by Forrest Reid
But he did not again propose to read aloud. He had a premonition that something was coming, that Uncle Stephen was going to tell him something—though he had no idea what. He waited. It was something which would make a difference:—he knew that, but he knew no more than that. And he tried to stifle the feeling of suspense which with each moment grew, till it became a kind of reasonless dread of the unknown.
Yet what Uncle Stephen said, after all, was quite ordinary. ‘Would it make you very happy if your friend came back to you?’
Tom felt an immediate relief. He shook his despondency from him and breathed more freely. It was this room, it was sitting here in the dark without a word, which had worked upon his mind. He was all right now, and he turned quickly to the bed. ‘You aren’t angry with me, Uncle Stephen, are you?’
‘Angry! Why should I be angry?’ Uncle Stephen asked in surprise.
Tom smiled: ‘I didn’t really think you were,’ he said. ‘Yes, of course I’d like him to come back. I’d like to see him once more at any rate. I don’t expect him to stay. I mean, he always told me and I always knew he wouldn’t stay. But I’d like to see him once.’
‘Even though he left you like this?’
‘I think there must have been a reason for it. I’m sure there was. Besides, he was angry with me.’
‘What reason could there be?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Nobody can have been making inquiries about him, for the first thing they would do would be to call here. Don’t you think the most probable reason is simply that this sort of thing is natural to him—that he doesn’t think much about other people’s feelings? It seems to me to fit in with what you originally told me about him.’
‘I don’t remember what I told you.’
‘Don’t you even remember that I warned you?’
‘Not about this.’
‘Not directly perhaps, but indirectly. After all, he behaved in much the same way to his father and mother. It seems to me that restlessness and a desire for adventure are the main ingredients in his character, and that, once the wander-fit seizes on him, he isn’t very likely to pay attention to such trifles as saying good-bye to his friends. If you had been there he would have said good-bye to you, but you weren’t there, and he didn’t think it worth while to wait.’
‘But how do you know he is like that, Uncle Stephen?’
‘Because you told me about him.’
‘I didn’t tell you all that: for one thing, I don’t believe it’s true.’ ‘Then you’re still fond of him?’
‘Yes.’
Uncle Stephen paused, and it was as if he were carefully weighing his next words, so slowly they came. ‘He is what I say, Tom. There may be, there must be, the germs of something more, but they’re not developed: the whole circumstances of his life tended to keep them from developing.’
Tom started. There was something in Uncle Stephen’s manner which revived all his misgivings. ‘How do you know? Why do you talk as if you knew? You did once before, too. Uncle Stephen, do you know anything about him; and if you do why won’t you tell me?’.
‘What I now know,’ said Uncle Stephen a little sadly, ‘is that I should never have allowed this to happen.’
‘What?’ Tom breathed. He had turned completely round and his eyes were fixed very intently and brightly upon Uncle Stephen’s face.
But Uncle Stephen did not answer. He was sitting up in the bed, the skull-cap he wore, vividly black against the pillows behind him, his eyes not looking at Tom, but towards the door by which Mrs. Deverell had come and gone: and for the first time Tom saw him frown.
He leaned closer, he was half kneeling now on his chair, but still Uncle Stephen did not look at him.
‘Tell me—tell me,’ Tom repeated.
‘Yes, I am going to tell you; but it’s not easy. I don’t know how you will take it. I wish I did. I wish it had never happened. Tom, there isn’t any Philip.’
‘Isn’t—’ Tom began, but he stopped short. A flush rose and died in his cheeks. Unconsciously he laid his hand on Uncle Stephen’s and gripped it tightly.
‘Listen,’ said Uncle Stephen. ‘This boy—’
Tom was listening with his whole being, but for the moment he was to hear nothing further. Uncle Stephen only added, ‘No—I can never explain it in that way.’
And suddenly he seemed to withdraw into himself, and his eyes shut.
‘Go to that cupboard in the wall, and bring me the box that is there.’
