CHAPTER V. THE MANSONS
At school, Richard had been friendly with a boy of gentle nature, not many years older than himself. The boy had stood his friend in more than one difficulty, and Richard heartily loved him. But he had suddenly disappeared from the school, and so from Richard’s ken: for years he had not seen him. One evening, as he was carrying home a book, he met this Arthur Manson, looking worn and sad. He would have avoided Richard, but he stopped him, and presently the old friendship was dominant. Arthur told him his story. He had had to leave school because of the sudden cessation, from what cause he did not know, of a certain annuity his mother had till then enjoyed—rendering it imperative that he should earn his own living, and contribute to her support, for although she still had a little money, it was not nearly enough. His sister was at work with a dressmaker, but as yet earning next to nothing. His mother was a lady, he said, and had never done any work. He was himself in a counting-house in the City, with a salary of forty pounds. He told him where they lived, and Richard promised to go and see him, which he did the next Sunday.
His friend’s mother lived in a little house of two floors, one of a long row lately built. The furniture was much too large, and it was difficult to move in the tiny drawing-room. It showed a feeble attempt at decoration, which made it look the poorer. Accustomed to his mother’s care of her things, Richard perceived a difference: these were much finer but neglected, and looked as if they felt it. At their evening meal, however, the tea was good, and the bread and butter were of the best.
The mother was a handsome middle-aged woman—not so old, Richard somehow imagined, as she looked. She was stout and florid, with plenty of black, rather coarse hair, and seemed to Richard to have the carriage of a lady, but not speech equal to her manners. She was polite to him, but not apparently interested in her son’s friend. Yet several times he found her gazing at him with an expression that puzzled him. He had, however, too clear a conscience to be troubled by any scrutiny. All the evening Arthur’s face wore the same look of depression, and Richard wondered what could be amiss. He learned afterward that the mother was so self-indulgent, and took so little care to make the money go as far as it could, that he had not merely to toil from morning to night at uncongenial labour, but could never have the least recreation, and was always too tired when he came home to understand any book he attempted to read. Richard learned also that he had no greatcoat, and went to the City in the winter with only a shabby comforter in addition to the clothes he had worn all the summer. But it was not Arthur who told him this.
The girl was a graceful little creature, with the same sad look her brother had, but not the same depression. She seemed more delicate, and less capable of labour; yet her hours were longer than his, and her confinement greater. Alice had to sit the whole day plying her needle, while Arthur was occasionally sent out to collect money. But her mistress was a kind-hearted woman, and not having a fashionable clientèle, had not yet become indifferent to the well-being of her work-women. She even paid a crippled girl a trifle for reading to them, stipulating only that she should read fast, for she found the rate of their working greatly influenced by the rate of the reading. Life, if harder, was therefore not quite so uninteresting to Alice as to Arthur, and that might be why she seemed to have more vitality. Like her mother she had a quantity of hair, as dark as hers, but finer; dark eyes, not without meaning; irregular but very pleasing and delicate features; and an unusually white rather than pale complexion, with a sort of sallow glow under the diaphanous skin. There was not a little piquancy in the expression of her countenance, and Richard felt it strangely attractive.
The youths found they had still tastes in common, although Arthur had neither time nor strength to follow them. Richard spoke of some book he had been reading. Arthur was interested, but Alice so much that Richard offered to lend it her: it was the first time she had heard a book spoken of in such a tone—one of suppressed feeling, almost veneration.
The mother did not join in their talk, and left them soon—her daughter said to go to church.
“She always goes by herself,” Alice added. “She sees we are too tired to go.”
They sat a long time with no light but that of the fire. Arthur seemed to gather courage, and confessed the hopeless monotony of his life. He complained of no privation, only of want of interest in his work.
“Do you like your work?” he asked Richard.
“Indeed I do!” Richard answered. “I would sooner handle an old book than a bunch of bank-notes!”
“I don’t doubt it,” returned Arthur. “To me your workshop seems a paradise.”
“Why don’t you take up the trade, then? Come to us and I will teach you. I do not think my father would object.”
“I learn nothing where I am!” continued Arthur.
“Our boat is not over-manned,” resumed Richard. “Say you will come, and I will speak to my father.”
