“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 be well that you should learn, because I’m sure you will be glad to think as well of your brother-in-law as possible.”
“Do you mean that he is engaged to marry Rachel?”
“Yes, Dorothea. I think we may say that it is all settled now;—mayn’t we, Rachel? 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 comeliness 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. Ray, “I took a liking to him 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, Rachel?—from the first moment I set eyes on him. Only I don’t think he’ll 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 Rachel had not spoken a word, nor had her sister uttered anything expressive of congratulation or good wishes. Now, as Mrs. Ray ceased, there came a silence in the room, and it was incumbent on the elder sister to break it.
“If this matter is settled, Rachel—”
“It is settled—I think,” said Rachel.
“If it is settled I hope that it may be for your lasting happiness and eternal welfare.”
“I hope it will,” said Rachel.
“Marriage is a most important step.”
“That’s quite true, my dear,” said Mrs. Ray.
“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. Rowan long enough to justify your confidence in him.”
It was still 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 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, Rachel!” 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 think more of your welfare in another world than in this.” Then she kissed her sister and they parted for the night.
Rachel 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 had been dismissed when she knew that it wasn’t true?”
“Ah, my dear! can’t you understand? When she first heard of Mr. Rowan—”
“Call him Luke, mamma.”
“When she first heard of him she was taught to believe that he was giddy, and that he didn’t mean anything.”
“Why should she think evil of people? Who taught her?”
“Miss Pucker, and Mr. Prong, and that set.”
“Yes; and they are the people who talk most of Christian charity!”
“But, my dear, they don’t mean to be uncharitable. They try to do good. If Dorothea really thought that this young man was a dangerous acquaintance what could she do but say so? And you can’t expect her to turn round all in a minute. Think how she has been troubled herself about this affair of Mr. Prong’s.”
“But 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 all 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?”
“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. Cornbury. She has behaved best through it all—next to you, mamma.”
I am afraid it was late before Mrs. Ray went to sleep that night, and I almost doubt whether Rachel slept at all. It seemed to her that in the present condition of her life sleep could hardly be necessary. During the last month past she
