Chapter VI: Front Matter (6)

"Why, Harry," said Lionel, staring hard at the fair little writer the while, "depend upon it that old chap has cut with the money, and we shall never see him again. But never mind; he has left us a jolly little hostage, and we can take her instead."

Harry Clayton bit his lips, for his fingers itched to seize Lionel by the collar, and shake him till he could not speak; but he felt that he could do nothing now but suffer for his want of frankness, as he saw the pretty little head bent down over the paper.

"What a charming handwriting!" continued Lionel, in the bantering tones, for he had seen Harry's annoyance. "What well-shaped letters! By the way, my dear, what boarding-school were you at?"

Patty's crimson face was raised to his for an instant, but her eye fell beneath his bold stare, and she went on writing with trembling hand.

"I shall place that receipt amongst my treasures," said Lionel, "and--"

"Have the goodness to recollect where you are," said Harry, angrily. "Your banter is out of place and offensive."

Lionel stared, laughed, and elevated his eyebrows, as, without bestowing upon him another glance, Patty took the slip of paper she had written, and handed it to Harry, meeting his eyes for the moment fully as she said in a low voice, "Thank you!" and then she passed out of the shop.

Volume 1, Chapter XXVI.

GOOD ADVICE.

"Your receipt, Lionel," said Harry, quietly, as he passed the paper to his companion.

"Thanks! yes. A saucy little prude! she knows how to play her cards. We've got the receipt, and he's got the ten pounds; but I don't mean to go without value for my cash, if I take one of those scrub-tailed old cockatoos, and--Ah! what, Luffy, old boy--what, Luffy! Down there, down there, good dog! What! you know your old master, then? There! down, down!"

"There, gents, that's about it, aint it," said D. Wragg, stumping in after the dog, and stooping to unfasten the collar round his neck, as the delighted animal bounded upon its master, licking his hand, pawing him, and displaying his unbounded canine pleasure at the meeting, to the great endangering of D. Wragg's stock-in-trade.

"And now, is there anything more as I can do for you, eh?" said D. Wragg, rubbing his hands, and jigging about as if freshly wound up. "A few rats for the dorg? A couple o' score sparrers for a shot? Send 'em anywheres! Don't you make no mistake. You won't get better supplied in the place. Not to-day, gents? Well, another time perhaps."

"Yes; I'll give you another look in," said Lionel, gazing hard the while at Harry.

"Werry good, sir! werry good!" said D. Wragg, rubbing his hands and jerking himself as if another set of springs had just been brought into use. "I hope as you will. Gents often do come to me again when they've been once. Let me give you another card. Here, Janet, bring me another card for the gents. Oh! she aint there. Would you mind giving me a card off the chimally-piece, my dear, for these gents?"

Lionel, who had reached the door, returned; and Patty, now quite composed, brought out a card, and avoiding the young man's outstretched hand, she passed it to D. Wragg.

"Give it to the gentlemen, my dear; don't be ashamed. There's nothing to mind. Don't you make no mistake, gents; she's young and a bit shy."

Patty did not look up as the card was taken from her hand; and though Harry tried hard to meet her eyes once more, so as to ask forgiveness for the slight he had offered to her, she turned back into the room, and the young men passed out of the shop.

"That's a good dorg, gents, a good dorg!" whispered D. Wragg, from behind his hand, as he followed them to the door. "You'd better keep a sharp eye on him. I've got my bit of commission out of this job; but honour bright, gents. As gents, I don't want to see you here again arter the bull-tarrier--not just yet, you know--not just yet. Good-day, gents. Don't you make no mistake; you know, about me. Good-day!"

"Bye-bye! old chap," said Lionel, lightly, as they strolled on. "Wish we'd bought a chain and collar, Harry; I shouldn't like to lose old Luff again, in this abominable maze. Let's go back!"

"No, no; there is no need!" exclaimed Harry, hastily. And then flushing slightly at the eagerness he had displayed, he continued firmly--"If you'll take my advice, Lionel, you will go there no more."

"Perhaps not, Reverend Harry Clayton,--perhaps not," laughed the young man, eyeing his companion sideways. "But don't you make no mistake," he continued, mimicking the voice and action of the man they had just left; "I may want a toy tarrier for a present, or a few rats, or a score or two of sparrers, or--eh, Harry?--to see the lady go through the dove performance. Don't you make no mistake, friend Harry, for it's quite within the range of probability that I may go there often."

"Perhaps once too often!" exclaimed Harry, impetuously, for he could not control the passion within him. As Lionel spoke, each word seemed to be freighted with bitterness, armed with a sting and a sense of misery such as he had never before felt, and which seemed to crush down his spirit. Visions of Patty smiling welcome upon Lionel floated before him, filling him with a new feeling of rage; and it was all he could do to hide it from his companion, who began to whistle, and then said lightly--

"Perhaps so--perhaps so! As you say, I may go there once too often; but that's my business, Master Harry, and nothing to do with reading classics. What a cad!" he exclaimed, as he returned the fierce look bestowed upon him by a heavy-browed young fellow in a sleeved waistcoat; nodded familiarly to the policeman; and then, making a point of coolly and insolently returning every loiterer's stare, he passed on out of the region of the Decadian, thinking all the same, though, of Patty.

Volume 1, Chapter XXVII.

AN ALARM.

