CHAPTER VIII.
MRS. RAY'S PENITENCE.
Another fortnight went by, and still nothing further was heard atBragg's End from Luke Rowan. Much was heard of him in Baslehurst.It was soon known by everybody that he had bought the cottages; andthere was a widely-spread and well-credited rumour that he was goingto commence the necessary buildings for a new brewhouse at once. Norwere these tidings received by Baslehurst with all that horror,--withthat loud clamour of indignation,--which Tappitt conceived to be dueto them. Baslehurst, I should say, as a whole, received the tidingswith applause. Why should not Bungall's nephew carry on a brewery ofhis own? Especially why should he not, if he were resolved to brewgood beer? Very censorious remarks about the Tappitt beer were tobe heard in all bar-rooms, and were re-echoed with vehemence in thekitchens of the Baslehurst aristocracy.
"It ain't beer," said Dr. Harford's cook, who had come from themidland counties, and knew what good beer was. "It's a nasty muddleof stuff, not fit for any Christian who has to earn her victuals overa kitchen fire."
It came to pass speedily that Luke Rowan was expected to build a newbrewery, and that the event of the first brick was looked for withanxious expectation. And that false report which had spread itselfthrough Baslehurst respecting him and his debts had taken itself off.It had been banished by a contrary report; and there now existed inBaslehurst a very general belief that Rowan was a man of means,--ofvery considerable means,--a man of substantial capital, whom tohave settled in the town would be very beneficial to the community.That false statement as to the bill at Griggs' had been sifted, andthe truth made known,--and somewhat to the disgrace of the Tappittfaction. The only article supplied by Griggs to Rowan's order hadbeen the champagne consumed at Tappitt's supper, and for this Rowanhad paid ready money within a week of the transaction. It was Mrs.Cornbury who discovered all this, and who employed means for makingthe truth known in Baslehurst. This truth also became known at lastto Mrs. Ray,--but of what avail was it then? She had desired herdaughter to treat the young man as a wolf, and as a wolf he had beenhounded off from her little sheep-cot. She heard now that he wasexpected back at Baslehurst;--that he was a wealthy man; that he wasthought well of in the town; that he was going to do great things.With what better possible husband could any young woman have beenblessed? And yet she had turned him away from her cottage as thoughhe had been a wolf!
It was from Mrs. Sturt that Mrs. Ray first learned the truth. Mr.Sturt was a tenant on the Cornbury estate, and Mrs. Sturt was ofcourse well known to Mrs. Cornbury. That lady, when she had sifted tothe bottom the story of Griggs' bill, and had assured herself thatRowan was by no means minded to surrender his interest in Baslehurst,determined that the truth should be made known to Mrs. Ray. But shewas not willing to call on Mrs. Ray herself, nor did she wish topresent herself before Rachel at the cottage, unless she could bringwith her some more substantial comfort than could be afforded bysimple evidence as to Rowan's good character. She therefore tookherself to Mrs. Sturt, and discussed the matter with her.
"I suppose she does care about him," said Mrs. Cornbury, sitting inMrs. Sturt's little parlour that opened out upon the kitchen garden.Mrs. Sturt was also seated, leaning on the corner of the table, withthe sleeves of her gown tucked up, ready for work when the Squire'slady should be gone, but very willing to postpone her work as long asthe Squire's lady would stay and gossip with her.
"Oh! that she do, Mrs. Butler,--in her heart of hearts. If I knowanything of true love, she do love that young man."
"And he did offer to her? There can be no doubt about that, Isuppose."
"Not a doubt on earth, Mrs. Butler. She never told me sooutright,--nor yet didn't her mother;--but if he didn't, I'll give myhead for a cream cheese. Laws love you, Mrs. Butler, I know what'swhat well enough. I know when a girl's wild and flighty, and thinksof things as she oughtn't;--and I know when she's proper behaved, andgives a young man encouragement only when it becomes her."
"Of course you do, Mrs. Sturt."
