by Forrest Reid
Tom obeyed him. He did not know what was going to happen now.
CHAPTER XVII
Mrs. Deverell, pausing on the threshold, at the very first glance appeared to take in that she had been summoned for a special purpose. She was nervous, though Uncle Stephen both looked and spoke very kindly to her when he said, ‘Sit down, Mrs. Deverell.’
Tom watched her take a chair close to the wall and sit there stiffly. He saw that her thin, veined hands trembled before she folded them in her lap; the looked so frail and frightened indeed that he would have escaped from the sight of her distress had not Uncle Stephen motioned to him to remain where he was.
‘Master Tom has been to see your son this morning, Mrs. Deverell,’ he began.
Mrs. Deverell tried to reply, but what she said was inaudible.
‘I don’t suppose you know all the particulars of this unfortunate affair, but your son told Master Tom about it, and also that he would like to get out of the country before further developments take place. I’ve no doubt myself that if this can be done it will be the best thing—for you at any rate. For a long time, I’m afraid, you’ve had more anxiety than comfort from keeping him at home.’
‘Oh no, sir, it’s not that: I—’
‘Master Tom proposes to help him by giving him fifty pounds,’ Uncle Stephen continued.
‘I’m sure, sir, he’ll pay it back when—’
Uncle Stephen made a slight gesture with his hand, and Mrs. Deverell did not complete her speech.
‘Master Tom does not expect to be paid back and does not want to be paid back. He has asked me to advance him the money and I intend to do so, but that is my whole share in the matter; the idea is Master Tom’s and the money is his. That, I think, is all.’
Mrs. Deverell burst into tears.
Tom turned his back. He had known what would happen, and why couldn’t Uncle Stephen have let him clear out before it did happen? He caught sight of the open window and scrambled across the sill before anybody could prevent him.
He did not go far, however, but waited where he had a view of the room, and no sooner had Mrs. Deverell left it than he returned. Uncle Stephen was unlocking his desk, from which he took a cheque-book.
‘ You’d better tell them to give you a pound in silver and the rest in treasury notes,’ he said quietly, as he wrote out the cheque and dried it on the blotting-pad. He handed it to Tom, who put it away in the inside pocket of his jacket.
‘Thank you, Uncle Stephen.’
‘You know what you’re doing, Tom? If it comes out that we’ve been assisting a criminal to escape it won’t help our case… . Well, don’t look so guilty about it: you’ve nothing to be ashamed of. I suppose all your time now will be spent in avoiding Mrs. Deverell. It won’t be the slightest use, and you’d have done much better to have let her thank you and get it over. Are you going to the bank at once or are you going to wait till after dinner? It must be dinner-time now.’
‘I think I’d like to go at once, Uncle Stephen, and rather you didn’t wait for me.’
‘Very well. I suppose you won’t be happy till the matter is settled.’
Tom departed on his errand, but on reaching the bend of the avenue he glanced back at the house and caught sight of Mrs. Deverell watching him from an upper window. ‘I hope she’s not going home,’ he thought. ‘And I bet she is. He won’t like it—especially when she wouldn’t take the message he asked her to. And he’ll hate taking the money before her. Really, you’d think she might have sense enough to wait till after I’d been.’
So Tom scolded poor Mrs. Deverell for an act she merely looked like committing, but once out on the open road he ceased to think of her and began to run. He could not run all the way, but he ran at least half of it, and arrived at the bank in a moist, breathless, and excited state. He fumbled for his cheque and pushed it across the counter, forgetful of the rule of precedence, so that a lady, waiting to have her own cheque cashed, told him he was an ill-mannered boy, and the cashier stared at him coldly and asked him if he didn’t know that he had to take his turn. Abashed, apologetic, blushing, but at the same time hating both the cashier and the lady, Tom took up his proper position.
The lady received five single notes and counted them correctly three times. Then, apparently having forgiven Tom, she bestowed a smile upon him and withdrew.
‘A pound of silver, please, and the rest in treasury notes.’
