“No lovemaking, you know, Bristow,” whispered the old man, with a dig in the ribs, as they entered the dining-room.
“You may trust me, sir,” said Tom.
“I’m not so sure on that score. We are none of us saints when a pretty girl is in question.”
Tom did not fail to keep the Squire alive during dinner. To the old man his fund of news seemed inexhaustible. In reality, his resources in that line were never put to the test. Three or four skilfully introduced topics sufficed. The Squire’s own long-winded remarks, unknown to himself, filled up three-fourths of the time. Then Tom made a splendid listener. His attention never flagged. He was always ready with his “I quite agree with you, sir;” or his “Just so, sir;” or his “Those are my sentiments exactly, sir.” To be able to talk for half an hour at a time to an appreciative listener on some topic that interested him strongly was a treat that the Squire thoroughly enjoyed.
After the cloth was drawn he decided that instead of remaining by himself for half an hour, he would go with the young people to the drawing-room. He could have his snooze just as well there as in the dining-room, and he flattered himself that his presence, even though he might be asleep, would be a sufficient safeguard against any of that illicit lovemaking respecting which Bristow had been duly cautioned.
As a still further precaution, he nudged Tom again, as they went into the drawing-room, and whispered, “None of your tomfoolery, remember.” Five minutes later he was fast asleep.
They could not play, or sing, or talk much, while the Squire slept, so they fell back upon chess. “There’s to be no lovemaking, you know, Jenny,” whispered Tom, across the table, with a twinkle in his eye.
“None, whatever,” whispered Jane back, with a little shake of the head, and a demure smile.
A mutual understanding having thus been come to, there was no need for any further conversation, except about the incidents of the game, which, truth to tell, was very badly played on both sides. In place of studying the board, as a chess-player ought to do, Jane found her eyes, quite unconsciously to herself, studying the face of her opponent, while Tom’s hand, wandering purposelessly about the board, frequently found itself taking hold of Jane’s hand instead of a knight or a pawn; so that when at last the game did contrive to work itself out to an ineffective conclusion, they could hardly have said with certainty which one of them had checkmated the other. The Squire woke up, smiling and well-pleased. He had not heard them talking to each other, and there could be no harm in their playing a simple game of chess. If he were content, they had no reason to be otherwise.
After this the Squire would insist on having Tom up at Pincote, as often as the latter could possibly contrive to be there. In spite of himself the old man’s heart warmed imperceptibly towards him, and when it so happened that business took Tom away from home for two or three days, then the Squire grew so fretful and peevish that all Jane’s tact and good temper were needed to make life at all endurable. She tried her best to persuade him to invite some of his old friends to come and see him, or go himself and call up on some of them, but in vain. Bristow he wanted, and no one but Bristow would he have. He looked upon himself as a ruined man, as a man whom it behoved to economize in every possible way. To keep company costs money: Tom Bristow was a sensible fellow, with whom it was not necessary to stand on ceremony, or be at any extra expense—a man who was content with a chop and a rice pudding, and a glass of St. Julien. “He doesn’t come here for what he gets to eat and drink. I like his society, and he likes mine. He finds that he can learn a good many things from me, and he’s not above learning.”