But perhaps hatred of Mr. Prong was the strongest passion of Dr. Harford's heart at the present moment. He had ever hated the dissenting ministers by whom he was surrounded. In Devonshire dissent has waxed strong for many years, and the pastors of the dissenting flocks have been thorns in the side of the Church of England clergymen. Dr. Harford had undergone his full share of suffering from such thorns. But they had caused him no more than a pleasant irritation in comparison with what he endured from the presence of Mr. Prong in Baslehurst. He would sooner have entertained all the dissenting ministers of the South Hams together than have put his legs under the same mahogany with Mr. Prong. Mr. Prong was to him the evil thing! Anathema! He believed all bad things of Mr. Prong with an absolute faith, but without any ground on which such faith should have been formed. He thought that Mr. Prong drank spirits; that he robbed his parishioners; – Dr. Harford would sooner have lost his tongue than have used such a word with reference to those who attended Mr. Prong's chapel; – that he had left a deserted wife on some parish; that he was probably not in truth ordained. There was nothing which Dr. Harford could not believe of Mr. Prong. Now all this was, to say the least of it, a pity, for it disfigured the close of a useful and conscientious life.
Dr. Harford of course intended to vote for Mr. Cornbury, but he would not join loudly in condemnation of Mr. Tappitt. Tappitt had stood stanchly by him in all parochial contests regarding the new district. Tappitt opposed the Prong faction at all points. Tappitt as churchwarden had been submissive to the doctor. Church of England principles had always been held at the brewery, and Bungall had been ever in favour with Dr. Harford's predecessor.
"He calls himself a Liberal, and always has done," said the doctor. "You can't expect that he should desert his own party."
"But a Jew!" said old Mr. Comfort.
"Well; why not a Jew?" said the doctor. Whereupon Mr. Comfort, and Butler Cornbury, and Dr. Harford's own curate, young Mr. Calclough, and Captain Byng, an old bachelor, who lived in Baslehurst, all stared at him; as Dr. Harford had intended that they should. "Upon my word," said he, "I don't see the use for caring for that kind of thing any longer; I don't indeed. In the way we are going on now, and for the sort of thing we do, I don't see why Jews shouldn't serve us as well in Parliament as Christians. If I am to have my brains knocked out, I'd sooner have it done by a declared enemy than by one who calls himself my friend."
"But our brains are not knocked out yet," said Butler Cornbury.
"I don't know anything about yours, but mine are."
"I don't think the world's coming to an end yet," said the captain.
"Nor do I. I said nothing about the world coming to an end. But if you saw a part of your ship put under the command of a landlubber, who didn't know one side of the vessel from the other, you'd think the world had better come to an end than be carried on in that way."
"It's not the same thing, you know," said the captain. "You couldn't divide a ship."
"Oh, well; you'll see."
"I don't think any Christian should vote for a Jew," said the curate. "A verdict has gone out against them, and what is man that he should reverse it?"
"Are you quite sure that you are reversing it by putting them into Parliament?" said Dr. Harford. "May not that be a carrying on of the curse?"
"There's consolation in that idea for Butler if he loses his election," said Mr. Comfort.
"Parliament isn't what it was," said the doctor. "There's no doubt about that."
"And who is to blame?" said Mr. Comfort, who had never supported the Reform Bill as his neighbour had done.
"I say nothing about blame. It's natural that things should get worse as they grow older."
"Dr. Harford thinks Parliament is worn out," said Butler Cornbury.
"And what if I do think so? Have not other things as great fallen and gone into decay? Did not the Roman senate wear out, as you call it? And as for these Jews, of whom you are speaking, what was the curse upon them but the wearing out of their grace and wisdom? I am inclined to think that we are wearing out; only I wish the garment could have lasted my time without showing so many thin places."
"Now I believe just the contrary," said the captain. "I don't think we have come to our full growth yet."
"Could we lick the French as we did at Trafalgar and Waterloo?" said the doctor.
The captain thought a while before he answered, and then spoke with much solemnity. "Yes," said he, "I think we could. And I hope the time will soon come when we may."
"We shan't do it if we send Jews to Parliament," said Mr. Comfort.
"I must say I think Tappitt wrong," said young Cornbury. "Of course, near as the thing is going, I'm sorry to lose his vote; but I'm not speaking because of that. He has always pretended to hold on to the Church party here, and the Church party has held on to him. His beer is none of the best, and I think he'd have been wise to stick to his old friends."
"I don't see the argument about the beer," said the doctor.
"He shouldn't provoke his neighbours to look at his faults."
