Chapter 4
In the venerable suburb--it was a suburb once--of Clerkenwell, towardsthat part of its confines which is nearest to the Charter House, and inone of those cool, shady streets, of which a few, widely scatteredand dispersed, yet remain in such old parts of the metropolis,--eachtenement quietly vegetating like an ancient citizen who long ago retiredfrom business, and dozing on in its infirmity until in course of time ittumbles down, and is replaced by some extravagant young heir, flauntingin stucco and ornamental work, and all the vanities of modern days,--inthis quarter, and in a street of this description, the business of thepresent chapter lies.
At the time of which it treats, though only six-and-sixty years ago,a very large part of what is London now had no existence. Even in thebrains of the wildest speculators, there had sprung up no long rows ofstreets connecting Highgate with Whitechapel, no assemblages of palacesin the swampy levels, nor little cities in the open fields. Althoughthis part of town was then, as now, parcelled out in streets, andplentifully peopled, it wore a different aspect. There were gardensto many of the houses, and trees by the pavement side; with an air offreshness breathing up and down, which in these days would be soughtin vain. Fields were nigh at hand, through which the New River took itswinding course, and where there was merry haymaking in the summer time.Nature was not so far removed, or hard to get at, as in these days; andalthough there were busy trades in Clerkenwell, and working jewellersby scores, it was a purer place, with farm-houses nearer to it than manymodern Londoners would readily believe, and lovers' walks at no greatdistance, which turned into squalid courts, long before the lovers ofthis age were born, or, as the phrase goes, thought of.
In one of these streets, the cleanest of them all, and on the shadyside of the way--for good housewives know that sunlight damages theircherished furniture, and so choose the shade rather than its intrusiveglare--there stood the house with which we have to deal. It was a modestbuilding, not very straight, not large, not tall; not bold-faced, withgreat staring windows, but a shy, blinking house, with a conical roofgoing up into a peak over its garret window of four small panes ofglass, like a cocked hat on the head of an elderly gentleman with oneeye. It was not built of brick or lofty stone, but of wood and plaster;it was not planned with a dull and wearisome regard to regularity,for no one window matched the other, or seemed to have the slightestreference to anything besides itself.
The shop--for it had a shop--was, with reference to the first floor,where shops usually are; and there all resemblance between it and anyother shop stopped short and ceased. People who went in and out didn'tgo up a flight of steps to it, or walk easily in upon a level with thestreet, but dived down three steep stairs, as into a cellar. Its floorwas paved with stone and brick, as that of any other cellar might be;and in lieu of window framed and glazed it had a great black wooden flapor shutter, nearly breast high from the ground, which turned back inthe day-time, admitting as much cold air as light, and very often more.Behind this shop was a wainscoted parlour, looking first into a pavedyard, and beyond that again into a little terrace garden, raised somefeet above it. Any stranger would have supposed that this wainscotedparlour, saving for the door of communication by which he had entered,was cut off and detached from all the world; and indeed most strangerson their first entrance were observed to grow extremely thoughtful, asweighing and pondering in their minds whether the upper rooms were onlyapproachable by ladders from without; never suspecting that two ofthe most unassuming and unlikely doors in existence, which the mostingenious mechanician on earth must of necessity have supposed to bethe doors of closets, opened out of this room--each without the smallestpreparation, or so much as a quarter of an inch of passage--upon twodark winding flights of stairs, the one upward, the other downward,which were the sole means of communication between that chamber and theother portions of the house.
With all these oddities, there was not a neater, more scrupulously tidy,or more punctiliously ordered house, in Clerkenwell, in London, in allEngland. There were not cleaner windows, or whiter floors, or brighterStoves, or more highly shining articles of furniture in old mahogany;there was not more rubbing, scrubbing, burnishing and polishing, in thewhole street put together. Nor was this excellence attained without somecost and trouble and great expenditure of voice, as the neighbourswere frequently reminded when the good lady of the house overlooked andassisted in its being put to rights on cleaning days--which were usuallyfrom Monday morning till Saturday night, both days inclusive.
