“But do they, Mr Gemp?”
“Yes, just to make people think there’s nothing going on. But there, ma’am, I must be off. You mustn’t keep me. I can’t stop talking here.”
“Well, really, Mr Gemp!” said his hearer, bridling again, and resenting the idea that she had detained him.
“Yes, I must go indeed. I say, though, seen any more of that chap?”
“Chap? – what chap, Mr Gemp?”
“Come now, you know what I mean. That shack: that ragged, shabby fellow – him as come to see Mr Hallam the other day?”
“Oh, the poor fellow that Mr Hallam helped?”
“To be sure – him. Been here again?” said Gemp, making a rasping noise with a rough finger on his beard.
“No, Mr Gemp.”
“No! Well, I suppose not. I haven’t seen him myself. Mornin’; can’t stop talking here.”
Mr Gemp concluded his gossips invariably in this mode, as if he resented being kept from business, which consisted in going to tell his tale again.
Mrs Pinet was left to pick a few withering leaves from her geraniums, a floricultural act which she performed rather mechanically, for her mind was a good deal occupied by Gemp’s disclosure.
“They’d make a very nice pair, that they would,” she said thoughtfully; “and how would it be managed, I wonder? He couldn’t marry himself, of course, and – oh, Mr Thickens, how you did make me jump!”
“Jump! Didn’t see you jump, Mrs Pinet,” said the clerk, smiling sadly, as if he thought Mrs Pinet’s banking account was lower than it should be.
“Well, bless the man, you know what I mean. Stealing up so quietly, like a robber or thief in the night.”
“Oh! Not come to steal, but to beg.”
“Beg, Mr Thickens? What, a subscription for something?”
“No. I was coming by. Mr Hallam wants the book on his shelf, ‘Brown’s Investor.’”
“Oh, I see. Come in, Mr Thickens!” she exclaimed warmly. “I’ll get the book.”
“Won’t come in, thank you.”
“Now do, Mr Thickens, and have a glass of wine and a bit of cake.”
The quiet, dry-looking clerk shook his head and smiled.
“Plenty of gossips in the town, Mrs Pinet, without my joining the ranks.”
“Now that’s unkind, Mr Thickens. I only wanted to ask you if you thought it true that Mr Bayle is going to marry Miss Millicent Luttrell; Mr Gemp says he is.”
“Divide what Gemp says by five, subtract half, and the remainder may be correct, ma’am.”
“Then it isn’t true?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Oh, what a tiresome, close old bank-safe of a man you are, Mr Thickens! Just like your cupboard in the bank.”
“Where I want to be, Mrs Pinet, if you will get me the book.”
“Oh, well, come inside, and I’ll get it for you directly. But it isn’t neighbourly when I wanted to ask you about fifty pounds I wish to put away.”
He followed her quickly into the parlour occupied by the manager, and then glanced sharply round.
“Have you consulted him – Mr Hallam?” he said sharply.
“No, of course not. I have always taken your advice so far, Mr Thickens. I don’t talk about my bit of money to all my friends.”
“Quite right,” he said – “quite right. Fifty pounds, did you say?”
“Yes; and I’d better bring it to Dixons’, hadn’t I?” James Thickens began to work at his smoothly-shaven face, pinching his cheeks with his long white fingers and thumb, and drawing them down to his chin, as if he wished to pare that off to a point – an unnecessary procedure, as it was already very sharp.
“I can’t do better, can I?”
The bank clerk looked sharply round the room again, his eyes lighting on the desk, books, and various ornaments, with which the manager had surrounded himself.
“I don’t know,” he said at last.
“But I don’t like keeping the money in the house, Mr Thickens. I always wake up about three, and fancy that thieves are breaking in.”
“Give it to me, then, and I’ll put it safely for you somewhere.”
“In the bank, Mr Thickens?”
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “Give me the book. Thank you. I’ll talk to you about the money another time;” and, placing the volume under his arm, he glanced once more sharply round the room, and then went off very thoughtful and strange of aspect – veritably looking, as Mrs Pinet said, as close as the safe up at Dixons’ Bank.
Volume One – Chapter Six.
Sir Gordon is Troubled with Doubts
First love is like furze; it is very beautiful and golden, but about and under that rich yellow there are thorns many and sharp. It catches fire, too, quickly, and burns up with a tremendous deal of crackling, and the heat is great but not always lasting.
Christie Bayle did not take this simile to heart, but a looker-on might have done so, especially such a looker-on as Robert Hallam, who visited at the doctor’s just as of old – before the arrival of the new curate, whose many calls did not seem to trouble him in the least.
All the same, though, he was man of the world enough to see the bent of Christie Bayle’s thoughts, and how quickly and strongly his love had caught and burned. For treating Gemp’s statements as James Thickens suggested, and dividing them by five, the half-quotient was quite sufficiently heavy to show that if the curate did not marry Millicent Luttrell, it would be no fault of his.
He was, as his critics said, very young. Twenty-four numbered his years, and his educational capabilities were on a par therewith; but in matters worldly and of the heart twenty would better have represented his age.
He had come down here fresh from his studious life, to find the place full of difficulties, till that evening when he found in Millicent a coadjutor, and one who seemed to take delight in helping and advising him. Then the old Midland town had suddenly become to him a paradise, and a strange eagerness seemed to pervade him.
How was he to attack such and such an evil in one of the low quarters?
He would call in at the doctor’s, and mention the matter to Miss Luttrell.
It was to find her enthusiastic, but at the same time full of shrewd common-sense, and clever suggestions which he followed out, and the way became smooth.
His means were good, for just before leaving college the death of an aunt had placed him in possession of a competency; hence he wished to be charitable, and Millicent advised him as to the best channels into which he could direct his molten gold.
Then there were the Sundays when, after getting easily and well through the service, he ascended the pulpit to commence his carefully elaborated sermon, the first sentences of which were hard, faltering, and dry, till his eyes fell upon one sweet, grave face in the middle of the aisle, watching him intently, and its effect was strange. For as their eyes met, Christie Bayle’s spirit seemed to awaken: he ceased to read the sermon. Words, sentences, and whole paragraphs were crowding in his brain eager to be spoken, and as they were spoken it was with a fire and eloquence that deeply stirred his hearers; while when, perhaps, at the very last, his eyes fell once more upon Millicent’s calm, sweet face, he would see that it was slightly flushed and her