Richard's feelings were not to be envied, as he lay awake that night,
thinking over what had taken place in the morning. It had never, for a
moment, entered his mind that his tutor would repeat his statement to
the squire, and he would have given a good deal if he had not made it.
However, there was nothing for him now but to stick to the story, and
he felt but little doubt of the result. He had no idea that any, but
the actors in it, had witnessed the scene by the pool, and he felt
confident that his uncle would, as a matter of course, take his word in
preference to that of this boy, who would naturally tell lies to screen
himself. Of course, the child was there, but no one would mind what a
baby like that said. Still, it was a nuisance, and he gnashed his teeth
with rage at the interference of his tutor in the matter.
"I will get rid of him, somehow, before long," he said. "I will pay him
out for his meddling, as sure as my name's Richard Horton. I will get
him out of this before three months are gone."
The next morning at breakfast, Richard received a message from the
squire that he was to be present at ten o'clock in the justice room,
and accordingly, at that hour he presented himself there with a
confident air, but with an inward feeling of misgiving.
The squire was sitting at his table, with his clerk beside him. Mr.
Robertson was in a chair a short distance off. The constable was
standing by the side of James Walsham, at the other end of the room.
Mr. Linthorne nodded to his nephew.
"I wish you to repeat the story which you told Mr. Robertson
yesterday."
Richard had thought over whether it would be better to soften his
story, but as it had already been told to the squire, he had concluded
that there would be more danger in contradicting his first version than
in sticking to it. Accordingly, he repeated his story almost word for
word as he had told it to Mr. Robertson.
"What have you to say to this, James Walsham?" the squire asked. "This
is a serious charge, that you without any provocation assaulted and
maltreated my nephew."
"I say it is all a lie, sir," James said fearlessly.
The squire uttered a short exclamation of surprise and anger. He had
been, at first, favourably impressed with the appearance of the young
prisoner, though he had been surprised at seeing that he was younger
than his nephew, for he had expected to see a much older boy.
"That is not the way to speak, sir," he said sternly, while the
constable pressed a warning hand on James's shoulder.
"Well, sir, it's not true then," the boy said. "It's all false from
beginning to end, except that I did strike him first; but I struck him,
not because he had thrown a great stone and broken my boat, but because
he pushed a little girl who was with me down into the water."
"She slipped down. I never pushed her," Richard broke in.
"Hold your tongue, sir," the squire said sternly. "You have given your
evidence. I have now to hear what the accused has to say.
"Now, tell your story."
James now gave his version of the affair.
When he had ended, Mr. Linthorne said gravely, "Have you any witnesses
to call?"
"Yes, sir, there are two fishermen outside who saw it."
"Bring them in," the magistrate said to the constable.
Not a word was spoken in the justice room until the constable returned.
As James had told his story, the magistrate had listened with
disbelief. It had not occurred to him that his nephew could have told a
lie, and he wondered at the calmness with which this boy told his
story. Why, were it true, Richard was a coward as well as a liar, for
with his superior age and height, he should have been able to thrash
this boy in a fair fight; yet James's face had not a mark, while his
nephew's showed how severely he had been punished.
But his eye fell upon Richard when James said that he had witnesses. He
saw an unmistakable look of terror come over his face, and the bitter
conviction flashed across him that James's story was the true one.
"There is no occasion to give him the book, Hobson," he said, as the
constable was about to hand the Testament to one of the fishermen.
"This is a private investigation, not a formal magisterial sitting, and
there is no occasion, at this stage, to take any evidence on oath."
"What is your name, my man?"
"John Mullens, your honour."
"Well, just tell me, Mullens, what you know about this business."
"I was a-mending my nets, yer honour, along with Simon Harte, and young
Master Walsham was a-sailing his boat in a pool, along with the little
gal as lives at his mother's."
"How far were you from the spot where he was?" the squire asked.
"Two hundred yards or so, I should say," the fisherman replied. "We was
working behind a boat, but we could see over it well enough. Presently
we saw Master Horton come down, and stand alongside the others.
"I said to Simon, 'He is a good-looking young fellow, is the squire's
nephew,'" and the fisherman's eye twinkled with a grim humour, as he
glanced at Richard's swollen face.
