“Mr. Prime was a gentleman and a Christian,” said the vicar.
“That he was, Mr. Comfort; and a husband for a young woman to be proud of. But he was soon taken away from her—very soon! and she hasn’t thought much of this world since.”
“I don’t know what she’s thinking of now.”
“It isn’t of herself, Mr. Comfort; not a bit. Dorothy is very stern; but, to give her her due, it’s not herself she’s thinking of.”
“Why does she want to marry him, then?”
“Because he’s lonely without someone to do for him.”
“Lonely!—and he should be lonely for me, Mrs. Ray.”
“And because she says she can work in the vineyard better as a clergyman’s wife.”
“Pshaw! work in the vineyard, indeed! But it’s no business of mine; and, as you say, I suppose you can’t help it.”
“Indeed I can’t. She’d never think of asking me.”
“I hope she’ll look after her money, that’s all. And what’s all this about my friend Rachel? I’d a great deal sooner hear that she was going to be married—if I knew that the man was worthy of her.”
Then Mrs. Ray put her hand into her pocket, and taking out Rowan’s letter, gave it to the vicar to read. As she did so, she looked into his face with eyes full of the most intense anxiety. She was herself greatly frightened by the magnitude of this marriage question. She feared the enmity of Mrs. Rowan; and she doubted the firmness of Luke. She could not keep herself from reflecting that a young man from London was very dangerous; that he might probably be a wolf; that she could not be safe in trusting her one lamb into such custody. But, nevertheless, she most earnestly hoped that Mr. Comfort’s verdict might be in the young man’s favour. If he would only say that the young man was not a wolf—if he would only take upon his own clerical shoulders the responsibility of trusting the young man—Mrs. Ray would become for the moment one of the happiest women in Devonshire. With what a beaming face—with what a true joy—with what smiles through her tears, would she then have welcomed Rachel back from the farmhouse! How she would have watched her as she came across the green, beckoning to her eagerly, and telling all her happy tale beforehand by the signs of her joy! But there was to be no such happy tale as that told on this morning. She watched the vicar’s face as he read the letter, and soon perceived that the verdict was to be given against the writer of it. I do not know that Mrs. Ray was particularly quick at reading the countenances of men, but, in this instance, she did read the countenance of Mr. Comfort. We, all of us, read more in the faces of those with whom we hold converse, than we are aware of doing. Of the truth, or want of truth in every word spoken to us, we judge, in great part, by the face of the speaker. By the face of every man and woman seen by us, whether they speak or are silent, we form a judgment—and in nine cases out of ten our judgment is true. It is because our tenth judgment—that judgment which has been wrong—comes back upon us always with the effects of its error, that we teach ourselves to say that appearances cannot be trusted. If we did not trust them we should be walking ever in doubt, in darkness, and in ignorance. As Mr. Comfort read the letter, Mrs. Ray knew that it would not be allowed to her to speak words of happiness to Rachel on that day. She knew that the young man was to be set down as dangerous; but she was by no means aware that she was reading the vicar’s face with precise accuracy. Mr. Comfort had been slow in his perusal, weighing the words of the letter; and when he had finished it he slowly refolded the paper and put it back into its envelope. “He means what he says,” said he, as he gave the letter back to Mrs. Ray.
“Yes; I think he means what he says.”
“But we cannot tell how long he may mean it; nor can we tell as yet whether such a connection would be good for Rachel, even if he should remain steadfast in such meaning. If you ask me, Mrs. Ray—”
“I do ask you, Mr. Comfort.”
“Then I think we should all of us know more about him, before we allow Rachel to give him encouragement;—I do indeed.”
Mrs. Ray could not quite repress in her heart a slight feeling of anger against the vicar. She remembered the words—so different not only in their meaning, but in the tone in which they were spoken—in which he had sanctioned Rachel’s going to the ball: “Young people get to think of each other,” he had then said, speaking with good-humoured, cheery voice, as though such thinking were worthy of all encouragement. He had spoken then of marriage being the happiest condition for both men and women, and had inquired as to Rowan’s means. Every word that had then fallen from him had expressed his opinion that Luke Rowan was an eligible lover. But now he was named as though he were undoubtedly a wolf. Why had not Mr. Comfort said then, at that former interview, when no harm had as yet been done, that it would be desirable to know more of the young man before any encouragement was given to
