"About what? Has he been rude to you, the bad man?" cried Mrs. Harvey, dropping the pie-dish in some confusion, and taking a long while to pick up the pieces.

"About the belt--the money which he lost? Why don't you speak, mother?"

"Belt--money? Ah, I recollect now. He has lost some money, he says."

"Of course he has."

"How should you know anything? I recollect there was some talk of it, though. But what matter what he says? He was quite pa.s.sed away, I'll swear, when they carried him up."

"But, mother! mother! he says that I know about it; that I had it in my hands!"

"You? Oh the wicked wretch, the false, ungrateful, slanderous child of wrath, with adder's poison tinder his lips! No, my child! Though we're poor, we're honest! Let him slander us, rob us, of our good name, send us to prison, if he will--he cannot rob us of our souls. We'll be silent; we'll turn the other cheek, and commit our cause to One above who pleads for the orphan and the widow. We will not strive nor cry, my child. Oh, no!" And Mrs. Harvey began fussing over the smashed pie-dish.

"I shall not strive nor cry, mother," said Grace, who had recovered her usual calm: "but he must have some cause for these strange words.

Do you recollect seeing me with the belt?"

"Belt, what's a belt? I know nothing about belts. I tell you he's a villain, and a slanderer. Oh, that it should have come to this, to have my child's fair fame blasted by a wretch that comes n.o.body knows where from, and has been doing n.o.body knows what, for aught I know!"

"Mother, mother! we know no harm of him. If he is mistaken, G.o.d forgive him!"

"If he is mistaken?" went on Mrs. Harvey, still over the pie-dish: but Grace gave her no answer.

She was deep in thought. She recollected now, that as she had gone up the path, from the cove on that eventful morning, she had seen Willis and Thurnall whispering earnestly together; and she recollected now, for the first time, that there had been, a certain sadness and perplexity, almost reserve, about Willis ever since. Good Heavens!

could he suspect her too? She would find out that at least; and no sooner had her mother fussed away, talking angrily to herself, into the back kitchen, than Grace put on her bonnet and shawl, and went forth to find the Captain.

In an hour she returned. Her lips were firm set, her cheeks pale, her eyes red with weeping. She said nothing to her mother, who for her part did not seem inclined to allude again to the matter.

"Where have you been, child? You look quite poorly, and your eyes red."

"The wind is very cold, mother," said she, and went into her room. Her mother looked sharply after her, and muttered to herself.

Grace went in, and sat down on the bed.

"What a coldness this is at my heart!" she said aloud to herself, trying to smile; but she could not: and she sat on the bedside, without taking off her bonnet and shawl, her hands hanging listlessly by her side, her head drooping on her bosom, till her mother called her to tea: then she was forced to rouse herself, and went out, composed, but utterly wretched.

Tom walked up homeward, very ill at ease. He had played, to use his nomenclature, two trump cards running, and was by no means satisfied that he had played them well. He had no right, certainly, to be satisfied with either move; for both had been made in a somewhat evil spirit, and certainly for no very disinterested end.

That was a view of the matter, however, which never entered his mind; there was only that general dissatisfaction with himself which is, though men try hard to deny the fact, none other than the supernatural sting of conscience. He tried "to lay to his soul the flattering unction" that he might, after all, be of use to Mrs. Vavasour, by using his power over her husband: but he knew in his secret heart that any move of his in that direction was likely only to make matters worse; that to-day's explosion might only have sent home the hapless Vavasour in a more irritable temper than ever. And thinking over many things, backward and forward, he saw his own way so little, that he actually condescended to go and "pump" Frank Headley. So he termed it: but, after all, it was only like asking advice of a good man, because he did not feel himself quite good enough to advise himself.

The curate was preparing to sally forth, after his frugal dinner.

The morning he spent at the schools, or in parish secularities; the afternoon, till dusk, was devoted to visiting the poor; the night, not to sleep, but to reading and sermon writing. Thus, by sitting up till two in the morning, and rising again at six for his private devotions, before walking a mile and a half up to church for the morning service, Frank Headley burnt the candle of life at both ends very effectually, and showed that he did so by his pale cheeks and red eyes.

"Ah!" said Tom, as he entered. "As usual: poor Nature is being robbed and murdered by rich Grace."

