CHAPTER V.
SHOWING WHAT RACHEL RAY THOUGHT WHEN SHE SAT ON THE STILE,AND HOW SHE WROTE HER LETTER AFTERWARDS.
Rachel, as soon as she had made her mother the promise that she wouldwrite the letter, left the parlour and went up to her own room. Shehad many thoughts to adjust in her mind which could not be adjustedsatisfactorily otherwise than in solitude, and it was clearlynecessary that they should be adjusted before she could write herletter. It must be remembered, not only that she had never beforewritten a letter to a lover, but that she had never before writtena letter of importance to any one. She had threatened at one momentthat she would leave the writing of it to her mother; but there cameupon her a feeling, of which she was hardly conscious, that sheherself might probably compose the letter in a strain of higherdignity than her mother would be likely to adopt. That her loverwould be gone from her for ever she felt almost assured; but still itwould be much to her that, on going, he should so leave her that hisrespect 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 whomeven 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 fortuneintended him to be her husband. But Fate had interposed, and nowshe feared that all her joy was at an end. But her joy should be sorelinquished that she herself should not be disgraced in the givingof it up. She sat there alone for an hour, and was stronger, whenthat hour was over, than she had been when she left her mother. Herpride had supported her, and had been sufficient for her support inthat first hour of her sorrow. It is ever so with us in our misery.In the first flush of our wretchedness, let the outward signs of ourgrief be what they may, we promise to ourselves the support of someinner strength which shall suffice to us at any rate as against theeyes of the outer world. But anon, and that inner staff fails us; ourpride yields to our tears; our dignity is crushed beneath the loadwith which we have burdened it, and then with loud wailings we ownourselves to be the wretches which we are. But now Rachel was in thehour of her pride, and as she came down from her room she resolvedthat her sorrow should be buried in her own bosom. She had known whatit was to love,--had known it, perhaps, for one whole week,--and nowthat knowledge was never to avail her again. Among them all she hadbeen robbed of her sweetheart. She had been bidden to give her heartto this man,--her heart and hand; and now, when she had given all herheart, she was bidden to refuse her hand. She had not ventured tolove till her love had been sanctioned. It had been sanctioned, andshe had loved; and now that sanction was withdrawn! She knew that shewas injured,--deeply, cruelly injured, but she would bear it, showingnothing, and saying nothing. With this resolve she came down from herroom, and began to employ herself on her household work.
Mrs. Ray watched her carefully, and Rachel knew that she was watched;but she took no outward notice of it, going on with her work, andsaying a soft, gentle word now and again, sometimes to her mother,and sometimes to the little maiden who attended them. "Will you cometo dinner, mamma?" she said with a smile, taking her mother by thehand.
"I shouldn't mind if I never sat down to dinner again," said Mrs.Ray.
"Oh, mamma! don't say that; just when you are going to thank God forthe good things he gives you."
Then Mrs. Ray, in a low voice, as though rebuked, said the grace, andthey sat down together to their meal.
The afternoon went with them very slowly and almost in silence.Neither of them would now speak about Luke Rowan; and to neither ofthem was it as yet possible to speak about aught else. One word onthe subject was said during those hours. "You won't have time foryour letter after tea," Mrs. Ray said.
"I shall not write it till to-morrow," Rachel answered; "another daywill do no harm now."
At tea Mrs. Ray asked her whether she did not think that a walk woulddo her good, and offered to accompany her; but Rachel, acceding tothe proposition of the walk, declared that she would go alone. "It'svery bad of me to say so, isn't it, when you're so good as to offerto 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 ofthings, I know," said the mother. Rachel acknowledged, by a slightmotion of her head, that she did want to think of things, and soonafter that she started.
"I believe I'll call on Dolly," she said. "It would be bad toquarrel with her; and perhaps now she'll come back here to live withus;--only I forgot about Mr. Prong." It was agreed, however, that sheshould call on her sister, and ask her to dine at the cottage on thefollowing day.
She walked along the road straight into Baslehurst, and went at onceto her sister's lodgings. She had another place to visit before shereturned home, but it was a place for which a later hour in theevening would suit her better. Mrs. Prime was at home; and Rachel,on being shown up into the sitting-room,--a room in which everypiece of furniture had become known to her during those Dorcasmeetings,--found not only her sister sitting there, but also MissPucker and Mr. Prong. Rachel had not seen that gentleman since shehad learned that he was to become her brother-in-law, and hardly knewin what way to greet him; but it soon became apparent to her that nooutward show of regard was expected from her at that moment.