Mrs Winks was bound under contract to spend the next day at Duplex Street; but she made known just now her presence in the Dials, being busy enough in the lower regions of D. Wragg's; for the smoke and steam of her copper altar, erected to the goddess of cleanliness, rose through the house, to be condensed in a dewy clamminess upon handrail and paint. It was the incense that rose thickly to the nostrils when she stuck in a wooden probe to fish up boiling garments for purification's sake.

The inhabitants of D. Wragg's dwelling took but little notice of Mrs Winks' washing-days, inasmuch as they were inured to them by their frequency. D. Wragg, though, must be excepted; for when some bird would sneeze and evince a dislike to the odorous moist vapour, he called to mind the deaths of three valuable cochins by croup--a catarrh-like distemper which, with or without truth, he laid to the charge of Mrs Winks' washing.

So that good lady busied herself over what she called her own and Monsieur Canau's "toots,"--meaning thereby divers calico undergarments-- till her playbill curl-papers grew soft in the steam. Mrs Winks was interrupted but once, when, aroused by the plunging in of the copper-stick and an extra cloud from the sacrifice, D. Wragg stamped with his heavy boot upon the shop-floor, and shouted an inquiry as to how long Mrs Winks would be before she was done, and whether she knew that there was company in the house?

To this query the stout lady returned the very vague response of "Hours!"

For D. Wragg was now shop-minding, and, as he called it, busy--that is to say, he was going over his stock, stirring up sluggish birds with a loose perch, administering pills composed of rue and butter to sickly bantams, which sat in a heap with feathers erect, and refusing to be smoothed down.

Here and there he would pin a newspaper before the cage of a newly-captured finch, fighting hard to escape by breaking its prison bars, beating its soft round bosom bare of feathers against the cruel wires, but with a fair prospect before it of finding relief for its restless spirit, if not for its body, and flight--where?

Then there were the "tarriers" to look after, some of which justified their name by not finding customers.

Here D. Wragg seemed quite at home, looking, as he stooped and tightened a chain or shortened a string, much like one of the breed Darwinised, and in a state of transition.

D. Wragg's ministrations were needed, for since the shop had been left by Janet to his care, there had been sundry vicious commotions amongst the dogs. One slight skirmish had ended in a spaniel having an ear made more fringe-like in character. Then the restless little animals had executed a _gavotte_ upon their hind-legs, maybe a waltz, ending in a general tangle, and an Old Bailey performance, caused by the twisting together of string and chain into a Gordian knot, which puzzled D. Wragg into using a knife for sword in its solution--the dogs the while lying panting, with protruding eyes, and a general aspect of being at the last gasp.

At last, though, the canine fancy were reduced to order, so far as was possible; for chained-up dogs are always moved by a restless spirit to reach something a few inches beyond their nose--canine examples, indeed, of human discontent; and if small and restless of breed, hang themselves upon an average about twelve times _per diem_--possibly without suicidal intent, though, from their miserable state, one cannot avoid suspicion.

D. Wragg had growled almost as much as his dogs in reducing them to order; but he turned at last to go over other portions of his stock, pinching protruded rats' tails to make them lively; thrusting a hand down the stocking nailed over the hole in the top of the sparrow-cage, and taking out one panting black-cravatted cock-bird from amongst his scores of fellows, to find it naked of breast, with its heavy eyes half-closed, dying fast, and so escaping the sportive shot of the skilled marksman in some sweepstake--"so many birds each, shot from the trap."

D. Wragg did not approve of waste, so taking the half-dead bird to one corner, he opened the cage, wherein, fixed and glaring with its yellow eye, sat a kestrel, which sluggishly dropped from its perch, and, with a good deal of unnecessary beating of its pointed wings, seized the hapless chirrupper in one quartette of yellow claws, returned to its seat, and then and there proceeded to strip the sparrow, sending a cloud of light downy feathers into the cage of its neighbour, a staring barn-owl, which had opened its eyes for a few minutes, but only to blink a while before subsiding into what appeared to be a ball of feathers. A pair of bullfinches were then roused, by a finger drawn rapidly across the cage bars--the effect being decidedly startling, while the next object upon which the dealer's eye fell was a disreputable-looking, ragged-coated, grey parrot, busily engaged in picking off its feathers, as if, out of spite for its imprisonment, it wished to render itself as unsightly and unsaleable as possible.

"You're a beauty, you are!" growled D. Wragg, poking at it viciously with the perch; but, nothing daunted, the bird seized the end of the assailing weapon with its strong hooked beak, and held on fiercely, screaming a loud defiance the while.

With a dexterous jerk, the stick was withdrawn--a strategical movement evidently taken by the bird as a token of defeat; for it stood upon one leg, derisively danced its head up and down, and then loudly cried out--"Quack--quack--quack!" an accomplishment learned of a couple of London-white Aylesbury ducks, located in a small green dog-kennel, whose door was formed of an old half-worn fire-guard.

Apparently satisfied, D. Wragg withdrew to a corner which he specially affected, and turned his back to door and window while he drew forth his dirty pocket-book and carefully examined the two crisp bank-notes, replaced them, and buttoned them up in his breastpocket, as he muttered, softly--

"More yet, my lad, more yet! I shouldn't be a bit surprised if you turned out a mint to some on us afore we've done with you. And why not?" he muttered again, as he glanced uneasily over his shoulder. "What's the good o' money to such as him. If he likes to come on the chance of seeing her here, 'taint my doing, is it? I wish she was here always, I do."

