“But how about your mother?”
Dick paused a few moments before answering.
“I should tell her as a secret, and she’d help me, and lend me things we should want. I don’t care to be at home now, with everybody looking at one as if there was something wrong.”
“I don’t think my father would let me go,” said Tom thoughtfully, “and I’m sure my mother wouldn’t; and I say, Dick, isn’t it all nonsense?”
“I don’t think it’s nonsense,” said Dick, who was taking a very morbid view of matters, consequent upon a mistaken notion of his father’s ideas and thoughts at that time, and matters were not improved by a conversation which ensued in the course of the next day.
Dick was in the garden with Tom, paying court to the gooseberry trees, for though fruit by no means abounded there, the garden always supplied a fair amount of the commoner kinds, consequent upon the shelter afforded from the north and bitter easterly sea-winds by the old buildings which intervened.
“Here, I want to talk to you two,” said the squire; and he led the way into the house, where Mrs Winthorpe was seated at work, and, probably by a preconcerted arrangement, to Dick’s great disgust she rose and left the room.
“Now,” said the squire, “I don’t like for there to be anything between us, Dick; and as for you, Tom Tallington, I should be sorry to think anything about you but that you were a frank, straightforward companion for my son.”
“I’m sure, sir—” blundered out Tom.
“Wait a minute, my lad. I have not done. Now, I’m going to ask you a plain question, both of you, and I want a frank, manly answer. But before I ask it, I’m going to say a few words.”