Chapter 3: The Justice Room.
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 amoment, entered his mind that his tutor would repeat his statement tothe 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, andhe felt but little doubt of the result. He had no idea that any, butthe actors in it, had witnessed the scene by the pool, and he feltconfident that his uncle would, as a matter of course, take his word inpreference to that of this boy, who would naturally tell lies to screenhimself. Of course, the child was there, but no one would mind what ababy like that said. Still, it was a nuisance, and he gnashed his teethwith rage at the interference of his tutor in the matter.
"I will get rid of him, somehow, before long," he said. "I will pay himout for his meddling, as sure as my name's Richard Horton. I will gethim out of this before three months are gone."
The next morning at breakfast, Richard received a message from thesquire that he was to be present at ten o'clock in the justice room,and accordingly, at that hour he presented himself there with aconfident 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 wasstanding 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. Robertsonyesterday."
Richard had thought over whether it would be better to soften hisstory, but as it had already been told to the squire, he had concludedthat there would be more danger in contradicting his first version thanin sticking to it. Accordingly, he repeated his story almost word forword as he had told it to Mr. Robertson.
"What have you to say to this, James Walsham?" the squire asked. "Thisis a serious charge, that you without any provocation assaulted andmaltreated my nephew."
"I say it is all a lie, sir," James said fearlessly.
The squire uttered a short exclamation of surprise and anger. He hadbeen, at first, favourably impressed with the appearance of the youngprisoner, though he had been surprised at seeing that he was youngerthan his nephew, for he had expected to see a much older boy.
"That is not the way to speak, sir," he said sternly, while theconstable pressed a warning hand on James's shoulder.
"Well, sir, it's not true then," the boy said. "It's all false frombeginning 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 becausehe 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 yourevidence. 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 witnessesto 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 withdisbelief. It had not occurred to him that his nephew could have told alie, and he wondered at the calmness with which this boy told hisstory. Why, were it true, Richard was a coward as well as a liar, forwith his superior age and height, he should have been able to thrashthis boy in a fair fight; yet James's face had not a mark, while hisnephew's showed how severely he had been punished.
But his eye fell upon Richard when James said that he had witnesses. Hesaw an unmistakable look of terror come over his face, and the bitterconviction flashed across him that James's story was the true one.
"There is no occasion to give him the book, Hobson," he said, as theconstable was about to hand the Testament to one of the fishermen."This is a private investigation, not a formal magisterial sitting, andthere 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 youngMaster Walsham was a-sailing his boat in a pool, along with the littlegal 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 wasworking behind a boat, but we could see over it well enough. Presentlywe saw Master Horton come down, and stand alongside the others.
"I said to Simon, 'He is a good-looking young fellow, is the squire'snephew,'" and the fisherman's eye twinkled with a grim humour, as heglanced at Richard's swollen face.
"The boat got stuck, and Master Walsham threw something in close to itto get it off. Then I see Master Horton stoop, and pick up a chunk ofstone, and chuck it hard; and it hit the boat and knocked it over. Isee the little girl turn round and say something to Master Horton, andthen she put her apron up to her face and began to cry. He gave her asort 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 mymouth, Master Walsham he hits him, and hits him hard, too. Then therewas a fight, but Master Horton, he hadn't a chance with James, who gavehim as sound a licking as ever you see'd, and ending with knocking himbackwards 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 betweenthem. There was nobody there."
"Hold your tongue, sir, I tell you," the squire said, so sternly thatRichard, who had risen from his seat, shrank back again and remainedsilent; while Simon Harte gave his evidence, which was almost identicalwith 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 solittle, I thought it was better she should not come, but I can send forher if you wish it."
"It is not necessary," Mr. Linthorne said. "I have heard quitesufficient. The manner in which you and these fishermen have given yourevidence convinces me that you are speaking the truth, and I am sorrythat you should have been placed in this position. You will understandthat this is not a formal court, and therefore that there is noquestion of discharging you. I can only say that, having heard thestory of what took place at this fight between you and my nephew, I amconvinced that you did what any other boy of spirit would have done,under the same circumstances, and that the punishment which youadministered to him was thoroughly deserved.
