The same cloud of trouble and sorrow that now darkened the daily life of
Rachel Gray, soon gathered over her neighbours and friends. With boding
and pain, she watched the coming of a calamity, to them still invisible.
Mr. Jones got up one morning, and felt exactly as usual. He took down his
shutters, and no presentiment warned him of the sight that was going to
greet his eyes.
The Teapot stood at the corner of a street which had naturally another
corner facing it; that corner--let it be angle, if you like, critical
reader--had, from time immemorial, been in the possession of a brown,
tottering, untenanted house, whose broken parlour windows Mr. Jones had
always seen filled with, blank oak shutters, strong enough for security
and closing within.
But now, to his dismay, he saw half-a-dozen workmen pulling down the
bottom of the house, and leaving the top untouched. His heart gave a
great thump in his bosom. "I'm a lost man," he thought, "they're making a
shop of it."
And so they were, but what sort of a shop was it to be? That was the
question. Jones lost no time; he put down his shutter, thrust his hands
in his pocket--his usual resource when he wanted to look unconcerned--
sauntered awhile down the street, talked to some children, and finally
came back to the workmen.
"Pulling it down," he said, after looking at them for awhile, "an old
rubbishing concern--ain't it?"
"Pulling it down!" echoed one of the workmen, giving him a contemptuous
look, "much you know about it."
"Well, but what is it to be?" asked Jones, looking as simple as he could,
"stables?"
"Stables! a shop, stupid!"
"Oh! a shop! Ah! it's to be a shop, is it? And what sort of a shop--
public-house? We want one."
"Better ask Mr. Smithson; the house is his."
"Oh! it's Mr. Smithson's, is it?"
Jones walked away much relieved.
Mr. Smithson had long talked of removing himself and his earthenware to
some larger tenement than that which he now occupied; a pleasant
neighbour he was not; but anything was better than the fear which had for
a moment seized the heart of Richard Jones.
The workmen did not linger over their task, indeed, Mr. Smithson took
care that they should not. Night and morning, the whole day long, Jones
saw him after them; he watched him through the pots of Scotch marmelade
that decorated the front of his shop window, and internally admired the
indefatigable zeal Mr. Smithson displayed. Humbly, too, he contrasted it
with his own deficiencies in that respect "I ain't got no spirit; that's
the fact of it," confessed Mr. Jones in his own heart.
In a comparatively short space of time, the bricklayers had done their
task; they were succeeded by the carpenters, who proved as zealous and as
active. And now fear and trembling once more seized the heart of Richard
Jones. What were those busy carpenters about? why were they fabricating
shelves and drawers? drawers of every size, some small, some large, just
such drawers as he had in his shop? He questioned one of their body: what
was to be sold in that shop--did he know? The man could not tell, but
rather fancied it was to be an oil and colour shop. Then it was not to be
Mr. Smithson's own? Oh, no, certainly!
Jones walked away, a prey to the most tormenting anxiety. Was the man
right--was he wrong? had he spoken the truth? had he deceived him? Was
he, Jones, now that his business was really improving, was he threatened
with a rival? Or was this but a false alarm, the phantom of his fears?
what would he not have given to think so! His ease was the more
distressing, that he dared unburthen his mind to none, to Mary least of
any. She, poor little thing, far from sharing her father's fears,
rejoiced in the prospect of a new shop.
"It'll make the street quite gay," she said to her father, "especially if
it's a linen-draper's. I wonder if they'll have pretty bonnets."
She tried to obtain information on this interesting point, but failed
completely. Suspense is worse than the worst reality. Richard Jones lost
appetite and sleep. Slumber, when it came, was accompanied by such
fearful nightmare, that waking thoughts, though bitter, were not, at
least, so terrible. He could not forget the opposite shop; in the first
place, because he saw it every morning with his bodily eyes; in the
second, because it ever haunted that inward eye called by Wordsworth 'the
bliss of solitude.' How far it proved a bliss to Richard Jones, the
reader may imagine.
All this time the shop had been progressing, and now bricklayer,
carpenter, glazier, and decorator haying done their work, it was
completed and ready for its tenant, who, however, seemed in no hurry to
appear. This proved the worst time for Richard Jones. To look at that
shop all the day long, and not to be able to make anything of it; to
wonder whether it were a friend or an enemy; whether it would give new
lustre to the street on which he had cast his fortunes, or blast those
fortunes in their very birth, was surely no ordinary trial. Well might he
grow thin, haggard, and worn.
At length, the crisis came. At the close of November, a dread rumour
reached his ears. The shop was to be a grocer's shop, and it was to open
a week before Christmas.
That same evening, Mary came home crying, and much agitated. Mrs. Brown,
with her usual kindness, had given information.
"Oh, father!" she exclaimed, "Mrs. Brown says it's to be a grocer's
shop."
"So I have heard to-day," he replied, a little gloomily. "Never mind,
child," he added, attempting to cheer up, and a rueful attempt it turned
out, "never mind, I dare-say there's room for two."
He said it, but he knew it was not true; he knew there was room but for
one, and that if two came, why, either both must perish after a fierce
contest, or one survive and triumph over the ruin of the other's all. He
knew it, and groaned at the thought.
