It must not be supposed that all the religious activity in King's Warren was confined to the Dissenters. The Reverend John Dodd was a fine old-crusted Tory; the world had gone very well with him. He had his cross, of course, in the shape of his wife Cecilia, and the Reverend B. Smiter was a very thorn in his flesh; but his living was a good living, and his peaches and his port wine were unsurpassed in the county. His archdeacon was an old personal friend of his own, and I am afraid that the post-prandial conversations of the two when the archdeacon made his yearly visitations and Mrs. Dodd had left them to themselves, turned more upon vintages and things of this world than on church matters. But a young and active bishop, of High Church tendencies, now reigned in the neighbouring cathedral, and the archdeacon in a friendly manner suggested to Dodd that it behoved him to set his house in order.
"We must move with the times, Dodd," he said. "The bishop is a man of six-and-thirty and an enthusiast. I am sorry to say he is no respecter of persons. There is no doubt, my friend, that dissent has spread in this parish of late years with frightful rapidity." He spoke of it as if it were a disease. "What you want is an energetic coadjutor, and you can't do better than try Puffin. Puffin has been a Missioner, and he is a wonderful organizer. If you want to be in the bishop's good books you should try Puffin. He'll take every sort of trouble off your hands; all you have to do is to give him plenty of rope. He has his peculiarities, but he is honest in his way, and he did wonders at the East End, where he nearly killed himself by overwork. You won't keep him long, you know, for Puffin's a man certain of good preferment. He'll fill your church, and if anything will stop the insidious progress of dissent in the place, it's Puffin."
"But, my dear fellow, we are very comfortable as we are. I hate a clerical firebrand. Why can't we rub along comfortably for the rest of my time?"
"The days of rubbing along, Dodd, are gone by. As the bishop puts it, the Church in these latter days must be a Church militant, or it will cease to exist."
"But it needn't become a Church pugnacious for all that," said Dodd.
"My dear fellow, if we were certain that I should be archdeacon for ever you might, as you put it, go on rubbing along. But the king who knew not Joseph has arrived. Our spiritual head is a man who will stand no nonsense. If you don't follow his lead, he will look upon you as refractory. Don't be refractory, Dodd; try Puffin. You will find him a perfect panacea."
"But I don't believe in panaceas," said Dodd; "the fellow will set the whole place by the ears before he has been here a month. Why, in this village the aggrieved parishioner does not even exist. If a man doesn't like the church he takes sittings in the chapel, and there is an end of the thing."
"My dear fellow, you mistake the matter altogether. Now-a-days, a real, good, wrong-headed aggrieved parishioner is exactly what you do want. He keeps you before the public, and brings you to the favourable notice of your spiritual head."
"But look at the fuss, the letters, and the lawsuits."
"With a new bishop, Dodd, and a man like Puffin at your back, though there would be lots of fuss, it need not trouble you. Puffin would write all the letters; and as for the lawsuits, you would win them, and the costs would not come out of your pocket. Puffin, of course, sails rather close to the wind, if I may be allowed the expression, but he knows exactly how far he can go. In fact, Dodd, though he puts his candles upon the altar he never lights them, except at evensong, and then he knows he can do so with impunity."
And then they gradually began to talk about the wine.
The result of this conversation was that the Reverend John Dodd hastened to secure the services of that energetic priest the Reverend Barnes Puffin.
Mr. Puffin arrived at the Vicarage looking very much like an ordinary clergyman, save that the round black felt that he wore had a brim of portentous width; and Mrs. Dodd noticed with some astonishment that the white tie, which all clergymen of her acquaintance habitually wore, was conspicuous by its absence, and that the new curate appeared to have put on his collar wrong side before. At first it was a mystery to her how he could have got into that collar. There was certainly no visible means of entrance in front. Puffin wore his hair very long indeed, while the whole of his face was clean shaven. Mrs. Dodd, too, gave a start when he proceeded to address her as "his dear sister;" but she was still more astonished when he removed his long clerical great-coat and she saw that the Reverend Barnes Puffin was clad in a long black garment with innumerable little buttons running from his neck to within two inches of the ground. Around his waist was a long black sash with a silken fringe. As he gave the vicar's wife his arm, when they went in to dinner, he suddenly produced from his pocket a little square cap, which he placed upon his head. He did full justice to the stewed eels, with which the meal commenced; but he never removed the little cap during the whole of the entertainment, nor could the vicar and his wife persuade him to partake of any of the numerous dainties which composed the rest of the feast. At first he said he wasn't hungry. A curate who refused entrées was a novelty to Mrs. Dodd.
"I fear you are not well, Mr. Puffin," she said as he declined woodcock on toast.
"Dear Mrs. Dodd, I remember that it is the Eve of St. Radegonde, Virgin and Martyr."
The vicar and his wife looked at one another; but they respected Mr. Puffin's prejudices, and ceased to press him.
The next day the reign of the Reverend Barnes Puffin commenced. The old church, where service had been held as seldom as possible from time immemorial, was now thrown open daily for matins and evensong. At first there was no congregation; but the Reverend Barnes Puffin looked up all the old pensioners, particularly the old women who were in receipt of parish relief at home, and in his persuasive but forcible way he made all these poor old people understand that their comforts, for which they had hitherto given nothing in return, would depend upon good behaviour, that is to say, going to church. Nor did Mr. Puffin confine his ministrations to the lower orders. How he managed it I don't know; but before he had been three months in the place most of the younger ladies in the parish flocked to the services. I suppose he made love to them in a quiet, clerical sort of way. The Misses Sleek, looking as plump and pretty as ever, but dressed with a prim demureness which considerably astonished their father, were among his first converts; and they used to hurry to church on foot twice a day with praiseworthy regularity. They considered themselves well rewarded if the curate walked home with them occasionally to dinner, and so beatified The Park by his presence. But Mr. Puffin egregiously failed with Miss Grains. She, too, had felt inclined at first to place her conscience in Mr. Puffin's hands; but young Mr. Wurzel, an easy-going fellow enough at most times, objected to Puffin's addressing his affianced bride, save from the pulpit, as "his dear sister." He had even told Miss Grains that he looked upon Mr. Puffin as a "philanderer," and that "he didn't hold with philanderers." So Miss Grains made no alteration in her costume, and she turned a deaf ear to Mr. Puffin's ecclesiastical authority.
