remember that, if you please, if there should be anything about it afterwards. Ah ! you are wanted for the chair, Mr. Tappitt, I'll come and sit alongside of you, if you'll allow me." The dinner itself was decidedly bad, and the company undoubtedly dull. I am iucHned to think that every indi- vidual there would have dined more comfortably at home. A horrid mess concocted of old gravy, catsup, and bad wine was distributed under the nama of soup. Then there came upon the table half a huge hake, — ^the very worst fish that swims, a fish with which Devonshire is peculiarly invested. Some hard dark brown mysterious balls were handed round, which on being opened with a knife were found to contain sausage-meat, very greasy and by no means cooked through. Even the dura ilia of the liberal electors of Baslehurst declined to make acquaint- ance with these dainties. After that came the dinner, con- sisting of a piece of roast beef very raw, and a leg of parboiled mutton, absolutely blue in its state of rawness. When the gory mess was seen which displayed itself on the first incision made into these lumps of meat, the vice-president and one or two of his friends spoke out aloud. That hard and greasy sausage-meat might have been all right for anything they knew to the contrary, and the soup they had swallowed without complaint. But they did know what should be the state of a joint of meat when brought to the table, and therefore they spoke out in their anger. Tappitt himself said nothing that 812 KACHEL RAY was intended to he carried beyond the waiter, seeing that beef from his own brewery was consumed in the tap of the "Dragon;" but the vice-president was a hardware dealer with whom the "Dragon" had but small connection of trade, and he sent terrible messages down to the landlady, threatening her with the " Blue Boar," the "Mitre," and even with that nasty little pot-house the " Chequers." " What is it they expects for their three-and-six- pence?" said the landlady, in her wrath; for it must be under- stood that Sharpit knew well that he was dealing with one who understood the value of money, and that he did not feel quite sure of passing the dinner in Mr. Hart's bUl. Then came a pie with crust an inch thick, which nobody would eat, and a cabinet pudding, so called, full of lumps of suet. I venture to assert that each liberal elector there would have got a better dinner at home, and would have been served with greater comfort ; but a pubHc dinner at an inn is the recognized relaxation of a middle-class Englishman in the provinces. Did he not attend such banquets Ms neighbours would conceive Tiim to be constrained by domestic tyranny. Others go to them, and therefore he goes also. He is bored frightfully by every speech to which he listens. He is driven to the lowest depths of dismay by every speech which he is called upon to make. He is thoroughly disgusted when he is called on to make no speech. He has no point of sympathy with the neighbours between whom he sits. The wine is bad. The hot water is brought to him cold. His seat is hard and crowded. No attempt is made at the pleasures of conversation. He is continually called upon to stand up that he may pretend to drink a toast in honour of some person or institution for which he cares nothing ; for the hero of the evening, as to whom he is probably indifferent ; foi- the church which perhaps he never enters; the army, which he regards as a hotbed of aristocratic insolence ; or for the Queen, whom he reveres and loves by reason of his nature as an Englishman, but against whose fulsome praises as repeated to bJTn ad nauseam in the chairman's speech his very soul unconsciously revolts. It is all a bore, trouble, ennui, nastiness, and discomfort. But yet he goes again and again, — ^because it is the relaxation natural to an Englishman. The Frenchman who sits for three hours tilted on the hind legs of a little chair vidth the back against the window- mil of the cafS, with first a cup of coffee before him and then a glass of sugar and water, is perhaps as much to be pitied as THE BEEWERY QUESTION SETTLED. 313 regards his immediate misery; but the liquids which he im< bibes are not so injurious to him. Mr. Tappitt with the eleven other liberal electors of Easle- hurst went through the ceremony of their dinner iu the usual way. They drank the health of the Queen, and of the volun- teers of the county because there was present a podgy liltle grocer who had enrolled himself in the corps and who was thus enabled to make a speech ; and then they diank the health of Mr. Hart, whose ultimate return for the borough they pledged themselves to effect. Having done so much for business, and having thus brought to a conclusion the poKtical work of the evening, they adjourned their meeting to a cosy little parlour near the bar, and then they began to be happy. Some few of the number, including the angry vice-president, who sold hardware, took themselves home to their wives. " Mrs. Tongs keeps him. sharp enough by the ears," said Sharpit winking, to Tappitt. ■" Come along, old fellow, and we'll get a drop of something really hot." Tappitt winked back again and shook his head with an affected laugh ; but as he did so he thotight of Mrs. T. at home, and the terrible words she had spoken to him ; — and at the same moment an idea came across him that Mr. Sharpit was a very dangerous companion. About halt' % dozen entered the cosy little parlour, and there they remain^ for a couple of hours. While sitting in that cosy little parlour they really did enjoy themselves. About nine o'clock they ha.i a l>it of the raw beef broiled, and in that guise it was pleasant enough ; and the water was hot, and the tobacco was grateful, and the stiiTness of the evening was gone. The men chatted together and made no more speeches, and they talked of matters which bore a true interest to them. Sharpit - explained t6 them how each man might be assisted in his own business if this rich London taUor could be brought in for the borough. And by degrees they came round to the affairs of the brewery, and Tappitt, an thi.^ brandy warmed him, spoke loudly against Eowan. "By George!" said the poJgy gr«.-.^er, "if anybody would offer me a thousand a year to givfc up, I'd take it hop ping." " Then I wouldn't," said Tappitt, " and ■''hat's more, I won't But brewing ain't like other businesses ; — there's more in it than iu most others." 314 RACHEL KAY. ' Of course there is," said Sliarpit ; " it is'nt like anj common trade." " That's true too," said the podgy grocer. A man iiisually receives some compensation for havjng gone through the penance of the chairman's duties. For the re- mainder of the evening he is entitled to the flattery of his ^ companions, and generally receives it tiU they become tipsy and insubordinate. Tappitt had not the character of an intemperate man, but on this occasion he did exceed the bounds of a becom- ing moderation. The room was hot and the tobacco smoke was thick. The wine had been bad and the brandy was strong. Sharpit, too, urged him to new mixtures and stronger denuncia- tions against Eowan, till at last, at eleven o'clock, when he took himself to the brewery, he was not in a condition proper for the father of such daughters or f^r the husband of such a wife. "Shall I see biTn home?" said the podgy grocer to Mr. Sharpit. Tappitt, with the suspicious quickness of a drunken man, turned sharply upon the podgy and abashed grocer, and abused biTTi for his insolence. He then made his way out of the inn- yard, and along the High Street, and down Brewery Lane to his own door, knowing the way as well as though he had been sober, and passing over it as quickly. Nor did he fall or even stumble, though now and agaia he reeled slightly. And as he went the idea came strongly upon him th^t Sharpit was a dangerous man, and that perhaps at this very moment he, Tappitt, was standing on the brink of a precipice. Then he remembered that his wife would surely be watching for him, and as he made his first attempt to insert the latch-key into the door his heart became forgetful of the brandy, artd sank low within his breast. How affairs went between him and Mrs. Tappitt on that flight I wiU not attempt to describe. That she used her power with generosity I do not doubt. That she used it with discretion I am quite convinced. On the following morning at ten o'clock Tappitt was still in bed ; but a note had been written by Mrs. T. to Messrs. Sharpit and Longfite, saying that the projected visit had, under altered circumstances, become unneosssary. That Tappitt's head was racked with pain, and his stomach disturbed with sickness, there can be THE BKEWEEY QUESTION SETTLED. 