"A grocer's shop?" she said, "there's not one within a mile. You must go down the next street on your right-hand, turn into the alley on your left, then turn to your right again, and if you take the fifth street after that, it will take you to the Teapot."
She had to repeat her directions twice before the woman fairly understood them.
"What a chance!" thought Jones, as he again walked on; "not a grocer's shop within a mile. Now, suppose I had, say fifty pounds, just to open with, how soon the thing would do for itself. And then I'd have my little Mary at home with me. Yes, that would be something!"
Ay; the shop and Mary!—ambition and love! Ever since he had dealt tea and sugar in Mr. Smith's establishment, Richard Jones had been haunted with the desire to become a tradesman, and do the same thing in a shop of his own. But, conscious of the extravagant futility of this wish, Jones generally consoled himself with the thought that grocer's shops were as thick as mushrooms, and that, capital or no capital, there was no room for him.
And now, as he walked home, dreaming, he could not but sigh, for there was room, he could not doubt it—but where was the capital? He was still vaguely wondering in his own mind, by what magical process the said capital could possibly be called up, when he reached his own home. There he found that, in his absence, a rudely scrawled scrap of paper had been slipped under his room door; it was to the following purport:
"Dear J.,
"Als up; farm broke. Weral inn for it.
"Yours,
This laconic epistle signified that the firm in whose warehouse Richard Jones was employed, had stopped payment Rich men lost their thousands, and eat none the worse a dinner; Richard Jones lost his week's wages, his future employment, and remained stunned with the magnitude of the blow.
His first thought flew to his child.
"How shall I pay Miss Gray for my little Mary's keep?" he exclaimed, inwardly.
He cast his look round the room to see what he could pledge or sell.Alas! there was little enough there. His next feeling was,
"My darling must know nothing about it Thank God, she is not with me now!Thank God!"
But, though this was some sort of comfort, the future still looked so dark and threatening, that Jones spent a sleepless night, tossing in his bed, and groaning so loudly, that his landlady forsook her couch to knock at his door, and inquire, to his infinite confusion, "if Mr. Jones felt poorly, and if there was anything she could do for him, and if he would like some hot ginger?" To which Mr. Jones replied, with thanks, "that he was quite well, much obliged to her all the same."
After this significant hint, he managed to keep quiet. Towards morning, he fell asleep, and dreamed he had found a purse full of guineas, and that he was going to open a grocer's shop, to be called the Teapot.
Richard Jones was sober, intelligent enough for what he had to do, and not too intelligent—which is a great disadvantage; he bore an excellent character; and yet, somehow or other, when he searched for employment, there seemed to be no zoom for him; and had he been a philosopher, which, most fortunately for his peace of mind, he was not, he must inevitably hare come to the conclusion, that in this world he was not wanted.
We are not called upon to enter into the history of his struggles. He maintained a sort of precarious existence, now working at this, now working at that; for he was a Jack of all trades, and could torn his hand to anything, but certain of no continual employment. How he went through it all, still paying Miss Gray, still keeping up a decent appearance, contracting no debts, the pitying eye which alone looks down on the bitter trials of the poor, also alone knows.
The poorer a man gets, the more he thinks of wealth and money; the narrower does the world close around him, and all the wider grows the world of his charms. The shop, which had only been a dormant idea in Richard Jones's mind, now became a living phantom; day and night, mom and noon it haunted him. When he had nothing to do—and this was, unfortunately, too often the case—he sought intuitively the suburb where Rachel Gray dwelt; ascertained, over and over, that within the mile circuit of that central point there did not exist one grocer's shop, and finally determined that the precise spot where, for public benefit and its own advantage, a grocer's shop should be, was just round the corner of the street next to that of Rachel Gray, in a dirty little house, now occupied by a rag and bottle establishment, with very dirty windows, and a shabby black doll dangling like a thief, over the doorway; spite of which enticing prospect, the rag and bottle people seemed to thrive but indifferently, if one might judge from the sulky, ill-tempered looking woman, whom Jones always saw within, sorting old rags, and scowling at him whenever she caught him in the act of peering in.
It was, therefore, with no surprise, though with some uneasiness, that coming one day to linger as usual near the place, James found the rag and bottle shop closed, the black doll gone, and the words, "To let" scrawled, in white chalk, on the shutters. Convinced that none but a grocer could take such a desirable shop, and desirous, at least, to know when this fated consummation was to take place, Jones took courage, and went on as far as Rachel Gray's.
Jane, the grim apprentice, opened to him,
"There's no one at home," she said.
Mr. Jones pleaded fatigue, and asked to be permitted to rest awhile. She did not oppose his entrance, but grimly repelled all his attempts at opening a conversation. He entered on that most innocent topic, the weather, and praised it.
"It has been raining," was Jane's emphatic reply.
"Oh! has it? What's them bells ringing for, I wonder."
"They aint a ringing; they're a tolling."
Mr. Jones, rather confused at being thus put down by a girl of sixteen, coughed behind his hand, and looked round the room for a subject. He found none, save a general inquiry after the health of Mary, Mrs. Gray, and Miss Gray.
"They're all well enough," disdainfully replied Jane.
"Oh, are they! I see the rag and bottle shop is shut," he added, plunging desperately into the subject.
"S'pose it is!" answered Jane, eyeing him rather defiantly; for the rag and bottle woman was her own aunt; and she thought the observation of a personal nature.
Though much taken aback, Jones, spurred on by the irresistible wish to know, ventured on another question.
"You don't know who is going to take it next, do you?"
"Oh! you want to take it, do you?" said Jane.
"I—I!" exclaimed Jones, flurried and disconcerted. "La, bless the young woman! I aint in the rag and bottle line, am I?"
He thought by this artful turn to throw his young enemy off the scent; but her rejoinder showed him the futility of the attempt.
"I didn't say you was, did I?" she replied, drily.
Jones rose precipitately, and hastily desiring his love to Mrs. Gray, and his respects to Mary, he retreated most shamefully beaten. He did not breathe freely until he reached the end of the street, and once more found himself opposite the closed rag shop. How he had come there, he did not rightly know; for it was not his way home. But, being there, he naturally gave it another look. He stood gazing at it very attentively, and absorbed in thought, when he was roused by a sharp voice, which said,
"P'raps you'd like to see it within."
