A MODEST ANNIVERSARY.
A quarter past eight o’clock on Monday morning; a clear, sharp, frosty
day; the shutters are down and the shop open at Stephen Walker’s. From
eight to ten is the busiest part of the day with them. Carry, looking
very bright and pretty, is counting a number of the morning papers,
which have just come in and are lying in a pile, damp and flabby, in
front of her. Stephen Walker is standing beside her occupied in folding
them, a task which, from long practice, he performs with wonderful
quickness and exactitude. On the other side of the counter a small boy,
with a good-humoured face and a merry impudent eye, with his hands in
thick knitted gloves, and a red comforter round his neck, is waiting,
stamping his feet to warm them and swinging his arms for the same
purpose.
“Here is your lot,” Carry said, when she had finished; “twelve ‘Times,’
two ‘Posts,’ and three ‘’Tisers.’ Now mind, Tom Holl, no stopping about
or playing at marbles.”
“As if it were likely, Miss, that one would stop to play at marbles such
a morning as this—oh yes! very.”
“There, take the papers and run off then.”
The boy put them under his arm, and went off at a brisk trot.
“What are you doing, father?”
“I am trying to put the books into proper order, Carry. Dear, dear, what
terrible confusion they are in! Here is 55 next to 4, and the next to
that is 87.”
“Oh please, father, do leave them alone. I shall never be able to find
anything. I know now exactly where they all are, and could put my hand
upon any book that is asked for in the dark; but if you once meddle with
them I shall never find them again; the numbers don’t go for anything.”
“Just as you like, Carry. When do you suppose breakfast will be ready?”
“I am sure I don’t know, father; I must attend to the shop at present,
and I do think the very best thing you could do would be to go in and
see about it. Now that would be really very useful; besides, you are
such a figure that I don’t like you to be seen here. That great cut and
swelling upon your cheek make you look as if you had been fighting on
Saturday night. Why, those two gentlemen who came in just now, and asked
what you had been doing, when you said you had slipped down, looked at
each other and winked and laughed. I could see they did not believe you
a bit—and no one else will.”
“Do you really think so, Carry? Dear me, dear me! that is very wrong of
them, and will get me quite a bad name. Be sure to tell them when they
call to-morrow how it happened. But perhaps you are right, my dear, and
I had better keep as much as I can out of the shop of a morning till my
face has got quite right again. I will see about breakfast: but, be
sure, if you really want me, to call, and I will come in at once,
whatever they may say about me.”
In truth, Carry was by no means sorry for an excuse which would keep her
father out of the shop of a morning, at any rate for a week or so, a
result which sometimes took her some little scheming to attain. For at
that time a good many clerks were in the habit of coming in to buy
tobacco, before they took ‘bus for the city; not perhaps that Stephen
Walker’s tobacco was unusually good, but then certainly his daughter was
uncommonly pretty. Those who did not smoke bought the “Times” for the
use of their office there, which gave them the double advantage of
having it to read on their way up, and of having a chat with Carry
Walker before starting. So there were quite a number of men came in of a
morning from half-past eight to half-past nine; and Carry who, as has
been said, was in no ways loath to be admired, had a bright smile, and a
laughing remark ready for each. So Stephen Walker’s shop was quite a
well-known rendezvous, and the young men would stand there chatting with
Carry till the ‘bus came along past the end of the street, where the
coachman would regularly stop for them. Carry very much enjoyed all
this. Her head was somewhat turned perhaps; but, in spite of her little
vanities, she was a shrewd, sensible girl, and took all the nonsense
talked to her at pretty nearly what it was worth. She had always an
answer for every remark, and in the little wordy passages generally
managed to hold her own; and yet, although full of fun and life, she
never for an instant forgot herself, or allowed her fun to carry her
away. Her numerous admirers felt and respected this, and consequently
the little war of words never exceeded anything that the father might
not have listened to. At the same time there were unquestionably more
fun and talk on those mornings when he did not appear in the shop. Some
of these admirers of Carry were really in earnest, and would gladly have
shared their homes and salaries with the tobacconist’s pretty daughter;
but she gave no encouragement to one more than another, and to the two
or three who, in spite of this, had endeavoured to persuade her to unite
her lot with theirs, she had very decidedly intimated that she had at
present no idea whatever of changing her condition.
By half past nine her work was nearly over. The last batch of her
visitors was off to town; the last “Times” was sold out, and in those
days there were no penny papers.
