There & Back

“I could have laid my hand on him any moment this twenty years; and I can tell you where to find the parish book with his baptism in it! That I’ve not spoken proves I can hold my tongue; but I will give no pledge; when the time comes I will speak.”

“Are you aware I could have you severely punished for concealing the thing?”

“Fire away. I’ll take my chance. But I would advise you not to allow the thing come into court. Words might be spoken that would hurt! I know nothing myself, but there is one that could and would speak. Better let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Oh, damn it! I don’t want to wake ‘em! Most old stories are best forgotten. But what do you think: will the boy—What’s his name?”

“My father’s, sir,—Richard.”

“Will Richard, then, as you have taken upon you to call him”—

“His mother gave him the name.”

“What I want to know is, whether you think he will go and spread the thing, or leave it to we to publish when I please.”

“Did you tell him to hold his tongue?”

“No; he didn’t give me time.”

“That’s a pity! He would have done whatever you asked him.”

“Oh! would he!”

“He would—so long as it was a right thing.”

“And who was to judge of that?”

“Why the man who had to do it or leave it, of course!—But if he didn’t tell me, he’s not likely to go blazing it abroad!”

“You said he would go to his mother first: his mother is nowhere.”

“So say some, so say not I!”

“Never mind that. Who is it he calls his mother?”

“The woman that brought him up—and a good mother she’s been to him!”

“But who is she? You haven’t told me who she is!” cried the baronet, beginning to grow impatient; and impatience and anger were never far apart with him.

“No, sir, I haven’t told you; and I don’t mean to tell you till I see fit.”

“And when, pray, will that be?”

“When I have your promise in writing that you will give her no trouble about what is past and gone.”

“I will give you that promise—always provided she can prove that what was past and gone is come again. I shall insist upon that!”

“Most properly, sir I You shall not have to wait for it.—And now, if you will take me to the post-office, I will send a telegram to Richard, warning him to hold his tongue.”

“Good! Come.”

They walked to the carriage, and Simon, displacing the footman, got up beside the coachman. He was careful, however, to be set down before they got within sight of the post-office.

The message he sent was—

“I know all, and will write. Say nothing but to your mother.”

CHAPTER LII. UNCLE-FATHER AND AUNT-MOTHER

When Richard reached London, he went straight to Clerkenwell. There he found Arthur, in bed and unattended, but covered up warm. Except one number of The Family Herald, he had nothing to read. The room was tidy, but very dreary. Richard asked him why he did not move into the front room. Arthur did not explain, but Richard understood that the mother had left so many phantasms behind her that he preferred his own dark chamber. When Richard told him what he had done and the success he had had, he thanked him with such a shining face that Richard saw in it the birth of saving hope.

“And now, Arthur,” he said, “you must get better as fast as you can; and the first minute you are able to be moved, we’ll ship you off to my grandfather’s, where Alice was.”

“Away from Alice?”

“Yes; but you must remember there will be so much more for her to eat, and so much more money to get things comfortable with by the time you come back. Besides, you will grow well faster, and then perhaps we shall find some fitter work for you than that hideous clerking!”

The flush of joy on Arthur’s cheek was a divine reward to Richard for what he had done and suffered and sacrificed for the sake of his brother. He made a fire, and having set on the kettle, went to buy some things, that he might have a nice supper ready for Alice when she came home. Next he found two clean towels, and covered the little table, forgetting all his troubles in the gladness of ministration, and the new life that hope gives. If only we believed in God, how we should hope! And what would not hope do to reveal the new heavens and the new earth—that is, to show us the real, true, and gracious aspect of those heavens and that earth in which we now live so sadly, and are not at home, because we do not see them as they are, do not recognize in them the beginning of the inheritance we long for!

When Alice came in, she heard Arthur cough, and hurried up; but before she reached the top of the second stair, she heard a laugh which, though feeble, was of such merry enjoyment, that it filled her with wonder and gladness. Had the fairy god-mother appeared at last? What could have come to make Arthur laugh like that? She opened the door, and all was explained: there sat the one joy of their life, their brother Richard, looking much like himself again! What a healer, what a strength-giver is joy! Will not holy joy at last drive out every disease in the world? Will it not be the elixir of life, and drive out death? She sprang upon him, and burst out weeping.

“Come and have supper,” he said. “I’ve been out to buy it, and haven’t much time to help you eat it. My father and mother don’t know where I am.”

Then he told her what he had been about. It was with a happy heart he made his way home, for he left happy hearts behind him. He wondered that his mother was not surprised to see him—wondered too why she looked so troubled.

“What does this telegram mean?” she asked.

“I don’t know, mother,” he replied. “Won’t you give me a kiss first?”

She threw her arms about him. “You won’t give up saying mother to me, will you?” she pleaded, fighting with her emotion.

“It will be a bad day for me when I do!” he answered. “My mother you are and shall be. But I don’t understand it!”

The telegram let him know that sir Wilton and his grandfather had been in communication, and gave him hope that things might be accommodated between him and his father.

“You’ve got your real father now, Richard!” said his mother.

But she saw an expression on his face that made her add,—

“You must respect your father, Richard—now you know him for your father.”

“I can’t respect him, mother. He is not a good man. I can only love him.”

“You have no right to find fault with him. He was not to blame that I carried you away when your mother died! I was terrified at your stepmother!”

“I don’t wonder at that, mother!—Ah, now I begin to understand it all!—But, mother, if my father had been a good man, I don’t believe you would hare carried me away from him!”

“Very likely not, my boy—though he did make me that angry by calling you ugly! And I don’t believe I should have taken you at all, if that woman hadn’t sent me away for no reason but to have a nurse of her choosing. How could I leave my sister’s child in the power of such a woman! Day and night, Richard, was I haunted with the sight of her cold face hanging over you. I was certain the devil might have his way with her when he chose: there was no love in her to prevent him. In my dreams I saw her giving you poison, or with a pen-knife in her hand, and her eyes shining like ice. I could not bear it. I should have gone mad to leave you there. I knew I was committing a crime in the eyes of the law; but I felt a stronger law compelling me; and I said to myself, ‘I will be hanged for my child, rather than my child should be murdered! I will not leave him with that woman!’ So I took you, Richard!”