“Exactly,” he said. “Well, Antony, you have seen the men working at the presses?”
“Yes.”
“It is hard work, and they print about two hundred or two hundred and fifty sheets an hour, do they not?”
“Yes; I believe so.”
“And the great clumsy machines print six or seven hundred an hour. Some a thousand.”
“And will your machine do more?” I asked.
“Antony,” he cried, catching my arm in his – and his face lit up as we stood by that attic window – “if my machine succeeds it will be the greatest invention of the age. Look, boy; do you see what I mean to do?”
“N-no,” I said; “not yet.”
“No; of course not,” he cried. “It has been the work of years to think it out, and you cannot grasp it yet. It has grown month by month, my boy, till it has assumed so great a magnitude that I shrink at times, half crushed by my own offspring. There seems to be too much – that I attempt to climb too high – and when I give up almost in despair it lures me on – beckons me in my dreams, and points to the success that might be achieved.”
I looked at him wonderingly; he seemed to be so transformed.
“I began with quite a small idea, Antony,” he continued. “I will show you. My idea was this. You see now, my boy, that with the present machine the type is laid on a table, and it goes backwards and forwards under a great iron cylinder or roller, grinding continually, and being worn out.”
“Yes, I know; the type gets thick and blurred in its fine upstrokes.”
“Exactly,” he said, smiling. “Well, Antony, I tried to invent a simple process of making a mould or seal, when the type was ready, and then – ”
“Making a solid block of fresh type in the big mould. I know,” I cried.
“Right, my boy, right,” he cried; “and I have done it!”
“But does it want a machine like that?”
“Oh no,” he replied: “that grew out of the idea. I was not satisfied then with my solid block of type, which might be used and then melted down again. It struck me, Antony, that it would be better if I made that solid block curved, so as to fit on a big cylinder, and let it go round instead of the paper. I could then print twice as many.”
“Ye-yes,” I said, “but I hardly see it.”
“I will show you presently, my boy,” he replied. “Well, I worked at that idea till I felt satisfied that I could carry it out, when a greater idea came.”
He paused and wiped his forehead, gazing now, though, out at the starry night, and speaking in a low earnest voice.
“It seemed to me then, Antony, that I ought to do away with the simple, clumsy plan of making men or boys supply or lay-on paper, sheet by sheets as the machine was at work.”
“What could you do?” I said.
“Ah, that was the question. I was thinking it over, when going through Saint Paul’s Churchyard I saw in one of the draper’s shops a basket of rolls of ribbon, and the thing was done.”
“How?” I asked.
“By having the paper in a long roll, a thousand yards upon a reel, to be cut off sheet by sheet as it is printed between the cylinders.”
“But could you get paper made so long?”
“To be sure,” he said; “the paper-mills make it in long strips that are cut up in sheets as they are finished. In my machine they would be cut up only when printed. Now, what do you say?”
“It’s like trying to read Greek the first time, Mr Hallett,” I said. “My head feels all in a muddle.”
“Out of which the light will come in time, my boy. But suppose I could make such a machine, Antony, what would you say then?”
“It would be grand!” I exclaimed.
“It would make a revolution in printing,” he cried enthusiastically. “Well, will you help me, Antony?” he said, with a smile.
“Help you! May I?”
“Of course. I shall be glad; only, remember, it is our secret.”
“You may trust me,” I said. “But it must be patented.”
“To be sure. All in good time.”
“It will make your fortune.”
“I hope so,” he said dreamily, “For others’ sake more than mine.”
“Yes,” I cried; “and then you could have a nice place and a carriage for Mrs Hallett, and it would make her so much happier.”
“Yes,” he said, with a sigh.
“And you could be a gentleman again.”
He started, and a curious look came over his face; but it passed away directly, and I saw him shake his head before turning to me with a smile.
“Antony,” he said quietly, “suppose we build the machine, the castles in the air will build themselves. I tell you what; you shall work sometimes and help me to plan; but, as a rule, while I file and grind you shall read some Latin or German author, and you and I can improve ourselves as we go.”
“Agreed!” I cried, and then the rest of the night was spent – a very short night, by the way – in examining the various parts of the little model, Hallett seeming to give himself fresh ideas for improvements as he explained the reason for each wheel and spindle, and told me of the difficulties he had to contend with for want of proper tools and the engineer’s skill.
“I want a lathe, Antony,” he said; “and a good lathe costs many pounds, so I have to botch and patch, and buy clock-wheels and file them down. It takes me a whole evening sometimes wandering about Clerkenwell or the New Cut hunting for what I want.”
