CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH.IN THE WAREHOUSE.
MUTABILITY is the epitaph of worlds. Change alone is changeless. People drop out of the history of a life as of a land, though their work or their influence remains. A passing word may suffice to dismiss such from our pages.
The Reverend John Gresswell had been taken by Death from the Chetham College school-room before more than half the term of Jabez Clegg’s pupilage had run. Dr. Stone’s resignation of his librarianship followed close on his discovery of the half-drowned boy on the dairy-steps. After a long engagement with a young lady who refused many eligible offers, and withstood much parental persuasion for his sake, he—the curate of St. John’s Church—accepted the first vacant living in the gift of the college whereof he was fellow. A bridal closed their almost Jacob’s courtship, and the constant couple retired to the seclusion of Wooton Rivers, where his learning and eloquence had seldom more appreciative auditory than smock-frocked Wiltshire rustics and their families.
About the same time, or not long after, old Brookes was missed from the Packhorse, and the Ring-o’-Bells, and the Apple-Tree, and the Sun Inn—the breeches-maker and his neighbours ceased to hear his foul and offensive maunderings and imprecations as he staggered past to his son’s home, there to testhisendurance. He had gone home to his mother-earth, sober and silent for evermore. And Parson Brookes, left to his books and his pigeons, sent in his resignation, and the Grammar School knew him no more as a master. So the boys felt themselves free to take greater liberties with him than ever, and kept his hot blood for ever on the simmer.
As all these changes preceded the change which converted Jabez from a Blue-coat boy into Mr. Ashton’s apprentice, sowere they anterior to the changes wrought by war in the homes of the Chadwicks and the Cleggs—changes differing even more widely than did the two homes.
Poverty had made sad havoc amongst Simon Clegg’s household goods; but Tom Hulme had not come home empty-handed, and soon their furniture came back, or was replaced, and the three rooms brightened up wonderfully. Though Simon’s flowers brought pence to his pocket as well as the other produce of his garden, he had always a spare posy for the broken jug on window-sill or mantelshelf; and Bess, full-hearted if not full of work, sent her voice quivering through that unmusical yard in songs of gladness and rejoicing.
Very little fresh wooing was necessary. To people who had been so stinted as they in common with others had been, Tom’s pension seemed more than it was; and no sooner was he able to discard his sling than he talked of immediate marriage, and was wonderfully sanguine about obtaining work as soon as his left arm regained its old power—which it never did. It was no use setting up a loom; he could no longer throw the shuttle back. He would have to seek some other employment. But thousands of other men were seeking employment too—men with the full use of all their limbs—men who had not disqualified themselves for peaceful arts by “going soldiering;” and Tom Hulme stood little chance. Mr. Clough would have taken him on as a timekeeper, but lack of penmanship was a barrier in the way.
Lamenting this in the presence of Jabez, the youth offered to be his instructor; and with the permission of Mr. Ashton, who granted leave of absence, set him copies and gave him lessons on Sunday afternoons, at first on an old slate, to save the cost of paper, which was dear. And then, at Mr. Ashton’s suggestion, Jabez superadded arithmetic, thus keeping himself in practice, besides helping one dear to those who had helped him.
Of course, a weekly or fortnightly lesson was not much; but the disabled soldier was a persevering pupil, and brought a clear head and an eager desire to his task. The maintenance of a better home for Bess depended on it.
About this time, a matter transpired at the Ashtons’ which had a material influence on the fortunes of the Cleggs. Though the house of Mr. Ashton was in Mosley Street, the premises extended as far as Back Mosley Street, where was the warehouse door. The workpeople entered at a side door under agateway which led to the stable, gig-house, and courtyard between house and warehouse, guarded by the black retriever, Nelson.
You may look in vain for house and warehouse now. A magnificent block of stone warehouses, having threefold frontage, occupies the site.
More than once, Jabez Clegg, frequently entrusted with outdoor business requiring promptitude and accuracy, came upon Kit Townley, and one or other of the tassel-makers or fringe weavers, in close conference under the dim gateway at closing-time on Saturdays, or in the still darker doorway at the stair-foot of the workmen’s entrance. The first time they moved aside to let him pass, afterwards they separated hastily; but not before Jabez, who had quick ears, caught the chink of money as it passed from one to the other.
On the first of these occasions, his attention was barely arrested; it was the repetition and the avoidance which struck him with its air of secrecy, and set him pondering what business his fellow-apprentice could have with the hands out of proper place and time. He knew him to be not over-scrupulous. He had seen him at Knott-Mill Fair and Dirt Fair (so called from its being held in muddy November), or Kersall Moor Races, with more money to spend in pop, nuts, and ginger-bread, shows and merry-go-rounds, flying boats and flying boxes, fighting cocks and fighting men, than he could possibly have saved out of the sum his father allowed him for pocket-money, even if he had been of the saving kind; and, coupling all these things together, Jabez was far from satisfied. He was aware that of late years stock-taking had been productive of much uneasiness to both Mr. and Mrs. Ashton. There were deficiences of raw material in more than one department, for which it was impossible to account, save that the quantity accredited to “waste” was far out of reasonable proportion.