Tom sprang to his feet. The cupboard, as he pulled back the door, revealed itself as but a couple of shelves, and on the upper one of these was a flat wooden box, its corners brass-plated, its lid overlaid with a criss-cross pattern in brass filigree. It could not contain much. It was about twelve inches long and a third of that in depth. But it was the only box there, and Tom lifted it from the shelf and brought it to the bed.
‘Now give me my keys,’ said Uncle Stephen, ‘they’re on the dressing-table.’ And the smallest of these he inserted in the lock, turning it twice before he raised the lid.
As he looked over Uncle Stephen’s shoulder Tom’s eyes were still and absorbed. The ferment in his mind too was momentarily stilled—forgotten in an intense expectancy.
Yet he saw very little. The box was lined with olive-green silk, and appeared to contain merely a few old letters, among which Uncle Stephen fumbled before he drew out from beneath them a flat leather case which he opened by pressing a spring. Tom bent nearer. Only his breathing was audible. Within the case was a thin slab of ivory on which was painted the portrait of a boy.
‘Do you know him?’
Tom did not answer. He was gazing not at the picture but at Uncle Stephen himself. The pupils of his eyes were slightly dilated and his face had grown very white.
‘There is a name,’ Uncle Stephen said, ‘and a date—there inside the lid. The date is that when the likeness was painted; the name is the name of the sitter, of the boy. Read it aloud.’
Tom read in an oddly muffled voice. ‘Stephen Collet. 1880.’
‘It was painted three months before he ran away from home.’
‘It is your name,’ whispered Tom.
‘Yes, my name. And it is the only portrait that was ever made of this boy. At the time it was supposed to be a good likeness, but if you were to see him a year later he would not be quite like that.’
Tom waited a moment: then he asked, hardly audibly, ‘What happened to him?’
‘He carried out his plan. If I could show him to you as he was a year later, you would see him among strangers, in a foreign country, living anywhere, anyhow—ragged, more or less homeless, but not starving, not even particularly conscious of discomfort, because the climate suited him and he was strong and healthy. Besides, any squeamishness he may have felt at first had by then disappeared. Not even if things had been much worse would he have dreamed of returning to the country rectory he had left, to the old people, his parents—whom in fact he never saw again. There was nothing romantic about all this, Tom; nothing fine; and the future held no prospect of anything but disaster. It was by the merest accident that disaster was averted—a chance encounter in the street. There are people, perhaps, who possess a gift of instant recognition, or who think they do. At all events, it was this boy’s fate, after a brief exchange of perhaps a dozen questions and answers, to be singled out by a stranger—a man of another race—as possessing the particular qualities and faculties he happened to be in search of. The whole thing was sudden; improbable; for all the boy knew to the contrary, dangerous; and therefore precisely of a nature to appeal to him. He followed his master without a moment’s hesitation. But though you may think it resembles it, this was no prelude to an Arabian tale, but to long years of arduous training during which, if again I could show him to you, you would see the pupil becoming a disciple, the disciple a collaborator… . And when he was once more alone his youth was over… . That is all, Tom—all I need tell you now. As for what you want me to tell
you—that is nearly as inexplicable to me as it can be to you.’
‘But that is you, Uncle Stephen,-that boy?’
‘It was—once.’
‘And it is Philip.’
‘There never was a Philip, though I took that name when I ran away.
‘But,’ Tom stammered painfully’—then it must really be true after all.’
‘What must be true, Tom?’
‘That you are a magician.’
Uncle Stephen shook his head. He looked away. Then he looked back at Tom, and still waited. ‘It had nothing to do with magic,’ he said at last. ‘The first time it happened I myself thought it was an ordinary dream—or if extraordinary, only because of its unusual vividness. And then you came to me with your story.’
Tom, leaning over Uncle Stephen’s shoulder, was thinking. Strangely enough, his nervousness and apprehension were gone, he was only puzzled. ‘Was it here that you dreamed, Uncle Stephen?’
‘Yes.’
‘ Was it on purpose—I mean, did you try to?’
”No. I will tell you about that too.’
‘Tell me first, Uncle Stephen, had you ever heard of me before I came to you?’
