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Rachel Gray

<h4 id="id00512" style="margin-top: 2em">CHAPTER X.</h4> A week had passed over the Teapot, and, sitting in the back-parlour with Mary, who was busy sewing, Richard Jones dived deep into his books, and cast up his accounts. He allowed for rent, for expenditure, for household, for extras, then his face, brimful of ill-disguised exultation, he said to his daughter: "Well, Mary, dear, 'taint much to boast of, but for a first week, you see, 'taint amiss, either. I find, all expenses covered, one pound ten net profit. Now, you know, that makes, first, fifty-two pound a-year; then half of fifty-two, twenty-six; add twenty-six to fifty-two, seventy-eight—seventy-eight pound a-year, net-profit. Well, it stands to reason and common sense, that as I go on, my business will go on improving too; in short, put it at the lowest—I hate exaggeration—well put it at the lowest, and I may say that by next Michaelmas, we shall have a neat hundred." "Law! father, can't you say a hundred and fifty at once," peevishly interrupted Mary. Mary's will was law. "Well, I really think I can say a hundred and fifty," ingenuously replied Richard Jones, "now, with a hundred and fifty pound for the first year, and just five per cent, as increase of profit for the second." "I'm sure it'll be ten per cent," again interrupted Mary, who, from hearing her father, had caught up some of the money terms of this money-making world. "Well, I should not wonder if it would not," replied her docile papa. "We'll suppose it, at least; well that'd be fifteen pound to add to the hundred and fifty, or, rather, to the three hundred, and then for the next year it would be—let me see! Ah!" and he scratched his head. "I think I am getting into what they call compound interest, and, to say the truth, I never was a very quick arithmetician. At all events, it is pretty clear that at the end of ten years, we shall stand at the head of something like fifteen hundred pound, and a flourishing house of business," he added, glancing towards the shop—"a flourishing house of business," he continued, complacently passing his Angers through his hair. Awhile he mused, then suddenly he observed: "Mary, my dear, hadn't you better go to bed?" Mary now slept at home. "You have to get up early, you know." "Yes; but I ain't going to," she tartly replied. "It gives me a pain in my side," she added. "Then you shall not get up early," authoritatively said Mr. Jones. "I'll not allow my daughter to work herself to death for no Miss Grays." "I don't think I shall go at all to-morrow," composedly resumed Mary. "I don't like dress-making—it don't agree with me." Mr. Jones had at first looked startled, but this settled the question. "If dress-making don't agree with you, not another stitch shall you put in," he said, half angrily. "I think myself you don't look half so well as you used to, and though Miss Gray is as nice a person as one need wish to meet, I think she might have perceived it before this; but interest blinds us all—every one of us," he added, with a philosophic sigh over the weaknesses of humanity. "I know what Jane will be sure to say," observed Mary; "but I don't care." "I should think not! Law! bless you, child, I have got quite beyond troubling my poor brains with what other people thinks; and if I choose to keep my daughter at home now that I can afford to do so, why shouldn't I? It's a hard case, if, when a man's well off and comfortable, and getting on better and better every day—it's a hard case, indeed, if he can't keep his only child with him." This matter decided, Mary went up to her room; her father remained by the fireside, looking at the glowing coals, and dreaming to his heart's content. "If I go on prospering so," he thought, "why should I not take—in time, of course—some smart young fellow to help me in the shop? It stands to reason that customers like to be served quickly. Law, bless you! they hate waiting," he added, thoughtfully, addressing the fire, and giving it a poke, by way of comment, "the ladies always hate it. But, as I was saying, why shouldn't I take some smart young man, and he, of course— why, I know what he'd do—why, he'd fall in love with Mary, of course— and why shouldn't he?" inquired Jones, warming with his subject "Was I not a poor fellow once, and did I not marry my master's daughter?" Mr. Jones gave the fire another poke. In the burning coals he saw a pleasing vision rise. He saw his shop full of customers; he served with slow dignity, assisted by a "tight, brisk young fellow," busy as a bee, active as a deer, for it was Saturday night, and the fair maids and matrons of the vicinity were all impatient. Then from Saturday it was Sunday; the shop was closed, the street was silent. Young Thomson was brushing his coat in the yard and whistling; Mary was upstairs dressing; another five minutes, and she comes down in straw bonnet lined with pink, clean printed muslin frock, mousseline-de-laine shawl, brown boots and blue parasol. The happy father saw them going off together with delighted eyes and brimful heart Then other visions follow; one of a wedding breakfast at which Mr. Jones sings a song, and another of half a dozen