East's quick eye saw at once that something had happened; and he had very soon heard the whole story; upon which he deliberated for some minutes, and rejoiced Tom's heart by saying: “Ah! all up with New Zealand, I see. I shall be introduced after all before we start. Come along; I must stand you a dinner on the strength of the good news, and we'll drink her health.”
Tom called twice that evening at Drysdale's lodgings, but he was out. The next morning he called again. Drysdale had gone to Hampton Court races, and had left no message. He left a note for him, but got no answer. It was trying work. Another day passed without any word from Drysdale, who seemed never to be at home; and no answer to either of his letters. On the third morning he heard from his father. It was just the answer which he had expected—as kind a letter as could be written. Mr. Brown had suspected how matters stood at one time, but had given up the idea in consequence of Tom's silence; which he regretted, as possibly things might have happened otherwise, had he known the state of the case. It was too late now, however; and the less said the better about what might have been. As to New Zealand, he should not oppose Tom's going, if, after some time, he continued in his present mind. It was very natural for him just now to wish to go. They would talk it over as soon as Tom came home, which Mr. Brown begged him to do at once, or, at any rate, as soon as he had seen his friend off. Home was the best place for him.
Tom sighed as he folded it up; the hopes of the last three days seemed to be fading away again. He spent another restless day; and by night had persuaded himself that Drysdale's mission had been a complete failure, and that he did not write and kept out of the way out of kindness for him.
“Why, Tom, old fellow, you look as down in the mouth as ever
to-night,” East said, when Tom opened the door for him about
midnight, on his return from his club; “cheer up; you may depend
it's all to go right.”
“But I haven't seen Drysdale again, and he hasn't written to
me.”
“There's nothing in that. He was glad enough to do you a good turn, I dare say, when it came in his way, but that sort of fellow never can keep anything up. He has been too much used to having his own way, and following his own fancies. Don't you lose heart because he won't put himself out for you.”
“Well, Harry, you are the best fellow, in the world. You would put a backbone into anyone.”
“Now, we'll just have a quiet cheroot, and then turn in; and see if you don't have good news to-morrow. How hot it is! The Strand to-night is as hot as the Punjaub, and the reek of it—phah! my throat is full of it still.”
East took off his coat, and was just throwing it on a chair, when he stopped, and, feeling in his pocket, said—
“Let's see, here's a note for you. The porter gave it to me as I knocked in.”
Tom took it carelessly, but the next moment was tearing it open with trembling fingers. “From my cousin,” he said. East watched him read, and saw the blood rush to his face, and the light come into his eyes.