George Manville Fenn (continued 2)

“Oh, Totty, Totty!” exclaimed Mrs Jared, popping the baby down upon the old chintz-covered sofa—there always was a baby at Jared’s—and then charging the culprit, and a couple more, who had gathered round the spoil. “Oh dear, dear! and Mr Ruggles will be down directly to tea. O Patty, why didn’t you mind Totty? See what mischief she has been in; and here’s Dicky with quite a handful now.”

“She was here just this minute,” cried Patty from the back kitchen, “and I did not miss her.”

In fact, it was rather hard to mind Jared’s progeny, who, from being confined in a small house, were exceedingly restless—climbing, falling, upsetting candles, cutting fingers, or rolling from the top to the bottom of the kitchen stairs, so that the rag-bag was always in requisition, and tied-up fingers, sticking-plaistered or bruised heads, and abrasions in general were matters of course.

“Totty yikes oogar,” said the sticky cause of the mischief, in treacly tones.

“Totty yikes oogar,” exclaimed Mrs Jared, angrily imitating her juvenile’s limping speech, and forgetful that she herself had crippled the words while teaching the little one its first steps in language; “Totty’s a very, very naughty girl, and ought to be well whipped.” And then the troubled dame busied herself in gathering up the spilled saccharine treasures with a spoon, while Totty, elevating her chin to make the passage straight, gave vent to a doleful howl, rubbing the while her sticky hands all over her clean face. Patty tried to look cross because she had been scolded—an utter impossibility on account of the dimples in her cheeks, which seemed as though a couple of kisses had been planted there by loving lips, and the downy, peachy skin had flinched with the contact, and never since risen—nursing up the sweet impressions, and holding them as treasures of the past. Then numbers odd wept for sympathy, as Mrs Jared scraped and scolded, heedless of the facts that the Dutch clock had given warning for five, and that the tea was not yet made, the toast not cut, and the bloaters not down to cook. For, as it had been a Saturday’s dinner—i.e., scrappy—“snacks,” in honour of Tim Ruggles, were in vogue for tea.

But troubles never come singly; for now the baby having made up its mind to see what was the matter, contrived to wriggle about until its nine-months’-old bundle of soft bones, gristle, and flesh rolled off the sofa, bump on to the floor, where, as soon as it could get its breath, it burst forth into a wail of astonishment and pain at the hard usage it had received.

Patty rushed to seize the suffering innocent; Mrs Jared, with her skirts, knocked down the origin of the mischief; the kettle boiled violently, and spat and sputtered all over the newly-blackleaded grate and bright steel fender, adding as well a diabolical hydrogenous smell; and in the midst of the trouble down came Jared Pellet and Tim Ruggles, punctual to five o’clock, on purpose to refresh themselves with the social meal.

“There—if I didn’t expect as much!” cried Mrs Jared, snatching the kettle off the fire with one hand, and hushing Totty with the other; rushing the children into their ready-set chairs, and Tim Ruggles into his place, Jared quietly taking his own by the fireside, where he could set his tea-cup on the oven top. Then Patty set to work toasting; the little Dutch oven, containing four “real Yarmouths at two for three halfpence,” was placed before the fire, and sent forth a savoury odour; the tea was made with two spoonfuls extra, and Jared was set to caress the sticky Totty, now planted upon his knee.

By the end of five minutes that tyrant of the household—the baby—had subsided into an occasional sob, and was given over into the care of one of Patty’s juniors—both being well bread-and-buttered, the baby having a wedge in each hand—and sent up into the front room, the nurse pro tem being strictly ordered not to touch anything. The paraffine lamp was lit instead of a candle, the fire poked; and now, after so many preliminaries, the meal was commenced, the tea being fragrant, the toast just brown enough, the butter better than usual, and the bloaters prime; Totty declining to abdicate the throne she had ascended, one where she reigned supreme—her father’s knee, to wit; and at last there was peace in the front kitchen in Duplex Street.

“Did you ever hear such a noise, Mr Ruggles?” said Mrs Jared at length, her face now all smiles.

“Not my way often, ma’am,” said Tim, “at least—that is—we do have noises.”

Mrs Jared looked significantly at her husband, and then sighed, when, after fidgeting in his chair, Tim said, “A little more sugar, if you please, ma’am.”

“Totty yikes oogar,” exclaimed the chubby delinquent, displaying her sorrow for her late act of piracy by making a grab at the hard roe upon her father’s plate—a delicacy but just set free from overlaying bones, but the plate was hot, and the little fingers suffered a sharp pang, when there was another outcry; but with that exception, the meal progressed in peace to the end, when Jared threw himself back in his chair, and set himself to amuse Totty, by turning his inflated cheeks into drums for that young lady to belabour with sticky fists.

But it was at supper time, when the little ones were in bed and Jared and Tim had concluded their tasks, that there was the real peace. For now, up-stairs by the fireside, a pipe was produced for Tim, and two weak glasses of gin and water were mixed—Mrs Jared indulging in occasional sips from her husband’s portion, while, under the influence of his own, Tim grew communicative respecting his own home, and the present Mrs Ruggles, and on Patty making some enquiry respecting little Pine, he laid down his pipe, rubbed his hands softly together, and looked very serious as he replied to her question.

“For my part,” said Mrs Jared, “I don’t hold with such sharp correction of children as you say Mrs Ruggles administers.”

Tim did not speak, but his eye fell upon a small cane above the chimney-piece. His glance was detected by Mrs Jared, who exclaimed:

“You need not look at that, Mr Ruggles, for it is never used, only talked about; at least,” she said, correcting herself, “very seldom. I don’t think it right to be harsh to children, only firm; and if you begin with firmness, they will seldom require further correction.”

“Spare the rod, spoil the child,” said Tim, softly exhaling a column of smoke.

“Stuff!” said Mrs Jared, sharply; “do you mean to say that my children are spoiled, Mr Ruggles?”

“No, ma’am,” said the little tailor, earnestly; “I never saw a better behaved family.—Nor a bigger,” he said to himself.

“But Solomon said so, my dear,” said Jared, drily.

“Then Solomon ought to have been ashamed of himself,” said Mrs Jared, tartly; “and it must have been when he was nearly driven mad by some of his own children. He said plenty of good things, but I don’t consider that one of them; and besides, with all his wisdom, he was not perfect. Between ourselves, I wonder, Mr Ruggles, that you allow it. When the little thing came after you the other day, even her little neck was marked, and as to her arms—why Patty went up—stairs and cried about them. I’m only a plain-spoken woman, and really, sometimes, I wonder that you ever married again, and you must excuse me for saying so.”

“I often wonder at it myself,” thought Tim Ruggles, as he sat poking at his frizzy hair with the stem of his pipe, and looking very intently into his gin and water: all at once, though, he exclaimed:

“I’ll tell you how it was!”

But before telling them how it was, he refilled and lit his pipe, sat thoughtfully for a few minutes, and then refreshed himself with a sip of his gin and water.

Volume One—Chapter Twelve.

Tim’s Ditty.

“You see, ma’am,” said Tim Ruggles, looking very mysterious, “that little one’s name was Prosperine or Propserpine, I’m not sure which, unless I look at where we’ve got it written down. I’m not sure it ain’t Proserpine; but at all events it’s a long awkward name, and we took to calling her Pine. I married the present Mrs Ruggles to take her in charge and mind her. And she does take care of her, and brings her up in the way she should go. You should hear her say her Catechism,” said Tim, looking proudly at Mrs Jared.

“I’d rather hear her say she loved your wife, Mr Ruggles,” said Mrs Jared, quietly.

Tim was disconcerted, but not beaten.

“But she does, ma’am, and me too, wonderful, for Mrs Ruggles is only just a little too strict, and I don’t like to interfere; for you know, ma’am, that’s a child of mystery—that is, like Fatherless Fanny, as maybe you’ve read of; and no doubt she’ll come to be in a big spear of life. She—that’s Mrs Ruggles, you know, ma’am—says that we’ll do what’s right by the child, ma’am, and what can I say against that, when Mrs Ruggles is such a clever woman?”

“I don’t quite like such cleverness,” said Mrs Jared.

“You see I want to do what is right, ma’am,” said Tim, “and somehow that’s rather hard sometimes. But I was going to tell you, ma’am, we used to live in South Molton Street, and though I’ve no children of my own now, ma’am, when my poor first wife was alive there used to be one regularly every year, and the wife that proud of it, she didn’t know what to do for a few months; and then a time would come when we’d stand side by side looking at the little weeny, waxy features, lying in the bit of a coffin, and the wife fit to break her heart because they were all taken away again so soon. Not one lived, ma’am; and though we were poor, and at times very much pushed for a job and a little money, that used to be our greatest trouble, and I’ve seen my poor wife look that hungry and envious of a lodger on the first floor—quite a lady she was—who lived alone there with her baby, that nothing could be like it.

“But she was a good woman, God bless her!” said Tim, in a low voice, and as he spoke he put his hand to his bald head, as if raising his hat; “and sometimes I think, ma’am, that there aren’t such a wonderful number of good women in this world. I never knew what money we had, and what money we hadn’t, but used to put it in her hands as I brought it home from the shop, and I always knew that she’d make it go as far as money would go, and I didn’t want no more. Nothing like letting your wife keep the purse, sir,” he said, turning to Jared—“always makes her feel proud of the confidence.

“But it came to pass at one time, ma’am, that we were so put to it, that I couldn’t put a bit of confidence in Mrs Ruggles, ma’am—my first—for times were that hard with strikes that there was not a stroke of work to be got for anybody. We tried all we knew, and I scraped and pledged and sold, till it seemed that the next thing to do would be to go into the workhouse, when one day came a knock at our back-room door, and we both started, feeling sure that it was the landlord to tell us we must go, for we were behindhand with the rent. But no; who should come in but the first floor lodger, with her little one; and to make a long story short, what she wanted was for my lass to take care of her, because she was going abroad with her husband, and my wife was to be paid for doing it.

