Chapter Twenty Eight.
Good-Bye.
At last the morning dawned that was to be Fred’s last at Hollowdell Grange, and sadly and gloomily he had proceeded overnight to pack up his things in the box he had brought down with him, merely leaving out such articles as were required for immediate use. A month had slipped away so swiftly, that it seemed almost impossible that such a space could have elapsed since that hot, breathless day, when, so new and strange, he had met his cousins upon the platform, after asking Jem Barnes, the porter, to direct him to his uncle’s house. So strange, and so rough and countryfied everything had appeared; and so low, dejected, and tired had he felt when he first left the train; how he had wished himself back in town! And now, how different he felt; he was as low-spirited as when he first came down, but it was with the idea of going away. All those upon whom he had at first looked with distant eyes, now seemed so dear to him. There were his uncle and aunt; his cousins; there was Old Sam; Dusty Bob, the maids; Dick, the dog; and even the raven and parrot: he was mournful at parting with all of them, and would have given anything to have stayed, if only for another day. And now he stood in his little bedroom, looking around it, almost with tears in his eyes, as he slowly dressed himself, and placed the remainder of his things in his box.
He had just finished, and was sitting moodily upon the box-lid, when Harry and Philip entered the room, both looking as dull and miserable as himself.
“Oh! dear,” said Harry, “what a thing it is that holidays will go so jolly fast, and work-days so horribly slow! It ain’t fair. Don’t I wish that they were all to come over again; there’s lots of things we have not done yet, and lots of places where we ought to have gone.”
“When are you coming down again, Fred?” said Philip.
“I don’t know,” said Fred; “I don’t want to go away. I should like to see Papa and Mamma, but I’d rather they came down here. I shall never never like old bricks-and-mortary London again. It will be so smoky, and noisy, and nasty, and miserable. Oh! I do wish I could stop.”
“But you used to say that you could not think how people could live in the country, and would not believe that we could find plenty of fun down here,” said Harry.
Fred would not hear this last remark, but sat moodily upon his box till breakfast time; and his cousins stayed with him—Harry all the time cutting viciously at a bit of stick with his keen-edged knife, and strewing the bedroom carpet with chips. The sun shone brighter, the sky looked more blue, and the trees greener than ever; but the boys could not enjoy that glorious morning; there was no elasticity of spirit, no bounding out into the garden; no teasing of poor old Sam; no race round the cedar-field before breakfast, for Fred sat on his box, gloomy and out of heart, Philip sat with his legs stretched out and his hands in his pockets, and Harry sat and carved away at his stick, until he was obliged to get up,—which he did with a sigh,—and go down stairs to get a fresh piece of wood.
Just then the breakfast bell rang, and Mary walked along the passage with the hot cake and eggs; but no one ran against her, for the boys tidied slowly into the room, and took their places at the table in the most dejected way imaginable. Fred could not eat; Philip could not eat; Harry could; but he ate viciously, and in a tigerish manner, and smashed in the top of his egg as though it had been the head of the engine-driver who was to take Fred up to London; while as for coffee, he kept asking for cups until Mrs Inglis refused to give him any more, when the wretched boy consoled himself with another wedge of cake.