"Richard Shingle, Shoemaker. Repairs neatly executed."
This legend was written in yellow letters, shaded with blue, upon an
oval red board. Red, blue, and yellow form a pleasing combination to
some eyes; but when the yellow is drab, the blue dirty, and the scarlet
of a brick-dusty tint, the harmony is not pleasing. Moreover, the
literary artist could not be complimented upon his skill in writing in
pigment with a camel-hair brush; for, not content to be staid and
steadfast in Roman characters, he had indulged in wild flourishes, which
gave the signboard the appearance of a battle-field, upon which certain
ordinary letters were staggering about, while three or four tyrannical
capitals were catching them with lassoes, which twined wildly, round
their heads and legs.
For instance, the first "d" was in difficulties, the "g" was pulled out
of place, the "h" and "o" tied tightly together, while just below, the
"repairs" seemed to be neatly executed indeed, for the "r" had a yellow
rope round its neck, having been hung by "Richard," beneath which word
it was suspended, with the rest of the letters kicking frantically
because that initial was at its last gasp.
But this idea, probably, did not present itself to the inhabitants of
Crowder's Buildings, a pleasant _cul de sac_ in the neighbourhood of the
Angel at Islington. Crowder, once upon a time, bought two houses in a
front street, between and under which there was an entrance like a
tunnel, leading to the back gardens and back doors of the said houses;
and Crowder--now dead and numbered with the just--being a man of frugal
mind, gazed at the gardens of his freehold messuage and tenements, and
saw that they were useful as cat walks, to make beds growing oyster and
other shells, and vegetables of the most melancholy kind. He let the
fact dawn upon his understanding that the vegetables grown might be
bought better for sixpence per annum, and resolved that he would utilise
the space.
To do this, he built up two rows of staring-eyed, four-roomed tenements,
sixteen in all, separated by twelve feet of pavement, whitewashed them
as they stood staring at one another, and turned the two garden deserts
into a busy, thrifty hive, where some twenty or thirty families
flourished and grew dirty.
The occupants of the two houses in the street complained, and left; but
Crowder let the houses at a higher rent without the gardens--let the
little tenements each at ten shillings a week, and turned out those who
did not pay; and for the rest of his life collected his own dues, did
his own painting and whitewashing--even plastered upon occasion; and at
last, while repairing a chimney-stack and putting on a new pot, at the
age of seventy-five, like a thrifty soul as he was, he slipped from the
ladder, rolled off the roof of Number 10, fell into the open paved
space, with his head in the centre gutter, where the soapsuds ran down,
and his heels on a scraper--every house had a scraper, to make it
complete--and was so much injured that Nature gave him notice to quit
his earthly habitation, evicted him, and, save in name, the buildings
knew him no more.
For they passed into the hands of Maximilian Shingle, "broker and
setrer," as his brother said--a most worthy member of society: a
sticky-fingered man, who, through this last quality, was enabled to lay
up honey in store. In fact, he was so well off that, when Crowder's
Buildings were brought to the hammer by Crowder's heirs, executors,
administrators and assigns, the hammer that knocked them down knocked
them into Max Shingle's possession, and they were paid for with Mrs
Fraser's money--a certain amount in thousands which she bestowed, with
her two sons Fred and Tom--upon the man who re-won her heart six months
after Fred Fraser senior's death.
It was a retired spot after passing through the tunnel, and hence it
became the popular playground of the children of the neighbourhood, who
chalked the pavement, broke their knees and heads upon its harsher
corners, and made it the scene of the festive dance when a dark-visaged
organ-man came down to grind the last new airs of the day.
By a great act of benevolence, Maximilian Shingle, who was a lowly, good
man, a shining light at his chapel, where he was deacon, had, though
inundated with applications for Number 4 when it became empty, let it to
his unlucky brother Richard, who flourished under the sign that heads
this chapter, made boots and shoes, and neatly executed the repairs in
the dilapidated Oxonians and strong working-men's bluchers that came to
his lot.
