Early after breakfast on that morning — that morning on which Tappitt had for a moment thought of braining Luke Rowan with the poker — Mrs Ray started from the cottage on her mission into Baslehurst. She was going to see her daughter, Mrs Prime, at Miss Pucker’s lodgings, and felt sure that the object of her visit was to be a further discourse on the danger of admitting that wolf Rowan into the sheepfold at Bragg’s End. She would willingly have avoided the conference had she been able to do so, knowing well that Mrs Prime would get the better of her in words when called upon to talk without having Rachel at her back. And indeed she was not happy in her mind. It had been conceded at the cottage as an understood thing that Rachel was to have this man as her lover; but what, if after all, the man didn’t mean to be a lover in the proper sense; and what, if so meaning, he should still turn out to be a lover of a bad sort — a worldly, good-for-nothing, rakish lover? “I wonder”, says the wicked man in the play, “I wonder any man alive, would ever rear a daughter!” Mrs Ray knew nothing of the play, and had she done so, she would not have repeated such a line. But the hardness of the task which Providence had allotted to her struck her very forcibly on this morning. Rachel was dearer to her than aught else in the world. For Rachel’s happiness she would have made any sacrifice. In Rachel’s presence, and sweet smile, and winning caresses was the chief delight of her excellence. Nevertheless, in these days the possession of Rachel was hardly a blessing to her. The responsibility was so great; and, worse than that as regarded her own comfort, the doubts were so numerous; and then, they recurred over and over again, as often as they were settled!

“I’m sure I don’t know what she can have to say to me.” Mrs Ray, as she spoke, was tying on her bonnet, and Rachel was standing close to her with her light summer shawl.

“It will be the old story, mamma, I’m afraid; my terrible iniquity and backslidings, because I went to the ball, and because I won’t go to Miss Pucker’s. She’ll want you to say that I shall go, or else be sent to bed without my supper.”

“That’s nonsense, Rachel. Dorothea knows very well that I can’t make you go.” Mrs Ray was wont to become mildly petulant when things went against her.

“But, mamma, you don’t want me to go?”

“I don’t suppose it’s about Miss Pucker at all. It’s about that other thing.”

“You mean Mr Rowan.”

“Yes, my dear. I’m sure I don’t know what’s for the best. When she gets me to herself she does say such terrible things to me that it quite puts me in a heat to have to go to her. I don’t think anybody ought to say those sort of things to me except a clergyman, or a person’s parents, or a schoolmaster, or masters and mistresses, or such like.” Rachel thought so too — thought that at any rate a daughter should not so speak to such a mother as was her mother; but on that subject she said nothing.

“And I don’t like going to that Miss Pucker’s house,” continued Mrs Ray. “I’m sure I don’t want her to come here. I wouldn’t go, only I said that I would.”

“I would go now, if I were you, mamma.”

“Of course I shall go; haven’t I got myself ready?”

“But I would not let her go on in that way.”

“That’s very easy said, Rachel; but how am I to help it? I can’t tell her to hold her tongue; and if I did, she wouldn’t. If I am to go I might as well start. I suppose there’s cold lamb enough for dinner?”

“Plenty, I should think.”

“And if I find poultry cheap, I can bring a chicken home in my basket, can’t I?” And so saying, with her mind full of various cares, Mrs Ray walked off to Baslehurst.

“I wonder when he’ll come.” Rachel, as she said or thought these words, stood at the open door of the cottage looking after her mother as she made her way across the green. It was a delicious midsummer day, warm with the heat of the morning sun, but not yet oppressed with the full blaze of its noonday rays. The air was alive with the notes of birds, and the flowers were in their brightest beauty. “I wonder when he’ll come.” None of those doubts which so harassed her mother troubled her mind. Other doubts there were. Could it be possible that he would like her well enough to wish to make her his own? Could it be that anyone so bright, so prosperous in the world, so clever, so much above herself in all worldly advantages, should come and seek her as his wife — take her from their little cottage and lowly ways of life? When he had first said that he would come to Bragg’s End, she declared to herself that it would be well that he should see in how humble a way they lived. He would not call her Rachel after that, she said to herself; or, if he did, he should learn from her that she knew how to rebuke a man who dared to take advantage of the humility of her position. He had come, and he had not called her Rachel. He had come, and taking advantage of her momentary absence, had spoken of her behind her back as a lover speaks, and had told his love honestly to her mother. In Rachel’s view of the matter no lover could have carried himself with better decorum or with a sweeter grace; but because he had so done, she would not hold him to be bound to her. He had been carried away by his feelings too rapidly, and had not as yet known how poor and lowly they were. He should still have opened to him a clear path backwards. Then if the path backwards were not to his mind, then in that case — I am not sure that Rachel ever declared to herself in plain terms what in such case would happen; but she stood at the door as though she was minded to stand there till he should appear upon the green.

“I wonder when he’ll come.” She had watched her mother’s figure disappear along the lane, and had plucked a flower or two to pieces before she returned within the house. He will not come till the evening, she determined — till the evening, when his day’s work in the brewery would be over. Then she thought of the quarrel between him and Tappitt, and wondered what it might be. She was quite sure that Tappitt was wrong, and thought of him at once as an obstinate, foolish, pigheaded old man. Yes; he would come to her, and she would take care to be provided, in that article of cream which he pretended to love so well. She would not have to run away again. But how lucky on that previous evening had been that necessity, seeing that it had given opportunity for that great display of a lover’s excellence on Rowan’s part. Having settled all this in her mind, she went into the house, and was beginning to think of her household work, when she heard a man’s steps in the passage. She went at once out from the sitting-room, and encountered Luke Rowan at the door.

“How d’ye do?” said he. “Is Mrs Ray at home?”

