Mr. Spivey's Clerk/Chapter 4

In spite of Miss Julia Christmas's persistent attempts to supervise my religious and moral welfare, I managed to be very comfortable while residing under her brother's roof. I think that the knowledge that it was her brother's roof made me summon up courage to resist Miss Julia's influence. Quiet and unassuming as he was, Tom Christmas had yet plenty of decision about him, and though he would listen patiently to all that his over-zealous sister had to say, he never allowed himself to be influenced by her. And though I, at first, used to wait upon Miss Julia's words with fear and trembling, and even accompanied her on more than one ​occasion to the church in which she sat under the faithful Mr. Dumbury, I gradually drew courage to myself from Tom, and began to make myself quite at home.

Tom and I, indeed, became like two brothers. He cleared out a corner of his attic study for me, and we bought a second-hand desk and set it up therein, and there we used to read and write of an evening after coming home from a day's hard work at Spivey's. There, too, we used to sit and talk when all else were sleeping, discussing schemes whereby we could raise or supplement our incomes, for we were both ardently desirous of becoming rich men. There was small chance of our ever acquiring fortunes in the service of Mr. Spivey, though indeed that gentleman was rapidly making one himself, and whenever we got a chance of earning a few extra sovereigns we were glad to take it.

As for Tom Christmas, it was indeed quite necessary that he should add something to the ​fifty shillings which he received weekly from Mr. Spivey. His mother and sister were absolutely dependent upon him. There was no rent to pay for the house, to be sure, but everything else, taxes, rates, bread, coals, and candles, had to be provided out of Tom's slender salary—yea, and clothes also. When there is no rent to pay, fifty shillings per week is certainly enough for a family of three, though strict economy will have to be practised and a rigid supervision exercised in dealing with butcher and grocer. I had not been long at Christmas's, however, before I found that Mrs. and Miss Christmas were not the most economical people in the world. Of course it was not to be wondered at. People who have never had to earn their own bread, who have never known what it is to earn a meal before eating it, knowing that unless it was earned there would be no meal, are not the people for economy. Miss Christmas was a good manager and a model housekeeper in the way ​of cleanliness and order; but her economy was of that sort which the proverb calls "penny wise and pound foolish." Mrs. and Miss Christmas were aware that things were not so well with them as in the days of the Devonshire rectory and promptly paid tithes; and, therefore, Miss Christmas decided that less butter must be used in the kitchen, and not more than one pound of tea bought per week. But Miss Christmas had always been accustomed to subscribing a guinea to the Tract Society, and half-a-guinea to the Married Missionaries, and two guineas to the Society for converting Irish Papists; and under no circumstances whatever could she dream of discontinuing these annual absurdities. And so the housekeeping money used to go, and poor Tom knew that it went, and said nothing, for he could not bear, as he once said to me, to think that his sister should be deprived of her little pleasures.

People who only knew Tom Christmas very slightly must have thought him the most mean ​and miserly hunks that ever lived. I never knew him to spend a penny without taking it out of his pocket and looking dubiously at it for a long time. He would tramp through a shower of rain rather than spend twopence on a 'bus or tram. He would never have a drink with any one, because it would have necessitated his inviting the other party to drink at his expense. He would never go anywhere or do anything that cost money. He would sometimes explain this to those for whose opinion he cared, telling them that it was so awfully hard to keep going in London that he was literally forced to be a screw. But there were times when Tom's pocket opened like magic, and when even shillings came from it as carelessly as though he owned the purse of Fortunatus. Such were the occasions when he carried home a bottle or two of good old port for his mother, or when his sister had expressed a desire to read and possess the Life and Letters of some divine or female celebrated for sanctification ​and faithfulness—or, as the book generally proved, for peevish selfishness and a general aptitude for making everybody else miserable.