The cashier again looked at him coldly, but after examining both sides of Uncle Stephen’s cheque, as if he hoped to find a flaw in it, handed Tom the money.
‘Count it and see that it’s right,’ he said sharply, as Tom was stuffing the notes into his pocket.
So he had to take them out again and count them—count them twice, because two of the notes got stuck together the first time.
‘Wet your fingers,’ said the cashier, obviously a person of the baser sort.
Tom took no notice.
‘Don’t be losing it now,’ the cashier went on, in tones indicating that this was what he expected to happen. ‘I suppose you’re going straight back to Mr. Collet?’
‘Then you suppose wrong,’ replied Tom, who felt there had been enough ordering about.
Out on the road again, he proceeded at a more rational pace. The first act was successfully accomplished; the rest was up to Deverell.
There was nobody in sight when he reached the field path and climbed the stile, but Deverell was waiting for him, and appeared from behind the cottage the moment Tom drew level with it.
‘This way, Mr. Tom; the back-door’s open.’
Was your mother here?’ Tom asked, when he was once more in the now familiar kitchen.
‘Yes; she’s gone about five minutes.’
‘I’ve got what you want: at least I hope it’s enough,’ said Tom, emptying his pockets. ‘There’s forty-nine pounds in notes, and a pound in silver.’
Deverell stared at the money on the table. A deep, painful flush had risen in his swarthy face and his head hung awkwardly. A change seemed to have come over him: he looked ashamed, he looked shy, and this altered attitude immediately produced its reaction on the impressionable Tom.
‘Mr. Tom,’ Deverell stammered, ‘you won’t think too hardly of me?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Tom hurriedly. ‘Why should I think hardly of you?’
He felt now very shy himself, and was thankful that Deverell said nothing more, but began to busy himself with the kettle and a teapot.
‘You’ll take a cup of tea with me, Mr. Tom?’
There was something in this rather wistful question, a kind of rough gentleness, that made Tom more uncomfortable than ever. He began to feel miserable and knew from past experience that it would take very little more to bring him to the point of blubbing.
‘Yes,’ he said.
They sat down at the table, Deverell eating steadily and methodically, Tom nibbling at a slice of bread and butter.
Deverell’s chair suddenly grated on the floor as he pushed it back. His hands, brown and rough and powerful, the nails uncleaned, the fingers stained with nicotine, rested on his knees. ‘Mr. Tom, I wish I’d known you five years ago.’
Tom smiled faintly. ‘You wouldn’t have wanted to know me five years ago. I was only a kid.’
‘Yes,’ said Deverell slowly, ‘I suppose so. It’s queer, isn’t it, how things is always like that?’
As he looked at the dark unhappy eyes that were turned on him, Tom too had a feeling that human affairs were hopelessly ill-arranged.
Deverell rose and began to clear away the tea-things. Tom helped him. When at last everything was tidied up the young poacher turned to the boy. He laid his hands heavily on Tom’s shoulders. From this position they moved round till they clasped the back of his head. And Tom remained absolutely still, his face curiously grave.
‘Wish me luck, Mr. Tom,’ Deverell said at last.
‘Yes, I wish you good luck.’
Deverell’s hand passed awkward
ly over his hair.
‘You can kiss me if you like,’ said Tom simply.
Deverell bent down.
‘You’d better go now, Mr. Tom. I must go soon myself ‘ Tom without another word went out into the sunshine, nor as he walked away from the cottage did he once look back.
CHAPTER XVIII
When a whole week had gone by without bringing news of Deverell, it was taken for granted even by his mother that there was no longer cause for anxiety. He had got away, and nobody had seen him go or knew his destination. Moreover, Mrs. Deverell had found out definitely—though Tom did not quite know how—that the police did not intend to do anything so long as the culprit remained in exile. But Tom had his own troubles—troubles which he kept to himself. He had not thought it right to bother Uncle Stephen, because Uncle Stephen was not well. This indeed was one of the causes of Tom’s inquietude, though the doctor had assured him there was no need to worry. All morning and all evening he sat with Uncle Stephen; every afternoon he hurried off to the other house. When he was in company he tried to be cheerful; when he was by himself he moped.