"I wish you wouldn't father," said Mary, again beginning to cry.
"Mary, my pet, I can't help it," said Jones, fairly giving way to
feelings too long repressed; "there aint room for two, that's the plain
truth of it, and if another grocer comes, why, he must ruin me, or I must
ruin him; and that aint pleasant to think of, is it?"
Mary was not without spirit.
"Father," she cried resolutely, "if it's to be, why, it's to be, and it
can't be helped; but I wouldn't give in without trying to get the upper
hand, that I wouldn't."
Her father shook his head disconsolately.
"Child," he said, "it's like setting an old horse against a mettlesome
young one. That new fellow has got every advantage. Look at his shop,
then look at mine; why, his is twice as big again. Look at his front--
all plate glass; look at his counters--all polished oak!"
"Well, and can't you get the shop--our shop--done up too?" ambitiously
asked Mary. "There's time yet."
"Why yes, there is--but the money, Mary dear!"
"Never mind the money."
"No more I would, my pet, if I had got it; but you see, the one pound ten
a week hasn't kept up; and those things cost a precious deal."
Mary reflected a while. "S'pose," she suggested, "you got in a fresh
stock of jams in glass jars, for the front window."
"And what shall we do with the old?"
"Eat them. And s'pose you add a few pots of pickles?"
"Pickles!" echoed Jones, looking doubtful.
"And s'pose," continued Mary, "you add macaroni, and sauces, and set up
as a superior grocer."
Jones scratched his head.
"Law, child!" he said, "this aint a stylish neighbourhood--and who'll
buy my macaroni and my sauces?"
"Why no one, of course," superciliously replied Mary. "It's not to sell
them, you want them; it's for the look of the thing--to be a superior
grocer, you know."
The words "superior grocer," gently tickled secret ambition. Mr. Richard
Jones seriously promised his daughter to think about it.
Mary had other thoughts, which she did not communicate to her father; and
of these thoughts, the chief was to find out what had become of Mr.
Saunders, and return to the old plan of enticing him into partnership.
She was so full of this project, that, partly to get assistance, partly
to take a little consequence on herself, she imparted it, under the
strictest secrecy, to Rachel Gray; and at the close, she pretty clearly
hinted, that if Mr. Joseph Saunders behaved well, he might, in time,
aspire to the honour of her hand.
Rachel heard her silently, and looked very uncomfortable.
"My dear," she said, hesitatingly, "you must not think of anything of the
kind; indeed you must not."
"And why shouldn't I?" tartly asked Mary, with a saucy toss of the head.
"Because, my dear," said Rachel, gently and sadly, "Jane is going to
marry that Mr. Saunders, who ifs cousin to Mr. Smithson, who is putting
him in the new grocer's shop."
For a moment, Mary remained stunned; then she burst into tears.
"He's a mean, sneaking fellow! that's what he is!" she cried.
"Oh, my dear--my dear!" gently said Rachel, "will you not take something
from the hand of God! We have all our lot to bear," she added, with a
half sigh.
But gently though Rachel spoke, Mary looked more rebellious than
submissive.
"He's a mean--" she began again; the entrance of Mrs. Brown interrupted
her.
Mrs. Brown was in a very ill humour. At first, she had behaved pretty
decently to Rachel and her father; but of late, she had given free vent
to her natural disposition; and it was not, we have no need to say, an
amiable one. On the present occasion, she had, moreover, additional cause
for dissatisfaction.
"And so," she exclaimed, slamming the door, and irefully addressing
Rachel, "and so your beggarly father has been and broke my china cup! Eh,
ma'am!"
Rachel turned pale, on hearing of this new disaster.
"Indeed, Mrs. Brown--" she began.
"Don't Mrs. Brown me," was the indignant rejoinder. "I tell you, I have
never had a moment's peace, ease, and quiet, and never shall have--since
you and your beggarly father entered this house."
For, by a strange perversion of ideas, Mrs. Brown persisted in asserting
and thinking that it was Rachel and her father who had entered the house,
and not she. And this, Rachel might have said; and she might have added
that to bear daily reproaches and insults, formed no part of her
agreement with Mrs. Brown. She might--but where would the use have been?
She was free to depart any day she liked; and since she preferred to
stay, why not bear it all patiently? And so she remained silent, whilst
Mrs. Brown scolded and railed; for, as she had said to Mary, "we have all
our lot to bear."
The lesson was lost on the young girl. No sooner was Mrs. Brown's back
turned, than again Mary abused Mr. Saunders, Jane, Mr. Smithson and the
new shop collectively, until she could go home to her father's. He
already knew all, and gloomily exclaimed, "that it was no more than he
expected; that it was all of a piece; and that there was neither honesty,
gratitude, nor goodness left in this wicked world."
From which comprehensive remark we can clearly see that Mr. Jones is
turning misanthropic. And yet the matter was very simple--an everyday
occurrence. Smithson had seen that he might find it profitable to cut the
ground under Jones's feet. Why should he not do it? Is not profit the
abject of commerce? and is not competition the fairest way of securing
profit?