“And do you think she would? Why, she snatched hungrily at the little thing; and poor as we were, would have been glad to do it for nothing. Perhaps I had my objections, and perhaps I hadn’t, ma’am; but we were almost starving, and when five pounds were put on the table for the present, and an address written down where we were to go when that money was done, why, one could only look upon it as a Godsend, and promise all the poor lady wished.

“Then came the cruel time, ma’am, when the poor woman had to leave it, and I was glad to go out of the room, so as not to see her sobbing and breaking her heart, and snatching the poor little baby to her breast, and running to the door with it, and then coming back and giving it up to my wife, kissing her, and kneeling down to her, and begging of her to love it, when my poor lass was worshipping it as hard as ever she could.

“I stopped out of the room till she was gone, poor lady, and then I came back, pretending to look jolly; but I only made a fool of myself, ma’am, when I saw the wife crying softly over the little thing in her lap, for I knew what it all meant. Oh, so much, ma’am, for they were the tender motherly tears of a woman who had never been able to pour out all the love of her heart upon one of her own little ones. And as I stood there, I seemed not to like to speak, as I saw her lips quivering and face working. But, in spite of all her sad looks, there was one of pleasure in her face; for there was the little thing looking up and crowing and laughing as if it knew that it was in good hands; and while my poor wife stayed on this earth, ma’am, no little one could have been more tenderly treated.

“But there came a time when I was anxious and worried, same as I had been often before; and then I couldn’t believe it at all, and wouldn’t have it that it was true; for it all seemed like a dream, till I found myself sitting with little Pine in my arms, keeping her with me because she was something poor Lucy loved; and then it seemed to come home to me that it was my poor wife’s cold, smooth forehead that I had kissed, as she lay still and sleeping with another little waxen image upon her breast; but it was all true, ma’am, and I was alone—all alone.”

Poor Tim Ruggles made no secret of the fact that he was crying, as he laid down his pipe, and pulled out his thin red cotton handkerchief to wipe his eyes; and, for some reason or other, Patty’s face was very close to her work, and Mrs Jared had altered her position.

“Time went on,” said Tim, continuing his narrative, “till one day I was sitting, nursing the little thing, as took to me wonderful, when there came a sharp knock at the door, and in came the child’s mother to snatch it out of my arms, and kiss and fondle it as only mothers can. She seemed as if she couldn’t speak, but held out one hand to me, and pressed mine and tried to smile; but only gave me such a pitiful woe-begone look that it was quite sad to see.

“Then there were steps on the stairs once more, and the next moment there was a tall hard-looking woman, and a stout man in black like a doctor, both in the room.

“‘Ellen,’ said the tall woman, in a sharp, cross way; but the stout man was all fidgety, and nervous like, and did not seem to know what to do; but he says, ‘Hush! hush! don’t let us have any scene here.’

“‘Let her come quietly with us, then,’ says the woman; but the poor thing only held little crying Pine to her breast, seeming in sore trouble that the child should not know her, but struggle and try to get away. Then she gave me the child, and the man says, ‘Take her away. Stop that crying child.’

“But I had no occasion to do anything, for she stopped crying directly I took her, and besides I wanted to see the end of this strange scene, and it seemed as if the little one’s mother gave herself up like a prisoner to the tall woman, who took tightly hold of her arm, and then they hurried out of the room, the stout man all in a perspiration and looking scared, and as if afraid I was going to interfere, and I would, too, only Pine’s mother went so quietly, just smiling, and kissing her hand to me and the little one as she left the room, and then I heard their steps on the stairs.

“I did not see any more, but one of the lodgers told me afterwards how they all went off together in a cab that was waiting at the door. And I never knew any more, only what I told you was the child’s name, and that the money’s paid regular by a lawyer for her keep; and nobody never asks any questions, nor wants to know anything about her; and though I once tried, I couldn’t find anything out, and excepting that I’ve ten shillings a week with her, she might be my own little girl.

“And what could I do without some one to help me, ma’am?” continued Tim to Mrs Jared. “I went four years with women to do for me, and housekeepers, and the last one I had was the present Mrs Ruggles, ma’am, who took so kindly to the child, that I thought it would be all for the best; and we moved to Carnaby Street, ma’am, and it took a deal of doing, but I married her. My sister’s husband says she married me: perhaps she did, ma’am. I don’t know; but it all seems to come to the same thing.”

“And did you never see anything more of the little thing’s relations?” asked Mrs Jared.

“No, ma’am,” said Tim, “never—never. Of course I felt a bit curious after that strange visit; but I was too full of my own troubles to do anything then; and when, some time afterwards, I said something to one of the lawyer’s clerks, he asked me if I was tired of my job, because plenty more would be glad of it.

“That sent me out of the office like a shot, ma’am. It didn’t matter to me that I heard the clerk laughing, for I’d sooner have given them ten shillings a week to let me keep her than have given her up. And I don’t love her any the less now, ma’am; but I do sometimes wish she was away.”

“The old story,” said Jared; “they evidently don’t want the little thing, and pay to keep it out of sight.”

“Something more than the old story, sir, I think,” said Tim, humbly, as he tapped his forehead. “There’s something wrong about the poor mother, depend upon it, as well as the child.”

“So I think, Mr Ruggles,” said Mrs Jared, “and though perhaps I have no business to interfere, I cannot help saying again, that I don’t at all like the way in which it is treated, poor child,—I don’t think you ought to stand by and let it be beaten.”

“Well, I don’t know, ma’am, I don’t know,” said Tim, humbly. “I’m afraid to interfere, to tell you the truth; for I’m out a deal, and if I were to say much, I should only make Mrs Ruggles the little thing’s enemy. Really, ma’am, I try to do what’s for the best; and I don’t think if I tried ever so, I should make any better of it. As I said, I almost wish sometimes that she was gone, but it always nips me afterwards; for somehow, ma’am, that child seems to be all I have to love now, and you know how children will wind themselves round you, and make a home in your heart. I hope none of yours, ma’am, may know what it is to have a step—that is,” said Tim, stammering, “ever be—er—ever—ever—suffer, you know, ma’am.”

Tim Ruggles hid his confusion in his red handkerchief, as soon as he could prevail upon it to quit the depths of his pocket; after which he found out that it was quite time for him to take his departure, and hurried away.

“I can’t help taking an interest in the poor little thing,” said Mrs Jared, when they were alone; “but it seems a strange story.”

“Very,” said Jared Pellet.

Volume One—Chapter Thirteen.

Patty among Friends.

Brownjohn Street, Decadia, on a bright summer’s morning, when improvements had not made the neighbourhood a little less dingy than of old; when the pleasant district named after, but, all the same, a perfect disgrace to, a certain patron saint, had not recovered from the vast and clean sweep to which it had been subjected.

So early in the day, there was peace. There was no fight in progress before either of the palaces famed for the dispensing of gin; the police were not binding some fierce, dishevelled, and blaspheming virago to a stretcher, and then patting their hair or whiskers in tender spots from whence locks had been ravished by the handful, previous to bearing the drunken scold to the X station, attended by a train of howling creatures, in human form, but debased by “the vitriol madness”—the poison mental and bodily sold to them by the name of “Cream of the Valley”—“of the Shadow of Death,” might well have been added. The courts of the palaces were quiet as yet, and brawny-muscled bar and potmen were brightening counters, polishing plate-glass and mirrors, or burnishing brass, ready for the night, when the gas should be in full blaze. Men and women slink in and out now—coming in a dark secretive way, to partake of “pen’orths,” or, as they were here facetiously termed, “coffin nails,” to rouse the spirits, flagging from the effects of the previous night’s debauch. Burglars and pickpockets—night-birds both—slept in their lairs, hiding from the light, and waiting in drunken sleep for the darkness that was to them their day.

But Brownjohn Street was full of life: young men and women of the Decadian type—not children, though their years varied from five to ten—span the celebrated Decadian top, or sent pointed instruments, known as “cats,” darting through the air; halfpenny kites were flown with farthing balls of cotton; and one select party waltzed, fancy free, around a street organ, what time a young gentleman of about twelve, who had already attained to the dignity of greased sidelocks, performed a castanet accompaniment upon two pairs of bones, and another of the same age, whose costume consisted of one rag, one pair of trousers, secured beneath the arm-pits with string, and a great deal of dirt, stood upon his head, swayed his legs about as if in cadence with the air played by the organist, and occasionally beat together the soles of his bony feet. Altogether it was a happy party, and the Italian ground away and showed his white teeth; the children danced; and the whole scene might have been Watteau-like, but for the streets and the dirt.

Vehicles seldom passed down Brownjohn Street; the warning “Hi!” was rarely uttered by the driver, and the children ran in and out of the burrows of the human warren, wild and free, until old enough to be trained to prey upon their fellows. But they partook more of the rat than of the rabbit in their nature, for they were small-sized, careworn street Arabs, whose names would yet become famous in the “Hue and Cry,” or, under the head of “Police Intelligence” in the morning papers.

Dense, dismal, close, swarming, dirty, with the flags broken, and the gutters heaped up with refuse—such was Brownjohn Street; for dandies no longer escorted beauty homeward to such and such a number, in a sedan-chair, with running footmen and link-bearers to clear the way. But, teeming with population as was Brownjohn Street, those swarms were not all of the genus homo—the place upon this bright summer morning, when the sun was struggling with the mists and foul exhalations, was a perfect rus in urbe. The sound of the Italian’s organ was drowned by the notes of birds, as lark, canary, and finch sang one against the other in glorious trills, telling of verdant mead and woodland grove, as they hung in cages by the hundred outside dingy windows high and low.