grandchildren, all tugging at his skirts, whilst he solemnly rocks the baby, and as solemnly informs the infant: "that he had done as much for its mother once." Peace be with such dreams whenever they come to the poor man's hearth! A little surprised at not seeing Mary as usual on the following morning, and thinking she might be unwell, Rachel Gray sent Jane to enquire. Jane soon returned, her face brimful of news. "Well," said Rachel, "how is Mary?" "Law bless you Miss, Mary's well enough." "Why did she not come then?" "She does not like dress-making no more." And Jane sat down, and took up her work, and became deeply absorbed in a sleeve trimming. Rachel reddened and looked pained. She liked Mary; the pale, sickly child reminded her strongly of her own lost sister, and though she could allow for the natural tartness with which Jane had no doubt fulfilled her errand, yet she knew that Jane was true, and that as she represented it, the matter must be. For a while she suspended her work, sadly wondering at the causeless ingratitude of a child whom she had treated with uniform kindness and indulgence, then she tried to dismiss the matter from her mind; but she could not do so, and when dusk came round, her first act, as soon as she laid by her work, was to slip out unperceived—for Mrs. Gray, highly indignant with Mr. Jones and his daughter, would certainly have opposed her—and go as far as the Teapot. Mr. Jones was serving a customer. He did not recognize Rachel as she entered the shop, and hastily called out: "Mary—Mary come and serve the lady." "It's only me, Mr. Jones," timidly said Rachel. "Walk in, Miss Gray," he replied, slightly embarrassed, "walk in, you'll find Mary in the back parlour, very glad to see you, Miss Gray." Much more sulky than glad looked Mary, but of this Rachel took no notice; she sat down by the side of the young girl, and, as if nothing had occurred, spoke of the Teapot and its prospects. To which discourse Mary gave replies pertinaciously sullen. "Mary!" at length said Rachel, "why did you not come to work to day, were you unwell?" This simple question obtaining no reply, Rachel repeated it; still Mary remained silent, but when a third time Rachel gently said: "Mary what was it ailed you?" Mary began to cry. "Well, well, what's the matter?" exclaimed her father looking in, "you ain't been scolding my little Mary have you. Miss Gray?" "I!" said Rachel, "no, Mr. Jones, I only asked her why she did not come this morning?" "Because I would not let her," he replied, almost sharply, "dress-making don't agree with my Mary, Miss Gray, and you know I told you from the first, that if her health wouldn't allow it, she was not to stay." And a customer calling him back to the shop, he left the parlour threshold. Rachel rose. "Good-night, Mary," she gently said; "if you feel stronger, and more able to work, you may come back to me." Mary did not reply. "Good-night, Mr. Jones," said Rachel, passing through the shop. "Good-night, Miss Gray," he replied, formally. "My best respects to Mrs. Gray, if you please." When people have done an insolent and ungrateful thing, they generally try to persuade themselves that it was a spirited, independent sort of thing; and so now endeavoured to think Richard Jones and his daughter— but in vain. To both still came the thought: "Was this the return to make to Rachel Gray for all her kindness?" The conscience of Mr. Jones, little used to such reflections, made him feel extremely uneasy; and if that of Mary was not quite so sensitive, the dull routine of the paternal home added much force to the conclusion "that she had much better have stayed with Miss Gray." Mary was too childish, and had ever been too much indulged to care for consistency. At the close of a week, she therefore declared that she wished to go back to Miss Gray, and did not know why her father had taken her away. "I—I—my dear!" said Richard Jones, confounded at the accusation, "you said getting up early made your side ache." "So it did; but I could have got up late, and gone all the same, only you wouldn't let me; you kept me here to mind the shop. I hate the shop. Teapot and all!" added Mary, busting into tears. Jones hung down his head—then shook it "Oh! my little Mary—my little Mary!" he exclaimed, ruefully; and he felt as if he could hare cried himself, to see the strange perversity of this spoiled child, "who turned upon him," as he internally phrased it, and actually upbraided him with his over-indulgence. A wiser father would never have thus indulged a pettish daughter, and never have humbled himself as, to please his little Mary, Richard Jones now did. That same day, he went round to Rachel Gray's; he had hoped that she might be alone in the little parlour; but no, there sat, as if to increase his mortification, Mrs. Gray, stiff and stern, and Jane smiling grimly. Rachel alone was the same as usual. Jones scratched his head, coughed, and looked foolish; but at length he came out with it: "Would Miss Gray take back his daughter, whose health a week's rest had much improved—much improved," he added, looking at Rachel doubtfully. Mrs. Gray drew herself up to utter a stern "No," but for once the mild Rachel checked and contradicted her mother, and