"I think you know my sister, Mr. Prong," said Dorothea. WhereuponMr. Prong rose from his chair, took Rachel's hand, pressing itbetween his own, and then sat down again. Rachel, judging from hiscountenance, thought that some cloud had passed also across thesunlight of his love. She made her little speech, giving her mother'slove, and adding her own assurance that she hoped her sister wouldcome out and dine at the cottage.
"I really don't know," said Mrs. Prime. "Such goings about do cut upone's time so much. I shouldn't be here again till--"
"Of course you'd stay for tea with us," said Rachel.
"And lose the whole afternoon!" said Mrs. Prime.
"Oh do!" said Miss Pucker. "You have been working so hard; hasn't shenow, Mr. Prong? At this time of the year a sniff of fresh air amongthe flowers does do a body so much good." And Miss Pucker looked andspoke as though she also would like the sniff of fresh air.
"I'm very well in health, and am thankful for it. I can't say thatit's needed in that way," said Mrs. Prime.
"But mamma will be so glad to see you," said Rachel.
"I think you ought to go, Dorothea," said Mr. Prong; and even Rachelcould perceive that there was some slight touch of authority in hisvoice. It was the slightest possible intonation of a command; but,nevertheless, it struck Rachel's ears.
Mrs. Prime merely shook her head and sniffed. It was not for a supplyof air that she used her nostrils on this occasion, but that shemight indicate some grain of contempt for the authority which Mr.Prong had attempted to exercise. "I think I'd rather not, Rachel,thank you;--not to dinner, that is. Perhaps I'll walk out in theevening 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," saidMr. Prong, "I shall be most happy to accompany the ladies."
It will be acknowledged that Rachel had no alternative left to her.She said that her mother would be happy to see Mr. Prong, and happyto 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 muchfor the ordinary courtesies of life.
"I'm very sorry you won't come to dinner, Dolly," she said; but sheabstained from any word of asking the others to tea.
"If it had only been Mr. Prong," she said to her mother afterwards,"I should have asked him; for I suppose he'll have to come to thehouse sooner or later. But I wouldn't tell that horrid, squintingwoman that you wanted to see her, for I'm sure you don't."
"But we must give them some cake and a glass of sweet wine," saidMrs. Ray.
"She won't have to take her bonnet off for that as she would for tea,and it isn't so much like making herself at home here. I couldn'tbear to have to ask her up to my room."
On leaving the house in the High Street, which she
did about eighto'clock, she took her way towards the churchyard,--not passing downBrewery Lane, by Mr. Tappitt's house, but taking the main streetwhich led from the High Street to the church. But at the corner, justas she was about to leave the High Street, she was arrested by avoice that was familiar to her, and, turning round, she saw Mrs.Cornbury seated in a low carriage, and driving a pair of ponies."How are you, Rachel?" said Mrs. Cornbury, shaking hands with herfriend, for Rachel had gone out into the street up to the side of thecarriage, when she found that Mrs. Cornbury had stopped. "I'm goingby the cottage,--to papa's. I see you are turning the other way; butif you've not much delay, I'll stay for you and take you home."
But Rachel had before her that other visit to make, and she was notminded either to omit it or postpone it. "I should like it so much,"said Rachel, "only--"
"Ah! well; I see. You've got other fish to fry. But, Rachel, lookhere, dear." And Mrs. Cornbury almost whispered into her ear acrossthe side of the pony carriage. "Don't you believe quite all you hear.I'll find out the truth, and you shall know. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Mrs. Cornbury," said Rachel, pressing her friend's hand asshe parted from her. This allusion to her lover had called a blushup over her whole face, so that Mrs. Cornbury well knew that she hadbeen 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 beenwritten? And Rachel was well aware that another day must not passwithout the writing of it.
