Rachel sat alone, working and thinking. The dull street was silent; the
sound and stir of morning, alive elsewhere, reached it not; but the sky
was clear and blue, and on that azure field mounted the burning sun,
gladdening the very house-roofs as he went, and filling with light and
life the quiet parlour of Rachel Gray.
Mrs. Gray was an ignorant woman, and she spoke bad English; but her
literary tastes were superior to her education and to her language. Her
few books were good--they were priceless; they included the poetical
works of one John Milton. Whether Mrs. Gray understood him in all his
beauty and sublimity, we know not, but at least, she read him, seriously,
conscientiously--and many a fine lady cannot say as much. Rachel, too,
read Milton, and loved him as a fine mind must ever love that noble poet.
That very morning, she had been reading one of his sonnets, too little
read, and too little known. We will give it here, for though, of course,
all our readers are already acquainted with it, it might not be present
to their memory.
"When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent,
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he, returning, chide;
'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?'
I fondly ask: but Patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, 'God doth not need
Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve, who only stand and wait'"
"'They also serve who only stand and wait,'"
thought Rachel, brooding over the words, as was her wont, "and that is my
case. Oh, God! I stand and wait, and alas! I do nothing, for I am blind,
and ignorant, and helpless, and what am I that the Lord should make use
of me; yet, in His goodness, my simple readiness to do His will, He takes
as good service. Oh, Rachel! happy Rachel! to serve so kind a master."
Her work dropt on her lap; and so deep was her abstraction, that she
heard not the door opening, and saw not Richard Jones, until he stood
within a few paces of her chair. She gave a slight start on perceiving
him; and her nervous emotion was not lessened, by remarking that he was
rather pale and looked excited.
"Mary is very well," she said, hastily, and half smiling at the supposed
alarm which had, she thought, brought him so suddenly in upon her.
"Of course she is--of course she is," he replied, nodding; then, drawing
a chair near to Rachel's, he sat down upon it, and, bending forward, with
his two hands resting on his knees, he said, in a deep, impressive
whisper,
"Miss Gray, may I speak to you? I want you to advise me," he added, after
a slight pause.
"To advise you, Mr. Jones!" echoed Rachel, looking up at him, with mild
astonishment.
"Yes, Miss Gray," he firmly replied; and, slightly clearing his throat,
he thus began: "Miss Gray, I aint a known you very long; but there aint
another in this wide world whom I respect as I do you. And I think I have
proved it; for haven't I given you my little Mary? I couldn't do more,
Miss Gray," he added, with energetic earnestness. "Yes, Miss Gray, I do
respect you; and that is why I want you to advise me. Now, this is the
whole story:--
"From a boy, Miss Gray, I have wished to be in business. I was in
business at Mr. Smith's, Mr. Smith was the grandfather of my little Mary,
but not on my account; and that's not quite the same thing, you see. And
I have wished to be in the grocery line, in particular, because of
understanding it so much better, from having been brought up to it, like.
Now, Miss Gray, here's the plain truth of the case. Some time ago, I
found out, by chance, that there was not--actually, that there was not a
grocer's shop in this immediate vicinity!" Here Mr. Jones held up his
forefinger by way of note of admiration. "Well, Miss Gray," he resumed
impressively, "that thought haunted me. Why here was the very place for
me! A grocer was wanted. I found out, too, that the rag and bottle shop
round the corner was just the place for me, and the people left, too; but
bless you. Miss Gray, 't was all not a bit of use--for why--I hadn't
got no capital! Well, Miss Gray, to make a long story short, a cousin of
mine has just died, and left me all she had, poor thing, and that was
sixty pound. Now, Miss Gray, what I want to know is this:--do you think
that as a father--that is, the father of my little Mary--I'm justified
in risking that money by setting up a shop, or that it's my duty to keep
it all up for the child?"
He looked earnestly in Rachel's face. Ay, the child; it was still the
child, and always the child. His own was not his own--it was but a trust
held for his little Mary.
"Truly, Mr. Jones," said Rachel, smiling, "you can do what you like with
your own."