It was first-floor front-room cleaning-up day at Richard Shingle's; and
Mrs Shingle--familiarly spoken to as "mother"--was in her glory, having
what she called "a good rummage." Had her home possessed a back yard or
a front garden, every article of furniture would have been turned out;
but as there was not an inch of back yard, and the front garden was very
small, being limited to six flowerpots behind a small green fence on the
upstairs window-sill, Mrs Shingle was debarred from that general
clearance.
But she did the best she could to get at the floor for a busy scrub
while her husband and daughter were away; and the consequence was that
the side-table had its petticoats tucked up round its waist, thereby
revealing the fact that its legs were not mahogany, but deal; the
hearthrug was rolled up, and sitting in the big-armed Windsor chair; the
fender had gone to bed in the back room; and the chairs seemed to be
playing at being acrobats, and were standing one upon the other; while
the chimney ornaments--shepherds and shepherdesses for the most part--
were placed as spectators on the top of the little cupboard to look on.
Mrs Shingle finished her task of cleaning up before descending,
carrying a pail which had to be emptied and rinsed out before her hands
were dried.
Mrs Shingle was a pleasant, plump woman, who had run a good deal to
dimple; in fact, the backs of her hands were full of coy little pits,
where the water hid when she washed, and her wedding ring lay in a kind
of furrow, from not having grown with her hands.
She gave a few touches with a duster to the lower room, which was half
sitting, one-fourth kitchen, and one-fourth workshop, inasmuch as there
was a low shoemaker's bench, with its tools, under the window, beneath
which, and secured to the wall by a strap, were lasts, knives, awls,
pincers, and various other implements of the shoemaker's art. On a
stand close by stood a sewing machine, and on the table were patches of
kid and patent leather, evidently awaiting the needle.
Mrs Shingle had finished her hurried cleaning, and the furniture was
put back; had been to the glass and arranged her hair, and finished off
by taking out three pins, which she stuck in her mouth, as if it were a
cushion, giving herself a shake, which caused her dress, that had been
round her waist, to fall into its customary folds; and then, sitting
down she was busy at work binding boot-tops, when the open door was
darkened, and a fashionably dressed young man, of five-and-twenty,
tapped on the panel with the end of his stick, entered with a languid
walk, said, "How do, aunt?" and seated himself on the edge of the table.
The visitor's clothes were very good, but they had a slangy cut, and
might have been made for some Leviathan of a music-hall, who intended to
delineate what he termed "a swell." For the cuffs of the excessively
short coat nearly hid the young fellow's hands, even as the ends of his
trousers almost concealed his feet; his shirt front was ornamented with
large crimson zigzag patterns, and his hat was so arranged on the back
of his head that it pressed down over his forehead a series of unhappy,
greasy-looking little curls, which came down to his eyebrows.
Mrs Shingle nodded, and stabbed a boot-top very viciously as the young
man saluted her.
"Old man out?" he said.
"You know he is," retorted Mrs Shingle, "else you wouldn't have come."
"Don't be hard on a fellow, aunt. You know I can't help coming.
Where's Jessie?"
"Out," said Mrs Shingle, sharply.
"She always is out when I come," drawled the young man, tapping his
teeth with his cane. "I believe she is upstairs now."
"Then you'd better go up and see," exclaimed Mrs Shingle. "Look here,
Fred, I'm sure your father don't approve of your coming here."
"I can't help what the governor likes," was the reply.
"I'm not going to ask him where I'm to go. Is Jessie out?"
"I told you she was, sir."
"Don't be so jolly cross, aunt. It's all right, you know. The old man
will kick a bit, but he'll soon come round. Don't you be rusty about
it. You ought to be pleased, you know; because she ain't likely to have
a chance to do half so well. I shall go and meet her."