Leaning against the door-post of this, his dwelling, the locksmithstood early on the morning after he had met with the wounded man, gazingdisconsolately at a great wooden emblem of a key, painted in vividyellow to resemble gold, which dangled from the house-front, and swungto and fro with a mournful creaking noise, as if complaining that it hadnothing to unlock. Sometimes, he looked over his shoulder into the shop,which was so dark and dingy with numerous tokens of his trade, and soblackened by the smoke of a little forge, near which his 'prenticewas at work, that it would have been difficult for one unused to suchespials to have distinguished anything but various tools of uncouth makeand shape, great bunches of rusty keys, fragments of iron, half-finishedlocks, and such like things, which garnished the walls and hung inclusters from the ceiling.
After a long and patient contemplation of the golden key, and many suchbackward glances, Gabriel stepped into the road, and stole a look at theupper windows. One of them chanced to be thrown open at the moment,and a roguish face met his; a face lighted up by the loveliest pair ofsparkling eyes that ever locksmith looked upon; the face of a pretty,laughing, girl; dimpled and fresh, and healthful--the very impersonationof good-humour and blooming beauty.
'Hush!' she whispered, bending forward and pointing archly to the windowunderneath. 'Mother is still asleep.'
'Still, my dear,' returned the locksmith in the same tone. 'You talk asif she had been asleep all night, instead of little more than half anhour. But I'm very thankful. Sleep's a blessing--no doubt about it.' Thelast few words he muttered to himself.
'How cruel of you to keep us up so late this morning, and never tell uswhere you were, or send us word!' said the girl.
'Ah Dolly, Dolly!' returned the locksmith, shaking his head, andsmiling, 'how cruel of you to run upstairs to bed! Come down tobreakfast, madcap, and come down lightly, or you'll wake your mother.She must be tired, I am sure--I am.'
Keeping these latter words to himself, and returning his daughter's nod,he was passing into the workshop, with the smile she had awakened stillbeaming on his face, when he just caught sight of his 'prentice's brownpaper cap ducking down to avoid observation, and shrinking from thewindow back to its former place, which the wearer no sooner reached thanhe began to hammer lustily.
'Listening again, Simon!' said Gabriel to himself. 'That's bad. What inthe name of wonder does he expect the girl to say, that I always catchhim listening when SHE speaks, and never at any other time! A bad habit,Sim, a sneaking, underhanded way. Ah! you may hammer, but you won't beatthat out of me, if you work at it till your time's up!'
So saying, and shaking his head gravely, he re-entered the workshop, andconfronted the subject of these remarks.
'There's enough of that just now,' said the locksmith. 'You needn't makeany more of that confounded clatter. Breakfast's ready.'
'Sir,' said Sim, looking up with amazing politeness, and a peculiarlittle bow cut short off at the neck, 'I shall attend you immediately.'
'I suppose,' muttered Gabriel, 'that's out of the 'Prentice's Garland orthe 'Prentice's Delight, or the 'Prentice's Warbler, or the Prentice'sGuide to the Gallows, or some such improving textbook. Now he's going tobeautify himself--here's a precious locksmith!'
Quite unconscious that his master was looking on from the dark corner bythe parlour door, Sim threw off the paper cap, sprang from his seat,and in two extraordinary steps, something between skating and minuetdancing, bounded to a washing place at the other end of the shop,and there removed from his face
and hands all traces of his previouswork--practising the same step all the time with the utmost gravity.This done, he drew from some concealed place a little scrap oflooking-glass, and with its assistance arranged his hair, andascertained the exact state of a little carbuncle on his nose. Havingnow completed his toilet, he placed the fragment of mirror on a lowbench, and looked over his shoulder at so much of his legs as could bereflected in that small compass, with the greatest possible complacencyand satisfaction.
