Rachel Gray Part 12

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 impa.s.sioned, 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 pa.s.s 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, fort.i.tude forsook her, her stern features worked, her aged bosom heaved, pa.s.sionate 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 ap.r.o.n 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 G.o.d! oh G.o.d! 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."

CHAPTER XI.

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, p.r.o.nounced 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 G.o.d 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.