The shops were full of birds from floor to ceiling. One place had its scores of wooden cages, some eight inches square, each containing its German canary-immigrant, another window was aviary and menagerie combined; but no shop displayed so great a variety as the one bearing the name of “D. Wragg, Naturalist, Dealer in British and Foreign Birds.”

Grey parrots shrieked, bantams crowed, ferrets writhed and twisted like furry snakes, rabbits thrust their noses between the bars of a parrot’s cage, a pair of hedgehogs lay like prickly balls in the home lately vacated by a lark, and quite a dozen dogs were ranged outside over the area grating, in rabbit-hutches, to the great hindrance of the light and the washing of Mrs Winks, then being carried on in the cellar-kitchen.

There was a door to D. Wragg’s shop, if you could get through it without hanging yourself in the chains, with collars attached, swinging from one post, and avoid knocking down the dragons which watched from the other side.

Not that these last were inimical monsters, for they were but dragon-pigeons, watching with an anxiety in their soft eyes which told of expected food or water.

It was different though with the dogs, since they snapped openly at trousers’ legs, out of which garments, they had been known to take pieces, in spite of a general reputation for harmlessness.

The pinky cockatoos also possessed a firmness of beak that was by no means pleasant if they could manage a snip. But once past the door, and you were pretty safe amidst the wonders which met your eye: a couple of knowing-looking magpies gazing at you sideways; a jay, the business of whose life seemed to be to make two hops with the regularity of a pendulum; squirrels and white mice, which spun round their cages and fidgeted and scratched; a doleful owl blinking in a corner; a large hawk, which glared with wicked eyes from cage to cage, as if asking who would die next to make him a meal, as he stood on one leg, and smelt nasty, in another corner; squealing parroquets and twittering avadavats; bullfinches which professed to pipe, but did not; and a white hare, fast changing its hue, which did tattoo once on the side of its hutch.

And even when you had seen these, you had not seen all, for in every available or unavailable place there was something stowed, living or dead.

Love-birds cuddled up together, budgerigars whistled and scratched, while in one large wire cage, apparently quite content, about fifty rats scurried about or sat in heaps, with their long, worm-like tails hanging out in all directions from between the wires, as if they were fishing for food, and snatched at the chance of getting a bite. One sage grey fellow sat up in a corner, in an attitude evidently copied from a feline enemy, whom he imitated still further as he busied himself over his toilet, pawing and smoothing his whiskers, like an old buck of a rat as he undoubtedly was, and happily ignorant that before many hours were past he would be sold with his fellows by the dozen, and called upon to utter his last squeak while helping to display the gameness of one of the steel-trap-jawed terriers, trying so hard to strangle themselves, and making their eyeballs protrude as they hung by their collars, tugging in the most insensate way at chains that would not break.

And here, amidst trill, whistle, screech, squeak, coo, snarl, and bark—amongst birdseed, German paste, rat and mouse traps, cages, new and secondhand, besides the other wonders which helped to form D. Wragg’s stock-in-trade, was Patty Pellet, whose bright, bird-like voice vied with those of the warblers around, and whose soft, plump form looked as tender, as lovable, and as innocent as that of one of the creamy doves that came to her call, perched upon her shoulder, and—oh, happy dove!—fed from the two ruddy, bee-stung, honeyed lips, that pouted and offered a pea or a crumb of bread to the softly cooing bird, which seemed to gaze lovingly at the bright face, the brighter for the dark framing of misery, vice, and wretchedness by which it was here surrounded.

Patty was enjoying herself that morning, seeing, as she called it, to Janet’s pets; for in spite of the vileness of the neighbourhood, she was often here, in consequence of her strange friendship for the adopted daughter of Monsieur Canau, who lodged on D. Wragg’s first floor. The acquaintanceship had originated in the visits of the Frenchman and his ward to the house in Duplex Street in quest of violin-strings, and through similarity of tastes, had ripened into affection between the girls, in spite of something like dislike evinced at first by Jared Pellet, and something more than dislike displayed by his wife, who, however, ended by yielding, and treating in the most motherly fashion the object of Patty’s regard, and of late many pleasant evenings had been spent by Canau and Janet in Jared Pellet’s modest parlour, on which occasions the little house resounded with wondrous strains, until the children were so wakeful that they rose in revolt, and the instruments had to be silenced.

Patty’s friend had just left her visitor and gone up-stairs in answer to a summons from Monsieur Canau, while the proprietor of all this wealth sat in his back room, a pleasant museum of stuffed departed stock-in-trade. He was smoking his pipe, and spelling over the morning’s paper, taking great interest in the last garrotting case—merely called, in those days, a violent assault—so that Patty, left alone, was enjoying herself, as was her custom, in dispensing seed, red sand, chickweed, and groundsel, and other food—with water unlimited—to the hungry many.

“Have you brought me anythink to do for you, my dovey?” said a voice, and a round red fat face appeared from somewhere, being thrust into the shop between a parrot’s cage, and a bunch of woolly and mossy balls, such as are supplied to young birds about to set up housekeeping.

“Nothing this morning, Mrs Winks,” trilled Patty.

“Not nothink, my dovey? no collars, nor hankychys, nor cuffs? The water’s bilin’, and the soap and soda waitin’, so don’t say as you’ve brought nothink as I can wash.”

“Nothing—nothing—nothing,” laughed Patty; “but be a dear old soul, and fetch me a pail of clean water, so that I can fill the globe for Janet before she comes back.”

“Of course I will, my pet; only fetch me the pail, or I shall be knocking of something down if I come any further.”

Patty handed the pail as requested to Mrs Winks, correcting very mildly a spaniel that leaped up at her as she did so. She then disappeared for a few minutes, to return bearing in her little hands a large globe, in which were sailing round and round half-a-dozen goldfish, staring through the glass in a stupid contented way, as their bright scales glistened and their fat mouths opened and shut in speechless fashion. Then, as she set the globe down upon the counter, there came a loud panting from the passage—a heavy rustling—and the next moment it was evident that Mrs Winks had made her way to the front, for she now puffed her way in at the shop-door, bearing the well-filled pail.

“Oh, how kind!” cried Patty; “I could have taken it in at the side.”

“You look fit to carry pails, now, don’t you, you kitten; it’s bad enough to let you come here at all,” said the stout dame, smiling; and she stood, very tubby in shape, and rested her pinky, washing-crinkled hands for a moment upon her hips; then she wiped her nose upon her washed-out print apron; and lastly, as Patty stooped to pour the water from the globe, and replenish it with fresh, Mrs Winks softly took a step nearer, and just once gently stroked the young girl’s fair glossy hair, drawing back her hand the next instant as Patty looked up and smiled.

“Ah, my dovey! why, here’s Mounseer just going out for his walk!” exclaimed Mrs Winks, as the little, shabby yellow-faced Frenchman squeezed into the shop through the side-door, his shoulders hoisted nearly to his ears, and his hands occupied the one with a cigarette, the other with a tasselled cane.

“Ah! tenez then, dogs,” he cried, thumping his cane upon the floor, for he had been saluted with a barking chorus. “Janet will soon be down,—and how is my little one?”

Patty held out her hand, when, laying his cigarette upon the counter, the old man took off his hat, placed it in the same grasp that held his cane, and then, with the grace of an old courtier, kissed the little round fingers that were extended to him. Directly after, he replaced his hat, but only to raise it again in salute to Mrs Winks, who acknowledged the act of courtesy by shortening herself two inches, and then rising to her normal height and breadth.

“I was just going to say, Mounseer, that if all people were as polite as you, how easy we could get along; and that if I was like Miss Patty here, people wouldn’t be so rude and queer when one goes round with the basket.”

“Aha! they are rude, then, those people in the galleree?”

“Rude ain’t nothing to it, Mr Canau; they makes way fast enough for the man with the porter, but when I’m coming with my basket of apples, oranges, biscuits, ginger-beer, and bills of the play, they goes on dreadful, a-sticking out their knees and grumbling, and a-hindering one to that degree, that you’ve no idee what a heat I’m in when I’ve gone down a row; and never gets half round before the curting rises again, let alone their remarks about being fat—just as if I made myself fat, which I don’t; and, as I says to one hungry-looking fellow, I says, ‘If I was as thin as you, I’d be a super still, and you admiring of me, instead of my having to supply people’s nasty animal wants, and being abused for it.’ For—I put it to you now, Mr Canau—can people do without their apples, and oranges, and things, when a play’s long and heavy? and I’m sure I’ve helped many a noo piece to a success, when it would—Oh, if there isn’t the water a-bilin’ over!”

With an agility and lightness almost corklike, Mrs Winks, warned by a strong and pungent odour steaming up between the boards, hurried down below; the little Frenchman lit his cigarette, kissed his hand to Patty, and then shuffled in his well-worn and cracked Wellington boots from the shop.

Patty, quite at home, refilled her bright bowl with water, and bore it through the side-door, and then returned to continue supplying the many wants around; but only to be interrupted by a fresh comer—a barefooted, round-faced, ragged man, smoking a short black pipe, but bent almost double beneath the heavy basket he bore, one which required a great deal of manoeuvring to get it past the cages, in addition to a great many low adjurations, in a husky voice, to “come on then!” or to “get out!” But at last it was safely deposited beside the counter, when the bearer made quite an Indian salaam, bending low in salutation to the smiling girl.

