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Rachel Gray

<h4 id="id00152" style="margin-top: 2em">CHAPTER IV.</h4> It was not merely in meditation that Rachel indulged, when she sought the little room. The divine did not banish the human from her heart; and she had friends known to her, but from that back room window; but friends they were, and, in their way and degree, valued ones. First, came the neighbour's children. By standing up on an old wooden stool in the yard, they could see Rachel at her window, and Rachel could see them. They were rude and ignorant little things enough, and no better than young heathens, in rearing and knowledge; yet they liked to hear Rachel singing hymns in a low voice; they even caught from her, scraps of verses, and sang them in their own fashion; and when Rachel, hearing this, took courage to open a conversation with them, and to teach them as well as she could, she found in them voluntary and sufficiently docile pupils. Their intercourse, indeed, was brief, and limited to a few minutes every evening that Rachel could steal up to her little room, but it was cordial and free. Another friend had Rachel, yet one with whom she had never exchanged speech. There existed, at the back of Mrs. Gray's house, a narrow court, inhabited by the poorest of the poor. Over part of this court, Mrs. Gray's back windows commanded a prospect which few would have envied— yet it had proved to Rachel the source of the truest and the keenest pleasure. From her window, Rachel could look clearly into a low damp cellar opposite, the abode of a little old Frenchwoman, known in the neighbourhood, as "mad Madame Rose." Madame Rose, as she called herself, was a very diminutive old woman— unusually so, but small and neat in all her limbs, and brisk in all her movements. She was dry, too, and brown as a nut, with a restless black eye, and a voluble tongue, which she exercised mostly in her native language—not that Madame Rose could not speak English; she had resided some fifteen years in London, and could say 'yes' and 'no,' &c., quite fluently. Her attire looked peculiar, in this country, but it suited her person excellently well; it was simply that of a French peasant woman, with high peaked cap, and kerchief, both snow-white, short petticoats, and full, a wide apron, clattering wooden shoes, and blue stockings. What wind of fortune had wafted this little French fairy to a London cellar, no one ever knew. How she lived, was almost as great a mystery. Every Sunday morning, she went forth, with a little wooden stool, and planted herself at the door of the French chapel; she asked for nothing, but took what she got. Indeed, her business there did not seem to be to get anything, but to make herself busy. She nodded to every one who went in or out, gave unasked-for information, and assisted the policeman in keeping the carriages in order. She darted in and out, among wheels and horses, with reckless audacity; and once, to the infinite wrath of a fat liveried coachman, she suspended herself—she was rather short—from the aristocratic reins he held, and boldly attempted to turn the heads of his horses. On week days, Madame Rose stayed in her cellar, and knitted. It was this part of her life which Rachel knew, and it was the most beautiful; for this little, laughed-at being, who lived upon charity, was, herself, all charity. Never yet, for five years that Rachel had watched her, had she seen Madame Rose alone in her cellar. Poor girls, who looked very much like out-casts, old and infirm women, helpless children, had successively shared the home, the bed, and the board of Madame Rose. For her seemed written the beautiful record, "I was naked, and ye clothed me; I was hungry, and ye fed me: athirst, and ye gave me drink; and I was houseless, and you sheltered me." With humble admiration, Rachel saw a charity and a zeal which she could not imitate. Like Mary, she could sit at the feet of the Lord, and, looking up, listen, rapt and absorbed, to the divine teaching. But the spirit of Martha, the holy zeal and fervour with which she bade welcome to her heavenly guest, were not among the gifts of Rachel Gray. Yet, the pleasure with which she stood in the corner of her own window, and looked down into the cellar of Madame Rose, was not merely that of religious sympathy or admiration. As she saw it this evening, with the tallow light that burned on the table, rendering every object minutely distinct, Rachel looked with another feeling than that of mere curiosity. She looked with the artistic pleasure we feel, when we gaze at some clearly-painted Dutch picture, with its back-ground of soft gloom, and its homely details of domestic life, relieved by touches of brilliant light. Poor as this cellar was, a painter would have liked it well; he would surely have delighted in the brown and crazy clothes-press, that stood at the further end, massive and dark; in the shining kitchen utensils that decorated the walls; in the low and many-coloured bed; in the clean, white deal table; in the smouldering fire, that burned in that dark grate, like a red eye; especially would