by G. A. Henty
Chapter 4: The Squire's Granddaughter.
The following day another council was held, and Mrs. Walsham told thesergeant that, on thinking it over, she had concluded that the best waywould be to take the old butler at the Hall, who had served the familyfor forty-five years, into their confidence, and to ask him to arrangehow best Aggie might be introduced to the squire.
"I have been thinking over what you said, ma'am, and it may be that youare right, and that I have partly misjudged the squire. I hope so, forAggie's sake, and yet I cannot help feeling sorry. I have always feltalmost sure he would have nothing to say to her, and I have clung tothe hope that I should not lose my little girl. I know, of course, howmuch better it will be for her, and have done all I could to make herso that she should be fit for it, if he took her. But it will be awrench, ma'am. I can't help feeling it will be a wrench;" and the oldsoldier's voice quivered as he spoke.
"It cannot be otherwise, sergeant," Mrs. Walsham said kindly. "You havebeen 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, andwhen they returned Mrs. Walsham saw, by the flushed cheeks and theswollen eyes of the child, that she had been crying. James noticed italso, and saw that she seemed depressed and quiet. He supposed that hergrandfather had been telling her that he was going to take her away,for hitherto nothing had been said, in her hearing, as to theapproaching termination of the stay with his mother.
As they came out of church, Mrs. Walsham had waited for a moment at thedoor, and had told the butler at the Hall that she wished particularlyto speak to him, that afternoon, if he could manage to come down. Theywere not strangers, for the doctor had attended John's wife in her lastillness, and he had sometimes called with messages from the Hall, whenthe doctor was wanted there.
John Petersham was astonished, indeed, when Mrs. Walsham informed himthat the little girl he had seen in her pew, in church, was hismaster's granddaughter.
"You don't say so, ma'am. You don't say as that pretty little thing isMaster Herbert's child! But why didn't you say so afore? Why, I havecaught myself looking at her, and wondering how it was that I seemed toknow her face so well; and now, of course, I sees it. She is thepicture of Master Herbert when he was little."
"I couldn't say so before, John, because I only knew it myself lastnight. Her grandfather--that is, her other grandfather, youknow--placed her with me to educate, and, as he said, to make a littlelady of, two years ago; but it was only last night he told me."
"Only to think of it!" the butler ejaculated. "What will the squiresay?"
"Yes, that is the point, John. What will the squire say? Hergrandfather 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 tofind her for months? It wasn't till he tried for over a year that hegave it up, and sent for Richard Horton to come to him."
"Her grandfather can only judge by what he knows, John. He tells methat 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 haspretty 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 amongthe foreigners, and when he was at a place they called Athens, he got afever and he was down for weeks. We came home by sea, and the winds wasfoul, and we made a long voyage of it, and when we got home there wasletters that had been lying months and months for us, and among themwas those letters of Master Herbert's.
"The squire wasn't an hour in the house afore the carriage was round tothe door, and we posted as hard as horses could take us right acrossEngland to Broadstairs, never stopping a minute except to changehorses; and when we got there it was a month too late, and there wasnothing to do but to go to the churchyard, and to see the stone underwhich Master Herbert and his young wife was laid.
"The house where they had died was shut up. There had been a sale, andthe man who was the father of Master Herbert's wife was gone, and welearned there had been a baby born, and that had gone too. The squirewas like a madman, blaming himself for his son's death, and a-raving tothink what must Master Herbert have thought of him, when he neveranswered his letters. I had a terrible time with him, and then he setto work to find the child; but, as I told you, we never did find it, orhear a word of it from that time to this, and the squire has never heldup 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. "Icould hardly fancy the squire, who always has borne such a name forkindness, being so hard that he would not listen to his dying son'sentreaties."
