It seemed strange, indeed, to him, as he drove through the little
town, on his way up to the Hall. He had left it, in the beginning of
1755, a raw young fellow of eighteen. He returned, in the last month of
1759, a man of twenty-three, with the rank of major, and no
inconsiderable share of credit and honour.
He stopped the vehicle at the lodge gate, had his baggage taken out
there, and proceeded on foot towards the Hall, for he was afraid that,
if he drove straight up to the door, the sudden delight of seeing him
would be too much for his mother.
John Petersham opened the door, and, recognizing him at once, was about
to exclaim loudly, when James made a motion for him to be silent.
"Show me quietly into the squire's study, John," he said, grasping the
butler's hand with a hearty squeeze, "and don't say anything about my
being here, until he has seen my mother. They are all well, I hope?"
"All well, sir, and right glad they will be to see you; for Mrs.
Walsham, and all of them, have been fretting sorely since the news came
that you were badly wounded."
"I have had a narrow shave of it," James said; "but, thank God, I am as
well now as ever!"
As he spoke, he opened the door of the study, and entered.
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