“What did you do that for?” he at last demanded, almost fiercely, but with lips that trembled in spite of himself.
“To comfort an aged, anxious mother, and give a sick fellow a chance to see a familiar face. You would surely like to see your mother, Tom?”
“Yes; but it will be a little hard on the old lady when she finds we’ll have to part again so soon,” he said, with a stony look in his eyes.
“Don’t think of that now,” Earle said, kindly. “Is there anything more you would like me to add to the letter?”
Tom shook his head, and, picking up the letter and the note, tried to replace them in the envelope, but his hand shook so that he could not do it.
Earle gently took them from him, folded and sealed the letter, and went out, leaving him alone.
A groan burst from the huge chest of the once hardened wretch as the door closed after him, and burying his head in his pillow, he lay a long time without moving.
The next morning he seemed very silent and much depressed. It was a fine day, and Earle took him for a drive in the beautiful park around Wycliffe.
He did not talk much, but appeared lost in thought, until the horses’ heads were turned toward home; then he astonished Earle by seizing his hand and bursting out:
“Sir, can you believe a wretch like me has any heart left? I didn’t think it myself, but you’ve got down to it at last. I’ll plead guilty—though once I thought that ten thousand devils couldn’t drive me to it; but you’ve broke me down completely; I can never hold up my head again, and I deserve the very worst they can give me I’d like it over with and settled as soon as possible after she has been here. She’ll not stay long, probably. I’m well enough not to be a burden here any longer, and I’d feel easier in my mind to know just what is before me.”