Toilers of Babylon: A Novel

CHAPTER VIII

There are extant numerous clippings from famous writers which, coming "trippingly off the tongue," have grown into popular favor and are generally accepted as the essence of wisdom, but which will not stand the test of cold and logical analysis. Hence it is that so many familiar proverbs belie themselves. Among these popular sayings may be classed the description of life as a fitful fever. There are few men and women to whom this will apply; with the great majority of human beings life glides from one groove into another with ease and naturalness, and the most startling changes are effected without violent strain. Poor men grow rich, rich men grow poor, the lowly mount, the high slip into the downward paths, and one and all accept the reversals of position with a certain innate philosophy which makes life desirable, and often sweet, however wide the gulf which separates the present from the past. It is something to be genuinely grateful for; were it otherwise, existence would become an intolerable burden, and every waking moment would be charged with pain.

These observations are pertinent to the course of our story, in respect of which the incidents already narrated may be accepted as a kind of prologue. The scene changes to the busy East of this mighty city, the precise locality being a second-hand bookshop in Church Alley. The proprietor of this shop was Mr. Joseph Loveday, Nansie's uncle, and that the reflections upon the shiftings in life's kaleidoscope are not out of place was proved by words which fell from his lips as he sorted a pile of books which he had purchased at auction.

"Change, change, change-nothing but change. Some drop out, some remain, and time rolls on. I live, with a likelihood of living for many years; he is dying, with the certainty of death in the course of a few days. So he says in his letter, and in serious affairs he was never given to light talk. Presently he will leave the world behind him. What matters?"

The question, addressed with mingled bitterness and mournfulness to himself, aroused him from his reverie.

"It does matter," he said. "We are not exactly lumber."

He was a man of middle age, a bachelor, and he conducted his business alone, without assistance of any kind, taking down his shutters in the morning and putting them up again at night, arranging the books on his shelves within and on the stall without, and knowing where to lay his hand, almost blindfold, upon any volume which he or a customer required. In this lonely mode of carrying on his trade there were inconveniences which were beginning to tell upon him. The toilers round about were not as a rule blessed with libraries of any value, and although he was always ready to purchase any odd lots that were brought to him, he picked up very little stock in this way. The greater portion of his treasures was bought at book auctions in the West, and whenever he attended one of these sales he was under the necessity of shutting up his shop and taking the key with him. Of late he had thought seriously of employing an assistant, but the difficulty was to find one to suit both his business and his peculiarities. In his domestic arrangements he was compelled to call in assistance. He employed a charwoman twice a week, for half a day on each occasion, to clean his place and set it in order; his breakfasts, teas, and suppers he prepared himself with his own hands, and when he did not purchase his dinner at a convenient cook-shop, it was sent in to him by Mrs. Peeper, keeper of a wardrobe-shop in Church Alley. He looked older than he was, and had too early acquired a stoop from poring over books; he had blue eyes, large and shapely hands, and features furrowed with lines of thoughtfulness. When he was not called away to attend an auction or upon other business, he would be seen sitting at his counter, or upon the floor, sorting books and making lists of them, or standing at his door in slippers, wearing a loose dressing-gown and a plain skull-cap, and with a pair of spectacles resting generally above his eyebrows. His reputation extended far beyond the immediate East in which his shop was situated. In the course of his career it had been his good-fortune to light upon rare books in the odd lots he had picked up at auction, and book-hunters from afar would come to look over his stock of treasures. On the day of his introduction to the reader he had been much exercised. There was the letter from his brother, to which he had replied in terms with which we are familiar; it had taken his thoughts to the past, and old memories had troubled his mind; domestic and business worries were also troubling him. The charwoman he had employed for years, and who was now up-stairs making a noise which annoyed him, had, during the last few weeks, generally made her appearance in a state of inebriation. He had expostulated with her upon this new and evil departure, but his remonstrances had not effected an improvement, and now, as he sat musing and sorting his books, a sudden crash in the room above caused him to start to his feet with an angry exclamation. He calmed himself instantly, having a great power of self-control, and, going to the staircase, called out:

"What is the matter, Mrs. Chizlet?"

