“Oh you mammon-worshipper!” I cried.  “Because a man has one of the largest shops in London, and his brother is Mayor of Addicehead, you take his testimony and refuse your son’s!  I did not know the boy till this evening; but I call upon you to bring back to your memory all that you have known of him from his childhood, and then ask yourself whether there is not, at least, as much probability of his having remained honest as of the master of a great London shop being infallible in his conclusions—­at which conclusions, whatever they be, I confess no man can wonder, after seeing how readily his father listens to his defamation.”

I spoke with warmth.  Before I had done, the pale face of the carpenter was red as fire; for he had been acting contrary to all his own theories of human equality, and that in a shameful manner.  Still, whether convinced or not, he would not give in.  He only drove away at his work, which he was utterly destroying.  His mouth was closed so tight, he looked as if he had his jaw locked; and his eyes gleamed over the ruined board with a light which seemed to me to have more of obstinacy in it than contrition.

“Ah, Thomas!” I said, taking up the speech once more, “if God had behaved to us as you have behaved to your boy—­be he innocent, be he guilty—­there’s not a man or woman of all our lost race would have returned to Him from the time of Adam till now.  I don’t wonder that you find it difficult to believe in Him.”

And with those words I left the shop, determined to overwhelm the unbeliever with proof, and put him to shame before his own soul, whence, I thought, would come even more good to him than to his son.  For there was a great deal of self-satisfaction mixed up with the man’s honesty, and the sooner that had a blow the better—­it might prove a death-blow in the long run.  It was pride that lay at the root of his hardness.  He visited the daughter’s fault upon the son.  His daughter had disgraced him; and he was ready to flash into wrath with his son upon any imputation which recalled to him the torture he had undergone when his daughter’s dishonour came first to the light.  Her he had never forgiven, and now his pride flung his son out after her upon the first suspicion.  His imagination had filled up all the blanks in the wicked insinuations of Mr—–.  He concluded that he had taken money to spend in the worst company, and had so disgraced him beyond forgiveness.  His pride paralysed his love.  He thought more about himself than about his children.  His own shame outweighed in his estimation the sadness of their guilt.  It was a less matter that they should be guilty, than that he, their father, should be disgraced.

Thinking over all this, and forgetting how late it was, I found myself half-way up the avenue of the Hall.  I wanted to find out whether young Weir’s fancy that the ladies he had failed in serving, or rather whom he had really served with honesty, were Mrs and Miss Oldcastle, was correct.  What a point it would be if it was!  I should not then be satisfied except I could prevail on Miss Oldcastle to accompany me to Thomas Weir, and shame the faithlessness out of him.  So eager was I after certainty, that it was not till I stood before the house that I saw clearly the impropriety of attempting anything further that night.  One light only was burning in the whole front, and that was on the first floor.