Rachel Ray

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<»ohe<J
her husband when he asked a question about the party. " Just
a few friends got together by the girls," she had said. " Leave
it all to them, my dear. It's not very often they see anybody
at home."

" I believe I see my friends as often as most people in Basle-
hurst," Mr. Tappitt had replied indignantly, " and I suppose my
friends are their friends." So there had been a little soreness
■which made the lady's submission the more disagreeable to her.

" Butler Cornbury ! He's a puppy. I don't want to see him,
and what's more, I won't vote for lum.''

" You need not teU her so, my dear ; and he's not coming. I
suppose you like your girls to hold their heads up in the place j
and if they show that they've respectable people with them at
home, respectable people will be glad to notice them."

" Eespectable ! If our girls are to be made respectable by
giving grand dances, I'd rather not have them respectable. How
much is the whole thing to cost ?"

""Well, very little, T.; not much more than one of your
Christmas dioner-parties. There'll be just tlio music, and the
lights, and a bit of something to eat. What people drink at
such times comes to nothing, — just a Little negus and lemonade.
We might possibly have a bottle or two of champagne at the
supper-table, for the lool^f the thing."

"Champagne!" exclaimed the brewer. He had never yet
incurred the cost of a bottle of champagne within his own
house, though he thought nothing of it at public dinners. The
idea was too much for him ; and 'Mrs. Tappitt, feeling how the
ground lay, gave that up, — at any rate for the present. She
gave up the champagne ; but in abandoning that, she obtained
the marital sanction, a quasi sanction which he was too honour-
able as a husband afterwards to repudiate, for the music and the
eatables. Mrs. Tappitt knew that she had done well, and pre-
pared for his dinner that day a beef-steak pie, made with her
owa hands. Tappitt was not altogether a duU man, and under-
stood these little signs. " Ah," said he, " I wonder how much
that pie is to cost me ] "

" Oh, T., how can you say such things ! As if you didn't
have beef-steak pie as often as it's good for you." The pie
however, had its effect, as also did the exceeding " boilishness "^
of the water which was brought in for his gin-toddy that night;

PREPAEATIONS FOE MRS. TAPPITT'S PARTY. 61

and it was kno-wn throughout the establishment that papa
was in a good humour, and that mamma had been very
clever.

" The girls must have had new dresses anyway before the
month was out," Mrs. Tappitt said to her husband the next
morning before he had left the conjugal chamber.

" Do you mean to say that they're to have gowns made on
purpose for this party T' said the brewer; and it seemed by the
tone of his voice that the hot gin and water had lost its kiadly
effects.

" My dear, they must be dressed, you know. I'm sure no
girls in Baslehurst cost less in the way of finery. In the
ordinary way they'd have had new frocks ahnost inunediately."

"Bother!" Mr. Tappitt was shaving just at this moment,
and dashed aside his razor for a moment to utter this one word.
He intended to signify how perfectly well he was aware that a
musUn frock prepared for an evening party would not fill the
place of a substantial morning dress.

" Well, my dear, I'm sure the girls ain't unreasonable ; nor
am I. Five-and -thirty shiUings a-piece for them would do it aU.
And I shan't want anything myself this year in September."
Now Mr. Tappitt, who was a man of sentiment, always gave
his wife some costly article of raiment on the 1st of September,
calling her his partridge and his bird,— ^for on that day they had
been married. Mrs. Tappitt had frequently offered to intromit
the ceremony when calliig upon his generosity for other pur-
poses, but the September gift had always been forthcoming.

"Will thirty-five shiUings a-piece do it?" said he, turning
round with his face all covered with lather. Then again ha
went to work Avith his razor just under his right ear.

" Well, yes ; 1 think it will. Two pounds each for the three
shall do it anyway."

Mr. Tappitt gave a little jump at this increased demand for
fifteen shillings, and not being in a good position for jumping,
encountered an unpleasant accident, and uttered a somewhat
vehement exclamation. " There," said he, " now I've cut my-
self, and it's your fault. Oh dear; oh dear! When I cut
myself there it never stops. It's no good doing that, Margaret :;
it only makes it worse. There ; now you've got the soap and
blood all down inside my shirt."

Mrs. Tappitt on this occasion was oabjected to some traible.

62 KACHEL RAT.

for the wound en Mr. Tappilt's cheek-bone declined to be
sianched at once; but she gained her object, and got the dresses
for hor daughters. It was not taken by them as a drawback on
their happiness that they had to make the dresses themselves,
for they were accustomed to such work; but this necessity
joiaed to all other preparations for the party made them very
busy. Till twelve at night on three evenings they sat with,
their smart new things in their laps and their needles in their
hands , but they did not begrudge this, as Mrs. Butler Combury
was coming to the brewery. They were very anxious to get the
heavy part of the work done before the Rowans should arrive,
doubting whether they would become sufficiently intimate with
Mary to tell her all their little domestic secrets, and do theit
work in the presence of their new friend during the first day of
her sojourn in the house. So they toiled like slaves on the
Wednesday and Thursday in order that they might walk about
like ladies on the Friday and Saturday.

But the list of their guests gave them more trouble thaji
aught else. Whom should they get to meet Mrs. Butler Com-
bury 1 At one time Mrs. Tappitt had proposed to word certain
of her invitations with a special view to this end. Had her
idea been carried out people who might not otherwise have come
were to be tempted by a notification that they were especially
asked to meet IMrs. Butler Combury. But Martha had said
that this she thought would not do for a dance. " People do do
it, my dear," Mrs. Tappitt had pleaded.

"ITot for dancing, mamma," said Martha. "Besides, she
would be sure to hear of it, and perhaps she might not Uke it."

" WeU, I don't know," said Mrs. Tappitt. " It would show
that we appreciated her kindness." The plan, however, was
abandoned.

Of the Baslehurst folk there were so few that were fitted to
meet Mrs. Butler Combury ! There was old Miss Harford, the
rector's daughter. She was fit to meet anybody in the county,
and, as she was good-natured, might probably come. But she
was an old maid, and was never very bright in her attire.
"Perhaps Captain Gordon's lady would come," Mrs. Tappitt
suggested. But at this proposition aU the girls shook their
heads. Captain Gordon had lately taken a viUa close to Basle-
hurst, but had shown himself averse to any intercourse with
the townspeople. Mrs. Tappitt had called on his "lady," and

PEEPAliATIONS FOE MRS. TAPPITT'S PARTS'. 63

the call had not even heen returned, a card having been sent hj
post in an envelope.

"It would do no good, mamma," said Martha, "and she
would only make us -uncomfortable if she did come."

" She is always awfully stuck up in church," said Augusta.

"And her nose is red at the end," said Cherry.

Therefore no invitation was sent to Captain Gordon's house.

"K we could only get the Fawcetts," said Augusta. The
Fawcetts were a large family living in the centre of Baslehurst,
in which there were four daughters, all noted for dancing, and
noted also for being the merriest, nicest, and most popular girls
in Devonshire. There was a fat good-natured mother, and a
thin good-natured father who had once been a banker at Exeter.
Everybody desired to know the Fawcetts, and they were the
especial favourites of Mrs. Butler Cornbury. But then Mi's.
Fawcett did not visit IMrs. Tappitt. The girls and the mothers
h.ad a bowing acquaintance, and were always very gracious to
jach other. Old Fawcett and old Tappitt saw each other in
town daily, and knew each other as well as they knew the cross
in the butter-market ; but none of the two families ever went
into each other's houses. It had been tacitly admitted among
them that the Fawcetts were above the Tappitts, and so the
matter had rested. But now, if anything could be done? "Mrs.
Butler Cornbury is aU very well, of course," said Aug^ista, " but
it would be so nice for Mary Eowan to see the Miss Fawcetts
dancing here."

Martha shook her head, but at last she did write a note in
the mother's name. "My girls are having a little dance, to
welcome a friend from London, and they would feel so much
obliged if your young ladies would come. Mrs. Butler Cornbury
has been kind enough to say that she would join us, &c., &c.,
&c." Mrs. Tappitt and Augusta were in a seventh heaven of
happiness when Mrs. Fawcett wrote to say that three of her
girls would be dehghted to accept the invitation; and even the~
discreet Martha and the less ambitious Cherry were well pleased,

"I declare I think we've been very fortunate," said Mrs.
Tappitt. .

"Only the Miss Fawcetts will get aU the best partners, said
Cherry.

"I'm not so sure of that," said Augusta, holding up hei head.

But there had been yet another trouble. It was difficult for

EACn'AL lU1t.

tliem to get people proper to meet Mrs. Butler Combuij ; but
what must they do as to those people who must come and who
were by no means proper to meet her ? There were the Griggsea
for instance, who lived out of town in a wonderfully red brick
house, the family of a retired Baslehurst grocer. They had been
asked before Mrs. Cornbury's caU had been made, or, I fear,
their chance of coming to the party would have been small.
There was one young Griggs, a man very terrible in his
vulgarity, loud, rampant, conspicuous with viUanous jewellery,
and odious with the worst abominations of perfumery. He was
loathsome even to the Tappitt girls; but then the Griggses and
the Tappitts had known each other for haK a century, and
among their ordinary acquaintances Adolphus Griggs might
have been endured. But what should they do when he asked
to be introduced to Josceline Fawcett t Of all men he was the
most unconscious of his own defects. He had once shown
some symptoms of admiration for Cherry, by whom he was
hated with an intensity of dishke that had amounted to a
passion. She had begged that he might be omitted from the
list ; but Mrs. Tappitt was afraid of angering their father.

The Eules also would be much in the way. Old Joshua
Eule was a maltster, living in Cawston, and his wife and
daughter had been asked before the accession of the Butler
Cornbury dignity. Old Eule had supplied the brewery with
malt almost ever since it had been a brewery; and no more
harmless people than Mis. Eule and her daughter existed in the
neighbourhood; but they were close neighbours of the Comforts,
of Mrs. Cornbury's father and mother, and Mr. Comfort would
have as soon asked his sexton to have dined with him as the
Eules. The Eules never expected such a thing, and therefore
lived on very good terms with the clergyman. "I'm afraid she
wont Eke meeting Mrs. Eule," Augusta had said to her mother;
and then the mother had shaken her head.

Early in the week, before Eachel had accepted the invitation,
Cherry had written to her friend. "Of course you'll come,"
Cherry had said; "and as you may have some difficulty in
getting here and home again, I'll ask old Mrs. Eule to call for
you. I know shs'U have a place in the fly, and she's very good-
natured." In answer to this Eachel had written a separate note
to Cherry, telling her friend in the least boastful words which she
could use that provision had been already made for her comina

PREPAEATIONS FOK WRS, TAJTITT'S PARTY. C>5

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
<Fould be desirahle. But will it not be sweet, Mrs. Eay, when
we are bound together as one family, to pour forth our prayers
in holy conununion together?"

'I thiak so much of my own parish church, Mr. Piong,"
Mrs. Eay replied. After that Mr. Prong did not, on that
occasion, press the matter further, and soon turned round his
chair so as to relieve the three ladies behind him.

"I thiuk we had better be going, Mr. Prong," said Mrs.
Prime, rising from her seat with a display of anger in. the very
motion of her limbs. " Good-evening, mother : good-evening to
you, Eachel. I'm afraid our visit has put you out. Had I
guessed as much, we would not have come."

" Tou know, DoUy, that I am always glad to see yon, — only
you come to us so seldom," said Rachel. Then with a very cold
bow to Miss Pucker, with a very warm pressure of the hand
from Mr. Prong, and with a sisterly embrace for Dorothea, that
was not cordial as it should have been, she bade them good-bye.
It was felt by all of them that the visit had been a failure ; — ^it
was felt so, at least, by all the Eay family. Mr. Prong had
achieved a certain object in discussing his marriage as a thing
settled ; and as regarded Miss Pucker she also had achieved
a certain object in eating cake and drinking wine in Mrs.
Eay's parlour.

For some weeks after that but little had been seen of Mrs.
Prime at the cottage; and nothing had been said of her
matrimonial prospects. Eachel did not once go to her sister's
lodgings ; and, on the few occasions of their meeting, asked
no questions as to Mr. Prong. Indeed, as the days and
weeks went on, her heart became too heavy to admit of her
asking any questions about the love affairs of others. She
stm went about her work, as I have before said. She was
not ill, — not ill so as to demand the care due to an invalid.
But she moved about the house slowly, as though her Umbs
were too heavy for her. She spoke Uttle, unless when her
mother addressad her. She would sit for hours on the sofa
doing nothing, reading nothing, and looking at nothing. But
still, at the postman's moming hours, she would keep her
eye upon the road over which he came, and that dull loot
of despair would come across her face when he passed oa
without calling at the cot*;tig9.

J1L3. ILA.Y GOES TO EXllTEK. 239

But on a certain morning towards the end of the six weeia
the postman did call, as indeed he had called on other days,
though bringing -with him no letter from Luke Eowan.
2!feither now, on this occasion, did he hritig a letter from
Luke Eowan. The letter was addressed to Mrs. Eay ; and,
as Rachel well knew from the handwriting, it was fi.'om the
gentleman who managed her mother's little money matters,
— the gentleman who had succeeded to the business left by
Mr. Eay when he died. So Eachel took the letter up to
her mother and left it, saying that it was from Mr. Goodall.

