Three months later the showman again appeared at Sidmouth, but did not
set up his box as usual. Leaving it at his lodging, he went at once
with his grandchild to Mrs. Walsham's.
"I have come, madam," he said after the first inquiries about the child
had been answered, "on a particular business. It will seem a strange
thing to you for a man like me to ask, but things are not quite as they
seem, though I can't explain it now. But I am beating about the bush,
and not getting any nearer. I have come to ask, madam, whether you
would take charge of the child for two years. Of course I am ready to
pay anything that you may think proper."
"But I don't take boarders," Mrs. Walsham said, much surprised at the
proposition. "I only take girls who come in the morning and go away in
the afternoon. Besides, they are all a good many years older than your
grandchild. None of the girls who come to me are under twelve."
"I know, ma'm, I know; and I am sure you must think it a great liberty
on my part to ask such a thing," the sergeant said apologetically. "It
is not the teaching I want, but just a home for her."
Mrs. Walsham felt puzzled. She did, in her heart, feel it to be a
liberty. Surely this wandering showman would find no difficulty in
getting his grandchild taken care of among people of his own rank in
life. It did seem most singular that he should seek to place the child
with her. Mrs. Walsham was not given to thinking what her neighbours
would say, but she thought of the buzz of comment and astonishment
which her taking the charge of this child would excite. She had been
particular in keeping her little school to some extent select, and as
it was now as large as she could manage unaided, she was able to make
it almost a favour to the farmers' wives to take their girls.
But to do Mrs. Walsham justice, this thought had less influence with
her than that of the time and care which would be required by a child
of that age in the house. Certainly, she thought, as she looked at her,
sitting with her eyes wide open and an expression of grave wonder in
her face, "she is a little darling, and as Jim saved her life I have a
special interest in her; but this is out of the question."
It was two or three minutes before she answered the showman's last
words.
"No, it cannot be done, Sergeant Wilks. No money that could be paid me
would make up to me for the charge of a child of her age. I am all day
in school, and what could a child, especially one accustomed to be out
all day, do with herself? The worry and anxiety would be immense. Were
it not for my school, it would be different altogether. A child of that
age, especially such a sweet little thing as your granddaughter seems
to be, would be a pet and amusement; but as it is, I am sorry to say
that it is out of the question. But surely you will have no difficulty
in finding plenty of good women who would be glad to take her, and to
whom, having children of the same age, she would be no trouble
whatever."
"Yes," the sergeant said slowly, "I was afraid you would say that,
ma'm. Besides, though you are good enough not to say it, I know that
there must be other objections. I know you must be surprised at my
wanting her to be with a lady like yourself. So far as money goes, I
could afford to pay fifty pounds a year, and perhaps you might get a
girl who could look after Aggie while you are busy."
"Fifty pounds a year!" Mrs. Walsham said, greatly surprised. "That is a
large sum, a great deal too large a sum for you to pay for the care of
such a little child. For half that, there are scores of farmers' wives
who would be happy to take her, and where she would be far more happy
and comfortable than she would be with me."
"I know I could get plenty to take her," the soldier said, "but I have
reasons, very particular reasons, why I wish to place her with a lady
for two years. I cannot explain those reasons to you, but you may
imagine they must be strong ones, for me to be willing to pay fifty
pounds a year for her. That money has been laid by from the day she was
born, for that purpose. I have other reasons, of my own, for wishing
that she should be at Sidmouth rather than at any other place; and I
have another reason," and a slight smile stole across his face, "for
preferring that she should be with you rather than anyone else. All
this must seem very strange to you, madam; but at the end of the two
years, when you know what my reasons were, you will acknowledge that
they were good ones.
"God knows," he went on, looking very grave, "what a wrench it will be
for me to part with her. How lonely I shall be, as I tramp the country
without her pretty prattle to listen to; but I have got to do it sooner
or later, and these two years, when I can see her sometimes, will be a
break, and accustom me to do without her sweet face.