315 no doubt, and as little that Mrs. T. used the consequent weakness of her husband for purposes of feminine dominion ; but this she did with discretion and even with kindness. Only a word or two was said as to the state ia which he had returned home,— a word or two with the simple object of putting that dominion on a firm basis. After that Mrs. Tappitt took his condition as an .estabhshed fact, administered to him the comforts of her medicine-chest and teapot, excused his illness to the girls as having been produced by the fish, and never left his bedside till she had achieved her purpose. If ever a man got tipsy to his own advantage, ]\Ir. Tappitt did so on that occasion. And if ever a man in that condition was treated with forbearing kindness by his Avife, Mr. Tappitt was so treated then. "Don't disturb yourself, T.," she said; "there's nothing wants doing in the brewery, and if it did what would it signify in comparison with your health? The brewery won't be much to you now, thank goodness ; and I'm sure you've had enough of it. Thirty years of such work as that would make any man sick and weak. I'm sure I don't wonder at your being ill ; not the least. The wonder is that you've ever stood up against it so long as you have. If you'll take my advice you'll just turn round and try to sleep for an hour or so." Tappitt took her advice at any rate, so far that he turned round and closed his eyes. Up to this time he had not given way about the brewery. He had uttered no word of assent. But he was gradually becoming aware that he would have to yield before he would be allowed to put on his clothes. And now, in the base and weak condition of his head and stomach, yielding did not seem to him to be so very bad a thing. After all, the brewery was troublesome, the fight was harassing. Eowan was young and strong, and Mr. Sharpit was very dangerous. Eowan, too, had risen in his estimation as in that of others, and he could not longer argue, even to himself, that the stipulated income would not be paid. He did not sleep, but got into that half-drowsy state in which men think of their existing affairs, but without any power of active thought He knew that he ought to be in his counting-house and at work. He half feared that the world was falling away from him. because he was not there. He was ashamed of him- 316 KACHEL EAY. self, and sometimes almost entertained a thouglit. of rising up and shaking off his lethargy. But his stomach was had, and he could not bring himself to move. His head was tormented, and his pillo-w was soit; and therefore there he lay. He wondered what was the time of day, hut did not think of looking at his watch which was under his head. He heard his wife's steps about the room as she shaded some window from his eyes, or crept to the door to give some household order to one of her girls outside , but he did not speak to her, nor she to him. She did not speak to him as long as he lay there motionless, and when he moved with a small low groan she merely offered him some beef tea. It was nearly sis o'clock, and the hour of dinner at the brewery was long passed, when Mrs. Tappitt sat herself down by the bedside determined to reap the fruit of her victory. He had just raised himself in his bed and announced his intention of getting up, — declaring, as he did so, that he would never again eat any of that accursed fish. The moment of his renovation had come upon him, and Mrs. Tappitt per- ceived that if he escaped from her now, there might even yet be more trouble. "It wasn't only the fish, T.," she said with somewhat of sternness in her eye. " I hardly drank anything," said Tappitt. " Of course I wasn't there to see what you took," said she ; "but you were very bad when you came home last night; — very bad indeed. You couldn't have got in at the door only for me." " That's nonsense." " But it is quite true. It's a mercy, T., that neither of the girls saw you. Only think ! But there'U be nothing more of that kind, I'm sure, when we are out of this horrid place ; and it wouldn't have happened now, only for all this trouble." To this Tappitt made no answer, but he grunted, and again said that he thought he would get up. " Of course it's settled now, T., that we're to leave thia place?" " I don't know that at aU." "Then, T., you ought to know it. Come now; just look (»t the common sense of the thing. If we don't give up -the brewery what are we to do 1 There isn't a decent respectable THE BEEWEKY QUESTION SETTLED. 317 person in the town in faTour of our staying here, only that rascal Sharpit. You desired me this morning to write and tell him you'd have nothing more to do with him; and so I did." Tappitt had not seen his wife's letter to the lawyer, — ^had not asked to see it, and now became aware that his only possible supporter might probably have been driven away from him. Sharpit too, though dangerous as an enemy, was ten times more dangerous as a friend ! _ "Of course you'll take that young man's offer. Shall I sit down and write a line to Honyman, and tell bim to come in the morning?" Tappitt groaned again and again, said that he would get up, but Mrs. T. would not let him out of bed tiU he had assented to her proposition that Honyman should be again invited to the brewery. He knew well that the battle was gone from him, — had in truth known it through all those half-comatose hours of his bedridden day. But a man, or a nation, when yielding must stiU resist even in yielding. Tappitt fumed and fussed under the clothes, protesting that his sending for Honjrman would be useless. But the letter was written in his name and sent with his knowledge; and it was perfectly understood that that in- vitation to Honyman signified an unconditional surrender on the part of Mr. Tappitt. One word Mrs. T. said as she allowed her husband to escape from his prison amidst the blankets, one word by which to mark that the thing was done, and one word only. " I suppose we needn't leave the house for about a month or so, — because it would be inconvenient about the fumituie." "Who's to turn you out if you stay for six months?" said Tappitt. The thing was marked enough then, and Mrs. Tappitt retired in muffled triumph, — retired when she had made all things easy for the simplest ceremony of dressing. "Just sponge your face, my dear," she said, "and put on your dressing-gown, and come down for half an hour or BO." " I'm all right now," said Tappitt. " Oh ! quite so ; — ^but I wouldn't go to the trouble of much dressing." Then she left him, descended the stairs and entered the parlour among her daughters. When there she could not abstain from one blast of the trumpet of triumpL "Well, 318 RACHEL EAY. girls," she said, "it's all settled, and we shall be in Torquaj now before the winter." " No !" said Augusta. " That'll be a great change," said Martha. "In Torquay before the winter!" said Cherry. "Oh, mamma, how clever you have been ! " " And now your papa is coming down, and you should thank him for what he's doing for you. It's all for youi sake that he's doing it." Mr. Tappitt crept into the room, and when he had taken his seat in his accustomed arm-chair, the girls went up to him and kissed him. Then they thanked him for his proposed kindness in taking them out of the brewery. " Oh, papa, it is so jolly !" said Cherry. Mr. Tappitt did not say much in answer to this ; — ^but luckily there was no necessity that he should say anything. It was an occasion on which silence was understood as giving a perfect consent. CHAPTEE XXVUL WHAT TOOK PLACE AT BRAGG'S END FAKM. When Mrs. Tappitt had settled within her own mind that the brewery should be abandoned to Eowan, she was by no means, therefore, ready to assent that Eachel Eay should become the mistress of the brewery house. " Never," she had exclaimed when Cherry had suggested such a result; "never!" And Augusta had echoed the protestation, " Never, never !" I will not say that she would have allowed her husband to remain in his business in order that she might thus exclude Eachel from such promotion, but she could not bring herself to beHeve that Luke Eowan would be so fatuous, so ignorant of his own interests, so deluded, as to marry that girl from Bragg's End 1 It is thus that the Mrs Tappitts of the world regard oth«i WHAT TOOK PLACE AT BRAGG'S END FARM. 319 women's daiigliters when they have undergone any disappoint- ment as to their own. She had no reason for wishing well to Eowan, and would not have cared i£ he had taken to his bosom a harpy in marriage ; but she could not endure to hear of the success of the girl whose attractions had foUed her own little plan. " I don't believe that the man can ever be such a fool as that ! " she said agaia to Augusta, when on the evening of the day following Tappitt's abdication, a rumour reached the brewery that Luke Eowan had been seen walking out upon the Cawston road. Mr. Honyman, in accordance with his instructions, called at the brewery on that morning, and was received by Mr. Tappitt with a sullen and almost savage submission. Mrs. T. had en- deavoured to catch him first, but in that she had failed ; she did, however, manage to see the attorney as he came out from her husband. " It's all settled," said Honyman; " and I'll see Eowan myself lefore half an hoiir is over." "I'm sure it's a great blessing, Mr. Honyman," said the lady, — ^not on that occasion assuming any of the glory to herself. " It was the only thing for him," said Mr. Honyman ; — "that is if he didn't like to take the young man in as acting partner." " That wouldn't have done at all," said Mrs. T. And then the lawyer went his way. In the mean time Tappitt sat sullen and wretched in the counting-house. Such moments occur in the Uves of most of us, — moments in which the real work of life is brought to an end, — and they cannot but be sad. It is very weU to talk of ease and dignity ; but ease of spirit comes from action only, and the world's dignil^r is given to those who do the world's work. Let no man put his neck from out of the coUar tOl in truth he can no longer draw the weight attached to it. Tappitt had now got rid of his coUar, and he sat very wretched in his brewery counting-house. "Be I to go, sir?" Tappitt in his meditation was interrupted by these words, spoken not in a rough voice, and looking up he saw "Worts standing in the counting-house before him. Worts had voted for Butler Cornbury, whereas, had he voted for Mr. Hart, Mr. Hart would have been returned ; and, upon that, "Worts, as a lebeUious subject, had received notice to quit the premises. 