"Good morning!"
James Walsham and his witnesses left the room. Mr. Linthorne rose, andsaying to his nephew, "Follow me, sir," went to his study.
Without saying a word as to what had passed, he took down some booksfrom the shelves, and proceeded to examine Richard in them. A fewminutes sufficed to show that the boy was almost absolutely ignorant ofLatin, while a few questions in geography and history showed that hewas equally deficient in these also.
"That will do," the squire said. "Go up to your room, and remain thereuntil I send for you."
An hour after this a dog cart came round to the door. Mr. Robertsontook 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 werebrought up to him, but the servant who came with them answered noquestions, telling him that the squire's orders were that he was not tohold any conversation with him. There was, indeed, a deep pleasureamong the servants at the Hall, at the knowledge that Richard Hortonwas 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 thecircumstances, had impressed upon him that it was better to say nothingmore about it.
"You are clear in the matter, Jim, and that is enough for you. Thesquire will, no doubt, punish his nephew for the wicked lies he hastold. Some day, you know, the boy will be master here. Don't let us seteveryone against him by telling this disgraceful story."
So, beyond the fact that there had been a fight between James Walshamand the squire's nephew, and that Richard Horton had been thrashed, andthat the squire himself had said that it served him right, Sidmouthknew nothing of what had taken place in the justice room.
Mr. Linthorne's first impulse had been to send his nephew at once backto his parents, with the message that he would have nothing more to dowith him; but, though he had the reputation of being a stern man, thesquire was a very kind-hearted one. He was shocked to find that the boywas a liar, and that, to shield himself, he had invented this falsehoodagainst his opponent; but upon reflection, he acknowledged that hehimself had been to blame in the matter. He had taken the boy into hishouse, had assigned to him the position of his heir, and had paid nofurther attention to him.
Unfortunately, the man he had selected as his tutor had proved false tothe trust. The boy had been permitted to run wild, his head was turnedwith the change in his prospects, his faults had grown unchecked. Itwas to be said for him that he had not intended, in the first place, tobring his opponent into disgrace by making this false accusationagainst him, for his tutor had acknowledged that he had said he did notintend to tell him, or to take any step in the matter, and his positionof accuser had been, to some extent, forced upon him by the necessityof his confirming the tale, which he had told to account for his beingthrashed by a boy smaller than himself.
Yes, it would be unfair upon the boy utterly to cast him off for thisfirst offence. He would give him one more trial.
The result of the squire's reflection was that, on the third day of hisimprisonment, Richard was sent for to the study. The squire did notmotion to him to sit down, and he remained standing with, as the squiresaid to himself, a hang-dog look upon his face.
"I have been thinking over this matter quietly, Richard, for I did notwish to come to any hasty conclusion. My first impulse was to pack youoff home, and have no more to do with you, but I have thought better ofit. Mean and despicable as your conduct has been, I take some blame tomyself, for not having seen that your tutor did his duty by you.Therefore, I have resolved to give you another chance, but not here. Icould 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, andthat the lesson which it has taught you may influence all your futurelife, and that you may yet grow up an honourable man.
"But you will remember that, henceforth, you are on trial, and that theposition in which you will stand by my will, will depend solely andentirely on your own conduct. If you prove, by that, that this lessonhas had its effect, that you deeply repent of your conduct, and areresolved to do your best to be henceforth straight, honourable, andtrue, you will, at my death, occupy the position I have intended foryou. If not, not one single penny of my money will you get. I am goingto put you in a school where you will be looked strictly after, andwhere you will have every chance of retrieving yourself. I have justwritten 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 thatyou have been somewhat over indulged, and that the discipline of thesea life will be of great benefit to you, and have requested him tokeep a tight hand over you, and let me know occasionally how you aregoing on. I have told him that your position as my heir will, to a verylarge extent, depend upon his reports, and have asked him, in the nameof 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 takehis place, if he is unworthy of the position, and although I should besorry if he should be found wanting, I will commit the interests of allthe tenants and people on my estate to no one who is not, in everyrespect, an honourable gentleman.'
