The reader will easily guess what must have been the young squire's feelings as he heard the whole of this tale. Several times did he endeavour to make his escape, under the plea that he was in great pain from his face, and once or twice he pretended to faint away; but his father, who, though proud and irreligious, was just, determined that he should remain until the whole matter was searched out.
When Jim Meyers' story was ended, the squire bade him go into the servants' hall, and his father also, while old Dobbin was sent for; and as to James, his son, he told him to go up to his bed-room, and not come down until he was called.
Poor old Leonard Dobbin was just as much frightened as Jim Meyers and his father had been, at the summons to attend the squire. He had a clear conscience, however; he felt that he had not wronged the squire in anything; and so, washing himself and putting on his best Sunday clothes, he made his way to the Hall as quickly as he could.
"Leonard Dobbin," said the squire, "I charge you, upon pain of my worst displeasure, to tell me all you know about this story of your late son's moss-rose tree. You need not be afraid to tell me all; your only cause for fear will be the holding back from me anything connected with the matter."
Leonard went through the whole story just as Jim Meyers had done; only he added many little matters which made the young squire's conduct appear even in a still worse light than it had already done. He was able to add all about his poor crippled boy's forgiveness of the one who had wronged him, and how he had himself wheeled the rose tree up to the squire's door, and how it was now to be found in the young squire's garden. "And if I may make so bold as to speak," continued old Leonard, "nothing but true religion, and the love of Christ, and the power of God's Spirit in the heart, will ever make us heartily forgive our enemies, and not only forgive them, but render to them good for evil."
When Leonard Dobbin arrived James Courtenay had been sent for, and had been obliged with crimsoned cheeks to listen to this story of the poor crippled boy's feelings; and now he would have given all the roses in the world, if they were his, to restore poor Jacob to life, or never to have meddled with his flower; but what had been done could not be undone, and no one could awake the poor boy from his long cold sleep in the silent grave.
"Leonard Dobbin," said the squire, after he had sat for some time moodily, with his face buried in his hands, "this is the worst blow I have ever had in life. I would give £10,000 hard money, down on that table, this very moment, that my boy had never touched your boy's rose. But what is done cannot be undone; go home, and when I've thought upon this matter I'll see you again."
"Meyers," said the squire, turning to the other tenant, "I was hasty in saying a little while ago that I'd turn you out of your farm next Michaelmas; you need have no fear about the matter; instead of turning you out, I'll give you a lease of it. I hope you won't talk more than can be helped about this terrible business. Now go."
The two men stood talking together for a while at the lodge before they left the grounds of the great house; and old Leonard could not help wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his rough coat, as he said to Meyers, "Ah, neighbour, 'tis sore work having a child without the fear of God before his eyes. I'd rather be the father of poor Jacob in his grave, than of the young squire up yonder at the Hall."