Mr. Spivey's Clerk/Chapter 5

Mr. Spivey's experiment in female labour was not successful, for the two previously-experienced young women whom he engaged did not turn out such paragons as he expected. They were not one half so careful as even Denton and Jones in reckoning up figures, they took offence if any one in authority ventured to correct them, and upon one celebrated occasion indulged in a grand cry because Mr. Spivey reproved them in the presence of the office-boy. Wherefore they left, and on the following Monday morning Messrs. Jones and Denton, who had often put their heads through the door and asked when they were to ​come back, were reinstated in their old positions, and everything went on as in former times.

"That female labour experiment was not a success, Christmas," said Mr. Spivey; "I feared it would not be. However, it's not done us any harm, and I really think Jones and Denton are improved by their temporary suspension."

I was not so sure as Mr. Spivey about the amount of harm caused by his experiment in female labour. The experiment had brought Maggie Primrose to our office, and Tom Christmas had fallen in love with her.

I don't know how it was that I first found it out. I believe I had suspected it all along from the time when the little milliner's assistant, with her pale, pretty face and ladylike manners, had come to the office and found Tom Christmas very polite, in spite of his old coat and baggy trousers. After Mr. Spivey had made his final selection it was some time before we saw Miss Primrose again; but we often used to talk about ​her, and wonder if she was still pegging away at the great millinery establishment in the City. And then, one morning, chancing to go to our office by way of Aldersgate instead of through Smithfield, we saw her tripping along with the melancholy crowd of human beings who go every morning into the City to earn their daily bread.

"Look, Tom," I said, "there's the Primrose over on the other side. Poor little Primrose, she looks paler than ever."

He looked across, and I think he blushed, or, at any rate, his cheek put on a little more colour, and his eyes brightened.

"Poor girl," he said, "I dare say she has to work very hard. I suppose she comes this way to the millinery place every morning. I wonder if she would mind it, supposing we stepped over the way and said good-morning?"

"I don't think she would, Tom Christmas. But why do you desire to waste two minutes ​in making your way across a crowded street, in order to say good-morning to a young lady?"

"I—I don't know, Len. But, you see, the Primrose told us she had no father or mother, and I think no friends. Perhaps there is no one to say good-morning to her."

"Which do you think is the nearest way from our place to the City, Tom Christmas?" I asked. "You see the Primrose comes this way, whereas we go by way of Smithfield generally. I almost think this is the nearest, and I am sure it is more savoury than the other. There are so many visions of bloody carcases in Smithfield, and I never can help thinking that they may be cutting off arms and legs in St. Bartholomew's while the other butchers are cutting off shoulders and loins in the Meat Market."

"I don't think there is much difference in the distance," he said, still keeping his eye on the neat figure of the Primrose before us; "but we can change our route if you like, Len."

​"I thought, perhaps, that you might like to walk down with the Primrose of Islington, Tom. She has no one to talk to her, and it might cheer her up a little if you took pity on her."

"I do pity her, Len. I know so much of life's struggles that I pity any girl who has to keep body and soul together in this wilderness on ten shillings a week."

As it turned out we were fated to meet Maggie Primrose again that very evening. Walking home at night we passed her in the High Street, and raised our hats, receiving a smile from her in acknowledgment.

"I believe," said Tom, when we had passed on, "that I have never lifted my hat to a lady for six years. Lord! what a clown I must be! Do I look very ancient and rusty, Len?"

"You look like a small country tradesman, Tom. Your coat does not fit, and your trousers bag at the knees, and are moreover braced up too tightly. The next thing, though, will be ​that you will lay out five pounds in a grand new suit and go swelling it in Regent Street."

"I think not," said Tom. "Julia wants a new bonnet and it is really time the dear old marm had a new dress. I wonder what particular form of head-gear Julia will want this time. Something suitable for a joined believer, of course."

"Do believers ever become joined in any other sense?"