When the shop was empty Carry went into the little parlour, and found
that her father had got the breakfast ready, and was sitting by the side
of the fire waiting patiently till she should come in. Stephen Walker
was no more sorry than his daughter was that he should have some excuse
for leaving her alone in the shop during the busy time. He was perfectly
aware that a large proportion of his customers came more for the purpose
of seeing and talking with her than to buy tobacco or papers. And as he
felt perfectly assured of Carry’s discretion and self-respect, he was
not at all afraid of leaving her to take care of herself. At first it
had not been so, and he had been very loath to leave her in the shop
alone, and had, when he went into the parlour, been in the habit of
leaving the door ajar, so that he could hear what went on. When he
found, however, that the conversation never surpassed the limits of fair
badinage, and that Carry turned aside all the compliments paid to her,
with a merry laugh, he grew confident, and was quite content to leave
her to herself, especially as he could not but feel that his presence
was a restraint both to them and her. He was quite sensible of the fact
that in the two years which had elapsed since she first took her place
in the shop, that the business had trebled, and that his and her
comforts were proportionately increased.
They had scarcely sat down to breakfast before they heard some one come
into the shop. Carry got up with a little exclamation of impatience,
opened the door, and looked out.
“Good morning, Evan, what is it?”
“Good morning, miss. Could I speak to Mr. Walker?”
“Come in Evan, we are at breakfast; that is right; now shut the door.”
“What do you want, Evan?” Stephen Walker asked.
“If you please, sir, I wanted to ask you, if when you go up to town, you
would get me some books for James to read.”
“What sort of books, Evan?”
“Not story books sir, but clever books about mechanics, and that sort of
thing; not easy ones, sir, he is a wonderful chap at ‘rithmetic, James
is, and can do any of the sums in the one we have got at home; but I
have heard him say he should like to learn mathematics. I would go
myself sir, and not trouble you, but Lor, I should not know which was
which. I don’t want new ones, but books from the old stalls; I have
heard tell, they are very cheap there. Here is ten shillings, sir; would
you kindly choose as many as you can get for it, and please keep them
here for me, ‘cause I want to surprise him with them?”
“But gracious, child!” Carry said, “where on earth did you get ten
shillings to spend on old books?”
“If you please, miss, it were given to me, and more too, for picking a
little dog out of the Serpentine, and I thought that I couldn’t do
better with it than get some books for James. He is mighty clever, and
he has nothing to amuse him, poor fellow, except his flowers, so he will
have plenty of time to think over all these hard things.”
“You are a good boy, Evan,” Stephen Walker said, “and I will do my best,
and ten shillings will go a good way. That sort of book is always to be
picked up very cheap. I can get an algebra, Euclid, and trigonometry,
anyhow, and perhaps a book on conic sections, and it will take your
brother some time to master them. But, Evan, does your father know what
you are spending your money upon?”
“Oh yes, he knows,” the boy said; “besides, he told me that the money
was mine, and I could spend it upon what I liked. And please, Mr.
Walker, father told me to give his respects, and would you go in and
smoke a pipe with him this evening?”
“Will you tell your father from me,” Stephen Walker said, “that he may
rely upon my coming. And where are you going now, Evan?”
“I am going down to the Serpentine; I hear they are skating there this
morning, and I have got a new tray, and such a lot of bull’s eyes and
peppermints, rather. Will you have some, miss,” and the boy took out a
handful and put them down by Carry’s plate.
“Thank you, Evan, I will take two or three, not more; I could not eat
them—that will do, thank you; I hope you will do a good day’s work.”
“No fear of that, miss; I just shall do this week if the frost goes on.
Good bye, miss. Good bye, sir, and thank you; please don’t forget the
books,” and Evan Holl was gone.
“Do you know, father, I think it’s lowering yourself going into John
Holl’s, he is a very good sort of a man, but he is only a dustman. I
think you ought to look higher than that, if only for my sake.”
“John Holl is a very decent man, my dear,” her father said mildly, “and
he always treats me with proper respect. There are not many places I do
go to; but I esteem John Holl to be a very respectable man in his sphere
of life, and I do not think it can do me any harm.”
