dancing eyes. "He'll admit that nothing has occurred to prove Colonel Merridew's guilt, if your father will admit that every sane man must have thought that Colonel Merridew was guilty."
"Hum," said I doubtfully. "I'll tell my father."
My father received my report in a somewhat hostile spirit. At first he was inclined to find a new insult in it, and I had great difficulty in bringing him to a more reasonable view. His suggestion at last was—and I could obtain no better terms from him—that Sir Matthew should admit that nothing had occurred to suggest Colonel Merridew's guilt, but that at the same time it was conceivable that a sane man might have thought Colonel Merridew guilty.
When I next met Sylvia, I communicated my father's suggested modification of the terms of peace. I explained that it covered a real and most material concession.
"Papa will never agree to that," said she sorrowfully; and no more he did.
Negotiations and pourparlers continued. Sylvia grew thinner. I became absent and distrait in manner. After a month Sir Matthew forwarded fresh terms. They were as follows: "Although Colonel Merridew may not have stolen the Maharajah's rubies, yet every reasonable man would naturally have concluded that he had stolen the rubies." My father objected to this, and proposed to substitute, "Although Colonel Merridew did not steal the Maharajah's rubies, yet a reasonable man might not impossibly think that he had stolen the rubies."
Sylvia and I built hopes on this last formula, but Sir Matthew unhappily objected to it. Matters came to a standstill again, and no progress was made until the vicar, having heard of the matter (indeed by now it was common property and excited great interest in the neighborhood), offered his services as mediator. He said that he was a peacemaker by virtue of his office and that he hoped to be able to draw up a statement of the case which would be palatable to both parties. Sir Matthew and my father gladly accepted his friendly offices, and the vicar withdrew to elaborate his eirenicon.
The vicar was a man of great intellectual subtlety, which he found very few opportunities of exercising. Therefore he enjoyed his new function extremely, and was very busy riding to and fro between our house and the Marstons'. Sylvia and I grew impatient, but the vicar assured us that the result of hurrying matters would be an irremediable rupture. We were obliged to submit, and waited as resignedly as we could until the terms of peace should be finally settled. At last the welcome news came that the vicar, lying awake on Sunday night, had suddenly struck on a form of words to which both parties could subscribe with satisfaction and without loss of self-respect. I called on the vicar before breakfast on Monday morning. He greeted me with evident pleasure.
"Yes," said he, rubbing his hands contentedly, "I think I have managed it this time," and he hummed a light-hearted tune.
"What is the form of statement?" I asked, for I could scarcely believe in the good news of his success.
"Why, this," answered the vicar: "‘Although there was no reason whatsoever to think that Colonel Merridew stole the Maharajah's rubies, yet any gentleman may well have supposed, and had every reason for supposing, that Colonel Merridew did steal the Maharajah's rubies.’"
"That seems er—very fair and equal," said I, after a moment's consideration.
"I think so, my dear young friend," said the vicar complacently. "I imagine that it will put an end to all trouble between your worthy father and Sir Matthew."
"I'm sure it must," I agreed.
"I have modeled it," pursued the vicar, holding out the piece of paper before him and regarding it lovingly, "I have modeled the form of it on"
"On the thirty-nine articles," I suggested thoughtlessly.
"Not at all," said the vicar sharply. "On parliamentary apologies."
As may be supposed, Sylvia and I spent a day of feverish suspense, mitigated only by one another's company. The vicar rode first to Sir Matthew's; he reached there at half-past twelve, and remained to luncheon. Starting again at three (evidently Sir Matthew had been hard to move), he reached my father's at 4:30, and was closeted with him till seven o'clock. I had parted from Sylvia about six, and came to dinner. My father was then alone. I looked at him, but had not the nerve to ask him any questions. Presently he came and patted me on the shoulder.
"I have made a great sacrifice for your sake, my boy," said he. "Sir Matthew Marston and his daughter will dine here to-morrow." And he flung himself into a chair.
