Part 21 (2/2)
”I am not the pride, but the shame, of the village.” Dan forgot all his home-pride at last. ”And my dear good father is the man who has done it.
He has leathered me worse than the gentleman you spoke of, and without half so much to be said against him. For nothing but going to the Club to-night, where I am sure we drank King George's health, my father has lashed me so, that I am ashamed to tell it. And I am sure that I never meant to tell it, until your kindness, in a way of speaking, almost drove it out of me.”
”Daniel Tugwell,” Carne answered, with solemnity, ”this is beyond belief, even in England. You must have fallen asleep, Dan, in the middle of large thoughts, and dreamed this great impossibility.”
”My back knows whether it has been a dream, sir. I never heard of dreams as left one-and-twenty lines behind them. But whether it be one, or whether it be twenty, makes no odds of value. The disgrace it is that drives me out.”
”Is there no way of healing this sad breach?” Carne asked, in a tone of deep compa.s.sion; ”if your father could be brought to beg your pardon, or even to say that he was sorry--”
”He, sir! If such a thing was put before him, his answer would be just to do it again, if I were fool enough to go near him. You are too mild of nature, sir, to understand what father is.”
”It is indeed horrible, too horrible to think of”--the voice of this kind gentleman betrayed that he was shuddering. ”If a Frenchman did such a thing, he would be torn to pieces. But no French father would ever dream of such atrocity. He would rather flog himself within an inch of his own life.”
”Are they so much better, then, and kinder, than us Englishmen?” In spite of all his pain and grief, Dan could not help smiling at the thought of his father ropesending himself. ”So superior to us, sir, in every way?”
”In almost every way, I am sorry to confess. I fear, indeed, in every way, except bodily strength, and obstinate, ignorant endurance, miscalled 'courage,' and those rough qualities--whatever they may be--which seem needful for the making of a seaman. But in good manners, justice, the sense of what is due from one man to another, in dignity, equality, temperance, benevolence, largeness of feeling, and quickness of mind, and above all in love of freedom, they are very, very sadly far beyond us. And indeed I have been led to think from some of your finer perceptions, Dan, that you must have a share of French blood in your veins.”
”Me, sir!” cried Dan, jumping back, in a style which showed the distance between faith and argument; ”no, sir, thank G.o.d there was never none of that; but all English, with some of the Romans, who was pretty near equal to us, from what I hear. I suppose, Squire Carne, you thought that low of me because I made a fuss about being larruped, the same as a Frenchman I pulled out of the water did about my doing of it, as if I could have helped it. No Englishman would have said much about that; but they seem to make more fuss than we do. And I dare say it was French-like of me, to go on about my hiding.”
”Daniel,” answered Caryl Carne, in alarm at this British sentiment; ”as a man of self-respect, you have only one course left, if your father refuses to apologise. You must cast off his tyranny; you must prove yourself a man; you must begin life upon your own account. No more of this drudgery, and slavery for others, who allow you no rights in return. But a n.o.bler employment among free people, with a chance of a.s.serting your courage and manhood, and a certainty that no man will think you his bondslave because you were born upon his land, or in his house. My father behaved to me--well, it does not matter. He might have repented of it, if he had lived longer; and I feel ashamed to speak of it, after such a case as yours. But behold, how greatly it has been for my advantage! Without that, I might now have been a true and simple Englishman!”
Carne (who had taken most kindly to the fortune which made him an untrue Englishman) clapped his breast with both hands; not proudly, as a Frenchman does, nor yet with that abashment and contempt of demonstration which make a true Briton very clumsy in such doings; while Daniel Tugwell, being very solid, and by no means ”emotional”--as people call it nowadays--was looking at him, to the utmost of his power (which would have been greater by daylight), with grat.i.tude, and wonder, and consideration, and some hesitation about his foreign sentiments.
”Well, sir,” said Dan, with the usual impulse of the British workman, ”is there any sort of work as you could find for me, to earn my own living, and be able to think afterwards?”
”There is work of a n.o.ble kind, such as any man of high nature may be proud to share in, to which it is possible that I might get an entrance for you, if there should be a vacancy; work of high character, such as admits of no higgling and haggling, and splitting of halfpence, but an independent feeling, and a sense of advancing the liberty of mankind, without risking a penny, but putting many guineas into one's own pocket, and so becoming fitted for a loftier line of life.”
”Is it smuggling, sir?” Daniel asked, with sore misgivings, for he had been brought up to be very shy of that. ”Many folk consider that quite honest; but father calls it roguery--though I never shall hear any more of his opinions now.”
”Sigh not, friend Daniel; sigh not so heavily at your own emanc.i.p.ation.”
Carne never could resist the chance of a little bit of sarcasm, though it often injured his own plots. ”Smuggling is a very fine pursuit, no doubt, but petty in comparison with large affairs like ours. No, Dan Tugwell, I am not a smuggler, but a high politician, and a polisher of mankind. How soon do you think of leaving this outrageous hole?”
Despite the stupid outrage upon himself, Dan was too loyal and generous of nature to be pleased with this description of his native place. But Carne, too quick of temper for a really fine intriguer, cut short his expostulations.
”Call it what you please,” he said; ”only make your mind up quickly. If you wish to remain here, do so: a man of no spirit is useless to me.
But if you resolve to push your fortunes among brave and lofty comrades, stirring scenes, and brisk adventures, meet me at six to-morrow evening, at the place where you chopped down my rails. All you want will be provided, and your course of promotion begins at once. But remember, all must be honour bright. No s.h.i.+lly-shallying, no lukewarmness, no indifference to a n.o.ble cause. Faint heart never won fair lady.”
The waning moon had risen, and now shone upon Carne's face, lighting up all its gloomy beauty, and strange power of sadness. Dan seemed to lose his clear keen sight beneath the dark influence of the other's gaze; and his will, though not a weak one, dropped before a larger and stronger.
”He knows all about me and Miss Dolly,” said the poor young fisherman to himself; ”I thought so before, and I am certain of it now. And, for some reason beyond my knowledge, he wishes to encourage it. Oh, perhaps because the Carnes have always been against the Darlings! I never thought of that before.”
This was a bitter reflection to him, and might have inclined him the right way, if time had allowed him to work it out. But no such time was afforded; and in the confusion and grat.i.tude of the moment, he answered, ”Sir, I shall be always at your service, and do my very best in every way to please you.” Caryl Carne smiled; and the church clock of Springhaven solemnly struck midnight.
CHAPTER x.x.xII
THE TRIALS OF FAITH
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