Mr. Robert Beaufort bowed slightly to Mrs. Morton, and said, with his pocket-handkerchief still before his eyes:
“I will write to you in a few days, ma’am; you will find that I shall not forget you. The cottage will be sold; but we sha’n’t hurry you. Good-bye, ma’am; good-bye, my boys;” and he patted his nephews on the head.
Philip winced aside, and scowled haughtily at his uncle, who muttered to himself, “That boy will come to no good!” Little Sidney put his hand into the rich man’s, and looked up, pleadingly, into his face. “Can’t you say something pleasant to poor mamma, Uncle Robert?”
Mr. Beaufort hemmed huskily, and entered the britska—it had been his brother’s: the lawyer followed, and they drove away.
A week after the funeral, Philip stole from the house into the conservatory, to gather some fruit for his mother; she had scarcely touched food since Beaufort’s death. She was worn to a shadow; her hair had turned grey. Now she had at last found tears, and she wept noiselessly but unceasingly.
The boy had plucked some grapes, and placed them carefully in his basket: he was about to select a nectarine that seemed riper than the rest, when his hand was roughly seized; and the gruff voice of John Green, the gardener, exclaimed:
“What are you about, Master Philip? you must not touch them ‘ere fruit!”
“How dare you, fellow!” cried the young gentleman, in a tone of equal astonishment and, wrath.
“None of your airs, Master Philip! What I means is, that some great folks are coming too look at the place tomorrow; and I won’t have my show of fruit spoiled by being pawed about by the like of you; so, that’s plain, Master Philip!”
The boy grew very pale, but remained silent. The gardener, delighted to retaliate the insolence he had received, continued: