‘I have misjudged him,’ said the Squire. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Yes, sir, he lies sick at Thymebury.’
‘You can take me to him?’
‘I can.’
‘I pray God he may forgive me,’ said the father.
And he and the Editor made post-haste for the country town.
Next day the report went abroad that Mr. Richard was reconciled to his father and had been taken home to Naseby House. He was still ailing, it was said, and the Squire nursed him like the proverbial woman. Rumour, in this instance, did no more than justice to the truth; and over the sickbed many confidences were exchanged, and clouds that had been growing for years passed away in a few hours, and as fond mankind loves to hope, for ever. Many long talks had been fruitless in external action, though fruitful for the understanding of the pair; but at last, one showery Tuesday, the Squire might have been observed upon his way to the cottage in the lane.
The old gentleman had arranged his features with a view to self-command, rather than external cheerfulness; and he entered the cottage on his visit of conciliation with the bearing of a clergyman come to announce a death.
The Admiral and his daughter were both within, and both looked upon their visitor with more surprise than favour.
‘Sir,’ said he to Van Tromp, ‘I am told I have done you much injustice.’