The letter was not quite what Rachel had expected, but, nevertheless, she thought it very nice. She had never received a love-letter before, and probably had never read one—even in print; so that she was in possession of no strong preconceived notions as to the nature or requisite contents of such a document. She was a little shocked when Luke called his mother a goose;—she was a little startled when he said that people were “liars,” having an idea that the word was one not to be lightly used;—she was amused by the allusion to the baronet’s grandmother, feeling, however, that the manner and language of his letter was less pretty and love-laden than she had expected;—and she was frightened when he so confidently called upon her to write to him twice a week. But, nevertheless, the letter was a genial one, joyous, and, upon the whole, comforting. She read it very slowly, going back over much of it twice and thrice, so that her mother became impatient before the perusal was finished.
“It seems to be very long,” said Mrs. Ray.
“Yes, mamma, it is long. It’s nearly four sides.”
“What can he have to say so much?”
“There’s a good deal of it is about his own private affairs.”
“I suppose, then, I mustn’t see it.”
“Oh yes, mamma!” And Rachel handed her the letter. “I shouldn’t think of having a letter from him and not showing it to you;—not as things are now.” Then Mrs. Ray took the letter and spent quite as much time in reading it as Rachel had done. “He writes as though he meant to have everything quite his own way,” said Mrs. Ray.
“That’s what he does mean. I think he will do that always. He’s what people call imperious; but that isn’t bad in a man, is it?”
Mrs. Ray did not quite know whether it was bad in a man or no. But she mistrusted the letter, not construing it closely so as to discover what might really be its full meaning, but perceiving that the young man took, or intended to take, very much into his own hands; that he demanded that everything should be surrendered to his will and pleasure, without any guarantee on his part that such surrendering should be properly acknowledged. Mrs. Ray was disposed to doubt people and things that were at a distance from her. Some check could be kept over a lover at Baslehurst; or, if perchance the lover had removed himself only to Exeter, with which city Mrs. Ray was personally acquainted, she could have believed in his return. He would not, in that case, have gone utterly beyond her ken. But she could put no confidence in a lover up in London. Who could say that he might not marry someone else tomorrow—that he might not be promising to marry half a dozen? It was with her the same sort of feeling which made her think it possible that Mr. Prong might go to Australia. She would have liked as a lover for her daughter a young man fixed in business—if not at Baslehurst, then at Totnes, Dartmouth, or Brixham—under her own eye as it were;—a young man so fixed that all the world of South Devonshire would know of all his doings. Such a young man, when he asked a girl to marry him, must mean what he said. If he did not there would be no escape for him from the punishment of his neighbours’ eyes and tongues. But a young man up in London—a young man who had quarrelled with his natural friends in Baslehurst—a young man who was confessedly masterful and impetuous—a young man who called his own mother a goose, and all the rest of the world liars, in his first letter to his ladylove;—was that a young man in whom Mrs. Ray could place confidence as a lover for her pet lamb? She read the letter very slowly, and then, as she gave it back to Rachel, she groaned.
For nearly half an hour after that nothing was said in the cottage about the letter. Rachel had perceived that it had not been thought satisfactory by her mother; but then she was inclined to believe that her mother would have regarded no letter as satisfactory until arguments had been used to prove to her that it was so. This, at any rate, was clear—must be clear to Mrs. Ray as it was clear to Rachel—that Luke had no intention of shirking the fulfilment of his engagement. And after all, was not that the one thing as to which it was essentially necessary that they should be confident? Had she not accepted Luke, telling him that she loved him? and was it not acknowledged by all around her that such a marriage would be good for her? The danger which they feared was the expectation of such a marriage without its accomplishment. Even the forebodings of Mrs. Prime had shown that this was the evil to which they pointed. Under these circumstances what better could be wished for than a ready, quick, warm assurance on Luke’s part, that he did intend all that he had said?
With Rachel now, as with all girls under such circumstances, the chief immediate consideration was as to the answer which should be given. Was she to write to him, to write what she pleased; and might she write at once? She felt that she longed to have the pen in her hand, and that yet, when holding it, she would have to think for hours before writing the first word. “Mamma,” she said at last, “don’t you think it’s a good letter?”
“I don’t know what to think, my dear. I doubt whether any letters of that sort are good for much.”
“Of what sort, mamma?”
“Letters from men who call themselves lovers to young girls. It would be safer, I think, that there shouldn’t be any;—very much safer.”
“But if he hadn’t written we
