by Forrest Reid
The friendly chirping of sparrows in the ivy, and the bright sunshine, held him on the threshold. Inside, it was dirty and gloomy, and a cold musty smell rose from the paved floor. Besides, he knew there was nobody there. Tom, who had come to explore the house, closed the door without entering. He recrossed the cobbled yard; he would leave his message and go. But when he reached the corner of the house he put paper and pencil back in his pocket, for the trespasser was there.
Tom stood still. Yes, he was there, kneeling by the fountain, exactly as Tom had knelt yesterday, his hands plunged in the water, his back turned. And Tom knew him. Presently he lifted his cupped hands from the pool. He did not look round; his head was bent over some captive; and the water dripped down between his fingers on to the grass. But he must have heard a footstep, for he said over his shoulder, ‘I’ve got the biggest water-beetle you ever saw.’
‘Have you?’ Tom replied.
The words dropped rather lamely. In fact, though there was no reason why he should do so, he felt a little let down, like one who has prepared an elaborate surprise only to find it has all from the beginning been regarded as a matter of course. But this check was momentary. ‘Let’s see it,’ he said, running to the fountain.
The trespasser held out his hands, and Tom surveyed the black, glossy, rather formidable creature, who was making indignant efforts to regain his liberty. All at once his back split open, two wings unfolded, and he whirred triumphantly away.
Tom watched his short clumsy flight as he grazed the top of a fuchsia bush and dropped down among a clump of irises. Then he turned and encountered the dark-blue eyes of the kneeling boy. They were candid yet watchful, with an unusual breadth between them, and the corners of the eyebrows were slightly protuberant. The line of the nose was firm and bold, the mouth just a little pouting, the chin rounded. He would have looked exactly she a young buccaneer, Tom thought, only there was something else there, something that removed him indefinably from that type and from the purely athletic type of Eric and Leonard—a kind of subtle intellectuality.
‘Where do you come from? You were here yesterday.’
Tom, lost in contemplation, was taken aback. Questions as to his identity were not what he had expected, particularly when asked in a tone that struck him as singularly high-handed. ‘I live here,’ he answered stiffly. ‘This place belongs to my uncle.’
The kneeling boy accepted the statement, but it did not abash him. ‘Tell me your name,’ he said in the same dictatorial tone.
Tom coloured. ‘Why don’t you tell me yours?’
At this the trespasser showed surprise. But he was not annoyed, and after just the briefest hesitation answered ‘Philip.’ A rather longer pause ensued before he added, ‘Coombe.’
‘Well, my name’s Tom Barber,’ said Tom.
The announcement brought them to a deadlock. The whole encounter, somehow, had been unfortunate, and very different from the one he had anticipated. But that was always the way. He began to suspect that this boy was after all of the type of his step-brothers: the arrogance was not so pronounced, but it was there, and he recognized it with a pang of disillusionment. He had looked so pleasant! He did still for that matter: there could not, Tom felt, in the whole world be anything that looked much pleasanter. Meanwhile the strange boy had risen to his feet and they confronted each other. Tom stared as long as he could: then his eyes dropped and he merely stood there waiting unhappily.
He was astonished to hear a quite friendly voice addressing him. ‘What are you annoyed about?’
Tom looked up. ‘Nothing.’ His smile was hesitating.
‘Well, you haven’t spoken for nearly five minutes.’
‘Neither have you,’ Tom said.
‘I was thinking—coming to a decision.’
‘So was I.’
‘About me?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You said this place belonged to your uncle.’
‘Oh that!’ Tom was relieved to find his real thoughts so widely missed.
‘Did you tell him you had seen me? ‘
‘Yes, I told him last night. He doesn’t mind. He says you can go into the house when you like… . I only told him,’ Tom added, ‘because at that time I thought you lived there, and that he might know who you, were.’
‘Well, you know now.’
‘I don’t know very much,’ said Tom.
‘You know my name.’
‘Yes.’
‘And in a way I do live there.’
Tom looked at him uncertainly. ‘How do you mean?’ he asked.
