Tom gazed at him in silence, but did not try to speak.
“He’s ordered you out of his house, my lad,” continued Dick. “Not pleasant between father and son. There, I ain’t going to abuse him,” he hastened to add, as Tom made a deprecating gesture; “but don’t you mind that,—you acted like a man, and your conscience will set you right. Now, good-bye, my lad; and mind this: if you ever want a hundred pounds, or two hundred, or five hundred pounds, you’ve only got to say so to your uncle, Richard Shingle, and there it is.”
“I thank you, sir,” said Tom sadly; “but I shall not ask. Good-bye!”
“Good-bye?”
“Yes. I shall go abroad, and we may never meet again. I cannot stay here now. Good-bye, aunt. Good-bye, Jessie,” he cried passionately.
But she did not hear him; for, as Tom hurried to the door, she sank, fainting, at her mother’s knee, while he passed out, closely followed by the last-comer on the scene.