She was not naturally a patient or an amiable woman; and she had endured great and unmerited wrongs from Rachel's father. Perhaps, she would have been more than human, had she not occasionally reminded her step-daughter of Mr. Thomas Gray's misdeeds, and now and then taunted her with a "He never cared about you—you know."
Aye—Rachel knew it well enough. She knew that her own father loved her not—that though he had cared little for Jane, not being a tender-hearted man, still that he had cared somewhat, for that younger, and more favoured child. That before he left England, he would occasionally caress her; that when she died, tears had flowed down his stern cheek on hearing the tidings, and that the words had escaped him: "I am sorry I was not there."
All this Rachel knew. Her mind was too noble, and too firm for jealousy; her heart too pious, and too humble for rebellious sorrow; but yet she found it hard to bear, and very hard to be reminded of it as a reproach and a shame.
Was it not enough that she could not win the affection she most longed for? She was devoted to her step-mother; she had fondly loved her younger sister; but earlier born in her heart than these two loves, deeper, and more solemn, was the love Rachel felt for her father. That instinct of nature, which in him was silent, in her spoke strongly. That share of love which he denied her, she silently added to her own, and united both in one fervent offering. Harshness and indifference had no power to quench a feeling, to which love in kindness had not given birth. She loved because it was her destiny; because, as she once said herself, when speaking of another: "A daughter's heart clings to her father with boundless charity."
Young as she was when Thomas Gray left his home, Rachel remembered him well. His looks, the very tones of his voice, were present to her. Not once, during the years of his absence, did the thought of her father cease to haunt her heart. When, from the bitter remarks of her step-mother, she learned that he had returned, and where he had taken up his home, she had no peace until she succeeded in obtaining a glimpse of him. Free, as are all the children of the poor, she made her way to the street where he lived, and many a day walked for weary miles in order to pass by her father's door. But she never crossed the threshold, never spoke to him, never let him know who she was, until the sad day when she bore to him the news of her sister's death.
He received her with his usual coldness—in such emotion as he showed, she had no share, like strangers they had met—like strangers they parted. But, though his coldness and her own timidity prevented nearer advances, they did not prevent Rachel from often seeking the remote neighbourhood and gloomy street where her father dwelt.
It was a pleasure, though a sad one, to look on his face, even if she went not near him; and thus it happened, that on this dark night she stood in the sheltering obscurity of the well-known doorway, gazing on the solitary old man, yet venturing not to cross the narrow street.
The wind blew from the east. It was cold and piercing; yet it could not draw Rachel from her vigil of love. Still she looked and lingered, wishing she knew not what; and hoping against hope. Thus she stayed, until Thomas Gray left his work, put up the shutters, then left the house by the private door, and slowly walked away to the nearest public-house.
The shop was once more a blank in the dark street. Rachel looked at the deserted dwelling and sighed; than softly and silently she stole away.