Mis. Eay's small income arose partly from certain cottages
in Baslehurst, which had been let in lump to a Baslehurst
tradesman, and partly from shares in a gas company at Exeter.
IS"o"w the gas company at Exeter was the better investment
of the t-wo, and was considered to be subject to less uncertainty
than the cottages. The lease under which the cottages had
been let was out, and Mrs. Eay had been advised to sell the
property. Building ground near the town was rising in value ,
and she had been advised by Mr. Goodall to part with her
little estate. Both Mrs. Eay and Eachel were aware that this
business, to them very important, was imminent ; and now had
come a letter from Mr. Goodall, saying that Mrs. Eay must go
to Exeter to conclude the sale. " We should only bungle
matters," Mr. Goodall had said, " if I were to send the deeds
down to you ; and as it is absolutely necessary that you should
understand all about it, I think you had better come up on
Tuesday; you can get back to Baslehurst easily on the same
day." "

" My dear," said Mrs. Eay coming into the parlour, " I must
go to Exeter."

" To-day, mamma f

" No, not to-day, but on Tuesday. Mr. Goodall says
I must understand aU about the sale. It is a dreadful
trouble."

But, dreadful as the trouble was, it seemed that Mrs. Eay
was not made unhappy by the prospect of the little expedition.
She fussed and fretted as ladies do on such occasions, but — as is
also common with ladies, — the excitement of the journey, was
upon the whole, a gratification to her. She asked Eachel to
accompany her, and at first pressed her to do so strongly ; but
•uch work at the present moment was not ia ace«rd with

24U KACHEL EAT.

Eaxiliel's mood, and at last she escaped from it under the

plea of expense.

"I think it would he foolish, mamma," she said. "ISTow
that Dolly has gone you ^-tR be run very close ; and when Mr.
Goodall first spoke of selling the cottages, he said that perhaps
you might be without anythiag from them for .a quarter."

" But he has sold them now, my dear ; and there will he the
money at once."

" I don't see why you should throw away ten and sixpence,
mamma," said Eachel.

And as she spoke in that resolved and masterful tone, her
mother, of course, gave up the point. So when the Tuesday
morning came, she went with her mother only as far as the
station.

" Don't mind meeting me, because I can't be sure about the
train," said l\Irs. Eay. "But I shall be back to-night,
certainly."

"And I'U wait tea for you,'' said Eachel. Then, when her
mother was gone, she walked back to the cottage by herself.

She walked back at once, but took a most devious course.
She was determined to avoid the length of the High Street, and
she was determined also to avoid Brewery Lane; but she was
equally determined to pass through the churchyard. So she
walked down from the railway station to the hamlet at the
bottom of the hiU below the church, and from thence went up
by the field-path to the stUe. In order to accomplish this she
went fully two miles out of her way, and now the sun over her
head was very hot. But what was the distance or the heat of
the sun to her wlien her object was to stand for a few moments
in that place ? Her visit, however, to the spot which was so
constantly in her thoughts did her no good. "Why had she
been so injured? Why had this sacrifice of herself been d^
manded from her 1 As she sat for a moment on the stUe this
was the matter that filled her breast. She had been exalted to
the heavens when she first heard her mother speak of Mr.
Eowan as an acceptable suitor. She had been filled with joy as
though Paradise had been opened to her, when she found herself
to be the promised bride of Luke Eowan. Then had come her
lover's letter, and the clergyman's counsel, and her own reply;
and after that the gates of her Paradise had been closed acainst
her ! " I wonder whether it's the same thing to him," she said

MRS. KAY GOES TO EXETEE. 241

to herself. " But I suppose not. I don't think it can bo the
sumo thing or he would come. "Wouldn't I go to him if I were
five as he is !" She haroly rested in the churohj^arii, and then
Walked on between the elms at a quick pace, with a heart sore,
—sore almost to breaking. She would never have been brought
to this condition had not her mother told her that she might
love him ! Thence came her vexation of spirit. There was the
cruelty. All the world knew that this man had been her lover ;
— all her world knew it. Cherry Tappitt had sung her little
witless song about it. Mrs. Tappitt had called at the cottage
about it. Mr. Comfort had given his advice about it. Mrs.
Cornbury had whispered to her about it out of her pony
carriage. Mrs. Sturt had counselled her about it. Mr. Prong
had thought it very wrong on her part to love the man. Mr.
Sturt had thought it very right, and had offered his assistance.
All this would have been as nothing had her lover remained to
her. Cherry might have simg tUl her little throat was tired,
and Mr. Prong might have expressed his awe with outspread
hands, and have looked as though he expected the skies to fall.
Had her Paradise not been closed to her, all this talking would
have been a thing of course. But such talking, — such wide-
spread knowledge of her condition, with the gates of her
Paradise closed against her, was verj" hard to bear ! And who
had closed the gates 1 Her own hands had done it. He, her
lover, had not deserted her. He had done for her all that truth
and earnestness demanded, and perhaps as much as love required.
!Men were not so soft as girls, she argued within her own breast.
I^et a man be ever so true it could not be expected that he
sliould stand by his love after he had been treated with such
cold indifference as had been shown in her letter ! She would
liave stood by her love, let his letter have been as cold as it
might. But then she was a woman, and her love, once en-
couraged, had become a necessity to her. A man, she said to
herself, would be more proud but less stanch. Of course she
would hear no more from him. Of course the gates of her
Paradise were shut. Such were her thoughts as she walked
home, and such the thoughts over which she sat brooding alone
throughout the entire day.

At half-past seven in the evening Mrs. Eay came back home,
wearily trudging across the green. She was very weary, for she
had now walked above two miles from the station. She had

242 KACHEL EAY.

also been on her feet half tlie day, and, wliich was probably
worse tban aU the rest had she known it, she had travelled
nearly eighty miles by railway. She was very tired, and would
under ordinary circumstances have been disposed to reckon up
her grievances in the evening quite as accurately as Eachel had
reckoned hers ui the morning. But something had occurred in
Exeter, the recollection of which still overcame the sense and
weariness which Mrs. Eay felt; — overcame it, or rather over-
topped it ; so that when Eachel came out to her at the cottage
door she did not speak at once of her own weariness, but looked
lovingly into her daughter's face, — lovingly and anxiously, and
said some little word intended to denote affection.

" You must be very tired," said Eachel, who, with many self-
reproaches and much communiag withiu her own bosom, had
for the time vanquished her own hard humour.

" Yes, I am tired, my dear ; very. I thought the train never
would have got to the Baslehurst station. It stopped at 9,11 the
little stations, and really I think I could have walked as fast."
A dozen years had not as yet gone by since the velocity of
these trains had been so terrible to Mrs. Eay that she had
hardly dared to get into one of them !

"And whom have you seen?" said Eachel.

"Seen!" said Mrs. Eay. "Who told you that I had seen
anybody?"

" I suppose you saw Mr. GoodaU."

" Oh yes, I saw him of course. I saw him, and the cottages
are aU sold. "We shall have seven pounds ten a year more than
before. I'm sure it will be a very great comfort. Seven pounds
ten will buy so many things."

" But ten pounds would buy more."

" Of course it would, my dear. And I told Mr. GoodaU I
wished he could make it ten, as it would make it sound so much
more regular like ; but he said he couldn't do it because the gas
has gone up so much. He could have done it if I had sixty
pounds, but of course I hadn't."

" But, mamma, whom did you see except Mr. GoodaU 1 I
know you saw somebody, and you must teU me."

"That's nonsense, Eachel. You can't know that I saw
anj^body." It may, however, be weU to explain at once the
cause of Mrs. Bay's hesitation, and that this may be done in
the proper course, we will go back to her journey to Exetet

MRS. KAY GOES TO EXETER. 243

AU the incidents of her day may be told very shortly ; hnt
there was ono incident in her day which filled her with so much
anxiety, and almost dismay, that it must he narrated.

Oa arriving at Exeter she got into an omnibus which would
have taken her direct to Mr. Goodall's office Lu the Close ; but
she was miuded to call at a shop in the High Street, and had
herself put down at the corner of one of those passages which
lead from the High Street to the Close. She got down from
the step of the vehicle, very carefully, as is the wont with
middle-aged ladies from the country, and turned round to walk
directly iuto the shop ; but before her, on the pavement, she
saw Luke Eowan. He was standing close to her, so that it was
impossible that they should have pretended to miss seeing each
other, even had they been so minded. Any such pretence
would have been impossible to Mis. Eay, and would have been
altogether contrary to Luke Eowan's nature. He had been
coming out of the shop, and had been arrested at once by
Mrs. Ray's figure as he saw it emerging from the door of the
omnibus.

•' How d'you do ?" said he, coming forward with outstretched
hand, and speaking as though there was nothing between him
and Mrs. Ray which required any peculiar word or tone.

" Oh, Mr. Eowan ! is this you ?" said she. " Dear, dear !
I'm sure I didn't expect to see you in Exeter."

"I dare say not, Mrs. Eay; and I didn't expect to see
you. But the odd thing is I've come here about the same
business as you, though I didn't know anything about it till
yesterday."

" "What business, Mr. Eowan ?"

" I've bought your cottages in. Baslehurst."

" But I have, and I've paid for them too, and you're going
this very minute to Mr. GoodaU to sign the deed of sale. Isn't
that true ? So you see I know aU about it."

" Well, that is strange ! Isn't it, now?"

" The fact is I must have a bit of land at Baslehurst foi
building. Tappitt will go on fighting ; and as I don't mean to
be beaten, I'll have a place of my own there."

"And you'll pull down the cottages?"

" If I don't pull him down first, so as to get the old brewery.
I was obHged te buy joxn bit of ground now, as I might not

244 RACHEL RAY.

have been able to get any ju&t wlien I wanted it. YouHe sold
it a deal too cheap. You tell Mr. Goodall I say so."

" But lie says I'm to gain something by selling it."

" Does he i If it is so, I'm very glad of it. I only came
down from London yesterday to finish this piece of business,
and I'm going back to-day."

During all this time not a word had been said about Eachel.
He had not even asked after her in the ordinary way in which
men ask after their ordinary acquaintance. He had not looked
as though he were in the least embarrassed in speaking to
liachel's mother, and now it seemed as though he were going away,
as though all had been said between them that he cared to say.
Mrs. Eay at the first moment had dreaded any special word ; but
now, as he was about to leave her, she felt disappointed that no
special word had been spoken. But he was not as yet gone.

" I KteraUy haven't a minute to spare," he said, offering her
his hand for a second time ; " for I've two or three people to see
before I get to the train."

" Good-bye," said Mrs, Eay.

" Good-bye, Mrs. Eay. I don't thiak I've been very well
treated among you. I don't indeed. But I won't say any more
about that at present. Is she quite weU?"

" Pretty well, thank you," said she, aU. of a tremble.

" I won't send her any message. As things are at present, no
message would be of any service. Good-bye." And so saying
he went from her.

Mrs. Eay at that moment had no time for making up her
miad as to what she would do or say in consequence of this
meeting, — or whether she would do or say anything. She
looked forward to aU the leisure time of her journey home for
thinking of that ; so she finished her shopping and hurried on
to Mr. Goodall's office without resolving whether or no she
would tell Eachel of the encounter. At Mr. Goodall's ghe
remained some Uttle time, dining at that gentleman's house, as
well as signing the deed, and asking questions about the gas
company. He had grateful recollections of kindnesses received
from Mr. Eay, and always exercised his hospitality on those
rare occasions which brought Mrs. Eay up to Exeter. As they
pat at table he asked questions about the yoimg purchaser of the
property which somewhat perplexed Mrs. Eay. Yes, she said,
she did knnw him. She had ji:st met him in the street and

MES. KAY GOES TO EXETEfi. 245

heard Ms news. Young Eowan, she told her friend, had heen at
the cottage more than once, but no mention had been made of
his desire to buy these cottages. Was he well spoken of in
iJaslehuist? Well; — she was so little in Baslehurst that she
hardly knew. She had heard that he had quarrelled with Mr.
Tappitt, and she believed that many people had said that he was
wrong in his quarrel. She knew nothing of his property j but
certainly had heard somebody say that he had gone away
without paying his debts. It may be easily conceived how
miserable and ineffective she would be under this cross-examina-
tion, although it was made by Mr. GoodaU. without any allusion
to Rachel.

"At any rate we have got our money," said Mr. GoodaU;
" and I suppose that's all we care about. But I should say he's
rather a harum-scarum sort of fellow. Why he should leave his
debts behind him I can't understand, as he seems to have plenty
of money."

All this made Mrs. Eay's task the more difficult. During the
last two or three weeks she had been wishing that she had not
gone to Mr. Comfoi-t, — wishing that she had allowed Eaohel to
ajiswer Eowan's letter in any terms of warmest love that she
might have chosen, — ^wishing, in fact, that she had permitted
the engagement to go on. But now she began again to think
that she had been right. If this man were in truth a harum-
scarum fellow was it not well that Eaehel should be quit of him,
— even with any amount of present sorrow 1 Thinking of this
on her way back to Baslehurst she again made up her mind that
Eowan was a wolf. But she had not made up her mind as to
what she would, or what she would not tell Eaehel about the
meeting, even when she reached her own door. " I will send
her no message," he had said. '' As things are at present no
message would be of service." What had he meant by thisi
What purpose on his part did these words indicate? These
questions ilrs. Eay had asked herself, but had failed to answei
them.

But no resolution on Mrs. Eay's part to keep the meeting
secret would have been of avail, even had she made such
resolution. The fact would have fallen from her as easily aa
water falls from a sieve. Eaohel would have extracted from her the
information, had she been ever so determined not to impart it.
As things had turned out she had at once given Eaehel to under-

RACHEL EAT.

stand that slie had met some one in Exeter whom she had not
expected to meet.

"But, mamma, whom did you see except Mr. Goodall?"
Eachel asked. " I know you saw somebody, and you must tell
me."

"That's nonsense, Eachel; you can't know that I saw
anybody."