D. Wragg frowned as he proceeded to refresh himself with another pipe, and a renewed spelling over of his paper. Then he cocked his head on one side, magpie fashion, and listened, for a light step was heard, and the closing of a door, and the next minute, without waiting for her friend to descend, Patty was up-stairs, where Janet was watching her goldfish.

The latter turned as soon as she saw Patty, and seeming to read trouble in her face, she wound her arm round the little waist and drew her close.

"I came down to the shop," said Janet; "but you were writing something for him, so I took advantage of it and came back. But don't do it, Patty; I don't like you to go in there."

Patty did not answer, but stood looking, dreamy and thoughtful.

"Are you keeping something from me?" said Janet, pettishly.

"No--no--no," said Patty, starting, and smiling once more; "I was only dull without you. Now, let's talk. Some one came this morning--two some ones--they were there when you saw me writing--they spoke to me, and--and--and--"

Patty's face reddened, and then grew worn and troubled as she spoke.

"I did not like it," she continued; "and--and--there! what stuff I am talking! We shall have no French to-day. Let's go down, and when Monsieur comes in, get him to paint a partridge's beak and legs, and I'll help you to do it. There! pray, come down."

Janet had her arm still round Patty's waist, and for a few moments she stood gazing up at her in a strange thoughtful way. She did not speak, though; but keeping close to her visitor, walked with her to the door, muttering softly, "Patty has secrets--Patty has secrets; and I guess what it means."

Hand-in-hand they began to descend the stairs, but only for Patty to turn back and lead the deformed girl into the room.

"What is it? what ails you?" said Janet, gazing wonderingly at her. "Are you ill? Do you feel faint?"

"No--no; it is nothing; I--I thought--I thought I had seen one of them before."

"One of them!"

"Yes, one of the customers; but it was nothing--nothing," she said, sadly; "I must have dreamed it. Janet, do you believe in fancying things?"

"Fancying things! What are you talking about?"

"In feeling that things are to take place--in being as if something whispered to you that there was to be trouble by and by, and misery, and heartaches--that the hawk was coming to seize a miserable little weak pigeon, and tear, and tear it till its poor heart was bleeding."

"No; stuff!" ejaculated Janet.

"I feel so," said Patty, slowly, "and sometimes I believe it. O Janet! if one could be rich and nice, and live where people would not be ashamed to see you, and--Ah! I'd give anything--anything to be rich and a lady. But there," she cried, impetuously, "do come down."

"Riddles--talking in riddles; like people speak in their sleep," said Janet, as she wreathed her long arm round Patty. "Perhaps you ought not to come and see me here, for it is horrible; but I am used to it, and I could not live without you now. They don't like you to come?"

"No," said Patty; "but they think it would be unkind for me to stay away. They like you, and my father is fond of Monsieur Canau, and loves the musical evenings. You ought to come and live near us."

"In fashionable Clerkenwell, eh?" said Janet, laughing. "No; he will not leave here--we are used to it, and we are poor, Patty," she added, with a sigh.

"Lean on me," said Patty, lightly; "and don't let's be miserable;" and they now began to descend the stairs; but only to be met by D. Wragg stumping and jerking up to meet them.

As the dealer came up, he gazed earnestly for a moment at Patty, and there was a hesitating air about him; but he seemed to chase it away, as, with an effort, he exclaimed--

"Here don't you make no--Here, Miss Pellet, my dear, you're wanted."

"Wanted!" said Patty, instinctively shrinking back, while Janet's dark fierce eyes gazed from one to the other.

"Yes; wanted--in the shop," said D. Wragg. "You don't mind coming, do you? Don't stop her, Janet; it may mean money, you know."

"But who--who wants me?" faltered Patty, one of whose hands tightly pressed the long restraining bony fingers of Janet--"who wants me?"

"It's one o' them swells as come about the dorg!"

Volume 1, Chapter XXVIII.

THE ALARM QUELLED.

By nine o'clock in the morning of the day succeeding that of his dinner-party at Norwood, Mr Richard Pellet, eager and anxious, was in Borton Street. He would have been there hours before, but Mrs Richard Pellet had been suffering from over-excitement, which was her way of describing a sharp fit of indigestion, brought on by over-indulgence in the good things of the table. So Mrs Richard Pellet had been faint and hysterical, and violently sick and prostrated. She had consumed nearly a half-bottle of the best Cognac; the servants had been, like their master, up nearly all night; and the consequence was, that about five o'clock, Mr Richard Pellet had lain down for an hour, which in spite of his anxiety extended itself to three. He awoke under the impression that he had been asleep five minutes, when he smoothed himself, hurried to the train, took a cab, and arrived at Borton Street two hours later than he had intended.

If he could have made sure that, now she was gone, he would see no more of Ellen Herrisey, he would have ceased from troubling himself in the matter; but, as he would have expressed himself, in his position the dread of any exposure was not to be borne.

It would never have done for his name--the name of Mr Richard Pellet-- known everywhere in the city; down, too, in so many lists amongst the great philanthropists of the day, to be brought forward in such a connection, and then to be dragged through the mud and laughed at by those who had grudged his rise. Why! his name was held in honour by all the great religious societies, whose secretaries invariably sent him reports of their proceedings, and they did no more for what Richard called the "nobs." So by nine the next morning he was at Borton Street, hot, angry, undecided, and uncomfortable.

