by Forrest Reid
Tom was filled with gratitude. ‘That’s awfully decent of you, Mrs. Deverell. I will let you have them. My things will be too small for him, but he can wear a dressing-gown or pyjamas. Come, Philip.’ And he hurriedly pushed him in the direction of the study.
They had not gone more than half-way down the passage, however, when Mrs. Deverell called after him, ‘Master Tom, do you mean that Mr. Collet won’t be back to-night?’
Tom turned round. He wondered how many times she was going to ask him this question, but with an effort he answered in his natural voice. ‘I really don’t know, Mrs. Deverell. I’ve told you all I can tell you. We’re not to expect him till we see him. It may be some—some days.’ He faltered again, on the last words, and he knew they left Mrs. Deverell as bewildered as ever. Again he pushed Stephen on in front of him, and opened the study door.
Once inside, he felt inclined to lock it behind them, but resisted the temptation. They stood there, side by side, Stephen looking nearly as puzzled as Mrs. Deverell herself
‘What’s up?’ he asked. ‘I thought I was being brought here to see Mr. Collet, and now you say he mayn’t be back for a week!’
‘Yes:
‘But is it true? Some of what you told her was lies, and all of it sounded like lies.’
‘I know it did… . Most of it was.’
What’s the idea, then? What really has happened?’
‘I—I want you to wait, Stephen:—not to be impatient.’ Tom’s voice was almost imploring. ‘If you are, I can’t bear it. Will you try? Will you try even a little?’
Stephen looked uncomfortable. ‘That’s all right,’ he answered. ‘I know you’ve got something on your mind, and it seems to be something you’re frightened to tell.’
Tom turned to him irresolutely. ‘It’s not that, but—You—you don’t—This room doesn’t remind you of anything?’
Stephen shrugged his shoulders: then he remembered his promise to be patient. ‘That’s the way you talked in the other house. It’s no good. What on earth are you so scared about? Anyone would think you’d done something! Even if you have, I won’t give you away.’ He waited a moment, and at last, as if giving it up, ‘Hadn’t I better let her have my clothes?’ he said.
‘Not yet: there’s something I want to do first.’ Tom crossed the room and began to move his fingers tentatively over the dark panelling till he found what he sought. He pressed on one of the carved, flattened roses, which sank in, releasing the spring of the secret door.
Stephen, who had followed him, uttered an exclamation.
‘It only leads to Uncle Stephen’s bedroom,’ said Tom dully. ‘I’d better go first: it’s very dark—or it will be when I shut the door. I must shut it, because Mrs. Deverell may come in.’
He did so, and then, striking a match, began to climb the steps. ‘Will you hold a light for me, Stephen?’ he said, when they had reached the top of the flight.
Another match flared up, and Tom, after some fumbling, opened the second door. This he did not trouble to close, but sat down on the side of the bed, while Stephen, who seemed to be more pleased now with the way things were going, gazed curiously about him.
Tom did not speak. Nor did he look at Stephen, who, after closing and opening the secret door several times, and inspecting much more briefly the statue of Hermes, was now at the window. But even without looking he knew his experiment had failed. Stephen approached him. ‘Well?’ he asked, with a subdued expectation in his voice: ‘Is this all?’
‘Yes,’ answered Tom.
‘But you must have had some reason for bringing me here? What was it?’
‘I thought—something might happen.’
‘To me?’
‘But I see now that it won’t—unless—’
‘Unless what?’
Tom looked up at him. ‘Unless you sleep here.’
‘In this room? What do you expect to happen if I do sleep here? What do you want to happen? If you’d only tell me that, you know, instead of—’
‘I wish you would sit down, Stephen. I can’t talk to you while you’re standing up and moving about.’
Stephen sat down in the low chair where Tom himself had sat when Uncle Stephen was ill. ‘I’ll do anything you like,’ he said good-naturedly. Then a sudden thought occurred to him and he turned to the smaller boy, who was sitting on his two hands, his toes turned in, staring moodily at the opposite wall. ‘It’s not Mr. Collet who has done something, is it? He hasn’t gone away and left you, or anything like that? … But of course that’s nonsense,’ he added after a moment.
‘All the same, it is something like that,’ said Tom dejectedly, ‘and it was my fault… . I’m going to tell you about it. Will you promise to listen without saying anything till I’ve finished?’
