“And we are to go?”
“Yes, at once. I want to go too, uncle, for I feel as if I could not breathe here. Don’t speak to me; don’t ask me anything till we get back, and then I’ll tell you all.”
“This is a strange business, Tom,” said Uncle Richard, “but it is his wish then. Well, we will go.”
That night Tom sat in his uncle’s study, and told of his interview with the sick man, while his hearer slowly turned his head more and more away, till the little narrative was at an end. Once, as he spoke, Tom heard the words muttered—
“A scoundrel! My own brother too.”
Then Uncle Richard was very silent, and his face was pale and strange, as he took the packet from his nephew’s hand.
“He must have been half mad, my boy,” he said huskily, “or he would not have done this thing. This must be our secret, Tom—a family secret, never mentioned for all our sakes. We’ll put the deeds in the old bureau to-morrow, and try and forget it all till the proper time comes. There, I’m better now. Glad too, very glad, Tom. First that he repented of the wrong-doing, and glad that you are so independent, my boy. It was always a puzzle to me that your poor mother should have left you so badly off. I said nothing, for I thought she must have foolishly frittered away what should have been yours.”
“I wish I had never known this, uncle,” said Tom bitterly.
“Why, my boy? it is best you should. I am glad your poor, foolish, weak uncle has tried to make amends. The next thing we shall hear will be that, with a load off his mind, he has grown better. Why, Tom, he must have come down here to be near you, and confess the truth. Well, good-night, boy. It has been a trying day—and night. Sleep on it and forget it; but first—”
He held the boy’s hand in his for a few moments, and his voice was very husky when he spoke again.