Mr. Spivey's Clerk/Chapter 1

About half-way down Paternoster Row there was, not many years ago, a small shop, which bore above its window the name of Spivey, Publisher and Bookseller, and was not otherwise distinguished from the adjacent establishments. What its number was has now slipped from my memory; nay, I do not remember that in the time of my acquaintance with it it ever had a number. The letters which were delivered there never bore a number; and the booksellers' collectors, who came to the place with blue or black bags across their shoulders, never knew ​it by any other term than "Spivey's." Not that Spivey's possessed any features likely to attract. I believe, speaking from memory, that it was a very dirty shop as regards its exterior appearance. The door and window-frames had grown dingy from much rubbing. The Row is exceedingly narrow just there, and the top half of the large sheets of glass had evidently not seen the charwoman's mop or leather for some years. The lower half was painted with white lead, so that no one might peer into the shop, lest they should catch glimpses of the mysteries of the publishing craft. But Mr. Spivey's various office-boys had thought it well to have an occasional peep into the Row, and they had therefore scratched minute portions of the paint away, so that the painted half bore something of a piebald appearance. There was generally a contents bill hanging in the square of glass which ornamented the top panel of the door; but the latter was always so dingy that I question ​whether any one could read it. Nevertheless, as Mr. Spivey published a magazine and also a weekly paper, it was necessary that a contents bill should be displayed somewhere about the establishment, and accordingly the magazine bill was posted in the door, and the weekly paper in the window. The titles of both magazine and journal were painted in neat black letters on the door-post, but I am not going to tell you what they were just now.

It was seven o'clock in the evening of a warm June day, and things in the Row were beginning to get quiet. The great vans which so effectually block that tiny thoroughfare were gone; the itinerant vendors of fruit and ice-cream had betaken themselves to likelier places; and there was a steady procession of men in top-hats towards Ludgate Hill. The Row, in fact, was going home to Kensington and Camberwell, to Highbury and Brixton, to Shepherd's Bush and eke to Bow; to dinner with plenty of wine, and ​a box at the Opera; to tea with a penn'orth of shrimps, and a look in at the tuppeny seats of the Britt. or the Vic. For in the Row there are mingled all sorts and conditions, from the aristocratic publisher who gives splendid dinners to his more famous authors, to the office-boy whose circle is that of Kingsland Road or Blackfriars.

They had not yet closed, however, at Spivey's. Mr. Spivey himself had certainly gone home to Sydenham at five o'clock, carrying with him a bit of fish in a straw bag, and a pine-apple in a paper bag. It was a habit of his to go home early, perhaps because it seemed the correct thing to do, or possibly because he found seven hours' attendance at his establishment quite enough for his constitution. Mr. Spivey's clerks, however, were expected to remain in evidence until seven o'clock. When the clock of St. Paul's struck seven the office-boy was at liberty to sweep up; at a quarter-past the whole staff was equally at ​liberty to depart. Mr. Spivey thought that his clerks ought to be grateful to him for granting them such early hours, and he never lost an opportunity of impressing upon them the advantages which they might gain during the hours intervening between seven and bedtime.

Let us enter Mr. Spivey's establishment and look round. It is somewhat dingy inside as well as outside, and the place smells as if the gas had been burning all day long, as indeed it usually is. There is a long counter running the length of the shop; there are rows upon rows of square pigeonholes filled with books; and there is a glass screen at the end of the counter, with a door in the middle on which is inscribed the word "Office." Close to the window looking into the street there is a small desk, protected from the vulgar gaze by a wood screen, and on the screen, and immediately facing you as you enter the shop, is a placard drawing attention to the fact that payments will only be made on the second ​Saturday in each month, a most disturbing announcement to any who want their money badly and come three weeks too early for it. Mr. Spivey's clerks are preparing to go home. The office-boy, whose jacket is so much too small for him that it seems to have grown with him, has sprinkled the floor with water and is now sweeping up. A young gentleman of twenty is performing the duties of his toilet at a small square of looking-glass. He has taken off and hung up a very dirty turn-down collar, a decayed vest, and an out-at-elbows jacket, and is now donning a very high collar, a brilliant tie, and an irreproachable vest and coat. A bottle of boot-polish at his elbow gives evidence that he has not forgotten his pointed shoes, while his shining top-hat is standing ready to be adjusted upon his well-ordered head. Near him a middle-aged individual is putting on his coat with a preoccupied air, which simply means that he is endeavouring to decide at which ​of the neighbouring public-houses he will take a glass of bitter. And at the small desk near the window stands a young man, who is casting up figures in a ledger and comparing them with a pile of coins at his side, being, in fact, occupied in making up his petty cash for the day. The carefully-attired young gentleman, having finished his toilet to his own satisfaction, adjusts the curly-brimmed hat, and, with a "Good-night, old man," to the figure at the desk, goes out. The middle-aged man follows him more slowly and says, "Good-night, old fellow," too. And then the office-boy, having struggled bravely with the brush and swept the last vestige of dust into the street, comes up and says, meekly:

