The following day another council was held, and Mrs. Walsham told the
sergeant that, on thinking it over, she had concluded that the best way
would be to take the old butler at the Hall, who had served the family
for forty-five years, into their confidence, and to ask him to arrange
how best Aggie might be introduced to the squire.
"I have been thinking over what you said, ma'am, and it may be that you
are right, and that I have partly misjudged the squire. I hope so, for
Aggie's sake, and yet I cannot help feeling sorry. I have always felt
almost sure he would have nothing to say to her, and I have clung to
the hope that I should not lose my little girl. I know, of course, how
much better it will be for her, and have done all I could to make her
so that she should be fit for it, if he took her. But it will be a
wrench, ma'am. I can't help feeling it will be a wrench;" and the old
soldier's voice quivered as he spoke.
"It cannot be otherwise, sergeant," Mrs. Walsham said kindly. "You have
been everything to each other, and though, for her good and happiness,
you are ready to give her up, it is a heavy sacrifice for you to make."
That afternoon, the sergeant went for a long walk alone with Aggie, and
when they returned Mrs. Walsham saw, by the flushed cheeks and the
swollen eyes of the child, that she had been crying. James noticed it
also, and saw that she seemed depressed and quiet. He supposed that her
grandfather had been telling her that he was going to take her away,
for hitherto nothing had been said, in her hearing, as to the
approaching termination of the stay with his mother.
As they came out of church, Mrs. Walsham had waited for a moment at the
door, and had told the butler at the Hall that she wished particularly
to speak to him, that afternoon, if he could manage to come down. They
were not strangers, for the doctor had attended John's wife in her last
illness, and he had sometimes called with messages from the Hall, when
the doctor was wanted there.
John Petersham was astonished, indeed, when Mrs. Walsham informed him
that the little girl he had seen in her pew, in church, was his
master's granddaughter.
"You don't say so, ma'am. You don't say as that pretty little thing is
Master Herbert's child! But why didn't you say so afore? Why, I have
caught myself looking at her, and wondering how it was that I seemed to
know her face so well; and now, of course, I sees it. She is the
picture of Master Herbert when he was little."
"I couldn't say so before, John, because I only knew it myself last
night. Her grandfather--that is, her other grandfather, you
know--placed her with me to educate, and, as he said, to make a little
lady of, two years ago; but it was only last night he told me."
"Only to think of it!" the butler ejaculated. "What will the squire
say?"
"Yes, that is the point, John. What will the squire say? Her
grandfather thinks he will have nothing to say to her."
"Nothing to say to her, ma'am! Why, he will be off his head with joy.
Didn't he search for her, and advertise for her, and do all he could to
find her for months? It wasn't till he tried for over a year that he
gave it up, and sent for Richard Horton to come to him."
"Her grandfather can only judge by what he knows, John. He tells me
that the son wrote to his father, over and over again, on his deathbed,
and that he never came near him, or took any notice of the letters."
"That's true enough, ma'am," the butler said sadly; "and it is what has
pretty nigh broken the squire's heart. He was obstinate like at first,
and he took me with him when he travelled about across the sea among
the foreigners, and when he was at a place they called Athens, he got a
fever and he was down for weeks. We came home by sea, and the winds was
foul, and we made a long voyage of it, and when we got home there was
letters that had been lying months and months for us, and among them
was those letters of Master Herbert's.
"The squire wasn't an hour in the house afore the carriage was round to
the door, and we posted as hard as horses could take us right across
England to Broadstairs, never stopping a minute except to change
horses; and when we got there it was a month too late, and there was
nothing to do but to go to the churchyard, and to see the stone under
which Master Herbert and his young wife was laid.
"The house where they had died was shut up. There had been a sale, and
the man who was the father of Master Herbert's wife was gone, and we
learned there had been a baby born, and that had gone too. The squire
was like a madman, blaming himself for his son's death, and a-raving to
think what must Master Herbert have thought of him, when he never
answered his letters. I had a terrible time with him, and then he set
to work to find the child; but, as I told you, we never did find it, or
hear a word of it from that time to this, and the squire has never held
up his head. He will be pretty well out of his mind with joy."
"I am very glad to hear what you say, John," Mrs. Walsham said. "I
could hardly fancy the squire, who always has borne such a name for
kindness, being so hard that he would not listen to his dying son's
entreaties."
