Weary with many thoughts, the vicar came to the door of the bank. There were several carriages there, and a crowd of people swarming in and out, like bees round a hive-door, entering with anxious faces, and returning with cheerful ones, to stop and talk earnestly in groups round the door. Every moment the mass thickened — there was a run on the bank. An old friend accosted him on the steps —

‘What! have you, too, money here, then?’

‘Neither here nor anywhere else, thank Heaven!’ said the vicar. ‘But is anything wrong?’

‘Have not you heard? The house has sustained a frightful blow this week — railway speculations, so they say — and is hardly expected to survive the day. So we are all getting our money out as fast as possible.’

‘By way of binding up the bruised reed, eh?’

‘Oh! every man for himself. A man is under no obligation to his banker, that I know of.’ And the good man bustled off with his pockets full of gold.

The vicar entered. All was hurry and anxiety. The clerks seemed trying to brazen out their own terror, and shovelled the rapidly lessening gold and notes across the counter with an air of indignant nonchalance. The vicar asked to see the principal.

‘If you want your money, sir —’ answered the official, with a disdainful look.

‘I want no money. I must see Mr. Smith on private business, and instantly.’

‘He is particularly engaged.’

‘I know it, and, therefore, I must see him. Take in my card, and he will not refuse me.’ A new vista had opened itself before him.

He was ushered into a private room: and, as he waited for the banker, he breathed a prayer. For what? That his own will might be done — a very common style of petition.

Mr. Smith entered, hurried and troubled. He caught the vicar eagerly by the hand, as if glad to see a face which did not glare on him with the cold selfish stamp of ‘business,’ and then drew back again, afraid to commit himself by any sign of emotion.

The vicar had settled his plan of attack, and determined boldly to show his knowledge of the banker’s distress.

‘I am very sorry to trouble you at such an unfortunate moment, sir, and I will be brief; but, as your nephew’s spiritual pastor —’ (He knew the banker was a stout Churchman.)

‘What of my nephew, sir! No fresh misfortunes, I hope?’

‘Not so much misfortune, sir, as misconduct — I might say frailty — but frailty which may become ruinous.’

‘How? how? Some mesalliance?’ interrupted Mr. Smith, in a peevish, excited tone. ‘I thought there was some heiress on the tapis — at least, so I heard from my unfortunate son, who has just gone over to Rome. There’s another misfortune. — Nothing but misfortunes; and your teaching, sir, by the bye, I am afraid, has helped me to that one.’

‘Gone over to Rome?’ asked the vicar, slowly.

‘Yes, sir, gone to Rome — to the pope, sir! to the devil, sir! I should have thought you likely to know of it before I did!’

The vicar stared fixedly at him a moment, and burst into honest tears. The banker was moved.

”Pon my honour, sir, I beg your pardon. I did not mean to be rude, but — but — To be plain with a clergyman, sir, so many things coming together have quite unmanned me. Pooh, pooh,’ and he shook himself as if to throw off a weight; and, with a face once more quiet and business-like, asked, ‘And now, my dear sir, what of my nephew?’

‘As for that young lady, sir, of whom you spoke, I can assure you, once for all, as her clergyman, and therefore more or less her confidant, that your nephew has not the slightest chance or hope in that quarter.’

‘How, sir? You will not throw obstacles in the way?’

‘Heaven, sir, I think, has interposed far more insuperable obstacles — in the young lady’s own heart — than I could ever have done. Your nephew’s character and opinions, I am sorry to say, are not such as are likely to command the respect and affection of a pure and pious Churchwoman.’

‘Opinions, sir? What, is he turning Papist, too?’

‘I am afraid, sir, and more than afraid, for he makes no secret of it himself, that his views tend rather in the opposite direction; to an infidelity so subversive of the commonest principles of morality, that I expect, weekly, to hear of some unblushing and disgraceful outrage against decency, committed by him under its fancied sanction. And you know, as well as myself, the double danger of some profligate outbreak, which always attends the miseries of a disappointed earthly passion.’

‘True, very true. We must get the boy out of the way, sir. I must have him under my eye.’

‘Exactly so, sir,’ said the subtle vicar, who had been driving at this very point. ‘How much better for him to be here, using his great talents to the advantage of his family in an honourable profession, than to remain where he is, debauching body and mind by hopeless dreams, godless studies, and frivolous excesses.’

‘When do you return, sir?’

‘An hour hence, if I can be of service to you.’

