Hard indeed were the days that followed for Rachel Gray. The old quarrel
had began anew. Why was she not like every one? Why did she pick up
strange acquaintances?--above all, why did she mope, and want to be in
the little back room? It was strange, and Mrs. Gray was not sure that it
was not wicked. If so, it was a wickedness of which she effectually
deprived Rachel, by keeping the back room locked, and the key in her
pocket.
But, hard as this was, it was not all. Amongst Rachel's few treasures,
were little pamphlets, tracts, old sermons, scraps of all sorts, a little
hoard collected for years, but to their owner priceless. She did not read
them daily; she had not time; but when she was alone, she took them oat,
now and then, to look at and think over. On the day that followed the
affair of Madame Rose, Mrs. Gray discovered Rachel's board.
"More of Rachel's rubbish!" she thought, and she took the papers to the
kitchen, and lit the fire with them forthwith.
"Oh, mother! what have you done!" cried Rachel, when she discovered her
loss.
"Well, what about it?" tartly asked Mrs. Gray.
A few silent, unheeded tears Rachel shed, but no more was said.
But her very heart ached; and, perhaps, because it did ache, her longing
to go and see her father returned all the stronger. The whole day, the
thought kept her in a dream.
"I never saw you so mopish," angrily exclaimed Mrs. Gray, "never!"
Rachel looked up in her mother's face, and smiled so pleasantly, that
Mrs. Gray was a little softened, she herself knew not why; but the smile
was so very sweet.
And again Rachel sat up that night, when all were sleeping in the little
house; again she burned her precious candle ends, and sat and sewed, to
finish the last of the half-dozen of fine linen shirts, begun a year
before, purchased with the few shillings she could spare now and then
from her earnings, and sewed by stealth, in hours robbed from the rest of
the night, after the fatigue of the day. But, spite of all her efforts to
keep awake, she fell asleep over her task. When she awoke, daylight
gleamed through the chinks of the shutters; it was morning. She opened
the window in some alarm; but felt relieved to perceive that it was early
yet. The street was silent; every window was closed; the sky, still free
from smoke was calm and pure; there was a peace in this stillness, which
moved the very heart of Rachel Gray. She thought of the calm slumbers of
the two millions, who, in a few hours, would fill the vast city, with
noise, agitation and strife; and she half sadly wondered that for the few
years man has to spend here below, for the few wants and cravings he
derives from nature, he should think it needful to give away the most
precious hours of a short life, and devote to ceaseless toil every
aspiration and desire of his heart.
It was too late to think of going to bed, which would, besides, have
exposed her to discovery. So, after uniting her morning and evening
prayers in one long and fervent petition of Hope and Love, she went back
to her work, finished the little there was to do, then carefully folded
up the six shirts, and tied them up in a neat parcel.
When this was done, Rachel busied herself with her usual tasks about the
house, until her mother came down. It was no uncommon thing for Rachel to
get up early, and do the work, while her mother still slept; and,
accordingly, that she should have done so, as Mrs. Gray thought, drew
forth from her no comment on this particular morning.
Everything, indeed, seemed to favour her project; for, in the course of
the day, Mrs. Gray and Jane went out. Rachel remained alone with Mary.
"Why, how merry you are to-day, Miss!" said Mary, looking with wonder at
Rachel, as she busied herself about the house, singing by snatches.
"It is such a fine day," replied Rachel; she opened the parlour window;
in poured the joyous sunshine--the blue sky shone above the dull brick
street, and the tailor's thrush began to sing in its osier cage. "A day
to make one happy," continued Rachel; and she smiled at her own thoughts;
for on such a beautiful day, how could she but prosper? "Mary," she
resumed, after a pause, "you will not be afraid, if I go out, and leave
you awhile alone, will you?"
"La, bless you! no, Miss Gray," said Mary, smiling. "Are you afraid when
you are alone?" she added, with a look of superiority; for she, too,
seeing every one else around her do it, unconsciously began to patronize
Rachel.
"Oh, no!" simply replied Rachel Gray, too well disciplined into humility
to feel offended with the pertness of a child, "I am never afraid; but
then, I am so much older than you. However, since you do not mind it, I
shall go out. Either Jane or my mother will soon be in, and so you will
not long remain alone, at all events."
"La, bless you! I don't mind," replied Mary, again looking superior.
