SHOWING WHAT RACHEL RAY THOUGHT WHEN SHE SAT ON THE STILE,
AND HOW SHE WROTE HER LETTER AFTERWARDS.
Rachel, as soon as she had made her mother the promise that she 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 her
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 feeling, 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 husband. 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 our misery.
In the first flush of our wretchedness, let the outward signs of our
grief be what they may, we promise to ourselves the support of some
inner strength which shall suffice to us at any rate as against the
eyes of the outer world. But anon, and that inner staff fails us; our
pride yields to our tears; our dignity is crushed beneath the load
with which we have burdened it, and then with loud wailings we own
ourselves to be the wretches which we are. But now Rachel was in the
hour of her pride, and as she came down from her room she resolved
that her sorrow should be 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 all she had
been robbed of her sweetheart. 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 down from her
room, and began to employ herself on her household work.
Mrs. Ray watched her carefully, and Rachel knew that she was watched;
but she took no outward notice of it, going on with her work, and
saying a soft, gentle word now and again, sometimes to her mother,
and sometimes to the little maiden who attended them. "Will 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.
Ray.
"Oh, mamma! don't say that; just when you are going to thank God for
the good things he gives you."
Then Mrs. Ray, 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 Rowan; and to neither of
them was it as yet possible to speak about aught else. One word on
the subject was said during those hours. "You won't have time for
your letter after tea," Mrs. Ray said.
"I shall not write it till to-morrow," Rachel answered; "another day
will do no harm now."
At tea Mrs. Ray asked her whether she did not think that a walk would
do her good, and offered to accompany her; but Rachel, acceding to
the proposition of the walk, declared that she would go alone. "It's
very bad of me to say so, isn't it, when you're 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. Mrs. 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 him; 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.
"I really don't know," said Mrs. Prime. "Such goings about do cut up
one's time so much. I shouldn't be here again till--"
"Of course you'd stay for tea with us," said Rachel.
"And lose the whole afternoon!" said Mrs. Prime.
"Oh do!" said Miss Pucker. "You have been working so hard; hasn't she
now, Mr. Prong? At this time of the year a sniff of fresh air among
the flowers does do a body so much good." And Miss Pucker looked and
spoke as though she also would like the sniff of fresh air.
"I'm very well in health, and am thankful for it. I can't say that
it's needed in that way," said Mrs. Prime.
"But mamma will be so glad to see you," said Rachel.
"I think you ought to go, Dorothea," said Mr. Prong; and even Rachel
could perceive that there was some slight touch of authority in his
voice. It was the slightest possible intonation of a command; but,
nevertheless, it struck Rachel's ears.
Mrs. Prime merely shook her head and sniffed. It was not for a 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 had attempted to exercise. "I think I'd rather not, Rachel,
thank you;--not to dinner, that is. Perhaps I'll walk out in 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 shall be most happy to accompany the ladies."
It will be acknowledged that Rachel had no alternative left to her.
She said that her mother would be happy to see Mr. Prong, and 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'll have to come to the
house sooner or later. But I wouldn't tell that horrid, squinting
woman that you wanted to see her, for I'm sure you don't."
"But we must give them some cake and a glass of sweet wine," said
Mrs. Ray.
"She won't have to take her bonnet off for that as she would for tea,
and it isn't so much like making herself at home here. I couldn'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 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 familiar to her, and, turning round, she saw Mrs.
Cornbury seated in a low carriage, and driving a pair of ponies.
"How are you, Rachel?" said Mrs. Cornbury, shaking hands with her
friend, for Rachel 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 Rachel 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 Rachel, "only--"
"Ah! well; I see. You've got other fish to fry. But, Rachel, look
here, dear." And Mrs. Cornbury almost whispered into her ear across
the side of the pony carriage. "Don't you believe quite all you hear.
I'll find out the truth, and you shall know. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Mrs. Cornbury," said Rachel, pressing her friend's hand 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 Rachel 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 elm trees to her right,
and went on straight to the stile at which she had stood with Luke
Rowan, 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 lights of the evening. There was
no arm in the clouds now, and the perverse sun was retiring to his
rest without any of that royal pageantry and illumination with which
the heavens are wont to deck themselves when their king goes to his
couch. But Rachel, though she had come thither to look for these
things and had not found them, hardly marked their absence. Her mind
became 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 body,
that she soon forgot to watch the clouds. She sat herself down upon
the stile 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
all her destiny. It was there that love for him had first come upon
her--had come over her with broad outspread wings like an angel;
but whether as an angel of darkness or of light, her heart had then
been unable to perceive. How well she remembered it all; 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 him! "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 brightness of his eye, and the eager tone
of his voice, were even then subduing her coy unwillingness to part
with her maiden love. 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 all 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 like you so very
much," he had said; "why should we not be friends?" She had gone away
from him then, fleeing along the path, bewildered, ignorant as to
her own feelings, conscious almost of a sin in having listened to
him; but still filled with a wondrous delight that any one so good,
so beautiful, so powerful as he, should have cared to ask for her
friendship in such pressing words. During all her walk home she had
been full of fear and wonder and mysterious delight. Then had come
the ball, which in itself had hardly been so pleasant to her, because
the eyes of many had watched her there. But she thought of the moment
when he had first come to her in Mrs. Tappitt's drawing-room, just as
she was resolving that he did not intend to notice her further. She
thought of those repeated dances which had been so dear to her, but
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 all
while lying in her bed, she had declared to herself 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 love? 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 her mind plans of
disobedience,--dreadful plans! She would not submit to this usage.
