Rachel Gray Part 8

"I have made these for you," she added, opening and untying her parcel; and displaying the s.h.i.+rts to her father's view, and as she did so, she gazed very wistfully in his face.

He gave them a careless look.

"Why, my good girl," he said, "I have dozens of s.h.i.+rts--dozens!"

And he returned to his work, a moment interrupted.

Tears stood in Rachel's eyes.

"I am sorry," she began, "but--but I did not know; and then I thought-- I thought you might like them."

"'Taint of much consequence," he philosophically replied, "thank you all the same. Jim," he added, hailing a lad who was pa.s.sing by, "just tell them at the 'Rose' to send down a pint of half-and-half, will you? I dare say you'll have something before you go," he continued, addressing his daughter. "If you'll just look in there," he added, jerking his head towards the back parlour, "you'll find some bread and cheese on the table, there's a plate too."

Rachel rose and eagerly availed herself of this invitation, cold though it was; she felt curious too, to inspect, her father's domestic arrangements. She was almost disappointed to find everything so much more tidy than she could have imagined. She had hoped that her services as house-keeper might be more required, either then, or at some future period of time. She sat down, but she could not eat.

"Here's the half-and-half," said her father from the shop.

Rachel went and took it; she poured out some in a gla.s.s, but she could not drink; her heart was too full.

"You'd better," said her father, who had now joined her.

"I cannot," replied Rachel, feeling ready to cry, "I am neither hungry nor thirsty, thank you."

"Oh! aint you?" said her father, "yet you have a long walk home, you know."

It was the second time he said so. Rachel looked up into his face; she sought for something there, not for love, not for fondness, but for the shadow of kindness, for that which might one day become affection--she saw nothing but cold, hard, rooted indifference. The head of Rachel sank on her bosom, "The will of G.o.d be done," she thought. With a sigh she rose, and looked up in her father's face.

"Good bye, father," she said, for her father she would call him once at least.

"Good bye, Rachel," he replied.

She held out her hand; he took it with the same hard indifference he had shown from the beginning. He did not seek to detain her; he did not ask her to come again. His farewell was as cold as had been his greeting.

Rachel left him with a heart full to bursting. She had not gone ten steps when he called her. She hastened back; he stood on the threshold of his shop, a newspaper in his hand.

"Just take that paper, and leave it at the 'Rose,' will you? You can't miss the 'Rose'--it's the public-house round the left-hand corner."

"Yes, father," meekly said Rachel. She took the paper from his hand, turned away, and did as she was bid.

Her errand fulfilled, Rachel walked home. There were no tears on her cheek, but there was a dull pain at her heart; an aching sorrow that dwelt there, and that--do what she would--would not depart. In vain she said to herself--"It was just what I expected; of course, I could not think it would come all in a day. Besides, if it be the will of G.o.d, must I not submit?" still disappointment murmured: "Oh! but it is hard! not one word, not one look, not one wish to see me again; nothing--nothing."

It was late when Rachel reached home. Mrs. Gray, confounded at her step-daughter's audacity in thus again absenting herself without leave, had, during the whole day, ama.s.sed a store of resentment, which now burst forth on Rachel's head. The irritable old lady scolded herself into a violent pa.s.sion. Rachel received her reproaches with more of apathy than of her usual resignation. They were alone; Jane and Mary had retired to their room. Rachel sat by the table where the supper things were laid, her head supported by her hand. At the other end of the table sat Mrs.

Gray erect, sharp, bitter; scolding and railing by turns, and between both burned a yellow tallow candle unsnuffed, dreary looking, and but half lighting the gloomy little parlour.

"And so you won't say where you have been, you good-for-nothing creature," at length cried Mrs. Gray, exasperated by her daughter's long silence.

Rachel looked up in her step-mother's face.

"You did not ask me where I had been," she said deliberately. "I have been to see my father."

Not one word could Mrs. Gray utter. The face of Rachel, pale, desolate, and sorrow-stricken, told the whole story. Rachel added nothing. She, lit another candle, and merely saying, in her gentle voice--

"Good night, mother," she left the room.

As Rachel pa.s.sed by the little room of the apprentices, she saw a streak of light gliding out on the landing, through the half-open door. She pushed it, and entered. Jane sat reading by the little table; Mary lay in bed, but awake.

"I did not know you were up," said Rachel to Jane, "and seeing a light, I felt afraid of fire."

"Not much fear of fire," drily answered Jane. Rachel did not heed her-- she was bending over Mary.

"How are you to-night, Mary?" she asked.

"Oh! I am quite well," pettishly answered Mary.

Rachel smoothed the young girl's hair away from her cheek. She remembered how dearly, how fondly loved was that peevish child; and she may be forgiven if she involuntarily thought the contrast between that love, and her own portion of indifference, bitter.

"Mary," she softly whispered, "did you say your prayers to-night?"

"Why, of course I did."

"And, Mary, did you pray for your father?"

"I wish you would let me sleep," crossly said the young girl.

"Oh! Mary--Mary!" exclaimed Rachel, and there was tenderness and pathos in her voice; "Mary, I hope you love your father--I hope you love him."

"Who said I didn't?"

"Ah! but I fear you do not love him as much as he loves you."

"To be sure I don't," replied Mary, who had grown up in the firm conviction that children were domestic idols, of which fathers were the born wors.h.i.+ppers.

"But you must try--but you must try," very earnestly said Rachel.

"Promise me that you will try, Mary."

She spoke in a soft, low voice; but Mary, wearied with the discourse, turned her head away.

"I can't talk, my back aches," she said peevishly.

"Mary's back always aches when she don't want to speak," ironically observed Jane.

"You mind your own business, will you!" cried Mary, reddening, and speaking very fast. "I don't want your opinion, at all events; and if I did--"

"I thought you couldn't talk, your back ached so," quietly put in Jane.

Mary burst into peevish tears. Jane laughed triumphantly. Rachel looked at them both with mild reproach.

"Jane," she said, "it is wrong--very wrong--to provoke another. Mary, G.o.d did not give us tears--and they are a great gift of his mercy--to shed them so for a trifle. Do it no more."