"No, ma'am. The squire was hard for a bit. Master Herbert's marriage
was a sad disappointment to him. He had made up his mind he was going
to do so well, and to cut such a figure in the world; but he would have
come round. Lord bless you, he only meant to hold out for a bit. When
he was ill at Athens, he was talking all the time about forgiving his
son, and I could see how hard it had been to him to keep separated from
him. On the voyage home he fidgeted ever so at the delay, and I knew
that the first thing he did, when he got back, would be to write to
Master Herbert and tell him to bring his wife down to the Hall. There's
not a hard corner in the squire's heart.
"I thank the good God for the news you have told me, ma'am; it's the
best I ever heard in all my life."
Mrs. Walsham now told him how the child had been brought up, and then
the sergeant himself, who was waiting in the next room, was brought in;
and to him John Petersham related the story of the squire's illness,
the reason of the letters not reaching him for months after they had
been written, and his intense sorrow and self reproach at having
arrived too late, and told him of the efforts that had been made to
find the child. The sergeant listened in grave silence.
"I am glad it is so," he said, after a pause. "I have misjudged the
squire, and I am glad of it. It will be a blow to me to lose the child.
I do not pretend that it won't; but it is for her good, and I must be
content. He can hardly object to my seeing her sometimes, and if I know
that she is well and happy, that is all I care for; and now the sooner
it's over the better. Can she come up this evening?"
"Surely she can," John Petersham said. "The squire dines at five. If
you will bring her up at six, I will take her in to him."
And so it was arranged, and in his walk with Aggie, afterwards, the
sergeant told her the history of her parents, and that Squire Linthorne
was her other grandfather, and that she was to go up and see him that
evening.
Aggie had uttered her protest against fate. She did not wish to leave
her grampa who had been so good to her, and Mrs. Walsham, and James.
The description of the big house and its grandeurs, and the pleasures
of a pony for herself, offered no enticement to her; and, weeping, she
flung her arms round her grandfather's neck and implored him not to
give her up.
"I must, my dear. It is my duty. I wish to God that it were not. You
know how I love you, Aggie, and how hard it is for me to part with you;
but it is for your good, my darling. You mayn't see it now, but when
you get older you will know it. It will not be so hard now on me, dear,
nor on you, as it would have been had I given you up two years ago; but
we have learned to do a little without each other."
"But you will come and see me, just as you have here, won't you?" Aggie
said, still weeping.
"I hope so, my dear. You see, the squire is your father's father, while
I am only your mother's father, and somehow the law makes him nearer to
you than I am, and he will have the right to say what you must do."
"I won't stay with him. I won't," Aggie said passionately, "if he won't
let you come."
"You must not say that, dear," the sergeant said. "We must all do our
duty, even when that duty is hard to do, and your duty will be to obey
the squire's orders, and to do as he tells you. I have no doubt he will
be very kind, and that you will be very happy with him, and I hope he
will let you see me sometimes."
It was a long time before the child was at all reconciled. When her
sobs began to cease, her grandfather told her what she was to do when
she saw the squire.
"You will remember, my dear, that I have been more fortunate than he
has. I have had you all these years, and he has had no one to love or
care for him. You must remember that he was not to blame, because he
objected to his son marrying my daughter. They were not in the same
position of life, and it was only natural that he should not like it,
at first; and, as I told you, he was coming home to make them both
happy, when he found it was too late.
"You must think, dear, that while I have been happy all these years
with you, he has been sorrowing and grieving, and you must try and love
him, and make up to him for what he has suffered. I know you will not
forget your old friends. You will love me whether you see me often or
not; and Mrs. Walsham, who has been very kind to you; and James, you
know, who saved your life."
"I shall never forget anyone, grampa. I shall always love you better
than anyone," the child exclaimed, throwing her arms round his neck
with a fresh burst of tears.
"There, there, my pet," the sergeant said soothingly. "You must not cry
any more. I want you to look your best this evening, you know, and to
do credit to us all. And now, I think we have settled everything, so we
will be going back to tea."
That evening, the squire was sitting by himself in the great dining
room, occasionally sipping the glass of port, which John Petersham had
poured out before he left the room. The curtains were drawn, and the
candles lighted; for it was late in September, and the evenings were
closing in fast; and the squire was puzzling over John Petersham's
behaviour at dinner.
