A Little World

“Look here, sir,” said the city man, in a deep voice – angry, but not such a one as could reach the clerks – “look here! We were born brothers, I suppose; we bear the same name – curse it since it is yours too. You have taken your path in life, and I have taken mine, and they are paths that grow daily more and more apart, never to join again. I have never meddled with you, nor asked your help. I have never troubled you in any way; while you – you – what have you ever been but a disgrace – a clog – a drawback to me in my every project to raise our name from the dust? I forget all this, and, to be brotherly try to heal all old sores. I ask you and your family to my house, and what do you do? You disgrace it not only by your appearance, but also by your behaviour, making my very servants to laugh in their sleeves; and as if that were not enough, your well-trained trull of a child must begin to set her snares and traps, acting with less modesty and decorum than the veriest creature of our streets, until she has by her artful tactics disturbed the peace of a happy family, driven a foolish boy from his home, and his sorrowing mother to a premature grave.”

At this point Richard seemed to consider that it would be effective to display a little emotion instead of anger; but he soon merged again into the upbraiding.

Jared started at the news, for he had not heard of his sister-in-law’s decease, but he had noticed a deep band round his brother’s hat – and noticed even the very stitches, as he stood there smarting and indignant. For a few moments the news of the death checked him, but his indignation began to assert itself, and he was about to reply. Richard waved him to be silent, and continued —

“And now – what now? You come to me with a lame pitiful tale, that I may employ counsel for you, have my name dragged into the public courts and papers to be the talk of the whole city – to be more disgraced by you than ever I have been before. I don’t know you. I hold no communication with you. You bear my name, but I renounce all relationship. I will not be dragged into the matter. It is no business of mine. Go and ask your French friend from Decadia, or the lame bird-fancier. You see I know your companions and associates, great musician as you are. You always were a fool, and now you have taken the step which lay between folly and roguedom. Leave my place at once and quietly. Dare so much as to speak an abusive or reviling word in the outer office, and I’ll have you given into custody for trying to extort money; and then, with your present character of thief, and the poor-box money behind, how will you stand?”

Richard Pellet, like many more bad men, was gifted with a tongue which, given an inch, took an ell, and said more than ever its owner had power or will to perform. It backed verbal bills that its master would never be able to take up; and now he had risen and stood glaring at his visitor, with his hand resting upon the heavy chair he had placed between them. For, as he stood completely dumbfoundered before his brother, Jared had involuntarily taken up a ruler from the desk; but not to strike, he only handled and tapped it with his long pliant fingers. He could not speak; indignation and sorrow choked him; and he stood there panting, crushing down anger, bitterness, the whole host of emotions that rose.

Was this his brother – nursed at the same breast – the last of all men who should have turned against him – apparently snatching at the chance of erecting a greater barrier between them – a barrier that should last till the grave separated the living from the dead? This his brother, who most likely, by his business shrewdness and advice, could have cleared the way towards freeing him from his difficulty, employed some keen investigator in his behalf, and had the matter sifted to the bottom? The remarks directed against the man whom, for his musical talent, he had made his friend, also stung him, but not as did the insults hurled against poor Patty.

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.”