"That will do, sir. You need not remain longer in your room, but youwill not leave the grounds. My friend's ship is at Portsmouth atpresent, and doubtless I shall receive an answer in the course of a fewdays. Until then, the less we see each other, the more pleasant for usboth."
There were few more miserable boys in England than Richard Horton,during the week which elapsed before the answer to the squire's letterwas received. It cannot be said that, in the true sense of the word, hewas sorry for his fault. He was furious with himself, not because hehad lied, but because of the consequences of the lie. A thousand timeshe called himself a fool for having imperilled his position, and riskedbeing sent back again to the dingy house in London, merely to excusehimself for being thrashed by a boy smaller than himself. Mad with hisfolly, not in having invented the story, but in having neglected tolook round, to assure himself that there were no witnesses who wouldcontradict 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 everyservant in and about the house rejoiced at his discomfiture, and heimagined that there was a veiled smile of satisfaction, at his bruisedvisage and his notorious disgrace with the squire, on the face of everyman 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 heknew that he had rendered himself specially obnoxious, and there wasnothing for him to do but to saunter listlessly about the garden, untilthe day arrived that the letter came granting the squire's request, andbegging that he might be sent off at once, as the vessel would probablyput to sea in a few days.
"Now, Richard," the squire said that evening to him, in a kinder voicethan he had used on the last occasion, "you understand exactly how westand towards each other. That being so, I do not wish to maintain ourpresent uncomfortable relations. You have had your punishment, and,unless I hear to the contrary, I shall assume that the punishment hashad its effect. When you return from sea, after your first voyage, youwill come home here as if nothing had happened, and this business neednever be alluded to between us. If you turn out as I have hithertobelieved you to be, I shall receive you as warmly as if my opinion ofyou had never been shaken.
"I have requested Captain Sinclair to let me know what is the averageallowance that the midshipmen receive from their parents, and shall seethat you have as much as your messmates. I have also asked him tokindly allow one of his officers to order you a proper outfit in allrespects, and to have the bill sent in to me. So now, my boy, you willhave a fresh and a fair start, and I trust that you will turn outeverything that I can wish."
"I will try, sir. I will indeed," Richard said earnestly; and he spokefrom his heart, for the inheritance was very dear to him, and it wouldbe a terrible thing indeed to forfeit it.
For two years after Richard Horton's departure, things went on quietlyat Sidmouth. James Walsham continued to make a pet and a playmate oflittle Aggie. Her out-of-door life had made her strong and sturdy, andshe was able to accompany him in all his rambles, while, when he was atwork at home preparing fishing lines, making boats, or otherwiseamusing himself, she was content to sit hours quietly beside him,chattering incessantly, and quite content with an occasional briefanswer to the questions. When he was studying, she too would work ather lessons; and however much she might be puzzled over these, shewould never disturb him by asking him questions when so engaged.
She was an intelligent child, and the hour's lesson, morning andafternoon, soon grew into two. She was eager to learn, and rapidlygained ground on Mrs. Walsham's older pupils. During the two years,that lady never had cause to regret that she had yielded to thesergeant's entreaties. Aggie was no trouble in the house, which shebrightened with her childish laughter and merry talk; and hercompanionship, James's mother could not but think, did the boy muchgood. It softened his manner, and, although he still often went outwith
the fishermen, he was no longer thrown entirely for companionshipupon the boys on the beach.
The sergeant came and went, seldom being more than two months withoutpaying a visit to Sidmouth. The child was always delighted to see hergrandfather, and James took to him greatly, and liked nothing betterthan to stroll up with him to a sheltered spot on the hillside, wherehe would throw himself down on the grass, while the sergeant smoked hispipe and told him stories of his travels and adventures, and Aggie ranabout 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 ofhis nephew, whose ship had sailed for a foreign station, was a reliefrather than otherwise to him. It had, from the first, been a painfuleffort to him to regard this boy as his heir, and he had only done itwhen heartsick from a long and fruitless search for one who would havebeen nearer and dearer to him. Nor had he ever taken to the ladpersonally. The squire felt that there was not the ring of true metalin him. The careless way in which he spoke of his parents showed a wantof heart; and although his uncle was ignorant how much the boy madehimself disliked in the household, he was conscious, himself, of acertain antipathy for him, which led him to see as little of him aspossible.