As he spoke, the young man--to wit, Frederick Fraser, step-son of
Maximilian Shingle, Esq, of Oblong Square, Pentonville--slowly descended
from the table, glanced at himself in the glass, and made for the door.
"She's gone down the Goswell Road, I know," said the young man, turning
to show his teeth in a grin.
"No, no," exclaimed Mrs Shingle hastily.
"Thank ye, I know," said the young fellow, with a wink, and he passed
out.
"Bother the boy!" exclaimed Mrs Shingle petulantly. "Now he'll meet
her, and she'll be upset, and Dick will be cross, and Tom look hurt.
Oh, dear, dear, dear, I wish she'd been as ugly as sin!"
There was an interval of angry stitching, as if the needle was at enmity
with the soft leather, and determined to do it to death, and then Mrs
Shingle cried, "Here she is!"
"Ah, my precious!" she added, as a trim, neat little figure came
hurrying in snatched off her hat and hung it behind the door.
She was only in a dark brown stuff dress, but it was the very pattern of
neatness, as it hung in the most graceful of folds; while over all shone
as sweet a face as could be seen from east to west, with the bright
innocence looking out of dark grey eyes.
"Back again, mother," accompanied by a hasty kiss, was the reply to Mrs
Shingle's salute.
Then, brushing the crisp fair hair back from her white temples, the girl
popped herself into a chair, opened a packet, drew close to the sewing
machine, and in response to the pressure of a couple of little feet,
that would have made anything but cold crystallised iron thrill, the
wheel revolved, and with a clinking rattle the needle darted up and
down.
"Have I been long?"
"No, my dear--quick as quick!" said Mrs Shingle, watching her child
curiously.
"I wanted to get back and finish this, so as to take it in," said the
girl, making the machine rattle like distant firing.
"Did you meet Mr Fred?"
"Fred? No, mother," was the reply, as the girl started, coloured, and
the consequence was a tangle of the threads and a halt. "Has he been
here?" she continued, as with busy fingers she tried to set the work
free once more.
"Yes, just now, and set out to meet you. I wonder how you could have
missed him."
There was a busy pause for a few minutes, during which some work was
hastily finished; and while Mrs Shingle kept watching her child from
time to time uneasily, the latter rose from the machine, and began to
double up the jacket upon which she had been at work, and to place it
with a couple more lying close by on a black cloth.
"I hope you don't encourage him, Jessie," said Mrs Shingle at last.
"Mother!" exclaimed the girl, and her face became like crimson--"how can
you?"
"Well, there, there, I'll say no more," exclaimed Mrs Shingle--"only it
worries me. Now, make haste, there's a dear, or you'll be late. Don't
stop about, Jessie; and, whatever you do, don't come back without the
money. Your uncle'd sure to come or send to-day, and it's so unpleasant
not being ready."
"I'll be as quick as I can, mother," said Jessie briskly.
"And you won't stop, dear?"
"I don't know what you mean, mother," said the girl, with a tell-tale
blush on her cheek.
"How innocent we are, to be sure!" exclaimed Mrs Shingle, tartly.
Then, smiling, she continued, "There, I'm not cross, but I don't quite
like it. Of course, Tom don't know when you go to the warehouse, and
won't be waiting. There, I suppose young folks will be young folks."
"I can't help it, mother, if Mr Fraser meets me by accident," said
Jessie, blushing very rosily, and pouting her lips.
"But he mustn't meet you by accident; and it oughtn't to be. Uncle Max
would be furious if he knew of it, and those two boys will be playing at
Cain and Abel about you, and you mustn't think anything about either of
them."
"Mother!" exclaimed Jessie.
"I can't help it, my dear; I must speak, and put a stop to it. Your
father would be very angry if he knew."
"Oh, don't say so, mother!" pleaded Jessie, with a troubled look.
"But I must say it, my dear, before matters get serious; and I've been
thinking about it all, and I've come to the conclusion that it must all
be stopped. There! what impudence, to be sure! I believe that's him
come again."
