“Mr Pellet, sir,” said Tim Ruggles, “I ran out of Mr Purkis’s shop, sir, like a madman. Yesterday, sir, I think it was: no, it wasn’t, it was the day before, or some other time, I don’t know when, for my head’s all in a wuzzle, sir, and I hardly know what’s what. But I ran out of his shop, sir, after he had whispered two words in my ear, and them two words, sir, were—‘Mrs Ruggles.’”
“There!” interrupted Mrs Pellet; “that’s all a part of the past now, so let it be forgotten. But sit down.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Tim, standing in his old position by the chimney-piece; “it’s all a part of the past, but if you’ll let me set myself right with your family, I shall be glad.”
“Right! set yourself right! why, you are right,” said Jared, warmly. “You don’t suppose we ever thought that you knew?”
“No, sir,” said Tim, still standing; “perhaps not, sir; but I should like to tell you all about it, sir. It will ease my mind, like, so let me be obstinate for once in a way. You see, sir, I was stunned like that morning, and hardly knew what to make of things. Your good lady had partly told me the misfortune, as you may recollect, perhaps, when you came and stopped her, sir—when I rushed off to Mr Purkis’s; and then, after a long talk with him, feeling worse than ever, I ran all the way to Carnaby Street, sending the people right and left, sir, for I wouldn’t believe it true; and being a married man, sir, which makes two one, it seemed to me that I was in it, and had been the cause of it all, and ungrateful to you, as is the best friend I ever had. No, sir, I wouldn’t believe, though young Ichabod Gunnis had told me, and Mrs Pellet had quietly said the same, and then beadle Purkis; but when I rushed up into my room in Carnaby Street—first-floor back, first bell, two pulls—I knew it was all true then, for there was a letter on the table, as I afterwards found was written to Mrs Ruggles’ relations to say she was coming. And there she was, sir, trembling in the middle of the room, dressed and ready to go, sir; Sunday things on, and three or four big bundles about, with all the best of everything we had got packed up; and there was the four teaspoons, and my first wife’s brooch. When I saw all this, I recollected as there was a cab standing at the door when I came in; and then, without her dropping the bundle she was a-tying up, and busting out a-cryin’, I knew it all in a moment, that it was all true as true, and that she was going off that morning with everything she could lay her hands on, even to my poor wife’s silk dress, only I came back just in time to stop her.”
Tim Ruggles covered his face with his hands for a moment, and then went on.
“I’m only little, sir, and poor and weak, and I don’t know whether I feel the same as other people do, sir, when they are in trouble; but I couldn’t be in a violent rage, and storm and swear and abuse her, sir and ma’am”—and, probably due to the fact of Tim’s head being all in a “wuzzle,” he looked at Mrs Jared when he said “sir,” and at Jared himself when he said “ma’am;”—“No, I couldn’t do it, sir; for there was a strange sort of feeling came over me of our having broken the same bread together for years, she being my wife, and this seemed to stop me; though the nearest point I come to was—but I’m getting wuzzled. I wasn’t frightened, sir, not a bit: I was hurt, and cut, and sore, to think that a honest man’s wife should have done such a crime; and then made it ten times worse by getting you suspected, because she had a spite against you and Mrs Pellet here, sir, for taking so much notice of my poor Pine, and saying that she was not properly used, for I once let it out that you had said so. Partly that, and partly, you know, because it would clear her; for there was a deal of notice being taken of it all then, so she put the little key in your music-box, sir.
“Put the little key in your music-box, sir,” continued Tim; “it’s all true, sir, for she went down upon her knees, sir, and confessed to it all; and how she had had pounds and pounds, and that you caught her that night in the dark, when she had gone to put back a half-crown or two that was marked, and she was afraid it was found out then; but it was a letter from the vicar which settled it all. And oh! sir, if I had only known of all this, I’d never have asked you to speak up for her to be pew-opener. Yes, sir, it was a letter from the vicar had done it all, telling her never to go near the church again, and giving her what we poor journeymen tailors call the bullet.
“Oh! I was cut, sir, after all you had done for us, sir, and the customer you had been to me, for it never seemed like coming out to work a day here, sir; I was always at home, and treated like a friend; and what with the thoughts of that, and the kind way you had noticed little Pine, and the cruel manner she had treated that poor little dead angel, I worked myself up at last, sir, and I actually said and wished then, that the vicar had not promised that he wouldn’t prosecute her; for she deserved it, sir, if ever a woman did. Yes, sir, I was worked up, and in my rage, I seized the iron, sir, and she shrieked out, and though it was only cold, I thought it wouldn’t be manly to hit her with that, so I put it down, and caught up the sleeve-board, and stood over her with it, quite furious, while she told all, and begged for mercy over and over again. And then, sir, I was that mad that I stamped about the room, and she was frightened of me, hard a woman as she was.
“‘Mind my eyes—mind my eyes!’ she kept on cryin’, as I stood over her, and made her own to all her treachery; while at times, sir, I didn’t know whether to be mad or to cry with shame, sir; and to hear her telling all, and then to think of her black-heartedness after it was all found out—going to rob me, sir, and taking even my poor wife’s brooch. It was cruel—cruel—cruel!