One afternoon, half an hour before tea-time, he had gone for a short walk along the Kilbarron road. But he had not proceeded far when he heard somebody calling his name, and looking round saw Mr. Knox. The curate waved his hand, hastened his footsteps: there was nothing for it but to wait.
‘It’s a long time since I’ve seen you,’ beamed Mr. Knox as he came up. ‘Where have you been hiding yourself?’
‘I’ve been very busy,’ Tom answered.
Mr. Knox glanced at him, then glanced again, more closely, and there followed a brief pause.
‘I called at the Manor this afternoon,’ the curate said. ‘I’m glad to hear Mr. Collet is so much better.’
Yes, he felt better this morning, thank you.’
‘And how are you yourself?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
With an effort Tom continued the conversation. ‘Did you see Uncle Stephen?’
‘No. I’m afraid I didn’t ask to see him. It didn’t occur to me that he would want to see anybody while he was still in bed.’
And they walked on for another fifty yards.
‘It was Mrs. Deverell who told me he was better and hoped to get up for an hour or two to-morrow. As a matter of fact it was partly to see Mrs. Deverell that I called.’
‘Yes,’ said Tom.
‘Poor woman, she’s had a good deal to worry her, but I hope things will be all right now. It must be a temporary relief, at any rate, to have got rid of that blackguard, and I fancy from what I’ve heard he’s hardly likely to risk coming back.’
‘What blackguard?’ asked Tom.
Mr. Knox looked at him in surprise. ‘Surely you knew that her son had decamped?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well—’
‘Did you know him?’
‘I can’t say I knew him, exactly,’ Mr. Knox replied. ‘I knew of him. I don’t suppose I’ve spoken more than half a dozen words to him in my life: any time I called at his mother’s cottage he slunk out by the back-door.’
‘Yes—he would do that.’
‘You don’t think he was a blackguard?’ Mr. Knox said. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have used the word.’
‘No, no; it’s not that : you may be right. I don’t know what a blackguard is. It’s somebody you don’t like, isn’t it? But then I liked Deverell, so it’s different for me.’
You liked him?’
‘Oh yes. I used to think I didn’t—or to pretend I didn’t—but I did, and do still.’
Mr. Knox looked at him again. ‘What is the matter, Tom?’
‘Nothing. Why?’
Mr. Knox walked on for some time in silence.
‘I asked for you also at the house, but Mrs. Deverell told me you had gone out with a friend. I’m very glad you’ve found somebody of your own age to be friends with. Mrs. Deverell did not seem to know his name, but she said you went out together every afternoon.’
Mr. Knox paused, as if expecting a little further enlightenment, but none was forthcoming.
‘Well, Tom, I’ll not inflict my company on you any longer,’ he said. ‘Because I don’t think you want it.’
Tom’s eyes met the curate’s for the first rime. ‘That’s because I’ve been rude to you.’
‘No, not rude—I can’t imagine your being rude to anybody—but not very friendly.’
‘Rather a beast. I know. If I told you I’d been trying not to be, I suppose you’d hardly believe me.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Knox, ‘I should. But I can see you’re worried about something and would rather be alone.’
‘No—’ Tom began.
‘Now, Tom, don’t tell me an untruth: it’s better to be rude than to do that. So good-bye.’
‘Good-bye,’ said Tom.
CHAPTER XIX
For all his determination not to show it, it was a very chastened-looking boy who approached Uncle Stephen’s bedside that evening. ‘Would you like me to read to you, Uncle Stephen?’ he asked.
‘Presently, perhaps.’
Tom sat down on a low chair beside the bed.
First, I want you to talk to me, to tell me why I’ve bad such a woebegone nephew for the last week.’
