“Not quite, £6 13 shillings, 4 pence. Fancy my being better at mental arithmetic than you!”
“I haven’t got any money. I only get a pound a month and my board.”
“My dear boy, I congratulate you. Twelve pounds a year! Now, wasn’t it a pity you didn’t take that £5 note I offered you? Suppose you take it now!”
Mr Halgrove put his hand to his pocket and took out his purse.
“No!” exclaimed Jeffreys, in a tone that made Trimble, who was busy engaged in inspecting the architecture of the minster from behind a deep buttress close to the speaker, jump—“I’d sooner die!”
“Don’t do that, my dear fellow, don’t do that,” said Mr Halgrove, with a smile which belied the anger he felt at the refusal; “rather than that I’ll keep the money. I have no wish to commit a murder. It’s not in my line. That’s one point in which you and I differ, isn’t it?”
Jeffreys made as though he would spring upon him. What was it checked him? Was it the solemn minster—was it a dread of his guardian’s superior strength—was it fear of punishment? Or was it a momentary glimpse of a pale face in a moonlit room far away, which took the spirit out of him and made his arm drop at his side?
“Well, I won’t keep you,” said Mr Halgrove, who had also for a moment looked uneasy. “I dare say you are in a hurry like myself. The fact is, I am going a trip to America next week and have a good deal to attend to. That makes me doubly glad to have met you. Good-bye, my dear boy, good-bye. Come, Julius.”
Julius as he slunk off at his master’s heels, and heard the smothered oath which escaped Mr Halgrove’s lips as soon as he found himself alone, looked round wistfully and pitifully, and wished he were allowed to go where he pleased.
Jeffreys walked on like a man in a dream. For six months he had been working out what had been to him a penance, hoping to live down his bad name, even if he could never win a good.