And repentant?
Not in the least. He lay there thinking fiercely, only troubled by the idea of what he would do as soon as he had made his plunge penniless into that dense black cloud—the future.
But there was no lifting of the black curtain. He could see his way to the office to bid Pringle good-bye. After that all was hidden.
At the end of a quarter of an hour he jumped up and began to dress, while Sam lay with his back to him fast asleep, or pretending.
It did not matter, for he did not want to speak to him; and after dressing, and duly noting that there was only a scratch or two, no swelling about his face, he went down with his bag of books to the breakfast-room, to read as usual for an hour before his uncle and aunt came down.
In the hall he encountered the cook, who had to “do” that part of the housework, and she rose from her knees to wish him so hearty a good-morning, that a lump rose in Tom’s throat, there was a dimness in his eyes, and his hand went out involuntarily for a silent good-bye.
To his surprise a pair of plump arms were flung round him, and he received two hearty kisses, and then there was a warm whisper in his ear—
“Don’t you mind a bit, my dear. You didn’t deserve it; and as for Mr Sam, he’s a beast.”
“Thank you, cook,” said Tom huskily, “thank you. Good-bye.”
“What! Oh no, it ain’t good-bye neither, my dear. They’d like me to go, and so I won’t. I’ll stop just to spite them, so there!”