Carry pouted a little, but made no further remark. She had very little
knowledge of her father’s past life. She could remember vaguely that as
a child she had lived in a much better house, but that was all. Stephen
Walker had never spoken of earlier times, beyond telling her that he had
formerly kept a much larger shop, which had been his father’s before
him; but that he had been unfortunate, and had therefore settled down
into a place more suited to his means. More than this he had never told
her, for he thought it better for the girl’s happiness that she should
remain in ignorance of what the past had been. He thought that if she
had known in what a different station she might have moved, it might
tend to make her discontented with her state. For himself, he accepted
his lot cheerfully, and was on the whole far happier than he had ever
been before, and he judged her by himself.
Stephen Walker really liked these little evenings with his humble
friends. When he went in there to smoke a pipe he was always treated
with a certain deference which gratified any lingering feelings of
personal pride he might have, and made him flatter himself with the idea
that in so doing he was really conferring a favour instead of accepting
one.
Anyone entering John Holl’s at seven o’clock that evening would have
seen at once that something very important was about to take place. The
floor had been evidently recently scrubbed, and in those parts not
covered by the square patch of drugget in the middle of the room, was so
clean and white that it almost seemed a pity to tread upon it. The
chairs and table absolutely shone with the amount of rubbing and
polishing which had been bestowed upon them, and the ornaments on the
chest of drawers had been arranged upon a spotless white cloth to the
best possible advantage.
Mother had just come down from upstairs, where she had been engaged in
tidying herself, and looked red and hot from the hard work and
excitement.
John Holl himself was sitting in his usual place by the side of the
fire, smoking his long pipe with his accustomed air of thoughtful
gravity. James was in his box on wheels opposite to him, but not
immediately so, the chair next to the fire being, as the place of
honour, reserved for Stephen Walker.
The younger children are seated upon the stairs as being quite out of
the way, and are from that post of vantage viewing all the preparations
with an air of extreme interest, passing away the time the while, by
munching apples and cakes which have fallen to them as their share of
the feast.
Presently Evan returns, and the cause of his absence is at once
apparent, for he is followed by a potboy from a neighbouring
public-house, carrying in one hand a large can of beer and in the other
three empty pewter pots, which he places upon the table in company with
several long clay pipes which are lying upon it ready for use. He then
takes from the pockets of his jacket two black bottles which he places
beside them, and with a brief “good-night” takes his leave. And now when
Mrs. Holl has placed some tumblers upon the table, the preparations for
the feast are complete.
For even the Holls have their feasts—not often and not great ones. In no
single respect resembling those banquets which a city alderman pictures
to himself at the word feast, where turtle soup with its lumps of green
fat mingles if not harmonises with venison and truffles, the whole
crowned with that wonderful institution—the loving cup.
But the Holls have none of these things, nor perhaps would be able
thoroughly to appreciate them if they had. The contents of the black
bottles and battered pewter pots form the great staple of the
entertainment. Strange stories, could they speak, might these pewters
relate of those who have drunk from them, and curious would be the
history of each of their numerous dints and bruises. That one was
crushed only last Saturday night by being thrown by a drunken husband at
his wife; the symmetry of the next was spoilt against a navvy’s skull in
an English and Irish row; for stealing the third, Daniel Crinky, alias
the Ferret, was sent on a long sea voyage; and many another tale of
drunkenness and crime.
This is one of the pewter’s innocent uses, and they seem to have been
specially cleaned and brightened up in honour of the occasion. It is the
twentieth anniversary of John and Sarah Holl’s wedding-day. The guests
soon begin to arrive; there are not many of them—half-a-dozen or so. In
the first case, as he is a public character should be mentioned A 56.
For he is a public character, and his place can by no means be termed a
sinecure. Far from it, for A 56 has plenty of hard work and not over
much pay in return. He must make up his mind for hard knocks, and
occasionally in the discharge of his duty to be nearly killed, perhaps
in the open day, with dozens of bystanders looking on, too cowardly or
too indifferent to lift a finger in his defence. He will have some
unpleasant duties, too, such as keeping the line all day in the rain at
Chiswick Fête, and is expected to be within a few yards of every
irascible gentleman who is overcharged by a cabman, or who imagines
himself to be in any way aggrieved. He must make up his mind to being a
pretty general object of dislike among the lower orders, and to be
taunted and chaffed and groaned at on all public occasions, he being at
those times considered a fair subject for sport. All this and much more
must he bear with perfect equanimity and good temper, for if he should
ever get a little crusty, and hit rather harder then the occasion
appears to warrant, he knows that “Mentor,” and “Censor,” and “Civis,”
and many others will be down upon him at once in the columns of the
daily papers. But to their credit be it spoken, it is very seldom that A
56 and his brethren from A 1 to the end of the alphabet ever give an
opportunity for a charge against them.
