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?”
“I have been at home.”
“Ah; but tell me the truth. Remember 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. Rowan.”
“Did you not? 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 Rachel?
“Then I did offend you?” said he.
“Oh, Mr. Rowan—never mind now; you must go on with the figure,” and thus for a moment she was saved from her difficulty. When he had done his work of dancing, she began hers, and as she placed both her hands in his to make the final turn, she flattered herself that he would not go back to the subject.
Nor did he while the quadrille lasted. As they continued 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 which 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’ll tell her that,” said Rachel. “She will so like it.”
“No, 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 till 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 allowed to go into such queer places. You see that little 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?”
“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 fires 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 tuning 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?”
“Please don’t talk of it. Please don’t. It’s all over now.”
“Ah, but it is not all over. I knew you were angry with me because—shall I say why?”
“No, Mr. Rowan, don’t say anything about it.”
“At any rate, I may think that you have forgiven me. But what if I offend in the same way again? What if I ask permission to do it, so that it may be no offence? Only think; if I am to live here in Baslehurst all my life, is it not reasonable that I should wish you to be my friend? Are you going to separate yourself from Cherry Tappitt because you are afraid of me?”
“Oh, no.”
“But is not that what you have done during the last week, Miss Ray;—if it must be Miss Ray?” Then he paused, but still 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 Rachel weeping for her children?”
“That’s the idea, and not the name. Ruth is twice prettier, and Mary the sweetest of all.”
“I never knew anybody before called Rachel,” 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 call you Rachel then?”
“Oh, no; please don’t. What would people think?”
“Perhaps they would think the truth,” said he. “Perhaps 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 liked 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 Rachel. “It’s nearly over now.”
“I am so sorry,” said Rachel, “but I quite forgot.”
“So I presume,” said Mr. Buckett angrily, but at the same time he gave his arm to Rachel and led her away. The fag end of some waltz remained, and 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 like to lose his chance. “Oh, Mr. Rowan,” said Rachel, looking back as she was being led away. “I must speak one word to Mr. Rowan.” Then she separated herself, and returning a step or two almost whispered to her late partner—“You have put me down for ever
