“The Carvels ever did what they believed right, sir,” I answered.  “You would not have me to go against my conscience?”

To this he replied nothing.

“The evil has been done, as I feared, father,” said Grafton, presently; “we must now seek for the remedy.”

“Let me question the lad,” Mr. Allen softly interposed.  “Tell me, Richard, who has influenced you to this way of thinking?”

I saw his ruse, and was not to be duped by it.

“Men who have not feared to act bravely against oppression, sir,” I said.

“Thank God,” exclaimed my uncle, with fervour, “that I have been more careful of Philip’s associations, and that he has not caught in the streets and taverns this noxious creed!”

“There is no danger from Philip; he remembers his family name,” said the rector.

“No,” quoth Mr. Carvel, bitterly, “there is no danger from Philip.  Like his father, he will ever believe that which best serves him.”

Grafton, needless to say, did not pursue such an argument, but rising, remarked that this deplorable affair had kept him long past his dinner hour, and that his services were as ever at his father’s disposal.  He refused to stay, though my grandfather pressed him of course, and with a low bow of filial respect and duty and a single glance at the rector, my uncle was gone.  And then we walked slowly to the house and into the dining room, Mr. Carvel leading the procession, and I an unwilling rear, knowing that my fate would be decided between them.  I thought Mr. Allen’s grace would never end, and the meal likewise; I ate but little, while the two gentlemen discussed parish matters.  And when at last Scipio had retired, and the rector of St. Anne’s sat sipping the old Madeira, his countenance all gravity, but with a relish he could not hide, my grandfather spoke up.  And though he addressed himself to the guest, I knew full well what he said was meant for me.

“As you see, sir,” said he, “I am sore perplexed and troubled.  We Carvels, Mr. Allen, have ever been stanch to Church and King.  My great-grandsire fought at Naseby and Marston Moor for Charles, and suffered exile in his name.  ’Twas love for King James that sent my father hither, though he swore allegiance to Anne and the First George.  I can say with pride that he was no indifferent servant to either, refusing honours from the Pretender in ’15, when he chanced to be at home.  An oath is an oath, sir, and we have yet to be false to ours.  And the King, say I, should, next to God, be loved and loyally served by his subjects.  And so I have served this George, and his grandfather before him, according to the talents which were given me.”

“And ably, sir, permit me to say,” echoed the rector, heartily.  Too heartily, methought.  And he carefully filled his pipe with choice leaf out of Mr. Carvel’s inlaid box.