"May I come in?" said a voice, after a light tap at the door. And a
frank, bearded face appeared in the opening.
"Yes, you can come in," said Mrs Shingle sharply. But, in spite of her
knitted brows, she could not keep back a smile of welcome as the owner
of the frank face entered the room, kissed her, and then turned and
caught Jessie's hands in his, with the result that the parcel she was
making up slipped off the table to the ground.
"There, how clumsy I am!" he exclaimed, picking up the fallen package,
and nearly striking his head against Jessie's, as, flushed and agitated,
she stooped too. "Well, aunt dear, how are you?"
"Oh, I'm well enough," said Mrs Shingle tartly, as she stretched a
piece of silk between her fingers and her teeth, and made it twang like
a guitar string. "What do you want here?"
"What do I want, aunt? All right, Jessie--I'll tie the string. Thought
I'd come in and carry Jessie's parcel."
"Oh, there!" exclaimed the girl.
"Now, look here, Mr Tom Fraser," said Mrs Shingle, holding up her
needle as if it were a weapon of offence: "you two have been planning
this."
"Mother!" cried Jessie.
"Oh no, we did not, aunt," cried the young man; "it was all my doing.
No, no, Jessie--I'll carry the parcel."
"No, no, Tom; indeed you must not."
"I should think not, indeed!" cried Mrs Shingle, who, as she glanced
from one to the other, and thought of her own early days, plainly read
the love that was growing up between the young people; but could not see
that her first visitor, Fred, had come back, and was standing gazing,
with a sallow, vicious look upon his face, at what was going on inside,
before going off with his teeth set and an ugly glare in his eyes.
"Tom Fraser," continued the lady of the house, "I mean Mr Tom--Mr
Thomas Fraser--you ought to be ashamed of yourself, to behave in this
way. You quite the gentleman, and under Government, and coming to poor
peopled houses, and wanting to carry parcels, and all like a poor
errand-boy!"
"Stuff and nonsense, aunt!--I'm not a gentleman, and I'm only your
nephew; and whilst I'm here I'm not going to see Jessie go through the
street carrying a parcel, when I can do it for her."
"But you must not, indeed, Tom--I mean Mr Fraser," said Jessie,
half-tearful, half-laughing. "I'm going to the warehouse, and I must
carry it myself."
"I know you are going to the warehouse," said Tom, laughing; "but you
must not carry the parcel yourself."
"But, my dear boy," said Mrs Shingle, who was evidently softening,
"think of what your father would say."
"I can't help what he would say, aunt," said the young man, earnestly;
"I only know I can't help coming here, and I don't think you want to be
cruel and drive me away."
"No--no--no," said Mrs Shingle, "but--"
"Do you, Jessie?"
"No, Tom--Mr Fraser," faltered Jessie. "But--"
"But--but!" exclaimed the young man impatiently. "Bother Mr Fraser!
My dear Jessie, why are you turning so cold here before your mother?
Are you ashamed of me?"
"No--no, Tom," she cried eagerly.
"And you know how dearly I love you?"
"Yes, Tom," faltered Jessie sadly; "but it must be only as cousins."
"And why?" said the young man sternly.
"Because," said Jessie, laying her hand upon his arm, "I'm only a very
poor girl, Tom, and half educated."
"What a wicked story, Jessie!" cried Mrs Shingle, who had her apron to
her eyes, but now spoke up indignantly--"why, you write beautiful!"
"And," continued Jessie, "your father--my father would never consent to
it; for I'm not a suitable choice for you to make."
"Why, Jessie," cried the young man, "you talk like a persecuted young
lady in a book. What nonsense! Uncle Richard, if he felt sure that I
should make you a good husband, would consent. And, as to my
step-father--"
"Now, look here, you two," said Mrs Shingle, "it's important that
Jessie should get to the warehouse with those things, and you're
stopping idling. It's late as it is."