"No, indeed, Miss Gray," he rejoined, a little warmly, "I must think of
my little Mary first; and you see the whole question is, which is best
for her. Why, I aint slep these three nights with thinking on it, and so,
at last, I thought I'd come to you."
Who had ever asked Rachel for advice! Rachel the simpleton--Rachel the
slighted and laughed-at dressmaker? Little did Mr. Jones know how nervous
he made the poor girl; besides, she felt quite bewildered at the strange
views he took of the case he submitted to her. At length she gathered
courage, and looking earnestly in his face with her mild brown eyes, she
spoke.
"Mr. Jones," she said, "it seems to me that as the money is yours, and
that as your intentions are to turn it to a good account, you have a
right to do with it as you please. I think, too, that you are likely to
do very well as a grocer, for we really do want one about here. But I
only tell you what I think. I do not advise. I really cannot. If you want
advice, Mr. Jones, why, ask it of one who cannot mistake, for He is not
liable to human error--ask it of God Almighty."
Richard Jones scratched his head, then hung it down ashamed. If he had
dared, he would have asked of Rachel how he was to ask of God to advise
him, and, especially, how he was to get the answer! Poor fellow! he had
an excellent hearty some faith, much charity, but the world's net was
around him. His life was not like that of Rachel Gray--a heaven upon
earth. And Rachel, who laboured under the disadvantages of a narrow
education, and a narrow life, who had not enough knowledge and enough
experience of human nature to understand clearly that there were states
of mind worlds lower than her own, did not suspect that she had given
Richard Jones the worst of all advice--that which the receiver cannot
follow.
Alas! who talks of God now! who listens like Adam in Eden to the voice of
the Lord, and treasures in his or her own heart that source of all
knowledge? And we complain that God goes away from us; that His face is
dark, and behind the cloud; that in the days of adversity we find him
not.
Jones rose confused, muttered thanks, then hastily changed the subject by
asking to see his daughter. Even as he spoke, the door opened, and Mary
entered.
She did not show much pleasure or surprise on seeing her father; it was
not that she did not love him, but she was a spoiled child, too much
accustomed to his fondness and devotion to set great value on either. She
complained of the heat, then of the cold, sat down, got up again, and
gave herself all the airs of a precocious woman. Her father, leaning on
his stick, looked at her with admixing fondness, and occasionally nodded
and winked at Rachel, as if inviting her to admire likewise. At length,
with a half stifled sigh--for he never parted from his darling without
regret--he again said he must go.
"And so, good-bye, my little Mary," he added, kissing her, but the
peevish child half-turned her head away, and said his beard hurt her.
"You hear her, Miss Gray," he exclaimed, chuckling, "does not care a pin
for her old father, not a pin," and chucking Mary's chin, he looked down
at her fondly.
"Dear me, father, how can you?" asked the young lady, rather pettishly.
Upon which, Mr. Jones shook his head, looked delighted, and at length
managed to tear himself away.
"And is it thus, indeed, that fathers love their daughters?" thought
Rachel Gray, as she sat alone in the little back room on the evening of
that day. "And is it thus, indeed! Oh! my father--my father!"
She laid down the book she had been attempting to read. She leaned her
brow upon her hand; she envied none, but her heart felt full to
over-flowing. Since the night when she had gone to look at her father, as
we have recorded, Rachel had not felt strong or courageous enough to
attempt more. Her nature was timid, sensitive and shrinking to a fault,
and circumstances had made it doubly so, yet the repeated sight of
Richard Jones's devoted love for his child, inspired her with involuntary
hope. She had grown up in the belief of her father's rooted indifference;
might she not have been mistaken? was it not possible that his daughter
could become dear to Thomas Gray, as other daughters were dear to their
father? Rachel had always cherished the secret hope that it would one day
be so, but because that hope was so precious, she had deferred risking
it, lest it should perish irretrievably. She now felt inwardly urged to
make the attempt. Why should she not, like the prodigal son, rise and go
to her father? "I will," she thought, clasping her hands, her cheeks
flushing, her eyes kindling, "yes, I will go to-morrow, and my father
shall know his daughter; and, perhaps, who knows, perhaps God Almighty
will bless me."
