When, on his return to Pincote, Tom was ushered into the Squire’s room, he found the old man, to all appearance, very much better in health than when he had left him. Mental anxiety had gone a long way towards curing, for the time being, the physical ills from which he had been suffering. He held out his hand, and gave a long, searching look into Tom’s face.
“All gone?” he whispered.
“Yes—all gone,” answered Tom.
He gripped Tom’s hand very hard. “I did not think it was quite so bad as that,” he said. “Not quite. My poor Jenny! My poor little girl! What is to become of her after I’m gone? And Bird, too! The confidence I had in that villain!” He sighed deeply, dropped Tom’s hand, and shut his eyes for a few moments, as if in pain.
“You will stay to dinner,” he said, presently.
“If you will excuse me to-day——” began Tom.
“But I won’t excuse you, sir. Why on earth should I?” he answered, with a flash of his old irritability. “The old house is not good enough for you, I suppose, now you know it holds nothing but paupers.”
“Thank you, sir: I will stay to dinner,” said Tom, quietly.
“It will be a charity to Jenny, too,” added the Squire. “She’s been moped up indoors, without a soul to speak to, for I don’t know how long. And it’s more than a month since she heard from young Cope—his letters must have miscarried, you know—and I’m afraid that’s preying on her mind; and so you had better keep her company to-day.”
Tom needed no further pressing, we may be sure. He smiled grimly to himself at the idea of Edward Cope’s long silence being a matter of distress to Jane. He rose to go.