A Little World

“Shall I blow, plee, sir?” said the boy.

“A blow!” murmured Jared, dreamily; “yes, a heavy blow – a blast from one of the storms of life!” and he once more buried his face in his hands, while Ichabod relieved his feelings by sticking his tongue into his cheek, and lifting up and putting down one leg; before he again spoke to ask if there was anything the matter.

“Go home, boy – go home,” said Jared, slowly, and speaking as if he were half-stunned.

“Shan’t you want to practise, sir?” queried Ichabod.

Jared made a negative movement of the head, and, waiting for no further dismissal, the boy caught up his cap, scuttled down the stairs, clattered out of the door, and was gone, whooping and hallooing with delight at his freedom, while the organist, slowly lifting his head, and looking about as if in a weary stupefying dream, took up a letter from the key-board, where it had lain, and where he had found it that day when he came to practise – a letter written in the vicar’s bold hand, sealed with the great topaz seal that hung to his broad old-fashioned watch-ribbon, and directed to him, while it enclosed a little bright peculiarly-shaped key, which Jared remembered to have seen lying in his music-locker for weeks past, when he had come up into the loft, though, after the first time, when he had picked it up and turned it over, it had hardly taken his attention. But now, slowly and half-tottering, he rose, and left the organ-pew with the letter in one hand – an old-fashioned letter, written upon blue quarto paper, folded so as to dispense with an envelope – the key in the other, descended the stairs, crossed nave and aisle to one poor-box, where he tried the key, to find that it opened the lock with ease; then sighing as he closed it, without noticing that the vicar had removed the contents that morning when he left the letter for the organist upon the key-board of the instrument, Jared crossed the silent church to the other door, to try the box there, with the same result; when once more ascending to the gallery, he stood again in the organ-pew, looking towards the chancel, and then read his letter for about the sixth time.

Once only, he looked up: it was afternoon, and the sun streamed in at the great west window, illumining the chancel, when there, as if lit up especially for him to read, the golden letters of that particular sentence brighter than the others – bright and flashing, but stained by the sunbeams that pierced a painted pane of a fiery hue – there were the words —

“Thou shalt not steal.”

Jared Pellet groaned as his eyes fell and rested upon the paper he held, and he began once more to read, muttering now and then a word or two or a sentence half aloud.

“No prosecution – came with a friend – wished to try the organ – found a false key amongst the music – knew wards – flashed upon him that it opened the poor-boxes – own conscience be my punishment – engagement terminate at Christmas – best for all parties – and may God forgive me.”

“And may God forgive me,” groaned Jared aloud, after a long pause. “Forgive me for what?” and then he stood turning over and over the key he held in his hand, scanning it again and again, as if it were indeed the key to the mystery of the robbery. He wiped his forehead, and looked about him trying to think, and wondering from whence came the key. He tried to determine in his own mind the day upon which he had first seen it, but without success; though even had he been sure of the date, the knowledge, he was obliged to own, would have been valueless. It seemed but too certain that an enemy had placed the key where it had been found, though he struggled long against the thought, saying plaintively to himself, “I have no enemies.” And indeed, if his assertion were not absolutely true, he certainly had none of his own wilful making.

Then he sighed again bitterly, folded the key in the letter as he had first found it, took it out, and read the letter again, though he now knew every word by heart, and could repeat it with his lips, but it was, as it were by rote, and the meaning seemed hard to understand. It had come upon him with such a shock, he was so utterly unprepared, that when at last more than once the truth had forced its way home, he roused himself with an effort from the prostration it caused, and tried to find some grain of comfort in the letter, which, however, afforded it not. Again he folded the key inside the missive in a dreary absent way, replaced his books in the locker, and was about to drop the cushioned lid, when he recalled where he had last seen that key, and raised a few sheets of music to make sure that it was not still there, in the farther corner where it had slipped. But no; there was only a tuning-fork, and a little fluey dust mingled with scraps of paper. So he dropped the lid, and sat down for a few moments, with his hands to his forehead, but he raised himself again, opened the organ, then lifted the lid of the locker, took out a piece, and placed it upon the stand ready for practice; but remembering directly after that the boy was gone, he once more closed the instrument, and looked helplessly about, till, as if seized by some sudden impulse, he caught up his hat and hurried out of the church, forgetting to lock the door, but hastening back to do so when he had gone about a hundred yards.

Volume Two – Chapter Fifteen.

Prove it

A quarter of an hour after leaving the church, Jared was at the door of the vicar’s residence, where his summons was answered by the old Lincolnshire woman who had come up to London with “Maister,” and filled the posts of cook and housekeeper.

Now, most people would have told their servants to say, “Not at home,” to such-and-such a person; but the vicar had his own ideas upon such matters, and the old woman was ready for the expected visitor, for she exclaimed —

“Maister said he wouldn’t see you, if you called, Mr Pellet; and if you wanted to say anything, you was to write.”

“But did he say” – ventured Jared.

“No; he didn’t say not another word,” said the old housekeeper; and Jared turned disconsolately away, walking down the street in a purposeless manner, until, moved by another idea, he roused himself and hurried in the direction of Mr Timson’s stores, where he found the head of the establishment, very stern and important, in his counting-house, but apparently ready to listen to reason.

“It’s all a mistake, sir; I’m as innocent as a child,” exclaimed Jared.

“Hadn’t you better shut the door first, sir?” said Timson, drily; when Jared hurriedly closed the glass-door of communication with the warehouse. “That’s better,” said he. “As well not to let all the world know.”

“It’s all a mistake though, Mr Timson,” again exclaimed Jared.

