But though Tom did not reproach Heale, Heale reproached himself.  He had just conscience enough left to feel the whole weight of his abused responsibility, exaggerated and defiled by superstitious horror; and maudlin tipsy, he wandered about the street, moaning that he had murdered his wife, and all the town, and asking pardon of every one he met; till seeing one of the meeting-houses open, he staggered in, in the vain hope of comfort which he knew he did not deserve.

In half-an-hour Tom was down the street again to Headley’s.  “Where is Miss Harvey?”

“At the Beers’.”

“She must go up to Heale’s instantly.  The mother will die.  Those cases of panic seldom recover.  And Miss Heale may very likely follow her.  She has shrieked and sobbed herself into it, poor fool! and Grace must go to her at once; she may bring her to common sense and courage, and that is the only chance.”

Grace went, and literally talked and prayed Miss Heale into life again.

“You are an angel,” said Tom to her that very evening, when he found the girl past danger.

“Mr. Thurnall!” said Grace, in a tone of sad and most meaning reproof.

“But you are!  And these owls are not worthy of you.”

“This is no time for such language, sir!  After all, what am I doing more than you?” And Grace went upstairs again, with a cold hard countenance which belied utterly the heart within.

That was the critical night of all.  The disease seemed to have done its worst in the likeliest spots:  but cases of panic increased all the afternoon; and the gross number was greater than ever.

Tom did not delay inquiring into the cause:  and he discovered it.  Headley, coming out the next morning, after two hours’ fitful sleep, met him at the gate:  his usual business-like trot was exchanged for a fierce and hurried stamp.  When he saw Frank, he stopped short, and burst out into a story which was hardly intelligible, so interlarded was it with oaths.

“For Heaven’s sake!  Thurnall, calm yourself, and do not swear so frightfully; it is so unlike you!  What can have upset you thus?”

“Why should I not curse and swear in the street,” gasped he, “while every fellow who calls himself a preacher is allowed to do it in the pulpit with impunity!  Fine him five shillings for every curse, as you might if people had courage and common sense, and then complain of me!  I am a fool, I know, though.  But I cannot stand it!  To have all my work undone by a brutal ignorant fanatic!—­It is too much!  Here, if you will believe it, are those preaching fellows getting up a revival, or some such invention, just to make money out of the cholera!  They have got down a great gun from the county town.  Twice a-day they are preaching at them, telling them that it is all God’s wrath against their sins; that it is impious to interfere, and that I am fighting against God, and the end of the world is coming, and they and the devil only know what.  If I meet one of them, I’ll wring his neck, and be hanged for it!  Oh, you parsons! you parsons!” and Tom ground his teeth with rage.