‘I’ve been asking you to tell me for the last hour.’
‘Well, I’m going to do it now: I’m going to tell you everything—from the beginning: it’s the only way.’
But having announced his intention, he still, for a while, added nothing further. Stephen also remained dumb, leaning back in his chair, his legs stretched out, his hands in his pockets.
‘The first thing that happened,’ Tom began at length, ‘happened before I left home… .’ And with only an occasional pause, he told the adventure of himself and Uncle Stephen, from the first dream he had had in Gloucester Terrace down to his vigil in the empty house last night.
When he had finished there was a silence. Tom could not read from Stephen’s bent head what he was thinking, yet he could see that some kind of struggle was going on within him. Once he glanced up quickly, but he did not speak; and it was a strange glance; it might mean that he believed Tom to be crazy; for beneath in incredulity was a hint of aversion, perhaps of fear. At last he asked a question, in an oddly repressed voice. ‘What date is this—what year?’
It was a question which produced an electrical effect upon Tom. Why hadn’t he thought of it! That, of course, must settle the matter finally—at least so far as convincing Stephen went. ‘Tell me what year you think it is,’ he asked breathlessly. Stephen raised his head, but did not answer. Perhaps it was Tom’s eagerness, something in the bright intentness of his eyes—at all events there was visible in his own eyes a failure of confidence. Tom, with a hand that shook a little, fumbled in his jacket. He found a letter—two letters. Their envelopes were postmarked. He found a small calendar. ‘Look!’ he said; and Stephen looked.
Tom watched him with parted lips, but Stephen turned from him. ‘You see!’ said Tom.
Still Stephen did not answer. And then, unexpectedly, he flushed—deeply, painfully—which was what Tom had never seen him do before. He rose to his feet, walked to the window, and leaned out. Tom watched him without a word. Did Stephen mind? He hadn’t thought of it like that, somehow, but his heart smote him now, and he too got up. After what seemed a long time Stephen turned back to the room. Whatever he may have been thinking or feeling was no longer visible in his face; the countenance Tom saw was filled only with a half-mocking bravado. ‘This,’ he said, walking up to Tom and catching him by the arms, ‘is going to be the greatest sport that ever was.’
Tom gazed mutely while Stephen rocked him, unresisting, to and fro. His eyes grew rounder and more and more filled with consternation. Among all the effects he had imagined as resulting from his story, this at least he had not dreamed of He gazed up at Stephen in a kind of fascination till Stephen, still gripping him closely, gave a short laugh. ‘Don’t you see,’ he said—‘don t you see that however it goes, we’re bound to be up against it? Nobody is going to believe such a yarn. Why, I don t believe it myself, though I’ll try to make the most of it while it lasts. That is, if it does last; for I’ve an idea I’m going to wake up soon.’
‘But—’ Tom stammered.
‘But what? I must say you don’t look too pleased about it!’
‘But—It’s real, Stephen. And—and—everything is still where it was.’
‘How do you mean, still where it
vas? Everything is jolly well not where it was.’
‘I mean—you still have to get back.’
‘Get back! So far as that goes—’ Then, as he saw the expression on Tom’s face, ‘Oh Lord!’ he groaned, ‘you don’t mean to say you would rather I was that old—’
‘Stop!’ cried Tom, his cheeks flaming. ‘If you say another word—’
‘You’ll hit me, I suppose… . After all, I’m talking about myself.’
‘You’re not. You’ve no right—I only told you so that you could try to get back again.’
Stephen released him. ‘Aren’t you asking a good deal? … Besides, according to you I am Uncle Stephen.’
‘You’re not,’ cried Tom. You’re not even like him. Uncle Stephen didn’t want to become a boy again. He only did it to please me. It was all my fault. And I only wanted it just once—just this last time, for a little.’
‘Well, you’ve got what you want,’ said Stephen. ‘There’s no use making a fuss: it’s not my doing. Besides, if I’m going back I’ll go back, and if I’m not I won’t. To talk of “trying” is silly. If it happens at all, it will happen as it did before—when I’m asleep. At least, I should think so.’ A sudden suspicion appeared in his eyes. ‘Is that why you want me to sleep here?’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Tom brokenly.
