by Forrest Reid
Jane began to giggle.
‘What is there to laugh at, Jane?’ her mother inquired severely. ‘Uncle Horace thinks it’s no good,’ said Jane.
‘And why should you laugh at that? I suppose you wrote the poem to give pleasure.
‘Well, I’m not going to cry if it doesn’t,’ Jane retorted. ‘For one thing, I never imagined Uncle Horace would like it, and for another, I don’t expect he knows about poetry:—do you, Uncle Horace dear?’
Uncle Horace, however, without even glancing at her, had again risen from his chair, and this time with an air no one ventured to oppose.
CHAPTER III
Jane had whispered to him not to go to sleep, and he lay in the darkness waiting for her. She was extraordinarily fond of these nocturnal conversations. Things she had plenty of opportunity to tell him through the day would be saved up for the pleasure of communicating them at midnight. Tom could see no sense in it. Sooner or later her mother was bound to find out, and then there would be a fearful hullabaloo. But it was just this element of risk which Jane appeared to find so fascinating, and she took elaborate precautions of a kind that increased the danger. To-night, however, was an exception; to-night he wanted her to come; to-night he really had something to talk about. All the same, he didn’t intend to lie awake for hours, and had half a mind now to get up and turn the key in the lock. It was useless to go to sleep without doing so, for she would not hesitate to waken him; and he was still considering the matter when he heard the signal she had invented, a scratching on one of the panels of the door.
That too, of course, was silly; but he was supposed to reply to it with a cough, and if he didn’t cough Jane would simply go on scratching until she lost patience and came in. So he cleared his throat, and she immediately entered, a dark figure wrapped in a dressing-gown, and plumped down on the side of his bed.
Tom playfully had hidden under the clothes, but he popped out at once when she began to laugh. ‘Don’t make such a row!’ he whispered angrily. ‘You’d think you were doing it on purpose. You might have some self-control.’
‘Well, it’s your fault. You know if I once begin I can’t stop.’
‘Then go away: there’s nothing to laugh at.’
Suddenly his eyes blinked as an electric torch was flashed in his face. ‘Now I can see you,’ Jane declared complacently.
‘Put that out. Where did you get it from?’ He made a grab at her hand.
Jane eluded him, but she switched off the light.
‘What is it you want to tell me?’ Tom asked.
‘Heaps of things. We’re going to have a really long talk—longer, I mean, than usual.’
‘We’re not; so if you’ve anything to say you’d better say it at once.’
‘I can’t unless you sit up. If you don’t you’ll be falling asleep. I’m going to put on the light.’
‘No,’ said Tom.
‘But what harm can it do? Everybody’s in bed, and it’s so stupid talking in pitch darkness.’
‘I know it is, and I’m always telling you so. If it wasn’t that this is very likely the last time—’
‘The last time! Don’t be absurd! You ought to be pleased and flattered instead of grousing like an old man of seventy.’
‘Do speak lower, Tom implored. ‘You know what a scene there’d be if—’
‘The only scenes are those you make yourself. You’re the most frightful little coward—and frightfully conventional too.’
‘If I am it’s you that put it into my head. I’d never have thought about it except for all your hints.’
‘I’m an adventuress,’ Jane admitted. ‘A dark, fateful woman with lovers.’
‘Am I supposed to be one of the lovers?’
‘Though I’d rather be in the secret service,’ she pursued thoughtfully.
‘What secret service! Your mind’s absolutely crammed with rot.’
‘I must say you’re the politest boy—’
‘Well, it’s your own fault, with your dark fateful lovers.’
‘I didn’t say the lovers were to be dark or fateful: they may have sticking-out ears and freckles.’
Tom tried to think of a retort, but could not find one. ‘Was this what you had to tell me? Because if so—’
‘I never said I had anything to tell you.’
‘You did: you kicked me at tea: and you told me afterwards not to go to sleep, because you were coming—’
‘Well—so I have come. Why don’t you tell me something, for a change?’
‘I was going to, but now I won’t.’