320 RACHEL EAT. NoTV Ms time was out, and lie came to ask -whether he was to leave the scene of his forty years of work. But what would be the use of sending "Worts away even if the wish to punish hia contumacy still remained 1 In another week Worts would he brought back again in triumph, and would tread those brewery floors with the step almost of a master, while he, Tappitt, could tread them only as a stranger, if he were allowed to tread them at all. " You can stay if you like," said Tappitt, hardly looking up at the man. " I know yeu be a going, Mr. Tappitt," said the man; " and I hear yeu be a going very handsome like. Gentlefolk such as yeu needn't go on working allays Hke uz. If so be yeu be a going, Mr. Tappitt, I hope you and me'U part friendly. We've been together a sight o' years ; — ^too great a sight for uz to part unfriendly." Mr. Tappitt admitted the argument, shook hands with the man, and then of course took him into his immediate confidence with more warmth than he would have done had there been no quarrel between them. And I think he found some comfort in this. He walked about the premises with Worts, telling him much that was true, and some few things that were not strictly accurate. For instance, he said that he had made up his mind to leave the place, whereas that action of decisive resolution which we call making up our minds had perhaps been done by Mrs. Tappitt rather than by him. But Worts took aU these assertions with an air of absolute belief which comforted the brewer. Worts was very wise in his discretion on that day, and threw much oil on the troubled waters ; so that Tappitt when he left him bade God bless him, and expressed a hope that the old place might stiU thrive for his sake. " And for your'n too, master," said Worts, " for yeu'IL allays have the best egg stiLL The young master, he'll only be a working for you." There was comfort in this thought; and Tappitt, when he went into his dinner, was able to carry himself like a mam The tidings which had reached Mrs. Tappitt as to Eowat having been seen on that evening walking on the Cawston road with his face towards Bragg's End were true. On that morning Mr. Honyman had come to him, and his career in life was a^ once settled for hun- WHAT TOOK PT,ACE AT BEAGG'S END FAKM. ?21 " Mr. Tappitt is quitu in time, Mr. Honyman," he had said. " But he would not have been in time this day week unless he had consented to pay for what work had been already done ; for I had determined to begia at once." " The truth is, Mr. Eowan, you step into an uncommon good thing ; but Mr. Tappitt is tired of the work, and glad to give it up." Thus the matter was arranged between them, and before nightfall everybody in Baslehurst knew that Tappitt and Eowan had come to terms, and that Tappitt was to retire upon a pen- sion. There was some little discrepancy as to the amoimt of Tappitt's annuity, the liberal faction asserting that he was to receive two thousand a year, aiid those of the other side cutting him down to two hundred. On the evening of that day — ^in the cool of the evening — Luke Eowan sauntered down the High Street of Baslehurst, and crossed over Cawston bridge. On the bridge he was all alone, and he stood there for a moment or two leaning upon the parapet looking down upon the little stream beneath the arch. During the day many things had occupied him, and he had hardly as yet made up his mind definitely as to what he would do and what he would say during the hours of the evening. From the moment in which Honyman had announced to him Tappitt's intended resignation he became aware that he certainly should go out to Bragg's End before that day was over. It had been with him a settled thing, a thing settled almost without thought ever since the receipt of Eachel's letter, that he would take this walk to Bragg's End when he should have put his affairs at Baslehurst on some stable footing ; but that he would not take that walk before he had so done. " They say," Eachel had written in her letter, " they say that as the business here about the brewery is so very unsettled, they think it probable that you wiH not have to come back to Basle- hurst any more." In that had been the offence. They had doubted his stability, and, beyond that, had almost doubted his honesty. He would punish them by taking them at their word till both should ba put beyond all question. He knew weU that the punishment wou}*! fall 01^ Eachel, whereas none of the sin would have been Eachel ''-sin; but he would not allow himseK to be deterred by that consiai^*'^'io'^ o22 HACHEL EAT. " It is her letter," he said to himself, " and in that way will 1 answer her. When I do go there again they will all understand me hetter." It had been, too, a matter of pride to him that Mr. Comfort and Mrs. Butler Comhury should thus he made to understand him. He would say notlmig of himself and his own purposes to any of them. He would speak neither of his own means nor his own steadfastness. But he would prove to them that he was steadfast, and that he had boasted of notlmig which he did not possess. When Mrs. Butler Comhury had spoken to him down by the Cleeves, asking him of his purpose, and strugghng to do a kind thing by Eachel, he had resolved at once that he would teU her nothing. She should find him out. He liked her for loving Eachel ; but neither to her, nor even to Rachel herself, would he say more till he could show them that the busiuess about the brewery was no longer unsettled. But up to this moment— this moment in which he was stand- ing on the bridge, he had not determined what he would say to Eachel or to Eachel's mother. He had never relaxed ia his purpose of making Eachel his wife since his iirst visit to the cottage. He was one who, having a fixed resolve, feels certain of their ultimate success in achieving it. He was now going to Bragg's' End to claim that which he regarded as his own ; but he had not as yet told himself in what terms he would put forward his claim. So he stood upon the bridge thinking. He stood upon the bridge thinking, but his thoughts would only go backwards, and would do nothing for him as to his future conduct. He remembered his fiist walk with her, and the churchyard elms with the setting sun, and the hot dances in Mrs. Tappitt's house j and he remembered them vrithout much of the triumph of a successful lover. It had been very sweet, b'lt very easy. In so saying to himself he by no means threw blame upon Eachel. Things were easy, he thought, and it was almost a pity that they should be so. As for Eachel, nothing could have been more honest or more to his taste, than her mode of learning to love him. A girl who, while intending to accept him, could yet have feigned uidifference, would have disgusted him at once. Nevertheless he could not but wish that there "had been some castles for him, to storm in his career. Tappitt had made but poor pretence of fighting before he srat- Tendered j and as to Eachel, it had not been in Eachel's n?tui9 WHAT TOOK PLACE AT BEAGG'S END FARM. 323 to make any pretence. He passed from the bridge at last with- OTit determining -what lie would say when he reached the cottage, but he did not pass on till he had been seen by the scrutinizing eyes of Miss Pucker. " If there ain't young Eowan going out to Bragg't End again !" she said to herself, comfortiag herself, I fear, oi striving to comfort herself, with an inward assertion that he was not going there for any good. Striving to comfort herselfj but not effectually ; for though the assertion was made by herself to herself, yet it was not beUeved. Though she declared with welL-pronounced mental words, that Luke Eowan was going on that path for no good purpose, she felt a wretched conviction at her heart's core that Eachel Eay would be made to triumph over her and her early suspicions by a happy marriage. Never- theless she carried the tidings up iuto Baslehurst, and as she repeated it to the grocer's daughters and the baker's wives she shook her head with as much apparent satisfaction as though she reaUy believed that Eachel osciJlated between a ruiaed name and a broken heart. He walked on very slowly towards Bragg's End, as though ha almost dreaded the interview, swinging his stick as was his custom, and keeping his feet on the grassy edges of the road till he came to the tiirn which brought him on to the green. When on the green he did not take the highway, but skirted along mider Farmer Sturt's hedge, so that he had to pass by the entrance of the farmyard before he crossed over to the cottage. Here, just inside her own gate, he encountered Mrs. Sturt standing alone. She had been intent on the cares of her poultry-yard tUl she espied Luke Eowan; but then she had forgotten chickens and ducks and aU, and had given herself up to thoughts of Eachel's happiness in having her lover back again. " It's he as sure as eggs," she had said to herself when she first saw him ; " how mortal slow he do walk, to be sure ! If he was coming as joe to me I'd soon shake him into quicker steps than them." " Oh, Mrs. Sturt!" said he, "I hope you're quite well,' and ho stopped short at her gate. "Pretty bobbish, thankee, Mr, Eowan; and bow's yourself 1 Are you going over to the cottage this evening ?" "Who's at home there, Mrs. Sturt 1" P24. BACHEL EAT. ""Well, they're all at home; Mrs. Eay, and Eachel, and Mrs Prime. I doubt whether you know the eldest daughter, Mr. Eo-wan?" Luke did not know Mrs. Prime, and hy no means wished to spend any of the hours of the present evening in making her acquaintance. " Is Mrs. Prime there?" he asked- " 'Deed she is, Mr. Eowan. She's come hack these last two days." Thereupon Eowan paused for a moment, having carefully placed himself inside the gateposts of the farmyard so that he might not be seen by the inmates of the cottage, if haply he had hitherto escaped their eyes. " Mrs. Sturt," said he, " I wonder whether you'd do me a great favour." " That depends — " said Mrs. Sturt. " If it's to do any good to any of them over there, I will." " if I wanted to do harm to any of them I shouldn't coma to you." " "Well, I should hope not. Is she and you going to be one, Mr. Eowan 1 That's about the whole of it." " It shan't be my fault if we're not," said Eowan. " That's spoken honest," said the lady ; " and now TU do anythiag in my power to bring you together. If you'll just go into my little parlour, I'll bring her to you in five seconds ; I will indeed, Mr. Eowan. You won't miad gouig through the kitchen for once, wiU you?" Luke did not mind going through the kitchen, and imme- diately found himself shut np in Mrs. Sturt's