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Rachel Gray

<h4 id="id00587" style="margin-top: 2em">CHAPTER XI.</h4> Mrs. Gray had never cared about Mary Jones; she had always thought her what she was indeed—a sickly and peevish child. But now her heart yearned towards the young girl, she herself would have been loth to confess why. Mary took it as a matter of course, Jane wondered, Rachel well knew what had wrought such a change; but she said nothing, and watched silently. In softened tones, Mrs. Gray now addressed the young girl. If Rachel ventured to chide Mary, though ever so slightly, her step-mother sharply checked her. "Let the child alone," were her mildest words. As to Jane or Mrs. Brown, they both soon learned that Mary Jones was not to be looked at with impunity. Mrs. Gray wondered at them, she did, for teazing the poor little thing. In short, Mary was exalted to the post of favourite to the ruling powers, and she filled it with dignity and consequence. But the watchful eye of Rachel Gray noted other signs. She saw with silent uneasiness, the fading eye, the faltering step, the weakness daily increasing of her step-mother; and she felt with secret sorrow that she was soon to lose this harsh, yet not unloving or unloved companion of her quiet life. Mrs. Gray complained one day of feeling weak and ailing. She felt worse the next day, and still worse on the third. And thus, day by day, she slowly declined without hope of recovery. Mrs. Gray had a strong, though narrow mind, and a courageous heart. She heard the doctor's sentence calmly and firmly; and virtues which she had neglected in life, graced and adorned her last hours and her dying bed. Meek and patient she bore suffering and disease without repining or complaint, and granted herself but one indulgence: the sight and presence of Mary. The young girl was kinder and more attentive to her old friend than might have been expected from her pettish, indulged nature. She took a sort of pride in keeping Mrs. Gray company, in seeing to Mrs. Gray, as she called it Her little vanity was gratified in having the once redoubtable Mrs. Gray now wholly in her hands, and in some sort a helpless dependent on her good-will and kindness. It may be, too, that she found a not unworthy satisfaction in feeling and proving to the little world around her, that she also was a person of weight and consequence. But her childish kindness availed not. The time of Mrs. Gray had come; she too was to depart from a world where toil and few joys, and some heavy sorrows had been her portion. Mary and Rachel were alone with her in that hour. Mary was busy about the room. Rachel sat by her mother's bed. Pale and languid, Mrs. Gray turned to her step-daughter, and gathering her remaining strength to speak, she said feebly: "My poor Rachel, I am afraid I have often teazed and tormented you. It was all temper; but I never meant it unkindly—never indeed. And then, you see, Rachel," she added, true to her old spirit of patronizing and misunderstanding her step-daughter, "Your not being exactly like others provoked me at times; but I know it shouldn't—it wasn't fair to you, poor girl! for of course you couldn't help it." And Rachel, true to her spirit of humble submission, only smiled, and kissed her mother's wasted cheek, and said, meekly: "Do not think of it, dear mother—do not; you were not to blame." And she did not murmur, even in her heart. She did not find it hard that to the end she should be slighted, and held as one of little worth. A little while after this, Mrs. Gray spoke again. "Where is Mary?" she said. "And here I am, Mrs. Gray," said Mary, coming up to her on the other side of the bed. Mrs. Gray smiled, and stretched out her trembling hands, until they met and clasped those of the young girl. Then, with her fading eyes fixed on Mary's face, she said to Rachel: "Rachel, tell your father that I forgive him, will you?" "Yes, mother," replied Rachel, in a low tone. "Rachel," she said again, and her weak voice rose, "Rachel, you have been a good and a faithful daughter to me—may the Lord bless you!" Tears streamed down Rachel's face on hearing those few words that paid her for many a bitter hour; but her mother saw them not, still her look sought Mary. "In Thy hands, Lord, I commend my spirit," she murmured, and with her look still fastened on little Mary's pale face, she died. Sad and empty seemed the house to Rachel Gray when her mother was gone. She missed her chiding voice, her step, heavy with age, her very scolding, which long habit had made light to