"Now, sir, Bluebeard's chamber is open to you, and you may go up."
"Go? Upstairs?"
"Yes, sir," she said, stroking her pretty curls; "the ogre said you were
to go up."
"Are you--sure?" I said.
"Sure? Of course. There, go along, or you'll wake mamma."
I went softly upstairs, with my heart beating with excitement, turning
my head, though, as I closed the door, and seeing Linny drawing her
letter hastily from under the blotting-paper.
It was before the shabby door of a sloping-roofed back attic that I
paused for a moment to knock, Stephen Hallett's clear, calm voice
uttering a loud "Come in," and I entered to find him seated before a
large old deal kitchen table, upon which were strewed various tools,
pieces of iron and brass, old clock-wheels, and spindles. At one end
was fitted a vice, and at the other end what seemed to be the model of
some machine--or rather, a long, flat set of clock-works, upon which
Hallett was evidently engaged.
"Well, Antony," he said, looking up at me in a weary, disappointed way;
"glad to see you, my boy."
"Why, you are busy," I exclaimed, looking with all a boy's curiosity at
the model, or whatever it was before me.
"Yes," he said, "I generally am. Well," he added, after a pause, as he
seemed to derive rest and amusement from my curiosity, "what do you
think of my sweetheart?"
"Your sweetheart?"
"Yes, my sweetheart, of which poor mother is so jealous. There she is."
"I--I don't understand you," I said.
"Well, the object of my worship--the thing on which I lavish so much
time, thought, and money."
"Is--is that it?" I said.
"That's it," he replied, enjoying my puzzled looks. "What do you think
of it?"
I was silent for a few moments, gazing intently at the piece of
mechanism before I said: "I don't know."
"Look here, Antony," he said, rising and sweeping away some files and
pieces of brass before seating himself upon the edge of the table: "do
you know why we are friends?"
"No, but you have been very kind to me."
"Have I?" he said. "Well, I have enjoyed it if I have. Antony, you are
a gentleman's son." I nodded.
"And you know the meaning of the word honour?"
"I hope so."
"You do, Antony; and it has given me great pleasure to find that,
without assuming any fine airs, you have settled down steadily to your
work amongst rough boys and ignorant prejudiced men without losing any
of the teachings of your early life." I looked at him, wondering what
he was about to say. "Now look here, Antony, my boy," he continued; "I
am going to put implicit faith in your honour, merely warning you that
if you talk about what you have seen here you may do me a very serious
injury. You understand?"
"Oh yes, Mr Hallett," I cried; "you may depend upon me."
"I do, Antony," he said; "so let's have no more of that formal `Mr' Let
it be plain `yes' and `no;' and now, mind this, I am going to open out
before you my secret. Henceforth it will be our secret. Is it to be
so?"
"Yes--oh yes!" I exclaimed, flushing with pride that a man to whom I
had looked up should have so much confidence in me.
"That's settled, then," he said, shaking hands with me. "And now,
Antony, once more, what do you think of my model?"
I had a good look at the contrivance as it stood upon the table, while
Hallett watched me curiously, and with no little interest. "It's a
puzzle," I said at last. "Do you give it up?"
"No; not yet," I said, leaning my elbows on the table. "Wheels, a brass
table, a roller. Why, it looks something like a mangle." I looked at
him, and he nodded.
"But you wouldn't try to make a mangle," I said. "It might do to grind
things in. May I move it?"
"No; it is out of gear. Well, do you give it up?" He rose as he spoke,
and opened the attic window to let in the pleasant, cool night air, and
then leaned against the sloping ceiling gazing back at me.
"I know what it would do for," I said eagerly, as the idea came to me
like a flash. "What?"
"Why, it is--it is," I cried, clapping my hands, as he leaned towards
me; "it's a printing machine."
"You're right, Antony," he said; "quite right. It is the model of a
printing machine."
"Yes," I said, with all a boy's excitement; "and it's to do quickly what
the men do now so slowly in the presses, sheet by sheet."
"Yes, and in the present machines," he said. "Have you noticed how the
machines work?"
"Oh, yes!" I said; "often. The type runs backwards and forwards, and
the paper is laid on by boys and is drawn round the big roller and comes
out printed."
"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."