"I suppose they do, Len. But why?"

"Oh, nothing. I was only thinking it would be a jolly good thing if Julia would get joined to Dumbury."

"Julia marry Dumbury! My dear man, who would keep house for us?"

"Why, the Primrose to be sure, Tom Christmas. And a nice, tidy little housekeeper she would make, I'll be bound. A pudding prepared by her dainty hands would taste twice as sweet. And, I say, Tom, she would ​let us smoke downstairs. Oh, let us go and ask Dumbury if it is good for man to live alone?"

"And who would ask the Primrose?"

"That would be your business. Confess, now, are you not in love with her, Tom the susceptible?"

"She is a very nice girl," he said, and would say no more.

A few days after that we came across the Primrose of Islington again. She was walking down the High Street, and so were we. We shook hands with her and walked on together to the City. I think it was Tom Christmas who did the talking. He put questions to her in his nice, quiet, semi-paternal fashion, and she answered them like a child. Was she still employed at Messrs. Snipper and Cuttem's? She was. He was sorry she did not succeed in obtaining the situation at Mr. Spivey's. So was she, as she thought the work would not have been so hard. At Messrs. Snipper and ​Cuttem's, now, it was very hard, as she had to stand all day long. What, all day long? It was abominable, said Tom, and asked me if I had ever heard of such a scandalous thing. Upon which I said that I never had, and expressed a hope that Messrs. Snipper and Cuttem might some day experience something of the sort themselves. And from that we got to other subjects and chatted cheerily all the way to the General Post Office, where Miss Primrose went one way and we another.

After that it soon became a recognised thing that we should all walk to the City together every morning and home at night into the bargain. A wondrous fellow feeling exists between young men and women employed in business houses, and it was perhaps this feeling of camaraderie which made us all so friendly. This feeling was deepened when we found that the Primrose's father had been, like our own paternal parents, a country parson. She never ​told us, at least in those days, how it was that she came to live alone in London, forced to work so hard for so miserable a pittance. But sometimes as we walked home of an evening, Tom Christmas used to say how grand things would be looking in his native Devon, and I used to swear that Yorkshire was a more beautiful county; and then Maggie Primrose's brown eyes would grow tender with some memory of better times, and she would tell us about the little seaside village where her father had lived and died.

I knew Tom Christmas would fall in love with her. I could see it from the first. I could see it in his eyes when he first caught sight of her in the spring mornings tripping along to that beastly millinery place; I could see it in the way he held her hand as he bade her goodnight. I also noticed that he took some slight pains to make himself more presentable, brushing his clothes carefully, and tying his cravat in ​the latest and most approved fashion, although he did not go to the length of purchasing new garments, as I had foretold. And I was certain of it when he took me upstairs with him one night after tea, and, having locked the study door, showed me, with an air of great mystery and deliberation, a handsome brass photo-frame from which looked forth the counterfeit of the Primrose. He set this up on his desk and looked at me in triumph.

"I knew how it would be, Tom Christmas," I said, dolefully, for I really felt sad. "I warned you, I prophesied unto you, and you laughed me to scorn. And now I shall have to walk to and from the City by myself."

He smiled and gave my arm a stalwart grip—a habit he had whenever he wished to show his affection or friendship—and answered that that would never be while ever he, Thomas Christmas, had legs wherewith to walk and tongue wherewith to converse.

​"But seriously, Tom, have you been and gone and confessed to Miss Primrose that you love her, and would die for her, and all that sort of thing?"

"Not much of that sort of thing, Len. But I have asked her to marry me some day, and she has promised."

"Hooray!" I said, and seized Tom Christmas's hand and shook it till my own was tired. "I am as glad, Tom, as if it were I who had been accepted. I say, though, have you told Miss Julia?"

He shook his head.

"No," said he; "but I mean to do so to-morrow. I shall also ask Julia to go and call on Maggie."

"Do you think she will."