"The boat got stuck, and Master Walsham threw something in close to it
to get it off. Then I see Master Horton stoop, and pick up a chunk of
stone, and chuck it hard; and it hit the boat and knocked it over. I
see the little girl turn round and say something to Master Horton, and
then she put her apron up to her face and began to cry. He gave her a
sort of shove, and she tumbled down into the edge of the pool.
"I says to Simon, 'What a shame!' but afore the words was out of my
mouth, Master Walsham he hits him, and hits him hard, too. Then there
was a fight, but Master Horton, he hadn't a chance with James, who gave
him as sound a licking as ever you see'd, and ending with knocking him
backwards into the pool. Then he gets up and shakes his fist at James,
and then goes off as hard as he could. That's all I know about it."
"It's a wicked lie," Richard burst out. "They have made it up between
them. There was nobody there."
"Hold your tongue, sir, I tell you," the squire said, so sternly that
Richard, who had risen from his seat, shrank back again and remained
silent; while Simon Harte gave his evidence, which was almost identical
with that of the other fisherman.
"Have you any other witnesses?" the magistrate asked James.
"Only the little girl, sir, but I did not bring her up. She is so
little, I thought it was better she should not come, but I can send for
her if you wish it."
"It is not necessary," Mr. Linthorne said. "I have heard quite
sufficient. The manner in which you and these fishermen have given your
evidence convinces me that you are speaking the truth, and I am sorry
that you should have been placed in this position. You will understand
that this is not a formal court, and therefore that there is no
question of discharging you. I can only say that, having heard the
story of what took place at this fight between you and my nephew, I am
convinced that you did what any other boy of spirit would have done,
under the same circumstances, and that the punishment which you
administered to him was thoroughly deserved.
"Good morning!"
James Walsham and his witnesses left the room. Mr. Linthorne rose, and
saying to his nephew, "Follow me, sir," went to his study.
Without saying a word as to what had passed, he took down some books
from the shelves, and proceeded to examine Richard in them. A few
minutes sufficed to show that the boy was almost absolutely ignorant of
Latin, while a few questions in geography and history showed that he
was equally deficient in these also.
"That will do," the squire said. "Go up to your room, and remain there
until I send for you."
An hour after this a dog cart came round to the door. Mr. Robertson
took his place in it with his trunk, and was driven away to Exeter,
never to return.
For two days Richard remained a prisoner in his room. His meals were
brought up to him, but the servant who came with them answered no
questions, telling him that the squire's orders were that he was not to
hold any conversation with him. There was, indeed, a deep pleasure
among the servants at the Hall, at the knowledge that Richard Horton
was in disgrace. The exact circumstances of the affair were unknown,
for the fishermen had not been present when Richard had told his story,
and Mrs. Walsham, who was much shocked when James told her the
circumstances, had impressed upon him that it was better to say nothing
more about it.
"You are clear in the matter, Jim, and that is enough for you. The
squire will, no doubt, punish his nephew for the wicked lies he has
told. Some day, you know, the boy will be master here. Don't let us set
everyone against him by telling this disgraceful story."
So, beyond the fact that there had been a fight between James Walsham
and the squire's nephew, and that Richard Horton had been thrashed, and
that the squire himself had said that it served him right, Sidmouth
knew nothing of what had taken place in the justice room.
Mr. Linthorne's first impulse had been to send his nephew at once back
to his parents, with the message that he would have nothing more to do
with him; but, though he had the reputation of being a stern man, the
squire was a very kind-hearted one. He was shocked to find that the boy
was a liar, and that, to shield himself, he had invented this falsehood
against his opponent; but upon reflection, he acknowledged that he
himself had been to blame in the matter. He had taken the boy into his
house, had assigned to him the position of his heir, and had paid no
further attention to him.
Unfortunately, the man he had selected as his tutor had proved false to
the trust. The boy had been permitted to run wild, his head was turned
with the change in his prospects, his faults had grown unchecked. It
was to be said for him that he had not intended, in the first place, to
bring his opponent into disgrace by making this false accusation
against him, for his tutor had acknowledged that he had said he did not
intend to tell him, or to take any step in the matter, and his position
of accuser had been, to some extent, forced upon him by the necessity
of his confirming the tale, which he had told to account for his being
thrashed by a boy smaller than himself.
