Volume Two—Chapter Five.

Volume Two—Chapter Five.Timson’s Consistency.Jared Pellet was right. Mr Gray was in a sad way about the affair, for it was a problem that he was not likely to solve. At first he had made a point of keeping the matter secret, but as months slipped by, and no discovery was made, he ceased to be reticent. Nothing was learned as to the cause, but the effect was plain enough—the money still went. He held long consultations with Mr Timson, and together, more than before, they set to and suspected everybody connected with the church, beginning, jestingly, with themselves, and then going downwards through the other churchwardens, Jared, the clerk, Purkis, Mrs Ruggles, Ichabod Gunniss, and the bellringers, who never entered the church. But, though every one was suspected in turn, no accusation was made; for, said the vicar—“Timson, I would not, in my weak, short sighted way, be guilty of an act of injustice to any man!”“Why not set the police to work?” said Mr Timson. “A detective would furridge the matter out.”“No,” said the vicar, “I don’t like the idea. I would not care if they’d rob me, Timson, but they will not; and this business is something I really cannot get over. If I put more in the box to make up what I reckon may be the deficiency, it seems to make no difference; and though your advice may be good, I don’t feel as if I could take it. I have acted upon some of your hints, but still we don’t find anything out.”Mr Timson shook his head, and said, “Just so,” which might have meant anything.After smoking a pipe or two, the churchwarden always left, declaring that he had got hold of the right end of the thread, and that he intended following up the clue, telling it mysteriously, and promising news by his next visit; for, being old and single, the vicar thought it no shame to play nightly at cribbage with his churchwarden, and in his company to smoke long clay pipes and drink whisky and water. But the only result of Mr Timson’s clue-following was the getting of himself into a tangle, and, to the vicar’s great disgust, he would seriously settle the offence upon a fresh head each time.“I tell you what it is, Timson,” he one day exclaimed, pettishly, after listening for some time to the rumbling of the churchwarden’s mountain, and then being rewarded with no grand discovery, but a very mouse of an information,—“I tell you what it is, Timson, you are getting into your dotage.”“No, I ain’t,” said Timson, gruffly; for Mr Timson’s life had two phases—as Mr Timson, tea-dealer, and Mr Timson, vicar’s churchwarden. In trade he metaphorically wore his apron fastened by a brass heart and a steel hook, and said, “Sir” to the world at large; while, as Mr Timson, the worthy old bachelor, who could have retired from business any day, and who smoked pipes and played cribbage at his own or the vicar’s residence, he was another man, and as sturdy and independent as an Englishman need be. “No, I ain’t,” he said, gruffly. “I’m sure now as can be that it’s old Purkis—a fat, canting, red-faced, hypocritical old sinner.”“Don’t be so aggravating, Timson,” said the vicar. “How can you accuse him!”“Why what does he mean by always hanging about the boxes, and polish, polish, polishing them till the steel-work grows quite thin?”“That proves nothing,” said the vicar.“Don’t it?” exclaimed the churchwarden. “It proves that he has always been hanging about, till the money tempted him, and he could not resist it.”“Nonsense!” said the vicar, crossly, as he broke a piece off his pipe. “Why, the very last time you were here, you were quite sure that it was Pellet.”“Well, and so I’ll be bound to say that it was,” said Timson. “I was sure of it last week, only you would not have it that I was right.”“Of course not,” said the vicar, “when you declared only two days before that it was the organ-boy, whom you had caught spending money. How much did he spend, by the by?”“Well, only a halfpenny at a potato-can, certainly,” said Timson; “but he must have been flush of money.”“Pish!” ejaculated the vicar, contemptuously,—“nonsense!”“Ah! you may say ‘Pish,’” exclaimed Timson, angrily; “but it isn’t nonsense. The money goes, don’t it? and they’re all in it, every man jack of ’em. It’s a regular conspiracy.”“I never in all my experience met with a less consistent man than you are, Timson,” said the vicar. “I believe you would accuse me as soon as look at me, and then give some one else into custody for the theft.”“No, I shouldn’t,” grumbled Mr Timson. “We should have found it all out by this time, only you will be so obstinate. I’d soon find it out if I had my way.”“I do wish you would have a little more charity in you, Timson,” continued the vicar, taking up and dealing the cards. “I honestly believe that if it had not been for me, you would have made two or three homes wretched by accusing people of the theft.”“No business to steal poor-box money, then,” said Mr Timson, through his nose, for his hands being occupied with his cards, his lips were tightly closed over the waxy end of his pipe. “It was Pellet, I’m sure.”“No more Pellet than it was Purkis,” said the vicar. “I never knew a more quiet, respectable man.”“Nor a better organist, if he wouldn’t be so long-winded,” said Mr Timson, coolly.“Nor a better organist,” acquiesced the vicar. “Fifteen—six, and six are a dozen,” he continued, throwing down his cards.“Three, and one for his nob,” said Mr Timson, following the example of his host; “and that’s what I should give him, Mr Gray, if I knew who it was.”“Humph!” ejaculated the vicar, thoughtfully.But in spite of his thoughtfulness he came no nearer to his point, and in the course of time the Rev. John Gray was distant, and then, in manner, apologetic, to all the church officials. He even went so far as to send the little asthmatical old razor-faced clerk a present, so as to set his own mind at rest for having judged him hastily. He had fresh locks placed upon the boxes—locks with cunningly-devised keys, which the maker assured him it was impossible to imitate; but a fortnight had not elapsed before the boxes were plundered again—the culprit apparently growing bolder with success.The vicar grew more and more anxious. He was in dread now that the communion-plate might be taken, and, lest a raid should be made upon it, he watched it himself to and from the churchwarden’s house.At times, too, Mr Gray would feel almost disposed to take his friend’s advice, and call in the aid of the police; but even then he did not feel certain of success, and he shrank from such stringent measures on account of the publicity they would entail; besides, he wished to discover the culprit himself, and take him to task, for he considered that his own conscience would be sufficient punishment so soon as he was detected.In Duplex Street, the vicar’s words were well taken into consideration, and the whole affair was canvassed with animation, Tim Ruggles the while listening attentively, and giving his opinion when asked, otherwise perfectly silent, until, to use his own words, “he was set going.”“I like clergymen sometimes,” said Tim, “and sometimes I don’t; but this vicar of ours seems a man worth knowing. Mrs Ruggles says, sir, it’s a pleasure to have anything to do for him, and she’s a great judge of character, sir. But there are some parsons I never could like, for they’re as easy and plausible as country solicitors, and that’s saying a great deal. But really it does seem a wonder that this little matter is not found out I’ll talk to Mrs Ruggles about it again to-night—wonderful woman—I like to hear her opinion; full of point and keenness. Authority for saying so,” muttered Tim, beneath his breath, for he had been taking himself to task for his frequent usage of this his favourite expression.Conversation was here stayed by a terrible vocal explosion up-stairs, accompanied by cries for mother, the cause being that a juvenile member of the Pellet family had choked himself with an angular fragment of pudding, given to him by Mrs Jared to keep him out of mischief—a cold heavy pudding of a most economical texture, frequently made in Jared’s establishment, and called by him “extinguisher” from its wondrous power of putting out appetite to the last faint spark.A due amount of patting and shaking sufficed to place the little sufferer in his normal state; and mother and father once more descended, to find Tim Ruggles ready for starting homeward, after exhibiting a newly-made pair of trousers—his first—upon the young gentleman for whom they were intended.“Yes, sir,” said Tim, taking up, in a most unexpected manner, the principal subject of the evening’s conversation, “I’ll have a long talk to Mrs Ruggles about it; and if I might ask it as a favour of you and Mrs Pellet, sir, please don’t send anything any more for little Pine. I’m so much obliged, and thank you kindly; but Mrs Ruggles, sir, is a little bit particular upon some points, and just perhaps the least touch proud. I know you won’t be offended with me for telling you.”Mrs Jared, who had on several occasions sent little delicacies that she thought the child might fancy—poor-people’s delicacies—promised, and Tim left; and probably from the sharp look-out kept by Mrs Ruggles after the conversation she had with her husband, for quite a month the vicar enjoyed peace of mind, from a feeling that the poor-box had not been disturbed.“And a good job, too,” said Mr Timson, one evening; “for I’m quite sick of hearing sermons and texts about pieces of money—‘render unto Caesar,’ or ‘current money of the merchant,’ or Achan’s covetousness, or the Judas pieces of silver. You know they only did harm, acting like charity-sermons, and making people get money ready, expecting to see a plate held at the door, and then, only naturally, dropping it into the poor-box, so as to give more plunder to the thief, who has been laughing at you all the time.”“For shame, Timson!” said the old clergyman, sternly. “Don’t you think that even thieves have consciences?”“Humph! well, I don’t know,” said Timson, “perhaps they have, but they don’t keep them from stealing. But I thought you said you would keep the subject out of your sermons?”The vicar did not reply, but his eyes twinkled, and a dry little crease or two appeared at the corners of his mouth.

Jared Pellet was right. Mr Gray was in a sad way about the affair, for it was a problem that he was not likely to solve. At first he had made a point of keeping the matter secret, but as months slipped by, and no discovery was made, he ceased to be reticent. Nothing was learned as to the cause, but the effect was plain enough—the money still went. He held long consultations with Mr Timson, and together, more than before, they set to and suspected everybody connected with the church, beginning, jestingly, with themselves, and then going downwards through the other churchwardens, Jared, the clerk, Purkis, Mrs Ruggles, Ichabod Gunniss, and the bellringers, who never entered the church. But, though every one was suspected in turn, no accusation was made; for, said the vicar—

“Timson, I would not, in my weak, short sighted way, be guilty of an act of injustice to any man!”

“Why not set the police to work?” said Mr Timson. “A detective would furridge the matter out.”

“No,” said the vicar, “I don’t like the idea. I would not care if they’d rob me, Timson, but they will not; and this business is something I really cannot get over. If I put more in the box to make up what I reckon may be the deficiency, it seems to make no difference; and though your advice may be good, I don’t feel as if I could take it. I have acted upon some of your hints, but still we don’t find anything out.”

Mr Timson shook his head, and said, “Just so,” which might have meant anything.

After smoking a pipe or two, the churchwarden always left, declaring that he had got hold of the right end of the thread, and that he intended following up the clue, telling it mysteriously, and promising news by his next visit; for, being old and single, the vicar thought it no shame to play nightly at cribbage with his churchwarden, and in his company to smoke long clay pipes and drink whisky and water. But the only result of Mr Timson’s clue-following was the getting of himself into a tangle, and, to the vicar’s great disgust, he would seriously settle the offence upon a fresh head each time.

“I tell you what it is, Timson,” he one day exclaimed, pettishly, after listening for some time to the rumbling of the churchwarden’s mountain, and then being rewarded with no grand discovery, but a very mouse of an information,—“I tell you what it is, Timson, you are getting into your dotage.”