back parlour, looking out among the mingled roses and cabbages. Mrs. Sturt walked quickly across the road to the cottage door, and went at once to the open window of the sitting-room. Mrs. Eay was there with a book in her hand, — a serious book, the perusal of which I fear was in some degree due to the presence of her elder daughter ; and Mrs. Prime was there with another book, evidently very serious ; and Eachel was there too, seated on the sofa, deeply buried in the manipulation of a dress belonging to her mother. Mrs. Sturt was sure at once that they had not seen Luke Eowan as he passed inside the ferm- yard gate, and that they did not suspect that he was neai them. WHAT TOOK PLACE AT BEAGG'S END FARM. 325 " Oh, Mrs. Sturt, is that yott 1" said the widow lookiag up, " You'll just come in for a minute, won't you?" and Mrs. Eay showed hy a suppressed yawn that her attention had not heen deeply fixed by that serious hook. Eachel looked up, and hade the visitor welcome with a little nod j but it was not a cheery nod as it would have been ia old days, before her sorrow had come upon her. " I'll have the cherries back in her cheeks before the evening's over," said Mrs. Sturt to herself, as she looked at the pale-faced girl. Mrs. Prime also made some Uttle salutation to their neighbour; but she did so with the very smallest expenditure of thoughts or moments. Mrs. Sturt was all very well, but Mrs. Prime had greater work on hand than gossiping with Mrs. Sturt " I'U not just come in, thankee, Mrs. Eay ; but if it ain't troubling you I want to speak a word to you outside; and a word to Eachel too, if she don't mind coming." " A word to me?" said Eachel getting up and putting down her dress. Her thoughts now-a-days were always fixed on the same subject, and it seemed that any special word to her must have reference to that. Mrs. Eay also got up, leaving her mark in her book. Mrs. Prime went on reading, harder than ever. There was to be some conference of importance from which she could not but feel herself to be excluded in a very special way. Something wicked was surely to be proposed, or she would have been allowed to hear it. She said nothing, but her head was almost shaken by the vehemence with which she read the book in her lap. Mrs. Sturt retired beyond the precincts of the widow's front garden before she said a word. Eachel had followed her first through the gate, and Mrs. Eay came after with her apron turned over her head. " What is it, Mrs. Sturt?" said Eachel. " Haveayou heard anything ?" " Heard anything 1 WeU ; I'm always a hearing of some- thing. Do you slip across the green while I speak just one word to your mother. And Eachel, wait for me at the gate. Mrs. Eay, he's in my Httle parlour." " Who ? not Luke Eowan ?" " But he is though ; that very young man ! He's come over to make it up with her. He's told me so with his own mouth. You may be aa sure of it as,— as,— as anything. You leave 'em 32fi KACHBL EAT, to me, Mrs. Eay; I wouldn't bring tliem together if it wasn't for good. It's my belief our pet would a' died if lie hadn't come back to ber ; — ^it is then." And Mrs. Sturt put her apron up to her eyes. Eaohel having paused for a moment, as she looked first at her mother and then at Mrs. Sturt, had dona as she was bidden, and had walked quickly across the green. Mrs. Eay, when she heard her neighbour's tidings, stood fixed by dismay and dread, mingled with joy. She had longed for his coming back; but now that he was there, close upon them, intending to do all that she had wished him to do, she was half afraid of bim t After aU was he not a young man ; and might he not, even yet, be a woK ? She was horror-stricken at the idea of sending Eachel over to see a lover, and looked back at the cottage window, towards Mrs. Prime, as though to see whether she was being watched in her iniquity. " Oh, Mrs. Sturt !" she said, " why didn't ycru give us time to think about it?" " Give you time ! How could I give you time, and he here on the spot ! There's been too much time to my thinking. "When young folk are agreeable and the old folk are agreeable too, there can't be too little time. Come along over and we'U talk of it in the kitchen while they talk in the parlour. He'd a' been in there among you aU only for Mrs. Prime. She is so dour like for a young man to have to say anything before her, of the likes of that. That's why I took biTn into oui- place." They overtook Eachel at the house door and they all went through together into the great kitchen. " Oh, Eachel," said Mrs. Eay. " Oh, dear !" " What is it, mamma ?" said Eachel. Then looking into her mother's face, she guessed the truth. "Mamma," she said, "he's here ! Mr. Eowan is here !" And she took hold of her mother's arm, as though to support herself. " And that's just the truth," said Mrs. Sturt, triumphantly. " He's through there in the little parlour, and you must just go to Mm, my dear, and hear what he's got to say to you." " Oh, mamma ! " said Eachel. " I suppose you must do what she tells you," said iMrs, Eiiy. " Of course she must," said Mis. Sturt. " Mamma, you must go to him," said EachcL " That won't do at all," said Mrs. Sturt. "WHAT TOOK PXiAGE AT BEAGG'S END FARM. 327 " And why has he come here 1" said Eachol. " Ah ! I wonder why," said Mrs. Sturt. " I wonder why any yoiuig man should come on such an errand ! But it won't do to leave him there standing in my parlour hy himself, so do you come along with me." So saying Mrs. Sturt took Eachel by the aim to lead her away. Mrs. Eay in this great emergency was perfectly helpless. She could simply look at her daughter with imploring, loving eyes, and stand quivering in douht against the dresser. Mrs. Sturt had very decided views on the matter. She had put Luke Rowan into the parlour with a promise that she would bring Eachel to him there, and she was not going to break her word through any mock delicacy. The two yoimg people liked one another, and they should have this opportunity of saying so in each other's hearing. So she took Eachel by the arm, and opening the door of the parlour led her into the room. " Mr. Eowan," she said, " when you and Miss Eachel have had your say out, you'll find me and her mamma in the kitchen." 'Then she closed the door and left them alone. Eachel, when first summoned out of the cottage, had felt at once that Mrs. Sturt's visit must have reference to Luke Eowan. Indeed everything with her in her present moods had some reference to him, — some reference though it might be ever so remote. But now before she had time to form a thought, she was told that he was there in the same house with her, and that she was taken to him in order that she might hear his words and speak her own. It was very sudden ; and for the space of a few moments she would have fled away from Mrs. Sturt's kitchen had such flight been possible. Since Eowan had gone from her there had been times in which she would have fled to him, in which she would have journeyed alone any distance so that she might tell him of her love, and ask whether she had got any right to hope for his. But all that seemed to be changed. Though her mother was there with her and her friend, she feared that this seeking of her lover was hardly maidenly. Should he not have come to her, — every foot of the way to her feet, and there have spoken if he had aught to say, before she had been called on to make any sign 1 Would he Hke her for thus going to him ? But then she had no chance of escape. She found herself in Mrs. Sturt's kitchen undei 328 RACHEL EAT. her mother's sanction, tefore she had heen able to form anj purpose; and then an idea did come to her, even at that moment, that poor Luke would have had a hard task of it ia her sister's presence. When she -was first told that he was there ia the farm-house parlour, her courage left her and she dreaded the encounter ; hut she was able to coUect her thoughts as she passed out of the kitchen, and across the passage, and when she followed Mrs. Sturt iato the room she had agaia acquired the power to cany herself as a woman having a soul of her own. "Eachel!" Eowan said, stepping up to her and tendering his hand to her. "I have come to answer your letter in person." " I knew," she said, " when I wrote it, that my letter did not deserve any answer. I did not expect an answer." "But am I wrong now to bring you one ia person? I have thought so much of seeing you again ! WUl you not say a word of welcome to me ?" " I am glad to see you, Mr. Eowan." " Mr. Eowan ! Nay ; if it is to be Mr. Eowan I may as well go back to Baslehurst. It has come to that, that it must be Luke now, or there must be no naming of names between us. You chided me once when I called you Eachel." " Tou called me so once, sir, when I should have chided you and did not. I remember it weU. You were very wrong, and I was very foolish." "But I may call you Eachel now?" Then, when she did not answer bim at the moment, he asked the question again in that imperious way which was common with him. " May I not call you now as I please ? If it be not so my coming here is useless. Come, Eachel, say one word to me boldly. Do you love me well enough to be my wife?" She was standing at the open wiadow, looking away from him, while he remained at a Httle distance from her as though he would not come close to her tiU he had exacted from her some positive assurance of her love as a penance for the fault committed by her letter. He certainly was not a soft lover, nor by any means inclined to abate his own privileges. He paused a moment as though he thought that his last question must elicit a plain reply. But no reply to it came. She stiU looked away £tom him through the window, as though. leaolved WHAT TOOK PLACE AT BEAGG'S END FAEM. 329 that she would not speak till his mode should have become more tender. "You said something in your letter," he continued, "about my affairs here in Baslehurst being unsettled. I would not show