‘I mean I’m living there for the present—temporarily. I found the door unlocked. Nobody can have been near the place for ages and I didn’t see what harm I could do. I don’t do as much harm as the birds: the chimneys are full of nests.’
‘No, I’m sure you don’t,’ said Tom. ‘But why do you want to live there? It can’t be very comfortable.’
‘I ran away. As a matter of fact I ran away twice—first from school and then from home. I want to go abroad, but I thought I’d better hide for a while, till they had stopped looking for me.’
‘Everybody I know seems to have run away,’ murmured Tom. ‘At least everybody about here. Uncle Stephen did, long ago: and Deverell did: and I ran away myself to come to Uncle Stephen.’
‘Well, you can’t stay at home for ever,’ said Philip.
‘No,’ Tom agreed, more doubtfully. ‘Though if you come to think of it a good many people do—at least till they’re grown up.’
‘I wanted to go to sea a year ago, but my father wouldn’t let me. And I’m not going back to school. Anyhow I don’t think they’d take me, because I nearly killed one of the boys with a cricket stump before I left. I thought at first I had killed him. I tried to.’
‘Truly?’
‘Well, perhaps not quite: but I wanted to hurt him badly, and I did.’
There was a pause.
‘I like this place and nobody will ever find me here.’
‘I found you,’ said Tom.
‘Only because I allowed you to. I stood at the window on purpose.’
‘I would have found you sooner or later without that: I intended to explore the house.’
‘I shouldn’t have been in the house—unless you had come in the middle of the night.’
Tom tried another subject. ‘How do you manage about your grub: I mean where do you get it?’
‘I haven’t had to get any so far. I only came yesterday and I have what will do me till to-morrow:—bread and cheese, and there’s a well in the yard.’
‘But it must be frightfully uncomfortable. Isn’t the place swarming with mice?’
Only downstairs: they come in out of the garden. Besides, in the hold of a ship there would be rats and cockroaches.’
Tom regarded this bold adventurer with serious and wondering eyes. ‘Were you going as a stowaway? I thought that only happened in stories. How would you get on board to begin with? And as soon as they found you they’d send a message. Nearly every ship has a wireless.’
‘A wireless!’ Philip looked puzzled, but continued his explanation. ‘I’ll not go as a stowaway if I can get a proper job. But I’m going some way, and I can’t risk being caught.’
‘I’ll bring you your grub,’ said Tom.
‘Will you?’
‘Unless you’d like to come and stay at the Manor. I know it would be all right, because my uncle said this morning he wished there was another boy for me to knock about with.’
‘No,’ replied Philip decisively.
‘But why? You needn’t be afraid of Uncle Stephen.’
‘I’m not afraid of him.’
‘Why won’t you come then? It would be a good deal better than where you are and just as safe. That place must be filthy.’
‘It’s not so bad upstairs. You haven’t seen it.’
Tom looked at him in uncertainty. ‘You mean you don’t want to come?’
‘I can’t come. I must be free
to do what I like and I couldn’t be free if I went to stay with your uncle. Besides, he’d expect me to tell him all about myself.’
‘I don’t think he would,’ said Tom quietly, ‘ but it doesn’t matter.’
He looked down into the fountain. He could think of nothing else to say and yet he wished to say something. Philip did not help him, and Tom turned away. ‘I must be going,’ he murmured.
‘Will you come back again?’
It was less an invitation than a question, but Tom answered, ‘Yes, if you want me to. Besides, I’ve to bring you your grub.’ Philip kept step beside him. He was at least a head taller than Tom—as tall as Leonard, and of the same clean powerful build. ‘Are you going to tell your uncle what I’ve told you?’ he asked.
‘I’d rather tell him, and I’ll have to tell him some of it; but if there’s anything you don’t want me to tell—’
‘I don’t mind. You can tell him whatever you please—so long as you make him promise to keep it a secret and not to interfere with me.’
‘You needn’t be afraid,’ said Tom, ‘he isn’t that kind.’ They walked slowly over the thick matted turf, and entered the green avenue. A hare, twenty yards away, squatted down to watch them.
At the gate Philip stopped. ‘I don’t think I’ll come any further.’