“No, I ain’t,” said Timson, gruffly; for Mr Timson’s life had two phases—as Mr Timson, tea-dealer, and Mr Timson, vicar’s churchwarden. In trade he metaphorically wore his apron fastened by a brass heart and a steel hook, and said, “Sir” to the world at large; while, as Mr Timson, the worthy old bachelor, who could have retired from business any day, and who smoked pipes and played cribbage at his own or the vicar’s residence, he was another man, and as sturdy and independent as an Englishman need be. “No, I ain’t,” he said, gruffly. “I’m sure now as can be that it’s old Purkis—a fat, canting, red-faced, hypocritical old sinner.”

“Don’t be so aggravating, Timson,” said the vicar. “How can you accuse him!”

“Why what does he mean by always hanging about the boxes, and polish, polish, polishing them till the steel-work grows quite thin?”

“That proves nothing,” said the vicar.

“Don’t it?” exclaimed the churchwarden. “It proves that he has always been hanging about, till the money tempted him, and he could not resist it.”

“Nonsense!” said the vicar, crossly, as he broke a piece off his pipe. “Why, the very last time you were here, you were quite sure that it was Pellet.”

“Well, and so I’ll be bound to say that it was,” said Timson. “I was sure of it last week, only you would not have it that I was right.”

“Of course not,” said the vicar, “when you declared only two days before that it was the organ-boy, whom you had caught spending money. How much did he spend, by the by?”

“Well, only a halfpenny at a potato-can, certainly,” said Timson; “but he must have been flush of money.”

“Pish!” ejaculated the vicar, contemptuously,—“nonsense!”

“Ah! you may say ‘Pish,’” exclaimed Timson, angrily; “but it isn’t nonsense. The money goes, don’t it? and they’re all in it, every man jack of ’em. It’s a regular conspiracy.”

“I never in all my experience met with a less consistent man than you are, Timson,” said the vicar. “I believe you would accuse me as soon as look at me, and then give some one else into custody for the theft.”

“No, I shouldn’t,” grumbled Mr Timson. “We should have found it all out by this time, only you will be so obstinate. I’d soon find it out if I had my way.”

“I do wish you would have a little more charity in you, Timson,” continued the vicar, taking up and dealing the cards. “I honestly believe that if it had not been for me, you would have made two or three homes wretched by accusing people of the theft.”

“No business to steal poor-box money, then,” said Mr Timson, through his nose, for his hands being occupied with his cards, his lips were tightly closed over the waxy end of his pipe. “It was Pellet, I’m sure.”

“No more Pellet than it was Purkis,” said the vicar. “I never knew a more quiet, respectable man.”

“Nor a better organist, if he wouldn’t be so long-winded,” said Mr Timson, coolly.

“Nor a better organist,” acquiesced the vicar. “Fifteen—six, and six are a dozen,” he continued, throwing down his cards.

“Three, and one for his nob,” said Mr Timson, following the example of his host; “and that’s what I should give him, Mr Gray, if I knew who it was.”

“Humph!” ejaculated the vicar, thoughtfully.

But in spite of his thoughtfulness he came no nearer to his point, and in the course of time the Rev. John Gray was distant, and then, in manner, apologetic, to all the church officials. He even went so far as to send the little asthmatical old razor-faced clerk a present, so as to set his own mind at rest for having judged him hastily. He had fresh locks placed upon the boxes—locks with cunningly-devised keys, which the maker assured him it was impossible to imitate; but a fortnight had not elapsed before the boxes were plundered again—the culprit apparently growing bolder with success.

The vicar grew more and more anxious. He was in dread now that the communion-plate might be taken, and, lest a raid should be made upon it, he watched it himself to and from the churchwarden’s house.

At times, too, Mr Gray would feel almost disposed to take his friend’s advice, and call in the aid of the police; but even then he did not feel certain of success, and he shrank from such stringent measures on account of the publicity they would entail; besides, he wished to discover the culprit himself, and take him to task, for he considered that his own conscience would be sufficient punishment so soon as he was detected.

In Duplex Street, the vicar’s words were well taken into consideration, and the whole affair was canvassed with animation, Tim Ruggles the while listening attentively, and giving his opinion when asked, otherwise perfectly silent, until, to use his own words, “he was set going.”

“I like clergymen sometimes,” said Tim, “and sometimes I don’t; but this vicar of ours seems a man worth knowing. Mrs Ruggles says, sir, it’s a pleasure to have anything to do for him, and she’s a great judge of character, sir. But there are some parsons I never could like, for they’re as easy and plausible as country solicitors, and that’s saying a great deal. But really it does seem a wonder that this little matter is not found out I’ll talk to Mrs Ruggles about it again to-night—wonderful woman—I like to hear her opinion; full of point and keenness. Authority for saying so,” muttered Tim, beneath his breath, for he had been taking himself to task for his frequent usage of this his favourite expression.

Conversation was here stayed by a terrible vocal explosion up-stairs, accompanied by cries for mother, the cause being that a juvenile member of the Pellet family had choked himself with an angular fragment of pudding, given to him by Mrs Jared to keep him out of mischief—a cold heavy pudding of a most economical texture, frequently made in Jared’s establishment, and called by him “extinguisher” from its wondrous power of putting out appetite to the last faint spark.

A due amount of patting and shaking sufficed to place the little sufferer in his normal state; and mother and father once more descended, to find Tim Ruggles ready for starting homeward, after exhibiting a newly-made pair of trousers—his first—upon the young gentleman for whom they were intended.

“Yes, sir,” said Tim, taking up, in a most unexpected manner, the principal subject of the evening’s conversation, “I’ll have a long talk to Mrs Ruggles about it; and if I might ask it as a favour of you and Mrs Pellet, sir, please don’t send anything any more for little Pine. I’m so much obliged, and thank you kindly; but Mrs Ruggles, sir, is a little bit particular upon some points, and just perhaps the least touch proud. I know you won’t be offended with me for telling you.”

Mrs Jared, who had on several occasions sent little delicacies that she thought the child might fancy—poor-people’s delicacies—promised, and Tim left; and probably from the sharp look-out kept by Mrs Ruggles after the conversation she had with her husband, for quite a month the vicar enjoyed peace of mind, from a feeling that the poor-box had not been disturbed.

“And a good job, too,” said Mr Timson, one evening; “for I’m quite sick of hearing sermons and texts about pieces of money—‘render unto Caesar,’ or ‘current money of the merchant,’ or Achan’s covetousness, or the Judas pieces of silver. You know they only did harm, acting like charity-sermons, and making people get money ready, expecting to see a plate held at the door, and then, only naturally, dropping it into the poor-box, so as to give more plunder to the thief, who has been laughing at you all the time.”

“For shame, Timson!” said the old clergyman, sternly. “Don’t you think that even thieves have consciences?”

“Humph! well, I don’t know,” said Timson, “perhaps they have, but they don’t keep them from stealing. But I thought you said you would keep the subject out of your sermons?”

The vicar did not reply, but his eyes twinkled, and a dry little crease or two appeared at the corners of his mouth.

Volume Two—Chapter Six.Mrs Jared’s Management.No doubt, if little Patty had been more highly educated, more refined, and had no more engrossing occupations than reading and paying visits, she too would have worn a Mariana-like aspect, and sighed more frequently. But though she often wept in secret, hers was so busy a life that she had but little time to mourn, and though she sighed to herself, and suffered too most keenly, her cheeks somehow would not grow pale or less sound, and the sorrow was hidden away deeply in her heart.Mrs Jared knew a great deal, and kept finding out more and more; but the subject was tabooed, and though her tender heart yearned to condole with Patty and try to comfort her, yet long talks with Jared had schooled her to be silent, and poor Patty had no comforter save Janet, and even with her she refrained from fully opening her heart.“Poor girl! I know she feels it keenly,” said Mrs Jared to her husband on one occasion.“Not she,” said Jared. “It must be nearly forgotten by this time.”“Did I forget you, years ago?” said Mrs Jared, severely.“Too good a memory, my dear,” said Jared, smiling.“Then don’t talk such nonsense,” said his wife. “What ideas you men do have of women’s hearts, just because now and then you meet with some silly, flighty, coquettish thing, not without a heart, certainly, but with one that is worthless. Do you suppose that all girls’ hearts are counterfeit coin?”“Not I!” said Jared; “but it won’t do. It is just as I thought at the time, and it always is the case with those red-hot sanguine fellows. All very well at first, but they cool down gradually, and then it’s all over. You see we hear nothing at all of him now.”“I’m afraid he’s ill,” said Mrs Jared; “there must be something wrong.”“Wrong! well, yes, I suppose so,” said Jared; “if it’s wrong to get rich, it was wrong of him to talk to our poor girl in the way he did; and it’s wrong of her to dream of it, if she still does, and it was wrong of you to expect that anything would ever come of it but sorrow, and it was wrong—”“Wrong of you to go on talking in that way,” said Mrs Jared, impetuously; “and, for my part, I don’t believe that it is as you say. There’s some misfortune or something happened to him, or—”“Don’t, for goodness’ sake, talk in that way to her,” said Jared, “or you’ll complete the mischief. It’s as well as it is, and the sooner she forgets it all, the better. Nothing could ever have come of it, and I should never have given my consent, even if he had kept to his professed determination. Richard would always have been against it; and, goodness knows, there’s estrangement enough between us without our doing anything to increase the distance. Look at us: poor people, with poor-people friends,—old Purkis and Tim Ruggles, and those aristocrats in Decadia; and then look at Richard and his—”“Richard’s a selfish—”“Hush! don’t, please, dear,” said Jared, with a pained look; and he laid his hand gently upon his wife’s lips, when, smoothing her forehead, she exclaimed—“Well, I won’t then; but it does make me angry when I think of his money, and then of how poor we are, while somehow the poorer we get, the more tiresome the children grow. You’ve no conception how cross they are at times.”“Haven’t I?” said Jared, drily.“No,” said Mrs Jared, impetuously; “how can you have?”“Did you wash the little ones this morning, my dear?” said Jared.“Wash them! Why, of course; at least Patty did, the same as usual.”“Notice anything peculiar between their shoulders, either of you—any strange sprouting growth?”“Goodness, gracious! no,” exclaimed Mrs Pellet, with a shudder. “Why, what do you mean? Surely there’s no dreadful infectious thing about for which they are sickening? Surely Patty has brought home nothing from that dreadful place of Wragg’s? What do you mean?”“Oh! nothing,” said Jared, coolly; “only you seemed under the impression that the little ones were, or ought to be, angels, and I was anxious to hear of the advent of sprouting wings.”“Stuff!” ejaculated Mrs Jared; and then, directly after, “just look here at Totty’s boots.”“Well, they are on the go,” said Jared, turning the little leather understandings in his hands.“On the go!” said his wife; “why they’re quite gone. It does seem such a thing when he’s rolling in riches!”“Who? Totty?” said Jared, innocently.“Stuff!” said Mrs Jared, in her impetuous way. “Why, Richard, to be sure. He could buy oceans of boots, and never feel the loss.”“Very true,” said Jared, without pausing to think what number of pairs would form oceans. “But then, my dear, he’d have no Tottys to put in them.”“And a good thing, too,” said Mrs Jared, “seeing what an expense they are.”“I don’t know that, my dear,” said Jared, softly. “They are an expense certainly, and it does seem hard upon us; but I don’t know, after all, but what ours is the happier home.”“The man came for the poor-rate to-day,” said Mrs Jared, melting, but still frigid.“That’s nothing new, my dear,” said Jared; “he’s always coming. Our little ones are healthy and strong and happy.”“Have you thought about the rent being nearly due?” said Mrs Jared, who would not give in yet.“Yes,” said Jared; “I have thought about it, for I never get a chance of forgetting it, my dear. It always seems to me that there are eight quarters in poor-people’s years. But, as I was saying about the children, they are happy and merry, and the doctor comes seldom—that is,” he said, with a comical look, “with exceptions, my dear—with exceptions.”Mrs Jared tried to knit her brows and frown, but she could not, for the corner of a smile would peep out at one angle of her mouth; and, somehow or other, as they sat alone by the fire that night, Jared’s arm crept round his wife’s waist, and her head went down upon his shoulder.“Plenty,” said Jared, “certainly; but I don’t think you would like to part with any one of them.”“Oh! how can you!” ejaculated Mrs Jared; and she quite shivered at the thought.“And I never saw you obliged to make chest-warmers for them because they were delicate, or compelled to get cod-liver oil for them because they were thin and weak, and—”“Oh! don’t talk so, pray,” exclaimed Mrs Jared. “That poor child! it gives me the heartache to see her, when Ruggles brings her with him. I’d give almost anything to have the poor little thing here for the short time she’s for this world.”“Think she’s so bad as that?” said Jared.“Oh! yes; her poor little bones show so dreadfully. I don’t think she’s neglected, for Ruggles is too good-hearted for that; but that horrid woman would almost keep her from getting well. Now, if we had her with ours, and—”“Didn’t you say the collector called to-day?” said Jared.“Yes,” said his wife;—“had her here with ours, and Patty and I attended well to her, she might get through the winter, and—what did you say?”“I didn’t speak,” said Jared. “I was only thinking about the rent.”“And, besides,” said Mrs Jared, “as she is so young—”“How much would a pair of boots cost for Totty?” said Jared.“Really, it is too bad!” exclaimed Mrs Jared; “and I can’t help thinking about the poor little thing.”“And how well and hearty our own are, even if we are poor,” said Jared.So Mrs Jared sighed, and contrived to put a patch on the side of Totty’s boots, and they lasted another week.

