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4: The Squire's Granddaughter

      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.

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