“But I can often help you in that way,” I said, “and I will.”
We went down soon after to a late supper, Hallett jealously locking up his attic before we descended. Mrs Hallett had gone to bed and Linny was reading, and jumped up as if startled at our entrance.
Hallett spoke to her as we sat down to supper, and I noticed that he seemed to be cold and stern towards her, while Linny was excited and pettish, seeming to resent her brother’s ways, and talked to me in a light, pleasant, bantering manner about Bluebeard’s secret chamber.
I noticed, too, that she always avoided her brother’s eye, and when we parted that night Hallett seemed a good deal troubled, though he did not tell me why.
Chapter Twenty Five.
Seven-and-a-Half and a Bonus
It was the common talk at the office that Mr Lister was going to be married soon to the rich Miss Carr; and one day, when I was busily reading to Mr Jabez Rowle – who, snuff-box before him, kept drawing in his breath, hissing viciously, and sometimes smacking his lips as he dug his pen into some blunder in the slips before him – Mr Grimstone came bustling in, with his spectacles shining as much as his bald head, his scanty hair standing straight up, and, what was very rarely the case, a smile upon his face.
“Well, Rowle,” he said, rubbing his hands, “how is it this morning?”
“Foul – foul foul,” said Mr Jabez, with a dab at a stop he had missed before. “Those fellows of yours make more literals every day.”
“I’m always telling them of it, Rowle, always,” said Mr Grimstone, nodding his head sharply. “How does this boy get on?”
“Fairly – fairly,” said Mr Rowle, screwing himself round upon his stool, and gazing full in the overseers face. “Now, then, Grimstone, what is it? – what’s on the cards?”
“Oh, nothing – nothing. I only looked in. Give me a pinch!”
Mr Rowle handed his little brown box, and Mr Grimstone refreshed himself with a pinch before handing back the snuff to Mr Rowle, who also took a pinch loudly, and with a defiant flourish, while I took up a slip and a pen, and began to practise reading and correcting, a thing Mr Rowle always encouraged.
Grimstone had evidently come in for a gossip, business being rather slack, following a good deal of night-work and the finish of an important order; and after another pinch and an allusion to the political topic of the day, they seemed to forget my presence and went on talking.
“When’s the happy day to be?” said Mr Grimstone.
“What, Lister’s? Oh, I don’t know: soon, I suppose. Seen her?”
“Yes, twice,” said Mr Grimstone, giving his lips a smack; “beautiful!”
“So I hear,” said Mr Jabez Rowle; “plenty of money too, I suppose.”
“50,000 pounds, and more to come. I never had such luck.”
“I never wanted it,” said Mr Jabez Rowle with a growl. “I don’t know why a man should want to tie himself up to a woman.”
“Not with 50,000 pounds and more to come, eh?” said Mr Grimstone waggishly.
“Might have tempted me twenty years ago,” growled Mr Jabez; “it wouldn’t now.”
“S’pose not. You’re too warm, Rowle – much too warm. I say, though,” he continued, lowering his voice, but quite ignoring me, “is a certain person safe?”
“A certain person?”
“Yes, you know. Suppose, for instance, he quietly asked you to let him have 500 pounds for a few months at seven-and-a-half and a bonus, would you, always considering that he soon touches 50,000 pounds and more to come, would you let him have it?”
Mr Jabez took a pinch of snuff furiously, shut the box with a loud snap, and, evidently completely thrown of his guard, exclaimed:
“Hang him for a fool! Curse me if ever I do so again.”
“What do you mean?” said Mr Grimstone, milling up, “Do you mean to say I’m a fool?”
“No, no: he is, to go and blab.”
“Blab?”
“Yes, to let it out to you.”
“I say! What do you mean?” said Mr Grimstone again.
“Mean? Why, you as good as said he told you I had let him have 500 pounds at seven-and-a-half and a bonus. Lent on the strength of his going to marry a woman with 50,000 pounds and more to come.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“Whew!” whistled Mr Grimstone, snatching the snuff-box out of Mr Jabez Rowle’s hand, taking a vigorous pinch, and scattering so much of the fine brown dust in the air that I should have had a violent fit of sneezing if I had not become hardened to its effects.
The two stared at one another for a minute, and Mr Jabez now snatched the box back and took a hearty pinch, some of which went on to his shirt-front – and some upon his sleeve.