“I wish I could! But how are we to live while I am learning?—No; I must grind away till—”
He stopped short, and gave a sigh.
“Till when, Arty?” asked his sister.
“Till death set me free,” he answered.
“You wouldn’t leave me behind, Arty!” said Alice; and rising, she put her arm round his neck.
“I wouldn’t if I could help it,” he replied.
“It’s a cowardly thing to want to die,” said Richard.
“I think so sometimes.”
“There’s your mother!”
“Yes,” responded Arthur, but without emotion.
“And how should I get on without you, Arty?” said his sister.
“Not very well, Ally. But it wouldn’t be for long. We should soon meet.”
“Who told you that?” said Richard almost rudely.
“Don’t you think we shall know each other afterwards?” asked Arthur, with an expression of weary rather than sad surprise.
“I would be a little surer of it before I talked so coolly of leaving a sister like that! I only wish I had one to care for!”
A faint flush rose on the pale face of the girl, and as swiftly faded.
“Do you think, then, that this life is only a dream?” she said, looking up at Richard with something in her great eyes that he did not understand.
“Anyhow,” he answered, “I would bear a good deal rather than run the risk of going so fast asleep as to stop dreaming it. A man can die any time,” he continued, “but he can’t dream when he pleases! I would wait! One can’t tell when things may take a turn! There are many chances on the cards!”
“That’s true,” replied Arthur; but plainly the very chances were a weariness to him.
“If Arthur had enough to eat, and time to read, and a little amusement, he would be as brave as you are, Mr. Tuke!” said Alice. “—But you can’t mean to say there will be no more of anything for us after this world! To think I should never see Arty again, would make me die before my time! I should be so miserable I would hardly care to keep him as long as I might. We must die some day, and what odds whether it be a few days sooner, or a few days later, if we’re never going to meet again?”
“The best way is not to think about it,” returned Richard. “Why should you? Look at the butterflies! They take what comes, and don’t grumble at their sunshine because there’s only one day of it.”
“But when there’s no sunshine that day?” suggested Alice.
“Well, when they lie crumpled in the rain, they’re none the worse that they didn’t think about it beforehand! We must make the best of what we have!”
“It’s not worth making the best of,” cried Alice indignantly, “if that’s all!”
My reader may well wonder at Richard: how could he be a lover of our best literature and talk as he did? or rather, talking as he did, how could he love it? But he had come to love it while yet under the influence of what his aunt taught him, poor as was her teaching. Then his heart and imagination were more in the ascendency. Now he had begun to admire the intellectual qualities of that literature more, and its imaginative less; for he had begun to think truth attainable through the forces of the brain, sole and supreme.
In matters of conduct, John Tuke and his wife were well agreed; in matters of opinion, they differed greatly. Jane went to church regularly, listened without interest, and accepted without question; had her husband gone, he would have listened with the interest of utter dissent. When Jane learned that her husband no longer “believed in the Bible,” she was seized with terror lest he should die without repentance and be lost. Thereupon followed fear for herself: was not an atheist a horribly wicked man?—and she could not feel that John was horribly wicked! She tried her hardest, but could not; and concluded therefore that his unbelief must be affecting her. She prayed him to say nothing against the Bible to Richard—at least before he arrived at years of discretion. This John promised; but subtle effluences are subtle influences.
John Tuke did right so far as he knew—at least he thought he did—and refused to believe in any kind of God; Jane did right, she thought, as far as she knew—and never imagined God cared about her: let him who has a mind to it, show the value of the difference!
Tuke was a thinking man;—that is, set a going in any direction that interested him, he could take a few steps forward without assistance. But he could start in no direction of himself. At a small club to which he belonged, he had been brought in contact with certain ideas new to him, and finding himself able to grasp them, felt at once as if they must be true. Certain other ideas, new to him, coming self-suggested in their train, he began immediately to imagine himself a thinker, able to generate notions to which the people around him were unequal. He began to grow self-confident, and so to despise. Taking courage then to deny things he had never believed, had only not thought about, and finding he thereby gave offence, he chose to imagine himself a martyr for the truth. He did not see that a denial involving no assertion, cannot witness to any truth; nor did he perceive that denial in his case meant nothing more than non-acceptance of things asserted. Had he put his position logically, it would have been this: I never knew such things; I do not like the notion of them; therefore I deny them: they do not exist. But no man really denies a thing which he knows only by the words that stand for it. When John Tuke denied the God in his notion, he denied only a God that could have no existence.
