“Let me see,” he thought; “it will be perfectly dark to-night. Nearly new moon. He has come down to see how the land lies, and before morning, unless he’s checkmated, the vicarage will be wrecked, and if anybody opposes them, his life will be in danger.”
“It’s only a part of one’s life,” he said, bitterly, as he started up. “I’ve been a scoundrel, and I thowt I’d grown into a honest man, when I was only a coward. Now the time has come to show myself really honest, and with God’s help I’ll do it.”
Not long after, the vicar was seated with his head resting upon his hand, strengthening himself as he termed it, and fighting hard to quell the misery in his breast, when Mrs Slee came to the door.
“Yes,” he said, trying to rouse himself, and wishing for something to give him a strong call upon the strength, energy, and determination lying latent in his breast. “Yes, Mrs Slee?”
“Here’s John Maine fro’ the farm wants to see thee, sir.”
“Show him in the study, Mrs Slee; I’ll be with him in five minutes.” And those minutes he spent in bathing his temples and struggling against his thoughts.
The time had scarcely expired, when he entered the library, to find his visitor standing there, hat in hand, resting upon a stout oak sapling.
“Glad to see you, Maine,” said the vicar, kindly. “Could you not find a chair?”
“Thanky, sir, no; I would rather stand. I ought to have been here before, but, like all things we don’t want to do, I put it off. I want to tell you something, sir. I want to confess.”
“Confess, Maine!” said the vicar, smiling; “any one would think this was Ireland, and that I was the parish priest.”