From the workshop of the Golden Key, there issued forth a tinklingsound, so merry and good-humoured, that it suggested the idea ofsome one working blithely, and made quite pleasant music. No manwho hammered on at a dull monotonous duty, could have brought suchcheerful notes from steel and iron; none but a chirping, healthy,honest-hearted fellow, who made the best of everything, and felt kindly towards everybody, could have done it for an instant. Hemight have been a coppersmith, and still been musical. If he hadsat in a jolting waggon, full of rods of iron, it seemed as if hewould have brought some harmony out of it.
Tink, tink, tink--clear as a silver bell, and audible at everypause of the streets" harsher noises, as though it said, "I don"tcare; nothing puts me out; I am resolved to he happy." Womenscolded, children squalled, heavy carts went rumbling by, horriblecries proceeded from the lungs of hawkers; still it struck inagain, no higher, no lower, no louder, no softer; not thrustingitself on people"s notice a bit the more for having been outdone bylouder sounds--tink, tink, tink, tink, tink.
It was a perfect embodiment of the still small voice, free from allcold, hoarseness, huskiness, or unhealthiness of any kind; foot-passengers slackened their pace, and were disposed to linger nearit; neighbours who had got up splenetic that morning, felt goodhumourstealing on them as they heard it, and by degrees becamequite sprightly; mothers danced their babies to its ringing; stillthe same magical tink, tink, tink, came gaily from the workshop ofthe Golden Key.
Who but the locksmith could have made such music! A gleam of sunshining through the unsashed window, and chequering the darkworkshop with a broad patch of light, fell full upon him, as thoughattracted by his sunny heart. There he stood working at his anvil,his face all radiant with exercise and gladness, his sleeves turnedup, his wig pushed off his shining forehead--the easiest, freest,happiest man in all the world. Beside him sat a sleek cat, purringand winking in the light, and falling every now and then into anidle doze, as from excess of comfort. Toby looked on from a tallbench hard by; one beaming smile, from his broad nut-brown facedown to the slack-baked buckles in his shoes. The very locks thathung around had something jovial in their rust, and seemed likegouty gentlemen of hearty natures, disposed to joke on theirinfirmities. There was nothing surly or severe in the whole scene.
It seemed impossible that any one of the innumerable keys could fita churlish strong-box or a prison-door. Cellars of beer and wine,rooms where there were fires, books, gossip, and cheering laughter-thesewere their proper sphere of action. Places of distrust andcruelty, and restraint, they would have left quadruple-locked forever.
Tink, tink, tink. The locksmith paused at last, and wiped hisbrow. The silence roused the cat, who, jumping softly down, crept to the door, and watched with tiger eyes a bird-cage in an oppositewindow. Gabriel lifted Toby to his mouth, and took a heartydraught.
Then, as he stood upright, with his head flung back, and his portlychest thrown out, you would have seen that Gabriel"s lower man wasclothed in military gear. Glancing at the wall beyond, there mighthave been espied, hanging on their several pegs, a cap and feather,broadsword, sash, and coat of scarlet; which any man learned insuch matters would have known from their make and pattern to be theuniform of a serjeant in the Royal East London Volunteers.
As the locksmith put his mug down, empty, on the bench whence ithad smiled on him before, he glanced at these articles with alaughing eye, and looking at them with his head a little on oneside, as though he would get them all into a focus, said, leaningon his hammer:
"Time was, now, I remember, when I was like to run mad with thedesire to wear a coat of that colour. If any one (except myfather) had called me a fool for my pains, how I should have firedand fumed! But what a fool I must have been, sure-ly!"
"Ah!" sighed Mrs Varden, who had entered unobserved. "A foolindeed. A man at your time of life, Varden, should know betternow."
"Why, what a ridiculous woman you are, Martha," said the locksmith,turning round with a smile.
"Certainly," replied Mrs V. with great demureness. "Of course Iam. I know that, Varden. Thank you."
"I mean--" began the locksmith.
"Yes," said his wife, "I know what you mean. You speak quite plainenough to be understood, Varden. It"s very kind of you to adaptyourself to my capacity, I am sure."
"Tut, tut, Martha," rejoined the locksmith; "don"t take offence atnothing. I mean, how strange it is of you to run downvolunteering, when it"s done to defend you and all the other women,and our own fireside and everybody else"s, in case of need."
"It"s unchristian," cried Mrs Varden, shaking her head.
"Unchristian!" said the locksmith. "Why, what the devil--"
Mrs Varden looked at the ceiling, as in expectation that theconsequence of this profanity would be the immediate descent of thefour-post bedstead on the second floor, together with the bestsitting-room on the first; but no visible judgment occurring, sheheaved a deep sigh, and begged her husband, in a tone ofresignation, to go on, and by all means to blaspheme as much aspossible, because he knew she liked it.
The locksmith did for a moment seem disposed to gratify her, but hegave a great gulp, and mildly rejoined:
"I was going to say, what on earth do you call it unchristian for?
Which would be most unchristian, Martha--to sit quietly down andlet our houses be sacked by a foreign army, or to turn out like menand drive "em off? Shouldn"t I be a nice sort of a Christian, if Icrept into a corner of my own chimney and looked on while a parcelof whiskered savages bore off Dolly--or you?"
When he said "or you," Mrs Varden, despite herself, relaxed into asmile. There was something complimentary in the idea. "In such astate of things as that, indeed--" she simpered.
"As that!" repeated the locksmith. "Well, that would be the stateof things directly. Even Miggs would go. Some black tambourine-player, with a great turban on, would be bearing HER off, and,unless the tambourine-player was proof against kicking andscratching, it"s my belief he"d have the worst of it. Ha ha ha!