‘You really want me to stay a long time, then?’ Jane murmured pensively.
‘No, I don’t: I want you to go away at once.’
‘But I’ve only just come. Tom dear, I can’t imagine one single reason why I should be so fond of you.’
‘Neither can I.’
‘And yet I’m going to give you a kiss.’
Tom moved quickly out of her reach. ‘Can’t you stop fooling,’ he said.
‘I’m not fooling: I’m yielding to affection.’
‘What have you to tell me about Uncle Stephen?’
‘Uncle Stephen! Nothing.’
‘Why did you pretend you had, then?’
Jane drew her fingers softly down his cheek, but he pushed her hand away. ‘You did: you know you did.’
‘I’m sorry’
Tom suddenly sat up and clasped his arms about his knees. ‘Look here, I do want to talk, only—’
‘Only what?’ Jane murmured.
‘I don’t want you to make fun of me.’
‘But I won’t make fun of you:—not if it’s anything serious.’
Tom turned to her doubtfully in the darkness. ‘You mayn’t think it serious,’ he said.
‘Is it about Uncle Stephen?’
Yes, it is. I’ve read a book that he wrote. I’ve got it. I bought it. It’s an old book, but Brown’s were able to get it for me.’
Jane’s voice lost its sentimental note. ‘How long have you had it?’ she inquired.
‘Not very long: only a week or two. I’d have told you before, but I knew you wouldn’t read it. It’s all about Greek religion and a lot of it’s in Greek.’
‘Why are you telling me now?’ Jane asked suspiciously.
‘Well—Tom’s voice trailed away.
‘Did you like it?’
‘I liked the bits I understood. There were some bits I didn’t understand.’
‘Is that why you’ve suddenly begun to take such a violent interest in him? I don’t believe it is.’
Tom hesitated. ‘He doesn’t know anything about me,’ he answered evasively. ‘You see, he was my mother’s uncle, and even she had never seen him. He’s my great-uncle.’
‘Then he must be as old as the hills,’ said Jane.
‘Not so very old. He’s only sixty-three.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I looked it up. Mother had a family tree. Her name’s in it, and mine. I’ll show it to you.’
‘You put yours in yourself.’
‘Well,’ said Tom defiantly—‘why shouldn’t I …? Anyway, it was Dr. Macrory who told me Uncle Stephen had written a book: but I never thought of getting it till the other day. I don’t know much about him, but I know something happened when he was a boy, and he ran away from home, and never wrote, and for ages nobody knew where he was or what had become of him. And there were stories told about him. At least I think so: your mother said so to-night.’
‘What kind of stories?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He does sound rather fascinating,’ Jane confessed. ‘But of course he may have reformed and become quite ordinary.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing: and if you’re going to be so frightfully touchy about him we’d better talk of Uncle Horace instead.’
Tom hurriedly apologized. ‘Uncle Stephen and I are the only Collets left,’ he said.
‘And you’re not a Co
llet, you’re a Barber.’
‘It’s the same thing. Besides, mother told me I took after her family… . Uncle Stephen was very like me when he was young.’
‘Was he?’ Jane asked sceptically. ‘Did she tell you that too?’
‘No, but I’ve been thinking about it. I wish Uncle Stephen was a boy.’
‘Well, if you’re so keen about him why don’t you write to him? He might invite you for part of the holidays.’
‘You saw what happened when I mentioned his name at tea.’
Jane’s surprise was rather contemptuous. ‘You mean to say you’re going to let a thing like that put you off! Especially when you know how silly mother is about everybody who isn’t exactly the same as herself.’
‘They said a good deal more when you were out of the room, getting your poem.’
‘Well, I know I’d write, no matter what they said—I mean, if I wanted to… . And I bet Uncle Stephen would have written when he was a boy.’
Tom sat quiet for a little. ‘I dreamt about him last night,’ he said softly. He waited for a moment or two, looking back at his dream. Then he went on in the same half-hushed, curiously childish voice. ‘It was awfully vivid—just as if he was in the room. But it was dark and I couldn’t see his face.’