"It isn't for me, Mrs. Butler, to say anything against your papa.Nobody can have more respect for their clergyman than Sturt has andI; and before it was all settled like, Sturt never had a word withMr. Comfort about tithes; but, Mrs. Butler, I think your papa waswrong here. As far as I can learn, it was he that told Mrs. Ray thatthis young man wasn't all that he should be."
"Papa meant it for the best. There were strange things said abouthim, you know."
"I never believes one word of what I hears, and never will. Peopleare such liars; bean't they, Mrs. Butler? And I didn't believe a wordagain him. He's as fine a young man as you'd wish to see in a hundredyears, and of course that goes a long way with a young woman. Well,Mrs. Butler, I'll tell Mrs. Ray what you say, but I'm afeard it's toolate; I'm afeard it is. He's of a stubborn sort, I think. He's oneof them that says, 'If you will not when you may, when you will youshall have nay.'"
Mrs. Cornbury still entertained hope that the stubbornness of thestubborn man might be overcome; but as to that she said nothing toMrs. Sturt.
Mrs. Sturt, with what friendly tact she possessed, made hercommunication to Mrs. Ray, but it may be doubted whether more harmthan good was not thus done. "And he didn't owe a shilling then?"asked Mrs. Ray.
"Not a shilling," said Mrs. Sturt.
"And he is going to come back to Baslehurst about this brewerybusiness?"
"There's not a doubt in life about that," answered Mrs. Sturt. Ifthese tidings could have come in time they would have been verysalutary; but what was Mrs. Ray to do with them now? She felt thatshe could not honestly withhold them from Rachel; and yet she knewnot how to tell them without adding to Rachel's misery. It was veryimprobable that Rachel should hear anything about Rowan from otherlips than her own. It was clear that Mrs. Sturt did not intend tospeak to her, and also clear that Mrs. Sturt expected that Mrs. Raywould do so.
Rachel's demeanour at this time was cause of great sorrow to Mrs.Ray. She never smiled. She sought no amusement. She read no books.She spoke but little, and when she did speak her words were hard andcold, and confined almost entirely to household affairs. Her motherknew that she was not ill, because she ate and drank and worked. EvenDorothea must have been satisfied with the amount of needlework whichshe produced in these days. But though not ill, she was thin andpale, and unlike herself. But perhaps of all the signs which hermother watched so carefully, the signs which tormented her most werethose ever-present lines on her daughter's forehead,--lines whichMrs. Ray had now learned to read correctly, and which indicated somesettled inward purpose, and an inward resolve that that purposeshould become the subject of no outward discussion. Rachel hadformerly been everything to her mother;--her friend, her minister,her guide, her great comfort;--the subject on which could be lavishedall the soft tenderness of her nature, the loving object to whomcould be addressed all the little innocent petulances of her life.But now Mrs. Ray did not dare to be either tender with Rachel, orpetulant. She hardly dared to speak to her on subjects that were notindifferent. On this matter of Luke Rowan she did not dare to speakto her. Rachel never upbraided her with words,--had never spokenone word of reproach. But every moment of their passing life was anunspoken reproach, so severe and heavy that the poor mother hardlyknew how to bear the burden of her fault.
As Mrs. Ray became more afraid of her younger daughter she becameless afraid of the elder. This was occasioned partly, no doubt, bythe absence of Mrs. Prime from the cottage. When there she onlycame as a visitor; and no visitor to a house can hold such dominionthere as may be held by a domestic tyrant, present at all meals, andclaiming an ascendancy in all conversations. But it arose in partalso from the overwhelming solicitude which filled Mrs. Ray's heartfrom morning to night, as she watched poor Rachel in her misery. Herbowels yearned towards her child, and she longed to give her reliefwith an excessive longing. Had the man been a very wolf indeed,--suchwere her feelings at present,--I think that she would have welcomedhim to the cottage. In ordering his repulse she had done a deed ofwhich sh
e had by no means anticipated the consequences, and now sherepented in the sackcloth and ashes of a sorrow-stricken spirit. Ahme! what could she do to relieve that oppressed one! So thoroughlydid this desire override all others in her breast, that shewould snub Mrs. Prime without dreading or even thinking of theconsequences. Her only hopes and her only fears at the present momenthad reference to Rachel. Had Rachel proposed to her that they shouldboth start off to London and there search for Luke Rowan, I doubtwhether she would have had the heart to decline the journey.