Although the squire was not apt to observe closely what was passing
around him, he had been struck with the old butler's demeanour. That
something was wrong with him was clear. Usually he was the most quiet
and methodical of servants, but he had blundered several times in the
service. He had handed his master dishes when his plate was already
supplied. He had spilled the wine in pouring it out. He had started
nervously when spoken to. Mr. Linthorne even thought that he had seen
tears in his eyes. Altogether, he was strangely unlike himself.
Mr. Linthorne had asked him if anything was the matter, but John had,
with almost unnecessary earnestness, declared there was nothing.
Altogether, the squire was puzzled. With any other servant, he would
have thought he had been drinking, but such a supposition, in John's
case, was altogether out of the question.
He could have had no bad news, so far as the squire knew, for the only
children he had, had died young, and he had no near relatives or
connections. It was ridiculous to suppose that John, at his age, had
fallen in love. Altogether, the squire failed to suggest to himself any
explanation of his old butler's conduct, and had just concluded,
philosophically, by the reflection that he supposed he should know what
it was sooner or later, when the door of the room quietly opened.
The squire did not look up. It closed again as quietly, and then he
glanced towards it. He could hardly believe his eyes. A child was
standing there--a girl with soft smooth hair, and large eyes, and a
sensitive mouth, with an expression fearless but appealing. Her hands
were clasped before her, and she was standing in doubt whether to
advance. There was something so strange, in this apparition in the
lonely room, that the squire did not speak for a moment. It flashed
across him, vaguely, that there was something familiar to him in the
face and expression, something which sent a thrill through him; and at
the same instant, without knowing why, he felt that there was a
connection between the appearance of the child, and the matter he had
just been thinking of--John Petersham's strange conduct. He was still
looking at her, when she advanced quietly towards him.
"Grandpapa," she said, "I am Aggie Linthorne."
A low cry of astonishment broke from the squire. He pushed his chair
back.
"Can it be true?" he muttered. "Or am I dreaming?"
"Yes, grandpapa," the child said, close beside him now. "I am Aggie
Linthorne, and I have come to see you. If you don't think it's me,
grampa said I was to give you this, and then you would know;" and she
held out a miniature, on ivory, of a boy some fourteen years old; and a
watch and chain.
"I do not need them," the squire said, in low tones. "I see it in your
face. You are Herbert's child, whom I looked for so long.
"Oh! my child! my child! have you come at last?" and he drew her
towards him, and kissed her passionately, while the tears streamed down
his cheeks.
"I couldn't come before, you know," the child said, "because I didn't
know about you; and grampa, that's my other grandpapa," she nodded
confidentially, "did not know you wanted me. But now he knows, he sent
me to you. He told me I was to come because you were lonely.
"But you can't be more lonely than he is," she said, with a quiver in
her voice. "Oh! he will be lonely, now!"
"But where do you come from, my dear? and how did you get here? and
what have you been doing, all these years?"
"Grampa brought me here," the child said. "I call him grampa, you know,
because I did when I was little, and I have always kept to it; but I
know, of course, it ought to be grandpapa. He brought me here, and
John--at least he called him John--brought me in. And I have been
living, for two years, with Mrs. Walsham down in the town, and I used
to see you in church, but I did not know that you were my grandpapa."
The squire, who was holding her close to him while she spoke, got up
and rang the bell; and John opened the door, with a quickness that
showed that he had been waiting close to it, anxiously waiting a
summons.
"John Petersham," the squire said, "give me your hand. This is the
happiest day of my life."
The two men wrung each other's hands. They had been friends ever since
John Petersham, who was twelve years the senior of the two, first came
to the house, a young fellow of eighteen, to assist his father, who had
held the same post before him.
"God be thanked, squire!" he said huskily.
"God be thanked, indeed, John!" the squire rejoined, reverently. "So
this was the reason, old friend, why your hand shook as you poured out
my wine. How could you keep the secret from me?"
"I did not know how to begin to tell you, but I was pretty nigh letting
it out, and only the thought that it was better the little lady should
tell you herself, as we had agreed, kept it in. Only to think, squire,
after all these years! But I never quite gave her up. I always thought,
somehow, as she would come just like this."
"Did you, John? I gave up hope years ago. How did it come about, John?"
