Gentlemanly or ungentlemanly, to blame in making a friend of the
churchwarden, a tea-dealer, or not, the vicar was thoroughly
conscientious, and this constant plundering of a little store intended
for the poor of the parish was a sore and festering thorn in his side.
It may be questioned, though, whether the poor really were sufferers by
the thefts. More probably they were gainers; for, ignorant of the
amount pilfered, and feeling that to a certain extent the little fund
was in his charge, the vicar would often drop a sovereign or two into
the little heap when the boxes were emptied, in order to make up the
deficiency, which might, perhaps, in fact, be not more than a few
shillings.
But it was in vain that the good vicar fidgeted and fretted, rubbing his
hair into all sorts of shapes, and especially that of a silver flame
issuing from the top of his head. The pilfering went on, now ceasing
for a while, now re-commencing, while the simple expedient of emptying
the boxes after each service was never thought of by any one.
Mr Purkis grew warm, and perspired as he sand-papered the steel
bindings, making the boxes glisten to an extent that would never have
been reached, had there not existed the little jealousy between Mrs
Ruggles and himself.
Not that Mr Purkis loved work, for his was the kind of constitution that
would bear a large amount of ease, and he always felt himself to
flourish most when clothed in his robes of office, and basking in
beauty's eye as he ornamented the church porch, striking with awe the
boys from Gunniss's, his duties appearing to consist of an occasional
wag of the head to the pew-opener, when some stranger required a
sitting, and a majestic roll as far as the iron gates and back.
He would wag his head mysteriously at his wife when she was brushing him
down on a Sunday morning, and removing every speck of dust from his blue
robe, to which she used a hard brush, while the broad scarlet velvet
cape, with its deep gold-lace trimming, was daintily smoothed and dusted
with a brush of the softest. Then Mrs Purkis would hand her lord his
cocked hat and white Berlin gloves, gazing up in his face and looking
him over with the greatest veneration. For some ladies are fond of
seeing their lords and masters in uniform, and Mrs Purkis was one of
these, and she would stand at the door to see her husband go down the
street, exclaiming too, angrily, to herself, "Drat them boys!" when some
evil-disposed irreverent young scamp would shout after the portly
officer, "Beadle, beadle, threadle my needle;" though she consoled
herself with the recollection that, "Boys allus was full of their
sarse," ready to laugh at any of our noble British institutions.
Especially if relating to law and order, beginning with the majestic
policeman, and ending with the Lord Chief Baron in his swaddling
clothes.
But if Mr Purkis looked sagacious, it seemed probable that, like other
people, he only had his suspicions; such too as he could not confirm,
though a slight frown and a shake of the head, particularly if
accompanied by nipped-together lips, imply a great deal; and your
heavy-cheeked solid-headed judge will carry a weight with the public
that his keen-witted and sharp-featured subordinate will lack.
Mr Purkis obtained the credit of knowing a great deal, but if he did, he
kept the knowledge to himself; and Time, the inexorable, slipped on,
Jared discoursing with his organ, and the great congregation at St
Runwald's listening patiently to the vicar's quiet practical little
sermons.
Mr Gray kept his promise to the churchwarden, and there were no more
texts for some time touching upon the subject of money; but Mr Timson
scratched his head violently one day as he sat in his pew and heard the
vicar dwell upon the rich men dropping their gifts into the treasury,
and the poor widow's mite; adroitly introducing his opinion that it was
as great a sin to steal the widow's mite as the more imposing gifts of
the wealthy.
"But I wouldn't really, you know," said Timson, the next time they met;
"as I've told you before, it's only putting the thieves on their guard,
and can do no good."
"Might work on their consciences, Timson, eh? Startle them into better
ways and feelings." But the churchwarden shook his head. "Think not,
eh?" said the vicar; "conscience makes cowards of us all, as Milton
says."
"Shakespeare, Shakespeare, sir," said Timson.
"My memory's failing fast, Timson," said the old man, sadly; "but I
thought it was Milton. You don't read the poets?"
"Never, by any chance," said Timson; "but I know I heard those words at
old Drury, and I know they don't put Milton on the stage."
"I believe you're right--I believe you're right, Timson," said the
vicar. "And so you really would not say any more about it publicly?"
"Not a word," said Timson, firmly.
