“I humiliate myself?” reiterated the young man, angrily.

“You take money that is not very gracefully offered for your acceptance, my young friend,” said the chaplain, quietly.

“You saw him, did you?” cried Richard, hoarse with shame and passion.

“No; I did not; but I heard him swearing at you at the hazard-table for having emptied his pockets; and I am familiar with his mode of bestowing presents.  You must forgive me, Mr. Yorke,” added Parson Whymper, dryly; “but you ought to know that when a man has lost his own self-respect, he is, naturally averse to the profession of independence in another.”

“If you deem yourself a dependent, Mr. Chaplain,” replied Yorke, bitterly, “you still permit yourself some frankness.”

“Yes; that is one of the few virtues which are practiced at Crompton.  You will find me speak the truth.”

There was irony in Parson Whymper’s tone; and yet the young man felt that he was not the subject of its cynicism.  Was it possible that this hard-drinking, hard-riding, hard-headed divine was scornful of himself, and of his own degraded position?  Yorke did not credit him with any such fine feeling.  He had read of Swift at Temple’s, and could understand the great Dean’s bitterness against a shallow master and his insolent guests, but that a man should become despicable to himself, was unintelligible to him.

“Of course,” continued the chaplain, smiling at his evident bewilderment, “I could have been as smooth-spoken as you please, my young friend; but I had estimated your good sense too highly to endeavor to conciliate you by such vapid arts.”

“I thank you,” said Yorke, thoughtfully.  “I hope you were right there; I am sure at least that from your mouth I could hear home truths, which from another’s would be very unpalatable.  You are good enough to speak as though you would wish us to be friends.  I am going to ask you, therefore, to do me a favor.”

“I will do any thing that lies in my power; but do not, for your own sake, press me to influence your father——­”

“No, no; it is not that,” broke in the other, hastily.  “It lies with yourself to grant my request.  I wish to hear from you the true story of Carew’s marriage with my mother.”

“The true story?” echoed Parson Whymper.  “Nay; I can not vouch for being possessed of that.  I have only heard it from your grandmother:  the counsel for the prosecution is scarcely a reliable authority for the facts of a case.”

“And I have only heard the defense,” said Yorke.  “Let me now, for the first time, know what was urged upon the other side, and so weightily,” the young man gloomily added, “that it made my mother an outcast, and myself a disgraced and penniless lad.  You see, I know exactly what was the end of it all, so do not fear to shock me.”

“There can be no disgrace where one has not one’s self to blame,” urged the chaplain.