No doubt, if little Patty had been more highly educated, more refined, and had no more engrossing occupations than reading and paying visits, she too would have worn a Mariana-like aspect, and sighed more frequently. But though she often wept in secret, hers was so busy a life that she had but little time to mourn, and though she sighed to herself, and suffered too most keenly, her cheeks somehow would not grow pale or less sound, and the sorrow was hidden away deeply in her heart.

Mrs Jared knew a great deal, and kept finding out more and more; but the subject was tabooed, and though her tender heart yearned to condole with Patty and try to comfort her, yet long talks with Jared had schooled her to be silent, and poor Patty had no comforter save Janet, and even with her she refrained from fully opening her heart.

“Poor girl! I know she feels it keenly,” said Mrs Jared to her husband on one occasion.

“Not she,” said Jared. “It must be nearly forgotten by this time.”

“Did I forget you, years ago?” said Mrs Jared, severely.

“Too good a memory, my dear,” said Jared, smiling.

“Then don’t talk such nonsense,” said his wife. “What ideas you men do have of women’s hearts, just because now and then you meet with some silly, flighty, coquettish thing, not without a heart, certainly, but with one that is worthless. Do you suppose that all girls’ hearts are counterfeit coin?”

“Not I!” said Jared; “but it won’t do. It is just as I thought at the time, and it always is the case with those red-hot sanguine fellows. All very well at first, but they cool down gradually, and then it’s all over. You see we hear nothing at all of him now.”

“I’m afraid he’s ill,” said Mrs Jared; “there must be something wrong.”

“Wrong! well, yes, I suppose so,” said Jared; “if it’s wrong to get rich, it was wrong of him to talk to our poor girl in the way he did; and it’s wrong of her to dream of it, if she still does, and it was wrong of you to expect that anything would ever come of it but sorrow, and it was wrong—”

“Wrong of you to go on talking in that way,” said Mrs Jared, impetuously; “and, for my part, I don’t believe that it is as you say. There’s some misfortune or something happened to him, or—”

“Don’t, for goodness’ sake, talk in that way to her,” said Jared, “or you’ll complete the mischief. It’s as well as it is, and the sooner she forgets it all, the better. Nothing could ever have come of it, and I should never have given my consent, even if he had kept to his professed determination. Richard would always have been against it; and, goodness knows, there’s estrangement enough between us without our doing anything to increase the distance. Look at us: poor people, with poor-people friends,—old Purkis and Tim Ruggles, and those aristocrats in Decadia; and then look at Richard and his—”

“Richard’s a selfish—”

“Hush! don’t, please, dear,” said Jared, with a pained look; and he laid his hand gently upon his wife’s lips, when, smoothing her forehead, she exclaimed—

“Well, I won’t then; but it does make me angry when I think of his money, and then of how poor we are, while somehow the poorer we get, the more tiresome the children grow. You’ve no conception how cross they are at times.”

“Haven’t I?” said Jared, drily.

“No,” said Mrs Jared, impetuously; “how can you have?”

“Did you wash the little ones this morning, my dear?” said Jared.

“Wash them! Why, of course; at least Patty did, the same as usual.”

“Notice anything peculiar between their shoulders, either of you—any strange sprouting growth?”

“Goodness, gracious! no,” exclaimed Mrs Pellet, with a shudder. “Why, what do you mean? Surely there’s no dreadful infectious thing about for which they are sickening? Surely Patty has brought home nothing from that dreadful place of Wragg’s? What do you mean?”

“Oh! nothing,” said Jared, coolly; “only you seemed under the impression that the little ones were, or ought to be, angels, and I was anxious to hear of the advent of sprouting wings.”

“Stuff!” ejaculated Mrs Jared; and then, directly after, “just look here at Totty’s boots.”

“Well, they are on the go,” said Jared, turning the little leather understandings in his hands.

“On the go!” said his wife; “why they’re quite gone. It does seem such a thing when he’s rolling in riches!”

“Who? Totty?” said Jared, innocently.

“Stuff!” said Mrs Jared, in her impetuous way. “Why, Richard, to be sure. He could buy oceans of boots, and never feel the loss.”

“Very true,” said Jared, without pausing to think what number of pairs would form oceans. “But then, my dear, he’d have no Tottys to put in them.”

“And a good thing, too,” said Mrs Jared, “seeing what an expense they are.”

“I don’t know that, my dear,” said Jared, softly. “They are an expense certainly, and it does seem hard upon us; but I don’t know, after all, but what ours is the happier home.”

“The man came for the poor-rate to-day,” said Mrs Jared, melting, but still frigid.

“That’s nothing new, my dear,” said Jared; “he’s always coming. Our little ones are healthy and strong and happy.”

“Have you thought about the rent being nearly due?” said Mrs Jared, who would not give in yet.

“Yes,” said Jared; “I have thought about it, for I never get a chance of forgetting it, my dear. It always seems to me that there are eight quarters in poor-people’s years. But, as I was saying about the children, they are happy and merry, and the doctor comes seldom—that is,” he said, with a comical look, “with exceptions, my dear—with exceptions.”

Mrs Jared tried to knit her brows and frown, but she could not, for the corner of a smile would peep out at one angle of her mouth; and, somehow or other, as they sat alone by the fire that night, Jared’s arm crept round his wife’s waist, and her head went down upon his shoulder.

“Plenty,” said Jared, “certainly; but I don’t think you would like to part with any one of them.”

“Oh! how can you!” ejaculated Mrs Jared; and she quite shivered at the thought.

“And I never saw you obliged to make chest-warmers for them because they were delicate, or compelled to get cod-liver oil for them because they were thin and weak, and—”

“Oh! don’t talk so, pray,” exclaimed Mrs Jared. “That poor child! it gives me the heartache to see her, when Ruggles brings her with him. I’d give almost anything to have the poor little thing here for the short time she’s for this world.”

“Think she’s so bad as that?” said Jared.

“Oh! yes; her poor little bones show so dreadfully. I don’t think she’s neglected, for Ruggles is too good-hearted for that; but that horrid woman would almost keep her from getting well. Now, if we had her with ours, and—”

“Didn’t you say the collector called to-day?” said Jared.

“Yes,” said his wife;—“had her here with ours, and Patty and I attended well to her, she might get through the winter, and—what did you say?”

“I didn’t speak,” said Jared. “I was only thinking about the rent.”

“And, besides,” said Mrs Jared, “as she is so young—”

“How much would a pair of boots cost for Totty?” said Jared.

“Really, it is too bad!” exclaimed Mrs Jared; “and I can’t help thinking about the poor little thing.”

“And how well and hearty our own are, even if we are poor,” said Jared.

So Mrs Jared sighed, and contrived to put a patch on the side of Totty’s boots, and they lasted another week.