In these days Mrs. Prime came to the cottage regularly twice aweek,--on Wednesdays and Saturdays. On Wednesday she came after tea,and on Saturday she drank tea with her mother. On these occasionsmuch was, of course, said as to the prospect of her marriage withMr. Prong. Nothing was as yet settled, and Rachel had concluded, inher own mind, that there would be no such wedding. As to Mrs. Ray'sopinion, she, of course, thought there would be a wedding or thatthere would not, in accordance with the last words spoken by Mrs.Prime to herself on the occasion of that special conversation.
"She'll never give up her money," Rachel had said, "and he'll nevermarry her unless she does."
Mrs. Prime at this period acknowledged to her mother that she was nothappy.
"I want," said she, "to do what's right. But it's not always easy tofind out what is right."
"That's very true," said Mrs. Ray, thinking that there weredifficulties in the affairs of other people quite as embarrassing asthose of which Mrs. Prime complained.
"He says," continued the younger widow, "that he wants nothing forhimself, but that it is not fitting that a married woman should havea separate income."
"I think he's right there," said Mrs. Ray.
"I quite believe what he says about himself," said Mrs. Prime. "It isnot that he wants my money for the money's sake, but that he choosesto dictate to me how I shall use it."
"So he ought if he's to be your husband," said Mrs. Ray.
These conversations usually took place in Rachel's absence. When Mrs.Prime came Rachel would remain long enough to say a word to her, andon the Saturdays would pour out the tea for her and would hand to herthe bread and butter with the courtesy due to a visitor; but afterthat she would take herself to her own bedroom, and only come downwhen Mrs. Prime had prepared herself for going. At last, on one ofthese evenings, there came a proposition from Mrs. Prime that sheshould return to the cottage, and live again with her mother andsister. She had not said that she had absolutely rejected Mr. Prong,but she spoke of her return as though it had become expedient becausethe cause of her going away had been removed. Very little had beensaid between her and her mother about Rachel's love affair, nor wasMrs. Prime inclined to say much about it now; but so much as thatshe did say. "No doubt it's all over now about that young man, andtherefore, if you like it, I don't see why I shouldn't come back."
"I don't at all know about it's being all over," said Mrs. Ray, in ahurried quick tone, and as she spoke she blushed with emotion.
"But I suppose it is, mother. From all that I can hear he isn'tthinking of her; and I don't suppose he ever did much."
"I don't know what he's thinking about, Dorothea; and I ain't surethat there's any good talking about it. Besides, if you're going tohave Mr. Prong at last--"
"If I did, mother, it needn't prevent my coming here for a month ortwo first. It wouldn't be quite yet certainly,--if at all. And Ithought that perhaps, if I am going to settle myself in that way,you'd be glad that we should be altogether again for a little while."
"So I should, Dorothea,--of course. I have never wanted to be dividedfrom my children. Your going away was your own doing, not mine. I'msure it made me so wretched I didn't know what to do at the time.Only other things have come since, that have pretty nearly put allthat out of my mind."
"But you can't think I was wrong to go when I felt it to be right."
"I don't know how that may be," said Mrs. Ray. "If you thought itright to go I suppose you were right to go; but perhaps you shouldn'thave had such thoughts."
"Well, mother, we won't go back to that."
"No; we won't, if you please."
"This at any rate is certain, that Rachel, in departing from ourusual ways of life, has brought great unhappiness upon herself. I'mafraid she is thinking of this young man now more than she ought todo."
"Of course she is thinking of him. Why should she not think of him?"
"Why, mother! Surely it cannot be good that any girl should think ofa man who thinks nothing of her!"
Then Mrs. Ray spoke out,--as perhaps she had never spoken before.
