“O Timson, Timson!” said the vicar, reprovingly; “you know that you were one of the first to suspect him.”
“Well, how could I help it, when it looked so suspicious?” cried the churchwarden, fiercely. “Don’t get putting it all on my shoulders, John Gray—don’t, please.”
“Shake hands, Timson—shake hands; and let’s say fervently, ‘Thank God, it is all found out at last.’”
“So we will,” said Timson, “so we will; but really, you know,” he said, “if I had given my honest opinion—honest opinion you know,” and his eyes twinkled,—“I should have declared that it was that old rogue of a beadle of ours in the corner.”
Mr Purkis ceased his dabbing, and stared.
“But we could not afford to lose so great an ornament to our church, eh? Mr Gray, sir, eh?” he chuckled; and, by that time, Mr Purkis saw through the joke, and chuckled too, though he had at first thought it rather a serious matter.
Jared was too agitated and too unnerved with the proceedings of the past few hours to do more than shake hands again and again with his visitors. He wanted to tell them of his adventure at the church, but he could not speak; and besides, there were Mrs Jared and Patty looking perfectly astounded as they tried to interpret the meaning of the scene.
“There, there, there!” exclaimed the vicar, kindly, “It is late, and they want to be alone, Timson. Let us go, for you are such a boisterous youth. Let them be, Timson, and come away. But tell me first that you forgive me for my injustice, Mr Pellet.”
“Forgive you, sir!” said Jared, in a choking voice.
“There, there!” said the vicar, shaking hands again. “What does it all mean, Mrs Pellet? What! don’t you know? More reason for us to go. Come away, Timson, come away. There! you’ll wake the children,” he exclaimed, as a wail came from up-stairs. “Come away, and let Mr Pellet set the heart of his wife at rest. That’s right, Purkis, go first. We should not have been so late; but I was in the country when these two came down after me; and then the snow stopped us.”