CHAPTER IV.

The lost theft.

Stealthily and quickly “honest Roger” crept away, for his conscience smote him on the instant:  he felt he had done wrong; at any rate, the sovereign was not his—­and once the thought arose in him to run back, and put it where he found it:  but it was now become too precious in his sight, that little bit of gold—­and they, the rioters there, could not want it, might not even miss it; and then its righteous uses—­it should be well spent, even if ill-got:  and thus, so many mitigations crowded in to excuse, if not to applaud the action, that within a little while his warped mind had come to call the theft a god-send.

O Roger, Roger! alas for this false thought of that wrong deed! the poisonous gold has touched thy heart, and left on it a spot of cancer:  the asp has bitten thee already, simple soul.  This little seed will grow into a huge black pine, that shall darken for a while thy heaven, and dig its evil roots around thy happiness.  Put it away, Roger, put it away:  covet not unhallowed gold.

But Roger felt far otherwise; and this sudden qualm of conscience once quelled (I will say there seemed much of palliation in the matter), a kind of inebriate feeling of delight filled his mind, and Steady Acton plodded on to the meadow yonder, half a mile a-head, in a species of delirious complacency.  Here was luck indeed, filling up the promise of his dreams.  His head was full of thoughts, pleasant holiday thoughts, of the many little useful things, the many small indulgences, that bit of gold should buy him.  He would change it on the sly, and gradually bring the shillings home as extra pay for extra work; for, however much his wife might glory in the chance, and keep his secret, well he knew that Grace would have a world of things to say about it, and he feared to tell his daughter of the deed.  However, she should have a ribbon, so she should, good girl, and the pedlar shouldn’t pass the door unbidden; Mary, too, might have a cotton kerchief, and the babes a doll and a rattle, and poor Thomas a shilling to spend as he liked; and so, in happy revery, the kind father distributed his ill-got sovereign.

For a while he held it in his hand, as loth to part from the tangible possession of his treasure; but manual contact could not last all day, and, as he neared his scene of labour—­he came late after all, by the by, and lost the quarter-day, but it mattered little now—­he began to cogitate a place of safety; and carefully put it in his fob.  Poor fellow—­he had never had enough to stow so well away before:  his pockets had been thought quite trust-worthy enough for any treasures hitherto:  never had he used that fob for watch, or note, or gold—­and his predecessor in the cast-off garment had probably been quite aware how little that false fob was worthy of the name of savings’ bank; it was in the situation of the