“You had better get to your room, boy. Get to your bed,” said the Sergeant, not ungently laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’ll take cold. Give him a candle.”
CHAPTER LXIV.
THE MARCH BY NIGHT.
The next day the Sergeant was away in his gig to Wyvern, a long journey, to report to the Squire, and obtain leave of absence from his duties for a day or two. He was to spend that night at Hatherton, there to make arrangements about the funeral.
It was a relief to all at Noulton Farm, I need hardly say, when the master of the house was away.
A very sad day it was for the boy; a day whose gloom was every now and then crossed by the thrill and fear of a great excitement.
As evening darkened he went out again to the garden in the hope of seeing Tom Orange. He would have liked that cheer at the eve of his great venture. But Tom was not there. Neither counsel nor encouragement to be heard; nothing but the song of the small birds among the leaves, and the late flowers, soon to close, peeping from among the garden plants, and the long quiet shadows of the poplars that stood so tall and still against the western sky.
The boy came in and had his lonely cup of tea in the “parlour,” and a little talk with the somewhat sour and sad old servant. He was longing for the night. Yearning to see Tom’s friendly face and to end his suspense.
At last the twilight was gone. The night had indeed come, and the moon shone serenely over the old gray roof and the solemn trees; over the dead and the living.
The boy lay down in his bed at the accustomed early hour. The old woman had taken away his candle and shut the door. He lay with his eyes wide open listening with a palpitating heart for every sound.
The inflexible regularity which the absent master had established in his household was in the boy’s favour. He heard the servant shut and bar the outer door at the wonted hour. He saw the boy’s candle in his window for a while and then put out. Tony was in his bed, and for tired Tony to lie down was generally to be asleep.