Stephen contemplated him for a minute or two with a slight frown. His mood appeared to change. ‘Look here—’ But he checked himself and put his arm round Tom’s shoulder. ‘Why won’t I do as I am?’ he coaxed ingenuously. ‘Don’t you like me? You always seemed to.’
‘Yes I do.’
‘Well, then, what’s the matter?’
‘I could never make you understand,’ said Tom, turning away. Stephen looked perplexed. Again he thought. ‘No, I suppose not,’ he admitted, with a shade of reluctance. You’re such a queer chap… . Of course, I know you were Uncle Stephen’s darling. Still—I say, if I promise to give the thing a chance, will that do? If I sleep in this room to-night? Hang it all, you can’t expect me to do more than that! There isn’t any more to do.’
‘You will do it?’ Tom gulped.
‘Yes, if I say I will.’
‘And—and suppose nothing does happen,’ Tom went on, ‘you won’t go away from me?’
‘Go away! Why should I go away?’
‘I mean, you won’t leave me, you’ll stay with me?’
‘For how long?’
‘You won’t go away at all—ever. All that—about going to sea—you’ll give that up?’
Stephen hesitated, ‘I believe it would be better if I did clear out.’
‘No,’ cried Tom in sudden alarm. He gripped Stephen by the wrist and held him. ‘Promise that you won’t leave me.’
‘But why?’
‘Because you must.’
‘But I don’t see what good it can do. If I’m going to remain as I am now you won’t want me hanging about. After all, it’s only Uncle Stephen you want. Honestly, I think it would be better if I kept to my, first plan.’
‘You can t,’ said Tom, ‘you can’t go.’ What was in his mind was that he must be near Stephen—that he must be there when Uncle Stephen returned—but it seemed impossible to say this, and what he did say was, ‘If you go I’ll go with you’.
Stephen welcomed it as the happiest of solutions. ‘Of course! Why not? You see, it’s all very well for us to promise that we’ll keep together, but we won’t be allowed to keep together—at any rate, not here.’
Tom stood thinking. ‘If it comes to the worst—’ he began.
‘Yes? By “the worst” you mean me, I suppose:—me remaining as I am?’
‘I’m sorry, Stephen. I know it must seem beastly of me to talk like this… . But—we must make some plan.’
‘Well, I’ve just made one. Or rather, you made it.’
‘What?’
‘To go away together.’
Tom looked down. ‘How are we going to live?’ he asked. ‘Uncle Horace won’t give me any of my own money.’
‘We’d have to rough it, of course.’
Tom did not reply, but he knew he had small capacity for roughing it; at least, not in the way Stephen meant. To cadge for odd jobs, for food and a sleeping place—such a prospect might hold no terrors for Stephen, but he had not the physique for it. He was far from sickly, but it did not take a great deal to knock him up. One thorough wetting would be sufficient. Stephen might be able to work his way alone—in fact, Uncle Stephen had done so—but with Tom as a drag upon him it would be hopeless.
‘What I’d like best,’ he said, ‘would be for us to stay on here—at any rate in the meantime—if it could be arranged with Mr. Knox.’
‘What has Mr. Knox to do with it?’
‘Well, I told you he was going to be my tutor—after the holidays—and he could tutor as both.’
‘I see. Stephen’s tone was unenthusiastic. ‘Well—what then?’
‘Then—I suppose—we’d be his pupils,’ Tom replied. But he said it half-heartedly, for he knew himself it was not a brilliant conclusion. Nor could he add that long before the holidays were over Uncle Stephen would have returned, though this was what he believed—what he must believe, or else his whole world would be plunged in darkness.
‘It sounds all right for you,’ Stephen admitted, ‘but it’s nor particularly like my plan. I want to go abroad; to see places.’
‘But you’ve done all that, Stephen,’ Tom reminded him. ‘It’s over.’
‘So you say.’ Stephen knit his brows for a minute; then he said, ‘At any rate, it doesn’t much matter. I think you’ve forgottenone difficulty.’
‘I know what you’re going to say, but would you be willing to try it?’
‘Oh yes; perhaps.’
‘Then that’s all right.’
‘It isn’t all right. You needn’t imagine your guardians will agree to it. At a pinch, and to save trouble, or out of kindness, somebody might offer to help me in my original plan of going to sea; but that will be the most.’
‘You mustn’t mention anything about going to sea.’