"But the Jew's friends would find out that the beer is bad as well as yours."
"The truth is," said Cornbury, "that Tappitt thinks he has a personal grievance against me. He's as cross as a bear with a sore head at the present moment, because this young fellow who was to have been his partner has turned against him. There's some love affair, and my wife has been there and made a mess of it. It's hard upon me, for I don't know that I ever saw the young man in my life."
"I believe that fellow is a scamp," said the doctor.
"I hope not," said Mr. Comfort, thinking of Rachel and her hopes.
"We all hope he isn't, of course," said the doctor. "But we can't prevent men being scamps by hoping. There are other scamps in this town in whom, if my hoping would do any good, a very great change would be made." – Everybody present knew that the doctor alluded especially to Mr. Prong, whose condition, however, if the doctor's hopes could have been carried out, would not have been enviable. – "But I fear this fellow Rowan is a scamp, and I think he has treated Tappitt badly. Tappitt told me all about it only this morning."
"Audi alteram partem," said Mr. Comfort.
"The scamp's party you mean," said the doctor. "I haven't the means of doing that. If in this world we suspend our judgment till we've heard all that can be said on both sides of every question, we should never come to any judgment at all. I hear that he's in debt; I believe he behaved very badly to Tappitt himself, so that Tappitt was forced to use personal violence to defend himself; and he has certainly threatened to open a new brewery here. Now that's bad, as coming from a young man related to the old firm."
"I think he should leave the brewery alone," said Mr. Comfort.
"Of course he should," said the doctor. "And I hear, moreover, that he is playing a wicked game with a girl in your parish."
"I don't know about a wicked game," said the other. "It won't be a wicked game if he marries her."
Then Rachel's chances of matrimonial success were discussed with a degree of vigour which must have been felt by her to be highly complimentary, had she been aware of it. But I grieve to say that public opinion, as expressed in Dr. Harford's dining-room, went against Luke Rowan. Mr. Tappitt was not a great man, either as a citizen or as a brewer: he was not one to whom Baslehurst would even rejoice to raise a monument; but such as he was he had been known for many years. No one in that room loved or felt for him anything like real friendship; but the old familiarity of the place was in his favour, and his form was known of old upon the High Street. He was not a drunkard, he lived becomingly with his wife, he had paid his way, and was a fellow-townsman. What was it to Dr. Harford, or even to Mr. Comfort, that he brewed bad beer? No man was compelled to drink it. Why should not a man employ himself, openly and legitimately, in the brewing of bad beer, if the demand for bad beer were so great as to enable him to live by the occupation? On the other hand, Luke Rowan was personally known to none of them; and they were jealous that a change should come among them with any view of teaching them a lesson or improving their condition. They believed, or thought they believed, that Mr. Tappitt had been ill-treated in his counting-house. It was grievous to them that a man with a wife and three daughters should have been threatened by a young unmarried man, – by a man whose shoulders were laden with no family burden. Whether Rowan's propositions had been in truth good or evil, just or unjust, they had not inquired, and would not probably have ascertained had they done so. But they judged the man and condemned him. Mr. Comfort was brought round to condemn him as thoroughly as did Dr. Harford, – not reflecting, as he did so, how fatal his condemnation might be to the happiness of poor Rachel Ray.
"The fact is, Butler," said the doctor, when Mr. Comfort had left them, and gone to the drawing-room; – "the fact is, your wife has not played her cards at the brewery as well as she usually does play them. She has been taking this young fellow's part; and after that I don't know how she was to expect that Tappitt would stand by you."
"No general can succeed always," said Cornbury, laughing.
"Well; some generals do. But I must confess your wife is generally very successful. Come; we'll go up-stairs; and don't you tell her that I've been finding fault. She's as good as gold, and I can't afford to quarrel with her; but I think she has tripped here."
When the old doctor and Butler Cornbury reached the drawing-room the names of Rowan and Tappitt had not been as yet banished from the conversation; but to them had been added some others. Rachel's name had been again mentioned, as had also that of Rachel's sister.
"Papa, who do you think is going to be married?" said Miss Harford.
"Not you, my dear, is it?" said the doctor.
"Mr. Prong is going to be married to Mrs. Prime," said Miss Harford, showing by the solemnity of her voice that she regarded the subject as one which should by its nature repress any further joke.
Nor was Dr. Harford inclined to joke when he heard such tidings as these. "Mr. Prong!" said he. "Nonsense; who told you?"