No doubt, he told himself, by putting the police upon her track, he would be able to find her; but such a proceeding would involve confidences, and partake to some extent of the nature of an exposure, which he could not afford. No, it must be done quietly; so, with the intention of having it done quietly, he gave a sneaky, diffident, hang-dog rap at the door, as he glanced up and down the street to see if he was observed--such a knock as might be given by a gipsy-looking woman, with her wean slung at her back, and a bundle of clothes-pegs for sale in her hand.

But Richard Pellet's humble no-notice-attracting knock had as little effect inside the house as in the street at large, and, in spite of the giver's fidgety manner and uneasy glances up and down, no one answered the summons.

There was no help for it; so the early caller gave another rap at the door--a single rap; for, from the effects of an ordinary double knock, he saw in imagination a score of heads at the open doors and windows of the densely-populated street, gazing at and looking down upon him as the doctor and ordainer of strait-waistcoats for the woman said to be insane, and kept so closely for years past in a room at Number 804.

Quite five minutes now elapsed without his venturing to knock again, while he pretended to be absorbed in the contents of the newspaper he held in his hand. But at last his position grew painful, for a small boy bearing a big child came and sat himself upon the step, and looked at him; then two more children came and cricked their necks as they gazed up in his face, and a woman across the way also lent her attention.

Richard Pellet was turning all over into a state of the most profuse perspiration, and had his hand once more raised to the knocker, when he heard a door open, apparently beneath his feet, and he started as a shrill voice from the area shouted, "What is it?"

The important city man's perspiration from being cold now grew to be hot; but he felt that it was no time for being indignant, as he looked down from his height, moral and literal, upon a little old-faced wrinkle-browed girl-of-all-work, almost a child, who was rubbing her cheek with a match-box.

"Missus ain't down yet," she replied, in answer to Richard's interrogations.

"I'll come in then and wait," said the city man, peering down through the railings; but the girl shook her head.

"She said I wasn't to let no one in. There's so many tramps and beggars about."

"There!" exclaimed Richard, impatiently, as he threw down a card. "Take that up to her, and I'll wait here; or, no--give me that card back," he said, for the thought struck him that it was impossible to say where that card might go.

The girl tried to throw the card back, and succeeded in projecting it, twice over, a couple of feet, to come fluttering down again, when she caught it, and stood shaving and scraping the dirt off her cheek with its edge, evidently finding it more grateful than the sandpaper of the match-box.

"There! never mind," said Richard. "Go and tell her Mr Norwood is here."

"Mr Norwood?" said the girl.

"Yes, Mr Norwood," exclaimed Richard, angrily; and the girl disappeared, Richard employing himself the while in peering furtively about for observers.

He had turned his back to the area, and was wondering whether the potman, coming down the street, with what appeared to be a gigantic bunch of pewter grapes upon his back, was intent upon his own affairs or watching him, when he started, for a shrill "I say!" ascended from the area, and looking round, he found the diminutive maid presenting him with his card, which was stuck amongst the hairs of a long broom, whose handle enabled the child to elevate the piece of pasteboard to within its owner's reach.

"I thought I could do it," said the girl, laughing.

"Go--and--tell--your--mistress--Mister--Norwood--wants--her," hissed Richard Pellet, savagely; as, with one action, he seized the card, and shook his fist at the girl.

"Hadn't you better call again," said the imp, "and leave the paper? She never pays fust time, and you ain't been before."

"Go--and--"

Richard Pellet got no further; for, alarmed at his fierce tones, his auditor vanished as he began; there was a scuffle and a banging door, and he was left alone, pending the delivery of his message.

Another five minutes elapsed, when the door-chain was taken down, the key laboriously turned, and Richard Pellet was admitted by the dirty-faced girl, and shown into the parlour, where, staring the whole time, the child polished a chair for him with her apron, her nose upon her arm; and then, wondering why the black-coated important visitor had no rate-books sticking out of his pocket, she announced that "Missus" would be down directly.

Fuming and frowning, Richard Pellet seated himself upon the rubbed chair; but only to bound from it at the end of a minute, in a state of nervous perturbation, caused by some urchin suddenly and furiously rattling his hoop-stick along the area railings. But Richard Pellet was somewhat unstrung; he had been drinking during the night of wakefulness more than was good for him, to allay the annoyance and harass to which he had been subjected, and now the potent spirit was reminding him of the transgression.

But as he once more seated himself, he determined, upon one thing, and that was, should he obtain a clue by whose means he could trace and overtake Ellen, he would not leave her again until he had seen her safely back with Mrs Walls.

"I'll make all fast, so that I shall know that she is safely at home for at least two years; for once there again, I know she will be tame and quiet as--Curse her, though! why did she play me such a trick as this? She must be after the child. I wish it was--"

Richard Pellet did not finish his sentence, but started up, and stood staring at the figure which now entered the room.

"Why--why"--he stammered; "I thought you had gone off."

"Gone!" said Ellen, with a weary smile,--"gone! no, no; I only went to see her little face once more, and she was not there. You had taken her away, and I came back, Richard, for I knew you would be angry; and I said that perhaps you would forgive me, and let me see her again, and tell me where she is. Only once, Richard! only once--just for a minute!" and the clasped hands went up towards him once more in supplication.

