“No, sir.” His father was silent for a moment, regarding him—not all in anger.
“Well, you're a good-plucked one, I allow? But you're the greatest fool, the dullest young ass out, notwithstanding. You won't suit me—though you are web-footed!—Why, damn it, boy! don't you understand yet that I'm your father?”
“Mrs. Manson told me so, sir.”
“Oh, rot Mrs. Manson! she told you a damned lie! She told you I wronged your mother! I tell you I married her! What a blockhead you are! Look there, with your miserable tradesman's-eyes: all those books will be yours one day!—to put in the fire if you like, or mend at from morning to night, just as you choose! You fool! Ain't you my son, heir to Mortgrange, and whatever I may choose to give you besides!”
Richard's heart gave a bound as if it would leap to heaven. It was not the land; it was not the money; it was not the books; it was not even Barbara; it was Arthur and Alice that made it bound. But the voice of his father went on.
“You know now, you idiot,” it said, “why you can have nothing more to do with that cursed litter of Mansons!”
Richard's heart rose to meet the heartlessness of his father.
“They are my brother and sister, sir!” he said.
“And what the devil does it matter to you if they are! It's my business that, not yours! You had nothing to do with it! You didn't make the Mansons!”
“No, sir; but God made us all, and says we're to love our brethren.”