Volume Two—Chapter Seven.Between Friends.For quite a month, as far as the vicar could tell, the poor-boxes had rest, and Mr Timson’s ears were not so much troubled with the objectionable money texts. Divers games of cribbage were played, and divers pipes and glasses of gin-and-water enjoyed, as the late robberies were discussed. During these discussions the vicar would enlighten his crony upon the subject of the various plans he had adopted to see whether the boxes had been opened.The matter was also freely discussed at Purkis’s and Ruggles’s, as well as at Duplex Street; the same verdict being arrived at in each house—namely, that it was very strange.Mrs Purkis thought she could fit the cap on the right head if she had to do with the matter, and Mr Purkis told her to hold her tongue. Mrs Ruggles, too, gave a sidewise look at her husband, and told him that it was not her business, but she could give a very shrewd guess at the culprit; though, when pressed on the subject, she only nipped her lips very tightly, and said, “Never mind.”As for Mrs Jared, she only declared it to be very sad, and then the matter was allowed to drop.The vicar, too, seemed to have almost forgotten the matter, until one morning when he hurried into Mr Timson’s counting-house, looking so much put out that the churchwarden directly guessed what was the matter, and before his friend could say a word, exclaimed—“You don’t mean it, sir?”“But I do mean it, Mr Timson,” said the vicar; “and really,” he continued poking at the inkstand with the ferule of his umbrella—“and really, I should be glad if you would not treat this matter so lightly, sir. It grieves me very, very deeply, Mr Timson, I can assure you.”“Mind the ink, sir,” said Mr Timson, placing the bright metal stand out of his visitor’s reach. “I don’t treat it lightly, sir. It’s no joke, and I’m as much put out as yourself. You don’t think I want the poor-boxes robbed, do you, sir?” and he spoke with a puffing snort between every two or three words, as if getting warm.“Now don’t be rash, Timson—don’t be rash. I’m not angry; only, really, you know, it is so worrying, so aggravating—deuced aggravating, I should say, if I were a layman, Timson, I should indeed. There, there! now don’t bristle up, there’s a good fellow; but tell me what to do.”“Take that umbrella ferule out of my ink, that’s what you’d better do,” said Timson, gruffly; for, in an absent fashion, the vicar was still thrusting at the metal stand, to the great endangering of an open book or two upon the table.“There, there, there!” said the vicar, impatiently, as he placed the obnoxious ferule upon the floor, and pressed it down there with both hands. “Now, then, tell me, Timson, what had I better do?”“How the devil should I know what you ought to do?” exclaimed Mr Timson, for he was out of temper that morning with business matters connected with a sudden rise in teas, just at a time when his stock was low, in consequence of his having anticipated a fall, and the vicar, in his impatient mood, had applied the match which exploded Mr Timson’s wrath, when, metaphorically taking off his apron, he spoke up.“Don’t swear, Timson,” said the vicar, sternly; “‘Swear not,’—you know the rest.”“Shoo—shoo—shoo—shoo—shoo—shoo—shoo!” ejaculated Mr Timson. “Who did swear?”“Why you did, sir,” said the vicar; “and don’t deny it.”“But I didn’t,” exclaimed the churchwarden; “and I won’t be spoken to like that in my own house. Because we have been friends all these years, John Gray, you presume upon it, and abuse me. I didn’t swear; I only said, ‘How the devil should I know?’ and I say it again. Shoo—shoo—shoo! the devil’s in the poor-box.”“If you make use of such language, Levi Timson, I must leave your office,” said the vicar, severely.“What language?—what language?” exclaimed the churchwarden.“Why, such as yours, sir,” retorted the vicar; “introducing the father of evil every moment.”“Not I!—not I!” exclaimed Timson. “Introduce him! Not I. Who brought him into the room? Who began it? Who said it first?”“But only in a modified form,” said the vicar, humbly; “I qualified it strongly with an ‘if.’ But I was wrong, extremely wrong, Timson; and there! I beg your pardon, Timson. I was put out and annoyed, and spoke hastily,” and he held out his hand.“No, sir; no, sir; you don’t beg mine,” said Timson, taking the vicar’s hand. “I beg yours, sir. I know I spoke hastily, for I was angry and put out, for teas are gone up, confound ’em!”“But I was in the wrong, Timson,” said the vicar. “As a clergyman, I ought to have governed myself, and known better than to be hasty.”“I won’t give up in my own premises, sir,” exclaimed Timson. “Now, don’t smile, sir; they’re mine, bought and paid for, and there are the writings in that safe. I was in the wrong; but teas are up horribly this morning, and I’d been reckoning on their going down.”Peace was ratified at once, for the two old men shook hands very solemnly for quite a minute.“I’d give something, though, to find out about that money,” said the vicar, “for, you see, it’s going again.”“I can assure you, sir,” said the churchwarden, “that I’ve slept night after night with those poor-boxes in bed with me, and yet I can’t see through the thing anyhow. By the way, I have read of such things. You don’t happen to be a somnambulist, do you? You haven’t been of a night and emptied the poor-boxes in your dreams, scraping together a store, and hidden it away for your heirs, administrators, executors, and assigns to find out?” and as the old man spoke, he glanced round the room, as if seeking a likely spot for such a purpose.“No, Timson, no,” replied the vicar, smiling sadly. “You were present when my will was signed; and if there’s anything more than is set down on that piece of parchment, I freely give it to you, old friend.”“Verbal gifts don’t go down with executors, sir,” said Timson, with his eyes twinkling; “and besides, I don’t think it would be the thing for me to stick to a hoard that you had filched from your own poor-box.”“There, there, there!” ejaculated the vicar. “You are talking nonsense, Timson.”“Mr Gray, sir,” said the churchwarden, seriously, and with some feeling, “a glass of sherry with you, sir; and, though toasts have nearly gone out, I shall drink to your long life.“Yes,” continued the churchwarden, after a busy little pause, “it is a good glass of sherry. It is one of my weak points to have a decent glass in the house, and I don’t know anything that I like better.”“Except a glass of hot toddy,” said the vicar, smiling.“Well, well, well, sir,” said Timson; “suppose we put that aside, or we shall be getting into cribbage and pipes, and all sorts of other weak points.”“True,” said the vicar; “but really, Timson, I’m not ashamed of those little weaknesses, even if I am a clergyman. I’m a very humble old fellow, with few friends, and fewer relatives. I don’t belong to society, Timson, but keep to my quiet, old-fashioned, country ways, which I brought up with me out of Lincolnshire. I’m not a fashionable parson, Timson, but I try to do my best for those amongst whom I have to teach.”“You do, sir, you do,” said the churchwarden, warmly; “and you make me disgusted with myself for being put out with your anxiety about this poor-box. Now let’s set to and go over it all, quietly and methodically. What’s to be done?”“I don’t know—I don’t know,” said the vicar, despondingly; “but we shall find him out to a certainty some day.”“Him!” exclaimed the churchwarden,—“him, sir?”“Well, yes; him, or her, or it. I would not care if I could get just an inkling of who it could be. But I’m determined upon one thing, Timson, and that is, if there is much more of it, I will do away with the poor-boxes altogether, and preach an extra charity-sermon every quarter;” and the vicar tucked his umbrella beneath his arm, as if ready to go.“But I say, sir,” exclaimed Mr Timson, “I would not bear it in mind quite so much.”“What do you mean, Timson?” said the vicar.“Texts, sir, texts!” said Mr Timson, drily.“Well, Timson, I won’t—I won’t, really; though, between ourselves—as friends—as old friends you know—I don’t mind telling you, that I had been making up the heads of a discourse for next Sunday upon the parable of the lost piece of money. But I’ll take your advice, and try something else.”“Do!” said his friend, “and let the matter rest. Don’t show that you notice it, sir; be quite quiet, and we shall put them off their guard; I’ve my suspicions yet!”“No, you have not, Timson,” said the vicar, laughing, “not you. You’re not a suspicious man, and never were.”“Nor you neither,” said the tea-dealer, shaking hands. “Good morning.”And as his old friend went through the busy portion of the house, raising his hat in reply to the salute of clerks and warehousemen, the churchwarden muttered to himself, “A thorough gentleman!”An opinion from which some people differed.

For quite a month, as far as the vicar could tell, the poor-boxes had rest, and Mr Timson’s ears were not so much troubled with the objectionable money texts. Divers games of cribbage were played, and divers pipes and glasses of gin-and-water enjoyed, as the late robberies were discussed. During these discussions the vicar would enlighten his crony upon the subject of the various plans he had adopted to see whether the boxes had been opened.

The matter was also freely discussed at Purkis’s and Ruggles’s, as well as at Duplex Street; the same verdict being arrived at in each house—namely, that it was very strange.

Mrs Purkis thought she could fit the cap on the right head if she had to do with the matter, and Mr Purkis told her to hold her tongue. Mrs Ruggles, too, gave a sidewise look at her husband, and told him that it was not her business, but she could give a very shrewd guess at the culprit; though, when pressed on the subject, she only nipped her lips very tightly, and said, “Never mind.”

As for Mrs Jared, she only declared it to be very sad, and then the matter was allowed to drop.

The vicar, too, seemed to have almost forgotten the matter, until one morning when he hurried into Mr Timson’s counting-house, looking so much put out that the churchwarden directly guessed what was the matter, and before his friend could say a word, exclaimed—

“You don’t mean it, sir?”

“But I do mean it, Mr Timson,” said the vicar; “and really,” he continued poking at the inkstand with the ferule of his umbrella—“and really, I should be glad if you would not treat this matter so lightly, sir. It grieves me very, very deeply, Mr Timson, I can assure you.”

“Mind the ink, sir,” said Mr Timson, placing the bright metal stand out of his visitor’s reach. “I don’t treat it lightly, sir. It’s no joke, and I’m as much put out as yourself. You don’t think I want the poor-boxes robbed, do you, sir?” and he spoke with a puffing snort between every two or three words, as if getting warm.

“Now don’t be rash, Timson—don’t be rash. I’m not angry; only, really, you know, it is so worrying, so aggravating—deuced aggravating, I should say, if I were a layman, Timson, I should indeed. There, there! now don’t bristle up, there’s a good fellow; but tell me what to do.”

“Take that umbrella ferule out of my ink, that’s what you’d better do,” said Timson, gruffly; for, in an absent fashion, the vicar was still thrusting at the metal stand, to the great endangering of an open book or two upon the table.

“There, there, there!” said the vicar, impatiently, as he placed the obnoxious ferule upon the floor, and pressed it down there with both hands. “Now, then, tell me, Timson, what had I better do?”

“How the devil should I know what you ought to do?” exclaimed Mr Timson, for he was out of temper that morning with business matters connected with a sudden rise in teas, just at a time when his stock was low, in consequence of his having anticipated a fall, and the vicar, in his impatient mood, had applied the match which exploded Mr Timson’s wrath, when, metaphorically taking off his apron, he spoke up.

“Don’t swear, Timson,” said the vicar, sternly; “‘Swear not,’—you know the rest.”

“Shoo—shoo—shoo—shoo—shoo—shoo—shoo!” ejaculated Mr Timson. “Who did swear?”

“Why you did, sir,” said the vicar; “and don’t deny it.”

“But I didn’t,” exclaimed the churchwarden; “and I won’t be spoken to like that in my own house. Because we have been friends all these years, John Gray, you presume upon it, and abuse me. I didn’t swear; I only said, ‘How the devil should I know?’ and I say it again. Shoo—shoo—shoo! the devil’s in the poor-box.”

“If you make use of such language, Levi Timson, I must leave your office,” said the vicar, severely.

“What language?—what language?” exclaimed the churchwarden.

“Why, such as yours, sir,” retorted the vicar; “introducing the father of evil every moment.”

“Not I!—not I!” exclaimed Timson. “Introduce him! Not I. Who brought him into the room? Who began it? Who said it first?”

