“What wrong have I done?” said Rachel, jumping up.
“It is I that have done it—not you.”
“No, mamma; you have done no wrong.”
“I should have known more before I let him come here and encouraged you to think of him. It has been my fault. My dear, will you not forgive me?”
“Mamma, there has been no fault. There is nothing to forgive.”
“I have made you unhappy, my child,” and then Mrs. Ray burst out into open tears.
“No, mamma, I won’t be unhappy;—or if I am I will bear it.” Then she got up and threw her arms round her mother’s neck, and embraced her. “I will write the letter, but I will not write it now. You shall see it before it goes.”
XX
Showing What Rachel Ray Thought When She Sat on the Stile, and How She Wrote Her Letter Afterwards
Rachel, as soon as she had made her mother the promise that she would write the letter, left the parlour and went up to her own room. She had many thoughts to adjust in her mind which could not be adjusted satisfactorily otherwise than in solitude, and it was clearly necessary that they should be adjusted before she could write her letter. It must be remembered, not only that she had never before written a letter to a lover, but that she had never before written a letter of importance to anyone. She had threatened at one moment that she would leave the writing of it to her mother; but there came upon her a feeling, of which she was hardly conscious, that she herself might probably compose the letter in a strain of higher dignity than her mother would be likely to adopt. That her lover would be gone from her forever she felt almost assured; but still it would be much to her that, on going, he should so leave her that his respect might remain, though his love would be a thing of the past. In her estimation he was a noble being, to have been loved by whom even for a few days was more honour than she had ever hoped to win. For a few days she had been allowed to think that her great fortune intended him to be her husband. But Fate had interposed, and now she feared that all her joy was at an end. But her joy should be so relinquished that she herself should not be disgraced in the giving of it up. She sat there alone for an hour, and was stronger, when that hour was over, than she had been when she left her mother. Her pride had supported her, and had been sufficient for her support in that first hour of her sorrow. It is ever so with us in our misery. In the first flush of our wretchedness, let the outward signs of our grief be what they may, we promise to ourselves the support of some inner strength which shall suffice to us at any rate as against the eyes of the outer world. But anon, and that inner staff fails us; our pride yields to our tears; our dignity is crushed beneath the load with which we have burdened it, and then with loud wailings we own ourselves to be the wretches which we are. But now Rachel was in the hour of her pride, and as she came down from her room she resolved that her sorrow should be buried in her own bosom. She had known what it was to love—had known it, perhaps, for one whole week—and now that knowledge was never to avail her again. Among them all she had been robbed of her sweetheart. She had been bidden to give her heart to this man—her heart and hand; and now, when she had given all her heart, she was bidden to refuse her hand. She had not ventured to love till her love had been sanctioned. It had been sanctioned, and she had loved; and now that sanction was withdrawn! She knew that she was injured—deeply, cruelly injured, but she would bear it, showing nothing, and saying nothing. With this resolve she came down from her room, and began to employ herself on her household work.
Mrs. Ray watched her carefully, and Rachel knew that she was watched; but she took no outward notice of it, going on with her work, and saying a soft, gentle word now and again, sometimes to her mother, and sometimes to the little maiden who attended them. “Will you come to dinner, mamma?” she said with a smile, taking her mother by the hand.
“I shouldn’t mind if I never sat down to dinner again,” said Mrs. Ray.
“Oh, mamma! don’t say that; just when you are going to thank God for the good things he gives you.”
Then Mrs. Ray, in a low voice, as though rebuked, said the grace, and they sat down together to their meal.
The afternoon went with them very slowly and almost in silence. Neither of them would now speak about Luke Rowan; and to neither of them was it as yet possible to speak about aught else. One word on the subject was said during those hours. “You won’t have time for your letter after tea,” Mrs. Ray said.
“I shall not write it till tomorrow,” Rachel answered; “another day will do no harm now.”
At tea Mrs. Ray asked her whether she did not think that a walk would do her good, and offered to accompany her; but Rachel, acceding to the proposition of the walk, declared that she would go alone. “It’s very bad of me to say so, isn’t it, when you’re so good as to offer to go with me?” But Mrs. Ray kissed her; saying, with many words, that she was satisfied that it should be so. “You want to think of things, I know,” said the mother. Rachel acknowledged, by