“Mamma? — no, You must have met her on the road if you’ve come from Baslehurst.”

“But I could not meet her on the road, because I’ve come across the fields.”

“Oh! — that accounts for it.”

“And she’s away in Baslehurst, is she?”

“She’s gone in to see my sister, Mrs Prime.” Rachel, still standing at the door of the sitting-room, made no attempt of asking Rowan into the parlour.

“And mayn’t I come in?” he said. Rachel was absolutely ignorant whether, under such circumstances, she ought to allow him to enter. But there he was, in the house, and at any rate she could not turn him out.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a long time if you wait for mamma,” she said, slightly making way, so that he obtained admittance. Was she not a hypocrite? Did she not know that Mrs Ray’s absence would be esteemed by him as a great gain, and not a loss? Why did she thus falsely talk of his waiting a long time? Dogs fight with their teeth, and horses with their heels; swans with their wings, and cats with their claws — so also do women use such weapons as nature has provided for them.

“I came specially to see you,” said he; “not but what I should be very glad to see your mother, too, if she comes back before I am gone. But I don’t suppose she will, for you won’t let me stay so long as that.”

“Well, now you mention it, I don’t think I shall, for I have got ever so many things to do — the dinner to get ready, and the house to look after.” This she did by way of making him acquainted with her mode of life — according to the plan which she had arranged for her own guidance.

He had come into the room, had put down his hat, and had got himself up to the window, so that his back was turned to her. “Rachel,” he said, turning round quickly, and speaking almost suddenly. Now he had called her Rachel again, but she could find at the moment no better way of answering him than by the same plaintive objection which she had made before. “You shouldn’t call me by my name in that way, Mr Rowan; you know you shouldn’t.”

“Did your mother tell you what I said to her yesterday?” he asked.

“What you said yesterday?”

“Yes, when you were away across the green.”

“What you said to mamma?”

“Yes; I know she told you. I see it in your face. And I am glad she did so. May I not call you Rachel now?”

As they were placed the table was still between them, so that he was debarred from making any outward sign of his presence as a lover. He could not take her hand and press it. She stood perfectly silent, looking down upon the table on which she leaned, and gave no answer to his question. “May I not call you Rachel now?” he said, repeating the question.

I hope it will be understood that Rachel was quite a novice at this piece of work which she now had in hand. It must be the case that very many girls are not novices. A young lady who has rejected the first half-dozen suitors who have asked for her love must probably feel herself mistress of the occasion when she rejects the seventh, and will not be quite astray when she accepts the eighth. There are, moreover, young ladies who, though they may have rejected and accepted none, have had so wide an advantage in society as to be able, when the moment comes, to have their wits about them. But Rachel had known nothing of what is called society, and had never before known either the trouble or the joy of being loved. So when the question was pressed upon her, she trembled, and felt that her breath was failing her. She had filled herself full of resolutions as to what she would do when this moment came — as to how she would behave and what words she would utter. But all that was gone from her now. She could only stand still and tremble. Of course he might call her Rachel — might call her what he pleased. To him, with his wider experience, that now became manifest enough.

“You must give me leave for more than that, Rachel, if you would not send me away wretched. You must let me call you my own.” Then he moved round the table towards her; and as he moved, though she retreated from him, she did not retreat with a step as rapid as his own. “Rachel,’— and he put out his hand to her —“I want you to be my wife.” She allowed the tips of her fingers to turn themselves toward him, as though unable altogether to refuse the greeting which he offered her, but as she did so she turned away from him, and bent down her head. She had heard all she wanted to hear. Why did he not go away, and leave her to think of it? He had named to her the word so sacred between man and woman. He had said that he sought her for his wife. What need was there that he should stay longer?

He got her hand in his, and then passed his arm round her waist. “Say, love; say, Rachel — shall it be so? Nay, but I will have an answer from you. You shall look it to me, if you will not speak it;” and he got his head round over her shoulder, as though to look into her eyes.

“Oh, Mr Rowan; pray don’t — pray don’t pull me.”

“But, dearest, say a word to me. You must say some word. Can you learn to love me, Rachel?”

Learn to love him! The lesson had come to her very easily. How was it possible, she had once thought, not to love him.

“Say a word to me,” said Rowan. still struggling to look into her face; “one word, and then I will let you go.”

“What word?”

“Say to me, ‘Dear Luke, I will be your wife’.”

She remained for a moment quite passive in his hands, trying to say it, but the words would not come. Of course she would be his wife. Why need he trouble her further?

“Nay, but, Rachel, you shall speak, or I will stay with you here till your mother comes, and she shall answer for you. If you had disliked me I think you would have said so.”

“I don’t dislike you,” she whispered.

“And do you love me?” She slightly bowed her head. “And you will be my wife?” Again she went through the same little piece of acting. “And I may call you Rachel now?” In answer to this question she shook herself free from his slackened grasp, and escaped away across the room.

“You cannot forbid me now. Come and sit down by me, for of course I have got much to say to you. Come and sit down, and indeed I will not trouble you again.”

Then she went to him very slowly, and sat with him, leaving her hand in his, listening to his words, and feeling in her heart the full delight of having such a lover. Of the words that were then spoken, but very few came from her lips; he told her all his story of the brewery quarrel, and was very eloquent and droll in describing Tappitt as he brandished the poker.

“And was he going to hit you with it?” said Rachel, with all her eyes open.

“Well, he didn’t hit me,” said Luke; “but to look at him he seemed mad enough to do anything.” Then he told her how at the present moment he was living at the inn, and how it became necessary, from this unfortunate quarrel, that he should go at once to London. “But under no circumstances would I have gone”, said he, pressing her hand very closely, “without an answer from you............