"Please, madam," he urged, "do not give me a final answer today. I
shall not go till Monday, and will call again, if you will let me, that
morning; and believe me, if I could tell you all, I could give you
reasons which would, I think, induce you to change your mind."
So saying, he made a military salute, took the child's hand in his, and
was soon striding along towards the sea.
Mrs. Walsham was some time before she recovered from her surprise. This
was, indeed, a mysterious affair. The earnestness with which the old
soldier pleaded his cause had moved her strongly, and had almost
persuaded her to accept the proposal, which had at first seemed
preposterous. Fifty pounds a year, too, was certainly a handsome sum.
She could get a girl from the village for two or three shillings a week
to look after the child, and go out with her during school hours, and a
hundred pounds would be a very handsome addition to the sum which she
had begun, little by little, to lay by for Jim's preparation for the
medical profession.
In the five years which would elapse, before it would be time for him
to enter upon his studies for it, she could hardly hope to lay by more
than that sum, and this would at a stroke double it. Certainly it was a
tempting offer. She could not do justice to the child, could not give
her the care and attention which she ought to have, and which she could
have for such a sum elsewhere; but the sergeant knew exactly how she
was placed, and if he was willing and anxious for her to assume the
charge of the child, why should she refuse this good offer?
However, her pupils were waiting for her in the next room, and with an
effort Mrs. Walsham put the matter aside, and went in to them.
When James returned home to dinner, his mother related to him the whole
conversation. James was more amused than puzzled.
"It seems a rum idea, mother; but I don't see why you shouldn't take
her. She is a sweet little thing, and will be a great amusement. Fifty
pounds a year seems a tremendous sum for a man like that to pay; but I
suppose he knows his own business, and it will be a great pull for you.
You will be able to have all sorts of comforts. I should like it very
much. I have often wished I had had a little sister, and she can go out
walks with me, you know. It would be like having a big dog with one,
only much jollier."
"Yes," his mother said smiling; "and I shouldn't be surprised if you
wanted to throw sticks into the water for her to fetch them out, and to
be taking her out for a night's fishing, and be constantly bringing her
home splashed with that nasty red mud from head to foot. You would be a
nice playmate for a little girl, Jim. Perhaps it is that special
advantage that the sergeant had in his mind's eye, when he was so
anxious to put her with me."
James laughed.
"I would see that she didn't come to any harm, anyhow, you know; and,
after all, I suppose it was my picking her out of the sea that had
something to do with his first thinking of putting her with you."
"I suppose it had, Jim," she said more seriously. "But what do you
think, my boy? You know there are disadvantages in it. There will be a
good deal of talk about my taking this showman's grandchild, and some
of the farmers' wives won't like it."
"Then let them dislike it," James said indignantly. "The child is as
good as their daughters, any day. Why, I noticed her in church looking
like a little lady. There was not a child there to compare to her."
"Yes, I have noticed her myself," Mrs. Walsham said. "She is a
singularly pretty and graceful child; but it will certainly cause
remark."
"Well, mother, you can easily say, what is really the fact, that you
naturally felt an interest in her because I picked her out of the
water. Besides, if people make remarks they will soon be tired of that;
and if not, I can get into some scrape or other and give them something
else to talk about."
Accordingly, when Sergeant Wilks called on Monday morning for his
answer, Mrs. Walsham told him that she had decided to accept his offer.
"You are aware how I am placed," she said, "and that I cannot give her
the care and time which I could wish, and which she ought to have for
such a liberal payment as you propose; but you know that beforehand,
and you see that for two years' payments I could not sacrifice my
school connection, which I should have to do if I gave her the time I
should wish."
"I understand, madam," he said, "and I am grateful to you for
consenting to take her. She is getting too old now to wander about with
me, and since the narrow escape she had, last time I was here, I have
felt anxious whenever she was out of my sight. It would not suit me to
put her in a farm house. I want her to learn to speak nicely, and I
have done my best to teach her; but if she went to a farm house she
would be picking up all sorts of country words, and I want her to talk
like a little lady.
"So that is settled, ma'm. I am going on to Exeter from here, and shall
get her a stock of clothes there, and will bring her back next
Saturday. Will it suit you to take her then?"
