Volume One – Chapter Twenty Nine.
Nurse or Doctor
“You ought to have been a woman, Mr Ruggles,” said Mrs Jared, one Sunday, when Tim came to see them after church, bringing with him little Pine. “He had taken her for a treat,” he said, “to hear Mr Pellet play the organ;” and now, having accepted Mrs Jared’s pressing invitation to dinner, he had been explaining to that lady the various plans he had adopted for keeping the child warm, for Mrs Jared had been taking quite a motherly interest in the gentle little thing, and recommending flannels and wrapping.
But Tim had forestalled her, as he triumphantly showed, for there was flannel in various forms, neatly stitched and adapted. The little jacket the child wore was built by Tim, and in various ways he displayed how thoroughly he loved his charge.
Sundays were glorious days for Tim and little Pine, since Mrs Ruggles would spend so much of her time at St Runwald’s. Sometimes Tim would take the child to church, and sit as close to the organ as possible, that Pine might catch a glimpse of Jared through the curtains, and listen to the strains he made the grand old instrument pour forth; for Jared kept to the old fashion of playing a symphony between each verse of psalm or hymn, at times, too, forgetting himself and lengthening out his extempore scraps to a strange extent. But vicar and congregation murmured not; Mr Timson was the only objector, and when he found fault, Jared always apologised so pleasantly, that the most rigid of churchwardens ought to have been satisfied, though Mr Timson was not, for he would say to the vicar, “Why, he’ll forget all about it by next Sunday;” and Mr Timson was quite right.
But little Pine used to say it made her think, and would lay her head against the boards, and close her eyes as though in rapt attention.
“It makes me think about her,” she would whisper to Tim, if he rose to go before Jared had finished his voluntary; and then Tim would look mournful, as he reseated himself, and took hold of the little wasted hand raised to make him stay.
And then what walks they would have – those two – now to Regent’s, now to St James’s Park – walks of toil for Tim, whose heart would sink as he found the child less and less able to bear the exertion; stopping occasionally to rest, or looking pitifully up in his face to say – “Don’t walk so fast, please.” I wonder how many miles Tim would carry that child upon a fine Sunday? Day of rest! It was a day of hard labour for Tim; but it was a labour of love. If the day were cold, he would trudge along merrily; while, if it were warm, he would still go on, his face shining with pleasure, and the perspiration standing in beads amongst the wrinkles. “If we could only manage a kerridge,” he had said once; but little Pine flinched from the idea.
“It would look so childish for me to ride in one,” she said, wearily, and Tim gazed wonderingly at the strange old look upon the child’s face, as she passed a finger across her forehead and temples to smooth back the stray hairs, now on this side, now on the other, where they lay lightly on the broad blue-veined expanse.
One of Tim’s favourite spots was the lodge in Hyde Park, where curds and whey were sold; but the little invalid did not seem to care much for the treat, as Tim called it, but she used to sit, spoon in hand, and sip and sip, looking longingly the while at the flowers.
It must have been on account of this love that little Pine showed for flowers that Tim braved Mrs Ruggles’s displeasure by becoming terribly enamoured of them himself, buying pots of musk and geraniums, and little rose trees, which all brought a light into the child’s eye, though in that close room in Carnaby Street the plants soon lost their bloom, fading day by day, now dropping a blossom, now a leaf, in spite of such fresh air as could be obtained, watering, and placing them in the sun so long as it shone on the back-room windows.
“They wants more fresher air,” Tim would say; and then, as he threaded his needle, he would look across the room at little Pine, and sigh softly to himself as he thought of how she too seemed to want fresher air, such as he could only give her once a week, while, if it happened to be a wet Sunday, though he would willingly have staggered along, carrying the child, with an umbrella held over her, he dared not take her into the damp air, but sat at home to tell her wondrous stories of the good old times, or read her what he considered to be entertaining and instructive scraps from The Weekly Despatch. Some people might have considered his selections unsuitable; but they proved beneficial to the child, for they invariably sent her to sleep.
Poor Tim anxiously watched and trimmed that little lamp of life, whose flame wavered so whenever the cold easterly winds blew down the streets or drove the choking smoke back into the room. Oil, oil, oil, and more oil, and more oil, and then for a while the flame would brighten, and so would Tim, and chuckle and rub his hands, and stitch on night and day as if trying to do without sleep. No mornings were too dark or too cold for Tim, who could wake to five minutes, at three, four, or five o’clock in the dark; and there he would be with open waistcoat, cross-legged upon his board, glasses mounted and lamp shaded, stitch – stitch – stitch, hour after hour, to make up for the time lost with little Pine.
