“Yes,” said the vicar, absently, for his thoughts were upon the poor-box; “beautifully played, certainly. By the way, how startled Mr Pellet seemed when he came in!”
“Poor man! yes: he’s nervous,” said Timson; “those musical chaps generally are. Didn’t expect us, you know. Might ask his opinion about the box.”
“Yes, we might, certainly,” said the vicar; and then, uneasily, “No, I don’t think it would be of any use. Let it rest for the present, Mr Timson; perhaps, after all, we may be mistaken.”
“Very true, sir,” said Timson. “Not often that there is gold in the box. People are not very fond of giving to the poor and lending to the Lord, though that’s all of a piece with their behaviour. They’re not fond of lending to anybody. Seems to go against a man’s nature.”
“Not in all cases, Mr Timson,” said the vicar, stiffly; “there are many exceptions,—yourself, for instance.”
“Present company—present company, sir,” said Mr Timson, “always left out of the question;” and Mr Timson looked very fidgety and uncomfortable.
“Not in a case of this description,” said the vicar. “A shining light should never be placed beneath a bushel.”
Mr Timson looked very unlike a shining light at this time, as he stared at the vicar, and then round the church, and then fidgeted from foot to foot, and held his hat first in one hand, and then in the other, as if in a great hurry to go. But Mr Gray would not come out of the vestry, and Mr Timson had to go in again, for he could not be spared yet. In fact, asking him for the bag once more, the vicar again carefully went through the amount of small change—copper, threepenny and four-penny pieces, sixpences, shillings, and half-crowns—to see whether, after all, his sovereign might not be there, explaining the while to Mr Timson that some gold was very pale, and in dim lights, like that where they were, sovereigns looked almost like shillings.
But though he carefully examined every shilling, and turned it over, there was not one that could for an instant be taken for a sovereign; so, with a sigh, the vicar slowly told up the total, replaced the money in the bag, and tied it exceedingly tight, before once more handing it to the churchwarden, when together they passed down the nave, listening to Jared’s harmonies.
But the vicar seemed uneasy: the music had lost its charm; and instead of following his usual custom of sitting down in some comfortable pew to listen for half-an-hour, he softly followed the churchwarden into the street, and went homewards shaking his head,—that head being, the while, sorely troubled with thoughts of sacrilege and the missing sovereign.