‘ You’ve been ill,” said Tom. Naturally I tried to be quiet’
‘Not ill enough to account for that forlorn appearance. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me of your own accord.’
‘I didn’t tell you,’ said Tom, ‘because I thought you oughtn’t to be worried.’
‘Then you’ve been a very good boy; but you need have no further scruples.’
Tom looked up at the watching Hermes. ‘It is only that I don’t know what has happened to Philip,’ he said. ‘I mean I don’t know what has become of him. He has gone.’
‘He must have gone that night,’ he continued after a moment or two. ‘The night I went to look for him and didn’t find him.’
‘And he left you no message?’
‘No message; nothing… . I suppose it’s that that I mind most… . I knew he was angry with me. He was angry because he thought I took Deverell’s part when they quarrelled.’
‘Do you mean Deverell actually saw him?’
‘Yes… . It was on that last afternoon. Philip was with me. We were down by the river. Then Deverell came along and they quarrelled… . All the same, I didn’t think he’d go away like that—without even saying good-bye. I can’t understand anybody doing that. But I’ve been over at the other house every day. I’ve waited there all afternoon every day—and he has never come back.’
From his present position Tom could not see Uncle Stephen’s face without turning his head, and he did not turn. But he leaned his cheek against the coverlet of the bed so that Uncle Stephen, like Socrates, might stroke his hair and twist it into little knots. ‘Perhaps I’d better read to you, Uncle Stephen,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘Wouldn’t you like me to?’
There was no answer and Tom did not repeat his question. The light was fast ebbing from he room. Soon, in the twilight, he could only see the Hermes dimly. It was as if the marble, which even in broad daylight created a mysterious illusion of warmth and softness, had now actually dissolved, leaving in its place the glimmering spirit of the God… .
What influence was there belonging to this room that always affected him so strangely, though not always in the same way? That depended a little on his own mood, and to-night he had a feeling of something dream-like and precarious, as if he might suddenly awaken and find he had been dreaming—as if everything might change, the walls disappear, the ceiling melt into the open sky, and he, Tom, find himself living in a different time, a different place… .
And that God there—the guide, the messenger, the friend—was the God of dreams. He could lead Tom’s spirit to the ends of the earth and guide it home again… . It must have been in this room that Uncle Stephen had dreamed first—and, awakening in his bedroom in Gloucester Ter
race, Tom had known he was there… .
Why didn’t Uncle Stephen speak? He could not even feel the touch of his hand now… . Yet Tom too remained motionless and silent: his eyes dosed; he might have been asleep… .
It was into this room of darkness and silence that Mrs. Deverell presently entered. She stood near the door, her slight form visible in the dim light from the passage behind her. ‘Hadn’t I better light the lamp, sir?’ the asked, with a note of surprise in her voice; and when nobody answered she struck a match. She stood by the lamp till the flame burned clearly and evenly. Then she carried a small table over to the bed. She went out into the passage and returned with a tray which she set upon the table. ‘I brought up Master Tom’s supper too,’ the said.
Tom watched her as a native of some remote island might watch the rites and ceremonies of his first missionary. It was Uncle Stephen’s voice that brought him back to actuality.
‘I’m afraid, Mrs. Deverell, you’ve been kept far too late these last few nights. There’s no need for it any longer: Master Tom can look after me.’
Oh, it’s all right, sir; there’s plenty I can find to do downstairs. But I’ll be going now if you’re sure you won’t require anything more.’
Yet she still lingered, her pale eyes fixed as if in uncertainty on her master, and on the boy seated in the chair beside him. At last, with a low ‘Good-night, sir,’ she left them.
And as usual Tom listened for the sound of the hall-door being pulled to, for the sound of retreating footsteps on the gravel.
It was Uncle Stephen who spoke first. ‘Put away that stuff, Tom,’ he said abruptly. ‘I don’t want it.’
Tom rose obediently and removed the tray, with its steaming bowl of gruel, and his own biscuits, cheese, and milk. Then he returned to his seat.