A man will be judged, however, by his truth toward what he professes to believe; and John was far truer to his perception of the duty of man to man than are ninety-nine out of the hundred of so-called Christians to the things they profess to believe. How many men would be immeasurably better, if they would but truly believe, that is, act upon, the smallest part of what they untruly profess to believe, even if they cast aside all the rest. John cast aside an allegiance to God which had never been more than a mockery, and set about delivering his race from the fear of a person who did not exist. For, true enough, there was no God of the kind John denied; only, what if, in delivering his kind from the tyranny of a false God, he aided in hiding from them the love of a true God—of a God that did and ought to exist? There are other passions besides fear, and precious as fear is hateful. If there be a God and one has never sought him, it will be small consolation to remember that he could not get proof of his existence. Is a child not to seek his father, because he cannot prove he is alive?
The aunt continued to take the boy to church, and expose him, for it was little more she did, to a teaching she could not herself either supply or supplement. It was the business of the church to teach Christianity! her part was to accept it, and bring the child where he also might listen and accept! But what she accepted as Christianity, is another question; and whether the acceptance of anything makes a Christian, is another still.
How much of Christianity a child may or may not learn by going to church, it is impossible to say; but certainly Richard did not learn anything that drew his heart to Jesus of Nazareth, or caught him in any heavenly breeze, or even the smallest of celestial whirlwinds! He learned nothing even that made unwelcome such remarks as his father would now and then let fall concerning the clergy and the way they followed their trade; while the grin, full of conscious superiority, with which he unconsciously accompanied them, found its reflection in the honourable but not yet humble mind, beginning to be aware of its own faculty, and not aware that the religion presented in his aunt’s church, a religion neither honourable nor elevating, was but the dullest travesty of the religion of St. Paul. Richard had, besides, read several books which, had his uncle been careful of the promise he had given his wife, he would have intentionally removed instead of unintentionally leaving about.
In the position Richard had just taken toward his new friends, he was not a little influenced by the desire to show himself untrammelled by prevailing notions, and capable of thinking for himself; but this was far from all that made him speak as he did. Many young fellows are as ready to deny as Richard, but not many feel as strongly that life rests upon what we know, that knowledge must pass into action. The denial of every falsehood under the sun would not generate one throb of life.
Richard told his adoptive parents where he had been, and asked if he might invite his new friends for the next Sunday. They made no objection, and when Arthur and Alice came, received them kindly. Richard took Arthur to the shop, and showed him the job he was engaged upon at the time, lauding his department as affording more satisfaction than mere binding.
“For,” he said, “the thing that is not, may continue not to be; but the thing that is, should be as it was meant to be. Where it is not such, there is an evil that wants remedy. It may be that the sole remedy is binding, but that involves destruction, therefore is a poor thing beside renovation.”
The argument came from a well of human pity in himself, deeper than Richard knew. But both the pity he felt and the truth in what he said came from a source eternal of which he yet knew nothing.
“It would be much easier,” continued Richard, “to make that volume look new, but how much more delightful to send it out with a revived assertion of its ancient self!”
Some natures have a better chance of disclosing the original in them, that they have not been to college, and set to think in other people’s grooves, instead of those grooves that were scored in themselves long before the glacial era.
“For my part,” said Arthur, “I feel like a book that needs to be fresh printed, not to say fresh bound! I don’t feel why I am what I am. I would part with it all, except just being the same man!”
While the youths were having their talk, Alice was in Jane’s bedroom, undergoing an examination, the end and object of which it was impossible she should suspect. Caught by a certain look in her sweet face, reminding her of a look that was anything but sweet, Jane had set herself to learn from her what she might as to her people and history.
“Is your father alive, my dear?” she asked, with her keen black eyes on Alice’s face.
That grew red, and for a moment the girl did not answer. Jane pursued her catechizing.
“What was his trade or profession?” she inquired.
The girl said nothing, and the merciless questioner went on.
“Tell me something about him, dear. Do you remember him? Or did he die when you were quite a child?”