Yes, it would be unfair upon the boy utterly to cast him off for this
first offence. He would give him one more trial.
The result of the squire's reflection was that, on the third day of his
imprisonment, Richard was sent for to the study. The squire did not
motion to him to sit down, and he remained standing with, as the squire
said to himself, a hang-dog look upon his face.
"I have been thinking over this matter quietly, Richard, for I did not
wish to come to any hasty conclusion. My first impulse was to pack you
off home, and have no more to do with you, but I have thought better of
it. Mean and despicable as your conduct has been, I take some blame to
myself, for not having seen that your tutor did his duty by you.
Therefore, I have resolved to give you another chance, but not here. I
could not bear to have a boy, who has proved himself a despicable liar,
about me; but I will try and think that this was a first offence, and
that the lesson which it has taught you may influence all your future
life, and that you may yet grow up an honourable man.
"But you will remember that, henceforth, you are on trial, and that the
position in which you will stand by my will, will depend solely and
entirely on your own conduct. If you prove, by that, that this lesson
has had its effect, that you deeply repent of your conduct, and are
resolved to do your best to be henceforth straight, honourable, and
true, you will, at my death, occupy the position I have intended for
you. If not, not one single penny of my money will you get. I am going
to put you in a school where you will be looked strictly after, and
where you will have every chance of retrieving yourself. I have just
written to a friend of mine, a post captain in his majesty's service,
asking him to receive you as a midshipman. I have told him frankly that
you have been somewhat over indulged, and that the discipline of the
sea life will be of great benefit to you, and have requested him to
keep a tight hand over you, and let me know occasionally how you are
going on. I have told him that your position as my heir will, to a very
large extent, depend upon his reports, and have asked him, in the name
of our old friendship, to be perfectly frank and open in them with me.
I have said 'he is my eldest nephew, but I have others who will take
his place, if he is unworthy of the position, and although I should be
sorry if he should be found wanting, I will commit the interests of all
the tenants and people on my estate to no one who is not, in every
respect, an honourable gentleman.'
"That will do, sir. You need not remain longer in your room, but you
will not leave the grounds. My friend's ship is at Portsmouth at
present, and doubtless I shall receive an answer in the course of a few
days. Until then, the less we see each other, the more pleasant for us
both."
There were few more miserable boys in England than Richard Horton,
during the week which elapsed before the answer to the squire's letter
was received. It cannot be said that, in the true sense of the word, he
was sorry for his fault. He was furious with himself, not because he
had lied, but because of the consequences of the lie. A thousand times
he called himself a fool for having imperilled his position, and risked
being sent back again to the dingy house in London, merely to excuse
himself for being thrashed by a boy smaller than himself. Mad with his
folly, not in having invented the story, but in having neglected to
look round, to assure himself that there were no witnesses who would
contradict it, he wandered disconsolate about the gardens and park,
cursing what he called his fortune.
It was an additional sting to his humiliation, that he knew every
servant in and about the house rejoiced at his discomfiture, and he
imagined that there was a veiled smile of satisfaction, at his bruised
visage and his notorious disgrace with the squire, on the face of every
man he met outside, and of every woman who passed him in the house.
During the whole week he did not venture near the stables, for there he
knew that he had rendered himself specially obnoxious, and there was
nothing for him to do but to saunter listlessly about the garden, until
the day arrived that the letter came granting the squire's request, and
begging that he might be sent off at once, as the vessel would probably
put to sea in a few days.
"Now, Richard," the squire said that evening to him, in a kinder voice
than he had used on the last occasion, "you understand exactly how we
stand towards each other. That being so, I do not wish to maintain our
present uncomfortable relations. You have had your punishment, and,
unless I hear to the contrary, I shall assume that the punishment has
had its effect. When you return from sea, after your first voyage, you
will come home here as if nothing had happened, and this business need
never be alluded to between us. If you turn out as I have hitherto
believed you to be, I shall receive you as warmly as if my opinion of
you had never been shaken.
"I have requested Captain Sinclair to let me know what is the average
allowance that the midshipmen receive from their parents, and shall see
that you have as much as your messmates. I have also asked him to
kindly allow one of his officers to order you a proper outfit in all
respects, and to have the bill sent in to me. So now, my boy, you will
have a fresh and a fair start, and I trust that you will turn out
everything that I can wish."