She went down across the churchyard, leaving the path to the breweryon her left, and that leading out under the elm trees to her right,and went on straight to the stile at which she had stood with LukeRowan, watching the reflection of the setting sun among the clouds.This was the spot which she had determined to visit; and she had comehither hoping that she might again see some form in the heavens whichmight remind her of that which he had shown her. The stile, at anyrate, was the same, and there were the trees beneath which they hadstood. There were the rich fields, lying beneath her, over which theytwo had gazed together at the fading lights of the evening. There wasno arm in the clouds now, and the perverse sun was retiring to hisrest without any of that royal pageantry and illumination with whichthe heavens are wont to deck themselves when their king goes to hiscouch. But Rachel, though she had come thither to look for thesethings and had not found them, hardly marked their absence. Her mindbecame so full of him and of his words, that she required no outwardsigns to refresh her memory. She thought so much of his look on thatevening, of the tones of his voice, and of every motion of his body,that she soon forgot to watch the clouds. She sat herself down uponthe stile with her face turned away from the fields, telling herselfthat she would listen for the footsteps of strangers, so that shemight move away if any came near her; but she soon forgot also tolisten, and sat there thinking of him alone. The words that had beenspoken between them on that occasion had been but trifling,--very fewand of small moment; but now they seemed to her to have containedall her destiny. It was there that love for him had first come uponher--had come over her with broad outspread wings like an angel;but whether as an angel of darkness or of light, her heart had thenbeen unable to perceive. How well she remembered it all; how he hadtaken her by the hand, claiming the right of doing so as an ordinaryfarewell greeting; and how he had held her, looking into her face,till she had been forced to speak some word of rebuke to him! "I didnot think you would behave like that," she had said. But yet at thatvery moment her heart was going from her. The warm friendliness ofhis touch, the firm, clear brightness of his eye, and the eager toneof his voice, were even then subduing her coy unwillingness to partwith her maiden love. She had declared to herself then that she wasangry with him; but, since that, she had declared to herself thatnothing could have been better, finer, sweeter than all that he hadsaid and done on that evening. It had been his right to hold her, ifhe intended afterwards to claim her as his own. "I like you so verymuch," he had said; "why should we not be friends?" She had gone awayfrom him then, fleeing along the path, bewildered, ignorant as toher own feelings, conscious almost of a sin in having listened tohim; but still filled with a wondrous delight that any one so good,so beautiful, so powerful as he, should have cared to ask for herfriendship in such pressing words. During all her walk home she hadbeen full of fear and wonder and mysterious delight. Then had comethe ball, which in itself had hardly been so pleasant to her, becausethe eyes of many had watched her there. But she thought of the momentwhen he had first come to her in Mrs. Tappitt's drawing-room, just asshe was resolving that he did not intend to notice her further. Shethought of those repeated dances which had been so dear to her, butwhich, in their repetition, had frightened her so grievously. Shethought of the supper, during which he had insisted on sitting byher; and of that meeting in the hall, during which he had, as itwere, forced her to remain and listen to him,--forced her to staywith him till, in her agony of fear, she had escaped away to herfriend 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 allwhile lying in her bed, she had declared to herself that he had beenvery wrong;--but since that, during those few days of her permittedlove, 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, thoughthe words which he had spoken and the things which he had done hadbrought upon her all this sorrow. He had been right. If he lovedher it was only manly and proper in him to tell his love. And forherself,--seeing that she had loved, had it not been proper andwomanly in her to declare her love? What had she done; when, at whatpoint, had she gone astray, that she should be brought to such a passas this? At the beginning, when he had held her hand on the spotwhere she was now sitting, and again when he had kept her prisonerin Mr. Tappitt's hall, she had been half conscious of some sin, halfashamed of her own conduct; but that undecided fear of sin and shamehad been washed out, and everything had been made white as snow, aspure as running water, as bright as sunlight, by the permission tolove this man which had been accorded to her. What had she since donethat she should be brought to such a pass as that in which she nowfound herself?
As she thought of this she was bitter against all the world excepthim;--almost bitter against her own mother. She had said that shewould obey in this matter of the letter, and she knew well thatshe would in truth do as her mother bade her. But, sitting there,on the churchyard stile, she hatched within her mind plans ofdisobedience,--dreadful plans! She would not submit to this usage.She would go away from Baslehurst without knowledge of any one, andwould seek him out in his London home. It would be unmaidenly;--butwhat cared she now for that;--unless, indeed, he should care? All hervirgin modesty and young maiden fears,--was it not for him that shewould guard them, for his delight and his pride? And if she were tosee 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 maintain theunsullied brightness of her woman's armour? If he were lost to her,everything was lost. She would go to him, and throwing herself athis feet would swear to him that life without his love was no longerpossible for her. If he would then take her as his wife she wouldstrive to bless him with all that the tenderness of a wife couldgive. If he should refuse her,--then she would go away and die. Insuch 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 virtueof such as Miss Pucker and Mr. Prong? What the upturned hands andamazement of Mr. Comfort? It would have been they who had driven herto this.