The two years, for which the sergeant had placed his grandchild withMrs. Walsham, came to an end. That he did not intend to continue thearrangement, she judged from something he said on the occasion of hislast visit, two months before the time was up, but he gave no hint asto what he intended to do with her.
In those weeks Mrs. Walsham frequently thought the matter over. Thatthe sergeant had plans for the child she could hardly doubt. The childherself had told her that she knew of no other relations than hergrandfather, and yet he could hardly intend to take her about with him,after placing her for two years in a comfortable home. She was butseven years old now--far too young to go out into a place as servantgirl in a farm house. She doubted not that the sergeant had expendedthe whole of his savings, and she thought him foolish in not havingkept her with him for some little time longer, or, if he could not dothat, he might have placed her with some honest people, who would havekept her for the sum he had paid until she was old enough to take aplace as a nurse girl.
And yet, while she argued thus, Mrs. Walsham felt that the old showmanhad not acted without weighing the whole matter. There must besomething in it which she did not understand. In fact, he had said sowhen he placed the child with her.
As the time approached, she became more worried at the thought of Aggieleaving her. The little one had wound herself very closely round herheart. The expense of keeping her was small indeed, the cost of herfood next to nothing; while the extra girl, whom Mrs. Walsham had takenon when she first came, had been retained but a very short time,James's constant companionship with her rendering the keeping of anurse altogether unnecessary.
At last she made up her mind that she would offer to keep her onwithout pay. She and James would miss her companionship sorely, and itcould not be considered an extravagance, since the money she hadreceived 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 thesemysterious plans of the sergeant would not allow him to leave Aggiewith her.
Punctual to the day, Sergeant Wilks arrived, and after a little talk inthe parlour, as usual, with James and Aggie present, he formallyrequested the favour of a conversation with Mrs. Walsham alone.
"Take Aggie for a walk, James. Do not stay out above three quarters ofan hour, as your tea will be ready for you then."
"You must have wondered, ma'am, a good deal," the sergeant began whenthey were alone, "why I, who get my living by travelling the countrywith a peep show, wished to place my grandchild in a position aboveher, and to have her taught to be a little lady. It is time now that Ishould tell you. Aggie is my granddaughter, but she is thegranddaughter, too, of Squire Linthorne up at the Hall."
"Bless me!" Mrs. Walsham ejaculated, too astonished for any furtherexpression of her feelings.
"Yes, ma'am, she is the daughter of the squire's son Herbert, whomarried my daughter Cissie."
"Dear me, dear me," Mrs. Walsham said, "what an extraordinary thing! Ofcourse I remember Herbert Linthorne, a handsome, pleasant young fellow.He was on bad terms, as everyone heard, eight years ago, with hisfather, because he married somebody beneath--I mean somebody of whomthe squire did not approve. A year afterwards, we heard that he wasdead, and there was a report that his wife was dead, too, but that wasonly a rumour. The squire went away just at the time, and did not comeback for months afterwards, and after that he was altogether changed.Before, he had been one of the most popular men in this part of thecountry, but now he shut himself up, gave up all his acquaintances, andnever went outside the park gates except to come down to church. Iremember it gave us quite a shock when we saw him for the firsttime--he seemed to have grown an old man all at once. Everyone saidthat 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 squireis a vindictive man, and he is landlord of your house; and if he cameto know that you had knowingly taken in his granddaughter, there was nosaying how he might have viewed it. Then, if you had known it, youmight have thought you ought to keep her in, and not let her run aboutthe country with your son; and altogether, it would not have been socomfortable for you or her. I chose to put her at Sidmouth because Iwanted to come here often, to hear how the squire was going on; for ifhe 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 ofhaving to give her up. She was mine as much as his, and was a hundredtimes more to me than she could be to him. I took her a baby from herdead mother's arms. I fed her and nursed her, taught her her firstwords and her first prayer. Why should I offer to give her up to himwho, 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 herthe chance at least; but I kept on putting off the day, till thatSaturday 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 ofan education than I could do; but if it hadn't been for that fall intothe sea, it might have been years before I carried out my plan. Then Isaw it could not go on any longer. She was getting too old and too boldto 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 intomischief? Then I bethought me that the squire was growing old, and thatit was better not to put it off too long. So, ma'am, I came to you andmade up my mind to put her with you."
