“Call—call!” echoed Jared. “No, I did not call.”
“Shall I blow, plee, sir?” said the boy.
“A blow!” murmured Jared, dreamily; “yes, a heavy blow—a blast from one of the storms of life!” and he once more buried his face in his hands, while Ichabod relieved his feelings by sticking his tongue into his cheek, and lifting up and putting down one leg; before he again spoke to ask if there was anything the matter.
“Go home, boy—go home,” said Jared, slowly, and speaking as if he were half-stunned.
“Shan’t you want to practise, sir?” queried Ichabod.
Jared made a negative movement of the head, and, waiting for no further dismissal, the boy caught up his cap, scuttled down the stairs, clattered out of the door, and was gone, whooping and hallooing with delight at his freedom, while the organist, slowly lifting his head, and looking about as if in a weary stupefying dream, took up a letter from the key-board, where it had lain, and where he had found it that day when he came to practise—a letter written in the vicar’s bold hand, sealed with the great topaz seal that hung to his broad old-fashioned watch-ribbon, and directed to him, while it enclosed a little bright peculiarly-shaped key, which Jared remembered to have seen lying in his music-locker for weeks past, when he had come up into the loft, though, after the first time, when he had picked it up and turned it over, it had hardly taken his attention. But now, slowly and half-tottering, he rose, and left the organ-pew with the letter in one hand—an old-fashioned letter, written upon blue quarto paper, folded so as to dispense with an envelope—the key in the other, descended the stairs, crossed nave and aisle to one poor-box, where he tried the key, to find that it opened the lock with ease; then sighing as he closed it, without noticing that the vicar had removed the contents that morning when he left the letter for the organist upon the key-board of the instrument, Jared crossed the silent church to the other door, to try the box there, with the same result; when once more ascending to the gallery, he stood again in the organ-pew, looking towards the chancel, and then read his letter for about the sixth time.
Once only, he looked up: it was afternoon, and the sun streamed in at the great west window, illumining the chancel, when there, as if lit up especially for him to read, the golden letters of that particular sentence brighter than the others—bright and flashing, but stained by the sunbeams that pierced a painted pane of a fiery hue—there were the words—
“Thou shalt not steal.”
Jared Pellet groaned as his eyes fell and rested upon the paper he held, and he began once more to read, muttering now and then a word or two or a sentence half aloud.
“No prosecution—came with a friend—wished to try the organ—found a false key amongst the music—knew wards—flashed upon him that it opened the poor-boxes—own conscience be my punishment—engagement terminate at Christmas—best for all parties—and may God forgive me.”