The voice came from above. Richard looked up. The first floor window was open, and a man's head was just thrust out of it. It looked down at him in the street, and apparently belonged to a little old man, to whom one very sharp eye—the other was closed up quite tight—and a long nose, which went all of one side, gave a rather remarkable appearance.
"Thank you, sir," replied Jones, rather confused. "I—I—"
Before he had got to the end of his speech, the old man vanished from the window, and suddenly appeared at the private door, beckoning him in.
"Come in," he said, coaxingly, like an ogre luring in an unwary little boy.
And, drawn as by a magnet, Jones entered.
"Dark passage, but good shop," said the old man. He opened a door, and in the shop suddenly stepped Richard Jones. It was small, dirty, and smelt of grease and old rags.
"Good shop," said the old man, rubbing his hands, in seeming great glee; "neat back parlour;" he opened a glass door, and Jones saw a triangular room, not much larger than a good-sized cupboard.
"More rooms up stairs," briskly said the old man; he nimbly darted up an old wooden staircase, that creaked under him. Mechanically Jones followed. There were two rooms on the upper and only storey; one of moderate size; the other, a little larger than the back parlour.
"Good shop," began the old man, reckoning on his fingers, "ca-pital shop; neat parlour—very neat; upper storey, two rooms; one splendid; cosy bed-room; rent of the whole, only thirty-five pounds a-year—only thirty-five pounds a-year!"
The repetition was uttered impressively.
"Thank you—much obliged to you," began Richard Jones, wishing himself fairly out of the place; "but you see—"
"Stop a bit," eagerly interrupted the old man, catching Jones by the button-hole, and fixing him, as the 'Ancient Mariner' fixed the wedding guest, with his glittering eye, "stop a bit; you take the house, keep shop, parlour, and bedroom for yourself and family—plenty; furnish front room, let it at five shillings a week; fifty-two weeks in the year; five times two, ten—put down naught, carry one; five times five, twenty-five, and one, twenty-six—two hundred and sixty shillings, make thirteen pounds; take thirteen pounds from thirty-five—"
"Law bless you, Sir!" hastily interrupted Jones, getting frightened at the practical landlord view the one-eyed and one-sided-nosed old man seemed to take of his presence in the house. "Law bless you, Sir! it's all a mistake, every bit of it."
"A mistake!" interrupted the old man, his voice rising shrill and loud."A mistake! five times two, ten—"
"Well, but I couldn't think of such a thing," in his turn interruptedJones. "I—"
"Well then, say thirty pound," pertinaciously resumed the old man; "take thirteen from thirty—"
"No, I can't then—really, I can't," desperately exclaimed Jones; "on my word I can't."
"Well, then, say twenty-five; from twenty-five take thirteen—"
"I tell you, 'tain't a bit of use your taking away thirteen at that rate," interrupted Jones, rather warmly.
"And what will you give, then?" asked the old man, with a sort of screech.
"Why, nothing!" impatiently replied Jones. "Who ever said I would give anything? I didn't—did I?"
"Then what do you come creeping and crawling about the place for?" hissed the old man, his one eye glaring defiance on Jones, "eh! just tell me that. Why, these two months you've crept and crept, and crawled, and crawled, till you've sent the rag and bottle people away. 'Sir,' says the rag and bottle woman to me, 'Sir, we can't stand it no longer. There's a man, Sir, and he prowls around the shop. Sir, and he jist looks in, and darts off agin, and he won't buy no rags, and he hasn't no bottles to sell; and my husband and me, Sir, we can't stand it—that's all.' Well, and what have you got to say to that, I should like to know?"
Jones, who never had a very ready tongue, and who was quite confounded at the accusation, remained dumb.
"I'll tell you what you are, though," cried the old man, his voice rising still higher with his wrath; "you are a crawling, creeping, low, sneaking fellow!"
"Now, old gentleman!" cried Jones, in his turn losing his temper, "just keep a civil tongue in your head, will you? I didn't ask to come in, did I? And if I did look at the shop at times, why, a cat can look at a king, can't he?"
Spite of the excellence of the reasoning thus popularly expressed, Jones perceived that the old man was going to renew his offensive language, and as he wisely mistrusted his own somewhat hasty temper, he prudently walked downstairs, and let himself out. But then he reached the street, the old man's head was already out of the first-floor window, and Jones turned the corner pursued with the words "creeping," "crawling." He lost the rest.
Rachel sat alone, working and thinking. The dull street was silent; the sound and stir of morning, alive elsewhere, reached it not; but the sky was clear and blue, and on that azure field mounted the burning sun, gladdening the very house-roofs as he went, and filling with light and life the quiet parlour of Rachel Gray.
Mrs. Gray was an ignorant woman, and she spoke bad English; but her literary tastes were superior to her education and to her language. Her few books were good—they were priceless; they included the poetical works of one John Milton. Whether Mrs. Gray understood him in all his beauty and sublimity, we know not, but at least, she read him, seriously, conscientiously—and many a fine lady cannot say as much. Rachel, too, read Milton, and loved him as a fine mind must ever love that noble poet. That very morning, she had been reading one of his sonnets, too little read, and too little known. We will give it here, for though, of course, all our readers are already acquainted with it, it might not be present to their memory.
"When I consider how my light is spentEre half my days, in this dark world and wide,And that one talent which is death to hide,Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent,To serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, lest he, returning, chide;'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?'I fondly ask: but Patience to preventThat murmur, soon replies, 'God doth not needEither man's work, or his own gifts; who bestBear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his stateIs kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,And post o'er land and ocean without rest;They also serve, who only stand and wait'"
"'They also serve who only stand and wait,'"
thought Rachel, brooding over the words, as was her wont, "and that is my case. Oh, God! I stand and wait, and alas! I do nothing, for I am blind, and ignorant, and helpless, and what am I that the Lord should make use of me; yet, in His goodness, my simple readiness to do His will, He takes as good service. Oh, Rachel! happy Rachel! to serve so kind a master."