"But it was neatly introduced, eh?"
"Yes, ye-e-e-s," said Timson; "but it does no good, depend upon it, sir.
The man who takes money from a church won't be frightened because you
tell him it's wicked."
"Think not?" said the vicar.
"Sure of it," said Timson.
Timson was right, for the money still went, week after week--shillings
and half-crowns, and sixpences and florins. Purkis groaned and grunted
as he polished off the rust that would collect on the steel-work, as
much at the labour as at the losses; but he could not see the money take
to itself wings and fly away. Jared and Ichabod came and went, and the
harmonies flooded the old church, but they saw nothing. Vicar and
churchwarden gazed about as they came and went, and shook their heads at
the boxes, but they went away as wise as they came. Neither did Mrs
Ruggles unravel the mystery when she came on Saturdays to set open the
doors, and swept and dusted, and punched pulpit pillows, and walloped
(Ichabod's own term) pew cushions, and banged hassocks in the porch,
finishing her duties by perversely shifting people's prayer-books and
church-services from pew to pew, starting them upon voyages round the
church--trips which some times occupied whole months--while, more than
once she obtained rewards, when, by request, she hunted out and restored
the missing volumes.
But though the officials saw not the thief, some of those fat-cheeked,
half-dressed, trumpet-blowing angels must have beheld, and, herald-like,
might have proclaimed the offender with the sound of the trump.
The marble effigy of the statesman who stood with scroll in outstretched
hand, as if in debate, must have seen the culprit; while Edward
Lawrence, citizen of London, and Dame Alys, his wife, intent though they
were in prayer upon their marble cushions, might have stolen one stony
glance upon the sacrilege committed.
Why! there were effigies poised and planted everywhere about the old
edifice, which the good knight and architect, Sir Christopher Wren, had
restored when it was crumbling and dilapidated inside--restored most
fully, according to the sublime taste of his period; but none of these
effigies told tales, not even David, who stood within three feet of one
box, and busily harped away, so busily indeed, that he had lost his
garments, probably in the heat of the work, for there was no Michal at
hand to take him to task.
Time did not tell either, at least not at this period of the story,
though he, too, commanded a good view of the church, as he stood upon a
bracket on one side of the chancel-arch, mowing away with a broken
scythe, like a ragged Irishman in the haymaking season, his hour-glass
being slung at his side, after the fashion of Pat's bottle.
Grim Death, in skeleton form, who stood as counterbalance to Time on the
other side of the arch, pickaxe in one hand, dart in the other, also
maintained a stubborn silence, perhaps because offended, for though most
people considered that he held a pickaxe for grave-digging purposes,
there were others who insisted upon its being a cross-bow with which he
was armed.
As for the stained-glass cherubim and seraphim, playing guitar, bass
viol, cornet, harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of music,
they seemed to be too busy with their heavenly harmonies to notice such
mundane matters as pounds, shillings, and pence. Judas, the bag-bearer,
was not visible, or--on the principle of "set a thief to catch a
thief"--he might have told tales; but painted on the ceiling were
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John--well painted too, though the artist's
evangelical emblems of bull, eagle, and lamb were not quite up to
nature.
But none of these pointed out the offender, and the old vicar walked
disconsolately up and down his church, pausing here and there as if lost
amidst the different surmises which flooded his brain; but there was no
information to be gained. The mystery was not concealed amongst the
carved oak window draperies, and cottage pattern wood-work, which hid
the stone tracery of the old east window; it was not behind the spindle
balustrade communion rails, nor the iron-barred workhouse-window-like
rood-screen, nor in the brass-nailed, red-curtained, soft-cushioned,
high-sided pews, where City folk loved to snooze on Sundays.
The mystery continued, but it was invisible, and though poor Mr Gray
looked appealingly at the cross-legged Templar upon his back, and at the
brasses rescued from trampling feet to be fixed in the wall, neither
father nor mother, nor right or left, one of the steplike regular sons
and daughters, brazen-faced as they were, whispered him a word more than
did the black, fork-tongued, barb-tailed, huge-clawed, ancient
stained-glass devil, so busy watching the Virgin and Child in the
clerestory window.
So the Reverend John Gray sighed, and softly rubbed his hands, and the
poor-boxes were still robbed.
Volume 2, Chapter IX.