After that there was a pause for some moments, and then
Eachel persisted in her inquiry. " But, mamma, I do know
that you met somebody." — Then there was another pause. —
" Mamma, was it Mr. Eowan i"

Mrs. EJay stood convicted at once. Had she not spoken a
word, the form of her countenance when the question was asked
would have answered it with sufficient clearness. But she did
speak a word. " Well ; yes, it was Mr. Eowan. He had come
down to Exetev on business."

" And what did he say, mamma t"

" He didn't say anything, — at least, nothing particular. It is
he that has bought the cottages, and he had come down from
London about that. He told me that he wanted some ground
near Baslehurst, because he couldn't get the brewery."

" And what else did he say, mamma 1"

" I tell you that he said nothing else."

" He didn't didn't mention me then 1"

" Mrs. Eay had been looking away from Eachel during this
conversation, — ^had been purposely looking away from her.
But now there was a tone of agony in her child's voice which
forced her to glance round. Ah me ! She beheld so piteous an
expression of woe in Eachel's face that her whole heart was
melted mthin her, and she began to wish instantly that they
might have Eowan back again with aU his faults.

" TeU me the truth, mamma ; I may as weL. know it."

" Well, my dear, he didn't mention your name, but he did say
a word about you."

""What word, mamma?"

" He said he would send no message because it would be no
good."

" He said that, did he ?"

" Yes, he said that. And so I suppose he meant it would be
no good sending anything tU] he came himself."

"ifo, mamma J he didn't mean quite that. I understand

DOMESTIC POLITICS A.T THE BEEWEEY. 247

•what he meant. As it is to be so, te was quite right. No
message could he of any use. It has been my own doing,
and 1 have no right to blame him. Mamma, if you don't
mind, I think I'U go to bed."

" My dear, you're wrong. I'm sure you're wrong. He didn't
mean that."

"Didn't he, mamma?" And as she spoke a sad, weary,
wobegone smile came over her face, — a smile so sad and
piteous that it went to her mother's heart more keenly than
would have done any sound of sorrow, any sobs, or waU of
grief. " But I think he did mean that, mamma. It's no good
doubting or fearing any longer. It's all over now."

" And it has been my fault !"

" No, dearest. It has not been your fault, nor do I think
that it has been mine. I think we'd better not talk of faults.
Ah dear ; — I do wish he had never come here !"

" Perhaps it may be all well yet, Eachel."

" Perhaps it may, — iu another world. It will never be well
again for me in this. Good night, mamma. You must never
think that I am angry with you."

Then she went upstairs, leaviag Mrs. Eay alone with hei
sorrow.

CHAPTEE XXIL

DOMESTIC POLITICS AT THE BREWERY.

In the meantime things were not going on very pleasantly
at the brewery, and Mr. Tappitt was making himself unpleasant
in the bosom of his famUy. A lawsuit wiU sometimes make a
man extremely pleasant company to his wife and children.
Even a losing lawsuit wOl sometimes do so, if he be well
backed up in his pugnacity by his lawyer, and if the matter of
the battle be one in which he can take a dehght to fight. " Ah,"
a man wiU say, "though I spend a thousand pounds over it.

248 RACHEL EAT.

I'll stick to Mm like a 'burr. He shan't shake me off." An<\

at such times he is almost sure to he in a good humour, and
in a generous mood. Then let his wife ask him for money
for a dinner-party, and his daughters for new dresses. He
has taught himself for the moment to disregard money, and
to think that he can sow five-pound notes broadcast without
any inward pangs. But such was hy no means the case with
Mr. Tappitt. His lawyer Honyman was not backing him up ;
and as cool reflection came upon him he was afraid of trusting
his interests to those other men, Sharpit and Longfite. And
Mrs. Tappitt, when cool reflection came on her, had begun
to dread the ruin which it seemed possible that terrible young
man might inflict upon them. She had learned already, though
Iilrs. Eay had not, how false had been that report which had
declared Luke Eowan to be frivolous, idle, and in debt. To
her it was very manifest that Honyman was afraid of the young
man ; and Honyman, though he might not be as keen as some
others, was at any rate honest. Honyman also thought that if
the brewery were given up to Eowan that thousand a year
which had been promised would be paid regularly ; and to
this solution of the difficulty Mrs. Tappitt was gradually
bending herself to submit as the best which an untoward
fate offered to them. Honyman himself had declared to her
that Jilr. Tappitt, if he were well advised, would admit Eowan
in as a partner, on equal terms as regarded power and ultimate
4)ossession, but with that lion's share of the immediate concern
for himself which Eowan offered. But this she knew that
Tappitt would not endure ; and she knew, also, that if he were
brought to endure it for a while, it would ultimately lead t&
terrible sorrows. " They would be knocking each other about
with the pokers, Mr. Honyman," she had said ; " and where
would the custom be when that got into the newspapers'!"
" If I were Mr. Tappitt, I would just let him have his own
way," Honyman had replied. " That shows that you don't
know Tappitt," had been Mrs. Tappitt's rejoinder. No ; —
the thousand a year and dignified retirement in a villa had
recommended itself to Mrs. Tappitt's mind. She would use
all her influence to attain that position, — if only she could
briug herself to feel assured that the thousand a year would
be forthcoming.

As to Tappitt himself^ he was by no means so anxious to

DOMESTIC POLITICS AT THE BKEAVEEY. 249

prolong tbe battle as he had been at the time of Rowan's
departure. His courage for fighting was not maintained by
good backing. Had Honyman clapped liim on the shoulder
and bade him put ready money in his purse, telling him
that aU would come out right eventually, and that Eowan
would be crushed, he would have gone into Baslehurst boasting
loudly, and would have been happy. Then ]\Irs. T. and the
girls would have had a merry time of it ; and the Tappitts
v/ould have come out of the contest with four or five hundred
a year for life instead of the thousand now offered to them, and
nobody would have blamed anybody for such a result. But
Honyman had not spirit for such backing. In his dull, slow,
droning way he had shaken his head and said that things were
looking badly. Then Tappitt had cursed and had sworn, and
had half resolved to go to Sharpit and Longfite. Sharpit and
Longfite would have clapped him on the back readdy enough,
and have bade him put plenty of money in his purse. But we
may suppose that Tate did not intend the ruin of Tappitt,
seeing that she did not make him mad enough to seek the
counsels of Sharpit and Longfite. Pate only made him very
cross and unpleasant in the bosom of his family. Looking
out himself for some mode of escape from this temble enemy
that had come upon him, he preferred the raising of the sum of
money which would be necessary to buy off Eowan altogether.
Eowan had demanded ten thousand pounds, but Tappitt still
thought that seven, or, at any rate, eight thousand would do it.

" I don't think he'U take less than ten," said Honyman,
"because his share is really worth as much as that."

This was very provoking ; and who can wonder that Tappitt
was not pleasant company in his own house t

On the day after Mrs. Eay's visit to Exeter, Tappitt, as was
now his almost daily practice, made his way into Mr. Honyman's
little back room, and sat there with his hat on, discussing his
affairs.

" I find that IMr. Eowan has bought those cottages of the
widow Eay's," said Honyman.

" Nonsense !" shouted Tappitt, as though such a purchase on
Eowan's part was a new injury done to himself.

" Oh, but he has," said Honyman. " There's not a doubt in
life about it. If he does mean to buUd a new brewery, it
wouldn't be a bad place. You see it's oiit of the thorough-

250 RACHEL KAY.

fare of tne to-wn, and yet, as one may say, within a stone's
throw of the High Street."

I will not repeat Mr. Tappitt's exclamation as he listened to
these suggestions of his lawyer, but it was of a nature to show
that he had not heard the news with indifference.

"You see he's such a fellow that you don't know where to
have him," continued Honyman. " It's not only that he don't
mind ruining you, but he don't mind ruining himself either."

" I don't believe he's got anything to lose."

" Ah ! that's where you're wrong. He has paid ready money
for this bit of land to begin with, or GoodaU would never have
let him have it. GoodaU knows what he's about as weU. as any
man."

"And do you mean to tell me that he's going to put up
buildings there at once?" And Tappitt's face as he asked the
question would have softened the heart of any ordinary lavryer.
But Honyman was one whom nothing could harden and nothing
soften.

" I don't know what he's going to put up, Mr. Tappitt, and I
don't know when. But I know this well enough ; that when a
man buys little bits of property about a place it shows that he
means to do something there."

" If he had twenty thousand pounds, he'd lose it aU."

" That's very likely ; but the question is, how would you fare
in the mean time ? If he hadn't this claim upon you, of course
you'd let him build what he Uked, and only laugh at him."
Then Mr. Tappitt uttered another exclamation, and pulling hia
hat tighter on to his head, walked out of the lawyer's ofB.ce and
returned to the brewery.

They dined at three o'clock at the brewery, and during dinner
on this day the father of the family made himself very disagree-
able. He scolded the maid-servant tiU the poor girl didn't know
the spoons from the forks. He abused the cook's performances
tUl that valuable old retainer declared that if " master got so
rumpageous he might suit hisseK, the sooner the better; she
didn't care how soon ; she'd cooked victuals for his betters and
would again." He snarled at his daughters tiU they perked up
their faces and came silently to a mutual agreement that they
would not condescend to notice him further while he held on in
his present mood. And he replied to his wife's questions, —
questions intended to be soothing and kindly conjugal, — ^in such

DOMESTIC POLITICS AT THE BKEWERY. 251

a tone that she determined to have it out -with him before she
allowed him to go to bed. " She kaeyr her duty," she said to
herself, "and she could stand a good deal. But there were
some things she couldn't stand and some things that weren't her
duty." After dinner Tappitt took himself out at once to his
office in the brewery, and then, for the first time, saw the
'Baslehurst Gazette and Totnes Chronicle' for that week.
The 'Baslehurst Gazette and Totnes Chronicle' was an enter-
prising weekly newspaper,' which had been originally intended
to convey on Sunday mornings to the inhabitants of South
Devonshire the news of the past week, and the paper still bore
the dates of successive Sundays. But it had gradually pushed
itself out into the light of its own world before its own date,
gaining first a night and then a day, till now, at the period of
which I am speaking, it was published on the Priday morning.

" You ought just to look at this," a burly old foreman had
said, handing hira the paper in question, with his broad thumb
placed upon a certain column. This foreman had known
BungaU, and though he respected Tappitt, he did not fear him.
" You should just look at this. Of course it don't amount to
nothing; but it's as well to see what folks say." And he
handed the paper to his master, almost making a hole in it by
screwing his thumb on to the spot he wished to indicate.

Tappitt read the article, and his spirit was very bitter within
him. It was a criticism on his own beer written in no friendly
tone. " There is no reason," said the article, " why Baslehurst
should be flooded with a liquor which nc Christian ought to be
asked to drink. Baslehurst is as capable of judging good beer
from bad as any town in the British empire. Let Mr. Tappitt
look to it, or some young rival will spring up beneath his feet
and seize from his brow the hop-leaf wreath which BungaU won
and wore." This attack was the more cruel because the paper
had originally been established by BungaH's money, and had, in
old days, been altogether devoted to the BungaU interest. That
this paper should turn against him was very hard. But what
else had he a right to expect? It was known that he had
promised his vote to the Jew candidate, and the paper in
question supported the Cornbury interest. A man that lives in
a glass house should throw no stones. The brewer who brews
bad beer should vote for nobody.

But Tappitt would not regard thia attack upon him in ita

252 RACHEL BAY.

proper political light. Every evil at present falling upon Mm
was supposed to come from his present enemy. " It's that dirty
underhand hlackguard," he said to the foreman.

" I don't think so, Mr. Tappitt," said the foreman. " I don't
think so indeed."

" But I tell you it is," said Tappitt, " and I don't care what
you think."

"Just as you please, Mr. Tappitt," said the foreman, who
thereupon retired from the office, leaving his master to meditate
over the newspaper in solitude.

It was a very bitter time for the poor hrewer. He was one
of those men whose spirit is not wanting to them while the
noise and tumult of contest are around them, but who cannot
hold on by their own convictions in the quiet hours. He could
storm, and talk loud, and insist on his own way while men
stood around him listening and perhaps admiring ; but he was
cowed when left by himself to think of things which seemed to
be adverse. "What could he do, if those around him, who had
knovm him all his life as those newspaper people had known
him, — what could he do if they turned against him, and talked
of bad beer as Eowan had talked ] He was not man enough to
stand up and face this new enemy unless he were backed by his
old friends. Honyman had told nim that he -would be beaten.
How would it fare with him and his family if he were beaten 1
As he sat in his little office, with his hat low down over his
eyes, balancing himself on the hind legs of his chair, he abused
Honyman roundly. Had Honyman been possessed of wit, of
skill, of professional craft, — ^had he been the master of any in-
vention, aU might have been well. But the attorney was a fool,
an ass, a coward. Might it not be that he was a knave 1 But
luckily for Honyman, and luckily also for Mi. Tappitt himself,
this abuse did not pass beyond the precincts of Tappitt's own
breast. We all know how delightful is the privilege of abusing
our nearest friends after this fashion ; but we generally satisfy
ourselves with that limited audience to which Mr. Tappitt ad-
dressed himself on the present occasion.

In the mean time Mrs. Tappitt was sitting upstairs in the
brewery drawing room with her daughters, and she also was not
happy in her mind. She had been snubbed, and almost brow-
beaten, at dinner time, and she also had had a little conversation
iu private with Mr. Honyman. She had been snubbed, and,

DOMESTIC POLITICS AT THE BKEWEETf. 253

if she did not look well about her, she was going to be ruined.
"You mustn't let him go on with this law-suit," Mr. Hony-
man had said. " He'll certainly get the worst of it if he does,
and then he'U have to pay double." She disliked Eowan quite
as keenly as did her husband, but she was fully ahve to the
foUy of spiting Eowan by doing an injury to her own face.
She would speak to Tappitt that night very seriously, and in
the moan time she turned the Eowan controversy over in her
own mind, endeavouring to look at it from all sides. It had
never been her custom to make critical remarks on their father's
conduct to any of the girls except Martha ; but on the present
great occasion she waived that rule, and discussed the family
affairs in full female family conclave. " I don't know what's
come over your papa," she began by saying. " He seems quite
beside himself to-day."