Sim, as he was called in the locksmith's family, or Mr Simon Tappertit,as he called himself, and required all men to style him out of doors,on holidays, and Sundays out,--was an old-fashioned, thin-faced,sleek-haired, sharp-nosed, small-eyed little fellow, very little morethan five feet high, and thoroughly convinced in his own mind that hewas above the middle size; rather tall, in fact, than otherwise. Of hisfigure, which was well enough formed, though somewhat of the leanest,he entertained the highest admiration; and with his legs, which, inknee-breeches, were perfect curiosities of littleness, he was enrapturedto a degree amounting to enthusiasm. He also had some majestic, shadowyideas, which had never been quite fathomed by his intimate friends,concerning the power of his eye. Indeed he had been known to go so faras to boast that he could utterly quell and subdue the haughtiest beautyby a simple process, which he termed 'eyeing her over;' but it mustbe added, that neither of this faculty, nor of the power he claimedto have, through the same gift, of vanquishing and heaving down dumbanimals, even in a rabid state, had he ever furnished evidence whichcould be deemed quite satisfactory and conclusive.
It may be inferred from these premises, that in the small body of MrTappertit there was locked up an ambitious and aspiring soul. Ascertain liquors, confined in casks too cramped in their dimensions, willferment, and fret, and chafe in their imprisonment, so the spiritualessence or soul of Mr Tappertit would sometimes fume within thatprecious cask, his body, until, with great foam and froth and splutter,it would force a vent, and carry all before it. It was his custom toremark, in reference to any one of these occasions, that his soul hadgot into his head; and in this novel kind of intoxication many scrapesand mishaps befell him, which he had frequently concealed with no smalldifficulty from his worthy master.
Sim Tappertit, among the other fancies upon which his before-mentionedsoul was for ever feasting and regaling itself (and which fancies,like the liver of Prometheus, grew as they were fed upon), had a mightynotion of his order; and had been heard by the servant-maid openlyexpressing his regret that the 'prentices no longer carried clubswherewith to mace the citizens: that was his strong expression. He waslikewise reported to have said that in former times a stigma had beencast upon the body by the execution of George Barnwell, to which theyshould not have basely submitted, but should have demanded him ofthe legislature--temperately at first; then by an appeal to arms, ifnecessary--to be dealt with as they in their wisdom might think fit.These thoughts always led him to consider what a glorious engine the'prentices might yet become if they had but a master spirit at theirhead; and then he would darkly, and to the terror of his hearers, hintat certain reckless fellows that he knew of, and at a certain Lion Heartready to become their captain, who, once afoot, would make the LordMayor tremble on his throne.
In respect of dress and personal decoration, Sim Tappertit was no lessof an adventurous and enterprising character. He had been seen, beyonddispute, to pull off ruffles of the finest quality at the corner of thestreet on Sunday nights, and to put them carefully in his pocket beforereturning home; and it was quite notorious that on all great holidayoccasions it was his habit to exchange his plain steel knee-buckles fora pair of glittering paste, under cover of a friendly post, planted mostconveniently in that same spot. Add to this that he was in years justtwenty, in his looks much older, and in conceit at least two hundred;that he had no objection to be jested with, touching his admirationof his master's daughter; and had even, when called upon at a certainobscure tavern to pledge the lady whom he honoured with his love,toasted, with many winks and leers, a fair creature whose Christianname, he said, began with a D--;--and as much is known of Sim Tappertit,who has by this time followed the locksmith in to breakfast, as isnecessary to be known in making his acquaintance.
It was a substantial meal; for, over and above the ordinary teaequipage, the board creaked beneath the weight of a jolly round of beef,a ham of the first magnitude, and sundry towers of buttered Yorkshirecake, piled slice upon slice in most alluring order. There was alsoa goodly jug of well-browned clay, fashioned into the form of an oldgentleman, not by any means unlike the locksmith, atop of whose baldhead was a fine white froth answering to his wig, indicative, beyonddispute, of sparkling home-brewed ale. But, better far than fairhome-brewed, or Yorkshire cake, or ham, or beef, or anything to eat ordrink that earth or air or water can supply, there sat, presiding overall, the locksmith's rosy daughter, before whose dark eyes even beefgrew insignificant, and malt became as nothing.