“But only in a modified form,” said the vicar, humbly; “I qualified it strongly with an ‘if.’ But I was wrong, extremely wrong, Timson; and there! I beg your pardon, Timson. I was put out and annoyed, and spoke hastily,” and he held out his hand.

“No, sir; no, sir; you don’t beg mine,” said Timson, taking the vicar’s hand. “I beg yours, sir. I know I spoke hastily, for I was angry and put out, for teas are gone up, confound ’em!”

“But I was in the wrong, Timson,” said the vicar. “As a clergyman, I ought to have governed myself, and known better than to be hasty.”

“I won’t give up in my own premises, sir,” exclaimed Timson. “Now, don’t smile, sir; they’re mine, bought and paid for, and there are the writings in that safe. I was in the wrong; but teas are up horribly this morning, and I’d been reckoning on their going down.”

Peace was ratified at once, for the two old men shook hands very solemnly for quite a minute.

“I’d give something, though, to find out about that money,” said the vicar, “for, you see, it’s going again.”

“I can assure you, sir,” said the churchwarden, “that I’ve slept night after night with those poor-boxes in bed with me, and yet I can’t see through the thing anyhow. By the way, I have read of such things. You don’t happen to be a somnambulist, do you? You haven’t been of a night and emptied the poor-boxes in your dreams, scraping together a store, and hidden it away for your heirs, administrators, executors, and assigns to find out?” and as the old man spoke, he glanced round the room, as if seeking a likely spot for such a purpose.

“No, Timson, no,” replied the vicar, smiling sadly. “You were present when my will was signed; and if there’s anything more than is set down on that piece of parchment, I freely give it to you, old friend.”

“Verbal gifts don’t go down with executors, sir,” said Timson, with his eyes twinkling; “and besides, I don’t think it would be the thing for me to stick to a hoard that you had filched from your own poor-box.”

“There, there, there!” ejaculated the vicar. “You are talking nonsense, Timson.”

“Mr Gray, sir,” said the churchwarden, seriously, and with some feeling, “a glass of sherry with you, sir; and, though toasts have nearly gone out, I shall drink to your long life.

“Yes,” continued the churchwarden, after a busy little pause, “it is a good glass of sherry. It is one of my weak points to have a decent glass in the house, and I don’t know anything that I like better.”

“Except a glass of hot toddy,” said the vicar, smiling.

“Well, well, well, sir,” said Timson; “suppose we put that aside, or we shall be getting into cribbage and pipes, and all sorts of other weak points.”

“True,” said the vicar; “but really, Timson, I’m not ashamed of those little weaknesses, even if I am a clergyman. I’m a very humble old fellow, with few friends, and fewer relatives. I don’t belong to society, Timson, but keep to my quiet, old-fashioned, country ways, which I brought up with me out of Lincolnshire. I’m not a fashionable parson, Timson, but I try to do my best for those amongst whom I have to teach.”

“You do, sir, you do,” said the churchwarden, warmly; “and you make me disgusted with myself for being put out with your anxiety about this poor-box. Now let’s set to and go over it all, quietly and methodically. What’s to be done?”

“I don’t know—I don’t know,” said the vicar, despondingly; “but we shall find him out to a certainty some day.”

“Him!” exclaimed the churchwarden,—“him, sir?”

“Well, yes; him, or her, or it. I would not care if I could get just an inkling of who it could be. But I’m determined upon one thing, Timson, and that is, if there is much more of it, I will do away with the poor-boxes altogether, and preach an extra charity-sermon every quarter;” and the vicar tucked his umbrella beneath his arm, as if ready to go.

“But I say, sir,” exclaimed Mr Timson, “I would not bear it in mind quite so much.”

“What do you mean, Timson?” said the vicar.

“Texts, sir, texts!” said Mr Timson, drily.

“Well, Timson, I won’t—I won’t, really; though, between ourselves—as friends—as old friends you know—I don’t mind telling you, that I had been making up the heads of a discourse for next Sunday upon the parable of the lost piece of money. But I’ll take your advice, and try something else.”

“Do!” said his friend, “and let the matter rest. Don’t show that you notice it, sir; be quite quiet, and we shall put them off their guard; I’ve my suspicions yet!”

“No, you have not, Timson,” said the vicar, laughing, “not you. You’re not a suspicious man, and never were.”

“Nor you neither,” said the tea-dealer, shaking hands. “Good morning.”

And as his old friend went through the busy portion of the house, raising his hat in reply to the salute of clerks and warehousemen, the churchwarden muttered to himself, “A thorough gentleman!”

An opinion from which some people differed.

Volume Two—Chapter Eight.The St Runwald’s Mystery.Gentlemanly or ungentlemanly, to blame in making a friend of the churchwarden, a tea-dealer, or not, the vicar was thoroughly conscientious, and this constant plundering of a little store intended for the poor of the parish was a sore and festering thorn in his side. It may be questioned, though, whether the poor really were sufferers by the thefts. More probably they were gainers; for, ignorant of the amount pilfered, and feeling that to a certain extent the little fund was in his charge, the vicar would often drop a sovereign or two into the little heap when the boxes were emptied, in order to make up the deficiency, which might, perhaps, in fact, be not more than a few shillings.But it was in vain that the good vicar fidgeted and fretted, rubbing his hair into all sorts of shapes, and especially that of a silver flame issuing from the top of his head. The pilfering went on, now ceasing for a while, now re-commencing, while the simple expedient of emptying the boxes after each service was never thought of by any one.Mr Purkis grew warm, and perspired as he sand-papered the steel bindings, making the boxes glisten to an extent that would never have been reached, had there not existed the little jealousy between Mrs Ruggles and himself.Not that Mr Purkis loved work, for his was the kind of constitution that would bear a large amount of ease, and he always felt himself to flourish most when clothed in his robes of office, and basking in beauty’s eye as he ornamented the church porch, striking with awe the boys from Gunniss’s, his duties appearing to consist of an occasional wag of the head to the pew-opener, when some stranger required a sitting, and a majestic roll as far as the iron gates and back.He would wag his head mysteriously at his wife when she was brushing him down on a Sunday morning, and removing every speck of dust from his blue robe, to which she used a hard brush, while the broad scarlet velvet cape, with its deep gold-lace trimming, was daintily smoothed and dusted with a brush of the softest. Then Mrs Purkis would hand her lord his cocked hat and white Berlin gloves, gazing up in his face and looking him over with the greatest veneration. For some ladies are fond of seeing their lords and masters in uniform, and Mrs Purkis was one of these, and she would stand at the door to see her husband go down the street, exclaiming too, angrily, to herself, “Drat them boys!” when some evil-disposed irreverent young scamp would shout after the portly officer, “Beadle, beadle, threadle my needle;” though she consoled herself with the recollection that, “Boys allus was full of their sarse,” ready to laugh at any of our noble British institutions. Especially if relating to law and order, beginning with the majestic policeman, and ending with the Lord Chief Baron in his swaddling clothes.But if Mr Purkis looked sagacious, it seemed probable that, like other people, he only had his suspicions; such too as he could not confirm, though a slight frown and a shake of the head, particularly if accompanied by nipped-together lips, imply a great deal; and your heavy-cheeked solid-headed judge will carry a weight with the public that his keen-witted and sharp-featured subordinate will lack.Mr Purkis obtained the credit of knowing a great deal, but if he did, he kept the knowledge to himself; and Time, the inexorable, slipped on, Jared discoursing with his organ, and the great congregation at St Runwald’s listening patiently to the vicar’s quiet practical little sermons.Mr Gray kept his promise to the churchwarden, and there were no more texts for some time touching upon the subject of money; but Mr Timson scratched his head violently one day as he sat in his pew and heard the vicar dwell upon the rich men dropping their gifts into the treasury, and the poor widow’s mite; adroitly introducing his opinion that it was as great a sin to steal the widow’s mite as the more imposing gifts of the wealthy.“But I wouldn’t really, you know,” said Timson, the next time they met; “as I’ve told you before, it’s only putting the thieves on their guard, and can do no good.”“Might work on their consciences, Timson, eh? Startle them into better ways and feelings.” But the churchwarden shook his head. “Think not, eh?” said the vicar; “conscience makes cowards of us all, as Milton says.”“Shakespeare, Shakespeare, sir,” said Timson.“My memory’s failing fast, Timson,” said the old man, sadly; “but I thought it was Milton. You don’t read the poets?”“Never, by any chance,” said Timson; “but I know I heard those words at old Drury, and I know they don’t put Milton on the stage.”“I believe you’re right—I believe you’re right, Timson,” said the vicar. “And so you really would not say any more about it publicly?”“Not a word,” said Timson, firmly.“But it was neatly introduced, eh?”“Yes, ye-e-e-s,” said Timson; “but it does no good, depend upon it, sir. The man who takes money from a church won’t be frightened because you tell him it’s wicked.”“Think not?” said the vicar.“Sure of it,” said Timson.Timson was right, for the money still went, week after week—shillings and half-crowns, and sixpences and florins. Purkis groaned and grunted as he polished off the rust that would collect on the steel-work, as much at the labour as at the losses; but he could not see the money take to itself wings and fly away. Jared and Ichabod came and went, and the harmonies flooded the old church, but they saw nothing. Vicar and churchwarden gazed about as they came and went, and shook their heads at the boxes, but they went away as wise as they came. Neither did Mrs Ruggles unravel the mystery when she came on Saturdays to set open the doors, and swept and dusted, and punched pulpit pillows, and walloped (Ichabod’s own term) pew cushions, and banged hassocks in the porch, finishing her duties by perversely shifting people’s prayer-books and church-services from pew to pew, starting them upon voyages round the church—trips which some times occupied whole months—while, more than once she obtained rewards, when, by request, she hunted out and restored the missing volumes.But though the officials saw not the thief, some of those fat-cheeked, half-dressed, trumpet-blowing angels must have beheld, and, herald-like, might have proclaimed the offender with the sound of the trump.The marble effigy of the statesman who stood with scroll in outstretched hand, as if in debate, must have seen the culprit; while Edward Lawrence, citizen of London, and Dame Alys, his wife, intent though they were in prayer upon their marble cushions, might have stolen one stony glance upon the sacrilege committed.Why! there were effigies poised and planted everywhere about the old edifice, which the good knight and architect, Sir Christopher Wren, had restored when it was crumbling and dilapidated inside—restored most fully, according to the sublime taste of his period; but none of these effigies told tales, not even David, who stood within three feet of one box, and busily harped away, so busily indeed, that he had lost his garments, probably in the heat of the work, for there was no Michal at hand to take him to task.Time did not tell either, at least not at this period of the story, though he, too, commanded a good view of the church, as he stood upon a bracket on one side of the chancel-arch, mowing away with a broken scythe, like a ragged Irishman in the haymaking season, his hour-glass being slung at his side, after the fashion of Pat’s bottle.Grim Death, in skeleton form, who stood as counterbalance to Time on the other side of the arch, pickaxe in one hand, dart in the other, also maintained a stubborn silence, perhaps because offended, for though most people considered that he held a pickaxe for grave-digging purposes, there were others who insisted upon its being a cross-bow with which he was armed.As for the stained-glass cherubim and seraphim, playing guitar, bass viol, cornet, harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of music, they seemed to be too busy with their heavenly harmonies to notice such mundane matters as pounds, shillings, and pence. Judas, the bag-bearer, was not visible, or—on the principle of “set a thief to catch a thief”—he might have told tales; but painted on the ceiling were Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—well painted too, though the artist’s evangelical emblems of bull, eagle, and lamb were not quite up to nature.But none of these pointed out the offender, and the old vicar walked disconsolately up and down his church, pausing here and there as if lost amidst the different surmises which flooded his brain; but there was no information to be gained. The mystery was not concealed amongst the carved oak window draperies, and cottage pattern wood-work, which hid the stone tracery of the old east window; it was not behind the spindle balustrade communion rails, nor the iron-barred workhouse-window-like rood-screen, nor in the brass-nailed, red-curtained, soft-cushioned, high-sided pews, where City folk loved to snooze on Sundays.The mystery continued, but it was invisible, and though poor Mr Gray looked appealingly at the cross-legged Templar upon his back, and at the brasses rescued from trampling feet to be fixed in the wall, neither father nor mother, nor right or left, one of the steplike regular sons and daughters, brazen-faced as they were, whispered him a word more than did the black, fork-tongued, barb-tailed, huge-clawed, ancient stained-glass devil, so busy watching the Virgin and Child in the clerestory window.So the Reverend John Gray sighed, and softly rubbed his hands, and the poor-boxes were still robbed.