The banker paused a moment.

‘You are a gentleman’ (with emphasis on the word), ‘and as such I can trust you.’

‘Say, rather, as a clergyman.’

‘Pardon me, but I have found your cloth give little additional cause for confidence. I have been as much bitten by clergymen — I have seen as sharp practice among them, in money matters as well as in religious squabbles, as I have in any class. Whether it is that their book education leaves them very often ignorant of the plain rules of honour which bind men of the world, or whether their zeal makes them think that the end justifies the means, I cannot tell; but —’

‘But,’ said the vicar, half smiling, half severely, ‘you must not disparage the priesthood before a priest.’

‘I know it, I know it; and I beg your pardon: but if you knew the cause I have to complain. The slipperiness, sir, of one staggering parson, has set rolling this very avalanche, which gathers size every moment, and threatens to overwhelm me now, unless that idle dog Lancelot will condescend to bestir himself, and help me.’

The vicar heard, but said nothing.

‘Me, at least, you can trust,’ he answered proudly; and honestly, too — for he was a gentleman by birth and breeding, unselfish and chivalrous to a fault — and yet, when he heard the banker’s words, it was as if the inner voice had whispered to him, ‘Thou art the man!’

‘When do you go down?’ again asked Mr. Smith. ‘To tell you the truth, I was writing to Lancelot when you were announced! but the post will not reach him till tomorrow at noon, and we are all so busy here, that I have no one whom I can trust to carry down an express.’

The vicar saw what was coming. Was it his good angel which prompted him to interpose?

‘Why not send a parcel by rail?’

‘I can trust the rail as far as D—; but I cannot trust those coaches. If you could do me so great a kindness —’

‘I will. I can start by the one o’clock train, and by ten o’clock to-night I shall be in Whitford.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘If God shall please, I am certain.’

‘And you will take charge of a letter? Perhaps, too, you could see him yourself; and tell him — you see I trust you with everything — that my fortune, his own fortune, depends on his being here tomorrow morning. He must start to-night, sir — to-night, tell him, if there were twenty Miss Lavingtons in Whitford — or he is a ruined man!’

The letter was written, and put into the vicar’s hands, with a hundred entreaties from the terrified banker. A cab was called, and the clergyman rattled off to the railway terminus.

‘Well,’ said he to himself, ‘God has indeed blessed my errand; giving, as always, “exceeding abundantly more than we are able to ask or think!” For some weeks, at least, this poor lamb is safe from the destroyer’s clutches. I must improve to the utmost those few precious days in strengthening her in her holy purpose. But, after all, he will return, daring and cunning as ever; and then will not the fascination recommence?’

And, as he mused, a little fiend passed by, and whispered, ‘Unless he comes up to-night, he is a ruined man.’

It was Friday, and the vicar had thought it a fit preparation for so important an errand to taste no food that day. Weakness and hunger, joined to the roar and bustle of London, had made him excited, nervous, unable to control his thoughts, or fight against a stupifying headache; and his self-weakened will punished him, by yielding him up an easy prey to his own fancies.

‘Ay,’ he thought, ‘if he were ruined, after all, it would be well for God’s cause. The Lavingtons, at least, would find no temptation in his wealth: and Argemone — she is too proud, too luxurious, to marry a beggar. She might embrace a holy poverty for the sake of her own soul; but for the gratification of an earthly passion, never! Base and carnal delights would never tempt her so far.’

Alas, poor pedant! Among all that thy books taught thee, they did not open to thee much of the depths of that human heart which thy dogmas taught thee to despise as diabolic.

Again the little fiend whispered —

‘Unless he comes up to-night, he is a ruined man.’

‘And what if he is?’ thought the vicar. ‘Riches are a curse; and poverty a blessing. Is it not his wealth which is ruining his soul? Idleness and fulness of bread have made him what he is — a luxurious and self-willed dreamer, battening on his own fancies. Were it not rather a boon to him to take from him the root of all evil?’

Most true, vicar. And yet the devil was at that moment transforming himself into an angel of light for thee.

But the vicar was yet honest. If he had thought that by cutting off his right hand he could have saved Lancelot’s soul (by canonical methods, of course; for who would wish to save souls in any other?), he would have done it without hesitation.

Again the little fiend whispered —

‘Unless he comes up to-night he is a ruined man.’

A terrible sensation seized him. — Why should he give the letter to-night?

‘You promised,’ whispered t............