Rachel Ray

  CHAPTER XIV.

  LUKE ROWAN PAYS A SECOND VISIT TO BRAGG'S END.

  Early after breakfast on that morning,--that morning on which Tappitthad for a moment thought of braining Luke Rowan with the poker,--Mrs.Ray started from the cottage on her mission into Baslehurst. She wasgoing to see her daughter, Mrs. Prime, at Miss Pucker's lodgings, andfelt sure that the object of her visit was to be a further discourseon the danger of admitting that wolf Rowan into the sheepfold atBragg's End. She would willingly have avoided the conference had shebeen able to do so, knowing well that Mrs. Prime would get the betterof her in words when called upon to talk without having Rachel at herback. And indeed she was not happy in her mind. It had been concededat the cottage as an understood thing that Rachel was to have thisman as her lover; but what, if after all, the man didn't mean to be alover in the proper sense; and what, if so meaning, he should stillturn out to be a lover of a bad sort,--a worldly, good-for-nothing,rakish lover? "I wonder," says the wicked man in the play, "I wonderany man alive would ever rear a daughter!" Mrs. Ray knew nothing ofthe play, and had she done so, she would not have repeated such aline. But the hardness of the task which Providence had allottedto her struck her very forcibly on this morning. Rachel was dearerto her than aught else in the world. For Rachel's happiness shewould have made any sacrifice. In Rachel's presence, and sweetsmile, and winning caresses was the chief delight of her existence.Nevertheless, in these days the possession of Rachel was hardly ablessing to her. The responsibility was so great; and, worse thanthat as regarded her own comfort, the doubts were so numerous; andthen, they recurred over and over again, as often as they weresettled!

  "I'm sure I don't know what she can have to say to me." Mrs. Ray, asshe spoke, was tying on her bonnet, and Rachel was standing close toher with her light summer shawl.

  "It will be the old story, mamma, I'm afraid; my terrible iniquityand backslidings, because I went to the ball, and because I won't goto Miss Pucker's. She'll want you to say that I shall go, or else besent to bed without my supper."

  "That's nonsense, Rachel. Dorothea knows very well that I can't makeyou go." Mrs. Ray was wont to become mildly petulant when things wentagainst her.

  "But, mamma, you don't want me to go?"

  "I don't suppose it's about Miss Pucker at all. It's about that otherthing."

  "You mean Mr. Rowan."

  "Yes, my dear. I'm sure I don't know what's for the best. When shegets me to herself she does say such terrible things to me that itquite puts me in a heat to have to go to her. I don't think anybodyought to say those sort of things to me except a clergyman, or aperson's parents, or a schoolmaster, or masters and mistresses,or such like." Rachel thought so too,--thought that at any rate adaughter should not so speak to such a mother as was her mother; buton that subject she said nothing.

  "And I don't like going to that Miss Pucker's house," continued Mrs.Ray. "I'm sure I don't want her to come here. I wouldn't go, only Isaid that I would."

  "I would go now, if I were you, mamma."

  "Of course I shall go; haven't I got myself ready?"

  "But I would not let her go on in that way."

  "That's very easy said, Rachel; but how am I to help it? I can't tellher to hold her tongue; and if I did, she wouldn't. If I am to go Imight as well 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 mybasket, can't I?" And so saying, with her mind full of various cares,Mrs. Ray walked off to Baslehurst.

  "I wonder when he'll come." Rachel, as she said or thought thesewords, stood at the open door of the cottage looking after her motheras she made her way across the green. It was a delicious midsummerday, warm with the heat of the morning sun, but not yet oppressedwith the full blaze of its noonday rays. The air was alive withthe notes of birds, and the flowers were in their brightest beauty."I wonder when he'll come." None of those doubts which so harassedher mother troubled her mind. Other doubts there were. Could it bepossible that he would like her well enough to wish to make her hisown? Could it be that any one so bright, so prosperous in the world,so clever, so much above herself in all worldly advantages, shouldcome and seek her as his wife,--take her from their little cottageand lowly ways of life? When he had first said that he would cometo Bragg's End, she declared to herself that it would be well thathe should see in how humble a way they lived. He would not call herRachel after that, she said to herself; or, if he did, he shouldlearn from her that she knew how to rebuke a man who dared to takeadvantage of the humility of her position. He had come, and he hadnot called her Rachel. He had come, and taking advantage of hermomentary absence, had spoken of her behind her back as a loverspeaks, and had told his love honestly to her mother. In Rachel'sview of the matter no lover could have carried himself with betterdecorum or with a sweeter grace; but because he had so done, shewould not hold him to be bound to her. He had been carried away byhis feelings too rapidly, and had not as yet known how poor and lowlythey were. He should still 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 Rachel ever declared to herself in plain termswhat in such case would happen; but she stood at the door as thoughshe was minded to stand there till he should appear upon the green.

