“But you must not,” he resumed; “for this is a very good thing for me, and, of course, if no one can be found to take my inferior work, I can’t be spared to take the superior. I only wish I had received this letter a day sooner. Every hour is of consequence, for Greathed says they are threatening a rival line. Do you know, Paul, I almost fancy I must go up to-night? I can take an engine back to Eltham, and catch the night train. I should not like Greathed to think me luke-warm.”
“But you’ll come back?” I asked, distressed at the thought of this sudden parting.
“Oh, yes! At least I hope so. They may want me to go out by the next steamer, that will be on Saturday.” He began to eat and drink standing, but I think he was quite unconscious of the nature of either his food or his drink.
“I will go to-night. Activity and readiness go a long way in our profession. Remember that, my boy! I hope I shall come back, but if I don’t, be sure and recollect all the words of wisdom that have fallen from my lips. Now where’s the portmanteau? If I can gain half an hour for a gathering up of my things in Eltham, so much the better. I’m clear of debt anyhow; and what I owe for my lodgings you can pay for me out of my quarter’s salary, due November 4th.”
“Then you don’t think you will come back?” I said, despondingly.
“I will come back some time, never fear,” said he, kindly. “I may be back in a couple of days, having been found in-competent for the Canadian work; or I may not be wanted to go out so soon as I now anticipate. Anyhow you don’t suppose I am going to forget you, Paul this work out there ought not to take me above two years, and, perhaps, after that, we may be employed together again.” Perhaps! I had very little hope. The same kind of happy days never returns. However, I did all I could in helping him: clothes, papers, books, instruments; how we pushed and struggled—how I stuffed. All was done in a much shorter time than we had calculated upon, when I had run down to the sheds to order the engine. I was going to drive him to Eltham. We sate ready for a summons. Holdsworth took up the little nosegay that he had brought away from the Hope Farm, and had laid on the mantel-piece on first coming into the room. He smelt at it, and caressed it with his lips.
“What grieves me is that I did not know—that I have not said good-bye to—to them.”
He spoke in a grave tone, the shadow of the coming separation falling upon him at last.
“I will tell them,” said I. “I am sure they will be very sorry.” Then we were silent.
“I never liked any family so much.”