Fathers should never kiss their daughters when young men are by. It'stoo much. There are bounds to human endurance. So thought Sim Tappertitwhen Gabriel drew those rosy lips to his--those lips within Sim's reachfrom day to day, and yet so far off. He had a respect for his master,but he wished the Yorkshire cake might choke him.
'Father,' said the locksmith's daughter, when this salute was over, andthey took their seats at table, 'what is this I hear about last night?'
'All true, my dear; true as the Gospel, Doll.'
'Young Mr Chester robbed, and lying wounded in the road, when you cameup!'
'Ay--Mr Edward. And beside him, Barnaby, calling for help with all hismight. It was well it happened as it did; for the road's a lonely one,the hour was late, and, the night being cold, and poor Barnaby even lesssensible than usual from surprise and fright, the young gentleman mighthave met his death in a very short time.'
'I dread to think of it!' cried his daughter with a shudder. 'How didyou know him?'
'Know him!' returned the locksmith. 'I didn't know him--how could I? Ihad never seen him, often as I had heard and spoken of him. I took himto Mrs Rudge's; and she no sooner saw him than the truth came out.'
'Miss Emma, father--If this news should reach her, enlarged upon as itis sure to be, she will go distracted.'
'Why, lookye there again, how a man suffers for being good-natured,'said the locksmith. 'Miss Emma was with her uncle at the masquerade atCarlisle House, where she had gone, as the people at the Warren told me,sorely against her will. What does your blockhead father when he and MrsRudge have laid their heads together, but goes there when he ought to beabed, makes interest with his friend the doorkeeper, slips him on a maskand domino, and mixes with the masquers.'
'And like himself to do so!' cried the girl, putting her fair arm roundhis neck, and giving him a most enthusiastic kiss.
'Like himself!' repeated Gabriel, affecting to grumble, but evidentlydelighted with the part he had taken, and with her praise. 'Very likehimself--so your mother said. However, he mingled with the crowd,and prettily worried and badgered he was, I warrant you, with peoplesqueaking, "Don't you know me?" and "I've found you out," and all thatkind of nonsense in his ears. He might have wandered on till now, butin a little room there was a young lady who had taken off her mask, onaccount of the place being very warm, and was sitting there alone.'
'And that was she?' said his daughter hastily.
'And that was she,' replied the locksmith; 'and I no sooner whispered toher what the matter was--as softly, Doll, and with nearly as much art asyou could have used yourself--than she gives a kind of scream and faintsaway.'
'What did you do--what happened next?' asked his daughter. 'Why, themasks came flocking round, with a general noise and hubbub, and Ithought myself in luck to get clear off, that's all,' rejoined thelocksmith. 'What happened when I reached home you may guess, if youdidn't hear it. Ah! Well, it's a poor heart that never rejoices.--PutToby this way, my dear.'
This Toby was the brown jug of which previous mention has been
made.Applying his lips to the worthy old gentleman's benevolent forehead, thelocksmith, who had all this time been ravaging among the eatables, keptthem there so long, at the same time raising the vessel slowly inthe air, that at length Toby stood on his head upon his nose, when hesmacked his lips, and set him on the table again with fond reluctance.
Although Sim Tappertit had taken no share in this conversation, no partof it being addressed to him, he had not been wanting in such silentmanifestations of astonishment, as he deemed most compatible with thefavourable display of his eyes. Regarding the pause which now ensued, asa particularly advantageous opportunity for doing great execution withthem upon the locksmith's daughter (who he had no doubt was lookingat him in mute admiration), he began to screw and twist his face,and especially those features, into such extraordinary, hideous, andunparalleled contortions, that Gabriel, who happened to look towardshim, was stricken with amazement.