myself here again till that matter was arranged." " It wa.s not I," she said, turning sharply round upon him. " It was not I who thought that." " It was in your letter, Eachel." " Do you know so little of a girl like me as to suppose that what was written there came from me, myself 1 Did I not teU you that I said what I was told to say? Did I not explain to you that mamma had gone to Mr. Comfort? Did you not know that all that had come from him ?" " I only know that I read it in your letter to me, — ^the only letter you had ever written to me." " You are unfair to me, Mr. Eowan. You know that you are unfair." " CaU me Luke," he said. " Call me by my own name." " Luke," she said, " you are unfair to me." " Then by heavens it shall be for the last time. May things in this world and the next go well with me as I am fair to you for the future !" So saying he came up close to her, and took her at once in his arms. "Luke, Lukej don't. You frighten me; indeed you do." " You shall give me a fair open kiss, honestly, before I leave you, — in truth you shall. If you love me, and wish to be my wife, and intend me to understand that you and I are now pledged to each other beyond the power of any person to separate us by his advice, or any mother by her fears, give me a bold, honest kiss, and I will understand that it means aU that." StUl she hesitated for a moment, turning her face away from bim while he held her by the waist. She hesitated while she was weighing the meaning of his words, and taking them home to herself as her own. Then she turned her neck towards him, still holding back her head tUl her face was immediately under his own, and after another moment's pause she gave him her pledge as he had asked it. Mrs. Start's words had come true, and the cherries had returned to her cheek. 330 RACHEL SAT. "My own Eachel! And now tell me one thing: are yon happy?" "So happy!" " My own one !" "But, Liike, — I have been wretched; — so wi'etchedl 1 thought you would never come hack to me." " And did that make you wretched?" "Ah! — did it? What do you think yourself? When I wrote that letter to you I knew I had no right to expect that you would thiok of me again." " But how could I help thinking of you when I loved you ?" " And then when mamma saw you in Exeter, and you sent me no word of message !" " I was determined to send none till this business was finished." " Ah ! that was cruel. But you did not understand. I suppose no man can understand. I coiddn't have believed it myself till — tiU after you had gone away. It seemed as thoug'^i all the sun had deserted us, and that everything was cold and dark." They stood at the open window looking out upon the roses and cabbages tOl the patience of Mrs. Stuit and of Mrs. Eay was exhausted. What they said, beyond so much of theit words as I have repeated, need not be told. But when a low half-abashed knock at the door interrupted them, Luke thought that they had hardly been there long enough to settle the preliminaries of the affair which had brought him to Bragg's End. " May we come in ?" said Mrs. Sturt very timidly. " Oh, mamma, mamma !" said Eachel, and she hid ha iniii upon her mother's shoulder. MBS. PEIME READS HEE RECANTATION, 331 CHAPTEE XXIX. MRS. PRIME HEADS HEE RECANTATION. Above an hour had passed after the iatemiption mentioned at the end of the last chapter before Mrs. Eay and Eachel crossed tack from the farm-house to the cottage, and when they went they went alone. During that hour they had been sitting in Mrs. Start's parlour ; and when at last they got up to go they did not press Luke Eowan to go with them. Mrs. Prime was at the cottage, and it was necessary that everything should be explained to her before she was asked to give her hand to her future brother-in-law. The farmer had come in and had joked his joke, and !Mrs. Sturt had clacked over them as though they were a brood of chickens of her own hatching ; and Mrs. Eay had smiled and cried, and sobbed and laughed tiLL she had become almost hysterical. Then she had jumped up from her seat saying, " Oh, dear, what wiU Dorothea think has become of us V After that Eachel insisted upon going, and the mother and daughter returned across the green, leaving Luke at the farm-house, ready to take his departure as soon as Mrs. Eay and Eachel should have safely reached their home. " I knew thee was minded stedfast to take her," said Mrs. Sturt, " when it came out upon the newspaper how thou hadst told them aU in Baslehurst that thou wouldst wed none but a Baslehurst lass." Li answer to this Luke protested that he had not thought of Eachel when he was making that speech, and tried to explain that all that was "soft sawder" as he called it, for the election. But the words were too apposite to the event, and the sentiment too much in accordance with Mrs. Start's chivaMc views to allow of her admitting the truth of any such assurance as this. "I know," she said; "I know. And when I read them words in the newspaper I said to the gudeman there, we shall have bridecake from the cottage now before Christmas." 332 RACHEL BAT. " For the matter of that, so you shall," said Luke, shaking hands with her as he went, " or the fault mil not he mine." Eachel, as she followed her mother out from the farmyard gate, had not a word to say. Could it have been possible she would have wished to remain silent for the remainder of the evening and for the night, so that she might have time to think of this thing which she had done, and to enjoy the full measure of her happiness. Hitherto she had hardly had any joy in her love. The cup had been hardly given to her to drink before it had been again snatched away, and since then she had been left to think that the draught for which she longed would never again be offered to her lips. The whole affair had now been managed so suddenly, and the action had been so quick, that she had hardly found a moment for thought. Could it be that things were so fixed that there was no room for further disappointment ? She had been scalded so cruelly that she still feared the hot water. Her heart was sore with the old hurt, as the head that has ached will be stUl sore when the actual malady has passed away. She longed for hours of absolute quiet, in which she might make herself sure her malady had also passed away, and that the soreness which remained came only from the memory of former pain. But there was no such perfect rest within her reach as yet. "Will you teU her or shaU I!" said Mrs. Eay, pausing for a moment at the cottage gate. " You had better teU her, mamma." "I suppose she won't set herself against it; wUl she?" " I hope not, mamma. I shall think her very iU-natured it she does. But it can't make any real difference now, you know." "No; it can't make any difference. Only it will he so uncomfortable." Then with half-frightened, mufQed steps they entered their own house, and joined Mrs. Prime in the sitting-room. Mrs. Prime was stiU reading the serious book; but I am bound to say that her mind had not been whoUy intent upon it during the long absence of her mother and sister. She had struggled for a time to ignore the sKght fact that her companions were away gossiping with the neighbouring farmer's wife; she had made a hard fight with her book, pinning her eyes down upon the page over and over again, as though in pinning down MES. PRIME READS HER. RECANTATION. 333 her eyes she could pin do-wn her mind also. But by degrees the delay hecame so long that she was tantalized into surmises as to the subject of their conversation. K it -were not wicked, why should not she have been allowed to share it? She did not imagine it to be wicked according to the world's ordinary wickedness ; — ^but she feared that it was wicked according to that tone of morals to which she was desirous of tying her mother down as a bond slave. They were talking about love and pleasure, and those heart-throbbings in which her sister had so unfortunately been allowed to indulge. She felt all but sure that some tidings of Luke Eowan had been brought in Mrs. Sturt's budget of news, and she had never been able to think well of Luke Rowan since the evening on which she had seen him standing with Eachel in the churchyard. She knew nothing against him ; but she had then made up her mind that he was pernicious, and she could not bring herself to own that she had been wrong in that opinion. She had been loud and defiant in her denunciation when she had first suspected Eachel «f having a lover. Since that she had undergone some troubles of her own by which the tone of her remonstrances, had been necessarily moderated ; but even now she could not forgive her sister such a lover as Luke Eowan. She would have been quite willing to see her sister married, but the lover should have been dingy, black-coated, lugubrious, having about him some true essence of the tears of the valley of tribulation. Alas, her sister's taste was quite of another kind ! " I'm afraid you will have been thinking that we were never coming back again," said Mrs. Eay, as she entered the room. " No, mother, I didn't think that. But I thought you were staying late with Mrs. Sturt." " So we were, — and really I didn't think we had been so long. But, Dorothea, there was some one else over there besides Mrs. Sturf, and he kept us." "He! "What he?" said Mrs. Prime. She had not even suspected that the lover had been over there in person. " Mr. Eowan, my dear. He has been at the farm." "What! the young man that was dismissed from Mr. Tappitfs?" It was ill said of her,^very ill said, and so she was herself aware as soon as the words were out of her mouth. But she eould not help it. She had taken a side against Luke Eowan, 334 RACHEL RAV and could not restrain herself from ill-natured ■words. Eacliel was still standing in the middle of the room when she heard her lover thus described ; hut she would not condescend to plead in answer to such a charge. The colour came to her cheeks, and