‘He is gone,’ said Charlotte; ’he was here yesterday to take leave of missus.  Mr. James goes later—­’

‘Gone!’ cried Tom.  ’If he didn’t say he’d come and see me at Mr. Smith’s!’

‘Did you want to speak to him?’

’I wanted to see him particular.  There’s a thing lays heavy on my mind.  You see that place down in Ferny dell—­there’s a steep bank down to the water.  Well, my young Lord was very keen about building a kind of steps there in the summer, and he and I settled the stones, and I was to cement ’em.  By comes Mr. Frost, and finds faults, what I thought he’d no call to; so I flings down my trowel, and wouldn’t go on for he!  I was so mortal angry, I would not go back to the work; and I believe my Lord forgot it—­and then he went back to college; and Frampton and Gervas, they put on me, and you know how ’twas I come away from Ormersfield.  I was not going to say a word to one of that lot! but if I could see Lord Fitzjocelyn, I’d tell him they stones arn’t fixed; and if the frost gets into ’em, there’ll be a pretty go next time there’s a tolerablish weight!  But there—­it is his own look-out!  If he never thought it worth his while to keep his promise, and come and see me—­’

’O Tom! that isn’t right!  He only forgot—­I hear Mrs. Beckett telling him he’d forget his own head if it wasn’t fixed on, and Mr. James is always at him.’

’Forget!  Aye, there’s nothing gentlefolks forget like poor folks.  But I’ve done with he!  Let him look out—­I kept my promises to him long enough, but if he don’t keep his’n—­’

‘For shame, for shame, Tom!  You don’t mean it!’ cried Charlotte.  ‘But, oh!’ with a different tone, ’give me the mat!  There’s the old Lord and Mr. Poynings riding down the terrace!’

‘I ain’t ashamed of nothing!’ said the lad, proudly; and as Charlotte snatched away the mats, and vanished like a frightened hare, he stalked along like a village Hampden, muttering, ’The old tyrant shall see whether I’m to be trampled on!’ and with both hands in his pockets, he gazed straight up into the face of the grave elderly gentleman, who never even perceived him.  He could merely bandy glances with Poynings, the groom, and he was so far from indifferent that he significantly lifted up the end of his whip.  Nothing could more have gratified Tom, who retorted with a grimace and murmur, ’Don’t you wish you may catch me?  You jealous syc—­what is the word, sick of uncles or aunts, was it, that the orator called ’em?  He’d say I’d a good miss of being one of that sort, and that my young Lord there opened my eyes in time.  No better than the rest of ’em—­’

And the clock striking eight, he quickened his pace to return to his work.  He had for the two or three previous years been nominally under the gardener at Ormersfield, but really a sort of follower and favourite to the young heir, Lord Fitzjocelyn—­a position which had brought on him dislike from the superior servants, who were not propitiated by his independent and insubordinate temper.  Faults on every side had led to his dismissal; but Lord Fitzjocelyn had placed him at an ironmonger’s shop in the town of Northwold, where he had been just long enough to become accessible to the various temptations of a lad in such a situation.