" I think he is troubled about Mr. Eowan and this lawsuit,"
said the sagacious Martha.

" ISTasty man ! I wish he'd never come near the place,'' said
Augusta.

" I don't know that he's veiy nasty either," said Cherry.
" We aU liked him when he was staying here."

"But to be so false to papa!" said Augusta. "I call it
swindling, do"vvnright swindling."

" One should know and understand all about it before one
speaks in that way," said Martha. "I dare say it is very
vexatious to papa ; but after aU perhaps Mr. Eowan may have
some right on his side."

" I don't know about right," said Mrs. Tappitt. " I don't
think he can have any right to come and set himself up here in
opposition, as one may say, to the very ghost of his own uncle.
I agree with Augusta, and think it is a very dirty thing to do."

" Quite shameful," said Augusta, indignantly.

" But if he has got the law on his side," continued Mrs.
Tappitt, "it's no good your papa trying to go against that.
Where should we be if we were to lose everything and be told
to pay more money than your papa has got. It wouldn't be
very pleasant to be turned out of the house."

" I don't think he'd ever do it," said Cherry.

" I declare, Cherry, I think you are in love with the man,"
said Augusta.

" If I ain't I know who was," said Cherry.

254 RACHEL EAT.

" As for love," said Mrs. Tappitt, " we all kuoiv vrho is ir
lore with him,-^nasty little sly miax ! In the whole matter
nothing makes me so angry as to think that she should have
come here to our dance."

"That was Cherry's doing," said Augusta. This remark
Cherry noticed only hy a grimace addressed specially to her
sister. A battle in Eachel's favour imder present circumstances
would have been so losing an affair that Cherry had not pluck
enough to adventure it on her friend's behalf.

" But the question is, — ^what are we to do about the lawsiut V
said Mrs. Tappitt. " It is easy to see from your papa's manner
that he is very much harassed. He won't admit him. as a
partner ; — ^that's certain."

" Oh, dear ! I should hope not,'' said Augusta.

" That's all very well," said Martha j " but if the young man
can prove his right, he must have it. Mamma, do you know
what Mr. Honyman says about it 1"

" Yes, my dear, I do." Mrs. Tappitt's manner became very-
solemn, and the girls listened with all their ears. " Yes, my
dear, I do. Mr. Honeyman thinks your father should give
way."

"And take bim in as a partner?" said Augusta. "Papa has
got that spirit that he couldn't do it."

" It doesn't foUow that your papa should take Mr. Eowan in
as a partner because he gives up the lawsuit. He might pay
him the money that he asks."

" But has he got it," demanded Martha.

" Besides, it's such a deal ; isn't it 1" said Augusta.

" Or," continued Mrs. Tappitt, " your papa might accept his
offer by retiring with a very handsome income for us aU. Youi
papa has been in business for a great many years, working like a
galley-slave. Nobody knows how he has toiled and moUed,
except me. It isn't any joke being a brewer, — and having it all
on himself as he has had. And if young Eowan ever begins it,
I wish him joy of it."

" But would he pay the income t" Martha asked.

" Mr. Honyman says that he would ; and if he did not,
there would be the property to fall back upon."

" And where should we live," said Cherry.

"That can't be settled quite yet. It must be somewhere
near, ao that your papa might keep an eye on tha concern, and

DOMESTIC POLniCS AT THE BREWEEY.

know that it was going all right. Perhaps Torquay would he
the best place."

" Torquay would be delicious," said Cherry.

"And would that man come and live at the brewery?" said
Augusta.

" Of course he would, if he pleased," said Martha.

"And bring Eachel Eay with him as his wife?" said Cherry.

" He'll never do that," said Mrs. Tappitt with energy.

"ISTever; never!" said Augusta, — ^with more energy.

In this way the large and influential feminine majority of the
family at the brewery was brought round to look at one of the
propositions made by Eowan without disfavour. It was not
that that young man's sins had been in any degree forgiven, but
that they all perceived, with female prudence, that it would be
injudicious to ruin themselves because they hated him. And
then to what lady living in. a dingy brick house, close adjoining
to the smoke and smells of beer-brewing, would not the idea of
a marine villa at Torquay be delicious? None of the family,
not even Mrs. Tappitt herself, had ever known what annual
profit had accrued to Mr. T. as the reward of his life's work.
But they had been required to live in a modest, homely way, —
as though that annual profit had not been great. Under the
altered circumstances, as now proposed, they would all know that
papa had a thousand a year to spend j — and what might not be
done at Torquay with a thousand a year ? Before Mr. Tappitt
came home for the evening, — which he did not do on that day
till past ten, having been detained, by business, in the bar of
the "Dragon" inn, — ^they had all resolved that the combined ease
and dignity of a thousand a year should be accepted.

Mr. Tappitt was still perturbed in spirit when he took himself
to the marital chamber. What had been the nature of the
business which had detained him at the bar of the " Dragon" he
did not condescend to say, but it seemed to have been of a
nature not well adapted to smooth his temper. Mrs. Tappitt
perhaps guessed what that business had been; but, if so, she
said nothing of the subject in direct words. One little remark
she did make, which may perhaps have had allusion to that
business.

"Bah!" she exclaimed, as Mr. Tappitt came near her; "if
ou must smoke at all I wish to goodness you'd smoke good
tobacco,"

256 EACHEL EAT.

" So I do," said Tappitt, turning round at her sharply. " It's
best mixed bird's-eye. As if you could know the difference,
indeed !"

" So I do, T. I know the difference very well. It's all
poison to me, — absolute poison, — ^as you're very well aware.
But that filthy strong stuff that you've taken to lately, is enough
to kiU anybody."

" I haven't taken to any filthy strong stuff," said Tappitt.

This was the beginning of that evening's conversation. I am
iaclined to think that IV&s. Tappitt had made her calculations,
and had concluded that she could put forth her coming observa-
tions more efficaciously by having her husband in a bad humour,
than she could, if she succeeded in coaxing him iato a good
humour. I think that she made the above remarks, not solely
because the fumes of tobacco were distasteful to her, but because
the possession of a grievance might give her an opportunity of
commencing the forthcoming debate with some better amount of
justified indignation on her own side. It was not often that
she begrudged Tappitt his pipe, or made ill-natured remarks
about his gin and water.

" T.," she said, when Tappitt had torn off his coat in some
anger at the allusion to ' filthy strong stuff,' — " T., what do you
mean to do about this lawsuit?"

" I don't mean to do anything."

" That's nonsense, T. ; you must do something, you kiiOT7.
What does Mr. Honyman say?"

" Honyman is a fool."

" ISTonsense, T. ; he's not a fool. Or if he is, why have you
let him manage your affairs so long? But I don't believe
he's a fool at aU. I believe he knows what he's talking about,
quite as weU as some others, who pretend to be so clever. As
to your going to Sharpit and Longfite, it is quite out of the
question."

" Whose talking of going to them V

" You did talk of it."

" Ifo I didn't. You heard me mention their names ; but 1
never said that I should go to them at all. I almost wish I had."

" N"ow, T., don't talk in that way, or you'll reaUy put me
beside myself."

" I don't want to talk of it at all. I only want to go to bed."

" But we must talk of it, T. It's all very well for you to £-&y

DOMESTIC POLITICS AT THE BEEWEKY.

you don't want to talk of things; but what is to hecome of
me and my girls if everything goes astray at the brewery 1 Yon
can't expect me to sit by quiet and see you ruined."

"Who talks about my being ruined?"

" Well, I believe all Baslehurst pretty well is talking about it.
If a man will go on with a lawsuit when his own lawyer says he
oughtn't, what else can come to him but ruin 1 "

" You don't know anythiag about it. I wish you'd hold yoxii
tongue, and let me go to bed."

"I do know something about it, Mr. Tappittj and I won't
hold my tongue. It's all very weU for you to bid me hold my
tongue ; but am I to sit by and see you ruined, and the girls left
without a bit to eat or a thing to wear? Goodness knows I've
never thought much about myself. ISTobody will ever say that
of me. But it has come to this, T. ; that something must be
settled about Eowan's claim. If he hasn't got justice, he's got
law on his side ; and he seems to be one of those who don't care
much as long as he's got that. If you ask me, T. — "

" But I didn't ask you," said Tappitt.

Tappitt never actually succumbed in these matrimonial
encounters, and would always maintain courage for a sharp
word, even to the last.

" No, I know you didn't ; — and more shame to you, not to
consult the wife of your bosom and the mother of your children,
when such an affair as this has to be settled. But if you think
I'm going to hold my tongue, you're mistaken. I know very
well how things are going. You must either let this young man
come in as a partner — "

"I'll be "

Tappitt would not have disgraced himself by such an exclama-
tion in his wife's bedroom as he then used if his business in the
bar of the " Dragon " had been legitimate.

" Very well, sir. I say nothing about the coarseness of your
language on the present occasion, though I might say a gitat
deal if I pleased. But if you don't choose to have him for a
partner, — why then you must do something else."

" Of course I must."

" Exactly ; — and therefore the only thing is for you to take
Vne offer of a thousand a year that he has made. Now, T., don't
r«gin cursing and swearing again, because you know that can't
4o any good. HonjTuan says that he'll pay the income ; — sauX

258 RACHEL EAT.

if he don't, — ^if he gets into arrear -with it, then you can corn's
down upon him and turn him out. Think how you'd like that !
You've only just to keep a little ready money by you, so that
you'll have something for six months or so, if he should get
into ariear."

" And I'm to give up everything myseK?"

" Ifo, T. ; you would not give up anything ; quite the other
way. You would have every comfort found you that any man
can possibly want. You can't go on at it always, toUing and
moiling as you're doing now. It's quite dreadful for a man
never to have a moment to himself at your time of life, and of
course it must teU on any constitution if it's kept up too long.
You're not the man you were, T, ; and of course you couldn't
expect it."

"Oh, bother!"

" That's all very well ; but it's my duty to see these things,
and to think of them, and to speak of them too. "Where should
I be, and the girls, if you was hurried into your grave by
working too hard?" Mrs. Tappitt's voice, as this terrible
suggestion fell from her, was almost poetic, through the depth
of its solemnity. " Do you think I don't know what it is tiiat
takes you to the ' Dragon' so late at night?"

" I don't go to the ' Dragon ' late at night."

" I'm not finding fault, T. ; and you needn't answer me so
sharp. It's only natural you should want something to sustain
you after such slavery as you have to go through. I'm not
unreasonable. I know very well what a man is, and what it is
he can do, and what he can't. It would be all very well your
going on if you had a partner you could trust."

" Ko thing on earth shall induce me to carry on with that
feUow."

" And therefore you ought to take him at his word and retire.
It would be the gentlemanlike thing to do. Of course you'd
have the power of g;rag over and seeing that things was straight.
And if we was living comfortable at some genteel place, such as
Torquay or the like, ot' course you wouldn't want to be going
out to Dragons every evening then. I shouldn't wonder if, in
two or three years, you didn't find yourself as strong as ever
again."

Tappitt, beneath the clothes, insisted that he was strong ; and
made some virilft Tftmart jja apswer to that further allusion t»

MBS. bay's penitence. 259

tli« "Dragon." He by no means gave way to his wife, or uttered
any word of assent; but the lady's scheme bad been made
known to him; the ice had been broken; and Mrs. Tappitt,
when she put out the candle, felt that she had done a good
evenina's work.

CHAPTER XXIIL

MBS. BAY 3 PENITENOE.

Another fortnight went by, and stUl nothing further was heard
at Bragg's End from Luke Rowan. Much was heard of him in
Baslehurst. It was soon known by everybody that he had
bought the cottages ; and there was a widely-spread and well-
credited rumour that he was going to commence the necessary
buildings for a new brewhouse at once. Nor were these tidings
received by Baslehurst with aU that horror, — ^with that loud
clamour of indignation, — ^which Tappitt conceived to be due to
them. Baslehurst, I should say, as a whole, received the tidings
with applause. Why should not Bungall's nephew carry on a
brewery of his own? Especially why should he not, if he were
resolved to brew good beer ] Very censorious remarks about
the Tappitt beer were to be heard in aU bar-rooms, and were
re-echoed with vehemence in the kitchens of the Baslehurst
aristocracy.

" It ain't beer," said Dr. Harford's cook, who had come from
the midland counties, and knew what good beer was. " It's a
nasty muddle of stuff, not fit for any Christisli who has to earn
her victuals over a kitchen fire."

It came to pass speedily that Luke Ecwan was expected to
build a new brewery, and that the (§vent of the first brick was
looked for with anxious expectation. And that false report
which had spread itself through Baslehurst respecting him and
his debts had taken itself off. It had been banished by a
cpntmry report; and there now existed in Baslehurst ^ very

2C?0 EACHEL EAT.

general belief that Eowan was a man of means, — of verjr con
siderable means, — a man of substantial capital, wliom to have
settled in the town -would he very beneficial to the community.
That false statement as to the bill at Griggs' had been sifted, .
and the truth made known, — and somewhat to the disgrace of
the Tappitt faction. The only article suppUed by Griggs to
Eowan's order had been the champagne consumed at Tappitt'a
supper, and for this Eowan had paid ready money within a week
of the transaction. It was Mrs. Combury who discovered all
this, and who employed means for making the truth known in
Baslehurst. This truth also became known at last to Mrs. Eay,
— ^but of what avail was it then 1 She had desired her daughter
to treat the yoimg man as a wolf, and as a wolf he had been
hounded off from her little sheep-cot. She heard now that he
was expected back at Baslehurst ; — that he was a wealthy man ;
that he was thought well of in the town ; that he was going to
do great things. "With what better possible husband could any
young woman have been blessed ? And yet she had turned him
away from her cottage as though he had been a wolf !