And yet Tom Christmas, though he had a tremendous love of books, never seemed to see that it would have been quite as just for him to have treated himself to a volume or two at a second-hand stall as to spend seven-and-sixpence on some fad of Miss Julia's. This habit of self-abnegation was the radical defect in his character. Self-knowledge and self-control he had in plenty; but his self-reverence was conspicuously absent in that he never understood how good it is for a man to be just to himself before he is generous to others. Selfishness, like Miss Julia Christmas's, is well-nigh invincible; but I think even she would have melted if she had sometimes seen Tom gazing wistfully at some battered and tattered old volume in the twopenny boxes of Booksellers' Row.

"Why don't you buy it then?" I used to say, ​when he was turning over the leaves of some "find" or other, to be had at some such sum as sixpence or a shilling. "It's very cheap."

"Ah, but, you see, it's this way. If I once give way, Leonard, I shall never, never recover my self-command. I can look at things now, and think I should like to possess them, and still never entertain a thought of buying them. Sixpence is a very small amount—I say, fancy Spivey hesitating over a sixpence!—and I can afford to spend one sixpence. But if I bought this book I should want to buy another next week. And I made a rule, Len, six years ago, of a very stringent nature, and I mean to stick to it."

"And what was it, Tom? Though, of course, I can guess it. It was that you would never, by any possible chance, give yourself a bit of pleasure."

"No—hardly that. No pleasure? Why, my dear man, I have a lot of pleasure. Is it not pleasure to walk and talk with you?"

​"I am glad, very glad, if it is, Tom. But———"

"Indeed, when one comes to think of it, I have plenty of pleasure. I feel pleased when I come strolling through this musty little street and look at all the old books. I feel pleased when we walk along the busy Strand and see all the people hurrying this way and that. I feel pleased when we've had a good day at Spivey's, and that gentleman has gone home with visions of untold wealth floating in his brain. I feel pleased when I see McFlynn getting his 'shtuff' ready in good time."

"Poor pleasures, and all cheaply acquired."

"Nay, Len, there you are wrong. Not poor, and not to be despised because they cost nothing. Indeed, I think the highest pleasure is that which springs from one's self and not from the outside."

"You are getting too deep for me now, Tom," I answered. "But confess, wouldn't you like to go up to Lord's and see the University ​Cricket Match, which you can easily do by expending, say, half-a-crown?"

"I should, Len. But think—that half-a-crown would buy ever so many loaves of bread. I believe it would even purchase a very small shoulder of mutton. It would provide me with two dinners—mutton tenpence, potatoes a penny, bread a penny, and pudding threepence, which is one-and-three altogether. I should like the cricket match, Len, but I should want my money back when it was over. I suppose circumstances have made me selfish and money-grubbing."

"Selfish you are not, Tom," I said. "Few men are less so."

"I don't know," he answered. "I am afraid we men are desperately selfish. If we talk about Heaven it's because we're thinking of going there; if we fear Hell it's because we're afraid for ourselves. Always self, always self! There are very few people who ever lose themselves, Len."

​And yet I think Tom did his best to lose himself in work for others. He was upstairs in his study as soon as tea was over, sweating away at some extra work so that the water-rate collector should not have to inform us that he really would not call again, or the gas-bill man throw out nasty hints about proceedings and "summingses." Sometimes he had to put on an extra spurt so that Miss Julia could have a new gown or a new bonnet, though I will do that lady the justice to say that she was very careful of her clothes and never indulged in splendid attire. Tom, however, never by any possible chance bought a new suit for himself. He explained to me one day that he had possessed a fair stock of clothing at the time of his father's death, and that he meant to wear it up. The consequence was that he was rather out-of-date in appearance, and would often have looked the better for a new pair of trousers.

"I wonder," he said one morning, as we were ​walking to the office, and had just admired the superlative cut of a City man's coat, "I wonder when I shall buy another coat. I think my black one will last another five years."

"I will tell you when you'll buy one, Tom. When you fall in love."

"In love? I fall in love? Man alive, do I look the sort of party to fall in love, or, rather, do you think anybody would ever fall in love with me?"