How he reckoned minutes and hours between times, so that the medicine should be administered to the moment – an observance which he held to be absolutely necessary to ensure efficacy; and more than once he was almost in agony for fear that Mrs Ruggles should have administered a couple of doses too closely together. Never did doctor have nurse so exact in carrying out his instructions, and, could attention have ensured it, little Pine would soon have grown strong.
But it was not to be; the little eyes grew brighter, and the fragile form more thin day by day; day by day a weary listlessness crept over the child, while, as if compassionating her sufferings, Nature was kind, and continued to soothe her often with a gentle loving sleep.
More oil, and more again, and then a flicker and a leap up of the flame that had for days been sinking slowly. But the flashes, though bright, were evanescent, and he who trimmed so diligently oft felt his heart to sink.
But Tim’s despondency never lasted long. “She’ll be better soon as the wind changes,” he would say; but the wind changed, and still Pine sank.
“Oil’s not so strong as the last,” then Tim would say; and the next time the stock grew low he would trot off to a fresh chemist’s, whose medicament would have no better effect than the last. So poor Tim would try, in his anxiety, another and another, until he had put every chemist within range under contribution, but with no more satisfactory result.
“I’m sure it ain’t so strong,” he would exclaim half-a-dozen times a day; and then he would bring out his own stock from under a little pile of cloth shreds, remove the cork, and apply the bottle-neck first to one and then to the other nostril, shaking his head afterwards in a most learned manner, and vowing that it was the most cruel thing he knew to adulterate a medicine.
Tim would even go so far as to feel the child’s pulse after the fashion of the dispensary doctor, when, having no watch, he would attentively gaze the while at the swinging pendulum of the old Dutch clock. And though it is extremely doubtful whether he could tell any difference in the regularity of the beats, yet he always seemed to derive a great deal of satisfaction from the proceeding.
But little Pine seldom complained, and then only softly to Tim, as she crept to him for comfort. She never hesitated to take from his hands her nauseous medicine, and day after day Tim carefully, anxiously trimmed the little lamp, which, in spite of all his care, burned lower and lower, flickering in the socket, until such time as a harsher blast than usual should beat it out.
End of Volume One
Volume Two – Chapter One.
The Poor-Boxes
Mrs Ruggles thought that it was her place, and said so; but Mr Purkis was of opinion that it was his place, and he said so – bringing forward, too, the fact that he had looked after them ever since the new ones had been placed inside the north and south doors. And, in spite of Mrs Ruggles’ opposition, the beadle still continued to polish the quaint imitation antique steel hinges and claspings of the two little oak poor-boxes, while, to his great annoyance, Mrs Ruggles used to go and rub them over again.
Very proud was Mr Purkis of those boxes and their meandering steel-work and corners, of which there was so much that but little of the wood was left visible; and nearly all that was covered by the guards round the keyhole and slit through which the charitably-disposed of the congregation were in the habit of dropping their contributions.
“You see the place is so damp, sir,” Mr Purkis said to Jared; “and it’s not in my constitooshun to let a woman like that Mrs Ruggles go about and grin like a dog in the city, and sneer because there’s a speck on the ornyments, and then pretend that she’s so ashamed of their state that she’s obliged to polish them up herself. But they’re a mortal trouble to keep bright – they’re as hard to keep bright as a man’s conscience, sir; they tarnish like gold lace, although I’ve tried everything I know of, beginning with sand-paper, sir, and going down to Bath bricks and emery powder. Do you know, sir,” he said, mysteriously, “it goes agen me to speak of her, she being, as it were, one of us; but, sir, it’s my belief as she damps and moistens the steel on the sly, or spits upon them, o’ purpose to aggravate my spirit and make the things rust. In fack, I caught her agen one, about a week ago. Every respect to you, sir, but I wish now as Mrs Purkis had took the post, sir; for Mrs Ruggles makes herself very okkard, and altogether she’s a woman as Mrs Purkis don’t like, and I can assure you as a fack that when my missus takes a dislike to any one, that person ain’t worth much.
