"The devil takes care of his own," said the parson, looking round, and
marking the comfort of the room.
"Not always," said the 'Bishop,' thinking of Dick.
"Well, sir," continued the parson, "I'm told that money can work
miracles in this country. And, by God! if my money can sent you to
gaol, you shall go there, as sure as my name is George Carteret."
"All right," said the 'Bishop.' "I--er--I don't blame you. I think
you're behaving with great moderation."
"Moderation! Confound it! sir, are you laughing at me?"
"The Lord forbid!" ejaculated Crisp.
"Men have been shot for less than this."
"There's a pistol in that drawer," said the 'Bishop' wearily. "You can
shoot if you want to. Your money can put me into gaol, as you say, and
keep you out of it, if--if you use that pistol."
Mr. Carteret stared. The 'Bishop' was beginning to puzzle him. He
stared still harder, and the 'Bishop' blushed; an awkward habit that
he had never rid himself of. Now a country parson, who is also a
magistrate, becomes in time a shrewd judge of men.
"Will you kindly send for my--for your partner?" he said suddenly.
"Please sit or stand where you are. I think you'll admit that I have a
right to conduct this inquiry in my own way."
Accordingly, Dick was sent for, and soon he took his stand beside the
'Bishop,' facing the flaming blue eyes of his father. Then Mr.
Carteret asked him point blank the questions he had put to the other,
and received the _same_ answers, the 'Bishop' entering an
inarticulate demurrer.
"It appears," said Mr. Carteret, "that there are two ways of telling
this story. One of you, possibly, has told the truth; the other has
unquestionably lied. I confess," he added dryly, "that my sympathies
are with the liar. He is the honester man."
"Yes," said Dick. "I'm about as big a blackguard as you'll find
anywhere, but I'm your son all the same. Father--forgive me."
One must confess that Dick played his last trump in a masterly
fashion. He knew that whining wouldn't avail him, or any puling
hypocrisy. So he told the truth.
"Is that what you want?" said the father sarcastically. "Only that: my
forgiveness and my blessing?"
Dick's bold eyes fell beneath this thrust.
"The man who drove me here," continued the father, "told me a curious
story. It seems that Mr. Crisp here has toiled and moiled for many
years, keeping you in comparative luxury and idleness. Not a word,
sir. It's an open secret. For some occult reason he likes to pay this
price for your company. Having supported you so long, I presume he is
prepared to support you to the end?"
"He's my friend," said the 'Bishop' stoutly.
"My son," said the old man solemnly, "died six years ago, and he can
never, _never_," the second word rang grimly out, "be raised from
the dead. That man there," his voice faltered for the first time, "is
another son whom I do not know--whom I do not want to know--let him
ask himself if he is fit to return with me to England, to live with
those gentlewomen, his sisters, to inherit the duties and
responsibilities that even such wealth as mine bring in their train.
He knows that he is not fit. Is he fit to take my hand?"
He stretched forth his lean white hand, the hand that had signed so
many cheques. Dick did not try to touch it. The 'Bishop' wiped his
eyes. The poor fellow looked the picture of misery.
"If there be the possibility of atonement for such as he," continued
the speaker--"and God forbid that I should dare to say there is
_not_--let that atonement be made here where he has sinned. It
seems that the stoppage of his allowance tempted him to commit
suicide. I did not know my son was a coward. Now, to close for ever
that shameful avenue down which he might slink from the battle, I
pledge myself to pay again that five pounds a month during my life,
and to secure the same to Richard _Cartwright_ after my death, so
long as he shall live. That, I think, is all."
He passed with dignity out of the room and into the street, where the
buggy awaited him. Dick remained standing, but the 'Bishop' followed
the father, noting how, as soon as he had crossed the threshold, his
back became bowed and his steps faltered. He touched the old man
lightly on the shoulder.
"May I take your hand?" he asked. "I am not fit, no fitter than Dick,
but----"
Mr. Carteret held out his hand, and the 'Bishop' pressed it gently.
"I believe," said Mr. Carteret after a pause, "that you, sir, may live
to be an honest man."
"I'll look after Dick," blubbered the 'Bishop,' sorely affected. "Dick
will pan out all right--in the end."
But Dick's father shuddered.
"It's very chilly," he said, with a nervous cough. "Good-night, Mr.
Crisp. Good-night, and God bless you."