And now, Rachel is gone out. She has been walking an hour and more.
Again, she goes through a populous neighbourhood, and through crowded
streets; but this time, in the broad daylight of a lazy summer afternoon.
Rachel is neither nervous nor afraid--not, at least, of anything around
her. On she goes, her heart full of hope, her mind full of dreams. On she
goes: street after street is passed; at length, is reached the street
where Thomas Gray, the father of Rachel, lives.
She stops at the second-hand ironmonger's and looks at the portraits and
the books, and feels faint and hopeless, and almost wishes that her
father may not be within.
Thomas Gray was at his work, and there was a book by him at which he
glanced now and then, Tom Paine's "Rights of Man." There was an empty
pewter pot too, and a dirty public-house paper, from which we do not mean
to have it inferred that Thomas Gray was given to intoxication. He was
essentially a sober, steady man, vehement in nothing, not even in
politics, though he was a thorough Republican.
Thomas Gray was planing sturdily, enjoying the sunshine, which fell full
on his meagre figure. It was hot; but as he grew old he grew chilly,
when, suddenly, a dark shadow came between him and the light. He looked
up, and saw a woman standing on the threshold of his shop. She was young
and simply clad, tall and slender, not handsome, and very timid looking.
"Walk in ma'am," he said, civilly enough.
The stranger entered; he looked at her, and she looked at him.
"Want anything?" he asked, at length.
She took courage and spoke.
"My name is Rachel," she said.
He said nothing.
"Rachel Gray," she resumed.
He looked at her steadily, but he was still silent.
"I am your daughter," she continued, in faltering accents.
"Well! I never said you was not;" he answered rather drily. "Come, you
need not shake so; there's a chair there. Take it and at down."
Rachel obeyed; but she was so agitated that she could not utter one word.
Her father looked at her for awhile, then resumed his work. Rachel did
not speak--she literally could not. Words would have choked her; so it
was Thomas Gray who opened the conversation.
"Well, and how's the old lady?" he asked.
"My mother is quite well, thank you. Sir," replied Rachel The name of
father was too strange to be used thus at first.
"And you--how do you get on? You 're a milliner, stay-maker--ain't
you?"
"I am a dress-maker; but I can do other work," said Rachel, thinking
this, poor girl! a favourable opening for her present.
"I have made these for you," she added, opening and untying her parcel;
and displaying the shirts to her father's view, and as she did so, she
gazed very wistfully in his face.
He gave them a careless look.
"Why, my good girl," he said, "I have dozens of shirts--dozens!"
And he returned to his work, a moment interrupted.
Tears stood in Rachel's eyes.
"I am sorry," she began, "but--but I did not know; and then I thought--
I thought you might like them."
"'Taint of much consequence," he philosophically replied, "thank you all
the same. Jim," he added, hailing a lad who was passing by, "just tell
them at the 'Rose' to send down a pint of half-and-half, will you? I dare
say you'll have something before you go," he continued, addressing his
daughter. "If you'll just look in there," he added, jerking his head
towards the back parlour, "you'll find some bread and cheese on the
table, there's a plate too."
Rachel rose and eagerly availed herself of this invitation, cold though
it was; she felt curious too, to inspect, her father's domestic
arrangements. She was almost disappointed to find everything so much more
tidy than she could have imagined. She had hoped that her services as
house-keeper might be more required, either then, or at some future
period of time. She sat down, but she could not eat.
"Here's the half-and-half," said her father from the shop.
Rachel went and took it; she poured out some in a glass, but she could
not drink; her heart was too full.
"You'd better," said her father, who had now joined her.
"I cannot," replied Rachel, feeling ready to cry, "I am neither hungry
nor thirsty, thank you."
"Oh! aint you?" said her father, "yet you have a long walk home, you
know."
It was the second time he said so. Rachel looked up into his face; she
sought for something there, not for love, not for fondness, but for the
shadow of kindness, for that which might one day become affection--she
saw nothing but cold, hard, rooted indifference. The head of Rachel sank
on her bosom, "The will of God be done," she thought. With a sigh she
rose, and looked up in her father's face.
"Good bye, father," she said, for her father she would call him once at
least.
"Good bye, Rachel," he replied.
She held out her hand; he took it with the same hard indifference he had
shown from the beginning. He did not seek to detain her; he did not ask
her to come again. His farewell was as cold as had been his greeting.