"Only the wash'and basin, sir," replied a voice from above.

"Oh," he said.

"And the jug, sir."

"Oh."

"And the soap-dish, sir."

"Oh."

Then there was a pause and an ominous stillness.

"Have you broken anything else?" he asked.

"I didn't break 'em, sir," was the reply. "It was the cat."

"There's no cat in the house. Come down."

"In a minute, sir, when I've recovered myself."

He waited the minute, and down came the woman, with a vacant smile on her face, and a number of pieces of broken crockery in her hands, which she let fall with a crash on the floor of the shop.

"The cat, eh?"

"Yes, sir, the cat."

"Where did it come from? The sky? What is that sticking out of your pocket? The skeleton of the cat? No. A bottle. Empty, of course."

"Yes, sir, worse luck."

"Mrs. Chizlet," said Mr. Loveday, gravely, "last Friday you broke two dishes."

"Not me, sir."

"Well, the cat. This day week the cat broke all my cups and saucers. If I keep you in my service, in the course of another week there will not be a sound piece of crockery or glass in the place. Therefore I will not trouble you to come here again."

"We're all born, and none buried," said the charwoman, with a silly smile.

And having received her half-day's wage, she departed contentedly, and made her way to the nearest public-house.

Mr. Joseph Loveday gazed disconsolately around; it was not the broken crockery that annoyed him, it was the disarrangement of domestic custom. Having discharged the woman who had served him so long, it was a settled thing that she would never be employed by him again. Where could he find another who would serve him more faithfully? He detested strangers, and a break in his usual habits was a great discomfort to him. He was in a mood to exaggerate the discomfort, and in a few minutes he had magnified it considerably. It is not from the most important disasters of life, but from its pins and needles, that we draw our acutest miseries. Everything had been going wrong with Mr. Loveday lately. During the past week he had missed three books from his stall outside, and had been unable to discover the thief. Even if he had been successful in catching him he would have hesitated to prosecute him, because of the loss of time it would entail. Then, Mrs. Peeper, proprietor of the wardrobe shop, who occasionally cooked his dinners for him, had been behaving badly, keeping him waiting an hour and more, and placing before him food, so villainously cooked that he could not eat it. Some change was decidedly necessary to restore the harmony of his days. As he was debating with himself in what way the change could be made, he raised his eyes and saw through the window a lad standing at the stall outside, turning over the leaves of a book. The age of this lad was twelve, and his name was Timothy Chance.

"I might do worse," thought Mr. Loveday. The drawback was that Timothy was a bundle of rags.

He was turning over the leaves of the book he had lifted at haphazard from the stall, but he was not reading it. Every now and then he directed a furtive glance towards the interior of the shop, in the hope, without obtruding himself, of attracting favorable attention. Hanging on his left arm was an old open-work basket, and sitting therein was a bedraggled hen. Mr. Loveday stepped to the shop door, and said:

"Well, Timothy."

"Yes, sir," said the lad, looking up with a cheerful smile, and speaking in quite respectable English, "here I am, back again, like a bad penny."

"Come in," said Mr. Loveday.

Timothy gladly obeyed the summons, and entered. Placing his basket with the hen in it upon the floor, he stood respectfully before the bookseller. In classic story a goose became historical; in this modern tale, wherein heroic deeds are not heralded by clang of trumpets, it may by and by be admitted that the fowl which Timothy Chance set down deserves no less a fame.

CHAPTER IX

Poor and ragged as he was, the lad's bearing was distinguished by a bright manliness-even thus early shown-which could scarcely fail to win favor. The circumstances of his young life were singular, and deserve, and need, brief mention.