Gentlemanly or ungentlemanly, to blame in making a friend of the churchwarden, a tea-dealer, or not, the vicar was thoroughly conscientious, and this constant plundering of a little store intended for the poor of the parish was a sore and festering thorn in his side. It may be questioned, though, whether the poor really were sufferers by the thefts. More probably they were gainers; for, ignorant of the amount pilfered, and feeling that to a certain extent the little fund was in his charge, the vicar would often drop a sovereign or two into the little heap when the boxes were emptied, in order to make up the deficiency, which might, perhaps, in fact, be not more than a few shillings.

But it was in vain that the good vicar fidgeted and fretted, rubbing his hair into all sorts of shapes, and especially that of a silver flame issuing from the top of his head. The pilfering went on, now ceasing for a while, now re-commencing, while the simple expedient of emptying the boxes after each service was never thought of by any one.

Mr Purkis grew warm, and perspired as he sand-papered the steel bindings, making the boxes glisten to an extent that would never have been reached, had there not existed the little jealousy between Mrs Ruggles and himself.

Not that Mr Purkis loved work, for his was the kind of constitution that would bear a large amount of ease, and he always felt himself to flourish most when clothed in his robes of office, and basking in beauty’s eye as he ornamented the church porch, striking with awe the boys from Gunniss’s, his duties appearing to consist of an occasional wag of the head to the pew-opener, when some stranger required a sitting, and a majestic roll as far as the iron gates and back.

He would wag his head mysteriously at his wife when she was brushing him down on a Sunday morning, and removing every speck of dust from his blue robe, to which she used a hard brush, while the broad scarlet velvet cape, with its deep gold-lace trimming, was daintily smoothed and dusted with a brush of the softest. Then Mrs Purkis would hand her lord his cocked hat and white Berlin gloves, gazing up in his face and looking him over with the greatest veneration. For some ladies are fond of seeing their lords and masters in uniform, and Mrs Purkis was one of these, and she would stand at the door to see her husband go down the street, exclaiming too, angrily, to herself, “Drat them boys!” when some evil-disposed irreverent young scamp would shout after the portly officer, “Beadle, beadle, threadle my needle;” though she consoled herself with the recollection that, “Boys allus was full of their sarse,” ready to laugh at any of our noble British institutions. Especially if relating to law and order, beginning with the majestic policeman, and ending with the Lord Chief Baron in his swaddling clothes.

But if Mr Purkis looked sagacious, it seemed probable that, like other people, he only had his suspicions; such too as he could not confirm, though a slight frown and a shake of the head, particularly if accompanied by nipped-together lips, imply a great deal; and your heavy-cheeked solid-headed judge will carry a weight with the public that his keen-witted and sharp-featured subordinate will lack.

Mr Purkis obtained the credit of knowing a great deal, but if he did, he kept the knowledge to himself; and Time, the inexorable, slipped on, Jared discoursing with his organ, and the great congregation at St Runwald’s listening patiently to the vicar’s quiet practical little sermons.

Mr Gray kept his promise to the churchwarden, and there were no more texts for some time touching upon the subject of money; but Mr Timson scratched his head violently one day as he sat in his pew and heard the vicar dwell upon the rich men dropping their gifts into the treasury, and the poor widow’s mite; adroitly introducing his opinion that it was as great a sin to steal the widow’s mite as the more imposing gifts of the wealthy.

“But I wouldn’t really, you know,” said Timson, the next time they met; “as I’ve told you before, it’s only putting the thieves on their guard, and can do no good.”

“Might work on their consciences, Timson, eh? Startle them into better ways and feelings.” But the churchwarden shook his head. “Think not, eh?” said the vicar; “conscience makes cowards of us all, as Milton says.”

“Shakespeare, Shakespeare, sir,” said Timson.

“My memory’s failing fast, Timson,” said the old man, sadly; “but I thought it was Milton. You don’t read the poets?”

“Never, by any chance,” said Timson; “but I know I heard those words at old Drury, and I know they don’t put Milton on the stage.”

“I believe you’re right—I believe you’re right, Timson,” said the vicar. “And so you really would not say any more about it publicly?”

“Not a word,” said Timson, firmly.

“But it was neatly introduced, eh?”

“Yes, ye-e-e-s,” said Timson; “but it does no good, depend upon it, sir. The man who takes money from a church won’t be frightened because you tell him it’s wicked.”

“Think not?” said the vicar.

“Sure of it,” said Timson.

Timson was right, for the money still went, week after week—shillings and half-crowns, and sixpences and florins. Purkis groaned and grunted as he polished off the rust that would collect on the steel-work, as much at the labour as at the losses; but he could not see the money take to itself wings and fly away. Jared and Ichabod came and went, and the harmonies flooded the old church, but they saw nothing. Vicar and churchwarden gazed about as they came and went, and shook their heads at the boxes, but they went away as wise as they came. Neither did Mrs Ruggles unravel the mystery when she came on Saturdays to set open the doors, and swept and dusted, and punched pulpit pillows, and walloped (Ichabod’s own term) pew cushions, and banged hassocks in the porch, finishing her duties by perversely shifting people’s prayer-books and church-services from pew to pew, starting them upon voyages round the church—trips which some times occupied whole months—while, more than once she obtained rewards, when, by request, she hunted out and restored the missing volumes.

But though the officials saw not the thief, some of those fat-cheeked, half-dressed, trumpet-blowing angels must have beheld, and, herald-like, might have proclaimed the offender with the sound of the trump.

The marble effigy of the statesman who stood with scroll in outstretched hand, as if in debate, must have seen the culprit; while Edward Lawrence, citizen of London, and Dame Alys, his wife, intent though they were in prayer upon their marble cushions, might have stolen one stony glance upon the sacrilege committed.

Why! there were effigies poised and planted everywhere about the old edifice, which the good knight and architect, Sir Christopher Wren, had restored when it was crumbling and dilapidated inside—restored most fully, according to the sublime taste of his period; but none of these effigies told tales, not even David, who stood within three feet of one box, and busily harped away, so busily indeed, that he had lost his garments, probably in the heat of the work, for there was no Michal at hand to take him to task.

Time did not tell either, at least not at this period of the story, though he, too, commanded a good view of the church, as he stood upon a bracket on one side of the chancel-arch, mowing away with a broken scythe, like a ragged Irishman in the haymaking season, his hour-glass being slung at his side, after the fashion of Pat’s bottle.

Grim Death, in skeleton form, who stood as counterbalance to Time on the other side of the arch, pickaxe in one hand, dart in the other, also maintained a stubborn silence, perhaps because offended, for though most people considered that he held a pickaxe for grave-digging purposes, there were others who insisted upon its being a cross-bow with which he was armed.

As for the stained-glass cherubim and seraphim, playing guitar, bass viol, cornet, harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of music, they seemed to be too busy with their heavenly harmonies to notice such mundane matters as pounds, shillings, and pence. Judas, the bag-bearer, was not visible, or—on the principle of “set a thief to catch a thief”—he might have told tales; but painted on the ceiling were Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—well painted too, though the artist’s evangelical emblems of bull, eagle, and lamb were not quite up to nature.

But none of these pointed out the offender, and the old vicar walked disconsolately up and down his church, pausing here and there as if lost amidst the different surmises which flooded his brain; but there was no information to be gained. The mystery was not concealed amongst the carved oak window draperies, and cottage pattern wood-work, which hid the stone tracery of the old east window; it was not behind the spindle balustrade communion rails, nor the iron-barred workhouse-window-like rood-screen, nor in the brass-nailed, red-curtained, soft-cushioned, high-sided pews, where City folk loved to snooze on Sundays.

The mystery continued, but it was invisible, and though poor Mr Gray looked appealingly at the cross-legged Templar upon his back, and at the brasses rescued from trampling feet to be fixed in the wall, neither father nor mother, nor right or left, one of the steplike regular sons and daughters, brazen-faced as they were, whispered him a word more than did the black, fork-tongued, barb-tailed, huge-clawed, ancient stained-glass devil, so busy watching the Virgin and Child in the clerestory window.

So the Reverend John Gray sighed, and softly rubbed his hands, and the poor-boxes were still robbed.