"Mrs. Walsham told me, as I came out of church today, as she wanted to
speak to me. So I went down, and she told me all about it, and then I
saw him--" John hesitated at the name, for he knew that, perhaps, the
only man in the world against whom his master cherished a bitter
resentment, was the father of his son's wife. "It seems he never saw
your advertisements, never knew as you wanted to hear anything of the
child, so he took her away and kept her. He has been here, off and on,
all these years. I heard tell of him, often and often, when I had been
down into Sidmouth, but never dreamt as it was him. He went about the
country with a box on wheels with glasses--a peep show as they calls
it."
The squire winced.
"He is well spoken of, squire," John said, "and I am bound to say as he
doesn't seem the sort of man we took him for, at all, not by no means.
He did not know you wanted to have her, but he thought it his duty to
give her the chance, and so he put her with Mrs. Walsham, and never
told her, till yesterday, who she was. Mrs. Walsham was quite grieved
at parting with her, for she says she is wonderfully quick at her
lessons, and has been like a daughter with her, for the last two
years."
The child had sat quietly down in a chair, and was looking into the
fire while the two men were speaking. She had done what she was told to
do, and was waiting quietly for what was to come next. Her quick ear,
however, caught, in the tones of John Petersham, an apologetic tone
when speaking of her grandfather, and she was moved to instant anger.
"Why do you speak like that of my grampa?" she said, rising to her
feet, and standing indignantly before him. "He is the best man in the
world, and the kindest and the nicest, and if you don't like him, I can
go away to him again. I don't want to stay here, not one minute.
"You may be my grandpapa," she went on, turning to the squire, "and you
may be lonely, but he is lonely, too, and you have got a great house,
and all sorts of nice things; and you can do better without me than he
can, for he has got nothing to love but me, poor grampa!"
And her eyes filled with sudden tears, as she thought of him tramping
on his lonely walks over the hills.
"We do not mean to speak unkindly of your grandfather, my dear," the
squire said gently. "I have never seen him, you know, and John has
never seen him but once. I have thought, all these years, bitterly of
him; but perhaps I have been mistaken. He has ever been kind and good
to you, and, above all, he has given you back to me, and that will make
me think differently of him, in future. We all make mistakes, you know,
and I have made terrible mistakes, and have been terribly punished for
them. I daresay I have made a mistake here; but whether or no, you
shall never hear a word, from me, against the man who has been so kind
to you."
"And you will let me see him sometimes, grandpapa?" the child said,
taking his hand pleadingly. "He said, if you said no, I must do as you
told me; because somehow you are nearer to me than he is, though I
don't know how that can be. But you won't say that, will you? For, oh!
I know he is so lonely without me, and I should never be happy,
thinking of him all alone, not if you were to be ever so kind to me,
and to give me all sorts of grand things."
"No, my dear, I certainly shall not say so. You shall see him as often
as you like."
"Oh, thank you, grandpapa!" she exclaimed joyfully, and she held up her
face to kiss him.
The squire lifted her in his arms, and held her closely to him.
"John," he said, "you must tell Mrs. Morcombe to get a room ready for
my granddaughter, at once, and you had better bring the tea in here,
and then we will think of other things. I feel quite bewildered, at
present."
When John returned with the tea, Aggie was sitting on the squire's
knee. She was perfectly at home, now, and had been chattering to him of
her life with her grandfather, and had just related the incident of her
narrow escape from drowning.
"Do you hear that, John?" the squire said. "She was nearly drowned
here, within sight of our home, and I might never have known anything
about it. It seems that lad of Dr. Walsham's saved her life. He is a
fine lad. He was her champion, you know, in that affair with my nephew.
How strange that the two boys should have quarrelled over my
granddaughter!"
"Yes, squire, and young Walsham came well out of it!" John said
heartily; for to him, only, did the squire mention the circumstances of
the case, and he chuckled now to himself, as he thought that Richard
Horton had made an even greater mistake in that matter than he thought
of, for John detested the boy with all his heart, and had only
abstained from reporting his conduct, to the squire, from fear of
giving his master pain.
The squire's brow clouded a little at the allusion.
"It will make a difference to him, John," he said, "for, of course, now
my granddaughter will take his place."
