“They were sent me. Shall I burn them now or would you like to have them? We needn't say anything more about them.”
“Burn them by all means. I suppose a friend sent them to you?”
“I suppose so.” Hardy went on burning the papers in silence; and as Tom watched him, a sudden light seemed to break upon him.
“I say, Jack,” he said presently, “a little bird has been whispering something to me about that friend.” Hardy winched a little, and redoubled his diligence in burning the papers. Tom looked on smiling, and thinking how to go on, now that he had so unexpectedly turned the tables on his monitor, when the clock struck twelve.
“Hullo!” he said, getting up; “time for me to knock out, or old Copas will be in bed. To go back to where we started from to-night—as soon as East and Harry Winburn get back we shall have some jolly doings at Englebourn. There'll be a wedding, I hope, and you'll come over and do parson for us, won't you?”
“You mean for Patty? Of course I will.”
“The little bird whispered to me that you wouldn't dislike visiting that part of the old county. Good night, Jack. I wish you success, old fellow, with all my heart, and I hope after all that you may leave St. Ambrose's within the year.”
CHAPTER XLVI—FROM INDIA TO ENGLEBOURN
If a knowledge of contemporary history must be reckoned as an important element in the civilization of any people, then I am afraid that the good folk of Englebourn must have been content, in the days of our story, with a very low place on the ladder. How, indeed, was knowledge to percolate, so as to reach down to the foundations of Englebournian society—the stratum on which all others rest—the common agricultural labourer, producer of corn and other grain, the careful and stolid nurse and guardian of youthful oxen, sheep and pigs, many of them far better fed and housed than his own children? All-penetrating as she is, one cannot help wondering that she did not give up Englebourn altogether as a hopeless job.