"Ah, well!" observed Mrs. Joe. "You might ha' done worse."
Not a doubt of that, I thought.
We were to have a superb dinner--so Joe slyly told me--consisting of a
leg of pork and greens, a pair of roast stuffed fowls, and a handsome
pie which had been baked the day before.
I started when he spoke about the pie, but his blue eyes beamed upon me
kindly.
My sister having so much to do, was going to church vicariously; that is
to say, Joe and I were going. In his working clothes, Joe was a
well-knit characteristic-looking blacksmith; in his holiday clothes, he
was more like a scarecrow in good circumstances, than anything else.
Nothing that he wore then fitted him or seemed to belong to him. On the
present festive occasion he emerged from his room, when the blithe bells
were ringing, the picture of misery, in a full suit of Sunday
penitentials. As to me, I think my sister must have had some general
idea that I was a young offender who must be punished each holy-day by
being put into clothes so tight that I could on no account move my arms
and legs without danger of something bursting.
Joe and I going to church, therefore, must have been a moving spectacle
for compassionate minds. Yet, what I suffered outside was nothing to
what I underwent within. The terrors that had assailed me whenever Mrs.
Joe had gone near the pantry, or out of the room, were only to be
equalled by the remorse with which my mind dwelt on what my hands had
done. Under the weight of my wicked secret, I pondered whether even the
Church would be powerful enough to shield me from the wrath to come.
Mr. Wopsle, the clerk at church, was to dine with us; and Mr. Hubble,
the wheelwright, and Mrs. Hubble; and Uncle Pumblechook (Joe's uncle,
but Mrs. Joe appropriated him), who was a well-to-do cornchandler in the
nearest town, and drove his own chaise-cart. The dinner hour was
half-past one.
When Joe and I got home, we found the table laid, and Mrs. Joe dressed,
and the dinner dressing, and the front door unlocked (it never was at
any other time) for the company to enter by, and everything most
splendid. And still, not a word of the robbery.
Oh, the agony of that festive dinner! During each helping of my plate I
ate mechanically, hardly daring to lift my eyes, and clutching
frantically at the leg of the table for support. With each mouthful we
drew nearer to that pie--and discovery! But as they chattered away, I
felt a faint hope that they might perhaps forget the pie.