Mr. Ashton, suspecting systematic peculation or embezzlement (of which many masters were complaining), had privately communicated with Joseph Nadin, the deputy constable, a gnarled graft from Bow Street, who bore the official character of extraordinary vigilance and smartness. He was supposed to set a watch on workpeople and others, but nothing came to light. Perhaps he was too busy manufacturing political offences, or hunting down political offenders, to look after the interests of private manufacturers. Sure it is that silk, worsted, webs, and gingham once gone were not to be traced. Jabezwas also aware that a shade rested on the establishment of which he was an item, and felt that it behoved him to clear it away for his own sake, if possible.
Since the discovery of his faculty for design, much of his time had been occupied at a desk with pencils and colours, making patterns for the wood-turner, the mould-coverer, the tassel-maker, the fringe-weaver; for bell-ropes, brace-webs, carpet and furniture bindings; and although some of these things admitted but of little variety, there was plenty found for him to do.
This was well-pleasing enough to Jabez, but the College officials, who never lose sight of the boys they apprentice, demurred. His indentures provided that he should learn small-ware-manufacturing in all its branches; and pattern-designing, if part and parcel, was only one branch. Mr. Ashton was too just not to assent, and Jabez went to his active employment again. But he had a love for his new art, and an interest in his master’s interest, which prompted him to say—
“If it would be all the same to you, sir, I could draw patterns before breakfast, or in the dinner-hour, or in an evening, if Kezia had someone else to wait on her.”
The inevitable snuff-box came out, Mr. Ashton’s head went first on one side, then on the other, as he took a long pinch before he answered.
“No, my lad, it won’t be all the same to me, nor to you either,” he said, at length, and Jabez began to look rueful. “You’re a lad of uncommon parts, and I’m willing enough to find them employment. But if you work extra hours, apprentice or no apprentice, you must have extra pay. So you see, Jabez, it won’t be the same to either of us. You shall have the little room at the end of the lobby to yourself, and there you may earn all you can for your own friends and for me.”
“Oh, thank you, master!” interjected Jabez, his thoughts flying at once to the old yard in Long Millgate.
“And let Kezia wait upon herself if there are no other idle folk about,” concluded Mr. Ashton, and the business was settled.
This was about the time Jabez first began to suspect Kit Townley of unfair dealing; and being once more in frequent contact with him in the warehouse, he could not shut his eyes or his ears.
Kit was then assistant putter-out in the fringe and tassel department, counted out the moulds, weighed out silk andworsted, and called out the quantities each hand took away, for a young booking-clerk to enter.
Jabez was still in the brace and umbrella room, but there was a wide door of communication between the two, and he had frequently to pass through the former with finished goods for the ware and show-rooms on the lower floors, and had to go cautiously past the large scale, lest he should tilt the beam with his ungainly burdens. Now and then it occurred to him that the bulk of silk or worsted in the scale was large in proportion to the weight, as called out by Kit Townley, and once he was moved to say—
“Is that balance true? or have you made a mistake, Townley?”
“Mind your own business, Clegg, and don’t hinder mine. Naught ails the scales, and I know better than make mistakes.”
“Well, I only thought,” persisted Jabez.
“I wish you’d think and keep those umbrellas clear of the beam. You’re always thrutching past with great loads on your shoulder when I am weighing out,” interrupted Kit, testily, and Jabez held his peace.
But if he went on his way quietly, he was equally observant, and saw the same thing happen again too often to be the result of accident. Moreover, from the window of the little room where he had a broad desk for designing, he saw Kit meet the same men and women stealthily after hours under the opposite gateway.
“Kit,” said he, one night, when they went to their attic, “what do you meet Jackson, Bradley, and Mary Taylor under the gateway for so often?”
Kit, arrested with his warehouse jacket half on and half off, asked sharply—
“Who says I meet them under the gateway?”
“I say so. I have seen you myself.”
“And what if you have?” Kit retorted, snappishly. “There’s no harm in saying a civil word to poor folk that I know of.”
“No harm, if that were all,” returned Jabez, seriously, sitting down on the edge of his truckle-bed to take off his blue worsted stockings (knitted by himself), “but I have seen them give you money.”
“And what of that, you Blue-coat spy! If they’re kind enough to call at old mother Clowes’s shop for toffy and humbugsfor me, and give me the change back, what’s that to you?” he blustered, coming up to Jabez with a defiant air.
“I know you’ve a sweet tooth, Townley,” replied Jabez, unmoved, “but I fear nothing half so good as Mrs. Clowes’ toffy takes you there so stealthily.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Wiseacre, you know my business better than myself?” returned Kit, bold as brass, though he did begin to feel qualmish.
“Perhaps I do, for I suspect you of double-dealing, and I know what the end of that must be; and I warn you that I cannot stand by and see our good master robbed. I should be as bad as you if I did.”
