by Forrest Reid
But the situation was altered. With the knowledge that there were people living in the house Tom bumped back sharply to earth and to the fact that he was trespassing. He got up and began slowly to retrace his steps, casting every now and again a glance behind him, and once, while still within view of the home, pausing deliberately. He waited, just in case the boy he had seen should be coming out, but nobody came, and after a minute or two, rather mournfully, Tom decided nobody would. He continued on his way, oddly disappointed.
Uncle Stephen would be able to tell him what this house was and who lived in it. Though it was strange, Tom thought, that he had not already done so, for surely he must know, since the house was in the Manor grounds. He couldn’t know there was a boy there, however; otherwise he would not have said there wasn’t a companion for Tom. The boy must be a visitor.
But a visitor visiting whom? For Tom knew the house had looked empty—looked, moreover, as if it had been empty for years. He had a sense of something dreamlike and mysterious. True, he had not approached very closely, not closely enough to see inside: but those curtainless windows, those green door-steps, that choked fountain, those signs everywhere of dilapidation and neglect! And not a thread of smoke from any chimney! What kind of people would live in such a place? It would be almost easier to imagine he had made a mistake, had seen nobody at the window… . Only he had.
And he now, quite unexpectedly, caught through the trees a glimpse of the Manor Home. The two houses, he guessed, were really not far from each other, though there was either no direct path between them or else he had missed it. For it was through the shrubbery that he emerged on to the lawn, and at the same time he saw Mr. Knox, on a bicycle, riding up to the hall-door. The curate dismounted, leaned his bicycle against the windowsill, turned round, and catching sight of Tom, waited for him.
‘Well,’ he asked, ‘how are things going?’ But he gave Tom no time to answer before he drew him gently but firmly away from the porch. Mr. Knox, holding him by the arm, led him past the side of the house. ‘Grass just been cut!’ he murmured. ‘Delightful smell—so fresh! I suppose you’ve no idea what Mr. Collet wants to see me about?’
He asked the question not exactly in a whisper, but certainly in a voice dropped to confidential pitch, and he still kept his arm firmly beneath Tom’s, as if there were a danger of his taking to flight.
‘Yes, I have; it’s about me,’ Tom replied. ‘Only we’d better go in, because it must be nearly tea-time and it will take me ages to clean myself’
‘Oh, you’re all right,’ said Mr. Knox. ‘That’ll brush off easily.’
‘I hope so, for I’ve no other clothes here.’
Mr. Knox pulled out an old and very handsome gold watch, which he wore fastened to a silk ribbon, and which, instead of telling him the hour, appeared to present him with an arithmetical problem. He was behaving very oddly, Tom thought; much less like a parson than a schoolboy who has been summoned, he isn’t quite sure why, to an interview with his headmaster. This impression was not diminished when the curate suggested, ‘Perhaps I’d better slip away and come back later.’
‘But Uncle Stephen wants you!’ Tom exclaimed. ‘He’s been waiting for you all the afternoon! Besides, he may have seen us from the library window and it will look so silly.’
Mr. Knox glanced back at the house. ‘Yes,’ he admitted doubtfully.
‘Uncle Stephen likes you,’ added Tom.
This unexpected encouragement caused Mr. Knox to smile— somewhat sheepishly. ‘At any rate, you’re quite the kindest boy I’ve ever met,’ he said.
And whether it was the kindness of Tom’s remark, or something else that influenced him, he altered the direction of their walk. He turned abruptly back to the house, where, ten minutes later, they were all three seated at the tea-table, the curate opposite Uncle Stephen and Tom between them.
To the smallest member of the party it was deeply interesting—this confrontation of his two friends—particularly in the light of Mr. Knox’s earlier reluctance to be confronted. But he had got over that quickly, and Tom noticed how, once the ice was broken, it was he who did most of the talking. Uncle Stephen listened. And even in their ways of listening there was a marked difference between them. Uncle Stephen listened with a kind of quiet attentiveness, and always there was a slight but distinct pause before he replied. Mr. Knox’s ‘listening’ was much more like Tom’s own, charged with a restrained eagerness to interrupt.
