"It was that which brought me. Until it happened I could not find courage--"

Mr. Simeon's eyes wandered to this side and that, as though they still sought a last chance of escape.

"The facts, if you please?"

The Master's voice had of a sudden become cold, even stern.

He flung the words much as one dashes a cupful of water in the face of an hysterical woman. They brought Mr. Simeon to himself.

His gaze shivered and fixed itself on the Master's, as in a compa.s.s-box you may see the needle tremble to magnetic north.

He gripped the arms of his chair, caught his voice, and went on desperately.

"This afternoon it was. . . . On my way here I went around, as I go daily, by the Cathedral, to hear if the workmen have found any fresh defects. . . . They had opened a new pit by the south-east corner, a few yards from the first, and as I came by one of the men was levering away with a crowbar at a large stone not far below the surface. I waited while he worked it loose, and then, lifting it with both hands, he flung it on to the edge of the pit. . . .

By the shape we knew it at once for an old gravestone that, falling down long ago, had somehow sunk and been covered by the turf.

There was lettering, too, upon the undermost side when the man turned it over. He sc.r.a.ped the earth away with the flat of his hands, and together we made out what was written."

Mr. Simeon fumbled in his waistcoat, drew forth a sc.r.a.p of paper, and handed it to the Master.

"I copied it down then and there: no, not at once. At first I looked up, afraid to see the whole building falling, falling upon me--"

The Master did not hear. He had unfolded the paper. Adjusting his spectacles, he read: "_G.o.d have Mercy on the Soul of Giles Tonkin.

Obiit Dec. 17th, 1643. No man can serve two masters_."

"A strange text for a tombstone," he commented. "And the date--1643?

That is the year when our city surrendered in the Parliament wars.

. . . Who knows but this may have marked the grave of a man shot because he hesitated too long in taking sides . . . or perchance in his flurry he took both, and tried to serve two masters."

"Master, I am that man. . . . Do not look at me so! I mean that, whether he knew it or not, he died to save me . . . that his stone has risen up for witness, driving me to you. Ah, do not weaken me, now that I am here to confess!"

And leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands spread to hide his face, Mr. Simeon blurted out his confession.

When he had ended there was silence in the room for a s.p.a.ce.

"Tarbolt!" murmured the Master, just audibly and no more.

"If it had been anyone but Tarbolt!"

There was another silence, broken only by one slow sob.

"_For either he will hate the one and love the other; or else he will hold to the one and despise the other_. . . Simeon, which was I?"

Mr. Simeon forced himself to look up. Tears were in his eyes, but they shone.

"Master, can you doubt?"

"I am sorry to appear brutal," said Master Blanchminster, coldly and wearily, "but my experiences to-day have been somewhat trying for an old man. May I ask if, on taking your resolution to confess, you came straight to me; or if, receiving just dismissal from my service, you yet hold Canon Tarbolt in reserve?"

Mr. Simeon stood up.

"I have behaved so badly to you, sir, that you have a right to ask it. But as a fact I went to Canon Tarbolt first, and said I could no longer work for him."

"Sit down, please. . . . How many children have you, Mr. Simeon?"

"Seven, sir. . . . The seventh arrived a fortnight ago--yesterday fortnight, to be precise. A fine boy, I am happy to say."

He looked up pitifully. The Master stood above him, smiling down; and while the Master's stature seemed to have taken some additional inches, his smile seemed to irradiate the room.

"Simeon, I begin to think it high time I raised your salary."

CHAPTER XXIII.

CORONA'S BIRTHDAY.

The May-fly season had come around again, and Corona was spending her Sat.u.r.day--the Greycoats' holiday--with Brother Copas by the banks of Mere. They had brought their frugal luncheon in the creel which was to contain the trout Brother Copas hoped to catch. He hoped to catch a brace at least--one for his sick friend at home, the other to replenish his own empty cupboard: for this excursion meant his missing to attend at the kitchen and receive his daily dole.

There may have been thunder in the air. At any rate the fish refused to feed; and after an hour's patient waiting for sign of a rise-- without which his angling would be but idle pains--Brother Copas found a seat, and pulled out a book from his pocket, while Corona wandered over the meadows in search of larks' nests. But this again was pains thrown away; since, as Brother Copas afterwards explained, in the first place the b.u.t.tercups hid them, and, secondly, the nests were not there!--the birds preferring the high chalky downs for their nurseries. She knew, however, that along the ditches where the willows grew, and the alder clumps, there must be scores of warblers and other late-breeding birds; for walking here in the winter she had marvelled at the number of nests laid bare by the falling leaves.

These warblers wait for the leaves to conceal their building, and Winter will betray the deserted hiding-place. So Brother Copas had told her, to himself repeating--

"_Cras amorum copulatrix inter umbras arborum Inplicat casas virentes de flagello myrteo_...."

Corona found five of these nests, and studied them: flimsy things, constructed of a few dried gra.s.ses, inwoven with horsehair and cobwebs. Before next spring the rains would dissolve them and they would disappear.

She returned with a huge posy of wild flowers and the information that she, for her part, felt hungry as a hunter. . . . They disposed themselves to eat.

"Do you know, Uncle Copas," she asked suddenly, "why I have dragged you out here to-day?"

"Did I show myself so reluctant?" he protested; but she paid no heed to this.

"It is because I came home here to England, to St. Hospital, just a year ago this very afternoon. This is my Thanksgiving Day," added Corona solemnly.

"I am afraid there is no turkey in the hamper," said Brother Copas, pretending to search. "We must console ourselves by reflecting that the bird is out of season."

"You didn't remember the date, Uncle Copas. Did you, now?"

"I did, though." Brother Copas gazed at the running water for a s.p.a.ce and then turned to her with a quick smile. "Why, child, _of course_ I did! . . . And I appreciate the honour."

Corona nodded as she broke off a piece of crust and munched it.

"I wanted to take stock of it all. (We're dining out of doors, so please let me talk with my mouth full. I'm learning to eat slowly, like a good English girl: only it takes so much time when there's a lot to say.) Well, I've had a good time, and n.o.body can take _that_ away, thank the Lord! It--it's been just heavenly."

"A good time for all of us, little maid."

"Honest Indian? . . . But it can't last, you know. That's what we have to consider: and it mayn't be a gay thought, but I'd hate to be one of those folks that never see what's over the next fence. . . .

Of course," said Corona pensively, "it's up to you to tell me I dropped in on St. Hospital like one of Solomon's lilies that take no thought for to-morrow. But I didn't, really: for I always knew this was going to be the time of my life."

"I don't understand," said Copas. "Why should it not last?"

"I guess you and I'll have to be serious," she answered. "Daddy gets frailer and frailer. . . . You can't hide from me that you know it: and please don't try, for I've to think of--of the _afterwards_, and I want you to help."