Her work dropt on her lap; and so deep was her abstraction, that she heard not the door opening, and saw not Richard Jones, until he stood within a few paces of her chair. She gave a slight start on perceiving him; and her nervous emotion was not lessened, by remarking that he was rather pale and looked excited.
"Mary is very well," she said, hastily, and half smiling at the supposed alarm which had, she thought, brought him so suddenly in upon her.
"Of course she is—of course she is," he replied, nodding; then, drawing a chair near to Rachel's, he sat down upon it, and, bending forward, with his two hands resting on his knees, he said, in a deep, impressive whisper,
"Miss Gray, may I speak to you? I want you to advise me," he added, after a slight pause.
"To advise you, Mr. Jones!" echoed Rachel, looking up at him, with mild astonishment.
"Yes, Miss Gray," he firmly replied; and, slightly clearing his throat, he thus began: "Miss Gray, I aint a known you very long; but there aint another in this wide world whom I respect as I do you. And I think I have proved it; for haven't I given you my little Mary? I couldn't do more, Miss Gray," he added, with energetic earnestness. "Yes, Miss Gray, I do respect you; and that is why I want you to advise me. Now, this is the whole story:—
"From a boy, Miss Gray, I have wished to be in business. I was in business at Mr. Smith's, Mr. Smith was the grandfather of my little Mary, but not on my account; and that's not quite the same thing, you see. And I have wished to be in the grocery line, in particular, because of understanding it so much better, from having been brought up to it, like. Now, Miss Gray, here's the plain truth of the case. Some time ago, I found out, by chance, that there was not—actually, that there was not a grocer's shop in this immediate vicinity!" Here Mr. Jones held up his forefinger by way of note of admiration. "Well, Miss Gray," he resumed impressively, "that thought haunted me. Why here was the very place for me! A grocer was wanted. I found out, too, that the rag and bottle shop round the corner was just the place for me, and the people left, too; but bless you. Miss Gray, 't was all not a bit of use—for why—I hadn't got no capital! Well, Miss Gray, to make a long story short, a cousin of mine has just died, and left me all she had, poor thing, and that was sixty pound. Now, Miss Gray, what I want to know is this:—do you think that as a father—that is, the father of my little Mary—I'm justified in risking that money by setting up a shop, or that it's my duty to keep it all up for the child?"
He looked earnestly in Rachel's face. Ay, the child; it was still the child, and always the child. His own was not his own—it was but a trust held for his little Mary.
"Truly, Mr. Jones," said Rachel, smiling, "you can do what you like with your own."
"No, indeed, Miss Gray," he rejoined, a little warmly, "I must think of my little Mary first; and you see the whole question is, which is best for her. Why, I aint slep these three nights with thinking on it, and so, at last, I thought I'd come to you."
Who had ever asked Rachel for advice! Rachel the simpleton—Rachel the slighted and laughed-at dressmaker? Little did Mr. Jones know how nervous he made the poor girl; besides, she felt quite bewildered at the strange views he took of the case he submitted to her. At length she gathered courage, and looking earnestly in his face with her mild brown eyes, she spoke.
"Mr. Jones," she said, "it seems to me that as the money is yours, and that as your intentions are to turn it to a good account, you have a right to do with it as you please. I think, too, that you are likely to do very well as a grocer, for we really do want one about here. But I only tell you what I think. I do not advise. I really cannot. If you want advice, Mr. Jones, why, ask it of one who cannot mistake, for He is not liable to human error—ask it of God Almighty."
Richard Jones scratched his head, then hung it down ashamed. If he had dared, he would have asked of Rachel how he was to ask of God to advise him, and, especially, how he was to get the answer! Poor fellow! he had an excellent hearty some faith, much charity, but the world's net was around him. His life was not like that of Rachel Gray—a heaven upon earth. And Rachel, who laboured under the disadvantages of a narrow education, and a narrow life, who had not enough knowledge and enough experience of human nature to understand clearly that there were states of mind worlds lower than her own, did not suspect that she had given Richard Jones the worst of all advice—that which the receiver cannot follow.
Alas! who talks of God now! who listens like Adam in Eden to the voice of the Lord, and treasures in his or her own heart that source of all knowledge? And we complain that God goes away from us; that His face is dark, and behind the cloud; that in the days of adversity we find him not.
Jones rose confused, muttered thanks, then hastily changed the subject by asking to see his daughter. Even as he spoke, the door opened, and Mary entered.
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.
Rachel went and sat near her, and spoke to her, but she only got an unintelligible murmur for a reply. Madame Rose shook her head, as much as to say that the attainments of Mimi—so she called her—did not include speech. But Mimi was very good—very good indeed, only she could not talk, which was "bien dommage," added Madame Rose, as, had she only been able to speak, Mimi would certainly have done it charmingly.
"You should see her eating onion soup," enthusiastically added Madame Rose. "It is beautiful!" Then, seeing that Rachel was engaged in scrutinizing, with a pitying glance, the ragged attire of her protege, Madame Rose jealously informed her that, as yet, the toilette of Mimi had been a little neglected, certainly; but that, "with time, and the help of God," added Madame Rose, "Mimi should want for nothing."
"I have an old dress at home, that will just do for her," timidly saidRachel "Shall I bring it to-morrow night?"
Madame Rose coughed dubiously—she had not understood; but a perfect knowledge of the English tongue, in all its most delicate intricacies, was one of her vanities. So, bending her head of one side, and patting her ear, as if to imply that there lay the fault, she evidently requested Rachel to repeat She did so; and this time, Madame Rose caught enough of her meaning to misunderstand her.
"I understand—I understand!" she exclaimed, triumphantly; and settling Mimi in her chair, she told her to be good, for that she was only going to fetch her an elegant dress presented to her by the goodness of Mademoiselle, and that she would be back in an incredibly short space of time; after which exhortation, Madame Rose prepared to accompany Rachel.