It was Mr. Knox who talked, but it was Uncle Stephen who provided subjects. It was like that game in which you scribble a line on a piece of paper and the other person fills it in, making it a horse or a man or a cat or a boat. Tom, as usual, saw it like this, in a picture. He was alert and observant, a spectator, or perhaps still more an actor who was not on in this scene, which he watched from the wings. He had a feeling of being with his own people, his own kind (though Mr. Knox was less his kind than Uncle Stephen), a feeling he had never had at his step-mother’s, where all the talk had consisted of a series of statements and contradictions, and everything was either a fact or a lie.
It was not till the meal was over, however, and they had retired to the library, where in a big arm-chair Mr. Knox made himself comfortable and lit his pipe, that the really important subject was broached. Then Uncle Stephen said, ‘Tom and I were wondering if by any chance we could persuade you to help him with his studies. But first I had better tell you our whole plan, because there may be difficulties we haven’t thought of.’
There weren’t—none that mattered, Tom said to himself; but outwardly he sat quiet as a mouse, at the open window, though he had turned his chair round so as to get a view of the room. He could see from where he sat only the top of Uncle Stephen’s head above the back of his chair, but Mr. Knox’s face was turned towards him, and he watched it closely while the situation was being explained—with a certain slowness and deliberation in Uncle Stephen’s low yet very clear voice.
When that voice ceased the curate bent down to the grate to knock the ashes out of his pipe. Then he sat up and looked hard at Tom, as if an inspection of his proposed pupil might help him to reply.
Apparently it didn’t, for it was with an air of embarrassment that he turned to Uncle Stephen. ‘It’s awfully good of you, but—well—I don’t quite know how to put it—’
Tom’s hopes sank. It looked very much as if what Mr. Knox didn’t ‘quite know how to put’ was a polite refusal. The ominous silence was filled with his disappointment. And then again Mr. Knox spoke.
‘You see, I only got a second, and that was four years ago. I was always better at games than books, though not much of a swell at either.’
‘Of course I don’t expect you to reply definitely till you’ve had time to think the matter over,’ Uncle Stephen explained. ‘Indeed, nothing can be settled till we have heard from Tom’s relatives. It was merely the possibility I wanted to discuss. Apart from the point you have raised—and which I don’t think we need regard as a very serious one—is there anything that makes you disinclined to accept?—You don’t, for instance, find the idea in itself distasteful?’
Mr. Knox shook his head. ‘Not at all: far from it: I’d say “yes” like a shot if I’d had the least experience and didn’t feel my Latin and Greek to be so extremely rusty.’ He smiled at Tom, who at this point clambered out through the window, feeling that the further discussion of Mr. Knox’s qualifications might be carried on more happily in his absence.
He strolled up and down the lawn, out of earshot, but within sight should he be wanted. He half hoped he would be wanted, but evidently he wasn’t, for he waited a long time and nobody called him. Mrs. Deverell and Sally appeared, and he watched them walking together down the drive on their way home. Another quarter of an hour passed, and he was growing very tired of doing nothing, when the hall-door opened, and Mr. Knox came out, followed by Uncle Stephen. They stood for yet a further minute or two talking in the porch; then they shook hands, the curate got on his bicycle, and Tom r
an across the grass to intercept him.
Mr. Knox jumped off, but he continued walking, wheeling his bicycle, while Tom paced beside him. He looked pleased, and Tom at once felt that a solution must have been reached. ‘I suppose you want to know the result of the conference,’ Mr. Knox began.
‘I think that means it’s favourable,’ Tom answered.—I mean favourable to me.’
‘Well, we’ll hope it will be favourable all round. At any rate, there’s to be a preliminary canter—a sort of trial trip. I made that a condition. So one of these mornings I’ll come over to find out what it is I’ve actually let myself in for.’
