Richard groaned in soul.
Youve no pride, Austin.
Perhaps not.
You dont know what it is to ask a favour of a brute you hate.
Richard stuck to that view of the case, and stuck to it the faster the more imperatively the urgency of a movement dawned upon him.
Why, continued the boy, I shall hardly be able to keep my fists off him!
Surely youve punished him enough, boy? said Austin.
He struck me! Richards lip quivered. He dared not come at me with his hands. He struck me with a whip. Hell be telling everybody that he horsewhipped me, and that I went down and begged his pardon. Begged his pardon! A Feverel beg his pardon! Oh, if I had my will!
The man earns his bread, Ricky. You poached on his grounds. He turned you off, and you fired his rick.
And Ill pay him for his loss. And I wont do any more.
Because you wont ask a favour of him?
No! I will not ask a favour of him.
Austin looked at the boy steadily. You prefer to receive a favour from poor Tom Bakewell?
At Austins enunciation of this obverse view of the matter Richard raised his brow. Dimly a new light broke in upon him. Favour from Tom Bakewell, the ploughman? How do you mean, Austin?
To save yourself an unpleasantness you permit a country lad to sacrifice himself for you? I confess I should not have so much pride.
Pride! shouted Richard, stung by the taunt, and set his sight hard at the blue ridges of the hills.
Not knowing for the moment what else to do, Austin drew a picture of Tom in prison, and repeated Toms volunteer statement. The picture, though his intentions were far from designing it so, had to Richard, whose perception of humour was infinitely keener, a horrible chaw-bacon smack about it. Visions of a grinning lout, open from ear to ear, unkempt, coarse, splay-footed, rose before him and afflicted him with the strangest sensations of disgust and comicality, mixed up with pity and remorsea sort of twisted pathos. There lay Tom; hobnail Tom! a bacon-munching, reckless, beer-swilling animal! and yet a man; a dear brave human heart notwithstanding; capable of devotion and unselfishness. The boys better spirit was touched, and it kindled his imagination to realize the abject figure of poor clodpole Tom, and surround it with a halo of mournful light. His soul was alive. Feelings he had never known streamed in upon him as from an ethereal casement, an unwonted tenderness, an embracing humour, a consciousness of some ineffable glory, an irradiation of the features of humanity. All this was in the bosom of the boy, and through it all the vision of an actual hob-nail Tom, coarse, unkempt, open from ear to ear; whose presence was a finger of shame to him and an oppression of clodpole; yet toward whom he felt just then a loving-kindness beyond what he felt for any living creature. He laughed at him, and wept over him. He prized him, while he shrank from him. It was a genial strife of the angel in him with constituents less divine; but the angel was uppermost and led the vanextinguished loathing, humanized laughter, transfigured pridepride that would persistently contemplate the corduroys of gaping Tom, and cry to Richard, in the very tone of Adrians ironic voice, Behold your benefactor!
Austin sat by the boy, unaware of the sublimer tumult he had stirred. Little of it was perceptible in Richards countenance. The lines of his mouth were slightly drawn; his eyes hard set into the distance. He remained thus many minutes. Finally he jumped to his legs, saying, Ill go at once to old Blaize and tell him.
Austin grasped his hand, and together they issued out of Daphnes Bower, in the direction of Lobourne.
CHAPTER VIII
Farmer Blaize was not so astonished at the visit of Richard Feverel as that young gentleman expected him to be. The farmer, seated in his easy-chair in the little low-roofed parlour of an old-fashioned farm-house, with a long clay pipe on the table at his elbow, and a veteran pointer at his feet, had already given audience to three distinguished members of the Feverel blood, who had come separately, according to their accustomed secretiveness, and with one object. In the morning it was Sir Austin himself. Shortly after his departure, arrived Austin Wentworth; close on his heels, Algernon, known about Lobourne as the Captain, popular wherever he was known. Farmer Blaize reclined in considerable elation. He had brought these great people to a pretty low pitch. He had welcomed them hospitably, as a British yeoman should; but not budged a foot in his demands: not to the baronet: not to the Captain: not to good young Mr. Wentworth. For Farmer Blaize was a solid Englishman; and, on hearing from the baronet a frank confession of the hold he had on the family, he determined to tighten his hold, and only relax it in exchange for tangible advantagescompensation to his pocket, his wounded person, and his still more wounded sentiments: the total indemnity being, in round figures, three hundred pounds, and a spoken apology from the prime offender, young Mister Richard. Even then there was a reservation. Provided, the farmer said, nobody had been tampering with any of his witnesses. In that ease Farmer Blaize declared the money might go, and he would transport Tom Bakewell, as he had sworn he would. And it goes hard, too, with an accomplice, by law, added the farmer, knocking the ashes leisurely out of his pipe. He had no wish to bring any disgrace anywhere; he respected the inmates of Raynham Abbey, as in duty bound; he should be sorry to see them in trouble. Only no tampering with his witnesses. He was a man for Law. Rank was much: money was much: but Law was more. In this country Law was above the sovereign. To tamper with the Law was treason to the realm.