Volume Two—Chapter Nine.The Love of Nature.Harry Clayton had been gone three months, and, clothed in a perfect Joseph’s coat of a dressing-gown, Lionel Redgrave lolled upon his sofa, talking pettishly to his landlord, who stood before him holding a slip of paper in his hand.“Cert’nly, sir, it goes again the grain,” said Mr Stiff; “but what am I to do, Mr Redgrave, sir? Here’s the cheque again from your ’pa, and there’s the receipt, all as regular as the month comes round, which is more than can be said of some people with titles and who calls themselves officers. You see, you know, sir, I rent the whole of this upper of the people who has the shop, and I’m bound not to do nothing as shall annoy them in their business.”“Bother!” growled Lionel, fidgeting about, while Mr Stiff went on—“I wouldn’t part with you, sir, only you see, if so be I don’t, why, they’ll part with me.”“But it’s a nuisance, man, and I should have to look out for fresh chambers,” said Lionel; “and the place suits me. I don’t want to go.”“Well, you see, sir, that’s where we agree. But you see, things can’t go on like this.Onedog we didn’t like, but we’d say nothing about it, though he don’t do no good to the cushins; but look there, sir—there’s your bull-tarrier on the couch—your Skye wiry on the heasy-chair—your spannel under the table, as vicious as stinging nettles; and them two pugs on the hearthrug.”Lionel made a hasty gesture.“Can’t help it, sir; it ain’t no good for you to be cross; I must speak. Then there’s the Cunnle as has the second floor—Cunnle Mart’nitt, sir—says if that there parrot don’t go, he will; for it’s a shrieking and swearing from morning to night. Not as I must say as ever I did hear it say anything worse than ‘Corpus backus,’ which may be wickedness in Greek or some other furren tongue; like an old master of mine who was a major in the Indian army, and came back eat up with curry, and bad liver—yellow as one of his own guineas, sir. Well, he’d swear at me, sir, hawful I do believe; but then as it was all in Hindoo, and I never understood a word about what it meant, it never used to fidget me a bit more than if it was all blessings. But parrots will swear, sir, I know; for I’ve heard two in a cage go on at one another worse than—”“Do you want me to set to and swear at you, Stiff?” said Lionel.“No, sir, as you’d be too much of a gentleman, I’m sure.”“Pish!” ejaculated Lionel.“Then the Cunnle says, sir, as the singin’ birds is getting a perfect nuisance; but the squirrel and the ferrets, he says as he don’t mind. But now I’m speaking, sir, I must say as I do; for I put it to you, sir, are they sootable for a first-floor in Regent Street? I know what gents is, sir, having lived in good families till the wife and me retired on her savings and took to letting; and I must say, sir, as I never in all my experience see anything like this here before; while the worst of it is as we never know what’s coming next. It drives my missus a most wild, it do indeed, sir, to see that little foxy old chap with the thick boot come jigging and grinning up to the door as if he’d got a hingin inside to work him, and now bringing a bird, or a hanimal, or something else to wherrit us.”“Nearly done?” growled Lionel, angrily.“Not quite, sir,” said the landlord, desperately; for he had been lectured into speaking to his perverse lodger, and he knew that the ear of his lecturer was at the keyhole. “You see, sir, my wife says as we must have an alteration. She says only last night, ‘James,’ she says—it was after we was in bed, sir—‘how do we know what Mr Redgrave’ll be a havin’ next? He’s a makin’ a reg’lar Wombwell’s show of that drawing-room, as we shall have to re-furnish as soon as ever he’s gone, what with tobacco-smoke, dirty feet, and wild beasts. We shall be having a helephant or a monkey next; and with a monkey in the house,’ she says, ‘I won’t put up. For, if there is a ojus thing as I can’t abear, it’s a monkey. What does a gent like him, with his father a barrynit, want with tortushes a-scrawming about the room, and under your feet, and giving you a turn as sends cold shudders all down your back?’”“Now, look, here!” burst out Lionel; “I’m not going either to stand or to believe all this, so I tell you. You want to raise the rent, Stiff. Now that’s it.”“Which it just ain’t nothink of the sort, Mr Redgrave!” exclaimed a corroded voice—sharp, worn, and acid—and a new actor appeared on the scene, in the person of Mrs Stiff, the landlord’s lady. “I wonder, sir, at a gentleman—a nobleman’s son—bemeaning himself to insult honest people in this way. We don’t want the rent raised, sir; but what we do want is a halteration, or else our rooms empty, or let to some one else, as there’s plenty of gents as would be glad to have them; though, if you was to go, no one would be sorrier than I should, to lose you, sir.”Lionel made a gesture of dismay, throwing himself farther back upon his lounge, with every token of succumbing to this fresh attack, as he stared grimly at the ceiling.“You see, sir,” said Mrs Stiff, for her husband, literally as well as metaphorically, had now subsided into the background, “ever since Mr Clayton, as was as nice and pleasant a gent as ever walked in shoe-leather, has been gone, things has been growing worse. We ain’t the folks, sir, to take notice of late hours, or smoking, or friends to supper, as won’t go in Hansom cabs without a noise, and a bit of racketing now and then—of course not. We know our place, sir, and what gents is—young and old—as lives in eligibly-situated bachelor chambers, overlooking one of the best streets in the metropolis; but I put it to you, sir, as a gent of sense, isthatright—and that—and THAT?”Mrs Stiff’s forefinger was pointed at first one and then another quadru- or bi-ped intruder.“Ever since Mr Clayton’s been gone, sir, here you’ve had these things a coming in. And now, is it right, sir? Is tortushes—six of ’em—proper things to be a-scrawming over a Brussels carpet as cost us six-and-six a yard, without the planning and making? And let me tell you, sir, as six-and-sixes to buy yards of carpet ain’t scraped out of the gutters; let alone the other expenses of furnishing a house, with upholsterers and furniture shops thrusting veneer down your throat when you go in for solid; and if, to save your money, you go to one of the auction-rooms, you’re a’most ragged to pieces by the Jew brokers; and if you won’t employ ’em, them a-running up things and bidding against you shameful. Furnishing a house don’t mean marrying a lady and putting her in it, I can tell you, Mr Redgrave, sir; and when it’s your own Brussels as you’re a walking on, and your own sofas as you sit on, you won’t destroy ’em with all sorts of nasty filthy animals, as is that full of insecks as makes it miserable to come in the room.”“Now, look here!” exclaimed Lionel, whose countenance wore a comical aspect of trouble and despair,—“look here!” he exclaimed, starting up; “I don’t want to go—I don’t want the trouble. There, I’ll promise you, I won’t buy any more, will that suit you?”But the long-suffering Mrs Stiff was now fully roused, and determined to hold the ground which she had gained. She said, and very justly, that she could not afford to go on upon such terms, as the result must be notice to quit from their own landlord. She was determined now to have a thorough clearance, or Mr Redgrave must get apartments where people did not mind having their rooms made into a “wild beast show.”This being the climax of Mrs Stiff’s speech, that lady flounced out of the room, the centre of an aërial vortex raised by her voluminous garments, leaving Lionel Redgrave and his landlord staring very hard at one another.“I say, you know, what’s to be done?” said the young man, at last.Mr Stiff shook his head as solemnly as a sexton welcoming a fully furnished funeral, when, leaping up angrily, to his landlord’s great astonishment, Lionel threw up the window, and then, though not without some difficulty, set at liberty the whole of his birds, the parrot rewarding him for his kindness by nipping a piece out of his finger.“There, now!” said Lionel, binding a handkerchief round his bleeding finger, after directing a blow right from the shoulder at the offending parrot, which, it is hardly necessary to say, missed its aim—“there now! take those empty cages away, and send the girl to sweep up the bits.”Mr Stiff winked to himself as he obeyed, and rattled out of the room with quite a load of cages, but only to return at the end of five minutes.“Well,” said Lionel, inquiringly, “what now?”“About them there ferrets, sir?” said Mr Stiff.“Oh! take them away by all means,” said Lionel, impatiently.“Yes, sir, in course; but what shall I do with them?”“Wring their necks—sell them—send them down the drains after the rats,” exclaimed Lionel; and the wire-fronted box, containing the furry, snakey animals, was carried down; but only for Mr Stiff to return at the end of ten minutes, hot, henpecked, and nervous, to encounter Lionel’s savage glances.“Well, what next?” cried the young man to the troubled ambassador, who, open to receiving both fires, had now come charged with a message which he hardly dared to deliver, for, after the sweep made of birds and cages, he felt that it was rather dangerous to ask for fresh concessions, and therefore he remained silent until Lionel fiercely repeated his question.“Please, sir, there’s them tortushes,” said Stiff, at last.“Con-found the tortoises!” cried Lionel; “give them to some of the street boys.” And, moving to the window, he hailed a doctor’s boy passing with his medicine-basket. “Catch, my lad,” he shouted; and he threw him down—one after the other—three of the sluggish little reptiles, with heads and legs drawn within their shells so as to be out of danger. “Now, I hope you are satisfied,” he said to his landlord; who, after a good hunt had continued to discover in out-of-the-way corners the other three offenders.Mr Stiff’s only response was a shake of the head—a motion kept up until he reached the lower regions, whence he returned, more hot and flustered than ever, to be greeted with a storm of abuse from his angry young tenant.No, he would not give up the dogs, that he wouldn’t, and Mr Stiff might go and tell his wife so. He had already thrown away above thirty pounds’ worth of things to satisfy them. He gave twelve pounds for that parrot, he said, and now they wanted him to part with his dogs. Why! he had only got back the bull-terrier after paying ten pounds one day, and five the next, through losing it in Decadia, let alone the heavy sums he had paid for the others. Part with his dogs! No, that he wouldn’t, so there was an end of it; and if Mr Stiff came bothering him again, hang him if he wouldn’t serve him as he had served the tortoises.There might have been an end of it, so far as Mr Stiff was concerned; but when he returned to the kitchen, he was soon sent back to the drawing-room, with fresh diplomatic charges, which he delivered in spite of the window-throwing threat; but, still failing to make satisfactory arrangements, he was accompanied in a further visit to the first-floor by the irate landlady herself—hot, out of breath, and voluminous in her discourse.And now the wordy warfare recommenced, charge after charge being made by Mrs Stiff, to the discomfiture of Lionel Redgrave, till a truce had been agreed upon: the young tenant was to retain his chambers on condition that he brought no more “wild beasts” or birds—so Mrs Stiff put it—and did not, as, one by one, the four dogs he was allowed to keep were lost, either try to recover them, or supply their places with fresh favourites.“Confound the pair!” cried Lionel, as they left the room; and, according to custom, proceeded to solace himself with a cigar.“I don’t care,” exclaimed Mrs Stiff, as she reached her best kitchen, and sat down panting; “we ought to have persevered, and then we should have had the house clear of his rubbish. How do we know how long the silly young noodle—all money and no brains—will be before he loses even one of his dogs?”“Don’t you fret about that,” laughed her husband; “that won’t be long first. Why, he never hardly goes out now without some ill-looking vagabond dodging him; and there’s one in particular follows him home as regular as clockwork. Do you think he’s always slinking about for nothing? Not he. You wait a bit, and you’ll see.”

Harry Clayton had been gone three months, and, clothed in a perfect Joseph’s coat of a dressing-gown, Lionel Redgrave lolled upon his sofa, talking pettishly to his landlord, who stood before him holding a slip of paper in his hand.

“Cert’nly, sir, it goes again the grain,” said Mr Stiff; “but what am I to do, Mr Redgrave, sir? Here’s the cheque again from your ’pa, and there’s the receipt, all as regular as the month comes round, which is more than can be said of some people with titles and who calls themselves officers. You see, you know, sir, I rent the whole of this upper of the people who has the shop, and I’m bound not to do nothing as shall annoy them in their business.”

