It was a bitter day without, and now it seemed as cold within. The very
fire in the bright little grate appeared to have turned duller, and the
air more chill. As to the cold scraps of mutton, they were perfectly
icy, and the fat flew off in chips and splinters. A cloud had settled
down upon the house, so that there were even great tears round the
potato-dish. As to piercing the cloud, all Jared's efforts were in
vain, for as fast as he tried to shine in a warm and genial manner to
disperse this oppressive mist of adversity, he encountered one of Mrs
Jared's looks, which he interpreted to be suspicious--doubtful; and, one
way and another, the meal was cold, not merely to a degree, but to many.
There was no work to do that afternoon; no musical cripples to doctor
orthopaedically; no cracked instruments to solder, putty, or wax-end; no
bellows to mend, hammers to refit, or false notes to tune in accordion
or concertina. Trade was at a standstill, and Jared wondered how he
should get through the afternoon till the hour when he had appointed
Ichabod to meet him at the church for a last long evening practice at
the old organ.
But the dinner was hardly over before the postman came by. Jared knew
his legs as they passed the area grating, and ran up-stairs to see if he
were coming there. For a wonder, he was, and as may be supposed, he
left a letter.
Strange hand, and yet familiar. It must be from the vicar. But no; it
was not his hand, Jared knew that too well to be mistaken, and his
fingers involuntarily felt in his breastpocket for the missive which
contained the key--a missive that he had of late told himself he ought
to have taken to a good solicitor for advice, instead of quietly sitting
down beneath the slur.
But perhaps, under the circumstances, the vicar had felt disposed to let
some one else write to him. It must be the cheque; there could not be a
doubt about it. No one else would write to him unless--unless--
Jared's brow grew moist, as, in the ignorance of such matters, he stood
trembling with the letter in his hand. Might not the vicar have taken
legal proceedings, and sent him a summons, now that his time had
expired?
That was a dreadful thought, and embraced innumerable horrors--the
felon's dock, police-van, cells, convicts, servitude, and worse,
infinitely worse than all--a starving wife and children. Jared had a
hard fight to recover his composure before going down again to the
kitchen, where he tore open the letter.
Mr McBriar, the landlord, had sent his compliments, and a reminder, that
though the rent for the quarter ending at Christmas would be due in a
few days, that for the quarter ending at Michaelmas had not yet been
paid.
Jared doubled the letter again very carefully, so as to hit the right
folds, replaced it in the envelope, and handed it to his wife, who had
the pleasure of taking it out and reading it, when Jared saw a tear fall
upon the paper, and make a huge blot, turning the sheet of a darker
colour as it soaked in.
Tears breed tears, and two bright drops sprang to Patty's eyes as she
thought of her own sorrows, of the troubles overhanging the Brownjohn
Street house, and the way in which poor Janet was suffering. Then came
thoughts of Harry Clayton; at times soft tender thoughts, at times those
of indignation; and she told herself that he could not love her, or he
would never have been ashamed to own her before his friends.
Did she love him? She asked herself the question, and replied to it
with burning cheeks that she thought she did;--no, she was sure that she
loved him very, very much. Oh I how gladly would the poor girl have
gone up-stairs, and thrown herself upon her bed, to have a long, long,
girlish cry.
"Would not Richard lend you a few sovereigns?" said Mrs Jared to her
husband in a whisper.
"No, no; don't, please," cried Jared, in a supplicating voice.
"Anything but that." For in an instant he had conjured up the figure of
his angry brother, and his disgrace. That brother calling him villain,
thief, and scoundrel; upbraiding him once more for bringing disgrace
upon the name so honoured amongst the money-changers of the great temple
of commerce. "You know how I have asked him before, and what has been
his reply. I can't do it again. But there!" he said, in as cheerful a
tone as he could command, "don't fidget; things will come right. They
always do, if you give them time enough; only we are such a hurried race
of beings, and we get worse now there are steam-engines and telegraphs
to work for us."
To have seen Jared then, it might have been supposed that he was in the
best of spirits, for he began to hum scraps of airs, beginning with
"Pergolesi," and ending with "Jim Crow."