But a worldly feeling was strong upon Richard Pellet; in that hour his spirits rose, and he felt elate, for the danger was past, and knowing full well this woman's truthful candid nature, he knew that it was as she said. She had been to the house, and then returned; and there was no exposure now--nothing to fear, and his heart grew hard as flint as he sneeringly said--

"You are confoundedly obedient all at once," and then, with a half laugh, "why didn't you stay away altogether?"

"Obedient, Richard!" she sobbed; "was I not always your slave? did I not always do as you wished? and now, but this one little request--this one prayer--"

She paused, for her gaoler entered the room.

"Ho!" said the woman, "you know all about it by this time, I suppose. I found her back again when I got home. Perhaps you'd better"--Here she whispered.

Richard Pellet's hand went reluctantly into his pocket, for though he was generosity's self with his money when he could see returning interest--or at least show--in other matters, he grudged every shilling he spent; but the woman's demand was satisfied, and she left the room, taking with her Ellen, while upon her return in a few minutes without her charge, fresh arrangements were made, and the bars of Ellen Herrisey's prison grew closer than ever.

Volume 1, Chapter XXIX.

NURSE OR DOCTOR.

"You ought to have been a woman, Mr Ruggles," said Mrs Jared, one Sunday, when Tim came to see them after church, bringing with him little Pine. "He had taken her for a treat," he said, "to hear Mr Pellet play the organ;" and now, having accepted Mrs Jared's pressing invitation to dinner, he had been explaining to that lady the various plans he had adopted for keeping the child warm, for Mrs Jared had been taking quite a motherly interest in the gentle little thing, and recommending flannels and wrapping.

But Tim had forestalled her, as he triumphantly showed, for there was flannel in various forms, neatly stitched and adapted. The little jacket the child wore was built by Tim, and in various ways he displayed how thoroughly he loved his charge.

Sundays were glorious days for Tim and little Pine, since Mrs Ruggles would spend so much of her time at St Runwald's. Sometimes Tim would take the child to church, and sit as close to the organ as possible, that Pine might catch a glimpse of Jared through the curtains, and listen to the strains he made the grand old instrument pour forth; for Jared kept to the old fashion of playing a symphony between each verse of psalm or hymn, at times, too, forgetting himself and lengthening out his extempore scraps to a strange extent. But vicar and congregation murmured not; Mr Timson was the only objector, and when he found fault, Jared always apologised so pleasantly, that the most rigid of churchwardens ought to have been satisfied, though Mr Timson was not, for he would say to the vicar, "Why, he'll forget all about it by next Sunday;" and Mr Timson was quite right.

But little Pine used to say it made her think, and would lay her head against the boards, and close her eyes as though in rapt attention.

"It makes me think about her," she would whisper to Tim, if he rose to go before Jared had finished his voluntary; and then Tim would look mournful, as he reseated himself, and took hold of the little wasted hand raised to make him stay.

And then what walks they would have--those two--now to Regent's, now to St James's Park--walks of toil for Tim, whose heart would sink as he found the child less and less able to bear the exertion; stopping occasionally to rest, or looking pitifully up in his face to say--"Don't walk so fast, please." I wonder how many miles Tim would carry that child upon a fine Sunday? Day of rest! It was a day of hard labour for Tim; but it was a labour of love. If the day were cold, he would trudge along merrily; while, if it were warm, he would still go on, his face shining with pleasure, and the perspiration standing in beads amongst the wrinkles. "If we could only manage a kerridge," he had said once; but little Pine flinched from the idea.

"It would look so childish for me to ride in one," she said, wearily, and Tim gazed wonderingly at the strange old look upon the child's face, as she passed a finger across her forehead and temples to smooth back the stray hairs, now on this side, now on the other, where they lay lightly on the broad blue-veined expanse.

One of Tim's favourite spots was the lodge in Hyde Park, where curds and whey were sold; but the little invalid did not seem to care much for the treat, as Tim called it, but she used to sit, spoon in hand, and sip and sip, looking longingly the while at the flowers.

It must have been on account of this love that little Pine showed for flowers that Tim braved Mrs Ruggles's displeasure by becoming terribly enamoured of them himself, buying pots of musk and geraniums, and little rose trees, which all brought a light into the child's eye, though in that close room in Carnaby Street the plants soon lost their bloom, fading day by day, now dropping a blossom, now a leaf, in spite of such fresh air as could be obtained, watering, and placing them in the sun so long as it shone on the back-room windows.

"They wants more fresher air," Tim would say; and then, as he threaded his needle, he would look across the room at little Pine, and sigh softly to himself as he thought of how she too seemed to want fresher air, such as he could only give her once a week, while, if it happened to be a wet Sunday, though he would willingly have staggered along, carrying the child, with an umbrella held over her, he dared not take her into the damp air, but sat at home to tell her wondrous stories of the good old times, or read her what he considered to be entertaining and instructive scraps from _The Weekly Despatch_. Some people might have considered his selections unsuitable; but they proved beneficial to the child, for they invariably sent her to sleep.

Poor Tim anxiously watched and trimmed that little lamp of life, whose flame wavered so whenever the cold easterly winds blew down the streets or drove the choking smoke back into the room. Oil, oil, oil, and more oil, and more oil, and then for a while the flame would brighten, and so would Tim, and chuckle and rub his hands, and stitch on night and day as if trying to do without sleep. No mornings were too dark or too cold for Tim, who could wake to five minutes, at three, four, or five o'clock in the dark; and there he would be with open waistcoat, cross-legged upon his board, glasses mounted and lamp shaded, stitch--stitch--stitch, hour after hour, to make up for the time lost with little Pine.

