This matter settled, and Merle’s future secured in a way that his stars, or his version of their language, had not foretold to him, George and Waife walked on to the station, Merle following with the Parson’s small carpet-bag, and Sir Isaac charged with Waife’s bundle. They had not gone many yards before they met Hartopp, who was indeed on his way to Prospect Row. He was vexed at learning Waife was about to leave so abruptly; he had set his heart on coaxing him to return to Gatesboro’ with himself—astounding Williams and Mrs. H., and proclaiming to Market Place and High Street, that, in deeming Mr. Chapman a good and a great man disguised, he, Josiah Hartopp, had not been taken in. He consoled himself a little for Waife’s refusal of this kind invitation and unexpected departure, by walking proudly beside him to the station, finding it thronged with passengers—some of them great burgesses of Ouzelford—in whose presence he kept bowing his head to Waife with every word he uttered; and, calling the guard—who was no stranger to his own name and importance—he told him pompously to be particularly attentive to that elderly gentleman, and see that he and his companion had a carriage to themselves all the way, and that Sir Isaac had a particularly comfortable box. “A very great man,” he said, with his finger to his lip, “only he will not have it known—just at present.” The guard stares, and promises all deference—opens the door of a central first-class carriage—assures Waife that he and his friend shall not be disturbed by other passengers. The train heaves into movement—Hartopp runs on by its side along the stand—his hat off-kissing his hand; then, as the convoy shoots under yon dark tunnel, and is lost to sight, he turns back, and seeing Merle, says to him, “You know that gentleman—the old one?”
“Yes, a many year.”
“Ever heard anything against him?”
“Yes, once—at Gatesboro’.”
“At Gatesboro’!—ah! and you did not believe it?”
“Only jist for a moment, transiting.”
“I envy you,” said Hartopp; and he went off with a sigh.
CHAPTER VII.
JASPER LOSELY IN HIS ELEMENT. O YOUNG READER, WHOMSOEVER THOU ART,
ON WHOM NATURE HAS BESTOWED HER MAGNIFICENT GIFT OF PHYSICAL POWER
WITH THE JOYS IT COMMANDS, WITH THE DARING THAT SPRINGS FROM IT—ON
CLOSING THIS CHAPTER, PAUSE A MOMENT, AND THINK “WHAT WILT THOU DO
WITH IT?” SHALL IT BE BRUTE-LIKE OR GOD-LIKE? WITH WHAT ADVANTAGE
FOR LIFE—ITS DELIGHTS OR ITS PERILS-TOILS BORNE WITH EASE, AND
GLORIES CHEAP-BOUGHT—DOST THOU START AT LIFE’S ONSET? GIVE THY
SINEWS A MIND THAT CONCEIVES THE HEROIC, AND WHAT NOBLE THINGS THOU
MAYST DO, BUT VALUE THY SINEWS FOR RUDE STRENGTH ALONE, AND THAT
STRENGTH MAY BE TURNED TO THY SHAME AND THY TORTURE. THE WEALTH OF
THY LIFE WILL BUT TEMPT TO ITS WASTE. ABUSE, AT FIRST FELT NOT,
WILL POISON THE USES OF SENSE. WILD BULLS GORE AND TRAMPLE THEIR
FOES. THOU HAST SOUL! WILT THOU TRAMPLE AND GORE IT?