“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.” “Now don't you come the pious over me! It won't pay here! Mind you, nobody heard me acknowledge you! By the mighty heavens, I will deny knowing anything about you! You'll have to prove to the court of chancery that you're my son, born in wedlock, and kidnapped in infancy: by Jove, you'll find it stiff! Who'll advance you the money to carry it there?--you can't do it without money. Nobody; the property's not entailed, and who cares whether it be sir Richard or sir Arthur? What's the title without the property! But don't imagine I should mind telling a lie to keep the two together. I'm not a nice man; I don't mind lying! I'm a bad man!--that I know better than you or any one else, and you'll find it uncomfortable to differ and deal with me both at once!” “I will not deny my own flesh and blood,” said Richard. “Then I will deny mine, and you may go rot with them.” “I will work for them and myself,” said Richard. Sir Wilton glared at him. Richard made a stride to the table. The baronet caught up the cheque. Richard darted forward to seize it. Was his truth to his friends to be the death of them? He _would_ have the money! It was his! He had told him to take it! What might have followed I dare not think. Richard's hands were out to lay hold on his father, when happily he remembered that he had not given him back the former cheque, and Barset was quite within reach of his grandfather's pony! He turned and made for the door. Sir Wilton read his thought. “Give me that cheque,” he cried, and hobbled to the bell.