Whish-ish! whoosh-oosh! over and over again, Ichabod had pumped the
wind-chest full, till the handle came down heavily, and the boy had
balanced himself upon it with the hard wood deeply impressing his
stomach, and enjoyed the luxury of a ride down. Then he had seen the
little leaden weight run up again, as the wind slowly filtered out. But
though he repeated the process some half-dozen times, no stops were
drawn out, no loud chords came pealing from the organ, and at last,
tired out with pumping wind for nothing, Ichabod Gunniss spun the little
weight about, and pulled at it until he broke the string, and saw the
end disappear inside the organ-case, when he pulled out his
pocket-knife, whetted it a while upon the sole of his ill-shaped shoe,
and, for about the twentieth time, he began to carve that eternal "I.G."
upon the back of the organ-case. But, in spite of the whetting, the
knife was blunt; and though, by going with the grain of the wood,
Ichabod had no difficulty in making a capital I; yet, as soon as he came
to the grand curves of the capital G, he found out the difficulty of his
task, and after a few slips and slides, he gave the thing up in despair.
Jared was in the curtain-hung pew, but he had not been heard to move for
quite half an hour. Perhaps he was composing a new voluntary, perhaps
asleep; but all was perfectly still, so Ichabod looked about for
something with which to amuse himself.
Now, it will be allowed that the interior of a church is not the place
where you would expect to find many objects specially adapted for
passing time in any other than a religious way, particularly if that
church be empty as regarded its congregation. So, for a while, the boy
looked round in vain: there were no flies to catch, for the weather was
growing cold; there was not room to spin his top; it required smooth
stones and moisture to work his sucker; pitching his worsted cap up in
the air and catching it upon his head was all very well, but it was
tiring; and though, on the whole, tolerably satisfactory, yet without
appreciative spectators it was not lasting as a pastime. He could not
indulge in the luxury of tying himself in knots bypassing his legs over
his head; not that he was afraid of Jared coming, but on account of his
being a fast growing boy, and given to filling his garments very tightly
soon after they had been served out to him. In fact, at the present
time, there was a good deal of wrist beyond the cuffs of his coat, and
an interval between his vest and leather lower garments, which had of
late fitted him so tightly, that, unknown to the world at large, Ichabod
had treated them as an extra cuticle, and slept in them rather than toil
for a quarter of an hour to get them off; while, now, to have attempted
anything after the fashion of an elastic brother would have had the
effect of making him shed his coat like a caterpillar, always supposing
that Ichabod's muscles were stronger than the charitable integument.
Besides, if he got himself into such difficulties, he might be cuffed--
not that Jared ever had cuffed him, but from Ichabod's experience of
human nature, he knew it to be given to cuffing, and it seemed quite
possible that such a proceeding might intrude itself upon his gymnastic
exercise, even from so quiet and long-suffering a person as Jared
Pellet.
There seemed to be nothing of any kind to amuse the boy, though he
looked with great interest at the largest pedal-pipe, and wished that he
could get inside, and treat it as if it were a chimney. But it was out
of his reach, so he scratched his head in despair.
"What's the good o' bringin' a cove here if he ain't a-going to play?"
he muttered, rubbing his nose viciously, and then once more seizing the
bellows-handle, and pumping at it until the wind-chest must have
suffered from plethora, and been well-nigh to bursting, while the
compressed air forced its way out again with an angry hiss. "He's
asleep, that's wot he is," muttered Ichabod.
The boy then had another look round for something fresh, but there was
nothing more amusing to be seen than an old dog's-eared S.P.C.K.
prayer-book in half a liver-coloured cover, bearing the following
legend:--
judgment dai
wil say
were is the book you stole awa
from Jane Muggins
hir book,
January 9, 1838.
- the rest being torn away, while the above was soon peeled off by the
busy Ichabod, and scattered about the floor. He then, before returning
the book to its place, ornamented the title-page with a fancy portrait
of Mr Purkis, the beadle, that gentleman being indicated by a powerful
cocked hat, which gave the sketch the appearance of a shoemaker's
half-moon knife, or straight-handled cheese-cutter. Then Ichabod yawned
loudly and wonderfully, displaying an elasticity of facial muscle that
was surprising, while it was evident that his mental faculties were busy
at work devising some new _delassement_,--the piece of string with a
button at one end, which he had in his pocket, and which was generally
needed for spinning and setting up one of the immortal Decadia tops.
