Part 12 (1/2)
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.