‘I’ll promise to do as well as I can,’ said Tom. ‘I’m no good at “maths”, but I’m tolerable at Greek because I like it. The other things I suppose are about average. When they send on my books I’ll be able to show you what I’ve been doing.’
‘In the meantime I can teach you your catechism,’ said Mr. Knox.
Tom received this as a joke. ‘I know some of it already, I know the bit about my pastors and masters.’
Mr. Knox glanced at him. ‘Yes, I dare say you do—so long as the pastor and master happens to please you. However, we’ll see. As for your Greek, I behave Mr. Collet intends to look after that himself: he has views on the subject which make it quite impossible for me.’
‘I hope that doesn’t mean they’ll make it impossible for me,’ Tom replied. ‘It sounds jolly like it.’
‘No; you possess a natural aptitude—or so Mr. Collet thinks. You’d better remember that you are regarded as much more than a nephew—as a kind of spiritual son… . And here’s the gate and here we say good-bye. I’ve got a meeting, and unless I can ride a mile and a half in two minutes I’m going to be late for it. But come to see me soon: it’s the first kidnapping case I’ve ever been mixed up in.’
He was rather nice… . Tom watched him out of sight, standing in the middle of the road, his eyes screwed up a little as he faced the setting sun. He liked Mr. Knox. Mr. Knox was as safe and simple as a glass of milk. Half unconsciously he was contrasting him with Deverell.
Then he turned round and through the gate looked into the green avenue from which he had just emerged. Within there, was something not so simple. While he lingered there deepened in him a strange impression that he was on the boundary-line between two worlds. To one world belonged Mr. Knox and his meetings, and Tom was standing in it now, as it might be on the shore of a pond. It stretched all round these stone walls, but within them was the other, and as soon as he passed through that gate he would become a part of the other. Here he was free to choose, but if he took a step further all would be different. What he should enter seemed to him now a kind of dream-world, but once inside, he knew it would become real. In there was the unknown—mystery—romance: the ruined garden, the stone boy holding his empty urn above the pool, the boy he had seen at the window, Uncle Stephen. As he stood at the gate Tom at that moment was not very far from seeing an angel with a flaming sword guarding it. His body thrilled when the call of a bird rose through the silence. He took a little run forward, tugged at the bar, pushed: and the latch dropped back into place as the gate clanged behind him.
CHAPTER X
‘That was a near thing!’ Tom breathed, only half pretending. But he knew when he had carried such play far enough (because it wasn’t all play—not by any means), and now deliberately he tried to shut the doors of imagination. It was the spiritual equivalent to shutting his eyes and digging his fingers in his ears, but it must be done; and as a preliminary he thrust his hands in his trousers pockets, assumed a slight swagger, and raised his voice in the Soldiers’ Chorus from Faust. What could be more blatant, more idiotic than the Soldiers’ Chorus?—yet somehow it was not successful. Perhaps he was making too much noise. He stopped singing abruptly and ran at the top of his speed towards the house.
He entered the library breathless, with flushed cheeks and shining eyes. Uncle Stephen was standing by one of the bookcases and there was a pile of books and papers on the floor. He turned to Tom, and instantly all Tom’s wandering fantasies and dilemmas were at rest… . ‘I’ve cleared a table for you,’ Uncle Stephen said, ‘and that big cupboard in the corner, and this shelf for your books.’
Tom was very pleased. ‘But you shouldn’t,’ he expostulated, his face lit up with happiness. ‘I could quite easily have kept my things in my bedroom.’
‘I want you to use this room:—do your lessons here, bring everything here, make as much mess as you like. Only I don’t know yet what you do like.’
‘I like reading,’ said Tom, ‘and I like drawing, and I like some kinds of games, and I like making things:
‘Is that all?’
‘I like gramophones, if I can choose the records myself. But you haven’t got one.’
