Nobody can deny that Mrs. Ray had given, with very fair accuracy, an epitome of Mr. Comfort’s words; but they did not leave upon Rachel’s mind a very clear idea of what she was expected to do. “Go away in debt!” she said; “who says so?”
“Mr. Comfort told me so just now. But perhaps he’ll send the money in a money-order, you know.”
“I don’t think he would go away in debt. And why should the lawsuit go against him if he’s got right on his side? He does not wish to do any harm to Mr. Tappitt.”
“I don’t know about that, my dear; but at any rate they’ve quarrelled.”
“But why shouldn’t that be Mr. Tappitt’s fault as much as his? And as for not showing his face in Baslehurst—! Oh, mamma! don’t you know him well enough to be sure that he will never be ashamed of showing his face anywhere? He not show his face! Mamma, I don’t believe a word of it all—not a word.”
“Mr. Comfort said so; he did indeed.” Then Mrs. Sturt’s words came back upon Rachel. “Don’t let ere a parson in Devonshire rob thee of thy sweetheart.” This lover of hers was her only possession—the only thing of her own winning that she had ever valued. He was her great triumph, the rich upshot of her own prowess—and now she felt that this parson was indeed robbing her. Had he been then present, she would have risen up and spoken at him, as she had never spoken before. The spirit of rebellion against all the world was strong within her;—against all the world except that one weak woman who now sat before her on the sofa. Her eyes were full of anger, and Mrs. Ray saw that it was so; but still she was minded to obey her mother.
“It’s no good talking,” said Rachel; “but when they say that he’s afraid to show himself in Baslehurst, I don’t believe them. Does he look like a man afraid to show himself?”
“Looks are so deceitful, Rachel.”
“And as for debts—people, if they’re called away by telegraph in a minute, can’t pay all that they owe. There are plenty of people in Baslehurst that owe a deal more than he does, I’m sure. And he’s got his share in the brewery, so that nobody need be afraid.”
“Mr. Comfort didn’t say that you were to quarrel with him altogether.”
“Mr. Comfort! What’s Mr. Comfort to me, mamma?” This was said in such a tone that Mrs. Ray absolutely started up from her seat.
“But, Rachel, he is my oldest friend. He was your father’s friend.”
“Why did he not say it before, then? Why—why—why—? Mamma, I can’t throw him off now. Didn’t I tell him that—that—that I would—love him? Didn’t you say that it might be so—you yourself? How am I to show my face, if I go back now? Mamma, I do love him, with all my heart and all my strength, and nothing that anybody can say can make any difference. If he owed ever so much money I should love him the same. If he had killed Mr. Tappitt it wouldn’t make any difference.”
“Oh, Rachel!”
“No more it would. If Mr. Tappitt began it first, it wasn’t his fault.”
“But Rachel, my darling—what can we do? If he has gone away we cannot make him come back again.”
“But he wrote almost immediately.”
“And you are going to answer it;—are you not?”
“Yes;—but what sort of an answer, mamma? How can I expect that he will ever want to see me again when I have written to him in that way? I won’t say anything about hoping that he’s very well. If I may not tell him that he’s my own, own, own Luke, and that I love him with all my heart, I’ll bid him stay away and not trouble himself any further. I wonder what he’ll think of me when I write in that way!”
“If he’s constant-hearted he’ll wait a while and then he’ll come back again.”
“Why should he come back when I’ve treated him in that way? What have I got to give him? Mamma, you may write the letter yourself, and put in it what you please.”
“Mr. Comfort said that you had better write it.”
“Mr. Comfort! I don’t know why I’m to do all that Mr. Comfort tells me,” and then those other words of Mrs. Sturt’s recurred to her, “It’s little I think of what a clergyman says unless it be out of a pulpit.” After that there was nothing further said for some minutes. Mrs. Ray still sat on the sofa, and as she gazed upon the table which stood in the middle of the room, she wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. Rachel was now seated in a chair with her back almost turned to her mother, and was beating with her impatient fingers on the table. She was very angry—angry even with her mother; and she was half brokenhearted, truly believing that such a letter as that which she was desired to write would estrange her lover from her forever. So they sat, and for a few minutes no word was spoken between them.
“Rachel,” said Mrs. Ray at last, “if
