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Rachel Gray

<h4 id="id00689" style="margin-top: 2em">CHAPTER XII.</h4> Time had worn on: nine months in all had passed away since the opening of the Teapot. We must be quite frank: Mr. Jones had not always made the one pound ten a week dear profit; and of course this affected all his calculations: the ten per cent for increase of gain included. There had been weeks when he had not realized more than one pound, others when he made ten shillings, ay and there had been weeks when all he could do—if he did do so—was to make both ends meet. It was odd; but it was so. Mr. Jones was at first much startled; but, he soon learned to reconcile himself to it. "It stands to reason," he philosophically observed to Mary, "it's business, you see, it's business." The words explained all. Another drawback was that the front room which was worth five shillings a week, as his landlord had proved to Mr. Jones in their very first conversation, and for which Mr. Jones had therefore allowed—on the faith of his landlord's word—thirteen pounds a year in his accounts— never let at all. This was the first intimation Mr. Jones received of the practical business truth, that it is necessary to allow for losses. He had almost given up all thoughts of letting this unfortunate room, and indeed the bill had had time to turn shabby and yellow in the shop window, when one morning a young man entered the shop and in a cool deliberate tone said: "Room to let?" "Yes, Sir," replied Jones rather impressed by his brief manner. "Back or front?" "Front, Sir, front. Capital room, Sir!" "Terms?" "Five shillings a-week, Sir. A room worth six shillings, anywhere else. Like to see it, Sir? Mary—Mary, dear, just mind the shop awhile, will you?" Mary came grumbling at being disturbed, whilst her father hastened upstairs before the stranger, and throwing the window open, showed him a very dusty room, not over and above well furnished. "Capital room. Sir!" said Mr. Jones, winking shrewdly; "real Brussels carpet; portrait of Her Majesty above the mantel-piece; and that bed, Sir —just feel that bed, Sir," he added, giving it a vigorous poke, by way of proving its softness; "very cheerful look-out, too; the railroad just hard by—see all the trains passing." Without much minding these advantages, the stranger cast a quick look round the room, then said in his curt way: "Take four shillings for it? Yes. Well then, I'll come to-night." And without giving Mr. Jones time to reply, he walked downstairs, and walked out through the shop. "Well, father, have you let the room?" asked Mary, when her father came down, still bewildered by the young man's strange and abrupt manner. "Well, child," he replied, "I suppose I may say I have, for the young man is coming to-night." "What's his name?" promptly asked Mary. "I'm blest if I know; he never told me, nor gave me time to ask." "But, father, you don't mean to say you let the room to him, without knowing his name?" "But I didn't let the room to him," said Mr. Jones; "it was he took it." "Well, that's queer!" said Mary. "Queer! I call it more than queer!" exclaimed the grocer, now turning indignant at the treatment he had received; "but he shan't sleep in it, though, till I've got his references, I can tell him." The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when into the shop again walked the stranger. "My name is Joseph Saunders," he said, briefly, "and if you want to know more, apply to Mr. Smithson, number thirteen, in the alley hard by. He'll give you all the particulars." Having delivered which piece of information, he once more vanished. Well, there was nothing to say to this; and Mr. Jones, who had an inquisitive temper, was preparing to dart off to Mr. Smithson's, who did indeed live hard by, when Mr. Joseph Saunders once more appeared. "P'r'aps you'd like the first week," he said; and without waiting for a reply, he laid four shillings down on the counter, and again disappeared —this time to return no more. Mary was very much struck. "He looks quite superior," she said, "quite. Saunders—Joseph Saunders! what a nice name." "That's all very well," replied her father, sweeping the four shillings into the till, "but I must have a word or two to say with Mr. Smithson— for all that his name is Joseph Saunders." He took his hat, and walked out to seek Mr. Smithson, an old and stiff dealer in earthenware, who lived within a stone's-throw of the Teapot. The day was fine, and Mr. Smithson was airing his pans and dishes, and setting them along the pavement, like traps for the feet of unwary passengers. "Good-morning to you," began Jones, in a conciliating tone. "Good-morning!" replied, or rather, grunted Mr. Smithson, without taking the trouble to look up. "I have just come round to inquire about a young man—his name is Joseph Saunders. Do you know him?" "S'pose I do?" answered Mr. Smithson too cautious to commit himself. "Well then, s'pose you do—you can tell me something about him, can't you?" "What for?" drily asked the earthenware dealer. "What for!" exclaimed Mr. Jones, beginning to lose his temper, "why, because he's taken my front room, and I want to know what sort of a chap he is, and because, too, he has referred me to you—that's what for." "Well, then," said Mr. Smithson, "I'll just tell you this: first, he'll pay his rent; second, he'll give no trouble; third, that's all." With which Mr. Smithson, who had for a moment looked up, and paused in his occupation, returned to his earthenware. "And what does he do?" asked Mr. Jones, not satisfied with this brief account. "If you was to stay here from now till to-morrow morning," surlily replied Mr. Smithson, "you'd know no more from me." Mr. Jones whistled, and walked off, with his hands in his pockets. He had been guilty of the unpardonable sin of not purchasing a shilling's worth