Three Months After.
“Why did you come, Humphrey? Why did you hunt me out?” cried Richard, in answer to a speech made by the broad-shouldered West-country-man, who had been ushered in by Mrs Fiddison.
“Because I wanted to see you, Master Dick. I’ve written, and you won’t answer; so I got Mr Pratt there to tell me where you were, and here I am.”
Richard stood frowning for a few moments; but there was something so bright and frank in the face before him that a sunshiny look came in his own, and he shook hands heartily.
“Come, sir, that does one good,” cried Humphrey. “I am glad I’ve come.”
“Well, I am glad to see you, Humphrey; but yet—”
“I know, sir—I know,” said Humphrey. “I could tell you exactly what you feel—a bit of envy-like; but there, bless your heart, if it wasn’t for Polly and the thoughts of her, I should be a miserable man.”
“Well, you’ve got plenty to make you miserable,” said Richard.
“Ah, you may smile, sir—I know what you mean; but I have, all the same. I tell you, I was a deal happier man without the estate than I am with it. Old Lloyd and Mrs Lloyd—begging your pardon for speaking so of them—look sneering-like at me; so do the quality; hang them, they’re civil enough, but I can see them sneer. They look down on me, of course. I’m not one of their sort. I’m ignorant, and can’t talk to them. I get on well enough with the young fellows, shooting, and so on; but I always feel as if I ought to load their guns, and I can’t help saying ‘sir’ to every one of them.”