"I've swept up now, Mr. Christmas."

The young man at the desk nods, says, "All right, James, you can go," and is at once left alone, the boy producing his cap from some invisible quarter and vanishing through the door like a shadow.

​Let us look at Mr. Thomas Christmas, head clerk to Mr. Spivey the publisher, as he stands at his desk adding up pounds, shillings, and pence. He is rather above the average height; he is not good-looking; he is badly-dressed. Beginning at his boots, you will notice that they are patched in more than one place, that his trousers are very much bagged at the knees and white at the seams, that his vest is also the worse for wear, and his coat old-fashioned and shiny. Nevertheless there is nothing untidy about him. His clothes are darned here and there, but they are not torn; his boots are patched, but the soles are thick and the heels are not down. His linen is clean and good, his black tie is new, and he wears an old-fashioned hair-chain to his watch. In spite of his well-worn clothes and unfashionable appearance he looks what he is—a gentleman. Certainly, it is not handsome looks which bestow the stamp of gentility upon him, for he is not handsome. His ​hair is suspiciously auburn, his nose is a snub, his moustache slight and sandy, his cheeks are much freckled, and his ears, like his hands, are large and red. But his eyes are soft and gentle and kindly, and there are lines about his mouth which mean, properly read, that Thomas Christmas is patient and forbearing and just.

The clock of St. Paul's chimed a quarter-past seven, and Mr. Christmas, having found his petty cash correct, put away his books in the safe in Mr. Spivey's office, and transferred the keys to his own pocket. This done, he took down his hat from its peg, and, having brushed it, put it on, and, giving a careful look round to see that all was right, went out of the shop and locked the door. He was evidently not in any great hurry to get home, for he strolled gently Citywards, and often stopped to look in the shop-windows in Cheapside. Any one bestowing careful notice upon him, would have perceived ​that Mr. Christmas generally chose the jewellers' shops as his objects of admiration.

He had nearly reached the Mansion House, when he saw a young lady advancing towards him, at sight of whom he quickened his own pace. She came up to him with a smile, and gave him her hand; and then they turned, and went westward with the rest of the crowd.

"You are ten minutes earlier to-night, Maggie," said Mr. Christmas, when they reached the comparative quietude of St. Paul's Churchyard, and were able to hear each other speak. "I thought I should be too soon, and I was too late."

"Oh!" said the girl, "I was so glad, Tom, to get away. It has been so hot to-day. I was nearly stifled. Let us go somewhere where we can get a breath of fresh air—if there is any fresh air in London."

"You have had tea, Maggie?"

"Yes, Tom. Tea, and bread and butter, and some cherries. And you?"

​"I have had tea, Maggie, long since. And, now, where shall we go?"

"Let us go along the Embankment, and past the Abbey, Tom; and along Parliament Street, and the Strand, and then home."

They crossed Ludgate Hill—crowded with cabs and omnibuses—and turned aside into the Broadway, and thus reached the Embankment. And there, with one consent, they both leaned over the parapet, and looked down at the river.

"Oh," said the girl, "if it was only the sea!"

She was a pretty girl, with brown eyes and hair, and a confiding expression about her which made her seem as if she were perpetually endeavouring to win every one's heart. Not a strong or very healthy maiden by any means. The round cheeks were pale, and had more of the lily than the rose. A countryman, remembering the damask cheeks of his daughters, would ​have said that the girl wanted fresh air, and plenty of it. And that was just what she did want, and just what she could not get. For milliners' assistants in London do not get much time for country junketings; and Maggie Primrose was a milliner's assistant.