"What right have you to say that he thinks nothing of her? Who cantell? He did think of her,--as honestly as any man ever thought ofthe woman he wished to mate with. He came to her fairly, and askedher to be his wife. What can any man do more by a girl than that? Andshe didn't say a word to him to encourage him till those she had aright to look to had encouraged him too. So she didn't. And I don'tbelieve any woman ever had a child that behaved better, or truer, ormore maidenly than she has done. And I was a fool, and worse than afool, when I allowed any one to have an evil thought of her for amoment."
"Do you mean me, mother?"
"I don't mean anybody except myself; so I don't." Mrs. Ray as shespoke was weeping bitterly, and rubbing the tears from her red eyeswith her apron. "I've behaved like a fool to her,--worse than afool,--and I've broken her heart. Not think of him! How's a girlnot to think of a man day and night when she loves him better thanherself? Think of him! She'll think of him till she's in her grave.She'll think of him till she's past all other thinking. I hate suchcruelty; and I hate myself for having been cruel. I shall neverforgive myself, the longest day I have to live."
"You only did your duty, mother."
"No; I didn't do my duty at all. It can't be a mother's duty to breakher child's heart and to be set against her by what anybody else cansay. She was ever and always the best child that ever lived; andshe came away from him, and strove to banish him from her thoughts,and wouldn't own to herself that she cared for him the least in theworld, till he'd come here and spoken out straight, like a man as heis. I tell you what, Dorothea, I'd go to London, on my knees to him,if I could bring him back to her! I would. And if he comes here, Iwill go to him."
"Oh, mother!"
"I know he loves her. He's not one of your inconstant ones that takeup with a girl for a week or so and then forgets her. But she hasoffended him, and he's stubborn. She has offended him at my bidding,and it's my doing;--and I'd humble myself in the dust to bring himback to her;--so I would. Never tell me of her not thinking of him.I tell you, Dorothea, she'll think of him always not because she hasloved him, but because she has been brought to confess her love."
Mrs. Ray was so strong in her mingled passion and grief, that Mrs.Prime made no attempt to rebuke her. The daughter was indeed quelledby her mother's vehemence, and felt that for the present the subjectof Rachel's love and Rachel's lover was not a fitting one for theexercise of her own talents as a preacher. The tragedy had progressedbeyond the reach of her preaching. Mrs. Ray protested that Rachelhad been right throughout, and that she herself had been wrong onlywhen she had opposed Rachel's wishes. Such a view of the matter wasaltogether at variance with that entertained by Mrs. Prime, who wasstill of opinion that young people shouldn't be allowed to pleasethemselves, and who feared the approach of any lover who came withlute in hand, and with light, soft, loving, worldly words. Menand women, according to her theory, were right to marry and havechildren; but she thought that such marriages should be contractednot only in a solemn spirit, but with a certain dinginess ofsolemnity, with a painstaking absence of mirth, that would divestlove of its worldly alloy. Rachel had gone about her business in adifferent spirit, and it may almost be said that Mrs. Prime rejoicedthat she had failed. She did not believe in broken hearts; she didbelieve in the efficacy of chastisement; and she thought that on thewhole the present state of affairs would be beneficial to her sister.Had she been possessed
of sufficient power she would now, on thisoccasion, have preached her sermon again as she had preached itbefore; but her mother's passion had overcome her, and she was unableto express her convictions.
"I hope that she will be better soon," she said.
"I hope she will," said Mrs. Ray.
At this moment Rachel came down from her own room and joined them inthe parlour. She came in with that same look of sad composure on herface, as though she were determined to speak nothing of her thoughtsto any one, and sat herself down near to her sister. In doing so,however, she caught a glimpse of her mother's face, and saw that shehad been crying,--saw, indeed, that she was still crying at thatmoment.
"Mamma," she said, "what is the matter;--has anything happened?"
"No, dear, nothing;--nothing has happened."
"But you would not cry for nothing. What is it, Dolly?"
"We have been talking," said Dorothea. "Things in this world are notso pleasant in themselves that they can always be spoken of withouttears,--either outward tears or inward. People are too apt to thinkthat there is no true significance in their words when they say thatthis world is a vale of tears."
"All the same. I don't like to see mamma crying like that."