Mrs. Walsham said that would suit very well; and an hour later the
sergeant set out from Sidmouth with his box, Aggie trotting alongside,
talking continuously.
"But why am I to stop with that lady, grampa, and not to go about with
you any more? I sha'n't like it. I like going about, though I get so
tired sometimes when you are showing the pictures; and I like being
with you. It isn't 'cause I have been naughty, is it? 'Cause I fell out
of the boat into the water? I won't never get into a boat again, and I
didn't mean to fall out, you know."
"No, Aggie, it's not that," the sergeant said. "You are always a good
girl--at least, not always, because sometimes you get into passions,
you know. Still, altogether you are a good little girl. Still, you see,
you can't always be going about the country with me."
"But why not, grampa?"
"Well, my dear, because great girls can't go about the country like
men. It wouldn't be right and proper they should."
"Why shouldn't it be, grampa?" the child persisted.
"Well, Aggie, I can't exactly explain to you why, but so it is. Men and
boys have to work. They go about in ships, or as soldiers to fight for
their country, just as I did. Girls and women have to stop at home, and
keep house, and nurse babies, and that sort of thing. God made man to
be hard and rough, and to work and go about. He made woman gentle and
soft, to stop at home and make things comfortable."
Aggie meditated for some distance, in silence, upon this view of the
case.
"But I have seen women working in the fields, grampa, and some of them
didn't seem very soft and gentle."
"No, Aggie, things don't always go just as they ought to do; and you
see, when people are poor, and men can't earn enough wages, then their
wives and daughters have to help; and then, you see, they get rough,
more like men, because they are not doing their proper work. But I want
you to grow up soft and gentle, and so, for a time, I want you to live
with that lady with the nice boy who pulled you out of the water, and
they will make you very happy, and I shall come and see you sometime."
"I like him," the child said with a nod; "but I would rather be with
you, you know."
"And the lady will teach you to read, Aggie. You have learned your
letters, you know."
Aggie shook her head, to show that this part of the programme was not
particularly to her liking.
"Do you think the boy will play with me, grampa?"
"I daresay he will, Aggie, when you are very good; and you must never
forget, you know, that he saved your life. Just think how unhappy I
should be, if he had not got you out of the water."
"The water was cold and nasty," Aggie said, "and it seemed so warm and
nice to my hands. Aggie won't go near the water any more. Of course, if
the boy is with me I can go, because he won't let me tumble in.
"Shall I get into the basket now, grampa? I is tired."
"Oh, nonsense, little woman! you have not walked half a mile yet.
Anyhow, you must trot along until you get to the top of this hill, then
you shall have a lift for a bit."
And so, with the child sometimes walking and sometimes riding,
sometimes asleep in her basket and sometimes chatting merrily to her
grandfather, the pair made their way across the country towards Exeter.
There was no little talk in Sidmouth when, on the following Sunday, the
showman's grandchild appeared in Mrs. Walsham's pew in church, and it
became known that she had become an inmate of her house. It was
generally considered that Mrs. Walsham had let herself down greatly by
taking the showman's grandchild, and one or two of the mothers of her
pupils talked about taking them away. One or two, indeed, called upon
her to remonstrate personally, but they gained nothing by the step.
"I do not understand what you mean," she said quietly, "by saying that
the child is not fit to associate with my other pupils. She is
singularly gentle and taking in her manner. She expresses herself
better than any child of her own age in Sidmouth, so far as I know.
There are few so neatly and prettily dressed. What is there to object
to? Her grandfather has been a sergeant in the army. He bears a good
character, and is liked wherever he goes. I do not consider that James
or myself are, in any way, demeaned by sitting down to meals with the
child, who, indeed, behaves as prettily and nicely as one could wish;
and I certainly do not see that any of my pupils can be injuriously
affected by the fact that, for an hour or two in the day, she learns
her lessons in the same room with them. Had I thought that they would
be, I should not have received her. I shall, of course, be sorry if any
of my pupils are taken away, but as I have several girls only waiting
for vacancies, it would make no difference to me pecuniarily."