Here the sound of a sudden tumult in the little court close by, broke on
the dream of Rachel Gray. She looked, and she saw and heard Madame Rose
gesticulating and scolding, to the infinite amusement of a crowd of boys,
who where teazing the idiot girl. The wrath of Madame Rose was something
to see. Having first placed her protege behind herself for safety--as
if her own little body could do much for the protection of another twice
its size--Madame Rose next put herself in an attitude, then expostulated
with, then scolded, then denounced the persecutors of the helpless idiot;
after which washing her hands of them, she walked backwards to her
cellar, scorning to turn her back to the foe. But the enemy, nothing
daunted, showed evident intentions of besieging her in her stronghold,
and though Madame Rose made her appearance at the window, armed with a
broomstick, she failed to strike that terror into the hearts of her
assailants, which the formidable nature of the weapon warranted.
Fortunately, however, for the peace of the little French lady, that
valiant knight-errant of modern times, the policeman, having made his
appearance at the entrance of the court, a scutter, then a rushing
flight, were the immediate consequence. Ignorant of this fact, Madame
Rose ascribed the result entirely to her own prowess, and in all peace of
mind proceeded to cook her supper. Then followed the little domestic
scenes which Rachel liked to watch.
As Rachel looked, she took a bold resolve, and this was to pay Madame
Rose a visit. They had met, the day before, in the street; and Madame
Rose had addressed a long and voluble discourse to Rachel, in French,
concluding with an invitation to visit her, which Rachel had understood,
and smilingly accepted.
And now was the favourable moment to carry this project into effect. From
the little room, Rachel heard Mrs. Brown's loud voice below in the
parlour. Mrs. Gray was fully engaged, and not likely to mind her
daughter's absence. Unheeded, Rachel slipped out.
A few minutes brought her round to the little courts and to the house
inhabited by Madame Rose. It was dingy, noisy, and dirty; and as she
groped and stumbled down the dark staircase, Rachel half repented haying
come. The voice of Madame Rose directed her to the right door--for there
were several. She knocked gently; a shrill "entrez," which she rightly
interpreted as a summons to enter, was uttered from within; and pushing
the door open, Rachel found herself in the abode and presence of Madame
Rose.
She was received with a storm of enthusiasm, that rather bewildered than
pleased her. Madame Rose welcomed her in a torrent of speech, with a
multiplicity of nods, and winks, and shrugs, and exclamations, so novel
in the experience of Rachel Gray, that she began to wonder how much truth
there might be in the epithet occasionally bestowed on Madame Rose. For,
first of all, she insisted on cooking a dish of onion soup for her
expressly, a kindness which Rachel had all the trouble in the world to
resist; and next, this point settled, she was loud and unceasing in the
praise of the poor idiot girl, who sat mowing in her chair.
Rachel went and sat near her, and spoke to her, but she only got an
unintelligible murmur for a reply. Madame Rose shook her head, as much as
to say that the attainments of Mimi--so she called her--did not include
speech. But Mimi was very good--very good indeed, only she could not
talk, which was "bien dommage," added Madame Rose, as, had she only been
able to speak, Mimi would certainly have done it charmingly.
"You should see her eating onion soup," enthusiastically added Madame
Rose. "It is beautiful!" Then, seeing that Rachel was engaged in
scrutinizing, with a pitying glance, the ragged attire of her protege,
Madame Rose jealously informed her that, as yet, the toilette of Mimi had
been a little neglected, certainly; but that, "with time, and the help of
God," added Madame Rose, "Mimi should want for nothing."
"I have an old dress at home, that will just do for her," timidly said
Rachel "Shall I bring it to-morrow night?"
Madame Rose coughed dubiously--she had not understood; but a perfect
knowledge of the English tongue, in all its most delicate intricacies,
was one of her vanities. So, bending her head of one side, and patting
her ear, as if to imply that there lay the fault, she evidently requested
Rachel to repeat She did so; and this time, Madame Rose caught enough of
her meaning to misunderstand her.