In vain, poor Rachel, alarmed at the prospect of her mother's anger, endeavoured to explain that she would bring the dress. Madame Rose, still triumphantly asserting that she understood, insisted on going out with her guest, and actually walked with her to her very door. In great trepidation, Rachel opened it, and unconscious of peril or offence, Madame Rose entered, clattering along the passage in her wooden shoes; but Mrs. Brown's voice was just then at the loudest; the noise was not heeded.
Rachel took her up-stairs to the little back-room, and left her there, whilst she looked in the room which she shared with her mother, for the dress she wished to give Mimi; she soon came back with it, tied in a parcel, and now devoutly wished that she could see Madame Rose safe out of the place. But Madame Rose was in no mood to go. She had recognized the room and window where she so often saw Rachel; and she intimated as much, by a lively pantomime; first taking up a book, she held it before her, pretending to read; then she pointed to her forehead, to imply that Rachel was a thinker; and finally, to the horror and dismay of Rachel, Madame Rose shut her eyes, opened her mouth, and warbled a sufficiently correct imitation of the old hundredth.
The window was open; and even Mrs. Brown's voice could not drown these strange tones. They reached the ear of Mrs. Gray; and before Rachel had fairly recovered from the surprise and alarm into which the musical outburst of Madame Rose had thrown her, her step-mother appeared at the door of the little back room, and, in stern and indignant accents, asked to know the meaning of what she heard and saw. But, before Rachel could reply, the French costume of Madame Rose had betrayed her.
Mrs. Gray was of Scotch descent, and she had some of the old puritan spirit, to which, in the course of a long life, she had added a plenteous store of stubborn English prejudices.
Madame Rose was "an idolatrous furriner!" "a French beggar!" too; and that she should have darkened her doors!—that she should be familiarly sitting under her roof—chattering and singing in a back room, with her daughter, was an intolerable insult, a wrong not to be borne.
"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.
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.
"Oh, mother! what have you done!" cried Rachel, when she discovered her loss.
"Well, what about it?" tartly asked Mrs. Gray.
A few silent, unheeded tears Rachel shed, but no more was said.
But her very heart ached; and, perhaps, because it did ache, her longing to go and see her father returned all the stronger. The whole day, the thought kept her in a dream.
"I never saw you so mopish," angrily exclaimed Mrs. Gray, "never!"
Rachel looked up in her mother's face, and smiled so pleasantly, that Mrs. Gray was a little softened, she herself knew not why; but the smile was so very sweet.
And again Rachel sat up that night, when all were sleeping in the little house; again she burned her precious candle ends, and sat and sewed, to finish the last of the half-dozen of fine linen shirts, begun a year before, purchased with the few shillings she could spare now and then from her earnings, and sewed by stealth, in hours robbed from the rest of the night, after the fatigue of the day. But, spite of all her efforts to keep awake, she fell asleep over her task. When she awoke, daylight gleamed through the chinks of the shutters; it was morning. She opened the window in some alarm; but felt relieved to perceive that it was early yet. The street was silent; every window was closed; the sky, still free from smoke was calm and pure; there was a peace in this stillness, which moved the very heart of Rachel Gray. She thought of the calm slumbers of the two millions, who, in a few hours, would fill the vast city, with noise, agitation and strife; and she half sadly wondered that for the few years man has to spend here below, for the few wants and cravings he derives from nature, he should think it needful to give away the most precious hours of a short life, and devote to ceaseless toil every aspiration and desire of his heart.
It was too late to think of going to bed, which would, besides, have exposed her to discovery. So, after uniting her morning and evening prayers in one long and fervent petition of Hope and Love, she went back to her work, finished the little there was to do, then carefully folded up the six shirts, and tied them up in a neat parcel.
When this was done, Rachel busied herself with her usual tasks about the house, until her mother came down. It was no uncommon thing for Rachel to get up early, and do the work, while her mother still slept; and, accordingly, that she should have done so, as Mrs. Gray thought, drew forth from her no comment on this particular morning.
Everything, indeed, seemed to favour her project; for, in the course of the day, Mrs. Gray and Jane went out. Rachel remained alone with Mary.
"Why, how merry you are to-day, Miss!" said Mary, looking with wonder atRachel, as she busied herself about the house, singing by snatches.
"It is such a fine day," replied Rachel; she opened the parlour window; in poured the joyous sunshine—the blue sky shone above the dull brick street, and the tailor's thrush began to sing in its osier cage. "A day to make one happy," continued Rachel; and she smiled at her own thoughts; for on such a beautiful day, how could she but prosper? "Mary," she resumed, after a pause, "you will not be afraid, if I go out, and leave you awhile alone, will you?"
"La, bless you! no, Miss Gray," said Mary, smiling. "Are you afraid when you are alone?" she added, with a look of superiority; for she, too, seeing every one else around her do it, unconsciously began to patronize Rachel.
"Oh, no!" simply replied Rachel Gray, too well disciplined into humility to feel offended with the pertness of a child, "I am never afraid; but then, I am so much older than you. However, since you do not mind it, I shall go out. Either Jane or my mother will soon be in, and so you will not long remain alone, at all events."
"La, bless you! I don't mind," replied Mary, again looking superior.
And now, Rachel is gone out. She has been walking an hour and more. Again, she goes through a populous neighbourhood, and through crowded streets; but this time, in the broad daylight of a lazy summer afternoon. Rachel is neither nervous nor afraid—not, at least, of anything around her. On she goes, her heart full of hope, her mind full of dreams. On she goes: street after street is passed; at length, is reached the street where Thomas Gray, the father of Rachel, lives.
She stops at the second-hand ironmonger's and looks at the portraits and the books, and feels faint and hopeless, and almost wishes that her father may not be within.
Thomas Gray was at his work, and there was a book by him at which he glanced now and then, Tom Paine's "Rights of Man." There was an empty pewter pot too, and a dirty public-house paper, from which we do not mean to have it inferred that Thomas Gray was given to intoxication. He was essentially a sober, steady man, vehement in nothing, not even in politics, though he was a thorough Republican.