he have gloried in the quaint little figure of Madame Rose. She had been cooking her supper, and she now sat down to it. In doing so, she caught sight of Rachel's figure; they were acquainted—that is to say, that Madame Rose, partly aware of the interest Rachel took in such glimpses as she obtained of her own daily life, favoured her with tokens of recognition, whenever she caught sight of her, far or near. She now nodded in friendly style, laughed, nodded again, and with that communicativeness which formed part of her character, successively displayed every article of her supper for Rachel's inspection. First, came a dishful of dark liquid—onion soup it was—then, a piece of bread, not a large one; then, two apples; then a small bit of cheese— for Madame Rose was a Frenchwoman, and she would have her soup, and her dish, and her dessert, no matter on what scale, or in what quantity. But the supper of Madame Rose did not alone attract the attention and interest of Rachel. For a week, Madame Rose had enjoyed her cellar to herself; her last guest, an old and infirm woman, having died of old age; but, since the preceding day, she had taken in a new tenant—an idiot girl, of some fourteen years of age, whom her father, an inhabitant of the court, had lately forsaken, and whom society, that negligent step-mother of man, had left to her fate. And now, with tears of emotion and admiration, Rachel watched the little Frenchwoman feeding her adopted child; having first girt its neck with a sort of bib, Madame Rose armed herself with a long handled spoon, and standing before it—she was too short to sit—she deliberately poured a sufficient quantity of onion soup down its throat a proceeding which the idiot girl received with great equanimity, opening and shutting her mouth with exemplary regularity and seriousness. So absorbed was Rachel in looking, that she never heard her mother calling her from below, until the summons was, for a third time, angrily repeated. "Now, Rachel, what are you doing up there?" asked the sharp voice of Mrs. Gray, at the foot of the staircase; "moping, as usual! Eh?" Rachel started, and hastened down stairs, a little frightened. She had remained unusually long. What if her mother should suspect that she had gone up for the purpose of thinking? Mrs. Gray had no such suspicion, fortunately; else she would surely have been horror-struck at the monstrous idea, that Rachel should actually dare to think! The very extravagance of the supposition saved Rachel It was not to be thought of. The candle was lit. Mrs. Brown and another neighbour had looked in. Gossip, flavoured with scandal—else it would have been tasteless—was at full galop. "La! but didn't I always say so?" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, who had always said everything. "I couldn't have believed it, that I couldn't!" emphatically observed Mrs. Gray. "La, bless you, Mrs. Gray! I could," sneered the neighbour, who was sharp, thin, and irritable. Even Jane had her word: "I never liked her," she said, giving her thread a pull. "Who is she?" languidly asked Mary, letting her work fall on her knees. "Never you mind, Miss," tartly replied Jane. "Just stitch on, will you?" Mrs. Brown was again down on the unlucky absent one. "Serve her right," she said, benevolently. "Serve her right—the set up thing! Oh! there's Rachel. Lawk, Rachel! what a pity you ain't been here! You never heard such a story as has come out about that little staymaker, Humpy, as I call her. Why, she's been a making love to—la! but I can't help laughing, when I think of it; and it's all true, every word of it; aint it, Mrs. Smith?" Mrs. Smith loftily acquiesced. "Oh! my little room—my little room!" inwardly sighed Rachel, as she sat down to her work. She hoped that the story was, at least, finished and over; but if it was, the commentaries upon it were only beginning, and Heaven knows if they were not various and abundant. Rachel did her best to abstract herself; to hear, and not listen. She succeeded so well that she only awoke from her dream when Mrs. Brown said to her, "Well, Rachel, why don't you answer, then?" Rachel looked up, with a start, and said, in some trepidation, "Answer! I didn't hear you speak, ma'am." "Didn't you now!" knowingly observed Mrs. Brown, winking on the rest of the company. "No, ma'am, I did not, indeed," replied Rachel, earnestly. "Bless the girl!" said Mrs. Brown, laughing outright; "why, you must be growing deaf." "I hope not," said Rachel, rather perplexed; "yet, perhaps, I am; for, indeed, I did not hear you." "La, Miss Gray! don't you see they are making fun of you?" impatiently observed Jane. "Why, Mrs. Brown hadn't been a saying anything at all." Rachel reddened a little, and there was a general laugh at her expense. The joke was certainly a witty one. But Mrs. Gray, who was a touchy woman, was not pleased; and no sooner were her amiable visitors gone, than she gave it to Rachel for having been laughed at with insolent rudeness. "If you were not sich a simpleton," she said, in great anger, "people wouldn't dare to laugh at you. They wouldn't take the liberty. No one ever