“Yes, Mrs. Sturt. Mr. Comfort has been with mamma—about business; and as I didn’t want to be in the way I just came over to you.”
“Thou art welcome, as flowers in May, morning or evening; but thee knowest that, girl. As for Mr. Comfort—it’s cold comfort he is, I always say. It’s little I think of what clergymen says, unless it be out of the pulpit or the like of that. What does they know about lads and lasses?”
“He’s a very old friend of mamma’s.”
“Old friends is always best, I’ll not deny that. But, look thee here, my girl; my man’s an old friend too. He’s know’d thee since he lifted thee in his arms to pull the plums off that bough yonder; and he’s seen thee these ten years a deal oftener than Mr. Comfort. If they say anything wrong of thy joe there, tell me, and Sturt’ll find out whether it be true or no. Don’t let ere a parson in Devonshire rob thee of thy sweetheart. It’s passing sweet, when true hearts meet. But it breaks the heart, when true hearts part.” With the salutary advice contained in these ancient local lines Mrs. Sturt put her arms round Rachel, and having kissed her, bade her go.
With slow step she made her way across the green, hardly daring to look to the door of the cottage. But there was no figure standing at the door; and let her have looked with all her eyes, there was nothing there to have told her anything. She walked very slowly, thinking as she went of Mrs. Sturt’s words—“Don’t let ere a parson in Devonshire rob thee of thy sweetheart.” Was it not hard upon her that she should be subjected to the misery of such discussion, seeing that she had given no hope, either to her lover or to herself, till she had received full warranty for doing so? She would do what her mother should bid her, let it be what it might; but she would be wronged—she felt that she would be wronged and injured, grievously injured, if her mother should now bid her think of Rowan as one thinks of those that are gone.
She entered the cottage slowly, and turning into the parlour, found her mother seated there on the old sofa, opposite to the fireplace. She was seated there in stiff composure, waiting the work which she had to do. It was no customary place of hers, and she was a woman who, in the ordinary occupations of her life, never deserted her customary places. She had an old easy chair near the fireplace, and another smaller chair close to the window, and in one of these she might always be found, unless when, on special occasions like the present, some great thing had occurred to throw her out of the grooves of her life.
“Well, mamma?” said Rachel, coming in and standing before her mother. Mrs. Ray, before she spoke, looked up into her child’s face, and was afraid. “Well, mamma, what has Mr. Comfort said?”
Was it not hard for Mrs. Ray that at such a moment she should have had no sort of husband on whom to lean? Does the reader remember that in the opening words of this story Mrs. Ray was described as a woman who specially needed some standing-corner, some post, some strong prop to bear her weight—some marital authority by which she might be guided? Such prop and such guiding she had never needed more sorely than she needed them now. She looked up into Rachel’s face before she spoke, and was afraid. “He has been here, my dear,” she said, “and has gone away.”
“Yes, mamma, I knew that,” said Rachel. “I saw his phaeton drive off; that’s why I came over from Mrs. Sturt’s.”
Rachel’s voice was hard, and there was no comfort in it. It was so hard that Mrs. Ray felt it to be unkind. No doubt Rachel suffered; but did not she suffer also? Would not she have given blood from her breast, like the maternal pelican, to have secured from that clerical counsellor a verdict that might have been comforting to her child? Would she not have made any sacrifice of self for such a verdict, even though the effecting of it must have been that she herself would have been left alone and deserted in the world? Why, then, should Rachel be stern to her? If misery was to fall on both of them, it was not of her doing.
“I know you will think it’s my fault, Rachel; but I cannot help it, even though you should say so. Of course I was obliged to ask someone; and who else was there that would be able to tell me so well as Mr. Comfort? You would not have liked it at all if I had gone to Dorothea; and as for Mr. Prong—”
“Oh! mamma, mamma, don’t! I haven’t said anything. I haven’t complained of Mr. Comfort. What has he said now? You forget that you have not told me.”
“No, my dear, I don’t forget; I wish I could. He says that Mr. Rowan has behaved badly to Mr. Tappitt, and that he hasn’t paid his debts, and that the lawsuit will be sure to go against him, and that he will never show his face in Baslehurst again; and he says, too, that it would be very wrong for you to correspond with him—very; because a young girl like you must be so careful about such things; and he says he’ll be much more likely to respect you if you don’t—don’t—don’t just throw yourself into his arms like. Those were his very words; and then he says that if he really cares for you, he’ll be sure to come back again, and so you’re to answer the letter, and you must call him Dear Mr. Rowan. Don’t call him Luke, because young
