He sat now over by the table with his arms on a newspaper he was supposed to be reading. He felt as if he could control his voice better if he did not come too near.
For a little while they talked in their kind, sympathetic way of Eliza Spencer and her sick child, and then there was a breathing silence. All felt that something unusual was in the air. At last Miss Jane looked up from her knitting, and saw that Jack was not reading at all, but sitting with his eyes upon their faces, and a deeply troubled expression on his own.
“Is there anything wrong, dear?” she asked.
He cleared his throat, but the rising lump would not go, and he waited several moments before he answered. A pained look came into each little, wrinkled face. They knew then that something fresh was to come upon them.
“I’m afraid you’ll both be very upset,” he said at last, and again he had to pause.
“Go on, dear,” said Aunt Jane encouragingly, seeing what ah effort it was to him.
“I am going away,” he blurted out, almost like a schoolboy. “I am going to South America to earn my own living,” and then he buried his face on his arms, for he could not bear to see the distress come into their eyes.
“Going away!” He heard Miss Jane repeat it as if she could not believe her own ears; and then: “South America—going away—to South America—”
Each piece of knitting went down into each lap, and two wrinkled faces looked at each other as if they could not understand, and then turned slowly to the man’s bowed head—the fair head that it seemed only yesterday had nestled to their hearts in babyhood.
“He can’t mean it,” breathed little Miss Mary. “Indeed, sister, he can’t mean it—” There was a long silence, and then with tears coursing silently down her cheeks Miss Jane said very quietly: