A Little World

A groan almost burst from Jared’s breast, but he smothered it as it rose. He would go on his path, let it lead where it would, and trouble his brother no more. He would bear his disgrace how he could – for how dared he, a poverty-stricken beggar, conscious though he might be of his innocence – how dared he appeal to the law to clear him? Had not the innocent been transported before now – suffered even unto death upon the gallows? while, if they had not felt sure of their array of evidence, would the vicar and churchwarden ever have accused him? What could he bring up by way of defence? Nothing but his bare word. He confessed to himself that the matter looked black against him. Perhaps his character for integrity ought to have borne him up in their estimation; but then, as he told himself bitterly, he was poor; and where money was concerned, the poor were always held to be liable to fall into temptation. The vicar had been merciful, and would not prosecute; should he then carry the matter before the face of justice, and have it investigated? He might be cleared, but he might fail; and then, as he would have forced the matter upon the vicar, and called in the aid of the law, what would be the consequences if the case went against him? He dared not think; but stood before his brother gazing vacantly about, till Richard spoke again —

“I would have helped you, and done anything, if you had acted like a brother; or had it been anything where you had not been dishonest.”

“Sir, I have not been,” exclaimed Jared, almost fiercely.

“Then prove it,” cried Richard; “but now – there – there – there!” thrusting one hand into his breast, “you had better go.”

“I am going, Richard,” said Jared, meekly, as he gazed round at the luxurious office – at everything, in fact, but his brother – till the sharp “ting-ting” of a table-gong aroused him. “God forgive you, Dick!” he murmured; “we may never meet again.”

“Show this person out,” said Richard, harshly, as the clerk appeared; and then, throwing himself back in his chair, he made a violent rustle as he took up the Times.

This was the last cruel stab – one that brought forth a mild reproachful, even sorrowful look, from Jared – a look that made Richard wince more than would the most bitter scowl. Then the broken man walked slowly, and with bent head, till his hand could be laid upon the door-post, when turning to look upon his prosperous brother for the last time in his life, he took in the sleek portly form, the heavy insolent countenance; and then, in spite of the clerk’s impatient, “This way, sir!” he said, in a low clear voice —

“God above, who knows my innocence, forgive you, Dick, even as I do!”

The heavy door closed, and crossing the office, Jared stood once more in the fog – mental and real – till, crossing the road, he turned for Duplex Street; while, though glad at heart to have rid himself of so troublesome an incubus as a poor relative accused of theft, there was a strange chill fell upon Richard Pellet. It might only have been the dread of another visitor whom he might receive, but he blamed the fog and denounced it heartily, but without effect, for it still hung gloomily over Austin Friars.

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Two.

Friends on Failings

“I’m getting soft and stupid and blue-moulded,” said Mr Timson, as he stood warming himself with his hands under his coat, and twitching them tail-fashion before the fire; “but I’ve got it this time, and no mistake.”

“Got what?” said the vicar, as he sat looking at the golden caverns amongst the coals.

“Got what! Why, the right man – down upon him regularly.”

“Do not, pray, say any more, Timson?” said the vicar, sadly.

“But I will,” said Timson; “and how it was that we never thought of him before’s a wonder to me. ’Tain’t Pellet, but that little French fiddler that’s so often with him. My word, sir, if ever there was ‘thief’ written in any man’s countenance, it’s there. What business has he in our church? Why, the scoundrel is a follower of the scarlet woman, and sits on seven hills when he’s at home, I’ll be bound; and that’s why he chose Decadia to live in.”

“Tut, tut, tut!” ejaculated the vicar.

“I don’t care; it’s a fact,” said Timson. “That fellow would light the fires in Smithfield again, as soon as look at you; he ought never to have been admitted into our church. Why, sir, he’s one of those scoundrels who would think it a meritorious act to rob our poor-boxes, and go and get absolution for it directly.”

“O Timson – Timson – Timson!” sighed the vicar; “thou art sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal.”

“You’re another!” puffed Timson, angrily. “What do you mean?”

“Where is your charity, my friend? where is your charity?”

“Stolen out of the poor-box!” cried Timson, in a huff; “that’s where. And you mark my words if they don’t come true, and you’ll find it out one of these days in Smithfield.”

“Psh!” ejaculated the vicar, as near to angrily as he could get, and then there was silence till the effervescence had subsided.

“I don’t like it – I don’t like it,” said Timson, after a pause. “There! I hate it. You may look, sir; but I’ve had that Pellet with me this afternoon, and I can’t stand those sort of meetings. Why wasn’t it some one else, and not that poor sensitive struggling fellow? I’m sure it was the French Papist. Why didn’t we discharge old Purkis, or Mrs Ruggles, or the clerk? It was pitiful to see that poor fellow – pitiful! Why didn’t you suspect and find out the Frenchman? I should like to see him in custody.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Timson,” said the vicar. “But it’s a bad job!” and the old gentleman sighed.

“Bad job! Ah! I should think it is a bad job,” said the churchwarden. “Now, what would it take to square the matter?”

“Square!”

“Yes! make up for what has been stolen.”

“Nothing!” said the vicar, indignantly – “no amount. The sin is there, and we cannot remove it.”

“’Spose not!” said Timson; “but if twenty or thirty pounds put in the poor-box on the sly would make you feel all right again, and let poor old Pellet off with a good bullying, upon my soul I should feel half disposed to find the money.”

“Don’t be irreverent, Timson; a man’s words are never strengthened by an oath. I detest swearing.”

“Swearing! That’s not swearing,” said Timson; “that’s only being emphatic.”

“Then don’t be emphatic, Timson, but speak plainly, like a man.”

“Humph!” ejaculated the churchwarden; and then followed a long period devoted to smoking.

“Only think of a man of his talent being a thief!” said the vicar, at last.

“What! the Papist?” exclaimed Timson; “why, you could see – ”

“No – no – no – no!” said the vicar, testily; “you know whom I mean. He came here; but I would not see him – Pellet you know.”

“Why not?” said Timson, bluntly.

“Because I’m weak, my friend – weak, and might be tempted to give way, when I know it would not be right.”

“Well, ’tis hard – ’tis hard,” said Timson; “I was ready to give way myself; and I don’t know now but what I believe the poor fellow is telling the truth.”

“What did he say, Timson?” said the vicar, “for I won’t see him. I would not believe in his guilt till it was forced upon me; but now I am fixed.”

“What did he say! Why, that it’s all a mistake.”

“I wish it were – I wish it were,” said the vicar, who seemed truly grieved; “but let him prove it – let him prove it.”

“Just so, I quite agree with you,” said Timson. “The very words I said to him. ‘Prove it, Pellet,’ I said – ‘prove it, and there’s my hand;’ and I thought then that he was going to snatch it, so I put it out of his reach.”

“Such a musician!” said the vicar, “and to think of his proving a thief!”

“Just like ’em,” said Timson. “Those musicians are all thieves. They steal one another’s work, and call it inspiration. But don’t you think we might put it a little milder? ‘Thief’ is an ugly word; and – er – er – er – ”

“Well?” said the vicar.

“What do you say to embezzlement? Embezzled the moneys of the poor.”

“Embezzlement!” exclaimed the vicar, indignantly; “why, sir, it’s sacrilege – an abomination!”

“But you know it might turn out to be a mistake after all, and it would be better to have charged a man with embezzling than being a thief.”

“Ah! Timson, I wish I could think so – I do indeed; but it can’t be a mistake. You had your own suspicions of him.”

“Well, yes,” said Timson, drily; “but I hadn’t then thought of the Papist. That’s the man, sir. Leadenhall Street to a China orange on it.”

“But you remember how confused he was in the church that day.”

“What! the Papist fiddler?”

“No, no – Pellet. I couldn’t help thinking something of it then. And, besides, look at the long hours he has been in the habit of spending in the church alone. I’ve known him to be there for hours, and not a sound escape from the organ – no boy there, in fact.”

“Ah!” said Timson, “I’d give five shillings or a pound of my best green for leave to give that boy a good sound quilting.”

“It all points to the fact that he has yielded to temptation when hampered by poverty,” said the vicar, without noticing the interruption.

“Well,” said Mr Timson, “it’s a bad job; but I’m glad that you don’t mean to prosecute.”

“You think with me then, Timson?”

“Of course – yes. Do you want to put the father of about a score of children on the treadmill? Why, they run about his house like rabbits; and if you do that, you’ll have them come and shriek in your ears for bread.”