"No, ma'am. The squire was hard for a bit. Master Herbert's marriagewas a sad disappointment to him. He had made up his mind he was goingto do so well, and to cut such a figure in the world; but he would havecome round. Lord bless you, he only meant to hold out for a bit. Whenhe was ill at Athens, he was talking all the time about forgiving hisson, and I could see how hard it had been to him to keep separated fromhim. On the voyage home he fidgeted ever so at the delay, and I knewthat the first thing he did, when he got back, would be to write toMaster Herbert and tell him to bring his wife down to the Hall. There'snot a hard corner in the squire's heart.
"I thank the good God for the news you have told me, ma'am; it's thebest I ever heard in all my life."
Mrs. Walsham now told him how the child had been brought up, and thenthe 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 hadbeen written, and his intense sorrow and self reproach at havingarrived too late, and told him of the efforts that had been made tofind the child. The sergeant listened in grave silence.
"I am glad it is so," he said, after a pause. "I have misjudged thesquire, 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 becontent. He can hardly object to my seeing her sometimes, and if I knowthat she is well and happy, that is all I care for; and now the soonerit's over the better. Can she come up this evening?"
"Surely she can," John Petersham said. "The squire dines at five. Ifyou 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, thesergeant told her the history of her parents, and that Squire Linthornewas her other grandfather, and that she was to go up and see him thatevening.
Aggie had uttered her protest against fate. She did not wish to leaveher grampa who had been so good to her, and Mrs. Walsham, and James.The description of the big house and its grandeurs, and the pleasuresof a pony for herself, offered no enticement to her; and, weeping, sheflung her arms round her grandfather's neck and implored him not togive her up.
"I must, my dear. It is my duty. I wish to God that it were not. Youknow 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 whenyou 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; butwe have learned to do a little without each other."
"But you will come and see me, just as you have here, won't you?" Aggiesaid, still weeping.
"I hope so, my dear. You see, the squire is your father's father, whileI am only your mother's father, and somehow the law makes him nearer toyou 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'tlet you come."
"You must not say that, dear," the sergeant said. "We must all do ourduty, even when that duty is hard to do, and your duty will be to obeythe squire's orders, and to do as h
e tells you. I have no doubt he willbe very kind, and that you will be very happy with him, and I hope hewill let you see me sometimes."
It was a long time before the child was at all reconciled. When hersobs began to cease, her grandfather told her what she was to do whenshe saw the squire.
"You will remember, my dear, that I have been more fortunate than hehas. I have had you all these years, and he has had no one to love orcare for him. You must remember that he was not to blame, because heobjected to his son marrying my daughter. They were not in the sameposition 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 bothhappy, when he found it was too late.
"You must think, dear, that while I have been happy all these yearswith you, he has been sorrowing and grieving, and you must try and lovehim, and make up to him for what he has suffered. I know you will notforget your old friends. You will love me whether you see me often ornot; and Mrs. Walsham, who has been very kind to you; and James, youknow, who saved your life."
"I shall never forget anyone, grampa. I shall always love you betterthan anyone," the child exclaimed, throwing her arms round his neckwith a fresh burst of tears.
"There, there, my pet," the sergeant said soothingly. "You must not cryany more. I want you to look your best this evening, you know, and todo credit to us all. And now, I think we have settled everything, so wewill be going back to tea."
That evening, the squire was sitting by himself in the great diningroom, occasionally sipping the glass of port, which John Petersham hadpoured out before he left the room. The curtains were drawn, and thecandles lighted; for it was late in September, and the evenings wereclosing in fast; and the squire was puzzling over John Petersham'sbehaviour at dinner.
Although the squire was not apt to observe closely what was passingaround him, he had been struck with the old butler's demeanour. Thatsomething was wrong with him was clear. Usually he was the most quietand methodical of servants, but he had blundered several times in theservice. He had handed his master dishes when his plate was alreadysupplied. He had spilled the wine in pouring it out. He had startednervously when spoken to. Mr. Linthorne even thought that he had seentears 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 wouldhave thought he had been drinking, but such a supposition, in John'scase, was altogether out of the question.