How he reckoned minutes and hours between times, so that the medicine should be administered to the moment--an observance which he held to be absolutely necessary to ensure efficacy; and more than once he was almost in agony for fear that Mrs Ruggles should have administered a couple of doses too closely together. Never did doctor have nurse so exact in carrying out his instructions, and, could attention have ensured it, little Pine would soon have grown strong.

But it was not to be; the little eyes grew brighter, and the fragile form more thin day by day; day by day a weary listlessness crept over the child, while, as if compassionating her sufferings, Nature was kind, and continued to soothe her often with a gentle loving sleep.

More oil, and more again, and then a flicker and a leap up of the flame that had for days been sinking slowly. But the flashes, though bright, were evanescent, and he who trimmed so diligently oft felt his heart to sink.

But Tim's despondency never lasted long. "She'll be better soon as the wind changes," he would say; but the wind changed, and still Pine sank.

"Oil's not so strong as the last," then Tim would say; and the next time the stock grew low he would trot off to a fresh chemist's, whose medicament would have no better effect than the last. So poor Tim would try, in his anxiety, another and another, until he had put every chemist within range under contribution, but with no more satisfactory result.

"I'm sure it ain't so strong," he would exclaim half-a-dozen times a day; and then he would bring out his own stock from under a little pile of cloth shreds, remove the cork, and apply the bottle-neck first to one and then to the other nostril, shaking his head afterwards in a most learned manner, and vowing that it was the most cruel thing he knew to adulterate a medicine.

Tim would even go so far as to feel the child's pulse after the fashion of the dispensary doctor, when, having no watch, he would attentively gaze the while at the swinging pendulum of the old Dutch clock. And though it is extremely doubtful whether he could tell any difference in the regularity of the beats, yet he always seemed to derive a great deal of satisfaction from the proceeding.

But little Pine seldom complained, and then only softly to Tim, as she crept to him for comfort. She never hesitated to take from his hands her nauseous medicine, and day after day Tim carefully, anxiously trimmed the little lamp, which, in spite of all his care, burned lower and lower, flickering in the socket, until such time as a harsher blast than usual should beat it out.

END OF VOLUME ONE.

Volume 2, Chapter I.

THE POOR-BOXES.

Mrs Ruggles thought that it was her place, and said so; but Mr Purkis was of opinion that it was his place, and he said so--bringing forward, too, the fact that he had looked after them ever since the new ones had been placed inside the north and south doors. And, in spite of Mrs Ruggles' opposition, the beadle still continued to polish the quaint imitation antique steel hinges and claspings of the two little oak poor-boxes, while, to his great annoyance, Mrs Ruggles used to go and rub them over again.

Very proud was Mr Purkis of those boxes and their meandering steel-work and corners, of which there was so much that but little of the wood was left visible; and nearly all that was covered by the guards round the keyhole and slit through which the charitably-disposed of the congregation were in the habit of dropping their contributions.

"You see the place is so damp, sir," Mr Purkis said to Jared; "and it's not in my constitooshun to let a woman like that Mrs Ruggles go about and grin like a dog in the city, and sneer because there's a speck on the ornyments, and then pretend that she's so ashamed of their state that she's obliged to polish them up herself. But they're a mortal trouble to keep bright--they're as hard to keep bright as a man's conscience, sir; they tarnish like gold lace, although I've tried everything I know of, beginning with sand-paper, sir, and going down to Bath bricks and emery powder. Do you know, sir," he said, mysteriously, "it goes agen me to speak of her, she being, as it were, one of us; but, sir, it's my belief as she damps and moistens the steel on the sly, or spits upon them, o' purpose to aggravate my spirit and make the things rust. In fack, I caught her agen one, about a week ago. Every respect to you, sir, but I wish now as Mrs Purkis had took the post, sir; for Mrs Ruggles makes herself very okkard, and altogether she's a woman as Mrs Purkis don't like, and I can assure you as a fack that when my missus takes a dislike to any one, that person ain't worth much.

"You see, sir, she's a dry sort of a woman, and very hard; and if she was my wife, I should never expect as there'd be any gravy with the meat for dinner. That's one of the great differences in wives, sir. Ruggles wouldn't never have been so full of wrinkles and furrers in his face if he'd had plenty of gravy. Look at me, sir; I'm a hearty man, work hard, and do a rattling good business in boots and shoes, princip'lly ready-mades. I weigh seventeen stone, and I'm pretty happy, sir; and what's the reason? Gravy, sir, gravy! You never sit down to our table without seeing plenty of gravy on it. Even when it's cold-meat day, sir, there's always a little saved in a tea-cup to eat with your potatoes. My wife was a cook, you know, sir, when I married her, and she well knows the vally of gravy. She won my heart with it, sir, and keeps it too. It's the real milk, of human kindness. You never knew a woman who loved gravy, and liked to see others enjoy it, leather a child as that woman leathers that child of their'n. Ruggles thinks she's a wonder, and of course it would be a sin to undeceive him; but I'm pretty sure of one thing, and that is, that there's never any gravy to speak of on Ruggles' table."

And after his long speech, Mr Purkis, who had just come home very moist and oozy from the church, after having a good polish at the poor-boxes, handed Jared the church keys for him to go and practise.

