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Rachel Gray

<h4 id="id00297" style="margin-top: 2em">CHAPTER VI.</h4> 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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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