Townley, enraged, struck at him, and there was a scuffle in the dark, the bit of candle in their horn lantern having burnt out.
Kezia, who slept in the adjoining attic, rated them soundly the next morning for the disturbance they had made, threatening to tell Mrs. Ashton. Had she done so, inquiry would have followed.
Jabez, troubled and perplexed, the very next Sunday, consulted old Simon Clegg as to the course he should pursue, being alike unwilling to tell tales on suspicion, or to see his kind master wronged.
“Eh, lad,” quoth Simon, rubbing down his knees as he sat, “aw’ve manny a toime bin i’ just sich a ‘strait atween two;’ but aw allas steered moi coorse by yon big book, and tha’ mun do t’ seame. Thah munnot think what thah loikes, or what thah dunnot loike; but thah mun doreet, chuse what comes or goes. It is na reet to steeal; and to look on an’ consent to a thief is to be a thief. Thi first duty’s to thi God, an’ thi next to thi payrents (if tha’ had anny), an’ thi next to thi measter. Thah’s gi’en the chap fair warnin’, an’ if he wunnot tak’ it th’ faut’s noan thoine.”
It so happened that the “putter-out” in the brace and umbrella-room was an old man named Christopher, who had been in the employment of the Ashtons (father and son) for thirty years. He professed to be very pious and very conscientious, but lamented that increasing years brought with it many ailments and infirmities, such, for instance, as headaches, dizziness, sudden weakness of the limbs, and attacks of spasms, for the cure of which he kept a bottle of peppermint in a corner cupboard.
It was into this room Augusta used to come dancing, tocoax old Christopher out of bits of waste leather, and other odds and ends, for which only a child could find use. She was fond of cutting and snipping, and, with an eye to his own advantage, the cunning old fellow had taught her how to use the stamps, so that she mightamuseherself by helping him. Then he bespoke her compassion for his aches and pains, and often, on holiday afternoons, was troubled with one or other ailment, which a pull at the bottle and a nap on the bundles of leather, or gingham, alone could relieve—“if Miss Augusta would be so obleeging an’ so koind as to stamp out a few tabs or straps for him, or count out umbrella ferules, or wheels, or handles,” for him.
And she, full of the superabundant energy of youth, did it, nothing loth; though as her own years increased, and with them her ability to help, came a sharp sense that old Christopher was a hypocrite—knowledge she confided to Jabez one day, when the sanctimonious putter-out was resting his aching head and uncertain legs, as usual; and in order to convince him she drew a bottle of gin,notpeppermint, from under a pile of white kid.
Jabez, too, had been sorry for the old fellow, and often added a good part of Christopher’s work to his own, to relieve him. It was this fact which brought both Christophers to book. The old cant was so grievously afflicted on the Monday afternoon, that Jabez, seeing him quite incapable of doing his work properly (he was putting out umbrellas), undertook to do it for him, though it was no business of his—and so Mrs. Ashton would have told him, had she been there.
He measured off what he knew to be sufficient gingham for two dozen umbrellas (a workwoman standing by in waiting), and was about to cut off the length when the woman arrested his hand.
“Yo’re furgettin’ th’ weaste, mi lad; Mester Christopher allus alleaws fur weaste.”
He looked at the woman, conscious there could be no waste in cutting umbrella-gores. She winked at him.
“Oh,” said Jabez, conscious he was learning something not down in his indentures. “And how much does he allow?”
“Abeawt a yard an’ a hauve th’ dozen.” she replied.
“And how do you contrive to waste it?” Jabez asked.
She winked again.
“Eh, but yo’re a young yorney. Yo’d best ax Mester Christopher that.”
“I think I’d best ask Mrs. Ashton that, if she’s in the warehouse,” rejoined he, sending his scissors through the gingham at the proper place.
“Yo’d better not, or yo’n cut off yo’r nose to spite yo’r own feace;” and the woman nodded her head knowingly. “T’other ’prentice knows whatn weaste means if thah dunnot; an’ manny’s th’ breet shillin’ it’s put in his breeches pocket, my lad.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said Jabez, whilst he was counting over the already bundled up whalebone sticks, &c., to complete the umbrella fittings. “As our mistress would say, ‘We may live and learn.’”
He found that whalebone, ferules, handles, leathers, wheels, were all in excess. An extra umbrella might be made from the superabundant materials. Thereupon he wakened Christopher to do his own work, simply remarking that he thought the bundles of sticks, &c., had been miscounted.
“Oh, no, Clegg, they’re a’ reet; we’re obleeged to put in moore fur fear some on ’em shouldn’ split in makkin’ oop,” said old Christopher, cunningly, as if for his information.
Jabez took no further notice then, but shouldering a great bundle of large umbrellas, carried them through the fringe room, and there noticed that, despite the caution he had given, his fellow-apprentice was dexteriously manipulating silk and scales to falsify the weights he called out.