Rachel Gray Part 10

Mr. Jones rubbed his forehead, and pa.s.sed 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 relis.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+llings 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 s.h.i.+llings for it, and brought it home and cleaned it down, and sc.r.a.ped 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. Miss Gray?"

"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 a.s.sist 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.

CHAPTER X.

A week had pa.s.sed 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 flouris.h.i.+ng house of business," he added, glancing towards the shop--"a flouris.h.i.+ng house of business," he continued, complacently pa.s.sing 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.