It was not long before King's Warren Church rejoiced in a surpliced choir. There was rather a martial clang of hob-nailed boots during the numerous processions of the choir on Sundays; but the service was undoubtedly much more imposing than in the old days. Mr. Puffin did wonders with the small material at his command. He would have made an admirable stage-manager. He never missed a possible effect, and he considerably astonished the King's Warreners when he preached his first funeral sermon. He was a good preacher, and always held the attention of the congregation. But perhaps some few of them smiled when he led up to the fact that the silver cord was loosed and the golden bowl broken, in an ornate and sensational harangue reaching an unexpected climax by tilting over the tumbler at his side, which fell with a crash and was shivered in a thousand pieces on the floor. There were no sleepers in King's Warren Church when the Reverend Barnes Puffin graced the pulpit after that. And yet Puffin was a sincere man, and worked energetically according to his lights.
But it was an evil day for the Reverend Barnes Puffin when he felt it to be his duty to attempt the conversion of Lucy Warrender. She was the one black sheep of the fold, for she had committed the unpardonable sin—she had laughed at Mr. Puffin. A girl may differ with a modern parson, she may argue with him; nay, she may refuse to argue with him at all, but she must not laugh at him, and Lucy had done this. Had she not irreverently compared him to Samson, and wickedly declared that she would like to be a Delilah to shear with her own hands his too redundant locks? Had she not told him that it was rude to wear the little square hat, which he persisted in calling a baretta, in the presence of ladies? Had she not openly asserted her belief that he wore a hair shirt and scourged himself in private? These are only a few of the many crimes of which Miss Warrender had been guilty. It was evidently the duty of the Reverend Barnes Puffin to convert Miss Warrender without loss of time.
Puffin was always well received at The Warren; he amused the squire by the seriousness of his arguments about trifling things. For every thing that he did, for every little bob, bow or gesture, the Reverend Barnes Puffin had a very good reason. Nothing that he did was trifling; it was always symbolical of something. According to him, for every movement of his body there was a ritual reason why. It became a sort of custom at The Warren that as soon as dessert was upon the table, the Reverend Barnes Puffin was allowed to mount his hobby-horse and wildly career. He liked to give what he called a little information on sacred things, and he made the most of his opportunities, for he never had a long innings, as he always retired with the ladies.
One evening the Reverend Barnes Puffin was seated in the drawing-room at The Warren conversing with the cousins. Fanchette, in all the pride of her Norman costume, was bringing the little Lucius to bid his mother good-night. Now Fanchette, from his cassock, his sash, his baretta, and the collar which had so puzzled poor Mrs. Dodd, had always looked upon the Reverend Barnes Puffin as a veritable Catholic priest, and respected him accordingly. She made him a succession of low courtesies, and placing the little Lucius in his mother's arms, she advanced towards the curate in a respectful manner. To his intense astonishment she suddenly dropped on her knees at his side, seized his hand, and covered it with kisses. Then, in fluent patois, she demanded his blessing. But the curate, unfortunately, did not understand a word she said. Like most curates, he was accustomed to the blandishments which are invariably lavished by the female sex on these most fortunate of men. Interesting penitents had made eyes at him, had squeezed his hand at parting with unnecessary pressure, had loaded him with slippers, vestments, and socks and comforters knitted by their own fair fingers. They had even obtained interviews, and had wickedly taken the opportunity of the tête-à-tête to make violent love to him; but never, in the whole course of his clerical experience, had any of his "dear sisters" suddenly dropped on their knees at his side and violently kissed his hand. Puffin was by no means a vain man. But what could he think? Here was a foreign woman, of prepossessing appearance, administering sounding osculations to his unwilling fingers.
"Ladies, dear ladies," he said, as he rose to his feet, the bonne still clinging to his hand and kissing it furiously, "this is most irregular." Here he strove with gentle dignity to try to withdraw his hand, but all to no purpose. "Ladies," he said, blushing violently, and speaking of Fanchette as if she had been an infuriated bull-terrier, "call her off. Please call her off."
But the cousins were far too amused at the incident to come to his assistance. Georgie could not forbear a smile, while Lucy burst into inextinguishable peals of silvery laughter.
"She wants your blessing, Mr. Puffin, that's all," said Lucy at length.
"Then she should come to church, Miss Warrender," exclaimed Mr. Puffin, to whose hand the bonne clung, alternately kissing it and gazing up at him with imploring eyes.
"She thinks you are a Catholic priest," exclaimed Lucy.
"This is too horrible," cried the Reverend Barnes Puffin, as he vainly struggled to release the imprisoned hand.
"Ah, mon père," vociferated the bonne.
"Goodness me, she says I'm her father; pray explain, dear ladies. Is her mind affected?"
And then Miss Warrender did explain to her.
On hearing that the unhappy curate was not a priest of her own Church, but only, as Lucy had expressed it, a heretical Protestant pastor, Fanchette's demeanour changed altogether.
"Ah, gredin, farceur, monsieur est en travesti. Saperlotte," she added, and here she snapped her fingers in the astonished curate's face, and abruptly left the room.
The curate sank into a chair and wiped his brow with his pocket-handkerchief.
"Goodness me, ladies," he said, "what a terrible person! I assure you I didn't mean to exasperate her."
From that day Fanchette ceased her respectful obeisances to the curate, but his visits to The Warren, where he was always a welcome guest, became gradually more frequent.
It is human nature after all ever to strive after the impossible, and Mr. Puffin recognizing in Miss Warrender a young lady who was essentially of the world worldly, naturally determined to attempt her conversion. But the spirit of contrariety is ever strongly developed in the female breast. As the parson became more pertinacious, Miss Warrender, who was at first rather bored than otherwise by his eloquence, resolved upon reprisals.
"I'll bet you a new bonnet," she had said to Haggard, "that I make the Celibate propose to me."
"Not he, my dear," said Georgie's husband with a laugh. "Puffin's not altogether a fool after all; he's got the run of his teeth in this house, and he won't care to lose it by making an ass of himself."
"My dear Miss Warrender, my husband's curate considers himself as vowed to heaven," said Mrs. Dodd, who was present.
"They all do, Mrs. Dodd, till they find metal more attractive. I daresay even Mr. Dodd considered himself at one time as vowed to heaven."
"There is no analogy, Miss Warrender, between my husband's case and that of Mr. Puffin. When Mr. Dodd proposed to me, Miss Warrender, he did so as a beneficed clergyman; and he proposed to the daughter of a dignitary of the Church. Had Mr. Dodd been a curate, he would not have so far forgotten his position as to have been guilty of so presumptuous an act."
