“You old scoundrel!” said the curate, half rising from his seat in the dim vestry, where the surplices and gowns, hung against the old oak panels, seemed like a jury listening to the sexton’s impeachment. “You old scoundrel!” he said again, shaking the cigar at him, as if it were a little staff. “It’s quite a year since I began missing the wine, and I would not—I could not—suspect you. Why, I should as soon have thought that you would rob the alms box.”
The old man started, as if his guilty conscience needed no accuser, for he had more than once helped himself to a silver coin from the box within the south door, telling himself that the alms were for the poor, and that he was one of that extremely large fringe of rags upon civilisation.
“Well,” continued the curate, “I shall to some extent condone this very serious offence, Moredock, for I cannot find it in my heart to prosecute an old man of over ninety; so now go, and I sincerely hope that you will repent.”
“Ay, I’ll repent, parson; but it wouldn’t ha’ been much loss to ha’ been turned out o’ being saxton. Nobody dies now, and no one gets married. How’s Miss Leo?”
“Getting quite strong again.”
“That’s a blessing, sir,” grumbled the old man, who in spirit abused the young girl for defrauding him of certain fees. “Health’s a blessing, sir.”
“Yes, Moredock, it is,” said the curate, rising.
“And I thankye kindly, sir, for looking over the wine, I do. You needn’t lock it up. I won’t touch it again.”
“I shall not lock it up, Moredock. My forgiveness is full. I shall trust you as if this had never occurred.”
“Thankye, parson. That’s han’some.”