"I don't see why not. And as for you, Tom, why, there is no man living more likely to fall in love badly."

He looked at me wonderingly, and almost stopped his hurried walk.

"And why, Len?"

"Because you have a great reverence for women; because you would deify the woman you select; and because you have got the domestic capacity—the capacity of making everybody happy. But it will be better for ​you, Tom Christmas, if you never do fall in love."

"And why, youthful philosopher?"

"Because, whatever you do, you do in earnest. You will think too much of the woman you fall in love with, and will look upon her as spirit, whereas she will be but flesh. Wherefore trouble would come upon you, and, maybe, worse."

"A Daniel come to judgment!" he said, and laughed. "Now, do you know, Len, I once was in love and that badly. Yes—and she was a very nice girl, too. A nice, plump, jolly girl. It was when I was at Oxford. As for the girl, she was a barmaid. I think it was the inimitable way in which she used to fill glasses of ale that attracted so many of us to her feet—metaphorically, of course. I wrote a poem about her in which there were several classical allusions. She was Hebe, and I and my graceless companions were the Gods, and the bar-parlour was Olympus, and the bitter ​beer was nectar. But then nectar was never half so nice as bitter beer."

I had been at Mr. Spivey's establishment about twelve months when that good and worthy gentleman took it into his head to introduce a change in the arrangements of his counting-house. Some philanthropist—a lady, I suppose—had induced him to attend a series of meetings held for the purpose of promoting the employment of young women in offices and shops—of course, at longer hours and lower wages than are usually arranged for with young men. Wherefore Mr. Spivey decided to employ a couple of female clerks, and dismiss Messrs. Denton and Jones, the one of whom was too fond of his glass and the other of his mirror to do any good. That is to say, they were both too fond of the glass, but old Denton's glass went to his mouth, while Jones's only reflected its owner's countenance and collar.

Mr. Spivey at that time used to consult Tom ​Christmas and me about everything. Tom, indeed, had been his familiar spirit for many a year, and nothing had ever been done at Spivey's without his advice. But they had dragged me into their counsels within the first six months of my arrival, I suppose because I was a sober, steady little party with an old-fashioned air and somewhat strait-laced ideas. When the girl-clerk question came up we were duly called into our employer's sanctum.

"I am thinking," said Mr. Spivey, magisterially, "of employing female labour."

He spoke as if the world was a convict-prison, full of women, and he the Grand Bashaw, at whose nod everybody must obey.

"What do you think, Mr. Christmas?" added Mr. Spivey, after we had digested this important information.

"Do you purpose to dismiss all your present clerks, sir?" asked Tom.

"Oh, dear me, no! But," said Mr. Spivey, ​"that Denton will have to go, and young Jones, too. The one's a drunkard, and the other a puppy. I think, Mr. Christmas, if we replace them by two nice"—a pause—"respectable"—another pause—"well-educated"—one more pause—"Christian—tremendous emphasis on this last word—"young women, we shall have wrought a great improvement. Now, what do you think?"

"I think," said Tom, "that two nice, respectable, well-educated, Christian young women, who could do the work, would quite meet our requirements. But of course they ought to possess all these qualifications without question."

"Oh, of course," assented Mr. Spivey. "Oh, dear me, yes. Nice, respectable, well-educated, Christian young women! What do you think, Mr. Tempest?"

"I think, sir," I said, "that the nice, respectable, well-educated, Christian young women will need one more qualification. They ought to be good-looking."

​"Of course, of course," said Mr. Spivey, hurriedly, "that's included in the 'nice.' You're quite right, Tempest. You see, Christmas, they might have to serve customers now and then, and people like an attractive girl. Well, now, Mr. Christmas, will you put an advertisement in The Daily Telegraph, saying that we want a—let me see, we'll say 'of good appearance,' instead of 'nice'—that we want two respectable, well-educated young ladies of good appearance and Christian habits, as clerks. Letters only, to The Telegraph office, Christmas. You and Tempest must select a dozen of the best, and have 'em ready for me on Tuesday morning, when I come back from Brighton, and I'll select the two. Hours! oh, nine till seven, and wages—er—let me see—well, say ten shillings a week. Oh, and Christmas, give Denton and Jones a week's wages in lieu of notice, and let 'em go on Saturday."