It was from Mrs. Sturt that Mrs. Eay first learned the truth.
Mr. Sturt was a tenant on the Combuiy estate, and Mrs. Sturt
was of course well known to Mrs. Combury. That lady, when
she had sifted to the bottom the story of Griggs' bUl, and had
assured herself that Eowan was by no means minded to sur-
render his interest in Baslehurst, determined that the truth
should be made known to Mrs. Eay. But she was not w illin g
to call on Mrs. Eay herself, nor did she wish to present herself
before Eachel at the cottage, unless she could briug with her
some more substantial comfort than could be afforded by simple
evidence as to Eowan's good character. She therefore took her-
self to Mrs. Sturt, and discussed the matter with her.

"I suppose she does care about him," said Mrs. Combury,
sitting iu Mrs. Sturt's little parlour that opened out upon the
kitchen garden. Mrs. Sturt was also seated, leaning on the
comer of the table, with the sleeves of her gown tucked up,
ready for work when the Squire's lady should be gone, but very
willing to postpone her work as long as the Squire's lady would
stay and gossip with her.

"Oh! that she do, Mrs. Butler, — ^in her heart of hearts.
If I know anything of true love^ she do love that young

TSLftD,"

ME3. bat's PENITENOT. 261

"And he did offer to her? There can be no doubt about
that, I suppose."

" JSTot a doubt on earth, Mrs. Eutler. She never told me so
outright,— nor yet didn't her mother;— but if he didn't, I'll
give my head for a cream cheese. Laws love you, Mrs. Butler,
I know what's what well enough. I know when a girl's wild
and flighty, and thinks of things as she oughtn't j — and I know
when she's proper behaved, and gives a young man encourage-
ment only when it becomes her."

" Of course you do, Mrs. Sturt."

" It isn't for me, Mrs. Butler, to say anything against your
papa. Kobody can have more respect for their clergyman than
Sturt has and I ; and before it was all settled like, Sturt never
had a word with Mr. Comfort about tithes ; but, Mrs. Butler,
I think your papa was wrong here. As far as I can learn, it
was he that told Mrs. Bay that this young man wasn't all that
he should be."

"Papa meant it for the best. There were strange thiugs
said about him, you know."

" I never believes one word of what I hears, and never will.
People are such liars j bean't they, Mrs. Butler ? And I didn't
believe a word again him. He's as fine a young man as you'd
wish to see in a hundred years, and of course that goes a long
way with a young woman. Well, Mrs. Butler, I'll teU. Mrs.
Eay what you say, but I'm afeard it's too late ; I'm afeard it is.
He's of a stubborn sort, I think. He's one of them that says,
' If you will not when you may, when you will you shall have
nay.'"

Mrs. Cornbury stiU. entertained hope that the stubbornness
of the stubborn man might be overcome; but as to that she
said nothing to Mrs. Sturt.

Mrs. Sturt, with what friendly tact she possessed, made her
conmiunication to Mrs. Eay, but it may be doubted whether
more harm than good was not thus done. "And he didn't
owe a shUling then?" asked Mrs. Eay.

" Not a shilling," said Mrs. Sturt.

"And he is going to come back to Baslehurst about this
brewery business 1"

"There's not a doubt in life about that," answered Mrs.
Sturt. If these tidings could have come in timo thoy would
have been very salutary; but what was Mrs, Bay to do with

EACHEL BAY.

them now? She felt that she could not honestly withhold
them from Eachel; and yet she knew not how to tell them
without adding to Eachel's misery. It was very improhahle
that Eachel should hear anything ahout Eowan from other Hps
than her own. It was clear that Mrs. Sturt did not iatend to
speak to her, and also clear that Mrs. Sturt expected that Mrs.
Eay would do so.

Eachel's demeanour at this time was cause of great sorrow to
Mrs. Eay. She never simled. She sought no amusement.
She read no hooks. She spoke hut little, and when she did
speak her words were hard and cold, and confined almost
entirely to household affairs. Her mother knew that she was
not iU, hecause she ate and drank and worked. Even Dorothea
must have been satisfied with the amount of needlework which
she produced ia these days. But though not Ul, she was thin
and pale, and unlike herself. But perhaps of aU. the signs
which her mother watched so carefully, the signs which tor-
mented her most were those ever-present hnes on her daughter's
forehead, — hues which Mrs. Eay had now learned to read
correctly, and which iadicated some settled inward pxirpose,
and au inward resolve that that purpose should become the
subject of no outward discussion. Eachel had formerly been
everything to her mother ; — ^her friend, her minister, her guide,
her great comfort ; — the subject on which could be lavished all
the soft tenderness of her nature, the loving object to whom
could be addressed all the little innocent petulances of her life.
But now Mis. Eay did not dare to be either tender with Eachel,
or petulant. She hardly dared to speak to her on subjects that
were not indifferent. On this matter of Luke Eowan she did
not dare to speak to her. Eachel never upbraided her with
words, — ^had never spoken one word of reproach. But every
moment of their passing life was an unspoken reproach, so
severe and heavy that the poor mother hardly knew how to
"bear the burden of her fault.

As Mrs. Eay became more afraid of her younger d9,ughleT she
became less afraid of the elder. This was occasioned partly, no
doubt, by the absence of Mrs. Prime from the cottage. "When
there she only came as a visitor ; and no visitor to a house can
hold such dominion there as may be held by a domestic tyrant,
present at all meals, and claiming an ascendancy in all conver-
sations. But it arose in part also from the overwhelming solic;-

MBS. Hay's penitence. 263

tude -wMch filled Mrs. Kay's heart from momiiig to night, as
she watched poor Eachel in her misery. Her bowels yearned
towards her child, and she longed to give her relief with an ex-
cessive longing. Had the man been a very wolf indeed, — such
were her feelings at present, — I think that she would have wel-
comed him to the cottage. In ordering his repulse she had
done a deed of which she had by no means anticipated the
consequences, and now she repented in the sackcloth and ashes
of a sorrow-stricken 'spirit. Ah me! what could she do to
relieve that oppressed one ! So thoroughly did this desire over-
ride all others in her breast, that she would snub Mrs. Prime
without dreading or even thinking of the consequences. Her
only hopes and her only fears at the present moment had
reference to Eachel. Had Eachel proposed to her that they
should both start off to London and there search for Luke
Eowan, I doubt whether she would have had the heart to de-
cline the journey.

In these days Mrs. Prime came to the cottage regularly twice
a week, — on Wednesdays and Saturdays. On "Wednesday she
came after tea, and on Saturday she drank tea with her mother.
On these occasions much was, of course, said as to the prospect
of her marriage with Mr. Prong. Kothing was as yet settled,
and Eachel had concluded, in her own mind, that there would
be no such wedding. As" to Mrs. Eay's opinion, she, of course,
thought there would be a wedding or that there would not, in
accordance with the last words spoken by Mrs. Prime to herseK
on the occasion of that special conversation.

" She'll never give up her money," Eachel had said, " and
he'll never marry her unless she does."

Mrs. Prime at this period acknowledged to her mother that
she was not happy.

" I want," said she, " to do what's right. But it's not always
easy to find out what is right."

" That's very true," said Mrs. Eay, thinking that there were
difficulties in the aifairs of other people quite as embarrassing
as those of which Mrs. Prime complained.

"He says," continued the younger widow, "that he wants
nothing for himself, but that it is not fitting that a married
Woman should have a separate income."

" I think he's right there," said Mrs. Eay.

" I quite believe what he says about himself," said Mrs. Prime.

264 EACHEL KAY.

" It is not that he wants my money for the money's sake, but
that lie chooses to dictate to me how I shall use it."

" So he ought if he's to he your husband," said Mrs. Eay,

These conversations usually took place in Eachel's absence.
When Mrs. Prime came Eachel would remaia long enough to
say a word to her, and on the Saturdays would pour out the tea
for her and would hand to her the bread and butter with the
courtesy due to a visitor ; but after that she would take herseH
to her own bedroom, and only come down when Mrs. Prime had
prepared herself for going. At last, on one of these evenings,
there came a proposition from Mrs. Prime that she should return
to the cottage, and Hve again with her mother and sister. She
had not said that she had absolutely rejected Mr. Prong, but she
spoke of her return as though it had become expedient because
the cause of her going away had been removed. Very little
had been said between her and her mother about Eachel's love
affair, nor was Mrs. Prime iaclined to say much about it now ;
but so much as that she did say. " Ifo doubt it's all over now
about that young man, and therefore, if you like it, I don't see
why I shouldn't come back."

" I don't at all know about it's being aU over," said Mrs. Eay, in
a hurried quick tone, and as she spoke she blushed with emotion.

" But I suppose it is, mother. From all that I can hear he
isn't thinking of her ; and I don't suppose he ever did much."

" I donit know what he's thinking about, Dorothea ; and I
ain't sure that there's any good talking about it. Besides, if
you're going to hays Mr. Prong at last — "

" If I did, mother, it needn't prevent my comiag here for a
month or two first. It wouldn't be quite yet, certaioly, — if at
all. And I thought that perhaps, if I am going to settle myself
ia 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 divided from my children. Your going away was your
own doing, not mine. I'm sure 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 all that out of my mind."

"But you can't thioklwas wrong to go wheni felt it to be right."

" I don't know how that may be," said Mrs. Eay. " If you
thought it right to go I suppose you were right to go ; but per-
haps you shouldn't have had such thoughts."

Mils, eay's penitence. 265

" Well, mother, we won't go back to that."

" No ; we won't, if you please."

" This at any rate is certaia, that Eachel, in departing from
our usual ways of life, has brought great unhappiness upon her-
self. I'm afraid she is thinking of this young man now more
than she ought to do."

" 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 of a man who thinks nothing of her ! "

Then Mrs. Eay spoke out, — as perhaps she had never spoken
before.

" What right have you to say that he thinks nothing of her t
Who can tell ? He did think of her, — as honestly as any man
ever thought of the woman he wished to mate with. He came
to her fairly, and asked her to be his wife. What can any man
do more by a girl than that ? And she didn't say a word to
him to encourage bim till those she had a right to look to had
encouraged him too. So she didn't. And I don't believe any
woman ever had a child that behaved better, or truer, or more
maidenly than she has done. And I was a fool, and worse than
a fool, when I allowed any one to have an evil thought of her
for a moment."

" Do you mean me, mother ?"

"I don't mean anybody except myself; so I don't." Mrs.
Eay as she spoke was weeping bitterly, and rubbing the tears
from her red eyes with her apron. " I've behaved like a fool to
her, — ^woTse than a fool, — and I've broken her heart. JSTot
think of him ! HoVs a girl not to think of a man day and
night when she loves him better than herself? Think of him !
She'R think of him till she's in her grave. She'U think of him
tin she's past all other thinking. I hate such cruelty ; and I
hate myself for having been cruel. I shall never forgive 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 break her child's heart and to be set against her by
what anybody else can say. She was ever and always the best
child that ever lived ; and she 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 the world, till he'd come heie

266 EACHEL EAY.

and spoken out straight, like a man as he is. I tell yon v^hat^
Dorothea, I'd go to London, on my knees to him, if I could
bring him back tc her 1 I would. And if he comet here, I will
go to him."

"Oh, mother!"

"I know he bves her. He's not one of your inconstant
ones that take up with a girl for a week or so and then forgets
her. But she has offended him, and he's stubborn. She has
offended him at my hidding, and it's my doing ; — and I'd
humble myself in the dust to bring him back to her;— so I
would. If ever teU me of her not thinking of him. I teU you,
Dorothea, she'U think of him. always; not because she has
loved him, hut because she has been brought to confess her
love."

Mrs. Eay was so strong in her mingled passion and grief,
that Mrs. Prime made no attempt to rehuke her. The daughter
was indeed quelled by her mother's vehemence, and felt that for
the present the subject of Eachel's love and Eachel's lover was
not a fitting one for the exercise of her ovm talents as a preacher.
The tragedy had progressed beyond the reach of her preaching.
Mrs. Eay protested that Eachel had been right throughout, and
that she herself had been wrong only when she had opposed
Eachel's wishes. Such a view of the matter was altogether at
variance with that entertained by Mrs. Prime, who was stiU of
opinion that young people shouldn't be allowed to please them-
selves, and who feared the approach of any lover who came
with lute in hand, and with light, soft, loving, worldly words.
Men and women, according to her theory, were right to marry
and have children ; but she thought that such marriages should
be contracted not only in. a solemn spirit, but vidth a certain
dinginess of solemnity, with a painstaking absence of mirth,
that would divest love of its worldly alloy. Eachel had gone
about her busiuess in a different spirit, and it may almost be
said that Mrs. Prime rejoiced that she had failed. She did
not believe in broken hearts; she did believe in the efficacy
of chastisement; and she thought that on the whole the
present state of affairs would be beneficial to her sister. Had
she been possessed of suf&cient power she would now, on this
occasion, have preached her sermon again as she had preached It
before ; but her mother's passion had overcome hor, and she wa#
unable to express her convictions.

MRS. ray's penitence. 267

" I liope that slie mil be better soon," she said.
"I hope she will," said Mrs. Eay.

