“If the rascal would but make an 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 off the old block—so infernally independent!”

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.

“If you will not oblige me,” sir Wilton ended, “you shall not have another stroke of work from Mortgrange, and I will use my influence to drive you from the county.”

He turned without an answer and would have walked from the shop, but the moment he turned, Simon took him by the shoulders and ran him out and right up to the carriage. In his rage the baronet called out to the coachman to send his whip about the ruffian’s ears. Simon burst into a loud laugh that, with the rest of the commotion, startled the horses. The baronet had failed to shut the door of the carriage properly. It opened and banged, swinging wildly as the horses reared and backed, and the baronet, cursing and swearing, was tossed about inside, while Simon looked on still laughing.

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, wanting only to know if Simon had heard from his grandson. The old man answered that he had. He was well, happy, and busy with as much work as he could handle. Sir Wilton gave a grunt.

“Why didn’t he stay and help you here?”

“I begged him to,” answered Simon, “for he is almost as good at the anvil and shoeing as myself. But he said it would annoy his father to have him so near.”

His boy’s goodwill made the baronet fidget and swear to hide his feelings. 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 mud like a washed pig!”

Perceiving that Simon looked dangerous, he turned with a hasty good morning and made for his carriage, casting an uneasy glance over his shoulder. But the blacksmith let him depart in peace.

— Fifty-Five —

The Funeral

It was about a year after Richard’s return to his trade, 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.”