The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 13, No. 78, April, 1864. Various
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had expected complaints of ill treatment, but found her blaming no one but herself.
"And who said you must stand alone?" I asked.
"That was one of the things my mother used to say."
"And what other things did she say?"
"Oh, Mr. Browne," she replied, "I wish I could tell you about my mother! But I can't talk; I am too ignorant; I don't know how to say it. When she was alive," she continued, speaking very slowly, "I never knew how good she was; but now her words keep coming back to me. Sometimes I think she whispers them,—for she is an angel, and you know the hymn says,
'There are angels hovering round.'
When we sing,
'Ye holy throng of angels bright,'
I always sing to her, for I know she is listening."
Here she stopped suddenly, as if frightened that she had said so much. The house to which she was going was now close by. I waited for her to come out, and walked back with her towards home. After proceeding a little way in silence, I said, abruptly,—
"Rachel, do they treat you well at the house yonder?"
She seemed reluctant to answer, but said, at last,—
"Not very well."
"Then, why stay? Why not find some other home?"
"I don't think it is time yet," she replied.
"I don't understand you. I wish—Rachel, can't you make a friend of me, since you have no other?"
"I will tell you as well as I can," she replied, "what my mother used to say. She said we must act rightly."
"That is true," I replied; "and what else did she say?"
"She said, that that would only be the outside life, but the inside life must be right too, must be pure and strong, and that the way to make it pure and strong was to learn to bear."
"Still," I urged, "I wish you would find a better home. You cannot learn to bear any more patiently than you do."
She shook her head.
"That shows that you don't know," she answered. "It seems to me right to remain. Why, you know they can't hurt me any. Suppose they scold me when I am not to blame, and my temper rises,—for I am very quick-tempered"—
"Oh, no, Rachel!"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Browne! Suppose my temper rises, and I put it down, and keep myself pleasant, do I not do myself good? And thinking about it in this way, is not their unkindness a benefit to me,—to the real me,—to the soul of Rachel Lowe?"
I hardly knew what to say. Somehow, she seemed away up above me, while I found that I had, in common with the Brewsters, only in a different way, taken for granted my own superiority.
"All this may be true," I remarked, after a pause, "but it is not the common way of viewing things."
"Perhaps not," she answered. "My mother was not like other people. My father was a strong man, but he looked up to her, and he loved her; but he killed her at last,—with his conduct, he killed her. But when she was dead, he grew crazy with grief, he loved her so. He talked about her always,—talked in an absent, dreamy way about her goodness, her beauty, her white hands, her long hair. Sometimes he would seem to be whispering with her, and would say, softly,—'Oh, yes! I'll take care of Rachel! pretty Rachel! your Rachel!'"
I longed to have her go on; but we had now reached the bars, and she was not willing to walk farther.
"I have been talking a great deal about myself," she said; "but you know you kept asking me questions."
"Yes, Rachel, I know I kept asking you questions. Do you care? I may wish to ask you others."
"Oh, no," she replied; "but I could not answer many questions. I have only a few thoughts, and know very little."
I watched her into the house, and then walked slowly homewards, thinking, all the way, of this strange young girl, striving thus to stand alone, working out her own salvation. I passed a pleasant night, half sleeping, half waking, having always before my eyes that white face, earnest and beautiful, as it looked up to me in the winter starlight, and in my ears her words, "Is not their unkindness a benefit to me,—to the real me,—to the soul of Rachel Lowe?"
But spring came; my school drew to a close; and I began to think of home, Aunt Huldah, and Fanny. I wished that my sister could see Rachel. I knew she would appreciate her, for there was depth in Fanny, with all her liveliness. Sometimes I imagined, just imagined, myself married to Rachel. But then there was Aunt Huldah,—what would she say to a foreigner? And I was dependent upon Aunt Huldah. Besides, how did I know that Rachel would have me? Was I equal to her? How worthless seemed my little stock of book-learning by the side of that heart-wisdom which she had coined, as it were, from her own sorrow!
My last day came, and I had not spoken. In fact, we latterly had both grown silent. I was to leave in the afternoon stage. I gave the driver my trunk, telling him to call for me at the Squire's,—for I must bid Rachel good-bye, and in some way let her know how I felt towards her. As I drew near the house, I saw that she was drawing water. I stepped quickly towards the well, but Sam appeared just then, and I could not say one word. She walked into the house. I went behind with the water-pail, and Sam followed us into the porch. Rachel was going up-stairs, but I took her hand to bid her good-bye. Mrs. Brewster and Sarah were in the kitchen, watching. "Quite a love-scene!" I heard them whisper. "I do believe he'll marry her!"
Now, although I was by nature quiet, yet I could be roused. Bidding good-bye to Rachel had stirred the very depths of my nature. I longed to take her in my arms, and bear her away to my own quiet home. And when, instead of this, I thought of the life to which I must leave her, it needed but those sneering whispers to make me speak out,—and I did speak out. Taking her by the hand, I stepped quickly forward, and stood before them.
"And so I will marry her!" I exclaimed. "If she will accept me, I shall be proud to marry her!"
"Rachel," said I, turning towards her, "this is strange wooing; but before these people I ask, Will you be my wife?"
The astonished spectators of our love-scene looked on in dismay.
"Mr. Browne!" exclaimed Mrs. Brewster, "do you know what you are doing? I have no ill-will to the girl; but I feel it my duty to tell you who and what she is."
"I know what Rachel Lowe is, Madam!" I cried, almost fiercely; "you don't,—you can't!"
Then, turning to the trembling girl, I said again,—
"Rachel, say, will you be my wife?"
At this moment Sam came forward. His face was pale, and he trembled.
"No, Rachel," said he, "don't be his wife! Be mine! I haven't treated you right, I know I haven't; but I love you, you don't know how much! The very way you have tried to keep me off has made me love you!"
"Sam! stop!" cried his mother, in a rage. "What do you mean? You know you won't marry that girl!"
"Mother," exclaimed Sam, "you don't know anything about her! She is worth every other girl in the place, and handsomer than all of them put together!"
"Sam!" began Miss Sarah.
"Now, Sarah, you stop!" cried he. "I've begun, and now I'll tell
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