Tom was silent, but felt as if he could have said a great deal, and had the satisfaction of feeling that the gap between him and his cousin was growing wider and wider.
“I suppose he is a far superior fellow to what I am,” the boy said to himself; “and perhaps it’s my vanity, but I don’t want to change.”
It was the dreariest Sunday he had ever passed, but he rose the next morning in the highest spirits, for Sam’s father had told him to get off back to town directly after breakfast.
“If Uncle James would only get better and go too,” he said to himself as he dressed, “how much pleasanter it would be!”
But Uncle James came down to breakfast moaning at every step, and murmuring at having to leave his bed so soon. For he had been compelled to rise on account of two or three business matters with which he wished to charge his son; and he told every one in turn that he was very much worse, and that he was sure Furzebrough did not agree with him; but he ate, as Tom observed, a very hearty breakfast all the same.
David had had his own, and had started off at six o’clock to fetch the fly, which arrived in good time, to take Sam off to meet the fast up-train, Tom thinking to himself that it would not have been much hardship to walk across the fields on such a glorious morning.
“Going to see your cousin off?” said Uncle Richard, just as breakfast was over. “You wouldn’t mind the walk back, Tom?”
“Oh no, uncle,” said the boy, who felt startled that such a remark should be made when he was thinking about the walk.
But Tom was not destined to go across to the station, for Uncle James interposed.
“No, no, don’t send him away,” he said. “I have not had an airing in my bath-chair for two days, and I fancy that is why I feel so exhausted this morning.”