"And you had your way," Mrs. Walsham said, smiling, "though it was withsome difficulty."
"I expected it would be difficult, ma'am; but I made up my mind tothat, and had you kept on refusing I should, as a last chance, havetold you whose child she was."
"But why me?" Mrs. Walsham asked. "Why were you so particularly anxiousthat 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 fancycame into my mind. Your son saved Aggie's life. He was twelve yearsold, 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 theboy much. He was brave and modest, and a gentleman. I spoke about himto the fishermen that night, and everyone had a good word for him; so Isaid to myself, 'I can't
reward him for what he has done directly, butit 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 strongaffection for him.'
"Many things may happen afterwards. If the squire takes her they willbe separated. He may get to care for someone, and so may she, but it'sjust 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 planmay yet turn out, and it would be I, not he, who had arranged for thefuture happiness of my little darling. I shouldn't have told you allthis, ma'am; but you would have it."
"I am glad you brought her to me, Sergeant Wilks, anyhow," Mrs. Walshamsaid, "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 goodboy, 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 sergeantsaid sturdily; "but we won't say more about it. I have thought it overand 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 wouldnever say yes; but the squire may be in his grave years before Aggiecomes to think about marriage. Besides, it is more than likely that hewill have nothing to say to my pet. If his pride made him cast his sonoff, rather than acknowledge my daughter as his, it will keep him fromacknowledging her daughter as his grandchild. I hope it will, with allmy heart; I hope so."
"In that case, Sergeant Wilks," Mrs. Walsham said, "let this be herhome for the time. Before you told me your story, I had made up my mindto ask you to let her remain with me. You need feel under noobligation, for the money you have paid me is amply sufficient to payfor the expenses of what she eats for years. It will be a real pleasurefor me to keep her, for she has become a part of the house, and weshould miss her sorely, indeed. She is quick and intelligent, and Iwill teach her all I know, and can train her up to take a situation asa governess in a gentleman's family, or perhaps--" and she laughed,"your little romance might come true some day, and she can in that casestop in this home until James makes her another."
"You are very kind, ma'am," the sergeant said. "Truly kind indeed; andI humbly accept your offer, except that so long as I live she shall beno expense to you. I earn more than enough for my wants, and can, atany rate, do something towards preventing her from being altogether aburden on your hands. And now, ma'am, how would you recommend me to goto work with the vindictive old man up at the Hall?"
"I shouldn't have thought he was vindictive. That is not at all thecharacter 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 andgenerous, were yet tyrants and brutes in their own family. I judge himas I found him--a hard hearted, tyrannical, vindictive father. I thinkI had better not see him myself. We have never met. I have never seteyes on him save here in church; but he regarded me as responsible forthe folly of his son. He wrote me a violent letter, and said I hadinveigled the lad into the marriage; and although I might have told himit was false, I did not answer his letter, for the mischief was donethen, and I hoped he would cool down in time.
"However, that is all past now; but I don't wish to see him. I wasthinking of letting the child go to the Hall by herself, and drop insuddenly upon him. She is very like her father, and may possibly takehis heart by storm."
"Yes," Mrs. Walsham assented. "Now I know who she is, I can see thelikeness strongly. Yes; I should think that that would be the best way.People often yield to a sudden impulse, who will resist if approachedformally or from a distance. But have you any reason to suppose that hewill not receive her? Did he refuse at first to undertake the charge ofthe child? Does he even know that she is alive? It may be that, allthese years, he has been anxious to have her with him, and that youhave been doing him injustice altogether."
"I never thought of it in that light," the sergeant said, after apause. "He never came near his son when he lay dying, never wrote aline in answer to his letters. If a man could not forgive his son whenhe 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 brokehim down terribly, and it may be that he will gladly receive hisgranddaughter.
"But there are the young ones back again. I will think over what youhave been telling me, and we can discuss it again tomorrow."