"Yes, if I ask her to. I shall ask her to take Maggie to church next Sunday morning and bring her to dinner, and we will go with them to church, Len."

"What, to Dumbury's church, Tom Christmas?"

​"I suppose so," he said, with a sigh. "Never mind, we can think about something else while old Dumbury is holding forth. It will please Julia immensely if we go."

"I say, Tom Christmas, is Maggie Primrose a joined believer? Because, if not, don't you think you had better coach her up a little before next Sunday? Miss Julia is sure to put a few leading questions to her."

Miss Julia, I think, was not over well pleased to hear her brother's news, which he communicated to her early next morning. Possibly she foresaw coming troubles.

"I suppose you will be getting married next, Thomas?" she said, as she poured out our coffee. "I trust you will not hurry matters too much. Nowadays young men think of nothing else but getting married."

It stands to reason that if young men think of nothing but marriage, the maidens must be considerably influenced by their thoughts. Now Miss ​Julia Christmas had been a maiden for five-and-thirty years, so that I think her conclusions were premature.

"I shall not marry for a long time yet, sister Julia," answered Tom.

"When did the fatal deed come off, Tom Christmas?" I inquired, a quarter of an hour later, as we were setting out for the City. "You are getting such a desperately deep sort of fellow nowadays that I can't make you out always."

"You remember last Sunday afternoon, Len," he said. "You went to sleep, you know, after dinner, and lay snoring until five o'clock. Unprofitable one! while you slept I went forth and won the prize. I met her, Len; she was going for a walk all by herself and I asked her if I might not go with her. We went out there by Highgate and Hornsey, and it seemed somehow, Len, that everything looked brighter and fresher than it usually does. You know the old church out there, with all its ivy fresh and green about it? We ​went into the churchyard, and—and—and that is all," he concluded, somewhat lamely.

"And that is all, eh? Which means, Tom, that I am to imagine the rest."

"Imagine it or not, Len, you will never be able to conceive it until you go and fall in love yourself. Dear me! I seem to have lived ages since Sunday last. I am going to work terribly hard, Leonard, so that I can get some money in hand and get married. And then, my boy, if Julia does marry Dumbury, why, you shall smoke all over the house if you like."

Just then we overtook Maggie Primrose, and to her I repeated all the congratulations which I had already poured into Tom's ears. She thanked me very prettily, and looked up at Tom with a trusting air which I was glad to see. It really seemed as if this frail little Primrose had crept into the shadow of a rock big and strong enough to shelter her from all the storms of life.

After that I used to make all sorts of excuses ​for leaving these two together in their outward and homeward walks. I used to put off my daily pilgrimage to the printer's establishment until five o'clock, at which hour I would divest myself of my office coat, and make myself ready for going out.

"Oh, by-the-bye, Tom," I used to say as I passed his desk, "I am just going down to the printer's, so I won't come back here. I'll walk straight home from there."

I never dared to look him in the face while I uttered these pieces of casuistry, but once taking a side peep at him I saw that he, too, was somewhat shy of looking at me. And so we continued deceiving each other, or rather I continued to deceive him, for I believe he thought to the very end that my duties always took me away at an earlier hour than usual.

The Sunday whereon Maggie Primrose was introduced to Mrs. and Miss Christmas was quite an eventful one. Tom and I, attired in our very ​best, proceeded about ten o'clock to Miss Primrose's lodgings (she boarded with a most respectable greengrocer and his good lady, who were really very kind to her, and whom I shall always think a great deal of for that reason), and escorted her in a sort of semi-state to our house. I think she never looked prettier than she did that morning, for the excitement brought a little colour to her cheeks, and her brown eyes were full of light.

"A werry nice couple, sir," said Mr. Migson, the greengrocer, who was smoking his Sunday morning pipe in the door as we went forth, and with whom I lingered a moment to pass the time of day and make myself generally agreeable. "A werry nice couple, hindeed, as I 'ave said to my missus many a time of late."