“That’s the werry last noo bow, Miss. I larnt that of my friend Jammesie Jeejeewo, what plays the little tom-tom drum with his fingers outside the public-houses of a night, and sings ‘Fa-la-ma-sa-fa-la-ta;’ and sells scent-packets, and smiles like a nigger all day long in Oxford Street. He’s own brother to the opium-eating cove as has allers got the cold shiver and freeze, and sweeps the crossin’ at the Cirkis. That’s it, Miss,” he said, bowing again with outstretched hands. “Blame the thing! what are you up to?” he shouted, shaking and snapping his soft fingers, one of which had come in contact with the cage of a hungry parrot, and been smartly nipped.

“Well, Dick!” said Patty, kindly.

“Well, Miss, but where’s Miss Janet? But, there! love and bless your pretty face, Miss, it’s a treat to see you here. Why, you makes the shop full of sunshine, and the birds to sing happier than if they was far away amongst their own woods and fields. But now to business, Miss,” he exclaimed, as, stooping to the basket on the floor, he brought out, piled one upon the other, a dozen freshly-cut, green, round, cheese-plate-like clover turves. “Tuff’s is getting werry skeerce, Miss; and will you tell Miss Janet as they’ve riz another penny a dozen? Penny a mile miss, accorden’ to Act of Parlyment. Every mile I goes farther away, I puts on a penny a dozen. They won’t let you cut ’em anywheres; and I got these four mile t’other side Pa’an’ton. I’m blest if there’ll be a bit of country soon, or a blessed scrap of chickweed or grunsel, or a tuff to cut anywheres. There wouldn’t be no water-creases if people didn’t grow ’em a purpose; and that’s what I shall have to do with grunsel—have a farm and grow it by the acre. You know, Miss, the bricks and mortar frightens the green stuff; and it goes farder and farder away, till it costs me a pound a year more for shoe-leather than it did a time ago.”

“Come, Dick, business,” said Patty, smiling at his earnestness; “I’m mistress just now.”

“To be sure, Miss—business,” said Dick. “Grunsel, Miss; there you are. Chickweed, green as green, and fresh as a daisy; plantain—there’s a picter—there’s fine long stalks, as full of seeds as Injin corn, and ’most as big; but blow my rags, if I don’t think this here’s the werry last to be got.”

As he spoke, the man placed the various bunches he had enumerated upon the counter, and then looked up smiling in Patty’s face as she spoke.

“Why, Janet says you tell her that story, Dick, every time you come,” laughed Patty, as she paid him the money, obtained from the inner room, while every coin the man took he rubbed upon his eyelids for luck, as he said, before wrapping them all in the piece of dirty rag which served him for a purse.

“Well, Miss, I know I’ve often said so; but really things is now growing to a pretty pass, and you’ve no idea the miles I have to tramp. Now, look ye there! What do you say to that, Miss Patty? That’s for you and Miss Janet, poor lass. She love flowers, she do. Them sorter things don’t grow amongst scaffle-poles and mortar-boards and contractors’ brick-rubbidge. Why, I had to go—”

“O Dick! O Dick! you good fellow! Oh, how sweet!” exclaimed Patty, with sparkling eyes, as the rough fellow brought from out of his basket, with the dew yet heavy upon their petals, a bunch of wild-flowers—late violets, blue-bells, primroses, and the peachy wood-anemone.

She took them from him with almost childish joy, smelt them, kissed them, and then for a moment held them to her breast, but only to dart into the back room for a little common vase, to fill it with water, and then carefully place the flowers within it.

“I thought as you’d like ’em,” said the man, as he watched her with glittering eye; “but they’re getting werry skeerce, Miss; and what with the building and ’closing commons, and shutting up of Epping Foresses, there soon won’t be no more flowers for poor people, only in shop winders and grand ladies’ bonnets, and of course they won’t smell. You mark my words, Miss; afore long, London’ll get to be so big that it’ll fill up all England, and swaller up all the country, so that they’ll have to build right out all round into the sea, and get their grunsel and chickweed for singin’ birds from furrin parts.”

“It was very kind of you, though, Dick, to think of us,” said Patty; and she held out her hand with a coin or two half-hidden therein; but the rough gipsy fellow shook his head, as he struggled against the temptation, for it was hard work to refuse money; then stooping, he occupied his hands with the straps of his basket.

“I don’t want no payin’ for ’em, Miss. I ain’t forgot the many a good turn she done my poor missus. I aint half outer debt yet. Besides, I’m flush just now; got a good two bobs’ worth o’ stuff, if I’m lucky, and here goes to sell it. Miss Janet all right?”

As the answer came in the affirmative, the man guided his basket out, and commenced singing in a sonorous minor key—

“Chickweed and grunsel for your singin’ birds!” as he turned to go down the street, rubbing his eyes with the knuckles of one hand. “Might ha’ been like her, if she’d on’y ha’ lived,” he muttered; and then, giving his eyes another rub, the dirty knuckles of his hand glistened as if with moisture, as he gave his strap and basket another hitch before going any farther.

Chickweed Dick was gone; but he only gave place to one Chucky, who drew a donkey-cart to the door, and brought in a basket of red sand. Then came boys to ask the price of guinea-pigs and white mice; boys to offer squirrels or hedgehogs for sale—miry and dusty boys, with the marks of the shires upon their shabby garb, to indicate long tramps, as bits of hay and straw whispered of nights passed beneath some friendly stack; but the proprietor of this Noah’s ark was already overstocked, and, in spite of references made by Patty, there was no dealing.

Patty meanwhile sang on as she fed the rest of the stock; and as if in emulation, the birds whistled loudly, darting eagerly at their cage bars, as she distributed the green food brought by Dick; but her song suddenly ceased, as did that of the birds, when a heavy-looking gaol-typical young fellow, in a sleeved vest, entered the shop, breathed hard, and then, staring offensively at Patty the while, asked to look at some finches.

Patty, glancing at the room door to see if any one was coming, lifted down a cage containing perhaps a score; but the gentleman seemed hard to please, pointing out failings here and there in the various birds, till he seemed to fix the poor girl with his stare, though she kept striving to master her trepidation, and to hide from her unpleasant visitor the fact that his presence caused her dread.

“I say,” he whispered, suddenly; “I say,” and he leaned across the counter.

The movement seemed to break the spell, for Patty now made an effort to retreat to the back room; but, in a moment, the fellow had stretched out one long, gorilla-like arm, effectually barring her way, when hawk and dove seemed to stand in the naturalist’s shop, eye to eye, the weak quailing before the strong.

A loud rustle of a newspaper within ended the scene, for, starting at the sound, the rough visitor turned his attention to the birds once more, and re-commenced his fault-finding, giving Patty time to recover herself, and to redden with anger at what she was ready to call her cowardice when there was some one in the next room.

“You see it ain’t for myself,” said the fellow, once more fixing his gaze on Patty, but turning the cage round the while; “it wouldn’t matter if I wanted it; but he’ll have to come and pick one for hisself. I don’t think I’ll take one to-day.”

Patty was about to take back the cage, but with a grin and a repetition of the hard breathing, the fellow drew it farther away.

There was again the rustling of the newspaper. A moment after, the proprietor was heard to rise, and then he jerked himself into the shop, to attend to the customer.

Patty, glad to get away, hurried into the back room, when a sharp piece of bargaining ensued between customer and dealer, ending, as might have been foreseen, in the former finding all possible fault, and then declining to purchase, as he went outside to stand staring heavily through the window, ostensibly at its contents, but really to see if Patty returned.

Volume One—Chapter Fourteen.

Janet.

Mr D. Wragg rented the whole of the house in Brownjohn Street, and his lodgers were confined to Mrs Winks and the little Frenchman, the attics being used for store purposes—old cages, birdseed, bundles of herbs, bags of feathers, cobwebs, and dust.

These attics formed a part of the house rigidly tabooed by the dealer, who only gave a comical twitch to his countenance, and jerked his body from head to heel when Mrs Winks complained that she had not had a bit of sleep for the howlings of some dreadful dog there confined.

Patty did not return into the shop, but began slowly to ascend the stairs, pausing at the first landing to fall into an attitude of attention, holding the balustrade and listening eagerly, as from below came the twittering of birds, and from above—in long-drawn, nerve-thrilling tones—sounds that seemed to have a strange effect upon the girl, as she stood in the full light of the landing-window, her eyes half-closed, her face upturned, and her lips parted, as though to give passage to a sigh.

But there was no sigh, no utterance, no motion; only the same strained aspect of attention, as still, from above stairs, came the sounds—now low, almost to fading away, now powerful and loud—but always with the same effect, that of chaining Patty to where she stood.

She might well listen as if entranced, for from above, with every note given with a feeling that seemed to find its echo in the listener’s ears, came floating softly down, the melody of “Ah, non giunge!” evidently played upon a violin of fine and sonorous tone, every bar sweet, pure, and clear, and softened by the distance into a strain which seemed to have floated into the dingy house from some brighter region.

Then, after a pause of a few moments, there was a change, the player turning off into a wild and eccentric variation upon the theme, now loud and sparkling in the major key—now plaintive and thrilling in the minor.

But this lasted only a short time, for as Patty once more began to ascend the stairs, the violinist dashed off into a French mazurka, with such spirit and brilliancy, that the notes seemed to be trilling out in joyous laughter, setting Patty’s head nodding to the gay refrain.

The next minute she had opened a door and stood in the presence of the player, who put down her instrument upon the table, and moved slowly across the room to catch the young girl’s extended hands, and apologise for not coming down again.

Canau’s room was bare and cheerless; a table, a few chairs, a couple of roughly-made music-stands, and a pile of torn, stained, yellow-leaved, printed, and manuscript music, were the principal objects that met the gaze; but Patty—whose presence lent a brightness to the blank place—seemed to have no eye for aught but the swarthy, deformed girl, whom she kissed affectionately.

