“I suppose I should go in and talk to him,” he said, and he did. He found the squire alone.
The vicar had gone home with his wife, and there was no one in the dining-room but the desolate old man.
John tried to talk to him, but he found it very difficult. When two lives have run in completely different grooves, the conversation is apt to be strained. The squire had always lived in the country, John Temple always in towns. They spoke a little on politics, and John easily perceived his uncle’s opinions were opposed to his own. But he did not intrude this on his attention, and it was a subject at least to converse on.
They parted on friendly terms for the night, and the next morning the squire called his nephew into the library, and spoke to him seriously of his change of position.
“It is only right that you should have an allowance out of the estates now, John,” he said, “when you will probably so soon inherit them.”
“Please do not speak of such a thing,” answered John, with an earnest ring in his voice which pleased the squire.
“I must both speak of it and think of it,” he said. “My poor boy’s death has been a great shock to me, and shocks at my age are not easily thrown off. I wish to feel to you, and treat you now as my heir, and I wish you to be quite open to me as regards your affairs. Like most young men I suppose you have debts?”
“No,” smiled John, “I have none.”
“I am glad to hear it,” answered the squire, “though I was quite prepared to pay them if you had. I also propose to allow you one thousand a year out of the property, and I hope you will look on this house in the future as your home.”
“You are most kind and generous, uncle.”