Thomas Gray was planing sturdily, enjoying the sunshine, which fell full on his meagre figure. It was hot; but as he grew old he grew chilly, when, suddenly, a dark shadow came between him and the light. He looked up, and saw a woman standing on the threshold of his shop. She was young and simply clad, tall and slender, not handsome, and very timid looking.
"Walk in ma'am," he said, civilly enough.
The stranger entered; he looked at her, and she looked at him.
"Want anything?" he asked, at length.
She took courage and spoke.
"My name is Rachel," she said.
He said nothing.
"Rachel Gray," she resumed.
He looked at her steadily, but he was still silent.
"I am your daughter," she continued, in faltering accents.
"Well! I never said you was not;" he answered rather drily. "Come, you need not shake so; there's a chair there. Take it and at down."
Rachel obeyed; but she was so agitated that she could not utter one word. Her father looked at her for awhile, then resumed his work. Rachel did not speak—she literally could not. Words would have choked her; so it was Thomas Gray who opened the conversation.
"Well, and how's the old lady?" he asked.
"My mother is quite well, thank you. Sir," replied Rachel The name of father was too strange to be used thus at first.
"And you—how do you get on? You 're a milliner, stay-maker—ain't you?"
"I am a dress-maker; but I can do other work," said Rachel, thinking this, poor girl! a favourable opening for her present.
"I have made these for you," she added, opening and untying her parcel; and displaying the shirts to her father's view, and as she did so, she gazed very wistfully in his face.
He gave them a careless look.
"Why, my good girl," he said, "I have dozens of shirts—dozens!"
And he returned to his work, a moment interrupted.
Tears stood in Rachel's eyes.
"I am sorry," she began, "but—but I did not know; and then I thought—I thought you might like them."
"'Taint of much consequence," he philosophically replied, "thank you all the same. Jim," he added, hailing a lad who was passing by, "just tell them at the 'Rose' to send down a pint of half-and-half, will you? I dare say you'll have something before you go," he continued, addressing his daughter. "If you'll just look in there," he added, jerking his head towards the back parlour, "you'll find some bread and cheese on the table, there's a plate too."
Rachel rose and eagerly availed herself of this invitation, cold though it was; she felt curious too, to inspect, her father's domestic arrangements. She was almost disappointed to find everything so much more tidy than she could have imagined. She had hoped that her services as house-keeper might be more required, either then, or at some future period of time. She sat down, but she could not eat.
"Here's the half-and-half," said her father from the shop.
Rachel went and took it; she poured out some in a glass, but she could not drink; her heart was too full.
"You'd better," said her father, who had now joined her.
"I cannot," replied Rachel, feeling ready to cry, "I am neither hungry nor thirsty, thank you."
"Oh! aint you?" said her father, "yet you have a long walk home, you know."
It was the second time he said so. Rachel looked up into his face; she sought for something there, not for love, not for fondness, but for the shadow of kindness, for that which might one day become affection—she saw nothing but cold, hard, rooted indifference. The head of Rachel sank on her bosom, "The will of God be done," she thought. With a sigh she rose, and looked up in her father's face.
"Good bye, father," she said, for her father she would call him once at least.
"Good bye, Rachel," he replied.
She held out her hand; he took it with the same hard indifference he had shown from the beginning. He did not seek to detain her; he did not ask her to come again. His farewell was as cold as had been his greeting. Rachel left him with a heart full to bursting. She had not gone ten steps when he called her. She hastened back; he stood on the threshold of his shop, a newspaper in his hand.
"Just take that paper, and leave it at the 'Rose,' will you? You can't miss the 'Rose'—it's the public-house round the left-hand corner."
"Yes, father," meekly said Rachel. She took the paper from his hand, turned away, and did as she was bid.
Her errand fulfilled, Rachel walked home. There were no tears on her cheek, but there was a dull pain at her heart; an aching sorrow that dwelt there, and that—do what she would—would not depart. In vain she said to herself—"It was just what I expected; of course, I could not think it would come all in a day. Besides, if it be the will of God, must I not submit?" still disappointment murmured: "Oh! but it is hard! not one word, not one look, not one wish to see me again; nothing—nothing."
It was late when Rachel reached home. Mrs. Gray, confounded at her step-daughter's audacity in thus again absenting herself without leave, had, during the whole day, amassed a store of resentment, which now burst forth on Rachel's head. The irritable old lady scolded herself into a violent passion. Rachel received her reproaches with more of apathy than of her usual resignation. They were alone; Jane and Mary had retired to their room. Rachel sat by the table where the supper things were laid, her head supported by her hand. At the other end of the table sat Mrs. Gray erect, sharp, bitter; scolding and railing by turns, and between both burned a yellow tallow candle unsnuffed, dreary looking, and but half lighting the gloomy little parlour.
"And so you won't say where you have been, you good-for-nothing creature," at length cried Mrs. Gray, exasperated by her daughter's long silence.
Rachel looked up in her step-mother's face.
"You did not ask me where I had been," she said deliberately. "I have been to see my father."
Not one word could Mrs. Gray utter. The face of Rachel, pale, desolate, and sorrow-stricken, told the whole story. Rachel added nothing. She, lit another candle, and merely saying, in her gentle voice—
"Good night, mother," she left the room.
As Rachel passed by the little room of the apprentices, she saw a streak of light gliding out on the landing, through the half-open door. She pushed it, and entered. Jane sat reading by the little table; Mary lay in bed, but awake.
"I did not know you were up," said Rachel to Jane, "and seeing a light, I felt afraid of fire."
"Not much fear of fire," drily answered Jane. Rachel did not heed her— she was bending over Mary.
"How are you to-night, Mary?" she asked.
"Oh! I am quite well," pettishly answered Mary.
Rachel smoothed the young girl's hair away from her cheek. She remembered how dearly, how fondly loved was that peevish child; and she may be forgiven if she involuntarily thought the contrast between that love, and her own portion of indifference, bitter.
"Mary," she softly whispered, "did you say your prayers to-night?"
"Why, of course I did."
"And, Mary, did you pray for your father?"
"I wish you would let me sleep," crossly said the young girl.