"But I'm only Squire Warrender's niece, Mrs. Dodd; there would be no presumption in my case."
"Don't buoy yourself up with false hopes, Lucy. Were Mr. Puffin to be guilty of such unseemly folly, it would be my duty, as his vicar's wife, to seriously remonstrate with him; and should he prove obdurate, even to dispense with his services. The position of a clergyman's wife, Lucy Warrender, is full of difficulty and responsibility," she added sententiously.
"That's what makes me long for it so, Mrs. Dodd. I yearn to feel myself lifted out of the common ruck of women."
"You are unmaidenly, Lucy Warrender," said the vicar's wife, instantly assuming her favourite tone of a Lord Chief Justice.
Miss Hood smiled, for she felt that the badinage was sober earnest to Mrs. Dodd; but she made no remark, for Lucy was long ago out of leading strings.
When the vicar's wife reached her home, she sent for Mr. Puffin. After she had shaken hands with him, she came to the point at once.
"I trust you are comfortable here, Mr. Puffin," she said, "and that you find King's Warren a congenial sphere."
"I do indeed, dear madam," replied the curate. "We have already accomplished much, but there is yet an abundant field of work in the place. I am very happy here."
"I have a dreadful communication to make to you, Mr. Puffin. A member of the congregation has confided to me the disgraceful fact of her personal infatuation for my husband's curate."
"This is sad, Mrs. Dodd, this is very sad; but it is not wholly unexpected. Clergymen, as you are aware, dear madam, are constantly exposed to these annoyances in the course of their ministrations. You allude, I conclude, to the younger Miss Sleek. I have noticed latterly her marked assiduity in attendance at church—the most unseasonable weather has failed to keep her away. I half feared that it would be so. Alas, girls are apt to forget the priest in the man. But this is a new kind of experience to me, Mrs. Dodd, for I have found that they usually first confide their folly to the object of their aspirations."
"No, Mr. Puffin, it is not Miss Sleek to whom I allude; nothing would surprise me with regard to her. There is no folly that young persons in her class of life might not be guilty of. It is not the younger Miss Sleek, though she is an ambitious girl, but the squire's near relative who has confessed a wicked passion for my husband's curate."
"Gracious me," cried Mr. Puffin. "Can you possibly allude to young Mrs. Haggard?"
"Mr. Puffin, you forget yourself. No, it is Miss Warrender who has confided to me her infamous secret."
Mr. Puffin turned pale, then he blushed to the roots of his hair; he sighed deeply, and then he simpered. The vicar's wife drummed impatiently upon the table.
"Oh, Mr. Puffin," she said, "you don't mean to say that you reciprocate this? How often have you protested to me that you were a Celibate, a priest; and now you do nothing but sit and snigger. I'm grieved; I'm disappointed in you, Mr. Puffin."
"Dear Mrs. Dodd," said the poor parson, "your communication has taken me by surprise. At first it horrified me. I am a priest, Mrs. Dodd," he said, "it is true; but, alas, I also remember that I am a man." He buried his face in his hands.
Mrs. Dodd sat immovable, looking at the curate with an astonished gaze; and then she suddenly left the room and slammed the door violently.
The transformation was as thorough as it was sudden; the Reverend Barnes Puffin had entered that room the humble coadjutor of the vicar's wife; as he left it, he felt his soul soar into higher regions: as Orientals put it, "his head was touching the skies." Mrs. Dodd looked out of her breakfast room window to watch the departure of him who she mentally termed "the fallen man."
But the fallen man considerably astonished her by the change in his appearance. Mr. Puffin, who was accustomed to walk slowly and with downcast eyes, as became a celibate priest, now strode down the drive; he didn't walk, he strode. He swung his walking-stick defiantly in the air, and to her astonishment Mrs. Dodd perceived that, ere he left the place, he committed the brutal act of beheading one of her favourite poppies with a sort of swashbuckler-stroke that would have done credit to a Life Guardsman.
Flutter on, happy clerical butterfly, your bliss will be of short duration; for that careful entomologist, Miss Lucy Warrender, is already preparing the sharp needle that shall transfix your little triumphant heart.
Puffin, as he passed through the village, returned the many salutations he received with joyous bows, and the wiseacres noticed that his broad brimmed clerical hat was now worn with a triumphant cock.
The Reverend John Dodd had been more than satisfied with his new curate. At first the long cassock, the flowing robes, and the rather eccentric "make up" of the man had been a daily outrage to the vicar's idea of decency. Mr. Puffin was not the first curate in the vicar's experience who had sought notoriety by a fantastic dress; but Mr. Puffin worked hard in the parish, Mr. Puffin was eloquent, and the vicar felt certain that the Established Church in King's Warren was gaining ground. He was rather gratified than otherwise to hear that Mr. Puffin had begun to waver in his ideas about celibacy. Puffin as an engaged man might be somewhat less divine, but he would be assuredly more human. Dodd himself didn't see why Mr. Puffin should not become the husband of Miss Warrender. Puffin was a clergyman, and a gentleman; and the Reverend John Dodd rubbed his hands as he thought of the inevitable struggle for mastery which would take place between the pair should the marriage ever come off. And after all, more unlikely things than this marriage had happened. Miss Warrender certainly had had her fling, but a girl can't go on having her fling for ever, and the vicar chuckled as he thought of Lucy as the Celibate's wife. Unconsciously perhaps the curate had assumed an air of superiority to his vicar, for as a Celibate he would naturally look down upon him as a being of a coarser clay, a mere earthen pot; but this had only amused his good-natured chief, and the Reverend John Dodd smiled as he thought of the gentle vengeance he might have, when the enamoured Puffin should take him into his confidence.
He sat down to dinner in the best of tempers. When he perceived that he was to be regaled with a veal sweetbread with brown sauce, his eyes were lighted up with a merry twinkle. But he felt that there was something in the wind; he knew that that delectable propitiatory sacrifice was only offered to his critical palate on his birthday, when his wife was in a particularly good temper, or when she had a favour to ask. As he looked at the partner of his earthly joys, it was plainly apparent to him that Mrs. Dodd was ruffled; it was not his birthday, so he had a second helping of the delicacy and made up his mind to yield to the inevitable demand with the best possible grace. But not till they were alone did his wife unbosom herself.
