“Yes, Tom, you come after me; but not immediately.  I have so settled my affairs that your mother remains here and administers the estate until you are five and twenty—­that will be three years hence.  By that time the burdens will be cleared away—­and I fear you would never clear them off were you in power.  By that time it will be possible for you to come and live here (I trust a wiser and a better man), whilst the estate can bear the charge upon it of a sufficient income to be paid to your mother and sister to live in comfort at Little Gables, which has been willed absolutely to your mother and to Rachel after her.  At present the estate could not bear that drain—­unless only to get into fresh difficulties; but three more years will put things right.  During those three years, Tom, you will not be master of Gablehurst.  You will have no more power than you have had in my lifetime.  But I hope and trust you will be a dutiful son to your mother, and will cause her no heart-breaking anxieties, and oppose no vexatious obstacles to her management of the estate.”

It cannot be denied that Tom was taken aback at this.  He had naturally supposed that he would succeed to his father’s position as squire of Gablehurst without let or hindrance; and it was a decided blow to him to feel that he was still to occupy a subordinate position, squire only in name.  It was all very well when his father lived—­that was right and natural enough—­but to see his mother ruling, and himself submitting to her rule!—­that was a thing he had not bargained for.  He felt as though he would be the laughing-stock of all his friends.

The father saw the look upon his face, and it pained him.

“You do not like the arrangement, Tom; and yet I know it is the best which can be made.”

“Oh yes, in a way.  I see what you mean.  I don’t understand scraping and paring myself; yet, of course, it will be best to get the mortgage paid off once and for all.  I can see that well enough.  But I confess it will be poor fun living at Gablehurst as a little boy tied to his mother’s apron strings.  I would rather go away altogether, and see the world for myself.”

“Well, Tom,” answered the father in the same low, even tones, “your mother and I have sometimes asked ourselves seriously whether you might not do better away from home; whether it might not be the best thing we could do for you to sever you from your present companions, and see if you could not find better ones elsewhere.”

“I have no fault to find with my friends,” said Tom quickly.

“No, my son, I fear not.  But we have much to complain of.”

“I don’t see what!” cried young Tom rather hotly.

“That is the worst of it.  Did you see greater harm, our anxieties would be less.  But what are we to think of these cruel sports in which you indulge, these scenes of vice and drunkenness where you are constantly found?  Even the Sabbath is not sacred to you.  What is this story we hear of you—­that no girl may even go to church without paying ‘Tom Tufton’s toll’ at the lych gate?”