And so it happened that Mrs. Walsham lost none of her pupils, and in a
short time the wonder died out. Indeed, the child herself was so
pretty, and taking in her ways, that it was impossible to make any
objection to her personally.
Mrs. Walsham had been struck by the self command which she showed at
parting with her grandfather. Her eyes were full of tears, her lip
quivered, and she could scarcely speak; but there was no loud wailing,
no passionate outburst. Her grandfather had impressed upon her that the
parting was for her own good, and child though she was, she felt how
great a sacrifice he was making in parting with her, and although she
could not keep the tears from streaming down her cheeks, or silence her
sobs as she bade him goodbye, she tried hard to suppress her grief.
The pain of parting was, indeed, fully as great to Sergeant Wilks as to
his granddaughter; and it was with a very husky voice that he bade her
goodbye, and then, putting her into Mrs. Walsham's arms, walked hastily
away.
Aggie was soon at home. She and James very quickly became allies, and
the boy was ever ready to amuse her, often giving up his own plans to
take her for a walk to pick flowers in the hedgerow, or to sail a tiny
boat for her in the pools left as the sea retired. Mrs. Walsham found,
to her surprise, that the child gave little trouble. She was quiet and
painstaking during the half hours in the morning and afternoon when she
was in the school room, while at mealtimes her prattle and talk amused
both mother and son, and altogether she made the house brighter and
happier than it was before.
In two months the sergeant came round again. He did not bring his box
with him, having left it at his last halting place; telling James, who
happened to meet him as he came into Sidmouth, that he did not mean to
bring his show there again.
"It will be better for the child," he explained. "She has done with the
peep show now, and I do not want her to be any longer associated with
it."
Aggie was delighted to see him, and sprang into his arms, with a scream
of joy, as he entered. After a few minutes' talk, Mrs. Walsham
suggested that she should put on her hat and go for a walk with him,
and, in high contentment, the child trotted off, holding her
grandfather's hand. Turning to the left, the sergeant took the path up
the hill, and when he reached the top, sat down on the short turf, with
Aggie nestling up against him.
"So you are quite well and happy, Aggie?" he asked.
"Quite well, grampa, and very happy; but I do wish so much that you
were here. Oh. it would be so nice to have you to go out with every
day!"
"I am afraid that cannot be managed, Aggie. I have been busy so long
that I could not settle down quietly here. Besides, I must live, you
know."
"But wouldn't people give you money for the show if you lived here,
grampa? You always got money here the same as other places."
"Yes, my dear, but I could not get fresh pictures every day, and should
soon tire them by showing the old house."
"But you are sorry sometimes, grampa, not to have me with you?"
"Yes, Aggie, very sorry. I miss you terribly sometimes, and I am always
thinking about you."
"Then why don't you take me away again, grampa?"
"Because, as I told you, Aggie, I want you to learn to read, and to
grow up quite a little lady."
"Does reading make one a lady, grampa?"
"No, Aggie, not by itself, but with other things."
"And when I am quite grown up and big, and know how to read nicely,
shall I be able to go with you again?"
"We will see about that, Aggie, when the time comes. There is plenty of
time yet to think about that."
"But I am getting on very fast, grampa, and the lady says I am a good
girl. So it won't be such a very long time before I can leave."
"It will be some time, yet. You have only got to read little words yet,
but there are lots of long words which you will come to presently. But
Mrs. Walsham tells me that you are getting on nicely, and that you are
a very good girl, which pleases me very much; and when I am walking
along with my box, I shall like to be able to think of you as being
quite comfortable and happy."
"And I go walks with Jim, grampa, and Jim has made me a boat, and he
says someday, when it is very fine and quiet, he will take me out in a
big boat, like that boat, you know; and he is going to ask you if he
may, for the lady said I must not go out with him till he has asked
you. And he said he won't let me tumble over, and I am going to sit
quite, quite still."