Next to A 56 must be mentioned Perkins. Perkins is not a handsome man,
in fact the reverse. He is rather tall and strongly built, with high
cheek bones, small sunken eyes, and a broken nose. He wears a groom’s
waistcoat with a heavy steel watchguard, and a gaudy scarf round his
neck with a showy mosaic gold pin. From these tokens it may be at once
seen that Perkins is or has been a prize-fighter. A nasty customer was
Perkins in his time, and many a victory has he won, from his first
appearance as Harry Parson’s novice, to the time when backing himself to
fight Unknown for 200_l._ a side, he was nearly killed. It was in that
celebrated conflict that his nose was broken; and he then retired from
the ring, and was established by his admirers in the snug Public, known
as “The Lively Stunners,” where every Wednesday evening a select
harmonic meeting is held, at which good humour and fisticuffs prevail,
as see “Bell’s Life.”
Between Perkins and A 56 a species of feud exists, for Perkins cannot
disguise that he objects to A 56. Not on personal grounds, far from it;
but as being one of the body who are constantly on the watch to
interrupt and put an end to the noble art of which he, Perkins, is a
professor; and he attributes to A 56 and his fellows the disrepute into
which that noble science has fallen. Of the others present, as they will
not appear again in the pages of this history, no description need be
given.
After the first guest had arrived the rest soon came in, entering
generally with a rather awkward air, as if impressed somewhat with the
gravity and importance of the occasion, but thawing rapidly when they
had once seated themselves and had each got one of the long pipes into
full operation.
Presently Stephen Walker arrives, and is inducted in the post of honour.
His being thus late was caused by his desire to see the shop closed, and
Carry comfortably seated at the fire with a novel, before coming out.
As was but natural the weather was the first object of discussion, but
this did not last long, it being unanimously agreed that the frost was
likely to last any time. After that, various other topics are introduced
and discussed gravely, and generally with a fair knowledge of the
subject. At last, as all conversation among working men at that period
was sure to do, their talk turned upon the Chartist movement which was
agitating the lower classes of the metropolis.
“I wish the Charter had never been heard of,” John Holl said, “I’m sick
of it. Look at my brother Bill. A better workman never stepped in shoes,
always at work, always on the best wages, and look at him now, never
doing a stroke, but wasting his time going about talking. It’s been a
weary time for Bessy since he took up with it. But, Lor bless you, to
hear him talk you would think that we were all black niggers. It sounds
all very fine, and though I know I aint a black nigger, I can’t say
anything against it. But, Lor bless you! you should hear James, he ats
him, and he gives him word for word, and line for line, and Bill gets
hit pretty hard, I can tell you; you do slap it into him, James, don’t
you?”
The lad, who had been very quiet, only putting in a remark occasionally,
laughed merrily.
“I like arguing with Uncle Bill, he is so accustomed to have it all his
own way, and he does not half like it sometimes when I come down upon
him. I am very sorry for him though, and I do wish I could convince him.
He is so honest, and he believes in what he says so much, that it is a
pity to think that it will lead him into trouble.”
“Why did he not come here to-night, John?” Stephen Walker asked.
“He has got what he calls a ‘committee’ on, and, bless you, he wouldn’t
miss a committee, he wouldn’t, not if he knew he should find us all dead
when he came out.”
Here Mrs. Holl, who had been upstairs putting the younger children to
bed, came down again, and began to bustle about, and lay a cloth for
supper. She then brought out a huge pie from the cupboard, and in a few
minutes the whole party drew round the table and set to. When supper was
over, Mrs. Holl cleared the table, put the black bottles and tumblers
upon it, poured out a large jug of boiling water, and each mixed himself
a glass.
There was then a little pause, and Stephen Walker, finding that the eyes
of the company were directed generally towards him, said—
“Gentlemen, we are met here to night to celebrate a very happy occasion.
Twenty years ago to-day, my friends, John and Sarah Holl were married.
How happy they have been they best know, but from what I have seen of
them, and I have known them for some years now, I should say that they
are as happy a couple as any in the town, and I think you will agree
with me when I say that they well deserve to be. John, I drink your
health and your good wife’s, may you continue for another twenty years
to be as happy as you have been up to this time.”
His speech was received with murmurs of applause, and with thumping of
glasses from those seated near enough to the table to be enabled to
indulge in that evidence of their approbation.
