CHAPTER LXIII.
_BARONET AND BLACKSMITH_.
Richard took Barbara home, and the same night started for London. Barbara
prayed him to take what money she had, but he said that by going in the
third class he would have something over, and, once there, would begin to
earn money immediately.
His aunt was almost beside herself for lack of outlet to her surprise and
delight at seeing him. When she heard his story, however, it was plain
she took part with his father, though she was too glad to have her boy
again to say so. His uncle too was sincerely glad. His work had not been
the same thing to him since Richard went; and to have him again was what
he had never hoped. He could not help a grudge that Richard should lose
his position for the sake of such as the Mansons, but he saw now the
principle involved. He saw too that, in virtue of his belief in God as
the father of all, his nephew had much the stronger sense of the claim of
man upon man.
Richard never disputed with his uncle; he but suggested, and kept
suggesting--in the firm belief that an honest mind must, sooner or later,
open its doors to every truth. He settled to his work as if he had never
been away from it, and in a fortnight or so could work faster and better
than before. Soon he had as much in his peculiar department as he was
able to do, for almost all his old employers again sought him. His story
being now no secret, they wondered he should return to his trade, but no
one thought he had chosen to be a workman because he was not a gentleman.
But how changed was the world to him since the time that looked so far
away! With how much larger a life in his heart would he now sit in the
orchestra while the gracious forms of music filled the hall, and he
seemed to see them soaring on the pinions of the birds of God, as Dante
calls the angels, or sweeping level in dance divine, like the six-winged
serpents of Isaiah's vision high and lifted up--all the interspaces
filled with glow-worms and little spangled snakes of coruscating sound!
He was more blessed now than even when but to lift his eyes was to see
the face of Barbara; she was in his faith and hope now as well as in his
love. He had the loveliest of letters from her. She insisted he should
not write oftener than once for her twice: his time was worth more, she
said, than twice hers. Mr. Wingfold wrote occasionally, and Richard
always answered within a week.
As soon as his son was gone, sir Wilton began to miss him. He wished,
first, that the obstinacy of the rascal had not made it necessary to
give him quite so sharp a lesson; he wished, next, that he had given him
time to see the reasonableness of his demand; and at length, as the days
and weeks passed, and not a whisper of prayer entered the ears of the
family-Baal, he began to wish that he had not sent him away. The desire
to see him grew a longing; his need of him became imperative. Arthur, who
now tried a little to do the work he had before declined, was the poorest
substitute for Richard; and his father kept thinking how differently
Richard had served him. He repented at last as much as was possible to
him, and wished he had left the rascal to take his own way. He tried to
understand how it was that, anxious always to please him, he yet would
not in such a trifle, and that with nothing to gain and everything to
lose by his obstinacy. There might be conscience in it! his mother
certainly had a conscience! But how could the fool make the Mansons a
matter of _his_ conscience? They were no business of his!
He pretended to himself that he had been born without a conscience. At
the same time he knew very well there were pigeon-holes in his memory he
preferred not searching in; knew very well he had done things which were
wrong, things he knew to be wrong when he did them. If he had ever done a
thing because he ought to do it; if he had ever abstained from doing a
thing because he ought not to do it, he would have _known_ he had a
conscience. Because he did not obey his conscience, he would rather
believe himself without one. I doubt if consciousness ever exists without
conscience, however poorly either may be developed.
Fur the first time in his life he was possessed with a good
longing--namely, for his son; a fulcrum was at length established which
might support leverage for his uplifting. He grew visibly greyer, stooped
more, and became very irritable. Twenty times a day he would be on the
point of sending for Richard, but twenty times a day his pride checked
him.
"If the rascal would make but apology enough to satisfy a Frenchman, I
would take him back!" he would say to himself over and over; "but he's
such a chip of the old block!--so damned independent!--Well, I don't call
it a great fault! If I had had a trade, I should have been just as
independent of my father! No, I want no apology from him! Let him just
say, 'Mayn't I come back, father?' and the gold ring and the wedding
garment shall be out for him directly!"
A month after Richard's expulsion, the baronet drove to the smithy, and
accused Simon of causing all the mischief. He must send the boy Manson
away, he said: he would settle an annuity on the beggar. That done,
Richard must make a suitable apology, and he would take him back. Simon
listened without a word. He wanted to see how far he would go.
"If you will not oblige me," he ended, "you shall not have another stroke
of work from Mortgrange, and I will use my influence to drive you from
the county."
Without waiting for an answer, he turned to walk from the shop. But he
did not walk. The moment he turned, Simon took him by the shoulders and
ran him right out of the smithy up to his carriage, into which, for the
footman had made haste to open the door, he would have tumbled him neck
and heels, but that, gout and all, sir Wilton managed to spring on the
step, and get in without falling. In a rage by no means unnatural, he
called to the coachman to send his lash about the ruffian's ears. Simon
burst into a guffaw, which so startled the horses that the footman had to
run to their heads. In his haste to do so, he failed to shut the door
properly; it opened and banged, swinging this way and that, as the horses
now reared, now backed, now pulled, and the baronet, cursing and
swearing, was tossed about in his carriage like a dried-up kernel in a
nut. Simon at length, with tears of merriment running down his red
cheeks, managed, in a succession of gymnastics, to close the door.
"Home, Peterkin?" he shouted, and turning away, strode back to his
forge, whence immediately sprang upon the air the merriest tune ever
played by anvil and hammer with a horse-shoe between them--the sparks
flying about the musician like a nimbus of embodied notes. It seemed to
soothe the horses, for they started immediately without further racket.
Before the next month was over, the baronet was again in the smithy--in a
better mood this time. He made no reference to his former ignominious
dismissal--wanted only to know if Simon had heard from his grandson. The
old man answered that he had: he was well, happy, and busy. Sir Wilton
gave a grunt.
"Why didn't he stay and help you?"
"I begged him to do so," answered Simon, "for he is almost as good at the
anvil, and quite as good at the shoring as myself; but he said it would
annoy his father to have him so near, and he wouldn't do it."
His boy's good will made the baronet fidget and swear to hide his
compunction. But his evil angel got the upper hand.
"The rascal knew," he cried, "that nothing would annoy me so much as have
him go back to his mire like the washed sow!"
Perceiving Simon look dangerous, he turned with a hasty good-morning, and
made for his carriage, casting more than one uneasy glance over his
shoulder. But the blacksmith let him depart in peace.
