“How d’ye do?” said he. “Is Mrs. Ray at home?”
“Mamma?—no. You 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 in to see my sister, Mrs. Prime.” Rachel, still standing at the door of the sitting-room, made no attempt of asking Rowan into the parlour.
“And mayn’t I come in?” he said. Rachel was absolutely ignorant whether, under such circumstances, she ought to allow him to enter. But there he was, in the house, and at any rate she could not turn him out.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a long time if you wait for mamma,” she said, slightly making way, so that he obtained admittance. Was she not a hypocrite? Did she not know that Mrs. Ray’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 got himself up to the window, so that his back was turned to her. “Rachel,” he said, turning round quickly, and speaking almost suddenly. Now he had called her Rachel again, but she could find at the moment no better way of answering him than by the same plaintive objection which she had made before. “You shouldn’t call me by my name in that way, Mr. Rowan; you know you shouldn’t.”
“Did your mother tell you what I said to her yesterday?” he asked.
“What you said yesterday?”
“Yes, when you were away across the green.”
“What you said to mamma?”
“Yes; I know she told you. I see it in your face. And I am glad she did so. May I not call you Rachel now?”
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 you Rachel now?” he said, repeating the question.
I hope it will be understood that Rachel 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 Rachel 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 still and tremble. Of course he might call her Rachel;—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, Rachel, 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 as he moved, though she retreated from him, she did not retreat with a step as rapid as his own. “Rachel,”—and he put out his hand to her—“I want you to be my wife.” She allowed the tips of her fingers to turn themselves toward him, as though unable altogether to refuse the greeting which he offered her, but as she did so she turned away from him, and bent down her head. She had heard all she wanted to hear. Why did he not go away, and leave her to think of it? 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?
He got her hand in his, and then passed his arm round her waist. “Say, love; say, Rachel;—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 round over her shoulder, as though to look into her eyes.
“Oh, Mr. Rowan; 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, Rachel?”
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 Rowan, still struggling to look into her face; “one word,
