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.