of Mr. Smithson's goods since he had come to the neighbourhood, and of course Mr. Smithson felt aggrieved. "Well, father," eagerly exclaimed Mary, as soon as she saw her father; "who is he? What is he? What does he do? Is he married—" "Bless the girl!" interrupted Mr. Jones, "how am I to know all that? He'll pay his rent, and he's respectable, and more don't concern us; and it's time for you to go to Miss Gray, ain't it?" With which limited information Mary had, perforce, to remain satisfied. The new lodger proved to be what Mr. Jones graphically termed "a very buttoned-up sort of chap;" a tall, dark, silent, and reserved man, who paid his rent every week, went out early every morning, came home at ten every night, and vanished every Sunday. We have already hinted that Mr. Jones had a spice of curiosity; this mystery teazed him, and by dint of waylaying his guest both early and late, he succeeded in ascertaining that he had recently left his situation in a large house in the city, and that he was in search of another. No more did Mr. Joseph Saunders choose to communicate; but this was enough. For some time, the poor grocer had had a strong suspicion that he was not a very good business man; that he wanted something; energy, daring, he knew not what, but something he was sure it was. "Now," he thought, "if I could secure such a young fellow as that; it would be a capital thing for me, and in time not a bad one for him. For suppose, that he becomes a Co., and marries Mary, why the house is his, that's all. Now I should like to know what man in the city will say to him: 'Saunders, I'll make a Co. of you, and you shall have my daughter.'" Fully impressed with the importance of the proposal he had to make, Mr. Jones accordingly walked up one morning to his lodger's room; and after a gentle knock, obtained admittance. But scarcely had he entered the room, scarcely cast a look around him, when his heart failed him, Joseph Saunders was packing up. "Going, Sir?" faintly said Jones. "Why yes!" replied the young man, "I have found a situation, and so I am off naturally. My week is up to-morrow, I believe, but not having given notice, I shall pay for next, of course." He thrust his hand in his pocket as he spoke. Poor Mr. Jones was too much hurt with his disappointment to care about the four shillings. "Pray don't mention it," he said hurriedly, "your time's up to-morrow, and so there's an end of it all." Which words applied to the end of his hopes, more than anything else. Mr. Saunders gave him a look of slight surprise, but said quietly: "No, no, Mr. Jones, what's fair is fair. I gave no notice, and so here are your four shillings." He laid them on the table as he spoke; and resumed his packing. He forgot to ask what had brought Mr. Jones up to his room, and Mr. Jones no longer anxious to tell him, pocketed his four shillings and withdrew hastily, under pretence that he was wanted in the shop. Mr. Jones had not acted in all this without consulting his daughter; she had tacitly approved his plans, and when he had imprudently allowed her to see how he thought those plans likely to end by a matrimonial alliance between herself and young Saunders, a faint blush had come over the poor little thing's sallow face, and stooping to shun her father's kind eye, she pretended to pick up a needle that had not fallen. And now she was waiting, below, for it was early yet, and she had not gone to Miss Gray's —she was waiting to know the result of her father's conference with Mr. Saunders. No wonder that he came down somewhat slowly, and not a little crest-fallen. All he said was: "He's got a new situation," and whistling by way of showing his utter unconcern, he entered the shop, where a dirty child with its chin resting on the counter, was waiting to be served. Mary too had had her dreams, innocent dreams, made up of the shadow of love, and of the substance of girlish vanity. The poor child felt this blow, the first her little life had known, and childishly began to cry. Her eyes were red when she went to work, but she sat in shadow, and Jane, who seldom honoured Miss Jones with her notice, saw nothing. Rachel Gray was too much absorbed in her own thoughts to heed what passed around her. It was only on her return, that finding Mary in tears, she drew from her the little tale of her hope and disappointment. It is not an easy task to console, even the lightest sorrow, for it is not easy to feel sympathy. Yet little as her grave mind, and earnest heart could understand the troubles of Mary Jones, little as she could feel in reality for the childish fancy to which they owed their birth, Rachel felt for the young girl's grief, such as it was, and by sympathy and mild reasoning, she soothed Mary, and sent her home partly consoled. Of course, Mr. Saunders was gone—he had left too without any adieu or message. Mary's vanity was as much hurt as her heart. Mr. Jones was not habitually a man of keen perceptions, but love is ever quick. It cut him to the heart to see his little Mary so woebegone. He looked at her wistfully, tried to check a sigh, and said as brightly as he could: "Cheer up, Mary; law bless you girl, well have lots of lodgers yet; and as to that Saunders, I don't so much care about it, now he's gone. He was a clever fellow, but he hadn't got no capital, and as to taking a Co. without capital, why none but a good-natured easy fellow like me would dream of such a thing now a days; but, as I said, we'll have lots of lodgers—lots of lodgers." "We never had but that one all them nine months," said Mary with some asperity. "They're all a coming," said her father gaily, "They're all a coming." And he said it in such droll fashion, and winked so knowingly that, do what she could, Mary could not but laugh. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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