‘You couldn’t have seen it anyway,’ Jane pointed out, ‘because you don’t know what he’s like.’
‘He spoke,’ said Tom. ‘He told me not to be frightened, and who he was. He told me where he lived.’
‘You knew that already… . Were you frightened?’
Tom hesitated. ‘I think—a little—just at first,’ he admitted. ‘That’s why it wasn’t like a dream.’
‘People are often frightened in dreams,’ Jane contradicted. ‘I’ve been frightened myself’
‘Not in this kind of dream. I—liked it. There was nothing to be frightened about—except its suddenness. He was suddenly there, I mean—in the room, between my bed and the door. And in a dream you’re not surprised when a person is there, are you? It doesn’t give you a start. It doesn’t occur to you that they oughtn’t to be there: it seems quite natural. You’re just talking to them, and that’s all. This wasn’t like that… . Besides, I don’t think I’d been to sleep,’ he added. ‘I’d been lying awake, feeling rather—’
He broke off, but Jane divined the unspoken words. ‘You mean you were unhappy?’
Tom did not reply.
‘It must have been a dream,’ said Jane sharply. ‘If it wasn’t, what was it? I hope you’re not going to be silly about this!’ And she switched on the electric torch to have another look at him. Tom was staring straight into the darkness.
‘If I tell you something,’ he muttered, blinking and frowning in the unexpected illumination, which Jane immediately extinguished, ‘will you swear to keep it a secret?’
‘Do you want to tell me?’
‘Not unless you promise.’
‘All right, then; what is it?’
‘You haven’t sworn yet.’
‘I’ve sworn all I’m going to swear, if you’re not content with that you can keep your secret.’
‘I’m going to Uncle Stephen,’ said Tom.
‘But—You mean you’re going to run away?’
Tom nodded: then realizing that Jane could not see him he said, ‘Yes.’
There was a pause, followed by a sigh—a sigh which made her next words the more disconcerting. ‘What a perfectly heavenly idea! I’m coming too.’
‘You’re not,’ answered Tom promptly, his voice, in his eagerness, rising to its normal pitch. I’m sorry I told you.’
‘You’ll lend me a suit of clothes,’ Jane went on as if he had not spoken. ‘I’ll get my hair cut short, and I’ll go as your brother. Uncle Stephen won’t know. You might have as many brothers as Joseph for all he knows.’
‘I told you I was serious.’
‘So am I. It’ll be like Twelfth Night. You’ll be Sebastian and I’ll be Cesario. Uncle Stephen will be the Duke.’
Tom said no more, but he felt Jane’s arms round his neck, and her lips pressing against his cheek. ‘Dear Tom, do let me come. It’s the sort of thing I’ve been dying for all my life. I’ll promise to do everything you tell me. I’ll not so much as sneeze without permission… . And I want to sneeze now.’ She abruptly dived under the bedclothes and was as good as her word.
‘You’re probably catching pneumonia,’ said Tom gloomily.
‘Well, don’t let’s talk about it. The question is, when are we going?’
‘Of course you can spoil everything if you want to… . And you can tell me it was my own fault,’ he added bitterly. ‘It’ll be perfectly true. Anybody is a fool who imagines he can trust a girl.’
There was a silence. Jane withdrew the arm with which she had been clasping his neck. At last she said coldly, ‘You know very well you can trust me. That part of it is merely sentimental—as well as being a lie. It would be much better to say plainly why you don’t want me.’
‘Because we’d be followed and caught at once and I’d get all the blame.’
‘That isn’t the reason.’
‘It’s one of the reasons.’
‘And what are the others?’
‘I want to go alone.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s my uncle… . And anyway I told you. There won’t be nearly so much fuss made if I go alone. Very likely there won’t be a fuss at all. I should think your mother would be glad.’
‘Then you’d better think again,’ returned Jane disagreeably.
‘She will be glad. She doesn’t like me.’
‘Whether she likes you or not, there’s a financial consideration, and she likes that. Perhaps it hadn’t occurred to you!’