At this moment Eachel came down from her own room and
joined them in the parlour. She came in with that same look
of sad composure on her face, as though she were determined to
speak nothing of her thoughts to 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 she had been crying, — saw,
indeed, that she was still crying at that moment.

" 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, DoUy V

"We have been telking," said Dorothea. "Things in this
world are not so pleasant in themselves that they can always
be spoken of without tears, — either outward tears or inward.
People are too apt to think that there is no true significance
in their words when they say that this world is a vale of tears."

" All the same. I don't like to see mamma crying Kke that."

" Don't mind it, Eachel," said Mrs. Eay. " If you will not
regard me I shall be better soon."

"I was saying that I thought I would come back to the
cottage," said Mrs. 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
Eachel asked no further questions, but sat sUent, waiting till
her sister shoidd go.

" Of course we shall be very glad to have you back again if
>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<l
for Eachel, and it seemed also that nothing could be mors Tnanly,
straightlbrward, or gallant than that assiixance. It auVted hsr
idea of chivalry. But she was not quite sure that Rachel would
eujoy the publicity of the declaration, and therefore she was

THE BASLEHUEST GAZETTE. 287

prepared to point the passage out more particularly to Mrs. Ka/,
" I've brought 'ee the accoimt of it all," said she, still holding
the paper in her hand. "The gudeman, — he's done with t'
paper, and you'll keep it for good aid aU. One yomig man
that we know of has made t' finest speech of 'em all to my
mind. Luik at that. Mrs. Eay." Then, with a knowing wink
at the mother, and a poke at the special words with her finger,
•he left the sheet in Mrs. Eaj's hand, and went her way,

Mrs. Eay, who had not quite understood the pantomime, and
whose eye had not caught the words relating to marriage, saw
however that the column indicated contained the report of a
speech made by Luke Eowan, and she began it at the beginning
and read it throughout. Luke had identified himself with the
paper, and therefore received from it almost more than justice.
His words were given at very full length, and for some ten
minutes she was reading before she came to the words which
Mrs. Sturt had hoped would be so delightfuL

" What is it, mamma ?" Eachel asked.

" A speech, my dear, made at the election.'

" And who made it. mammal"

Mrs. Eay hesitated for a moment before she answered,
theriiby letting Eachel know fuU well who made the speech
before the word was spoken. But at last she did speak the
■word — " Mr. Eowan, my dear."

"Oh !" said Eachel; she longed to get hold of the news-
paper, but she would ijtter no word expressive of such longing.
Since that evening on which she had been bidden to look at the
clouds she had regarded Luke as a special hero, cleverer than
other men around her, as a man bom to achieve things and
make himself known. It was not astonishing to her that a
speech of his .should be reported at length in the newspaper.
He was a man certain to rise, to make speeches, and to be
reported. So she thought of him ; and so thinking had almost
wished that it were not so. Could she expect that such a one
would stoop to her? or that if he did so that she could be fit
for him t He had now perceived that himself, and therefore
had taken her at her word, and had left her. Had he been
more like other men around her; — more homely, less prone to
rise, with less about him of fire and genius, she might have won
him and kept him. The prize would not have been so precious '
but still, she thought, it might have been sufficient for her hec

286 BACHEL KAY.

A young man wlio could find printers and publishers to report
his words in that way, on the first moment of his coming among
them, ■woJd he turn aside from liis path to look after her?
Would he not bring with him some grand lady down from
London as his wife i

"Dear me!" said !Mis. Eay, quite startled. "Oh, dear!
What do you think he says 1"

" "VATiat does he say, mamma ?"

" Well, I don't know. Perhaps he mayn't mean it. I don't
think I ought to have spoken of it."

" If it's in the newspaper I suppose I should have heard of
it, unless you sent it hack without letting me see it."

" She said we were to keep it, and it's because of that, I'nr.
sure. She was always the most good-natured woman in the
world. I don't know what we should have done if we hadn't
found such a neighbour as Mrs. Sturt."

" But what is it, mamma, that you are speaking of in the
newspapers?"

" Mr. Kowan says — Oh, dear ! I wish I'd let you come to it
yourseK. How very odd that he should get up and say that
kind of thing in public before all the people. He says ; — ^but
any way I know he means it because he's so honest. And aftei
aU if he means it, it doesn't much matter where he says it;
Handsome is that handsome does. There, my dear; I don't
know how to teU it you, so you had better read it yourseK."

Eachel with eager hands took the paper, and began the
speech as her mother had done, and read it through. She read
it through till she came to those words, and then she piit the
paper down beside her. " I understand what you mean,
mamma, and what Mrs. Sturt meant j but Mr. Eowan did not
mean that."

" What did he mean, my dear?"

" He meant them to understand that he intended to btcomt a
man of Baslehurst like one of themselves."

" But then why did he talk about finding a wife there ?"

" He wouldn't have said that, manmaa, if he had meant
anything particular. If anything of that sort had been at all
in his mind, it would have kept him from saying what he
did say."

" But didn't he mean that he intended to marry a Basliuivz&t
lady J"

THE BASLEHUKST GAZETTE.

" He meant it in that sort of way ia which men do mean
Buch things. It was his way to make them think well of him.
But don't let us talk any more about it, mamma. It isn't nice."

" Well, I'm sure I can't understand it," said Mrs. Eay. But
she became silent on the subject, and the reading of the news-
paper was passed over to Eachel.

This had not been completed when a step was heard on the
gravel walk outside, and Ills. Eay jumping up, declared it to be
the step of her eldest daughter. It was so, and Mrs. Prime
was very soon in the room. It was at this time about four
o'clock in the afternoon, and therefore, as the hour for tea at
the cottage was half-past five, it was naturally understood that
Mrs. Prime had come there to join them at their evening meal.
After their first greeting she had seated herself on the sofa, and
there was that in her manner which showed both to her mother
and sister that she was somewhat confused, — that she had some-
thing to say as to which there was some hesitation. " Do take
off your bonnet, Dorothea," said her mother.

" Will you come upstairs, Dolly," said her sister, " and put
your hair straight after your walk ?"

But DoUy did not care whether her hair was straight oi
tossed, as the Irish girls say when the smoothness of their looks
has been disarranged. She took off her bonnet, however, and
laid it on the sofa beside her. " Mother," she said, " I've got
something particular that I want to say to you."

" I hope it's not anything serious the matter," said Mrs. Eay.

" Well, mother, it is serious. Things are serious mostly, I
think, — or should be."

"ShaU I go into the garden while you are speaking to
mamma?" said Eachel.

" No, Eachel ; not on my account. What I've got to say
should be said to you as well as to mother. It's all over between
me and Mr. Prong."

"JSTo!" said Mrs. Eay.

" I thought it would be," said EacheL

"And why did you think so?" said Mrs. Prime, turmng
round upon her sister, almost angrOy.

"I felt that he wouldn't suit you, Dolly; that's why I
thought so. If it's all over now, I suppose there's no harm in
saying that I didn't Hke him well enough to hope he'd be my
ferother-in-law."

290 EACIIEL KAY.

"But that couldn't mate you tMnk it. However, it's all
over between us. We agreed that it should he so this morning;
and I thought it right to come out and let you know at once."

" I'm glad you've told us," said Mrs. Eay.

""Was there any quarrel?" asked Eachel.

"ISTo, Eachel, there was no quarrel; not what vou call a
quarrel, I suppose. We found there were subjects of disagree-
ment between us, — ^matters on which we had adverse opinions ;
and therefore it was better that we should part."

" It was about the money, perhaps V said Mrs. Eay.

" Well, yes ; it was iu part about the money. Had I known
then as much as I do now about the law in such matters, I
should have told Mr. Prong from the first that it could not be.
He is a good man, and I hope I have not disturbed his happi-
ness."

"I used to be afraid that he would disturb yours," said
Eachel, " and therefore I cannot nretend to regret it."

" That's not charitable, Eachel. But if you please we won't
say anything more about it. It's over, and that is enough.
And now, mother, I want to know if you wiU object to my
returning heie and living at the cottage again."

Mrs. Eay could not bethink herself at the moment what
answer she might best make, and therefore for some moments
she made none. For herself she would have been deUghted
that her eldest daughter should return to the cottage. Under
no circumstances could she refuse her own child a home under
her own roof. But at the present moment she could not forget
the circumstances under which Mrs. Prime had gone, and it
militated sorely against Mrs. Eay's sense of justice that the
return should be made to depend on other circumstances. Mrs.
Prime had gone away in loud disapproval of Eachel's conduct ;
and now she proposed to return, on this breaking up of her own '
matrimonial arrangements, as though she had left the cottage
because of her proposed marriage. Mrs. Prime should be wel-
comed back, but her return should be accompanied by a with-
drawal of her accusation against Eachel. Mrs. Eay did not
know how to put her demand into words, but her mind was
clear on the subject.

"Well, mother," said Mrs. Prime; "is there any objpc-

" IJo. mv dear ; no objection at all : of courso not. I shall

THE BASLEHUEST GA2ETTE. 291

l)t dolighted to have you baclj, and so, I'm sure, iriU Rachel :
but » > . .

" 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<! could not have put himself into close contact with the man,
■wiihgut eubmitting hiirself to that temporary equality wlu.(rfi

COKNBUKY GEAIfGE. 293

Rowan assumed, and to that temporary familiarity which sprung
from it. Butler Comhury had thought little ahout it. He
had found Eowan to he a pleasant associate and an able as-
sistant, and had fallen into that mode of fellowship wMch the
other man's ways and words had made natural to him. When
his wife begged him to ask Eowan up to the Grange, he had
been startled for a moment, but had at once assented.

" Well," said he ; " he's an unoonuaon pleasant fellow. I
don't see why he shouldn't come."

" I've a particular reason," said Mrs. Butler.

" AH right," said the husband. " Do you explain it to my
father." And so the invitation had been given.

But Eowan was a man more thoughtful than Combury,
and was specially thoughtful as to his own position. He
was a radical at heart if ever there was a radical. But ui
saying this I must beg my dear reader to imderstand that a
radical is not necessarily a revolutionist or even a republican.
He does not, by reason of his social or political radicalism,
desire the ruin of thrones, the degradation of nobles, the
spoliation of the rich, or even the doAvnfaU of the bench of
bishops. Many a young man is frightened away from the
just conclusions of his mind and the strong convictions of
his heart by dread of being classed with those who are jealous
of the favoured ones of fortune. A radical may be as ready
as any aristocrat to support the crown with his blood, and the
chiirch with his faith. It is in this that he is a radical; that
He desires, expects, works for, and believes in, the gradual
progress of the people. Ko doctrine of equality is his.
Liberty he must have, and such position, high or low, for
himself and others, as each man's individual merits will achieve
for him. The doctrine of outward equaUty he eschews as a
barrier to all ambition, and to aU improvement. The idea is as
mean as the thing is impracticable. But within, — is it in his
soul or in his heart ? — within his breast there is a manhood that
will own no inferiority to the manhood of another. He retires
to a corner that an earl with his suit may pass proudly through
the doorway, and he grudges the earl nothing of his pride. It
is the earl's right. But he also has his right ; and neither
queen, nor earl, nor people shall invade it. That is the creed
of a radicaL

Eowan, as I have said, was a man thoughtful as to his own

294 BACHEL KAY.

position. He had understood weli the nature of the league
between himself and Butler Combury. It was his intention
to become a brewer in Baslehurst ; and a brewer in Baslehurst
would by no means be as the mighty brewers of great name,
who marry lords' daughters, and give their daughters m marriage
to mighty lords. He would simply be a tradesman in the town.
It might weU be that he shovild not find the society of the
Tappitts and the Griggses much to his taste, but such as it was
he would make the best of it. At any rate he would make no
attempt to force his way into other society. If others came to
him let that be their look out. Ifow when Cornbuiy asked
him thus to come to Combury Grange, as though they two
were men living in. the same class of life, — as though they
were men who might be bound together socially in their homes
as weU as politically on the hustings, the red colour came to his
face and he hesitated for a moment in his answer.

" You are very kind," said he.

" Oh ! you must come," said Combury. " My wife par-
ticularly desires it."

" She is very kind," said he. " But if you ask aU your
supporters over to the Grange you'll get rather a mixed lot."

" I suppose I should ; but I don't mean to do that. I shall
be very glad, however, to see you ; — very glad."

"And I shaU be very happy to come," said Eowan, having
•gain hesitated as he gave his answer.

" I wish I hadn't promised that I'd go there," he said to
himself afterwards. This was on the Sunday, after evening
church, — an hour or more after the people had all gone home,
and he was sitting on that stUe, looking to the west, and
thinking, as he looked, of that sunset which he and another
had seen as they stood there together. He did wish that he
had not undertaken to go to Mr. Combury's house. "What to
him would be the society of such people as he should find
there, — to him who had laid out for himself a career that
would necessarily place his life among other associates? "I'll
Bend and excuse myself," he said. "I'L be called away to
Exeter. I have things to do there. I shall only get into a
mess by knowing people who wiU drop me when this ferment
of the election is over." And yet the idea of an intimacy
at such a house as Combury Grange, — ^with such people as
Mrs. Butler Combury, was very sweet to hm\; only this,

COKNBUEY GIULNGE. 295

that if he associated with them or such as them it must be
on equal terms. He could acknowledge them to be people
apart from him, as ice creams and sponge cakes are things
apart from the shfllingless schoolboy. But as the schoolboy,
if brought within the range of cakes and creams, must devour
them with unchecked relish, as though his pockets were lined
with coin; so must he, Eowan, carry himself with these
curled darlings of society if he found himself placed acraDg
them. He liked cakes and creams, but had made up hia
mind that other viands were as wholesome and more comfortably
within his reach. Was it worth his while to go to this banquet
which woiild unsettle his taste, and at which perhaps if he sat
there at his ease, he might not be whoUy welcome? All hia
thoughts were not noble. He had declared to himself that a
certain thing could not be his except at a cost which he would
not pay, and yet he hankered for that thing. He had declared
to himself that no social position in which he might ever find
himself should make a change in him, on his inner self or on
his outward manner; and now he feared to go among these
people, lest he should find himself an inferior among superiors.
It was not all noble; but there was beneath it a basis of
nobility. "I wiU go," he said at last, fearing that if he did
not, there would have been some grain of cowardice in the
motives of his action. " If they don't like me it's their fault
for asking me."