“Just so – just so, Mr Pellet, sir; but prove it;” and Timson thrust his fingers into his waistcoat, and then drew himself back as far as he could.

“That key has been in my locker for weeks and weeks now,” said Jared. “I saw it lying there, and thought it might have been left by somebody. It never occurred to me that it would open the poor-boxes.”

Mr Timson raised his eyebrows, and looked deeply into the account-book before him, and then he placed three fingers upon the three columns – pounds, shillings, and pence – and slowly and methodically thrust them up the paper, as if calculating the amount of all three at one and the same time. He muttered, too, several indistinct words, which sounded like the names of various sums of money, before he turned again to Jared.

“I always told the vicar it was false keys, Mr Pellet; but if we’ve put the saddle upon the wrong horse, or the boot upon the wrong foot, why the wearer must kick it off, sir.”

“But you don’t think that I did it, sir?” exclaimed Jared, pitifully.

“Well, I don’t know, Mr Pellet – I don’t know,” said the churchwarden. “I don’t know, indeed, sir. I don’t want to think it’s you; but what are we to do? Mr Gray comes to me, lays his hand on my shoulder, and he says – only last night, mind, sir” – (Mr Timson had his apron on, and therefore he said “sir”) – “‘Timson, I’ve found out the culprit’.”

“‘Then I hope you’re satisfied, sir,’ I said.

“‘No,’ he said, ‘no, not at all; I’ve found him out, but now I wish to goodness that I had not, for it seems a cruel thing.’

“‘Who is it, sir?’ I said.

“‘Oh!’ he said, ‘it’s poor Pellet I found a false key at the bottom of his book-locker when I took the organist of St Chrysostom’s to try our instrument.’

“‘Pooh!’ I said, ‘nonsense, sir! stuff!’

“‘What!’ he says; ‘why, you suspected him yourself, and said you were sure he was the culprit only the other day.’”

“Oh Mr Timson!” groaned Jared. “Now don’t you be in a hurry,” grumbled the churchwarden, pettishly. “Hear me out, can’t you. You young fellows always will be so rash.”

Jared raised his hands deprecatingly, and the churchwarden continued —

“‘Very true, sir,’ I said, ‘so I did everybody in turn; but, depend upon it, ’tain’t Pellet.’ Those were the very words that passed, Mr Pellet; and now you’ve got to prove yourself innocent, that is, if you can, sir; for, though I stuck up for you to the vicar, I must say that it looks very black against you. We wanted to find the key to the mystery, and we found it, sir, in your box, so you’ve got to prove yourself an honest man, and show how the key got there.”

“But I can’t, Mr Timson,” said Jared. “I’ve not the slightest notion.”

“Then it looks all the blacker against you, Mr Pellet, that’s all I can say – blacker than ever – Kyshow at the very least, without so much as a dust of green to relieve it.”

Jared groaned.

“Why, sir, not saying it was you,” continued Mr Timson, excitedly, “a man must be a terrible scoundrel to go and rob the poor, even if he was poor himself, when he was situated as you are, and knew that the vicar, or somebody else not far from you at the present time, might – I do not say would, sir – might have helped him out of a difficulty if he had been in a corner.”

Standing hat in hand, Jared looked at the churchwarden, while for a moment the little glass-enclosed office seemed to swim round him; but only for a moment; then came a choking sensation in his throat, and a blank dreary hopelessness settled down upon him. He tried to speak, but the words would not come; he endeavoured to make up some defence, to think out some plan of action, but, blank, blank, blank – all seemed blank and hopeless, and it almost appeared to him now that he really was the thief they took him for.

“Prove it, sir – prove it,” resumed Timson, placing his thumb upon the edge of his desk, and pressing it down as if he had Jared beneath it, and was keeping him there until he proved his innocence. “I’m sorry, sir, very sorry, sir, and so is the vicar. Don’t you go and think, Mr Pellet,” he continued, in quite an indignant tone, – “don’t you go and think that we wanted the poor-boxes robbed; we didn’t, you know; and we didn’t want to find out that it was you.”

Jared waved his hand deprecatingly.

“Well, well, well, sir,” exclaimed Timson. “Prove it, sir, prove it – as I said before, prove it,” and he pressed the thumb down harder and harder.

“But, man, how can I?” exclaimed Jared, desperately.

“Shoo – shoo – shoo – shoo – shoo; – shoo – shoo!” ejaculated Timson. “Don’t raise your voice like that, sir, or I shall be indignant too. It won’t do, Mr Jared Pellet. You’re in the wrong, sir – you’re in the wrong.”

“I know, I know, Mr Timson,” said Jared, imploringly; “but what can I do?”

“Prove it, sir, prove it,” said Timson again. “I want to see you proved innocent; and if we are wrong, there’s my hand – leastwise, there it is when you’ve proved it;” and for fear that Jared should seize upon it, he tucked it under the tail of his coat, turned his back to the fire, and then stood looking fiercely at the dejected man before him.

But Jared had no thought of seizing the churchwarden’s hand, for as he stood there, bent and wrinkled of brow, he was going over, for the fiftieth time, the contents of the vicar’s letter, and then thinking of those at home, and the poverty that this loss of his situation must bring upon them. Then he thought of the disgrace, from which he felt that he must free his character; and in imagination he saw himself once more proud and erect in the presence of his accusers, but refusing with scorn the prayer of the vicar that he should continue to be organist. No! that would never be; he would fulfil the duties to the last, and then, once more clear in character, he would seek for some fresh means of subsistence for the family in Duplex Street.

No organ here – no glass reflector in Timson’s counting-house; but Jared was still dreaming of being cleared from the accusation, when he awoke with a start, as the churchwarden exclaimed again —