XV.
THE KEY OF THE CHURCH.
“Johnny, you will have to take the organ on Sunday.”
The words gave me a surprise. I turned short round on the music-stool, wondering whether Mrs. Todhetley spoke in jest or earnest. But her face was quite serious, as she sat, her hands on her lap, and her lame finger—the fore-finger of the left hand—stretched out.
“I take the organ, good mother! What’s that for?”
“Because I was to have taken it, Johnny, and this accident to my finger will prevent it.”
We had just got home to Dyke Manor from school for the Michaelmas holidays. Not a week of them: for this was Wednesday afternoon, and we should go back the following Monday. Mrs. Todhetley had cut her finger very seriously in carving some cold beef on the previous day. Old Duffham had put it into splints.
“Where’s Mr. Richards?” I asked, alluding to the church organist.
“Well, it is rather a long tale, Johnny. A good deal of dissatisfaction has existed, as you know, between him and the congregation.”
“Through his loud playing.”