“Why, you don’t mean to say that he has borrowed 500 pounds of you?” said Mr Grimstone, in a whisper.
“But I do mean to say it,” replied Mr Jabez. “How came he to tell you? I never told a soul.”
“He didn’t tell me,” said Mr Grimstone thoughtfully.
“Then who did?”
“No one.”
“Then how came you to know?” said Mr Jabez, passing his box. “Why, you don’t mean to say he has been to you for five hundred?”
Mr Grimstone nodded.
“And offered you seven-and-a-half, and a bonus of thirty pounds?”
Mr Grimstone nodded again, and this time it was Mr Jabez Rowle’s turn to whistle.
“He wanted it done quietly, and I, after a bit, agreed to do it. But though we ain’t friends over business matters, Jabez Rowle, I know you to be a man of strong common-sense and integrity, and I thought you would give me a good bit of advice. But this seems to alter the case. Would you lend it?”
“Humph! Two five hundreds are not much out of fifty thousand,” said Mr Jabez; “but what does he want the money for? ’Tain’t for the business.”
“No,” said Mr Grimstone, “because he said he didn’t want Mr Ruddle to know. I say, what would you do? I shouldn’t like to offend Lister.”
“Do? Well, I’ve lent the money,” said Mr Jabez, taking a savage pinch.
“And would you do the same if you were me?” replied Mr Grimstone. “It’s a lot of money; years of savings, you know, and – ”
He made some kind of gesticulation, and I fancy he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder at me.
“Look here, Grace,” said Mr Rowle, “go downstairs and ask Mr Ruddle to send me up Mr Hendry’s letter about his book.”
I got down off my stool, and left them together in the glass case, going straight down to the office, where, in place of Mr Ruddle, I round Mr Lister, and told him my business.
“I don’t know where it is,” he replied. “I leave it till Mr Ruddle comes in. But look here, Grace, I wanted you. Miss Carr was asking how you got on. Take this note there – you know where she lives – and give it to her herself. But before you go up there take this note to Norfolk Street, Strand. No answer.”
He took four written slips of stamped blue paper from his pocket, and I saw him write across them, blot them hastily, and refold and place them in a letter, which he carefully sealed. After which, I noticed that he tore off and destroyed the piece of blotting-paper that he had used. I thought no more of it then, but it came up in connection with matters that afterwards occurred.
I hurried upstairs, and told Mr Jabez Rowle that Mr Lister wanted me to go out, Mr Grimstone being still in close conference with him in the glass case.
“Where are you going, boy?” said the latter.
“To Miss Carr’s with a note, sir,” I said; and the two old men exchanged glances of intelligence.
“All right, Grace,” said Mr Jabez, nodding; “we’re not busy. You can go.”
I hurried away, thinking no more of them or their conversation; but I was obliged to go into the composing-room below, to hurry up to Mr Hallett’s frame, where, stern-looking and half-repellent, he was rapidly setting a piece of manuscript.
“I’m going to Miss Carr’s,” I whispered, while my face glowed with pleasure.
“Indeed!” he said, starting; and my bright face might have been reflected in his, such a change passed over his speaking countenance.
“I’ve to take a note from Mr Lister and to wait for an answer,” I said; and I felt startled at the rapid change as he heard these last words. “Are you ill?” I cried anxiously.
“No – no,” he said hastily, and his voice sounded hard and harsh. “Go away now, I am very much pressed for time.”
I left him, wondering, for I could not read him then, and bounding down the stairs, I was soon in Fleet Street, and soon after in Norfolk Street, Strand.
I quickly found the number and the door, with a large brass plate thereon bearing the name “Brandsheim,” and in small letters in the corner “Ground Floor.”
A boy clerk answered my knock, and I was told to sit down in an outer office while the clerk went in with the note and to see if Mr Brandsheim was at home.
Mr Brandsheim was at home, and was ushered into his presence, to find him a dark, yellow-looking man with a wrinkled face and very keen eyes. He quite startled me for the moment, for, though not in personal appearance in the slightest degree resembling Mr Blakeford, there was a something about him that suggested that worthy and his ways.
He was dressed in the first style of fashion, a little exaggerated. He might have been a slave of the great Plutus himself, for round his neck and lashing his chest was a thick gold chain; diamond rings were on the fingers of each hand; a great opal and diamond pin was in his black satin stock; at his wrists were jewelled sleeve-links that glistened and sparkled when he moved. There was nothing sordid about him, for he sat in an easy-chair at a polished secretary; there was a Turkey carpet beneath his feet, and the furniture of the room was massive and good; but, all the same, I had no sooner entered the place than I began to think of Mr Blakeford and Mr Wooster, and I involuntarily wondered whether this man could be in any way connected with my late employer, and whether I had unconsciously walked into a trap.