"I understand--I understand!" she exclaimed, triumphantly; and settling
Mimi in her chair, she told her to be good, for that she was only going
to fetch her an elegant dress presented to her by the goodness of
Mademoiselle, and that she would be back in an incredibly short space of
time; after which exhortation, Madame Rose prepared to accompany Rachel.
In vain, poor Rachel, alarmed at the prospect of her mother's anger,
endeavoured to explain that she would bring the dress. Madame Rose, still
triumphantly asserting that she understood, insisted on going out with
her guest, and actually walked with her to her very door. In great
trepidation, Rachel opened it, and unconscious of peril or offence,
Madame Rose entered, clattering along the passage in her wooden shoes;
but Mrs. Brown's voice was just then at the loudest; the noise was not
heeded.
Rachel took her up-stairs to the little back-room, and left her there,
whilst she looked in the room which she shared with her mother, for the
dress she wished to give Mimi; she soon came back with it, tied in a
parcel, and now devoutly wished that she could see Madame Rose safe out
of the place. But Madame Rose was in no mood to go. She had recognized
the room and window where she so often saw Rachel; and she intimated as
much, by a lively pantomime; first taking up a book, she held it before
her, pretending to read; then she pointed to her forehead, to imply that
Rachel was a thinker; and finally, to the horror and dismay of Rachel,
Madame Rose shut her eyes, opened her mouth, and warbled a sufficiently
correct imitation of the old hundredth.
The window was open; and even Mrs. Brown's voice could not drown these
strange tones. They reached the ear of Mrs. Gray; and before Rachel had
fairly recovered from the surprise and alarm into which the musical
outburst of Madame Rose had thrown her, her step-mother appeared at the
door of the little back room, and, in stern and indignant accents, asked
to know the meaning of what she heard and saw. But, before Rachel could
reply, the French costume of Madame Rose had betrayed her.
Mrs. Gray was of Scotch descent, and she had some of the old puritan
spirit, to which, in the course of a long life, she had added a plenteous
store of stubborn English prejudices.
Madame Rose was "an idolatrous furriner!" "a French beggar!" too; and
that she should have darkened her doors!--that she should be familiarly
sitting under her roof--chattering and singing in a back room, with her
daughter, was an intolerable insult, a wrong not to be borne.
"I am amazed at you, Rachel!" she said, her voice quivering with
indignation. "I am amazed at you. How dare you do sich a thing!"
The tones and the attitude of Mrs. Gray were not to be misunderstood; nor
was little Madame Rose so dull as to mistake them. She saw that her
presence was not welcome, and, with great dignity, rose and took her
leave. Crimson with pain and shame, Rachel followed her out. She gave
Madame Rose an humble and imploring glance, as they parted at the door,
as much, as to say, "You know I could not help it." But the appeal was
not needed. To her surprise, Madame Rose remained very good-humoured. She
even laughed and shrugged her shoulders, French fashion, and indulged in
a variety of pantomimic signs, closing with one more intelligible than
the rest: a significant tap of her forefinger on her brown forehead, and
by which Madame Rose plainly intimated it to be her firm conviction that
the intellect of Mrs. Gray was unfortunately deranged. Thus they parted.
Violent were the reproaches with which Mrs. Gray greeted her daughter's
reappearance. She exacted a strict and rigid account of the rise and
progress of Rachel's acquaintance with that "mad French beggar;" was
horror-struck on learning that the back-room window had been made the
medium; and not satisfied with prohibiting future intercourse, took the
most effective means to prevent it, by locking up the guilty zoom, and
putting the key in her pocket.
To all this Rachel submitted; though, when she saw the door of her
much-loved retreat closing on her, her heart ached. But when, in the
height of her anger, Mrs. Gray railed at the poor little Frenchwoman, as
little better than an idolater or an infidel, Rachel felt as if it
touched her honour, not to suffer this slur on her humble friend.
"Mother," she said, with some firmness, "you cannot tell what she is; for
you know nothing of her, save by idle reports. I have watched her life
day after day, and I have seen that it is holy. And, mother," added
Rachel, slightly colouring, from the fervour with which she felt and
spoke, "you know it as I do: all holiness comes from God."
Unable to contradict, Mrs. Gray sniffed indignantly.