Tom too paused, in indecision. ‘I wish you would,’ he said. ‘I want you to help me to build a raft, and then we could go on the river. Have you been to the river yet?’
‘No.’
‘Will you come with me to-morrow and bathe?’
‘Would anybody be likely to see me? Should we have to pass any houses?’
‘No… . It’s over there.’ He pointed through the trees. ‘There are no houses near.’
‘Well—’
‘I’ll come early,’ Tom promised eagerly. ‘Then we’ll have the whole afternoon. And I’ll bring your food at the same time. I’ll come whether it’s wet or fine.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘There won’t be any other boys there?’
‘No, there won’t be anybody except ourselves.’
Philip thought it over for a minute or two. ‘All right,’ he said at last. Good-bye for the present.’
He was turning away, but Tom stood still. ‘What is it?’ Philip asked.
Tom hesitated. ‘It’s just that it seems rotten leaving you here alone,’ he murmured shyly.
Philip looked at him with a faint surprise. ‘You needn’t worry about me,’ he answered rather coldly; and the statement was so obviously true that Tom wished he had left his own words unspoken.
CHAPTER XII
When he was still about a stone’s-throw from the Manor, Tom stiffened into immobility, like a cat, who, in the act of crossing the road, suddenly changes his mind. But it was not at the house he was looking; it was at a car drawn up on the gravel sweep before it, the engine silent. He knew that car. Yes—and he knew that voice too, though the speaker, being within the porch, was invisible. Also he knew the back of Shanks, the chauffeur: the problem was whether to advance or retreat. Quiet as the stone boy at the other house, he stood to debate it. But what on earth was Uncle Horace kicking up such a row about? Surely they hadn’t refused to let him in! Had they, though? It sounded like it. This was extraordinary!—and whatever happened he mustn’t miss it.
But he approached with circumspection, since it was quite possible he might be pounced on unawares and carried off by main force. It could be done. After all, the car was there, Shanks was there to lend a hand, and—George and Robert having left off work at five o’clock—Tom had nobody to call to his assistance. At the same moment Shanks turned and saw him. His wooden face expressed a total lack of interest, but that might be only part of a ‘plant’, for Tom was not yet within pouncing distance. ‘Here’s Mr. Tom now, sir,’ Shanks called out officially; and then, having carefully turned his back to the porch, he winked.
It was a deliberate wink; there could be no doubt about it; nevertheless, coming from the saturnine and inscrutable Shanks, its significance was ambiguous. It might mean anything or nothing. Tom winked in response, but approached no nearer. ‘Hello, Uncle Horace,’ he said, as Uncle Horace came fussing to the edge of the porch. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing has happened except that your mother sent me down to bring you home. But it appears Mr. Collet can’t see me. I may say that I intend to wait here until he can.’
Uncle Horace, Tom perceived, was not in the best of tempers; his complexion was a shade more florid than usual, and his always high-pitched voice had an unmistakable edge. He did not even ask Tom how he was, but then Tom himself, instead of coming forward to shake hands, continued to hover at a cautious distance. ‘Where is Uncle Stephen?’ he asked of Mrs. Deverell, who stood, frail but determined, in the background, holding the fort as it were.
‘He’s in his room, Master Tom, and he left instructions that he was on no account to be disturbed.’
‘And in the meantime his hospitality extends as far as the doorstep,’ Uncle Horace said, with an angry flash of his white teeth. Tom was puzzled. It did look rather odd.
‘You must pardon me, sir,’ Mrs. Deverell interposed quietly, ‘but the master never receives visitors except by appointment; and this afternoon he mentioned particularly that he would be engaged and was not to be disturbed.’
‘Disturbed!’ Uncle Horace echoed impatiently. ‘My good woman, all I asked you to do was to take him a message. And considering the distance I’ve come—’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but the master’s orders were definite; I wouldn’t dare to go against them.’
Uncle Horace turned from her abruptly. ‘Then you’d better get into the car, Tom. We’ve a long drive before us. You can write to your uncle when you reach home. Would you fetch Master Tom’s hat and coat, please?’ he said to Mrs. Deverell. As if at a signal Shanks swung open the door of the car and stood in readiness, but Tom retreated another yard or two. There he again halted, very much on the alert, ready to spring away at, the slightest attempt to lay a hand on him.