bear. The solitude and liberty once so dear and so hardly won, now became painful and oppressive; but Rachel was not long troubled with either. We are told that "he whom He loveth He chasteneth;" and Rachel was not unloved, for she, too, was to have her share of affliction. Spite her sickly aspect, she enjoyed good health, and, therefore, when she rose one morning, shortly after her mother's death, and felt unusually languid and unwell, Rachel was more surprised than alarmed. "La, Miss! how poorly you do look!" exclaimed Jane, laying down her work with concern. "I do not feel very well," replied Rachel, calmly, "but I do not feel very ill, either," she added, smiling. Her looks belied her words; vainly she endeavoured to work; by the united entreaties of Jane and Mary, she was at length persuaded to go up to her room. She laid down on her bed, and tried to sleep, but could not; she thought of her step-mother, so harsh, yet so kind in her very harshness; of her father, so cold and unloving; of her silent, lonely life, and its narrow cares and narrow duties, above which smiled so heavenly a hope, burning like a clear star above a dark and rugged valley; and with these thoughts and feelings, heightening them to intensity, blended the heat and languor of growing fever. When Mary came up to know if Rachel Gray wanted anything, she found her so ill that she could scarcely answer her question. She grew rapidly worse. The medical man who was called in, pronounced her disease a slow fever, not dangerous, but wasting. "Then there is nothing for it but patience," resignedly said Rachel, "I fear I shall be the cause of trouble to those around me, but the will of God be done." "La, Miss! we'll take care of you," zealously said Jane, "shan't we, Mary?" "Of course we will," as zealously replied the young girl. Rachel smiled at their earnestness; but their zeal was destined to be thrown in the shade by that of a third individual. On the fourth day of her illness, Rachel was awakened from a heavy sleep into which she had fallen, by the sound of angry though subdued voices on the staircase. "I tell you 'taint a bit of use, and that you're not going to go up," said the deep, emphatic tones of Jane. "Et je vous dis que je veux monter, moi!" obstinately exclaimed the shrill French voice of Madame Rose. Jane, who was not patient, now apparently resorted to that last argument of kings and nations, physical force, to remove the intruder, for there was the sound of a scuffle on the staircase, but if she had strength on her side, Madame Rose had agility, and though somewhat ruffled and out of breath, she victoriously burst into Rachel's room. "Take care, Miss, take care," screamed Jane, rushing up after her, "the French madwoman has got in, and I couldn't keep her out." "Don't be afraid, Jane," said Rachel, as the alarmed apprentice made her appearance at the door, "I am very glad to see Madame Rose. I tell you she will not hurt me, and that I am glad to see her," she added, as Jane stared grimly at the intruder. She spoke so positively, that the apprentice retired, but not without emphatically intimating that she should be within call if Miss Gray wanted her. Rachel was too ill to speak much; but Madame Rose spared her the trouble by taking that task on herself; indeed, she seemed willing to take a great deal on herself, and listless as Rachel was, she perceived with surprise that Madame Rose was in some measure taking possession of her sick room. She inquired after Mimi. Madame Rose shook her head, produced a square pocket-handkerchief, applied it to her eyes, then turned them up, till the whites alone were visible; in short, she plainly intimated that Mimi had gone to her last home; after which she promptly dried her tears, and, partly by speech, partly by pantomime, she informed Rachel that the apprentices were too busy sewing to be able to attend on her, and that she—Madame Rose—would undertake that care. Rachel was too ill and languid to resist; and Jane and Mary, though they resented the intrusion of the foreigner, were unable to eject her, for, by possession, which is acknowledged to be nine-tenths of the law, Madame Rose made her claim good, until the enemy had abandoned all idea of resistance. And a devoted nurse she made, ever attentive, ever vigilant. For three months did Rachel see, in her darkened room, the active little figure of the Frenchwoman, either moving briskly about, or sitting erect in her chair, knitting assiduously, occasionally relieved, it is true, by Jane and Mary. She saw it when she lay in the