Somewhat less than twelve years before this day on which, in obedience to Mr. Loveday's summons, he entered the bookseller's shop, Mr. Loveday turned into Church Alley, after a walk he was in the habit of taking through the markets of the East where the humble folk make their purchases for the day of rest. It was therefore Saturday night, and the hour was a little past midnight. In front of the pawnbroker's shop, at the corner of Church Alley, stood the pawnbroker himself in a state of perturbation, taking a few steps this way and a few that in an uncertain, undecided fashion. His shutters were up, and the day's business was at an end. He pounced upon Mr. Loveday, whose position then, as at present, was one of authority among his neighbors, who tacitly and willingly acknowledged him to be a man of superior stamp.

"Ah, Mr. Loveday," said the pawnbroker, laying his hand on the bookseller's arm, "did you see a woman running away as you came along?"

"Not that I noticed," replied Mr. Loveday, observing that something unusual was agitating the pawnbroker.

"Or a man?" asked the pawnbroker.

"No."

"It is altogether the most extraordinary thing," said the pawnbroker, scratching his head, "the most ex-tra-or-di-na-ry. I never heard of anything like it."

"Like what?"

"Would you mind," said the pawnbroker, "stepping inside, and giving me your advice?"

"Certainly," said Mr. Loveday.

He followed the pawnbroker into the shop, and there upon the counter, in one of the divisions used by persons who came to pledge their goods or redeem them, lay an old shawl containing, as was evidenced by a gentle and regular upheaving, an animate object.

"What do you think of this?" exclaimed the pawnbroker, unfolding the shawl.

"A very fine baby," said Mr. Loveday, "though I don't pretend to be a judge-and fast asleep."

"Proving," added the pawnbroker, "that it's been well stuffed."

"Stuffed!"

"Had plenty to drink-got its belly full. That's the artfulness of it."

"The baby's artfulness?" inquired Mr. Loveday, much mystified.

"No-of the trick that's been played upon me. Put comfortably to sleep, satisfied, so that it shouldn't excite suspicion by as much as a whimper."

"But explain," said Mr. Loveday, as much in the dark as ever. "Is it your baby?"

"No, sir," replied the pawnbroker, energetically, "it is not."

"Then how comes it here?"

"That's what I'd like to know. If you'll believe me, Mr. Loveday, I'll tell you all about it-no, not all, as much I as know myself."

"Of course I'll believe you," said Mr. Loveday, his interest growing fast.

"Here am I," commenced the pawnbroker, excitedly, "all alone by myself in the shop-well, not exactly here where we stand, but in my room at the back there. Business over an hour ago-close at eleven, you know. Shutters put up, and my assistant gone home. Front door left ajar, because it's a hot night, and the gas has been flaring away. My wife and the children all asleep up-stairs; no one to disturb me. There's a bit of supper on the table. Mr. Loveday," he said, breaking off abruptly, "my wife is a most peculiar woman-a most pe-cu-li-ar woman."

"Go on with your story," said Mr. Loveday, calmly.

"Usually she stops up with me, and we have a bit of supper together, especially on Saturday nights, the busiest time of the week for me. But, as luck will have it, she doesn't feel quite the thing to-night, and she goes to bed early. There I am, then, eating my supper and making up my accounts. Everything very quiet, nothing wrong, as far as I can see. I'll take my oath, Mr. Loveday, that when my assistant wishes me good-night all the parcels are cleared away, and there's nothing left on the counters, not as much as a pin. Well, sir, I come to the end of my supper and my accounts, and feel easy in my mind. Three ha'pence wrong in the reckoning up, but it's on the right side. I put my money and books in the safe, lock it, pocket the key, fill my pipe, and get up to come to the door to have a whiff of tobacco and fresh air. I've got to pass through the shop to get to the street door, and as I come up to this counter here, this bundle stares me in the face. 'Hallo?' says I-to myself, you know-'Hallo! here's something been overlooked;' and I takes hold of the bundle, and starts back as if I was shot. I feel something moving inside. I come up to it again, and open it, and there's this baby staring me in the face-no, not staring me in the face, because it's fast asleep; but there's this baby. How would you have felt?"