'Why, what the devil's the matter with the lad?' cried the locksmith.'Is he choking?'
'Who?' demanded Sim, with some disdain.
'Who? Why, you,' returned his master. 'What do you mean by making thosehorrible faces over your breakfast?'
'Faces are matters of taste, sir,' said Mr Tappertit, ratherdiscomfited; not the less so because he saw the locksmith's daughtersmiling.
'Sim,' rejoined Gabriel, laughing heartily. 'Don't be a fool, for I'drather see you in your senses. These young fellows,' he added, turningto his daughter, 'are always committing some folly or another. There wasa quarrel between Joe Willet and old John last night though I can't sayJoe was much in fault either. He'll be missing one of these mornings,and will have gone away upon some wild-goose errand, seeking hisfortune.--Why, what's the matter, Doll? YOU are making faces now. Thegirls are as bad as the boys every bit!'
'It's the tea,' said Dolly, turning alternately very red and very white,which is no doubt the effect of a slight scald--'so very hot.'
Mr Tappertit looked immensely big at a quartern loaf on the table, andbreathed hard.
'Is that all?' returned the locksmith. 'Put some more milk in it.--Yes,I am sorry for Joe, because he is a likely young fellow, and gains uponone every time one sees him. But he'll start off, you'll find. Indeed hetold me as much himself!'
'Indeed!' cried Dolly in a faint voice. 'In-deed!'
'Is the tea tickling your throat still, my dear?' said the locksmith.
But, before his daughter could make him any answer, she was taken witha troublesome cough, and it was such a very unpleasant cough, that,when she left off, the tears were starting in her bright eyes. Thegood-natured locksmith was still patting her on the back and applyingsuch gentle restoratives, when a message arrived from Mrs Varden, makingknown to all whom it might concern, that she felt too much indisposedto rise after her great agitation and anxiety of the previous night; andtherefore desired to be immediately accommodated with the little blackteapot of strong mixed tea, a couple of rounds of buttered toast, amiddling-sized dish of beef and ham cut thin, and the Protestant Manualin two volumes post octavo. Like some other ladies who in remoteages flourished upon this globe, Mrs Varden was most devout when mostill-tempered. Whenever she and her husband were at unusual variance,then the Protestant Manual was in high feather.
Knowing from experience what these requests portended, the triumviratebroke up; Dolly, to see the orders executed with all despatch; Gabriel,to some out-of-door work in his little chaise; and Sim, to his dailyduty in the workshop, to which retreat he carried the big look, althoughthe loaf remained behind.
Indeed the big look increased immensely, and when he had tied his apronon, became quite gigantic. It was not until he had several times walkedup and down with folded arms, and the longest strides he could take,and had kicked a great many small articles out of his way, that his lipbegan to curl. At length, a gloomy derision came upon his features, andhe smiled; uttering meanwhile with supreme contempt the monosyllable'Joe!'
'I eyed her over, while he talked about the fellow,' he said, 'and thatwas of course the reason of her being confused. Joe!'
He walked up and down again much quicker than before, and if possiblewith longer strides; sometimes stopping to take a glance at his legs,and sometimes to jerk out, and cast from him, another 'Joe!' In thecourse of a quarter of an hour or so he again assumed the paper cap andtried to work. No. It could not be done.
'I'll do nothing to-day,' said Mr Tappertit, dashing it down again, 'butgrind. I'll grind up all the tools. Grinding will suit my present humourwell. Joe!'
Whirr-r-r-r. The grindstone was soon in motion; the sparks were flyingoff in showers. This was the occupation for his heated spirit.
Whirr-r-r-r-r-r-r.
'Something will come of this!' said Mr Tappertit, pausing as if intriumph, and wiping his heated face upon his sleeve. 'Something willcome of this. I hope it mayn't be human gore!'
Whirr-r-r-r-r-r-r-r.