take his chance as to where he would next lay his head.
“I shall be free,” he muttered half aloud; “now I am like a slave.”
It was time to act. Not that he meant to leave the house that night. No; his mind was made up. He would pack a few things in the little black bag in which he took his law-books to and fro, place it ready in the hall as usual, and go in to his breakfast; and when he started for the office, just call in and say good-bye to Pringle, who would not hinder him. On the contrary, he would be sure to give him advice, and perhaps help him as to his future.
“Poor old Pringle won’t say stay,” he muttered; and reaching out of bed, he felt in his trousers pocket on the chair for a halfpenny. He could not spare it, but it was the only missile he could think of then, and he held it poised ready to throw as he listened to his cousin’s heavy breathing.
He threw the coin forcibly, so that it struck the wall just above Sam’s head, and fell upon his face.
There was no movement, and the heavy, guttural breathing went on.
Tom waited a few minutes, and then slipped out of bed, crossed to his cousin’s side, and gave the iron bedstead a slight shake, then a hard one. Next he touched his shoulder, and finished by laying a cold hand upon his hot brow.
But the result was always the same—the heavy, hoarse breathing.
Satisfied that he might do anything without arousing his cousin, he returned to his own bed, slipped on his trousers, and sat down to think.
There was the bag of books on the top of his little chest of drawers, and he had only to take them out, lay them down, and after carefully pulling out the drawer, pack the bag full of linen, and add an extra suit. It would be a tight cram, but he would want the things, and they would prove very useful.
But there was a hitch here. All these things were new, his old were worn-out, and his uncle had paid for all these in spite of his aunt’s suggestion, that there were a good many of Sam’s old things that might be altered to fit.
He stumbled over this. They were not his; and at last, in a spirit of proud independence, he ignored his own services to his uncle, and stubbornly determined that he would take nothing but the clothes in which he stood.
“And some day I’ll send the money to pay for them,” he said proudly, half aloud.
“Gug—gug—gug—ghur-r-r-r,” came from his cousin’s bed as if in derision.
But Tom’s mind was made up, and undressing once more he lay down to think, but did not, for, quite satisfied now as to his plans, no sooner had his head touched the pillow than, utterly wearied out, he dropped asleep.
It seemed to him that he had only just closed his eyes, when, in a dreamy way, he heard the customary tapping at his door, followed by a growl from Sam, bidding Mary not make “that row.”
Then Tom was wide-awake, thinking of his over-night plans.
And repentant?
Not in the least. He lay there thinking fiercely, only troubled by the idea of what he would do as soon as he had made his plunge penniless into that dense black cloud—the future.
But there was no lifting of the black curtain. He could see his way to the office to bid Pringle good-bye. After that all was hidden.
At the end of a quarter of an hour he jumped up and began to dress, while Sam lay with his back to him fast asleep, or pretending.
It did not matter, for he did not want to speak to him; and after dressing, and duly noting that there was only a scratch or two, no swelling about his face, he went down with his bag of books to the breakfast-room, to read as usual for an hour before his uncle and aunt came down.
In the hall he encountered the cook, who had to “do” that part of the housework, and she rose from her knees to wish him so hearty a good-morning, that a lump rose in Tom’s throat, there was a dimness in his eyes, and his hand went out involuntarily for a silent good-bye.
To his surprise a pair of plump arms were flung round him, and he received two hearty kisses, and then there was a warm whisper in his ear—
“Don’t you mind a bit, my dear. You didn’t deserve it; and as for Mr. Sam, he’s a beast.”
“Thank you, cook,” said Tom huskily, “thank you. Good-bye.”
“What! Oh no, it ain’t good-bye neither, my dear. They’d like me to go, and so I won’t. I’ll stop just to spite them, so there!”
Cook went off to seize a door-mat, carry it out on the front steps, and then and there she banged it down, and began to thump it with the head of the long broom, as if in imagination she had Sam beneath her feet.
“She didn’t understand me,” said Tom to himself, as he hurried into the breakfast-room, feeling that after all it would be very painful to go, but not shaken in his determination.
“Morning, Mr. Tom,” said Mary, who looked bright and cheerful in her clean print dress, as she made pleasant morning music by rattling the silver spoons into the china saucers. “Ain’t it a nice morning? The sun’s quite hot.”
“Yes, a beautiful morning,” said Tom sadly, as he gave the girl a wistful look, before going into a corner, sitting down and opening Tidd’s Practice for what his cousin called a grind.
Then with a sigh he went on reading, giving quite a start when Mary had finished her preparations for breakfast, and came to whisper—
“Cook ain’t going, sir; she says she wouldn’t go and leave you here alone for nothing, and I won’t neither.”
Tom felt as if he could not speak, and he had no need to, for the maid slipped out of the room, and the next minute Uncle Richard entered to nod to him gravely.
“Morning, my lad,” he said rather sternly. “That’s right—never waste time.”
How cold and repellent he seemed: so different to his manner upon the previous night, when the boy had felt drawn towards him. The effect was to make Tom feel more disposed than ever to carry out his plan, and he was longing for the breakfast to be over, so that he could make his start for the office.
But it wanted half-an-hour yet, and the boy had just plunged more deeply into his book, when Uncle Richard said—
“And so you don’t like the law, Tom?”
The boy started, for there was a different ring in the voice now. It sounded as if it were inviting his confidence, and he was about to speak, when his elder went on—
“To be sure, yes; you told me so last time I saw you.”
“I have tried, sir, very hard,” said Tom apologetically; “but it seems as if my brains are not of the right shape to understand it.”
“Humph, perhaps not,” said his uncle, gazing at him searchingly; and Tom coloured visibly, for it seemed to him that those penetrating eyes must be reading the secret he was keeping. “And you don’t like your cousin Sam either?”
Tom