"John," she said, "I've come to the conclusion that Mr. Puffin must leave us; a curate ceases to be of use in a parish the moment he makes himself ridiculous, and Mr. Puffin tells me that he is determined to make a fool of himself. I could have passed over his peculiarities, John," she said, "and his eccentricities in dress; I could even have forgiven his long hair, in consideration of the immense amount of work he manages to get through; but he is about to render himself unsuitable. I approve of ambition in a clergyman; my dear father is an ambitious man, and he has prospered, though not perhaps according to his great deserts; but worldly ambition, the thirst for gold, is unbecoming in a clergyman. To my mind, it is painfully apparent that Mr. Puffin, who ought to be actuated by far higher motives, is prepared to sacrifice himself to Lucy Warrender, who is a most objectionable young person, in order to secure at some future time the presentation to the living of King's Warren."
The vicar laughed.
"I mean to live for the next twenty years, my dear, and if Puffin intends to put up with twenty years of Lucy Warrender for the sake of this living, though it is a fat one, I shall consider that the labourer will have been worthy of his hire."
"Don't be profane, John," said the lady reprovingly.
"To do Puffin justice, I don't think he is mercenary. Lucy has probably turned his head."
"John, Mr. Puffin is not of an inflammable nature."
"All curates are of an inflammable nature, my dear; why you turned my head in your time."
"I trust, Mr. Dodd, that my mental qualities attracted you, and not mere physical beauty."
"Of course, my dear, of course; but you were a monstrous fine woman then, and for the matter of that, you are still, Cecilia," said the vicar, as he helped himself to a third glass of his '47 port.
His wife smiled and smoothed her cap ribbons.
"Don't exceed, John," she said, with a warning gesture, "or Mr. Puffin may not have to wait twenty years for his preferment after all. You must admonish him, John; a man of his principles, his pretended principles, is not suited for married life. He told me himself, that ever since his ordination he has assumed what he calls a priestly garb. I ask you, John, how could he be married in a cassock? How could he go on his honeymoon in it?"
"Well, he could leave it off, my dear."
"But he has declared to me that he never would leave it off. How often has he sneered at ordinary clerical attire, though he has never dared to suggest that you should masquerade in, what he calls, proper ecclesiastical costume."
"There may be reasons, my dear; he may have bandy legs."
"His legs are perfectly indifferent to me, Mr. Dodd. If he wishes to marry, he should dress like other people."
"You should suggest that to Lucy Warrender, my dear."
"If I thought for a moment, Mr. Dodd, that there was a possibility of his being the means of rescuing the girl by his own self-sacrifice, I should not say one word; if he has a taste for martyrdom, it would not be for me to interfere; but I know that Lucy is only wickedly encouraging him for the sake of winning the bet of a new bonnet from her cousin's husband. You must warn and admonish him, John, or he must go. Stacey would have been a far more suitable partner for him."
"Why didn't you suggest it, my dear?"
"It is not my duty to secure a husband for my sister-in-law, Mr. Dodd."
"You thought it was, in the squire's case, Cecilia."
But the vicar's wife let the taunt pass by unnoticed.
"If you don't admonish him, John, I must. It will be a thankless office, for the wretched man seems bent on his own destruction."
"Well, he has chosen a particularly pleasant form of suicide, Cecilia."
"Flippancy, Mr. Dodd, is not becoming in a clergyman," said his wife with a ruffled air, "and it is not good taste for a clergyman to openly express his admiration for his female parishioners to his wife, and so violate the sanctity of his own fireside."
"I'm not going to make or meddle in the matter, Mrs. Dodd," said her husband.
"'Tis a vicar's duty to protect his curate, Mr. Dodd."
"Not when the curate is perfectly well able to take care of himself, my dear. Besides, there is another point of view; Lucy might do worse."
"Well, John," she replied, "I shall say no more. I can only hope that it is not in a spirit of professional jealousy that you allow this poor thoughtless young fellow to rush to his doom." And then she rang for coffee.
Next day the Reverend Barnes Puffin lunched at The Warren. Being a feast day he did full justice to the meal. He was overflowing with good spirits, and as soon as lunch was over he seized the first opportunity of securing a tête-à-tête with the squire's niece. As Miss Warrender took the arm of the clergyman, she cast an amused and meaning glance at Haggard. Little by little the pair wandered away into the secluded rose garden, and the Reverend Barnes Puffin felt that he had got his chance.
"Do you care for parish work, Miss Warrender?" said the Celibate, after a few commonplace phrases.
"To tell you the truth, Mr. Puffin, I don't know; I have never tried."
"It is a great privilege, you know," he said. "Has it never occurred to you, my dear Miss Warrender, that it might be your vocation, your natural aim in life."
"No, I don't think it ever has, Mr. Puffin," she said. "I did know a girl once, one of my school friends, she joined a sisterhood; you know I fancy it was the dress attracted her. She joined a sisterhood, but they made the poor thing wear dreadful thick shoes like a man's, and she had to scrub floors, which spoilt her pretty hands; poor child, they have remained red ever since, and she was glad to marry an army doctor and go to China with him. I suppose red hands don't matter in China," the girl said meditatively. "No, I don't think I should care to scrub floors, Mr. Puffin," and she spread out her taper fingers as though for her own inspection.
The curate admired the fingers, and observed with satisfaction that they were undecorated by a prohibitive ring.
"There are other spheres, dear Miss Warrender, than sisterhoods. Our friend Mrs. Dodd has found a happy and congenial one here in King's Warren."
"But then she is a clergyman's wife, Mr. Puffin, and a privileged person."
"It is a privilege, Miss Warrender, a great privilege. I'm glad it commends itself to you as such."
"Oh, yes; Mrs. Dodd is much to be envied, but then Mrs. Dodd is a very clever woman; she, Mr. Puffin, has caught her hare."
"And having caught him, Miss Warrender, she has accommodated him to her own taste."
"Hers is a master mind, Mr. Puffin."
"It is perhaps as easy, my dear young lady, to rule by love as to rule by fear."
"And much nicer, I should think, Mr. Puffin."
The curate blushed, and then he made an audacious statement.
"Mine is a very accommodating nature, Miss Warrender."
"That's very fortunate for you, Mr. Puffin, for you must have so much to put up with from the poor people."
