As she thought of this she was bitter against all the world except him;—almost bitter against her own mother. She had said that she would obey in this matter of the letter, and she knew well that she would in truth do as her mother bade her. But, sitting there, on the churchyard stile, she hatched within her mind plans of disobedience—dreadful plans! She would not submit to this usage. She would go away from Baslehurst without knowledge of anyone, and would seek him out in his London home. It would be unmaidenly;—but what cared she now for that;—unless, indeed, he should care? All her virgin modesty and young maiden fears—was it not for him that she would guard them, for his delight and his pride? And if she were to see him no more, if she were to be forced to bid him go from her, of what avail would it be now to her to cherish and maintain the unsullied brightness of her woman’s armour? If he were lost to her, everything was lost. She would go to him, and throwing herself at his feet would swear to him that life without his love was no longer possible for her. If he would then take her as his wife she would strive to bless him with all that the tenderness of a wife could give. If he should refuse her—then she would go away and die. In such case what to her would be the judgment of any man or any woman? What to her would be her sister’s scorn and the malignant virtue of such as Miss Pucker and Mr. Prong? What the upturned hands and amazement of Mr. Comfort? It would have been they who had driven her to this.
But how about her mother when she should have thus thrown herself overboard from the ship and cast herself away from the pilotage which had hitherto been the guide of her conduct? Why—why—why had her mother deserted her in her need? As she thought of her mother she knew that her plan of rebellion was nothing; but why—why had her mother deserted her?
As for him, and these new tidings which had come to the cottage respecting him, she would have cared for them not a jot. Mrs. Cornbury had cautioned her not to believe all that she heard; but she had already declined—had altogether declined to believe any of it. It was to her, whether believed or disbelieved, matter altogether irrelevant. A wife does not cease to love her husband because he gets into trouble. She does not turn against him because others have quarrelled with him. She does not separate her lot from his because he is in debt! Those are the times when a wife, a true wife, sticks closest to her husband, and strives the hardest to lighten the weight of his cares by the tenderness of her love! And had she not been permitted to place herself in that position with regard to him when she had been permitted to love him? In all her thoughts she recognized the right of her mother to have debarred her from the privilege of loving this man, if such embargo had been placed on her before her love had been declared. She had never, even within her own bosom, assumed to herself the right of such privilege without authority expressed. But her very soul revolted against this withdrawal of the sanction that had been given to her. The spirit within her rebelled, though she knew that she would not carry on that rebellion by word or deed. But she had been injured;—injured almost to death; injured even to death itself as regarded all that life could give her worth her taking! As she thought of this injury that fierce look of which I have spoken came across her brow! She would obey her pastors and masters. Yes; she would obey them. But she could never again be soft and pliable within their hands. Obedience in this matter was a necessity to her. In spite of that wild thought of throwing off her maiden bonds and allowing her female armour to be splashed and sullied in the gutter, she knew that there was that which would hinder her from the execution of such scheme. She was bound by her woman’s lot to maintain her womanly purity. Let her suffer as she might there was nothing for her but obedience. She could not go forth as though she were a man, and claim her right to stand or fall by her love. She had been injured in being brought to such plight as this, but she would bear her injury as best might be within her power.
She was still thinking of all this, and still sitting with her eyes turned towards the tower of the church, when she was touched on the back by a light hand. She turned round quickly, startled by the touch—for she had heard no footstep—and saw Martha Tappitt and Cherry. It was Cherry who had come close upon her, and it was Cherry’s voice that she first heard. “A penny for your thoughts,” said Cherry.
“Oh, you have so startled me!” said Rachel.
“Then I suppose your thoughts were worth more than a penny. Perhaps you were thinking of an absent knight.” And then Cherry began to sing—“Away, away, away. He loves and he rides away.”
Poor Rachel blushed and was unable to speak. “Don’t be so foolish,” said Martha to her sister. “It’s ever so long since we’ve seen you, Rachel. Why don’t you come and walk with us?”
“Yes, indeed—why don’t you?” said Cherry, whose good-nature was quite as conspicuous as her bad taste. She knew now that she had vexed
