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Rachel Gray

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<h4 id="id00469" style="margin-top: 2em">CHAPTER IX.</h4> 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. 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 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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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