It was not very far from Purkis's boot and shoe emporium to St Runwald's, and when Jared reached the gates, he stood looking round for his boy--the invisible Ichabod--who was of a very mercurial temperament, and, if first upon the spot, given to indulgence in overing tombstones or standing upon one leg on the top; walking, at the risk of being impaled, round the iron railings of the family vaults; swarming up the rain water-pipes, and turning himself into a living gargoyle; throwing stones into the mouths of the corbels and breaking the windows; carving his initials in the mouldering stone, where "I.G." could often be distinguished, more often, however, with another letter added, greatly to Ichabod's disgust, by evil-disposed street boys, who mocked at his costume generally, and pulled his "tawsel" cap. The consequence of this was that the word, "P.I.G." graced the walls of the church in several places. Before now Ichabod had been upon the roof, and marked out the size of his shoe with a knife-point in the soft lead, and had been upon the top of the tower and amongst the bells, and down in the vaults, where he told his schoolfellows he had seen a live ghost; and the only wonder was, that in all Ichabod's travels he had never been mutilated or killed.

Jared Pellett looked for him east and west, north into the porch, and south towards the street; but there was no Ichabod in sight, so he shook his head, and said to himself that Ichabod was a bad boy--a fact that he had taken into consideration scores of times before--and then applying the large key, he entered the church and swung to the door.

The moment after entering, Jared started as if alarmed, for there, close beside him, stood a figure in the dim aisle, but he recovered himself instantly upon seeing that it was only the old vicar, whilst behind him stood churchwarden Timson; and then it was that Jared saw that they had been emptying the poor-box.

"How do Mr Pellett? Nice day," said the vicar, cordially. Then turning to the churchwarden--

"Must be something more, Mr Timson; feel again."

Mr Timson lifted the lid of the little steel-bound chest and thrust in a fat hand, feeling about in all directions, as if chasing active coins into dark corners, for them to dodge through his fingers and escape again. His face was quite a study as he poked about, and at length he drew forth his hand, looked at it on both sides, and declared that there was nothing more.

"Tut, tut, tut!--how strange! Why I felt sure that I put in a sovereign myself. It must have been last time; and yet I felt so sure, and--and-- yes--to be sure! here it is, `Sunday, 24th day, one pound!' There!" he continued, triumphantly holding the pocket-book out to the churchwarden, "I knew I did; and yet there's nothing here but silver and copper. Are you sure that you felt well, Mr Timson?"

"Feel again," said the latter, good-temperedly; and again the fat hand went to work, and the face looked more solid, but without success.

"Must have been in the other box," he said at last. The vicar brightened up at this, and they crossed the church to the north door, but from the scraps of conversation Jared Pellett could hear from the organ-loft, it was evident that the quest was without result. Through waiting for the boy, Jared soon dropped into one of his dreamy moods, and became forgetful of things external, until the tardy Ichabod arrived, out of breath, as if he had been exerting himself strenuously to get to the church in time, when the edifice was soon resounding with strains which drowned the rattling of keys and snapping of locks, as well as the conversation of vicar and churchwarden upon the subject of the missing money; but for all that the conversation went on.

"There might have been a great deal taken," said the vicar.

"Heaps," acquiesced Mr Timson.

"For, of course," said Mr Gray, "this is an exceptional time; and in other instances I doubt whether I should be able to miss anything."

"Very true; quite agree with you," said Mr Timson. "Just as you say."

"Pounds might have been abstracted," said the vicar.

"Abstract, an epitome, a taking from," muttered Mr Timson; "yes, just so, pounds, very true, sir."

"Hang it all, Timson, don't be so aggravating," said the vicar, pettishly. "What is the good of agreeing with one in everything, it can't do any good?"

"Just so, sir," said Mr Timson; and then, turning very red and hot, "No, sir, of course not; but can't do any harm."

"Then for goodness' sake come into the vestry;" and the vicar led the way towards the little robing room to count the offerings of the charitable.

"Now, are you sure about that sovereign?" said Mr Timson to the vicar, as they passed down the nave.

"Sure!" exclaimed the vicar, "have I not shown you the entry? But there! I must have made a mistake."

"Of course you have," said Timson, triumphantly.

"For it is impossible," continued the vicar, "for any one to have obtained access to the money; and surely no one would be so cruel as rob the poor, eh? What do you think? Calmly and considerately now?"

"Just--," Mr Timson cut off the "so," and rubbed the side of his nose, and looked mysterious. Then, resting one finger upon the vicar's black silk vest, he said, "Once upon a time my desk was robbed--over and over again--without being broken open, and I put in marked money, and still it went; but I found the party out by that plan. And how do you think they got at the money, sir?"

"Crooked wire through the crack," said the vicar.

"No, no--false keys!" said Mr Timson, wagging his head. "False keys, and it was some one that had constant access to my office that did it."

The vicar mused, and fidgeted his neck in his stiff cravat, as involuntarily he turned over in his own mind the list of persons who had private access to the church--clerk, pew-opener, beadle, curate, organist, organ-blower, churchwardens, himself; and then he shook his head again, and the pair proceeded to count the money over once more upon the vestry table, calculated the total amount of silver and copper, made entries, and then tied the money carefully up in a little bag, and all to the accompaniment of Jared's music, which ever and again made the windows of the little vestry to rattle loudly.

"Fine organist, Mr Pellet!" said the vicar, after listening in silence for a few minutes. "We were lucky in getting him, Timson."

"Very fine; quite agree with you," said Mr Timson. "Capital congregations we get, too, now--almost double what they were in old Harvey's time."