"And a good thing, too!" John said heartily. "I have never said a word
before, squire, because, as you had chosen him as your heir, there was
no use in setting you against him; but a more hatefuller lad than
Richard Horton I never comed across, and so said everyone here. You did
not see much of him, squire, and natural thought well of him, for he
was a good-looking boy, and could speak fair enough when he liked. I
thought well of him, myself, when he first came, but I larned better,
afterwards."
"There are many excuses to be made for him, John," the squire said,
"and I have had good reports of him, since. Of course, I shall see
that, although he can no longer be regarded as my heir here, he shall
be well provided for. But there will be plenty of time to think of
this."
"Mr. Wilks asked me to say, sir," the butler said as he prepared to
leave them, "that he shall be staying in Sidmouth tomorrow, and that,
if you wish to see him, he will come up here."
"Certainly I wish to see him," the squire replied. "I have many things
to ask him. Let the boy go down, the first thing in the morning,
or--no, if you don't mind, John, would you go down yourself tonight? He
will naturally be anxious to know how his grandchild is getting on.
Tell him with what joy I have received her, and take any message she
may give you.
"Is there anything you would like to say to your grandfather, child?"
"Oh, yes. Please tell him that I think I shall like it, and that he is
to come and see me when he likes, and that, of course, he is to see me
when he comes in the morning, and then I can tell him all about it."
"And say, I shall be glad to see him the first thing after breakfast,"
the squire added.
The housekeeper soon entered, and Aggie, very sleepy after the
excitements of the day, was taken off to bed. Her sleepiness, however,
disappeared in her wonder at the size of the house, and at the vastness
of her bedroom.
"Why, you have got a fire!" she exclaimed in astonishment. "I never saw
a fire in a bedroom, before."
"I didn't light it for the cold, miss," the housekeeper said; "but
because it is a long time since the room was slept in before, and
because I thought it would be cheerful for you. I shall sleep in the
next room, till things are settled, so that, if you want anything, you
will only have to run in."
"Thank you," Aggie said gratefully. "It does all seem so big; but I am
sure not to want anything. Thank you."
"Here is your box, miss. Would you like me to help undress you?"
"Oh, no!" Aggie laughed. "Why, of course I can undress myself;" and she
laughed at the idea of assistance being required in such a matter.
"Then, good night!" the housekeeper said. "I shall leave the door ajar,
between the two rooms, when I come to bed."
The next morning, soon after breakfast, Sergeant Wilks was ushered into
the study, where the squire was expecting him. The two men had had hard
thoughts of each other, for many years. The squire regarded the
sergeant as a man who had inveigled his son into marrying his daughter,
while the sergeant regarded the squire as a heartless and unnatural
father, who had left his son to die alone among strangers. The
conversation with John Petersham had taught the sergeant that he had
wronged the squire, by his estimate of him, and that he was to be
pitied rather than blamed in the matter. The squire, on his part, was
grateful to the sergeant for the care he had bestowed upon the child,
and for restoring her to him, and was inclined, indeed, at the moment,
to a universal goodwill to all men.
The sergeant was pale, but self possessed and quiet; while the squire,
moved, by the events of the night before, out of the silent reserve in
which he had, for years, enveloped himself, was agitated and nervous.
He was the first to speak.
"Mr. Wilks," he said. "I have to give you my heartfelt thanks, for
having restored my granddaughter to me--the more so as I know, from
what she has said, how great a sacrifice you must be making. John has
been telling me of his conversation with you, and you have learned,
from him, that I was not so wholly heartless and unnatural a father as
you must have thought me; deeply as I blame myself, and shall always
blame myself, in the matter."
"Yes," the sergeant said. "I have learned that I have misread you. Had
it not been so, I should have brought the child to you long ago--should
never have taken her away, indeed. Perhaps we have both misjudged each
other."
"I fear that we have," the squire said, remembering the letters he
wrote to his son, in his anger, denouncing the sergeant in violent
language.
"It does not matter, now," the sergeant went on quietly; "but, as I do
not wish Aggie ever to come to think ill of me, in the future, it is
better to set it right.
"When I left the army, I had saved enough money to furnish a house, and
I took one at Southampton, and set up taking lodgers there. I had my
pension, and lived well until my wife died--a year before your son came
down, from London, with another gentleman, and took my rooms. My
daughter was seventeen when her mother died, and she took to managing
the house. I was careful of her, and gave her orders that, on no
account, was she ever to go into the lodgers' rooms. I waited on them,
myself.