she threw up her head with a gesture of angry pride, hut at the moment she said nothing. Mrs. Eay spoke. " It seems to me Dorothea," she said, that you are mistaken there. I think he has dismissed Mr. Tappitt." "I don't know much about it," said Mrs. Prime; "I only know that they've quarrelled." "But it would he well that you should learn, because I'm sure you will be glad to think as weU of youi brother-in-law as possible." " Do you mean that he is engaged to marry Eachel?" " Tes, Dorothea. I think we may say that it is aU settled now ; — ^mayn't we, Eachel ? And a very excellent young man he is, — and as for being well off, a great deal better than what a child of mine could have expected. And a fine comely fellow he is, as a woman's eye would wish to rest on." " Beauty is but skin deep," said Mrs. Prime, with no little indignation in her tone, that a thing so vile as personal come- Kness should have been mentioned by her mother on such an occasion. "When he came out here and drank tea with us that evening," continued Mrs. Eay, " I took a liking to hiTn most unaccountable, unless it was that I had a foreshadowing that he was going to be so near and dear to me." " Mother, there can have been nothing of the kind. You should not say such things. The Lord in his providence allows us no foreshadowing of that kind." " At any rate I liked him very much ; didn't I, Eachel t — from the first moment I set eyes on him. Only I don't think he'U ever do away with cider in Devonshire, because of the apple trees. But if people are to drink beer it stands to reason that good beer will be better than bad." All this time Eachel had not spoken a word, nor had her sister uttered anything expressive of congratulation or good wishes, ifow, as Mrs. Eay ceased, there came a silence in th« room, and it was incumbent on the elder sister to break it, " If this matter is settled, Eachel " "It is settled,— I think." said EaoheL MES. PRIME EEADS HER RECANTATION. 335 "If it is settled I hope that it may be for your lasting happiness and eternal welfare." " I hope it wiU," said Eaohel. " Marriage is a most important step." " That's quite true, my dear," said Mrs. Eay. " A most important step, and one that requires the most exact circumspection, especially on the part of the young woman. I hope you may have known Mr. Eowan long enough to justify your confidence in him." It was stiU the voice of a raven ! Mrs. Prime as she spoke thus knew that she was croaking, and would have divested herself of her croak and spoken joyously, had such mode of speech been possible to her. But it was not possible. Though she would permit no such foreshadowings as those at which her mother had hinted, she had committed herself to forebodings against this young man, to such an extent that she could not wheel her thoughts round and suddenly think well of him. She could not do so as yet, but she would make the struggle. " God bless you, Eachel !" she said, when they parted for the night. " You have my best wishes for your happiness. I hope you do not doubt my love because I thiiik more of your welfare in another world than in this." Then she kissed her sister and they parted for the night. Eachel now shared her mother's room ; and from her mother, when they were alone together, she received abundance of that sympathy for which her heart was craving. " You mustn't mind Dorothea," the widow said. " No, mamma ; I do not." " I mean that you mustn't mind her seeming to be so hard. She means well through it all, and is as affectionate as any other woman." "Why did she say that he haij been dismissed when she knew that it wasn't true?" " Ah, my dear ! can't you understand ! When she first heard of Mr. Eowan — ■--' " CaU. him Luke, mamma." " When she fijst heard of him she was taught to beKeve that he was giddy, and that he didn't mean anything." "Why should she think evil of people? Who taught her J" " Miss Pucker, and Mx. Piong, and that set." 336 EACHEL SAY. " Yes j an 3 they are the people -who talk most of ChristiaD charity!" " But, my dear, they don't mean to be uncharitahle. They try to do good. If Dorothea reaUy thought that this young man was a dangerous acquaintance what could she do but say so ? And you can't exppct her to turn round all in a minute. Think how she has been troubled herself about this affair of Mr. Prong's." " Eut that's no reason she should say that Luke is dangerous. Dangerous ! What makes me so angry is that she should think everybody is a fool except herself. Why should anybody be more dangerous to me than to anybody else?" "Well, my dear, I think that perhaps she is not so wrong there. Of course everything is aU right with you now, and I'm sure I'm the happiest woman in the world to feel that it is so. I don't know how to be thankful enough when I think how things have turned out; — ^but when I first heard of him I thought he was dangerous too." " But you don't think he is dangerous now, mamma 1" "No, my dear; of course I don't. And I never did after he drank tea here that night ; only Mr. Comfort told me it wouldn't be safe not to see how things went a little before you, — ^you understand, dearest?" "Yes, I understand. I ain't a bit obliged to Mr. Comfort, though I mean to forgive him because of Mrs. Combuiy. She has behaved best through it all, — next to you, mamma." I am afraid it was late before Mrs. Eay went to sleep that night, and I almost doubt whether Eachel slept at aU. It seemed to her that in the present condition of her life sleep could hardly be necessary. During the last month past she had envied those who slept while she was kept awake by her sorrow. She had often struggled to sleep as she sat in her chair, so that she might escape for a few moments from the torture of her waking thoughts. But why need she sleep now that every thought was a new pleasure? There was no moment that she had ever passed with bim that had not to be recalled. There was no word of his that had not to be re-weighed. She remembered, or fancied that she remembered, her idea of the man when her eye first feU upon his outside form. She would have sworn that her first glance of him had conveyed to her far more than had ever come to her from many MRS. PRIME READS HER RECANTATION. 337 ii dajr's casual looking at any other man. Slie could almost belieye tliat he had been specially made and destined for her behoof. She blushed even while lying in bed as she remembered hoTV the gait of the man, and the tone of his voice had taken possession of her eyes and ears from the first day on which she had met him. When she had gone to Mrs. Tappitt's party, so consciously alive to the fact that he was to bo there, she had told herself that she was sure she thought no more of him than of any other man that she might meet; but she now declared to herseK that she had been a weak fool in thus attempting to deceive herself; that she had loved him from the fijst, — or at any rate from that evening when he had told her of the beauty of the clouds; and that from that day to the present hour there had been no other chance of happiness to her but that chance which had now been so wondrously decided in her favour. When she came down to breakfast on the next morning she was very quiet, — so qmet that her sister almost thought she was frightened at her futuse prospects; but I think there was no such fear. She was so happy that she could afford to be tranquil in her happiness. On that day Rowan came out to the cottage in the evening and was formally introduced to Mrs. Prime. Mrs. Eay, I fear, did not find the little tea-party so agreeable on that evening as she had done on the previous occasion. Mrs. Prime did make some effort at conversation; she did endeavour to receive the young man as her future brother-in-law; she was gracious to him with such graciousness as she possessed ; — ^but the duration of their meal was terribly long, and even Mrs. Eay herself felt relieved when the two lovers went forth together for their evening walk. I think there must have been some triumph in Eachel's heart as she tied on her hat before she started. I think she must have remembered the evening on which her sister had been so urgent with her to go to the Dorcas meeting ; — ^when she had so obstinately refused that invitation, and had instead gone out to meet the Tappitt girls, and had met with them the young man of whom her sister had before been speaking with so much horror. Now he was there on purpose to take her with him, and she went forth with him, leaning lovingly on his arm, while yet close under her sister's eyes. I think there must have been a gleam of triumph iu her face as she put her hand with such confidence well round her lover's arm. 338 RACHEL RAY. Girls d« triuiiipli in their lovers, — in theic acknowledged and permitted lovers, as young men triumph, in their loves ■which *re not acknowledged or perhaps permitted. A man's triumph is for the most part over when he is once allowed to take his place at the family tahle, as a right, next to his betrothed. He hegins to feel himself to he a sacrificial victim, — done up very prettily with blue and white ribbons roi^d his horns, but stiU an ox prepared for sacrifice. But the girl feels herself to be exalted for those few weeks as a conqueror, and to be carried along in an ovation of which that bucolic victim, tied round with blue ribbons on to his horns, is the chief grace and ornament. In this mood, no doubt, both Eachel and Luke Rowan went forth, leaving the two widows together in the cottage. "It is pretty to see her so happy, isn't it now?" said Mrs. Eay. The question for the moment made Mrs. Prime uncomfortable and almost wretrhed, but it gave her the opportunity which ia her heart she desired of recanting her error in regard to Luke Rowan's character She wished to give in her adhesion to the marriage, — to be known to have acknowledged its fitness so that she could, with epme true word of sisterly love, wish her sister well. In Eachal's presence she could not have first made this recantation. Though Rachel spoke no triumph, there was a triumph in her eye, which prevented almost the possibility of such yielding on the part of Dorothea. But when the thing should have been once done, when she should once have owned that Rachel was not wrong, then gradually she could bring herseK round to the utterance of some kindly expression. " Pretty," she said ; " yes, it is pretty. I do not know that anybody ever doubted its prettiness." "And isn't it nice too? Dear girl! It does make me so happy to see her light-hearted again. She has had a sad time of it, Dorothea, since we made her write that letter to him ; a very sad time of it." " People here, mother, do mostly have what you caU a sad time of it. Are we not taught that it is better for us that it should be so 1 Have not you and I, mother, had a sad time of it? It would be all sad enough if this were to be the end of it." "Yes, just so; of course we know that. But it can't be wrong that she should be happy now, when things are so bright AIRS. PRIME READS HER RECAKTATION. 