“What is it you want me to do, Mrs. Rowan?” asked Mrs. Ray.
“I want you and your daughter, who I am sure is a very nice young lady, and good-looking too—”
“Oh, quite so,” said Mrs. Tappitt.
“I want you both to understand that this little thing should be allowed to drop. If my boy has done anything foolish I’m here to apologize for him. He isn’t the first that has been foolish, and I’m afraid he won’t be the last. But it can’t be believed, Mrs. Ray, that marriages should be run up in this thoughtless sort of way. In the first place the young people don’t know anything of each other; absolutely nothing at all. And then—but I’m sure I don’t want to insist on any differences that there may be in their positions in life. Only you must be aware of this, Mrs. Ray, that such a marriage as that would be very injurious to a young man like my son Luke.”
“My child wouldn’t wish to injure anybody.”
“And therefore, of course, she won’t think any more about it. All I want from you is that you should promise me that.”
“If Rachel will only just say that,” said Mrs. Tappitt, “my daughters will be as happy to see her out walking with them as ever.”
“Rachel has had quite enough of such walking, Mrs. Tappitt; quite enough.”
“If harm has come of it, it hasn’t been the fault of my girls,” said Mrs. Tappitt.
Then there was a pause among the three ladies, and it appeared that Mrs. Rowan was waiting for Mrs. Ray’s answer. But Mrs. Ray did not know what answer she should make. She was already disposed to regard the coming of Luke Rowan to Baslehurst as a curse rather than a blessing. She felt all but convinced that Fate would be against her and hers in that matter. She had ever been afraid of young men, believing them to be dangerous, bringers of trouble into families, roaring lions sometimes, and often wolves in sheep’s clothing. Since she had first heard of Luke Rowan in connection with her daughter she had been trembling. If she could have acted in accordance with her own feelings at this moment, she would have begged that Luke Rowan’s name might never again be mentioned in her presence. It would be better for them, she thought, to bear what had already come upon them, than to run further risk. But she could not give any answer to Mrs. Rowan without consulting Rachel;—she could not at least give any such answer as that contemplated without doing so. She had sanctioned Rachel’s love, and could not now undertake to oppose it. Rachel had probably been deceived, and must bear her misfortune. But, as the question stood at present between her and her daughter, she could not at once accede to Mrs. Rowan’s views in the matter. “I will talk to Rachel,” she said.
“Give her my kindest respects,” said Mrs. Rowan; “and pray make her understand that I wouldn’t interfere if I didn’t think it was for both their advantages. Goodbye, Mrs. Ray.” And Mrs. Rowan got up.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Ray,” said Mrs. Tappitt, putting out her hand. “Give my love to Rachel. I hope that we shall be good friends yet, for all that has come and gone.”
But Mrs. Ray would not accept Mrs. Tappitt’s hand, nor would she vouchsafe any answer to Mrs. Tappitt’s amenities. “Goodbye, ma’am,” she said to Mrs. Rowan. “I suppose you mean to do the best you can by your own child.”
“And by yours too,” said Mrs. Rowan.
“If so, I can only say that you must think very badly of your own son. Goodbye, ma’am.” Then Mrs. Ray curtseyed them out—not without a certain amount of dignity, although her eyes were red with tears, and her whole body trembling with dismay.
Very little was said in the fly between the two ladies on their way back to the brewery, nor did Mrs. Rowan remain very long as a visitor at Mrs. Tappitt’s house. She had found herself compelled by circumstances to take a part inimical to Mrs. Ray, but she felt in her heart a much stronger animosity to Mrs. Tappitt. With Mrs. Ray she could have been very friendly, only for that disastrous love affair; but with Mrs. Tappitt she could not again put herself into pleasant relations. I must point out how sadly unfortunate it was that Mrs. Ray had not known how to fan that flame of anger to her own and her daughter’s advantage.
“Well, mamma,” said Rachel, returning to the room as soon as she heard the wheels of the fly in motion upon the road across the green. She found her mother in tears—hardly able to speak because of her sobs. “Never mind it, mamma: of course I know the kind of things they have been saying. It was what I expected. Never mind it.”
“But, my dear, you will be brokenhearted.”
“Brokenhearted! Why?”
“I know you will. Now that you have learned to love him, you’ll never bear to lose him.”
“And must I lose him?”
“She says so. She says that he doesn’t mean it, and that it’s all nonsense.”
“I don’t believe her. Nothing shall make me believe that, mamma.”
“She says it would be ruinous to all his prospects, especially just now when he has quarrelled about this brewery.”
“Ruinous to him!”
“His mother says so.”
“I will never wish him to do anything that shall be ruinous to himself; never;—not though I were brokenhearted, as you call it.”
“Ah, that is it, Rachel, my darling; I wish he had not come here.”
Rachel went away across the room and looked out of the window upon the green. There she stood in silence for a few minutes while her mother was wiping her eyes and suppressing her sobs. Tears also had run