Perhaps no greater contrast could have been seen than the sweet happy face of Patty, with her bright brown hair and peachy complexion—peachy with its soft down, and contrasts of creamy white and delicate pink; and that of Janet—she was known by no other name—the dark, deformed girl, who had been brought up by Monsieur Canau, the little French musician, now taking his morning promenade and indulging in his only extravagance—his second cigarette—a pinch of the commonest tobacco, rolled in one of the gummed squares of tissue-paper prepared for him by the girl who shared his poverty and had been taught his art.

The vital spark of life was bright and vivid, shooting keenly now from two dark eyes; but as for the fleshly case that held this vital spark, the wonder was that it should possess any shape at all, so fearful a moulding must it have received in its early plastic days, and not that the poor girl’s head should be close down between her shoulders, and that in form she should be diminutive and shrunken.

“I was tired of waiting, and had been listening ever so long,” said Patty, drawing a little white finger across the violin-strings. “I wish I were clever, too, and could play.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed the other, harshly. “I’m ashamed of it sometimes. It isn’t a woman’s instrument; but it pleases him for me to play, and I get to like it now; one seems almost able to make it speak and tell one’s feelings—sending them floating away into the air,” she continued, dreamily gazing before her. “It makes one think and think, and seem to be living another kind of life; and I am far away from here, Patty, sometimes when I am playing,—perhaps along with you and the little innocent children, and your father and mother,—perhaps far away in the country, amongst the flowers, where there’s no noise in the streets, no shouting, shrieks, oaths, nor misery, nor dirt. There!” she said, suddenly, as if she had been brought back to the present, “I know what you are thinking.”

“Indeed!” laughed Patty.

“Yes; you think I’m odd and strange in my way. Ah! I wish I were like you.”

“And sometimes,” rejoined Patty softly, turning very serious, and stooping to pass one arm round the deformed girl, and bending so that her cheek touched the other’s dark sallow face,—“sometimes, Jenny, I wish that I were like you—oh! yes—so much—so much; for I’m not happy, Jenny—not happy!”

She repeated these words in a quiet thoughtful way, sinking at last upon her knees by the other’s side, when, laying her hand, long and bony of finger, upon the bonny little head, Janet pressed it closely to her misshapen breast, from which burst sigh after sigh, till, waking as it were from her dreamy thoughts, Patty forced a smile, and springing up, kissed Janet again and again.

“There! what nonsense!” she cried, lightly. “I’m crying too, and pray what about? Let’s see how these goldfish are. Why, quite lively,” she exclaimed, drawing her friend to the window, where, half-screened by a faded curtain, the gorgeous little pets sailed round and round in their crystal prison.

“Do you ever think it childish of me, liking to keep them?” said Janet, after a pause, during which, as they clung together, the two girls had been watching the fish, one of which rose to the surface, and, with its little gasping lips touched lightly the pinky finger-tip Patty placed beneath the water.

“Sometimes,” continued Janet, “it is so dull, so lonesome, in spite of the busy noises coming from the street. Wragg is kind, and so is poor old Mrs Winks; but—but,” hesitated the girl, “there are times when I don’t wish to be with them. He is often away for hours together, and one cannot always be at music; and then it is that I like to go down-stairs, and be with the little prisoned birds and things. And somehow they seem to know me, and flutter and leap to welcome me when I come. But you don’t think it childish?”

“Childish? No!” was the reply, as Patty again dipped a finger to have it saluted by the fish. “I love to come and feed the birds myself; but I would take them, if I could, all far away into the bright happy country, and then open the cage-doors and set them free one by one—one by one. How they would leap, and dart, and flutter as they felt the soft air waiting for them! I think it would be real happiness to see the little things leave off beating their breasts as they tried to get out; and then to listen to them singing from some tree!”

“Or else see some cruel hawk come and seize one,” said Janet, bitterly.

“Heigho! perhaps yes,” sighed Patty; “there’s always something to make life unhappy.”

“I like the goldfish,” said Janet, without seeming to heed the sigh. “They always put me in mind of lying there—just there!” and she pointed to a corner by the window, “when I was little and could not walk, but only lay there all day with my back aching, as I stretched out my hands to touch one of the little bright things as they sailed so easily round and round. I must have been very very little when he bought the first to please me. But Patty, Patty!” she exclaimed, as she peered in the other’s eyes, “what made you sigh, and say that there was always something to make you unhappy?”

Patty was silent, and gazed thoughtfully at the fish, as another, seeking the food so often given, rose and touched her finger.

“What did you mean?” said Janet again, bending forward to gaze in the soft grey eyes. “It was not because I spoke of the hawk?”

Patty shook her head.

“Well, perhaps not altogether—I mean, I don’t know,” she said, in a slow hesitating way. “But really I must go home now; I promised not to be very long.”

Janet watched her eagerly, then, as if to change the subject, kissed her affectionately, and thanked her for what she had done below, ending, at Patty’s wish, by putting on her bonnet and accompanying her friend back to Duplex Street, D. Wragg being charged with a message for Monsieur Canau, who, according to custom on such occasions, came for his adopted daughter in the evening.

Volume One—Chapter Fifteen.

Husband and Wife.

Nimrod may have been a mighty hunter in his day, but he was never anything to compare with Jared Pellet, who for twenty long years—that is to say, years of the ordinary length—had engaged in the chase of one savage, long-fanged, dire, snarling brute of a wolf, a hungry grinning wretch, grey and grim, and ever licking his thin gums. Old and lank he was, but a very giant in endurance; and very often circumstances were reversed, the hunter becoming the hunted, when it took all Jared’s strength and courage to keep the wolf at bay.

That wolf had lain down his long, lean, hungry form at Jared’s door when he married, and, on and off, he had been there ever since. What were Nimrod’s feats to hunting or keeping at bay a wolf for twenty long years? Jared Pellet had done all this, and was ready to keep up the struggle with the wolf Poverty so long as he had breath left in his body.

They were busy in Duplex Street as usual. Jared was wax-ending a cracked clarionet, pausing every now and then to apply the reed to his lips and breathe out such a wail as would have produced goose-skin upon a stranger. Here, though it had no effect upon Mrs Jared, who was stitching hard, nor upon Patty, bending over her work, there was another present who winced slightly, namely, Janet, who was paying one of her many visits to her friend; and as each wail arose, she drew in her breath between her set teeth and slightly knitted her brow. Then catching Patty’s eye, the latter smiled and rose, and the two girls left the room to husband and wife.

“Ah!” said Mrs Jared, as soon as they were alone, “I do wish poor Canau would leave that horrid place.”

“Used to it, and won’t,” said Jared, supplementing his speech with a dismal “too-hoo” from the clarionet.

“I don’t like to be unkind to poor Janet,” said Mrs Jared; “but I’m always in dread of something happening when Patty goes there.”

“Too-hoo, too-roo, roo-roo,” blew Jared from the half-cobbled instrument. “Hen’s anxiety about her chicks!”

“Chicks! yes;” said Mrs Jared with a sigh, her thought’s current turned. “It is such a drawback having so many children, as well as the anxiety; what with the doctor and the nurse, and dear, dear, the extravagance of the old things, it is really dreadful; and when I’m up-stairs and can’t help myself, I do so fidget about the expense. The tea that goes when Patty is not there is really infamous. I’m sure it’s never used. And when you buy black at three shillings, and green at four, Mr Timson’s best, it worries you terribly. If ever—you know what I mean—and I wanted one again poor Mrs Nimmer had promised to come, if I’d set her free on Saturdays for dusting, and, of course, on Sundays, and now she’s ill.”

From the wail which now arose from the clarionet it might have been supposed that Mrs Nimmer had been dead, but Jared did not speak.

“Oh, dear!” sighed Mrs Jared, “if we did not have so many children!”

“What’s the good of grumbling?” grunted Jared; and then there was silence, only broken by the clicking of needle against thimble.

“When was she taken ill?” said Mrs Jared then.

“What? Mrs Nimmer?—last week. Break up, I think. She’s past seventy.”

Mrs Jared sighed again, and then Jared took up the ball as he went on busily cleaning the keys of the instrument.

“Children are expensive luxuries. Costly; they do eat so furiously; and I don’t believe there ever were such children as ours to eat—bless ’em. Poor folks’ children ought to be born without appetites, instead of coming into the world with a double share. Some people do, I think, reckon the poor to be a different race to their noble selves; and if they are to be so looked on, it does seem a pity that Nature don’t take the matter up and cover them with feathers or wool. What a saving it would be if they’d only moult every year and come out in a new suit!”

“Jared, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!” said his wife.

“So I am, my dear,” said Jared, screwing up his face; “but it was you who grumbled. ‘Like as the arrows in the hand of a giant;’ and ‘Happy is the man who has his quiver full of them.’ That’s it, isn’t it? But they didn’t pay rent and rates and taxes in those days, and every man had his own freehold in the land of Israel. Ah! there was no Duplex Street in the land in those days.”

“Nor no Decadia,” said Mrs Jared, tartly.

“No,” said Jared, “nor no St Runwald’s. By the way, I wonder who used to mend their musical instruments at that time.”

Here Jared gave a loud nasal “whang-whung” upon the clarionet.

“There were the trumpets they blew before Jericho, you know,” he continued. “They must have got cracked some time or other. They couldn’t have had organs though, and Ichabods wern’t invented to blow. ‘To repairing clarionet, ninepence,’” he muttered, writing a little entry in a pocket-book. “Never mind the expense, my dear. Look at the breed: not such children anywhere. Talk about arrows: sharp as needles. I wish, though, you’d ask that little one of Tim’s here to play with them a little oftener. I like the child, and—and well there, I believe it’s really an act of kindness.”

“Poor little thing, yes,” said Mrs Jared; “but she’s not like a child; she’s so old and strange, and don’t seem to mix with them. Mr Ruggles came this afternoon just as Janet came up to the door.”