Of course as he sat there he was thinking of EacheL Of
course he had thought of Eachel daUy, almost hourly, since
he had been with her at the cottage, when she had bent her
head over his shoulder, and submitted to have his arm round
her waist. But his thoughts of her were not as hers of him.
IsTor is it often that a man's love is Hke a woman's — ^restless,
fearful, uncomfortable, sleepless, timid, and all-pervading. Not
the less may it be passionate, constant, and faithful. He had
been angered by Eachel's letter to him, — greatly angered. Of a
truth when Mrs. Eay met Tiitti in Exeter he had no message to
send back to Cawston. He had done his part, and had been
rejected ; — ^had been rejected too clearly because on the summing
up of his merits and demerits at the cottage, his demerits had
been found to be the heavier. He did not suspect that the
calculation had been made by Eachel herself; and therefore he
had never said to himself that all should be over between them.

296 RACHEL RAT.

He had never determined that there should he a quarrel hetween
them. But he was angered, and he would stand aloof from her.
He would stand aloof from her, and would no longer ac-
knowledge that he was in any way hound by the words ha
had spoken. All such bonds she had broken. iN'evertheless
I think he loved her with a surer love after receiving that
letter than he had ever felt before.

He had been here, at this spot, every evening since his
return to Baslehurstj and here had thought much of his
future Ufe, and something, too, of the days that were past.
Looking to the left he could see the trees that stood in front of
the old brewery, hiding the building from his eyes. That was
the house in which old Bungall had lived, and there Tappitt
had lived for the last twenty years. "I suppose," said he,
speaking to himself, " it wiU be my destiny to Uve there too,
with the vats and beer barrels under my nose. But what
farmer ever throve who disliked the muck of his own farm-
yard?" Then he had thought of Tappitt and of the coming
battle, and had laughed as he remembered the scene with the
poker. At that moment his eye caught the bright colours of
women's bonnets coming into the field beneath him, and he
knew that the Tappitt girls were returning home from their
walk. He had retired quickly round the chancel of the. church,
and had watched, thinking that Eachel would be with them.
But Eachel, of course, was not there. He said to himself that
they had thrown her off; and said also that the time should
come when they should be glad to win from her a kind word
and an encouragiug smile. His love for Eachel was as true and
more strong than ever ; but it was of that nature that he was able
to tell himself that it had for the present moment been set aside by
her act, and that it became him to leave it for awhile in abeyance.

" What on earth shall I do with myseK aU Tuesday f" he
said again as he walked away from the chiirchyard on the
Sunday evening. " I don't know what these people do with
themselves when there's no hunting and shooting. It seems
unnatural to me that a man shouldn't have his bread to earn, —
or a woman either in some form." After that he went back to
his inn.

On the Monday he went out to Combury Grange late in the
afternoon. Butler Combury drove into Baslehxust with a pail
of horses, and took bim back in his phaeton.

COKNBUEY GRAJIGE. 297

" Give my fellow your portmanteau. Tliat's all riglit. You
never were at the Grange, were you? It's the prettiest five
miles of a drive in Devonshire ; but the walk along the river
is the prettiest walk in Englajid, — which is saying a great deal
more."

" I know the walk well," said Eowan, " though I never was
inside the park."

" It isn't much of a park. Indeed there isn't a semblance of
a park about it. Grange is just the name for it, as it's an
upper-class sort of homestead for a gentleman farmer. We've
lived there since long before Adam, but we've never made much
of a hoxise of it."

"That's just the sort of place that 1 should like to have
myseK."

" If you had it you wouldn't be content. You'd want to puU
do-(vn the house and build a bigger one. It's what I shall do
some day, I suppose. But if I do it will never be so pretty
again. I suppose that fellow will petition ; won't he V

" I should say he would , — ^though he won't get anything by
it"

" He knows his purse is longer than ours, and he'll think to
frighten us ; — and, by George, he will frighten us too 1 My
father is not a rich man by any means."

" You should stand to your guns now."

" I mean to do so if I can. My wife's father is made of
money."

"What! Mr. Comfort ?"

" Yes. He's been blessed with the most surprising number of
unmarried uncles and aunts that ever a man had. He's rather
fond of me, and Hkes the idea of my being in Parliament. I
think I shall hin t to him that he must pay for the idea. Here
we are. WiU you come and take a turn round the place
before dinner?"

Eowan was then taken into the house and introduced to the
old squire, who received him with the stifif urbanity of former
days.

" You are welcome to the Grange, Mr. Eowan. You'U find
us very quiet here ; which is more, I believe, than can have been
said of Baslehurst these last two or three days. My daughter-
in-law is somewhere with the children. She'U be here before
dinner. Butler, has that tailor fellow gone back t« London yet 1 "

S98 RACHEL hAT.

Butler to-d his father tliat the tailor tad at least gone away
from BasleLurst ; and then the two younger men went out and
walked about the grounds till dinner time.

It was Mrs. Butler Cornhury who gave soul and spirit to
daily life at Cornhury Grange, — ^who found the salt with which
the bread was quickened, and the wine with which the heart was
made glad. Marvellous is the power which can he exercised,
almost unconsciously, over a company, or an individual, or even
upon a crowd hy one person gifted with good temper, good
digestion, good intellects, and good looks. A woman so
endowed charms not only by the exercise of her own gifts,
but she endows those who are near her with a sudden conviction
that it is they whose temper, health, talents, and appearance is
doing so much for society. Mrs. Butler Combury was such a
ivoman as this. The Grange was a popular house. The old
squire was not found to be very dull The young squire was
thought to be rather clever. The air of the house was lively
and bracing. Men and women did not find the days ther&
to be over long. And Mrs. Butler Combury did it all.

Rowan did not see her tUl he met her in the dining-room,
ju&t before dinner, when he found that two or three other ladies
were also staying there. She came up to him when he entered
the room, and greeted him as though he were an old friend.
All conversation at that moment of course had reference to the
election. Thanks were given and congratulations ra^eived ; and
when old Mr. Combury shook Jiis head, his daughter-in-law
assured him that there would be nothing to fear.

" I don't know what you call nothing to fear, my dear I
call two thousand pounds a great deal to fear."

" I shouldn't wonder if we don't hear another word about
him," said she.

The old man uttered a long sigh. " It seems to me,'' said he,
"that no g,"ntleman ought to stand for a seat in Parliament
since these people have been allowed to come up. Purity of
eiaction, indeed ! It makes me sick. Come along, my dear."
Then he gave his arm to one of the young ladies, and toddled
into the dining-room.

Mrs. Butler Cornbury said nothing special to Luke Rowan on
that evening, but she made the hours very pleasant to him. All
those half-morbid ideas as to social difference between himseK
and his host's faxcSsj soon vanished. The house was very com-

COKNBUKY GRANGE. 299

fortaUe, the girls were very pretty, Mrs. Comtuiy was very
kind, and everything went very welL On the following morning
it was nearly ten when they sat down to breakfast, and half the
morning before lunch had passed away in idle chat before the
party bethought itself of what it should do for the day. At
last it was agreed that they would all stroll out through the
woods up to a special reach of the river which there ran
through a ravine of rock, called Combury Cleeves. Many in
those parts declared that Combury Cleeves was the prettiest
spot in England. I am not prepared to bear my testimony to
the truth of that very wide assertion. I can only say that I
know no prettier spot. The river here was rapid and sparkling ;
not rapid because driven into small compass, for its breadth was
greater and more regular in its passage through the Cleeves than
it was either above or below, but rapid from the declivity of its
course. On one side the rocks came sheer down to the water,
but on the other there was a strip of meadow, or rather a grassy
amphitheatre, for the wall of rocks at the back of it was semi-
circular, so as to enclose the field on every side. There might
be four or five acres of green meadow here ; but the whole was
so interspersed with old stunted oak trees and thorns standing
alone that the space looked larger than it was. The rocks on
each side were covered here and there with the richest foliage ;
and the spot might be taken to be a vaUey from which, as from
that of Easselas, there was no escape. Down close upon the
margin of the water a bathing-house had been built, from which
a plunge could be taken into six or seven feet of the coolest,
darkest, cleanest water that a bather could desire in his
heart.

" I suppose you never wer" here before," said Mrs. Combury
to Rowan.

" Indeed I have," said he. " I always think it such a grand
thing that you landed magnates can't keep aU your delights to
yourself. I dare say IVe been here oftener than you have
during the last three months."

"That's very Kkely, seeing that it's my first visit this

summer." . m x.-u- t.

" And I've been here a dozen tunes. I suppose youU ihmk.
I'm a viUanous trespasser when I tell you that I've bathed in
that very house more than once." , ■■ -t

" Then you've done more than I ever did ; and yet we had it

300 EACHEL EAY.

made thinking it would do for ladies. But tlie water looks bo
black."

" All ! I like that, as long as it's a clear black."
« I Uke bathing where I can see the bright stones like jewels
at the bottom. You can never do that in fresh water. It's
only in some nook of the sea, where there is no sand, when the
wind outside has died away, and when the tide is quiet and at
its fuU. Then one can drop gently in and almost fancy that
one belongs to the sea as the mermaids do. I wonder how the
idea of mermaids first came V

" Some one saw a crowd of young women bathiag."
" But then how came they to have looking-glasses and fishes'
taUs ?"

" The fishes' tails were taken as granted because they were in
the sea, and the lookiug-glasses because they were women,"
said Eowan.

" And the one with as much reason as the other. By-the-by,
Mr. Eowan, talking of women, and fishes' tails, and looking-
glasses, and aU other femrniae attractions, when did you see
Miss Eay lastl"

Eowan paused before he answered her, and looking round
perceived that he had strayed with Mrs. Cornbury to the
furthest end of the meadow, away from their companions. It
immediately came across his mind that this was the matter on
which Mrs. Cornbury wished to speak to him, and by some
combative process he almost resolved that he would not be
spoken to on that matter.

"When did I see Miss Eay?" said he, repeating her question.
" Two or three days after Mrs. Tappitt's party. I have not seen
her since that."

" And why don't you go aad see her?" said Mrs. Cornbury.
Kow this was asked hini in a tone which made it necessary
that he should either ans^ter her question or teR her simply
that' he would not answer it. The questioner's manner was so
firm, so eager, so incisive, that the question could not be turned
away.

" I am not sure that I am prepared to tell you," said he.
" Ah ! but I want you to be prepared," said she ; " or rather,
perhaps, to tell the truth, I want to drive you to an answei
without preparation. Is it not true that you made her an offer;
and that she accepted it?"

COEKBUEY GKAKGE. 301

Howan ttouglit a moment, and then he answered her, " It ia
true."

"I should not have asked the question if I had not positively
known that such was the case. I have never spoken a word
to her about it, and yet I knew it. Her mother told my
father."

"WeU?"

" And as that is so, why do you not go and see her ? I am
sure you are not one of those who would play such a trick as
that upon such a girl with the mere purpose of amusing your-
self."

" Upon no girl would I do so, Mrs. Comhury."

"I feel sure of it. Therefore why do you not go to her?"
They walked along together for a few minutes under the rocks
in silence, and then Mrs. Combury again repeated her question,
" Why do you not go to her 1"

" Mrs. Combury," he said, " you must not be angry with me
if I say that that is a matter which at the present moment I
am not willing to discuss."

" Nor must you be angry with me if, as Eachel's friend, I say
something further about it. As you do not wish to answer me,
I will ask no other question ; but at any rate you will be will-
ing to listen to me. Eachel has never spoken to me on this
subject — ^not a word ; but I know from others who see her daily
that she is very unhappy."

" I am grieved that it should be so."

" Yes, I knew you would be grieved. But how could it be
otherwise ? A girl, you know, Mr. Eowan, has not other things
to occupy her mind as a man has. I think of Eachel Eay that
she would have been as happy there at Bragg's End as the day
is long, if no offer of love had come in her way. She was not
a girl whose head had been filled with romance, and who looked
for such things. But for that very reason is she less able to
bear the loss of it when the offer has come in her way. I
think, perhaps, you hardly know the depth of her character and
the strength of her love."

" I think I know that she is constant."

" Then why do you try her so hardly 1"

Mrs. Combury had promised that she would ask no more
questions ; but the asking of questions was her easiest mode r/
saying that which she had to ea.y. And Eowan, though he hid

302 EACUEL EAT,

declared that he would answer no question, oonld hardly avoid
the necessity of doing so.

'• It may be that the trial is the other way."

" I know ; — I understand. They made her write a letter to
you. It was my father's doing. I wlU tell you tlio whole
truth. It was my father's doing, and therefore it is that I
think myself hound to speak to you. Her mother came to him
for advice, and he had heard evil things spoken of you in
Baslehurst. You will see that I am very frank with you.
And I will take some credit to myseK too. I believed such
tidings to be altogether false, and I made inquiry which proved
that I was right. But my father had given the advice which
he thought best. I do not know what Eachel wrote to you,
but a girl's letter under such circumstances can hardly do more
than express the wiU of those who guide her. It was sad
enough for her to be forced to write such a letter, but it will
be sadder still if you cannot be brought to forgiVe it."

