“I!—Lord Eskside’s heir?” said Dick, rising to his feet, not startled or wondering, but with a smile. “No, no, you are mistaken; that is not what you mean.”
“Unfortunately there is no possibility of being mistaken,” said Richard. “Yes, Val, it is unfortunate; for you have been brought up to it and he has not. But, my boy,” he said, turning to Dick kindly, though it was with an effort, “we none of us grudge it to you; you have behaved in every way so well, and so like a gentleman.”
“Perfectly well—as if I had trained him myself,” said my lady, drying her eyes, “notwithstanding that we feel the disappointment to Val.” The old lord did not say anything, but he watched Dick very closely from under his shaggy brows.
Dick looked round upon them for a moment, quiet and smiling softly as if to himself at some private subject of amusement. Then he looked at Lady Eskside. “Do you believe it too, you, my lady,” he said in an undertone, with a half reproach. After this, turning to the others again, his aspect changed. He grew red with rising excitement, and addressed them as if from some platform raised higher than they were. “I am a very simple lad,” he said; “I don’t know how your minds work, you that are gentlemen. In my class it would be as plain as daylight—at least I think so, unless I’m wrong. What do you mean, in the name of heaven, you that are gentlemen? Me to come in and take Val’s name and place and fortune! me, Forest Myra’s son—Dick Brown!—that he took off the road and made a man of when we were both boys. What have I done that you should name such a thing to me?”
The men all looked at him, abashed and wondering. Lady Eskside alone spoke. “Oh, Dick, my boy!” she said, holding out her hand to him, “that was what I said; that was what I knew you would say.”
“And that is just what must not be said,” said the old lord, rising from his seat. “My man, you speak like a man; and don’t think you are not understood. But it cannot be. There are three generations of us here together. A hardship is a hardship, meant to be endured; and I would not say but to bear it well was as great an honour to the family as to win a battle. We are three generations here, Dick, and we can’t put the house in jeopardy, or trust its weal to a hasty generosity, that your son, if not you, would repent of. No, no. God bless you, my man! you are the eldest, and everything will be yours.”
This time Dick laughed aloud. “When two noes meet,” he said, “one must give in, sir. I’ll not give in. I say it to your face; and yours, sir; and yours, Val. You may speak till Doomsday, but I’ll not give in; not if the world was to come to an end for it. Look here: I am her son as well as Val. I can go further off, more out of your reach, than ever she did—God bless her! And I’m a man, and you can’t stop me. If there’s another word about me taking Val’s place, (a farce! as if I ever would do it!) that day I’ll go!—that moment I’ll go! and, do what you please, you can’t bring me back. But I don’t want to go,” Dick said, after a pause, in a softened voice; “I ain’t one to wander; I’m fond of a home. What I’d like would be to stay quiet, and stand by the old folks, and be of some use to Val. Father and grandfather! I’ve never made bold to call you so before; don’t drive me away! Val, speak for me! for God’s sake, don’t make a Cain of me—an outcast—a tramp!”
“It is not in your nature,” said Richard, with a smile.
“You don’t know what’s in my nature. You didn’t know what was in her nature,” said Dick, with sudden passion. “I’ll not do this, so help me God!” He snatched up Lady Eskside’s big Bible with the large print, from the table, and kissed it, tremulous with excitement. Then, putting it reverently down again, went and threw himself at the feet of the old lady. “Put your hand on my head,” said Dick, softly, “my lady, as she used to do.”
“I will—I will, my dear!” said Lady Eskside.