He could have had no bad news, so far as the squire knew, for the onlychildren he had, had died young, and he had no near relatives orconnections. It was ridiculous to suppose that John, at his age, hadfallen in love. Altogether, the squire failed to suggest to himself anyexplanation of his old butler's conduct, and had just concluded,philosophically, by the reflection that he supposed he should know whatit 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 heglanced towards it. He could hardly believe his eyes. A child wasstanding there--a girl with soft smooth hair, and large eyes, and asensitive mouth, with an expression fearless but appealing. Her handswere clasped before her, and she was standing in doubt whether toadvance. There was something so strange, in this apparition in thelonely room, that the squire did not speak for a moment. It flashedacross him, vaguely, that there was something familiar to him in theface and expression, something which sent a thrill through him; and atthe same instant, without knowing why, he felt that there was aconnection between the appearance of the child, and the matter he hadjust been thinking of--John Petersham's strange conduct. He was stilllooking 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 chairback.
"Can it be true?" he muttered. "Or am I dreaming?"
"Yes, grandpapa," the child said, close beside him now. "I am AggieLinthorne, 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 sheheld out a miniature, on ivory, of a boy some fourteen years old; and awatch and chain.
"I do not need them," the squire said, in low tones. "I see it in yourface. You are Herbert's child, whom I looked for so long.
"Oh! my child! my child! have you come at last?" and he drew hertowards him, and kissed her passionately, while the tears streamed downhis cheeks.
"I couldn't come before, you know," the child said, "because I didn'tknow about you; and grampa, that's my other grandpapa," she noddedconfidentially, "did not know you wanted me. But now he knows, he sentme 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 inher voice. "Oh! he will be lonely, now!"
"But where do you come from, my dear? and how did you get here? andwhat 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 Iknow, of course, it ought to be grandpapa. He brought me here, andJohn--at least he called him John--brought me in. And I have beenliving, for two years, with Mrs. Walsham down in the town, and I usedto 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 upand rang the bell; and John opened the door, with a quickness thatshowed that he had been waiting close to it, anxiously waiting asummons.
"John Petersham," the squire said, "give me your hand. This is thehappiest day of my life."
The two men wrung each other's hands. They had been friends ever sinceJohn Petersham, who was twelve years the senior of the two, first cameto the house, a young fellow of eighteen, to assist his father, who hadheld the same post before him.
"God be thanked, squire!" he said huskily.
"God be thanked, indeed, John!" the squire rejoined, reverently. "Sothis was the reason, old friend, why your hand shook as you poured outmy wine. How could you keep the secret from me?"
"I did not know how to begin to tell you, but I was pretty nigh lettingit out, and only the thought that it was better the little lady shouldtell 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 tospeak to me. So I went down, and she told me all about it, and then Isaw him--" John hesitated at the name, for he knew that, perhaps, theonly man in the world against whom his master cherished a bitterresentment, was the father of his son's wife. "It seems he never sawyour advertisements, never knew as you wanted to hear anything of thechild, 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 beendown into Sidmouth, but never dreamt as it was him. He went about thecountry with a box on wheels with glasses--a peep show as they callsit."
The squire winced.
"He is well spoken of, squire," John said, "and I am bound to say as hedoesn'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 togive her the chance, and so he put her with Mrs. Walsham, and nevertold her, till yesterday, who she was. Mrs. Walsham was quite grievedat parting with her, for she says she is wonderfully quick at herlessons, and has been like a daughter with her, for the last twoyears."
The child had sat quietly down in a chair, and was looking into thefire while the two men were speaking. She had done what she was told todo, and was waiting quietly for what was to come next. Her quick ear,however, caught, in the tones of John Petersham, an apologetic tonewhen speaking of her grandfather, and she was moved to instant anger.
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bsp; "Why do you speak like that of my grampa?" she said, rising to herfeet, and standing indignantly before him. "He is the best man in theworld, and the kindest and the nicest, and if you don't like him, I cango 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 youmay 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 hecan, for he has got nothing to love but me, poor grampa!"
And her eyes filled with sudden tears, as she thought of him trampingon his lonely walks over the hills.