We inserted the advertisement, as in duty bound, in the Friday's paper, and next morning ​had several hundred letters in answer thereto. Alas, for our modern state of society, when young women are glad to go into slavery for a miserable weekly wage of half-a-sovereign! Ten hours a day of unhealthy toil in a close shop for as many shillings per week!

It was impossible for Tom Christmas and myself, whom Mr. Spivey had appointed judges in this important matter, to see all the candidates for the vacant offices, and we accordingly spent a busy day that Saturday in opening and reading the tremendous pile of applications, putting all envelopes aside which gave evidence of bad or slovenly handwriting.

"There's a pretty 'fist,' Tom," I remarked, showing him a square envelope ornamented by a neat Italian style of caligraphy. "I should say that the girl who wrote this is a lady."

He took it from me and looked at it musingly.

"Yes," he said, "it's a much better style than most of these young females indulge in. We ​must lay that aside, Len. Ah, there's a portrait in here."

"Out with it," I said. "I wish we had told them all to send their portraits. What a collection we should have had!"

Tom cut the envelope open and slowly drew forward the photograph. I bent over and looked at it as he held it in his hands. It was just a small carte-de-visite size and showed the head and bust. A pretty girl, with just a trace of sadness about the corners of the mouth, and yet with dimples in her cheeks which showed that there was some fun somewhere in her disposition, and that she would like to laugh and sing if only the exigencies of life would admit of it.

"That's a pretty girl," I said, critically regarding the portrait. "She looks good and sensible, too. I think she would meet Spivey's definition. Nice, respectable, well-educated, Christian young woman. Put it aside, Tom."

​"Let us see the letter while we are about it," he answered. "It is a nice style of handwriting, too, and would look well for our invoices."

"Or in a billet-doux, Tom Christmas."

"Bah! Let us see what this young lady says."

They are much of a muchness, the letters which any employer of labour receives whenever he advertises for a female clerk. There is generally something about having been reduced in circumstances, attending school with the Misses Slogo, daughters of Sir Pomponius Slogo, twice Lord Mayor, and being remarkably proficient in all and every branch of arithmetic. There is also, generally, about six mistakes in spelling and half-a-dozen grammatical errors; and there is sure to be a postscript.

The letter which Tom Christmas was unfolding, however, bore none of these time-borrowed characteristics. It was well-written, ​the writer conveyed her meaning clearly and concisely, and had evidently remembered that hers would not be the only letter which we should receive.

"What's her name?" I said, trying to read the signature. "Margaret Primrose, eh? Um, that's a pretty name, isn't it, Tom?"

"Sweet Maggie Primrose," he answered, looking dreamily at the letter. "What a capital title for a novel or a poem. A little ballad, you know, with a L'Envoi and a head-piece with two Cupids and some hieroglyphics scrawled about it.

Does 'she' and 'sea' rhyme, Len? Lord, it is so long since I tagged rhymes together that I forget. Lie there, sweet Maggie Primrose's letter, and take thy chance. See, Len, Maggie Primrose is a neighbour of ours. She resides ​in that busy thoroughfare yclept the High Street."

"Then she is the Primrose of Islington," I replied. "And some day ruthless man will come by and pluck this primrose and cast it from him to die on the river's brim."

"And what may that mean, unrazored philosopher, or, as I ought to say, seeing that some folk never do shave, beardless boy?"

"It means," I said, "that it is a poor look-out for anybody who wants to become a clerk on ten shillings a week, and that an oak-tree would stand the storm better than a primrose."