"Well, it was Baker told me." Mrs. Baker was the housekeeper at the Baslehurst rectory, and had been so for the last thirty years. "She learned it at Drabbit's in the High Street, where Mrs. Prime had been living since she left her mother's cottage."
"If that's true, Comfort," said the doctor, "I congratulate you on your parishioner."
"Mrs. Prime is no parishioner of mine," said the vicar of Cawston. "If it's true, I'm very sorry for her mother, – very sorry."
"I don't believe a word of it," said Mrs. Cornbury.
"Poor, wretched, unfortunate woman!" said the doctor. "Her little bit of money is all in her own hands; is it not?"
"I believe it is," said Mr. Comfort.
"Ah, yes; I dare say it's true," said the vicar. "She's been running after him ever since he's been here. I don't doubt it's true. Poor creature! – poor creature! Poor thing!" And the doctor absolutely sighed as he thought of the misery in store for Mr. Prong's future bride. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good," he said after a while. "He'll go off, no doubt, when he has got the money in his hand, and we shall be rid of him. Poor thing; – poor thing!"
Before the evening was over Mrs. Cornbury and her father had again discussed the question of Rachel's possible engagement with Luke Rowan. Mr. Comfort had declared his conviction that it would be dangerous to encourage any such hopes; whereas his daughter protested that she would not see Rachel thrown over if she could help it. "Don't condemn him yet, papa," she said.
"I don't condemn him at all, my dear; but I hardly think we shall see him back at Baslehurst. And he shouldn't have gone away without paying his debts, Patty!"
CHAPTER IV.
MR. COMFORT CALLS AT THE COTTAGE
Mrs. Ray, in her trouble occasioned by Luke's letter, had walked up to Mr. Comfort's house, but had not found him at home. Therefore she had written to him, in his own study, a few very simple words, telling the matter on which she wanted his advice. Almost any other woman would have half hidden her real meaning under a cloud of ambiguous words; but with her there was no question of hiding anything from her clergyman. "Rachel has had a letter from young Mr. Rowan," she said, "and I have begged her not to answer it till I have shown it to you." So Mr. Comfort sent word down to Bragg's End that he would call at the cottage, and fixed an hour for his coming. This task was to be accomplished by him on the morning after Dr. Harford's dinner; and he had thought much of the coming conference between himself and Rachel's mother while Rowan's character was being discussed at Dr. Harford's house: but on that occasion he had said nothing to any one, not even to his daughter, of the application which had been made to him by Mrs. Ray. At eleven o'clock he presented himself at the cottage door, and, of course, found Mrs. Ray alone. Rachel had taken herself over to Mrs. Sturt, and greatly amazed that kindhearted person by her silence and confusion. "Why, my dear," said Mrs. Sturt, "you hain't got a word to-day to throw at a dog." Rachel acknowledged that she had not; and then Mrs. Sturt allowed her to remain in her silence.
"Oh, Mr. Comfort, this is so good of you!" Mrs. Ray began as soon as her friend was inside the parlour. "When I went up to the parsonage I didn't think of bringing you down here all the way; – I didn't indeed." Mr. Comfort assured her that he thought nothing of the trouble, declared that he owed her a visit, and then asked after Rachel.
"To tell you the truth, then, she's just stept across the green to Mrs. Sturt's, so as to be out of the way. It's a trying time to her, Mr. Comfort, – very; and whatever way it goes, she's a good girl, – a very good girl."
"You needn't tell me that, Mrs. Ray."
"Oh! but I must. There's her sister thinks she's encouraged this young man too freely, but – "
"By-the-by, Mrs. Ray, I've been told that Mrs. Prime is engaged to be married herself."
"Have you, now?"
"Well, yes; I heard it in Baslehurst yesterday; – to Mr. Prong."
"She's kept it so close, Mr. Comfort, I didn't think anybody had heard it."
"It is true, then?"
"I can't say she has accepted him yet. He has offered to her; – there's no doubt about that, Mr. Comfort, – and she hasn't said him no."
"Do let her look sharp after her money," said Mr. Comfort.
"Well, that's just it. She's not a bit inclined to give it up to him, I can tell you."
"I can't say, Mrs. Ray, that the connexion is one that I like very much, in any way. There's no reason at all why your eldest daughter should not marry again, but – "
"What can I do, Mr. Comfort? Of course I know he's not just what he should be, – that is, for a clergyman. When I knew he hadn't come from any of the colleges, I never had any fancy for going to hear him myself. But of course I should never have left your church, Mr. Comfort, – not if anybody had come there. And if I could have had my way with Dorothy, she would never have gone near him, – never. But what could I do, Mr. Comfort? Of course she can go where she likes."