‘No; but perhaps that means the records will be better when we do get one.
‘Of course I’d get some that you liked, too,’ said Tom.
‘They’ll be the wrong ones—eh?’
‘But you’re not musical, Uncle Stephen, or you would have had a gramophone already.’
‘I suppose so. The idea never occurred to me,’
I know. That’s what I mean.’
‘As for “making things”—does that refer to carpentering?’ Yes; though I’ve only done it with a boy called Pascoe, and I’m not much good at it.’
‘Well, you can’t do that very well in here. We’ll have to fit up a workroom for you: half the rooms in the house are unoccupied.’
‘What I’d like to make first would have to be done in the open air.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, it’s a raft. I thought of it this afternoon. I’d like to make a raft to go on the river—the way Bevis and Mark did… . They’re two boys, you know, in a book. I’ll lend it to you when my things come. It’s about exploring on a lake, and swimming, and camping out.’
‘Does it tell you how to make a raft?’
‘No—not altogether. At least, I’m not sure. But I think I could do it. Bevis made his out of a packing-case.’
‘He had the other boy to help him, though, hadn’t he?’
‘Deverell would—’ But Tom stopped suddenly. ‘Uncle Stephen, there is another boy,’ he said.
The silence that followed seemed to lend his words an odd significance. He looked up quickly.
‘Who?’ Uncle Stephen asked.
For a moment Tom, ever sensitive to the unspoken mood, had thought—He did not quite know what he had thought, but at any rate it was all right. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I wondered if you would know. I wanted to ask you before, but when Mr. Knox was here I couldn’t. I saw him this afternoon. He was in that other house, looking out of the window. I didn’t know there was another house. You didn’t tell me, and when I found it I thought at first it was empty.’
‘You mean the lodge? Not really a lodge of course, but that was what it was called to distinguish it from the Manor House.’
‘I suppose so. It’s in the wood over there.’ Tom pointed. ‘There’s a fountain, but it’s choked up. The house didn’t look as if anybody was living in it.’
‘Nobody does live in it,’ Uncle Stephen said. ‘I doubt if it’s habitable. There are still a few sticks of furniture, but nobody has lived there for a long time.’
‘But I saw him.’
‘And what was he doing?’
‘I don’t know. Just standing at the window. He wasn’t doing anything really, and as soon as he caught me looking at him he went away.’
‘You didn’t venture inside, then?’
‘No, of course not. I thought there must be people there. Very queer people too, to leave the place like that. Who is he, do you think, Uncle Stephen?’
‘Anybody could get in,’ Uncle Stephen replied. ‘I expect most of the window-catches are loose, and I know the back-door isn’t locked or bolted.’
‘Why?’
‘There isn’t a key. The key is lost.’
You think,
then, he may have been a boy from the town?’
‘He may have been a boy from anywhere.’
‘But why had he gone there?’ Tom reflected for a moment. ‘And he wasn’t a boy from the town—or at least I don’t think he was.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Well, he wasn’t a message-boy, or a farm-boy, or anything like that.’
‘And as soon as he saw you he disappeared?’
‘He went away from the window. I thought perhaps he was coming down, and waited a bit.’ Tom had a further cogitation before he said, ‘Supposing I see him again?’
‘If you see him again you can ask him his name.’
‘Then you don’t mind his going into the house?’
‘Not in the least. Why should I?’
Uncle Stephen was busy with the lamp and Tom waited till he had lit it. ‘Still, it was rather cheek,’ he said slowly.
‘Then you’d better warn him off. I leave it entirely to you. You can do exactly as you like.’
‘He was trespassing,’ said Tom.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
There was a brief silence, during which Tom was conscious that Uncle Stephen was looking at him closely. He did not know why, but he had begun to feel vaguely uncomfortable. ‘He was trespassing,’ he mumbled.
‘Yes. Well, I’ve given you full authority to act.’
‘You know you don’t want me to act,’ said Tom unhappily.