"I have lately been engaged, Miss Warrender, in a very serious mental struggle. I am afraid I have been arrogant. I am afraid that I have boasted and bragged to my friends and to my parishioners that I was not as other men are, that my whole soul was given up to duty, that I was a Celibate, not merely from vocation but from inclination. But my feelings have undergone a change. At first, dear Miss Warrender, I was overpowered by a sense of what I considered my own degradation, but that feeling has entirely passed away. I confess to you that when I first came here I considered myself on a higher platform to that of most men, and I supposed that in obstinately refraining from the ordinary lot of clergymen, I mean marriage, that I was exercising a considerable degree of self-abnegation, in fact that I was leading a higher life. I now see that all this was a wicked error. The Church enjoins penance, and I have come to the conclusion from my intimate acquaintance with the sufferings of my unfortunate vicar, that instead of making a sacrifice in abstaining from matrimony I was actually guilty of profound and calculating selfishness. I see, too, that a married clergyman in giving up the idea of celibacy secures at least one efficient coadjutor in his parish work. As you know, Miss Warrender, I am in the habit of acting upon my convictions."
"Then of course, Mr. Puffin, you will at once seek to secure the hand of some particularly objectionable person, in order to render the touching martyrdom you speak of the more meritorious?"
"No, Miss Warrender, I shall not look upon that as a bounden duty. My position as a Celibate has many advantages from a professional point of view, for the female portion of my parishioners are enabled to look upon me as one of themselves."
"Oh, I don't quite think that, Mr. Puffin; of course there is something—well, epicene about your dress, but then to some minds, you know, the clerical dress has a great attractiveness. Why the Louis Quatorze abbés, that we see so much of in comic opera, were terribly wicked people, you know, Mr. Puffin, and they clung very tightly to the clerical dress, and so did Tartuffe for the matter of that."
"Dear Miss Warrender, the cleric garb is but a delightful reminiscence of a past time; there is nothing ridiculous in it. You have the same thing in the Blue Coat boy, and there is assuredly nothing ridiculous in a Blue Coat boy."
"Quite the contrary, Mr. Puffin; it is rather romantic than otherwise, but I can't fancy a full-grown man in yellow stockings, and a—hem—undivided skirt. By the way, Mr. Puffin, I can give you a suggestion: if you did really carry out your ideas and marry after all, you might adopt the Blue Coat costume as a sort of sign of your apostacy, a kind of san benito; you would still be retaining the mediæval idea, you see, and be thoroughly distinguishable from Tartuffe and the wicked abbés we were talking about."
"In matters of dress, Miss Warrender, did I become a married man I should naturally defer to the wishes of my wife."
"You don't mean to say that you would dress like other people?"
"Yes, Miss Warrender, I should do so, though it would not be without a pang that I should relinquish what I look upon as the true clerical garb."
"Don't think of it, Mr. Puffin, don't think of it, for an instant. The noble savage in his war-paint, his wampum, his feathers and his scalps, is a dignified object; but dress him in a suit of common clothes and cut his hair and he ceases to be interesting."
"Do you really think, Miss Warrender, that I should lose influence if I adopted the costume of ordinary life, should I enter upon the perilous sea of matrimony?"
"Well, Mr. Puffin, if you dressed like other people and married, I don't see how, to use your own expression, 'the female members of your congregation could continue to look upon you as one of themselves,' because if they did, you see you would be only Mrs. Puffin's sister after all."
"Yes, I am afraid that is the reductio ad absurdum. But we are wandering away, Miss Warrender; it was about my heart, and not about my garments, that I sought to converse with you."
"Oh, Mr. Puffin, I should make the worst of confidants; I never by any chance keep a secret."
"And yet I am ready to trust your discretion, Miss Warrender."
"I confess you rouse my curiosity. Do I know the lady?"
"Yes, Miss Warrender, she is your best friend and your worst enemy."
"Now you intrigue me, Mr. Puffin, for all my acquaintances address me as their dearest Lucy, and as for my enemies—I've guessed it, Mr. Puffin. I never had an enemy till Mr. Sleek's hay making. I suppose Miss Connie Sleek is the bride-elect. Let me congratulate you, Mr. Puffin, but do tell me one thing, it is so interesting—what are Miss Sleek's ideas about the clerical garb?"
"I fear you wilfully misunderstand me, Miss Warrender. My aspirations are higher. I do not think Miss Sleek would ever be the ideal wife for a clergyman."
"You mystify me, Mr. Puffin."
Mr. Puffin possessed a copy of the "Bab Ballads." He remembered two lines in them that gave him that hope which they say springs eternal in the human breast.
He remembered that Mr. Gilbert's successful lover came to the point at once, so, to use a hunting simile, he sat well down in his saddle, and he hardened his heart.
"Dear Miss Warrender," he said, and there was a certain amount of dignity about the man, despite his long hair and his eccentric appearance, "I am only a working clergyman, but I am a gentleman; and I wish you, for both our sakes, to share my lot."
Here Lucy Warrender cast down her pretty eyes and smiled, for she felt that she had won Haggard's new bonnet fairly and honestly.
The parson continued, taking heart of grace from the false little smile upon her lips:
"I'm going to ask you to give up a great deal for the sake of religion, and for my sake, Miss Warrender. I'm going to ask you to give up the world, its frivolous enjoyments and its pleasures, and to tread with me a thorny and toilsome path which leads to higher things. I know my presumption, Miss Warrender. I know that in trying to do good according to my lights I often merely succeed in making myself ridiculous. If I am ridiculous in your eyes, Miss Warrender, you can have but one answer to give me. But my proposition to you is at least disinterested. I know you will believe that. I don't ask you for an answer now, Miss Warrender. I should scorn to snatch a favourable answer from an inexperienced girl."
Lucy gave another little smile.
"Think over what I have said, dear Miss Warrender; if you feel equal to making the sacrifice, so do I. Take time to think it over."
"No, Mr. Puffin. I have been foolish and wicked, perhaps, if I have unknowingly encouraged you; but you have spoken honestly enough to me, and the least you deserve is an honest answer. I am not fit, Mr. Puffin, to be any man's wife—any honest man's wife—least of all a clergyman's."
Lucy felt that she had said a little too much, so she hastened to qualify it.
"I am but a worldly girl. I love pleasure and dissipation; it is my nature—a nature I can never change. Look on me, Mr. Puffin, as wholly unworthy of you. Were you to marry me, Mr. Puffin, you would commit an act that we should both repent. You would degrade yourself to my level; and, God knows, mine is a very low level. Take my answer as it is meant Mr. Puffin, in seriousness, and as irrevocable. Forgive me, Mr. Puffin, and do me one favour. I am utterly bad, Mr. Puffin, but try not to think unkindly of me, for I have no friends; and, as you told me just now, I am my own worst enemy."
Tears were standing in the pretty eyes. Lucy Warrender was not acting now.