Rachel left him with a heart full to bursting. She had not gone ten steps
when he called her. She hastened back; he stood on the threshold of his
shop, a newspaper in his hand.
"Just take that paper, and leave it at the 'Rose,' will you? You can't
miss the 'Rose'--it's the public-house round the left-hand corner."
"Yes, father," meekly said Rachel. She took the paper from his hand,
turned away, and did as she was bid.
Her errand fulfilled, Rachel walked home. There were no tears on her
cheek, but there was a dull pain at her heart; an aching sorrow that
dwelt there, and that--do what she would--would not depart. In vain she
said to herself--"It was just what I expected; of course, I could not
think it would come all in a day. Besides, if it be the will of God, must
I not submit?" still disappointment murmured: "Oh! but it is hard! not
one word, not one look, not one wish to see me again; nothing--nothing."
It was late when Rachel reached home. Mrs. Gray, confounded at her
step-daughter's audacity in thus again absenting herself without leave,
had, during the whole day, amassed a store of resentment, which now burst
forth on Rachel's head. The irritable old lady scolded herself into a
violent passion. Rachel received her reproaches with more of apathy than
of her usual resignation. They were alone; Jane and Mary had retired to
their room. Rachel sat by the table where the supper things were laid,
her head supported by her hand. At the other end of the table sat Mrs.
Gray erect, sharp, bitter; scolding and railing by turns, and between
both burned a yellow tallow candle unsnuffed, dreary looking, and but
half lighting the gloomy little parlour.
"And so you won't say where you have been, you good-for-nothing
creature," at length cried Mrs. Gray, exasperated by her daughter's long
silence.
Rachel looked up in her step-mother's face.
"You did not ask me where I had been," she said deliberately. "I have
been to see my father."
Not one word could Mrs. Gray utter. The face of Rachel, pale, desolate,
and sorrow-stricken, told the whole story. Rachel added nothing. She, lit
another candle, and merely saying, in her gentle voice--
"Good night, mother," she left the room.
As Rachel passed by the little room of the apprentices, she saw a streak
of light gliding out on the landing, through the half-open door. She
pushed it, and entered. Jane sat reading by the little table; Mary lay in
bed, but awake.
"I did not know you were up," said Rachel to Jane, "and seeing a light, I
felt afraid of fire."
"Not much fear of fire," drily answered Jane. Rachel did not heed her--
she was bending over Mary.
"How are you to-night, Mary?" she asked.
"Oh! I am quite well," pettishly answered Mary.
Rachel smoothed the young girl's hair away from her cheek. She remembered
how dearly, how fondly loved was that peevish child; and she may be
forgiven if she involuntarily thought the contrast between that love, and
her own portion of indifference, bitter.
"Mary," she softly whispered, "did you say your prayers to-night?"
"Why, of course I did."
"And, Mary, did you pray for your father?"
"I wish you would let me sleep," crossly said the young girl.
"Oh! Mary--Mary!" exclaimed Rachel, and there was tenderness and pathos
in her voice; "Mary, I hope you love your father--I hope you love him."
"Who said I didn't?"
"Ah! but I fear you do not love him as much as he loves you."
"To be sure I don't," replied Mary, who had grown up in the firm
conviction that children were domestic idols, of which fathers were the
born worshippers.
"But you must try--but you must try," very earnestly said Rachel.
"Promise me that you will try, Mary."
She spoke in a soft, low voice; but Mary, wearied with the discourse,
turned her head away.
"I can't talk, my back aches," she said peevishly.
"Mary's back always aches when she don't want to speak," ironically
observed Jane.
"You mind your own business, will you!" cried Mary, reddening, and
speaking very fast. "I don't want your opinion, at all events; and if I
did--"
"I thought you couldn't talk, your back ached so," quietly put in Jane.
Mary burst into peevish tears. Jane laughed triumphantly. Rachel looked
at them both with mild reproach.
"Jane," she said, "it is wrong--very wrong--to provoke another. Mary,
God did not give us tears--and they are a great gift of his mercy--to
shed them so for a trifle. Do it no more."
The two girls remained abashed. Rachel quietly left the room. She went to
her own. She had prayed long that morning, but still longer did she pray
that night. For alas!--who knows it not--the wings of Hope would of
themselves raise us to Heaven; but hard it is for poor resignation to
look up from this sad earth.