“Phew?” replied, Mr Rowle, whistling; “well, p’raps it’s kindest to tell you, after all. Why, look here, young un, this place, with every stick in it, is going to be sold up—plate, linen, furniture, chayney, glass, and the house and all, and you’ll have to go to some of your friends, unless Mr Blakeford’s got his plans made for you.”
“Please, sir, I don’t think I’ve got any friends to go to,” I said; “I thought I was going to stay at home—at least, I hoped so,” I added despondently.
“It’s a rum go,” muttered Mr Rowle, as he raised his hat with one hand and re-arranged his hair with the stem of his pipe. “Ah, well, I s’pose I’ve no call to be putting things into your head, only I should like to see you not quite so innocent, and better able to look after yourself.”
Mr Rowle and I had many such conversations during the interval before the sale, in all of which he was so much troubled by what he called my innocence, that I began to look upon my ignorance of the world as something approaching a crime. I saw no more of Mr Blakeford or my uncle, and the days glided slowly by till just before the sale, when the servants came upon me one evening in the dining-room, to announce that they were going, and to say “good-bye.”
“Going?” I said; “what, all?”
“Yes,” said cook sharply, and I think there was a twinkle of moisture in her eyes; “yes, Master Antony, we’re all going, and we’ve come to say good-bye.”
I believe that cook would have taken me in her arms and hugged me in good motherly fashion, but for the third person. As it was, she shook hands very warmly and looked tenderly at me for a moment—not more—for her soul seemed to be aroused within her at the presence of Mr Rowle, at whom she darted the most furious of glances, an example followed by the other two maids; and then we were alone.
“Bless ’em!” said Mr Rowle, taking his pipe for a moment from his lips, and then going on smoking.