The Reverend Barnes Puffin did not press his suit further.
"Good-bye, Miss Warrender," he said, in a choking voice. "But never say you have no friends. We may never meet again. I have merited my rebuff, but I thank you for your forbearance. And if you ever need a friend, you have a faithful one in me."
He pressed her hand and took his leave. As he walked out of the rose garden with a dejected air, it was very evident that his wooing had not prospered. But Lucy Warrender never asked Haggard to pay his lost wager.
The Reverend Barnes Puffin bore his misfortune like a man. He felt that Lucy's determination was final, and that it would be hopeless to try his luck again with her; but she hadn't laughed at him, and that was something. Still, Mr. Puffin felt that it behoved him to leave King's Warren. Just as it is a matter of tradition, an un-written law, that a ministry when beaten on a great political question goes out of office, so it is the custom among curates who have been unsuccessful in their love affairs in the parish, if the parish is aware of the fact, to tender their resignation. The curate sought an interview with the Reverend John Dodd and announced his decision. The vicar did not attempt to combat it. A celibate clergyman has many advantages; but a celibate clergyman who is prepared to renounce his principles ceases to inspire respect among the female portion of his congregation. As a Celibate, rapturous maidens will go on sighing and weeping for him, for while he represents the Unattainable there is something almost saint-like about him; but as a curate who has been refused by a member of his own congregation, the nimbus suddenly disappears from his brow; he ceases to be a modern apostle, and turns out to be an ordinary and unsuccessful fisherman after all. And this is one reason why the modern fisherman always carries a creel. Isaac Walton was contented to bring home the spoils of his art strung upon an osier; but the modern creel conveys an impression of dignity; the natural supposition is that there is something in it, hence its popularity.
So the Reverend Barnes Puffin went back to hard work at the east end of London, and after a time attained the preferment which the archdeacon had prophesied; but he still retains the celibate garb, and in his dreams he sees a glorified Lucy Warrender—fair hair, brown eyes and all—and the lovely vision is quite sufficient for him. He thinks of her as he fondly fancied her, and looks on her as a sort of guardian angel still. Who shall grudge him the fond delusion?
The lower middle classes are a never-failing stalking-horse; we can all afford to laugh at them as ridiculous, vulgar, improvident and wicked. Even the mock hero, the good young man who tries to raise himself, has something comic in him. But we haven't seen anything of the lower orders in this history as yet, and it is only incidentally that we quit King's Warren for the grimy neighbourhood of St. Luke's. Just behind the great hospital for lunatics is Matilda Street. They are all private houses in Matilda Street, and from the number of brass plates it seems at first a professional sort of neighbourhood. Most of the houses are evidently occupied by at least three families, for the right-hand doorpost nearly always contains three bells, one for each floor. But the brass plates are not those of lawyers and doctors; many of them indicate the places of business of working jewellers and watchmakers, and the latter predominate; dial painters, engine turners, escapement makers, swivel manufacturers and so on, ad infinitum. Then there are pianoforte tuners, and dealers of many sorts. Those of the plates which have only a surname upon them, indicate that the place is a lodging house. Though we are in the black heart of London, in one of the darkest, poorest and most melancholy quarters, there is a great deal of window gardening going on; plants of every kind and sort may be seen on the window ledges, from ground floor to attic; the humble Creeping Jenny is a great favourite, and it seems to thrive wonderfully in the damp thick atmosphere. Some of the ground floor windows are discreetly screened by wonderful specimens of lank spindly geraniums—hapless plants which have never been known to bloom, but whose sickly-looking leaves of abnormal pallor struggle towards the light, what little there is of it. Matilda Street, being in the heart of St. Luke's, naturally contains many fanciers. Numerous bow-windowed, brass-bound cages, each with its little bit of turf, are hung outside the windows in all directions, and the imprisoned skylarks they contain warble away merrily, giving quite a rural air to Matilda Street, E.C. Seedy-looking men and boys, carrying tiny square cages carefully tied up in handkerchiefs, are continually popping in and out; these are the chaffinch fanciers, and each cage contains a sightless songster, who at his master's command is prepared to pour forth his simple rural melody at any hour of the day or night in a long unbroken series of cheeps and chirrups. In Matilda Street lives a trainer of piping bullfinches, a man who has passed his whole life turning a melodeon and teaching his pupils the tune of "Rule, Britannia." Dog-breeding and dog-dealing are favourite occupations in Matilda Street; mysterious men emerge at dusk, leading dogs and carrying them in their arms, their pockets, or their bosoms, to exhibit them at numerous local shows held in neighbouring pot-houses. The little back yards—they call them gardens in Matilda Street—are filled with sheds and wondrous home-made constructions, in which fancy poultry and rabbits are kept. Even the roofs of the houses bristle with pigeon-lofts and artful-looking structures for the capture of wandering birds. Should a stray pigeon alight on one of these contrivances, attracted by the hemp seed which is profusely scattered thereon, or by the presence of a decoy securely fastened by the leg, a sudden click may be heard, and the bird finds himself in an instant imprisoned in an artful arrangement of wire walls, which has closed on him with the rapidity of a conjuring trick. Matilda Street is a decidedly poor neighbourhood; but, strange to say, it is a favourite "pitch" for the bogus starving British workman and his interesting family, when he is upon what he terms the "kinchin lay." The man generally goes barefoot, his face is half covered by a stubbly crop of bristles, which pathetically indicate that he cannot even afford the cheap luxury of the British workman—a ha'penny shave. He doesn't let his beard grow—that would look far too comfortable; artful gashes in his trousers exhibit his knees, which appeal in a startling manner to the feelings of the benevolent; either elbow is clasped to show how he suffers from the inclemency of the weather; by his side walks his pattern wife, who always wears a large white apron; she invariably carries an infant of tender years; at either side of the pair march the rest of the family. They keep to the centre of the road; the woman watches the windows of one side of the street, the man those of the other; and from morning till night they howl a single verse of some hymn with monotonous obstinacy, varying it with a plaintive lament that "They've got no work to do." They are quite right in choosing places like Matilda Street, for there is little or no traffic to interrupt the effect of the procession; besides, in such a place as this no policeman would interrupt them; and, strange to say, it is in shy and poor neighbourhoods that the "kinchin lay" reaps its richest harvest.