trance of fever and pain, unable to move or speak; in her few moments of languid relief, it was still there, and it became so linked, in her mind, with her sick room, that, when she awoke one day free from fever, the delightful sensation that pain was gone from her, like the weary dream of a troubled night fled in the morning, blended with a sense of surprise and annoyance at missing the nod and the smile of Madame Rose. Rachel looked around her wondering, and in looking, she caught sight of the portly and vulgar figure of Mrs. Brown; she saw her with some surprise, for she knew that that lady entertained a strong horror of a sick room. "It's only me!" said Mrs. Brown, nodding at her. "You are all right now, my girl." "I feel much better, indeed," replied Rachel "Of course you do; the fever is all gone, otherwise you should not see me here, I promise you," added Mrs. Brown, with another nod, and a knowing wink. "And Madame Rose," said Rachel, "where is Madame Rose?" "Law! don't trouble your mind about her. Keep quiet, will you?" Mrs. Brown spoke impatiently. Rachel felt too weak to dispute her authority, but when Jane came up, she again inquired after Madame Rose. Jane drily said it was all right, and that Miss Gray was to keep quiet; and more than this she would not say. The fever had left Rachel. She was now cured, and rapidly got better; but still, she did not see Madame Rose, and was favoured with more of Mrs. Brown's company than she liked. At length she one day positively exacted an explanation from Jane, who reluctantly gave it. "Law bless you, Miss!" she said, '"tain't worth talking about. Mrs. Brown can't abide the little Frenchwoman; and so, one day when she went out, she locked the door, and wouldn't let Mary open it; and when Madame Rose rang and rapped, Mrs. Brown put her head out of the window, and railed at her, until she fairly scared her away from the place." "But what brought Mrs. Brown here?" asked Rachel, who had heard her with much surprise. Jane looked embarrassed, but was spared the trouble of replying by the voice of Mrs. Brown, who imperatively summoned her downstairs. She immediately complied, and left Rachel alone. A mild sun shone in through the open window on the sick girl; she had that day got up, for the first time, and sat in a chair with a book on her knees. But she could not read: she felt too happy, blest in that delightful sense of returning health which long sickness renders so sweet. Her whole soul overflowed with joy, thankfulness, and prayer, and for once the shadow of sad or subduing thoughts fell not on her joy. "Well, my girl, and how are you to-day?" said the rough voice of Mrs. Brown, who entered without the ceremony of knocking. Rachel quietly replied that she felt well—almost quite well. "Of course you do. I knew I'd bring you round," said Mrs. Brown. "La bless you! all their coddling was just killing you. So I told Jane, all along, but she wouldn't believe me. 'La bless you, girl!' I said to her, 'I do it willingly, but ifs only just a wasting of my money,' says I." "Your money, Mrs. Brown?" interrupted Rachel, with a start. "Why, of course, my money. Whose else? Didn't you know of it?" "Indeed, I did not," replied Rachel, confounded. "La! what a muff the girl is!" good-humouredly observed Mrs. Brown. "And where did you think, stupid, that the money you have been nursed with these three months came from? Why, from my pocket, of course; twenty pound three-and-six, besides a quarter's rent, and another running on." Rachel was dismayed at the amount of the debt. When and how should she be able to pay so large a sum? Still, rallying from her first feeling of surprise and dismay, she attempted to express to Mrs. Brown her gratitude for the assistance so generously yielded, and her hope of being able to repay it some day; but Mrs. Brown would not hear her. "Nonsense, Rachel," she said, "I ain't a-done more than I ought to have done for my cousin's step-daughter. And to whom should Jane, when she wanted money, have come, but to me? And as to paying me, bless you! there's no hurry, Rachel. I can afford, thank Heaven, to lend twenty pound, and not miss it." This was kindness—such Rachel felt it to be; but, alas! she also felt that these was on her, from that day, the badge of obligation and servitude. She was still too weak to work; she had, dining her long illness, lost the best part of her customers; until her full recovery, she was, perforce, cast on Mrs. Brown for assistance, and, of all persons, Mrs. Brown was the last not to take advantage of such a state