“I do not remember him,” answered Alice. “I do not know if I ever saw him.”
“Did your mother never tell you what he was like?”
“She told me once he was very handsome—the handsomest man she ever saw—but cruel—so cruel! she said.—I don’t want to talk about him, please, ma’am!” concluded Alice, the tears running down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry, my dear, to hurt you, but I’m not doing it from curiosity. You have a look so like a man I once knew,—and your brother has something of the same!—that in fact I am bound to learn what I can about you.”
“What sort was the man we put you in mind of?” asked Alice, with a feeble attempt at a smile. “Not a very bad man, I hope!”
“Well, not very good—as you ask me.—He was what people call a gentleman!”
“Was that all?”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought he was a nobleman!”
“Oh!—well, he wasn’t that; he was a baronet.”
Alice gave a little cry.
“Do tell me something about him,” she said. “What do you know about him?”
“More than I choose to tell. We will forget him now, if you please!”
There was in her voice a tone of displeasure, which Alice took to be with herself. She was in consequence both troubled and perplexed. Neither made any more inquiries. Jane took her guest back to the sitting-room.
The moment her brother came from the workshop, Alice said to him—
“Are you ready, Arthur? We had better be moving!”
Arthur was a gentle creature, and seldom opposed her; he seemed only surprised a little, and asked if she was ill. But Richard, who had all the week been looking forward to a talk with Alice, and wanted to show her his little library, was much disappointed, and begged her to change her mind. She insisted, however, and he put on his hat to walk with them.
But his aunt called him, and whispered that she would be particularly obliged to him if he would go to church with her that evening. He expostulated, saying he did not care to go to church; but as she insisted, he yielded, though not with the best grace.
Before another Sunday, there came, doubtless by his aunt’s management, an invitation to spend a few weeks with his grandfather, the blacksmith.
Richard was not altogether pleased, for he did not like leaving his work; but his aunt again prevailed with him, and he agreed to go. In this, as in most things, he showed her a deference such as few young men show their mothers. Her influence came, I presume, through the strong impression of purpose she had made on him.
His uncle objected to his going, and grumbled a good deal. As the brewer looks down on the baker, so the bookbinder looked down on the blacksmith.
He said the people Richard would see about his grandfather, were not fit company for the heir of Mortgrange! But he knew the necessity of his going somewhere for a while, and gave in.
CHAPTER VI. SIMON ARMOUR
Simon Armour was past only the agility, not the strength of his youth, and in his feats of might and skill he cherished pride. Without being offensively conceited, he regarded himself—and well might—as the superior of any baronet such as his daughter’s husband, and desired of him no recognition of the relationship. All he looked for from any man, whether he stood above or beneath his own plane, was proper pay for good work, and natural human respect. Some of the surrounding gentry, possibly not uninfluenced, in sentiment at least, by the growing radicalism of the age, enjoyed the free, jolly, but unpresuming carriage of the stalwart old man, to whom, if indeed on his head the almond-tree was already in blossom, the grasshopper was certainly not yet a burden: he could still ply a sledge-hammer in each hand. “My lord,” came from his lips in a clear, ringing tone of good-fellowship, which the nobleman who occasionally stopped at his forge to give him some direction about the shoeing of this or that horse, liked well to hear, and felt the friendlier for—though I doubt if he would have welcomed it from a younger man.
Besides his daughter Jane and her husband, he alone was aware of the real parentage of the lad who passed as their son; and he knew that, if he lived long enough, an hour would call him to stand up for the rights of his grandson. Perhaps it was partly in view of this, that he had for years been an abstainer from strong drink; but I am inclined to attribute the fact chiefly to his having found the love of it gaining upon him. “Damn the drink!” he had been more than once overheard to say, “it shall know which of us is master!” And when Simon had made up his mind to a thing, the thing was—not indeed as good, but almost as sure as done. The smallest of small beer was now his strongest drink.
