She finished her breakfast and went off there and then, catching Jacob just as he was turning out of the white gate at North Villa to mount his gig: for he still came over to Crabb to sleep. The newspaper was in her hand, and she pointed to the advertisement.
“What does it mean, Jacob?” she asked, just as she had a few minutes before asked of Tom.
“Mean!” said Jacob. “It can’t have more than one meaning, can it? I’ve thought it best to let Val’s name appear in the practice, and made over to him a small share of the profits. Very small, Betsy. He won’t draw much more than he has been drawing as salary.”
“But what of Tom?” questioned poor Mrs. Chandler.
“Of Tom? Well, what of him?”
“When is he to be taken in?”
“Oh, there’s time enough for that. I can’t make two moves at once; it could not be expected of me, Betsy. My son is my son, and he had to come in first.”
“But—Jacob—don’t you think you ought to carry out the agreement made with Tom’s father—that you are bound in honour?” debated Mrs. Chandler, in her meek and non-insisting way.
“Time enough, Betsy. We shall see. And look there, my horse won’t stand: he’s always fresh in the morning.”
Shaking her hand hastily, he stepped up, took the reins from the man, and was off in a trice, bowling along at a quicker pace than usual. The poor woman, left standing there and feeling half-bewildered, saw Mrs. Jacob at one of the open windows, and crossed the lawn to speak.