She did not show much pleasure or surprise on seeing her father; it was not that she did not love him, but she was a spoiled child, too much accustomed to his fondness and devotion to set great value on either. She complained of the heat, then of the cold, sat down, got up again, and gave herself all the airs of a precocious woman. Her father, leaning on his stick, looked at her with admixing fondness, and occasionally nodded and winked at Rachel, as if inviting her to admire likewise. At length, with a half stifled sigh—for he never parted from his darling without regret—he again said he must go.
"And so, good-bye, my little Mary," he added, kissing her, but the peevish child half-turned her head away, and said his beard hurt her. "You hear her, Miss Gray," he exclaimed, chuckling, "does not care a pin for her old father, not a pin," and chucking Mary's chin, he looked down at her fondly.
"Dear me, father, how can you?" asked the young lady, rather pettishly. Upon which, Mr. Jones shook his head, looked delighted, and at length managed to tear himself away.
"And is it thus, indeed, that fathers love their daughters?" thought Rachel Gray, as she sat alone in the little back room on the evening of that day. "And is it thus, indeed! Oh! my father—my father!"
She laid down the book she had been attempting to read. She leaned her brow upon her hand; she envied none, but her heart felt full to over-flowing. Since the night when she had gone to look at her father, as we have recorded, Rachel had not felt strong or courageous enough to attempt more. Her nature was timid, sensitive and shrinking to a fault, and circumstances had made it doubly so, yet the repeated sight of Richard Jones's devoted love for his child, inspired her with involuntary hope. She had grown up in the belief of her father's rooted indifference; might she not have been mistaken? was it not possible that his daughter could become dear to Thomas Gray, as other daughters were dear to their father? Rachel had always cherished the secret hope that it would one day be so, but because that hope was so precious, she had deferred risking it, lest it should perish irretrievably. She now felt inwardly urged to make the attempt. Why should she not, like the prodigal son, rise and go to her father? "I will," she thought, clasping her hands, her cheeks flushing, her eyes kindling, "yes, I will go to-morrow, and my father shall know his daughter; and, perhaps, who knows, perhaps God Almighty will bless me."
Here the sound of a sudden tumult in the little court close by, broke on the dream of Rachel Gray. She looked, and she saw and heard Madame Rose gesticulating and scolding, to the infinite amusement of a crowd of boys, who where teazing the idiot girl. The wrath of Madame Rose was something to see. Having first placed her protege behind herself for safety—as if her own little body could do much for the protection of another twice its size—Madame Rose next put herself in an attitude, then expostulated with, then scolded, then denounced the persecutors of the helpless idiot; after which washing her hands of them, she walked backwards to her cellar, scorning to turn her back to the foe. But the enemy, nothing daunted, showed evident intentions of besieging her in her stronghold, and though Madame Rose made her appearance at the window, armed with a broomstick, she failed to strike that terror into the hearts of her assailants, which the formidable nature of the weapon warranted. Fortunately, however, for the peace of the little French lady, that valiant knight-errant of modern times, the policeman, having made his appearance at the entrance of the court, a scutter, then a rushing flight, were the immediate consequence. Ignorant of this fact, Madame Rose ascribed the result entirely to her own prowess, and in all peace of mind proceeded to cook her supper. Then followed the little domestic scenes which Rachel liked to watch.
As Rachel looked, she took a bold resolve, and this was to pay Madame Rose a visit. They had met, the day before, in the street; and Madame Rose had addressed a long and voluble discourse to Rachel, in French, concluding with an invitation to visit her, which Rachel had understood, and smilingly accepted.
And now was the favourable moment to carry this project into effect. From the little room, Rachel heard Mrs. Brown's loud voice below in the parlour. Mrs. Gray was fully engaged, and not likely to mind her daughter's absence. Unheeded, Rachel slipped out.
A few minutes brought her round to the little courts and to the house inhabited by Madame Rose. It was dingy, noisy, and dirty; and as she groped and stumbled down the dark staircase, Rachel half repented haying come. The voice of Madame Rose directed her to the right door—for there were several. She knocked gently; a shrill "entrez," which she rightly interpreted as a summons to enter, was uttered from within; and pushing the door open, Rachel found herself in the abode and presence of Madame Rose.
She was received with a storm of enthusiasm, that rather bewildered than pleased her. Madame Rose welcomed her in a torrent of speech, with a multiplicity of nods, and winks, and shrugs, and exclamations, so novel in the experience of Rachel Gray, that she began to wonder how much truth there might be in the epithet occasionally bestowed on Madame Rose. For, first of all, she insisted on cooking a dish of onion soup for her expressly, a kindness which Rachel had all the trouble in the world to resist; and next, this point settled, she was loud and unceasing in the praise of the poor idiot girl, who sat mowing in her chair.