He was a hard-featured, good-looking, white-haired man of sixty, with piercing eyes of quite cerulean blue, and a rough voice with an undertone of music in it. There was music, indeed, all through him. In the roughest part of his history it was his habit to go to church—mainly, I may say entirely, for the organ, but his behaviour was never other than reverent. How much he understood, may be left a question somewhat dependent on how much there may have been to understand; but he had a few ideas in religion which were very much his own, and which, especially some with regard to certain of the lessons from the Old Testament, would have considerably astonished some parsons, and considerably pleased others. He was a big, broad-shouldered man, with the brawniest arms, and eyes so bright and scintillant that one might fancy they caught and kept for their own use the sparks that flew from his hammer. His face was red, with a great but short white beard, suggesting the sun in a clean morning-fog.
A rickety omnibus carried Richard from the railway-station some five miles to the smithy. When the old man heard it stop, he threw down his hammer, strode hastily to the door, met his grandson with a gripe that left a black mark and an ache, and catching up his portmanteau, set it down inside.
“I’ll go with you in a moment, lad!” he said, and seizing with a long pair of pincers the horse-shoe that lay in process on the anvil, he thrust it into the fire, blew a great roaring blast from the bellows, plucked out the shoe glowing white, and fell upon it as if it were a devil. Having thus cowed it a bit, he grew calm, and more deliberately shaped it to an invisible idea. His grandson was delighted with the mingling of determination, intent, and power, with certainty of result, manifest in every blow. In two minutes he had the shoe on the end of a long hooked rod, and was hanging it beside others on a row of nails in a beam. Then he turned and said—
“There, lad! that’s off the anvil—and off my mind! Now I’m for you!”
“Grandfather,” said Richard, “I shouldn’t like to have you for an enemy!”
“Why not, you rascal! Do you think I would take unfair advantage of you?”
“No, that I don’t! But you’ve got awful arms and hands!”
“They’ve done a job or two in their day, lad!” he answered; “but I’m getting old now! I can’t do what I thought nothing of once. Well, no man was made to last for ever—no more than a horse-shoe! There’d be no work for the Maker if he did!”
“I’m glad to see we’re of one mind, grandfather!” said Richard.
“Well, why shouldn’t we—if so be we’re in the right mind!—Yes; we must be o’ one mind if we’re o’ the right mind! The year or two I may be ahead o’ you in gettin’ at it, goes for nothing: I started sooner!—But what may be the mind you speak of, sonny?”
The look of keen question the old man threw on him, woke a doubt in Richard whether he might not have misunderstood his grandfather.
“I think,” he answered, “if a man was made to last for ever, the world would get tired of him. When a horse or a dog has done his work, he’s content—and so is his master.”
“Nay, but I bean’t! I bean’t content to lose the old horse as I’ve shod mayhap for twenty years—no, not if I bean’t his master!”
“There’s no help for it, though!”
“None as I knows on. I’d be main glad to hear any news on the subjec’ as you can supply!—No, I ain’t content; I’m sorry!”
“Why don’t the parsons say the old horse’ll rise again?”
“‘Cause the parsons knows nought about it. How should they?”
“They say we’re going to rise again.”
“Why shouldn’t they? I guess I’ll be up as soon as I may! I don’t want no night to lie longer than rest my bones!”
“I mistook what you meant, grandfather. I thought, when you said you weren’t made to last for ever, that you meant there was an end of you!”
“Well, so you might, and small blame to you! It’s a wrong way of speaking we all have. But you’ve set me thinking—whether by mistake or not, where’s the matter! I never thought what come o’ the old horse, a’ter all his four shoes takes to shinin’ at oncet! For the old smith when he drops his hammer—I have thought about him. Lord!—to think o’ that anvil never ringin’ no more to this here fist o’ mine!”
While they talked, the blacksmith had put off his thick apron of hide; and now, catching up Richard’s portmanteau as if it had been a hand-basket, he led the way to a cottage not far from the forge, in a lane that here turned out of the high road. It was a humble place enough—one story and a wide attic. The front was almost covered with jasmine, rising from a little garden filled with cottage flowers. Behind was a larger garden, full of cabbages and gooseberry-bushes.
A girl came to the door, with a kind, blushing face, and hands as red as her cheeks—a great-niece of the old smith. He passed her and led the way into a room half kitchen, half parlour.
“Here you are, lad—at home, I hope! Sech as it is, an’ as much as it’s mine, it’s yours, an’ I hope you’ll make it so.”
He deposited the portmanteau, glanced quickly round, saw that Jessie had not followed them, and said—
“You’ll keep your good news till I’ve turned it over!”
“What good news, grandfather?”
“The good news that them as is close pared, has no call to look out for the hoof to grow. I’m not saying you’re wrong, lad—not yet; but everybody mightn’t think your news so good as to be worth a special messenger! So till you’re quite sure of it—”
“I am quite sure of it, grandfather!”
“I’m not; and having charge of the girl there, I’ll ha’ no dish served i’ my house as I don’t think wholesome!”
“You’re right there, grandfather! You may trust me!” answered Richard respectfully.
The blacksmith had spoken with a decision that was imperative. His red face shone out of his white beard, and his eyes sparkled out of his red face; his head gave a nod, and his jaws a snap.
They had tea, with bread and butter and marmalade, and much talk about John and Jane Tuke, in which the old man said oftener, “your aunt,” and “your uncle,” than “your father” or “your mother;” but Richard put it down to the confusion that often accompanies age. When the bookbinding came up, Richard was surprised to discover that the blacksmith was far from looking upon their trade as superior to his own. It was plain indeed that he regarded bookbinding as a quite inferior and scarce manly employment. To the blacksmith, bookbinding and tailoring were much the same—fit only for women. Richard did not relish this. He endeavoured to make his grandfather see the dignity of the work, insisting that its difficulty was the greater because of the less strength required in it: the strength itself had, he said, in certain of its operations, to be pared to the requisite fineness, to be modified with extreme accuracy; while in others, all the strength a man had was necessary, and especially in a shop like theirs, where everything was done by hand. But the fine work, he said, tired one much the most.
“Fine work!” echoed the smith with contempt. “There came a gentleman here to be shod t’other day from the Hall, who was a great traveller; and he told me he seen in Japan a blacksmith with a sprig of may on the anvil before him, an’ him a-copyin’ to the life them blossoms in hard iron with his one hammer! What say you to that, lad?”
“Wonderful! But that same man couldn’t do the heavy work you think nothing of, grandfather!”
“Nay, for that I don’t know. I know I couldn’t do his!”
“Then we’ll allow that fine work may be a manly thing as well as hard work. But I do wish I could shoe a horse!”
“What’s to hinder you?”
“Will you let me learn, grandfather?”
“Learn! I’ll learn you myself. You’ll soon learn. It’s not as if you was a bumpkin to teach! The man as can do anything, can do everything.”
“Come along then, grandfather! I want to let you see that though my hands may catch a blister or two, they’re not the less fit for hard work that they can do fine. I’ll be safe to shoe a horse before many days are over. Only you must have a little patience with me.”
“Nay, lad, I’ll have a great patience with you. Before many days are over, make the shoe you may, and make it well; but to shoe a horse as the horse ought to be shod, that comes by God’s grace.”
They went back to the smithy, and there, the very day of his arrival, more to Simon’s delight than he cared to show, the soft-handed bookbinder began to wield a hammer, and compel the stubborn iron. So deft and persevering was he, that, ere they went from the forge that same night, he could not only bend the iron to a proper curve round the beak of the anvil, but had punched the holes in half a dozen shoes. At last he confessed himself weary; and when his grandfather saw the state of his hands, blistered and swollen so that he could not close them, he was able no longer to restrain his satisfaction.
“Come!” he cried; “you’re a man after all, bookbinder! In six months I should have you a thorough blacksmith.”
“I wouldn’t undertake to make a bookbinder of you, grandfather, in the time!” returned Richard.
“Tit for tat, sonny, and it’s fair!” said Simon. “I should leave the devil his mark on your white pages.—How much of them do you rend now, as you stick them together?”
“Not a word as I stick them together. But many are brought me to be doctored and mended up, and from some of them I take part of my pay in reading them—books, I mean, that I wouldn’t otherwise find it easy to lay my hands upon—scarce books, you know.”
“You would like to go to Oxford, wouldn’t ye, lad—and lay in a stock to last your life out?”
“You might as well think to lay victuals into you for a lifetime, grandfather! But I should like to lay in a stock of the tools to be got at Oxford! It would be grand to be able to pick the lock of any door I wanted to see the other side of.”