“Tim Ruggles—what did he want? I don’t owe him a penny.”

“Don’t talk in that way, dear, just as if all the people who came to the house wanted money.”

“Well, don’t they?” said Jared.

“No, dear, of course not, not all; and I don’t think you ought to speak like that.”

“Consequences of long habit, my dear,” said Jared.

“And besides, Mr Ruggles never troubled you for money, though it has been owing to him sometimes till I’ve been ashamed to see him.”

“That beautiful wife of his has though,” said Jared, nursing one leg by the fire as he stirred the glue now melting in the little pot, preparing for some fresh piece of music cobbling.

Mrs Jared winced and looked uncomfortable.

“Bullied me terribly one day for two and ninepence. Bother the Jezebel! I hate her, if it’s only for the way in which she ill-uses that child. ’Pon my soul,” exclaimed Jared excitedly, “I feel sometimes as if I could take the little thing away.”

Here Jared stirred the glue so viciously, that a portion fell over into the fire, and a vile savour arose in his nostrils.

“But it was about her he came to-day,” said Mrs Jared, nervously.

“What! little Pine?”

“No; about Mrs Ruggles,” said Mrs Jared, speaking very hurriedly. “He says there is no doubt about poor Mrs Nimmer never being able again to perform her duties; and he wants you to use any little influence you may have with Mr Gray and Mr Timson.”

“What for—mending?” said Jared.

“No, no; to back Mrs Ruggles in trying to get the appointment of pew-opener.”

“What! Mrs Ruggles?”

“Yes, dear,” exclaimed Mrs Jared, laying down her work.

“I’ll see her—”

“And if you will,” continued Mrs Jared, hastily interrupting her husband, whose glue was again in the fire, “he says that she will not mind the distance.”

“I shouldn’t think she would,” exclaimed Jared. “Why, she’d scourge us all. Why, I hate her and she hates me, and has done ever since I spoke about her ill-using the little one. Why, before I’d stir a step to get the nasty old cat the post, I’d—”

“And Mr Ruggles says, if you would speak for her, he thinks her having occupation away would make it pleasanter for those at home, and little Pine would be more left to him; and it would be conferring an obligation upon him that he would never forget.”

“Bother the fellow! why did he put it like that, so as to make a man eat his words? Why, I hate to see the nasty one-sided looks of the woman; and I know if I help her into the church, she’ll do me an ill turn for it some time or other.”

“Nonsense,” cried Mrs Jared. “Depend upon it the woman has some good qualities.”

“Ah! it’s all very fine!” said Jared. “You’d take the very devil’s part, if you saw him in trouble.”

“Hush!” exclaimed Mrs Jared; “and now you’ll do your best now, won’t you, and do Mr Ruggles a good turn?”—the Mr was slightly emphasised. “I promised him you would.”

“Men are lords of the creation,” muttered Jared; “man is a free agent. Ah, well! are we going out to-night?”

“Yes, and to see Janet home,” was the reply; and soon after, Mrs Jared stood, big basket in hand, and ready, for it was marketing night, and there were the wants of the household to supply.

Volume One—Chapter Sixteen.

Purkis’s Emporium.

“I’m always glad to get out of this place,” said Mrs Jared; and she hurried her steps as they turned out of Brownjohn Street, where they had left Janet in safety, Monsieur Canau being absent at his theatrical duties; but they had seen D. Wragg, who had insisted upon Jared taking back a couple of unfortunate sparrows in a paper-bag. “Just to please the children,” the dealer had said. They had also seen Mrs Winks, and made an appointment with that lady concerning soap and soda: and now the providing had to be attended to in the busy street to which they made their way.

It was sharp work that providing, now at the butcher’s, now at the greengrocer’s, and now at the grocer’s that was not green; then they went to get a piece of the very fine prime old Cheshire from the next shop, with five eggs for sixpence, and butter and lard. Then the big basket began to grow heavy, and there was no more room in Jared’s pockets, nor yet under Mrs Jared’s shawl; and their steps were directed, as Jared supposed, homewards, as he groaned beneath his load.

For Jared Pellet always was loaded. No sooner did he take a weight off his shoulders than one asserted itself upon his mind. But it did not matter, he said, so long as he did not get so much more than his share. Upon the present occasion he felt like a man carrying a sheet of plate-glass down Fleet Street; for he had apples in the same pocket with the eggs, and that pocket being disposed to bulge, people would keep coming in contact, even though he used a market bunch of greens as the “ease-her-stop-her” boys do the fenders on the “Citizen” steamers to soften collision or contact with pier.

Then, too, there was Mrs Jared to protect in the crowd, for she was a very little woman; and though she would not own to it, that big basket bothered her sadly, being a regular tyrant, and, in spite of the coolness of the night, keeping her in a profuse perspiration.

It really was a brute of a basket—one of those wicker enormities with a cross handle, two flaps, and a large interior. Plenty of room when you could get anything inside; but an abomination of obstinacy, which seemed to like to have goods carried half in and half out, top-heavy fashion, with the flap lids cocked up and in the way of the handle.

And so it was upon the night in question; nothing would pack in as it should. The potatoes certainly did dive in properly when the scale was turned up; but the beef would not enter in spite of all the coaxing and contriving bestowed. No; it would not go in, but broke the wedge of fine old Cheshire all to crumbs; and there it was being carried home with the rough, red, freshly-sawed bone sticking out, and anointing with wet marrow Mrs Jared’s second-best shawl. Even the tea-paper was broken, and “Timson’s fine old family mixture” escaping in secret amongst the potatoes. However the moist sugar was safe, for it was being carried is a brown paper cone, balanced inside Jared’s hat, to the serious alarm of the two sparrows, till Jared stopped for a moment at a street corner and let them fly.

Any one with sympathetic feelings will easily understand that homely shopping under such circumstances was rather trying to the temper. Mrs Jared’s temper was tried, but it only displayed itself in slight compressions of her lips; and even this outward and visible sign of something wrong soon passed off, giving place to an air of anxiety as they passed through a by-street, where she suddenly arrested her husband.

The stopping-place was at a liberally painted shoemaker’s shop, over which, in large letters, shone the golden words, “Purkis’s Boot and Shoe Emporium,” while the gilt flourishes and bands upon the board seemed to remind the beholder strangely of the beadle’s uniform and wand of office.

“Hallo!” exclaimed Jared, waking up from a dream of Farmer’s Gloria in Excelsis, “What do you want here?”

“Only to tell Mr Purkis to send for Totty’s little boots,” said Mrs Jared.

Jared was satisfied, and they entered, sending a small bell hung upon the half door into a very rage of ringing, to summon attendance, although the owner of the establishment was ponderously taking the measure of a customer’s foot, by means of a long slip of paper and a sliding rule, slowly the while making entries upon the said white slip, and afterwards smearing them out and re-writing them. The next minute, though, he had fallen into a state of doubt, and measured again, till, in his confusion, he not only made himself extremely inky, but blotted his customer’s white stockings.

But at last Mr Purkis had finished, sighed relief, dismissed the measured lady, with a promise very doubtful of fulfilment, taken off his glasses, and then turned to welcome his visitors, Mr Jared Pellet, organist of his (Mr Purkis’s) church, being a customer held by him in some reverence.

A very warm, moist man was Mr Purkis in all weathers, and during conversation he was always busy dabbing his forehead, or wiping his neck or hands, even continuing the desiccating process sometimes within his shirt-collar; but his broad face was wreathed with smiles, and a Chesterfield could not have been more polite to his visitors as he responded to Jared’s inquiries about his health.

“Not very well, sir,” said Mr Purkis, taking up a huge clump-soled boot. “I’ve been a deal worried to-day, sir, over this boot. Mr D. Wragg’s, sir, as you recommended to come to me, and that leg of his as is shorter than the other never seems to keep the same length two days together, and I can’t get the sole thick enough, even now. But he’s a good customer all the same, and I thank you ever so much for recommending me to him. Make that dark gi—young lady’s boots too, I do, sir; her as comes with the little Frenchman; but where he picks up his boots, I don’t know.”

Here Mrs Jared cut a long story short by speaking about Totty’s shoes.

He would send for those little shoes first thing in the morning, without fail; but would not Mr and Mrs Pellet step in.

Jared thought not, but Mrs Jared took the opposite, for she had other thoughts than shoes upon her mind; so declaring herself to be tired, she followed Mr Purkis into the back room, where Mrs Purkis left off ironing to dust a couple of chairs, and drew a small black saucepan, simmering upon the hob, a little farther from the cheery blaze.

“Poor Mrs Nimmer’s dead and gone, sir,” said Mr Purkis.

“Indeed!” said Jared and his wife together.

“Yes, sir—went very suddenly—only this very afternoon, sir. Forty year had she been pew-opener at St Runnles—twenty year before I took the beadleship.”

The conversation had taken the very turn Mrs Jared desired; in fact, she had dragged Jared round in order to enlist Mr Purkis upon their side—at all events, to prevent him from trying to run a friend of his own. She was somewhat shocked at the suddenness of the beadle’s announcement, yet she felt that, for the sake of a family friend, so good an opportunity must not be lost.

“Who is to be the new pew-opener, Mr Purkis?” she said, after a while.

“Who, mum?” said Purkis, after a good wipe; “I don’t know, mum, I’m sure. I should like the Missus there to try, but she says she won’t.”

“Not if I know it, Joseph,” exclaimed his lady, as if in doubt whether she might commence the undertaking in ignorance. “Not if I know it, Joseph,” she exclaimed, polishing an iron with a duster, after giving it a vicious rub in the ashes. “If a married woman hasn’t enough to do to mind her own house and bits of things, it’s a pity. The church has got you, and has you a deal away from the business with weddings and such; and besides, I never opened pews, and I’m too old to learn now.”