"Um!" ejaculated the vicar, with a curious dry look upon his features.

"Just so, sir," said Mr Timson. "You see, people like music, and will come miles to hear it."

"Well, yes, I suppose so," said the vicar, half sadly; "and ours certainly is a very fine instrument."

"And beautifully played," said Mr Timson; "not but what I think we have too much of it; but people say it is well played."

"Yes," said the vicar, absently, for his thoughts were upon the poor-box; "beautifully played, certainly. By the way, how startled Mr Pellet seemed when he came in!"

"Poor man! yes: he's nervous," said Timson; "those musical chaps generally are. Didn't expect us, you know. Might ask his opinion about the box."

"Yes, we might, certainly," said the vicar; and then, uneasily, "No, I don't think it would be of any use. Let it rest for the present, Mr Timson; perhaps, after all, we may be mistaken."

"Very true, sir," said Timson. "Not often that there is gold in the box. People are not very fond of giving to the poor and lending to the Lord, though that's all of a piece with their behaviour. They're not fond of lending to anybody. Seems to go against a man's nature."

"Not in all cases, Mr Timson," said the vicar, stiffly; "there are many exceptions,--yourself, for instance."

"Present company--present company, sir," said Mr Timson, "always left out of the question;" and Mr Timson looked very fidgety and uncomfortable.

"Not in a case of this description," said the vicar. "A shining light should never be placed beneath a bushel."

Mr Timson looked very unlike a shining light at this time, as he stared at the vicar, and then round the church, and then fidgeted from foot to foot, and held his hat first in one hand, and then in the other, as if in a great hurry to go. But Mr Gray would not come out of the vestry, and Mr Timson had to go in again, for he could not be spared yet. In fact, asking him for the bag once more, the vicar again carefully went through the amount of small change--copper, threepenny and four-penny pieces, sixpences, shillings, and half-crowns--to see whether, after all, his sovereign might not be there, explaining the while to Mr Timson that some gold was very pale, and in dim lights, like that where they were, sovereigns looked almost like shillings.

But though he carefully examined every shilling, and turned it over, there was not one that could for an instant be taken for a sovereign; so, with a sigh, the vicar slowly told up the total, replaced the money in the bag, and tied it exceedingly tight, before once more handing it to the churchwarden, when together they passed down the nave, listening to Jared's harmonies.

But the vicar seemed uneasy: the music had lost its charm; and instead of following his usual custom of sitting down in some comfortable pew to listen for half-an-hour, he softly followed the churchwarden into the street, and went homewards shaking his head,--that head being, the while, sorely troubled with thoughts of sacrilege and the missing sovereign.

Volume 2, Chapter II.

GRIT IN THE WHEEL.

"You are precious quiet, Harry," said Lionel, as they strolled on till they reached Trafalgar Square, almost without a word having been spoken.

"I was only thinking," was the reply, and then they walked on again in silence; for Harry Clayton was indeed thinking, deeply too, of his position. There was a vague sense of danger, of disappointment, troubling him. One moment he felt ready to hurry back to the wretched street, and beg Patty to grant him an interview; the next he shrank from it, and asked himself how he could expect her, if she had any proper sense of pride, to listen to him again. Now, too, came a growing feeling of dislike to Lionel. He told himself that life with him would now be insupportable, and he fell to wondering again what the young man had seen. Would he jeer and banter him, and torture him by endeavouring to excite jealousy? However, he felt that he must let matters take their course.

How his thoughts ran riot, though! From time to time the busy traffic of the London streets faded from before his eyes, for a bright little vision to occupy the place--always a fair young face bent towards a dove, the startled look of confusion, and then the subsequent scene.

It was nothing new that it would come--that face; try as he would to drive it from him, there it was again and again, soft, gentle, and pleasing. He told himself that it was absurd; that he had seen in different society hundreds of sweeter faces, but no one had ever so impressed him before.

"Could she have been acting?" he muttered; "but what a place, and what associations!"

He could not have analysed his thoughts had he tried, for they were strangely mingled, and involuntarily he gazed uneasily from time to time at the careless frank-looking young fellow at his side, apparently now too much occupied with his dog to heed aught beside.

Harry roused himself at last, though, from his reverie as Lionel spoke.

"See you at dinner, I suppose, old fellow?"

"Are you going away? Anywhere in particular?"

"No--no--no!" was the reply. "May perhaps take the dog in the Park for a swim. Change for him, poor fellow!"

Harry hesitated, as if about to speak, and then they parted, taking different directions, but with thoughts centring at the same spot.

Involuntarily Harry glanced over his shoulder, when he had gone about fifty yards, and then he bit his lip with annoyance, for he had turned to encounter the sharp glance of Lionel, who was also looking back.

The young men then walked hastily on, each moody and frowning, and thinking that the possibility of their continuing to be dwellers beneath the same roof was hourly diminishing; for though Harry would gladly have stayed, there seemed to be a rock springing up between them, momentarily dividing more and more their course; and Harry began now to recapitulate the past, and to recollect that Lionel had during the last fortnight been growing more impatient of the slight control placed upon him.

"I shall be answerable to the father for the escapades of the son," muttered Harry. "He trusts me, and I cannot shut my eyes to all the follies I shall be called upon to witness."

He bit his lip again here, and asked himself if he were not becoming a hypocrite, and drawing too largely upon the future?