  "I wonder when he'll come." She had watched her mother's figuredisappear along the lane, and had plucked a flower or two to piecesbefore she returned within the house. He will not come till theevening, she determined,--till the evening, when his day's work inthe brewery would be over. Then she thought of the quarrel betweenhim and Tappitt, and wondered what it might be. She was quite surethat Tappitt was wrong, and thought of him at once as an obstinate,foolish, pigheaded old man. Yes; he would come to her, and she wouldtake care to be provided in that article of cream which he pretendedto love so well. She would not have to run away again. But how luckyon that previous evening had been that necessity, seeing that it hadgiven opportunity for that great display of a lover's excellence onRowan's part. Having settled all this in her mind, she went into thehouse, and was beginning to think of her household work, when sheheard a man's steps in the passage. She went at once out from thesitting-room, and encountered Luke Rowan at the door.

  "How d'ye do?" said he. "Is Mrs. Ray at home?"

  "Mamma?--no. You must have met her on the road if you've come fromBaslehurst."

  "But I could not meet her on the road, because I've come across thefields."

  "Oh!--that accounts for it."

  "And she's away in Baslehurst, is she?"

  "She's gone in to see my sister, Mrs. Prime." Rachel, still standingat the door of the sitting-room, made no attempt of asking Rowan intothe parlour.

  "And mayn't I come in?" he said. Rachel was absolutely ignorantwhether, under such circumstances, she ought to allow him to enter.But there he was, in the house, and at any rate she could not turnhim out.

  "I'm afraid you'll have to wait a long time if you wait for mamma,"she said, slightly making way, so that he obtained admittance. Wasshe not a hypocrite? Did she not know that Mrs. Ray's absence wouldbe esteemed by him as a great gain, and not a loss? Why did shethus falsely talk of his waiting a long time? Dogs fight with theirteeth, and horses with their heels; swans with their wings, and catswith their claws;--so also do women use such weapons as nature hasprovided for them.

  "I came specially to see you," said he; "not but what I should bevery glad to see your mother, too, if she comes back before I amgone. But I don't suppose she will, for you won't let me stay so longas that."

  "Well, now you mention it, I don't think I shall, for I have got everso many things to do;--the dinner to get ready, and the house to lookafter." This she did by way of making him acquainted with her modeof life,--according to the plan which she had arranged for her ownguidance.

  He had come into the room, had put down his hat, and had got himselfup to the window, so that his back was turned to her. "Rachel,
" hesaid, turning round quickly, and speaking almost suddenly. Now he hadcalled her Rachel again, but she could find at the moment no betterway of answering him than by the same plaintive objection which shehad made before. "You shouldn't call me by my name in that way, Mr.Rowan; you know you shouldn't."

  "Did your mother tell you what I said to her yesterday?" he asked.

  "What you said yesterday?"

  "Yes, when you were away across the green."

  "What you said to mamma?"

  "Yes; I know she told you. I see it in your face. And I am glad shedid so. May I not call you Rachel now?"

  As they were placed the table was still between them, so that he wasdebarred 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 answerto his question. "May I not call you Rachel now?" he said, repeatingthe question.

  I hope it will be understood that Rachel was quite a novice at thispiece of work which she now had in hand. It must be the case thatvery many girls are not novices. A young lady who has rejected thefirst half-dozen suitors who have asked for her love, must probablyfeel herself mistress of the occasion when she rejects the seventh,and will not be quite astray when she accepts the eighth. Thereare, moreover, young ladies who, though they may have rejected andaccepted none, have had so wide an advantage in society as to beable, when the moment comes, to have their wits about them. ButRachel had known nothing of what is called society, and had neverbefore known either the trouble or the joy of being loved. So whenthe question was pressed upon her, she trembled, and felt that herbreath was failing her. She had filled herself full of resolutionsas to what she would do when this moment came,--as to how she wouldbehave and what words she would utter. But all that was gone from hernow. She could only stand still and tremble. Of course he might callher Rachel;--might call her what he pleased. To him, with his widerexperience, that now became manifest enough.