"Yes, Aggie, I don't see any harm in your going out with him. I am sure
he will only take you when it is fine, and he will look after you well.
You like him, don't you?"
"Oh! I do, grampa; and you know, it was him who got me out of the
water, else I should never have come out, and never have seen grampa
again; and he has made me a boat. Oh! yes, I do like him!"
"That's right, my dear; always stick to those who are good to you."
A few days after this, as James was sailing the toy boat, for Aggie's
amusement, in a pool, a boy sauntered up. He was somewhat taller than
James Walsham, and at least two years older. He was well dressed, and
James knew him as the nephew and heir of the squire.
It was not often that Richard Horton came down into the village. He was
accustomed to be treated with a good deal of deference at the Hall, and
to order servants and grooms about pretty much as he chose, and the
indifference with which the fisher boys regarded him offended him
greatly. He was a spoilt boy. His uncle had a resident tutor for him,
but the selection had been a bad one. The library was large and good,
the tutor fond of reading, and he was content to let the boy learn as
little as he chose, providing that he did not trouble him. As to any
instruction beyond books, he never thought of giving it.
The squire never interfered. He was a silent and disappointed man. He
attended to his duties as a magistrate, and to the management of his
estate, but seldom went beyond the lodge gates. He took his meals by
himself, and often did not see his nephew for a week together, and had
no idea but that he was pursuing his studies regularly with his tutor.
Thus, the character of Richard Horton formed itself unchecked. At the
best it was a bad one, but under other circumstances it might have been
improved.
Up to the age of ten, he had lived in London with his father and
mother, the latter a sister of the squire, who, having married beneath
her, to the indignation of Mr. Linthorne, he had never seen her
afterwards.
Four years before the story begins, she had received a letter from him,
saying that, as her eldest son was now his heir, he wished him to come
and live with him, and be prepared to take his place. The Hortons, who
had a numerous family, at once accepted the offer, and Richard, hearing
that he was going to a grand house, and would no doubt have a pony and
all sorts of nice things, left his father and mother without a tear.
He was essentially selfish. He was vain of his good looks, which were
certainly striking; and with his changed fortunes he became arrogant,
and, as the squire's servants said, hateful; and yet the change had
brought him less pleasure than he expected. It was true that he had the
pony, that he was not obliged to trouble himself with lessons, that he
was an important person at the "Hall;" but he had no playfellows, no
one to admire his grandeur, and the days often passed heavily, and
there was a look of discontent and peevishness upon his handsome face.
Perhaps the reason why he so seldom came down into Sidmouth, was not
only because the fisher boys were not sufficiently impressed with his
importance, but because they looked so much happier and more contented
than he felt, in spite of his numerous advantages. On this day he was
in a particularly bad temper. He had lamed his pony the day before, by
riding it furiously over a bad road after it had cast a shoe. The
gardener had objected to his picking more than half a dozen peaches
which had just come into perfection, and had threatened to appeal to
the squire.
Altogether, he was out of sorts, and had walked down to the sea with a
vague hope that something might turn up to amuse him. He stood for some
little time watching James sail the boat, and then strode down to the
edge of the pool. The boat was a model of a smack, with brown sails.
James had taken a good deal of pains with it, and it was an excellent
model.
Presently, in crossing, she stuck in a shallow some twelve feet from
the edge. The intervening stretch of water was a foot deep.
James picked up some small stones and threw them close to her, that the
tiny wave they made might float her off. He tried several times without
success.
"What's the use of such little stones as that?" Richard said roughly.
"You will never get her off like that;" and picking up one as large as
his fist, he threw it with some force.
It struck the mast, and broke it asunder, and knocked the boat on to
her side. James Walsham uttered an angry exclamation.
"You are a bad boy," Aggie said passionately. "You are a bad boy to
break my boat;" and she burst into tears.
"I didn't mean to do it, you little fool!" Richard said angrily, vexed
more at his own clumsiness than at the damage it had caused. "What are
you making such a beastly noise about?" and he gave her a push.
