to take his horse, and led the way into a large hall, which, spacious as it was, was tainted with the fumes of last night's stale debauch. Greatcoats, ridingwhips, bridles, top-boots, spurs, and such gear, were strewn about on all sides, and formed, with some huge stags” antlers, and a few portraits of dogs and horses, its principal embellishments.
Throwing himself into a great chair (in which, by the bye, he often snored away the night, when he had been, according to his admirers, a finer country gentleman than usual) he bade the man to tell his mistress to come down: and presently there appeared, a little flurried, as it seemed, by the unwonted summons, a lady much younger than himself, who had the appearance of being in delicate health, and not too happy.
“Here! Thou'st no delight in following the hounds as an Englishwoman should have,” said the gentleman. “See to this here. That'll please thee perhaps.”
The lady smiled, sat down at a little distance from him, and glanced at Barnaby with a look of pity.
“He's an idiot, the woman says,” observed the gentleman, shaking his head; “I don't believe it.”
“Are you his mother?” asked the lady.
She answered yes.
“What's the use of asking HER?” said the gentleman, thrusting his hands into his breeches pockets. “She'll tell thee so, of course. Most likely he's hired, at so much a day. There. Get on. Make him do something.”
Grip having by this time recovered his urbanity, condescended, at Barnaby's solicitation, to repeat his various phrases of speech, and to go through the whole of his performances with the utmost success. The corks, and the never say die, afforded the gentleman so much delight that he demanded the repetition of this part of the entertainment, until Grip got into his basket, and positively refused to say another word, good or bad. The lady too, was much amused with him; and the closing point of his obstinacy so delighted her husband that he burst into a roar of laughter, and demanded his price.
Barnaby looked as though he didn't understand his meaning. Probably he did not.
“His price,” said the gentleman, rattling the money in his pockets, “what dost want for him? How much?”
“He's not to be sold,” replied Barnaby, shutting up the basket in a great hurry, and throwing the strap over his shoulder. “Mother, come away.”
“Thou seest how much of an idiot he is, book-learner,” said the gentleman, looking scornfully at his wife. “He can make a bargain. What dost want for him, old woman?”
“He is my son's constant companion,” said the widow. “He is not to be sold, sir, indeed.”
“Not to be sold!” cried the gentleman, growing ten times redder, hoarser, and louder than before. “Not to be sold!”
“Indeed no,” she answered. “We have never thought of parting with him, sir, I do assure you.”
He was evidently about to make a very passionate retort, when a few murmured words from his wife happening to catch his ear, he turned sharply round, and said, “Eh? What?”
“We can hardly expect them to sell the bird, against their own desire,” she faltered. “If they prefer to keep him—”
“Prefer to keep him!” he echoed. “These people, who go tramping about the country a-pilfering and vagabondising on all hands, prefer to keep a bird, when a landed proprietor and a justice asks his price! That old woman's been to school. I know she has. Don't tell me no,” he roared to the widow, “I say, yes.”
Barnaby's mother pleaded guilty to the accusation, and hoped there was no harm in it.
“No harm!” said the gentleman. “No. No harm. No harm, ye old rebel, not a bit of harm. If my clerk was here, I'd set ye in the stocks, I would, or lay ye in jail for prowling up and down, on the look-out for petty larcenies, ye limb of a gipsy. Here, Simon, put these pilferers out, shove “em into the road, out with “em! Ye don't want to sell the bird, ye that come here to beg, don't ye? If they an't out in double-quick, set the dogs upon “em!”
They waited for no further dismissal, but fled precipitately, leaving the gentleman to storm away by himself (for the poor lady had already retreated), and making a great many vain attempts to silence Grip, who, excited by the noise, drew corks enough for a city feast as they hurried down the avenue, and appeared to congratulate himself beyond measure on having been the cause of the disturbance. When they had nearly reached the lodge, another servant, emerging from the shrubbery, feigned to be very active in ordering them off, but this man put a crown into the widow's hand, and whispering that his lady sent it, thrust them gently from the gate.
This incident only suggested to the widow's mind, when they halted at an alehouse some miles further on, and heard the justice's character as given by his friends, that perhaps something more than capacity of stomach and tastes for the kennel and the stable, were required to form either a perfect country gentleman, a thoroughbred Englishman, or a genuine John Bull; and that possibly the terms were sometimes misappropriated, not to say disgraced. She little thought then, that a circumstance so slight would ever influence their future fortunes; but time and experience enlightened her in this respect.
“Mother,” said Barnaby, as they were sitting next day in a waggon which was to take them within ten miles of the capital, “we're going to London first, you said. Shall we see that blind man there?”
She was about to answer “Heaven forbid!” but checked herself, and told him No, she thought not; why did he ask?
“He's a wise man,” said Barnaby, with a thoughtful countenance. “I wish that we may meet with him again. What was it that he said of crowds? That gold was to be found where people crowded, and not among the trees and in such quiet places? He spoke as if he loved it; London is a crowded place; I think we shall meet him there.”
“But why do you desire to see him, love?” she asked.
“Because,” said Barnaby, looking wistfully at her, “he talked to me about gold, which is a rare thing, and say what you will, a thing you would like to have, I know. And because he came and went away so strangely—just as white-headed old men come sometimes to my bed's foot in the night, and say what I can't remember when the bright day returns. He told me he'd come back. I wonder why he broke his word!”
“But you never thought of being rich or gay, before, dear Barnaby. You have always been contented.”
He laughed and bade her say that again, then cried, “Ay ay—oh yes,” and laughed once more. Then something passed that caught his fancy, and the topic wandered from his mind, and was succeeded by another just as fleeting.
But it was plain from what he had said, and from his returning to the point more than once that day, and on the next, that the blind man's visit, and indeed his words, had taken strong possession of his mind. Whether the idea of wealth had occurred to him for the first time on looking at the golden clouds that evening—and images were often presented to his thoughts by outward objects quite as remote and distant; or whether their poor and humble way of life had suggested it, by contrast, long ago; or whether the accident (as he would deem it) of the blind man's pursuing the current of his own remarks, had done so at the moment; or he had been impressed by the mere circumstance of the man being blind, and, therefore, unlike any one with whom he had talked before; it was impossible to tell. She tried every means to discover, but in vain; and the probability is that Barnaby himself was equally in the dark.
It filled her with uneasiness to find him harping on this string, but all that she could do, was to lead him quickly to some other subject, and to dismiss it from his brain. To caution him against their visitor, to show any fear or suspicion in reference to him, would only be, she feared, to increase that interest with which Barnaby regarded him, and to strengthen his desire to meet him once again. She hoped, by plunging into the crowd, to rid herself of her terrible pursuer, and then, by journeying to a distance and observing increased caution, if that were possible, to live again unknown, in secrecy and peace.
They reached, in course of time, their halting-place within ten miles of London, and lay there for the night, after bargaining to be carried on for a trifle next day, in a light van which was returning empty, and was to start at five o'clock in the morning. The driver was punctual, the road good—save for the dust, the weather being very hot and dry—and at seven in the forenoon of Friday the second of June, one thousand seven hundred and eighty, they alighted at the foot of Westminster Bridge, bade their conductor farewell, and stood alone, together, on the scorching pavement. For the freshness which night sheds upon such busy thoroughfares had already departed, and the sun was shining with uncommon lustre.