  "You must give me leave for more than that, Rachel, if you wouldnot send me away wretched. You must let me call you my own." Thenhe moved round the table towards her; and as he moved, though sheretreated from him, she did not retreat with a step as rapid as hisown. "Rachel,"--and he put out his hand to her--"I want you to be mywife." She allowed the tips of her fingers to turn themselves towardhim, as though unable altogether to refuse the greeting which heoffered her, but as she did so she turned away from him, and bentdown her head. She had heard all she wanted to hear. Why did he notgo away, and leave her to think of it? He had named to her the wordso sacred between man and woman. He had said that he sought her forhis wife. What need was there that he should stay longer?

  He got her hand in his, and then passed his arm round her waist."Say, love; say, Rachel;--shall it be so? Nay, but I will have ananswer from you. You shall look it to me, if you will not speak it;"and he got his head round over her shoulder, as though to look intoher eyes.

  "Oh, Mr. Rowan; pray don't;--pray don't pull me."

  "But, dearest, say a word to me. You must say some word. Can youlearn to love me, Rachel?"

  Learn to love him! The lesson had come to her very easily. How was itpossible, she had once thought, not to love him.

  "Say a word to me," said Rowan, still struggling to look into herface; "one word, and then I will let you go."

  "What word?"

  "Say to me, 'Dear Luke, I will be your wife.'"

  She remained for a moment quite passive in his hands, trying to sayit, but the words would not come. Of course she would be his wife.Why need he trouble her further?

  "Nay, but, Rachel, you shall speak, or I will stay with you here tillyour mother comes, and she shall answer for you. If you had dislikedme 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 will bemy wife?" Again she went through the same little piece of acting."And I may call you Rachel now?" In answer to this question she shookherself free from his slackened grasp, and escaped away across theroom.

  "You cannot forbid me now. Come and sit down by me, for of course Ihave got much to say to you. Come and sit down, and indeed I will nottrouble you again."

  Then she went to him very slowly, and sat with him, leaving her handin his, listening to his words, and feeling in her heart the fulldelight of having such a lover. Of the words that were then spoken,but very few came from her lips; he told her all his story of thebrewery quarrel, and was very eloquent and droll in describingTappitt as he brandished the poker.

  "And was he going to hit you with it?" said Rachel, with all her eyesopen.

  "Well, he didn't hit me," said Luke; "but to look at him he seemedmad enough to do anything." Then he told her how at the presentmoment he was living at the inn, and how it became necessary, fromthis unfortunate quarrel, that he should go at once to London. "Butunder no circumstances would I have gone," said he, pressing her handvery closely, "without an answer from you."

  "But you ought not to think of anything like that when you are insuch trouble."

  "Ought I not? Well, but I do, you see." Then he explained to her thatpart of his project consisted in his marrying her out of hand,--atonce. He would go up to London for a week or two, and then, comingback, be married in the course of the next month.

  "Oh, Mr. Rowan, that would be impossible."

  "You must not call me Mr. Rowan, or I shall call you Miss Ray."

  "But indeed it would be impossible."

  "Why impossible?"

  "Indeed it would. You can ask mamma;--or rather, you had better giveover thinking of it. I haven't had time yet even to make up my mindwhat 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't know whatyou are like yet. It seems to me that you're very fond of havingyour own way, sir;--and so you ought," she added; "but really youcan't have your own way in that. Nobody ever heard of such a thing.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, telling her of all things appertaining tohimself. He explained to her that, irrespective of the brewery, hehad an income sufficient to support a wife,--"though not enough tomake her a fine lady like Mrs. Cornbury," he said.

  "If you can give me bread and cheese, it's as much as I have a rightto expect," said Rachel.

  "I have over four hundred a year," said he: and Rachel, hearing it,thought that he could indeed support a wife. Why should a man withfour hundred a year want to brew beer?

  "But I have got nothing," said Rachel; "not a farthing."

  "Of course not," said Rowan; "it is my theory that unmarried girlsnever ought to have anything. If they have, they ought to beconsidered as provided for, and then they shouldn't have husbands.And I rather think it would be better if men didn't have anythingeither, so that they might be forced to earn their bread. Only theywould want capital."

  Rachel listened to it all with the greatest content, and mostunalloyed happiness. She did not quite understand him, but shegathered from his words that her own poverty was not a reproach inhis eyes, and that he under no circumstances would have looked fora wife with a fortune. Her happiness was unalloyed at all she heardfrom him, till at last he spoke of his mother.

  "And does she dislike me?" asked Rachel, with dismay.

  "It isn't that she dislikes you, but she's staying with that Mrs.Tappitt, who is furious against me because,--I suppose it's becauseof this brewery row. But indeed I can't understand it. A week ago Iwas at home there; now I daren't show my nose in the house, and havebeen turned out of the brewery this morning with a poker."

  "I hope it's nothing about me," said Rachel.

  "How can it be about you?"

  "Because I thought Mrs. Tappitt looked at the ball as though--. But Isuppose it didn't mean anything."

  "It ought to be a mat
ter of perfect indifference whether it meantanything or not."

  "But how can it be so about your mother? If this is ever to lead toanything--"

  "Lead to anything! What it will lead to is quite settled."

  "You know what I mean. But how could I become your wife if yourmother did not wish it?"

  "Look here, Rachel; that's all very proper for a girl, I dare say.If your mother thought I was not fit to be your husband, I won't saybut what you ought to take her word in such a matter. But it isn'tso with a man. It will make me very unhappy if my mother cannot befriends with my wife; but no threats of hers to that effect wouldprevent 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 formyself."

  This was all very grand and masterful on Rowan's part, and might intheory be true; but there was that in it which made Rachel uneasy,and gave to her love its first shade of trouble. She could not bequite happy as Luke's promised bride, if she knew that she would notbe welcomed to that place by Luke's mother. And then what right hadshe to think it probable that Luke's mother would give her such awelcome? At that first meeting, however, she said but little herselfon the subject. She had pledged to him her troth, and she would notattempt to go back from her pledge at the first appearance of adifficulty. She would talk to her own mother, and perhaps his mothermight relent. But throughout it all there ran a feeling of dismay atthe idea of marrying a man whose mother would not willingly receiveher as a daughter!

  "But you must go," said she at last. "Indeed you must. I have thingsto do, if you have nothing."

  "I'm the idlest man in the world at the present moment. If you turnme out I can only go and sit at the inn."

  "Then you must go and sit at the inn. If you stay any longer mammawon't have any dinner."

  "If that's so, of course I'll go. But I shall come back to tea."

  As Rachel gave no positive refusal to this proposition, Rowan tookhis departure on the understanding that he might return.

  "Good-bye," said he. "When I come this evening I shall expect you towalk with me."

  "Oh, I don't know," said she.

  "Yes, you will; and we will see the sun set again, and you will notrun from me this evening as though I were an ogre." As he spoke hetook her in his arms and held her, and kissed her before she hadtime to escape from him. "You're mine altogether now," said he, "andnothing can sever us. God bless you, Rachel!"

  "Good-bye, Luke," and then they parted.

  She had told him to go, alleging her household duties as her groundfor dismissing him; but when he was gone she did not at once betakeherself to her work. She sat on the seat which he had shared withher, thinking of the thing which she had done. She was now betrothedto this man as his wife, the only man towards whom her fancy had everturned with the slightest preference. So far love for her had runvery smoothly. From her first meetings with him, on those eveningsin 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 himbefore she understood what her heart was doing for her. Gradually,but very quickly, all her vacant thoughts had been given to him, andhe had become the hero of her life. Now, almost before she had hadtime to question herself on the matter, he was her affianced husband.It had all been so quick and so very gracious that she seemed totremble at her own good fortune. There was that one little cloud inthe sky,--that frown on his mother's brow; but now, in the firstglow of her happiness, she could not bring herself to believe thatthis cloud would bring a storm. So she sat there dreaming of herhappiness, and longing for her mother's return that she might tellit all;--that it might be talked of hour after hour, and that Luke'smerits might receive their fitting mention. Her mother was not awoman who on such an occasion would stint the measure of her praise,or refuse her child the happiness of her sympathy.

  But Rachel knew that she must not let the whole morning pass by inidle dreams, happy as those dreams were, and closely as they wereallied to her waking life. After a while she jumped up with a start."I declare there will be nothing done. Mamma will want her dinnerthough I'm ever so much going to be married."

  But she had not been long on foot, or done much in preparation of thecold lamb which it was intended they should eat that day, before sheheard her mother's footsteps on the gravel path. She ran out to thefront door full of her own news, though hardly knowing as yet in whatwords she would tell it; but of her mother's news, of any tidingswhich there might be to tell as to that interview which had justtaken place in Baslehurst, Rachel did not think much. Nothing thatDorothea could say would now be of moment. So at least Rachelflattered herself. And as for Dorothea and all her growlings, hadthey not chiefly ended in this;--that the young man did not intendto present himself as a husband? But he had now done so in a mannerwhich Rachel felt to be so satisfactory that even Dorothea'scriticism must be disarmed. So Rachel, as she met her mother, thoughtonly of the tale which she had to tell, and nothing of that which shewas to hear.