“Bother!” growled Lionel, fidgeting about, while Mr Stiff went on—

“I wouldn’t part with you, sir, only you see, if so be I don’t, why, they’ll part with me.”

“But it’s a nuisance, man, and I should have to look out for fresh chambers,” said Lionel; “and the place suits me. I don’t want to go.”

“Well, you see, sir, that’s where we agree. But you see, things can’t go on like this.Onedog we didn’t like, but we’d say nothing about it, though he don’t do no good to the cushins; but look there, sir—there’s your bull-tarrier on the couch—your Skye wiry on the heasy-chair—your spannel under the table, as vicious as stinging nettles; and them two pugs on the hearthrug.”

Lionel made a hasty gesture.

“Can’t help it, sir; it ain’t no good for you to be cross; I must speak. Then there’s the Cunnle as has the second floor—Cunnle Mart’nitt, sir—says if that there parrot don’t go, he will; for it’s a shrieking and swearing from morning to night. Not as I must say as ever I did hear it say anything worse than ‘Corpus backus,’ which may be wickedness in Greek or some other furren tongue; like an old master of mine who was a major in the Indian army, and came back eat up with curry, and bad liver—yellow as one of his own guineas, sir. Well, he’d swear at me, sir, hawful I do believe; but then as it was all in Hindoo, and I never understood a word about what it meant, it never used to fidget me a bit more than if it was all blessings. But parrots will swear, sir, I know; for I’ve heard two in a cage go on at one another worse than—”

“Do you want me to set to and swear at you, Stiff?” said Lionel.

“No, sir, as you’d be too much of a gentleman, I’m sure.”

“Pish!” ejaculated Lionel.

“Then the Cunnle says, sir, as the singin’ birds is getting a perfect nuisance; but the squirrel and the ferrets, he says as he don’t mind. But now I’m speaking, sir, I must say as I do; for I put it to you, sir, are they sootable for a first-floor in Regent Street? I know what gents is, sir, having lived in good families till the wife and me retired on her savings and took to letting; and I must say, sir, as I never in all my experience see anything like this here before; while the worst of it is as we never know what’s coming next. It drives my missus a most wild, it do indeed, sir, to see that little foxy old chap with the thick boot come jigging and grinning up to the door as if he’d got a hingin inside to work him, and now bringing a bird, or a hanimal, or something else to wherrit us.”

“Nearly done?” growled Lionel, angrily.

“Not quite, sir,” said the landlord, desperately; for he had been lectured into speaking to his perverse lodger, and he knew that the ear of his lecturer was at the keyhole. “You see, sir, my wife says as we must have an alteration. She says only last night, ‘James,’ she says—it was after we was in bed, sir—‘how do we know what Mr Redgrave’ll be a havin’ next? He’s a makin’ a reg’lar Wombwell’s show of that drawing-room, as we shall have to re-furnish as soon as ever he’s gone, what with tobacco-smoke, dirty feet, and wild beasts. We shall be having a helephant or a monkey next; and with a monkey in the house,’ she says, ‘I won’t put up. For, if there is a ojus thing as I can’t abear, it’s a monkey. What does a gent like him, with his father a barrynit, want with tortushes a-scrawming about the room, and under your feet, and giving you a turn as sends cold shudders all down your back?’”

“Now, look, here!” burst out Lionel; “I’m not going either to stand or to believe all this, so I tell you. You want to raise the rent, Stiff. Now that’s it.”

“Which it just ain’t nothink of the sort, Mr Redgrave!” exclaimed a corroded voice—sharp, worn, and acid—and a new actor appeared on the scene, in the person of Mrs Stiff, the landlord’s lady. “I wonder, sir, at a gentleman—a nobleman’s son—bemeaning himself to insult honest people in this way. We don’t want the rent raised, sir; but what we do want is a halteration, or else our rooms empty, or let to some one else, as there’s plenty of gents as would be glad to have them; though, if you was to go, no one would be sorrier than I should, to lose you, sir.”

Lionel made a gesture of dismay, throwing himself farther back upon his lounge, with every token of succumbing to this fresh attack, as he stared grimly at the ceiling.

“You see, sir,” said Mrs Stiff, for her husband, literally as well as metaphorically, had now subsided into the background, “ever since Mr Clayton, as was as nice and pleasant a gent as ever walked in shoe-leather, has been gone, things has been growing worse. We ain’t the folks, sir, to take notice of late hours, or smoking, or friends to supper, as won’t go in Hansom cabs without a noise, and a bit of racketing now and then—of course not. We know our place, sir, and what gents is—young and old—as lives in eligibly-situated bachelor chambers, overlooking one of the best streets in the metropolis; but I put it to you, sir, as a gent of sense, isthatright—and that—and THAT?”

Mrs Stiff’s forefinger was pointed at first one and then another quadru- or bi-ped intruder.

“Ever since Mr Clayton’s been gone, sir, here you’ve had these things a coming in. And now, is it right, sir? Is tortushes—six of ’em—proper things to be a-scrawming over a Brussels carpet as cost us six-and-six a yard, without the planning and making? And let me tell you, sir, as six-and-sixes to buy yards of carpet ain’t scraped out of the gutters; let alone the other expenses of furnishing a house, with upholsterers and furniture shops thrusting veneer down your throat when you go in for solid; and if, to save your money, you go to one of the auction-rooms, you’re a’most ragged to pieces by the Jew brokers; and if you won’t employ ’em, them a-running up things and bidding against you shameful. Furnishing a house don’t mean marrying a lady and putting her in it, I can tell you, Mr Redgrave, sir; and when it’s your own Brussels as you’re a walking on, and your own sofas as you sit on, you won’t destroy ’em with all sorts of nasty filthy animals, as is that full of insecks as makes it miserable to come in the room.”

“Now, look here!” exclaimed Lionel, whose countenance wore a comical aspect of trouble and despair,—“look here!” he exclaimed, starting up; “I don’t want to go—I don’t want the trouble. There, I’ll promise you, I won’t buy any more, will that suit you?”

But the long-suffering Mrs Stiff was now fully roused, and determined to hold the ground which she had gained. She said, and very justly, that she could not afford to go on upon such terms, as the result must be notice to quit from their own landlord. She was determined now to have a thorough clearance, or Mr Redgrave must get apartments where people did not mind having their rooms made into a “wild beast show.”

This being the climax of Mrs Stiff’s speech, that lady flounced out of the room, the centre of an aërial vortex raised by her voluminous garments, leaving Lionel Redgrave and his landlord staring very hard at one another.

“I say, you know, what’s to be done?” said the young man, at last.

Mr Stiff shook his head as solemnly as a sexton welcoming a fully furnished funeral, when, leaping up angrily, to his landlord’s great astonishment, Lionel threw up the window, and then, though not without some difficulty, set at liberty the whole of his birds, the parrot rewarding him for his kindness by nipping a piece out of his finger.

“There, now!” said Lionel, binding a handkerchief round his bleeding finger, after directing a blow right from the shoulder at the offending parrot, which, it is hardly necessary to say, missed its aim—“there now! take those empty cages away, and send the girl to sweep up the bits.”

Mr Stiff winked to himself as he obeyed, and rattled out of the room with quite a load of cages, but only to return at the end of five minutes.

“Well,” said Lionel, inquiringly, “what now?”

“About them there ferrets, sir?” said Mr Stiff.

“Oh! take them away by all means,” said Lionel, impatiently.

“Yes, sir, in course; but what shall I do with them?”

“Wring their necks—sell them—send them down the drains after the rats,” exclaimed Lionel; and the wire-fronted box, containing the furry, snakey animals, was carried down; but only for Mr Stiff to return at the end of ten minutes, hot, henpecked, and nervous, to encounter Lionel’s savage glances.

“Well, what next?” cried the young man to the troubled ambassador, who, open to receiving both fires, had now come charged with a message which he hardly dared to deliver, for, after the sweep made of birds and cages, he felt that it was rather dangerous to ask for fresh concessions, and therefore he remained silent until Lionel fiercely repeated his question.

“Please, sir, there’s them tortushes,” said Stiff, at last.

“Con-found the tortoises!” cried Lionel; “give them to some of the street boys.” And, moving to the window, he hailed a doctor’s boy passing with his medicine-basket. “Catch, my lad,” he shouted; and he threw him down—one after the other—three of the sluggish little reptiles, with heads and legs drawn within their shells so as to be out of danger. “Now, I hope you are satisfied,” he said to his landlord; who, after a good hunt had continued to discover in out-of-the-way corners the other three offenders.

Mr Stiff’s only response was a shake of the head—a motion kept up until he reached the lower regions, whence he returned, more hot and flustered than ever, to be greeted with a storm of abuse from his angry young tenant.

No, he would not give up the dogs, that he wouldn’t, and Mr Stiff might go and tell his wife so. He had already thrown away above thirty pounds’ worth of things to satisfy them. He gave twelve pounds for that parrot, he said, and now they wanted him to part with his dogs. Why! he had only got back the bull-terrier after paying ten pounds one day, and five the next, through losing it in Decadia, let alone the heavy sums he had paid for the others. Part with his dogs! No, that he wouldn’t, so there was an end of it; and if Mr Stiff came bothering him again, hang him if he wouldn’t serve him as he had served the tortoises.

There might have been an end of it, so far as Mr Stiff was concerned; but when he returned to the kitchen, he was soon sent back to the drawing-room, with fresh diplomatic charges, which he delivered in spite of the window-throwing threat; but, still failing to make satisfactory arrangements, he was accompanied in a further visit to the first-floor by the irate landlady herself—hot, out of breath, and voluminous in her discourse.

And now the wordy warfare recommenced, charge after charge being made by Mrs Stiff, to the discomfiture of Lionel Redgrave, till a truce had been agreed upon: the young tenant was to retain his chambers on condition that he brought no more “wild beasts” or birds—so Mrs Stiff put it—and did not, as, one by one, the four dogs he was allowed to keep were lost, either try to recover them, or supply their places with fresh favourites.

“Confound the pair!” cried Lionel, as they left the room; and, according to custom, proceeded to solace himself with a cigar.

“I don’t care,” exclaimed Mrs Stiff, as she reached her best kitchen, and sat down panting; “we ought to have persevered, and then we should have had the house clear of his rubbish. How do we know how long the silly young noodle—all money and no brains—will be before he loses even one of his dogs?”

“Don’t you fret about that,” laughed her husband; “that won’t be long first. Why, he never hardly goes out now without some ill-looking vagabond dodging him; and there’s one in particular follows him home as regular as clockwork. Do you think he’s always slinking about for nothing? Not he. You wait a bit, and you’ll see.”

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