"What do you mean now?" asked Frank, smiling, for he had become accustomed enough to Tom's quaint parables, though he had to scold him often enough for their irreverence.

"Nature says, 'after dinner sit awhile;' and even the dumb animals hear her voice, and lie by for a siesta when their stomachs are full.

Grace says, 'Jump up and rush out the moment you have swallowed your food; and if you get an indigestion, abuse poor Nature for it; and lay the blame on Adam's fall.'"

"You are irreverent, my good sir, as usual; but you are unjust also this time."

"How then?"

"Unjust to Grace, as you phrase it," answered Frank, with a quaint sad smile. "I a.s.sure you on my honour, that Grace has nothing whatsoever to do with my 'rushing out' just now, but simply the desire to do my good works that they may be seen of men. I hate going out. I should like to sit and read the whole afternoon: but I am afraid lest the dissenters should say, 'He has not been to see so-and-so for the last three days;' so off I go, and no credit to me."

Why had Frank dared, upon a month's acquaintance, to lay bare his own heart thus to a man of no creed at all? Because, I suppose, amid all differences, he had found one point of likeness between himself and Thurnall; he had found that Tom at heart was a truly genuine man, sincere and faithful to his own scheme of the universe.

How that man, through all his eventful life, had been enabled to

"Bate not a jot of heart or hope, But steer right onward,"

was a problem which Frank longed curiously, and yet fearfully withal, to solve. There were many qualities in him which Frank could not but admire, and long to imitate; and, "Whence had they come?" was another problem at which he looked, trembling as many a new thought crossed him. He longed, too, to learn from Tom somewhat at least of that savoir faire, that power of "becoming all things to all men," which St. Paul had; and for want of which Frank had failed. He saw, too, with surprise, that Tom had gained in one month more real insight into the characters of his parishioners than he had done in twelve; and besides all, there was the craving of the lonely heart for human confidence and friendship. So it befell that Frank spoke out his inmost thought that day, and thought no shame; and it befell also, that Thurnall, when he heard it, said in his heart--

"What a n.o.ble, honest fellow you are, when you--"

But he answered enigmatically.

"Oh, I quite agree with you that Grace has nothing to do with it. I only referred it to that source because I thought you would do so."

"You ought to be ashamed of your dishonesty, then."

"I know it; but my view of the case is, that you rush out after dinner for the very same reason that the Yankee storekeeper does--from--You'll forgive me if I say it?"

"Of course. You cannot speak too plainly to me."

"Conceit; the Yankee fancies himself such an important person, that the commercial world will stand still unless he flies back to its help after ten minutes' gobbling, with his month full of pork and pickled peaches. And you fancy yourself so important in your line, that the spiritual world will stand still unless you bolt back to help it in like wise. Subst.i.tute a half-cooked mutton chop for the pork, and the cases are exact parallels."

"Your parallel does not hold good, Doctor. The Yankee goes back to his store to earn money for himself, and not to keep commerce alive."

"While you go for utterly disinterested motives.--I see."

"Do you?" said Frank. "If you think that I fancy myself a better man than the Yankee, you mistake me: but at least you will confess that I am not working for money."

"No; you have your notions of reward, and he has his. He wants to be paid by material dollars, payable next month; you by spiritual dollars, payable when you die. I don't see the great difference."

"Only the slight difference between what is material and what is spiritual."

"They seem to me, from all I can hear in pulpits, to be only two different sorts of pleasant things, and to be sought after, both alike, simply because they are pleasant. Self-interest, if you will forgive me, seems to me the spring of both: only, to do you justice, you are a farther-sighted and more prudent man than the Yankee storekeeper; and having more exquisitely developed notions of what your true self-interest is, are content to wait a little longer than he."

"You stab with a jest, Thurnall. You little know how your words. .h.i.t home."

"Well, then, to turn from a matter of which I know nothing--I must keep you in, and give you parish business to do at home. I am come to consult you as my spiritual pastor and master."

Frank looked a little astonished.

"Don't be alarmed. I am not going to confess my own sins--only other people's."

"Pray don't, then. I know far more of them already than I can cure. I am worn out with the daily discovery of fresh evil wherever I go."