"I am amazed at you, Rachel!" she said, her voice quivering with indignation. "I am amazed at you. How dare you do sich a thing!"
The tones and the attitude of Mrs. Gray were not to be misunderstood; nor was little Madame Rose so dull as to mistake them. She saw that her presence was not welcome, and, with great dignity, rose and took her leave. Crimson with pain and shame, Rachel followed her out. She gave Madame Rose an humble and imploring glance, as they parted at the door, as much, as to say, "You know I could not help it." But the appeal was not needed. To her surprise, Madame Rose remained very good-humoured. She even laughed and shrugged her shoulders, French fashion, and indulged in a variety of pantomimic signs, closing with one more intelligible than the rest: a significant tap of her forefinger on her brown forehead, and by which Madame Rose plainly intimated it to be her firm conviction that the intellect of Mrs. Gray was unfortunately deranged. Thus they parted.
Violent were the reproaches with which Mrs. Gray greeted her daughter's reappearance. She exacted a strict and rigid account of the rise and progress of Rachel's acquaintance with that "mad French beggar;" was horror-struck on learning that the back-room window had been made the medium; and not satisfied with prohibiting future intercourse, took the most effective means to prevent it, by locking up the guilty zoom, and putting the key in her pocket.
To all this Rachel submitted; though, when she saw the door of her much-loved retreat closing on her, her heart ached. But when, in the height of her anger, Mrs. Gray railed at the poor little Frenchwoman, as little better than an idolater or an infidel, Rachel felt as if it touched her honour, not to suffer this slur on her humble friend.
"Mother," she said, with some firmness, "you cannot tell what she is; for you know nothing of her, save by idle reports. I have watched her life day after day, and I have seen that it is holy. And, mother," added Rachel, slightly colouring, from the fervour with which she felt and spoke, "you know it as I do: all holiness comes from God."
Unable to contradict, Mrs. Gray sniffed indignantly.
CHAPTER VII.
Hard indeed were the days that followed for Rachel Gray. The old quarrel had began anew. Why was she not like every one? Why did she pick up strange acquaintances?—above all, why did she mope, and want to be in the little back room? It was strange, and Mrs. Gray was not sure that it was not wicked. If so, it was a wickedness of which she effectually deprived Rachel, by keeping the back room locked, and the key in her pocket.
But, hard as this was, it was not all. Amongst Rachel's few treasures, were little pamphlets, tracts, old sermons, scraps of all sorts, a little hoard collected for years, but to their owner priceless. She did not read them daily; she had not time; but when she was alone, she took them oat, now and then, to look at and think over. On the day that followed the affair of Madame Rose, Mrs. Gray discovered Rachel's board.
"More of Rachel's rubbish!" she thought, and she took the papers to the kitchen, and lit the fire with them forthwith.