laughed at me, I can tell you. No Mrs. Brown; no, nor no Mrs. Smith either. But you! why, they'll do anythink to you." Rachel looked up from her work into her mother's face. It rose to her lips to say—"If you were not the first to make little of me, would others dare to do so?" but she remembered her lonely forsaken childhood, and bending once more over her task, Rachel held her peace. "I want to go to bed," peevishly said Mary. "Then go, my dear," gently replied Rachel. "You'll spoil that girl," observed Mrs. Gray, with great asperity. "She is not strong," answered Rachel; "and I promised Mr. Jones she should not work too much." "Not much fear of that," drily said Jane, as the door closed on Mary. No one answered. Rachel worked; her mother read the paper, and for an hour there was deep silence in the parlour. As the church clock struck nine, a knock came at the door. Jane opened, and a rosy, good-humoured looking man entered the parlour. He was about forty, short, stout, with rather a low forehead, and stubby hair; altogether, he seemed more remarkable for good-nature than for intelligence. At once his look went round the room. "Mary is gone to bed, Mr. Jones," said Rachel, smiling. "To bed!—She ain't ill, I hope. Miss Gray," he exclaimed, with an alarmed start. "Ill! Oh, no! but she felt tired. I am sorry you have had this long walk for nothing." "Never mind, Miss Gray," he replied cheerfully; then sitting down, and wiping his moist brow, he added—"the walk does me good, and then I hear how she is, and I've the pleasure of seeing you all. And so she's quite well, is she?" He leaned his two hands on the head of his walking-stick, and looking over it, smiled abstractedly at his own thoughts. Mrs. Gray roused him with the query— "And what do you think of the state of the nation, Mr. Jones?" Mr. Jones scratched his head, looked puzzled, hemmed, and at length came out with the candid confession: "Mrs. Gray, I ain't no politician. For all I see, politics only brings a poor man into trouble. Look at the Chartists, and the tenth of April." "Ah! poor things!" sighed Rachel, "I saw them—they passed by here. How thin they were—bow careworn they looked!" Mrs. Gray remained aghast. Rachel had actually had the audacity to give an opinion on any subject unconnected with dress-making—and even on that, poor girl! she was not always allowed to speak. "Now, Rachel," she said, rallying, "will you hold your tongue, and speak of what you know, and not meddle with politics." We must apologize for using italics, but without their aid we never could convey to our readers a proper idea of the awful solemnity with which Mrs. Gray emphasized her address. Rachel was rather bewildered, for she was not conscious of having said a word on politics, a subject she did not understand, and never spoke on; but she had long learned the virtue of silence. She did not reply. "As to the Chartists?" resumed Mrs. Gray, turning to Mr. Jones. "Law bless you, Mrs. Gray, I ain't one of them!" he hastily replied. "I mind my own business—that's what I do, Mrs. Gray. The world must go round, you know." "So it must," gravely replied that lady. "You never said a truer thing, Mr. Jones." And very likely Mr. Jones had not. "And I must go off," said Mr. Jones, rising with a half-stifled sigh, "for it's getting late, and I have five miles to walk." And, undetained by Mrs. Gray's slow but honest entreaty to stay and share their supper, he left Rachel lighted him out. As she closed the parlour door, he looked at her, and lowering his voice, he said hesitatingly: "I couldn't see her, could I, Miss Gray?" Poor Rachel hesitated. She knew that she should get scolded if she complied; but then, he looked at her with such beseeching eyes—he wished for it so very much. Kindness prevailed over fear; she smiled, and treading softly, led the way up-stairs. As softly, he followed her up into the little back room. Mary was fast asleep; her hands were folded over the coverlet of variegated patchwork; her head lay slightly turned on the white pillow; the frill of her cap softly shaded her pale young face, now slightly flushed with sleep. Her father bent over her with fond love, keeping in his breath. Rachel held the light; she turned her head away, that Mr. Jones might not see her eyes, fest filling with tears. "Oh! my father— my father!" she thought, "never have you looked so at your child—never —never!" On tip-toe, Mr. Jones softly withdrew, and stole downstairs. "I'd have kissed her," he whispered to Rachel, as she opened the door for him, "but it might have woke her out of that sweet sleep." And away he went, happy to have purchased, by a ten miles walk after a day's hard labour, that look at his sleeping child. "Oh, Lord! how beautiful is the love Thou hast put into the hearts of Thy creature!" thought Rachel Gray; and though it had not been her lot to win that love, the thought was to her so sweet and so lovely, that she bore without repining her expected scolding. "Mrs. Gray had never heard of such a think—never." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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