"I will try, sir. I will indeed," Richard said earnestly; and he spoke
from his heart, for the inheritance was very dear to him, and it would
be a terrible thing indeed to forfeit it.
For two years after Richard Horton's departure, things went on quietly
at Sidmouth. James Walsham continued to make a pet and a playmate of
little Aggie. Her out-of-door life had made her strong and sturdy, and
she was able to accompany him in all his rambles, while, when he was at
work at home preparing fishing lines, making boats, or otherwise
amusing himself, she was content to sit hours quietly beside him,
chattering incessantly, and quite content with an occasional brief
answer to the questions. When he was studying, she too would work at
her lessons; and however much she might be puzzled over these, she
would never disturb him by asking him questions when so engaged.
She was an intelligent child, and the hour's lesson, morning and
afternoon, soon grew into two. She was eager to learn, and rapidly
gained ground on Mrs. Walsham's older pupils. During the two years,
that lady never had cause to regret that she had yielded to the
sergeant's entreaties. Aggie was no trouble in the house, which she
brightened with her childish laughter and merry talk; and her
companionship, James's mother could not but think, did the boy much
good. It softened his manner, and, although he still often went out
with the fishermen, he was no longer thrown entirely for companionship
upon the boys on the beach.
The sergeant came and went, seldom being more than two months without
paying a visit to Sidmouth. The child was always delighted to see her
grandfather, and James took to him greatly, and liked nothing better
than to stroll up with him to a sheltered spot on the hillside, where
he would throw himself down on the grass, while the sergeant smoked his
pipe and told him stories of his travels and adventures, and Aggie ran
about looking for wildflowers, or occasionally sat down, for a while,
to listen also.
The squire lived his usual lonely life up at the Hall. The absence of
his nephew, whose ship had sailed for a foreign station, was a relief
rather than otherwise to him. It had, from the first, been a painful
effort to him to regard this boy as his heir, and he had only done it
when heartsick from a long and fruitless search for one who would have
been nearer and dearer to him. Nor had he ever taken to the lad
personally. The squire felt that there was not the ring of true metal
in him. The careless way in which he spoke of his parents showed a want
of heart; and although his uncle was ignorant how much the boy made
himself disliked in the household, he was conscious, himself, of a
certain antipathy for him, which led him to see as little of him as
possible.
The two years, for which the sergeant had placed his grandchild with
Mrs. Walsham, came to an end. That he did not intend to continue the
arrangement, she judged from something he said on the occasion of his
last visit, two months before the time was up, but he gave no hint as
to what he intended to do with her.
In those weeks Mrs. Walsham frequently thought the matter over. That
the sergeant had plans for the child she could hardly doubt. The child
herself had told her that she knew of no other relations than her
grandfather, and yet he could hardly intend to take her about with him,
after placing her for two years in a comfortable home. She was but
seven years old now--far too young to go out into a place as servant
girl in a farm house. She doubted not that the sergeant had expended
the whole of his savings, and she thought him foolish in not having
kept her with him for some little time longer, or, if he could not do
that, he might have placed her with some honest people, who would have
kept her for the sum he had paid until she was old enough to take a
place as a nurse girl.
And yet, while she argued thus, Mrs. Walsham felt that the old showman
had not acted without weighing the whole matter. There must be
something in it which she did not understand. In fact, he had said so
when he placed the child with her.
As the time approached, she became more worried at the thought of Aggie
leaving her. The little one had wound herself very closely round her
heart. The expense of keeping her was small indeed, the cost of her
food next to nothing; while the extra girl, whom Mrs. Walsham had taken
on when she first came, had been retained but a very short time,
James's constant companionship with her rendering the keeping of a
nurse altogether unnecessary.
At last she made up her mind that she would offer to keep her on
without pay. She and James would miss her companionship sorely, and it
could not be considered an extravagance, since the money she had
received for her would pay for the cost of her keep for years to come.
When Mrs. Walsham's mind was once made up, her only fear was that these
mysterious plans of the sergeant would not allow him to leave Aggie
with her.
Punctual to the day, Sergeant Wilks arrived, and after a little talk in
the parlour, as usual, with James and Aggie present, he formally
requested the favour of a conversation with Mrs. Walsham alone.