She would go away from Baslehurst without knowledge of any one, and
would seek him out in his 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 maintain 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 all that the tenderness of a wife could
give. If he should refuse 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 upturned 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 declined to believe any of it.
It was to her, whether believed or disbelieved, 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 wife, a true wife, sticks
closest to her 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 been placed on her
before her love had 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 against 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 word or deed. But she had been injured;--injured almost
to death; injured even to death itself as regarded all that life
could give her worth her taking! As she thought of this 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 in
this 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 maintain 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 bear her injury as best might be
within her power.
She was still 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 light 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 close 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 Rachel.
"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 Rachel blushed and was unable to speak. "Don't be so foolish,"
said Martha to her sister. "It's ever so long since we've seen you,
Rachel. Why don't you come and walk with us?"
"Yes, indeed,--why don't you?" said Cherry, whose good-nature was
quite as conspicuous as her bad taste. She knew now that she had
vexed Rachel, and was thoroughly sorry 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 understood at first that Rachel Ray might be
different from herself. "I declare we have hardly seen you since 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, because my sister is coming out from
Baslehurst, to spend the evening with us."
"Well;--on Saturday, then," said Cherry, persistingly.
But Rachel would make no promise to walk with them on any day. She
felt that she must henceforth be divided from the Tappitts. Had not
he quarrelled with Mr. Tappitt; and could it be fitting that she
should keep up any friendship with the family that was hostile to
him? 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 friend. She
could 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 replied 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 Rachel's reproachful face when her last
little joke had been uttered, and she refrained.
"She's over head and ears in love," said Cherry to her sister, when
Rachel was gone.
"I'm afraid she has been very foolish," said Martha, seriously.
"I don't see that she has been foolish at all. He's a very 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 Mrs. Ray had been educated.
"But young men do marry,--sometimes," said Cherry.
"But not merely for the sake of a pretty face or a good figure. I
believe mamma is right in that, and I don't think he'll come back
again."
"If he were my lover I'd have him back," said Cherry, stoutly;--and
so they went away to the brewery.
Rachel 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 wrote 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
parlour table, with her mother in her arm-chair, close by, watching
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 all tenderness. And it must probably be
short;--but if so its very shortness would be another difficulty. As
she walked along she could not tell 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 solitude of her own chamber.
She reached home by nine o'clock and sat with her mother for an hour,
reading out loud some book on which they were then engaged.
"I think I'll go to bed now, mamma," she said.
"You always want to go to bed so soon," said Mrs. Ray. "I think 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 liked going to bed at ten."
The watch was consulted, and as it was not quite ten Rachel 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 full, so that the green
before the cottage was as clear before her as in the day, and she
could see over into the gloom of Mr. Sturt's farmyard across it. She
had once watched Rowan as he came over the turf 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 figure
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 be seen, and after awhile she
withdrew from the window and sat herself down at the little table.
It was very late when she undressed herself and went to her bed,
and later still when her eyes, red with many tears, were closed
in sleep;--but the letter had been written and was ready for her
mother's inspection. This was the letter as it stood after many
struggles in the writing of it,--
Bragg's End,
Thursday, 186--
MY DEAR MR. ROWAN,
I am much obliged to you for having written the letter
which I received from you the other day, and I should have
answered it sooner, only mamma thought it best to see Mr.
Comfort first, as he is our clergyman here, and to ask his
advice. I hope you will not be annoyed because I showed
your letter to mamma, but I could not receive any letter
from you without doing so, and I may as well tell you that
she will read this before it goes.
And now that I have begun I hardly know how to write what
I have to say. Mr. Comfort and mamma have determined that
there must be nothing fixed as an engagement between us,
and that for the present, at least, I may not correspond
with you. This will be my first and last letter. As that
will be so, of course I shall not expect you to write any
more, and I know that you will be very angry. But if you
understood all my feelings I think that perhaps you would
not be very, very angry. I know it is true that when you
asked me that question, I nodded my head as you say in
your letter. If I had sworn the twenty oaths of which you
speak they would not, as you say, have bound me tighter.
But neither could bind me to anything against mamma's
will. I thought that you were very generous to come to me
as you did;--oh, so generous! I don't know why you should
have looked to such a one as me to be your wife. But I
would have done my best to make you happy, had I been able
to do as I suppose you then wished me. But you well know
that a man is very different from a girl, and of course I
must do as mamma wishes.
They say that as the business here about the brewery is so
very unsettled they think it probable that you will not
have to come back to Baslehurst any more; and that as our
acquaintance has been so very short, it is not reasonable
to suppose that you will care much about me after a little
while. Perhaps it is not reasonable, and after this I
shall have no right to be angry with you if you forget me.
I don't think you will quite forget me; but I shall never
expect or even hope to see you again.
Twice in writing her letter Rachel cut out this latter assertion, 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?
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 necessary to alter
them.
I will now say good-bye to you, for I have told you all
that I have to tell. Mamma desires that I will remember
her to you kindly.
May God bless you and protect you always!
Believe me to be
Your sincere friend,
RACHEL RAY.
In the morning she took down the letter in her hand and gave it to
her mother. Mrs. Ray read it very slowly and demurred over it at
sundry places. She especially demurred at that word about the omen,
and even declared that it ought to be expunged. But Rachel was very
stern and held her ground. She had put into the letter, she said, all
that she had been bidden to say. Such a word from herself to one who
had been so dear to her must be allowed to her.
The letter was not altered and was taken away by the postman that
evening.