‘And after all, you can’t blame them. Even if this business is true—Look here, I’m going back to Coombe Bridge.’
‘Surely you’ve had proof enough!’ Tom expostulated.
‘I can’t help it. I know I’ve had proof At least, there’s that calendar you showed me, and the portrait. Still, I can’t realize it, and perhaps if I saw the old place, and that it had changed … You know if what you say is true—my father and mother must be dead,’ he went on in a lower voice. ‘Everybody must be dead. I never thought of that. It’s rather—I don’t like it.’
‘We’ll go to Coombe Bridge then,’ Tom promised hurriedly. ‘We’ll go together… . Stephen, I’m most frightfully sorry. The whole thing is my fault. But whatever happens I’m going to look after you.’
Stephen did not answer. Only he put his hand on Tom’s shoulder, and between his finger and thumb pressed lightly the lobe of his ear. Tom started. He drew in his breath, for that particular caress was strangely familiar to him, it was associated in his mind only with one person, and on Stephen’s part he knew it had been unconscious. ‘I mean,’ he muttered, ‘that I’ll be quite comfortably off later on and—’
But Stephen was not listening: he was looking straight before him. ‘It’s strange,’ he said, but I’ve a faint, faint—’ He broke off abruptly and stood there, his hand still on Tom’s shoulder. ‘No—it’s no good. For just a minute I thought—’ He awoke from his reverie. ‘I say, there’s not much use in our hanging about up here all day. Let’s go out or something.’
‘It must be dinner-time,’ said Tom. ‘I believe I heard the gong. We’d better go and see.’
But he spoke so much more cheerfully that Stephen turned to him in surprise.
CHAPTER XXII
The day was over—the evening too—and Tom sat alone in his own room. He had put on a dressing-gown over his pyjamas and was turning the leaves of
a book Mr. Knox had lent him, glancing absent-mindedly at the pictures. The book was The Prince and the Pauper, and since saying goodnight to Stephen he had read fifteen chapters of it, a hundred and forty-eight pages. It was now twenty-five to two.
Earlier than he had expected, for he seemed to have been reading for hours. Yet all the time something which had nothing to do with the adventures of either prince or pauper had been floating in and out of his thoughts, and the moment he closed the book this something took complete possession of them.
His face grew troubled. Presently the book slipped from his knee to the floor, and he let it lie there… .
What was happening in Uncle Stephen’s room? Could he persuade Stephen to repeat the experiment if to-night it failed? These questions he asked himself, and though he could not answer them they led to others. Supposing the experiment did fail, how many days could they count on before Mrs. Deverell began to ask further questions? Not many, he thought; and if he tried to put her off a second time very likely she would go to Mr. Flood. It might be wiser for him to take that step himself: certainly it would be well to get somebody on their side. But who was there? Uncle Horace and his step-mother were impossible: there remained only Mr. Flood and Mr. Knox, and Tom felt that neither of these would give him the kind of help he needed. The lawyer, though friendly, was dry and matter-of-fact: probably the first thing he would do would be to communicate with Uncle Horace. Mr. Knox might be sworn to secrecy, but—
The chief difficulty, as Stephen himself had pointed out, was Stephen. Even if he resumed the name of Philip Coombe, he still would be asked to give an account of himself—to explain why he had been living at the other house and where he had come from. How could he do this! How could he give any account that would bear examination! As Philip he had no past—no home, no parents, no friends—there was nobody he could refer to, nobody who could speak for him, nobody who had even seen him except Tom, and, once, Deverell. If he said he had run away from home, he would be asked where this imaginary home was, and the first inquiry would reveal its non-existence. Mr. Knox of course knew, just as Mrs. Deverell and Sally knew, that there had been a boy staying at the other house, but that would make no difference. The questions would be asked just the same. ‘As if it mattered where he came from!’ Tom sighed. Tobit had not asked his angel where he had come from, nor who were his relations. The angel had appeared and Tobit had taken his hand and they had walked by the bank of the river: and the angel had a fishing-rod and they had caught a fish. Then they had rescued a woman from her demon lover and cured Tobit’s father of his blindness… . He could not remember the rest of the story, but he knew everybody had been happy because nobody had asked questions… . The earth might be a kind of heaven! It wasn’t really impossible. Happiness depended on kindness and understanding and—and—on not insisting that everybody should have the same feelings and thoughts… .