“Perhaps Mrs Purkis will think better of it,” said Mrs Jared.

“Better of it! No, ma’am; nor worse, neither. I shall never commit myself by doing of it, as I’ve told Joseph a score of times.”

“Then, under those circumstances, perhaps Mr Purkis would not mind helping a friend of ours to obtain that post?”

“Friend of yours, mum?” said Purkis, eagerly; “I’d do all I could in my way, mum, though that wouldn’t be much. But,” he exclaimed, as a bright thought seemed to strike him, “I could keep other people away.”

“But that would hardly be fair,” observed Mrs Jared.

“Perhaps we had better not go into that part of the business, mum,” said Mr Purkis, with dignity. “Elections is things as ladies don’t understand; and those in elections have to serve their own friends, and serve out their enemies. What we want to do is to remember Mr Pellet’s kindness.”

“Which we shall never forget,” chimed in Mrs Purkis, looking up from her ironing in support of her husband’s allusion to Jared’s “donus,” and a timely loan supplied at a time when Mr Purkis had got himself into what he termed “a mess” by obliging a friend in a bill transaction.

“’Taint every one as will put himself to inconvenience and help them as is pushed,” said Mr Purkis.

“Which it’s well enough we know that, Joseph,” chimed in Mrs Purkis, halting in her task, and burning the mark of the flat-iron into the garment being smoothed.

“There! I must go, if you are going to keep this on,” exclaimed Jared, rising from the chair in which he had been fidgeting about until it scraped upon the floor. “I can’t stand this, you know,” and he glanced from Purkis to his wife, who was wiping her eye upon the corner of her apron.

“Don’t go, sir, please,” exclaimed Purkis; “for I was going to say—to ask, you know—that is, if you wouldn’t mind—”

Here he made a telegraphic signal with one arm to his wife, and in one sweep indicated “Clear away and lay the cloth.” The signal having the effect upon Mrs Purkis of making her dab down an iron and raise the saucepan lid.

“We’re very homely, Mr Pellet, sir,” she said, as she diffused a savoury odour through the little room; “but if you wouldn’t mind?”

Jared did not wish to stay, but Mrs Jared did, and she had her way, when, over a snug little supper, the pew-opening business was discussed in all its bearings, though frequently during his stay Jared was ready to get up and leave the place in consequence of the beadle’s allusions to his kindness.

It was very plain, though, that Purkis and his wife looked up to their visitors as people far above the ordinary run; and after their departure, Mr Purkis dabbed himself for five minutes, and then, bringing his hand down upon his counter with a loud spang, he exclaimed, like a monarch bestowing dignities—

“She shall have it, that she shall.”

“But, Joseph,” exclaimed his wife, deprecatingly, “whatever you do, don’t commit yourself.”

“Don’t talk stuff,” exclaimed Purkis, fiercely.

“But it wouldn’t be stuff, Joseph, if you was to commit yourself,” whimpered Mrs Purkis.

“Mrs Purkis, ma’am,” said the beadle, donning imaginary robes, “Mr Pellet has asked for the post for a humble friend of his. Mr Pellet’s humble friend shall have it, ma’am, or I’ll know the reason why. Mr Pellet, ma’am, is our friend; and what’s more, or what isn’t more—I won’t say as to that—Mr Pellet, ma’am, is an ornament to my church, for he’s the finest organist in London.”

Volume One—Chapter Seventeen.

Mrs Nimmer’s Successor.

There was no very great difficulty in the matter. Jared Pellet, under protest, wrote a note to the Rev. John Gray, the vicar, telling him that a friend—he haggled a great deal over that word “friend”—would be glad to undertake the duties of pew-opener in the place of the defunct Mrs Nimmer; and the vicar mentioned the matter to his friend Mr Timson, churchwarden and tea-dealer, and both agreed that they would be most happy to oblige Mr Jared Pellet in the matter.

Then Mr Timson had an interview with Jared, and told him personally he would be glad to give his weight to the matter, if Jared’s friend was a worthy suitable woman.

Now there came a hitch in the smoothness, for Jared went home and told his wife that that red-faced old humbug Purkis had played double; and, in fact, he had gone head-dabbing into the presence of the vicar and churchwarden to tell them he should be glad if the post lately occupied by Mrs Nimmer could be conferred upon a friend of his.

But explanations followed: the two principal candidates were found to be one and the same; and Mrs Tim Ruggles was duly appointed to a post, for whose proper filling she seemed to have been specially manufactured by Dame Nature.

She, that is to say Mrs Tim Ruggles, glided, as it were, into the correct rut upon the very first Sunday—coming to St Runwald’s in a mournful-hued dress—a shot putty and soot, while a tightly-fitting cap crowned her head—a cap like a white sarcenet raised pie, all tiny bows and tuckers—none of your fly-away servant-girl style of headdress, but firmly tied beneath her chin with silken strings. Then, too, a prim-white muslin handkerchief encircled her neck, with ends pinned across, and descending to be hidden away and protected by exceedingly stiff, dark-coloured jean stays, whose presence was manifested to the ear of the world at large by divers creaking cracklings, when, by rare chance, Mrs Ruggles slightly bent her fierce body—to the eye, by a little peephole, afforded where one hook in the back of the dress had an antipathy to its kindred loop.

She might have been pew-opener for twenty years from the way in which she performed her duties, even trenching upon Mr Purkis’s dominion by frowning at small boys. It was a sight to see the way in which she performed her task, pouncing upon dubious-looking strangers who stood tasting their hats just inside the doors, and, as she could tell in a moment whether or not they were disposed to be generous, placing them in comfortably cushioned seats, where such miserable sinners could not fail to be eased in their consciences. Sometimes she morally took the poor things into custody, and then, like some savage warder, shut them up in cold wooden cells—in corners where it was dark, in black places just below the galleries, in spots beneath the organ, where they sat with a sensation as of liquid thunder being poured upon their heads, or behind pillars where they could not catch a glimpse of the reading-desk, and had to look round the corner at the pulpit. A select few she treated worse than all the rest, shutting them up in the great churchwarden’s pew, where they were completely out of sight, Mr Timson monopolising all the hassocks so as to peep over the edge.

A very moral hedgehog was Mrs Ruggles, treating the congregation as if they were so many little Pines intrusted to her charge, and evidently annoyed that she was not allowed, like Mr Purkis, a cane to use ad libitum. Had she been in office at a ritualistic church, brawlers would have paused ere they attempted to desecrate the structure. If you went into the church, she looked at you sidewise, and calculated your value in an instant; when, if you obeyed the glance of her eye, well; if not, she held up a finger at you, as if to say, “Come here, sir!” and then—stay away if you dared.

Why! the pew doors never screaked and scrawked when she opened them. She never shut in your coat-tails, or the voluminous folds of a lady’s dress; but she punished you severely if ever you attended St Runwald’s without books; for she would glide along the aisle like a religious ghost, and thrust a dreadful liver-coloured, dog’s-eared, S.P.C.K. prayer-book under your nose, so that you were obliged to take it, and then pay her sixpence as you went out for what you would rather not have had. For, if you had been accustomed all your life to a delicately bound diamond edition, it was not pleasant to stand up in good society holding the sore-edged, workhouse-looking book, while you dared not thrust it out of sight, for she was sure, in that case, to bring you another, to your lasting shame and confusion. It was almost a wonder that people so served ever entered the church again; and the probabilities are that they never would have done so, had not Jared Pellet drawn them thither with his music.

The best way to meet Mrs Ruggles was to be prepared with a pocket edition of the liturgy, when, if it were your custom to stand with hands joined and resting upon the pew-edge, under the impression that you were quite at home in the service, down she would come, for a certainty, her crackling stays heralding her approach. Then the plan was to be ready for her, and, as she rigidly made a thrust at you with the most disreputable book in her collection, ward off her attack with one of Jarkins & Potto’s little bijous.

The assertion cannot be authenticated, but it was said that Mrs Ruggles, soon after her appointment, went round to the bookstalls in Holywell Street, and bought up the old prayer-books out of the tea-chests, labelled, “All these at twopence;” and these brutal, loose-leaved, mildewed affairs she used to keep in a box in a corner pew ready to hand, making pounds out of them in the course of the year—a sort of private church-rate of her own.

It was almost startling to hear her, when it had grown too late for fresh comers, when the church was completely filled, and a portion of the congregation was sitting in aisle and nave upon camp-stools and chairs fetched out of the vestry. She would join then in litany and communion, startling the clerk, and getting right before him, so that the congregation would turn and look at her, in admiration or otherwise, but without ruffling in the least the perfect calm of her demeanour.

If a douceur was given to old Purkis, he bent a little, or touched his cocked-hat, or in some way gave you to understand that he was grateful; but not so Mrs Ruggles: she seemed to demand the money of you as a right, and you paid it under protest, feeling somehow obliged to do so, although, when she took it, she seemed to ignore you and your coin at one and the same time. Some people said that she must have paid fees to physicians in her day, and so have learned something of their ways; but how she ever continued to get the sixpences and shillings into her pocket, remains one of the great unsolved mysteries, for she never bent in the slightest degree.

Mr Purkis never took to her, for he declared her to be a woman without a soul for music, since she seemed to make a point of leaving all the dust and cobwebs she could about the organ loft, neglecting it shamefully; which the beadle said was not the thing, seeing who had been the means of getting her the post.

Volume One—Chapter Eighteen.

Official.

“A most valuable woman, Timson,” the vicar said to the churchwarden; “most suitable person. You never see her flurried when a great many people are waiting for seats.”

“Never,” said Mr Timson, gruffly.

The conversation took place in the vicar’s snuggery, where he and his friend indulged in these unclerical comforts, pipes, gin-and-water, and cribbage.

