For quite a month, as far as the vicar could tell, the poor-boxes had
rest, and Mr Timson's ears were not so much troubled with the
objectionable money texts. Divers games of cribbage were played, and
divers pipes and glasses of gin-and-water enjoyed, as the late robberies
were discussed. During these discussions the vicar would enlighten his
crony upon the subject of the various plans he had adopted to see
whether the boxes had been opened.
The matter was also freely discussed at Purkis's and Ruggles's, as well
as at Duplex Street; the same verdict being arrived at in each house--
namely, that it was very strange.
Mrs Purkis thought she could fit the cap on the right head if she had to
do with the matter, and Mr Purkis told her to hold her tongue. Mrs
Ruggles, too, gave a sidewise look at her husband, and told him that it
was not her business, but she could give a very shrewd guess at the
culprit; though, when pressed on the subject, she only nipped her lips
very tightly, and said, "Never mind."
As for Mrs Jared, she only declared it to be very sad, and then the
matter was allowed to drop.
The vicar, too, seemed to have almost forgotten the matter, until one
morning when he hurried into Mr Timson's counting-house, looking so much
put out that the churchwarden directly guessed what was the matter, and
before his friend could say a word, exclaimed--
"You don't mean it, sir?"
"But I do mean it, Mr Timson," said the vicar; "and really," he
continued poking at the inkstand with the ferule of his umbrella--"and
really, I should be glad if you would not treat this matter so lightly,
sir. It grieves me very, very deeply, Mr Timson, I can assure you."
"Mind the ink, sir," said Mr Timson, placing the bright metal stand out
of his visitor's reach. "I don't treat it lightly, sir. It's no joke,
and I'm as much put out as yourself. You don't think I want the
poor-boxes robbed, do you, sir?" and he spoke with a puffing snort
between every two or three words, as if getting warm.
"Now don't be rash, Timson--don't be rash. I'm not angry; only, really,
you know, it is so worrying, so aggravating--deuced aggravating, I
should say, if I were a layman, Timson, I should indeed. There, there!
now don't bristle up, there's a good fellow; but tell me what to do."
"Take that umbrella ferule out of my ink, that's what you'd better do,"
said Timson, gruffly; for, in an absent fashion, the vicar was still
thrusting at the metal stand, to the great endangering of an open book
or two upon the table.
"There, there, there!" said the vicar, impatiently, as he placed the
obnoxious ferule upon the floor, and pressed it down there with both
hands. "Now, then, tell me, Timson, what had I better do?"
"How the devil should I know what you ought to do?" exclaimed Mr Timson,
for he was out of temper that morning with business matters connected
with a sudden rise in teas, just at a time when his stock was low, in
consequence of his having anticipated a fall, and the vicar, in his
impatient mood, had applied the match which exploded Mr Timson's wrath,
when, metaphorically taking off his apron, he spoke up.
"Don't swear, Timson," said the vicar, sternly; "`Swear not,'--you know
the rest."
"Shoo--shoo--shoo--shoo--shoo--shoo--shoo!" ejaculated Mr Timson. "Who
did swear?"
"Why you did, sir," said the vicar; "and don't deny it."
"But I didn't," exclaimed the churchwarden; "and I won't be spoken to
like that in my own house. Because we have been friends all these
years, John Gray, you presume upon it, and abuse me. I didn't swear; I
only said, `How the devil should I know?' and I say it again. Shoo--
shoo--shoo! the devil's in the poor-box."
"If you make use of such language, Levi Timson, I must leave your
office," said the vicar, severely.
"What language?--what language?" exclaimed the churchwarden.
"Why, such as yours, sir," retorted the vicar; "introducing the father
of evil every moment."
"Not I!--not I!" exclaimed Timson. "Introduce him! Not I. Who brought
him into the room? Who began it? Who said it first?"
"But only in a modified form," said the vicar, humbly; "I qualified it
strongly with an `if.' But I was wrong, extremely wrong, Timson; and
there! I beg your pardon, Timson. I was put out and annoyed, and spoke
hastily," and he held out his hand.
"No, sir; no, sir; you don't beg mine," said Timson, taking the vicar's
hand. "I beg yours, sir. I know I spoke hastily, for I was angry and
put out, for teas are gone up, confound 'em!"