“You see, sir, she’s a dry sort of a woman, and very hard; and if she was my wife, I should never expect as there’d be any gravy with the meat for dinner. That’s one of the great differences in wives, sir. Ruggles wouldn’t never have been so full of wrinkles and furrers in his face if he’d had plenty of gravy. Look at me, sir; I’m a hearty man, work hard, and do a rattling good business in boots and shoes, princip’lly ready-mades. I weigh seventeen stone, and I’m pretty happy, sir; and what’s the reason? Gravy, sir, gravy! You never sit down to our table without seeing plenty of gravy on it. Even when it’s cold-meat day, sir, there’s always a little saved in a tea-cup to eat with your potatoes. My wife was a cook, you know, sir, when I married her, and she well knows the vally of gravy. She won my heart with it, sir, and keeps it too. It’s the real milk, of human kindness. You never knew a woman who loved gravy, and liked to see others enjoy it, leather a child as that woman leathers that child of their’n. Ruggles thinks she’s a wonder, and of course it would be a sin to undeceive him; but I’m pretty sure of one thing, and that is, that there’s never any gravy to speak of on Ruggles’ table.”
And after his long speech, Mr Purkis, who had just come home very moist and oozy from the church, after having a good polish at the poor-boxes, handed Jared the church keys for him to go and practise.
It was not very far from Purkis’s boot and shoe emporium to St Runwald’s, and when Jared reached the gates, he stood looking round for his boy – the invisible Ichabod – who was of a very mercurial temperament, and, if first upon the spot, given to indulgence in overing tombstones or standing upon one leg on the top; walking, at the risk of being impaled, round the iron railings of the family vaults; swarming up the rain water-pipes, and turning himself into a living gargoyle; throwing stones into the mouths of the corbels and breaking the windows; carving his initials in the mouldering stone, where “I.G.” could often be distinguished, more often, however, with another letter added, greatly to Ichabod’s disgust, by evil-disposed street boys, who mocked at his costume generally, and pulled his “tawsel” cap. The consequence of this was that the word, “P.I.G.” graced the walls of the church in several places. Before now Ichabod had been upon the roof, and marked out the size of his shoe with a knife-point in the soft lead, and had been upon the top of the tower and amongst the bells, and down in the vaults, where he told his schoolfellows he had seen a live ghost; and the only wonder was, that in all Ichabod’s travels he had never been mutilated or killed.
Jared Pellett looked for him east and west, north into the porch, and south towards the street; but there was no Ichabod in sight, so he shook his head, and said to himself that Ichabod was a bad boy – a fact that he had taken into consideration scores of times before – and then applying the large key, he entered the church and swung to the door.
The moment after entering, Jared started as if alarmed, for there, close beside him, stood a figure in the dim aisle, but he recovered himself instantly upon seeing that it was only the old vicar, whilst behind him stood churchwarden Timson; and then it was that Jared saw that they had been emptying the poor-box.
“How do Mr Pellett? Nice day,” said the vicar, cordially. Then turning to the churchwarden —
“Must be something more, Mr Timson; feel again.”
Mr Timson lifted the lid of the little steel-bound chest and thrust in a fat hand, feeling about in all directions, as if chasing active coins into dark corners, for them to dodge through his fingers and escape again. His face was quite a study as he poked about, and at length he drew forth his hand, looked at it on both sides, and declared that there was nothing more.
“Tut, tut, tut! – how strange! Why I felt sure that I put in a sovereign myself. It must have been last time; and yet I felt so sure, and – and – yes – to be sure! here it is, ‘Sunday, 24th day, one pound!’ There!” he continued, triumphantly holding the pocket-book out to the churchwarden, “I knew I did; and yet there’s nothing here but silver and copper. Are you sure that you felt well, Mr Timson?”
“Feel again,” said the latter, good-temperedly; and again the fat hand went to work, and the face looked more solid, but without success.
“Must have been in the other box,” he said at last. The vicar brightened up at this, and they crossed the church to the north door, but from the scraps of conversation Jared Pellett could hear from the organ-loft, it was evident that the quest was without result. Through waiting for the boy, Jared soon dropped into one of his dreamy moods, and became forgetful of things external, until the tardy Ichabod arrived, out of breath, as if he had been exerting himself strenuously to get to the church in time, when the edifice was soon resounding with strains which drowned the rattling of keys and snapping of locks, as well as the conversation of vicar and churchwarden upon the subject of the missing money; but for all that the conversation went on.
“There might have been a great deal taken,” said the vicar.
“Heaps,” acquiesced Mr Timson.
“For, of course,” said Mr Gray, “this is an exceptional time; and in other instances I doubt whether I should be able to miss anything.”
“Very true; quite agree with you,” said Mr Timson. “Just as you say.”
“Pounds might have been abstracted,” said the vicar.
“Abstract, an epitome, a taking from,” muttered Mr Timson; “yes, just so, pounds, very true, sir.”
“Hang it all, Timson, don’t be so aggravating,” said the vicar, pettishly. “What is the good of agreeing with one in everything, it can’t do any good?”