of things. Mrs. Brown came when she liked, said what she liked, and did what she liked in Rachel's house. But, indeed, it was not Rachel's house—it was Mrs. Brown's. Rachel was there on sufferance; the very bed on which she slept was Mrs. Brown's; the very chair on which she sat was Mrs. Brown's. So Mrs. Brown felt, and made every one feel, Rachel included. The effects of her rule were soon apparent. Every article of furniture changed its place; every household nook was carefully examined and improved, and every luckless individual who entertained a lingering kindness for Rachel Gray, was affronted, and effectually banished from the house, from irascible Madame Rose down to peaceful Mr. Jones. Rachel carried patience to a fault; through her whole life, she had been taught to suffer and endure silently, and now, burdened with the sense of her debt and obligation, she knew not how to resist the domestic tyranny of this new tormentor. The easiest course was to submit. To Rachel it seemed that such, in common gratitude, was her duty; and, accordingly, she submitted. But this was a time of probation and trial: as such she ever looked back to it, in after life. To Jane, her patience seemed amazing, and scarcely commendable. "I wonder you can bear with the old creetur, that I do," she said, emphatically. "Mrs. Brown means kindly," said Rachel, "and she has been a kind friend to me, when I had no other friend. I may well hare a little patience." "A little patience!" echoed Jane, indignantly, "a little patience! when she's always at you." But Rachel would hear no more on the subject. If she bore with Mrs. Brown, it was not to murmur at her behind her back. Yet she was not so insensible to what she endured, but that she felt it a positive relief when Mrs. Brown went and paid one of her nieces a visit in the country, and for a few weeks delivered the house of her presence. Internally, Rachel accused herself of ingratitude because she felt glad. "It's very wrong of me, I know," she remorsefully thought, "but I feel as if I could not help it." Her health was now restored. She had found some work to do; with time she knew she should be able to pay Mrs. Brown. Her mind recovered its habitual tone; old thoughts, old feelings, laid by during the hour of trial and sickness, but never forsaken, returned to her now, and time, as it passed on, matured a great thought in her heart. "Who knows," she often asked herself, in her waking dreams, "who knows if the hour is not come at last? My father cannot always turn his face from me. Love me at once he cannot; but why should he not with time?" Yet it was not at once that Rachel acted on these thoughts. Never since he had received her so coldly, had she crossed her father's threshold; but often, in the evening, she had walked up and down before his door, looking at him through the shop window with sad and earnest eyes, never seeking for more than that stolen glance, though still with the persistency of a fond heart, she looked forward to a happier future. And thus she lingered until one morning, when she rose, nerved her heart, and went out; calmly resolved to bear as others, to act. She went to her father's house. She found him sturdy and stern, planing with the vigour of a man in the prime of life. His brow became clouded, as he saw and recognized his daughter's pale face and shrinking figure. Still he bade her come in, for she stood on the threshold timidly waiting for a welcome; and his ungraciousness was limited to the cold question of what had brought her. "I am come to see you, father," was her mild reply. And as to this Thomas Gray said nothing, Rachel added: "My mother is dead." "I know it, and have known it these three months," he drily answered. "She died very happy," resumed Rachel, "and before she died, she desired me to come and tell you that she sincerely forgave you all past unkindness." A frown knit the rugged brow of Thomas Gray. His late wife had had a sharp temper of her own; and perhaps he thought himself as much sinned against as sinning. But he made no comment. "Father," said Rachel, speaking from her very heart, and looking earnestly in his face, "may I come and live with you?" Thomas Gray looked steadily at his daughter, and did not reply. But Rachel, resolved not to be easily disheartened, persisted none the less. "Father," she resumed, and her voice faltered with the depth of her emotion, "pray let me. I know you do not care much for me. I dare say you are right, that I am not worth much; but still I might be useful to you. A burden I certainly should