He would wag his head mysteriously at his wife when she was brushing him down on a Sunday morning, and removing every speck of dust from his blue robe, to which she used a hard brush, while the broad scarlet velvet cape, with its deep gold-lace trimming, was daintily smoothed and dusted with a brush of the softest. Then Mrs Purkis would hand her lord his cocked hat and white Berlin gloves, gazing up in his face and looking him over with the greatest veneration. For some ladies are fond of seeing their lords and masters in uniform, and Mrs Purkis was one of these, and she would stand at the door to see her husband go down the street, exclaiming too, angrily, to herself, “Drat them boys!” when some evil-disposed irreverent young scamp would shout after the portly officer, “Beadle, beadle, threadle my needle;” though she consoled herself with the recollection that, “Boys allus was full of their sarse,” ready to laugh at any of our noble British institutions. Especially if relating to law and order, beginning with the majestic policeman, and ending with the Lord Chief Baron in his swaddling clothes.
But if Mr Purkis looked sagacious, it seemed probable that, like other people, he only had his suspicions; such too as he could not confirm, though a slight frown and a shake of the head, particularly if accompanied by nipped-together lips, imply a great deal; and your heavy-cheeked solid-headed judge will carry a weight with the public that his keen-witted and sharp-featured subordinate will lack.
Mr Purkis obtained the credit of knowing a great deal, but if he did, he kept the knowledge to himself; and Time, the inexorable, slipped on, Jared discoursing with his organ, and the great congregation at St Runwald’s listening patiently to the vicar’s quiet practical little sermons.
Mr Gray kept his promise to the churchwarden, and there were no more texts for some time touching upon the subject of money; but Mr Timson scratched his head violently one day as he sat in his pew and heard the vicar dwell upon the rich men dropping their gifts into the treasury, and the poor widow’s mite; adroitly introducing his opinion that it was as great a sin to steal the widow’s mite as the more imposing gifts of the wealthy.
“But I wouldn’t really, you know,” said Timson, the next time they met; “as I’ve told you before, it’s only putting the thieves on their guard, and can do no good.”
“Might work on their consciences, Timson, eh? Startle them into better ways and feelings.” But the churchwarden shook his head. “Think not, eh?” said the vicar; “conscience makes cowards of us all, as Milton says.”
“Shakespeare, Shakespeare, sir,” said Timson.
“My memory’s failing fast, Timson,” said the old man, sadly; “but I thought it was Milton. You don’t read the poets?”
“Never, by any chance,” said Timson; “but I know I heard those words at old Drury, and I know they don’t put Milton on the stage.”
“I believe you’re right—I believe you’re right, Timson,” said the vicar. “And so you really would not say any more about it publicly?”