As my eyes wandered about the room in search of tin boxes containing different people’s affairs, of dusty parchments and sale bills, I felt better; for they were all absent. In their place were large oil pictures against the walls, hung, and leaning back, resting on the floor. On a sideboard was a row of little stoppered bottles with labels hanging from their necks in a jaunty fashion, and in the bottles were richly tinted liquids – topaz, ruby, purple, and gold. They might have been medicines, but they looked like wines, and I felt sure they were, as I saw piled upon the floor some dozens of cigar-boxes.
Mr Brandsheim might have been a picture dealer, a wine merchant, or an importer of cigars, for in those days I had yet to learn that he was a bill-discounter who contrived that his clients should have so much in cash for an acceptance, and the rest in old masters, Whitechapel Havanas, and Hambro-Spanish wines.
Mr Brandsheim’s words somewhat reassured me, as he nodded pleasantly to me and smiled.
“Sit down, my man,” he said; “sit down, and I’ll soon be ready for you. Let me see – let me see.”
He busied himself behind his secretary, rustling papers and making notes, and now and then looking at me and tapping his teeth with a heavy gold pencil-case, while I furtively watched him and wondered how he managed to make his jet black hair so shiny, and why it was he spoke as if he had been poking cottonwool up his nose, till it suddenly occurred to me that he must be a German.
“Ah!” he said, at last; “let me see – let me see – let me see – see – see. Mr Lister quite well?”
“Yes, sir; quite well, thank you.”
“That’s right. Let me see – let me – how’s business?”
“Oh! we’ve been very busy, sir. The men have often had to stop up all night to get things finished.”
“Have they really, though?” he said, nodding and smiling; “and did you stay up, too?”
“No, sir; I read for Mr Jabez Rowle, and he said he wouldn’t sit up all night and upset himself for anybody.”
“Mr Jabez Rowle is quite right, my lad.”
“He said, sir, his work was so particular that after he had been correcting for twelve hours his eyes and mind were exhausted, and he could not do his work properly.”
“Mr Jabez Rowle is a man of business, my lad, evidently. And Mr Lister, is he pretty busy?”
“I think he comes to the office every day.”
“Have a glass of wine, my lad,” he said, getting up and taking a decanter, glass, and a dish of biscuits from a cellaret. “No. Good sherry won’t hurt you. Take some biscuits, then.”
I took some of the sweet biscuits, and Mr Brandsheim nodded approval.
“I won’t keep you long,” he said; “but I must compare these papers. You are not going anywhere else, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir; I am going up to Westmouth Street, Cavendish Square.”
“Indeed! Hah! that’s a good walk for you; or, no, I suppose Mr Lister told you to take a cab?”
“No, sir,” I said colouring; “I am going to walk.”
“Oh, absurd! Too far. Lawrence,” he cried, after touching a bell, and the boy clerk appeared, “have a cab to the door in ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That will pay for the cab, my lad,” continued Mr Brandsheim, slipping a couple of shillings into my hand. “I must keep you waiting a little while. Let me see – let me see – you didn’t go to the races, I suppose?”
“Oh no, sir.”
“Mr Ruddle and Mr Lister did, eh?”
“Mr Lister did, sir, I believe. Mr Ruddle never goes, I think.”
“Doesn’t he, though? How strange! I always go. Let me see – five hundred and sixty-six is – is – So Mr Lister’s going to be married, eh?”
“Yes, sir, I believe so.”
“That’s right. Everybody should marry when the time comes. You will some day. I hope the lady’s young and rich.”
“She’s beautiful, sir,” I said, with animation, feeling sorry, though, the next moment, for I did not like the idea of this man being so interested in her.
“Is she, though?” he said insidiously. “But you’ve not seen her.”
“Oh yes, sir, more than once.”
“Have you, though? Well, you are favoured. Let me see,” he continued, consulting a little thick book which he took from a drawer. “Seven hundred and fifty and two hundred and – er – er – oh, to be sure, yes; I think I heard who it was to be. Beautiful Miss Wilson, the doctor’s daughter. Let’s see, she’s very poor, though.”