"Mr. Prime was a gentleman and a Christian," said the vicar.
"That he was, Mr. Comfort; and a husband for a young woman to be proud of. But he was soon taken away from her – very soon! and she hasn't thought much of this world since."
"I don't know what she's thinking of now."
"It isn't of herself, Mr. Comfort; not a bit. Dorothy is very stern; but, to give her her due, it's not herself she's thinking of."
"Why does she want to marry him, then?"
"Because he's lonely without some one to do for him."
"Lonely! – and he should be lonely for me, Mrs. Ray."
"And because she says she can work in the vineyard better as a clergyman's wife."
"Pshaw! work in the vineyard, indeed! But it's no business of mine; and, as you say, I suppose you can't help it."
"Indeed I can't. She'd never think of asking me."
"I hope she'll look after her money, that's all. And what's all this about my friend Rachel? I'd a great deal sooner hear that she was going to be married, – if I knew that the man was worthy of her."
Then Mrs. Ray put her hand into her pocket, and taking out Rowan's letter, gave it to the vicar to read. As she did so, she looked into his face with eyes full of the most intense anxiety. She was herself greatly frightened by the magnitude of this marriage question. She feared the enmity of Mrs. Rowan; and she doubted the firmness of Luke. She could not keep herself from reflecting that a young man from London was very dangerous; that he might probably be a wolf; that she could not be safe in trusting her one lamb into such custody. But, nevertheless, she most earnestly hoped that Mr. Comfort's verdict might be in the young man's favour. If he would only say that the young man was not a wolf, – if he would only take upon his own clerical shoulders the responsibility of trusting the young man, – Mrs. Ray would become for the moment one of the happiest women in Devonshire. With what a beaming face, – with what a true joy, – with what smiles through her tears, would she then have welcomed Rachel back from the farm-house! How she would have watched her as she came across the green, beckoning to her eagerly, and telling all her happy tale beforehand by the signs of her joy! But there was to be no such happy tale as that told on this morning. She watched the vicar's face as he read the letter, and soon perceived that the verdict was to be given against the writer of it. I do not know that Mrs. Ray was particularly quick at reading the countenances of men, but, in this instance, she did read the countenance of Mr. Comfort. We, all of us, read more in the faces of those with whom we hold converse, than we are aware of doing. Of the truth, or want of truth in every word spoken to us, we judge, in great part, by the face of the speaker. By the face of every man and woman seen by us, whether they speak or are silent, we form a judgment, – and in nine cases out of ten our judgment is true. It is because our tenth judgment, – that judgment which has been wrong, – comes back upon us always with the effects of its error, that we teach ourselves to say that appearances cannot be trusted. If we did not trust them we should be walking ever in doubt, in darkness, and in ignorance. As Mr. Comfort read the letter, Mrs. Ray knew that it would not be allowed to her to speak words of happiness to Rachel on that day. She knew that the young man was to be set down as dangerous; but she was by no means aware that she was reading the vicar's face with precise accuracy. Mr. Comfort had been slow in his perusal, weighing the words of the letter; and when he had finished it he slowly refolded the paper and put it back into its envelope. "He means what he says," said he, as he gave the letter back to Mrs. Ray.
"Yes; I think he means what he says."
"But we cannot tell how long he may mean it; nor can we tell as yet whether such a connection would be good for Rachel, even if he should remain stedfast in such meaning. If you ask me, Mrs. Ray – "
"I do ask you, Mr. Comfort."
"Then I think we should all of us know more about him, before we allow Rachel to give him encouragement; – I do indeed."
Mrs. Ray could not quite repress in her heart a slight feeling of anger against the vicar. She remembered the words, – so different not only in their meaning, but in the tone in which they were spoken, – in which he had sanctioned Rachel's going to the ball: "Young people get to think of each other," he had then said, speaking with good-humoured, cheery voice, as though such thinking were worthy of all encouragement. He had spoken then of marriage being the happiest condition for both men and women, and had inquired as to Rowan's means. Every word that had then fallen from him had expressed his opinion that Luke Rowan was an eligible lover. But now he was named as though he were undoubtedly a wolf. Why had not Mr. Comfort said then, at that former interview, when no harm had as yet been done, that it would be desirable to know more of the young man before any encouragement was given to him? Mrs. Ray felt that she was injured; but, nevertheless, her trust in her counsellor was not on that account the less.
"I suppose it must be answered," said Mrs. Ray.
"Oh, yes; of course it should be answered."
"And who should write it, Mr. Comfort?"
