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Rachel Gray

<h4 id="id00935" style="margin-top: 2em">CHAPTER XVII.</h4> And now, alas! fairly began the Teapot's downward course. Every effort of Richard Jones to rise, only made him sink the deeper. To use a worn out, though expressive phrase, he stirred heaven and earth to get better tea; but the spell to conjure it forth was wanting. Jones had very correctly stated the case to his daughter—he had not credit; he had little or no cash; what he purchased in small quantities, he bought dear; and he sold as he bought. And thus, unable to compete with superior, capital and energy, he declined day by day. But if he fell, it was not without a struggle. He turned desperate, and resorted to a desperate expedient; he sold his goods at prime cost, and left himself without profit. But Jones did not care; all he wanted was to crush his opponent—that object accomplished, and he once more sole master of the field, he could make his own price, and gradually retrieve lost time, and heal the wounds received in the battle. Business requires a cool head; competition has its limits, beyond which yawns the bottomless pit of ruin. Jones lost his temper, and with it his judgment. Not satisfied with the faint change for the better, produced by the first measure, he impatiently resolved "to settle that Saunders," by a second and still bolder stroke. He filled his shop-windows with placards, on which prices were marked, with notes of admiration. He pressed into his service a dozen of little boys, whose sole business was to slip bills under doors, and to throw them down areas, or to force them into the hands of unconscious passengers; and he crowned an these arts by selling under prime cost. The customers could not resist this tender appeal to their feelings; they came back one and all—the Teapot once more was full—the two Teapots was deserted; and Richard Jones was triumphant. We profess no particular regard for Joseph Saunders; but we cannot deny that he played his cruel game skilfully and well. He did not bring down his prices one farthing. Without emotion he saw his shop forsaken—he knew his own strength; he knew, too, the weakness of his enemy. "Oh! It's that dodge you are after," he thought, thrusting his tongue in his cheek. "Well, then, it has beggared many a man before you; and we shall see how long you'll keep it up—that's all." And to whosoever liked to hear, Saunders declared that Mr. Jones was selling at loss, and that he (Saunders) could not afford to do so; and was sorry the old man would be so obstinate. "Where was the use, when he could not go on?" Nothing did Jones more harm than this assertion, and the knowledge that it was a literal truth; for though people worship cheapness, that goddess of modern commerce, it is only on condition that she shall be a reality, not a fiction; that she shall rest on the solid basis of gains, howsoever small; not on the sand foundation of loss, that certain forerunner of failure. Jones could not, of course, long keep up the plan of selling under cost; he was obliged to give it up. With it, ceased his fallacious and momentary prosperity. "I thought so," soliloquized Saunders. Reader, if you think that we mean to cast a stone at the great shop, you are mistaken. We deal not with pitiless political economy, with its laws, with their workings. The great shop must prosper; 'tis in the nature of things; and the little shop must perish—'tis in their nature too. We but lament this sad truth, that on God's earth, which God made for all, there should be so little room for the poor man; for his pride, his ambition, his desires, which he has in common with the rich man; we but deplore what all, alas! know too well; that the crown of creation, a soul, a man by God's Almighty mind, fashioned and called forth into being, by Christ's priceless blood purchased and redeemed to Heaven, should be a thing of so little worth—ay, so much, so very much less worth than some money, in this strange world of ours. Few pitied Richard Jones in his fall. His little ambition was remembered as a crime; for success had not crowned it. His little vanities were so many deadly sins; for gold did not hide or excuse them. To the dregs, the unhappy man drank the latter draught which rises to the lips of the fallen, when they see the world deserting them to worship a rival. A usurper had invaded his narrow realm, and crushed him; his little story was a true page from that great book of History, which we need not read to know how power decays, or to learn of man's fickleness, and fortune's frowns. Alas! History, if we did but know it, lies around us, as mankind lives in the meanest wretch we meet, and perchance despise. It is a bitter thing to behold our own ruin; it is a cruel thing to look on powerless and despairing; and both now fell to the lot of Richard Jones. He had ventured all, and lost all. He was doomed—he knew it; every one knew it. But, alas! the cup of his woes was not full. Mary had always been delicate. One chill evening she took cold; a cough settled on her chest; sometimes it seemed gone, then suddenly it returned again. "She felt very well," she said; and, strange to say, her father thought so too. Rachel was the first to see that something was wrong. "Mary," she said to her, one morning, "what ails you? Your breath seems quite short." "La! bless you, Miss," replied Mary, in her patronizing way, "I am all right." They were alone; Rachel looked at the young girl; her eyes glittered; her cheeks were red with a hectic flush; her breathing was quick and oppressive. The eyes of Rachel filled with tears; she thought of her little dead sister in her grave. "Mary," she said, "do not work any more to-day—go home." Mary looked up in her face, and laughed—the gay laugh of an unconscious child, fearless of death. "Why, Miss, you are crying!" she exclaimed, amazed. "Am I?" said Rachel, trying to smile, "never mind, Mary; go