"How your son first saw her, and got to speak to her, I don't know; but
I am not surprised that, when he did, he loved her, for there was no
prettier or sweeter girl in Hampshire. They took the rooms, first, only
for a fortnight, then the other gentleman went away, and your son
stayed on.
"One day--it came upon me like a thunderbolt--your son told me he
wanted to marry my Agnes. I was angry, at first. Angry, because it had
been done behind my back, and because I had been deceived. I said as
much; but your son assured me that he had never spoken to her in the
house, but had met her when she went out for her walks. Still, it was
wrong, and I told him so, and I told her so, though, in my heart, I did
not altogether blame them; for young people will be young people, and,
as he had acted honourably in coming to me at once, I let that pass.
"But, squire, though but a sergeant in His Majesty's service, I had my
pride as you had yours, and I told him, at once, that I would not give
my consent to my daughter's marrying him, until you had given yours;
and that he must leave the house at once, and not see Agnes again,
until he came with your written consent to show me.
"He went away at once. After a time, he began to write to me, urging me
to change my decision; and from this, although he never said so, I was
sure that you had refused to sanction his marriage. However, I stuck to
what I had said, though it was hard for me to do so, with my child
growing thin and pale before my eyes, with all her bright happiness
gone.
"So it went on, for three months, and then one morning she was gone,
and I found a letter on her table for me, saying that she had been
married to him a week before, when she went out, as I thought, to spend
the day with a friend. She begged and prayed me to forgive her, and
said how miserable she had been, and that she could not say no to her
lover's pleadings.
"I wrote to the address she had given me, saying that she had well nigh
broken my heart. She knew that I had only refused my consent because it
would have seemed a dishonourable action, to allow your son to marry
her without your consent. She knew how hard it had been for me to do my
duty, when I saw her pining before my eyes, but I forgave her wholly,
and did not altogether blame her, seeing that it was the way of Nature
that young women, when they once took to loving, should put their
father altogether in the second place;
"It was hard to me to write that letter, for I longed to see her bonny
face again. But I thought it was my duty. I thought so then; but I
think, now, it was pride.
"From time to time she wrote to me. I learned that you still refused to
see your son, and I gathered, though she did not say much of this, that
things were going badly with them. At last, she wrote that her husband
was ill--very ill, she feared. He had, in vain, tried to get
employment. I don't think he was naturally strong, and the anxiety had
broken him down. Then I went up to London at once, and found them, in a
little room, without the necessaries of life. I brought them down home,
and nursed him for three months, till he died.
"A week later, Aggie was born. Ten days afterwards, I laid her mother
by the side of her father. No answer had come to the letters he had
written to you, while he had been ill, though in the later ones he had
told you that he was dying. So, I looked upon the child as mine.
"Things had gone badly with me. I had been able to take no lodgers,
while they were with me. I had got into debt, and even could I have
cleared myself, I could not well have kept the house on, without a
woman to look after it. I was restless, too, and longed to be moving
about. So I sold off the furniture, paid my debts, and laid by the
money that remained, for the child's use in the future.
"I had, some time before, met an old comrade travelling the country
with a show. I happened to meet him again, just as I was leaving, and
he told me the name of a man, in London, who sold such things. I left
the child, for a year, with some people I knew, a few miles out of
Southampton; came up to London, bought a show, and started. It was
lonely work, at first; but, after a year, I fetched the child away, and
took her round the country with me, and for four years had a happy time
of it.
"I had chosen this part of the country, and, after a time, I became
uneasy in my mind, as to whether I was doing right; and whether, for
the child's sake, I ought not to tell you that she was alive, and offer
to give her up, if you were willing to take her. I heard how your son's
death had changed you, and thought that, maybe, you would like to take
his daughter; but, before bringing her to you, I thought she should
have a better education than I had time to give her, and that she
should be placed with a lady, so that, if you took her, you need not be
ashamed of her manners.
"I hoped you would not take her. I wanted to keep her for myself; but
my duty to her was clear.
"And now, squire, you know all about it. I have been wrong to keep her
so long from you, I grant; but I can only say that I have done my duty,
as far as I could, and that, though I have made many mistakes, my
conscience is clear, that I did the best, as far as it seemed to me at
the time."