“God forbid! I will hold to your way of thinking. I should never have done for a magistrate, Timson. They wanted me on the bench when I was down in the country; but I backed out; for I knew I should be too easy. No, Timson; I would not deprive the poor fellow of a chance of making an honest living in the future; for, you see, he is a man who has yielded once to temptation, and will repent to the end of his life. No, sir, I would not mar his future, for the world. I’m not one of those men who prosecute upon what they call principle. Perhaps I am wrong, but I am not unmerciful. I believe him to be a good man at heart; and I think, when he leaves, Timson, if we were to put say ten pounds a-piece, and send to him anonymously, it would be giving him a fresh start in life, eh? What do you say?”

“Good thing to do,” said Timson, “but better let him have it in tea. Say an annuity of so many pounds of tea per annum – mixed – for so many years.”

“Oh, no, Timson; it must be the money. The poor fellow was oppressed by poverty when he – er – er – took the money.”

“Then why didn’t he come like a man and ask me to advance him a few pounds, or let them have so much tea on credit?”

“The wrong sort of man, Timson – the wrong sort of man! But I’m sorry for him, very.”

“So am I – so will everybody be,” said Timson, gruffly; and then they had another long smoke.

“You won’t tell him at the very last that he may stop on, I ’spose?” said Timson, – “let him think, like, that he’s going to be hanged, and then at the last moment send him a reprieve? My wig, sir, what a voluntary we should have the next Sunday!”

“No, Timson, no. Duty is duty, and I should not be doing mine if I looked over so flagrant an offence.”

“But you won’t alter your mind? – you won’t prosecute?”

“No, sir, no,” said the vicar. “In spite of all, I respect the man and the way in which he has brought up his family. I am sorry, deeply sorry, for Mr Pellet and his wife and daughter; and really, sir, I’d give a heavy sum to have proved him innocent – I would, indeed;” and to give emphasis to his assertion, the old gentleman brought his fist down heavily upon the table.

“Mind the glasses!” said the churchwarden, in a warning voice, and he pushed them a little farther from his friend.

“It’s very sad, and with such a family, too!” said the vicar. “How many has he?”

“Scores!” said the churchwarden.

“Don’t be absurd, Timson – don’t be a fool,” said the vicar; “this is no laughing matter. Suppose that you were in the poor man’s position?”

“Shoo – shoo – shoo – shoo!” exclaimed Mr Timson. “What do you mean? who is absurd – who is a fool? I’m not one, am I? And what’s the good of supposing me the thief? Absurd, indeed!”

“I only said don’t be absurd, don’t be a fool, Timson,” said the vicar.

“I believe that’s prevaricating,” said Mr Timson. “I consider ‘fool’ a strange title to call an old friend, Mr Gray.”

“Sit still, Timson, and shake hands, and don’t be an ass,” said the old gentleman, warmly; and as he spoke he held out his hand, with the accompaniment of a look that wiped away the epithet that had escaped inadvertently during his excitement; for the churchwarden shook the hand as warmly as it was offered.

“But,” said Timson, just to show that it still rankled a little, “it seems too bad to pity the poor man now, when a little assistance would have kept him from what you say he has done.”

“What we; say he has done,” replied the vicar; “for look at the proofs. Have I not my duty to perform as well as any other man?”

“But it does seem a very hard case,” said Timson, “and I should let him off. I’ve none of your fine susceptibilities; they don’t seem to go with tea-dealing.”

“Won’t do, Timson – won’t do,” said the vicar. “I’m a very homespun man, and have forgotten the greater part of my college polish. Half a life in rough Lincolnshire does not improve one; but I can’t think as you do. I would that I could go to the poor fellow and say, ‘Mr Pellet, it’s a mistake – forgive me.’”

“I should like to go with you,” said Timson.

“But not a word to any one else,” said the vicar; “we won’t have the finger of scorn pointed at him. Let him stay till his time’s expired, and then go where he will, and begin life afresh, with what we send.”

Timson nodded.

“If it becomes known, let the onus rest on himself. It shall not come from us. And besides, if we put it about, people would blame us for letting him stay out his time. I don’t want to do him a mortal injury. Let him see the evil of his ways, and do better in future. Let him, as I said in my letter, seek forgiveness from Him whom he has sinned against!”

“Amen!” said Timson, solemnly; and then the two friends sat on far into the night smoking pipe after pipe, while the little kettle steamed away until it was quite dry, a fact discovered by Mr Timson just as he had placed more sugar and spirit in his tumbler, which he pushed aside with a sigh. The subject was brought up no more then, and there was no cribbage; but when Mr Timson rose and took his hat, and had shaken hands and said “good-night,” he came hurrying back after taking half a dozen steps to tap softly at the door, which had the effect of bringing the vicar to the window.

