Jim was aghast, and hastily changed the subject. “Now about the old clothes,” he began.
Mr. Glenning coloured, slightly. “What an absurd error for me to have made,” he said. “Now, tell me, what is it you wish me to do?”
“I’m going back to London to-day,” Jim explained, “and I want you, while I am away, to go through all my uncle’s things, and give away to the poor everything you think I shall not want. Just use your own judgment.”
“It will be a melancholy duty,” he replied.
“I’m sure it will,” the new Squire answered, “but, I tell you frankly, anything useless I find here when I return I shall burn.”
The vicar raised his hands; the doctor sniffed; and Miss Proudfoote looked at the stranger indignantly.
“That is rather hasty, is it not?” she asked, tremulously.
Jim felt awkward. He had made a bad impression, and he knew it. “You see,” he tried to explain, “my uncle died so suddenly and the place is littered with his things. All I want to keep is the furniture, and the silver, and the books, and that sort of thing, but I will see to that myself.”
Miss Proudfoote turned away suddenly and Jim, to his horror, saw her raise a handkerchief to her eyes. He could have kicked himself. He wished the floor would open and engulf him. He looked in despair at the two men.
“You know I haven’t seen my uncle since I was a boy,” he stammered. “I am a complete stranger.”