A Little World

“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.