“To me!—to me!” said Linton, starting. “How could it be worth anything to me?”
“You know that best yourself,” said Tom, sulkily.
“I am neither the heir to his estates, nor one of his remote kindred. If I see a fine property going to ruin, and the tenantry treated like galley-slaves, I may, it is true, grieve over it; I may also perceive what a change—a total and happy change—a mere accident might work; for, after all, just think of the casualties that every day brings forth—”
“I have n't time for these thoughts now,” muttered Tom.
“Always to the point,—always thinking of the direct question!” said Linton, smiling.
“'T is n't yer honer's failin', anyhow,” said Tom, laughing sardonically.
“You shall not say that of me, Tom,” said Linton, affecting to relish the jocularity; “I'll be as prompt and ready as yourself. I'll wager you ten sovereigns in gold—there they are—that I can keep a secret as well as you can.”
As he spoke, he threw down the glittering pieces upon the step on which they sat.
The peasant's eyes were bent upon the money with a fierce and angry expression, less betokening desire than actual hate. As he looked at them, his cheek grew red, and then pale, and red once more; his broad chest rose and fell like a swelling wave, and his bony fingers clasped each other in a rigid grasp.
“There are twenty more where these came from,” said Linton, significantly.