Between six and seven the travellers arrived. To my indescribable surprise, they were escorted, not by Mr. Godfrey (as I had anticipated), but by the lawyer, Mr. Bruff.
‘How do you do, Miss Clack?’ he said. ‘I mean to stay this time.’
That reference to the occasion on which I had obliged him to postpone his business to mine, when we were both visiting in Montagu Square, satisfied me that the old worldling had come to Brighton with some object of his own in view. I had prepared quite a little Paradise for my beloved Rachel—and here was the Serpent already!
‘Godfrey was very much vexed, Drusilla, not to be able to come with us,’ said my Aunt Ablewhite. ‘There was something in the way which kept him in town. Mr. Bruff volunteered to take his place, and make a holiday of it till Monday morning. By-the-by, Mr. Bruff, I’m ordered to take exercise, and I don’t like it. That,’ added Aunt Ablewhite, pointing out of window to an invalid going by in a chair on wheels, drawn by a man, ‘is my idea of exercise. If it’s air you want, you get it in your chair. And if it’s fatigue you want, I am sure it’s fatiguing enough to look at the man.’
Rachel stood silent, at a window by herself, with her eyes fixed on the sea.
‘Tired, love?’ I inquired.
‘No. Only a little out of spirits,’ she answered. ‘I have often seen the sea, on our Yorkshire coast, with that light on it. And I was thinking, Drusilla, of the days that can never come again.’
Mr. Bruff remained to dinner, and stayed through the evening. The more I saw of him, the more certain I felt that he had some private end to serve in coming to Brighton. I watched him carefully. He maintained the same appearance of ease, and talked the same godless gossip, hour after hour, until it was time to take leave. As he shook hands with Rachel, I caught his hard and cunning eye resting on her for a moment with a peculiar interest and attention. She was plainly concerned in the object that he had in view. He said nothing out of the common to her or to anyone on leaving. He invited himself to luncheon the next day, and then he went away to his hotel.
It was impossible the next morning to get my Aunt Ablewhite out of her dressing-gown in time for church. Her invalid daughter (suffering from nothing, in my opinion, but incurable laziness, inherited from her mother) announced that she meant to remain in bed for the day. Rachel and I went alone together to church. A magnificent sermon was preached by my gifted friend on the heathen indifference of the world to the sinfulness of little sins. For more than an hour his eloquence (assisted by his glorious voice) thundered through the sacred edifice. I said to Rachel, when we came out, ‘Has it found its way to your heart, dear?’ And she answered, ‘No; it has only made my head ache.’ This might have been discouraging to some people; but, once embarked on a career of manifest usefulness, nothing discourages Me.
We found Aunt Ablewhite and Mr. Bruff at luncheon. When Rachel declined eating anything, and gave as a reason for it that she was suffering from a headache, the lawyer’s cunning instantly saw, and seized, the chance that she had given him.
‘There is only one remedy for a headache,’ said this horrible old man. ‘A walk, Miss Rachel, is the thing to cure you. I am entirely at your service, if you will honour me by accepting my arm.’
‘With the greatest pleasure. A walk is the very thing I was longing for.’
‘It’s past two,’ I gently suggested. ‘And the afternoon service, Rachel, begins at three.’
‘How can you expect me to go to church again,’ she asked, petulantly, ‘with such a headache as mine?’
Mr. Bruff officiously opened the door for her. In another minute more they were both out of the house. I don’t know when I have felt the solemn duty of interfering so strongly as I felt it at that moment. But what was to be done? Nothing was to be done but to interfere at the first opportunity, later in the day.
On my return from the afternoon service I found that they had just got back. One look at them told me that the lawyer had said what he wanted to say. I had never before seen Rachel so silent and so thoughtful. I had never before seen Mr. Bruff pay her such devoted attention, and look at her with such marked respect. He had (or pretended that he had) an engagement to dinner that day—and he took an early leave of us all; intending to go back to London by the first train the next morning.
‘Are you sure of your own resolution?’ he said to Rachel at the door.
‘Quite sure,’ she answered—and so they parted.
The moment his back was turned, Rachel withdrew to her own room. She never appeared at dinner. Her maid (the person with the cap-ribbons) was sent downstairs to announce that her headache had returned. I ran up to her and made all sorts of sisterly offers through the door. It was locked, and she kept it locked. Plenty of obstructive material to work on here! I felt greatly cheered and stimulated by her locking the door.
When her cup of tea went up to her the next morning, I followed it in. I sat by her bedside and said a few earnest words. She listened with languid civility. I noticed my serious friend’s precious publications huddled together on a table in a corner. Had she chanced to look into them?—I asked. Yes—and they had not interested her. Would she allow me to read a few passages of the deepest interest, which had probably escaped her eye? No, not now—she had other things to think of. She gave these answers, with her attention apparently absorbed in folding and refolding the frilling of her night-gown. It was plainly necessary to rouse her by some reference to those worldly interests which she still had at heart.
‘Do you know, love,’ I said, ‘I had an odd fancy, yesterday, about Mr. Bruff? I thought, when I saw you after your walk with him, that he had been telling you some bad news.’
Her fingers dropped from the frilling of her night-gown, and her fierce black eyes flashed at me.
‘Quite the contrary!’ she said. ‘It was news I was interested in hearing—and I am deeply indebted to Mr. Bruff for telling me of it.’
‘Yes?’ I said, in a tone of gentle interest.
Her fingers went back to the frilling, and she turned her head sullenly away from me. I had been met in this manner, in the course of plying the good work, hundreds of times. She merely stimulated me to try again. In my dauntless zeal for her welfare, I ran the great risk, and openly alluded to her marriage engagement.
‘News you were interested in hearing?’ I repeated. ‘I suppose, my dear Rachel, that must be news of Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite?’
She started up in the bed, and turned deadly pale. It was evidently on the tip of her tongue to retort on me with the unbridled insolence of former times. She checked herself—laid her head back on the pillow—considered a minute—and then answered in these remarkable words:
‘I shall never marry Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite.’
It was my turn to start at that.
‘What can you possibly mean?’ I exclaimed. ‘The marriage is considered by the whole family as a settled thing!’
‘Mr. Godfrey Ablewhite is expected here to-day,’ she said, doggedly. ‘Wait till he comes—and you will see.’
‘But, my dear Rachel—’
She rang the bell at the head of her bed. The person with the cap-ribbons appeared.
‘Penelope! my bath.’
Let me give her her due. In the state of my feelings at that moment, I do sincerely believe that she had hit on the only possible way of forcing me to leave the room.
By the mere worldly mind my position towards Rachel might have been viewed as presenting difficulties of no ordinary kind. I had reckoned on leading her to higher things by means of a little earnest exhortation on the subject of her marriage. And now, if she was to be believed, no such event as her marriage was to take place at all. But ah, my friends! a working Christian of my experience (with an evangelising prospect before her) takes broader views than these. Supposing Rachel really broke off the marriage, on which the Ablewhites, father and son, counted as a settled thing, what would be the result? It could only end, if she held firm, in an exchanging of hard words and bitter accusations on both sides. And what would be the effect on Rachel when the stormy interview was over? A salutary moral depression would be the effect. Her pride would be exhausted, her stubbornness would be exhausted, by the resolute resistance which it was in her character to make under the circumstances. She would turn for sympathy to the nearest person who had sympathy to offer. And I was that nearest person—brimful of comfort, charged to overflowing with seasonable and reviving words. Never had the evangelising prospect looked brighter, to my eyes, than it looked now.