Stephen Gimlet bowed low to the rector, and took a step back; but Beauchamp did not change his place, though he welcomed his reverend friend with a smile.
"I want to speak with you, Stephen," said Doctor Miles, as he approached; and then, turning towards Beauchamp, he added, "How are you, my dear Sir? There are some fine monuments here."
Beauchamp laid his hand upon the clergyman's arm, and, pointing to the tablet before him, murmured in a low voice; "I have something to say to you about that, my good friend; I will walk back with you; for I have long intended to talk to you on several subjects which had better not be delayed any longer;--I will leave you to speak with this good man here, if you will join me before the cottage."
"Oh, you need not go, you need not go," said Doctor Miles, "I have nothing to say you may not hear.--I wanted to tell you, Stephen," he continued, turning to the ci-devant poacher, "that I have been down to-day to Tarningham, and have seen old Mrs. Lamb and her son William."
"He's a dear good boy, Sir," said Stephen Gimlet, gazing in the rector's face, "and he was kind to me, and used to come up and see his poor sister Mary when nobody else would come near her. That poor little fellow, all crooked and deformed as he is, has more heart and soul in him than the whole town of Tarningham."
"There are more good people in Tarningham and in the world, Stephen, than you know," answered Doctor Miles, with a sharp look; "you have to learn, my good friend, that there are natural consequences attached to every particular line of conduct; and, as you turn a key in a door, one way to open it, and another way to shut it; so, if your conduct be good, you open men's hearts towards you; if your conduct be bad, you close them."
Stephen Gimlet rubbed his finger on his temple, and answered in a somewhat bitter, but by no means insolent tone: "It's a very hard lock, Sir, that of men's hearts; and when once it's shut, the bolt gets mighty rusty--at least, so I've found it."
"Stephen! Stephen!"--exclaimed the worthy clergyman, raising his finger with a monitory and reproachful gesture, "can you say so.--especially to-day?"
"No, Sir; no, Sir;" cried Stephen Gimlet, eagerly, "I am wrong; I am very wrong; butj ust then there came across me the recollection of all the hard usage I have had for twelve long years, and how it had driven me from bad to worse--ay! and killed my poor Mary, too; for her father was very hard; and though he said her marrying me broke his heart, I am sure he broke hers."
"You must not brood upon such things, Gimlet," said Doctor Miles. "It is better, wiser, and more christian, for every man to think of the share which his own faults have had in shaping his own fate; and, if he do so coolly and dispassionately, he will find much less blame to be attributed to others than he is inclined to believe. But do not let us waste time upon such considerations. I went down to talk to Mrs. Lamb about you and your boy; I told her what Sir John had done for you; and the imminent peril of death which the poor child had fallen into, from being left totally alone, when you are absent. The good old woman--and pray remark, Stephen, I don't call people good, as the world generally does, without thinking them so,--was very much affected and wept a good deal, and in the end she said she was quite ready to come up and keep house for you, and take care of the child while you are away."