“Yours,—
“J. Jeffreys.”
Having relieved himself by writing it, he tore the note up, and tried to forget all about it.
But that was not quite so easy. Scarfe’s part in the drama he could not forget, but the question faced him, not for the first time. Had he any right to be here, trusted, and by some of the family even respected? Was he not sailing under false colours, and pretending to be something he was not?
True, he had been originally engaged as a librarian, a post in which character was accounted of less importance than scholarship and general proficiency. But he was more than a librarian now. Circumstances had made him the mentor and companion of a high-spirited, honest boy. Was it fair to Percy to keep a secret what would certainly shut the doors of Wildtree against him for ever? Was it fair to Mr Rimbolt to accept this new responsibility without a word? Was it fair to Raby, who would shrink from him with detestation, did she know the whole story?
Scarfe would have been amply satisfied had he been present to note the disquietude which ensued for some days after the arrival of his letter. Jeffreys felt uncomfortable in his intercourse with Mr Rimbolt; he avoided Raby, and even with Percy he was often unaccountably reserved and pensive.
“What are you in the blues about?” demanded that quick-sighted young gentleman on the first day out of doors after his illness. “Are you sorry I’m all serene again?”
“Rather,” said Jeffreys; “it’s not been a bad time.”
“No more it has; but I must say I don’t mind feeling my legs under me. I shall soon be ready for the top of Wild Pike again. But, I say, aren’t you well? I expect you’ve been knocking yourself up over me?”
“Not a bit of it; I’m as well as anything.” Percy, however, was not satisfied. He had a vague idea that young gentlemen in love were as a rule sickly, and by a simple process of reasoning he guessed that Jeffreys and Raby “had had a row.” He therefore took an early opportunity of mentioning the matter to his cousin, greatly to that young lady’s confusion.