Rachel Gray Part 7

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 att.i.tude 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 G.o.d."

Unable to contradict, Mrs. Gray sniffed indignantly.

CHAPTER VII.

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, sc.r.a.ps of all sorts, a little h.o.a.rd 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 c.h.i.n.ks 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 pet.i.tion 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 s.n.a.t.c.hes.

"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 pa.s.sed; 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 st.u.r.dily, 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.