Matilda Street is essentially a shy neighbourhood—perhaps that is why the tenant of number 13 has chosen it as his residence. On the door-plate of number 13 is the simple inscription, "Parsons, agent." It's rather a puzzle to make out what Mr. Parsons is agent for; no clients ever come to see him, and he seems to pass the greater part of his day in smoking a pipe and reading a newspaper. But Mr. Parsons has his profession—he was born in it, so to speak, and his father was a professor before him; but his father failed, and his father's unfortunate failure has been a lesson to him. The real fact is that Mr. Parson's father was a burglar of the fine old school. His was a life of vicissitude; and though an ambitious and fairly successful man, the law, against which he had waged war for many years, got the better of him at last; and after having passed nearly forty years of his life in Her Majesty's jails, death at length prevented his obtaining the ticket-of-leave he had almost earned, and his consequent return to business.
It is all very well for the majority of us to wonder why Mr. Parsons didn't attempt to earn an honest livelihood, but we must remember that he had been brought up to a profession of which most people disapprove from his earliest infancy. As quite a little fellow he had accompanied his father on many a successful nocturnal expedition; it had been his duty to keep watch for the guardians of public order, and to signal their approach. He had been taught to rapidly dispose of precious plunder in a neat little crucible, plunged in a fierce fire of coke; as he got bigger, he it was who sat ready at the corner of the street in a tax-cart, prepared to rapidly drive off with the "swag" when of a bulky nature.
But though Mr. Parsons, Senior, had been a clever professor of the predatory art, though his triumphs had been numerous and his operations exceedingly brilliant and extensive, he could not be called a success. To pass forty years of one's life in jail, to be perpetually blackmailed by one's accomplices, to obtain only a small proportion of one's legitimate earnings from those rascals the "fences" or dealers in stolen property, and at last after all to die in prison, is not a brilliant prospect. Now Mr. Parsons the son was a philosopher. On his father's death he found himself the possessor of a complete and almost perfect set of what may be termed his father's trade utensils. There was also a little secret hoard of valuable gems. Mr. Parsons put his burglarious implements in a place of safety; he lived abroad upon the proceeds of his little fortune for some years; and when he came back to England his own mother, if she had been alive, would not have known him. Then he settled down at number 13, Matilda Street, and commenced the practice of his profession upon principles of his own: not as a mere mercenary occupation, but as a fine art. Mr. Parsons kept well away from his father's old haunts and from the perfidious acquaintances who had degraded him and been the cause of his ultimate ruin. Mr. Parsons had no low tastes; he disliked drink and bad company; he had but one ambition, and that was to obtain a comfortable competence from the skilful exercise of his profession. He wisely concluded that it is not sufficient to commit a successful burglary, if you are afterwards found out. He was a careful student of the police reports and the trials at the Central Criminal Court, and the more he studied those interesting records, the more he became convinced of the wickedness of human nature, the inefficiency of the police, and the tendency of accomplices to "split." Mr. Parsons, then, being a thoroughly practical man was also a theorist; he made several determinations, which he strictly kept to. In the first place, he came to the conclusion that a suspect is always watched, and that accomplices, however useful, are extremely dangerous. So he determined to carry on his profession upon strictly business principles. Wise man that he was, he appreciated the fable of the hare and the tortoise. It was better, he thought, to earn a safe and comfortable living; and he determined, should he ever be so fortunate as to make a great coup, to immediately retire from business. He trusted to his own clear head, his own clever fingers, and himself. So he habitually worked alone. He passed his afternoons in "looking round." His operations were very carefully planned, and generally successfully carried out.
It will be seen from all this that Mr. Parsons was no common criminal, but he was a dangerous man for all that; for on his nocturnal expeditions he was in the habit of carrying an ugly sheath knife, not as a weapon of offence, be it remembered, but purely as a last resource for the protection of his own personal liberty.
It was a fine summer afternoon, and Mr. Parsons was lounging through one of the better streets of St. John's Wood; that neighbourhood, sarcastically designated "the shady grove of the Evangelist," had peculiar attractions for Mr. Parsons; it is wealthy, the large houses stand mostly in their own grounds, and the big well-kept gardens offer favourable hiding-places to the midnight thief. Mr. Parsons lounged along, peacefully smoking a briar-root pipe; the houses where the paint was shabby or the gardens were ill-kept did not attract his attention; these signs were quite sufficient for him, and in his mind he put their owners down as "electro." Other houses which were guarded by dogs also failed to interest him, but Mr. Parsons took more than a passing glance at Azalea Lodge.
Azalea Lodge stood back some twenty feet from the road way; the entire outside of the house was painted or grained; there was a great deal of gilding on the railings, a large gas lamp of the latest construction was fixed over each of the polished oak gates that formed the entrances to the little carriage-drive; the carriage-drive itself was asphalted, and clean as a new pin; the shrubs in the small front garden were expensive ones, and well pruned and trimmed; beyond the porch projected a rather elaborate glass structure set in ornamental iron work, and the centre of the well-whitened stone steps was covered with striped horsehair matting. Flowering shrubs in pots were ranged up these steps, while the sides of the porch proper were crammed with them. Elaborate floral decorations were on every window-ledge; not mere plants in pots, but great blocks of colour artfully arranged: scarlet geraniums and calceolarias with glossy-leaved fuchsias of many hues blazed in frames of blue lobelia, while dwarf ivies, nasturtiums and the pretty variegated periwinkle hung down in thick festoons, hiding the window sills. The beds in the front garden were made to show up in startling contrast to the closely-shaven turf by means of cocoanut fibre, into which potted flowering plants were plunged in reckless profusion. In one window of the drawing-room was a quasi-oriental jardinière in which stood a large orchid covered with delicate blooms of mauve and yellow; in the next appeared the top of a parrot's cage of plated metal, on which sat a tame white cockatoo, who seemed to enjoy the splendour by which he was surrounded. The very linings of the curtains were of rich corded silk, and a half open window showed in the dim vista a distant vision of the heavy frames of numerous oil paintings. From top to bottom the bedroom windows were discreetly screened by lace curtains tied up with coloured ribbon.