"But I was in the wrong, Timson," said the vicar. "As a clergyman, I
ought to have governed myself, and known better than to be hasty."
"I won't give up in my own premises, sir," exclaimed Timson. "Now,
don't smile, sir; they're mine, bought and paid for, and there are the
writings in that safe. I was in the wrong; but teas are up horribly
this morning, and I'd been reckoning on their going down."
Peace was ratified at once, for the two old men shook hands very
solemnly for quite a minute.
"I'd give something, though, to find out about that money," said the
vicar, "for, you see, it's going again."
"I can assure you, sir," said the churchwarden, "that I've slept night
after night with those poor-boxes in bed with me, and yet I can't see
through the thing anyhow. By the way, I have read of such things. You
don't happen to be a somnambulist, do you? You haven't been of a night
and emptied the poor-boxes in your dreams, scraping together a store,
and hidden it away for your heirs, administrators, executors, and
assigns to find out?" and as the old man spoke, he glanced round the
room, as if seeking a likely spot for such a purpose.
"No, Timson, no," replied the vicar, smiling sadly. "You were present
when my will was signed; and if there's anything more than is set down
on that piece of parchment, I freely give it to you, old friend."
"Verbal gifts don't go down with executors, sir," said Timson, with his
eyes twinkling; "and besides, I don't think it would be the thing for me
to stick to a hoard that you had filched from your own poor-box."
"There, there, there!" ejaculated the vicar. "You are talking nonsense,
Timson."
"Mr Gray, sir," said the churchwarden, seriously, and with some feeling,
"a glass of sherry with you, sir; and, though toasts have nearly gone
out, I shall drink to your long life.
"Yes," continued the churchwarden, after a busy little pause, "it is a
good glass of sherry. It is one of my weak points to have a decent
glass in the house, and I don't know anything that I like better."
"Except a glass of hot toddy," said the vicar, smiling.
"Well, well, well, sir," said Timson; "suppose we put that aside, or we
shall be getting into cribbage and pipes, and all sorts of other weak
points."
"True," said the vicar; "but really, Timson, I'm not ashamed of those
little weaknesses, even if I am a clergyman. I'm a very humble old
fellow, with few friends, and fewer relatives. I don't belong to
society, Timson, but keep to my quiet, old-fashioned, country ways,
which I brought up with me out of Lincolnshire. I'm not a fashionable
parson, Timson, but I try to do my best for those amongst whom I have to
teach."
"You do, sir, you do," said the churchwarden, warmly; "and you make me
disgusted with myself for being put out with your anxiety about this
poor-box. Now let's set to and go over it all, quietly and
methodically. What's to be done?"
"I don't know--I don't know," said the vicar, despondingly; "but we
shall find him out to a certainty some day."
"Him!" exclaimed the churchwarden,--"him, sir?"
"Well, yes; him, or her, or it. I would not care if I could get just an
inkling of who it could be. But I'm determined upon one thing, Timson,
and that is, if there is much more of it, I will do away with the
poor-boxes altogether, and preach an extra charity-sermon every
quarter;" and the vicar tucked his umbrella beneath his arm, as if ready
to go.
"But I say, sir," exclaimed Mr Timson, "I would not bear it in mind
quite so much."
"What do you mean, Timson?" said the vicar.
"Texts, sir, texts!" said Mr Timson, drily.
"Well, Timson, I won't--I won't, really; though, between ourselves--as
friends--as old friends you know--I don't mind telling you, that I had
been making up the heads of a discourse for next Sunday upon the parable
of the lost piece of money. But I'll take your advice, and try
something else."
"Do!" said his friend, "and let the matter rest. Don't show that you
notice it, sir; be quite quiet, and we shall put them off their guard;
I've my suspicions yet!"
"No, you have not, Timson," said the vicar, laughing, "not you. You're
not a suspicious man, and never were."
"Nor you neither," said the tea-dealer, shaking hands. "Good morning."
And as his old friend went through the busy portion of the house,
raising his hat in reply to the salute of clerks and warehousemen, the
churchwarden muttered to himself, "A thorough gentleman!"
An opinion from which some people differed.
Volume 2, Chapter VIII.