“Well, perhaps you’re right!” said Simon. “Off with you to your woman’s work! and God bless you!”

— Fifty-Four —

Baronet and Blacksmith

Richard took Barbara home, and the same night started for London. Barbara begged 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 beside herself with surprise and delight at seeing him. When she heard his story, however, she plainly took part with his father, though she was too glad to see her boy again to say so. His uncle, too, was sincerely glad. Work had not been the same since Richard left.

He settled to his work as if he had never been away from it, and in two weeks could work faster and better than before. Soon he had as much in the way of mending 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 the world looked to him since the time that looked so far away! He had the loveliest of letters from Barbara. Mr. Wingfold wrote occasionally, and Richard always answered them both as soon as his work would allow.

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, and as the days and weeks passed he began to wish that he had not sent him away. He repented as much as was possible to him, and wished he had left the rascal to take his own way. He tried to understand how, always anxious to please him, the boy would yet not do as he said in such a trifle, especially when he had nothing to gain and everything to lose by his obstinacy. 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 that there were dusty compartments of his memory he preferred not to search in, knew very well he had done things which were wrong. 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. But because he did not obey his conscience, he would rather believe himself without one.

For the first time in his life he was possessed with a good longing—namely, the desire for his son. Twenty times a day he would be on the point of sending for Richard, but twenty times a day his pride stopped him. He grew visibly greyer, stooped more, and became irritable.