RICHARD PASSES THROUGH HIS PRELIMINARY ORDEAL, AND IS THE OCCASION
OF AN APHORISM
To have determined upon an act something akin to heroism in its way, and
to have fulfilled it by lying heartily, and so subverting the whole
structure built by good resolution, seems a sad downfall if we forget
what human nature, in its green weedy spring, is composed of. Young
Richard had quitted his cousin Austin fully resolved to do his penance
and drink the bitter cup; and he had drunk it; drained many cups to the
dregs; and it was to no purpose. Still they floated before him, brimmed,
trebly bitter. Away from Austin's influence, he was almost the same boy
who had slipped the guinea into Tom Bakewell's hand, and the lucifers
into Farmer Blaize's rick. For good seed is long ripening; a good boy is
not made in a minute. Enough that the seed was in him. He chafed on his
road to Raynham at the scene he had just endured, and the figure of
Belthorpe's fat tenant burnt like hot copper on the tablet of his brain,
insufferably condescending, and, what was worse, in the right. Richard,
obscured as his mind's eye was by wounded pride, saw that clearly, and
hated his enemy for it the more.
Heavy Benson's tongue was knelling dinner as Richard arrived at the
Abbey. He hurried up to his room to dress. Accident, or design, had
laid the book of Sir Austin's aphorisms open on the dressing-table.
Hastily combing his hair, Richard glanced down and read--
"The Dog returneth to his vomit: the Liar must eat his Lie."
Underneath was interjected in pencil: "The Devil's mouthful!"
Young Richard ran downstairs feeling that his father had struck him
in the face.
Sir Austin marked the scarlet stain on his son's cheek-bones. He sought
the youth's eye, but Richard would not look, and sat conning his plate,
an abject copy of Adrian's succulent air at that employment. How could
he pretend to the relish of an epicure when he was painfully
endeavouring to masticate The Devil's mouthful?
Heavy Benson sat upon the wretched dinner. Hippias, usually the silent
member, as if awakened by the unnatural stillness, became sprightly,
like the goatsucker owl at night, and spoke much of his book, his
digestion, and his dreams, and was spared both by Algernon and Adrian.
One inconsequent dream he related, about fancying himself quite young
and rich, and finding himself suddenly in a field cropping razors
around him, when, just as he had, by steps dainty as those of a French
dancing-master, reached the middle, he to his dismay beheld a path clear
of the bloodthirsty steel-crop, which he might have taken at first had
he looked narrowly; and there he was.
Hippias's brethren regarded him with eyes that plainly said they wished
he had remained there. Sir Austin, however, drew forth his note-book,
and jotted down a reflection. A composer of aphorisms can pluck blossoms
even from a razor-crop. Was not Hippias's dream the very counterpart of
Richard's position? He, had he looked narrowly, might have taken the
clear path: he, too, had been making dainty steps till he was surrounded
by the grinning blades. And from that text Sir Austin preached to his
son when they were alone. Little Clare was still too unwell to be
permitted to attend the dessert, and father and son were soon closeted
together.
It was a strange meeting. They seemed to have been separated so long.
The father took his son's hand; they sat without a word passing between
them. Silence said most. The boy did not understand his father: his
father frequently thwarted him: at times he thought his father foolish:
but that paternal pressure of his hand was eloquent to him of how warmly
he was beloved. He tried once or twice to steal his hand away, conscious
it was melting him. The spirit of his pride, and old rebellion,
whispered him to be hard, unbending, resolute. Hard he had entered his
father's study: hard he had met his father's eyes. He could not meet
them now. His father sat beside him gently; with a manner that was
almost meekness, so he loved this boy. The poor gentleman's lips moved.
He was praying internally to God for him.
By degrees an emotion awoke in the boy's bosom. Love is that blessed
wand which wins the waters from the hardness of the heart. Richard
fought against it, for the dignity of old rebellion. The tears would
come; hot and struggling over the dams of pride. Shamefully fast they
began to fall. He could no longer conceal them, or check the sobs. Sir
Austin drew him nearer and nearer, till the beloved head was on his
breast.
An hour afterwards, Adrian Harley, Austin Wentworth, and Algernon
Feverel were summoned to the baronet's study.
Adrian came last. There was a style of affable omnipotence about the
wise youth as he slung himself into a chair, and made an arch of the
points of his fingers, through which to gaze on his blundering
kinsmen. Careless as one may be whose sagacity has foreseen, and
whose benevolent efforts have forestalled, the point of danger at
the threshold, Adrian crossed his legs, and only intruded on their
introductory remarks so far as to hum half audibly at intervals--
"Ripton and Richard were two pretty men,"
in parody of the old ballad. Young Richard's red eyes, and the baronet's
ruffled demeanour, told him that an explanation had taken place, and a
reconciliation. That was well. The baronet would now pay cheerfully.
Adrian summed and considered these matters, and barely listened when the
baronet called attention to what he had to say: which was elaborately to
inform all present, what all present very well knew, that a rick had
been fired, that his son was implicated as an accessory to the fact,
that the perpetrator was now imprisoned, and that Richard's family were,
as it seemed to him, bound in honour to do their utmost to effect the
man's release.
Then the baronet stated that he had himself been down to Belthorpe, his
son likewise: and that he had found every disposition in Blaize to meet
his wishes.
The lamp which ultimately was sure to be lifted up to illumine the
acts of this secretive race began slowly to dispread its rays; and,
as statement followed statement, they saw that all had known of the
business: that all had been down to Belthorpe: all save the wise
youth Adrian, who, with due deference and a sarcastic shrug,
objected to the proceeding, as putting them in the hands of the man
Blaize. His wisdom shone forth in an oration so persuasive and
aphoristic that had it not been based on a plea against honour, it
would have made Sir Austin waver. But its basis was expediency, and
the baronet had a better aphorism of his own to confute him with.
"Expediency is man's wisdom, Adrian Harley. Doing right is God's."
Adrian curbed his desire to ask Sir Austin whether an attempt to
counteract the just working of the law was doing right. The direct
application of an aphorism was unpopular at Raynham.
"I am to understand then," said he, "that Blaize consents not to
press the prosecution."
"Of course he won't," Algernon remarked. "Confound him! he'll have
his money, and what does he want besides?"
"These agricultural gentleman are delicate customers to deal with.
However, if he really consents"----
"I have his promise," said the baronet, fondling his son.
Young Richard looked up to his father, as if he wished to speak. He
said nothing, and Sir Austin took it as a mute reply to his
caresses, and caressed him the more. Adrian perceived a reserve in
the boy's manner, and as he was not quite satisfied that his chief
should suppose him to have been the only idle, and not the most
acute and vigilant member of the family, he commenced a
cross-examination of him by asking who had last spoken with the
tenant of Belthorpe?
"I think I saw him last," murmured Richard, and relinquished his
father's hand.
Adrian fastened on his prey. "And left him with a distinct and
satisfactory assurance of his amicable intentions?"
"No," said Richard.
"Not?" the Feverels joined in astounded chorus.
Richard sidled away from his father, and repeated a shamefaced "No."
"Was he hostile?" inquired Adrian, smoothing his palms, and smiling.
"Yes," the boy confessed.
Here was quite another view of their position. Adrian, generally
patient of results, triumphed strongly at having evoked it, and
turned upon Austin Wentworth, reproving him for inducing the boy to
go down to Belthorpe. Austin looked grieved. He feared that Richard
had failed in his good resolve.
"I thought it his duty to go," he observed.
"It was!" said the baronet, emphatically.
"And you see what comes of it, sir," Adrian struck in. "These
agricultural gentlemen, I repeat, are delicate customers to deal
with. For my part I would prefer being in the hands of a policeman.
We are decidedly collared by Blaize. What were his words, Ricky?
Give it in his own Doric."
"He said he would transport Tom Bakewell."
