Slowly and thoughtfully he made his way back to the “Bush,” and began to pack up the small portmanteau which had been sent from town.
Hurst Leigh was no place for him; every minute he remained in it seemed intolerable to him. He would go straight back to town by the next train.
Suddenly a thought struck him, and he paused in his task of packing the portmanteau, an operation which he reduced to its simplest by thrusting in anything that came first and jamming it down tight with his fist; he stopped and looked up with a red flush on his handsome face. Why shouldn’t he go to Warden Forest on his way back?
In a moment, the idea thrilled him with the delight of anticipation, the next, a shade came over his brow. Why shouldn’t he? Rather, why should he? What was the use of his going? If he had no business there before, he had less excuse now. He was next door to a beggar—and——
Realizing for the first time the blow that had been dealt him by the squire’s neglect, he continued at the jamming process, jumped and kicked at the portmanteau till it consented to be locked, and then went down to the bar and called for his bill.
There were several people hanging about—a funeral is a good excuse for a holiday in a country village—but Jack, in his abstraction, scarcely noticed the little group of men who sat and stood about, and merely nodded in response to the respectful and kindly greetings.
“But, Mr. Jack,” said Jobson, with a deeply respectful air of surprise, “you don’t think of going right away at once, sir?”
“Yes, I’m off, Jobson,” said Jack. “What’s the next train?”
“To London?” said a dry, thin voice behind him; and Jack turned and saw Mr. Hudsley’s clerk—old Skettle. “There’s no train to London till seven o’clock; there’s a train to Arkdale in an hour, but it stops there.”
“All right,” he said, “I’ll go to Arkdale; and, by the way, Jobson, I don’t want to be bothered with the portmanteau; send it on by rail to my address—Spider Court, the Temple, you know.”