I come to you direct, the baronet explained. I tell you candidly what way I discovered my son to be mixed up in this miserable affair. I promise you indemnity for your loss, and an apology that shall, I trust, satisfy your feelings, assuring you that to tamper with witnesses is not the province of a Feverel. All I ask of you in return is, not to press the prosecution. At present it rests with you. I am bound to do all that lies in my power for this imprisoned man. How and wherefore my son was prompted to suggest, or assist in, such an act, I cannot explain, for I do not know.
Hum! said the farmer. I think I do.
You know the cause? Sir Austin stared. I beg you to confide it to me.
Least, I can pretty nigh neighbour it with a gues, said the farmer. We ant good friends, Sir Austin, me and your son, just nownot to say cordial. I, ye see, Sir Austin, Im a man as dont like young gentlemen a-poachin on his grounds without his permission,in special when birds is plentiful on their own. It appear he do like it. Consequently I has to flick this whipas them fellers at the races: All in this ere Rings mine! as much as to say; and whos been hit, hes had fair warnin. Im sorry fort, but thats just the case.
Sir Austin retired to communicate with his son, when he should find him.
Algernons interview passed off in ale and promises. He also assured Farmer Blaize that no Feverel could be affected by his proviso.
No less did Austin Wentworth. The farmer was satisfied.
Moneys safe, I know, said he; now for the pology! and Farmer Blaize thrust his legs further out, and his head further back.
The farmer naturally reflected that the three separate visits had been conspired together. Still the baronets frankness, and the baronets not having reserved himself for the third and final charge, puzzled him. He was considering whether they were a deep, or a shallow lot, when young Richard was announced.
A pretty little girl with the roses of thirteen springs in her cheeks, and abundant beautiful bright tresses, tripped before the boy, and loitered shyly by the farmers arm-chair to steal a look at the handsome new-comer. She was introduced to Richard as the farmers niece, Lucy Desborough, the daughter of a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, and, what was better, though the farmer did not pronounce it so loudly, a real good girl.
Neither the excellence of her character, nor her rank in life, tempted Richard to inspect the little lady. He made an awkward bow, and sat down.
The farmers eyes twinkled. Her father, he continued, fought and fell for his coontry. A man as fights fors coontrys a right to hould up his headay! with any in the land. Desbroughs o Dorset! dye know that family, Master Feverel?
Richard did not know them, and, by his air, did not desire to become acquainted with any offshoot of that family.
She can make puddens and pies, the farmer went on, regardless of his auditors gloom. Shes a lady, as good as the best of em. I dont care about their being Catholicsthe Desbroughs o Dorset are gentlemen. And shes good for the pianer, too! She strums to me of evenins. Im for the old tunes: shes for the new. Gal-like! While shes with me she shall be taught things usel. She can parley-voo a good un and foot it, as it goes; been in France a couple of year. I prefer the singin of t to the talkin of t. Come, Luce! toon upeh?Ye wunt? That song abort the Viffendeera femaleFarmer Blaize volunteered the translation of the titlewho wears theyou guess what! and marches along with the French sojers: a pretty brazen bit o goods, I shd fancy.
Mademoiselle Lucy corrected her uncles French, but objected to do more. The handsome cross boy had almost taken away her voice for speech, as it was, and sing in his company she could not; so she stood, a hand on her uncles chair to stay herself from falling, while she wriggled a dozen various shapes of refusal, and shook her head at the farmer with fixed eyes.
Aha! laughed the farmer, dismissing her, they soon learn the difference twixt the young un and the old un. Go along, Luce! and learn yer lessons for to-morrow.
Reluctantly the daughter of the Royal Navy glided away. Her uncles head followed her to the door, where she dallied to catch a last impression of the young strangers lowering face, and darted through.
Farmer Blaize laughed and chuckled. She ant so fond of her uncle as that, every day! Not that she ant a good nursethe kindest little soul youd meet of a winters walk! Shell read t ye, and make drinks, and sing, too, if ye likes it, and she wont be tired. A obstinate good un, she be! Bless her!
The farmer may have designed, by these eulogies of his niece, to give his visitor time to recover his composure, and establish a common topic. His diversion only irritated and confused our shame-eaten youth. Richards intention had been to come to the farmers threshold: to summon the farmer thither, and in a loud and haughty tone then and there to take upon himself the whole burden of the charge against Tom Bakewell. He had strayed, during his passage to Belthorpe, somewhat back to his old nature; and his being compelled to enter the house of his enemy, sit in his chair, and endure an introduction to his family, was more than he bargained for. He commenced blinking hard in preparation for the horrible dose to which delay and the farmers cordiality added inconceivable bitters. Farmer Blaize was quite at his ease; nowise in a hurry. He spoke of the weather and the harvest: of recent doings up at the Abbey: glanced over that years cricketing; hoped that no future Feverel would lose a leg to the game. Richard saw and heard Arson in it all. He blinked harder as he neared the cup. In a moment of silence, he seized it with a gasp.
Mr. Blaize! I have come to tell you that I am the person who set fire to your rick the other night.
An odd consternation formed about the farmers mouth. He changed his posture, and said, Ay? thats what yere come to tell me sir?
Yes! said Richard, firmly.
And that be all?
Yes! Richard reiterated.
The farmer again changed his posture. Then, my lad, yeve come to tell me a lie!
Farmer Blaize looked straight at the boy, undismayed by the dark flush of ire he had kindled.
You dare to call me a liar! cried Richard, starting up.
I say, the farmer renewed his first emphasis, and smacked his thigh thereto, thats a lie!
Richard held out his clenched fist. You have twice insulted me. You have struck me: you have dared to call me a liar. I would have apologizedI would have asked your pardon, to have got off that fellow in prison. Yes! I would have degraded myself that another man should not suffer for my deed
Quite proper! interposed the farmer.
And you take this opportunity of insulting me afresh. Youre a coward, sir! nobody but a coward would have insulted me in his own house.
Sit ye down, sit ye down, young master, said the farmer, indicating the chair and cooling the outburst with his hand. Sit ye down. Dont ye be hasty. If ye hadnt been hasty tother day, we shd a been friends yet. Sit ye down, sir. I shd be sorry to reckon you out a liar, Mr. Feverel, or anybody o your name. I respects yer father though were oppsite politics. Im willin to think well o you. What I say is, that as you say ant the trewth. Mind! I dont like you none the worse fort. But it ant what is. Thats all! You knows it as wells I!
Richard, disdaining to show signs of being pacified, angrily reseated himself. The farmer spoke sense, and the boy, after his late interview with Austin, had become capable of perceiving vaguely that a towering passion is hardly the justification for a wrong course of conduct.
Come, continued the farmer, not unkindly, what else have you to say?
Here was the same bitter cup he had already once drained brimming at Richards lips again! Alas, poor human nature! that empties to the dregs a dozen of these evil drinks, to evade the single one which Destiny, less cruel, had insisted upon.
The boy blinked and tossed it off.
I came to say that I regretted the revenge I had taken on you for your striking me.
Farmer Blaize nodded.
And now yeve done, young gentleman?
Still another cupful!
I should be very much obliged, Richard formally began, but his stomach was turned; he could but sip and sip, and gather a distaste which threatened to make the penitential act impossible. Very much obliged, he repeated: much obliged, if you would be so kind, and it struck him that had he spoken this at first he would have given it a wording more persuasive with the farmer and more worthy of his own pride: more honest, in fact: for a sense of the dishonesty of what he was saying caused him to cringe and simulate humility to deceive the farmer, and the more he said the less he felt his words, and, feeling them less, he inflated them more. So kind, he stammered, so kind (fancy a Feverel asking this big brute to be so kind!) as to do me the favour (me the favour!) to exert yourself (its all to please Austin) to endeavour tohem! to (theres no saying it!)
The cup was full as ever. Richard dashed at it again.
What I came to ask is, whether you would have the kindness to try what you could do (what an infamous shame to have to beg like this!) do to savedo to ensurewhether you would have the kindness It seemed out of all human power to gulp it down. The draught grew more and more abhorrent. To proclaim ones iniquity, to apologize for ones wrongdoing; thus much could be done; but to beg a favour of the offended partythat was beyond the self-abasement any Feverel could consent to. Pride, however, whose inevitable battle is against itself, drew aside the curtains of poor Toms prison, crying a second time, Behold your Benefactor! and, with the words burning in his ears, Richard swallowed the dose: