“I come to you direct,” the baronet explained.  “I tell you candidly what way I discovered my son to be mixed up in this miserable affair.  I promise you indemnity for your loss, and an apology that shall, I trust, satisfy your feelings, assuring you that to tamper with witnesses is not the province of a Feverel.  All I ask of you in return is, not to press the prosecution.  At present it rests with you.  I am bound to do all that lies in my power for this imprisoned man.  How and wherefore my son was prompted to suggest, or assist in, such an act, I cannot explain, for I do not know.”

“Hum!” said the farmer.  “I think I do.”

“You know the cause?” Sir Austin stared.  “I beg you to confide it to me.”

“’Least, I can pretty nigh neighbour it with a gues,” said the farmer.  “We an’t good friends, Sir Austin, me and your son, just now—­not to say cordial.  I, ye see, Sir Austin, I’m a man as don’t like young gentlemen a-poachin’ on his grounds without his permission,—­in special when birds is plentiful on their own.  It appear he do like it.  Consequently I has to flick this whip—­as them fellers at the races:  All in this ’ere Ring’s mine! as much as to say; and who’s been hit, he’s had fair warnin’.  I’m sorry for’t, but that’s just the case.”

Sir Austin retired to communicate with his son, when he should find him.

Algernon’s interview passed off in ale and promises.  He also assured
Farmer Blaize that no Feverel could be affected by his proviso.

No less did Austin Wentworth.  The farmer was satisfied.

“Money’s safe, I know,” said he; “now for the ’pology!” and Farmer Blaize thrust his legs further out, and his head further back.

The farmer naturally reflected that the three separate visits had been conspired together.  Still the baronet’s frankness, and the baronet’s not having reserved himself for the third and final charge, puzzled him.  He was considering whether they were a deep, or a shallow lot, when young Richard was announced.

A pretty little girl with the roses of thirteen springs in her cheeks, and abundant beautiful bright tresses, tripped before the boy, and loitered shyly by the farmer’s arm-chair to steal a look at the handsome new-comer.  She was introduced to Richard as the farmer’s niece, Lucy Desborough, the daughter of a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, and, what was better, though the farmer did not pronounce it so loudly, a real good girl.

Neither the excellence of her character, nor her rank in life, tempted Richard to inspect the little lady.  He made an awkward bow, and sat down.

The farmer’s eyes twinkled.  “Her father,” he continued, “fought and fell for his coontry.  A man as fights for’s coontry’s a right to hould up his head—­ay! with any in the land.  Desb’roughs o’ Dorset! d’ye know that family, Master Feverel?”

Richard did not know them, and, by his air, did not desire to become acquainted with any offshoot of that family.