said: "Yes, Mr. Jones, with great pleasure. You may send her to-day, if you like. She has missed us, and we have missed her." "Thank you, Miss Gray—thank you," said Jones, hurriedly rising to leave. "Give Mary my kind love," whispered Rachel, as she let him out. But Jones had not heard her. Very slowly, and with his hands in his pockets, he walked down the street. He had not grown tired of Mary's company; why had Mary grown tired of his? "It's natural, I suppose," he thought, "it's natural;" and when he entered the shop, where Mary sat sulking behind the counter, and he told her that she might go back to Miss Gray's, and when he saw her face light up with pleasure, he forgot that, though natural, it was not pleasant. "You may go to-day," he added, smiling. At once, Mary flew upstairs to her room. In less than five minutes, she was down again, and merely nodding to her father as she passed through the shop, off she went, with the light, happy step of youth. "It's natural," he thought again, "it's very natural," but he sighed. Mrs. Gray took in high dudgeon the consent her daughter had given to the return of Mary Jones. She scarcely looked at that young lady the whole day, and when she was gone, and Jane had retired to her little room, and mother and daughter sat together, Rachel got a lecture. "You have no spirit," indignantly said Mrs. Gray. "What! after the little hussy behaving so shamefully, you take her back for the asking!" "She is but a child," gently observed Rachel. "But her father ain't a child, is he?" Rachel smiled. "Indeed, mother, he is not much better," she replied. "I tell you, that you ain't got a bit of spirit," angrily resumed Mrs. Gray. "The little imperent hussy! to think of playing her tricks here! And do you think I'm agoing to stand that?" added Mrs. Gray, warming with her subject; "no, that I ain't! See if I don't turn her out of doors to-morrow morning." "Oh! mother, mother, do not!" cried Rachel, alarmed at the threat; "think that she is but a child, after all. And, oh, mother!" she added with a sigh, "have you never noticed how like she is to what our own little Jane once was?" Mrs. Gray remained mute. She looked back in the past for the image of her lost child. She saw a pale face, with blue eyes and fair hair, like Mary's. Never before had the resemblance struck her; when it came, it acted with overpowering force on a nature which, though rugged, and stern, and embittered by age and sorrows, was neither cold nor forgetful. One solitary love, but ardent and impassioned, had Sarah Gray known, in her life of three-score and ten—the love of a harsh, but devoted mother for an only child. For that child's sake had its father, whom she had married more for prudential reasons than for motives of affection, become dear to her heart. He was the father of her Jane. For that child's sake, had she, without repining, borne the burden of Rachel. Rachel was the sister of her Jane. Never should Rachel want, whilst she had heart and hands to work, and earn her a bit of bread. But when this much-loved child, after ripening to early youth, withered and dropped from the tree of life; when she was laid to sleep in a premature grave, all trace of the holy and beautiful tenderness which gives its grace to womanhood, seemed to pass away from the bereaved mother's heart. She became more harsh, more morose than she had ever been, and had it been worth the world's while to note or record it, of her too it might have been said, as it was of England's childless King, "that from one sad day she smiled no more." And now, when she heard Rachel, when in her mind she compared the living with the dead, strength, pride, fortitude forsook her, her stern features worked, her aged bosom heaved, passionate tears flowed down her wrinkled cheek. "Oh! my darling—my lost darling!" she cried, in broken accents, "would I could have died for thee! would thou wert here to-day! would my old bones filled thy young grave!" And she threw her apron over her face, and moaned with bitterness and anguish. "Mother, dear mother, do not, pray do not!" cried Rachel, distressed and alarmed at so unusual a burst of emotion. After a while, Mrs. Gray unveiled her face. It was pale and agitated; but her tears had ceased. For years they had not flowed, and until her dying day, they flowed no more. "Rachel," she said, looking in her step-daughter's face, "I forgive you. You have nearly broken my heart. Let Mary come, stay, and go; but talk to me no more of the dead. Rachel, when my darling died," here her pale lips quivered, "know that I rebelled against the Lord—know that I did not give her up willingly, but only after such agony of mind and heart as a mother goes through when she sees the child she has borne, reared, cherished, fondled, lying a pale, cold bit of earth before her! And, therefore, I say, talk no more to me about the dead, lest my rebellious heart should rise again, and cry out to its Maker: 'Oh God! oh God! why didst thou take her from me!'" Mrs. Gray rose to leave the room. On the threshold, she turned back to say in a low, sad voice: "The child may come to-morrow, Rachel." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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