It is hardly to be wondered at after this that poor Jeffreys felt the weight upon him heavier than ever. As long as he had known where Forrester was, and had the hope of hearing from time to time how he fared, he had been able to buoy himself up with the hope of some day making up to his victim for the injury he had inflicted; but when, suddenly, Forrester dropped hopelessly out of his life, the burden of his conscience grew intolerable.
He struggled hard, by devoting himself to his boys and by hard private study in his leisure hours, to drive the haunting memory away, but the effort succeeded only for a time. At night, as he lay in bed, unable to escape from himself, the vision of that pale face and that cry of terror hardly once left him till merciful sleep came to his rescue. And by day, when his small pupils vexed him, or the spiteful Jonah tempted him to revenge, the thought of Forrester cowed him into submission, and left him no choice but to endure what seemed to be his penance.
“Ma,” said Mrs Trimble’s hopeful, one afternoon after school had closed, “you’ve been nicely taken in over that Jeffreys, I can tell you.”
“What!” said the lady. “He doesn’t drink, does he?”
“Don’t know. But there’s something queer about him, and I mean to find it out. I’m not going to let it go on, I can tell you.”
“Why, what’s he been doing, Jonah?”
“Doing? You must go about with your eyes shut if you don’t see he’s been sulking ever since he came here. I tell you there’s something wrong.”
“Oh, don’t say that, Jonah.”
“You never took a character with him, did you?”
“No; he hadn’t been in a place before.”