‘Is Uncle Stephen in his study, Mrs. Deverell?’ he called out. ‘I don’t think so, Master Tom.’
Uncle Horace descended the steps. Come, Tom,’ he said, but Tom did not budge. The impassive Shanks, still holding open the door, remained sardonically at attention.
‘You know very well, Uncle Horace, I can’t possibly go away like this,’ Tom expostulated. ‘And at any rate I’m not going at all. I’m going to live with Uncle Stephen. He’s adopted me. The whole thing’s settled.’
Uncle Horace said nothing. He might have been calculating whether Shanks had even a sporting chance if ordered to pursue his nephew, but if that were his thought he decided against it.
‘I think, all the same, Uncle Horace ought to be invited in,’ Tom went on, addressing Mrs. Deverell.
‘Whatever you say, Master Tom. I’m sure there’s no discourtesy meant, but your uncle’s always most particular that his orders should be obeyed. Of course, with you here it makes a difference. Mr. Collet wouldn’t wish you not to be polite to your visitors. I could get the gentleman some refreshment, if you would bring him into the dining-room.’
‘Thank you, I don’t want any refreshment,’ the visitor mapped. ‘As for you, Tom, you appear to imagine you are going to be assaulted. I didn’t bring either ropes or handcuffs with me. I supposed your natural feeling would be sufficient to make you respect your mother’s wishes.’
She isn’t my mother,’ said Tom.
She is in the place of your mother.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘And your father committed you to her charge.’
‘Did he?’ Tom answered softly. ‘I don’t doubt your word, Uncle Horace, but I should have to have some proof of that.’ Shanks suddenly coughed, and Uncle Horace darted a furious glance at him.
‘My mother committed me to Uncle Stephen’s charge,’ Tom added.
Uncle Horace s
miled—the coldest and thinnest of smiles. ‘I don’t think we need continue the discussion,’ he said. ‘It is hardly a suitable place.’
‘Will you swear you won’t touch me?’ asked Tom.
‘Really!’ Uncle Horace broke out. But he checked himself, and an exasperated shrug of his shoulders completed the sentence.
Tom, however, was obstinate. ‘I won’t come any nearer unless you promise.’
It was the last straw. ‘I don’t want to touch you,’ cried Uncle Horace, in tones much belying his words. ‘Your stay with your uncle has been short, but it seems to have had a disastrous effect upon your manners.’
This outburst Tom accepted as a promise. ‘I’m sorry, Uncle Horace. I don’t want to be rude to you.’ And he stepped forward at once. ‘It’s just the way things have happened that is unfortunate. Come in, won’t you? I’m sure Uncle Stephen must be somewhere about. You see, it’s tea-time; in fact it must be considerably after tea-time.’
Uncle Horace glowered as he preceded Tom up the steps and into the hall. Mrs. Deverell hastened to open the dining-room door, but Tom was now anxious to show the visitor every courtesy. ‘I’ll take Mr. Pringle to the study,’ he said. ‘Though I don’t think Uncle Stephen can possibly be there,’ he added to Uncle Horace, ‘or he would have heard us. If he didn’t—I mean if he’s so absorbed as all that, I shouldn’t think he’d see us either, even if we do go in.’ But Uncle Horace received his little joke without response.
And when they entered the room it was to find it unoccupied. All Uncle Stephen’s belongings were there, and some traces of Tom also, but not Uncle Stephen himself.
Tom was about to invite the visitor to sit down when the visitor abruptly waved him to a chair. ‘Sit down,’ he said, and Tom obeyed him. ‘Now, tell me what is the meaning of this pretty performance?’
Tom looked docility itself; and it was in the mildest possible voice that he asked, ‘What pretty performance, Uncle Horace?’
‘You know what I refer to: kindly answer my question.’
But, as he stared into the boy’s face, he remembered perhaps something which induced him to alter his tactics, for it was in a less aggressive tone that he went on. ‘Why did you run away from home?’