It was not a hard one, but the ground was slippery, and the child's
foot slipped, and she fell at the edge of the pool, her dress going
partly into the water. At the same instant, Richard reeled, and almost
fell beside her, from a heavy blow between the eyes from James's fist.
"You insolent blackguard!" he exclaimed furiously, "I will pay you for
this;" and he rushed at James.
The combat was not a long one. Hard work at rowing and sailing had
strengthened Jim Walsham's muscles, and more than balanced the
advantage in height and age of his adversary. He had had, too, more
than one fight in his time, and after the first sudden burst of
passion, caused by the overthrow of Aggie, he fought coolly and
steadily, while Richard rained his blows wildly, without attempting to
guard his face.
The child, on regaining her feet, ran crying loudly towards the beach,
making for two fishermen who were engaged in mending a net some
distance away; but before she could reach them to beg for aid for her
champion, the fight was over, terminating by a heavy right-handed hit
from James, which landed Richard Horton on his back in the pool.
James stood quietly awaiting a renewal of the conflict when he arose,
but Richard had had enough of it. One of his eyes was already puffed
and red, his nose bleeding, and his lip cut. His clothes were soaked
from head to foot, and smeared with the red mud.
"I will pay you out for this, you see if I don't," Richard gasped
hoarsely.
"What! have you had enough of it?" James said scornfully. "I thought
you weren't any good. A fellow who would bully a little girl is sure to
be a coward."
Richard moved as if he would renew the fight, but he thought better of
it, and with a furious exclamation hurried away towards the Hall.
James, without paying any further heed to him, waded after the boat,
and having recovered it, walked off towards the child, who, on seeing
his opponent had moved off, was running down to meet him.
"Here is the boat, Aggie," he said. "There is no great harm done, only
the mast and yard broken. I can easily put you in fresh ones;" but the
child paid no attention to the boat.
"He is a wicked bad boy, Jim; and did he hurt you?"
"Oh, no, he didn't hurt me, Aggie, at least nothing to speak of. I hurt
him a good deal more. I paid him out well for breaking your boat, and
pushing you down, the cowardly brute!"
"Only look, Jim," she said, holding out her frock. "What will she say?"
James laughed.
"Mother won't say anything," he said. "She is accustomed to my coming
in all muddy."
"But she said 'Keep your frock clean,' and it's not clean," Aggie said
in dismay.
"Yes, but that is not your fault, little one. I will make it all right
with her, don't you fret. Come on, we had better go home and change it
as soon as possible."
They passed close by the two fishermen on their way.
"You gave it to the young squire finely, Master Walsham," one of them
said, "and served him right, too. We chanced to be looking at the
moment, and saw it all. He is a bad un, he is, by what they say up at
the Hall. I heard one of the grooms talking last night down at the
'Ship,' and a nice character he gave him. This thrashing may do him
some good; and look you, Master Walsham, if he makes a complaint to the
squire, and it's likely enough he will get up a fine story of how it
came about--the groom said he could lie like King Pharaoh--you just
send word to me, and me and Bill will go up to the squire, and tell him
the truth of the matter."
Mrs. Walsham felt somewhat alarmed when her son told her what had
happened, for the squire was a great man at Sidmouth, a magistrate, and
the owner of the greater part of the place as well as of the land
around it; and although Mrs. Walsham did not hold the same exaggerated
opinion of his powers as did the majority of his neighbours, who would
scarcely have dreamt of opposing it, had the squire ordered anyone to
be hung and quartered, still she felt that it was a somewhat terrible
thing that her son should have thrashed the nephew and heir of the
great man.
In the evening there was a knock at the door, and the little maid came
in with eyes wide open with alarm, for she had heard of the afternoon's
battle, to say that the constable wished to speak to Mrs. Walsham.
"Servant, ma'am," he said as he entered. "I am sorry to be here on an
unpleasant business; but I have got to say as the squire wishes to see
Master Walsham in the justice room at ten o'clock, on a charge of 'salt
and battery.