Tom felt rather shocked. ‘It oughtn’t to have occurred to you,’ he said feebly.
‘It didn’t till I heard it discussed.’
‘What!’
‘So you see it won’t be so easy.’
‘Of course, I may come back,’ he mumbled. ‘Uncle Stephen may send me back.’
Jane abruptly altered her tactics. ‘It’s not so bad here, is it?’ she asked in her most coaxing voice. ‘I mean, being with us.’
‘I don’t like it,’ Tom confessed. ‘And I think I’ll like it less after what you’ve told me.’
‘Why?’ Jane demanded. ‘I don’t see that anything I’ve told you ought to make a difference. It seems to me quite right that you should pay your share. You can afford it better than we can.’
‘It’s not that… . But since nobody really wants me—except you perhaps—’
‘Well, I’ve explained that they do want you.’
Yes, in—in that way.’
‘I think you’re being very unreasonable about it. I never said mother didn’t want you in other ways too. The only thing I ever heard her say against you was that you were precocious.’
‘Precocious!’
‘Mother isn’t clever. She doesn’t understand you. If you were precocious all round she would understand you better. But in most ways you’re just the opposite. It’s like a baby coming out with frightfully grown-up remarks.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m not blaming you. As it happens, I like it… . I even think you’re rather nice-looking. At least, you’re got a very nice expression, and—’
‘Perhaps you’d better not explain any more.’
‘What I’m saying is a compliment,’ Jane persisted. Or at any rate what I’m thinking… . I think you’re the nicest person we know. You don’t imagine that if you were just an ordinary boy I’d get out of bed at this hour to talk to you. There’d be nothing to talk about.’
‘Nor is there: we’ve finished,’ said Tom, and slid down under the clothes again.
Jane had very far from finished. ‘We’ve discussed nothing,’ she went on. ‘At all events we’ve settled nothing. When are you going away, and for how long? For ever?’
‘I don’t know. Very likely Uncle Stephen won’
t want me either.’ Tom drew the bedclothes over his ear. Good-night.’
‘You don’t really think that or you wouldn’t be going. You’re the very last person to go where you thought you weren’t wanted. There’s something that makes you think he does want you.’
‘There’s nothing except what I’ve told you.’
‘That dream? I don’t see how you can trust a dream. It seems to me silly. Uncle Stephen mayn’t be a bit like what you imagine. If he isn’t, will you come back here?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘That means you won’t, I suppose. Where will you go?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I wish you’d say good-night: it must be fearfully late.’
‘I don’t believe I ought to keep your secret,’ Jane began, in a new and ominous tone, suggestive of the sudden birth of scruples. ‘Unless you’ll promise to come back here if Uncle Stephen won’t have you or if you don’t like him.’
‘You mean you’re going to tell?’
‘I don’t want to, of course.’
‘No, of course not,’ Tom echoed scornfully. ‘Look here; if you do I’ll never speak to you again as long as I live. And it won’t keep me from going away either, if that’s what you think. I wish now I hadn’t told you. I needn’t have told you, only I thought it would be rotten not to.’
Both their voices in the last few minutes had risen, and as Tom finished speaking he suddenly became aware of another sound. He sat up, gripping Jane by the arm so tightly and unexpectedly that she gave a slight scream. ‘What—?’ she began, and then said, ‘Oh!’
‘Now we’re for it!’ muttered Tom, while they stared at the door, which opened, to reveal in the light she immediately switched on, the bewrapped and imposing figure of Mrs. Barber.
Jane slid off the bed. ‘You needn’t make a fuss, mother,’ she began before that astonished lady had even time to frame a question. ‘And you needn’t glare at Tom.’
Mrs. Barber glared at Jane instead. ‘Go back to your room at once,’ she commanded.
‘I’m sorry if we wakened you,’ said Jane, still rather defiantly. She moved slowly to the door—but her mother answered not a word, nor did she so much as glance at Tom again, but followed her daughter in a freezing silence. There was a click and the light went out: then the door closed and Tom was left alone.