"We do not mean to speak unkindly of your grandfather, my dear," thesquire said gently. "I have never seen him, you know, and John hasnever seen him but once. I have thought, all these years, bitterly ofhim; but perhaps I have been mistaken. He has ever been kind and goodto you, and, above all, he has given you back to me, and that will makeme think differently of him, in future. We all make mistakes, you know,and I have made terrible mistakes, and have been terribly punished forthem. I daresay I have made a mistake here; but whether or no, youshall never hear a word, from me, against the man who has been so kindto 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 youtold me; because somehow you are nearer to me than he is, though Idon'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 oftenas you like."
"Oh, thank you, grandpapa!" she exclaimed joyfully, and she held up herface 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 formy granddaughter, at once, and you had better bring the tea in here,and then we will think of other things. I feel quite bewildered, atpresent."
When John returned with the tea, Aggie was sitting on the squire'sknee. She was perfectly at home, now, and had been chattering to him ofher life with her grandfather, and had just related the incident of hernarrow escape from drowning.
"Do you hear that, John?" the squire said. "She was nearly drownedhere, within sight of our home, and I might never have known anythingabout it. It seems that lad of Dr. Walsham's saved her life. He is afine lad. He was her champion, you know, in that affair with my nephew.How strange that the two boys should have quarrelled over mygranddaughter!"
"Yes, squire, and young Walsham came well out of it!" John saidheartily; for to him, only, did the squire mention the circumstances ofthe case, and he chuckled now to himself, as he thought that RichardHorton had made an even greater mistake in that matter than he thoughtof, for John detested the boy with all his heart, and had onlyabstained from reporting his conduct, to the squire, from fear ofgiving 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, nowmy granddaughter will take his place."
"And a good thing, too!" John said heartily. "I have never said a wordbefore, squire, because, as you had chosen him as your heir, there wasno use in setting you against him; but a more hatefuller lad thanRichard Horton I never comed across, and so said everyone here. You didnot see much of him, squire, and natural thought well of him, for hewas a good-looking boy, and could speak fair enough when he liked. Ithought 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 seethat, although he can no longer be regarded as my heir here, he shallbe well provided for. But there will be plenty of time to think ofthis."
"Mr. Wilks asked me to say, sir," the butler said as he prepared toleave 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 thingsto 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? Hewill naturally be anxious to know how his grandchild is getting on.Tell him with what joy I have received her, and take any message shemay 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 isto come and see me when he likes, and that, of course, he is to see mewhen 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 theexcitements of the day, was taken off to bed. Her sleepiness, however,disappeared in her wonder at the size of the house, and at the vastnessof her bedroom.
"Why, you have got a fire!" she exclaimed in astonishment. "I never sawa fire in a bedroom, before."
"I didn't light it for the cold, miss," the housekeeper said; "butbecause it is a long time since the room was slept in before, andbecause I thought it would be cheerful for you. I shall sleep in thenext room, till things are settled, so that, if you want anything, youwill only have to run in."
"Thank you," Aggie said gratefully. "It does all seem so big; but I amsure 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 shelaughed 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 intothe study, where the squire was expecting him. The two men had had hardthoughts of each other, for many years. The squire regarded thesergeant as a man who had inveigled his son into marrying his daughter,while the sergeant regarded the squire as a heartless and unnaturalfather, who had left his son to die alone among strangers. Theconversation with John Petersham had taught the sergeant that he hadwronged the squire, by his estimate of him, and that he was to bepitied rather than blamed in the matter. The squire, on his part, wasgrateful 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 inwhich 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, forhaving restored my granddaughter to me--the more so as I know, fromwhat she has said, how great a sacrifice you must be making. John hasbeen telling me of his conversation with you, and you have learned,from him, that I was not so wholly heartless and unnatural a father asyou must have thought me; deeply as I blame myself, and shall alwaysblame myself, in the matter."
"Yes," the sergeant said. "I have learned that I have misread you. Hadit not been so, I should have brought the child to you long ago--shouldnever have taken her away, indeed. Perhaps we have both misjudged eachother."
