This was all very grand and masterful on Rowan’s part, and might in theory be true; but there was that in it which made Rachel 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 would 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 all there ran a feeling of dismay at the idea of marrying a man whose mother would not willingly receive her as a daughter!
“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.”
“Then 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 Rachel gave no positive refusal to this proposition, Rowan took his departure on the understanding that he might return.
“Goodbye,” 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 will 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, Rachel!”
“Goodbye, Luke,” and then they parted.
She had told him to go, alleging her household duties as her ground for dismissing him; but when he was gone she did not at once betake 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 with the slightest preference. So far love for her had run very smoothly. 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 quickly, all her vacant thoughts had been given to him, and he had become the hero of her life. 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 happiness, she could not bring herself to believe that this cloud would bring a storm. So she sat there dreaming of her happiness, and longing for her mother’s return that she might tell it all;—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 Rachel knew that she must not let the whole morning pass by in idle dreams, happy as those dreams were, and closely as they were allied to her waking life. After a while she jumped up with a start. “I declare there will be nothing done. Mamma will want her dinner though I’m ever so much going to be married.”
But she had not been long on foot, or done much in preparation 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 as yet in what words she would 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, Rachel did not think much. Nothing that Dorothea could say would now be of moment. So at least Rachel flattered herself. And as for Dorothea and all her growlings, had they not chiefly ended in this;—that the young man did not intend to present himself as a husband? But he had now done so in a manner which Rachel felt to be so satisfactory that even Dorothea’s criticism must be disarmed. So Rachel, 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. Ray was so full of her tale, was so conscious of the fact that her tidings were entitled to the immediate and undivided attention of her daughter, and from their first greeting on the gravel path was so ready with her words, that Rachel, with all the story of her happiness, was for a while obliterated.
“Oh, my dear,” said Mrs. Ray, “I have such news for you!”
“So have I, mamma, news for you,” said Rachel, 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