‘I had heard of you—yes—from a friend of your mother’s. But it was very little—a phrase or two in a letter. I don’t know what there was in it that impressed me, gave me a definite impression which persisted and deepened. For many years I had lived alone, and possibly that may have had much to do with it. I cannot say. I can give no rational account of what happened, but you became very real and very dear to me in imagination. Imagination, I suppose, is a faculty which can be trained; but what had been trained in me for years was more the power of concentration. That is everything, Tom. Before I dreamed that afternoon, I had been thinking of you, thinking too of my own boyhood. Then the scene arose in my mind in which these two boys met. It arose spontaneously: I did not seem to be making it, up. At a certain point it must have passed into a dream, for I definitely woke up, and I knew by looking at my watch that the afternoon was nearly over. But I really thought very little about the matter until you came with your story. That seemed incredible, and yet I had to accept it. I knew there was no boy at the other house—besides, what you told me was my dream. I ought to have left it at that. Unfortunately I knew exactly the conditions under which this accident—if it was an accident—had taken place. I determined to repeat everything. And you came to me again with your story and this time it had advanced a step. I knew it must be dangerous. Even if some strange connection had been established between present and past, I knew it could not be safe. Therefore I should not have gone on, because it involved not only myself, but you. Besides, I had to deceive you.’
‘I think, you know,’ said Tom slowly, ‘that deep deep down I must have had a sort of suspicion. I don’t even now feel frightfully surprised.’
Uncle Stephen turned to him doubtfully, but Tom pursued his idea. ‘You see, I couldn’t have liked Philip so much if he hadn’t been you.’
But Uncle Stephen did not look convinced. ‘You have a considerable capacity for liking people,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Tom admitted. ‘I even, in a sort of way, loved that fountain-boy—and Deverell—a little… . But this is different. Anyway, you know, Uncle Stephen, I once almost asked you if you were Philip. It was that night, you remember, after Uncle Horace had been here: the first time I was ever in this room. I couldn’t understand then, and I was very silly about it—but it was because I felt there was something I didn’t understand. And one day I called Philip by your name. It was because his eyes were exactly the same as yours… . You know, I’d like you to come to the other house just once more. It would be quite different this time, because I’d know who you really were. Everything would be different.’ He suddenly paused. His eyes were fixed on the broken lovely figure, mild and benign, dreaming, half in shadow, half in lamplight. ‘Do you think,’ he whispered, ‘it happens through the God? … I don’t want you to answer,’ he went on quickly. ‘Don’t let us talk at all for a little. I want to be quiet.’
CHAPTER XX
The track through the wood had become a path and was now used by other creatures than Tom. Pheasants, hares, squirrels, a weasel, and a big black, fierce-looking cat who had lost an ear—all these he had met at one time or another. The track was used by butterflies, moths, wasps, and bees—in fact, the entire animal world had immediately discovered and begun to make use of Tom’s path. He kept it clear, not only by tramping it daily, but also by vigorously swinging a stick; and gradually it was widening. On either edge pressed closely and silently the green, rooted world of vegetation.
This evening he advanced over the sodden ground, sweeping his stick like a sword, and at every blow scattering a shower of raindrops from the drenched leaves. In his left hand he carried a picnic-basket, for Mrs. Deverell had continued to pack one for him daily, though now most of its contents went to feed the mice and birds. The hour of his visit was much later than usual; it was past seven o’clock; and it had been with the utmost difficulty that he had persuaded Uncle Stephen to allow him to come at all. He felt ashamed of his importunity. More than ashamed, now that he had got his own way. It was as if he had taken an unfair advantage. To be sure, he had promised that it would be for this once only—and indeed he wanted no more than that himself. Still, Uncle Stephen had been strangely reluctant—and at the back of Tom’s mind there was an uneasiness, a feeling that he had done wrong. He reached the broken gateway and walked quickly up the avenue. He entered the house and climbed the stairs to Philip’s room. It was dark and cheerless, and he wondered if he could do anything to make it less so. He tried to drag away some of the obstructing ivy which looked so picturesque from outside; but it was very tough and he had nothing to cut it with. He knelt down and leaned out over the dark lichened sill. He listened to the knocking of a woodpecker. No other sound reached him. At that moment the sun struggled out from behind the clouds and the whole prospect changed.