not be; and in sickness, in age, I think, I hope, father, you would like to have your daughter near you. "I am now your only child," she added, after a moment's pause; "the only living thing of your blood, not one relative have I in this wide world; and you, father, you too are alone. Let me come to live with you. Pray let me! If my presence is irksome to you," added Rachel, gazing wistfully in his face, as both hope and courage began to fail her, "I shall keep out of the way. Indeed, indeed," she added with tears in her eyes, "I shall." He had heard her out very quietly, and very quietly he replied: "Rachel, what did I go to America for?" Rachel, rather bewildered with the question, faltered that she did not know. "And what did I come to live here for?" he continued. Rachel did not answer; but there was a sad foreboding in her heart. "To be alone," he resumed; and he spoke with some sternness, "to be alone." And he went back to his planing. With tears which he saw not, Rachel looked at the stern, selfish old man, whom she called her father. The sentence which he had uttered, rung in her heart; but she did not venture to dispute its justice. Her simple pleading had been heard and rejected. More than she had said, she could not say; and it did not occur to her to urge a second time the homely eloquence which had so signally failed when first spoken. But she made bold to prefer a timid and humble petition. "Might she come to see him?" "What for?" he bluntly asked. "To see how you are, father," replied poor Rachel. "How I am," he echoed, with a suspicious gathering of the brow, "and why shouldn't I be well, just tell me that?" "It might please Providence to afflict you with sickness," began Rachel. "Sickness, sickness," he interrupted; indignantly, "I tell you, woman, I never was sick in my life. Is there the sign of illness, or of disease upon me?" "No, indeed, father, there is not." "And could you find a man of my age half so healthy, and so strong as I am—just tell me that?" he rather defiantly asked. Poor Rachel was literal as truth. Instead of eluding a reply, she simply said: "I have seen stronger men than you, father." "Oh I you have—have you!" he ejaculated eyeing her with very little favour. And though Rachel was not unconscious of her offence, she added: "And strong or weak, father, are we not all in the hands of God?" From beneath his bushy grey eyebrows, Thomas Gray looked askance at his daughter; but love often rises to a fearlessness that makes it heroic, and Rachel, not daunted, resumed: "Father," she said, earnestly, "you do not want me now; I know and see it, but if ever you should—and that time may come, pray, father, pray send for me." "Want you? and what should I want you for?" asked Thomas Gray. "I cannot tell, I do not know; but you might want me. Remember, that if you do, you have but to send for me. I am willing, ever willing." He looked at her as she stood there before him, a pale, sallow, sickly girl, then he laughed disdainfully, and impatiently motioned her away, as if his temper were chafed at her continued presence. Rachel felt, indeed, that her visit had been sufficiently long, and not wishing to close on herself the possibility of return—for she had one of those quietly pertinacious natures that never give up hope—she calmly bade her father good-bye. Without looking at her, he muttered an unintelligible reply. Rachel left the shop, and returned to her quiet street and solitary home. Yet solitary she did not find it. True, Jane was out on some errand or other, but Mary was alone in the parlour. She sat with her work on her lap, crying as if her heart would break. In vain she tried to hide or check her tears; Rachel saw Mary's grief, and forgetting at once her own troubles, she kindly sat down by the young girl, and asked what ailed her. At first, Mary would not speak, then suddenly she threw her arms around Rachel's neck, and with a fresh burst of tears, she exclaimed: "Oh! dear, dear Miss Gray! I am so miserable." "What for, child?" asked Rachel astonished. "He's gone—he's gone!" sobbed Mary. "Who is gone, my dear?" Mary hung down her head. But Rachel pressed her so kindly to speak, that her heart opened, and with many a hesitating pause, and many a qualifying comment, Mary Jones related to her kind-hearted listener a little story, which, lest the reader should not prove so indulgent, or so patient as Rachel Gray, we will relate in language plainer and more brief. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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