Mr. Bulstrode was conscious of being in a good spiritual frame and more

than usually serene, under the influence of his innocent recreation.

He was doctrinally convinced that there was a total absence of merit in

himself; but that doctrinal conviction may be held without pain when

the sense of demerit does not take a distinct shape in memory and

revive the tingling of shame or the pang of remorse. Nay, it may be

held with intense satisfaction when the depth of our sinning is but a

measure for the depth of forgiveness, and a clenching proof that we are

peculiar instruments of the divine intention. The memory has as many

moods as the temper, and shifts its scenery like a diorama. At this

moment Mr. Bulstrode felt as if the sunshine were all one with that of

far-off evenings when he was a very young man and used to go out

preaching beyond Highbury. And he would willingly have had that

service of exhortation in prospect now. The texts were there still,

and so was his own facility in expounding them. His brief reverie was

interrupted by the return of Caleb Garth, who also was on horseback,

and was just shaking his bridle before starting, when he exclaimed--

"Bless my heart! what's this fellow in black coming along the lane?

He's like one of those men one sees about after the races."

Mr. Bulstrode turned his horse and looked along the lane, but made no

reply. The comer was our slight acquaintance Mr. Raffles, whose

appearance presented no other change than such as was due to a suit of

black and a crape hat-band. He was within three yards of the horseman

now, and they could see the flash of recognition in his face as he

whirled his stick upward, looking all the while at Mr. Bulstrode, and

at last exclaiming:--

"By Jove, Nick, it's you! I couldn't be mistaken, though the

five-and-twenty years have played old Boguy with us both! How are you,

eh? you didn't expect to see _me_ here. Come, shake us by the hand."

To say that Mr. Raffles' manner was rather excited would be only one

mode of saying that it was evening. Caleb Garth could see that there

was a moment of struggle and hesitation in Mr. Bulstrode, but it ended

in his putting out his hand coldly to Raffles and saying--

"I did not indeed expect to see you in this remote country place."

"Well, it belongs to a stepson of mine," said Raffles, adjusting

himself in a swaggering attitude. "I came to see him here before. I'm

not so surprised at seeing you, old fellow, because I picked up a

letter--what you may call a providential thing. It's uncommonly

fortunate I met you, though; for I don't care about seeing my stepson:

he's not affectionate, and his poor mother's gone now. To tell the

truth, I came out of love to you, Nick: I came to get your address,

for--look here!" Raffles drew a crumpled paper from his pocket.




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