"Take Aggie for a walk, James. Do not stay out above three quarters of
an hour, as your tea will be ready for you then."
"You must have wondered, ma'am, a good deal," the sergeant began when
they were alone, "why I, who get my living by travelling the country
with a peep show, wished to place my grandchild in a position above
her, and to have her taught to be a little lady. It is time now that I
should tell you. Aggie is my granddaughter, but she is the
granddaughter, too, of Squire Linthorne up at the Hall."
"Bless me!" Mrs. Walsham ejaculated, too astonished for any further
expression of her feelings.
"Yes, ma'am, she is the daughter of the squire's son Herbert, who
married my daughter Cissie."
"Dear me, dear me," Mrs. Walsham said, "what an extraordinary thing! Of
course I remember Herbert Linthorne, a handsome, pleasant young fellow.
He was on bad terms, as everyone heard, eight years ago, with his
father, because he married somebody beneath--I mean somebody of whom
the squire did not approve. A year afterwards, we heard that he was
dead, and there was a report that his wife was dead, too, but that was
only a rumour. The squire went away just at the time, and did not come
back for months afterwards, and after that he was altogether changed.
Before, he had been one of the most popular men in this part of the
country, but now he shut himself up, gave up all his acquaintances, and
never went outside the park gates except to come down to church. I
remember it gave us quite a shock when we saw him for the first
time--he seemed to have grown an old man all at once. Everyone said
that the death of his son had broken his heart.
"And Aggie is his granddaughter! Well, well, you have astonished me.
But why did you not tell me before?"
"There were a good many reasons, ma'am. I thought, in the first place,
you might refuse me, if you knew, for it might do you harm. The squire
is a vindictive man, and he is landlord of your house; and if he came
to know that you had knowingly taken in his granddaughter, there was no
saying how he might have viewed it. Then, if you had known it, you
might have thought you ought to keep her in, and not let her run about
the country with your son; and altogether, it would not have been so
comfortable for you or her. I chose to put her at Sidmouth because I
wanted to come here often, to hear how the squire was going on; for if
he had been taken ill I should have told him sooner than I intended."
"But why did you not tell him before?" Mrs. Walsham asked.
"Just selfishness, ma'am. I could not bring myself to run the risk of
having to give her up. She was mine as much as his, and was a hundred
times more to me than she could be to him. I took her a baby from her
dead mother's arms. I fed her and nursed her, taught her her first
words and her first prayer. Why should I offer to give her up to him
who, likely enough, would not accept the offer when it was made to him?
But I always intended to make it some day. It was my duty to give her
the chance at least; but I kept on putting off the day, till that
Saturday when she was so nearly drowned; then I saw my duty before me."
"I had, from the first, put aside a hundred pounds, to give her more of
an education than I could do; but if it hadn't been for that fall into
the sea, it might have been years before I carried out my plan. Then I
saw it could not go on any longer. She was getting too old and too bold
to sit quiet while I was showing my box. She had had a narrow escape,
and who could say what might happen the next time she got into
mischief? Then I bethought me that the squire was growing old, and that
it was better not to put it off too long. So, ma'am, I came to you and
made up my mind to put her with you."
"And you had your way," Mrs. Walsham said, smiling, "though it was with
some difficulty."
"I expected it would be difficult, ma'am; but I made up my mind to
that, and had you kept on refusing I should, as a last chance, have
told you whose child she was."
"But why me?" Mrs. Walsham asked. "Why were you so particularly anxious
that she should come to me, of all people?"
The sergeant smiled.
"It's difficult to tell you, ma'am, but I had a reason."
"But what was it?" Mrs. Walsham persisted.
The sergeant hesitated.
"You may think me an old fool, ma'am, but I will tell you what fancy
came into my mind. Your son saved Aggie's life. He was twelve years
old, she was five, seven years' difference."
"Why, what nonsense, sergeant!" Mrs. Walsham broke in with a laugh.
"You don't mean to say that fancy entered your head!"
"It did, ma'am," Sergeant Wilks said gravely. "I liked the look of the
boy much. He was brave and modest, and a gentleman. I spoke about him
to the fishermen that night, and everyone had a good word for him; so I
said to myself, 'I can't reward him for what he has done directly, but
it may be that I can indirectly.'