Timson ran to the area rails and leaned over as far as he could, gesticulating furiously with one arm, as he exclaimed loud enough for his friend to hear —

“I couldn’t go away without telling you I’m sure of it, sir. There! I’ll take my oath it’s the Papist.”

Volume Two – Chapter Twenty Three.

At Fault

Harry Clayton was fortunate, for he was shown into the great Mr Whittrick’s presence directly; and, as soon as seated, he had the pleasure of feeling that the private inquirer was mentally photographing him, though, all the same, his words were quiet and urbane. But it seemed as if Mr Whittrick made use of all his faculties at once; he talked to his visitor; he listened to him; he gazed at him tremendously at times; he seemed to be smelling him; and, from the motion of his fingers, he evidently had a strong inclination to feel his visitor, for purposes of future recognition.

“No, sir – at present, none; but we are doing all that is possible.”

“But have you nothing definite to communicate?” said Harry, despondently.

“No, sir – at present, nothing,” said Mr Whittrick. “But – if I might be so bold – there was an advertisement in the Times this morning, placed there of course by Sir Francis Redgrave. I was not consulted over the matter. I think, you know, sir, that Sir Francis is wrong. I see that he has the Scotland Yard people at work. Not a good plan, I think, sir. They are very able men there – Falkner’s good; but too many cooks, you know, spoil the broth. Humble aphorism, but true, sir. However, Sir Francis may depend upon my doing my best.”

Harry Clayton rose with a sigh and left the office, feeling very little hope of success in this direction. Jealousy was evidently at work, and he could not but own to himself that Sir Francis had taken a wrong step.

What should he do next? he asked himself. He had not been to Brownjohn Street the last day or two; why should he not go there again? He might obtain some news.

It was hardly worth while going, he thought, only it was possible he might see the bird-dealer himself, and perhaps obtain some little information likely to prove of use.

But D. Wragg was not in, when he reached Brownjohn Street; and in place of seeing either him or poor Janet, Clayton encountered the round pleasant playbill-rayed face of Mrs Winks, rising like a fleshy sun from behind the paint-cloudy counter, to the loud song of the larks; for Mrs Winks had just been stooping to hide the weakness which she kept for her own private use in a ginger-beer bottle. Mrs Winks’ head was only to be seen without curl-papers when she attended the theatres by night, in the full-dress of curls and blue merino, ready to supply the mental and bodily wants of the frequenters of Drury Lane Theatre gallery. Upon this occasion, the playbill used had been one of the newest, the result being, that a good deal of ink had been transferred from the larger letters to Mrs Winks’ forehead, giving it a somewhat smudgy look.

The good lady, though, was quite in ignorance of her personal aspect, and after laying aside her weakness, carefully corked, she was bringing out of a capacious pocket a saveloy, wrapped in another of the never-failing play-bills – the delicacy being intended for her lunch – when the appearance of Harry Clayton arrested her, and, escaping from the paper, the saveloy slipped back to the depths of her pocket, to be kept warm till required.

Mrs Winks rose to meet the visitor with a smile, which gave place to a puzzled look upon his inquiring for D. Wragg, and then for Janet.

“I’ll go and tell her, sir,” said the old lady, and she puffed up-stairs to Janet’s room, whence she returned in a few minutes, saying —

“She’ve got a bad ’eadache, sir, and ain’t well; but if you’d leave any message?”

“No!” said Clayton, thoughtfully. “You might, though, tell the French gentleman that I called.”

“Which he really is a thorough gentleman,” said. Mrs Winks, enthusiastically; “as you’d say if you knowed more of him, and heard him paint and play on the fiddle. I mean – I beg your pardon, sir – seen him play on the fiddle and paint. He’s a gentleman, every inch of him, if he do lodge in Decadia, which ain’t nothing after all, is it, sir? But I’ll tell him when he comes back; and your name too?”

Clayton gave her a card, and then walked thoughtfully back, but not without stopping in front of a blank wall, where a knot of rough-looking fellows were reading a placard, commencing – “Two hundred pounds reward!” and then he shuddered, as one of the party said – “I ’spose they’d hand over all the same, if he happened to be a dead ’un?”

