"It's one you have no right to meddle with, any way," growled Brother Warboise; "and, what's more, you can't know anything about it."

"It came to me through the child Corona," pursued Brother Copas imperturbably. "You took her to Weekes's house to tea one afternoon, and she had it from Weekes's wife. It's astonishing how these women will talk."

"I've known some men too, for that matter--"

"It's useless for you to keep interrupting. The Master has asked for information, and I am going to tell him the story--that is, sir, if you can spare a few minutes to hear it."

"You are sure it will take but a few minutes?" asked Master Blanchminster doubtfully.

"Eh, Master?" Brother Copas laughed. "Did you, too, find me somewhat prolix this afternoon?"

"Well, you shall tell me the story. But since it is not good for us to be standing here among the river damps, I suggest that you turn back with me towards St. Hospital, and where the path widens so that we can walk three abreast you shall begin."

"With your leave, Master, I would be excused," said Brother Warboise.

"Oh, no, you won't," Brother Copas a.s.sured him. "For unless you come too, I promise to leave out all the discreditable part of the story and paint you with a halo. . . . It began, sir, in this way," he took up the tale as they reached the wider path, "when the man Weekes fell under a paralytic stroke, Warboise took occasion to call on him.

Perhaps, Brother, you will tell us why."

"I saw in his seizure the visitation of G.o.d's wrath," said Warboise.

"The man had done me a notorious wrong. He had been a swindler, and my business was destroyed through him."

"Mrs. Weekes said that even the sight of the wretch's affliction did not hinder our Brother from denouncing him. He sat down in a chair facing the paralytic, and talked of the debt: 'which now,' said he, 'you will never be able to pay.' . . . Nay, Master, there is better to come. When Brother Warboise got up to take his leave, the man's lips moved, and he tried to say something. His wife listened for some time, and then reported, 'He wants you to come again.'

Brother Warboise wondered at this; but he called again next day.

Whereupon the pleasure in the man's face so irritated him, that he sat down again and began to talk of the debt and G.o.d's judgment, in words more opprobrious than before. . . . His own affairs, just then, were going from bad to worse: and, in short, he found so much relief in bullying the author of his misfortunes, who could not answer back, that the call became a daily one. As for the woman, she endured it, seeing that in some mysterious way it did her husband good."

"There was nothing mysterious about it," objected Brother Warboise.

"He knew himself a sinner, and desired to pay some of his penance before meeting his G.o.d."

"I don't believe it," said Copas. "But whether you're right or wrong, it doesn't affect the story much. . . . At length some friends extricated our Brother from his stationery business, and got him admitted to the Blanchminster Charity. The first afternoon he paid a visit in his black gown, the sick man's face so lit up at the sight that Warboise flew into a pa.s.sion--did you not, Brother?"

"Did the child tell you all this?"

"Aye: from the woman's lips."

"I was annoyed, because all of a sudden it struck me that, in revenge for my straight talk, Weekes had been wanting me to call day by day that he might watch me going downhill; and that now he was gloating to see me reduced to a Blanchminster gown. So I said, 'You blackguard, you may look your fill, and carry the recollection of it to the Throne of Judgment, where I hope it may help you.

But this is your last sight of me.'"

"Quite correct," nodded Copas. "Mrs. Weekes corroborates. . . .

Well, Master, our Brother trudged back to St. Hospital with this resolve, and for a week paid no more visits to the sick. By the end of that time he had discovered, to his surprise, that he could not do without them--that somehow Weekes had become as necessary to him as he to Weekes."

"How did you find that out?" asked Brother Warboise sharply.

"Easily enough, as the child told the story. . . . At any rate, you went. At the door of the house you met Mrs. Weekes.

She had put on her bonnet, and was coming that very afternoon to beseech your return. You have called daily ever since to talk about your debt, though the Statute of Limitations has closed it for years.

. . . That, Master, is the story."

"You have told it fairly enough," said Warboise. "Now, since the Master knows it, I'd be glad to be told if that man is my friend or my enemy. Upon my word I don't rightly know, and if he knows he'll never find speech to tell me. Sometimes I think he's both."

"I am not sure that one differs very much from the other, in the long run," said Copas.

But the Master, who had been musing, turned to Warboise with a quick smile.

"Surely," he said, "there is one easy way of choosing. Take the poor fellow some little gift. If you will accept it for him, I shall be happy to contribute now and then some grapes or a bottle of wine or other small comforts."

He paused, and added with another smile, still more penetrating--

"You need not give up talking of the debt, you know!"

By this time they had reached the gateway of his lodging, and he gave them a fatherly good night just as a child's laugh reached them through the dusk at the end of the roadway. It was Corona, returning from rehearsal; and the Chaplain--the redoubtable William the Conqueror--was her escort. The two had made friends on their homeward way, and were talking gaily.

"Why, here is Uncle Copas!" called Corona, and ran to him.

Mr. Colt relinquished his charge with a wave of the hand.

His manner showed that he accepted the new truce _de bon coeur_.

"Is it peace, you two?" he called, as he went past.

Brother Warboise growled. _What hast thou to do with peace?

Get thee behind me_, the growl seemed to suggest. At all events, it suggested this answer to Brother Copas--

"If you and Jehu the son of Nimshi start exchanging roles," he chuckled, "where will Weekes come in?"

Master Blanchminster let himself in with his latchkey, and went up the stairs to his library. On the way he meditated on the story to which he had just listened, and the words that haunted his mind were Wordsworth's--

"Alas! the grat.i.tude of men Hath oftener left me mourning."

A solitary light burned in the library--the electric lamp on his table beside the fire-place. It had a green shade, and for a second or two the Master did not perceive that someone stood a pace or two from it in the penumbra.

"Master!"

"Hey!"--with a start--"Is it Simeon? . . . My good Simeon, you made me jump. What brings you back here at this hour? You've forgotten some paper, I suppose."

"No, Master."

"What then?"

By the faint greenish light the Master missed to observe that Mr.

Simeon's face was deadly pale.

"Master, I have come to make confession--to throw myself on your mercy! For a long time--for a year almost--I have been living dishonestly. . . . Master, do you believe in miracles?"

For a moment there was no answer. Master Blanchminster walked back to an electric b.u.t.ton beside the door, and turned on more light with a finger that trembled slightly.

"If you have been living dishonestly, Simeon, I certainly shall believe in miracles."

"But I mean _real_ miracles, Master."

"You are agitated, Simeon. Take a seat and tell me your trouble in your own way--beginning, if you please, with the miracle."