It was seldom his father mentioned to Barnabas the mother whose face he had never seen, upon which rare occasions John Barty's deep voice was wont to take on a hoarser note, and his blue eyes, that were usually so steady, would go wandering off until they fixed themselves on some remote object. Thus he sat now, leaning back in his elbow chair, gazing in rapt attention at the bell-mouthed blunderbuss above the mantel, while his son, chin on fist, stared always and ever to where the road dipped, and vanished over the hill—leading on and on to London, and the great world beyond.
"She died, Barnabas—just twenty-one years ago—buried at Maidstone where you were born. Twenty-one years is a longish time, lad, but memory's longer, an' deeper,—an' stronger than time, arter all, an' I know that her memory will go wi' me—all along the way—d' ye see lad: and so Barnabas," said John Barty lowering his gaze to his son's face, "so Barnabas, there y' are."
"Yes, father!" nodded Barnabas, still intent upon the road.
"And now I come to your uncle Tom—an' speaking of him—Barnabas my lad,—what are ye going to do wi' all this money?"
Barnabas turned from the window and met his father's eye.
"Do with it," he began, "why first of all—"
"Because," pursued his father, "we might buy the 'White Hart'—t' other side o' Sevenoaks,—to be sure you're over young to have any say in the matter—still arter all the money's yours, Barnabas—what d' ye say to the 'White Hart'?"
"A very good house!" nodded Barnabas, stealing a glance at the road again—"but—"
"To be sure there's the 'Running Horse,'" said his father, "just beyond Purley on the Brighton Road—a coaching-house, wi' plenty o' custom, what d' ye think o' the 'Running Horse'?"
"Any one you choose, father, but—"