"If it was only the sea!" she repeated, longingly, looking at the muddy river. "I wonder when I shall see the sea again, Tom."

"Before the summer is over, my dear, I hope," said Tom Christmas. "We will have a day somewhere, Maggie."

Maggie's face grew brighter.

"Won't that be splendid?" she said, delightedly. "But, oh, not Margate or Ramsgate, Tom, please! One does not get clear of London at either place. I wish we could find a nice quiet place where there would be just the sea, and the sky, and some old fishermen, and a ruined tower, and ourselves."

You see, the weary, dreary City life had not ​crushed all the imagination out of this young lady. What the things she mentioned suggested to her I cannot tell you; probably she thought of absolute rest, which some people call Heaven and others Death.

"Listen, Maggie," said Tom Christmas. "I have been thinking lately that we might manage something more than a trip this year. I shall have my holidays soon, and so will you. What do you think if we all go to the seaside, or into the country, for a week—a whole week? Would you like it?"

"Like it! Oh, Tom—why it almost takes my breath away to even think about it! Oh, how splendid it would be! Should we all go— your mother, and Julia, and you, Tom, and I?"

"All, Maggie. I think we shall manage it. I have got a little work in hand which will bring ten or twelve pounds in; and that would be enough for a week. But don't say anything at home, my dear, until the thing is certain."

​"No, Tom. Oh, I wish I could do something towards it. I wish I could earn a few pounds extra."

"My dear, I don't. I am sorry that you have to work at all. Some day, Maggie, you shall do nothing and live in a beautiful little house, and have a servant-maid, and read all the new books—those, I mean, which are worth reading—and you shall have a real silk dress. I think you would like all that, Maggie, wouldn't you?"

Yes, Tom. And I should like to know that you were not obliged to work so hard, and that you could buy all the books and things you would like, and have a new coat whenever you wanted it."

"Is that a hint, Maggie? I do want a new coat now, I believe. Let me see—is it three, or four, or five years since I had a new coat. Alas! it must be six. Never mind. Somehow, I don't think I should be very comfortable in new garments; the old are so much easier."

​"Aren't you going to smoke, Tom?"

He pulled out an old briar pipe, which had evidently seen much service, and produced an equally ancient tobacco-pouch. He filled the pipe carefully, taking care not to spill any of the precious weed. When the pipe was lighted he gave his arm to the girl and they walked on, evidently quite content with themselves and the world. And yet they were very poor, these two, and had small prospect and little chance of ever being anything else. For Tom Christmas, only son of a poor country parson, had a mother and a sister to support out of the very small salary he received at Spivey's, and it was only by doing a little extra work in the evenings that he managed to keep his head above water. As for Maggie Primrose, she was, as I have already told you, a milliner's assistant, and received the magnificent remuneration of thirty pounds a year, out of which sum she had to provide herself with board and lodging and clothes.

​"Have you been busy to-day, Tom?" she asked as they paced leisurely along the Embankment. "Is Mr. Spivey still coining money, and has he promised to raise your salary?"

"Spivey, my dear, is a second Midas. Whatever he touches turns to gold. It is really wonderful, how fortunate he is. He hadn't much when I first went to him, Maggie, and now he lives in a big house and has half-a-dozen servants and wears a diamond ring. But for all that, my dear, Spivey is not a gentleman, and never will be."

Maggie nodded her pretty head. Her own ideas as to what constituted a gentleman were not very clear, but she had implicit faith in Tom Christmas.

"Poor Spivey!" said Tom, blowing a huge cloud of smoke at the imperturbable Needle. "He tries very hard to ape the manners of his betters. I believe he was a street urchin in the beginning. But that's in his favour. I applaud ​Spivey for that. Where his caddishness comes in is in his being ashamed of his humble parentage, and in the tremendous airs he gives himself. I shall never forget Spivey and his wine. You remember, Maggie, when he asked Denton and Jones and me down to supper with him? Spivey brought out some claret and began praising it, telling us how much it cost him a dozen, and swelling out before us with all the magnificence of an Alderman. And, oh, Lord! the stuff was corked, and that badly, and poor Spivey didn't know what was the matter with it."