These were in Ichabod's day known to be bigger and better than any other
tops in London, could only now be plaited, crochet-chain fashion, after
flicking it like a whip to make it snap, and however much of a pastime
to a young lady, it proved but tame to Ichabod, who only plaited it
once, and pulled it out again with a snatch, chewed the end, and wound
up his top. Then he struck a Greek statue sort of attitude as he made
believe to spin it, but not without bringing his knuckles sharply into
contact with the organ-case, and finding their skin more easily
removable than the leathern garments, into whose pockets he now replaced
the top and string, as, with both hands plunged deeply, he routed in
their recesses for something fresh.
He brought forth his string of buttons and polished his leaden nicker--a
flat disc that had evidently been moulded in the top of a brass weight.
He counted the buttons, rubbing favourite specimens upon the sleeve or
his coat, and admiring the crests upon the "liverys," and the shanked
and pearl buttons. Then he stripped them nearly all off the string to
give place to a metal ornament with its great G, which, after a few
minutes' hesitation, he cut off his own coat, looking guiltily round
after the deed to see that he was not observed. Then commenced the
restoration or re-threading of the buttons, when the one bearing the
great G looked so well in its pewter beauty, that Ichabod could not
resist the temptation, but knife-armed, he carefully felt behind him,
and cut the two ornaments from their abiding-place at his waist, where
they had long reposed upon the back of his coat, just above the little
tails; and then his itching fingers began to clutch at those in front,
which he would have cut off also but for a wholesome dread of
castigation.
But the three already appropriated were a great acquisition to his
string, and when, according to size, the buttons once more occupied
their places, and had been admired, and polished, and breathed upon,
Ichabod sighed for something new, as he replaced the collection in his
pocket.
Then the boy had another good pump at the bellows-handle, riding down
upon it more than once; but there was still no demand for the air, so he
had to devise some other occupation to satisfy the cravings of his
restless spirit.
Those leather inexpressibles of his were almost inexhaustible in
treasures, for now the lad's face lighted up as he found something fresh
to suit--a dirty, sticky ball of india-rubber, which, with a little
masticating, became available for the purpose of pulling out, and then
after the enclosure of a small portion of air, became the base of
several little bladders, which would, when compressed between the
thumb-nails, explode with a sharp crack.
But even that would not last for ever, and Ichabod next brought forth a
squirt, but this unfortunately was useless without water, and had to be
put back after a polish upon the coat-sleeve, when he again declared it
to be a shame to bring him there when he "worn't wanted;" and feeling
more than ever certain that the organist was asleep, he began to creep
on tip-toe towards where he could see through the curtains, and inspect
the interior of the organ-pew.
"I knowed he was," muttered Ichabod, relieving his feelings by making a
grimace at his employer--one evidently copied from a carved corbel
outside the church; for, drawing down his lower eyelids with his
forefingers, he hooked the fourth digits in the corners of his rather
too capacious mouth, and stretched eyes, and lips to their greatest
extent.
The face produced was striking, especially as seen in the dim light of
the old church; but Jared Pellet saw it not, though the boy altered his
opinion as to the organist's somnolency upon hearing something which
sounded like a sob. For, with face buried in his hands, Jared was
bending down over the keys, motionless, and evidently suffering from
some bitter mental pang.
Ichabod, upon hearing the sob, darted back to his place in an instant,
to seize the handle and pump more wind into the once again empty
wind-chest; but hearing nothing more, he decided in his own mind that
the noise he had heard was but a snore, and he stole forward to relieve
his feelings with another grimace. But this time he tortured not his
physiognomy; for, making some slight noise as he peered through the
curtains, he encountered the full gaze of the organist, who was looking
up; and by some strange fascination, man and boy remained as it were
fixed by each other's eyes, for quite a minute.
"Plee, sir, didn't you call?" said Ichabod, who was the first to break
the silence.
"Call--call!" echoed Jared. "No, I did not call."
"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 2, Chapter XV.