For the moment I shrank from speaking, perceiving what a sad blow to Mr. Carvel my words must be.  And then I spoke up boldly, catching the exulting sneer on my Uncle Grafton’s face and the note of triumph reflected in Mr. Allen’s.

“I have never deceived you, sir,” I said, “and will not now hide from you that I believe the colonies to have a just cause against his Majesty and Parliament.”  The words came ready to my lips:  “We are none the less Englishmen because we claim the rights of Englishmen, and, saving your presence, sir, are as loyal as those who do not.  And if these principles be bad,” I added to my uncle, “then should we think with shame upon the Magna Charta.”

My grandfather stood astonished at such a speech from me, whom he had thought a lad yet without a formed knowledge of public affairs.  But I was, in fact, supersaturated with that of which I spoke, and could have given my hearers many able Whig arguments to surprise them had the season befitted.  There was silence for a space after I had finished, and then Mr. Carvel sank right heavily upon the bench.

“A Carvel against the King!” was all he said.

Had I been alone with him I should have cast myself at his feet, for it hurt me sorely to see him so.  As it was, I held my head high.

“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.