He jerked his thumb, first in the direction of Tom and Maggie, and then in the direction of Mrs. Migson, who was tidying up the breakfast in the little parlour.

​"I am very glad you approve of Miss Primrose's choice, Mr. Migson," I said. "For I am quite sure you and Mrs. Migson must have taken a great interest in the young lady."

Mr. Migson removed the pipe from his mouth and spat with great vehemence across the pavement.

"Lord bless you, sir! why, the hinterest wot we takes in that there young lady is sumthin' wonderful. We thinks more of her than we should of twinses—which we never had no babbies ourselves in our time. Between you an' me, sir, the pore young thing's to be pitied. Father was a parson, and she's a lady. Well, there ain't no finer and stiddier young feller than Mr. Thomas Christmas 'twixt here an' Land's End, that there ain't, s'elp me bob! W'y, I've known 'em ever since they come into the Square—nigh on to seven year. I've supplied 'em with every wegetable they've ever eaten, and they don't owe me a penny, sir, not a penny, and there's precious ​few of my customers can say that. He's a rare 'un, is young Mr. Christmas. I seen him off and away, bright and early, in a morning to his work, and home to his mar in a hevenin'. None of yer publics, and free-and-easies, and hifalutin torf business for him. W'y, you don't have to send in a bill there at all! As reg'lar as the fust o' the month comes round here he is with his 'Now, Mr. Migson, what do I owe you, sir?' Tell yer what it is, sir—when missie comes and tells me and my missus—which she looks on us as sort o' friends—that she's a-goin' to marry Mr. Tom Christmas, I says, 'Then, my dear, you're a-going to marry the very bestest young man in all Hengland!'"

I told Mr. Migson that I believed he was quite right, and was glad to know that he had such a good opinion of my friend. I also told him that it was very kind and Christian-like of him and his good lady to be so kind to Miss Primrose, on receiving which praise he blushed ​very much beneath his tanned cheek and shuffled about from one foot to the other.

"W'y, you see, sir," said Mr. Migson, "it's werry hard, ain't it now, for a pore young thing like missie to be left an orfund? You wouldn't like it yourself now, would you, sir? And when she fust comes to lodge here, and we see how pore she was and yet the lady in everythin', we sort o' took to her. We ain't much of scollards, me an' the missus, and the Scripture reader, wot comes round with them there track papers, says as 'ow we're both heathens cos we don't never go to church nor chapel; but our motter, sir, is, 'Let's do as much good as we can,' and that we means to stick to, blarmed if we don't."

I said good morning to him then and followed Tom and Maggie, feeling that I should hear nothing half so true or beautiful at Mr. Dumbury's fashionable church as the sentiments conveyed in Mr. Migson's "motter," despite the fact that that gentleman was only a heathen. I was late in ​consequence of remaining to talk with him, and when I got to the house Tom had gone through the ceremonies, and Miss Julia had retired upstairs to put on her bonnet.

Maggie was sitting by Mrs. Christmas when I entered, while Tom stood by the window watching them, and Sarah Ann, the maid-of-all-work, peeped through the door with a laudable desire to catch a glimpse of our new visitor. Mrs. Christmas, who was just the least bit weak in her head, was evidently highly pleased with her son's sweetheart, and sat stroking Maggie's hand, much as a child strokes a new toy. Julia, too, I could see, was not unfavourably disposed towards her prospective sister-in-law.

"A nice, modest, lady-like girl, Leonard Tempest," she observed to me as we came back from church, where Mr. Dumbury had been most profoundly faithful and had preached us a discourse on sudden deaths, "and one that I quite approve. Though, perhaps, not perfected in ​sanctification she promises in time to become a very precious vessel. She told me as we came to church that she had never missed attendance on the means of grace twice a Sunday in all her life. A great example for some people, Leonard Tempest."

"Yes, Miss Christmas," I said, meekly. "I hope she will influence Tom for good."