"Oh! Mary—Mary!" exclaimed Rachel, and there was tenderness and pathos in her voice; "Mary, I hope you love your father—I hope you love him."
"Who said I didn't?"
"Ah! but I fear you do not love him as much as he loves you."
"To be sure I don't," replied Mary, who had grown up in the firm conviction that children were domestic idols, of which fathers were the born worshippers.
"But you must try—but you must try," very earnestly said Rachel."Promise me that you will try, Mary."
She spoke in a soft, low voice; but Mary, wearied with the discourse, turned her head away.
"I can't talk, my back aches," she said peevishly.
"Mary's back always aches when she don't want to speak," ironically observed Jane.
"You mind your own business, will you!" cried Mary, reddening, and speaking very fast. "I don't want your opinion, at all events; and if I did—"
"I thought you couldn't talk, your back ached so," quietly put in Jane.
Mary burst into peevish tears. Jane laughed triumphantly. Rachel looked at them both with mild reproach.
"Jane," she said, "it is wrong—very wrong—to provoke another. Mary, God did not give us tears—and they are a great gift of his mercy—to shed them so for a trifle. Do it no more."
The two girls remained abashed. Rachel quietly left the room. She went to her own. She had prayed long that morning, but still longer did she pray that night. For alas!—who knows it not—the wings of Hope would of themselves raise us to Heaven; but hard it is for poor resignation to look up from this sad earth.
We were made to endure. A Heathen philosopher held the eight of the just man's suffering, worthy of the Gods, and Christianity knows nothing more beautiful, more holy, than the calm resignation of the pure and the lowly, to the will of their Divine Father.
It was the will of Heaven that Rachel should not be beloved of her earthly father. She bore her lot—not without sorrow; but, at least, without repining. Perhaps, she was more silent, more thoughtful, than before; but she was not less cheerful, and in one sense she was certainly not less happy. Affliction patiently borne for the love of the hand that inflicts it, loses half its sting. The cup is always bitter—and doubly bitter shall it seem to us, if we drink it reluctantly; but if we courageously dram it, we shall find that the last drop is not like the rest It is fraught with a Divine sweetness—it is a precious balsam, and can heal the deepest and most envenomed wound.
This pure drop Rachel found in her cup. It strengthened and upheld her through her trial. "It is the will of God," she repeated to herself—"It is the will of God;" and those simple words, which held a meaning so deep, were to Rachel fortitude and consolation.
And in the meanwhile, the little world around her, unconscious of her sufferings and her trials—for even her mother could not wholly divine them—went on its ways. Mrs. Gray grumbled, Jane was grim, Mary was peevish, and Mrs. Brown occasionally dropped in "to keep them going," as she said herself.
As to Richard Jones, we will not attempt to describe the uneasiness of mind he endured in endeavouring to follow out Rachel's advice. He did not understand its spirit, which, indeed, she could not have explained. They who make the will of God their daily law, are guided, even in apparently worldly matters,—not indeed, so as never to commit mistakes, which were being beyond humanity, but so, at least, as to err as little as possible concerning their true motives of action. Our passions are our curse, spiritual and temporal; and the mere habit of subduing them gives prudence and humility in all things:—wisdom thus becomes one of the rewards which God grants to the faithful servant.
But of this, what did Richard Jones—the most unspiritual of good men, know? After three days spent in a state of distracting doubt, he came to the conclusion that it was, and must be the will of Heaven that he should have a shop. Poor fellow! if he took his own will for that of the Almighty, did he fall into a very uncommon mistake?
Once, his mind was made up, he turned desperate, went and secured the shop. He had all the time been in a perfect fever, lest some other should forestall him, after which he became calm. "Did not much care about Miss Gray's opinion—did not see why he should care about any one's opinion," and in this lofty mood it was that Richard Jones went and gave a loud, clear, and distinct knock at Mrs. Gray's door.
Dinner was over—the apprentices were working—Rachel was dreaming, rather sadly, poor girl! for she thought of what was, and of what might have been. Mrs. Gray was reading the newspaper, when the entrance of Richard Jones, admitted by his daughter, disturbed the quiet little household. At once Mrs. Gray flew into politics.
"Well, Mr. Jones," she cried, "and how are you? I suppose you know they are raising the taxes—and then such rates as we have, Mr. Jones—such rates!"
Mrs. Gray was habitually a Tory, and not a mild one; but on the subject of taxes and rates, Mrs. Gray was, we are sorry to say, a violent radical. "She couldn't abide them," she declared.
"And so they axe raising the taxes, are they!" echoed Mr. Jones, chuckling. "Eh! but that won't do for me, Mrs. Gray. I'm turning householder—and hard by here too!" he added, winking.
Mrs. Gray did not understand at all. She coughed, and looked puzzled. Mr. Jones saw that Rachel had not spoken to her. He continued winking, chuckling, and rubbing his hands as he spoke.
"I am going into business, Mrs. Gray."
Mrs. Gray was profoundly astonished; Mary's work dropped on her lap as she stared with open mouth and eyes at her father, who chucked her chin for her.
"Yes," he resumed, addressing Mrs. Gray; "I had always a turn that way."
"Oh, you had!"
"Always, Mrs. Gray; but I hadn't got no capital; and for a man to go into business without capital, why, ma'am, it's like a body that aint got no soul."
"Don't talk so, Mr. Jones," said Mrs. Gray, to whom the latter proposition sounded atheistical, "don't!"
"Well, but what's a man without capital?" asked Mr. Jones, unconscious of his offence, "why, nothink, Mrs. Gray, nothink! Well, but that's not the question—I've got capital now, you see, and so I am going to set up a grocery business in the rag and bottle shop round the corner; and I hare called to secure your custom—that's all, Mrs. Gray."
He winked and chuckled again. Rachel could not help smiling. Mrs. Gray was grave and courteous, like any foreign potentate congratulating his dear brother, Monsieur mon frere, on some fortunate event of his reign.
"I called to tell you that, Mrs. Gray," resumed Jones; "and, also, to ask a favour of Miss Gray. I should be so much obliged to 'her, if she could spare my little Mary for half an hour or so, just to look over the house with me."
