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Rachel Gray

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<h4 id="id00785" style="margin-top: 2em">CHAPTER XIV.</h4> In the grey of the morning, Rachel brought her father to the humble little home which he had voluntarily forsaken years before. Thomas Gray was not merely a paralyzed and helpless old man, he was also destitute. Little more than what sufficed to cover his current expenses did Rachel find in his dwelling; his furniture was old and worthless; and the good-will of the business scarcely paid the arrears of rent. But the world rarely gives us credit for good motives. It was currently reported that Thomas Gray was a wealthy man, and that if Rachel Gray did not let him go to the workhouse, she knew why. "As if she couldn't let him go, and keep his money too," indignantly exclaimed Jane, when she heard this slander; and, as discretion was not Jane's virtue, she repeated all to Rachel Gray. Poor Rachel coloured slightly. It seemed strange, and somewhat hard too, that her conduct should be judged thus. But the flush passed from her pale face, and the momentary emotion from her heart. "Let the world think, and say what it likes," she thought, "I need not, and I will not care." Not long after Rachel brought home her father, Jane left her. The time of her apprenticeship was out; besides, she was going to marry. She showed more emotion on their parting, than might have been expected from her. "God bless you. Miss Gray," she said several times; "God bless you—you are a good one, whatever the world may think." The praise was qualified, and, perhaps, Rachel felt it to be so, for she smiled; but she took it as Jane meant it—kindly. Amity and peace marked their separation. Rachel now remained alone with her father and Mary. The young girl was not observant. She saw but a quiet woman, and a helpless old man, with grey hair, and stern features blank of meaning, who sat the whole day long by the fire-side, waited on by his patient daughter. Sometimes, indeed, when Rachel Gray attended on her father with more than usual tenderness, when she lingered near his chair, looking wistfully in his face, or with timid and tender hand gently smoothed away his whitened hair from his rugged brow, sometimes, then, Mary looked and wondered, and felt vaguely moved, but she was too childish to know why. And, indeed, the story of Rachel's life at this time cannot be told. It was beautiful; but its beauty was not of earth, and to earthly glance cannot be revealed. It lay, a divine secret, between her heart and God. This peace was not destined to last Rachel and her father sat alone one morning in the parlour, when Mrs. Brown, who had found the street door ajar, burst in without preliminary warning. She was scarlet, and looked in a towering passion. "You audacious creatur," she screamed; "you audacious hussey, how dare you bring that man in this house—in my house! How dare you?" "He is my father," said Rachel, confounded, both at the accusation, and at the unexpected appearance of Mrs. Brown. The reply exasperated Mrs. Brown. She had never felt any extraordinary friendship or affection for her deceased cousin; but she had always entertained a very acute sense of her cousin's wrongs, and had accordingly honoured Thomas Gray with no small share of hatred and vituperation, and that Rachel should not feel as she did on the subject, or should presume to remember that the sinner was her father, was, in Mrs. Brown's eyes, an offence of the deepest dye. She gave her feelings free vent. She was a vulgar woman, and had a flow of vulgar eloquence at her command. She overwhelmed Rachel and Thomas Gray with sarcasm, scorn and abuse, and Rachel answered not one word, but heard her out, still as a statue, and pale as death. Mrs. Brown, too, was pale, but it was with wrath. "Do you know," she added, trembling from head to foot with that passion, "do you know that I could turn you out on the streets, you and your beggarly father—do you know that?" Rachel did know it, and groaned inwardly. Mrs. Brown saw her agony, and triumphed in the consciousness of her own power. But the very violence of her anger had by this time exhausted it; she felt much calmer, and took a more rational view of things. "I am a fool to mind what a simpleton like you does," observed Mrs. Brown, with that disregard of politeness which was one of her attributes; "for, being a simpleton, how can you but do the acts of a simpleton? As to bringing your father here, you must have been mad to think of it; for, if you can't support yourself, how can you support him? However, it's lucky I'm come in time to set all to rights. What's his parish? Marylebone, ain't it? I shall see the overseer this very day, and manage that for you; and it's just as well," added Mrs. Brown, divesting herself of bonnet and shawl, and proceeding to make herself at home, "that you didn't meddle, in it—a pretty mess you'd have made of it, I'll be bound. Well! and what do you stand dreaming there for? Make me a cup of tea—will you? I am just ready to drop with it all." As a proof of her assertion, she sank on the chair next her, took out her pocket-handkerchief, and began fanning herself. But, instead of complying with Mrs. Brown's orders, Rachel Gray stood before that lady motionless and pale. She looked her in the face steadily, and in a firm, clear voice, she deliberately said: "Mrs. Brown, my father shall never, whilst I live, go to a workhouse." "What!" screamed Mrs. Brown. "I say," repeated Rachel, "that my father shall never, whilst God gives his daughter life, go to a workhouse." Mrs. Brown was confounded—then she laughed derisively. "Nonsense, Rachel," she said, "nonsense. Why, I can turn you out, this very instant." But the threat fell harmless, Rachel was strong in that hour; her cheek had colour, her eye had light, her heart had courage. She looked at the helpless old man, who had drawn this storm on her head, then at Mrs. Brown, and calmly laying her hand on the shoulder of Thomas Gray, she again looked in Mrs. Brown's face, and silently smiled. Her choice was made—her resolve was taken. "Will you send him to the workhouse, or not?" imperatively cried Mrs. Brown. "No," deliberately replied Rachel. "Oh! very well, ma'am, very well," echoed Mrs. Brown, laughing bitterly; "please yourself—pray please yourself. So, that is my reward for saving you from beggary, is it? Very well, ma'am; you and your father may pack off together—that's all." "Be it so," rather solemnly replied Rachel, "be it so. What I leave in this house will, I trust, cancel the debt I owe you. Father," she added, stooping towards him, "lean on my shoulder, and get up. We must go." With apathy Thomas Gray had heard all that had passed, and with apathy, he trembling rose, and complied with Rachel's intimation, and looking in her face, he uttered his usual childish: "Never mind." But before they reached the door, Mrs. Brown, to the surprise and dismay of Rachel, went into violent hysterics. She was an over-bearing and ill-tempered woman, but her heart was not wholly unkind; and on seeing that Rachel so readily took her at her word, she was overwhelmed with mingled rage and shame. Hastily making her father sit down on the nearest chair, Rachel ran to Mrs. Brown's assistance. A fit of weeping and bitter reproaches followed the hysterics; and Rachel was convicted of being the most ungrateful creature on the face of the earth. In vain Rachel attempted a justification; Mrs. Brown drowned her in a torrent of speech, and remained the most injured of women. The scene ended as such scenes ever end. There was a compromise; the victim made every concession, and the triumphant tyrant gained more than her point. In short, that her father might not want the shelter of a roof, Rachel agreed to remain in the house, and Mrs. Brown kindly agreed to come and live in it, and use Rachel as her servant and domestic slave, by which Mrs. Brown, besides keeping her firm hold on Rachel—no slight consideration with one who loved power beyond everything else—effected a considerable saving in her income. "Oh! my father—my father!" thought Rachel, as she bent over his chair that night, and tears, which he felt not, dropped on his gray hair, "little do you know what I shall have to bear for your sake." She did not speak aloud, yet he seemed vaguely conscious that something lay on her mind; for he shook his head, and uttered his eternal "Never mind—never mind!" "And I will not mind—so help me God!" fervently answered Rachel aloud. And she did not mind; but, alas! what now was her fate? Ask it not. She had made her sacrifice in the spirit of utter abnegation, and none need count the cost which she never reckoned. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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