“What does it mean, ma’am?” he said, his face quite bright with happiness; “why, it means that my prayer’s been answered, and that I’m going to hear of my wife again, after all these years.”
“Tom, my good fellow,” I said, “I’m sure I hope it is so, and I don’t want to dispirit you, but don’t build on it too much, for fear it should be something else. It might be—well, it might be to tell you——”
I hesitated to say what was in my mind.
“To tell me she’s dead! No, ma’am, it ain’t that, I’m sure of it. It’s to tell me she’s alive and cured, and ready for the home as I’ve been saving up to give her all these years.”
He was so sure, that I didn’t argue with him any more, but I asked him what he was going to do, and he said, “Write to the address at once.”
I got him a sheet of paper and an envelope, and I helped him to compose the letter, for I was quite anxious to know the result. It was only to say that Tom Dexter was at the ‘Stretford Arms’ Hotel.
I told Tom to go and post the letter himself, and he did; and all that evening and the next day we were quite excited. I don’t know which was the worst, Tom or me. I could see what a state of mind he was in, though he didn’t show it so much outwardly. For the first time he made a mistake with the luggage, and in the morning he got wrong with the boots, having actually taken them from the doors without chalking the numbers on, and a nice state of confusion it was, for our hotel happened to be quite full at the time, there being a grand ball at a mansion in the neighbourhood the night before, and we having had to put up some of the guests, and that, with our other visitors had filled us quite up.
But I forgave him, though mixing the boots is a dreadful thing in an hotel, and has been done sometimes as a trick in a big hotel by young fellows for a lark, and all the bells have been ringing in the morning, and gentlemen swearing, wanting to catch trains, and everybody having the wrong boots.
Tom was awfully sorry, and couldn’t think how he could have been so foolish, but I knew; and between us we got the boots right, being able to guess fairly well, some being patents and some lace-ups and heavies, and you can generally tell the patent-leather customers from the others by their general appearance.
All that day I was on tenter-hooks, and I wasn’t right till the next morning, and when the post came in there was a letter for “Mr. Dexter.” I took it to Tom myself, and my heart almost stood still while he opened it.