But how about her mother when she should have thus thrown herselfoverboard from the ship and cast herself away from the pilotage whichhad hitherto been the guide of her conduct? Why--why--why had hermother deserted her in her need? As she thought of her mother sheknew that her plan of rebellion was nothing; but why--why had hermother deserted her?
As for him, and these new tidings which had come to the cottagerespecting him, she would have cared for them not a jot. Mrs.Cornbury had cautione
d her not to believe all that she heard; but shehad already declined,--had altogether declined to believe any of it.It was to her, whether believed or disbelieved, matter altogetherirrelevant. A wife does not cease to love her husband because hegets into trouble. She does not turn against him because others havequarrelled with him. She does not separate her lot from his becausehe is in debt! Those are the times when a wife, a true wife, sticksclosest to her husband, and strives the hardest to lighten the weightof his cares by the tenderness of her love! And had she not beenpermitted to place herself in that position with regard to himwhen she had been permitted to love him? In all her thoughts sherecognized the right of her mother to have debarred her from theprivilege of loving this man, if such embargo had been placed on herbefore her love had been declared. She had never, even within herown bosom, assumed to herself the right of such privilege withoutauthority expressed. But her very soul revolted against thiswithdrawal of the sanction that had been given to her. The spiritwithin her rebelled, though she knew that she would not carry on thatrebellion by word or deed. But she had been injured;--injured almostto death; injured even to death itself as regarded all that lifecould give her worth her taking! As she thought of this injury thatfierce look of which I have spoken came across her brow! She wouldobey her pastors and masters. Yes; she would obey them. But she couldnever again be soft and pliable within their hands. Obedience inthis matter was a necessity to her. In spite of that wild thoughtof throwing off her maiden bonds and allowing her female armour tobe splashed and sullied in the gutter, she knew that there was thatwhich would hinder her from the execution of such scheme. She wasbound by her woman's lot to maintain her womanly purity. Let hersuffer as she might there was nothing for her but obedience. Shecould not go forth as though she were a man, and claim her right tostand or fall by her love. She had been injured in being brought tosuch plight as this, but she would bear her injury as best might bewithin her power.
She was still thinking of all this, and still sitting with her eyesturned towards the tower of the church, when she was touched onthe back by a light hand. She turned round quickly, startled bythe touch,--for she had heard no footstep,--and saw Martha Tappittand Cherry. It was Cherry who had come close upon her, and it wasCherry's voice that she first heard. "A penny for your thoughts,"said Cherry.
"Oh, you have so startled me!" said Rachel.
"Then I suppose your thoughts were worth more than a penny. Perhapsyou were thinking of an absent knight." And then Cherry began tosing--"Away, away, away. He loves and he rides away."
Poor Rachel 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,Rachel. Why don't you come and walk with us?"
"Yes, indeed,--why don't you?" said Cherry, whose good-nature wasquite as conspicuous as her bad taste. She knew now that she hadvexed Rachel, and was thoroughly sorry that she had done so. If anyother girl had quizzed her about her lover it would not have annoyedher, and she had not understood at first that Rachel Ray might bedifferent from herself. "I declare we have hardly seen you since thenight of the party, and we think it very ill-natured in you not tocome to us. Do come and walk to-morrow."
"Oh, thank you;--not to-morrow, because my sister is coming out fromBaslehurst, to spend the evening with us."
"Well;--on Saturday, then," said Cherry, persistingly.
But Rachel would make no promise to walk with them on any day. Shefelt that she must henceforth be divided from the Tappitts. Had nothe quarrelled with Mr. Tappitt; and could it be fitting that sheshould keep up any friendship with the family that was hostile tohim? She was also aware that Mrs. Tappitt was among those who weredesirous of robbing her of her lover. Mrs. Tappitt was her enemy asMr. Tappitt was his. She asked herself no question as to that duty offorgiving them the injuries they had done her, but she felt that shewas divided from them,--from Mr. and Mrs. Tappitt, and also from thegirls. And, moreover, in her present strait she wanted no friend. Shecould not talk to any friend about her lover, and she could not bringherself even to think on any other subject.