  But Mrs. Ray was so full of her tale, was so conscious of the factthat her tidings were entitled to the immediate and undividedattention of her daughter, and from their first greeting on thegravel path was so ready with her words, that Rachel, with all thestory of her happiness, was for a while obliterated.

  "Oh, my dear," said Mrs. Ray, "I have such news for you!"

  "So have I, mamma, news for you," said Rachel, putting out her handto her mother.

  "I never was so warm in my life. Do let me get in; oh dear, ohdear! It's no good looking in the basket, for when I came away fromDorothea I was too full of what I had just heard to think of buyinganything."

  "What have you heard, mamma?"

  "I'm sure I hope she'll be happy; I'm sure I do. But it's a greatventure, a terribly great venture."

  "What is it, mamma?" And Rachel, though she could not yet think thather mother's budget could be equal in importance to her own, feltthat there was that which it was necessary that she should hear.

  "Your sister is going to be married to Mr. Prong."

  "Dolly?"

  "Yes, my dear. It's a great venture; but if any woman can livehappy with such a man, she can do so. She's troubled about hermoney;--that's all."

  "Marry Mr. Prong! I suppose she may if she likes. Oh dear! I can'tthink I shall ever like him."

  "I never spoke to him yet, so perhaps I oughtn't to say; but hedoesn't look a nice man to my eyes. But what are looks, my dear?They're only skin deep; we ought all of us to remember that always,Rachel; they're only skin deep; and if, as she says, she only wantsto work in the vineyard, she won't mind his being so short. I daresay he's honest;--at least I'm sure I hope he is."

  "I should think he's honest, at any rate, or he wouldn't be what heis."

  "There's some of them are so very fond of money;--that is, if allthat we hear is true. Perhaps he mayn't care about it; let us hopethat he doesn't; but if so he's a great exception. However, she meansto have it tied up as close as possible, and I think she's right.Where would she be if he was to go away some fine morning and leaveher? You see, he's got nobody belonging to him. I own I do likepeople who have got people belonging to them; you feel sure, in asort of way, that they'll go on living in their own houses."

  Rachel immediately reflected that Luke Rowan had people belonging tohim,--very nice people,--and that everybody knew who he was and fromwhence he came.

  "But she has quite made up her mind about it," continued Mrs. Ray;"and when I saw that I didn't say very much against it. What wasthe use? It isn't as though he wasn't quite respectable. He is aclergyman, you know, my dear, though he never was at any of theregular colleges; and he might be a bishop, just as much as if he hadbeen; so they tell me. And I really don't think that she would everhave come back to the cottage,--not unless you had promised to havebeen ruled by her in everything."

  "I certainly shouldn't have done that;" and Rachel, as she made thisassurance with some little obstinacy in her voice, told herself thatfor the future she meant
to be ruled by a very different personindeed.

  "No, I suppose not; and I'm sure I shouldn't have asked you, becauseI think it isn't the thing, dragging people away out of their ownparishes, here and there, to anybody's church. And I told her thatthough I would of course go and hear Mr. Prong now and then if shemarried him, I wouldn't leave Mr. Comfort, not as a regular thing.But she didn't seem to mind that now, much as she used always to besaying 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 takehim,--or he's to come to her at Miss Pucker's lodgings. It's not tobe wondered at when one sees Miss Pucker, really; and I'm not sureI'd not have done the same if I'd been living with her too; only Idon't think I ever should have begun. I think it's living with MissPucker has made her do it; I do indeed, my dear. Well, now that Ihave 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 Kittycan put the things on the table. Mamma"--and now they were on thestairs,--"I've got something to tell also."

  We'll leave Mrs. Ray to eat her dinner, and Rachel to tell her story,merely adding a word to say that the mother did not stint the measureof her praise, or refuse her child the happiness of her sympathy.That evening was probably the happiest of Rachel's existence,although its full proportions of joy were marred by an unforeseenoccurrence. At four o'clock a note came from Rowan to his "DearestRachel," saying that he had been called away by telegraph to Londonabout that "horrid brewery business." He would write from there. ButRachel was almost as happy without him, talking about him, as shewould have been in his presence, listening to him.