339 all around her. Tou •wouldn't have thought it better for her, or for him either, that they should he kept apart, seeing that they really love each other 1" "No; I don't say that. If they love one another ot course it is right that they should marry. I only ■wish we had known him longer." " I am not sure that these things always go much better he- cause young people have known each other all their lives. It seems to he certain that he is an industrious, steady young man. Everybody seems to speak weU of him now." " WeU, mother, I have nothing to say against him, — not a word. And if it will give Eachel any pleasure, — though I don't suppose it wUl, the least in the world ; but if it would, she may know that I think she has done wisely to accept him." " Indeed it wiU ; the greatest pleasure." " And I hope they will be happy together for very many years. I love Eachel dearly, though I fear she does not think so, and anything I have said, I have said in love, not in anger." "I'm sure of that, Dorothea." " Now that she is to be settled in life as a married woman, of course she must not look for counsel either to you or to me. She must obey him, and I hope that God may give him grace to direct her steps aright." "Amen!" said Mrs. Eay, solemnly. It was thus that Mrs. Prime read her recantation, which was repeated on that evening to Eachel with some Uttle softening touches. " You won't be living together in the same house after a bit," said Mrs. Eay, thinMng, with some sadness, that those little evening festivities of buttered toast and thick cream were over for her now, — " but I do hope you will be friends." " Of course we will, mamma. She has only to put out her hand the least little bit in the world, and I wUl go the rest of the way. As for her living, I don't know what will be best about that, because Luke says that of course you'll come and hve with us." It was two or three days after this that Eachel saw the Tap- pitt girls for the first time since the fact of her engagement had become known. It was in the evening, and she had been again walking with Luke, when she met them ; but at that moment she was alone. Augusta would have turned boldly away, though they had all come closelv together before either had been aware 340 EACHEL RAT. of the presence of the other. But to this both Martha and Cherry objected. " "We have heard of your engagement," said Martha, " and we congratulate you. You have heard, of course, that we are going to move to Torquay, and we hope that you mil be com- fortable at the brewery." " Yes," said Augusta, " the place isn't what it used to be, and so we think it best to go. Mamma has already looked at a villa near Torquay, which wiU suit us delightfully." Then they passed on, but Cherry remained behind to say another word. " I am so happy," said Cherry, " that you and he have hit it off. He's a charming fellow, and I always said he was to fall in love with you. After the ball of course there wasn't a doubt about it. Mind you send us cake, dear ; and by-and-by we'll come and see you at the old place, and be better friends than ever we were." CHAPTEE XXX, CONCLUSION. Eaely in November Mr. Tappitt officially annoimced hia in- tention of abdicating, and the necessary forms and deeds and parchment obhgations were drawn out, signed and sealed, for the giving up of the brewery to Luke Rowan. Mr. Honyman's clerk revelled in thinly-covered foHo sheets to the great comfort and profit of his master ; while Mr. Sharpit went about Basle- hurst declaring that Tappitt was an egregious ass, and hinting that Eowan was little better than a clever swindler. What he said, however, had but Httle effect on Baslehurst. It had be- come generally understood that Eowan would spend money in the town, employing labour and struggHng to go ahead, and Baslehurst knew that such a man was desirable as a citizen. The parchments were prepared, and the signatures were written with the necessary amount of witnessing, and Tappitt and Eowan once more met each other on friendly terms. CONCLUSION. 341 Tappitt had endeaTOured to avoid this, pleading, both to Honyman and to his ■wife, that his personal dislike to the young man was as great as ever ; hut they had not permitted him thus to indulge his wrath. Mr. Honyman pointed out to Mrs. Tappitt that such ill-humour might be very detrimental to their future interests, and Tappitt had been made to give way. "We may as well declare at once that the days of Tappitt's domestic dominion were over, as is generally the case with a man who retires from work and allows himself to be placed, as a piece of venerable furniture, in the chimney corner. Hitherto he, and he only, had known what funds could be made available out of the brewery for household purposes ; and Mrs. Tappitt had been subject, at every turn of her hfe, to provoking intimations of reduced profits : but now there was the clear thousand a year, and she coiild demand her rights in accordance with that sum. Tappitt, too, could never again stray away from home with mysterious hints that matters connected with malt and hops must be discussed at places in which beer was consumed. He had no longer left to him any excuse for deviating from the regular course of his hfe even by a hair's breadth ; and before two years were over he had learned to regard it almost as a favour to be allowed to take a walk with one of his own girls. Ko man should abdicate, — ^unless, indeed, he does so for his soul's advantage. As to happiness ia this life it is hardly compatible with that diminished respect which ever attends the relinquishing of labour. " Otium cum dignitate " is a dream. There is no such position at any rate for the man who has once worked. He may have the ease or he may have the dignity ; but he can hardly combine the two. This truth the unfortunate Tappitt learned before he had been three months settled in the Torquay villa. He was called upon to meet Eowan on friendly terms, and he obeyed. The friendship was not very cordial, but such as it was it served its purpose. The meeting took place in the dining-room of the brewery, and Mrs. Tappitt was present on the occasion. The lady received her visitor with som6 little affectation of grandeur, ' whUe T, standing with his hands in his pockets on his own rug, looked liked a whipped hound. The right hand he was soon forced to bring forth, as Eowan demanded it that he might shake it. " I am very glad that this affair has been settled between ug 342 BACHEL EAT. amicaWy," said Liike, while lie still held the hand of the abdt catiag brewer. " Yes ; well, I suppose it's for the best," said Tappitt, bring- ing out his words uncomfortably and with hesitation. " Take care and mind what you're about, or I suppose I shall have to come back again." " There'll be no fear of that, I think," said Eowan. "I hope not," said Mrs. Tappitt with a tone that showed that she was much better able to master the occasion than her husband, " I hope not ; but this is a great undertaking for so young a man, and I trust you feel your responsibility. It would be disagreeable to us, of course, to have to return to the brewery after having settled ourselves pleasantly at Torquay j but we shall have to do so if things go wrong with you." " Don't be frightened, Mrs. Tappitt ; you shall never have to come back here." " I hope not ; but it is always well to be on one's guard. I am sure you must be aware that Mr. Tappitt has behaved to you very generously ; and if you have the high principle for which we are willing to give you credit, and which you ought to possess for the management of such an undertaking as the brewery, you will be careful that me and my daughtoo shan't be put to inconvenience by any delay in paying up the kicome regularly." " Don't be afraid about that, Mrs. Tappitt." " Into the bank on quarter day, if you please, Mr. Eowan. Short accounts make long friends. And as Mr. T. won't want to be troubled with letters and such-Hke, you can send me a Une to MontpeUier Villa, Torquay, just to say that it's done." " Oh, I'll see to that," said Tappitt. " My dear, as Mr. Eowan is so young for the business thereTL be nothing like getting him to write a letter himself, saying that the money is paid. It'll keep bim up to the mark hike, and I'm sure I shan't mind the trouble." " Don't you be alarmed about the money, Mrs. Tappitt," said Eowan, laughing ; and in order that you may know how the old shop is going on, I'U always send you at Christmas sixteen gallons of the best stuff we're brewing." " That wUl be a very proper little attention, Mr. Eowan, and V'o shall be happy to drink success to the establishment. Here's some cake and wine on the table, and perhaps you'll do us the OONCLUSION. 