Adrian smoothed his palms, and smiled again. Then they could afford
to defy Mr. Blaize, he informed them significantly, and made once
more a mysterious allusion to the Punic elephant, bidding his
relatives be at peace. They were attaching, in his opinion, too much
importance to Richard's complicity. The man was a fool, and a very
extraordinary arsonite, to have an accomplice at all. It was a thing
unknown in the annals of rick-burning. But one would be severer than
law itself to say that a boy of fourteen had instigated to crime a
full-grown man. At that rate the boy was "father of the man" with a
vengeance, and one might hear next that "the baby was father of the
boy." They would find common sense a more benevolent ruler than
poetical metaphysics.
When he had done, Austin, with his customary directness, asked him
what he meant.
"I confess, Adrian," said the baronet, hearing him expostulate with
Austin's stupidity, "I for one am at a loss. I have heard that this
man, Bakewell, chooses voluntarily not to inculpate my son. Seldom
have I heard anything that so gratified me. It is a view of innate
nobleness in the rustic's character which many a gentleman might
take example from. We are bound to do our utmost for the man." And,
saying that he should pay a second visit to Belthorpe, to inquire
into the reasons for the farmer's sudden exposition of vindictiveness,
Sir Austin rose.
Before he left the room, Algernon asked Richard if the farmer had
vouchsafed any reasons, and the boy then spoke of the tampering with
the witnesses, and the Bantam's "Not upon oath!" which caused Adrian
to choke with laughter. Even the baronet smiled at so cunning a
distinction as that involved in swearing a thing, and not swearing
it upon oath.
"How little," he exclaimed, "does one yeoman know another! To
elevate a distinction into a difference is the natural action of
their minds. I will point that out to Blaize. He shall see that the
idea is native born."
Richard saw his father go forth. Adrian, too, was ill at ease.
"This trotting down to Belthorpe spoils all," said he. "The affair
would pass over to-morrow--Blaize has no witnesses. The old rascal
is only standing out for more money."
"No, he isn't," Richard corrected him. "It's not that. I'm sure he
believes his witnesses have been tampered with, as he calls it."
"What if they have, boy?" Adrian put it boldly. "The ground is cut
from under his feet."
"Blaize told me that if my father would give his word there had been
nothing of the sort, he would take it. My father will give his
word."
"Then," said Adrian, "you had better stop him from going down."
Austin looked at Adrian keenly, and questioned him whether he
thought the farmer was justified in his suspicions. The wise youth
was not to be entrapped. He had only been given to understand that
the witnesses were tolerably unstable, and, like the Bantam, ready
to swear lustily, but not upon the Book. How given to understand, he
chose not to explain, but he reiterated that the chief should not be
allowed to go down to Belthorpe.
Sir Austin was in the lane leading to the farm when he heard steps
of some one running behind him. It was dark, and he shook off the
hand that laid hold of his cloak, roughly, not recognizing his son.
"It's I, sir," said Richard panting. "Pardon me. You mustn't go in
there."
"Why not?" said the baronet, putting his arm about him.
"Not now," continued the boy. "I will tell you all to-night. I must
see the farmer myself. It was my fault, sir. I--I lied to him--the
Liar must eat his Lie. Oh, forgive me for disgracing you, sir. I did
it--I hope I did it to save Tom Bakewell. Let me go in alone, and
speak the truth."
"Go, and I will wait for you here," said his father.
The wind that bowed the old elms, and shivered the dead leaves in
the air, had a voice and a meaning for the baronet during that
half-hour's lonely pacing up and down under the darkness, awaiting
his boy's return. The solemn gladness of his heart gave nature a
tongue. Through the desolation flying overhead--the wailing of the
Mother of Plenty across the bare-swept land--he caught intelligible
signs of the beneficent order of the universe, from a heart newly
confirmed in its grasp of the principle of human goodness, as
manifested in the dear child who had just left him; confirmed in its
belief in the ultimate victory of good within us, without which
nature has neither music nor meaning, and is rock, stone, tree, and
nothing more.
In the dark, the dead leaves beating on his face, he had a word for
his note-book: "There is for the mind but one grasp of happiness:
from that uppermost pinnacle of wisdom, whence we see that this
world is well designed."