“Just so, sir,” said Mr Timson; and then, turning very red and hot, “No, sir, of course not; but can’t do any harm.”
“Then for goodness’ sake come into the vestry;” and the vicar led the way towards the little robing room to count the offerings of the charitable.
“Now, are you sure about that sovereign?” said Mr Timson to the vicar, as they passed down the nave.
“Sure!” exclaimed the vicar, “have I not shown you the entry? But there! I must have made a mistake.”
“Of course you have,” said Timson, triumphantly.
“For it is impossible,” continued the vicar, “for any one to have obtained access to the money; and surely no one would be so cruel as rob the poor, eh? What do you think? Calmly and considerately now?”
“Just – ,” Mr Timson cut off the “so,” and rubbed the side of his nose, and looked mysterious. Then, resting one finger upon the vicar’s black silk vest, he said, “Once upon a time my desk was robbed – over and over again – without being broken open, and I put in marked money, and still it went; but I found the party out by that plan. And how do you think they got at the money, sir?”
“Crooked wire through the crack,” said the vicar.
“No, no – false keys!” said Mr Timson, wagging his head. “False keys, and it was some one that had constant access to my office that did it.”
The vicar mused, and fidgeted his neck in his stiff cravat, as involuntarily he turned over in his own mind the list of persons who had private access to the church – clerk, pew-opener, beadle, curate, organist, organ-blower, churchwardens, himself; and then he shook his head again, and the pair proceeded to count the money over once more upon the vestry table, calculated the total amount of silver and copper, made entries, and then tied the money carefully up in a little bag, and all to the accompaniment of Jared’s music, which ever and again made the windows of the little vestry to rattle loudly.
“Fine organist, Mr Pellet!” said the vicar, after listening in silence for a few minutes. “We were lucky in getting him, Timson.”
“Very fine; quite agree with you,” said Mr Timson. “Capital congregations we get, too, now – almost double what they were in old Harvey’s time.”
“Um!” ejaculated the vicar, with a curious dry look upon his features.
“Just so, sir,” said Mr Timson. “You see, people like music, and will come miles to hear it.”
“Well, yes, I suppose so,” said the vicar, half sadly; “and ours certainly is a very fine instrument.”
“And beautifully played,” said Mr Timson; “not but what I think we have too much of it; but people say it is well played.”
“Yes,” said the vicar, absently, for his thoughts were upon the poor-box; “beautifully played, certainly. By the way, how startled Mr Pellet seemed when he came in!”
“Poor man! yes: he’s nervous,” said Timson; “those musical chaps generally are. Didn’t expect us, you know. Might ask his opinion about the box.”
“Yes, we might, certainly,” said the vicar; and then, uneasily, “No, I don’t think it would be of any use. Let it rest for the present, Mr Timson; perhaps, after all, we may be mistaken.”
“Very true, sir,” said Timson. “Not often that there is gold in the box. People are not very fond of giving to the poor and lending to the Lord, though that’s all of a piece with their behaviour. They’re not fond of lending to anybody. Seems to go against a man’s nature.”
“Not in all cases, Mr Timson,” said the vicar, stiffly; “there are many exceptions, – yourself, for instance.”
“Present company – present company, sir,” said Mr Timson, “always left out of the question;” and Mr Timson looked very fidgety and uncomfortable.
“Not in a case of this description,” said the vicar. “A shining light should never be placed beneath a bushel.”
Mr Timson looked very unlike a shining light at this time, as he stared at the vicar, and then round the church, and then fidgeted from foot to foot, and held his hat first in one hand, and then in the other, as if in a great hurry to go. But Mr Gray would not come out of the vestry, and Mr Timson had to go in again, for he could not be spared yet. In fact, asking him for the bag once more, the vicar again carefully went through the amount of small change – copper, threepenny and four-penny pieces, sixpences, shillings, and half-crowns – to see whether, after all, his sovereign might not be there, explaining the while to Mr Timson that some gold was very pale, and in dim lights, like that where they were, sovereigns looked almost like shillings.
But though he carefully examined every shilling, and turned it over, there was not one that could for an instant be taken for a sovereign; so, with a sigh, the vicar slowly told up the total, replaced the money in the bag, and tied it exceedingly tight, before once more handing it to the churchwarden, when together they passed down the nave, listening to Jared’s harmonies.
But the vicar seemed uneasy: the music had lost its charm; and instead of following his usual custom of sitting down in some comfortable pew to listen for half-an-hour, he softly followed the churchwarden into the street, and went homewards shaking his head, – that head being, the while, sorely troubled with thoughts of sacrilege and the missing sovereign.