Having no work of his own, he attended to the fire, to clear away its
dulness; but he never well succeeded, for the coals were small, and the
stock very low.
Then he nursed the baby for ten minutes; in short, he tried every
possible plan to raise the bitter temperature of the place. "Let it
come in its own good time," he muttered; "there's no occasion for them
to meet the trouble half-way."
Six different times, though, was Jared at that window, watching, with
beating heart, figures dimly seen through the grating bars--figures
which had slackened pace, or stopped, as if about to call. Once Jared
turned with a deceptive smile, declaring that an old gentleman had
passed, so like the vicar that he was not even sure that it was not he
gone by in mistake.
"Nonsense!" said Mrs Jared, sadly, rejecting the comfort intended for
her. And no one called at Jared's house, while he felt that it would be
impossible for him to ask for the money. Had he been differently
circumstanced, he would have refused it altogether; but with a wife and
large family, debts, and no regular income, it would have been madness.
Once he had decided that he would tell all, and be out of his miserable
state of suspense; but the next minute, with a shiver, he had again put
off the disclosure, and moodily began to think over the treatment he had
received where he had asked counsel and advice, the hot blood rising to
his cheeks as he recalled the manner in which the behaviour of his child
had been interpreted.
Five o'clock, and no vicar, no money; and Jared to some extent rejoiced,
for he dreaded the vicar's coming, lest the reason of his leaving should
be mentioned. And now he brightened up with the thought that it might
be possible to conceal the true cause of his leaving the church from
those at home, for, instead of looking there for advice and comfort, he
shivered with dread lest it should come to their ears. As to Purkis,
and the Ruggleses, he would move--go somewhere where he was not known,
and where his friends could not find him, making what excuse he could.
"Business could not be worse," muttered Jared to himself; and then he
turned to the social meal, resting his hand for a moment upon the head
of Patty, who was deepening the hue of her cheeks by making toast, half
sitting, half reclining upon the little patchwork hearthrug, in an
attitude which bespoke strait-waistcoats and padded rooms for any
artists who might have seen her. For, if Patty's face was not
beautiful, the same could not be said of her figure, wrapped by the fire
in a rich warm glow, which caressed the smooth long braids of her rich
brown hair, and flashed again from her eyes. And all this ready to be
Harry Clayton's for the asking. Well might Patty sigh that there was no
Harry there to ask.
"There's some one now," cried Jared, excitedly, as the scraping of feet
was heard upon the bars of the grating, and then a footstep stopped at
the door, followed directly by a heavy knock which reverberated through
the little house. "Here, Patty, show a light."
But before Patty could get half-way up the kitchen-stairs, she heard the
front door opened, and a gruff voice exclaimed--
"For Mr Morrison, and wait for an answer."
"Next door," said Jared, in a disappointed tone.
"Why don't you get yer numbers painted over again, then?" grunted the
voice, which seemed to consider an apology as a work of supererogation.
"Who's to tell eights from nines, I should like to know?"
"No message for any one of the name of Pellet, eh?" said Jared.
The visitor muttered something inaudible, and then came the noise of a
heavy thump on the door of the next house, when Jared sighed, closed his
own door, and turned to meet Patty.
"I would not have that man's unpleasant disposition for a trifle, my
child, that I would not," said Jared; and then he descended to find his
wife in tears, Patty trying hard the while to keep her own back; and, do
what he could, Jared Pellet, organist of St Runwald's, could not pull
out a stop that should produce a cheerful strain where all seemed
sadness and woe.
The tea was fragrant, though weak; the toast just brown enough without
being burned; while the children ate bread and dripping, just as if--Mrs
Jared said--it grew upon the hedges.
But the social meal was now unsocial to a degree. Mrs Pellet hardly
spoke, while Jared drank his tea mechanically--three cups--and would
have gone on pouring it down for any length of time, if a reference to
the Dutch clock had not shown the time to be a quarter to six.
Jared hurriedly rose, to keep his appointment at the church, and
prepared to start.
"If--if," he said, "the vicar, or a messenger, should come, don't let
him in, but send him to me at the church."
Volume 3, Chapter X.