"Of course she can," replied Mrs. Gray for her meek daughter. "Go and put on your bonnet, Mary.'"
Mary, whom the tidings of the grocer's shop had most agreeably excited, rose with great alacrity to obey, and promptly returned, with her bonnet on.
It was Rachel who let them out.
"You need not be in a hurry to come back, dear," she whispered; "there's not more work than Jane and I can well manage."
Mary's only reply to this kind speech, was a saucy toss of the head. The little thing already felt an heiress.
"How much money have you got, father?" she promptly asked, as they went down the street,
"Sixty pounds, my dear."
"Law! that ain't much," said Mary, as if she had rolled in guineas all her life.
"Well, it isn't," he replied candidly, and exactly in the same spirit; for if there is a thing people promptly get used to, it is money.
Mary had always been her father's confidante; he now opened his whole heart to her, and was thereby much relieved. To his great satisfaction, Mary condescended to approve almost without restriction, all he had done. She accompanied him over the house and shop—thought "the whole concern rather dirty," but kindly added, "that when it was cleaned up a bit, it would do;" and finally gave it as her opinion, "that there wasn't a better position in the whole neighbourhood."
"Of course there ain't," said Mr. Jones, sitting down on the counter. "The goodwives must either buy from me, or walk a mile. Now it stands to reason that, rather than walk a mile, with babies crying at home, and husbands growling—it stands to reason, I say, that they'll buy from me. Don't it, Mary?"
"Of course it does."
"Well, that ain't all. You see I know something of business. The interest of capital in business ranges from ten to a hundred per cent according to luck; now I am lucky being alone, so we'll say fifty per cent, which is moderate, ain't it, Mary?"
"Of course it is," replied that infallible authority.
"Well then: capital, sixty pounds; interest, fifty per cent. Why, in no time, like, I shall double my capital; and when it's doubled, I shall double it again—and so I'll go on doubling and doubling until I'm tired —and then we'll stop. Won't we, Mary?"
The little thing laughed; her father gave her a kiss; got up from the counter, and with the golden vision of endless doubling of capital before him, walked out of the shop.
What airs little Mary took; how Jane taunted and twitted her, how Rachel had to interfere; how even Mrs. Brown chose to comment on the startling fact of a new grocer's shop, and what predictions she made, we leave to the imagination of the reader.
We deal with the great day, or rather with the eve of the great day. It was come. Rachel, her mother, Mary, and Mr. Jones were all busy giving the shop its last finishing touch; on the next morning the Teapot was to open.
"Well, Miss Gray, 'tain't amiss, is it?" said Jones, looking around him with innocent satisfaction.
He was, as we have said before, a sort of Jack-of-all-trades, and to him the Teapot doubly owed its existence. He had painted the walls; he had fixed up the shelves in their places; the drawers and boxes his own hands had fashioned. We will not aver that a professional glazier and carpenter might not have done all this infinitely better than Richard Jones, but who could have worked so cheap or pleased Richard Jones so well? And thus with harmless pleasure he could look around him and repeat:
"Well, Miss Gray, 'tain't amiss, is it?"
"Amiss!" put in Mrs. Gray, before her daughter could speak, "I should think not. You're a clever man, Mr. Jones, to have done all that with your own hands, out of your own head."
Mr. Jones rubbed his forehead, and passed his hand through his stubby hair.
"Well, Ma'am, 'tain't amiss, though I say it that shouldn't, and though 'tain't much."
"Not much, father!" zealously cried Mary, not relishing so much modesty, "why, didn't you nail them shelves with your own hands?"
"Well, child," candidly replied her father, "I think I may say I did."
"And didn't you make all them square boxes, a whole dozen of them?"
"Hold your tongue you little chit, and help Miss Gray there to put up the jams and marmalades."
"And didn't you paint the walls?" triumphantly exclaimed Mary, without heeding his orders.
"Who else did, I should like to know?"
"And the counter! who made the counter?"
"Not I, Mary. I only polished it up."
"Well, but what was it before you polished it up, father?" asked the pertinacious daughter.
"Not much to speak of; that's the truth. Why, bless you, Mrs. Gray," he added, turning confidentially towards her, "you never saw such a poor object as that counter was in all your born days. It caught my eye at the corner of one of them second-hand shops in the New Cut. The man was standing at the door, whistling, with his hands in his pockets. 'That's fire-wood,' says I to him. 'No 'tain't, it's as good a counter as ever a sovereign was changed on.' 'My good man,' says I, 'it's firewood, and I'll give you five shillings for it.' Law, but you should have seen how he looked at me. Well, to cut a long story short, he swore it was a counter, and I swore it was firewood, and so, at length, I give him ten shillings for it, and brought it home and cleaned it down, and scraped the dirt, inch thick, off, and washed it, and painted it, and polished it, and look at it now, Mrs. Gray, look at it now!"
"It's just like mahogany!" enthusiastically cried Mary, "ain't it. MissGray?"
"Not quite, dear," mildly said Rachel, who was truth itself, "but it looks very nice. But, Mr. Jones," she added, in a low timid voice, "why did you tell the man it was firewood, when you meant it as a counter?"
Jones wagged his head, winked, and touching his nose with his right hand forefinger, he whispered knowingly: "That was business, Miss Gray, and in business, you know—hem!"
"But the Teapot, father," cried Mary, "where's the Teapot?"
"Why, here's the Tea-pot," exclaimed Jones, suddenly producing this masterpiece of art, and holding it up aloft to the gaze of the beholders.
Such a Teapot had never been seen before, and, most probably, will never be seen again, to the end of time. Its shape we will not, because we cannot describe. It confounded Rachel, and startled even Mrs. Gray. She coughed, and looked at it dubiously.
"Where's the lid?" she said.
"Why, here's the lid; but it don't take off, you know."
"Oh! I see. And that's the handle."
"The handle! bless you, Mrs. Gray, it's the spout."
"Well, but where's the handle, then?"
"Why, here's the handle, to be sure," replied Jones, rather nettled, "don't you see?"
