Rachel's Wiles.
Rachel Varnhagen walked down the main street of Timber Town, with the
same bustling gait, the same radiant face, the same air of possessing
the whole earth, as when the reader first met her. As she passed the
Kangaroo Bank she paused, and peered through the glass doors; but,
receiving no responsive glance from the immaculately attired Isaac, who
stood at the counter counting out his money, she continued her way
towards her father's place of business, where she found the rotund
merchant in a most unusual state of excitement.
"Now, vat you come bothering me this morning, Rachel? Can't you see I'm
pizzy?"
"I want a cheque, father."
"You get no cheque from me this morning, my child. I've got poor all of
a sudden. I've got no cheques for nopody."
"But I have to get things for the house. We want a new gourmet
boiler--you know you won't touch currie made in a frying-pan--a steamer
for potatoes, and half-a-dozen table-knives."
"Don't we haff no credit? What goot is my name, if you can't get
stew-pans without money? Here I am, with no invoices, my orders ignored
as if I was a pauper, and my whole piz'ness at a standstill. Not one
single letter do I get, not one. I want a hundred thousand things. I
send my orders months and months ago, and I get no reply. My trade is
all going to that tam feller, Crookenden! And you come, and ask me
for money. Vhen I go along to the Post Master, he kvestion me like a
criminal, and pring the Police Sergeant as if I vas a thief. I tell him
I nefer rob mail-bags. I tell him if other peoples lose letters, I
lose them too. I know nothing aboudt it. I tell him the rascal man is
Crookenden and Co.--he should take _him_ to prison: he contracts for
mails and nefer delivers my letters. I tell him Crookenden and Co. is
the criminal, not me. Then he laff, but that does not gif me my
letters."
During this harangue, Rachel had stood, the mute but pretty picture of
astonishment.
"But, father," she said, "I want to go to the bank. I want to speak to
Isaac awfully, and how can I go in there without some excuse!"
"I'll gif you the exguse to keep out! I tell you somethings which will
make you leave that young man alone. He nefer loaf you, Rachel--he loaf
only my money."
"Father! this worry about the mail has turned you silly."
"Oh, yes, I'm silly when I throw the ink-pot at him. I've gone mad when
I kick him out of my shop. You speak to that young man nefer again,
Rachel, my tear; you nefer look at him. Then, by-and-by, I marry you
to the mos' peautiful young man with the mos' loafly moustache and
whiskers. You leaf it to your poor old father. He'll choose you a good
husband. When I was a young man I consult with _my_ father, and I marry
your scharming mamma, and you, my tear Rachel, are the peautiful result.
Eh? my tear."
The old man took his daughter's face between his fat hands, and kissed
her on both cheeks.
"You silly old goose," said Rachel, tenderly, "you seem to think I have
no sense. I'm not going to marry Isaac _yet_--there can't be any harm in
speaking to him. I'm only engaged. Why should you be frightened if I
flirt a little with him? You seem to think a girl should be made of
cast-iron, and just wait till her father finds a husband for her. You're
buried up to your eyes in invoices and bills of lading and stupid,
worrying things that drive you cranky, and you never give a thought to
my future. What's to become of me, if I don't look out for myself?
Goodness knows! there are few enough men in the town that I _could_
marry; and because I pick out one for myself, you storm and rage as if
I was thinking of marrying a convict."
"Young Zahn is worse: he is the worst rogue I ever see. He come in here
to bully me into making him my partner. He threatens to tell my piz'ness
to Crookenden and Co. I tell him, 'You do it, my poy. I schange my
account, and tell your manager why.' That young man's too smart: soon he
find himself in gaol. If my tear little Rachel marries a criminal, what
would become of her poor old father? My tear, my tarling, you make me
die with grief! But wait till the right young man comes along, then I
gif you my blessing and two thousand pounds. But I gif you not von penny
if you marry young Zahn."
The tears were now standing in Rachel's pretty eyes, and she looked the
picture of grief.
"I never do _anything_, but you blame me," she sobbed. "When I wish to
do a thing, you always say it's bad. You don't love me!" And she burst
into a flood of tears.
"Rachel! Rachel! I gafe you the gold watch; and that bill came to
thirty-three pounds. I gif you everything, and when I tell you not to
run after a bad young feller, you say I nefer loaf you. Rachel, you are
cruel; you make your father's heart bleed; you stab me here"--he pointed
with his fat forefinger to the middle of his waistcoat--"you stab me
here"--he placed his finger on his forehead. "You show no loaf, no
consideration. You make me most unhappy. You're a naughty girl!"
The old fellow was almost crying. Rachel put her arms about his neck,
and pressed his corpulent person with affection.
"Father, I'll be good. I know I'm very bad. But I love you, father. I'll
never cause you any sorrow again. I'll do everything you tell me. I
won't gad about so much; I'll stop at home more. I will, father; I
really will."
"My tear Rachel! My loafly!" The old man was holding his pretty daughter
at arm's length, and was gazing at her with parental fondness. "You are
my peautiful, tear, goot, little girl."
Again her arms were flung round his neck. Again she kissed his bristly
cheeks with her ruby-red lips. "You _are_ an old dear," she exclaimed.
"You're the kindest old governor going."
"You loaf your old father?"
"Of _course_ I do. But I _do_--I _do_ so want a small cheque. I must
have it for the house."
"You'll always loaf your father, Rachel?"
"Always." She renewed her affectionate embraces.
"You shall have a little one--not so big as when my ship comes home, not
so big as I'd like, but enough to show that I loaf you, Rachel."
He let her lead him to his desk, and there he sat and wrote a cheque
which Rachel took gladly. She gave him one more kiss, and said, "You
dear, good, kind old party; your little Rachel's _awfully_ pleased," and
gaily tripped from the dingy office into the sunny street.