Back Aa

Rachel Gray

<h4 id="id00344" style="margin-top: 2em">CHAPTER VII.</h4> 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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.