"Come along, then," cried Tom, seizing the parcel.
"No, no," cried Jessie, who looked pale, and trembled.
"No, indeed; he must not go with you," said Mrs Shingle.
"Don't be cruel, aunt," said Tom appealingly. "I don't like Jessie to
go by herself."
"There, then, she's not going by herself; I'm going with her," exclaimed
Mrs Shingle.
"Then let me go instead."
"No, no," cried Jessie, getting agitated; "you must not."
"You have some reason, Jessie," said Tom, looking at her suspiciously.
"No, no, Tom. Don't look at me like that," she cried.
"Then tell me why," he said, sternly.
"The man at the warehouse made remarks last time you came," said Jessie,
hesitating.
"I'll make marks and remarks on him, if he does," cried Tom. "Aunt," he
continued angrily, "I can't bear it. It's not right for Jessie to go
alone; and I don't believe you were going. It makes me half mad to
think that she may be insulted by some puppy or another, and I not be
there to knock him down."
"But no one will insult her, my boy," said Mrs Shingle, looking at him
admiringly.
"But people do, and have," cried Tom, grinding his teeth. "She has told
me so. Because she goes with a parcel through the streets, every
unmanly rascal seems to consider she is fair game for him; and--hang it,
aunt, I can't help it!--if any scoundrel does it again, I'll half kill
him!"
"Oh, Tom, Tom!" whispered Jessie, as he strode up and down, with the
veins in his forehead starting, and then uttered a sob.
"I can't help it," he cried; "it's more than a fellow can bear. I'm not
ashamed to own it. I love Jessie dearly; and if she'll be my little
wife I don't care what anybody says. Poor girl, indeed! Where's the
lady in our set that can stand before her?"
"Not many, I know," said Mrs Shingle proudly.
"She can't help uncle being poor, and I can't help my step-father being
rich. Come, aunt, you'll let me go?"
"I mustn't."
"Then it's because that brother of mine has been here," cried Tom
angrily.
"No, no, no!" cried Mrs Shingle; "indeed it isn't, my dear boy. But I
mustn't allow it--I mustn't indeed. Your father will never forgive me."
"Jessie dear," cried the young man, taking her hand, "you know I love
you."
"I know you say you do," she faltered.
"And I think you care for me--a little."
"Oh no, I don't think I do--not a bit," she said, half archly, half with
the tears in her sweet eyes, as they would look tenderly at him, and
seemed to say how much she would like him to come and protect her.
"I do not believe you, my darling," he cried impetuously. "I'm quite
satisfied about that. Aunt dear, you'll let me go with her?"
"I don't like it," said Mrs Shingle; "and I'm sure it will lead to
trouble."
"Not it. Come, Jessie!"
"No, no, no!" cried Jessie. "Indeed you ought not to come, Tom."
"Tom! Well, I must come after that," he cried.
"Oh no: I did not mean it."
"Well, look here," said the young fellow. "Listen, both of you. If you
will not let me walk with you side by side, I'll follow like a shadow."
"Shadows can't carry parcels," said Jessie merrily.
"This one can, and will."
"There, go along, do, both of you," said Mrs Shingle, whose eyes
twinkled with pleasure as she looked on Tom's eager face. "You'll be
dreadfully late."
"All right," cried Tom joyfully; "we'll make haste, and if we are going
to be late we'll take a cab."
"Because we are ashamed of the parcel," said Jessie demurely.
"Ashamed!" cried Tom. "Why, if you'll come with me I'll take the parcel
under one arm and you under the other, and walk all round the quadrangle
at Somerset House when the clerks are leaving, just to make them all
envious."
"Go along, do!" cried Mrs Shingle. And she stood gazing after them as
there was a playful struggle for the parcel at the door; while, as they
disappeared, the plump little woman took up her shoe-binding, began
stitching, and sighed--
"Heigho! I'm afraid I've done very wrong."