Then all nodded to John and Sarah over their glasses, and said, “Here’s
to ye,” and there was a pause of silence for John Holl’s reply.
And then John, wiping his mouth with the back of his broad, brown hand,
and clearing his throat, said—
“Mr. Walker and friends all, speaking ain’t in my way much, but for
Sairey and self, I must tell you how much I feel obligated for all your
kind wishes. Mr. Walker, and friends all, I thank yer kindly. Sairey
here and I have been married twenty long years now, and we ha’ been very
happy together. It don’t seem twenty year, but I know it is. Sairey, she
were a tall, shapely lass, and I were an active, young chap then; as you
may see, friends all, we ha’ changed rarely since then. But I don’t
think we ha’ changed other way. I do believe, Sairey an’ me are just as
fond o’ each other as we was this day twenty year back. Mr. Walker, and
friends all, my wife Sairey has been a good wife to me. I can’t say
rightly how good, but I feel it. I know well that I ain’t made Sairey as
good a husband as I might ha’ done—hold your tongue, Sairey—but as you
see, friends all, I don’t think she likes me any the less for it now. We
aint lived just an idle life all these years, and we didn’t expect to
when we got married. We have had our hardish times, too, but nothing not
to say to grumble about. On the whole we have got on pretty fair, and
ha’ laid up a few pound for a wet day. Mr. Walker, and friends all,
thank ye kindly. Sairey, old girl, here’s to ye,” and John gave his wife
a loud-sounding kiss, and Sarah, although she was a low person, and
hardly knew what nerves meant, wiped away a tear unobserved amongst the
thumping of glasses, and stamping of feet, which greeted the conclusion
of John Holl’s speech. After that there was a greater appearance of
general ease, and of a determination to enjoy themselves. Presently they
began to sing. A 56 sang, principally comic songs, and sang them with so
much spirit, that it was evident that under the rather stolid demeanor,
and close cut regulation whisker, A 56 concealed a strong sense of
humour. The crippled lad sang, and with considerable taste and feeling,
and Perkins favoured the company with some of the songs of the “Lively
Stunners” in his best style. And the others sang; but the most marked
feature about their songs was the almost entire absence of any
appreciable air, and that they all had a chorus apropos of nothing, of
ri tiddy ti tiddy ad libitum. The singers too seemed continually
striving to get up to some imaginary note, about two octaves above the
normal compass of their voices, and as their eyes moved in accordance
with their voices, at these times only the whites were visible; the
entire effect to any one unaccustomed to it being extremely painful.
However, all seemed satisfied, and when the party broke up, which they
did a little before twelve, as several of them had to be at their work
early, they expressed themselves as greatly delighted with their
evening. And so they went off, the others to bed, but policeman A 56,
who had only got leave in honour of the occasion, went off to the
station to report himself, and then to relieve the comrade who had taken
his place on his beat. Tramp, tramp, with his slow, heavy, regular tread
all night, up and down many a quiet street, where his heavy foot-fall
seems to echo strangely; steadily on, with once or twice a pause, and a
sound of voice in remonstrance and dispute, and then a little scuffle as
some drunken man is either persuaded to go home or else taken off to the
station. Down many an area does the bright eye of his lantern pry; now
it dances along a wall, now ‘tis on the ground, now it flits into a
window. Loudly the bells chime the hours in the still, starlight
night—two—three—four—London is at its stillest, the last carriage from
the latest party is back now, the last straggling foot passenger in bed.
Five—six—and now there are some signs of life and movement again. The
workmen are beginning to start to their distant places of work, stamping
their feet, and swinging their arms, to warm themselves in the keen
morning air. Had it been market-day, long ere this the light carts would
have been rattling into Covent Garden, to purchase a supply of
vegetables, and be back again before the earliest customers are awake.
Now it approaches seven, and the grey morning light begins to break over
London, and to dim the brightness of A 56’s lantern. The streets are
busy with men hastening to their work. Seven—and it is comparatively
quiet again. Half-past—and sleepy-looking housemaids begin to draw up
blinds, and to open front doors, and sweep down the steps. And now the
milk-carts drive up, and as the clock strikes eight, London seems to
wake with a start. The ‘busses rattle off with their loads of men for
the early offices, foot passengers muffled to the throats, cabs and
carts; day has fairly begun. And now A 56 is relieved, and goes home and
sleeps long and soundly.