"Not very well."
"Then, why stay? Why not find some other home?"
"I don't think it is time yet," she replied.
"I don't understand you. I wish--Rachel, can't you make a friend of me,
since you have no other?"
"I will tell you as well as I can," she replied, "what my mother used to
say. She said we must act rightly."
"That is true," I replied; "and what else did she say?"
"She said, that _that_ would only be the outside life, but the inside
life must be right too, must be pure and strong, and that the way to
make it pure and strong was to learn to _bear_."
"Still," I urged, "I wish you would find a better home. You cannot learn
to bear any more patiently than you do."
She shook her head.
"That shows that you don't know," she answered. "It seems to me right to
remain. Why, you know they can't hurt me any. Suppose they scold me
when I am not to blame, and my temper rises,--for I am very
quick-tempered"--
"Oh, no, Rachel!"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Browne! Suppose my temper rises, and I put it down, and
keep myself pleasant, do I not do myself good? And thinking about it in
this way, is not their unkindness a benefit to me,--to the real me,--to
the soul of Rachel Lowe?"
I hardly knew what to say. Somehow, she seemed away up above me, while I
found that I had, in common with the Brewsters, only in a different way,
taken for granted my own superiority.
"All this may be true," I remarked, after a pause, "but it is not the
common way of viewing things."
"Perhaps not," she answered. "My mother was not like other people. My
father was a strong man, but he looked _up_ to her, and he loved her;
but he killed her at last,--with his conduct, he killed her. But when
she was dead, he grew crazy with grief, he loved her so. He talked about
her always,--talked in an absent, dreamy way about her goodness, her
beauty, her white hands, her long hair. Sometimes he would seem to be
whispering with her, and would say, softly,--'Oh, yes! I'll take care of
Rachel! pretty Rachel! your Rachel!'"
I longed to have her go on; but we had now reached the bars, and she was
not willing to walk farther.
"I have been talking a great deal about myself," she said; "but you know
you kept asking me questions."
"Yes, Rachel, I know I kept asking you questions. Do you care? I may
wish to ask you others."
"Oh, no," she replied; "but I could not answer many questions. I have
only a few thoughts, and know very little."
I watched her into the house, and then walked slowly homewards,
thinking, all the way, of this strange young girl, striving thus to
stand alone, working out her own salvation. I passed a pleasant night,
half sleeping, half waking, having always before my eyes that white
face, earnest and beautiful, as it looked up to me in the winter
starlight, and in my ears her words, "Is not their unkindness a benefit
to me,--to the real me,--to the soul of Rachel Lowe?"
But spring came; my school drew to a close; and I began to think of
home, Aunt Huldah, and Fanny. I wished that my sister could see Rachel.
I knew she would appreciate her, for there was depth in Fanny, with all
her liveliness. Sometimes I imagined, just imagined, myself married to
Rachel. But then there was Aunt Huldah,--what would she say to a
foreigner? And I was dependent upon Aunt Huldah. Besides, how did I know
that Rachel would have me? Was I equal to her? How worthless seemed my
little stock of book-learning by the side of that heart-wisdom which she
had coined, as it were, from her own sorrow!
My last day came, and I had not spoken. In fact, we latterly had both
grown silent. I was to leave in the afternoon stage. I gave the driver
my trunk, telling him to call for me at the Squire's,--for I must bid
Rachel good-bye, and in some way let her know how I felt towards her. As
I drew near the house, I saw that she was drawing water. I stepped
quickly towards the well, but Sam appeared just then, and I could not
say one word. She walked into the house. I went behind with the
water-pail, and Sam followed us into the porch. Rachel was going
up-stairs, but I took her hand to bid her good-bye. Mrs. Brewster and
Sarah were in the kitchen, watching. "Quite a love-scene!" I heard them
whisper. "I do believe he'll marry her!"
Now, although I was by nature quiet, yet I _could_ be roused. Bidding
good-bye to Rachel had stirred the very depths of my nature. I longed to
take her in my arms, and bear her away to my own quiet home. And when,
instead of this, I thought of the life to which I must leave her, it
needed but those sneering whispers to make me speak out,--and I did
speak out. Taking her by the hand, I stepped quickly forward, and stood
before them.
"And so I _will_ marry her!" I exclaimed. "If she will accept me, I
shall be _proud_ to marry her!"
"Rachel," said I, turning towards her, "this is strange wooing; but
before these people I ask, Will you be my wife?"
The astonished spectators of our love-scene looked on in dismay.
"Mr. Browne!" exclaimed Mrs. Brewster, "do you know what you are doing?
I have no ill-will to the girl; but I feel it my duty to tell you who
and what she is."
"I know what Rachel Lowe is, Madam!" I cried, almost fiercely; "you
don't,--you can't!"