“Very stiff and formal she is certainly,” said the vicar; “but, somehow, she never seems to give offence.”

“Yes, she does,” said Mr Timson, gruffly; “she offends me; I don’t like her. Wish Mother Nimmer was alive again.”

“Pooh! nonsense! stuff! prejudice!”

“Shoo, shoo, shoo, shoo!” ejaculated Mr Timson. “I haven’t a bit of prejudice in my whole body.”

“I mean,” said the vicar, taking not the slightest notice of the interruption, “she never seems to give offence about people’s sittings; for her’s is a delicate task, and one not easy to manage. I can assure you that I have not had a single complaint as yet, and they used to be constant in Mrs Nimmer’s time.”

“’Fraid of her,” suggested Mr Timson.

“I do wish that you would talk rationally, Timson,” said the vicar.

“Well, that is rationally,” said Mr Timson.

“The church fills uncommonly well now,” observed the vicar, after a pause, so as to start a fresh subject; for Mr Timson was looking red and choleric, and his short hair was standing up all over his head. “The people seem to like those historical sermons. I think I shall continue them.”

“I think I should,” said Timson, drily; “perhaps it might be as well, at the same time, to stop some of the music, or give Mr Pellet a holiday.”

“Why?” said the vicar, sharply.

“Make more room in the church,” said Timson.

“There, there! I won’t quarrel with you Timson,” said the vicar, with some asperity; “but I can understand your allusion, though I won’t notice it. But, to return to the subject, don’t you think that Mrs Ruggles’ salary might be a little raised?”

“No,” said Mr Timson, stoutly; “I don’t think anything of the kind. Why, what for, pray? when the woman has the same as poor old Mrs Nimmer, who was worth a dozen of her.”

“Well, Timson,” said the vicar, quietly, “if you are not disposed to discuss the matter in a liberal spirit, why it had better drop; at least, I think so.”

“So do I,” said the illiberal Timson; and consequently the matter did drop, with the advantage to Mrs Ruggles of making her appear an ill-used woman, much persecuted, in the vicar’s eyes.

For the old gentleman most thoroughly believed in her, from her conduct being so exemplary. Always the same quiet, prim woman, ready at proper times to do her duty; to arrange hassocks at a christening, or to point out the positions for the actors at a hymeneal sacrifice. The vicar was loud in her praise, so loud, indeed, that when with his crony Timson, Mrs Ruggles grew to be quite a bone—or rather bundle of bones—of contention, over which at times they almost quarrelled, for Mr Timson, either from a spirit of opposition, or from genuine dislike, invariably took part against the woman. So near were they to quarrelling at times, that had they been people of a more secular turn, it might have been said that they quite fell out.

The vicar told Timson so more than once, though he would not believe it; for in spite of his friendly feeling and genuine respect for his nominator, the churchwarden could at times be as obstinate as the proverbial pig.

In short, there was a division in the church, for and against Mrs Ruggles, and Purkis told his wife in confidence, that he “couldn’t see it at all; and if it hadn’t been for Pellet—he knowed”—What, he did not say; but he shook and nodded his head a great many times, as he concluded by telling Mrs Purkis that if she had been ruled by him, Mrs Ruggles would never have had the post.

“And you’d never have had a decent bit of hot dinner o’ Sundays,” retorted his lady.

“She’s a deceitful one, that’s what she is,” said Mr Purkis; “and she ain’t going to meddle and interfere with my dooties; so come now!”

“I shouldn’t bemean myself to speak to her, if I was you, Joseph,” said his wife.

“You might just as well have took the place, and gone comfortable to church with me, and come back with me comfortable,” said Mr Purkis, ignoring his wife’s last remark.

“And, as I said before, you never knowing what it was to have hot dinners on Sundays,” retorted Mrs Purkis. “No, not if I know it, Joseph. We’ve been man and wife now turned of thirty year, and never once yet did I give you a cold Sunday-dinner. If I don’t know my duty as a wife by this time it’s a pity.”

Mrs Purkis turned very red in the face as she spoke, and, after the fashion of her husband, shook her head and nodded it, till Mr Purkis, who, if he did not make a god of his gastric region, certainly yielded it the deference due to a monarch, owned that there was something in what she said, when her face resumed its natural hue, which was only a warm pink.

“But it would have been a deal nicer for some things,” said Mr Purkis, who still hung about the subject.

“And a deal nastier for other things, Joseph,” retorted his wife; “and that makes six of one and half-a-dozen of the other.”

“Just so, my dear,” said Mr Purkis, making his first and last attempt at a joke—“six of one in pounds, and half-a-dozen of the other in shillings—six guineas a year, and what you could have made besides, and a very nice thing too.”

“And you growling and grumbling because your Sunday-dinner was always cold,” said Mrs Purkis, resorting once more to her carnal fortification.

“But I don’t know, now, but what that would have been better,” said the beadle, indulging in a habit which he had learned of a stout alderman and magistrate, who believed in its awe-inspiring qualities, and often tried it on small pickpockets, while Mr Purkis was so pleased with it that he always wore it with his beadle’s uniform, and practised it frequently upon Ichabod Gunnis, though with so little effect that the said young gentleman only imitated him as soon as his back was turned, frowning, blowing out his cheeks, and then letting them collapse again. “I don’t know, my dear,” said Mr Purkis, “but what it would have been better than to have had that woman always pottering about in my church.”

“And never even had the decency to call in and thank us for the pains we took,” said Mrs Purkis, “or to drop in occasional for a friendly cup o’ tea, and a mossle of toast, as anybody else would; or come in and sit down sociably as poor Mrs Nimmer would, and ready at any time to take up a bit o’ needlework, or a stocking, and have a quiet chat.”

“Well,” said Mr Purkis, whose thoughts were evidently running quite as much upon Sunday-dinners as upon pew-openers, “it’s of no use to grumble, for what’s done can’t be undone. But when Christmas comes, if she pushes herself forward so much, I’ll let her know—see if I don’t I’m not going to put up with so much of her interference, I can tell her.”

“The more you give way, the more give you may,” said Mrs Purkis, rhythmically.

“Why, she’ll want to be beadle next, and clerk too,” said Mr Purkis, indignantly, and growing so warm that he had to wipe inside his shirt-collar as well as dab his head; “says all the Amens now, she does, louder than the poor old gentleman—reg’lar drowns him in the litany, and makes herself that conspickyus that it’s a wonder Mr Gray can’t see through her, instead of taking her into favour. Not that I mind a bit—not I. Mr Timson don’t like her, though; and you see if he gives her a Christmas-box, same as he used Mrs Nimmer—pound o’ best black, and a quarter o’ green—he always give her reg’lar.”

“Ah! same as he gives us,” sighed Mrs Purkis, “and as good tea as ever stood on a hob to draw.”

Volume One—Chapter Nineteen.

Richard’s Secret.

Time glided on, and the brothers Pellet did not meet. There was estrangement too between Richard Pellet and his stepson, who came up during his vacations, but only to leave home again in disgust. For the fact was, Richard Pellet looked upon him as being in the way,—a manner he had of considering all those who were not of present use to him in his designs. So Harry Clayton saw but little of Norwood.

He made calls in Duplex Street at intervals, but always in vain, for Jared remained inflexible, and received the young man in a way which chilled him, and sent him away declaiming against people’s hard-heartedness. Never once was Patty visible, for she followed out the rôle she had been taught, and had in consequence many a bitter cry in secret.

Would she have liked to see Henry Clayton? That, too, she kept secret; and fate seemed to fight on Richard Pellet’s side, for somehow the young people never encountered, in spite of the long hours which Harry loitered about Clerkenwell, till he knew every brass plate by heart in the neighbourhood, without counting the signboards that he read till he was weary.

The effect of all these crosses upon Harry Clayton was to quite change the young man’s disposition; from being light-hearted and cheerful, he grew stern and quiet, almost morose. He determined at last, in a fit of anger, after a call at Duplex Street and a vain application to Richard Pellet for money, that he would turn dissipated, and began at once.

His first plunge was into billiards, but he gave the game up at the end of a week. Rowing followed, and he almost lived upon the river in gaudy-coloured flannels. But that soon palled upon him, and at the end of a month a cold business-like letter from Richard Pellet, advising him curtly to take to business, for his late father’s settlements would not permit of the expenses of a college life, settled the affair. The consequence was, that. Harry knit his brows, went down to Norwood, and announced his intention of staying up at Cambridge and reading for honours.

The result was a quarrel, and Richard Pellet slammed the door as he went out, bound for the city. Mrs Richard kissed her son, and said she hoped he would be a good boy and obey Mr Pellet, who was all that was wise and clever, and then Harry said good-bye, and went off with an aching heart to make a last call at Duplex Street.

It was the old story; Jared received him kindly, and shook hands when they parted, but there were no ladies visible.

Harry looked sterner, and felt sterner of purpose as he came away, and these troubles were the turning-point in the young man’s career, for henceforward he seemed to cast youth and its frivolities behind, so as to be untrammelled in the firmer purposes of life.

He was wandering slowly and thoughtfully along, wondering as to what the future would bring forth. He told himself that he was certainly very fond of Patty, and though she had perhaps never since given to him a thought, yet he would be true to his intentions, and in spite of her humble position, if she proved to be as he believed she would, no difference of station should interfere.

“No,” he said, half aloud; “not even if I get to be senior wrangler,”—of which, by the way, there did not seem to be much probability. Then his thoughts turned to Richard Pellet, and it seemed to him that his father’s affairs had somehow got into a state of strange confusion. He could get no satisfactory explanation. One thing was evident, and that was that Richard Pellet had full influence over his wife, and that nothing save recourse to law would enforce a full declaration of how matters stood.