343 fevotii to take a glass, — so aa to bury any past unkindiiess. T,. my love, mil you poui out the mno 1" It was twelve o'clock iu tlio day, and the port wine, which had been standing for the last week in its decanter, was sipped by Luke Eowan without any great relish. But it also served its purpose, — and the burial service over past unkindness was performed with as much heartiness as the nature of the enter- tainment admitted. It was not as yet full four months since Eowan had filled Rachel's glass with champagne in that same room. Then he had made himself quite at home in the house as a member of Mr. Tappitt's family ; but now he was going to be at home there as master of the establishment. As he put down the glass he coidd not help looking round the room, and suggesting to himself the changes he would make. As seen at present, the parlour of the brewery was certainly a dull room. It was very long since the wainscoting had been painted, longer since the curtains or carpets had been renewed. It was dark and dingy. But then so were the Tappitts themselves. Before Rachel should be brought there he would make the place as bright as herself. They said to him no word about his marriage. As for Tappitt he said few words about anything ; and Mrs. Tappitt, with all her wish to be gracious, could not bring herseK to mention Eachel Eay. Even between her and her daughters there was no longer any utterance of Rachel's name. She had once declared to Augusta, with irrepressible energy, that the man was a greater fool than she had ever believed possible, but after that it had been felt that the calamity would be best endured in BUence. When that interview in the dining-room was over, Rowaii saw no more of Mrs. Tappitt. Business made it needful that he should be daily about the brewery, and there occasionally he met the poor departing man wandering among the vats and empty casks like a brewer's ghost. There was no word spoken between them as to business. The accounts, the keys, and implements were all handed over through Worts; and Rowan found himself in possession of the whole establishment with no more trouble than would have been necessary in settling himself in a new lodging. That promise which he had half made of sending bridecake to Mrs. Stmt before Christmas was not kept, but it was broken 344 EACHEI, RAr. inly by a little. They were married early in Jamiaiy. In December Mrs. Eowan came back to Baslehurst, and became the guest of her son, who was then keeping a bachelor's house at the brewery. This lady's first visit to the cottage after her return was an affair of great moment to Eachel. Everything now had gone well with her except that question of her mother- in-law. Her lover had come back to her a better lover than ever ; her mother petted her to her heart's content, speaking of Luke as though she had never suspected him of lupine pro- pensities; Mr. Comfort talked to her of her coming marriage as though she had acted with great sagacity through the whole affair, addressing her in a tone indicating much respect, and differing greatly from -that in which he had been wont to catechise her when she was nothing more than Mrs. Eay's girl , at Bragg's End ; and even DoUy had sent in her adhesion, with more or less cordiality. But still she had feared Mrs. Eowan's enmity, and when Luke told her that his mother was coming to Baslehurst for the Christmas, — so that she might also be present at the marriage, — Eachel felt that there was still a cloud in her heavens. "I know your mother won't Eke me," she said to Liilce. " She made up her mind not to like me when she was here before." Luke assured her that she did not understand his mother's character, — asserting that his mother would certainly like any woman that he might choose for his wife as soon as she should have been made to understand that his choice was irrevocable. But Eachel remembered too well the report as to that former visit to the cottage which Mrs. Eowan had made together with Mrs. Tappitt; and when she heard that Luke's mother was again in the parlour she went down from her bed- room with hesitating step and an uneasy heart. Mrs. Eowan was seated in the room with her mother and sister when she entered it, and therefore the first words of the interview had been already spoken. To Mrs. Eay the prospect of the visit had not been pleasant, for she also remembered how grand and distant the lady had been when she came to the cottage on that former occasion ; but Eachel observed, as she entered the room, that her mother's face did not wear that look of dismay which was usual to her when she was in any presence that was disagreeable to her. " My dear child !" said Mrs. Eowan, rising from her seat, taid CONCLUSION. 840 opening her arms for an embrace. Eachel miderwent the embrace, and kissed the lady by whom she found herself to be thus enveloped. She kissed Mrs. Eowan, but she could not, for the life of her, think of any word to speak which would be fitting for the occasion. "My own dear child!" said Mrs. Eowan agaiaj "for you know that you are to be my child now as weU as youi own manuna'iS." " It is very kiad of you to say so," said Mrs. Eay. " Very kiad, iadeed," said Mrs. Prime ; " and I'm sure that you will find Rachel dutiful as a daughter." Eachel herself did not feel disposed to give any positive assurance on that point. She intended to be dutiful to her husband, and was iucliaed to think that obadience in. that direction was quite enough for a married woman. " lyfow that Luke is going to settle himself for Ufe," continued Mrs. Eowan, " it is so very desirable that he should be married at once. Don't you think so Mrs. Eay?" " Indeed, yes, Mrs. Eowan. I always like to hear of young men getting married ; that is when they've got anything to Hve upon. It makes them less harum-scarum like." " I don't think Luke was ever what you call harum-scarum," gaid Mi's. Eowan. " Mother didn't mean to say he was," said Mrs. Prime ; " but marriage certaiuly does steady a yotmg man, and generally makes him much more constant at Divine service." * " My Luke always did go to church very regularly," said Mrs. Eowan. " I like to see young men in church," said Mrs. Eay. " As for the girls they go as a matter of course ; but young men are allowed so much of their own way. "Wlien a man is a father of a family it becomes very different." Hereupon Eachel blushed, and then was kissed agaia by Luke's mother ; and was made the subject of certain, very interesting prophecies, which em- barrassed her considerably and which need not be repeated here. After that interview she was never again afraid of her mother- in-law. " Tou'U love mamma, when you know her," said Mary Eowan to Eachel a day oi two afterwards. " Strangers and acquaintances generally think that she is a very tremendous personage, but she always does what she ia asked by those who belong to her ; 3^6 KACHEL RAT. — and as for Luke, she's almost a slave to him." I won't saj that Kachel resolved that Mrs. Eowan should be a slave to hei also, but she did resolve that she would not be a slave to Mrs. Eowan. She intended henceforward to serve one person and one person only. Mrs. Butler Combuiy also called at the cottage; and her visit was very delightful to Eachel, — ^not the less so perhaps because Mrs. Prime was away at a Dorcas meeting. Had she been at the cottage all those pleasant allusions to the transactions at the baU would hardly have been made. "Don't tell me," said Mrs. Cornbury. " Do you think I couldn't see how it was going to be with half an eye ? I told Walter ±hat very night that he was a goose to suppose that you would go down to supper with him." "But, Mrs. Cornbury, I reaUy intended it; only they had another dance, and I was obUged to stand up with Mr. Bowan because I was engaged to him." " I don't doubt you were engaged to him, my dear." " Only for that dance, I mean." " Only for that dance, of course. But now you are engaged to him for something else, and I tell you that I knew it was going to be so." All this was very pretty and very pleasant ; and when Mrs. Cornbury, as she went away, made a special request that she might be invited to the wedding, Eachel was supremely happy, * " Mamma," she said, " I do love that woman. I hardly know why, but I do love her so mucL" "It was always the same with Patty Comfort," said Mrs. Ray. "She had a way of making people fond of her. They say that she can do just what she hkes with the old gentleman at the Grange." It may be weU that I should declare here that there was no scrutiny as to the return of Butler Cornbury to Parliament, — ^to the great satisfaction both of old Mr. Cornbury and of old Mi-. Comfort. They had been brought to promise that the needful, funds for supporting the scrutiny should be forthcoming ; but the promise had been made with heavy hearts, and the tidings of Mr. Hart's quiescence had been received very gratefully both at Cornbury and at Cawston. Luke and Eachel were married on New Year's Day at Cawston church, and afterwards made a short marriage trip to Fenzanca CONCLUSION. c47 and tlie Land's End. It was cold weather for pleasure-travelling > but snow and winds and rain affect young married people less, I think, than they do other folk. Eachel when she returned could not bear to be told that it had been cold. There was no winter, she said, at Penzance, — and ao she continued to say ever afterwards. Mrs. Eay would not consent to abandon the cottage at Bragg's End. She still remained its occupier in conjunction with Mrs. Prime, but she passed more than half her time at the brewery. Mrs. Prime is still Mrs Prime; and will, I think, remain so, although Mr. Prong is occasionally seen to call at the cottage. It is, I think, now uniTersaUy admitted by all Devonshire and Cornwall that Lulce Eowan has succeeded in brewing good beer; with what results to himself I am not prepared to say. I do not, however, thiak it probable that he wUl succeed ia his professed object of shutting up the apple orchiids of tb.e ooiaity. 5. Cowan &" Co. , Straihmore Printing Worls, Perth. 11-12-73 Q.-3-83-V. 14. z