All these pretty things have taken somewhat long to describe, but the eagle eye of Mr. Parsons took them all in at a glance. A fishmonger's cart stopped at the side door, and Mr. Parsons noticed with satisfaction that a fine piece of salmon and a lobster were taken into the house by the purveyor's assistant. Mr. Parsons continued his walk as far as the next house, which proved to be an empty one and in the hands of the painters; their ladders and paint pots stood about in every direction, but the workmen themselves had evidently gone to dinner. Mr. Parsons shook out the contents of his pipe, pocketed it, and walking up to the hall door, which stood invitingly open, confidently entered the empty house; he walked into the drawing-room and on to the open Italian balcony beyond it, which commanded a view of the grounds of Azalea Lodge, and then Mr. Parsons stood wrapped in meditation. Something that he saw at a heavily-barred window on the ground floor of Azalea Lodge evidently gave him food for reflection. On a table covered with green baize lay a quantity of elaborate specimens of the silversmith's art, racing cups and trophies, vases and statuettes of burnished silver were there in profusion, and a heap of leathers and brushes showed that they were undergoing the process of cleaning. The eyes of Mr. Parsons sparkled with satisfaction; he looked round to see if he was observed. There wasn't a soul in sight. And then Mr. Parsons did a very curious thing; he gave a low growl, then a little yelp, and then an aggressive bark like an irritated dog. Then he began to bark again in a louder and still more defiant manner. But there was no answer to the strange challenge. Mr. Parsons gave a satisfied smile, walked quietly out of the empty house, re-lighted his pipe and resumed his walk.
It's hardly likely that Mr. Parsons thought of renting the empty house next door to Azalea Lodge, but he walked past at least four times that afternoon. He went home to Matilda Street on the top of an omnibus, and then, like a respectable man as he was, he sat down to a good substantial tea.
Before commencing a campaign a great general sits down to think it out. This is exactly what Mr. Parsons did. The tenant of number 13, Matilda Street had declared war against Azalea Lodge. From what he had seen, Mr. Parsons had no doubt whatever in his own mind that, should his campaign prove successful, he would secure the competence he had yearned for, for so many years and be able to retire from business altogether.
That night Mr. Parsons visited a public house, paid for a glass of ale, and consulted the directory. He found that Azalea Lodge was occupied by Lord Hetton; the name seemed familiar to him; he turned to the landlord, who was a well-known sporting character, and sought for information.
"Lord Hetton's a political chap, ain't he, Mr. Mason?" said he, addressing the great man with much humility.
"Not as ever I heard of; why his lordship's a racing man. Every one knows Lord Hetton—him as owned Dark Despair, and lost the Derby once by a short head."
"Oh, that's him, is it?" replied Mr. Parsons, "and what's his address when he's at home?"
"How should I know his address?" said the landlord. "If you wants to call on him, you might try the Jockey Club, or I shouldn't be surprised if you was to find him at Tattersall's of a Sunday afternoon; that sort mostly shows up there. What might you want with him?"
"Oh, it's no great matter," replied Mr. Parsons; "it's only a little bit of business about a dog," and then he changed the conversation.
"Racing plate," he thought, "there is never any mistake about that; that's the real genuine article, thank goodness." And then Mr. Parsons, who was of a sentimental turn of mind and a humble patron of the drama, sauntered off to the Britannia Theatre, at Hoxton, and derived no small degree of mental comfort in four hours of the sorrows of "Ada, the Betrayed."
It has been said that Lord Hetton was an economical man; every farthing that he could scrape together invariably went to settle his accounts with his trainer. He had begun life as a pigeon, to all appearances he would end it as a hawk. Dark rumours of shady things which had been done in his name rendered men shy of backing his horses. Scandal had said that the boy who rode Dark Despair, when that animal was beaten on the post, had pulled the great raking chestnut by his lordship's orders. But though Lord Hetton had done many shabby things in his time, it was by no fault of his that Dark Despair failed to win the blue ribbon of the turf. It is quite possible that the boy who rode the animal had made a mess of the race at the critical moment, or he may even have been "got at," but that was not Lord Hetton's opinion or that of his astute trainer; and the same stunted youth still always rode in his lordship's colours in any big event in which Lord Hetton's animals might be engaged. Owner and trainer had neither of them been to blame in the matter; his lordship had honestly backed Dark Despair, and had had considerable difficulty in meeting his engagements at the time. There had even been an execution in Azalea Lodge. Azalea Lodge was the one luxury that his lordship permitted himself; he looked upon it as his home, and the titular mistress of Azalea Lodge had been the original cause of all his differences with his father. Hetton was quite a boy when he first fell into the toils of the syren; he was not quite fool enough to marry her, his fear of the old lord prevented that; for her sake Lord Hetton declined to marry; for her sake he was shut out from society; and he was a man to be pitied after all, for he hadn't a friend in the world, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he succeeded in satisfying her numerous extravagant demands for money. The lady was passée, vulgar, and her temper was almost diabolical; but she still retained her hold upon Lord Hetton's affections. She had succeeded in riveting the fetters which bound Lord Hetton to her in a rather original manner—by an act of generosity for which none of her acquaintances would have given her credit, least of all his lordship. When he made his great fiasco with Dark Despair, and the execution was already in Azalea Lodge, by an impulse of generosity the lady had driven over to Messrs. Israels, and had pledged with them her entire collection of valuable jewelry. She had handed the cheque to Lord Hetton, and he did settle at Tattersall's on the fatal Monday following the race. Lord Hetton was agreeably astonished; he found, much to his surprise, that he had one real friend in the world. Is it then to be wondered at that from that day Lord Hetton clung to his only friend, and that he looked upon Azalea Lodge as his home? Things went better with Lord Hetton, and he settled Azalea Lodge and its valuable contents upon the object of his gratitude.
When anything remained to him after paying his trainer whenever he made a coup, or landed a good stake, he invariably made a thank-offering at the shrine in St. John's Wood. It was all very wrong, and very wicked, no doubt, but after all it was perhaps very natural.
It was nine o'clock one Sunday night, and Mr. Parsons was very busy indeed—he was preparing for the war-path. On his table were arranged a number of polished steel implements, which looked like surgical instruments; they were burglar's tools. Half-a-dozen handy bits of candle and a box of silent matches were quickly placed in his pocket; a piece of strong Manilla cord some four yards long, with a sharp three-pronged hook at the end of it, was wrapped around his waist, beneath his virtuous waistcoat; his plain tweed coat carried numerous canvas bags lined with washleather in its back. It was a wonderful coat with innumerable pockets in the inside; in each of these mysterious receptacles he placed one or other of the implements of his trade; a short crow-bar in three pieces, which could be screwed together, formed the last of these, while a big bunch of skeleton keys, a phial full of oil and another of acid were slipped into his waistcoat pockets. He popped a pair of loose felt slippers into his hat, calmly lighted his pipe and proceeded to Old Street. He then called a hansom cab and told the driver to take him to the Swiss Cottage.