There & Back, George MacDonald [early reader chapter books .TXT] 📗

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.


CHAPTER LXIV.


THE BARONET'S FUNERAL .

It was about a year after Richard's return to his trade, when one morning the doctor at Barset was roused by a groom, his horse all speckled with foam, who, as soon as he had given his message, galloped to the post-office, and telegraphed for a well-known London physician. A little later, Richard received a telegram: "Father paralyzed. Will meet first train. Wingfold."

With sad heart he obeyed the summons, and found Wingfold at the station.

"I have just come from the house," he said. "He is still insensible. They tell me he came to himself once, just a little, and murmured Richard , but has not spoken since."

"Let us go to him!" said Richard.

"I fear they will try to prevent you from seeing him."

"They shall not find it easy."

"I have a trap outside."

"Come along."

They reached Mortgrange, and stopped at the lodge. Richard walked up to the door.

"How is my father?" he asked.

"Much the same, sir, I believe."

"Is it true that he wanted to see me?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Is he in his own room?"

"Yes, sir; but, I beg your pardon, sir," said the man, "I have my lady's orders to admit no one!"

While he spoke, Richard passed him, and went straight to his father's room, which was on the ground-floor. He opened the door softly, and entered. His father lay on the bed, with the Barset surgeon and the London doctor standing over him. The latter looked round, saw him, and came to him.

"I gave orders that no one should be admitted," he said, in a low stern tone.

"I understand my father wished to see me!" answered Richard.

"He cannot see you."

"He may come to himself any moment!"

"He will never come to himself," returned the doctor.

"Then why keep me out?" said Richard.

The eyes of the dying man opened, and Richard received his last look. Sir Wilton gave one sigh, and death was past. Whether life was come, God only, and those who watched on the other side, knew. Lady Ann came in.

"The good baronet is gone!" said the physician.

She turned away. Her eyes glided over Richard as if she had never before seen him. He went up to the bed, and she walked from the room. When Richard came out, he found Wingfold where he had left him, and got into the pony-carriage beside him. The parson drove off.

"His tale is told," said Richard, in a choking voice. "He did not speak, and I cannot tell whether he knew me, but I had his last look, and that is something. I would have been a good son to him if he had let me-at least I would have tried to be."

He sat silent, thinking what he might have done for him. Perhaps he would not have died if he had been with him, he thought.

"It is best," said Wingfold. "We cannot say anything would be best, but we must say everything is best."

"I think I understand you," said Richard. "But oh how I would have loved him if he would have let me!"

"And how you will love him!" said Wingfold, "for he will love you. They are getting him ready to let you now. I think he is loving you in the darkness. He had begun to love you long before he went. But he was the slave of the nature he had enfeebled and corrupted. I hope endlessly for him-though God only knows how long it may take, even after the change is begun, to bring men like him back to their true selves.-But surely, Richard," he cried, bethinking himself, and pulling up his ponies, "your right place is at Mortgrange-at least so long as what is left of your father is lying in the house!"

"Yes, no doubt I and I did think whether I ought not to assert myself, and remain until my father's will was read; but I concluded it better to avoid the possibility of anything unpleasant. I cannot of course yield my right to be chief mourner. I think my father would not wish me to do so."

"I am sure he would not.-Then, till the funeral, you will stay with us!" concluded the parson, as he drove on.

"No, I thank you," answered Richard: "I must be at my grandfather's. I will go there when I have seen Barbara."

On the day of the funeral, no one disputed Richard's right to the place he took, and when it was over, he joined the company assembled to hear the late baronet's will. It was dated ten years before, and gave the two estates of Mortgrange and Cinqmer to his son, Arthur Lestrange There was in it no allusion to the possible existence of a son by his first wife. Richard rose. The lawyer rose also.

"I am sorry, sir Richard," he said, "that we can find no later will. There ought to have been some provision for the support of the title."

"My father died suddenly," answered Richard, "and did not know of my existence until about five years ago."

"All I can say is, I am very sorry."

"Do not let it trouble you," returned Richard. "It matters little to me; I am independent."

"I am very glad to hear it. I had imagined it otherwise."

"A man with a good trade and a good education must be independent!"

"Ah, I understand!-But your brother will, as a matter of course-. I shall talk to him about it. The estate is quite equal to it."

"The estate shall not be burdened with me," said Richard with a smile. "I am the only one of the family able to do as he pleases."

"But the title, sir Richard!"

"The title must look after itself. If I thought it in the smallest degree dependent on money for its dignity, I would throw it in the dirt. If it means anything, it means more than money, and can stand without it. If it be an honour, please God, I shall keep it honourable. Whether I shall set it over my shop, remains to be considered.-Good morning!"

As he left the room, a servant met him with the message that lady Ann wished to see him in the library. Cold as ever, but not colder than always, she poked her long white hand at him.

"This is awkward