He took the pipe out of his mouth and laughed heartily at the remembrance of Mr. Spivey's corked claret. Maggie laughed too, though she was probably no wiser than the unfortunate publisher.

"But it's too bad to laugh at poor Spivey," said Tom. "He's got plenty of good points about him. I wish, though, he wouldn't give ​himself such airs. Fellows who drop their h's and occasionally say 'was you' shouldn't give themselves airs. And, oh, Maggie, Spivey got such a snub to-day. You know Bumpo, the great 'special,' the fellow who writes those grand accounts of royal funerals, and weddings, and assassinations, and so on, in The Daily Telephone? Well, Spivey wanted Bumpo to write him a page for Sparks every week, and he wrote to Bumpo and said that it had occurred to him (things always are 'occurring' to Spivey, somehow), that a page from Bumpo's pen would prove an interesting feature in his paper, and he had therefore very great pleasure in offering him a guinea a page for his contribution. Bumpo wrote back and said that as he always endeavoured to pay the butcher and the baker and the candlestickmaker he must decline Mr. Spivey's magnificent offer. Oh, Lord! you should have seen Spivey's face when I gave him the letter. Why, Bumpo gets ten guineas ​a page from The Sketcher. But that's Spivey all over. He wants as much as possible for as little as possible."

I don't think Tom Christmas was actuated by any malevolent feeling in telling his sweetheart these anecdotes of his employer. But he knew that he was a gentleman by birth and education, and that Spivey was a little cad, who possessed neither the one nor the other; and it sometimes galled him, patient as he was, to know that he was bound to serve his inferior. Moreover, he regarded Maggie as his alter ego, and only talked of Spivey to her. To his mother and sister, Spivey was, according to Tom, a very nice man, perhaps not quite a gentleman, but very nearly so.

The two went on, stopping awhile to gaze at the Houses of Parliament, contemplating which, Maggie said that she felt sure Tom ought to be a Member, and perhaps he would be one day. Whereupon Tom said that when he took ​his seat in St. Stephen's, he would bring in a Bill to give everybody a salary large enough for their needs, with a special provision for holidays.

"I used to think once, Maggie," he said, as they stood at Poets' Corner, and remembered the names of those who lay inside, "that I should be a great author, and be buried here. I used to write poetry. Fancy me a poet! A red-haired poet! Love-verses they were, too, some of them. Fancy a red-haired poet writing love-verses! You might as well imagine a donkey posing as a war-horse or an elephant."

"And what have you done with them, Tom—the verses, I mean? You might have shown them to me."

"My dear, I don't want to make an ass of myself in your dear eyes. Perhaps once upon a time I might have shown them to you. I am afraid they are burnt now, Maggie."

"I am sure they would be beautiful, Tom."

​She had so much implicit faith in him, that she believed him capable of any great deed; and if he had claimed the honours of a great poet, she would have accorded them to him without demur.

"I believe I thought so, too, at one time," said Tom; "but when I came across some of them the other day, they seemed awful rubbish, Maggie, awful rubbish."

She shook her head at that, doubting if anything that Tom did could be done badly, and said that she felt sure Tom was a great poet, whose light was hidden under a bushel, but who would eventually startle the world, and finally be buried in Poets' Corner. And with that she gave his arm a little squeeze, and they both laughed and turned away, and went up Parliament Street into the Strand, which was busy, and gay, and full of light. And there, like one Traddles and his sweetheart, they began to look in all the shop-windows, and tell each ​other what they would buy when they were rich. And while Tom desired nothing but books and scientific instruments, Maggie's tastes ran, as was perfectly natural, in the way of diamond rings and silk dresses.

It was half-past ten o'clock when they reached the High Street in Islington, and said good-night to each other. Both had had a hard day, and had added to their labours the further exertion of a long walk, and yet neither felt tired, so exhilarating is love. Maggie Primrose, however, went to bed immediately after leaving her lover, and dreamed, perhaps, of all the happiness that the future was to bring. As for Tom Christmas, he sat up until the clocks chimed two in the morning, working, as usual, for those whom he loved. I have no doubt that his poor head ached and his eyes burned before he finished his appointed task. What of that? Laborare est orare.