Chapter Twenty Four.
Linny’s Secret.
My visit to Great Ormond Street was the first of many. In a short time the office labours with Mr Jabez Rowle were merely the mechanical rounds of the day; and, like Stephen Hallett, I seemed to live only for the evening, when I took my Latin exercises and translations to him, he coming down from the attic, where he worked at some project of his own, concerning which poor murmuring Mrs Hallett and her daughter were forbidden to speak, and then returning, after making the corrections.
I felt a good deal of curiosity about that attic, but Mr Hallett had told me to wait, and I waited patiently, having, young as I was, learned to school myself to some extent, and devoted myself to my studies, one thought being always before my mind, namely, that I had to pay Mr Blakeford all my father’s debt, for that I meant to do.
I had grown so much at home now at the Halletts’, that, finding the door open one evening, I walked straight in, knocked twice, and, receiving no answer, tried the door, which yielded to my touch, swung open, and I surprised Linny writing a letter, which, with a flaming face, she shuffled under the blotting-paper, and held up a warning finger, for Mrs Hallett was fast asleep.
“Where’s Mr Hallett?” I said.
“In Bluebeard’s chamber,” cried Linny playfully; “I’ll go and tell him you are here.”
I nodded, thinking how pretty she looked with her flushed cheeks, and she went softly to the door, but only to come back quickly.
“Antony, dear,” she whispered, laying her hand on my shoulder, “you like me, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” I replied.
“Did you see what I was doing?” she continued, busily readjusting my neckerchief, and then looking me full in the face.
“Yes; you were writing a letter.”
She nodded.
“Don’t tell Stephen,” she whispered.
“I was not going to.”
“He would want to know who I was writing to, and ask me such a lot of questions. You won’t tell him, will you?”
“No,” I said, “not unless he asks me, and then I must.”
“Oh, he won’t ask you,” she said merrily; “no fear. Now I’ll go and tell him.”
I sat down, wondering why she should want to keep things from her brother, and then watched Mrs Hallett, and lastly began thinking about the room upstairs—Old Bluebeard’s chamber, as Linny playfully called it—and tried to puzzle out what Stephen Hallett was making. That it was something to improve his position I was sure, and I had often thought of what hard work it must be, with so little time at his disposal, and Mrs Hallett so dead set against what she openly declared to be a folly, and miserable waste of money.
My musings were brought to an end by the reappearance of Linny, who came down holding her pretty little white hand to me.
“There, sir,” she said, “you may kiss my hand; and mind, you and I have a secret between us, and you are not to tell.”
I kissed her hand, and she nodded playfully.
“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.”
I looked at him wonderingly; he seemed to be so transformed.
“I began with quite a small idea, Antony,” he continued. “I will show you. My idea was this. You see now, my boy, that with the present machine the type is laid on a table, and it goes backwards and forwards under a great iron cylinder or roller, grinding continually, and being worn out.”
“Yes, I know; the type gets thick and blurred in its fine upstrokes.”
“Exactly,” he said, smiling. “Well, Antony, I tried to invent a simple process of making a mould or seal, when the type was ready, and then—”
“Making a solid block of fresh type in the big mould. I know,” I cried.
“Right, my boy, right,” he cried; “and I have done it!”
“But does it want a machine like that?”
“Oh no,” he replied: “that grew out of the idea. I was not satisfied then with my solid block of type, which might be used and then melted down again. It struck me, Antony, that it would be better if I made that solid block curved, so as to fit on a big cylinder, and let it go round instead of the paper. I could then print twice as many.”
“Ye-yes,” I said, “but I hardly see it.”
“I will show you presently, my boy,” he replied. “Well, I worked at that idea till I felt satisfied that I could carry it out, when a greater idea came.”
He paused and wiped his forehead, gazing now, though, out at the starry night, and speaking in a low earnest voice.
“It seemed to me then, Antony, that I ought to do away with the simple, clumsy plan of making men or boys supply or lay-on paper, sheet by sheets as the machine was at work.”
“What could you do?” I said.
“Ah, that was the question. I was thinking it over, when going through Saint Paul’s Churchyard I saw in one of the draper’s shops a basket of rolls of ribbon, and the thing was done.”
“How?” I asked.
“By having the paper in a long roll, a thousand yards upon a reel, to be cut off sheet by sheet as it is printed between the cylinders.”
“But could you get paper made so long?”
“To be sure,” he said; “the paper-mills make it in long strips that are cut up in sheets as they are finished. In my machine they would be cut up only when printed. Now, what do you say?”
“It’s like trying to read Greek the first time, Mr Hallett,” I said. “My head feels all in a muddle.”
“Out of which the light will come in time, my boy. But suppose I could make such a machine, Antony, what would you say then?”
“It would be grand!” I exclaimed.
“It would make a revolution in printing,” he cried enthusiastically. “Well, will you help me, Antony?” he said, with a smile.
“Help you! May I?”
“Of course. I shall be glad; only, remember, it is our secret.”
“You may trust me,” I said. “But it must be patented.”
“To be sure. All in good time.”
“It will make your fortune.”
“I hope so,” he said dreamily, “For others’ sake more than mine.”
“Yes,” I cried; “and then you could have a nice place and a carriage for Mrs Hallett, and it would make her so much happier.”
“Yes,” he said, with a sigh.
“And you could be a gentleman again.”
He started, and a curious look came over his face; but it passed away directly, and I saw him shake his head before turning to me with a smile.
“Antony,” he said quietly, “suppose we build the machine, the castles in the air will build themselves. I tell you what; you shall work sometimes and help me to plan; but, as a rule, while I file and grind you shall read some Latin or German author, and you and I can improve ourselves as we go.”
“Agreed!” I cried, and then the rest of the night was spent—a very short night, by the way—in examining the various parts of the little model, Hallett seeming to give himself fresh ideas for improvements as he explained the reason for each wheel and spindle, and told me of the difficulties he had to contend with for want of proper tools and the engineer’s skill.
“I want a lathe, Antony,” he said; “and a good lathe costs many pounds, so I have to botch and patch, and buy clock-wheels and file them down. It takes me a whole evening sometimes wandering about Clerkenwell or the New Cut hunting for what I want.”
“But I can often help you in that way,” I said, “and I will.”
We went down soon after to a late supper, Hallett jealously locking up his attic before we descended. Mrs Hallett had gone to bed and Linny was reading, and jumped up as if startled at our entrance.
Hallett spoke to her as we sat down to supper, and I noticed that he seemed to be cold and stern towards her, while Linny was excited and pettish, seeming to resent her brother’s ways, and talked to me in a light, pleasant, bantering manner about Bluebeard’s secret chamber.
I noticed, too, that she always avoided her brother’s eye, and when we parted that night Hallett seemed a good deal troubled, though he did not tell me why.