"Aggie is only a child, but she has a loving, faithful little heart,
and I said to myself, 'If I throw her with this boy, who, she knows,
has saved her life, for two years, she is sure to have a strong
affection for him.'
"Many things may happen afterwards. If the squire takes her they will
be separated. He may get to care for someone, and so may she, but it's
just giving him a chance.
"Then, too, I thought a little about myself. I liked to fancy that,
even though she would have to go from me to the squire, my little plan
may yet turn out, and it would be I, not he, who had arranged for the
future happiness of my little darling. I shouldn't have told you all
this, ma'am; but you would have it."
"I am glad you brought her to me, Sergeant Wilks, anyhow," Mrs. Walsham
said, "for I love her dearly, and she has been a great pleasure to me;
but what you are talking about is simply nonsense. My son is a good
boy, and will, I hope, grow up an honourable gentleman like his father;
but he cannot look so high as the granddaughter of Squire Linthorne."
"More unequal marriages have been made than that, ma'am," the sergeant
said sturdily; "but we won't say more about it. I have thought it over
and over, many a hundred times, as I wheeled my box across the hills,
and it don't seem to me impossible. I will agree that the squire would
never say yes; but the squire may be in his grave years before Aggie
comes to think about marriage. Besides, it is more than likely that he
will have nothing to say to my pet. If his pride made him cast his son
off, rather than acknowledge my daughter as his, it will keep him from
acknowledging her daughter as his grandchild. I hope it will, with all
my heart; I hope so."
"In that case, Sergeant Wilks," Mrs. Walsham said, "let this be her
home for the time. Before you told me your story, I had made up my mind
to ask you to let her remain with me. You need feel under no
obligation, for the money you have paid me is amply sufficient to pay
for the expenses of what she eats for years. It will be a real pleasure
for me to keep her, for she has become a part of the house, and we
should miss her sorely, indeed. She is quick and intelligent, and I
will teach her all I know, and can train her up to take a situation as
a governess in a gentleman's family, or perhaps--" and she laughed,
"your little romance might come true some day, and she can in that case
stop in this home until James makes her another."
"You are very kind, ma'am," the sergeant said. "Truly kind indeed; and
I humbly accept your offer, except that so long as I live she shall be
no expense to you. I earn more than enough for my wants, and can, at
any rate, do something towards preventing her from being altogether a
burden on your hands. And now, ma'am, how would you recommend me to go
to work with the vindictive old man up at the Hall?"
"I shouldn't have thought he was vindictive. That is not at all the
character he bears."
"No," the sergeant said, "I hear him spoken well of; but I have seen,
in other cases, men, who have had the name of being pleasant and
generous, were yet tyrants and brutes in their own family. I judge him
as I found him--a hard hearted, tyrannical, vindictive father. I think
I had better not see him myself. We have never met. I have never set
eyes on him save here in church; but he regarded me as responsible for
the folly of his son. He wrote me a violent letter, and said I had
inveigled the lad into the marriage; and although I might have told him
it was false, I did not answer his letter, for the mischief was done
then, and I hoped he would cool down in time.
"However, that is all past now; but I don't wish to see him. I was
thinking of letting the child go to the Hall by herself, and drop in
suddenly upon him. She is very like her father, and may possibly take
his heart by storm."
"Yes," Mrs. Walsham assented. "Now I know who she is, I can see the
likeness strongly. Yes; I should think that that would be the best way.
People often yield to a sudden impulse, who will resist if approached
formally or from a distance. But have you any reason to suppose that he
will not receive her? Did he refuse at first to undertake the charge of
the child? Does he even know that she is alive? It may be that, all
these years, he has been anxious to have her with him, and that you
have been doing him injustice altogether."
"I never thought of it in that light," the sergeant said, after a
pause. "He never came near his son when he lay dying, never wrote a
line in answer to his letters. If a man could not forgive his son when
he lay dying, how could he care for a grandchild he had never seen?"
"That may be so, Sergeant Wilks; but his son's death certainly broke
him down terribly, and it may be that he will gladly receive his
granddaughter.
"But there are the young ones back again. I will think over what you
have been telling me, and we can discuss it again tomorrow."