There was no news when he reached Regent Street, and though Sir Francis had but just concluded an interview with a police sergeant, the mystery seemed as far as ever from solution.

“I think I will go out now, Clayton,” said the baronet, in an excited and feverish manner. “It is so hard to stay in, walking up and down, as if caged, and waiting eagerly for every knock and ring. You’ll take my place – you won’t leave – you won’t leave, in case of a call while you are away.”

“You may trust me, Sir Francis.”

“Yes, yes, I know – I know,” said the old gentleman, wringing his hands, “I feel it! But, Clayton,” he said, anxiously, “if any people should come with information in answer to the advertisements, keep them till I come back.”

“I will, decidedly!” said Clayton; “but may I ask where you are going now?”

“Only to see if the bills are well posted; and, you know, I might see some one who had news, – it is possible.”

“I did see one bill posted up,” said Harry, but he did not mention the remark he had heard made.

“That’s well, Clayton – that’s well! and I hope and trust that this state of anxiety may soon be at an end.”

The young man walked with Sir Francis to the door, and felt shocked to see the way in which he had altered during the past few days; then, returning to his seat, he began to think over the strange disappearance, recalling, too, that evening when he had determined to part from Lionel – their visit to the dog-fancier’s, and the strange feelings that had been aroused; and now, troubled at heart and reluctant, he was pondering upon whether it was not his duty to place in the hands of the police the knowledge he possessed of Lionel’s many visits to Decadia. He could not quite reconcile himself to the task, for he knew that it must result in much unpleasantness to Janet; but it struck him suddenly that the behaviour of the deformed girl was strange, though it had not appeared so at the time. Could she know anything? Had the foolish young man been inveigled to some den, robbed, and murdered? and did the horrified aspect Janet had worn mean that she was in possession of the secret? He shuddered as such thoughts arose, and again and again asked himself what he should do, ending by coming to the determination that he would wait, at least until the following day, and then go to the house and warn them of what was about to be done. And yet, if anything were wrong, it would be putting them upon their guard. But their treatment of him seemed to demand that courtesy, and whatever was wrong, he felt that it would be hard for the innocent to be amongst the sufferers. He could not put them to unnecessary pain.

Then came again a cloud of doubt and suspicion, which hung over him till a couple of hours later, when Sir Francis Redgrave returned – pale, anxious, and tired – to look inquiringly at Harry, and receive for answer a shake of the head, the young man feeling the while that he was not acting openly with his elder, in keeping from him all he knew – information which he was unable to decide whether or not he should impart.

In the evening, as they were seated together – Harry thoughtful and silent, and Sir Francis with his face turned from the light – the baronet spoke —

“I cannot suffer this inaction much longer,” he said. “It is always the same answer from the police – ‘Leave it in our hands, sir; we are hard at work; though, so far, we have nothing to show.’ They say that every – every deadhouse has been searched; the men at the water-side have been told to be on the look-out; hospitals have been visited; everything possible done; but who can be satisfied? We must begin on fresh ground to-morrow, Clayton. What’s that? Did some one knock?”

Mr Stiff entered to announce that there was a man below waiting to see some one respecting the reward.

Sir Francis started instantly to his feet.

“Show him up at once, Stiff!” he exclaimed; and then, not content to wait, in his anxiety he followed the landlord to the stairs, re-entering the room in a few minutes with the heavy-faced young fellow before introduced as Mr John Screwby.

“Now, my man, sit down; don’t stand there!” exclaimed Sir Francis, thrusting a chair forward; “now, tell us quickly.”

“Don’t keer to sit down, thanky,” said the fellow, surlily, taking a sidelong glance round the room, ending by fixing his eyes for a moment on the door, as if to make sure that there was a retreat open in case of need.

“Well, well!” exclaimed Sir Francis; “now tell us what you know, and why you have come. Did you see the advertisement, or one of those placards?”

“Bla’guards?” said the fellow, inquiringly.

“Yes, yes! the bills.”

“Yes; I saw a bill – two ’underd pound reward – and I’ve come for that there two ’underd pound reward.”

“But your information – what do you know?” broke in Harry.

The man turned and stared at him heavily.

“Ah! I didn’t know you at first, without no hat on; but I knows you now. You was with him once when he came down our way. I seed you then, and I ain’t forgot you. But, first of all, who’s going to pay this here money? Is it you, or is it him?”