"You are a noble-hearted human being," said Waife, greatly affected. "And—mark my words—a mantle of charity so large you will live to wear as a robe of honor. But hear me, Sir! Mr. Hartopp also is a man infinitely charitable, benevolent, kindly, and, through all his simplicity, acutely shrewd. Mr. Hartopp, on hearing what was said against me, deemed me unfit to retain my grandchild, resigned the trust I had confided to him, and would have given me alms, no doubt, had I asked them, but not his hand. Take your hands, Sir, from my shoulder, lest the touch sully you."
George did take his hands from the vagrant's shoulder, but it was to grasp the hand that waved them off, and struggled to escape the pressure. "You are innocent, you are innocent! forgive me that I spoke to you of repentance as if you had been guilty. I feel you are innocent—feel it by my own heart. You turn away. I defy you to say that you are guilty of what has been laid to your charge, of what has darkened your good name, of what Mr. Hartopp believed to your prejudice. Look me in the face and say, ' I am not innocent, I have not been belied.'"
Waife remained voiceless—motionless.
The young man, in whose nature lay yet unproved all those grand qualities of heart, without which never was there a grand orator, a grand preacher—qualities which grasp the results of argument, and arrive at the end of elaborate reasoning by sudden impulse—here released Waife's hand, rose to his feet, and, facing Waife, as the old man sat with face averted, eyes downcast, breast heaving, said, loftily,
"Forget that I may soon be the Christian minister whose duty bows his ear to the lips of shame and guilt—whose hand, when it points to Heaven, no mortal touch can sully—whose sublimest post is by the sinner's side. Look on me but as man and gentleman. See, I now extend this hand to you. If, as man and gentleman, you have done that which, could all hearts be read, all secrets known—human judgment reversed by Divine omniscience—forbids you to take this hand—then reject it—go hence—we part! But if no such act be on your conscience—however you submit to its imputation—then, in the name of Truth, as man and gentleman to man and gentleman, I connnand you to take this right hand, and in the name of that Honor which bears no paltering, I forbid you to disobey."
The vagabond rose, like the dead at the spell of a magician—took, as if irresistibly, the hand held out to him. And the scholar, overjoyed, fell on his breast, embracing him as a son.
"You know," said George, in trembling accents, that the hand