"Don't mind it, Rachel," said Mrs. Ray. "If you will not regard me Ishall be better soon."
"I was saying that I thought I would come back to the cottage," saidMrs. Prime; "that is, if mother likes it."
"But that did not make mamma cry."
"There were other things arose out of my saying so." Then Rachelasked no further questions, but sat silent, waiting till her sistershould go.
"Of course we shall be very glad to have you back again if it suitsyou to come," said Mrs. Ray. "I don't think it at all nice that afamily should be divided,--that is, as long as they are the samefamily." Having received so much encouragement with reference to herproposed return, Mrs. Prime took her departure and walked back toBaslehurst.
For some minutes after they had been so left, neither Mrs. Ray norRachel spoke. The mother sat rocking herself in her chair, and thedaughter remained motionless in the seat which she had taken when shefirst came into the room. Their faces were not turned to each other,but Rachel was so placed that she could watch her mother withoutbeing observed. Every now and again Mrs. Ray would put her hand up toher eyes to squeeze away the tears, and a low gurgling sound wouldcome from her, as though she were striving without success to repressher sobs. She had thought that she would speak to Rachel when Mrs.Prime was gone,--that she would confess her error in having sentRowan away, and implore her child to pardon her and to love her onceagain. It was not, however, that she doubted Rachel's love,--that shefeared that Rachel was casting her out from her heart, or that shewas learning to hate her. She knew well enough that her child stillloved her. It was this,--that her life had become barren to her,cold, and altogether tasteless without those thousand little signs ofever-present affection to which she had been accustomed. If it was tobe always thus between them, what would the world be to her for theremainder of her days? She could have borne to part with Rachel, hadRachel married, as in parting with her she would have looked forwardto some future return of her girl's caresses; and in such case shewould at least have felt that her loss had come from no cessation ofthe sweet loving nature of their mutual connexion. She would havewept as she gave Rachel over to a husband, but her tears would havebeen sweet as well as bitter. But there was nothing of sweetnessin her tears as she shed them now,--nothing of satisfaction in hersorrow. If she could get Rachel to talk with her freely on thematter, if she could find an opportunity for confessing herself tohave been wrong, might it not be that the soft caresses would berestored to her,--caresses that would be soft, though moistened withsalt tears? But she feared to speak to her child. She knew thatRachel's face was still hard and stern, and that her voice was notthe voice of other days. She knew that her daughter brooded overthe injury that had been done to her,--though she knew also that noaccusation was made, even in the girl's own bosom, against herself.She thoroughly understood the state of Rachel's mind, but she wasunable to find the words that might serve to soften it.
"I suppose we may as well go to bed," she said at last, giving thematter up, at any rate for that evening.
"Mamma, why were you crying when I came into the room?" said Rachel.
"Was I crying, my dear?"
"You are crying still, mamma. Is it I that make you unhappy?"
Mrs. Ray was anxious to declare that the reverse of that wastrue,--that it was she who had made the other unhappy; but evennow she could not find the words in which to say this. "No," shesaid; "it isn't you. It isn't anybody. I believe it's true what Mr.Comfort has told us so often when he's preaching. It's all vanity andvexation. There isn't anything to make anybody happy. I suppose I crybecause I'm foolisher than other people. I don't know that anybody ishappy. 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 seehow things have gone? I tried to do for the best, and I have--"broken my child's heart, Mrs. Ray intended to say; but she failedaltogether before she got as far as that, and bursting out into aflood of tears, hid her face in her apron.
Rachel still kept her seat, and her face was still hard and unmoved.Her mother did not see it; she did not dare to look upon it; but sheknew that it was so; she knew her daughter would have been with her,close to her, embracing her, throwing her arms round her, had thatface relented. But Rachel still kept her chair, and Mrs. Ray sobbedaloud.
"I wish I could be a comfort to you, mamma," Rachel said afteranother pause, "but I do not know how. I suppose in time we shall getover this, and things will be as they used to be."
"They'll never be to me as they used to be before he came toBaslehurst," said Mrs. Ray, through her tears.