Then she paused, standing under the gray rock and looking
up eagerly into his face. But he made her no answer, nor gave
ner any sign. His heart was very tender at that moment
towards Eachel, but there was that in him of the stubbornness
of manhood which would not let him make any sign of his
tenderness.

" I win not press you to say anything, Mr. Rowan," she con-
tinued, " and I am much obliged to you for having listened to
me. I've known Eachel Eay for many years, and that must b£
my excuse."

" No excuse is wanting," he said. " If I do not say any-
thing it is not because I am offended. There are things on.
which a man should not allow himseK to speak without coa
sidering them."

" Oh, certainly. Come ; shall we go back to them at the
bathing-house? They'll think we've lost ourselves."

Thus Mrs. Combury said the words which she had desired to
Bpeak on Eachel Bay's behalf.

When they reached the Grange there were stUl two hours
left before the time of dressing for dinner should come, and
during these hours Luke returned by himself to the Cleeves.
He escaped from his host, and retraced his steps, and on reach-
ing the river sat him self down on the margin, and looked into
the cool dark runnina water. Had he been severe to Eachel 1

THE BEEWERT QUESTION SETTLED.

He would answer no snch question when asked by Mrs. Com-
bury, but he was very desirous of ansAvering it to himself. The
women at the cottage had doubted him, — ISIrs. Eay and her
daughter, with perhaps that other daughter of whom he had
only heard ; and he had resolved that they should see him. no
more and hear of him no more till there should be no further
room for doubt. Then he would show himself again at the
cottage, &d agaia ask Eachel to be his wife. There was some
manliness in this ; but there was also a hardness in his pride
which deserved the rebuke which Mrs. Cornbury's words had
conveyed to him. He had been severe to Eachel. Lying
there, with his full length stretched upon the grass, he ac-
knowledged to himself that he had thought more of his own
feelings than of hers. While Mrs. Cornbury had been speaking
he could not bring himself to feel that this was the case. But
now in his solitude he did acknowledge it. What amount of
sin had she committed against him that she should be so
punished by him who loved her 1 He took out her letter from
his pocket, and found that her words were loving, though she
had not been allowed to put into them that eager, pressiag,
ipeaking love which he had desired.

" Spoken ill of me, have they?" said he to himself, as he got
up to walk back to the Grange. "Well, that was natural too.
What an ass a man is to care for such things as that !"

On that evening and the next morning the Cornburys were
very gracious to him ; and then he returned to Baslehurst, on
the whole well pleased with his visit.

CHAPTER XXVIL

nf WHICH THE QUESTION OP THE BREWERY 13 SETTLED.

DtTEiNG the day or two immediately subsequent to the election,
Mr. Tappitt found himself to be rather down-hearted. Ths
excitement of the contest was over. He was no longer buoyed
up by the consoling and almost triumphant assurances of

304 RACHEL EAY.

success for himself against his enemy Eowan, which had been
administered to him by those with whom he had been acting on
behalf of Mr. Hart. He was alone and thoughtful in his
counting-house, or else subjected to the pressure of his wife's
arguments in his private dwelling. He had never yet been won
over to say that he would agree to any proposition, but he knew
that he must now form some decision. Eowan would not even
wait tin the lawsuit should be decided by legal means. If
Mr. Tappitt would not consent to one of the three propositions
made to him, Eowan would at once commence the building of
bis new brewery. " He is that sort of man," said Honymao,
" that if he puts a brick down nothing in the world will prevent
hiTn from going on."

" Of course it won't," said Mrs. Tappitt. " Oh dear, oh
dear, T. ! if you go on in this way we shall all be ruined ; and
then people will say that it was my fault, and that I ought to
have had you inquired into about your senses."

Tappitt gnashed his teeth and rushed out of the dining-room
back into his brewery. Among all those who were around him
there was not one to befriend him. Even "Worts had turned
against him, and had received notice to go with a stem satis-
faction which Tappitt had perfectly understood.

Tappitt was in this frame of mind, and was seated on his
office stool, with his hat over his eyes, when he was informed
by one of the boys about the place that a deputation from the
town had come to wait upon him ; so he pulled off his hat, and
begged that the deputation might be shown into the counting-
house. The deputation consisted of three tradesmen who were
desirous of convening a meeting with the view of discussing the
petition against Mr. Cornbury's return to Parliament, and they
begged that Mr. Tappitt would take the chair. The meeting
was to be held at the "Dragon," and it was proposed that after
the meeting there should be a little dinner. Mr. Tappitt would
perhaps consent to take the chair at the dinner also. Mr.
Tappitt did consent to both propositions, and when the depu-
tation withdrew, he felt himself to be himself once more. His
courage had returned to him, and he would at once rebuke his
wife for the impropriety of the words she had addressed to him.
He would rebuke his wife, and would then proceed to meet Mr.
Sharpit the attorney, at the "Dragon," and to iike the chair at the
meeting. It could not be that a young adventurer such aa

THE BEEWEKY QUESTION SETTLED. 305

Kowan could put down an old-established firm, such as his (iwn,
or hanish from the scene of his labours a man of such standing
in the town as himself ! It was aU the fault of Honyman, — of
Honyman who never was firm on any matter. When the
meeting should be over be would say a word or two to Sharpit,
and see if he could not put the matter iuto better training.

With a heavy tread, a tread that was intended to mark his
determination, he ascended to the drawing-room and from thence
to the bed-room above in which Mrs. Tappitt was then seated.
She understood the meaning of the footfall, and knew well that
it indicated a purpose of marital authority. A woman must
have much less of natural wit than had fallen to Mrs. Tappitt's
share, who has not learned from the experience of thirty years
the meaning of such marital signs and sounds. So she sat
herself firmly in her seat, caught hold of the petticoat which
she was mending with a stout grasp, and prepared- herself for
the battle. " Margaret," said he, when he had carefully closed
the door behind him, " I have come up to say that I do not
intend to dine at home to-day."

" Oh, indeed," said she. " At the ' Dragon,' I suppose then."

" Yes ; at the 'Dragon.' I've been asked to take the chair at
a popular meeting which is to be held with reference to the late
election."

"Take the chair?"

" Yes, my dear, take the chair at the meeting and at the
dinner."

" Kow, T., don't you make a fool of yourself."

" No, 1 won't ; but Margaret, I must tell you once for all that
that is not the way in which I Like you to speak to me. Why
you should have so much less confidence in my judgment than
other people in Baslehurst, I cannot conceive ; but "

" Now, T., look here ; as for your taking the chair as you call
it, of course you can do it if you like it."

" Of course I can ; and I do like it, and I mean to do it.
But it isn't only about that I've come to speak to you. You
said something to me to-day, before Honyman, that was veiy
improper."

" What I say always is improper, I know."

" I don't suppose you could have intended to insinuate that
' you thought that I was a lunatic."
'. " I didn't say so." .

306 EACHEI. RAT.

•' You said something like it"

" No, I didn't, T "

" Yes yon did, Margaret."

" If you'll allow me for a moment, T., I'll tcU you what I did
say, and if you wish it, I'U say it again."

" No ; I'd rather not hear it said again."

"But, T., I don't choose to be misunderstood, nor yet mis-
represented."

" I haven't misrepresented you."

" But I say you have misrepresented me. If I ain't allowed
to speak a word, of course it isn't any use for me to open my
mouth. I hope I know what my duty is and I hope I've done
it; — ^both hy you, T., and by the children. I know I'm bound
to submit, and I hope I have submitted., Very hard it has
been sonietimes when I've seen things going as they have gone ;
but I've remembered my duty as a wife, and I've held my
tongue when any other womaji in England would have spoken
out. But there are some things which a woman can't stand and
shouldn't ; and if I'm to see my girls ruined and left without a
roof over their heads, or a bit to eat, or a thing to wear, it shan't
be for want of a word from me."

" Didn't they always have plenty to eat?"

" But where is it to come from if you're going to rush open-
mouthed into the lion's jaws in this way ? I've done my duty
by you, T., and no man nor yet no woman' can say anything to
the contrary. And if it was myself only I'd see myself on the
brink of starvation before I'd say a word ; but I can't see those
poor girls brought to beggary without telling you what every-
body in Baslehurst is talking about ; and I can't see you, T.,
behaving in such a way and sit by and hold my tongue."

"Behave in what way? Haven't I worked like a horse?
Do you mean to tell me that I am to give up my business, and
my position, and everything I have in the world, and go away
because a young scoundrel comes to Baslehurst and tells me that
he wants to have my breweiy? I teU you what, Margaret, if
jou thinlc I'm that sort of man, you don't know me yet."

" I don't know about Imowing you, T."

" No j you don't know me."

" If you come to that, I know very well that I have been
deceived. I didn't want to speak of it, but now I must.
I have been made to believe for these last twenty years that the

THE BRKWERY QUESTION SETTLED. 307

brewery was all your awii, whereas it now turns out that you've
only got a share in it, and for aught I can see, by no means tho
best share. \Vliy wasn't I told all that before ?"

" Woman !" shouted llr. Tappitt.

" Yes ; woman indeed ! I suppose I am a woman, and there-
fore I'm to have no voice in anything. Will you answer mo
one question, if you please ? Are you goiag to that man,
Sharpit?"

"Yes, lam."

" Then, Mr. Tappitt, I shall consult my brothers.'' Mrs.
Tappitt's brothers were grocers in Pljonouth ; men whom Mr.
Tappitt had never loved. " They mayn't hold their heads quite
as high as you do, — or rather as you used to do when people
thought that the establishment was all your own ; but such as it
is nobody can turn them out of their si: op in the Market-place.
If you are going to Sharpit, I shall consult them."

" You may consult the devil, if you like it."

" Oh, oh ! very well, Mr. Tappitt. It's clear enough that
you're not yourself any longer, and that somebody must take up
yoMT affairs and manage them for you. If you'll follow my
\dvice you'U stay at home this evening and take a dose of
physic and see Dr. Haustus quietly in the morning."

" I shall do nothing of the kind."

" Very well. Of course I can't make you. As yet you're
your own master. If you choose to go to this siUy meeting and
then to drink gin-and-water and to smoke bad tobacco tUl all
hours at the 'Dragon,' and you in the dangerous state you are at
present, I can't help it. I don't suppose that anything I could
do now, that is quite immediately, would enable me to put you
under fitting restraint."

" Put me where ?" Then Mr. Tappitt looked at his wife with
a look that was intended to anniliilate her, for the time being,
— seeing that no words that he could speak had any such effect,
and he hurried out of the room without staying to wash his
hands or brush his hair before he went off to preside at the
meeting.

ilrs. Tappitt remained where she was for about half an hour,
and then descended among her daughters.

"Isn't papa going to dine at home?" aid Augusta.

" No, my dear ; your papa is going to dine with some friendi
of Mr. Hart's, the candidate who was beaten."

308 RACHEL KAY

"And has he settled anything about the hrewery?" Cherry
asked.

" No ; not as yet. Your papa is very much troubled about
it, and I fear he is not very well. I suppose he must go to this
electioneering dinner. When gentlemen take up thfit soi-t of
thing, they must go on with it. And as they wish your father
to preside over the petition, I suppose he can't very well help
himself."

" Is papa goiug to preside over the petition?" asked Augusta.

" Yes, my dear."

" I hope it won't cost him anything," said Martha. "People
say that those petitions do cost a great deal of money."

"It's a very anxious time for me, girk; of coarse, you must
all of you see that. I'm sure when we had our party I didn't
think things were going to be as anxious as this, or I wouldn't
have had a penny spent in such a way as that. If your papa
could bring himself to give up the brewery, everything wouli
be weU."

" I do so wish he woidd," said Cherry, " and let us all go and
live at Torquay. I do so hate this nasty dirty old place."

" I shall never live in a house I like so well," said Martha.

" The house is weU enough, my dears, and so is the brewery ;
but it can't be expected that your father should go on working
for ever as he does at present. It's too much for his strength ;
— a great deal too much. I can see it, though I don't suppose
any one else can. No one knows, only me, what your father
has gone through in that brewery."

"But why doesn't he take Mr. Rowan's offer f" said Cherry.

" Everybody seems to say now that Eowan is ever so rich,"
said Augusta.

" I suppose papa doesn't like the feeling of being turned out,"
said Martha.

" He wouldn't be turned out, my dear ; not the least in the
world," said Mrs. Tappitt. " I don't choose to interfere much
myself because, perhaps, I don't understand it ; but certainly I
should like your papa to retire. I have told him so; but
gentlemen sometimes don't Hke to be told of things."

Mrs. Tappitt coidd be very severe to her husband, could saj
to him terrible words if her spirit were put up, as she herself
was wont to say. But she understood that it did not become
her to speak iU of their father before her girla, Ifor would she

THE BEEWERY QUESTION SETTLED. 309

willingly have been heard hy the servants to scold their master.
And though she said terrible things she said them with a con-
viction that they would not have any terrible effect. Tappitt
would only take them for what they were worth, and would
measure them by the standard which his old experience had
taught him to adopt. Wben a man has been long consuming
red pepper, it takes much red pepper to stimulate his palate.
Had Mrs. Tappitt merely advised her husband, in proper con-
jugal phraseology, to reKnquish his trade and to retire to
Torquay, her advice, she knew, would have had no weight.
She was eager on the subject, feeling convinced that this plan
of retirement was for the good of the family generally, and
therefore she had advocated it with energy. There may be
those who think that a wife goes too far in threatening a
husband with a commission of lunacy, and frightening him
with a prospect of various fatal diseases ; but the dose must be
adapted to the constitution, and the palate that is accustomed
to large quantities of red pepper must have quantities larger
than usual whenever some special cuhnary effect is to bt>
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