“It isn’t the way with Harry,” she said. “He knows too well how lonely I am without him, and how much I depend upon hearing from him.”
“Perhaps he has written, and the letter has miscarried. Letters often do. I have it happen frequently.”
“It may be,” said Mrs. Raymond, with momentary relief. “I wish I was sure of it. He is my only boy, Squire Turner. If anything should happen to him, it would break my heart.”
Knowing full well the wicked plot he had contrived against this poor woman’s peace and happiness, Squire Turner felt a momentary thrill of compunction at what he had done. But his innate selfishness soon conquered this feeling. He had too many reasons for wishing Harry away, to sympathize with his mother.
“Very likely you’ll get a letter to-night,” he said.
“If not, I shall go to the city to-morrow morning,” said Mrs. Raymond. “I am afraid something has happened to Harry.”
Here was a chance for Squire Turner to make what would be regarded as a friendly offer.
“Mrs. Raymond,” he said, “it will be quite an undertaking for you to go to the city, not to mention the expense, which will, of course, be a consideration with you. I was thinking of going there myself one day next week, but as you are feeling anxious about Harry, I will change my plans, and go to-morrow. I will hunt up your son, and bring you home full particulars about him. I don’t think, however, you need to feel anxious.”
“O Squire Turner, will you, indeed?” said the poor woman, gratefully. “You are very kind, and I shall feel it as a great favor.”