"Let Rachel write it herself. Let her tell him that she is not prepared to correspond with him as yet, any further that is, you understand, than the writing of that letter."
"And about, – about, – about what he says as to loving her, you know? There has been a sort of promise between them, Mr. Comfort, and no young man could have spoken more honestly than he did."
"And he meant honestly, no doubt; but you see, Mrs. Ray, it is necessary to be so careful in these matters! It is quite evident his mother doesn't wish this marriage."
"And he shouldn't have called her a goose; should he?"
"I don't think much about that."
"Don't you, now?"
"It was all meant in good-humour. But she thinks it a bad marriage for him as regards money, and money considerations always go so far, you know. And then he's away, and you've got no hold upon him."
"That's quite true, Mr. Comfort."
"He has quarrelled with the people here. And upon my word I'm inclined to think he has not behaved very well to Mr. Tappitt."
"Hasn't he, now?"
"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Ray. They were talking about him last night in Baslehurst, and I'm afraid he has behaved badly at the brewery. There were words between him and Mr. Tappitt, – very serious words."
"Yes; I know that. He told Rachel as much as that. I think he said he was going to law with Mr. Tappitt."
"And if so, the chances are that he may never be seen here again. It's ill coming to a place where one is quarrelling with people. And as to the lawsuit, it seems to me, from what I hear, that he would certainly lose it. No doubt he has a considerable property in the brewery; but he wants to be master of everything, and that can't be reasonable, you know. And then, Mrs. Ray, there's worse than that behind."
"Worse than that!" said Mrs. Ray, in whose heart every gleam of comfort was quickly being extinguished by darkening shadows.
"They tell me that he has gone away without paying his debts. If that is so, it shows that his means cannot be very good." Then why had Mr. Comfort taken upon himself expressly to say that they were good at that interview before Mrs. Tappitt's party? That was the thought in the widow's mind at the present moment. Mr. Comfort, however, went on with his caution. "And then, when the happiness of such a girl as Rachel is concerned, it is impossible to be too careful. Where should we all be if we found that we had given her to a scamp?"
"Oh dear, oh dear! I don't think he can be a scamp; – he did take his tea so nicely."
"I don't say he is; – I don't judge him. But then we should be careful. Why didn't he pay his debts before he went away? A young man should always pay his debts."
"Perhaps he's sent it down in a money-order," said Mrs. Ray. "They are so very convenient, – that is if you've got the money."
"If he hasn't I hope he will, for I can assure you I don't want to think badly of him. Maybe he will turn out all right. And you may be sure of this, Mrs. Ray, that if he is really attached to Rachel he won't give her up, because she doesn't throw herself into his arms at his first word. There's nothing becomes a young woman like a little caution, or makes a young man think more of her. If Rachel fancies that she likes him let her hold back a while and find out what sort of stuff he's made of. If I were her I should just tell him that I thought it better to wait a little before I made any positive engagement."
"But, Mr. Comfort, how is she to begin it? You see he calls her Dearest Rachel."
"Let her say Dear Mr. Rowan. There can't be any harm in that."
"She mustn't call him Luke, I suppose."
"I think she'd better not. Young men think so much of those things."
"And she's not to say 'Yours affectionately' at the end?"
"She'll understand all that when she comes to write the letter better than we can tell her. Give her my love; and tell her from me I'm quite sure she's a dear, good girl, and that it must be a great comfort to you to know that you can trust her so thoroughly." Then, having spoken these last words, Mr. Comfort took himself away.
Rachel, sitting in the window of Mrs. Sturt's large front kitchen on the other side of the green, could see Mr. Comfort come forth from the cottage and get into his low four-wheeled carriage, which, with his boy in livery, had been standing at the garden gate during the interview. Mrs. Sturt was away among the milk-pans, scalding cream or preparing butter, and did not watch either Rachel or the visitor at the cottage. But she knew with tolerable accuracy what was going on, and with all her heart wished that her young friend might have luck with her lover. Rachel waited for a minute or two till the little carriage was out of sight, till the sound of the wheels could be no longer heard, and then she prepared to move. She slowly got herself up from her chair as though she were afraid to show herself upon the green, and paused still a few moments longer before she left the kitchen.
"So, thou's off," said Mrs. Sturt, coming in from the back regions of her territory, with the sleeves of her gown tucked up, enveloped in a large roundabout apron which covered almost all her dress. Mrs. Sturt would no more have thought of doing her work in the front kitchen than I should think of doing mine in the drawing-room. "So thou's off home again, my lass," said Mrs. Sturt.
"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.