And that suggested to him certain thoughts about the Position of Women, and from that he got to lecturing me on Social Science; and we forgot Maggie Primrose and only remembered her again when we had waded through the many hundred letters and selected two dozen applications.

​Len," said Tom, "these young ladies must come here on Monday, and out of the two dozen we must select twelve from whom Spivey must make his choice. It sounds something like the jargon of the slave-market, this, does it not? We can't help it, however. I am afraid Spivey will not regard the feelings of these young women so tenderly as we shall. Now, one thing is certain—they must not all call at the same time. Get four-and-twenty post-cards, Len. Now, write. 'Miss Matilda Smith—Dear Madam, will you please call here at nine o'clock sharp'—underline sharp, Len—'on Monday morning, and oblige, yours faithfully, Joseph Spivey.' 'Miss Mary Ann Jones'—ditto, except that you'll say a quarter-past nine. 'Miss Emily Harriett Spooner'—ditto, and half-past nine. 'Miss Deborah Robinson'—ditto, and a quarter to ten. 'Miss'—ah, here's sweet Maggie Primrose. Ten o'clock, Len. Why don't they all have names like that?"

​"What was the barmaid's name, Tom Christmas?"

"The barmaid's name, Len? It was, I think, Ruby, or perhaps it was Pearlie, or possibly it was Tottie. But in reality it was Elizabeth Brown—a good name enough, but not poetic."

I dare say we did not think much about Maggie Primrose between then and Monday morning; but when we had seen and dismissed four applicants and the clock began to strike ten, we remembered that she came next on the list and looked for her coming with much interest. She was punctual to the minute, and seemed somewhat surprised to find two young gentlemen waiting to catechise her. My part indeed was to sit by and hear Tom talk, and vastly was I amused by the paternal fashion in which he drew his candidates out. Not one of them came who did not tell him all her little troubles.

​Miss Primrose's story was a very short one. She was an orphan; she had no relations and few friends, and she wished to earn her living. She was at present engaged in a large millinery establishment in the City; but the hours there were from eight till seven, and she would like lighter work. She was dressed neatly, she spoke well, was prettier than her portrait, and would have been very pretty if she had had a little country air to put some colour in her pale cheeks. Tom told her to call next day and hear Mr. Spivey's decision, and led her out himself. He had not been so attentive to the other four, three of whom had proved to be forward cockney hussies with horrible pronunciation of a's and o's and remarkably knowing manners, while the fourth turned up her nose on seeing the establishment and said it wouldn't suit her.

It was with a feeling of deep thankfulness that we heard the door close on the last of the twenty-four. We had reduced them to twelve, ​and the successful dozen were to attend at various hours next day in order to see the great Panjandrum himself.

"I hope Spivey will select the Primrose of Islington, Tom Christmas," I said as we walked home that night.

"So do I, Len, so do I. She is a nice, quiet, modest girl. But Spivey won't engage her."

"And why?"

"Because there are two girls coming who have had some previous experience in a publisher's office, and who would therefore be more useful. If they had not come in the way, Maggie might have got the post. I had thoughts of rejecting them; but I remembered my duty to the good, the generous, the honourable Spivey, and didn't."

"I hope you are wrong, then, Tom Christmas."

But he was right. For Mr. Spivey, on seeing ​and listening to the two previously-experienced damsels, immediately engaged them, though for some reason or other he insisted on seeing the other ten applicants personally. Perhaps he thought that we were too young to break the bad news, and preferred, being a joined believer, to do it himself. Or perhaps he wished to see what the state of the Female Labour Market was, just as the traveller wishes to see what the slave-market is like at Constantinople.

"I am sorry you have not been successful," said Tom Christmas when Maggie Primrose emerged from Mr. Spivey's door. And she smiled and thanked him, and Tom again opened the door for her, all oblivious of the fact that he was attired in a most awfully dilapidated office-coat and certainly not much of an object for any lady's admiration.

Alas! Poor Tom Christmas had fallen in love.