Mrs. Gray said she did; but we are inclined to believe she did not. However, Jones was satisfied; and, setting down the wooden Teapot—we forgot to say that it was flaming red—on the counter, he surveyed it complacently.
"I spent a week on that Teapot," he said "didn't I, Mary?"
"Ten days, father."
"Well, one must not grudge time or trouble, must one, Mrs. Gray? And now, ladies, we'll put away the Teapot, and step into the parlour, and have a cup of tea, eh?"
With the cup of tea, came a discussion of the morrow's prospects, and of the ultimate destinies of the Teapot—the upshot of which was, that Mr. Jones was an enterprising public man, and destined to effect a salutary revolution in the whole neighbourhood. Such, at least, was the opinion of Mrs. Gray, warmly supported by Mary. Mr. Jones was silent, through modesty; Rachel, because she was already thinking of other things. They parted late, though the Teapot was to open early.
There is a report that it opened with dawn, Mr. Jones not having been able to shut his eyes all night for excitement. But it is more important to record that, until its close, late on the following evening, the Teapot was not one moment empty. Mary had remained at home, to assist her father; and she went through the day with perfect composure; but Mr. Jones was fairly overpowered: the cup of his honours was too full; the sum of his joy was too great. He blundered, he stammered, he was excited, and looked foolish. Altogether, he did not feel happy, until the shop was shut, and all was fairly over. He then sat down, wiped his forehead, and declared, that since he was married to his dear little Mary's blessed mother, he had never gone through such a trying day—never.
"It's a fine thing Mr. Jones has undertaken," gravely observed Mrs. Gray to Mrs. Brown.
But Mrs. Brown was inclined to look at the shady side of the Tea-pot.
"La bless you!" she kindly said, "it'll never do. I said so from the first, and I say so the last, it'll never do!"
"Oh, yes it will!" grimly observed Jane; "it will do for Mr. Jones, Mrs.Brown."
"I hope not, Jane," said Rachel, gravely; "and I would rather," she added, with some firmness, and venturing for once on a reproof, "I would rather you did not think so much of what evil may happen to others. Sufficient to any of us is it to look forward to our own share of evil days."
She raised her voice as she began; but it sank low ere she concluded. Surprised at herself for having said so much, she did not look round, but resumed her work, a moment interrupted. The room remained deeply silent Jane was crimson. For once, Mrs. Gray thought her daughter had spoken sensibly; and for once, Mrs. Brown found nothing to say.
A week had passed over the Teapot, and, sitting in the back-parlour with Mary, who was busy sewing, Richard Jones dived deep into his books, and cast up his accounts. He allowed for rent, for expenditure, for household, for extras, then his face, brimful of ill-disguised exultation, he said to his daughter: "Well, Mary, dear, 'taint much to boast of, but for a first week, you see, 'taint amiss, either. I find, all expenses covered, one pound ten net profit. Now, you know, that makes, first, fifty-two pound a-year; then half of fifty-two, twenty-six; add twenty-six to fifty-two, seventy-eight—seventy-eight pound a-year, net-profit. Well, it stands to reason and common sense, that as I go on, my business will go on improving too; in short, put it at the lowest—I hate exaggeration—well put it at the lowest, and I may say that by next Michaelmas, we shall have a neat hundred."
"Law! father, can't you say a hundred and fifty at once," peevishly interrupted Mary.
Mary's will was law.
"Well, I really think I can say a hundred and fifty," ingenuously replied Richard Jones, "now, with a hundred and fifty pound for the first year, and just five per cent, as increase of profit for the second."
"I'm sure it'll be ten per cent," again interrupted Mary, who, from hearing her father, had caught up some of the money terms of this money-making world.
"Well, I should not wonder if it would not," replied her docile papa. "We'll suppose it, at least; well that'd be fifteen pound to add to the hundred and fifty, or, rather, to the three hundred, and then for the next year it would be—let me see! Ah!" and he scratched his head. "I think I am getting into what they call compound interest, and, to say the truth, I never was a very quick arithmetician. At all events, it is pretty clear that at the end of ten years, we shall stand at the head of something like fifteen hundred pound, and a flourishing house of business," he added, glancing towards the shop—"a flourishing house of business," he continued, complacently passing his Angers through his hair.
Awhile he mused, then suddenly he observed: "Mary, my dear, hadn't you better go to bed?" Mary now slept at home. "You have to get up early, you know."
"Yes; but I ain't going to," she tartly replied. "It gives me a pain in my side," she added.
"Then you shall not get up early," authoritatively said Mr. Jones. "I'll not allow my daughter to work herself to death for no Miss Grays."
"I don't think I shall go at all to-morrow," composedly resumed Mary. "I don't like dress-making—it don't agree with me."
Mr. Jones had at first looked startled, but this settled the question.
"If dress-making don't agree with you, not another stitch shall you put in," he said, half angrily. "I think myself you don't look half so well as you used to, and though Miss Gray is as nice a person as one need wish to meet, I think she might have perceived it before this; but interest blinds us all—every one of us," he added, with a philosophic sigh over the weaknesses of humanity.
"I know what Jane will be sure to say," observed Mary; "but I don't care."
"I should think not! Law! bless you, child, I have got quite beyond troubling my poor brains with what other people thinks; and if I choose to keep my daughter at home now that I can afford to do so, why shouldn't I? It's a hard case, if, when a man's well off and comfortable, and getting on better and better every day—it's a hard case, indeed, if he can't keep his only child with him."
This matter decided, Mary went up to her room; her father remained by the fireside, looking at the glowing coals, and dreaming to his heart's content.
"If I go on prospering so," he thought, "why should I not take—in time, of course—some smart young fellow to help me in the shop? It stands to reason that customers like to be served quickly. Law, bless you! they hate waiting," he added, thoughtfully, addressing the fire, and giving it a poke, by way of comment, "the ladies always hate it. But, as I was saying, why shouldn't I take some smart young man, and he, of course— why, I know what he'd do—why, he'd fall in love with Mary, of course— and why shouldn't he?" inquired Jones, warming with his subject "Was I not a poor fellow once, and did I not marry my master's daughter?"