“Now, I would rather,” said the locksmith hastily, “have paid five hundred pounds, than had this come to pass. You idiot, do you know what peril you stand in?”
“I know it, sir,” replied his journeyman, “and it is my glory. I was there, everybody saw me there. I was conspicuous, and prominent. I will abide the consequences.”
The locksmith, really disturbed and agitated, paced to and fro in silence—glancing at his former ’prentice every now and then—and at length stopping before him, said:
“Get to bed, and sleep for a couple of hours that you may wake penitent, and with some of your senses about you. Be sorry for what you have done, and we will try to save you. If I call him by five o’clock,” said Varden, turning hurriedly to his wife, “and he washes himself clean and changes his dress, he may get to the Tower Stairs, and away by the Gravesend tide-boat, before any search is made for him. From there he can easily get on to Canterbury, where your cousin will give him work till this storm has blown over. I am not sure that I do right in screening him from the punishment he deserves, but he has lived in this house, man and boy, for a dozen years, and I should be sorry if for this one day’s work he made a miserable end. Lock the front-door, Miggs, and show no light towards the street when you go upstairs. Quick, Simon! Get to bed!”
“And do you suppose, sir,” retorted Mr. Tappertit, with a thickness and slowness of speech which contrasted forcibly with the rapidity and earnestness of his kindhearted master—“and do you suppose, sir, that I am base and mean enough to accept your servile proposition?—Miscreant!”
“Whatever you please, Sim, but get to bed. Every minute is of consequence. The light here, Miggs!”
“Yes yes, oh do! Go to bed directly,” cried the two women together.
Mr. Tappertit stood upon his feet, and pushing his chair away to show that he needed no assistance, answered, swaying himself to and fro, and managing his head as if it had no connection whatever with his body:
“You spoke of Miggs, sir—Miggs may be smothered!”
“Oh Simmun!” ejaculated that young lady in a faint voice. “Oh mim! Oh sir! Oh goodness gracious, what a turn he has give me!”
“This family may all be smothered, sir,” returned Mr. Tappertit, after glancing at her with a smile of ineffable disdain, “excepting Mrs. V. I have come here, sir, for her sake, this night. Mrs. Varden, take this piece of paper. It’s a protection, ma’am. You may need it.”
With these words he held out at arm’s length, a dirty, crumpled scrap of writing. The locksmith took it from him, opened it, and read as follows:
“All good friends to our cause, I hope will be particular, and do no injury to the property of any true Protestant. I am well assured that the proprietor of this house is a staunch and worthy friend to the cause.
“George Gordon.”
“What’s this!” said the locksmith, with an altered face.
“Something that’ll do you good service, young feller,” replied his journeyman, “as you’ll find. Keep that safe, and where you can lay your hand upon it in an instant. And chalk ‘No Popery’ on your door tomorrow night, and for a week to come—that’s all.”
“This is a genuine document,” said the locksmith, “I know, for I have seen the hand before. What threat does it imply? What devil is abroad?”
“A fiery devil,” retorted Sim; “a flaming, furious devil. Don’t you put yourself in its way, or you’re done for, my buck. Be warned in time, G. Varden. Farewell!”
But here the two women threw themselves in his way—especially Miss Miggs, who fell upon him with such fervour that she pinned him against the wall—and conjured him in moving words not to go forth till he was sober; to listen to reason; to think of it; to take some rest, and then determine.
“I tell you,” said Mr. Tappertit, “that my mind is made up. My bleeding country calls me and I go! Miggs, if you don’t get out of the way, I’ll pinch you.”
Miss Miggs, still clinging to the rebel, screamed once vociferously—but whether in the distraction of her mind, or because of his having executed his threat, is uncertain.
“Release me,” said Simon, struggling to free himself from her chaste, but spider-like embrace. “Let me go! I have made arrangements for you in an altered state of society, and mean to provide for you comfortably in life—there! Will that satisfy you?”
“Oh Simmun!” cried Miss Miggs. “Oh my blessed Simmun! Oh mim! what are my feelings at this conflicting moment!”
Of a rather turbulent description, it would seem; for her nightcap had been knocked off in the scuffle, and she was on her knees upon the floor, making a strange revelation of blue and yellow curl-papers, straggling locks of hair, tags of staylaces, and strings of it’s impossible to say what; panting for breath, clasping her hands, turning her eyes upwards, shedding abundance of tears, and exhibiting various other symptoms of the acutest mental suffering.
“I leave,” said Simon, turning to his master, with an utter disregard of Miggs’s maidenly affliction, “a box of things upstairs. Do what you like with ’em. I don’t want ’em. I’m never coming back here, any more. Provide yourself, sir, with a journeyman; I’m my country’s journeyman; henceforward that’s my line of business.”
“Be what you like in two hours’ time, but now go up to bed,” returned the locksmith, planting himself in the doorway. “Do you hear me? Go to
