He yielded, not graciously,—that could not be expected,—but in silence.
“Oh! sir,” interposed young Tom, who had stood by during the dispute, “let me take it. You’re not able to lift it.”
“Nonsense! Tom. Keep away,” I said. “It is all the reparation I can make.”
And so Mr Brownrigg and I blundered into the little parlour with our burden—not a great one, but I began to find myself failing.
Mr Templeton sat in a Windsor chair in the middle of the room. Evidently the table had been carried away from before him, leaving his position uncovered. The floor was strewed with the books which had lain upon it. He sat reading an old folio, as if nothing had happened. But when we entered he rose.
He was a man of middle size, about forty, with short black hair and overhanging bushy eyebrows. His mouth indicated great firmness, not unmingled with sweetness, and even with humour. He smiled as he rose, but looked embarrassed, glancing first at the table, then at me, and then at Mr Brownrigg, as if begging somebody to tell him what to say. But I did not leave him a moment in this perplexity.
“Mr Templeton,” I said, quitting the table, and holding out my hand, “I beg your pardon for myself and my friend here, my churchwarden”—Mr Brownrigg gave a grunt—“that you should have been annoyed like this. I have—”
Mr Templeton interrupted me.
“I assure you it was a matter of conscience with me,” he said. “On no other ground—”
“I know it, I know it,” I said, interrupting him in my turn. “I beg your pardon; and I have done my best to make amends for it. Offences must come, you know, Mr Templeton; but I trust I have not incurred the woe that follows upon them by means of whom they come, for I knew nothing of it, and indeed was too ill—”