"If Thomas Christmas could be influenced for good, Leonard Tempest, his sister would have influenced him long ago. I have pleaded with him, and my late dear friend, the saintly Emma Jane Piper, strove hard with him. He is given over to his idols."

"What sort of idols, Miss Julia?"

"Thomas Christmas, Leonard Tempest, is a confirmed unbeliever. He has striven to seek into the secrets that no man has a right to learn. I give him up. Mind that he does not make shipwreck of you also. Remember, Leonard Tempest, that you will have to die."

​"Thank you, Miss Julia. I'll strive to remember it."

I am afraid that poor Maggie found it rather tedious, that Sunday afternoon and evening at our house. Miss Julia's ideas of Sunday would have done credit to that arch-heretic Calvin himself. She shuddered if anybody laughed, she closed her eyes and groaned if Tom or I spoke of secular matters, and if she had seen us take up a newspaper or a novel she would have looked for the wrath of Heaven to descend upon us. On Sunday afternoons she used to give her mother, who was too infirm to go to church, a volume of sermons out of the big bookcase, and the poor old lady had bad times of it if she was unable to converse with her daughter about the selected discourse on the latter's return. Sarah Ann of the kitchen, having washed up, and mended the fire, was expected to repair to Mr. Dumbury's Sabbath-school, where Miss Julia also went and taught for a couple of hours. Sarah Ann, I think, did not ​enjoy the day of rest very much. She had to go to church again at night, and did not get even a chance of speaking to a male person, because Miss Julia's eagle eye was on her small figure all the way there and back. I often laugh now to think what a doleful, dismal day Sunday must have seemed to that poor maid-of-all-work. She had to learn a "text" some time during the day and repeat it to Miss Christmas. After supper was over she had to read her Bible in the kitchen, which she did in the most conscientious fashion, spelling every word aloud, and piping forth the result in a high, thin voice which would have done credit to the blind men who read in the streets. If she ever ventured to request "something with pictures in it," Miss Julia used to give her a large quarto copy of "Foxe's Book of Martyrs," which contained a number of engravings quite as remarkable for ingenuity as the letter-press itself. Over these horrible conceptions poor Sarah Ann used to sit with pallid cheek and beating heart ​thinking, I doubt not, of the horrible moment when she should have to climb candleless to bed, and there dream of rack and thumb-screw and fire.

Tom and Maggie went out for a walk that Sunday afternoon, and Miss Julia and Sarah Ann having departed to Sabbath-school, I remained at home with Mrs. Christmas and heard her talk. She was very fond of talking, and had as great a talent for reminiscences as Greville or Mosley; indeed, she would have been invaluable as the chronicler of a movement, for names and places and deeds jumbled themselves together in her head in the most approved fashion, and if she began to tell you an anecdote respecting the Duke of Wellington she was sure to divert it into one of General Tom Thumb—the connecting link being the fact that they were both military men, and that Major Piker, Mrs. Christmas's father, knew both of them. We went to church again in the evening, and I noticed that Tom went to sleep as ​soon as Dumbury gave out his text, and slept soundly, but without snoring, all through the sermon. And then we came home, and, after supper, Miss Julia conducted the family devotions. And then Tom opened the old cottage piano and asked Maggie to sing for us, for he had found that his sweetheart possessed a voice. And he and Maggie having found an old copy of "Hymns, Ancient and Modern," which collection Miss Julia at once denounced as Popish, our little Primrose sat down and sang us "Abide with Me," and "Rock of Ages," and "O Paradise," and finally "Lead, kindly Light." And Tom Christmas, hidden behind the window-curtain, cried, I am positive, being susceptible and soft-hearted and a great baby, and I, too, felt my eyes somewhat dim, and Miss Christmas, in spite of the Popish hymn-book, melted a little, and kissed Maggie when Tom took her away to good Mr. and Mrs. Migson's domicile.