I did not want to say more, but he seemed to lead me on, and get answers from me in an insidious way that I could not combat; and in spite of myself I said:
“No, sir, it is Miss Carr; and she is very rich.”
“You don’t say so!” he exclaimed, staring at me in surprise. “You don’t mean the Carrs of Westmouth Street?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I am surprised,” he exclaimed. “Lister’s a lucky dog. Why, I see, you dog!” he said, in a bantering way, “you carry the love-letters backwards and forwards.”
“Oh no, sir, I – ”
“Hush, hush, hush! Not a word. I won’t listen to you. Don’t betray your master’s secrets, my lad. You’re a confidential messenger, and must clap a seal upon your lips.”
“But, sir, I – ”
“No, no. How much?” he said, with mock severity. “Don’t speak, don’t interrupt me; I’m reckoning up. Let me see – let me see – ha! that’s it exactly. There we are,” he continued, fastening down a note and handing it to me. “Run along, my young Mercury, and if I were you I should make cabby drive me to Oxford Street for a shilling, and save the other. That’s the way to grow rich. Off you go. Take care of this.”
He thrust a letter into my hands, and almost pushed me out of the room, so that I had not time to speak; and before I had quite recovered from my confusion, I was in the cab, and heard the boy clerk say:
“Put him down at Oxford Circus.”
Then the wheels began to rattle, and the door to jangle, and I sit feeling angry with myself for saying so much about Mr Lister and Miss Carr, as I recalled William Revitts’ advice, often given, to “let other people talk while you make notes.”
The thought of where I was going soon drove my interview with Mr Brandsheim out of my head, and getting out of the cab at the Circus, I made the best of my way to the great imposing house in Westmouth Street, rang, and asked to see Miss Carr.
The man-servant looked at me rather dubiously, and asked my name. Then, bidding me sit down in the great sombre-looking hall, he went up the heavy staircase, and came back to bid me follow him.
I noticed as I went upstairs that the place was heavily but handsomely furnished. There were pictures on the walls of staircase and landing, and the stone steps were covered with a rich thick carpet. The wealthy look of the place, however, did not seem to abash me, for the atmosphere of refinement in which I found myself recalled old days; and the thoughts of the past seemed strengthened, as I was ushered into a prettily furnished little drawing-room, all bright with flowers, water-colour drawings, and books, from a table strewn with which latter Miss Carr arose to welcome me.
And again the feeling was strengthened at her first words:
“Ah, Antony!”
For the printing-office, Mr Revitts’ shabby room, Hallett’s attic, my own downfall, were forgotten, and, bright and eager, I half ran to meet her, and caught her extended hand.
Her sad face brightened as she saw the eager pleasure in my eyes, and retaining my hand, she led me to a couch and seated herself by my side.
“Then you had not forgotten me?” she said.
“Forgotten you?” I cried reproachfully, “I have been so longing to see you again.”
“Then why did you not come?”
“Come!” I said, with the recollection of my present state flashing back; and my heart sank as I replied, “I did not dare; I am so different now. But I have a note for you, Miss Carr.”
I took Mr Lister’s note from my pocket, and gave it to her, noticing at the time that she took it and laid it quietly down, in place of opening it eagerly.
“I shall always be glad to see you, Antony, that is, so long as you prove to me that you have not been unworthy of my recommendation.”
“I will always try,” I cried eagerly.
“I feel sure you will,” she said. “Mr Ruddle tells me you are rising fast.”
I coloured with pleasure, and then reddened more deeply as I saw that she noticed me, and smiled.
“But now, come, tell me of yourself – what you do and how you get on;” and by degrees, almost without questioning, I told her all my proceedings. For somehow, it seemed the highest delight to me to be once more in the society of a refined lady. Her looks, her touch, the very scent emanating from her dress and the flowers, seemed so to bring back the old days that I felt as if I were once more at home, chatting away to my mother. And so the time slipped by till I imperceptibly found myself telling Miss Carr all about my old pursuits – our life at homeland my favourite books, she being a willing listener, when, suddenly, a clear, silvery-toned clock began to strike and dissolved the spell. The old drawing-room, the lawn beyond the French window, the scent of the flowers, seemed to pass away to give place to the great printing-office and my daily work, and with a choking sensation in my throat, I remembered what I was – the messenger who had forgotten his errand, and I started to my feet.
“Why, Antony!” exclaimed Miss Carr, “what is it?”
“I had forgotten,” I said piteously; “I brought you a note; Mr Lister will be angry if I do not take back the answer.”