"I fear that we have," the squire said, remembering the letters hewrote to his son, in his anger, denouncing the sergeant in violentlanguage.
"It does not matter, now," the sergeant went on quietly; "but, as I donot wish Aggie ever to come to think ill of me, in the future, it isbetter to set it right.
"When I left the army, I had saved enough money to furnish a house, andI took one at Southampton, and set up taking lodgers there. I had mypension, and lived well until my wife died--a year before your son camedown, from London, with another gentleman, and took my rooms. Mydaughter was seventeen when her mother
died, and she took to managingthe house. I was careful of her, and gave her orders that, on noaccount, 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; butI am not surprised that, when he did, he loved her, for there was noprettier or sweeter girl in Hampshire. They took the rooms, first, onlyfor a fortnight, then the other gentleman went away, and your sonstayed on.
"One day--it came upon me like a thunderbolt--your son told me hewanted to marry my Agnes. I was angry, at first. Angry, because it hadbeen done behind my back, and because I had been deceived. I said asmuch; but your son assured me that he had never spoken to her in thehouse, but had met her when she went out for her walks. Still, it waswrong, and I told him so, and I told her so, though, in my heart, I didnot 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 mypride as you had yours, and I told him, at once, that I would not givemy 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 meto change my decision; and from this, although he never said so, I wassure that you had refused to sanction his marriage. However, I stuck towhat I had said, though it was hard for me to do so, with my childgrowing thin and pale before my eyes, with all her bright happinessgone.
"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 beenmarried to him a week before, when she went out, as I thought, to spendthe day with a friend. She begged and prayed me to forgive her, andsaid how miserable she had been, and that she could not say no to herlover's pleadings.
"I wrote to the address she had given me, saying that she had well nighbroken my heart. She knew that I had only refused my consent because itwould have seemed a dishonourable action, to allow your son to marryher without your consent. She knew how hard it had been for me to do myduty, 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 Naturethat young women, when they once took to loving, should put theirfather altogether in the second place;
"It was hard to me to write that letter, for I longed to see her bonnyface again. But I thought it was my duty. I thought so then; but Ithink, now, it was pride.
"From time to time she wrote to me. I learned that you still refused tosee your son, and I gathered, though she did not say much of this, thatthings were going badly with them. At last, she wrote that her husbandwas ill--very ill, she feared. He had, in vain, tried to getemployment. I don't think he was naturally strong, and the anxiety hadbroken him down. Then I went up to London at once, and found them, in alittle 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 motherby the side of her father. No answer had come to the letters he hadwritten to you, while he had been ill, though in the later ones he hadtold 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 havecleared myself, I could not well have kept the house on, without awoman to look after it. I was restless, too, and longed to be movingabout. So I sold off the furniture, paid my debts, and laid by themoney that remained, for the child's use in the future.
"I had, some time before, met an old comrade travelling the countrywith a show. I happened to meet him again, just as I was leaving, andhe told me the name of a man, in London, who sold such things. I leftthe child, for a year, with some people I knew, a few miles out ofSouthampton; came up to London, bought a show, and started. It waslonely work, at first; but, after a year, I fetched the child away, andtook her round the country with me, and for four years had a happy timeof it.
"I had chosen this part of the country, and, after a time, I becameuneasy in my mind, as to whether I was doing right; and whether, forthe child's sake, I ought not to tell you that she was alive, and offerto give her up, if you were willing to take her. I heard how your son'sdeath had changed you, and thought that, maybe, you would like to takehis daughter; but, before bringing her to you, I thought she shouldhave a better education than I had time to give her, and that sheshould be placed with a lady, so that, if you took her, you need not beashamed of her manners.
"I hoped you would not take her. I wanted to keep her for myself; butmy duty to her was clear.
"And now, squire, you know all about it. I have been wrong to keep herso 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, myconscience is clear, that I did the best, as far as it seemed to me atthe time."