“Aah, I would never say you had done that,” said Bailey. “You’re a good lad, Tuck, an’ you have a place here anytime you wish. Now, you get to working on those knives, eh? That should keep you busy for a while.”
Later on that afternoon, just as Smythe was getting ready to leave Liam Bailey’s smithy for the playhouse, Ben Dickens stopped by.
“Why, Ben! I did not expect to see you here,” said Smythe. “What errand brings you?”
“I was coming to see you,” Dickens replied. “I recalled you spoke of picking up some work here and, since ‘twas on my way, I thought I might stop by on my way to the Theatre and walk with you. That is, of course, if you do not spurn my company?”
“Not at all,” said Smythe. “You are most welcome, Ben. Liam, do you know Ben Dickens?”
“Dickens…” Bailey furrowed his brow thoughtfully, staring at him with a vague glimmer of recognition. “You look familiar…”
“I was once apprentice to Master Moryson, the armorer,” said Dickens. “You may remember me, sir.”
“Ah. Indeed, I do remember you,” Bailey said gruffly, with a frown. “You gave up a perfectly good trade to go off and be a soldier. Damned foolishness.”
“Aye, well, perhaps, but it seemed like a good idea at the time,” said Dickens, lightly.
“So now yer back, then?”
“So ‘twould seem.”
“For how long this time?” the old smith asked, sourly.
“For good, I hope,” said Dickens. “That is, for good or ill, I have returned to England, but ‘tis my hope that ‘twill be for good.”
Bailey frowned and grunted, then turned his back upon them and resumed his work.
“Come on, Ben,” Smythe said, taking off his apron and hanging it up on its hook, anxious to be off before Dickens irritated Bailey any further. “Good night to you, Liam. I shall return upon the morn.”
“Suit yourself,” said the smith, without turning around.
Dickens chuckled as they left. “Sour as a green apple, is he not?” he said as they stepped out into the street.
“ ‘Tis just his way,” said Smythe. “Liam Bailey is a good man. He is honest and good-hearted.”
“I know he is,” Dickens replied. “My old master would never have had aught to do with him else. But unlike a green apple, Bailey sours even further as he ripens. He does not approve of me, I fear.”
“He seems like that to everyone,” Smythe replied. “Besides, methinks he does not truly know you.”
“Nay, he knows all he needs to know, or else thinks he needs to know,” said Dickens, good-naturedly, “and that is that I left a good apprenticeship to become a mercenary soldier. And for that sort of ‘damned foolishness,’ as he called it himself, I do not think that Liam Bailey could ever forgive anyone, least of all an ungrateful apprentice who left the service of a friend of his.”
“I have never heard him speak of your Master Moryson,” said Smythe. “What became of him? Does he still pursue his craft?”
“He died,” said Dickens. The joviality left his tone. “He fell to the sweating sickness the year after I left.”
“I am sorry,” Smythe said.
“So am I,” said Dickens. “He was a good man, and a fair master. He taught me much. Bailey was right, you know. ‘Twas ungrateful of me to have left him.”
“You did what you felt you had to do,” said Smythe. “You wanted adventure, and you knew that you would never find it working in an armorer’s shop.”
“True,” Dickens agreed. “I did want adventure. Very much so. And I found it. Very much so. And now, looking back on it all, I am sorry that I ever left.”
“Was it so bad then?”
Dickens shrugged. “‘Twas all very different from what I had expected. But then, enough of that. I should not wish to have you thinking ‘tis my wont to wallow in melancholy. As I have said before, had I known then what I now know, methinks I would have made some different choices, but there is little to be served in regreting what is past.”
“Indeed,” said Smythe. “There is much to be said for looking forward.”