"Don't you be afeard ma'am," he went on confidentially. "I don't think
as anything is going to be done to him. I ain't got no warrant, and so
I don't look upon it as regular business. I expects it will be just a
blowing up. It will be just the squire, and not the magistrate, I takes
it. He told me to have him up there at ten, but as he said nothing
about custody, I thought I would do it my own way and come to you quiet
like; so if you say as Master Walsham shall be up there at ten o'clock,
I'll just take your word for it and won't come to fetch him. The doctor
was allus very good to me and my missus, and I shouldn't like to be
walking through Sidmouth with my hand on his son's collar."
"Thank you, Hobson," Mrs. Walsham said quietly. "You can rely upon it
my son shall be there punctually. He has nothing to be afraid or
ashamed of."
Full of rage as Richard Horton had been, as he started for home, he
would never have brought the matter before the squire on his own
account. His case was too weak, and he had been thrashed by a boy
younger than himself. Thus, he would have probably chosen some other
way of taking his vengeance; but it happened that, just as he arrived
home, he met his tutor coming out. The latter was astounded at
Richard's appearance. His eyes were already puffed so much that he
could scarcely see out of them, his lips were cut and swollen, his
shirt stained with blood, his clothes drenched and plastered with red
mud.
"Why, what on earth has happened, Richard?"
Richard had already determined upon his version of the story.
"A brute of a boy knocked me down into the water," he said, "and then
knocked me about till he almost killed me."
"But what made him assault you in this outrageous manner?" his tutor
asked. "Surely all the boys about here must know you by sight; and how
one of them would dare to strike you I cannot conceive."
"I know the fellow," Richard said angrily. "He is the son of that
doctor fellow who died two years ago."
"But what made him do it?" the tutor repeated.
"He was sailing his boat, and it got stuck, and he threw in some stones
to get it off; and I helped him, and I happened to hit the mast of his
beastly boat, and then he flew at me like a tiger, and that's all."
"Well, it seems to be a monstrous assault, Richard, and you must speak
to the squire about it."
"Oh, no, I sha'n't," Richard said hastily. "I don't want any row about
it, and I will pay him off some other way. I could lick him easy enough
if it had been a fair fight, only he knocked me down before I was on my
guard. No, I sha'n't say anything about it."
But Richard's tutor, on thinking the matter over, determined to speak
to the squire. Only the evening before, Mr. Linthorne had surprised him
by asking him several questions as to Richard's progress and conduct,
and had said something about examining him himself, to see how he was
getting on. This had caused Mr. Robertson no little alarm, for he knew
that even the most superficial questioning would betray the extent of
Richard's ignorance, and he had resolved that, henceforth, he would
endeavour to assert his authority, and to insist upon Richard's
devoting a certain portion of each day, regularly, to study. Should the
squire meet the boy anywhere about the house, he must at once notice
the condition of his face; and even if he did not meet him, he could
not fail to notice it on Sunday, when he sat beside him in the pew. It
would be better, therefore, that he should at once report the matter to
him.
Without saying a word to Richard of his intentions, he therefore went
to the squire's study, and told him what had taken place, as he had
learned it from Richard. The squire listened silently.
"Very well, Mr. Robertson. You were quite right to tell me about it. Of
course, I cannot suffer my nephew to be treated in this manner. At the
same time, I am sorry that it was Walsham's son. I don't know anything
about the boy, and should not know him even by sight, but I had an
esteem for his father, who was a hard-working man, and, I believe,
clever. He used to attend here whenever any of the servants were ill,
and I had intended to do something for the boy. I am sorry he has
turned out so badly. However, I will have him up here and speak to him.
This sort of thing cannot be permitted."
And accordingly, orders were given to the constable. When, in the
evening, Mr. Robertson informed Richard what he had done, the boy flew
into a terrible passion, and abused his tutor with a violence of
language which shocked and astonished him, and opened his eyes to his
own culpability, in allowing him to go on his way unchecked. He in vain
endeavoured to silence the furious lad. He had been so long without
exercising any authority, that he had now no authority to exercise,
and, after an angry scene, Richard flung himself out of the room, and
left his tutor in a state bordering on consternation.