"At any rate that is not his fault," said Rachel, almost angrily."Whoever may have done wrong, no one has a right to say that he hasdone wrong."
"I'm sure I never said so. It is I that have done wrong," exclaimedMrs. Ray. "I know it all now, and I wish I'd never asked anybody butjust my own heart. I didn't mean to say anything against him, and Idon't think it. I'm sure I liked him as I never liked any young manthe first time of seeing him, that night he came out here to tea; andI know that what they said against him was all false. So I do."
"What was all false, mamma?"
"About his going away in debt, and being a ne'er-do-well, andabout his going away from Baslehurst and not coming back any more.Everybody has a good word for him now."
"Have they, mamma?" said Rachel. And Mrs. Ray learned in a moment,from the tone of her daughter's voice, that a change had come overher feeling. She asked her little question with something of thesoftness of her old manner, with something of the longing lovingwishfulness which used to make so many of her questions sweet to hermother's ears. "Have they, mamma?"
"Yes they have, and I believe it was those wicked people at thebrewery 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 havebought our cottages and paid for them all in a minute? And I believehe'll come back and live at Baslehurst; so I do; only--"
"Only what, mamma?"
"If he's not to come back to you I'd rather that he never showed hisface here again."
"He won't come to me, mamma. Had he meant it, he would have sent me amessage."
"Perhaps he meant that he wouldn't send the message till he camehimself," said Mrs. Ray.
But she made the suggestion in a voice so full of conscious doubtthat Rachel knew that she did not believe in it herself.
"I don't think he means that, mamma. If he did why should he keep mein doubt? He is very true and very honest, but I think he is veryhard. When I wrote to him in that way after accepting the love he hadoffered me, he was angered, and felt that I was false to him. He isvery honest, but 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 different from women, I suppose. I feel about him thatwhatever he might do I should forgive it. But then I feel, also, thathe 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 withhim, because it was we who told him that there was to be noengagement,--after I had promised him."
"I didn't think he'd take you up so at the first word," said Mrs.Ray;--and then there was again silence for a few minutes.
"Mamma," said Rachel.
"Well, Rachel."
Mrs. Ray was still rocking her chair, and had hardly yet repressedthat faint gurgling sound of half-controlled sobs.
"I am so glad to hear you say that you--respect him, and don'tbelieve of him what people have said."
"I don't believe a word bad of him, except that he oughtn't to takehuff in that way at one word that a girl says to him. He ought tohave known that you couldn't write just what letter you liked, as hecould."
"We won't say anything more about that. But as long as you don'tthink him bad--"
"I don't think him bad. I don't think him bad at all. I think himvery good. I'd give all I have in the world to bring him back again.So I would."
"Dear mamma!"
And now Rachel moved away from her chair and came up to her mother.
"And I know it's been all my fault. Oh, my child, I am so unhappy!I don't get half an hour's sleep at night thinking of what I havedone;--I, that would have given the very blood out of my veins tomake you happy."
"No, mamma; it wasn't you."
"Yes, it was. I'd no business going away to other people after I hadtold 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 toyou. I do wish he hadn't ever come, but now I'd do anything to bringhim back again. I believe I'll go to him and tell him that it was mydoing."
"No, mamma, you won't do that."
"Why should I not? I don't care what people say. Isn't your happinesseverything to me?"
"But I shouldn't take him if he came in that way. What! beg himto come and have compassion on me, as if I couldn't live withouthim! No, mother; that wouldn't do. I do love him. I do love him. Isometimes think I cannot live without his love. I sometimes feel asthough stories about broken hearts might be true. But I wouldn't havehim in that way. How could he love me afterwards, when I was hiswife? But, mamma, we'll be friends again;--shall we not? I've been sounhappy that you should have thought ill of him!"
That night the mother and daughter shared the same bed together, andMrs. Ray was able to sleep. She would not confess to herself thather sorrow had been lightened, because nothing had been said or doneto lessen that of her daughter; but on the morrow Rachel came andhovered round her again, and the bitterness of Mrs. Ray's grief wasremoved.