It was like a signal, a propitious omen, for it had been cloudy all day, even when not actually raining. The house faced west and the sun streamed straight into the room. Tom did not mind now how long he had to wait: in fact he enjoyed it. Only, sitting on the bare floor was uncomfortable, so he fetched one of the ancient patchwork quilts from the bed, and also the volume of Arabia Deserta which he had brought for Philip and never taken home. The quilt was stuffed with flock, but it made a tolerable cushion. Tom sat on it by the low window-sill and turned the pages of his book. But either the style was too crabbed, or his mind just then was incapable of concentration, for after reading for ten minutes he discovered that he had not taken in the meaning of a single sentence. He put the book down and began frankly to dream.
He heard the far-away cawing of rooks, and the sound reminded him of the passing of time. Something unexpected must have happened. He got up and walked up and down the room; he ate two of Mrs. Deverell’s sandwiches; he went out into the garden and came back again.
He was determined to wait, no matter how long Philip should keep him. He wondered what would happen when he did come! Somehow he could not get it out of his head that this meeting would not in the least resemble their other meetings. If nothing else, Philip would have to admit that his name was Stephen Collet, and, once he knew Tom knew that, he would no longer have any reason for not talking freely.
There were all kinds of questions Tom wanted to ask. Philip would be far better able to answer them than Uncle Stephen himself, because Uncle Stephen must have forgotten heaps. What would he say, for instance, when Tom began to talk to him of Uncle Stephen and of all that had occurred? Would he remember? Tom somehow had taken it for granted that he would, but now he felt more doubtful. It was really very queer and confusing. Uncle Stephen for Philip was the future, Philip’s future, ‘and of course you can’t remember the future. Besides, he had often talked of Uncle Stephen before and Philip hadn’t remembered, hadn’t known anything about him except what Tom himself ha
d told him. Therefore it would be the same this time. Either that, or he wouldn’t be Philip. Tom felt a chill of discouragement: he wished now that he had not made this plan, but it was too late to draw back.
Uncle Stephen must have altered a great deal—altered in every respect. Tom was not thinking of physical alterations, but of other things. And the more closely he recalled Philip the more he realized that Uncle Stephen was dearer to him than all the Philips in the world, and the more he wished that he had not insisted on a final experiment.
He wondered if he himself would ever change as much as that. So far, he thought, he had changed very little, if at all; but of course other people might not agree with him. Probably everybody changed—whether it was to become nastier or nicer. He began to think of various grown-up people he knew and to turn them back again into boys. In some cases it was easy. It was easy to picture Mr. Knox as a boy, easier still to picture Deverell: but what on earth had Uncle Horace been like? Uncle Horace must have changed more even than Uncle Stephen. Far more, because there were definite glimpses of a boy in Uncle Stephen, but no boy in the world could ever have been like what Uncle Horace was at present. Where had that boy gone to, then—or was he still somewhere inside Uncle Horace—hidden, shut up as if in a cupboard, frightened to squeak? Tom remembered strange little creatures—caddis worms they were—which he had often fished out of ponds and streams with a net full of water weeds—creatures so thickly encrusted with bits of stick, stone, sand, and shell that you never would have dreamed anything but the protective case existed till the case suddenly began to move. The boy Uncle Horace must be like that. Perhaps not a bad little chap either. In a minute or two Tom began to feel an affection for this small and hitherto unsuspected Uncle Horace. Out of a mysterious limbo he had sprung fully equipped and articulate, and was capering about the room, chattering, as lively as a cricket. He slipped behind Tom and clapped his hands over his eyes. Who is it? And Tom knew who it was. It was perfectly idiotic, but he was sure that never again would his relations with the grown-up Uncle Horace be exactly what they had been in the past.