home—or, rather, take this parcel to Mrs. Jameson, number three, Albert Terrace. It is a fine day—the walk will do you good." Mary jumped up, charmed at the prospect. She tied her bonnet-strings before the looking-glass, and hummed the tune of "Meet me by moonlight alone." Mary was turned sixteen; and vague ideas of romance sometimes fitted through her young brain. When she was fairly gone, Rachel rose, laid her work by, put on her bonnet and shawl, and quietly slipped round to the Teapot: ostensibly, she wanted to buy some tea: her real purpose was to call the attention of Mr. Jones to his daughter's state. But, strange to say, Rachel Gray could not make him understand her; his mind was full of the two Teapots; of the villany of that Saunders; of the world's ingratitude; of his misfortunes and his wrongs. "I dare say Mary feels it too," put in Rachel. "Of course she does, Miss Gray—of course she does. The child has feelings. And then you know, Miss Gray, if that fellow hadn't a come there, why, you know, we were getting on as well as could be." "I notice that she coughs," said Rachel "Why, yes, poor child; she can't get rid of that cough—she's growing, you see. And then, you see, that Saunders—" "And her breathing is so short," interrupted Rachel. "Sure to be, on account of the cough. And, as I was saying, that Saunders—" "But, Mr. Jones, don't you think you had better see a doctor?" again interrupted Rachel. "See a doctor!" exclaimed Jones, staring at her. "You don't mean to say my child is ill, Miss Gray?" "I don't think she is quite well, Mr. Jones," replied Rachel, trembling as she said so. He sank down on his seat behind the counter, pale as death. The obstinate cough, the short breathing, the hectic flush, all rushed back to his memory; unseen, unheeded, till then, they now told him one fearful story. With trembling hand he wiped away the drops of cold perspiration from his forehead. "The doctor must see her directly," he said, "directly. I'll go and look for him, and you'll send her round. It's nothing—nothing at all, I am sure; she's growing, you see. But still, it must be attended to, you know —it must be attended to." A light laugh at the door interrupted him. He turned round, and saw Mary looking in at him and Rachel Gray, through the glass windows; with another laugh, she vanished. Rachel went to the door, and called her back. "Mary, Mary, your father wants you." The young girl came in; and, for the first time, her father seemed to see the bright red spot that burned on her cheek, the unnatural brilliancy of her blue eyes, the painful shortness of her breath. A mist seemed to fall from his eyes, and the dread truth to stand revealed before him; but he did not speak, nor did Rachel; Mary looked at them both, wondering. "Well, what ails you two, that you stare at me so," she said, pertly. "I am so hot," she added, after a while. "I think I shall stay at home, as you said. Miss Gray." She went into the back parlour, and sat down on the first chair she found at hand. Rachel Gray and her father followed her in. The poor child, who, because she had felt no actual pain, had thought that she could not be ill, now, for the first time, felt that she was so. "What ails you, dear?" softly asked Rachel, bending over her, as she saw her gradually turning pale. "La! bless you. Miss Gray, I am quite well—only I feel so faint like." And even as she spoke, her head sank on the bosom of Rachel—she had fainted. When Mary recovered to consciousness, she was lying on her bed, up stairs. Rachel stood by her pillow. At the foot of her bed, Mary caught sight of her father's face, ghastly pale. Between the two, she saw a strange gentleman, a doctor, who felt her pulse, put a few questions to her, wrote a prescription, and soon left. "I must go now," said Rachel, "but I shall come back this evening, and bring my work." Jones did not heed her; he looked stupified and like one bereft of sense, but Mary laughed and replied, "Oh! do Miss Gray, come and take tea with us." Rachel promised that she would try, kissed her and left. With great difficulty she obtained from Mrs. Brown the permission to return. They on whom the light of this world shone not, were rarely in the favour of Mrs. Brown. And only on condition of being home early did she allow Rachel to depart. Before leaving, she went up to her other's chair, he was not now quite so helpless as at first, and did not require her constant presence or assistance; though he still did not know her. "I shall try and not be too long away," said Rachel in a low voice. "Never mind," he muttered, shaking his head, "never mind." "There's a precious old fool for you!" said Mrs. Brown laughing coarsely. A flush of pain crossed Rachel's cheek, but to have replied, would have been to draw down a storm on her head; she silently left the house. She found Mary feverish, restless, and full of projects. She would get up early the next day, and make up for lost time. She remembered all the work she had to do, and which she had unaccountably neglected. Her father's shirts to mend, her own wardrobe to see to; the next room to clean up, for a second lodger had never been found; in short, to hear her, it seemed as if her life had only begun, and that this was the day of its opening. In vain Rachel tried to check her soothingly; Mary talked on and was so animated and so merry, that her father, who came up every five minutes to see how she was, could not believe her to be so very ill as Miss Gray thought, or the Doctor had hinted. Indeed, when at nine Rachel left, and he let her down stairs, he seemed quite relieved. "The child's only growing," he said to Rachel, "only growing; a little rest and a little medicine, and she'll be all right again." But scarcely was Rachel out of the door, when she burst into tears. "My poor little Mary," she thought, "my poor little Mary!" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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