CHAPTER XII. MORTGRANGE.
In the spring came a letter from young Lestrange, through Simon Armour, asking Richard upon what terms he would undertake the work wanted in the library.
He handed the letter to his father, and they held a consultation.
“There's this to be considered,” said the bookbinder, “that, if you go there, you lose your connection here—in a measure, at least. Therefore you cannot do the work at the same rate as in your own shop.”
“On the other hand, I should have my keep.”
“That is true, and of course is something; but I think it may fairly be held to do no more than make up for the advantages of living in London—your classes, for instance.”
“Anyhow I must be paid so much a month, and do what I can in the time. I couldn't charge by the individual job in a man's own house!—The thing I am afraid of is, that, not knowing the niceties of the work, they may fancy I don't do enough.”
“In the other way they would fancy you charged too much, and that would come to the same thing!—But they will at least discover that you keep to your hours and stick to your work!—We must calculate by what the best hands in the trade get a week!”
The terms they concluded to ask appeared to Lestrange reasonable. He proposed then that Richard should bind himself for not less than a year, while Lestrange reserved the right of giving him a month's notice; and these points being willingly assented to by Richard, an agreement was drawn up and signed—much to the satisfaction of Simon Armour, whose first thought was that the work would not be too hard for Richard to want a little exercise at the forge after hours. Richard, however, well as he liked the anvil, was not so sure about this: there might be books to read after he had done his day's duty by their garments! He had half laid out for himself a plan of study in his leisure time, he said.
It was a lovely evening when he arrived at Mortgrange from his grandfather's. He was shown to his new quarters in the old mansion by the housekeeper, an elderly, worthy creature, with the air of a hostess. She liked the young man; the honest friendliness of his carriage pleased her. He was handsome too, though not strikingly so, and his expression was better than any handsomeness, inspiring the honest with confidence, and giving little hope to the designing. His brave outlook, not bold so much as fearless, and his ready smile, seemed those of a man more prepared than eager to do his part in the world. He was well set up, and of good figure, for the slight roundness of his shoulders had almost disappeared. The poise of his head, and the proportions of his limbs, left nothing to be desired. His foster-parents had encouraged him in every manly exercise, for they were wise enough to have regard to the impression he must make at first sight: they would have it easy to believe that he might be what they were about to swear he was. Nor had his sojourn with his grandfather been the least factor in the result that he sat down to his work as lightly as a gentleman to his dinner, turned from it as if he had been playing a game instead of earning his bread, and altogether gave the impression of being a painter or sculptor rather than a tradesman. There was that in his bearing which suggested a will rather than necessity to labour.