"It's late," she said, "and I must go home, as mamma will beexpecting me."
Cherry had almost replied that she had not been in so great a hurryonce before, when she had stood in the churchyard with anothercompanion; but she thought of Rachel's reproachful face when her lastlittle joke had been uttered, and she refrained.
"She's over head and ears in love," said Cherry to her sister, whenRachel was gone.
"I'm afraid she has been very foolish," said Martha, seriously.
"I don't see that she has been foolish at all. He's a very nicefellow, and as far as I can see he's just as fond of her as she is ofhim."
"But we know what that means with young men," said Martha, who wassufficiently serious in her way of thinking to hold by that doctrineas to wolves in sheep's clothing in which Mrs. Ray had been educated.
"But young men do marry,--sometimes," said Cherry.
"But not merely for the sake of a pretty face or a good figure. Ibelieve mamma is right in that, and I don't think he'll come backagain."
"If he were my lover I'd have him back," said Cherry, stoutly;--andso they went away to the brewery.
Rachel on her way home determined that she would write her letterthat night. Her mother was to read it when it was written; that wasunderstood to be the agreement between them; but there would be noreason why she should not be alone when she wrote it. She could wordit very differently, she thought, if she sat alone over it in her ownbedroom, than she could do immediately under her mother's eye. Shecould not pause and think and perhaps weep over it, sitting at theparlour table, with her mother in her arm-chair, close by, watchingher. It needed that she should write it with tears, with manystruggles, with many baffled attempts to find the words that wouldbe wanted,--with her very heart's blood. It must not be tender. No;she was prepared to omit all tenderness. And it must probably beshort;--but if so its very shortness would be another difficulty. Asshe walked along she could not tell herself with what words she wouldwrite it; but she thought that the words would perhaps come to her ifshe waited long enough for them in the solitude 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 I'll go to bed now, mamma," she said.
"You always want to go to bed so soon," said Mrs. Ray. "I think youare getting tired of reading out loud. That will be very sad for mewith my eyes."
"No, I'm not, mamma, and I'll go on again for half an hour, if youplease; but I thought you liked going to bed at ten."
The watch was consulted, and as it was not quite ten Rachel did go onfor another half-hour, and then she went up to her bedroom.
She sat herself down at her open window and looked out for a whileupon the heavens. The summer moon was at its full, so that the greenbefore the cottage was as clear before her as in the day, and shecould see over into the gloom of Mr. Sturt's farmyard across it. Shehad once watched Rowan as he came over the turf towards the cottageswinging his stick in his hand, and now she gazed on the spot wherethe Baslehurst road came in as though she expected that his figuremight again appear. She looked and looked, thinking of this, till shewould hardly have been surprised had that figure really come forthupon the road. But no figure was to be seen, and after awhile shewithdrew from 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 closedin sleep;--but the letter had been written and was ready for hermother's inspection. This was the letter as it stood after manystruggles in the writing of it,--
Bragg's End, Thursday, 186--
MY DEAR MR. ROWAN,
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 tell you that she will read this before 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 will be very angry. But if you understood all my feelings I think that perhaps you would not be very, very angry. I know it is true that when you asked me that question, I nodded my head as you say in your letter. If I had sworn 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 will. I thought that you were very generous to come to me as you did;--oh, so generous! I don't 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. But 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 will 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 little 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 Rachel cut out this latter assertion, butat last, sobbing in despair, she restored the words. What right wouldshe have to hope that he would come to her, after she had taken uponherself to break that promise which had been conveyed to him, whenshe bent her head over his arm?
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 therewas tenderness in those words, and she found it necessary to alterthem.
I will now say good-bye to you, for I have told you all that I have to tell. Mamma desires that I will remember her to you kindly.
May God bless you and protect you always!
Believe me to be Your sincere friend,
RACHEL RAY.
In the morning she took down the letter in her hand and gave it toher mother. Mrs. Ray read it very slowly and demurred over it atsundry places. She especially demurred at that word about the omen,and even declared that it ought to be expunged. But Rachel was verystern and held her ground. She had put into the letter, she said, allthat she had been bidden to say. Such a word from herself to one whohad been so dear to her must be allowed to her.
The letter was not altered and was taken away by the postman thatevening.